resounding thud.
Celia heard the thud. She lay tight and still on the drugget, waiting for the next thud—the slap of a trowel against mortar. And beyond the thuds, in the shadowy candlelit Hall, that gloating woman’s face was watching.
Richard turned off the phonograph, switched on the light, put on his trousers and shoes. He blew out the altar candles. He looked down at Celia. “I’m sorry, my dear,” he whispered, “terribly sorry. It was disgusting, all of it. My behavior and that unspeakable woman’s . . .”
Celia did not move. Her transfixed eyes were strained towards the wall on her left. They showed white around the irises as they stared, unblinking. “How long will it be, Stephen?” she said in a faint, reasonable voice. “How long must it take one to die?”
“You won’t die,” he said sharply. “I’m sorry I behaved like such a bastard. Here—” He bundled her inert body into his shirt.
“You are going to let me die,” she said. She did not speak again.
Her face grew pinched and bluish around the great staring eyes.
Beneath Richard’s guilt and grinding resentment that she had, in a way, precipitated the whole degrading scene and his own loss of control, there was horror. Why did she call me
Stephen?
He picked her up and carried her back through the passages to their bedroom. She was hardly breathing as he laid her on the bed. Suddenly, she reached her arms straight up above her head, her fingers curled as though grasping at a ledge. Her face flushed purple, she began to gasp.
“It’s all right, now,” he whispered, trying to take her rigid, clawlike hand. “A beastly happening, but you must forget it. Celia—put your arms down!”
She made no response. There was only the gasping noise, and a bubbling sound from her throat.
“Oh, my God . . .” he cried, and rushed out of the room.
Three
S UNDAY MORNING THE weather still held fair. Mellow sunlight illumined the garden room as members of the house party straggled in for breakfast. Sue came first, then Harry, Igor, George Simpson, and finally Myra who had enjoyed a refreshing sleep and looked vibrant in green jersey lounging pajamas. Nobody spoke much until the impassive Dodge poured out coffee, and the guests helped themselves from the hot table.
“No host or hostess?” Myra inquired, nibbling a piece of dry toast, “or Mrs. Taylor—? Harry, you look definitely warmed over, my pet. Night on the tiles too taxing?”
Harry swallowed a mouthful of kipper and gave her a resentful glance. When he had discovered last night in the garden that there was definitely nothing doing with Celia, his hopes had reverted to Myra. After midnight he had tried her door. There had been only a muffled derisive laugh in answer to his discreet knocks. I’m sick of women, Harry thought. Wasting what’s left of my life on them. God, I wish I was back in that other June, twenty-eight years ago. Fighting, struggling, retreating, but too busy surviving to get the wind up. Leading my men down that sand dune, the one place we could have got through, and that moment when I shot the Jerry when he thought he had
us.
God, I wish I were back then, or even later with the blitz, the doodle-bugs—but at least an enemy you could fight. Purpose—and youth.
Harry got up from the table. “Need some exercise,” he announced. “Think I’ll have a ramble over the Downs. Examine that white horse someone’s cut in the hill. Tell the Marsdons when you see them.”
The others finished breakfast and drifted towards the pool where they riffled the Sunday papers, and were silent. Even Myra’s energy and Sue’s exuberance faded into the general vacuity.
Igor made the only remark as he idly shied a pebble at a clump of iris. “Is there something absolutely dire in the atmosphere, I wonder, or am I just hypersensitive? I mean, it’s past eleven, and one might reasonably expect . . .” He broke off; they all stared at each other as they heard an
Celia heard the thud. She lay tight and still on the drugget, waiting for the next thud—the slap of a trowel against mortar. And beyond the thuds, in the shadowy candlelit Hall, that gloating woman’s face was watching.
Richard turned off the phonograph, switched on the light, put on his trousers and shoes. He blew out the altar candles. He looked down at Celia. “I’m sorry, my dear,” he whispered, “terribly sorry. It was disgusting, all of it. My behavior and that unspeakable woman’s . . .”
Celia did not move. Her transfixed eyes were strained towards the wall on her left. They showed white around the irises as they stared, unblinking. “How long will it be, Stephen?” she said in a faint, reasonable voice. “How long must it take one to die?”
“You won’t die,” he said sharply. “I’m sorry I behaved like such a bastard. Here—” He bundled her inert body into his shirt.
“You are going to let me die,” she said. She did not speak again.
Her face grew pinched and bluish around the great staring eyes.
Beneath Richard’s guilt and grinding resentment that she had, in a way, precipitated the whole degrading scene and his own loss of control, there was horror. Why did she call me
Stephen?
He picked her up and carried her back through the passages to their bedroom. She was hardly breathing as he laid her on the bed. Suddenly, she reached her arms straight up above her head, her fingers curled as though grasping at a ledge. Her face flushed purple, she began to gasp.
“It’s all right, now,” he whispered, trying to take her rigid, clawlike hand. “A beastly happening, but you must forget it. Celia—put your arms down!”
She made no response. There was only the gasping noise, and a bubbling sound from her throat.
“Oh, my God . . .” he cried, and rushed out of the room.
Three
S UNDAY MORNING THE weather still held fair. Mellow sunlight illumined the garden room as members of the house party straggled in for breakfast. Sue came first, then Harry, Igor, George Simpson, and finally Myra who had enjoyed a refreshing sleep and looked vibrant in green jersey lounging pajamas. Nobody spoke much until the impassive Dodge poured out coffee, and the guests helped themselves from the hot table.
“No host or hostess?” Myra inquired, nibbling a piece of dry toast, “or Mrs. Taylor—? Harry, you look definitely warmed over, my pet. Night on the tiles too taxing?”
Harry swallowed a mouthful of kipper and gave her a resentful glance. When he had discovered last night in the garden that there was definitely nothing doing with Celia, his hopes had reverted to Myra. After midnight he had tried her door. There had been only a muffled derisive laugh in answer to his discreet knocks. I’m sick of women, Harry thought. Wasting what’s left of my life on them. God, I wish I was back in that other June, twenty-eight years ago. Fighting, struggling, retreating, but too busy surviving to get the wind up. Leading my men down that sand dune, the one place we could have got through, and that moment when I shot the Jerry when he thought he had
us.
God, I wish I were back then, or even later with the blitz, the doodle-bugs—but at least an enemy you could fight. Purpose—and youth.
Harry got up from the table. “Need some exercise,” he announced. “Think I’ll have a ramble over the Downs. Examine that white horse someone’s cut in the hill. Tell the Marsdons when you see them.”
The others finished breakfast and drifted towards the pool where they riffled the Sunday papers, and were silent. Even Myra’s energy and Sue’s exuberance faded into the general vacuity.
Igor made the only remark as he idly shied a pebble at a clump of iris. “Is there something absolutely dire in the atmosphere, I wonder, or am I just hypersensitive? I mean, it’s past eleven, and one might reasonably expect . . .” He broke off; they all stared at each other as they heard an
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