The gull, held on a twig by a pinion-feather, loosened, balanced a second, and vanished over the cliff.
“I must follow,” he said, “now.”
The sun had thrown his shadow to the threshold. Carston saw it and said nothing, afraid, helping Scylla to splash in water smoky with most of her host’s scents, combing the blood out of her hair. Sweet to have her safe and look after her. Then he heard her say, “There’s Clarence.” She had seen him at the cliffs edge. Carston held that he waited to be seen, but in truth he had forgotten Carston and Scylla. Carefully looking not down but out to sea. Taking a last pull at memories there.
Of Picus. Of the band he had grown up with. Of war, whose issues he had found too simple. Of their spiritual adventure he had not been equal to. Of the fool he had made of himself. The revenge his death would be. Not stay to be called Judas. And bring our souls to His high city.
He took a step to the edge. Scylla jumped off the divan, and with her hand at her side, ran out to him.
“Clarence, come in.”
She had hold of him as he had held her.
“What’r’you doing out in your chemise?”
“You know. Come in.”
“Get me,” she said to Carston, “a wooden bowl in the studio, and a green baize roll of tools.” She lay down again. Clarence paced about once or twice, and sat down beside her.
“There’s going to be an awful party over at the house. Felix is bringing home a Russian.”
He said:
“I’m not mad. No need to go on like that. I remember. The bird made me.”
“Did you think I was it?”
“No. There was a letter, and the sun and you know my head.”
“Look,” she said, and pulled off the handkerchief that tied her shoulder—“and my head is cut and my side. It was partly my fault that Lydia wrote to you. Go on carving while we talk.”
He did as she told him. Carston watched them. Like an idyll: a young lover making a present for his sweetheart, sitting on her bed. A harrow of wild geese with their necks out at flight. A border of fish.
“It ought to be set. Can you work in silver, Clarence? We might melt down that atrocious salver—”
Insufferable to be hushed like this. He preferred Carston glaring at him, wondering if he should get the gun. Picus came in.
“D’you know now?”
“Yes. And I’m not fool enough to imagine that there’s any apology or excuse. Or forgiveness that isn’t from duty or impulse. You can have Scylla.”
“I knew you’d take it wrong,” said Picus. “We’re not talking about beds and we know who we’ll sleep with. What you ought to know is—”
“Look here,” said Carston. “You’ve had a touch of the sun. We’ll grant that. Scylla has a fool female friend in London, fool enough to be in love with you. Wrote you a spiteful letter you lap up. Scylla comes down to explain it and comfort your feelings, and you try to kill her by torture. I know you were mad. If you don’t pull yourself together and try and face it, everyone will know you were mad; for you’ll do it again outside your home circle. The world won’t make delicate excuses for you, you spoilt, hysterical, self-pitying, self-centred, uninventive, incompetent son of a bitch.”
“Not uninventive,” said Scylla, “but you’d better try something else.”
“I’m taking you over to Tambourne right away. We’ll start now, and you can wait at the inn while I get a car. The old parson there is the company you need. You can come back to Gault, if they want you, when you’ve got your senses back.”
Picus nodded. “We are all for you, Carston.”
“All of us,” said Scylla.
“Don’t say,” he answered, “that if I stay here much longer, I shall be one of you. Because I never shall, and I don’t want to be.”
“Our house is your house,” said Scylla.
“Besides,” said Picus, “did you ever enjoy a summer more?”
“Hasn’t it been better than a movie? Leave Clarence at Tambourne and come over and look at Felix’s find.”
In his heart he knew he would not. Though there was continuity in this adventure, a circle like the design on Clarence’s mazer, a ring near to a magic ring, he knew that nothing would induce him to go back to that poverty and pride, cant and candour, raw flesh and velvet; into that dateless, shiftless, shifting, stable and unstable Heartbreak House. Not for a bit. Off to Paris on his own folk-adventure. In his last moments with them, looking at Clarence’s bowl, he saw the changes in things.
There had been an apple once. There had been an apple tree. When it gave no more apples, it had made fire, and a slice of its trunk had become a bowl cut out into birds. The bowl unless it was turned into fire again, would stop growing and last forever. Things that came out of time, and were stopped; could be made over into another sort of time.
Clarence sat silent, a tear or so falling, shame and anger mounting. Once away, he would leave Carston; would not go to Tambourne. He would go to Tambourne because he must have somewhere to hide. The old parson might have comfort for him while Picus was with Scylla, and she enjoyed the reward of warriors. She and Picus alone together, playing at happy warriors.
If there was nothing for him at Tambourne, there would still be Picus’s father, a fine story to pick over together.
He said:
“Perhaps you’ll send my clothes. We must go before midday. I shouldn’t like Carston to have a repetition before he gets me to Tambourne.”
And bring our souls to His high city.
He took Scylla’s hand, remained a moment in her embrace. Carston followed him down the hill.
That afternoon cloud flecks flew over and the wind freshened. Ross and Nanna left the house scented with boiling sugar and took a walk down to
