Read Online The Watch Tower by Elizabeth Harrower - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Harrower
Tags: Fiction classics
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lurid with dreams of war and death, after school’s juggernaut lunacy, lamb chops and the price of peas, new things were happening.
‘Do be quiet, Clare. I can’t hear myself think.’ Mrs. Vaizey had a million details on her mind. The singing stopped.
‘Laura—Laura—’ Cunningly she tried to wrest her sister from her vast dreamy preoccupation by speaking low. ‘Listen to this: “But for Roderick , on the bridge beside her , this moment had a quite different sense—some sort of assuagement or satisfaction at her having rested even so much of her as her hands , for however short a time , on even this bar of unknowing wood . His pity , speaking to her out of the stillness of his face , put her in awe of him , as of a greater sufferer than herself—no pity is ignorant , which is pity ’ s cost . ” Laura? Don’t you think that’s—’
‘What?’ Laura sounded asleep though her eyes were open. ‘I’m busy. I wish you’d keep quiet.’
‘Sure! Who cares?’ Clare rushed away, clutching the book she had quoted from, begging its forgiveness. Not she, but something beautiful had been traduced. Oh, but I know what you mean, she exulted, holding it to her on the dark balcony and smiling like someone in love. I truly do.
How she knew, the particular occasion of her knowing, she could not remember. But, yes, the gratitude and relief of the witness seeing those hands on the harmless rail of the bridge—
She knew about pity. Every day, every day, people walked on clouds of illusion. In that play at the Theatre Royal there was an actress who thought herself lovely, and who was plump and too old for the part. The leading actor meant to be brilliant and subtle, yet no single gesture or inflexion was inspired by talent. Clare’s heart was wrung. She suffered for them, loved and shielded them. When they bowed before the curtain and beamed at the applause, tears rolled down her cheeks. It was unbearable. They must never know.
Daily, she heard conversations from adults and from adolescents who, starting from some illogical premise in space, constructed gingerbread houses trimmed with non sequiturs and stood back to assess their handiwork with pride and gravity. They thought they knew what they were saying! They thought that what they said had meaning! Girls were bewitched by their own ability to curl their hair and embroider hideousdaisies on hideous teacloths. Boys boasted because they could eat five potatoes with a roast dinner. Oh, accomplished! Oh, somnambulists! Silence, everyone! Take care!
On the balcony to which she had retreated, forearms resting on its brick wall, Clare summarily called up her dear ones and relations out of books. They knew her. What did it matter if there had never been anyone about to talk to? These others knew the real world was not tables and chairs and meat and vegetables—or that, given food and shelter, you could surely agree to, had obligations to—venture out? With her head on her folded arms, she stood dreaming.
‘I tell you what.’ Felix and Laura were eating cheese-and-gherkin sandwiches in the office. ‘To save rents overlapping, we’ll get it over the morning your mother’s sailing. She can come and check up on us and you can move into my house the same day. How’s that?’
‘Yes. All right.’ Laura put down her chipped cup. She felt lately like someone on a runaway train: events flashed by like stations, with no reference at all to her.
‘Well, then!’ Felix jumped up and gave her a boisterous kiss and pretended to punch her chin, and smiled into her face. ‘Hiya, Mrs. Shaw! You better put your thinking-cap on. We’ve got work to do.’
The factory, the flat, Felix’s house, her mother’s departure, and wedding arrangements, all concurrently required Laura’s total concentration.
‘No churches!’ Felix warned her. ‘Morbid damn’ places. Give you the willies. A registry office’s the shot. You don’t want veils and all that hocus-pocus.’
‘No.
‘Do be quiet, Clare. I can’t hear myself think.’ Mrs. Vaizey had a million details on her mind. The singing stopped.
‘Laura—Laura—’ Cunningly she tried to wrest her sister from her vast dreamy preoccupation by speaking low. ‘Listen to this: “But for Roderick , on the bridge beside her , this moment had a quite different sense—some sort of assuagement or satisfaction at her having rested even so much of her as her hands , for however short a time , on even this bar of unknowing wood . His pity , speaking to her out of the stillness of his face , put her in awe of him , as of a greater sufferer than herself—no pity is ignorant , which is pity ’ s cost . ” Laura? Don’t you think that’s—’
‘What?’ Laura sounded asleep though her eyes were open. ‘I’m busy. I wish you’d keep quiet.’
‘Sure! Who cares?’ Clare rushed away, clutching the book she had quoted from, begging its forgiveness. Not she, but something beautiful had been traduced. Oh, but I know what you mean, she exulted, holding it to her on the dark balcony and smiling like someone in love. I truly do.
How she knew, the particular occasion of her knowing, she could not remember. But, yes, the gratitude and relief of the witness seeing those hands on the harmless rail of the bridge—
She knew about pity. Every day, every day, people walked on clouds of illusion. In that play at the Theatre Royal there was an actress who thought herself lovely, and who was plump and too old for the part. The leading actor meant to be brilliant and subtle, yet no single gesture or inflexion was inspired by talent. Clare’s heart was wrung. She suffered for them, loved and shielded them. When they bowed before the curtain and beamed at the applause, tears rolled down her cheeks. It was unbearable. They must never know.
Daily, she heard conversations from adults and from adolescents who, starting from some illogical premise in space, constructed gingerbread houses trimmed with non sequiturs and stood back to assess their handiwork with pride and gravity. They thought they knew what they were saying! They thought that what they said had meaning! Girls were bewitched by their own ability to curl their hair and embroider hideousdaisies on hideous teacloths. Boys boasted because they could eat five potatoes with a roast dinner. Oh, accomplished! Oh, somnambulists! Silence, everyone! Take care!
On the balcony to which she had retreated, forearms resting on its brick wall, Clare summarily called up her dear ones and relations out of books. They knew her. What did it matter if there had never been anyone about to talk to? These others knew the real world was not tables and chairs and meat and vegetables—or that, given food and shelter, you could surely agree to, had obligations to—venture out? With her head on her folded arms, she stood dreaming.
‘I tell you what.’ Felix and Laura were eating cheese-and-gherkin sandwiches in the office. ‘To save rents overlapping, we’ll get it over the morning your mother’s sailing. She can come and check up on us and you can move into my house the same day. How’s that?’
‘Yes. All right.’ Laura put down her chipped cup. She felt lately like someone on a runaway train: events flashed by like stations, with no reference at all to her.
‘Well, then!’ Felix jumped up and gave her a boisterous kiss and pretended to punch her chin, and smiled into her face. ‘Hiya, Mrs. Shaw! You better put your thinking-cap on. We’ve got work to do.’
The factory, the flat, Felix’s house, her mother’s departure, and wedding arrangements, all concurrently required Laura’s total concentration.
‘No churches!’ Felix warned her. ‘Morbid damn’ places. Give you the willies. A registry office’s the shot. You don’t want veils and all that hocus-pocus.’
‘No.
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