THE UNPUBLISHED MANUSCRIPTS OF KATHERINE MANSFIELD Part VI TWO MAATA FRAGMENTS

Turnbull Library Record, Volume 7, Issue 1, 1 May 1974, Page 4

THE UNPUBLISHED MANUSCRIPTS OF KATHERINE MANSFIELD Part VI TWO MAATA FRAGMENTS

Margaret Scott

In 1957, when the Mansfield manuscripts from the Murry estate were auctioned at Sotheby’s in London, the Alexander Turnbull Library succeeded in purchasing the main bulk of them. One item we missed, however, was a 48 page manuscript called Maata. This was apparently the written portion of the novel which Katherine Mansfield embarked on in the winter of 1913. When the papers bought by the Turnbull arrived and were examined they were found to include two pieces about ‘Maata’ whose relationship to the 48 pages sold elsewhere was unknown. Attempts were made to trace the manuscript—and have been made at intervals ever since. The trail led to a dealer in Chicago who communicated with the private owner. Our offer to exchange photocopies was declined, but recently the owner, communicating through the dealer, agreed to indicate the relationship of our manuscripts with his own if we would send an outline of the content of ours. This was done, some five months ago, but has drawn no reply. Our own two pieces seem substantial enough to warrant inclusion in this series and are here presented.

The Mystery of Maata by P. A. Lawlor (Beltane Book Bureau, Wellington, 1946) gives an account of Mr Lawlor’s own meeting with a woman who claimed to be Katherine Mansfield’s friend Maata, but there is still some doubt as to whether she was genuine. It will be seen that the story —as much of it as we have here —is ostensibly set in London, but it harks back in feeling, and sometimes in detail, to Wellington. Thus Wrigglesworth was a well-known photographer in Wellington who died in 1906 leaving a ‘very young-looking’ widow. And the two musical brothers are clearly based on the Trowell twins: the description of Maata’s feelings about one of them must be fairly straight Mansfield autobiography. As in earlier pieces in this series there are a few words I have been unable to read. A study of the missing manuscript might someday elucidate them.

EPISODE

A. The Child in Love She arrived at the house at half past six. T. sat at the piano striking vague empty chords with the soft pedal down and watching with narrowed brilliant eyes like a malicious elf. She pushed open the iron gate that jarred on the loose pebbles as it swung back. The house was in darkness, but standing on the doorstep she heard the faint voice of T.’s violin. Sadder than her heart the sound, and like her heart speaking so faintly from behind closed doors in a darkened house. She paused on the step her hand touching the doorbell. Even then it was not too late to run away —yes it was too late. He might not love her, might not have need of her, but she loved him—she had terrible need of him, he understood. By his presence and quiet gestures, by that almost tragic dignity that wrapped his youth in its folds, by that mysterious vibration in his quiet voice, by his childish laughter and his quaint delight and wonder in the simplest things, by his hair and hands, his very clothes—oh God, by everything about him, every atom, every particle. What on earth was she doing? She looked up at the dark house shivering. How long had she been standing there. What was the use of this absurd litany? Had anybody seen her. Had she spoken aloud? She rang the bell sharply. Oh believe me he does not care for you, you are nothing to him, now or ever. Grant your sorrow worthy in accepting it with dignity. Be brave—courage! So the poor child, standing pale and cold in the gathering dusk, all the youth drained out of her face.

Jenny opened the door smiling and [?], and at the same moment Maisie danced into the hall, her wild curls flying about her, and flung herself into Maata’s arms. ‘You’re late, you’re late, you bad wicked child. You said you’d be here at five and I’m angry and offended with you, you darling.’ Maata felt half suffocated by the strain of the child’s little eager body, her smothering kisses, her fumbling hands, and yet it comforted her. ... It was something real and human and safe.

‘I couldn’t get here any earlier’ she said. c Oh Maisie how wonderful your hair is dear. You’ve been washing it.’ The child flushed with joy, urged at a little blue ribbon and shook her curls into wilder confusion. ‘I washed it this afternoon and it’s not dry yet. I’m finishing it by the kitchen fire—come downstairs, mummy’s there, she’s making an applepie for dinner, and I’m going to prick your name in the pastry with a fork. Can’t take your arm going down the stairs, it is too narrow. I’ll go first though—it’s one of my flying days. I can jump for steps at a time in the dark even.’ ‘Oh be careful’ said Maata. The child’s happy laughter answered her. In the bright hot kitchen Mrs Close, an apron tied over her black

dress shook the rolling pin at Maata. ‘No’ she said, ‘you shan’t kiss me. Don’t come near me, you bad girl. You’ve broken your promise—you said you’d come early. Get away, go and play with Maisie in the dining room. We won’t speak to you will we Jenny.’ But Maata gave a dive forward—caught her round the waist and hugged her. ‘Oh you blessed angel, I’m glad to be here. I’ve been such a cross grumpy miserable pig all day.’ Maata sat on the doorstep, ‘and put my towel over my head and cried before coming in this evening. Be nice to me, give me a little bit of the apple before it’s cooked.’ She looked round the room, a bright colour grew in her cheeks. I love this kitchen. I’m all cured.

And she believed it. The tide had turned with a swing that threw her up breathless. She looked at the big black stove, shedding so bright a light from behind the open bars—at all the homely cooking things on the table, at the blue dinnerset on the dresser, at Jenny, peeling potatoes, with a penny book of fortune-telling propped against the water bowl, at everything, so real and simple and human.

‘Perhaps you’ve caught a little chill on the liver’ suggested Mrs Close, dusting the squat lump of dough with the flourcaster and kneading it smoothly, with her quick lithe hands. ‘A nice hot dinner will put you right, won’t it Maisie. Now Jenny my girl hurry up with the spuds, and hide your book before Miss Maata gets hold of it or we won’t have a word more out of her. . . . What have you been doing all day dearie. . . . Maisie—take a peep at the joint. Use the ovencloth child.’ ‘I* —Maata sat on the table edge and nibbled her quarter of apple. I have done nothing at all she reflected except go deeper and deeper. Aloud: ‘Oh working out a story, dabbling and worrying my foggy little brain. ... Is Father in?’ ‘No, he and Hal have gone for a walk—they won’t be back till seven. I made the boy take the old man out for an airing—they were both getting so snappy, but he did not want to go because you were coming.’ ‘Bless his heart. How many miracles has he performed since yesterday.’ ‘He finished his quintet, this morning’ cried Maisie. ‘And you know who he’s dedicated it to —you and Philip!’ ‘Not really, Maisie!’

At his name, spoken so carelessly, her heart quivered in her breast. ‘True as death’. Pip said it was an en-ig-matical honour. What does that mean mummy?’ ‘Don’t know dear—ask Maata. Maata, you mustn’t sit about in your coat. Go upstairs and take your things off in my bedroom—there is a peep of gas and a clean brush on the dressing table.’ ‘l’ll go with you and turn it up’ said Maisie. Half way up the stairs Mrs Close called to the child. ‘Come back here, Maisie. You haven’t time. You must set the table, there’s a good girl. You’ll have Maata all the evening.’ ‘Oh mother— ’ ‘Do as you’re told darling’ whispered Maata, only half wondering why she did not plead for the child. ‘Well, well don’t be long. I’ve got such lots to tell you.’

At the comer of the staircase the plaster figure of Penelope holding the red gas globe in her hand. The face seemed to be smiling at Maata, seemed to guess her secret, to know quite well why she wished to run upstairs alone. And in the bedroom with the flickering gaslight on wall and ceiling Maata smiled too —the blind smile of the plaster figure —she saw the resemblance in the glass. Why not? She would surprise him just for the moment, would say ‘good evening’ and run down to the others. Louder now the voice of the violin from the room above and miles away the warm bright kitchen, the staircase a dark journey separating her from the others leading him up to her. Even in that moment alone her sorrow returned, she saw herself playing a game with Maisie and the mother, she knew that under her laughter, give it one moment’s being, her heart still cried and was lonely. Lightly, on tiptoe she crept up the stairs, she stood a moment outside his door, she heard him pacing slowly up and down as he played, she turned the handle of the door, slipped in, stood her back against it. Philip started, she heard his quick breath, then he nodded and went on playing a moment —never looking at her. The wailing music filled the room. There was no light except a pale gleaming from the window space, and his long shadow on the ceiling, like a cross. She could see the outlines of the pictures on the dark walls, some flowers in a glass on the mantelpiece. With the frightened eyes of a little captive child, with the eager eyes of a lover, she strained to see more of the room. The violin case lying open on the white bed was like a little coffin. On the table by the window she saw his books heaped. She was leaning against his coat that hung on the doorpeg. All these vague things seemed clearer than his figure—he was just the shadow of herself, pacing up and down, the shadow she had lost or never found that cried her sorrow. Suddenly he took his violin from his chin, wrapped it in a silk handkerchief, laid it in the case, slipped the bow through the loops, locked it up and stood the case in a corner. He came over to her, running his hands through his hair as though to free his thoughts and stood before her smiling. Still she did not speak or move. He fingered her coat, and his smile deepened. ‘I thought you were a real ghost-girl’ he said. ‘Come over to the window and sit down.’ ‘Pip have I disturbed you?’ ‘No—l’ve finished. Have you been here long.’

She sat down, leaned her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. He took a pillow from the narrow bed, propped it behind him, and sat down, knees crossed, one hand on the table beating a finger exercise. They were quiet again. She looked out at the dark street and the tree branches that grew along the wall of the house opposite and seemed to grow outwards instead of upwards as though they strained to hold one another in the dark. She heard the ticking of his watch in his waistcoat pocket and at that she looked up at him and laughed. ‘What a very loud watch.’ ‘Only just now’ he said gravely. ‘There’s a sort of secret

conspiracy between it and the heart it beats over. What have you been doing all day?’ She turned slightly away from him. She meant to speak quite lightly, to prevaricate. But the truth trembled against the gates of her lips, forced its way through. ‘l—have been unhappy.’ ‘So have I’ he spoke very simply. ‘I knew you had been.’ The words came from her in a breathless broken voice. ‘You know sometimes I feel I’m possessed by a sort of Fate—you know—by an impending disaster that spreads its wings over my heart, or maybe only the shadow of its wings—but it is so black and terrible ... I can’t describe it. Sometimes I think it is [?], forboding, telling me that what I am facing—the future—is— ’ she shrugged her shoulders—‘just darkness

His hand on the table lay still. He clenched it. She saw the thin pale hand and to that she spoke as though it had her in its grip and found from her. ... ‘lt seems so ridiculous, so childish to say with the countless thousands—l am misunderstood—and that is . . . my youth I suppose. There the fact is. I feel like a prisoner condemned to penal servitude, without the option of—anything more sudden. I do not know who has condemned me, tried me, and so I, to all intents and purposes, walk abroad with people who love me and are good to me —miserable myself. Whenever I remember that I am quite quite apart from them, the real me I mean, Pip—there aren’t any words. I can’t explain myself.’ He got up, leaned against the window frame and looked down at her. ‘Don’t trouble’ he said. ‘I can tell you—in your words in my own expression—“a lonely prisoner”—that is what I am, that is what you are.’ She nodded ‘but’ she said, comforted, inexpressibly comforted by him, ‘don’t think I always feel this way. I think that when I am happy I am more happy than anybody. The rareness of my depression does not make it any the less terrible though.’ ‘I know, I know Maata.’

In the pause that followed she felt that their speech had sunk into a deep unknown gulf that had been separating her from him—that the confused words had filled up the gulf. The door burst open. Hal came in, flicking his table napkin in his hand. ‘Dinner bell’s rung three times. Jenny has called you. Mother is in a wax. Meat’s cold. What are you two birds doing? Out with it, Pip, you sly dog.’ ‘Oh I must fly down’ said Maata ‘No —no.’ Hal spread out his arms to catch her. ‘Not until I know what you two have been up to.’ ‘Don’t be absurd Hal. Let me go. Pip, your hair’s wild even in this light—they’ll be so angry.’ ‘Not so fast, my sweet sister.’ ‘Don’t be a fool Hal’ said Philip, laughing. ‘We’ve been looking at the trees on the house wall opposite—that’s all.’ ‘What!’ laughed Hal. ‘The ones that Maata said yesterday were holding each other’s hands in the dark. Shame on you. Go down to your betters miss.’ ‘Oh you baby’ she scorned, running down the stairs. Hal went up and nudged Pip in the ribs. ‘Lucky fellow’ he said and shouted after them all the way to the dining room ‘I knew it, I knew it.’

B. Maata knelt by the dining room fire helping Maisie roast chestnuts. They had a packet of the little hard nuts beside them and a hatpin to prick them with, an old Daily Mirror leaf to hold the charred peelings. In the rosy glow of the fire the two children, leaning against each other laughed and whispered, very absorbed, very intent. By the table sat Mrs Close darning whole new feet into a pair of Hal’s socks. Her skirt was turned back over her lap, her little, slippered feet curled round the chair legs. Now and again she leant forward and opened her mouth for Maisie to pop in a ‘beautifully soft one’, but she was, for the most part, pale and tired. With a drawing board propped against the table, sheets of manuscript surrounding, the big untidy inkstand, some pink blotting paper, the old man busied himself copying out Hal’s latest score. Sometimes he whistled, sometimes he heaved great windy sighs, scratched his head with the pen end, rapped the rhythm of the score on the table. The room was warm and all pleasantly scented with the roasting nuts. The window curtains in the flickering light looked heavier and quite profound their ugly red colour—as though they wished for a little space to hold these four together. . . . Now and again, in the hush, they heard Hal’s piano. He was busy with something—a theme that had seized him at dinner and made him refuse pudding but carry an apple with him to the drawingroom. Very strange it sounded. He played it over and over in different keys, varying the tempo, suddenly and wonderfully enriching the accompaniment. And sometimes it sounded uneasy and terrified —cried that it was being tortured in his hands —did not want to yield him its secret, and sometimes it sounded as though it were in love with itself and could not give him enough of its treasure.

‘Mum’ said Maisie suddenly ‘where’s our Philip.’ ‘Don’t know, dearie—ask Maata’, Mrs Close doubling a strand of wool and laboriously 1 threading the needle. ‘Do you know where he is—he’d love some of these chestnuts. Oh—do you remember how he used to love chestnuts when he was a little thing Mum, and roast them in the bonfire in the backyard, and dirty his handkerchiefs with them?’

‘That I do. Do you know Maata I’ll never forget one day finding the boys after they’d been having a bonfire washing their handkerchiefs and their little white ‘duckies’ at the garden tap on the front lawn — for everybody to see. . . . You know I didn’t keep a girl then—did all the washing myself, and I had to give them whatfor if they dirtied their clothes. I couldn’t bear ironing, and children make enough work. There were little Maisie’s pinafores then too. But to see these kids with a bit of soap and some pumice stone they’d found on the esplanade, scrubbing their hankies and hanging them to dry on a flax bush—l thought I’d have died laughing.’

‘Oh the darlings. I can see them,’ laughed Maata. ‘So serious, you know.’ She shook her skirts, crept over to Mrs Close, and sat leaning against her, her bright hair between the older woman’s knees. ‘Tell me about when they were little’ she coaxed. ‘Anything.’ ‘Oh do mother. About the time they had their photo taken and Philip lost the hairpin out of his [?] curl and cried so awfully’ Maisie pleaded, standing a row of four fat soldiers in the second fire bar.

Mrs Close put her darning on the table, settled herself and rested her hands on Maata’s hair. The tired dragged look left her face, it sweetened and grew happy. ‘Well that’s all there is of that story’ she said ‘except that being twins and feeling everything together, you know, Hal started crying too and they made such a dreadful noise that people stopped in the street and looked in at the shop. Oh, I did feel ashamed. And the photographer—a fine fellow he was with a game leg—unfortunately said ‘Well, Mrs Close, at any rate your children know how to attract the public’ and I wouldn’t have thought twice about the remark if I hadn’t taken them to a phrenologist the week before who told me crowds and crowds of people all listening to them. . . .’ ‘Just what they will do, of course’ interrupted Maisie. ‘And my boys being very famous. Well, thought I, as I tied the string of Hal’s white muslin hat—the one you had afterwards, Maisie, with the lace frill—they’ve begun early enough, and a little too early for me.’

‘Do you mean old Wrigglesworth the photographer’ asked Mr Close, not pausing in his work, speaking slowly and half to the rhythm of his work. ‘He went —bust, he did—the same year and set fire to his own shop to get the insurance money, so they say. Had a fine bass voice and sang ‘Vittoria’ in the Town Hall at a charity concert.’ ‘That’s the man —his wife was a flashy woman, she ruined him. I never saw another woman wear the clothes she put on her back on Sundays.’

A voice from the door—Phil had slipped quietly in and stood against the lintel, hands in his pockets, looking at them with laughter. ‘Oh I remember her, mother—Hal and I used to shout at her. Compliments of the season. Where did you get that hat!’ ‘Pure little wretches’, said the Mother. ‘Come to the fire and warm your hands, dear—where have you been?’ ‘Up in my room’ said Phil. ‘Maisie —give me one. I came down to steal Maata. It’s such a beautiful night. Don’t you want to go for a walk, dearest?’ ‘No’, said Mrs Close, answering for her. ‘She’s not to be disturbed, she’s just got comfy. You go and talk to your brother, my son.’ She was eager with recollection, she had her little audience about her, sympathizing—she did not want them to get up and leave her with the old man and that sock to be darned by gaslight. She was tired with a dragging tiredness of middle age, and the feeling of Maata pressed up so closely seemed to relieve some pain—no definite pain, just

a sensation! But Philip was restless and not to be denied. He went over to the window, parted the curtain and blind and looked out. Maata from her comfortable place, watching him, saw his head lift to the stars —and understood. ‘Fine night darling?’ she asked softly. ‘Wonderful. There are clouds you know, hurrying, and stars above them shining in pools of still light. I think there is a warm wind blowing—the leaves are shaking on the bushes out here. It’s the sort of night for Primrose Hill, just because of the name—you know that sort of night?’ He turned round from the window. Speaking almost indifferently: ‘Well, if you don’t want to —I’ll go by myself. I must get some air. . . .’ Maata was longing to go—knew she was going—but just how to leave Mrs Close happy worried her.

‘Mother I suppose it’s my duty to go out with this bad boy!’ she said, in her baby voice. And Mrs Close knew the spell was over, the battle lost, drew away her knees and took up the torn sock. ‘Well go if you want to’ she said. ‘Don’t stay here talking about it and interrupt your father.’ ‘Me too, me too’, from Maisie. ‘No’ replied the mother firmly—she still had the whiphand here. ‘You go off to bed my girl, and don’t sit any longer scorching your face and getting indigestion with all that rubbish. Off you go’. Maisie made a face and shrugged her shoulders.

In the hall Maata unhooked Hal’s greatcoat and pulled it on. It was immense for her—the astrakhan collar half way up her head. From a pocket she took out a torn pair of gloves, two empty cigarette boxes and some cherry stones. She left them in a pile on the hall chair. ‘Oh, the child’, she breathed. But Phil did not answer. He took her arm, half dragged her down the steps through the little gate and on to the forsaken half lighted road. Then he walked slowly. She said, lightly ‘We’re in mother’s bad books you know, my darling.’ His hand tightened on her arm. He turned his grave intense gaze to her. ‘Oh, I can’t help it’ he said, with a sort of desperation in his voice. ‘I wanted you — tonight, terribly—just you to myself. I’ve been in my room ever since dinner, without a light, sitting on the side of the bed. I took out my fiddle and went to play, but couldn’t—just thought. And—do you know that sensation, beloved—the darkness seemed to close about me, utterly engulfing me. I couldn’t get away from it, or fight it, or move even a finger—it was like being drowned in a dream. But unlike a dream were my Thoughts. They were like most sure arrows, winged with my heart from the dead past and laying open the old wounds, poisoning the present. I felt—•’ his voice sank to a whisper ‘ —too ugly for words. And something outside myself and even the essence of me, seemed to point and sneer, saying yes look, there you are. You’re nothing but a dummy figure set up as a target for these most sure arrows. It’s your own fault,

you provided the weapons yourself, and now you’re surprised they should be used against you, you silliest fool. And whatever you try to do you are helpless. Everything you hold will pass at last, be turned and twisted into one of these arrows and winged against you. For that is the Law of your life. You are one of those for whom . . .’

Maata, listening, now raised her head to the sky where aimed the winging arrows—the little bright stars shone fantastically like arrows, thousands of arrows, under which they walked like lost children, close together and yet not safe. The fear enclosed her heart, the wind blew about them both. She heard their footsteps on the paving stones. They quickened their pace, pressing forward. She wanted terribly to run away with him to some secret place and hide him as a brooding bird, so that if one of them had to be struck it must be her. Intolerable, the thought that Philip was sad. She began to pray to nobody and nothing as they half ran up the hill. ‘lf one of us has to fear anything, let that one be me. Not that I’m stronger or anything like that, but it’s easier for me. I would rather have it. It doesn’t hurt me —anything passes off me like water off a duck’s back. My nature’s different. I don’t need so much—but he needs everything. Oh, give him everything. Oh, make and keep him happy—he flowers in happiness —he can only work when he is happy. His greatness is not the kind that needs grief. Help! Help!’

They turned into a street of irregular large houses with gardens full of autumn flowers. She saw michaelmas daisies pressing through a white fence and there was a great bush of chrysanthemums growing by quite a country gate. Lights shone in these houses, the glow of fire and shaded lamps. From one came the voice of a woman singing. Maata stopped and whispered ‘listen’. It was not because of the music she paused, but that house had a beautiful garden. She wanted Philip to see it. There was a round lawn like a green pool, and a very big tree of dark leaves curling and drooped over the grass. The voice of the woman might have floated to them out of the tree! It was a deep voice, secret and full. They waited until her song had ceased and then walked further. By and by he said ‘we shall have just such a house one day’. ‘Of course!’ she replied, smiling wistfully. Then—‘Philip, isn’t Patience a dreadful thing. Well—l just haven’t any —where you are concerned. And I don’t want to have any. Everything must happen now, here. We ought, you know, to have walked through that gate and in at the front door, and found— ’ ‘Maisie sitting on the stairs waiting for us.’ He laughed. ‘Oh, my blessed darling what a beast I am. I don’t know how I dared to come into the diningroom, take you out like this, and talk all that rubbish. Heaven knows, it seemed true enough, but now — laughable. I’ll explain it. I hadn’t seen you for at least two hours. Now

do you wonder. I cried instinctively, like a baby—a very young baby who’s been [?] too short a time with you to be left alone yet. But I promise and promise Maata, it won’t happen again.’ ‘What do you suppose I was doing in the diningroom’ she said. ‘Making mother talk about you. I was worse than a crying baby. I was a starving one. And never make promises to me, Sweetheart. I refuse to take them. I have no need of such things.’

On Primrose Hill there were many lovers, wandering aimlessly through the tousled grass, or sitting on little benches, pressed against the trees. Curious the silence of these people. The children were silent too. It was like walking into the middle of a service, thought Maata, and felt ashamed, as though she and Philip had arrived a little too late and were disturbing the others. But the others did not appear disturbed—they were as indifferent as the trees. She and Philip found a little place against some railings and looked out over London. Mist floated over the streets and houses. The lights shone silver with fanlike wings—it was almost perfectly unreal. ‘These people are ghosts. There is only you and me’ whispered Philip. ‘And that city—nothing but a mirage from which they have floated—flung up on the tide of it and plain for us to see just for one moment, and then drawn back again. . . . Don’t you hear the mirage wave?’ ‘Oh yes, I hear it. I like it. What friendly ghosts, little brother.’ ‘They wouldn’t be if they knew we were here. They’d come upon us, darkly powerful. Don’t be afraid. That is only a ruse of mine to get your other hand as well. Do you suppose I dare to kiss you?’ ‘You have to, it’s part of the service’ she laughed.

On the way home she had a beautiful idea. They found a little grocer’s shop still open and bought a bottle of stout for mother, some [?] for Hal and themselves. The light still burned in the dining room but Mr Close was not there. His work was put away. Hal lay full length on the green sofa. Mrs Close poked viciously at the little dusty fire. She raised her head as they came in and looked up —rather glumly. But Maata produced the stout bottle. Philip took some glasses from the table. It was impossible to resist the gaiety of the two children. Mrs Close and Hal who had been talking ‘money worries’ drew up to the table. ‘What a colour you’ve got from the air’ said Mrs Close, holding the glass to Philip. ‘That’s enough my boy, don’t fill it too full. I only want a sip.’ ‘The air —l like that’ said Hal drinking out of the bottle. ‘Look at old Philip’s hand shaking. You’ve been giving that hand too much exercise, my lad. Which side does she walk on? Don’t pour any out for me —I’ll have the bottle.’ ‘No you won’t’ cried Maata. ‘Fair does my child. There are only two bottles of [?] between the three of us!’ ‘Oh mum aren’t they prigs. Here have I been sitting at that cold cold piano playing for hours and hours—to them—and now

they won’t even let me have a bottle of . Oh aren’t they sneaks. Aren’t they beasts. And they pretend to be in Love!’ ‘Oh let the infant play with it then’ said Phil. ‘We’ll share a bottle and you can have a whole one. Don’t swallow the marble unless you really want to Horse. Have some more stout mother and I’ll promise you the best dream in the dream book tomorrow morning.’ ‘Well I don’t mind. Just a drop. I hope your father’s asleep. I feel so lively I could kick him out of bed. How a drop of stout in the evening perks me up —like nothing else. When you get to my age you’ll need it Maata —though I must say you don’t look as if you did just now. I always did have a fondness for stout —I remember the first nurse I had when the twins were born—started me off. And there is nothing like it when you’re that way. Just wait till my first grandchild begins to come along!’ Hal adored his mother in this vein. He ran over to her with the bottle in his hand and began kissing her face and neck and hair. ‘She’s in her cups’ he laughed. ‘Now’s the time for confidential intimacies, my friends. Give her her head. Philip—run out and get her 6d worth of gin.’

But Phil was taking off Maata’s shoes, and whispering to her ‘let’s get her to bed, and I’ll make up the fire. Come down again.’ So Maata yawned and smiled across at Mrs Close. ‘lf you popped into bed now, mummy,’ she said, ‘you’d sleep like a top —while you’re warm.’ ‘l’m going, I’m going.’ The little woman got up, set down her glass and gave Hal a great hug. She pulled on his beard and murmured something. Hal winked at the others. ‘Yes’, he said, ‘I suppose we’d better. They’ll drive us away from our own fireside—but we’ll go, won’t we little mum—and come down in half an hour and look at them through the keyhole— ’ ‘You little silly. Come and kiss me goodnight!’ said Maata. ‘What were you playing this evening.’ ‘Shan’t say. Oh how nice your face feels—so cool. I wouldn’t mind betting you my collection of apple cores that in half an hour. . . .’ ‘Mother take him away.’

Maata and Philip listened to the others going up the stairs, to Hal, pretending to be a baby and asking to have his hand held and saying he was frightened—could he be tucked up and where did the dark go in the daytime. And Mrs Close in answer, scolding and loving, and then laughing as Maisie laughed. Then the sound of the doors closing. Philip put out the gas and gathered the beloved Maata into his arms.