6
Skiing, Douglas had more or less decided, was not for him. It was a conclusion he had tentatively reached on his earlier essay, during his Army service, but the years between had eroded the recollections. He was learning all over again that his sense of balance was not very good, and that loss of contact with solid ground was something to which he found it difficult to become accustomed. And, of course, that snow—as a medium to land in heavily—was both colder and wetter than one would think from looking at it.
Now that he had given up trying not to think about Caroline, he could be honest with himself over his reason for coming here. Tony, her husband, had been a keen skier—the annual two weeks in January had been one of the bad things, casting its shadow over Christmas—itself, necessarily, a bad time—to be endured grimly and without grousing. She had always said that she hated going away, but he had guessed that this could not be entirely true. She had every kind of physical excellence, and would inevitably get pleasure from skiing. Very possibly she was skiing now, in the United States. They had winter sports resorts within reach of New York, surely? And here he was, floundering about the baby slopes on a mountain slope in Switzerland … it was laughable.
He had never been able to understand what part he played in her life. He had swung between seeing it as something very large, and something very small. He had believed her, and still believed, when she said that he had been the only man in her life apart from Tony. She was not the kind of woman who went out of her way to attract male attentions. And the awareness of this had given him, at the beginning, a feeling of triumph and of confidence. There was the boy, but he was four—she had married very young—and due to go away to Tony’s old prep school at eight. He had not, at the outset, pressed for any kind of assurance of the future, because he had assumed he knew what it was to be. With Rodney away for two-thirds of the year, there would be nothing to hide the emptiness of her marriage. Tony, whom he had met once or twice, was a pleasant, civilized fellow. He would give her a divorce when she asked him for it.
It was a couple of years later that his confidence began to show signs of fraying at the edges. It was not due to any signs of withdrawal on her part—she remained as loving as ever and as available as the exigencies of her life allowed—but rather to a growing sense of involvement on his own. He was no longer content to wait for the telephone call to his office which would tell him when he could see her. Her prohibition on telephone calls to her —the girl might answer, her mother was always dropping in on them, Tony himself was sometimes back at odd hours—which he had accepted readily enough, suddenly became irksome. He felt more and more that he was tied to her life—tied, for that matter, to the girl, and her mother, and even Tony—while she was free of his. .
The first crisis came not when he asked her to go away with him, but a week or two later. He asked her in the cool blue and white bedroom of the house in Blackheath, Tony being away in Paris, and the girl on her afternoon off, and her mother visiting her other daughter on the other side of London, and she smiled, and said how nice it would be if they could. When he asked her why not, she said why, of course, Rodney. Even for this afternoon she had had to get a friend to pick him up from school and take him back with her little boy to tea. He had put his hands on her breasts, and said, “All right. But when he goes away … Promise?” They would see, she had said, and he admired her honesty as he had done before. She would never make empty promises. It would be lovely, but so many things could happen. They would see. Her tongue flickered, and her nipples stiffened against his fingers.
But he had gone away dissatisfied, out of sorts, and the dissatisfaction and uneasiness had grown during the following week, in which he did not see her, nor speak to her. A brief meeting after that had not helped. When he saw her properly again—in his own flat because she had come down ostensibly to visit the Winchester aunt who had been the means of their first meeting—he was in a state of nervousness and determination. This sort of life was no good to them. There had to be a permanence, a belonging, if not at once then in a future which one could envisage, and to which one could look forward. If they could not have that, it was better for them to break off now, cleanly.
He was not sure how he had expected her to react, but he recognized the reaction as the only one possible to her. She had neither consented, nor been angry. She told him, and the truth of it was inescapable, that she was giving him all that at this time lay within her power. Things might change in the future, but one could not offer guarantees. Life was too uncertain altogether.
In that case, he had said, end it now. She had smiled, sadly he thought, and said, “Whatever you think best.” There had been silence, not really awkward but oppressive, a load weighing on mind and body. On the mantel the four-hundred-day clock twirled its silly little brass spheres around, clockwise, anticlockwise, marking seconds that suddenly were longer than they had been before. “Three o’clock,” she had said. Her smile was mischievous this time. “My train isn’t till six.” She had never looked more desirable.
He said, “There’s a fast one to Waterloo at three thirty.”
“Well,” she said. The smile had not left her lips. “Will you take me to the station, or must I find my own way?”
He had telephoned her three weeks later, breaking the prohibition which she had laid down. His mouth had been dry, and he had stumbled over his words when he talked to her. She had not been angry. She had seemed pleased, in fact, although only willing to talk in brief unemotional phrases, and not for long. She had cut him off, saying she would ring him when she had the time.
And that had been the following morning. She could see him, in London, at the week’s end. They fixed a place and time. He took her back to his hotel room, and they made love. He tried to explain himself, to apologize, but she put her hand over his mouth. There was nothing to explain, she insisted, nothing to discuss.
There had been a similar crisis the year that Rodney went away to school. It followed the same pattern, except that he only waited two days that time before telephoning her. And the year after, lie had not even let her go away, but had run after her down the street, stupidly, like a schoolboy. Thinking of it now, he was amazed at the level of banality to which his relationship with her had reduced him. And, as a final absurdity, a skiing trip! Picking himself up, for something like the twentieth time, he began to unstrap his skis with cold, clumsy fingers.
Jane called to him, “Are you going in?”
He looked up at her. “Yes.”
“I think I’ve had enough, too.”
They made their way up to the house together, and stacked their skis in the rack. It was, he told himself, comforting to reflect that there were still pleasant and attractive women in the world. Comforting, not challenging. With a drop into unhappiness, he speculated on one aspect of his future. Prostitutes? Scuffling liaisons with junior typists? Or a wife, perhaps? Someone suitable—good-looking, capable, not too young. Someone like Jane, perhaps. Comely young widows were always thought suitable, weren’t they?
The door opened before they reached it. Mandy stood there, breathless, disheveled. She said, “Did you see her? Ruth?”
“No. Why?”
“I think she’s gone crazy. And the boy.”
Her obvious confusion made him feel confused himself, and at a loss. It was Jane who took charge of the situation. She said ‘quietly, “Tell us what happened, Mandy.”
He listened, and gathered that Ruth had run amuck in some way, which was not altogether surprising. There was something about the boy, Andy, which made less sense. She had left the house and taken him with her? Well, yes, she probably would.
Jane, turning to him, said crisply, “I’ll look after Mandy. Do you think you can call the others in? Selby, at least.”
He nodded. “Yes, of course.”
They came readily enough to his call. Diana skied up hard on the heels of Grainger, with Elizabeth trailing some twenty yards behind. She was glowing from the shar
p air and the exercise and looked, he thought with detachment, very pretty.
“Tea?” She took her cap off and shook the dark curls free. “It seems awfully early.”
He said to Grainger, “More trouble, I’m afraid. With Ruth. I’m not quite sure what.”
Jane was with Mandy in the salon. Deeping was there, too. He had a crumpled look, the bounce, the knowingness, knocked out of him like the wind it was. Although not liking the man, he felt some pity for him. He was coming in for heavy punishment.
Grainger said, with authority, “All right, Mandy. Tell us what it’s all about.”
George came in while she was telling her story. When she had finished, he said, “I’ve seen Marie. She’s with Steve. They’re both all right. A bit shaken, but all right.” Diana said, “I saw them. They were climbing up the slope, at the back of the chalet. I thought they were just… well, walking in the snow.”
“We’d better go after them,” George said.
Grainger put his hand up. “In a minute. Mandy, how did you say she looked? Her expression?”
“It’s hard to describe it. Empty, blank—and yet wanting … I don’t know what.”
“Look,” George said, “you can do the trick-cyclist stuff later on. The important thing is to find them and bring them back, before they do themselves an injury. She’s got the child with her, after all.”
Grainger said, “I want to know what we’re looking for.” George said impatiently, “A woman who’s been driven a bit round the bend, and understandably.”
“And the boy?”
“She took him with her. That’s understandable, too. But dangerous for him.”
Grainger addressed himself to Mandy. “That’s not quite right, though, is it? She didn’t take him with her. He went with her. And his expression?”
Mandy closed her eyes, shutting something off. In a low voice, she said, “The same as hers. Empty, and wanting something.”
“You imagined that,” George told her. “After all, you only saw them for a moment or two. She rushed out, and the kid rushed after her. He would do.”
Grainger asked, “Do you think you could have imagined it?”
She shook her head silently.
George burst out, “Look, it doesn’t make sense! Does it, now?”
Mandy said, “I’ve been wondering …”
“What?”
“If it could be some kind of illness—that Andy had got it first, perhaps, and Ruth picked it up from him.” She looked at Grainger. “Is that possible?”
“Theoretically. On the other hand, the symptoms don’t add up to any kind of illness that I’ve met or read about. And where do the boy’s collapse and coma fit in?” He paused. “I’d like to see Marie. And Steve.”
“I’ll get them,” Mandy said.
George said, “I haven’t got your professional interest, Selby.” There were red spots on his cheeks. “I’m taking Peter out there, to look for her and the poor unfortunate bloody child. Are you coming, Len?”
Deeping said, “Yes. I’ll come.”
Grainger said calmly, “Three of you will be enough, I should think. If you find them.”
“And why the hell shouldn’t we?”
“I was thinking of the previous occasion. It took some time finding the boy. In fact, we didn’t find him. He turned up again, with Ruth.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know.” Grainger screwed his face up. “I wish I did.”
Had George asked him to go with them, Douglas would have agreed. But George whirled out of the room, not looking at anyone. Deeping followed him but, under the circumstances, Douglas did not feel like doing so. Three, as Grainger had said, was presumably a sufficient number to find the woman and child in broad daylight. And he was interested in seeing what Grainger was trying to discover. There was also the fact of personal disinclination: he had had enough of snow for the time being.
Stephen was composed when he was brought in, Marie less so. Her reasonably good English had deserted her, and she answered Grainger’s questions in a spatter of French. From it, Douglas was able to glean her main charge—that Madame was possessed, and the little one also. She had always been told that there were devils in the mountains. This was well known among the Fribourgeois. A school friend of hers had an uncle who had gone as a priest to a village in the Pays d’Enhaut, and several times he had to exorcise devils …
“Did Madame attack you?” Grainger asked.
“Because I defended the boy from her.” She had recovered enough to speak English again. “They attacked the boy. Both of them did so.”
Grainger said gently to Stephen, “What happened, old chap? Before Marie came along.”
“It was the same as in the bedroom.” His voice was low but clear. “When I woke up and found them by my bed. They were both pressing against me.”
“Trying to hurt you, do you think?”
“I don’t know.” His brow wrinkled. “They didn’t try to … hit me, or anything. Just to press against me. But I was scared. And they felt funny.”
“How, funny?”
“Tingly.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how to say it.”
“Did they say anything to you?”
“No. I suppose that’s one of the things that made me frightened. Just stared, saying nothing.” He looked at Grainger. “Then Marie came, and they still tried to hold on to me. But when Mrs. Hamilton came, they let go and ran off. Do you know where they’ve gone?”
“Somewhere outside. People are looking for them. Listen, try not to worry about this, Steve. Your mother … is not very well just now. People sometimes do strange things when they’re ill.”
“And Andy? Is he ill, too?”
“Yes, in a way.”
He motioned to Marie, and she took the boy out of the room.
When they had gone, Mandy said, “So it is an illness?” Grainger drew in a deep breath. “Well, yes. If we define illness as the absence of what we call health—mental or physical. But it doesn’t get us a great deal further.”
Douglas was in entire agreement with that. It was all confusing. Were there diseases which turned people mad? He was too ashamed of his medical ignorance to ask Grainger; and Grainger, in any case, seemed as much at a loss as anyone. Hydrophobia … a mad wolf? But the symptoms were different, surely, and there were no wolves in these mountains, no dogs higher up than Nidenhaut.
Jane, voicing his thoughts to some extent, said to Grainger, “It still doesn’t seem like anything you recognize— any particular disease?”
Grainger said wryly, “No. Not like anything I recognize. Perhaps if I write it up for the B.M.J. they’ll call it after me. Grainger’s Lunacy. Or perhaps Marie is right, and all will be made well when a black-robed monk heaves into view, leading a convoy of bloody great St. Bernards and scattering holy water.”
“Which falls,” Elizabeth murmured, “as tiny tinkling icicles. It’s a pretty thought.”
Diana said, “Seriously, Selby. You must have some idea of what’s wrong with them. I mean … well, you must”
“You mean, ruling out diseases unknown to medical science, along with mountain devils? Not much, I’m afraid. Communicable hysteria? But I wouldn’t have thought Ruth was a hysteric type, and that degree of communication is improbable. But I imagine it’s our best bet.”
“When they bring them back,” Mandy asked, “what’s the best thing to do?”
“Lock them up, I suppose, until we can get them down off this mountain top to a place where they can be given proper medical attention.”
“Together?”
“Yes, that’s a point. There’s no indication of her having an inclination to injure this child, but one can’t afford to risk that.”
Mandy said, in a worried voice, “I don’t really know where we could put them—a safe place. The attics, perhaps, and move Peter and Marie downstairs somewhere.” She looked at Grainger in appeal. “But there are no bars or anything on t
he windows.”
“Easily fixed,” Grainger said. “Let’s get them back here first.”
George returned, with Deeping and Peter, empty-handed and out of sorts. He went into the bar, opened up, and poured drinks for the other two men and himself.
“We’re opening early today,” he said. “I have a feeling that it would do me no harm to get a slosh on. No harm whatsoever.”
Douglas, with Grainger, had followed them in. Grainger said, “You can do me a whisky while you’re about it. No sign of them, I take it.”
George did not answer immediately. He poured the drink for Grainger, and held the bottle up, his eyes on Douglas.
“Anything for you?”
“Yes,” Douglas said. “I think I could do with a whisky.”
“Let’s all get a slosh on,” George said. “No, we saw neither hair nor hide of them. Which was what you predicted, wasn’t it?”
Grainger said, “I didn’t predict anything. Let’s say, I’m not terribly surprised.”
“All right. Why aren’t you surprised? Let’s have some sort of rational questions and answers.”
“Did you find their tracks?” Grainger asked.
With disgust, George said, “The sodding mountain’s covered with tracks.”
“Up past the spur, I meant.”
“Up there, too, from those other searches. Come on, answer up. Why aren’t you surprised?”
“I told you: the boy was missing for all that length of time. And then appeared, all bright and chipper. Well, fairly bright and chipper.”
“Having found himself a hole in the snow and gone to sleep there. You’re not suggesting that the pair of them have dug in and gone to sleep? Look, you’re the doctor wallah. You ought to know what makes sense, and what doesn’t.”
“So I ought,” Grainger said. “So I ought. Unfortunately I’ve never been as strong on the triumph of orthodoxy as some of my colleagues. You’ve heard of Count Mesmer?”
The others looked blank. Douglas said, “Mesmerism?”
“A celebrated nut case,” Grainger said. “Started off as an astrologer, and went on to stroking people with magnets. They ran him out of Paris in the end. But twenty-five years after that, mesmerism was going so strong that they had to have a government commission investigate it. The Society Royale de Medecine appointed a committee, made up of able and cautious men, and they went into things. They sat for six years, and saw hundreds of people, and they produced a report.