I knew I ought to give the sign that would alter my father’s fate. But I didn’t want him to stay at home; on the contrary, I was rejoicing because he was about to leave me alone with my mother once more. As I saw where my magic power would lead if I exercised it, all trace of exultance left me. Frightened and stupefied, I seemed to exist for a timeless moment in pure suspense, watching a race between his destiny and the car, relentlessly drawing nearer. Would I interfere before the taxi arrived, or let things take their course?
Just when the tension was becoming intolerable, it relaxed, releasing me from my entranced condition. Nor mality was restored, the material world re-established. All at once the flow of my natural everyday life continued. I was free to resume my usual activities and, jumping up, rushed out of the room, shouting, ‘Here comes the taxi!’ By running about and making a great deal of noise, I endeavoured to drown a lingering sense of havoc and fatality for which I was accountable on the other plane, in which attempt I was helped by the general bustling confusion.
The car had stopped outside the front door. Now the driver came in, joining my parents and the neighbour who was to stay with me, for I’d been told there wouldn’t be room for all three of us and the luggage — a ridiculous error, about which I loudly and persistently protested, though nobody listened to me. In the turmoil created by four adults and myself, all picking up suitcases and putting them down again, I was continually getting in someone’s way and being pushed aside. Suddenly I remembered what I had to say to my father but couldn’t catch his attention till he went out to help the driver tie the heavier pieces on to the roof-rack, at which point I ran after him and started a breathless, incoherent speech, which he could hardly have been expected to understand. In any case, he was now called away, and I stood watching the driver knotting the rope as securely as for a journey to Samarkand. Wondering how the porter would ever unfasten it in time to catch the train, I forgot how my own time was running out and, with a shock, saw my mother dressed and ready to leave.
Before I could reach her, she had stepped into the car, and I could only prevent my father from following by throwing both arms around him and hanging on like grim death. In his usual gentle way, he bent down to ask me to release him. And, while he was doing so, my mother doubtless made a sign I failed to see to the plump countrywoman, who had retired a little way into the background to let us say our goodbyes in private, for I felt myself attacked from the rear. Knowing I wouldn’t long be able to resist the strong arms that were pulling me back, I again began whispering urgent words, which probably made no sense at all to the harassed man. With a worried, perplexed look, he tried to follow what I was saying, in spite of the noise of the car, which had just started up, the scolding or loving cries of the woman tugging at me and my mother’s repeated warnings that he would miss the train.
Considering all he had on his mind, it seems unlikely that he even remembered my childish rudeness, though it had wounded him at the time. But I felt it was profoundly important that he should understand me; I had a desperate sense of failure when, in response to increasingly agitated exhortations, he finally detached himself with some kindly phrase appropriate to my age, leaving me to the soft heart and strong arms of my captor, who, thinking I’d been overcome by grief, pressed me so tightly to her big bosom that I could hardly breathe and crooned consolingly over my head.
Luck was on my side, for, as the taxi moved off, it back-fired so loudly that she was startled into relaxing her grip for a second. Twisting around, I managed to free myself, raced after it and, with a flying leap, landed on the running-board. The window was down, I leaned into the car, crying, ‘I didn’t mean it last night. I would like to come with you to the waves …’ repeating, ‘I would, I would!’ with a wild vehemence that surprised me.
Even then I couldn’t be certain my father had understood. As far as I remember, he said nothing but, concerned, I suppose, for my safety, tried to get hold of me but was prevented by the jolting of the car and by that fact that he had to lean right across my mother, who further impeded him in her efforts to catch the attention of the driver. Oblivious of what was happening behind him, he drove faster and faster over the bumpy road.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. But before it could get a firm grip, the taxi lurched around one of the many bends. The centrifugal force that sent me flying tore my clothing from my father’s hand and made him stagger back, as I landed in the long grass at the roadside. The noise of the motor diminished, and I was aware for a second of a great stillness and of a great many things all happening at once. The woman at the cottage door gave a shrill scream and started running towards me; with a rasping squeal the taxi braked sharply to a halt, skidding in the white dust, three heads poking out of its windows like so many question marks; a colony of ants, disturbed by my descent among them, rushed madly in all directions through the forest of grass stems; while, unperturbed by it all, a bird’s song continued, minutely distinct, in the great inverted bowl of the sky.
Then I picked myself up, none the worse, for the thick summer grass had saved me from anything but minor bruises — and I’d learned as all children do, especially in the country, to fall painlessly. The three heads were still turned in my direction; but now the woman came up, running her hands over me, confirming that I’d suffered no serious damage, whereupon my parents waved their hands, their heads were withdrawn and the car drove on again.
I thought their behaviour heartless — they might at least have made sure for themselves that I’d broken no bones — and a slight resentment replaced my former anxiety. The shock of the fall had, in any case, already banished an obsession belonging more to my private inward existence than to my life in the outer world, to which I now wholeheartedly returned, taking advantage of the situation to play on the feelings of my temporary companion, who, always indulgent, could now deny me nothing, so that the time passed very pleasantly till my mother’s return.
She, too, appeared to be in an unusually generous mood. Almost as if she felt slightly guilty, she brought me several small presents and fussed over my trifling injuries in a most gratifying fashion. I remember making much capital out of a cut on my knee, which looked worse than it felt, though it left a scar which remains to the present day. For some time afterwards I put up with the inconvenience of a bandage and hobbled about the place as a wounded hero — much to my own admiration, if to nobody else’s.
Did my father have a clue, I’ve wondered since, as to what all the fuss was about? I had no chance of finding out, as I never saw him again.
Now that my father had gone abroad for an indefinite period and I had my mother to myself again, I assumed that we would revert to the pleasant, placid, uneventful life we’d shared before his return. But, though outward conditions were the same as before, we ourselves had altered. Then, I’d been a small child, scarcely more than a baby; but my summer holiday away from home and without my parents had hurried on my development. I had now acquired new interests and some independence.
My mother had changed even more, and though she at first made great efforts to become her old self she had lost for ever the special quality of imaginative playfulness that had made her such a satisfactory companion for me during the earlier time, when an intimate private warmth had seemed to enclose us. For a while I pretended everything was as before, but slowly I was forced to notice that we hadn’t really come together again; there was still a distance between us, a gap which refused to close but which was gradually widening. A certain coldness was growing up.