9
Monday at breakfast Paul in his tight grey leaning down to her . . . Brickie left me in town with glue stuck everywhere. Said he had something to tell you . . . tipping his plate his boiled tomato slipping around the bacon . . . What was it? . . . grease leaking from his fried bread and eggs . . . What did he say . . . so close and even at this time in the morning smelling of cigarettes . . . You’ll tell me what it was.
Why would I?
Everyone does.
Doesn’t mean I will.
Oh yes . . . the plate right under her nose all she can bear is toast and . . . You will . . . cups from the pitchers of tea and coffee they put out alternating . . . Oh yes . . . tea coffee tea coffee . . . You will . . . snarling sixteen at least if not seventeen Paul the smell of his grease tomatoes curdling her stomach . . . Yank.
Before she has thought not a good idea in fact a particularly bad idea she is up to escape the rancid smell but is instead tipping his rank plate eggs tomatoes down Paul bacon down his tight cigarette fried bread saturating his chest hearing as she runs the SMASH of plate his bearish roar the gasps the laughs the trouble she’s in.
Out across the cricket field Do Not Step On the Pitch flying to the back lane
howzat
through the trees the shrubbery and out lurching on the furrowed earth. The clear air sings in her ears as she runs scrambling Paul will kill her he must be at least seventeen and no one can protect her from that. How should she know why Brickie stares his pretty mouth black bastard hair why did they act like she should know when she couldn’t even tell them what he had on her. Tearing from the dining hall she saw Sophie turn from Vanessa turn with surprise that said she probably couldn’t save her from this oh half a bed half a night under a duvet but no protection not from a sixteen-year-old.
The cold air hurts her chest. Walking down a different lane now, one to take her away from school. They will call Father in London to tell him she has flown.
Gone, sir, she’s gone
. The teachers won’t know why not even Gilbert. Gilbert who apparently shows the same attention to all of them even gobstruck old Siobhan in her too-small smock.
Isabelle would know what to do. Whose idea had it been to roll the tire, she couldn’t remember. Isabelle would protect her from Paul.
As she walks, the morning sun a cold ball above, grass at her feet stung with white, the world seems to curl up and away.
Leave the lane for the road to town to find a park or shop. Make friends with the fishmonger, a woman stunk with cats. Forget sleeping nine to a room, Father would find her.
I expected more but I was wrong
to
. A car passes then slows.
After all, I was nine when I went
. Brake lights redden.
It was eight years before I saw my father and then a world war between us
. Up ahead, the car pulls to the side. Men kill girls, Isabelle once said. Everyone knows that.
Crashing back into the lane away from killers prying through a hedge faster heart thumping madly for the second time today. Then she hears him. That dry almost high voice EVANS, hears him where the lane meets the road muttering, Oh my shoes were not made for this.
Damn. She goes around the hedge this time.
Raising his eyes from his shoes, What in heaven as she picks leaves from her sweater not smiling pointing at his head, Twigs in your hair still not smiling as she pulls them out asking about, A particular dislike for Monday’s lessons as she’s straightening her skirt and adjusting her stockings aware he watches the adjusting.
Or are you running away?
Just running.
Well . . . smiling so she’ll know he doesn’t pay that kind of attention to the whole class know that he wouldn’t watch the adjustment of just anyone’s stockings . . . Come on I’ll run you back.
Where were you going?
Home. Been up all weekend making sure one of you lot doesn’t burn down the assembly hall. Difficult to believe, but I do in fact have a home . . . he falters . . . I didn’t mean anything by that, I was trying to be funny. I meant that I spend so much time at Monstead.
Too much. I mean I do—I feel like I spend too much time there.
Doesn’t your family come to take you out? . . . opening the car door for her . . . Or are they in America?
No. Neither . . . inside the car warm the seats covered with cream wool . . . Is this from a sheep?
It’s fake . . . revolving the key.
Wait. Mr. Gilbert . . . a hand nearly on his to stop it at the crest of the wheel . . . I’m in trouble.
He looks at her hand then her.
She takes away her hand but puts a plea in her eyes not too much not too dramatic but just enough just enough to say your jokes the class laughing a cup of tea not back to school not yet an hour or even half just a small favor.
What trouble he pulls the wheel in the opposite direction of school what sort of trouble is it that has you up and running in the wild. Well Mr. Gilbert she reports smoothing her skirt nicely Have you heard of this boy Gredville in the Fifth this devourer of rodents a night creature well it seems that this dark spirit is out for my head.
Tell me what the trouble is, Catrine.
Turning into a driveway hidden from the road by hedges and a yew. Not what she would have imagined. If she had. A small lopsided house. Covered with ivy.
It’s rotting the structure, the roots get in and undermine the mortar, still I do love it . . . his wild mess of a garden not the usual careful English . . . When I have the time I’ll get round to weeding . . . leading her through as he untoggles his duffel, into the heavy-beamed sitting room.
Newspapers tented on the table cups a plate with crusts and jam dark paintings of streets. Books everywhere. On table speakers chairs yes on shelves but piled in corners and under the windows.
I should telephone the headmaster, Catrine or they’ll have the hounds out.
He’ll make you bring me back.
Perhaps that’s the right thing, hum? Oh God . . . Gilbert takes a sheet of newspaper kneels twisting sections placing one by one in the fireplace . . . I don’t know. I’m not used to these situations. I’m a Chemistry master not some sort of psychologist. I should take you back, you must speak to Miss Maggone about unpleasantness. She has experience in those matters.
Maggone hates Americans.
I’m sure that’s not true . . . Gilbert removes books from a stack of wood selects two logs replaces the books logs go in the fire . . . Actually that probably is true.
Do you . . . in the chair removing a book
Tropisms
from under her . . . Hate Americans, Mr. Gilbert?
I don’t have anything against Americans . . . standing up peering into a Toby mug on the mantel then a small box finding matches behind a framed photograph . . . When I mimicked you that time, I was trying to amuse myself, the class . . . kneeling again striking a match . . . Sometimes my jokes aren’t so funny, I realize that.
Yes crossing her legs then uncrossing finally settling on crossed . . . What city is that?
Pitiful attempt at Amsterdam . . . worrying the flames blowing lifting a corner of newspaper . . . Trip I took a year ago. Paintings don’t do it justice.
The fire lit, the room seems to darken as if the light has been sucked up by the fire, as though the light were O
2
.
My mother would have liked those.
Would have?
She died . . . turning to the window because it really does seem darker outside.
Gilbert pauses . . . I’m sorry . . . then continues fussing at the fire.
She liked dark paintings . . . back again . . . She called them democratic.
Democratic, did she.
Why is he puffing away at the fire when he could sit? She has removed the foliage from her hair she should be in a class, English or . . . Do you still paint, Mr. Gilbert?
You sound so sad . . . finally leaving the fire crossing to sit on the sofa across from her with his scar . . . Surely they’re not that awful. I paint on weekends sometimes when I’m not on duty.
Paint what?
Catrine.
Sir.
You needn’t call me sir in my house we’re friends here. I’m glad you like my paintings, I’m glad your mother would have liked them, I can’t say anyone from school has ever seen them but—
I like them a lot.
But. Are you warm enough, are you shivering?
I’m fine. But what?
I should put more paper on or another log—
But what?
I feel somewhat awkward that you’re here. I know the school wouldn’t like it.
You haven’t even asked what the trouble is.
Well . . . down at the cushion next to him memorizing the brocade taking his time to say . . . What is it, Catrine?
Stretching out her legs they are long for nearly fourteen she is one of the tallest and that includes boys should she arrange stockings again carefully or simply stretch and say . . . Like I told you before, Mr. Gilbert. Paul wants to kill me.
You know how boys are Catrine they pretend to hate girls but really. No, I spilled breakfast on him. Humiliation in the dining hall.
Is that all it is.
Did I say humiliation no no I meant to say how that strange heart made his sweater rise and fall, his white feathers pulsing as they caked with egg.
I mean good God I thought it was something dreadful something—
It is dreadful.
Gilbert jumps up strides to the window inspects the sky and yes takes waist between forefinger and thumb as he seems to do when thinking or pleased . . . I think it’s going to snow . . . smiling back at her then not smiling . . . You weren’t even wearing a coat out there.
I do feel slightly sick.
We must get you back.
Please . . . can’t help that it comes out so forcefully, bite it down . . . Mr. Gilbert I haven’t finished telling you.
But you’re ill.
Shifting . . . Maybe I’m just hungry.
Releasing the sky the assessment of snow . . . Hum, I suppose Gredville is wearing your breakfast . . . out into the passage . . . Let’s go see what there is. How’s toast?
Gilbert’s kitchen warm with its Aga stove and old cowhand picture.
Yes I picked that up at a jumble sale does this bread seem alright to you or does that appear to be mold I also bought a complete set of medical dictionaries get yourself a plate from that cabinet published in the seventeen hundreds it’s horrifying what they practiced in the name of science in those days.
Taking the plate, blue with a shepherdess on, nodding as he flips her the toast, to butter, of course jam.
Back we go . . . she has the plate, he steers her by the shoulders to the sitting room.
And sitting she could ask what’s the upstairs like awkward toast are there fireplaces jam on the corners of her mouth he watches her lick it off.
Catrine, I think we ought to call Headmaster it could snow and who knows what frenzy they’re lathering themselves into over your disappearance—
Is it her leaf caught hair or that she is American why can’t he let her be why can’t he let her stay.
Can’t you tell them I’m alright, Mr. Gilbert? That I’ve fallen asleep in front of the fire, that you think I should sleep for a while because I seem sick or exhausted or something?
Considering her, Gilbert seems fourteen or so with his white scar and his dubious testing of a finger against the table his leaning forward to hear the sound of his voice making that telephone call watching her with uncertain eyebrows waiting to hear it. How a conversation like that would happen how it would go and who would say what.
Paul Gredville, hum?
Sir?
But he is halfway from the room and she knows he is not
like that
to everyone
.
Outside the light grows dimmer still. She moves to the window in homage to Gilbert’s movement there, testing her hands on hips, waist between forefinger and thumb, observing the garden, wondering at the sky, whether it will bring the snow it warns of, exasperated at the weeds she never got around to pulling, marveling at mortar’s submission to ivy, cataloguing repairs. In the recesses of the house the faint chime on noon yet
Do we need a lamp on? . . . from somewhere . . . Catrine?
dark enough for midnight.
10
Most disturbingly, Mr. Stokes had no idea you were missing. He thanked me for my concern said as soon as you were awake I was to deliver you to the San . . . judging by the echo, Gilbert must be standing in the doorway she noticed the roof eaved in the hall . . . It’s gross deception I’m taking part in, Catrine. It’s a mistake.
I’ll go back.
The click of a lamp a pool of light. And he crosses the room to the lamp next to her.
Wait . . . she touches his arm . . . Look at the snow.
Gilbert forsakes his waist to fold his arms. Side by side they watch the white fall. A marvel yet she cannot . . . Have you ever . . . what the hell is she saying when she doesn’t know anything.
Hum?
Painted . . . again words again . . . Well have you ever painted a person?
Finally he places yes one hand on his waist holds it turns and leans the other arm and his body against the fogged window behind which the snow floats before which they stand like two decent people in ordinary conversation.
I’m no artist, Catrine. I’m simply amusing myself.
He has forgotten that he has made a mistake that he has lied to Cyclops that she offered to return. He could be thinking of her adjusting stockings he could be thinking of her licking jam she has felt him hold her waist between thumb and forefinger this man on his rounds so purposefully inserting his unclean but could it be shaven in the back hair before her nose to correct her failing experiment to retrieve a hair from her page to hold it up between that celebrated thumb and forefinger, to inquire
Yours?
Pardon, Mr. Gilbert?
The other paintings . . . again he reaches for the lamp beside her . . . They’re stored away somewhere.
Do you still paint? . . . breathing in his faint shampoo . . . What about Chittock Leigh?
As he draws back . . . I suppose I don’t find it as glamorous to paint what surrounds me although it can be inspiring here at sunset or even sunrise . . . leaning against the window again . . . But I can’t think you’re ever up that early.
No remember too much bed and not enough sleep.
Still I go driving sometimes, some weekends. Try to find something.
Look at the two of them leaning against cold windows like old friends chatting about painting and snow and she tonguing her molars to find raspberry seeds from his jam. To review: He has leaned across her to offer up the scent of his hair. He has phoned the headmaster to ensure she will stay. She has eaten his toast and stretched out her legs.
You seem to be avoiding the subject of Mr. Gredville.
Oh . . . the snow quilting the unweeded lawn . . . It’s not important.
Him killing you?
I can’t think about it now.
Mr. Brickman seems to have taken a fancy to you . . . he watches her reaction she chooses to consider the whitening grass . . . Does he have designs on you?
Under sheets.
You be careful of those lads.
Under striped sheets behind the wardrobe she finds the paintings.
Could it be nearly one o’clock the chimes again although it seems they chimed only seconds ago the unused room dusty . . . Sorry it’s a little—I’m just thinking I ought really run you back you ought really go to the San it could be something serious . . . but all the while hefting up the mattress to tuck under the sheet running out to take a pillow from his own bed . . . I will get around to tidying one of these days it’s not often I have visitors . . . unfolding blankets drawing the shade. A moment by the window . . . How dark . . . then back to fussing as he did by the fire wiping the bedside table with the sleeve of a robe hanging from the door . . . You’ll call for me when you awake, if you need anything. Do you think—should I take you back?
I don’t feel well enough . . . kicking off one shoe . . . I mean I just need to sleep I’m homesick I’ll be . . . now the other . . . Alright after a nap I’ll call you if I need anything besides . . . a small yawn . . . It’s snowing your car could get stuck.
Something about homesick, that was the trick, because he softens . . . Some sleep will do wonders.
And she sits on the bed because to get under the covers she might take off her skirt but should she do it here in front of him will her shirt reach down to cover enough.
I’ll get you some water . . . Gilbert slips from the room.
Pull the skirt around so the zipper faces front unzip step out. Sweater too why not. Sliding under the covers in stockings and shirt head down on the pillow no surprising pencils. Gilbert’s pillow smells of Thursday mornings ten to eleven twenty smells of Argon potassium smells of too much bed and not enough sleep.
Here we are.
Back with a glass of water placing it carefully on the robe-shined table next to her judging the distance. Supine, can she reach it easily if she wakes suddenly dry or parched or needing to quench because she doesn’t know what else to do in this Gilbert house in this Gilbert bed.
Don’t be homesick . . . looking down at her that noble crease that scar . . . We’ll take care of you here.
Suddenly he is stooping is placing hands either side of her shoulders is leaning down is moving toward her so that the smell of him rising from the pillow and the smell of him floating down compresses her as he kisses.
Under striped sheets behind the wardrobe she finds the paintings. She can’t sleep how could she. Leaning. Four of them. She knows they will be of the woman and they are.
It was only a kiss on the cheek but he should have known she wouldn’t sleep if he was going to kiss her on the cheek.
She’s naked of course. Sprawled, unburdened by covers. Foot hooked by sheet. Body an undulation against the background’s creamy hillocks. Demented. No, badly executed shadow by the mouth. Poor lady, lonely without a bottle or bread. Not even a pear for company. And cold, skin an experiment of blues. Gilbert’s love of litmus. Portrait of the Acidic Woman. Mixing his palette, Gilbert making light, hummingly debating valency, hum might these democratic blues dance together, how exactly does matter matter. Amsterdam was better. He should stick to naked cities. The hungry woman with her flesh and bottom and breasts and all of that. Flesh. Staring, mouth caustic. Lying on her side, forehead melting into a fleshy arm. Moaning. Please don’t paint me blue again.
Downstairs in adjusted stockings loosened blouse yes and skirt. It happened that she could sleep an hour or so even after being kissed and ferreting out the blue woman. After thinking too much she could still sleep some. Down the stairs hair a thicket the clock chiming it must tell the half hour too it tolls all the God damned time.
Outside the day stays dark, in the kitchen Gilbert folds down a corner of his paper to locate her. At the bottom of the stairs. Pulling hair behind one ear. That’s new hair behind the ear where did that come from.
The snow gets on her hair and the coat he has lent. Not his duffel but a wool suit jacket because
I have nothing better
. How soft the notsheep how cold his car how quiet the white around them. In the parking lot behind the San he comes around to open her door . . . You can return it any time what day is it today well perhaps I’ll run into you before Thursday . . . hands on her shoulders . . . You shouldn’t be homesick you’re sure you’re alright perhaps we should have left you in bed . . . searchingly as if—
Are you going to kiss me again.
He drops his hands. The white snow and scar. Behind him the school rises up through the weather. Monstead, their castle. His eyes his scar jumping or is it the snow falling between them. Why does he always look at her. What? In his eyes what?
You get some sleep . . . then he turns, slamming into his woolly car so, before she realizes, it is just her and the snow.