“This came in only this morning and we haven’t had time to type the particulars but it could just be what you’re looking for: a self-contained flat at the top of a house in Ash Street. How would that appeal?”
I was already on my feet. “When can we see it?”
“Well, it’s not officially on the market yet. Apparently the owner’s brother-in-law and family will be there for another month. I don’t know if they’re thinking of letting it long-term, mind. You’d have to sort that out for yourselves. Would you like me to phone and try to make an appointment to view?” Which was how we found Rowan House. It was a tall, three-storey building in traditional Applethwaite stone and it stood in large gardens at the corner of Ash Street and Fell Lane. The Staveleys welcomed us cautiously.
“We weren’t really expecting anyone so soon; we only phoned the agents this morning. Still, since you’re leaving in a day or two, my sister-in-law says you’re welcome to go up and have a look. It’s self-contained as you can see. We had a staircase built outside, so they’d be completely independent.”
The flat, as we knew at once, was ideal. The original attic windows had been enlarged to frame magnificent views down towards the lake and the whole effect was light and airy. There were two bedrooms, a fairly large sitting-room, and bathroom and kitchen. Since the other Staveleys were emigrating to Canada they were proposing to leave their furniture which, as Philip and I had none of our own, was a further asset.
Back downstairs, we talked terms with Mr and Mrs Staveley. They had intended to let the flat for the holiday season and then find permanent tenants in the winter, but since barely six weeks would elapse between the present family’s departure and our own arrival, they were prepared to hold it for us. Once again, things had gone our way.
It was only later that it struck me as strange that, with nothing settled regarding our careers, Philip and I had been confident enough of our return to pay a deposit on the flat. Perhaps, though we were unaware of either its significance or its potency, Janetta’s “Macbeth prophecy” had already taken hold of us. Subconsciously, we were not prepared to relinquish the promises made.
I remember very little of the last term in Swindon, but one incident sticks in my mind since it was less than comfortable. On the day I received a letter from Mr Sedgewick inviting me for an interview, I could contain my exuberance no longer, and broke into the general conversation in the staff-room with my news.
“Isn’t it the most incredible luck?” I continued jubilantly. “My brother and I will be together again, and in such lovely surroundings! It’s a most attractive place, all narrow, twisting little streets and courtyards, with the lake at the bottom of the hill and the Gemelly Stone Circle at the top. And you know my passion for ancient monuments. I can potter around to my heart’s content, while –”
“Just slow down a minute, Matthew,” John Dobson interrupted at last. “Are we to gather from all this gobbledegook that you intend to leave us?”
“Most certainly I do – at the end of this very term!”
“It might be kinder to be less enthusiastic at the prospect!”
“Sorry, but to be brutally frank, I can hardly wait! Philip’s already applied for a post there, and I’m off for my own interview next week.”
“In other words, being brutally frank in my turn, you haven’t actually landed the job yet?”
“Oh, I’ll get it all right!”
“I hope you won’t be disillusioned. Does the old man know of his impending bereavement?”
“Of course. I handed in my notice on the first day of term.”
“Without a definite job to go to? Haven’t you heard of all the unemployed teachers walking the Embankment –”
Whatever he had been going on to say was lost for ever. Without warning, Sue Anderson, whom I’d taken out on one or two occasions, startled us all by bursting into tears and rushing out of the room.
Margaret Pearson surveyed me coldly. “Callous devil, aren’t you? That poor kid’s been carrying a torch for you for years. When you asked her out, she was over the moon. And now here you are, shouting to all and sundry that you can’t wait to shake the dust of the place off your feet.”
“I didn’t know any of that,” I defended myself. “There was never anything serious.”
“Not to you, perhaps. It was serious enough for her. The trouble is you’re too damned good-looking for your own good. You’ve never had to worry about girls, have you? They just come flocking.”
“Oh now look,” I protested, embarrassed as much by her back-handed compliment as by her accusations.
“Can you honestly tell me there’s ever been a girl you fancied who didn’t come running when you snapped your fingers?”
“Well, I –”
“No, you can’t!”
“Hold on, Maggie, it’s not Matthew’s fault if the girls all go for him. Wish I had his problem!”
The bell sounded for the end of break, releasing me from my discomfiture, but when later that afternoon I bumped into Sue, red-eyed and subdued, in the staff cloak-room, my conscience belatedly asserted itself. She gave me a watery smile and would have passed me, but I caught hold of her arm.
“Sue, I’m sorry about this morning. I –”
“You’ve nothing to be sorry about, Matthew. It’s I who should apologize, for making such a fool of myself. It was – just the shock, that’s all.”
“I didn’t realize you –”
“Of course you didn’t. I never intended that you should.”
“Perhaps we could have a drink together?” I asked tentatively.
“Perhaps, but not this evening.” Her control was beginning to slip again. “Goodbye, Matthew,” she finished in a rush, and, escaping from my fingers, hurried out of the door.
At least I’d tried. Putting the matter thankfully aside, I went home to phone Philip. And here another setback awaited me, and one which caused considerably more regret. When I told him of my coming interview, he replied: “The best of luck. Let me know how you get on, but I’m sure it’ll be OK.”
“Let you know?” I frowned, not understanding.
“You weren’t expecting me to go with you? Matthew, we’re run off our feet here. A measles epidemic is in full swing, and between you and me I’m not very popular at the moment anyway. My resignation didn’t go down too well.”
I tried to swallow my disappointment. “Have you heard from Dr Sampson?”
“Nothing definite. He’s taken up my references and my papers are with the Cumbria FPC. It all seems to be going smoothly.”
Remembering Sue, I said suddenly, “Have you broken the news to that district nurse you were running round with?”
“I have. There were a few tantrums but we survived.”
I suppressed a smile. If I really was “too good-looking for my own good”, then so, too, was Philip.
“I presume you had similar problems?” he asked astutely.
“A few.”
He laughed. “Couple of heart-breakers, aren’t we? Sorry, Matthew, I must dash. I’m on early duty at the surgery this evening. Phone me when you get back from Crowthorpe.”
His words were still with me as I started to prepare the following day’s lessons, and I allowed myself a moment of self-congratulation. As usual, we’d managed to extricate ourselves from our romantic entanglements without too much trouble. Dismissing the two girls with no further qualms, I had picked up my pen when I suddenly remembered our mother’s words. A wife is something you won’t be able to share.
For the first time, uneasily, I wondered what would happen if Philip and I really fell in love, and which of us would succumb first. I was aware of an immediate wave of resentment towards Philip’s hypothetical wife, whoever she might be, and the unpleasant sensation lingered with me for the rest of the evening.
The long journey north was tiring with no one to share the driving, but I arrived in ample time for my interview and was taken aback to find several other men waiting in a small ro
om next to the headmaster’s study.
I’d been so sure of success that I hadn’t even considered other applicants. One of them was ushered into the study as I arrived, and the others gave me a quick, furtive inspection as I sat down. From being so confident, I was suddenly panic-stricken that my application would be passed over and by the time my name was called, was more nervous than I would have believed possible.
There were three men waiting for me. Robert Sedgewick stood up behind his desk with a welcoming smile and held out his hand. “Come in, Mr Selby. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. May I introduce Mr Pemberton and Mr Williams, who represent the school managers. Now, take a seat and we’ll just go through your papers.”
The interview progressed in a fairly standard manner, but my agitation had increased to the stage where I was having difficulty keeping my mind on my answers. God, what would happen if I didn’t get the position? I had to come to Crowthorpe, and this would probably be my only chance!
“Mr Selby?”
“I – beg your pardon?”
“I was wondering if there were any questions you’d like to ask. I imagine this school is considerably smaller than where you are at the moment. Do you feel you’d be happy in such a different atmosphere, country instead of town, and so on?”
“I’m sure I should, sir. My brother and I were up here for a holiday and liked the area very much. He’s hoping for an appointment here too.”
There was a pause and I surmised they were waiting for some questions. I had none; I desperately wanted the job, that was all, but I forced myself to ask, “How many children are there?”
“A hundred and twenty at the moment. We have four classes from age five to eleven, so a slight overlap is necessary – about a year and a half usually. I teach myself, of course, and there are four other members of staff.”
‘And where do the children go from here?”
“The nearest secondary school is in Barrowick. A school bus leaves every morning from the depot in the market place and brings them back at the end of the afternoon.”
I saw one of the managers glance at his watch and, feeling time run out, said rapidly, “I hope very much my application will be successful, sir. I’m sure I should be very happy here and would enjoy the challenge of a smaller school.”
“Thank you, Mr Selby. We’ll let you know as soon as we have reached a decision.”
I was out in Broad Walk again and it was not yet four o’clock. I sat for some minutes in the car with the window wound right down. It was a cloudy day and rain was not far away. If only Philip were here!
Eventually I switched on the engine and drove slowly out on to Fell Lane. At the corner of Ash Street, Rowan House stood large and dignified behind its garden wall and I remembered the euphoria that had gripped Philip and myself when we had signed the lease. What had made us so certain of our return? Surely not a few words whispered by a gypsy girl?
But in swift contradiction to the disclaimer, confidence flooded back and I almost laughed aloud. Of course I should get the job: Janetta Lee had implied as much! It was naive, utterly illogical, but my doubts vanished instantly and there was an idiotic smile on my face as I drove back to Barrowick in search of somewhere to sleep.
After some difficulty I managed to find a small room in an hotel on the outskirts, and on impulse booked it for two nights rather than the one I’d intended. Then, desirous of company, I phoned Anita Barlow. Even if she didn’t, as I hoped, invite me straight round, I had the excuse of booking a table for dinner the following evening. In the event, the result was a compromise.
“Matthew! How long are you here for? Is Philip with you?”
“He couldn’t get away, unfortunately. I came up for my interview and decided to stay over Saturday night as well.”
“That’s fine, because we’re having a few friends for drinks tomorrow. It will be a chance for you to meet them, and you must stay to dinner afterwards.”
For the moment, though, I was reduced to my own company and decided to look round Barrowick, mingling with the crowds in the cobbled streets, admiring the old clock-tower and stone archways.
Eventually I found an alley leading to the lakeside and strolled down it to the water’s edge. Here, even on this grey evening, the motor launches had been busy and the last one was just returning to the jetty thronged with holidaymakers. Around the edge of the water, ducks and swans strutted and stretched, accepting titbits thrown to them by the crowds. Lake Crowswater, beneath which the Crow goddess had her home.
I was suddenly cold, and, turning away from the darkening water, made my way back to the hotel.
The following morning I awoke to heavy rain and resigned myself to a few hours in the dim dark lounge with the newspaper. About lunchtime, however, the weather cleared with the rapidity I was coming to associate with the Lakeland climate, and after I had eaten I drove back to Crowthorpe. I intended to spend the afternoon acquainting myself more thoroughly with the village which, if the gods of chance played fair, would soon be our home.
I parked in the market place and walked down to the jetty, a smaller less commercialized counterpart of that at the other end of the lake. Behind me, the Pavilion Café spilled its clientele on to its broad terrace and to the right the grounds of the Lakeside Hotel stretched down to the water. I could see one or two private jetties with small boats moored alongside.
Turning my back on such opulence, I walked instead alongside the stream, following it under the bridge of the main road and along the valley which stretched to the north. Some distance to the left, Crowthorpe climbed its hillside and I guessed this would be the view we’d glimpsed from the vicarage windows.
The grass was wet with the morning’s rain but the racing clouds were high and fluffy and the breeze which sped them on their way ruffled my hair. I stopped suddenly, looking down at the gurgling water beside me, at the lush green fields and beyond them the slowly rolling hills. A wild surge of happiness exploded inside me. This without doubt was where I belonged, and the thought of having to return to Swindon for two more months was almost unbearable.
I continued my leisurely stroll along the path until I came to a fork in it. One branch led up the long slope towards the village, and after a moment’s hesitation I took it. It was quite a stiff climb which eventually brought me out towards the top of the High Street just short of Crowthorpe Grange. I was well satisfied with my afternoon’s exploration and regretted only that I had not been able to share the enjoyment of it with Philip.
When I arrived at the Greystones that evening, Anita greeted me warmly. “What a shame Philip couldn’t be with you! Never mind, come in and meet some of the local community.” She tucked her hand into my arm and led me through to her private sitting-room.
“Here’s our prospective new schoolmaster, everyone. Isn’t he gorgeous? Douglas, of course, you’ve already met, and Dr and Mrs Sampson. This is my husband George, and here are Geoff and Felicity Marshall who, as I told you, are also lucky enough to have twins in the family! And this is David Buckley from the Lakeside Hotel, his wife Sally, and Tom and Vera Chadwick, from the Meadowlands.”
The sea of smiling faces was a little confusing, but of all the names tossed into the air, the ones which had really registered were, of course, the Marshalls, and as soon as I could I edged myself back to where Felicity was standing.
“Are your daughters absolutely identical, Mrs Marshall?” I asked with interest.
“We can tell them apart, if that’s what you mean. I suppose it’s easier with girls – you can do their hair differently and so on. We’ve always made an effort to treat them as individuals rather than as a collective noun. I think that’s important, don’t you?”
She looked up at me smilingly – a fair, pretty woman, Felicity Marshall.
“I’m not sure,” I answered. “Speaking personally, my brother and I were never interested in separate identities. We preferred to be thought of as one entity.”
Her eyes flickered uncertainly and at
my side Eve came to her rescue. “Take no notice of him, Felicity. He and Philip are uncannily alike, more clones than twins! Perhaps they are clones!” She looked at me laughingly, with raised eyebrows.
I smiled and turned back to Mrs Marshall. She didn’t really look old enough to have nine-year-old girls. “And your daughters are quite happy to be – dissociated?”
“That’s a forceful word,” she protested. “I only mean we give them the opportunity to grow up as sisters rather than twins.”
“How do you feel about it?” I challenged Eve. “Do you think of Anita as your sister first, or as your twin?”
“Well, we’re close, of course, but probably not as close as you and Philip. We’ve often had fights, and so on. I rather imagine you haven’t?”
“No.” It came as a shock to me that two such integral halves could ever be at odds with each other.
“Do Claire and Nicola fight?” Eve asked Felicity.
“Like cat and dog, at times!”
“Perhaps by your treatment of them you’ve forced them apart,” I said.
“Oh come now –”
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean to sound critical. Obviously my brother and I are the odd ones out. I hadn’t realized all identical twins didn’t feel as we do.” Suddenly Philip’s absence was an aching void. This talk of friction between other twins served only to emphasize how in tune we were, and how much we needed each other.
Anita touched my arm. “Philip’s on the phone, Matthew. You can take it in the call box in the hall.” With conflicting emotions I hurried from the room and into the wooden kiosk. I snatched up the receiver and said rapidly, “Oh God, Philip, I wish you were here!”
“That’s why I’m phoning. How did the interview go?”
I forced my mind back to the previous afternoon, my earlier doubts and fears forgotten. “Famously. I don’t think there’ll be any problems but of course it has to go through the official channels.” I paused, realizing I hadn’t told him I should be at the Greystones. Still, perhaps that hadn’t been hard to deduce. I added, “I timed it well, too. The Barlows have some friends in and I’ve just met the ‘squire’s’ wife. I think I was probably rather rude to her.”
The Macbeth Prophecy Page 5