The Penguin Book of the British Short Story Page 39

  Clarinda stepped down. Mrs Pagani was also wearing high boots, and her head was enveloped like Clarinda’s in a dark scarf; but, strangely, she was wearing the capacious and opulent fur coat in which Clarinda had first seen her. The top of her boots were hidden beneath it.

  ‘Rufo!’ Mrs Pagani spoke to the man by the gate as if she were calling off a foolish and over-demonstrative dog. The man said something in a strange language. It was so unlike any language Clarinda had heard that at first she thought he had a defect in his speech.

  Mrs Pagani, however, replied to him in what was presumably the same tongue. In her mouth it sounded less unfamiliar because she lacked his oddly throaty delivery. Clarinda wondered whether this might be Romany.

  The man was remonstrating against Mrs Pagani’s reproof. Her reply was curious: she was fluently pantomimic, and Clarinda could not but gather that Rufo was being told that she, Clarinda, was to be admitted where others were to be denied. The man scowled, and leered, then shuffled off. Although young and apparently strong, he stumbled in his gait and leaned on his crook. There was now very little light, but after he had gone a few paces, he appeared to draw his fur cape high over the back of his head.

  ‘What can you think of Rufo?’

  Clarinda often found Mrs Pagani’s remarks difficult to answer.

  ‘Will you forgive him? And me?’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive. I didn’t know he couldn’t speak English.’

  ‘How could you?’ Clarinda got the impression that the tone of this was not apologetic, but amicably ironical. Not for the first time she thought that Mrs Pagani implied some understanding between them which did not exist.

  ‘And will you come back?’

  It was ridiculous. But Mrs Pagani had saved her from a menacing situation, and she had to say something.

  ‘When should I come back?’

  ‘Tonight.’ The intonation made it plain that no other time could be in question.

  ‘Here?’

  Mrs Pagani said nothing, but dropped her head to one side and smiled.

  It was almost impossible after that to seek a reason.

  Moreover, Mrs Pagani left no time.

  ‘You’ve bound your hair very well.’

  Clarinda had been noticing how carefully Mrs Pagani’s own thick locks had been turbanned.

  ‘It was getting wet.’

  Mrs Pagani nodded and smiled. She was looking Clarinda over.

  ‘Au revoir.’

  Clarinda had not expected that either.

  ‘Good-bye. Thank you for rescuing me.’

  ‘My dear, we wouldn’t lose you.’ Mrs Pagani strode off. The plural was a new mystery, for Clarinda felt that it could not refer to Rufo.

  Although by now it was night, Clarinda leaped and ran down the dark track. At one time she thought she heard the pigs softly rooting in the invisible undergrowth. But she did not stop to listen, and duly reached the house only a few minutes after five.

  Dudley seemed to take her escapade for granted (although she provided no details). Clarinda wondered whether this suggested that already he was growing accustomed to her, or whether it was evidence that he would be a good and unexacting husband, prepared to allow her due liberty and no questions asked. She certainly valued his success in persuading his family to adopt the same attitude.

  ‘Out at night in winter,’ said Mrs Carstairs, ‘when you don’t have to be!’ And upon her gentle mark of exclamation, the matter dropped and tea began. Clarinda wondered whether their surprising equanimity was a product of Dudley’s leadership in a full discussion during her absence. She liked Dudley for not fussing, whatever his reasons.

  Elizabeth had got out a quantity of clothes and ranged them round the room for inspection and comparison by Clarinda. This was a lengthy undertaking. In the end there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Liz.’ It was Dudley’s voice outside.

  ‘One moment.’ Elizabeth drew on a sweater. ‘Now.’

  Dudley entered. ‘I’ve been sent up to fetch you both downstairs.’ He smiled fraternally.

  ‘We’re ready,’ said Elizabeth, looking at Clarinda as woman to woman.

  On the dark landing outside, Dudley held Clarinda back for a moment and embraced her. ‘Go on, Liz, you fool.’ Elizabeth went on. ‘You understand?’ said Dudley to Clarinda. ‘At least I hope you do. I’ve been trying to keep out of sight as far as possible so that you can get to know the family. That walk of yours. I’ve been wondering.’

  Clarinda squeezed his hand.

  ‘It’s all right? And you do like them?’

  ‘Of course it’s all right. And I like them very much.’

  Every Sunday evening, Clarinda understood, Mr Carstairs read aloud from about half past six until they had supper at eight. Tonight the start had been delayed by her walk and by the discussion in Elizabeth’s bedroom; but still there was time for four chapters of Persuasion. Mr Carstairs read well, Clarinda thought; and the book was new to her.

  Dudley, who could be convincing in such matters, had somehow contrived to arrange that both of them could arrive late at the office the next day: otherwise they would have had to return to London that same night. Soon after supper Elizabeth had disappeared upstairs, saying she had some letters to write, and that she probably would not be coming down again. She bade Clarinda goodnight, and kissed her affectionately on the cheekbone. About half an hour later, Mr and Mrs Carstairs also withdrew. Dudley went to assist his father with stoking up the boiler for the night. The clock struck half past nine. Otherwise the house was very quiet. Clarinda supposed that she and Dudley were being purposefully left to themselves.

  ‘I wish we could live in the country,’ said Dudley when he reappeared.

  ‘I expect we could.’

  ‘Not the real country. Not unless I get another job.’

  ‘Where does the real country begin?’

  ‘About Berkhamstead. Or perhaps Tring. Nowadays, that is.’

  ‘The country stretches in this direction only.’ Clarinda smiled at him.

  ‘For me it does, darling.’ She had not yet got into the habit of his calling her ‘darling’. ‘I belong around here.’

  ‘But surely until recently you lived in a town? Northampton is a town isn’t it?’ She really wasn’t quite sure.

  ‘Yes, but I was always out and about.’

  Clarinda had observed that every normal English male believes that he wants to live in the country, and said no more.

  Dudley talked for some time about the advantages of the arrangement. Then he stopped, and Clarinda perceived that he was waiting for her assent. There was a slight pause.

  ‘Dudley,’ said Clarinda. ‘How well do your father and mother know Mrs Pagani?’

  ‘Not very well,’ said Dudley, faintly disappointed. ‘What you would call a bare acquaintanceship. Why?’

  ‘They asked her to the party.’

  ‘Actually they didn’t. She heard about it and just came. Not the first time she’s done it, either. But you can’t put on side in a small village, and she’s not a bad old bird really.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Dudley, grinning at her earnestness. ‘So what?’

  ‘What does she do with herself? Live on, I mean?’

  ‘I don’t know what she lives on, darling. Little children, I expect, like Red Riding Hood’s grandmother. You know she occupies an old ruin in the churchyard?’

  ‘So she told me. I should like to go and see it.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Will you come with me?’

  ‘It’s a bit late for calls in the country.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting a call. I just want to have a look round.’

  ‘She might think that a trifle nosey, mightn’t she?’

  Clarinda nodded. ‘Of course, you know Mrs Pagani better than I do.’ She suddenly remembered a nocturnal stroll in Marseilles with a fellow tourist, who had proved unexpectedly delightful.

  ‘T
ell you what I’ll do,’ said Dudley, ‘I’ll whistle you round before we push off to Roade tomorrow.’

  ‘We mustn’t miss the train.’

  ‘Never missed a train in my life.’

  Clarinda’s second night was worse than her first, because now she couldn’t sleep at all. Dudley had considered that they should go their separate ways soon after eleven, in order, as he said, not to disturb Mr and Mrs Carstairs; and when the church clock, brooding over Mrs Pagani’s romantic residence, struck one, Clarinda was still tense and tumultuous in the prickly dark. Without switching on the light she got out of bed and crossed to the window. She hoped that the sudden chill would numb her writhing nerves. When, an hour and a half before, she had drawn back the curtains, and opened the window at top and bottom, she had noticed that the mist seemed at last to have vanished, although it was so black that it was hard to be sure. Now the moon was rising, low and enormous, as if at the horizon the bottom edge of it dragged against the earth, and Clarinda saw that indeed all was clear, the sky starry, and the mist withdrawn to the distant shadowy hills. In the foreground there was nothing to be seen but the silent fields and naked trees.

  Swiftly a bat loomed against the night and flew smack against the outer sash. Another two feet higher or two feet lower and he would have been in. Clarinda softly shivered for a moment, then watched the bat skid into invisibility. The silver-gilt autumn night was somehow warmer and more welcoming than Clarinda’s unadventurous bed; fellow-bed, twin-bed to a thousand others in a thousand well-ordered houses. The grave self-sufficiency of the night was seeping into Clarinda’s bloodstream, renewing her audacity, inflaming her curiosity; and its moonlit beauty agitating her heart. By the light of the big moon she began to dress.

  When, upon her return from the woods, she had taken off her walking shoes, she had thought them very wet; but now they seemed dried, as if by the moon’s rays. She opened the door of her room. Again a bat struck the window at the end of the passage outside. There was no other sound but that of disturbed breathing; which, however, seemed all around her. The other occupants of the house slept, but, as it appeared, uneasily. She descended the stairs and creaked into her mackintosh before trying the door. She expected difficulty here, but it opened at a touch. Doubtless it would be side to lock one’s doors in a village.

  The moon shone on the gate and on the lane beyond; but the long path from the front door was in darkness. With the moon so low the house cast a disproportionate shadow. As Clarinda walked down the narrow strip of paving, a hare scuttered across her feet. She could feel his warmth on her ankles as he nearly tripped her. The gate had a patent catch which had caused her trouble before, and she had to stand for half a minute fumbling.

  As she walked along the road, passed the ‘By Favour Only’ notice, and began to ascend into the wood, she never doubted that at the top of the hill would be some remarkable warrant for her efforts; and she was resolved to find out what it was. Now the regular roadside trees were as clear-cut and trim as a guard of honour, and the owls seemed to be passing a message ahead of her into the thickets. Once or twice, when entering a straighter part of the road, she thought she saw a shambling figure rounding the distant corner ahead, but she decided that it was probably only a shadow. The bats were everywhere, hurtling in and out of the dark patches, and fluting their strange cries, which Clarinda was always so glad that she was among those who are privileged to hear. There were even some surviving or revitalised moths; and a steadily rising perfume of moisture and decay.

  The gate at the hilltop was shut. But as soon as Clarinda drew near, she saw the little blue girl standing by it.

  ‘Hullo.’

  ‘Hullo,’ said Clarinda.

  ‘You’re rather late.’

  ‘I’m very sorry. I didn’t know.’

  ‘It’s important to be punctual.’ The child spoke in a tone of earnest helpfulness.

  ‘I’ll try to remember,’ said Clarinda humbly.

  The child had opened the gate and was leaning back against the end of it, her chin stuck in her neck and her feet in the ground, holding it for Clarinda.

  Clarinda passed through. The moon was now higher, and the soft grass glistened and gleamed. Even in the almost bright light there was no sign of a continuing path.

  ‘I shall get my feet wet.’

  ‘Yes, you will. You should wear boots.’ Clarinda observed the legs of the child’s blue garment were stuck into close-fitting black wellingtons. Also its hood was now over its head.

  There was no sign of the other child.

  The little girl had carefully shut the gate. She stood looking ruefully at Clarinda’s feet. Then apparently deciding there was nothing to be done about them, she said very politely, ‘Shall I show you where you change?’

  ‘Can I change my shoes?’ asked Clarinda, humouring her.

  ‘No, I don’t think you can change your shoes,’ said the child very seriously. ‘Only everything else.’

  ‘I don’t want to change anything else.’

  The child regarded her, all at sea. Then, perhaps considering that she must have misunderstood, said, ‘It’s over there. Follow me. And do take care of your feet.’

  It certainly was very wet, but the grass proved to be tussocky, and Clarinda did her best to keep dry by striding from tussock to tussock in the moonlight.

  ‘Rufo’s in there already,’ said the child conversationally. ‘You see you’re the last.’

  ‘I’ve said I’m sorry.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ This was uttered with that special magnanimity only found in the very young.

  The little girl waded on, and Clarinda struggled after her. There was no sign of anyone else: indeed, the place looked a hilltop of the dead. The lumpy, saturated grass and the rank and stunted vegetation compared most unfavourably with the handsome trees behind.

  There was one place where the briars and ragged bushes were particularly dense and abundant, constituting a small prickly copse. Round the outskirts of this copse, the child led the way until Clarinda saw that embedded in its perimeter was a rickety shed. Possibly constructed for some agricultural purpose but long abandoned by its maker, it drooped and sagged into the ground. From it came a penetrating and repugnant odour, like all the bad smells of nature and the stockyard merged together.

  ‘That’s it,’ said the little girl pointing. They were still some yards off, but the feral odour from the shed was already making Clarinda feel sick.

  ‘I don’t think I want to go in there.’

  ‘But you must. Rufo’s in there. All the others changed long ago.’

  Apart from other considerations, the shed seemed too small to house many; and Clarinda could now see that the approach to it was thick with mud, which added its smell to the rest. She was sure that the floor of the shed was muddy almost to the knees.

  The child’s face was puckered with puzzlement.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Clarinda, ‘but you know I don’t want to change at all.’

  Clearly she was behaving in quite the wrong way. But the child took a grip on the situation and said, ‘Wait here. I’ll go and ask.’

  ‘All right,’ said Clarinda. ‘But I’ll wait over there, if you don’t mind.’ The child seemed not to notice the awful smell, but Clarinda was not going to be the first to mention it.

  ‘There,’ said the child, pointing to an exact spot. Clarinda took up her stance upon it. ‘Mind you don’t move.’

  ‘Not if you hurry.’ The smell was still very detectable.

  ‘Quite still,’ insisted the child.

  ‘Quite still,’ said Clarinda.

  Swiftly the child ran three times round Clarinda in a large circle. The light was so clear that Clarinda could see the drops of water flying up from her feet.

  ‘Hurry,’ urged Clarinda; and, the third circle complete, the child darted away round the edge of the copse in the direction from which they had come.

  Left alone in the still moonlight, Clarinda wondered whether thi
s were not her great chance to return home to safety and certainty. Then she saw a figure emerging from the dilapidated hut.

  The figure walked upright, but otherwise appeared to be a large furry animal, such as a bear or ape. From its distinctive staggering uncertainty of gait, Clarinda would have recognised Rufo, even without the statements of the little girl. Moreover, he was still leaning upon his long crook, which stuck in the mud and had to be dragged out at every step. He too was going back round the edge of the copse, the same way as the child. Although he showed no sign of intending to molest Clarinda, she found him a horrifying sight, and decided upon retreat. Then she became really frightened; because she found she could not move.

  The hairy slouching figure drew slowly nearer, and with him came an intensification of the dreadful smell, sweet and putrid and commingled. The animal skin was thick and wrinkled about his neck and almost covered his face, but Clarinda saw his huge nose and expressionless eyes. Then he was past, and the child had reappeared.

  ‘I ran all the way.’ Indeed it seemed as if she had been gone only an instant. ‘You’re not to bother about changing because it’s too late anyway.’ Clearly she was repeating words spoken by an adult. ‘You’re to come at once, although of course you’ll have to be hidden. But it’s all right,’ she added reassuringly. ‘There’ve been people before who’ve had to be hidden.’ She spoke as if the period covered by her words were at least a generation. ‘But you’d better be quick.’

  Clarinda found that she could move once more. Rufo, moreover, had disappeared from sight.

  ‘Where do I hide?’

  ‘I’ll show you. I’ve often done it.’ Again she was showing off slightly. ‘Bind your hair.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bind your hair. Do be quick.’ The little girl was peremptory but not unsympathetic. She was like a mother addressing an unusually slow child she was none the less rather fond of. ‘Haven’t you got that thing you had before?’

  ‘It was raining then.’ But Clarinda in fact had replaced the black scarf in her mackintosh pocket after drying it before the Carstairs’ kitchen fire. Now, without knowing why, she drew it out.