‘So you’re all right –’
‘You’ve seen Jean?’
‘I’ve talked to her. She thought you might have shot yourself.’
‘As you see I have not.’
‘And you aren’t going to?’
‘Not in the foreseeable future. Probably not at all.’
‘You’ve really – really parted?’ said Rose. The room was very cold and her speech puffed steaming out of her mouth.
‘Yes.’
‘You will leave her alone now, won’t you, you won’t come after her ever again?’
Crimond said nothing. He just stared at Rose. He was wearing a black jacket and a black pullover with a white high-necked shirt emerging, and with his pale thin face and thin lips he looked like a priest, a cruel censorious dangerous priest.
Rose got up and replaced the shawl on the chair. She felt there was something very important she ought to do and which could only be done now, in this minute, there was some information, or some promise, which she must extract from Crimond, or something which she must tell him. She said, ‘I so much hope – I want Jean to be all right. You mustn’t trouble her any more. Now that you’ve managed to separate, you mustn’t come near her again ever, let it be absolutely over.’
Crimond continued to stare at her and said nothing.
Rose turned and went back up the stairs. She put on her scarf and her cap and buttoned up her coat and went out in the bitterly cold street and the grey light of dawn. She got into the car and drove away. She stopped at a telephone box near Vauxhall Bridge and rang Annushka telling her to tell Jean that Crimond was all right. Then she set off for Boyars. As she drove along she began to cry.
‘But why were you down here, why were you driving along that road, were you coming to Boyars?’
‘Yes, I told you –’
‘Why didn’t you take the road through the village?’
‘I lost my way!’
‘Why did you think I was here, I’m usually not.’
‘I thought you might be, I wanted to get right out of London, I wanted to drive fast, right away, somewhere, anywhere, I was driving crazily, too fast, then I shot through the hedge –’
‘You said a fox ran across the road and you swerved.’
‘Yes, yes, the fox –’
‘You’d had this row with Crimond –’
‘It wasn’t a row! We were both icy cold. We agreed to part.’
‘You said he’d left you.’
‘We left each other. It’s finished. We agreed.’
‘All the same, you thought he’d kill himself.’
‘I was in a state of shock, I’m sorry I bothered you with that. Of course he won’t kill himself. He’s a cold fish.’
‘You didn’t tell him you were coming here?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Is he after someone else?’
‘No!’
‘Then why – Oh Jean, forgive me for asking you things, I’m so glad that you’re here and that you’ve left that man! But it’s so odd, like too good to be true! He took so much trouble to get you away, I imagined he’d hold onto you forever! Are you sure it was mutual, wasn’t it you who wanted to escape?’
‘That’s what you want to believe!’ said Jean.
‘What I want to believe is that we shall never see him again!’
It was the afternoon. Jean, dosed by Dr Tallcott, had slept till noon. She was in bed in the huge old carved oak bedstead in the bedroom which Jean and Duncan had usually occupied at Boyars. The police had been. Rose had deemed it prudent to ring the local police, whom she knew. Jean’s car had already been noticed. The police talked to Jean after she awoke. They brought her her handbag. There was nothing mysterious about the accident. Miss Curtland’s friend had swerved to avoid a fox. The police gave her a lecture on not avoiding foxes. Dr Tallcott had come again. He wanted her to go to hospital for checks, but Jean said she was about to go to London to her own doctor. Doctor Tallcott was a man filled with curiosity, a student of human nature, who had intended to be a psychiatrist. Rose had difficulty in preventing him from prolonging an interrogation of his patient. Had she been drinking? Did she take drugs? What, not even tranquillisers? Had she been under stress? Wasn’t there anything which she would like to tell to a sympathetic medical man? Rose directed his attention to Jean’s ankle, and asked about the concussion, happily so slight. Privately, Dr Tallcott told Rose that he thought Mrs Cambus was in a thoroughly disturbed mental state. Was she living with her husband? He wondered about her sex life. Rose let him wonder. He ventured to doubt the truth of her account of what had happened. Rose doubted it too. For instance, Jean had introduced the fox after twice telling the story without it, and could she possibly have ‘lost her way’ on a clear night on a road she had travelled hundreds of times?
Jean was sitting up in the big bed wearing one of Rose’s prettiest nightdresses. She looked changed, alienated, almost frightening, like a large demonic bird with big eyes and a fierce beak. Her transparent nervous hands looked like claws. She seemed even thinner than when Rose had last seen her, the skin of her face, a yellowish ivory white, stretched over her bones. She was sitting upright against a pile of pillows and cushions; she refused to look at Rose, but kept looking intently and quickly round and round the room. Her lips were parted and she panted slightly.
It was late afternoon, the sun had set into bubbling masses of pink cloud, the lights were on in the bedroom, the curtains not yet drawn. A wood fire was sizzling in the grate. The room already had, for Rose, the quiet, idle, static feeling of an invalid’s room, as if the terrible tumult of Jean’s life, its past, its future, had for the moment withdrawn. Oh if I could only keep her here, Rose thought.
‘Shall I draw the curtains?’
‘Yes, please.’
She drew the curtains, old brown velvet curtains whose linings tore a little every time they were drawn. Looking out into red twilight she saw the lights of the last village houses visible between two sloping fields, and nearer at hand Mousebrook hurrying along with what looked like a bird in his mouth.
‘Darling, wouldn’t you like something to eat? Some soup perhaps, anything you want?’
‘No, not yet, don’t go away.’
‘Or would you like a drink, whisky, brandy?’
‘No, no. That picture bothers me, it keeps moving.’
‘I’ll take it down.’
Rose removed from the mantelpiece a pair of china cats which had been there certainly for fifty years, probably more, climbed on a chair, her legs toasted by the fire, carefully unhooked the big red and orange and black abstract, and stepped down with it. She propped the picture, face inwards, against the wall, removed the chair and replaced the cats. The removal of the picture revealed a square of more conspicuously blue and white latticed wallpaper above the fireplace.
‘That design keeps jumping about too.’
‘The wallpaper? Would you like another room? You can have any room.’
‘No. Don’t go away.’
‘I won’t go away, my darling, I’ll never go away!’ Rose sat on the bed and touched but did not hold one of the thin translucent bird-hands. ‘I want you to stay here for a long long time. I’ll look after you. You can rest.’
‘Just you.’
‘Yes, just me. No one shall bother you.’
‘I shall be dead soon. I think I’m dead already.’
‘No you aren’t, you’re very very tired, you’ve been in a shipwreck, but now you’re safe on land, you’re warm and safe and looked after, what you need is to rest and sleep and gain strength and live yourself into a new world.’
‘A nice idea, but nothing to do with me. Oh Rose – you can’t conceive – what I am now –’
‘You will stay here?’
‘What else can I do? If there’s some convenient spot you might immure me. I’d like to hear the bricks climbing up and see the light vanishing.’
‘Jean!’
It was later on. Jean ha
d taken some soup and bread. She was dozing, perhaps asleep. She had asked Rose to leave her for a while, and Rose, exhausted and quite ready to withdraw for a little, was sitting by the fire in the drawing room with Mousebrook purring on her lap. Rose, in her own state of shock, was suffering an extraordinary mixture of emotions. A kind of fierce pleasure predominated. She felt she would now be perfectly happy to live on for months at Boyars, simply looking after Jean, she even imagined how they would pass their days, walking and reading and talking. It would be an ideal recapture of old days. However, there must come (how soon?) the moment when Rose must ask Jean if she wished to communicate with Duncan. The question of at least telling Duncan must arise, before he learnt from some other source that Jean had left Crimond and disappeared. Rose herself wanted to bring him the news of Jean’s escape, her willing escape of course she would tell him. Jean had set herself free and was ready to come back: could that be the message? Here the picture, looked at close to, became darker. Suppose Jean did not want to go back to Duncan? Suppose she wanted to run to her father in America, or to flee to some unknown place and vanish forever? That awful image of being immured came back to Rose. How could she imagine what Jean’s despair and misery might demand? Suppose, on the other hand, that Jean wanted to go back to Duncan, but Duncan would not forgive her? Would there be diplomacy, would Rose be the diplomat? Rose felt so possessive about Jean that she was reluctant to let anyone else come near her! The thought of ‘the next moves’ made her feel very afraid. Of course nothing must happen until Jean was ready. All the same Rose could not go on keeping her friend’s presence a dark secret.
Later on still, after Jean had wakened, accepted a sleeping pill, and gone to sleep again, Rose telephoned Gerard. She had decided that she must and ought to share the problem, and telling Gerard didn’t mean telling the world after all. It was nearly midnight, but she knew that Gerard would be up and reading.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello, Rose darling. What’s up?’
‘Look. I’m at Boyars. Jean is here.’
‘What?’
‘She’s left Crimond, she’s here.’
After a moment Gerard said, ‘Has she really left him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who left whom?’
‘They agreed to part.’
‘Oh. She won’t run back, he won’t come and take her?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘That’s wonderful news. But what happened – she turned up in London and you took her to Boyars? Not a bad idea.’
‘It’s a long story, I’ll tell you later. She’s just been with me today. Don’t tell anyone just yet.’
‘Not Duncan?’
‘No – not for a day or two – Jean’s in such a state.’
‘I can imagine. She’ll have to be sure she isn’t going to change her mind. But the news may get round. Crimond might send it around. Does he know where she is?’
‘No. It may be better if no one knows where she is. I mean, she may not want to see Duncan, and if he finds out he may come rushing down. We don’t know what either of them wants. She may decide to go to New York, or –’
‘Yes, I know. Do you mind if I tell this to Jenkin? He’s a wise bird, and –’
‘Yes, all right, but no one else.’
‘We’ll think what to do. You stay with Jean, we’ll handle Duncan. Look, darling, it’s late, you’ve probably had quite a day, you can tell me the whole thing later – you go to bed now and so will I, and we’ll talk again tomorrow morning. All right?’
‘All right – good night then.’
‘Goodnight, Rose, and don’t worry, we’ll think out what’s best to do.’
Rose replaced the receiver. She had lost the initiative. She would not after all be the one, as she so much wished, to tell Duncan the news! Well, it was inevitable, she had to tell Gerard, and his suggested distribution of labour was rational and just. But supposing – supposing in that awful Crimond interlude Jean had learned to hate Duncan, or Duncan had learned to hate Jean?
‘Nice of you two to invite yourselves,’ said Duncan. ‘Have a drink, sherry, whisky, gin? I don’t see many people now, I keep company with these bottles.’
‘Sherry, thanks,’ said Gerard.
‘Nothing yet,’ said Jenkin, ‘I’ll shout.’
‘Do that. You know, I’m thinking of resigning from the dear old office. All right, you, Gerard, will expect me to write a book, my memoirs or how to run the country, or something.’
‘I wouldn’t know what to expect,’ said Gerard, ‘a versatile chap like you might do anything.’
‘Perhaps I’ll take up oil painting. Or drink myself to death, that’s always a worthy pastime. But what’s the matter with you? Are you my friends, or are you a delegation?’
Gerard and Jenkin, sitting on the sofa while Duncan stood by the bottles, looked at each other.
‘Come on, own up – none of those Rosencrantz and Guildenstern glances.’
‘We are a sort of delegation,’ said Gerard.
‘Representing ourselves and Rose,’ said Jenkin.
‘Well, what is it, you’re making me nervous.’
‘Jean has left Crimond,’ said Gerard.
Duncan handed Gerard the glass of sherry he had been holding. He poured himself out a neat whisky and said, ‘Oh.’
‘She’s at Boyars with Rose.’
Duncan drank some of the whisky, and sat down in a chair opposite. His big sullen wrinkled face, his black-furred bull head, was turned toward Gerard, but his eyelids drooped.
‘We felt,’ said Gerard, ‘that we should come and tell you, simply tell you, in case you heard some story or rumour – and we wanted you to know where Jean was and that she was all right.’
‘What is “simply tell me”? You mean you don’t propose to offer advice?’
‘Of course we don’t,’ said Jenkin, ‘we realise –’
‘Did he ditch her?’
‘I think Jean left him,’ said Gerard, ‘anyway she decided to leave, she wasn’t forced to.’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘Well,’ said Duncan, rising to his feet again, ‘I thank the delegation and ask it to depart.’
Gerard put down his glass. He and Jenkin rose. Jenkin said, ‘All this has only just happened. Before you decide what to do –’
‘I’m not going to do a damn thing,’ said Duncan. ‘Why should I? I’m not even interested in your kind news. Goodnight.’
‘I’m sorry, I was tactless,’ said Jenkin to Gerard as they walked away down the road.
‘He made tact impossible,’ said Gerard. ‘We did what had to be done.’
‘It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have butted in. I’ve always felt Duncan didn’t really like me.’
‘Don’t be silly. Of course he didn’t mean what he said. But I don’t know what he did mean. Come back to my place and we’ll ring Rose.’
Left to himself, for a while Duncan sat and sipped his whisky. He sat still and breathed deeply, sipping the whisky as if it were a medicine which might relieve some immediate threat of suffocation. Then suddenly he stood up and hurled his tumbler into the fireplace. He strode to the bookshelves and began pulling the books out, sending them crashing in all directions, he ran into the kitchen and swept a pile of plates onto the floor. He moaned, and beat upon the steel draining board with his fists, making a thunderous metallic drumming. He pounded the metal, lowering his head and wailing.
Rose opened the door. She had heard the sound, for which she had been waiting, of Duncan’s car arriving upon the gravel drive. Duncan stepped out of the car and without hurry locked it up. He came to the door and through it, wiping his feet carefully upon the mat. It was raining. Rose closed the door and held out her hand. Duncan took her hand and kissed it, something he had never done before. No word was exchanged. Rose led the way into the drawing room.
‘How is she?’ said Duncan.
‘All right. She looks like a ghost –’
‘She’s expecting me?’
‘Yes. I didn’t say a time.’
‘She still wants to see me?’
‘Yes, yes. You want to see her – you’re not just coming out of –?’
‘Out of what?’
‘Sense of duty, thinking it might do her good –’
‘I feel it is my duty and I think it might do her good. On the other hand it might not. I am being guided by you.’
‘Oh Duncan,’ said Rose, ‘you know what I mean!’ She was feeling exhausted and ready to cry.
‘Yes. I do want to see her,’ said Duncan.
‘And you hope –’
‘I hope, but I am prepared for the worst.’
‘What would that be?’
‘Oh anything – her wanting to go back to him and only wanting to see me to explain it, her finding she hates the sight of me, my finding I hate the sight of her. As we said on the telephone, it’s a gamble.’
‘You said it was.’
‘But as I think we agreed, it was better not to put it off.’
‘You mean he might turn up?’
‘Not particularly that. He might turn up at any time, whatever happens, between now and the end of the world.’
Rose shuddered. ‘Would you like some coffee, or a drink?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Well, if you’re ready, I’ll go up and tell her you’re here.’
She went upstairs and into the bedroom. Jean, who had now been at Boyars for several days, was up and dressed and sitting on the green sofa which had been drawn up near the fire. She was wearing a tweed dress which belonged to Rose. The dress was too large for her, but pulled in at the waist by a belt. Her ankle was tightly strapped in an elasticated bandage. She stood up when Rose appeared.
She looked now to Rose like a stranger, a strange bony sharp-featured elderly woman in an ill-fitting dress. Her dark hair which Rose had, after insistence, helped her to wash, was fuzzy and untidy. Her thin hands were always restless, one now repeatedly smoothing her dress, the other picking at her throat. She had cried a great deal in the days at Boyars and her eyelids were red and swollen, conspicuous in her white face. She was tearless now however. As Rose approached her she lifted her hand from her dress and made a curious gesture in the air as if setting aside some invisible web or curtain. Rose could not help wishing that Jean could have been as beautiful as she used to be to receive Duncan.