Wild Geese Overhead (22 page)

Reserve came back to her face and she concentrated on the weeds.

“Sorry,” he said. “But, after all, you brought it on yourself. For it
is
your garden.”

“No, it's not,” she remarked indifferently.

“I beg your pardon,” he murmured and moved on up to the top of the garden. The bishopweed was mustering in full invasion on the bank to the left, and was deep in ambush amongst the roots of the currant bushes now in delicate green leaf. As he came back, she was trying to lever out the clump of peony, but could not break the hold of the roots.

“Please, let me have a try.” He took the four-pronged fork from her and, after a struggle, got the clump free.

She thanked him. “There is often no other way”, she explained simply, “of getting weeds out. Besides, I want that over there.”

“Where?” And when she had pointed to the spot, he carried the weighty mass across. He saw that so long as he remained completely impersonal, she might not mind his presence.

“Anything else I can do for you?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

“If there is anything—for goodness' sake, ask me. I can always navvy. If I may be allowed to enjoy the beauty of this garden by looking at it now and then, surely I can pay for the pleasure by doing a little donkey work?”

“There is nothing really you can do.”

“What about that bank of bishopweed?”

She looked at him directly, her eyes wide and calm, then changing in their depths to an impersonal humour.

“I'm not asking you to do
that
.”

“You mean, you won't ask me to do anything. You would not like me to intrude even on your garden. I see.” He shrugged, smiling.

“I am glad you see,” she replied coolly.

“All the same, when you aren't here I'll steal the beauty.”

She was tempted, and said: “You can't. For you can only carry away what you bring.”

He laughed, and a suggestion of warmth came into her fair skin. She turned away from him and started working. This time, wisely, he took his dismissal.

But that afternoon, returning by a path that came round a little wood on the high ground above the farm, he saw her at a short distance coming out of the wood. He was first to reach the point where their paths converged and, after moving on hesitantly, at last waited for her. She came in that cool upright way that was untouchable. There was no suggestion now of the pavement, perhaps because her heels were low or her head high or heaven alone knew what, but he felt very awkward. He saw that her body, in its carriage, was beautiful and free, that it advanced upon him out of a wood, the uplands behind, and the horizon, and the sky.

He greeted her with shy politeness. “Getting home from your walk?”

“Yes,” she answered, and he knew he should not have waited. She offered no other comment, and walked calmly on at her own pace.

He did not speak until the silence became impossible to maintain. “It will happen now and then, I suppose,” he said drily, with a touch of spite, “that we find ourselves in each other's company. It is no doubt very unfortunate, but it seems a trifle ludicrous to—to dodge it.”

“Dodge it?” Her voice sounded as if she had raised her eyebrows, but he kept his eyes in front.

“Not the best verb possibly, but 'twill serve.”

She said nothing.

“I had heard”, he proceeded, “of the gift of silence. It had never struck me that it could be a tyranny.”

“The remedy is simple.”

They went on for fifty yards without a word. She was quite merciless, walking as if he did not exist. He was beginning to feel nervous and resented it. Analysis was his only help. He would be damned if he would stand still and let her go on!

“I realize the position quite clearly,” he said. “You resent my intrusion here. You want to have this place for yourself. I did not know you were here. Had I known, I should certainly not have come. I came myself for the very thing you came for. I resented your being here. That's how I presume to know your feeling on the matter. Fortunately it's not beyond remedy.” In speaking, his voice had grown cold. He felt pale with anger.

“If you knew all that, why do you intrude?”

“It's a fair question and puts me in the wrong. My human nature was weak. Possibly also we have developed the trick of trying to be civilized after our fashion.”

“We have to perform that trick so often that I am not impressed by your sarcasm about being civilized.”

“No?”

“No. If you really understood what you have been saying, you——” she shrugged.

“What? You mean I do not understand what it means to get away, to get where personal entanglements and nonsense cease from troubling, where——” He shrugged. “You doubtless feel yourself the unique individual who could pass an examination on the final meaning of peace.”

“I had never thought of it,” she said calmly. “The trouble about a man is that he must have a theory, even if he has to imagine it. You are quite wrong.”

“And you are not prepared to enlighten me?”

“Why should I?”

“No reason, of course. I see my mistake.” He stopped abruptly. She carried on a couple of paces before she, in her surprise, also stopped. And it was she who spoke.

“You had no right to intrude,” she said, with a strange stormy flash in her eyes. To his amazement, he saw she was not calm and detached: she was angry.

At which spectacle, his own anger cooled.

“I know.” He nodded. “I apologize. I'm sorry.” He looked past her, into the distance. “The city gallant who must bring his appalling ways with him. I can only assure you that I understand. You are right.” He tried to smile, but, not making a great success of it, turned on his heels and walked up the way they had come before he knew what he was doing. She stood a little while looking after him, then went on down to the farm.

That evening about eleven, when Mrs. Armstrong was locking the front door, he appeared, declaring he must have a last breath of air to help him sleep. They chatted for a little, and then he went out, Mrs. Armstrong crying after him: “Watch your feet in the dark.”

That caution made him smile as he crossed over towards the steading, where the roadway was broad, and stood for a little breathing deeply in the star-lit night. Friendly, the dark, he thought, and listened. There was the occasional sound of a chain round a cow's neck, the clump of a horse's hoof. Sleeping on its feet, head down! There was a pervasive smell of manure…generation and growth! In those used to this from their childhood, what would it evoke, coming back to it? How little he yet knew of this farm life going on around him. But he would find out. For here were life, growth, food…not the sensationalism of newspapers, politics, death, that sterile….

A sudden light—yes, in Jenny's bedroom. And there she was herself putting her candle down, its light on her hair, defining her profile. Her features vanished as she came forward to the window and stood looking out.

He got lost, watching her, until, mounting the fence at the top of the garden, he found himself walking down the dimly defined path. He came slowly. She probably could not see him. She could withdraw whenever she liked. He could walk where he liked. He stood under her window, said “Hallo!” in a restrained voice, and gestured her to open the window.

No, she could not have heard, could not have seen him. And now the reckless impulse began to subside. He would walk away. The window went up.

“I'm sorry I was rude,” he said.

She did not answer, her head and shoulders leaning out, her face invisible.

“Do you forgive me?”

“More personal.”

Her calm slighting voice did not help him. “I suppose it is,” he answered.

“And what a lovely night.” It was a murmur out over his head and startled him like an electric shock.

“Won't you come down—and let us talk about it sensibly? Please do. I feel miserable about it. Then it would be all over. Please do.”

She leaned out there, silent as any sphinx; then she withdrew her head, quietly shut the window, and pulled down the blind.

She's coming! he thought. She's coming! His excitement became intense. She would come out at the front door, of course. He went down the garden with light feet and stole quickly round to the lawn. He felt gay, happy. They would now put the whole thing right. They would walk along like friends, laughing at silly little follies. The sheer friendliness would be cool and delicious.…

She was taking a long time. He went round to the garden. Her light was still on. He came back. Presently when he went round her light was out. He waited for nearly an hour, leaning against the elm-tree, but she did not come.

And he knew she had never intended to come. His personal intrusions were like the slimy marks that snails make among the flowers. Odd, too, because it was the sort of thing that he never did, that his own sensitive rather impersonal nature recoiled from. His mouth was dry with bitterness.

On Tuesday Felicity rang him up. “You're a fine one!” she said. “At least you might have had the decency to ring
me
up.”

“It was not for lack of thinking about you. But—well—I mean to say—what!”

She laughed. “I'm dying to see you. What about to-night?”

So they met for supper. Felicity was in her usual gay spirits, and, after Will had got over his initial discomfort, he responded fully.

She was so irresponsible, laughed so merrily, not caring who looked or stared, that he felt himself shaken free, like a branch in the wind.

And she was clever enough not to ignore the contretemps of the bedroom. She had the sliest digs at it, until he could laugh quite freely at that, too.

“You seem to have a pretty wide experience, Felicity, of life—I mean, of understanding.”

“Now what exactly do you mean?”

“Are you exhibiting—a provincial sore point?”

“Are you implying I am completely free of all morals?”

“The puritan background—still?”

She laughed. “I got your puritan background all right anyhow!”

“Faith you did, and characteristically sodden in whisky, too. But you were—very charming.”

“Was I? How nice of you!” Her eyes brimmed with mischief. “Go on!” she said. “Look awkward a bit! Dear Will, I must really take you in hand. Otherwise some straight-faced female will land you as sure as eggs. And what a tragedy to have you solemnly roped in, dumb, and nowhere to go! It just doesn't bear thinking about. I would almost rather you ran off with me to Paris.”

“Almost? Why not entirely?”

“Well?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Why not?”

Regarding him with the humour of assessment, she nodded. “But you're frightened to say you'll come. You'd have such a good time, too. Did I tell you I had a tiny flat of my own?”

“No. Very tiny?”

“Oh, not so tiny as all that. Only one bedroom, but I could always make up the couch in the sitting-room for—uh—a stranger from the land of my fathers. I mean, he would not require to be troubled in his mind.”

“Felicity.”

“Yes?”

“You're running on it!”

She shook the laughter from her mouth.

They finished the bottle of wine; had coffee and liqueurs. Time passed very rapidly.

“And where now?”

“That's the worst of this benighted city. There's nowhere to go.
Mon Dieu
, aren't we civilized!” declared Felicity. “Enough to make you shudder.”

“I agree.”

“So it's home. And I can't ask you in there either. I mean it would be no use. But, listen. There's a delightful sun-house in the grounds. I can get the key. We could slip in there quietly and talk away. Even got electric radiators and every reclining comfort. Very civilized.”

“Really! I say!”

She looked into his eyes. He looked back into hers, and asked: “Find anything?”

“Not much. Still a faint stress, a subtle reluctance.” She smiled slowly. “I know.”

“You went through it?”

She nodded. “You're very clever. But you're very very young.”

He smiled. “You could make anything very easy for anybody, I think, Felicity.”

She nodded again. “Come, I must go home. You must stand me a taxi.”

So they started off. She took his hand. “It's really lovely seeing you, Will. You are a darling boy.”

He kissed her; but then she pushed him back gently—tilted her head sideways, looked at him, and laughed softly.

“Are we going right to the front door?” he asked, sitting up suddenly.

“Yes,” she answered.

“But——”

“No.” She shook her head slowly at his consternation. “Not to-night. I don't want you to-night. You see,” she added, with a sad expression, lifting her palms, “I had forgotten to take the key of the summer-house.”

His expression broke and he smiled at her adorable little piece of acting. “Felicity,” he said, “you are very ver-y civilized.”

“And you do not even ask, When?”

“You are too much for me.”

“Saturday—hardly, alas! before Saturday.” And she trailed her fingers across his face.

The experiences he had had of rising into freedom began to seem very remote to Will, indeed as if they had not happened in this life and were in the nature of a delusion or the carry-over of a dream memory. Nor did he make any effort to re-establish the attitude of mind conducive to further experiment. Such an effort would, in any case, be heavy and tedious and now beyond him. At moments, the thought of it was repugnant.

For it was not unpleasant to be completely rootless, with Felicity in the offing. Felicity had achieved complete rootlessness. Delightful state, with its delicate personal understandings and corresponding manners. Reminding him vaguely of Pater's effort “to discriminate every moment some passionate attitude in those about us.…” Something like that.