Mansfield with Monsters (9 page)

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From eight o'clock in the morning until about half-past eleven Cleo Tyrell suffered from her nerves, and suffered so terribly that these hours were—agonizing, simply. It was not as though she could control them. Life—the hunger preyed upon her constantly. She longed for the peace of the desert, of endless sand and baking heat. New Zealand was a moist, green, claustrophobic land.

“Perhaps if I were ten years younger…” she would say, meaning a hundred, a thousand. A century could make all the difference. She'd lost track of her true age a millennium ago, and now she had a queer little way of referring to her fictitious age on all occasions, of looking at her friends with grave, childish eyes and saying: “Yes, I remember how twenty years ago…” or of drawing Ralph's attention to the girls—real living girls—with lovely youthful arms and throats and swift hesitating movements who sat near them in restaurants. “Perhaps if I were ten years younger…”

She needed to rest her nerves. Ralph, young, mortal, and devoted, could not understand. For three months she had not fed, had suffered the hunger for him, to be with him.

“Why don't you get Marie to sit outside your door and absolutely forbid anybody to come near your room until you ring your bell?”

“Oh, if it were as simple as that!” She threw her little gloves down and pressed her eyelids with her fingers in the way he knew so well. “But in the first place I'd be so conscious of Marie sitting there, Marie shaking her finger at Rudd and Mrs Moon, Marie as a kind of cross between a wardress and a nurse for mental cases!” Of course, she could not tell him how sweet Marie's life-force had tasted in the months before her fasting had begun. No human words could capture the soothing, sweet essence she had drained from Marie in the cold hours of the night. “And then, there's the post. One can't get over the fact that the post comes, and once it has come, who—who—could wait until eleven for the letters?”

His eyes grew bright; he quickly, lightly clasped her. “My letters, darling?”

“Perhaps,” she drawled, softly, and she drew her hand over his reddish hair, smiling too, but thinking: “By Osiris! What a stupid thing to say!”

But this morning she had been awakened by one great slam of the front door. Bang. The flat shook. What was it? She jerked up in bed, clutching at the eiderdown; her heart beat furiously with hunger. When awake, the craving, the need for Life, so long denied! Then, she heard voices in the passage. Marie knocked, and, as the door opened, with a sharp tearing rip out flew the blind and the curtains, stiffening, flapping, jerking. The tassel of the blind knocked—knocked against the window. “
Eh-h, voilà,
” cried Marie, setting down the tray and running. “
C'est le vent, Madame. C'est un vent insupportable
.”

Up rolled the blind; the window went up with a jerk; a whitey-greyish light filled the room. Cleo caught a burning glimpse of a huge pale sky and a cloud like a limp sacrifice being dragged towards Ra's altar before she hid her eyes with her sleeve.

“Marie! the curtains! Quick, the curtains!” Cleo fell back into the bed and then “Ring-ting-a-ping-ping, ring-ting-a-ping-ping.” It was the telephone. The limit of her suffering was reached; she grew quite calm. She would feed. She must give in to the hunger. Not here, not again, but this day. Feed, and still the tattered fragments of her nerves once more, as in the old days. “Go and see, Marie.”

“It is Monsieur. To know if Madame will lunch at Princes' at one-thirty to-day.” Yes, it was Monsieur himself. Yes, he had asked that the message be given to Madame immediately. Instead of replying, Cleo put her cup down and asked Marie in a small wondering voice what time it was. It was half-past nine. She lay still and half closed her eyes. “Tell Monsieur I cannot come,” she said gently. But as the door shut, anger—anger suddenly gripped her close, close, violent, half strangling her. How dared he. How dared Ralph do such a thing when he knew how agonizing her nerves were in the morning! How the cravings tormented her in the early hours! Hadn't she explained and described and even—though lightly, of course; she couldn't say such a thing directly—given him to understand that this was the one unforgivable thing.

And then to choose this frightful windy morning. Did he think it was just a fad of hers, a little feminine folly to be laughed at and tossed aside? Why, only last night she had said: “Ah, but you must take me seriously. I am more dangerous than you know.” And he had replied: “My darling, you'll not believe me, but I know you infinitely better than you know yourself. Every delicate thought and feeling I bow to, I treasure, I worship. Yes, laugh! I love the way your lip lifts, I adore your flashing, almond eyes”—and he had leant across the table—“I don't care who sees that I adore all of you. I'd be with you on mountain-top and have all the searchlights of the world shine upon us.”

“Heavens!” Cleo almost clutched her head. Was it possible he had really said that? Such deplorable conceit—to think that it was for him not to care who saw them when her very survival depended on discretion! How incredible mortals were! How selfish! What nonsense—what utter nonsense!

Understand her? He understood nothing. He didn't appreciate her sacrifice, the unravelling hunger.

A wild white morning, a tearing, rocking wind. Cleo sat down before the mirror. She was pale, tiny veins like cobwebs were visible under the skin. Her months of abstinence had taken a heavy toll. Why should she resist any longer? For him? No. She would not.

The maid combed her sleek dark hair—and her face was like a mask, with pointed eyelids lined in black kohl and dark red lips. As she stared at herself in the blueish shadowy glass she suddenly felt—oh, the strangest, most tremendous excitement filling her slowly, slowly, until she wanted to fling out her arms, to laugh, to scatter everything, to shock Marie, to cry: “I'm free. I'm free. I'm free as the wind.” And now all this vibrating, trembling, exciting, flying world was hers. It was her kingdom. She would resist no longer, not for him. No, no, she belonged to nobody but Life.

“That will do, Marie,” she stammered. “My hat, my coat, my bag. And now get me a taxi.” Where was she going? Oh, anywhere. She could not stand this silent flat, noiseless Marie, this ghostly quiet feminine interior. She must be out; she must be driving quickly—anywhere, anywhere. She must find someone. A stranger this time…

“The taxi is there, Madame.” As she pressed open the big outer doors of the flats the wild wind caught her and floated her across the pavement. Where to? She got in, and smiling radiantly at the cross, cold-looking driver, she told him to take her to her hairdresser's. She might just have her hair waved, and maybe just a taste… Yes, by that time she'd have thought out a plan. She must be discreet. But the hunger… The hunger grew impatient.

The driver drove at a tremendous pace, and she let herself be hurled from side to side. She wished he would go faster and faster. Oh, to be free of Princes' at one-thirty, of being the grave, delighted child and not the wild, feasting creature… “Never again,” she cried aloud, clenching her small fist. “Never again will I stop.” But the cab had stopped, and the driver was standing holding the door open for her.

There was no one else on the street, no one to see. Why shouldn't she? Just a taste. She would not dare take too much. She slipped off her glove and held her hand out to the driver's cheek. He flinched and stared at her in surprise but once she held him in her hypnotic gaze he could not escape.

A year or two—not more. That would be too great a risk. The Life rose to his cheek, tingled her finger-tips, danced toward her dusty, ancient heart. Not nearly enough but she stopped herself while he could stand and stumble back into the taxi, remembering nothing, understanding nothing. Cleo smiled. She felt so much better now. Why had she ever stopped at all?

The hairdresser's shop was warm and glittering. It smelt of soap and burnt paper and wallflower brilliantine. There was Madame behind the counter, round, fat, white, her head like a powder-puff rolling on a black satin pin-cushion. Cleo always had the feeling that they loved her in this shop and understood her—the real her—far better than many of her friends did. Then there was George who did her hair, young, dark, slender George. She was really fond of him.

But to-day—how curious! Madame hardly greeted her. Her face was whiter than ever, but rims of bright red showed round her blue bead eyes, and even the rings on her pudgy fingers did not flash. They were cold, dead, like chips of glass. When she called through the wall-telephone to George there was a note in her voice that had never been there before. But Cleo would not believe this. No, she refused to. It was just her imagination. She had not fed on them, well, not for months. The sight of Madame's dull face was quite unappetizing. Still there was always George… She sniffed the warm, scented air, and passed behind the velvet curtain into the small cubicle.

Her hat and jacket were off and hanging from the peg, and still George did not come. This was the first time he had ever not been there to hold the chair for her, to take her hat and hang up her bag, dangling it in his fingers as though it were something he'd never seen before—some exotic treasure. And how quiet the shop was! There was not a sound even from Madame. Only the wind blew, shaking the old house; the wind hooted, and the portraits of the ancient Egyptian queens looked down and smiled, cunning and sly. Her own memories of that era were less coy. Cleo wished she hadn't come. Oh, what a mistake to have come! Fatal. Fatal. Where was George? If he didn't appear the next moment she would go away. She took off the white and gold satin robe. She didn't want to look at herself any more. When she opened a big pot of cream on the glass shelf her fingers trembled. There was a tugging feeling at her heart as though her happiness—her marvellous happiness—were trying to get free.

“I'll go. I'll not stay.” She took down her hat. But just at that moment steps sounded, and, looking in the mirror, she saw George bowing in the doorway. How queerly he smiled! It was the mirror of course. She turned round quickly. His lips curled back in a sort of grin, and—wasn't he unshaved?—he looked almost green in the face. What terrible thing could have done this to her favourites?

“Very sorry to have kept you waiting,” he mumbled, shuffling forward.

Oh, no, she wasn't going to stay. She could not take as much as a day from him in that state. “I'm afraid,” she began. But he had lighted the gas and laid the tongs across, and was holding out the robe.

“It's a wind,” he said. Cleo submitted. She smelt his fresh young fingers pinning the jacket under her chin. “Yes, there is a wind,” said she, sinking back into the chair. And silence fell. George took out the pins in his expert way. Her hair tumbled back, but he didn't hold it as he usually did, as though to feel how fine and soft and heavy it was. He didn't say it “was in a lovely condition.” He let it fall, and, taking a brush out of a drawer, he coughed faintly, cleared his throat, and said dully: “Yes, it's a pretty strong one, I should say it was.”

She had no reply to make. The brush fell on her hair. It fell quick and light, it fell like leaves; and then it fell heavy, tugging like the tugging at her heart. The hunger rose up; her head was throbbing, her blood pulsing. She had to feed, she needed Life. “That's enough,” she cried, shaking herself free.

“Did I do it too much?” asked George. He crouched over the tongs. “I'm sorry.” There came the smell of burnt paper—the smell she loved—and he swung the hot tongs round in his hand, staring before him. He took up a piece of her hair, the warmth of his fingers—she couldn't bear it any longer—she stopped him.

She looked at him; she saw herself looking at him in the white robe like a ghost. “Is there something the matter here? Has something happened?”

But George gave a half-shrug and a grimace. “Oh, no, Madame. Just a little occurrence.” And he took up the piece of hair again. But, oh, she wasn't deceived. That was it. Something awful had happened. Had he remembered? Did he know? Did he understand what she was, what she had done? All the drained life she had taken from him. Did he suspect? He would hate her, fear her, he would tell others… The silence—really, the silence seemed to come drifting down like flakes of snow. She shivered. It was cold in the little cubicle, all cold and glittering. The nickel taps and jets and sprays looked somehow almost malignant. The wind rattled the window-frame; a piece of iron banged, and the young man went on changing the tongs, crouching over her.

Oh, how terrifying Life was, thought Cleo. The hunger was so compelling—she was trapped, forced to live amongst people and yet she would never be one of them. How dreadful. It was the loneliness which was so appalling. To whirl along like leaves over the years and centuries, and nobody knowing—nobody caring where she would finally fall, in what black river she might float away eventually. The tugging feeling seemed to rise into her throat. It ached, ached; she longed to cry but her eyes felt as dry as burnt paper.

“That will do,” she whispered. “Give me the pins.” As he stood beside her, so submissive, so silent, she nearly dropped her arms and sobbed. She couldn't bear any more. Like a rickety old wooden man the young George shambled, handed her her hat and veil, took the note, and brought back the change. She stuffed it into her bag. Where would she go now? On whom would she feed? George took a brush. “There is a little powder on your coat,” he murmured. He brushed it away. And then suddenly he raised himself and, looking at Cleo, gave a strange wave with the brush and said: “The truth is, Madame, my little daughter died this morning. A first child”—and then his white face crumpled like paper, and he turned his back on her and began brushing the satin robe.

The memory of the pretty little girl with golden hair, sitting in the chair in the shop, playing with her doll, pricked at Cleo's arid eyes. The girl had looked so young, so sweet, so full of life…