Dusty Answer

by Rosamond Lehmann

  It was no good trying to expostulate, to bluff like that, with his dead face confronting her. He would not be taken in by any such lying gallantries. How did one combat people whose features never gave way by so much as a quiver? She leaned against the wooden fence and tried to fix her eyes upon the may-tree opposite. Very far, but clear, she heard her mother at the other end of the garden, calling her name: but that was another Judith.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood me,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I’ve misunderstood you. You see – this sort of thing has never happened to me before and I thought … when a person said … Why did you say … I didn’t know people said that without meaning it … I suppose we must mean different things by it. That’s what it is. Well …’ Her voice was terrible: a little panting whine.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  Probably that was true: he had forgotten he had ever said: ‘I love you.’ She could not remind him; for in any case he would not be affected. What were three little words? … And after all, she had probably more or less forced him to say them: she had wanted to hear them so much, she had driven him to say them. Yes, he had groaned, and quickly repeated them to keep her quiet, stop her mouth so that he could go on kissing her. She said:

  ‘But why, Roddy, why did you take me out … behave as you did … kiss me so – so … I don’t understand why you bothered … why you seemed …’

  He was silent. Oh God! If only he would wound and wound with clean thrusts of truth, instead of standing there mute, deaf.

  ‘Roddy, after all these years, these years we’ve known each other can’t you tell me the truth? We were good friends once, weren’t we?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Oh, I see! I see! And you could never feel like being – more than that.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I see! I see! And you could never feel like being – more than see. And you thought there had better be an end … because you were never going to love me: and I obviously – was it obviously? – was becoming more and more – foolish – and tiresome. So you thought – you’d say good-bye – like that – and then go away for good. Was that it!’

  He passed a hand across his forehead: his first gesture. Then he too was feeling, however slightly.

  ‘I thought that was what you wanted: what you were asking for,’ he said.

  ‘So you thought you’d oblige –’ No, no, not sarcasm. She waited a moment and added: ‘I see. You misunderstood me. I dare say it was quite natural. You thought I wanted what you wanted – just a little – a little passion – to round off a flirtation – and be done with it. Well …’

  The lane was so still that she could hear the dull beat of oars in passing boats on the other side of the fence. The evening had become very cold.

  She gave a little laugh and said:

  ‘I really am very sorry to make this fuss. It’s too laughable that I should – I! … I suppose you never dreamed I – wasn’t used to this sort of thing – from men?’

  ‘I thought you knew pretty well what you were about.’

  ‘And I didn’t! I didn’t! I was being deceived – like any … Oh, it’s so vulgar!’ She shut her eyes, laughing weakly. That’s why you didn’t make your meaning plainer, I suppose. You thought I was quite used to – that sort of thing – kissing – just for a lark. Just for a lark, Roddy – that was it, wasn’t it? And I got serious, and tried to – to let you in for more … I tried to catch you. Poor Roddy! But you’d never get let in, would you? You know your own mind. You’re cautious. You’ll see –,’ she waved her hand slightly, ‘I’m not dangerous. I’ll never bother you any more. And I’m very very sorry.’ She broke down with a gasp, but did not weep.

  ‘I’m sorry, Judith. I apologize. I –’ His voice had now the faintest trace of emotion.

  ‘Ok!’ She controlled herself. ‘Apologize! Have I accused you? This is just another damned muddle. I’m only trying to understand it.’

  ‘I really think I had better go,’ he said.

  ‘No!’ She put out a hand and clutched his arm in desperate protest. ‘Not yet, Roddy. Not for a moment. Can’t we – Oh God! I wish I’d never written that letter. Then there’d have been no need for all this … You’d have gone away and said nothing – and gradually I’d have understood. I should have seen it all in its proper light. Things would have somehow come right again, perhaps. And now I suppose they never can … Can they, Roddy, can they? Oh, if they could!’

  How he was hating this scene! It was a shame to prolong it. He swallowed hard and said, rather nervously:

  ‘Do you suppose you really meant – all you said in your letter?’

  It was her chance. She must say it was all nonsense, that letter, that it was written in a moment of madness; that she did not mean it now. Then they might somehow manage to laugh together and part friends. He was such a good laugher! She could go away and bury her disappointment; and next time they met, be to him what he wanted: a light flame of passion, blown out, relit again. He had given her the taste for his kisses. She would miss them, and desire them painfully. If she could act her part skilfully now, she need not be for ever without them.

  But it was no good: the thing would not be lied about.

  She nodded, gazing at him in utter despair. She went on nodding and nodding, asserting the truth in silence and with all her force, compelling him to believe it She saw him flush faintly beneath his sallow skin.

  ‘I’m very sorry then,’ he said, in his frozen voice.

  She cried out:

  ‘Oh Roddy! Did you never like me? Didn’t you even like me? All these years! It seemed as if you did … I couldn’t have grown to –like you so much if you hadn’t given me a little – a little return …’

  ‘Of course I liked you very much,’ he said. ‘I always thought you were extremely attractive.’

  ‘Attractive!’ She bowed her face in her hands. ‘Yes. I was attractive to you. And so … That you should have treated me so lightly, Roddy! Did I really, really deserve that?’

  He was silent.

  ‘If you’d warned me, Roddy … given me some hint. I was so romantic and idealistic about you – you’ve no idea … I thought you must think of me in the same sort of way I thought about you … Couldn’t you have warned me?’

  He said in a voice choked with exasperation:

  ‘I did try to shew you, I tell you. I should have thought I’d shewn you often enough. Didn’t I say I was never to be taken seriously?’

  She sighed and nodded her head slowly. She was beaten.

  ‘Yes. Yes you did. I wouldn’t be warned. I was such a fool. Oh it’s all my fault. A good sell for me.’

  ‘Well, I’d better go now,’ he said after a pause.

  He took a step or two and then turned back. She still leaned against the wall, and something in her attitude or expression seemed suddenly to move him. He lingered, hesitated. His face shewed a link trouble and confusion.

  ‘I suppose you’re all right?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I shall be quite all right.’

  ‘Please forget all about me.’

  ‘I shan’t forget about you. But I shall forget all this – if you will do the same. We will meet in the future, Roddy, won’t we? – just as usual, – with all the others?’

  ‘I think it would be better not to. I think we’d better not write to each other or ever meet again.’

  ‘Not ever meet again, Roddy?’ How did he come to be master of such cold decisions? She felt like a child in futile conflict with the fixed and unalterable will of a grown-up person. ‘Why? Why? Why? Please do let me. Please do. I won’t ever be a nuisance again, I promise. You’ve said you liked me. I must see you! If I can’t see you, I can’t ever see any of them again. Don’t you see? And then I’d have nothing … You wouldn’t tell them, would you, Roddy? Please let m
e see you again.’

  It had lasted too long. In another moment she would be on her knees to him, hysterical, loathsome.

  A nervous quiver of his lips checked her suddenly and made her quiet. In some obscure way he was suffering too. He looked like the little boy whose face had implored her not to cry that time of the rabbit’s death. Yes, the spectacle of other people’s pain had always affected him unpleasantly.

  ‘It’s all right, Roddy,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll get on without you.’

  ‘I’m not worth wasting one moment’s regret on,’ he said, almost earnestly. ‘Believe me, Judith. It’s true.’ He looked at her for the last time. ‘I can only say again I’m very sorry and ask you to forget all about it.’

  She took a deep breath.

  ‘One thing more,’ she said. ‘I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve done. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in loving a person and saying so.’

  It was not true. The shame of her surrender, her letter, her unrequited love would go on gnawing, burning, till the end of her life.

  He left her, walking away from her with a graceful and noiseless tread.

  After all, it did not seem to hurt much: certainly not more than could be borne in secret, without a sign.

  It had all been experience, and that was a salutary thing.

  You might write a book now, and make him one of the characters; or take up music seriously; or kill yourself.

  It was all so extraordinary … That night had seemed to Roddy so insignificant that instead of hurrying away quickly when he got that letter, he had had a girl he knew down for the day: and that was how he had spoilt his own escape.

  Shut the door on Roddy and turn the key and never open that room again. Surely it would be quite easy. She saw herself as a tiny person walking firmly away and not once looking back. There were plenty of other things to think about … What was there, safe and simple, to think about?

  Strawberries and cream for supper. Good. Two new frocks: but he was to have admired her in them … A visit to London next week, and a play.

  She noticed suddenly that her hands were bleeding from slight abrasions. How had that happened? Best to go in now and arrange her face a little. This shivering had been going on for a long time.

  5

  Three weeks later she stepped out of the train at a little country station in Hampshire; and was there met by a beaming Martin, and conveyed swiftly in his car to his home.

  The long drive wound through shrubbery and great beech trees, and opened in a wide sweep before the long low many-windowed­ house-front. It was an old manor, built of exquisitely time-tempered brick. The great porch was covered with clematis and jasmine; and here and there climbing bushes of yellow or white roses wove their way up the walls and coiled around the window-frames. Beyond it and on each side of it she caught or imagined glimpses of a rich old garden, lawns and a herbaceous border, cedar trees, yew hedges, and an espalier of peach-trees along a high wall.

  A manservant appeared, took her suitcase and slid away again.

  Martin led the way through the oak-panelled hall into a large bright flowery chintz drawing-room. All the colours were blue and pink and white; and there were photographs everywhere, and vases full of delphiniums, roses and lilies. The French windows opened on to the sunny lawn, and, set in front of them, the tea-table shone with blue and white china, and silver, and glass jars of honey and jam. Behind the tea-table sat Martin’s mother, smiling.

  She was as clean and fresh, as white and pink and blue as her drawing-room. Her erect and trim little figure was crowned with white hair, her blue rather prominent eyes held the wistful appeal of the short-sighted as she looked into Judith’s face to greet her. Her thin mouth smiled and went on smiling, happily, vaguely, with a kind of sweet and weak persistence. All the lines in her face ran upwards as if she had spent her life smiling. She had a white skin with a clear rose flush over each cheekbone. She was really very pretty in her white lace dress and fleecy pale blue wrap: a mother to take out to dine in her best black frock and her diamonds and feel proud of.

  ‘So this is Judith that I’ve heard so much about,’ she said charmingly; and put a hand on her arm to lead her to the tea-table.

  Three black spaniels begged and adored at her feet; or rolled over, waving limp self-conscious devotional paws.

  Over the mantelpiece hung the portrait of Martin’s dead father. He had been Governor of somewhere: an important man. He looked reliable and kindly, with Martin’s brown eyes and untidy features.

  On the opposite wall hung a sentimental pastel portrait, life-size, of Martin at the age of three: golden-brown curls, pink checks, a white silk blouse with a frilly collar. There were some books in glass-fronted book-cases, some goodish furniture and china; one or two good water-colours and some indifferent ones; abundant plump cushions in broad soft chairs and couches. It was a house that shewed in every detail the honourable, conventional, deeply-rooted English traditions of Martin’s people.

  And yet not they, with their sober steadfastness, but that wild sister, the disgrace, Mariella’s mother, had prepared, it seemed, the strange mould for the next generation: for all, that is, save Martin himself.

  He was in high spirits. He smiled with all his white teeth, and threw sandwiches to the dogs, and teased his mother, and stared in a sort of delighted astonishment to see her actually sitting at tea with him in his home. He looked almost handsome in his bright blue shirt, open to shew a strong well-modelled throat rising cleanly from the broad shoulders.

  He did not know that Judith was dead: that a dummy was sitting beside him. He had declared several times how well she was looking.

  He said suddenly:

  ‘Heard from Roddy, Judith?’

  She was not prepared for that name; and she felt a faintness sweep over her.

  ‘No, Martin, I haven’t.’

  ‘I had a letter from him this morning. It’s pure agony for Roddy to answer an invitation, even, so I was flattered. He and I and one or two other chaps are going to do some sailing next month, off the Isle of Wight, and he actually wrote to make arrangements.’

  ‘What fun that will be, Martin.’

  She bowed her head over the plate in her lap, crumbling a scone to fragments.

  ‘Why don’t you come too, Judith? Do! It’d be perfectly proper wouldn’t it, Mummy? We’re her bachelor uncles.’

  It was precisely at those words, at the unexpected recalling of all that light-heartedness, that happiest day of all, that the thing leapt to life within her, and fiercely, horribly pressed towards birth. Oh, now there was no hope. Roddy had arisen all in a moment from his false burial.

  With a vast effort she prevented her eyes from closing quite; but to speak was impossible.

  ‘Roddy says –’ began Martin, glanced across at her, and stopped uncertainly, startled. He was silent, and then said:

  ‘Tired, Judith?’

  ‘A bit – after my journey – it’s so hot to travel. Isn’t it?’ She turned to his mother.

  ‘Yet my dear, it is,’ she said cooingly. ‘Come, I’ll take you to your room and you shall rest till dinner.’

  Martin had got up and was hovering over her, anxious and despondent. But she could smile at him now, and she said:

  ‘I’d rather go out if I may, and get cool. The garden looks so lovely.’

  That’s right then,’ said Martin’s mother encouragingly. Take her out, Martin darling, and shew her the rock-garden. Martin and I have been making a rock-garden, Judith – I may call you Judith, mayn’t I?’ She laid a hand again on Judith’s arm. ‘It’s such run. Martin and I are both ridiculous potterers and experimenters. Are you like that?’

  ‘Not practically, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Ah well, it’s a delightful hobby. It keeps me busy and healthy, doesn’t it Martin?’ She looked up into his face,
and he put a large hand upon her little shoulder. There,’ she added. ‘Run along now. Don’t let Martin take you in the fields or up to his precious farm: you’ll spoil your pretty shoes. Aren’t they darling shoes, Martin? And such a pretty frock.’

  With little pats and handwavings and vague benevolence she saw them out of the French windows down the steps into the garden.

  Martin said:

  ‘Wait. I’ll take a gun. We’re simply tripping over rabbits this year. It’s awful.’

  She did not hear properly; nor, when Martin came back to her, did she grasp the significance of the gun over his shoulder.

  He led her out of the garden by a wooden bridge over a stream half-hidden in forget-me-nots, kingcups and his plants; through the meadow where grazed the pedigree cows which, so he said, were his mother’s pride; over a stile and up on to the chalky rabbit­-pitted hillside.

  She was standing among the willow trees, and out of the moonlight a voice was saying in a low hurry: ‘I love you’ – and saying another thing damnably characteristic: ‘Lovely Judy! Lovely dark eyes!’ His teeth gleamed as he smiled in the moonlight … He closed his eyes … It was all in such bad taste, in such bad taste …

  Martin was pointing out the marches of the estate. There were beech-copses and farms and two gentle folds of sun-drenched sheep-strewn hill between them and its final hedge-rows.

  ‘You know I do love it,’ said Martin shyly. ‘I worship the soil.’ He hesitated and then said with a laugh: ‘Funny: Sometimes I absolutely wish I were dead so that I could be buried in it and have it all over me and inside me for ever and ever … Look at the way those slopes overlap …’ His eyes fastened on them, with a hungry expression.

  Then this was Martin’s secret bread. It was his land that nourished him at the source, and made of him this man with an individual dignity and simplicity at the core of his ordinariness. She made an effort to come nearer to him in mind.

  ‘Yes … I know, Martin.’

  He turned joyfully.

  ‘I always tell you everything, Judith. I suppose it’s because I know you’ll understand.’