In the Time of Greenbloom (19 page)

“Don't go in any farther,” she said. “
Please
don't. This is a horrible place—even this bit where we're standing! I don't like it; I feel that we're waiting here to hear something terrible.”

“Don't be silly!” he said. “It's only a matter of getting used to it. It's an echo, that's all.”

“But I
hate
echoes! I don't like them; I've always been frightened of them; and besides, this one's not like an ordinary echo—”

“Yes it is, except that it's an underground one.”

“No it's not; it's different.”

“How is it different?”

“Well it wasn't like your voice; it answered with another voice, a cruel one like George uses when he's ticking off the mastiffs.”

“
You
try then. I'll listen and see if it sounds like you.”

“No.”

He glanced at her by the light of the candles. Her face swam with shadows and colour, he had never seen it so soft and bright before; but glimpsed in profile at this moment, it was flat and two-dimensional as though suspended on some transparent surface beside him in the darkness.

“I promise,” he said, and it was because he was so abject before this sudden beauty that he was so insistent. “I promise
that if it doesn't sound like you, we'll go straight back. I won't argue any more. Please just try once.”

“What shall I say?” she whispered, and her generosity in acceding to him made him reckless.

“Oh anything, anything at all! Only shout it loudly, Victoria, that's always a good way of getting yourself unfrightened.”

She tensed:

“The rest of my life!” she shouted.

—“
Rest of my life—of my life
!” came the wavering retort.

Beside him she took in another breath:

“I hate you!” she shouted. “I don't know who you are, but I hate you!”

—“
Hate you—Hate you
—” the echo repeated.

He felt her move; she stood on tiptoe, trying to reach high up into the darkness that lay ahead, and he put out a hand to restrain her.

“Stop!” he said, “that's enough, don't go on!”

She turned on him. “Well,
was
it the same? Was it?”

“Yes,” he said, “I think so; yes it was, of course it was.” He picked up the mackintosh. “Follow me. We'll get the fire going; that will make all the difference. It will be cosy and all the stalactites will glitter.”

By the light of the torch he started to pick his way across the sharp wet floor towards what he guessed must be the nearest wall.

“Look! the very place.” He pointed towards a great buttress of limestone with a flattened top which jutted out into the body of the cavern. “We'll make our fire on that—it's almost dry because the water is trickling down the wall at the back instead of falling direct.”

She handed him the mackintosh and he unfolded it and placed the sticks and paper on the rock.

“Now give me the haversack,” he said.

“I haven't got it, I was so frightened I wanted to hold on to you instead.”

He took off his damp blazer and spread it over the
mackintosh. “You'd better sit on that while I go back and get all the other things.”

Nursing her candle in both hands she sat down fearfully and he hurried back to the archway. He was frightened himself, but he wasn't going to show it; if she once knew there was anything he dared not face she would never forget it; and then one day she would love someone older and braver than him and he would lose her. She had been right though; the echo had not been the same; it had been higher and more remote, quite different.

Up above him he could visualise layer upon layer of rock; the great weight reaching up and up to the surface soil on which the heather grew; and here below, where they were, bearing down upon them and upon the darkness like a hammer on an anvil. The more he thought about it the more frightened he became; why had he ever left the fair light of day, the fresh wind and the hurrying clouds, when ordinary night and the countless fear to which it gave rise were both inevitable enough? He knew now that he could very easily allow himself to become frightened right to the sharp edge of panic; and he knew that if he once did so, a chance of being trusted and of showing that he could endure would be lost for ever. Therefore he resolutely banished from the outskirts of his mind all these images which sought from its dim horizons to wing their way inwards. The thing to do, he resolved, was to go eagerly through all the motions of taking pleasure and seeming busy, but to get it over as quickly as he decently could and then return with her proudly to the farm.

He almost ran back with the haversack, and a few minutes later with the aid of a melting candle he had the fire kindled and the small picnic-kettle sitting unsteadily on its mound of sticks.

Victoria peeled the eggs as they squatted together on the mackintosh. “Well anyway,” she said, “I bet we're the first people ever to picnic in here.”

“Yes,” he took a bite of the rather damp bread and butter
“except possibly prehistoric men thousands and thousands of years ago.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I can imagine them,” he said, “grunting and quarrelling; hairy babies wrapped in skins in the driest corners.”

“And the funny thing is, that they would feel safe in here; for
them
, all the danger would be outside: wolves and mammoths—the tiger-feeling.”

“Yes,” he said, “the tiger-feeling.”

“Do you know something?” she whispered. “I've been wondering if this cave is haunted.”

“Of course not.”

“After all, if they did live in here years and years ago there's no reason it shouldn't be haunted.”

He got up and put some more sticks on the fire. “It's getting very smoky in here—rather airless; I hope the fire's not using up all the oxygen.”

“But why shouldn't they have ghosts?” she persisted. “They were men weren't they, not animals?”

“I wish you wouldn't whisper.”

“I didn't know I was whispering. I'm very sorry.”

He squeezed her hand. “Good! the kettle's nearly boiling, can you hear it?”

She listened. “It's not singing, it's whistling.”

“No,” he said, “it's singing.”

“SSh!—”

“What is it?”

“Listen very carefully,” she said. “There
is
someone whistling!”

He leaned forward towards the bright flames, staring over them towards the entrance. He heard three high careless notes far away as though someone were indeed whistling; but before he could be sure, it had ceased and he could discern only the constant music of the water under-scored by the minute melody of the kettle.

“No,” he said, “it was only the kettle; it was the steam lifting the lid.”

She shivered. “Well I wish it would hurry up. I'm longing to have my tea and get out of here.”

In the darkness a stone fell with a splash into a pool; the noise was deliberate and dreadful. In the silence they squatted there not daring at first even to look at one another. Throughout the unseen reaches of the cave water continued to drip far and near, a relentless pattering like a thousand clocks. Not very far away, in the tunnel perhaps, perhaps behind them in some other part of the gallery, somebody swore pleasurably; an obscene, lingered-over, word.

John jumped to his feet; his back to Victoria, his trembling shadow tapering off over the floor, he shouted out into the darkness:

“Who's there?”

Oblivious of the echo, his voice interrupting its own reverberations, he yelled again, “We can see you. Who are you?”

In the throat of the tunnel a match was struck and they saw the pink sheltering hands, the laughing face with the shadow of the nose thrown broadly up between the eyes.

“But for that bloody stone,” said the man, “if you will forgive my french, you would not have heard me until much later.” He started to stumble towards them. “Can't see a foot ahead of me. Show us a light, will you? I'm getting too old for this sort of game.”

The match went out and he disappeared again; but they could hear him: his rapid breathing, the ugly noises of his feet in the water, and the secret chuckles of his amusement.

“A pity!” he went on, “a great pity! I had an idea I should find you here; but then one never knows—one never does know.”

John stepped forward a pace.

“Who are you?” he asked. “What do you want?”

“All in good time,” said the man. “One of you knows me, or she should do; and if there's a cup of tea going, well, like the song ‘I'm young and healthy'.” He struck another match. “And now?” he asked, “Does my young lady of this
morning recognise me now?” He thrust his face forward into its light. “Nothing to be so very frightened about surely? speaking the truth, my friends tell me I'm quite good-looking.”

Victoria got up. “It's my hiker,” she said rather flatly. “However did you find us?”

“Well isn't that just typical of a woman?” said the man. “She tells you where she'll be at a certain time and then when you arrive she makes out that she's surprised.” Kneeling down on the wet rock he suddenly grasped her hand and kissed it. “Your servant, young Madam—more than that, your willing slave.”

Victoria laughed. “You are funny, I'm not a woman, I'm only a girl. Do get up—you make me feel stupid.”

The man got up. “There now,” he said. “I've creased my trousers for you; but never mind, it's all in a good cause.” He turned to John, “Now then, introductions please, this is—?”

“This is my friend. I told you about him. His name is John Blaydon and I am Victoria.”

He bowed. “And my name is Jack—Jack Noone,” he announced.

“Is that your real name?” asked John.

The man turned to Victoria. “Suspicious isn't he?” he said. “Doesn't seem to trust us, does he? Let's say that it's good enough for me, shall we, and get on with the tea-making? From what you were saying a few minutes ago I gather that the kettle's just on the boil, so who's going to be mother?” He sat down on the mackintosh and started to prod at the fire, and Victoria, with a little shrug of her shoulders sat down too. John remained standing.

“How did you know the kettle was boiling?” he asked.

“Because, young feller, I was listening to you—I was
eavesdropping
!” Abruptly he laughed out loud and then, with a discomforting effect, equally suddenly cut his laugh short. “A terrible crime, isn't it, listening to sweethearts—in the dark?”

He looked swiftly from one to the other of them, his face
briefly two-headed in the flicker of the firelight. They said nothing and their silence seemed to spur him on to further speech. “But you needn't worry, I didn't hear much, and I saw nothing because it was too dark. To tell you the truth, whatever you were up to in here, I wouldn't tell; I'm not so old myself yet, and I don't suppose kids have changed much since my day—I'll bet there are still some things we don't tell our parents or our teachers—eh?” He laughed incompletely, and in the sinking firelight they were again silent, not even looking at one another.

“But I see I embarrass you,” the man said. “Heavy-footed, that's me. Forget it! We'll talk about something else—sweethearts must have their little secrets to themselves, mustn't they? Who's going to ‘mash t'tay', as they say up this way? I think the lady should.”

“As a matter of fact,” said John coldly, “we weren't going to have any tea after all. We were just thinking of going when you arrived—it's so wet in here.”

“It's not so wet as it is outside,” said the man. “Cats dogs and puppy dog's tails! all the things that little boys are made of. So I think you'd be very much better to have your tea in here don't you, Victoria?”

Victoria looked at John, but he would not meet her eyes; and as he looked away he heard her voice change; it became suddenly defiant, it was her daring voice, “Yes, let's!” she said. “We said we would, and we
will
!”

“That's the stuff!” said the man, smiling at her. “I like a girl who knows her own mind, and I don't mind betting you'd take a bit of moving once you'd made up
your
mind; you'd be more than a match for the pair of us I'm sure, eh?”

Victoria looked pleased. She filled the teapot with a flourish.

“
You
don't deserve any tea,” she said, with a pretty sideways smile. “We were petrified, weren't we John? We kept hearing noises, didn't we! By the way, was it
you
whistling just before that stone fell?”

“Me?” he said. “I never whistle. You must have been hearing things.” He picked up a cup, “Only two cups? tk!
tk! one of us'll have to share then! Fancy inviting a man to tea with you and then expecting him to share.”

“I
didn't
invite you; I just told you we were going to picnic in the cave. I had no idea you were even thinking of coming.”

“Now! now! Don't deny that you didn't sell me on the cave and the tea-party. It'll do
him
no harm to be a little bit jealous; he's got all his life ahead of him yet and he's starting young enough.”

John got up. “What do you do for a living?” he asked suddenly.

“What do I do?” asked the man. “I do everybody,” and he laughed for the third time.

“I don't understand,” said John obstinately. “My father's a clergyman, and Victoria's father's a gentleman, well what are you?”

The man looked suddenly serious, “He's trying to frighten me,” he said, and then he smiled in a very friendly fashion, “Well, to tell you the truth I'm a C.T.”

“What's that?” they both asked.

“A traveller—commercial.”