by Mary Renault
“Very well.” He could see a tension in her body like that of a stretched bow. “Perhaps it’s no good. It was no good last time, and people wondered why they’d wasted so much effort, and started tired. But what I think is, we’ve got to go on caring, and swimming against the stream, to keep alive. I mean, to keep alive until we die.”
“You’re right,” he said slowly. “But you’re young.”
She said with a half-hidden and what seemed an old bitterness, “All right, you needn’t keep rubbing it in.”
“I’m sorry,” he said a little blankly.
“You don’t have to take any notice of that.” She turned away towards the sea. “But anyhow, you can’t back out by just pretending you belong to the older generation. You know that yourself.”
“That’s a courteous rebuke.” He found himself exerting his will to make her turn and meet his eyes.
“Was I rude?” she said, turning. “I didn’t mean to be.”
He smiled at her without saying anything. It was hardly fair, for he had known she couldn’t cope with it. She blushed faintly—she was getting tanned, but clearly and evenly, so that it still showed—and, picking up a pebble, did a duck-and-drake with it on the sea. In spite of the ripples, she managed to make it bounce once.
Neil found a flatter one; not without satisfaction—he had not tried for at least twenty years—he got his to bounce twice.
“Talk about catharsis. We must have unloaded enough to make room for lunch. Let’s have it on this raft, or whatever it is.”
It was roomy, and had one gunwale intact, making a good back-rest. They explored their lunch-packets; Neil, who did not like cake but had always lacked the nerve to tell Mrs Kearsey so, swapped his portion with Ellen for some bloater sandwiches. She assured him earnestly that he was losing in food-value as the cake had dried eggs in it; but she ate the sweet stuff with childish enjoyment. He stopped himself just in time from saying that they must repeat this practical arrangement another day. He would probably not feel like company tomorrow, and would be sorry if he had landed himself with it.
“No, thank you,” she said afterwards. “I really never smoke out of doors.”
“I used not to either.” He lay down to protect his lighter from the wind, and feeling too lazy to get up again, stayed there. A gull mewed, close overhead. He realised he had been as nearly asleep as made no matter, and ought to apologise. He turned his head to do so, still feeling drowsy and regretting the need to start conversation again; with relief he perceived that she was nearly asleep too. The position into which he had turned himself was more comfortable than the one he had left; he would drop off again in a minute. A faint drone of insects came from the edge of the woods above, and the sea made a sleepy plashing and sucking against the stones.”
She had curled sideways, half away from him, an arm locked round her bare knees. In the strong sunlight, her brown legs had a film of golden down, flat and silky, which had been invisible when she stood. It reminded him of something; he pursued the likeness with the obstinacy which accompanies a flight from serious thought, and presently remembered the pale silk that some rock-growing plants have on their leaves. In the satisfaction of one who has tidied something up, he relaxed again; but the desire for sleep had become less pressing. A few minutes later he told himself, sharply, This is ridiculous. I’d better wake up before I start taking it seriously.
“I nearly went to sleep then,” said Ellen without moving.
“So did I.” An undeveloped child, he thought. Oh, well, it happens like weather. Take no notice and it goes off.
“They say lettuce has bromide in it,” she remarked.
“Mm-m?” She did not answer; she had settled again, thinking he did not want to be disturbed. This, he now perceived, had been his intention. He sat up quickly.
“The water looks nice today. Mind if I go in?”
She stirred idly. “Have you got a swim-suit or shall I clear out?” She might have been talking to a brother; she was a contradictory mixture, he thought.
“No, of course don’t move, I’m all equipped. Plenty of trees.”
“I’ve brought mine too. Thanks for waking me up, I’d have wasted the whole afternoon. You take that end and I’ll take this.” She fished a towel and costume out of her rucksack and strolled off.
Neil was first in the water. It did not take him long to realise that it was a most unpleasant beach for bathing at low tide. The stones, which were smallish at the top of the slope, got progressively larger, developing into boulders; and the tops of what looked like full sized rocks were visible further out. As he picked his way uncomfortably into deeper water, where it was still unsafe to swim, he thought, She might have been drowned, bathing here on her own.
“Look out for the rocks,” he called when she came out of cover. “You won’t manage any swimming. I’m going in in a minute.”
“All right,” she said cheerfully, and ducked down to wet her shoulders. From where he was she looked very young, awkward and angular, edging about in the ungraceful way which is inevitable with sharp stones underfoot. He was glad to be doing something active; already he was wondering what it had all been about. Finding a fairly clear stretch of water, he got in a short swim. A sharp little cry halted him, followed by a splash. He was still in his depth; feeling for a flat surface he stood up. She had disappeared.
The next few seconds, during which he was floundering over, felt like several years. Speed was impossible, one could neither walk nor swim. He used hands and feet indiscriminately on the rocks, nearly falling several times himself. Recovering from one of these slips, he saw her standing safely a dozen yards away. For a moment, in his relief, he felt angry. “Are you all right?” he shouted, out of breath.
“Yes. Sorry; I slipped on some seaweed. I only bumped my knee a bit. There’s not much point in this, though, is there? I think I’ve had enough for today.” She started to walk shorewards.
“So have I. Not a very good idea of mine.” He lingered to let her get ahead. When she got near the water’s edge, however, she checked and stood still looking down. I suppose, he thought, she’s found some more rubbish she thinks might appeal to Mrs Kearsey.
Suddenly she turned, and started walking out to sea again. He looked at her curiously; she was going as if she could not see.
“What is it?” he asked, coming towards her.
In a voice as blank as her face she said, “Don’t come this way.”
Neil came over—the stones were easier here—and walked past her to the place where she had been. At first he thought it was a long boulder with weed on it; he found himself anxious to go on thinking this. His next step fell on a loose stone; he stumbled, and pitched forward almost on top of the thing. He just saved himself; but he had seen more than enough, and only took a second look because he knew that she must have seen everything. Half the skull was missing; there was slime in it, and, as he looked, a crab scuttled out. Part of the clothing remained, some kind of overalls; the arm was gone from inside one sleeve. His stomach heaved; he would have felt better if he could have vomited, but forced it back somehow, remembering the girl.
When he turned back to her she was still standing much as before, except that she seemed to know he was there. Making his voice as commonplace as he could manage, he said, “I’m sorry about that; it’s not very nice, is it? Come round this way with me.”
He put out his hand for hers, but she did not move. He saw that her face was the colour of vellum. Her body leaned forward, slowly; he reached out just in time to catch her.
She was slippery with salt water, and her dead weight almost slid through his arms. He managed to gather her into a transportable shape, and carried her up to the beach, the stones which he could not see cutting his feet. The raft where they had sat was partly sheltered; he laid her on the sun-warmed boards. Something rang as he put her down; it was a little gold St Christopher medal, hanging backward from a chain round her neck. He fished it up lest it should constrict he
r breathing, and saw the Air Force wings on the other side.
She looked as if she were dead, and he could not see her breathe. He felt for her wrist, but failed to find the vein. It’s only a faint, he told himself; don’t be a fool. All he knew to do for it was to throw water; and she was dripping wet already, even her hair. People did die of shock, he remembered suddenly; and, pulling down a shoulder-strap, he felt for her heart. Her breast was light, firm and cold, and pale like her lips. It was not till he had found the slow pulse under it that he had time to think what he was doing, and covered her again quickly.
She must have been shaken already by her fall among the rocks (he noticed now that her knee was grazed) and the other had happened within minutes. Warmth was the thing for shock, he remembered; but he had no idea where in the dense woods she had left her clothes. He had better fetch his own. As he was about to get up, she opened her eyes. Her face looked, now, both vacant and terrified. As a boy he had gone off once himself after a fall, and remembered the nightmare struggle to recreate oneself out of nothing. He rubbed one of her hands (the nails looked disconcertingly pallid and blue) and said “It’s all right now,” hoping it sounded rather less ineffectual than it felt.
The drowning look passed, and her eyes began to wander. When they found his face, they rested there in a dim relief. In the thin uncontrolled voice of a sick child she said, “I’m cold.” Her teeth began to chatter, turning her breath as it passed through them into a sobbing noise; there were blue-brown streaks under her eyes. “Of course you are,” he said. “Just a moment, I’ll get you something.”
He ran off to the trees, found his shirt, slacks and towel (it had been too hot to bring a jacket) ran back and bundled them round her. She ought, he knew, to be got out of her wet costume without delay. In her present state she would hardly notice it, but she was too shy a creature not to be horribly upset afterwards. As he was wondering which consideration was the more urgent, she plucked uncertainly at a fold of the shirt and sat up.
“I am so sorry.”
The abject apology in her voice affected him queerly. He said, “Don’t be silly, lie down for a bit,” and put her back again.
“No, I’m all right. Please have your clothes.” She held the shirt shakily towards him, setting her teeth to keep them quiet.
“I’m not cold; it’s a hot day really, you know. Look, tell me where your things are and I’ll bring them over.” She roused herself to give him a landmark, and he found them without much trouble. She did not look fit yet, he thought, to leave. “Can you manage?” he asked, trying not to feel an awkwardness which would communicate itself to her. “I can give you a hand, it doesn’t matter.” He tried to think up some further reassurance, but each phrase as he considered it sounded more offensive than the last.
“No, I can, thank you.” She spoke with as simple a courtesy as if he had offered to carry a parcel for her. He felt the same shiver of compassion that had moved him when she said that she was sorry. “I feel quite all right now. You go and get dressed yourself.” It was clearly impossible to convince her that she, and not the air, was cold; he left her in peace.
He was relieved to find, when he got back, that she had had a woollen sweater in her rucksack. She still looked very pale and pinched; but as soon as he got there, she scrambled to her feet and said, “Let’s go.”
“Not yet; it’s too long a climb. Stay in the sun and get warm again.”
“Climbing makes you warm. I’d rather go.”
Neil looked over his shoulder; the tide had receded, and the thing at its edge was almost exposed. He moved himself into her line of vision. “All right. We’ll rest on the way.” He picked up the rucksacks and, to keep her from looking round as much as to support her, put his arm round her waist. Most of his thoughts were elsewhere. He had just remembered something she had told him at their first meeting, and was wondering what, if anything, could possibly help.
When they reached the track, which was too narrow for two, she freed herself and went ahead. “Don’t go so fast,” he said, for the pace she was making would have been foolish for anyone in the best condition. She said absently, “Sorry,” and slowed down for a few yards, working up to the same speed again. A couple of hundred feet up, they came to a grassy shelf where the trees opened, and a splash of sun came through. He caught her arm.
“That’s enough, now. Sit down.”
She settled herself obediently on the thin grass, panting a little. The beach was hidden from here; a rounded recession of treetops showed only a silvery strip beyond them, bounded by the far grey coast of Wales.
“Why not break the rule,” he said, “and have a cigarette?”
“It isn’t a rule.” She smiled quite convincingly. “I’d like one in a minute. I think I shall have to do my hair first. I’m sorry to be so messy; but the tangles dry in if you don’t.”
“Carry on,” said Neil. He began to add, “I’m used to it,” and changed it to “I don’t mind.”
A comb was certainly urgent. She flung the rat-tailed mop forward over her face, and worried through it with dogged concentration. If one had planned for her a pose to underline her most immature aspect, he thought, it would have been this. The combing, on top of the salt and damp, left her hair darkened and almost straight. Nothing but a serge gym-tunic was wanting to complete an illusion which Neil, from his own angle, would have been ready to accept. The last half-hour, however, had shifted his perspective; his own angle had lost importance.
When she was ready he gave her the cigarette; he noticed that she could hardly keep it steady against his lighter. They smoked for a few minutes in silence, looking out at the trees and sea. After all, he thought, interference was futile; what could anyone do? Nothing except perhaps harm. Better leave things to their own movement. But in the half-relief which this thought engendered, he knew that it was his own movement, or lack of it, that he wanted to let alone; that this had become in most things his attitude of mind. She had told him this morning what she thought of it; it seemed a little ironical that she should be exposed to the first effects of her own advice.
He took a quick look at her profile, remarking again how a certain delicate strength, integral to its structure, was spoiled by an unfinished look which suggested not arrested growth but a kind of defeat. Pausing still irresolute, he considered the hopelessness of words: words which are the strait-jacket of the imagination, the sandpaper blunting all fine edges; which trample out ecstasy like a heavy corps-de-ballet dancing Giselle. Words, the supreme anaesthetic, he thought; and remembered the failures and aspirations of his youth. From this he came to the idea that it worked both ways; now was the time to make an asset of a liability. She would think him a thick-skinned moron, of course. But never mind.
“We shall have to see the police about this, I’m afraid,” he said. She looked round; he could see that this external fact came strangely to her; he had expected it would. “Don’t worry, though, it’s only a formality and I expect I can do most of it. You’ll have to make a deposition, that’s all. They’re used to it, on a coast like this.”
She leaned back, easily, against a slab of rock behind her. “Yes,” she said with brisk naturalness, “of course, they must be. I think I’d better come along with you; they’re sure to want me sooner or later. We may as well get it tidied up straight away.”
Thank God, Neil was thinking, I didn’t let this go. He did not pause to examine his own sense of urgency, which was born of a realisation that she was not the Sensitive Type. He had been in love with one of these in his early twenties, and it had taken him eighteen painful months to discover that she could get over anything in half an hour, by the fortifying process of covering everyone in range with a guilt-laden sense of their own inadequacy. It had been like the enormous mount which lets no one forget that the small weak etching it encloses is Art. This was something else. This determined cunning, as of an injured animal trying to hide itself in a protective background, was something he recognised. He knew
it, too well.
The bracing strain of responsibility, which he had almost lost the feel of, tightened in his mind; but he did not notice it. He felt misunderstood and lonely, as people do when they must handle a hurt animal that only knows the pain.
“I’ll see them first,” he said, “and find out what they want. Then you can do your stuff if you have to. There can’t be much to investigate, though. He had on his parachute-harness. Must have been posted as missing weeks ago.”
She looked round at him quickly; he had been ready for it, and met her eyes. “Hard luck on the poor bloke; he probably flew through the war without a scratch.”
He wondered what he had better do if at this point she simply got up and walked off; he would probably have done it himself. Instead she said, with a flat kind of submission, “The war hasn’t been over very long.”
“Too long,” he said. “Much too long. I’ve no special knowledge but I know that much.”
“I forgot I’d told you.” She seemed to re-discover her cigarette and drew on it, looking away.
“You know, don’t you, there’s no conceivable possibility?”
“I suppose not.”
“There’s no supposition about it,” said Neil sharply. In his determination to convince, he used his disciplinary classroom voice; she looked, for a moment, almost startled. “Sorry,” he said. “But you’ve got to snap out of this, you know.”
“Please,” she said, “you mustn’t bother about me. I’ve been enough trouble already. I can’t think why every time I run into you I have to make an embarrassing nuisance of myself.”
“Now look here.” Neil was getting unconsciously into his stride. Boys too have their painful reserves, and piercing them had sometimes been his thankless but necessary job. “You can drop all that stuff. I’m supplying all the nuisance-value at the moment. I know that. You’re wondering why in God’s name I haven’t the elementary tact to shut up, and I know that too. But—”