‘Edward, what’s the matter, are you ill?’
‘No, yes, I think I’ve got malaria.’
‘Malaria?’
‘Yes, there are malaria mosquitoes in the fen.’
‘You’re all wet and muddy.’
‘I walked into a pool, perfectly silly. I thought I might be late.’
‘Sit down here. Can I give you something? Coffee, sherry?’
‘No, I’ll be all right — in a minute.’ He sat down in a low chair. He felt giddy and a cloud of blackness hovered over him, just above his brow. He said, ‘I mustn’t bother you, Brownie. I don’t want to be in the way. You must do your packing.’
‘I’ve done it. It’s only a few minutes to the bus. Do have a drink. I’m going to have one.’
‘All right, sherry.’ The sherry, dark and rather sweet, tasted wonderful, like some drink rushed specially from heaven. He felt a little better. ‘I feel all right now. Of course it isn’t malaria, I just had a touch of ’flu, I’m over it really.’
‘You’re shivering. I’ll light the paraffin stove. There.’
‘Oh Brownie, Brownie — ’
They looked at each other.
In the darker scene of the cottage room, where everything seemed to be stained by woodsmoke or wear or age, Brownie looked older and shabbier, her hair less bright, her face somehow disorganised by tiredness or sadness. She was wearing a navy blue skirt and a brown jersey from the top of which a blue blouse confusedly obtruded. Her pale face seemed awkwardly large and naked, undefended by make-up or pretty hair or charm. She stood heavily, her feet apart, her hands clasped in front of her, staring down at Edward.
As she still stood, Edward made an effort to get up.
‘No, no, sit. Shall I light the wood fire?’
‘No, please not — ’
‘I didn’t light it last night. It’s a bit cold this morning. And the cottage is getting damp already.’ She pulled an upright chair forward and sat on it, towering over Edward who felt uncomfortable and weak in his lower chair with its sunken seat and wooden arms. His long legs were uncomfortably stretched out, and his trousers steaming a little from the heat of the stove, which Brownie had placed close to him. He wanted to get up and find a higher chair, but did not dare to do this or to ask for more sherry.
‘Thank you for seeing me — ’
‘Not at all — ’
‘You said you wanted to ask me something else.’
‘Yes, two things actually — you must forgive my sort of probing — I feel I must get it all clear while I’m still able to see you.’
‘Yes — of course — ’ It sounded to Edward as if … sometime very soon … their meetings would have come to an end forever.
‘It may sound crazy to ask this — but — well — look, did you tell me the truth last time, about your giving him the drug without his knowing?’
‘Yes! My God, if you don’t believe me I’m lost!’
‘Yes, yes, I know, I’ve just got to get another idea right out of my head. He didn’t ask for it?’
‘No!’
‘But still he might have — for some reason — wanted to walk out of the window anyway.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Edward. He was feeling sick again, black, with an unbearable wretchedness closing upon him.
‘I mean, you’re sure it wasn’t suicide?’
‘Suicide? No! Of course not!’
‘He wasn’t desperate, nothing awful had happened to him, like losing his girl, or — ’
‘No!’
‘He was, so far as you know, perfectly happy and OK?’
‘Yes. He was very well, he was perfectly happy, everything was splendid with him. Oh God, I’m sorry — ’
Brownie sighed. She was staring at the bright flickering window of the stove and had lifted a corner of her skirt which she was unconsciously kneading. ‘Ah — all right — the other thing — excuse my asking, but did you have a homosexual relation with Mark?’
The question hurt Edward in a deep obscure way. It seemed to him for the first time that this was something which might have happened in that long future which he had, together with Mark, destroyed. ‘No, I didn’t. I loved him. But not like that.’
‘And he loved you.’
‘Yes. I think so. I’m sure.’
‘But not like that.’
‘No.’ Can I be certain? thought Edward. God, how this hurt, this unexpected opening up of things that might have been, further torture chambers and caverns of pain.
‘You see,’ said Brownie, in her cool sad voice, ‘lots of people have said lots of things, and someone suggested to me that you did have a homosexual relation and that you pushed him out of the window after a jealous quarrel.’
Edward cried out. He did now manage to get up out of his chair and stand before her. ‘No! It’s not true. How could it be true? Oh Christ! Who said that?’
‘Nobody you know. Just someone who was speculating or guessing. It all interested everyone so much. A terrible complicated disaster excites people.’
‘You don’t think that, what you said?’
‘No, I don’t. I really don’t, and I didn’t. I just had to say it to get rid of it. It’s gone now.’
‘It’s gone from you to me. I’ll never stop thinking that people say that.’ Edward instantly regretted these words. If there were a terrible thought, should he not take the burden of it, and be glad to take a pain away from her into himself? And did what he had just said mean that he cared more about his reputation than about Mark’s death? He said, ‘Oh hell, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry you had to hear such horrible — guesses and speculations — ’ He walked to the window and back, wanting to cry out and tear his hair.
Brownie, hunched and big on her chair, frowning slightly, watched him. She crossed her legs and pulled her skirt down and sighed. ‘So that’s all — and I believe everything you say.’
‘Well, that could scarcely be worse, the truth I mean. I deceived him and abandoned him, so I murdered him.’
‘Don’t talk like that please. Don’t you see that it helps me if I can — can understand you and sympathise — ’
‘You mean if you can forgive me.’
‘Yes, if you like to put it so.’
‘Well, do you?’
‘Yes.’ She said it in a dull sad way.
Yet, he thought, how else could she say it? She gave him so much, was he to cry and complain because it was not more? She did not look like Mark today. Perhaps she was looking like her mother. He said, ‘You are the just judge. Thank you — well — and so — I am finished with and can be sent away. What about your mother? You said I might be able to help her.’
‘She goes on hating you.’
‘Someone told me that hatred kills. Perhaps her hatred will kill me. Perhaps that might be the best thing, a kind of justice.’
‘That’s a rotten thing to say. Hatred kills the hater. My poor mother is almost mad with it.’
‘So that’s another of my crimes.’
‘The consequences of anything can go on and on.’
‘What can I do about it?’
‘Nothing. I thought somehow you could help her but I don’t see how. Let us say it doesn’t have to concern you.’
He suddenly felt she hates me, Brownie hates me. But it can’t be, that would kill. He said, ‘Suppose I were to see her, or write to her?’
‘No, I’ll tell her some things you said — anything that’s necessary — ’
‘So there’s nothing more I can do for you?’
‘No. You’ve been very patient.’
‘Patient! God!’
Brownie got up and started rubbing her face with her hands, smoothing them over her prominent white brow, and tucking her listless hair in behind her ears. She yawned.
Edward stood back. His trousers were still wet, now hot and wet. Brownie turned off the paraffin heater. They moved toward the door. There was a pause. Brownie adjusted the collar of her blouse. Edward realis
ed he had not, throughout their conversation, now over, really looked at her. They looked at each other for a second, then looked away. She said, ‘Well goodbye, and thanks.’
‘Edward desperately tried to think of some way to continue the conversation, but could not. He felt a soft wet patch against his side, investigated his jacket pocket, and drew forth the remains of his hasty jam sandwich, now squashed into a red limp mess.
‘What’s that?’ said Brownie.
‘A jam sandwich. I forgot all about it. I must have crushed it against the chair. I put it — I hadn’t time for breakfast — ’
They might have laughed only they did not. Brownie smiled wanly.
‘Can I throw it away somewhere?’ He stood holding it out.
‘I’ll take it.’ Brownie took it from him and threw it with some force into the wood ash in the fireplace. She rubbed her hand on her skirt.
Edward felt near to tears. The black miserable fear was about to overwhelm him.
‘Shall I make you some sandwiches? Oh, I can’t — I’ve thrown all the food away.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll have my lunch at — over there — ’
‘Goodbye then. Thanks for coming.’
They paused another instant and looked at each other again. Then each took a little step forward and, responding to the swift mysterious mechanism which so imperiously draws one human body to another, were clasped in each other’s arms. They held together thus, strongly, violently, as if each would drive right through the other, their eyes closed, her head in his shoulder, his face buried in her hair, for some time. Then they struggled apart and Edward clumsily kissed her cheek, then quickly her lips, and they drew away.
Brownie looked quite different now. She was blushing and her face, alert, assembled, had a gentle almost apologetic look and she made a sweeping gesture with her hand suggestive of a bow. She looked hurt, touched, younger, almost timid. Edward felt a corresponding look on his own face. He felt like a subject who, after surprising his prince, wants only to kneel. Indeed he wanted to kneel and kiss the hem of her skirt.
Brownie turned away and said very softly as she turned, ‘Don’t go yet.’ She went and sat down upon a faded reddish sofa under the window, overhung by dried grasses, and Edward came and sat beside her. He took her hand and, bowing his head over it, moved her knuckles to and fro upon his brow. He felt overwhelmed, split in two, by sudden physical desire and by an intense weepy humility. He drew his hair over her hand and hardly dared to look up.
She said, ‘I don’t have to catch that bus.’
He said, ‘Oh Brownie, help me, love me. I love you.’
‘I love you too, I think.’
Edward raised his head and looked into her dark brown eyes, darker than his own, which were so bright and gentle and truthful. He lifted a hand and put his finger lightly upon her cheek, he touched her mouth. He said, ‘You pity me. You are consumed with wonderful miraculous pity for me. I am intensely grateful. I kiss your feet.’
He moved as if about to do so, but she held him. ‘Edward — isn’t it strange — we are the only ones who can help each other.’
‘My God, you are so kind — so — so gracious, so precious-I can’t find the words — like a great queen — you’ve got the one thing needful — like a magic jewel — ’
‘But you agree that we can help each other? Somehow, at least for that, we belong together. Don’t get lost.’
‘Yes, we can help each other. You can certainly help me. Oh my dear angel — it’s not a cheat, is it?’
‘No — I’m sure it isn’t. I feel such — such — ’
‘Don’t name it. I love you. I’m allowed to do that.’ He took both her hands and began to kiss them, putting them against his cheek and feeling the kisses like tears.
The gesture suddenly reminded him of the last time he had seen Jesse, when he had kissed Jesse’s hands, and Mother May had said ‘Leave off’, and Jesse had said, ‘I’ll dream of you’, and ‘Tomorrow’. It was tomorrow. And he had just seen, and for instants of time forgotten, that terrible thing. He sat up abruptly, his eyes glaring with distress and fear. Supposing it were real, true and Jesse were dead, drowned, and he had not saved him? Suddenly nothing in the world was more important than that he should run back to Seegard and make sure that Jesse was all right. Until he knew that everything, even the miracle of Brownie, was darkened and spoilt. If only Jesse was all right and Brownie was merciful and loving to him he could be healed. This was for real. Not what the women had been doing to him at Seegard which now seemed like a horrible charade.
‘What is it?’ she said. ‘You look like you did when you arrived. You’re sick.’
‘No. But I’ve remembered something urgent. I must go back to Seegard.’
‘Now? Can’t you wait? I feel — maybe we’ll never be like this again. I’m frightened. Don’t go.’
‘I’ve got to, Brownie. It’s terribly important otherwise I wouldn’t — I don’t want to go. We’ll be together again, of course — I’m so sorry — ’
She took her hands away and stood up. The spell was broken. ‘All right, if you must. I won’t keep you. I can see it’s important.’
‘I’m awfully sorry. Will you be here?’
‘I think as you’re going I’ll catch the bus after all, there’s still time.’
‘But we’ll meet — ’
‘Yes, of course. Before I go back to America. Don’t worry, Edward. This has been a good meeting. Perhaps we’ve done, in these few minutes, everything that is needed. Don’t worry any more about these things, just leave them quiet.’
‘Brownie, I — I’m sorry I can’t explain — I have to — ’
‘Yes, yes, go, please.’
‘Thank you, and — oh — ’ Edward ran to the door, stepped back towards her, then ran out. As he came out into the bright light he suddenly saw, quite close to him over some trees, the top of the Seegard tower. He could get there quickly after all, and perhaps get back again before Brownie went to the bus. Should he ask her to wait? The door had closed behind him. No, he couldn’t. He had done everything wrong, everything in a doomed way. There was a curse upon him which only those two could remove, and they had not yet done it. He began to run, first along the grassy railway track, then up the bank and across some slippery wet grass and over a little broken down stone wall. The mist had cleared and the sun was shining into his eyes. The tower had now disappeared from view. He ran on, confident of the direction. But Edward had missed the path along which Sarah Plowmain had led Mr and Mrs Bentley, with the torch light illuminating her heels. Soon he found himself climbing slowly through a muddy ditch full of brambles.
When at last he reached Seegard the first person he saw as he hurried into the Atrium was Mother May. She was sitting at the table and cutting lettuce leaves into long streamers with a pair of scissors and putting them.into a large wooden bowl.
‘Hello, Edward. What’s got into you?’
‘How’s Jesse?’
‘All right. Asleep.’
Edward turned and began to walk toward Transition.
‘Edward!’
‘Yes — sorry — ’
‘Come here. Sit down.’
He came and sat opposite to her at the table. Mother May regarded him with her calm long grey eyes. Then reached across and took one of his hands and pulled it towards her straightening his arm. Edward watched the movement of his arm as if it were something mechanical. Then he looked at Mother May’s handsome head, her intricately woven mass of light red-gold hair, her gentle face and humorous quizzical mouth. He realised she was pressing his hand gently. ‘Oh — Edward — ’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Edward, ‘I’m awful. I know I’ve let you all down. You’ve been marvellous to me. But I can’t do it the way you want.’
‘Do what?’
‘Change. I’m just me.’ The pressure of Mother May’s hand reminded Edward of the weird conversation in which she had said to him, can you help me, can you love me, can
you love me enough? He had forgotten the details of that conversation. He had been drunk. She had been drunk too. Did she recall it with embarrassment? She was unembarrassed now, full of power. He gripped her hand, staring.
‘But we have changed you. Don’t give us up. You need us, we need you. This is your home now.’ She spoke with insistence, with authority.
‘Oh yes, I suppose it is,’ said Edward. Everywhere else was a wreck. Was it? Why not? He could not afford to throw it away. But he didn’t want to think about these things now, he wanted to be alone.
She released him. ‘Where did you go this morning?’
‘Just down the track. Along the road.’
‘You don’t look well. You’ve got a fever. You ought to be in bed.’
‘No, no — ’
‘Go to bed. I’ll bring you up some soup.’
‘No, I won’t go to bed!’
Hejumped up. His desire to be by himself was now so intense, he felt he would have thrown anyone who impeded him to the ground. He hurried away to the Transition door, and as he closed it saw Mother May looking intently after him. She called out, ‘All right then, lunch in half an hour.’ Edward fled.
Upstairs sitting on his bed he found himself remembering Sarah’s words about Brownie. ‘I went to her-’ The idea sickened him. Sarah, like an inquisitive knowing little dog, had run to Brownie, to find out, to view her desolation, to take over the task of consoling her. Of course this was unfair. But he hated the notion of Sarah with Brownie, holding Brownie’s hand, perhaps speaking of him. Jesse was all right, thank God, so why the hell had he mucked everything up with Brownie? That accursed hallucination seemed positively sent by the devil. If only he’d stayed with her, if only he hadn’t so gracelessly run away, anything could have happened. Everything had suddenly become so good between them. She had said that she needed him, that they belonged to each other, she was ready to give herself. Christ, they might have gone to bed together! That would have been the event, the miracle, the healing, the perfect thing. He could have had that thing, binding him to Brownie forever, she whom he wanted so much, oh so much — and he had disappointed her, chilled her, she may even have felt that he had disliked their embrace, that he was repelled by her, that he was making an excuse to get away. Oh damn. And now she was gone, to London, to God knows where, he hadn’t even got her address. He couldn’t go to her mother’s place anyway. I’ll go to London too, he thought, and find her and make it all right again. I’ll go to London and take Jesse and Ilona with me. But as he thought it he knew that that was impossible. The pain of remorse twisted round and round in his entrails, remorse about Mark, remorse about Brownie, loss of all his happiness forever, loss, loss, loss. He went down to lunch.