Well, that’s how it began between Ellie and myself. It didn’t really go alongso very quickly, because we both had our secrets. Both had things wewanted to keep from the other and so we couldn’t tell each other as muchabout ourselves as we might have done, and that kept bringing us upsharp, as it were, against a kind of barrier. We couldn’t bring things intothe open and say, “When shall we meet again? Where can I find you?
Where do you live?” Because, you see, if you ask the other person that,they’d expect you to tell the same.
Fenella looked apprehensive1 when she gave me her name. So much sothat I thought for a moment that it mightn’t be her real name. I almostthought that she might have made it up! But of course I knew that that wasimpossible. I’d given her my real name.
We didn’t know quite how to take leave of each other that day. It wasawkward. It had become cold and we wanted to wander down from TheTowers—but what then? Rather awkwardly, I said tentatively:
“Are you staying round here?”
She said she was staying in Market Chadwell. That was a market townnot very far away. It had, I knew, a large hotel, three-starred. She’d bestaying there, I guessed. She said, with something of the same awkward-ness, to me:
“Do you live here?”
“No,” I said, “I don’t live here. I’m only here for the day.”
Then a rather awkward silence fell. She gave a faint shiver. A cold littlewind had come up.
“We’d better walk,” I said, “and keep ourselves warm. Are you—haveyou got a car or are you going by bus or train?”
She said she’d left the car in the village.
“But I’ll be quite all right,” she said.
She seemed a little nervous. I thought perhaps she wanted to get rid ofme but didn’t quite know how to manage it. I said:
“We’ll walk down, shall we, just as far as the village?”
She gave me a quick grateful look then. We walked slowly down thewinding road on which so many car accidents had happened. As we cameround a corner, a figure stepped suddenly from beneath the shelter of thefir tree. It appeared so suddenly that Ellie gave a start and said, “Oh!” Itwas the old woman I had seen the other day in her cottage garden. MrsLee. She looked a great deal wilder today with a tangle2 of black hair blow-ing in the wind and a scarlet3 cloak round her shoulders; the commandingstance she took up made her look taller.
“And what would you be doing, my dears?” she said. “What brings youto Gipsy’s Acre?”
“Oh,” Ellie said, “we aren’t trespassing4, are we?”
“That’s as may be. Gipsies’ land this used to be. Gipsies’ land and theydrove us off it. You’ll do no good here, and no good will come to youprowling about Gipsy’s Acre.”
There was no fight in Ellie, she wasn’t that kind. She said gently and po-litely:
“I’m very sorry if we shouldn’t have come here. I thought this place wasbeing sold today.”
“And bad luck it will be to anyone who buys it!” said the old woman.
“You listen, my pretty, for you’re pretty enough, bad luck will come towhoever buys it. There’s a curse on this land, a curse put on it long ago,many years ago. You keep clear of it. Don’t have nought5 to do with Gipsy’sAcre. Death it will bring you and danger. Go away home across the seaand don’t come back to Gipsy’s Acre. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“We’re doing no harm.”
“Come now, Mrs Lee,” I said, “don’t frighten this young lady.”
I turned in an explanatory way to Ellie.
“Mrs Lee lives in the village. She’s got a cottage there. She tells fortunesand prophesies6 the future. All that, don’t you, Mrs Lee?” I spoke7 to her in ajocular way.
“I’ve got the gift,” she said simply, drawing her gipsy- like figure upstraighter still. “I’ve got the gift. It’s born in me. We all have it. I’ll tell yourfortune, young lady. Cross my palm with silver and I’ll tell your fortunefor you.”
“I don’t think I want my fortune told.”
“It’d be a wise thing to do. Know something about the future. Knowwhat to avoid, know what’s coming to you if you don’t take care. Comenow, there’s plenty of money in your pocket. Plenty of money. I knowthings it would be wise for you to know.”
I believe the urge to have one’s fortune told is almost invariable in wo-men. I’ve noticed it before with girls I knew. I nearly always had to pay forthem to go into the fortune-tellers’ booths if I took them to a fair. Ellieopened her bag and laid two half crowns in the old woman’s hand.
“Ah, my pretty, that’s right now. You hear what old Mother Lee will tellyou.”
Ellie drew off her glove and laid her small delicate palm in the old wo-man’s hand. She looked down at it, muttering to herself. “What do I seenow? What do I see?”
Suddenly she dropped Ellie’s hand abruptly8.
“I’d go away from here if I were you. Go—and don’t come back! That’swhat I told you just now and it’s true. I’ve seen it again in your palm. For-get Gipsy’s Acre, forget you ever saw it. And it’s not just the ruined houseup there, it’s the land itself that’s cursed.”
“You’ve got a mania9 about that,” I said roughly. “Anyway the young ladyhas nothing to do with the land here. She’s only here for a walk today,she’s nothing to do with the neighbourhood.”
The old woman paid no attention to me. She said dourly10:
“I’m telling you, my pretty. I’m warning you. You can have a happy life—but you must avoid danger. Don’t come to a place where there’s dangeror where there’s a curse. Go away where you’re loved and taken care ofand looked after. You’ve got to keep yourself safe. Remember that. Other-wise—otherwise—” she gave a short shiver. “I don’t like to see it, I don’tlike to see what’s in your hand.”
Suddenly with a queer brisk gesture she pushed back the two halfcrowns into Ellie’s palm, mumbling11 something we could hardly hear. Itsounded like “It’s cruel. It’s cruel, what’s going to happen.” Turning, shestalked away at a rapid pace.
“What a—what a frightening woman,” said Ellie.
“Pay no attention to her,” I said gruffly. “I think she’s half off her headanyway. She just wants to frighten you off. They’ve got a sort of feeling, Ithink, about this particular piece of land.”
“Have there been accidents here? Have bad things happened?”
“Bound to be accidents. Look at the curve and the narrowness of theroad. The Town Council ought to be shot for not doing something about it.
Of course there’ll be accidents here. There aren’t enough signs warningyou.”
“Only accidents—or other things?”
“Look here,” I said, “people like to collect disasters. There are plenty ofdisasters always to collect. That’s the way stories build themselves upabout a place.”
“Is that one of the reasons why they say this property which is beingsold will go cheap?”
“Well, it may be, I suppose. Locally, that is. But I don’t suppose it’ll besold locally. I expect it’ll be bought for developing. You’re shivering,” Isaid. “Don’t shiver. Come on, we’ll walk fast.” I added, “Would you rather Ileft you before you got back into the town?”
“No. Of course not. Why should I?”
I made a desperate plunge12.
“Look here,” I said, “I shall be in Market Chadwell tomorrow. I—I sup-pose—I don’t know whether you’ll still be there…I mean, would there beany chance of—seeing you?” I shuffled13 my feet and turned my head away.
I got rather red, I think. But if I didn’t say something now, how was I goingto go on with this?
“Oh yes,” she said, “I shan’t be going back to London until the evening.”
“Then perhaps—would you—I mean, I suppose it’s rather cheek—”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Well, perhaps you’d come and have tea at a café—the Blue Dog I thinkit’s called. It’s quite nice,” I said. “It’s—I mean, it’s—” I couldn’t get hold ofthe word I wanted and I used the word that I’d heard my mother use onceor twice—“it’s quite ladylike,” I said anxiously.
Then Ellie laughed. I suppose it sounded rather peculiar14 nowadays.
“I’m sure it’ll be very nice,” she said. “Yes. I’ll come. About half pastfour, will that be right?”
“I’ll be waiting for you,” I said. “I—I’m glad.” I didn’t say what I was gladabout.
We had come to the last turn of the road where the houses began.
“Good-bye, then,” I said, “till tomorrow. And—don’t think again aboutwhat that old hag said. She just likes scaring people, I think. She’s not allthere,” I added.
“Do you feel it’s a frightening place?” Ellie asked.
“Gipsy’s Acre? No, I don’t,” I said. I said it perhaps a trifle too decidedly,but I didn’t think it was frightening. I thought as I’d thought before, that itwas a beautiful place, a beautiful setting for a beautiful house….
Well, that’s how my first meeting with Ellie went. I was in Market Chad-well the next day waiting in the Blue Dog and she came. We had tea to-gether and we talked. We still didn’t say much about ourselves, not aboutour lives, I mean. We talked mostly about things we thought, and felt; andthen Ellie glanced at her wristwatch and said she must be going becauseher train to London left at 5:30—
“I thought you had a car down here,” I said.
She looked slightly embarrassed then and she said no, no, that hadn’tbeen her car yesterday. She didn’t say whose it had been. That shadow ofembarrassment came over us again. I raised a finger to the waitress andpaid the bill, then I said straight out to Ellie:
“Am I—am I ever going to see you again?”
She didn’t look at me, she looked down at the table. She said:
“I shall be in London for another fortnight.”
I said:
“Where? How?”
We made a date to meet in Regent’s Park in three days’ time. It was afine day. We had some food in the open-air restaurant and we walked inQueen Mary’s Gardens and we sat there in two deck chairs and we talked.
From that time on, we began to talk about ourselves. I’d had some goodschooling, I told her, but otherwise I didn’t amount to much. I told herabout the jobs I’d had, some of them at any rate, and how I’d never stuckto things and how I’d been restless and wandered about trying this andthat. Funnily enough, she was entranced to hear all this.
“So different,” she said, “so wonderfully different.”
“Different from what?”
“From me.”
“You’re a rich girl?” I said teasingly—“A poor little rich girl.”
“Yes,” she said, “I’m a poor little rich girl.”
She talked then in a fragmentary way about her background of riches,of stifling15 comfort, of boredom16, of not really choosing your own friends, ofnever doing what you wanted. Sometimes looking at people who seemedto be enjoying themselves, when she wasn’t. Her mother had died whenshe was a baby and her father had married again. And then, not manyyears after, he had died, she said. I gathered she didn’t care much for herstepmother. She’d lived mostly in America but also travelling abroad a fairamount.
It seemed fantastic to me listening to her that any girl in this age andtime could live this sheltered, confined existence. True, she went to partiesand entertainments, but it might have been fifty years ago it seemed to mefrom the way she talked. There didn’t seem to be any intimacy17, any fun!
Her life was as different from mine as chalk from cheese. In a way it wasfascinating to hear about it but it sounded stultifying18 to me.
“You haven’t really got any friends of your own then?” I said, incredu-lously. “What about boyfriends?”
“They’re chosen for me,” she said rather bitterly. “They’re deadly dull.”
“It’s like being in prison,” I said.
“That’s what it seems like.”
“And really no friends of your own?”
“I have now. I’ve got Greta.”
“Who’s Greta?” I said.
“She came first as an au pair—no, not quite that, perhaps. But anywayI’d had a French girl who lived with us for a year, for French, and thenGreta came from Germany, for German. Greta was different. Everythingwas different once Greta came.”
“You’re very fond of her?” I asked.
“She helps me,” said Ellie. “She’s on my side. She arranges so that I cando things and go places. She’ll tell lies for me. I couldn’t have got away tocome down to Gipsy’s Acre if it hadn’t been for Greta. She’s keeping mecompany and looking after me in London while my stepmother’s in Paris.
I write two or three letters and if I go off anywhere Greta posts them everythree or four days so that they have a London postmark.”
“Why did you want to go down to Gipsy’s Acre though?” I asked. “Whatfor?”
She didn’t answer at once.
“Greta and I arranged it,” she said. “She’s rather wonderful,” she wenton. “She thinks of things, you know. She suggests ideas.”
“What’s this Greta like?” I asked.
“Oh, Greta’s beautiful,” she said. “Tall and blonde. She can do anything.”
“I don’t think I’d like her,” I said.
Ellie laughed.
“Oh yes you would. I’m sure you would. She’s very clever, too.”
“I don’t like clever girls,” I said. “And I don’t like tall blonde girls. I likesmall girls with hair like autumn leaves.”
“I believe you’re jealous of Greta,” said Ellie.
“Perhaps I am. You’re very fond of her, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am very fond of her. She’s made all the difference in my life.”
“And it was she who suggested you went down there. Why, I wonder?
There’s not much to see or do in that part of the world. I find it rathermysterious.”
“It’s our secret,” said Ellie and looked embarrassed.
“Yours and Greta’s? Tell me.”
She shook her head. “I must have some secrets of my own,” she said.
“Does your Greta know you’re meeting me?”
“She knows I’m meeting someone. That’s all. She doesn’t ask questions.
She knows I’m happy.”
After that there was a week when I didn’t see Ellie. Her stepmother hadcome back from Paris, also someone whom she called Uncle Frank, andshe explained almost casually19 that she was having a birthday, and thatthey were giving a big party for her in London.
“I shan’t be able to get away,” she said. “Not for the next week. But afterthat—after that, it’ll be different.”
“Why will it be different after that?”
“I shall be able to do what I like then.”
“With Greta’s help as usual?” I said.
It used to make Ellie laugh the way I talked about Greta. She’d say,“You’re so silly to be jealous of her. One day you must meet her. You’ll likeher.”
“I don’t like bossy20 girls,” I said obstinately21.
“Why do you think she’s bossy?”
“By the way you talk about her. She’s always busy arranging some-thing.”
“She’s very efficient,” said Ellie. “She arranges things very well. That’swhy my stepmother relies on her so much.”
I asked what her Uncle Frank was like.
She said, “I don’t know him really so very well. He was my father’s sis-ter’s husband, not a real relation. I think he’s always been rather a rollingstone and got into trouble once or twice. You know the way people talkabout someone and sort of hint things.”
“Not socially acceptable?” I asked. “Bad lot?”
“Oh, nothing really bad I think, but he used to get into scrapes, I believe.
Financial ones. And trustees and lawyers and people used to have to gethim out of them. Pay up for things.”
“That’s it,” I said. “He’s the bad hat of the family. I expect I’d get on bet-ter with him than I would with the paragon22 Greta.”
“He can make himself very agreeable when he likes,” said Ellie. “He’sgood company.”
“But you don’t really like him?” I asked sharply.
“I think I do…It’s just that sometimes, oh I can’t explain it. I just feel Idon’t know what he’s thinking or planning.”
“One of our planners, is he?”
“I don’t know what he’s really like,” said Ellie again.
She didn’t ever suggest that I should meet any of her family. I wonderedsometimes if I ought to say something about it myself. I didn’t know howshe felt about the subject. I asked her straight out at last.
“Look here, Ellie,” I said, “do you think I ought to—meet your family orwould you rather I didn’t?”
“I don’t want you to meet them,” she said at once.
“I know I’m not much—” I said.
“I don’t mean it that way, not a bit! I mean they’d make a fuss. I can’tstand a fuss.”
“I sometimes feel,” I said, “that this is rather a hole and corner business.
It puts me in a rather bad light, don’t you think?”
“I’m old enough to have my own friends,” said Ellie. “I’m nearly twenty-one. When I am twenty-one I can have my own friends and nobody canstop me. But now you see—well, as I say there’d be a terrible fuss andthey’d cart me off somewhere so that I couldn’t meet you. There’d be—ohdo, do let’s go on as we are now.”
“Suits me if it suits you,” I said. “I just didn’t want to be, well, too under-hand about everything.”
“It’s not being underhand. It’s just having a friend one can talk to andsay things to. It’s someone one can —” she smiled suddenly, “one canmake-believe with. You don’t know how wonderful that is.”
Yes, there was a lot of that—make-believe! More and more our times to-gether were to turn out that way. Sometimes it was me. More often it wasEllie who’d say, “Let’s suppose that we’ve bought Gipsy’s Acre and thatwe’re building a house there.”
I had told her a lot about Santonix and about the houses he’d built. Itried to describe to her the kind of houses they were and the way hethought about things. I don’t think I described it very well because I’m notgood at describing things. Ellie no doubt had her own picture of the house— our house. We didn’t say “our house” but we knew that’s what wemeant….
So for over a week I wasn’t to see Ellie. I had taken out what savings23 Ihad (there weren’t many), and I’d bought her a little green shamrock ringmade of some Irish bog24 stone. I’d given it to her for a birthday present andshe’d loved it and looked very happy.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
She didn’t wear much jewellery and when she did I had no doubt it wasreal diamonds and emeralds and things like that but she liked my Irishring.
“It will be the birthday present I like best,” she said.
Then I got a hurried note from her. She was going abroad with her fam-ily to the South of France immediately after her birthday.
“But don’t worry,” she wrote, “we shall be back again in two or threeweeks” time, on our way to America this time. But anyway we’ll meetagain then. I’ve got something special I want to talk to you about.”
I felt restless and ill at ease not seeing Ellie and knowing she’d goneabroad to France. I had a bit of news about the Gipsy’s Acre property too.
Apparently25 it had been sold by private treaty but there wasn’t much in-formation about who’d bought it. Some firm of London solicitors26 appar-ently were named as the purchasers. I tried to get more information aboutit, but I couldn’t. The firm in question were very cagey. Naturally I didn’tapproach the principals. I palled27 up to one of their clerks and so got a littlevague information. It had been bought for a very rich client who was go-ing to hold it as a good investment capable of appreciation28 when the landin that part of the country was becoming more developed.
It’s very hard to find out about things when you’re dealing29 with reallyexclusive firms. Everything is as much of a deadly secret as though theywere M.I.5 or something! Everyone is always acting30 on behalf of someoneelse who can’t be named or spoken of! Takeover bids aren’t in it!
I got into a terrible state of restlessness. I stopped thinking about it alland I went and saw my mother.
I hadn’t been to see her for a good long time.
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1
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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4
trespassing
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| [法]非法入侵 | |
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nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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prophesies
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的第三人称单数 ) | |
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7
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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dourly
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11
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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13
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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stultifying
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| v.使成为徒劳，使变得无用( stultify的现在分词 ) | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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bossy
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| adj.爱发号施令的，作威作福的 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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paragon
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| n.模范，典型 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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palled
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| v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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