The Drowning People

by Richard Mason

  CHAPTER 27

  ICANNOT TELL YOU HOW I FELT THAT NIGHT. I can Only say that I didn’t sleep; that I went instead to the attic, where I knew my light would not be seen; and that I sat in the corner where Ella had once sat, trying to think, searching for some raft of resolution to guide me through the storm.

  I found one eventually. But the search was hard and success required the confession of my own weakness. I had to admit to myself, in a way I had not done before, that I could not spend the rest of my life as I had spent the last three years; that whatever I had done to Eric, however much I deserved to be punished, I could not resist the pull of my old love any longer. Separation from Ella, for so long the mainstay of my self-denial, was no longer possible for me; however little I deserved happiness, I could no longer resist it. And that was a hard admission. Hard because it involved accepting the fact that I was not strong enough to mete out or to endure the punishment which I knew I deserved; hard because it entailed the surrendering of a last shard of cracked self-respect; hard because I, who had thought myself numbed forever, came suddenly to life once more in a way that was as painful as it was wonderful.

  Alexander’s pleading had its effect that night. I sat awake, unable to resist the force of memory any longer; and the darkness of the room filled with sights and sounds and shapes which I had thought lost to me. Oh yes, Alexander’s words had their effect. Until I saw her tearful father I had thought myself able to sacrifice Ella’s love, to sacrifice it towards the payment of an unpayable debt. Blindly, numbed by pain and guilt, I had determined to renounce the joys of our union in the hopes that thus I might find punishment; that thus, somehow, I might atone for what I—what we, together—had done. Before Alexander’s anxious words I had resolved to live in a world beyond the reach of feeling; to confine myself to a dim space lit meagerly, and only occasionally, by the far-off light of my music. In so doing I had looked to find rest, I had hoped to find peace; and from a distance of fifty years I can see that I had wished, almost, to share spiritually in Eric’s physical death.

  That night I gave up the effort. For the first time since returning from France I tasted the wildness of real hope; the sweetness of love returned again. For the first time in three years I rejoiced—with almost adolescent wonder— in the mysteries of the night, in the beauties of a star-filled sky; and I did so because the darkness no longer shrieked at me, because it no longer filled with dreams of Eric, but with thoughts of Ella. It was not my friend’s lifeless form that I saw that night, but my love’s fragile body; not Eric’s eyes, glazed with death, but Ella’s, sparkling with life. Shaking, hardly daring to breathe, I saw her beside me. I watched her as she lit her cigarettes; as she brushed the hair from her eyes. I heard once more the silvery chuckle of her laugh; the gentle accents of her voice. I kissed again the velvet space beneath her collarbone.

  Alone in the dark I thought that nothing would keep Ella from me; that our love had earned us a second chance; that it had saved us from oblivion. I swallowed my pride. I admitted my weakness. I accepted that I could resist Ella’s pull no longer; that if she needed me I would go to her; that if she called I would run.

  I see now what a step that was; I see and understand. For in retelling the story of my life I have come to know myself in ways I did not dream of then. And fifty years on, from the vantage point of knowledge, I know that the bonds from which I broke free so briefly were mighty indeed; that they could only have been broken by the force of a love like Ella’s and mine. Our passion did give us power, I know that now beyond all doubt; and we might at the last have used it for good. We might have seen some light come out of tragedy. We might have been happy.

  But I am dreaming again of what might have been; and I know how useless such musing is. What matters is my narrative; what really happened. And what really happened is this, I suppose: that the floodgates of my love for Ella opened once more. And my longing for her flowed with a force I could no longer control as I sat in the attic that night, writing by the light of a small bright lamp; scribbling a letter which covered six sheets of large note paper with the small dense characters of my cramped hand.

  I cannot recall the words I used, for they were chosen long ago and at great speed; I cannot remember the phrases which came to me as I sat, hunched over the paper on my knees. I know only the gist of what I said and the fervor with which I said it. I wrote to Ella of love, you see; of my love for her and of hers for me. I told her of my sorrow for times past and of my hope for times to come. I told her what I should have told her before: that I had never stopped thinking of her; that I had never stopped dreaming of her; that she was right: that we needed each other more than ever now.

  I signed my name as day was breaking with a new splendor; and it was only then, exhausted by words, that I went to bed and had my first hours of dreamless sleep in three long years. I woke late, when the sun was high in the sky; and for the first time since Eric’s death I took pleasure in the simple luxury of quiet observation. I heard sounds hitherto lost; saw things not usually seen. I rejoiced in the pattern of the sunshine on my wall; in the color of the book spines on my shelf; in the glistening puddles of the previous night’s rain. My life was changed; I felt sure of that, sure that things would be well once more.

  Slowly, easily, I got up and dressed.

  Outside in the sunshine I posted Ella’s letter. Then I went to the Guildhall, thinking with wonder how different this morning was from those which had gone before it; how all mornings in the future would be different too; how I had changed. I took delight again in the freshness of the world; in the thought that Ella and I, united, would make things right; that we would face the demons of our guilt together and conquer them as we could not hope to do alone. I remember my slow deliberation that day; the quiet, distinct pleasure I got from the subtlest taste, the dullest view. I was alive once more, alive to the possibilities of life. And years later, as I sit in the dark, watching the moon rise on the lashing waves of a rolling sea, I remember what that was like; I remember the return of hope as a thirsty man might remember his first sight of water. I had not drunk yet, but I could see the oasis ahead; and in my desire I thought that nothing could stand in my way now; that my thirst, for so long endured as the only punishment I could inflict on myself, was about to be quenched. Slowly, with almost childish delight, I savored that day and the ones which followed it; and I enjoyed the fleeting thought that life might be a fine thing after all.

  Such feeling was expressed in my playing with a force that was as exhilarating as it was irresistible; and throughout the week that followed I worked with unquenchable enthusiasm. I had decided long before, in unconscious homage to Ella, to play the Mendelssohn E Minor if ever I got as far as the Hibberdson finals; and now, remembering my inspiration, I worked with untiring passion. In hours of practice I relived the sunny afternoons in which I had played its first movement to her; and I remembered how she had sat, silent with pleasure, on her cushion in the corner of my dingy attic.

  Days passed in this way; more than I knew, I think. But I worked on in excited contemplation of the future, giving little thought to the limitations of the present. To be sure, there was no immediate reply to my letter; but I could not be disheartened by a delay of a few days after so many months’ unconscious waiting. My suffering had taught me patience, if nothing else. And I told myself—quite rightly as it turned out—that a thousand things might have prevented Ella from writing at once; that she would reply as soon as she could. And I felt sure enough of her once more to face an empty letter box with cheery equanimity.

  Other things happened in that time too; meetings and conversations to which I gave little thought then, but which I must remember now if I am to grasp the facts in anything like their precise order. Precision is important now; I can see that. So I try to remember. And as I try I hear the emphatic tones of Camilla Boardman’s voice, higher than usual; and I feel her hand as she leads me across a crowded room full of loud people and brittle laughter and the
hard clink of stainless steel on china. We are in a restaurant in a small street off the King’s Road; we have met for lunch; my friend is brimming with excitement. We have barely taken our seats at the window table which my name now secures before she is squeezing my arm and telling me that she has fantastic news, that her great opportunity has come, that she is about to make her mark.

  I remember her that day. I remember her animation, her infectious enthusiasm as she asked me if I had ever been to Seton. “Because it’s the most incredible house. An absolutely vast castle on an island off the Cornish coast,” she told me excitedly. “Full of amazing history and fabulous furniture and…” There was a pause, for Camilla’s stock of adjectives was not inexhaustible.

  I waited and said nothing, trying to control my excitement as I heard my friend speak of Ella’s island, of the house which one day she and I might share.

  “It’s the Harcourt family seat, you know,” Camilla continued. “And they’re giving a huge party to raise money for some charity or other. Mummy’s involved. I can’t think what it’s called now. The Society for the Preservation of Ancient Buildings, probably. But that doesn’t matter much in any case. What does matter is that it’s going to be the big party this summer. And between us Mummy and I know practically everyone who’s going and you can bet on it that I’m going to design all their dresses.” Camilla paused, out of breath. “They don’t know this yet, of course,” she added with unconscious irony. “But I’m already doing Ella Harcourt. And everyone else is sure to follow her lead, just you wait and see.” So saying she smiled brightly and ordered champagne; and I laughed inwardly, thinking that I had heard of this party from Alexander several days before; that I, for once, was better informed than the omniscient Miss Boardman.

  Ten days or so passed without my hearing from Ella; and by the end of this time I was worried, worried that perhaps she had left my letter unopened as I had left so many of hers. But in spite of creeping misgivings I worked as hard as ever, for the final of the Hibberdson was almost upon me; and my days were filled with rehearsals and conductors and the thousand tiny details of competition preparation. It was on my return from one especially long rehearsal that I saw her letter: peeping from a pile of others on the entrance hall mat; a blue envelope this time, though the jagged letters of its address were in the brown ink I knew so well.

  I remember the excitement of that moment: the way my throat went dry as I picked up Ella’s letter and took it to the tiny room at the top of the house, the room which she had made her own three summers before. I remember the touch of the heavy paper as I tore open the envelope; the thickness of the sheet which fell from it; the raised print of the address which told me that she had written it at Seton. She did not use my name, I remember; and her note was not long. But she said:

  Darling, my Darling,

  I can’t believe you’ve written at last. I can’t believe you’ve come back to me. I thought you were lost for good.

  You cannot know how much I’ve missed you; how badly I’ve wanted to see you. These have been hard years—though you don’t need me to tell you that, I imagine. And I’m sorry for not replying to your letter sooner. I’ve not been in London, you see—I’m down here helping Uncle Cyril with his plans for a party. The house is in chaos and the younger generation has been drafted in to help out. So I’ve not been at home, and Pamela is very bad about forwarding mail. I only read your words this morning—and since then I’ve not been able to sit still. I can’t wait to see you; to touch you again, my love. I have missed you.

  But I can’t leave here until next week, when the party’s over and the caterers have been and gone. Of course you could come to the ball—though on second thoughts I can think of nothing worse than seeing you again in front of thousands of people. It’s a Regina Boardman sort of party anyway and I want you alone…. So will you wait for me a little longer? And while you’re about it, will you take care to win the Hibberdson? I’ve been following you to the finals and I wonder what you will play. You’ve no idea how much I want to hear you again.

  There is so much to say; so much to tell. A letter is not the way.

  I long for our reunion.

  Ella

  Those were her words; and as I say them I can hear her saying them. Alone in the dark I can hear Ella’s voice, calling to me from long ago; I can see her eyes, looking for mine.

  Events followed thick and fast on each other after that.

  And it is the night of the Hibberdson final which fills my mind now, a night of judges and lights and television cameras, of sweat and nerves and anxious friends. A night of glory for me: for I played with a passion I had not known before. A night when Ella’s love gave my playing a lightness it had never yet enjoyed, a delicacy it was not to have again. I remember it all. I remember how it felt to win. I remember the rush of relief as I set down my violin and took my bow; I remember smiling; remember thanking the judges and telling the interviewers how delighted I was. And I was delighted, for nothing can quite dim the pleasure of playing really well, of pushing one’s art beyond oneself. And though I felt still that the victory was not mine alone, that the daring with which I had played would have been impossible without the shrieking memory of Eric’s laugh and the sight of his sightless eyes, I felt too that Eric would have wanted me to win; and I thought that Ella’s love would protect me henceforth from such demons.

  Standing on the podium, the bronze laurels in my hand, my eyes flicked over row upon row of cheering faces and a blur of clapping hands; and as I bowed again I saw a slender, tilting neck and a smile that made the breath catch in my throat. I looked again; and surer now, reeling a little, smiling still, I moved along the stage, shaking hands with the other finalists, accepting their words of congratulation, thinking only of how to leave the concert hall, of how to escape into the night with the only person I wanted to see. Backstage there were television cameras and newspaper reporters and my agent telling me to go back on for another bow, to milk the applause; and as I did so the blood beat furiously in my head and my hands were wet with sweat from the fear that Ella might get lost in the crowd, that I might not find her after all.

  I did not go on for a third bow but went straight to the finalists’ dressing room, where my fellow competitors were putting away their instruments and taking off their ties. In a frenzy, almost, I said my good-byes and put my violin into its case; and then I raced through cavernous corridors to the players’ entrance, hoping to slip out before the crowds arrived. But as I opened the door heard with quick exasperation the high-pitched shriek “There he is!” and I found myself in the center of a group of excited well-wishers and reporters, questions and autograph books flying.

  Telling myself that Ella would find me, that in fact it was best for me to stay in one, obvious, place, I breathed deeply and faced the barrage of words and notebooks. My pulse racing, I took out my pen and began to sign my name, telling myself to be calm.

  “May I join your devoted supplicants, James?”

  I had seen her before she spoke; and the rounded vowels of an English accent made me pale with disappointment.

  “My God … Sarah.”

  She smiled up at me as I recovered myself. And as I took another program and automatically signed my name, I recovered sufficiently to ask her what she was doing there.

  “Watching you, of course,” she replied, smiling still; and I noticed that she seemed less forbidding than I remembered her. “I thought I should demonstrate my acquaintance with the winner if I possibly could.”

  “What?”

  The din of the crowd drowned out her quiet voice.

  “Congratulations,” she called, louder this time. And she leaned forward and kissed my cheek.

  Someone took our photograph and a reporter asked who the lovely lady was. “Come on, give us your name!”

  Sarah blushed and I thought with longing how beautiful her cousin was.

  “It’s been such a long time,” she said as I began to push my way towards my c
ar.

  “Yes.”

  “And how have you been since I saw you last?”

  “Oh … well. Working hard.”

  “Winning prizes.”

  “Only one.”

  “But what a prize.” She looked up at me and her blue eyes met mine as though we had known each other always.

  “It was kind of you to come and seek me out,” I said finally. “I thought your family had a three-line whip on their presence at Seton.”

  “I’ve been in London today, collecting a dress.”

  “I see.”

  She smiled at me again. There was a slight pause.

  “Well good-bye,” she said at last. “Congratulations on tonight. I’m sure it will be the first of many.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And now that we’ve bumped into each other so unexpectedly, we mustn’t lose touch again.”

  “Of course not.” My key was in my door now.

  “Good-bye again, James.”

  “Good-bye, Sarah.”

  And I leaned down and kissed her cheek. As I did so I smelled her scent, a scent of different cigarettes, of unknown soap, of strange perfume: the smell I smelled yesterday afternoon, made richer then by the thick sweetness of warm blood, as I bent over her bleeding body.

  CHAPTER 28

  THE DAYS BETWEEN THE HIBBERDSON FINAL and the Harcourts’ party were busy ones for me; and between the giving of interviews and the receiving of congratulations I had little time to myself. What time I did have I spent with my family, whose praise was reserved but wholehearted, or with Camilla Boardman, whose predictions of future glory knew no bounds. But the person I really wanted, of course, was Ella; and I chafed at the days which still separated us, though I understood why they must do so. I, like her, had no wish to be reunited under the watchful eyes of her family and our friends; and having waited so long, a week was nothing.