The woman made an extraordinary appearance, dressed as she was in her best prewar garb, even to a pair of worn high button boots, a whaleboned lace collar and a broad hat trimmed with artificial roses. She sat astride like a man, with her heavy black skirt and cumbrous petticoats tucked above her lean knees. As the pony came half leaping, half sliding down the steep sandbank her long figure rose and sank in the saddle with movements inelegant but utterly assured; and the great hat, secured to her tightly coiled hair with a pair of long jet-headed pins, flapped its brim faithfully at every leap. There, thought Isabel ironically, go I in ten more years.
There were loud greetings, and while they were all shaking hands the Lermonts appeared in a buggy lurching over the rim of the hollow from the direction of the north beach. Inside the McBain’s parlor, with hats and coats off and Isabel’s walking shoes exchanged for the slippers, they inspected each other carefully. The Lermonts were younger than the Kahns, who appeared to be about forty. Lermont, whose wife addressed him as Charlie, was a tall fellow in the late twenties with a strong-jawed face and large light gray eyes. Mary Lermont was twenty-five, and although they had been married since she was nineteen they had no children. She was island-born, she told Isabel, one of the Giswells at Number Three. Her figure was that of a well-filled young woman who in a few more years would be inclined to flabbiness. She laughed loudly at trifles, she appeared to have one of those shallow minds that reflect each passing thought like mirrors; but when she smiled at Charlie there was in her heart-shaped face an expression of tenderness that was touching.
Conversation proved much easier than Isabel had expected. She had only to ask a question about some feature of island life and she could relax and hear an answer at great length, compounded of all the voices in the room, but chiefly of Mrs. Kahn’s. The lightkeeper’s wife talked in a loud voice approaching a scream, and at every statement she leaned forward and thrust her clasped hands down between her knees, giving Isabel the full blaze of those feral eyes. In spite of her sallow features and bony person she gave an impression of great vitality, and it was clear that she was the ruler of West Light. She told a story of several years before when her husband and Joe, his assistant, fell ill with ptomaine poisoning. She had felt ill herself but she was able to get about, and for six consecutive nights she had clambered up the steps of the lighthouse to rewind the mechanism that revolved the great mirrors around the lamp. The weights ran down every three hours and it took five hundred turns of the crank to bring them up to the top again.
“But,” cried Isabel, “you have a phone—why didn’t you ask Mr. McBain to send someone to help?”
“What!” screamed Mrs. Kahn. “And have one o’ those fellers from the crew house messin’ about our light?” She threw herself back in the chair and laughed, slapping her knees and sweeping the room with that restless and furious stare. And everybody smiled and nodded, McBain with the rest, as if the notion of anybody but Martha Kahn climbing those endless winding stairs and cranking the heavy weights were too funny for words.
The talk went on in this effortless way. They were eager to tell Isabel all about Marina, and when they moved to the adjoining dining room the flow of gossip continued over the food. Isabel found a keen relish in both. It was wonderful to eat something that she had not cooked herself. The lifesaving establishment did not enjoy the quality and variety of the rations that came to the wireless station. It was one of the reasons why, apart from Carney, the islanders envied and despised the wireless men, who got such high pay and such fat rations and did their work sitting comfortably indoors. Yet the people at Main Station lived well. The cows provided fresh milk and cream and butter. They kept hens and had fresh eggs. From time to time McBain and some of his men went off in a surfboat and caught a supply of codfish and halibut. The dish of the evening was in fact baked halibut, served with a sauce of thick cream and chopped hard-boiled eggs; and it was garnished with potatoes and turnips and parsnips grown on the island, and not brought withered and tasteless in sacks from the mainland as the wireless station’s vegetables were. For dessert there was a shortcake, heaped and drowned in a rich flood of wild strawberries, picked and preserved by Mrs. McBain in the summer past.
It was all delicious; and when the company removed once more to the parlor, and Skane appeared, Isabel sat back in her chair with the comfortable feeling of one who has been well fed and is now prepared to accept the evening’s entertainment in a benign spirit of tolerance. Skane wore the soiled duck trousers, the sea boots, the worn radio-officer’s jacket with the frayed sleeve braid that she had seen him wearing so often. He was shaved and his hair was combed to a thick gleaming fall at the back of his neck; but she was a little indignant that he had made no effort to dress for the party when even McBain had gone to the trouble of a boiled shirt and a carefully pressed suit of Sunday clothes. She felt that Skane owed it to the prestige of the wireless station to make a better appearance on occasions—and surely this was an occasion?
She was surprised to see him falling into animated conversation with the Kahns and Lermonts. She remembered Matthew saying that the island people disliked him, considering him “uppity.” On this point she was agreed, for she could not dismiss the feeling that Skane considered himself Carney’s mental superior and resented the presence of Carney’s wife. And now suddenly he was another creature, entering into the cross-talk with easy energy, sending the ebullient Mrs. Kahn into screams of mirth with some quip about sidesaddles, rallying McBain about the quirks of the island telephone system, telling a good duck-hunting joke on himself. He spoke in the crisp educated voice that set him apart from everyone else on Marina, but in telling an anecdote he slipped easily into the pungent island idiom and used it with effect. Isabel suspected a subtle mockery in this, and felt uncomfortable, glancing about the room to see how the others were taking it; but they seemed to enjoy it, and when she looked again at Skane and met his sea-blue gaze she saw only a man genuinely happy and eager to share his warmth.
This mood was still more apparent when Mrs. McBain demanded a singsong. He went at once to the beautiful little piano and struck up “Old Macdonald Had a Farm.” It was now getting dark and McBain lit the kerosene hanging lamp and the candles in the brass brackets of the piano. The company clustered about the pianist and sang with gusto. Skane had a rather good tenor, McBain and Kahn and Lermont sang loudly if somewhat off key, Mrs. Kahn screamed happily, young Mrs. Lermont disclosed a strong sweet voice. Isabel ventured her own light clear tone a little timidly at first; and then encouraged by the general uproar she sang with an assurance that she had not known since her school-teaching days, when she led the morning hymn. And now she heard that sound made famous by the operators’ tales all over the coast, Carney’s rich baritone ringing above the others and through the room. It was the first time he had sung in her presence.
Skane went on to “Juanita,” with young Mrs. Lermont singing the verses and everyone coming in on the chorus, and then to “Old Black Joe,” and “In the Evening by the Moonlight.” For variation he played a few chanties, and Isabel was amused at the vigor of McBain and Matthew, making appropriate motions with their hands and roaring out the words as if the parlor floor had become a deck and there really were sails to haul.
After an hour they were all hoarse and there was a movement back to the chairs. Skane remained at the piano, smoking a cigarette and turning the worn leaves of Chopin. He put out the cigarette carefully and began to play one of the études. Mrs. McBain leaned across to Isabel, whispering, “This is what he really comes for. The rest was just to please us.”
“I think it’s nice, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, in a way; it’s lively after a fashion but underneath it’s sad-like and makes you want to cry. That’s my notion anyhow.” Isabel smiled and nodded. It was not a bad description of Chopin.
The Kahns and Lermonts regarded the man at the piano with the faintly bored faces of those for whom the best part of the evening had gone by, and soon the m
en were looking at their watches. Kahn muttered something about “seeing to the light,” as if the faithful Joe were not there to climb the stairs and turn the crank; as if indeed the light were not already sweeping the darkness over the west bar and Joe sitting in the old chair by the kitchen window, smoking stolidly and glancing upward every five minutes or so to see that all was well.
At ten o’clock the Kahns and Lermonts left, shaking hands solemnly all round and calling loud good nights from the doorstep. A gust of cold air blew into the house. Matthew looked at Isabel with the uplifted brows of a husband who expects the wifely signal to go home; but she was sitting relaxed in one of the armchairs and her eyes were closed. Skane was not an accomplished pianist but he played well, as Mrs. McBain had observed. His lean sinewy fingers sprang over the keys and his gaunt jaw in the twin lights of the piano candles was serious and taut. Throughout the uproar of the others’ departure he had played on, and he played now in the new silence as if he were the only person in the room.
He had none of the mannerisms of the pianist and there was something oddly familiar in his attitude on the stool, the strong figure tense, the head and shoulders drawn forward, the eyes at once dreamy and alert. It occurred to Isabel that it was the characteristic attitude of all radio men, their hands busy before them, their eyes on something miles beyond the panel of the instrument; and again she had that whimsy that they were not as other men but a separate creation, cursed or gifted with a power of throwing their souls into space.
A sudden crash of keys in discord startled them all, and Skane sprang up from the stool. “Good God, what time is it?”
McBain drew a huge silver watch from his waistcoat. “Half past eleven.”
“And I’ve got the graveyard trick!” Skane turned, pulling on his battered sea-officer’s cap, and gave Isabel a gesture that was not so much a bow as a quick jerk of his head and shoulders. Then with a “So long!” to Carney and the McBains he was off, slamming the door and running down the steps.
“Does he always go like that?” Isabel asked, amused.
“Pretty much,” Mrs. McBain replied. “Wakes up, like, then he’s off.”
“He seemed almost human tonight. He’s usually glum.”
Mrs. McBain pushed up her spectacles and rubbed her eyes. She yawned.
“He’s a queer sort. Never seems happy but when he’s here, in this room with the piano. Comes down quite often, afternoons or evenings when he’s off watch, and plays by the hour. I daresay it’s something to do.”
Isabel twisted her lips. “Well, we must be getting along ourselves.”
“I’ll bring round the buggy,” McBain said rising.
“No, I’d rather walk, wouldn’t you, Matthew?”
Matthew hesitated.
“In the dark?” cried Mrs. McBain.
“Oh, but I love the dark, Mrs. McBain, and so does Matthew. It won’t take half an hour, the walking’s very good by the lagoon—so hard and smooth, like a pavement. Come on, Matthew!”
Outside she took his arm and they walked slowly. The stars were out, with frosty glitter, and a wind blew keen along the shore, ruffling the dark expanse of the lagoon in small whitecaps. To their left the dunes in the cold light had the look of dead mountains on the moon. Matthew seemed absorbed in her presence and the intimacy of her hand on his arm. He looked straight ahead and stumbled frequently over bits of raffle on the sand. After a long silence Isabel asked idly, “Why didn’t Skane wait for us? He must have known we’d be leaving right away?”
“He thought we’d be going back with McBain in the buggy. And he had to catch his watch—I venture he’s run the whole way. Skane’s as hard as nails.”
She laughed. “You’re all as hard as nails. None of you know what comfort is.”
The wireless station lights appeared. They could hear the engine and in another few moments a harsh fanfare of the spark.
When they reached the door the wind was blowing a full gale, whipping sand in their faces and harping in the wires overhead. It was a relief to step into the warmth of the apartment, where the kitchen fire still glowed. Matthew struck a match and lit the kitchen lamp, and Isabel noted with gratitude that the operators had washed and put away the dishes after their meal. She went straight to the bedroom, lit the lamp and drew the blind. She undressed quickly. In the bathroom she ran the tub deep and let herself into the hot water with the satisfaction of one who has accomplished a far journey; and she returned to her room taking with her beneath the clinging silk of her dressing gown that pleasant aura of clean flesh, of moist warmth, of scent, which always had been to her the very atmosphere of well-being.
She sat before the mirror brushing her hair when Matthew came, in shirt and trousers, and found her door wide open. He gave an apologetic knock on the jamb.
“Isabel, you forgot to put out my bedding. Just let me have it and I’ll make up my berth.”
She put the brush aside and rose, turning slowly to face him. Her skin was flushed and to Carney in the mild glow of the lamp she was a vision of beauty. “I didn’t forget, Matthew. I’ve been an idiot but that’s over now.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Isabel put up a hand to the lamp and turned it low. Her bare feet on the sealskins carried her like a wraith across the room, and without warning she was before him with her hands upon his shoulders.
“You’ll never understand, my poor darling, and I can’t explain. I’m not sure I know myself—not really, not anything that makes sense, except that I’ve been what any man but you would call a damned she-fool—and I’m sorry. Do you love me still?”
He made no answer. He stood trembling and she felt in him a yearning that brought tears to her eyes. She put her mouth to his, and at the quick passionate pressure of his arms she wept, drooping in his embrace as if her bones had fled. In an April storm of tears and kisses he carried her to the bed. Outside, the gale blew on. The building shook; it seemed to blench before the stronger gusts, and the keening in the aerials rose to a witches’ chorus as if all the ghosts of Marina had found voice about the mast. It was a fit night for passion. Within the walls, in the warm dusk of the bedroom, their own storm rose and fell, renewed itself in sleep, and wakened to new gusts and further calms. In a tranquil moment she murmured, “Are you happy now, Matthew?”
“Yes.”
“Am I nice?”
“You’re wonderful.”
“Better than the first night?”
“Yes.”
“Ah! ‘Wives improve with much caressing.’ Who said that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not your precious Byron, anyway. Recite me some Byron—the bit you like best.”
Matthew rolled on his back, smiling at the small ring of light on the ceiling.
“It’s shopworn, I suppose, but I’ve always liked ‘Solitude’ better than anything. I’m a simple chap and the poetry I like says something I can understand. I know the meaning of:
‘There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes
By the deep sea, and music in its roar;
I love not man the less, but Nature more.’ ”
Isabel’s face was pressed against his breast, where his deep tones echoed like an inner voice. “That’s like you, darling. I’m afraid I don’t know Byron very well. ‘There was a sound of revelry by night’ and one or two things like that. I’m not sure I like your ‘man less’ and ‘Nature more.’ What about woman? What about me?”
“Ah, then you don’t know how ‘Solitude’ begins?”
“Oh yes, I do! And how it ends.”
“Well, then…”
“I was joking. Go on.”
“All right. Smile if you like. Omar Khayyám said it a bit better for me but Byron’s good enough:
‘Oh that the desert were my dwelling place,
With one fair spirit for my minister.’”
“Lovely! Are you sure you didn’t invent that just for me
?”
“I wish I had.”
“My Byron with a beard!”
Later, wakeful while Matthew slept with one unconscious arm clasped beneath her breasts as if to insure her captivity, she heard the dreary clanking of the water pump. Skane was at the task they all hated, stripped and sweating in the hot reek of the engine room. She thought of her bath guiltily. The main tank was over the operators’ quarters and it was one of the petty embarrassments of her life that they could hear the rush of water whenever she tubbed. But the twinge passed. She drifted into sleep with a faint smile on her lips. There was something entertaining in the notion of Skane, the moody anchorite, sweating an extra half hour at the pump for the pleasure of a woman.
CHAPTER 16
November brought the first snow, a few specks wandering down from a sullen sky and then a brisk fall that covered the dunes and the south bar. Below the dark ceiling the sea moved in sluggish gray folds, and when the sun put down a thin ray through a momentary rift in the clouds the wet foreshore had a hard gray shine like steel. The white skin on the dunes gave Marina the illusion of an Arctic landscape, a range of snow hills sunk to their shoulders in the sea, and by contrast made the lagoon a pool of ink; between the black sheet of the lagoon and the heaving gray mass of the ocean itself the south bar made a thin white stroke like a path of virtue through besetting sins. None of this lasted longer than the first hard blow, for then the familiar sand-devils rose and danced above the dune peaks and swept in clouds along the island, burying all that purity within an hour.
Now there was hard frost in the nights, the ponds in the heart of the island had a skim of ice about their margins and often a complete skin that shrank and vanished under the next day’s sun. But now the sun itself was in full retreat towards the south. The mast, the telephone poles, the dead brown tufts of marram on the dunes, all threw long and longer shadows, even at high noon. The hollows where the wild ponies sheltered from storm, where in summer the sun fell like a sword, now lay in a perpetual twilight, and a descent from the sunny crest into their deep shade was like a plunge into a tomb.
The Nymph and the Lamp Page 17