The Girl in a Swing

hospital, it was my wife's own wish not to have a medical

  examination until she herself felt completely sure that she

  was pregnant. I was quite content to agree with her. I

  believe it's not altogether unusual for girls to feel this. Most

  ordinary girls don't give much thought to the risk of things

  like ectopic pregnancy.'

  Kathe raised her hands a few inches, palms down, and

  slowly lowered them again. Understanding her at once, I

  paused and looked down at my papers with an air of getting

  my feelings under control. No one spoke.

  'During the evening of last Monday my wife was restless

  and seemed not altogether herself. She told me she'd like to

  377

  go to the sea for a day or two and suggested that we might

  combine a trip with looking for purchasable pieces of antique

  china in this area. I ought to make it clear that she was

  rather fond of doing things in sudden and unconventional

  ways. She wanted us to get up and leave very early, in order

  to enjoy the run down in the early morning on empty roads,

  and I decided to indulge her impulse and telephone my staff

  at the shop later in the day to tell them what we'd done.

  As to a hotel, I thought we'd probably get in somewhere, in

  spite of the time of year.

  'What she really wanted was to go to the sea. She loved

  the sea and said she'd been missing it. So we went straight

  there. She herself didn't drive, so I drove all the way. I'd

  slept badly the night before - one often does before an early

  start, I think - so I was rather tired and drowsy when we

  reached the place where we left the car. All the same, I was

  very happy about the whole trip. We were both in good

  spirits.'

  Kathe was looking at me now with a kind of teasing interest,

  as though longing to hear what on earth I might be

  going to say next. I looked steadily back at her, waiting until

  she should have put it into my mind. The coroner waited

  courteously and at length I resumed.

  'She was a good swimmer, sir, and so am I. It was a

  cloudy, overcast morning, but the sea was unusually calm

  and she suggested that we might bathe. I was rather reluctant,

  because it looked cold, but she - well, again acting

  on impulse in her characteristic way - she undressed at once.

  The beach was entirely deserted, as you said you supposed;

  and as you've learned, sir, we made love there. I can't help

  thinking that many people in similar circumstances have

  probably given expression to their natural feelings in that

  way.'

  'You needn't extenuate that now, Mr Desland.'

  'Thank you, sir.' (But Kathe was silently laughing. As I

  watched, she touched the third finger of her left hand.)

  'Perhaps I ought to explain now, sir, that often, at such

  times, my wife liked to feel that she was entirely naked what

  I believe is sometimes called "mother-naked". And

  378

  from time to time, also, she used to pretend - it was a sort

  of fantasy of hers - that we were not married at all. It

  amused her. That was why she took off her rings, including

  her wedding ring, and gave them to me to keep.'

  I became conscious of an atmosphere of disapproval in the

  court. I had shocked them now all right. From somewhere I

  heard a low, female 'T's, t's, t's'. Instantly the coroner looked

  round sharply, his rimless glasses flashing.

  'The witness is showing the greatest moral courage and

  obviously making every effort to be frank and truthful,' he

  said. 'I rely on everyone in this court to bear that in mind

  and not to add to his difficulties. I hope that's clear and I

  don't want to have to mention it again. Please go on, Mr

  Desland.'

  Kathe put her two hands together beside her head and,

  closing her eyes, laid her cheek against them.

  'Thank you, sir. After - well, afterwards, sir, I fell asleep

  on the sand. As I've explained, I was already tired from the

  drive. And I woke - I can't tell exactly how long after - to

  find her gone. Naturally, this alarmed me. Her clothes were

  still beside me and I couldn't see her anywhere.

  'I was even more worried than I might have been, on

  account of another characteristic of my wife which I must

  explain to you. It was always important with her never to tell

  anyone - even me - if she was in pain. I remember, once, she

  burnt her hand quite badly on the cooking-stove. She was

  obviously in considerable pain, but she wouldn't admit it

  and whatever she did about it she went and did alone. It was

  the same with headaches or anything else. She told me once

  that King George V used to pray, "If I am called upon to

  suffer, let me be like an animal which goes away to suffer

  by itself."'

  'Yes, I - er - think I remember reading that somewhere,'

  replied the coroner.

  'I believe that in the first place, that morning, she went

  away intending to return quite quickly - perhaps she just

  went to relieve herself - and that it was only when she was at

  a distance that she was overcome by the pain and shock

  which Dr Eraser has described to us. She hadn't woken me

  379

  but, as I've explained, not to do so would be like her, even

  if she was already in pain. I ran back to the car, but she

  wasn't there. I couldn't see her, sir, and she didn't answer

  when I called. I became frantic. I searched in the sandhills

  but couldn't find her, and after a time I grew - well, sir,

  hysterical, really. I began to fear that she might have been

  attacked or something like that. And then I thought I saw I

  thought I could see - an extended arm, among the brambles.

  I plunged in at once and tore my way through them, and of

  course I-got badly cut and scratched. I remember cutting

  my wrist very badly on the edge of a tin, and I must have

  fainted. When I came to, later, I saw immediately that she

  wasn't there at all. I made my way out and that was when

  the constable found me. It was almost a relief, sir, as I'm

  sure you'll understand, to be told that she'd been taken to

  hospital, but when the police told me she was ill, I naturally

  replied that I was sure she was. I don't blame them for

  their suspicions. In the circumstances those were understandable.

  I also think that she may in fact have tried to tell

  something about her illness to Mr Sims, but she was so much

  upset by that time that she only spoke in her native tongue

  - in German. That would be natural, after all.'

  I had the court with me now: I could feel it - everyone.

  What would they say when I walked out with Kathe on my

  arm and took her home? I looked across to where she was

  sitting. She had her notebook open and was pretending to

  be reading in it. Now what's that for, darling?

  'I understand, Mr Desland,' said the coroner, more gently

  than he had spoken all morning. 'And what she said in the

  hospital - you recall - "I had no pity" - it's a small point,

  perhaps, but a
s its apparently all she did say, can you throw

  any light on it for me?'

  Kathe turned a page and her eyes travelled across the

  notebook.

  'Oh, it's a quotation, sir - in German, that is - from a

  minor poet - I forget which. In the context, a queen is speaking

  of her lover, whom she has exhausted by her demands.

  And I hope very much,' I added, glancing angrily round, 'that

  no one will feel disposed to comment adversely on that. It

  380

  was - well, sir, it was a kind of personal joke between us,

  if you understand me. It - it must have come into her mind.'

  There was a pause.

  'Thank you, Mr Desland,' said the coroner. 'That's all I

  require from you, and I assume that no one else has any

  questions to ask.'

  The girl, bent over her notebook, closed it and put away

  her pen. Then she once more raised her head. It wasn't

  Kathe. It didn't even look like her. Without a glance in my

  direction she picked up her bag, rose and slipped out as

  quietly as she had entered.

  A little child, wandering lost and frightened in a park or

  a fairground, suddenly catches sight of her mother at a

  distance and runs towards her, full of joy and relief. As she

  comes closer the figure turns: it is not her mother, but a

  stranger.

  I sat down slowly. After some moments I realized that I

  was shuddering uncontrollably and sobbing at every breath.

  Everyone was staring at me and whispering.

  Brian Lucas stood up.

  'Sir, I think it's clear that my client has exhausted his

  remarkable reserves of courage and self-control. May I request

  that he should be allowed to leave the court and wait

  in a private room until he feels better?'

  'Certainly; that will be quite in order, Mr Lucas.'

  My mother and I went out as Lucas was calling Tony to

  give evidence about my standing and reputation in Newbury.

  The janitor showed us to a little waiting-room, with old

  magazines and a pot of withered roses on a plastic-topped

  table; and there we sat, my mother stroking my head and

  talking gently of Do you remember? and old days at Bull

  Banks.

  Fifteen minutes later Lucas came in, with Tony, to tell us

  that the coroner had given a finding of death from natural

  causes, with a rider that in his view no blame or negligence

  whatever attached to Mr Desland.

  'You didn't really need me, Alan,' he added. 'I admit I felt

  rather worried last night about one or two things, but may I

  say that I've never heard clearer evidence or a more coura381

  geous witness? If you need me any more, don't hesitate, will

  you, to get in touch? But I doubt you will.'

  As we went out the janitor was standing in the passage.

  I suppose he'd been told to keep intruders out of our room.

  I stopped and asked him, 'Can you tell me who that girl was

  who-'

  He stared at me in surprise. A little group of three or four

  strangers - reporters, no doubt - were standing near us. I

  realized how odd my question must seem and what might

  be made of it.

  'I'm confused,' I said. 'I'm sorry - I'm not myself, I'm

  afraid.' My mother once more took my arm and we left the

  building.

  That afternoon Tony drove me home. Flick was already

  there, with Angela. She had cleared away everything that had

  belonged to Kathe. The garden was still untidy and disordered,

  but Jack Cain had sawn off the broken ash bough,

  cut it into logs and kindling and stacked them in the yard.

  After tea I tried for a time to read a book on Meissen, but

  soon gave it up and went to bed in the room I had had as a

  boy.

  I left my door open and asked Flick to do the same; but I

  slept soundly until well after first light.

  28

  THIS is the second Sunday since my return, and all day it

  has been windy - patches of silver light coming and going

  between the clouds and gleaming through the trees beyond

  the lawn. The garden could have done with my attention,

  but I have kept to the house, doing little but sit at the bedroom

  window, looking out over the cornfield - flattened here

  and there - towards the beeches on the crest of the downs.

  Flick and Angela left yesterday evening and to-night my

  mother is coming for the week. She has postponed her wedding

  - until the end of September, I think she said; but I

  forget the exact date.

  382

  From time to time this morning I tried to concentrate,

  first on music and then on reading, but could get nothing

  from either. I felt as though I were isolated on a high tower,

  looking down at the remote words as though at tiny streets,

  cars and people far below. To be sure, I could see well enough

  what each was, but from such a height could hardly expect

  to derive meaning from them or perceive their connection

  one with another. In any case, what could they have to do

  with me? Similarly, the music seemed merely a kind of

  sophistication of the wind outside - a succession of artificial

  sounds, sometimes perceptible, when one paid attention, as

  patterned or recurrent; their purpose, if there was one, a

  matter which could be of no interest. I could not really think

  of either words or music as the work of finite beings intent

  upon communication. After a while I realized that unconsciously

  I had been regarding each in the same way as the

  downs towards which I had been looking out of the window;

  and so returned to that.

  About one o'clock the wind dropped for a time and the

  trees, ceasing at last their commotion against the sky, released

  me from my watch. I felt hungry and, glancing along

  the bedroom bookshelves on my way down to the kitchen to

  get some bread and cheese, took with me an anthology of

  German poetry. Except to re-read a few favourite poems I

  had seldom opened it since Oxford days, but now it occurred

  to me that the slightly greater effort involved in reading

  German might help me to recover the trick of becoming

  interested in what someone else had tried to express.

  I happened to open the book at a poem of Matthaus von

  Collin - a Viennese dramatist, I remembered, who died in

  1824 or thereabouts. It was called 'Der Zwerg' - 'The Dwarf

  - and I felt enough interest to read it when I recalled that

  once, some years ago, I had heard a setting of it by Schubert.

  That had left in my mind a vaguely unfavourable impression

  of German death-romanticism, rather like 'The Erl-King'; but

  exactly what it was about I could no longer recall.

  Im truben Licht verschwinden schon die Berge,

  es schwebt das Schiff auf glatten Meereswogen

  worauf die Konigin mit ihrem Zwerge.

  383

  This I could see before me instantly, more plainly than the

  silver birches outside the window.

  Already the mountains are fading in the sullen light.

  The ship hangs on the calm sea.

  On board are the queen and her dw
arf.

  I read on slowly, hearing the words in my head and translating

  loosely as I went.

  'Stars, never yet have you told me liesl'

  She cries. 'Now I am soon to become as nothing,

  For so you tell me. Yet to speak truth, it is of my own

  will that I die.'

  Da tritt der Zwerg zur Konigin So

  then the dwarf approaches the queen; and weeps, as

  though soon to be blinded by his own regret.

  I shall hate myself everlastingly,

  I, whose hand brought thee death.

  Yet now must thou disappear into thine early grave.'

  'Mogst du nicht Schmerz durch meinen Tod gewinnen -'

  Good God! I sat staring at the line, then read it aloud.

  ' "Mogst du nicht Schmerz durch meinen Tod gewinnen -"'

  ' "Mayest thou come to no sorrow through my death,"

  She says. Then the dwarf kisses her pale cheeks

  And at once her senses leave her.'

  Weeping bitterly now, I read the last stanza aloud also.

  'Der Zwerg schaut an die Frau vom Tod befangen,

  er senkt sie tief ins Meer mil eig'nen Handen,

  ihm brennt nach ihr das Herz so voll Verlangen.

  An keiner Kuste wird er je mehr landen.

  'The dwarf gazes on the woman imprisoned by death.

  With his own hands he plunges her body into the sea.

  His heart, so full of longing, burns for her.

  Never again will he land on any shore.'

  'An keiner Kuste wird er je mehr landen.' Suddenly, as I

  384

  finished the poem, the wind sprang up again, moaning on a

  deep, sustained note along the wall of the house, and from

  the yard came a quick pattering, like running footsteps. I

  started, and stood up, to see out of the window some piece

  of rubbish - a cardboard box, I think - blown helter-skelter

  across the concrete and out on the gravel beyond. The sound,

  oddly regular, went tumbling away into the distance until I

  could hear it no longer.

  Kathe was buried four days ago, in a village churchyard

  not far from the foot of the downs. Tony arranged it with

  the vicar and took the service himself. It was attended by few

  except the family. My mother was much distressed; and

  Deirdre, too, could not contain her grief, sobbing bitterly at

  the graveside with a kind of pathetic absurdity which that

  afternoon was the only thing to come near my heart. I myself

  was unmoved, feeling the service as a formality having nothing

  to do with Kathe or myself.

  Kathe - she had spent the money in her pocket and gone

  her way. What had she to do with the Resurrection and the

  Life? For in the resurrection they neither marry nor are given

  in marriage. Kathe had not been suffered to complete what

  she came to do: and how could I, standing among the yewtrees,

  feel that Tony's words - Cranmer's words - had anything

  to do with her? To every thing there is a season: a

  time to be born and a time to die; a time to embrace and a

  time to refrain from embracing. Her tale was heard and yet

  it was not told. Is she to be buried in Christian burial, when

  she wilfully seeks her own salvation? We should have burned

  her on a great pyre, I thought, on the summit of Combe

  Down - sparks and flames roaring to the sky, the cinders

  sailing like black rooks on the wind.

  Throughout last week I could not but be touched - though

  distantly - by the sympathy and kindness of my friends and

  beyond them, so it seemed, of virtually everyone in the neighbourhood.

  Since my return I have been out only to go down

  to the shop for three days of last week, where I worked for

  a few hours in the office. Work is good for misery. It was

  385

  Flick who told me that she could not go into the town without

  meeting, everywhere, people who asked her to tell me of

  their sympathy, sometimes adding expressly that no one

  dreamt of thinking anything but good either of Kathe or

  myself. One or two, like Jack Cain, actually contrived to say

  this to me personally. Having learned from Flick that I

  would be glad to see him in the garden as usual, he came in

  for two days last week; mowed the lawn, weeded the herbaceous

  border, trimmed the hornbeam hedge and planted

  out a bed of asters. Later, we had a cup of tea together. As

  with Nurse Dempster, it was easy to talk with him - or at all

  events, to listen.

  'I just thought as it might be some sort o' comfort to you

  to know, Mr Alan,' he said, 'that there ain't no one round

  'ere's bin gossipin' ner sayin' nothin' what they didn" ought.