Dodie Smith - I Capture the Castle

We came back on the first train. I slept most of the way, and slept

again when we got home.

It was the middle of the afternoon when I woke up--to find myself alone in the castle; Stephen had gone over to Four Stones, Father was at

Scoatney and Thomas was spending the weekend with his friend Harry.

Stephen came home around nine o'clock and went to bed without

disturbing me--I was up in the attic writing this journal. As I heard him crossing the courtyard I wondered if I ought to go down and talk to him, but I felt there was nothing helpful I could say. Later on, I

thought I would at least make him some cocoa and chat about his film

job, but by the time I got to the kitchen the light in his room was

out.

He went back to London early on Monday morning, with his will you ?"

"I won't be coming back," he said, quietly, "even if I'm no good as an actor. No, I won't come back."

I said of course he would, but he shook his head.

Then he gave one last look round the room. The photographs of me and

his Mother were gone. The bed was stripped and the one blanket neatly folded.

"I've swept the room out so that you won't have anything extra to do,"

he said.

"You can shut this place up and forget it. I gave Mr. Mortmain his books back before he went off to Scoatney. I'll miss having books."

"But you can buy them for yourself now," I told him.

He said he hadn't thought of that--"I don't seem able to take in the money part, somehow."

"Mind you save--just in case," I warned him.

He nodded and said he'd probably soon be feeding pigs again.

Then we heard Mr. Stebbins hooting his horn.

I said: "I'll see you off but let's say a private good-bye here." I held out my hand, but added: "Please kiss me if you'd like to--I'd like it if you would."

For a second I thought he was going to; then he shook his head and

barely clasped my hand. I tried to help him carry the little sea-chest but he hoisted it up on his shoulder. We went out to the car. Heloise was there, investigating the wheels, and after Stephen had strapped the chest on to the luggage-carrier he stooped and kissed her on the head.

He never looked back once as they drove along the lane.

While I was washing up the breakfast things, I realized that I had no idea where he would be staying. Would he go back to the Fox-Cottons? I suppose Rose will know.

(i wrote to her that morning, saying I had been in the wrong and asking her to forgive me. I must say she took her time about answering; but

this after noon I had a telegram from her which said she would write

when she could, and would I please try to understand. She didn't put

in anything about forgiving me, but as it was signed "your ever loving Rose" I suppose she has.) I worked on my journal most of Monday, finishing in floods of tears too late to get my face right before

Thomas came home. He said: "You've been howling, haven't you? I

suppose the castle's depressing after being in London"--which made things nice and easy for me. I said yes, that was it, and that it had been sad seeing Stephen go and wondering what would happen to him.

"I wouldn't worry about Stephen," said Thomas.

"He's sure to be a riot on the pictures. All the girls in the village are in love with him--they used to hang about on the Godsend road

trying to waylay him. One of these days you're going to find out what you've missed."

I started to get tea; Thomas had brought a haddock.

"Father'll get tea at Scoatney, so we needn't wait," I said.

"The servants must be tired of feeding him," said Thomas.

"What does he do there, day after day? Does he just read for the fun of it, or is he up to something ?"

"Ah, if we only knew that," I said.

"Harry says he ought to be psychoanalyzed."

I turned in astonishment.

"Does Harry know about psychoanalysis?"

"His Father talks about it sometimes--he's a doctor, you know."

"Does he believe in it?"

"No, he's always very sneery. But Harry rather fancies it."

I had to concentrate on cooking the haddock then; but while we were

eating it I brought up the subject of psycho-analysis again, and told Thomas of the conversation Simon and I had about it that first time we talked on the mound-though I couldn't remember it very clearly.

"I wish I'd got Simon to tell me more," I said.

"Would Harry's Father have any helpful books, do you think ?"

Thomas said he would find out, though that now Rose was going to marry Simon, it didn't matter so much whether Father wrote or not.

"Oh, Thomas, it does!" I cried.

"It matters most terribly to Father.

And to us, too- because if all the eccentric things he's been doing, on and off for months now, aren't leading somewhere, well, then he is

going crazy. And a crazy Father's not a good idea, quite apart from

our tender feelings towards him."

"Have you tender feelings towards him his I don't know that I have

--not that I dislike him."

Just then, Father came in. He barely said "Hello" in answer to mine and started up the kitchen stairs to his bedroom.

Half-way up, he stopped and looked down at us; then came back

quickly.

"Can you spare me this?" he asked, picking up the backbone of the haddock between his forefinger and thumb.

I thought he was being sarcastic- that he meant we had left him no

fish. I explained that we hadn't expected him, and offered to cook

some eggs at once.

He said: "Oh, I've had tea," and then carried the haddock-bone, dripping milk, out through the back door and across to the gatehouse.

About followed him hopefully. By the time he got back- a very

disappointed cat- Thomas and I were lurching about, laughing in a way that hurts.

"Oh, poor About!" I gasped, as I gave him some scraps from my plate.

"Stop laughing, Thomas. We shall be ashamed of our callousness if Father really is going off his head."

"He isn't -he's putting it on or something," said Thomas. Then a scared look came into his eyes and he added:

"Try to keep knives away from him. I'm going to talk to Harry's father tomorrow."

But Harry's Father wasn't in the least helpful.

"He says he's not a psycho-analyst or a psychiatrist or a

psycho-anything, thank God," Thomas told me, when he got back in the evening.

"And he couldn't think why we wanted to make Father write again, because he once had a look at Jacob Wrestling and didn't understand a word of it. Harry was quite embarrassed."

"Does Harry understand it, then?"

"Yes, of course he does--it's the first I've heard about its being hard to understand. Anyway, what's double-Dutch to one generation's just

"The cat sat on the mat" to the next."

"Even the ladder chapter ?"

"Oh, that!" Thomas smiled tolerantly.

"That's just Father's fun.

And who says you always have to understand things his You can like them without understanding them--like "em better sometimes. I ought to have known Harry's Father would be no help to us-he's the kind of man who

says he enjoys a good yarn."

I certainly have been underestimating Thomas--only a few weeks ago I

should have expected him to enjoy a good yarn himself.

And now I find he has read quite a lot of difficult modern poetry (some master at his school lent it to him) and taken it in his stride.

I wish he had let me read it--though I know very well I can't like

things without understanding them. I am astonished to discover how

high-brow his tastes are--far more so than mine; and it is most

peculiar how he can be so appreciative of all forms of art, but so

matter-of-fact and unemotional about it. But then, he is like that

over most things he has been so calm and assured this last week that I often felt he was older than I was. Yet he can get the giggles and