«Oh you are ridiculous,» she said. «All right, all right. Schoolboy. Running away. Off you go then. Thank you for kissing me.»
«It's not that. It's just so perfect. I'm afraid of spoiling something or something.»
«Yes, off you go. I've done enough-damage or whatever.»
«No damage. Oh silly Rachel! It's beautiful. We are closer, aren't we?»
We got up and stood holding hands. I suddenly felt extremely happy and laughed.
«Am I absurd?»
«No Rachel. You've given me a piece of happiness.»
«Well, hold onto it then. It's mine too.»
I pushed the sturdy wiry gingery hair back from the pale freckled puzzled tender face, straining it back with both hands, and I kissed her on the brow. We went out into the hall. We were awkward, moved, pleased, anxious now to carry off a good parting without spoiling the mood. Anxious to be alone to think.
A copy of Arnold's latest novel, The Woeful Forest, was lying on the table near the front door. I saw it with a shock, and my hand shot to my pocket. My review of the novel was still there, folded up. I took it out and handed it to Rachel. I said, «Do something for me. Read that and tell me whether or not I should publish it. I'll do whatever you tell me.»
«What is it?»
«My review of Arnold's book.»
«But of course you must publish it.»
«Read it. Not now. I'll do whatever you say.»
«All right. I'll see you to the gate.»
Coming out into the garden everything was different. It had become evening. There was a lurid indistinct light which made things blurry and hard to locate. Near things were illuminated by a rich hazed sunlight, while the sky farther off was dark with cloud and the promise of night, although in fact it was not yet very late. I felt upset, confused, elated, and very much wanting now to be by myself.
The garden in front of the house was rather long, a lawn planted with small bushes, shrubby roses and the like, with a «crazy paving» path down the centre. The path glimmered white, with dark patches where tufty rock plants were growing between the stones. Rachel touched my hand. I squeezed her fingers but did not hold on. She went first down the path. About half-way to the gate a sense of something behind me made me turn round.
A figure was sitting in an upstairs window, sitting up half reclined upon a window seat, or even it seemed upon the window sill itself. Without seeing the face except as a blur I recognized Julian, and felt an immediate pang of guilt at having kissed the mother when the child was actually in the house. However what more strongly attracted my attention was something else. The window, which was of the hinged casement variety, had been pushed wide open to leave a rectangular space within which the girl, dressed in some kind of white robe, perhaps a dressing-gown, half lay, her knees up, her back against the wooden frame. Her left hand was extended. And I saw that she was flying a kite.
Rachel had turned round now, and we both stood in silence looking up. The figure above was so odd and separate, like an image upon a tomb, it did not occur to me that I could speak to it. Then as I gazed up at the featureless face, the girl slowly brought her other hand round towards the taut invisible string. There was a faint flash and a faint click. The pale globe up above curtsied for a moment, and then with an air of suddenly collected dignity and purpose rose and began to move slowly away. Julian had cut the string.
The deliberation of the action, and the evident and histrionic way in which it was addressed to its impromptu audience, produced physical shock, like that of some sort of assault. I felt a thrill of pain and dismay. Rachel gave a brief exclamation, a sort of «Ach!» and moved quickly on towards the gate. I followed her. She did not pause at the gate but went on into the road and began to walk briskly along the pavement. I hurried and joined her where she had stopped, out of sight of the house, under a big copper beech tree at the corner of the road. It was getting dark.
«Whatever was that?»
«The balloon? Oh some boy gave it to her.»
«But how does it stay up?»
«It's filled with hydrogen or something.»
«Why did she cut the string?»
«I can't imagine. Just some sort of act of aggression. She's full of strange fancies just now.»
«Is she unhappy?»
«Girls of that age are always unhappy.»
«Love, I suppose.»
«I don't think she's had love yet. She feels she's somebody very special and she's just beginning to realize that she's not very talented.»
«That sounds like the human condition.»
«Poor child.»
«Oh she's all right, she's lucky. And as you say, it's the human condition. Well, good night, Bradley. I know you want to get away from me.»
«No, no-«I don't mean it in a nasty way! You're so shy. I love it. Kiss me.»
I kissed her quickly but very fully in the darkness underneath the tree.
«I may write to you,» she said.
«Do that.»
«Don't worry. Nothing for worry.»
«I know. Good night. And thanks.»
Rachel gave a weird little laugh and vanished into the obscurity. I began to walk quickly along the next road in the direction of the tube station.
I found that my heart was beating rather violently. I could not make out whether something very important had happened or not. I thought, I shall know tomorrow. Now there was nothing to be done except to rest upon an immediate sense of the experience. Rachel still hovered round me like a perfume. But in my mind with great clarity I saw Arnold, as if he were looking at me from the far end of an illuminated corridor. Whatever had happened had happened to Arnold too.
Just then I saw the balloon again. It was moving slowly along, a little ahead of me, over the tops of the houses. It was lower than it had been before and seemed to be very gradually descending. The street lamps had been turned on, giving a local ineffectual light beneath a sky which was glowing but nearly dark, and in which the pale object was barely visible. A few people were walking along the road, but no one except myself seemed to have noticed the strange wanderer. I began to hurry, trying to gauge its direction. In the suburban villas rectangles of light were appearing in the lower rooms. Sometimes undrawn curtains showed insipid pastel-shaded interiors and sometimes the blue flicker of television. Up above, the neat silhouettes of roofs and the bunchy silhouettes of trees were outlined against a dark bluish sky through which the faint globe, its tail now entirely invisible, floated onward. I began to run.
For a moment it was invisible behind a tree. Then suddenly, wafted faster by a momentary breeze, it swept down over the street, moving into the arc of the lamplight. For a second or two it appeared in front of me, huge and yellow, its tail of pendant bows swaying crazily. I could even see the string. I raced towards it. Something lightly brushed my face. The street lamps dazzled me as I clutched above my head, and clutched again. And then it was all gone. The balloon had vanished, descending into some dark and farther maze of suburban gardens. I continued for some while to hurry to and fro among the little intersecting streets, but I did not set eyes again upon the travelling portent.
At the tube station I saw Arnold coming through the ticket barrier, smiling secretively to himself. I moved to the other side and he did not see me. When I reached my flat Francis Marloe was waiting outside the door. I amazed him by asking him in. Of what passed between us then I shall speak later.
Q ne of the many respects, dear friend, in which life is unlike art is this: characters in art can have unassailable dignity, whereas characters in life have none. Yet of course life, in this respect as in others, pathetically and continually aspires to the condition of art. A sheer concern for one's dignity, a sense of form, a sense of style, inspires more of our baser actions than any conventional analysis of possible sins is likely to bring to light. A good man often appears gauche simply because he does not take advantage of the myriad mean little
