The Girl in a Swing

by Richard Adams

I could not overcome my confusion by any rational

  considerations, such as the short time for which she was

  to be away, her availability on the telephone and the several

  necessary, even pleasant, things that needed doing, both at

  home and at work. Time did not seem measurable in the

  normal way. An hour was not an hour; a night was not a

  night. Though I tried to get on with this and that - gardening,

  reading, planning next week's business - I could settle

  to nothing, and tasks that I would ordinarily have expected

  to finish quickly and easily now seemed chores stretching

  away like asphalt roads in the rain. I had heard it said that

  some people cannot enjoy retirement and die from a sense

  of sheer pointlessness and deprivation of everything they

  feel worth-while. Now I understood why. Without Kathe

  I was at the loosest of ends.

  There are certain writers, composers and painters whose

  work, without necessarily being among the most profound,

  nevertheless possesses very strong individual style, recognizable

  instantly and capable, while one is under its influence,

  of permeating one's life by seeming to give to everything

  an arbitrary direction in the light of a distinctive personal

  vision. This is often called 'creating a world', but it has always

  seemed to me that the effect is due less to sheer stylistic

  creation than to selection and emphasis. Some aspects of

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  reality are omitted or played down, while others are given

  more importance than we would accord to them if left to

  ourselves. Of the supreme artists, few have this compulsive

  kind of effect on me; the reason being, I suppose, that their

  very greatness embraces so much and excludes so little. Yet

  Chopin has it, and Tchekov, and they are great enough. Come

  down a rung and in certain cases it is overwhelming - Delius,

  Walter de la Mare, Rousseau le Douanier.

  Kathe possessed this quality. Delius had nothing on her.

  Her presence imparted a singular tendency, a characteristic

  tone to everything round her, so that no one could fail to feel

  and be affected by it. Her absence, similarly, was felt by

  others as well as myself. 'Don't rightly seem the same without

  Mrs Desland, do it?' remarked Deirdre on Wednesday

  morning. Naturally, however, I, who had now been almost

  continuously in her company for five weeks and was entirely

  addicted, was the most susceptible: yet even so I was unprepared

  for my own absurd and involuntary sense of deprivation.

  I felt like the pinned-down Federal sniper in

  Ambrose Bierce's story, who went from sanity to madness

  in twenty-two minutes spent beyond the bounds of ordinary

  time.

  Another phenomenon which I experienced was that of

  remembering things I did not know and of which I had never

  consciously been aware. Thus, I found myself recalling a tiny

  fleck of black in the skin of Kathe's cheek, below her left

  eye. In recollection I could see it clearly, though as far as I

  could recall I had never consciously observed it. Nor had I,

  to my knowledge, ever noticed a particular way she had of

  moving her wrist when picking up a fairly heavy object - the

  portable wireless, say, or a full saucepan. While I had been

  with her these things had remained unremarked. Now, like

  the commonplace, taken-for-granted sights and sounds of

  home to a boy sent to boarding-school, they recurred with

  the greatest poignancy.

  Her remembered image drowned rational thought beneath

  a flood of emotional impulses and pulled the rug out from

  under any normal ability to distinguish between what was

  and was not practical and sensible. One night I began think257

  ing, 'Oh, hell, anything's better than this! I'll get the car out

  and drive down to Bristol.' And I was already out of bed and

  putting on my shirt before I realized the foolishness of the

  notion. Til ring her up again.' But out on the landing I

  grasped, not that it was two in the morning (I knew that

  already), but the absurdity of ringing up at two in the

  morning. They say that often the thought-processes of madmen

  are entirely logical except for being based on some

  ludicrous premise. Admit the premise and all the rest makes

  sense. My premise, induced by longing, was that time, since

  it was not passing, was not measurable either by the clock

  or the sun.

  I had been expecting her to return on Thursday, but about

  ten that morning she telephoned me at the shop to say that

  she would be away another day. She was full of warmth and

  affection, begging me not to be upset and assuring me two

  or three times over that she was missing me even more than

  I could be missing her. Yes, the dance had been quite fun

  but really rather dull without me, though Flick and Bill had

  made sure that she had as nice a time as possible. Everyone,

  in fact, had been very kind. She thought she was getting on

  well with everybody but couldn't wait to be back at Bull

  Banks. Would I ring early that evening, as they were all going

  out to dinner at Colonel Kingsford's?

  I'm not sure how the idea came into my mind, but before

  she rang off I suggested that as a sort of homecoming it

  might be nice to invite a few friends round for drinks on

  Saturday morning. She fell in with this at once, and that

  afternoon I telephoned eight or nine people - Freda and

  Tony, the Stannards, Lady Alice and one or two more. Everyone

  accepted, and I found myself remembering what Flick

  had said - 'No one will be able to forget her'.

  At least, I thought, checking the stock of drink in the

  house and making a list of what I needed to buy would keep

  me sensibly occupied for twenty minutes that evening. I

  might even be able to spin it out to three-quarters of an

  hour. Kathe would see to the olives and cheese straws and

  things when she got back to-morrow. Knowing her, there'd

  be a lot more provided than olives and cheese straws. We

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  should be spending too much again. Never mind. She'd be

  home.

  That night was hotter than ever, and there was no moon.

  There is nothing that induces disturbing dreams like being

  too warm in bed. I woke twice, each time troubled, not by a

  nightmare but by the vague apprehension, during sleep, of

  the approach of some constantly-changing, minatory presence.

  Then, dropping off once more, I entered upon a tangled

  dream in which it was I myself who had become protean now

  a child, now a youth and again, my present age. I was

  paddling in the sea, a little boy suddenly terrified by a great

  fish that emerged to seize and drag me down. I was an unprepared

  student half-mad with anxiety as the day of the

  exam, drew nearer. The clown at the circus, grinning, was

  blowing up a balloon to burst in his own face, while I, in the

  front row, buried mine in my hands. I was thrusting and

  thrusting in the throes of love, knowing that the orgasm
>
  I could not restrain would bring about the death of Kathe.

  I woke in the dark, and as I realized that it was all a dream,

  found myself recalling - in that moment it seemed intensely

  sad - that the full moon by which we had made love at the

  open window had waned and gone. I switched on the light

  and had just picked up Malory from the bedside table when

  I became aware of a faint, intermittent noise, somewhere

  outside the room but inside the house, as it seemed. I sat up

  and listened. It was the sound of water.

  Oh, damn! I thought. Is it only the washer gone on a tap,

  or could it be a burst pipe or the tank in the roof? I listened

  more attentively, but for the life of me couldn't tell whether

  it was trifling or serious. At one moment it sounded like

  nothing more than dripping, at the next like a steady trickling

  and again, like something worse - a kind of gushing

  flow. There was no ignoring it: something or other was

  wrong and I should have to get up and see what it was.

  Still confused from the dream, I went out on the landing.

  I felt as though I had not slept at all - heavy-eyed, reluctant,

  assailed by everything outside myself. The sound was plainly

  audible now, but I could neither identify nor locate it. I

  stumbled along to the bathroom. The harsh electric light,

  259

  as I switched it on, started a stabbing, neuralgic pain behind

  one of my eyes. There was nothing amiss that I could see.

  Pressing a hand over my eye, I came back to the landing

  and listened again.

  I felt sure, now, that the noise was above me - a fast

  drip-drip-drip, muted by coming from behind something like

  a ceiling or a door. It must be up in the roof. I went along to

  the far end of the house and lurched up the uncarpeted stairs

  leading to the attic and the cold tank. The attic door had no

  catch, being fastened only by a stiff bolt, and as I pulled this

  back I cut my index finger on the pointed corner of the

  socket. I groped for the switch and pressed it, but no light

  followed. The bulb must have gone. I listened for several

  seconds, but could hear no sound from the darkness inside.

  As I remained standing there the noise came up at me

  from below - from the ground floor. It sounded worse than

  ever; as though a full sink were spilling over on a floor already

  covered in water. Without bothering to shut the attic

  door I plunged down again, sucking my bleeding finger, to

  the first-floor landing and along to the head of the stairs.

  Here there was a switch controlling the light in the hall, and

  no sooner had I turned it on than I thought I could see a

  great, dark patch on the carpet by the kitchen door. But

  when I got down there I found it was only a trick of the

  light, though I had never noticed anything of the sort before.

  The kitchen was dry as a bone; so were the lower lavatory

  and the sink in the little annexe where my mother used to do

  the flowers. At each door I opened there was silence, but

  then, as I stood still in perplexity, I would hear dripping,

  trickling, splashing from elsewhere.

  The neuralgia was now as bad as it could well be - a

  stabbing pain with every beat of the pulse - and I was moreor-less

  forced to sit down and cover the eye with one hand.

  After a little the pain diminished, my senses came up through

  it and my head began to feel clearer. Standing up once more,

  I listened, but could not hear a sound throughout the whole

  empty house.

  I stood still, trying to think. Certainly I had heard those

  noises and been in no doubt that they were real. Now I

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  could no longer hear them. If this was hallucination, it was

  frightening less in itself than because of what it meant that

  apparently I could not distinguish between what was

  real and what was not. It was the middle of the night and I

  was alone in the house. Was I suffering from some sort of

  mental illness? Ought I to ring up the doctor? But what

  could I say? How did they deal with such cases? Would he

  send me to hospital, or what? No work, no money. Besides,

  these things tended to get around and did you no good.

  The gurgling and splashing sounds began again - muffled,

  vague, somewhere and nowhere - and I began to sob with

  fear and nervous tension. If this sounds weak and unmanly,

  all I can say is that someone else, woken from bad dreams,

  can try searching an empty house alone at night, with

  agonizing neuralgia and the growing belief that he is in the

  grip of a delusion. There was only one thing to do - I

  realized that now. I must ring them up at Bristol, apologize,

  try to explain myself and ask for advice and reassurance.

  Rather unsteadily, I went along the hall to the telephone, the

  noise of the water coming and going in my very ears, as

  though I were swimming.

  If only Kathe were here, I wondered in my misery, would

  she be able to hear it too? If someone else - anyone else at

  all - could hear it, then there must be some rational explanation,

  even though the house itself might be as dry as Cottington's

  Hill. But she's not here! I said to myself. She's not

  here! 0 God, she's not here! 'She's not here!' I shouted

  hysterically. 'She's not here! She's not here!'

  Suddenly the fear seemed to leave me and I felt I could

  cope. The attack, or whatever it was, had passed off - just as

  asthma does, they say. The water noises had ceased and I

  felt intuitively that they would not return - or not until next

  time; if there was a next time, which heaven forbid. My head

  was clear. I could hear a wren trilling in the garden. It

  must be growing light. Full of an exhausted but most cornforting

  sense of reality restored, I went back to bed and slept

  until quarter past eight.

  I was making some tea in a favourite earthenware pot, my

  dressing-gown, the kitchen and a better frame of mind, when

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  I heard the letter-box clatter. Letters were not all that

  frequent at Bull Banks, since most of my post, apart from

  rate demands, electricity bills and so on, was usually addressed

  to the shop. I went into the hall and saw in the box

  an envelope with my mother's hand-writing. 'That's odd,'

  I thought. 'What's she writing for? Why not telephone?'

  Could it perhaps be something about Kathe - something nice

  and laudatory? Perhaps she'd written specially to say what

  a nice girl she was? I took it back to the kitchen, poured out

  a cup of tea and opened the envelope.

  Thursday 27th June

  My dearest Alan,

  I know you'll be wondering why I've written, so I'll tell you at

  once that it isn't bad news. I hope you'll agree with me, dear, that

  it's just the opposite.

  But before I come to it, I must tell you how much I like your

  Kathe - we all do. I really believe Flick's quite jealous - Bill

  thinks she's absolutely wonderful, and we're all so very happy for

  you! I knew,
of course, that she'd be beautiful and charming, because

  Flick was full of it when she came back a fortnight ago, but

  'behold, the half was not told me', as Daddy used to say. I will

  admit I was wondering, apart from that, whether you were getting

  properly fed and looked after, but I needn't have worried,

  need I? Kathe has done some cooking since she arrived on Tuesday,

  and I needn't say more than that. She says I'm to tell you that

  this time she didn't put one egg too many in the chocolate mousse,

  so it got properly stiff. She said you'd understand. If that's her

  biggest cooking disaster so far, I'm sure you must be putting on

  weight!

  But now I must tell you my news, and if it's a shock I hope

  it will be a nice one. I am going to be married to Gerald Kingsford.

  When you meet him, which I hope will be soon, I'm sure

  you'll be just as happy about it as I am. He's such a fine man,

  Alan, and so much liked and respected by everyone who knows

  him.

  Things don't happen the same way twice - well, you know

  that - and of course there's no question of my ever forgetting

  dear Daddy and all our happy times together when there used to

  be four of us at Bull Banks. That's one thing and this is another

  thing. I know you'll understand.

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  Gerald and I have become devoted to each other since we first

  met not quite a month ago, and of course I feel terribly honoured

  and excited by the way things have turned out. I believe I feel just

  like you, dear - I'm doing this because I know it's right and

  more important than anything else, and other things must just

  come along behind and get themselves sorted out in due course.

  But now I'd better come down to earth and tell you a little bit

  more about Gerald and our plans.

  Gerald is sixty-two and was a lieutenant-colonel in the Green

  Howards. He's been married before and has two grown-up sons one

  in Canada now. His poor wife died about six years ago. Since

  he left the Army he has been farming down here. He's a great

  friend of Bill's family - that's how he and I met, of course. He's

  done well, partly because he's a good farmer and partly because

  he's so much liked and respected by everyone in the neighbourhood.

  In fact, he's just now in the process of moving to a bigger

  farm which he's bought. This means a lot of extra work - there

  are all sorts of things to be sorted out - he's selling his present

  farm too, of course - so we're going to be married in about six

  weeks' time, when he can 'bring me back to the new house', as

  he puts it! Can you see me as a farmer's wife, feeding the chickens

  in gum-boots? It's a lovely house - he took me over to see it the

  other day. All of two hundred years old.

  Well, I won't go into any more details for the moment, dear,

  but I do hope you'll be able to come down very soon and meet

  Gerald. When you've been able to take it all in, I'd like to hear

  that you feel happy about it. You'll always be - well, you know

  what I'm trying to say, don't you? - you'll always be my Alan,

  even though we share each other now with Ka'the and Gerald.

  Gerald's giving a little party tomorrow evening - Friday - just

  a few friends - when we're going to ANNOUNCE our engagement!

  All very correct and military! We've persuaded Kathe to stay

  for it. You won't mind, dear, will you? She'll be back with you

  on Saturday morning. I asked if she had any message to go in

  this letter and she said to tell you something about looking forward

  to Rome - but I can't remember exactly and now she's gone

  out with Flick and I must catch the post. Aren't I silly? Never

  mind, I'm sure it'll keep.

  Do wish me well, darling, won't you?

  Ever your loving

  Mummy

  263

  I read this three times, taking it in from all angles. If I

  hadn't, I reflected, been full fathom five in Kathe ever since

  my mother had first gone down to Bristol, no doubt those

  would not have been pearls that were my eyes and I should

  have seen it coming. The more I thought about it, the better

  it seemed. Of course, it was a bit of a shock - only natural

  to any son when his mother marries again - but nevertheless

  it appeared providential. She was clearly happy and there

  was no problem any more about where she would live (or

  what on) or who was to be mistress, of Bull Banks. This