Mrs De Winter

by Susan Hill

  ‘I had a talk with the solicitors. They need to see me. I can’t get out of it, damn it.’

  My heart lurched. I had never known anything at all about Maxim’s financial or business affairs, but there had been a solicitor once in Kerrith. Perhaps we would have to go over there, perhaps –

  ‘It’s not the local man,’ he said, as if reading my thoughts. ‘They’re in London.’

  ‘London?’ I was not able to stop myself sounding eager, quickly excited at the thought.

  London.

  We might have to go there then, not just hurriedly, furtively, scurrying, heads down, to change trains and leave at once, but to visit, to stay for a day, perhaps even a night, too, on proper business, with time, and a little leisure. London, oh, just once, please. I had never truly liked it, never been a city person in the least, I would not feel relaxed or at home there. But in our exile, I had just occasionally thought of it, daydreamed about it after reading something in an old newspaper from home – a name would catch my eye at random. Lords. The Old Bailey, Parliament Hill Fields, East India Dock, the Mall, St. James’s, the Mansion House, Kensington Gardens … and then I had spent a happy hour walking about, looking in grand shop windows, taking tea, listening to the band in the park on a spring morning, exploring some dark little Dickensian alley, where the houses leaned across to one another and the gutters smelled of printer’s ink, an innocent, pleasant, romantic little pastime, another reminder of home.

  I knew the war had dealt harshly with London, accepted that things would not look the same, would be shabbier, damaged, scarred, and I turned away from all thoughts of that last terrible visit, with Maxim and Favell and Colonel Julyan, to see Rebecca’s doctor, and all that it meant, all that had come after. Well, that had been separate, we would never need to see that particular street again, it would be perfectly easy to keep well away.

  London. I was a country person, I knew that it was the green fields and lanes and rises, the smell of ploughed earth and the soft calling of the wood pigeons deep in the cool woods, that I needed to live quietly among for the rest of my days. I would never be happy for long among traffic and sights, on hard city pavements, with buildings looming over me.

  But London, again, just once, for a day, no more. Oh, please. I half turned to look at Maxim, and almost asked.

  He said, ‘He will come down here to see Giles and me the day after tomorrow.’ His face was closed, his voice tight, I was warned off at once, closed my mouth and did not utter. ‘It will take a few hours, I’m afraid. I want to get it all over and done and sorted out in one day. I don’t want it hanging over me. You’ll have to amuse yourself for half a day – but you want to do that, don’t you? You want to be out.’

  If he minded, he did not give a hint of it, he smiled, indulgent, again, talking in that way he had as if to a child. It was coming back, now that we were here. He had told me that I had changed, since our return, but so had he, there were flashes here and there of the old, the other Maxim.

  I smiled, and turned back to the fire again, took up the bellows and began to press them, my head down, away from him. London faded. We would not go.

  ‘I hope all this isn’t going to upset you too much,’ I said.

  ‘I shan’t let it. It’s got to be done, we’ll just get on with it. A lot of Beatrice’s affairs are – are quite separate from mine and the rest of the family’s of course, and have been since her marriage. But whatever loose ends there are can all be tied up together once and for all and then we can be off.’ He stood up, and came over to me, he was standing, very tall and steady, just behind me. I felt him close to my back. ‘Give me those things, let me see if I can lick this fire into shape.’

  I handed him the bellows, and stood up. ‘But – we can go to Scotland?’

  He smiled, and I saw that he looked tired, exhausted, the skin was fine and like a faint bruise beneath his eyes, and he was vulnerable again to me, and I wondered why I had been in some odd way afraid. ‘Of course,’ he said wearily. ‘You shall have your holiday,’ and bent to kiss my forehead, before turning to tackle the withered fire.

  Seven

  For the whole of that night and the next day, whatever I saw or heard or thought, however I answered Maxim, lightly, comfortably, he was at one remove from me, I pressed a switch and life continued, but it was not real life, it did not signify.

  The only reality was the white wreath, lying on the grass beside the grave, and the black letter, elegant, graceful, deadly, on the stiff card. They accompanied me, they danced before my eyes, they breathed and watched and whispered, they hovered at my shoulder, and would not cease or let me be.

  Who? I kept asking myself every time I could be alone, who had done this? How? Why? Why? Who wanted to frighten us? Who hated us? When had they come? Had they been there when I had found the wreath? No, I knew, was strangely, calmly sure that that could not have been. When I had crossed the churchyard and stood beside Beatrice’s grave, when I had bent to examine the flowers, and seen the white wreath first, I had been quite alone, if I had not been I would have known it. There had been no one else, no watcher in the shadows, nothing but the wreath itself to disturb me.

  I was afraid, but most of all, I was puzzled. I wanted to know, I did not understand, and the worst of it was bearing it entirely alone, keeping all hint from my face and voice, hiding the faintest sign of distraction or anxiety from Maxim.

  It preoccupied me completely, even while I went through the motions of passing that night and the following day, it ran alongside me, like a tune that was playing, so that at last, I simply grew used to and accepted it and that calmed me a little.

  ‘You will have to amuse yourself for half a day but you want to do that, don’t you?’

  I heard his voice again as I brushed my hair at the dressing table. I had not known that being home would do this to him, and that the Maxim I had grown used to, patient, quiet, subdued, the Maxim with whom I had lived for our years abroad, would slip away so easily, to reveal so many traces of the old Maxim, the one I had first known. But with every hour that passed in England, he changed a little, it was like watching curtains blow in the wind, to reveal more and more of what stood behind and had only been concealed, not obliterated.

  ‘You will have to amuse yourself for half a day.’

  If it had happened a year ago, a month ago even, if for some reason there had been business to attend to, he would have tried to avoid it completely, to hide, it would have distressed him unbearably to have had to face it, and without any doubt he would have insisted that I be with him, listen, read the papers, see it through with him, he could not have done it without me. I had never imagined that he might change, that his old, easy, proud independence would reassert itself, that he would show any sign of being able, and willing, to deal with things alone, or for one moment wish me to be away from him. It was a shock, like watching a helpless, dependent invalid begin to recover, regain strength, show spirit and a flicker of the old fire, stand, and then walk alone again, brushing off impatiently the loving, restraining, anxious hands.

  I did not know what I felt, or how much I minded, but I was not hurt. I did not take his brisk words as a rejection. I think perhaps I was relieved. And besides, the change was not total, there was much that was the same. We spent a day together quietly in the house – for apart from pacing a few times round the garden, day and evening, he had not gone out, would not go. It had turned wet and very windy, with scudding, grey clouds and a mist that came down quite close to the house, so that we could not see even as far as the horses in the paddock.

  We read beside the fire and played bezique and piquet, and did the crossword in the newspaper, and the dogs slouched between us on the hearthrug, and at lunch, and dinner, Giles sat, and was virtually silent, sunken into himself, his eyes red, with heavy stains and pouches beneath them. He looked unkempt, dishevelled, broken and crumbling to pieces, and oblivious to the fact, and I did not know what to do or to say, I only tried to be kind,
to pour his tea or smile at him the few times he caught my eye. I think he was grateful, in his pathetic child-like way, but then he went back to be alone in his study for hour after hour.

  There was not even Roger to lighten the atmosphere, he had gone away to see friends, and I was relieved of the distress of looking at him and the guilt my feelings caused me.

  For that day, we seemed to be suspended in time, in some sort of waiting room, between places. We did not belong in this house, it was vaguely familiar and yet strange, and bleak to us. We felt less comfortable than we might have done in a hotel. Maxim spoke very little, and for much of the day seemed abstracted, brooding, though he was glad, I think, when I tried to divert him, when tea came, or I suggested another game of piquet. Yet I had also a strange sense that to some extent he was merely going along with it to indulge me, keep me happy. I felt myself reverting again to my old, inferior, child-like role.

  The day passed slowly. The rain blew on to the window panes, the mist did not lift. It was early dark.

  ‘You will have to amuse yourself for half a day, but you want to do that, don’t you?’

  Yes. My heart pounded suddenly as I drew the curtains that night. I had a secret, it made me catch my breath as I thought of it. I could amuse myself for half a day. I knew what I would do, but I turned on my side, away from Maxim, and could not let him see me, it felt such a betrayal, the worst kind of deceit and infidelity.

  The mist had gone, and there were skeins of cloud, in a clear, pale sky, blown by the breeze. It was almost like spring, except that the ground was thick with leaves that had been blown off the trees the previous day and lay in heaps about the garden and the drive.

  The lawyer would be here by eleven, a taxi was booked to fetch him from the station.

  I looked across the breakfast table. Giles was not down. Maxim looked formal, in a suit and stiff shirt, distant from me.

  The white wreath floated, pale, insubstantial, between us.

  Who? How? When? Why? What did they want of us?

  I heard my own voice speaking quite easily. I said, ‘I wonder if Giles would let me take the car? I think it’s market day at Hemmock. I’d rather like to go.’

  I had learned to drive almost as soon as we had gone abroad, though we had not owned a car, only hired one here and there, when we felt like taking a trip for a few miles to see some church or monastery or special view we had read of. Maxim seemed to like me to drive him, it had been part of the change in him, although he would never have dreamed of suggesting it in the old life. I had done it gladly, enjoying it, and enjoying even more the feeling it gave me of being different, the one who guided and was responsible. Driving a car seemed such a grown up thing to do, I had made Maxim smile, when I had once said so.

  Now, he scarcely glanced up from the paper. ‘Why not? He has to be here, he isn’t going to need it. You’ll enjoy the market.’

  So that was all right, he would let me go, he had not changed his mind, did not need me here.

  But I felt a pang, as I went to got my coat. I lingered, holding his hand, waiting to be reassured that he could face the solicitor, the papers, and whatever the business talk might bring up, without me.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘It’s fine. There’s nothing to worry about.’

  Only the wreath, I thought, and saw the letter traced, suddenly, upon his face. R. Rebecca.

  It had never once crossed my mind that it had stood for anyone else. I saw that Maxim was watching me, composed my face into a bright smile.

  He said, ‘It is all like a dream, not unpleasant. I simply go through it – and it has curiously nothing at all to do with me, and tomorrow I shall wake and real life will dawn again, and we can go on with it. Do you understand?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Be patient with me.’

  ‘Darling, would you rather I stayed here, just in the next room –?’

  ‘No.’ He touched my cheek lightly with the back of his hand, and I took it, and pressed my face against it, loving him, and guilty, guilty.

  ‘I’ll telephone Frank this evening,’ he said, smiling. ‘We can be away from here tomorrow.’

  And then Giles came out of the study, looking for Maxim, some papers in his hand, and so I could ask about the car, I could go, out of their way, out of the house, dismissed with a clear conscience, to amuse myself.

  What was I thinking of? What was I planning to do? Why was I making this journey, the journey I had said and believed I could never make again? Why was I tempting fate?

  I was foolish, what I wanted was wrong, and it was dangerous, too. At best, I would be made wretched and be horribly disappointed. At worst, and if Maxim were ever to find out, I might destroy everything, our fragile happiness, the love and trust we had built up with such care and patience, him, myself, the rest of our lives.

  Yet I would go, I think I had known from the day I knew that we were coming back, that I would go, it was quite impossible to resist. I craved it, it was like a secret, irresistible love affair, I dreamed of it, longed for it, wanted and needed to know.

  No one would speak to me of it. I did not dare to ask. The only person I had mentioned it to was Frank Crawley and even then, the name had not passed my lips … Manderley.

  There are some temptations that cannot be resisted, some lessons we never learn. Whatever happened, whatever the outcome, I had to go there, see for myself at last. I had to know.

  Manderley. It had me in thrall, half in love, half fear, but it had never let me go, its spell was all powerful still. I realised that, as I set the old black, bull nosed car towards where the road would bend and turn a little, before running straight on, in the direction of the sea.

  It was thirty miles away, on the other side of the county, so that, at first, the villages and lanes and little market towns were unfamiliar. I saw the sign to Hemmock, where I had said I wanted to go, wander round the market, perhaps have a light lunch in a little shop overlooking the square. But I passed the turning. I was going another way.

  I did not allow myself to brood upon it, did not linger over any of the scenes of the past, I enjoyed the sky and the trees and the high, open moor, I wound down the window so that I could smell the autumn earth. I felt free and happy and I liked driving the car. I was an innocent on an outing, I dared not be anyone else.

  But at the end of it, what did I expect to find? What did I want there to be? An empty shell, amidst the tangle of the deep woods, charred, and twisted, and hollow, the ashes long, long dead and cold, the creeper strangling it now, weeds choking the drive, as in my recurring dream? But I could not be sure, no one had ever dared to tell us what there was, we had refused to let the name cross anyone’s lips, no letters had come with news, during our exile.

  I think I half convinced myself that it was a romantic pilgrimage, that what I would find would be a sad, poignant, melancholy place, unhaunted, fallen into a strangely beautiful decay. I was not apprehensive, not afraid. Other things frightened me, the silent cat poised in the shadows waiting to spring. The white wreath – the card, the initial. Some unknown person’s carefully, cunningly directed malevolence.

  Not Manderley.

  I stopped once, in a village halfway there, to buy myself a drink of orangeade from the small shop, and as I said goodbye to the woman and went out of the door into the sunlight, hearing the ting of the bell brought a surge of memory back like a wave, and I realised, blinking, looking around me, that I had been here before, many years ago, when I had been a girl on holiday with my parents and bought a picture postcard for my collection, because the house it showed appealed to me, and the house had been Manderley.

  And, standing there, looking across at the low, whitewashed thatched barn of the farm opposite, that past was with me and I within it, more vividly than anything for a long time, I could touch it, feel it, nothing here had changed at all, I thought, and nothing might have happened to me in between.

  I sat in the car for a long time, sipping at my bottl
e of sweet, warm orangeade, and I was in a strange kind of trance, suspended, frozen there, I was not fully aware of who or what I was, and why I was here, on this October day.

  After a while, I started the car and began to drive on again. I left my girlhood behind in that quiet village, and then, suddenly, the road became familiar, rounding a bend I saw a signpost.

  Kerrith. 3 miles.

  I stopped and switched off the car engine, and through the windows, borne on the breeze, came the faint salt smell of the sea.

  My heart was beating very fast, the palms of my hands were damp. Kerrith. Kerrith. I stared at the name until the letters became meaningless marks, they jazzed together like midges and apart again, they hurt my eyes.

  Kerrith. The village and its harbour and its boats, the beach and the bungalows, and the cobbles down to the quay, even the swinging inn sign and the way the church gate had leaned unevenly, I saw it, in every detail.

  In another mile, I would round a bend and then I would see the brow of the hill with its belt of trees sloping to the valley, with a feint blue line of sea just visible beyond.

  I heard Maxim’s voice. If I glanced round, I would see him beside me. ‘That’s Manderley, in there. Those are the woods.’

  It was the first time I came here, that day, like so many other days, strung out separately, distinctly, like a run of beads, and each of them so perfectly remembered.

  Then, quite casually, unexpectedly, I heard another voice, and remembered a woman I had seen with her little boy the day the ship had run aground in the fog, on the rocks below Manderley. They had been holiday makers come over for an outing, from Kerrith.

  I saw her fat face now, blotchy after exposure to the sun, the gingham blouse she had been wearing. ‘My husband says all these big estates will be chopped up in time, and bungalows built,’ she had said. ‘I wouldn’t mind a nice little bungalow up here, facing the sea.’

  I felt suddenly sick. Was that what had happened to Manderley after all then, and what I should find if I went on? The woods cleared, the house razed, dozens of bungalows, neat, with pink and green and light blue window frames, and the last ragged summer flowers fading in the gardens, and was there, perhaps, a bank of rhododendrons, tamed and trimmed back, all that was left of the banks and banks there had once been? Would there be holiday boats tied up in the cove, and a line of wooden beach huts with names painted over the doors and little verandas?