Henry Green - Back

The moment he realized this, his first idea was to go, to come back another day perhaps, but to get out of it for now.

Yet he knocked.

She opened, almost at once. He looked. He sagged. Then something went inside. It was as though the frightful starts his heart was giving had burst a vein. He pitched forward, in a dead faint, because there she stood alive, so close that he could touch, and breathing, the dead spit, the living image, herself, Rose in person.

When he came round, he was flat along the floor with his head rested on an object. Curled up above, on a chair, there was a tortoiseshell cat that watched him, through great yellow eyes with terrible black slits. He knew no cat. It meant nothing. He could not make out where he was until he tilted himself, to find Rose kneeling at his head, which was in her lap. Then he remembered.

“Darling you’ve dyed your hair,” he brought out, proud to be so quick, for the room was dark. Apart from this one detail he knew it was all right at last, was as it had been six years back.

“That’s better,” she said.

He rested. He lay on. He was content. He felt his blood flow all over the inside of him. There was just one point; her voice sounded rather changed.

Her moon cool hands were laid about his temples. The cat shut its eyes and dozed. And he shut his.

“Take it easy,” she said. Again the voice which had changed.

“Darling,” he murmured.

“That’s enough of that,” she said, but although she spoke sharp it barely came through to him, in his condition. Because this, he felt, as he now was, must be what he had been waiting for these years, the sad soldier back from the wars.

“Why?” he asked, absolutely trusting her, and still shuteyed, and in a humble voice.

“You’re telling me,” she said.

He began not to understand. He looked. He saw the cat was there no longer. A kettle was boiling. He tilted again. Her dear face did not even seem to belong, he thought. But he knew it must be all right.

“Here,” she said, reaching for a cushion. “Put this under you.”

He shut his eyes again. He sighed in deep content.

“Have a quick rest now, then get to hell out of here,” she said, rising to her feet.

He heard this right enough, but thought she was joking. When he shakily sat up to be fetched a kiss, he found she was gone, that she was next door in the kitchen.

He dragged himself off the floor, and sat on a chair because he did not feel so good. He was empty, and ill, and the room began going round once more, with the cat, which had come back. Still, he found he could focus after a few minutes. He watched it settle down opposite, start to wipe the side of its mouth.

Then he watched the opening to the kitchen. He thought he was stronger, and he had so much to ask Rose he did not know where to begin.

She came back with two cups of tea. Except for the hair, which was black, she was now exactly like again.

“I was only making myself one when you came,” she said. He half rose, but his hands shook so badly she put his down on the table.

“Doesn’t seem possible,” he started. He stopped. There was something he could not fathom in her face, as she watched over the rim of her cup.

“What exactly is the matter with you?” she asked.

Then he knew what it was. She was an enemy. She couldn’t have heard about him. She thought he had given her up. Everything must come all right. But he dreaded it so, that he could not bring himself to speak.

“How you people manage to dress as you do,” she said, in a hard voice, at his city suit. He thought “Oh what have I done? She’s out of her mind.” His mouth went dry as he realized, next, that she was completely self-possessed. He reached for his cup. He did not know how he would be able to lift this. He tried to take heart because she had given him a saucer with it.

“That’s right. Drink that, then go,” she said.

“My God,” he said as he dropped it. He had been afraid he would. “Now look what you’ve done,” she said, and rushed out into the kitchen for a dish cloth. “Here,” she said, throwing this. He mopped at his trousers. “And what about my covers?” she asked. He stumbled to his feet, began dabbing at the chair.

“Rose,” he said low, his back still turned to her.

“What’s rose?” she asked frantic.

Then he had another thought. That she’d lost her memory, same as her mother. He knew he must take things slowly. He worked on the chair.

“Think it’s all right now. Terribly sorry,” he said.

“I don’t know what to make of you,” she complained, but in an easier voice. The suit had taken all he had spilt.

“Careless of me,” he said, with such a hang dog look she must have felt sorry. Perhaps it was to hide this up that she said, “I expect there’ll be a drop left in the pot.”

He sat on. When she came back with another cup, this time without a saucer, he said,

“I’ll get you a replacement.”

For a moment she did not understand this phrase, which came from the jargon of production engineers, but as soon as she realized he meant to buy her a cup and saucer in place of what he had just broken, she put her foot down hard.

“You won’t, thank you,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you in here a second time, thanks very much. Not to get to be a habit. I’d never have done this, only I happened to know Mr Middlewitch was in across the landing.”

“Middlewitch?” He spoke out in real horror.

“Now then,” she said, beginning to look frightened.

“Middlewitch?” he repeated, absolutely bewildered.

“Just because I give you the name of someone who lives in these digs, don’t you start wondering if you’ll strike lucky twice,” she said.

“Me strike lucky?” he mumbled.

“It’s rationed now, you know,” she insisted.

This was too much. He almost laughed he was so frantic.

“That’s rich,” he said.

“What’s rich?” she wanted to know. “And cups aren’t easy to come by these days, either,” she went on, “though I’m not accepting anything from strange men, you can be sure of that,” she said.

She sat there, looking. She was cold, cold with hostility.

“Middlewitch, who’s with the C.E.G.S.?” he asked, clutching at the straw, but suspicious.

“You drink yours up, then go.”

“Not before you tell me if it’s the same.”

There was a long pause while he watched her. He could tell nothing new from her face.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said at last, but so cautiously that he could tell it was the very same.

He put his cup down with care. His hands were much steadier. Middlewitch was something to hang on to.

“Don’t you know me at all?” he asked. Putting this question, however, was so dreadful that he again began to tremble all over.

“Now, don’t you start,” she said. She looked really frightened.

“Oh dear,” he said. There was another pause.

“D’you do this for a living, then?” she began, almost as though to give herself confidence by making awkward conversation. But he gave no answer.

“It’s getting cold,” she said of his tea, it must have been to hurry him up. “I’m telling you.”

“I’ve seen Ridley, Rose,” he said. He watched her as he spoke, as a dog sits up for a bone.

“There you go, more riddles. And who’s Ridley?”

He looked at her idiotically.

“Don’t stare at me,” she said, looking more frightened than ever. Then she gave way. She explained.

“It’s not the first time,” she said. “Why don’t you take things as they come, and get out of here?”

“Not the first time?” he echoed, gaining confidence.

“I’ve had people stop me in the streets. Who hasn’t anyway? I suppose I’ve a double somewhere in this town all right. Though why I’m telling you I can’t think.” She smoothed her skirts.