Giant's Bread (43 page)

‘My God,' said Sebastian hoarsely.

Then suddenly his impassivity forsook him. His voice rang out bellowing like a bull.

‘You saved Nell? You bloody fool! To save Nell – and let Jane drown. Why, Nell isn't worth the tip of Jane's little finger. Damn you!'

‘I know that.'

‘You know it? Then –'

‘I tell you, it isn't what you
know
– it's some blind instinct that takes hold of you …'

‘Damn you – damn you –'

‘I'm damned all right. You needn't worry. I let Jane drown – and I love her.'

‘Love her?'

‘Yes, I've always loved her … I see that now … Always, from the beginning, I was afraid of her – because I loved her. I was a coward there, like everywhere else – trying to escape from reality. I fought against her – I was ashamed of the power she had over me – I've taken her through Hell …

‘And now I want her – I want her – Oh! you'll say that's like me to want a thing as soon as it's out of my reach – perhaps it's true – perhaps I am like that …

‘I only know that I love Jane – that I love her – and that she's gone from me for ever …'

He sat down on a chair and said in his normal tone:

‘I want to work. Get out of here, Sebastian, there's a good fellow.'

‘My God, Vernon, I didn't think I could ever hate you –'

Vernon repeated: ‘I want to work …'

Sebastian turned on his heel and left the room.

Vernon sat very still.

Jane …

Horrible to suffer like this – to want anyone so much …

Jane … Jane …

Yes, he'd always loved her. After that very first meeting he'd been unable to keep away … He'd been drawn towards her by something stronger than himself …

Fool and coward to be afraid – always afraid. Afraid of any deep reality – of any violent emotion.

And she had known – she had always known – and been unable to help him. What had she said: ‘Divided in time?' That first evening at Sebastian's party when she had sung.

‘I saw a fairy lady there
With long white hands and drowning hair …'

Drowning hair … no, no, not that. Queer she should have sung that song. And the statue of the drowned woman … That was queer, too.

What was the other thing she had sung that night?

‘J'ai perdu mon amie – elle est morte
Tout s'en va cette fois pour jamais
,
Pour jamais pour toujours elle emporte
Le dernier des amours que j'aimais …'

He had lost Abbots Puissants, he had lost Nell …

But with Jane, he had indeed lost ‘le dernier des amours que j'aimais'.

For the rest of his life he would be able to see only one woman – Jane.

He loved Jane … he loved her …

And he'd tortured her, slighted her, finally abandoned her to that green evil sea …

The statue in the South Kensington Museum …

God – he mustn't think of that …

Yes – he'd think of everything … This time he wouldn't turn away …

Jane … Jane … Jane …

He wanted her … Jane …

He'd never see her again …

He'd lost everything now … everything …

Those days, months, years in Russia … Wasted years …

Fool – to live beside her, to hold her body in his arms, and all the time to be afraid … Afraid of his passion for her …

That old terror of The Beast …

And suddenly, as he thought of The Beast, he knew …

Knew that at last he had come into his heritage …

It was like the day he had come back from the Titanic Concert. It was the Vision he had had then. He called it Vision for it seemed more that than sound. Seeing and hearing were one – curves and spirals of sound – ascending, descending, returning.

And now he
knew
– he had the technical knowledge.

He snatched at paper, jotted down brief, scrawled hieroglyphics, a kind of frantic shorthand. There were years of work in front of him, but he knew that he should never again recapture this first freshness and clearness of Vision …

It must be so – and so – a whole weight of metal – brass – all the brass in the world.

And those new glass sounds, ringing – clear –

He was happy …

An hour passed – two hours …

For a moment he came out of his frenzy – remembered – Jane!

He felt sick – ashamed … Couldn't he even mourn her for one evening? There was something base, cruel, in the way he was using his sorrow, his desire – transmuting it into terms of sound.

That was what it meant being a creator … ruthlessness – using everything …

And people like Jane were the victims …

Jane …

He felt torn in two – agony and wild exultation.

He thought: ‘Perhaps women feel like this when they have a child …'

Presently he bent again over his sheets of paper, writing frenziedly, flinging them on the floor as he finished them.

When the door opened, he did not hear it. He was deaf to the rustle of a woman's dress. Only when a small frightened voice said: ‘Vernon,' did he look up.

With an effort he forced the abstracted look from his face.

‘Hallo,' he said. ‘Nell.'

She stood there, twisting her hands together – her face white and ravaged. She spoke in breathless gasps.

‘Vernon – I found out – they told me – where you were – and I came –'

He nodded.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘You came?'

Oboes – no, cut out oboes – too soft a note – it must be strident, brazen. But harps, yes, he wanted the liquidness of harps – like water – you wanted water as a source of power.

Bother – Nell was speaking. He'd have to listen.

‘Vernon – after that awful escape from death – I knew … There's only one thing that matters – love. I've always loved you. I've come back to you – for always.'

‘Oh!' he said stupidly.

She had come nearer, was holding out her hands to him.

He looked at her as if from a great distance. Really, Nell was extraordinarily pretty. He could well see why he had fallen in love with her. Queer, that he wasn't the least bit in love with her now. How awkward it all was. He did wish she would go away and let him get on with what he was doing. What about trombones? One could improve on a trombone …

‘Vernon –' Her voice was sharp – frightened. ‘Don't you love me any more?'

It was really best to be truthful. He said with an odd formal politeness:

‘I'm awfully sorry. I – I'm afraid I don't. You see I love Jane.'

‘You're angry with me – because of that lie – about the – the child –'

‘What lie? About what child?'

‘Don't you even remember? I said I was going to have a child and it wasn't true … Oh, Vernon, forgive me – forgive me –'

‘That's quite all right, Nell. Don't you worry. I'm sure everything's for the best. George is an awfully good chap and you're really happiest with him. And now, for God's sake, do go away. I don't want to be rude, but I'm most awfully busy. The whole thing will go if I don't pin it down …'

She stared at him.

Then slowly she moved towards the door. She stopped, turned, flung out her hands towards him.

‘Vernon –'

It was a last cry of despairing appeal.

He did not even look up, only shook his head impatiently.

She went out, shutting the door behind her.

Vernon gave a sigh of relief.

There was nothing now to come between him and his work …

He bent over the table …

‘In Celia we have more nearly than anywhere else a portrait of Agatha.'

Max Mallowan

Bereft of the three people she has held most dear – her mother, her husband and her daughter – Celia is on the verge of suicide. Then one night on an exotic island she meets Larraby, a successful portrait painter, and through a long night of talk reveals how she is afraid to commit herself to a second chance of happiness with another person, yet is not brave enough to face life alone. Can Larraby help Celia come to terms with the past or will they part, her outcome still uncertain?

‘A study of a shy, emotional nature, verging on the pathological … worth reading.'

New York Times

ISBN 978–0–00–649946–6

‘The one book that has satisfied me completely – the book I always wanted to write.'

Agatha Christie

Returning from a visit to her daughter in Iraq, Joan Scudamore finds herself unexpectedly alone and stranded in an isolated rest house by flooding of the railway tracks. This sudden solitude compels Joan to assess her life for the first time ever and face up to many of the truths about herself. Looking back over the years, Joan painfully re-examines her attitudes, relationships and actions and becomes increasingly uneasy about the person who is revealed to her …

‘I've not been so emotionally moved by a story since the memorable
Brief Encounter
 …
Absent in the Spring
is a
tour de force
which should be recognized as a classic.'
New York Times

‘Very readable indeed.'

Times Literary Supplement

ISBN 978–0–00–649947–3

‘Quiet and intelligent, with class distinctions which motivate its characters.'

Books

Everyone expected Isabella Charteris, beautiful, sheltered and aristocratic, to marry her cousin Rupert when he came back from the War. It would have been such a suitable marriage. How strange then that John Gabriel, an ambitious and ruthless war hero, should appear in her life. For Isabella, the price of love would mean abandoning her dreams of home and happiness forever. For Gabriel, it would destroy his chance of a career and all his ambitions …

‘Miss Westmacott writes crisply and is always lucid … much material has been skilfully compressed.'

Times Literary Supplement

ISBN 978–0–00–649948–0

‘These books are dramatic, and concentrate on the solution to situations which arise out of the high tensions in life.'

Max Mallowan

Ann Prentice falls in love with Richard Cauldfield and hopes for new happiness. Her only child, Sarah, cannot contemplate the idea of her mother marrying again and wrecks any chance of her remarriage. Resentment and jealousy corrode their relationship as each seeks relief in different directions. Are mother and daughter destined to be enemies for life or will their underlying love for each other finally win through?

‘Miss Westmacott shows narrative talent – I should expect her books to be very popular.'

Observer

ISBN 978–0–00–649949–7

‘Sometimes you haven't the right currency. And then someone else has to pay …'

Agatha Christie

Laura Franklin bitterly resented the arrival of her younger sister Shirley, an enchanting baby loved by all the family. But Laura's emotions towards her sister changed dramatically one night, when she vowed to protect her with all her strength and love. While Shirley longs for freedom and romance, Laura has to learn that loving can never be a one-sided affair, and the burden of her love for her sister has a dramatic effect on both their lives. A story of consequences when love turns to obsession …

‘Very much the art of story-telling that would be at home in the woman's magazine.'

Times Literary Supplement

ISBN 978–0–00–649950–3

‘Perfectly delightful … colourful, lively, occasionally touching and thought-provoking.'

Books & Bookmen

Agatha Christie was already well known as a crime writer when she accompanied her husband, Max Mallowan, to Syria and Iraq in the 1930s. She took enormous interest in all his excavations, and when friends asked what her strange life was like, she decided to answer their questions in this delightful book.

First published in 1946,
Come, Tell Me How You Live
gives a charming picture of Agatha Christie herself, while also giving insight into some of her most popular novels, including
Murder in Mesopotamia
and
Appointment with Death
. It is, as Jacquetta Hawkes concludes in her introduction, ‘a pure pleasure to read'.

‘Good and enjoyable … she has a delightfully light touch.'

Country Life

ISBN 978–0–00–653114–2

Agatha Christie (1890–1976) is known throughout the world as the Queen of Crime. Her first book,
The Mysterious Affair at Styles
, was written during the First World War and introduced us to Hercule Poirot, the Belgian detective with the ‘Little Grey Cells', who was destined to reappear in nearly 100 different novels or short stories over the next 50 years. Agatha also created the elderly crime-solver, Miss Marple, as well as more than 2,000 colourful characters across her 80 crime books.

Agatha Christie's books have sold over one billion copies in the English language and another billion in more than 100 countries, making her the best-selling novelist in history. Her stories have transcended the printed page, also finding success as adaptations for stage, films, television, radio, audiobooks, comic strips and interactive games, and her many stage plays have enjoyed critical acclaim – the most famous,
The Mousetrap
, opened in 1952 and is the longest-running play in history. Agatha Christie was made a Dame in 1971.