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Authors: Elizabeth Bowen
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it for some time, for no sound came from inside Mme Fisher's room.
5
Henrietta's relief at finding herself alone was overcast by the prospect of returning to Leopold. Feeling like a kaleidoscope often and quickly shaken, she badly wanted some place in which not to think. So she sat down on the stairs, with her eyes shut tight, pressing her ear-lobes over her ears with her thumbs: she had found this the surest way to repress thought. But something had got at her: the idea of Miss Fisher's heart.
Why could it not mend, like Caroline's?
Caroline was eleven years older than Henrietta. Summers ago, when Henrietta was six, they had shared a seaside bedroom, a room with blowy white curtains and china knobs on the furniture: here, early one morning, she had woken to find Caroline in tears. Nothing had had time to happen, the morning was still innocent, but here in the stretcher-bed beside Henrietta her big sister lay twisting with sobs, eyes blubbered and scarlet in a tear-sunken face. Sunshine made the room foreign to any kind of despair. Henrietta, who had a regard for Caroline, had said after a moment: 'Shall I come into bed with you?' Her sister's body looked lonely.
'No, thank you. Go to sleep.'
'But it's today now.'
'I know. I hate it,' said Caroline. She sat up and looked with horror round at the furniture, as though she had hoped against hope to find something gone: her hair hung round her shoulders matted, dull. Her poise and her calm regard for herself had vanished. Something she saw on the wash-stand or some new pain made her roll round in bed again, biting her wrist. This paroxysm abated to hopeless hiccups. 'Mr Jeffcocks is married,' she said at last.
'Who to?'
'He told me last night.'
'Has he got any children?'
Caroline writhed at this like a hooked fish. 'I wish I had died,' she said, 'when I was your age.'
Henrietta, frightened, had got out of bed and looked out of the window as though for help. The sea, heartlessly blue and glittering with sunshine, carried two sailing ships: below the tamarisk hedge the shingle shelved to the sea in smooth orange steps. Mr Jeffcocks had already cast a blight on the holiday, for Caroline had devoted the fortnight to running after him, she could not be got to come on picnics or anything. She had bought a red glacé belt and spent hours up at her window re-whitening her shoes and looking out for him; she would stand against the bright sea staring down the promenade towards the glass porch of his hotel. Nobody knew for certain how she had picked him up. Their mother, who was alive then, took no notice, but Mrs Arbuthnot, who did not in those days see eye to eye with Caroline, was with them also, and the affair had made her anxious and cross, which had fallen heavy on Henrietta .. . When Caroline saw Henrietta get out of bed she had said, 'No; don't go.'
'I was going to see my starfish.'
Starfish seemed to have fatal associations, for Caroline wept again. Then she got up, sobbing, to stare at herself in the glass. 'I've gone all different,' she said. 'Say something.'
Henrietta thought, then said: 'Today we're going to Dymchurch.'
'Tell mother I'll stay in bed. And don't let them come in here.'
'And miss Dymchurch?'
Caroline picked up a comb and blindly tugged at her hair.
'Why do you comb your hair?'
'Something has gone inside me. My heart, I think.'
But Caroline had had to get up, of course. She behaved for several days as though she were ill. Meanwhile, Mr Jeffcocks took Henrietta out in a boat and showed her photographs of his two little girls. Caroline began to show she was uncertain whether he had betrayed her or were just simply common. She no longer slipped out directly after supper, but sat in the sitting-room helping Henrietta sort shells. That autumn they sent her away to a finishing school, from which she came back next year with an unchippable glaze. She said she saw now how morbid one was when one was young. Growing up very fast, she learnt to be so
5
Henrietta's relief at finding herself alone was overcast by the prospect of returning to Leopold. Feeling like a kaleidoscope often and quickly shaken, she badly wanted some place in which not to think. So she sat down on the stairs, with her eyes shut tight, pressing her ear-lobes over her ears with her thumbs: she had found this the surest way to repress thought. But something had got at her: the idea of Miss Fisher's heart.
Why could it not mend, like Caroline's?
Caroline was eleven years older than Henrietta. Summers ago, when Henrietta was six, they had shared a seaside bedroom, a room with blowy white curtains and china knobs on the furniture: here, early one morning, she had woken to find Caroline in tears. Nothing had had time to happen, the morning was still innocent, but here in the stretcher-bed beside Henrietta her big sister lay twisting with sobs, eyes blubbered and scarlet in a tear-sunken face. Sunshine made the room foreign to any kind of despair. Henrietta, who had a regard for Caroline, had said after a moment: 'Shall I come into bed with you?' Her sister's body looked lonely.
'No, thank you. Go to sleep.'
'But it's today now.'
'I know. I hate it,' said Caroline. She sat up and looked with horror round at the furniture, as though she had hoped against hope to find something gone: her hair hung round her shoulders matted, dull. Her poise and her calm regard for herself had vanished. Something she saw on the wash-stand or some new pain made her roll round in bed again, biting her wrist. This paroxysm abated to hopeless hiccups. 'Mr Jeffcocks is married,' she said at last.
'Who to?'
'He told me last night.'
'Has he got any children?'
Caroline writhed at this like a hooked fish. 'I wish I had died,' she said, 'when I was your age.'
Henrietta, frightened, had got out of bed and looked out of the window as though for help. The sea, heartlessly blue and glittering with sunshine, carried two sailing ships: below the tamarisk hedge the shingle shelved to the sea in smooth orange steps. Mr Jeffcocks had already cast a blight on the holiday, for Caroline had devoted the fortnight to running after him, she could not be got to come on picnics or anything. She had bought a red glacé belt and spent hours up at her window re-whitening her shoes and looking out for him; she would stand against the bright sea staring down the promenade towards the glass porch of his hotel. Nobody knew for certain how she had picked him up. Their mother, who was alive then, took no notice, but Mrs Arbuthnot, who did not in those days see eye to eye with Caroline, was with them also, and the affair had made her anxious and cross, which had fallen heavy on Henrietta .. . When Caroline saw Henrietta get out of bed she had said, 'No; don't go.'
'I was going to see my starfish.'
Starfish seemed to have fatal associations, for Caroline wept again. Then she got up, sobbing, to stare at herself in the glass. 'I've gone all different,' she said. 'Say something.'
Henrietta thought, then said: 'Today we're going to Dymchurch.'
'Tell mother I'll stay in bed. And don't let them come in here.'
'And miss Dymchurch?'
Caroline picked up a comb and blindly tugged at her hair.
'Why do you comb your hair?'
'Something has gone inside me. My heart, I think.'
But Caroline had had to get up, of course. She behaved for several days as though she were ill. Meanwhile, Mr Jeffcocks took Henrietta out in a boat and showed her photographs of his two little girls. Caroline began to show she was uncertain whether he had betrayed her or were just simply common. She no longer slipped out directly after supper, but sat in the sitting-room helping Henrietta sort shells. That autumn they sent her away to a finishing school, from which she came back next year with an unchippable glaze. She said she saw now how morbid one was when one was young. Growing up very fast, she learnt to be so
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