‘Life’s full of surprises. Most of them unpleasant. So he married her?’
‘Not at once. He had more sense than that, with all his medical training still to come, but it changed everything for him. He’d meant to fly high, go for a consultancy in one of the new, tricky, exciting genetic fields. He could have done it, too, such a waste.’
‘He’s a very good GP, and Lord knows we need them.’
‘Everyone doesn’t think so. That was his other mistake; coming back here. Her idea, I’m sure. She was always a small-town woman at heart.’
‘What happened?’
‘I’ve not the slightest idea. Oh, I hung around for a while, back then, I’m ashamed to remember it now. I just couldn’t believe it would last. I’m still astonished, but it did. Until marriage. But I was out of the picture by then. I did have the wits to get out of London for my year’s practical, got a place in a big Manchester firm, and they asked me to stay on at the end of it. Actually, I married one of the partners. And the less said about that, I think, the better.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Beatrice. ‘It didn’t last, I take it?’
‘Last! It hardly even started. And you can imagine how awkward it made things for everyone. So in an awful way it was almost a relief when my father died and Mother got ill and begged me to come home. Her family have been blue-chip clients of Finch & Finch ever since the firm was founded. I think she probably put pressure on Finch senior. He’s a lazy old codger, always was one for the easy option, and Mother was quite a bully in her way.’
‘Was?’
‘Oh yes, the joke was on me. By the time I had cut loose in Manchester and got down here, Mother was dying. Not such a malade imaginaire after all. So here I am, dogsbody to the Finches, stuck in a vast house at the top of the High Street, and the Fanshaws telling everyone I came back because Sandra had left Hugh. Which was not in the least the case, before you ask it! Mother didn’t choose to mention that little fact when she was urging me to come home. She was a terrible matchmaker, was my mamma, but she knew me well enough to keep her plan to herself. I’d never have come if I’d known, and she knew it. Which does not mean that I am still pining for poor Hugh, which I am sure you are dying to ask.’
But Beatrice was asleep.
She was asleep again when Frances heard a car draw up outside the house just before five o’clock, and hurried down to open the front door and find Jan on the doorstep looking enormously pleased with herself. ‘Victory,’ she announced, glowing with remembered triumph. ‘Helen just walked over them and, see, I’ve got the car. Dad said I’d need it for Durham. Helen’s driving the van, but I lost her back at the turn off from the main road; she’ll be here any minute.’ She paused for breath and looked at Frances for the first time. ‘How did your day go?’
‘I’m a bit worried, to tell you the truth. We had a nice morning, talking, and then I read to her for a bit, and then she fell asleep so I went and made lunch, and when I brought it up she didn’t seem to know who I was, or remember anything …’
‘Ouch,’ said Jan. ‘So what did you do?’
‘Jollied her along a bit, persuaded her to eat a little lunch, but halfway through she fell asleep and she’s been dead to the world ever since.’
‘Well, Dr Braddock did say sleep was what she needed.’ And then, ‘Oh, good, here comes Helen, and there’s just room for her to park. She’d better hear about Beatrice before we start unloading, don’t you think?’
‘Yes indeed.’ Frances was already moving towards the heavily laden van as Helen got out of it.
‘Returning in triumph,’ she said cheerfully. And then, ‘But what’s the matter? Is it Beatrice?’
‘She’s OK.’ Frances hastened to reassure her. ‘Been asleep most of the day. Still was when I came down. But it’s her memory, Helen.’ She explained again.
‘It is going,’ Helen agreed. ‘I’ve noticed it, and so has she. I think it worries her more than anything. Oh dear, and you mean she may have forgotten all about having suggested we clear the turret room?’
‘I think it’s very likely,’ said Frances gloomily. ‘Oh, there’s her bell.’
‘I’ll go,’ said Helen.
‘And we’ll start getting things in while you explain.’
‘Can you really stay?’ asked Jan as Helen dropped her jacket in the hall and hurried upstairs.
‘Of course I can. Where do we start?’
‘The stuff to come in is all in the van. I didn’t bring much in the end. By the time Helen had finished with the parents they were reduced to jelly, poor dears, and I didn’t have the heart to do too much of a sweep out. I think actually Father must have consulted a legal friend between talking to Helen and our turning up, so he’d been a bit softened up in advance. Like he knew he hadn’t a leg to stand on. It seems so odd they want me now after all those years of bundling me off to boarding school and camp and things, but I suppose I’m more use, now I’m grown up. And it turns out poor Mother has lost her driving licence for two years, so the car really isn’t all that much use to her. Not without me to drive it.’
‘I’m frightened.’ Beatrice was hunched among her pillows reminding Helen of the desperate figure she had found the day she arrived. ‘Helen – you are Helen, aren’t you? I woke up and there was a complete stranger talking about sandwiches for lunch. Only she said she was my lawyer. Did I really make a will?’
‘Yes, you did, yesterday, and there was a bit of a fuss about it and I’m afraid it has made you worse, a little. But you know me, don’t you?’
‘Of course, you’re Helen, my guardian angel. And you’ve got a …’ she hesitated, looking pitifully anxious.
‘A niece, Jan. She and I have been up in London fetching our things. Do you remember you said we could clear out the turret room and store our stuff there?’ She waited anxiously for the answer.
Beatrice thought about it. ‘Did I really? Oh, poor Paul, he’s really dead then? It came to me in the night that he was. I dream about him so much, but this time it was different. And we are going to write something about him, you and I. So I have to live for a bit. But, Helen, there is something else I do remember. You promised me, didn’t you? If I turn into a poor old thing, with no memory and no control and no hope, you’re going to dispatch me, aren’t you, a parcel to infinity? You promised, Helen, I remember that.’
‘And so do I.’ How bitterly she regretted it. ‘But we have to sort those papers first, remember, and write something about your husband. I’ll enjoy helping you with that. Are you all right for a bit while the three of us get going? I’d like to get the van unpacked before it starts raining again, and Frances has kindly promised to help.’
‘Frances?’
‘Frances Murray, your lawyer. You remember. She turned out to be an old friend of Dr Braddock.’
‘Hugh Braddock,’ said Beatrice thoughtfully. ‘Of course. How stupid of me. He was here, and those Fanshaws, and I lost my temper. Oh dear, I feel quite tired just remembering it. I think I’ll have a little sleep while you get on with your unpacking, or whatever it is you want to do. I’m so glad you’re back, Helen.’ And she burrowed down among the pillows.
They worked like Trojans. ‘No,’ said Frances, ‘like Amazons, better organized than the Trojans.’ Bin liners full of once glamorous, now moth-eaten, men’s clothes came downstairs and replaced Helen’s possessions in the van to be dumped with the Salvation Army next day.
‘What a blessing she is fast asleep,’ said Helen, carefully sorting papers from the big desk into a vacated cardboard box. ‘It will be a fait accompli in the morning.’
‘I rather hate to leave you alone with her to face it.’ Jan turned from the closet where she was hanging clothes. ‘But I did promise to get back for this reading week.’
‘And of course you must. And honestly, Jan, I think what Beatrice needs now is a bit of regular quiet living.’
‘No more millennia for a while,’ said Jan cheerfully. ‘I think it’s what we all need. I hav
e to say I’ll be quite glad to get back to Piers Plowman. Don’t you agree, Frances?’
Frances made a face. ‘I can’t say I’m exactly looking forward to telling the Finches about the busy week I’ve had. They’re not going to like my having admitted to their mistake over Beatrice’s trust.’
‘Oh dear, will it mean trouble for you?’ asked Helen anxiously.
‘You can bet your boots it will be all my fault, one way or another. But honestly I wouldn’t really mind a good reason for leaving them; it’s never going to work out there, and we all know it. They simply cannot get their minds around treating a woman as a professional equal.’
‘How long have you been there?’ Helen asked.
Frances smiled at her. ‘You’ve put your finger on it. Only two months. I can’t afford to leave them as soon as that. It would look too awful on the CV!’
‘I’m afraid you’re right. Do let me know if there is anything we can do at this end to make things easier. Mind you, I’m quite sure Beatrice has forgotten all about the financial side of things. Will the new trust start functioning soon, Frances? She’s pretty well broke.’
‘I’ll see that it does. And of course there will be a whopping great back payment to cover the time the fund should have been paying out. You’ll be able to afford help if you need it, Helen, but don’t forget you can always count on me. I feel I owe it you, quite aside from having taken such a fancy to the old tartar. I do hope she wakes feeling better in the morning. You don’t have to go till Monday, do you, Jan?’
‘I rather hate to go then,’ said Jan, ‘but I must. My reading week starts Tuesday and I’ve a lot to do. It’s going to be a blessing to have the car, though I don’t like taking it away from you, Helen.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Helen.
And, ‘There’s always mine,’ said Frances.
Nine
The house seemed very quiet after Jan left. Dr Braddock, returning Helen’s call with admirable promptness, confirmed her instinct to let nature take its course.
‘She’s been having a pretty exciting time, one way and another,’ he reminded her. ‘Just let her sleep it off, and try not to worry, but if you find you are, for goodness sake let me know and I’ll come round and take a look at her.’
She rang off, thinking gratefully how different this was from her experience of the London Health Service, and looked about her for something to do while Beatrice slept. Resisting the temptation to spring-clean the house, she turned instead to the boxes of papers she and Jan had dumped in the front parlour. One contained everything from the turret room, and this she knew she must not even look at until Beatrice had recovered enough to give permission. Another held the files and papers of Beatrice’s work on her Final Account of her husband’s life, and this too she felt had better wait. But mixed up among these papers were folders relating to another project Beatrice had told her about, her book on women. ‘You must read it sometime,’ Beatrice had said.
This was the obvious place to start. Helen picked up a file labelled Woman in Charge and began to read. It proved a daunting task. Beatrice had written her notes sometimes in biro, sometimes in pencil, on lined yellow foolscap, and some of it had faded almost beyond recall. ‘Homer was a woman,’ ran one faint heading. ‘Matriarchal societies’, ‘The White Goddess’, and then, surprisingly, ‘Shakespeare a woman: Anne Hathaway?’
The telephone rang and she was delighted to hear Frances’ voice. ‘How are you? Have you heard from Jan?’
‘Yes, she rang the other night; safely back; sounded cheerful; everything under control. I miss her.’
‘I’m sure you do. And Beatrice?’
‘Still sleeping most of the time. I’m afraid we wore her out rather. How did you get on with the Finches?’ It was after six and safe to assume that Frances was calling from home.
‘Let off with a caution. You’ll be getting an official letter about the second fund. And a whacking great back payment straight into the bank when they get around to it. They really had forgotten all about it, you know. There’s not a sign of an automatic call-up system in that office. It frightens me. Back in the dark ages, they are, and not very anxious to move on. What are you doing with yourself, if Beatrice is sleeping all the time?’
‘Missing Jan.’
‘I’m sure. I liked her so much.’
‘The house feels sad without her. But I’m busy trying to sort out Beatrice’s papers. Lord, they are a mess, and handwritten too.’
‘You need a computer; feed it all in and see what you’ve got.’
‘You have to be joking. Until you can get those Finches to pay up we’re poor as church mice, Beatrice and I.’
Frances laughed. ‘I’ll do my best, and in the meantime, I tell you what. I’ve got a good, old-fashioned portable typewriter stashed away somewhere in the attic. It used to work well enough and I laid in a couple of ribbons when they began to be in short supply. Would you like me to dig it out and bring it over?’
‘Oh, Frances, it would be a godsend. Don’t you think Beatrice might react better to typescript than computer printout?’
‘I’m sure she would. And you’ll do a much better organizing job than any machine. I’ll dig it out right now and plan to bring it round after work tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.’
‘Lovely,’ said Helen. ‘Stay to supper.’
‘I’d like that, but let me bring something. There’s a delicatessen up here that’s open late. They do a fine line in quiches, just the thing for Beatrice, don’t you think? Oh, and, Helen, something else I meant to say, though I shouldn’t. Finch junior took a call from Ellen Fanshaw this morning. I was talking to the girl at the desk, she runs the switchboard too, and I heard her put it through.’
‘Oh. I wonder what that means?’
‘Nothing, perhaps. Whatever, I should hear something about it in the fullness of Finch time, and will let you know.’
‘Thanks. Oh, there’s Beatrice’s bell. See you tomorrow, how nice.’
‘Who was that?’ Beatrice had been wakened by the telephone.
‘Frances Murray. She’s coming to supper tomorrow night. She says she can lend us a typewriter, in case you really want to do some work on your husband’s papers.’ Here was a chance to raise the subject.
‘He’s dead, isn’t he? I remember that, though I don’t remember how we came to know.’
‘We don’t really, Beatrice. It was just a feeling you had, but you have to face it, he’d be in his nineties, wouldn’t he? Even for these days, when everyone has started living for ever, that’s quite old.’
‘Not as old as I feel, Helen. You are Helen, aren’t you? There’s a great swamp where my memory ought to be. Things come bobbing up out of it and then sink down again before I can catch them. Your niece – you have got a niece? I liked her, didn’t I, but as for her name …’
‘Jan.’ But Helen’s heart sank. Afraid of what would come next, she turned the conversation. ‘I’m sure you remember the further past better, don’t you? About Paul, your husband? We brought all his papers down from the attic, Jan and I, in case you wanted to do something with them. And there’s another boxful from the cupboard over there. You said it was work you’d done for a book about him. You were going to call it A Final Account.’
‘Did I tell you that? I must have been off my head. I was when I wrote it, I remember that. A black winter. I hated him for a while, Helen, after I realized that he had left me for good. Thought all kinds of dreadful things. Wrote some of them down. Funny thing. I remember, it did me good at the time; I felt better when the spring came, shoved it all in the cupboard and started work on my women. Mother of Mankind, I was going to call it … Nice title, don’t you think, but as for that other stuff, Helen, please …’ But she was nodding off to sleep.
Helen went downstairs very soberly and into the front room. She knew exactly what Beatrice had been beginning to say. She had been going to ask her to burn the papers from the cupboard. The black imaginings.
And she was not going to do it. But neither was she going to look at or speak of them again, to anyone. Luckily the writing was so illegible that it was easy to make them into a neat parcel without reading anything. That done, she labelled them ‘Beatrice on Paul’, tucked them away in the cupboard that held Beatrice’s collection of antique LPs and told herself to forget about them.
Beatrice slept all afternoon and woke looking brighter. ‘We were talking about Paul, weren’t we?’ She took a sip of the sherry Helen had brought her.
‘Yes. Jan and I brought all his papers down from the turret room, and we thought we might go through them and produce some kind of memorial volume. A small selection of his poetry, perhaps, with a preface by you?’
‘It would do as a memorial for both of us.’ Beatrice surprised Helen by taking the thought out of her own mind. ‘Yes, I’d like that. The sonnets, of course, and some passages from The Soul’s Journey, and a few of the occasional poems. Do you think we could do that?’
‘I don’t see why not.’ Helen was delighted to see how Beatrice had brightened up at the idea. ‘I tell you what; I’m going to get a notebook and biro and put them by your bed, and then when ideas bob up about your husband, you must write them down straight away, before they vanish again, like you say they do. And names, too, names of friends of his who might still be alive, so I could get in touch with them. What’s the matter?’
‘He didn’t have many friends,’ said Beatrice. ‘Not after the Woolfs. After the war, he came and went so, you see. He used to get back exhausted. “To recharge his batteries”, he said. He didn’t want to see anyone; I had to cancel anything I had arranged. I suppose that’s how I gradually lost touch with people; they rather gave me up.’
‘I see.’ Helen’s dislike of Paul Tresikker was growing so fast that she rather wondered if it would be safe for her to help Beatrice write about him.
And the sonnets, when she got them out, with permission, and read them, were not much help. Proclaiming devotion to the beloved object, they concentrated almost exclusively on the lover himself, his moods, his despairs, his hopes, his triumphs. And surely they must have been old-fashioned even when he wrote them in the thirties? The beloved was a nymph when she wasn’t a nereid and her devoted swain a shepherd, given to rural archaisms. Helen could only hope that The Soul’s Journey would prove more interesting, but so far she had found only scattered fragments, written in a tiny cramped hand on battered picture postcards from all over the world. Without some kind of basic structure, they added up to little but a few random and not very novel thoughts on life.
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