“I got so involved today. Guess what—I’ve found myself, as it were! Caroline Gladwell. How weird is that?”
Alan considers that it is not all that weird. Caroline was, after all, a popular name in the 1820s. Caroline—his Caroline—has explained that she was now pursuing her father’s ancestry, and had arrived at this woman, a Maria Gladwell, who died in childbirth in 1821, the child, Caroline, having survived.
“I suppose so. But it did rather jump out at me. And the mother dying.”
“But your mother didn’t,” says Alan.
“Only because of twentieth-century obstetrics.”
Caroline had decided to follow up that entry in the family tree with a short discursion on the conditions of childbirth in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. She has already read fairly extensively. In the early 1800s, she has learned, one in eight childbirths ended with the death of the mother. Maria Gladwell was one of those, then: a statistic.
The entry that Caroline had found stated only that she died in childbirth—which had led her to the confirming entry of the birth of her daughter Caroline two days earlier. What happened in the interim? Well, Caroline speculated, Maria had very likely contracted puerperal fever, in the absence of basic hygiene—the notion of hand washing in a solution of chlorinated lime was not introduced until the 1840s. And many things could have gone wrong during the birth, which would nowadays be addressed by a forceps delivery, or an emergency Cesarean. Or, if the child was known to be awkwardly positioned, a Cesarean would have taken place automatically.
“She died,” Caroline continues, “because she was giving birth in 1821 and not, like my mother, in 1991.”
“And what happened to your namesake?”
“That’s what I must find out.”
Finding her own name had startled Caroline rather more than she admitted. Your name is your identity. She had thought about this, coming home on the bus. I know who I am because I know my name. I don’t know who these people all around me are because I don’t know their names. You read of people who have forgotten their name because of accident, or illness, and they are displaced, adrift, in need of help. The medics come running. You are not allowed to be without a name. Your name confirms that you exist, that you are you, that you can stand up and be counted.
And she had my name, back then.
Of course there are always people who have the same name as someone else, thousands of them. There are no doubt other Caroline Gladwells today—I may have walked past one in the street. And that feels a bit funny, too. But somehow not as weird—disturbing, even—as a person dead a long time ago.
How did she live? Marriage? Children? When did she die?
There is a new flavor now to this piece of research, Caroline finds. This oddly personal element. A kind of fortuitous intimacy. She is both intrigued by this and a bit disconcerted. Wrong-footed, as it were, as though the great neutral resource into which she taps had suddenly answered back. Spoken.
She gets down to it the next day. She has sited this Caroline within a new family tree. The interesting thing will be to see if she is a direct forebear, to find her children, and theirs, and see if they can be fined down to a great-grandparent, say.
First, she needs a marriage. But can find none. Oh.
So . . . To the deaths. And then she has it.
Caroline Gladwell died in 1847, aged twenty-four.
Twenty-four.
The rest is stark. An instance of the bald entry that sometimes accounts for a death that is out of the ordinary.
“Struck by a coach.”
Caroline stares at this. Around her, the Reading Room is going about its business, impervious, while the screen in front of her delivers its news.
Struck by a coach. Killed.
It occurs to Caroline that this could indeed have been news at the time. The search does not take long. Sure enough, in an issue of a London paper a few days later than the death date, there is the item: “. . . tragic accident . . . death of a young woman . . . stepped into the path of an oncoming coach . . . onlooker who rushed to try to pull her back said she appeared distracted, perhaps unwell . . . coachman much distressed.”
Caroline reads this. Once. Twice. The brief item is somehow resonant. She reads it yet again. She wants at once to tell Alan about this. Twenty-four. How weird indeed . . . She starts a search through the other London papers of the period for further coverage, but finds none, and as she does so, she begins to feel—well, rather ill. Shaky. Not herself at all. Flu or something coming on. Oh, I really don’t feel too good.
She decides to go home—it is gone five, anyway. She gathers up her things, and leaves the Library. She crosses the open space outside in the darkening early evening, heads for the bus stop, and then feels really quite dizzy. Taxi, she thinks, taxi for once—I’m just not well.
She stands on the pavement, searching the pounding traffic for a free taxi. Stands with aching head, feeling quite unsteady. Traffic roars past, buses surging down the bus lane, steady stream beyond. Oh, to get home. Oh, taxi, please. And there at last is the orange light she needs, free taxi, out in the traffic, about to go past.
She steps from the pavement, waving. And as she does so everything happens at once: she is hearing horses’ hooves, thundering hooves, but it is a seventy-three bus that she has not seen, that is almost on her, and in that instant arms have grabbed her by the shoulders, someone is pulling her back, the hooves are fading, she is hearing the screech of brakes, she is back on the pavement, a man has her by the arm—a burly, efficient man saying, “You all right? You bloody nearly . . .”
“I’m all right,” she says. “This time I’m all right. This time. Thank you.”
Old as the Hills
Here she is. Stick. Which I don’t need yet. That patrician way of surveying a room—she hasn’t seen me. I shan’t wave. Let her find me. She’s worn well—oh, yes. Apart from the stick. Doesn’t look eighty. Do I? She’s not done up, but understated stylish. Good coat, arresting scarf. Neat hair—all over silver gray, not pepper and salt like mine. No glasses—surely she used to? Oh, she’ll have had the cataract op.
*
You are in my head, Celia. Multiple versions. Multiple Celias. Is this one the first time I set eyes on you? If so—or if not—I still am. Still seeing you across a different room. Blue dress, summery blue, talking to . . . oh, I’ve no idea who. Laughing. And then you look over toward us, you smile. At Hugh, I later realize. Much later. And you wander over to us, still smiling, and it seems that you and Hugh have met before. “Celia,” he says to me. “Celia Binns.” A name I’ll get to know. The blue dress has a crisp white collar, a nipped-in waist. You are slim, at thirty-six.
*
Not now. She is a touch overweight, I’m glad to see. Snap.
Ah, she’s seen me. The stick raised a little, in recognition. Faintest of smiles.
She approaches. Slow, with entitlement, forging through the tables. People looking up as she passes. She knocks someone’s jacket off the back of his chair; he leaps up—apologizing, by the look of it. Of course—not her fault.
And here she is.
“Jane!”
Yes, I am Jane. I know that. “Hello, Celia.”
“I haven’t been to this place before.” She is removing her coat; a waitress materializes at once, to take it, pull out her chair, flourish a napkin across her knees.
I say that I have been here once. It had seemed all right. She has settled in, is considering me. She is thinking that I look all of eighty, that I have jowls, pouchy eyes, that I ain’t what I used to be.
Or maybe she isn’t. She says, at once, “So you decided to miss the funeral. Delicacy?”
“Norovirus,” I say. Which is the truth. She can believe it, or not—her choice.
“Ours all sat together. People thought that was so nice.”
Ours. My ch
ildren, her child—his children. My grandchildren, her grandchildren—his grandchildren.
“Quite a lineup. The youngest ones behaved impeccably. My Sophie. And that small lad of yours.” She picks up the menu. “I shall probably go for something salady. Not a great eater, these days.”
Grief? Or concern about obesity? Not that she is anywhere near obese. Just rather stout, like me.
We choose. We order. We refuse wine (did I see her hesitate for a moment?) and sip mineral water. I ask if she is going to stay in that house. That large, expensive house.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I? All our things . . . I’d hate to part with anything. And so many memories.” A little sigh.
Indeed. We all have those.
“Dear me,” she says. “Long time since we saw each other, Jane. Maisie’s wedding?”
I correct her. Another funeral, which I did attend.
“Oh yes—his mother. I’d forgotten you came. Good of you, considering. I’m sure Hugh appreciated that.”
*
Oh, he did. If an air of deep embarrassment and confusion equals appreciation.
There he is, and why am I surprised that he is older, has some gray hair, a different face. Me too. And you, Celia, and you. Elegant in black, neither embarrassed nor confused. Running things. Meeting and greeting. Presiding over the funeral bakemeats.
You are sixty. As am I. Well into middle age, and you carry it off well. As a successful gallery owner should. I am successful too, in my own sphere, but university administrator is less conspicuous.
You have forgotten, you say (you say . . . ), but I have not. I am there still in some stratum of the mind, supported by my Maisie, my Ben, observing your Toby, screwing myself up for strained exchange with Hugh. Observing Hugh.
You stand in gracious conversation with some elderly relative and remain thus in my head, competing with this subsequent Celia, Celia now, Celia seated, eating salade niçoise.
*
“Not before time, one felt,” says Celia. “But perhaps you got on better with her than I did.”
I am noncommittal. Actually, I had problems too. Seems we have that in common.
“Odd to think she wasn’t much older than we are now. But there it is. We’re as old as the hills, aren’t we?” She grimaces.
Old as the hills. And young as all those other Janes and Celias that crowd the mind. And Hugh. And Hugh.
*
He cannot bring himself to say it. He has to bring himself to say it. Long ago. And now. Now and forever.
“Jane,” he says. “Jane, I’ve got to tell you . . .”
And I know. He need not bother.
“Celia Binns,” I say.
*
“One never thought it would happen, old age,” says Celia. She is tucking into the salade niçoise, I note. “Just something that happened to other people.” She laughs. “You were more realistic, I imagine.”
“I tend to be realistic,” I say. “Something I’ve learned.”
She gives me a sharp look. Wonders if I am making a point. Well, yes, Celia.
“One can only try to make the best of it, I suppose. The occasional treat. I’m going on a little cruise next month. Hugh and I had planned to do that at some point.” She sighs again.
I am impassive.
“He was so stoical. Right to the end. I know you’d want to hear that.”
Would I? But impassive seems inappropriate here. I nod.
“Treats,” says Celia. “And physiotherapy. I have a wonderful physio. But maybe you’re in better nick than I am. I’ll have to have a hip done.”
I mention my torn shoulder tendon, to keep abreast of her. Celia says she believes the best shoulder man is at the Royal Free. A friend of hers went to him.
“You know,” she says, “I’d go back to the forties, if I could have my time again. Forget youth—nothing but Sturm und Drang. The forties were good. Fifties not at all bad, either.”
*
Celia at fifty. Yes, that memory slide comes up at once: Celia at my Ben’s wedding, her hat trouncing all other hats, being tactfully unobtrusive but nevertheless emphatically there, impossible to miss. Hugh and Celia. Celia and Hugh. I am used to that, by now, but forever not. It is always an affront. So at my son’s wedding I am affronted.
*
“Eighties are an outrage,” says Celia. “What have we done to deserve this?”
I do not care for this implied community. I say that as far as I am concerned we are rather lucky to be living where and when we do and thus to have got to be eighty at all.
Celia pulls a face. “Lucky? I don’t feel particularly lucky.”
I regret the word. Not quite what I meant. I say so. “Statistically lucky,” I say.
She laughs. “Well, I don’t feel like a statistic either. Just myself in a condition that I never anticipated.” She puts down her knife and fork; she has demolished the salade niçoise. “And usually the oldest person in the room. Though not right now—there’s a real old codger over there. Ninety if a day. Boring the socks off his granddaughter, by the look of it. That’s what one is afraid of. Boring the socks off. Are you bored, Jane?” That smile. The Celia smile.
I am not bored, oh no. I do not return the smile (who could compete?), but ask after her grandchild (his grandchild) Sophie, who has had health problems. I am not, as it happens, particularly concerned about Sophie, but one should observe the proprieties.
Sophie is much better, it seems. “And, incidentally,” says Celia. “I imagine you’ve had the lawyer’s letter. About the legacies. Same for all of them.”
I have. I say that my Ben will be glad of his—he is in his first job, low paid, and saving for a car.
“Oh, that rings a bell. Being young and strapped for cash. I remember being twenty-one and lusting—lusting—after a dress I couldn’t possibly afford.”
No image surges forth. I did not know Celia at twenty-one. Nor did Hugh. She would hove upon the scene all in good time. Bad time, you could say.
“Did you get it?” I ask.
“Oh, yes. I found a way.” She laughs.
Of course.
The waitress is wondering if we would like desserts. Celia says she could manage something if I would join her. We opt for the lemon cheesecake.
And then . . . “Why am I here?” says Celia. “Surely not for the pleasure of my company?”
I have been waiting for this.
“Satisfaction,” I say.
Celia considers me. “Handbags at dawn? Isn’t it a bit late for that?”
The pleasantries are done. This is more like it.
“Why Hugh?”
“Well,” she says. “Why not Hugh? I was high and dry—my previous attachment had foundered. There had to be someone.”
“Someone else’s husband.”
“Unfortunately. But not entirely unusual, Jane. And he could have resisted.”
Indeed, indeed. Point taken, Celia.
“And you thought—Jane will get over it, people do.”
She inclines her head: possible agreement. “You found your Chris before too long, after all.”
Indeed, again. Quick on her feet, Celia. Level pegging at the moment, it would seem.
“I always liked Chris,” says Celia thoughtfully. “Hugh didn’t, for some reason.”
I am rather pleased to hear that. Affinity would not have done.
But this is beside the point.
“How is he?” says Celia. “You should bring him over one day, now that . . .”
Oh no. Oh no, Celia.
“He has sciatica and a prostate problem,” I say.
A moue of sympathy from Celia. She will not press the invitation.
Back to business. “No compunction at all?”
Celia reflects. “Well, not r
eally, I’m afraid. After all, I was in love,” she adds sweetly.
Oh, come on. “Of course,” I say. “Which explains everything.”
Celia sighs. “Jane—it’s history, all this.”
I say that I have always thought history to be of great relevance.
“Oh, I can’t think like you,” says Celia. “You’re so well educated.”
The waitress appears. Would we like coffee?
Celia would kill for a coffee, it seems. So would I, I find.
After a moment, Celia says, “Am I supposed to say I’m sorry?”
I have considered this. “No, because you’re not, so it wouldn’t mean anything.”
“Then . . . Satisfaction?”
I tell her that perhaps confrontation would be a better word. “It’s called the elephant in the room nowadays. What is never spoken of. Forty-two years ago you helped yourself to my husband.”
Celia gazes at me. “Absolutely. I can’t deny that. Not an unprecedented situation, but I can see you feel that is irrelevant.” She wears a benign smile, but her eyes are steely. It is each for herself now.
And that is fine by me. This has been a long time coming. Forty-two years. I have plenty to say.
So has she.
We get down to it. At last.
Our coffee comes. The waitress hopes we have enjoyed our meal. The restaurant is emptying. People are getting up, putting coats on, passing our table with an indulgent glance and smile: two elderly friends lunching, having a chat about old times. Bless.
A Biography
TALBOT, Lavinia, aged 70. Emeritus Professor of History, Temple College, University of London. Wife of Professor Gerald Plant. Died suddenly on 18 March 2012. A memorial event will be held in London.
*
Interview with Alice Hobbs. Roundhay Farm, Okehampton. May 4th 2014.
Well, she was always just there, for me. Sort of elemental, like weather. And she could be quite elemental, Lavinia—when she was in a mood. Central, always, in the family. But, look, I adored her—absolutely. She was what she was, and what she was, was Lavinia. Rather wonderful. Whatever anyone else says. And people will . . . well, people will say all sorts of things to you. I mean, I suppose you’re going to be talking to various people?
The Purple Swamp Hen and Other Stories Page 5