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Authors: Elizabeth Taylor
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ruining all the sweetness and light. So you are left out for ever. And for ever. You are left with just the dog.’
‘He let you have the dog … your father, I mean,’ she pointed out, as if there must be something to be said for everybody.
‘The dog was a good way of punishing me,’ he said, easily disposing of her fallacy. ‘When he beat me, I’d never cry, not when I had weals down the backs of my legs and couldn’t sit in my bath. But when he thrashed the dog, I screamed with nerves and blubbered.’
‘I blamed him,’ she thought, ‘for not being humble. And all the time it was I … I was the bumptious, judging one, the sarcastic, clever and superior one.’ As we do not apologise for our thoughts, or only when they are solidified into words, she said nothing, but she felt depressed and ashamed.
‘What happened to your mother?’ she asked, and gave a quick little glance down from the corner of her eyes, not at him, but in his direction. This look – Liz knew it well – was a sign that she was deeply moved, but embarrassed.
‘She died … she just gave up living. It was as if she suddenly lay down and turned her face to the wall and stopped breathing. Heart failure they put it down to. How right they were!’
‘Yes, I see.’
They came to the railway-bridge, and the country lay on the other side.
‘Shall we meet again?’ he suggested, slowing his pace. ‘Will you come for a drink again?’
‘I expect I shall.’
‘When?’
‘Perhaps tomorrow evening.’
‘Will you bring your friend?’
She betrayed nothing, she thought: not a flicker of annoyance or disappointment. ‘If you like,’ she said evenly.
‘Well …’ he began. He shrugged. Then: ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Come alone. Will you come alone?’
‘I’ll see.’
They were standing quite still now, and the shadow of the bridge was cold on her arms. Suddenly, overhead, a trainthundered and pounded and was gone. When they could speak again, he said: ‘Tomorrow evening then. I’ll be in the bar.’
He turned and walked back the way he had come.
‘And now,’ thought Camilla, coming out into the sunshine again, ‘now for the lies and excuses.’
Her eyes ached in the bright sun. Even Hotchkiss glowered and slouched in the midday heat which bleached the gravelled road and sharpened the bands of shadow which fell across it from the poplar trees.
CHAPTER FOUR
Liz sat under the mulberry tree. The fruit was scarlet and black among the dark leaves. Outside this circle of shade, the garden burned and blazed with the hot colours of the bean-flowers, of montbretia, golden-rod, geraniums.
‘My dear Arthur,’ she had written on a piece of paper; but it had blown away across the flower-border, and, too lazy to fetch it, she had begun again on another sheet.
‘My dearest Arthur’ (although, she thought, just as he has only one wife, so I have only one Arthur). ‘I am glad you enjoyed your nice evening at Lady Morrison’s, and very sorry that I forgot to give you her message before I left. Harry has settled very well and Frances is delighted with him. Camilla has arrived, and we are having a peaceful holiday – just like the old days. I wish you were here,’ she was adding, but the wind, like God Himself, wrenched away the paper from her at this lie (indeed the letter was a series of lies) and wafted it into a lavender hedge.
She gave up, lay down among all the squashed mulberries with her arms under her head and fell asleep.
Her husband wakened her. He stood over her, wearing hisbest grey suit, his neat smile. She felt at once ungainly, crumpled, put the back of her hand to her mouth, as if she must have been dribbling, shook her hair from her forehead. A look of annoyance gathered in her eyes.
‘Arthur, how nice! Why are you here?’
‘You
are why I am here, of course.’
‘Does Frances know?’
She glanced at the cottage, as if friends fail unless they can stave off one’s husband.
‘No one was at home,
‘He let you have the dog … your father, I mean,’ she pointed out, as if there must be something to be said for everybody.
‘The dog was a good way of punishing me,’ he said, easily disposing of her fallacy. ‘When he beat me, I’d never cry, not when I had weals down the backs of my legs and couldn’t sit in my bath. But when he thrashed the dog, I screamed with nerves and blubbered.’
‘I blamed him,’ she thought, ‘for not being humble. And all the time it was I … I was the bumptious, judging one, the sarcastic, clever and superior one.’ As we do not apologise for our thoughts, or only when they are solidified into words, she said nothing, but she felt depressed and ashamed.
‘What happened to your mother?’ she asked, and gave a quick little glance down from the corner of her eyes, not at him, but in his direction. This look – Liz knew it well – was a sign that she was deeply moved, but embarrassed.
‘She died … she just gave up living. It was as if she suddenly lay down and turned her face to the wall and stopped breathing. Heart failure they put it down to. How right they were!’
‘Yes, I see.’
They came to the railway-bridge, and the country lay on the other side.
‘Shall we meet again?’ he suggested, slowing his pace. ‘Will you come for a drink again?’
‘I expect I shall.’
‘When?’
‘Perhaps tomorrow evening.’
‘Will you bring your friend?’
She betrayed nothing, she thought: not a flicker of annoyance or disappointment. ‘If you like,’ she said evenly.
‘Well …’ he began. He shrugged. Then: ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Come alone. Will you come alone?’
‘I’ll see.’
They were standing quite still now, and the shadow of the bridge was cold on her arms. Suddenly, overhead, a trainthundered and pounded and was gone. When they could speak again, he said: ‘Tomorrow evening then. I’ll be in the bar.’
He turned and walked back the way he had come.
‘And now,’ thought Camilla, coming out into the sunshine again, ‘now for the lies and excuses.’
Her eyes ached in the bright sun. Even Hotchkiss glowered and slouched in the midday heat which bleached the gravelled road and sharpened the bands of shadow which fell across it from the poplar trees.
CHAPTER FOUR
Liz sat under the mulberry tree. The fruit was scarlet and black among the dark leaves. Outside this circle of shade, the garden burned and blazed with the hot colours of the bean-flowers, of montbretia, golden-rod, geraniums.
‘My dear Arthur,’ she had written on a piece of paper; but it had blown away across the flower-border, and, too lazy to fetch it, she had begun again on another sheet.
‘My dearest Arthur’ (although, she thought, just as he has only one wife, so I have only one Arthur). ‘I am glad you enjoyed your nice evening at Lady Morrison’s, and very sorry that I forgot to give you her message before I left. Harry has settled very well and Frances is delighted with him. Camilla has arrived, and we are having a peaceful holiday – just like the old days. I wish you were here,’ she was adding, but the wind, like God Himself, wrenched away the paper from her at this lie (indeed the letter was a series of lies) and wafted it into a lavender hedge.
She gave up, lay down among all the squashed mulberries with her arms under her head and fell asleep.
Her husband wakened her. He stood over her, wearing hisbest grey suit, his neat smile. She felt at once ungainly, crumpled, put the back of her hand to her mouth, as if she must have been dribbling, shook her hair from her forehead. A look of annoyance gathered in her eyes.
‘Arthur, how nice! Why are you here?’
‘You
are why I am here, of course.’
‘Does Frances know?’
She glanced at the cottage, as if friends fail unless they can stave off one’s husband.
‘No one was at home,
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