Part 66 (1/2)

'Is that where one of the people lives?' he asked, and in his turn pointed. 'Or perhaps more than one? '

'It's empty,' said the girl.

'Should we go and look?'

'If you like,' said the girl. Stephen quite saw that his expressed response to the glorious little spring had been inadequate. He had lost the trick of feeling, years and years ago.

'It's a splendid pool,' he said again, a little self-consciously.

Despite what the girl had said, Stephen had thought that to reach the house above them, they would have to scramble through the high heather. But he realized at once that there was a path, which was one further thing he had not previously noticed.

The girl went before, weaving backwards and forwards up the hillside. Following her, with his thoughts more free to wander, as the exertion made talking difficult, Stephen suddenly apprehended that the need to return for Harriet's teatime had for a season pa.s.sed completely from his mind.

Apprehending it now, he did not even look at his watch. Apart from anything else, the struggle upwards was too intense for even the smallest distraction or secondary effort. The best thing might be for his watch simply to stop.

They were at the summit, with a wider horizon, but still Stephen could see no other structure than the one before him, though this time he gazed around with a certain care. From here, the pool below them seemed to catch the full sun all over its surface. It gleamed among the heathered rocks like a vast luminous sea anemone among weeds.

Stephen could see at once that the house appeared basically habitable. He had expected jagged holes in the walls, broken panes in the windows, less than half a roof, ubiquitous litter.

The door simply stood open, but it was a door, not a mere gap; a door in faded green, like the girl's trousers. Inside, the floorboards were present and there was even a certain amount of simple furniture, though, as an estate agent would at once have pointed out with apologies, no curtains and no carpets.

'Nell. Somebody lives here already,' Stephen said sharply, before they had even gone upstairs.

'Already?' queried the girl.

Stephen made the necessary correction. 'Someone lives here.'

'No,' said the girl. 'No one. Not for centuries.'

Of course that was particularly absurd and childish. Much of this furniture, Stephen thought, was of the kind offered by the furnis.h.i.+ng department of a good Co-op. Stephen had sometimes come upon such articles on visits paid in the course of his work. He had to admit, however, that he had little idea when such houses as this actually were built at these odd spots on the moors. Possibly as long ago as in the seventeenth century? Possibly only sixty or eighty years ago?

Possibly-?

They went upstairs. There were two very low rooms, hardly as much as half lighted from one small and dirty window in each. One room was totally unfurnished. The sole content of the other was a double bed which absorbed much of the cubic capacity available. It was a quite handsome country object, with a carved head and foot. It even offered a seemingly intact mattress, badly in need of a wash.

'Someone must be living here,' said Stephen. 'At least sometimes. Perhaps the owners come here for the weekend. Or perhaps they're just moving in.'

As soon as he spoke, it occurred to him that the evidence was equally consistent with their moving out, but he did not continue.

'Lots of the houses are like this,' said the girl. 'No one lives in them.'

Stephen wondered vaguely whether the clear air or some factor of that kind might preserve things as if they were still in use. It was a familiar enough notion, though, in his case, somewhat unspecific. It would be simpler to disbelieve the girl, who was young and without experience, though perfectly eager, at least when others were eager. They returned downstairs.

'Shall we see some more houses?' asked the girl.

'I don't think I have the time.'

'You said you had a fortnight. I know what a fortnight is.'

'Yes.' He simply could not tell her that he had to report for Harriet's astringent teatime; nor, even now, was that in the forefront of his mind. The truth was that whereas. .h.i.therto he had been trying to paddle in deep waters, he was now floundering in them.

The girl had a suggestion. 'Why not live here for a fortnight?'

'I am committed to staying with my brother. He's not very fit. I should worry about him if I broke my word.' He realized that he was speaking to her in a more adult way than before. It had really begun with her speaking similarly to him.

'Does your worrying about him do him any good? '

'Not much, I'm afraid.'

'Does your worrying about everything do you any good? ' 'None whatever, Nell. None at all.'

He turned aside and looked out of the window; the parlour window might not be too grand a term, for all its need of cleaning.

He addressed her firmly. 'Would you give me a hand with all the things that need to be done? Even for a tenancy of a fortnight?'

'If you like.'

'We should have to do a lot of shopping.'

The girl, standing behind him, remained silent. It was an unusual non-response.

'I should have to cook on a primus stove,' said Stephen. 'I wonder if we can buy one? I used to be quite good with them.' Rapture was beginning.

The girl said nothing.

'We might need new locks on the doors.'

The girl spoke. 'There is only one door.'

'So there is,' said Stephen. 'In towns, houses have two, a front door and a back door. When trouble comes in at one, you can do a bolt through the other.'

'People don't need a lock,' said the girl. 'Why should they?' He turned away from the filthy window and gazed straight at her. 'Suppose I was to fall in love with you? ' he said.

'Then you would not have to go back after a fortnight.'

It could hardly have been a straighter reply.

He put one arm round her shoulders, one hand on her breast, so that the note he had written her lay between them. He remembered that the first letter written to a woman is always a love letter. 'Would you promise to visit me every day?'

'I might be unable to do that.'

'I don't want to seem unkind, but you did say that your father could manage.'

'If he discovers, he will keep me at home and send my sister out instead. He has powers. He's very frightening.'

Stephen relaxed his hold a little. He had been all along well aware how sadly impracticable was the entire idea.

For example: he could hardly even drive up to this place with supplies; even had his car not been in the course of an opportune overhaul in London, a very complete overhaul after all this anxious time. And that was only one thing; one among very many.