The Parson (Peter Owen Modern Classic) (10 page)

How dare he inflict his sulks and silence upon her – so childish and stupid? He had no business to be sitting there – he ought to have vanished. If she’d really possessed magic powers, her venomous glance would have disintegrated the handsome young man on the spot. At such close quarters she found his nearness oppressive, he seemed to occupy too much room. Though she didn’t know it, his physical presence threatened the derealizing process on which she depended for her peace of mind. He seemed overpowering physically, rather as if some great snow animal had climbed into the car and were sitting beside her, taking up far too much space. But, though over-assertive, his presence was also lifeless, in its sullen, stupid silence, as though some great
stuffed
animal sat in the driver’s seat.

She glanced at him again, in amusement this time, her good humour quickly restored. Of course he was lifeless. He had to be, since he wasn’t real but a character she had dreamed up, no more important to her than the memory of the pony, Coffee.

Nestling into the comforting warmth and softness of her fur coat, closing her eyes, she settled down to wait for the drive to end, oblivious of Oswald and of her surroundings. She had no further use for the north, its spell had broken, for good and all this time. She simply waited to be somewhere else.

She took no notice of the storm when it broke at last, just as they turned inland, the booming clouds releasing torrents of pale snow or sleet, in which were entangled odd electrical flickerings, which might have been lightning, or the aurora borealis, or Jove’s thunderbolts – she didn’t care which they were, she was indifferent, and scarcely looked.

*

It wouldn’t have interested her to know how persistently the man beside her was being tormented all the time by all sorts of painful emotions, of which she was the centre. His mental state was still far from normal, although to a point he had regained control. The satisfaction of his desire had brought him no peace, his senses were in a ferment, his thoughts churning distractedly in his head.

Of his behaviour at Bannenberg he refused to think. The memory of what he’d done there was insupportable and had left an aftermath of disgust and shame he tried to transfer to Rejane, blaming her for all he had suffered and was suffering now. The whole time he had loved her it had been torture, and now that his love had turned to hate, the torture was ten times worse. That she should be unapproachable, like a princess, he’d been able to bear as long as she represented his dream and been glorified by its nameless brightness, because, paradoxically, it identified her with him.

Now all this was changed: her perfection had gone, and so had his worship. He still hadn’t got over the shock of seeing the undisguised witch-look on her face, showing him that he’d been deluding himself, and that she cared nothing for him, had nothing to do with his dream. Now he saw her without that mysterious brightness, and he couldn’t bear what he saw; though, really, when he thought he was seeing her objectively, it was through the dark veil of all his other suppressed grievances. He had thrown himself upon her with such brutal violence because he’d felt wronged in the regiment, because his comrades had turned the cold shoulder upon him, because he’d been persecuted by their wives.

When the storm broke and the road veered away from the dangerous cliffs, he knew, by the pang of disappointment that went through him, that he must really have been hoping for a catastrophe, and that the car would become their coffin. He now really wanted to cut himself altogether from the unjust world and the love by which he had been betrayed. His silence – which had lasted so long that it seemed impossible to break – was a manifestation of this death-wish, which, however, he did not recognize for what it was.

In connection with himself, the whole concept of death seemed unreal; in his healthy extrovert existence, always fully occupied, he’d never thought about it. Even his father’s death long ago had made no impression on him. His temperament, background and education prevented him from viewing his own death as an aim he might achieve by his own action. Hence his disappointment because the sea and the storm failed to achieve it for him.

All the same, without knowing what he was doing, he continued to proceed towards his objective by devious methods, indirectly, by concentrating on all that was most painful to him and made his life seem not worth while.

He kept telling himself that, to Rejane, he could have been only a casual pick-up, a convenience, of whom she had made use because nobody else happened to be on hand. Their relationship could have meant no more to her than any trivial holiday episode. But what an atrocious thing it was to play on a man’s deepest feelings as she had! First she’d made him ashamed of his restraint; then of his brutal outburst of passion; and finally she’d deprived him of his revenge by throwing herself into his arms – what depravity, to give the situation that fiendish twist! And he, instead of retaliating in the only possible way, by rejecting her utterly, had weakly submitted, allowed her to make use of him to gratify her lust. Gould anything be more contemptible than the part he had played?

As wave after wave of humiliation swept over him, he tried to distract himself from his own shame by the violence of his raging against her. What a devil of a woman she was, turning him into something he never had been, a sadistic rav-isher, just in order to give herself a perverted thrill! How she must have been laughing at him all the time, pretending she was a sweet young girl, when really she was this ... corrupt horror ... this abomination ...

Here his normal sense of fairness rebelled, reminding him that he himself was not blameless by any means. At once, as the memory began to force itself on him, his whole being recoiled in horror from what he had done. The memory of that sadistic act, totally opposed to all his deepest beliefs, was unendurable, simply – he slammed the doors of his mind, he couldn’t bear to think of it or to know about it.

If only he’d never set eyes on Rejane! Even while he was thinking this, he gave her a furtive glance, and what he saw struck him a fresh blow.

Her whole natural, artless pose, and particularly the way her head, thrown back and resting against the seat, jolted with the jolts of the car, seemed to express youthful pathos and innocence, like a tired child fallen asleep on a journey. All the abuse he’d been piling upon her was now heaped on his own head in self-reproach, as he realized that, whatever happened, some part of him would always see her as the adorable young girl he had loved with so pure and fervent a love.

But this picture was the very opposite of the new one he’d set up in his mind, where the two contradictory images seemed to exist side by side, the gentler more idealized version persisting, no matter how viciously he tried to destroy it. She really might have bewitched him, for nothing could stop the frantic racing of his crazy, discordant thoughts for a single second.

It was the time of the long-drawn-out twilight, not quite dark enough for the headlights, though a slow dissolution was setting in, the familiar everyday world dissolving out of existence. Peering out as he drove, Oswald felt a confused longing for peace – for the quiet gravity and stillness of the hour, so characteristically northern, to extend its influence to his brain. But everything seemed different today, the peaceful charm of the dusk infiltrated by something malevolent, evil. Though objects still retained their usual forms, they gave the impression of being about to change into more sinister shapes, in a world gone grey and uncanny, as if disembodied. Suddenly he had the crazy notion that the malevolence he seemed to feel in the air came from the woman beside him, who seemed to be everywhere, outside as well as within him. The stony road, those trees, that rock, the steering-wheel, his own hands upon it, all were poisoned, permeated by her, because they were perceived by his senses, where she had established herself, to reside for ever.

To his obsessed imagination, it seemed that a part of her had, in some diabolical way, entered into him while she lay in his arms – a sucker, or a tentacle, through which she could always feed, vampire-like, on his living essence. How unspeakable! What a horror!

Appalled, clenching both hands on the wheel, he felt his whole body stiffen with the horror that tightened each nerve. At this moment a tree loomed up ahead, and, instead of following the curve of the road, he drove straight at it, though still without recognizing the suicidal impulse. His unclear thought was that his horror was so great that it must extend to the car, which, in consequence, would insist on leaving the road, crashing into the tree and smashing itself to pieces. At that speed, the violent wrench with which he, at the last moment, kept the car on the road, almost capsized it. After lurching dangerously, it righted itself, shaving narrowly past the three, while the tips of the dangling branches scraped the roof like sharp fingernails.

This peculiar thin, scratching sound seemed to recall Oswald to himself. Even now he didn’t see his real object, merely telling himself he must be mad to take such risks for no reason. Slowing down for a moment, he pressed his hand to his head, trying to clear his thoughts, and, while he did so, his unguarded face looked boyish again, lost, bewildered and touching.

Then, resuming his stem military mask, he switched on the headlights and settled down resolutely to finish the drive speedily and safely, keeping his eyes away from Rejane with a deliberate effort, thankful she didn’t ask what had happened.

Though the lurch and the queer scraping noise of the twigs had brought her out of her dreams she’d merely blinked sleepily at the light jumping from tree to tree, then closed her eyes again, feeling that, now that darkness had fallen, this endless drive was like an illness she might as well sleep through, since she had to endure it. When next she looked out, the white double drive of The Hope Deferred was opening ahead like welcoming outspread arms, and she exclaimed in delight, ‘Why, we’re here!’ The memory of Oswald’s uncivilized conduct was now recalled to her – she’d forgotten all about it, insignificant detail that it was – by the absence of any response.

Actually, at her spontaneous exclamation, the man felt an overwhelming wave of love. The old charm still worked, he could hardly resist, even now. He was worn out, so exhausted in body and mind that he longed only to give way to her, not to struggle any more. What bliss it would be just to put his head in her lap and feel her hand on his hair! With a sensation of being pulled apart, he reminded himself of what she really was, told himself that the spell was an evil one, the naturalness a fake.

‘If anyone asks, I shall say you slipped on the rocks and that I fell trying to help you’ was all he said, in a voice that sounded to him unnatural, stiff with disuse.

‘Say whatever you like,’ she replied indifferently, running up the steps without looking round at him.

He knew he ought to drive off at once. Yet somehow he found himself following her into the hall, as if pulled after her against his will. He saw the manager come hurrying forward, glancing with instantly suppressed astonishment at her sea-stained clothes, saying, ‘We were getting anxious ...’ The man’s curiosity was odious to him. But she went on her way unperturbed, seeming not to notice, simply waving an airy hand towards him, indicating that he would explain their late arrival.

‘And please have them send me up something to eat – I shan’t come down again.’ She spoke with finality, dismissing them both as of equal status, with a civil, impersonal ‘Goodnight’, just before she vanished, like an employer bestowing a tip.

As he watched her disappear, for a second the young officer really felt as if he would die unless he ran after her, threw himself at her feet and implored her to spend this last evening with him. The insult of her voice and manner passed over his head, unnoticed.

Then, collecting himself, he approached the manager, spoke a few words of explanation, and, without waiting to see how they were received, marched out to the car again and set off for home. Deadly tiredness had overwhelmed him like the sudden onset of influenza. He hardly knew what he was doing, only conscious within himself of the emptiness, the shame and the disappointment – the detritus of his own utter failure, both as a lover and as a man.

At this hour the road he knew so well was deserted, and he fell, as he drove, into frequent blank spots, like sleeps, when nothing registered with him; emerging from one of these to find himself crossing the humpback bridge and in sight of his destination. Longing for the sanctuary of his own room, the privacy and relief of sleep that would not be disturbed, he drove up the last steep incline to his home.

6

T
HE
family had never owned a car. Since cars came into general use, there had never been enough money to buy one. So there was no proper garage. Oswald used the old coach-house, facing the back door across a wide, cobbled courtyard. He installed the car here, went out and shut the heavy door, meaning to lock up and then go indoors. But, in a trance, almost, of weariness, after turning the big heavy old-fashioned key in the lock, he stood with it in his hand, leaning against the door in the dark.

He was as he remembered being only once or twice before in his life, after some exceptionally exhausting exercise, too tired to move or even to think. His present tiredness had the useful effect of blocking memory as well, so that he need know nothing about what had happened at Bannenberg.

The effort of driving had kept him awake, more or less. But now that he was standing still doing nothing but lean against the door, his eyes started to close. Oblivion seemed to catch hold of him and to draw him out of his body with soft, clinging, irresistible hands. Dreaming already, asleep on his feet, he seemed to see the high, yellow-wheeled dogcart his father had driven, which was one of his earliest memories. ‘There’ll soon be some skating,’ he told himself, trying to think back to his boyhood and to lose himself in his dream.