To the Dark Tower

by Francis King

  She must have waited a long time. She felt nothing now, not even optimism. She sat down on a wicker chair, and crossed one leg over the other, and powdered her nose. After that there seemed little left to do. She examined the brass top of the table. It’s Indian, she thought. There were peacocks on it, and tigers, and rosettes. With one finger she traced the pattern.

  Clark came back."The Master’s in the garden. Would you mind going out there?" He opened a door behind which iron steps descended.

  ‘‘Thank you."

  As she climbed down her nostrils were filled with smells of herbs. There was a lawn, two beehives, a seat painted white, a shed painted green, a herbaceous border, and a gravel path."Where is he?" she asked.

  ‘‘At the end, Miss Forster."

  ‘‘Miss Forsdike," she corrected.

  He looked puzzled, and left her. With deliberation, not hurrying, she made her way down the path, expecting at any moment to see him, on a seat, beside a tree, gardening perhaps. But all that she found was a wooden contraption, like a crow’s-nest, about twenty feet high. At the top was a boxed-in platform; steps led up to it. This was the end of the garden; before her was a wall, with a pear tree against it, and nothing else. But where was the General?

  Suddenly a voice said:"Do come up. This is my eyrie—my tower. I sunbathe here. Can you manage the steps?" He now stood upright, fastening a dressing-gown about him."I suppose it’s that little B.B.C. matter. Do come up. It’s quite safe. I had it built so that I could sunbathe in privacy."

  She had been hesitating at the bottom. But now, clasping the rail, she began to climb. For some reason the little effort required made her extraordinarily breathless, so that she stopped twice, at the fifth and at the ninth step. At last she emerged; he faced her. On the floor was a towel, on which he had presumably been lying, and a copy of The Times. He put out a hand:"How d’you do, Miss Forster?" At that moment a gust of wind plucked at the newspaper and almost sent it over the rail. The General lunged outwards and grabbed it."How d’you do, Miss Forster?" he repeated.

  There could be no mistake."Not Miss Forster," she corrected in a dry, harsh voice."Miss Forsdike."

  ‘‘But you’re from the B. B.C.?"

  ‘‘No."

  He tightened the cord of his dressing-gown, staring at her." Then who the hell are you?" She saw the question, unspoken as yet." I’m Shirley Forsdike," she said, feeling suddenly giddy on that high platform.

  ‘‘Shirley Forsdike! Then you’re—"

  She cut in loudly, fiercely."I’m the person who wrote you those letters."

  For some time neither of them said anything. They were both conscious that the newspaper had again been blown against the railing. But they did not attempt to rescue it. They simply watched its progress as it was torn, stage by stage, between the bars. Then it got free and fluttered downwards like a bird.

  ‘‘I see," he said.

  And almost at the same time she began to explain." I had to come here. I had to. I’ve tried so long to forget about—Oh, it’s madness, I know. But, don’t you see—this is the only way that I can hope to get cured. It’s like an illness, don’t you see. I had to see you. Oh, it’s been awful—I’ve been so miserable..."

  She felt she was going to burst into tears. The nights when she could not sleep in her room in the hotel. And the way food nauseated her."You eat nothing," said the two old ladies, her friends. And beside her bed the sleeping-tablets." Only one, remember." But one was nothing. It made her drowsy, incapable of action: that was all. He must see all this, she thought. He must realise. He must see how thin I’ve become, and my hair is so brittle. And these awful rings round my eyes. He must see.

  ‘‘Could you wait, please?" He took up the towel." I must go and get some clothes on. You know your way to the house. I’ll be down in a minute. Then we must talk. We must try and get all this clear."

  He waited for her, ironically, to descend before he did. As she passed she noticed that he was wearing red-leather slippers. And nothing else, she thought. Slippers and a dressing-gown.

  She was shown into a darkened room. Clark, grumbling under his breath, began to tug at heavy curtains. Apparently, the room was seldom used. There was damp in it, so that one could readily believe that if one took up the carpet there would be cockroaches beneath. But everything was beautifully polished: the fire-dogs shone.

  She sat down, feeling sick again and strangely hungry. Taking out the mirror from her bag she thought: Oh, I do looks a sight. Dreadful. The rims of her eyes were red, inflamed, the pores of her skin enlarged. Tears started to prick at either side of her nose, her throat ached. Oh, damn!

  This was Lucy’s room. It was her portrait that hung above the mantelpiece. She smiled blandly, in green silk, her hair in a snood. Consciously pre-Raphaelite. The furniture, too, was hers. It had been left to her by a rich aunt. The General had always hated it. There was a Queen Anne escritoire, a set of occasional tables which fitted into each other, another table inlaid with birds, an ivory musical-box, and a hideous Edwardian lamp—Truth, bearing a torch to which was fitted a pink electric light bulb. Lucy had never lived in this house; she had never been into this room. But it was hers, all hers. A dedication to her memory. The General never sat there.

  Shirley began to wander, aimlessly, round and round the room. The curtains were faded William Morris, with lilies on them. The stuff was thin. Next, she tried the musical-box, but it only whirred, without tune. Beside it was a silver frame with a photograph of two borzois in it, and a horse’s hoof, rimmed with silver."Clara, 1901-1918." It was intended to be used as an ash-tray.

  Suddenly she saw a mantilla comb, its handle set with brilliants. The teeth were very sharp. She took it in her hands and turned it over, over and over, thinking: I suppose she wore it. All that red hair. I’d look absurd in it. For a moment she stuck it into her bun. Then, in exasperation, she pulled it out again. It was of delicate tortoise-shell.

  Footsteps descending. In alarm, she swung round. As she did so the comb snapped in two. A nervous reaction. Quickly she put it back on the piano, in such a way that the break could not be seen. Then she waited.

  But no one came in.

  Upstairs in his room the General slipped into his clothes, slowly, meditatively. He thought: Now what am I to do? What on earth am I to do? He felt peevish, irritable. Sitting on his bed he began to scratch himself—his shin and then the inside of his thigh. The sensation was not unpleasant.

  Odd that she should have arrived at just that moment. Lying up there in the sun he had suddenly felt an appalling loneliness. Partly, of course, it was Judith’s letter. It had arrived that morning, the first since her brief visit. The writing was rounds, unformed, childish; there were misspellings and horrible blots. But as far as she could express herself on paper, the tone was bleak.

  I’ve lost her, he had thought. Irrevocable. For the first time he saw the magnitude of the thing. Lying on a towel, his back to the sun, he brooded blackly. She’s the only soul I’ve ever really loved. The relationship was perfect. Quite perfect. It was perfect because it was set perfectly within its limits. Neither of us ever trespassed. There were privacies. We had our privacies which we mutually respected. That seldom happens. You love a person, and the person demands more. And you demand more. And there’s dissatisfaction all round.

  It was my fault of course. I did trespass. I suddenly walked into her territory. Jealous, I suppose. And the whole thing was immediately ruined, finished.

  It was unusual for him to be so depressed. The solitude, on which only a few hours ago he had been congratulating himself, now irked him. I’m completely alone, he thought. Completely independent. I thought it would be fun, but it isn’t. Croft hasn’t answered either of my two letters. God knows what has become of Frank. There’s S. N. G., of course. A troublesome ghost. As dead as Lucy. No, even he is lost, lost utterly.

  He thought of his conversation in the car with Croft after their jaunt to the New Forest. Marriage is an obstacle. No
artist should get married. And Croft had said:" But when you’re old..." Am I old? I suppose I am. When you’re old, and your work is done. Ah, that’s the time.

  He had sat up moodily on the towel. Why am I thinking all this? What’s the matter with me? I’ll write Judith a conciliatory letter with a cheque. That’ll bring her round. And in two months it will be the Amazon, with Croft. The thought of the expedition made him feel strangely excited.

  All this was passing through his mind when she had appeared. She was worse than he had ever imagined. Far, far worse. Her hands were raw and red, her neck sinewy. But—yes—he had welcomed her. At that moment he had welcomed her. After one of Lucy’s flirtations, when he had taken her to task, she had sighed:"Yes, I know, darling. It was very naughty of me. But one does like to be loved." He had thought it a particularly vain and inept remark at the time. But now he saw what she meant.

  He stopped scratching and pulled on a pair of socks. Then he methodically tucked his shirt between his legs and reached for his trousers. As he took them, Judith’s letter fell out of one of the pockets. He left it, on the floor.

  At the bottom of the stairs, instead of going into the drawing-room immediately, he went out into the garden and cut a rose for his buttonhole. Then he felt angry. It was a long time since he had done that.

  She rose to her feet, but sat down again at his brief gesture. She waited. Hitching up his trousers below the knees he lowered himself into a chair covered in pink satin. The chair creaked. There was something ridiculous in the sight of him in it.

  ‘‘Well?" he said.

  ‘‘I’m afraid you must be angry with me. I ought never to have come, I know. You must think me mad. If only I could explain... It seemed the only way out, you see. You never answered my letters. I was desperate, I felt I had to see you." She began biting her handkerchief. The spectacle nauseated him.

  ‘‘I’m not angry," he said."A little surprised, perhaps. What do you want? What on earth can I do for you? I simply don’t—"

  ‘‘I told you in my last letter."

  For a moment he looked puzzled. Then quietly, but with great emphasis:"No. That’s impossible. You must see it is."

  ‘‘But why? Oh, please. For one night—"

  ‘‘No."

  ‘‘But why not?"

  ‘‘The whole idea is grotesque, horrible."

  ‘‘It would cost you very little. And if it meant my life—my whole life—"

  He looked profoundly shocked; he was shocked. Stiffly he replied:"One has a certain integrity."

  ‘‘Oh, integrity!" She sat back in the chair, her lips trembling. Her fingers wrenched at the damp handkerchief.

  ‘‘But don’t you see—surely you see—it simply wouldn’t work. Grotesque. Utterly grotesque." He repeated the word to impress it on her.

  ‘‘Oh, yes! Perhaps!" Her voice jarring, grating, jerking out of control, she went to the window. Outside she could see the river with sails on it—calm, green, distant."Grotesque. Oh, yes—it would be that. But wonderful—wonderful also."

  ‘‘Grotesque and wonderful?"

  She swung round."Why not? From the sublime to the ridiculous—it’s not as far as you think. They lie side by side. They mix. At any moment the sublime may tip suddenly downwards into the pit. And then you begin to laugh." She spoke hurriedly, quoting from her last letter, which had never been posted. She, herself had come instead."I think you’re too ready to see the ridiculous in the sublime—too ready to laugh. That’s the trouble with so many people. And as for looking for the sublime in the ridiculous—oh, no—never! Oh, can’t you see—can’t you see how wonderful it would be—the gesture—the magnanimity of the thing—"

  Strange, he thought. That’s S. N. G. Uncanny. His voice, his words. But he only shook his head."I still say—no. Never. Never, never, never."

  She sank into the chair her eyes slowly filling with tears."Then I’ve made this journey for nothing," she said.

  Suddenly he found himself pitying her."I’m sorry," he said."You must understand. I only wish there was some other way of helping you. Oh, don’t cry."

  Clutching the arms of the chair she suddenly broke down. Her body shook. The words jerked out of her:"It’s-so-hopeless. I-don’t-know-what-to-do. I’m-so-unhappy."

  He went across to her chair, but could not bring himself to touch her."Is there anything? Is there any way? I mean—"

  For a long time she was inarticulate with grief. He waited, walking sometimes to the window, patting her shoulder, trying to comfort her. Then, wiping her eyes on the moist, frayed handkerchief, she said:" There! I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that. It just happened. I’ve never done that sort of thing before. I’m sorry."

  He took a cigarette and lit it. Thinking: Of course I should never have consented to this talk. I might have known. How plain she looked! Her face blotchy, eyes red. He could not stop gazing at her, fascinated. The raw hands were horrible.

  ‘‘Don’t make me go yet," she pleaded, misinterpreting his movement for a cigarette."Let me stay. Let me see you for a little. A week. Five days. Three. Oh, please. Three days of your company. Please."

  For a while he thought, staring past her, out of the window. Then he said:"I’ll make a bargain with you."

  ‘‘A bargain?"

  ‘‘You shall have your three days. But afterwards—you must promise never to badger me again. No letters. No visits. You understand?"

  ‘‘I understand."

  ‘‘Well?"

  ‘‘I accept, of course."

  ‘‘Where are you staying? Perhaps you would like to go to your hotel. Then you can come back here for lunch."

  ‘‘I have no hotel, yet. I just grabbed a suit-case and came. It was the impulse of a moment. But I’ll find somewhere."

  ‘‘I doubt if you will. This is the week of the regatta. The hotels are full. Perhaps you’d better stay here. I’ll get Clark to make up a bed."

  ‘‘Oh, thank you, thank you!"

  She clutched at his hand, smiling, trembling. But he drew away and rang the bell.

  Clark disapproved, of course. His presence alone was sufficient to make dinner a fiasco. He moved about sourly, while they sat in silence. The meal was fastidious, but sparse, the room cold. The General had dressed. He noticed how blue her shoulders were, how bony; her nails were brittle; she had rouged her cheeks inexpertly. All this, and Clark’s unspoken disapproval, irritated him. He found he could not eat. Instead, he watched her every movement in impotent disgust.

  She ate well. It was the first time that she had had an appetite for many months. When he said:"Will you have some more?" pointing to the joint with the carving-knife, she said:"Yes, please," and passed her plate. This mere act, her hand pushing the plate towards him, made him furious. He piled her plate with meat to see if she could get through it. She did.

  As she ate he listened to the slow click-click of her jaw, the methodical chumping. Once she put her napkin to her mouth and hiccoughed behind it. Later, eating an orange, she let the juice run down her chin in a manner which sickened him. Her fingers became soppy with it.

  It was not a good beginning. And when, as he rose from the table, he saw her undignified scramble to find the shoe which she must have taken off during the meal, then he all but told her to go.

  In the drawing-room he suggested some music."Oh, yes," she exclaimed in delight." Oh, please. Do play."

  ‘‘I hadn’t meant that. I was thinking of the gramophone." He was politely cold.

  ‘‘But you can play. Oh, please." She went to the piano and opened it." Mozart. I know he’s your favourite composer. Please play some Mozart."

  My vanity, he thought. Why do I do it? Granados. Someone worthless. At least, I shall deny her Mozart. He began to play one of the Goyescas, without interest. She stood beside him.

  At the end she said:"Oh, lovely! I do love Mozart!"

  He slammed down the lid."Let’s have the gramophone."

  ‘‘I sleep on the terrace. You mustn’t be f
rightened if you see me prowling about."

  ‘‘Of course not. But on the terrace—in May! How could you?"

  They were talking at the bottom of the stairs. Her room was on the ground floor, his upstairs. Clark had just passed with a hot-water bottle for her.

  ‘‘Well—good-night."

  ‘‘Good-night"

  She put up her face at him, oddly, as though expecting to be kissed. The eyes were bright, feverish; the lips trembled apart, disclosing small, discoloured teeth. She gripped the banister.

  ‘‘Good-night," he repeated.

  Later, lying out on the terrace, while one by one the lights on the opposite hillside went out, and a ship hooted, and a car moved along the road below with a swivel of headlamps, he felt strangely replete. He was not certain whether this sensation came from the conjunction of stars and sound and fragrances, or from her presence. For a long time he lay there, wondering. It was very late; something scurried in a bed of ferns; a chill breeze blew across his face with a tang of salt. Drawing his blanket up to his chin he yawned. Oh, Lord, Lord! Lying in the sun that morning everything had seemed finished. And now lying in the moon...

  Suddenly turning his head towards the house he noticed that her light still burned.

  The second day. In the cove he bathed while she watched him. Far away, the ferry bumped across the river, children called, a ship glided slowly, slowly towards the sea. She lay on the warm sand. Spreading five fingers. A moment ago he had sat where her fingers were spread. She looked out to the figure climbing the slippery rock, the Tower. Oh, the implacable ache of love. The lust of the eye. Watching, watching incessantly. That the image may be sealed, that the negative be made positive. Hoarding a few careless postures, flex of elbows, a twirl of the wrist. The lingering, unending hunger.

  Afterwards they walked into the town for ices. Sitting in the crowded restaurant Shirley plunged her spoon into the mound of strawberry and then put it to her mouth. And immediately, even as her teeth began to ache at the impact, she was filled with an immeasurable nostalgia, a thirst for the past. She was a child, and this was a café in Fontainebleau, with a red-and-white striped awning and tables out in the street, and the General was her father. And with this transfiguration came all the certainty and faith of childhood: life ceased to be an endless variation on a worn-out theme; but life itself was many themes, many recurring themes. And the past was here, now, not a tyrant, but an ally. The past was in the flavour of the ice-cream, and in the quality of the light, and in the ache of her teeth. And slowly, slowly, her eyes began to fill with tears.