WALKING OUT
“MY name isn’t June, it’s Joan, and always was.”
“But do you mind my calling you June? I think June is such a lovely
name, so much nicer than Joan. You are just like June, too.”
“Why should I be like June? You are silly. But I don’t mind. You can
have your own way if you like, though I don’t know why you shouldn’t
like Joan, which is my name whether you like it or not.”
“That is the only reason why I like it.”
“You are clever.”
“But when June is your name I like it better than all other names,
don’t you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Oh, well, I will call you Joan, if June is not to your fancy.”
“No, have it your own way.”
“That is most awfully nice of you. I ... No.”
It was not going too well. It was so hard to find anything to talk
about, and she was not easy. There was a terribly strained feeling in
the air, they were feeding on each other’s shyness. But it would be
better next time. The ice must break.
“Where are we now?”
“We’re just coming to the stile into Mr. Cume’s orchard.”
“Then it was here that the bulldog attacked a cow. Most alarming it
was. Flew at her nose.”
“No, he didn’t, did he?”
“Yes, but I pulled him off. Do you like bulldogs?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen very many. I only saw yours once or
twice, and then he rather frightened me.”
“He was so tame, really.”
There was a pause. They walked on.
“Do you like dogs?”
“I don’t know. No.”
“You don’t like dogs! Oh, June, I love them.”
“I like cats.”
“No, I don’t like cats. They are so funny and mysterious, or is that
just what you like about them?”
“Father doesn’t like cats, either.”
“Doesn’t he?”
“No, he doesn’t!”
“Have you got a cat?”
“Yes, he’s called Minnie.”
“They are so nice to have about the house--pets, I mean.”
“Yes, aren’t they?”
A pause. She was wonderful, so shy and retiring. What was there to say?
He sought for words.
“Will you come for another walk with me one day?”
“Perhaps.”
“We could go to the top of Swan’s Wood. It would be very nice of you. I
am so alone.”
“Why do you want to go up to the top? What happens there?”
--What would? “There is a view, that’s all. A lovely view that I used
to look at a great deal in the old days. And you can describe it to me
when we get there.”
“All right. Though I don’t know what you see in views.”
He was a queer person, but very exciting.
They walked. He guided his steps from the sound of hers. He felt
awkward. Then he stumbled and almost fell, on purpose. She stopped and
laid a hand on his arm.
“Take care. You mustn’t fall down and hurt yourself.”
“There is no harm done. I say, June, would you mind dreadfully if I did
put my hand on your arm? I should be able to get along easier then.”
“If you want to.”
They set out again. Was it imagination or did she press his arm under
hers, close to her? Had she much on? His heart beat, one felt that one
could never say anything again. Wasn’t she wonderful?
“Do you like cows?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“They frighten me sometimes, although I live most of the time in the
country. Don’t they you?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“But they looked so fierce with their horns, and sometimes when they
were frightened in Norbury market their eyes went purple and they
slavered at the mouth.”
“They are very stupid, that’s all.”
“I’m not sure. And bulls, of course, are really dangerous.”
“Bulls?” She laughed.
“I like calves, June.”
“Yes, calves are all right. They are so funny when they are young an’
their legs go wobbly.”
He laughed. That was a little more human of her.
“But they are awfully dangerous when they are like that, for the mother
is only too ready to attack you, isn’t she?”
“Quite likely. Don’t men fight bulls in Spain or some place like that?”
“Yes, they do. And in England they used to set bulldogs on to bulls, so
it’s in their blood. That was why ours went for Crayshaw’s cow. But I
should have thought that they ought to stage cat-and-dog fights.”
“Oh?”
Back to cats again. But his arm was in hers, and it was warm there.
“There’s a gate coming.”
“The one into the road?”
“Yes, that’s it. Mind, you mustn’t hurt yourself.”
She guided him through, and his feet felt the stones.
“Well, this is where I leave you. I’ll walk back by the road.”
“Will you be all right?”
“Yes. You will be coming to-morrow to have your hand looked to, won’t
you?”
“I expect so.”
“Poor hand, I am so sorry about it. Does it hurt very much?”
“It does rather.”
Here was someone to make a fuss over it, and it did hurt too.
“I’m so sorry.”
There was a pause. They faced each other in the middle of the road. His
head was on one side and he didn’t seem to know where she was quite.
Poor blind young man, she was sorry for him. He must be looked after.
The awkwardness had fallen again between them. There was nothing to
say. But she had agreed to come up to Swan’s Wood, which was one good
thing. She was very nice.
“Well, perhaps I had better be going back.”
“Yes, an’ so had I.”
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
And he began to walk home. Their first meeting was over. It had been
terrifying. But they had walked arm in arm anyway. The touch and the
warmth were so much finer when one was blind. And one was more
frightened; still, her voice had been kind. She would come again right
enough. He touched his blue glasses, he must be a sight. His steps
sounded hollowly on the road, and he thought of a dream when he had run
and run and run. But there had been no birds then, they had all been
hushed. For suddenly the sun came out, and, warmed by him, a bird began
to sing in little cascades of friendliness. How good the world was. He
wanted his lunch.
* * * * *
Nanny sat by the fire. Shadows ran up and down the walls of her room,
and it was very quiet in there except for her breathing and the
murmuring kettle. Kettles were so companionable. On the table by her
side was a cup of tea which steamed up at the ceiling, broadly at
first, and then the steam narrowed down till at last it was lost in a
pin-prick. It could not get so high. On the table was a patchwork
cover, the heir-loom of her family. By the cup stood a tea-caddy and by
that a spoon. The kettle spurted steam at the fender in sudden, angry
bursts.
It was close in her room because she never opened the window. Her black
dress rose stiffly up against the heat, and the whalebone in her collar
kept the chin from drooping. Little flames would come up to lick the
kettle, and then the shadows on the wall would jump out of the room.
But she sat straight and quiet as the people in the photographs round.
She was of their time. Only her breathing, tired and hoarse, helped the
kettle to break the quiet of the watching photographs.
It wasn’t right his going out with her like this. This would be the
third time he had gone out with her, and it wasn’t like Mrs. Haye to
allow it; it ought to be stopped. At that age they could so easily fall
in love with each other. And what would happen then? Young people
always went into those things blind, they didn’t see what the
consequences of their actions were. He ought to be more careful of whom
he took up with. _His_ daughter, indeed. What would everyone be saying?
And that _her_ boy should go out with that thing, him that she had
brought up since he was a squalling baby, it was not right.
There had been the time when he had first been given to her--a
wonderful baby strong as you could wish, full seven and a half pounds
from the moment he was born, and since then she had fed him with her
own hands just like as she was doing now, and getting up at nights
constant when he was hollering for his pap. She had seen him grow up
right from the beginning. And he had gone blind--it couldn’t have been
worse!--so that now he could never have a good time with the young
ladies or nothing, poor Master Johnnie! But she would see him out of
this thing that had come upon them, she had seen him out of many
such--there had been the time when he had been taken with whooping
cough a deal of trouble they had had with him, but they had pulled him
through. Mrs. Haye had been such a good mother to him better indeed
than his real one Mrs. Richard Haye would ever have been. There were
stories the servants that were with her told but then, what was the
good of believing stories but from what was said she was too free
altogether. You can never trust men not even your husband’s best friend
but there it was!
And Master John had growed up and gone to college but that never had
agreed with him, he was weakly ever since she could remember. It was
what she said that had kept him from a preparatory school even if the
doctor had said so too. Then they had had the governess who was not up
to much with all her airs and graces. The way she used to carry on with
that teacher in Norbury, undignifying. But he had been too weakly for
college, he had never been happy there even if he had growed to the
figure of a man he was. The other boys what were less well-behaved and
brought up would have always been at him, she knew their ways. And
there had come a time when he would hardly so much as throw a glance at
her and say “Hullo, Nanny,” and Mr. William had said one day “He is
growing up,” and she had seen him going away from her when the only
things she could do for him was to darn his socks and sew on buttons,
but he was back to her now, she could help him again, bring him up his
food and take him out for walks. It wasn’t right that hussy taking hold
on him and everyone would be talking you see if they didn’t.
Then the master had married again and a good thing too for the first
one wasn’t such as to waste breath over. Beautiful she had been, too
beautiful they was a danger them lovely ones though what he could see
in this hussy she didn’t know but then he couldn’t see, poor Master
John that was what it was. There had been great goings on for the
marriage, a servants’ ball and the service in church had been lovely
the bridesmaids being in pink and the clergyman having a lovely voice.
She had been a good mistress to her Mrs. Haye had been, only a hard
word now and then from that day on. And she had made a good mother to
Master John, always thinking of him and looking after him just as if he
was her own boy. Then the master going to India with his regiment and
leaving her with Master John to live with the grandparents, what was
dead now some time, and where they didn’t treat her proper they was
half-starving the poor boy. They hadn’t no illusions of his mother but
it wasn’t his fault poor little mite what she was. And then their
coming back after she had wrote to tell them, though the regiment did
come back too, and his falling downstairs dead as mutton his heart
having gone sudden like. A lovely funeral it was and a fine corpse he
made lying out on the bed. In the church it was the men of the estate
that carried the coffin, and the church was draped in black, and there
were officers from the regiment and wreaths that the officers had sent
and some from the men. Everything had been done in style. And the
mistress had been splendid. Quite soon after she had said to her “Well
Jennings it is up to us to bring him up” and she had said back “We
will’m.”
And then he had begun to crawl round the nursery, very fond of coal he
had been, and always full of mischief. And they had all said then what
a fine man he was going to grow up into, and so he is, but they none of
them had the gift of sight so they couldn’t have foretold this. When
she had been told she was sitting in this chair as like as she might be
now and she said “Lord have mercy on us” she remembered it as if it was
yesterday, though it did seem an age away, and that only six months
really. In the next room in the old day-nursery was all the toys he
used to have and her first thought was that he would never be able to
play with them again. You got a bit mixed up with time when you grew
older. They were all in the cupboard here the tin soldiers scarlet and
blue with some cannon and the spotted horse which he used to be that
fond of and the marbles with colours inside that he always wanted to
swallow, they was a peril them things, and the box of bricks as he grew
older so that they said he was going to be an architeck, and what would
he be now? He had loved his toys, she could remember his sitting on his
heels and getting excited over the soldiers as if they was real and
fighting a real battle. They were all there in the cupboard waiting.
Nothing had been lost and now that her time was coming perhaps when she
was gone they would throw them away or give them to some poor child
instead of keeping them, maybe for his children if he had any. Waste
that was.
Would he marry now? And would a young lady want to marry a blind young
man? Ah, but if they knew her Master John of course they would. She
ought to know him, she had known him longer than anyone now, and he was
so good and kind-hearted even if he was a bit rough at times, but then
all young people were like that. She would like to see his son but she
might go off at any minute, the doctor said so, it was her heart, she
wouldn’t last on to see him. But it wasn’t doing him no good to be
following around of that girl with her father. That man, and him in the
church too, it was a sacrilege that’s what it was. And the shame on the
village and on the house. They was the laughing-stock of the
countryside. And him going and living quite near just to spite them, oh
if the master was here, he would send him packing and that daughter of
his parading of herself about. She would talk to Mrs. Haye she ought to
know what everyone was saying.
She had been sitting in this very chair when who should come in but Mr.
William and she could see something was up on account of his being out
of breath and he had said “The young master ’as been ’urt” he said, and
she had been turned to stone so to speak, as it says in the Book, and
he had gone on about the accident on the railway and how he would be
blind for ever. And she had said “Lord have mercy on us. Lord have
mercy on us.”
To think that it should happen to him, him that was so good and kind.
He had been good to her he knew what he had to thank her for. And he
had been so brave through it all. Oh dear. Even when he was quite a
mite he had been that kind-hearted. Mrs. Richard Haye was like that
they had said. In another way though it must have been. And she always
going about whistling, never going to church, and so happy with all her
men friends hanging around and the master too simple to notice or
suspect. Folks as are that happy are dangerous. And her silly whistling
so that you couldn’t stir without hearing it, senseless it was. And
everything in such a muddle so they said. She had only seen her once
when they had taken her to be shown to the mistress as the new nurse.
Too weak she had been to stir a finger but beautiful although so pale
lying there on the bed propped up on cushions, the light shining on her
face, blue eyes half-closed with long lashes and so thin with her last
home-coming. She hadn’t said a word just looked at her, they were
beautiful eyes, too beautiful. But they was all liable to die like that
all women. She had been near to marrying Joe Hawkins before she went
out into service. She didn’t regret it, she would do it again if she
had the chance, though two Master Johnnies didn’t come but once in a
lifetime.
Getting up with difficulty she made herself some fresh tea, hanging up
the kettle-holder on a brass-headed nail that goggled like a golden eye
from the wall. The room was thick with warmth. A lifeless pennant of
steam came from the spout of the teapot.
She lifted the cup to her lips with hands which trembled rather. She
sipped. A cup o’ tea did you a deal of good. Nothing like it so that
the older you were the more you felt the need of it. And the cough was
getting worse, it wouldn’t go till it had killed her. But Mrs. Haye
would give her a fine funeral with a stone which would have an angel on
it maybe. Beautiful she always thought they looked, them tombstones as
had angels on ’em.
And when she was gone Master Johnnie would be still more alone and he
was lonesome enough now. He hadn’t a soul left as belonged to him
except Mrs. Haye and her. The master had been the only son of an only
son so that if Master John did not marry the name would go. Mrs. Haye
had brothers and sisters, and many of them, but they wouldn’t speak to
her nor she to them. It had been a romance her marrying the master. Mr.
William had told her at one time and another what he had heard at table
and it seemed as if her parents had not approved of her marrying the
master, and he as fine a man as ever was. The marriage had been sudden
enough certain. So that when she had married against their orders, as
it might be, they wouldn’t hear of her again. That was a shame.
Scotland she came from and lived in a fortress, they was wild them
parts. But there it was and he was alone poor Master John. It was funny
how some families did seem to die out, and when you thought of her own
sisters and brothers dead and gone now and their children. There was no
sense or order in it.
There was Christmas coming and she would have to begin thinking of what
he would like. Two presents each year he got, one from Mrs. Haye and
one from her and every year he gave her one. To think of his having no
one else to give him one. And it was hard to think of something he
would want and it took longer to make things up now as you were older.
It had better be something warm, there was a hard winter coming, and
she would make socks for Eliza’s new baby her great-niece. He would
want another muffler on cold days like this, and there would be more of
them too, but then he would be wearing it with that hussy. What the
world was coming to. To think of him walking out with her, that common
thing.
And he had had a letter from that nurse only the other day, that was
another one, stuck up she had been and not fit to look after anyone
much less Master John. But he hadn’t liked her, oh no she knew her
Master Johnnie he didn’t hold with her sort, and quite right too. The
good Lord knew what she was. She hadn’t liked to trust him a moment out
of her sight when she was there. And she that would not take her meals
in the hall and her no better than anyone. What did she think herself
she would like to know. Oh it had been a mess-up everybody knocked off
their feet, as it might be, by this happening. Mr. William hadn’t known
which way to turn and it was the first time as she had seen him
flustered. And she had not slept so much as a wink in three nights nor
had cook with thinking of what he would want to eat what time he came
back from hospital. Mr. William had not known such a thing happen ever,
and he was a knowledgeable man. And Mr. Weston had worried himself
about the fruit that he could ’ave peaches and grapes so that old Pinch
could not remember anything like it ever, not that he was liable to,
useless rude old man that he was. There had been the time when he had
said to her quite sudden like “I ain’t a-goin’ to die yet awhile so
don’t you worry” which was all on account of her asking of him kindly
as to ’is health, which no one could take offence at. But he was of the
sort as drop down sudden. And there was Annie, poor body that was
half-crazed, and for a week, when they had told her she said nothing
but “Deary me” she felt it too poor soul, of course she did, as if they
wasn’t all fond of Master John. It was a mess-up.
But with Christmas coming on you really didn’t know where you were,
what with the happenings and everything, though it was all settling
down now. But there was this girl he was walking out with which didn’t
bear thinking of. She would knit him a muffler that would keep him warm
and there wasn’t many as knitted as close and firm as she did if she
didn’t go quite so fast. And the socks for Eliza’s new baby, Harriet
they was going to call her and a good name it was, grandma had been a
Harriet. Then there was Joe who was to marry next month, he would want
a wedding present, something useful as would be a standby. He was a
good boy that and a good son to his mother, her twin, as was dead now.
Twelve brothers and sisters, the good Lord had been favourable to her
mother, and six of them dead and gone now and four nephews killed in
the war one after the other. But there was eight left. Joe had been too
young to go, but now he was marrying and was in a good position, and
there would be children and she would knit them socks....
She sipped. The kettle threw out sprays of steam and bubbles bubbled
angrily about the lid. Sometimes the lid would rise as if to let
something out, and there would be a hissing in the fire and then it
would fall back again. The room was full of movement with sudden still
glowing colours here and there on the furniture where the fire caught
it. A late fly dozed just within the half-circle of light thrown out by
the fire on the ceiling and where the shadows crept up from the corners
trying to choke the light. The room was so warm. And the figure in the
chair sat straight and quiet with hands crossed on her lap, and the
whalebone in her collar kept the chin from drooping.
* * * * *
“So we are going to Swan’s Wood, are we?”
“Yes, do you mind?”
“No.”
He pressed closer.
“This silence with the sun and with the sharpness of the frost still on
the ground and with you here ...” he said, but she did not answer.
“The breadth and distance there is in the country to-day, June, don’t
you feel it?”
“I don’t know.”
“The country is so full of the sun to-day, June, and I am away from
them all, for you have rescued me from the house, so that I am with
you. And we have hours of time, this will be the longest walk of all
that we have had yet. It is such an adventure. Do you like walking with
me, June?”
“Perhaps I do, perhaps I don’t.”
“But you must, or else it will be so dull for you. And you are kind to
take me out, for they are old in the house, so old. Poor Nan is dying,
and William the butler who is waiting for a pension, and old Pinch who
is going to retire next week. Mamma is giving him a cottage rent free.
He has worked in the garden for forty years.”
“Do they get pensions? How much?”
“Enough to live on, when they have deserved it. But listen to that
cock, June, crowing so boastfully such miles away. And the car droning
up Bodlington Hill on its way to Norbury, with the stream just near
hurrying by over the stones. And the birds are singing to the fine day,
there are so many of them. Do you know the names of birds?”
“No, an’ I wish I did.”
“Nor do I, it does not really matter. But what luck that we should have
the sun for our walk. We have had so much rain up to now.”
“An’ I hate rain.”
“So do I! Listen to the starlings on that tree, screaming at us,
perhaps. June, did you say the other day that you lived alone with your
father?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“I did not mean that. It is a very excellent thing to do. But you must
be very lonely sometimes.”
“Sometimes.”
“Then do you never see anyone? It must be so dull: I know how it is.”
“Oh yes, I see one or two.” She laughed.
“Who? But I never see anyone, except stewed people that Mamma serves
up, when there is no way of keeping them out. And you are nicer than
any of them.”
“You are a funny card.”
“Am I? Well, there are worse things to be. Isn’t it funny, though, that
we should never have met in all these years? I have never seen you,
June, never seen how you are.”
“You have, only you don’t remember. In church I used to watch you when
we were both quite little, but you would hardly ever look at me, you
were too grand. And afterwards.”
“But then I must have seen you. Why did you look at me?”
“There was nothing else to do.”
“No, I suppose not. Where did you sit?”
“To the left of your pew, just in front of the font. Don’t you
remember?”
“And what was the church like? I never really noticed it. Oh, it hurts
to try and remember. I can only see bits of it, the spaces are so hard
to fill up.”
“Don’t. I hate that church too, only through the window on the right
you could see an apple tree.”
“Yes, I know. And there were birds.”
“And apples in the autumn. Do you remember?”
“Yes. Apples.” And he laughed.
“Why do you laugh?”
“I don’t know. But I did hate being made to go to church--though of
course your father used to preach really well.”
“Oh yes!”
“Mamma ... He grew roses up the church, I think. I liked that very
much. They were so pretty.”
“An’ Mrs. Haye made him take them down again.”
“Did she? I wonder why. Do you like roses?”
“Very much. There used to be so many of them in that garden at the old
Vicarage. Father was always crazy on them, an’ so was I.”
“The rose is lovely, June, don’t you think? The poets sing so often of
them. They call her the queen of flowers. ‘The damask colour of thy
leaves.’ ‘Sweetness dwells in rosy bowers.’ ‘The blushing rose.’”
“Oh yes. They were all over our garden.”
“Then you must have lived in a way dear to the lyrical poets of the
seventeenth century. How charming!”
“I never read poetry. I haven’t time.”
“Really? And the church must have been so pretty, buried in them. But
then Mamma is very low church.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, she does not like ornaments to a church. I think it is very
silly of her, though Crayshaw goes too far with his lighted candles and
so on.”
“But what does it matter?”
“It is popery, that is all. It is going to Rome.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh well, why talk about it?”
“Father was so fond of his roses. Making him take them down like that
was a shame.”
“Listen to those bells, June. The sound comes tumbling over the country
from so far off. It would be Purley church, I suppose.”
“Father hates church bells. They hurt him.”
“Where are we now?”
“We are just coming to Mr. Brownlee’s farm.”
“I thought so. Brownlee’s chickens are making such a noise.”
It was a shame the way they had treated Father.
“What a lovely material your dress is made of.”
“Do you like it?”
“So much. It is so soft, one’s hand glides over it and then sinks down
in the folds of it drowned in it, June. What colour are you wearing?”
“Blue.”
“Yes, it would be blue.”
“Poor boy, not being able to see.”
“Call me John, dear, ‘boy’ is so young.”
“Poor John.”
“It has been awful without you.”
“Has it?”
“Everything is black. Before, even when one shut one’s eyes the eyelids
were red if one were outside, but light now has been cut off from
within. Nothing but black. One gets desperate sometimes, you know.
There are times when I would like to kill myself, really, I mean.”
“Poor John.”
“But your eyelids when you closed them would be such a delicious colour
for the lovely eyes inside.”
“Would they? Oh, but then you have never seen my eyes.”
“Perhaps not, but I can feel them just the same.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, they are so calm, so quiet. Such a lovely blue.”
“But they are dark brown.”
“Oh, then your dress does not match?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“But what does that matter? They are such lovely brown eyes. And
sometimes they light up and burn, perhaps?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well ... But have you ever been in love?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe they are burning now?”
“N-no, I don’t think so.”
“How sad. And mine, if they had not been removed, would have burned so
ardently.”
“What’s ardently?”
“You know, hotly, pas---- No.” This was awkward. “But I like your eyes,
whether they are brown or blue.”
“You are really quite nice, John, an’ I think I like you.”
“No more than that?”
“Perhaps.”
And his hand was in hers. Better to ignore it at first.
“Perhaps?”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“You are strange, June, so distant, so cold. I don’t believe you really
like me at all, no, really not.”
“Mind, here’s a gate. Be careful.”
“Where is the gate? You are cruel, you know. You don’t care a bit. Oh,
here it is; good.”
“Care about what?”
“What about? Why, me, I mean. But this will be where we have to cross
the road. Then we go through the gate which should be to the right
there. Shut this one; that is the home farm we are leaving?”
“Have you got a farm all your own?”
“Yes, and why not?”
“You must be rich.”
“I am not so sure about that.”
“It must be wonderful to be rich.”
“It must be wonderful to be poor.”
“How do you mean? You’ve never been poor in all your life. So how can
you tell?”
“But poor people are always much happier than rich people on the
cinema. The cinema used to be the only way I had to see life.”
“But what do you think of scrubbing floors all day, and of cooking
food, and of having to look after your father who is ill, and all
that?”
“Is he ill, June?”
“Yes, at least he thinks he is.”
“I’m sorry. But you won’t always be poor?”
“As far as I can see.”
“But one day a fairy prince may spirit you away to a place of luxury.
Think of it.”
“Gracious, no! Why should he?”
“He would have every inducement. These things often happen, you know,
here and there.”
“I don’t think so.”
“But I do. One of these days ... we ... perhaps. Well; but I am sorry
he is ill.”
“Oh, I don’t think he is as ill as all that. He is a poet an’ imagines
things.”
“A poet? Does he write poetry?”
“Yes. Leastways he doesn’t write, but he talks beautiful. About stars
and things. I can’t understand him half the time, so I just say ‘Yes’
or ‘No’ to keep him company. He is a wonderful man.”
“And you must lead a most thrilling life all alone with a poet in that
house. Mamma says that the garden was--is very beautiful.”
“Yes, it is full of trees and things.”
“So wild. Such a free life.”
“Free? Well, I don’t know about that. But we have some chickens, only
they have to be fed. And there’s the cat. She killed a great big mouse
the other day.”
“Did she!”
“Yes, an’ there’s the chicks that get lost in the grass, I love them,
an’ there’s a starling that nests every year in the chimney, and my own
mouse which plays in my room at night, an’ ...”
God, the boredom of this.
“... but sometimes I hate it all.”
“It must be horrid for you.”
“I’ve had no one else to tell it all to.”
“No, of course not. June, here we are in the wood. Do you feel the
hollowness of it? For the trees crowd about us, and their branches roof
us in slyly, with sly noises that one can just hear. And we seem to be
in another world now, for the cart that is creaking along the road
outside is so faint, floating through the twigs that urge the sound
gently along as they are tickled by the wind. So that we might be on
our way to some dark and dangerous spot. June, it is mediæval.”
“What’s that?”
“It means long ago. But we are happy together, aren’t we? You know, you
are the only person I would take with me to Swan’s Wood.”
There was Mummy, but she did not count.
“Why?”
“Because I used to spend so much of my youth at the top there, thinking
great thoughts.”
“But why only me?”
“Surely you know.”
“Perhaps I don’t.”
“Oh yes, you do.”
“When I was little I used to tell everything to a friend I had then.
We used to walk in the lane, down at Broadlands. One day she tripped up
and cut her leg.”
“And I have never told anyone everything.”
“Tell me.”
“I will some day, it would take too long now. June, are we getting near
the top now?”
And he would tell her, it would help, though she would not understand.
But he would never tell her of his writing, that was too important.
“I see light behind the trees.”
“We are getting there. This must be near the top of the hill, and you
are not a bit out of breath.”
“My! an’ here we are. Is that your view? I don’t see much in it, not
that it isn’t very pretty though.”
“Shall we sit down?”
“Yes.”
She lets go of his hand and they sit down.
“June, give me back your hand, it makes you so much more real.”
“There it is, silly.”
“And what do you see of my view?”
“There are fields an’ trees an’ the river an’ behind that the hill with
the waterworks’ tower an’ to the right there is the town with the
Abbey, no more than that.”
“That is all gone for me, anyway. June, my hand is so comfortable in
yours.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. Your hand is warm and so strong. But it is only just big enough
to hold mine.”
“Shall we change round?”
“That is better. I have it captive now. It is like holding a bird.”
“Oh you!”
“Oh me?”
“You are a funny boy.”
“Do call me John.”
“Funny John.”
“How is your other hand, the one that was cut?”
“It is better now. But it did hurt.”
“Poor hand. I was so sorry.”
“Were you? That was nice. There was no one who cared.”
“Poor June. But didn’t your Father mind?”
“No, he never would. He is always thinking of himself.”
“Well, he ought to have. It was ...”
“No, no, he oughtn’t, it wasn’t his fault, he is a genius, you know.
Great thoughts he has, not like you and me. Above it all.”
Not like you and me!
“But, poor hand. Give it me, June. Ah, now I have both your hands--so
much and yet so little.”
“No, don’t press it like that, you are hurting.”
“How much would you give me of yours?”
“Of mine? Why? Well, I haven’t very much to give. But if you like, I’ll
give you a brooch of my mother’s which is broken so as I can’t use it.
You will remember me by that. But I expect you have a bad memory,
John.”
“Only when I have nothing to remember.”
“What shall I give you, then?”
“What you like best.”
“And what will you give me?”
“A ring, and more, perhaps.”
“You are nice, John.”
“Aren’t I?”
“Oh, well, I never. Don’t you ever think of me? It’s always you, you,
you.”
“But of course I think of you much more than you would believe
possible. And you come to me in my dreams.”
“John!”
“Yes, dear. It’s true, even if I haven’t told you before.”
“How wonderful!”
“It is, and more than wonderful.”
He laughed, and there was a pause.
“No, it’s not comfortable, your holding both my hands.”
“Here is one back, then.”
“John, the sun’s come out and the Abbey has gone all gold.”
“And it has caught the trees as well, perhaps? When the sun came out
for a moment it used to be a great thing for me, and I have sat here
entranced, but when you think that all this doesn’t bother itself about
one at all, it is a trifle boring.”
“John, you are very like Father.”
“Am I? How?”
“I don’t know. You talk the same.”
“Do I? Oh, well. But I used to dream here so. Have you never dreamed,
June--about things, I mean?”
“Yes, perhaps.”
“And what do you do all day? There must be time to dream.”
“Oh, there’s lots to do. But I do dream.”
“What about?”
“I don’t know.”
“And this place would fit in with my mood. A view helps, do you find
that?”
“Yes.”
“At last, something definite. You really think that?”
“I suppose I do, seeing as how I said it.”
“You are frightened of your feelings. But one soon grows out of that. I
did a year ago.”
“An’ then there is the river. I sit on the bank sometimes an’ watch it
going by.”
“I know. I love doing that. Do you fish?”
“No, I don’t know how to.”
“I used to, but I can’t now.”
“Poor John.”
“Poor me. But it will not be ‘poor me’ if you are nice.”
“But aren’t I being nice?”
“Fairly.”
“Well, I never! Only fairly? What more do you want?”
“Lots more.”
“You are a one. But it is nice up here.”
“With you. Say ‘with you.’”
“Why should I? No, I won’t.”
“Say ‘with you.’”
“No--hi, stop! What are you doing? If you go on like that I shall go
home.”
“But you didn’t say ‘with you.’”
“Why should I?”
“To please me.”
“I’m not sure I want to now.”
“Do.”
“I’m sure I don’t see why I should. But as you seem to’ve set your
heart on it, here it is--‘with you,’ stupid.”
“It has no meaning now; how sad. You are very cruel, June. I used to
think of cruel ladies and of kind ones when I was up here, but they
were none of them like you.”
“Cruel ladies and kind ones? What do you mean?”
“Such as one used to see on the cinema. I used to grow so romantic over
this view. I wanted to go into politics then. When you thought of all
the people starving, there was nothing else to do. I became Prime
Minister, of course, up here, and addressed huge meetings which
thundered applause. Once, at one of those meetings, a lady became so
affected by my words that she had a fit. She was carried out, and the
commotion over it gave me time to drink a cup of water, which was
most necessary. It was all very vivid up here. I was to lead a public
life of the greatest possible brilliance. It is different now.”
“How wonderful that would be.”
“You know what I mean? One planned everything out on a broad scale,
remembering little scraps of flattery that someone or other had been so
good as to throw one and building on that. One was so hungry for
flattery. The funny thing is that when one goes blind life goes on just
the same, only half of it is lopped off.”
“Yes?”
“One would think that life would stop, wouldn’t you? But it always goes
on, goes on, and that is rather irritating.”
“My life’s always the same.”
“Yes, I was on the crest of my audience and the woman threw her fit
just as the climax was reached; but I repeat myself. I shan’t feel that
sort of thing any more now, there is so little to want.”
“Oh, John!”
“And it would have been so lonely without you.”
“Would it?”
“Say you like being up here with me.”
“All right, so long as it pleases you.”
“Pleases me? Only that?”
How slow, how slow this was.
“Oh, well. Nice boy.”
“Thanks. But now, do you know what I am going to do now? After all,
one must have something to put against one’s name. For I am going to
write, yes, to write. Such books, June, such amazing tales, rich with
intricate plot. Life will be clotted and I will dissect it, choosing
little bits to analyse. I shall be a great writer. I am sure of it.”
“Yes.”
“But I will be. What else is there to live for? Writing means so much
to me, and it is the only thing in which the blind are not hampered.
There was Milton.”
“Ah yes, Milton.”
“I must justify myself somehow.”
“Funny John.”
“Yes, very comical. Blundering about in the dark yet knowing about
everything really. I know I do. And I will tell the world.”
“Yes.”
“But do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You see, June, no one cares enough, about the war and everything. No
one really cared about my going blind.”
“Yes.”
“And I will write about these things--no one cares and I will be as
uncaring as any. I will be a great writer one day, and people will be
brought to see the famous blind man who lends people in his books the
eyes that he lost, and ...”
Poor John, he was properly off it now. She did not understand all this
writing stuff; and how did one do it, it would be so difficult when one
could not see the page?
“... but I am boring you.”
“No, you’re not. Do go on.”
“It is getting cold out here.”
“Oh, don’t let’s go home just yet.”
“So you like being out here?”
“Yes.”
Why had he told her about his writing? Now everything was spoilt. And
of course she did not understand. She was lamentably stupid. They had
better go home.
“But you will catch a chill.”
“Why should I? We can make each other warm.”
And she pressed closer to him, and she laughed.
She would call that snuggling, he thought. There was a pause.
“John,” she said, pulling his arm, “how silent you are.”
“I have just said so much.”
“How do you mean? Oh, John, will you write about me?”
“Perhaps.”
“Fancy me being in a book. Just think.”
“Would you like to be?”
“Of course I would. Father writes books too, only they never get
written.”
“Does he put you in them?”
“Oh no, they are not that sort.”
“What sort are they?”
“I don’t know. But he’s always talking about his writing.” She paused.
“John, you’ll make me the person your hero’s in love with, won’t you?
and your hero’ll be you, I suppose?”
“Perhaps.”
“You aren’t very chirpy now, are you, John?”
“No, it is cold out here.”
“But don’t I keep you warm?”
“It is my other side that is so cold.”
“Well, an’ perhaps we’d better go home.”
“Yes, perhaps we had better go home.”
They get up. He staggers, then, arm in arm, they go down the hill
through the wood.
“Mind, John, there’s a fallen tree here.”
“Thanks. Where? Oh, here. June, how sad it is going home.”
“Yes, it is. But we’ll go out again.”
“Of course.”