She looked back over her shoulder, at the rocks she knew, and the boisterous sea, sparkling in the sun, and then down to the cave across the narrow spit of sand. The mouth of the cave looked mysterious suddenly, inviting. Perhaps it was not gloomy after all, but quiet and still, as Michel promised her, and perhaps the path of it did not end abruptly with a sloping roof, as she remembered, but onto something else, another cave, another secret cavern.
Michel put his hand out to her, smiling, and she took it and held it fast, and followed him into the cave.
When they came out and started scrambling over the rocks for home it was Michel who saw the people first, crowded into a huddle on the cliff edge, and he pointed, saying, “Look—over there, something’s happened, something’s wrong.” And Maria followed his pointing finger and saw Pappy, she saw Truda, she saw Niall, and a feeling of guilt swept over her, a feeling of panic, and with it a new stricken sense of apprehension, and without glancing at Michel she started to run towards the base of the cliff, her heart thumping in her side…
Niall wheeled the bicycle through the side gate into the kitchen garden, and left it propped against the hedge. The boy to whom it belonged was bending over the vegetables at the far end. Niall could see the top of his beret bobbing up and down, and the steady scraping sound of the hoe. The boy had probably never even noticed that his bicycle had been taken. Niall walked through the house and onto the veranda. Although the sun had worked around to the opposite side of the house, and no longer shone direct upon the veranda, there was still the heavy, drowsy atmosphere of after-lunch.
André had not come to take the coffee cups away. They were still lying on the round table, where the ash had dropped from Pappy’s cigar. Pappy must have been sitting on the veranda talking to Mama, his panama hat was lying on one of the chairs, beside a fly-whisk and yesterday’s Echo de Paris.
Now he had wandered off again, and Mama was lying on the long chair alone. Niall came and stood beside her. She was asleep. She had her left hand up to her face, and was resting upon it.
Once he would have been shy had he come upon her suddenly like this, sleeping. He would have tiptoed away, fearful that she might wake and stare up at him and frown and say, “What are you doing?” Now he was not shy anymore. He had the feeling inside him that he would never be shy of her again. Since that afternoon, only a few weeks back, when she had come into the drawing room and found him playing the piano, something seemed to have happened. He did not know what it was, nor did he think about it much. All he knew was that the queer pain of anxiety that had been part of him for as long as he could remember had gone away. It used to be with him always, in some form or other. So that waking in the morning and getting up and facing the day brought fear with it and apprehension. And to counteract this he had to invent for himself stupid superstitions. “If I tie my right shoelace tighter than my left, the day will be all right,” he used to say to himself, or he would have to touch some object on the mantelpiece and turn it round facing another way because if this was omitted something would happen. He did not know what the something was, but in some queer way it was connected with Mama. Either that she might be angry, or suddenly unwell, or face him with an accusation. So that really it used to be better if she were out of the house and at the theater, because then there would be a sense of freedom for him.
Now everything was changed. All since that afternoon at the piano. The strain and anxiety had left him. It must mean that Pappy was right about him, that he was growing up, the same as Maria.
He looked down at Mama as she lay sleeping in her chair, and he noticed how white her hand was, resting against her face. The blue stone of the ring that Pappy had given her was the same color as the vein that ran down the back of her hand. There were shadows, like smudges, under her eyes, and two hollows in her cheeks, and he saw for the first time that where her dark hair swept back from her forehead there were white streaks.
It must be nice for her to lie there, sleeping in the long chair. No worries about the theater, no plans about the future, no talking and arguing about the American tour. Just peace, and forgetfulness, and a quiet slipping away into nothing. He sat down on the step of the veranda and watched her sleeping, watched her hand touching her face and the chiffon scarf around her shoulders, and he thought to himself, “I shall remember this always. When I’m an old man of eighty-nine, staggering on crutches, I shall remember this.”
From inside the drawing room, from the stiff little gold French clock on the mantelpiece, came the whirring sound of four o’clock, to break the stillness.
The sound of it woke Mama. She opened her eyes, and looked at Niall, and smiled.
“Hullo,” she said.
“Hullo,” he answered.
“You look like a little watchdog sitting there,” she said.
She put her hands up to her hair, patting it, and loosened the chiffon scarf. She reached for her bag that was lying on the table beside her and took out a mirror and a powder puff, and began to powder her nose. A piece of fluff from the powder puff stayed on the corner of her chin, and she did not notice it.
“Heavens, I’m tired,” she said.
“Why don’t you go on sleeping?” said Niall. “It doesn’t matter a bit about the walk. We can always walk another day.”
“No,” she said, “I’d like to walk. A walk will do me good.”
She put her hand out to him so that he could help her from the chair. He took hold of it and pulled her up, and the action of doing this made him feel older than he had ever felt before, as though he was grown-up, as though he was a man, like Pappy.
“We’ll go along the cliffs,” she said. “We’ll pick wildflowers.”
“Do you want me to carry a coat for you,” he said, “or your bag?”
“I don’t want anything. I’ll just wear my scarf,” she said, and she draped it round her hair and round her throat, the way she did motoring when the wind blew. They went out of the house and onto the cliffs. The tide had turned, the sea was coming in, surging and breaking on the rocks below. There was no one but themselves walking on the cliffs. Niall was glad. Sometimes, when they walked, the English visitors to the hotel would be walking too, and would turn and stare at them, nudging each other.
“That’s her… look, quick, before she sees you,” Niall would hear them say, and he and Mama would have to pass on pretending not to hear. Mama would walk straight ahead, treading another world, and no one ever dared come up to her. Pappy was different, he was easy game. He would hear the murmur, “Delaney,” and would look up and smile, and then they would be upon him asking for his autograph. Today there was no one, and it was very hot and still.
They had not gone far when Mama said, “It’s no use, I shall have to sit down. You go on. Don’t mind about me.”
She looked white and tired. She sat down in a little hollow in the cliff where there were some soft tussocks of straggling grass.
“I’ll stay with you,” said Niall. “I’d rather.”
For a while she did not say anything. She stared out across the sea at the little islands where the lighthouse stood. Then she put out her hand to him, but she did not turn and smile. She went on staring at the lighthouse.
“I’m not very well,” she said. “I haven’t been well for quite a while. I keep getting an odd sort of pain.”
Niall did not know what to say. He kept hold of her hand.
“That’s why I lie about so much and rest,” she said. “It’s not really a headache at all.”
A dragonfly came and settled on her knee. Niall brushed it off.
“Why doesn’t Pappy send for the doctor?” he asked.
“Pappy doesn’t know,” she said. “I haven’t told him.”
What a strange thing to say, thought Niall. He always imagined she told Pappy everything.
“You see, I know what it is,” she said. “There’s something gone wrong inside. It’s that sort of pain. If I told Pappy he would make me see a doctor, and the doctor
would say I must have an operation.”
“But it would make you better,” said Niall. “It would take away the pain.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “I don’t know. All I know is that it would do something to me, and I should never dance again.”
Never dance again. He could not imagine the theater without Mama. He could not imagine Pappy going down every evening, singing his songs alone, and her not being there. Why, she was the core of the whole thing, the center, the inspiration. Sometimes, Pappy had not been able to sing because of laryngitis or a cold. Voices were tricky things. But it had never mattered very much. Mama had always gone down to the theater. She had never failed. It just meant she had to alter the program about a little, and rearrange her dances. The people came just the same. They loved Pappy, of course; they loved his personality, they loved his songs, but it was really Mama they came to see.
“Never dance again?” said Niall. “But what would happen? What would everybody do?”
“Nothing would happen,” she said. “The theater is a funny world, you know. They forget one very soon.”
He went on holding her hand, twisting the ring with the blue stone, and it seemed to him that by doing this he comforted her in some strange fashion, and enabled her to talk.
“It’s me,” she said. “It’s my whole life. Nothing else matters. It never has done.”
“I know,” he said. “I understand.”
He knew that she was talking about her dancing, and that she was trying to tell him that this was the reason why so many things about her were different from other women, other mothers. This was why so often in the past she had been cold and angry and unkind. No, she had never been cold, never angry, never unkind. That was not what he meant at all. It was just that when he was a little boy he had expected too much, and hoped for things that did not happen. Now all that was finished and done with. Now he was older. Now he understood.
“It’s queer how a woman is made,” she said. “There is something deep inside that can’t be explained. Doctors think they know all about it, but they don’t really. It’s the thing that gives life—whether it’s dancing, or making love, or having babies—it’s the same as the creative force in a man, but men have it always. It can’t be destroyed. With us, it’s different. It lasts only a little while, then goes. It flickers, and dies, and you can’t do anything about it. You have to watch it go. And once it’s gone there’s nothing left. Nothing at all…”
Niall went on twisting and turning her ring. The blue stone flickered and gleamed in the sun. He could think of nothing to say to her.
“It does not matter to a lot of women,” she said, “but it matters to me.”
The last of the fishing boats had gone into the harbor, and a little breeze of cool air blew towards the land for the first time. The wind was changing with the turn of the tide. The breeze played with the chiffon scarf she wore, lifting it gently. It ruffled Niall’s hair.
“Men don’t understand,” she said, “not men like Pappy. They’re sweet and thoughtful, and wrap rugs around one, and fetch one things, but they’re puzzled just the same. They think one is just a woman being nervy. They have their own courage and their own vitality, and they haven’t an answer.”
“Pappy isn’t very courageous,” said Niall. “He makes an awful fuss when he hurts himself. If he has the smallest cut he goes to Truda to get a plaster.”
“That’s different,” she said. “I wasn’t really thinking about that sort of courage.” She smiled and patted his knee.
“I’ve been talking a lot of nonsense, haven’t I?” she said.
“No,” said Niall. “No.”
He was afraid that she would stop, or that she would tell him it was time to go, that they must go and find the others.
“I like you talking to me,” he said. “I like it very much.”
“Do you?” she said. “I wonder why.”
Once more she was looking out across the sea towards the islands.
“How old are you?” she said. “I always forget.”
“Nearly thirteen,” he said.
“You used to be such an odd little boy,” she said, “never demonstrative like Maria or Celia. I never thought you cared twopence for me or for anyone.”
Niall did not answer. He picked a daisy, and turned it in his fingers.
“You’re so much nicer this summer,” she said, “so much easier to understand.”
He went on twiddling the daisy and picking off the petals one by one.
“Perhaps you’ll write music for me one day,” she said. “Perhaps you’ll write something that I can turn into a dance. We’ll work on it together, and you shall come down to the theater with me and conduct for me instead of Sullivan. It would be fun, wouldn’t it? Would you like to do that when you’re a man?”
He looked at her a moment, then turned away his head.
“It’s the only thing in the world I want to do,” he said.
She laughed, she patted him again upon the knee.
“Come on,” she said, “it’s getting cool. It’s time we went home and had some tea.”
She stood up. She tightened the chiffon scarf around her hair and throat.
“Look at those pinks,” she said. “How lovely they are growing there beneath the ledge. Let’s pick them. I’ll put them in water and stand them in the little vase beside my bed.”
She bent down and began to gather the pinks.
“Look, there are some more,” she said. “Higher up there, to the left. Can you reach them for me?”
He scrambled up the cliff and reached for the pinks, holding onto the loose tussocks of grass. It was rather slippery, but his sandshoes held. He had about six pinks in his hand when it happened.
He heard her call out suddenly, “Oh, Niall, quick…” and, turning, he saw her slip beneath the ledge where she was stooping to gather the pinks. She put out her hand to save herself, but the stones and the grass came away in her hand and fell with her. She went on slipping in the loose earth and stones. Niall tried to scramble after her, but his foot struck a boulder, and it went rolling down the side of the cliff, crashing to the shore below. He saw then that if there was further movement in the sliding earth of the cliff face she would fall too, like the boulder, down to the rocks, fifty, sixty feet below.
“Stay there,” he called. “Stay quite still. Hold on to that little ledge there by your hand. I’ll get help.”
She looked up at him. She tried to turn her head.
“Don’t leave me,” she called. “Please don’t leave me.”
“I must,” he said. “I must get help.”
He looked over his shoulder. Beyond, with their backs to him, were two figures walking, a man and a woman. He shouted. They did not hear. He shouted again. This time they heard. They turned and stood still. He waved his arms, shouting at the top of his voice. They began to run.
Suddenly she said, “Niall… the stones are slipping. I’m going to fall.”
He knelt on the ledge of cliff and stretched out his hands. He could not reach her. He saw the earth crumble and loosen beside her, but she did not fall because her scarf had caught in a great jagged piece of stone above her head. The scarf did not tear. It was twisted round her throat, and it held fast to the stone.
“It’s all right,” said Niall. “People are coming. It’s all right.”
She could not answer because of the twisted scarf. She could not answer because the scarf was twisting itself and getting tighter and tighter round her throat, held fast by the jagged stone.
And that was how it happened. That is why all three of us will always remember the crowd of people coming to the cliff edge, and the sound of that Frenchwoman screaming and turning and running away. Always the sound of screaming, always the sound of running feet.
8
It was a mistake to separate us. We should have stayed together. Once a family breaks up and splits, it never comes together again. Not in the old way. If there had been a settled
home to which we could have gone, it would have been different. Children need a settled home, a place that smells familiar. A life that goes on, with the same toys, the same walks, the same faces day after day. Where, wet or fine, existence can be a pattern, a routine. We had no pattern. Not after Mama died.
“It was all right for Maria,” said Celia. “Maria was allowed to go and act. She was doing the thing she wanted to do.”
“I did not want to play Juliet,” said Maria. “I hated Juliet. And they would not let me wear my own hair because it was too short. I had to have that awful flaxen wig. It didn’t fit.”
“Yes, but you had a lot of fun,” said Celia. “You wrote those letters to me, so funny they were. I have them still—I found them the other day. There was one about Niall running away from school and coming to find you in Liverpool.”
“If we had had a settled home I should have run away even more often than I did,” said Niall. “As it was, I ran away four times. But there was nowhere to run to. They sent me back from Liverpool. And Pappy being in Australia, it was hopeless.”
“It was Celia that had the good time,” said Maria. “No proper lessons, travelling all over the place, being with Pappy all the time.”
“I don’t know,” said Celia. “It wasn’t always easy. When I think of Australia nowadays, all I remember is the lavatory in the hotel, at Melbourne, and shutting myself up in it and crying.”
“What were you crying about?” asked Maria.
“It was because of Pappy,” said Celia. “It was because of Pappy’s face when he talked to Truda one evening in the sitting room. They didn’t know I was listening at the door. He said I was the only thing left in the world, and Truda said it would spoil my life. You remember that sour, flat way she had of talking. ‘You’ll spoil her life,’ she said. I can hear her now.”
“Why did you never write and tell us that?” said Niall. “Those letters you wrote from Australia were affected and silly, talking about the parties you had been to with some Governor. And there was one with a priggish PS. ‘I hope you are getting on with your music.’ My music… Don’t fool yourself. You weren’t the only one to lock yourself up in a lavatory. I didn’t cry, though. That was the difference.”