He heard the sound of footsteps and the softer patter of canine pads before the door was opened, then the wheezing cough of a smoker.
‘Oh, Titus, I’m so glad to see you.’ Dog, standing beside Ruth as a huge ochre-coloured protector, gave a whimper of welcome and backed to let him in.
The room was almost overheated by the big, black, living monster of a stove, and a light on the table revealed a disorder of paper and pens, pencils, ink and all the paraphernalia of an artist at work, topped by a cat or two sitting on small mountains of books and paper.
‘What a beautiful sight, Ruth,’ Titus could not help exclaiming. ‘How have you managed? Is it going better now? Your drawing, I mean.’
‘Well, yes. Yes and no – I’m disturbed, and sometimes that’s better. Sometimes not. When I’m disturbed, sometimes I work better if I’ve had a few drinks. Sometimes, then, it clears my mind and so long as I can control my pen or my brush, I can turn out the dross and see clearly what I want to do. I’m happy – unhappy – exhilarated, despairing, desperate, hopeful – lost, and found.’
‘Yes, Ruth, I can feel all these things, and without arrogance too. I had to come back, to see you, to feel your warmth, but I dreaded it too.’
‘Oh, I know that, Titus. But what can we do – eh? I know. I expect you could do with something to eat. How practical I am, eh? Come on, let’s pretend. Come on, Titus. Come in. Let’s pretend there is no world outside, back or beyond, past or future. Just now. Come on. I can’t work any more anyway. Come on. Come on. Let’s eat a little, drink a little more and grasp what we can . . .’
‘I’ve brought you something,’ said Titus, and he handed Ruth the holly branch, which she took, acknowledging what lay beyond the gift. ‘It’s rather prickly,’ he warned her.
‘Prickles, stickles, red and green, look out, look out, my lily queen,’ chanted Ruth as she laid it on the overburdened table, and one cat, on being so unceremoniously displaced, jumped off the paper mountain.
Ruth lit the candles in the black three-pronged candle holder and motioned Titus to a dilapidated magenta armchair, which sat guard by the stove.
‘I’ll bring the soup in, and then let’s see what happens. I’m tired, hungry, I want to dance, to sing, to weep, to laugh, to sleep, to wake. Come on, Titus, what do you want to do?’
‘I just want to be here. I feel safe.’
Ruth left the room and Dog stayed, not knowing now whether to stay or go. He stayed in the centre of the studio, and Titus and his canine friend heard the sounds from across the corridor of crockery being moved, put down and lifted, and clatter, clatter, down she came again, kicked open the door and brought in a tray, on which stood a saucepan, steaming, and plates and two glasses and a bottle of wine.
Titus got out of his chair and, taking the tray, deposited it on the floor.
‘I must give them all something first, then we can settle down and see what we shall see – eh, Titus Groan?’
Ruth put down plates of food for the cats, and a larger bowl for Dog, who with his customary courtesy made no move until he saw that his master and his hostess were also served.
Ruth sat in another chair on the other side of the stove, and in the candlelit silence, with candlelit thoughts, they all settled down to eat and drink what had been prepared.
‘I’m tired, Titus. Will you take Dog out now, for a bit. The cats have their own private door but poor Dog, he can’t get through that.’
They stacked up the plates and bowls, and Ruth told Titus to leave it on the floor, just where it was.
‘Yes, I’ll take Dog.’
‘Leave the door open, Titus. I expect I’ll be in bed when you get back.’
Titus groped his way back along the corridor to the front door of the building, which was never closed.
When he returned the candles were still lit, and he saw Ruth’s dark head on the pillow, with the little drift of smoke coming from the cigarette, clinging as always to her lower lip.
As she removed it, the wheezing cough reached the proportions of a small dust storm, and her laughter fought the wheezing until the bed shook and the cats were displaced in a most inelegant way.
Titus threw off his clothes and dropped them beside the bed, with no attempt to arrange them, and as Ruth removed the cigarette, she slid to the side of the bed against the wall and Titus, with the sigh of coming home, lay down beside her.
They slept deeply and innocently. It was only in the early hours of the morning that they awoke and their lovemaking was half in another world, so that on waking at dawn neither knew if they had dreamed it. It was then that Titus opened his heart to Ruth. It was then that for hours he talked of his childhood, of the home he had forsaken, the people he had loved and hated. The landscape – the castle – all that it stood for – all that at times he could hardly breathe for the longing for, and the hatred of. Ruth listened as he spoke, shed tears for the death of Fuchsia, ached for Keda, and was silenced in her tears for that being, to whom Titus would be for ever bound – the ‘Thing’, amoral, beautiful and heartless. She took it all to her heart. She wanted to return with Titus to the few who remained. His mother, the magnificent Gertrude, whose russet hair must by now surely have turned to the colour of flint. She clung to Titus, with a love that almost broke her and realised that nothing and no one could hold a wandering man. She had no doubts. Her acceptance of him was absolute.
Ruth knew that, whatever happened, whether sooner or later, she would be for ever, like Titus, alone. But she would not have had it otherwise, and she prepared herself anew for the wounds to come.
For many days they lived in the studio. Ruth working, Titus going out and returning, and savouring a life they knew could not last. They hardly spoke. There was no need. Both wondered where, when and how the world would intrude.
One morning there was a hearty rapping on the door and Herbert’s voice called, ‘Ripe strawberries – ripe strawberries – anyone there? Ripe strawberries – you there, old boy, ripe strawberries.’
Ruth looked at Titus, as she went to open the door, and Herbert came in with his arms full of what looked like a harvest festival.
‘Sophia sent you these, old girl,’ and he put down, where he could find a place, a pie dish with a crust of golden pastry, and as much fruit and vegetables as his hands could hold.
‘Oh, how kind of her,’ said Ruth. ‘My mouth waters, for I’ve tasted her cooking and it’s memorable – do please thank her – how wonderful. I’m afraid my prowess stops at a bowl of soup and some bread.’
‘Well, old boy, it’s as I thought – I’ve dolled up the drawings of you and the old bag won’t rest until I’ve taken you to see her. Can you come now, with me? She’s worse than I am when she gets an idea in her head, and it’s always got to be done NOW, no matter what anyone else’s plans are. Can you come, old boy, eh?’
Titus looked at Ruth, and he knew she felt a shrinking of her heart.
‘Well, I’m not . . .’
‘Oh, yes, Titus, do go. I’ve got so much to get on with. I must finish these drawings. I have to take them up tomorrow. They’ve promised to pay me on the dot . . . and carry one.’
‘Good girl,’ roared Herbert. ‘Oh, she’s a good girl.’
‘What about Dog?’ asked Titus.
‘Well, the old bag’s keen on virility and all that, but I think one specimen at a time, old boy.’
‘I’ll keep him, Titus, while you’re out.’
‘Oh, good girl, that’s the girl. Come on, Tite, old boy. You never know what might happen once you get through old Sempleton’s portals. Let’s get going – we can walk there.’
‘All right, I’ll follow you then. I just want a word with Ruth before I go.’