I Capture the Castle (33 page)

“And, my goodness, you need it,” she said, as I followed her into the bar.

“You’re wet through. Take that dress off and I’ll dry it by the kitchen fire.”

There was a man mending the sink in the kitchen so I couldn’t sit in there without my dress; but she bolted the door of the bar and said she would see that no one came through from the kitchen.

I handed my gym-dress over and sat up at the bar in my vest and black school knickers, drinking my port.

The port was nice and warming, but I don’t think old country bars are very cheerful places; there is something peculiarly depressing about the smell of stale beer. If I had been in a good mood, I might have liked the thought of villagers drinking there for three hundred years; but as it was, I kept thinking of how dreary their lives must have been, and that most of them were dead. There was a looking-glass at the back of the bar, facing the window, and reflected in it I could see the wet tombstones in the churchyard. I thought of the rain going down, down to the sodden coffins.

And all the time my wet hair kept dripping down my back inside my vest.

However, by the time I finished the port I was less violently miserable. I just felt lumpish and my eyes kept getting fixed on things.

I found myself staring at the bottles of creme de menthe and cherry brandy that Rose and I had our drinks out of on May Day.

suddenly I felt the most bitter hatred for Rose’s green creme de menthe and a deep affection for my ruby cherry brandy.

I went to the kitchen door and put my head round.

“Please, Mrs. Jakes,” I called, “can I have a cherry brandy? It’s striking twelve now, so I can owe you for it without breaking the law.”

She came and got it for me, and after she put the bottle back I could gloat over there being more gone out of it than out of the creme de menthe bottle.

“Now everyone will think the cherry brandy’s the popular one,” I thought. Then two old men came knocking at the door, wanting their beer, and Mrs.

Jakes whisked me and my drink out of the bar.

“You can wait in Miss Marcy’s room,” she said.

“Your dress won’t be dry for quite a while yet.”

Miss Marcy has an upstairs room at the inn, well away from the noise of the bar. Ever since she came to Godsend she has talked of having her own cottage, but year after year she stays on at “The Keys” and I don’t think she will ever move now.

Mrs. Jakes makes her very comfortable and the inn is so handy for the school.

As I climbed the stairs I was surprised to find how wobbly my legs were. I said to myself, “Poor child, I’m more exhausted than I realized.” It was a relief to sit down in Miss Marcy’s wicker armchair—except that it was much lower than I expected; I spilt a valuable amount of cherry brandy. I finished the rest of it with deep satisfaction—each time I took a sip I thought, “That’s one in the eye for the creme de menthe.” And then the very confusing thought struck me that generally green is my color and pink is Rose’s, so the liqueurs were all mixed up and silly. And then I wondered if I was a little bit drunk. I had a look at myself in Miss Marcy’s dressing-table glass and I looked awful-my hair was in rats’-tails, my face was dirty and my expression simply maudlin. For no reason at all, I grinned at myself, Then I began to think: “Who am I his Who am I ?” Whenever I do that, I feel one good push would shove me over the edge of lunacy; so I turned away from the glass and tried to get my mind off myself—I did it by taking an interest in Miss Marcy’s room.

It really is fascinating—all her personal possessions are so very small. The pictures are postcard reproductions of Old Masters. She has lots of metal animals about an inch long, little wooden shoes, painted boxes only big enough to hold stamps. And what makes things look even tinier than they are is that the room is large, with great oak beams, and all Mrs. Jakes’s furniture is so huge.

While I was examining the miniature Devon pitchers on the mantelpiece (five of them, with one wild flower in each), the glow from the cherry brandy wore off-probably because the wind down the chimney was blowing right through my knickers. So I wrapped myself in the quilt and lay on the bed. I was on the fringe of sleep when Miss Marcy arrived home for her lunch.

“You poor, poor child,” she cried, coming over to put her hand on my forehead.

“I wonder if I ought to take your temperature ?”

I told her there was nothing wrong with me but strong drink.

She giggled and blinked and said “Well, reely!” and I suddenly felt very world-worn and elderly in comparison with her. Then she handed me my gym-dress and got me some hot water. After I had washed I felt quite normal, except that the whole morning lay on my conscience in a dreary, shaming sort of way.

“I must dash home,” I said.

“I’m half-an-hour late with Father’s lunch already.”

“Oh, your Father’s at Scoatney again,” said Miss Marcy.

“They’re giving him a nice, thick steak.” She had heard from Mrs. Jakes, who had heard from the butcher, who had heard from the Scoatney cook.

“So you can stay and have your lunch with me.

Mrs. Jakes is going to send up enough for two.”

She has her meals on trays, from the inn kitchen, but she keeps things she calls “extra treats” in the big mahogany corner-cupboard.

“I like to nibble these at night,” she said as she was getting some biscuits out.

“I always wake up around two o’clock and fancy some thing to eat.”

I had a flash of her lying in the wide, sagging bed, watching the moonlit square of the lattice window while she crunched her biscuits.

“Do you lie awake long?” I asked.

“Oh, I generally hear the church clock strike the quarter. Then I tell myself to be a good girl and go back to sleep.

I usually make up some nice little story until I drop off.”

“What sort of story ?”

“Oh, not real stories, of course. Sometimes I try to imagine what happens to characters in books-after the books finish, I mean. Or I think about the interesting people I know—dear Rose shopping in London, or Stephen being photographed by that kind Mrs. Fox.

Cotton. I love making up stories about people.”

“Don’t you ever make them up about yourself?”

She looked quite puzzled. “Do you know, I don’t believe I ever do his I suppose I don’t find myself very interesting.”

There was a thump on the door and she went to take the tray in.

Mrs. Jakes had sent up stew and apple pie.

“Oh, good,” said Miss Marcy.

“Stew’s so comforting on a rainy day.”

As we settled down to eat, I said how extraordinary it must be not to find oneself interesting.

“Didn’t you ever, Miss Marcy ?”

She thought, while she finished an enormous mouthful.

“I think I did when I was a girl. My dear Mother always said I was very self-centered. And so discontented!”

I said: “You aren’t now. What changed you?”

“God sent me a real grief, dear.” Then she told me that her parents had died within a month of each other, when she was seven teen, and how dreadfully she had felt it.

“Oh, dear, I couldn’t believe the sun would ever shine again.

Then our local clergyman asked me to help with some children he was taking into the country-and, do you know, it worked a miracle for me his I suppose that was the beginning of finding others more interesting than myself.”

“It wouldn’t work a miracle for me,” I said, “—I mean, if I were ever unhappy.”

She said she thought it would in the end; then asked me if I was missing Rose much. I noticed she was looking at me rather searchingly, so I said “Oh yes,” very casually and talked brightly about Rose’s trousseau and how happy I was for her, until we heard children’s voices under the window as they trooped back to school. Then Miss Marcy jumped up and powdered her nose very white with a tiny powder-puff out of a cardboard box.

“It’s singing this afternoon,” she said.

“We always look forward to that.”

I thought of the singing on May Day, and of Simon, so embarrassed and so kind, making his speech to the children.

Oh, lovely day-before he had proposed to Rose! We went downstairs and I thanked Mrs.

Jakes for everything, including the loan of the cherry brandy. (a shilling—and that was a reduced price. Drink is ruinous.) The rain had stopped, but it was still very gray and chilly.

“I hope it cheers up by Saturday,” said Miss Marcy, as we dodged the drips from the chestnut tree, “because I’m giving the children a picnic. I suppose, dear, you couldn’t find time to help me? You’d think of such splendid games.”

“I’m afraid I’m a bit busy at the castle,” I said quickly—the children were screaming over some game in the playground and I didn’t feel I could stand an afternoon of that.

“How thoughtless of me! Of course you have your hands full at the weekends—with the boys home to be looked after as well as your Father. Perhaps you have some free time in these long, light evenings-some of the old folks do love to be read to, you know.”

I stared at her in astonishment. Neither Rose nor I have ever gone in for that sort of thing; incidentally, I don’t believe the villagers really like good works being done to them. Miss Marcy must have noticed my expression because she went on hurriedly: “Oh, it was just an idea. I thought it might take you out of yourself a bit-if you’re finding life dull without Rose.”

“Not really,” I said, brightly—and heaven knows, one can’t call misery dull, exactly. Dear Miss Marcy, little did she know I had more than missing Rose on my mind. Just then, some children came up with a frog in a cardboard box, so she said good-bye and went off with them to the pond to watch it swim.

When I got home, the castle was completely deserted, even About and Hcl were out. I felt guilty, because they had had no dinner, and called and called them but they didn’t come. My voice sounded despairing and I suddenly felt lonelier than I ever remember feeling, and more deeply sad. Everything I looked at was gray—gray water in the moat, great gray towering walls, remote gray sky;

even the wheat, which was between green and gold, seemed colorless.

I sat on the bedroom window-seat, staring woodenly at Miss Blossom. Suddenly her voice spoke, in my head: “You go to that:

picnic, dearie.”

I heard myself ask her why.

“Because little Miss Blink eyes is right—it would take you out of yourself. And doing things for others gives you a lovely glow.”

“So does port,” I said cynically.

“That’s no way to talk, not at your age,” said Miss Blossom.

“Though I must say you’d have made a cat laugh, walking about in your drawers with that cherry brandy. Fancy you having a taste for drink!”

“Well, I can’t drown my sorrows in it often,” I told her, “it’s too expensive. Good works are cheaper.”

“So’s religion,” said Miss Blossom.

“And some say that’s best of all. You could get it all right if you went on trying, you know-you being so fond of poetry.”

Now it is very odd, but I have often told myself things through Miss Blossom that I didn’t know I knew.

When she said that about my “getting” religion, I instantly realized that she was right—and it came as such a surprise to me that I thought “Heavens, have I been converted?” I soon decided that it wasn’t quite so drastic as that; all that had come to me, really, was—well, the feasibility of conversion. I suddenly knew that religion, God-something beyond everyday life—was there to be found, provided one is really willing. And I saw that though what I felt in the church was only imagination, it was a step on the way; because imagination itself can be a kind of willingness—a pretence that things are real, due to one’s longing for them. It struck me that this was somehow tied up with what the Vicar said about religion being an extension of art—and then I had a glimpse of how religion really can cure you of sorrow; somehow make use of it, turn it to beauty, just as art can make sad things beautiful.

I found myself saying: “Sacrifice is the secret —you have to sacrifice things for art and it’s the same with religion; and then the sacrifice turns out to be a gain.” Then I got confused and I couldn’t hold on to what I meant—until Miss Blossom remarked:

“Nonsense, duckie—it’s perfectly simple.

You lose yourself in something beyond yourself and it’s a lovely rest.”

I saw that, all right. Then I thought: “But that’s how Miss Marcy cured her sorrow, too-only she lost herself in other people instead of in religion.” Which way of life was best—hers or the Vicar’s?

I decided that he loves God and merely likes the villagers, whereas she loves the villagers and merely likes Godand then I suddenly wondered if I could combine both ways, love God and my neighbor equally. Was I really willing to?

And I was! Oh, for a moment I truly was! I saw myself going to church regularly, getting myself confirmed, making a little chapel with flowers and candles-and being so wonderful to everyone at home and in the village, telling stories to the children, reading to the old people (i daresay tact could disguise that one was doing good works to them). Would I be sincere or just pretending? Even if it began as pretence, surely it would grow real before very long?

Perhaps it was real already—for the very thought of it rolled the weight of misery off my heart, drove it so far away that, though I saw it still, I no longer felt it.

And then a most peculiar thing happened: I found myself seeing the new road that skirts King’s Crypt -wide, straight, with plenty of room for through-traffic. And then I saw the busy part of the town, with its tangle of narrow old streets that are so awful for motorists on market days, but so very, very beautiful.

Of course, what my mind’s eye was trying to tell me was that the Vicar Miss Marcy had managed to by-pass the suffering that comes to people—he by his religion, she by her kindness to others.

And came to me that if one does that, one is liable to miss too along with the suffering-perhaps, in a way, life itself.

Is that why Miss Marcy seems so young for her age-why the Vicar, in of all his cleverness, has that look of an elderly baby his I said aloud: “I don’t want to miss anything.”