The Watcher in the Garden (20 page)

The unexpected sight of the look-out, so remote, yet in distance so near, affected her oddly. It was as if, suddenly, all thought of Rupert and his birds and even this place were wiped from her mind. She was back again in the garden, and it was enveloping her, holding her, trying to pass into her what it knew, and there was fear everywhere. She did not know that she had shut her eyes, that her hands, pressed to the ground on each side of her, were clutching at tufts of grass as if they were a lifeline to sanity, or that she had begun to breathe quickly and shallowly as one does in shock. The mists in her mind cleared, pushed back by strong, violent thoughts entering in their place, and the thoughts were of filed-through bolts and of fraying wire rope, and she knew exactly why this was so and almost, but not quite, she allowed herself to feel a sudden exultation that somehow, somewhere, she would be revenged. Then she knew that it was Terry and what was going to happen very soon unless she could stop it. Against the invading pulse of violence in her mind she cried out silently, “Mr. Lovett, Mr. Lovett. Take care.” And she let go the tufts of grass, sprang to her feet and, with her eyes fixed on the look-out, began to run upstream, towards the look-out, the garden and her old friend.

At the same time in the kitchen of the Nicholsons' house Terry banged the flat of his hand on the table. “Birds, bloody birds. I can't get birds out of my mind.” And he ran clawing fingers through his pale hair. “I got to think. I got to think. Did I do everything? Can I trust that Joe? What did I forget?” But the room was empty. There was no one to hear him and in any case his words were quite silent. “I only got to wait. Sometime—soon—it can't be that long—it'll happen. It has to happen.” But in spite of himself, in the end he got up, left the kitchen and went out of the house, down the back, towards the garden.

Catherine's mind was no longer full of birds. It was full of Terry; Terry's anxieties, Terry's hopes, Terry's fears, his rage, his lust for revenge. And fighting it all was the thought of Mr. Lovett, who was her friend and who had no help now but hers. She ran on, stumbling over stones, splashing through the water as she crossed the creek over and over again. Sometimes she fell over, for her eyes were on the wall of rock that rose beside her. Somewhere there must be a way up and she must find it. She pushed her way through patches of scrub that scratched her legs until they bled. She clambered over rocks that tried to block her way. She struggled on, forcing herself forward, forcing her failing breath to keep her going. She had no time to notice that the cloud cover, still formless and opaque, had come lower. Above the harsh sound of her own breathing she could hear no bird calls. But even if she had been able to she would have heard nothing, for no bird was singing now. Even the crows were silent. The stillness had thickened until it was almost palpable and all the land waited.

It was when she came across the first possible route up the side of the gorge that she heard it first. At some time long ago in a season of heavy rain part of the slope must have slipped down so that for some distance up its angle was less steep. Tumbled rocks of all sizes formed a kind of scree, rough but manageable, and as far as she was able to see the slope above it was broken up into ledges rather like rough terraces on which grew straggling trees that might offer a handhold. She started up the scree and under her feet the stones slipped and rolled. When she could balance safely she stopped to get her breath. Then she heard it—a very distant, very low rumbling sound. It might have been her imagination, but it somehow filled all the empty spaces of the land and very slowly it grew louder. Whatever it was had started far away and, although it was still so soft, blanketed all other sounds. And it was coming towards her. She stood still, not knowing what she should do, and it came rumbling up the gorge. It seemed to pass her by, and as it passed she thought the stones slipped again under her feet so that she staggered and had to find another foothold. A small breeze seemed to have brushed through the trees on the terraces above, for she saw their leaves tremble for a few seconds and then hang still again. Looking up the gorge where the sound now died away she saw a large piece of rock detach itself from one of the outcrops high up near the crest and fling itself down into the creek below. It rolled over slowly as it fell and what seemed a long time afterwards she heard it crash as it hit the rocky creek bed.

The strange sound died away. Everything was as it had been before, and she went on up the slope as fast as she could.

Terry chose a corner of the garden that was concealed by a clump of trees and climbed through the fence. He heard the sound too, but assumed it was traffic on the highway and thought nothing of it. His mind was full of conflicting thoughts, as his body was full of conflicting emotions, and when he unaccountably fell over as he got through the fence he thought no more of that, either, except that he had been more than usually clumsy. And for that he blamed the sudden gust of wind he had heard in the trees above his head. He was not clear what drew him on. But he knew that he must go, and perhaps he hoped for the fulfilment of his plan, for there was no other reason that he knew of to drag him forward.

The climb was hard and almost too steep for Catherine to negotiate. For what seemed an endless time she concentrated on putting one foot before the other, clinging to whatever handholds offered on the way, and during this time she did not once look up. She knew only that she must hurry. At last she reached a point where she must consider what alternatives were offered. She stopped and looked up and found to her surprise that her way had led her right under the new look-out. Her choice was to make her way up the narrow gully that separated the two look-outs, or to climb almost vertically up the increasingly steep slope she was on. The terrace she had been using had brought her already half-way up the side of the gorge and now only the clifflike rock face that supported the look-out was left to her. She began to climb up the gully. It was so narrow that when she stood in the middle of it she could almost touch both sides at once. She would have liked, somehow, to have climbed one of the sides—anything to get her nearer to the garden and to Mr. Lovett. But there was no way except up the bed of the tiny creek that had, over so many million years, so patiently formed it. When she stopped to get her breath she looked up again. High above her head, spanning the gap between the look-outs, was the bridge. It looked no more than a plank's width and it seemed to her that it was swinging gently. But it might have been herself that swayed, for a kind of blackness kept covering her eyes and she knew that she must rest. Yet there was no blackness in her mind and she saw quite clearly the filed-off bolt, the frayed rope; the slender bridge seemed to her no more than an instrument of death, and she struggled on. Somewhere, she knew, was Terry and soon there would be a meeting. What would happen then she did not know—only that it would be final and conclusive.

She could see the trees of the garden now, overhanging the gorge, and she longed to see Mr. Lovett so that she could call out to him. Yet one part of her, somewhere on the edge of her conscious mind, kept saying that it was justice that was being done, and there was no way out. She knew it was Terry and she began to fight against his invasion of her mind in this way. By concentration she kept him always at bay, and she began to think hard of Mr. Lovett. She knew that the thought of him would support her. As she thought and battled with herself the idea came to her that if Terry could so penetrate her defences she could do the same to his. If her feelings for her old friend could cross to Terry, could invade his mind in the same way, surely the warmth and positive strength of what she felt would melt his own cold hate. With the idea came the strength she had looked for. She opened her eyes to find the blackness gone, and she climbed on.

Terry, too, pushed forward through the garden towards the look-out. His way was not easy, either. Once, for no reason, a large stone came rolling down the path behind him. If it had not rolled over a sharp stick just before it reached him it would have knocked him over, perhaps sent him rolling down the slope to the gully, perhaps snapping his leg, for it was quite big enough for that. A little later a tree fell with a crash. He felt the wind of it behind him and did not need to look round to know that it lay across the path. Now he wanted to be cautious, even to go home again while there was still time, but something propelled him forward and he went on down the path.

They both saw Mr. Lovett at the same time. He was walking down the path from the lower terrace, making for the look-out. For once Conrad was not with him. Conrad was sitting on the edge of the terrace watching his master. He lifted his nose to the sky and in the sudden stillness they heard him howl.

Catherine called out, but as she called the rumble that had died away began again. Again it filled the air and although it seemed so distant and so soft, it drowned her voice and Mr. Lovett did not hear. But he had heard the rumble and both of them saw him stop, his head lifted and slightly tilted to one side. He leaned forward with both hands on his stick, which was poked into the ground in front of him. As they watched he bent his head and seemed to be staring at his hands. He stood so for several minutes, as if reading a message through the stick. Then he straightened up and went on. Into Catherine's mind came Terry's thought—that once Mr. Lovett reached the look-out, or stepped on to the bridge, the smallest push, the slightest tripping of his feet, would send him headlong over the edge. Frenziedly Catherine tried to claw her way up the rocks. Terry hurried on down the path. The rumbling grew louder more quickly this time, and if either of them had looked down the gorge they would have seen all the trees on all the hills waving their branches.

Catherine came to a blank face of rock, where she could climb no more. She was quite near the look-out and now she could see it clearly, but the rock implacably barred her way. She could only cling to the ledge she stood on and wait. Because she had come to a halt and was standing motionless, she felt it as soon as it began—the first small tremors of the ground under her feet. The rumbling grew louder, and the movement of the solid rock more pronounced. Suddenly she remembered Mr. Lovett's words—a fault in the earth that sometimes slips. But Terry, hurrying to the look-out, was intent on only one thing and did not notice that he was stumbling more and more.

She saw him then as he burst from the bank of rhododendrons on the lower path to the look-out. He was in full view of Mr. Lovett, but Mr. Lovett could not see and no footsteps were audible above the sound that now resembled the constant passing of jet planes. An inconsequent thought passed through Catherine's mind that it must be like this when there was a bomb attack. This unwavering roar before the big bangs came. But there were no jets and no bangs. Only the rumble—a great roaring in her ears, and the ground moving under her, and Terry getting nearer to Mr. Lovett.

In the midst of the uproar Catherine clung to the rock and tried to alter Terry's purpose. She well knew what it was, and before he reached Mr. Lovett she had to change his purpose to her own. Compassion and kindness and plain humanity must be made to drive out all those destructive impulses. Something to build on, something to make, to grow, to live again. And she thought of Mr. Lovett—her friend, whose care for her was what she so much needed, and who needed also what she could do for him. Something to build on. Terry, who hated and destroyed and resented everyone's life but his own. Drag him back, drag him into the common stream of living and loving. And she concentrated and clung to the rock, pressing her body against the lichened stone as the little patch of ground under her feet heaved and swayed.

And Terry saw Mr. Lovett, and for the first time in his life saw him as a living creature fighting against blindness and age and Terry's own hate. What had been growing so slowly for so long unobserved until the accident at last burst its way through that protective carapace. Perhaps it was Catherine's mental struggle on the rocks below, perhaps it was a battle within himself, a fighting to reach the light. Perhaps it was both together. Whatever the cause, inside his mind something cracked. Like a seed in the furnace of a bushfire, a hard outer skin split and warmth flowed in and the seed began to grow. He saw Mr. Lovett move forward towards the old look-out, and now he noticed for the first time that the ground beneath his feet was moving. He saw the trees sway above his head. He saw the great clouds of dust rise from the gorge below. And as he watched there came a great crack, and one of the rock walls of the gorge tipped forward and hurled itself downward. The little bridge snapped like a cobweb. And Mr. Lovett, who seemed to have no fear at all, stepped on to the look-out. The tremor stopped as quickly as it had begun, but this time the rumbling remained. Terry had come to a halt and had been standing with his feet apart, arms rigid by his sides. Now, as the rumbling increased he appeared to come to a decision. Catherine knew what it was and for a moment forgot to be afraid. She saw him spring suddenly to life and run forward, and knew that he had not even seen the ground where he had been standing split apart, so that the deep crack that resulted would have engulfed him if he had not moved.

She saw him run forward. “Terry!” she screamed. “Terry!” But he did not hear her for the rumbling had again turned into a roar. The trees in the garden waved madly, the ground moved, dust was everywhere. And Terry plunged down the path, past the loose, swaying ends of the bridge and reached the look-out. Mr. Lovett was standing pressed against the back of the stone seat, his head raised in its accustomed posture. Catherine screamed again and thrust the knuckles of her hand into her mouth. Terry flung his arms round Mr. Lovett's waist, lifted him bodily off the ground and carried him back to the path. The stick, which had flown out of Mr. Lovett's hand as he was swept up, spun into the air, out over the look-out and down into the gorge. Terry staggered backward, saw the new crack just in time and swung Mr. Lovett over it, on to the other side. He had only just put the old man on his feet when the ground moved again, this time with a mad, swaying motion. There came an ear-shattering explosion and, as he watched, and Catherine watched, the whole look-out—the whole monumental slab of rock that it stood on—broke away from the side of the hill and, slowly at first and then with increasing speed, crashed down into the gorge. The rumbling died away. The crash reverberated for a short time and then faded, dust rose out of the bed of the gorge like a yellow cloud, and at last silence fell. But the sound still rang in the ears and for a long time none of them moved at all.