To the Dark Tower (30 page)

He might not even be there, she suddenly thought. I may arrive at an empty house. Or Judith. That would be really awful. A nice fool I’d look. Eighteen-and-six wasted, thrown away. Then she felt angry. Fancy thinking about the rail-fare at a time like this. Isn’t that typical? When to-day I shall see the General. Or will I? Perhaps he’ll have me thrown out.

The train was running beside a river. The river broadened and became an estuary, green with conifers, flecked with buoys and sails. Small ships were moored on it, gulls flapped. And now on either side rose hills, on which were piled houses and narrow streets, like sugar confectionery. Oh, well, thank God for that. This must be Dartmouth. I won’t be sick now.

But in the ferry she wasn’t quite so certain. It pitched, and churned out thick, sulphurous clouds of smoke. The engine made a continuous plop-plop-plop. They were all crowded together; the sea was yellowy green. Sickly.

But I shall see the General, she thought. This was her charm against the elements, her nausea, the never-ending pushing. I shall see the General. And all shall be well. Oh, yes, all shall be well. It must be. She felt, then, an overmastering, exquisite optimism. She was completely certain there would be no mistake.

A boy in stained dungarees, with a light-coloured fur on his upper lip, leapt out on to the landing-stage and began to moor them. One by one the women stepped out, helped by their consorts. Shirley gave a jump, disdaining the platform, and almost caught her ankle on a winch. If she had she would have been in the water. But she did not seem to realise the danger she had escaped.

As she climbed briskly up the hill a voice called:"You’ve left your suit-case, miss."

That was a silly thing to do. Blushing, she had to go back.

The house stood at the top of a creek. It was square and white, like a box, with a drive too steep and narrow for cars. In any case the General did not possess one. Along the front ran a veranda with hanging pots of ferns and rose-trellises. The black tiles gleamed in the morning sunshine.

She thought: Well, here I am. I’m for it. But strangely, she no longer felt nervous or apprehensive. She was still buoyed up by an incredible optimism. She began to crunch up the drive, her suit-case in her hand. Primroses were out, and a few daffodils. For no reason she stopped to pick a primrose and put it in her buttonhole. She did not realise that it clashed violently with the red of her coat.

One had to pass the back door before reaching the front. And as she did so two dogs leapt out at her, barking and wagging their tails. She started back, dropping her case. But they were chained, she realised. She walked on. Hanging upon a line were a pair of bathing-trunks of a dull magenta colour, caked with salt. She noticed the triangular piece of white cloth at the fork, thinking: Those must be his.

Clark answered the door. He was bald except for two tufts of white hair above each ear, and wore a green baize apron. His hands were twisted with arthritis. For a while he stared at her, as if in suspicion, before he asked:"Yes?"

‘‘May I see the General, please?"

‘‘What name?"

‘‘Miss Forsdike."

She thought: How dark it is in here. He had left her standing in a cupboard-like hall. Almost as soon as one crossed the threshold the stairs began steeply. There were old-framed maps on the wall, the head of an antelope, and two crossed oars. On a table which had a top of engraved brass stood a pot with a cactus in it, a Bradshaw, and some fishing-flies. The light had a plain white porcelain shade.

She must have waited a long time. She felt nothing now, not even optimism. She sat down on a wicker chair, and crossed one leg over the other, and powdered her nose. After that there seemed little left to do. She examined the brass top of the table. It’s Indian, she thought. There were peacocks on it, and tigers, and rosettes. With one finger she traced the pattern.

Clark came back."The Master’s in the garden. Would you mind going out there?" He opened a door behind which iron steps descended.

‘‘Thank you."

As she climbed down her nostrils were filled with smells of herbs. There was a lawn, two beehives, a seat painted white, a shed painted green, a herbaceous border, and a gravel path."Where is he?" she asked.

‘‘At the end, Miss Forster."

‘‘Miss Forsdike," she corrected.

He looked puzzled, and left her. With deliberation, not hurrying, she made her way down the path, expecting at any moment to see him, on a seat, beside a tree, gardening perhaps. But all that she found was a wooden contraption, like a crow’s-nest, about twenty feet high. At the top was a boxed-in platform; steps led up to it. This was the end of the garden; before her was a wall, with a pear tree against it, and nothing else. But where was the General?

Suddenly a voice said:"Do come up. This is my eyrie—my tower. I sunbathe here. Can you manage the steps?" He now stood upright, fastening a dressing-gown about him."I suppose it’s that little B.B.C. matter. Do come up. It’s quite safe. I had it built so that I could sunbathe in privacy."

She had been hesitating at the bottom. But now, clasping the rail, she began to climb. For some reason the little effort required made her extraordinarily breathless, so that she stopped twice, at the fifth and at the ninth step. At last she emerged; he faced her. On the floor was a towel, on which he had presumably been lying, and a copy of
The Times
. He put out a hand:"How d’you do, Miss Forster?" At that moment a gust of wind plucked at the newspaper and almost sent it over the rail. The General lunged outwards and grabbed it."How d’you do, Miss Forster?" he repeated.

There could be no mistake."Not Miss Forster," she corrected in a dry, harsh voice."Miss Forsdike."

‘‘But you’re from the B. B.C.?"

‘‘No."

He tightened the cord of his dressing-gown, staring at her." Then who the hell are you?" She saw the question, unspoken as yet." I’m Shirley Forsdike," she said, feeling suddenly giddy on that high platform.

‘‘Shirley Forsdike! Then you’re—"

She cut in loudly, fiercely."I’m the person who wrote you those letters."

For some time neither of them said anything. They were both conscious that the newspaper had again been blown against the railing. But they did not attempt to rescue it. They simply watched its progress as it was torn, stage by stage, between the bars. Then it got free and fluttered downwards like a bird.

‘‘I see," he said.

And almost at the same time she began to explain." I had to come here. I had to. I’ve tried so long to forget about—Oh, it’s madness, I know. But, don’t you see—this is the only way that I can hope to get cured. It’s like an illness, don’t you see. I had to see you. Oh, it’s been awful—I’ve been so miserable..."

She felt she was going to burst into tears. The nights when she could not sleep in her room in the hotel. And the way food nauseated her."You eat nothing," said the two old ladies, her friends. And beside her bed the sleeping-tablets." Only one, remember." But one was nothing. It made her drowsy, incapable of action: that was all. He must see all this, she thought. He must realise. He must see how thin I’ve become, and my hair is so brittle. And these awful rings round my eyes. He
must
see.

‘‘Could you wait, please?" He took up the towel." I must go and get some clothes on. You know your way to the house. I’ll be down in a minute. Then we must talk. We must try and get all this clear."

He waited for her, ironically, to descend before he did. As she passed she noticed that he was wearing red-leather slippers. And nothing else, she thought. Slippers and a dressing-gown.

She was shown into a darkened room. Clark, grumbling under his breath, began to tug at heavy curtains. Apparently, the room was seldom used. There was damp in it, so that one could readily believe that if one took up the carpet there would be cockroaches beneath. But everything was beautifully polished: the fire-dogs shone.

She sat down, feeling sick again and strangely hungry. Taking out the mirror from her bag she thought: Oh, I do looks a sight. Dreadful. The rims of her eyes were red, inflamed, the pores of her skin enlarged. Tears started to prick at either side of her nose, her throat ached. Oh, damn!

This was Lucy’s room. It was her portrait that hung above the mantelpiece. She smiled blandly, in green silk, her hair in a snood. Consciously pre-Raphaelite. The furniture, too, was hers. It had been left to her by a rich aunt. The General had always hated it. There was a Queen Anne escritoire, a set of occasional tables which fitted into each other, another table inlaid with birds, an ivory musical-box, and a hideous Edwardian lamp—Truth, bearing a torch to which was fitted a pink electric light bulb. Lucy had never lived in this house; she had never been into this room. But it was hers, all hers. A dedication to her memory. The General never sat there.

Shirley began to wander, aimlessly, round and round the room. The curtains were faded William Morris, with lilies on them. The stuff was thin. Next, she tried the musical-box, but it only whirred, without tune. Beside it was a silver frame with a photograph of two borzois in it, and a horse’s hoof, rimmed with silver."Clara, 1901-1918." It was intended to be used as an ash-tray.

Suddenly she saw a mantilla comb, its handle set with brilliants. The teeth were very sharp. She took it in her hands and turned it over, over and over, thinking: I suppose she wore it. All that red hair. I’d look absurd in it. For a moment she stuck it into her bun. Then, in exasperation, she pulled it out again. It was of delicate tortoise-shell.

Footsteps descending. In alarm, she swung round. As she did so the comb snapped in two. A nervous reaction. Quickly she put it back on the piano, in such a way that the break could not be seen. Then she waited.

But no one came in.

Upstairs in his room the General slipped into his clothes, slowly, meditatively. He thought: Now what am I to do? What on earth am I to do? He felt peevish, irritable. Sitting on his bed he began to scratch himself—his shin and then the inside of his thigh. The sensation was not unpleasant.

Odd that she should have arrived at just that moment. Lying up there in the sun he had suddenly felt an appalling loneliness. Partly, of course, it was Judith’s letter. It had arrived that morning, the first since her brief visit. The writing was rounds, unformed, childish; there were misspellings and horrible blots. But as far as she could express herself on paper, the tone was bleak.

I’ve lost her, he had thought. Irrevocable. For the first time he saw the magnitude of the thing. Lying on a towel, his back to the sun, he brooded blackly. She’s the only soul I’ve ever really loved. The relationship was perfect. Quite perfect. It was perfect because it was set perfectly within its limits. Neither of us ever trespassed. There were privacies. We had our privacies which we mutually respected. That seldom happens. You love a person, and the person demands more. And you demand more. And there’s dissatisfaction all round.

It was my fault of course. I did trespass. I suddenly walked into her territory. Jealous, I suppose. And the whole thing was immediately ruined, finished.

It was unusual for him to be so depressed. The solitude, on which only a few hours ago he had been congratulating himself, now irked him. I’m completely alone, he thought. Completely independent. I thought it would be fun, but it isn’t. Croft hasn’t answered either of my two letters. God knows what has become of Frank. There’s S. N. G., of course. A troublesome ghost. As dead as Lucy. No, even he is lost, lost utterly.

He thought of his conversation in the car with Croft after their jaunt to the New Forest. Marriage is an obstacle. No artist should get married. And Croft had said:" But when you’re old..." Am I old? I suppose I am. When you’re old, and your work is done. Ah, that’s the time.

He had sat up moodily on the towel. Why am I thinking all this? What’s the matter with me? I’ll write Judith a conciliatory letter with a cheque. That’ll bring her round. And in two months it will be the Amazon, with Croft. The thought of the expedition made him feel strangely excited.

All this was passing through his mind when she had appeared. She was worse than he had ever imagined. Far, far worse. Her hands were raw and red, her neck sinewy. But—yes—he had welcomed her. At that moment he had welcomed her. After one of Lucy’s flirtations, when he had taken her to task, she had sighed:"Yes, I know, darling. It was very naughty of me. But one does like to be loved." He had thought it a particularly vain and inept remark at the time. But now he saw what she meant.

He stopped scratching and pulled on a pair of socks. Then he methodically tucked his shirt between his legs and reached for his trousers. As he took them, Judith’s letter fell out of one of the pockets. He left it, on the floor.

At the bottom of the stairs, instead of going into the drawing-room immediately, he went out into the garden and cut a rose for his buttonhole. Then he felt angry. It was a long time since he had done that.

She rose to her feet, but sat down again at his brief gesture. She waited. Hitching up his trousers below the knees he lowered himself into a chair covered in pink satin. The chair creaked. There was something ridiculous in the sight of him in it.

‘‘Well?" he said.

‘‘I’m afraid you must be angry with me. I ought never to have come, I know. You must think me mad. If only I could explain... It seemed the only way out, you see. You never answered my letters. I was desperate, I felt I had to see you." She began biting her handkerchief. The spectacle nauseated him.

‘‘I’m not angry," he said."A little surprised, perhaps. What do you want? What on earth can I do for you? I simply don’t—"

‘‘I told you in my last letter."

For a moment he looked puzzled. Then quietly, but with great emphasis:"No. That’s impossible. You must see it is."

‘‘But why? Oh, please. For one night—"

‘‘No."

‘‘But why not?"

‘‘The whole idea is grotesque, horrible."

‘‘It would cost you very little. And if it meant my life—my whole life—"

He looked profoundly shocked; he was shocked. Stiffly he replied:"One has a certain integrity."