“I hate rats,” said Emma. It was the first thing she had spoken and everyone waited for her to say more. She put her head down and stared at the plate that had been handed to her.
“There is something sexual about rats,” said Caroline. “I think I know why.”
“Do tell us,” said Michael.
“Perhap when you’re a bit older,” said Caroline.
“We had one at the camp,” said Munday. “Right inside the bungalow.”
Emma said, “We never did!” and Munday realized that what he had just said so easily to all those people, he had never told Emma. He was going to reply, but Jerry had already started.
“Used to be a lot of rats around here,” he said, passing a plate heaped with turkey. “Why, I seen more rats in one little place than you see now in five acres. Caught thirty of the buggers one night.”
“I’ve been ratting myself many times,” said Awdry. “Not enough of them for that now,” said Jerry. “After the rabbits went down with myxomatosis, the weasels and foxes had nothing to eat, so they started feeding on the rats.”
“I was six or seven,” said Awdry, “and I was going for a walk with my father. He was a great walker— five miles before breakfast—he gave me my first walking stick. We were on a country lane in South Worcestershire and suddenly he put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Wait!’ I looked up and couldn’t believe my eyes. The road was absolutely black with rats, jostling this way and that. ‘Don’t you move,’ he said. ‘They’re migrating.’ ”
“That thatcher from Filford,” said Jerry. “He was coming up the road one night and a whole mob of rats was crossing the road. Maybe migrating, like Mr. Awdry says. Knocked him down and the bike too!”
“Scrumpy knocked him down more likely,” said Awdry.
“I remember him,” said Mrs. Awdry. “He’s dead now. He thatched for us over at the cottages—up on the ladder with a keg of cider around his neck. Queer old fellow.”
“You must find all of this fascinating,” said Caroline to Munday.
“I do,” said Munday. “Very much so.”
“Doctor Munday is studying us,” said Anne.
“Not exactly,” said Munday. “Though I think someone ought to.”
“It must be very exciting to come back to England after all these years.”
“Exciting?” said Munday.
“Seeing all the changes.”
“The changes I saw weren’t in England,” said Munday, “though it’s true I’m still baffled by the new money, and sick of these television programs perpetually discussing things and ending the show when someone loses his temper. And football results. And God, these color supplements—we never got them in Africa—too heavy to airfreight.”
“We decorated our loo with color supplements,” said Anne.
“They represent everything I loathe about this country,” said Munday. “Everything they stand for, I despise. Isn’t that right, Emma?”
“What’s that?” Emma stared vacantly at Munday.
“Are you all right, my dear?” asked Awdry.
“I’m afraid I’m not feeling terribly well,” said Emma.
“All this talk about rats,” said Mrs. Awdry. “I’m not surprised.”
“Would you mind if I went into the living room and sat down?” said Emma.
“Please do,” said Mr. Awdry. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, no,” said Emma. “Don’t get up.” She rose and went out of the room before anyone could help her.
“Has this happened before?” asked Awdry.
“I think we should call a doctor,” said Janet. “She looks very pale.”
“Hadn’t you better go and see if there’s anything she needs?” said Mrs. Awdry to Munday.
Munday, the only one at the table still eating, gestured with his knife and fork. “Please eat,” he said, chewing. “She’ll be fine.”
“I’m worried about her,” said Anne.
“Good God,” said Munday, “you talk as if she’s fading away! Emma has survived Africa, and I assure you she’ll survive Four Ashes. She’s really very fit.” But the large paneled room and the hushed listeners gave his overloud denying voice a ring of falsity.
Caroline said, “I’m sure Doctor Munday is right.”
So they resumed, but Emma’s absence made the rest of the meal somber. Anxious, they ate quickly and to the scrape of the knives and forks on the plates they addressed each other inconsequentially, with a whispered respect. From time to time Awdry said, “More wine?” but only Munday accepted it, as if the others thought it unseemly to drink with Emma unwell in the next room. Munday went on eating, but his appetite left him. The rest made a show of dining. The strain was evident. Emma’s absence, so sudden, was an intensification of her presence, which was felt more strongly two rooms away than it had been when she was seated with them at the table. Her chair was empty, she was missing, and their excessively tactful avoidance of commenting on this was like a continual mention of her.
After the dessert of strawberries and clotted cream, which they ate as solemnly as mourners—not cheered by the vicar’s wife saying too clearly “These are awfully good,” inspiring several uncertain responses which diminished down the table, from “Yes, they are” to a grunt of agreement from Jerry Duddle— Mr. Awdry pressed his napkin to his mouth, scraped his chair backward, and said, “Shall we have our coffee in the lounge?” Emma sat on the sofa with a brave half-smile of pain on her face. There was a copy of The Field on her lap; her hands were on the cover, smoothing it. She looked up slowly as the guests entered the room, and Munday at the head of the procession said brusquely, as he might have to a student with a medical excuse, “How are you feeling now?” She shook her head. “I think you’d better take me home.”
“Emma, do you really—”
“Have an early night,” said Awdry. “Do you a world of good.”
“I’m very sorry,” said Emma. “I feel I’ve spoiled your lovely party.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Mrs. Awdry. “I only wish there was something we could do.”
“You’ve been most kind,” said Emma. “Perhaps Alfred could drop me and then come back.”
“Not if you’re sick,” said Munday.
“Do what you think best,” said Awdry, and he helped Emma on with her coat as Janet Strick, squinting in sisterly commiseration, said, “I know just how you feel.” Driving back in the car Emma was silent. Munday said, “There were no paintings on the library ceiling. Branch had that all wrong. Typical! And I saw the gold bell on the table. It was brass.” He pulled up at the Black House and said, “Do you want me to stay?”
“Not if you don’t want to.”
“So you’re leaving it up to me.”
“You’d only be keeping me company,” said Emma. “I think I’ll go straight to bed.”
“Awdry’s right. It’ll do you good.”
Emma opened the car door and said, “Isn’t it odd. For the first time in ages I’m not afraid to go into this house. I know it’s perfectly empty and secure. She’s not here—she’s there.”
“Don’t talk such nonsense,” Munday said.
“I thought I was going mad that day in the garden —imagining things,” said Emma. “Now I know I’m perfectly sane. I did see her.” Emma’s voice was assured, but in the car’s overhead light, a yellow lozenge of plastic, the illness dimming her face made her look complacent. Munday could raise little sympathy for her. Her insisting on being taken home was devious, a withdrawal from the challenge she saw in Caroline. He was ashamed of her. She had no life but his life, no friends aside from those he had made. She had pretended her sickness to chasten him, but her apologies only made him embarrassed for her. She was a part of him, but the weakest part, and he saw that without her he might have succeeded. There was still time for him; she had little claim upon him. Her weakness obliged him to be attentive, but he understood: what she feared he desired, and what had confused him before was that her fear had obsessed her in the same way as his desire. But she had deprived him of his pleasure. It had always been that way, from their first day at the Yellow Fever Camp, when the heat and the musky smells had possessed him physically, and the lushness had made him gasp even after the people themselves had lost all interest—to their arrival at the Black House, where she had been the first to name what they had both seen. She had called it fear, and so he had. But it was not fear at all.