Free The Go-Between by L. P. Hartley Page A

floating
impressions, unrelated to each other, making little sense, let
alone a story. Scenes linger with me—generally in tones of light
and dark, but sometimes tinged with colour. Thus I remember the
cedar on the lawn, its dark foliage and the brightness of the turf
around its shadow; and I also remember the hammock of crimson
canvas slung on two poles beneath it. The hammock was a novelty
that had just succeeded the corded, knotted kind that caught your
buttons and dragged them off. It was much frequented by the young
people and I can still hear them laugh as it tipped them out and
spilled them on the grass.
      Of this there is no mention in my diary. Of the
stables there is more than one, but I have no recollection of them,
though I carefully entered the names of five of the horses: Lady
Jane, Princess, Uncas, Dry Toast, and Nogo—Nogo I thought
deliciously funny, but I can’t remember what he or any of them
looked like. I can, however, remember the coachhouse, though the
diary is silent about; it. The lamps, the springs, the shafts, the
dashboards, with their shining paint and super-polish, fascinated
me. And the smell of harness leather—to me more captivating than
the stronger horse smells. The coach-house was a treasure-house to
me.
      Enough of the vagaries and inconsistencies of my
memory. But one thing that I had forgotten the diary did bring
back—and not only the fact, but the scene with the utmost
vividness.
      “Wednesday llth of July. Saw the Deadly Nightshade—
Atropa belladonna
.”
      Marcus wasn’t with me, I was alone, exploring some
derelict outhouses, which for me had obviously more attraction than
the view of Brandham Hall from the S.W. In one, which was roofless
as well as derelict, I suddenly came upon the plant. But it wasn’t
a plant, in my sense of the word, it was a shrub, almost a tree,
and as tall as I was. It looked the picture of evil and also the
picture of health, it was so glossy and strong and juicy-looking: I
could almost see the sap rising to nourish it. It seemed to have
found the place in all the world that suited it best.
      I knew that every part of it was poisonous, I knew
too that it was beautiful, for did not my mother’s botany book say
so? I stood on the threshold, not daring to go in, staring at the
button-bright berries and the dull, purplish, hairy, bell-shaped
flowers reaching out towards me. I felt that the plant could poison
me even if I didn’t touch it, and that if I didn’t eat it, it would
eat me, it looked so hungry, in spite of all the nourishment it was
getting.
      As if I had been caught looking at something I
wasn’t meant to see, I tiptoed away, wondering whether Mrs.
Maud-sley would think me interfering if I told her about it. But I
didn’t tell her. I couldn’t bear to think of those lusty limbs
withering on a rubbish-heap or crackling in a fire: all that beauty
being destroyed. Besides, I wanted to look at it again.
      
Atropa belladonna.
     
     
     
     
      3
     
     
      IT ALL BEGAN with the weather defying me.
      The Monday I travelled on had been a cool temperate
day, but the next day the sky was cloudless and the sun beat down.
After we had fled from luncheon (I seem to remember we left all
meals incontinently, like escaping prisoners, only staying to ask
if we could get down), Marcus said: “Let’s go and look at the
thermometer—it’s one of those that mark the highest and lowest
temperature of the day.”
      Maddeningly, and unreasonably—considering how often
I was to have recourse to it—I cannot remember where the
thermometer was; but yes, I can; it hung on the wall of an
octagonal structure with a pointed roof, situated under a yew tree.
The building fascinated me—it had something withdrawn and magical
about it. It was thought to be a disused game larder, put under the
yew tree for coolness’ sake, but this was only a hypothesis; no one
really knew what it was for.
      Marcus told me how the instrument