Джеймс Хилтон - So Well Remembered

“I think you fainted, Martin.”

He nodded, gulping over the taste of the whisky.

“Seems so… and by the way, I shouldn’t have had that.”

“Why not? It pulled you round.”

“Maybe… only I’m not supposed to have it—now.”

“Why NOW?”

“Well, any time for that matter.”

“You said NOW! Martin, what’s wrong? What’s happened? Are you ill?… Shall I call a doctor?”

He shook his head. “No, I’ve had a doctor. That’s really what I went to London for. It’s nothing you need worry about… But perhaps I’d better go to bed now—and rest. I ASSURE you it’s nothing you need worry about… It’s—er—to do with my eyes. I’ve known for some time they weren’t quite as they should be. Old Whiteside diagnosed it wrong, of course… Well, anyhow, let’s hope those records turn up. At least I can HEAR properly.”

He got up and walked to the door, while she ran past him to open it.

“Martin…”

“I’m really all right, Livia—I didn’t even intend to tell you but for—”

“Martin, I’LL look after you. You know that?”

“Why, yes, but—”

“Even if you were to go blind—”

“Oh, come now, there’s no question of that…” And then a laugh. “You DO like to dramatize, don’t you?… But you’re very kind. I sometimes wonder why. I never did anything for you—except bring you into the world, and God knows whether you’ll thank me for that, in the end… Yes, it puzzles me sometimes—why you are so kind to me.”

“Because I love you,” she answered simply, and then she laughed too, as if to join him in any joke there was. “Good night, Martin.”

“Good night.”

Back in the drawing-room she listened to his footsteps creaking on the floor above. Then she ate a sandwich and walked to the window, opened it, and breathed the cold air. The blanket of silence was still covering the world.

The next morning he asked her not to tell Sarah anything about his fainting, or the trouble he had mentioned, because Sarah would fuss, and fussing was just as bad as worrying. And it was useless to tell Sarah not to fuss, because she would do so anyway; whereas if he told Livia not to worry, then he was sure of her compliance. Livia said she was far too happy to worry about anything, which was the truth, and it puzzled her. Perhaps it was because he looked so much better after his night’s sleep. Or perhaps it was just that he was home again. Or perhaps it was her own penchant for having the oddest emotions at the oddest times.

Anyhow, she was so happy she decided to put the old work-horse between the shafts of the garden cart and drive over the hill to fetch eggs and butter from one of the farms; Watson usually did this in the car, but he was afraid the snow might be too deep in places, though the horse would manage all right. So she sat on the plank seat, surrounded by the rich smells of the empty cart, and jogged down the road as far as the side turning that climbed again steeply to the moorland. The sky over the snow was an incredible deep blue, and when she had gone a little way and looked back, there was Stoneclough, a huddle of white roofs against the black- and-white trees. And above her now, the mountain lifted up. In that strange snow-blue light it seemed to her that she had never been so near it before, though actually she had climbed to the summit many times; she felt a sudden wild ecstasy that made her lie down on the floor of the cart amidst the smells of hay and manure, to exult in the whole matchless beauty of that moment. The horse jogged on, presently stopping before a closed gate. She jumped down to open it, laughing aloud. Then the lane narrowed to a stony track, and there were other gates. At last she reached a farmhouse and saw a fat woman standing at the doorway wiping her arms on an apron and smiling. “Laws amussy,” she cried, as Livia approached, “I didn’t expect anybody’d come up this morning. Are you from Stoneclough?”

Livia said she was, and had the impression she was being taken for a servant girl; and that, somehow, added to the pleasantness of the occasion. Smiling also, she handed over the note on which Sarah had written out so much butter, so many eggs, and so on; but then another strange and pleasant thing happened. The fat woman pushed back the note with a loud chuckle. “Nay, that’s no use to me, girl—ye’ll have to tell me what it says. I never was a scholar.”

“You mean you can’t READ?” queried Livia.

“That’s so—and I don’t know as I’ll ever bother to learn, now I’ve let it go so long.”

Livia then told her what she wanted, whereupon the woman disappeared into the farmhouse, returning after a few minutes with the various items, a handful of carrots for the horse, and a jug containing a pale frothing liquid. “Nettle-drink,” she cried triumphantly, “and it’ll be the best ye’ve ever tasted.”

That could be easy, thought Livia, who had never tasted any before. But it WAS delicious, whether because of the woman’s special brew, or for some curious extra congeniality of time and place… but the truth was, everything that morning was to Livia miraculously right—the drive, the sky, the sunshine, the mountain, the nettle- drink, and the fact that the woman could not read. Never again, as long as she lived, was she quite so happy.

She would hold his arm firmly (for he was apt to stumble a little), and walk with him up and down the level paths along the terraces, sometimes as far as the fence, but not much beyond, because there might be strangers in the clough, and he did not want to be seen. All at once a secret between them was removed, so far as this was concerned; he made no more effort to conceal from her certain things that he still wished to conceal from others. She was a co- conspirator in a small but necessary deception. For some reason he did not want outsiders to know that his eyes were bad; he seemed not to realize that few would care, or even think that a man walking slowly along with a girl holding his arm was behaving in any abnormal way for father with daughter. But she did not mind the pretence, if it satisfied him. And inside the garden, with no one to see or hear, with the empty moorland above and the dark clough below, she learned the special trick of sharing whatever mood he was in, even to extremes; if he wanted to laugh, she would laugh too, and if he had wanted to cry she believed she could have done that also. Sometimes she would tell him the only funny stories she knew, which were about Cheldean or the Geneva school; they were mostly rather silly yarns, even if they were funny at all, and it was odd to feel their schoolgirl importance dwindling in retrospect while she narrated them, so that she could tick them off afterwards as things never to be told again. He seemed interested, however, and often asked about her school friend, Joan Martin, suggesting again that she should write and try to re- establish the friendship. But Livia said it was no use now; she was sure they wouldn’t have a thing in common, even apart from the doubtful incident of the watch.

“But you ought to have friends, Livia—YOUNG friends. I know it would be hard for you to make them in Browdley—for various reasons… but you ought to have them—there ought to be people of your own age whom you could spend holidays with at their homes.”

“Or they could come here to spend holidays with me—how would you like that?”

The point was taken. He replied: “I wouldn’t mind it so much. I wouldn’t have to see a great deal of them, and if they were YOUR friends, I’d do my best to make them feel at home.”

She smiled. “But they wouldn’t be, they couldn’t be, and I’d mind them here, anyway. Martin, don’t you worry about me, either.” And then sharply: “Who’s been talking to you? Sarah? She had no business to… why should she interfere?”