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 my
self: “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.”
He lifted up the American papers and dived under to the shelf holding his old detective novels, grabbing one quite at random. Then he put the lamp out. Just as we went out of the room, Mother’s little clock began to strike nine. Even after Father had locked the door and we were groping our way down the pitch-black stairs, I could hear the tiny, tinkling chimes.
“I must remember to carry matches,” he said, “now there’s no Stephen to leave a lamp outside my door.”
I said I would see to it in future. There was no lantern in the gatehouse passage, either—another of Stephen’s jobs; all the time I find out more and more things he did without my ever realizing it.
“Let me make you some cocoa, Father,” I suggested as we went into the kitchen, but he said he didn’t need anything— “Except a biscuit, perhaps—and find me a candle with at least three hours’ reading in it.” I gave him a whole plate of biscuits and a new candle.
“The richness of our life these days never ceases to astonish me,” he said as he went up to bed.
Thomas was deep in his homework, at the kitchen table. I waited until I heard Father go through to Windsor Castle, then said quietly: “Come on out, I’ve got to talk to you. Bring a lantern so that we can go into the lane-I don’t want Father to hear our voices through some open window.”
We went as far as the stile, and sat on it with the lantern balanced between us. Then I told him everything except my true reason for bearding Father; I said it was due to a sudden impulse.
“Well, how does it sound to you?” I finished up.
“Perfectly awful,” said Thomas.
“I’m afraid he really is going crazy.”
I was taken aback.
“Then I’ve made him sound worse than he seemed—through telling it too quickly.
It was only at the very end that his manner was odd—and a bit, perhaps, when he was talking to himself, about whales and mammoths.”
“But all those changes of manner—being furious with you one minute and then really pleasant. And when you add up all the silly things he’s been interested in lately-oh, lord, when I think of him taking that haddock-bone” He began to laugh.
I said, “Don’t, Thomas—it’s like people in the eighteenth century laughing at the lunatics in Bedlam.”
“Well, I bet I’d have laughed at them myself-things can be funny even when they’re awful, you know. But, I wonder”—he was suddenly serious” are we like Harry’s Father jeering at Jacob Wrestling? Perhaps he really has something up his sleeve. Though I don’t like the sound of all those lists he’s making it’s like taking too many notes at school; you feel you’ve achieved something when you haven’t.”
“You mean he may never get going on the book itself.” I was quiet for a minute, staring into the lantern, though what I saw all the time was Father’s face when he was looking humble and nervous.
“Oh, Thomas, if he doesn’t, I think he will go out of his mind. He said he wasn’t serious about plunging into insanity, but I believe I felt he was. He may be a borderline case—madness and genius are very dose to each other, aren’t they his If only we could push him the right way!”
“Well, you haven’t made much of a start tonight,” said Thomas, “you’ve just driven him to bed with a detective novel. Anyway, I’m going in. Whether Father’s sane or off his rocker, I’ve still got to do my algebra.”
“You can make him it, the unknown quantity,” I said.
“I think I shall stay here for a while. Can you manage without the lantern?”
He said he could—there was quite a bit of starlight.
“Though it won’t do you any good to sit here brooding,” he added.
But I didn’t plan to brood. I had decided to look up the record of my talk with Simon about psychoanalysis, on the off chance of finding something helpful; and I had no intention of letting Thomas know where my journal was hidden. I waited until I felt sure he would be back in the castle, then cut across the meadow and climbed the mound. A little cloud of white moths came all the way with me, hovering round the lantern.
It felt strange going from the warm, blowy night into the c
ool stillness of Belmotte Tower. As I climbed down the ladder inside I thought of being there with Simon on Midsummer Eve—as I do every time I go into the tower. Then I pulled myself together.
“This may be your last hope of keeping your Father out of a padded cell,” I told myself severely. And by then a faint flicker of hope on my own account had re-awakened. I felt that if I once got him even started on an important book, Rose just might be persuaded to postpone her marriage—and then anything might happen.
I crawled up the crumbling staircase and brought down my bread-tin—I have used that for some time now, because ants kept getting into the attache case. I spread my three journals out on the old iron bedstead and sat there looking through them; I could read quite well by the light from the lantern. It didn’t take me long to find the entry for May Day, with the bit about psychoanalysis.
First came the speech in which Simon said he didn’t believe Father stopped writing just because he had been in prison—that the trouble probably lay much further back. But prison might have brought it to the surface. Anyway, a psychoanalyst would certainly ask Father questions about the time he spent there—in a way, try to put him mentally back in prison. And then there was the bit about it being possible that another period of physical imprisonment might resolve the trouble. But Simon said that was unworkable as a treatment, because it couldn’t be done without Father’s consent-and if he gave it, of course he wouldn’t feel imprisoned. There didn’t seem to be anything I could do along those lines.
I glanced through another page in case I had missed something, and came to the description of Simon’s face as he lay on the grass with his eyes closed. It gave me a stab in which happiness and misery were somehow a part of each other. I closed the journal and sat staring up into the dark shaft of the tower. And then I Suddenly the whole plan was complete in my mind almost to the last detail. But surely I meant it as a joke then?
I remember thinking how it would make Thomas laugh. It was still a joke while I put my journals away and began to climb out of the tower-I had to mount the ladder very slowly because I needed one hand for the lantern. I was half-way up when the extraordinary thing happened. Godsend church clock had begun to strike ten and suddenly, as well as the far-off booming bell, I heard in memory the tinkling chime of Mother’s little traveling clock.