Chapter 9. The Dark Tower
Pom insisted on bringing dinner from the pub – chicken Kiev, green beans with almonds, cherry tart and a case of Gruner Veltliner. “I remember how much you liked it. And that you have a wine cellar.”
“This will be the first wine in it,” said Scarlet.
He carried the case down himself to what he called “the crypt” and racked the bottles while Scarlet studied his strong arms. You didn’t get arms like that from painting – was he a rower? When he turned unexpectedly she knew she must be blushing violently but prayed he couldn’t see it in the gloaming.
He condescended to take a perfunctory peek at the sleeping baby
“Looks like General Eisenhower,” was his comment.
“He does not! Eisenhower never had that lovely tuft of hair!”
“Babies aren’t my purview,” admitted Pom. “Makes me feel like one of those pygmies who can’t see into photographs.”
“He’s changed so much already,” Scarlet confided as they tiptoed out. “He was so long and stringy when he was born – now he’s all compacted. It’s his greediness – he’s a greedy little piglet.”
“I don’t blame him,” said Pom, obscurely. “Life lies virgin all before him.”
Now THAT was a masculine thing to say. Because they were already upstairs she took him to the Tower room, not admitting it was her first visit since Nick’s birth. Luckily the stairs did not seem so hard to climb. And even luckier, the room appeared invitingly glamorous. Not dusty at all.
“This is astonishing,” said Pom. “You can’t think how you alleviate my guilt over selling you this behemoth. Those stairs are a particularly clever addition.”
“Perhaps it’s a case of win-win,’ she suggested. Pom had to have this very American concept explained to him.
“What a revolutionary notion,” he agreed. “We imperialists take it for granted there must be gluttons and losers in any transaction.”
“It’s not popular,” Scarlet admitted.
Pom started up a new subject, one closer to Scarlet’s heart. “I envy your ability to create with a view like this,” he said. “I couldn’t do it.”
“I haven’t written anything yet,” she confessed at the sight of the immaculate desk and the paperless table. “But now that I’ve acquired a babysitter I swear I’m just about to start.”
But Pom was clearly thinking other thoughts.
But it was the windows that drew Pom. She distinctly heard tears in his throat as he said, “You’ve done it. This was the way it was always meant to be. No longer a widow’s walk – it’s become a panopticon.”
Scarlet was aghast at these comparisons.
“Widow’s walk? Panopticon? Those are horrible examples. I think of it as the eye of the house. The oculus.”
But Pom wasn’t through yet with his horrible examples.
“You can’t see anything through an oculus,” he said mercilessly.
She said, “Then why did I buy it?”
She saw him hesitate before bringing up the unpleasant subject. “You didn’t buy it. The house is in your husband’s name alone.”
He turned as if to deliberately miss her violent blush. “I thought it was strange at the time…for an American wife.”
I must have known this, thought Scarlet. Surely something could be done. After all, I wasn’t there, so my signature was not required. So why am I so upset? Because a stranger pointed it out? Or was it because it was THIS particular stranger?
“I didn’t choose the house,” she agreed, proud that her voice sounded calm. “But I like it.”
He continued looking out the windows. “You weren’t at all what I expected.”
She sat down on the slipper chair, breath suddenly knocked out of her body. “And what did you expect?”
“I suppose an efficient young woman from a cookery advertisement.”
“But would Ian marry such a girl?” She smiled.
At last he turned to look at her, and sat down on the desk chair.
“I’d like to read your work.”
“Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place.” She rose, laughing, opened a trunk and removed a copy of her poetry chapbook, Thistledom. “Be sure to let me know what you think. Somehow I’m sure you won’t hold back.”
“You’re right,” he agreed. “I can tell you like the criticism better than the praise.”
“One learns more,” she agreed.
“You’re so right. My recent show had a reviewer who said my pictures were pretty colors.”
“God!” Her jaw dropped. “What an awful thing to say!”
“It certainly had an effect on me. I’ve worked in black and white ever since. Just last week I began adding a bit of blue.”
She was still standing so he too rose, and looking out the windows said mockingly,
“Save me, save me, Sister Anne,” And he pointed down the long stretch of road towards the gate. “Don’t you see her riding?”
“Who?” Scarlet felt a flutter almost of panic. Curiosity or dread or both? Where was that quote coming from? Was he about to reveal some horrible tale about the house they had permanently bankrupted themselves to buy? Hauntings? Murders? Wastings away? If there was such a story, she knew she must hear it, even if it broke her.
He turned his pale-eyed, narrow blond face towards her and she thought for a moment what a type he was. Everyone’s picture of clueless, useless English aristocracy – so unlike her handsome, Northern, rugged husband.
“Bluebeard. The Perrault fairytale. Surely you know it.”
“I guess French fairytales aren’t my purview,” she mocked him, she who had been dragged forwards and back through Norse mythology by her husband and was still feeling somewhat bitter about it.
Pom had the grace to laugh, but then stung her again. “You know Disney, with the singing mice. Oakhampton has a lovely bookshop – the Fruitful Browser, which concentrates on folktales. But here’s the short version – Bluebeard used to kill his wives and lock the corpses in a forbidden room, but his last wife – Barbara, I think her name was – found it. He was going to kill her but her sister Anne rescued her. From the top of the house she summoned Sister Anne and saw her riding in. Do you have a sister?”
Scarlet felt like a ship heaving in a storm but she was determined to remain upright. This man was interesting, but difficult. Definitely interesting. Definitely difficult. Possibly dangerous – was he probing for a weakness?
“India. Older sister. No brothers.”
“As an only child, I envy you,” he said, looking as if he really did not. “Sister India, Sister India” – doesn’t quite have that ring. Pomeroy was my mother’s name – she was an earl’s daughter and so I must blame snobbery. Where did your parents come up with your exotic names?”
After the embarrassment of Disney, she was not going to admit to her mother’s addiction to Gone With the Wind, so she provided a quotation of her own, “Oh, brave new world. Americans like everything fresh. We create ourselves. You know how it is.”
“I can only imagine,” he said. “I’m so jealous.”
It was past time to return downstairs. She obscurely felt she’d been put through a wringer but Gruner Veltliner and music were sufficient to transform their rocky start into comfortable relaxation. Death and the Maiden played on the gramophone was a big success. Pom admitted he’d never heard it. “I thought Schubert was a waste of time. It certainly sounds very modern.”
They listened while they ate.
“You’re the only girl I know who doesn’t try to fill silences with useless cocktail chatter,” he said.
Another backhanded compliment? Another scorched heir! She could have told the truth – that her mouth was too full to speak because she was so greedy for delicious food she hadn’t cooked – except that her mouth was full to explain even that! She decided to focus on the word “girl”. That must be a compliment – in her short experience strange men backed away from mothering females as if fearful of a paternity accusation. Scarlet still qualified as “young”. Even though she was now a mother she planned to be a girl for at least a few more years.
“Lovely food,” she sighed, instead.
Over coffee they relaxed enough to discuss their favorite films and books.
“Oh, Hitchcock,” said Pom. “Hardboiled crime. Because of the paradigm shifts, for me it’s thrillers all the way.”
He was full of surprises.
“What’s a paradigm shift?”
“A dramatic re-visioning. Very applicable to artists. Speaking of what’s fresh, – oh brave new world – artists need to SEE differently, be reborn – at least every other day.”
“Like letting go of color. Yes, it’s also true of poets,” Scarlet added. “You don’t dare to ever be comfortable. Emily Dickinson calls it seeing “aslant.” If poets ignore that they get all stodgy. Like Wordsworth.”
“And naturally society likes things stodgy. Likes and wants. Necessary for pigeonholing.”
“And that’s just what an artist DOESN’T want.” She suddenly had the wild idea to discuss the germination of her possible novel with him, but of course she dared not. Possibly a pigeon hole might result – and if one did, it would prove impossible to rest inside with any comfort. She changed the subject, avoiding the dangerous corner like any good hostess.
“I don’t know much Hitchcock but I enjoyed The Lady Vanishes. My favorite is Iris Murdoch. She’s not that good with the paradigm shifts but she does create believable, interesting universes to lose yourself in. I value particularly the way she meanders on and on. One Murdoch will last me anywhere. She could write a book that never ends and it would be all right with me.”
“What a surrealist and philosopher you are – a book without an end. I’ll have to give her a try. But if you didn’t see Notorious or North By Northwest they’re worth going up to London for – much better than any play.”
“What is it exactly that you like about them? You know already the paradigm shift is coming.”
He considered.
“His layers of revelation are so elegantly arranged – like a mille-feuille.”
“Is it the pastry you prefer or the cream?” She felt certain no man would admit to preferring the cream.
“I like the way the each plays off against each other.”
He’s so interesting! she thought appreciatively. How unexpected! Could I have I found a friend? Would Ian be jealous? Is it possible for such an exciting man – who responds to me with such awareness of my femininity – to really be a woman’s friend? Instead she said, “Sounds like Iris Murdoch to me!”
“But not if she takes too long getting around to it. Thrillers have to be constructed like this piece of music – they’ve got somewhere to go and they hurry you along. Is your poetry anything like Murdoch?”
“I doubt you’ll think so. Like you, I was getting into a bit of a rut. That’s why I had a baby,” she teased him, “To improve my verse.”
He laughed and laughed.
All in all it was a most successful evening.
Alysse Aallyn 
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