She didn’t know that he had moved from the window and was by her side. When he spoke her name she started and blinked up at him through her streaming eyes.
Her tears weren’t enhancing her, but it was the very look of her that dragged pity from him. Yet pity wasn’t enough. He told himself that he could no more take her than he could commit incest. He liked her; strangely, he liked her a lot. He remembered he’d enjoyed those trips to Newcastle with her. She had sparkled then. But as for marrying her; it had never crossed his mind even then. And now Annie lay like an insurmountable obstacle between him and his pity.
He knew that women who looked like Tishy, and of such intelligence, often made a great success of marriage, and also that, as she had said, he needed someone, he needed someone to care for him, more so than he should have to care for them. The balance of love was never equal; there was always one partner who loved, and the other who was willing to be loved, and this, too, seemed to work well. He could do a lot worse than take her at her word, and she needed him. As she had said, no-one would ever need him as she needed him…But…but let him remember. A few short weeks ago he had spent three blissful days and nights with her mother in this very cottage. The whole thing would be indecent, definitely indecent. It wasn’t the fact of what people would say, because unless she had told the family no-one except herself knew about his association with her mother, but he knew…he knew.
She was drying her eyes now while still looking at him, and after a long moment during which they were both silent she said in a small whisper, ‘No?’ and he answered, ‘I’m…I’m sorry, Tishy. If it was at all possible I…I would, but—’ he shook his head.
She drew in a long shuddering breath; then turning from him, she went down the room and mounted the stairs; and he took his chin in his fist and gripped it until the pain from his nails digging into his flesh became unbearable.
She remained upstairs a full hour, and he sat staring into the fire and feeling as he had never done, not even in the depths of his matrimonial trouble, for his emotions now were a mixture of shame and regret, and the regret made him apologetic to the memory of Annie, for he knew that if it wasn’t for Annie he would, in his present state, have clutched at the straw being offered him. Yet Tishy was no straw, more like a sturdy life raft that one could cling to in order to sustain life.
The feeling of guilt was emphasised further when he asked himself if his association with Annie would prevent him from ever taking another woman. Time was the great healer, it was said. A more appropriate version would be, a blotter-out of events both good and bad. But the question of whether he would ever take another woman wasn’t relevant to this situation, for Tishy was not just another woman, she was Annie’s daughter…Yes, Annie’s daughter, who during the last hour had proved herself to be Annie’s daughter, for she had stood there pouring out her feelings for him. It was as if Annie had come back.
Yesterday he had wondered why there was no evidence of Annie in Tishy. Now he realised he had been blind, for beneath that hard, cynical veneer Annie was very much alive, honest, vulnerable, loving. But it was the very fact of her being part of Annie that was the obstacle. And there was no way round it that he could see. The quicker he got away the better.
When she came downstairs she did not turn left and go into the kitchen as he expected her to do, but she came towards him. She had changed her clothes and was wearing brown slacks and a green sweater. She had washed her face and her hair had been freshly combed and looked damp. She appeared very young.
She said to him, ‘I’m…I’m sorry for embarrassing you’; and when he waved his hand before his face she said, ‘Let me speak just this once more. I did embarrass you, I know I did, but what I said had to be said. If I’d let you go without telling you I would have imagined for the rest of my life that things would have been different if only I had spoken out. Well, I…I don’t want you to feel bad about this, I don’t want you to go away now and worry and think that I’ll do something silly, like…like committing suicide, or anything like that. I can’t stand moral blackmailers, so I’ll ask you just…just to forget the last hour or so if you can.’ The muscles of her throat worked, and then she ended, ‘I’ll…I’ll get you some tea before you go.’
He couldn’t speak, not a word. All he could do was to gnaw on his lip and move his head in a despairing fashion. Then he turned and leant his arms on the stone mantelshelf. Don’t worry, she had said; I won’t commit suicide; I can’t stand moral blackmailers. At least once a week for a year Jane had threatened him with just that. ‘If you dare mention divorce again I’ll commit suicide. If you dare go to your grandmother I’ll commit suicide. If you dare go to the solicitor I’ll commit suicide. If you leave me, Alan, I swear to you I’ll commit suicide,’ until at last he had said, ‘Right! Do it. Do just that.’ But Tishy had said, ‘Don’t go away and worry that I’ll do anything silly, like committing suicide. I’ll live with you on the side,’ she had said. ‘You can live your own life, as long as you let me stay with you,’ she had said. ‘I just want to be with you,’ she had said, ‘just to be with you. I love you, Alan,’ she had said. That was odd, wasn’t it? That was odd. She was the only one who had ever said, ‘I love you, Alan.’ Jane had never said it. ‘You’re sweet,’ she had said; ‘You’re a dear,’ she had said, but never, ‘I love you, Alan.’ And when he came to think of it, Annie had never actually said, ‘I love you, Alan.’ She had said beautiful things, beautiful because they were ordinary and simple and meaningful, but she had never said, ‘I love you, Alan.’
When he heard her coming into the room he turned about, then went towards her to take the heavy tray from her, but she made a movement with her shoulder and continued to carry it down the room and set it on the table.
After she had poured the tea she handed him a plate of buttered scones, and he shook his head and muttered, ‘No’; and the scones remained untouched while they both sat in silence drinking the tea.
When she went to refill his cup he rose abruptly from the chair, saying, ‘I’ll…I’ll get my pack together,’ and she looked up at him and said, ‘It’s all right; I’ve brought it into the kitchen. I dried off the things the other day. It’s all ready.’
‘Tishy.’ He screwed up his face as if in agony, then went down the room, his head bent.
He brought his pack from the kitchen and went outside and put it on the verandah; then buttoning his coat he stood in the open doorway looking across the fells. He must have been standing like this for five minutes when he heard the car hooter; three times it hooted before he turned round and looked at her. She had risen from the couch and was standing at the corner of it. Her hands were behind her hiding their trembling. He came quickly towards her.
‘Goodbye, Tishy.’
‘Goodbye.’
‘Thank you. Thank you for all you’ve done for me, for your care and everything.’
‘That’s…that’s all right.’
‘Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, Alan, don’t worry.’
Concern again. Her concern was that he shouldn’t worry.
‘Oh! Tishy, Tishy, I—’ his whole body writhed as if in pain—‘I…I can’t leave you like this, I can’t.’
‘It’s all right, it’s all right. Go on, Alan, go on. Please. Look.’ Her face was quivering. ‘I’m telling you, I’m all right, just go…now. Do this for me, go now.’
‘No, Tishy.’ The words came quiet and flat; and then he said again, ‘No, Tishy; I’m not going now. And…and I’m not going by myself. I can’t; I’ve…I’ve got a feeling Annie wouldn’t want me to. But…but I must tell you, Tishy, there’s, there’s nothing left in me; I’ve…I’ve got nothing to offer. You deserve something better, I’m, I’m like an empty husk.’
‘Look, don’t. Don’t. I’m sorry I put you on a spot. I am. Look, just…’
Her hand had gone to her mouth and the tears were spurting once more from her eyes, and when her body swayed he put his arms about her, saying, ‘There no
w. There now. It’ll be all right.’
Moments passed, then slowly she raised her head and looking up into his face, she said, ‘Yes, yes, it’ll be all right. I’ll…I’ll make it all right. Oh, Alan, I promise you I’ll make it all right. You’ll see, you’ll see.’
The hooting of the car horn came stridently at them, and they turned and looked at the open door and he said, ‘I…I must go down and tell him.’
‘No, no, let me, I can run…I can run.’ She began to dash about, first to the door then back again, saying, ‘Money, my purse!’
‘Here!’ He put his hand in his pocket. ‘Give him that.’ He pushed a couple of notes at her, and she smiled at him while rubbing her hand over her wet face.
He stood at the door and watched her running like a young gazelle over the field, through the gap in the wall down to the copse, and when she was gone from his sight he closed his eyes tightly as if shutting from his gaze some gigantic obstacle with which he knew he must grapple if he ever hoped to find himself and live.
The End
The Invisible Cord Page 31
