‘You are too severe. “It is as it is, and must always be.”’
‘Well, that sounds clever. But it isn’t.’
‘It comes from the Story.’
‘It must be a very stupid story then, if it stops you doing what you want so often.’
It was as though she had slapped him in the face. His expression instantly hardened.
‘As you say, my Lady,’ he said stiffly. He bowed, then turned on his heel and walked off swiftly into the crowd.
Rosalind was horrified. She had done it again. What was it about her? Every time she started talking to someone, sooner or later they took offence. She knew quite well that it wasn’t only in this weird place that things like that happened. Not many people liked her at school either. She had few friends. Everyone thought she was horrid.
And she wasn’t. She really wasn’t. Why was it that no one ever saw how hard she was trying all the time? How much she wanted people to like her? She had loved the last couple of hours, because she had thought that finally she was getting it right. Then she had ruined it, and he was so nice. So tall. So...
She would apologise. She would run after him and explain. Make him like her again.
She hurried after him. But he had vanished.
Five minutes later she was quite lost. She had marched off with determination in the right direction and left the golden, illuminated area in which the Festivity was set. It was now dark, and she could scarcely see, but she thought she could make out a narrow track, a slightly lighter grey on the ground. She waited until her eyes were more used to the gloom — trying the trick her uncle had told her about, of looking out of the corner of her eyes so she could see better. It must, she decided, be the way Pamarchon had gone. She would follow. She took a few steps, tripped, then stopped. There was no possibility of walking any proper distance in those shoes. She paused and took them off, then picked up the long flowing dress so it wouldn’t get dirty and — looking no doubt a bit ridiculous — strode off in the direction of the woods, looming up dark and a little menacing, a few hundred yards ahead of her.
She walked for about twenty minutes, her resolution slowly ebbing away. It was not that she was frightened of the woods, but it was getting colder and her determination to find the tall young man who had held her so nicely dimmed as the memory of him also faded. So much had happened in the past few hours, it was difficult to believe that it wasn’t some sort of dream. A dream inside a dream, in fact. But can you dream of dreaming?
An interesting if useless thought, and minor in comparison to the realisation that she was lost. Apart from the moon glimmering through the overhanging trees it was pitch black. There was no sound except the hooting of owls in the distance and the more worrying rustles in the undergrowth. She didn’t know whether to go on or turn back or even which was which. Her dress — her beautiful dress, which wasn’t even hers — kept snagging on brambles.
Get a grip, she told herself. Think. She tried that, but nothing came except a slow curiosity as she dimly noticed, a little way to her left, a faint, unusual noise. Forgetting about the dress, she crashed through the trees in the right direction. The noise got louder and louder until, just in front of a large oak tree, she saw a hazy rectangular area that was slightly lighter than the surrounding darkness. It was the way home.
Of course she should rush straight through; it might disappear. But to leave this wonderful place where people thought she was so interesting? To go back to the rain and the cold and the pork chops and homework? Could she not just wait, just another hour or so?
Oh, she was tempted. But before she could make up her mind she heard a sad, plaintive noise. She recognised it, or thought she did.
‘Jenkins?’ she called out in amazement. ‘Jenkins? Is that you?’
Another yowl came from the bushes, and she tiptoed over. ‘Jenkins?’
It was Professor Lytten’s cat, but how transformed from the last time she had seen him! Only the malevolent gaze reassured her that it was indeed Jenkins, who rushed towards her like a long-lost friend, curling himself around her ankles with every sign of relief. He even purred. Rosalind bent down and picked the beast up, cradling him in her arms as he erupted into a positive symphony of delight. ‘How you’ve changed! You’ve lost so much weight. Don’t worry, you’re safe now.’
Except that he wasn’t, any more than she was. Jenkins’s sudden appearance made up her mind. She had a duty to get him back home. For some reason it seemed more important than to get back herself. At least he wouldn’t be shouted at.
Still cradling the cat, she walked up to the thin light, took a deep breath and stepped through.
27
As he rattled up Walton Street on his way back from the railway station, Henry Lytten wanted nothing more than to get home, draw the curtains and shut out the entire world. He propped the old bike against the wall beside the house, picked the little bag out of the pannier at the front and gratefully, blessedly, opened his front door. Then, dropping everything into a pile on the floor of the dingy entrance, he went into his study. There he found Rosie, sitting in his armchair, looking at him.
‘Good heavens! You made me jump,’ he said. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘I found Jenkins,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d like to know.’
He thought about that, then went into the kitchen to put the kettle on and came back again.
‘Have you been eating in my kitchen?’
‘I was hungry,’ she said, ‘and I didn’t want to go home.’
‘Why not?’
‘Look at me.’
Lytten obeyed; he rarely looked closely at women, and then he realised with a jolt that that was exactly what he was looking at. When he had left four days earlier, Rosie had been a gawky, awkward, girlish creature. What on earth had happened to her? Her hair was shorter and darker, her eyebrows... had they been plucked? Her nails were painted, her skin looked as though it had been polished. Even the way she sat and moved had changed.
‘I see what you mean,’ he said.
‘I’m going to get absolute hell from my parents, so I’ve sort of run away for a bit. This is the only place I could think of coming. And you should see Jenkins,’ she added. ‘He looks as though he has been on a long walking holiday in the mountains. I almost didn’t recognise him.’
Lytten grunted. ‘You’d better show me.’
Rosie led the way up to the spare bedroom, the one rarely used except as Jenkins’s morning boudoir. It was obvious that she had also used it last night.
On the bed lay a fine figure of a feline stretched out contentedly and snoring. ‘God bless my soul!’ Lytten exclaimed when he saw it. Jenkins was indeed transformed. Thin, sleek, healthy-looking, everything a cat should be and Jenkins never had been. His cat, he thought, had been born obese. ‘How on earth did that happen? Are you sure it’s him?’ He went over to inspect the beast, which rolled over in its sleep and hissed unpleasantly. ‘Yes, that’s him. Extraordinary. What do you think happened? More importantly, what has happened to you?’
Then the doorbell went again. Really, life was simply too much sometimes.
He opened the door, an air of distracted thought about him that was mingled only with a slight impatience at being disturbed by the tweedy but still quite beautiful lady standing there with a shopping bag by her feet.
‘How lovely to see you! I was just passing,’ she said. ‘Thought I’d drop in.’
‘Angela. How nice.’
‘You don’t sound pleased to see me.’
‘I am. Of course.’
He tried to indicate that this wasn’t a good time but she paid no attention, picked up the bag and advanced through his door.