that they were lying on a mud stew of shallow-buried bodies.
She did not want to hurt him more. At last she managed a few sentences that were neither frozen nor frivolous: the first time she’d ever thought twice before speaking or writing to him. When she had addressed her letters, she wrapped Harriet up and took her along to the postbox. The walk along wide pavements soothed her spirit a little, and Harriet’s slight weight gave her ballast. The moon flitted between clouds. She tried not to think what its light shone on, over in France.
Shadow Buff
At Katepwa that second August the mornings were fresh and the weather very fine and hot. Towards evening thunderstorms swelled down the valley like a tide. In late August, when idleness began to pall, Mabel organized a games evening for all their acquaintances to join in: the Dean with his daughter Nell, Miss Frye and her great friend Miss North who was visiting in the area, even Mrs. Gower, Dr. Graham and Lewis Ridgeway.
Aurora went to settle Mama and Avery for the night. The thundery air had made both of them fractious and demanding, and Avery insisted Aurora hold him for a little while before he climbed into bed with his grandmother. Mama was trying to convey something in a cautious whisper. All that came out, though, was a thread of song: ‘… sweetheart’s the man in the moon …’ At last she gave up the attempt and opened the coverlet, singing instead, ‘Come out tonight, come out tonight’ to Avery, who joined in her lento, lullaby version of Buffalo Gals. Aurora kissed them and dimmed the lamp.
Outside the door she stopped to listen to the two reedy voices in the room behind. She checked her reflection in the hall mirror: pale green dress, cloud of hair pinned up, her little necklace of brilliants. Fine.
She was not the Belle Auroras any more. A mother, a dutiful daughter, a matron in comfortable circumstances—thanks to Chum’s kindness and to Bella’s money, which kept coming and coming in slightly alarming amounts. Missing Bella very much, Aurora went down to the party.
Across the wide arch between dining room and parlour a white sheet hung. The piano stool sat lonely in the middle of the carpet, the furniture moved back. Well behind the stool, the strongest lamp in the house shone—its mica shade tilted to throw a bright beam.
Mabel explained to the little company, ‘This is Shadow Buff. Someone must be It, and sit on the stool, staring at the screen. Then everyone else will parade behind, between It and the lamplight, so their shadows fall upon the screen like moving pictures—then It must guess whose each shadow is. You may disguise yourselves by changing your gait, rumpling your hair, or—look! Adding one of these ridiculous noses.’ She and Aurora had cut and glued paper noses all the afternoon, laughing at each other’s new profiles.
The Dean was unexpectedly good at the game. He identified more than half the strange shadow-creatures, saying it was due to long observation of his parishioners’ idiosyncracies. Mrs. Gower, drawn in to take a turn, sat on the stool, calling out names almost at random. She had shrunk since her son’s death. The opulent clothes hung on her frame; deep new lines fell from mouth to jowl. After five or six of the company had passed behind her she rose from the stool and retired, saying, ‘Well, I am no use at this game, I’ll give over to all of you.’
Miss Frye bounced up to take her place, pulling off the paper beak with which she had successfully duped the Dean, but did not manage to identify anyone but Miss North (whose bulk was undisguisable) and Nell Barr-Smith, a girl she had taught for six years. ‘It would have been surprising if I’d missed you, Nell,’ she cried, very jocular. ‘Stand up straight next time and I won’t know you!’
The darkened room, the parade of shambling creatures, had become nightmarish to Aurora. The thunderstorm was building, that must be it.
Lewis Ridgeway stood next and took the stool, and the line of disguisers moved behind him. He took the game oddly seriously, asking one or other to pass by again, or turn around. ‘Dean, you are betrayed by the pitch of your head,’ Lewis said. ‘Mabel, no one could miss the kindness in your profile, nose or not. Dr. Graham—but what is the matter with your back, sir? Heal thyself!’
Dr. Graham straightened, indignant at being caught,