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    The Girl in a Swing

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    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

      229

      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

      230

      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

      231

      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,
    >
      232

      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.'

      233

      '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

      234

      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

      235

      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.

      236

      '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?'

      237

      '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?

     
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