Ice

I went back indoors. She did not seem to have moved, and though she looked round when I came into the room, at once twisted away again. She was crying and did not want me to see her face. I went close to the bed, stood there without touching her. She looked pathetic, cold, shivering, her skin had the same faint mauve tinge as some of the shells. It was too easy to hurt her. I said quietly: 'I must ask you something. I don't care how many different men you've slept with—it's not about that. But I must know why you were so insulting to me just now. Why have you been trying to humiliate me ever since I arrived?' She would not look round, I thought she was not going to answer; but then, with long gaps between the words, she brought out: 'I wanted ... to get . . . my . . . own . . back. . . .' I protested: 'But what for? I'd only just got here I hadn't done anything to you.'

'I knew. . . .' I had to bend over her to catch the accusing voice, speaking through tears. 'Whenever I see you, I always know you'll torment me . . . kick me around . . . treat me like some sort of slave ... if not at once, in an hour or two, or next day . . . you're sure to . . . you always do. . .'  I was startled almost shocked. The words presented a view of myself I much preferred not to see. I hurriedly asked her another question. 'Who were you waiting for on the verandah, if it wasn't the hotel fellow?' Once more a totally unexpected answer disconcerted me. 'For you ... I heard the car ... I thought . . . wondered. . . .' This time I was astounded, incredulous. 'But that can't possibly be true—not after what you've just said. Besides, you didn't know I was coming. I don't believe it.'

She twisted round wildly, sat up, flung back the mass of pale hair, showed her desolate victim's face, features dissolved in tears, eyes black as if set in bruises. 'It is true, I tell you whether you believe it or not! I don't know why . . . you're always so horrible to me... I only know I've always waited. wondered if you'd come back. You never sent any message . . but I always waited for you . . stayed here when the others left so that you'd be able to find me. . . .' She looked a desperate child, sobbing out the truth. But what she said was so incredible that I said again: 'It's not possible—it can't be true.' Face convulsed, she gasped in a voice choked by ears: 'Haven't you had enough yet? Can't you ever stop bullying me?'

Suddenly I felt ashamed, muttered: 'I'm sorry . . .' I wished I could somehow obliterate past words and actions. She had thrown herself down again, flat on her face. I stood looking it her, not knowing what to say. The situation seemed to have gone beyond words. In the end I could think of nothing better than: 'I didn't come back only to ask those questions, you know.' There was no response at all. I was not even sure she had heard me. I stood waiting, while the sobs slowly died away. In the silence, I watched the pulse in her neck, still beating fast, presently put out my hand, gently touched the spot with the tip of one finger, then let the hand fall. A skin like white satin, hair the colour of moonlight....

Slowly she turned her head towards me without a word; her mouth appeared out of the shining hair, then her wet brilliant eyes, glittering between long lashes. Now she had stopped crying; but at intervals a shudder, a soundless gasp, interrupted her breathing, like an interior sob. She did not say anything. I waited. The seconds passed. When I could not wait any longer, I asked softly: 'Are you coming with me? I promise I won't bully you any more.' She did not answer, so after a moment, I was obliged to add: 'Or do you want me to go?' Abruptly she sat up straight, made a distraught movement, but still did not speak. I waited again: tentatively held out my hands; lived through another long silence, interminable suspense. At last she gave me her hands. I kissed them, kissed her hair, lifted her off the bed.

While she was getting ready I stood at the window, staring out at the snow. I was wondering whether I ought to tell her that I had seen the sinister ice-wall approaching across the sea, and that in the end it was bound to destroy us and every thing else. But my thoughts were muddled and inconclusive and I reached no decision.

She said she was ready, and went to the door; stopped there looking back at the room. I saw her psychologically-bruised face, her extreme vulnerability, her unspoken fears. This little room the one friendly familiar place. Everything outside terrifyingly strange. The huge alien night, the snow, the destroying cold, the menacing unknown future. Her eyes turned to me, searched my face: a heavy, doubting, reproachful look, accusing and questioning at the same time. I was another very disturbing factor; she had absolutely no reason to trust me. I smiled at her, touched her hand. Her lips moved slightly in what, in different circumstances, might have become a smile.