Turf or Stone (4 page)

Rosamund detested her spoilt little brother (once at six years old she had attempted to kill him by rushing him round and round the orchard in his perambulator, until she dropped to the ground exhausted), quarrelled with him, continually exasperated her parents, and distracted her teachers. She was a fierce, sullen child; the servants feared her, people never teased or played with her, the girls at her school were in awe of her. Only animals loved her, particularly dogs, because she defended them from all cruelty with zealous pertinacity, and saved up scraps for
them from her own meals, which she hoarded up for them in the wood shed.

She had once gone otter hunting… the hounds had worried a rabbit… she could not forget the red strips down there among the trampled reeds by the stream. She had gone to Matt’s room, taken out his blue coat, cut off the gold buttons, and slashed the cuffs. The cap she stuffed into the kitchen range. The cook – a new one – who attempted to stop her, received a basin of embryo apple fritters, full in the face – oh, what an uproar! Matt intended to whip her.

Undoubtedly a great share of the violent scenes that shook the household were due to her, and to Philip’s querulous exactions. All the outbreaks of temper, the unrestrained self-indulgent exhibitions, served as so many vent holes, but Phoebe had no outlet save her work, her own nature denied it. She studied incessantly, and fought all her battles in her soul.

While she was still very young she began to make curious conduct rules for herself, and she kept to them strictly. This peculiar characteristic, at first merely puerile and absurd, developed and became gallingly restrictive. The child made up her mind not to climb a certain tree, not to say ‘what’, not to sit on the kitchen table: the girl set herself to work four hours in the evening after a full school day, to practise scales for an hour before her seven o’clock breakfast, to turn herself into a housemaid on Saturdays.

She was gentle, obstinate, sensitive and more passionate than anybody suspected. She was brilliantly clever. At school she was far ahead of her contemporaries; she seemed to fly where they walked.

Most of the qualities she displayed, and many that she concealed, were unique in the family. The fact was, she resembled Dorothy’s mother, a remarkable Welsh woman.

The resemblance did not extend to appearance; the grandmother had been a beauty, Phoebe was plain, overgrown; there her sister had the advantage of her. Rosamund was a handsome child, compact and well made, with large narrow eyes, and full, soft lips; Phoebe was tall and bony, with a sallow complexion, a harassed expression, and long, perfectly straight hair, which she wore in two plaits. A gold wire confined her teeth, her thin hands and feet were large and red. But she also possessed a sonorous, roomy voice, both speaking and singing, beautiful, deliberate, even haunting, like the voice of a mature woman.

This, at present, was her only attraction.

Phoebe stretched up her cold arms to pull down the window. It was loose in the frame and made a noise loud enough to wake Rosamund, who slept in the same room. She closed and parted her lips, with a faint smacking sound, as a sleeping child does when it turns over.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Getting up.’

‘It’s not morning yet.’

‘Yes, it is. Go to sleep.’

Phoebe pulled her long nightgown over her head. She stood naked in the candlelight, shivering in the icy dawn.

‘You’re all goose-fleshy,’ Rosamund murmured. She turned on her back, her half-shut eyes on a cobweb in the
angle of the wall. A little cat sleeping between her neck and shoulder, half under the twisted bedclothes, stood up on her chest and arched its back, sweeping its tail across her mouth. She shut her eyes and dozed.

Phoebe brushed and plaited her hair.

The corners of the room were in darkness; the furniture, the heavily draped curtains, the sleeping child in the disordered bed, were almost indistinguishable. A silver Christ on his ebony cross hung catching the light; the knees, high cheekbones, ribs, and clenched fingers sparkled. Phoebe’s hair shone with a soft yellow splendour, hanging like long tassels from her weaving fingers. The dawn was advancing in sound as in sight.

Rosamund made an abrupt movement.

‘I’ve had a horrid dream, Phib. I dreamed worms were coming out of my nose… long ones.’

‘How beastly!’

Phoebe put on her white blouse and her short tunic, which did not set off her long neck, sloping shoulders, and narrow bony fingers. She thrust her thumbs behind her heels into her cold, heavy shoes, and pulled them over her chilblains, gritting her teeth with pain. All her movements were spasmodically rapid, but two or three times in the course of dressing she stood arrested, absolutely still, as though thinking deeply, and her face took on in those moments a remote peaceful expression, very lovely in its profound calm. When strangers saw this look they wondered what she was thinking about; sometimes they asked, and she would come to herself and laugh, or turn very red, and the nervous worried frown, the restless glances, would return directly.

When she was dressed she left the room quietly, walking on her toes in case her tread in the passage should awake the others. But a moment later Rosamund awoke to find her leaning over the bed trying to twitch the cat from her warm nest. Mrs Pussy, privileged matriarch, gave forth a lugubrious yowl. Rosamund raised her damp face and sat up; with one hand she firmly retained the animal, while she planted the other on Phoebe’s chest, to push her away. Phoebe drew herself up, her hands dangling.

‘She’s made a mess…’

Rosamund scowled.

‘Don’t be silly, Ros. Let me take her – you know she’s got to be punished.’

‘She’s
my
cat, and I’ll punish her.’

‘No, you won’t; you never do. And in the end she’ll have to be drowned.’

‘Yes, and you’ll give Easter a pot of jam to do it, like you did with my darling Tibbins.’

‘Oh, I never did!’ Phoebe expostulated, her mouth aghast.

Rosamund’s narrow eyes flashed.

‘You did… you did! And he shoved him in a sack and threw him over the bridge, lovely Tibbins, who never did any harm, only had worms in his poor little tummy. Just you try it again, that’s all!’

She threw herself back on the pillow, snorting and clutching the cat. Her angry voice dropped: ‘Go away… leave me alone… and shut door… so can’t hear… piano,’ she muttered disconnectedly. Her lips fell apart, she sighed deeply, turning her head over her shoulder, and went fast asleep still clasping the cat.

Phoebe went downstairs to get a shovel from the kitchen. It was empty and cold as a cavern; the curtains were drawn across the long window, bulging over the geraniums on the window sill, the strip of drugget in front of the range had been rolled back. From a saucer on the fender, half full of congealed white fat – a concoction of melted soap and cold cream, used by the young cook for her complexion – arose a sweet, sickly smell. An old round wooden clock suspended over the mantelpiece pointed to five minutes to six.

As Phoebe stooped to pick up the shovel the handle of the back door moved as though somebody were trying it. There was a pause while she watched the brass knob turn, but the door was locked and bolted, and the person outside found it impossible to enter.

‘Lily, open the door.’

It was Easter’s voice. He was speaking below his breath, but distinctly as though his mouth were close to the keyhole.

‘Open the door,’ he repeated after a moment of silence.

Phoebe did not move. She heard him drag something across the cobbles. Above the door, a little more than a man’s height from the ground, there was a square of glass. She lifted her eyes to it in a strained, expectant stare, and saw Easter’s face. The greyish-green colour of the dirty glass lent an odd tinge to his skin; he looked livid, the upper teeth were showing, and a large spider’s web, really on the inside, seemed at that distance to be hanging from his mouth. A light wavered over his jaws thrown upwards from the lantern he had set on the ground.

He fixed his eyes on Phoebe. She had recognised his
voice. She was not very frightened but it was a fact which only lately she had discovered, that she could not see or hear or be near him without shrinking. Her lips formed words which she did not utter aloud: ‘Curious, fantastic man – you’re like a goblin.’

And truly he did look very much like a goblin.

After a moment he disappeared. Phoebe snatched the shovel and the candle.

After she had rectified Mrs Pussy’s mistake she went to practise. The piano was a little out of tune. Mrs Kilminster spent a great deal of money on clothes, cinemas, cats, or any other luxury which appealed to her at the moment, but she paid little heed to household matters. The piano’s shrill tone hurt Phoebe, who possessed an excellent ear.

It was an old walnut grand, with yellowing keys which jammed in cold or damp weather. The day before, Phoebe had placed a small glass cup, filled with purple violets, on the lid. She smelt them directly she opened the door, and before she began to practise she lifted them to her face, plunging her nose among the blossoms while she inhaled the fragrance. She looked at them… looked at them smiling, thinking of the spring that was coming and the sheltered border where they grew. She lit the candles on the piano, and beat her hands to warm them.

She played minor scales because she loved them – she was apt to neglect the others. The whole vast realm of music held no greater magic for her than the exquisite minor fall; in a sense one could progress no farther, it was heaven attained – by ten cold fingers exercising on a senile keyboard. Her mouth opened a little – she forgot every thing. The room in which she was sitting looked over the lawn. It had been given
to her as a study for her own special use, although like nearly all her possessions, it was shared by Rosamund. Here Mrs Kilminster crammed all the furniture she particularly disliked; anything she considered ugly found its way to Phoebe’s study. Against the walls there were two carved bookcases, a fragile china cupboard, with glass doors, rejected as being too plain to stand comparison with the inlaid drawing-room furniture (which indeed it was), a wrinkled leather sofa boasting a chenille fringe as a decoration, several cane chairs which did not match, and a little mahogany table lacking a leaf. A square polished table occupied the centre of the room. On it was a glass lamp with an empty bowl – Phoebe had worked late – a neat pile of exercise books, a few textbooks in brown-paper covers, a fountain pen, and a ruler. Two satchels dangled behind the door.

A blue carpet covered the entire floor. Long, stiff curtains of green and gold brocade were looped back from the narrow window. The piano took up the whole of one corner, and its tail jutted almost into the middle of the room, so that the housemaid, who was plump, had to squeeze herself uncomfortably between it and the table.

Phoebe played scales without looking at her hands, her eyes were fixed on the window, but it never occurred to her to extinguish the unnecessary candles.

Presently the servant came in to light the fire. When it had caught she rose from her knees on the hearth, pushed her cap off her forehead with her ashy fingers, and began to dust the mantelpiece. Her figure and movements were clumsy. She had a peculiar habit of grinding her teeth while she worked, which made it difficult for her to keep a place.

She began to talk, turning her head towards Phoebe, who had ceased playing and sat resting her aching wrists. From time to time she coughed, and afterwards she always hit herself hard on the breast, cleared her throat and shook her shoulders impatiently. She seemed out of temper with the universe. Phoebe asked her if she had a cold.

‘Yes, miss, indeed. And I’ve been blowing the kitchen fire till the smoke got in my throat… the bellows is gone into holes. It seems there was a wedding yesterday?’ she suddenly concluded, rubbing the table with both hands.

‘Yes, Easter was married.’

Phoebe gave the servant a penetrating glance: ‘Did the smoke get into your eyes too?’ she asked gently.

‘Yes, the tears streamed. Are they red?’

‘A little.’

The girl rubbed her eyes with her knuckles.

‘That’ll make them worse,’ said Phoebe, ‘spit on your fingers. Look, like this.’ She had done it before.

The servant allowed the saliva to dry on her swollen eyelids.

‘Have you seen the “bride”, miss?’

‘No,’ said Phoebe. She sighed and struck an octave. She did like her old piano.

‘They say she’s quite a lady… rather a come-down for her to live in a loft! There’s been a lot of talk… I hope I never have to get married.’

She coughed again and slapped her chest.

‘Lily,’ Phoebe demanded abruptly, ‘has Easter… did he…?’ She broke off.

The servant stood close to the table, leaning her hip against its edge. She had twisted the duster into a long tight
tube, and without looking at what she was doing, she tied it into knots. Phoebe could not see her face. ‘There’s no good in that Easter,’ said Lily hoarsely, ‘he’d get any girl into trouble quicker than she’d understand – an’ then he’d be off. But thank God there’s nothing the matter with
me
, nor never will be so far as he has anything to do with it. “Easter,” I says, “don’t you go thinking you’ve a common farm labourer’s daughter to deal with, nor a charity girl that’s been taken in and sheltered by a silly old woman that can’t see she’s playing the fool… don’t you think that.” I saw him go white,’ she proclaimed with a vindictive glance, grinding her teeth most viciously.

‘I may be a servant, but so far I’ve kept myself… I’ve kept myself away from that. And it wasn’t for want of chances. I’ve had some tussles!’

Mrs Kilminster did not believe in enlightening her children. Phoebe did not altogether understand. She recognised the allusion to Easter’s wife.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why that I might be where that woman is.’

‘Easter’s wife?’

‘Easter’s…’ she did not say the word; after a moment she continued furiously: ‘six weeks ago nothing kept him away from that back door. He lived there. “Lily, let’s get into the barn… I’ll look after you…”’