by Anna Gilbert
Suitable? In the small hours he came to hate the voice of reason that lectured him from within his own skull. Historical records had nothing to do with the quandary he had got himself into. All the same, he was calm and resolute and convinced that on a humdrum level of reality he was doing a sensible thing.
Then came the morning when with time on his hands he strolled down through the fields to take a few photographs before fitting a new roll of film.
CHAPTER XX
‘Try to relax,’ Lance said. ‘You’re doing very well. You haven’t stalled once so far.’
‘But we’re coming to a hill.’ Grim-faced, bolt upright at the wheel, Margot spoke through her teeth. ‘I’ll have to.…’
‘You know what to do. I’ll tell you when. Now. Foot down, gear to neutral, foot up, rev, foot down, gear to second, foot up.’
‘I did it.’ She turned her head, radiant. ‘I double-declutched.’
‘Watch where you’re going. Stop when we get to that gate and I’ll drive. I need to get on faster.’
He was always short of time but it had been his idea that she should learn to drive. She could come with him on some of his calls and practise for ten or fifteen minutes now and again. There had been some surprise when Lance, a gold medallist, his results brilliant, had turned down the offer of a promising opening in Glasgow and had come home to join his father’s practice. No doubt he had his own reasons besides the obvious one that Dr Pelman, after years of working single-handed in harsh winters with crowded surgeries and always available for emergencies at three pits, was now suffering from arthritis and was very much in need of a partner.
Margot had set herself the goal of being able to drive by the time Miss Bondless came, Miss Bondless herself being so competent in so many spheres. Had she not once driven an ambulance under shell fire? Margot’s bright look of triumph in having made the gear change raised Lance’s spirits too. He saw it as a revival of the vitality she had seemed to lose. She was not changed, only subdued and would come to life again. But there were problems ahead. He was pretty sure that the news from Bainrigg House had not yet reached her. He had heard it from Mrs Roper when he visited her husband, a sufferer from pneumoconiosis. Margot would hear it soon enough. He had no intention of telling her.
‘I read of a very interesting case the other day.’
Margot moved over with alacrity: she was more interested in the human condition than in the internal combustion engine.
‘This story has a gloomy beginning.’
A doctor had been called in to certify a man as insane. Two medical signatures were needed. The patient, a quiet, self-effacing man, had completely changed and become violent, even dangerous. His distressed family had agreed that he must be put under restraint. But this second doctor had noticed certain physical symptoms – a swelling in the man’s face, a curious condition of the skin, slurred speech, a thickening of the fingertips. ‘In short,’ Lance warmed to the tale, ‘he was convinced that the man was suffering from thyroid deficiency and not insane at all. After a course of treatment he was completely cured.’
‘How amazing! I hadn’t realized that a person’s mental state could be affected like that – by some physical condition.’
‘Indeed it can. That was an extreme case – and the opposite is also true: emotional states can effect the physical condition – pulse, digestion, breathing – can cause pain and insomnia.…’ He ransacked with enthusiasm the catalogue of human ills.
His attempt to divert the direction of Margot’s thoughts was not entirely successful: she thought immediately of Miles, of the change in his manner at their last meeting. Since there was no other explanation, he must have been unwell. Illness had sometimes made her mother peevish and unlike herself. How childishly she had reacted! She had behaved like a medieval maiden waiting to be wooed. As a friend she should have insisted on finding out what was wrong. It was obvious now: he had been ill, had hoped that she would be concerned but would never inflict his trouble on her unasked.
Lance called on two patients in Fellside before driving her home and found her silent and preoccupied but not noticeably depressed. Margot was in fact regaining much of what he would have called her ‘tone’. She had enjoyed preparing a room for Miss Bondless and a trip to London with her father to buy clothes, go to theatres and hobnob with Freda, She had also had her hair cut. She had escaped the bob and shingle epidemic: longer styles were coming in and the light brown waves falling to the nape of her neck were very becoming. The wound of Miles’s apparent change of heart was not healed, but gradually her natural optimism had allowed her to dream of a reconciliation. There had been no reason, she repeatedly told herself, no quarrel – that was unthinkable. He had been worried by his new responsibilities, saddened by Mr Rilston’s death. It must have grieved him to miss another year at Oxford. When they last met, her own behaviour must have seemed more unaccountably cool and unsympathetic than she had realized.
Between the Hall and Bainrigg House, separated by no more than a walk through the wood or a short drive by road, there was now no contact. It was Alex who reported from Kenya that Miles had joined the flying club at Howlyn. ‘Lucky devil!’ He had heard it from Angela Bavistock who wrote to him regularly. She had heard it from Gavin Roberts’s younger brother who had been in Alex’s year at Bishop’s. Alan Cobham, on a visit to the club, had singled out Rilston as promising to be a first-class aviator and was keeping him in mind for one of his field displays. And when a DH60 Moth flew low over the priory and Ewan Judd said, ‘I bet that’s Mr Rilston’, Margot had stared up into the sky, dazzled, as when a child she had followed the flight of a bird. Miles would find it exhilarating to soar above the earth where, she realized with concern, he had never yet been really happy.
There had been one other point of contact with Bainrigg. She was arranging daffodils in a vase for the hall table when her father came out of his study with a letter in his hand.
‘I don’t know what to make of this.’ It was from his solicitor who had heard from the Rilstons’ legal adviser that the Fellside and District Coal Company had made an offer for the demesne of 120 acres comprising the Langland Hall and priory estate.
‘Don’t worry.’ He smiled at Margot’s alarm. ‘Our lease has eight more years to run. Besides the Rilstons won’t sell. The old man was dead against parting with land. In any case it’s one of the terms of the agreement that in the event of a sale I should have the first option to buy.’
He was less confident than he seemed. He had put too much capital into restoring the Hall and cottages, as well as buying equipment and levelling land for the smallholdings to be able to make an offer for some time to come.
‘Why should they want to buy? Is there coal here?’
‘Undoubtedly. They wouldn’t want land for any other reason. It’s unlikely that they would develop it in the short term but it would be worth their while to own it.’
He would have been easier in his mind if Frederick Rilston had still been alive: the old gentleman had appreciated his gesture in resigning over the chimney incident, so saving him from a possibly costly law suit. There had been a friendly understanding between them.
‘It wouldn’t surprise me if that old blackguard Bedlow was behind this. He’d dig up the Garden of Eden if there was coal to be got out of it. If only we could get the Ministry of Works to take over the priory!’ He must see Quinian, find out how the land lay and pull a few strings in Westminster and Whitehall. Nostrils dilated as by the scent of battle, he vanished into the study.
The matter remained in abeyance. Whether from inertia, reluctance to part with land or shrewdness in delaying the sale in the hope that its value would appreciate, the Rilstons appeared in no hurry to sell.
On the very day following Margot’s decision to seek out Miles, an opportunity arose which made it possible to call at Bainrigg House, a perfectly natural straightforward reason for calling as a friend and neighbour. Her father’s dream of establishing the Hall as a cultural ce
ntre in a district much in need of one was to be realized at last. With the co-operation of the Elmdon Music and Arts Society a musical evening with the Phoebus string quartet was to be held at the Hall.
As a friend then, Margot walked to Bainrigg by way of the priory wood; as an old friend and nothing more. It was unfortunate that every step revived memories of the last time she had walked that way almost exactly a year ago. Then as now there had been sunlight between branches, the fresh green of cuckoo-pint and hyacinth leaves, the pairing birds. She had shared with them the mysterious thrill of awakening life as she had walked on air towards the long-awaited meeting. Here was the drooping birch bough; the wicket gate into the field where once again lambs skipped and ewes stolidly munched; the first glimpse of yellow gorse above the stone-pit and – amazingly – she could scarcely believe it – he was there, in the place where they had sat together on a smooth shelf of stone in the sheltered hollow. He was holding a camera.
‘Margot!’ He leapt up to level ground and came towards her. ‘Stand still.’ A click and he had caught her, standing erect, smiling, forgetting why she had come, overjoyed that they had met at last as they had planned, only a year too late. What was a year but a gap in time leaving nothing changed? He was looking at her with the old tenderness. For her the moment was supreme.
For him? The first visionary moment passed, having done its terrible work in shattering the fragile peace he had seemed to find. It had made a mockery of any hope that he could live without her. Already, even before she came quickly across the grass to stand obediently still, her feet among the daisies – already his self-confidence was being threatened by the paralysis of doubt, and with good reason. Impetuosity had led him into a relationship he had never envisaged and could not have imagined, but he had accepted it as a release from the deepest loneliness he had known in all his lonely life.
Imperceptibly release had become constraint. He had recognized his dilemma even as he spoke the words that made it permanent. And now he would have to tell Margot, explain what could never be justified, though of course it could not directly concern her, not emotionally. He could not even assume that she cared what he did. He must not make the same mistake again.
‘How strangely things happen,’ she was saying. ‘I never told you but I used to come here often – when I was younger, you know – hoping you’d be here, and now when I least expected it, here you are. Actually’ – she remembered her role as friend, neighbour, promoter of the arts – ‘I was going to call at the house to leave you one of these leaflets.’ She produced one from her bag. ‘An evening of music. I hope you’ll come, for Father’s sake as well as your own. I remember something you once said, ages ago. “Sometimes there’s music”. It was a lovely thing to say, like a promise that music might come out of the air … if one waited.…’
Had he changed a little? He looked older. She saw the beginning of an anxious frown between his brows. He had certainly been glad to see her but he was now serious, desperately serious, without the grace of manner which had been so endearing.
‘When we last met’ – she took courage – ‘I felt that you were changed and I wondered if you were unwell. You haven’t been ill, have you? We’ve seen so little of you since Mother died.’
He must speak. A premonition of disaster put weights on his tongue. No words could lessen the enormity, as he now saw it, of his conduct. To speak of it could only make more inescapable a situation which had sometimes seemed unreal. He must remember that Margot was not involved. What seemed a catastrophe to him affected her only distantly if at all. Her concern was that of a caring friend. It had always been so from the beginning. The warmth and vitality he had loved had from the start misled him.
‘I should have known that even if you belonged to someone else I would have gone on loving you.’ He spoke – now that it was too late – with a passion he had never known before. ‘I could have lived alone, hurting no one.…’
‘You never told me’ – she trembled with the thrill of it, disregarding the odd way he had put it – ‘that you loved me.’ Oh, she had been right to come. Why had she waited so long?
‘I was going to, longing to, waiting until it would have been the right time to tell you, hoping you might feel the same for me. I thought of nothing else. I had no idea then that I would have been too late.’
‘Too late?’
‘It simply hadn’t dawned on me that there was an understanding between you and Lance, not until Linden told me that you’d always.…’
‘Linden told you that Lance and I…?’
‘He’s a fine fellow. But I couldn’t face being with you, knowing there was no hope for me. And then.… There’s Linden. I felt sorry for her and I thought since there was no one else for either of us, we might.… Linden and I are engaged.’
Happiness drained from her so suddenly that it seared her from head to foot. Daylight seemed to have dimmed. She looked round in disbelief at sheep still browsing as if in mist on grass from which the green had faded. She understood it all: the cool lie, the successful ruse, his ignorance of women like Linden. But there were no women like Linden. Wherever she went someone must suffer. It was as if she darkened the air and filled the surrounding space. Nothing was safe from her as Katie in her simplicity had known from the beginning.
She shivered, her eyes dull with misery. She and Miles should never have met. Their ways had crossed, that was all. She would say nothing: there was nothing to be said. He need not know how she suffered. An unfamiliar pride held her rigid.
‘Margot.’
The stupor left her. She turned and walked away. The walk became a frantic run.
‘Margot. Please.…’
She fumbled with the wicket gate and was gathered into the merciful shade of the trees. For the rest of her life she would remember his voice calling her name: remember that she had not looked back or spoken a word of comfort or reproach. Still running, she stumbled over a tree root and into the arms of Lance. In her distress there was no room for surprise that he was there. He set her on her feet. She shook herself free and they walked homeward.
‘He told you?’
‘You knew?’
‘Yes.’
‘He thought you and I were in love, or engaged or something.’
‘Did you tell him that it wasn’t true?’
‘No, I didn’t tell him. He should have known that it isn’t true.’
Presently as the ice that gripped her melted, she began to cry. Silently Lance handed her a handkerchief. She took it without a word, unaware that the man at her side was only a little less unhappy than the one she had left.
* * *
When Margot left him he stood for a while clutching the leaflet, the camera slung over his shoulder. He watched as the wicket gate closed behind her and the green she was wearing merged with the green of leaves and mossed boughs. To turn away had the finality of an execution. He glanced unseeing, at the leaflet. There had been awe and rapture in her voice as she spoke of music coming from the air, if one waited.
If only she had stayed away! If only she had not burst in upon him again, bringing a flood of light when he had been almost content to make his way in semi-darkness. Terrible as the past few minutes had been they were only a prelude to the future he faced: a lifetime to be spent with Linden Grey. A glimpse of Margot – it had been no more – had clarified his view of Linden. Knowing that Margot’s emotions were not involved, he was puzzled by her reaction. Was it anger – against himself – against Linden? He remembered that Alex had been in love with her and had suddenly gone away. But his own situation was sufficiently grievous to occupy all his thoughts. His head ached; his temples burned; he felt physically ill.
He moved at last – not to go home, he never wanted to go there again – but towards the wicket gate. There was just a possibility that she might come back. But if she did, what good would it do? What could he say to her? What could he say to Linden? He was finding it hard to think clearly or to single out each pro
blem and confront it rationally. Later, perhaps.
He had gone to the gate. Behind him fields lay open to the sky: it was high and clear, with no more than a wisp of white cloud to mar the blue. A perfect day for flying. For leaving it all behind? In sudden weariness he leaned on the gate. It was restful to trace between boughs vistas of green and grey. In all the intricacies of light and shade there was nothing harsh, nothing urgent, nothing clear-cut to rivet the gaze. Not until the woman came.
He was first aware of movement between the trees, the tread of foot on fallen leaves. Then he saw her, a tall woman dressed in brown or black. She was walking steadily and quickly. He undid the latch and opened the gate to let her pass. But she came up to him and stopped. She was bareheaded, her hair done in a coronet of twisted plaits; a gaunt-faced woman, unsmiling. He remembered having seen her at Langland Hall.
‘Mr Rilston, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘I was coming to see you. There’s something you ought to know.…’
It didn’t take long to tell him and when she had done she did not linger but went quickly back the way she had come. Here and there a larch bough quivered and she was gone. The quiet had never been more intense. He turned his back on the wood, on its green depths and voiceless mystery, its capricious changes of light, its endless variations of shape and colour, and looked up with confidence at the day’s unclouded blue, its brilliant clarity, its emptiness of people.
So – he had been right after all. For once in his life he had been right, no matter what a mess he had made of things afterwards. He was happy – as if eased of a burden – all the happier for having learned how transient a mood it was, how rare, how fragile. There was only one way to avoid its inevitable decline into misery. There wasn’t much time. At any minute doubt, self-hatred and bitter regret would come crawling back.