Air and Angels

by Susan Hill

  Later, Kitty sits on the verandah with Miss Hartshorn. She has rested, slept for almost two hours and eaten breakfast, and now they have glasses of lemon tea on the bamboo table before them and suede-bound copies of Keats.

  Reading aloud, of autumn and nightingales, drunk on the words, Miss Hartshorn has made herself drowsy, her voice is monotonous and very soft.

  Adieu! Adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

  Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

  Up the hill-side and now ’tis buried deep

  In the next valley-glades.

  Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

  Fled is that music. Do I wake or sleep?

  And as she reads, she remembers vividly, so that it is almost here, she has almost reached it; for the nightingale sings in the woodland behind the cottage in Warwickshire, she herself has heard it.

  But now, Kitty stands up suddenly, knocking her chair over backwards in her passion, and the suede-bound book falls from her lap onto the floor.

  ‘But what is the point of it all?’ she is shouting. ‘I cannot understand. What are you trying to tell me? What is the point of all this beauty?’

  And storms away, leaving Miss Hartshorn alone, the spell broken and scattered all around her.

  It was one of the most perfectly tranquil weeks of his life. The last, perhaps.

  He took the dinghy out every morning, just before dawn, and hid, watching the birds, listening, moored among the reedbeds. Twice, he went out in the late evening, at the turn of the tide, and remained there all night, lying flat along the bottom of the dinghy, cramped, cold, silent, content.

  Otherwise, he sat on the deck of the houseboat, or else worked at the little square ledge that let down to form a makeshift desk in front of the window, recording his observations, drawing.

  He read, the bird books, John Donne’s sermons, and Jeremy Taylor, the Greek Testament.

  And after lunch or in the early evening, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, lying fully dressed on his bunk for three hours or more, and awoke, deeply refreshed, to the silence.

  He neither saw nor spoke to a soul for five days.

  But on the sixth day, which was Sunday and the day before he would have to leave, he rowed to where a path led off the marshes, for four miles inland, and walked to the chapel, that stood by itself in the middle of the flat land. There had been a frost, the tips of the reeds and the grasses at his feet were whitened. The sun shone, but with a pale, brittle light, and his footsteps rasped on the path.

  The building smelled of cold, cold, watery stone. But it was flooded with light that came through the clear glass of the windows, and the walls were white, so that the light washed over them like water.

  There were no other worshippers save Thomas and the priest. He offered up his thanks to God, and opened his heart too, with fervour and joy. And looking upwards, to the wooden roof, that was curved like the upturned belly of a boat, he saw at several corners, where the ribs met and joined, the small carved angels, wings upswept as if at any moment they might break free, and soar.

  He would have prayed to remain in this paradise for ever. Except that then, it would become familiar, and the glory, he knew, would fade from it. Only if he left it, would it remain for him, perfect, unsullied, pure.

  21

  ‘IT IS,’ miss Hartshorn says, ‘simply the most beautiful part of England. It is perfect.’

  She and Kitty are strolling around the garden, books abandoned. For they both find it increasingly difficult to concentrate, though for different reasons.

  ‘Our cottage has gardens both at the front and at the back – very neat, you know. Very cottagey. Marjorie works so hard. Marjorie adores the garden. Though at the back it is a little wilder, almost overgrown, indeed, up to the fence, for the woods come right down, to the door. Well, as I have told you.’

  ‘Yes.’ Kitty stops, in order, somehow, to see it more clearly in her mind’s eye. ‘Yes. The Forest of Arden.’

  ‘The Forest of Arden!’ Miss Hartshorn’s voice answers hers, trembling a little with awe.

  ‘It really is! Part of the ancient forest. The very same.’

  They walk slowly between the flowerbeds, and the soldierly geraniums.

  ‘And the front path leads down to a little wicket gate. But we keep the hedge quite low, so as to enjoy the view – the whole of Warwickshire lying before us, running down towards the Avon. We are only a few yards from the river bank. In the little room in the eaves – the room you would have – you can hear the gentle flow of the water night and day. And the trees – so many, so many beautiful trees, so stately and gracious – elms and beeches and oaks, and then the alders and poplars and willows along the river bank.’

  ‘“There is a willow grows aslant a brook.”’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Miss Hartshorn beams approvingly, gives Kitty’s shoulder a little pat.

  ‘Oh, there is so much of the spirit of Shakespeare all around us. Though Marjorie is the real one for appreciating that.

  In the evening sometimes, we just sit quietly on the terrace with our work and we can see the deer coming down to feed at the water’s edge, four or five at a time. Of course, Marjorie and I are very quiet. But although it is such an idyllic spot, the cottage really is not too isolated, you must not worry about that, our little village is less than a mile away, and then, we are within quite easy reach of several lovely old Warwickshire towns. And there is a very nice school for young ladies at Leamington Spa. Or perhaps the one at Malvern? The Malvern Hills you would find very beautiful. Though that would be rather further, it would mean boarding of course. No, on the whole, perhaps it would be best for you just to stay with us, at least until you are quite settled and have more of an idea. Marjorie and I would teach you and we do have several other friends nearby – Esme Thorpe, for piano and Miss Batt, who is quite a mathematician and, well, the vicar, I suppose, for religious studies. Or the vicar’s wife.’

  They have reached the verandah again. Kitty stands still before their house, the flowerbeds, the geraniums, the fountains, looking at India, seeing what she imagines to be England, seeing herself at the window of the little room in the eaves of the cottage in Warwickshire, the fields and water-meadows and trees of the Avon Vale stretching away from her.

  But thinks that she will want more, wants the world to open out in every direction at once. The cottage in Warwickshire and Miss Hartshorn’s friend Marjorie Pepys may not be enough.

  And her father and mother have not yet been spoken to at all.

  Rain in Cambridge, more steady, insistent rain, so that the river overflowed its banks at last, and all the paths alongside it were under water, and in places, quite unsafe.

  Rain pattering onto courts and sliding down ancient roofs, and the sweet smell of the wet earth rising, and a cloud of rain overhanging the streets and gardens, so that breathing made the lungs spongy; and Georgiana, walking through the wet streets, splashed from passing cabs, passing cycles, could not throw off the cold that had settled miserably on her chest.

  And she could perfectly well have taken a cab herself, but somehow, had felt defiant.

  And had been rather lonely too, indoors, unwell for several days, and her brother in Norfolk, and Alice behaving oddly, she had felt the need to be among others, going purposefully about, the bustle of the street, shops, doors opening and closing, cheerful faces. And all the young men.

  She was on her way to Lady Lawne’s house, to a meeting of the Committee for Moral Welfare.

  And now, round the corner of Petty Cury, one of the young men, who had almost collided with her, raised his hat and said, ‘Good morning’ – smiled at her, gown flying, arms full of books and brown paper bags – and, smiling back, dismissing his apology, she thought suddenly that that was what she had been missing, and that when Thomas was back, they must have some of the young men in, to tea, to sherry, to Sunday luncheon. For she greatly enjoyed it, their graceful, yet at the same time, clumsy bodies, all over her drawing-roo
m, their legs under her dining-room table, and their voices, and their politeness, and the way she could coax them out of themselves. And there was always one very difficult one, who hung back, and one too boisterous, but charming. Oh, always. Yes, the young men must come again to tea.

  So that the rain, running off her umbrella suddenly, and down her neck in a cold channel, and the pile of leaves in a mulch in the gutter, making her slip and almost fall, did not put her into a bad humour, after all.

  And at Lady Lawne’s house, she found that she was early, the first, in fact, her Ladyship was not even down, and so, she could dry and warm herself by standing very close to the bright fire. For the walk had tired her, she was glad of the pause, the breath rasped in her chest. She was not yet by any means well.

  He woke to the sound of rain, water dropping softly on water, and tapping on the wooden roof of the houseboat. Above and all around him, it was grey, pale, dull, undefined. There were no birds to be seen.

  And the rain soaked his hair and his shoulders as he rowed away, and the oars made perfect furrows behind him, and before he was halfway to the jetty and the Wherry Inn, the houseboat and the island itself were lost in the veils of rain and mist and greyness. It was not yet cold, yet the damp air felt chill, it penetrated to the bone. There was no wind. No sound, save the sound of the rain.

  By eleven o’clock, he was on the road, wrapped in a rug, sitting up behind the brisk little pony. And all over the flat fields, rain, rain and greyness.

  But he carried Norfolk with him, and the sights he had seen, the moonlight on the water, the stock-still heron, the graceful curlew, the cries of the geese, carried the whole place, and the peace and silence and beauty of it, in his head and in his heart.

  The road turned inland. He was to spend one more night away, before returning home.

  Running up the stairs to change – for she is late, she is to accompany her mother to the shops, to Whiteaway and Laidlaw, and then to the bazaar – Kitty stops dead.

  Thinks, and cannot imagine why the thought has not occurred to her before, but then how did she ever come to leave her friend and the cottage in Warwickshire? Why did Amelia Hartshorn come to India at all?

  22

  AFTERNOON. THEY have had a light luncheon at the club. And tonight there is a reception. Afterwards, they will go on to a dinner, and for the first time, they are to take Kitty. Her new frock hangs in the great, mahogany wardrobe.

  But she will be brought home early.

  And the shopping expedition has been a great success, though they have bought far too much.

  (Though the shops in Calcutta make Eleanor long, sometimes, for those in London, for Piccadilly and Knightsbridge and St James, just once, every now and then, it comes over her, like a craving for something very sweet.)

  But it is all great fun.

  Now, they lie together on the bed, Eleanor and Kitty, mother and daughter, as they used to lie when Kitty was small. But do not sleep. Kitty has been talking about the cottage in Warwickshire. Eleanor listens, listens. Strokes her child’s hair.

  Thinks, with a dart of pure anguish, but I cannot, I cannot let her go! And loves her passionately at this moment. And fears too how things would be with her, if Kitty were gone. For what purpose would there be in her life then?

  She sees herself, getting older at the receptions, parties, dinners, visits, weddings, gymkhanas, balls. And all the afternoons and evenings at the club.

  Turns, to look again at Kitty, quiet now. But her eyes are not closed. Pulls her closer.

  Thinks, an abrupt realisation, but she has already gone!

  In the garden, the fountains cascade, up and over and down, up and over and down, so gracefully.

  The rest of the shooting party, his father and brothers-in-law, went earlier.

  Now, Eustace Partridge walked home alone across the stubble fields, his gun beneath his arm, wet through, chilled.

  But his mind was not tired, his mind would never be still, all day long, there were pictures in his head. Scenes, glimpses.

  The past.

  It was barely six o’clock, but dense dark.

  He stopped to get his bearings. And became aware, all around him, of the night creatures, the cowering birds, the secret fox, the wild-eyed, palpitating rabbits.

  But almost at once, plodded on again in the direction of home. (For of course, a house had been found for them, on the estate, it was all perfectly in order, perfectly satisfactory now, things have been accepted.)

  He had begun to grow accustomed to not thinking, diverting his attention. Though his mind would never be still, night or day, and the pictures, the glimpses, ran on of their own accord through his head.

  And at home, his wife sat beside the drawing-room fire. Or was with his parents, and seemed contented enough.

  ‘It has all turned out better than we dared to hope.’ Or so his mother had said.

  It began to rain again. There was no moon, the owls lurked, huddled down into themselves, in the heart of the woods.

  He walked on.

  The long windows of the parsonage gave onto a terrace, and then, to the sloping lawn.

  The proportions of the house were perfect, he had always thought so.

  And by the time the trap had turned into the drive, the sun, a fuzzy, reddish sun, was just shining.

  And they all came out to greet him, or so it seemed, there were small children and young people everywhere, and his friend Cecil Moxton standing shyly behind – for he was the shyest, the most diffident of men. Short, sturdy, with a pale, bald, domed head.

  But Isobel was nowhere to be seen.

  They climbed up onto the trap, patted the pony, hung onto Thomas’s arms, took his bag, danced backwards up the path before him.

  He was their favourite visitor, the honorary Uncle.

  He did not know about children, was inhibited with them – though now some of them were growing up, it was perhaps easier. But in any case, they ignored his inhibitions, refused to notice them, brushed them aside, as if they were simply of no account.

  And so, they were not.

  Later, after tea, the two men walked in the fields, the terrier dog running before them.

  The sun was low, poppy red.

  ‘Isobel seems – seems rather better?’

  Cecil glanced up. Stopped, looking around vaguely. Watched the terrier dog bolt away towards the far hedge.

  Thomas had known him for twenty years. And in those years, eleven children had been born. Two dead. After each one, Isobel had been unwell, had grown melancholy, nervous, hidden herself away.

  But today, she had lunched with them, had welcomed Thomas with unusual warmth, clung to his arm.

  In the hedge, the terrier dog was crouched forward on front paws, nose frantically probing.

  Cecil Moxton said, ‘There is to be another child in March.’

  The sun dropped half below the far horizon, flushing the grey skeins of cloud.

  Thomas stood, watching it, watching the dog. Silent. Appalled.

  Yet at dinner, seeing all their bright faces around the table, and aware of their closeness, their mutual, loving concern, in spite of his own misgivings, he envied them.

  23

  ‘THINGS HAVE been coming to a head. I know that. You think I don’t notice things, but that is simply not true. So we must discuss it and settle something. I do so hate it when you fret.’

  ‘Miss Hartshorn …’

  ‘Wretched woman.’

  ‘No, it is not her fault.’

  ‘Well, she’ll be off soon after Christmas and I for one will not be sorry.’

  ‘Taking Kitty with her?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That has been the talk. You know I have said this to you before – that Kitty is restless – she longs to go to England … to … to reconcile it with her own dreams. And to spread her wings. To be better educated.’

  ‘Yes and that is all very well.’

  ‘I don’t want her to go. Of course I do no
t. I shall hate it if she goes. But it isn’t a question of my needs, my wants. My selfishness.’

  ‘So I suppose it has all been decided.’

  ‘Of course it has not. But it must be.’

  ‘You think she should go for a spell, a holiday … why not? Yes, let her go.’

  ‘She seems happy enough now.’

  ‘Superficially.’

  ‘You think she should go.’

  ‘I wish you would not simply jump at a solution and then dismiss the whole matter from your mind, Lewis. I need you to support me.’

  ‘You know I always do.’

  ‘Miss Hartshorn has a friend … a Marjorie Pepys. They have a cottage in Warwickshire. There has been a good deal of talk about that. Kitty would live there – that is her idea … she would continue to tutor her, but there is also a girls’ school, apparently. In Leamington Spa.’

  ‘Well then, why not let her go?’

  ‘I do dislike having to conduct a conversation like this through the open door of your dressing-room.’

  ‘Well, I suppose you’ve discussed these plans with Kitty – and so forth.’

  ‘I’ve listened.’

  ‘It sounds perfectly reasonable, for a month or so.’

  ‘If you want to know what I think … I think it sounds sapphic.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘Oh … and … and narrow … and after all, we don’t really know …’

  ‘No. No, I suppose not.’

  ‘She is still a child – she will not even be sixteen. I want the best for Kitty. The best education … and care … the best environment – the best future.’