An End and a Beginning (37 page)

“It is getting lighter, and I am still seated on this bench. The light in her room had suddenly gone out. I got up and walked round to the back of the house. I found myself standing at the edge of what
might
be a forest, but it is only a huge kitchen garden. Here, nothing is small, everything is huge. A dense, tangled mass of rotting vegetation. The kitchen garden. I stare at it, and it stares back at me. There is something wilful about it, and something depressing, and I turned away and walked along to the big window of the dining-room. I remember sitting there only a few hours ago.

“I am sitting in that room, she is, a fire is lit, and the icebergs have melted. We are in two chairs. We don't speak. We just look at each other. My whole happiness lies in just seeing her there, very close. I can touch her, she is real. Words hardly seem necessary. After fifteen years it is
not
a dream. If I look up her father will look down. Out of a tall frame over the fireplace. He watches, too, he listens. A tall, thin, grey-haired, strikingly handsome man. That's where she gets it from, I think, surely. First the handsome man, and then the beautiful child. Only the hint of a smile on this face, the hint of an acceptance, as though what he already holds might not be quite enough. Eyes like his daughter's, big, wide open, frank, but hard as flints. A powerful-looking creature, and the face always a striking contrast to his woman's hands. Splendid hands. The little finger of the right hand curls like a trap over the whip handle, and it tells you that he always held it. The silent Colonel.

“‘Have you heard from your father yet, Sheila?' I asked. ‘Not yet,' she said. ‘To-morrow, perhaps, the mail is always slow in these parts. It's a little too soon.'

“I looked up at the Colonel again. ‘Perhaps a little too late,' I thought, and I could even see her letter arriving at the London hotel, see him opening it, hear him reading the first two words, ‘Dear Daddy', watch his face as he read the last two, ‘come back'. I can even see his eyes closing against the innocence of it, the trust of it, I can see the lips curling back at the very thought of it.

“‘You think he'll come then?'

“‘Of course. Why not?'

“I looked up yet again, at those eyes, those hands, and I think how wise he was to get out. ‘You honestly believe that your father will come back and live here, just for the asking?'

“I knelt down, I took her hands. I pressed them together. ‘You really do believe it,' I said, ‘you really
do.
'

“‘Why shouldn't he? It's his home. I'm his daughter. It was always his home,' she said. I buried my head in her lap, I smiled. I thought, ‘Surely she's only pretending, it's just a game.' I felt her stroking my hair. My happiness is almost uncontainable. I threw my arms about her, and even then no words were necessary. It is understood.

“‘What are you thinking about?' she said. ‘Nothing,' I said, ‘just this', but I was, I was thinking, about her father. Perhaps Daddy is wiser, and maybe wiser still if he can stretch out his ears and listen to the day he is living in. How clever of him to go, at the time, whilst the going was good, before the exodus began, before the sparks showed, before the flames shot up. ‘Wise Downey,' I thought, ‘clever Downey.' Out before the crack came, the burdensome, and too surprising sound of Paddy waking up in the bog, stretching his bent back, looking round, and wondering which part of his country was his own. Doesn't she understand? Hasn't she a clue? Any clue? Didn't she ever find out? How much does she know, want to, how much does she understand? Or wasn't the Gelton mud quite deep enough? Something's finished, I told myself. I looked into her eyes, I asked a question. ‘And what happens if
he
turns up?'

“‘Who?' she asked. My God! She hasn't even a clue. She's dreaming, like I was, she's playing in the garden after the guests have gone, after the lights are out.

“‘Who? Desmond of course. He might come. Mightn't he? He is your husband, and you're his wife,' I said.

“She gave me the most extraordinary look, I shut my eyes against it. I thought she'd cry, I
couldn't
look, and I realized that even now there was a pull, a strong pull, a terrible pull. I saw her sorry, I could even
hear
her crying. I smothered her face in my shoulder.

“‘There isn't anybody else except your father, Sheila, and why should he want to come back here if he thought it wiser to get out when he did. I'm sure he didn't go just because your mother depressed him, because he couldn't have half the young girls from Cork queueing up by his bed. Oh God! Don't you understand, dear,
can't
you see,
won't
you come away with me?'

“There is no answer, and there are more words, and I can't prevent them from coming out. ‘Your father's not the only one, Sheila. You know that, now don't you? Others had their ears to the ground about the same time. It's the end of something, whether one likes it or not, it is the end. Why, even old Miss Fetch knows it, I'm sure she does, though she says nothing. What can they come back to? The good old days? They're out, right out, I ask you? What? Look around. Go up and down this country. Look at the tombs, all empty, and perhaps even the rats have gone, too. Where are his friends? They've gone as well. Too much cargo, they ought to lighten the ship. What a ship. Well, look at it? Look at it now. One time it was just English landlords, and now there's even a bit of green to it, a few Irish ones as well. Why won't you come, Sheila?'

“‘Where?'

“I hadn't even thought about it. I drew her down by her hair, I looked into her eyes. This woman is still beautiful, and I still love her, and I still want her. I can never see her here, I can see her only in Gelton. Nowhere else. I can see her walking its endless roads, trudging along its streets, in the places where she first learned to grow up. I can see her in line with the others, I can see her feeling very lonely, very strange in another life. And never afraid, and following her husband, the one she wanted, following behind him, walking beside him, pushing with him, to live, living. But not this. Christ! Not this. I look up at this man, tight in his frame, tight in his life, behind his frontier, but I cannot see his daughter, she is somewhere else, being tried in Gelton. I can see this man bent only in moments, humbled only by hours shared by God Almighty and his priest. Paddy will bend elsewhere. I look at him again, I keep looking at him.

“First it was felt, very slowly felt, and then it was suddenly known, like a great shout, and everybody is looking upwards, for the damned scales have shot skywards, and have never balanced, they never could, the weight is on one side, has been for years, for ages, for too long. He got out, he's out, lucky Colonel. Perhaps he thought that everything could explode except life, and he never once thought of Paddy yawning in the bog. Sucked at, sucked up, sucked dry. That's how it was, and I told her that.

“‘They're not even wanted back here,' I said. ‘None of them. Good riddance. Everybody knows. Opening up Rath Na is dreaming, playing the game with shut eyes.' The way she looks at me, perhaps she thinks I'm crazy. It's another time, and she knows it is, no longer soft, but hard as bloody iron. This damned country has been exporting Celtic twilight for centuries. If she tells me I don't know what I'm talking about I'll lose my eyebrows. They'll drop off.

“‘We all know, Sheila, my family knows, you know. Why don't you turn your back on the whole damned lot of it and come away with me? We can be happy somewhere else, we can live. This will end up like the rest of them, it couldn't do anything else. And think of the money, the cost of it all.'

“I look at her hand, the one that wrote the note, that struck the match for me and lighted the lamp, the one that showed me the door that wasn't closed. What I always remember about her is that she never forgot me, not once in all that time. I told her again, for the hundredth time. ‘No matter what is said, no matter what I do, I shall always remember that, Sheila. I shall never forget it, I couldn't. It's inside, it's nailed down.' I talk like a parrot, I say again that there is nobody else, and there isn't. I am glad she has left her husband. Glad. I bent back her head. I said, ‘Can't you say something?' I shut my eyes, I waited for the answer.

“‘It's not simple like that,' she said.

“‘It's simple enough to me,' I said.

“‘Where should we go? What should we do?'

“‘Somewhere! Something.' I am back on that boat, her note shut in my hand, and I watch another piece of paper toss in black water, before the horn blew, before the boat sailed. I wait for the answer.

“‘When you sent that note to the ship, Sheila, had you then left him?'

“‘A fortnight before that,' she said.

“‘Where did you go?'

“‘Does it matter?'

“I never answered, I knew she was right, it didn't matter.

“‘D'you think he'll follow you over here?'

“‘No.'

“‘How sure are you that he won't?'

“‘I know he won't.'

“‘How do you know?'

“‘Because he wouldn't care,' she said.

“
‘Can
I talk about him?'

“‘I'd rather you didn't,' she said.

“‘But
can
I? Without hurting you? I won't if you don't want to.'

“‘I feel so sick of everything, so utterly weary. I'm torn in two.'

“I shut my eyes, I was quite unable to speak. Her father stood there, imperious on his canvas, he can look down at us both; if he wants to he can enjoy himself. ‘Don't cry,' I said.

“‘No,' she said, and cried.

“‘I only want you to be happy,' I said. It's all I can say. All I want to. I feel this woman heavy on my shoulder, in my arms. But I am looking over her head, towards the window, watching the light go, wishing it gone, thinking of darkness and curtains, thinking of the room again, the bed. My senses tyrannise me. I was pressing her down. I was feeling her yield. Only the creak of floor-boards above my head reminds me that there is another world, and I think of Miss Fetch proceeding on her infernal duties. I just wait for the light to go. ‘Let's go up,' I said.

“We went up.”

“Now it won't matter whether I go up or she comes down.”

He was still seated at the table, his head low on his breast, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. He did not hear the door opening, did not see Miss Fetch peep in. She looked at the sitting man. She spoke.

“Is Mrs. Fury not down yet then?” she asked. He had not seemed to hear, and she took two paces into the room and shut the door after her. “Is there anything else you'll be wanting?” she asked, and only then did he move, look up, see her standing almost beside him. “What did you say, I'm sorry,” he said.

“It's very late, it's turned ten o'clock. Has Mrs. Fury not come down?”

“Not yet.”

“Is there anything else you'll be wanting? And as this room is being done out to-day, will you remember to use the diningroom from lunch onwards?”

“I shan't forget,” he said.

“Mrs. Fury is never as late as this. Perhaps I ought to take something up to her.”

“Yes, do that.”

Something in his demeanour puzzled her. “Are you all right, sir?”

“I'm all right. Thank you, Miss Fetch.”

“Then I'll be off,” she said.

“Has the post been yet?”

“It has. I didn't see anything in for you,” she said, and went out and closed the door.

“I actually believed, I really believed.” He went to the fire and leaned on the mantelpiece. “I
really
did.”

He watched the flames, he saw everything in the flames. He could see her lying flat on her back, her hands over her eyes. He saw everything locked in and shut tight, and nothing coming out.

“If I knew what was gnawing at her I'd have the answer. It can only be him. It couldn't be anything else. Perhaps she couldn't have a child, perhaps she could, and he never wanted it from the beginning.” He walked slowly round the room. Looking out, he saw a grey sky, and many fast-scudding clouds. He saw a few wheeling gulls, and he thought of the sea. “I was too happy,” he thought.

He went out and quickly down the passage, hurried up the back stairs and got to his room. He closed the door silently after and went and sat down on his bed. His eyes fell on the letter, still challenging, still unopened. He picked it up and stared at it. Even the strange handwriting no longer intrigued. He dangled it in his fingers for a moment or two then let it drop to the table again. He went to the dressing-table, pulled open the drawers. He gathered the few things that were his and stuffed them into his pockets. He left the room, stood listening for a moment, and hurried down the stairs. He then left the house.

11

“We were happy once,” she thought. “Yes, we were very happy indeed.” Desmond still seems to be standing there, waiting, listening. He is still close. He is still real. She can talk to him under the sheet. “Can you remember? I can. I always remember the first time I was really happy,” and she felt herself reaching out arms to grasp it again.

“It was in the beginning. You remember a summer afternoon when we were sitting in the park. It was very quiet there, we were away from the streets, the noise. We sat holding hands, we'd only been married a few months. I remember it chiefly because of the children. I can even hear them running about, shouting, laughing, being happy, and not knowing it. We both sat watching them. That was the first time I felt the child in myself, I could even see it running to play with the others. I even remember pressing hard on your hand, but you wouldn't remember it. Perhaps you never saw the children. ‘How happy those children are,' I said. ‘They're so free.'