Day's End and Other Stories

by H. E. Bates

  In the heavy stillness their voices were a dull murmur.

  ‘What times we had! How many times I’ve been on my belly under that tree!’

  They kept glancing up at the willow-tree. A flock of birds went over, heading for the green sky above the sunset. Everywhere was silent.

  And then suddenly Matthew exchanged a glance with Will, dropped his gaze to the river again and said:

  ‘Could we catch eels now?’

  Without a pause Will exclaimed: ‘Catch eels! There’s nothing in it.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking—’

  ‘You just give me an eel-line and I’ll peg it with my eyes shut – and there’d be fish too, mind you.’

  Another and even more murmurous, wistful silence came over the river after these words. Then Matthew spoke:

  ‘I’ve been wondering whether we shouldn’t lay a few lines under that willow-tree,’ he said.

  ‘Give me a line, I say, and I’ll peg it and there’ll be fish.’

  ‘Shall we?’

  ‘You give me a line.’

  Will seemed to gaze into the cool sky with longing. Matthew said: ‘Let’s go, then. Up in my old loft there’s a few lines hanging.’

  But for a moment they did not go. In silence they remained watching the twilight creeping over the water, over the meadows, over the sky itself, turning the reeds to black tapers, making the river gleam like quicksilver. And to both the thought of setting eel-lines, coming down before dawn and taking out the fish was for a moment too entrancing to be true.

  Presently, however, they did go. In the river, as they crossed the bridge, Matthew’s shadow was curved, with a white top, and though Will’s was straighter and stiff, like a drumstick, it too was white at the head.

  Going up into the village between thick rows of hawthorn and elder, a smell of honeysuckle reached them.

  ‘It’s best to get there by four o’clock,’ Matthew kept saying.

  ‘We will. That’s the best time; I know it is.’

  ‘If only my old lines don’t break!’

  As they entered the village, came to Matthew’s house, got out the lines and examined them, it seemed to both that they were about to do once again something splendid, adventurous and full of joy. They dug out worms.

  When they returned it was still not late, though Matthew’s watch-chain, the sky, the dog-roses all shone fainter than before. Only the smell of honeysuckle seemed stronger and more intoxicating.

  The river looked more like dark oil than ever. The reeds, the water-grass and the willow-tree had turned quite black. Matthew kept stumbling over hoof-marks.

  As Will knelt down, stretched on his belly and began to drop the lines into the water, he thought: ‘The grass seems damp.’ Matthew, on kneeling beside him, thought so too. But they said nothing to each other.

  One after another the lines plopped, sank and were made secure to the edge. With their ears so close, Matthew and Will could hear the rustle of weeds and of water creeping between.

  They got up off their knees. Still it seemed to them, as they returned stumbling along the bank, that to set eel-lines at night, wake at four, and in the fresh summer dawn take home their load of fish, was as pleasant and exciting as it had been in their youth, and they talked of all the longest eels they had ever caught.

  At Matthew’s gate they reminded each other:

  ‘At four, sharp. No later than four.’

  And as their white old heads bobbed away from each other in the warm dark, Matthew remembered and called:

  ‘Bring a basket! Don’t forget! …’

  In the morning, at dawn, a chill hangs over the river, the water looks cold and like steel, and the grass, the dog-roses and the honeysuckle are drenched in dew. From the east to the zenith a cold pink light spreads reluctantly, but there is no warmth and the leaves shiver. Now the reeds droop, looking a dirty, dishevelled green and with a rustling sound shudder and sway.

  Among them, in the deep water under the willow-tree, five or six empty eel-lines sway backwards and forwards, first in the grey light, then in the rose, then in the soft early sunshine pouring from the blue sky.

  Birds wake, cattle pass across the meadows, in the village a bell rings for an early service. But along the river-path nobody comes.

  Never

  It was afternoon: great clouds stumbled across the sky. In the drowsy, half-dark room the young girl sat in a heap near the window, scarcely moving herself, as if she expected a certain timed happening, such as a visit, sunset, a command. Slowly she would draw the fingers of one hand across the back of the other, in the little hollows between the guides, and move her lips in the same sad, vexed way in which her brows came together. And like this too, her eyes would shift about, from the near, shadowed fields, to the west hills, where the sun had dropped a strip of light, and to the woods between, looking like black scars one minute, and like friendly sanctuaries the next. It was all confused. There was the room, too. The white keys of the piano would now and then exercise a fascination over her which would keep her whole body perfectly still for perhaps a minute. But when this passed, full of hesitation, her fingers would recommence the slow exploration of her hands, and the restlessness took her again.

  It was all confused. She was going away: already she had said a hundred times during the afternoon – ‘I am going away, I am going away. I can’t stand it any longer.’ But she had made no attempt to go. In this same position, hour after hour had passed her and all she could think was: ‘To-day I’m going away. I’m tired here. I never do anything. It’s dead, rotten.’

  She said, or thought it all without the slightest trace of exultation and was sometimes even methodical when she began to consider: ‘What shall I take? The blue dress with the rosette? Yes. What else? what else?’ And then it would all begin again: ‘Today I’m going away. I never do anything.’

  It was true: she never did anything. In the mornings she got up late, was slow over her breakfast, over everything – her reading, her mending, her eating, her playing the piano, cards in the evening, going to bed. It was all slow – purposely done, to fill up the day. And it was true, day succeeded day and she never did anything different.

  But to-day something was about to happen: no more cards in the evening, every evening the same, with her father declaring: ‘I never have a decent hand, I thought the ace of trumps had gone! It’s too bad!!’ and no more: ‘Nellie, it’s ten o’clock – Bed!’ and the slow unimaginative climb of the stairs. Today she was going away: no one knew, but it was so. She was catching the evening train to London.

  ‘I’m going away. What shall I take? The blue dress with the rosette? What else?’

  She crept upstairs with difficulty, her body stiff after sitting. The years she must have sat, figuratively speaking, and grown stiff! And as if in order to secure some violent reaction against it all she threw herself into the packing of her things with a nervous vigour, throwing in the blue dress first and after it a score of things she had just remembered. She fastened her bag: it was not heavy. She counted her money a dozen times. It was all right! It was all right. She was going away!

  She descended into the now dark room for the last time. In the dining-room some one was rattling teacups, an unbearable, horribly domestic sound! She wasn’t hungry: she would be in London by eight – eating now meant making her sick. It was easy to wait. The train went at 6.18. She looked it up again: ‘Elden 6.13, Olde 6.18, London 7.53.’

  She began to play a waltz. It was a slow, dreamy tune, ta-tum, tum, ta-tum, tum, ta-tum, tum, of which the notes slipped out in mournful, sentimental succession. The room was quite dark, she could scarcely see the keys, and into the tune itself kept insinuating: ‘Elden 6.13, Olde 6.18,’ impossible to mistake or forget.

  As she played on she thought: ‘I’ll never play this waltz again. It has the atmosphere of this room. It’s the last time!’ The waltz slid dreamily to an end: for a minute she sat in utter silence, the room dark and mysterious, the air of the waltz q
uite dead, then the tea-cups rattled again and the thought came back to her: ‘I’m going away!’

  She rose and went out quietly. The grass on the roadside moved under the evening wind, sounding like many pairs of hands rubbed softly together. But there was no other sound, her feet were light, no one heard her, and as she went down the road she told herself: ‘It’s going to happen! It’s come at last!’

  ‘Elden 6.13. Olde 6.18.’

  Should she go to Elden or Olde? At the crossroads she stood to consider, thinking that if she went to Elden no one would know her. But at Olde some one would doubtless notice her and prattle about it. To Elden, then, not that it mattered. Nothing mattered now. She was going, was as good as gone!

  Her breast, tremulously warm, began to rise and fall as her excitement increased. She tried to run over the things in her bag and could remember only ‘the blue dress with the rosette,’ which she had thrown in first and had since covered over. But it didn’t matter. Her money was safe, everything was safe, and with that thought she dropped into a strange quietness, deepening as she went on, in which she had a hundred emotions and convictions. She was never going to strum that waltz again, she had played cards for the last, horrible time, the loneliness, the slowness, the oppression were ended, all ended.

  ‘I’m going away!’

  She felt warm, her body tingled with a light delicious thrill that was like the caress of a soft night-wind. There were no fears now. A certain indignation, approaching fury even, sprang up instead, as she thought: ‘No one will believe I’ve gone. But it’s true – I’m going at last.’

  Her bag grew heavy. Setting it down in the grass she sat on it for a brief while, in something like her attitude in the dark room during the afternoon, and indeed actually began to rub her gloved fingers over the backs of her hands. A phrase or two of the waltz came back to her.… That silly piano! Its bottom G was flat, had always been flat! How ridiculous! She tried to conjure up some sort of vision of London, but it was difficult and in the end she gave way again to the old cry: ‘I’m going away.’ And she was pleased more than ever deeply.

  On the station a single lamp burned, radiating a fitful yellowness that only increased the gloom. And worse, she saw no one and in the cold emptiness traced and retraced her footsteps without the friendly assurance of another sound. In the black distance all the signals showed hard circles of red, looking as if they could never change. But she nevertheless told herself over and over again: ‘I’m going away – I’m going away.’ And later: ‘I hate every one. I’ve changed until I hardly know myself.’

  Impatiently she looked for the train. It was strange. For the first time it occurred to her to know the time and she pulled back the sleeve of her coat. Nearly six-thirty! She felt cold. Up the line every signal displayed its red ring, mocking her. ‘Six-thirty, of course, of course.’ She tried to be careless. ‘Of course, it’s late, the train is late,’ but the coldness, in reality her fear, increased rapidly, until she could no longer believe those words.…

  Great clouds, lower and more than ever depressing, floated above her head as she walked back. The wind had a deep note that was sad too. These things had not troubled her before, now they, also, spoke failure and foretold misery and dejection. She had no spirit, it was cold, and she was too tired even to shudder.

  In the absolutely dark, drowsy room she sat down, telling herself: ‘This isn’t the only day. Some day I shall go. Some day.’

  She was silent. In the next room they were playing cards and her father suddenly moaned: ‘I thought the ace had gone.’ Somebody laughed. Her father’s voice came again: ‘I never have a decent hand! I never have a decent hand! Never!’

  It was too horrible! She couldn’t stand it! She must do something to stop it! It was too much. She began to play the waltz again and the dreamy, sentimental arrangement made her cry.

  ‘This isn’t the only day,’ she reassured herself. ‘I shall go. Some day!’

  And again and again as she played the waltz, bent her head and cried, she would tell herself that same thing:

  ‘Some day! Some day!’

  Nina

  When first the visitor came to call on them it was spring. For tea there were cream pies, and cakes with cinnamon; and about the room were set pots of anemones, primroses and blackthorn Nina had gathered from the woods the previous day. The sun was shining; and all through tea the visitor sat as if transfigured, his high forehead, his black hair, and the shoulders of his jacket fringed with lines of a feathery gold.

  But to Nina it also seemed that after shaking hands with her, and giving her one hasty, half-shy look and asking her name, he did not notice her again. Between him and her mother began a long conversation on all sorts of subjects, on music, the spring, the early heat, the different Easter customs in different countries, with a mention of her father, who had died a year before.

  And from this conversation she gathered that Strawn, the visitor, was a pianist and had lived abroad, but that when she had been a little girl had lived in England and visited them often, a friend of her father’s. She could not remember this, but the thought that he played on the piano thrilled her. She began to say to herself, regarding shyly his long, white fingers, his sunny face and dark eyes:

  ‘After tea I will ask if he will play to us and perhaps hear me play.’

  For a long time she sat still, wondering in a shy, apprehensive way what he would think of her.

  All the time her mother and the visitor would talk absorbedly to each other. Outside a soft wind was blowing: emerald buds bounced against each other and dust sometimes came tinkling up against the panes. The edges of some pines at the end of the road were being turned first gold, then red, by the setting sun and among them were already masses of darkness. Tea went on for a long time until the lines of gold vanished from Strawn’s face and all the colours of the room merged into one colour.

  Nevertheless, all this time, she thought: ‘In a little while he will say something to me. Soon he will ask if I play.’

  And she began to think of what she should play to him, a dance of Brahms’, some Schumann, some Mozart. She lost herself in dreaming of this, lost herself so completely that when she suddenly looked up and saw him laughing, the reality of the laugh, the sparkle of his eyes and the joyful way he smacked his hands together came as a shock to her.

  Just at that moment he looked at her too. She flushed a dark crimson and began tapping her nails together in confusion. Then she waited for him to speak to her and in the midst of her bewilderment was filled suddenly with a desire to know him better, to attract and impress him.

  When he did not speak to her she thought with disappointment and sadness, ‘It’s because I’m only a girl, only seventeen.’

  And from that moment she had a constant longing: ‘If only I were older, only a little older!’

  Soon afterwards, at last, tea was finished. Nina’s mother and the visitor got up, still talking, and went into the garden. Nina remained behind and for a long time sat watching with a dreamy, naive expression the chair where Strawn had sat. Each time she thought of his silence towards her she felt hurt, envious of her mother, disappointed and sad.

  Before, she had been irresponsible and vivacious, playing in the woods, the garden and on the piano without care. Now, each time she thought of the visitor, she was conscious of a desire to be attractive, but what precise degree of attraction would be best, if she should be smiling, graceful, quiet or melancholy, she did not know.

  She got up and looked at her face in the glass. In appearance she was dark, with a skin which in the twilight was pale, waxen and alight. And that she should be able to use this loveliness, together with that of her voice, her movements and her playing, in order to attract anyone, thrilled her excitedly.

  Soon afterwards she opened the window an inch or two, and sitting down at the piano began playing. And while playing she thought of her mother and Strawn walking under the cherry-trees, among the raspberry and gooseberry bushes, and al
l the time hoped and wondered if they would hear her.

  And then, sometime later, she heard voices, footsteps and Strawn saying, ‘Good-bye.’

  And soon afterwards she was conscious of shaking hands, waiting for Strawn to say something about the piece she had played with the window open and of an acute, lingering disappointment because he said nothing, scarcely even looked at her, but walked abruptly away.…

  *

  Some time later she learned that he had moved his residence and in future would be nearer them and come to see them and even stay more often.

  She played the piano untiringly and before each visit contrived somehow to decorate everywhere with spring flowers, arrange her hair attractively, and make the special cream pies which she believed he loved.

  But at each visit it seemed to her that he gave his attention only to her mother. And each time he left she was wretched, angry, disappointed and sad.

  Then it happened that once when he came, unexpected, her mother was not there. It was evening time and Nina was among the gooseberry-bushes at the bottom of the garden, eating young gooseberries and thinking how thrilling it would be if Strawn were to come suddenly and find her there.

  When his head appeared among the trees and he called: ‘Where are you?’ she was startled and scratched her hands and dropped some gooseberries she had been holding in her dress.

  After that she did not move, but only watched him come towards her. As he came to her he half-smiled and said:

  ‘It’s Nina, isn’t it?’

  She nodded and said: ‘My mother isn’t here.’

  ‘She didn’t know, she was not expecting me,’ he smiled. He took off his hat and fanned his face and blew out his cheeks like a boy. She laughed shyly and said:

  ‘Perhaps you had better come and sit down and wait for her. She’s gone to the village.’