13
Sylvia went upstairs to say goodbye to her father. His room seemed oddly silent. When she pushed the door open, she saw he was sitting quite motionless in his armchair. For a moment, her heart stopped. But he was only asleep. On the table at his elbow were some books, some sketches. She stood watching him sadly for a few moments. It wasn’t that he tried to evade unpleasant news; yet, somehow, unconsciously he always managed to do it.
Quietly she left the room, leaving its door slightly ajar. She went downstairs slowly, hesitating, as if she were hoping he would awake and come out to find her there on the staircase. But he didn’t waken.
She reached the dining-room. The children were alone, at supper, sitting at a small table drawn up against one wall. Peter, dark-eyed, black hair falling over his thin little seven-year-old face, waved a fork in welcome. “We had a funeral!” he announced.
“It was a real funeral,” Cordelia said, nine years old, snubnosed, freckled. “We all sang a hymn. Rose taught us the tune.”
“Oh for a closer walk with me.”
“With Thee,” Cordelia said sharply. “He never remembers the words,” she told Sylvia.
“I didn’t know the words,” Peter said. “But I’ve got blisters.” He extended the palms of his hands proudly. “I helped. A lot. Ben said I did. And—”
“We buried Whitestar deep,” Cordelia broke in. “Ben and Jimmy from Straven and two men all made the hole deep. So that the skunks won’t dig him up. And we’re going to get a board with his name and words on it, and we’ll put it on the grave. Ben’s going to carve the board and we’ve to think of the words.”
“I know them,” Peter said.
“You don’t!”
“Whitestar lived here for twenty-four years and died in two minutes. He did, too. He just lay down, like this.” Peter’s thin shoulders flopped over the table suddenly.
“You’ve spilled the milk,” Cordelia said crossly.
“When’s Kate coming to see us again?” Peter asked.
Sylvia mopped up the pool of milk with a napkin. “It isn’t so much,” she said to Cordelia. To Peter, “Did you like Kate?”
He nodded. “She’s seen a bear.”
Cordelia sniffed.
“Lots and lots of bears,” Peter said indignantly. “She told me.”
“Look in my pockets and see what you find,” Sylvia suggested. They forgot their argument and reached eagerly for the candy bars she had brought them. “You’ve got to finish supper first,” she told them, wondering what Jennifer would say to this breach of discipline, or what her mother would say to her interference with their freedom of choice. “I’ll see you—” Her voice hesitated. “I’ll see you soon again.”
The children nodded, accepting that as a matter of course. They began to finish their supper at lightning speed, their eyes on the candy bar in front of each plate. As she left the room, Cordelia was saying, “I’ll trade mine for yours, Peter.”
As Sylvia crossed the porch, Jennifer came running after her. “I’ll see you to the stables,” Jennifer said. “I’m really sorry I was so—” She shook her head, tried to smile.
“The children are in good shape,” Sylvia said quickly. “Tell Mother she needn’t lament over the effects of the funeral.”
“It’s amazing how children rebound. Sometimes, I think it’s heartless. And then I think they’re wise... And how was Father?”
“He was asleep. Give him my love.”
“Sylvia—we weren’t much help to you, were we? Please forgive me if I seemed—well, it’s just that I’ve such a battle, here. But I’m not going to be beaten. I’m staying on, and I’ll bring up the children in the country at least. And there’s a good public school over at Blairton, so that’s one headache cured. And Annabel won’t be here always. You can see she’s restless, now. And if Father only lives—oh, does that sound heartless? I only meant that I wanted Whitecraigs together, not split up and sold in pieces.”
“Kept together for what?”
“For Peter. When he’s eighteen he can start looking after things. He can help me pull the place back into shape. Later, he could manage all our shares of the property. I hope you wouldn’t want to sell yours, would you? That is, when Father dies.”
Sylvia searched for the keys of the car. Her lips tightened.
Jennifer went on, “Annabel may be difficult to persuade. She always wants ready cash. You know Annabel.”
“But what if Peter doesn’t want to be a farmer at eighteen?” Let me get this car started, let me get away from Jennifer.
“You’ll help me persuade Annabel, won’t you?”
Sylvia slipped into the driver’s seat.
“Won’t you?” Jennifer asked, ready to cry.
Sylvia turned on the ignition. “We may die before Father,” she said. Her voice was cold, her eyes contemptuous.
“Of course, we may,” Jennifer said quickly.
“A funeral for a horse and you start thinking of death,” Sylvia said, her anger breaking. “Stop being ridiculous. Father isn’t old.”
“He isn’t young. And he’s never been strong.”
“That didn’t worry you, once.”
“It’s something to worry about, now,” Jennifer said sharply. “I live here—not like you, who can drive away.”
Sylvia was silent.
“Well,” Jennifer added placatingly, “I’m glad we had this little talk. I knew you’d understand.”
“Goodbye.” Sylvia switched on the lights, and then concentrated on swinging the car past the stable, past Annabel’s sleek little red Jaguar (she had salvaged something from her various shipwrecks, it seemed) out into the driveway. Now by the car’s headlights, the road seemed more romantic and less careworn, like a middle-aged woman’s face in a candlelit room.
She looked at the clock worriedly as she neared Ben’s cabin. But she stopped, and walked over the path of soft spring earth to the small porch. The door opened before she arrived, and Ben’s thick-set figure stood waiting. She glanced into the room which lay just inside the front door. Rose was rising from the kitchen table where the family was tightly packed in for its evening meal. They weren’t all Rose’s children: Ben’s first wife had accounted for five before she died, and although most of them had left for Richmond or Detroit, there were four grandchildren to add to Rose’s own count of six.
“I’m terribly late, Rose,” she explained hurriedly after she had greeted Ben. “I really can’t come in, tonight.” She looked around the circle of waiting faces, solemn, anxious. “And I doubt if there would be room for me,” she added. But no one smiled.
Rose squeezed her way between the stove and the chair where one of her daughters sat holding a three-year-old child in her lap. “How is he, Miss Sylvia?” Rose’s round rich voice was hushed as if Thomas Jerold might have heard the question all the way up at the big house, and disapproved.
“He’s a little tired, today,” she said.
Rose nodded sympathetically, her large dark eyes worried. She had been crying, Sylvia noticed. And she noticed, too, the watching serious faces at the table. Even the children were subdued as if they had been listening to gloomy predictions as her car had driven up to their front path.
Sylvia said, quickly, “Father is all right, Rose. He’s only tired because he is depressed.” Rose and Jennifer, she thought, each with the same worry, each with the same feeling of insecurity. But it had been easier to deal with Jennifer: you could allow yourself to speak sharply to Jennifer.
“It was a cruel day,” Ben said. He shifted uneasily, giving his wife what he called a hush-up look. But her concern had touched him, too, and he couldn’t shake himself free of it.
A cruel day, Sylvia thought, threatening crueller ones to come. She smiled as brightly as she could to the circle of round eyes: had her face seemed so sad when she had first appeared at the door, confirming all the fears that Rose had been talking about?
“I must go. I’ve an appointment. So I’ll say good
night and let you get on with supper.” She kept her voice light, a confident smile on her lips. And when she waved to them, the serious faces suddenly smiled and became young again.
“Good night, Miss Sylvia,” Rose said, but her large black eyes were grave.
Sylvia turned and walked to the car. Ben came with her, tonight, holding a flashlight as an excuse.
“Rose is upset,” Sylvia said, “but we’re all upset today, for one reason or another.”
“She’s the worrying kind,” he said in his rich slow voice. And when Sylvia spoke of the long winter and the spring that was late in coming, he only nodded. He wasn’t thinking about her words.
Then, as he stood by the car, he spoke almost hurriedly. Perhaps the walk along the path had given him time to collect his courage and he couldn’t let the moment slip away with his worries unanswered. “Some day, they will be building all up this road.” He stared across the rutted driveway to the dark fields.
And then, what happened to Ben and his family? “Mr. Jerold won’t allow that,” Sylvia said.
“No, Mr. Jerold just naturally wouldn’t like that.”
“Nor would anyone else.”
“Miss Jennifer,” he said hesitatingly, “she’d like a farm. She’s been telling me of all the beef that’s being raised near Richmond, now.”
And then where would Ben’s job be? “They’ll still need vegetables and eggs at Whitecraigs,” Sylvia said.
“Miss Jennifer was saying it would be cheaper to buy them.”
Sylvia was silent for a moment. Whitecraigs had always been run on sentiment, not on economics. “Ben, if anyone talks about changes at Whitecraigs, then remember you won’t be part of the change.”
In the darkness, she couldn’t see clearly the expression on Ben’s face. She couldn’t know whether her words had done any good. She started the car. “And you must stop Rose worrying about my father’s health.” She smiled suddenly, as she gave him the reason he had so often offered to her when he had been considering one of her suggestions: “Mr. Jerold just naturally wouldn’t like that.”
That could have been an answering smile.
“You’ve been having good news from Detroit?” she asked encouragingly.
“Yes.” But something else troubled him now. “Young Ben says he’s going there, too. He aims to find himself a job with automobiles. He don’t want to stay here.”
And none of the older boys had stayed either. She was angry with herself for reminding him of that.
“I could use some help this spring,” Ben added, admitting his age for the first time. “But I just can’t seem to talk young Ben into staying. He’s crazy about automobiles.”
“Perhaps we should bring in another man.” Sylvia could almost hear Jennifer’s scream of protest. What? Two men hired to do the work that one could do if he were young enough and not so set in his ways?
“No,” Ben said vigorously. “Strangers coming in here, messing up everything, bossing around, arguing and leaving and upsetting everyone. No, Miss Sylvia. Wouldn’t be no peace with a stranger around.”
“I suppose not,” Sylvia said hopelessly.
“How is Miss Kate?” Ben asked, dropping the subject of strangers. “Perhaps she’ll write Mr. George and tell him I was remembering him. It don’t seem all these years since he was running around here.”
“I’ll tell her you were asking for her. Good night, Ben.”
“Good night, Miss Sylvia,” he called after her as the car started forward, bumping its way over the uneven surface. She drove slowly at first, for spring had softened the ground and twice she felt the car slide on the mud. And she was thinking about Ben. It was no good calling him illogical, any more than calling Minna, working in the Georgetown kitchen, illogical— Minna who avoided the new electric dishwasher as if it carried the plague. Or myself, even, when I bought that pressure cooker to help with Sunday night supper: I’ve never used it. Or Payton, too: he hates airplanes, uses them only in necessity, and sits in silent protest throughout any flight. We are all illogical in some way or other: we have our peculiar likes and dislikes, our refusals and our prejudices. If we hadn’t, we’d all work predictably like well-ordered machines, and blueprints for human beings would look as admirable in practice as they do on paper.
Or am I trying to find an excuse for my own behaviour? she asked herself bitterly.
It was a relief to come to the road, where the surface was smoother. Now she could increase speed and concentrate on the twists and turns of the little hill and leave all thoughts behind her, hidden away in that green tunnel of arched oaks. You’re as ready to evade the real issue as Father, or as Ben, she told herself. And again came the excuse: didn’t we all try to postpone the real issue if it was going to destroy our happiness?
She was driving recklessly now. She was late, very late. She passed the bright lights of Straven, shining through its well-kept trees. She passed the darkness that now was Strathmore, with a bulldozer and two trucks waiting patiently at the edge of a field for daylight to come again. Soon she would reach the main highway. She slowed down, her eyes searching the last quiet stretch of road in front of her for Jan Brovic’s car.
Then she saw it, drawn well into the side, sheltered by the high hedge. And there was Jan, walking towards her. She edged the car as close to the hedge as possible. By the time she had switched off the engine and the headlights, he had reached her.
“Oh, Jan, I’m late. I’m sorry...”
“You’re here,” he said, “that’s all I was worrying about.” And his arms were round her, holding her fast.
14
Jan lighted a cigarette carefully, his eyes watching Sylvia. He held the match long enough to see her face turned towards him, her head leaning back now against the seat, her mouth curving into its soft shy smile, her eyes relaxed and happy. The match flickered out, and the darkness surrounded them again. But he was still aware of the warmth of her body, of its softness and fragrance.
He leaned over to kiss her lips once more, and then placed the cigarette between them. She laughed and moved it a little to one side.
“Didn’t I aim straight?” he asked, feeling her gesture.
“Too straight. I almost swallowed half of it.”
He lit his own cigarette. “It’s like trying to put another man’s hat on his head for him. You can never get it quite right.” He leaned back against the seat, slipping his arm around her, pulling her close again so that her cheek lay against his. Now was the time to relax, the time for small talk and a cigarette and a feeling of nearness. His arm tightened gently around her waist, reminding her of what they had shared.
“You’re smiling,” she said. “I can feel your cheek smiling. Oh, how happy I am, Jan!”
“Because I smile? Is that all I have to do?”
“Because you smile in that way. You’re happy, too.”
“Who wouldn’t be at this moment?”
“And there, just then, the smile went away. Why? So suddenly?”
For a moment, he didn’t answer. “I was thinking that we snatch our happiness in moments. And hours and days have gone past when I can’t even see you. We are grateful for moments and we’ve wasted years.”
“With luck,” she said, “we’ve still a lot of years to spend on each other. I’m thirty. You’re thirty-one. We’ve still a lot of years ahead of us.”
“You’ve no fears?” His hand gently traced the pattern of her brow and cheek.
“Not with you, Jan.”
“If only—” He stopped abruptly.
She waited, but he smoked his cigarette in silence. He would be frowning, his eyes blankly staring ahead of him. That was a new habit he had brought back to America with him.
“If only what?” she asked at last.
“If only we were free, all of us, to live our personal lives.”
“That’s difficult enough.” What is right? What is wrong? Only someone like her mother, who believed so comfortably that all goodness and all ev
il were relative, could rationalise guilt.
“But not as difficult, not as overwhelming as—” Again he left the sentence unfinished. Then, as if he were trying to make his words clear and yet guard them at the same time, he said, “You and I could work out our lives by ourselves if getting married was the only problem we had to face. We’d choose the shape of our lives and make it good together.”
“We will make it good together.”
“Yes. If we’re given the chance, we’ll make it good.”
“We’re taking that chance, aren’t we?”
“We’ve taken it.”
“Jan,” she said in sudden alarm, “if we don’t believe we’ll win, we’ll be beaten. Don’t you see?”
“I know,” he said, and his voice calmed her.
She let that thought slip back into the darkness from which it had come. Then, “Jan,” she said slowly, “what would happen if Payton won’t let me go free?”
“That’s one worry we can forget about. He had his chance and lost you. You’re mine now, and I’m not going to lose you.”
“But if Payton refuses to divorce me”—she bit her lip—“it would add difficulties to your choice of career. Certain jobs might be closed to you.”
“I’m used to that,” he said quietly, “and I wasn’t given any happiness to balance it.” Suddenly, he reached out and switched on the dashboard light, as if to see her more clearly. His face was tense. “Never leave me, Sylvia. Never.”
“No one will separate us,” she said reassuringly. But there was still worry lying deep in the grey eyes that watched her so intently. “You don’t believe me? Jan, no one is going to bully me or frighten me or force me to change my mind. No human being is going to separate us. Not this time.”
He stubbed out the cigarettes, slowly and surely as if he were slowly but surely shaping his next words. “No human being... yes. I believe that too. But what about the forces over which we’ve no control? That’s what I meant when I said it would be easier if only we were free to live our personal lives. But an outside force could sweep all our plans away. As violently as a mountainside can be stripped by an avalanche.”
I and My True Love Page 15