Nuns and Soldiers (27 page)

Gertrude had, on the first morning, after Tim’s post office exploit, introduced him to the agent, whose eager English saved Tim from exposing his French (a bad moment there). After that Tim no longer accompanied Gertrude to the village. He went out early, taking his lunch with him (Gertrude seemed to expect that) and returning at twilight to find, as on the first evening, Gertrude waiting for him on the terrace and the table laid in the sitting-room. He enjoyed his painting, but not quite so much as when he was alone. His mind was disturbed, his concentration lessened. However he soon found it easy to get on with Gertrude, partly no doubt because he did not see a great deal of her. Their meal times together were pleasant, each telling the other of trivial mishaps and adventures. Gertrude inquired ‘how he had got on’ but did not ask to see his work. She was abstracted, not uncheerful in manner, adopting her usual briskness with him. Whatever sorrow she felt she did not reveal, and her special renewed mourning remained something private. She showed even less emotion than at the start of their ‘desert island’ life together. Tim was relieved yet disappointed. Gertrude was determined to keep him at a distance, not to let him help her. Tim had no idea what sort of ‘help’ he could possibly be, in so extreme a situation, to someone he knew so little, but he felt somehow sorry not to be ‘called upon’. Sitting up in bed at night, with his arms round his knees, he heard her stirring, once softly moaning.

It was now the morning of what was probably Gertrude’s last day; she was talking of leaving tomorrow after a final talk with the agent. This morning was special, since Gertrude had said that she would walk with Tim towards his painting place and on the way would show him the ‘moss fountain’. Since Gertrude’s arrival Tim had not returned to the crystal basin or the ‘great face’. He was reserving these for the time after her departure. Nor had he returned to the canal. That too he would do later. During Gertrude’s stay Tim had taken another route, turning left after the wooden bridge, not passing through the poplars but following the stream upon rough ground until there was a way to climb up through a thicket of gorse and reddish box bushes to the rocks at a point quite distant from the region of his first discoveries. Here there were other marvels. In one place the rocks turned pink, as if stained by some spilt dye. There was a high grassy plateau, narrow, about half a mile long, entirely surrounded by smooth walls of serrated rock. Here tiny yellow marbled irises were growing, and Tim saw a praying mantis. Through a small high gap in the rocks he could see, quite close and below, grassy terraces, olives, a pink painted farmhouse, fields. Tim turned quickly back. The area of the rock kingdom, which seemed so endless, was really small, but he did not want to know. He settled his stool upon the plateau and tried to render in wax crayon the effect of the frilly grey-blue rock crests against the intensely brilliant sky.

Thither, upon this early sunny morning, he was ultimately bound, but first to walk with Gertrude to the ‘moss fountain’ which she said was quite close. They had crossed the brook and walked up through the poplars and the vineyard, and now Gertrude had led the way to the little path. Tim had rather hoped that the moss fountain was not that way. He did not want to pass with Gertrude anywhere near to the Great Face. But perhaps the moss fountain was not so far on. This proved to be so. Diverging from the path after a few minutes Gertrude led him by a short scramble to a little round tree-shaded hollow into which they descended by a smooth ramp, and where the grass was a vivid green and wet underfoot. Tim saw, at the end of the hollow before the rocks rose again, a small green pillar, like a monument. On coming close he saw that it was a solitary rock about three feet high entirely covered with beautiful thick flowery moss and wet as if water were oozing from it. He put his hand gently upon it and felt the coolness of the soft damp moss, the hardness of the cold wet rock, and he turned in amazement to Gertrude.

‘Where does the water come from?’

‘I don’t know, it seems to come out of the very top and run down.’

‘If there’s a spring at the foot, could the moss carry all that water
up
?’

Tim stood entranced, staring at the brilliant green pillar, then walking round it and stroking it gently.

‘Your hills are full of marvels.’

‘There are more wonderful things than that.’

Gertrude turned away and began to climb back up the ramp. She was wearing plimsolls and white socks and her plump calves, already a little tanned, looked girlish. Tim, following her, saw a white petticoat flashing under her blue dress. She was agile. She waited for him at the top of the ramp, then led the scramble back to the little path. Here, instead of turning back towards the house, she continued without a word to follow the path upward. At turnings he could see her profile and the sad intent abstracted look upon her face as if she imagined herself alone.

‘What’s that bird?’

‘A blackcap. Guy knew all the birds.’

There was silence again. No, not silence. Down below the cicadas were hugely singing, filled the air with their dry ceaseless inaudible voice. It was becoming very hot. Perspiration trickled down Tim’s cheeks. His shirt was wet between his back and his rucksack. He hoped that Gertrude was not going to the Great Face. He did not want to go there with Gertrude. But already she had reached the cleft and disappeared through the doorway. Tim followed.

When they were down on the grass, not yet near to the great rock but in sight of it, Gertrude turned to Tim. It was like a question.

He replied, ‘Yes, I have been here.’

Gertrude turned away and looked along the glade at the cliff with a kind of lowering look. She pushed the sweat back into her hair. Tim wondered if she wanted him to go, but he did not like to speak again. He watched Gertrude.

‘Guy loved this place.’

‘Would you like me to go away?’ said Tim.

‘I have to visit his places to say good-bye. Please excuse me -’

‘Would you like - ?’ Tim then realized he had misunderstood her last words. Gertrude was unlacing her plimsolls and stripping off her socks.

She went on, ‘I’m going to swim.’ She began to walk away barefoot across the grass in the direction of the pool carrying her shoes and socks.

Tim thought, my
God
, she’s going to swim
there
! He said after her, ‘Oh yes, well, I’ll just wait outside, beyond the -’

Gertrude was nearing the pool as Tim scrambled back through the cleft door. He went a few steps down the path and found a place where the rocks made a sort of ridgy shelf, with little cracks full of moss and saxifrage. He took off his rucksack which seemed to have become extremely heavy.

Then he heard, in the cicada loaded silence, the distant sound of splashing. He thought, if she swims there she will become a goddess, or else give proof that she already is one.

He sat down on the rock. Then he stretched out full length and settled his rucksack behind his head. The rock was warm. The sun beat down. Then, in the most extraordinary way, he fell asleep.

 

 

When he awoke, Gertrude was sitting beside him lacing her shoes. She smiled a brief perfunctory smile, then combed her wet hair with her fingers, patting it back, and screwing up her eyes against the sun. The skirt of her dress clung to her still wet legs. She said, ‘I’m not much of a swimmer, but it’s not deep except in the middle.’

Tim sat up. He thought, the water will be all disturbed with little waves, moving about, gradually becoming still. Or is it already quiet, resuming its own mysterious rhythm and glowing like a mirror? He said, ‘I was asleep, have I been asleep long?’

‘No, I just came back.’

‘I had a strange dream, but I can’t remember it.’ I had a wonderful dream, he thought, but what was it? ‘How stupid of me to doze off.’

‘Let’s go on,’ said Gertrude. She did not suggest that Tim might like to swim too.

He donned his rucksack and followed her on up the path, and then when the path vanished, on over the rising rocks. Some sort of spell seemed to be broken now. They had both moved easily before. Now they slid about awkwardly and lost their footing and stumbled. Tim was thirsty. He had water and a sun hat in his rucksack but he could not stop. He blundered on after Gertrude, wiping the sweat out of his eyes. She was climbing now with a sort of frenzied haste. He could hear her panting, almost sobbing with exertion just ahead of him. Then she paused upon the summit, and as he joined her he saw below the flashing arrow of the racing canal.

Gertrude looked at him, then pointed down. More slowly now and still puffing she began to descend. Soon the soft roar of the water could be heard and then the deep drone of the waterfall. He caught her up as she reached the grass and they walked together down the slope to the canal bank.

Tim wanted to sit down. He tried to think of something to say. He felt afraid of the water. Suppose Gertrude were to fall in, suppose she were to throw herself in? Was it perhaps for that that she had hurried here? She had begun to walk along the bank, past the pines, and as Tim followed he could see the stone walls and the frothy curving stream racing between them. Gertrude was walking now upon the cut-stone footway that formed the top of the wall. One of the laces of her shoe was trailing over the edge. The canal sank lower, then changed abruptly into the green slope with its sliding sheet of water, then foamed a brilliant white and disappeared into the tunnel. Tim thought, what a horrible fearful place, and yet how beautiful, how strong, how utterly and splendidly
mechanical.
And how maddening it was to be so hot and not to be able to bathe in that lethal tantalizing water. He sat down on the stone coping a little short of the slope and dangled his legs.

‘Be careful, Tim.’

‘Where does it go to?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Gertrude, do come away from here.’

‘Oh, my
God
, what’s that?’ She was pointing upstream.

A human body, tossed and tumbled by the water, was being carried towards them, something limp and drowned, sodden, turning strangely over and over.

Tim scrambled up. Then at once they saw that it was not a human being, but a large black dog, very dead. Its pale bloated belly had looked for a moment like a human face. The pink skin caught the sunlight for a moment as the thing whirled past. Tim made a helpless gesture as if to save it. But it was certainly dead. The corpse hesitated for a moment at the top of the slimy water slope and they saw the pathetic black muzzle, the white teeth, a paw suddenly lifting. Then the dog turned over and tumbled down the slope, surfaced briefly in the whirlpool below and was engulfed in the tunnel.

Gertrude had turned away and covered her face with her hands. Tim was about to say something when he saw her shoulders hunched and shaking. She was crying desperately.

Tim said, ‘Oh dear -’ He did not know whether to approach her, to touch her. He felt disgusted, annoyed, frightened by these tears and by the horrible portent of the drowned dog.

Gertrude was now audibly sobbing. She knelt down, her face still covered, then lay face down in the grass. She removed one hand to adjust her skirt. Tim stood there helplessly, staring at the soles of her shoes. He said almost irritably, ‘Oh, Gertrude, stop it, please. You upset me so much.’

Gertrude did seem to stop. Her shoulders stopped moving and she lay still. Then she said in a firm controlled voice, speaking into the grass, ‘I’m sorry. Please go away from here, please.’

‘Sorry. I’m off. I’ll go and do my painting. I was going along this valley anyway.’ But he said to himself, I’ll pretend to go, but I won’t leave her, I’ll hide.

At the foot of the rocks where the little gulleys and crevasses were full of dry precarious vegetation there was plenty of cover. He tramped audibly away and then hastily crawled into a rocky hollow behind a screen of spiky broom. He eased off his rucksack and peered back at Gertrude. He thought, if she suddenly looks like throwing herself into the canal, what can I do? Probably nothing.

After a few minutes Gertrude sat and looked around to see if Tim had gone. She sat for a while, gracelessly, rubbing her face with her hands. Then she got up slowly, laboriously, like an old arthritic person, shook out her dress, and stood immobile staring across the canal into the distance. After that, to Tim’s relief, she turned and walked back towards the rocks. She passed quite close to him, but he crouched down, and did not see her face. She began to climb, not with the agility she had displayed earlier but grudgingly, wearily, leaning down and using her hands, almost crawling at times.

When she had disappeared over the crest Tim leapt up. He paused to drink from his water bottle, then scrambled along after her. From the summit he could see, intermittently, the blue patch of Gertrude’s dress. He also saw, quite near, the bushy fig tree, and under it the basket which he had left there on the day when the canal nearly drowned him. He picked up the basket and followed Gertrude, who was walking very slowly. She did not look back. He watched from above as she went, with her slow desolate sometimes wavering step, through the vines, through the poplars, across the stream, through the olives, and at last right into the house. Then he turned back among the rocks.

He walked a little, then sat down. He looked at his watch. It was not yet eleven o’clock. He could not decently go back to the house until the late afternoon. Gertrude would hate him if he intruded on her grief. He wondered what to do. He did not want to go anywhere. He did not want to paint. He began to feel utterly miserable, and the misery was upon him like a sickness. His legs ached, his head ached. He had a dark iron feeling in his stomach. He got up laboriously, as Gertrude had done, and took a few steps, then stood aimlessly like a dog. He suddenly recalled how Gertrude had swum in the crystal pool, but he did not want to go there, he did not want to see the Great Face. He thought, perhaps I shall never go there again, perhaps I shall
forget the way.