The Sea, The Sea Part 9

'Oh you b.l.o.o.d.y'

' There weren't any dreams.' There weren't any dreams.'

'Don't tell lies and don't shout at me either. Oh G.o.d, the lies you've told me! I've lived in a sort of soup of lies ever since the start. And then the boy'

'No, no-'

'Well, I was pretty thick about it all, but I just couldn't credit'

' No! No! ' '

'Christ, and when I think of other lucky men with their wives and their families and their simple decent lives and ordinary love and kindness, while here'

'We've had ordinary love and kindness and '

'It's only been a pretence because we were both tired, it was too exhausting to be honest. We got tired of telling each other the truth about the h.e.l.lish cage we live in, we had to rest sometimes and pretend things were all right when they weren't and put up with this sham, this b.l.o.o.d.y sham you call a marriage. We had to stop stabbing ourselves and each other with the ghastly truth. So now we're both sunk in lies, your lies, they're everywhere like a stinking bog, we're drowning in them. And, Jesus, I thought it might be better when we got away, when we got away to the sea, I thought at least I'd have a garden, I thought But then lo and behold he he's here! That's funny, isn't it?'

'Oh, darling, don'tYou do like it here, you did like it here'

'Well, don't say that to me now now, do you want me to spit in your face? We just pretended to be nice quiet people'

'You didn't pretend much.'

'Don't start that again.'

'Well then, don't you.'

'You'd better be careful. Another thing I've got against you is that you've made me into such ayou've made me so badoh Christ, why can't we get out out? If only you'd tell the truth for once. I just want to know where I am. Why did that man come here, to this village, here to this very place?'

'You keep asking the same questions again and again. I don't know. I didn't want him here'

'Liar. How often have you seen him?'

'Just that one time.'

'Liar. I actually saw you with him twice. And G.o.d knows how many more times you've been with him. Why do you lie to me so stupidly stupidly? And you put him up to calling round here.'

'I didn't!'

'Well, you're not going to see him again.'

'I don't want to!'

'It's the past, the past, the b.l.o.o.d.y pastthere's never been anything for us, everything's spoilt, you've spoilt everything, you and your'

'Darling, dear dear Binkie, don't'

'And don't call me pet names, it's a mockery'

'Can't you just try to be kind to me, to pity me, just try?'

'Why can't you try! Oh G.o.d, how can you have been so cruel'

'I'm not cruel. You're mad, you're MAD'

'Don't scream at me, I've had enough screaming. You've screamed your way through life, and now we're nearly at the end of it. G.o.d, I wish mine had ended. That's what you've been praying for I expect, that I'll have a heart attack. Then you can go off with'

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry'

'Just stop saying that, will you, I'm so tired of it, it means nothing, that parrot cry. Oh G.o.d, I'm so tired. It's all spoilt. It never even got started, because of you. And then that unspeakable deception, and I took it'

'There was no deception!'

'Oh shut up. I know we've said all this a million times before, we're like clockwork dollsbut, Christ, Pm thinking it all the time, I've got to say it now and then! I even accepted that that lie because there seemed to be nothing else to do, and I just b.l.o.o.d.y wanted to be happy, well, not happy, I know that was impossible, but at least I wanted some peace in my rotten failed life and just to rest a bit, but oh no! You wouldn't even let me rest' lie because there seemed to be nothing else to do, and I just b.l.o.o.d.y wanted to be happy, well, not happy, I know that was impossible, but at least I wanted some peace in my rotten failed life and just to rest a bit, but oh no! You wouldn't even let me rest'

'That's not true'

'Be careful, be careful. I thought I hadn't any alternative but to put up with you and your liesG.o.d, I must have been crazy I ought to have cleared off and left you with '

'No-!'

'You'd have cheered. And now he he turns up as bold as bra.s.s and comes and rings my door bell! You must have enjoyed arranging that.' turns up as bold as bra.s.s and comes and rings my door bell! You must have enjoyed arranging that.'

'Don't say what you don't think.'

'I do think it, what else can I think? I can see when you're lying. Do you think you can take me in?

Where have you hidden his letters, eh? Where?'

'There aren't any letters.'

'Because you destroyed them. Oh, you're clever! But listenI say listen listen'

'I am listening.'

'Your little plan isn't going to work.'

'What little plan?'

'You want me to say 'All right, clear out, I don't care where you go.' You want to torment me into letting you go. That's it, isn't it?'

'No.'

'Take that b.l.o.o.d.y look off your face or I'llWell, it's not going to be like that, see? I'm not going to let you go, I'm never going to let you go. See? You can stay here and look after me even if we never say another b.l.o.o.d.y word to each other. See? Even if I have to chain you up'

'Forgive me, please, forgive me, don't be so angry, I can't bear it, stop being angry, it hurts so much, you frighten me so much'

'Oh do stop crying, I'm so fed up with your tears. Why did he come here, what's it all about, that's what I want to know, Christ, can't you tell me the truth at last, I'm tired of living in a bad dream and pretending it's all right. All this b.l.o.o.d.y house we took so much trouble with, the b.l.o.o.d.y furniture, the garden, those f.u.c.king roses, pretence, pretence, pretence, I'd like to smash it all to pieces. Why can't you tell me the truth truth? Why has he turned up here, what does it mean?'

'Please, you're hurting me, please, please, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry'

' What does it mean?' What does it mean?'

'Oh stop, I'm so sorry'

I have written this out as I remember it, with the repet.i.tions. I have not attempted to describe, and will not now, the tones of voice, his strident shout, her whining tearful apologies. I shall never forget it. The eavesdropper had indeed got what he came for.

I wanted to go away much sooner, but I was paralysed, partly by horror, partly by a physical cramp, since I had sat down in an awkward uncomfortable position and had not dared to move since. At last I rolled over and crawled away down the wet shorn moon-grey lawn. I got stiffly to my feet, got clear of the garden, and began to run down the footpath into the face of the sinking moon. I ran most of the way home. I drank some whisky and took a sleeping pill and went to bed and rushed headlong into sleep. I dreamt I found a new secret room at Shruff End, and a woman lying dead in it.

The next day I was like a madman. I rambled, almost ran, round the house, round the lawn, over the rocks, over the cause-way, up to the tower. I ran about like a frenzied animal in a cage which batters itself painfully against the bars, executing the same pitiful leaps and turns again and again. There was a golden mist, gradually clearing, it would be a hot day. I looked with amazement on my familiar swimming places, and on the gentle crafty lapping of the calm sea against the yellow rocks. I ran back to the kitchen, but could not even make myself a cup of tea. 'What am I to do, oh what am I to do?' I kept saying to myself out loud. And the strange thing was that although I had received, full and complete and running over, exactly the evidence which I wanted, I seemed to be distracted with grief and fear and a kind of nausea now that I had it.

I had not understood the whole of the conversation. At moments I felt that I had hardly understood anything, except for what was so obscenely evident: those terrible tones of voice, and the sense that all this had happened before, again and again. The awful crying of souls in guilt and pain, loathing each other, tied to each other I The inferno of marriage. I could not, and did not try to, work out the meanings and implications of what had been said. Clearly the gentleman (I now suddenly started thinking of him as 'the gentleman') was displeased by my appearance on the scene. Well, too bad. I indulged in visions of going up to Nibletts, grabbing him by the collar when he opened the door, and pounding his face. But that would be no use. Besides, he was scarcely the 'dear dull old husband' imagined by Rosina. He might have a stiff leg, but he was a tough customer. He was, or perhaps just seemed to be, a dangerous man. He might be the cla.s.sical bully who is supposed to collapse when threatened; but those who consider threatening bullies may well doubt whether this convenient type really exists. There would be no point in such an experiment. I simply had to get Hartley away and I had to think think how to do it. Thought was difficult. In my earlier reflections I had somehow vaguely taken it for granted that once it was clear, if it should become clear, that Hartley's marriage was a disaster, it would not be hard for me to break it up and remove her. I did not doubt that, in those circ.u.mstances, she would want to come, that to run to me at last would be a blessed joyful escape and the acting out of a long-cherished fantasy. This a.s.sumption may seem naive, but it was not any sense of its naivety which now set me at a loss. It was simply that, having been pressed up to the point of action, I could not think exactly how to act, and the details mattered terribly. Nibletts, its roses, its horrible new carpets, the bra.s.s ornaments, the lurid curtains, the bell, impressed me not at all, these were gauzy, visionary. As how to do it. Thought was difficult. In my earlier reflections I had somehow vaguely taken it for granted that once it was clear, if it should become clear, that Hartley's marriage was a disaster, it would not be hard for me to break it up and remove her. I did not doubt that, in those circ.u.mstances, she would want to come, that to run to me at last would be a blessed joyful escape and the acting out of a long-cherished fantasy. This a.s.sumption may seem naive, but it was not any sense of its naivety which now set me at a loss. It was simply that, having been pressed up to the point of action, I could not think exactly how to act, and the details mattered terribly. Nibletts, its roses, its horrible new carpets, the bra.s.s ornaments, the lurid curtains, the bell, impressed me not at all, these were gauzy, visionary. As he he had said, pretences. What impressed me was some quality of that awful conversation itself, some sense of the many many years which had pa.s.sed, a sense of the strength and texture of the cage. Yet it could still be that I had only to say to Hartley 'come' had said, pretences. What impressed me was some quality of that awful conversation itself, some sense of the many many years which had pa.s.sed, a sense of the strength and texture of the cage. Yet it could still be that I had only to say to Hartley 'come'

and she would come. Then it remained to decide just how and when to say it, and that decision seemed to raise all the obscure difficulties again. Was it simply perhaps the case that I was afraid of Ben?

About eleven o'clock I stopped running and made some tea. There was an idea which I had received from the conversation, but for some time, although it was there, I could not chisel it out or identify it. It was an idea which the gentleman himself had given me. It was something like, supposing he really were to turn her out, supposing he could be driven to reject her? Would that not solve the problems about that cage, which I had found so hard to formulate? The gentleman had said that he never would drive her away, but the fact that he mentioned it at all showed that it was possible. Let him dement himself with his own foul temper and foul jealousy or whatever it wasfor indeed I could not quite see what it wasthat he was so enraged about. It was surely not just my appearance, the old school friend, now a celebrity, knocking upon the door, unwelcome as that doubtless was? If he could become sufficiently worked up, if things over there could just collapse and crumble, then she would have no refuge and she would have no cage and she would come running straight into my arms. Yetif he became madif his world began to tottermight he not then maim her or murder her? This was one of the thoughts that sent me skipping round the rocks like a crazed leopard. Her cry at the end: 'Stop, stop, you're hurting me.' How often in those hateful years had that cry rung out? It was unbearable. I leapt up, upsetting my tea cup, chattering aloud, and ran out again onto the gra.s.s. What was I to do? So many things were now clear, but I simply could not think out the final tactics, I could not think think and I could not think because I could not clear my mind of that ghastly conversation, it obstructed me like thick adhesive sc.u.m. I had to rescue Hartley, and and I could not think because I could not clear my mind of that ghastly conversation, it obstructed me like thick adhesive sc.u.m. I had to rescue Hartley, and 'rescue' was indeed now at last plainly the word, the very word that I had longed for. But, now it came to it, how how?

Later on it seemed as if Hartley herself had come to my a.s.sistance. I saw her gentle pale unhappy face looking at me, and I felt a ghostly calm, as if a waft other presence had come. I must, I realized, before making any overt move at all, talk to her again, and if possible more than once. My impulse was to go round to that horrible bungalow straightaway and simply remove her, and in the end it might come to that. But of course I must prepare her. If it came to a swoop there must be no bungling, no mistakes. So much had been happening in my mind of which she knew nothing. I must let her know where, in it all, I was. I decided that it was no use, at present, attempting any more meetings in the village, since she would be too upset and frightened to attend properly. The vital explanations must be done by letter. I had a.s.sumed that what she feared, not yet knowing what my intentions were, was her own heart. For all she knew, I had other sentimental commitments. She had had, no doubt, enough of remorse and the quiet mourning of an old love, so foolishly rejected. Now however I could glimpse other and more urgent fears, and I felt sick uneasy anger at the idea of that little boyish' jealous man, sitting up there with his field gla.s.ses, and waiting for her to come home. It soon seemed plain, and this further clarification was a relief, that I must simply write her a long letter, then give her time to understand it, to respond to it, and by then... It was a relief to my shocked frightened mind to reflect that there was now no terrible hurry, that I did not have to go up that hill today and decide exactly how to confront the jealous tyrant. There was the problem of conveying the letter to her, but that was not insoluble, and I had in fact already envisaged how it might be done.

I ate some corned beef with red cabbage and pickled walnuts, and the remainder of the apricots and cheddar cheese. I had no bread or b.u.t.ter or milk, as I had been too distracted to do any shopping. After that I rested. After that I wrote some of this diary, bringing it more nearly up-to-date. After that I wrote the letter to Hartley the text of which I will copy out in a little while. After that I washed a lot of clothes and put them out in the sun. After that I went swimming from the tower steps. Then I sat beside the tower and looked at the late afternoon sun making big blotchy shadows behind the spherical rocks of Raven Bay. After that, since I saw some tourists coming and I had nothing on, I got dressed and returned to the house and picked up my washing, which had dried. Then I fetched the snapshots of Hartley which I had brought from London and sat outside on my stone seat, beside my stone trough, and brooded on them slowly and intently.

Some of the snaps Showed us both together. Who had taken those? I could not remember. From the browned curled surfaces, out of a sinless world, the bright soft unformed young faces gazed forth. It was an unspoilt world, a world of truly simple and pure pleasures, a happy world, since my trust in her was absolute, and since in our childish old-fashioned chast.i.ty we did not yet consider making love. Happier were we in this, I think, than the children of today. The light of pure love and of pure unanxious romance illuminated our days together, our nights apart. This is no absurd idealization of a youthful Arcadia. We were simple children in a simple world, we loved our parents and our teachers and were obedient to them. The pains of the human journey lay in the future, the terrible choices, the unavoidable crimes. We were free free to love. to love.

When did it begin to end? Perhaps when I ran off to London. Yet even then our love had still a time to run. And I never doubted her until the last. How long, how much, did she deceive me? Perhaps my selfish need other was so great that I could not conceive of it not being satisfied. And as I reflected on that need it also occurred to me to think how much, in those years, Hartley had defended me against James. It seemed odd now that they knew practically nothing of each other. I scarcely ever spoke of James to Hartley, and never then of Hartley to James. She never knew how robustly her love defended me against some kind of collapse of my pride.

I shall now transcribe the letter which I wrote to Hartley, and which I had decided to find some way of delivering to her on the following day.

My dearest Hartley, my darling, I love you and I want you to come to me. This is what this letter says. But first there are things which I must tell you, things which I must explain. The chance which has brought you back to me has come like a great storm into my life. There is so much to say, so much to tell. It may seem to you that I belong now to some other world, to some 'great world' of which you know nothing, and that I must have in that world many friends, many relationships. It is not so. In many ways my life in the theatre now seems like a dream, the old days with you the only reality. I have few friends and no 'amorous ties', I am alone and free. This was what I was not able properly to tell you when we met in the village. I have had a successful career, but an empty life. That is what it comes to. I never conceived of marrying because I knew there was only one woman that I would or could marry. Hartley, think about that, believe it. I have waited for you, although I never dared to hope that I would ever see you again. And now, fleeing from worldly vanities, I have come to the sea, and to you. And I love you as I always did, my old love is there, every little fibre and tentacle and tendril of it intact and sensitive and alive. Of course I am older and it is in that sense a different man's love, and yet it is the same love. For it has kept its ident.i.ty, it has travelled with me all this way, it has almost miraculously survived. Oh my dear, how many days and nights there have been, when you knew nothing of it, when perhaps you thought of me as far away in my 'grand world', when I have sat alone with an aching heart, thinking of you, remembering you, and wondering where you were wondering where you were. How is it that people can vanish so that we know not where they are? Hartley, I never stopped wanting you I want you now. I have come to know never mind how, but I do know know that you are most unhappily married.! that you are most unhappily married.!

know that you live with a tyrannical perhaps violent man I wonder how often in the past you may have wished to escape, and have sunk back, defeated and wretched, because there was nowhere to escape to? Hartley, I am offering you, now, ray home, my name, my eternal devotion. I am still waiting for you, my only love. Will you not come, will you not escape to me, to be with me inseparably for the years that remain ? Oh Hartley, I could make you so happy, I know I could! But let me also say this: if I thought that you were happy already, happy in your marriage, I would not dream of disturbing you with declarations of my persisting love, I would suffer my love silently, even perhaps dissemble it, perhaps go away. I suspect, and forgive me for glancing at this, that you may have suffered more than one hour of remorse as you thought of me living my 'exciting life' and how utterly, as it seemed, you had lost me. But if I thought that nevertheless you had even a moderately contented or reasonably endurable life, I would not meddle, I would gaze at you from afar and turn away. But knowing you to be very unhappy I cannot and will not pa.s.s by. How could I, loving you as I do, let you go on suffering?

Hartley, you must and you will come to me, to the place where you ought always to have been. Do not be upset or frightened by wondering what to do about this letter. There is no need for you to do anything immediately, even to reply. I wanted simply to tell you of my love and my readiness. It is for you to consider when and how you are to respond. Obviously I am not necessarily expecting you to come running to my house at once. But, when you have reflected, when you have got used to the idea of coming back to mecoming back back to me, my dearest girlthen perhaps you will begin to consider how to start to do it. And thenwe shall be ready to talk to each otherand we shall find the means to talk. Let us quietly take one step at a timeone step at a time. When you can give me some sign that you are prepared to let me look after you forever, then I will think what we are to do, and I will, when you desire it, to me, my dearest girlthen perhaps you will begin to consider how to start to do it. And thenwe shall be ready to talk to each otherand we shall find the means to talk. Let us quietly take one step at a timeone step at a time. When you can give me some sign that you are prepared to let me look after you forever, then I will think what we are to do, and I will, when you desire it, take charge take charge. Do not worry, my Hartley, all will be well, you will see, all will be well. For a day or two, or a few days, as you will, just think about what I have told you. Thenwhen you willwrite me a letter and send it by post. That is, for the present, best. Do not worry, do not fear. I will find means of communicating with you. I will love you and cherish you and do my most devoted best to make you happy at last. Yours always, as once now, and in all the years, Your faithful, Charles.

P.S. Come to me anyway, of course there are no conditions, just let me help you and serve you, you can then decide freely and in peace where and how you want to live.

I wrote tins letter quickly and pa.s.sionately and without corrections. When I read it through I was at first tempted to alter it because it sounded, well, at moments a bit self-important: a little pompous, a little histrionic, perhaps? Then I thought, no, this is my voice, let her hear it. She will hardly be, as she reads this letter, in a critical mood. If I were to amend and polish it, it might sound insincere and lose its force. And as for self-centred, of course I am self-centred. Let her indeed be sure that I am pursuing my own interests here and not just altruistically hers! Let her know that she can give me happiness by giving herself freedom.

When I had written the letter and satisfied myself that it would serve, I put it in an envelope upon which I typed her name and address. I am a poor typist and I wrote the letter in longhand. I then sat and brooded and allowed myself to be almost hopeful, almost happy. Later on, as recorded above, I swam. The sea was cool about my warm limbs, coating them with its cool scales. The water undulated calmly, smooth and shining upon the surface, like the rind of a fruit. Even without my 'curtain-rope', which the playful sea has again untied, I managed to climb out easily. As I write this now it is the next day, and the letter to Hartley in its fat envelope still lies upon my sea-facing table in the drawing room. I have been writing this diary during the morning. Soon I shall have lunch : the remains of the corned beef with plain boiled onions. (Plain boiled onions are another dish fit for a king.) I finished the red cabbage last night with scrambled eggs and drank a lot of the Raven Hotel Spanish white wine. (A mistake.) I must shop soon, I crave for fruit, for b.u.t.tered toast, for milk in my tea. The shop lady said there might be cherries this week. Why am I delaying, waiting? Why am I almost pretending that life is ordinary, that it is as it once was? I am still floating in a sense of achievement, of a well-merited interim. I sought and found my crucial evidence. I have decided what to do and how to do it. I have spoken to her eloquently, definitively, although my words have not yet reached her. It is as if they are still winging their way through the air, going to her breast. Am I afraid, is that the real reason why I am waiting? To give her the letter in safety may prove hard, and the results of a bungled failure unthinkable, but it is not this obstacle I fear. The sooner I give her the letter the sooner I shall know her response. What will it be? If she says 'no' or if she does not reply I shall of course a.s.sume that she is simply inhibited by fear. But what shall I do then and how long can I wait before I move again and what on earth shall I do as I wait? That That interim will not be a calm one. Better then to prolong this one. I feel, since I heard that conversation, so much more, and dreadfully, involved with both of them. I have family membership; with this come hatred, jealousy, the familiar demons. And then again, suppose she simply uses me for her freedom, and then leaves me after? interim will not be a calm one. Better then to prolong this one. I feel, since I heard that conversation, so much more, and dreadfully, involved with both of them. I have family membership; with this come hatred, jealousy, the familiar demons. And then again, suppose she simply uses me for her freedom, and then leaves me after?

Is that conceivable? Could I lose her a second time, could she vanish? I should run mad. I felt bound, after reading the letter, to add that postscript, it seemed honourable to do so. But is it wise? Perhaps I had better delete it. Better that she should a.s.sume that in running to me she commits herself. I must try to see and feel these speculations as premature and pointless. But I understand very well why I sit here and look at the letter and do not want, just yet, to deliver it.

I will now describe what happened next, much of which was entirely unexpected. I delayed in fact, after writing the above, no longer than the evening of that day. The dilatory calm which I described was quite suddenly succeeded by a frenzy of desperate impatient anxiety to know my fate at once. I then set out to put my delivery plan into operation. I put on a light mackintosh and a shabby sun hat, put the letter in my pocket, without deleting the postscript, and slung round my neck a pair of field gla.s.ses which James had given me for bird-watching when we were schoolboys. I cannot recall that I ever used them to watch birds. It was a tacit custom of our childhood that James gave me presents, often quite expensive ones, whereas I gave him none. I suppose my parents accepted this as an inescapable aspect of the patronage of the poor by the rich; and it only much later occurred to me that of course the presents were really from Uncle Abel and Aunt Estelle. These gla.s.ses were not very powerful, and not to be compared with Ben's wife-watching pair, but I thought they would serve.

I went by the inland route which I had taken before, through the marsh and round by Amorne Farm and into the village from the other side. My objective was the wood which lay beyond the field which bordered Nibletts' garden. I saw from the ordnance survey map that a little road leading off to the right at the entrance to the village (just before the church) circled away up the hill and through the upper part of the wood which lay above the bungalows. Thus I could make the whole circuit without at any time coming within viewing range. I climbed the hill, becoming rather hot and tired, and soon found an inviting woodland path which led seawards at a point a little, as I guessed, beyond the end of the Nibletts' road. In a few minutes I could see the open light of the field, and then was able to peer out through the tree trunks at the now moderately distant bungalow, which I kept under close observation through the gla.s.ses. I waited for quite a long time, feeling cooler, then rather cold, although the sun was still shining. My arms and my eyes were beginning to ache. At last the gentleman came out. My temperature shot up and my heart beat a good deal faster. I was glad to note that he was carrying a garden fork. I could see his long evening shadow moving down the lawn. It gave me a certain pleasure to have Ben, all unsuspecting, in my sights, as he had had me. I have never handled a real gun, but I have handled many a stage gun, and I know what it feels like. Near to the bottom of the garden he started paying attention to one of the fussy flowerbeds, poking about rather aimlessly at first. Then suddenly he started hitting something with the fork. Not digging but hitting. What was he hitting? A slug, a wild flower? What was he thinking about, while with such terrible concentration he destroyed that innocent little thing? I was fascinated but there was no time to lose. I began to move up the hill under cover of the wood, observing him at intervals as I went, until I reached a point opposite the top of the road where a distance of some two hundred yards of open gra.s.s separated me from the end of the tarmac, and where Ben was about to disappear from view, divided from me by the bungalow. I reckoned that there would be two or three seconds, after I emerged into the open, during which it would be possible for him to see me. I took a last look at him. He had his back to me, now crouching beside the flower-bed. I walked with long careful fast strides across the first bit of gra.s.s, then sprinted to the road and straight through the gate up the path to the front door. Here I did not ring the bell. That sickly high-pitched ding-dong might well have carried upon the evening air. I tapped tapped upon the door with my knuckles, using an old code which Hartley and I -had used as children, when we used to knock softly upon the doors of each other's houses. After a short moment she opened the door. The shocked response to my tap had been, as I hoped, automatic. We stared at each other, gaping, both terrified. I saw her staring amazed frightened eyes. I thrust the letter towards her, awkwardly. I could not find her hand and it almost fell between us. Then she had it, clutched against her skirt, and I turned and ran, instinctively taking the way down the hill, down the road into the village. I had not in fact planned my retreat, as my thinking had ended with the delivery of the letter, and as I was pa.s.sing the Black Lion I reflected that it might have been better to have gone back the way I came. However, as I strode along the village street and turned onto the footpath, well in the possible purview of Ben's gla.s.ses, I felt reckless and strong, so that even my recent caution seemed cowardly. Was Ben still bending over his flowerbed, or was he inside the house tearing my letter out of Hartley's hands? I almost felt I did not care, I almost felt it would be better if he were, at this very moment, reading my words and shaking with jealous rage. His reign of terror was nearing its end. upon the door with my knuckles, using an old code which Hartley and I -had used as children, when we used to knock softly upon the doors of each other's houses. After a short moment she opened the door. The shocked response to my tap had been, as I hoped, automatic. We stared at each other, gaping, both terrified. I saw her staring amazed frightened eyes. I thrust the letter towards her, awkwardly. I could not find her hand and it almost fell between us. Then she had it, clutched against her skirt, and I turned and ran, instinctively taking the way down the hill, down the road into the village. I had not in fact planned my retreat, as my thinking had ended with the delivery of the letter, and as I was pa.s.sing the Black Lion I reflected that it might have been better to have gone back the way I came. However, as I strode along the village street and turned onto the footpath, well in the possible purview of Ben's gla.s.ses, I felt reckless and strong, so that even my recent caution seemed cowardly. Was Ben still bending over his flowerbed, or was he inside the house tearing my letter out of Hartley's hands? I almost felt I did not care, I almost felt it would be better if he were, at this very moment, reading my words and shaking with jealous rage. His reign of terror was nearing its end.

It was certainly not dark as I came towards the house, but the day had that luminous, gauzy blandness which in the mid-summer season celebrates the approach of a twilight which, for a few final days, will never entirely darken. The evening star was just visible, and would now for a long further period of daylight blaze in splendour alone. The sea was as flat as I had ever seen it, quite still and held up br.i.m.m.i.n.g as if it were in a bowl, the tide being in. The water was the colour of very light blue enamel. Two sea birds (gannets?) flying low in the middle distance produced a hazy distorted reflection as upon a convex metal surface. As I walked along the road, past the handsome mile-stone which read Nerodene one Nerodene one mile mile, a faint air of warmth was wafted from the yellow rocks which had been basking in the sun all day. The house by contrast felt cold and seemed to be up to some of its tricks. After the brilliant colourbestowing light outside, the air within seemed grey and a little thick. There were faint sounds, perhaps just the bead curtain clicking in the draught from the opened door. I stood in the hall for a few moments listening. I wondered if the accursed Rosina had come back and was hiding somewhere about to scare me. I felt impelled to make a search, upstairs, downstairs, in the funny middle rooms. No one of course. As I went through the house I opened all the doors and windows wide and let the warm sea-fresh air from the encircling rocks circulate within. I threw off my disguising hat and mackintosh and pulled my shirt out of my trousers. I took a large gla.s.s of sweet sherry and bitters out onto the gra.s.s and stood there for some time, rising on my toes and falling back on my heels, and watching the bats, and wondering whether Hartley was all right and what she had done with that long letter after she had read it. Burnt it, shoved it down the lavatory, rolled it up in a pair of stockings?

I came inside and filled the large and now empty gla.s.s with white wine, and opened a tin of olives and a tin of Korean smoked clams and a packet of dry biscuits. There was no fresh food as of course I had once more omitted to shop. The house was still acting up, but I felt by now that I was getting to know its oddities and I was more friendly towards it. It was not exactly a sinister or menacing effect, but as if the house were a sensitized plate which intermittently registered things which had happened in the pastor, it now occurred to me for the first time, were going to happen in the future. A premonition? I began to feel cold, and put on the white Irish jersey. It was now more gloomy inside, though it seemed to be getting even brighter outside, and I had to peer carefully as I washed and drained the olives and put them in a bowl and poured olive oil over them. And then someone began knocking very violently upon the front door.

Whoever it was had evidently not noticed the bell, whose bra.s.s handle had been painted black. There was also an old tarnished knocker in the form of a dolphin; and now the dolphin's heavy head was being cracked down onto the door with a force which seemed to shake the whole house. Fear immediately grasped me and jerked me to my feet. Rosina? No. Ben. The outraged husband. He had seen the letter. He had seen the letter. Oh G.o.d, what a fool I had been. I ran out, intending to bolt the door against him, but sheer terror confused me into a desire to confront the worst, and I opened it instead. Hartley flew into the house like a terrified bird. She was alone. Oh G.o.d, what a fool I had been. I ran out, intending to bolt the door against him, but sheer terror confused me into a desire to confront the worst, and I opened it instead. Hartley flew into the house like a terrified bird. She was alone.

In the first seconds she seemed to be as amazed and confused as I was. Perhaps she was blinded by the sudden dark of the interior. She stood there clutching her face with her hands as if she were about to scream. I, with a crazed clumsiness, left the door wide open, then hurrying to shut it b.u.mped into her. I felt the warmth of her thigh as I blundered past. I got the door shut, then realized that I was saying 'ohohoh' and that she too was uttering some incoherent sound. I put out a grasping searching hand and touched her shoulder. She made a gesture as if she were about to speak, but by then I had grabbed her, clumsily again but effectively enough, in my arms and gathered her into that bear hug that I had for so long been dreaming of. I lifted her off her feet and heard her gasp as almost the whole length other body was crushed against me. Then, as I slowly let her down in the fuzzy grey-dark of the hall, with the curtain upstairs meditatively clicking, we stood perfectly quiet and silent, I with both my arms wrapped around her, she with her two hands gripping my shirt.

Relaxing at last as she sighed and fluttered her hand against my ribs, I said, 'Is he outside?'

'No.'

'Does he know you're here?'

'No.'

'Did you destroy the letter?'

'Pardon?'

'Did you destroy the letter?'

'Yes.'

'He didn't see it?'

'No.'

'Good. Come in here and sit down.' I pulled her into the kitchen and pushed her down into a chair beside the table. Then I went back and locked the front door. I tried to light a lamp in the kitchen but my hands were trembling too much and the wick flared up and went out. I lit a candle and pulled the curtains. Then I drew up a chair and sat close beside her and cradled her more gently in my arms, her knees touching my knees.

'Oh my darling, you've come, oh my precious darling.'

'Charles-'

'Don't say anything yet. I just want to know that you're here. I'm so happy.'

'Listen, I-'

'Please, darling, oh please don't talkand please don't push me away like that.'

'No, but I must talkthere's so little time'

'There's plenty of time, all the time. You did read the letter, didn't you?'

'Yes, of course'

'And that's why you're here?'

'Yes-'

'Then that's all that matters. You're staying here. You've come, haven't you?'

'Yes, but only to explain'