The Death of the Heart - Elizabeth Bowen [107]
Portia, looking through the bars of the window, said: "It was a pity you couldn't wash the rockery."
"Well, we did spray that ivy, but that doesn't go far, and those tomcats are always after the ferns."
"I did imagine you busy—but not so busy, Matchett."
"I don't see you had call to imagine anybody, not with all you were up to with them there." (This, though worded sharply, was not said sharply: all the time Matchett spoke she was knitting; there was something pacific about the click-click-click.) "You don't want to be in two places, not at your age. You be at the seaside when you're at the seaside. You keep your imaginings till you need them. Come a spring like this one we've been having, out of sight out of mind should be good enough. Oh, it has been a lovely spring for the airing—down at Mrs. Quayne's, I'd have had my mattresses out."
"But I thought about you. Didn't you think of me?"
"Now when do you suppose I'd have had a minute? If you had have been here, you'd have been under my feet one worse than Mr. and Mrs. Thomas if they hadn't gone away. No, and don't you say to me that you went round moping, either: you had your fill of company where you were, and I've no doubt there were plenty of goings on. Not that you've got much to tell; you keep it all to yourself. However, that's always your way,"
"You didn't ask me; you were still so busy. This is the first time you've listened. And now I don't know where to begin."
"Oh, well, take your time: you've got the rest of the summer," said Matchett, glancing at the clock. "I must say, they've sent you back with a colour. I can't see that this change has done you harm. Nor the shake-up either: you were getting too quiet. I never saw such a quiet girl, for your age. Not that that Mrs. Heccomb, poor thing, could teach anyone to say bo. All I've ever heard her say to Mrs. Thomas was yes. But the rest of them down there sound a rough lot. Did you have enough stockings?"
"Yes, thank you. But I'm afraid I cut the knees out of one pair. I was running, and I fell smack on the esplanade."
"And what made you run, may I ask?"
"Oh, the sea air."
"Oh, it did, did it?" said Matchett. "It made you run." Without a pause in her knitting, she half lifted her eyelids, enough to let her look stay tilted, through space, at nothing particular. How far apart in space these two existences, hers and Portia's, had been for the last weeks; how far apart they still were. You never quite know when you may hope to repair the damage done by going away. Removing one foot cumbrously from the rung of the chair, Matchett hooked with it at the ball of pink knitting wool which had been rolling away. Portia got off the table, picked the ball of wool up and handed it back to Matchett. She said boldly: "Is that bedsock for you?"
Matchett's half nod was remote, extremely unwilling. No one knew that she slept, that she went to bed: at nights she just disappeared. Portia knew she had trespassed; she said quickly: "Daphne knitted. She used to knit at the library. Mrs. Heccomb could knit, but she used to paint lamp shades more."
"And what did you do?"
"Oh, I went on with my puzzle."
"That wasn't much of a treat."
"But it was a new puzzle, and I only did that when I wasn't doing anything. You know how it is—"
"No, I don't, and I'm not asking, and I don't want mysteries made."
"There's no mystery, except what I've forgotten."
"You don't have to say; I'm not asking you. What you do's all one on a holiday. Now it's all over, get it out of your head—I see you've worn the elbows out of that blazer. I told Mrs. Thomas that wouldn't be wearing stuff. Did you use your velvet, or was I wrong to pack it?"
"No, I wore my velvet. I—"
"Oh, they dress for their dinner, then?"
"No, I wore it for their party. It was a dance."
"I did ought to have packed your organdie, then. But I didn't want it to crush, and sea air limpens the pleats out. I daresay your velvet did."
"Yes, Matchett: it was admired."
"Well, it's better than they'd see: it's got a nice cut."
"You know, Matchett, I did enjoy myself."
Matchett gave another sideways look at the clock, as though admonishing time to hurry for its own sake. Her air became more non-committal than ever; she appeared to be hypnotised by the speed of her knitting, and, at the same time, for her own private pleasure, to be humming an inaudible tune. After about a minute, she receipted Portia's remark with an upward jerk of the chin. But the remark had, by that time, already wilted in the below stairs dusk of this room