said. ‘She must have a strong constitution. In fact, since then she’s been much more light-hearted. She seems to be amused by something, I don’t know what.’
Caroline had finished her book about novels. Now she announced she was going away on a long holiday. She was going to write a novel.
‘I don’t call that a holiday,’ said Helena, ‘not if you mean to spend it writing a novel.’
‘This is a holiday of obligation,’ Caroline replied.
‘What is the novel to be about?—’
Caroline answered, ‘Characters in a novel.’
Edwin himself had said, ‘Make it a straight old-fashioned story, no modern mystifications. End with the death of the villain and the marriage of the heroine.’
Caroline laughed and said, ‘Yes, it would end that way.
A few weeks later the character called Laurence Manders was snooping around in Caroline Rose’s flat. She was away in Worcestershire writing her novel, and he had gone to the flat to collect some books which she had asked to be sent to her.
He took his time. In fact, the books were the last things he looked for.
He thought, What am I looking for? and flicked the dresses in her wardrobe.
He found the books that Caroline wanted, but before he left he sat down at Caroline’s desk and wrote her a letter.
I have spent 2 hours 28 mins. in your flat [he wrote] . I have found those books for you, and had a look round. Why did you lock the right-hand drawer in the wall cupboard? I had difficulty in getting it open, and then the hair curlers in one box and the scarves in another, and the white gloves were all I found. I can’t lock it again. I have just found myself wondering what I was looking for.
I found an enormous sheaf of your notes for your novel in the cupboard in that carton marked Keep in a Cool Place. Why did you leave them behind? What’s the point of making notes if you don’t use them while you are writing the book?
Do you want me to send the notes to you?
I wonder if you left them on purpose, so that I should read them?
But I remember your once saying you always made a lot of notes for a book, then never referred to them. I feel very niggled.
I will tell you what I think of your notes:
(1) You misrepresent all of us.
(2) Obviously you are the martyr-figure. ‘Martyrdom by misunderstanding.’ But actually you yourself understand nobody, for instance the Baron, my father, myself, we are martyred by your misunderstanding.
(3) I love you. I think you are hopelessly selfish.
(4) I dislike being a character in your novel. How is it all going to end?
Laurence wrote a long letter, re-read it, then folded and sealed it. He put it in his pocket, stacked away Caroline’s notes in their place in the carton in the cupboard.
The autumn afternoon was darkening as he turned into Hampstead Heath. Religion had so changed Caroline. At one time he had thought it would make life easier for her, and indirectly for himself. ‘You have to be involved personally,’ Caroline had said on one occasion, infuriating him by the know-all assumption of the words. At least, he thought, I am honest; I misunderstand Caroline. His letter had failed to express his objections. He took it out of his pocket and tore it up into small pieces, scattering them over the Heath where the wind bore them away. He saw the bits of paper come to rest, some on the scrubby ground, some among the deep marsh weeds, and one piece on a thorn-bush; and he did not then foresee his later wonder, with a curious rejoicing, how the letter had got into the book.
Table of Contents
Start
