John Harwood: The Ghost Writer

I had read somewhere that you could survive for many weeks without food, so long as you had plenty to drink, but only four or five days without water. My mouth and throat were already parched. I'll be with you in three more days, maybe sooner, Alice had said in her last message. Tomorrow was Saturday. But even if it occurred to her that I might be trapped here, she had no way of getting into the house, and Mr Grierstone's office would be closed all weekend. So even if a very long chain of even ifs' came out my way, there was no hope of rescue before Monday at the earliest. And would anyone hear through the floorboards whatever sound I was still capable of making by then?

My frenzied efforts at escape had given the panic an outlet. Now it was rising like water up the steps towards me. A force that could use a planchette to write 'Try the cellar could just as easily unhook a door. Exactly the sort of thought I mustn't think. I would be crouching in the dark soon enough. Use the last of the torch to search the cellar again.

I had left the candelabra at the foot of the stairs. Beyond the circle of light, I could just make out the wreckage of fallen shelves and broken glass, and a faint gleam of yellow: the package, which I had dismissed as simply a folded section of waterproof cloth: there appeared to be nothing solid inside, and the knots were too tight to undo. But I might as well be sure.

Only about an inch of candle remained. The flame swayed as I passed, spilling molten wax on to the floor. I used a piece of broken glass to cut the string. In the centre of the package I found several sheets of typescript, also tightly folded several times over, with the typewritten side outwards.

Within seconds she was drenched, and though Harry met her with an umbrella as she approached the house, the roar of the thunder drowned every attempt at speech.

Towelling her hair dry in her room, while thunder rolled and reverberated overhead and the electric light flickered after every flash of lightning, Cordelia was seized by a reckless impulse to put on the emerald green gown. Earlier in the week, she had spent several hours brushing and sponging and pressing it, and airing out the musty smell. But how would she explain its sudden appearance in her wardrobe? and besides, it would upset her uncle. She chose another dress, also green but in a lighter shade, and went down to the kitchen, where she found Harry helping Beatrice assemble a cold supper.

"I'm sorry for what I said in the lane," said Beatrice, as soon as she came in. "You startled me, that's all; I didn't mean it. No"-as Cordelia reached for an apron-"you've done everything all week; Uncle has a glass of wine waiting for you."

"Yes, you put your feet up, old thing," said Harry. "I'll be in in just a minute."

Though Cordelia had grown used to being "old thing" in company, she had not realised until that moment just how thoroughly she disliked it. But after insisting that she was not jealous, she felt obliged to accept. Harry's minute stretched to what felt like ten, and when he did join her and her uncle and aunt, she could not decide whether he was simply being his usual self, or behaving like someone determined to pretend that nothing whatever was wrong. The hiss of rain and the constant rumble of thunder made conversation difficult, and then, after an especially fierce flash of lightning, the electric lights went out, leaving them to dine by flickering candlelight, which made it impossible to read anybody's expression, even when you could hear what they were saying.

Gradually, the thunder receded and the rain diminished until there was only the drip drip drip from the eaves onto the gravel outside. The wind, too, had died away, and when Uncle Theodore opened the window, cool damp air wafted into the dining-room. Aunt Una retired to her room; but still Harry, Beatrice (who had evidently taken the confrontation in the lane as sanction for casting off her reserve with him) and Theodore chatted on, until Cordelia could bear it no longer, and more or less ordered Harry to accompany her upstairs to the studio.

The air was so still that, rather than light a lamp, she simply took one of the candlesticks from the sideboard.

"Anything the matter, old thing?" Harry asked, as they approached the stairs.

"Don't call me that any more! I'm not old, and I'm not a thing." And, she almost added, I'm not yours, either.

"Sorry, old-I mean-er-sorry," he said, sounding aggrieved, and they ascended in silence while she choked back one angry opening after another, so preoccupied with her suspicions in regard to Beatrice that they had reached the second-floor landing before she remembered "The Drowned Man".

It came to her as she went to fetch the key of the studio from her room, leaving Harry to wait in darkness on the landing. She could not say anything about Beatrice without sounding jealous, and putting herself even further in the wrong, for he might be perfectly innocent on that score. But she could set him a test: she would place a strand of her hair between the covers of "The Drowned Man", and leave the door unlocked that night; if he lied about it in the morning, she would know, and break the engagement regardless.

Though it had been cool on the landing, the day's heat was still trapped in the studio. She lit the candles on the table, and placed her candlestick in a holder on the lectern. When she knelt on the bed and opened the window, the candle flames barely wavered. There was no moon, but the sky had cleared and she could see starlight glimmering on the wet grass beyond the flagstones below.

She stood up and turned to Harry, who was standing beside the easel, and, it seemed to her, ostentatiously ignoring the lectern.

"What's the matter, old-sorry, I mean, what's up?"

"Nothing," she said coldly, thinking, how could you possibly not know?

"Not still upset over that little spat in the lane?"

Too angry to reply, she tugged at the ring he had given her, meaning to fling it in his face, but it would not come off.

"Good, I knew you wouldn't be. Look here old-sorry, I'm quite done up, I think I'll turn in. Don't worry about a candle. 'Night."

He dabbed a perfunctory kiss on her cheek and retreated to the doorway. In silence, she extinguished the candles on the table and retrieved her own from the lectern.

"Er-aren't you going to shut the window?"

She shook her head, and removed her key from the open door as she left. Dazzled by the flame of her candle, she could not see his expression, but her own was surely unmistakable.

"I see-leaving it to air-er, good idea. 'Night." He set off down the stairs in his irregular, slightly crab-like fashion, while she watched, still speechless, until he had vanished into the dim, starlit recesses of the flight below.

BACK IN HER ROOM, SHE REMOVED THE OFFENDING RING with soap and sat on her bed rehearsing what she would say when she returned it to him in the morning. Or should she go down to his room and have it out now? No; that would only upset her uncle, and give Beatrice something more to gloat over. She would wait until she could get Harry alone in the wood. For an hour or more she paced up and down her room, sustained by the heat of her fury. But as it began to cool, doubts crept in. Harry hated scenes, and would go to any lengths to avoid a quarrel; perhaps he would have apologised if she hadn't been so hostile. And what-supposing he was innocent where Beatrice was concerned-was he supposed to apologise for? Calling her "old thing"? She had never protested until tonight. For being chronically unpunctual? She had never objected to that, either. For his lack of ardour? Again, she hadn't complained of it. Was he supposed to read her thoughts? Yes, said a rebellious voice, because I know I can read his. But how could she be so sure? He had been ardent enough, last Sunday on the riverbank; her headache had put an end to that. A wave of self-loathing rose up like bile; she buried her face in her pillow and wept for a long time.