Air and Angels (12 page)

On Wednesday afternoon he left her lying on the bed, because she felt slightly unwell, and walked by himself, climbed to the top of Tennyson Down and sat there on the grass beside the cropping sheep, and remembered a holiday spent on the island when he was a small boy. He had come up here then, and sea and sky had stretched
away all around and below him, and he had felt himself to be king of the world.

Now, he lay on his back, and felt the earth turn, and thought that perhaps after all he might make the best of things.

But he did not know her, and though she spoke lovingly, she knew nothing, nothing at all, of him.

And then, realising that, and struck by the truth of it all, he stood up abruptly, and as he did
so, recalled the childhood feeling that when the wind blew it would lift him off the ground and he would soar.

As Thomas walks back across the dark heathland and marsh towards the sea, and the gale and the light of the Wherry Inn, seventy miles away, across that flat country, Adèle Hemmings is walking, too, down through the tangle of the neglected garden, where unspeakable horrors lie casually
hidden in the grass, to the back gate (whose wood is slimy with rot and whose hinges are eaten away by rust, so that it always hangs half open).

Beyond the back gate, a lane, between high walls, and hedges and fences, and other, more substantial gates, a cutting, a snicket, a ginnel, an alley. And beyond the lane, and beyond all the quiet, respectable avenues, the open fields, the Backs, the
river. The world.

Thinks Adèle Hemmings, who has scarcely been into it. The world, under the racing sky. For she looks up, and sees the clouds drift apart like veils, to let out a little of the watery moonlight, before they merge thickly together again and the moon goes out, and she is made giddy, and has to look down.

In the satin parlour, her aunt rings a petulant bell. But Adèle Hemmings
is gone, has stepped boldly out into the dark lane, beyond the broken gate, and does not hear and does not care, and even the cats, lying fatly about on their cushions, scarcely twitch, scarcely stir.

Half a dozen dishes, of china and tin and pot, sit about the scullery floor, smeared and crusted with the remains of food, stained with the sour rims of cream (for the maids are paid too little,
even by the poor standards of all such maids, and do not like cats, and are thoughtlessly treated, and do not stay. And the present maid is a sluttish thing, and will soon give in her notice.).

In corners, here and there, blobs and skeins of entrail and matted fur, from the day’s slaughter.

Adèle Hemmings (whose parents are twenty years dead. But she still remembers them, still weeps) walks
out of the shelter of the alley and into the wind, and the wind blows her clothes about and lifts them up, exciting her, her heart takes off and pounds, with the realisation of where she is, alone at night in the silent streets.

In the world.

She is even excited by the silken sound of her own stockings. Thinks that she might laugh out loud, cackle and shriek. Or run about naked.

Though in the
parlour of the house, the irritable bell rings and rings, and if she is too far away and too much in the wind and too reluctant, for her ears to hear it, nevertheless, it reaches her, it rings inside her head, the walls of her skull trap and magnify the sound and it cannot be got out.

Adèle Hemmings does not walk very far – fifty yards into the wind, but never out of the shelter of the respectable
avenue.

Behind her, a cat follows, slipping along the shadows of the hedge, watchful as a spy sent out from the house.

Later, the clouds began to gather, dark as grapes, bringing rain. Later, he stood on the cliff-top and thought that he might simply jump down, down onto the shingle and dark rocks.

But of course he did not, only turned, feeling the first spatter of rain on his face, to walk
back to the hotel, and to his wife.

She has ridden very hard, delighted in letting the pony have its head, she has thrown off the syce and his cautions, his frown of disapproval, galloping, galloping. But the sun is higher now, they have turned for home, sedately trotting, barely disturbing the dust. Sadu is content again.

Exhausted, hot, jubilant, Kitty’s head is full of the week to come. There
is to be a moonlight picnic, there are no fewer than three garden parties, there is the gymkhana, the social round is unceasing, and suddenly, she sees that it is fun after all, great fun, there are friends, there is so much to enjoy.

Except, perhaps, that it is always Eleanor who is the bright star, glittering at the centre of it all and around whom everything revolves.

They are trotting towards
a village, a few houses among the beanfields, for a little way the track takes on the slight resemblance to a road. And in the dust at the edge of the road, but still some distance from the nearest house, she sees a figure, scuttling slowly, crab-wise, bent close to the earth, and, nearing it, looks down at a crippled woman, thin, deformed, with twisted legs and arms, and a hunch on her bent
back, like an incubus. And the legs end in stumps and are running with sores, and pus runs out of one of the eye sockets.

She is dragging her body in the ditch, towards the village, and beside her, running easily to keep pace, small boys dance a mocking dance, and jabber and jeer. And then one picks up a handful of dust and stones and hurls it and the others cry out joyfully, and bend to follow
suit.

And in shouting at them, cracking her whip to disperse them, in pulling her pony up and round, and calling to Sadu for help, in the swirl of dust and the yelling and confusion, Kitty sees the crippled woman trip and fall half under the hooves of the pony, half into the ditch, she rolls and flails her stunted, withered arms, to save herself.

And Kitty would dismount, do something to help,
for the small boys have raced away now. But Sadu rides fast alongside her, bends to take her reins and then urges both ponies on, so that Kitty is obliged to go too and to hold tight to the saddle as they gallop on, she only sees, glancing over her shoulder as she is pulled away, that the woman has begun to move again, crawling slowly, painfully through the dust towards the houses. And though she
screams at the syce, screeches at him, angrily, and beats her fists on the saddle in frustration, she knows that it is no use, that he will not stop, but only forces the two ponies grimly on, until they are a mile or more away, and on the last lap towards home, when he releases the rein, gives it back into her control, and then drops a pace or two behind her again, knowing that she will not go
back now.

She knows perfectly well what has happened. She is unsurprised. He is a Hindu, and she herself is the daughter of a memsahib, and the cripple is untouchable. That is all there is to it.

In the drive, she dismounts stiffly from her sweating pony and drops the reins for the syce to retrieve, turns her back on him, without looking in his direction.

Impassively, the man leads both ponies
off, around to the stables and out of sight.

And, bursting into the house and into her mother’s bedroom, where Eleanor is creaming her throat at the mirror, the fury and outrage and frustration swelling up behind her eyes, roaring in her ears like the sea, Kitty says, ‘I hate India. I hate this dreadful country, do you hear?
I hate it all
.’ And bursts out sobbing, her face scarlet, so that Lewis
comes in alarm out of his dressing-room, to demand an explanation for the hubbub.

Later, Kitty sits on the verandah with Miss Hartshorn. She has rested, slept for almost two hours and eaten breakfast, and now they have glasses of lemon tea on the bamboo table before them and suede-bound copies of Keats.

Reading aloud, of autumn and nightingales, drunk on the words, Miss Hartshorn has made herself
drowsy, her voice is monotonous and very soft.

Adieu! Adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

Up the hill-side and now ’tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades.

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music. Do I wake or sleep?

And as she reads, she remembers vividly, so that it is almost here, she has almost reached it; for the nightingale
sings in the woodland behind the cottage in Warwickshire, she herself has heard it.

But now, Kitty stands up suddenly, knocking her chair over backwards in her passion, and the suede-bound book falls from her lap onto the floor.

‘But what is the
point
of it all?’ she is shouting. ‘I cannot understand. What are you trying to tell me? What is the
point
of all this beauty?’

And storms away, leaving
Miss Hartshorn alone, the spell broken and scattered all around her.

It was one of the most perfectly tranquil weeks of his life. The last, perhaps.

He took the dinghy out every morning, just before dawn, and hid, watching the birds, listening, moored among the reedbeds. Twice, he went out in the late evening, at the turn of the tide, and remained there all night, lying flat along the bottom
of the dinghy, cramped, cold, silent, content.

Otherwise, he sat on the deck of the houseboat, or else worked at the little square ledge that let down to form a makeshift desk in front of the window, recording his observations, drawing.

He read, the bird books, John Donne’s sermons, and Jeremy Taylor, the Greek Testament.

And after lunch or in the early evening, fell into a deep, dreamless
sleep, lying fully dressed on his bunk for three hours or more, and awoke, deeply refreshed, to the silence.

He neither saw nor spoke to a soul for five days.

But on the sixth day, which was Sunday and the day before he would have to leave, he rowed to where a path led off the marshes, for four miles inland, and walked to the chapel, that stood by itself in the middle of the flat land. There
had been a frost, the tips of the reeds and the grasses at his feet were whitened. The sun shone, but with a pale, brittle light, and his footsteps rasped on the path.

The building smelled of cold, cold, watery stone. But it was flooded with light that came through the clear glass of the windows, and the walls were white, so that the light washed over them like water.

There were no other worshippers
save Thomas and the priest. He offered up his thanks to God, and opened his heart too, with fervour and joy. And looking upwards, to the wooden roof, that was curved like the upturned belly of a boat, he saw at several corners, where the ribs met and joined, the small carved angels, wings upswept as if at any moment they might break free, and soar.

He would have prayed to remain in this paradise
for ever. Except that then, it would become familiar, and the glory, he knew, would fade from it. Only if he left it, would it remain for him, perfect, unsullied, pure.

‘IT IS,’ miss Hartshorn says, ‘simply the most beautiful part of England. It is perfect.’

She and Kitty are strolling around the garden, books abandoned. For they both find it increasingly difficult to concentrate, though for different reasons.

‘Our cottage has gardens both at the front and at the back – very neat, you know. Very cottagey. Marjorie works so hard. Marjorie
adores
the garden.
Though at the back it is a little wilder, almost overgrown, indeed, up to the fence, for the woods come right down, to the door. Well, as I have told you.’

‘Yes.’ Kitty stops, in order, somehow, to see it more clearly in her mind’s eye. ‘Yes. The Forest of Arden.’

‘The Forest of Arden!’ Miss Hartshorn’s voice answers hers, trembling a little with awe.

‘It really
is
! Part of the ancient forest.
The very same.’

They walk slowly between the flowerbeds, and the soldierly geraniums.

‘And the front path leads down to a little wicket gate. But we keep the hedge quite low, so as to enjoy the view – the whole of Warwickshire lying before us, running down towards the Avon. We are only a few yards from the river bank. In the little room in the eaves – the room you would have – you can hear the
gentle flow of the water night and day. And the trees – so many, so many beautiful trees, so stately and gracious – elms and beeches and oaks, and then the alders and poplars and willows along the river bank.’

‘“There is a willow grows aslant a brook.”’

‘Oh yes!’ Miss Hartshorn beams approvingly, gives Kitty’s shoulder a little pat.

‘Oh, there is so much of the spirit of Shakespeare all around
us. Though Marjorie is the real one for appreciating that.

In the evening sometimes, we just sit quietly on the terrace with our work and we can see the deer coming down to feed at the water’s edge, four or five at a time. Of course, Marjorie and I are very quiet. But although it is such an idyllic spot, the cottage really is not too isolated, you must not worry about that, our little village
is less than a mile away, and then, we are within quite easy reach of several lovely old Warwickshire towns. And there is a very nice school for young ladies at Leamington Spa. Or perhaps the one at Malvern? The Malvern Hills you would find
very
beautiful. Though that would be rather further, it would mean boarding of course. No, on the whole, perhaps it would be best for you just to stay with
us, at least until you are quite settled and have more of an idea. Marjorie and I would teach you and we do have several other friends nearby – Esme Thorpe, for piano and Miss Batt, who is quite a mathematician and, well, the vicar, I suppose, for religious studies. Or the vicar’s wife.’

They have reached the verandah again. Kitty stands still before their house, the flowerbeds, the geraniums,
the fountains, looking at India, seeing what she imagines to be England, seeing herself at the window of the little room in the eaves of the cottage in Warwickshire, the fields and water-meadows and trees of the Avon Vale stretching away from her.

But thinks that she will want more, wants the world to open out in every direction at once. The cottage in Warwickshire and Miss Hartshorn’s friend
Marjorie Pepys may not be enough.

And her father and mother have not yet been spoken to at all.