Nuns and Soldiers (30 page)

‘What’s all right, what do you mean?’

‘It’s still there.’

‘Oh my God -’ said Tim. Then he said, ‘But
what’s
still there, what does
that
mean?’

 

 

They spent the morning in conference. ‘Conference’ best expressed the extraordinary intense careful colloquy which, under Gertrude’s chairmanship, took place, during that morning. There was, by Gertrude’s will, no kiss, no embrace, and this abstention contributed not a little to the thrilling calmness of their debate. They sat now, not in the sitting-room, but opposite to each other at the trestle table under the open dining-room archway, just in the shade. There had been no question of breakfast.

They talked with apparent clarity above a silent chaos of astounded fear. Both wanted to comfort, to reassure, to say ‘It’s all right’. At the same time, both were filled with a curious almost shame-faced caution, an anguished sense of timing, a desire not to go too fast, not to go too slow, not to say anything offensive or scandalous or tactless or improper. Vast metaphysical doubts assailed them about whether they had really understood what the other thought or wanted. There were moments when they stumbled and lost each other, terrible checks and silences when they gazed across the table in dismay. They had to work out what had happened, or not really to work it out, not yet to explain or clarify it, but simply to make it bearable by surrounding it with a net of ordinary words. And they
argued
, scarcely knowing what it was they were arguing about.

‘It was a wonderful moment when you came striding through the twilight on that first day.’

‘You think it was prophetic. But you didn’t come here to see me.’

‘And you didn’t want me to come here.’

‘That’s ancient history. We’ve survived the night. Will we survive the day?’

‘We must
think
-’

‘I’d rather you didn’t. This couldn’t have happened at Ebury Street.’

‘Don’t keep saying so.’

‘Suppose I hadn’t taken your hand.’

‘You said you had to.’

‘But suppose I hadn’t?’

‘But you did.’

‘It’s because of here.’

‘Because of here needn’t mean just because of here.’

‘You’ll have a reaction, a revulsion, you’ll suddenly see me as -’

‘No -’

‘You’re suffering from shock, you’ve been under stress. People in stress situations get sick, they get a bit crazy, they could imagine that they fall in love. They have huge emotional illusions and make huge emotional mistakes.’

‘We shall see.’

‘Well, I’m
terrified.
’

Gertrude learned across and touched the back of his hand with a kind of quick routine rap, like touching someone to keep him awake.

‘All right,’ said Tim. His mouth was dry. ‘We shall see. But I feel that some god is playing a game with us.’

‘You keep trying to make what has happened into something else.’

‘But what has happened? You won’t say -’

‘Tim, I don’t know what to say. But I’m sure -’

‘I’m sorry, why should you commit yourself to anything. I just mean it’s so unsafe, so unreal. All this can unhappen. You can unhappen it just by saying we won’t speak of it again, good-bye.’

‘But I’m not saying that!’

‘And I should be grateful, I
am
grateful. But, my dear, we’re dreaming and we’ll wake up. It’s too good to be true.’

‘Oh Tim, stop, we’ve been over this.’

‘How extraordinary, I’ve just remembered.’

‘What?’

‘That day when you swam in the pool - it seems a hundred years ago-I fell asleep in such an odd way and I dreamed and I forget the dream - and what I dreamt was that I was holding you in my arms. That proves it.’

‘Proves what?’

‘That it’s just something to do with here, with this place, this landscape. We’re under a spell. But when we go away it will fade. You’ll see I’m just a dull fellow with ass’s ears. Gertrude, you are deluded, you can’t love me, I’m not educated, I’m not clever, I can’t paint, I’m going bald -’

‘Oh don’t be so destructive. Something has happened to us. Can’t you just be true to it long enough to see what it is?’

‘You’re so brave! I feel that if I lose this whatever it is now I shall die. I existed without it before, but now that it’s here,
if
it’s here -’

‘Tim, I haven’t asked this, perhaps there’s no need but I just want to be sure, have you any ties - any girl - or anything like that - ?’

Tim’s lies usually came to his lips so fast that he scarcely noticed they were lies. Now he hesitated for one second before replying, ‘No. There’s no one like that in my life.’

‘I’m glad.’

Ought I to have told her about Daisy, Tim wondered. Better not, how could I possibly have explained about Daisy, it would have given the wrong impression straight away and somehow spoilt everything. I couldn’t mention Daisy without it seeming important in a way that it’s not. Really, Daisy and I gave each other up years ago, it’s not like a real relation. Besides, all this with Gertrude may be a dream and there’s no need to decide what to say just yet.

He said, ‘Gertrude, I’m an awful liar -’

‘You mean -?’

‘I said I could speak French and I can’t.’

‘I’m glad you told me. I’ll teach you a bit of French -’

‘You won’t. We won’t be here. We won’t be at Ebury Street either. We haven’t anywhere to go, we haven’t anywhere to
be,
we’re just impossible. We can’t be together like real people are. Gertrude, I’m not real, don’t rely on me.’

‘I shall make you real. We must wait and see, meanwhile trust each other. What else can we do?’

‘Oh Jesus Christ - but what do we
do
while we’re waiting?’

 

 

Tim Reede awoke. Joy, contentment possessed his body. He was naked, covered in sweat. All was silent. He breathed deeply and breathing was joy. He thought, I feel so happy, like never before, ever in my life. I feel so pleased and heavy and warm and damp and limp. I really exist and it’s so good.

He opened his eyes. He was lying in his bedroom, in his own narrow bed, and Gertrude was lying with him. She was asleep.

It was the afternoon nearing to evening, he could tell by the light. He eased himself off the bed and stood up and looked down at Gertrude. The quiet sleeping face looked like that of a stranger. A woman in his bed. He felt amazement, tenderness, fear that she would wake. The sleeping face having lost some characteristic expression, some cautious protective dignity, looked anonymous and defenceless and sweet. Gertrude’s thick brown hair was everywhere, netted over her brow and over the pillow, crossing her face moved by her breath, streaked down into the perspiration on her neck. The salient collar bones glowed and shone with moisture. The large breasts were pale. Gertrude of Ebury Street, the goddess of the crystal pool, had changed again into this strange magic brown-haired girl with long heavy sleepy eyelashes and limp open hands, and nestling feet.

Tim crept away as he had done in the morning, for it was the same amazing day. He sponged off the sweat and got dressed. He went quietly downstairs and stood on the terrace and watched the evening sun making the rocks move, making them breathe, very quietly expand and contract like some organism under the sea. He thought, well, something has happened
now
which can’t unhappen. And yet at any moment - He did not want to think frightening thoughts. He felt a blank blinding empty happiness. He also felt extremely hungry. He wanted to dance. He went down onto the flowery lawn and executed a few Morris steps. Then with his hands on his hips he danced down as far as the olive grove. He stood there and gazed at the rocks. When he turned about he saw that Gertrude was standing on the terrace in a flimsy white garment which might have been a nightdress. He began to dance towards her across the flower-shadowed grass.

Gertrude, as if she could hear the same silent music, came down the steps and joined in the dance. Instinctively, hands on hips, they danced with the zigzag snake-like motion of a hay. It was as if other dancers were present to whom, as they passed, they turned their backs until, in the middle of the meadow, solemnly, unsmilingly, they passed each other, reached the extremities of the space and came weaving back. Gertrude’s small bare feet flashed among the blue flowers and it was towards her swift feet that Tim looked each time as he approached her. At last the music ceased, the dance was done, they slowed down and in the centre of the meadow took hands and smiled.

They had had no lunch. Lunch too had proved impossible. But dinner now proposed itself as a feast. They drank white wine upon the terrace and considered what there was to eat. The bread was stale, but there was minced beef in the fridge, and tomatoes and onions. They were both hungry but there was no hurry. They watched the moon begin to glow, huge and yellow in the still-blue sky. There was a faint gulping of frogs in the bottom of the valley. At this time Tim and Gertrude said almost nothing to each other. They touched each other shyly and looked at each other with great eyes. They spoke of the moon and of the strange illumination of the rocks and how close they seemed at this time of day. They held their breaths and sipped the honey-joy which had been allotted to them in the magic circle of that day.

Then at a certain moment of darkness and coolness they went inside and Gertrude began to cook, and then, as they sat down hungrily to eat, the conference, as they both knew, had to begin all over again.

‘You’re a sweet lover, Tim.’

‘So are you. Isn’t it
amazing
, isn’t it just
incredible
that
this
should have happened to
us
?’

‘Yes -’

‘I’ve never experienced anything like it. It’s much more extreme - it’s - it’s mythological -’

Gertrude was silent.

Tim thought, but how
can
she? He felt almost shocked. He wondered, what is she thinking? When will she suddenly feel ashamed?

He said, answering his thought, ‘All right, we’ll wait and see. I won’t be “destructive” like you said. Let’s drink. Let’s just let it go on for as long as it will, like the dance. I loved that dance.’

‘So did I.’

‘Perhaps we shall never dance again, but at least we have danced that dance among those blue flowers. And now the sky is dark and the moon is shining and I love you. Oh I’m so happy, even if I die tomorrow.’

Gertrude had taken off the white dress, perhaps it had been a nightdress after all, she had certainly had nothing on underneath it, as Tim had noticed in the meadow, and she had put on a dress which he had not seen before, a flimsy flowing yellow robe with a brown willow-leaf pattern. She had combed her many-patterned hair and patted it into shape. She looked handsome and remote and grave. In the flush of his sense of possession of her, Tim loved and worshipped that remoteness which reminded him now so incongruously of the dignified lady of Ebury Street.

‘I don’t want you to die tomorrow, Tim. I don’t want to die tomorrow myself.’

‘Well, who cares about tomorrow. Yes, it’s amazing! Wouldn’t they be surprised, the Ebury Street mob, if they knew you’d taken a lover and that the lover was
me
!’

Gertrude frowned.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Tim. It was a wrong tone, a wrong move. He saw now suddenly before him the face of Guy, puzzled, friendly, as it had so often been when turned upon Tim. He had not wanted to think of Guy, but somehow it had not been necessary to exclude him. Today Guy had simply been
absent.
But Guy still existed, representing, even in death, another place, an aspect of that
impossibility
concerning which Tim had cried out earlier. He did not wonder what Gertrude thought about this matter, Gertrude the widow. The weight of her widowhood would all too soon destroy the honey-magic.

‘I haven’t taken a lover,’ said Gertrude.

‘You mean we won’t make love again. OK. I’ll leave tomorrow. OK.’

‘Oh Tim, be serious -’

‘I am being serious. Deadly wretchedly serious. I don’t understand you.’

‘You must see, a love affair is impossible.’

‘Yes, of course, all right, I
see,
that’s what I’m saying. It’s been magic, it’s lasted a day, an eternal crystal-perfect day that I’ll carry with me forever. And I’ll be grateful to you for ever and ever and ever. But - Gertrude, I can’t be less than I’ve been. I mean, things can’t just suddenly be as they were. I wouldn’t want to be here with you like that. I wouldn’t want to be here at all any more. And of course we couldn’t travel together, I mean I’ve only, I suppose ... really understood it ... this very moment. Oh my God, if we must stop, and we
must
, I’ll go away tonight.’

‘Tim, don’t be a fool.’

‘All right, I won’t be tedious or dramatic. I’ll go away tomorrow. And I’ll go with - oh so much gratitude.’

‘Oh stop. When I said a love affair was impossible I meant ... if we are to love each other ... we must get married.’

Time gazed into the solemn brown eyes. Then he did up all the front buttons of his shirt. He pulled down his sleeves and buttoned his cuffs and put both hands on the table and stared at his wrists. He was trying to work something out. ‘But we can’t get married, so we can’t love each other or have an affair.’

‘Of course we can get married, it’s
possible
,’ said Gertrude impatiently. ‘That’s what we’ve got to wait and see about. I mean, we can go on, but only on that assumption, only with that idea, only with that in view. Otherwise it must be, with something as extreme as this, nothing.’

‘You mean you would
consider
marrying me?’

‘Yes! You dolt!’ Gertrude got up and noisily piled some plates, then sat down again.

Tim continued to inspect his wrists. He unbuttoned his cuffs. Then he raised his eyes. ‘Gertrude, will you marry me?’