The Holm Oaks

by P. M. Hubbard

  I did in fact fall once, but did myself no harm. Gumboots are very difficult to run in, but they will support a suddenly stretched ankle. I got to my feet and blundered on again. It was more or less completely dark in the wood now, and I was watching with an almost tearful desperation for a glimmer of daylight at the end of the path. There was in fact so little, even outside, that I felt the wind and heard the noise of the sea coming to meet me before I saw anything. When I did see a bit of sky, I saw simultaneously, against it, the dark outline of someone walking ahead of me along the path. I say ‘walking’ deliberately, because I had the clearest possible impression that this was so. The figure was straight up and almost stationary. Whoever it was might in fact have been standing in the path, but I think they were walking quite slowly. Then I stumbled and lost sight of them again. A moment later I almost ran into the stile.

  I leant over it with the wind screaming in my face and looked across the open ground between me and the Holt House gate. There was no one there. Any sound I made as I ran up the path would have been blown back hard over my shoulder, but I suppose my last stumble might have been audible to anyone just ahead of me. With a thing like that the earth carries a lot of the sound. At any rate, whoever it was must have turned and melted into the trees a moment before I came to the stile. I turned my back on the wind and went a few paces back along the path. Then I turned and started to move southwards towards the beach. I went much more cautiously now. As Dennis Wainwright had pointed out, they would have had time to reload. But they were in the wood somewhere. Unless they were as clever at climbing the fence as I was, or could double back to the stile, I was going to come up with them some time. They could not be far.

  After a bit I stopped, took off my mackintosh and rolled it into a tight ball big enough to shield my face and head. I did not know what sized shot they were using, but I reckoned that except at point blank range I could probably survive at least one barrel provided my head was safe. I was not sure a tightly rolled mackintosh would do the trick, but I thought it might at least help. I went forward steadily, peering over the top of my shield into the threshing darkness.

  Now I come to think of it, it was a lunatic performance. On one assumption at least I was asking for trouble. On another I was at least not likely to be doing much good. On any assumption probably the best thing I could have done was to go back to the Holt House and do a little straight thinking. I suppose I kept on walking into the wood because I wanted above everything to avoid thinking straight. The urge to violent action was very strong, but I did not know what drove me or where it was driving me, and I dreaded being told.

  At the bottom of the wood there was a sort of nightmare repetition of what had just happened at its western end. The wind and the bellowing of the sea came suddenly to meet me, and a much more luminous air that blew in across the white chaos of the breaking sea. I saw the fence in outline against it and, almost in front of me but a little to my right, a figure spread-eagled on it as though it was starting to climb. The figure was swathed and indeterminate, but I saw the long shape of the gun in its left hand. Once more, I do not know whether I gave myself away or whether the climb was abandoned as impracticable. I only know that one moment the figure was there stretched upon the fence and the next it had collapsed into a shapeless shadow and melted back into the trees. Unless I was very much mistaken, whoever it was had turned back to make for the stile.

  I turned round myself and for the first and last time fell fairly heavily. It took me a little time to get myself up and find my bundled mackintosh, which I had flung away into the thicket as I fell. Then I started northwards again. I went faster and less cautiously now. The enemy either did not know I was there or was trying to get away from me. I did not think I was likely to be shot at. I made good progress, and believed I might now be ahead in the race for the stile. Whether it was a conscious race I still did not know. As I got near the path, I went more cautiously. I did not think that anything short of a yell or heavy fall was likely to be heard in the tumult except at very close range, but I wanted if possible to get to the stile undetected. I came out on to the path and stopped. I could just see the end of it from where I stood. The uproar was even greater here, as it always was close to the western edge of the wood. I could hear nothing like human movement, and did not really hope to.

  I started to walk towards the stile, but as I got closer to it, it began to melt into the dark background of the open ground behind. I found that if I stooped, I brought the top bar at least against the sky. The sky was dark enough, but I did not think anything could move against it without my seeing it. In the end I actually dropped on to my hands and knees and crawled. It was like playing bears, but it did not occur to me to think it funny. Keeping the top bar of the stile always just in view against the sky, I crawled with an elaborate and cat-like precaution to meet whatever was coming up to it out of the trees. I got to within perhaps five yards of it and then stopped. I did not get up. I crouched there in the soaking mush and the raging darkness, never taking my eyes off the top bar of the stile.

  The curious thing is that at the end of it all I heard it before I saw it. There was a faint but unmistakable iron-shod clatter. It was so like the noise my alpenstock had made on the stile that I knew at once what it was. A split second later something heaved into sight at the top of the stile and was gone again. I was up at once and running for the stile. The violence of the wind startled me as I hurled myself over it. Away ahead of me a dark figure, indeterminate but visible, was running over the open ground, prancing a little as it ran. It ran left-handed, making down towards the beach.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I was never sure at what point it became a conscious flight and pursuit. I am fairly certain it was not at first. I followed the prancing figure with its brandished weapon close enough to keep it just in view. Even this, running into the wind’s eye, was as much as I could manage. I did not try to shout. Any sound I made might have been heard some way behind me but not a yard in front. Also, on the one occasion when I took breath to shout I did not like what I was going to say. In any case it could not go on. Neither of us had the legs of the other, and we could neither of us run indefinitely into that wind.

  We came out on to the beach. There seemed to be light everywhere all of a sudden. The dark rim of land lay flat on our right, but the boiling sea was wholly white on our left and between them the endless avenue of wet grey pebbles threw back whatever light there was. Whenever it had happened, we were now conscious pursuer and pursued. At very much the same time I became aware of an almost desperate wish to call off the chase and go back to the house and also, mixed with it, a sick fear of what might happen if I did. I ran on, in two minds and in growing physical distress, until quite suddenly the chase was over.

  We had followed a sloping line, edging down towards the breakers. I do not know how far we had gone westwards along the beach. Now, at a point perhaps twenty yards above the highest wash of the sea, the figure in front suddenly stood and slewed round, leaning back into the wind and pointing the gun straight at me. I dropped to a walk. I was desperately short of breath and, now I had stopped running, almost sick with physical fatigue. I walked slowly until I was not more than five yards from the muzzle of the gun. Then I stopped. ‘Stella,’ I said, ‘Stella, for God’s sake put that thing down and come back to the house.’ I still had little breath and I had not allowed for the wind against me, even at that distance. I do not think she heard a word I said. She must have seen me speaking. We could see each other in some detail now. When she spoke, her voice had the wind behind it and came to me quite clearly, but in fits and starts, as the wind took hold of it or let it drop. She said, ‘Is she dead? Is Mrs Wainwright dead?’

  I shook my head and shouted at her into the wind. ‘No. She’s not hurt. Only a scratch.’

  She nodded a little hopelessly. ‘What a bloody mess,’ she said. ‘What a bloody mess I have made of it, haven’t I?’

  I took a step towards her and sh
e immediately turned the gun away from me and on to herself. She had opened her mackintosh, so that the skirts blew straight out towards me, one on each side of her. She had a jersey and trousers under it. She put the muzzle of the gun hard against herself under her left breast. She held the stock with both hands, keeping one finger on the trigger. She said, ‘Keep away, Jake, please. Don’t come any closer. You’ve had enough blood on your hands, haven’t you?’

  I said, ‘Where did you get the gun?’ I really did want to know, and I had an instinct, which I still think was sound, to keep some sort of conversation going, even in that howling desolation and the state we were both in.

  ‘I took it from Mike’s. I think he must know I’ve got it, but he didn’t see me take it. You know who I mean? Mike Grainger, at Seele.’

  ‘Yes, I know. He came looking for it, I think.’

  ‘Mike did? I never saw him.’

  ‘No. I did. He asked me not to tell you.’

  She half smiled. ‘Good old Mike. He’s a cheap skate really, but I suppose he has the elements of decency. Did you talk to him?’

  ‘Yes. Then I went and saw him again and asked him questions. He told me about you – about you and him, I mean. Stella, was it really so essential that I shouldn’t know?’

  This time she really smiled, but the smile was a very watchful one. She said, ‘Dear Jake, you’re a fool, aren’t you, in some ways? I can’t think why I love you so much. Probably if Elizabeth hadn’t got hold of you I shouldn’t have. But there it was. Right from the start, as soon as she brought you home. I hope you’ll never have to hate anyone as much as I hated her. It’s a painful business.’

  ‘But she’s dead now.’

  ‘Of course she’s dead. I killed her. And now there’s Mrs Wainwright. It’s such a mess, don’t you see? All these years, and then when she finally drove me to it, I found I was just a month too late. You’d got somebody else. If I’d known about that earlier, I think I might even have left her alone and watched her lose you. That would have been something, anyhow. But even that I got wrong. She said she wouldn’t have me in the house any more, and I couldn’t bear it and killed her. And then I found she had lost you anyway, and I had too, and I might just as well have left her alone. It’s a mess, and there’s no way out of it now.’

  I said, ‘But she couldn’t—Oh well, it doesn’t matter now. But it wasn’t for Elizabeth to order you out of the house, was it? I could have insisted on your coming if you wanted to.’

  ‘You insist? No, Jake dear. But it wasn’t that. There was this thing with the Grainger man. Elizabeth got to know about it. God knows how, but I suppose it was easy enough. She probably gossiped locally. But I couldn’t bear you to know about it. It wasn’t very noble. Just casual lechery. Mike’s pretty awful as a person, but he’s so goddamned beautiful and I wanted something very badly. So that was it. I’d loved you nearly seven years, and there I was in bed with this small-time Romeo. And Elizabeth said if I came again, she’d tell you all about it. That was her mistake, the silly bitch. I couldn’t have that and I couldn’t bear not to come here, so there was no way out of it. I didn’t plan anything, of course, but I knew if occasion offered I’d kill her. And things played right into my hands. They did, didn’t they? I killed her and got clear away with it. I came down that evening just in time to see her trailing into the wood with all her stuff. I went into the house to find you, but you weren’t there, and the car was gone. There was no one anywhere. I didn’t think any more about it. I just walked straight across to the wood and killed her. I followed her. She made enough noise. I came up with her when she was fixing her things. She said you were in London and wouldn’t be back till late, so it was a good chance for me to get all my stuff out of the house and go for good. And I’d better be gone before you came back. Then she turned her back on me and went on fiddling with her things. She was smiling to herself, as pleased as Punch. I didn’t say anything. I just walked about looking for something to kill her with. I wanted a suitable stick, but it’s odd when it comes to the point how difficult it is to find anything that will do. But I found one in the end. A nice solid branch, straight and heavy. I broke the twigs off it quite deliberately and tried it for balance. Then I walked back to where she was. She couldn’t have heard me coming, because she had the headphones on. Not that I think she’d have worried. She was kneeling, leaning slightly forward. It was all grotesquely simple. She even took the headphones off just when I was wondering whether they mattered. I took a full swing and slugged her at the back of the neck, high up. She fell straight forward on her face and that was that. But of course I didn’t know about the pigs. That was a bit crude but incredibly convenient. But in case you’re worried, I think she was dead before they found her. They just covered in for me. They did it very well, I must say. It was bad luck on Dennis. It must have been the last thing he wanted. But he’s an odd monster anyway. She won’t be any good to you, you know, Jake – not after him. Anyway, I just drove back and took the Seele road. Nobody saw me. I spent the night at Seele. I told Mike I had come straight from London. I came on here next morning. I shouldn’t have come as early as I did, but Mike’s up at dawn, and I wanted to get to you at once. It worked, anyway. It was all perfect. And then I realised I was too late, and you’d taken up with the little Wainwright. I’ve taken some knocks in my time, but that beat everything. I thought for a bit nothing might come of it. I still don’t think it’s any use to you, but God knows I’m prejudiced. Anyway, I borrowed Mike’s gun in case. And at the end of it all I missed her. Oh well. It doesn’t matter now in any case. It’s a very special gun, Jake. Mike’s very fond of it, and I feel responsible. I should hate it to be damaged.’ She took a quick pace towards me and swung the gun straight up into the air between us.

  I have a passionate regard for guns, and Stella knew I had. I do not think anything in the world could have prevented me from trying to catch the gun rather than let it fall on the stones. It was very difficult to catch in the darkness and that wind, but I got a hand to it as it fell and held it. By that time she had ten yards start of me. She ran left-handed, along the beach, but always edging closer to the sea. She must have got her arms out of her mackintosh as she ran, because suddenly she flung it off and I found it a moment later encumbering my feet. When I got rid of it and went after her again, I could no longer see her. I ran on aimlessly, peering up and down the beach in the luminous darkness. Then I knew I had gone too far, and ran back. I was sobbing, but could not hear any sound I made. In the end I simply stood on the top of the sea-bank, leaning against the wind and looking down at the murderous chaos of white water and the endless flux of stones scuttering about under it. I never expected to see anything, but I went on looking until I found I was shivering helplessly with cold and physical exhaustion.

  I broke the gun, but I think I already knew what I should find in it. It ejected two empty cases. She had never had more than the two rounds. Everything after that was bluff, and I had let her get away with it. The wind started me walking back. It simply blew me eastwards as my legs lost the strength to resist it. I stumbled in front of it along the beach, with the empty gun in my hands, full of a growing consciousness of total and intolerable loss.