by MARY HOCKING
‘I didn’t see, sir.’
Marsden gave a screech and grabbed at the porter’s shoulder. ‘Take us back! Take us up!’
‘I’m going down,’ Tom shouted. ‘This is a matter of life. . . .’
‘The strong room!’ Marsden gabbled. ‘He was in the strong room. . . .’
The lift was now going up. Tom said, ‘Take this lift down!’
‘When I came back at lunchtime I assumed he had gone; I didn’t think. . . .’
When the lift stopped, Marsden hauled the porter out with him, babbling about lack of ventilation, and they went running down the corridor. Tom closed the gates and took the lift down himself; but by the time he got to the ground floor the lobby was deserted. Out in the car park, he saw car lights sweep round and head out towards the road. He ran down the steps, forgetting the ice, slipped on the last step and fell heavily, twisting his right ankle. It took him sometime to limp to his car. He had no idea which vet she was going to but decided to drive into Squires Bay. The snow was piled thick on either side, narrowing the road considerably. As he came towards Squires Bay, driving slowly because his ankle was throbbing, an ambulance came towards him, its siren wailing, and he had to pull to one side to let it pass.
He thought that she was dead and someone had come and taken her body away. Her body did not seem to matter much; in fact, her physical presence had always been something of a hindrance to their relationship. He turned the car at the next crossroads and headed back towards the turning that led to Stratt’s Corner, and then to Pendlecombe.
His ankle was so painful that he drove in second gear most of the way. The lanes were very bad, the snow ploughs hadn’t been out here; he should have approached from the other direction, there was a good road to within a mile of the south of the village. The car rocked about and sometimes there were ominous grinding noises as though its belly was being ripped open. It was a brilliant night and as he drove the moon danced in and out between the white, stumpy trees.
It took him an hour and a half to reach the church. He left the car there and limped along the side of the wall. The air was so harsh it stabbed like a knife in his chest whenever he drew breath. He stopped at the garden gate and looked across the valley. All that weary waste of snow. And the terrible stillness. Ice formed a shell around him, held him prisoner. Some people have to go to the Antarctic to reach their limit; he wasn’t that kind of person, he had found his here in Pendlecombe.
There was a light on in the house. He hadn’t expected that. He wasn’t quite sure which room was lighted, but it certainly wasn’t the kitchen. He wondered, as he limped across the lawn, whether she was waiting for him, watching his painful progress; it seemed he was expected, at any rate, because the side door was open. He went in. There was no light on in the kitchen, but he could see the blue flicker of gas under a saucepan; liquid simmered and every so often the saucepan lid rattled. There was a strong smell of offal. One of the cats came and nudged against his leg. Moon and frost and steam had combined to cover the windows in a uniform silver glaze and he could see to make his way about the room without too much difficulty; it was the walking that was difficult because both legs were icy stumps now. At least his injured ankle was anaesthetised. The trouble was that his brain was anaesthetised, too. His body had taken over. His body wanted warmth and food, in that order, and took him to the larder in search of both. The larder window wasn’t misted over and he could see quite clearly in the moonlight. He found half a loaf of bread, hard and dry to the touch, and while he was tearing at it clumsily with stiff fingers, he knocked over some bottles at his feet. After laborious inspection he selected two which seemed hopeful; he managed to unscrew the top of the first bottle and took a draught of olive oil. The second was rum. The bottle was very dusty. It seemed probable he had Aunt Mady to thank for it; holding the bread to his chest and the bottle to his lips, he went out of the kitchen, thinking about Aunt Mady. He wondered which had been her room.
It was not so easy to move about once out of the kitchen because there were few windows and it was very dark. He went past the narrow flight of stairs, easing along the wall, making for the large hall. He had to concentrate so hard, what with the darkness, the difficulty of holding bread in one frozen hand and a bottle in the other, that it took some time for him to register the fact that he was hearing voices. When he came to the hall, he saw that there was a light on in a room immediately opposite. The door of the room was wide open and he could see into it as clearly as if it had been a stage set and he was a member of the audience, unseen in the darkened auditorium. He sat down on the stairs, took a bit of the bread, and gazed with interested anticipation at the performers.
Edgar Holmes was sitting in an armchair, stage right. There was a big wicker basket at his feet. On the hearthrug was a cat with an oddly unbalanced look (its head swayed from time to time) and one leg done up in a splint.
Phoebe spoke off-stage. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without the basket, Edgar. It’s so kind of you.’ Her voice was at once ingratiating and nervous; it proclaimed the need to propitiate the man and yet, at the same time, betrayed a desire to make him uncomfortable. She moved into view carrying a cup and saucer which she contrived to shake so that liquid slopped into the saucer before she presented it to Edgar Holmes. Holmes cut short her apologies by making comments about the cat which was lurching about the rug.
‘I didn’t know how I was going to get her home. It worried me so much.’ She went out of view for a moment and then returned with another cup and saucer and sat on a stool on the opposite side of the hearth to Holmes. ‘In fact, the whole thing has been a terrible worry; not knowing whether she would have to be put down or not. I’ve been in a state all day, wondering what I would find when I got to the vet. I don’t know what I should have done if you hadn’t taken pity on me.’ She was overcome by emotion and bent forward to tickle the cat behind the ear.
Holmes said, ‘I must admit to being more worried about you than the cat.’
‘I’ve had such a dreadful day,’ she said. ‘Such a dreadful day.’ She folded her hands to her stomach and crouched forward.
Holmes cleared his throat. ‘Well, it won’t be so bad the next time, because you know that puss. . . .’
‘Mr. Norris tried to rape me this afternoon.’
Holmes’ cup rattled about and he put it down on the carpet and slapped at his paunch with a handkerchief.
Phoebe put one fist to the corner of her mouth and turned her head upstage; her voice was muffled. ‘I didn’t mean to say anything, I didn’t mean toooooo . . .’ She rocked to and fro.
Holmes said in a voice that was not entirely encouraging, ‘This is a very serious thing you are saying.’
‘He tried to rape me!’ She swung round on him, outraged as much by his caution as Norris’ brutality. ‘He threw me to the ground and dragged me by the hair! It was dreadful. He. . . .’ She took a deep breath and gained control of herself before proceeding in more detail. ‘I was doing my hair when the lights came on. You’d have thought he had never seen a woman with her hair down before. It was dreadful, the way he looked at me. Then he grabbed me and pinned me against the wall. He pummelled my breasts. I can still feel it, I probably have a bruise.’ She rubbed her own hand up and down between her breasts, trying to stimulate pain. ‘And all the time he looked at me, he devoured me with his eyes. I was terrified, I felt myself falling, and then it was that he dragged me by the hair and I looked up at him and I saw, I saw it in his eyes, I tell you! I saw in his eyes that he was going to rape me. But when he threw me to the ground, I hit my head and I pretended to be unconscious. I waited. . . .’
There was a pause, while Holmes waited, his hands dangling limply between his knees, his eyes glistening like wet green grapes. She said drily. ‘He went away.’
‘Rape is a serious offence,’ Holmes said hoarsely. ‘If you intend to proceed. . . .’
‘I don’t intend to proceed! What chance would I stand? A spinster, alon
e with a man, and no witnesses. There’s only ever one guilty party in those circumstances.’
Holmes put his hands on his plump thighs, his elbows and feet turned out in an awkward, constipated pose.
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ she said.
‘This has come as a shock to me.’
‘It was a shock to me, too.’ But she seemed to be gaining comfort from his discomposure.
There was silence. She sat with her hands clasped over her knees and looked intently at Holmes.
‘It isn’t that I doubt you . . .’ he said eventually. And it did indeed seem that his difficulty was more complex. His natural sympathy for unfortunate women did not, it seemed, extend to the victims of rape.
‘Perhaps you think I shouldn’t have spoken of it? That it was indelicate of me?’
Holmes rubbed his hands up and down his thighs as though he was working dough. Tom was embarrassed for the man because he had dried up and there was no prompter. He felt it was time for a third person to take the stage.
Holmes said to Phoebe, ‘Might it be better for you to move out of Mr. Norris’ room?’
‘You don’t think Mr. Norris is safe with me?’
Tom said, ‘Go away, Edgar.’
Holmes kicked what was left of his tea on to the carpet. Phoebe upset hers in her lap.
Tom, who was still sitting on the stairs, said, ‘Go away, Edgar. This is quite beyond you.’
Holmes squinted into the darkness; then he glanced nervously at the ceiling as though the centre light might be incorporated in a celestial bugging system.
Tom said, ‘You know there is nothing you would like better than to go away, Edgar. And it is right and proper so to do. There is nothing you can accomplish here, save to compromise yourself.’
Phoebe, intent on rubbing her dress, gave a scornful laugh and repeated, ‘Compromise!’
Tom appeared in the doorway. He pointed the rum bottle in Holmes’ direction. ‘Now be careful about this, Edgar. It’s important to look right round a problem, like you always tell your staff. See things from every point of view. For example, if I can be accused of attempting rape at four o’clock in the afternoon at the office, what do you imagine may be said of your activities?’
Holmes, visibly relieved that the visitation had taken human shape, collected the tatters of his dignity about him and stood up. He spoke formally to Phoebe. ‘You have abused my kindness.’
‘Compromised and abused!’ she marvelled, rubbing even more energetically at the dress.
‘You and Norris planned this between you to make a fool of me.’ He managed to summon up a little anger. ‘You are wicked people. Wicked!’
‘Run away, then, Edgar!’ she advised. ‘Run!’
Holmes turned towards the door. Tom picked up the cat basket and thrust it into his hands as he went past him. The door slammed, but was reopened almost immediately while Holmes searched for the hall light switch. Phoebe continued rubbing the folds of her dress between her knuckles. Tom lighted Holmes on his way and then returned to Phoebe; he drew up a chair and sat facing her.
‘How did you get in?’ She asked the question as if a stray cat had slipped in with the others.
‘You mustn’t be frightened. All this talk of rape is nonsense, you know that. We are two reasonable people and we must talk reasonably.’ He spoke with conviction because he believed this. Phoebe let go of the dress and folded her hands in her lap; her knuckles were red with the rubbing and she studied them meditatively. Tom said, ‘We have been playing a game. We must put all that aside now. You do agree, don’t you?’
‘Is that Aunt Mady’s rum you’re breathing? It’s been there a long time. Does rum go off?’ She closed her eyes. ‘Isn’t smell evocative? It unstoppers the past.’ She gave a moan of anguish. ‘Oh, Aunt Mady, Aunt Mady!’
‘Never mind Aunt Mady.’
‘Whoever else would I mind?’ Her eyes opened with a flash of scorn.
‘She belongs to your childhood, to the part of you that is undeveloped; but there are other people inside you waiting for release. You must believe me.’
‘You’re sicker than I am.’ She looked at him with resentment as if he had stolen something from her.
‘Yes, I am sick. And you are sick. And the people at the office, Edgar and Norma and Phillimore, they are all sick because they are only half-people, submerged people. The whole of England is sick. Can’t you see?’
‘Oh, well, tell me about it if you must,’ she shrugged.
‘You will have to listen. You will have to listen with everything in you. It will take a long time.’
‘Forget about England, then. Tell me about people we know.’ She regarded him with malign pleasure. ‘Madge Conroy. Do you think she’s sick, too? Do you think the sensible, sane people with their well-ordered lives are really the sickest of all? I often think they must be; they batten down the hatches so tight there must be something really nasty in the hold.’ She reflected on this for a few moments, then said conspiratorially; ‘If they let go they’d never get back; whereas we get back, don’t we?’
‘Where do you go to, Phoebe?’ He leaned towards her. ‘The place from which you come back. Tell me about it.’
‘You were going to do the telling.’ She looked at him slyly out of the corners of her narrow eyes.
‘I can’t do it alone, can’t you see? I can’t do it alone, Phoebe. I need you. You are the way-shower.’
‘That sounds like something out of mythology.’
‘But you’re not a myth!’ He was shouting. ‘You are a real, live woman with much more within you than you ever reveal. I want to know that woman, Phoebe.’
‘I like the Persephone myth the best,’ she mused. ‘Poor old Pluto, I always feel so sorry for him down in the dark all alone during summer.’
‘Can’t you ever keep to the subject for one single moment?’ He shouted so loud that all the ornaments in the room quivered and Phoebe’s face went blank and obstinate. Seeing her about to escape from him once more, he knelt before her and clasped her round the thighs, entreating, ‘Please, please!’ He tried to lay his head in her lap, but she reared up at his touch and overbalanced, disturbing the cat who lurched forward and clawed at Tom with its uninjured paw. For a moment, Phoebe crouched close to Tom, swaying and panting. He moved towards her and she spat in his face; then she got up and ran from the room. He threw the cat aside and limped after Phoebe. She was waiting, one foot on the stairs; she allowed him to get quite close before she scampered up to the landing where she waited again, one hand on the banister rail. He came towards her warily and she waited as warily for him.
To his surprise, as he mounted the stairs she grew more composed. It seemed, perhaps because she was above him, that she was beginning to dominate him. She had increased in stature and there was something unalterable about her, as though she and the banister rail had been carved in one piece. The landing was badly lit and he was half-way up the stairs before he could confirm what he already suspected: a more formidable figure than Phoebe was holding the head of the stairs. The face that looked down at him from the dark frame of hair was sombre; the granite eyes were hostile. He took the next few steps slowly. The house had become very quiet. The woman did not stir and no acknowledgement that he existed flickered in that austere face. He had the feeling that it was he who had slipped out of time, that he would crumble away before he touched her. There were three more steps. One . . . two . . . he reached out a hand and suddenly she darted away, crying out, ‘Oh, what fun! What fiendish fun! I haven’t had such fun for years.’ It was the voice of a foolish child; but he was not deceived and he knew that the figure running down the corridor ahead was that of the woman on the landing and that she was leading him back to those more distant figures he had glimpsed in his dream. He limped after her. The corridor was dark and narrow and for the first time, as the walls closed in on either side, he felt frightened.
It was quiet again. She was somewhere in the darkness ahead of him; once h
e heard the sound of an ill-fitting drawer being pulled open, then a floor board squeaked. Then quiet. There was no light save for the landing light which now seemed very faint and far away. He had to feel his way along the walls; the embossed wallpaper was cracked and worn and his fingers made a sound like the sweeping of dry leaves. There was a smell of crumbling plaster and something else that reminded him of dirty water in a flower vase; it was so insistent that he could visualise the vase, the water yellow with rotten chrysanthemum leaves curled up in it. The wallpaper had stopped now and his fingers traced the hinge of a door. He paused, listening, but at first could not hear anything but his own uneven breathing. There was another smell which he did not immediately identify and while he was thinking about it a crack of light ran along the sides of the door.
He opened the door cautiously. A wall lamp had been switched on and she stood in its light. A dark shawl was draped over head and shoulders; he could smell the moth balls strongly now. He came towards her and then stopped. In the dim light of the lamp her face was yellow and he saw that it was disfigured by dark blemishes; the heavy shadows beneath the eyes emphasised the cheekbones thrust out harshly from the decaying flesh. Then he noticed that one part of the face, the left jaw, was already peeling away. She turned her head slightly and the movement opened up the gash so that it scrawled across her face. He blundered forward, stupidly imagining that by physical intervention he might halt this ghastly disintegration; but the moment he moved towards her she vanished. He heard a sound behind him and swung round as the door slammed. When he turned back into the room he was confronted by the crude mask of a man’s face; but from this blotched and pitted mask the same eyes looked out with increasing hostility, a hostility that had an animal quality, untempered by reason. He reached out a hand to snatch aside the mask; pain jarred his fingers, the image swung out of focus and he saw in its place one corner of the ceiling reflected in a badly chipped and tarnished cheval glass. The wallpaper was peeling off in thin strips which were speckled with small insects. He turned and ran from the room.