I Capture the Castle (41 page)

I had come round the last bend of the lane and could see him through the lamplit window of the gatehouse. What was he doing? The fact that he was at his desk didn’t necessarily mean he was writing—he always sits there when reading the Encyclopedia, because it is so heavy to hold. Was he reading now his His head was bent, but I couldn’t see what over. Just then he raised his hand to push his hair back. He was holding a pencil And that instant, the voice that had been attacking me as I walked home said: “Suppose he’s really working all the time? Supposing he’s writing some wonderful, money-earning book-but you don’t find out until it’s too late to help you and Rose?”

I began walking towards the castle again. I don’t remember planning anything, even making a definite decision-it was as if my mind could not go ahead of my steps. I went into the dimness of the gatehouse passage, then into the blackness of the tower staircase. I groped my way up to Father’s door. I knocked on it.

“Go away,” came the instant reply.

The key was in the outside keyhole so I knew he hadn’t locked himself in. I opened the door.

As I went in, he swung round from his desk looking furious.

But almost before I had time to notice his expression it was as if a curtain came down over it, and the fury was hidden.

“Something important?” he asked, in a perfectly controlled voice.

“Yes. Very,” I said, and shut the door behind me.

He got up, looking at me closely.

“What’s the matter, Cassandra?

You’re unusually pale. Are you ill his You’d better sit down.”

But I didn’t sit. I stood there staring at the room. Something had happened to it. Facing me, instead of the long rows of bookshelves stretching between the north and south windows, was an expanse of brightly colored paper.

“Heavens, what have you been doing in here?” I gasped.

He save what I was staring at. ““Oh, those are just American comic strips—commonly called ‘the funnies.”

Now what is it, Cassandra?”

I went closer and saw that what I had taken for wallpaper was sheets and sheets from newspapers, the top edges of which were tacked to the edges of the bookshelves. In the dim light from the lamp I couldn’t see the pictures clearly, but they seemed to be small colored illustrations joined together.

“Where did they come from?” I asked.

“I brought them back from Scoatney yesterday.

They’re from the American Sunday papers—I gather Neil can’t live without them.

Good heavens, don’t start reading them.”

“Are they to do with your work?”

He opened his mouth to reply, and then a nervous, secretive look came into his eyes.

“What have you come here for?” he said sharply.

“Never you mind about my work.”

I said: “But it’s that I’ve come about. Father, you’ve got to let me know what you’re doing.”

For a second he stared at me in silence. Then he said icily: “And is this the sole reason for this visitation-to cross-examine me?”

“No, no,” I began, and then pulled myself up.

“Yes, it is—it’s exactly that. And I’m not giving up until I get an answer.”

“Out you go,” said Father.

He took me by the arm and marched me to the door—I was so astonished that I put up hardly any resistance.

But at the last second, I jerked away from him and dashed across to his desk. I had a wild hope that I might see some of his work there.

He was after me instantly, but I just had time to catch a glimpse of pages and pages with long lists on them in his writing. Then he grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me round-never have I seen such fury as was in his eyes. He flung me away from the desk with such force that I went right across the room and crashed into the door. It hurt so badly that I let out a yell and burst into tears.

“Oh, God, is it your elbow?” said Father.

“That can be agony.”

He came over and tried to feel if there were any broken bones-even through the pain I noticed how astonishingly his anger had vanished. I went on choking with tears—it really was agony, right down to my wrist and hand. After a minute or so, Father began to walk me up and down, with his arm round me.

“It’s going off,” I told him as soon as I could.

“Let me sit down for a bit.”

We sat on the sofa together and he lent me his handkerchief to mop up on. Soon I was able to say:

“It’s almost better now—look!” I moved my hand and arm to show him.

“It was nothing serious.”

“It might have been,” he said in a queer, strained voice.

“I

haven’t lost my temper like that since was He stopped dead, then got up and went back to his desk. I said: “Not since you went for Mother with the cake-knife?” and was astounded to hear the words coming out of my mouth. I added hastily, “Of course I know you didn’t really go for her, it was all a mistake, but-well, you were very angry with her. Oh, Father—do you think that’s what has been the matter with you that you stopped getting violent? Has repressing your temper somehow repressed your talent?”

He gave a sarcastic snort and didn’t even bother to look round.

“Who put that brilliant idea into your head his Was it Topaz?”

“No, I thought of it myself—just this minute.”

“Very ingenious of you. But it happens to be nonsense.”

“Well, it’s no sillier than believing you dried up because you went to prison,” I said-astonishing myself again.

“Some people do think that, you know.”

“Idiots!” said Father.

“Good God, how could a few months in prison do me any harm? I’ve often thought I’d like to be back there; at least the warders never sat round holding postmortems on me. Oh, for the peace of that little cell!”

His tone was very sarcastic but nothing like so angry as I had expected, so I plucked up my courage to go on.

“Have you any idea yourself what stopped you working?”—I kept my voice calm and conversational.

“Simon thinks, of course .. his He swung round instantly, interrupting me.

“Simon his were you and he discussing me?”

“Well, we were being interested in you-was “And what theories did Simon put forward?”

I had meant to say that Simon had suggested psychoanalysis, but Father looked so angry again that I funked it and racked my brains for something more tactful. At last I brought out:

“Well, he once thought you might have been held back because you were such an original writer that you couldn’t just develop like ordinary writers —that you’d have to find some quite new way-was I was floundering, so I finished up quickly.

“He said something like it that first evening they ever came here—don’t you remember?”

“Yes, perfectly,” said Father, relaxing.

“I was very much impressed.

I’ve since come to the conclusion that it was merely a bit of supremely tactful nonsense on Simon’s part, God bless him; but at the time it certainly fooled me. I’m not at all sure that wasn’t what started me on .” He broke off.

“Well, well, run along to bed, my child.”

I cried out, “Oh, Father—do you mean you have found a new way to work? Do all these crazy things the crosswords and little Folks and The Homing Pigeon and what not—do they really mean something?”

“Great heavens, what do you take me for his Of course they mean something.”

“Even the willow-pattern plate—and trying to read gramophone records? How exciting! Though I simply can’t imagine. his “You don’t have to,” said Father, firmly.

“You just have to mind your own business.”

“But couldn’t I help you his I’m reasonably intelligent, you know.

Don’t you ever feel you want to talk to anyone?”

“I do not,” said Father.

“Talk, talk-you’re as bad as Topaz. As if either of you would have the remotest idea what I was driving at!

And if I’d talked to her, she’d have told every painter in London and you’d tell Simon and he’d write a well-turned article about it.

Good lord, how long does an innovation remain one if it’s talked about his And, anyway, with me secrecy’s the very essence of creation.

Now go away!”

I said: “I will if you’ll answer me just one question. How long will it be before the book’s finished?”

“Finished? It isn’t even begun! I’m still collecting material though that’ll go on indefinitely, of course.” He began to walk about, talking more to himself than to me.

“I believe I could make a start now if I could get a scaffolding that really satisfied me. I need a backbone—” “Was that why you took the haddock’s?” I said involuntarily.

He turned on me at once.

“Don’t be facetious!” Then I think he saw from my face that I hadn’t meant to be, because he gave a snort of laughter and went on: “No, the haddock may be said to have turned into a red herring across the trail-lots of things do. I don’t know, though the ladder like pattern was interesting. I must study the fishes of the world—and whales and the forerunners of whales was He was talking to himself again, moving about the room. I kept dead quiet. He went on, “Primeval, antediluvian -the ark his No, not the Bible again. Prehistoric —from the smallest bone of the mammoth his Is there a way there?” He hurried to his desk and made a note; then sat there, still talking to himself. I could only make out broken phrases and disjointed words-things like:

“Design, deduction, reconstruction—symbol-pattern and problem search for ever unfolding—enigma eternal…” His voice got quieter and quieter until at last he was silent.

I sat there staring at the back of his head framed in the heavy stone mullions of the window beyond it. The lamp on his desk made the twilight seem a deep, deep blue. The tick of the little traveling clock that used to be Mother’s sounded unbelievably loud in the quietness. I wondered if the idea he was searching for was coming to him. I prayed it might-for his own happiness; by then I had hope it could be in time to help Rose and me.

After a few minutes I began to think I had better creep out, but I was afraid that opening the door would make a noise.

“And if an idea has come,” I thought, “disturbing him now might wreck everything.” Then it struck me that if he once got used to having me in the room, I might be a real help-it came back to me that he had liked Mother to sit with him while he wrote, provided she kept quite still; he wouldn’t even let her sew. I remembered her telling me how hard she had found it in the beginning, how she had told herself she would manage just five more minutes, then another five—until the minutes grew into hours. I said to myself: “In ten minutes her little clock will chime nine. I’ll sit still until then.”

But after a couple of minutes, bits of me began to tickle maddeningly. I stared at the lamplit face of the clock almost praying to it to hurry-its ticking seemed to get louder and louder, until it was right inside my ears. I had just got to a stage when I felt I couldn’t bear it a second longer when the wind burst one of the south windows open, the American newspapers tacked to the bookshelves blew up with a great flap, and Father swung round.

His eyes seemed to have sunk deeper into his head;

he blinked. I could see he was coming back from very far away. I expected him to be angry at my still being there, but he just said “Hello” with a sort of dazed pleasantness.

“Was the idea any good?” I ventured.

For a second, he didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. Then he said, “No, no—another marsh light. were you holding your fingers crossed for me, poor mouselike child? Your Mother used to sit like that.”

“I know. I was thinking of her a minute ago.”

“Were you his So was I. Probably telepathy.”

The newspapers flapped again and he went to close the window; then stood looking down into the courtyard. I thought he was going to forget me again, so I said, quickly:

“Mother helped you quite a lot, didn’t she?”

“Yes, in an odd, oblique way.” He sat down on the window-seat apparently quite prepared for a little chat.

“God knows she never had an idea in her head, dear woman, but she’d the most extraordinary habit of saying useful things by accident—like mentioning the name “Jacob” when I was searching for a central idea for Jacob Wrestling. Actually, she was talking about the milkman. And having her in the room seemed to give me confidence—the atmosphere used to become quite thick with her prayers. Well, good night, my child . “He got up and came towards me.

“Is the elbow better?” I said, “Quite, thank you.”

“Good. Next time you come I’ll try to give you a better welcome-put the red carpet down. But you must wait until you’re invited. I must say I’m curious to know what keyed you up to this attack tonight.

Mrs. Cotton wasn’t doing a little prodding by proxy, was she?”

“Gracious, no!” Of course had no intention of telling him my real reason for coming; it would have worried him quite uselessly, besides being unfair to Rose.

“It was only that I was anxious.”

“Good lord, do you mean about my state of mind?” He chuckled, then looked concerned.

“You poor girl, did you really think my brain was going? Well, I daresay I seemed pretty eccentric, and plenty of people will think that’s an understatement when this book gets out. If it ever does. Why can’t I take the plunge? It’s just the initial idea that eludes me. I’ve lost confidence you know-it isn’t laziness, I swear”—there was a humble, almost pleading note in his voice—”it never has been—I hope you believe that, my dear. It-well, it just hasn’t been possible.”

I said, “Of course I believe it. And I believe you’re going to start very soon now.”

“I hope so.” He laughed a little, in an odd, nervous kind of way.

“Because if I don’t get going soon, the whole impetus may die-and if that happens, well, I really shall consider a long, restful plunge into insanity. Sometimes the abyss yawns very attractively. There, there—don’t take me seriously.”

“Of course not,” I said briskly.

“Now, look, Father. Why not let me sit here as Mother used to?

I’ll pray, as she did; I’m really quite good at it. And you go to your desk and start this very night.”

“No, no, I couldn’t yet”—he looked positively frightened.

“I know you mean well, my dear, but you’re making me nervous. Now run along to bed. I’m going, myself.”