‘There were probably dangerous currents,’ I said.
‘You would say that.’
‘But I like the idea. Someday I might use your taniwha in a novel.’
As I led her to the small room I had told her about, she said, ‘You take some idea — like the taniwha legend, for example — and develop it into a whole novel?’
‘Yes. I suppose you could say that the book I’m working on now owes a lot to legends connected with this place. Once a theme is established, though, the story goes its own way.’
‘If Whispering Corner comes into it I’d love to read what you’ve written.’
‘When it’s finished,’ I said. ‘I have a complex about anyone reading half-finished work. I don’t even show it to my agent or the publisher.’
‘Are you afraid they might make suggestions?’
‘I suppose I’m afraid they’d say it was no damned good. And to start altering the plot could ruin the overall effect I have in mind. Once it’s finished it can go out into the world and stand on its own, but until then it’s vulnerable. Here’s the room.’
‘And to think that less than a couple of years ago my great-aunt was sitting in here,’ Ashley said excitedly. ‘Why didn’t I come over when she was still alive? I’d love to have talked to her. Was she very lonely, do you suppose?’
‘I gather so — apart from Mrs Foch, her cat,’ I said. ‘Here’s the poem I told you about.’
From the drawer of the small desk I took the ruled paper with its pencilled words and handed it to her. As she read it a tear slid slowly down her check.
‘Sorry,’ she said as she knuckled it away. ‘It’s just that something like that bridges the years. I can just imagine Great-aunt Constance getting this poem in a letter from her fiancé’s commanding officer, telling her how gallantly he had died for King and Country and enclosing these verses which had been found in his pay book. I can see her now, standing at the gate, the postman tramping away while she unfolds the poem. Sometimes I feel as sorry for people who are dead as those who are still alive. It’s to do with time, I think. Just because all those years have gone by it doesn’t mean that things hurt any the less when they happened. The agony was real then, and perhaps somewhere it still is.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked, intrigued by what she was trying to say.
‘It’s hard to put into words. I suppose I mean that the present we’re living in now is just the point where the future is becoming the past. I think we’re like … like the playback head of a tape recorder. On one reel is the future, on the other the past and we only experience the moment when the tape passes the head. But that doesn’t mean the past isn’t there, it’s just that it’s stored away. Somewhere on the tape of the past a young girl called Constance is reading this poem by the wicket gate. Perhaps I feel so strongly about Constance because at last I’m in her house — I mean, what was her house …’
I went to the window, making a mental note yet again to try and obtain an eyepiece for the telescope which stood in front of it. It was a beautifully constructed instrument and deserved to be brought back into use.
‘I’ll make a copy of the poem and you can have the original,’ I said, but later when I looked for it I could not remember where we had put it. ‘Hey, look. If I’m not mistaken there’s Miss Constance’s cat.’
Ashley hurried to the window and I pointed to the end of the garden where a large white cat was edging out of the undergrowth.
‘I think she’s gone feral,’ I said. ‘I’d hoped to look after her — it was something I could have done for the old lady.’
‘That’s a nice idea. Let me have a go. I’ll try and give her some milk.’
I remained at the window while Ashley went downstairs, and then I saw her emerge on to the grass carrying a soup bowl full of milk. The cat froze, crouched belly flat, and watched the girl with baleful eyes. Ashley’s soothing words floated up to me. ‘Mrs Foch, Mrs Foch, puss, puss.’
She managed to get within arm’s length of the cat, set down the bowl and backed away. Mrs Foch smelled the milk, a smell which must have reminded her of the good old well fed days; she inched forward until her nose touched the rim of the bowl and then began to lap ecstatically. Ashley turned and gave me a triumphant wave, and it was this sudden movement that sent Mrs Foch racing into the woods as though all the demons in cat hell were after her. Ashley shrugged ruefully at her mistake and walked back to the house.
It’s strange what remains fixed in the memory for no apparent reason. When I try to visualize Ashley now I always see her standing on the grass giving that rueful little shrug.
10
I stopped typing, eased my stiff back and looked out over the treetops towards the western sky which had become a palette of flame and purple. I was surprised to see the sunset. Time had raced, indicating how engrossed I had been in the chapter I had just finished. In it Falco finally admits to himself — and to Lorna — that the house he has inherited is haunted, its manifestations based on the story told in Mary Lawson’s ‘Narration’.
Now I worked out the number of words still to be written and divided them by the number of days to the deadline and found that at my present output I was only a week behind schedule. If I could manage an extra couple of pages a day it would be possible to catch up and my agent would be able to deliver the typescript to Jocasta Mount-William exactly on time.
Ashley — always nervous of disturbing a genius at work — tapped her light tap at the door.
‘Come,’ I called in a jokey executive voice. With that chapter behind me I felt unusually light-hearted. The concentration it required had shielded me from thoughts of the looming financial crisis.
Ashley entered and I drew in my breath at her appearance. Since her arrival at Whispering Corner she had worn her designer jeans and a succession of shirts of varying shades of red. Now, for the first time, I saw her formally attired — and she looked marvellous. Her dress was a long, clinging, silken affair of black and gold — golden diamond shapes against a jet background which suggested an Aubrey Beardsley illustration or the garb of a medieval jongleur.
‘Ash, you look like a fashion plate come to life,’ I told her.
‘Specially for you,’ she answered. ‘As is the supper I’ve been preparing. I felt we ought to celebrate tonight.’
‘Anything in particular?’
‘No. Just a no-reason celebration. I’ve been so happy here in my great-aunt’s house that I felt I wanted to make an occasion before I go.’
As she stood there with that soft dress emphasizing the supple lines of her slender body, I felt a pang of dismay that she was thinking of leaving, that soon she might be enjoying a richer life while I remained with only my imaginary characters for company. But I was determined not to let this feeling show. If I had been Falco’s age things might have been different, but I was not Falco and I had no wish for Ashley to remember me as a middle-aged amorist. So I kept it light.
‘I’ve got a bottle of champagne hidden away,’ I said. ‘It was in case of emergency, like finishing a novel or selling rights to Hollywood. But why wait? Like the song says, the best of times is now.’
‘Great. Now I must dash back to the kitchen.’
‘You’re not cooking in a dress like that?’
‘Only finishing off. And I have a plastic pinny I bought in Poole along with the other goodies for tonight. The worst is over now, but I don’t want any last-minute disasters. I just came to ask you to come down in half an hour.’
‘I’ll be there,’ I said. ‘Leave the booze and music to me.’
As Ashley had obviously gone to a great deal of trouble I decided to show my appreciation by entering into the spirit of her evening. After I had showered and shaved away the day’s stubble I put on a formal smoking jacket. Then I went downstairs, got out the Moet and put a Jacques Loussier LP on the turntable. In the dining-room I found the table beautifully laid for two, with an arrangement of woodland flowers and ferns in the centr
e and two tall candles already burning.
‘Perfect,’ I called.
‘Glad you like it,’ she called back from the kitchen. ‘Open the champers and we’ll have a drink before I start serving.’
I poured the hissing wine into a pair of flutes and when Ashley came flushed from the hot stove we raised our glasses in a mutual toast.
‘I’ll bet Great-aunt Constance used to dress for dinner long ago,’ Ashley said. ‘Maybe she and Arthur had a meal together like this before he went off to France. I’d like to think their ghosts are approving of us tonight. I wonder if people — after they’ve died — can revisit places that meant a lot to them.’
‘Doubt it,’ I said. ‘But if it were so I think it would be something more sinister than Miss Constance which would return to Whispering Corner.’ And I told her briefly about the ‘Narration’.
‘I’ll have some tales to tell if I go back to Godzone,’ she said. ‘Hey, look how much we’ve drunk already, and I bought wine for the meal. If I don’t stop now I’ll be incapable of serving. Be seated and I’ll bring in the first course. Chilled vichyssoise OK?’
‘Very OK.’
The meal was pleasurably long. During the course of it I put on several records to keep the background music going, and we got through both the champagne and the white Macon which Ashley had bought because I once remarked that I loved the Macon country.
The wine and the intimate atmosphere, and most of all Ashley’s face mysterious in the candle light, loosened my tongue. There was a temptation to tell her of the pressures upon me, to shed the load temporarily by dumping it on someone else, but I had enough self-control to steer away from that dangerous track.
At first the talk was about my days in journalism and the people I had met, and then the making of The Dancing Stones. Anything to do with film seemed to fascinate Ashley, but I tried to switch the conversation to her.
‘Tell me something about you,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s boring if I keep on about myself.’
‘But, Jonathan, you haven’t told me anything about yourself. You’ve told me a series of amusing anecdotes and precisely nothing about you as a person.’
I laughed. ‘Then that’s two of us. So let’s trade. One deep penetrating question each. OK?’
‘OK. You go first.’
‘All I really know about you is that you were brought up on a farm in a place called Taranaki and like a lot of young New Zealanders you’ve come to Europe for the obligatory visit. And your great-aunt was the previous owner of Whispering Corner. Apart from that you’re an enigma. You’re like someone in a beautiful mask; I have no idea what’s behind it. I don’t even know what you do for a living.’
‘The mask analogy is pretty good. I’ve played so many roles that I sometimes wonder what’s behind the mask myself.’
‘You’re an actress?’
She nodded.
‘So that’s why you haven’t got a typical kiwi accent. I should have guessed. You trained in New Zealand?’ She explained that on leaving high school she went to the Wellington Teachers Training College and during her course became involved in children’s drama.
‘I went from school to school with a special group putting on things like Dr Doolittle’s Circus so we could get the kids to join in as animals and performers. From then on I was hooked. There were not a lot of opportunities — very little live theatre — but I was determined, and after my elocution classes I did get some parts on TV after appearing in a few commercials. Then I went over to Sydney because the film industry there is really taking off. But …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Things didn’t work out as I hoped. So, as England is the centre of the theatre world, I decided to try my luck here. I’d love to get a stage part. I want a live audience rather than cameras. Back home I was a little fish in a pond. Here I know I’ll be a tadpole in an ocean, but I’m game for a try.’
I asked her which role she had enjoyed most.
‘Antigone,’ she answered without hesitation. ‘Now it’s my turn. Tell me about your marriage. When I was in Poole I went to the library and looked you up in Contemporary Authors and it said you married Pamela somebody and have a son.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And from what you said the morning after my accident Pamela does not share your house.’
‘She’s working in New York,’ I said. ‘We went our different ways after our son left home. He had been the keystone of the marriage. With him gone it became apparent that we were two individuals who shared the same roof but little else.’
‘That’s sad. Were you in love when you got married?’
‘I honestly don’t know. At the time we were greatly attracted to each other. She was on the rebound from an advertising executive who had ditched her and I had just come to London and was very lonely. But the question was really taken out of our hands. Pam became pregnant and in those days abortion wasn’t the automatic answer to the problem. And when I see my son today I’m bloody glad it wasn’t. We did what we thought was the right thing at the time and got married, but looking back on it I see that it was the worst reason for a marriage. There’s a thought at the back of both parties’ minds that it was not done through choice or love but merely to satisfy convention. Of course it’s different now; abortion, one-parent families, life together without the blessing of holy matrimony — they’re all quite accepted. I guess Pamela and I never had a chance to find out whether we were in love. Anyway, it’s past history now.’
‘What a waste.’
‘It wasn’t so bad. We did remain friends most of the time, and it’s not too late for her to pick up her career again. She’s very happy in New York, and I expect before long I’ll hear she’s met someone there she can really love.’
‘And you?’
I shrugged. ‘I’ll carry on writing, I suppose. I’d like to travel.’
‘To Abu Sabbah?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘And get married again?’
‘I don’t think so. I think I’d be scared I might find someone I could really love but wouldn’t be able to make her happy. I suppose I feel guilty that it didn’t work with Pam. If I’d had more understanding we might have made a better go of it.’
Ashley looked at me through the candles, which had burned down to half their length.
‘Looking over your shoulder is bad, Jonathan,’ she said. ‘You know the poem about the Moving Finger having writ …’
‘Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy Tears wash out a word of it,’ I quoted.
‘… and it is impossible to alter the past. You should look to the future. Your wife and son sound as though they are making out. It’s time you gave yourself a new start.’
‘In what way?’
‘Enjoy life, to begin with. I guess it’s the champagne and the Macon that’s making me talk more than I ought to, but I’ve hated to see you under such tension.’
I was genuinely surprised. I had believed that I had managed to hide my worries very creditably. ‘What tension?’ I asked unconvincingly.
‘Come on, Jonathan! There are times when stress positively radiates from you even though you try to hide it — and all those empty brandy bottles under the sink! I can’t believe it’s working on your novel that makes you like that. Something’s bugging you … but of course it isn’t my business.’ She paused. ‘You’re not having a doomed love affair or anything like that? It isn’t a woman, is it?’
I couldn’t help laughing. ‘There are other things besides love affairs that screw up peoples’ lives. With me it’s a case of fading talent and a joint and several guarantee, and that’s all I’m going to say about it tonight. I’m really enjoying our evening and we’re not going to spoil it with boring problems. Right?’
‘Right!’ She raised her glass, which I had refilled.
For a moment we sat looking at each other over the rims of our glasses and then I said, ‘Yo
u’ve asked if I have a romantic — for want of a better word — life. Now it’s my turn to ask you.’
‘I have been in love. Once!’ she answered simply. ‘It didn’t work out. Even so, I’m grateful. At least I know what it’s about. But like you I’m enjoying myself tonight and the hell with past regrets.’
The evening seemed to accelerate as we talked and laughed together, and when I got up to go the bathroom I found I was a tiny bit unsteady, though my mind was clear. Excited but clear.
‘Put on another record while I’m away,’ I said. ‘Try the Stan Getz.’
When I returned Ashley was dancing to ‘The Girl from Ipanema’. The candlelight glowed and rippled on the moving gold of her dress.
‘Dance,’ she said, holding out her arms.
We danced easily to bossa nova music, and if the wine we had drunk made us sway a little amorously to the rhythm it also made me feel more confident than I usually did when dancing.
‘What an archaic couple we must look, you in your smoking jacket and me in my long dress, dancing in the dark like a clip from a thirties film,’ said Ashley with a soft laugh.
‘Evergreen, perhaps.’
We danced into the living room, and through the French windows we could see a midnight moon shining above the jagged treetops. As we paused to gaze at it I felt Ashley tighten her arms about me and the softness of her lips against mine.
‘Sorry. I just wanted to do that,’ she said.
‘You beat me to it by a fraction.’
The music continued but the dancing was over. We stood hand in hand looking at each other, both smiling.
‘Do you know why I wanted to do that?’ Ashley asked.
‘Because it’s a romantic moment.’
‘Yes. And?’
I shook my head.
‘Because I’ve fallen in love with you.’
Her words took me by such surprise that I could think of nothing to say.
‘Are you thinking, how boring?’ Ashley asked. ‘Being sort of famous as a writer you must meet lots of literary groupies who fling themselves at you.’
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