happened to Lisa?”
“Lisa has—has passed over. Last night she took an overdose of my pills. I found her dead this morning.”
He went out again at once. In the park, at dusk, the leaves were dying and livid, some already fallen. At this point, when they had been showing their first green of spring, he had takenthe photograph; at this, he had seated her in a sunny open space and she had seen Zoe.
Mrs Cleasant wasn’t alone. Some of the members of her magic circle were with her, but she was calmer than he had ever seen her and he guessed she was drugged.
“How did it happen?” he said.
“I told you. She took an overdose.”
“But—why?” He shrank away from the medium’s eyes, which, staring, seemed to see ghosts behind him.
“Nothing to do with you, Peter,” said Mrs Cleasant. “She loved you, you know that. And she was so happy yesterday. Her fitting was cancelled. She said she wanted fresh air because it was such a lovely day, and then she’d walk over to you. She’d thrown away her charm—that amulet she wore—because she said you didn’t like it. I told her not to, as it was a harmless thing and might do good. Who knows? If she had been wearing it…”
“Ah, if she had been under the Protection!” said the medium.
Mrs Cleasant went on, “We were going out to dinner. I waited and waited for her. When she didn’t come I went alone. I thought she was with you, safe with you. But I came back early and there she was, looking so tired and afraid. She said she was going to bed. I asked her if there was anything wrong and she said …” But Mrs Cleasant’s voice quavered into sobs and the witch women fluttered about her, touching her and murmuring.
It was the medium who explained in her corpse voice. “She said she had seen her own double in the park.”
“But that was six months ago,” he burst out. “That was in April!”
“No, she saw her own double yesterday afternoon, her image walking in the garden. And she dared to speak to it. Who can tell what your own death will tell you when you dare to address it?”
He ran away from them then, out of the house. He hailed a taxi and in a shaking whisper asked the driver to take him towhere Zoe lived. All the lights were on in her windows. He rang the bell, rang it again and again. Then, while the lights still blazed but she didn’t come down, he hammered on the door with his fists, calling her name. When he knew she wasn’t going to come, that he had lost her and her image, her double and her, for ever, he sank down on the doorstep and wept.
The taxi driver, returning along the street in search of a fare, supposed him to be drunk, and learning his address from the broken mutterings, took him home.
Venus’ Fly-trap
As soon as Daphne had taken off her hat and put it on Merle’s bed, Merle picked it up and rammed it on her own yellow curls. It was a red felt hat and by chance it matched Merle’s red dress.
“It’s a funny thing, dear,” said Merle, looking at herself in the dressing-table mirror, “but anyone seeing us two—any outsider, I mean—would never think that I was the single one and you’d had all those husbands and children.”
“I only had two husbands and three children,” said Daphne.
“You know what I mean,” said Merle, and Daphne, standing beside her friend, had to admit that she did. Merle was so big, so pink and overflowing and female, while she—well, she had given up pretending she was anything but a little dried-up widow, seventy years old and looking every day of it.
Merle took off the hat and placed it beside the doll whose yellow satin skirts concealed her nightdress and her bag of hair rollers. “I’ll show you the flat and then we’ll have a sherry and put our feet up. I got some of that walnut brown in. You see I haven’t forgotten your tastes even after forty years.”
Daphne didn’t say it was dry sherry she had then, and still, preferred. She trotted meekly after Merle. She was
“Lisa has—has passed over. Last night she took an overdose of my pills. I found her dead this morning.”
He went out again at once. In the park, at dusk, the leaves were dying and livid, some already fallen. At this point, when they had been showing their first green of spring, he had takenthe photograph; at this, he had seated her in a sunny open space and she had seen Zoe.
Mrs Cleasant wasn’t alone. Some of the members of her magic circle were with her, but she was calmer than he had ever seen her and he guessed she was drugged.
“How did it happen?” he said.
“I told you. She took an overdose.”
“But—why?” He shrank away from the medium’s eyes, which, staring, seemed to see ghosts behind him.
“Nothing to do with you, Peter,” said Mrs Cleasant. “She loved you, you know that. And she was so happy yesterday. Her fitting was cancelled. She said she wanted fresh air because it was such a lovely day, and then she’d walk over to you. She’d thrown away her charm—that amulet she wore—because she said you didn’t like it. I told her not to, as it was a harmless thing and might do good. Who knows? If she had been wearing it…”
“Ah, if she had been under the Protection!” said the medium.
Mrs Cleasant went on, “We were going out to dinner. I waited and waited for her. When she didn’t come I went alone. I thought she was with you, safe with you. But I came back early and there she was, looking so tired and afraid. She said she was going to bed. I asked her if there was anything wrong and she said …” But Mrs Cleasant’s voice quavered into sobs and the witch women fluttered about her, touching her and murmuring.
It was the medium who explained in her corpse voice. “She said she had seen her own double in the park.”
“But that was six months ago,” he burst out. “That was in April!”
“No, she saw her own double yesterday afternoon, her image walking in the garden. And she dared to speak to it. Who can tell what your own death will tell you when you dare to address it?”
He ran away from them then, out of the house. He hailed a taxi and in a shaking whisper asked the driver to take him towhere Zoe lived. All the lights were on in her windows. He rang the bell, rang it again and again. Then, while the lights still blazed but she didn’t come down, he hammered on the door with his fists, calling her name. When he knew she wasn’t going to come, that he had lost her and her image, her double and her, for ever, he sank down on the doorstep and wept.
The taxi driver, returning along the street in search of a fare, supposed him to be drunk, and learning his address from the broken mutterings, took him home.
Venus’ Fly-trap
As soon as Daphne had taken off her hat and put it on Merle’s bed, Merle picked it up and rammed it on her own yellow curls. It was a red felt hat and by chance it matched Merle’s red dress.
“It’s a funny thing, dear,” said Merle, looking at herself in the dressing-table mirror, “but anyone seeing us two—any outsider, I mean—would never think that I was the single one and you’d had all those husbands and children.”
“I only had two husbands and three children,” said Daphne.
“You know what I mean,” said Merle, and Daphne, standing beside her friend, had to admit that she did. Merle was so big, so pink and overflowing and female, while she—well, she had given up pretending she was anything but a little dried-up widow, seventy years old and looking every day of it.
Merle took off the hat and placed it beside the doll whose yellow satin skirts concealed her nightdress and her bag of hair rollers. “I’ll show you the flat and then we’ll have a sherry and put our feet up. I got some of that walnut brown in. You see I haven’t forgotten your tastes even after forty years.”
Daphne didn’t say it was dry sherry she had then, and still, preferred. She trotted meekly after Merle. She was
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