Blindness

by Henry Green

  “Oh yes, we could have a gay time there.”

  How different this was to the first time he had sat at the top with her a fortnight ago. Only two weeks and so many things had happened.

  “You will take me, won’t you, John darling?”

  “Yes.”

  Let in for it this time.

  “But I can’t leave Father.”

  “But I thought you said you wanted to go.”

  “I wanted to make sure of you. Besides, why can’t I make believe?”

  “Don’t you want to go with me, then?”

  “Yes. But I can’t leave Father, he wouldn’t be able to do anything without me. Poor Father, he’s helpless, you know. He must have someone to look after him. And anyway you’ld have gone off.”

  “June, why do you say that?”

  “They always do. There was a story I read called The Love of White Hope. The young man in that left his girl whom he had promised to marry, and she committed suicide, which was stupid, and he was so sorry that he drank water for the rest of his life, or something, I forget, which was stupider still. Yes, that was it, he used to drink in his young days, and then after that he gave it up. He was lovely when he was young. You would never take me with you.”

  “But I asked you to come.”

  “Did you?”

  “I said you could.”

  “But you never meant me to.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I know you didn’t.”

  “Why don’t you come, anyway? It will not be for long, probably.”

  “Shall I?”

  A cow bugled dejectedly. He thought that the neck would be stretched out with the mouth half open as though it were going to vomit. Idiotic cows.

  “No, I can’t leave Father.”

  “Well, don’t say now that I didn’t ask you.”

  “But you never meant me to go.”

  Another cow answered from a long way off, and they exchanged dull grief across the hedges and the meadows. The hedges would be black at this time of the year, and the trees bare. The plough creaked leisurely, how slow everything was.

  “I’m not blaming you. You’re not the sort that are meant to stay. Your sort can get rid of anything that displeases them, as Father says.”

  “June, do come.”

  “No.”

  “Then I don’t see what you have to complain of from me.”

  “Poor John.”

  “It’s not as if you are going to have a baby or anything.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Well, is it?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Oh, to be in a town again, to hear a barrel-organ, for instance, across the street through gaps in the traffic! And all the rush there, and the thousands of people. I’d give anything to be there and just listen, so much would be going on, while here . . .”

  “I couldn’t leave Father, could I, now?”

  “No, perhaps not. But I think it is really fine of you to stay with him, I really do.”

  “Fine? I don’t know about that.”

  “Well, I mean, if he attacks you. And he has not done a great deal for you.”

  “It isn’t his fault—besides, I won’t have you say things like that about him. Anyway I shouldn’t have been here if it wasn’t for him.”

  “I am sorry. I did not mean that. Certainly I have much to be grateful to him for.”

  “Why, how do you mean?”

  “For your being here.”

  “Nice John.”

  Why had he made a compliment like that? And why had she swallowed it?

  “What will you do, June?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She never knew, perhaps that was the best. But he was beginning to.

  “Well, remember, if ever you want to run away, come up to London and stay with us. We have not yet arranged to go to London; that is, I have not even broached the subject with Mamma, but I must go, and in the end she and I will go. So just you come when you want.”

  “I will. An’ may I bring Father too?”

  “But—but yes, if you think he needs it.”

  “I know you. An’ what’s wrong with Father? He’s nothing to be ashamed of. You think I don’t notice the way people pass us as if we weren’t there when they meet us on the road? It’s not his fault his being what he is. He was brought to it, and by your lot too.”

  “June, what do you mean?”

  “They were always criticizing him—d’you suppose I don’t know how it was?—always carping away at him till his life wasn’t his own and as if it didn’t belong to him and no one else, and not to everyone as they thought, and finding fault with Mother for being in love with the postman, of course it was wrong, but why shouldn’t she, and them saying that he didn’t do his duty by the parish when he was worth the whole crew of them put together.”

  “But, June . . .”

  “Oh, I’m not blaming you, don’t be frightened. But it was your lot that brought him to it, it . . .”

  These scenes. And after all, flirting with the postman, it was unfortunate, and a squalid story. Now the man was so soaked in the whisky, or whatever it was he drank, that he was a topic of conversation. For that alone one ought to be grateful to him. But Mamma was right for once, it was disgraceful. But it was sad too.

  “. . . poor, poor Father.”

  “Yes, June, I am sorry.”

  “You aren’t really.”

  There was a pause, and then he said:

  “I think perhaps suffering is rather fine, don’t you?”

  Was it? He did not know. At any rate, it was a way out of blindness. She began again:

  “But why wasn’t I allowed to wear nice dresses and stay in the Vicarage and go to dances an’ have some fun? Why have I got to scrub floors all day and cook meals and look after the house with never a word of thanks? It isn’t fair.”

  “But you and I are really rather lucky . . .”

  “Lucky? You . . .”

  His face, that awful face. He didn’t know what scars he had, poor boy. You couldn’t say anything to him, with his blindness an’ all.

  “. . . but not lucky, John.”

  “I can’t express myself. And I cannot understand how you endure your life if you don’t see the fineness in its being as it is.”

  “Endure it? Why, it just goes on. Oh, John, you will take me with you, won’t you?”

  “What is going to happen to Mr. Entwhistle, then?”

  “I can’t leave Father.”

  “Does he want to go to the towns?”

  “No, he says that would be running away, I don’t know what from, though.”

  “You couldn’t leave him, June.”

  “No.”

  “But you will one day.”

  “How do you mean? When he dies? Oh no, he mustn’t die.”

  “I wish you saw that about suffering.”

  What could one say to her? If one was in her position and did not make it into something, it was not worth its own unpleasantness, that must be so. So that if she was too small to understand, she had much better go on the streets and have a good time on and off, if she could get it no other way. She could not come to London with him, even if they went there, for she would only be unhappy. He could never introduce her to his friends, if he educated her she would only be genteel. Her value was her brutality, and she would lose that. Besides, there was the Shame, who was a fool from all accounts, almost an idiot. But you couldn’t let her go back to him in this frame of mind, it was waste. And what would she do when the old man died?—not that he was old, either, but quite young. Probably marry a commercial traveller. He would talk to Mamma. Oh, he was tired, tired.

  There was a roar in the distance.

  “June, what was that?”

  “It’s a football match on the Town ground. Norbury are playing Daunton today, so Mrs. Donner told me. She has a son that plays, wonderful they say he is.”

 
; “That must have been a goal, then. Or a foul.”

  “Oh, John, you mustn’t go.”

  “Where?”

  “Why, to London, of course. What shall I do?”

  A huge voice came as a whisper from across the river. “ ’ere!” it said, frenziedly, “’ere!” And another roar overwhelmed it, then a shrill whistle, and silence.

  “It is no good, June, I must go. And June must go too, if there is anything in a name. Think of your August, and of how exciting that will be. It will come right one day.”

  “Will it?”

  “You see, you cannot leave your Father; what would he come to? It is your duty to stand by him. It is good for one, too.”

  How unpleasant it was giving this sort of good advice. She ought to stay down here, from every point of view it was best that she should. And when the man died he would see what could be done. Yes, he really would.

  “We will write to each other, June, and everything will seem better tomorrow.”

  “It won’t.”

  “Yes, it will. Poor June. But think, we have had one good time anyway, you and I, haven’t we? There is one good thing behind us anyway, isn’t there?”

  “Don’t go, don’t go-o.”

  God, she was weeping. Well, that had finished it, he could not go. Poor June, and what a beast he was.

  “All right, June, I won’t go. It’s all right, June, I’m not going. I’m not going, June, so it’s all right.”

  “I’m so mis-erable.”

  “But I am not going.”

  “It’s” (sniff) “not that.”

  “Aren’t you glad I am not going?”

  “No. Yes.”

  “Well, then?”

  Why did one always talk baby-talk to someone who was crying?

  “There, June, are you better now?”

  “Yes.” Sniff. “The chickens’ll be starving.” Sniff. “I’d better go home.”

  “Oh, you must not go home yet. June, I love you so.”

  “Do you?” Sniff.

  “Yes, I. . .”

  “But, John, I think you’d better go to London, after all. It’ll be better for you there. I was only crying because of everything. I’m better now. . .”

  What did she mean? What was in her mind? What was this, what was this?

  “. . . fond of me, and I must help Father with his book, his wonderful book which will come out next year, we’re hoping. An’ you’ll go to London and do whatever you’re going to do there, I know you will. I expect you will be a great man one day. There’s the chickens. I’ve got to feed them an’ look for eggs, too, for supper. Shall I walk you back or can you get home alone now? For I’ve got to hurry.”

  “No, I can get back alone all right by the roads. But, June, don’t go like this. What does it mean,—I mean how do you . . . ?”

  “Oh, you go to London. Father an’ I’ve got the book to write. He’ll show you all what a mistake you made. So long, John.”

  “Goodbye, Joan.”

  Another roar came from the football crowd, an angry sound. A dog had been barking monotonously for ever so long.

  “But, June,” he shouted, to the wood, “June, what do you—June, I—June. . .”

  But there was no answer, and he began feeling his way down the ride. How strange it all was, what could she mean? One’s head felt in an absolute turmoil, one didn’t know what to think.

  He felt ill.

  *

  Heavy clouds lay above the house, mass upon mass. From the garden rose a black tangle of branches with showers of wandering twigs. And on these would hang necklaces of water-drops caught from the rain, shining with a dull light. Over the river in the dark pile of wood there showed frightened depths of blue, untrusting patches of it, lying here and there. The grass on the lawn was sodden, beaten to a lake of pulp. But over everything was a freshness of morning and of rain that had gone by, and there was a feeling that the trees and the house and the sky were washed, and that this day was yet another page, that there were more to be, so quiet it was.

  She came down the stairs, pausing at the hole on the ninth step, and entered the kitchen, a song on her lips. The room was filled with a wet, grey light that made it kind, and she was happy, so that she thought of sweeping the floor. Father had been much better lately, those pains of his had gone, and perhaps he had been drinking less. How would he be today? It was not good for him, all the gin he drank, but he could not help it. How nice it was this morning. She was sleepy, so sleepy. A wonderful dream last night, about a young man who had made love to her, with blue eyes. Poor John. But it was dusty in here. She went to the cupboard under the stairs and took out the broom.

  The broom swept a wrinkle of dust across the floor, with matches and crumpled paper and dried mud thrusting along together in it. She hummed contentedly and thought about her poor John. Her poor John who had no eyes. Blindness would be a terrible thing to come upon you, and he was so brave about it, always talking as if it were nothing. You couldn’t help liking that in him. Oh, it was so wonderful this morning, and he was wonderful too. He was a gentleman, just as they themselves were for that matter, it was birth that counted, besides he hadn’t treated her as anything else but the same as himself. But there was no going on with him. It wasn’t as if times weren’t difficult enough just with her own set of troubles, his into the bargain were too much. Though if she had gone with him it would have been a score over Mrs. Donner. And what would have become of Father then? He had been so much better lately, quite different from what he had been before. Where was Minnie? And she hustled the dust through the door, driving it into the air in a fan-shaped cloud till it settled on the grass round the flakes of mud and the paper and matches which sat there taking a first look round.

  Now there was no nonsense about George. How those cows did eat, all day long, and when they weren’t eating they were chewing over again. And George had been quite nice lately. He had even said something, rather surly and rude, and she had been rude back. At any rate it was a beginning. Funny George, he was so powerful, his hands looked as if they could hurt you so, not like John with that awful face always screwed up with his scars; you were frightened of him in a horrid way. John was clever right enough, but there wasn’t much to those clever ones. While George could do anything with those hands. The beech tree looked very big this morning, with the damp lying on his trunk in sticky patches. But the weather was clearing, and it felt so fresh this morning. There were the chickens to feed. Roses, roo-zez, all the way.

  Getting some grain out of a cupboard in the kitchen, she went to the hut and let the chickens out. The cock was quiet and dignified this morning, rather sleepy. But as soon as he was in the yard he challenged the world and then scratched over a stone. The hens at once began to bustle about anxiously. When June scattered the grain they hurried to each fresh handful, while the cock asserted himself in the intervals of eating. She laughed at them as she always did, and cried “Chuck, chuck,” and they clucked back with choking voices.

  She sauntered away and stood looking at the trees over the river. There had been a new man on the milk lorry yesterday, which was exciting. He had such a nice smile, and all for her as she leant over the gate. He would be going by again about half-past two, she would be there. Perhaps he had come for good, and had taken the place of the one with the wicked face. He had had two lives, that one. But the new man was a dream, with fair, fair hair and his blue eyes that danced. It was nice to have somebody new. There was a lot new today.

  Funny how sometimes you suddenly saw everything different. The chickens looked just like old women going round to tea-parties, and the cock like that old Colonel who used to call Father “Padre.” They were well out of that. That was John’s life, and—well, he was done with, anyway. Three weeks and not a word, but then that was like him. Probably there would be three letters one after the other in a week’s time, he was all moods. Nice the way the wind blew the sleep from off you.

  Father’s voice from the window:
“Is breakfast ready?”

  “In a minute.”

  “Oh, it’s all right. Don’t hurry.”

  “I won’t.”

  Oh, why was she so happy today? And he was too, you could tell by his voice, he never spoke like that unless things were going well. She hugged her arms. The way that hawk hovered. Where was Minnie?

  She called: “Minnie, Minnie.”

  He would turn up in a minute or two. He was always coming from nowhere, so to speak. You looked down and there he was, rubbing his back against your leg, quite uncanny it was.

  She turned and went back into the house. There was Father coming downstairs.

  “Breakfast isn’t ready yet. I’ve had no time.”

  “That’s all right. Let’s go out.”

  “It’s fine,” he said, “this morning, fine.”

  They walked in silence along the path smothered in weeds. The dripping undergrowth was shining. A sparrow chirped. And there, suddenly, was Minnie.

  “Oh Minnie.”

  “So she has come out too. I don’t hate her so much today. Puss puss.”

  Darling Minnie, so sleek, and looking rather frightened of Father, the cold eyes watched him so closely. Webs of moisture clung to Minnie’s coat, making such a brave show, pearls on black velvet.

  “Minnie.”

  And he lifted a paw.

  “Never mind, leave her alone. We’ve interfered with her hunting. Anyway she’ll want to be killing. Come on.”

  That was a good sign, Father not making a fuss when he saw him. His head was redder than usual, too.

  “What about this Haye?”

  “Oh, we parted.”

  “Parted” had such a wonderful feel about it, and it had been so quiet. They had just said “goodbye.”

  “Good thing too.”

  “He was quite nice.”

  “I don’t think much of that house.”

  They walked on, round and round the old lawn. She had a fluttering inside.

  “How did you know, Father?”

  “Mrs. Haye wrote.”

  “Wrote? What to say?”

  “That you were going out with him. What business was it of hers, what you were about?”

  “She wrote to you?”

  “Damn them all. But you would have done well to have married him. It meant money.”