“Excuse me, miss,” he said. “Did you have a pet?”
“A cat, and a rabbit.”
“I'm afraid the cat was trapped in the bedroom.”
I pushed my way past him. There lying on a piece of canvas was the body of Tobias. I remembered the resistance when I had first opened the door. He must have been pressing himself against the door even then, in the hope of escape. And the second time, that pitiful cry, but I had been thinking only of Jenny. Twice it must have seemed that I was on the point of rescuing him, and then I shut the door in his face.
On one side his body was deeply scorched, the hair turned from ginger and gold into a blackened stubble, but the other, presumably that which he had pressed to the door, was unscathed. From the right angle he looked as if merely sleeping. I began to cry, and Jenny, who had followed me, burst into loud tears.
We were standing thus when Stephen appeared. He flung
his arms around us. He squeezed me to him so hard that I thought my ribs might crack, and with his other arm he held his daughter.
“Thank God,” he said.
Â
The firemen were rolling up the hoses. Stephen disengaged himself and went over to one of the men, who was directing events in the hall. “Is it safe to leave the house overnight?” he asked.
“Safe as houses,” the man said, grinning. “We've covered everything with foam. It would take a miracle to get a fire going now.”
“Well, that's a relief,” said Stephen. “Have you any idea how it started?”
The man stepped back. “Steady with that,” he called. “You'd better ask the chief.” He pointed through the open front door.
I followed Stephen outside. The chief was standing beside the garden gate, writing something in a notebook. We went over to him. Stephen introduced himself as the owner of the house and repeated his question. While he spoke I noticed that Jenny had retreated out into the street and was lurking in the shadow of the hedge, inconspicuously in earshot.
The man looked down at his notebook. In a business-like voice he said, “According to my men, there were distinct traces of paraffin in the bed.”
It was as if he had held a match to my emotions; with his words, all my rage and grief exploded. A few strides carried me to Jenny's hiding place. I seized her by the shoulders. “You killed Tobias!” I screamed. “You bastard, you little devil!”
Words I had never uttered before poured from my mouth. Dimly I heard Stephen telling me to stop. I felt his hand on my shoulder. I shook him off.
“You set the fire, you killed Tobias. If you'd been lucky,
you might have killed me too. That's what you want, to have me dead. Then I won't be in your way anymore.”
Something hit me on the cheek, so hard that I let go of Jenny and reeled back. I leaned against the gate post, cradling my head in my hands. Stephen had slapped me. He turned his back to me and bent over his daughter. “Are you all right?” I heard him ask. “You mustn't mind Celia; she's very upset. She doesn't mean what she says.”
While I stood watching, with my hand to my cheek, he took Jenny over to Irene. He said something to the two of them and Irene nodded. Only then did he turn back to me. As I saw his expression, my vision narrowed. All I could see was the gate post. And then nothing.
When I came round, I was lying on the ground in the arms of Irene. She held me close and warm. “You fainted,” she said quietly. “Keep your head down.”
When I felt well enough to walk, Irene and Stephen led me down the street. Irene put me to bed with a hot-water bottle and a cup of Ovaltine. I sank into sleep as swiftly as I had fallen to the ground.
The sound of voices in the corridor outside my room woke me. It was still dark, but there was a crack of light beneath the door, and I puzzled out from the dial of the clock on the bedside table that it was eight o'clock. “Don't you think you should stay at home today?” the man's voice said. Then the girl's: “No, I have to go to school. We're rehearsing the concert.” “Okay, but let me give you a note for Miss Nisbet.”
The sounds receded as Stephen and Jenny moved away down the corridor. I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow. Immediately the smell of the fire filled my nostrils. It must have rubbed off my hair during the night. I felt again the heat of the flames scorching my skin and, much worse, the thick smoke which had poured into me, blanketing my lungs, so that I had seen death waiting, ready to seize me if I should for an instant stumble or falter. My palms grew slippery with sweat. The flames danced more brightly. I saw a small figure silhouetted against them, fanning them to greater heights. And then I saw her waiting in the garden, fully dressed, with her carrier bags; she had wanted me to know beyond a shadow of a doubt.
I reached for the bedside light. In the soft glow the walls and furnishings of the unfamiliar room took shape around me. My panic receded. There was a dressing gown on the end of my bed. I put it on and went to see what was happening in the rest of the house.
Everyone had left save Stephen, whom I found sitting at the
kitchen table, scribbling on a piece of paper. He stood up as I came in. “How are you feeling?” he asked. “Can I bring you breakfast in bed? Irene left a tray ready.”
“I thought I might have a bath if there's enough hot water.”
“There's plenty. Let me turn it on for you.” He hurried eagerly from the room. There came the sound of the water gushing into the tub. So, I thought, even now all manner of things could be well if I would only agree to be an invalid; then my actions and accusations could be explained as symptoms. He returned carrying a large red bath towel, which he handed to me. “Would you like a boiled egg?” he asked.
“All right,” I said, “but not in bed.”
The bathroom was dense with steam, and there was a smell of perfume in the air. As I lowered myself into the water, I saw that it had a greenish tinge; Stephen must have added bath salts. On the rack was a loofah and soap; I began to use both vigorously. I was intent on cleanliness. I leaned forward, washing carefully between my toes. The nails were slightly long, and I wished that I had a pair of scissors. I worked steadily up my body. If I had had a razor I would have shaved my legs, perhaps even under my arms. I washed my face and the back of my neck. When I had scrubbed myself pink and tingling from top to toe, I relaxed. I lay back and let my head slip down. The water lapped my forehead and my cheeks. I gazed wide-eyed up into the steam, listening to the sounds of my body roaring in my ears.
At last the falling temperature drove me out. I wrapped the towel around me and stood at the basin to wash my hair. I shampooed it twice, then claimed another towel to use as a turban. Only when I was back in the bedroom did it dawn on me that I had no choice but to put on the clothes I had worn the night before, which reeked of smoke. In fact, I thought, as I buttoned my shirt, I now owned almost nothing besides the clothes I stood up in.
Stephen was bustling around the kitchen. “It'll be ready in a minute,” he said.
He had laid a place for me. I sat down, and looked around, thinking how pleasant it was to have a kitchen large enough to eat in. Irene had a notice board next to the fridge, as I had had in my flat in London. Classical music was playing on the radio.
In rapid succession, Stephen brought an egg, toast, and coffee to the table. He sat down opposite me. “How are you?” he said again.
“Tired.” I sliced the top off my egg and peered in. “I ache all over, even the backs of my knees. And my chest hurts. When I blow my nose, my handkerchief is black.”
“Maybe you should see a doctor. You seem to be in much worse shape than Jenny. She insisted on going to school.”
I could taste my anger, a queer, metallic taste flooding my mouth. I drank some coffee and swallowed hard. Then I said that I didn't think a doctor was necessary; after all Irene had taken care of me.
“Well, you must promise to say at once if you start to feel poorly. I rang your office to tell them that you probably wouldn't be in for the rest of the week.”
It had not even crossed my mind that on a normal day I would by this time be at work. I could scarcely believe that only yesterday I had sat at my desk, poring over pages, and that presumably I would do so again in the near future. I bit down on a piece of toast and began to chew, counting the number of times, while I waited for Stephen to ask what had happened the night before.
He hitched his chair closer to the table and looked at me earnestly. “Celia, I'm so glad you're all right. Coming home last night and seeing the fire engine outside the house was the worst experience of my life. I thought that you and Jenny were dead, and I thought I would die. I really understood
what it means to have your heart stop. And the fact that while all this was happening I was out at the pub made it even worse.”
I clenched my jaw to keep from plunging into speech. Last night when I had turned on Jenny a barrier had fallen, and now there seemed nothing to keep me from saying whatever I chose. All the constraintsâfear, diplomacy, politeness, self-controlâhad been burned out of me. Only the desire to see what Stephen would say next kept me silent.
“I wouldn't have cared if the house had been burned to the ground, as long as the two of you were safe,” he said. He cleared his throat, and I observed that behind his spectacles his eyes were watery. Perhaps he expected a response, but after a moment he went on. “I feel really badly that you're the one who's bearing the brunt of this. I mean, of course I had a few things in the bedroom, but nothing compared to you. When I glanced into the hall cupboard last night everything looked fine.”
With difficulty I ate a mouthful of egg; it seemed to have a smoky taste.
“Anyway,” said Stephen, “not to worry. You'll be able to get most of it back on the insurance. While you were in the bath, I telephoned our agent. He suggested that we collect the claim form, to speed things up.”
“That sounds like a good idea.” Tension rose inside me, like the mercury of a thermometer dipped in boiling oil; I was rushing towards my fate. Such a form would necessarily require the answering of certain questions. In spite of Stephen's protests, I said that I would come too to the insurance company; I could not sit idle.
It was a perfect winter's day, bright and mild, and as we drove along the cobbled streets and through the Georgian squares, the city unrolled around us with particular splendour. The grey stone buildings stood firm against the blue
sky. For some reason the words “Earth hath not anything to show more fair” came into my mind. I found myself repeating them silently over and over, like a talisman. They had been written of another city in another century, but they reminded me that there was a world untouched by fire and madness. Stephen prattled away about arrangements and cleaning up.
When we reached the insurance company's office, he double-parked and ran in. He emerged after a couple of minutes with a single sheet of paper, which he handed to me. I examined the form. It was printed in red. Both sides were filled with questions, for most of which a mere single line was allocated for the answer. Vagueness and long-windedness were discouraged. Only for number two was a sizeable amount of space provided: “Describe fully what happened, circumstances under which damage discovered and by whom.” And then came question three: “Do you know or suspect who was responsible? E.g., Thief, Carrier, Workman, Motorist, etc. If so, give name and address.”
We drew up outside the house. For a moment neither of us moved; we sat in silence, gazing at what had been our home. Except for the fact that the curtains in Jenny's room and the living room were still drawn in broad daylight, everything looked the same. There were even two pints of milk on the doorstep. No passer-by could have guessed what lay within those walls. The only signs of the previous night's events were the broken branches on a couple of the rose bushes.
As soon as we stepped inside, however, disaster was manifest. The smell of the fire was raw and sharp. We both began to cough. Stephen propped the front door open with a telephone directory.
“You know, it really isn't that bad,” he said cheerfully, looking around the hall. “I mean apart from our bedroom. Perhaps I should start by getting everything out of there.”
“No. We must fill out the form first.” I did not know what I would do if Stephen refused.
He smiled affably and nodded. “You're right; that is a good idea. Then we'll know what to do about repairs and estimates.”
I sat down at the dining room table. After a few minutes of fussing around getting papers, putting on the gas fire, opening the window, Stephen joined me.
“Maybe while I'm answering the general questions you could start to make a list of everything you've lost,” he said. He handed me a pen and paper. “Don't forget to put down the full replacement value.”
He began to write briskly, filling out the details of name, address, and policy number. I thought about the insuperable task he had set me. I bent over the blank page and wrote: “1 blue dress, 1 blue suit, 1 pair of black trousers.”
At number two he paused briefly, then his pen moved across the page. I could not contain myself. “What are you saying?” I demanded.
“âA fire broke out in the back bedroom,'” read Stephen. “âsit was discovered by Celia Gilchrist, who immediately called the fire department. The firemen promptly extinguished the blaze.' It sounds like one of Jenny's compositions.”
“How will you answer number three: who was responsible?”
“âNot applicable. Faulty wiring. Question mark.'” He stared intently at the form and continued to write.
“What about what the fireman said last night?”
He hesitated as if he were reviewing various possibilities, perhaps even wondering if he could get away with asking what I was referring to. “Oh, that,” he said at last. “I don't see how they can tell anything after they've dumped on all that water and chemicals; besides, there's no point in confusing the insurance company.” There was a belligerent edge to his voice. He was frowning as he resumed his task.
I stretched out my hand to cover the form. “Listen,” I said.
“I'll tell you what happened. I was watching television. I smelled something odd and came out into the hall. Smoke was coming from under our bedroom door, and when I opened it, there were huge, bright flames. I retreated into the hall, and as soon as I had telephoned the fire brigade, I rushed into Jenny's room. Her bed had not been slept in. I ran all round the house, then I went back into our bedroom. I thought I was going to die, but I went back because I was afraid she was in there and had passed out from the smoke. I couldn't find her. I came out of the room just as the firemen arrived, and I ran to tell them that Jenny was missing.
“Then I turned round and she was standing fully dressed beside the front door, with two carrier bags of her most treasured possessions at her feet.
“I didn't see her pour the paraffin onto our bed, I didn't see her strike the match, but I know she did those things as surely as if I had stood in the room and watched her. She'd been planning the fire for days. It was a thoroughly premeditated act. She waited until she was certain the fire had caught, and then, while I was risking my life looking for her, she scarpered out into the garden with her precious poster.”
Stephen's face was stretched and tightened into unfamiliar outlines. Near his mouth a nerve was twitching. His eyes darkened. “Celia, stop. You don't understand the seriousness of what you're saying. I appreciate that you had a terrifying experience. You did something heroic, and it must have been an anticlimax to discover that it wasn't necessary.”
“I understand exactly how serious it is,” I said. “If Jenny weren't a minor she'd be under arrest. I can even understand how hard it is for you to accept that your daughter is capable of committing arson, but what I don't understand is how else you can explain the evidence. You heard the fireman say that the fire had been started with paraffin. You saw with your own eyes that Jenny was fully dressed and that she had rescued all her favorite things. Earlier in the evening she had
even insisted on hiding your Christmas present in the tool shed because she said it would be safer. Tell me how you explain all that.”
“You're forgetting something crucial,” said Stephen. “Neither of you had the slightest motivation to start the fire. Just because Jenny could have done it doesn't mean that she did. You could have done it, just as easily.”
I stood up so quickly that I knocked over my chair. I grabbed Stephen's arm and led him from the room, across the hall, and opened the bedroom door. The blue walls were entirely blackened. Most of the wooden furniture was gone; a few rags hung from the curtain rail. Our bed was like a funeral pyre, little more than a crumbling heap of ashes. In the middle someone had spread a small tarpaulin on which lay Tobias.