After his defeat at the hands of Emma, Randall had remained for some time in a state of frenzy. He had telephoned Lindsay's Leicester number in vain, and had been beginning to believe the most terrible and fantastic things when at the third attempt he got hold of her. Lindsay by telephone was perfection itself. She had been rational, masterly and loving. The last, especially, he by now voraciously required. When he had suggested that she should not return again to Emma's flat she had replied reasonably enough that after all she must go back some time to fetch her things. So it had been agreed that she should for the moment, go back to Notting Hill. But the way in which she now assumed that things were moving into their last phase was tacit and beautiful. It was she who had, with a clairvoyant perception and with the firmness of an able general settling outstanding problems in a due order, raised the question of Miranda. And Randall had agreed that he must, now at last, speak to his daughter. He said nothing to Lindsay about the money. But he knew she knew.
The rendezvous with Miranda had been arranged in conditions of secrecy with the help of Nancy Bowshott. Randall had walked from the station across the fields and through the hops, reaching the stable block, which stood on the edge of the wood, without misadventure. He was terrified of an encounter with Ann; and as he came distantly within sight of the house, terror, pity, and a dreadful old indestructible tenderness devoured his heart. But the prospect of Miranda, the sight of Miranda, drove these things away.
'You've grown! said Randall. It was true. She had changed. She was dressed in a light jersey and trousers, her long legs swinging. He saw, on a level with his eyes, the slight lift of her breasts under the jersey. He stood leaning against the beam beside her.
'You've been ages away! said Miranda.
He was glad to find her completely composed, as self-contained as she always was. He feared her emotions, he relied hopefully upon her reason.
'I'm sorry, said Randall. 'I've been going through a bad time. The presence of his daughter made him feel suddenly very sorry for himself.
'Poor Daddy!
'Look, Miranda, said Randall. He felt he must talk quickly, although they ran little risk of interruption in the abandoned loft. 'Look, girlie. I must talk to you seriously about what I'm going to do. You're almost grown-:-up now, and I'm going to talk to you as if you were grown-up. And you must help me.
'Is it about going away? said Miranda. She swung her legs. Swift as a racing shadow a swallow passed behind her head to its nest with a soft flurry of wings. There was a distant jargoning.
'Yes, said Randall. 'I'm afraid so. He did not look at her. He leaned on the beam, like a prisoner in the dock. He said, 'Listen, Miranda. I don't know how much you know about this — but I've fallen in love with somebody, somebody else, somebody in London, and I want to leave your mother and marry this person. It was very hard to say. It sounded, in this place, beside Miranda, suddenly unreal.
'I know.
'How did you know? said Randall. He lifted his eyes to his daughter's. Her pale freckled face, under its tousled cap of autumn reds, was poised above him. She was beginning to resemble Ann, as Ann had been when he married her. Only this was a thought to be shunned..
'Oh well, said Miranda, 'one does know these things. She added, 'Mummy knows, of course.
'Yes, said Randall. Had they, could they have, discussed it? 'And you're not angry with me?
'Of course not, silly. These things happen. She was wonderfully, almost appallingly, grown-up.
'You see, said Randall, 'I wouldn't go if you — didn't want me to.
He felt, after her last words, safe in saying this; and it was something he would wish to have said.
'Are you — asking my permission? It was almost cruel in its deliberate clarity.
'Well, yes, said Randall, suddenly afraid again. 'But of course you must go!
They had certainly got quickly to the point. Randall gave a long sigh and took her hand and pressed it against his brow.
'You don't think I've enjoyed it, Miranda went on, 'this quarrelly feeling between you and Mummy all the time» the scenes I've been made the witness of? A broken home is better than an atmosphere of violence. It sounded like a statement made in a police court.
'Oh God, said Randall, 'I'm sorry, Miranda. I've been a rotten father, he thought; but the thought was as artificial as Miranda's words. Poor Ann, he thought. But these words too were dead. They did not dare to go out and touch their object. At last with conviction he thought, poor me.
'Don't be sorry, she said. 'I'm saying I'd be relieved, relieved if you went, if it were all settled somehow.
Randall had a curious sense of being positively seen off. He said, 'Of course I'd never lose touch with you, you know that. You could come and live with me and Lindsay if you wanted to. You'll love Lindsay, she's a dear person. We'd share you with — here. We'd all manage. Would we? he wondered.
Miranda was so cool now, but what really went on in that little head? When he had gone, positively gone, what grief perhaps would follow? From the idea of Miranda's suffering he turned away as from an object both too sacred and too terrible to contemplate. And it occurred to him how much she had always in fact spared him the sight of it. When Steve died, when the end came suddenly, when he had told her, how she had twisted from his embrace, running to her room and locking the door. And there had been a silence within more terrifying than any wail. Now too she would suffer in private. She'll survive, he thought, children just do survive, they get on. It was shabby, all the same.
'Will you live abroad? said Miranda. 'I should like to visit you abroad. She swung her legs. It sounded gay, like the prospect of a holiday.
'Perhaps, said Randall. 'We shall be Abroad a lot, I expect. Would they live abroad? He had scarcely thought about it. The barriers between himself and Lindsay had seemed so vast that his imagination had never properly overshot them. What would it be like? He lifted his head and saw close above them, glued to a rafter, a swallow's nest from which the young swallows were looking out, a group of strange little faces. They reminded him of Miranda's dolls.
'Don't worry about me, Daddy, said Miranda. 'And don't worry about Mummy either. She'll be all right.
'God! I hope so, said Randall. It sounded so weak. He looked up at her. Yes, she was changed. She was already a separate being, a possible judge.
'You know, Mummy will be relieved too, said Miranda.
'It's better to have a horrid thing than to have it hanging over you. And mummy will manage. She's awfully tough really. She hums all the time. I thought at first she was crying, but it was only humming.
God, I can't bear this, thought Randall. 'I'm glad you think she'll manage. I hope she'll be happier. I know you'll look after her. I am a swine, he thought; but this thought too was resolved into, poor me; and he felt near to tears.
'Mummy won't be happy, it's not her thing, said Miranda. 'But she's brave, and I think she's good. She spoke judiciously.
This must stop, thought Randall. He said, 'How are you in other ways, Miranda? How's school getting on?
'Very well, thank you, Daddy.
I'm a bloody travesty of a father, thought Randall. There was a sudden sound behind him, and he turned with a sick jump of the heart; but it was only a pigeon which had alighted at the sunny loft door. Miranda laughed. A swallow passed, and another almost above their heads began its long jumbled song. 'I suppose no one's likely to come here, are they? said Randall. 'No one saw you on the way?