She threw down her knitting, went to the window, opened it, and looked out.
‘How late it is.’
And the hammering thoughts came back, the distant words, and the near ones, and always the rumours.
‘Very soon I shan’t be able to lift up my own head.’
She stiffened the moment she heard a key in the door.
‘At last. He’s back,’ and she rushed back to her chair, forgetting to close the window.
He entered the room so quietly that before she realised it he was standing in front of the fire.
‘You’re tired, Margiad,’ he said gently, and looked down at her with not a little concern. ‘Bed, sister, bed.’
She got up. ‘There you are then, Mervyn.’
‘Here I am.’
‘I thought I was alone in this house.’
He bent to her height. ‘And you are not alone, Margiad,’ he said.
He went into the hall, hung up his raincoat.
‘Any supper?’
‘There is milk in a pan,’ she said.
And later heard him pottering about in the kitchen.
‘Thank you,’ he said, and then a call, ‘is this all. Just milk?’
‘Just milk.’
‘Oh! I see.’
But she made no reply to that.
‘I’m sorry you’re angry with me, Margiad,’ he called, then came in with milk, and some bread, and sat by the fire, and began his last meal of the day.
She was still standing there, leaning against the mantelpiece, staring down into the fire.
‘Go to bed,’ he said.
‘You’re living in the clouds, Mervyn Thomas,’ she said, and bent down and vigorously poked the fire.
‘Is there no way in?’ he asked.
‘No way,’ she said.
‘Ah!’ And he sipped slowly at the milk, and even smiled at her.
‘Be upright, and you’ll find the way,’ she said.
He put down the mug, sat back, folded his arms, studied her. He felt sorry for her. ‘Do go to bed now, Margiad.’
‘I will go to bed,’ but she did not move.
After a short silence, she said, ‘The wind’s been roaring in this chimney half the night, but then you would never have heard it, no.’
‘It was wild outside,’ he said.
‘Once, I nearly went out myself,’ Margiad said.
‘In the pouring rain?’
And she flung the reply at him. ‘It’s the same rain that hammered your shoulders,’ she said.
‘Well? And what of it. And what now Margiad?’
‘I’ve watched, I’ve waited, I’ve prayed, Mervyn, yes, and hoped that a word would melt on your tongue. You’re ill, brother, and I’m much worried by it. I wish you’d see Dr Hughes. He is clever, and will help you.’
‘Leave me alone, for God’s sake.’
‘For whose sake? You’ll be left alone, have no fear of that. Come now, Mervyn, it’s you that should get off to bed, not me. Wet through you are. What a mad dream you’re living, you silly man. Be sensible, Mervyn, come now, get off to bed. And you look very tired.’
‘I am not tired.’
