by Susan Hill
Perhaps this would be what they had thought it kinder to keep from us, this desecration, this dreadful, mundane end to it all.
There was no way of knowing and so I started the car again and drove on a little further, tempting fate, risking everything, probing at the old wounds. I rounded the bend. I saw the belt of trees on the brow of the hill, the beginning of the slope down to the valley. There were no new signposts, all seemed to be the same. If there were bungalows, they were hidden.
But, then, I knew that there were not, and that it was all there, as I had dreamed it, the ruin, the house, the overgrown drive, the woods crowding in upon it all, and beyond them, somewhere, the cove, the beach, the rocks, and those would be quite unaltered.
There. I got out of the car and took a step or two forwards. Looked ahead – there, oh, there, so near, I could go. Just beyond the rise. Why did I not? Why?
Go, go, go, said the voice in my head, a seductive, whispering, cold little voice.
Come.
Manderley.
The earth was spinning, the sky above me seemed made of some transparent, brittle, fragile substance and at any moment might break open.
A breeze blew, riffling the grass, caressing my face like a soft, silken, invisible hand.
I fled.
Fled back though the lanes and across the open road that ran over the moor, driving insanely fast, though with a tremendous concentration born of panic, flinging the car round blind bends, hurling it at hills, once almost colliding with a farm wagon, catching a flash of the man’s startled face, his mouth open in an O, once almost killing a dog, fled back through the villages and past the signs that had led me here. Fled, back into the open gateway, and out and across the drive, fled, into the house, and saw Maxim at once, coming out of the study, and beyond him, through the open door, the others, two men in dark suits, one standing beside the fireplace with Giles.
I did not speak, there was no need. He opened his arms, caught and stilled me, and held me until I had stopped shaking, stopped crying. He knew, I did not have to tell him anything at all. He knew and there would never be a word spoken about it, and I was forgiven, I knew that too, though would not have dared to ask it.
The lawyers stayed to lunch, but I did not have to join them. I had sandwiches on a tray, sitting peacefully beside the fire in the drawing room, though I was not at all hungry, and scarcely managed a couple, and a piece of fruit, so as not to offend the housekeeper. After that, I simply sat, looking at the garden out of the window, and the afternoon sun came shafting in, and that was another small, fierce pleasure, and I cherished it. I felt exhausted, and I felt relief. I had escaped, no thanks to myself, escaped the consequences of my own wilfulness, and the demon that had driven me, and I was safe again, nothing had disturbed me, nothing had harmed me, but more important still, nothing had been disturbed, the smooth surface of the past lay untroubled.
Whatever Manderley was now did not concern me. It belonged only to the past and, sometimes, to my dreams.
I would not go back again.
Later, after they had gone, we walked up to the paddock, Maxim and I, and he only spoke a few words, about Beatrice’s affairs, and those were not of any consequence.
‘It’s done with,’ he said. ‘All settled. There are no problems, nothing to concern us any more.’
I stopped, beside the gate. The horses were at the top of the field and did not come to us, or even lift their heads from their grazing. I shivered.
Maxim said, ‘Scotland tomorrow. I should like to go off early.’
‘I’ll pack after dinner. There isn’t much.’
‘Will you have enough warm things? Will you need to stop off anywhere? I suppose it may be rather cold.’
I shook my head. ‘I just want to get there.’
‘Yes.’
It was true. I wanted to be away from here, though not because of this house, or of Giles and Roger, nor even because it felt so bleak and hollow and unkempt without Beatrice. I had not dared to think of our returning abroad. I could not bear to, did not want to go. Instead, I imagined the journey, up by train through England, the hours I would be able to spend simply gazing and gazing at it through the window, towns, villages, the woods, fields, rivers, hills, land and sea and sky. I wanted great draughts of it, I could not wait.
We would borrow books from here, and buy more at the railway station. When I was not looking out of the window, we would read companionably, and eat in the dining car together, and play bezique, it would be a precious time, and everything that had happened here would recede and fade until it was quite unreal.
We walked back in silence, contentedly towards our last night in the house.
At dinner, Maxim said, looking up from his fish, speaking quite without warning, ‘I should like to go across to the grave in the morning, before we leave.’
I stared at him, my face flushing suddenly hot as fire, said, ‘But surely you can’t – I mean, there won’t be time, the car will be here at nine.’
‘Then I shall go at eight.’ He lifted his fork to his mouth and ate, calmly ate, while my own food went cold and leaden and sour in my mouth and my throat closed so that I could not swallow it, nor speak either.
He could not go, must not, and yet how could I possibly prevent him. What reason could I give? There was none.
I glanced across at Giles. He would go, too, I thought, he would see it, blunder up and read the card, and blurt it out, ask questions.
I saw that tears were coursing down his cheeks, quite unchecked, and that Maxim was looking at him in embarrassment and looking away again quickly, at his own plate.
‘Sorry.’ Giles’s knife clattered on to his plate as he stumbled up, fishing about for his handkerchief. ‘Sorry. Better get outside a bit.’
‘For God’s sake, what’s the matter with him?’ Maxim said furiously, the door had scarcely closed.
‘His wife is dead.’ I knew that my voice was harsh, and impatient, and should not be, that Maxim was simply pushing Giles’s distress away, not liking to witness it, that really he understood.
‘Well, the sooner we go tomorrow, and he’s back to normal, the better it will be for him. This is only prolonging the agony. He’ll have to get on with it then.’
‘Should I see if the car can come earlier – we can stop somewhere on the way for breakfast, can’t we? I know how hateful it all is for you.’
I felt deceitful, sly, my eager, smooth words slipping so easily out of my mouth. But it was for his sake, to protect Maxim, spare him, it was all for him.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Leave things as they are. Ring the bell, will you? I don’t want any more of this.’
I did so, and the subject of our departure the next morning was dropped, and I sat sick with dread for the rest of dinner, pushing food about my plate uneaten, and the question sounded over and over like a relentless pulse in my head. What shall I do? What shall I do? What shall I do?
I scarcely slept, I did not let myself do so, but got up just at dawn and dressed hurriedly, stealthily, like a guilty departing lover, and slipped out of the silent house, terrified of waking the dogs or disturbing the horses; but I did not, no one heard me, nothing stirred, and so I ran, taking off my shoes until I reached the lane, keeping on the grass so as not to make a sound moving the gravel, and the early morning world was still and pale and indescribably beautiful as the light strengthened. Yet I was scarcely aware of it, I was only conscious of my own footsteps, and my anxiety not to fall, heard the pounding of my heart, saw nothing.
I remember that I was not faintly afraid, there was not room even for that, there was only secrecy and urgency, and as I ran and paused for breath several times and then set off again, walking now, very fast, I prayed that I would get there, and be able to do what I had to, and be back again, and never be found out. Once, a fox slipped through a gap in the hedge, and streaked straight across my path; once, glancing up, I looked into the wide eyed, morning face of an owl upon a branch.
It was very cold in the hollows, but I scarcely felt it as I ran. If anyone had seen me, what would they have thought? A woman, running, running, through the lanes, down the sloping fields, alone in the first light of morning, slipping at last through the gate, into the quiet churchyard.
Stopping.
I waited to catch my breath. Thought, suddenly, though still strangely without any fear, that if ever one were to see a ghost, surely it would be now, in such a place as this; but I did not.
I saw nothing.
Saw only the mound beside the gravel path.
Fresh turf had been laid over it loosely now, and on the top of the turf, was a single cross of bronze chrysanthemums. I did not need to look closely at it, I remembered that it was from Giles and Roger.
The rest of the flowers had gone. When I walked around to the far side of the church I found the wooden frame on to which they had been heaped by the gardener. Earth had been thrown on top of them and a few trimmed branches from one of the trees, so that whatever wreaths lay there, lay quite concealed.
I turned away, giddy with relief, but as I passed the holly bush that stood at the corner, I noticed something in it, a piece of card caught by a torn wisp of ribbon among the prickle of dark green leaves. I put my hand in and took it, held it, mesmerised by the cream surface with its black edging, black words, and by the black initial in that sloping hand.
R.
And the holly had pricked my finger, so that when I stuffed the card away, deep into my pocket, I marked it with my blood.
Eight
It rained all the way up through England, dull, steady, relentless rain, and the sky bulged with pigeon grey clouds, and after a while, even I grew weary of it and turned away from the window to my paper or my book.
I should have been very happy, I had fully expected to be, but tiredness and the after effects of those things that had happened, the distressing and the frightening things, made me feel stale, there seemed no pleasure, no excitement, in being here, after all. I was growing used to it already, and taking it for granted. The sense of freedom I had longed for was missing too, I felt confined, and oppressed. I wished that I were a woman who embroidered or tatted, so that I would have had something to do with my hands when I grew tired of reading. It would have given me the appearance of busyness, and Maxim would have preferred that, I knew, he relied upon me to be equable, a restful companion, he did not like to sense any edge to my mood, and for so long I had tried to give him what he wanted, to reassure him.
The Midlands were slate coloured, roofs gleamed black. The rain slanted like pins across the hills as we travelled north, there was mist on the peaks.
Home, I said, we are home, but did not feel it now.
Maxim read, newspapers, a book, and once or twice, went to stand in the corridor, leaning on his elbows against the window frame.
I had looked forward to this and it was spoilt, soured, and he seemed far away, and it was my own thoughts that divided us, for I had secrets now, and must keep them. The questions that had chanted inside my head still ran on, but in whispers. Who? How? Why? Where had the wreath come from? Who had sent it? Or had it been brought and left? What did they want? They? Who? And why? Why? Why? The words kept pace with the rhythm of the wheels of the train.
The door slid open again. Maxim came back.
‘Shall we go for some coffee?’ I asked.
But he shook his head and went back to the paper, the paper I was sure he had already read, and did not speak to me. Did not want to speak. It was my fault, I knew it, and I could do nothing.
The train ran towards the Borders, and the hills were bare and bleak. England was empty, and I felt nothing for it, and the rain streamed down the window, taking the place of my tears.
Once, I saw a woman pass by our compartment, down the corridor, and glance in, and I happened to look up, by chance, and catch her eye, for a split second. Nothing. But then, I saw the flicker of a question, an awareness, on her face, and she stopped, took a step back, and peered at us both more closely. I raised my book hastily and turned myself away, and when I dared to glance up again, she had gone.
It was nothing, I said, nothing at all. We have not been in England for more than ten years. It is all over and quite forgotten. There has been the war like a great ravine that has opened up between then and now.
But a little later, we went for the first sitting in the dining car, and as I unfolded my napkin and crumbled the hard bread on to my plate, I knew that she was there, at the table across the aisle, she wore a purple blouse, I could see it out of the corner of my eye.
When the waiter came with our soup it splashed a little on to the tablecloth with a sudden lurch of the train, and Maxim asked irritably for a clean cover, and I tried to soothe him, and in the midst of the small, silly fuss, looked up and straight into the woman’s eyes again. I felt my face grow hot, and was furious with my own gaucheness. She had a companion, a younger woman, and now, recognition shining in her eyes, she was leaning eagerly forward. I saw her plump mouth forming the words, saw her whisper, felt what she was saying, though for the moment it was not a lot, our names, perhaps; only later, safe in their own compartment, after some more confirmatory, covert glances, she would tell. ‘Well – Maxim de Winter – that’s his second wife – been abroad for years – they say he had to – Manderley – Rebecca. Surely you remember …’
She reminded me hideously of Mrs van Hopper, putting down her fork and raising her lorgnette, in the hotel dining room at Monte. ‘It’s Max de Winter … the man who owns Manderley. You’ve heard of it, of course …’
I put my hand over Maxim’s, said something quickly about the view from the window, some inane remark, I remember, about there being a lot of sheep. I was desperate for him not to notice, being recognised and pointed out was the one thing he dreaded. And besides, I wanted by some touch, some slight gesture, to bring him back to me.
He smiled thinly, and said, ‘This fish is disgustingly dry.’
‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘never mind.’
‘All right. Let’s just look at the sheep.’
It made me giggle and he raised an eyebrow, his face softening with his own amusement, and I took a very large gulp of my wine out of relief and a sudden upsurge of happiness, and looking out of the train window again, saw that it was growing dark.
‘We’re in Scotland,’ Maxim said, and there was a lift in his voice, a new lightness.
Scotland was another country.
We spent that night in a small hotel in Dunaig, the nearest town to the estate Frank Crawley managed. He had made the arrangements, thinking that it would be too late when we arrived for us to want a further journey, a message was waiting to say that he would be there to collect us soon after breakfast.
The rain had petered out during the final miles north and a raw wind was blowing, we were glad to be in, welcomed with reserved friendliness by the proprietress. Only a single elderly couple were staying besides ourselves, we could relax now, in the high ceilinged, old fashioned rooms, we need not worry about being recognised up here.
It felt strange, like one of our foreign hotels, but after all, I was used to that, used to putting my clothes away in yet another great hollow wardrobe on padded hangers that other people had used, used to sitting carefully on the end of a strange bed to see whether it was hard or soft, used to anonymous bathrooms and noisy plumbing, curtains too thin or too thick, drawers that did not open smoothly. It was only for one night and then we would be staying in a house again.
But I thought, placing my slippers beside the bedside table, that I did not want that, good as it would be to spend some time with Frank and to meet his family, I had had enough of hotel rooms and other people’s houses, I wanted my own. I did not want to be in exile any longer, rootless, unsettled in anything but a temporary way, I was too old for it. I had never had a house, not since childhood, and that is quite a different thing. There had been hotels and, for a brief time, there had been Manderley.
But Manderley had not been mine, I had been a visitor there, too, for all the pretence, tolerated, never belonging.
I had expected to be wakeful that night, there were too many shadows at my back. I felt tense and wary, almost afraid to speak for fear I should blurt out some word that would alert Maxim. The wreath was never out of my mind, it lay there, still and white and beautiful, a picture I was obliged to look at, and when I dug my hand down into my pocket I started, feeling the hard edge of the card, and was terrified. How stupid, stupid I had been to keep it, why had I not stuffed it into the heart of the gardener’s careful heap, to be burned with the flowers?
The woman’s face haunted me, too. I saw again the flash of recognition, the head bent to whisper excitedly.
Maxim had been right. We should never have come back. This was how it would be for ever, this dreadful knife edge of fear, that something would happen, someone would see us, know, speak, ask, break into our peace.
But it had been broken already, a poor, fragile, transparent thing; we had never been safe.
So I thought, in despair, sitting opposite Maxim in the dark dining room of the hotel, and later, upstairs. The wind rattled the casement, and beat wildly at the side of the house, I had not heard such a wind for years. Home, it said, but where was home? Nowhere.
‘Poor darling, you’re white with tiredness – it’s been the most appalling strain hasn’t it, and I have been no help to you at all. I left too much to you, I’ve been hideously selfish.’
Maxim was holding me, loving, solicitous, tender, his mood changed in an instant, as it so often did, some blackness and irritability that had distanced him lifted, dissolved. I realised that I was, as he said, exhausted, I was weak with it, confused, my head aching.