began to play a game; she would win it if she could find one thing she would have accepted as a gift. Absurdly – and though she knew it was absurd she felt it quite strongly – failing to win would be unlucky.
There must be something! Looking up at the gallery which tan round the room she saw a table loaded with books. Surely among so many … But it was still no good. She read title after title. Sermons, books about chemistry, mathematics, agriculture … Well, she would walk right round the gallery.
And in a corner she found it: a rosewood sofa, upholstered in faded moss-green brocade. She wouldn’t have paid for it but as a gift – yes, she could consider the game won. Gratefully, she sat down.
Still nearly an hour to waste, even if she got to the station early. She leaned back and put her feet up. This was the kind of one-ended sofa that invalids in old novels spent so much time on. How quiet this place was! She had seen only one person, a man working in an office.
Strange to think of people dancing here – poor Assembly Rooms, now filled with junk. Antique furniture was romantic; junk just depressing. But would junk turn into antiques in, say, a hundred years? No, not most of the junk here – for one thing, it wouldn’t last long enough; as well as being hideous it was badly made. But this was a pleasant little sofa. She wondered if it had belonged to people who came to dances here, girls in Jane Austen dresses, or crinolines. What would they think of her thick white sweater, her short, boldly checked skirt? Then and now … fascinating to think about.
Sliding lower on the sofa she stretched her long legs and lay looking up at the delicate mouldings of the ceillng. ‘Don’t go to sleep,’ she warned herself. No fear of that now; she had never felt more wide awake. Surprising, that, when she remembered she had only had that tiny cat-nap in the barn in – how long? She had awakened at eight o’clock yesterday morning, nearly thirty hours ago. She had got out of bed then a mousy-haired schoolgirl and now … It was kind of fate to bring her to Daurene; the morning had been more than well spent. And soon, soon – in not much more than three hours – she would be in London.
3
Night Thoughts
How dark it was … she must have forgotten to draw back the curtains before getting into bed. She reached for the switch of her bedside light, failed to find it, failed to find the bedside table, almost overbalanced—
Then it began, the rushing return of memory in a turmoil of bewilderment and fear. She sat bolt upright and swung her legs over the side of the sofa; then restrained herself, grabbing the edge of the sofa as if on a raft from which the waves of surrounding darkness might dislodge her. She must keep still, control herself, think.
Now that she was sitting up, the darkness wasn’t so absolute. She could see the pale shapes of round-topped windows, along the gallery; and at the far end, two slightly brighter windows which must look onto the lights of the market square. People would be there. She would attract their attention, break a window if necessary. She felt in her coat pocket for her torch. As her hand closed on it, a church clock began to strike.
She counted the strokes carefully – and astoundedly, as the count increased. Ten, eleven, twelve! She had slept over ten hours. She raged at herself. But there was no time for that now. Snapping the torch on, she made her way along the crowded gallery to the front windows.
The little cobbled square was entirely deserted, the shops shuttered, the windows above them dark. By the light of oneof the small, old street-lamps she read a signboard on which was painted: J. Birdswell, Seedsman, Established 1760. It seemed to her that the square must have looked much the same when J. Birdswell first set up in business except that the lights inside the old lamps were now electric – and as she noticed this, they all went out.
But surely if she screamed loud
There must be something! Looking up at the gallery which tan round the room she saw a table loaded with books. Surely among so many … But it was still no good. She read title after title. Sermons, books about chemistry, mathematics, agriculture … Well, she would walk right round the gallery.
And in a corner she found it: a rosewood sofa, upholstered in faded moss-green brocade. She wouldn’t have paid for it but as a gift – yes, she could consider the game won. Gratefully, she sat down.
Still nearly an hour to waste, even if she got to the station early. She leaned back and put her feet up. This was the kind of one-ended sofa that invalids in old novels spent so much time on. How quiet this place was! She had seen only one person, a man working in an office.
Strange to think of people dancing here – poor Assembly Rooms, now filled with junk. Antique furniture was romantic; junk just depressing. But would junk turn into antiques in, say, a hundred years? No, not most of the junk here – for one thing, it wouldn’t last long enough; as well as being hideous it was badly made. But this was a pleasant little sofa. She wondered if it had belonged to people who came to dances here, girls in Jane Austen dresses, or crinolines. What would they think of her thick white sweater, her short, boldly checked skirt? Then and now … fascinating to think about.
Sliding lower on the sofa she stretched her long legs and lay looking up at the delicate mouldings of the ceillng. ‘Don’t go to sleep,’ she warned herself. No fear of that now; she had never felt more wide awake. Surprising, that, when she remembered she had only had that tiny cat-nap in the barn in – how long? She had awakened at eight o’clock yesterday morning, nearly thirty hours ago. She had got out of bed then a mousy-haired schoolgirl and now … It was kind of fate to bring her to Daurene; the morning had been more than well spent. And soon, soon – in not much more than three hours – she would be in London.
3
Night Thoughts
How dark it was … she must have forgotten to draw back the curtains before getting into bed. She reached for the switch of her bedside light, failed to find it, failed to find the bedside table, almost overbalanced—
Then it began, the rushing return of memory in a turmoil of bewilderment and fear. She sat bolt upright and swung her legs over the side of the sofa; then restrained herself, grabbing the edge of the sofa as if on a raft from which the waves of surrounding darkness might dislodge her. She must keep still, control herself, think.
Now that she was sitting up, the darkness wasn’t so absolute. She could see the pale shapes of round-topped windows, along the gallery; and at the far end, two slightly brighter windows which must look onto the lights of the market square. People would be there. She would attract their attention, break a window if necessary. She felt in her coat pocket for her torch. As her hand closed on it, a church clock began to strike.
She counted the strokes carefully – and astoundedly, as the count increased. Ten, eleven, twelve! She had slept over ten hours. She raged at herself. But there was no time for that now. Snapping the torch on, she made her way along the crowded gallery to the front windows.
The little cobbled square was entirely deserted, the shops shuttered, the windows above them dark. By the light of oneof the small, old street-lamps she read a signboard on which was painted: J. Birdswell, Seedsman, Established 1760. It seemed to her that the square must have looked much the same when J. Birdswell first set up in business except that the lights inside the old lamps were now electric – and as she noticed this, they all went out.
But surely if she screamed loud
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