Read Online Cat and Mouse by Christianna Brand - Free Book Online
Authors: Christianna Brand
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She wears red varnish on her nails—that I definitely saw.”
The blue, blue eyes looked doubtful. “If you saw her—why didn’t you speak to her?”
“I—well, I was sleepy, I was dopey, and I was all muddled up. But I know she’s here. She’s been writing to me from this house, for months. You say, everyone says, that she’s never been here. Well, then, how could she describe this house? How could she describe the things in it, the people in it and the Siamese cat, and everyday things that have recently happened in the house. Of course she’s been here, she’s been here all the time. And what I want to know is—where is she now? It’s weeks since I’ve heard from her.”
“Perhaps she’s gone away,” said the little woman, reasonably.
“But why does everyone say she was never here at all? I believe she’s here now.” (Held there, perhaps, against her will, a young girl, frightened and at bay—the young girl to whom Carlyon had said that birth, age, fortune must not count against their marrying. … I can’t go and leave her here, she thought; and yet… How did she know that these people did not live by just such traps as this—lonely women, aging women, with a little bit of money put by in a nylon stocking…? Any minute now, Carlyon would whip out a marriage licence and a form for insuring her life!)
The little milk-woman clanked her tinny cans. “Well, sorry I am, bach, but I can’t help you at all. Proper old muddle, I’m sure. Better you leave it alone, my girl, and come back across the river with me in my boat.” How patient country people are, thought Katinka. All this oddness and mystery—but don’t worry about it, it’s nothing to do with you, just leave it alone. … And she looked at the little woman and thought, In years she is not so very much older than me—yet here I am dithering and blathering over my half real, half imagined tuppenny mystery, and she so incurious and wise. Aloud, anxiously seeking, she said: “You really think I should give it up and go? You honestly think I ought not to stay here and try to help this girl?”
“ I never saw no girl, Miss Jones,” said the woman, and swinging her milk cans, hurried away round to the kitchen door.
And Tinka remembered a phrase from one of Amista’s innumerable letters. “Nobody to speak to, ever, but the two servants and now and again the woman who brings the milk. …” The mountains outside the low window-sill were boundless in their offer of liberty. She turned away from them as wistfully as any prisoner from the blue tent of the sky.
Carlyon was standing speaking to Mr. Chucky in the hall. Chucky, in his character as policeman, bowed stiffly to Miss Jones, and his eye consulted Carlyon’s as to how he should conduct himself. Tinka was thankful that he should be on the spot when she made her announcement. She had ricked her bad ankle again in her stumbling run across the dining-room, and was able to put on a very good semblance of agonizing pain as she limped across the hall. “Mr. Carlyon, I’m sorry if I seemed ungracious. …”
Carlyon politely disclaimed. “And the trouble is,” said Tinka, casting a covert glance at her fellow conspirator to see how he would take it, “that I’ve hurt my ankle again, whizzing across the room just now to speak to Miss Evans.”
Carlyon said quickly: “You’re going to stay?” and she felt, to her astonishment, that her heart gave a little bound at the unconcealed pleasure in his voice. He tried immediately to cover it, saying stiffly that he was sorry the cause should be a fresh injury to her ankle. Mr. Chucky, watching them both in some doubt, asked respectfully if Mr. Carlyon would prefer him, after all, to stay on. In view of… H’m, h’m… He flicked an explanatory glance at Katinka.
“No, no,” said Carlyon. “That’ll be all right. There’s been some muddle somewhere, but it’ll clear itself up. You can go back now, with the milk-woman.”
The blue, blue eyes looked doubtful. “If you saw her—why didn’t you speak to her?”
“I—well, I was sleepy, I was dopey, and I was all muddled up. But I know she’s here. She’s been writing to me from this house, for months. You say, everyone says, that she’s never been here. Well, then, how could she describe this house? How could she describe the things in it, the people in it and the Siamese cat, and everyday things that have recently happened in the house. Of course she’s been here, she’s been here all the time. And what I want to know is—where is she now? It’s weeks since I’ve heard from her.”
“Perhaps she’s gone away,” said the little woman, reasonably.
“But why does everyone say she was never here at all? I believe she’s here now.” (Held there, perhaps, against her will, a young girl, frightened and at bay—the young girl to whom Carlyon had said that birth, age, fortune must not count against their marrying. … I can’t go and leave her here, she thought; and yet… How did she know that these people did not live by just such traps as this—lonely women, aging women, with a little bit of money put by in a nylon stocking…? Any minute now, Carlyon would whip out a marriage licence and a form for insuring her life!)
The little milk-woman clanked her tinny cans. “Well, sorry I am, bach, but I can’t help you at all. Proper old muddle, I’m sure. Better you leave it alone, my girl, and come back across the river with me in my boat.” How patient country people are, thought Katinka. All this oddness and mystery—but don’t worry about it, it’s nothing to do with you, just leave it alone. … And she looked at the little woman and thought, In years she is not so very much older than me—yet here I am dithering and blathering over my half real, half imagined tuppenny mystery, and she so incurious and wise. Aloud, anxiously seeking, she said: “You really think I should give it up and go? You honestly think I ought not to stay here and try to help this girl?”
“ I never saw no girl, Miss Jones,” said the woman, and swinging her milk cans, hurried away round to the kitchen door.
And Tinka remembered a phrase from one of Amista’s innumerable letters. “Nobody to speak to, ever, but the two servants and now and again the woman who brings the milk. …” The mountains outside the low window-sill were boundless in their offer of liberty. She turned away from them as wistfully as any prisoner from the blue tent of the sky.
Carlyon was standing speaking to Mr. Chucky in the hall. Chucky, in his character as policeman, bowed stiffly to Miss Jones, and his eye consulted Carlyon’s as to how he should conduct himself. Tinka was thankful that he should be on the spot when she made her announcement. She had ricked her bad ankle again in her stumbling run across the dining-room, and was able to put on a very good semblance of agonizing pain as she limped across the hall. “Mr. Carlyon, I’m sorry if I seemed ungracious. …”
Carlyon politely disclaimed. “And the trouble is,” said Tinka, casting a covert glance at her fellow conspirator to see how he would take it, “that I’ve hurt my ankle again, whizzing across the room just now to speak to Miss Evans.”
Carlyon said quickly: “You’re going to stay?” and she felt, to her astonishment, that her heart gave a little bound at the unconcealed pleasure in his voice. He tried immediately to cover it, saying stiffly that he was sorry the cause should be a fresh injury to her ankle. Mr. Chucky, watching them both in some doubt, asked respectfully if Mr. Carlyon would prefer him, after all, to stay on. In view of… H’m, h’m… He flicked an explanatory glance at Katinka.
“No, no,” said Carlyon. “That’ll be all right. There’s been some muddle somewhere, but it’ll clear itself up. You can go back now, with the milk-woman.”
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