The Children's Book - A. S. Byatt [293]
She stood up, turned and ran into the house. She came out again, followed by Elsie, wiping floury fingers on her apron.
“I was just passing by,” he said to her, smiling cautiously.
“It’s not often people pass by here, seeing that the track doesn’t really go anywhere.”
“It’s a track I’ve come to like,” he said. “So I ride down it.”
“Sit down,” commanded Ann. “And I’ll give you some tea and cake.”
“May I?” he said to Elsie.
“I think so,” she said.
So he sat on the bench, and was given a blue lustre cup of clear water, and a rosy plate with two dandelions and a daisy. “Pretty cups and plates,” said Charles/Karl.
“Philip makes them for her. Well, no, now I look at them, you’ve got a little dish I made myself, years ago.”
They were silent for a moment. He reached into his haversack and brought out a parcel in green shiny paper, tied with ribbon, which he handed to Ann. She opened it. It was a book of nursery rhymes, prettily illustrated. Ann held it to her chest, and said to Charles/Karl
“I can read, you know, I can read all by myself.”
“She can, too,” said Elsie. “I taught her.” She said “You can stay to dinner, if you want. There’s cod, enough for three, and parsley sauce, and potatoes.”
“I should like that.”
So they went in, and sat at table, and talked peacefully, to and about Ann.
“Mrs. Oakeshott is away?”
“She’s gone to a lecture in Hythe. And Robin’s out with a friend. So we’d have been peacefully lonesome, if you hadn’t come along.”
Elsie was now a student-teacher, in Puxty School. She earned a little money, and lived in part of Marian Oakeshott’s cottage. Charles/Karl, after praising the juiciness of the cod, and the freshness of the sauce, asked if the work was as interesting as she’d hoped.
“It’s interesting,” said Elsie. “It’s good to be needed, and watch the little ones light up when they grasp how to read. But I’m not satisfied. I don’t know that I’ll ever be satisfied.”
“I don’t know why I so like to see that half-cross look on your face. It was the first thing I noticed about you, a kind of constructive discontent.”
“Well, that’s not likely ever to change, I think.”
“I don’t know …”
Elsie got up abruptly, and began to wash the dishes. Charles/Karl took a cloth, and dried them. Ann wandered away, and fell into a doze on a sofa. They went out, and sat down again on the beach, by the porch, looking out over the beds of reeds and strips of shingle. He said
“You are the only person in the world I feel quite comfortable with. Despite your being so prickly and unsatisfied.”
“I like to be wi’ you, too. But we’re going nowhere. This is th’ end of the road. That track gets to the shingle bank and just ends.”
“I should like to be able to see you much more—to be with you. You’re good for me.”
“I’m good for no one but Ann. And the little ’uns at the school, I suppose. I’ve made one mistake, Mr.—Karl—and I’m not about to make any more.”
“It wouldn’t be like that.”
“You don’t know how ‘that’ was. I made my bed, I’ll lie in it. I’ve got good friends. You and me—this is an imaginary tea-party, like Ann giving you flowers and water. We come out of two different worlds, and they don’t mix.”
“I don’t believe in all that.”
“I think you do. You couldn’t ever take me home to your high-up family—don’t pretend to yourself, you couldn’t. We are no good to each other.”
Charles/Karl answered this by putting his arms round her, and gripping fiercely. He had not known he was going to do this. Their heads came close. He said “I want you, I need you, I need you.”
There were tears in her eyes. He wiped them away. He kissed her; they were both trembling; it was a careful, not a greedy, kiss.
“You’ll do me no good. I must be respectable.”
“Oh, my love, I know that. I do know.”
Ann came out into the sunlight, and they drew apart before she saw them. Charles/Karl said he must be going.