The Book And The Brotherhood

she had said again and again since Tamar's arrival that she would never breathe a word, never utter a hint, Tamar's secret was safe with her, and so on. But Tamar herself, her condition of near insanity, of frightful perhaps deathly illness, that could not be concealed. Tamar showed no signs of recovery and Lily had elicited screams from her guest at the suggestion that a doctor should be sent for. It was equally, indeed even more, impossible to ask for help from them. There was no one for Lily to turn to or whose advice or help she could ask. Even Gull, who had discovered from Jenkin that Tamar was with Lily and had rung up, had to be put off with a vague story, Lily had felt unable to lie to Rose, though she now wished she had put a calmer face on the matter. Besides, Violet had to be told that Tamar was 'all right'. And now they were all tactfully keeping away! Oh God. I'll have to get a doctor, thought Lily, I must have some help, I can't be responsible for all this by myself. Oh I do blame myself so much, I was just pleased when she came to me, I felt superior because I could help, I was glad because she had confided in me and not in them. Oh why ever did I get myself involved in this ghastly business and how will it end!

Lily's burden of remorse was meanwhile intensified by the vindictiveness of the reproaches which, in intervals of moaning and wailing, Tamar was now heaping upon her.

`Why did you send me off to that place, why didn't you let me wait, you kept saying how I had to hurry, you made it all seem so easy, you said how wonderful it would be afterwards, if only I'd waited, even a day or two, I'd have felt differently, I'd have thought about what it meant, but you hustled me on, you said it had to be, and now I've ruined my life, I've destroyed everything, and it's all your fault -'

`I can't sleep, I can't sleep,' said Crimond. Jean was at her wits' end. She was weeping tears, death tears, weeping for her life, for the happiness which she now felt that she would never have.

Crimond paid no attention to her tears, he seemed by now to be talking to himself.

Earlier he had been reading poetry to her, some poetry in Greek which he seemed unaware that she could not understand. He had sometimes read her Greek before, but only a little at a time and had translated it. Now the reading was different, going on and on more like a liturgy or an exorcism. That in itself had been a relief.

Jean had not expected the book to be finished, she had assumed that the book was to be lived with for a long time, perhaps for many years yet. She was used to it, used to willing it and loving it as a part of Crimond's mystery. When he suddenly said, 'It is finished', she was taken completely by surprise. She now remembered Crimond's baleful remarks which she had not taken too seriously at the time. She was afraid; how would Crimond live without the book, what would he do, how would he be, was it some complete change? Of course, she supposed, he would have after-thoughts, think of addenda, there would probably be a long period of transition. His state of euphoria reassured her for a while. He told her, making it into a joke, how he had dumbfounded Gerard and his friends by his sudden announcement. He had indeed told them before, though only just before, he told her. She did not mind that. As, for a day or two, his cheerfulness continued, there was a quiet new 'sense of being on holiday', and Jean allowed all sorts of ordinary happy thoughts, which she had carefully and dutifully inhibited, to come out of their seclusion and throng gaily in her head. She thought, she even said, and he did not contradict her, 'We'll go away now, shall we, we'll have a break, we'll go to Rome or Venice, we'll see some lovely places together, won't we, my darling, we'll escape together and be so happy, that's what we'll do!'

Crimond did not say no, he said nothing, but it later seemed to her that he had simply not heard, not listened, was wrapped up entirely inside himself, first into that vague, stunned rather uncanny cheerfulness, and now into a restless desperation.

The book was gone. Crimond's big jersey, his pen and ink, his glasses, the shawl which he put over his knees when working, were all neatly in their places on his desk and chair. But the lamp was switched off, the piles of coloured notebooks had gone, carried off to Crimond's typing agency who would now photocopy, then type, the entire work. Crimond took some care over these arrangements, but betrayed no anxiety when the numerous boxes were carried away up the stairs and put in a van. Since then he had not sat at the desk, but at a table in the front room upstairs, reading, or dealing with correspondence. He had also cleared out the cupboards in die playroom, destroyed a lot of manuscript, and also brought out and cleaned three of his guns, two revolvers and a pistol. He told Jean that he had sold the rest of his collection, and was now going to sell these. At least this, if he meant it, was a good sign, and Jean counted it, at first, as marking the beginning of their 'new world'. She watched him anxiously during the first days, glad when he was quietly reading, quietly talking. Slic questioned him about the book, had he expected to end it, would the typescript need a lot of revision? He gave 'vague smiling replies. Sometimes he craved her company and even walked with her to some shops. She suggested that she should drive him somewhere, anywhere, in her car which needed exercise and he said, yes, perhaps, why not. Then the mood of despair came upon him and he began to talk about death.

At night, sleepless, and preventing her from sleeping, he held her, without love-making, exceedingly close as if his whole body were feeding upon hers. Jean was exhausted, frightened, worn out by an intensity of love, his love, her love, which sometimes seemed something so final that she found herself thinking, somehow or other we are done for. How will it end? Their condition seemed to be crowding on toward some disaster. Yet at other times, when Crimond seemed to be gripped by a kind of elation, she felt that the despair was just an understandable phase which was even now passing. Last night, clasped together, they had slept a little.

`You did sleep, didn't you?'

`Oh yes -'

The morning sun was shining into the little kitchen where they took their meals. Its neatness, its cleanness, about which Jean cared very much, made her feel that ordinary life was possible. If she could only stop Crimond from saying the extraordinary things with which he was wearing down her sanity.

‘Won't you have some toast?'

‘No, just coffee.'

‘You are eating less and less.'

Crimond said nothing now but stared at her for a while, his face composed but his blue eyes extremely wide and rounded.

‘My darling, _I'm sure you'll sleep even better tonight, we must sleep, you're suffering from lack of it, I'll hold you, I'll look after you, I'll give you my life -'

‘There is no logic in fearing death,' said Crimond, 'I just don’t want to make a terrible mistake.'

‘Please stop this sort of talk.'

‘It's not all that easy to shoot oneself, one could find oneself living on blinded or witless. It's a terrible risk. I could be sure of killing you, but not so sure of killing myself. The hand can tremble, the bullet can find some freakish path, leaving one paralysed, still alive. Oh the horror of that -' He spoke quite calmly, reflectively.

‘Fortunately you don't have to shoot either yourself or me! Here's your coffee.'

'I don't want to see you dead, my Jeanie, we must go together.'

'Let us go to France together, let us go anywhere away from here. Let me take you away for a while. You'll get over it all, this state of mind will pass.'

'I don't see how it can,' said Crimond, in a reasonable tone as if some quite ordinary project were being discussed.

'What about your father -'

'He's dead.'

'You didn't tell me.'

'He died at the end of October. I'm glad he's gone. He was no longer himself. His being was anguish to me. Now he is at peace.’

'I'm sorry.'

‘Don't be sorry.'

‘Oh