To the Dark Tower (32 page)

This morose but not unpleasant brooding was interrupted by an exclamation from Shirley. The knife, slipping, had cut her palm. She put it to her mouth, but the blood trickled down her chin and on to the figurehead, staining it like some barbaric idol. She smiled, apparently not in pain.

‘‘Here! Let me." He took the hand and pressed it, to stop the flow of blood. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed. The blood had already flowed on to his own fingers. It was warm and sticky.

‘‘That’s better," he said."It’ll stop in a moment. Then I’ll get some iodine."

Their eyes met." Thanks," she said. They both smiled.

Thinking: Obviously Cynthia persuaded him to get rid of me. I don’t believe a word of all that talk about needing money. She’s behind it all. Took a dislike to me right from the beginning. How I hate that type. And after all that he said about no publicity. Falling for a stunt like this. No doubt the women’s papers will have pictures of her in a sola topi. Oh, blast, blast!

He felt suddenly weak, doubled-up. He couldn’t walk any farther, the road jerked."Let’s sit down," he said.

‘‘All right."

But it was no better. He felt sick with disgust and anger. His hands trembled. Funny, he thought. I imagined I was over it. Congratulating myself on not caring. But I do, I do. The whole bay seemed to wither, to shrink. The light went livid. On the pretext of tying his shoe he put his head between his knees. Thinking: Strange. The physical disturbance. Perhaps if I could weep or throw a rage—if I could show it in some way—then all this wouldn’t happen. Christ, I feel ill!

He clutched the back of the bench on which they sat, and gazed outwards at the gulls. They whirled down the wind, with thin shrieks of pleasure: or motionless, they poised on the waves’ hands. The pleasure steamer from Totnes veered inwards, lurching with its crowds. The sea caved into black hollows.

Putting out a hand he touched her. To steady myself. At first she recoiled with a muffled"Oh!" Then she remained perfectly still. His face averted, unable to look, he began to caress her body, while far off a sail jerked slowly, slowly outwards like a fan. He watched it, absorbed.

‘‘Good-night."

‘‘Good-night."

They parted at the bottom of the stairs, and she went to her room. Switching on the electric lamp she sat for a long time, thinking. The light was fluted, rosy, like a shell, as it fanned outwards from the parchment shade. Twice she yawned, stretching out with strange voluptuousness on the chill eiderdown. She looked at her arms, white and downed with blonde hair, and then round about her, at the room. There were the bold eye-tones of the brass warming-pan, the twin lustre jugs, a Dutch snow-scene, two chairs with lace over their arms: and then, beyond, shadows, darkness.

This was the end of the three days. The thought filled her with conflicting emotions. It was difficult to know what to feel. She rubbed the fingers of one hand across her cheek. What she had, she had. But was one ever satisfied?

Going to the windows: she pulled back the heavy curtains. The curd-like moon was yellow on the terrace; it was bright and warm. Click. Her hand, extinguishing the lamp, turned the room into an aquarium. It was flooded with a saffron tide in which quivered algae, delicate objects, shadows. The carpet seemed to curl, the chairs to bob upwards. The bed swung soundlessly round and round. Then the water went static; everything was seen distorted, tall, immovable. It was a little frightening.

She began to undress slowly, humming to herself and dropping her clothes on to the floor. When she was naked she stared for a moment at her reflection in the glass; and then, as though dissatisfied, she pulled on a nightdress. How cold the sheets were, swishing as she scissored her legs downwards. The pillows seemed mountainous. But at the centre was her own heart, radiating warmth and life.

For a long time she lay there, her head resting on her arms, while the moon seeped over the carpet and began to be drawn up the edge of the counterpane. The yellow liquid mounted as though on blotting-paper. She could not sleep. For no reason, her heart, thumped, her wrists trembled, her eyes refused to shut. She wished to prolong for as long as possible the last few hours that she spent in his house. If one could only stop the hurrying feet, drawing one inevitably into the future. If one could only stop the passage of time, corroding the hours as the moonlight corroded the counterpane. Time would make all this history. Time drew everything away, greedily...

Eventually she became drowsy, she dreamed. She was being shown over a great dusty palace whose rooms were labyrinthine; echoes rumbled down empty corridors; the walls seeped damp or gaped in jagged fissures. The corners were furred with cobwebs. And someone was saying, incessantly:"This is yours. This is all yours. This belongs to you." But she took no pleasure in her possession. Rather, she wandered on, hoping always to come upon a room which was not vast like this, nor empty, nor desolated by neglect. At last, at the end of a long flight of stairs which spiralled upwards she found a door, much smaller than the rest, which she opened; and as she did so she exclaimed with pleasure,"Oh! How wonderful!" The tower-room was narrow; a fire was lit; brasses gleamed; and because all the rest of the house was old and crumbling into ruin, this seemed the end of the quest. But the voice that had said:"This is yours," now said, over and over again:"Not here. You may have everything else. You may have all the other rooms. But not this room. This is the housekeeper’s room." And with those words in her ears she woke.

Someone’s nails were tapping lightly on the window. She lay for a moment sick with apprehension. Then she said, weakly,"Who’s that?" Her voice seemed to come up from a pool of ice, sharp and wintry. Then again she said:"Who is it?"

The french windows opened and the General came in. He did not close them after him, so that the curtain shot outwards and then deflated in the wind, and eddies of draught crossed her face. Her tongue seemed paralysed, enormous; she could not speak. Slowly he came to her; and for no reason, she found herself listening to the creak-creak of his slippers. Then she gripped him, as though in terror."You’ve come," she said.

‘‘I’ve come." His voice seemed very distant.

She drew him downwards, turning her face so that on her cheek she felt the touch of his hair. Pains teased her joints; suddenly she went rigid. But he murmured:"No, no. You must do nothing. Relax." Relax. And she was falling info circles and cycles of peace. She was falling...

Dawn appeared as a pink smear over the estuary. Birds were twittering; a ship’s hooter reverberated in a glum
decrescendo
; the light was grey and cold. She woke up with a start, her eyes blinking open. She had been breathing through her mouth, so that it now tasted dry and acid. Suddenly, she remembered. As she did so, she began to smile with extraordinary pleasure, drawing her fingers down her cheeks. Then she put out a hand and touched the part of the bed where she herself had not lain. Thinking: It’s all complete now. All things are well. A circle. Nothing more is necessary. She sighed, pulling the bedclothes up to her chin.

For a long time she lay there; until on an impulse she suddenly leapt out of bed and put on a pair of slippers. Opening one door of the trench windows she went out. It was very cold. The air was sharp with frost, and where last night she had spilled her coffee on the terrace there was now a grey-brown wedge of ice. The grass was crisp and shiny. She began to wish that she had put on a dressing-gown, for already her teeth were chattering and her hands were blue. Two sparrows startled her, whirring noisily out of the ivy as she passed. They curveted over the lawn in sudden, excited swoops and then disappeared. A dog rattled its chain.

It was strange how sharp everything became. The trees stood out boldly, with an almost fussy precision; the clop-clop of a distant milk-float sounded close and very distinct; and each of the houses on the opposite side of the river resembled wooden models on a shelf. If one put out a hand one could touch them.

The pink fissure in the sky widened and seemed to clot. The light went suddenly gauzy and unreal, as though one were looking through tinted glass. A tree began to drip on to the terrace with a lisping sound; the lawn darkened, so that each blade of grass ceased to be distinct; sun gleamed zig-zag in the puddle of coffee. It was thawing.

She found his bed at the other end of the house. He slept on his side, with one hand under his cheek. He breathed deeply, and as he did so his chest rose. Only a sheet covered him, and his pyjama jacket was open. On the floor beside him lay a fragment of paper resting on a book, and a pencil. She knelt down to read. But the only words were: ‘Of course I was disappointed’.

She remained kneeling thus for a long time, watching him, while her eyes began to fill with tears. There is always pathos in the sight of a person asleep; perhaps one is too easily reminded of the resemblance between sleep and death; when one sees someone sleeping, one sees too that last inevitable dissolution. All this she felt, and also the impossibility of his ever realising how much he had done for her, and she had done for him. For the miracle belonged to them equally. She believed that. If she had thirsted, so had he, without knowing it. In a sudden uprush of tenderness, she put a hand to his cheek, running the fingers downwards so that they scraped on the unshaven flesh. He woke with a start.

As though not knowing where he was, he looked about him wildly. Then he saw her."Lucy!" he exclaimed."Lucy, my dearest!"

‘‘Lucy?" Why do you call me that?"

With one hand he covered his eyes, a gesture of illness or fatigue. Looking up, he said with odd distinctness:"I’m sorry. I’ve been dreaming. It’s you, is it? I’m sorry."

She repeated:" Why did you call me Lucy?" And because he did not answer, she pursued:"Was she your wife? Was Lucy your wife?"

He nodded.

‘‘And you called me—! Oh, I’m glad. I’m glad. I’m so happy."

But he only said crossly:"Get back to bed. You’ll catch cold. You’ve no dressing-gown. Get back to bed."

Clark knocked and, without waiting for an answer, came in with a breakfast-tray. His face was sallow and lumpy, like a potato: when he had put down the tray, he wiped swollen, red-veined Hands on his apron and went to the windows. It was swinging, unlatched. With an abrupt gesture of pique he slammed it to and grated the lock.

Shirley woke with a start."Good heavens! What time is it?"

Ignoring the question he made for the door."The master said I was to bring you your breakfast."

‘‘But did I over-sleep?" She had not breakfasted in bed on any other morning."What time is it? Has the master had his breakfast?"

He pulled out a watch on a chain, from which dangled coins and a locket. As he pressed the winder, it opened with a metallic ‘ping!’"Ten o’clock. The master had his eight o’clock. Gone out. Gone sailing. Told me to see about your bags. Told me to order a taxi for you." The raw hands continued to dry themselves needlessly on the apron.

‘‘Very well. I’ll let you know about the taxi—and the luggage. Thank you."

He drew in his breath sharply, like an asthmatic, and then went out. The joints of his knees creaked. In sudden desolation, she turned over in bed, breathless, choking. The bed seemed large and cold, the light brutish. Her hands shot up to her mouth, from which came a series of moans. The sheets twisted round her legs, like grey bandages. Then, in a spasm of anguish, she flung out an arm. The tray of neatly ordered crockery crashed to the floor.

On the table of her room in London stood a shaving mirror in a mahogany frame. It had belonged to her father; it magnified. She looked into it now with suppressed disgust. It showed each pore of her skin, distended, rough, like a loosely woven fabric; it showed distinct hairs, on chin and upper-lip, blemishes on the nose, scarlet filaments round the bulging eye-balls; there were particles of scurf where her hair was brushed away from her forehead. For a long time she stared at this caricature, glumly, her chin oh her hands; she stared into her own eyes, flecked with light, blue and green like oysters; she stared at the inflamed lids, which seemed to have been skinned, so raw were they. She had not slept for three nights.

Then she took up a pen. Thinking: This is the last letter I shall ever write. This is the last time I shall sit here, before this mirror. The end. Words formed in her mind, confused, haphazard, a torrent of words: she had never composed with such facility, nor such carelessness. As she wrote she turned the mirror face downwards, obliterating the pop-eyed gargoyle. It was easier when one was not looking at it.

M
Y DEAREST
,—For the last time I write to you, for the very last time. By the time you get this letter, I shall be dead. One has read that last sentence so often before—in novels, in films, in newspaper reports; one does not expect that one shall ever write it oneself. But now death seems the only conclusion possible. All that should have happened, has happened. Anything more would be superfluous.

I read somewhere that all or nearly all suicides are caused by the wish for revenge. ‘You’ll care now. This’ll teach you.’ You must not think that I have any such thoughts. There is no anger in my heart, no bitterness. I simply feel that I have accomplished all that I was sent into the world to accomplish. And now there is nothing more.

I doubt if I can ever explain this to you. I do not understand myself, completely. But I am certain that all my life before was nothing more than a preparation for those three days I spent with you. Why? I simply do not know; perhaps you will, one day. This was my act of service to you. Service—I am convinced of that. Those three days were a crisis for you as well as for me. More I do not know. But of that I am certain. And now my part is over.

To do what one was destined to—there is nothing more that one can ask for. That is enough. Our lives momentarily converged. In some way—I do not know how—I have been of help to you. It is sufficient. I think I am happy now, and at peace. That terrible inner restlessness—you have freed me from it.

I have no thoughts of the future. I do not know what will become of you. I still see you as a superman, the embodiment of my own and perhaps this country’s destiny. I still believe you can do so much, if you will only awake to your power.