uncharacteristic way ‘A chicken’s carcase is all hollow inside and domed like the roof of a cathedral, so noble! ‘
‘What strange things you think of,’ he said reverently. ‘I suppose I ought to take you home now—it’s after midnight.’
After midnight—then it was tomorrow! And she might see Tom. She turned to Bernard, her eyes shining, and thanked him for a lovely evening. Gready relieved, for he had been disturbed by her strange talk, he kissed her and she did not seem to object, as she so often did. A funny girl, that was how he summed her up in his own mind. Next time they might go and see a musical show which would have been his own choice rather than the gloomy problem plays she seemed to prefer.
‘Look, there’s a light next door,’ she said, as they approached her house. ‘I wonder what Mr. Lydgate’s doing?’
‘Having a sundowner?’ Bernard suggested, for he did not know much about colonial administrators and his ideas about what they might be doing were limited and conventional.
‘Oh, no, he’s performing some ghastly rite to propitiate his ancestors,’ said Deirdre wildly.
‘Good heavens! Do you see that?’ Bernard pointed to the lighted window where a grotesque silhouette appeared, lingered for a moment, and then moved away.
‘It looks as if he’s wearing an African mask,’ said Deirdre. ‘It seems a strange thing to be doing at this time of night—probably the neighbours will complain.’
She said good-night to Bernard and crept quietly up the stairs, but both her mother and her aunt were awake, and her mother called out ‘Is that you, dear?’ as she always did.
Deirdre reassured her and then went to her own room and stood in front of the looking-glass, contemplating herself in the bony-bosomed dress from all angles. Then she took off the dress, flung it carelessly over the back of a chair and knelt by the bookcase in her petticoat. She had remembered a poem, cherished by many schoolgirls for many different kinds of love, the sonnet by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, beginning, When do I see thee most , beloved one? She read it through and then got ready for bed. African Political Systems , her current bedside book, was unopened that night.
CHAPTER FIVE
The ugly black marble clock on the mantelpiece in Alaric Lydgate’s study struck one. It had been his father’s, a present from his colleagues at the Mission. It had kept good time for over forty years under the most difficult conditions, being shaken about by his carriers bearing his loads over rough country, and later, when Alaric had inherited it, ticking its way through the hot steamy days and nights of Africa.
At the thought of Africa the expression on Alaric’s face might have been seen to soften, had his face been visible, but it was concealed under a mask of red beans and palm fibre, giving him the alarming appearance which had starded Bernard and Deirdre. He often sat like this in the evenings, withdrawing himself from the world, feeling in the stuffy darkness of the mask that he was back again in his native-built house, listening to the rain falling outside. He often thought what a good thing it would be if the wearing of masks or animals’ heads could become customary for persons over a certain age. How restful social intercourse would be if the face did not have to assume any expression—the strained look of interest, the simulated delight or surprise, the anxious concern one didn’t really feel. Alaric often avoided looking into people’s eyes when he spoke to them, fearful of what he might see there, for life was very terrible whatever sort of front we might put on it, and only the eyes of fche very young or the very old and wise could look out on it with a clear untroubled gaze.
Alaric Lydgate regarded himself as a failure. He had been invalided out of the Colonial Service, where he had not been awarded the promotion he felt he had earned. He had achieved nothing in the fields of anthropology or
‘What strange things you think of,’ he said reverently. ‘I suppose I ought to take you home now—it’s after midnight.’
After midnight—then it was tomorrow! And she might see Tom. She turned to Bernard, her eyes shining, and thanked him for a lovely evening. Gready relieved, for he had been disturbed by her strange talk, he kissed her and she did not seem to object, as she so often did. A funny girl, that was how he summed her up in his own mind. Next time they might go and see a musical show which would have been his own choice rather than the gloomy problem plays she seemed to prefer.
‘Look, there’s a light next door,’ she said, as they approached her house. ‘I wonder what Mr. Lydgate’s doing?’
‘Having a sundowner?’ Bernard suggested, for he did not know much about colonial administrators and his ideas about what they might be doing were limited and conventional.
‘Oh, no, he’s performing some ghastly rite to propitiate his ancestors,’ said Deirdre wildly.
‘Good heavens! Do you see that?’ Bernard pointed to the lighted window where a grotesque silhouette appeared, lingered for a moment, and then moved away.
‘It looks as if he’s wearing an African mask,’ said Deirdre. ‘It seems a strange thing to be doing at this time of night—probably the neighbours will complain.’
She said good-night to Bernard and crept quietly up the stairs, but both her mother and her aunt were awake, and her mother called out ‘Is that you, dear?’ as she always did.
Deirdre reassured her and then went to her own room and stood in front of the looking-glass, contemplating herself in the bony-bosomed dress from all angles. Then she took off the dress, flung it carelessly over the back of a chair and knelt by the bookcase in her petticoat. She had remembered a poem, cherished by many schoolgirls for many different kinds of love, the sonnet by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, beginning, When do I see thee most , beloved one? She read it through and then got ready for bed. African Political Systems , her current bedside book, was unopened that night.
CHAPTER FIVE
The ugly black marble clock on the mantelpiece in Alaric Lydgate’s study struck one. It had been his father’s, a present from his colleagues at the Mission. It had kept good time for over forty years under the most difficult conditions, being shaken about by his carriers bearing his loads over rough country, and later, when Alaric had inherited it, ticking its way through the hot steamy days and nights of Africa.
At the thought of Africa the expression on Alaric’s face might have been seen to soften, had his face been visible, but it was concealed under a mask of red beans and palm fibre, giving him the alarming appearance which had starded Bernard and Deirdre. He often sat like this in the evenings, withdrawing himself from the world, feeling in the stuffy darkness of the mask that he was back again in his native-built house, listening to the rain falling outside. He often thought what a good thing it would be if the wearing of masks or animals’ heads could become customary for persons over a certain age. How restful social intercourse would be if the face did not have to assume any expression—the strained look of interest, the simulated delight or surprise, the anxious concern one didn’t really feel. Alaric often avoided looking into people’s eyes when he spoke to them, fearful of what he might see there, for life was very terrible whatever sort of front we might put on it, and only the eyes of fche very young or the very old and wise could look out on it with a clear untroubled gaze.
Alaric Lydgate regarded himself as a failure. He had been invalided out of the Colonial Service, where he had not been awarded the promotion he felt he had earned. He had achieved nothing in the fields of anthropology or
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