“The animals would have a good time if everybody was in prison,” Livia
commented cheerfully. “THEY aren’t guilty, anyhow. In fact they don’t know
anything about our wars and peaces—how can they? What does it matter to
a worm whether he gets cut in half by a garden spade or by a shell
bursting?”
He smiled. “It would certainly be hard to convince him of the difference.
Probably about as hard as to explain to Man the mind of God.” He turned with
her into the clough. “By the way, I’m going to London for a few days.
Anything you’d like me to get for you there?”
“Can’t I come with you?”
“Wouldn’t be much fun for you. It’s—it’s mostly a business
trip.”
“You mean—you’re going to—to start doing financial things
again?” That was the nearest she ever came to a direct question.
“Good God, no. Don’t you think I had enough?” That was the nearest he ever
came to a direct answer.
While he was gone she realized she was enjoying even the
loneliness,
because of the image of his return. That image hovered over the edge of every
page of every book she turned to, was called to life by every loved
gramophone record. Her eighteenth birthday came during his absence, and
somehow she was not even disappointed that he had chosen to be away at such a
time; maybe he had had no choice; there were still many things in his life of
which she knew nothing. The long interval of the prison years, for instance.
He never even hinted at them, yet—she argued—what else could have
caused the disconnection between the kind of person he had been and the kind
he now was? Some day, perhaps, he would tell her about that also. Some day,
when she was old enough, he would think of her as a complete adult, within
range of every possible adult confidence. She already felt she was, however
little it might have occurred to him so far. She was also beginning to
appraise herself physically, though without vanity, for she considered her
body too small and her mouth too big; but in being thus ruthless she was
merely, of course, denying herself what she did not want. She knew no boys or
young men, and when sometimes in Browdley they would stare at her as if she
attracted them, she herself was aware only of disinterest. She did not want
—was sure she would never want—to attract anyone that way. There
were other ways for which she felt herself far better equipped; she liked to
think there was something rare and talismanic about her that could appeal to
an older man.
Yet she must not dramatize; he had once cautioned her about that, and ever
afterwards she had known she had better not act before him; and this, by a
subtle transition, meant that she need not act before him, thus (if she chose
to look at it that way) relieving her of a burden rather than imposing on her
a restriction. It was pleasant, anyhow, to think of the future that stretched
ahead; she and Martin at Stoneclough, pottering about the garden, taking
walks in the clough and on the moorland, visiting places together—the
eventless days, the long firelit evenings. And, of course, to complete such
felicity, the war would end sometime.
Sarah, growing deafer and more asthmatic in her old age, seized the chance
of Martin’s absence to urge her to ‘get out’ oftener, to make friends with
young people, to enjoy herself more. And this, from Sarah, who had always
connected ‘enjoyment’ with the Devil, was an amazing suggestion if Livia had
been interested enough to think about it.
But she merely replied, off-handedly as she always did to Sarah: “I DO
enjoy myself. I’m perfectly happy.”
“It’s a pity you gave up school,” said Sarah.
“Well, I never enjoyed myself much there, anyhow. And besides, I didn’t
give it up—the school gave me up. Didn’t you know that? I was
practically expelled, and then other schools wouldn’t have me—Martin
didn’t tell me that, but I once saw some letters on his desk saying they
couldn’t take me…
I
knew why even if HE didn’t… You see, I’m a bad
lot—like father, like daughter—isn’t that rather natural?”
She knew, of course, that she was acting then; she was always ready to do
so in order to shock old Sarah.
When Martin came back she had been waiting for him for
hours, but without
urgency. Snow had fallen during the day, and this presumably had made his
train late. It had also covered the drive as far as the road so thickly that
Watson could not clear it in time to take the car to the station; so Martin
would doubtless arrive by taxi. Earlier in the evening she had put on
galoshes to enjoy the garden, where the snow lay piled in knee-high drifts
—a rare enough sight to be novel, and so were the white slopes of the
clough, through which the path ran untraceably except to one as familiar with
it as she. The sky was blue-black and full of stars; they and the snow made a
paleness bright enough to read by. And all around, especially when she
listened for any car noise, there was a great blanket of silence that seemed
to follow her into the house when she re-entered.
He arrived about ten o’clock, having walked the last mile along the road
because the taxi couldn’t get any further.
“And with those thin shoes, Martin? You must be soaking wet… And
carrying that bag all the way…”
“It’s not heavy. I’ll go up and change immediately.”
“Let me carry it for you.”
“No, no… I’m all right. If I want anything I’ll ring for Sarah.”
“She’s got a bad cough and went to bed hours ago.”
“All right… I won’t want anything.”
By the time he came down she had the drawing-room fire roaring high, and a
tray of refreshments by the side of his favourite armchair—hot soup,
sandwiches, whisky and soda.
“Nice of you, Livia, but really and truly I don’t want anything—
except the fire.”
“But I’m sure you didn’t have any dinner—”
“I managed all right. Don’t worry about me. PLEASE don’t worry about
me.”
The way he said that made her instantly begin to do so. She noticed how
more than usually tired he looked, his whole face drawn a little, hands
trembling as he held them to the fire.
“When you were so late I wondered if perhaps you weren’t coming back till
tomorrow.”
“No… it was just the weather.”
“I thought perhaps your business had taken longer than you expected.”
“No… there wasn’t much business.” His face lightened as he added: “I
didn’t forget your birthday, but—I have an awful confession—I
left what I bought you in the train. They were some special records— of
Mozart. I knew you’d like them. I don’t know how I could have been so stupid,
but it’s quite possible they’ll be turned in by the finder. Unless he’s so
disappointed when he unwraps the parcel that he smashes them in disgust.”
“Oh no—NOBODY could deliberately smash Mozart records!”
He smiled. “Maybe not. Anyhow, I left word about it—and if we don’t
get them back I’ll buy you some more.”
“Martin… I’m so sorry… don’t worry about it.”
“Who said I was worrying about it?”
“Well, you’re worrying about something—I can see from your
face.”
“I told YOU not to worry.”
Suddenly, leaning forward to warm his hands, he slipped and fell to his
knees. Only her nearness and quickness saved him; another few inches, another
second, and he would have been burned. As it was, she managed to pull him
back and saw then that it had been more than a slip, more than just
tiredness. She was calm, yet uncertain what to do—call Sarah?—
call a doctor?—but first, anyhow, there was the whisky. She forced a
stiff drink between his lips, then began loosening his collar. While she was
doing this his eyes re- focussed themselves.
“I think you fainted, Martin.”
He nodded, gulping over the taste of the whisky.
“Seems so… and by the way, I shouldn’t have had that.”
“Why not? It pulled you round.”
“Maybe… only I’m not supposed to have it—now.”
“Why NOW?”
“Well, any time for that matter.”
“You said NOW! Martin, what’s wrong? What’s happened? Are you ill?…
Shall I call a doctor?”
He shook his head. “No, I’ve had a doctor. That’s really what I went to
London for. It’s nothing you need worry about… But perhaps I’d better go to
bed now—and rest. I ASSURE you it’s nothing you need worry about…
It’s—er—to do with my eyes. I’ve known for some time they weren’t
quite as they should be. Old Whiteside diagnosed it wrong, of course… Well,
anyhow, let’s hope those records turn up. At least I can HEAR properly.”
He got up and walked to the door, while she ran past him to open it.
“Martin…”
“I’m really all right, Livia—I didn’t even intend to tell you but
for—”
“Martin, I’LL look after you. You know that?”
“Why, yes, but—”
“Even if you were to go blind—”
“Oh, come now, there’s no question of that…” And then a laugh. “You DO
like to dramatize, don’t you?… But you’re very kind. I sometimes wonder
why. I never did anything for you—except bring you into the world, and
God knows whether you’ll thank me for that, in the end… Yes, it puzzles me
sometimes—why you are so kind to me.”
“Because I love you,” she answered simply, and then she laughed too, as if
to join him in any joke there was. “Good night, Martin.”
“Good night.”
Back in the drawing-room she listened to his footsteps creaking on the
floor above. Then she ate a sandwich and walked to the window, opened it, and
breathed the cold air. The blanket of silence was still covering the
world.
The next morning he asked her not to tell Sarah anything
about his
fainting, or the trouble he had mentioned, because Sarah would fuss, and
fussing was just as bad as worrying. And it was useless to tell Sarah not to
fuss, because she would do so anyway; whereas if he told Livia not to worry,
then he was sure of her compliance. Livia said she was far too happy to worry
about anything, which was the truth, and it puzzled her. Perhaps it was
because he looked so much better after his night’s sleep. Or perhaps it was
just that he was home again. Or perhaps it was her own penchant for having
the oddest emotions at the oddest times.
Anyhow, she was so happy she decided to put the old work-horse between the
shafts of the garden cart and drive over the hill to fetch eggs and butter
from one of the farms; Watson usually did this in the car, but he was afraid
the snow might be too deep in places, though the horse would manage all
right. So she sat on the plank seat, surrounded by the rich smells of the
empty cart, and jogged down the road as far as the side turning that climbed
again steeply to the moorland. The sky over the snow was an incredible deep
blue, and when she had gone a little way and looked back, there was
Stoneclough, a huddle of white roofs against the black- and-white trees. And
above her now, the mountain lifted up. In that strange snow-blue light it
seemed to her that she had never been so near it before, though actually she
had climbed to the summit many times; she felt a sudden wild ecstasy that
made her lie down on the floor of the cart amidst the smells of hay and
manure, to exult in the whole matchless beauty of that moment. The horse
jogged on, presently stopping before a closed gate. She jumped down to open
it, laughing aloud. Then the lane narrowed to a stony track, and there were
other gates. At last she reached a farmhouse and saw a fat woman standing at
the doorway wiping her arms on an apron and smiling. “Laws amussy,” she
cried, as Livia approached, “I didn’t expect anybody’d come up this morning.
Are you from Stoneclough?”
Livia said she was, and had the impression she was being taken for a
servant girl; and that, somehow, added to the pleasantness of the occasion.
Smiling also, she handed over the note on which Sarah had written out so much
butter, so many eggs, and so on; but then another strange and pleasant thing
happened. The fat woman pushed back the note with a loud chuckle. “Nay,
that’s no use to me, girl—ye’ll have to tell me what it says. I never
was a scholar.”
“You mean you can’t READ?” queried Livia.
“That’s so—and I don’t know as I’ll ever bother to learn, now I’ve
let it go so long.”
Livia then told her what she wanted, whereupon the woman disappeared into
the farmhouse, returning after a few minutes with the various items, a
handful of carrots for the horse, and a jug containing a pale frothing
liquid. “Nettle-drink,” she cried triumphantly, “and it’ll be the best ye’ve
ever tasted.”
That could be easy, thought Livia, who had never tasted any before. But it
WAS delicious, whether because of the woman’s special brew, or for some
curious extra congeniality of time and place… but the truth was, everything
that morning was to Livia miraculously right—the drive, the sky, the
sunshine, the mountain, the nettle- drink, and the fact that the woman could
not read. Never again, as long as she lived, was she quite so happy.
She would hold his arm firmly (for he was apt to stumble a
little), and
walk with him up and down the level paths along the terraces, sometimes as
far as the fence, but not much beyond, because there might be strangers in
the clough, and he did not want to be seen. All at once a secret between them
was removed, so far as this was concerned; he made no more effort to conceal
from her certain things that he still wished to conceal from others. She was
a co- conspirator in a small but necessary deception. For some reason he did
not want outsiders to know that his eyes were bad; he seemed not to realize
that few would care, or even think that a man walking slowly along with a
girl holding his arm was behaving in any abnormal way for father with
daughter. But she did not mind the pretence, if it satisfied him. And inside
the garden, with no one to see or hear, with the empty moorland above and the
dark clough below, she learned the special trick of sharing whatever mood he
was in, even to extremes; if he wanted to laugh, she would laugh too, and if
he had wanted to cry she believed she could have done that also. Sometimes
she would tell him the only funny stories she knew, which were about Cheldean
or the Geneva school; they were mostly rather silly yarns, even if they were
funny at all, and it was odd to feel their schoolgirl importance dwindling in
retrospect while she narrated them, so that she could tick them off
afterwards as things never to be told again. He seemed interested, however,
and often asked about her school friend, Joan Martin, suggesting again that
she should write and try to re- establish the friendship. But Livia said it
was no use now; she was sure they wouldn’t have a thing in common, even apart
from the doubtful incident of the watch.