Turf or Stone (20 page)

A flight of wooden steps with a hand-rail led up to a baize door. Matt mounted the steps and entered the room beyond. It was large, carpeted and thoroughly warmed by a hot fire in a high grate. The walls were distempered yellow, long curtains were drawn.

Standing by the fire in outdoor clothes, a black coat open and hanging straight from the shoulders, a béret pushed off her forehead, was Mary. She had evidently been stripping off her gloves when Matt’s entrance disturbed her. And disturbed she seemed. Her pose expressed arrested action, and a kind of grim defensiveness heightened by the line of her mouth and the desperate sparkle of her eyes.

The fire gave out the only light in the room. It was enough for him to see all this. He walked to within a few paces of her and then stood still, his eyes on hers. She spoke first: ‘What’s the use of my trying to keep you out of this business if you come walking in here at all hours of the day? I’ve told you to keep away. You must be mad.’

‘I am,’ he exclaimed energetically. ‘I’ve all the feelings a mad person has. Just now I could have killed. Are you afraid?’

She made a sullen movement.

‘Don’t come near me, please.’

He trod in her very footsteps until she reached the wall. There she allowed him to enfold her.

‘Do you still tell me to keep away?’

‘I do.’

He dropped his head on her breast.

‘Still?’

‘Yes,’ she gasped.

She freed herself, and in another moment was standing in the shadow at the far end of the room. She spoke, and there was a ring of dominant obstinacy in her voice which Miss Tressan would have recognised more easily than Matt.

‘There’s only one thing I want to do now, and that is get away with Shannon. I ought to have done it long ago – I
should
have done it if you hadn’t followed me. I hate you for it! You can’t alter my resolution this time, but for the sake of your past kindness to me I’ll try to keep your name out of it. But if your name must appear to secure my freedom, I’ll use it without scruple. I’ll use every device a woman can think of… throw myself on the mercy of the magistrates, implore them to help me to get Shannon away from his father. After all, it doesn’t matter what I reveal; he’ll see that it’s all made public.’

Matt regarded her in a turmoil of anguish and passion. Then once more he went to her and took her by force into his arms. She felt his words bursting against her throat.

‘I’ll do anything I can to get you away from Easter, by God I will, if it means pulling my life with Dorothy to ruins! I don’t care for that, my dearest love, you know I don’t. When every touch of her makes me mad for you… But Mary, Mary, not to drive you away from
me
? How can you dream of it – how could we bear it? It’s you that’s mad, not me.’ His hands were opening and closing against her back, his whole frame trembled. She felt her own
passions rising irresistibly, but her will was inviolate. He cried out that he wanted her.

‘If you take me now you won’t alter my resolution by a shade, nor my opinion of you. You made a contract with him for my body – I’ll never forgive you. Do you know what he said?’

He shuddered.

‘Don’t speak of him. He isn’t here… Mary, you
do
love me… I can feel it.’

Their lips met more than once.

‘Yes, I do, but I despise you too, and that will conquer. Let me go, please.’

He would not release her.

‘The old game of the cup and the ball,’ he said, with wild dreaminess, as he closed his hand on her breast. She took him by the wrist and pulled his arm away.

‘Matt! I shan’t change; if I give way, I swear I shan’t change. This is wicked, my heart’s not in it,’ she wailed.

They struggled.

‘Let me go, or I’ll call the servants. They’re near. Matt, we shall come to loathe each other. It’s ruination…’

He released her. She stepped back and looked at him with uncontrollable emotion. They were apart a moment only. It was she who embraced him, holding him so strongly that he was breathless, and reeled against the wall. Clasping her with one arm he stripped off her coat and threw her cap on the floor.

‘I must lie,’ she whispered, ‘lie on oath to speak the truth.’

‘I’d lie before God for you, let alone a Bench of magistrates,’ Matt gasped.

‘It is before God.’

They walked into the inner room and locked the door.

Phoebe missed a connection, and as a result was forced to sit two hours in a waiting room, reading what she could find on a station bookstall. She was a fool when travelling.

At seven o’clock she arrived at The Gallustree, with blue hands and a pinched face. At first Dorothy thought she had grown decidedly plainer, but it proved to be only the effect of the elements and lack of food, and soon wore off. Dorothy gave her a tearful and affectionate welcome. She was in the relaxed state which usually followed a dispute with Matt.

She told Rosamund to leave them alone. Rosamund went after an argument and Phoebe, wan and jaded, prepared to listen to her mother’s troubles. Dorothy paced about in irregular bursts of movement, or sat on the bed running her fingers through her hair. She was dressed for dinner, in green velvet pyjamas, very expensive and peculiar, which tended to over-emphasise her slightness. She repeated all she had written, while frowning. Presently she interrupted her disjointed account by exclaiming: ‘Why aren’t you more interested in clothes?’ She opened the trunks, throwing out tissue paper and sliding her hands between the folds.

‘Ah – not so bad. Put this on, quick, before the gong goes.’

‘I don’t want to dress,’ Phoebe expostulated. ‘Yes, I will,’ she added, feeling that she ought to please her
mother. She went close to her and kissed her hand. Dorothy smiled absently. There was very little spontaneous affection between them now.

Phoebe dressed herself as her mother wished, even putting on silver shoes and using powder.

Dorothy looked at her: ‘You’re quite good looking. Why don’t you cut off your hair and put on lipstick? Wide mouths are fashionable….’

She smoked all through dinner, but ate hardly anything. Matt was not there.

‘Ah, you haven’t seen your father yet. I hope you don’t get a shock.’

‘He looks beastly,’ said Rosamund, in her heavy voice. She was growing fat and uncouth. Then Dorothy began to describe her quarrel with Matt that afternoon, and Rosamund shrugged her shoulders. Phoebe heard in every word a confirmation of all she feared; she felt an awakening of something like awe at her sister’s solid power. A child, no more than a dozen years old, she had learned to stand square, a block, to the family until they interfered with her, and then she struck out with all her force. Dorothy might adore Philip, might use Phoebe, it was clear that she respected Rosamund, who, having made the coffee, wished them an indifferent goodnight, and, grabbing a handful of biscuits for the dog, departed to amuse herself. On went the recitation, on, on, painful, inexpressibly grievous to the mute listener who was completing it in her mind, measuring what she heard against what she already knew, and finding proof in every sentence that her suspicions did not fall short of reality. Dorothy spoke in a muffled voice, her features distorted by emotion. At last she paused, crossed the room
and closed a window. She remained there, standing with her back to the room, one hand holding her embroidery.

For a moment Phoebe sank into pure misery, and covered her face with her hands. She shrank from meeting her father, she felt herself recoiling from his very name. Her heart was so heavy… ‘What can I do?’ she thought. She remembered ‘There – are – some – things – you – cannot – do.’ She looked up, humble, terribly unhappy. The room was chilly; she felt her cheeks were drawn and her eyes heavy. A sudden icy sensation, like a draught up her spine, warned her. She ducked her head between her knees; she had been close to fainting.

‘How dull it is!’ Dorothy exclaimed drearily. ‘I’d like to throw all the vases on the floor and smash them to
bits
. Shall we go out, Phoebe? Shall we catch the nine-twenty, stay the night in Chepsford and enjoy ourselves tomorrow? Eh, wouldn’t that be fun?’

‘We can’t get to the station. There’s nobody to take us.’

‘Neither there is. Damn that Easter. Do you know, Phoebe, I think he was a bad influence on your father. Do you think that’s possible?’

‘Yes, I do. Quite.’

‘I’m glad he’s gone.’

‘Where has he gone?’

‘Gladys said something about him being at Pendoig. Living at the pub.’

‘There are two. Which?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’

She sat down and resumed her embroidery.

‘The last time we had any fun was on Guy Fawkes day,’ she began. ‘Phil had fireworks on the lawn – just out
there. They shot up… it was quite dark… they were like fiery flowers. We had a Guy too, made of straw. Such a ridiculous figure with a painted face and huge, flapping ears. Matt was there and all the servants. I did so enjoy it. That was the night Easter had such a row with his wife.’

‘Tell me about it,’ said Phoebe.

‘I don’t know anything. You must ask your father.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Upstairs probably.’

She started to sing.

‘There’s a tune running in my head. Did Grannie ever teach you to sing “ffarwel fy nghariad”?’

Phoebe repeated the words slowly.

‘What does that mean? Sing it.’

‘“Farewell, my love.” She used to sing it to us. I’m going to say goodnight to Philip.’

She went out humming.

Phoebe sat quite still. The occasional tread of a servant in the passage and the fall of the ash on the hearth, were the only sounds. Half an hour passed and Dorothy did not return.

At length Phoebe stood up. She went to her bedroom, unlocked a letter case, and took from it a paper. She glanced over it. While she was reading she heard her mother’s voice, shrill, trembling with anger: ‘…and I hope she’ll be able to deal with you better than I can. You’ll drive me mad.’ A door slammed. Dorothy came running towards Phoebe, her face scarlet; she paused, holding her hand to her side quite breathless, then rushed away without saying anything. Phoebe proceeded to her father’s sitting room and knocked. He asked who was there.

‘Phoebe. May I come in?’

‘Yes.’

She entered. Matt was standing by the window. He turned round. He was wearing a prune-coloured dressing gown which threw his livid pallor into relief. She never forgot his appearance as he stood with his head thrown slightly backwards, the light catching the point of his chin. Beyond lay the dark night, behind the uncurtained windows which shone like black ice. He extended his arm. With fear she took his hand and pressed it.

‘I want to speak to you, father.’

‘All right. How are you?’

‘Very well. I want to show you something.’

He did not look at her.

‘Why have you come home, Phoebe?’

‘Mother asked me. And I wanted to… you’re ill, aren’t you?’

‘No, I’m not ill. There’s something on my mind… Listen, Phoebe: I don’t want to talk to you here. Go downstairs. I’ll come later, but leave me alone for a minute or two.’

She looked into his desperate eyes.

‘Father, I’m not going.’

‘This is monstrous,’ Matt uttered under his breath, neither to himself nor to her.

She thought she had to deal with a man who was for the present, at any rate, out of his senses. It seemed madness to press him, and yet there was so little time. She held out the folded paper then, as he did not attempt to take it, opened it and put it into his hand. She was obliged to shut his fingers on it.

He suddenly smiled: ‘What is it?’ he asked, having evidently brought his mind to bear upon her at last.

‘Please read it.’

Matt read it, first with no attention, then carefully, a third time with shocked intensity. Presently he lifted his eyes.

‘Who wrote this?’

‘I’m not certain…’

‘Easter?’

‘I think so.’

‘Yes. I know it. What a – demon! How long ago?’

‘Two years.’

‘Then all that time you have been aware of what was going on?’

‘Yes.’

‘When did Easter write to you?’ he continued painfully.

‘About three weeks after I went away.’

They were standing within a yard of each other, still as granite.

‘Then how did
you
find out?’

‘I saw you.’

Matt reeled on his feet. Phoebe rushed to him and put her arm around him. He steadied himself, tore the letter across. She felt herself being pushed towards the door, and clinging to him with all her strength, cried: ‘Father, don’t put me out!’

‘By God, you must go,’ he said. ‘I hate to have you under the same roof, but you can keep away from me. If you breathe the same air I think you’ll strangle.’

He lifted her in his arms and set her down outside the door. Still clasping him and turning her face towards him,
she held fast to the jamb of the door. He wrenched himself free, stepped back, and slammed it hard. He did not hear her shriek. She put her injured fingers to her mouth, then wrapped them in her frock, and with her shoulders bent, her mouth hard with pain, walked slowly away.

Rosamund was dozing off towards deep sleep when she became aware of a light in the room. It was Phoebe in her nightdress, wrapped in an eiderdown and carrying a flashlight. She was shuddering, her jaw was quite out of control; her face was greenish-white. She came close to the bed, and huddled over the pillow.

‘Oh, give me your hand, Rosamund!’

She knelt beside the bed, pushing her arm under the clothes along her sister’s side.

‘It’s silly to be like this, but I must just touch you.’

Rosamund felt annoyed and foolish. The best thing was to go to sleep.

The next day Matt was seen by nobody, and Phoebe was too sick to do anything. Towards evening she left her bed and went down to the kitchen to question Gladys, who was able to tell her that Easter was living at the Pendoig Arms. Her one bright eye raised to Phoebe was in strange contrast to the fixed downward gaze of the glass orb. Phoebe returned to her bed, depressed and terrified by the curiosity this one crippled gaze expressed.