The Girl in a Swing

wanted to go very much, and by doing so now I would

  avoid having to leave her alone later on, or seeming to put

  any pressure on her.

  'And the Pharisees and scribes murmured,' read Tony, 'saying,

  "This man receiveth sinners and eateth with them." And

  He spake this parable unto them, saying, "What man of you

  having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not

  leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after

  that which is lost, until he find it? And when he hath found

  it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing

  Good stuff, I thought. 'Couldn't have put it better myself.

  202

  The familiar words, and Jack o' Newbury's beautiful, familiar

  church, gave me a warm sense of triumphant home-coming,

  like some merchant-captain returned from a voyage laden

  with wealth. I remembered Kathe's happy cry in Florida, 'I

  want to start my life!'

  I got back to find her just coming out of the bathroom in

  her white dressing-gown. She ran down the stairs, losing a

  slipper on the way, flung her arms round me and kissed me as

  though we had been parted for a month. A lock of her wet

  hair got mixed up between our lips. She was warm, half-dry

  and smelt of gardenia. I took her back to bed.

  After breakfast - lunch - whatever it was - she said unexpectedly,

  'Now, mem Lieber, you are going out of my way,

  please.'

  'Out of your way?'

  'Ja. Haven't you any nice friends you can go and get drunk

  with?'

  'This is England. They close in the afternoon. Why, what

  are you going to do?'

  'I'm going right through the house like a Hausfrau. Don't

  worry; I won't touch any of your mother's things - in fact, I

  won't disturb anything. But I mean to learn my home all

  through by myself, and when you come back I'll ask you a

  hundred and twenty questions. Come home to tea.'

  I rather welcomed this, for it had already occurred to me

  that it would be nice to go for a good, long walk. It was

  over a month since I had had one and it was a perfect June

  day, sunny with a little breeze. I took a map and my fieldglasses

  and set off for Burghclere and Ladle Hill.

  It was fairly late in the afternoon - about half-past five,

  I suppose - and I was returning, tired, contented and ready

  for tea, along a field path not far from Bull Banks, when suddenly,

  without sight or sound, I was overcome by an extraordinary

  and quite unaccountable sense of menace. As

  though a man with a club had stepped out of the hedgerow

  in front of me I stopped in my tracks, actually rigid with fear.

  So strong was this dread that in the moment when it came

  upon me I thought in all earnest that I was about to be

  attacked, and in panic set my back against a tree, trembling

  203

  and staring about me. The dead silence seemed unnatural.

  Up and down the acres of the bright field there was not a

  living creature to be seen or heard. It was like the approach

  of a thunderstorm. Not a blackbird or lark was singing, not

  a plover wheeling in the sky. Yet the sun shone, the breeze

  rippled across the growing wheat. Nothing had changed,

  save for this shivering sense of emptiness. I put up a hand

  and shook the branch above my head. Not a caterpillar or

  a beetle fell out.

  As the minutes passed, my terror gave way to a sort of

  sick uneasiness. I sat down on the bank and shut my eyes,

  but almost at once opened them again. To see, disturbing

  though it might be, was less frightening than to see nothing

  and wait. My anxiety was like that of a dream - a feeling

  without a specific object. Something was close to me - or

  so I felt - something invisible; and it had stilled the land

  like a pestilence.

  At length I forced myself to walk on, and by the very act

  began to weaken the fit. My mind grew clearer. I felt as

  though I were returning to the surface out of deep water and

  to help my ascent, as it were, took my binoculars and began

  looking all round me. There must be something alive to be

  seen somewhere. Yes, indeed; I spotted two or three woodpigeons

  rising out of a copse about four hundred yards away.

  Listening, I could just hear the clatter of their wings.

  I turned the glasses on Bull Banks and, with a sense of

  relief in the returned commonplace, took a good, steady

  look at a broken gutter above the eaves of my bedroom,

  which I had been meaning to have mended ever since the

  spring. Then I came down a few feet and looked into the

  bedroom itself. As I did so, I saw Kathe enter the room, walk

  slowly across to the window and stand gazing out over the

  fields. The sunshine was full on her face and through the

  glasses I could see her very clearly. Her hands were raised,

  the fingers resting on either side of her chin, and she was

  weeping.

  So devoid was this grief of agitation or disturbance that

  for some moments - partly, perhaps, because I could not

  204

  hear it and partly on account of my own half-distracted state

  of mind - I did not react to it or take it in. She was not sobbing

  and her face was not disturbed. Nevertheless, looking

  at her, I felt intuitively that this sorrow came from something

  deeper than any pain or discomposure of the moment.

  She was weeping in what I can only describe as a settled way,

  as though desolation had become her dwelling-place. She

  stood still and unseeing at the long window while great, slow

  tears fell and fell from her eyes. She did nothing to brush

  them away. I saw one glisten along her cheek and fall to the

  sill. She was like someone weeping before a crucifix, or for

  some bitter loss past all mending.

  All of a sudden, turning swiftly - almost as though she

  had heard some noise behind her in the house - she hastened

  across the room and out of the door.

  The sight dispelled the last of my strange turn. Evidently

  something had badly upset Kathe - something more than a

  mere fit of loneliness or homesickness - and I knew where

  my business lay. Jumping to my feet I set off again, fast,

  along the path, over the stile, up the lane and through the

  little gate leading into the shrubbery. (We had always called

  it the shrubbery, but in fact it was nothing much more than

  a half-acre of wilderness, embellished with some buddleia

  and hazel-nut bushes, two big clumps of rhododendrons, the

  swing that Flick had once pushed me out of and an old

  watering-tap standing upright in the grass.)

  I strode through the gap in the hornbeam hedge, crossed

  the lawn and came through the garden-door calling 'Kathe!

  Kathe! Wo hist du, Liebchen? I'm back!'

  Except for the ticking of the grandfather clock there was

  silence. I called again. Then I looked in the kitchen, the

  dining-room, the drawing-room and upstairs. The house was

  empty.

  I ran to the front door and shouted, 'Kathe! Kathe!' There

  was no reply a
nd, leaving the door open, I sat down on one

  of the hall chairs and tried to think what I ought to do. The

  best thing seemed to be to wait a minute or two and try not

  to get in a state.

  205

  I was still sitting there three minutes later when I heard

  footsteps on the gravel outside and Kathe walked in through

  the open door looking as fresh as a linnet.

  I stared up at her in a kind of daze. She stopped, obviously

  surprised, and then, quickly crossing the hall, dropped on her

  knees beside me.

  'Whatever is the matter, darling?" she asked, putting her

  hands on my waist and looking up into my face. 'You look

  quite upset! Did you walk too far or something?'

  'I - no -1 - that's to say - are you all right?' I asked.

  'All right? Why ever shouldn't I be all right, you silly old

  Billy? Are you all right? What's wrong?'

  'I thought - I mean, I saw - didn't I? -'

  I stopped. It suddenly crossed my mind that perhaps Kathe

  might not care to learn that I had been spying on her

  through a pair of binoculars. Of course it wasn't really spying,

  but all the same, how would I feel if she were to tell me

  the same thing? Unless it had been hallucination on my part

  - and it hadn't - something certainly had upset her, but she

  seemed all right now. Better let it go. Yet she had looked so

  utterly grief-stricken - frightened, too, in that last moment

  - that I couldn't make any sense of it at all.

  'Well, I was just a bit worried when I found you weren't

  in, darling, that's all. Where have you been?'

  'But why ever should you have worried? "Where have I

  been?" Am I going to run away?'

  'No, of course not, but -'

  'Well, I suddenly realized we hadn't a drop of milk in the

  house, and I was a hundred metres up the road before I

  remembered it was Sunday. And you could do with some

  tea, poor Alan; anyone can see that. What are we going to

  do?'

  'Well, I think I'll have a whisky-and-soda instead, darling.

  You're right, I am a bit done up.'

  'Fine. I'll join you. Make it two.'

  Til fix them in a moment. I'm just going to pop upstairs

  and get a clean handkerchief.'

  'In your boots?'

  'They're not dirty, honestly.'

  206

  I went up to the bedroom. The window-sill seemed perfectly

  dry, both to sight and touch. However, I didn't make

  a very thorough examination, for the truth was that I was

  ashamed of myself for looking. This was my wife. If I wasn't

  going to ask her straight out - and I wasn't - then what sort

  of a carry-on was it to be poking about?

  Downstairs, I could hear her running over the opening bars

  of a Scarlatti sonata which I recognized but hadn't heard

  for years. I went down and set about getting the drinks. By

  this time I was not at all sure what the dickens I had seen;

  and still less what had come over me in the field.

  Next day, as we were parking the car, Kathe said, 'Alan, lots

  of shop-coats are among my best friends, but do you think

  I could buy a nice, plain dress, suitable for a lady selling

  ceramics? I know we've spent an awful lot since we were

  married, but I would like to do you credit in the shop. I know

  just the kind of thing I want, if they've got it; and it needn't

  be expensive.'

  'As long as it really isn't.'

  'D'you think I ought to have an allowance, or what? Then

  you can keep inside me and I can keep inside it - for the

  inside of a month, anyway.'

  Til arrange it. I know a man on the inside. Actually, I

  thought we might try a joint account to begin with. Then

  when we're ruined you can have an allowance. Will that do?'

  'You're too good to me, Alan - really you are. You don't

  know what it means to me to have money to spend on

  clothes.'

  'You looked all right to me in K0benhavn. But Kathe,

  you've spent next to nothing so far - do you realize that?

  I'm the one who's been doing all the spending.'

  It was true. I couldn't remember that she had ever asked

  me for more than a 'bus fare or money for housekeeping, or

  that she had taken the initiative in any sizeable purchase for

  herself.

  'You don't know what that means to me, either. Where

  should I go?'

  207

  'I should think Camp Hopson's would do you as well as

  anywhere. There, look, just across the street. Come on round

  when you're ready. Don't hurry,'

  When I reached the shop I found two young men waiting

  at the door.

  'Mr Desland? We're from the Newbury News. I wonder

  whether my colleague here could take one or two photographs

  of your wife and yourself? If it's inconvenient now

  we can always -'

  'For publication, you mean?'

  'Oh, yes, Mr Desland. I understand it's - er - well, quite

  a romantic story, your marriage, isn't it? The lady's German,

  I believe, isn't she, or Danish; and you were married recently

  in Florida?"

  'Did Miss Cripps tell you all this?'

  'Yes, I've had a chat with her. But of course I'd rather

  check it with you, and then we can make sure of printing it

  as you'd like it to be. The photograph's important, too. From

  all I've been told the lady's exceptionally attractive and

  charming. We like to sell the paper, you know.'

  'Well, I suppose you'd better come in and have a cup of

  coffee. She'll be along in a minute.'

  She was actually along in about half an hour (by which

  time I had told my own version of our meeting in Copenhagen

  and the urgent business trip to Florida during which

  we had got married). As usual, the dress looked exactly right

  and as though it had been made for her. It was of darkblue

  jersey, with a close-fitting bodice, tight, three-quarterlength

  sleeves and a lot of movement in the rather full skirt;

  entirely plain, but while she was about it she had gone the

  length of a thin gold chain from neck to waist, which offset

  still more beautifully her Florida tan. The journalist she took

  in her stride, saying not a word, either to him or to me,

  about having just been shopping, and displaying a hint of

  mild, shoulder-shrugging surprise as he again explained his

  errand; as though, while hardly feeling herself dressed for

  the business, she had no objection if he had none.

  Inwardly, I had been wondering how Kathe would handle

  the questions she was bound to be asked about her life be208

  fore our marriage, but the compelling mixture of authority

  and charm that she was always able to exert had never been

  more successful. When she said firmly that she did not really

  want to add anything to what I had already told him and

  that, having become British, she hoped he wouldn't lay too

  much stress on her having formerly been German, the young

  journalist at once assured her that he - and, he was sure, his

  editor - would be happy to play it as she wished.

  'Though to be honest, Mrs Des
land,' he added, smiling

  round at the photographer for corroboration, 'I don't think

  you've much to worry about, as far as the English are concerned.

  You've got what one might call a universal image, if

  I'm not speaking too frankly.'

  There was an unusual number of customers for a Monday,

  and I couldn't help feeling that several had motives

  that were not entirely ceramic. I had little doubt that Deirdre

  had been gossiping over the week-end, but from the look of

  some of them it rather seemed to me as though Lady Alice

  might have been too. I helped to serve in the shop for an

  hour and then retired to the pavilion and put Mrs Taswell in

  while I made a few telephone calls (including one to the

  bank manager for an appointment next day) and looked

  through the post.

  One item caught my interest strongly. It was a catalogue

  for a sale of the contents of a country house near Faringdon,

  to be held in a fortnight's time. I had already heard, in early

  May, that this sale was going to take place, and had thought

  then that it would probably be well worth attending. The

  catalogue confirmed my view. The porcelain and pottery section

  fairly bristled with exciting things, many of them English

  - Bow, Chelsea, Staffordshire, Miles Mason and a good

  deal more. I made a note in my diary both of the viewing

  day and the day of the sale.

  Flick arrived, with Angela, just after twelve. As I saw her

  come up the passage to the office, affection and pleasure

  fairly surged in me, and I jumped up and embraced her

  warmly. Everything, I felt sure, would soon be all right now

  she was on the job.

  ' 'Morning, dearest Flick. 'Morning, Angela. 'Morning, Blue

  209

  Teddy,' I added, kissing Angela and shaking that animal by

  the paw. 'How was the train journey?'

  'There was a lady with a necklace, Uncle Alan. Sort of

  yellow beads, with a real fly inside. She said it came out of

  the sea.'

  'Oh, that must have been exciting.'

  'Was she teasing or did it really?'

  'Amber? Oh, yes. All sorts of things come out of the

  sea, you know.'

  'Can I go and play with the china animals?'

  'Yes, you can come down with me in a minute and see

  Deirdre, but just hang on while I talk to Mummy a moment

  first. How's everything, Flick?'

  'Oh, fine! Bill sends his best wishes. I say, Alan, is that

  Kathe - that fantastically pretty girl in a blue dress that we

  passed on the way in?'

  'As a matter of fact, yes.'

  'Cor! But you never said!'

  'Never said what?'

  'That she was such a stunner.'

  'I said it repeatedly, but apparently everyone took it for

  uxorious vapouring.'

  'Well, I shall report to Mummy that it looks as though

  you've got yourself something to be uxorious about, my lad.'

  'So tell her, with th' occurrents more and less which have

  solicited.'

  'Well, it's the occurrents which upset her, of course. I

  must say, I think you played it like a complete idiot, Alan.

  What on earth were you -'

  'Uncle Alan, can we go and play with the animals now?'

  'Yes, come on. I'll carry you if you like. Oh, my goodness,

  what a lump! Let go of my ear! Flick, how does Mummy

  feel now? I couldn't help half-hoping she might come up with

  you to-day.'

  'Well, she did think about it, but she's gone to the Agricultural

  Show with Colonel Kingsford. He farms, you know

  - nice old boy. He actually got Mum helping with the hay

  on Friday - well, into the hayfield, anyway. It gets her out a

  bit, to use her own expression.'

  210

  'Kathe, darling, this is Flick - and Angela. Now, young

  Angela - oh, puff, I'll have to put you down now, I think we'll

  go and find Deirdre and she'll show you the animals.'

  It was a good fifteen minutes - I was selling a Longton

  Hall cup and saucer to a man with a Yorkshire accent and

  Deirdre, with repeated injunctions to 'Mind, now!', was

  helping Angela to arrange some Beswick horses in a row before

  Kathe and Flick rejoined us, chattering away together

  like a couple of Women's Instituters at a social.

  'And was that nice?' Flick was saying.

  'Well, it was,' answered Kathe, 'but I wish I'd known

  Alan then. I'd have got so much more out of it. I've already

  come to feel quite helpless without him, you know - particularly

  now I'm in a strange country. I really was a terrible

  cry-baby - or do you say "funk"? - to begin with, I'm afraid

  - I just couldn't face anyone; have you ever felt like that? I