“Get out! Get away! Put it down outside then, can’t you?”
There was a mutter and the clank of a scuttle-lid, and a thud.
The footsteps shuffled out of hearing.
She shut her eyes again.
Peace—quiet—greyness. The waves were rocking her.
She did not dream. There are, by that same pity of God, no
dreams permitted in the place of refuge. But, as she lay in
peace, she watched her own memorial thoughts rising about her,
one by one, like bubbles in a glass, like cocks crowing in the
dark of the dawn.
A white road ... the hill-top wind panting down it like a runner
... dust ... bright blue sky ... sky-blue succory in the gutter
... succory is so difficult to pick ... tough ... it leaves a
green cut on one’s finger ... succory in a pink vase on the
mantel-piece ... the fire’s too hot for flowers ... hot buttered
toast ... the armchair wants mending ... the horsehair tickles
one’s ears as one lies back in it and warms one’s toes and
watches the rain drowning the fields outside ... empty winter
fields, all tousled and tussocky from cow dung ... grey skies
... snow ... not a soul in sight ... and succory in a pink vase
on the mantel-piece ... because one’s back in Eden ... summer
and winter are all one in Eden ... picking buttercups in Eden as
one used to do ... all the fields grown full of buttercups ...
fifty buttercups make a bunch ... fifty golden buttercups with
the King’s head on them ... hurry up with the buttercups ... one
more bunch of buttercups will buy back Eden—Eden—ah!
So, with a long gasping sigh would come the end. “Eden—” and the
longing would be upon her, tearing like a wild beast at her eyes
and her throat and her heart—“I want to go home. Oh, God, let me
go home! Let me out! I want to go home——”
The chapter ended.
“And does she?” I looked up at the Baxter girl. “I’m always afraid of a
bad ending. Does she get back in the end?”
The Baxter girl fluttered through the pages.
“The money’s stolen first—a man takes it—while she’s asleep——Oh, it’s
beastly, that scene. She has to save it all up again. It takes her
years. But—oh, yes, she does go back.”
“The railway journey,” said Miss Howe. “Do you remember?”
“If you want happy endings”—the Baxter girl flattened out the last page
with a jerk—“there you are!”
I read over her shoulder. The strong scent that hung about her seemed to
float between me and the page.
“Here we are—where she gets to the station. ‘Eden,’ Madala calls it, but
the woman calls it ‘Breckonridge.’
At last and at last the station-board with the familiar name
flashed past her window. She thrilled. The station lamps
repeated it as the train slowed down. She thought—how long the
platform’s grown! ... a bookstall! ... a bookstall on each side!
... there used not to be ... wasn’t the station smaller?...
She spoke to the ticket collector shyly, blushing, like a girl
going to an assignation and thinking that all the world must
know it.
He answered, already catching at the ticket of the traveller
behind her—
“How far to Breckonridge? A mile, maybe—but you get the tram at
the corner.”
She stared. She would have questioned him again, but the throng
of people pressed her forward.
A tram through the village? ... queer! ... not that it mattered
to her ... she would take the old short cut through the fields
outside the station yard.... There was a stile ... and a wild
cherry tree....
She left the yard, the unfamiliar yard with asphalt and motors
and a great iron bridge, crossed the road, and stopped
bewildered.
There were no fields.
‘Station Road.’ The labelled yellow villas were like a row of
faces. Eyes, nose, mouth—windows, porch, steps—steps like teeth.
They grinned.
In a sort of panic she ran past them down the road, a lumbering,
clumsy woman. She trod on her skirt, and recovered herself with
difficulty. She heard a small boy laugh and call after her. She
clambered on to the tram.
“I want to go to the village—to Breckonridge——”
“It’s all Breckonridge. ’Ow far?”
She stared.
“I don’t remember. He said a mile.”
“Town ’All, I expect.” He took his toll and passed on.
She turned vaguely to a neighbour.
“Town Hall? I don’t remember. The road’s all different Where are
the fields?”
The neighbour nodded.
“Built over. When were you here last? Thirty years? My word,
you’ll find changes! I notice it, even in five. Very full it’s
getting. Good train service. My husband can get to his office
under the hour.”