The Girl in a Swing by Richard Adams

and gave my entire attention up to Kathe. She was

  following the Confession silently in her prayer book.

  '... provoking most justly thy wrath and indignation

  against us.' At this she gave a quick, low sob, and for a few

  seconds buried her face in her hands. Then, with the air of

  someone strained to the utmost and making every endeavour

  not to break down, she turned back to the book.

  '... The remembrance of them is grievous unto us. The

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  burden of them is intolerable. Have mercy upon us, Have

  mercy upon us ...'

  Tears were coursing down the one cheek that I could see.

  I was within an ace of asking the verger to help me to cornpel

  her to go out; yet I remained kneeling beside her as Tony

  spoke the comfortable words and proceeded with the service

  to the conclusion of the Prayer of Consecration.

  '... Do this, as oft as ye shall drink it, in remembrance of

  me.'

  Tony had another little practice, by which he was accustomed

  to indicate to his communicants the moment to

  come forward. He would spread his arms and say, 'Come, for

  all things are now ready.' He said it now, and at once, like

  someone consumed with tension and haste, Kathe got up

  and went quickly towards the altar. Being the first to get

  there, she knelt down at the right-hand end of the rails,

  while I, following her, knelt immediately to her left.

  I now had a sudden, happy idea. What a fool I'd been not

  to have thought of it before! But after all, I hadn't had much

  previous experience. Of course! It was her condition that

  was the real cause of her emotional state. This, though still

  distressing, at least explained the situation and why she was

  so unlike herself.

  I whispered, 'Are you feeling sick?' but she made no reply

  as Tony approached with the paten.

  'The body of Our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given for

  thee ... Take and eat this in remembrance that Christ died

  for thee ...'

  Concluding, he placed the wafer in Kathe's cupped hands

  and moved on to me. Swallowing my wafer and glancing

  sideways once more, I saw her hands tightly closed at her

  sides, lips set and chin pressed to her chest, and offered up

  a wordless prayer for her comfort and help.

  Tony returned to the altar, picked up the chalice and came

  back to us.

  'The Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for

  thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life. Drink

  this in remembrance that Christ's Blood was shed for thee,

  and be thankful.'

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  He gave the chalice to Kathe.

  The next moment, so suddenly that no one could anticipate

  it, Kathe, clutching the full chalice, collapsed on the floor

  and lay senseless. The wine spilled over the rails, over my

  clothes, over the kneeler and Kathe's skirt. One or two

  people further along started to their feet. I heard a woman's

  high-pitched voice, 'Oh God, what's happened?'

  Kathe was sprawling face down. Disregarding the spilled

  wine, I lifted her by the shoulders and turned her on her

  back, and as I did so her left hand, which had been clenched

  under her body, fell open. In it was the wafer she had been

  given. I picked it up quickly and swallowed it, hoping no

  one else had noticed.

  Tony could hardly have handled the situation better. While

  a red-haired man whom I did not know was helping me to lift

  Kathe, he turned to the other communicants and said quietly

  and authoritatively, 'Our Lord would wish us to take first

  things first. May I ask you all to go back to your places,

  please, and wait quietly until we're able to go on with the

  service?' Then he and the verger helped the two of us to carry

  Kathe bodily out of the church.

  As we reached the car he said, 'I'm terribly sorry, Alan;

  but I do hope you won't feel too upset. I'm sure it's nothing

  serious. People quite often faint in church, you know. She'll

  be all right when she gets home. You'll understand I've got to

  go back now, but I'll ring up as soon as I can.'

  At this moment Kathe gave a low moan, half-opened her

  eyes and looked about her in obvious confusion and distress.

  The red-haired man supported her while I opened the nearside

  door of the car, and together we settled her on the front

  seat. Tony, saying, 'Good. I'm sure she'll be feeling better

  soon,' put his hand for a moment on my shoulder. Then he

  and the verger went back to the church.

  The red-haired man said, 'Would you like me to come

  with you?' and I, feeling I'd probably get on better without

  him, replied, 'No, thanks. It's very good of you and I'm

  grateful, but I think it'll probably be best if I just take her

  straight home myself.'

  'Sure you'll be able to manage?' he asked, no doubt

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  anxious not to feel that he had not done everything he could.

  'Oh, yes, she'll be all right now,' I replied, nodding three or

  four times to convince him that I was quite clear about it.

  He remained standing in the road while I backed out, and

  raised a hand in acknowledgement as I drove away.

  I dare say he thought she was epileptic. I never heard

  what they did about the wine.

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  WHEN we were out of sight of the church and about halfway

  down West Mills I stopped the car, took Kathe's hand

  and asked, 'How do you feel now, darling? Any better?'

  She was slumped in the seat - huddled up, head bowed,

  arms crossed on her breast, like some poor old woman

  hurrying home on a winter's night. She did not answer at

  once. At length she whispered, 'I wasn't feeling ill. I wasn't

  ill.'

  'Well, light-headed - not yourself - whatever it was. Don't

  worry, I'll look after you. Would you like a little stroll along

  the towpath - get some fresh air - or shall we just go home?'

  She seemed about to reply, but then began to sob, staring

  sightlessly past me towards the other side of the road and

  the swallows flashing darkly up and down the length of the

  Kennet. I wanted to say, 'Come on, now, pull yourself together,'

  or something conventional of the sort, but this

  weeping possessed a kind of distance and dignity which

  silenced me. So might Clytemnestra, I thought, have wept

  alone in the palace, both for the past and for what was appointed

  to come. I could not intrude upon this grief like

  some bustling old nanny. It must burn itself out; then,

  perhaps, I might be able to get through to her. I started the

  car again and drove home in silence.

  She seemed almost unaware of her surroundings. Walking

  slowly into the house, she sat down on the sofa and continued

  to cry as though it made no difference where she was

  or who was with her. I couldn't think what the hell to do. If

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  this was an early symptom of pregnancy, it went beyond

  anything I'd ever heard of. Could it be some kind of nervous

  breakdown? What exactly was a ner
vous breakdown, anyway?

  I remembered my father once saying, 'I don't think you

  can define it exactly, but what I call a nervous breakdown is

  when someone can't keep up appearances any more - gets

  past caring what other people see or think.'

  I went and got the thermometer. She made no resistance indeed,

  she did not react at all - as I put it into her mouth.

  I said, 'Under your^ tongue, dear, properly,' and she nodded

  without looking at me. I timed the minute and took the

  thermometer out. Her temperature was normal.

  I went into the kitchen and made some coffee. When I

  came back she had stopped crying and was staring before

  her, twisting her handkerchief between her fingers.

  I said, 'Come on, Kathe, you drink this up and you'll feel

  better.' She took the cup and drank it straight down, as

  though to do what I asked was the easiest way of being left

  alone.

  I knelt on the floor beside her and put an arm round her

  shoulders.

  'Listen, darling, whatever it is, it can't be as bad as all

  that. You say you love me, and you know how much I love

  you. It's upsetting and worrying for me to see you in this

  state. Think of all our blessings; think how happy and lucky

  we are. You're in Bull Banks; the castle, where nothing can

  get in to hurt us, remember? And you're my beautiful Kathe,

  the most wonderful lover in the world, who found the Girl

  in a Swing. Look at her, over there in the cabinet! Go on,

  look! We're going to be rich, and you're going to have our

  baby, and whatever's past is past.'

  After a long pause she answered, 'It isn't. O God, I'm so

  frightened!'

  'But what of, Kathe? What of, for heaven's sake? You

  must tell me! It's what I'm here for!'

  I raised her to her feet, led her out into the sunny garden

  and walked her down the length of the herbaceous border,

  where the bees were already lumbering about among the

  snapdragons and Canterbury bells.

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  'Come on, now,' I said. 'Look round, and tell me the names

  of everything you can see. Look!'

  She only clung to me, burying her face on my shoulder.

  'Schatten!' she whispered. 'Shadows! ^Coming closer!'

  'Damn it, I will get to the bottom of this! Did you quarrel

  with your parents and leave home? Or did you treat some

  other lover badly in K0benhavn? What was it?'

  She shook her head.

  'Well, then, did you steal some money at work, or cheat

  somebody? Things like that can be put right, you know. We

  can get in touch - we can return the money anonymously.

  And as for me, Kathe, I told you before, I wouldn't mind

  about anything, anything you've done. Nothing could alter

  my love for you!'

  At length, faced with her listlessness and lack of response

  - lack of hope, even, it seemed - I led her indoors again and

  took her upstairs to lie down. She was amenable to whatever

  I suggested, seeming, like a sick animal, to be seeking no

  alleviation, to be indifferent to everything and to want only

  to apply herself to the all-demanding business of suffering.

  That she was mercurial, that she often used to act up and

  play a part for effect - this much, of course, I knew well.

  But this, now, was neither acting nor exaggerated. From time

  to time she shuddered spasmodically, and seemed to cower

  on the bed. Then she would lie still, breathing slowly, her

  eyes anywhere but on mine.

  I had been sitting silently beside her for perhaps half an

  hour when she said, as though speaking to someone else,

  'I was a fool to think I could go there.'

  I didn't reply. It was not for me to coax or importune her.

  What I had to say I had said and she had heard. All I could

  do now was to stay with her.

  During the morning the telephone rang several times.

  People had heard, of course, what had happened at church

  and rang up to inquire and to offer sympathy. I told Tony

  that Kathe was better now, but lying down for the morning;

  and apologized for the trouble we had given him. 'My fault,'

  he said, with typical generosity. 'I ought to have noticed,

  when she came forward, that she wasn't herself.'

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  Mrs Stannard, always one to put two and two together,

  said, kindly enough, 'Perhaps you ought not really to have

  taken her to early service, Alan, my dear. I'd look after her

  very carefully for the next few weeks, if I were you. Give her

  my love, won't you? But now I'm on, I simply must ask you

  about your mother. I saw it in the Newbury News and I

  just couldn't believe my eyes! Do tell me -'

  All that afternoon I sat in the bedroom; sometimes reading,

  sometimes watching, out of the window, the birds in

  the garden and the great cumulus clouds drifting over Cottington's

  Clump. I went downstairs and got a meal - I can't

  remember what - and Kathe ate it, still like one for whom

  to comply is easier than to resist. Later, I brought up my

  tweezers, vice and other equipment and passed the time in

  tying trout flies.

  About half-past six, as the shadows of the cypress and the

  silver birch were lengthening across the lawn, she sat up,

  held out her arms to me and said, 'Alan, come here.'

  I went and sat on the bed and she embraced me, her hands

  gently stroking my body.

  'What I have, I have. Why,' she said suddenly, with surprise,

  'I'm still in my clothes! You didn't undress me?'

  'I thought you'd undress if you wanted to.'

  'Undress me now.' She stood up. 'Do you remember, in the

  hotel, when I asked you to undress me, and you thought I

  wanted you to make love to me?'

  'I know you better now, don't I?'

  'No, you don't. I want you to make love to me.'

  Not surprisingly, at that moment I felt little enough

  spontaneous desire, but if she was feeling less wretched, and

  returning from that sad, remote place where she had spent

  the day, I would be a fool to let her down. Making love was

  her way of responding to everything - a homecoming, a

  symphony, fine weather - even misery, so it seemed.

  For half an hour and more she made love with a kind of

  expert deliberation - not coldly, indeed; she was never cold

  - but as though determined to omit nothing, no voluptuous

  trick, no caress, no embrace. Absorbed and in pleasure she

  was indeed, but neither joyous nor gay, gazing gravely into

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  my eyes as she provoked me, invited me, urged me on and

  held me back like some accomplished courtesan using all

  her skill to gratify a king. When at last she could restrain

  herself no longer she cried out fiercely, beating her fist on my

  back and, as I spent myself in her, gripping me in arms and

  legs as though to crush me. Then, releasing me as I fell

  away from her, she stood up and cried out with a kind of

  defiance, 'I don't care! I don't care! I love Alan!' burst into a

  torrent of tears, flung herself down on the bed and in a few

&n
bsp; minutes was fast asleep.

  I slept too; and dreamt that we were fugitives in a country

  of hills. Every time we tried to descend the vague, shadowy

  pursuers were waiting and we would turn back into the

  height and solitude, knowing that in the end hunger would

  force us down.

  We .woke together, or so it seemed. It was quarter past one

  and I was ravenously hungry. We went downstairs, fried eggs

  and bacon and made tea. I felt calm and cheerful now and

  Kathe seemed cheerful too, though with a kind of hesitancy,

  as though gaiety were ice and she were testing it to see

  whether it would bear her.

  Finishing the last of her fried bread she leaned back,

  patting her belly and mimicking some gluttonous old burgomaster

  at the end of a German dinner.

  'Das ist gut, so!'

  I laid my hand beside hers.

  'That's going to be a lot bigger before long. Won't it be

  splendid? Oh, Kathe, you've got everything going for you!

  It's silly to be unhappy! Do you know what I believe? I believe

  you're subject to that barmy German melancholia Sorrows

  of Werther, Schone Miillerin, "Da unten die kuhle

  Ruh" - all that stuff. You know, the girl we had in the office

  before Mrs Taswell used to have a poker-work notice on the

  wall, "Cheer up, it may never happen." I must get you one.'

  'Vielleicht. Oh, I feel sleepy again now. Take me back to

  bed.'

  Next morning she complained of a headache and proved to

  have a temperature of just under 100?. I was due to drive

  over to Abingdon to see that same dealer from whom she had

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  bought the Staffordshire teapot. However, Monday was not

  one of Mrs Spencer's days and although normally I might

  have been content to leave Kathe to get rid of a temperature

  by herself, I thought it better not to do so just now. There

  were several business letters I could write by hand without

  reference to office papers, and notes of their gist would be

  enough for Mrs Taswell's files (such as those were). There

  were also three or four telephone calls that could just as

  easily be made from Bull Banks as from Northbrook Street.

  'Kathe, darling, would you like me to tall the doctor?'

  'Ach, nein, poor doctor - what could he do - give me an

  aspirin? I've just caught your little trouble from last week,

  Alan. It'll leave me as soon as it did you. Give me the wireless

  and the Radio Times and I'll be easy, so.'

  Indeed, after lunch she seemed so easy that I decided to

  go over to Abingdon after all. Having rung up the shop and

  learned from Deirdre that all was well ('Quiet's an old cow

  all mornin', Mistralan') I set out. It proved a successful trip

  - two or three useful purchases - and I returned in good

  spirits to find Kathe playing the piano in her dressing-gown.

  'You ought not to be up! Go back to bed!'

  'You come too, then.'

  'No. You're ill. You've got a temperature.'

  'Oh, f'ff! It's normal now. I took it.'

  'Well, maybe, but getting up too soon's the way to send it

  up again.'

  'Ich bin im Schloss! Always I'm safe with you, Alan! Who

  was that fellow you told me about who went into his castle

  and said they couldn't get him - that Shakespeare man?'

  'Macbeth. And look what happened to him. You just go

  back to bed, now.'

  'Make some tea, then, and bring up the tin of biscuits.'

  About quarter past eight we were playing picquet when

  the door bell rang.

  '- And fourteen knaves.'

  'Ach, gut! I thought you would have thrown one away.'

  'Twenty-two. Oh, blast, who can that be?'

  'Tony?'

  'No, he never rings the bell. He just comes in.'

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  r

  'Mrs Stannard, perhaps, come to see if her little idea's

  the right one?'

  'Hardly at this time of day. Oh, well, I'd better go and find

  out, I suppose.'

  I went downstairs and opened the front door. On the step

  stood Mrs Taswell.

  'Good gracious, Mrs Taswell! Er - how nice to see you!

  What brings you here? Nothing wrong, I hope?'

  'Well, I hope not, Mr Desland. I've brought the letters

  for you to sign - the ones you dictated on Friday. You remember

  you said you wanted to sign them to-day. So as you

  didn't come in to the shop -'

  'Good Lord, you shouldn't have bothered yourself to come

  all the way up here just for that! To-morrow would have been

  perfectly all right.'

  'It's no trouble at all, Mr Desland. As you know, I always

  like to do things properly. I've got the letters here.'

  'But you could have rung up! I'd have come down to the