The Doll (12 page)

As she hesitated at the top of the path, she saw a small boy staring at her from the bushes who had not been there before. His eyes were large and brown like buttons in his face, and there was a large scratch on his cheek. She felt shy, wondering how long he had been watching her. ‘Everyone seems to be playing hide-and-seek here,’ she said. ‘I can’t make it out, they pretend they don’t see me.’

He smiled, biting his nails. She wanted to touch him; he was dear for no reason; but he was nervous like a startled fawn and edged away. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she said gently, ‘I won’t hurt you. I want to go down into the valley, will you come with me?’

She held out her hand, but he backed, shaking his head, red in the face, so she set off alone, with him trotting some distance behind, peering at her, still uncertain of her, still scared. The trees closed in upon them and the shadows, the song of the brook rang near, and she hummed to herself, lighthearted and happy. They came to a clearing in the trees and a bank of moss beside the stream. ‘How lovely,’ she thought. ‘How peaceful, they’ll never find me here,’ delighted with the mischief she had planned, when the boy’s voice, quiet as a whisper, came to her for the first time.

‘Take care,’ he was saying, ‘Take care, you’re standing on the grave.’

‘What do you mean?’ she said, and looked down at her feet, but there was only moss beneath her: the stems of bracken, and the crushed head of a blue hydrangea flower. ‘Whose grave?’ she said, raising her head. Only he was not there any more: there was no boy, he was gone, and his voice was an echo. She called him: ‘Are you hiding? Where are you?’ and there was no answer. She ran back along the path to the house, out of the shadows, and she could not find him.

‘Come back, don’t be frightened; where are you?’ she called, and then came once more upon the terrace by the house. With a little sense of fear in her heart she saw that the white walls of the house no longer glowed in the warmth of the sun. There were weeds between the paving, not plants as she had thought. There were no curtains on the window of the room, and the room was empty, the walls unpapered, the floors bare boards.

Only the gaunt chandelier hung from the ceiling, grimy with cobwebs, and a breeze blew through the open window so that it swung very gently like the pendulum of a clock, to and fro, ticking out time. Then she turned and ran fast along the path whence she had come, up and away from the silence and the shadows, running from this place that was unreal, untrue, so desolate, forlorn. Only herself was real, and the great murky ball of the sun setting between the beech-trees at the head of the avenue, hard and red, like a flaming lamp.

He found her wandering up and down the beach by the river, staring before her, crying to herself. ‘But what is it, my darling?’ he kept saying. ‘Did you fall, are you hurt?’ She clung to him, clutching the safety of his coat.

‘I don’t know,’ she whispered, ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. I went for a walk in a wood somewhere, and I forget what happened. I keep feeling I’ve lost something and I don’t know what it is.’

‘You silly one,’ he said, ‘you silly, mooning one, I must look after you better. Stop crying, there’s no reason to cry. Come indoors, I’ve got a surprise for you.’

They went into the inn and he made her sit beside him in the chair. ‘I’ve got a lovely idea, and it’s going to thrill you. I’ve been talking to the landlord of the inn,’ he said, his cheek against her hair. ‘He tells me there’s a property near here for sale, a lovely old manor house, a place after your own heart. Been empty for years, just waiting for people like us. Would you like to live in this part of the world?’ She nodded, content once more, smiling up at him, the memory of what had been gone from her.

‘Look, I’ll show you on the map,’ he said, ‘here’s the house and there’s the garden, right in the hollow, running down to the creek. There’s a stream about here, and a clearing place in the trees, a place for you, beloved, where you can wander, and rest, and be alone. It’s wild and tangled, quite overgrown in parts; they call it the Happy Valley.’

And His Letters Grew Colder

D
ear Mrs B:

Forgive me writing to you like this without the slightest introduction. The fact is, I know your brother out in China, and having successfully wangled six months’ furlough, arriving in England a few days ago, I am seizing this opportunity to tell you how very pleased I should be if you would let me look you up sometime and give you news of Charlie. He is extremely fit, and sends you many messages, of course.

Please excuse me for blundering in upon you in this abrupt manner. I am,

Yours sincerely,
X.Y.Z.

June the fourth

Dear Mrs B:

I shall be delighted to come to your cocktail party on Friday. It is very charming of you to ask me.

Yours sincerely,
X.Y.Z.

June the seventh

Dear Mrs B:

I cannot let the day pass without telling you how much I enjoyed your party yesterday, and the very great pleasure I had in meeting you. I must have appeared horribly gauche and awkward, for I am afraid three years in China have played the deuce with my manners and my conversation! You were so sweet and kind to me, and I am certain I babbled a great deal of incoherent nonsense.

It is a little bewildering to find oneself back in civilisation, and in the company of a woman of your beauty and intelligence. Now I have said too much! Do you really mean I may come to see you again soon?

Yours very sincerely,
X. Y. Z.

June the tenth

Dear Mrs B:

I shall certainly accept your invitation to dine this evening. Will you excuse my poor bridge?

Yours,
X.Y.Z.

June the twelfth

Dear Mrs B:

I have taken you at your word and have secured a couple of seats for that revue you wanted to see. You won’t break your promise about coming, will you? If you care about it, we might go on to supper somewhere afterwards and dance.

X.Y.Z.

June the fourteenth

Dear A,

Do you really mean I may call you A? And did you mean one or two other things you said last night? Whether you meant them or not, I want to thank you for a marvellous evening. I was so happy, I don’t believe I ever apologised for my atrocious dancing!

Thank you.

X

June the seventeenth

Dear A,

Sorry! I know I behaved like a bear on the telephone, but I was so wretchedly disappointed that you could not manage to come out, after all. Will you ever forgive me? Of course I understand. May I come round some time tomorrow?

X

June the nineteenth

I’m glad you put me off that evening, because if you hadn’t rung me up to tell me so, and if I hadn’t been rude over the telephone, then I should never have come round to see you this afternoon.

Why were you so wonderful to me? Perhaps you were merely taking pity on a poor dull dog arrived from the ends of the earth! I don’t think ever in my life I have been able to talk to anyone as I have to you.

You made me feel as though things really are worth while; that there is more to look forward to in life than a dreary plantation surrounded by coolies. D’you know, I’ll make a confession to you. Out in China I used to go to Charlie’s place merely to look at the photograph of you that he had hanging over his desk.

In a way, I believe I idolised it; I could not believe that there really existed anyone so lovely. And then, when I came over here and knew I was going to meet you for the first time, I felt as nervous and shy as any schoolboy. I was so terrified that my photograph was going to be spoiled in some way.

When I saw you – well, I could go on for pages and pages just describing how you looked and what I felt. But what’s the use? You would probably throw it unread into the wastepaper basket, and who would blame you! No; I shall do my best not to bore you in that way. You must be sick and tired of all the men who tell you you are beautiful. Can we be friends, though – real friends?

X

June the twenty-second

My dear,

I explained myself badly on the telephone this morning. I called round at once after you rang off, but your maid told me you had already gone out. So I am writing this note instead. You did not understand what I meant about this evening. It’s only that it’s so marvellous talking to you that I feel as though the hours were somehow wasted by going to a theatre!

Yes, I agree; I am idiotic and unreasonable.

Somehow, I had imagined us dining somewhere quietly in Soho – and then perhaps going back to your house. But of course I will do anything you want.

Incidentally, I forgot to tell you that I am moving from this hotel. The service is bad and there seems to be no privacy. I’m thinking of taking a furnished apartment. But we will talk about that this evening. You aren’t angry with me, are you?

X

June the twenty-third

A,

What am I to say? What can you think of me? I am so desperately ashamed of myself. No; there is no excuse, of course. I must have been mad . . . I never went back to the hotel after I left you. I’ve been walking about all night, miserable and out of my mind.

It is impossible for you to imagine my agony of reproach. I don’t know if for one moment you can understand what it means for someone who has spent three lonely, uncivilised years, living like a savage among other savages, to find himself all at once treated as a human being by a lovely and adorable woman like yourself. It proved too much for me – too intoxicating.

Yes, I lost my head; I behaved as I should never dreamed it possible that I could behave. Can’t you see how difficult you made it for me? No; how should you? You were gentle; you were wonderful;

you were you. I am to blame entirely. I will do any mortal thing if only you will try to forget what I said.

I swear to you solemnly by all I hold most dear that I will never make love to you again. Never . . . never . . . We will start once more at the beginning. My dear, I want to be your friend: somebody you feel you can trust; someone with whom you can relax, with whom you need make no effort.

Words . . . words . . . How can I explain? A, is there a chance of my being forgiven? A word from you will rouse me from my present depths of desolation. I shall be waiting all day, in case.

Forgive me.

X

June the twenty-fifth

When I heard your voice on the telephone, I trembled so that I could hardly answer! Absurd, isn’t it?

But none of that matters now. The only thing that matters is that you have forgiven me, and we are friends again. It is all right, isn’t it? We are friends, aren’t we? Yes: let’s drive into the country tomorrow to some little place miles from anywhere, and talk and talk. I have so much to tell you.

Bless you,
X

June the twenty-seventh

A, here are some flowers for you in memory of yesterday. I wonder if you have the remotest idea of what the day meant to me! You said you loved it too. Did you? I can’t forget that little inn by the side of the water, and how we sat there dreaming.

I’m so glad the country appeals to you as it does to me. You know, we think alike in most things. In some ways, my dear, your brain is most extraordinarily like that of a man. You see straight; you don’t muddle your ideas – and you have such a sense of values. And then on the other hand, you are perhaps the most feminine person imaginable.

I have taken the apartment I told you about. The sitting room wants only one thing now – your photograph. You promised me one days ago.

Yes, I’ll call for you this evening at ten, and we’ll go some place and dance. It will be perfect, of course. Wear your green dress, will you? I saw some beads exactly that colour. May I bring them for you?

X

July the first

A, darling, it’s no good, I couldn’t help myself. You looked so lovely. I’m not made of iron, but flesh and blood. What am I going to do about it?

I value your friendship more than anything in the world, but why aren’t you old and ugly? It would be so much easier for me.

You like me a little bit, don’t you? Or don’t you? I don’t know what I’m writing.

When am I going to see you? X July the fifth My darling, you made me so absurdly happy last night. I can’t believe they are true – the things you said. You told me you liked orchids. Here are all the orchids I could find.

I’ll rob every hothouse in England if you want me to. I’ll do anything you want, give you anything you want – if only you’ll let me see you every day.

I won’t ask for much in return – just to be allowed to sit at your feet and worship. Nothing more than that.

You’re lovely, lovely, lovely. X July the seventh I can’t exist like this. I tell you it’s impossible. You’re driving me insane. You let me see you, and then you expect me to stand like a dummy without senses.

I’ve been at the telephone all day and have had no answer from you. Where were you and whom were you with?

Oh! Yes, laugh at me, I don’t care. Of course, I agree I have no right to ask you questions. You are perfectly free. When you laugh like that I want to strangle you – and then I want to love you.

I must see you.

X

July the eighth
3 A.M.

Beloved,

It’s absurd to write to you, isn’t it, after this evening? The room is full of you still. I can’t think of anything else. I know now that I have been waiting all my life for this. Sleep well. God bless you. Take care of yourself.

Do you love me?

X

July the ninth

Sweet,

Of course it’s all right. Expecting you this afternoon between five and six.

X

July the tenth

My darling,

No: come tomorrow. You must, you must! I can’t wait for you until Saturday, not after yesterday.

Couldn’t we possibly lunch somewhere first, and then come back here afterwards?

Please! I love you so much.

X

July the fifteenth

Beloved,

Your maid answered the telephone this morning when you were out, so I disguised my voice and gave another name.

Couldn’t we go out into the country? You remember that little place we went to in June, by the water? Then after luncheon we could stroll in those woods . . . They look very lonely and deserted.

Say yes, will you? Telephone me and we’ll arrange to meet somewhere. I had better not pick you up.

Your
X

July the nineteenth

What about four o’clock?

X

July the twentieth

My dearest,

I think we had better go to the other place, it’s quieter. Besides, there are two entrances. What bad luck, your knowing the fellow who lives here in the same block! We’ll have to be careful.

X

July the twenty-first

Angel,

Very well; I’ll pick you up tomorrow outside your club. Leave the car parked outside with the hood up, and I’ll sit inside and wait for you. I suggest we go to the country again. There’s less chance of running across anyone.

By the way, I’ve found out that the fellow you know is out all day, doesn’t get back until the evening, so we needn’t worry about him when we’re at the apartment.

I don’t know how to wait until tomorrow.

You know that question you asked me? The answer is Yes – a thousand times! You are
adorable
!

X

July the twenty-fifth

Yes, I know I was nervy and irritable today. You must forgive me. But seeing you as I do, at odd hours, makes me dissatisfied. I don’t know. It’s as though I wanted to be with you all the time. Couldn’t we go away somewhere, for the weekend? Some place where we could be by ourselves.

We would be very careful; no one need ever find out. What do you think, my sweet?

Your
X

July the twenty-seventh

Angel,

But you are marvellous! What a brilliant idea! I should never have thought of a sick friend in Devonshire! Yes; you can rely on me to be discreet. I’ll be at Paddington at a quarter to eleven.

X

August the fifth

My beloved Sweet,

I haven’t dared ring you up in case it should seem odd. These few days with you have been so marvellous, so utterly unspeakable. Darling, I don’t know how I am going to go on as we did before.

Those wretched, hurried meetings after the hours we spent together. I’m so happy and so miserable. I’ll wait at the apartment all day in case you should come.

Your own
X

August the seventh

Yesterday was
heaven
. What time tomorrow? I think the afternoons are safest.

X

August the twelfth

Dearest, What about suggesting your idea and seeing how it is taken? After all, if you are in the habit of going to Aix every year for this cure, why should it look strange suddenly? You can say you are tired of Aix itself and have heard of a smaller place just as good but not nearly so expensive. That is sure to go well!

You see, sweet, I could go out there about the nineteenth and you could join me a few days later. I think that would be the wisest plan.

Anyway, there’s no harm in trying, and you can tell me tomorrow what happened.

See you after seven.

X

August the fourteenth

My own,

To think that it will really come true – that we shall be together night and day for three weeks, perhaps a month. It’s too wonderful, my precious; it’s like a dream out of which one will be wakened suddenly.

Tell me you are happy, too. Hours and hours of each other, and nothing to separate us. I’m never going to stop loving you for one single instant. Your very own, X August the twentieth I’m just off, sweet. I’m so excited! Three days of agony until you follow me South – and then . . .

X

September the twenty-sixth

Darling,

I arrived back in town about two hours ago. I can scarcely believe we’ve been away a month. Sometimes it seems a day; sometimes it seems a year.

Thank you for your sweet letter, darling. When am I going to see you?

X

September the twenty-ninth

My darling,

It was lovely being with you all yesterday. It was almost as though we were down in the South again.