“
Now, watch out,
”
Alison said to herself, sitting beside him as they sped back to Combe Russet.
“
Don
’
t start getting silly ideas about him. Just because you
’
re living alone and your future
’
s wide open, don
’
t try to fit every man you meet into it. And remember that it
’
s Corinne he is interested in, anyway.
”
It was as well that she kept this last thought in the forefront of her mind, for as soon as Corinne returned from London, the lively intimacy with Neil was resumed. Often, when Alison was at the office, Corinne accompanied Neil on his journeys through the west country; and although the exchange visits for drinks, lunch or dinner nearly always included Alison, she thought that it was because they did not like to leave her out, did not want her to feel excluded.
Corinne had returned very gay and exuberant, which surprised Alison, since the news about her ankle was not good. She accepted the fact that she might never dance in the ballet again so philosophically, when Alison would have expected her to be plunged into despair, that she could only think that Corinne saw a new and different future before her. Corinne had been shopping for new clothes, had gathered up an entirely new hair-style (and a new hair colour), and was so effortlessly chic that Alison was lost between envy and admiration.
“
I
’
ve brought you all sorts of things,
”
said Corinne, on her first evening back.
“
The flowers are from Ralph, and a simply enormous box of chocolates
—
we shall both put on pounds. A letter from Lucy, and some amusing ashtrays she found in Italy: she loved the little figure you sent for her birthday, and do you know, I believe she is really going to marry her irascible boss after all? She always said she would eventually, but nobody believed she would get the chance. And masses of magazines! all kinds from everywhere.
”
“
Good,
”
said Alison.
“
I must keep up a bit with what
’
s going on.
”
The magazines were the most acceptable present. Besides the English ones, they came from across the Atlantic and from the Continent, including Scandinavia ; and ideas often presented themselves to Alison as she browsed through them; ideas for her work. This time was no exception, although Co
r
inne had been back for several days before Alison got round to the news magazine that caused her such delight.
They were reading in the sun room, after having had supper there, when Alison suddenly exclaimed aloud. It was an exclamation on a long, admiring note and Corinne looked up with interest.
“
W
hat is it?
”
she asked.
“
I
’
ve fou
n
d my Madonna,
”
said Alison.
“
For the crib. Wonderful, absolutely perfect.
”
She held the magazine out to Corinne.
“
L
ook at that,
”
she said.
The article Alison had been reading dealt with refugees all over the world. The picture she indicated was of Middle East refugees, sitting in a large group in the desert, with the patient resignation that spoke of innumerable past disappointments. In the foreground of the picture sat a young woman, hardly more than a girl, swathed in dark clothes, but with a face of such beauty, filled with such suf
f
ering, yet a suffering tempered with peace and tranquillity, that Alison was lost in admiration, then filled with inspiration.
The inspiration lasted, at white heat, for several days. Alison managed to find enough patience to get her through the day
’
s work, and then made for her workshop and her tools, and could hardly be persuaded away from them, by Corinne, for supper. But that first attempt would not come right. Each succeeding blow of hammer on chisel took the carving farther away from the original idea, until the dear edge of inspiration was blurred and destroyed. After a week, she gave it up. It was no good, she told Corinne, she knew what she w
anted
but could not get it. Yet it was important to her simply because it was so difficult. She knew that she must try again.
It was several weeks later that she made her second attempt. By then, the evenings were drawing in, and if she wanted to work after supper, she must do so by electric light and with the doors closed against the nip of the evening. This time, from the beginning, all went well. She started to work as soon as she reached Combe Russet from her job, and would not stop for supper. Corinne waited for some time, then ate hers alone. She took Alison
’
s into the workshop, but Alison left it to get cold and uneatable.
“
But you must eat,
”
protested Corinne.
“
Of course I must, but not just at this moment.
”
“
I
’
ll bring you some sandwiches and coffee, and those you must have.
”
“
All right,
”
conceded Alison, but she was so excited about the work, feeling everything going right under her fingers, that she did not stop to eat and simply gulped some hot, stimulating coffee.
At eleven o
’
clock, Corinne came from the house to say that she was going to bed.
“
You aren
’
t going to stay here all night, are you?
”
she asked.
“
No, I
’
ll come in just a few minutes,
”
said Alison.
“
So I should hope. And y
ou
haven
’
t eaten your sandwiches! Really, Alison, you are stupid.
”
“
I
’
ll eat them,
”
Alison promised cheerfully.
“
You go off to bed an
d
I
’
ll follow almost at once. I want to get this bit right.
”
“
It already looks wonderful,
”
Corinne admitted. Another two or three hours
’
work on it made it look still more wonderful. Alison realised that she was getting almost exactly what she wanted, and she could not stop this spell of extraordinary good fortune simply to go to bed.
The night was still and silent, and very dark. The moon would rise late. Without this flow of inspiration, Alison might have been nervous, but her mind was too occupied for nervousness. Her light shone out on to the side of the house, and her hammer went tap, tap, tap into the small hours; until at last she was afraid of spoiling it, and thought she should stand back and pause, and see what she had done.
She stood still, gazing at her Madonna, and a feeling of satisfaction filled her. In the morning perhaps she would begin to find fault, to see imperfections, to want to change; but now she was satisfied, believing that it was the best thing she had ever made. She sat down on her stool to look at it from the side, and suddenly admitted to the headache of exhaustion. She rested her chin on her hand and closed her eyes.
It was almost three o
’
clock when Neil turned his car on to the long drive to Combe Russet House, and rounding the bend, saw the light shining on the side of the cottage. It was nothing unusual for him to start or finish journeys at this hour, but it was most unusual for him to see a light in Alison
’
s house at that time, and his foot went down on the brake pedal at once. His first thought was of breaking and entering—somebody was there who should not be. The second, less sensational, was that Alison had forgotten to turn off the light. He knew he had to make sure, and was out of the car and at the window of the workshop, silently, in a few seconds.
A sudden sick fear assailed him at what he saw, for he thought some harm had befallen Alison. One arm was flung out along the bench, and her head was resting on the other arm, all among the chips and shavings and sawdust. A few strides took him round to the door and inside the workshop to Alison
’
s side; and during that brief interval of time, a number of horrifying pictures had flashed through his mind, filling him with a panic that was entirely new to him. He stood still and looked down at her, and at once he saw that she was asleep.
A long sigh escaped him. His eyes took in the scene; the curling, drying sandwiches, the half-drunk coffee; the tools scattered along the bench, the confusion of shavings and sawdust, the figure on which she had been working. That arrested his attention immediately, its beauty was so strange and so haunting. He leaned down towards Alison.
“
Alison, Alison,
”
he said, low but urgently.
“
Wake up, Alison.
”
His words had no effect. He did not want to alarm her, but he could not leave her to sleep the night out here. He put a hand on her shoulder and shook her gently, still talking to her, telling her to wake, so that she would hear his voice and not be too alarmed. She woke slowly, reluctantly, out of deep, first sleep, and could not for a few seconds orientate herself at all.
“
Alison, it
’
s all right. It
’
s only me, Neil.
”
She got him in focus at last.
“
Oh. Hallo, Neil,
”
she said, still fighting sleep.
“
What are you doing out here at this hour? You ought to be in bed.
”
“
I wanted to work,
”
she said, and he thought her head was going to drop back on to the bench again. Already there were small curled shavings caught in her dark hair.
“
But not until three in the morning,
”
he said. That jolted her.
“
Is it three in the morning—really?
”
“
It is. What a crazy girl you are, Alison, staying out here until you can
’
t keep your eyes open. Come along, I
’
ll see you to the house.
”
She tried to rise, and cried out suddenly.
“
Pins and needles,
”
she explained.
“
Pins and needles all over. Oh dear!
”
He put his arm round her because he thought she was going to topple over. She leaned on him most gratefully. Then she saw her Madonna, and gave all her attention to the carving.
“
Oh, Neil,
”
she said.
“
It is good.
”
“
Yes,
”
he said.
“
It
’
s wonderful.
”
“
It was going so right,
”
she said.
“
I couldn
’
t go to bed.
”
She could not take her eyes off her work. She fell in love with it there and then. She picked it up and held it in her arms.
“
I
’
ll take it indoors with me,
”
she said.
Still in the circle of his arm, she went out of the workshop with him, waited while he switched off the light and locked the door (
“
I don
’
t bother to lock it,
”
she told him, but he did so), and was led into the house.
“
Now straight off to bed,
”
said Neil.
“
I must have something to eat,
”
she said.
“
I
’
m dying of hunger.
”
He was about to chide her for her stupidity, but changed his mind at once. Who was he to call her stupid, when by neglecting to eat or sleep for a few hours, she could produce, with nothing but her tools and a block of wood and her own creative imagination, her far-seeing talent, a thing as beautiful as the figure she held in her arms? She should be allowed any vagaries that might appear, but simply, she needed somebody to look after her.
“
We
’
ll get you something to eat,
”
he said, and almost carried her into the kitchen. He knew the layout of this house only too well. Alison sank on to a chair, and Neil found that there was coffee in the pot on the stove, ham in the refrigerator.
“
A ham sandwich?
”
he suggested, and Alison nodded.