“I hope,” she says in a rush, with a terrible feeling of falling over herself, “I hope your play is a success — I hope — I hope you will have a great success in it.”
Helen is drying her hands on a tea-towel. Ursula regards her anxiously, pained and waiting — why, she asks herself, why must I blurt out things like this, like a fool?
“Do you?” Helen says tonelessly, and drops the towel on the draining-board; she is thinking of something else altogether.
Ursula sees anew how radiant she is, in that sky-blue dress and those gold sandals, with that tight-fitting gleaming helmet of hair.
My Dad is plucking at my sleeve.
“Yes, yes, I do,” Ursula says, feeling herself falling still, as in a dream. “I wish you — I wish you everything.”
Helen turns abstractedly and walks from the room.
I can feel my father’s burgeoning itch as together we rush after her from the kitchen into the music room and out by the french doors where she almost collides with her husband coming in from the lawn. She has never managed to accustom herself to these sudden loomings that he does. He is like, she thinks vexedly, a great large soft eager dog.
“Here you are!” he says breathlessly, grasping her by the upper arms and smiling into her face. “I wanted to say — I wanted to tell you—”
“What—?”
She twists free of his hands and falls back a step.
“Well, just that I’ve decided—”
— to leave you, she finishes for him in her mind.
He does not know what he wants to tell her, what he wants to say. He is still all at sea, under that keel, sat at the end of that thrumming plank. He has a brimming sensation, as if he were himself a vessel that he has been given to carry, filled with some marvellous fluid not a drop of which must be allowed to spill.
“What?” she asks again, more brusquely. “What have you decided?”
He frowns. How strange her look when she stepped away from him like that, drawing in her chin and glaring up at him, with stony unsurprise, like a child about to hear an announcement from the big world that the adults think momentous but in fact is only dull.
“I was going to say,” he says, treading over the flaw of doubt and rushing on, “I thought we might — I don’t know — I thought we might move down here, after — afterwards.” His forehead flushes. “What do you think?”
“What do I think? Of moving, down here, to Arden?” She gives a sour laugh, a sort of snort, and looks past him quickly. It strikes her how like a lighted stage the sunlit garden seems, garish, innocent and faintly mad. “I’m going for a walk,” she says.
Adam blinks. “A walk?” This little scene between the two of them is already rankling in his mind, as if it were past already and he is recalling it.
“Yes, a walk — is that all right?”
“Of course, of course.” He laughs, his brow fairly on fire by now. “Can I come with you?”
Although he does not move she has the impression of him dodging from side to side in the doorway so as not to let her pass.
“Your mother is drunk again,” she says. “I think you had better look after her.”
For a second it seems he will put his hands on her arms again, more roughly this time. Despite his flustered smile and doggy eagerness she is a little frightened of him, so large and unnervingly blond, so sharp-eyed sometimes, as now. Points of stubble glitter on his cheeks and chin as if a pinch of reddish sand had been thrown in his face and stuck there. She imagines him hitting her, the jarring of fist on bone.
— oh, such a dream!
We were upon some golden mountain top,
The two of us, just we, and all around
The air was blue, and endless, and so soft—
You see how my Dad does it, putting all sorts of fancies in their heads to distract and confuse them? She begins to recall something from her dawn dream of love and then does not. But she will always remember this day, for as long, that is, as a mortal may remember anything.
Frowning now and suddenly helpless, her husband steps out of the way to let her pass. As she does, he tries eagerly to take her hand but she brushes him aside and is gone.
To make her way to the garden from the music room she must cross an enclosed, cobbled yard and go out by an iron gate.
There is another yard beyond, where the chicken-runs are, and often the chickens escape and get in here through the gate because they like to peck among the cobbles, where there must be worms, or grubs, or something. Helen is nervous of these high-strung, baroque birds with their trembling wattles, the way they look at her with malevolent surmise and make that slow thoughtful gargling sound in their gullets. Their droppings are multicoloured, chalk-white and black — what do they eat? — olive-green and a shiny silk-green and a horrible glistening dark brown. She goes gingerly, careful of her sandals. The gate when she opens it resists her, dragging and shrieking on its rusty hinges.
The two she had observed from the conservatory are still where they had been, on the step above the sunken lawn, oddly consorting there, the one tall and sleek and the other fat and humped and bald. Benny Grace is eyeing her at an angle, and she sees that he is smiling to himself. He has taken off his shoes and socks again — is there something the matter with his feet? Roddy Wagstaff pointedly pretends not to notice her as she approaches. In her sandals she can feel the grass, it is moist and cool and tickles her toes deliciously. Because of the low level of this part of the lawn the sunlight shining down over the trees seems sharply bent, as if it were water and not air it is striking through. A stray wind, soft and lapsing, rustles through the trees and makes their leaves tinkle; the leaves are darkly polished on top and greeny-grey underneath. Summer seems an immense height, an eminence towering bluely over the day. See how all stops for a moment, here in this dappled grove, where now even the breeze is stilled. This respite is a gift of the god, your less than humble servant.
Helen is asking Roddy Wagstaff for a cigarette. He bends on her his finical smile and clicks open the slim, silver cigarette case with his thumb and offers it open flat on his palm. The still, bright air pales the flame of his lighter. They both ignore Benny Grace, squatting on the step at the level of their knees, squinting up at them, genial and quizzical. They smoke in silence for a little while, ignoring him — he might be a garden ornament, for all the notice they take of him — and then, together, without a word, they descend the steps and walk away along the lawn.