LITMIR.BIZ

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of the room, snatching up a duster as she went. Her father and mother began to talk together. She was sure they had nothing new to say, but the buzz of their voices followed her along the passage.

      She could hear Jonathan’s dry cough from the parlour. It was a fidgety, throaty cough. She knew that when she reached the door she was going to turn into the parlour. You didn’t do any dusting on a Saturday afternoon, but carrying a duster made things look better. There would always be an excuse to hand when she went in.

      It was already becoming dark. As she entered she said: “Goodness, it’s black in here. Don’t you need a lamp?”

      For a moment her voice did not reach him. His head was bowed over a book that he held open, resting on his two hands. She stopped by the door until he looked up slowly, like a preacher about to deliver a text. His eyes were burning with a far, remote passion, but he spoke flatly, without interest.

      “Thank you, no.”

      He closed the book and slipped it back on the shelf, allowing his fingers to rest on it for a second when it had been replaced.

      “Are these books very valuable, do you think, Mr. Jonathan?” she asked suddenly.

      “Valuable?” he said, his voice regaining its normal fussiness. “My dear young lady—oh, indeed, yes. Very valuable.”

      “How much?” she said bluntly.

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “How much do you think they’re worth?”

      “Oh, I couldn’t say how much. Really, I have no idea.”

      “But if you think they’re valuable—”

      “I have no idea of their value in terms of money.”

      He came forward, passing her, and going back towards the kitchen. She could hear the clatter of plates and knew that her mother was getting tea ready. The cold began to tingle at her finger-ends. It was everywhere, waiting for you, sharp, painful, ready to pounce as soon as you left the warmth of the fireside, this bitter cold. She could not stay away from the fire for long. She would have to go back. Soon her brother would come back from the afternoon he had been spending with a friend, and the kitchen would be crowded and noisy. It was a large room, and had once held a larger family than it did now, but noise seemed to ring back from the stone floor and everyone invariably wanted to move about at once. Nora would have liked to stay on in the parlour, just for the sake of being alone, but the discomfort would be too extreme. And the darkness made her uneasy. She had never been affected this way before. Darkness held no terrors as a rule; yet at the moment she became conscious of a sensation of brooding menace. If she had another nightmare tonight, she would have something to say to Simon.

      The lamp had been lit when she returned to the kitchen. It glowed richly on the white cloth, the crockery, and the knives and spoons, but the corners of the room were huddled in sullen shadow. Mr. Morris still sat by the fire, his wife’s distorted shadow flickering across him as she moved to and fro. Where lamplight and firelight blended, the walls seemed hazy and unsettled, beating in and out with a wavering, unsteady pulse.

      Mr. Jonathan hovered indecisively at the far end of the table, seeing nowhere to sit down that was not in the path of the active, bustling Mrs. Morris.

      “Sit down, Mr. Jonathan,” said Mr. Morris gruffly, still looking into the fire. “Draw you a chair up to the fire.”

      “Thank you. I will, thank you.” Mr. Jonathan looked around, as though the selection of a suitable chair would be an important matter. Before he could come to any decision, Mrs. Morris, without halting on her way from cupboard to table, picked up a hardbacked chair with one hand and swept it towards the fire.

      Mr. Jonathan stared at it, then went and sat on it. He glanced at his host. Nora, cutting bread, watched him covertly. His mannerisms had slipped away for a moment, and he was just a nervous little clerk paying a weekend visit. She thought he was going to speak to her father, perhaps making some remark about “the crops,” hoping to win favour—as so many visitors did—but as she watched, a cunning gleam came into his eye, and that unaccountably self-satisfied expression returned to his features.

      “Here’s Denis,” said her father suddenly.

      “Pardon?” said Mr. Jonathan, starting violently.

      “Denis—my son.”

      “Oh, yes. Yes, I met Denis last time. Yes.”

      Nora heard her brother coming across the yard, and heard also that there was someone with him. She stood with her eyes on the door, holding the butter knife in mid-air as though to make a lunge with it. If Denis had met Simon and brought him home to tea.…

      The door opened.

      Denis had not brought Simon. He had brought his friend from Pen-y-bryn. They were both caked with snow down one side, and it looked as though they both had grey hair, though actually Denis had aggressively ginger hair, and his friend, shaking his head cheerfully, revealed a thick tangle of curly brown.

      And then Nora noticed Mr. Jonathan’s face. He was staring at the newcomers with unmistakable anger, gnawing agitatedly at his right thumbnail. For some reason he was furious that someone else should be here. Did he imagine that this weekend had been set aside especially for his visit? Nora felt a quite inexplicable, ridiculous surge of loyalty towards her family, and a mounting dislike of this silly little intruder. She supposed he wanted to prattle on about his connections with the house and his family history, with everyone hanging on his words. And if it was not that, why did he look so black?

      Denis said: “I hope you don’t mind, Mum—”

      “No, indeed, though I wonder how you ever got over on a day like this. Denis, I don’t think your sister knows…er—oh, dear me, it’s Fred—no, Frank, isn’t it?”

      “That’s right, Mrs. Morris.”

      Denis slapped Nora on the shoulder with the odious familiarity that is characteristic of brothers.

      “This is our Nora,” he said. “Nora, this is Frank, another of the old Marine roughnecks.”

      “How do you do,” she said, very affably because of Jonathan’s scowl.

      “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said.

      Mrs. Morris said: “We always seem to get a full house at weekends, Mr. Jonathan.”

      “So I see,” said Jonathan. “Yes, so I see.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      Mr. Jonathan and Denis were seated side by side on the couch, facing Nora and Frank. Denis was quite at his ease, this being his usual place, but Jonathan, despite the assistance of two cushions, was far too low for comfort, and looked displeased. Frank and Denis were talking across the table about Sicily and Italy. Jonathan glowered at them—whether because he felt that he looked absurd or because he considered the story of his family as being more important, it was impossible to tell. The lamplight scored deep lines in his face.

      “Another slice of bread, Mr. Jonathan?” said Nora.

      “Ah…thank you.”

      “Help yourself to the jam. Denis—”

      Denis, without pausing in the middle of an anecdote about Naples, reached out with his left hand and skilfully manoeuvred the jam-pot around the sugar basin and along to his neighbour.

      “Thank you.”

      “Do help yourself, Mr. Jonathan,” said Mrs. Morris. “We’re used to helping ourselves, isn’t it? You mustn’t hang back, or there won’t be any left. More tea? That’s right.”

      “And there he was,” said Denis, “flat on the deck—absolutely chocker, I can tell you.”

      “Like a colour-sergeant I knew at Clacton, before we joined up with your mob,” said Frank.

      He spoke more quietly than Denis, but

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