15

I AM WRITING this at Father’s desk in the gatehouse. If it were the King’s desk in Buckingham Palace I could not be more surprised.

It is now half-past nine in the evening. (This time last week I was talking to Simon in that corridor off the ballroom – it feels like years and years ago.) I mean to work at this journal until I wake Thomas at two o’clock. Last night he kept this watch and I took the second one. And very dreadful I felt during most of it. I am less upset tonight, but still get nervous sinkings in my stomach every now and then. Oh, have we accomplished a miracle – or done something so terrible that I daren’t face thinking about it?

I never finished my last entry – the memory of my tears falling on Heloïse so flooded me with self-pity that I couldn’t go on. But there wasn’t much more to say about the trip to London. We came back on the first train. I slept most of the way, and slept again when we got home.

It was the middle of the afternoon when I woke up – to find myself alone in the castle; Stephen had gone over to Four Stones, Father was at Scoatney and Thomas was spending the weekend with his friend Harry. Stephen came home around nine o’clock and went to bed without disturbing me – I was up in the attic writing this journal. As I heard him crossing the courtyard I wondered if I ought to go down and talk to him, but I felt there was nothing helpful I could say. Later on, I thought I would at least make him some cocoa and chat about his film job, but by the time I got to the kitchen the light in his room was out.

He went back to London early on Monday morning, with his clothes in a little iron-bound sea-chest that old Mrs Stebbins lent him; it had belonged to her brother who ran away to be a cabin boy. I didn’t go to the station because Stephen told me Mr Stebbins was driving him there and I guessed Ivy would go, too. I felt Stephen ought to have every chance to find consolation – and I would rather he found it with Ivy than with Leda, because Ivy is a really nice girl. I went out to talk to her and Mr Stebbins when they drove up, as Stephen wasn’t quite ready. Ivy had on a pale grey suit, tight white gloves, and the brightest blue hat I ever saw, which accentuated the red in her cheeks. She is a goodlooking girl. Enormous feet, though.

Stephen was so long coming that I went to find out what he was doing. I saw him through the open door of his bedroom, just staring around him. The window is so overgrown now that he seemed to be in a green cavern.

‘Perhaps you’ll be famous when you see this room again,’ I said. ‘Though don’t wait too long before you come and stay with us, will you?’

‘I won’t be coming back,’ he said, quietly, ‘even if I’m no good as an actor. No, I won’t come back.’

I said of course he would, but he shook his head. Then he gave one last look round the room. The photographs of me and his Mother were gone. The bed was stripped and the one blanket neatly folded.

‘I’ve swept the room out so that you won’t have anything extra to do,’ he said. ‘You can shut this place up and forget it. I gave Mr Mortmain his books back before he went off to Scoatney. I’ll miss having books.’

‘But you can buy them for yourself now,’ I told him.

He said he hadn’t thought of that – ‘I don’t seem able to take in the money part, somehow.’

‘Mind you save – just in case,’ I warned him.

He nodded and said he’d probably soon be feeding pigs again. Then we heard Mr Stebbins hooting his horn.

I said: ‘I’ll see you off but let’s say a private goodbye here.’ I held out my hand, but added: ‘Please kiss me if you’d like to – I’d like it if you would.’

For a second I thought he was going to; then he shook his head and barely clasped my hand. I tried to help him carry the little sea-chest but he hoisted it up on his shoulder. We went out to the car. Heloïse was there, investigating the wheels, and after Stephen had strapped the chest on the luggage-carrier he stooped and kissed her on the head. He never looked back once as they drove along the lane.

While I was washing up the breakfast things, I realized that I had no idea where he would be staying. Would he go back to the Fox-Cottons? I suppose Rose will know. (I wrote to her that morning, saying I had been in the wrong and asking her to forgive me. I must say she took her time about answering; but this afternoon I had a telegram from her which said she would write when she could, and would I please try to understand. She didn’t put in anything about forgiving me, but as it was signed ‘your ever-loving Rose’ I suppose she has.)

I worked on my journal most of Monday, finishing in floods of tears too late to get my face right before Thomas came home. He said: ‘You’ve been howling, haven’t you? I suppose the castle’s depressing after being in London’ – which made things nice and easy for me. I said yes, that was it, and that it had been sad seeing Stephen go and wondering what would happen to him.

‘I wouldn’t worry about Stephen,’ said Thomas. ‘He’s sure to be a riot on the pictures. All the girls in the village are in love with him – they used to hang about on the Godsend road trying to waylay him. One of these days you’re going to find out what you’ve missed.’

I started to get tea; Thomas had brought a haddock.

‘Father’ll get tea at Scoatney, so we needn’t wait,’ I said.

‘The servants must be tired of feeding him,’ said Thomas. ‘What does he do there, day after day? Does he just read for the fun of it, or is he up to something?’

‘Ah, if we only knew that,’ I said.

‘Harry says he ought to be psycho-analysed.’

I turned in astonishment. ‘Does Harry know about psycho-analysis?’

‘His Father talks about it sometimes – he’s a doctor, you know.’

‘Does he believe in it?’

‘No, he’s always very sneery. But Harry rather fancies it.’

I had to concentrate on cooking the haddock then; but while we were eating it I brought up the subject of psycho-analysis again, and told Thomas of the conversation Simon and I had about it that first time we talked on the mound – though I couldn’t remember it very clearly.

‘I wish I’d got Simon to tell me more,’ I said. ‘Would Harry’s father have any helpful books, do you think?’

Thomas said he would find out, though that now Rose was going to marry Simon, it didn’t matter so much whether Father wrote or not.

‘Oh, Thomas, it does!’ I cried. ‘It matters most terribly to Father. And to us, too – because if all the eccentric things he’s been doing, on and off for months now, aren’t leading somewhere, well, then he is going crazy. And a crazy Father’s not a good idea, quite apart from our tender feelings towards him.’

‘Have you tender feelings towards him? I don’t know that I have – not that I dislike him.’

Just then, Father came in. He barely said ‘Hello’ in answer to mine and started up the kitchen stairs to his bedroom. Halfway up, he stopped and looked down at us; then came back quickly.

‘Can you spare me this?’ he asked, picking up the backbone of the haddock between his forefinger and thumb.

I thought he was being sarcastic – that he meant we had left him no fish. I explained that we hadn’t expected him, and offered to cook some eggs at once.

He said: ‘Oh, I’ve had tea,’ and then carried the haddock-bone, dripping milk, out through the back door and across to the gatehouse. Ab followed him hopefully. By the time he got back – a very disappointed cat – Thomas and I were lurching about, laughing in a way that hurts.

‘Oh, poor Ab!’ I gasped, as I gave him some scraps from my plate. ‘Stop laughing, Thomas. We shall be ashamed of our callousness if Father really is going off his head.’

‘He isn’t – he’s putting it on or something,’ said Thomas. Then a scared look came into his eyes and he added: ‘Try to keep knives away from him. I’m going to talk to Harry’s father tomorrow.’

But Harry’s father wasn’t in the least helpful.

‘He says he’s not a psycho-analyst or a psychiatrist or a psycho-anything, thank God,’ Thomas told me, when he got back in the evening. ‘And he couldn’t think why we wanted to make Father write again, because he once had a look at Jacob Wrestling and didn’t understand a word of it. Harry was quite embarrassed.’

‘Does Harry understand it, then?’

‘Yes, of course he does – it’s the first I’ve heard about its being hard to understand. Anyway, what’s double-Dutch to one generation’s just “The cat sat on the mat” to the next.’

‘Even the ladder chapter?’

‘Oh, that!’ Thomas smiled tolerantly. ‘That’s just Father’s fun. And who says you always have to understand things? You can like them without understanding them – like ’em better sometimes. I ought to have known Harry’s father would be no help to us – he’s the kind of man who says he enjoys a good yarn.’

I certainly have been under-estimating Thomas – only a few weeks ago I should have expected him to enjoy a good yarn himself. And now I find he has read quite a lot of difficult modern poetry (some master at his school lent it to him) and taken it in his stride. I wish he had let me read it – though I know very well I can’t like things without understanding them. I am astonished to discover how high-brow his tastes are – far more so than mine; and it is most peculiar how he can be so appreciative of all forms of art, but so matter-of-fact and unemotional about it. But then, he is like that over most things – he has been so calm and assured this last week that I often felt he was older than I was. Yet he can get the giggles and plunge back into being the most ordinary schoolboy. Really, the puzzlingness of people!

After we talked about Harry’s father, Thomas settled down to his homework and I wandered out into the lane. There was a vast red sunset full of strangely shaped, prophetic-looking clouds, and a hot due-south wind was blowing – an exciting sort of wind, I always think; we don’t often get it. But I was too depressed to take much interest in the evening. All day long I had been hopeful about psycho-analysis; I had expected Thomas to bring home some books we could get our teeth into. And I hadn’t only been thinking of Father’s welfare. Early that morning it had struck me that if he started writing again, Rose might believe there would be enough money coming in to make life bearable, and still might break her engagement off. I wasn’t banking on winning Simon even if she gave him up. But I knew, and shall always know, that he ought not to marry a girl who feels towards him as Rose does.

I went to the end of the lane and turned onto the Godsend road, trying all the time to think of some way of helping both Father and myself. When I came to the high part of the road I looked back and saw his lamp alight in the gatehouse. I thought how often I had seen it shining across the fields on my summer evening walks, and how it always conjured up an image of him – remote, withdrawn, unapproachable. I said to myself: ‘Surely one ought to know a little more of one’s father than we do?’ And as I began walking back to the castle I wondered if the fault could be ours, as well as his. Had I myself really tried to make friends with him? I was sure I had in the past – but had I lately? No. I excused myself by thinking: ‘Oh, it’s hopeless to make friends with people who never talk about themselves.’ And then it came to me that one of the few things I do know about psycho-analysis is that people have to be made to talk about themselves. Had I tried hard enough with Father – hadn’t I always been rebuffed too easily? ‘Are you frightened of him?’ I asked myself. I knew in my heart that I was. But why? ‘Has he ever in his life struck any of you?’ Never. His only weapon has been silence – and sometimes a little sarcasm. ‘Then what is this insurmountable barrier round him? What’s it made of? Where did it come from?’

It had become as if someone outside myself were asking the questions, attacking me with them. I tried to find answers. I wondered if Mother’s training that we must never worry or disturb him had gone on operating – and Topaz had perpetuated it by her habit of protecting him. I wondered if I had some undetected fear left from the day when I saw him brandishing the cake-knife – if I believed, without ever having admitted it, that he really did mean to stab Mother. ‘Heavens,’ I thought, ‘I’m psycho-analysing myself, now! If only I could do this to Father!’

I had come round the last bend of the lane and could see him through the lamp-lit window of the gatehouse. What was he doing? The fact that he was at his desk didn’t necessarily mean he was writing – he always sits there when reading the Encyclopaedia, because it is so heavy to hold. Was he reading now? His head was bent, but I couldn’t see what over. Just then he raised his hand to push his hair back. He was holding a pencil! And that instant, the voice that had been attacking me as I walked home said: ‘Suppose he’s really working all the time? Supposing he’s writing some wonderful, money-earning book – but you don’t find out until it’s too late to help you and Rose?’

I began walking towards the castle again. I don’t remember planning anything, even making a definite decision – it was as if my mind could not go ahead of my steps. I went into the dimness of the gatehouse passage, then into the blackness of the tower staircase. I groped my way up to Father’s door. I knocked on it.

‘Go away,’ came the instant reply.

The key was in the outside keyhole so I knew he hadn’t locked himself in. I opened the door.

As I went in, he swung round from his desk looking furious. But almost before I had time to notice his expression it was as if a curtain came down over it, and the fury was hidden.

‘Something important?’ he asked, in a perfectly controlled voice.

‘Yes. Very,’ I said, and shut the door behind me.

He got up, looking at me closely. ‘What’s the matter, Cassandra? You’re unusually pale. Are you ill? You’d better sit down.’

But I didn’t sit. I stood there staring at the room. Something had happened to it. Facing me, instead of the long rows of bookshelves stretching between the north and south windows, was an expanse of brightly coloured paper.

‘Heavens, what have you been doing in here?’ I gasped.

He saw what I was staring at. ‘Oh, those are just American comic strips – commonly called “the funnies”. Now what is it, Cassandra?’

I went closer and saw that what I had taken for wallpaper was sheets and sheets from newspapers, the top edges of which were tacked to the edges of the bookshelves. In the dim light from the lamp I couldn’t see the pictures clearly, but they seemed to be small coloured illustrations joined together.

‘Where did they come from?’ I asked.

‘I brought them back from Scoatney yesterday. They’re from the American Sunday papers – I gather Neil can’t live without them. Good heavens, don’t start reading them.’

‘Are they to do with your work?’

He opened his mouth to reply, and then a nervous, secretive look came into his eyes.

‘What have you come here for?’ he said sharply, ‘Never you mind about my work.’

I said: ‘But it’s that I’ve come about. Father, you’ve got to let me know what you’re doing.’

For a second he stared at me in silence. Then he said icily:

‘And is that the sole reason for this visitation – to cross-examine me?’

‘No, no,’ I began, and then pulled myself up. ‘Yes, it is – it’s exactly that. And I’m not giving up until I get an answer.’

‘Out you go,’ said Father.

He took me by the arm and marched me to the door – I was so astonished that I put up hardly any resistance. But at the last second, I jerked away from him and dashed across to his desk. I had a wild hope that I might see some of his work there. He was after me instantly, but I just had time to catch a glimpse of pages and pages with long lists on them in his writing. Then he grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me round – never have I seen such fury as was in his eyes. He flung me away from the desk with such force that I went right across the room and crashed into the door. It hurt so badly that I let out a yell and burst into tears.

‘Oh, God, is it your elbow?’ said Father. ‘That can be agony.’

He came over and tried to feel if there were any broken bones – even through the pain I noticed how astonishingly his anger had vanished. I went on choking with tears – it really was agony, right down to my wrist and hand. After a minute or so, Father began to walk me up and down, with his arm round me.

‘It’s going off,’ I told him as soon as I could. ‘Let me sit down for a bit.’

We sat on the sofa together and he lent me his handkerchief to mop up on. Soon I was able to say:

‘It’s almost better now – look!’ I moved my hand and arm to show him. ‘It was nothing serious.’

‘It might have been,’ he said in a queer, strained voice. ‘I haven’t lost my temper like that since—’ He stopped dead, then got up and went back to his desk.

I said: ‘Not since you went for Mother with the cake-knife?’ – and was astounded to hear the words coming out of my mouth. I added hastily: ‘Of course I know you didn’t really go for her, it was all a mistake, but – well, you were very angry with her. Oh, Father – do you think that’s what has been the matter with you – that you stopped getting violent? Has repressing your temper somehow repressed your talent?’

He gave a sarcastic snort and didn’t even bother to look round. ‘What put that brilliant idea into your head? Was it Topaz?’

‘No, I thought of it myself – just this minute.’

‘Very ingenious of you. But it happens to be nonsense.’

‘Well, it’s no sillier than believing you dried up because you went to prison,’ I said – astonishing myself again. ‘Some people do think that, you know.’

‘Idiots!’ said Father. ‘Good God, how could a few months in prison do me any harm? I’ve often thought I’d like to be back there; at least the warders never sat round holding post mortems on me. Oh, for the peace of that little cell!’

His tone was very sarcastic but nothing like so angry as I had expected, so I plucked up my courage to go on. ‘Have you any idea yourself what stopped you working?’ – I kept my voice calm and conversational. ‘Simon thinks, of course—’

He swung round instantly, interrupting me. ‘Simon? Were you and he discussing me?’

‘Well, we were being interested in you—’

‘And what theories did Simon put forward?’

I had meant to say that Simon had suggested psycho-analysis, but Father looked so angry again that I funked it and racked my brains for something more tactful. At last I brought out: ‘Well, he once thought you might have been held back because you were such an original writer that you couldn’t just develop like ordinary writers – that you’d have to find some quite new way—’ I was floundering, so I finished up quickly. ‘He said something like it that first evening they ever came here – don’t you remember?’

‘Yes, perfectly,’ said Father, relaxing. ‘I was very much impressed. I’ve since come to the conclusion that it was merely a bit of supremely tactful nonsense on Simon’s part, God bless him; but at the time it certainly fooled me. I’m not at all sure that wasn’t what started me on—’ He broke off. ‘Well, well, run along to bed, my child.’

I cried out: ‘Oh, Father – do you mean you have found a new way to work? Do all these crazy things – the crosswords and Little Folks and The Homing Pigeon and what not – do they really mean something?’

‘Great heavens, what do you take me for? Of course they mean something.’

‘Even the willow-pattern plate – and trying to read gramophone records? How exciting! Though I simply can’t imagine—’

‘You don’t have to,’ said Father, firmly. ‘You just have to mind your own business.’

‘But couldn’t I help you? I’m reasonably intelligent, you know. Don’t you ever feel you want to talk to anyone?’

‘I do not,’ said Father. ‘Talk, talk – you’re as bad as Topaz. As if either of you would have the remotest idea what I was driving at! And if I’d talked to her, she’d have told every painter in London – and you’d tell Simon and he’d write a well-turned article about it. Good lord, how long does an innovation remain one if it’s talked about? And anyway, with me secrecy’s the very essence of creation. Now go away!’

I said: ‘I will if you’ll answer me just one question. How long will it be before the book’s finished?’

‘Finished? It isn’t even begun! I’m still collecting material – though that’ll go on indefinitely, of course.’ He began to walk about, talking more to himself than to me. ‘I believe I could make a start now if I could get a scaffolding that really satisfied me. I need a backbone—’

‘Was that why you took the haddock’s?’ I said involuntarily.

He turned on me at once. ‘Don’t be facetious!’ Then I think he saw from my face that I hadn’t meant to be, because he gave a snort of laughter and went on: ‘No, the haddock may be said to have turned into a red herring across the trail – lots of things do. I don’t know, though – the ladderlike pattern was interesting. I must study the fish of the world – and whales – and the forerunners of whales—’ He was talking to himself again, moving about the room. I kept dead quiet. He went on: ‘Primeval, antediluvian – the ark? No, not the Bible again. Prehistoric – from the smallest bone of the mammoth? Is there a way there?’ He hurried to his desk and made a note; then sat there, still talking to himself. I could only make out broken phrases and disjointed words – things like: ‘Design, deduction, reconstruction – symbol – pattern and problem – search for ever unfolding – enigma eternal …’ His voice got quieter and quieter until at last he was silent.

I sat there staring at the back of his head framed in the heavy stone mullions of the window beyond it. The lamp on his desk made the twilight seem a deep, deep blue. The tick of the little travelling clock that used to be Mother’s sounded unbelievably loud in the quietness. I wondered if the idea he was searching for was coming to him. I prayed it might – for his own happiness; by then I had no hope it could be in time to help Rose and me.

After a few minutes I began to think I had better creep out, but I was afraid that opening the door would make a noise. ‘And if his idea has come,’ I thought, ‘disturbing him now might wreck everything.’ Then it struck me that if he once got used to having me in the room, I might be a real help – it came back to me that he had liked Mother to sit with him while he wrote, provided she kept quite still; he wouldn’t even let her sew. I remembered her telling me how hard she had found it in the beginning, how she had told herself she would manage just five more minutes, then another five – until the minutes grew into hours. I said to myself: ‘In ten minutes her little clock will chime nine. I’ll sit still until then.’ But after a couple of minutes, bits of me began to tickle maddeningly. I stared at the lamplit face of the clock almost praying to it to hurry – its ticking seemed to get louder and louder, until it was right inside my ears. I had just got to a stage when I felt I couldn’t bear it a second longer when the wind burst one of the south windows open, the American newspapers tacked to the bookshelves blew up with a great flap, and Father swung round.

His eyes seemed to have sunk deeper into his head; he blinked – I could see he was coming back from very far away. I expected him to be angry at my still being there, but he just said ‘Hello’ with a sort of dazed pleasantness.

‘Was the idea any good?’ I ventured.

For a second, he didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. Then he said: ‘No, no – another marsh light. Were you holding your fingers crossed for me, poor mouselike child? Your mother used to sit like that.’

‘I know. I was thinking of her a minute ago.’

‘Were you? So was I. Probably telepathy.’

The newspapers flapped again and he went to close the window; then stood looking down into the courtyard. I thought he was going to forget me again, so I said, quickly:

‘Mother helped you quite a lot, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, in an odd, oblique way.’ He sat down on the window-seat apparently quite prepared for a little chat. ‘God knows she never had an idea in her head, dear woman, but she’d the most extraordinary habit of saying useful things by accident – like mentioning the name “Jacob” when I was searching for a central idea for Jacob Wrestling. Actually, she was talking about the milkman. And having her in the room seemed to give me confidence – the atmosphere used to become quite thick with her prayers. Well, goodnight, my child—’ He got up and came towards me. ‘Is the elbow better?’

I said: ‘Quite, thank you.’

‘Good. Next time you come I’ll try to give you a better welcome – put the red carpet down. But you must wait until you’re invited. I must say I’m curious to know what keyed you up to this attack tonight. Mrs Cotton wasn’t doing a little prodding by proxy, was she?’

‘Gracious, no!’ Of course I had no intention of telling him my real reason for coming; it would have worried him quite uselessly, besides being unfair to Rose. ‘It was only that I was anxious.’

‘Good lord, do you mean about my state of mind?’ He chuckled, then looked concerned. ‘You poor girl, did you really think my brain was going? Well, I daresay I seemed pretty eccentric, and plenty of people will think that’s an understatement when this book gets out. If it ever does. Why can’t I take the plunge? It’s just the initial idea that eludes me. I’ve lost confidence you know – it isn’t laziness, I swear’ – there was a humble, almost pleading note in his voice – ‘it never has been – I hope you believe that, my dear. It – well, it just hasn’t been possible.’

I said: ‘Of course I believe it. And I believe you’re going to start very soon now.’

‘I hope so.’ He laughed a little, in an odd, nervous kind of way. ‘Because if I don’t get going soon, the whole impetus may die – and if that happens, well, I really shall consider a long, restful plunge into insanity. Sometimes the abyss yawns very attractively. There, there – don’t take me seriously.’

‘Of course not,’ I said briskly. ‘Now, look, Father. Why not let me sit here as Mother used to? I’ll pray, as she did; I’m really quite good at it. And you go to your desk and start this very night.’

‘No, no, I couldn’t yet’ – he looked positively frightened. ‘I know you mean well, my dear, but you’re making me nervous. Now run along to bed. I’m going, myself.’

He lifted up the American papers and dived under to the shelf holding his old detective novels, grabbing one quite at random. Then he put the lamp out. Just as we went out of the room, Mother’s little clock began to strike nine. Even after Father had locked the door and we were groping our way down the pitch-black stairs, I could hear the tiny, tinkling chimes.

‘I must remember to carry matches,’ he said, ‘now there’s no Stephen to leave a lamp outside my door.’

I said I would see to it in future. There was no lantern in the gatehouse passage, either – another of Stephen’s jobs; all the time I find out more and more things he did without my ever realizing it.

‘Let me make you some cocoa, Father,’ I suggested as we went into the kitchen, but he said he didn’t need anything – ‘Except a biscuit, perhaps – and find me a candle with at least three hours’ reading in it.’ I gave him a whole plate of biscuits and a new candle. ‘The richness of our life these days never ceases to astonish me,’ he said as he went up to bed.

Thomas was deep in his homework, at the kitchen table. I waited until I heard Father go through to Windsor Castle, then said quietly: ‘Come on out, I’ve got to talk to you. Bring a lantern so that we can go into the lane – I don’t want Father to hear our voices through some open window.’

We went as far as the stile, and sat on it with the lantern balanced between us. Then I told him everything – except my true reason for bearding Father; I said it was due to a sudden impulse.

‘Well, how does it sound to you?’ I finished up.

‘Perfectly awful,’ said Thomas. ‘I’m afraid he really is going crazy.’

I was taken aback. ‘Then I’ve made him sound worse than he seemed – through telling it too quickly. It was only at the very end that his manner was odd – and a bit, perhaps, when he was talking to himself, about whales and mammoths.’

‘But all those changes of manner – being furious with you one minute and then really pleasant. And when you add up all the silly things he’s been interested in lately – oh, lord, when I think of him taking that haddock bone—’ He began to laugh.

I said: ‘Don’t, Thomas – it’s like people in the eighteenth century laughing at the lunatics in Bedlam.’

‘Well, I bet I’d have laughed at them myself – things can be funny even when they’re awful, you know. But, I wonder’ – he was suddenly serious – ‘are we like Harry’s father jeering at Jacob Wrestling? Perhaps he really has something up his sleeve. Though I don’t like the sound of all those lists he’s making – it’s like taking too many notes at school; you feel you’ve achieved something when you haven’t.’

‘You mean he may never get going on the book itself.’ I was quiet for a minute, staring into the lantern, though what I saw all the time was Father’s face when he was looking humble and nervous. ‘Oh, Thomas, if he doesn’t, I think he will go out of his mind. He said he wasn’t serious about plunging into insanity, but I believe I felt he was. He may be a border-line case – madness and genius are very close to each other, aren’t they? If only we could push him the right way!’

‘Well, you haven’t made much of a start tonight,’ said Thomas, ‘you’ve just driven him to bed with a detective novel. Anyway, I’m going in. Whether Father’s sane or off his rocker, I’ve still got to do my algebra.’

‘You can make him x, the unknown quantity,’ I said. ‘I think I shall stay here for a while. Can you manage without the lantern?’

He said he could – there was quite a bit of starlight, ‘Though it won’t do you any good to sit here brooding,’ he added.

But I didn’t plan to brood. I had decided to look up the record of my talk with Simon about psycho-analysis, on the off-chance of finding something helpful; and I had no intention of letting Thomas know where my journal was hidden. I waited until I felt sure he would be back in the castle, then cut across the meadow and climbed the mound. A little cloud of white moths came all the way with me, hovering round the lantern.

It felt strange going from the warm, blowy night into the cool stillness of Belmotte Tower. As I climbed down the ladder inside I thought of being there with Simon on Midsummer Eve – as I do every time I go into the tower. Then I pulled myself together. ‘This may be your last hope of keeping your father out of a padded cell,’ I told myself severely. And by then a faint flicker of hope on my own account had re-awakened. I felt that if I once got him even started on an important book, Rose just might be persuaded to postpone her marriage – and then anything might happen.

I crawled up the crumbling staircase and brought down my bread-tin – I have used that for some time now, because ants kept getting into the attaché case. I spread my three journals out on the old iron bedstead and sat there looking through them; I could read quite well by the light from the lantern. It didn’t take me long to find the entry for May Day, with the bit about psycho-analysis.

First came the speech in which Simon said he didn’t believe Father stopped writing just because he had been in prison – that the trouble probably lay much further back. But prison might have brought it to the surface. Anyway, a psycho-analyst would certainly ask Father questions about the time he spent there – in a way, try to put him mentally back in prison. And then there was the bit about it being possible that another period of physical imprisonment might resolve the trouble. But Simon said that was unworkable as a treatment, because it couldn’t be done without Father’s consent – and if he gave it, of course he wouldn’t feel imprisoned.

There didn’t seem to be anything I could do along those lines. I glanced through another page in case I had missed something, and came to the description of Simon’s face as he lay on the grass with his eyes closed. It gave me a stab in which happiness and misery were somehow a part of each other. I closed the journal and sat staring up into the dark shaft of the tower.

And then—! Suddenly the whole plan was complete in my mind almost to the last detail. But surely I meant it as a joke then? I remember thinking how it would make Thomas laugh. It was still a joke while I put my journals away and began to climb out of the tower – I had to mount the ladder very slowly because I needed one hand for the lantern. I was halfway up when the extraordinary thing happened. Godsend church clock had begun to strike ten – and suddenly, as well as the far-off booming bell, I heard in memory the tinkling chime of Mother’s little travelling clock. And then my mind’s eye saw her face – not the photograph of it, which is what I always see when I think of her, but her face as it was. I saw her light brown hair and freckled skin – I had forgotten until then that she had freckles. And that same instant, I heard her voice in my head – after all these years of not being able to hear it. A quiet, clipped little voice it was, completely matter-of-fact. It said: ‘Do you know, dear, I believe that scheme of yours might work quite well?’ I heard my own voice answer: ‘But Mother – surely we couldn’t? It’s fantastic—’ ‘Well, your father’s quite a fantastic man,’ said Mother’s voice.

That second, a gust of wind slammed the tower door just above me, startling me so that I nearly lost my footing on the ladder. I steadied myself, then listened again for Mother’s voice, asked her questions— All I heard was the last stroke of the church clock. But my mind was made up.

I hurried back to the castle and got Thomas to come out again. To my surprise, he didn’t think my plan was as wild as I did myself – he was dead keen from the beginning, and most businesslike.

‘You give me the housekeeping money and tomorrow I’ll buy everything we need,’ he said. ‘And then we’ll do it the very next day. We’ve got to act quickly, because Topaz may be home next week.’

I didn’t mention my strange experience of being advised by Mother; I might have if he had put up any opposition to the scheme, but he never did. Do I really believe I was in touch with Mother – or was it something deep in myself choosing that way to advise me? I don’t know. I only know that it happened.

Father went to Scoatney the next morning, so there was no danger of his seeing what I was up to. By the time Thomas came home I had everything in readiness except for the few things that were too heavy for me to carry alone. He helped me with those and then we made our final plans. ‘And we must do it the first thing after breakfast,’ said Thomas, ‘or he may go off to Scoatney again.’

The minute I woke up on Thursday morning I thought: ‘I can’t go through with it. It’s dangerous – something dreadful might happen.’ And then I remembered Father saying that if he didn’t start work soon the impetus might die. All the time I was dressing I kept thinking: ‘Oh, if only I could be sure it’s the right thing to do!’ I tried to get more advice from Mother. Nothing happened. I tried praying to God. Nothing happened. I prayed to ‘Anyone who is listening, please’ – to the morning sun – to Nature, via the wheat field … At last I decided to toss for it. And just then Thomas came rushing in to say that Father wasn’t waiting until after breakfast, would be off to Scoatney at any minute – and instantly I knew that I did want to carry through our scheme, that I couldn’t bear not to.

The squeak of bicycle tyres being pumped up came in through the open window.

‘It’s too late. We’re sunk for today,’ said Thomas.

‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘Get out of the house without letting him see you – go along the walls and down the gatehouse stairs. Then dash up the mound and hide behind the tower. Be ready to help. Go on – quick!’

He bolted off and I hurried down to the courtyard, pretending to be very worried that Father was leaving without his breakfast. ‘Oh, they’ll give me some at Scoatney,’ he said airily. Then I talked about his bicycle, offering to clean it for him, telling him it needed new tyres. ‘Let me pump that back one a bit harder for you,’ I said, and kept at it until I felt Thomas would have had enough time. Then, just as I was handing the bicycle over, I remarked casually: ‘Oh, can you spare a minute to come up to Belmotte Tower? I think you may want to let someone at Scoatney know what’s been happening in there.’

‘Oh, lord, did that last heavy rain do a lot of damage?’ said Father.

‘Well, I think you’ll see quite a few changes,’ I said, with the utmost truthfulness.

We crossed the bridge and started to climb the mound.

‘One doesn’t often see an English sky as blue as this,’ he said. ‘I wonder if Simon’s agent has authority to do repairs to the tower?’

He went on chatting most pleasantly and normally. All my misgivings were rushing back; but I felt the die was cast.

‘Really, I ought to spend more time in here,’ he said as he followed me up the steps outside the tower. I opened the heavy oak door and stood back for him to pass me. He climbed down the ladder inside and stood blinking his eyes.

‘Can’t see much yet, after the sunlight,’ he called up, peering around. ‘Hello, have you been camping-out down here?’

‘One of us is going to,’ I said – then added quickly: ‘Go up the staircase a little way, will you?’

‘The crumbling’s worse, is it?’ He went through the archway and began to make his way up the stairs.

Thomas had already crept from behind the tower. I beckoned and he was beside me in a flash. Together, we dragged the ladder up and flung it down outside.

Father shouted: ‘Come and show me what you mean, Cassandra.’

‘Don’t say anything until he comes back,’ whispered Thomas.

Father called again and I still didn’t answer. After a few seconds he returned through the archway.

‘Couldn’t you hear me calling?’ he said, looking up at us. ‘Hello, Thomas, why haven’t you gone to school?’

We stared down at him. Now that the ladder had gone he seemed much further away from us; the circle of stone walls rose round him dungeonlike. He was so foreshortened that he seemed only to have a face, shoulders and feet.

‘What’s the matter? Why don’t you answer?’ he shouted.

I racked my brains to think of the most tactful way of telling him what had happened to him. At last I managed: ‘Will you please look round you, Father? It’s a sort of surprise.’

We had put the mattress from the four-poster on the old iron bedstead, with blankets and pillows. The most inviting new stationery was spread on the rustic table, with stones to use as paper-weights. We had given him the kitchen arm-chair.

‘There are washing arrangements and drinking water in the garderobe,’ I called down – my enamel jug and basin had come in handily again. ‘We think you’ll have enough light to work by, now we’ve cleared the ivy from all the lowest arrow-slits – we’ll give you a lantern at night, of course. Very good meals will be coming down in a basket – we bought a Thermos …’ I couldn’t go on – the expression on his face was too much for me. He had just taken in that the ladder wasn’t there any more.

‘Great God in heaven!’ he began – and then sat down on the bed and let out a roar of laughter. He laughed and laughed until I began to fear he would suffocate.

‘Oh, Thomas!’ I whispered. ‘Have we pushed him over to the wrong side of the border-line?’

Father mopped his eyes. ‘My dear, dear children!’ he said at last. ‘Cassandra, are you – what is it, seventeen, eighteen? Or are you eight? Bring that ladder back at once.’

‘You say something, Thomas,’ I whispered.

He cleared his throat and said very slowly and loudly:

‘We think you ought to start work, Father – for your own sake far more than for ours. And we think being shut up here may help you to concentrate – and be good for you in other ways. I assure you we’ve given the matter a lot of thought and are in line with psycho-analysis—’

‘Bring back that ladder!’ roared Father. I could see that Thomas’s weighty manner had infuriated him.

‘There’s no point in arguing,’ said Thomas, calmly. ‘We’ll leave you to get settled. You can tell us at lunch time if there are any books or papers you need for your work.’

‘Don’t you dare go away!’ Father’s voice cracked so pitifully that I said quickly:

‘Please don’t exhaust yourself by shouting for help, because there’s no one but us within miles. Oh, Father, it’s an experiment – give it a chance.’

‘But you little lunatic—’ Father began, furiously.

Thomas whispered to me: ‘I warn you, this will only develop into a brawl. Let me get the door shut.’

It was a brawl already on Father’s side. I stood back and Thomas closed the door.

‘Luncheon at one, Father,’ I called encouragingly.

We locked and bolted the door. There wasn’t the faintest chance that Father could climb up to it, but we felt the psychological effect would be good. As we went down the mound, Father’s yelling sounded surprisingly weak; by the time we reached the bridge we couldn’t hear it at all.

I said: ‘Do you think he’s fainted?’

Thomas went a little way up the mound. ‘No, I can still hear him. It’s just that the tower’s a sound-trap.’

I stared back at it. ‘Oh, Thomas, have we done something insane?’

‘Not a bit,’ said Thomas, cheerfully. ‘You know, even the change of atmosphere may be enough to help him.’

‘But to lock him in – and it used to be a dungeon! To imprison one’s father!’

‘Well, that’s the whole idea, isn’t it? Not that I set quite as much store on the psycho stuff as you do. Personally, I think knowing he won’t be let out until he’s done some work is almost more important.’

‘That’s nonsense,’ I said. ‘If it doesn’t come right psychologically – from the depths of Father – it won’t come right at all. You can’t trammel the creative mind.’

‘Why not?’ said Thomas. ‘His creative mind’s been un-trammelled for years without doing a hand’s-turn. Let’s see what trammelling does for it.’

We went indoors and had breakfast – it seemed awful that Father was starting his adventure on an empty stomach, but I knew we should be making that up to him soon. Then I wrote to Thomas’s school to say he would be indisposed for a few days, and went up to make the beds. Thomas kindly undertook the dusting.

‘Hello!’ he said suddenly. ‘Look at this!’

The key to the gatehouse room was lying on Father’s dressing-table.

‘Let’s go in and have a look at those lists you told me about,’ said Thomas.

As we climbed the gatehouse stairs I said: ‘Oh, Thomas, is it like spying?’

‘Yes, of course it is,’ said Thomas, unlocking the door.

I suddenly felt frightened as well as guilty – it was as if part of Father’s mind was still in the room and furious with us for intruding. Sunlight was streaming through the south window. The ‘comic strips’ were still tacked to the bookshelves, Mother’s little clock was ticking away on the desk. But the lists weren’t there any longer – and the desk was locked.

I was glad we couldn’t find anything. I felt worse about snooping round his room than about locking him up in the tower.

Thomas stayed to read the comic strips while I began preparation for Father’s lunch. At one o’clock we took it out in a basket – soup in a Thermos, chicken salad, strawberries and cream, and a cigar (ninepence).

‘I wonder if we’re right to pamper him with this rich food,’ said Thomas as we started up the mound. ‘Bread and water would create the prison atmosphere better.’

Everything was quiet when we got up to the tower. We unlocked the door and looked down. Father was lying on the bed, staring upwards.

‘Hello,’ he said, in a perfectly pleasant voice.

I was astounded – and still more so when he smiled at us. Of course I smiled back, and said I hoped he had a good appetite.

Thomas began to lower the basket on a length of clothes-line.

‘It’s only a light luncheon, so that it won’t make you sleepy,’ I explained. ‘There’ll be a bigger meal tonight – with wine.’ I noticed he had already got himself a drink of water, which looked as if he were settling down a bit.

He thanked Thomas most politely for the basket and spread the contents out on the table; then smiled up at us.

‘This is superb,’ he said, in his most genial voice. ‘Now, listen, you comics: I’ve had a long, quiet morning to think in – it’s really been most pleasant, lying here watching the sky. I’m perfectly sincere when I say that I’m touched at your doing this to try to help me. And I’m not at all sure you haven’t succeeded. It’s been stimulating; I’ve had one or two splendid ideas. It’s been a success – do you understand? But the novelty has worn off now – if you keep me here any longer, you’ll undo your good work. Now I’m going to eat this delightful luncheon, and then you’re going to bring back the ladder – aren’t you?’ His voice quavered on the ‘aren’t you?’ ‘And I swear there’ll be no reprisals,’ he finished.

I looked at Thomas to see what he made of this. He just said, woodenly: ‘Any books or papers you want, Father?’

‘No, there aren’t!’ shouted Father, his bonhomie suddenly departing. ‘All I want is to get out.’

Thomas slammed the door.

‘Dinner at seven,’ I called – but I doubt if Father heard me as he was yelling louder than when we first locked him in. I hoped it wouldn’t ruin his appetite.

I spent the early part of the afternoon reading the comic strips – you start by thinking they are silly, but they grow on you. Then I got everything ready for Father’s meal – it was to be a full dinner, not just glorified tea: melon, cold salmon (we put it down the well to get it really cold), tinned peaches, cheese and biscuits, a bottle of white wine (three shillings), coffee and another ninepenny cigar. And about an egg-cup full of port which I still had in the medicine bottle.

We carried it all out on trays just as Godsend church clock struck seven. It was a glorious, peaceful evening. Soon after we crossed the bridge we could hear Father yelling.

‘Have you been wearing yourself out by shouting all afternoon?’ I said, when Thomas had opened the door.

‘Pretty nearly,’ said Father – his voice sounded very hoarse. ‘Someone’s bound to pass through the fields sooner or later.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Thomas. ‘The hay’s all in and Mr Stebbins isn’t cutting his wheat for some weeks yet. Anyway, your voice doesn’t carry beyond the mound. If you’ll re-pack the lunch basket, I’ll haul it up and send your dinner down.’

I expected Father to rave but he didn’t even reply; and he at once began to do what Thomas had suggested. His movements were very awkward and jerky. He had taken off his coat and undone his collar, which gave him a pathetic look – rather as if he were ready to be led out to execution.

‘We must bring him pyjamas and a dressing-gown for tonight,’ I whispered to Thomas.

Father heard me and jerked his head upwards. ‘If you leave me here all night I shall go out of my mind – I mean it, Cassandra. This – this sense of imprisonment, I’d forgotten how shocking it can be. Don’t you know what it does to people – being shut up in small spaces? Haven’t you heard of claustrophobia?’

‘There’s plenty of space upwards,’ I said, as firmly as I could. ‘And you never suffer from claustrophobia when you lock yourself in the gatehouse.’

‘But it’s different when someone else locks you in.’ His voice cracked. ‘Oh, you damned little idiots – let me out! Let me out!’

I felt dreadful, but Thomas seemed quite unconcerned. He hauled up the basket Father had filled, took out the plates and dishes, and put the dinner in. I think he knew I was weakening, because he whispered: ‘We’ve got to go through with it now. You leave it to me.’ Then he lowered the basket and called down, firmly:

‘We’ll let you out just as soon as you’ve written something – say fifty pages.’

‘I never wrote fifty pages in less than three months even when I could write,’ said Father, his voice cracking worse than ever. Then he flopped into the arm-chair and gripped his head with his hands.

‘Just unpack your dinner, will you?’ said Thomas. ‘You’d better take the coffee-pot out first.’

Father looked up and his whole face went suddenly scarlet. Then he made a dive at the dinner basket, and the next second a plate flew past my head. A fork whizzed through the door just before we got it closed. Then we heard crockery breaking against it.

I sat down on the steps and burst into tears. Father croaked: ‘My God, are you hurt, Cassandra?’ I put my face close to the crack under the door and called: ‘No, I’m perfectly all right. But please, please don’t throw all your dinner dishes until you’ve eaten what’s on them. Oh, won’t you just try to write, Father? Write anything, – write “The cat sat on the mat” if you like. Anything, as long as you write!’

Then I cried harder than ever. Thomas pulled me to my feet and steered me down the steps.

‘We ought never to have done it,’ I sobbed as we went down the mound. ‘I shall let him out tonight even if he kills us.’

‘No, you won’t – remember your oath.’ We had sworn not to give in until both of us agreed to it. ‘I’m not weakening yet. We’ll see how he is after dinner.’

As soon as the daylight began to fade, Thomas got the pyjamas and dressing-gown, and lit a lantern. There wasn’t a sound as we approached the tower.

‘Oh, Thomas – suppose he’s dashed his head against the wall!’ I whispered. And then a faint, reassuring smell of cigar smoke was wafted to us.

When we opened the door, Father was sitting at the table with his back towards us. He turned round with the cigar in one hand and a pencil in the other.

‘Your brilliant idea’s done the trick!’ he cried, hoarsely but happily. ‘The miracle’s happened! I’ve begun!’

‘Oh, how wonderful!’ I gasped.

Thomas said in a level, most unexuberant voice: ‘That’s splendid, Father. May we see what you’ve written?’

‘Certainly not – you wouldn’t understand a word of it. But I assure you I’ve made a start. Now let me out.’

‘It’s a ruse,’ Thomas whispered.

I said: ‘How many pages have you written, Father?’

‘Well, not many – the light’s been very bad down here for the last hour—’

‘You’ll be all right with the lantern,’ said Thomas, beginning to lower it.

Father took it, and then said in a perfectly reasonable tone: ‘Thomas, I give you my word I have begun work – look, you can see for yourself.’ He held a sheet of paper close to the lantern, then whisked it away. ‘Cassandra, you write yourself, so you’ll understand that one’s first draft can be – well, not always convincing. Damn it, I’ve only started since dinner! An excellent dinner, by the way; thank you very much. Now hurry up with the ladder – I want to get back to the gatehouse and work all night.’

‘But you’re in an ideal place to work all night,’ said Thomas. ‘Moving to the gatehouse would only disrupt you. Here are your pyjamas and dressing-gown. I’ll come along early in the morning. Goodnight, Father.’ He threw the clothes down, shut the door, and took me firmly by the elbow. ‘Come on, Cassandra.’

I went without argument. I didn’t believe Father was bluffing, I believed our cure really had begun to work; but I thought it ought to have time to ‘take’. And with Father in that sane, controlled mood, I was quite willing to leave him there for the night.

‘But we’ve got to keep guard,’ I said, ‘in case he sets fire to his bedding, or something.’

We divided the night into watches. I slept – not very well – until two; then took over from Thomas. I went up the mound every hour, but the only thing I heard was a faint snore round about five o’clock.

I woke Thomas at seven this morning, intending to go up with him for the first visit of the day; but he slipped off on his own while I was in Windsor Castle. I met him coming back across the bridge. He said all was well and Father had been pleased with the bucket of nice hot water he had taken up. ‘And I’m beginning to believe he really is working – he was certainly writing when I opened the door. He’s calm, and he’s getting much more co-operative – he had all his dinner things packed in the basket ready for me. And he says he’d like his breakfast now.’

Each time we have gone up with meals today, he has been writing like mad. He still asks to be let out, but without wasting much breath on it. And when we took the lantern this evening, he said: ‘Come on, come on – I’ve been held up for that.’ Surely, surely he wouldn’t carry on a bluff for so long? I would have let him out tonight, but Thomas says he must show us some of his work first.

It is now nearly four o’clock in the morning. I didn’t wake Thomas at two because I wanted to bring this entry up to date; and the poor boy is sleeping so exhaustedly – he is on the sofa here. He didn’t think there was any need for us to keep watch tonight, but I insisted – apart from the fear of anything happening to Father, the barometer is falling. Could we remain adamant if it rained heavily?

Thomas is firmer than I am. He sent an umbrella down with the lantern.

I have looked out of the south window every hour – our main reason for choosing the gatehouse to spend the night in is that we can see Belmotte Tower through one window and keep a watch on the lane through the other. Though who would come to the castle in the middle of the night? No one, no one. And yet I feel like a sentinel on guard.

Men must have kept guard in this gatehouse six hundred years ago …

I have just had another look at the tower. The moon is shining full on it now. I had a queer feeling that it was more than inanimate stones. Does it know that it is playing a part in life again – that its dungeon once more encircles a sleeping prisoner?

Four o’clock now. Mother’s little clock is beginning to seem alive in its own right – a small, squat, busy person a few inches from my hand.

How heavily Thomas is sleeping! Watching sleeping people makes one feel more separate than ever from them.

Heloïse is chasing rabbits through her dreams – she gives little nose-whimpers, her paws keep twitching. Ab honoured us with his company till midnight; now he is out hunting under the moon.

Surely we must let Father out tomorrow – even if he still won’t show us his work? His upturned face looked so strange as he took the lantern from us last night – almost saintlike, as if he had been seeing visions.

Perhaps it was only because he needed a shave.

Shall I wake Thomas now this journal is up to date? I don’t feel at all sleepy. I am going to put the lamp out and sit in the moonlight …

I can still see well enough to write. I remember writing by moonlight the night I started my journal. What a lot has happened since then!

I shall think of Simon now. Now? As if I didn’t think of him all the time! Even while I have been so worried about Father, a voice in my heart has kept saying: ‘But nothing really matters to you but Simon.’ Oh, if only Rose will break her engagement off, surely he will turn to me some day?

There is actually a car on the Godsend road! It is strange to watch the headlights and wonder who is driving through the night.

Oh, heavens! The car has turned into our lane! Oh, what am I to do?

Keep calm, keep calm – it has only taken the wrong turning. It will back out, or at worst turn round when it gets to the castle. But people who get as far as the castle usually stop to stare at it – and if Father has heard the car, could his voice possibly carry? It just might, in the still night air. Oh, go back, go back!

It is coming on and on. I feel like someone keeping a journal to the last second of an approaching catastrophe—

The catastrophe has happened. Simon and Topaz are getting out of the car.