‘What can I show you now?’ said Tim. ‘Let me see what I have in my pockets.’ Tim had done this ever since Donald and Felicity were quite small children, and he did it now with exactly the same tone and gestures. He fiddled in his waistcoat pocket. Tim usually affected rather dandified velvet waist-coats, but today, in deference to the solemnity of the occasion, he had put on an ordinary grey suit, which he usually wore on his infrequent visits to church. What Tim drew out of his waistcoat pocket, and held between finger and thumb, was a gold cigarette lighter. It was made to resemble a ‘hunter’ watch case, and was marked in a complicated floral pattern on both sides. It came apart on a hinge in the middle, revealing itself to be a lighter. Tim flicked it and the flame appeared. Mor rapidly produced cigarettes for Tim and himself. Donald was under promise not to smoke until he was twenty-one.
Tim handed the lighter to Donald to look at. The boy turned it over admiringly. It was heavy, and the gold was warm and strangely soft-feeling to the touch. The work was intricate.
‘Where did-you get it?’ said Mor.
‘It’s a little thing I made myself,’ said Tim.
Mor never ceased to be surprised at what Tim Burke was able to do.
‘Do you like it?’ said Tim to Donald, who was flicking the flame into existence once more.
‘Yes!’ said Donald.
‘Well, you keep it,’ said Tim, ‘and let it be a reward for a fine cricket player.’
Donald closed his hand round the lighter and held it, wide-eyed, looking at his father.
‘Tim!’ said Mor, ‘you have no common sense at all. That thing’s very valuable, it’s gold. You can’t give an expensive thing like that to the boy!’
‘Just you tell me one sensible reason why I can’t!’ said Tim Burke.
‘He’ll only lose it,’ said Mor, ‘and anyway it’ll encourage him to smoke.’
‘Och, don’t talk through your hat,’ said Tim. ‘He can use it to light camp-fires or look at the names of roads at night. You keep it, me boy.’
Donald still stood looking at Mor.
‘Oh — ’ said Mor. He meant to say, ‘It’s all right,’ but instead he said, ‘What the hell does it matter?’ He gave a jerky gesture which was interpreted by Donald as a gesture of dismissal. The boy turned away and disappeared into the crowd.
‘You should be ashamed — ’ Tim Burke was beginning to say.
Mor became aware that Rain was standing two or three feet away from him. She must have witnessed the scene with Donald. Evvy was standing just beside his elbow and had evidently been waiting to get his word in.
‘I just wanted to say,’ said Evvy, ‘that we’re just going over now in Miss Carter’s car to Mr Demoyte’s house to look at the portrait. We won’t stay long - we’ll be back in time for start of play, or just after. Would you and Mr Burke care to come along, Bill?’
Mor had a second in which to decide his reply. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘we’d love to come.’
Evvy led the way and they all trooped out of the marquee. Evvy went ahead with Rain, Prewett keeping up with them on the other side. Bledyard, who was also of the party, followed a pace or two behind. Mor and Tim Burke brought up the rear. Mor tried to remember where, on the edge of the wood, he had left his coat. There was not time to fetch it now. He rolled down the crumpled sleeves of his shirt. They reached the drive, where Rain’s Riley was to be seen standing not far from the entrance to the masters’ garden. When he saw the car, Mor’s heart turned over. It looked perfectly sound, indeed better than before, since it had been repainted. The question of the bill returned to him painfully.
Tim Burke said, ‘I’m afraid, after all, I must go. I didn’t realize it was that late. No, I won’t take a lift, thanks, I have my motor-bike just here.’
Evvy said, ‘By the way, Mr Burke, do you know Miss Carter? This is Miss Carter.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Tim, and with a wave of the hand to Mor he disappeared smiling. Mor felt both unnerved and relieved at his departure.
They crowded awkwardly round the car. Eventually, after a few minutes of polite muddle, they got in, Rain and Evvy sitting in the front, and Mor, Prewett, and Bledyard sitting in the back. Mor still felt dazed at the suddenness of this development. He felt a little as if he were being kidnapped. Then he began to blame himself for having come. Rain had not wanted him to come. It had just been impossible not to ask him. The misery which had been with him all the afternoon returned with doubled intensity. By now the car was climbing the hill. As they neared the summit Tim Burke passed them on his Velocette, saluted, and roared straight ahead in the direction of Marsington. The Riley was soon level with Demoyte’s gate, had run on to where a gap gave access to the other traffic lane, and had sped back and into the drive at full tilt. They began to unpack themselves from the car. Mor wondered whose idea the expedition was. He thought it must be Demoyte’s, as neither Rain nor Evvy would dare to descend on the old man uninvited. They went into the house.
Demoyte was standing at the door of the drawing-room, and behind him could be seen a table with cups upon it, and Miss Handforth who was holding a tea-pot as if it were a hand grenade. Evvy was putting on the chubby, jovial, conciliatory look which he always assumed when he saw Demoyte, and Demoyte had put on the grim, sarcastic, uncompromising look which he always assumed when he saw Evvy, and which made Evvy more nervous and chubby than before. They crowded into the drawing-room. During all this time Mor had contrived not to look directly at Rain. He now tried to occupy himself by talking in a distracted manner to Handy.
‘Well, come on,’ said Demoyte, ‘come and look at the masterpiece, that’s what you came for, then you can all have your tea and go.’
The picture was at the far end of the room. The easel had been turned round so that it faced the room. They all went forward towards it, leaving Rain and Demoyte standing behind them with Miss Handforth.
When Mor looked at the picture, everything else went out of his mind. He had thought about it very little earlier, and not at all of late, though he had known vaguely that it must exist. Now its presence assailed him with a shock that was almost physical. Mor had no idea whether it was a masterpiece; but it seemed to him at first sight a most impressive work. Its authority was indubitable. Mor scanned it. It looked as if it was finished. Fumbling he drew a chair close to him and sat down.
Rain had represented Demoyte sitting beside the window with one of the rugs behind him. Outside could be seen a piece of the garden and the tower of the school beyond, made slightly larger than life. On the table before him were some papers, held down by a glass paper-weight, and a book which the old man was holding with a characteristic gesture which the painter had observed very well. Demoyte had a way of holding a book with his fingers spread out across the two pages as if he were drawing the contents out of it with his hand. The other hand was clenched upon the table and the arm straightened above it. Demoyte was looking inwards across the room. It was the attitude of one who has been reading and who has now left the page to follow a thought of his own which the book has suggested. From the extremely decorative background Demoyte’s head emerged with enormous force. The face was in repose, the curve of the lips expressing a sort of fastidious thoughtfulness rather than the sarcasm which was his more customary expression. He must look like that when he is alone, thought Mor, it must be so. I would never have known that. The features were meticulously represented, the innumerable wrinkles, the bright slightly bleary eye of the old man, the tufts of hair in the cars and nostrils. Mor felt that he was really seeing Demoyte for the first time; and with this a sudden compassion came over him. It was indeed the face of an old man. In spite of the bright colours of the rug, the picture as a whole was sombre. The sky was pale, with a flat melancholy pallor, and the trees outside the window were bunched into a dark and slightly menacing mass.
Mor let out a sigh. He became aware of his companions. They seemed all to have been equally struck to silence by the picture. Then Prewett began
saying something. Mor did not listen. He got up. Rain was a considerable painter. Mor was astonished. It was not that he had not expected this; he had just not thought about it at all. And as he now let the thought hit him again and again like a returning pendulum he felt a deep pain of longing and regret.
Evvy said, ‘Miss Carter, my expectations were high, but you have surpassed them. I congratulate you.’
‘It’s a remarkable picture,’ said Mor, hearing his voice speaking from a great distance.
‘Is it finished now?’ asked Evvy.
Rain came towards the picture. ‘Oh dear, no!’ she said in a shocked voice. ‘There are all sorts of things that still need doing.’ She reached out her hand and smudged the line of the brow, drawing a long smear of paint into the golden brown of the rug in the background. Everybody winced. Mor felt an immediate sense of relief, Not yet, he thought, not yet.
Demoyte came forward. He said, ‘I begin to feel that I am the shadow and this the substance. All the same, I can still talk, and would point out that everyone has now given his view except the only man whose view is of any importance or likely to be of any interest to Miss Carter.’ He looked at Bledyard. Everyone else looked at Bledyard. Mor looked back at Rain. She looked intensely nervous, and it occurred to him with some surprise that she cared what Bledyard thought.
Bledyard took his time. He had been looking at the picture very intently. He opened his mouth several times in an experimental way before any sound came forth. Then he said, ‘Miss Miss Carter, this is an interesting picture, it is nearly a good picture.’ He was silent, but had clearly not finished. ‘But, said Bledyard. He held them in suspense again. ’You have made your picture too beautiful.‘
‘You mean I’m an ugly evil-looking old devil,’ said Demoyte, ‘and ought to appear so. You may be right.’
Bledyard was one of the few people capable of ignoring Demoyte. He went on, ‘It is a question of the head head, Miss Carter. You have chosen to present it as a series of definitions, well executed in themselves, I don’t deny. But as it is its strength its strength depends upon the power of these definitions to appeal to a conception of character in the observer. One result of this is that while your sitter looks old he does not look mortal. It is the mass of the head that ought to impress us if the picture is to have the power of a masterpiece. The head should be seen as a coinherence coinherence of masses. The observation of character is very well. But this is a painting, Miss Miss Carter.’
There was a silence. ‘You are absolutely right,’ said Rain. She spoke in a slightly desolate voice. ‘Yes, yes, yes, you are right. Then she said with a sudden gesture, Oh dear, it’s no good, it’s no good,’ and turned away.
Everyone except Demoyte and Bledyard looked embarrassed. Bledyard, having said his say, returned to a scrutiny of the picture.
Evvy said, ‘I’m sure Mr Bledyard didn’t mean — ’
Demoyte looked at his watch and said, ‘If you want to get back to that cricket game before it’s all over you’d better gulp down some tea.’
Prewett and Evvy accepted tea from Miss Handforth. Mor refused. Rain was standing by the table, fingering a cup and looking gloomily towards the picture.
Mor went up to her. ‘Bledyard may be right,’ he said, ‘I’ve no idea. But it’s obviously a good picture - and if it has weaknesses, perhaps you can still mend them?’
He bent over her, aware of the crispness of her dress, and remembering the smell of the cotton as he had pressed his head against her. He felt very large and gross. He was sorry that he was still in his shirt sleeves. The perspiration was staining his shirt at the armpits and he felt in need of a shave. He drew back a little, sure that his proximity must be offensive to her.
‘I must paint the head again,’ said Rain. She put her cup down and turned to face Mor. He had the sense once more of being in her presence and with it a blessed relaxing of tension. A weight was taken off him. He said quietly, ‘I was so glad to see the car on the road again.’ The others were not within ear-shot.
Rain fingered the cup. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but remained silent.
‘I shall have to go away in a moment,’ said Mor, speaking very gently, ‘and I should like to take this chance to say that I’m very sorry — ’
Rain interrupted him. ‘Could you have dinner this evening with me and Mr Demoyte at the Saracen’s Head?’
Mor was surprised and moved. He could hardly think of anything he would like better. But he remembered at once that he was bound to dine with Evvy. ‘I can’t, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘I’m dining with Mr Everard.’
A feeling of intense disappointment overcame him. This might be his last chance to see Rain. This very moment was perhaps his last opportunity of speaking to her alone. He looked into her face, and was astonished to see what an intense almost wild expression was in her eyes. He looked away. He must have been mistaken. He clutched the side of the table. He could hear Evvy saying, ‘Well, we must be off now, I’m afraid.’
Mor said quickly, ‘Why not drop in for a drink at my house tonight on your way back from dinner? Perhaps about nine, just for a little while?’ He uttered the address.
Rain avoided his eye, but nodded her head. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
Evvy passed by, clucking. They went in procession after him to the Riley, and Rain drove them back to the school. She left them in the drive, and drove away, swinging the car violently round, its tyres grinding on the gravel. Evvy and Prewett began to hurry back towards the cricket field. The school grounds were empty and silent. The hollow ringing sound of bat upon ball could be heard in the distance. The game had started again. Bledyard mumbled something and set off in the direction of the studio.
Mor stood by himself in the drive. The sun was declining. Birds walked upon the grass verge, casting long long shadows upon the grass. Mor watched them. He knew that he had done wrong.
Chapter Eleven
IT was a quarter past nine. Mor had found the time on the way back from Evvy’s dinner to buy a bottle of white wine and a bottle of brandy. He had tidied up the drawing-room carefully and set the bottles there with wine-glasses upon a tray. He had laid out a dish of biscuits. Now he ensconced himself in the dining-room window, which looked on to the road, to wait to see his visitor coming. At about dinner-time the sky had begun to be overcast, and by now it was entirely covered with thick black clouds. The heat was intense and quivering. A thunderstorm seemed imminent. But still the warmth and the oppressive silence continued, seeming endless. The light faded, and a lurid premature darkness came over the scene. ‘It’s like the end of the world,’ a woman said in the road. Her voice echoed upon the thick atmosphere.
Mor sat in the window, shivering. He could not bring himself to turn the lights on. He felt no pleasure of anticipation, no joy at the thought of what he was bringing about. He did not know clearly what he was bringing about. He wished that he had not spoken. He would not have spoken if he had not seen that look upon her face. But what did the look signify? He knew that once again he had taken a step along a road that led nowhere. And he had made it that much more difficult for himself, and possibly for her, to dissolve this ambiguous thing that was taking shape between them. Was it something, or was it nothing? He must believe it to be nothing. At moments he could do so.
Earlier in the evening he had consoled himself with the thought that perhaps she would not come. She would realize that he ought not to have spoken, and she would know that he would have realized this too, and she would simply not come. After all, the meaning of his five days of silence could not have escaped her. He saw himself so clearly as contemptible: a middle-aged man deceiving his wife, inefficient, blundering, and graceless. Surely she would not come. Now, however, although Mor had no expectation of joy from her coming, he was in an agony lest she should not come. He looked at his watch for the hundredth time. It was twenty minutes past nine. It was now almost totally dark outside.
There was a sound upon the path. She had come
through the gate without his seeing her and had reached the front door. From the darkened window Mor watched her tensely. She stood on the step. She was wearing a mackintosh, in the pockets of which she fumbled for a moment. Then she drew out a letter, slipped it noiselessly through the letter-box, and turned and walked quickly away down the path.
Mor did not hesitate for a second. He sped out of the room and through the hall. He did not stop to pick up the letter. He swung the door open and left it wide behind him. He covered the garden path in three bounds. He saw the small figure some way down the road, running now. Mor shot after her. The pain in his heart turned into a fierce delight. He came up with her just at the corner of the road and caught her by the wrist. It was like catching a thief. He said nothing, but turned her about and began to pull her back towards his house. She scarcely resisted him. Together they ran back down the road, Mor still gripping her arm in a tight grip. As they ran it began to rain. They went in through the front door like a pair of birds. Mor closed it behind them.