by Susan Hill
Now, the moon rode higher in the sky. Rode over the parsonage, where Cecil Moxton lay asleep and his wife lay awake, heavy with child for these few, last days, and over the house where Eustace Partridge slept fitfully, though not in the same bed, or even in the same room, now, as his young, bewildered wife. Who was no longer with child and would never be so, again, and who was not to blame but could not believe it. And the gulf between them was wider than any dividing wall, wider than continents. Though he treated her kindly, and with infinite concern, and so, in a way, she was happy.
Rode over Miss Hartshorn and Miss Pepys, in the cottage in Warwickshire, where a rabbit screamed in terror of a stoat, in the woods that came up to the house.
And on the empty house in Norfolk, and the grave of Mary Dundas, that would never be tended, never be dear to any heart, and over the sea, which was Miss Lovelady’s grave, where no gravestone would ever be.
Over the colleges and the chapels, the river and the meadows and all the fields around, out to the house in the country, waiting, waiting.
And on Adèle Hemmings who tonight slipped out of the house and out of her coat to walk naked through the dark streets and over the sweet, cold grass.
The moon rode, until the first of the clouds came over it, and the rain spattered on the wind, as, far away, the storm gathered.
10
AT FIRST, as he came suddenly awake, it was his mother who filled his mind, and he was taken aback by it, for he thought of her so rarely – of either of his parents – he was not a man who had ever dwelled greatly on the past, though sometimes, he allowed himself to think fondly of Nana Quinn, and of the holidays at the house in Ireland, remembered with a spurt of joy his days out in the boat with Collum O’Cool. But he never thought – as he suspected that Georgiana did think – of the past as being a perfect place, for ever to be mourned and yearned for, always to be preferred to the present. That seemed to him something like a weakness, a kind of ingratitude. He would have said, always, I am perfectly content to live here, in the present.
But now, coming awake, he remembered his mother, and perhaps he had been half dreaming of her, too, and the vision of her was clear to him. But it was not the sight of her that was so strong, so much as the whole aura of her presence, her smell, her sound, the texture of her clothing, the movement of the very air that surrounded her.
He was a small boy, five or six years old, and he had fallen down the stairs. He lay at the foot, not badly injured, after all, but bruised and frightened, and she had been coming along the upper landing, and seen him fall but been quite unable to save him, had only come flying down after him, and sat on the bottom step beside him and gathered him up to her.
And it so rarely happened, because she was so rarely there, he saw very little of her, it was Nana Quinn, or one of the maids, who usually saw to him, and whom he would have expected.
But now, in the midst of his hurt and the confusion of it all, when the world had suddenly slipped from beneath him and thrown him upside down, now, it was she, his mother who was miraculously here, and he clung to her in relief and in rapture, buried his head in the woollen material of her dress, and inhaled her sweet, particular smell. The pain and shock of falling were not so much obliterated as welcomed, because they had been the cause of this, and he had held to her in desperation, knowing that once she moved away, set him at arm’s length from her, she would not take him to her again, nor allow herself to be persuaded or cajoled. But for a few moments longer, they had sat together, and the memory had burned into him, so that from time to time, for the rest of his life, it would surface, and he could savour it.
Now, he lay and it was with him again, the strong sense of his mother’s presence, her closeness, and the strength of the joy it had given him was remembered too.
The memory did not disturb him, he did not puzzle over or try to repress it, felt no guilt. Though why it should have been with him now, he could not tell.
But, as he came more fully awake, he was aware of something else, some other recollection.
He shifted about restlessly in his bed.
The night was very silent, very still. The moon shone.
He got up and crossed the room. And, pulling back the curtain saw, thought he saw – what? Shadows? A figure? Some movement between the trees, at the bottom of the garden. A pale shape. Then, nothing. And a cloud slid in front of the moon.
But, just as he turned away, he could tell that it was a cat, caught the gleam of its eyes as it slunk across the grass towards the shrubbery. He shuddered, hating cats as he did, irrationally, violently, not merely for fear of what they might do to his birds – what, indeed, they did daily, nightly, to all manner of small creatures. His fear was darker, more primitive, so that he was alarmed by, even ashamed of it.
He half turned, wanting to go out of the house and drive the animal away, to lash out at it somehow, banish it for ever from his garden. But restrained himself, did not move. And after a few seconds, looking back, he saw that the cat had gone out of sight into the shadows.
Then, as he let the curtain drop from his hand, and settle, it came to him, as unbidden, unexpected, and bewildering, as the sudden vision of his mother to which he had awakened.
He saw the girl on the bridge, standing, still, poised as a bird in the sunlight, looking down into the water.
And with the sight of her, came a strange suffusion of emotion that he did not recognise, but which dissolved and dissipated all of his violent rage and revulsion from the prowling cat, calmed and soothed him, yet disturbed him too.
He lay down in the darkness.
Did he know her, after all? Perhaps it was so. Carefully, he went over the young women known to him – Cecil Moxton’s daughters, those of the Dean and one or two other members of his college. But they were very few and although he scarcely knew them, he thought he would have recognised their faces. She was not one of them.
He knew nothing about her then. Had simply come upon her by chance, had never seen her before and would not, in all probability, ever see her again.
Then why did he recall her?
Without realising it, he allowed himself to retain the image of her as he went to sleep, and the contentment that it gave him. And because he was still wholly ignorant, wholly innocent, he felt nothing else, neither anxiety, nor alarm, nor any distress.
11
ELEANOR BENDS her head and splashes the water from her cupped hands, over her face, again and again. And it is cold water, wonderfully, icily cold, and she remembers once more this intense simple pleasure which awaits her year after year.
In Calcutta, the water is never cold, always tepid, lukewarm, and in the last few weeks, as the weather has grown hotter again, at the end of the season, so the water has seemed suddenly intolerably warm, and somehow slimy, one can never be refreshed by it.
But now she is installed at last in the bungalow in the Hills. It perches on a ledge, high up, above and below other ledges, other bungalows, and the streets and avenues run along and slope a little, and everywhere, there are the views, the amazing sight of the far mountains.
And there has been the usual long trek to get here and before that, the weeks of planning and packing, supervising the household move, Eleanor is quite exhausted.
But it is all worth it, as always. Worth it, because of this, the wonderful coldness of the water, and the sharp, sweet freshness of the air, which she also drinks in, in great draughts at dawn, and dusk. Oh, and the flowers, the cottage gardens, and the sight of the banks of wild rhododendrons growing up the slopes, and the Scotch pines, and the blue-mauve haze of the near hills, the floating snow-caps of the far.
And to have escaped the heat and dust and the staleness and the raw brightness and the smells of the hot weather on the plains. It is all worth it.
Or would be, if it were not that she wonders now, what is the point of it all, the point of any of her life, there or here. And instead of feeling refreshed and exhilarated in anticipation of the spring an
d summer, she already feels jaded, weary in advance, bored before it has even begun, the social round, the calling and the rides, the picnics and parties and mornings at church and afternoons at the library and teas at the hotel and drinks at the club, and then all the nonsense of fancy dress and theatricals.
Worst of all, it is the thought of so many women together which depresses her. There are men, of course, men on leave and the men who work up here, for a lot of them move up for the whole season, as Lewis will move up, in a month or so. But still, many of them do not come, many are obliged to sweat it out in the heat on the plain, it is too much a society of women, and the younger children.
Yet it would not matter, she could still plunge herself into the life and the months to come, and not only make the best of them, but enjoy them thoroughly, and feel them to be worthwhile – if it were not for the stone-heaviness that lies on her heart, and the pain of anxiety, if it were not, quite simply, for the terrible absence of Kitty.
She sits now, at the open bay window, overlooking the verandah and the opposite hills, and hears the whistling of some servant or other, and the hooves of horses, echoing across the valley. But sees nothing, hears nothing, for her mind is full of Kitty, Kitty’s presence fills the room. Where is she now and with whom? Is she happy, homesick, well or ill? Does she also sit at a window and dream of and long for, another place?
It seems to Eleanor an insane, an unimaginable thing to have done, let Kitty go, after all the years of keeping her close, defying the custom, earning the disapproval of all those whose children have, naturally, been sent away.
But she did not weep. Had not. Weeping was too facile a thing. Only sat on, looking out and seeing Kitty, seeing England, Home, and longing bitterly for them both.
But a little before four, she is obliged to dress and walk out, to return a call on the wife of the District Commissioner, and, just for having done her hair and made herself look well, she feels better, more willing to face the day.
And she meets this person and that person, all women, all strolling along the Mall, for all the world as if it were the promenade at Eastbourne, and the air is fresh and quite delightful. And she does, she reminds herself, have a certain position here, and being here, has a duty, too, to represent Lewis.
So that, when she catches sight of little, subdued, wan-faced Myrtle Piggerton, whose child died, she crosses over the road to greet her, and, seeing the relief and gratitude in the young woman’s face, feels encouraged, by having done the right thing, and makes an arrangement to have luncheon with her the following day.
And Kitty, for the moment, steps back a little into the shadows.
12
‘OH, BUT the spring!’ Georgiana said in bitter frustration. ‘Whatever happened to the spring? I had begun to feel so much better, really quite uplifted. Oh, treachery.’
For they sat huddled in the little parlour after lunch, over a fire that smoked and would not draw, and outside, the wind blew a gale again, that lashed rain at the windows and had already brought down the early boughs of blossom, scattering them all anyhow onto path and pavement, had battered the first daffodils, and sent the rest of the world scurrying back to its lair. Now, the wind was strengthening again, the two women sat, hearing the trees lash together like waves of the sea. They had eaten mutton and capers and coconut sponge, but then, Georgiana had planned a walk, around the garden, and perhaps further, up the avenue towards the Backs in the sunshine. Instead, they could only stare at the awful fire, and talk of raising a subscription to pay for the furnishing of the house in the country, going over and over the old names.
And Florence had had a letter from the matron of St Faith’s Shelter, in East London.
‘We are welcome to visit any weekend, to suit our convenience – the late morning would be the most suitable.’
Georgiana glanced out of the window at the grey sky. ‘Perhaps – in a week or two. Perhaps we should wait until there is some prospect of our enjoying the outing.’
‘And we shall make it an outing! Travel up by train and stay overnight – perhaps two nights? – at a good hotel. There are no end of things we might do – theatres, galleries – the shops in Piccadilly …’ Florence stood up and walked to the window, waved her hand dismissively at the outside world.
‘Never mind about the weather. We shall simply ignore it. We have far better things to consider.’
Georgiana looked up at her, tall and stately against the light, her hair coiled. Thought, yes, she should be the wife of the College Master, the mistress of his house, she would become the position so well, give it such style.
But since Christmas, or before, since feeling so unwell and having so many things that weighed so heavily upon her, she felt that she had gradually lost what desires she had had, for her own independence and freedom, more and more she wanted merely to settle back and live the quiet, dull life she had, after all, always lived here, her energy had drained away, and she was in retreat from the thought of any challenge, any change.
And so, the idea of giving up this last prospect, of a comfortable life as her brother’s support, when he became Master (for there was no doubt at all in her mind that he was surely destined for that), the idea of Florence’s marrying him and so supplanting her, depressed her intolerably. For where would she herself be, in that event, where would she go? She saw herself in a dim little back sitting-room of the Master’s house, growing dowdy, disregarded and patronised, as his spinster sister. Or else remaining here, rattling around in this house alone.
‘Yes. London,’ Florence said energetically. ‘Let us fix a day, and I shall write to the matron. In any case, London has been on my mind, for I must take Kitty there, too, she has such a desire to see everything, quite a hunger for it. It is rather touching.’
‘She is not homesick?’
Florence returned to her chair.
‘She scarcely speaks of home – of her parents or India, at all. It is really impossible to know what she feels. She is such – such an earnest little thing, so serious, so solemn. She says that she wants to “do good in the world”. I daresay that was something she learned from the missionary woman on the ship.’
‘But that was a terrible experience for a young girl – to be so close to sudden death.’
‘She is not pretty,’ Florence said, ‘and she is in many ways very gauche – a child still, after all. But she is very composed. Quite self-contained. My mother has greatly taken to her. They play piquet.’
‘And you are enjoying her company too, and it is very good for you.’
‘Well – I intend to organise her education, that is my role, that is why she came to me – I plan all manner of things, trips, art classes, and some socialising – I am trying to round up some companions of her own age. Oh, it will all be great fun.’
‘And you will bring her here to dine? I had thought of next Saturday.’
‘Thank you. Yes. I am so anxious for her to make new friends.’
But she did not, dared not, mention Thomas, ask whether he might be present. Only stared at the rain on the window, and listened to the wind, and willed, willed that he would join them, that she might be given another chance.
And then, after a while, they bestirred themselves, and the bell was rung for Alice to bring in coffee, and they began to discuss the subscription list in greater earnest.
‘Now you have the ace of clubs, so you must set it down.’
‘Oh – so I have. But how did you know?’
‘If you were a small girl, I suppose I would say that I had magic eyes and could see through the backs of the cards.’
‘But as I am an older girl, you will say it is because you have been playing this game since long before I was born.’
‘Correct. So, set down the ace … so … my Jack … there!’
‘Oh, how vexing!’
They were playing in the drawing-room after tea. The lamps were already lit, it was so dark outside, dark and wet, had been like it the whole day. England was
grey again, there had been one glimpse of spring, one sunlit day. Nothing more.
‘Is that how you would describe yourself?’
Old Mrs Gray peered at her over the top of her half-spectacles, over her hand of cards.
‘An older girl?’
‘I suppose – or a young woman?’
‘You are both. You are of an age when you may be anything. Like me. I would tell you to make the most of it but I need not, because, you see, if you are lucky, it all comes round again.’
But she saw that, of course, Kitty did not understand.
‘Whereas Florence …’ and she selected a ten of clubs and laid it carefully, deliberately down. ‘Florence is what she is and can be no other.’
‘You mean she is a grown woman?’
‘Florence has always been a grown woman. She was one when she was six. I used to think that if she had had children of her own, she would have had the chance to become a child herself after all. But now I am very doubtful.’
‘It is very hard to imagine people as children, once they are not.’
‘Even me?’
‘No,’ Kitty smiled. ‘No, not you.’ For it was perfectly true.
‘You are remarkably like your mother when you smile. So you will be as beautiful as she is. I suppose she is still a beauty?’
‘Oh yes. People say it all the time. In Calcutta it is what she is known for. But cousin Florence is beautiful too, do you not think?’
‘No. She is handsome perhaps, but her jaw is too square and forceful for beauty. You see, I do not think my goose a swan – though she is my only goose.’
‘But you do love her.’
‘Ah. Love.’
‘You must.’
‘Not all mothers love their children. Did no one ever tell you that? Have you not observed it for yourself?’
