The Whirlpool by Jane Urquhart Page B

intended to keep. He would turn and leave the place. He would never come back, never see her again. He would never again allow a figure to enter his landscapes. He was perspiring with the utter futility of it all.
    Then a sudden movement in the bushes near the bank. Instinctively he searched for a bird. A thin, high sound moved through the woods. Singing. And then the woman’s face, followed by her blue dress, emerging from the other side of the bank.
    Patrick froze. He was now standing, unprotected by greenery, and she was coming closer and closer. Very, very slowly he returned to the crouching position. He was afraid that she might hear his heart, which seemed to have moved from its normal location in order to pound, disturbingly, in his brain. She was so near now that there was no need for the glasses. His inclination was to bolt, run right out of the woods, back to the farm, onto a train. Vacate the province. Leave the country.
    But he couldn’t move. At this moment his eyes were less than two feet away from her blue skirt, which for some crazy reason he now noticed was wrinkled, and covered with spots of mud. She’s been reading, he thought, and the mud comes from the bank.
    The sound of pouring-water. Objects he had previously overlooked came into focus: a wash-tub vaguely in the middle distance, and a barrel, not three feet away from him, probably for collecting water. He remembered the tea.
    She was now using a dipper, pouring water from the barrel into a galvanized pail. He heard the pot scrape against the edge of the wood and then the luxurious sound of water falling and connecting with liquid already in the pail.
    The sound soothed him. He knew she would not see him now, now that she was absorbed in this activity. He relaxed, listening to the rhythm of the task. Dip, pour… dip, pour. Her skirt moving in front of him like a heavy curtain in the wind, as she leaned forward to scoop the water out of the barrel, and then sideways to pour it into the pail.
    When she was finished, she bent to lift the pail and walked, straight-backed, away from him, the weight that she carried never once interfering with the level line of her shoulders. Then, as she moved into the distance, he watched that level tilt to the left as she poured the liquid from the pail into a large pot which hung over the makeshift fireplace. Several dishes were scattered around this location; cups, plates, saucers and cutlery gleaming in the sun.
    Suddenly he understood. Breakfast. A domestic event had taken place very near the spot where he had first sighted her. This water was for washing up. She would begin, once the water was warm, to wash the dishes, like an ordinary woman. As if there had been walls around her, and furniture.
    Patrick lifted the glasses and focused on her face. He wanted to see if he could tell by a change in her expression, the exact moment when the water began to boil.

F leda, breathing heavily because of the long, steep climb, returned from the whirlpool late in the morning. At the top of the bank she leaned her back against a fir tree which grew out at an angle over the drop. She could feel the roughness of the bark push its way through her cotton clothing, and with one hand she absently caressed this uneven texture while she waited for her heartbeat to return to normal. When it did, she placed her two palms against the tree behind her and levered herself into an upright standing position. Then she walked over to the tent to search for her diary.
    David had repaired the makeshift desk at the edge of the bank so Fleda, journal now in hand, headed in its direction. When she arrived she pulled up a suitable stump, fastidiously removed one or two bird droppings from her workplace, and placed the notebook on the weathered planks. Taking a pencil from her pocket she began to write.
    25 June 1889
    Every day when David leaves, either for the camp or for the rooms in town, I go down to the whirlpool
.
    All by myself at the water’s