Dusty Answer

by Rosamond Lehmann

  Now the moon looked exhausted behind a gathering film of cloud.

  Soon came me rain, with a low murmurous hushing and whispering through the trees; and then a white blindness of lightning aching on to the eyelids.

  ‘Shall we stop?’ asked Martin.

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘I remember you hated lightning when you were a tiddler.’

  ‘Do you remember that?’

  ‘Yes. I shall never forget the day we were trapped by a thunderstorm in the old boathouse – you and Roddy and I. How you howled! And then you said you’d seen the lightning fall on Roddy’s head and had he been struck dead. I kept on yelling that if only you’d open your eyes you’d see him in front of you, as alive as anything; but you only went on shrieking. And soon we all of us began to believe Roddy might go up in flame any minute.’

  ‘Oh yes! I’d forgotten.’ She laughed. ‘I remember Roddy’s face, so solemn and red and doubtful as he felt the top of his head. He was terrified I was making a fool of him and he wouldn’t say a word. I asked him privately afterwards if he thought the Lord had visited him with a tongue of fire. He was disgusted.’

  Martin threw his head back to laugh.

  ‘You were a comic child. We used to think you were a little mad.’

  ‘Did you, Martin?’ she said, and doubt and sadness swept over her again.

  Perhaps even in those days Roddy had laughed at her, thought of her as a joke, never as a companion.

  ‘It’s a pity really that we –’ She stopped, remembering that she was going to marry Martin – on the verge of finishing her sentence:– ‘that we met again after we grew up.’

  Their relationship should have remained unspoilt in the mysterious enchantment of childhood, and then she would never have seen Roddy grow from that lovable small boy into the elegant indifferent young man who experimented in sensations.

  No more lightning; and the rain came softly on to her face through the open wind-screen, blurring eyes and mind and all, until she sank into a half-sleep. Martin clasped her hard against his shoulder, once, as who should say: ‘Sleep. I am here’; and she felt his enormous protectiveness flowing over her.

  When next she opened her eyes, the darkness was taking back first one veil, then another. Purple paled to lilac and lilac wasted to grey. The sky was immaculate and without a glow. The country-side woke from sleep, gently staring and austere, each object upon it separately outlined without interrelation of colour and shadow under the uniform wan light. On the far horizon, a cornfield flashed out one moment in a pale flood of sunlight; but the sun was still hidden. The hedges frothed palely with meadow-sweet.

  Soon came the beechwoods crowning the chalk hills. In the valley below ran the river, blanched and rain-flattened between its willows; and the road sloped gently down till it ran beside it. They were home.

  Stiff and blinking, she stumbled out of the car, and stood on the steps of the porch.

  ‘Thank you, Martin. It was marvellous. I hoped we should never get here. I thought we wouldn’t – I don’t know why. I got it into my head you’d manage a quiet smash without my noticing it. Every thing I passed I said good-bye to – looking my last on all things lovely; and when I finally dropped off to sleep I thought I’d never wake up. And after all you brought me safe home, clever boy. I suppose I’m grateful. But what an effort to have to start again in an hour or two!’

  He did not answer at once; but after a few moments of fingering his hat looked away and said:

  ‘Are you very unhappy, Judith?’

  ‘Well – not very, I suppose. Rather. Not more than’s good for me. I shall get over it … I’m so sleepy I don’t know what I’m saying. Don’t take any notice.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t happy –’ He stopped, overcome.

  ‘It’s all right, Martin. Don’t you worry. I laugh at myself. How I laugh at myself!’

  ‘Can’t you tell me what it’s about?’ he said gruffly.

  ‘I don’t believe I can.’

  He turned away and leaned despondently against the porch.

  The sky was glowing now through all its length and breadth, like the inside of a shell. The dew shimmered over the grass and the greyish roses reddened, yellowed on their bushes. The birds bedazed the air with wild crystalline urgent repetition.

  ‘You go in a day or two,’ he said at last.

  ‘Yes. And you?’

  ‘I join Roddy next week.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ She turned to unlock the door, and fumbling for the key, lightly remarked: ‘There’s a person I shall never see again.’

  ‘Who?’

  He affected surprise; but he was only pretending. She could feel him saying to himself: ‘So that’s it.’ And suddenly she hated herself for exposing herself, and him for guessing and dissembling, for forcing her to pronounce that name; and she added:

  ‘I can’t marry you, Martin, after all.’

  Silence.

  ‘Well, I’ve told you the truth at last. I thought I could pretend to you all my life, but I can’t. You ought to be glad.’

  He inclined his head.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say something, Martin?’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Please forgive me,’ she said; but she could not feel contrition: only a great weariness.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to forgive. I never really believed you’d marry me anyway.’

  ‘Luckily I’m going abroad. You’d better forget all about me.’

  ‘It’s no good saying that,’ he said, with a brief and bitter laugh. ‘It was too late for that years ago.’

  ‘You must try to hate me. I deserve it.’

  ‘Oh, what’s the good of talking like that?’ he said impatiently. ‘Do you want me to hate you? You know you don’t.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘You know perfectly well I can’t do anything except go on loving you.’

  He still leaned with dejected shoulders against the porch, talking out into the garden. The eastern sky swam brightly, and the first beams of the sun shot into the garden; and the fluting clamorous chorus redoubled their enthusiasm.

  ‘I haven’t seen the sun rise for years. Have you, Martin?’ She came near to him and put a hand on his sleeve. At the touch he turned round and confronted her in dumb despair, his eyelashes wet.

  ‘Martin, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’

  ‘I can’t leave you like this,’ he said, and clung to her. ‘Judith, is there nothing I can do?’

  She reflected.

  ‘Yes. Will you do something for me?’

  ‘Of course I will.’ His eyes lit up for an instant.

  ‘Listen, Martin. Supposing he ever mentions me –’

  She felt herself going white and stopped.

  ‘Yes?’ he muttered.

  She went on breathlessly:

  ‘I don’t think he will, but if he should … Supposing he ever starts to tell you something that happened – between him and me – please, you mustn’t let him. Promise! If he begins, stop him. I shall never see him again; soon I shall stop thinking about him: but you mustn’t know what happened. It was just a little silly thing – I shall see it quite differently some day … but if I thought people knew I should die. Martin, don’t try to find out.’

  ‘All right, Judith. It’s not my business.’

  ‘Perhaps men don’t tell things in the awful way women do? He doesn’t generally tell things, does he?’

  She could hardly bear to listen for his reply.

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Make it be as if you’d never known me. Never talk about me!’

  ‘I won’t. I promise.’ He looked at her; and she knew by his eyes how deeply she was making him suffer.

  After a long time she added:

  �
��One more thing. Of course I know that whatever he’d done you’d feel just the same towards him, wouldn’t you? …’

  ‘I love Roddy …’ he said, his breath, his whole being struggling in anguish … ‘I’ve always had him – ever since I can remember … more to me than a brother ever could have been. But if I thought –’ His voice altered, grew terrible – ‘if I thought he’d done you an injury –’

  ‘It was nothing he could be blamed for,’ she said slowly, with intense concentration: ‘It was my fault. If I thought it was going to come between you I should be more unhappy than ever. Will you see that it doesn’t?’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said in a dead voice.

  She began to tremble violently.

  ‘I must go in now, Martin. What shall you do?’

  ‘I’ll go straight back. I don’t feel like – seeing Mariella – or anyone.’

  ‘But don’t you want something to eat?’

  ‘No. I’m not hungry.’

  It seemed unbearably pathetic that he should not be hungry – he who was always hungry.

  ‘Good-bye then, Martin.’

  ‘Good-bye.’

  He took her outstretched hand and clutched it.

  ‘Judith, if you should want me for anything while you’re abroad – let me know. I’ll come to you. Will you promise?’

  ‘I promise, my dear.’

  He looked a shade less unhappy.

  ‘And please let me see you when you come back. I won’t be tiresome; but I must see you sometimes.’

  ‘When I come back then, Martin – if you really want to. But by that time you’ll realize what a pig I am.’

  He put his arms round her suddenly.

  ‘Oh, Judith,’ he whispered, ‘can’t you ever … ?’

  ‘Martin, can’t you ever not?’

  ‘No.’ He kid his head down on her shoulder for a few moments; then straightened himself and said with an effort at cheerfulness:

  ‘Well, I hope you’ll have a good time.’

  ‘I hope you will. But you’re sure to.’

  To think he would be with Roddy for weeks, sharing work and talk and joke and meals – seeing him sleep and wake; while she herself … never again. If she saw him coming towards her, she must turn back; if she passed him in the street she must look away.

  ‘Please take care of yourself, Judith.’

  She nodded, smiling faintly.

  He jerked round and went down the steps and she waited for him to turn his head again. But, when he reached the corner, without looking back, he waved his hand in a young quick awkward pretence of jauntiness, and strode on.

  She stood and saw the fresh garden filling with light and shade; and thought: ‘Poor Martin’s crying’; and shut the door on him and the sun and the screaming of the birds.

  8

  The hotels and shops made a circle round the great Place; and to and fro all day went the people to their baths and douches and sprays. Bilious obese old Jews and puffy, pallid Americans thronged and perspired; and ancient invalids came in bathchairs with their glum attendants. There was one, a woman long past age and change, with a skin of dusky orange parchment, black all round the staring eyeholes, tight over the cheeks and drawing back the dark lips in a grin. She was alive: her orange claws twitched on the rug. Perched high upon her skull, above the dead and rotten hair, she wore a large black sailor hat trimmed with a wild profusion of black feathers. Every morning, seated idly in front of the hotel, Judith watched for that most macabre figure of all in the fantastical show.

  The sun poured down without cloud or breeze, and the buildings and pavements seemed to vibrate in the air. It was too hot to stay in the valley. She joined parties and motored up through the vineyards into the hills – racing along in search of a draught on her face, eating succulent lunches at wayside inns, coming back in the evening to play tennis and bathe; to change and dine and dance; to hear a concert at the Casino; to sit in the open air and drink coffee and eat ices.

  The hours of every day were bubbles lightly gone.

  She was Miss Earle, travelling with her elegant and charming mother, staying at the smartest hotel and prominent in the ephemeral summer society of the health-resort. Her odd education sank into disreputable insignificance: best not to refer to it. She was adequately equipped in other ways. She had a string of pearls, and slim straight black frocks for the morning, and delicious white and yellow and green and pink ones for the afternoon; and white jumpers with pleated skirts and little white hats for tennis; and, for the evening, straight exquisitely-cut sleeveless frocks to dance in. She had them all. Mamma had ordered them in Paris with bored munificence and perfect taste, and an unenthusiastic ear for the modiste’s rapturous approval of her daughter.

  ‘If you were a little more stupid,’ said Mamma, ‘you might make a success of a London season even at this late date. You’ve got the looks. You are stupid – stupid enough, I should think, to ruin all your own chances – but you’re not stupid all through. You’re like your father: he was a brilliant imbecile. I never intended to put you into the marriage-market – but I’ll do so if you like. If you haven’t already decided to marry one of those young Fyfes … They’re quite a good family, I suppose.’

  She appeared to expect no answer and received none.

  Judith laughed at Mamma’s epigrammatic dicta and was a social success. She motored, chattered, danced and played tennis, at first with effort – with Roddy rising up now and again to make all dark and crumbling; then gradually with a kind of enjoyment, snapping her fingers at the past, plunging full into the comedy, forgetting to stand aside and watch: silly all through – stupid even: stupider every day.

  Demurely she passed through the lounges: they all knew her and looked her up and down as she went, discussed her frocks in whispers, with smiling or stony faces. In the streets they stared, and she liked it; she admired her own reflection in the shop windows. An elderly French count, with two rolls of fat in the back of his neck, entreated Mamma for her daughter’s hand in marriage. It was a very good joke.

  Then, one evening after dinner, while she sat in the lounge with Mamma and discussed the clothes of her fellow-visitors, she saw Julian walk in. He wore an old white sweater with a rolled collar, and his long hair was wild upon his pale chiselled forehead. His face, hands and clothes were grey with dust, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright with extreme weariness. He stood alone by the door, unselfconscious and deliberate, his gaze roving round to find her among the staring, whispering company. Even before she recognized him, her heart leaped a little at sight of him; for his fine-drawn blond length and grace were of startling beauty after a fortnight of small dapper men with black moustaches and fat necks.

  ‘It’s Julian!’

  She ran across the room and took his hand in both her own, joyfully greeting him. A friend from England! He was a friend from England. How much that meant after all! He had, romantically, kept his promise and come to find her, this distinguished young man at whom they were all staring. He and she, standing there hand in hand, were the centre of excited comment and surmise: that was flattering. She was pleased with him for contriving so dramatic an entry.

  He had motored from Paris, he said, going all day over execrable roads in stupefying heat. He had found her hotel at the first guess.

  He booked a room and went off to have a bath and to change. Judith went back to explain to Mamma, who asked for no explanations. It was, she remarked, pleasant to see a new face; and those Pyfes had always looked well-bred. She was glad Judith would now have a congenial companion while she finished her cure. If to her cat-deep self she said: ‘So that’s the one!’ her diamond-like eyes did not betray her.

  He came down half an hour later, elegant in his dinner-jacket, sat down beside Mamma and started at once to entertain her with the easy, civilized, gossiping conversation she enjoyed.


  Then, when the band started to pluck voluptuously at the heartstrings with Einmal kommt der Tag, he turned for the first time to Judith, crying:

  ‘We’ll dance to it, Judith.’ He jumped up. ‘What a tune! Well express our sentimentality.’

  Mamma’s rasping little laugh of amusement sounded in her ears as she rose and followed him.

  He put an arm closely round her and murmured:

  ‘Come on now. Perform! Perform!’ – and they went gliding, pausing and turning round the empty floor, while everyone stared and the band smilingly played up to them. The rhythm of their bodies responded together, without an error, to the music’s broken emotionalism.

  ‘Once, Julian, you refused to dance with me.’

  ‘Ah, you were a little girl then. It would have been no use. Et maintenant, n’est-ce-pas, la petite est devenue femme? We shall get on very well.’

  After a silence he said:

  ‘You wear beautiful clothes. You carry yourself to perfection. You have an air … There is nobody in this room to touch you. What are you going to do with it all?’

  ‘Oh, exploit it, exploit it!’

  He held her away from him a moment to look down into her face.

  ‘Tiens! Tiens! Is gentle Judith going to start being a devil? … It would be amusing to see her try.’

  ‘Oh, I will! I’d be most successful. You shall see.’