At last coming to terms with life , the rawness of the jungle I mastered reduced the bible to a reassuring proportion in the perspective of my destructive activity ; and I was now fit for the cathedral of the stable's calm- the light splitting through the cracks in the door , the silence , and then the faint scratching that might be a mouse , a rat , or leaves idly swinging , or else imagination .sx After a time I heard the positive sound of my sister approaching , and then she stood in the doorway , looking for me in the shadows , not seeing me but knowing I was there , complaining to the darkness that I might have waited for her .sx But I was too busily engaged on the process of rehabilitation to want her company , and she was a woman- suspect as such , and further suspect owing to her happy association with holy writ that linked her with my father .sx It was not till the middle of the week that I began to welcome her , caring for her until Saturday night .sx Then , with the sound of the first church bell on Sunday morning , all women were suspect again ; and as the hour in the box-pew remorselessly approached- the hour of avoiding looking at Milly , at the same time trying to reconcile her with my visual world- I knew it would only lead to the hour of afternoon when the sunlight froze on the tops of the trees , immobilized as I by the bible .sx Sometimes , instead of to the stable , I went upstairs to my mother's room .sx As I opened the door I was aware of causing an interruption , for my mother had the faculty of gazing beyond people into space inhabited by other and more exciting ones than those who were actually in the room .sx These people , whom I knew by the names under drawings and verses in her autograph books- people my mother had met in the heaven of foreign hotels- dwelt with her in her loneliness still , so that the continued pleasure of their company was denied her by my entry ; or rather , I felt that if I had not banished them , both they and I had lost something of our corporeality by being in the room together .sx Yet the sense of a romantic past my mother perpetuated in the face of the church peering in through the window , brought back colour which ( although it was divorced from any discernible form ) was more tangible than the bible I had escaped from .sx My father was disappointed with me , I reasoned , on purely technical grounds when he saw my failure to understand his teachings as a lack of spirituality ; whereas my mother found , not so much myself as my lack of years , a source of chagrin .sx For the two years which separated me from my elder brother were an insupportable barrier that gave him greater access to her mind .sx And I believed my brother somehow knew the members of the ski-ing party- the women in their large hats and veils , the men posed against mountains as immovable as their moustaches- that , in their 6passe-partout mount , broke the faded roses on the wall .sx As I approached my mother I wished the two dividing years could evaporate , and perhaps this afternoon I would get to know the far-off friends who hovered towards her , and whom I was ready to meet half-way .sx But although her recognition of me was moderately welcoming , she was still looking beyond me , and whom-ever she was considering appeared more like the gap between me and my brother than a real personage .sx What a ghastly thing was the length of a life , starting at random and never catching up with another life that also started at random .sx No life ever drew nearer another life , and the gaps between lives remained the same , inflicting , as far as I could see , endless childhood on me .sx There was no escape from age , and as my mother opened a book to show me the pictures in it , I decided to abandon the struggle to grow up .sx The book was always the same book .sx It was called Alpine Flowers and Gardens .sx My mother so treasured it she would not let me look at it on my own , turning the pages over for me , protected by tissue paper .sx The plates depicted flowers , yet the artist had painted mountains , rocks , and glaciers behind some of them , and in one picture had even added a chamois in the middle distance .sx Although it was interesting to reach the chamois , I found the introduction of this animal rather outre@2 , for after all , the book , as it said on the cover , was on alpine flowers and gardens , which should have surely satisfied the artist .sx When we had passed the chamois , I wanted to tell my mother something of my defeat over the Day of Atonement or the parable of the mustard seed , but she did not pay attention as her whole mind was now focused on the Edelweiss , Gentian , or Christ's Thorn we had come to .sx So I too concentrated in forgetting my troubles in the flowers .sx Or , as a substitute for Alpine Flowers and Gardens , my mother would open a portfolio of water-colours and become lost in her former life- the full measure of a past that their contours described for her especially .sx Here again I felt the presence of a veil separating me from them in the same way as from the photograph of the ski-ing party .sx The silver water of a lake caught in the shifting light of an anonymous morning , a chalet perched on a slope smothered in flowers , were fully credible- but the fact that my mother had actually stood by the lake , had actually climbed up to the chalet , made them entirely hers .sx And the countries her paintings translated into personal property were more remote than those in the atlas- described once and for all , and equally for everyone .sx On the whole I preferred looking at Alpine Flowers and Gardens which mollified the remains of the afternoon for me , if not with the theatrical intensity of decapitating the cow-parsley that guarded the entrance to the stable .sx And although we sought different rendezvous- my mother hankering for the past , and I the future- there was a voiceless understanding , and also something conspiratorial in our activity .sx For my father treated my mother's horticultural interests with gruff contempt , and thus , as she slowly continued to turn the pages , the book seemed to speak for her , and to gainsay my father and his bible .sx Yet the two books , although they suggested a clear-cut issue between my parents , in reality furthered my bewilderment .sx For why , I asked myself , since my father scoffed at my mother's interest in flowers , did he encourage mine in insects and birds .sx I was sure he had little concern for natural history himself , yet he made a special journey to Douglas to buy me books on the subject , and encouraged me to enter my observations in a notebook .sx I could only conclude he was so mystified I displayed any enthusiasm whatever that he welcomed natural history as a possible path to the salvation he desired for me .sx The grass in the top field was brittle and brown , silvered by a soft wind that went through it like a comb and made it nod and sway with the very essence of summer .sx It was summer at last , an endless summer of drifting pollen and gleams and flashes in lazy trees that surrounded the field and cast their jangled shadows , drowsy and unnumbered across it .sx A cloud stood in the sky , and there was no reason for it ; so it gently left it .sx The field spoke and murmured in its sleep , and the sharp cries of birds were reminders of things to do and things which could be just as well left undone , for the sense of time had stopped .sx My sister and I had given up looking for the corn-crakes whose tantalizing cries , sounding so near and so far , were deceptive as the grass itself and the tremors that turned it to a sea where the fins of fishes darted , hither and thither , confusing the whereabouts of the birds .sx So we sat on the wall at the top of the field , surveying this sea that hid their calls till they became but a part that accompanied the general noise of summer .sx The corn-crake was fabulous and its voice had ceased to issue from the throat of a particular bird , exactly and tersely described in the book of birds , with its name in Roman letters followed by its Latin name in italics .sx Yet , the next morning the voice was still in the field and surely to-day we would see the corn-crakes .sx But we never did , and day after day the birds hid from view , and their voices tantalized .sx Then on a Monday when the 'get ready gong' had been forgotten and ( because it was Monday ) my father sat in double gloom , the corn-crakes- as though at the lifting of a magic wand- appeared in the garden itself .sx The male , barred with brown and buff ( correct as in the book ) , stood on a stump at the top of the daffodil bank , now sear and yellow with summer .sx The female and a family of chicks pecked in the grass below him , and , as we watched in silence at the window , there was something foreordained in the unexpectedness of their presence .sx The unfortunate meal was over , the plates had been cleared away ; and we became happy partners in a terrific conspiracy of silence , with the figure of the boy Samuel doing his best to suppress the ticking of the clock in the shadow at the back of the room .sx My father and mother stood at one side of the open window , and the rest of us at the other , grouped around my grandmother who was needlessly holding her finger to her lips .sx For our silence was natural , and we shared the easy attachment that united the corn-crake family .sx The naturalness had turned us into a picture opposite a picture , and our separate characteristics had ceased to exist , harmonized in a shared interest .sx It seemed to me rather like waiting for the Bishop , but now there was no sense of anxiety , and no sense of searching for spirituality- for the corn-crakes were beyond criticism .sx How long would this sublime moment last ?sx How long could the birds be undisturbed in their task of arresting time ?sx To-day was to-day , and yesterday was yesterday .sx Yesterday had ordained to-day .sx I was with my father , walking to Mrs. Kissack who lived in the farm beyond the fun-fair .sx She had broken her leg , and when we got to the farm my father went up the steps and I stayed in the road .sx Gorse flared like the headlights of cars on the hills .sx A lark was singing high up , out of sight .sx There was cow-dung on the road , goose-dung in the yard .sx ( A flock of geese was a gaggle of geese .sx ) Two dogs with their tongues out were lying in the shade of a wall where nettles sprang from the dust .sx A man in a brown waistcoat was working in a brown field .sx Then he stopped working and the lark stopped singing , the world stilled to one piece- as now .sx Then he spat on his hands and took up his scythe again , all of them busy again- the man working , the lark singing , the dogs panting .sx On the way back my father had said something about the harvest festival , but I couldn't remember what .sx . The male bird lifted his beak from his chest and cocked his head in the air .sx Wind was ruffling the grass , and the corn-crakes ( as I knew they would have to ) sensed danger , and then scuttled into the field with the clumsy chicks tumbling over themselves as they followed as best they could .sx It was swiftly over .sx The garden , broken up into formal shapes and levels , was ordinary again ; and the church spire , coming to life as it jutted through the trees , frowned at the triviality of our preoccupation .sx