Sonia and Thomas looked at one another and then at Jacques in the shaded darkness of the cedar. Neither of them spoke for a few moments.
‘So something could . . . jump, as it were,’ said Thomas, ‘from the realm of the abstract – idea, experience – into the physical chemistry of the brain and release a reaction there?’
‘I believe it is possible,’ said Jacques. He had not framed this thought clearly before, and he felt elated that he had so dumbfounded his friends.
‘And that reaction,’ said Sonia, ‘would cause the patient to behave in the way you describe in your brother.’
‘It might,’ said Jacques. ‘I think it is conceivable that the physiological changes in the brain that follow on a sensation of fear or anxiety might cause a chemical reaction which might in itself precipitate the entire collapse. It might be like the straw that breaks the camel’s back, or the first domino to fall in a line. The rest becomes inevitable because of what has been inherited.’
‘But without that straw, that domino, the inheritance might never be activated?’ said Sonia. ‘It might just lie dormant?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Jacques. ‘But I think it is worth considering.’
‘There is a man who brings my coal,’ said Thomas. ‘He is called Stevens, and he is melancholic with some chorea. He may be afflicted by a sort of illness – a pneumonia, as it were, of the cerebral tissue – or he may still be mourning the death of his wife. But he cannot really be both, can he?’
‘I cannot speak for your coal man,’ said Jacques, ‘but I believe we are on the verge of understanding this question and that when we do we shall be able to offer an almost complete explanation of human behaviour. This is the most exciting time there has ever been in human science. Imagine. A theory that explains it all.’
‘They are certainly the profoundest questions,’ said Thomas, sounding unhappy.
‘And that,’ said Jacques, leaping to his feet, ‘is why you must come to Paris.’
Jacques was awoken the following morning by a soft knock at his door. It was Violet, who had brought him a cup of tea with, to his surprise, milk in it. She kept her head averted as she placed it on the chest of drawers, and made her way back without having met his eye. ‘Your shaving water will be up in a moment, sir,’ she said, closing the door softly behind her.
He fetched the cup and took it back to bed, where he propped himself up on two pillows. He could see a fine morning through the window and could hear the sound of wood pigeon and blackbirds from the garden. He smiled as he felt the cool air drift through the open window; it was the dependably false chill that foretold heat; he knew it from many early judgments made before setting off into his father’s woods. This England was a surprisingly agreeable place, he thought, with its plates full of succulent meat, its balmy weather, its pretty maids and French wine. He went over the previous evening in his mind. Nothing had been quite as enjoyable as arriving, when every sight and sensation was new, when all was promise; but it was the conversation after dinner in the garden that he dwelt on, as he sipped the tea.
After a time beneath the cedar he had ceased to be inhibited by Sonia’s presence. In fact, there was something he took from her that he found also in her brother: a sense of uncritical encouragement. With them both, he felt wiser and less prone to fall; it seemed that he could be thrilled by her presence but that his brain could still work when she was there.
He smiled at this recognition as he replaced the cup on the bedside table. Some verbal peculiarity had been nagging at him, something that had not seemed right the night before, and now he remembered what it was. When he and Thomas had discussed the location of their future practice, they had said, ‘Suppose we go to Munich?’ or, ‘Suppose we go to Paris?’Then Sonia had joined in, but she had not said, ‘Will you go to Vienna?’ but ‘Suppose we go to Vienna?’ ‘We’. He was almost certain she had said ‘we’. There was, alas, no way that he could relive the exchange, no method by which it might be recaptured.
Breakfast offered Jacques another chance to sample Lincolnshire meat – sausages, lambs’ kidneys and bacon – to which Thomas, reading a newspaper by the open window, invited him to help himself.
‘Normally,’ said Jacques, ‘I dip last night’s bread in a bowl of tea.’
‘It is a miracle that you are still alive,’ said Thomas. ‘Please do not feel obliged to eat everything you see. I think my parents are trying to impress you. When you have fuelled yourself, we are going for a ride. I have asked Jenkins to saddle Achilles. I think you will find him entertaining. He’s a bay hunter, who used to belong to Edgar. Since my mother has had rheumatism, she can’t manage him any more. He needs exercise.’
‘Getting a bit fat, aren’t you, old boy?’ said Sonia in the stable yard, stroking the big beast’s nose as she held his bridle while Jacques mounted. ‘Thomas, you will have to take Elektra because Jenkins has put the sidesaddle on Hector.’
The three horses clunked over the cobbles of the yard, and Jacques felt the power of his mount’s neck as he shortened the reins.
Thomas brought his horse alongside. ‘I am sorry there is no hunting at this time of year,’ he said, ‘but we can still have some good exercise. If you find him too mettlesome, you can have Elektra. She is a gentle creature. Achilles looks a little out of condition, so I expect you’ll be all right.’
Jacques had never ridden for pleasure before, only to reach outlying properties more quickly on his father’s business. He settled in behind Sonia, who wore a long beige skirt over her boots and a hard black hat secured by a scarf; her mount, Hector, was a grey with powerful quarters who kicked his back legs out when he felt Achilles come too close.
Behind the yard was a paddock that overlooked the house; as Thomas held the gate open, the three Dalmatians ran through ahead of them. Thomas stood in his stirrups to canter up the hill and Jacques cautiously gave Achilles his head. He needed no urging, only stopping when they reached the copse at the edge of the paddock; Jacques wrestled his mouth back and felt the muscles in his forearms stand out as he regained control.
The sun was already high over the woods as Thomas led the way beneath the beech canopy, over dappled paths on which last autumn’s leaves were still dry beneath the horses’ hooves. The narrow tracks kept them in single file, so there was no conversation beyond the occasional inquiry or call of reassurance. Jacques found it hard to believe that an entire day stretched ahead in which nothing was required of him except to ride a horse, eat, and make himself pleasant to his friends.
On the far side of the small wood, they emerged onto a planted field. ‘This land all belongs to my father’s farm,’ said Thomas. ‘On the other side of the valley, at the top there, we can go flat-out along the ridge and then down to the river. Come on.’
They rode as fast as they could down to the road below them and paused as Thomas leaned down to unlatch another gate.
‘Listen,’ said Sonia, ‘can you hear that? A skylark.’
The horses were breathing hard as the riders listened intently for a sound from high in the blue above them. When they reached the top of the slope, they could see the spire of St Mary’s, the village church, and the west wing of Torrington Manor, half hidden by an avenue of limes. Thomas, panting a little, pointed out the sights to Jacques. ‘The Laceys, the people who own the manor, they wanted to plant the avenue as far as the sea – it’s all their land. But that was a hundred years ago and I see no sign of it.’
Jacques looked across at Sonia, whose eyes followed the sweep of Thomas’s arm. Her face was a little pink from the exertion and there was a single clear drop of moisture on her upper lip; riding sidesaddle did not apparently slow her down at all. Jacques, who was sweating hard beneath his jacket, wondered how uncomfortable it must be for a woman in her extra layers; she must have wanted to shed her long skirt and petticoats, the worsted jacket and black hat, and ride in thin, simple clothes with her hair flying in the wind like an Indian brave. He kept the image in his mind a
s they began to gallop along the ridge.
However hard he pulled at the reins he could not prevent himself from passing Sonia’s mount, then Thomas’s quick mare, as Achilles filled his lungs with the burning June air and stretched the muscles of his chest and mountainous bay quarters, pounding the grassy path. Jacques saw the foam of sweat creep out beneath the saddle and caught the stertorous breathing of the horse as he plunged on; there was still at least a minute’s gallop before the wood, so he decided to let the animal run free and tire himself.
‘You have a fine seat,’ said Sonia, eventually pulling Hector up alongside.
‘I had no seat. I just held on.’
‘It’s a phrase. It means you ride well.’
‘Thank you. So do you.’
‘I am out of practice. My husband kept a horse in London for a time and I used to ride in Hyde Park. But then . . .’
‘Then?’
‘Economies.’ Sonia smiled.
‘I am sorry to hear about your husband. And that you . . . No longer.’
‘Thank you. I expect I shall survive.’
‘It must be wonderful for your parents to have you at home.’
Sonia laughed. ‘Wonderful! Oh, I doubt that. Look. Here’s Thomas. Let’s go down to the river.’
At the bank, they descended gently and allowed their horses to walk through the water, a sensation Jacques loved, as though his mount was moving through thicker, cushioned air. The horses plainly liked it too, dropping their heads to drink from the slow current. Thomas reached into his saddlebag.
‘Are you hungry, Jacques?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ve brought you an English delicacy. A pork pie. Here.’
He threw it over and Jacques had to lean forward to scoop the catch off the surface of the river. He bit into the fatty pastry and the clear salt jelly beneath.
‘It needs mustard,’ said Thomas. ‘And beer, but that would have been too shaken up. You can drink from the river.’
Jacques’s teeth reached the packed, mild meat in the middle of the pie and hungrily chewed on. He could feel sweat running down his throat into the open neck of his shirt.
‘I am going to swim,’ said Thomas. ‘Queenie, will you hold Elektra? Come on, Jacques, the water’s quite warm. Sonia will look the other way, or maybe she will join us, as she did in Deauville.’
‘Thomas! You were never to refer to that. I shall lead the horses to the shade and wait till you have finished.’
Jacques and Thomas dismounted, pulled off their outer clothes and plunged in. ‘You liar,’ spluttered Jacques. ‘You lied about the water. It’s like ice.’
‘He always lies,’ Sonia called out from behind an oak.
When they were decent, they rejoined Sonia, leaving their shirts off for the sun to dry their backs.
‘So,’ said Thomas, lying on his front and pulling a piece of grass from the earth, ‘did we decide? Is it to be Vienna or Munich?’
‘I think we decided on Paris,’ said Sonia. ‘Jacques was so passionate.’
‘And shall you be coming too?’ said Thomas.
‘Dear Thomas, I so wish that I could.’ Sonia was standing above the two reclining men, holding the horses. ‘But you know that I cannot.’
‘Why not? You could be the practice manager, or the bookkeeper.’
Sonia sighed. ‘It would not be respectable. Papa would not permit it.’
‘My dear Sonia, it is nothing to do with Papa. And there is nothing that is not respectable in what we have in mind. We are not quacks or charlatans but qualified physicians.’
‘But Paris . . . And I shall by then be unmarried again. Let us not talk about it. It makes me too sad to think what I am missing.’
‘All right,’ said Thomas. ‘What do you think, Jacques?’
Jacques was thinking how sincere Sonia appeared in her desire to be with them; he was also thinking that she was finding it difficult to keep her eyes from him when she was talking to her brother. He sat up on the grass, so she was compelled to look at him. He said, ‘I think that eventually we will need to establish a sanatorium or a hydro somewhere in the mountains, probably the Alps. But if we go now and find a large building before we have any patients, then . . . We shall starve. We must begin to make ourselves known in a city. We must first find our patients, and Paris is the place to be. Thomas, are you all right?’
Thomas nodded. ‘I was just thinking of my poor lunatics and how I shall miss them. I cannot begin at once.’
‘Nor I,’ said Jacques. ‘I have to complete my time as intern. Next year.’
‘Next year,’ said Thomas. ‘Paris it shall be. I shall work to make Sonia change her mind. Perhaps she will be married again by then. Perhaps to young Dr Meadowes.’
‘Be quiet,’ said Sonia. ‘Put your shirt on and help me with the horses. Elektra is growing frisky again.’
‘Yes, I can see. Give her to me,’ said Thomas. ‘PoorAchilles, on the other hand looks quite exhausted. Come on. If we go along the river, then loop up through the old bluebell woods, we should be back by one o’clock. Sonia, use my hands as a block.’
Sonia sprang from his joined hands into the saddle.
‘You remind me of Daisy, climbing the wall.’
‘Who is Daisy?’
‘My other sister. In another world.’
The Dalmatians scented home when they emerged from the woods, and ran ahead through the paddock, barking their pleasure and wriggling with impatience as they had to wait for Jenkins to come up from the stable and open the gates. By the time the riders had unsaddled and changed, the gong was sounding for lunch. Cold salmon, lettuces and ham were laid out on a trestle beneath a cedar close to the terrace.
Jacques found himself being introduced to more Midwinters: Edgar, who was a shorter, less intense version of Thomas; his wife Lucy, pale and fair beneath a bonnet; a boy called Henry, and the twins, Lydia and Emily.
‘Take a plate,’ said Thomas, ‘and help yourself. There are seats on the terrace, or you can sit on the lawn. Don’t take your eye off your plate, though, or Gordon will have it.’
Jacques did as he was told, taking rather less than he really wanted, and found a chair beneath a sunshade on the terrace, next to Sonia, who had bathed and changed into a white cotton dress. Violet offered lemonade or hock, and, while he hesitated, Sonia laid her hand lightly on his wrist. ‘Have both,’ she said. ‘One for your thirst and the other to go with the salmon.’
‘What was it like to live in London?’ he asked.
‘It was . . . Very agreeable. You need money, though. Big cities are expensive. You will need money for your work in Paris.’
‘I already know that.’
‘But tell me about your home, Jacques. And your family.’
Jacques felt euphorically relaxed after his exercise and was able to give a picture of old Rebière’s smoky parlour, the unlit staircase, Grand-mère’s room at the back, the fields and woods of his boyhood. He felt Sonia’s rapt gaze on him as he spoke, but it did not inhibit him; he was expansive in his description of Olivier and then of the part that Abbé Henri had played in educating him. The more he talked, the more he felt Sonia’s sympathetic interest pouring into him; he felt drunk on her attention.
The children ran in and out of the tables, half-heartedly rebuked or taken on to a knee, according to whim.
‘Put on your bonnet, Emily. You will have sunstroke.’
Mr Midwinter was chuckling in his throat: ‘How goes the world with my favourite daughter-in-law? Come here, Lucy, come and sit next to a poor old man.’
Violet was offering more hock, and Jacques found he had accepted, without losing his place in the story of his life: ‘. . . the first part of my exams. But then Olivier . . .’
‘The strawberries are early this year,’ said Mrs Midwinter.
Jacques was aware of the heat of the afternoon, the clink of dishes being cleared by Violet and May, the murmur of speech interrupted by occasional cries from the chil
dren. Someone had brought him strawberries. Thomas was calling to Henry, the little boy, ‘Bring the racquet in the hall. I have one for you.’ He was enveloped by Sonia’s concern, swaddled by her fascination; he was only half-aware that they were no longer part of a throng, a concert of voices, but were in fact alone beneath the sunshade on the stone terrace with only two empty green hock glasses on the table in front of them. ‘. . . and take Olivier with me to our new clinic,’ concluded Jacques.
‘So,’ said Mrs Midwinter, coming through the French doors behind them, ‘if you two have quite set the world to rights, I need you, Sonia, to help me with some roses.’
‘Oh, I think we have,’ said Sonia, rising in a movement of rustling white cotton.
‘Have what?’ said her mother.
‘Set the world to rights.’
‘Perhaps Mr Rebbier would like to join the others for lawn-tennis.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jacques. ‘With pleasure. First, I must do some reading.’ He had a sudden need to be alone.
‘There will be tea on the rose lawn at five.’
The house inside was cool, and heavy with scents. From the warmed floorboards, Jacques could still catch traces of sap, memory of tree-life preserved under decades of polish; through the swing door to the kitchen came an aroma of steamed late asparagus; even the tapestries and chair upholstery released a dusty, fabric smell of summer. There were many corners of the house that invited him to sit and read, breathing the heavy scent of roses, blown through the open door of the library. He walked through the drawing room before settling on a windowseat on the half-landing that led up to his bedroom. He folded one shutter to block the direct heat of the sun; through the other he could see down to the lawn, where Sonia, carrying a weather-beaten trug, accompanied her mother among the blooms.
He remembered looking down at her once before, in the garden of the Pension des Dunes with her husband. Then, he had felt uneasy, like a spy, because she belonged to someone else, to whom she talked in a dutiful and animated way. Now she was alone, inexplicably alone, and he had no misgivings about looking at her. What had not changed through the years was what she represented to him: an embodiment of the qualities he most longed for, all of which had been absent from his life. Because he had not known the touch of his mother or the presence of young women in a house, he felt he was forbidden even to desire them. Foolish, he thought, to disqualify himself on the grounds that he did not already own what he most wanted. What kind of reasoning was that?
Human Traces Page 18