Nuns and Soldiers (29 page)

‘No, no, Tim, say what you like, it’s good to talk! I think I’ll close the doors, it’s getting cool and the moths are coming in.’ Gertrude closed the glass doors and the dark shiny mirror of the window suddenly enclosed them. Tim saw the table, the two figures sitting opposite each other, reflected in the glass.

‘It’s nice here,’ said Tim. ‘It’s sad you’re going, we’re getting to know each other a bit, have some more wine.’

‘Thanks. You mustn’t disappear, Tim. You must come to Ebury Street like you used to. You said you were the property of -’ Would Ebury Street go on, Gertrude wondered. She pictured herself entertaining
les cousins et les tantes
as the years went by. What value would they put upon her once the interest of her bereavement was over? Did she have then to be
assessed
by them? She looked at the red tablecloth and the broken bread and the wine.

‘Oh, yes, thanks. Are your parents still alive?’

‘No. My father died when I was in my first job - you know I was a schoolteacher too?’

‘Oh yes, I know
that
!’

‘Dear me. My mother died just before I got married. She met Guy. She got a sudden - thing -’

For a moment Tim thought Gertrude was going to cry again. She made a little gesture with two hands, the moment passed.

Gertrude thought, it was so terribly sad, Guy and my mother just missing each other like that. We could have made her so happy. I didn’t do enough for her after Daddy died. Oh why am I thinking these things now? Everything is coming apart, it’s coming
unsewn.
All my energy, all my youth, went to Guy, as if Guy invented my youth. I went to Guy like Anne went to the convent.

‘Did you have a lot of lovers before Guy?’ Tim asked. He thought, I must be drunk!

‘No. I was never really in love, I was just muddled and unhappy, till I met Guy.’ Then the certainty started. But has it gone now? Did not Guy make me? But am I permanent?

How handsome she is, thought Tim, an Arthurian girl, a heroic girl out of a romantic picture, with her fine face and her brave hair and her pure sincere brown eyes. Her complexion glowed and her eyes were bright with thought. Her mouth pouted a little reflectively, the lips had a gentle look. The gauntness Tim had seen earlier had left her face, as if some force inside her were moulding her, smoothing her in a new way. Her patterned mane shone in the lamplight as if each individual hair had a line and a colour all its own: browns and golds, some reds, some greys. Some locks fell round her neck and brushed the nervous brown hand with which she was adjusting the collar of her dress. The pale milky-coffee colour of the dress showed how much already she had been touched by the sunshine. He thought, she’s so
alive
, so compact and genuine, how her hair glows and her eyes are such a wonderful pure brown, I’ve never seen such beautiful eyes in a woman. She’s recovering. I’m so glad. He meant to say, You are recovering, I’m so glad. He said, ‘You are beautiful, I’m so glad.’

Gertrude smiled, then looked at him intently, then looked away. She began to play, but less absently, with the bread crumbs on the tablecloth.

What is happening to me, thought Tim. A kind of thought, or was it a thought, what was it, had come to fill his whole mind, like a fast approaching comet which suddenly fills up the whole sky. In a moment there would be some kind of crash or cataclysm, the end of the world. The thought, or event, was that he had got to, he had simply
got to
, reach out his hand across the table and take hold of Gertrude’s hand. Some vast cosmic force was compelling him. Its strength, present in him, made him feel that he was about to lose consciousness. He reached out his hand across the table and took hold of Gertrude’s hand.

Breathing very deeply Tim looked down at the red cloth, at the fragments of bread just beyond his plate. Now that he had got hold of Gertrude’s hand the terrible pressure had, for the moment, abated. He had done what he had to do, what the cosmos had to do, he was not even responsible. He had moved like a gentle automaton. He felt almost impersonal, like an engineer who, alone in a great engine room, has, as a matter of routine, pulled some vastly important lever.

Gertrude looked with surprise at her hand which lay like a small captive animal in Tim’s firm grasp. She looked at the brilliant lively red hairs on the back of Tim’s hand, and at a smear of blue paint on the unbuttoned cuff of his shirt. For a moment she could not think what to do. Then she drew her hand back and the two hands separated. Then Tim and Gertrude both sat up straight and stared at each other.

Tim clasped his hands together on his knee. His right hand which had held Gertrude’s felt as if it were on fire. He contained it carefully within his left hand. He looked straight at Gertrude with an amazing calm. He felt as if his eyes had become enormous like great calm lamps. He had done what he had to do and now whatever happened nothing could touch him. His substance was changed, he had become something else. He felt his mouth relax, his whole body relax. His gentle complicit hands relaxed. He almost smiled. He stared at Gertrude.

Then in a remote detached way he began to think, but so slowly, so calmly, poor old Gertrude, she’s
embarrassed.
But it had to happen and in a wonderful way it doesn’t matter. I’m so happy. In a moment or two I’ll have to start apologizing, saying I was drunk or something. But it doesn’t matter.

Gertrude frowned and looked down. Her hand was at her neck again, fiddling with her collar. She looked flushed, almost frightened.

Tim said in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘I’m most awfully sorry. I hope I didn’t startle you. It came over me all of a sudden.’

‘Not at all,’ said Gertrude.

It will go away, thought Tim, it will get lost forever. At least, it won’t go away, because
it
is eternal. But this long long moment will end. And then
I
shall be lost. ‘I apologize,’ he said.

‘Please,’ said Gertrude. ‘I realize it was -’ She shifted her chair slightly.

Tim groaned and put his hands to his eyes.

There was another moment’s silence.

What is it, thought Gertrude, why do I feel in a state of shock? I feel cold and sick, I feel faint. Has there been an earthquake tremor? Something uncanny is happening. How blue his eyes are and how awfully he stares at me. I must do something, but what must I do?

‘I am very stupid,’ said Tim, ‘and you must forgive me, but before you say good night I must just tell you that I think I’ve fallen in love with you. I mean it’s not just drunkenness or anything. I really do apologize.’ I had to say it, he thought. I had to say it like something one might die for saying but which has to be said, like a sort of bearing witness. But I
am
stupid and I
am
drunk and how terrible it is all going to be. The glory has passed already in a sort of atomic flash. It was brief enough. Now there’s nothing left but the pain. I’ve fallen in love. Nothing could be more certain than that. He said, ‘I think I’ll go to bed now, Gertrude.’

‘Don’t go yet. Have some more wine.’ Gertrude poured some wine into his glass. She held the bottle with both hands, even then some wine spilt onto the cloth.

Tim could not resist the sight of the full glass of wine. He drank. He thought, I’ll just sit quietly for another minute or two, then I’ll go. He moved his chair slightly back and looked down at the floor, examining the grain of the wood. He felt humble and wretched and proud and sad and solitary but with a sort of greatness.

Gertrude seemed to be struggling to say something. Twice he heard her intaken breath as for speech. At last she said, ‘Tim - dear Tim -’

‘Oh don’t bother,’ said Tim. ‘I just love you. It doesn’t matter. Please don’t feel you have to discuss it. I’m going in a minute. Why shouldn’t I love you? It’s just a fact. It doesn’t make anything else in the world different. It’s quite harmless. It doesn’t matter.’

Gertrude’s chair scraped again. Tim, thinking she was going away, began to rise. Then he saw that she was coming round the table and he sat down again.

Gertrude took another chair and pulled it up near Tim’s so that they were sitting rather awkwardly side by side.

‘What’s this about?’ asked Tim casually, almost roughly.

Gertrude thought, I’m at the edge, I’m over the edge. I’ve got to come close to him, I’ve got to touch him. It is to do with the present moment and the necessity of it and how it’s all complete, all here, all in
him.
Everything that is necessary is here, there is nothing left outside, and I have to act, I have to move. I must touch him, but how. I feel so giddy, so disjointed, so disconnected, as if my limbs have been taken off and put on the wrong way round. Without looking at Tim, she half turned towards him and with a gesture of abandonment, laid her hand on the table.

Tim seized her hand and began to kiss it. He kissed it humbly, gently, reverently, avidly, hungrily, as if he were eating some holy manna. He said, ‘I love you.’

‘I think I love you too,’ said Gertrude.

Tim held her hand up against his eyes. He had again the sense of some inconceivable annihilating flash of light. Then he laid her hand down again upon the table and moved his chair a little away from her. He breathed open-mouthed, pulling at the neck of his shirt. He said, ‘Dear Gertrude, you don’t mean what I mean. You haven’t understood. It doesn’t matter. All right. You’re drunk, I’m drunk. You’ve been under an awful strain here. Let’s say good night now. And tomorrow we’ll just wave each other good-bye. We’ve been good companions, as you said. I’m very grateful for that. Don’t let my stupid declaration spoil it all. Yes, I do love you, sorry to have to keep saying it. But you don’t have to do anything special, you don’t have to be kind to me.’

‘I’m not being kind to you, you fool,’ said Gertrude. ‘But maybe you’re right and we should go to bed and to sleep and - sober up and -’

But they continued to sit there, entranced, terrified, breathing deeply, spellbound to their chairs. Their faces expressed the most terrible gravity, like people waiting for news of an execution. Yet at the same time it was as if each of them were desperately calculating. Tim poured out some more wine. He shifted his chair so that it was parallel to the table. He stared at Gertrude’s profile.

Gertrude stared at the Munch print of the sacred girls on the bridge. She thought I’ve got to kiss him, it’s the end point of the world, I’ve got to. It was like a duty, she quaked and shook with it. She could feel her cheeks burning, she could feel Tim staring at her. She too turned her chair and moved to face him. Her knee overlapped his knee.

Tim clutched her clumsily, one arm round her waist and one round her shoulder, and pulled her towards him. He saw her close to, her glowing amazed eyes, her wet mouth. Then they both rose to their feet. Then it was simple. Their bodies locked together, their arms locked together, their eyes closed. So they stood for a time. Then Tim moved her a little, drew back a little and kissed her with one slow gentle kiss. Then he let go of her, she stepped back, and they stood for a moment in a strange quiet modesty. Gertrude smoothed down her dress.

‘Tim - I’m going to bed now-I don’t want to see you again tonight - stay here a while. We’ll talk in the morning. Good night.’

Tim bowed to her, an odd bow such as he had never bowed before. Then she was gone. He sat down to finish his wine. He looked at the black shining uncurtained window and saw himself reflected there, a man sitting alone. He tucked in his shirt tails and buttoned up his shirt, and looked at himself. He thought, the old silent rocks have been looking in at us. All the gods and demons of the valley could have crowded round that window and watched us. Perhaps they did. He thought, she was drunk, poor thing, she will
hate
me in the morning. But the morning was still a long way off. He drank more wine. He was dizzy, floating, prolonging a not quite incomprehensible ecstasy. He could hear Gertrude moving about above. Then there was silence. At last he left the table and turned out the lamp and went quickly and quietly up the stairs.

Tim thought that he would now lie awake all night, but he found the quick sleep of one who has laboured hard and well. He fell into a deep dreamless pit of dark joy. Gertrude too thought that she would not sleep, but she did. She slept soon and dreamed of Anne.

 

 

Tim Reede awoke. He was lying on his back. It was daylight and a bird was singing. He thought at first he was at home in his garage loft, where there were nearby trees in a little garden and birds came and sang. A deep thrilling stream of happiness flowed through him as he lay and listened to the bird. He noticed the happiness and that it was unusual, amazing. He wanted to sleep again. Then he thought, I’m in France. Then he thought,
Gertrude.

He sat up and pushed his feet out of the bed. He listened. Silence. In desperate haste he got up and slithered tiptoe into the bathroom. Gertrude’s room had its own separate bathroom so there was no danger of colliding with her. He washed and shaved and cleaned his teeth and glided back to his own room and dressed. The stream of happiness had turned into a stream of pure fear. He must find out, he must
know.
But oh Christ, Gertrude was probably still asleep. He listened again. Silence. He combed his hair. He felt sick to vomiting with anxiety and terror.

He went to the window. Gertrude, dressed in her pale
café-au-lait
dress, was standing in the little meadow among the blue flowers, looking away towards the rocks whose near side was still dark although the sun, shining from behind the crests, had filled the valley with colours.

Tim did not call. He ran, almost falling down the stairs, and out the quickest way through the dining-room archway and across the terrace. Gertrude had turned towards him. He stumbled into the flowery grass, then stood, not close, holding out his hands towards her.

‘Gertrude -’

‘Yes, yes, it’s all right.’