Part 64 (2/2)

She lifted the basket off the ground. Her hand and forearm were brown.

'Some of the specimens are very small,' he said, smiling. It was essential to keep the conversation going, and it was initially more difficult now that he was alone with her in the valley, and close to her.

'It's been a bad year,' she said. 'Some days I've found almost nothing. Nothing that could be taken home.'

'All the same, the basket must be heavy. Please put it down.' He saw that it was reinforced with stout metal strips, mostly rusty.

'Take a piece for yourself, if you like,' said the girl. She spoke as if they were portions of iced cake, or home-made coconut fudge.

Stephen gazed full at the girl. She had a sensitive face with grey-green eyes and short reddish hair - no, auburn. The demode word came to Stephen on the instant. Both her s.h.i.+rt and her trousers were worn and faded: familiar, Stephen felt. She was wearing serious shoes, but little cared for. She was a part of nature.

'I'll take this piece,' Stephen said. 'It's conglomerate.'

'Is it?' said the girl. Stephen was surprised that after so much ingathering, she did not know a fact so elementary.

'I might take this piece too, and show the stuff on it to my brother.'

'Help yourself,' said the girl. 'But don't take them all.'

Feeling had been building up in Stephen while he had been walking solitarily on the ridge above. For so long he had been isolated, insulated, incarcerated. Elizabeth had been everything to him, and no one could ever be like her, but 'attractive' was not a word that he had used to himself about her, not for a long time; not attractive as this girl was attractive. Elizabeth had been a part of him, perhaps the greater part of him; but not mysterious, not fascinating.

'Well, I don't know,' said Stephen. 'How far do you have to carry that burden?'

'The basket isn't full yet. I must go on searching for a bit.'

'I am sorry to say I can't offer to help. I have to go back.'

All the same, Stephen had reached a decision.

The girl simply nodded. She had not yet picked up the basket again.

'Where do you live?'

'Quite near.'

That seemed to Stephen to be almost impossible, but it was not the main point.

Stephen felt like a schoolboy; though not like himself as a schoolboy. 'If I were to be here after lunch tomorrow, say at half past two, would you show me the spring? The spring you were talking about.'

'Of course,' she said. 'If you like.'

Stephen could not manage the response so obviously needed, gently confident; if possible, even gently witty. For a moment, in fact, he could say nothing. Then - 'Look,' he said. He brought an envelope out of his pocket and in pencil on the back of it he wrote: 'Tomorrow. Here. 2.30 p.m. To visit the spring.'

He said, 'It's too big,' and tore one end off the envelope, aware that the remaining section bore his name, and that the envelope had been addressed to him care of his brother. As a matter of fact, it had contained the final communication from the undertaking firm. He wished they had omitted his equivocal and rather ridiculous OBE.

He held the envelope out. She took it and inserted it, without a word, into a pocket of her s.h.i.+rt, b.u.t.toning down the flap. Stephen's heart beat at the gesture.

He was not exactly sure what to make of the situation or whether the appointment was to be depended upon. But at such moments in life, one is often sure of neither thing, nor of anything much else.

He looked at her. 'What's your name?' he asked, as casually as he could.

'Nell,' she answered.

He had not quite expected that, but then he had not particularly expected anything else either.

'I look forward to our walk, Nell,' he said. He could not help adding, 'I look forward to it very much.'

She nodded and smiled.

He fancied that they had really looked at one another for a moment.

'I must go on searching,' she said.

She picked up the heavy basket, seemingly without particular effort, and walked away from him, up the valley.

Insanely, he wondered about her lunch. Surely she must have some? She seemed so exceptionally healthy and strong.

His own meal was all scarlet runners, but he had lost his appet.i.te in any case, something that had never previously happened since the funeral, as he had noticed with surprise on several occasions.

Luncheon was called lunch, but the evening meal was none the less called supper, perhaps from humility. At supper that evening, Harriet referred forcefully to Stephen's earlier abstemiousness.

'I trust you're not sickening, Stephen. It would be a bad moment. Dr Gopalachari's on holiday. Perhaps I ought to warn you.'

'Dr Who?'

'No, not Dr Who. Dr Gopalachari. He's a West Bengali. We are lucky to have him.'

Stephen's brother, Harewood, coughed forlornly.

For luncheon the next day, Stephen had even less appet.i.te, even though it was mashed turnip, cooked, or at least served, with mixed peppers. Harriet loved all things oriental.

On an almost empty stomach, he hastened up the long but not steep ascent. He had not known he could still walk so fast uphill, but for some reason the knowledge did not make him particularly happy, as doubtless it should have done.

The girl, dressed as on the day before, was seated upon a low rock at the spot from which he had first spoken to her. It was not yet twenty past. He had discerned her seated shape from afar, but she had proved to be sitting with her back to the ascending track and to him. On the whole, he was glad that she had not been watching his exertions, inevitably comical, albeit triumphant.

She did not even look up until he actually stood before her. Of course this time she had no basket.

'Oh, hullo,' she said.

He stood looking at her. 'We're both punctual.'

She nodded. He was panting quite strenuously, and glad to gain a little time.

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