The Closed Harbour (25 page)

"Where for, Madame?

"I said, Cassis" Madame Marius said, her eye on Despard, and beyond him, at the entrance, the monstrous taxi.

"Here," she said, counting.

Another voice. "Are you for Cassis?"

"Of course I'm for Cassis, I said so, how stupid everybody is, what an accursed place—"

"You will excuse me, Madame, you have three minutes only."

She heard the croak in the voice, the slight whine, the porter was lost behind the beard, his fingers had gripped their trunks, and, Hercules-like, he shouldered them.

"This way, Madame."

She passed through an avenue of shouts, steam, rushing trucks, slamming doors, people running.

"Come Madeleine," her mother said, gripped tightly on an arm, went forward, head held high, dismissing age, "hurry."

The platform, the train, the chatter, and then the frontier of things.

"If I remain here I will give him up to the police," she said.

Madeleine was silent, but Madame Marius saw the tears start to well up in her daughter's eyes. She lowered her voice a little.

"You may do as you wish. Whatever you feel it is your duty to do."

Madeleine was staring at the enormous clock in front of her, it's long, rusty iron hands jerked minutes round and round, the strokes of a silent hammer. She kept her eyes fixed on the large white face. Her hands rose to her own face, for a moment partly covered it.

"I don't know," she said, "I don't know."

"There is not much time," her mother said, the voice seemed to come as from a distance as though she were now stood at the other end of the platform.

The whistle blew.

"Which carriage, Madame?" enquired the porter with the beard.

Ignoring him, Madame Marius said quietly, "we are on the verge of departure."

Madeleine, looking directly at her mother, did not speak.

"All his life he has had the devil's own luck," her mother said. "He is too cute to suffer."

And after a pause, "come dear," taking her hand.

"You are pitiful," she said, and then she boarded the train, and knew her daughter was behind her.

The carriage was empty. Madame Marius sat down. The doors were slamming shut, porters were running beside the train, and now it threw off a warning burst of steam, the wheels heaved forward the train gathered speed. A porter ran parallel with their window, into which he flung a curse. Madame Marius had forgotten to tip him.

She watched the platform swimming past, people standing like statues, a guard waving a flag, a child high on its father's shoulders, she saw this child as a burst of purest joy. Then the set rhythm of the train. Winking lights in the tunnel, a sudden darkness, smoke blowing in through the window, a rush of air. Light.

Madeleine sat in a comer, and she did not stir, but looked thoughtfully out of the window, and in the expression upon her face was locked her own secret.

"There is no need to be dumb," Madame Marius said.

"There is no need to talk," replied Madeleine.

"I covered my face with the newspaper."

Madame Marius rose in the bed, arranged the pillow behind her head. Somewhere there was the tinkle of a tiny bell. This came from the small chapel at the end of the building. Looking out through this window she could see the rolling landscape, a great belt of poplar. The quality of light clothing them gave the old woman a sudden sense as of Spring. Suddenly she saw, black against the blue of wall, hard, predominant in this clear light, her black bag. The shock of surprise was over, the dream broke. Dumb, inanimate it yet spoke to her across this room.

"That evening I went to the Benediction by myself, and after the Blessing I went into the vestry, and I saw that good man. I said to him, 'I have in this bag, Father Nollet, money I no longer require. Would you please accept it for any purpose that you wish.'

"And he said, 'thank-you, Madame Marius, but I do not want your money.'"

She was back in the carriage again, hidden behind her newspaper, the bag rocking gently upon her knee.

"What is it that I hold. Rubbish? Filth then?"

The newspaper had fallen to the floor, she could not read it, and now she looked across at her daughter and cried:

"He refused it, he would not take it."

"Who? Take what?"

"The priest, he would not take what I offered. It was like being killed."

"You slept well?" Sister Angela said, as she walked towards the woman in the bed.

This room was no different from any other, bare and clean as bone.

"Yes sister, thank-you," Madeleine said, who had not slept, who had tossed and turned through night hours, had got out of bed and knelt, and prayed for him. Sister Angela sat down.

"I have seen your mother," she said.

"Yes, sister. She had a good night?"

"She says so, yet looks drawn, tired."

"She is breaking up," Madeleine said.

"Of course. Her age. Breakfast is in twenty minutes," and as she bent forward a tip of the fine, stiff linen touched Madeleine's hand and its touch was cold and clean.

"Have you plans, my child?"

Plans? Wide-eyed, Madeleine stared at the nun. She might well have said, "have you ever walked down a corridor of the moon."

"No, sister."

"But you will make plans. Our order—well, you will understand—you may rest here a while, there is another place for your purpose. I will write to the Mother there."

"Thank-you very much, sister."

"You have a story," Sister Angela said, "there is always a story."

"I was born at Nantes, I was happy there. I am not at Nantes, I am not happy, sister."

"You are married?"

"I was."

"There are others perhaps?"

"My brother, sister."

"Where is he?"

"In Marseilles. He is waiting for a ship."

"A sailor then?"

"A sailor, sister," Madeleine said.

"What will you do?"

She studied this face before it fell from sight, passionless, remote, no man and yet no woman looked out at her.

"You are unhappy, child."

Madeleine had buried her face in her hands, she did not answer. The words that had come to her were soft, flowing as water, as light tipped fingers moving in, feeling for it, stroking hurt away.

"I was happy once."

"You will be happy again," Sister Angela said.

She raised the head from the pillow.

"I have no will," Madeleine said.

Sister Angela stood up, and said, quietly, "it is understood," and she left her and went out.

"There is a matter for the Mother Superior," she thought.

There was at this long, well scrubbed table, Madame Marius and her daughter, who faced each other, a blinded soldier, a girl, two ageing women, who looked like sisters. They did not look at the new arrivals, but concentrated entirely on what lay before them.

There came to the door behind them, a short woman, round and red of face, whose chubby hands were fidgeting with keys, hung from a silver chain about her waist. Her eyes were of a periwinkle blue. She was fat and solid as butter.

"Good morning," the Mother Superior said.

One after the other, heads turned, they said "good morning, Mother Superior."

"Eat well," she said, closing the door upon them.

They ate, slowly, carefully, gravely, as though this were some exactment risen from the very atmosphere. Nobody noticed or cared that the old woman who had arrived the previous evening with her daughter, made coarse noises as she supped her coffee, and into it placed lump after lump of bread. And nobody noticed Madeleine. All would be on their way this evening, to-morrow evening, they were passengers upon a ship whose horizon was boundless. The blinded soldier rose, his delicate fingers feeling for the chair back, and the girl rose and led him out. The sisters leaned their heads together, whispering. By the side of the smaller of them lay the contents of her little blue bag. Her beads, her scapulars, her pamphlet on Therese, the tiny sheets of thin paper that announced a Plenary indulgence, the Pontifical edict, a fortnight's Retreat, a request for prayers: A little silver cross, the bundle of letters tied with string, the photograph of the forgotten family, a small plaster saint, flat upon his face, the bric-à-brac, the sacred furniture shoring up the rapt, the devoted mind.

Their heads lay close together, and as they rose they seemed as one person; one thought of aged trees, gnarled, pressed close under winter blast. Carrying their little bundles of belongings, they moved slowly out of the room, and looked, both in the same instant at the two remaining figures, seated at the top of the table. They did not speak. The door closed.

"I was wrong, child," Madame Marius said, "and I cannot think how I came to be wrong, the Poor Clares are not what I had in mind. I can't think how I made the mistake," the tiny protest in the voice, as though she had never been wrong; she might strike her breast at the very thought.

"I know already. Sister Angela has told me. This is for casuals. We leave on Friday."

"Another hundred miles," Madame Marius said, "I will be glad when I have finished travelling." She clutched her daughter's hands, "you won't leave me, ever?"

"I will stay with you to the end."

"You think I am right?" her mother said.

"I cannot answer what is right and wrong, it is too difficult," Madeleine said.

"Perhaps you would yet like to return to Nantes, have your pride yoked."

Madeleine did not answer. She got up and went to the door.

"I am going into the garden, do not come near me, I want to be by myself."

But she did not reach it. In the long, silent corridor the Mother Superior was waiting for her.

"Madame Madeau," she said, smiled for a moment, put a hand lightly on her arm. "There is something I wish to discuss with you. Please come this way."

Madeleine followed her to the end of the corridor, entered the tiny office.

There was here a large brass crucifix upon the wall, a deal table, two chairs, a small desk, a calendar hanging over this. The door closed.

"Sit down, my child," the Mother Superior said.

"I have been talking to Sister Angela," said the Mother Superior, and Madeleine looked up.

"Yes Mother," she replied, and for a moment seemed to see this nun stripped of her clothing, cowlless, and, apron-ed, she sat in a farm kitchen a fat, practical house-wife, and around her there was a soft, white cloud of feathers. She was plucking a goose.

"You are in a situation, and it is not resolved," the Mother Superior said kindly. "Do you understand what you are doing, Madame Madeau?"

"Yes, Mother."

"You intend to retire from the world?"

"Yes, Mother."

"You are un-happy?"

"I have had some happiness, Mother."

"Your mother comes of good family at Nantes, and has left that place, and will not return there owing to some disgrace brought upon her by your brother? Where is your father?"

"He is dead since the First war, Mother, he was on a battleship."

"And you have left your brother now, alone in Marseilles, looking for a ship. You think he will find one?"

Madeleine hesitated, then replied, "I hope so, Mother."

"And I understand your mother has sold up her property and intends to give the money to the church."

"Yes, Mother," Madeleine said.

"And thinks that her situation is resolved by doing this?"

"It is her wish," Madeleine said.

"What is the wish of one, may be the hurt of another. Has she discarded her son?"

Madeleine bowed her head in reply.

"Why?"

She saw the muscles of the face contract, the lips start to tremble, she turned her head away and glanced out of the window.

"I will not press you."

"I cry so easily," Madeleine blurted out, "please to forgive me, Mother, I am like that."

"Your mother looks as though she had never cried in her lifetime, perhaps if she did so she might be happier than she is, strength is not everything. Why has your brother been discarded, I use the word that fits best."

"Sometimes," stammered Madeleine, "sometimes I dream about him, I think, one evening he will, as sailors sometimes do, come in on me."

"Your brother?"

"My son."

"He was lost then—at sea?"

"He was murdered," Madeleine said.

"By whom? Do you know that?"

"By my brother."

"This is true?"

"He has told me. But still I do not believe. He talked of another ship, a strange ship, I could not understand, a ship my son could never have been aboard, I clutch madly at an error."

"I will talk to your mother, child," said the Mother Superior.

As she rose to her feet, Madeleine rose also, they drew close together, the nun placed her hands on the other's shoulders, their faces almost touched.

"An error is not a strong hold, child, and will anchor nowhere. What are you trying to tell me?"

She felt the body slacken under her hold, and gripped harder, she led her to a chair and said, "sit down."

She put a hand in hers.

"Rest there. Quiet yourself. When you are calm again go to your room."

And as she reached the door, "I must talk to your mother."

Madame Marius sat on, and only when the young novice came in with a large tray and began to clear the table, did she rise, and as she went by the girl smiled and said, "good-morning, Madame," and the old woman replied, "good morning," but did not glance her way and went out of the door and returned to her own room.

She took a chair to the window and sat down.

"Another chair, another window, I seem to spend so much of my time sitting in windows, looking out, thinking.

"
What
a lovely garden it is," she said to herself as she stared about the unfamiliar ground, drowned in sunlight, the flowers wide and abandoned to the warmth and light.

"I could rise up from here, this very moment, collect my things, travel back by the road I have come, my child with me, go back to where I first drew breath, touch all the things I knew, see the old faces, sit in a garden again
...
no, it is done with— snaring happiness, what use is that?