Mrs De Winter

by Susan Hill

  ‘I shall try and tempt Frank down here again – we can manage it together.’

  ‘He’ll never want to leave Scotland.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  I thought that we might, because Frank’s absolute loyalty and devotion had been not so much to Manderley as to Maxim, and perhaps he would want to work with him again.

  And so we went on, making small, happy plans, as the light faded and night crept over the house and garden, and there was nothing but joy to look forward to.

  Thirteen

  I was like a child, playing at houses, Maxim said, and it was true that with such happiness, such daily pleasure, it did seem a little like a game, moving into Cobbett’s Brake, going over each room carefully, deciding what to keep, what to replace. But beneath the play, I felt as if I were living real life for the first time ever. The present mattered more than any past, and the future was only important so long as it was a simple continuation.

  Mrs Peck from the farm came in to help me at first, and after a few weeks, found a young woman, Dora, who bicycled from the next village, willing to do anything in the house. I felt at ease with her, I suppose because she was young, and there was nothing in the least difficult or intimidating about her, she was only friendly and anxious to suit. I did not feel that she was a servant. As we made lists and took down curtains and examined the insides of cupboards together, we giggled and she told me about her family, and only fell silent and seemed in awe if Maxim appeared. Once or twice, I caught her glancing at us, puzzled, perhaps, at the disparity in our ages or the difference between us – for every day, when I woke, I felt as if I were growing younger, retrieving years I had lost, shedding all the staid, depressing intimations of middle age. I sang about the place, I felt giddy and light hearted.

  And gradually, the house began to come under my control, I got to know its ways, which door did not close properly, which windows let in a draught, where the morning and the evening sun fell, how uneven the boards were on the upper landing. Men came in to paint, room by room. Some of the wormy old kitchen furniture and a few ancient rugs were thrown away and I decided to have new chairs in the long, light drawing room that looked out on to the best part of the garden. Cobbett’s Brake felt friendly, when I walked about it, early in the morning, from kitchen to dining room to hall, opening windows and doors, looking out at the grassy slopes rising around us, I felt that it welcomed me, almost that it had been waiting, expecting us.

  Maxim had begun to go about the district, talking to farmers and landowners, finding out which land he might buy, what farm was to let. He would have sheep, he said, and plenty of woodland, a dairy herd, and good grass – but he meant to take advice, and move slowly. There were four cottages, as well as the Home Farm, belonging to Cobbett’s Brake, and he began to look for help, too, to get to know men in the village: it was not a large estate, not after Manderley, but because we would not have anything like the number of staff, there would be more for Maxim to do. I watched him grow younger too, saw him stride out and down the drive, climb fast up the slopes, saw the colour come to his skin as the sun shone – for we had a warm, dry, perfect spring and early summer. He was well, he was entirely content, I thought, this was our happy ending.

  Yet we lacked something, though we never spoke of it, and as that early summer moved on, and the roses opened and cascaded over every wall and pillar and fence, glorious ramblers, blush and shell and blowsy pink, and billowing, purest white, as everything flowered and flourished and the trees were thickly green, so that we were drunk on high summer, I began to be conscious of it more and more. There was a hollow place at the heart of things.

  One morning at the end of June, I woke at five and could not sleep again, the night had been oppressively close, and I felt stale and heavy eyed. The scent of the rose that hung in great swags from the low roof below our open bedroom window was musky sweet, overpowering in the room.

  I went downstairs quietly, and slipped out of the side door. The air was fresh and quite cool, the sun not yet up, the sheep rested, heavy and still, scattered about the slopes. I walked under the arbour, and out on to the path that led to the big, raised round pond. We had not had a chance to clear it or mend the fountain, and I looked down between the mesh of old flat water lilies to the still green water below, wondering if there were great fish somewhere, moving about in an ancient, slow, secret life. I sat on the flat stone rim. The sky was pearl grey, the grass dark with dew.

  This is happiness, I thought, and I am held within it. Here. Now.

  And I looked up and saw them, coming across the garden, from the glassy slopes, saw them quite as clearly as if they were there, three children, boys, as they had been boys when I had imagined them at Manderley – two older, strong, sturdy, vigorous, shouting and pushing one another, and the little one, quieter, more thoughtful, keeping more to himself. They ran across the grass, along the gravel path, one pulling at a flower head, another waving a stick in the air above his head. I saw their bright faces, that they were open and full of humour, saw their bodies and scruffy heads, the same beautiful shape as Maxim’s. I saw them so clearly, that I might have opened my arms and they would have run into them, tumbling over one another to be first, to tell me this, make me laugh over that, I felt them against me, I knew what their hair felt like, thick, slightly dry, springy to my touch. I looked over to the little one, beckoned to him, and he smiled, very seriously, but would wait to be close to me until later, when the others had gone bounding away and we could be quiet together. Then perhaps we would sit and stare down into the dark, deep water of the stone pond, and wait to see the pale streak below, the gleam of a fish. He would not speak or startle, he would be very still, very patient, quite content just to be with me, waiting, and the shouts of his brothers would come back from the end of the drive, as they went racing off again.

  I sat on there, dipping my hand into the water and letting it trickle between my fingers, as the sun came up, slanting pale gold across the grass and touching the petals of the rose Albertine that grew over the east wall. I had spent every evening of the past week sketching out new plans for the garden, making lists, drawing what it would be like here, and here, and over there, in a few years’ time; and now, just as I had seen the children, I saw the garden as it would be, and longed for it, too. But that would be more easily accomplished, that was only a question of time and application. I heard a window open above, the faint sound of water running. In a few minutes, Maxim would come out to join me, we would go around the garden together, I would say, I think we shall take down this, prune back that, dig out a new border here, repair the trellis – I must see about the fountain – Mr Peck is sending a man who will do the vegetables – he may even come today.

  All of this was easy, I could talk about it happily, feel confident, but the children – I could not talk about them. For some reason, I was terrified that if I spoke of it at all to Maxim, it would be bad luck and I would never succeed. Rebecca had not been able to have children, they had found that out at the end. I would not be like Rebecca, must not be.

  I stood up, my mind quite clear all at once, the decision made. I could not speak to Maxim, not at this point anyway, but nor could I drift on through the months and years, hoping, trusting to luck, doing nothing else about it. I had always assumed – we both had – that we would have children, so far as I knew there was no reason why either of us should not, but I did not know – I knew very little about myself at all, I was never unwell, had rarely visited a doctor. Indeed, I realised, now that my mind was made up, that I did not know any doctors. The last one I had set eyes on had been the specialist in London to whose house we had all gone on that terrible, stifling afternoon when we had needed evidence about Rebecca. Dr Baker. I could see him now, coming into the room in flannels, interrupted in the middle of his game of tennis.

  I could not go to him. Then who should I see? How would I find out? I knew no one to ask. If either of us were ill, I imagined we would easily find out the na
me of the local man, probably from Dora or Mrs Peck. But I shied away from the idea of seeing anyone I might have to meet socially some day – for we would get to know people, I wanted to be friendly, to fit in to our neighbourhood, and the doctor was such an obvious person to invite. I felt that I could not face someone I knew, or might come to know, if I had consulted them about this, it seemed too worrying, too intimately connected with our life here.

  I wanted to go to London, just as Rebecca had done, I thought, in an impersonal way, to consult someone quite formally, who knew nothing about me. In the old days, I would have been able to ask Beatrice for advice. Now, I knew no one. How did one find a London doctor? I felt oddly panic stricken and helpless, isolated here for the first time, out of touch with the world.

  Maxim came out of the door, stood for a few seconds looking around him, taking in the house, the garden, the slopes, I saw the pleasure lighting his face, the air of satisfaction. He was happy, as I was, he loved Cobbett’s Brake. We could not moulder here by ourselves, there would be so little point in restoring everything, adding to the land, building it all up to something even better, if we were to slip down into old age as the previous owners had done, and leave it empty again, falling into neglect, because we could no longer manage and there was no one else to carry it on into the future. I must have the boys, I thought fiercely, I must, I will have them, for myself, because I have seen them, I almost know them, but even more, for Maxim, and for Cobbett’s Brake.

  And I went up the path towards him, and the children were there, just out of sight, following me.

  Fourteen

  I had forgotten about calling, that dreadful custom in the old country society that had caused me so many agonies of embarrassment and awkwardness at Manderley. Everyone had come, there was a new visitor every afternoon, it seemed, inquisitive women and occasionally a husband, too, curious about the new bride. I had had to sit on the edge of a chair in the formal drawing room, making light conversation, trying to answer their questions, for half an hour or so, and even worse, return the calls, never knowing what to say, waiting for the clock to tick the heavy time away. But that was a lifetime ago. We had been away for so long, and then there had been the war, which had changed so much – I could tell that even in the course of those first few weeks at Cobbett’s Brake; some of the old formalities and social barriers were breaking down and I was relieved, glad things were to be less rigid and pre-ordained. I had never felt at ease, never been confident of knowing the code, and Maxim had cared about it all so much in those days, I had been so anxious never to let him down.

  I knew that he had introduced himself to a couple of neighbouring landowners and the local farmers, and was sure that Mrs Peck and Dora would have spoken about us, though I had tried to explain that we were very private people, liking each other’s company and a quiet life – I did not want to risk news of our arrival spreading too widely – people here were not familiar with our story, perhaps, but someone might remember, dig out an old paper, talk to a relative, perhaps, from our old part of the world.

  So that I was apprehensive at once, hearing the sound of a strange car, the crunch of tyres on the gravel at the front of the house. I had been talking to Ned Farraday, who was working in the garden now, about whether or not to try and rebuild an old, dilapidated wall that bounded the south side, or whether it was too far gone and should be replaced. In the Manderley days of course, Frith would have come to find me, in his solemn, stately way, bearing a white visiting card on the silver salver. Now, Ned looked over to the drive and said, ‘Mrs Butterley – you’ll have met her then?’

  ‘No,’ I said, and at once was aware of the nervous churning starting up in my stomach, and that I was clenching my fingers tightly into my palms. ‘No, I don’t believe I have. Is she a neighbour, Ned?’

  ‘You might say,’ he grinned. ‘Lives over at Thixted – married to the old colonel – only everybody’s neighbour to that Mrs Butterley, forty miles around.’

  ‘I see.’ I left him, full of apprehension, already forming the polite sentences, and the evasive answers, in my head, resenting her for disturbing us. I had such a selfish, greedy attitude to my days at Cobbett’s Brake. I felt time slipping past and that we had lost too much of it already, I could not bear to waste any more on people I did not have to know, I wanted to arrange everything in the house, plan the garden, be with Maxim. And brood, dream, make my plans. I felt like an old, bad tempered recluse, jealous of our privacy. ‘Good afternoon,’ I said, and smiled what felt like a stiff, false smile. ‘How very kind of you to call,’ and walked up the drive to meet her. But even as I did so, even as I spoke, and before she did, I knew that I was wrong, quite wrong, and felt a barrier fall and my defences and reserves dissolve away. I looked into her broad, eager, open face and saw that of a friend, someone from whom could come no possible threat.

  She was a tall woman, broad shouldered, with wildly straying, auburn hair going grey at the sides, and she was carrying an armful of roses bundled up into newspaper, and something else wrapped in a tea towel. ‘Well,’ she called, bursting into peals of laughter, ‘coals to Newcastle I see, I might have known you’d have got all the old roses back – simply too much of a temptation and besides, really, they were so well established, they simply have a mind of their own and will flower where they will flower. Still, here are some of ours and you can never have too many, I like bowlfuls all over the house, don’t you?’ She had grasped my hand firmly in hers. ‘How do you do – I’m Bunty Butterley, neighbours more or less – of course, we knew the old Dennises well, poor things. They struggled on here for too long, I’m only glad it’s got someone to give it lots of love and attention. That’s all a house needs, isn’t it? Love – like the young and the old, really –’ She turned and stood, surveying Cobbett’s Brake with pleasure.

  ‘And my God, what a house – it’s perfect really, isn’t it, nothing wrong at all? You should see our Victorian monster – I love it in its way, of course, wouldn’t be anywhere else, but we put up with its ugliness and discomforts. You’ve nothing to do here but admire and enjoy and keep it going in the old way.’

  ‘Won’t you come in – I was just going to have coffee. Dora would call me in five minutes.’

  ‘Yes, you’ve got that angel, Dora Ruby. Salt of the earth that family –’

  She followed me in through the side door, calling out, going towards the kitchen. I knew that it was all right and I need not be concerned – this was a friend, not a ‘caller’, I could take her happily into whichever room I chose.

  ‘I brought you a cake, because I suppose one feels one should, instinct to feed and so on, and what a joy to be able to give away food after we all had to be so greedy and secretive and squirrel it into our own little stores through those dreary years. Mind you, with Dora you don’t need me and my offerings – hello Dora, my dear, you’d know I’d get here in the end. I don’t suppose Mrs de Winter has been overburdened with visitors, we’ve rather given up on all that and a good thing too. We’re all properly busy now, and call when we want to, not because we think we ought.’

  She is like Beatrice, I thought as I stood, smiling, listening to her boom out so cheerfully, seeming to fill the kitchen full of herself, she has the same easy, open way with people, no side, no falsity, that’s why I feel at ease with her. And I went forward and took the tray from Dora. ‘I’m so glad you came,’ I said. ‘I’ve been wondering when I would have someone to chat to.’ And I realised it was quite true, I found I wanted to talk, to ask questions, to enjoy her company.

  ‘Bunty Butterley,’ she said, following me to the small sitting room, which got the best sun at this time of day. ‘Isn’t it a hilarious name. I was born Barbara Mount, much more staid but somehow all Barbaras were Bunty to our mothers’ generation and then I upped and married Bill and took Butterley on board. I’m used to it now of course.’

  She plumped down in the armchair beside the window, and looked round the room immediately. ‘Yes. You’re
loving it, I can see. Freshening it up, making it sprucer, but keeping its heart and soul intact. I approve of that.’

  ‘It felt so right when we came in. I didn’t want to make many changes. It was the outside of the house I fell in love with.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t? It had got rather bleak in here, you know – we came over one afternoon the winter before last and it was cold as a vault and everything was so shabby and to tell the truth, a bit grubby, too. You took a good look at your spoon before you stirred your tea with it and gave it a surreptitious wipe on your skirt! We all wondered who’d take it over once it was obvious Raymond wasn’t interested – he’s a career soldier, of course, can’t wait for another war I daresay. Bill was never like that, for all he was a colonel. He’s years older than me, I don’t know if anybody’s told you – married twice, first wife died after only a few months, poor little thing, and then he had the army and so forth – I was quite long in the tooth, well over thirty, when he took up with me, but we’ve managed four girls all the same – all left home now, of course, though they’re back this weekend with boyfriends and whatnot in tow, such a sweat. Still, we wouldn’t change it, so long as they leave us in peace in between. Yours are off at school I suppose?’

  ‘No,’ I said briskly, ‘no, we don’t have any children, it –’

  ‘Oh, dear – is that a problem? My dear, do forgive me, how very tactless – it’s nothing whatsoever to do with me, forget I said it.’

  ‘No.’ I got up quickly, and refilled my cup. The sun was brilliant, flooding the comfortable little room, and I felt a sudden urge to talk, to pour out feelings and worries I had kept locked tightly within myself for years. I had never met anyone with whom I felt so instantly at ease, and trusting. She was not a subtle or an oversensitive woman but she was kind, warm, generous of spirit, I did not feel that she would be dismissive or critical.