Another world, p.11
Another World, page 11
‘She - - - she told me.’
‘Told you. Who told you?’
Jones came slowly into a sitting position, pushed her away from him.
‘The queer bitch next door that you love so much. How much did he pay you to stand outside her bloody door?’ Then very slowly, ‘and if you went to her room now I’d bet you’d find her silly face in the stars. How much?’
‘You had better begin packing your things, Jones,’ Mrs Gandell said, and got up and went to the bed, and sat on it, and watched him, and waited. ‘The difference between us, Jones, is that you are dead drunk, and I’m sober. Get up.’
But Jones made no move, felt suddenly rooted to the floor.
‘I’ll get your things together myself, Jones,’ and she got up and began wildly opening drawers and cupboards, and, as though the mad moments had passed, said quietly, ‘and always remember, Jones, that you can be done without.’
Jones fell flat on his face, and lay very still. She groped in drawers and cupboards, and soon there lay a little pile of the Jones things.
‘How much?’
But she did not hear, but now knelt and began to make a neat bundle of the Jones belongings.
‘Mrs Gandell,’ the words coming through spread fingers, hard up against the Jones mouth. ‘Mrs Gandell?’
‘I’m waiting,’ she said.
‘Mrs Gandell?’
She watched him come slowly to his knees, make to rise, fall again, make another desperate effort, and she went across and got him to his feet.
‘There are your things, Jones. Now get out,’ as he lay heavy against her, as he struggled to stand upright, as he pushed himself clear, staggered to the bed and lay stretched, hands to his mouth, and heard her say loud and clear that she meant what she said.
‘You said you wouldn’t go,’ he blurted out, and she was startled by the sudden break in his voice, and the moment she sat on the bed he struggled into a sitting position, leaned against her, and muttered, ‘You said it.’
‘Said what, Jones?’
And Jones growled, ‘What you said, that’s all.’
She was aware in a moment of what was helpless, and what was craven in him, and the sudden fierce hug she gave him was that of mother to son. She got up, saying, ‘I’m going to make some coffee, Jones. Get into bed.’
But his hands flopped to his knees, his head hung, and he did not hear her leave the room. When she returned he was in exactly the same position, except that the moment the door opened he looked up at her with such yearning that for a moment she thought he might even smile.
‘Here! Drink this.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Gandell.’
‘You’ll feel better in a minute,’ she said, and sat close again, sipping her coffee.
‘D’you know what, Mrs Gandell?’
‘What?’
‘All the way back from that pub I was thinking of my mother.’
‘Were you?’
‘Yes, I was,’ and he finished the coffee and gave her the cup.
‘Sometimes it’s nice to remember, and sometimes it isn’t,’ she said.
‘Know what she once said to me?’
‘What did your mother say to you, Jones?’ and she put an arm round his neck.
‘You’ll never be anything, she said.’
‘What a thing to say.’
‘So I was never anything, Mrs Gandell, that’s how it is.’
‘Dreadful, Jones, dreadful. How old were you then?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Makes it even worse, Jones.’
‘Doesn’t matter now,’ he said. She saw his trembling mouth.
‘Where did you live?’
‘In the mountains.’
‘Where?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Jones said. ‘But you’re not going to go, are you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘I never want to leave here, Mrs Gandell, never.’
‘What happened after she said you’d never be anything, Jones?’
‘Nothing. She went one way, and I went another, and whenever I came to a place I knew I’d do what I was told, and then I’d go on to another place, and it was the same there, and then I came here. Remember that. I carried your bags from the station. It was a very cold afternoon, the wind was East.’
‘Fancy you remembering that,’ she said.
‘Sometimes I don’t want to remember, Mrs Gandell.’
‘Of course not, Jones.’
And at last she got him into bed, put away the tray, and joined him. She switched out the light. They lay in the darkness, and for a few moments there was utter silence. He was restless beside her. She thought there were more words to come; she thought it would be better when they were free.
‘Where is she now?’
‘In another kingdom now, Mrs Gandell,’ he said, and she knew that she could never say she was sorry.
‘My mother used to write me twice a year, Jones,’ very softly into the darkness.
‘Did she?’
‘Yes. But not now. She’s very old, Jones.’
‘Oh!’
‘Eighty-five.’
‘Think of that,’ he said, and he came nearer, put a hand on her shoulder, and whispered, ‘But you really won’t go?’
‘You must believe me, Jones.’
‘Yes, Mrs Gandell. Sorry I was late.’
‘Yesterday’s Jones,’ she thought, ‘last week’s, last month’s.’
‘Shall we forget it?’ she asked. ‘It’s time we went to sleep.’
‘If you left here, I wouldn’t know what to do. Honest.’
‘I am not leaving, Jones. I absolutely swear it.’
‘The people will come.’
‘Indeed they will.’
‘And Mr Prothero and his friend will be here next week.’
‘The ice is cracking, Jones. Remember, you always told me it would.’
‘I remember.’
‘I know you are lonely, Jones, I know what you are, I know what you want.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Gandell,’ he said, and she felt his lips about her neck. ‘I’m so glad you’re not leaving here, leaving me.’
And she sensed something helpless, even derelict, about the man beside her.
‘Go to sleep.’
‘Yes, Mrs Gandell,’ and he turned over, and stretched, and lay quite still.
‘What a strange, strange mixture he is,’ she thought.
He suddenly mumbled something but it was quite incomprehensible to her.
‘Poor Jones. Perhaps it was a mercy, Jones, that you never knew who your father was.’
‘Perhaps, Mrs Gandell,’ Jones said, ‘perhaps,’ and fell asleep.
She lay there, listening to the first gentle snores. She heard the clock strike two, the rain beat suddenly against the window. It was still February.
7
The bridge leading to the sea was quite deserted, and in the gathering dust of the evening nobody had noticed the man stood at the northern end of it, leaning on the rail, huddled in his overcoat, leaning heavily as from some quite recent exhaustion. And as he stood there he was aware that the discipline of his days, the very simplicity of his life, mocked him. He was aware that he had walked out of the silent house, but could not remember how long he had remained huddled over his desk, a sheet of paper crushed in his hands. He had come out to walk, to find a peaceful spot, to make a decision, and he could not. He thought again of the words on the paper, he read them, he felt them.
‘Dear Miss Vaughan, there was once a woman that was careless in her years, and heeded not the words spoken unto her, and after a while she became sorely troubled by this, for in her country no vintage fell. Thus, a gathering never arrived to raise her up, and the land in her country came up with nought save briars and thorns.’
And he summoned the words in defence of his feelings. ‘I harm none.’
‘It is my life, my life.’
He turned his head to look south, and turned it again to look north. He was glad that he was alone. ‘Should I – go away?’
And in a moment life was a darkness, chained to the ground. He defended and he doubted.
‘I could marry her, we could be happy. Why not?’ But Margiad was suddenly close again, the self-appointed lifebelt, the final succour.
‘She said that they opened my letters to her at the hotel, said they read them, and laughed at them.’
He imagined a hand on the Jones throat, pressing hard.
‘What a place for her to live in.’
He knew that room, and the stairs to it; dream room, dream stairs. He thought of the Gandell woman, he loathed the Gandell woman, felt Jones’s breath in his ear, heard the words. ‘She draws pennies from stones.’
‘I wish .…’
He walked slowly along the bridge, and when he came to the other end, stopped. The morning had returned to him, the waves of it, and suddenly he saw both women, struggling for a place beside him.
‘I am lonely.’
Then he turned and made his way back to the house. Would she be there? Wouldn’t she? He remembered the words of anger that had hit the ceiling. ‘I am going,’ Margiad said, and he heard the slam of the door, and then the silence.
Had she really gone? Deserted him. Not a soul passed him by, and he was glad of that. And there was Ty Newdd, and he thought of the study that was once peaceful, as he thought of the bridge he had just left, where of an evening his sister and he would sometimes stand and look out to the sea, watching the dying light.
The front door lay open just as he had left it, and now he longed to be in, dreading to be in.
‘She wouldn’t leave me. She couldn’t.’ He loved her, she was his sister, she was. ‘She can’t.’
He stepped into the hall and closed the door, removed hat and coat, glanced anxiously up the stairs, listening, wondering.
‘Margiad! Are you there, sister?’
There was no answer. When he opened the sitting-room door the sight of the still bright fire was as welcoming arms to him. He crouched in front of it, warming hands that were blue and knotted with cold. He listened again, hoped again, and he pressed out the words. ‘Are you there, Margiad?’
The silence un-nerved him. ‘She has gone.’
He went upstairs, opened bedroom doors into empty rooms, then came down again. He sat down in his chair, made to pick up his pipe and light it, then suddenly exclaimed, ‘No, of course not.’
He leaned to the fire again, rubbing his hands; there had been a kind of nakedness in the darkness outside that he was now glad to shed. He got up and opened the door, and called up the stairs. ‘Margiad! Are you there, sister?’
There was no reply and he shut the door. Staring vacantly about the room he suddenly noticed that the window was closed, and went to open it. He had not drawn the curtains and the light from the room streamed down the garden. Something made him stand there, made him look out. And then he saw her, and his relief overwhelmed him. He opened the window and put his head out, wanting to cry, ‘Margiad! Why there you are, you’re still here. Thank God,’ but the words remained locked on his tongue. He looked bewildered at this sight of her, her head turned away from the house, as though at this moment she was asking herself a question, still, in still air. His heart leapt, and he called out, ‘Margiad! What on earth are you doing there?’
And then he went out to her, and took her hand and pressed it. ‘Margiad.’
She did not answer, she did not look at him, and the sound of his voice roused in her only a feeling of loathing and disgust.
‘You’ll catch your death of cold standing there, sister. Come along now. My God,’ and he caught her in a fierce embrace. ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he said.
There was no response, and she had not moved. In his gentlest voice he said, ‘Do come along, Margiad, do come into the house,’ and he led her back up the path, and they paused for a moment on the step. ‘I really thought you’d deserted me.’
He took refuge behind the words that were normal. ‘Come along, I went for a walk myself, just got back.’
She would not look at him, and then he realised she had freed her hand from his own. They went inside, stood in the hall, faced each other in a confusing silence. He led her into the sitting-room. ‘There,’ he said, ‘there, Margiad.’
He brought her to the fire, made her comfortable, and she sat stiffly, awkwardly, as though this house and this room and this chair were strange to her. He leaned over her. ‘How long have you been standing out there, sister?’
She turned her head to the fire, and said quietly, ‘I didn’t notice.’
‘Could have caught your death of cold out there, Margiad.’
He offered a smile, saying, ‘I’ll go and make a pot of tea.’
‘Don’t bother.’
‘I want to,’ he said.
She remained silent, and he went off to the kitchen. When later he returned with two cups, and handed her one, she shook her head, and he took it back to the kitchen again. When she looked at him she knew that he was looking, not at her, but through the open window of his own relief. And here he was, back again, sitting opposite her, casually stirring his tea, as though nothing in the world had ever happened, no single blow from anywhere against the peace of the day. His very calmness disturbed her, and once he even essayed a smile. But suppose she had not come back. Suppose she had gone off to Hengoed, and stayed there. Shyly, tentatively, he looked at her, and said in a low voice, ‘Margiad! Margiad!’ but it only prompted her to immediate action, and she picked up her work basket, and began rummaging through its contents.
‘You really - - - are - - - angry, sister,’ he said. The needles began to click, he watched the fingers that were lively, grow livelier still.
‘How very calm she is,’ he thought, and after a while, the silence angered him; it seemed to hold in it both teeth and gall.
‘Margiad!’
She ignored him. He simply was not there. She heard his cup sound on the hearth, heard the match struck, and felt the room fill with the shag smell.
‘I shall go to my study,’ Mervyn said, not going, not wanting to, dreading a move, as he sat, as he watched the busy, but now infuriating fingers, that seemed to spell an indifference across the whole room. He contemplated upon the stiffness with which she sat, and the downcast head. His voice seemed strangulated as he asked, ‘Are you never going to say anything to me, sister.’ And again waited, again hoped. ‘Shall I say it for you?’ She turned her head away, she would not answer. And then he was stood over her. ‘I am suddenly a man, and you call it a sin.’
The moment she looked at him he lowered his eyes.
‘Where do you go at night?’ she asked.
‘Where do I go at night? I go out for a walk.’
‘Walk?’
‘Walk,’ he said, ‘I go for a walk, and I think about my life.’
‘What about your life?’ and he felt the harshness in the words.
He leaned even closer, and heaved it out, angrily, passionately, ‘It’s empty.’
‘It won’t stop you from becoming a fool,’ she said, ‘and nobody from laughing.’
‘I don’t - - - care.’
She dropped the knitting, spat it in his face. ‘I do.’
She felt his fingers on her knees, felt them pressing down.
‘Your respectability turns good intention into slime,’ he said. There was a long silence, and they stared each other out.
‘Mervyn Thomas, I will never forgive you for that. Never.’
‘Then don’t,’ he shouted in her face, ‘Don’t,’ and rushed back to his chair and huddled in it, closing his eyes, refusing to listen, refusing to look, heard her returning her things to the work basket. When the heavy sigh came his shoulders slumped; the moment had brought its cringe. He heard her get up and cross the room, heard her fiddling with the window catch.
‘I stood out there,’ she said, ‘thinking of how peaceful and good our life once was. It is a great pity, Mervyn, a great pity.’
He spoke in such a low voice that she had to strain her ears for the words, as he said with a complete calm, ‘I would marry Miss Vaughan tomorrow, Margiad. Is that a crime?’
‘She is married.’
He gave a violent jerk in the chair. ‘Is married?’
‘Is married,’ Margiad said.
‘To who?’
‘To herself. She loves herself.’
‘What on earth are you talking about, sister?’ and she knew he was right behind her. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Ask Mr Blair,’ she said.
‘Mr Blair?’
‘Mr Blair,’ she said. ‘I saw him this morning.’
‘You - - you - - you seem to have been seeing everyone on my behalf.’
‘I was having a cup of coffee in a cafe, and he was there. That’s all.’
He turned her violently round. ‘You’re enjoying this,’ he said. ‘What right have you to interfere with my life?’
‘I have to think of my own,’ she said.
She broke free of him. ‘Leave me alone. I am going to my room,’ and she pushed him away and hurried to the door. He followed her out, followed her up the stairs. There was something he wanted to say, and he did not say it, something he wanted to do, and he did not do it. He opened the bedroom door for her, went in behind her. She had gone quite pale, her shoulders heaved, she sat heavily on the bed. He sat beside her.
‘Margiad!’
‘Go away,’ she said, and he went away.
The study door slammed, the house was silent again. Slowly she got up and walked to her dressing-table, and sat down in front of the mirror, staring into this for a long time, and seeing nought save this brother that had changed so violently, heard the laughter that he did not hear. ‘Poor Mervyn. Poor brother.’
She took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. When she opened them again the man in the mirror had vanished, and she saw only the days and places that had once been their peace. Why had they ever come to the town, and suddenly she was hating it, and everything in it. ‘If he had stayed at Hengoed he would be deacon now.’ She thought of Vaughan, she hated Vaughan. ‘Living in the clouds, like she is.’ If only they could both get up and go away, now, this very minute. Yes, if only they could. Mervyn was really a good man at heart. Her thoughts ran riot. He was so obsessed with this woman, so secret, hiding away from others. Hiding from what? And she thought of Tenby and her father over a cliff. When she thought of the morning she covered her face with her hands, and she saw the world raw behind her brother’s broad back. She went to the door and called loudly, ‘Mervyn!’
