They began to disintegrate as the darkness be low them stirred and shifted. They began to fall apart into images.
Miles started writing poetry. He wrote easily. Huge chunks, great complicated pieces, arrived complete. Images fluttered about him, practically blinding him with their multiplicity. There is a grace of certainty about being in love. There is a grace of certainty in art, but it is very rare. Miles felt it now as he heard in poetry for the first time his own voice speaking and not that of another. And he knew that the moment had come at last when he could with humility call himself a poet. He had waited long enough and he had tried to wait faithfully. Yet it seemed to him now that he had simply not known how to wait, and that his attempts to prepare himself for the great service into which he was now entered had all been mistaken ones. He had strained and pulled and scratched fretfully at the surfaces of life, while the great other watched and smiled. What had availed him now, what had bundled him through the barrier into the real world, this Miles knew too, but now that his life’s work had begun he averted his gaze. And more deeply and calmly he knew that when the frenzy left him-for it could not last forever-he would be left with all the tools of his trade.
Diana and Miles had begun to walk back through the cemetery, with their arms round each other’s waists. They walked very slowly, like an old couple. The evening sun shone upon the shining arches of the new grass and a rich smell of wet earth floated in the warm air. The avenue of lime trees was misted with young leaves.
Diana said, “I think you ought to have an electric fire in the summerhouse. It wouldn’t be too difficult to arrange.”
”Warm days are coming now.”
”Yes, but it is damp in there. And if we made it really warm you could work there in the winter too.”
”I should like that. Especially if it snowed!”
”Especially if it snowed. I’d have to make the whole place completely draught-proof of course. What’s the name of that stuff that you put round the doors and windows to seal them?”
”I can’t remember.”
”I’ll ask the ironmonger tomorrow.”
30
Adelaide’s tears dropped into the open drawer, making damp spots on the pink and blue jumble of her underwear. They fell, as she straightened up, onto the sleeve of her new black suit, which was made of a corduroy so fine that it carried a grey surface haze like shot silk. She smudged the tears away with her hand, hoping that they would not make a mark upon the corduroy. She peered at herself in the dressing-table mirror. The hotel room did not provide a long glass. The frilly white blouse, also new, seemed to be the wrong size after all. She had bought it in a hurry. The frills refused to emerge elegantly at the neck of the jacket but remained crushed and jumbled inside, and if she tried to pull them out the blouse came adrift at the waist. But it was too late to do anything about that now, or about the blue necklace of Venetian beads which just did not look right on top of the blouse. She should have realized it was the wrong length. She took off the neck lace and dropped it into her suitcase. Then she adjusted the mirror, stood back, and began cautiously to mount on a chair. By this method she could see the reflection of her lower half, see the black cord skirt, the invisible nylon stockings, and the black patent-leather shoes with the steel buckle. Well, she thought, I certainly look right for a funeral.
She got down again very carefully. Adelaide was always afraid of falling and felt giddy standing on a chair. She picked up her little black velvet hat and began to dust it, holding it well away from herself, and leaning forward a little so that the tears should fall onto the floor and not onto her suit or hat. How is it possible, thought Adelaide, to go on crying for such a long time, one would think that the supply would run out. Where do they come from, these tears? She pictured a great lachrymose reservoir, the tears of a lifetime: and at the thought of how many she would still without doubt have to shed, the flowing stream redoubled. I’ve cried so much lately, it’ll damage my eyes, she thought, it’ll alter my appearance permanently. I really must stop, but how? She studied her face in the mirror. Her eyes were puckered and oozing and surrounded by great red circles of swollen skin. Her whole face was red and swollen and hot, its surface shiny with dried and half-dried tears. God, I look terrible, thought Adelaide. How can I put any make-up onto that?
She began to comb her hair, dropping the little balls of loose hair at intervals into the hotel wastepaper basket. Her hair seemed to be coming out more than usual. It was not the right colour either. She had had to go to a strange hairdresser’s and the girl had tinted it to a much lighter brown. She wondered how noticeable this was. She had not yet got used to having short hair and got a shock from her looking glass every morning. The great length of cut hair travelled with her. The hairdresser had offered to buy it, but Adelaide could not con sent to this, although the weird severed object caused her horror. She patted her new head. She had hoped that short hair would make her look younger. Now she thought it just made her look blowsy and untidy. She could not decide whether to push the short light-brown locks back behind her ears or to let them hang. They looked wrong either way. Perhaps it had been an awful mistake to have her hair cut off. But she knew perfectly well why she had done it.
Adelaide looked at her watch. She had still not finished packing. She could leave the big suitcase downstairs with the porter. She began to stuff her underclothes into the smaller bag. She went through the drawers and checked the wardrobe. She searched the unmade bed and found two damp handkerchiefs. She must remember to buy some paper ones. She had not been long in the hotel, but the sheets looked grimy and grey. Everything was ready now except her face. She had put off making it up in the hope that she would be able to stop crying. Now she would just have to put the make-up on and trust that it would somehow check the tears. Leaning well over the washbasin she mopped her face for some time with cold water. Then she dried it and began to smooth on a foundation cream. The touch of her fingers soothed her burning cheeks. She closed her eyes for a moment. Now for the powder. Just as she was preparing to apply the pearly pink lipstick to her swollen lips two great tears rolled down making two deep long furrows over the smoothly powdered curve of her cheeks. “Damn!” said Adelaide. Her hand slipped and the lipstick went onto her chin. She thought, I shall have to wash my face and start again. Well, no I won’t. It doesn’t really matter anymore what I look like. Then she repeated to herself, it doesn’t really matter anymore what I look like. She felt that it was true and that it was an index of great changes in her life. The solemnity of the thought elicited two more big tears. She tried to rub the errant lipstick off with her handkerchief. It would not quite come off, but the pink blur blended well enough with her flushed face. She mopped her cheeks over lightly and put on her hat. The telephone rang to say that the taxi had come.
Adelaide carried the two bags down the narrow stairs, past the dusty potted plants in the brass bowls, and left the larger bag with the porter. She got into the taxi. She thought, Oh God now I shall really start to cry again. And she did. Curiously watched by people in neighbouring cars, she abandoned herself to sobbing as the taxi crawled slowly through the North London traffic. At last they had arrived. Adelaide dabbed her face with a soaking wet handkerchief and tried to powder it again, only now the powder puff seemed to have got wet too. She paid the taxi driver out of her new black patent-leather handbag. She crossed the busy pavement between a newspaper stand and a stack of crates of fruit which were just being delivered to the greengrocer. A tomato rolled across the pavement and broke, revealing its damp blushing interior at her feet. Adelaide skirted it and went into the little dark doorway and up the stairs to the office on the first floor. She knocked and went in.
Auntie and the twins were already there. Auntie was wearing a very long black coat with a fur-trimmed collar and a hat which appeared to be made entirely of peacock’s feathers. She was also wearing a big red and green brooch and a number of flashy rings. The twins were in dark suits, Will sporting a red rose and Nigel a white rose. The registrar came forward to welcome Adelaide.
”Hello,” said Adelaide, looking past him at the twins.
Nigel advanced and kissed her a little awkwardly on the cheek. He was smiling. Will’s face was thunderous. He had trimmed his moustache into a Hitlerian toothbrush. He came and kissed Adelaide, also on the cheek. He said, “Christ, your face is hot.” Auntie said, “
”Now then,” said the registrar a little coyly, “must remember why we’re here, mustn’t we. Now let me see, which of you gentlemen is going to be married? Mustn’t marry the lady to the wrong one, must I?”
”I’m the groom,” said Will. “Oh Ad, do stop crying, turn off the waterworks, will you? Have you got no dignity? Anyone’d think you were going to be executed.”
