Maisie leaped violently from her chair, stood rigid for a minute, head lifted, glowering at the copper pots and pans on the shelf above the range; then sat down again.
Unwilling to encourage, at this juncture, any deflection from the main stream, I said hastily:
“What happened next?”
“She was carrying a big fat envelope. I said, if she’d got something for the person who lived here wouldn’t she give it to me and I’d see he got it in the morning, I thought he’d be in bed and asleep at this time of night. I spoke in a perfectly ordinary way—I knew I must. ‘Certainly not. He’s expecting me,’ she said, very dignified. She said she’d given him all the facts, and as he wished to take the matter in hand immediately she had promised to deliver the document in person. ‘So that he will know, once and for all,’ she said in a crisp, efficient sort of way—it reminded me of Sibyl—‘what is necessary to be done.’ I was stumped. Then I said: ‘Couldn’t I read it too? I’m very interested.’ She looked at me horribly cunningly and stuffed it under her arm. It was that look that made me realise, all in a rush that she was plumb crazy.”
“Oh Maisie! Weren’t you terrified?”
“Yes,” said Maisie simply. “I nearly yelled for Gil. Then I pulled myself together and thought: ‘I will manage. Years and years I’ve spent telling myself I’d find her, wherever she was; and whatever it was like, whatever had happened, I’d—I’d make it come right. Now I’ve found her, and I’ve got to.’ I heard myself say in a very confidential, sincere sort of way: ‘I’ve always been on your side, you know. If you tell me all about it, I give you my word of honour I’ll help you.’ Her face worked, and she started whimpering and crying and looking all round. I took her hand. I thought: I’ll make her know me, or die. I said: ‘Look at me. It’s Maisie.’ She didn’t look at me, but she went quiet and—sort of attentive. Then I noticed she’d got on her pearl necklace: I remembered it so well. She always wore it when we were little: her father used to add two pearls a year to it, she’d told us, on every birthday till he died, so you can imagine it was a beauty. She was just the person for pearls. I said: ‘Oh, you still wear your lovely pearls. I am glad.’ She looked at me then, quickly, in a startled way—or puzzled—and fingered them.”
Maisie stopped. She threw at me a half defiant, half shy glance and said:
“I used to have a rather idiotic nickname for her.”
“What was it?”
“Well … I used to call her my Pearly Pet. I reminded her.”
“Did she remember?” I said a little awkwardly, concealing a flicker of embarrassment at the soppiness of the epithet.
“I saw her give a smile. Then she said, rather doubtfully: ‘They were to go to my eldest daughter.’ ‘That’s me,’ I said.”
In Maisie’s voice rang an echo of the entreaty, questioning, gentleness, passionate assertion with which she had pronounced these two words.
“And then—?” said I eagerly, anticipating the triumph of maternal recognition.
“She began to moan and twist her hands, and said: ‘But I have no children.’ I said: ‘Yes, yes. There’s me—and Malcolm. You remember Malcolm.’ She said: ‘Of course I remember Malcolm. He was such an affectionate little boy,’ as if she was talking about somebody else’s child she remembered just a little. I said in a joking sort of voice: ‘Pearls wouldn’t suit Maisie, would they? She’s not at all the type for necklaces.’ She said consideringly, no, Maisie was a very heavy, unornamental type of little girl, but clever and a strong, good character.’ You know, the whole time, from the moment she said, rather melodramatically: ‘I have no children,’ I had the feeling she was pretending to herself and to me—sort of shutting a door, very deep down. I said: ‘Cherry would have been the one, she was beautiful like you.’ She put her hand up to her mouth and wailed out: ‘Oh, Maisie!’”
I put a finger in my mouth and bit it hard. But Maisie went on, calm:
“She knew me then. I said: ‘Yes, darling pet, it is Maisie. And Malcolm’s all right too. But Cherry’s dead, you know. …’ I thought it was best to say it at once, quite matter-of-fact and quiet. … But it was a mistake.” She blew out a great rueful breath. “It set her off again.”
“She went—queer again?” I said nervously.
“Queer’s not the word. She began to nod and put a finger to her lip and say sssh! she’d tell me something, just a word in my ear, strictly on the q.t.—that sort of thing. I began to get the hang of what madness was like.”
“What did she tell you?”
“She whispered that Cherry wasn’t dead—he’d got her in there. He was hiding her.”
“Oh God! … I should have died. What did you say?”
“I said yes, yes, I quite understood. Hadn’t we better go for a little stroll and talk it over, what was best to do? She seemed to trust me this time, and I walked her off in the opposite direction, along the bank. We walked and walked. …”
“Talking to each other?”
“Oh!” said Maisie, groaning at the recollection. “She clutched my arm and gabbled and gabbled, absolute nonsense, about lambs and God and blood and Heaven knows what; and secret rites where babies were taken from their mothers and walled up in cupboards as a sacrifice; oh, and barred windows and plots to get her shut up, and her documents that proved it; and the evil in the world, how she had to suffer it all, the whole damned lot—only she.” Maisie paused. “And other startling things … I was afraid the people in the inn would wake up and come out to see what was happening; but luckily the weir muffled her. After a bit she began to drag on my arm, and say her head hurt her. I suggested we should go back to her room, and, thank the Lord, she took to the idea. I thought I might get her to bed and she’d sleep it off. Error number two. … So back we trundled over the bridge. Needless to say she’d forgotten which was her bedroom, but I guessed which it would be—the best one, looking over the garden, and I took her there. She seemed to be going all weak, she could hardly stand up. I think she’d been on the go for hours and hours, scribbling and walking up and down.”
“Was she still talking?”
“No. I’d impressed on her we must be absolutely dead quiet, it was a frightfully important piece of stratagem, if we were going to go through all the documents: if someone came and found us it would be fatal. By this time I seemed to be able to will her to do what I wanted.”
“You are amazing,” I said, low and fervent.
“I told her to lie down till her head was better, I’d stay with her. There were dozens of medicine bottles and pills lying around, and I found some stuff called Cachets Fèvre which I knew Sibyl took for headaches, and I gave her two. She swallowed them like a lamb; and then I undressed her and put her to bed. She kept saying: ‘Poor Ianthe’s so tired,’—like a baby. It seemed queer undressing one’s own mother. She was so thin: her hips stuck out and her legs had gone to nothing but bone. It was pathetic. She used to have a perfect figure. I brushed her hair. It used to be thick and dark and glossy and long enough to sit on: she was very vain of it. But now it was thin and grey, and it looked brittle, dead, as if it hadn’t had a brush through it for weeks. Also her neck was grubby. I got her into bed. Once or twice she said: ‘Maisie,’ in a whimpering, petulant sort of voice. Oh yes, and this is extraordinary—once she said: ‘Tilly.’ I could swear she did.”
I caught my breath.
“I suppose she imagined she was back to being a little girl, when Tilly looked after her,” I said.
“I suppose so. It sounded a bit uncanny.” Maisie brooded. “And all the time,” she went on, “I had to keep one eye cocked on the garden, in case I missed Tanya tiptoeing back across the bridge. I went and sat by the window. She never stirred. I thought the headache pill was working and she’d drop off to sleep. It wasn’t very long before, to my great relief, I did see Tanya. I was in a stew about having missed her, perhaps, while I was walking mother
about. I went and stooped over the bed. She was breathing quite peacefully and evenly. I thought: ‘Thank God, she’s off. I’ll risk it.’”
“Risk what?”
“Well, don’t you see, I had to do mutually incompatible things, my girl. Know what that means? I had to go back to the house with Tanya, in the hope of saving our bacon there; and I had to stay with Mother—I’d promised her. Apart from the promise, I’d come to the modest conclusion that I was the Great Healer: that my powers were curing her madness, and if I stuck to it she’d wake up in the morning all serene and unmad again.” Maisie suddenly let out a great shout of laughter. “Like Sibyl, isn’t it?” She went on laughing and laughing, too much; then checked herself abruptly and said: “God, I was a bloody great green fool!”
“What did you do?”
“My scheme was to see Tanya home as quick as possible, then come straight back. I streaked down like a cat and met Tanya by the bridge. She did get a shock. I never knew before that one could see a person blush by moonlight. I told her to hurry, and as we went along I started explaining everything.”
“About your mother too?”
“Yes, I had to. I knew I could trust her. I’d decided anyway that Gil and she and I would have to co-operate. She was simply horrified, of course, what with that and the news about Sibyl. We tore back, and then when we got to the garden we started to go quite slowly up towards the house, in case—”
“And was she?”
“She was still there.”
“She wasn’t!”
“Yes. Sitting now, full in the window. I could just see the outline of her, in a great armchair with a high straight back. Think of her, drawing it up to the window and planting herself in it to keep watch! She must have been there three hours at least. We crept up to Tanya’s room, and I was just saying, well, there it was, we must take jolly good care to have our story pat and watch out for traps, when the bell made us jump out of our skins. She had an electric bell connecting with Tanya’s room, across the passage, in case she felt ill in the night. There was nothing for it but to go along—and go at once. So we went. There she sat, with a white shawl over her head, and the cloak on. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Both of you. Still up?’”
“How did she sound?”
“As mild as milk. You bet! I said we’d been down for a bathe and just got back. ‘Ah, delicious,’ she said. ‘How wise you are to profit by this night.’ ‘I thought I spotted you as I came up the garden,’ I said. ‘Did you indeed?’ she said. ‘The moon is so extravagantly brilliant. I rang, Tanya, to ask if you would be so good as to fetch my fan. I left it downstairs. In point of fact I have rung several times within the last hour. But no matter: you were out. I have that unpleasant feeling of suffocation.’ Tanya flew for the fan; and I said oughtn’t she to go to bed? But she said she’d found her discomfort increased when she lay down, and she preferred to remain where she was. Tanya came back with the fan. She asked Sibyl if she’d like her to stay and fan her. She thanked her politely and said no, it wasn’t necessary, she’d like us to go to bed now. Just as we were making off, she said in a gentle way: ‘You must have a care how you swim among those water lilies. I should not like you to be under the impression that you could easily extricate yourself, were you to become entangled. This applies to you particularly, Maisie. You are a trifle rash and injudicious. The lilies should probably be cut. As soon as I am able, I shall go down to the river and see for myself what needs to be done.’”
“Oh!”
“Yes, there was something fishy all right. It was her manners being so extra stately that worried us most. Only we had no time to worry. I had to get back, I was in a panic about Mother. I wanted to go alone, in case the bell rang again. It was a ghastly dilemma. However, Tanya refused point blank to let me go without her, she said there was no knowing, I might need help: she’d just stand below in the garden until I gave her a signal that I was all right, anyway. I couldn’t waste precious time arguing.” Maisie blew out another great breath. “It’s as well she did come.”
“Was it?”
“Yes. Because … when I got back, everything had blown sky-high.”
I dared not speak. All questions died upon my lips. I gazed at her.
“Tanya waited in the garden. If Mother was asleep, I was to wave to her from the window. When I left her to meet Tanya, I’d gone out by the garden door and locked it and put the key in my pocket, so that I could get in again; also, to be certain she was locked in safe. I crept upstairs. I was afraid Monsieur Meunier would wake up and come at me in his nightshirt—but there wasn’t a sound. I got to her room and went in. And she wasn’t there.”
“Not there!”
“Gone. I guessed in a flash what she’d done: jumped for it. There was a little balcony outside her window: she’d jumped from that. My God, my blood did freeze then! The first thought that occurred to me was—she’d gone into the river.”
Still I gazed at her, dumb.
“That spurred me on to jump too—and it was no mean jump. Tanya was waiting. We took an attentive squint up and down the river: it seemed remarkably smooth and normal. She said we must go at once to Gil and tell him. So we went, hot foot. I might have known. …”
“She was there?”
“She was there,” said Maisie, drawling out each word with a sinister stress. “She was there all right.”
“What was she doing?”
“She was smashing up the whole place.”
I heard myself faintly groan.
“God knows why I’m telling you all this,” said Maisie with sudden fierceness. “I’ve never told a soul, apart from a garbled version to Auntie Mack. Shall I stop?”
“Please, please go on,” I entreated. “If you don’t mind too much.”
“I must go on,” she said, still fierce, “now I’ve begun.” She waited a moment, then went on quietly: “There are two rooms in the mill. First, the enormous studio, and behind it a smaller room where he sleeps—slept. The front door was open. The lights were on in the studio, but it was empty. We heard the sound of glass smashing in his bedroom, and her voice crying and raving. We tried to get in, but the door was locked. We shouted that it was us. We were frightened. He shouted back at us to run round and get in by the bathroom window. So we did. And we went in. He was holding her by the wrists. Her hands were streaming with blood. She’d been smashing the windows. There was broken glass everywhere. I thought he was hurting her. I rushed to her and tried to push him away, to hold her myself. He said: ‘Don’t be a fool, Maisie.’ God, she was strong! He was holding her with all his strength: I didn’t realise. All the good I did was to make him lose his balance; and she got loose and made a dive for the jagged window. He caught her again round the knees, and she went down crash on the ground. I dashed and got a towel from the bathroom and tied it round her ankles. But she didn’t try to get up. She was pretty well knocked out. She just lay and moaned. I knelt down beside her and put her head in my lap.” Maisie stopped abruptly, bit her lip. The difficult blood surged up, made her face dark. In her eyes I saw the glitter of tears. When she spoke again her voice was unsteady. “She looked so terrible. Broken. Like something thrown out for the dustbin. And Gil stood breathing in great gasps, as if he’d run a ten-mile race. The sweat was streaming off him. And wretched Tanya petrified, nearly fainting. I told her to get water and handkerchiefs. I wanted to wash her hands and tie them up. But Gil suddenly came to and took control again. He took Tanya by the shoulders and fairly rapped out orders to her: to run to the village at once, as fast as her legs could carry her, and bring the doctor. There wasn’t any telephone, you see. He told her what to say: to bring stuff—you know— to shoot into her, a hypodermic. She nodded and flew off. I knew she couldn’t be back much under an hour. So there we were. Gil got water in a basin and bathed her forehead and her hands. He was so gentle. He did it much better than I could have. Better than any nurse. He
picked out splinters of glass from the cuts and washed them clean with disinfectant and bound them up tight to stop the bleeding. It was a miracle she hadn’t cut a vein or an artery; but there was blood everywhere, all over her clothes, and on the floor, and on the curtains.”
“Had you stopped—minding blood,” I said, “by then?”
Her lips turned down in a grim smile.
“I hadn’t stopped at the beginning,” she said. “I had by the end. I just would not. I … He gave me some brandy. Yes, that night cured me. I don’t mind blood any more. Considering what a lot of it people have in them and how easily it comes out, it’s as well to get used to the look of the stuff. … He couldn’t help hurting her and she cried bitterly and he talked to her in a soothing, encouraging way. Then we lifted her on to the bed. She was just dazed, not violent or talkative any more. She said thank you to him for bandaging her. She even started to stammer out something—sort of apologising—but he told her to rest and not worry, we’d look after her. I didn’t dare speak to him or to her for fear of setting her off again. I sat beside her, and he made her a drink of hot milk and coffee, and I raised her head a little and held the cup to her lips while she sipped it; and he swept up the glass and put the room to rights. There must have been a devilish commotion: the chairs and tables were upside down, and both the lamps smashed. Then he came and looked at her. Her eyes were closed, and she wasn’t crying any more. And then he looked at me. And then he gave me a kiss—the first and the last,” said Maisie, smiling wryly. “And then he went and sat by the window. It was getting light. The birds were all singing.”
The Ballad and the Source Page 31