‘What I have wondered,’ said Norah, ‘is why in the first place the house was ever built so close to the cliff.’
Althea smiled. ‘So close to Cader Morb? For luck of course. Cader Morb is supposed to be lucky, and financially at least he’s done his stuff.’
‘Wouldn’t the luck have held good if the house had been built twenty yards farther away?’
‘Jonathan and his partner were superstitious men. In winter sometimes they say Jonathan used to go out by himself and talk to Cader Morb.’
Norah stared up at the sharp cliff surmounted by the jutting cone of bare rock. ‘Yes, I can understand that. You haven’t, by the way, even mentioned yet what I have to do.’
‘What you have to do?’
‘As your secretary. Typing and things. When d’you want me to start?’
‘Oh, that. No hurry at all. Settle in first. Explore the countryside while the weather lasts.’
‘I’m not even sure how good you expect me to be. Before my father was taken ill I suppose I was an average decent secretary. But I’m a bit rusty. And, you know, I didn’t have much settled education. I was evacuated, and then after the war we were always moving about. I don’t even know that I’ll come up to your standards.’
‘You’ll do all I need, I promise you. Anyway, I’m not altogether convinced about formal education. That’s why I thought it better for Gregory to develop without the constricting influences of a public school.’
‘I thought he was at one.’
‘I took him away. He isn’t really the type.’
They walked on in silence. This was the tricky subject.
‘I don’t suppose Mr Croome-Nichols would approve.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of taking Gregory away from school. He seems to think very much of formal education.’
‘Look at this rhododendron. Auriculatum. One of my few failures. I don’t know if there’s lime here, but they do well enough on the other side of the lake. Tell me, Norah, as a friend, what do you think of Gregory?’
They walked on a few paces. The sun, having dodged a mountain tip, was just flooding back over the garden.
‘What do I think of him? How can I say? He seems very nice. I’ve hardly met him. We talked a couple of times yesterday, but it was only a few sentences.’
‘I’d like you to get to know each other.’
‘Of course. Gladly.’
‘Don’t be put off by his shyness. You know what causes it?’
‘No.’
‘His sight. That’s really why I took him away from Radley. He was at such a disadvantage.’
‘I’d no idea. I’m so sorry.’
Althea took a deep breath. Her bulk swelled with it. ‘Sometimes I worry quite a bit.’
‘How much can he see?’
‘Oh . . . adequately at close quarters. But not much beyond short range. It makes him introverted.’
Norah was tempted to remark that taking him away from school would be likely to make him even more introverted, but she did not.
A blackbird was twittering at some real or fancied alarm. Althea said abruptly: ‘Don’t suppose I can’t take an objective view of someone as close to me as my own son. I was never exactly a – a desirable woman – at least not like you – I have always been too heavy; but I think I have been able to make up in some way. He, poor duck, seems to have inherited the worst of my looks. You have to admit that for a boy of his age he’s – unprepossessing. Of course that wouldn’t matter so much if it were not for his sight . . . However, he’s got an absolutely first-rate brain. Very acute, very mature. But he badly needs taking out of himself – bringing out. Sometimes he’s capable of astonishing misjudgments, and I’m convinced it’s only because of his lack of contacts.’
Norah said: ‘Perhaps your nephew will be able to help.’
‘Who?’
‘Mr – Simon Syme, is it?’
Althea bent down to look at a shrub. ‘These magnolias – they take such a time to overcome the shock of moving. You can build a house in twenty months; a garden takes twenty years.’
‘I think you’ve done wonders.’
‘Oh, yes, but you know of course most of these trees and shrubs were brought here half grown. It’s the new technique. They come with a great ball of soil or in massive pots. It’s very expensive but it furnishes a garden, gives one a head start. It’s only a few shrubs, like magnolias, arbutus, embothrium, that obstinately refuse . . .’
‘The design, the layout was entirely yours?’
‘Yes. You see, I never lived here permanently until the end of the war. My husband, as the eldest son, never wanted to live here – he didn’t like it – so Simon’s mother and father occupied it instead. When my husband died I decided to take up journalism – as a hobby, you understand. Gregory was a little boy, and this enabled me to stay with him most of the time. At the same time it gave me an outlet for my energies. Thomas died in 1942.’
‘I never knew – was it the war? Being a captain . . .’
‘It was the result of the war. We were in London through all the worst of the bombing. Gregory and I moved back here in 1945.’
‘No one began a garden ever before?’
‘The lake existed. A few common trees. The Symes, I’m afraid, were only concerned with the profits to be got underground. When those failed they invested their money in property in Aberystwyth and Barmouth. I am the first gardener.’
II
After lunch Althea took Norah at her word and dictated half an article and a few letters. Moving weightily about her study, she delivered herself, and Norah took it down easily enough and afterwards typed the pieces out and left them to be read later. Her shorthand was certainly rusty but it would soon pick up. Then she went downstairs and dutifully sought out Gregory.
Coming on him apparently by accident, she tried to get him into conversation but like yesterday this was not a success. He answered in monosyllables or with the minimum of words necessary. He was not as fat as he looked. It was really big bones and the way he dressed. His face was almost expressionless, bland, and his glasses blinked indecipherable morse.
Presently she said: ‘I’m going for a walk, but I’ve no idea which way would be best. Can you suggest where I could go – maybe some favourite walk of your own?’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t got a favourite walk. I don’t go out much.’
‘Which is Plynlimon? Do you know if it’s a difficult climb?’
A long, rather slim forefinger pointed. The nail was dirty. ‘That’s Plynlimon.’ He indicated the great bulk of mountain which last night had stood like a fortress against the setting sun.
‘How do you reach it? Are you doing anything special this afternoon? Would you show me the way?’
Just for a moment she saw his eyes, dark brown and small but with large pupils. His spectacles showed ring upon ring of light. ‘Did Mother suggest I went with you?’
‘I think she’d be quite pleased if you were to come.’
‘Perhaps she would, but that’s not the same, is it? Cousin Simon’ll be here this evening, won’t he?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Well, why don’t you ask him to go out with you when he comes?’
She flushed. ‘I don’t know anything about what your cousin will want to do. I was asking you.’
He half turned away, muttered something which ended in: ‘It’s no good pretending.’
She said sharply: ‘Pretending what?’
‘Innocence . . . That you’re a total stranger. That you don’t know anything. Anything about Simon. You know your way about all right . . .’
‘Look, Gregory,’ she said, ‘I haven’t an idea what you’re talking about, so I don’t know whether you mean to be as insulting as you sound. Your mother . . .’ She stopped.
‘Go on.’
‘Perhaps if you come out for a walk you’d be able to explain what you mean by suggesting I’m not a total stranger. Do you mean to this district or w
hat?’
He said: ‘I think I’d rather not come, thank you.’
She went out of the house, very annoyed. The trouble with Gregory was not his bad sight but his bad manners. A couple of slaps across the face would cure a lot.
In her irritation she began to walk at random, climbing the turfy hillside with an energy that was fuelled by anger. As her anger cooled so her steps slowed; but by then she was high above the house, looking down on it as on a toy in the sun. A worm of lazy smoke marked its habitation. In front of the house the slaty valley threaded its way downwards between the hills towards the ruined cottages and the old mine building. Behind was the limpid mirror of the pool. And at the side the great Cader Morb, or whatever it was called, dominated everything as a Swiss alp does the village at its foot. She pictured all the early brood of Symes and Nichols being born in that house and being influenced by the shadow falling over them. With a father who on wet and windy nights went out and talked aloud to it, one could well come to believe that it had a life of its own, perhaps associate it with a god to whom propitiation must be made. She could imagine a sort of spiritual emancipation for the child who for the first time climbed the rock and sat on its hoary head and saw all the greater mountains beyond.
Gregory needed to be put up there daily. The boy was stupidly suspicious of everyone who came to the house, jealous of his mother’s friends, abrasively ill-mannered. Fifteen of course was an awkward age. She remembered how her polite and gentle cousin Jonathan had become an oaf for about twelve months around that age. What could there be in Gregory’s mind to connect her with his cousin Simon? Perhaps to a suspicious boy the fact that they were arriving in the same week was enough. But suspicious of what? Why did he resent strangers coming here? No wonder the other secretary left!
Still walking without obvious direction, she had nevertheless been following a sort of sheep track, which now led round a corner of the hillside and left the house and the valley out of sight. It was a gossamer afternoon of early autumn, the sky clear but not lustrous, the sun warmly peering. Her original idea had been to make for Plynlimon, the highest mountain in the district; but it was farther away than she had thought and would take all of a day. This day was already far spent.
A stream trickled across her path and she picked her way over it, stumbled on the last loose stone and wet her feet. She sat down for a few minutes, took off her shoes to let them dry. She spotted the beginning of a ladder on one ankle, so bubbled some spittle on to her finger-tip and dabbed it on the end of the flaw. Then seeing how damp the stockings were she unhitched them and pulled them off, rolled them in a ball and stuffed them into a pocket of her jacket, wriggled her bare toes in the dusty heather. It was hard to take too sour a view of things in such country and on such a day. It was all experience, all part of life. You couldn’t exactly do this in London when you came out of the office for lunch.
She was not at all sure that she really wanted to go back to office work anyhow. The brief dictation and typing session today had revived an unfamiliar and unwelcome sensation. Nothing to do with the Symes, this – just memories of the drudgery of her last secretarial job. Well, she had to do something; her father had left two thousand pounds. Anyway, she wanted to do something. If it had not been that he was so obviously failing, she would have enjoyed looking after her father. It was so much more constructive in human terms. Should she then have been a nurse? Could she still be? Plenty of drudgery in that, and not much money. A doctor’s receptionist? An air stewardess? All the airlines were expanding. Something to feel one was of use. When she left the Symes . . . If she left the Symes . . .
She put her damp shoes on again and went on up the hill. A few grave sheep looked their concern and moved away at her coming. Two or three were lame, hobbling among the stones. They kept their feet better than she did, for the slope was steep and twice she slipped. At the top an old dry-stone wall, part fallen down. She climbed over it and saw that she was at the top.
Another green and brown valley; but the farther side was sheer, being cut here and there by shallow ravines where the water drained. A stream at the bottom. It was the same one she had crossed: it curled round the foot of the hill she had climbed. The hill swelled like a great animal in the centre of the one broad valley, and the curious old stone wall ran along the top like a vertebral cord.
She began to walk and slither down the other side. Wanderings such as this on her own would make a lot of things tolerable. To be away from people and rush and the smell of petrol. Poor Althea – she was to be pitied for having such a son.
She came to a gate in another wall. It was broken and hung on one hinge and led into a stretch of vivid green turf. She stood leaning on a post, wondering whether to go farther aware that the sun was not so high, aware that the smiling hills would not smile when dusk began to fall –
She heard a cough – a clearing of the throat, and this was so close that her hand on its way to pull open the gate stayed frozen. She had been so isolated that for a moment –
There was a click. She turned sharply to see a man come from behind a boulder. He was putting his camera back into its case as he came forward.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Hope I didn’t startle you. I expect you thought you were alone.’
Late thirties probably – long-faced, broad-shouldered, a hint of accent, open-neck shirt and Daks trousers. She couldn’t find her voice.
‘Hope I didn’t startle you,’ he said again. ‘I was watching you come down the hillside. Then when you got by the gate you seemed to provide just the sort of foreground that was needed. Painters can juggle with their subjects. Constable could paint in a cow or a sheep wherever he wanted one. Unfortunately photography can’t lie – or not to that extent. And it was – you were just the foreground I needed.’
‘Failing the cow,’ said Norah indistinctly.
He took a pipe out of his pocket and drew smoke from it. Then he dabbed his pocket to make sure it was not smouldering. ‘That was Constable’s style, not mine . . . One can hardly expect this weather to last much longer so I’ve been out most of today. Are you staying round here?’
‘Round here, yes.’
He knitted his brows at her and then smiled. ‘The attitude really was perfect: body just sufficiently taut, one foot on the bar of the gate, head raised, hair blowing. Like a poppy in the wind. But I had to get your head round a bit: hence the cough. Have you ever done model work?’
‘No.’
‘You should.’
The shock had left her now. She was half amused. But the amusement was not entirely friendly. ‘I thought there was no one else for miles.’
‘Being up here gives you that impression, doesn’t it – sometimes even that there’s no one else in the world. It’s why I come here. It’s one of the few places left.’
‘Left for springing booby traps?’
He eyed her. ‘I suppose it was rather startling. But I’ll give you a print. It’ll be worth it. You’ll see.’
An odd face, almost an actor’s face, the features more prominent than life. Handsome if you liked gaunt artistic-looking men.
‘Do you do it professionally?’
‘Scare people? No.’ He laughed. ‘I photograph professionally, if that’s what you mean. Name of Christopher Carew.’
If he thought this might have meant something to her he was disappointed.
‘Mainly I freelance but I do some commissioned work for the glossies. And yours?’
‘My name? Norah Faulkner.’
‘Hullo.’ He put his pipe in his mouth and offered her a hand. ‘Nice to know you. I’ve done one or two professional assignments round here, but this is holiday. I have a cottage over the hill. I’m one of these absentee house-owners the Welsh don’t like – here for about six weeks in a year. You on holiday? I suppose you are?’
‘Well, sort of. Not entirely.’
As she made a movement he said: ‘No, please don’t go. We’ve only just met. Have a cup of tea. I was just g
oing to have one. It’s so rare to meet anyone round here except a farmer or a few sheep . . .’
‘Or a cow.’
‘I see you’re going to pin that one on me. Look, sit here. I’ve got a Thermos behind that rock. There’s a cup and I can drink out of the lid.’
‘Well . . .’ Why not? At least he was cheerful and fairly young. More than would be offered her if she turned for home. She sat down and presently he squatted beside her; long legs doubling under him, and poured her a cup.
‘I’m here on my own this year, and though I’m fond of myself the company eventually palls. Sugar?’
‘One lump, please.’
‘I take three. It’s a good principle, I find, to have half of what you would like of any sweet thing.’
‘Quite the ascetic,’ Norah said.
He laughed, more wholeheartedly. A flock of birds rose at the other side of the valley. Then he knelt up and handed the cup to her.
‘Don’t think me presumptuous,’ he said. ‘Probably you already do; but I believe, I have a feeling that some good use could be made of this accidental meeting, if you were willing. Strictly business, of course. These photographs I’m doing at present are chiefly for my own pleasure but they’re being taken also with an eye to a book on mid-Wales sometime or other. And that crack about Constable wasn’t just stupid. A degree of foreground interest helps to make a composition. Where are you staying – Aberystwyth? Could you spare a couple of days? I’d pay.’
She smiled for the first time as she shook her head. ‘Sorry. My time’s not entirely my own. But thank you for suggesting it.’
‘Pity. Got an invalid mother or something?’
‘No. I’m staying about two miles from here – and working, more or less, as a secretary.’
‘Good Lord. Secretary to a sheep farmer? But seriously, d’you know this country well?’
‘I only arrived on Monday.’
‘I came on an assignment two years ago – never thought of coming back; but the countryside captivated me – hence the cottage. Everything’s so remote and forsaken. When you climb to the top of that ridge over there you can see across twenty miles of mountains. It’s like a northern Greece. And in the next valley – you see those trees?’