Kind Are Her Answers (29 page)

She settled herself, with gasps of breathlessness that settled gradually into sighs of content.

“I oughtn’t to do this, really,” she sighed with grateful reproach. “But you didn’t give me a chance. So it’s all right. Darling, I
am
so glad you came. It keeps coming all over me. Let’s not talk about it, shall we? Let’s just enjoy ourselves.”

Kit asked no questions; partly because he did not want to know, partly because he knew that he would hear about it sooner or later in any case. He was used, by now, to the painful tribute of Christie’s unexpurgated confidence. She told him, not only what women tell their lovers, but also what—he had been accustomed to suppose—they told their most intimate women friends. She seemed to regard both rôles as his natural privilege. He was becoming adaptable. Her trustfulness transformed what, in any one else, would have been wanton cruelty, into a subtle and somehow pathetic compliment. If he ever showed, by accident, that he minded what she told him, she overflowed at once with tender contrition.

“Oh, darling, don’t. You make me feel so mean. I ought not to talk about everything like this. I know it isn’t done. But I didn’t think it would matter to you, because you
know
I love you best. Besides, it isn’t as if anything had actually happened this time. It never even nearly would, if you were always here.”

“I know,” he said. Distrusting her to the depths of his harassed spirit, he never disbelieved her. Truth flourished in her untended, like a weed, like original sin. The lies which her kindness prompted had the ineffectiveness of half-hearted virtue. It made the taste of everything too keen, bitterness and sweetness alike. After it had most hurt him, he missed it most.

As if he had been thinking aloud, she said, “I’m not like this with any one but you. It isn’t that I don’t
want
to be honest with them, but somehow there doesn’t seem any point. If I do tell Maurice what I think, he thinks I’m saying something else. Of course you’re nicer than any one else I know, but I don’t think that’s all there is to it. I think it would probably be the same if we were both a lot worse than we are. It’s something we just happen to make together.”

“You mean, like the right combination of colours producing a white light.”

“Yes, that’s exactly it. I don’t know why we do. I just know I couldn’t talk to any one else about you the way I talk to you about other people. It wouldn’t mean anything, if I did.”

“Well, we need
something,”
said Kit, taking a sandwich (they were having tea in Paxton), “living the way we do.”

Christie took his cup, and refilled it with tea just as he liked it. “I suppose,” she said thoughtfully, “if we hadn’t got it, you’d have chucked me some time ago.”

Kit considered. “Well, I don’t know about some time ago. You’re too good in bed. I should think, taking one thing with another, I’d just about be chucking you now.”

“That’s nice,” said Christie obscurely. “You
must
have an éclair, they’re like heaven. The coffee ones are the best.”

The evening soared like a rocket to a climax of stars. Christie treated him like a returning victor, to whom banners and flowers are appropriate. The fact that they both knew where she would have been if Kit had arrived half an hour later was immaterial, or, rather, added zest to the proceedings. She celebrated his intervention as simply as if he had plucked her just in time from a runaway train. She didn’t know, she said, what she would do without him.

“I can tell you,” Kit suggested, “if you like.”

“No, honestly. Never any more. I can’t imagine, now, how I ever thought of it. When are you coming again? You know, if nothing else nice had happened to me all my life, it would have been worth being born just to have you.” She kissed him devoutly.

Kit drove back—early, lest more work should have come in—uplifted by a mood whose peculiar quality he did not attempt to explain to himself. It was not concerned much with the past, even the still-warm immediate past, and certainly not with the future. But in the present, he had got rid of his last encumbrances of illusion and wishful thinking, with his own consent. It did not, he found, diminish the beauty or excitement of experience, nor did it increase the pain. What he was enjoying was freedom, after many weeks, from the chronic ache of suppressed truth. He had, strangely enough, never loved Christie more.

That was a week or so ago. The epidemic was just tailing off; it and his own exaltation seemed to lose momentum together. The soul must pause to breathe, and Kit felt the flagging of his own, and dismissed it with a Greek term from a textbook. But the bare sweep of the Screes above Wastwater beckoned peacefully, and as often, now, as the image of Christie’s face.

Next time he saw Christie, while they were walking in the country, he told her he was taking a holiday at Easter time.

She gave a little jump of delight. “But how marvellous. Are you really able to?”

He looked at her doubtfully, not so much hurt as wary lest something hurtful might be coming. “I thought it would be a good time, since you’re fixed up with this Easter School business anyhow.”

“But of
course.
It’s just right. I never thought you’d make it. Rollo
will
be pleased. We must go in and tell him.”

“Tell him just what?” asked Kit, bewildered and still cautious. “What difference does it make to Rollo whether I’m away?”

“Tell him you’re coming to the Easter School, of course; you idiot. You
are
coming, aren’t you?”

“What on earth are you talking about?” He said it as kindly as possible, since she seemed excited. “I’m going to Cumberland.”

“Oh,” said Christie. She slipped her hand out of his, put it in her pocket, and turned to look at something in the hedge. After a pause so long that he had begun thinking about something else, she added deliberately, “I’m so glad. You’ll like that. Shall you climb the mountains? I hope it won’t rain.”

“Christie, what’s the matter?” He reached after her hand, but she moved out of the way.

“Nothing. It’s all right. I knew you wouldn’t come really, of course.”

“But, good God, you didn’t mean it about me coming, did you? I thought that was just what we said to keep people quiet.”

“Yes. Of course it was. Honestly it’s all right. It was only just because you said it like that about having a holiday.”

The whole idea was preposterous, but he wished she had been a little more difficult about it. Her eagerness to conceal her disappointment made him feel guilty in the face of common sense. Arguing with this feeling rather than with her, he said, “I don’t know the first thing about any of it. I’d be like a stuck fish. If any one I knew saw me, they’d think I was breaking up or something. Damn it all, I can’t act.”

“Well, that wouldn’t matter, because only half a dozen out of the bunch ever can. Most of the rest aren’t even anything if they keep their mouths shut. You
are
beautiful to look at. And your voice is so attractive.”

“Oh, come off it,” said Kit, deeply embarrassed.

“All right, I was only telling you.”

“I don’t even know for certain if I can get away. Easter’s a bad time, and Fraser may not care about it. If the flu flares up again, there won’t be a hope.”

“I know, darling. I do see. Besides, it would do you good to be out of doors. You’ve been looking tired.”

“Oh, I’m all right,” said Kit, perversely kicking his best argument overboard. “But what would be the point? We’d never have a chance to be alone together.”

“That’s just what I’d been rather clever about. But never mind. I didn’t mean to keep on at you.”

“Don’t be so infuriating,” said Kit unreasonably. “If you’ve got anything up your sleeve, for God’s sake let’s have it.”

“Well, I shall be sleeping in one of the dressing rooms behind the stage. We can’t put a visitor in there, because it’ll have to be converted during the day. I was going to have put you in the single room just above. No one would notice even if they saw you at the top of the stairs, because there’s a wash-place half-way down; and there’ll be no one at the bottom but me. We’d be as safe at night as if we were in a flat of our own. It’s a nice room. In fact, some one who was here last year wrote and asked for it, but I told them it was taken already. I’d better let them have it, now.”

Kit looked round sharply.

“Who?”

“I forget now. One of the schoolmistresses, I think.” Her eyes were as innocent as a baby’s.

“It’s a mad idea,” said Kit, to himself rather than to her. “It’s idiotic.” But his mind had moved on to a track more easily entered than left. He had prevented himself for some time from asking Christie whether Lionel Fell were coming to the Easter School, and tried not to think about it now. He thought of the green broken hump of Great Gable; he thought of the Pillar Rock. But would they be proof against a letter from Christie saying that although everything was very difficult, she was almost sure that it would be all right? If he could be by himself, in the open all day, tire himself out …

“Oh, very well,” he said. “Try everything once, I suppose.”

“Darling, do you
mean
it? No, it’s a shame. You want to climb.”

“It’ll keep. But look here, you can tell Rollo that if he lands me in for an indecent exhibition with some ghastly woman, or anything like that, I’ll damn well wring his neck.”

“Oh, Rollo will cast you beautifully. He’s marvellous at casting. And you’ll have an audition, of course.” Before he could ask what an audition was, she added anxiously, “Oh, Kit, I forgot to tell you, the single rooms cost a guinea more. If you have one, it will be six guineas a week. Is that all right? Can you afford it?”

“Oh, yes, I should think so.” He put his arm round her. Her hopeless innocence about money, the innocence of some one to whom an extra shilling has always been the margin of luxury, never failed to move him. Good God, he thought with inconsistent anger, hadn’t Maurice or any of those other swine ever given her anything? It occurred to him that this was the only liberty he himself had so far been afraid to take. Suddenly this thought grew all-important, and possessed his mind. He recognized something still virgin in her, something un-possessed.

She had started a long story about last year’s Easter School. He walked beside her, silent, not hearing what she said. The thought obsessed him, absorbing all kinds of material from past crises in its emotional content. He wanted to give her something with a savage, physical intensity, without knowing why. It was the revenge of nature, which he had pitchforked out with reason and toleration. Returning disguised but insistent, it demanded rape.

“You might listen to what I’m saying.” She jogged his arm.

“I was. Come on back to the car. I want to get into Paxton before the shops close.”

“All right. I want to get some toothpaste, too.”

When they were nearly there he said, “We’re going shopping. What would you like?”

She smiled indulgently. “Don’t be silly, darling. You can’t keep on and on giving me things. You’ve just given me a, Christmas present.
And
you gave me those sweets last time.”

“No, I mean really give you something. What do you want?”

“Nothing, honestly. I mean, I haven’t thought. I never start thinking unless there’s Christmas or a birthday coming.”

“Well, start thinking now.”

Christie withdrew into herself. Her mouth was compressed with the effort of concentration.

“Any ideas?”

“Well, I
have
thought of one thing. I saw a dear little copy of that picture of sunflowers. I forget who it’s by, a man called Gough or something. The worrying thing is, I can’t remember how much it cost. It might be three and six, or it might be as much as six bob. You’re not to buy it if it’s expensive.”

“Right,” said Kit, smiling into the windscreen.

The picture cost five shillings. Christie hugged the parcel tenderly.

“You
are
a dear to me, Kit. I’ve wanted this for ages. I believe you’d give me any mortal thing if I asked you. But I feel mean, letting you chuck your money about. What about your own shopping? They’ll be closed in half an hour.”

“Oh, I haven’t much,” said Kit idly. Collars, I think it was. Let’s do a window-crawl.”

They meandered along the lighted plate-glass of the principal street. Christie was constantly interested and excited, but always about something impracticable, like a dinner service or a toy tiger on wheels. The dress shops they passed seemed to be showing nothing but clothes for leisured women, statuesque evening gowns or embroidered house-coats sweeping to the heels. Kit fretted impatiently while Christie criticized them with keen, but entirely abstract, interest.

“Isn’t that armchair lovely?” She paused before a huge upholstered throne of rose brocade. “So voluptuous.”

“Have you got an armchair in your room?” asked Kit with studied unconcern. His heart beat thickly, as if he were planning a crime.

“Oh, yes, a quite decent basket one. But I always sit on the bed. If I had a house I’d have a sort of semicircular divan thing going all round the fire.” She passed on. The next shop was a furrier’s.

“I wonder,” Christie said, “why they never make tiger-skin coats. Don’t you think one would look rather marvellous? On a chic woman, you know.”

“Yes,” said Kit inattentively. On the other side of the window was a loose swinging coat of silky beaver. He recognized the shape as almost exactly that of the tweed coat Christie was wearing; it was shabby, and had never been a very good one, but it suited her perfectly.

“You’d look nice,” he said cleverly, “in a coat like that.”

Christie turned from the leopard-skin jacket which had caught her eye.

“The one in the corner,” he said, “I mean.”

“Yes, wouldn’t I?” said Christie, pleased. “If I’d gone to be a White Slave with Mr. Cowen, I expect I’d have had a fur, coat. If not several. But I suppose in Buenos Aires it’s too hot to wear them.” She looked at the coat again. Kit, watching her face hungrily, saw at last what he had been looking for; an inner glow of desire, contemplative, quite remote from aspiration, like the desire of a practical child for the moon.