Dodie Smith - I Capture the Castle

three hooks on the wall for clothes. On the chest of drawers his comb was placed exactly midway between a photograph of his mother with him as a baby in her arms, and a snapshot of me both in aluminum frames

much too large for them. By the bed was an old wooden box, with a copy of Jacob Wrestling Father gave him years ago on it beside a volume of Swinburne. (oh dear, is Stephen taking to Swinburne?) That was

absolutely all--no carpet, no chair. The room smelt damp and earthy.

It didn't feel like anywhere in the castle as we know it now, but as

the kitchen did when we saw it first, at sunset. I wondered if Stephen was haunted by the ghosts of ancient hens.

I looked at the photograph of Mrs.

Colly for a long time, remembering how kind she was to us in the years after Mother died.

And I remembered going to see her in the Cottage Hospital and then

helping Father to break it to Stephen that she wasn't going to get

better. He just said "That's bad. Thank you, sir. Will that be all now?" and went into his room. After she died, I felt he must be

terribly lonely and I got into the habit of reading to him in the

kitchen every night--I expect I rather fancied myself reading aloud.

It was then that he got fond of poetry. Father married Topaz the year after and in the excitement of it all, my evenings with Stephen

ended--I had forgotten all about them until I stood there looking at

his Mother's photograph. I imagined she was looking at me

reproachfully because I hadn't been kinder to her son and I wondered if I could do anything to improve his bedroom. I could make him some

curtains, if Topaz could ever spare the money for them; but the window with the ivy creeping through is the nicest thing in the room, so it

would be a pity to hide it. And always at the back of my mind I know

it isn't kind to be kind to Stephen; briskness is kindest. I looked

Mrs. Colly in the eye and sent her a message: "I'm doing my

best--really I am."

Then I thought that it would be better for Stephen not to know I had

been in his room--I don't know why, exactly, except that bedrooms are very personal; and he might not like to think I knew what a poor little place it is. I had one last look round. The afternoon sun was

filtering in through the ivy so that everything was bathed in green

light. The clothes hanging on the wall had a tired, almost dead

look.

If I had left the letter, he would have guessed that I had put it

there; so in the end I just gave it to him as soon as he came back

from work. I explained how it had come, in a very casual voice, and

then ran upstairs. He made no comment at all except to thank me. I

still don't know what his plans about London are.

In the evening, while I was working on my journal in the drawing-room, Father walked in--I had been so absorbed that I hadn't heard him arrive home.

"Hello, did your business go well?" I enquired politely.

He said: "Business? What business? I've been to the British Museum."

Then he made a dive at my journal. I pulled it away from him, staring in astonishment.

"Good heavens, I don't want to pry into your secrets," he said.

"I just want to look at your speed-writing. Do me an example, if you prefer it--do "God Save the King. "I thought he might as well see the journal--I chose an un-private page in case he was better at guessing than Simon had been.

He peered down, then pulled the candle closer and asked me to point out the word-symbols.

"There aren't any," I told him.

"It's mostly just abbreviations."

"No good, no good at all," he said impatiently, pushing the exercise book away. Then he marched off to the gatehouse.

I went into the kitchen and found Topaz cutting ham sandwiches for him; she said he hadn't told her one word of what he had been doing all

day.

"Well, he wasn't with Mrs. Cotton, anyway," I said, "because he was at the British Museum."

"As if that proves anything," said Topaz, gloomily.

"People do nothing but use it for assignations--I met him there myself once, in the mummy room."

She went off to the gatehouse with his sandwiches; he had asked her to bring them to him there. When she came back she said:

"Cassandra, he's going out of his mind. He's got a sheet of graph paper pinned to his desk and he told me to ask Thomas to lend him some compasses. And when I told him Thomas was asleep he said:

"Then bring me a goat. Oh, go to bed, go to bed." Heavens, does he really want a goat?"

"Of course not," I said laughing.

"It's just an idiotic association of words--you know, "Goat and Compasses"; they sometimes call inns that. I've heard him make that sort of joke before and very silly I always think it is."

She looked faintly disappointed--I think she had rather fancied hauling some goat in out of the night.

A few minutes later, Father came rampaging into the kitchen saying he must have the compasses even if it meant waking Thomas;

but I crept into his room and managed to sneak them out of his school satchel without disturbing him. Father went off with them.

It was three o'clock before he finally came in from the gatehouse-I

heard Godsend church clock strike just after he wakened Heloise, who

raised the roof. Fancy sitting up until three in the morning playing

with graph paper and compasses! I could hit him!

Oh, I long to blurt out the news in my first paragraph --but I won't!

This is a chance to teach myself the art of suspense.

We didn't hear anything from the Cottons for nearly two weeks after we lunched in the village, but we hardly expected to as they were still in London; and while I was describing that day it was like re-living it, so I was quite contented--and it took me a long time, as Topaz

developed a mania for washing, mending and cleaning, and she needed my help.

I had to do most of my writing in bed at night, which stopped me from encouraging Rose to talk much not that she had shown signs of wanting to, having taken to going for long walks by herself. This desire for

solitude often overcomes her at house-cleaning times.

I finished writing of May Day on the second Saturday after it-and

immediately felt it was time something else happened. I looked across at Rose in the four-poster and asked if she knew exactly when the

Cottons were coming back.

"Oh, they're back now," she said, casually.

She had heard it in Godsend that morning- and kept it to herself.

"Don't count on seeing them too soon," she added.

"Neil will keep Simon away from me as long as he can."

"Rubbish," I said; though I really had come to believe that Neil disliked her. I tried to get her to talk some more--I was ready to

enjoy a little exciting anticipation- but she wasn't forthcoming.

And I quite understood; when things mean a very great deal to you,

exciting anticipation just isn't safe.

The next day, Sunday, something happened to put the Cottons out of my head. When I got down, Topaz told me Stephen had gone off to London.

He hadn't said a word to anyone until she came down to get breakfast

and found him ready to start.

"He was very calm and collected," she said.

"I

asked him if he wasn't afraid of getting lost and he said that if he

did, he'd get a taxi; but he hardly thought he would need to, as Miss Marcy had told him exactly which "buses to take."

I was suddenly furious at his asking Miss Marcy, when he had been so

secretive with us.

"I hate that Fox-Cotton woman," I said.

"Well, I warned him to keep his eyes open," said Topaz.

"And of course, her interest really may be only professional. Though I must say I doubt it."

"Do you mean she might make love to him ?" I gasped- and for the first time really knew just why I minded his going.