The Hunter's Moon (Timeless Classics Collection)

by Ursula Bloom

  She thought again, then crossed the threshold. They stared incredulously at her, not knowing what she had heard. The fact that she did not know them was matterless, here one did what one wished, when one wished. ‘I could not help overhearing what you said,’ she said quickly. ‘If you want to sublet the studio, could you possibly give me the first refusal, and let it to me?’ and the idea was born in the spirit of the moment.

  The young man looked at her almost insolently, possibly he knew her, for here everybody knew everybody else. The studio was dusty with the dustiness of all such, and somehow she recognised it as being the cemetery of dreams which had never materialised.

  He asked, ‘You’d take it on, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, I would. I want somewhere to work in for a short while, and could pay you down for it if you wished.’

  The girl was kneeling by the divan, still cramming too much into too little, and she said in an angry voice, ‘For God’s sake let her have it, then we can get out. It’s been our downfall and brought us bad luck. Let it go.’

  The man hesitated, his hands thrust into the pockets of the drill trousers, his expression sulky. Then he said to her, ‘Right you are! Then take the dammed place.’

  They went into the details, for Diana knew that whatever happened she must take it. She must start on her career. Already she had lost time with life. The man knew where there was an attorney, and brought him along. She was rushing it, of course, but she had come to the conclusion that the rush jobs of this world were the ones which were the most important. By the next afternoon the girl had returned to Marseilles, and the artist was parking his spare canvases on a friend. The rush job was through. The woman next door knew of a good char, and sent her in; it was then that Diana learnt that the place had never been properly cleaned since those people moved in.

  Diana went down to dinner that night sure that she had taken a big step in life, and that it was a good step. John had come in and sat at an adjacent table.

  ‘Where on earth have you been?’ he asked. ‘I have seen nothing of you and have missed you horribly.’

  ‘I was fixing up a studio for myself.’

  His surprise gave her a thrill. ‘A studio? But you don’t paint?’

  ‘I know,’ and as she sat there with the excellent hors d’oeuvres she remembered that she had never wanted to work in colour. Form was ever the big attraction, and when she came to think about it she had always thought in form, not colour.

  He changed the subject. ‘I came here to see you, you know, and you are avoiding me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I have things to do.’

  ‘So have I,’ and he leant forward. ‘I want to put right the bits of our life which have gone astray. We all make mistakes and have to admit it.’

  He smiled at her, and she recalled their first meeting when that smile had left her spellbound. Now she knew how far she had travelled since that Devonian holiday which had spelt disaster. Quietly she said, ‘Life moves on, you know.’

  ‘But I still love you.’

  It was an awkward dinner with snatches of conversation worrying them both. When she rose she asked for the coffee to be sent to her room. It would be so easy to ruin her whole life here and now. Too easy. She must take care.

  Chapter Twelve

  BEAUTY

  For the moment the new studio absorbed Diana. She could not believe that it was truly her own. She went back to Bernard for her daily lesson, and told him with exultation.

  He was enormously impressed by the way that she progressed with her work, and she had to admit it herself. She was seeing the whole thing in a new perspective, a perspective which came right into herself and revealed a new woman to her. It was as though part of her had stayed in those shadows of which she had always been aware, but now had stepped out into a prominent position and took shape. It was the promise which had ever haunted her, she told herself, and from nothing they became reality.

  ‘It’s so strange,’ she told him one morning, when they relaxed with coffee and rhum babas. ‘At moments it is easy, then it becomes difficult; sometimes it shapes itself, at others it refuses. Why?’

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Let life lead you. Most of our troubles are that we try to lead life, and then there is catastrophe. Give the reins over to the driver of the chariot.’

  ‘You do say some most extraordinary things.’

  ‘Because maybe I am a most extraordinary man,’ and he flung back the big bullet head, the eyes laughing.

  But of course John was becoming irritated. He saw nothing of her, she was hardly in the hotel, and he had not come out here for nothing, he said. Privately she did not want to meet him; the affair was over, slipping away into a shadowy past, something to forget, but he followed her, pursuing her, arguing with her. There was that dreadful morning when they almost quarrelled in a patisserie.

  ‘We do owe one another something, and that is a fair hearing,’ he said. ‘My leave will not last for ever, and I want to get something settled, for this should be our love story.’

  She told him the truth very quietly. ‘I shall never marry you, John, maybe I knew that when I came to that flat of yours.’

  ‘You took it the wrong way. Of course I was disturbed, and awfully worried for both of us.’

  ‘So was I,’ she agreed.

  He gulped down an aperitif. ‘It’s no good going over the same old thing again and again. It only hurts both of us. I need some understanding for I was your love, you would have had our child. We are one another’s.’

  ‘That is past,’ she said slowly, but she knew that he did not understand what had happened. Perhaps every girl becomes a woman when she bears her first child and matures, and now she was seeing things in a different light. The self within herself had come to life; a new world of art dazzled her. ‘I never knew before that I could sculpt,’ she whispered.

  ‘Oh, that! It’s only a passing phase. We all go through those phases, but they mean nothing.’

  Curiously the words did not distress her as she would have thought they could. ‘I am going to take it up,’ she said, and knew this was the truth, as she warmed to it. ‘A new world lies at my feet, a creative world.’

  He sulked, one of his habits, and after a time he said, ‘I seem to be the love you wish to forget. It’s that great big ugly chap with the red hair, of course. He’s no Michelangelo, even if you think he is.’ Then, as she said nothing, ‘He’ll get you away from the people who are good to you, and it isn’t right.’ His face puckered with dismay. ‘We were each other’s, so much in love, then all this happened. Why?’

  ‘Perhaps because I found a new personality within myself, and for the first time am doing what I want,’ she said.

  ‘If you think that chap’ll marry you, think again. He must be nearly forty anyway.’

  ‘Maybe one does not love a man for his looks, or his age. One just loves him,’ she said, then she rose. She got up from the small table and instantly all the waiters buzzed round her lest she should escape without paying. She moved into the street, he with her.

  ‘Don’t leave me?’ he said.

  ‘But it seems to be quite futile for me to stay.’ Afterwards she had the impression that this was the moment when she walked out of his world. Not because of a man but because of an art which she had found within herself. She had felt it there always, but it had never become so predominant. It was herself. A studio had dropped into her lap, and it would be easy to leave La Cloche and install herself there. Here it was not as difficult as in England, and Bernard would teach her. She felt that a new rosy future revealed itself, with the opportunity to love life, and form it with her two hands. The power had ever haunted her, but now she was able to give it that ‘local habitation and a name’. The world is my oyster, she thought.

  She went back to the hotel and early to bed, sleeping the whole night through. It was the divine climate, of course, which helped so much. Rising late, she strolled along to Bernard’s studio. She must have a talk with
him. Yet when she got there, it seemed there was something about it which was slightly different. It had changed. Uncertainty startled her, a vague suspicion that something was wrong, for he was one of those men who worked at his best in the early hours, fastest then, and enjoyed it most. She walked into the house, and saw the half-finished statue standing draped in a sheet, and hidden from her. It looked tidier than usual, for he was not a tidy man; as a rule it was half covered, but today it was fully wrapped. Surely he had not gone to Corsica, after all? In the far kitchen the girl Madeleine was noisily cleaning up.

  Diana called to her, ‘Monsieur? Where is Monsieur?’

  Madeleine came into the studio, wiping her hands on a drab apron. ‘Monsieur, ’e depart to Corsica.’

  This was a surprise. ‘Monsieur has gone away?’

  ‘’E leave this lettaire,’ and the girl brought it out of her apron pocket, much creased.

  She said ‘Thank you’, but her voice had gone a trifle gruff, for this was so entirely unexpected. She spoke in a voice which was not her own. She sat down on a corner of a chair, tearing the envelope apart. It was laboriously written, she knew, for he was one of those men who find the writing of a letter extremely irksome. He felt that maybe whilst she made up her mind it would be wiser if he went away, and he had to go to Corsica to see about the statue they wanted, and considered this was the hour for it. She had seen his plans lying about the studio from time to time, and knew it was necessary for him to go. It would take a few days to finish his business over there, for he must get the idea complete, and all the arrangements settled, before he returned. He would stay just outside Bastia, a makeshift lodging he knew, but if she wrote to the post office there, he would pick up the letter. He added:

  Do not be too worried for me. I am all right, and I must get this work settled, whilst I have the time. Also perhaps it could be good for both of us to be apart for the moment to find how we feel and think.

  She thought suddenly, Good for us to be apart! and hated the echo which rang in her heart. From the first moment this big man with the rough reddish hair and the amused eyes had attracted her. He held her by his kindliness, his care for her, and she knew that all along she had appreciated his goodness more than she dared admit. It was not the way that she had loved John. He had come into her somewhat limited life, which had been a mere existence, when she was filled with the longing for everything which was beyond her grasp. Bernard had provoked a new emotion, a longing and a deep desire within her. He could give comfort, and had a wisdom she had not. He could lead, and she could lean on him. Perhaps one of the worst emotions in her life had been the anxiety to be led. She could never lean on her father, or her mother, who was too harassed by the difficulties of the home. John had not guided her. He had given her a dream which had died that November day when she had gone to tell him what was happening. So much had ended there, but maybe her real self had been born. Now she had to go on.

  ‘He has gone to Corsica,’ she told Madeleine.

  ‘Mais oui,’ and she went on dusting, quite unconcerned.

  ‘How do I get there?’

  Madeleine turned, a cigarette end poised in a small mouth. ‘There are the boat, m’lle. The fly is more quick.’

  ‘I don’t like flying,’ and even as she said it she knew that would be the answer. She could not stop here with John so close to her, she wanted to escape. She wanted only to go to Bernard and say, ‘Look, I’ve come to you. I had to come, because I wanted you so much.’

  It might be a momentary madness, but she walked over to the telephone and on impulse rang up the airport. Madeleine could help. She wished to fly to Corsica tomorrow. A mechanical voice echoed back the answer, giving her the flying times and the only passages they could offer. She grabbed at the earliest. Madeleine listened rather dully, flicking a duster here and there, with apparently no interest at all. Diana booked the passage, feeling that fate was playing the cards into her lap. For the first time she was doing exactly what she wanted, on her own initiative. She hung up.

  ‘I shall go for the week-end, Madeleine.’

  ‘Oui, m’lle.’

  ‘You know where he is?’

  Madeleine fished into her pocket and brought out of it a severely crumpled piece of paper. Only when she had started to copy it out did Diana realise that it was c/o the Post Office, Bastia. She did not care.

  Within her heart was a purr of excitement. She had the delightful feeling that now, at last, she was the girl who was taking action.

  The shadows no longer made her tense. She could see through them and beyond them and recognised a supreme happiness which was beckoning to her. She had been able to foresee disaster and had shadowy forebodings, but now quite suddenly she came out of that world into one of real joy. As though the sun and not the moon had risen for her at last.

  PART THREE

  THE NEW MOON

  Chapter Thirteen

  CORSICA

  Diana left no message for John, feeling it unnecessary in this her hour of elation. She went back to La Cloche and told Madame what had happened. It was the time of the end of the siesta, when the hotel sprang from lethargy into the business of the day. The cleaners had done. The place looked scrupulously clean and smart, and from somewhere in the back of the building Madame herself emerged exactly as though she had been turned out of a jelly mould. The black dress clung closely to her, jetted on the bosom and with a high throat line, over which her face peered roguishly.

  She said, ‘M’lle?’

  ‘I am going to Corsica for the week-end.’

  ‘Ah!’ The quick breath and the sharp eyes instantly realising why. ‘Corsica is most pewtiful, but eet is wild. ’Ave a care, m’lle, for you are young.’

  ‘Mr Dante is there.’

  ‘Then ’e will guard?’ an eyebrow cocked the question.

  ‘I am flying over.’

  ‘Good, for boats are turbulent, yes. To Bastia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I recommend the Hotel Bienvenuto. I can arrange,’ and she picked up the telephone receiver. Madame was clever at taking possession of the moment. When she had done she said, ‘M. Dante is most charmant, yes?’

  ‘He has been very kind to me.’

  Madame shrugged her big shoulders. ‘He also know trouble. He is the artist, all artists have suffer.’

  The girl spoke gently. ‘I want to learn sculpture. I feel that it has always been in my heart, and now … now perhaps I can learn.’

  ‘The English monsieur?’ and the black eyes were challenging.

  ‘No, Madame, that is over for ever.’

  Madame nodded. ‘I know. I do know. Men is men, women is women; all men are hard.’

  Diana prayed that she would not come face to face with John before she left. She read Bernard’s letter to her yet again. He was mistaken when he thought that the old love affair could re-blossom, quite wrong. Old love affairs of that kind do not flower for a second time, they perish. Meanwhile Madame, a dear old miser, ever willing to overcharge, but also willing to help (and maybe that is French), did everything.

  Diana was thankful when she got into the car with just the valise, knowing that she would need very little for this which she felt to be the great journey of her life. The man drove like one crazed. How everybody did not die on that enormously wide road, and every day, Diana could not think, seeing the way they travelled. She passed three accidents, and had to hide her eyes, for now nothing must happen to stay her. When she arrived at the little airfield she stared dismayed. If she had thought that this would be one of the large ’planes, such as come down over the Alpes Maritimes, she was wrong. There were but six people travelling, and she the only woman. If I am sick, then I shall die, she thought as she boarded the ’plane. Pray heaven that it will be quick.

  The ’plane rose like a bird into the sky.

  Diana had to admit that if on the ground she had looked terribly insecure and flimsy, almost tied together with string, she was a capable machine and as comfort
able as the big one which had brought her south. She saw the island beneath them, a smudge in a vividly blue sea, and as they dropped down to land, she realised how wooded it was. This, she thought, is the end of life, or the beginning of everything that matters to me.

  She hardly realised when they touched down, only that the sound changed, and suddenly they moved more slowly, then came to a stop. In her heart there was the feeling of triumph that, after all, she had accomplished something which was almost unreal. The first fresh air came into the ’plane, almost like wine, telling her how stuffy it had been before this. I’ve arrived, she thought.

  She went down the gangway, and walked across to the customs sheds, aware of enormous mountains which seemed to be very close to her. No wind seemed stirring for the moment, and she had understood from Madame that it always blew here. The customs were like every other customs in the world, the men shorter, square-looking, and much darker than the actual French, she thought, and their attempts at English quite impossible to understand.

  ‘Where can I get a car?’ she asked.

  The brusque little man who she felt was possibly a robber in his private life, walked with her to point out where the taxis waited, then whistled between his teeth with the shrillest discord that she had ever heard. A large touring car came up, and a man in brief shorts, and something between a shirt and a jersey on top, leapt out of it. He knew the hotel, and grabbed the luggage. She got into the back.

  The traffic seemed to be leisurely after the Cote d’Azur, the eager warmth of the new day had not yet started, and there was an amiable peace about the place which she admired. The town itself was untidy, and they turned into what she would have thought was a suburban colony, with bougainvillaeas everywhere, and the Judas trees a mass of delicious buds. This was a vivid island, and it arrested her attention, already she was glad that she had come.