Free The Service Of Clouds by Susan Hill Page B

sitting out on the grass under the great trees. She had nothing to do with the business of his eating and sleeping and dressing, there was a nursery nurse for that, and so their time together was not spoiled with domestic irritations or conflicts. She was surprised how much the company of the boy pleased and interested her, and what satisfaction she achieved in teachinghim. He was alert and quick and their interests and dislikes coincided. In teaching him, she continued to lean.
    Any other life had ceased to exist. She scarcely thought of her home at all and had closed the doors of her mind on the farther future. She neither dreamed nor yearned nor allowed herself to regret, but for the first time since very young childhood lived wholly in the present, and in those imaginary places which she and the boy inhabited.
    Carbery itself gave her great satisfaction. The parents were often away and the other servants kept to their own quarters. She always ate her evening meal alone, after the boy had gone to bed, and later, sat in the library, or a small upstairs sitting room which had a view of the sea from its windows. Sometimes, when it was still warm in September, she went out, to walk in the garden or the fields beyond the house, and on to the cliff path beyond. She was given one day off, and very often part of Saturday and Sunday, when visitors came or they took the boy out, and at first she went out too, almost dutifully, walked or took the bus into the town, and went again to the gallery, and walked through the streets of familiar houses, and sat beside the lake in the park.
    Once, she met Miss Pinkney, and went at her invitation to have tea in Maud’s. The place seemed strange, as if she was seeing it from the other side of a looking-glass. She drank tea, which she had never done here, and ate an ice, which was the same and served in the same tall glass, with a long spoon, and yet which tasted quite new, and unfamiliar.
    But it was at this meeting, sitting straight-backed and composed at the table in Maud’s, that she felt her composure weaken, too, and her iron self-restraint fail her, so that she was suddenly giddy and uncertain. One moment, she was sipping her tea, intrigued at the idea of things being as they had always been, and, the next, she felt a peculiar frightening sense of unreality, as if she had forgotten who she was, and why she was in this place. For after all, who was she? She was Flora Hennessy, who would never again be Florence. She was tutor to Hugh MacManus, of Carbery. At the turn of the year, she would be eighteen. But her limbs felt strangely elongated, her fingers tingled and would notgrip the cup, and when she glanced around, the walls shifted as if they were clouds which might at any moment dissolve.
    ‘Are you quite well?’
    Who was this woman, with the brown mole on the side of her mouth and hair like wire? Where did she belong? Her own back ached with the effort of keeping taut and stiff, the muscles of her stomach were sore, because she was constantly tightening them, as if, in relaxing, she might collapse to a soft, confused heap upon the ground.
    ‘Would you like some more tea? I will ask them to make it stronger.’
    The voice came and receded, ballooned out and grew horribly, like some aural fungus. Who was the woman?
    ‘Florence?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Flora.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Would you like some more tea?’
    ‘Thank you.’
    Who am I? Where am I? Who is she? What has happened to me?
    The tea came.
    ‘Use both hands. It will be steadier.’
    She obeyed like a child. No. She struggled then. Not a child.
    ‘Do you eat properly? Are you given enough time to yourself? The company of a young child can be exhausting. Are you able to meet your own friends?’
    Gradually, the ordinary questions calmed her and she was able to reply. The room settled, solidified and became Maud’s again, and comforting.
    ‘Teaching is tiring. When one is conscientious. You will need to replenish your own