The Hide Page 16

  It took me twenty-two minutes by my wrist watch. The slowest bit was the last, working my way along the hedge until I was directly behind the copse. Once there, however, I had a splendid view. Because of the rising ground I could see clear over the hollow into the bushes beyond, and the upper branches of the birch trees. I could detect no sound or movement anywhere in the copse; nothing stirred in there except the occasional gauzy glint of an insect’s wing. Below me in the hollow, enmeshed with peculiarly lush grass as if they in some way nourished the roots, were fretted buckets, soup tins, the carcase of a pram; reminding me suddenly, as I relaxed after my exertions, of that remote refuse of childhood one seemed to stumble on when one was quite alone, always in slightly fearsome places, hollows, the banks of cuttings, dried stream beds. Places of intense loneliness and stealth. A bluebottle buzz, the sweet trickle of a bird’s song, my beating heart, the wonder at my own existence rooting me there until I was compelled to some violent physical movement. . . .

  No sound or movement from the copse. They are lying concealed somewhere among the bushes beyond the hollow. I move very cautiously several yards to my right, still nothing. Back again and then further in the other direction, looking steadily through the lower part of the hedge and I am beginning to think there is no one there at all when quite suddenly I see their legs. The gardener’s trouser cuffs I can see and his maroon socks and the narrow sole of one shoe; Marion’s white leg from the middle of the calf downward, but only that one leg, the other must be raised. Her shoe is hanging off at the heel, with an effect curiously sluttish yet childish too. They are lying turned to each other as it appears. The feet of neither make the smallest movement—it is as though they are asleep.

  Asleep or in some toils: it is with a definite sense that they are imprisoned here in the copse, prisoners of each other and of me, that I begin very cautiously to withdraw.

  Fosh . . .

  MARION AND ME done it, the whole thing. I always knew I would get it out of sight before I was twenty-one. We done it twice, inside an hour, and I was ready, I could of done it again, only she said no, Mrs Wilcox will be up and about now, we got to go. So you could count it as three times really. Well, I dunno if you could count the first one, matter a fact, because I was not exactly in her. I didn’t have no time. I was there, I was there all right, but I never got it in. I think you could count it though. I mean, there was contact. Anyway, I am going to tell Mortimer three. The trouble with the first one was I couldn’t find it in time. That might sound funny, we all know it is right there between their legs and anyway I had my hand on it just a second before, but that is the fact, I couldn’t find it, not the way in I mean. (A course I will not tell Mortimer I couldn’t find the way in.) I didn’t have enough time, that was the main trouble. I only just had the time to get away from her and turn my back before it come shooting out a yard off into the grass. I dunno if I made any noise but she knew what was happening, she knew, she put an arm round me very tight, round my shoulder and she held on all the time I was coming, she’s got some strength for all she’s thin.

  Why did you do that? she asked me. Well, I said, I couldn’t hold it in, thinking she meant why did I let go so quick like, but, No, she said, I don’t mean that, I mean why did you turn your back on me? You can turn back round now, she said, at any rate. It was as if you were ashamed, she said. Why did you?

  Well I couldn’t find no answer, only it seemed natural at the time, when I felt it coming like. I dunno, I said. I dunno why. I turned back round and looked at her face, which was the same as ever a course, but kind of bare-looking, and I was surprised in a way it looked the same and I wondered if my face looked any different to her. Hers wasn’t exactly the same either, not when you really looked, she seemed more sure of things than I ever seen her look before. And she spoke in a tone a voice as if she was sure. You needn’t have turned away, she said. It’s because you have been on your own so much that you did that. You’re not used to sharing, are you? she said, and just for a second I thought of that conversation with Mortimer. You have never done this with a girl before, have you? she said. She knew, it was no use me trying to cover it up, she knew from me not being able to find the way in and then turning my back like. A course I could of told her that I had done it before, but I didn’t, I didn’t say nothing, and she smiled, a real happy smile. You needn’t have done that, she said, and I hope you won’t do it again. Smiling all the time but not as if she’d found me out, not that sort of smile, just looking glad that it was so.

  Lucky for me Mrs Wilcox found us in the grounds that day. I would never of got so far with Marion if we hadn’t of started meeting in a lonelier kind of place. . . .

  There was buttercups growing in the fields and I picked a few on my way to meet her. Then when I got there I started just for a joke to test if she liked butter. You hold the buttercup against a person’s throat and see if it makes a sort of yellow glow on the throat. It all depends on if you got the sun behind you or not. So she put her head back and closed her eyes and I put the buttercup against her throat. Well, she said, do I like butter or not? But I didn’t say nothing, I kissed the place on her throat where the buttercup was shining yellow and I kept my mouth there, I could feel the pulse in her throat beating right inside my mouth, and she let herself lie back and my hand went straight between her legs, she never tried to stop me like she always had before, just sort of moaned a bit when she felt me touching her there, then she was wriggling to get under me, I didn’t waste no time getting her worked up like they always say you’re supposed to, I was in too much of a hurry and besides she didn’t need it. Then I couldn’t get it in her, not that time. You don’t ever need to do that again, she said. Turning your back like that.

  The second time was better. What I mean is, you could really count the second time. I got it right in. As soon as I got it in I started coming again, but this time a lot slower, it took quite a long time to come and all that time I was moving inside her and she was making sort of little noises like it was hurting.

  After that I fell asleep for a bit. When I woke up she was looking down at me still with the same kind of happy look. She had her back to the sun and her hair all round her head was bright with the sunshine and I couldn’t look at her for long because of the brightness but I know no one but me had been there before, so what Mortimer said about the way she walked was just not appliable and I made up my mind right there and then to tell Mortimer I done it three times and to tell him he was wrong about Marion’s way of walking.

  Simon . . .

  I HAD NOT intended to say anything to my sister at this stage, keeping the revelation of these trysts as a trump card so to speak. But events forced my hand.

  When I reached the grounds again the first thing I heard was Audrey’s voice calling: ‘Jo—osh . . . Jo—osh . . . Jo—si—aah!’ There was in this call a certain teasing note, deliberately infused to avoid any imputation of urgency. And the oftener Audrey had to repeat the call, the more, that is, it became apparent that the gardener was not within earshot, the more pronounced this archness grew. It did not stop however, dry up for lack of response as any truly casual summons would. No. It went on, wilful, self-deprecating, terribly obstinate. Jo—si—aah! Loud enough to be heard anywhere in the grounds, it was not loud enough for those two lying embraced in the copse to hear.

  Rounding a bend in the drive I came upon her just after she had uttered yet another cry. She was standing near the kerb and seemed to be listening, her head rather stiffly inclined. Her expression was serious, reflecting nothing of that facetiousness of tone. It came to me again, seeing her standing there with her head cocked like a thrush on a lawn, that Audrey was losing her mental balance. I wondered too at the extraordinary fruits our actions bear: how could Audrey, going armed in righteousness to the Labour Exchange to declare that a vacancy existed, have known that not much afterwards she would be discovered somewhat distraught in a driveway calling repeatedly on a name?

  She straightened up w
hen she saw me but did not speak. ‘You will not find him here,’ I said. I looked into her face with what boldness I could muster, for I had decided in this moment to force the issue, take advantage of having caught Audrey calling out in loneliness.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said. ‘Are you feeling all right Simon?’ ‘I’m quite well,’ I said. It was true however that I was having some difficulty in controlling my excitement now that I had decided on this bold stroke. The episode during the garden party must be still rankling in her mind; if I could now show her what was happening in the copse I might bring about a revulsion against the gardener great enough to result in his dismissal, thus removing all threat to my tunnel and in all probability causing Audrey to turn to me for comfort and support—I am after all her brother. Failure, of course, would be disastrous, as Audrey would merely redouble her animosity towards me, probably recall her threat to turn me out. It was enough to make anybody feverish.

  ‘You won’t find him anywhere in these grounds,’ I said.

  She seemed to make a brief effort to look enquiring, then her face slackened. ‘He’s gone then has he?’ she said quietly and I was amazed at the readiness with which she supplied this explanation of my words.

  ‘Gone,’ I said. ‘No, he hasn’t gone. Why should you think that?’

  ‘You cannot confine a free spirit.’ For a moment or two after you utter these extraordinary words I look at you in silence. There is something complacent in your expression, proclaiming how well you know the temperament of this boy. It is what you have always wanted, Audrey, I suppose, the role of foster mother and artistic adviser combined, power and good taste, the satisfaction of superior discrimination; sexual education no doubt also to be taken in hand as occasion presents—I see now for the first time that the gardener was sent especially to entrap you. From the gift of the horse you were lost. From the gift of the horse. . . . For a few moments, as I look into your tired face, that small complacency gone already, lines of anxiety and strain returned, I feel compunction. Even sorrow. It is hard to be denied ambition for another human being, even harder than for oneself, and of course you wish this youth well. . . . But this is a question of my tunnel, of my survival. I harden my heart and proceed: ‘I am not sure what you mean by that, Audrey, but he is quite near home. Would you like me to show you where he is grazing currently?’

  She nods her head slowly, like a reluctant child. Her personality and indeed the entire relationship between us seem to have changed in these few minutes, and I experience an access of power and confidence. ‘If you follow behind me I will show you,’ I promise her and again she nods her head wordlessly. We pass round the house, she about six paces docilely behind me. But we have hardly got beyond the orchard when I am invaded by another feeling, my triumph takes on further intensity, and this is because after all these years I am taking Audrey along a Secret Pathway.

  Secret Pathways were very important to me when I was a small child, because I was convinced at that time that there was a richer, more exciting mode of being lying on the immediate confines of the one I actually experienced; near but unattainable, because I had failed to locate any of the entrances. Any gate, any gap in the hedge might lead to it, if only one knew. I believed that if I could find an entrance my life would be quite changed. This belief was very strong and I have sometimes thought that my tunnelling might be an attempt to construct such a pathway for myself, to thread, as it were, my delights together. However that may be, Audrey succeeded early in discovering my belief in this more vivid parallel life and she played on it. She claimed to know where the Secret Pathway was and I believed her—I was too young to conceive duplicity on that scale. I suppose I was five years old. Whenever there was cover, the chance of concealment, she would depart, with some casual remark for others but a meaning look for me so that I knew with immediate anguish that she was about to enter the Secret Pathway at some neighbouring accession point. She was always fleeter than I, so that if I attempted to pursue her, I would before many moments be left alone among alien herbage, torn by brambles, stung by the whip back of branches, blinded and choked by my exertions and my tears. I used to call after her, begging her to show me the secret way, but she never did; she never even promised she would; and that is what chiefly surprises me now, her extremely pitiless guarding of this secret. After some time she would reappear, lacerating me further by her triumphant complacency of manner. . . .

  Now she walked behind me as we left the orchard on our right and reached the edge of the field. The roles were reversed but I at least was willing to share my knowledge. . . . Suddenly, however, she spoke and I knew from the tone and volume that she was no longer following. ‘I’m going back, Simon,’ she said. ‘I don’t really know why I followed you this far. I don’t know what we are doing here, the pair of us.’

  She had stopped and stood there regarding me with dazed enquiry, as though recently roused from sleep.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘but you can’t go back now. It is not much farther.’ Useless to protest of course. And now perhaps unnecessary: despite my disappointment I sensed that during these few minutes she had absorbed the knowledge of what she would see, in the way that one perceives good or evil, by a sort of assimilation. At any rate she asked no more questions but turned on her heel and began to walk back through the long grass, back towards the orchard. She had summoned a sort of pride.

  Her going left me undecided. There did not seem much point in returning alone to the copse. After hesitating for some minutes I began to make my way back to the grounds. As I was nearing the side of the drive I heard the scraping whirr of the gate. I had only just time enough to get back among the bushes before Major Donaldson passed along the drive carrying a bunch of red carnations and looking, as it seemed to me, less than his usual self. I say this because his face wore a pinched reverential expression as though all the jolliness had been squeezed out through the corners of his eyes and mouth, somehow reducing in the process the total surface area. I did not follow him, but remained where I was, waiting.

  It must have been an hour at least. I sat down among the bushes and part of the day wheeled over me as I waited. At first I thought of them, Major Donaldson and Audrey sitting together, conducting some conversation, the Major crossing, uncrossing, recrossing his grey flannels, Audrey touching her opal brooch, the carnations glowing prominently in the place where she had put them. Marion, still warm from her sporting in the copse, in silent attendance on them. Or would Marion be de trop? Was the Major, could he conceivably be, laying his life before Audrey, taking her hand in his? A Mrs Donaldson there was not, nor ever had been, as far as anybody knew. But this thought was too improbable to be entertained, or entertained for long, and in dismissing it, I dismissed Audrey and the Major too, at least for the time being, and I began in a drowsy way to think of the woman at the bungalow sweeping her front, hanging out the washing, cleaning the windows. The truth was I suddenly began to feel very tired, quite exhausted in fact, with all the excitement I had been going through, all these alarums and excursions, the sheer nervous strain of watching everything, maintaining a constant vigilance and striving always to fit everything that happened into a design. Heavy work for a mortal man, best left to the Supreme Author of course—but in this tiny part of the terrain I wanted to be in on it too, since it affected me so much more immediately than it could conceivably affect Him.

  Clouds formed and darkened, shutting out the sun. Far over to my right, beyond the bungalow and the wheat, over the broom and ferns that marked the beginning of the hills, an area characterised by space and rapine, a sparrow-hawk loitered high in the sky, dipped, rose again. At my feet was a plant with denticulated leaves one of which was not dark green like the others but a beautiful soft crimson. Now why this alchemy for this particular leaf? No doubt it was some impoverishment, some weakness in the veins to which it owed this beauty. Definitely a moral in it somewhere. . . .

  Then I heard their steps on the drive. They came into view walking side by s
ide a yard or so apart, neither of them speaking. My sister’s face had the haggard look, it had been showing lately and the Major still seemed curiously abashed. They looked like a couple who have just been tediously and inconclusively quarrelling. I was able by moving a few yards up through the shrubbery, to see them pause at the gate for a few moments. I saw the Major smile, decline his head, turn away. He squared his shoulders before he started walking as if he was marching into a future, no doubt beset with difficulties, but at any rate free from the interview just conducted.

  My sister stood alone at the gate for a couple of minutes, watching him depart, presumably. Then she set off back towards the house. She had not gone more than a dozen paces, however, before she stopped dead again and began a series of actions at first inexplicable, a sort of bracing and relaxing of the body as though engaged in some kind of breathing exercise. Had I been near enough to hear the sounds of course I should have known at once. I had not realised up till then how closely weeping is identified with its sounds, with bursts of noise, chokings, snifflings, gulpings, sobs. It was the sudden droop of her body, the declension of her whole form, that first alerted me. Her shoulders slumped forward, her arms hung straight down, nervelessly abandoned. Her head performed a rearing motion. Her face was quite expressionless. She was in the act of raising it. She tilted her face up, up, until she was looking over the trees into the sky, then as suddenly as a crack appears in glass her face crumpled and wrinkled, her lips drew back tightly over her teeth and her head began a slow inclination. Now indeed I sensed the sounds that must be accompanying all this—the short gasping inspirations followed by long sighs, irregular and painful owing to the partially closed glottis. Her lowered head remained stationary for a second or two, then began again its blind upward motion, up, up, the crumples ironed out again but the face wet now, higher and higher as if the source of tears lay somewhere up beyond the trees, somewhere in the darkening sky, as if she had to get her face at the correct angle to the universe before a fresh access could be achieved. As a spectacle it was fascinating.