I Capture the Castle (43 page)

“Please don’t exhaust yourself by shouting for help, because there’s no one but us within miles. Oh, Father, it’s an experiment-give it a chance.”

“But you little lunatic … was Father began, furiously.

Thomas whispered to me: “I warn you, this will only develop into a brawl. Let me get the door shut.”

It was a brawl already on Father’s side. I stood back and Thomas closed the door.

“Luncheon at one, Father,” I called encouragingly.

We locked and bolted the door. There wasn’t the faintest chance that Father could climb up to it, but we felt the psychological effect would be good. As we went down the mound, Father’s yelling sounded surprisingly weak; by the time we reached the bridge we couldn’t hear it at all.

I said: “Do you think he’s fainted?”

Thomas went a little way up the mound.

“No, I can still hear him.

It’s just that the tower’s a sound-trap.”

I stared back at it.

“Oh, Thomas, have we done something insane?”

“Not a bit,” said Thomas, cheerfully.

“You know, even the change of atmosphere may be enough to help him.”

“But to lock him in—and it used to be a dungeon!

To imprison one’s Father!”

“Well, that’s the whole idea, isn’t it his Not that I set quite as much store on the psycho stuff as you do. Personally, I think knowing he won’t be let out until he’s done some work is almost more important.”

“That’s nonsense,” I said.

“If it doesn’t come right psychologically from the depths of Father-it won’t come right at all.

You can’t trammel the creative mind.” “Why not?” said Thomas.

“His creative mind’s been untrammelled for years without doing a hand’s-turn. Let’s see what trammelling does for it.”

We went indoors and had breakfast-it seemed awful that Father was starting his adventure on an empty stomach, but I knew we should be making that up to him soon. Then I wrote to Thomas’s school to say he would be indisposed for a few days, and went up to make the beds. Thomas kindly undertook the dusting.

“Hello!” he said suddenly.

“Look at this!”

The key to the gatehouse room was lying on Father’s dressing-table.

“Let’s go in and have a look at those lists you told me about,” said Thomas.

As we climbed the gatehouse stairs I said:

“Oh, Thomas, is it like spying?”

“Yes, of course it is,” said Thomas, unlocking the door.

I suddenly felt frightened as well as guilty-it was as if part of Father’s mind was still in the room and furious with us for intruding.

Sunlight was streaming through the south window, the “comic strips” were still tacked to the bookshelves, Mother’s little clock was ticking away on the desk. But the lists weren’t there any longer and the desk was locked.

I was glad we couldn’t find anything. I felt worse about snooping round his room than about locking him up in the tower.

Thomas stayed to read the comic strips while I began preparations for Father’s lunch. At one o’clock we took it out in a basket-soup in a “Thermos,” chicken salad, strawberries and cream, and a cigar (nine pence).

“I wonder if we’re right to pamper him with this rich food,” said Thomas as we started up the mound.

“Bread and water would create the prison atmosphere better.” Everything was quiet when we got up to the tower. We unlocked the door and looked down. Father was lying on the bed, staring upwards.

“Hello,” he said, in a perfectly pleasant voice.

I was astounded—and still more so when he smiled at us.

Of course I smiled back, and I said I hoped he had a good appetite.

Thomas began to lower the basket on a length of clothesline.

“It’s only a light luncheon, so that it won’t make you sleepy,” I explained.

“There’ll be a bigger meal tonight-with wine.” I noticed he had already got himself a drink of water, which looked as if he were settling down a bit.

He thanked Thomas most politely for the basket and spread the contents out on the table; then smiled up at us.

“This is superb,” he said, in his most genial voice.

“Now, listen, you comics: I’ve had a long, quiet morning to think in-it’s really been most pleasant, lying here watching the sky. I’m perfectly sincere when I say that I’m touched at your doing this to try to help me. And I’m not at all sure you haven’t succeeded. It’s been stimulating;

I’ve had one or two splendid ideas. It’s been a success do you understand? But the novelty has worn off now—if you keep me here any longer, you’ll undo your good work. Now I’m going to eat this delightful luncheon, and then you’re going to bring back the ladder—aren’t you?” His voice quavered on the “aren’t you?”

“And I swear there’ll be no reprisals,” he finished.

I looked at Thomas to see what he made of this.

He just said, woodenly: “Any books or papers you want, Father?”

“No, there aren’t!” shouted Father, his bonhomie suddenly departing.

“All I want is to get out.”

Thomas slammed the door.

“Dinner at seven,” I called-but I doubt if Father heard me as he was yelling louder than when we first locked him in. I hoped it wouldn’t ruin his appetite.

I spent the early part of the afternoon reading the comic strips you start by thinking they are silly, but they grow on you.

Then I got everything ready for Father’s meal-it was to be full dinner, not just glorified tea: melon, cold salmon (we put it down the well to get it really cold), tinned peaches, cheese and biscuits, a bottle of white wine (three shillings), coffee and another nine penny cigar.

And about an egg-cup full of port which I still had in the medicine bottle.

We carried it all out on trays just as Godsend church dock struck seven. It was a glorious, peaceful evening. Soon after we crossed the bridge we could hear Father yelling.

“Have you been wearing yourself out by shouting all afternoon?”

I said, when Thomas had opened the door.

“Pretty nearly,” said Father—his voice sounded very hoarse.

“Someone’s bound to pass through the fields sooner or later.”

“I doubt it,” said Thomas.

“The hay’s all in and Mr. Stebbins isn’t cutting his wheat for some weeks yet. Anyway, your voice doesn’t carry beyond the mound. If you’ll re-pack the lunch basket, I’ll haul it up and send your dinner down.”

I expected Father to rave but he didn’t even reply; and he at once began to do what Thomas had suggested. His movements were very awkward and jerky. He had taken off his coat and undone his collar, which gave him a pathetic look—rather as if he were ready to be led out to execution.

“We must bring him pajamas and a dressing-gown for tonight,” I whispered to Thomas.

Father heard me and jerked his head upwards.

“If you leave me here all night I shall go out of my mind—I mean it, Cassandra. This -this sense of imprisonment, I’d forgotten how shocking it can be. Don’t you know what it does to people-being shut up in small spaces his Haven’t you heard of claustrophobia?”

“There’s plenty of space upwards,” I said, as firmly as I could.

“And you never suffer from claustrophobia when you lock yourself in the gatehouse.”

“But it’s different when someone else locks you in.”

His voice cracked.

“Oh you damned little idiots—let me out! Let me out!”” I felt dreadful, but Thomas seemed quite unconcerned. He hauled up the basket Father had filled, took out the plates and dishes, and put the dinner in. I think he knew I was weakening, because he whispered: “We’ve got to go through with it now. You leave it to me.” Then he lowered the basket and called down, firmly:

“We’ll let you out just as soon as you’ve written something-say fifty pages.”

“I never wrote fifty pages in less than three months even when I could write,” said Father, his voice cracking worse than ever. Then he flopped into the armchair and gripped his head with his hands.

“Just unpack your dinner, will you?” said Thomas.

“You’d better take the coffee-pot out first.”

Father looked up and his whole face went suddenly scarlet. Then he made a dive at the dinner basket, and the next second a plate flew past my head. A fork whizzed through the door just before we got it closed. Then we heard crockery breaking against it.

I sat down on the steps and burst into tears. Father croaked: “My God, are you hurt, Cassandra?” I put my face close to the crack under the door and called: “No, I’m perfectly all right. But please, please don’t throw all your dinner dishes until you’ve eaten what’s on them. Oh, won’t you just try to write, Father?

Write anything-write “The cat sat on the mat” if you like.

Anything, as long as you write!”

Then I cried harder than ever. Thomas pulled me to my feet and steered me down the steps.

“We ought never to have done it,” I sobbed as we went down the mound.

“I shall let him out tonight even if he kills us.”

“No, you won’t—remember your oath.” We had sworn not to give in until both of us agreed to it.

“I’m not weakening yet. We’ll see how he is after dinner.”

As soon as the daylight began to fade, Thomas got the pyjamas and dressing-gown, and lit a lantern. There wasn’t a sound as we approached the tower.

“Oh, Thomas—suppose he’s dashed his head against the wall!”

I whispered. And then a faint, reassuring smell of cigar smoke was wafted to us.

When we opened the door, Father was sitting at the table with his back towards us. He turned round with the cigar in one hand and a pencil in the other.

“Your brilliant idea’s done the trick!” he cried, hoarsely but happily.

“The miracle’s happened! I’ve begun!”

“Oh, how wonderful!” I gasped.

Thomas said in a level, most un exuberant voice: “That’s splendid, Father. May we see what you’ve written?”

“Certainly not—you wouldn’t understand a word of it. But assure you I’ve made a start. Now let me out.”

“It’s a ruse,” Thomas whispered.

I said: “How many pages have you written, Father?” “Well, not many—the light’s been very bad down here for the last hour his “You’ll be all right with the lantern,” said Thomas, beginning to lower it.

Father took it, and then said in a perfectly reasonable tone:

“Thomas, I give you my word I have begun work-look, you can see for yourself.” He held a sheet of paper close to the lantern, then whisked it away.

“Cassandra, you write yourself, so you’ll under stand that one’s first draft can be—well, not always convincing.

Damn it, I’ve only started since dinner! An excellent dinner, by the way; thank you very much. Now hurry up with that ladder

—I

want to get back to the gatehouse and work all night.”

“But you’re in an ideal place to work all night,” said Thomas.

“Moving to the gatehouse would only disrupt you. Here are your pajamas and dressing-gown. I’ll come along early in the morning.

Good night, Father.” He threw the clothes down, shut the door, and took me firmly by the elbow.

“Come on, Cassandra.”

I went without argument. I didn’t believe Father was bluffing, I believed our cure really had begun to work; but I thought it ought to have time to “take.” And with Father in that sane, controlled mood, I was quite willing to leave him there for the night.

“But we’ve got to keep guard,” I said, “in case he sets fire to his bedding, or something.”

We divided the night into watches. I slept -not very well-until two; then took over from Thomas. I went up the mound every hour, but the only thing I heard was a faint snore round about five o’clock.

I woke Thomas at seven this morning, intending to go up with him for the first visit of the day; but he slipped off on his own while I was in Windsor Castle. I met him coming back across the bridge.

He said all was well and Father had been pleased with the bucket of nice hot water he had taken up.

“And I’m beginning to believe he really is working—he was certainly writing when I opened the door. He’s calm, and he’s getting much more co-operative- he had all his dinner things packed in the basket ready for me. And he says he’d like his breakfast now.”

Each time we have gone up with meals today, he has been writing like mad. He still asks to be let out, but without wasting much breath on it. And when we took the lantern this evening, he said:

“Come on, come on-I’ve been held up for that.”

Surely, surely he wouldn’t carry on a bluff for so long? I would have let him out tonight, but Thomas says he must show us some of his work first.

It is now nearly four o’clock in the morning.

I didn’t wake Thomas at two because I wanted to bring this entry up to date;

and the poor boy is sleeping so exhaustedly-he is on the sofa here.

He didn’t think there was any need for us to keep watch tonight, but I insisted—apart from the fear of anything happening to Father, the barometer is falling. Could we remain adamant if it rained heavily?

Thomas is firmer than I am. He sent an umbrella down with the lantern.

I have looked out of the south window every hour—our main reason for choosing the gatehouse to spend the night in is that we can see Belmotte Tower through one window and keep a watch on the lane through the other. Though who would come to the castle in the middle of the night? No one, no one. And yet I feel like a sentinel on guard. Men must have kept guard in this gatehouse six hundred years ago …… I have just had another look at the tower. The moon is shining full on it now. I had a queer feeling that it was more than inanimate stones. Does it know that it is playing a part in life again-that its dungeon once more encircles a sleeping prisoner his Four o’clock now. Mother’s little clock is beginning to seem alive in its own right—a small, squat, busy person a few inches from my hand.

How heavily Thomas is sleeping! Watching sleeping people makes one feel more separate than ever from them.

Heloise is chasing rabbits through her dreams—she gives little nose-whimpers, her paws keep twitching. About honored us with his company till midnight; now he is out hunting under the moon.

Surely we must let Father out tomorrow—even if he still won’t show us his work? His upturned face looked so strange as he took the lantern from us last night—almost saint like as if he had been seeing visions.