Caught, Back, Concluding

by Henry Green

  But Edge had caught sight of two specks. She looked again. Two men had come out from under her Trees. One was carrying a yoke with buckets, so she knew him. She cried out, in shocked vexation, ‘Rock flaunts himself.’

  ‘What?’ Baker demanded, jolted by the tone used into looking sharply from her plate.

  ‘Why cannot the man take the back way?’ Edge asked in a calmer voice. ‘Must he trail across our beautiful front, even with his swill?’

  ‘He’s rather a favourite outside this room, you know,’ Miss Baker said, to moderate her colleague.

  ‘Tomorrow I shall speak about it.’

  ‘Well, I shouldn’t give a hint in the kitchen, Edge.’

  ‘Stumbling over our grass,’ Edge protested, when there was a knock. ‘Come in,’ she invited, triumphant suddenly. The girl Marion entered. She stood just inside the door. ‘Ma’am,’ she said, and swallowed.

  ‘Yes, Marion?’

  ‘Ma’am,’ she said, once more swallowing.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s Mary and Merode,’ and the child brought out everything, which was little enough, in a rush. ‘They’re not there, and the beds not slept in.’

  Half an hour later, punctual to the minute, Baker left with Edge in the car for Town. They had a number of reasons why they should carry on as though nothing had occurred. What they had decided was, that the police must be casually informed, yet be instructed, at the same time, not to make a search.

  Meanwhile Miss Marchbanks could question other girls in the dormitory.

  There was no point in losing one’s head.

  The Dance must go on of course.

  Mary was such a steady girl, in fact they would not even consider it (although Merode had no parents), Edge had said speaking for Miss Baker, and that it was all a mistake, as they would find when, after their hard day, they themselves returned. In any case, the two girls must be together, which made for safety.

  Baker had not been so sure.

  But, as Edge pointed out, if they were to draw attention by staying down here to miss their Wednesday Commissions, they would look, when everything was cleared up by luncheon, as it would surely be, like nothing so much as old fools, or worse, yes, like a couple of old fools.

  So they went. And two thirds of the students knew nothing whatever, at first, about the disappearance of these children.

  Mr Rock left his yoke. When he came in alone by the outside kitchen door, he could just see Maggie Blain seated, in charge, at her kitchen table and beyond her, barely a part of one of the cookers. This was by reason of a great shaft of early sunlight which, as it entered one of the windows, shone so loud already that it bisected the kitchen, to show him air on the rise in its dust, like soda-water through transparent milk. It hid the line of girls beyond, fetching their own breakfasts at the other cooker. They were no more to him than light blue shadows, and their low voices, to his deafness, just a female murmuring, a susurration of feathers.

  ‘The swill man,’ he called in a high cracked voice, bringing out the joke he had plied for ten years; anxious about his breakfast, because that depended upon Mrs Blain’s present health and temper.

  He felt it would be all right because she said, ‘Marion, a cup of tea for Mr Rock.’

  The girl and the old man came together over this, in the megaphone of light. When he was seated she whispered at him,

  ‘You didn’t catch sight of Mary and Merode?’

  He could not hear. ‘You’ll have to speak up, my dear,’ he said, ‘if you want me to understand.’

  ‘As you came along?’ she said louder, at a loss.

  ‘There’ll be time and to spare for secrets when the music’s playin’,’ Maggie Blain told her. ‘Will you come along tonight?’ she enquired of Mr Rock. He decided that she sounded hospitable.

  ‘I’m past it,’ he said.

  ‘Might do you good,’ she said grimly. He did not like that tone so well.

  ‘And you?’ he asked, then felt faint for lack of food, so that he had to close his eyes behind the winking spectacles.

  ‘Me?’ she said. ‘I’ll be so rushed all day with work I shan’t seek to be on my toes when the hour strikes.’ He took this to be a bad sign. And he had only had the cup of tea.

  ‘Oh, you’ll come to our dance surely, won’t you Mr Rock?’ a girl’s voice called from the shadows. But he was not even going to consider now that the Principals had not invited him. It was breakfast he was after.

  ‘You shouldn’t trouble about me,’ he said, with the one purpose in view. ‘This lady here’s the one will have to bear the brunt,’ he said.

  But it drew no response out of Mrs Blain. So he kept silent for a time. The whispering began once more. If he could have heard, past the glow from that hot tea which flooded his senses, he would have caught these sentiments,

  ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Oh, but you shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Why, whatever else was I to do?’

  ‘But they’ll turn up, directly.’

  ‘Mary and Merode?’

  ‘I know, but all the same.’

  ‘There you are, you feel like me, like me, you see.’

  And all the while a line of girls fetched their breakfasts, served themselves, the sleep from which they had just come a rosy moss upon the lips, the heavy tide of dreams on each in a flow of her eighteen summers, and which would ebb now only with their first cup they were fetching, as his tea made his old blood run again, in this morning’s second miracle for Mr Rock.

  ‘It’ll be a smashing day,’ the cook said, heavily ironic.

  And why shouldn’t I come along, Mr Rock asked himself in an aside, because I could keep out of sight, and there will be a buffet.

  ‘Not that I’ll see much even if it does keep fine,’ the cook said.

  While I sit still, Mr Rock argued inside him, I shan’t have to worry that I shall come upon Elizabeth and him round every corner, behind every palm; no, of course, there will be no palms. But he was famished.

  ‘A holiday?’ he asked out loud because, in that case, there might, at the moment, be less chance of food.

  Several sang out together in answer.

  ‘Why, this is Founder’s Day,’ they announced. He had forgotten.

  ‘Yes, I expect we spoiled the peace and quiet for you when they stuck us down in this damp den, ten years ago to a week,’ the cook pronounced.

  ‘Pooled the diet?’ he asked, not hearing.

  One or two giggles came from the girls as they moved with their trays. But he was well-liked, and respected.

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder you thought they’d let you live your life out in peace and quiet,’ Maggie went on, in a louder voice.

  ‘How’s that?’ he said, catching it. ‘Plenty of go about me yet,’ he bragged.

  ‘Come on, hurry now,’ Maggie called to the queue. She could not see this because it was beyond the sunlight. ‘Or I shall never get started,’ she explained.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Blain,’ they dutifully answered.

  ‘Heavy on you, too, with your girl sick?’ the cook added, condescending.

  The old man wondered if she thought Elizabeth was a slavey, but what he jovially said was, ‘Well, I haven’t three hundred of ’em, have I?’

  ‘Oh I don’t let those be a bother, my goodness me,’ the cook replied. ‘No, all I meant was that a man your age doesn’t want to be saddled to fetch and carry for others,’ she explained.

  ‘I never permit a woman to be a worry,’ Mr Rock said, with decision.

  ‘I don’t suppose,’ Mrs Blain replied, sparing a glance inside her at the picture she imagined of the late Mrs Rock. ‘And then your granddaughter will wed and the place’ll seem empty,’ she said, without malice.

  ‘She’s not there more often than not,’ he objected, in the sense that she was always off somewhere to meet Sebastian.

  ‘But then she’s not been so well,’ Maggie Blain agreed to defend Miss Rock, having misunders
tood him.

  ‘They overdo things at their age,’ Mr Rock explained, as though Liz were still a child, with all the time in the world before her for work, love, and marriage.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ the cook said.

  ‘I wouldn’t have your family, nevertheless,’ the old man put in. He usually plied the one jest until he won his meal.

  ‘They’re good girls,’ Mrs Blain answered. She was in great ignorance. ‘Have you got the staff breakfasts up?’ she called after the orderlies. At this half promise of food he felt his stomach gush digestive juices.

  ‘We’ve taken them, Mrs Blain, and there’s one over,’ Marion insinuated. ‘Mr Birt’s had a night off.’ Mr Rock waited for the spare to be offered. He waited. Then, to his vague, wondering surprise, beyond the cone of light in which he sat and warmed his cold hollow bones, he gradually felt a tide of female curiosity flow up over him, so strong it was like the smell of a fox that has just slunk by, back of some bushes. He could not understand. If he had only known, this bit of news had been put forward, and some of the girls hung on the answer, to discover whether it was official and above board, the absence of Sebastian Birt under the particular circumstances.

  ‘That’s right,’ Mrs Blain said. ‘His name’s struck off my list,’ and there was a sort of sigh came from outside the sunlight. The whispering began again. But it had given Mr Rock an uneasiness. Because he was certain Sebastian had been round to the cottage after dark. And now the snake was not even in next morning.

  Drat Mrs Blain, why couldn’t she hurry his breakfast.

  How right, earlier on, not to carry the tea up to Liz, Mr Rock told himself, the fellow could only have been there all night, and somehow or other these girls knew, which must be one reason they did not propose to give him a bite of anything. He could go hungry now.

  ‘But there’s some don’t trouble,’ Mrs Blain said, with so much suggested in her voice that Mr Rock, instantly apprehensive, decided in his own best interests that he would do better to ignore what was on the way, until he knew how grave it was.

  ‘But there’s some don’t give themselves the trouble,’ she repeated, directly at him. He realised he would have to respond. He turned to her like a blind man.

  ‘Going off up to London as usual this day of all days,’ she explained herself.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Blain, it’s the date the Commissions sit,’ said one of the embryo State Servants.

  ‘I tell you I’m right sorry this minute for Miss Marchbanks,’ the cook continued. ‘All that goes awry will be laid to her door, and no argument,’ she ended, in a sort of hush about.

  Most of the children were hanging on her words. She was aware, but in ignorance. She sought to improve on this. ‘God help her, poor woman, if she hasn’t the decorations just so in quick time,’ she said.

  The whispers began again.

  ‘Is that the last of breakfast?’ she called out, and the old man’s heart beat wet in his mouth.

  ‘I should be getting on,’ he said, to force matters.

  ‘Don’t disturb yourself, Mr Rock,’ the cook told him. ‘You’re one who’s never in the light, is he, girls? You’d better get your own now,’ she gave them leave. And with a sort of chorus of welcome and pleasure because they were hungry too, nine came with their spoons and plates of porridge, and their lovely, sleepy, but rather pimply skins, to sit alongside the famished, sweet old sage. None dared remind Mrs Blain of him. She was a terror for her rights.

  ‘But you are coming tonight, Mrs Blain?’ one asked.

  ‘Me?’ the cook demanded. ‘After I’ve finished the knick knacks for the buffet, which’ll take me all day on my stoves?’

  ‘You know you’ve got the best lot of orderlies on the whole rota to help you,’ they said.

  ‘I’d never have agreed without,’ Mrs Blain retorted. ‘I told Miss Marchbanks. Give me Mary and the girls on her rota, I said, or you’ll have a dead woman on your hands.’

  This statement had a greater effect than she could have expected. There was a sort of gasp round the kitchen, and at least three children, while Mr Rock blindly watched, pushed their porridge plates away. One or two even put what they felt into words.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll come either, tonight I mean,’ the youngest said.

  ‘How’s that Maisy?’ the cook asked. ‘Are you shy even of a bit of fun at your time of life?’

  The girl would not admit it was Mary and Merode she had on her mind, that she feared the worst. But she blushed.

  ‘To cook when the weather’s hot turns my stomach,’ she explained, because Mr Rock’s unseeing spectacles were on her. The old man still did not know if he was altogether forsaken, whether, upon this, the dawn of their great day, he was just to get the bare cup of tea.

  ‘Now don’t give me that, not at your age,’ the cook coarsely insinuated.

  ‘Oh Mrs Blain,’ they all cried out, while Maisy went red.

  ‘Because that’s when you can say so,’ Mrs Blain elaborated with gusto. ‘Getting your man his Sunday dinner, oh dear, openin’ the oven door when you’re in that condition, and the hot smell of the roast comes.’

  ‘I can smell it now,’ Mr Rock suggested in great ignorance, and smacked his lips.

  They all laughed.

  ‘There’s expectant fathers’ kitchens now,’ Marion announced, while the old man tried to reconcile himself to the idea that he must go hungry. But the girls tittered, for this that Marion had just put forward was one of Miss Inglefield’s more modern jokes in class.

  ‘And I know how my fellow would have said, when he was still alive, if I’d told him that, while my little Enid was on the way,’ Mrs Blain announced, delighted. ‘Yet what are you girls thinkin’?’ she demanded. ‘Where’s Mr Rock’s bit of breakfast, may I ask?’

  ‘Oh Mr Rock,’ several cried out, got up, and at long last hurried this over. ‘It was just . . .’ Maisy began to excuse herself, with intent to explain how upset she was about Mary and Merode, but the cook would not allow her.

  ‘It was simply you forgot,’ Mrs Blain interrupted.

  Mr Rock, who deeply felt his position, begging, as it seemed he had to, for this one meal per diem, next tried not to have it.

  ‘No thank you,’ he said. ‘This day I don’t fancy . . .’ and began to get out of his chair.

  ‘Sit you down, don’t be awkward,’ the cook cried. ‘I can’t have my place treated cavalier fashion,’ she said. ‘You either eat a good breakfast or you mayn’t move out of here in daylight. Then what would your Daisy say without her swill? There’s a bit of bran as well, for Ted. You won’t have that either if you can’t do justice.’

  ‘And yourself, Mrs Blain?’ he asked, then subsided in his place, mouth watering, glad.

  ‘Me? I mentioned to my girls before you came. I’d rather not refer to that once more,’ she said with finality. Her stomach was upset. He nodded, old and solemn over the plate, with no idea of what she meant.

  He ate.

  He was greedy.

  They watched in approving silence.

  ‘I can’t imagine what you’ll think, Mr Rock, to forget you like we did,’ a girl lied, to cover her tracks.

  ‘I don’t,’ he replied, rather abrupt, but his feelings, at the moment, were directed to his stomach. Some of them feared he had been offended.

  So they began to make up to him. They uttered little comforting remarks. He sat silent. With an old man’s gluttony he had eaten too fast and he was, one might say, listening to the food settle in a cavernous, wrinkled belly.

  ‘We all feel the same when we’re on orderly duties, Mr Rock. We’d really miss you if you didn’t drop in of a morning.’

  ‘I think Daisy’s sweet,’ Margot said.

  ‘Will you ask me for a dance, Mr Rock?’

  ‘They only played waltzes, too, when you were young, Mr Rock, didn’t they?’

  ‘I think they might let us have something else besides,’ one of them put forward. ‘Like a tango,’ she said. ‘They sti
ll have those in the smaller halls.’

  ‘Enough’s enough,’ the sage announced. Several of the girls began to giggle. They were not to know this, but he was referring to his digestion.

  ‘I think it a shame,’ Mrs Blain brought out, in a warning voice. But the younger ones could not stop, behind hands they had over their mouths.

  ‘I don’t know what’s so comical, I’m sure,’ Mrs Blain said in reproof, and then the old man realised from their flushed faces that they were laughing at him.

  ‘I shouldn’t pay attention,’ Mr Rock commented.

  ‘Oh we don’t,’ they answered, still giggling.

  ‘To me,’ he said. They stopped. ‘I’m only on sufferance here, you know,’ he said, with a satisfied bitterness.

  ‘Oh Mr Rock,’ they cried.

  ‘I think it a shame,’ Mrs Blain announced, brightly. ‘Now then,’ she called out. ‘Let’s get goin’.’And in a moment the old and famous man was left alone at table, altogether blinded by increasing brightness, before an empty plate and a cup that was warm, behind a rumbling stomach, left to dread the journey back with full buckets.

  When Sebastian Birt came into the staff breakfast parlour he found he was first. He did not look out on the bright daylight but under the dish cover on a hot plate. He took no scrambled egg.

  He poured himself a cup of tea. He was sitting down to this when Miss Winstanley entered. He did not rise. He said to her, in what he imagined to be the manner of a State executive, for he was always in a part,

  ‘Well, well,’ he said, rubbed hands together.