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  Each morning, after Nell had returned from her sorties and had set things in the house to rights, she descended naked to the spring and sank beneath its waters. She liked Stephen to linger at the rim watching her, and to him it seemed that she disappeared in the pool altogether, vanished from sight, and clear though the water was, the clearest, Stephen surmised, that he had ever lighted upon. Beyond doubt, therefore, the little pool really was peculiarly deep, as Nell had always said: it would be difficult to distinguish between the natural movements of its ever-gleaming surface, and movements that might emanate from a submerged naiad. It gave Stephen special pleasure that they drank exclusively from the pool in which Nell splashed about, but, partly for that reason, he confined his own lustrations to dabblings from the edge, like a tripper.

  Stephen learned by experience, a new experience, the difference between drinking natural water and drinking safeguarded water, as from a sanitized public convenience. When she emerged from the pool, Nell each day shook her short hair like one glad to be alive, and each day her hair seemed to be dry in no time.

  One morning, she washed her shirt and trousers in the pool, having no replacements as far as Stephen could see. The garments took longer to dry than she did, and Nell remained unclothed for most of the day, even though there were clouds in the sky. Clouds made little difference anyway, nor quite steady rain, nor drifting mountain mist. The last named merely fortified the peace and happiness.

  ‘Where did you get those clothes?’ asked Stephen, even though as a rule he no longer asked anything.

  ‘I found them. They’re nice.’

  He said nothing for a moment.

  ‘Aren’t they nice?’ she inquired anxiously.

  ‘Everything to do with you and in and about and around you is nice in every possible way. You are perfect. Everything concerned with you is perfect.’

  She smiled gratefully and went back, still unclothed, to the house, where she was stewing up everything together in one of the new pots. The pot had already leaked, and it had been she who had mended the leak, with a preparation she had hammered and kneaded while Stephen had merely looked on in delighted receptivity, wanting her as she worked.

  He had a number of books in his bag, reasonably well chosen, because he had supposed that on most evenings at the rectory he would be retiring early; but now he had no wish to read anything. He conjectured that he would care little if the capacity to read somehow faded from him. He even went so far as to think that, given only a quite short time, it might possibly do so.

  At moments, they wandered together about the moor; he, as like as not, with his hand on her breast, on that breast pocket of hers which contained his original and only letter to her, and which she had carefully taken out and given to him when washing the garment, and later carefully replaced. Than these perambulations few excursions could be more uplifting, but Stephen was wary all the same, knowing that if they were to meet anyone, however blameless, the spell might break, and paradise end.

  Deep happiness can but be slighted by third parties, whosoever, without exception, they be. No one is so pure as to constitute an exception.

  And every night the moon shone through the small windows and fell across their bed and their bodies in wide streaks, oddly angled.

  ‘You are like a long, sweet parsnip,’ Stephen said. ‘Succulent but really rather tough.’

  ‘I know nothing at all,’ she replied. ‘I only know you.’

  The mark below her shoulder stood out darkly, but, God be praised, in isolation. What did the rapidly deteriorating state of the walls and appurtenances matter by comparison with that?

  ***

  But in due course, the moon, upon which the seeding and growth of plants and of the affections largely depend, had entered its dangerous third quarter.

  Stephen had decided that the thing he had to do was take Nell back quickly and quietly to London, and return as soon as possible with his reinvigorated car, approaching as near as he could, in order to collect their possessions in the house. The machine would go there, after all, if he drove it with proper vigour; though it might be as well to do it at a carefully chosen hour, in order to evade Harewood, Doreen, and the general life of the village.

  He saw no reason simply to abandon all his purchases and, besides, he felt obscurely certain that it was unlucky to do so, though he had been unable to recall the precise belief. Finally, it would seem likely that some of the varied accessories in the house might be useful in Stephen’s new life with Nell. One still had to be practical at times, just as one had to be firm at times.

  Nell listened to what he had to say, and then said she would do whatever he wanted. The weather was entirely fair for the moment.

  When the purchased food had finally run out, and they were supposedly dependent altogether upon what Nell could bring in off the moor, they departed from the house, though not, truthfully, for that reason. They left everything behind them and walked down at dusk past Burton’s Clough to the village. Stephen knew the time of the last bus which connected with a train to London. It was something he knew wherever he was. In a general way, he had of course always liked the train journey and disliked the bus journey.

  It was hard to imagine what Nell would make of such experiences, and of those inevitably to come. Though she always said she knew nothing, she seemed surprised by nothing either. Always she brought back to Stephen the theories that there were two kinds of knowledge; sometimes of the same things.

  All the others in the bus were old age pensioners. They had been visiting younger people and were now returning. They sat alone, each as far from each as space allowed. In the end, Stephen counted them. There seemed to be eight, though it was hard to be sure in the bad light, and with several pensioners already slumped forward.

  There were at least two kinds of bad light also; the beautiful dim light of the house on the moor, and the depressing light in a nationalized bus. Stephen recalled Ellen Terry’s detestation of all electric light. And of course there were ominous marks on the dirty ceiling of the bus and on such of the side panels as Stephen could see, including that on the far side of Nell, who sat beside him, with her head on his shoulder, more like an ordinary modern girl than ever. Where could she have learned that when one was travelling on a slow, ill-lighted bus with the man one loved, one put one’s head on his shoulder?

  But it was far more that she had somewhere, somehow learned. The slightest physical contact with her induced in Stephen a third dichotomy: the reasonable, rather cautious person his whole life and career surely proved him to be, was displaced by an all but criminal visionary. Everything turned upon such capacity as he might have left to change the nature of time.

  The conductor crept down the dingy passage and sibilated in Stephen’s ear. ‘We’ve got to stop here. Driver must go home. Got a sick kid. There’ll be a reserve bus in twenty minutes. All right?’

  The conductor didn’t bother to explain to the pensioners. They would hardly have understood. For them, the experience itself would be ample. A few minutes later, everyone was outside in the dark, though no one risked a roll call. The lights in the bus had been finally snuffed out, and the crew were making off, aclank with the accoutrements of their tenure, spanners, and irregular metal boxes, and enamelled mugs.

  Even now, Nell seemed unsurprised and unindignant. She, at least, appeared to acknowledge that all things have an end, and to be acting on that intimation. As usual, Stephen persuaded her to don his heavy sweater.

  It was very late indeed, before they were home; though Stephen could hardly use the word now that not only was Elizabeth gone, but also there was somewhere else, luminously better - or, at least, so decisively different - and, of course, a new person too.

  Fortunately, the train had been very late, owing to signal trouble, so that they had caught it and been spared a whole dark night of it at the station, as in a story. Stephen and Nell had sat together in the bulfet, until they had been ejected, and the striplighting quelled. Nell had nev
er faltered. She had not commented even when the train, deprived of what railwaymen call its ‘path’, had fumbled its way to London, shunting backwards nearly as often as running forwards. In the long, almost empty, excursion-type coach had been what Stephen could by now almost complacently regard as the usual smears and blotches.

  ‘Darling, aren’t you cold?’ He had other, earlier sweaters to lend.

  She shook her head quite vigorously.

  After that, it had been easy for Stephen to close his eyes almost all the way. The other passenger had appeared to be a fireman in uniform, though of course without helmet. It was hard to believe that he would suddenly rise and rob them, especially as he was so silently slumbering. Perhaps he was all the time a hospital porter or a special messenger or an archangel.

  On the Benares table which filled the hall of the flat (a wedding present from Harewood and poor Harriet, who, having been engaged in their teens, had married long ahead of Stephen and Elizabeth), was a parcel, weighty but neat.

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Stephen. ‘I never can live with unopened parcels or letters.’

  He snapped the plastic string in a second and tore through the glyptal wrapping. It was a burly tome entitled Lichen, Moss, and Wrack. Usage and Abusage in Peace and War. A Military and Medical Abstract. Scientific works so often have more title than imaginative works.

  Stephen flung the book back on the table. It fell with a heavy clang.

  ‘Meant for my brother. It’s always happening. People don’t seem to know there’s a difference between us.’

  He gazed at her. He wanted to see nothing else.

  She looked unbelievably strange in her faded trousers and

  the sweater Elizabeth had made. Elizabeth would have seen a ghost and fainted. Elizabeth really did tend to faint in the sudden presence of the occult.

  ‘We are not going to take it to him. It’ll have to be posted. I’ll get the Department to do it tomorrow.’

  He paused. She smiled at him, late though it was.

  Late or early? What difference did it make? It was not what mattered.

  ‘I told you that I should have to go to the Department tomorrow. There’s a lot to explain.’

  She nodded. ‘And then we’ll go back? ’ She had been anxious about that ever since they had started. He had not known what to expect.

  ‘Yes. After a few days.’

  Whatever he intended in the first place, he had never made it clear to her where they would be living in the longer run. This was partly because he did not know himself. The flat, without Elizabeth, really was rather horrible. Stephen had not forgotten Elizabeth for a moment. How could he have done? Nor could Stephen wonder that Nell did not wish to live in the flat. The flat was disfigured and puny.

  Nell still smiled with her usual seeming understanding. He had feared that by now she would demur at his reference to a few days, and had therefore proclaimed it purposefully.

  He smiled back at her. ‘I’ll buy you a dress.’

  She seemed a trifle alarmed.

  ‘It’s time you owned one.’

  ‘I don’t own anything.’

  ‘Yes, you do. You own me. Let’s go to bed, shall we?’

  But she spoke. ‘What’s this?’

  As so often happens, Nell had picked up and taken an interest in the thing he would least have wished.

  It was a large, lumpy shopping bag from a craft room in Burnham-on-Sea, where Elizabeth and he had spent an unwise week in their early days. What the Orient was to Harriet, the seaside had been to Elizabeth. Sisters-in-law often show affinities. The shopping bag had continued in regular use ever since, and not only for shopping, until Elizabeth had been no longer mobile.

  ‘It’s a bag made of natural fibres,’ said Stephen. ‘It belonged to my late wife.’

  ‘It smells. It reminds me.’

  ‘Many things here remind me,’ said Stephen. ‘But a new page has been turned.’ He kept forgetting that Nell was unaccustomed to book metaphors.

  She appeared to be holding the bag out to him. Though not altogether knowing why, he took it from her. He then regretted doing so.

  It was not so much the smell of the bag. He was entirely accustomed to that. It was that, in his absence, the bag had become sodden with dark growths, outside and inside. It had changed character completely.

  Certainly the bag had been perfectly strong and serviceable when last he had been in contact with it; though for the moment he could not recollect when that had been. He had made little use of the bag when not under Elizabeth’s direction.

  He let the fetid mass fall on top of the book on the brass table.

  ‘Let’s forget everything,’ he said. ‘We still have a few hours.’

  ‘Where do I go? ’ she asked, smiling prettily.

  ‘Not in there,’ he cried, as she put her hand on one of the doors. He very well knew that he must seem far too excitable. He took a pull on himself. ‘Try this room.’

  When Elizabeth had become ill, the double bed had been moved into the spare room. It had been years since Stephen had slept in that bed, though, once again, he could not in the least recall how many years. The first step towards mastering time is always to make time meaningless.

  It was naturally wonderful to be at long last in a fully equipped deep double bed with Nell. She had shown no expectation of being invited to borrow one of Elizabeth’s expensive nightdresses. Nell was a primitive still, and it was life or death to keep her so. He had never cared much for flowing, gracious bedwear in any case; nor had the wonder that was Elizabeth seemed to him to need such embellishments.

  But he could not pretend, as he lay in Nell’s strong arms and she in his, that the condition of the spare room was in the least reassuring. Before he had quickly turned off the small bedside light, the new marks on the walls had seemed like huge inhuman faces; and the effect was all the more alarming in that these walls had been painted, inevitably long ago, by Elizabeth in person, and had even been her particular domestic display piece. The stained overall she had worn for the task, still hung in the cupboard next door, lest the need arise again.

  It was always the trouble. So long as one was far from the place once called home, one could successfully cast secondary matters from the mind, or at least from the hurting part of it; but from the moment of return, in fact from some little while before that, one simply had to recognize that, for most of one’s life, secondary matters were just about all there were. Stephen bad learned ages ago that secondary matters were always the menace.

  Desperation, therefore, possibly made its contribution to the mutual passion that charged the few hours available to them.

  Within a week, the walls might be darkened all over; and what could the development after that conceivably be?

  Stephen strongly suspected that the mossiness, the malady, would become more conspicuously three-dimensional at any moment. Only as a first move, of course.

  He managed to close his mind against all secondary considerations and to give love its fullest licence yet.

  ***

  Thread was in the office before Stephen, even though Stephen had risen most mortifyingly early, and almost sleepless. It was a commonplace that the higher one ascended in the service, the earlier one had to rise, in order to ascend higher still. The lamas never slept at all.

  ‘Feeling better?’ Thread could ask such questions with unique irony.

  ‘Much better, thank you.’

  ‘You still look a bit peaky.’ Thread was keeping his finger at the place he had reached in the particular file.

  ‘I had a tiresome journey back. I’ve slept very little.’

  ‘It’s always the trouble. Morag and I make sure of a few days to settle in before we return to full schedule.’

  ‘Elizabeth and I used to do that also. It’s a bit different now.’ Thread looked Stephen straight in the eyes, or very nearly. ‘Let me advise, for what my advice is worth. I recommend you to lose yourself in your work for the next two or three year
s at the least. Lose yourself completely. Forget everything else. In my opinion, it’s always the best thing at these times. Probably the only thing.’

  ‘Work doesn’t mean to me what it did.’

  ‘Take yourself in hand, and it soon will again. After all, very real responsibilities do rest in this room. We both understand that quite well. We’ve reached that sort of level, Stephen. What we do nowadays, matters. If you keep that in mind at all times, and I do mean at all times, the thought will see you through. I know what I’m talking about.’

  Thread’s eyes were now looking steadily at his finger, lest it had made some move on its own.

  ‘Yes,’ said Stephen, ‘but you’re talking about yourself, you know.’

  Stephen was very well aware that the sudden death some years before of Arthur Thread’s mother had not deflected Thread for a day from the tasks appointed. Even the funeral had taken place during the weekend; for which Thread had departed on the Friday evening with several major files in his briefcase, as usual. As for Thread’s wife, Morag, she was a senior civil servant too, though of course in a very different department. The pair took very little leave in any case, and hardly any of it together. Their two girls were at an expensive boarding school on the far side of France, almost in Switzerland.

  ‘I speak from my own experience,’ corrected Thread.

  ‘It appears to me,’ said Stephen, ‘that I have reached the male climacteric. It must be what’s happening to me.’

  ‘I advise you to think again,’ said Thread. ‘There’s no such thing. Anyway you’re too young for when it’s supposed to be. It’s not till you’re sixty-three; within two years of retirement.’ Thread could keep his finger in position no longer, lest his arm fall off. ‘If you’ll forgive me, I’m rather in the middle of something. Put yourself absolutely at ease. I’ll be very pleased to have another talk later.’