Dusty Answer

by Rosamond Lehmann

  ‘Why don’t you,’ said Martin, ‘play nice simple wholesome things that we can have on the brain and hum and whistle all day?’

  ‘I’m not simple and wholesome enough to do them justice. I leave them to your masterly right index, Martin.’

  ‘Martin’s the world’s finest one-finger man, aren’t you?’ from Mariella, teasing, affectionate.

  ‘Where’s Roddy?’

  ‘He went off alone in the canoe.’

  ‘How romantic,’ said Mariella.

  There was a groan.

  ‘Mariella, why will you –’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Quack,’ said Julian. ‘You must think before you speak.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Good night,’ she said. ‘I’m going to bed. When you come upstairs mind and be quiet past the nursery. Remember it’s not your nursery but Peter’s now. Nannie’ll warm your jacket if you wake him again, Martin.’

  Her cigarette end hit the water a few inches from Judith. Her whitish form grew dim and was gone.

  ‘What a night!’ said Julian, after a silence. The moon is a most theatrical designer.’

  The two strolled on, – none too soon, for the water was glacial to her cramped body, her fingers were rigid upon the willow-roots, and her teeth were rattling in her head.

  She heard from Martin:

  ‘When I was in Paris with Roddy –’

  And then after a long pause, Julian’s voice suddenly raised: ‘But what if you bored yourself … day after day … to myself: Christ! You bloody bore …’

  The voices sank into confusion and ceased; but in the ensuing silence they seemed to follow her and repeat themselves, charged with the portentous significance of all overheard fragments of speech; so that she felt herself guiltily possessed of the secrets of their hearts.

  The moon shone full on the garden bank when she lifted herself out, exhausted, and lay down on the grass.

  Around her the shadows stood still. Her body in the moonlight was transfigured into lines of such mysterious purity that it seemed composed less of flesh than of light. She thought: “Even if they had seen me they wouldn’t have thought me real.” … Martin would have been astonished if not shocked; he would have turned politely away, but Julian would have appraised her curves, critically and with interest. And Roddy, – Roddy was so long ago he was incalculable. But if that someone dark and curious, with Roddy’s face, cherished for years in the part of you which perceived without eyes and knew without reason, – if he had seen, he would have watched closely, and then withdrawn himself from the seduction, from the inconvenience of his own pang; and watched from afar, in silence.

  ‘Oh Roddy, when will you come and reveal yourself?’

  The swim home had warmed her, but now, in spite of excited pulses, she felt the cold beginning to strike deeply. She got up and stood still a moment: soon she must hide her silver-white body in the cloak, and then it would cease to be a miracle.

  As she stooped for the garment, she heard the long soft ripple and splash of a paddle; a canoe stole into view, floating down full in the middle of the stream. She gathered her dark cape round her and stepped back into the shadows, and as she watched the solitary figure in the stern she forgot to breathe.

  ‘Turn! Oh turn!’ she sent after him silently.

  But if he did she would dissolve, be swallowed up …

  He did not turn his head; and she watched him go on, past the next-door garden and still onward; – going on all night perhaps …

  If only he had seen her he would have beckoned to her.

  ‘Judith, come with me.’

  ‘I will.’

  And all night they would have floated on together.

  Someday it would happen: it must. She had always known that the play of Roddy must be written and that she must act in it to the end – the happy end.

  ‘Roddy, I am going to love you.’

  The diminishing, unresponsive blot which was he passed out of sight.

  Half way back to the house she stopped suddenly, overcome with bewilderment; for that had been Roddy’s self, not his shadow made by the imagination. The solitudes of the darkness now held their very forms, were populated with their voices where for so long only imagined shapes had hovered in the emptiness … They had slipped back in that lucid, credulous life between waking and sleep out of which you start to ponder whether the dream was after all reality – or whether reality be nothing but a dream.

  2

  Next day, with unreal ease, she met Mariella in the village. She came out of the chemist’s shop, and they were face to face. There she was, tall and erect, with her dazed green-blue crystal eyes looking without shadow or stain upon the world from between dark lashes; her eyes, that knew neither good nor evil, – the icy eyes of an angel or a devil. Under her black hat her short hair curled outwards, her pale smooth face preserved its childish oval, her lips just closed in their soft faint-coloured bow. The mask was still there, more exquisite than of old; yet when she smiled in greeting, something strange looked out for a moment, as if her face in one of its rare breakings-up had been a little wounded, and still retained the slightest, disturbed expression.

  She seemed pleased.

  ‘Judith! … isn’t it?’

  ‘Mariella!’

  ‘Then you are still here. We wondered.’

  ‘Yes. Still here.’

  She seemed at a loss for what to say, and looked away, shy and ill at ease, her eyes glancing about, trying to hide.

  ‘We – we were wondering about you and we thought you must be away. We remembered you were brainy and Julian said you told him you were going to college or somewhere, so we thought p’raps that’s where you were. We thought you must be dreadfully frightening and learned by now. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, no!’

  What reply was possible to such silliness?

  ‘You were always doing lessons,’ she said in a puzzled voice. Then with a smile: ‘Do you remember Miss Pim?’

  ‘Yes. Her false teeth.’

  ‘Her smell.’ She wrinkled her small nose. ‘I used to sit and get whiffs of her, and think of tortures for her. No wonder I was backward.’ She gave her little giggle and added nervously again: ‘Look here, when will you come and see us? We’d like it. This afternoon?’

  ‘Oh Mariella, I’d love to.’

  ‘They’re all there. D’you remember everyone? Julian was demobilized a little while ago. He’s going back to Oxford in the autumn.’

  ‘And Martin and Roddy?’

  ‘Yes, they’re both there. Roddy’s just back from Paris. He’s supposed to be studying drawing there. Martin ought to be at Cambridge, but he’s had appendicitis rather badly so he’s missing the term.’

  ‘Are you glad to be back here?’

  ‘Oh yes, we all like it awfully. And it seems to suit the infant.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  There was a pause. She had thrown off her last remark with careless haste, defying you not to know about the infant; and her eyes had escaped again, as if in dread. In the pause the gulf of things never to be said yawned for a moment beneath their feet; and it was clear that Mariella at least would never breathe her husband’s name.

  ‘I – I was just buying some things for him,’ she said. ‘Some things Nanny wanted. But you can’t get much here.’ … Her voice trailed off nervously. Then:

  ‘This afternoon,’ she said. ‘Good-bye till then. Don’t come too early because the boys are always dreadfully lazy after lunch.’

  She smiled and went on.

  3

  At five o’clock Judith surprised the parlourmaid by taking off her hat in the hall, wiped her perspiring hands and announced herself.

  At the threshold of the sitting room she paused and gasped. The room, magnified by fear, seemed full of giants in
grey flannels. Mariella detached herself from a vast crowd and floated towards her.

  ‘Hullo!’ she said. ‘Do you want tea? I forgot about it. We never have tea. I needn’t introduce, need I? You know everyone.’ She put a light hand for a moment on Judith’s arm, and the room began to sink and settle; but the faces of the boys-next-door were nothing but a blur before her eyes as she shook hands.

  ‘D’you remember which is which?’ said Mariella.

  Now she would have to look up and answer, control this trembling, arrest this devouring blush.

  ‘Of course I do.’

  She lifted her eyes, and saw them standing before her, smiling a trifle self-consciously. That gave her courage to smile back.

  ‘You’re Martin – you’re Roddy – you’re –’ she hesitated. Julian stood aloof, looking unyouthful and haughty. She finished lamely – ‘Mr F-Fyfe.’

  There was a roar of laughter, a chorus of teasing voices to which, plunged once more in a welter of blushes and confusion, she could pay no heed.

  ‘I thought you mightn’t like – might think me – I didn’t know if – you looked as if you –’ she stammered.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sure, that you should feel the need of any such formality,’ said Julian stiffly. He too was blushing.

  ‘It was only his shyness,’ mocked a voice.

  Judith thought: ‘After all, he was always the friendly one.’ That he too should be shy restored her self-confidence, and she said looking full at him and smiling:

  ‘I’m sorry. Julian then.’

  ‘That’s better,’ he said, still stiffly; but he smiled.

  Their faces had become clear to her now; but there was still a point of trouble and strangeness in the room, – the queer-looking sallow young man Roddy. Her eyes fluttered over him and went on to Martin. He smiled at her, and she took a step nearer to him.

  ‘Are you at Cambridge?’ she said.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘That’s where I’m going.’

  ‘Are you really?’

  ‘For what purpose?’ said Roddy softly.

  ‘Well, I want to learn everything about literature – English literature anyway, from the very beginning,’ she said earnestly.

  ‘That’s precisely what Martin’s aiming at. Isn’t it, Martin, you bookworm?’

  ‘I don’t get on much,’ said Martin with a swift confiding smile. ‘I’m such an idle devil. And so slow.’

  She pondered.

  ‘I don’t think I’m particularly clever,’ she said. ‘Do you suppose most girls who go to College are?’

  ‘Martin and I think they must be,’ said Roddy, twinkling. They look it, I will say.’

  ‘I saw some when I went for my examination. They were very plain.’ There was laughter; and she added in strict fairness: ‘There were two pretty ones, – two or three.’

  ‘Then you intend to become a young woman with really intellectual interests?’ said Roddy.

  ‘Well, yes. I think so.’

  ‘That’s rather serious.’

  She became suddenly aware that they were all laughing at her and stopped, overcome with shame and dismay.

  ‘Never mind.’ Roddy was twinkling at her with irresistible gaiety, and his voice was full of caressing inflections. ‘Martin will be delighted to see you. But don’t go to Newnham or Girton. Awful places – Martin is terrified of them. Go to Trinity. He’ll chaperone you.’

  ‘Oh give over, Roddy,’ said Martin, indulgently smiling. ‘You’re too funny.’

  ‘I hope your appendicitis is better?’ asked Judith politely.

  ‘Much better, thank you.’ He made a little bow.

  Nobody had anything more to say. They were not very good hosts. They stood around, making no effort, idly fingering and dropping the tags of conversation she offered them, as if she were the hostess and they most difficult guests. As in the old days, they formed their oppressive self-sufficient circle of blood-intimacy with its core of indifference if not hostility to the stranger. Charlie was dead, but now when they were all gathered together she felt him weighing, drawing them further aloof; and she wished miserably that she had not come.

  They were all casually engaged by themselves. Roddy was cleaning his pipe, Martin and Mariella playing with a spaniel puppy. It floundered on to Martin’s lap and a moment after:

  ‘Oh again!’ came Mariella’s clear little pipe. What an uncontrolled chap he is! I’m sorry, Martin.’

  ‘It’ll dry,! said Martin equably surveying his trousers. ‘It’s nothing.’

  Julian had sat down to the piano and was strumming pianissimo. Roddy took up the tune and whistled it.

  ‘What shall we do?’ said Mariella. She went on rolling the puppy.

  Julian turned round in his playing and looked at Judith. Gratefully she went over and stood beside him. By the piano, watching Julian’s hands, she was isolated with him and need not be afraid.

  ‘Go on playing. Something of your own.’

  He shook his head and said:

  ‘Oh, that’s all gone.’

  What lines, what harshness the war had given his always furrowed face!

  ‘But it’ll come back.’

  ‘No. It was a feeble spark; and the God of battle has seen fit to snuff it. The war made some chaps poets – of sorts; but I never heard of it making anyone a musician.’

  ‘Well, you can still play.’

  ‘Oh, I strum. I strum.’ He sounded weary and disgusted. Was he saying to himself: ‘Christ! You bloody bore?’

  ‘I’d always feel –’ she struggled ‘– compensated if I could strum as you do. Ever since I was little I’ve envied you to distraction.’

  He cheered up a little and smiled, looking interested in the old way.

  ‘Play what you were playing last night.’

  ‘How do you know what I was playing last night?’

  ‘I was on the river and I heard you.’

  ‘Did you?’ He was flattered. It touched his imagination to think of himself playing out into the night to invisible listeners.

  ‘All alone, were you?’ He looked her over with alert interest.

  ‘Oh yes. I said to myself: that must be Mr Fyfe playing.’

  He laughed.

  ‘You know, you were monstrous.’

  ‘Not at all. It was you. You defied me to pretend I’d ever known you.’

  ‘Nonsense. I was looking forward to you. Last time was – When? Centuries ago.’

  ‘Yes. That skating time.’

  ‘Lord yes. Another world.’

  Abruptly he stopped his soft playing; and Charlie came pressing upon them, making himself remembered above all else on that day.

  ‘Why stuff indoors?’ said Mariella. ‘Come out, Judith.’

  She followed Mariella almost light-heartedly. After all, she was the sort of girl who could talk to people, even amuse them. She had proved it with Julian; and success with the others might reasonably be expected to follow.

  A child was playing on a rug under the cedar tree, and his nurse sat sewing beside him. Judith recognized her as a figure out of the old days, a dragon called Pinkie, Mariella’s nurse who had become her maid. Wrinkled, stern, with the fresh cheeks and clear innocent expression of an old nurse, she sat guarding Mariella’s son.

  ‘May I please take him, Pinkie?’ said Mariella’s. ‘Pinkie won’t let me touch him as a rule.’

  ‘You’re so careless,’ she said severely; then recognized Judith and beamed.

  Mariella lifted the child easily and carried him under one arm to where the group of young men had formed by the river’s edge.

  Judith watched him with a painful interest and wonder. Here in front of her was Charlie’s child: she must believe it.

  He was a tall child of slight build and oddly mature looks for his t
wo years. He had frail-looking temples and a neck far too slender, it seemed, to support the large head covered with a shock of fine straight brown hair, he had Mariella’s dark lashes framing brilliant deep-set yes, and nothing else of his parents save his pallor and a certain fine-boned distinction which no Fyfe could lack.

  The circle was a barren thing; it could not stretch to endow new life. Mariella’s child was outside and irrelevant. Sometimes a cousin put out a large hand to steady him, or whistled to him or made a grimace, squeaked his teddy-bear or shouted at him encouragingly when he fell down. They looked at him with tolerant amused faces like big dogs, mildly gratified when he paused, steadying himself for a moment with a hand on their knees; but they soon forgot about him. Julian alone appeared to have an interest in him: he watched him; and Mariella herself now and then for a moment watched Julian watching him.

  It was absurd, incongruous, incredible that this should belong to Mariella, should have been begotten by Charlie, carried in her body for nine months, as any woman carries her child, born of her in the ordinary way with agony and joy, growing up to love and be loved by her, and to call her mother.

  But anybody could have a child; even mysterious childish widows like Mariella, tragic dead young husbands like Charlie; the simple proof was there before her eyes. Yet Mariella was such a childless person by nature. It was as if her body had played a trick on her and conceived; but to the creature it had brought forth her unmaternal spirit bore no relationship. So it seemed; but you could never tell with Mariella.

  ‘Come here,’ said Judith, and held out her hand.

  He stared, then edged away nervously.

  ‘Do you like children?’ asked Mariella politely.

  ‘I love them,’ said Judith, and then blushed, detecting a fatuous fervour in her voice. But, thank heaven, Roddy had strolled away with Martin and was out of hearing.

  ‘Do you?’ Mariella glanced at her and seemed to find nothing more to say. She pulled the puppy to her.

  ‘Good chap, go and play with Peter. Go on.’

  ‘Then Peter is his name.’