“Trimingham is coming this evening.”
“Oh, is he?” I answered, not much interested, but noting the name for my diary.
“Yes, but late, we shall be in bed.”
“Is he nice?” I asked.
“Yes, but dreadfully ugly. You mustn’t start or anything when you see him, or it will put him off. He doesn’t like you to feel sorry for him. You see, he was wounded in the war and his face hasn’t got right. They say it never will.”
“Hard cheese,” I said.
“Yes, but you mustn’t say so to him, or to Marian either.”
“Why not?”
“Mama wouldn’t like it.”
“Why not?” I said again.
“Promise you won’t tell anybody—not even under torture.”
I promised.
“Mama wants Marian to marry him.”
I digested this news in silence. It was extremely disagreeable to me. I already felt violently jealous of Trimingham, and the fact that he was a war hero did not recommend him to me. My father had disapproved of the war, to the point of being a pro-Boer. I was quite capable of lending my voice to “The Soldiers of the Queen” and “Good-bye, Dolly, I Must Leave You,” and had gone almost mad with excitement at the relief of Ladysmith; but I believed that my father was right. Perhaps Trimingham deserved to be disfigured. And why should Mrs. Maudsley want Marian to marry a man who was horribly ugly and not even a Mr.?
We were crossing the meadow on a raised causeway towards a curved line of rushes; the curve was concave, and we were aiming for the farthest part. It was one of those sedgy, marshy places in Norfolk where bog-cotton grows; despite the heat, which was drying up everything, one had to pick one’s way, to avoid the pools of reddish water that were half concealed by grass. Squelch, squelch, and a brown trickle came over my low shoes.
There was a black thing ahead of us, all bars and spars and uprights, like a gallows. It gave out a sense of fear—also of intense solitude. It was like something that must not be approached, that might catch you and hurt you; I wondered why we were walking towards it so unconcernedly. We had nearly reached it, and I saw how the pitch was peeling off its surfaces, and realized that no one could have attended to it for years, when suddenly the head and shoulders of a man rose from among the rushes. He had his back to us and did not hear us. He walked slowly up the steps to the platform between the wheels and pulleys. He walked very slowly, in the exultation of being alone; he moved his arms about and hunched his shoulders, as if to give himself more freedom, though he was wearing nothing that could have cramped him: for a moment I thought that he was naked.
He stood almost motionless for a second or two, just raising his heels experimentally; and then he threw his hands up, stretched himself into an arc, and disappeared. Until I heard the splash I hadn’t realized how near the river was.
The grown-ups stared at one another in dismay, and we at them. Dismay turned to indignation. “What cheek!” said Denys. “I thought we had the whole place to ourselves. He must know he’s trespassing. What shall we do? Shall we order him off?”
“He can’t go quite as he is,” the other man said.
“Well, shall we give him five minutes to clear out?”
“Whatever you do, I’m going to change,” said Marian. “It takes me a long time. Come along, Eulalie” (this was her friend’s strange name), “there’s our bathing-machine—it’s better than it looks,” and she pointed to a hut among the rushes, which, like so many huts, had the appearance of a disused hen-coop. They went off, leaving us to face the situation.
We looked at each other irresolutely and then by common consent pushed through the rushes to the river bank. The river had been hidden until now.
At once the landscape changed. The river dominated it—the two rivers, I might say, for they seemed like different streams.
Above the sluice, by which we stood, the river came out of the shadow of the belt of trees. Green, bronze, and golden it flowed through weeds and rushes; the gravel glinted, I could see the fishes darting in the shallows. Below the sluice it broadened out into a pool that was as blue as the sky. Not a weed marred the surface; only one thing broke it: the intruder’s bobbing head.
He saw us and began to swim towards us; white above, brown below, his arms parted the water. Soon we could see his face and his eyes fixed on us with the strained expression of the swimmer. “Why, it’s Ted Burgess,” said Denys in a low voice, “the tenant of Black Farm. We can’t be rude to him—it’s his land on the other side for one thing, and Trimingham wouldn’t like it, for another. You’ll see, I shall be particularly nice to him. He doesn’t swim badly, does he, for a farmer?” Denys seemed relieved at not having to make a scene; and I, who had been rather looking forward to it and didn’t think the farmer would be an easy man to order off, felt disappointed.
“I’ll just say how-do-you-do to him,” said Denys. “We don’t know him socially, of course, but he mustn’t think us stuck-up.”
Burgess by now was almost under us. Clamped to the brickwork of the sluice, a thick old post stuck out of the water. Exposure to the elements had grooved its sides and sharpened it almost to a point. To this post he clung and began to haul himself up. Crouching over the spike to change his foothold, he looked as though he would be impaled; then his hand grasped a ring embedded in the coping and he was on the bank, the water running off him.
“What a way to land!” said Denys, giving his dry hand to the farmer’s wet one; “why didn’t you get out comfort-ably, on the other side of the sluice? We’ve had some steps made there.”
“I know,” the farmer said, “but this is the way I’ve always done it.” He spoke with a local accent: it lent a kind of warmth and substance to his words. He looked down at the water collecting in a puddle on the bluish brickwork at his feet, and suddenly seemed embarrassed at being so nearly naked in the presence of the clothed. “I didn’t know anyone was going to be here,” he said, apologetically. “Harvest’s just started, and I got that hot working I thought I’d run down and have a dip, being Saturday and all. I shan’t be long, just one more header—”
“Oh, please don’t hurry on our account,” Denys broke in. “It’s quite all right for us. We were hot too, up at the Hall. By the way,” he added, “Trimingham’s coming tonight: he’ll probably want to see you.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” the farmer said, and giving Denys a half salute, he ran up the stairs to the platform, leaving a dark footprint on each step. We watched him dive—it must have been a ten-foot drop—and then Denys said: “I think I put him at his ease, don’t you?” His friend agreed. They went off one way, we another, to find a lair in the rushes. Their feathery tops nodded invitingly. Within the rushes, we could see, but not, I thought, be seen: it was tinglingly secret and withdrawn. Marcus began to take his clothes off. I wanted to do the same, but Marcus said: “I shouldn’t put on a bathing-dress if you’re not going to bathe. It would look funny.” So I stayed as I was.
The rushes rustled as the men walked out, and almost at the same moment we heard the hut door creak and the sound of women’s voices. They all went together to the steps above the sluice and I followed, feeling I was no longer of their company. Somehow it was disappointing to see them so fully clad, almost as if they were bathing in their clothes; Marian’s suit, I remember, seemed to cover her far more completely than her evening dresses. They lingered on the steps, playfully daring one another to go in first. Denys and his friend pulled each other in and were carried by the current through the sluice, while Marian and Eulalie and Marcus stayed in the shallow water above, where it was only waist-deep; their feet showed softly white on the shining golden gravel as they waded about with long, uneven steps, plunging into unsuspected holes, splashing each other, shrieking and giggling and laughing. Their thick, clumsy dresses began to cling to them and take on the soft outlines of their bodies. Bolder now, they struck out purposefully. Resolution narrowed their eyes; their chins were tilted upwards
; with long, slow sweeps their outstretched hands pushed back the water, gathering it in again in armfuls. The motion began to come more easily to them; smiling beatifically, they drew deep blissful breaths.
It was like looking on at a dance, unable to join in. I could not bear to watch them, and went round to the far side of the sluice, where Denys and the other man were floating on their backs in the deep water, sometimes kicking it into a foam, sometimes staring at the sky, only their faces showing. While I stood there admiring them, but not wishing to join them, I heard a sound beneath me; it was Ted Burgess clinging to the post, hauling himself out. His muscles bunched, his face tense with effort; he did not see me, and I retreated almost in fear before that powerful body, which spoke to me of something I did not know. I drew back into the rushes and sat down, while he stretched himself on the warm brickwork in the sun.
His clothes were lying at his side; he hadn’t bothered to seek the shelter of the rushes. Nor did he now. Believing himself to be unseen by the other bathers, he gave himself up to being alone with his body. He wriggled his toes, breathed hard through his nose, twisted his brown moustache, where some drops of water still clung, and looked himself critically all over. The scrutiny seemed to satisfy him, as well it might. I, whose only acquaintance was with bodies and minds developing, was suddenly confronted by maturity in its most undeniable form; and I wondered: “What must it feel like to be him, master of those limbs, which have passed beyond the need of gym and playing field and exist for their own strength and beauty? What can they do,” I thought, “to be conscious of themselves?”
Now he had a plantain stalk in his left hand and was rubbing it gently along the hairs of his right forearm; they glinted in the sun and were paler than his arms, which were mahogany-coloured to above the elbow. Then he stretched both arms high above his chest, which was so white it might have belonged to another person, except below his neck where the sun had burned a copper breastplate; and he smiled to himself, an intimate, pleased smile that would have looked childish or imbecile on most people, but on him had the effect of a feather on a tiger—it pointed a contrast, and all to his advantage.
I wondered whether I ought to be spying on him, but I could not move without betraying myself and I had a feeling that it would be dangerous to disturb him.
The bathers had been quiet all this time, but suddenly a cry came from the river: “Oh my hair! my hair! It’s come down, it’s all wet! It’ll never get dry! What shall I do? What shall I do? I’m coming out!”
The farmer sprang up. He didn’t wait to dry himself. He pulled his shirt over his head, and his corduroy trousers over his wet bathing-drawers; stuffed his feet into thick grey socks, and pulled his boots on. Coming after his previous quiescence, the furious energy he put into these movements almost frightened me. His leather belt gave him the most trouble; he swore as he was fastening the buckle. Then he strode off across the sluice.
A moment later Marian came by. She was holding the long coil of her hair in front of her. It made two curves with which I was familiar; they belonged to the Virgin of the Zodiac. She saw me at once; she was half laughing and half angry. “Oh, Leo,” she said, “you do look so smug sitting there, I should like to throw you in the river.” I suppose I looked alarmed, for then she said: “No, not really. Only you do look so dreadfully dry, and it will be ages before I am.” She looked round and said: “Has that man gone?”
“Yes,” I said, always glad to be able to answer any question she asked me. “He went off in a hurry. His name is Ted Burgess and he’s a farmer,” I volunteered. “Do you know him?”
“I may have met him,” Marian said, “I don’t remember. But you’re still here, that’s something.”
I didn’t know what she meant, but it sounded like a compliment. She went on into the hut. Soon the others came up out of the river. Marcus joined me and began to tell me how ripping it had been. I envied him his wet bathing-suit, which seemed shrunk to half its size; my dry one was like a badge of failure. We had to wait a long time for the ladies. At last Marian came out, holding the coil of hair away from her. “Oh, I shall never get it dry,” she wailed, “and it’s dripping on my dress!” It was funny to see her helpless and despairing, she who always took things so lightly, and all about a trifle like wet hair! Women were very odd. All at once I had an idea. It pierced me with joy. “Here is my bathing-suit,” I said. “It’s quite dry. If you fasten it round your neck, so that it hangs down your back, then you can spread your hair on it, and your hair will get dry and your dress won’t get wet.” I stopped, breathless; it seemed to me the longest speech I had ever made, and I was in terror that she wouldn’t listen to it: children’s suggestions were so often brushed aside. Imploringly I held the garment up, so that she could see for herself its fitness for the purpose. “It might do,” she said doubtfully; “has anyone a pin?” A pin was produced; the garment was draped round her neck; I was congratulated on my ingenuity. “And now you must spread my hair on it,” she said to me. “And take care not to pull it. Ooh!” I drew back in alarm; how could I have hurt her? I had hardly touched her hair, much as I wanted to. Then I saw that she was smiling and returned to my task. A labour of love it truly was, the first I had ever done.
I walked back with her through the lengthening shadows, anxious still to be “something” to her, though I didn’t know what. Every now and then she asked me how her hair was, and whenever I touched it to see, she pretended I had pulled it. She was in a strange, exalted mood, and so was I; and I thought that somehow our elations came from the same source. My thoughts enveloped her, they entered into her: I was the bathing-suit on which her hair was spread; I was her drying hair, I was the wind that dried it. I had a tremendous sense of achievement for which I couldn’t account. But when she gave me back my property, damp with the dampness I had saved her from, and let me touch her hair once more, dry with the dryness I had won for it, I felt my cup was full.
5
BREAKFAST at Brandham Hall started with family prayers at nine o’clock. These were read by Mr. Maudsley sitting at the head of the table (all the dishes were on the sideboard). The chairs were drawn back and ranged round the walls; they were all alike, I think, but I had my favourite chair, which I could distinguish by certain signs, and I always tried to get it. After the gong had gone, the servants filed in, headed by the butler wearing his most solemn air. I always counted them but could never make them more than ten, though there were said to be twelve in the house. The family were less regular in attendance. Mrs. Maudsley was always there; Marcus and I made it a point of honour; Denys came from time to time and Marian, who was seldom there at the opening, sometimes came in half-way through. On the whole, rather more than half the guests used to attend. It was in no way compulsory, Marcus told me; but most households that were not “fast” had family prayers (I dared not tell him that ours hadn’t). His father rather liked one to go, but would not be angry if one didn’t.
First we sat, then we turned round and knelt down. While we were sitting, Mr. Maudsley read a lesson; while we were kneeling he read prayers; he read in a secular voice without inflections but not without reverence; his personality was so subdued that it seemed to fit in with anything he did.
While we were sitting was the best time to make observations, to study the guests, or, which was easier, the servants, for they sat opposite us. Marcus was to some extent in their confidence; he knew, for instance, which of them had been getting into trouble, and why. If one of them could be thought of as looking red-eyed, it lent a touch of drama to the morning ceremony. Afterwards, kneeling, one could press one’s knuckles into one’s eyes to make the colours come, and one could observe intensely over a very restricted field of vision. Covertly to extend this, without incurring the charge of irreverence, was one of the tasks one set oneself.
This morning, my first Sunday morning at Brandham Hall, Marcus did not come down with me. He said he didn’t feel well. He did not, as I should have, debate with himself whether he sh
ould get up or not or ask anyone’s leave to stay in bed; he just stayed there. His pale cheeks were a little flushed and his eyes bright. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “Someone will come. Give Trimingham my kind regards.”
Secretly resolving to tell Mrs. Maudsley as soon as prayers were over (for apart from real concern for his state I fancied myself as a breaker of bad news), I waited for the last stroke of the gong and presently found myself at the head of the double staircase. I had no difficulty in remembering which track to take.
Trimingham, I thought as I went bumping down the cataract. (I was a Red Indian this morning; shooting the rapids, I had to be some kind of explorer.) Trimingham: the misterless Trimingham whom her mother wanted Marian to marry. But supposing she didn’t want to marry him. I hated to think of her wishes being crossed or forced in any way. Trimingham was a weight on my thoughts. Perhaps I could cast a spell on him. Thinking how to word it, I reached my favourite chair and composed my features. The other guests were coming in, and one of them sat down beside me. I didn’t have to be told who it was, and in spite of having been warned I started.
On the side of his face turned to me was a sickle-shaped scar that ran from his eye to the corner of his mouth; it pulled the eye down, exposing a tract of glistening red underlid, and the mouth up, so that you could see the gums above his teeth. I didn’t think his eye could close, even in sleep, or his mouth either. He had grown a moustache, so I afterwards learned, to cover this, but it was a straggly affair and didn’t do its job. His damaged eye watered a little; even as I was looking at him he dabbed it with a handkerchief. His whole face was lop-sided, the cheek with the scar on it being much shorter than the other.