The Black Prince (Penguin Classics) (20 page)

‘You’re such a funny fellow, Bradley. You’re so unphysical. And you’re as shy as a schoolboy.’

‘That woman coming back bang into the middle of everything has been such a bloody shock. And she’s got her claws into Arnold already. And Priscilla.’

‘She’s beautiful, you know.’

‘And you.’

‛No. But I appreciate her. You never described her properly.’

‘She’s changed.’

‛Arnold thinks you’re still in love with her.’

‘If he thinks that it must be because he’s in love with her himself.’

‘Are you in love with her?’

‛Rachel, do you want me to scream and scream and scream?’

‘You
are
a schoolboy!’

‘Only because of her I understand hatred.’

‘Are you a masochist, Bradley?’

‘Don’t be daft.’

‛I sometimes thought you enjoyed it when Arnold went for you.’

‘Is Arnold in love with her?’

‘Where do you suppose he went to when he left us today?’

‛To the – Oh, you mean he went back to her?’

‛Of course.’

‛Hell, He’s only met her twice, three times – ’

‘Don’t you believe in love at first sight?’

‘So you think he is – ?’

‛He had a pretty long session with her in that pub. And again last night when – ’

‛Don’t tell me. Is he?’

‛He keeps his head. He’s physical but cold. You’re unphysical but warm. He loves any sort of tumult, as he told you, he loves a drama. He’s terribly curious, he wants to pry into everything, to appropriate it by knowing about it. He’d like to be everybody’s father confessor. He wouldn’t be a bad one either, he can help people when he tries. He got Christian to tell him about your marriage.’

‘Oh Jesus Christ.’

‘That was in the pub. Last night I gather they – All right, all right! I just wanted to say I’m on your side. We’ll bring Priscilla here if you like.’

‛It’s too late. Oh Christ. Rachel, I don’t feel terribly well.’

‘Oh confound you, Bradley. Here. Take my hand. Take it.’

Under the opaque glass of the veranda it had become very hot and sultry. The earth smells and the grass smells were exotic now, like incense, not rainy and fresh. Rachel had edged her deck chair close up against mine. I could feel the nearby weight of her sagging body like a gravitational pull upon my own. She had wound her arm in underneath my arm and rather awkwardly taken hold of my hand. So two corpses might ineptly greet each other on resurrection day. Then she began to turn over towards me, her head pressing on to my shoulder. I could smell her perspiration and the fresh clean scent of her hair.

One is very vulnerable in a deck chair. I had been wondering what kind of hand – holding this was. I did not know what sort of pressure to give her hand or how long to retain it. When her head came thrusting on to my shoulder with that gauche aggressive nuzzling gesture I felt a sudden not unpleasant helplessness. At the same time I said, ‛Rachel, get up, please, let’s go inside.’

She shot up out of the chair. I got up more slowly. The slack canvas gave little leverage, and her speed was remarkable. I followed her into the dark drawing – room.

‛I beg your pardon, Bradley.’ She had already thrown open the door into the hall. Her staccato voice and manner made clear what she thought. I realized that if I did not take her in my arms at once, some quite irreparable‛ incident’ would have occurred. I closed the door into the hall and took her in my arms. I was not reluctant to do so. I felt the hot plumpness of her shoulders and again the heavy nuzzling head.

‘Come and sit down, Rachel.’

We sat down on the sofa and immediately her lips were pressed against mine.

Of course this was not the first time I had touched Rachel. But casual social pecking and patting can be, in some cases, almost an inoculation against strong feeling. It is a strange fact that the barriers which guard the degrees of intimacy are immensely strong, and yet can be overthrown by a light touch. Only take someone’s hand in a certain way, even look into their eyes in a certain way, and the world is changed forever.

At the same time, like the excellent Arnold, I was keeping my head, or trying to. I kept my lips upon Rachel’s and we remained immobile for a time which began to seem absurdly long. I held her meanwhile rather stiffly, but firmly, one arm still round her shoulder and the other holding her hand. I felt as if I were, in two senses, arresting her. Then we drew apart and studied each other’s eyes: possibly to find out what had happened.

The first glimpse of someone’s face after they have made an irrevocable gesture of affection is always instructive and moving. Rachel’s face was radiant, tender, rueful, questioning. I felt bucked. I wanted to convey pleasure, gratitude. ‘Oh, dear Rachel, thank you.’

‘I’m not just trying to cheer you up.’

‛I know.’

‘There’s a real something here.’

‛I know. I’m so glad.’

‘I’ve wanted to – draw you closer – before. I felt shy. I feel shy now.’

‛So do I. But – Oh, thank you.’

We were silent for a moment, tense, almost embarrassed.

Then I said, ‘Rachel, I think I must go.’

‛Oh you are ridiculous,’ she said. ‛All right, all right. Schoolboy. Running away. Off you go then. Thank you for kissing me.’

‛It’s not that. It’s just so perfect. I’m afraid of spoiling something or something.’

‘Yes, off you go. I’ve done enough – damage or whatever.’

‘No damage. Oh silly Rachel! It’s beautiful. We are closer, aren’t we?’

We got up and stood holding hands. I suddenly felt extremely happy and laughed.

‘Am I absurd?’

‘No, Rachel. You’ve given me a piece of happiness.’

‘Well, hold on to it then. It’s mine too.’

I pushed the sturdy wiry gingery hair back from the pale freckled puzzled tender face, straining it back with both hands, and I kissed her on the brow. We went out into the hall. We were awkward, moved, pleased, anxious now to carry off a good parting without spoiling the mood. Anxious to be alone to think.

A copy of Arnold’s latest novel,
The Woeful Forest
, was lying on the table near the front door. I saw it with a shock, and my hand shot to my pocket. My review of the novel was still there, folded up. I took it out and handed it to Rachel. I said, ‘Do something for me. Read that and tell me whether or not I should publish it. I’ll do whatever you tell me.’

‘What is it?’

‘My review of Arnold’s book.’

‘But of course you must publish it.’

‘Read it. Not now. I’ll do whatever you say.’

‘All right. I’ll see you to the gate.’

Coming out into the garden everything was different. It had become evening. There was a lurid indistinct light which made things blurry and hard to locate. Near things were illuminated by a rich hazed sunlight, while the sky farther off was dark with cloud and the promise of night, although in fact it was not yet very late. I felt upset, confused, elated, and very much wanting now to be by myself.

The garden in front of the house was rather long, a lawn planted with small bushes, shrubby roses and the like, with a ‘crazy paving’ path down the centre. The paths glimmered white, with dark patches where tufty rock plants were growing between the stones. Rachel touched my hand. I squeezed her fingers but did not hold on. She went first down the path. About half – way to the gate a sense of something behind me made me turn round.

A figure was sitting in an upstairs window, sitting up half reclined upon a window seat, or even it seemed upon the window sill itself. Without seeing the face except as a blur I recognized Julian, and felt an immediate pang of guilt at having kissed the mother when the child was actually in the house. However what more strongly attracted my attention was something else. The window, which was of the hinged casement variety, had been pushed wide open to leave a rectangular space within which the girl, dressed in some kind of white robe, perhaps a dressing gown, half lay, her knees up, her back against the wooden frame. Her left hand was extended. And I saw that she was flying a kite.

Only it was not an ordinary kite, but a sort of magical kite. The string was invisible. Up above the house there hovered motionless, some thirty feet up, a huge pale globe with a long trailing ten – foot tail. The curious light made the globe seem to glow with a sort of milky alabaster radiance. The tail, evidently hanging free from the suspending string, since a slight movement of air had towed the balloon out of the vertical, consisted of a number of white bows, or as they looked, blobs, which hung invisibly supported in a motionless row beneath their parent form. Behind the balloon, whose size was hard to estimate – its diameter, if one may use this term of a globe, could have been as great as four feet – the sky, towards the sunnier quarter, was a purplish colour which might have indicated light cloud or simply open sky verging to twilight.

Rachel had turned round now, and we both stood in silence looking up. The figure above was so odd and separate, like an image upon a tomb, it did not occur to me that I could speak to it. Then as I gazed up at the featureless face, the girl slowly brought her other hand round towards the taut invisible string. There was a faint flash and a faint click. The pale globe up above curtsied for a moment, and then with an air of suddenly collected dignity and purpose rose and began to move slowly away. Julian had cut the string.

The deliberation of the action, and the evident and histrionic way in Which it was addressed to its impromptu audience, produced physical shock, like that of some sort of assault. I felt a thrill of pain and dismay. Rachel gave a brief exclamation, a sort of ‘ach!’ and moved quickly on towards the gate. I followed her. She did not pause at the gate but went on into the road and began to walk briskly along the pavement. I hurried and joined her where she had stopped, out of sight of the house, under a big copper beech tree at the corner of the road. It was getting dark.

‘Whatever was that?’

‘The balloon? Oh some boy gave it to her.’

‘But how does it stay up?’

‘It’s filled with hydrogen or something.’

‘Why did she cut the string?’

‘I can’t imagine. Just some sort of act of aggression. She’s full of strange fancies just now.’

‘Is she unhappy?’

‘Girls of that age are always unhappy.’

‘Love, I suppose.’

‘I don’t think she’s had love yet. She feels she’s somebody very special and she’s just beginning to realize that she’s not very talented.’

‘That sounds like the human condition.’

‛She’s spoilt as they all are, she’s had everything done for her, not like my generation. They fear ordinariness so. She’d like to go off with the raggle taggle gipsies or something. As it is her life is dull. Arnold is disappointed in her and she feels it.’

‘Poor child.’

‘Oh she’s all right, she’s lucky. And as you say, it’s the human condition. Well, good night, Bradley. I know you want to get away from me.’

‛No, no – ’

‛I don’t mean it in a nasty way! You’re so shy. I love it. Kiss me.’

I kissed her quickly but very fully in the darkness underneath the tree.

‛I may write to you,’ she said.

‘Do that.’

‛Don’t worry. Nothing for worry.’

‛I know. Good night. And thanks.’

Rachel gave a weird little laugh and vanished into the obscurity. I began to walk quickly along the next road in the direction of the tube station.

I found that my heart was beating rather violently. I could not make out whether something very important had happened or not. I thought, I shall know tomorrow. Now there was nothing to be done except to rest upon an immediate sense of the experience. Rachel still hovered round me like a perfume. But in my mind with great clarity I saw Arnold, as if he were looking at me from the far end of an illuminated corridor. Whatever had happened had happened to Arnold too.

Just then I saw the balloon again. It was moving slowly along, a little ahead of me, over the tops of the houses. It was lower than it had been before and seemed to be very gradually descending. The street lamps had been turned on, giving a local ineffectual light beneath a sky which was glowing but nearly dark, and in which the pale object was barely visible. A few people were walking along the road, but no one except myself seemed to have noticed the strange wanderer. I began to hurry, trying to gauge its direction. In the suburban villas rectangles of light were appearing in the lower rooms. Sometimes undrawn curtains showed insipid pastel – shaded interiors and sometimes the blue flicker of television. Up’above, the neat silhouettes of roofs and the bunchy silhouettes of trees were outlined against a dark bluish sky through which the faint globe, its tail now entirely invisible, floated onward. I began to run.

I turned down a little-frequented side road of more modest houses. I was now ahead of the balloon which was, though still moving very slowly, descending more rapidly. I watched it coming towards me like an errant moon, mysterious, invisible to all except myself, the bearer of some potent as yet unfathomed destiny. I wanted it. The question of what I would do with it when I captured it was quite unformulated. The question was rather what would it do with me. I moved along the road, feeling in my body its direction and rate of descent.

For a moment it was invisible behind a tree. Then suddenly, wafted faster by a momentary breeze, it swept down over the street, moving into the arc of the lamplight. For a second or two it appeared in front of me, huge and yellow, its tail of pendant bows swaying crazily. I could even see the string. I raced towards it. Something lightly brushed my face. The street lamps dazzled me as I clutched above my head, and clutched again. And then it was all gone. The balloon had vanished, descending into some dark and further maze of suburban gardens. I continued for some while to hurry to and fro among the little intersecting streets, but I did not set eyes again upon the travelling portent.