The Girl in a Swing

light, and round these people are gathered for reassurance cooking,

  singing, resting - sincerely feeling (largely owing

  to respite from the surrounding darkness and danger) that

  they are having the time of their lives. There are bodies in

  that wood, too; some of them murdered, or dead by their

  own hand. It is not a bit like Midsummer Night's Dream.

  And if it were not for Aphrodite, none of this would happen.

  There would be no forest: a plain, perhaps, or mountains,

  with dangers of their own; but not the dark forest by night.

  A. E. Housman and the cursed trouble; Swinburne;

  Thomas Hardy; Queen Elizabeth the first; Miss Jones of

  Chislehurst crying her eyes out in her bedroom, utterly unable

  to account for her third broken engagement; the dreadful

  necrophiliac Christie skulking, with insomnia and diarrhoea,

  among his handiwork, foreseeing the certain outcome.

  There are people who, having good reason - so they thought

  - to suppose that they were fully in control of where they

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  were going and feeling perfectly safe, have discovered, suddenly

  or gradually, that they were not. The clutch at the

  stomach, the shock of realizing that you are lost and know

  no way to put things right, is a horrible one. You can hear

  the others in the dark. But where exactly are they? Why have

  you suddenly and inexplicably been seized with dizziness,

  with breathlessness, with cramp? And what is that moving

  in the bushes?

  Perhaps it will all turn out to be a false alarm - a moment's

  panic about nothing. Perhaps it will not. Perhaps it is

  here for life.

  Again and again I tried to remember that I had made a

  long and tiring journey; that these were strange surroundings,

  people, food; that the heat and humidity were enough

  to trouble anyone who had never previously experienced

  them; and that I had undergone emotional strain and tension.

  Any man who has suffered this experience will know

  the sense of helplessness, humiliation and misery which it

  inflicts. He jests at scars that never felt a wound. That, indeed

  - the thought that you are ridiculous, contemptible even in

  your wretchedness and that others might laugh if they

  knew - is the worst of it. And like all severe troubles bereavement,

  loss or disappointment - it is isolating.

  I think, now, that it was her beauty that daunted me at

  the deepest level - that more-than-credible beauty, like the

  slender towers of a city gleaming far above the up-turned,

  staring faces of the little band of adventurers from the outlands,

  who could never have anticipated or imagined any

  prize like this. It is not defended and they know it, yet still

  they stand muttering, reluctant to follow their captain to

  the gates. Or like the candle-lit silver and glass on a nobleman's

  table, by their mere glittering presence confusing

  some humble guest who is simply not used to such things; so

  that despite his friendly host, who is aware of all he is feeling

  and sincerely wishes to dispel his embarrassment, he loses

  even his normal savoir-faire, finding, as in a dream, that he

  has put mustard on his fish or taken a spoon to a pear. 'This

  can't be for me,' I once heard a little girl say in the children's

  ward of Newbury hospital when, having drawn her

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  number in the Christmas raffle, they brought her the gold

  lame doll from the top of the tree: and for some time she

  could not bring herself to touch it, hiding under the blankets

  from the kindly laughter of the nurses.

  Kathe, however, did not laugh. Throughout these sad days,

  during which I came to be obsessed by the cause of my unhappiness,

  there remained something mysterious and even

  exciting in her calm, happy assurance. She plainly did not

  regard my trouble in the same light that I did. Like St Paul's

  centurion on the ship driven up and down in Adria, I began

  to feel that she might know something I didn't. She not only

  seemed, she clearly was, perfectly content and undisturbed;

  and gave the impression of knowing beyond a doubt that all

  would be well, though unable to explain why to someone

  lacking her singular, transcendental vision. In fact, I was to

  come to realize that Kathe was a kind of erotic saint, possessing

  the power to impart faith, to convert, to heal.

  She made no direct attempt to arouse or stimulate me,

  simply holding me in her arms, kissing me, caressing my

  shoulders and body entirely for her own enjoyment and again

  and again telling me, in many different ways, how deeply she

  loved me and how happy she was. Even in my disappointment

  I found her company enchanting and her beauty a rapture.

  One would have supposed that she was having the time of

  her life. Indeed, I am inclined to believe that she really was,

  for was she not exercising her metier:1 She never seemed

  bored or dissatisfied and she shared my trouble without

  appearing in the least affected by it.

  'How can you feel so happy?' I asked her one sweltering

  night, as we lay beneath the electric fan, hearing from time

  to time feet passing outside, or the intermittent, plangent

  drip of water from the shower in the next room. 'Why don't

  you reproach me? Aren't you disappointed?'

  She did not answer at once, but turned on her back,

  stretching pleasurably, arching herself and lifting her breasts

  in her cupped hands. Then, putting one hand on mine, she

  paused, wrinkling her brow, like one considering how best

  to put what she wants to say into words. At length, laying

  her head back on the pillow, she said, 'My darling, you just

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  r

  don't understand, do you? This is love. I am your lover. We

  are making love. This is what I was born for, what I was

  made for. I could cry for joy. Can't you see?'

  'Oh, why do you say that,' I cried petulantly, 'when you

  know very well -'

  She silenced me, first with a finger on my lips and then

  with a kiss.

  'Such a silly sweetheart I never saw. You think it's a little

  pond of boats, don't you? Chug, chug! Come in Number

  Five, your time is up! Darling, it's a great ocean, limitless waves,

  gulls, strange creatures moving in the deep - stretching

  beyond the horizon and past the clock! Oh, how can I

  explain?' She rolled over and took me in her arms, lying half

  on top of me. 'One doesn't order the ocean about. What you

  see as a speck on the window-pane is really a great palace,

  far off; only they look the same against the light and anyway

  you're just waking up. Oh, Alan, Alan, darling - dear, dear

  Alan - I could smother you, you're so beautiful and ridiculous.

  As if there were anything wrong! There's nothing

  wrong, darling, nothing, nothing! What are you in such a

  hurry about?' And then, suddenly giggling, but nevertheless

  managing a very fair imitation of Mr Steinberg, 'I guess Romiddley

  wasn't built in a day.'

&nbsp
; I was about to reply when, she added, 'In fact I will

  smother you - stop you talking nonsense.' And, kneeling

  above me, she pressed her breasts together over my face. I

  could feel each nipple in the outer corners of my eyelids.

  'And that doesn't work either,' I thought, in my selfish

  misery. Yet this was no part of her intention. She could not

  explain what I know now - all that I was to learn from her.

  I weep as I recall this.

  Another day she said, 'It's the paradox of your love, my

  darling. It's the ice-burn. Can't you see?'

  'The ice-burn?'

  'You don't know about the ice-burn? I'll tell you. Sometimes,

  in the North, in winter, the ice forms right across the

  curved top of a hill. Then, when the sun shines, the ice becomes

  like a magnifying glass, so that the sun burns off all

  the grass and heather underneath. Later, the ice melts and

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  all through spring the hill's bare until the grass grows

  again.'

  'No, I didn't know that. But I don't see - you say this is

  like the ice-burn?'

  ']a, das ist Paradox. Don't you see, the ice is what burns the

  last thing you'd expect to burn anything, and yet it

  does? You love me, don't you? I can feel it pouring all over

  me - I'm drenched in your love. So are you. And that has

  an unexpected effect; but it's a natural effect, all the same.'

  She paused. 'Not like - oh, well, silly things that weren't

  love at all - could never be love.' For a moment she clenched

  her fists and then burst out, 'Destroy the past! Destroy

  it!'

  'What are you talking about?' I asked, surprised by her

  vehemence.

  'No matter, sir, what I have heard or known.'

  'Good heavens, Kathe! Do you know Antony and Cleopatra?'

  'Antony and Cleopatra? No. I just heard - oh, well, an

  English person - say that once, and I thought it sounded nice.

  Is that what it is? No wonder. That's Cleopatra speaking,

  nicht wahr? Ah, well, that just shows you who I rreally am,

  doesn't it?'

  One morning, some days after our marriage, the two of

  us were in Baskin Robbins, eating ice-cream. I had no particular

  fancy for ice-cream - or for anything else, much but

  there seemed nowhere to go and nothing to do, and

  Kathe always took pleasure in eating. Although, out of my

  love for her, I was putting the best face on things I could,

  I was beginning to think we might as well go home. The

  open admiration, not infrequently backed up with direct

  compliments, which Kathe excited wherever we went, was

  beginning to be more than I could bear. To the unspoken

  question I thought I could perceive in every male face,

  'What's he got that I haven't?', I might, I thought bitterly,

  have answered, 'Less than nothing.' Deeper down, I was wondering

  with anxiety what would be the outcome of this distressing

  situation. How long would Kathe be able to keep up

  what, despite all she could say and do, I could not help re164

  J

  garding as her generous pretence that all was well? And after

  that -?

  Casual acquaintances start easily enough in America,

  where people seldom hesitate to speak to you if they feel inclined;

  and after some ten minutes in the ice-cream parlour

  we found ourselves - I forget exactly how - in conversation

  with a tall, thin, fair-haired young man, who told us that

  his name was Lee Dubose, that he was studying English

  Literature and American history at the university and that

  his home was not far from Tallahassee, 'up in the Panhandle'.

  Having confirmed what his ears had told him - that I was

  British - he not unnaturally asked what had brought us to

  Gainesville, to which we replied that we were on holiday and

  had been lent a place to stay by a friend.

  'Oh, neat!' said Mr Dubose, as warmly as though any

  good fortune of ours were something that gave him personal

  satisfaction. 'Ah wondered how y'all came to be in

  Gainesville; only it's not a part of Florida that usually

  attracts vacationers, you know. All the same, there are some

  nice spots around here, if you know where to find them.

  Have y'all been out to the Itchetucknee Spring yet?'

  'Where?' I asked.

  Mr Dubose kindly repeated it. 'It's an Indian name, I

  guess,' he explained. 'Well, if you haven't been there I'd say

  you certainly should. It's real pretty and a great place for

  swimming. Do y'all like swimming?'

  'Oh, yes, very much,' said Kathe. 'Oh, we must go, Alan!

  Do tell us more about it, Lee. Is it far?'

  'Well, it's about thirty miles out of tahn,' replied Mr

  Dubose, taking another dig at his Pecan Delight. 'It's the

  source of the Itchetucknee river - that runs west into the

  Sewanee - and it's in a nature reserve - real forest swamp

  country. They've built some changing huts near the pool, but

  otherwise it's pretty wild all around. There are two pools,

  about four hundred yards apart - the Jug Spring and the

  Itchetucknee Spring. The Jug Spring's bigger and deeper the

  Scuba-diving guys go there quite a bit - but the Itchetucknee's

  the prettiest. That's where they shot a lot of the

  sequences from the Dorothy Lamour films that were sup165

  posed to take place in the South Seas. Are y'all good

  swimmers?'

  'We reckon we are,' I said. 'Why, though? It sounds easy

  enough.'

  'Oh, sure, the Springs are real nice for bathing, no problem.

  But some folks like to swim down the creek and on

  along the Itchetucknee river. If you do that you have to

  swim down three or four miles. A lot of guys float down on

  inner tubes, but better swimmers generally prefer just a

  snorkel mask and flippers. Only you can't turn back, you

  see - no way - and you can't leave the river until you get

  down to the next park area, because it's all like I said, swamp

  country, both banks. I've done it on a tube. It's real neat you

  see turtles and quite a few birds - herons and so on.

  They're not afraid of folks in the water as long as they're not

  making a lot of noise. I once saw a couple of gators - small

  ones. Gators aren't dangerous as long as they're not fooled

  with or molested, you know.'

  'But what d'you do with your towels and clothes?' I

  asked.

  'Yeah, well, you kinda need a buddy, I guess; some guy

  has to stick with the car, drive down with the clothes and so

  on and meet up with you down the other end.'

  'Oh, I would love to do it!' said Kathe. 'Oh, Alan darling,

  do let's go!'

  'You figure she's a good enough swimmer?' said Mr Dubose

  to me.

  'She's just fine!' answered Kathe, looking at him as though

  he had given her a diamond necklace. 'Especially in warm

  water.'

  'Do you have a buddy for the car?'

  'No,' I said, 'I'm afraid that's a snag. But there are always

  taxis, I suppose -'

  'Ah, forget it!' said Mr Dubose. 'I just had me a great

  idea. Why do
n't I come along for the ride? I can read Great

  Expectations by the creek as well as any place else.'

  We closed with this offer at once, only insisting that we

  should take him out to dinner that evening - he looked, I

  thought, as though he could do with it.

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  'I don't have a car right now, though,' said Mr Dubose.

  'What is your car, stick shift or automatic?'

  'It can be anything you like. I haven't hired it yet."

  'Well, a Dasher, maybe. Would that be O.K.?'

  It transpired that this was what the Americans call a

  Volkswagen Passat. We agreed to pick Lee up that afternoon

  and went off to buy snorkel masks and flippers, Kathe as excited

  as a child.

  'I must say I think it's very nice of him to take it on,' I

  remarked.

  'Yes, isn't it?" answered Kathe, swinging forward on my

  arm and taking a few dancing steps backwards in front of

  me. I realized that Mr Dubose had had incentive.

  We were in luck, since the afternoon, for once in a way,

  was cloudy. Their climate pampers the Floridians and by

  English standards they are hypersensitive about weather and

  water. For them, 78? Fahrenheit is rather cold for bathing.

  Accordingly, when we reached the Ichetucknee Spring, there

  was hardly anyone there.

  The pool was entrancingly beautiful, no more than thirty

  or forty yards across; lying, as Lee had said, in a forest glade

  and surrounded by trees, flowering creepers and a green

  abundance of ferns. On one side, in a glade, were a few stout

  wooden tables and one or two iron fire-baskets for charcoal

  barbecuing. The springs rose, at a depth of about fifteen

  feet, in the centre of the pool and on the west side of the

  'creek', no more than five feet wide, flowed away through

  tangled vegetation. Several cardinals, rather tame, were

  hanging about for what they could get and a brownuniformed,

  scout-hatted ranger, pistol in belt, gave us good

  day, said he guessed I was British and it was real nice to

  see us. We strolled up to the changing hut. In America

  (where many people seem habitually to use the foulest language,

  even in the presence of women) changing in the open

  tends to provoke outraged opposition. You can even get

  arrested.

  Kathe, in her white bikini, not only looked superb, but

  also extraordinarily business-like. One swimmer - like one

  cricketer - can recognize another. Kathe could not have

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  appeared anything but a swimmer if she had turned out in

  an overall and gum-boots. Leaving her mask and flippers on

  the bank, she plunged straight into the pool with a taut,

  springy dive and swam across. Then, duck-diving, she disappeared

  for about ten seconds, came up and returned on

  an easy back-crawl. It was obvious that she could swim for

  miles. Lee Dubose and I smiled and nodded to one another

  and followed her in.

  My spirits began to rise. Here at least was something I

  could do, one natural function I could fulfil. What a pleasure

  it is to swim a long distance in the open with someone who

  is up to it! The obvious admiration for Kathe of both Lee

  and the ranger filled me with pride and delight. Yet these

  feelings would have been no less if she and I had been alone.

  This mutual exercise of accomplishment, if it could not cure

  it, could at least distance and ease my trouble, as a melody

  can comfort a sick man. Without speaking - there was no

  need to speak - we began putting each other through our

  paces; racing across the pool, swimming together under

  water, diving down towards where the springs, half-hidden

  beneath a tangle of sunken branches, whelmed up cold

  against face and shoulders. Kathe was like a dancer: even

  if she had had no particular beauty of face or body, she

  would still have been exquisitely beautiful in this.

  After a time she returned to the bank and pulled on her

  flippers. As I followed her and stood up in the shallow water,

  she held out her mask to me, inside upwards.

  'Spit on the glass for me, darling, please. We forgot to get

  any anti-mist stuff, but spit's nearly as good. We forgot to

  boil these mouthpieces, too, but never mind: let's just bite

  hard on them for a minute or two and then I think we're

  ready to go.'

  'How long does the swim usually take?' I asked Lee.

  'Oh, hour and a half, hour and a quarter maybe. No hurry,

  take your time. I'm O.K. Maybe I'll just stick around here