The Nice and the Good

Seven

'We haven't sung our bathing song once since you came back,'

Henrietta complained to Barbara.
'Well, you go and sing it.'
'No, we must all four sing it or it isn't proper.'
'I've forgotten it,' said Barbara.
'I don't believe you,' said Pierce.
Barbara was lying full length upon the ivy. Pierce was standing a little way off leaning against a tombstone off which he was intently scratching yellow lichen with a finger nail.
'You three go and bathe for heaven's sake,' said Barbara. 'I don't want to come. I feel far too lazy.'
'Mingo's getting too hot,' said Edward. 'Why don't dogs have the sense to lie in the shade?'
Mingo lay panting on the ivy near Barbara who rocked his warm sheep-like body now and then with a bare foot. Hearing his name uttered he swivelled his eyes, lifted his sausage tail an inch or two and let it languidly fall.
'It makes me hot to look at him,' said Henrietta. 'I do wish it would rain.'
'Take him away then,' said Pierce. 'Drop him in the sea.'
'Go and hunt for flying saucers,' said Barbara.
'We did see one, really we did!'
'Are you coming, Pierce?' said Edward.
'No. You go and bathe, twins, and stop making such a damn fuss.'
'No one wants to bathe these days!' said Henrietta, quite suddenly close to tears.
'Pierce, you're cross!' cried Edward accusingly. To be cross was traditionally a serious fault.
'No, I'm not. I'm sorry.'
'Maybe we won't bathe,' said Henrietta to Edward. 'We'll play Badgerstown instead.'
'Well, I want to bathe,' said Edward.
'You two go down,' said Pierce. 'Maybe I'll follow you. Go on, don't be asses.'
'Mingo, come, boy,' said Edward.
Mingo got up rather reluctantly. His grey woolly face smiled dutifully, but he was too hot and weary to wag his tail, which swung inertly behind him as he followed the twins, placing his big floppy paws carefully upon the yielding ivy.
The abandoned graveyard was about a quarter of a mile from the house. Together with its hexagonal green-domed church, the empty and padlocked fane of a geometer god, it bore witness to a vivid eighteenth-century life of the region which was now but pyramidally extant. The crowded square sloped down towards the sea and behind it, hazed by trees in small valleys or caught distantly by sunlight through folds in rounded hills, could be seen the pale rectangular facades of houses which had once contained this silent population. There, if they lingered still, they were the discreetest and most mannerly of ghosts. Here they had kept their past time untouched, become a little shadowy perhaps, but subsistent as the real dreams of real sleepers. The draped urns and obelisks, the sublimely truncated columns, the obliquely leaning slabs inscribed with angelic putti and confidently lettered with a divinely dictated clarity and proportion, all glittering a faintly blueish white now in the bright sun, quivered between presence and absence with that quality of being perhaps altogether an hallucination which belongs to certain Greek archaeological sites.
Yet for all its compactness the place was not exactly a township. It had the kind of unity which a god might have imposed, a little carelessly, upon some place to which he intended to return and which he later utterly forgot, an attentive inscrutable sort of pattern not like human art. There was a sense of speech, as if something were said which yet, as words in an outdoor theatre, was at once devoured by the air. In fact nature had taken the churchyard to herself with a relentlessness that was almost sinister, as if she had set herself to paralyse, to blur and render indistinct, the activity of those too attentive dreamers. A very thick small-leaved ivy had grown over the whole area, covering the smaller stones entirely and clambering up the slender shafts of the taller ones, woven in between into a thick springy matrix which seemed to swing a little off the ground.
From where Pierce and Barbara were, at the top of the graveyard, the thin grey spire of Trescombe parish church, marking the village, could be seen rising from trees a mile to the east, while to the west the roof of Trescombe House was just visible beyond a slope of old yews which had been bent sideways and smoothed along the top by the mingled beating and caress of the strong sea wind. Ahead was a curve of sheepnibbled green grass which flattened to the stone-strewn meadow which fringed the beach. The twins had just reached the far end of the meadow and slowed their march on to the stones, with frequent pauses now to shake the pebbles out of their sandals. Mingo, his lethargy apparently departed, had run ahead and his sharp excited barks, Mingo's 'seabarks' as Edward called them, could be clearly heard from below. Mingo, although a confident and enthusiastic swimmer, never seemed to get over his sheer surprise at the great restless watery phenomenon.
A little further on the figure of Uncle Theo could be seen, walking along very slowly with his head bowed. When Uncle Theo went for a walk he seemed to look exclusively at his own feet, as if fascinated by their regular motion. Beyond Uncle T$eo were some alien holiday-makers, referred to as 'natives' by the children, of whom this part of the shore happily attracted few, because of its rebarbatively stony nature, and because the steeply shelving beach and the strong currents were thought to make bathing dangerous.
Cradled upon a swathe of ivy Barbara now lay full length in the sun. She had kicked off her sandals, and her white cotton dress, spotted with little pale green daisies, carelessly ruffled up as she had tossed herself down on to the dark swinging greenery, displayed a length of bronzed thigh above the knee. Her eyes barely open, appeared liquid and fugitive between the lashes.
Pierce, with his back to her, was savagely ripping the ivy strands off the face of one of the smaller squarer stones to reveal a relief carving of a sailing ship.
'So you think I tell lies, do you?' said Barbara after a while.
'I don't believe you've forgotten the bathing song. You can't have.'
'Why not? When one's in Switzerland this place seems pretty remote.'
'This place is more important than Switzerland.'
'Who says it isn't? V 'You cried when you went away.'
'I'm grown up now. I only cry when I'm bored. You're boring me. Why don't you go and bathe or something.'
'I don't want to. Not unless you come too.'
'Why do you follow me around all the time? Can't you do anything by yourself now? Why are you here at all, if it comes to that? Aren't you supposed to be staying with those PemberSmith people and sailing in their yacht?'
'Oh fuck the Pember-Smiths.'
'Why are you so bad-tempered?'
'I'm not bad-tempered!'
'Well, don't shout!'
'I'm not shouting!'
Pierce sat down on the ivy with his back against the tombstone.
He wanted to lay his head against Barbara's biscuity brown legs, a little above the knee, and moan loudly. He also wanted to destroy something, everything, perhaps himself. He tore at the ivy below him, thrusting his hands down deep and wrenching the strong sinewy resistant lower branches.
Making an effort with himself, he said, 'Something's gone wrong with us, Barbie. I expect it's just sex.'
'Sex may have gone wrong with you. It hasn't gone wrong with me.'
'You're old enough to flirt with John Ducane, anyway!'
'I didn't say I wasn't old enough for anything. And I don't flirt with John Ducane. He just happens to be my friend.'
'And look at the way you've put your skirt.'
'I haven't put it. It's just that I don't care, whether you're here or not.'
'You're little Miss important Person now, aren't you!'
'I've always been little Miss Important Person.'
'Would you like to see a nuthatch's nest, Barbie?'
'No. You've already told me three times about that nuthatch's nest.'
'Well, you've told me five times about your visit to the Chateau de Chilton.'
'I wasn't telling you. I was telling other people and you were just listening. Que to Yes, bete, Pierce!'
'Don't bother to show off your French to me, I'm not impressed.'
'It's natural, I'm not showing off, I've been talking this language for months!'
'Don't scream at me. All right, I'm going. It's low tide. I'm going to swim to Gunnar's Cave. I'm going to swim into Gunnar's Cave.'
Gunnar's Cave held a prime place in the mythology of the children. It opened at the base of the cliff directly into the sea, and although reputedly a smugglers' cave its sole entrance was only above water for a short time at low tide. Mary Clothier, whose vivid subterranean imagination had rapidly extended itself in awful scenes of trappings and drownings, had long ago strictly forbidden the children to swim into the cave at all. Barbara and the twins, who were rather frightened of the cave, always obeyed. Pierce, who was very frightened of the cave, sometimes disobeyed. He had several times swum into the entrance at low tide, and although he had not touched any dry land within, had gained the impression that the cave went upward into the cliff. If this was so it might be that there was an upper cavern which was above water level even at high tide when the mouth of the cave was below the sea, a wonderful hiding place for smugglers. Pierce did not see any method of finding out whether this was so other than by the experiment of climbing up through the cave and waiting to see what happened. Of course if one was wrong, and the high tide completely filled the cave, then one would be drowned, but even this vision, though it filled Pierce with horror, was also curiously exciting, and especially since Barbara's return he had thought constantly about the cave, picturing its blackness as a kind of consummation in which treasure troves and death by drowning blended together into a buzzing vortex of divine unconsciousness. But this belonged to the world of fantasy. In fact his explorations had been brief and timid so far, and he had swum hastily back on each occasion and out of the mouth of the cave well before the tide had come near to covering the entrance, which was only open for a period of about forty minutes.
'Well, go if you want to,' said Barbara. 'Only I think it's silly to do things that frighten you, it's neurotic.'
'I'm not frightened, I'm curious. It's a smugglers' cave. I'd like to find out if there's anything left inside.'
'You don't know it's a smugglers' cave. You don't know Gunnar was a smuggler. You don't know Gunnar ever existed at all. It's not like the Romans. Gunnar's just a story.'
'The Romans, ha ha! You remember that Roman coin you found in a pool? T 'Yes.'
'Well, you didn't really find it. I put it there for you to find.
I bought it off a chap at school.'
Barbara sat up and dragged her dress down. She glared at Pierce. 'I think it's hateful of you to tell me that now, hateful!' Pierce stood up. He mumbled, 'Well, I did it to please you.'
'And now you're telling me to hurt me.'
What has happened to us, thought Pierce. We were so happy once.
With a soft fluffy sound Montrose materialized on top of the tombstone with the carving of the sailing ship, and tucking in his paws made himself into a furry ball, looking down at Barbara with insolent narrow eyes.
Pierce scooped the cat into his arms, inhaled from the warm fur a whiff of Barbara's special eau de Cologne, and threw Montrose on to Barbara's lap.
He said, 'Oh Barbara, I'm so sorry, don't be cross with me.'
Barbara twisted round and knelt in the ivy, hugging Montrose up against her face. Pierce knelt down opposite to her, and reaching out he touched her bare knee with one finger.
They looked at each other with puzzlement, almost with fear.
'I'm sorry too,' she said. 'Do you think we've just become bad?'
'How do you mean, bad? T 'Well, you know. When I was younger, when I read in the papers and in books and things about really nasty people, bad people, I felt so completely good and innocent inside myself, I felt that these people were just utterly different from me, that I could never become bad or behave really badly like them.
Did you feel this?'
'I don't know,' said Pierce. 'I think boys always know about badness.' But he was not sure.
'Well,' said Barbara. 'I'm afraid it's all turning out to be much more difficult than I expected.'
'Octavian darling, are you never coming to bed?'
'Just coming, darling. Listen to the owl.'
'Yes, isn't he lovely. By the way, Mary has fixed for Barbie to borrow that pony.'
'Oh good. Kate darling, we're out of toothpaste.'
'There's a new tube on the dressing table-Don't fall over all those maps and guide books.'
'Darling, I don't think we can afford to go to Angkor.'
'I know. I've given up Angkor. I've decided I want to go to Samarkand.'
'You know it's in the Soviet Union, darling?'
'Is it? Well, they wouldn't eat us.'
'It'd be terribly hot.'
'Is Samarkand on the sea?'
'No, I'm afraid not. Wouldn't you rather go somewhere on the sea?'
'Well, we did think Rhodes, of course '
'We might ask Paula about Rhodes, you remember she went on that cruise. By the way, what's the matter with Paula? I thought she was looking awfully depressed and worried.'
'Oh, it's just end of term. She's so conscientious about those exams.'
'Ducane did go to see Willy, didn't he?'
'Yes, Ducane saw him and then Mary saw him.'
'Is Willy all right?»
'He's fine. He told Mary that Ducane had cheered him up no end.'
'Ducane's so nice'
'He's so good '
'He's certainly good for Willy.'
'He's good for all of us. Octavian '
'Yes, darling?'
'I kissed Ducane in the beech wood.'
'Good for you! Was he pleased?'
'He was sweet.'
'Don't make him fall for you too much, darling, I mean so that it hurts.'
'No, no, he won't get hurt. I'll manage him.'
'He has plenty of sense actually, I mean as well as being thoroughly decent.'
'Yes. It's funny that he's never got married.'
'No need to make a mystery of it.'
'I don't know. Do you think he's queer, sort of unconsciously perhaps? I've never heard of his being connected with any woman.'
'That's because he's so devilish discreet and clam-like.'
'He is clam-like. You know he never told me about his being appointed to do that inquiry.'
'He's jolly worried about that inquiry.'
'Then I'm all the more annoyed he didn't tell me! By the way, he thinks we shouldn't tell Willy about that poor chap, what's his name, Radeechy.'
'He's perfectly right. It wouldn't have occurred to me.'
'He thinks of everything. I suppose there's no chance that Radeechy really was a spy or something?'
'None at all. I think John's just rather unnerved at the idea of probing into somebody's private life.'
'I'm afraid I should find it fascinating!'
'I believe it frightens him. He thinks he may discover something – odd.'
'You mean – sexually odd?'
'Yes. He is an old puritan, you know.'
'I know. and I adore it. What do you think he thinks we do. darling?'
'He doesn't think about it.'
'Octavian, do hurry up. I think Ducane would tell me now, I mean about the women, about his past. He will tell me now.'
'You mean you'll ask him?'
'Yes. I'm not afraid of Ducane.'
'Implying I am? Well, maybe I am in a way. He's a man I'd hate to think ill of me.'
'Yes, I know, me too. You don't think it's a bit fishy, his having that manservant?'
'No, I don't. Ducane's not homosexual.'
'Octavian, have you ever met that manservant?'
'No.'
'I shall ask Ducane about that manservant too. He's incapable of telling a lie.'
'He's capable of being embarrassed.'
'Yes, well, maybe I'll just investigate the manservant. I'll call some time when Ducane's out and inspect him.'
'Kate dear, you don't really think '
'No, no, of course not, Ducane's a man who doesn't make muddles. That's one of the marvellous things about him.'
'No muddles? That's a lot to say of any man.'
'No muddles. Which is also why he can't be hurt.'
'And you can't. And I can't.'
'Darling Octavian, I do love it that we tell each other everything.'
'I love it too.'
'God's in His heaven, all's right with the world. Do come to bed, darling.'
'I'm just coming now.'
'Darling, you're so round '
'Are you ready, darling?'
'Yes, I'm ready. Oh darling, just guess what Barbie brought you home for a present – she's saving it for your birthday.'
'What?'
'A cuckoo clock!'