The Unsettled Dust (27 page)

Clarinda put her hand on the wooden drawbar of the gate. She assumed that this action would make the man move. But he continued leaning on the gate and regarding her. If she opened the gate, he would fall.

‘I want to go through.’ It was not an occasion for undue politeness.

Without change of expression, the man swiftly placed his left hand on the other end of the drawbar. Clarinda pushed at it, but it would not give. Not given to panic, Clarinda momentarily considered the situation, and began to climb the gate.

‘
Hullo
,’ said a voice behind her. ‘Rufo! What do you suppose you’re doing?’ Unmistakably it was the voice of Mrs. Pagani.

Clarinda stepped down. Mrs. Pagani was also wearing high boots, and her head was enveloped like Clarinda’s in a dark scarf; but, strangely, she was wearing the capacious and
opulent
fur coat in which Clarinda had first seen her. The top of her boots were hidden beneath it.

‘Rufo!’ Mrs. Pagani spoke to the man by the gate as if she were calling off a foolish and over-demonstrative dog. The man said something in a strange language. It was so unlike any language Clarinda had heard that at first she thought he had a defect in his speech.

Mrs. Pagani, however, replied to him in what was
presumably
the same tongue. In her mouth it sounded less unfamiliar because she lacked his oddly throaty delivery. Clarinda
wondered
whether this might be Romany.

The man was remonstrating against Mrs. Pagani’s reproof. Her reply was curious: she was fluently pantomimic, and Clarinda could not but gather that Rufo was being told that she, Clarinda, was to be admitted where others were to be denied. The man scowled, and leered, then shuffled off. Although young and apparently strong, he stumbled in his gait and leaned on his crook. There was now very little light, but after he had gone a few paces, he appeared to draw his fur cape high over the back of his head.

‘What can you think of Rufo?’

Clarinda often found Mrs. Pagani’s remarks difficult to answer.

‘Will you forgive him? And me?’

‘There’s nothing to forgive. I didn’t know he couldn’t speak English.’

‘How could you?’ Clarinda got the impression that the tone of this was not apologetic, but amicably ironical. Not for the first time she thought that Mrs. Pagani implied some
understanding
between them which did not exist.

‘And
will
you come back?’

It was ridiculous. But Mrs. Pagani had saved her from a menacing situation, and she had to say something.

‘When should I come back?’

‘Tonight.’ The intonation made it plain that no other time could be in question.

‘Here?’

Mrs. Pagani said nothing, but dropped her head to one side and smiled.

It was almost impossible after that to seek a reason.

Moreover, Mrs. Pagani left no time.

‘You’ve bound your hair very well.’

Clarinda had been noticing how carefully Mrs. Pagani’s own thick locks had been turbanned.

‘It was getting wet.’

Mrs. Pagani nodded and smiled. She was looking Clarinda over.

‘Au
revoir.’

Clarinda had not expected that either.

‘Goodbye. Thank you for rescuing me.’

‘My dear, we wouldn’t lose
you
.’
Mrs. Pagani strode off. The plural was a new mystery, for Clarinda felt that it could not refer to Rufo.

Although by now it was night, Clarinda leapt and ran down the dark track. At one time she thought she heard the pigs softly rooting in the invisible undergrowth. But she did not stop to listen, and duly reached the house only a few minutes after five.

Dudley seemed to take her escapade for granted (although she provided no details). Clarinda wondered whether this suggested that already he was growing accustomed to her, or whether it was evidence that he would be a good and
unexacting
husband, prepared to allow her due liberty and no questions asked. She certainly valued his success in
persuading
his family to adopt the same attitude.

‘Out at night in winter,’ said Mrs. Carstairs, ‘when you don’t have to be!’ And upon her gentle mark of exclamation, the matter dropped and tea began. Clarinda wondered whether their surprising equanimity was a product of Dudley’s leadership in a full discussion during her absence. She liked Dudley for not fussing, whatever his reasons.

Elizabeth had got out a quantity of clothes and ranged them round the room for inspection and comparison by Clarinda. This was a lengthy undertaking. In the end there was a knock at the door.

‘Liz.’ It was Dudley’s voice outside.

‘One moment.’ Elizabeth drew on a sweater. ‘Now.’

Dudley entered. ‘I’ve been sent up to fetch you both
downstairs
.’ He smiled fraternally.

‘We’re ready,’ said Elizabeth looking at Clarinda as woman to woman.

On the dark landing outside, Dudley held Clarinda back for a moment and embraced her. ‘Go on, Liz, you fool.’
Elizabeth
went on. ‘You understand?’ said Dudley to Clarinda. ‘At least I hope you do. I’ve been trying to keep out of sight as far as possible so that you can get to know the family. That walk of yours. I’ve been wondering.’

Clarinda squeezed his hand.

‘It’s all right? And you do like them?’

‘Of course it’s all right. And I like them very much.’

Every Sunday evening, Clarinda understood, Mr. Carstairs read aloud from about half past six until they had supper at eight. Tonight the start had been delayed by her walk and by the discussion in Elizabeth’s bedroom; but still there was time for four chapters of
Persuasion
. Mr. Carstairs read well, Clarinda thought; and the book was new to her.

Dudley, who could be convincing in such matters, had somehow contrived to arrange that both of them could arrive late at the office the next day: otherwise they would have had to return to London that same night. Soon after supper Elizabeth had disappeared upstairs, saying she had some
letters
to write, and that she probably would not be coming down again. She bade Clarinda good-night, and kissed her affectionately on the cheekbone. About half an hour later, Mr. and Mrs. Carstairs also withdrew. Dudley went to assist his father with stoking up the boiler for the night. The clock struck half past nine. Otherwise the house was very quiet. Clarinda supposed that she and Dudley were being
purposefully
left to themselves.

‘I wish
we
could live in the country,’ said Dudley when he reappeared.

‘I expect we could.’

‘Not the real country. Not unless I get another job.’

‘Where does the real country begin?’

‘About Berkhamstead. Or perhaps Tring. Nowadays that is.’

‘The country stretches in this direction only,’ Clarinda smiled at him.

‘For me it does, darling.’ She had not yet got into the habit of his calling her ‘darling’. ‘I
belong
around here.’

‘But surely until recently you lived in a town? Northampton is a town, isn’t it?’ She really wasn’t quite sure.

‘Yes, but I was always out and about.’

Clarinda had observed that every normal English male believes that he wants to live in the country, and said no more.

Dudley talked for some time about the advantages of the arrangement. Then he stopped, and Clarinda perceived that he was waiting for her assent. There was a slight pause.

‘Dudley,’ said Clarinda. ‘How well do your father and mother know Mrs. Pagani?’

‘Not very well,’ said Dudley, faintly disappointed. ‘What you would call a bare acquaintanceship. Why?’

‘They asked her to the party.’

‘Actually they didn’t. She heard about it and just came. Not the first time she’s done it, either. But you can’t put on side in a small village, and she’s not a bad old bird really.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I don’t,’ said Dudley grinning at her earnestness. ‘So what?’

‘What does she do with herself? Live on, I mean?’

‘I don’t know what she lives on, darling. Little children, I expect, like Red Riding Hood’s grandmother. You know she occupies an old ruin in the churchyard?’

‘So she told me. I should like to go and see it.’

‘What,
now
?’

‘Will you come with me?’

‘It’s a bit late for calls in the country.’

‘I’m not suggesting a call. I just want to have a look round.’

‘She might think that a trifle nosey, mightn’t she?’

Clarinda nodded. ‘Of course you know Mrs. Pagani better than I do.’ She suddenly remembered a nocturnal stroll in Marseilles with a fellow tourist, who had proved unexpectedly delightful.

‘Tell you what I’ll do,’ said Dudley, ‘I’ll whistle you round before we push off to Roade tomorrow.’

‘We mustn’t miss the train.’

‘Never missed a train in my life.’

*

Clarinda’s second night was worse than her first, because now she couldn’t sleep at all. Dudley had considered that they should go their separate ways soon after eleven, in order, as he said, not to disturb Mr. and Mrs. Carstairs; and when the church clock, brooding over Mrs. Pagani’s romantic
residence
, struck one, Clarinda was still tense and tumultuous in the prickly dark. Without switching on the light she got out of bed and crossed to the window. She hoped that the sudden chill would numb her writhing nerves. When, an hour and a half before, she had drawn back the curtains, and opened the window at top and bottom, she had noticed that the mist seemed at last to have vanished, although it was so black that it was hard to be sure. Now the moon was rising, low and enormous, as if at the horizon the bottom edge of it dragged against the earth, and Clarinda saw that indeed all was clear, the sky starry, and the mist withdrawn to the distant shadowy hills. In the foreground there was nothing to be seen but the silent fields and naked trees.

Swiftly a bat loomed against the night and flew smack against the outer sash. Another two feet higher or two feet lower and he would have been in. Clarinda softly shivered for a moment, then watched the bat skid into invisibility. The silver-gilt autumn night was somehow warmer and more welcoming than Clarinda’s unadventurous bed; fellow-bed, twin-bed to a thousand others in a thousand well-ordered houses. The grave self-sufficiency of the night was seeping into Clarinda’s blood stream, renewing her audacity, inflaming her curiosity; and its moonlit beauty agitating her heart. By the light of the big moon she began to dress.

When, upon her return from the woods, she had taken off her walking shoes, she had thought them very wet; but now they seemed dried, as if by the moon’s rays. She opened the door of her room. Again a bat struck the window at the end of the passage outside. There was no other sound but that of disturbed breathing; which, however, seemed all around her. The other occupants of the house slept, but as if appeared, uneasily. She descended the stairs and creaked into her
mackintosh
before trying the door. She expected difficulty here, but it opened at a touch. Doubtless it would be side to lock one’s doors in a village.

The moon shone on the gate and on the lane beyond; but the long path from the front door was in darkness. With the moon so low the house cast a disproportionate shadow. As Clarinda walked down the narrow strip of paving, a hare scuttered across her feet. She could feel his warmth on her ankles as he nearly tripped her. The gate had a patent catch which had caused her trouble before, and she had to stand for half a minute fumbling.

As she walked along the road, passed the BY FAVOUR ONLY notice, and began to ascend into the wood, she never doubted that at the top of the hill would be some remarkable warrant for her efforts; and she was resolved to find out what it was. Now the regular roadside trees were as clear-cut and trim as a guard of honour, and the owls seemed to be passing a message ahead of her into the thickets. Once or twice, when entering a straighter part of the road, she thought she saw a shambling figure rounding the distant corner ahead, but she decided that it was probably only a shadow. The bats were everywhere, hurtling in and out of the dark patches, and fluting their strange cries, which Clarinda was always so glad that she was among those who are privileged to hear. There were even some surviving or revitalised moths; and a steadily rising perfume of moisture and decay.

The gate at the hilltop was shut. But as soon as Clarinda drew near, she saw the little blue girl standing by it.

‘Hullo.’

‘Hullo,’ said Clarinda.

‘You’re rather late.’

‘I’m very sorry. I didn’t know.’

‘It’s important to be punctual.’ The child spoke in a tone of earnest helpfulness.

‘I’ll try to remember,’ said Clarinda humbly.

The child had opened the gate and was leaning back against the end of it, her chin stuck in her neck and her feet in the ground, holding it for Clarinda.

Clarinda passed through. The moon was now higher, and the soft grass glistened and gleamed. Even in the almost bright light there was no sign of a continuing path.

‘I shall get my feet wet.’

‘Yes, you will. You should wear boots.’ Clarinda observed the legs of the child’s blue garment were stuck into
close-fitting
black Wellingtons. Also its hood was now over its head.

There was no sign of the other child.

The little girl had carefully shut the gate. She stood looking ruefully at Clarinda’s feet. Then apparently deciding there was nothing to be done about them, she said very politely, ‘Shall I show you where you change?’

‘Can I change my shoes?’ asked Clarinda, humouring her.

‘No, I don’t think you can change your shoes,’ said the child very seriously. ‘Only everything else.’

The child regarded her, all at sea. Then, perhaps
considering
that she must have misunderstood, said, ‘It’s over there. Follow me. And do take care of your feet.’

It certainly was very wet, but the grass proved to be
tussocky
, and Clarinda did her best to keep dry by striding from tussock to tussock in the moonlight.