Damage

by Josephine Hart

  As I drove towards Hartley on Saturday evening I envisaged it as Anna would, seeing it for the first time.

  Through iron gates, a long straight drive leads to its grey stone Gothic frontage. The massive oak door, around and above which Edward has grown ivy, has a reassuring solidity about it. Once one is inside and with the door closed, the panelled walls and high latticed windows impose their own quiet rhythm. The great carved oak staircase seems powerfully to separate the night from the day, so that each more fully enjoys its own charm.

  The drawing-room faces south over a formal lawn. Beyond that, Edward’s land stretches out to soothe him with his mastery of all the eye can see.

  The dining-room, with its mahogany sideboard laden with silver, makes the deeply English statement ‘Food may be serious, but it is not important.’ Though sensible and tasty, meals are not the highlight of a weekend at Hartley. The heavy, unwelcoming dining-room would defeat any culinary ambition.

  The library is packed with books which would embarrass an educated European. Books on hunting, country walks, some biography — usually of military heroes — a little history. No classics, no poetry, no novels. Its easy chairs invite occupation, and are placed carefully beside tables laden with country magazines, the real reading-matter of the house.

  The only room downstairs in which I ever felt relaxed is the drawing-room. I have virtually never visited the kitchen. Ceci, the cook, ruled supreme in her domain.

  The staircase leads to a large landing and two corridors. One corridor leads past four suites down towards the large door to Edward’s room.

  A shorter, panelled corridor leads past two other bedroom suites towards a heavy oak door and the room which over the years has been designated to Ingrid and me.

  The bedrooms, all panelled and sometimes entered by two or three little steps, are genuinely charming. Each has a different eiderdown in flower pattern with matching cushions. They were all long ago embroidered by Ingrid’s mother.

  Over time, the rooms have taken on the names of the flower or plant embroidered on the quilt — rose, or iris, or daffodil.

  I knew this house so well and its rooms and its gardens, yet Hartley had not entered my soul. I visited Hartley and after nearly thirty years I remained a visitor. Would Anna be as impervious to its charms?

  I stopped the car. My reverie was ended. Ingrid, Sally, and Jonathan came to greet me in the drive. ‘Edward’s on the phone in his room. Good journey?’

  ‘Mm. Very quick.’

  ‘Anna and Martyn will be here later. Anna had some work to finish. I asked Ceci to delay dinner until nine-fifteen. Hopefully, they will have arrived by then.’

  ‘Hello, sir.’

  I nodded towards Jonathan, and decided against first-name terms for a while.

  Ingrid linked her arm in mine as we followed Sally and Jonathan into the hall.

  ‘Edward put all the young people into his corridor, away from parents. We’ve got empty rooms the whole length of ours. Quite clever, don’t you think?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Come up and change.’

  Our room was called Rose. The quilt, patterned in red, white and pink, was a potent reminder of lost days, and had an accusatory innocence as I entered.

  Edward was in the drawing-room when I came down.

  ‘This is really wonderful of you all,’ he said. ‘Can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. Birthdays don’t mean so much now. Still, I suppose seventy-four is worth noting.’

  ‘Indeed it is.’ He looked well. He’d always had a glow about him, a kind of rosy hue. It suited him in old age.

  ‘Have a drink?’

  ‘Thanks, whisky please.’

  ‘Ingrid tells me Anna and Martyn will be along later.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nice of her to come. Must be a bit boring really. And Sally’s chap, I’m rather touched they should make the effort.’

  ‘Nonsense, Edward. You’re a favourite with all ages.’

  ‘Am I? Always wanted to keep in touch with young people. Gives one a feeling of continuity. Marvellous to have great-grandchildren. Any chance, do you think, before I pop off?’

  ‘Edward, I wish you great-great-grandchildren.’

  ‘Aha — always the diplomat.’

  Ingrid came to the door. ‘They’re here. I’ll tell Ceci. They can have a quick bath and change, and then dinner. Perfect timing.’

  Anna wore trousers. They were grey and tailored. This informal, country look altered her in some way.

  Greetings over, she went upstairs. Later she returned in a dark blue dress that I’d seen before. She still seemed different. She’s ill-at-ease, tense, I thought. I’d never seen Anna ill-at-ease before.

  Dinner was a quiet affair. Everyone was tired after their journey. It was a time for remembrances.

  ‘Anna, what memories do you have of home?’

  ‘Very few really. We travelled so much.’

  ‘I can’t remember a life without Hartley,’ said Ingrid.

  ‘Anna has her memories,’ said Martyn quickly. ‘But they’re more varied — impressionistic almost. Sally’s and mine are of Hartley, and of Hampstead.’

  ‘Was it difficult when you were young? Always moving,’ asked Sally.

  ‘It was just very different, as Martyn said. My childhood is really only a series of impressions — of countries, towns, schools.’

  ‘And of meetings and partings.’ Martyn shot a smile of sympathy at Anna, an ‘I understand, you’re not alone any more’ kind of smile.

  I gazed at the silver on the sideboard, and longed for dinner to be over. I could have avoided all this, I thought. I could have made excuses — good ones. But I wanted to be here. I had to be here.

  ‘Martyn and I have been so lucky,’ said Sally. ‘A secure life in London. Lots of holidays at Hartley.’

  ‘The same little village in Italy every summer,’ said Martyn. ‘Repetition of rituals can be a kind of balm to the soul. I agree with Sally. We had idyllic childhoods … in lots of ways …’

  ‘Not in every way?’ Ingrid laughed.

  ‘Oh, every ungrateful child has a list of ways in which their parents failed them. Mine’s pretty short.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Edward, ‘you’ve got us all fascinated. What’s on the list? Did they secretly beat you?’ Edward rubbed his hands in glee.

  ‘There was too much order … a lack of chaos and passion.’ Martyn’s face became very still, as though he were mouthing the words. His voice was flat. It is thus we most often reveal inner pain. The effort of containment robs our words of colour and expression.

  We looked at each other from either side of the table. A father who had missed knowing his son. A son who thought he knew his father.

  ‘Well,’ said Jonathan, ‘if you want chaos and passion you should have lived in our house. My father was a perfect gentleman. But it’s no secret he was a constant womaniser. He and my mother had the most terrible rows. Still, she stayed with him. For me and my sister, I suppose. They’re very happy now. But then he’s been ill for some time. It sounds cruel to say so, but she likes his weakness. He’s rather surrendered to her, like a good child with a kind nurse.’

  ‘How time works on all the young men. The wild young men,’ sighed Edward. ‘The tales I could tell you!’

  ‘Before you, Anna, Martyn was quite a young man about town,’ said Sally.

  Anna smiled. ‘So I’ve heard.’

  ‘Oh! From whom?’

  ‘From Martyn.’

  ‘Aha. A full confession, was it, Martyn?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Anna. ‘I was not surprised. Martyn is very attractive.’

  ‘He’s extraordinarily good-looking,’ said Ingrid. ‘And there speaks a proud mum. Now let’s all have a lovely early night. Somebody’s got a birthday tomorrow.’ Ingrid kissed Edward.

  On the landing the ‘goodnight-and-sleep-well’ wishes were a trifle embarrassed. Anna was at the end of Edward’s corridor in Hyacinth. Martyn was b
eside her in Ivy.

  ‘I used to think all this was too pretty and feminine. Then Edward explained how carefully and lovingly each bedspread and its matching cushions had been embroidered. Now I think of it as a lovely tribute to Grandma.’

  Ingrid stroked his cheek. ‘How kind you are, Martyn. Right, off we go. We’re down here at the end of the corridor.’ She smiled at them all. It was a conspiratorial ‘It’s up to you, but don’t embarrass anyone’ smile.

  We turned and walked to our bedroom. I felt a humiliation I had not felt before. My body seemed heavy and awkward. I leaned against the door as we closed it behind us.

  ‘That was all a bit coy,’ I said sharply to Ingrid.

  ‘Coy! Coy, what a strange word to use. We are another generation. It’s quite understandable that they should want some certainty that we were not close to them. On the other hand, I don’t want Edward embarrassed, hence the separate rooms. Anyway, I don’t know how far things have gone with Jonathan and Sally. It saves tension all round. Anna and Martyn are different.’

  ‘You seem to be taking a great shine to Anna lately.’

  ‘Force majeure, darling.’ Ingrid started to undress. During the dressing-table ritual with the creams she suddenly stopped, and said, ‘Something is happening between us. I don’t understand it. But please don’t think I am unaware of it. I know you’ve been faithful to me, I know you’re not having an affair now. We’ve never been people for heart-to-heart conversations, so I’ll just wait. Does it sound arrogant? About the affairs, I mean. I don’t mean it to. Your faithfulness is very important to me. I just couldn’t be a Jane Robinson. What Martyn said about the lack of chaos and passion … well, it’s what I found attractive about you. And I still do. It all works in a way that’s right for us, mostly. Doesn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, Ingrid. My dear, I’m so sorry. I know it’s a terrible cliché, but I’ve got a problem and I must work it out myself. You’re so wise to just let me sort it out in my own time.’

  We met each other’s gaze. We managed to avert our eyes before truth could be seen by either of us. Elliptical intimacy is the marriage vow of good companions. Vows that they honour behind the closed doors of bedrooms where, trapped in the winding sheets of dead desire, they take the pleasure they are entitled to. They convince themselves that they have not been cheated in this roulette game of passionless passion. It is a legacy from one generation to the next. The good marriage tie.

  I lay beside Ingrid as she fell asleep. Anger and hatred worked in me, like snakes hissing. Their tongues were saying, go and get her. Go get her. Just take her away, they whispered. Make her come with you. Make her leave Martyn. Tonight. Just give up everything. Now.

  I wanted to twist, and turn, and wrestle with their obscenities. But I lay silent and quiet beside my sleeping beautiful wife.

  At two o’clock I couldn’t bear it any more. I got up. As I opened the door I saw Anna standing outside one of the empty rooms in our corridor. It was Olive. She beckoned me and smiled a little. As we entered the room she said, ‘I chose this room for peace. I wondered whether you would come. I could see your pain.’

  I moved against her, desperate. She held her hand to her stomach and said, ‘No. I’m bleeding.’ Then she knelt down before me, lips parted, mouth open, waiting. I worshipped her. Her head was thrown back, her eyes were closed, as though in some ritual act of genuflection.

  Subsumed into her. Consummation. Of a kind. Then, eyes open, I stared at the slight mutilation of her features which the forcing of her mouth had caused. Drained by her, I thought of the hopelessness of pleasure. I was still trapped within my own body.

  The room was lit by moonlight. As she left me, she said, ‘I said yes, today, to Martyn. He is going to tell the family tomorrow at lunch. He wants to make it a family celebration. It will be very hard for you. But please remember I am everything you need me to be. You live in me.’ She stroked her hand across her mouth and said, ‘Remember — everything, always.’ Then she slipped out the door.

  I bowed my head in the darkened room. I felt as though a heavy weight had been placed across my shoulders. In the gloom the olive-embroidered spread and cushions filled my eyes. Conscious of their peace and beauty I lay down upon them. They were a grove of green in the moonlight. I felt the anger and hatred leave me. I could carry my burden. I could handle ‘everything, always’.

  After some time, I do not know how long, I slipped back into bed beside Ingrid and slept deeply. In the morning I knew I did not want to see Anna and I needed time before I could face Martyn. A new life was beginning. A life in which Anna and Martyn would be formally a couple. I must learn to carry the weight of this reality.

  The tightness between my shoulder blades told me that it was a cross I had decided to bear. Others hide their pain in their bloodstream, or intestines, or it reaches the surface of their skin, a daily stigmata. A childhood image from my Catholic nanny, one of her holy pictures of the cross being carried on the road to Golgotha, had all these years later become my body’s image for my soul’s pain.

  ‘I’m going to have a quick tea and toast in the kitchen, then have a walk. I’ll work up here until lunchtime. Do you mind?’

  ‘Of course not. Everyone will understand,’ said Ingrid.

  ‘It’s just that at Hartley, breakfasts can go on till lunch.’

  Ceci was in the kitchen. She watched disapprovingly as I consumed the toast and tea standing by the table. Then, hearing Sally’s laughter from the dining-room, I opened the kitchen door and was gone.

  I walked through the walled kitchen garden. Its ordered perfection reminded me that wild nature can be tamed and made to work for us. I walked into the meadow, where, in other days, ponies belonging to Ingrid, and then our own children, had grazed. Everything I saw, garden, meadows, the almost dry small stream, spoke of a life from which I was for ever parted.

  Who was the young man who had walked through this very meadow when courting Ingrid? Where was the father who had photographed Sally and Martyn as they trotted with awkward pride on their ponies?

  I managed to return to my room without having to say good morning to anyone. I worked on my papers and tried to compose myself before lunch.

  ‘To Edward,’ the toast was mine, ‘Happy Birthday and many happy returns from us all.’

  ‘To Edward.’ We all raised our glasses. Anna glanced nervously at Martyn. He rose to speak.

  ‘Grandad … everyone … I’ve got something to tell you all. Anna and I thought it would be nice, in honour of your birthday … to announce our engagement! Mum … Dad.’ He looked at us, eager, pleading, handsome. There was also a subtle look of triumph in his eyes.

  ‘Well, well …’ said Ingrid, ‘how marvellous. Congratulations, Martyn. Anna, I’m so happy for you both.’

  ‘Martyn, I can’t tell you what this means to me,’ said Edward. ‘On my birthday too. So touching, boy, so touching.’ He looked at Ingrid. ‘Martyn always was a touching soul. You’ve done well, my dear,’ he said to Anna. ‘Don’t mind me saying that, do you? He’s very special this grandson of mine. Mind you … he’s very lucky too. Fine girl … thought so the second I met you.’

  Sally had jumped up and thrown her arms round her brother.

  ‘Congrats, you two. It’s great news.’

  Jonathan broke in with ‘Well done, Martyn! Mind you I could see it coming a mile off. Couldn’t I, Sally? I always said Anna and Martyn were made for each other. Right from the start. That super-cool image you two have, it never fooled me for a minute. Head over heels in love. No doubt about it.’

  Say something now. You’re the only one who hasn’t spoken. Say something now. My mind raced.

  ‘Martyn.’

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘What can a father say on such an occasion? It’s a strange and wonderful day. My best wishes to you both.’

  It must have been all right because he smiled a ‘Thanks, Dad’ back at me.

  ‘You’ll get married from Hartley? You must …’
>
  ‘Father! They’ve only just announced their engagement. Anna’s parents may have their own ideas. It’s the bride’s parents …’

  ‘Oh yes, I know all that. But with Anna’s mother living in America, I just thought …’

  ‘We can have great fun planning all this,’ said Ingrid.

  ‘When are you thinking of actually getting married? Got a date fixed?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Anna.

  ‘As soon as possible,’ said Martyn. ‘We thought three months from now, if that’s OK.’

  ‘Three months! It’s not long.’ Ingrid was already planning the wedding.

  ‘Actually we are probably just going to have a quiet wedding somewhere. Anna hates big weddings.’

  ‘Really,’ said Ingrid, trying to hide the disappointment in her voice.

  ‘We felt a quiet wedding with family …’

  ‘Family! Good heavens. You must let your parents know,’ said Ingrid. ‘And we must meet them soon.’

  ‘I’ll ring them if I may.’ Anna looked at Edward.

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  ‘I was going to do the traditional thing. You know, ask permission and all that. But Anna felt it was unnecessary. So here we are, Grandpa — interrupting your birthday.’

  ‘Yes, indeed you are,’ said a mock-angry Edward. ‘And I haven’t even opened my presents. Let’s all finish pudding and have champagne and present’s in the drawing-room. Then the happy couple can use my study for their phone calls.’

  As Anna passed me her eyes caught mine. I was pleased to see that she looked sad.

  I drank my whisky, and watched the champagne add further to the gaiety as the party continued. Whisky is a strengthening drink. No man ever drank champagne in the midst of a defeat. After this defeat, there is no escape for you, I told myself. There was no anger or hatred either. Just an acceptance, a resignation to pain. I trusted Anna. She trusted me. If we wanted ‘everything, always’, this was the best way. Her way.

  To observe the joy of others, while in pain oneself, is to witness what looks like insanity overtaking ordinary people. All my years as the calm outsider didn’t prepare me for the savage loneliness I felt that day. Clinging to the hope of Anna, I had to watch her move further and further away. Unable to call out to her, ‘Help me, help me, I can’t do this,’ I tried to appear jovial. I accepted Edward’s thanks for our gift — Ingrid had arranged an aerial photo of Hartley — and listened to the rise and fall of questions and answers about the future wedding of my son. Trapped, I knew I must show no fear. If I failed I would bring about the very thing that most terrified me — the total loss of Anna. The pain between my shoulder blades knotted its way deeper into me. The whisky seemed to sharpen my perception of all I saw. I longed for it to blur the edges.