I Capture the Castle (30 page)

I sat down by one of the three tall, arched windows and peered around; I hadn’t been in the pavilion since it had been turned into a music room. A large grand piano had arrived as well as the wonderful gramophone, and dozens of albums of records were arranged on the shelves of two painted cupboards. Simon walked along with the candle, looking for the Debussy albums.

“I suppose we ought to start you right at the beginning,” he said, “but I don’t believe we have anything from “The Children’s Corner.”

I’ll try “Clair de Lune” on you-and I bet you’ll find you know it.” He was right—as soon as it began I remembered; a girl once played it at a school concert. It is beautiful-and the gramophone was amazing, it might have been someone really playing the piano, only much better than I ever heard a piano played. Then the record changed all by itself—Simon called me away from the window to watch it, and told me about the next piece, “La Cathedrale Engloutie.” You hear the drowned cathedral rise with its bells ringing, then sink into the sea again.

“Now you know why I said Debussy could have composed the castle in the mist,” Simon told me.

The third record was “La Terrasse des Audiences au Clair de Lune.” It was wonderful to watch the fountains while I listened to it —there were fountains in the music, too.

“Well, Debussy’s certainly made a hit with you,” said Simon, “though I’m not sure you wouldn’t outgrow him. You’re the kind of child who might develop a passion for Bach.”

I told him I hadn’t at school. The one Bach piece I learnt made me feel I was being repeatedly hit on the head with a teaspoon. But I never got very far with my music—the money for lessons ran out when I was twelve.

“I’ll find you some Bach that you’ll like,” said Simon. He lit the candle again and began to hunt through a big album. The gramophone had stopped playing. I went over to the cupboards and looked at the backs of the albums—even to read the names of the composers was exciting.

“You shall hear them all in time,” Simon told me.

“I’d like to try some really modern stuff on you. What a pity Rose doesn’t like music.”

I turned to him in astonishment.

“But she does!

She plays much better than I do-she sings, too.” “All the same, she doesn’t really like it,” he said firmly.

“I took her to a concert and she looked quite wretched with boredom.

Ah, here’s your supper.”

It came on a silver tray, and the butler spread a lace cloth on a little table for it. There was jellied soup, cold chicken (all breast), fruit and wine—and lemonade in case I didn’t like the wine but I did.

Simon told the butler to light all the candles and he went round to the crystal wall-brackets with a taper in a long holder-it made me feel I was back in the eighteenth century.

“I’m determined not to have electricity in here,” said Simon.

When the butler had poured out wine for us both, Simon told him he needn’t wait-I was glad because he would have made me feel I ought to bolt my supper. His name, by the way, is Graves, but I have never yet brought myself to call him by it in the nonchalant way one should.

Simon had found the record he wanted.

“But it must wait until afterwards-I’m not going to let you eat your way through Bach.”

He put on some dance records and turned the gramophone very low; then came back and sat at the table with me.

“Tell me about Rose,” I said—for it suddenly came to me that I had asked very little about her. I had been self-centered.

He talked about the trousseau and how much admired Rose is everywhere.

“Topaz is, too, of course—and my Mother’s a pretty good-looker. When the three of them go out together, well, it’s something.”

I said they needed me to bring the average down—and instantly wished that I hadn’t. That kind of a remark simply asks for a compliment.

Simon laughed and told me not to fish. “You’re far prettier than any girl who’s so intelligent has a right to be.

As a matter of fact” —he sounded faintly surprised—”you’re very pretty indeed.”

I said: “I think I’m a bit better-looking when Rose isn’t around.”

He laughed again.

“Well, you’re certainly very pretty tonight.”

Then he raised his glass to me, as I once saw him raise it to Rose.

I felt myself blushing and hastily changed the conversation.

“Have you been doing any writing lately?” I asked.

He said he had begun a critical essay on Father, but couldn’t bring himself to finish it—”There seems no way of not drawing attention to his inactivity. If only one could give the faintest hint that he had something in hand… I For a moment I thought of telling him of my hopes, but it would have meant describing Father’s recent behavior; and the idea of putting into words things like his reading Little Folls and studying willow-pattern plates made me realize how very peculiar they are.

So I let Simon go on talking about his essay, which sounded very much over my head. He must be terribly clever.

When I finished my magnificent chicken, he peeled a peach for me—I was glad, because it is a job I make a mess of; Simon did it beautifully. I noticed what very fine hands he has, and then I suddenly saw what Topaz meant when she once said that all his lines were good. He was wearing a white silk shirt-he had taken his coat off—and the line of his shoulders seemed exactly right with the line of his jaw (how wise Rose was to get rid of that beard!). I had the oddest feeling that I was drawing him-I knew exactly how I would do the little twist of his eyebrows, the curve where his lips pressed together as he concentrated on the peach.

And as I drew each stroke in imagination, I felt it delicately traced on my own face, shoulders, arms and hands—even the folds of the shirt when I drew them seemed to touch me. But the drawn lines made no picture before my eyes-I still saw him as he was, in the flickering candlelight.

I had eaten the peach and was drinking the last of my wine when the gramophone began a most fascinating tune. I asked what it was called.

“This?

“Lover,” I believe,” said Simon.

“Do you want to dance once his Then I must take you home.”

He went to turn the gramophone up a little, then came back for me. I had never danced with him before and was rather nervous. I found it quite difficult that time I danced with Neil. To my surprise, it was far easier with Simon; he holds one more loosely, it seems more casual, I had a feeling of ease and lightness. After the first few seconds, I stopped worrying about following his steps-my feet took care of it on their own. The odd thing is that Neil helps one to follow far more, almost forces one to. Never did I feel any pressure from Simon’s hold.

The “Lover” record was the last of the stack, so the gramophone stopped at the end. We were close enough for Simon to re-start it without taking his arm from my waist; then we danced the tune through again without saying one word—indeed, we never spoke all the time we were dancing. I can’t remember that I even thought.

I seemed to move with a pleasure that was mindless.

When the gramophone stopped again, Simon said, “Thank you, Cassandra,” still holding me in his arms, and smiling down at me.

I smiled back and said: “Thank you, too-it was lovely.” And then he bent his head and kissed me.

I have tried and tried to remember what I felt.

Surely I must have felt surprised, but no sense of it comes back to me. All I can recall is happiness, happiness in my mind and in my heart and flowing through my whole body, happiness like the warm cloak of sunlight that fell round me on the tower. It was a darkness, too-and the darkness comes again when I try to recapture the moment…

and then I find myself coldly separate—not only from Simon, but from myself as I was then. The figures I see in the candlelit pavilion are strangers to me.

The next thing I remember quite normally is the sound of Simon laughing. It was the kindest, most gentle laugh but it startled me.

“You astonishing child,” he said.

I asked what he meant.

“Only that you kiss very nicely.” Then he added teasingly, “You must have had quite a lot of practice.”

“I never kissed any man in my life before—” Instantly I wished I hadn’t said it-for I saw that once he knew I wasn’t used to kissing, yet had returned his kiss, he might guess how much it had meant to me. I pulled away from him and ran to the door, only knowing that I wanted to hide my feelings.

“Cassandra—stop!” He caught me by the arm just as I got the door open.

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry! I ought to have known that you’d mind.”

He hadn’t guessed. I could see he just thought I was angry. I managed to pull myself together.

“What nonsense, Simon! Of course I didn’t mind.”

“You certainly didn’t seem to— -” He looked worried and puzzled.

“But why did you run away from me like that? Good heavens, surely you weren’t frightened of me?”

“Of course I wasn’t!”

“Then why?”

I thought of something that might sound reasonable: “Simon, I wasn’t frightened and I didn’t mind—how could I mind being kissed by anyone I’m as fond of as I am of you?

But afterwards well, just for a second, I was angry that you’d taken it for granted that you could kiss me.”

He looked quite stricken.

“But I didn’t—not in the way you mean. Can you understand that it was a sudden impulse—because you’ve been so sweet all evening and because I’d enjoyed the dance, and because I like you very much?”

“And because you were missing Rose, perhaps,” I put in helpfully.

He flushed and said: “I’m damned if I’ll pass that—that’d be an insult to both of you. No, it was a kiss in your own right, my child.”

“Anyway, we’re making too much of it,” I told him.

“Let’s forget it—and please forgive me for being so silly. Now may I hear the Bach record before I go home?” I felt that would set him at his ease a bit.

He still stood looking at me worriedly I think he was trying to find words to explain more clearly. Then he gave it up.

“Very well—we’ll play it while I put the candles out. You sit outside, then my moving round won’t disturb you.

I’ll turn the fountains off so that you’ll be able to hear.”

I sat on the stone bench watching the dimpled water grow smooth.

Then the music began in the pavilion—the most gentle, peaceful music I ever heard. Through the three tall windows I could see Simon going slowly round putting out each candle flame with a small metal hood. Each time, I saw the light on his upturned face and each time, the golden windows grew a little dimmer until at last they were black. Then the record ended and it was so quiet that I heard the tiny plop of a fish jumping, far across the pool. “Well, did I get a customer for Bach?” Simon called, as he shut the door of the pavilion behind him.

“Yes, indeed! I could have listened to that for ever,” I said, and asked the name of the piece. It was “Sheep May Safely Graze.” We went on talking about music while we collected Heloise from the kitchen, and all during the drive home. I found it quite easy to carry on a casual conversation; it was as if my real feelings were down fathoms deep in my mind and what we said was just a feathery surface spray.

Godsend church was striking twelve as we drew up in front of the gatehouse.

“Well, I’ve managed to get Cinderella home by midnight,” said Simon, as he helped me out of the car. He saw me into the kitchen and lit the candle for me, laughing at the unctuous bee-line Heloise made for her basket. I thanked him for my lovely evening and he thanked me for letting him share in my Midsummer rites—he said that was something he would always remember.

Then, as he shook hands, he asked:

“Am I really forgiven?”

I told him of course he was.

“I made a fuss about nothing. Heavens, what a prig you’ll think me!”

He said earnestly: “I promise you I won’t.

I think you’re every thing that’s nice, and thank you again.” Then he gave my hand a brisk little squeeze—and the next second the door had closed behind him.

I stood absolutely still for a minute or so—then dashed upstairs, up through the bathroom tower and out on to the walls. The mist had cleared away, so I could watch the lights of the car travel slowly along the lane and turn on to the Godsend road.

Even after they vanished on the outskirts of the village I still watched on, and caught one last glimpse of them on the road to Scoatney.

All the time I stood on the walls I was in a kind of daze, barely conscious of anything but the moving car; and when I pulled myself together enough to go in and undress, I deliberately held my thoughts away from me. Only when I lay down in darkness did I at last let them flow into my mind. And with them came nothing but happiness—like the happiness I felt when Simon kissed me, but more serene. Oh, I told myself that he belonged to Rose, that I could never win him from her even if I were wicked enough to try, which I never would be. It made no difference. Just to be in love seemed the most blissful luxury I had ever known.

The thought came to me that perhaps it is the loving that counts, not the being loved in return-that perhaps true loving can never know any thing but happiness. For a moment I felt that I had discovered a great truth.

And then I happened to catch sight of Miss Blossom’s silhouette and heard her say: “Well, you just hang on to that comforting bit of high-thinking, duckie, because you’re going to need it.”

And in some strange, far-off way I knew that was true -yet it still made no difference. I fell asleep happier than I had ever been in my life.

Oh, how bitter it is to read that last line I wrote little over three weeks ago—now when I cannot even remember what happiness felt like!

I didn’t read back any further. I was too afraid of losing the dead, flat, watching-myself feeling which has come this morning for the first time. It is utterly dreary but better than acute wretchedness, and has given me a faint desire to empty my mind into this journal, which will pass a few hours. But shall I be able to write about the wicked thing I did on my birthday? Can I bring myself to describe it fully his Perhaps I can work up to it.