Nuns and Soldiers (26 page)

But who on earth could it be? There were plenty of female terrorists after all, often worse than the men. Perhaps they used this usually-empty house as a hide-out? Could it be Daisy arriving early, having let her flat more quickly than she expected? The shadowy figure, now moving again, did not look at all like Daisy. It had however begun to look vaguely familiar. For a horrible moment Tim thought it looked like Anne Cavidge. Then he realized, with an almost equally dismaying shock, that the woman standing upon the terrace was Gertrude.

 

 

Gertrude too, as it grew darker and no one came, had been feeling frightened. The empty house, Tim’s protracted absence, filled her with foreboding. And when at last, looking down the hill, she saw a man emerge from the willows and begin to mount the slope through the olive grove she felt sheer terror until she made out Tim’s friendly wave and heard his voice calling to her.

Gertrude had been unable to settle down in London. The old misery awaited her at Ebury Street. And then Anne had said she wanted to go away for a time to be alone. Of course she would come back but for a short while she must be somewhere by herself, even if it was only in a hotel in Pimlico. Gertrude thought than Anne might expect her to offer Les Grands Saules as a retreat house, but Gertrude said nothing to Anne about the house in France or about Tim’s being there. In fact she had told nobody about her ingenious plan and felt rather shyly secretive about it. The others might think that Tim had ‘imposed himself’. Perhaps it had been a bad idea after all. Gertrude telephoned Stanley and in the end Anne returned to the cottage in Cumbria. Gertrude then felt she must get out of London. Without Anne she could not endure the flat. There was no one whose presence she wanted there as a companion, though Janet proposed herself, then Rosalind. When Manfred suggested that Gertrude should join him and Mrs Mount on a drive across Europe she rather desperately accepted. The objective of the drive was Manfred’s flat in Rome, but the idea was that they would go slowly and Gertrude should come as far as she pleased.

Gertrude did not particularly want to be alone with Manfred, of whom in an odd way she felt a little shy, but she found, after they had set off, the company of Mrs Mount rather irksome. Manfred was always very good to the old thing, but Gertrude could have wished for another (Manfred was so exquisitely tactful) chaperone. As soon as she was in France and driving south she began to want to go to Les Grands Saules after all, to know the worst, to see the worst, to confront there in another place, where they had been so happy, the ghost of Guy. She wanted to get it over with and be ready to sell the house. She could not leave the arrangements for the sale to Tim, she would have to do it, sometime or other, herself. Tim’s presence was, in the context of this sudden frantic urge, but a slight embarrassment. Tim was not someone who weighed in any way upon her soul, he was, to Gertrude, a harmless powerless figure. Anyway he would be away painting all day. He would not mind her or she him. She would linger a few days, possibly make arrangements locally about the sale, and then go home again. Once home it would not be long till Anne was back, and meanwhile she could go and stay again with Stanley and Janet, they had asked her often enough and she was really quite fond of the children, especially Ned.

Gertrude said nothing about Tim to Manfred and Mrs Mount, and she did not allow them to come to the house. (She said she had the key, which she had not, but fortunately Tim had left the place unlocked.) She said she must go there alone, it would be better so. With protests they dropped her in the lane and she heard with relief the sound of the big car dying away.

 

 

Tim’s first feeling on seeing Gertrude there upon the terrace had been: oh crumbs, Gertrude, that’s torn it, she’ll spoil everything, how mean of her to come after all! I wonder who’s with her, I hope they aren’t staying long. Then he thought,
God
! Daisy! She’ll be here soon, unless I can put her off somehow.

He mounted the steps to the terrace.

‘Oh Tim, I’m so glad to see you! I’ve been quite frightened here, it’s stupid. I thought supposing you didn’t come back, supposing something had happened to you -’

Gertrude really did seem glad to see him, Tim was amazed. He said, ‘Something nearly did happen to me -’

Gertrude went on, ‘I’m sorry to turn up without letting you know -’

‘But that’s all right -’

‘I suddenly felt I had to come here and get it over -’

‘Who’s here, who brought you?’

They were both talking at once.

‘Manfred and Mrs Mount dropped me off,’ said Gertrude. ‘They’ve gone on to Italy. I’m sorry to intrude.’

‘But I’m delighted -’

‘I won’t stay long. I must see people in the village about selling the house. I won’t interrupt your painting.’

‘No -of course -’

‘I hope you’ve done some. I hope you like it here.’

‘I like it
very much.
’

‘Let’s go inside, it’s getting cold. I’m so relieved you’ve come, I thought something might have happened to you.’

‘It nearly did -’

Gertrude went in through the open doors of the sitting-room and switched on a light. It had become quite dark outside while they talked. Tim followed her and closed and bolted the windows and pulled the curtains. It was another scene.

The sitting-room was large and square with two white plastered walls where the shaggy centipedes sat or scurried like little bits of mobile carpet and lizards sometimes came. The wall where the fireplace was showed the original stone of the farmhouse. The furniture was simple, mostly made of cane, with copious flowery cushions which Gertrude had lovingly made on long winter evenings in London. There was a fine wooden table, made locally and stained with linseed oil, and a matching sideboard upon which there had been a tray with an empty gin bottle and a glass. (Gertrude had removed these.) One picture hung on the wall, a reproduction of a Munch print of three startled girls on a bridge which Janet Openshaw (who quite liked pictures) had given to Guy and Gertrude many years ago at Christmas time.

Tim, who had hitherto eaten his meals in the kitchen, saw with surprise that a red cloth had been put upon the table and plates, cutlery and glasses laid out neatly for dinner for two. There were even table napkins. It was years since anyone had laid the table for him. It seemed like the work of fairies.

‘Gertrude! You’ve laid the table!’

‘I hope you don’t mind the tablecloth. We - we always used it so as not to make wine rings on the table. Well, I suppose it - doesn’t matter much now -’

Tim hoped Gertrude had not noticed the wine rings he had been vaguely aware of making upon the kitchen table where he also recalled he had left rather a mess behind when he set out in the morning.

‘Tim, you’ve cut your hand!’

‘Yes, I caught hold of a thorny bush, you see -’

‘There’s a first aid kit upstairs.’

‘I know. I’ll just tidy myself. I’ll be with you in a moment.’

He slipped out, visited the kitchen where, as he feared, everything had been cleared up and the table scrubbed. (He was usually tidy and grieved over this blot on his reputation.) He ran upstairs, noting Gertrude’s suitcase in the larger bedroom. What on earth was he going to do about Daisy? Could he be sure that Gertrude would go before Daisy arrived? An unexpected meeting between those two women would be a major catastrophe.

Gertrude called up, ‘Did you have any lunch?’

‘A little -’

‘I’m cooking spaghetti, is that all right?’

‘Marvellous!’

Tim washed his hands and face. His hands had started to bleed again and he put some plaster on. After some hesitation he changed his shirt. He put a jacket on. The evening was cool. He had brought no tie. He combed his hair. What a pickle! He came downstairs a little self-consciously.

Gertrude too seemed embarrassed. She had set out wine and a jug of water, also bread, butter, cheese and apples. She was just ladling out the spaghetti which was liberally dosed with olive oil and tomato sauce and basil. She had made a salad of green peppers (Tim had bought them in the village) to go with it.

The sight of the excellent food and wine sent Tim’s spirits soaring up. He beamed, then had to remind himself how sad Gertrude must be feeling. He composed his features and, after waiting for Gertrude to be seated, sat down.

‘May I give you some wine, Gertrude? When did you come?’

‘Just after lunch. I got suddenly frightened. I’ve never been alone here before, I don’t think, even for an hour. It’s strange countryside.’

‘I think that too - I’ve found - oh such wonderful places - but of course you must know them.’

‘We don’t own the olives. Guy always worried because they weren’t properly looked after. There are so many suckers -’

‘But they’re beautiful - and the rocks -’

‘What have you found?’

Tim suddenly felt that he did not want to talk to Gertrude about the Great Face. He said, ‘I found a canal going at a hundred miles an hour.’

‘That’s very dangerous.’

‘Yes, it nearly drowned me!’

‘You mean you were
in
it?’

‘I thought I’d swim, I scarcely survived!’

‘Tim, you mustn’t go into that canal, promise.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Several people have been drowned, stupid tourists of course.’

‘Well, I’m a stupid tourist. But what a place!’

‘I hope you’ve been painting.’

‘Oh like anything. I’m inspired, but nothing to show yet, only sketches. I think this place is paradise. A sort of dangerous paradise, but maybe paradise would be dangerous.’

‘I won’t bother you, Tim. I’m glad it’s paradise for you.’

Tim flushed and looked down. He realized how glad he had been to see Gertrude in the role of someone to whom he could ‘tell his day’. He had once more forgotten how unhappy this sojourn must be for her, with the house itself about to die, a continuation of Guy’s death. But he could not say this to Gertrude. He looked up at her with puzzled embarrassed apologetic eyes trying to think of some slightly formal sympathetic utterance. She had been looking at him but at once looked away.

Gertrude now clearly felt that she had obtruded her sorrow. She said brightly, ‘Have you found the moss fountain?’

‘The moss fountain-I don’t think so.’

‘You’d know it if you’d seen it. I’ll show it to you tomorrow. At least - I’ll tell you where to find it.’

‘I’ll - I’ll like that -’ said Tim. The conversation was becoming lame.

‘It’s cold,’ said Gertrude. She got up and pulled on a cardigan.

How much older she has become, thought Tim, with his exasperated pity. Her wild brown hair had been trimmed and seemed a little grey in front. Her sensitive curling mouth now plunged markedly at the corners sketching lines which would become permanent. A little persisting frown was making a dint in her brow above one eye. The wrinkled area about the eyes seemed soiled, now a trifle reddened. She has been crying, thought Tim, crying here all alone when she was waiting for me. Tim felt upset, almost disappointed, a little alarmed. It was like finding one’s mother crying. Well, how often he had found his mother crying and how little he had ever really tried to comfort her. He had simply felt let down by her tears, affronted, neglected, abandoned.

He said to Gertrude, ‘If I can help in any way -’

Oh no - thank you -’

‘After all, I’m the caretaker! And - er - Gertrude - how long will you be staying, do you think?’

‘Not long - two or three days, I expect-I won’t disturb you.’

Its not worth risking, thought Tim. I must tell Daisy to wait. But how? I must give Gertrude the slip tomorrow and send off a telegram.

Such was the telegram which Tim had sent to Daisy on the day after Gertrude’s arrival. It was now the third day of her sojourn.

It had proved quite easy to send the telegram. Tim had bicycled into the village with Gertrude. It had been funny cycling together and quite nice. Then while she went to see the agent about the house, he had gone shopping and had dodged into the post office. He had also written and dispatched his ‘following letter’. The letter ran thus.

Tim, rarely separated from Daisy in recent years, had hardly ever written to her, and it occurred to him that he had no ‘style’ for doing so. He was not much of a letter-writer anyway. He found the letter, which he had written late on the previous evening, quite a labour, and thought it a bit stiff when he had finished it. Never mind. Daisy would soon be here. The lie about Manfred and Mrs Mount came so easily that Tim scarcely noticed it. (It was sort of nearly true, after all.) He did not want Daisy to think of him as being alone there with Gertrude, it might annoy her, so many things did.