The HOPEFUL TRAVELLER Page 11

  ‘It’s going to be glorious weather,’ he said. The sunlight fell across the sill and cast a chequerboard of light on the worn wooden floor.

  ‘I don’t mind what it’s like,’ Robin said. ‘It’s lovely to get away.’

  She sat on the edge of the bed and tried to relax. The room seemed oppressive to her with its low ceiling and sloping yellow walls. There was a musty smell from the wash basin, suggesting dust or grit which had not been washed away rather than anything insanitary. She wondered whether this was the first time the room had been let this year; in which case, the beds would not be properly aired. Clyde was saying:

  ‘Oh, the smell!’ Obviously he was not concerned with the wash basin; he inhaled and his body expanded like a balloon in a carnival. ‘Darling, do you think we should move out of Cheltenham? Not immediately, of course, but it would be something to aim at, wouldn’t it?’

  He was desperately keen to put down roots but Robin, thinking of aeons of country silence, said, ‘Your father wouldn’t take it very kindly after all the trouble he went to to get us the house.’

  ‘He wouldn’t mind. Property’s a good investment.’ Clyde touched the wooden sill which was blistered by the sun. ‘Wouldn’t you love to have a place like this eventually?’

  The word eventually was a nail in a coffin. Robin shuddered, ‘I’d be afraid of wood rot.’

  Clyde laughed. Her inability to respond to his enthusiasms caused him physical pain which he relieved with little yelps of laughter.

  Robin said, ‘I must wash.’ She escaped to the bathroom only to discover that there was a dark stain on the bath where the enamel had been eroded. There was nothing for it but to strip and wash in the bedroom.

  ‘You wander round the garden and commune with nature,’ she said to Clyde.

  Her body was thin and sharp-boned and she hated to expose it to his gaze. He was very hurt by this and now he began to fuss with his ties, smoothing them out carefully before hanging them one by one in the wardrobe; when this was done he stood slapping his pockets and looking as though he had lost something. Robin sat down by the window and gazed at the lawn with what she hoped was a serene expression. If she betrayed irritation he would find further excuses to remain in the room: she had already discovered that he could not be driven.

  When at last he went she washed and dressed slowly. These unspoken battles upset her stomach and made her nerves taut. She wished that they had stayed at home for Easter, the hotel was beginning to depress her. It was so very old. When she went in search of Clyde the stairs creaked alarmingly, while above the wooden beams were gnarled and blackened. She hoped the fire extinguishers worked.

  In the enormous hearth in the lounge a wood fire was burning to ash; the windows were closed and the room smelt of resin and warm tweed suits. The other occupants looked pretty bovine, Robin thought. As usual, Clyde could not sit still and was forever getting up to fetch an ash tray, to look at copies of Country Life, to study an old map on the wall, to bring a mat for her drink. On one of these excursions he got into conversation with an emaciated man with a monocle. He had the man in tow when he returned.

  ‘Darling, this is Major Willing.’ The major smiled, hitching up one side of his face to keep the monocle in place; the effect was as though rigor mortis had set in. ‘We met at the golf tournament at Spring Bridge the other year. He’s going to give me a round tomorrow.’

  Robin was delighted since this would give her freedom to wander as she pleased. She made herself agreeable to Major Willing although she found him paralysingly dull and was relieved when he was taken away by a little brown beaver of a woman who plainly had no intention of being sociable.

  People were moving into the dining room, but Robin insisted on finishing her sherry in her own time. Clyde could not bear to be late for anything and he kept twisting his head to peer through the archway which led to the dining room. Once his dinner was served he would be in a hurry to finish and get into the bar. He always seemed to think that something very exciting was going on round the next bend of time. Robin, never an optimist, liked to linger over the present. By the time they took their seats in the dining room most of the tables were occupied, save for a small one pushed against a wooden pier. Robin studied the menu; there was not much choice, except for the first course which offered soup or fruit juice. Robin ordered fruit juice and put down the menu. The table by the wooden pier was occupied now. Jan Kopec shook out his napkin and bowed to her.

  ‘Roast lamb,’ Clyde was saying. ‘Just the season for lamb!’

  She had told Jan that they were coming to the Cotswolds for Easter, she might even have mentioned Burford; but it had never occurred to her that he would do anything about it. She felt like a leaf in a high wind. A waitress had appeared and Clyde’s lips were moving but she had no idea what he was saying. She was sure that her inability to co-ordinate must be obvious to everyone in the room, if she had levitated and floated above them she could not have felt more conspicuous. In fact, she gave the impression of immaculate composure, a slender, red-haired woman, elegant in a primrose silk dress, her face becomingly flushed in the soft light from the table lamp. Clyde put her silence down to the fact that she did not want roast lamb.

  ‘We could ask for something else,’ he said.

  ‘No. I think that would be fine.’ She had no appetite; her stomach was irrevocably unsettled now.

  ‘Perhaps you’ve got a chill,’ Clyde suggested a little later. ‘You look slightly feverish. How about a brandy?’

  She pushed the meat to one side of her plate. ‘With roast lamb? Darling, don’t be silly!’

  ‘But you’re not eating.’

  It occurred to Robin that Jan would notice this and she forced down the meat more for his benefit than for Clyde’s sake. When they had finished the meal Clyde suggested that she should have a brandy in the lounge, but Robin insisted on returning to the bedroom.

  ‘You have a drink. I’ll join you later. And don’t tell people I’m not well. I can’t abide ailing women.’ And neither, she was sure, could Jan.

  She sat on a chair by the window and lit a cigarette. If there was one thing she could not stand it was being precipitated into situations. She enjoyed the thought of intrigue more than the actuality. She was appalled at her indiscretion; those letters to Jan, harmless though their content had been, now seemed an unforgivable folly, her mild London flirtation was transformed into flagrant infidelity. She thought of Clyde and his goodness to her. He had married her when she was pregnant by another man, he had accepted the child as his own. But it was not these things which she remembered so much as his kindness in little things. When she could not sleep at night he would go downstairs to make tea for her. She would hear him coming slowly up the stairs, trying not to spill the tea. Sometimes she would hear him go into the bathroom and on those occasions she knew that the tea had been spilt and that he was wiping the saucer clean. He was a naturally clumsy person and this irritated her; and yet, at this moment, it was his very clumsiness that most endeared him to her, When he came to the room half an hour later, she was as near to loving him as she had ever been.

  ‘Are you better?’ he asked, his forehead creased with anxiety.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  She was so glad to see him that he was immediately convinced.

  ‘Then do come down. I’ve been talking to a most interesting chap. A Jugoslav. You must meet him, he’s had the most incredible experiences.’

  ‘Incredible, I don’t doubt!’

  ‘Don’t be sharp with him, darling,’ he reproved gently. ‘These chaps have to boast about their exploits, it’s all they’ve got left.’

  ‘You’re much too kind,’ she said, and meant it with all her heart.

  ‘Do come,’ he said uneasily. ‘He’ll think you don’t want to meet him.’

  ‘Let’s go for a walk, Clyde. It’s a lovely night.’

  ‘He’s bought me a drink. I must return the honours.’ This ritual was sacred. She said despair
ingly: ‘Then buy him a drink at lunchtime.’

  ‘It’s not the same thing. Besides, I said I’d be back in a few minutes.’

  He was writhing with embarrassment at the thought of the Jugoslav waiting in the bar. Perhaps by now he would have ordered another drink for himself. Robin knew that she could not reach him unless she made a scene. She said wearily:

  ‘Don’t make a night of it, will you?’

  On the way down the stairs, he said, ‘You will make an effort, won’t you, darling? These chaps are incredibly thin-skinned.’

  Jan was waiting for them in the bar, a tall, angular figure staring sternly at some vision denied the other occupants of the room. Robin thought he made everyone else seem insignificant. Clyde introduced them and Jan bowed over her hand, but did not kiss her fingers. Clyde ordered sherry for Robin and whisky for Jan. While his back was turned, Jan said:

  ‘You are not angry?’

  Robin said, ‘Very.’

  Her hand had trembled when he held it and she was annoyed at giving herself away. Clyde handed her the glass of sherry and Jan lit a cigarette for her. This done, the two men began to talk about the war. It was Clyde’s turn to tell of his exploits and Robin noticed that Jan treated him with more consideration than he accorded to women. Clyde related incidents in the desert which he had never recounted to Robin. She was surprised, and rather piqued, to realize how much he had enjoyed this period of his life. ‘Everything since has been an anti-climax,’ he said and Jan nodded, understanding perfectly. As the men went on talking, Robin began to feel more secure and correspondingly more venturesome. It would have amused her to parry thrust for thrust with Jan, to stimulate, to provoke; but he had no interest in her. It was very irritating. At the other end of the small bar two farmers were talking about fertilizers. The wife of one of them, a merry, dark creature, caught Robin’s eye and made a wry face. Robin eased off the stool and went across to the woman. They commiserated with each other.

  ‘We came from Cheltenham for country peace,’ Robin laughed. ‘And what do I get? A shell by shell account of the Eighth Army campaign!’

  Out of the comer of her eyes she could see Jan and Clyde looking at her reproachfully, the rhythm of their exchanges broken. They had not wanted her to take part in their reminiscences, but her presence had been necessary and now they felt chilled as though a fire had been switched off. Robin drew up a chair and engaged in vivacious chatter with the farmer’s wife.

  ‘I told him when I married him that I didn’t know a cow from a bull!’

  More people came in and formed a solid human barrier between the two women and the two warriors. Robin did not see them again until the end of the evening.

  ‘She was such an amusing person,’ she said to Clyde as they went up to their room. ‘A dancing teacher. She was quite hilarious about her introduction to farming life.’

  ‘I think it was a little rude of you to go off like that,’ Clyde said sulkily.

  Robin felt relieved. The danger point had been passed and now she believed herself immunized against further peril. She was confident that she could handle the situation.

  In the morning Clyde made a half-hearted offer to cancel his golf appointment, but Robin gave him leave to go with a good grace. She wanted to get away on her own. She was not a natural solitary, having insufficient resources of her own; but she found the company of others exhausting and needed constant respites to prepare herself for the next encounter. She had never trusted people sufficiently to relax in company and so she affected a hard glitter which deflected emotion from her. ‘You talk too much,’ she had been told by more than one puzzled escort. On occasions, she substituted laughter for talk. Silence was dangerous. It was a dark sea across which you sent skimming pebbles of conversation, they made a ripple on the surface and vanished, you sent another pebble skimming and the same thing happened. Silence was an enemy which must be constantly attacked; the longer it remained undisturbed the more difficult it was to set the pebbles skimming again. There was the risk that the other person would say something profound or, at least, ask a searching question. Worst of all, they might make a personal comment. Robin sometimes felt she would have preferred rape to personal comment. As a child she had dreaded the occasions when after some minor misdemeanour her mother would say in her coldest, most authoritative, voice, ‘I want to have a word with you.’ There would follow agonizing moments when all the protective layers were stripped aside revealing Robin’s puny soul in all its miserable inadequacy. At such times the mother’s dislike of her daughter was naked and unashamed, making nonsense of the gospel of love to which Robin was subjected at Sunday school and later at confirmation classes.

  As she walked along the high street, she was glad to have escaped from Clyde, glad to be free to let her mind wander without fear that it would be brought to heel by the sudden question, the unexpected demand, the rhapsodical ejaculation. And yet, contrary creature that she was, as she walked she was far from satisfied with her own company. It was a typical May day, a day of fleeting shadow and clear sunlight, a day full of greenness and hope which aroused an old ache in her bones.

  As she turned into Sheep Street she saw Jan in the distance, walking in her direction. She knew that unless she dismissed him at once, some kind of relationship must be established between them. She didn’t have the stamina for relationships of whatever kind. But as they walked leisurely towards each other, she knew that she didn’t have the stamina to send him away. If you don’t have stamina, it’s best not to struggle too hard, she told herself. The air was fresh, the wind flicked her skin and made it tingle. As Jan drew nearer to her, she greeted him:

  ‘Just returning from a walk?’

  ‘I have been to Mass.’

  It was Good Friday, she recalled. ‘I hope you said a prayer for absent sinners?’ She made as though to walk on. ‘I will walk with you,’ he said. ‘But you’ve been this way before.’

  ‘Alone. That was different.’

  ‘And what will my husband think?’

  ‘That you are making amends for being so rude last night.’

  A man was cutting one of the grass verges, swathes of sweet¬smelling grass fell across the path.

  ‘It was very wrong of you to come here,’ Robin said, treading carefully to avoid slipping on the grass cuttings.

  ‘I had to see you.’ He was not one to waste time parrying delicate thrust for thrust. ‘I have been thinking about you a lot.’

  ‘You mustn’t do that,’ she said, not forcibly.

  The town was soon behind them. On either side the land swelled gently to distant hills.

  ‘I always feel this is the heart of England,’ Robin had read this somewhere and remembered it.

  Jan looked at the dark, rich earth and finding nothing there to disparage, said, ‘It is a pity the villages are so drab. The one colour is very monotonous. It makes me feel that I have jaundice.’

  ‘Don’t say that to anyone around here!’

  ‘I don’t know anyone but you.’

  The conversation had come full circle sooner than she had intended.

  ‘Dear me!’ she rebuked lightly. ‘The man has a one track mind.’

  He responded by saying, ‘We will go down this lane.’

  She hesitated, concerned about her shoes, but he urged her forward. The hedges moved together and soon trees met over their heads; they came out by a farmyard and beyond they could see the Windrush weaving fantastically through the fields as though its course must indeed have been dictated by the caprice of the wind.

  ‘It must be the most winding river in England!’ Robin said with her bright laugh.

  Ahead of them the lane twisted and climbed, then descended; it was all very, gentle and peaceful. They passed a boy on a bicycle. No one else. Robin said:

  ‘I expect this is very different to the country in Jugoslavia?’

  ‘It is flatter.’

  ‘But we think it is quite hilly.’

  The wind blew her hair acr
oss her eyes, she pushed it back, but a few teasing strands still tickled her forehead; Jan put up his hand and smoothed them back, he held her face cupped in his hands gazing at her with sombre eyes.

  ‘Someone will see,’ she protested, embarrassed by his intensity.

  ‘Then I will pretend I am getting something out of your eye. Tilt up your chin. So! How beautiful!’ He ran his finger lightly down the line of her throat. She shivered and moved away.

  ‘You really are very obstreperous to take for a walk.’ She spoke as though he were a big, shambling sheepdog, but she could still feel his finger on her throat, a pressure in the hollow above her breastbone.

  ‘We call these hills the Cotswolds,’ she said.

  ‘So? And that means?’

  ‘Well, wold is a hill . . .’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘And Cots . . . I don’t know about that . . .’

  He ran his finger down her backbone and she shivered. They passed a glade of trees and came into the open again. The river wound beneath them, rippling where the wind cuffed it. Jan took the tips of Robin’s fingers in his.

  ‘Cots, I suppose, might be a wood,’ she said. ‘Are your hills in Jugoslavia densely wooded?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he replied solemnly. ‘They are very densely wooded.’

  Later they came to a wood. There was a gate swinging from its hinges; he held it back for her. She hesitated, thinking of the brambles tearing at her stockings. He led her forward.

  They sat down, well into the wood, and leant against the trunk of an ash. Robin looked at her watch and said, ‘This is as far as we can go.’ After a while, he put his arm round her waist. She looked up at him. The contrasts of light and shadow were strong on his gaunt face and the same contrasts seemed to be within him; he was like water troubled by the wind, never in the same mood for long, not entirely to be trusted. He said:

  ‘Why do they call you Robin? It is a man’s name.’

  ‘My parents wanted another boy. They couldn’t summon up sufficient interest to think of a girl’s name.’