The Children's Book - A. S. Byatt [246]
Toby Youlgreave and Joachim Susskind inhabited the bedrooms, and unpacked boxes of books onto makeshift bookcases constructed of bricks and planks. They came early, by train to Ashurst and then in a dog cart, carrying the heavy things, tents and kettles, cooking pots and jars of jam. Tom was already there. He had walked across the Downs and leapt out of the fringe of wood, to help with the unloading. Another dog cart brought Dorothy, Griselda and Phyllis. Hedda had been told she was too little, which at twelve she thought she was not. She had had one of her rages, which were beginning to worry her parents, and had deliberately broken a fruit dish made by Philip Warren. Phyllis, at sixteen, was going to cook. She had brought an apron. Florence Cain also arrived in a trap from the station. Julian had suggested she come along—he was coming with Charles/Karl from Cambridge, the next day. And Prosper Cain had asked whether they could not include Imogen. Florence had demurred—the invitation had been to her. Julian, when approached, asked Toby, who said “Why not?” So Imogen had come.
Toby and Joachim and Tom put up tents. There were four of these, two for males, two for females, erected, stretched and pinned down. The girls gathered armfuls of bracken to put under the blanket bags they unpacked. Julian was walking from the station with Charles/Karl on the following day, and hoped to meet up with Gerry who was catching the same train. Florence had written, lightly, to Julian, that he ought to bring Gerald with him, Gerald would enjoy it. Julian had already that summer joined Gerald at an Apostolic reading party in the Tyrol, which had strenuously discussed truth, friendship, moral obligation, ideal beauty, the working classes and other, naughtier things. Julian occasionally thought that enjoying oneself was a very strenuous occupation.
Dorothy and Griselda set off with cannikins to walk through the woods to the farm for milk. Imogen asked if she could go with them—she was always somehow in the position of asking, mildly, if she could join in—she was not, spontaneously, invited. Florence stayed in the camp watching Phyllis shelling peas and making jellies. She was listening. She was listening for Julian, Gerry, Charles/Karl and Gerald as though she was in suspended animation until they arrived.
Love—fantastic, unrequited love—distorts and tweaks time into terrible shapes. Through the uneven window-panes Tom and Toby seemed grotesque, their bodies changing shape, fatter and thicker, stretched like elastic. Imaginary Gerald, in Florence’s mind, was precise and radiant and perfectly shaped. Several times every minute she imagined him sauntering through the wood, crossing the lawn, smiling his shy smile of pleasure at seeing her waiting for him. Her skin pricked at the sight of the fantom. She willed him to come.
“Here they are,” called Phyllis, running out in an apron. They strode in—Gerry first, then Charles/Karl, and Julian lazily last. Gerald had not come. Florence knew immediately that she had always known he would not come—probably Julian had not even asked him, knowing that he would find their company childish, after his fine friends. And if she had always known he would not come, what had she been doing to herself, imagining? She was hot with shame, and turned crossly away when Geraint strode across to her—“like a puppy” she thought meanly—and said he was so glad she was there.
Later that day, the Germans came, Wolfgang and Leon, with green hats and sticks,