Vivien and Edward, with Philip just behind them, had now come out into the courtyard. Harriet went towards her and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘You’re being so brave,’ she said. ‘So brave. But that’s Nature.’
Philip looked on as she embraced Vivien for a few seconds longer than was strictly necessary. There is something wrong here, he thought, something strange. I don’t trust you.
On a rainy evening, soon after the funeral, Vivien and Edward were sitting together. She was compiling a shopping list, making the calculations of prices as she went along; and then going back over them, checking them very carefully. She was making such lists all the time for food, for clothes, for rent and, as soon as she had finished one, another item of income or expenditure would occur to her and she would begin all over again. She still bought all the things that Charles had liked a special kind of scented soap, a certain brand of butter, a particular variety of cheese. All these now had enormous significance for her, and it would have been unimaginable for her to live without them. Not that she ate very much; indeed she found it difficult to eat at all, and Edward had got into the habit of preparing his own meals. He was trying to carry on with all those small jobs which he had seen his father do before, but all the time it was as if he were acting out a part for the benefit of his mother. ‘Don’t forget the washing up liquid!’ he was saying now, triumphant at having remembered something so important.
‘Yes. Of course. Excuse me a minute, Eddie.’ Her throat felt dry once more, and she went into the kitchen for a glass of water. But she found herself drinking glass after glass, and as she put her hand under the tap she saw how it trembled: she watched herself with interest, since there were times now when she no longer seemed to be real. Then she remembered another item to add to the list, and she hurried back into the sitting room where Edward was anxiously waiting for her. ‘I forgot the sugar,’ she said; for some reason she was out of breath, and she sat down for a minute to regain it. Both of them were quiet; in fact both of them had already discovered that there was a new kind of silence in the world.
She started writing down prices in the margin of her list, and Edward suddenly called out to her, ‘Lipstick!’
‘What would I need that for?’ She was about to add ‘now’, but did not.
‘To beautify yourself, Mum.’ This was a phrase he had often heard her use, jokingly, to Charles.
‘No, Eddie. Not when it’s just the two…’ She could not carry on with what she was about to say.
Suddenly the boy felt afraid for her; he could hear the rain falling heavily across the roofs and streets of the city. ‘But why don’t you want it?’
He almost shouted this, and she looked at him in alarm. ‘Don’t make so much noise,’ she said. The neighbours might hear.’ She had never concerned herself about such things before, but now it seemed to Edward that everything worried or frightened her. And, as she looked anxiously at the partition wall, it was almost as if she had conceived a horror for the apartment itself. ‘Why don’t you want it?’ he persisted in asking her.
There was a sudden bang a car had backfired in the street beneath them and she flinched. ‘What was that, Eddie?’
‘Nothing, Mum.’ But he could see how tired she was, and with a sudden rush of affection he knelt beside her and kissed her on the cheek. The night before, unable to sleep in her own room (although she still called it ‘our room’), she had climbed into Edward’s bed for warmth and comfort. He found her there when he had woken up that morning, and instinctively he stretched out his hand to stroke her hair; and both of them, just after the moment of waking, were thinking of Charles’s death. ‘Do you know what I’m going to do?’ he said, getting up from the sofa.
‘What’s that?’
‘I’m going to make you a nice cup of tea.’ She tried to smile but she seemed to Edward to be on the point of crying, and he added quickly ‘Do you know what Dad would have said? He would have said, then go and do your worst, Edward the Undrinkable.’ He had imitated Charles’s voice exactly, and Vivien looked at him in surprise; Edward, astonished at his own feat of recollection, was smiling benignly at her. And in his expression at that moment she could see the lineaments of Charles’s face: her husband was dead and yet he was not dead. With a sudden sensation of happiness she got up and followed Edward into the kitchen. ‘What time is it?’ he asked as he stood on tip-toe to find the tea-cosy on the shelf above the sink.
‘Half past kissing time, and time to kiss again.’ She bent down and kissed the back of his head.
‘And what time is Philip coming tomorrow?’ Philip had just bought a second-hand Ford Cortina and tentatively, with extreme embarrassment, he had invited them to ‘go for a spin’ in the country; in fact he had bought the car specifically for them. ‘As early as he can, Eddie. He says he wants to drive as far as possible.’
‘Great! We can get away!’ He hesitated. ‘I mean, we can have a good time.’
Her son’s high spirits lifted her own; there was a knock at the door and, in her new mood, she no longer feared it. ‘I wonder,’ she whispered, ‘who that can be?’
‘Go and find out, Mum.’ He was urging her forward, giving her strength.
It was Harriet Scrope, accompanied by Sarah Tilt. ‘We were just passing,’ she said. ‘And I just had to see you. I’m dying to know how you’ve been getting on.’ Perhaps realising that this was an unfortunate phrase, she turned quickly to Sarah. This is Vivien Wychwood, my very great friend and confidante.’ She turned back again. ‘And this is Sarah Tilt. The famous art critic.’ Even as she was making these introductions, Harriet was carefully examining the room. She stopped short when she saw Edward staring at her from the interior of the kitchen. Instinctively she stuck out her tongue. ‘And this is little Edward, Sarah. You’ve often heard me talk about him, haven’t you? He’s an absolute angel.’
Edward addressed his mother. ‘She stuck her tongue out at me!’
Harriet tried to laugh. ‘I didn’t stick it out, darling.’
Sarah interjected. ‘She must have put it out.’
‘Yes, that’s right. I put it out to dry.’
Edward appealed to his mother again. ‘It was dry already. And it was all funny and green. Look, there it is again!’
Vivien turned but Harriet had assumed a prim expression, her lips firmly sealed. ‘I’m sorry, Harriet,’ she said. But she could not bring herself to be angry with Edward. With an apologetic smile towards the two old ladies, she steered her son towards his room. ‘I won’t be long,’ she said.
‘Goodnight, darling!’ Harriet blew a kiss towards Edward as he was led away. ‘And remember, boys will be boys.’ But, as soon as Vivien had closed the bedroom door, she whispered to Sarah, ‘In a fairy tale he would have been eaten by now.’ She looked furtively around the room again, and then nudged her old friend. ‘There it is!’ she said, and inclined her head towards the portrait of Chatterton. ‘And I wouldn’t be surprised if his papers were still there.’ She sensed, correctly, that Vivien would not yet have wanted to clear out Charles’s desk, or remove the preface which he had been writing on the day of his death. Sarah was about to speak but Harriet put her fingers up to her lips and crossed over to the desk. She opened the first drawer, saw some typewritten poems, and closed it without interest. But then in the second drawer she found a large brown paper envelope with ‘Chatterton’ written across it and, lying beneath it, Charles’s typed preface. She glanced quickly at the bedroom door and then peered into the envelope; there were some notes in Charles’s handwriting, but also more bulky papers which seemed to her to be written in a different and more ancient hand. Meanwhile, Sarah had been examining the portrait.
There was a muffled sound of ‘Goodnights’ from behind the closed door, and in an instant Harriet had moved from the desk back to the sofa. ‘Hurry up!’ she whispered to Sarah who, at a slower speed, was joining her. They were sitting together amicably, discussing the recent elections in Australia, when Vivien came bac
k into the room.
‘Edward has had a hard time recently,’ she said apologetically. She did not notice the thin trickle of perspiration which was even now making its way down the side of Harriet’s nose. ‘He’s been under a lot of strain.’
‘And so have you.’ Harriet leaned forward and touched Vivien’s knee. ‘Hasn’t she, Sarah? You look like a woman who’s suffered. And I should know,’ she added grandly, ‘I have suffered, too.’ Sarah looked at her in astonishment as Harriet continued. That’s why we’ve come to help.’
That’s kind of you.’ Vivien was not sure how to respond. For some weeks she had been using phrases like That’s kind of you’ or ‘It’s very good of you’, but it was as if she was performing the role of the person she had been before Charles’s death. She no longer knew what she meant.
Harriet sensed her uncertainty. The important thing, as Sarah and I were just saying, is that we must do what Charles would have wanted.’ She resisted the temptation to look over to his desk. The important thing is to get his work published.’
‘Oh, do you think you can?’ Vivien was delighted. ‘I have all his poems here.’
That is good news. I always said he was a very fine poet, didn’t I, Sarah?’ She hesitated. ‘And is there anything else?’
But Vivien had not heard the last question; she had gone over to his desk and was looking through the drawers. ‘Charles had finished a new poem about his illness, if I can find it.’
‘Really?’ Sarah’s attention was caught by this. ‘May I see?’
Harriet was annoyed with her for changing the real subject. ‘As far as my old friend is concerned, Vivien, a poet’s illness is very interesting. She is supposed to be writing a book about it.’
But once more Vivien was too preoccupied to be listening carefully. ‘And the strange thing is,’ she said as she brought over the typescripts to Harriet, ‘I didn’t know he was writing it. He kept it from me.’ Once more her grief threatened to overpower her. ‘I’ll get the tea,’ she added very quickly. ‘Edward just made it.’
As soon as she had left the room Sarah leaned across to Harriet. ‘You really are a bitch, aren’t you? I’m writing a book about death, not about illness. And you might have some consideration for her feelings.’
‘Why do you think I’m being so nice?’
Their frantic whispers were interrupted by the sound of Vivien opening the door. And, by the time she had entered the room, Harriet was examining Charles’s poems with delighted attention. This is good,’ she was murmuring to Sarah, apparently not having realised that Vivien was now standing above her. ‘Oh yes, this is good. Wait until I tell dear Vivien.’ She gave a little start when she looked up. ‘My dear, you frightened me. I didn’t see you come in. Sarah and I love the poems. We’ve just been talking about them.’ She laid them flat on her lap. ‘And is there anything else?’
‘Oh, you know.’
‘I know?’ She managed to control her impatience.
‘Just the wild goose chase. Just the Chatterton papers we discussed in the park. Are you sure you really want them?’
Harriet gave a light-hearted laugh. ‘Well, let me take them anyway. I might be able to interest someone in them eventually. Sarah thinks it’s the least we can do, don’t you?’ Sarah sipped her tea, and glared at her. ‘Of course if no one is interested in them, I’ll return ’
‘No. You can have them. I never want to see them again.’
Harriet could no longer restrain her suppressed wish to rise, and she sprang to her feet. ‘Shall I get them, dear?’ she asked very casually. She was about to rush over to the desk, but she checked herself. ‘Do you remember where you put them?’
‘In the second drawer.’
Harriet moved quickly over to the desk, opened the drawer with a surprised ‘Oh, here they are!’, took out the original Chatterton manuscript with Charles’s own notes and then began to stuff the papers into her capacious handbag. She had brought a particularly large bag for this purpose.
Vivien was watching her fondly. ‘It really is good of you to help like this,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without you.’
There’s no need to thank her.’ Sarah put down her cup, as Harriet returned her glare. ‘Harriet will do anything for literature. She’s well known for it.’
‘I know.’ Vivien was very grateful: grateful not only because her husband’s work might be published now, but also because Harriet obviously shared her own recognition of Charles’s genius. ‘You’ve been so good to me,’ she went on. ‘I don’t know how to repay you.’ Harriet smiled and said nothing. ‘I must give you something. Something to remember him by.’
‘I have his poetry. That’s the important thing.’ She patted her bag, although in fact the typescripts of the poems were still on the sofa where she had left them.
‘No, I mean something of your own. Something to keep.’
‘Really I don’t want anything. I’m only a humble handmaiden…’
But the more tentative Harriet seemed, the more insistent Vivien became. There must be something.’
‘Well, I don’t know…’ With an almost subliminal movement, Harriet glanced for an instant at the portrait.
‘Will you take this?’ Vivien went over to the canvas and held it up. ‘Charles was very fond of it.’
‘No, I mustn’t, dear. It might be valuable.’ She paused. ‘You never know.’
‘No, not at all. It’s just something he picked up in a junk shop.’ It was clear to Harriet that Vivien still did not understand the significance of Charles’s discovery; that, in fact, she wanted the painting removed altogether. ‘Please say you’ll take it. I know Charles would have wanted you to have it.’
Harriet was enjoying the luxury of feigned indecision. ‘Well, I don’t know. If you put it like that… I’m such a sentimental old thing, really.’ She wheeled around to face Sarah Tilt, who seemed to be on the verge of laughter. ‘And what does the famous art critic have to say?’
‘Well, you know, dear,’ Sarah replied, ‘the value is always in the eye of the beholder. What is worthless to one person may be very important to someone else.’ She smiled very sweetly at Harriet.
‘Thank you for those few kind words, Miss Tilt.’ Harriet turned away from her. ‘What she is trying to say, Vivien, is that this picture is probably worth more to you than it is to me.’
‘No, I insist you have it. It’s yours.’
‘In that case you should put it in writing.’ Harriet saw the surprise on Vivien’s face and she went on, hurriedly, ‘I mean, we should put all this on paper. What ’ and here she hesitated ‘What if I should die tomorrow, and Charles’s poems were found on my desk?’ She looked towards Sarah for support, which was lot forthcoming. ‘Everyone would think that I had written them.’
The prospect horrified Vivien. ‘But surely they would know they were by someone else?’
‘Nobody knows things like that.’ Harriet took the portrait from Vivien’s hands, and held it up in front of her; her face was obscured by it as she went on to say, ‘So we ought to make it clear who owns what.’
Edward, unable to sleep, had quietly opened his bedroom door and was looking at Harriet as she spoke. Only Sarah had noticed him. ‘Isn’t this nice,’ she said. ‘See what your Mummy has given to Auntie Harriet.’
Edward turned to Vivien. ‘That was Dad’s.’
‘I thought you hated it, Eddie.’ Vivien was sitting at the desk, writing out a list of everything she had given or lent to Harriet.
‘But it was Dad’s.’
Harriet slowly lowered the portrait from her face, so that she could see the boy. ‘Your father has gone away,’ she said wistfully. ‘He has gone far, far away into the silent land.’
‘I know. He’s dead. And that was his.’
‘Please, Edward.’ Vivien was embarrassed now. ‘I’ve given it to Miss Scrope as a present. For being so nice to us.’
‘What has she done then?’
‘She
’s going to look after your father’s work.’
‘Why is she doing that?’
Vivien had completed the inventory, and Harriet quickly took it from her. ‘I think, Sarah dear, we must make our move.’ She seemed a little flustered by Edward, who continued to stare at her. ‘You look exhausted. It must be all that art criticism. Hold this for me while I gather my odds and ends.’ She thrust the portrait into Sarah’s hands and then picked up her handbag, now filled with the Chatterton papers, and her dark fur coat which Vivien noticed for the first time.
‘That’s a lovely fur,’ she said.
‘It’s rat.’ Vivien jerked her hand away from it, and Harriet laughed. ‘No, I’m only joking. It’s raccoon. One of my favourites. They have such lovely white teeth. Have we got everything, Sarah dear?’ She put out her cheek for Vivien to kiss, and made a little sucking sound in exchange. Then she moved towards Edward, but he backed away from her into his own room. She wagged her finger at him. ‘There, there. You are shy, aren’t you? But Mother loves you just the same.’
She turned to leave with Sarah and they had in fact stepped out into the corridor when Vivien called after them. ‘Miss Scrope! Harriet! You’ve forgotten Charles’s poems!’
She had left them on the sofa. ‘My dear,’ she said. ‘Silly me. And they’re the reason I came!’ She snatched the typescripts from Vivien and, as soon as she had turned the corner of the stairs, she stuffed them into the pocket of her coat.
Vivien suddenly felt very tired when she came back into the apartment and for a moment she leaned against the door, her eyes closed. ‘You shouldn’t have given her the picture, Mum.’ Edward vas standing by his father’s desk. ‘That was a mistake.’
Chatterton Page 24