Джеймс Хилтон - So Well Remembered

“I’ve said she’s in a rather nervous state. That describes it pretty well. A VERY nervous state… as apparently you are yourself.”

“Oh, never mind me. Leave me out of it.”

“But I can’t entirely—in what I have to say.”

“Then for God’s sake get on with saying it!”

After a pause Dr. Whiteside resumed: “She’s very fond of you, isn’t she?”

The question seemed to bring instant calm to the discussion.

“I daresay. I am of her too. She’s kind to me. You’d never believe how kind to me she is. I often wonder why, because—as I’ve told her —I never did anything for her except bring her into the world, and that’s a doubtful privilege… but she’s so kind—so WONDERFULLY kind.”

Dr. Whiteside cleared his throat; he would soon be on delicate ground. “Has it ever occurred to you…?” He hesitated, then leaned forward to pat the head of the terrier and was disconcerted when the animal growled at him. “A faithful dog, I can see.”

“Livia gave him to me. Becky, his name is. She gave me this pipe too —though I can’t smoke any more—it hurts my head to have a pipe in my mouth. She doesn’t know that—please don’t tell her. She’s always giving me things. I give her things too, but I can afford so little nowadays… and those records were never returned. The railway people never found them. They were Mozart records—she loves Mozart.”

Dr. Whiteside nodded grimly. Presently he said, beginning afresh: “Has it ever occurred to you that she never remembered you as a child… so that when she saw you a few years ago it was like meeting a stranger for the first time?”

“Why, of course. That’s what makes it so remarkable. Two strangers. And very much at odds with the world—both of us. We’ve managed to get along pretty well. But I agree with you—that is, if the point you’re making is about her health… a long holiday… Richard’s right… she needs it. Sarah says so too…” Then suddenly, in a changed voice: “Dr. Whiteside, I’m not well—I have to admit that. In fact, there are times when I’m very far from well. Will you please tell me—quickly, please— because there’s not a great deal of time… exactly what are you driving at?”

Half an hour later Dr. Whiteside left the house, having discovered a great deal more than he had allowed the other to realize, and having said perhaps more than he himself had intended.

Livia’s shopping was considerably delayed that afternoon. She was not temperamentally a very good driver of a car, and after such rain as had fallen during several consecutive days there were extra hazards in travelling to and from Sloneclough. It was quite a phenomenal rain; all the streets near the river were under water, with basements engulfed and families living in upper floors; the Advertiser and the Guardian both reported it as the worst flood within living memory. This would have been enough for Browdley to gossip about, yet when Livia entered shops to make her purchases she could feel she was changing the subject of scores of conversations. For the town was already full of rumours about Stoneclough. A few words from Watson had been sufficient; their very fewness gave larger scope to theory, interpretation, pure invention. The whole history of the Channing family, their crimes, scandals, and downfall, was revived under a new spotlight. It was impossible not to wonder what secrets lay behind the eyes of a girl who looked and talked as if she were half a child and half an adult, but nothing at all of an eighteen-year-old.

She shopped at the butcher’s, the grocer’s, the pastry-cook’s. It was remembered afterwards (by individuals) that she had bought some pipe tobacco at the tobacconist’s, and some lengths of coloured ribbon in the drapery department of the Co-operative shop. She was quick-spoken, as always; knew exactly what she wanted, what it should cost, and if it were of good quality. A true Channing in that respect, at least.

After dusk she set out on the return journey. The old Citroën spluttered slowly uphill with water leaking under the hood; it was a car that did not take the hill too easily at the best of times, but now both wind and rain were beating against its progress, and every cross-street sent rivers of muddy flood-water swirling against the wheels. It was all she could do to hold the road, and no more easily as she climbed, because the stream through the clough had become a torrent breaking bounds in places. She hoped Martin would be asleep by the time she reached the house, because if not, he might be worrying about her safe arrival. He usually dozed off about dusk and would often wake again past midnight, when it was her habit to cook a small meal which they would eat in the kitchen; after which they would talk until he felt like dozing again, or sometimes, in fine weather, they would pace up and down the garden in the darkness.

The strain of the drive had tired her, and when she finally slewed the car into the garage she saw with relief that there was no chink of light at the drawing-room window. That meant he had already gone to bed and might well be asleep. Suddenly as she closed the garage door she noticed tyre-marks in the yard that were not from the car, or from Watson’s motor-cycle; and a moment later, seeing Watson wheeling his machine out of the shed where he kept it, she asked if anyone had called during the day.

“Only Dr. Whiteside.”

“HE called? Why?”

“Oh, for a chat, I suppose. He didn’t stay long.”

She remembered then that when she had recently met the doctor in Browdley he had said something about calling round to see her father; though she hadn’t expected him to do so with such promptness, especially during the rain. “You’d better be careful,” she warned Watson. “The road’s nearly washed out down the hill.”

“Oh, I’ll be all right, miss.”

He jumped on his machine and was off. She idly wondered where he could think of going on such a night; she was as far as ever from guessing that Stoneclough’s inhabitants were beginning to get on his nerves.

She entered the house through the kitchen. As she passed Sarah’s room, near by, she heard a voice and listened; but it was only Sarah herself, praying aloud in a curious wheezy whine. The whine was based on jumbled recollections of Methodist local preachers whom Sarah, in the past, had admired; the wheeze was merely asthmatic. Sarah had always prayed aloud before going to bed, and it brought back to Livia memories of a thousand childhood nights when she herself (at Sarah’s command) had done the same, kneeling and shivering in a night-dress, and how the nightdress popping over her head just before she began had become a symbol of prayer, so that the words “Night is drawing nigh” in the hymn had meant “Nighties drawing nigh” to her until long after she began to read.

She went upstairs to her own bedroom and was asleep within minutes. She did not pray; somehow the act of prayer seemed more fitting before a whole night’s sleep, not just a few hours until midnight. And besides, she was apt to pray harder during the day, while she was doing other things as well.

But that night, had she known, she might have said an extra prayer, for when she awoke it was almost dawn; from utter exhaustion she had slept eight hours. Immediately—and perhaps it had wakened her—she heard the bark of a dog in the distance, the little white dog whom Martin had called Becky, because (they had both noticed) it never seemed to follow them when they walked, but liked to run on ahead and then turn round, as if beckoning.

The bark continued, giving her a sudden premonition of tragedy. She hurried through the dark house and across the garden, following the sound, and Becky came running forward to meet her at the top of the clough.