by Francis King
Suddenly unable to contain himself he burst out:"You might have told me. It’s not as if I would have stopped you getting married."
‘‘Not stopped us—no. But the fuss—"
‘‘Do try to understand—"
‘‘I understand perfectly."
‘‘It was so callous—"
‘‘Oh, very well! If that’s all you think. If that’s all you have to say to your daughter. I came here quite prepared to be friends. I thought everything could go on as it always used to. But if you’re not prepared to bury the hatchet—if that’s how you feel—"
‘‘Well, naturally—I’m glad to see you—but I’m not going to pretend—"
‘‘Oh, you make me sick!"
As she ran out he called after her." Where are you going?" But there was no reply. Going to the bathroom window, he saw her climb into an open two-seater car in which Eric Anwood waited. For a while the two of them seemed to argue; then they drove off.
He dipped one hand into the warm, soapy water and pulled out the plug. There was a loud, guggling sound. It was only then that he realised that half of his face was still unshaved.
Croft and the General went to the New Forest to watch birds. Between them they had a rucksack, some binoculars, and a car. It was the first of May, spring, with the promise of bluebells and anemones. The promise is always more satisfactory than the fulfilment. There had been a hint of last night’s frost in the morning air: but now the warmth was expanding, was mellowing; it was possible to walk without a coat, without a shirt even. Everything was sappy, sticky, green. The trees made bowery arcades through which the sun sauntered. There was a twitter of birds, a scurry in the undergrowth. A pleasant, sylvan scene. But no dryads, no Pan—only Southampton matrons opening portable gramophones and picnic baskets at the end of each vista. Children jumped on to logs, screeched at each other, played hide-and-seek. And every now and then voices called to them:"Not too far, dears. Don’t get lost."
Not too far: that was the great thing. Keep to the paths and picnic where others had left then picnic paper. And in case the solitude and the silence should suddenly become in-tolerable and one had to escape, two or three hundred yards away were parked the Morrises and the Austins and the Hillmans.
Croft and the General passed many such little groups, set in a circle round thermos flasks, sandwiches, beer bottles. The women wore fur coats, and felt hot in them. The men smoked pipes and clasped their knees as they leant against tree trunks. The children yelped. Sometimes there was a wireless; more often a gramophone. In such cases, no birds sang.
Not far off ran the arterial road, loud with traffic and hedged with dust. Beside it, at intervals, were stands with brooms in them for putting out fires. There were also picnickers, in cars. Not too far. Don’t get lost.
But Croft and the General cut away from this worn aorta. There were brambles now, to tear silk stockings. And if one was not careful one might find oneself up to the ankles in squelching mud. They were alone. The only intruder was a distant voice from a distant wireless. They both sighed. And then, with the irresponsibility which afflicts one when one knows that there is no one looking, Croft ran forward and swung himself on to a tree trunk. For a few seconds he stayed there, straining, his muscles tense, then the whole thing cracked and came away in his hands. He was on the ground, on his stomach. They laughed.
Later, Croft exclaimed:"Oh, look! Gypsies!" In a dell stood a caravan, with a horse cropping grass beside it.
‘‘Not on your life! Nothing so romantic."
Coming closer, they examined the yellow and green paint, the frilled curtains, the bunches of flowers daubed round the door."Week-enders," the General murmured.
Bacon sizzled. Outside, a girl whose hair was tied into a scarf, whose buttocks protruded from slacks, cooked over a spirit stove. Some hot fat spat on to her hand and she exclaimed:"Oh, hell!" Then she saw the General and Croft and scowled.
On the other side a fat, elderly man with a beard was washing under the aims. He looked up and grinned, without friendliness."Good morning." The nipples on his chest were blue with cold.
‘‘Good morning... That’s a nice way of spending a holiday."
‘‘No holiday. I’m here to paint." He took up his towel and disappeared into the privacy of the caravan. From the other side the girl could be heard bawling:" Leo. Oh, do hurry up, for Christ’s sake! This bacon’s burnt to a cinder!… Ow!"
‘‘What’s the matter?"
‘‘It spits so bloody much."
Croft and the General moved on. Behind them they could hear the man’s voice:"No privacy!"
‘‘You’ve said it. And me looking such a sight. Thank goodness I wasn’t washing."
Farther on they suddenly came to a slope. At the bottom were alders and sallows and tufts of rush. And a stream which here made a small, circular pool. The grass was long, and intensely green, and lush.
‘‘What about a bathe?" the General queried.
‘‘A bathe?"
‘‘Why not?"
‘‘It’ll be horribly cold."
‘‘Nonsense. I’ve been bathing since February. I’m going in anyway." He began to strip off his clothes, throwing them into a heap. Then naked, he splashed his way into the centre and began to kick about."It’s lovely," he spluttered."Beautifully warm. Why don’t you come in?"
Croft hesitated and then undressed with his back to the General. His pants he turned back to front and fastened with his tie. Then he walked, slowly, shiveringly, downwards.
‘‘Oh, come on!" the General encouraged. Catching him by the shoulders he ducked him twice. They began to scuffle. Horribly hearty, Croft thought. I might be back at Rugby. But he enjoyed it, without wishing to.
‘‘Race you to that log and back."
‘‘But I say—you’ve got a start."
More splashings, laughter, shouts. For a long time it continued, while their bodies changed from blue to pink and then to a glowing red. They began panting.
At last the General said:"Oh, well! All good things must end. I’m getting out."
As Croft followed him the General looked around, and immediately sniggered.
‘‘What’s the matter?"
‘‘Your pants!"
Blushing angrily Croft looked downwards. The tie had run, staining the pants red, white, and blue, in patches." Goodness!" Then he, too, began laughing. But he was feeling cold now, and as the wind dried him his flesh seemed to become hard and scaly."Wish I had a towel," he grumbled.
‘‘Take some exercise!" The General leapt from one tree trunk to another, slapping his thighs and whooping like a schoolboy. Oh, this is too much, Croft thought. This really is too much. But the cold and the prospect of getting into his clothes wet made him join in. He began to race round the pool, pursued by the General, who had broken off a sallow and was trying to belabour him. They both shrieked, whistled, and emitted terrible cat-calls.
Then suddenly, in the middle of this pursuit, they were conscious of being watched. They both drew up, breathless. Looked at each other. And with one accord whisked behind a bush.
It was the girl from the caravan, with a pail. She stood open-mouthed, incredulous. Then, going down to the stream with a shrug of her shoulders she began to draw some water. She had the bemused expression of one who has just woken from a vivid dream. Eventually, looking about her, she disappeared.
‘‘Oh, I say! How frightful!" Croft hurriedly began to put on clothes.
‘‘Why frightful? What does it matter?" The General lay down on the grass."My dear Mark, one worries far too much about the sort of impression one is likely to make on people. In this case it’s unnecessary. You’ll never see that woman again. And anyway, this is the way one should bathe." Getting to his feet, he began to dress slowly.
One couldn’t help admiring him, Mark thought. With anyone else the whole business would have been too self-consciously back-to-nature. But apart from his first reactions he had really enjoyed it. It had been worth while. He sudde
nly felt a great affection for the General.
Eating a sandwich he said:"About the Amazon business. I’ve been thinking. If you’re still game, I should awfully like you to come."
The General looked up."Thanks. I’m still keen." Then he stared outwards, towards the crests of a mound of chestnuts, smiling.
‘‘Good."
‘‘I hope you’re not going to have a lot of newspaper publicity."
‘‘Good God, no. That’s the one thing I don’t want. Of course, my publishers want to make a big thing of it. Interviews. Headlines. All that sort of thing. But it’s more than just a stunt. I’m not going just so that I can come back and write a book about it. If I write a book, it will be incidental to the main business of finding that tributary we’re looking for."
The General nodded his head in tacit approval.
It was late when they returned home, and cold. Croft drove through a faint, clinging mist which made him want to cough. The General sat beside him. They felt satisfied, as grown-ups seldom are. It is usually only children who feel this sense of fulfilment at the end of a day. Lovers too. One is wonderfully replete. Nothing is lacking.
Croft broke the silence."Cynthia must be getting rather worried. I said that we’d be back for tea. She had a meeting to-day. I wish she could have come." Then he thought: No. I’m glad she didn’t It would have spoiled everything. And immediately he felt guilty.
The General frowned."I suppose you’re going to get married soon."
‘‘Not till I return from the expedition." Suddenly, he turned to the figure in the twilight beside him:"You disapprove?"
‘‘What of? Certainly not of Cynthia. I think she’s very charming." (Liar, liar, he accused himself.)"Of course, I sense—a certain hostility—my feelings not exactly reciprocated—"
‘‘Oh, nonsense!"
‘‘Oh, yes."
Croft let it pass, knowing that denials were useless." But Cynthia apart—?"
‘‘I don’t think any artist should get married. It seems to me a mistake. Marriage incessantly gets between one and one’s work. Of course, one may surmount the obstacle. But if one succeeds it’s in spite, rather than because—"
Surprised, Croft cut in."An artist perhaps. But I’m hardly—"
‘‘I’m using the term in its widest sense. Your occupation—like mine—like the artist’s—demands a complete singleness of purpose. A wife distracts."
‘‘Oh, no. Not always. Quite the reverse. A wife helps. And later when one is old—"
‘‘Ah, yes. When one is old. One wants companionship and someone to keep one out of draughts. Marry then by all means. By then your work will be finished."
For a while Croft said nothing, his eyes fixed on the curve of the road. Then at last:"You speak from experience?"
‘‘Perhaps." The General took a rug from the back seat and put it first of all over Croft’s knees and then over his own."You see, either one allows the obstacle to remain—and one’s work suffers. Or one rides over it."
‘‘And the obstacle suffers?"
‘‘Yes." Closing his fingers round Croft’s wrist he asked:"Do you really think you would make a good husband?"
‘‘Probably not." He laughed, without humour."But you see—I shall make a very good father. I’m certain of that."
‘‘You! A good father!" The conversation had heaved upwards: they were now being flippant."But my dear Mark—with your temper—"
‘‘I don’t think my temper really matters."
‘‘But surely patience is the one thing one must have."Without it—"
‘‘It’s important, certainly. Oh, yes. But it’s not as important as all that. The really important thing is—well—sympathy. I can think of no better word. Sympathy for the essential pathos of childhood."
‘‘The pathos of childhood!"
‘‘Yes. The pathos of childhood. That’s the whole secret. One must acknowledge it. One mustn’t pretend it doesn’t exist. Of course, there’s nothing one can do about it. Nothing. But one must see that it’s there."
‘‘Well, really—I’ve brought up two children—" the General began. Then he stopped, and said nothing more. I’ve brought up two children and I don’t know what you’re talking about. A lot of nonsense. The pathos of childhood! You’re using words which Cynthia has used. You don’t really think that.
Suddenly, and for no reason, he felt very tired and cold. He drew the rug up to his chin, stretched out his legs, yawned. As he moved, he could hear the leather of his seat creak noisily. And each time they met another car its headlamps made his eyes ache and prick. Eventually, he closed them, became drowsy, slept. Far away, he could hear Croft’s voice:
‘‘I think I’ll ring Cynthia from here. I don’t want her to worry."
She was in the train, and she was feeling sick. It was years since she had got over that. The last time had been when she was travelling to Aunt Mathilde in Lyons, and in the lavatory she had found the cutting about the General. And now she was making another journey, perhaps equally momentous, and she was a child once more, counting, counting ceaselessly, and saying,"Oh, God, don’t let me be sick! Don’t let me be sick!" Nothing changed, or changed very little. If one looked for them, one found endless repetitions. Life going over the same theme again and again, with variations. The excitement lay in the variations. Last time she had stood in the corridor and clutched a brass rail with gloved hands. This time she sat in a crowded third-class carriage, reading the Daily Sketch. The same, but different. A variation on the old theme.
A woman had taken a leather bag from under the seat, and produced a cardboard plate, an orange, and a small silver knife. She made a careful incision in the orange, so that the skin was divided into four quarters. Then she tugged at each in turn. There was a pungent, sickly smell, which filled one’s mouth with saliva. Piece by piece she devoured the orange, spitting the pips into the palm of her hand. Then she took out a crumpled handkerchief and wiped her fingers on it. She sighed.
Shirley’s nostrils were full of the sharp, pricking stench. She wondered if she would have to go out to be sick. A child leant across her and said:"Marmee! Marmee! Look! The sea!" And the mother said:"Oh, leave off, do! Sit straight!" She had seen how Shirley had recoiled.
Out in the corridor it was unpleasantly windy: sweet papers scraped along the floor, like dead leaves; and her hair kept on blowing into her mouth and eyes. A soldier, passing, pressed unnecessarily close against her. She could not see his face, but his neck was mauve with acne. She tried to think of other things. What shall I say? What shall I do? Shall I say:"Here I am?" Letters were so much easier. Somehow, it was possible to say those things in letters. But face to face. I might dry up. Or faint. Anything.
He might not even be there, she suddenly thought. I may arrive at an empty house. Or Judith. That would be really awful. A nice fool I’d look. Eighteen-and-six wasted, thrown away. Then she felt angry. Fancy thinking about the rail-fare at a time like this. Isn’t that typical? When to-day I shall see the General. Or will I? Perhaps he’ll have me thrown out.
The train was running beside a river. The river broadened and became an estuary, green with conifers, flecked with buoys and sails. Small ships were moored on it, gulls flapped. And now on either side rose hills, on which were piled houses and narrow streets, like sugar confectionery. Oh, well, thank God for that. This must be Dartmouth. I won’t be sick now.
But in the ferry she wasn’t quite so certain. It pitched, and churned out thick, sulphurous clouds of smoke. The engine made a continuous plop-plop-plop. They were all crowded together; the sea was yellowy green. Sickly.
But I shall see the General, she thought. This was her charm against the elements, her nausea, the never-ending pushing. I shall see the General. And all shall be well. Oh, yes, all shall be well. It must be. She felt, then, an overmastering, exquisite optimism. She was completely certain there would be no mistake.
A boy in stained dungarees, with a light-coloured fur on his upper lip, leapt out on
to the landing-stage and began to moor them. One by one the women stepped out, helped by their consorts. Shirley gave a jump, disdaining the platform, and almost caught her ankle on a winch. If she had she would have been in the water. But she did not seem to realise the danger she had escaped.
As she climbed briskly up the hill a voice called:"You’ve left your suit-case, miss."
That was a silly thing to do. Blushing, she had to go back.
The house stood at the top of a creek. It was square and white, like a box, with a drive too steep and narrow for cars. In any case the General did not possess one. Along the front ran a veranda with hanging pots of ferns and rose-trellises. The black tiles gleamed in the morning sunshine.
She thought: Well, here I am. I’m for it. But strangely, she no longer felt nervous or apprehensive. She was still buoyed up by an incredible optimism. She began to crunch up the drive, her suit-case in her hand. Primroses were out, and a few daffodils. For no reason she stopped to pick a primrose and put it in her buttonhole. She did not realise that it clashed violently with the red of her coat.
One had to pass the back door before reaching the front. And as she did so two dogs leapt out at her, barking and wagging their tails. She started back, dropping her case. But they were chained, she realised. She walked on. Hanging upon a line were a pair of bathing-trunks of a dull magenta colour, caked with salt. She noticed the triangular piece of white cloth at the fork, thinking: Those must be his.
Clark answered the door. He was bald except for two tufts of white hair above each ear, and wore a green baize apron. His hands were twisted with arthritis. For a while he stared at her, as if in suspicion, before he asked:"Yes?"
‘‘May I see the General, please?"
‘‘What name?"
‘‘Miss Forsdike."
She thought: How dark it is in here. He had left her standing in a cupboard-like hall. Almost as soon as one crossed the threshold the stairs began steeply. There were old-framed maps on the wall, the head of an antelope, and two crossed oars. On a table which had a top of engraved brass stood a pot with a cactus in it, a Bradshaw, and some fishing-flies. The light had a plain white porcelain shade.