Oh, rubbish. Take a grip of yourself. She got up and went over to the rocking-horse, pushed it. As before it rocked easily but made no sound. It was about two feet from the wall and, deprived of the shadow cast by a lamp, it looked old and worn and harmless. The wallpaper on this wall of the room was slightly different from the rest, less faded and the pattern smaller – as if perhaps it had been added a few years after the rest, when the original pattern was no longer obtainable. In one or two places it had a bulge as if the paste had dried and allowed it to come away from the plaster behind.
The only ornament on this wall was a faded print of a Dürer engraving beside a cupboard, and a spotted mirror, in which she now stared at herself. What had Marion really looked like? – clearly not fair like her brother. There must be a photograph somewhere or even a painting. Surely Simon would have painted her. Were they really alike, she and Marion? Twenty-three Marion had been. Her age now. But that was seven years ago. It would make her thirty now, if she had lived. Four years younger than her brother. It was about the right age-gap for a romantic attachment between brother and sister, a sort of love affair without sex, an intimacy grown right through from childhood: thoughts, memories, ideals shared.
She picked up her book again but she had not made a good choice. Her father had often laughed over W. W. Jacobs, so today she had taken this out of the library to read a casual story or so. Two light ones to begin, pleasant, old-fashioned fisherman’s stories, mildly amusing; then the third, a nasty hair-raising tale of murder and possession. It wasn’t the proper reading for a dark afternoon.
She went back to the cupboard on the wall. Two days ago she had opened it and found an untidy litter of things which had not seemed worth sifting through. Now she picked them over.
Many of them were childish. A mouth-organ, a top, a skipping rope. In the back she found a pair of blue slippers. They were a bit small for her, possibly were Marion’s. A school photograph of about thirty girls – impossible to pick one out; a photograph of two young men in RAF uniforms. On the back was written: ‘To Marion, my very own love’. One of the men was Simon. So the other . . . ? Or had Simon written it?
An exercise book full of scribblings and drawings. Childish writing: ‘Marion Mary Syme, Morb House, Llandathery, Montgomeryshire, Wales, Great Britain, Europe, The World’. Marion had also had some talent for drawing. There were dozens of crayon sketches of a boy of about fifteen with a mop of fair hair. Sometimes he had a round smiling face, sometimes it looked narrow and preoccupied. There were also one or two more mature drawings; one of a boy and a girl climbing a tree and he was holding her by the ankle; another of what looked like an execution; the axe had come down and the head was just splitting from the body; it was Simon’s face and the executioner was a girl. Another where a boy and a girl were locked in a fight, yet appeared to be kissing. There were several more in which both boy and girl had goat’s heads, and then a whole series of naked pictures in which none of the people had faces. At the very end was a drawing of a devil with a tail where his sexual organs ought to have been.
Norah shut the book, shut the cupboard and dusted her hands. Then she went into the bathroom to wash them. It was good to be out of that room. The rain was still falling and the house was quiet and prematurely dark. She returned to the sitting-room and got her book, careful not to take any notice of the rocking-horse which she half persuaded herself had been moving gently when she returned.
She went downstairs. The first landing was dark and silent, almost darker now than at night when a small light burned. The design of the house was very eccentric. This big central landing was platform-like, with Althea’s bedroom and Gregory’s and another opening directly off it, while beside Althea’s bedroom the eight steps led down to the bathrooms. At the other side was the long meandering creaking passage down which at night Mr Croome-Nichols was seen to jerk his way, and at the very end of which Simon’s bedroom commanded a view of the valley. Near the stairs going up to her rooms were steps down to the other passage whose destination seemed to be a green door leading to the staff quarters. Norah wondered about the unused part of the house and how one entered it. Perhaps they were two quite separate entities.
She decided it was not the day for exploring – or she was not in the mood to do it. She went down to the ground floor. As she passed Mrs Syme’s study there were voices which sounded as if they were raised in argument. She heard Althea saying something emphatically. It could have been Simon’s voice answering.
She walked on towards the first drawing-room, turned over some of the music on the piano, then pressed her nose against the window staring at the weeping valley. A break in the clouds low over the west. The Jacobs book was still in her hand, and she turned and went into the library to put it back.
There was a scuffle and two figures broke apart; one stood up rapidly, the other got more slowly from a chair. Alice the parlour maid and Doole the butler. First instinct to apologize and withdraw. She checked that and went across to a bookshelf to return her book, as if no one else was there.
‘I beg your pardon, miss,’ Doole said, ‘I came to look for Mr Syme and . . .’
She caught the glint of his dark eyes as he spoke. Disadvantage of a young butler. But the normality of having interrupted a little petting was curiously reassuring.
‘Is it time for tea?’ she asked. ‘I believe it’s after four.’
‘Any time, miss. Usual, I wait for madam to ring.’
‘Then I’ll wait.’
He went out. She looked along the rows of books. There was a fair selection of modern novels in the study, but in here nothing seemed to have been added since the middle thirties.
‘I’m that sorry, miss,’ came suddenly from Alice, who was still in the room. An attractive Welsh lilt.
‘About what?’
‘About finding me and Doole like that, you know.’
Norah picked out a book. ‘Oh, it’s not my concern, Alice.’
‘So I hope you won’t mention it to madam. It would be the push I should get.’
‘And Doole?’
‘Oh, no. Oh, no, Mrs Syme would give me the blame.’
‘Wrongly?’
‘Well, maybe it is half and half, like. Though it is hard to keep away from him in this house . . .’
‘Mrs Syme won’t hear anything from me.’
‘Thank you, miss.’
Norah put the book back. She didn’t feel in the mood for Tolstoy. The girl had still not left the room.
‘Are you fond of him, Alice?’
‘Who, Doole?’ Reassured, Alice came a step or two out of the shadow. ‘Goodness, no, miss. There’s times he’s a bit of a swine, like. Er – begging your pardon, that is.’
‘So why . . .’
‘Oh, I dunno.’ Alice broke off. The mysteries of physical attraction and repulsion went too deep for her. ‘It’s a bit lonely, like, up here. And he’s not so bad when he’s in a good mood, you know . . .’
Norah could not help her. She felt sympathy and a gulf. She had never been able to accept love and sex as that sort of a second-rate game. But she didn’t think it entitled her to feel superior about the mysteries of physical attraction and repulsion. Even with her break from Robert Jenkin so fresh in her mind – and her determination not to allow herself any new involvement until the old had had a long time to fade – even with this she was aware of new and potent influences at work in her in the last few days.
Alice said: ‘Others ’ve come and gone. The other maids, yes. Mostly the English girls. They miss the bright lights and the city streets, like. But I’ve stayed. I’m used to the quiet. Madam likes me. But if it was whether I went or Ted Doole, it would be me.’ She made a movement to the door.
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Three and a half years, miss.’
‘You don’t remember Mr Syme’s sister, then? Miss Marion Syme.’
‘Oh, goodness no. It would be a long time before, you know. There has been no one
here so long as that. I am the longest, then Timson, then Doole. They’ve all been changed.’
‘Are you a local girl?’
‘No, miss. I’m from the north. Abergele. The local girls won’t come here.’
‘Why not?’
‘I dunno, miss. They say it’s unlucky, like.’
Norah took out another book, stared at it without seeing the name. ‘Have you ever seen a photograph of Miss Marion Syme?’
‘No, miss. Never, miss. Only . . .’
‘Only what?’
‘Only the paintings.’
‘What paintings?’
‘Those that was on the walls, miss. Three of them. One in the dining-room, one in the back hall, you know. One in . . .’
‘They were taken down?’
‘Oh yes, miss, quite recent. Early this month. Taken up to Mr Simon’s bedroom, they was.’
‘On whose orders?’
‘Oh, I suppose he asked for ’em, you know. Madam had some other portraits brought in instead.’
A gleam of sun fell across the garden and then died again. The rain was over.
Norah said: ‘Alice, do you notice any likeness between those portraits of Miss Marion and me?’
The girl smiled. ‘Why yes, miss, I thought there was a likeness when I first saw you. Doole’s remarked on it too, he has. You might be sisters, like. Of course, it is only going by the paintings, mind. You can’t really tell from those, can you? Did you know Miss Marion, miss?’
‘No. I believe she died six or seven years ago – was drowned or something.’
‘Yes, indeed, they both were.’
‘Both?’
‘Miss Marion and her husband. My goodness, I don’t know, but that’s what people say . . .’
She broke off as the door opened and Gregory peered in. Heliographs blinked from his eyes.
‘Mother wants you,’ he said to Norah. ‘She’s in the study with Cousin Simon.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Althea wanted to dictate some letters; it seemed a routine matter, except that Simon was there and that when he moved to go Mrs Syme said: ‘No, stay. Stay and make sure that this is what you want me to say.’ He had got up when Norah came in and had smiled cheerfully at her – it was a smile that warmed her and made her feel more welcome in this house than anything had before – but once she began to take dictation he seemed to lose interest in his surroundings and to draw into himself. Althea was her usual serene self – like a great lake scarcely ruffled by the storm that had blown. But there had been a storm, of that there was no doubt.
The letters were business letters of a routine kind; one directed to a solicitor in Aberystwyth, another to an estate agent, a third to a bank, a fourth to an insurance company. One dealt with the collection of rents, another with outstanding mortgages, a third with the sale of shares. Syme property was evidently extensive – they were a wealthy family. Much of the money seemed to be in the form of trusts.
‘Would you like me to type these now?’ Norah asked when they had done.
‘Any time. After tea or tomorrow morning. Oh, I have asked a friend of yours to dinner tonight.’
‘Of mine?’
‘Well, you met him yesterday. Christopher Carew. He telephoned an hour ago so I told him to come for drinks at seven and stay for a meal. You don’t know him, Simon, do you?’ Mrs Syme explained about him. ‘You may have a good deal in common. Photography these days is an art.’
‘Not so much an art as an artifact,’ Simon said. ‘It’s surely a sort of – of halfway profession. Isn’t it? I’d rather make chairs. That seems to be more genuinely creative.’
‘I found him quite interesting,’ Norah said.
‘If you like him,’ Simon said, ‘that’s a recommendation.’
Althea looped back her hair. ‘Very gracious of you! I hope your mood is changing.’
‘I don’t say gracious things,’ Simon said; ‘I only try to speak my mind; and if Norah likes this man I’m prepared to sink my principles.’
It was the first time he had used her Christian name, and he put a sort of affinity, of affection into it.
After tea she typed the letters and made three copies at Mrs Syme’s request. She and Althea talked for a while. It was in the old friendly way, chatting and laughing and exchanging points of view. Yet when the older woman brought up casually the subject of the quarrel and break-up with Robert Jenkin, Norah found herself reluctant to confide the whole story, as she had fully expected to do sooner or later. Some barely acknowledged change in her feeling for Althea had created a little hedge of reserve. She was herself surprised to find it there, barring the way to complete frankness on her part.
Presently it was time to change for dinner. She was interested to see how Christopher Carew would behave. Whatever his private opinion he was clearly not going to miss an evening out; she heard his voice before she entered the room, and when she did he was leaning against the mantelpiece talking emphatically to Althea Syme. He was in brown twill trousers and a maroon smoking jacket; the wide tie, the big cream shirt, the handkerchief loosely hanging, all matched his large bony good-humoured features and helped to build up the picture of the artist at ease.
They were discussing a book on landscape gardening which was to come out at Christmas and for which he had contributed some of the photographs.
‘Oh, I believe you’ve met my young friend, Miss Faulkner. You know Mr Carew, Norah.’
He smiled. ‘Yes, I wrote a poem about her, she looked so pretty standing at the gate. But I couldn’t get it to scan. Maybe if she came again she could help me with the trochees . . .’
‘Is that a new breed of cattle?’ Norah asked, smiling back.
‘Touché.’ He turned to Althea. ‘But look, your garden is still so new. Even with these pre-fab methods you employ, you can hardly . . .’
‘What a ghastly description!’
‘Well, whatever you call these transplants, you can never compete with the great gardens that have had a hundred years to grow. When they . . .’
‘You should have seen it before,’ Simon said. ‘It had had a hundred years to mellow before all these alterations were made. Now it’s like a new shopping centre compared to an old village street. D’you know that thing? “By shallow rivers to whose falls, Melodious birds sing madrigals.” It was that sort of garden. A shock to me to see the changes.’
‘You’ve been away some time?’ Carew said.
‘. . . Five years – nearly six.’
‘In America, d’you say?’
‘Part of the time.’
‘Where were you?’
‘In America?’ Simon hesitated. ‘Oh, various places.’
‘You used to write to us mainly from New York,’ said Althea encouragingly.
‘Yes, well . . .’
‘I was in New York two years ago,’ said Christopher. ‘Stayed at the New Weston, near Rockefeller Center. D’you know it?’
‘I don’t think I do.’
‘There was an exhibition of photography at – I forget the name of the hall – in West 49th Street . . .’
Presently they went in to dinner. Christopher sat next to Norah and kept her in the conversation. He was a stimulating man and rather, one supposed, a domineering one. Oh, dear, not again! When his eyes met hers they weighed on her with a significance she recognized, yet it was so momentary that no one else could intercept the communication, not even Simon, who sat opposite and for the most part had retired into his shell again. The meal certainly sparkled as no other had done. Christopher was good at keeping talk going without dominating it. She had to admire.
It was clear that Althea enjoyed his company. Sometimes there was a hint of archness in her voice as if she were ready to flirt with him. She responded mentally and physically to the stimulus.
After dinner they had coffee in the big drawing-room behind. Like the other rooms it had too many family portraits; Althea Syme took her guests on a conducted tour of them, and he politely went along
, though he took the opportunity to give Norah a wink when the others were not looking. She turned and spoke to Simon, who had come up behind her.
He said: ‘Portraiture’s one of the most difficult things. I used to paint a lot of portraits, but it – in the end it’s self-defeating.’
‘How do you mean?’
He looked closely at her to see if she really cared. ‘Well, it’s a conflict, isn’t it – between the painter’s self and the sitter’s. If the painter’s self becomes uppermost it may turn out a good painting but a bad portrait. If the sitter triumphs then it becomes scarcely more than a good likeness.’
‘Famous painters have done a lot, though.’
‘Oh, yes. Picasso never cared about the sitter, of course. Rembrandt – well, his self portraits are supreme because here there is no conflict. I – perhaps I have always had too much difficulty in separating myself from other people. There’s a great danger of being swallowed up by other people, of being absorbed into them. It can become a complaint, a weakness if you like. To lose oneself may be desirable in a saint, it’s death to the artist.’
She hesitated. ‘Did you ever paint your sister?’
He sipped his coffee. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘so often that I almost became a part of her.’
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