Read Online Cat and Mouse by Christianna Brand - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christianna Brand
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big eyes. Though why the hell she should care what Carlyon thought…!
It seemed a long morning. Mr. Chucky departed with Miss Evans and there was nothing to do now but lie on the sofa with her silly leg stuck up on a cushion, pretending to be reading; and where it was getting her in the search for Amista, she hardly knew. I shall lie here pretending to be an invalid till they finally chuck me out; and then I shall say goodbye politely and a lot of good I shall have done Amista! And yet she could not go hopping about the house like a one-legged kangaroo, clumsily peering into cupboards, barging through closed doors, looking for Amista.
Amista. What secret was there about this girl, Amista, what hold had Carlyon over even the little milk-woman who called at the house, that they should all deny the existence of Amista? Was she a prisoner? Had she come creeping into the stranger’s room last night to beg for help? Mrs. Love and Carlyon knew by now that she had come; what price had she paid, poor frightened child, for that secret visit? Amista, with her little white hand and scarlet nails, that in the grim shadows had seemed to be dripping blood. …
Tybalt, the cat, had embarked upon a quarter of an hour of intensive training: five minutes of shadow boxing, five minutes of chasing his tail, five minutes of stalking a ping-pong ball across the linoleum floor. It is exquisite, she thought, and charming and graceful and infinitely amusing—and infinitely horrible. For the ping-pong ball is a mouse and when Tybalt has completed his training he will go forth after real mice and, having caught one, he will torture it. He will let it go and when it thinks it is free he will put out one lazy paw and drag it back again into terror. And maul it a little and let it creep away hoping to end its agony in peace; and bring it back once more. When Carlyon came into the room again, she said something to him of what was in her mind. His blue eyes clouded. He stood in the centre of the room, pushing back his hair with his hand. He said, abruptly, “Siamese cats don’t torture their prey; they kill outright or not at all.” But the very word “prey” was ugly in her ears, and she would not be comforted.
During lunch, he sat silently, eating very little, staring down into his plate. Dai Jones cleared the table and brought in a tray of coffee things. Carlyon took his cup and went over to the window. He stood with his back to her, looking out across the valley, automatically stirring the coffee round and round and round. The spoon made a maddening little clink-clink against the sides of the cup. He said at last: “Miss Jones…” But he broke off, in search of words. “Well, nothing. Never mind.”
“But what were you going to say?”
“ I don’t know,” he said. He shrugged hopelessly. “It’s all a muddle, isn’t it?”
“But if you don’t want a muddle and I don’t want a muddle. …”
“It’s nothing to do with you and me,” he said. “It’s a muddle in itself. At least… Oh, lord !” He drank a gulp of coffee and put down the cup and saucer on the window-sill. But suddenly he said, softly: “There’s a rainbow being born. Come over here.”
She limped over to him. Above the mountain opposite, the sky hung, steely blue; and as they watched an unseen hand dipped into a pool of colour and drew a slow, graceful arch, rose, turquoise, amber, jade, across the leaden sky. They stood side by side, not touching one another; it was almost a sadness when the whole was perfected, when there was nothing more to hope. Katinka said. “It’s over. I wish it wasn’t. It’s over too soon.”
“Yes,” said Carlyon. “It’s like—it’s like love at first sight—too perfect, too soon.” He thrust his hands into the pockets of his old tweed coat, looking out at the great arch of the rainbow glowing palely in the sky. “But there’s nothing to be done about it, is there?” he said; and muttered an excuse about
It seemed a long morning. Mr. Chucky departed with Miss Evans and there was nothing to do now but lie on the sofa with her silly leg stuck up on a cushion, pretending to be reading; and where it was getting her in the search for Amista, she hardly knew. I shall lie here pretending to be an invalid till they finally chuck me out; and then I shall say goodbye politely and a lot of good I shall have done Amista! And yet she could not go hopping about the house like a one-legged kangaroo, clumsily peering into cupboards, barging through closed doors, looking for Amista.
Amista. What secret was there about this girl, Amista, what hold had Carlyon over even the little milk-woman who called at the house, that they should all deny the existence of Amista? Was she a prisoner? Had she come creeping into the stranger’s room last night to beg for help? Mrs. Love and Carlyon knew by now that she had come; what price had she paid, poor frightened child, for that secret visit? Amista, with her little white hand and scarlet nails, that in the grim shadows had seemed to be dripping blood. …
Tybalt, the cat, had embarked upon a quarter of an hour of intensive training: five minutes of shadow boxing, five minutes of chasing his tail, five minutes of stalking a ping-pong ball across the linoleum floor. It is exquisite, she thought, and charming and graceful and infinitely amusing—and infinitely horrible. For the ping-pong ball is a mouse and when Tybalt has completed his training he will go forth after real mice and, having caught one, he will torture it. He will let it go and when it thinks it is free he will put out one lazy paw and drag it back again into terror. And maul it a little and let it creep away hoping to end its agony in peace; and bring it back once more. When Carlyon came into the room again, she said something to him of what was in her mind. His blue eyes clouded. He stood in the centre of the room, pushing back his hair with his hand. He said, abruptly, “Siamese cats don’t torture their prey; they kill outright or not at all.” But the very word “prey” was ugly in her ears, and she would not be comforted.
During lunch, he sat silently, eating very little, staring down into his plate. Dai Jones cleared the table and brought in a tray of coffee things. Carlyon took his cup and went over to the window. He stood with his back to her, looking out across the valley, automatically stirring the coffee round and round and round. The spoon made a maddening little clink-clink against the sides of the cup. He said at last: “Miss Jones…” But he broke off, in search of words. “Well, nothing. Never mind.”
“But what were you going to say?”
“ I don’t know,” he said. He shrugged hopelessly. “It’s all a muddle, isn’t it?”
“But if you don’t want a muddle and I don’t want a muddle. …”
“It’s nothing to do with you and me,” he said. “It’s a muddle in itself. At least… Oh, lord !” He drank a gulp of coffee and put down the cup and saucer on the window-sill. But suddenly he said, softly: “There’s a rainbow being born. Come over here.”
She limped over to him. Above the mountain opposite, the sky hung, steely blue; and as they watched an unseen hand dipped into a pool of colour and drew a slow, graceful arch, rose, turquoise, amber, jade, across the leaden sky. They stood side by side, not touching one another; it was almost a sadness when the whole was perfected, when there was nothing more to hope. Katinka said. “It’s over. I wish it wasn’t. It’s over too soon.”
“Yes,” said Carlyon. “It’s like—it’s like love at first sight—too perfect, too soon.” He thrust his hands into the pockets of his old tweed coat, looking out at the great arch of the rainbow glowing palely in the sky. “But there’s nothing to be done about it, is there?” he said; and muttered an excuse about
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