The Girl in a Swing

two people as a way of understanding - oh, well, you

  know - the world and what it may all mean and so on. You

  can't fault Christ's teaching, of course, but that just seems

  something He might have said and didn't.'

  'I think that's a fair criticism,' said Tony. 'All the same,

  the Christian concept of love and marriage developed quite

  well and remains pretty sound, you know.'

  'But don't you think the Church has sometimes sort of sort

  of ignored or even tried to push away the fact that

  people have bodies and are supposed to express love with

  them? It's often left people with the idea that that wasn't

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  important, or wasn't really anything to do with their religion.'

  'Oh, Lord, yes, and for that matter the Church has burned

  heretics and supported the slave trade and heaven knows

  what-all. You can make out a hell of a case against Christianity

  on its history. Every generation has to keep going back

  to square one and working out Christ's teaching for itself.

  That's what you're doing, isn't it?'

  'Do you enjoy swapping punches with Tony?' I asked her

  later that night, when he had gone home.

  'I like him very much. He's the best clergyman I've ever

  met. He really listens to what you say and doesn't just come

  back with a ready-made answer out of the book. He's like a

  doctor who lets the patient make suggestions and behaves

  as if they might be sensible.'

  Nevertheless she did not go to church that Sunday, or the

  next. I went once to Matins and once to Evensong, where,

  naturally, I was politely asked by one or two people whether

  she was well and so on. I simply replied Yes and talked

  about the weather. Tony's unobtrusive support was helpful

  and so, I suspected, was the known fact that Kathe was a

  mad, mysterious foreigner.

  Not that she remained unknown - quite the contrary.

  The Stannards came to lunch and presented us with a beautiful

  little Victorian folding tea-table. Several other friends

  called, both at Bull Banks and at the shop. We went out to

  dinner twice during that fortnight - once to Lady Alice

  Mendip's, where there were about twelve people. What Flick

  had said proved plumb right, as usual. It seemed as though

  no one could have enough of Kathe, and behind her back I

  was congratulated again and again. If people were surprised

  at Alan Desland having married such a girl, they were too

  polite to show it; and too polite, also, to inquire about my

  mother's continued absence.

  I had talked to her on the telephone the evening after the

  incident of the non-existent tortoise, and she had been most

  warm and affectionate. She made no further reference to

  Florida, but on the contrary stressed how much Flick had

  liked Kathe, adding that she herself was greatly looking

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  forward to meeting her. However, she said nothing about

  when she meant to return or what arrangements she envisaged

  for the future of Bull Banks.

  Til be staying down here just a little longer, darling,' she

  said. 'I know you'll understand. They're all so kind, and I'm

  teaching little Angela to read. We read to each other. Isn't

  that wonderful? But I'm coming up to meet your Kathe very

  soon. I know you must be marvellously happy and I'm so

  glad. Flick tells me she's a wonderful help to you in the shop,

  too. I'm certain you've done something very wise and sensible

  and I'm longing to come and see you again just as

  soon as I can.'

  I felt a bit mystified. Flick, I thought, had evidently done

  a darned good job, but I couldn't reconcile my mother's

  patent goodwill and warmth with her evident determination

  to stay at Bristol for a while longer. However, it suited

  Kathe and me, who were more than content to be alone in

  the house. I let it go at that and simply rang up every other

  night. Sometimes she was in and sometimes not.

  'I believe your darling mother's the rreal Merry Widow,'

  said Kathe.

  A heat wave set in - day after perfect June day, ideal for

  hay-making, sitting in the garden and, for the matter of that,

  business. People in general are, I suppose, unaware that they

  are more disposed to buy things like antique ceramics when

  the weather is fine, Britain has won three gold medals or one

  of the royal family has had a baby; but the man behind the

  counter, who sees them as a gamekeeper sees the birds,

  notices it clearly enough.

  One evening, when Tony was at leisure and willing to take

  on what Kathe called 'Lee Dubose's job', we swam down the

  Kennet, from the tow-path above W. H. Smith's as far as the

  Wharf. It took only about ten minutes, and we went back and

  did it again before getting dressed and proceeding to the bar

  of the White Hart. 'Not half as good as the Itchetucknee,'

  said Kathe, whereupon Tony teased her for 'coming the old

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  soldier', and thus gave her a new idiom which she used, inappropriately

  and quite charmingly, at Lady Alice's dinner

  table. (This was also the occasion on which she told Lady

  Alice that when working at Mr Hansen's in Copenhagen she

  had been as bored as a stiff.) Another evening we slipped

  down to the woods below Sandleford, bathed in a warm,

  shallow pool of the Enborne and afterwards made love on

  the bank.

  At the week-end Kathe raised again the idea of going to

  the downs, but it seemed so hot and airless for walking,

  even on the escarpment, that I demurred. Besides, there was

  the garden to be seen to, and plenty that needed my personal

  attention, Jack Cain or no Jack Cain. Kathe, whose inexhaustible

  appetite for luxury and pleasure included, out of doors,

  a kind of sun-soaking indolence, put on her green-ribboned

  straw hat, snipped off dead flower-heads for a while and

  then lay in a chaise-longue, from time to time dipping into

  W.B. Honey on Old English Porcelain.

  'Once an Englishman told me that it's always raining in

  England. I see he was lying about that as well, for now I'm

  lying here.'

  'Oh, who was that?'

  'Poor Alan, I think the heat's lying heavily on you. Why

  don't you put down that hoe for a bit? You look as hot as a

  bear in a fur coat. I'm going indoors to get you some beer

  out of the 'fridge.'

  The following Wednesday - midsummer day - she said at

  breakfast, 'Aren't you ever going to take me up to the

  downs?'

  'You seem - er - main set on the idea, as Deirdre would

  say.'

  'Oh, it was that lovely night when we were looking at them

  in the moonlight. Do you know, I was imagining then that

  I was the downs and you were the beech trees, with their

  roots in the ground, just swaying a little in the wind, backwards

  and forwards? You say the wild flowers are nice up

  there?'

  'They are indeed. But do you honestly want to walk on a

  day like this is going to be? Look at the mist on the fields,
>
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  and that purple edge all round the sky. It's going to be hotter

  than Lola Montez.'

  'I'd love to walk, as long as it's not too far.'

  'Well, I'll tell you what. Let's get up there about half-past

  six and walk in the evening, when it's cool.'

  We had high tea on the verandah, Kathe stuffing herself

  with boiled eggs, hot buttered toast and fruit cake.

  'I've never gone for a walk with you, have I? Alan, have I?

  Pass the jam: I'm going to put some on this cake. It won't

  be windy up there, will it? These shoes - d'you think they'll

  be all right?'

  She was charmingly excited, simply by the prospect of the

  outing. We drove out by way of Ball Hill and West Woodhay

  to Inkpen, and so along the steep lane up the hill to Combe

  Gibbet. The Gibbet, standing grim and lonely in the still

  heat above the fields, naturally attracted her attention at

  once. I stopped the car and got out, pretending to be looking

  at the map and waiting to see what she would say.

  'It is - it is ein Galgen?'

  'Yes.'

  She was always quick. 'Then there's a reason - a story,

  /a?1

  'Yes - the Black Legend, as John Schlesinger called it.'

  'Tell me.'

  'Well, we don't really know an awful lot about it. "Taint

  surprisin' - all dead n' gone, see?" as Jack Cain said to me

  once. But what we do know is pretty nasty. In 1676 two

  people called George Broomham and Dorothy Newman were

  convicted at Winchester of murdering Broomham's wife and

  child - "with a staff", it says - on Inkpen Beacon - here, in

  other words; or hereabouts. The crime was considered so

  dreadful and excited so much local horror that they were

  sentenced to be hanged on the highest point in the county,

  which by a coincidence also happens to be here. A double

  gallows was put up for the purpose and they were hanged

  together. No one else has ever been hanged here, but the

  gallows has stood ever since.'

  'But that - over there' (she shivered), 'that doesn't look

  very old.'

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  'No; whenever it gets worn out they put up another.'

  She pondered. 'Well, but it is all past. They should forget

  the past, after all this time.'

  'They don't, though. Schlesinger made a short film about

  it in the late 'forties, with local people. I remember being

  taken to see it. I must have been about eight.'

  She shrugged her shoulders. 'Ach, so. Let's walk, Alan.'

  It was a superb evening, with high, white clouds and a

  light breeze. We walked eastward, through Walbury Hill fort

  and on to Pilot Hill. We could see across fo the White Horse

  downs on the other side of the Kennet valley. There was a

  sweet-sharp smell of tansy and chamomile, and the flowers

  were everywhere - purple spikes of sainfoin, pale-blue

  chicory, wild orchids - though only the Common Spotted salad

  burnet and white dropwort. Kathe was delighted by

  the clustering, pink blooms of the centaury, the great sheets

  of red campion spreading downhill in shady places and the

  viper's bugloss blooming red and blue together on the plant.

  'Putting their tongues out!' she said, picking one with my

  handkerchief round her hand and looking at the branched

  spikes drooping out and downward. 'I wish I'd brought some

  scissors. I'd have cut a big bunch of flowers - all different

  kinds mixed up.'

  'They wither very quickly, these wild flowers,' I said.

  'They'd be in a pretty sorry state by the time we got them

  home. The best thing's to come up with a few jam-jars full

  of water, cut them and put them straight in. I sometimes

  bring a water-spray too, just to keep them fresh. You can't

  really combine a walk with picking wild flowers. You have to

  have a picking expedition.'

  'We'll have one next time. Couldn't we dig some up roots

  and all, and take them back to plant in the shrubbery?'

  'They'd only die. It's the chalk they like. They wouldn't

  take to different soil."

  'They're not like me, then, are they? Let's go on further.

  I'm not tired."

  'You've got to walk back again, don't forget.'

  'I shall - you see. It's easy walking, isn't it, on the grass?'

  We must have walked about four miles and were not far

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  short of Ashmansworth when she flung herself down on the

  turf, lay looking for a while at the sky and then, turning over

  prone, began scrabbling with her fingers in the ground.

  'What are you after?'

  'A piece of chalk - a nice, big bit.'

  'Well, don't break your finger-nails. There's always a

  loose piece somewhere. Yes, here you are."

  She took it and, as best she could, wrote on a smooth

  beech trunk 'K liebt A'.

  'Oh, it doesn't write nicely! It's scratchy and hard - not

  like schoolroom chalk.' She lay down again. 'Come here - I

  know a better way to show that K liebt A.'

  In this love-making she appeared entirely passive and

  withdrawn, but I, knowing her as I did, felt no less close to

  her. She lay sighing, with closed eyes and parted lips, her

  arms not embracing me but spread wide in the grass on

  either side; so that I, on elbows and knees to spare her my

  weight on the thyme-smelling, sun-baked ground, could not

  be sure of the moment of her final pleasure. But after a time

  she whispered 'Danke'; and then drew me down upon her,

  clutching and shuddering. For some minutes after we were

  so quiet that a hare, lolloping hesitantly out of the long

  grass and down the track, approached to within a few yards

  before coming to a staring halt, recognizing what we were

  and dashing away. I knelt up and watched it go.

  Very lightly, Kathe touched my tepid, wet limpness.

  'Now who's got to walk back, my lovely spent boy?"

  'You have, my splendid full girl. Come on!'

  'Pull me up, then. Up on the down!'

  She was tired enough when we came once more in sight

  of the Gibbet. It was getting dark, for we had been out nearly

  three and a half hours. We were talking, not very seriously,

  about the Faringdon sale to be held next week when suddenly

  she said, 'Look, Alan, what's that by the car - can you see?'

  I looked at the car through my field-glasses. Lying beside

  it was a large, black dog - a tough-looking Alsatian. Its head

  was raised and it seemed alert, glancing here and there as

  though waiting for someone, though there was no one in

  sight and no other car near by. In the dusk I could not see

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  whether it was wearing a collar, but I could see its teeth

  all right. It looked, I thought, a distinctly nasty customer.

  As we came nearer it got up and stretched itself, watching

  us intently but showing no sign of moving away. It had got

  a collar.

  'I don't know that I terribly care for the look of him,' I

  said to Kathe. 'Why not let me go over there and bring the

  car down to you - just in case he's feeling stroppy for some

  reaso
n? He's obviously on the loose from somewhere. I suppose

  I'd better see if I can get a look at his name and address.'

  She shrugged. 'As you wish, darling, but I'm not bothered.'

  'Well, somehow or other I am, a bit. He's not really what

  I'd call a canny tyke.'

  I walked towards the car and at once the dog hackled up,

  curling its lip and growling. As I came closer it began to bark

  savagely. I walked round to the other side of the car and it

  followed, keeping me in view and continuing to bark. I tried

  calling and talking to it, but this had no effect at all. Finally

  I went forward again, but at this it crouched on its belly,

  snarling and giving every sign of being ready to spring if I

  came a yard closer. I felt at a loss and could not think what

  to do.

  As I stood perplexed, looking at it, Kathe spoke from just

  behind me.

  'Darling,' she said, 'I think it's you he doesn't like, for

  some reason. Why don't you go over there and let me see

  what I can do?'

  'No, I don't think you ought to. You might get badly hurt.'

  'Well, I'm not going to stay here all night. I don't want

  to meet poor Dorothy What's-her-name. Just let me try.

  I won't take any risk - promise. Go on - go over there.'

  I did as she said and she stood still and began to call the

  dog, talking to it in German. To my surprise it immediately

  lowered its hackles and became quiet, gazing at her almost

  as though it understood what she was saying. Then, stifflegged,

  it walked slowly forward and came to a stop beside

  her, with lowered head and muzzle pointing to the ground.

  Kathe put out a hand.

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  'I shouldn't touch it, Kathe, really.'

  'Oh, f'ff, f'ff!'

  She grasped its collar and bent over it. The next moment

  she started back and I heard her catch her breath sharply.

  'Was - was ist denn? Alan! What does it mean? Oh, Alan,

  come quickly!'

  I ran across to her. The dog remained quiet and made

  no move as I slipped two ringers under its collar. The little

  brass plaque bore a single word: DEATH.

  I confess I started myself. Kathe, beside me, gave a quick,

  nervous sob and clutched my arm, looking about her in the

  gathering darkness.

  'Alan, please -'

  I wasn't afraid, but I certainly had a disturbing feeling of

  tension and unreality. I looked down at the plaque again and

  suddenly, as I did so, common-sense intervened.

  'It's all right,' I said. 'I've got it - it's the owner's name.

  It's usually pronounced "Day-arth". That'll be it. I'll turn his

  collar round, if he'll let me. There'll be another plaque with

  the address, I expect.'

  There was; an address at Linkenholt, about two miles

  away.

  'Well, we'd better drive him back there, I suppose,' I said.

  'I really do take my hat off to you, darling. You'll have to go

  in for lion-taming next. Let's see if we can get him into the

  car.'

  'But - but is it really the owner's name, Alan?'

  'It can only be. There's also an English name "Tod", for

  that matter. Would that frighten you?'

  'I don't know. I just - I just want the dog to go away.

  Which way is Linkenholt, towards home or the other way?'

  'The other way; not very far.'

  'So you'll be coming back by here?'

  'Yes; but why do you ask?'

  'Well, then, I'll wait for you here. I think the dog will be

  all right with you now. I'll put it in the back and tie it by

  the collar to the safety-belt thing on the floor. Look, there's

  a bit of cord in the back window there.'

  'You mean you want to stay here by yourself?'

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  'Yes, I'd rather.'

  'I thought you said you didn't want to meet Dorothy

  Newman? Still, you did say the other day you didn't believe

  in ghosts.'

  'Oh. Oh, well, I'll have a little chat with her. Now go on,

  Alan, if you're going, and then we can both get back home!'

  Once again I did as she said. The dog gave no further

  trouble and I was down into Linkenholt in less than ten

  minutes. After one enquiry I found the address - a Council

  semi-detached - without difficulty and saw over the hedge

  a middle-aged, comfortable-looking man smoking a pipe as

  he coiled up a garden hose on the inside of an open shed

  door.

  'I say, is your name Day-arth, by any chance?'

  'That's right, I'm Bob Death,' he answered. 'What can I do

  for you?'

  'Well, I've got your dog here. I found him on the loose up

  by the Gibbet.'

  'Oh, hell!' said Mr Death. 'Has the bugger been off again?