by Susan Sallis
Juniper was as contrary as ever. She looked at the door knob and said dismissively, ‘Lot of fuss about nothing. Fancy giving that to someone you’re supposed to love better than life itself. That’s what Mam said, you know. She seemed to think he had chosen to be drownded down there . . . “Our place” she called it . . . rather than go back to Wales. Dank old hole in the ground. But she said then that he loved her better than life itself. Let it go back where he put it in the first place.’
I opened my eyes wide at Hildie. She turned her mouth down, shoulders up. Then she took the door knob in her right hand and passed it straight to Hardy. She said, ‘It’s caused trouble. But it’s still a love-token. That’s what counts.’
Hardy transferred it from hand to hand, feeling the weight, then he dropped it into a bag and said, ‘Beautiful piece of door furniture, that. Victorians knew how to make good stuff.’
It was dark; full moon but often hidden by scudding clouds. The wind was sharp as we loaded Juniper and her chair into the van, and bundled ourselves in afterwards. Ironically I was wedged between a lavatory pan and a bunch of plumbing pipes; Hilda shared her place with the cistern. Such a good example of the absurdities David drew; a small bubble containing suitable words should be somewhere. Juniper supplied them. ‘My old man said follow the van,’ she commented drily, as we took the corner and only just avoided a near sheer drop down to the sea. ‘God help us, Hardy, ’aven’t this thing got brakes?’
He replied in similar vein. ‘I don’t dilly-dally on the way, Juniper Stevens. You don’t ’ave to come if my driving don’t please you!’
She was silent. Nothing was going to stop her now.
We reached the ramp, guarded by the same red and white tape that had been in place almost a year ago. Hardy pulled on the hand brake with some force, shot out of the driver’s seat, removed the tape, got back in and coasted us down on to the little promenade. The moon emerged from cloud and we saw a desolate view indeed: the bed of the lake was invisible, the whole thing was an enormous black hole. Impossible, absolutely impossible to imagine my desperate swim . . . David’s presence everywhere. As I scrambled out of the back of the van and looked up at the blackness of Becket’s Hill, I remembered the even more frightening thud of his invisible feet as he had followed me through the trees.
‘Don’t mess about there, my maid. Hildie will push the chair round to where the steps are. Let’s get going.’ He passed me a box and the bag containing the door knob. He shouldered his tool bag and hooked a bucket over one arm. We went ahead of the others, past the huts. There had been a rail to help swimmers down the steps; it had long gone. But Hardy seemed to know where it had been and went unerringly down the first two steps, then paused to see me on to the top one. We let our feet feel their way down to the bed of the lake. It was covered in about two inches of slimy mud. Hardy said something under his breath and I echoed him. He whispered, ‘Don’t try to get out of it. Slide through it. Use it to make the going easier.’
Hildie said from some way off, ‘What’s up? Is something wrong?’
Hardy made a shushing sound in her direction. Hildie said something to Juniper and there came an answering cackle. We skated through the slime very cautiously; it became quiet except for the occasional clank from the bucket, and the swishing sound of our wellingtons. It seemed to take ages to reach the opposite wall, and it became darker as the camber took us deeper and away from the moon’s fitful light. When we got there Hardy whispered, ‘Where was it put in the first place?’ And his voice went right around the lake and came back to us like a whispering gallery.
I looked at the sky and tried to orientate myself. Hardy produced a torch and we sprayed its beam along the flinty surface without success. I faced the wall and reached past my head and began to pace along its breadth; the beam of the torch wavered, and just as I was about to give up, Hardy breathed, ‘That’s it. Stay there just a minute, maid.’ He reached past me, holding an enormous masonry nail. ‘OK. Got it. Relax.’
I did so. The palms of my hands recalled that rough surface. I remembered Hildie kneeling by my feet gently stroking on the vinegar.
‘We’ll soon have this done. Tis upsetting, but you have to see it through, maid. You know that.’
I hadn’t up until then, but I did now. He took the cloth from the top of the bucket, and I draped it over one arm while he re-mixed the cement with a trowel as if it were dough. Then he upturned the box I had carried and stood on it and wedged cement into the hole I could not even see. Then he got down and indicated that I should take his place.
‘The cement will stay wet until morning, so take your time. Just push it in gently, and push the cement against it, as you would when you are planting.’
It was excellent advice for a gardener. I stretched my arm above my head and found the big patch easily with my fingers, took the door knob in my other hand, and eased it into place, and then packed more cement round it. Hardy held up the bucket for me to take more handfuls and I did so, spreading the surplus as best I could. The torch beam wavered on it. ‘Perfect,’ Hardy whispered. And I could see that the flints and rock pieces had already encased the wet cement. ‘Come on down, now,’ he said, in a more normal voice. ‘Let’s go. We’m done the best we can, and the rest is in fate’s hands.’
The torch went out. I kept my eyes where I knew the door knob was. I murmured, ‘Thank you. Thank you, David.’ Then I climbed down.
Nothing much happened on the way back; I half-expected one of us to slip down on the mud and complete the other half of the evening; the absurd half. But in fact we were into the rhythm of skaters now and Hildie was at the steps with outstretched arm to help us up. Juniper informed us we didn’t smell like roses. Hildie said, ‘Never mind that. Let’s get her into the van before she freezes to death.’ She pushed the wheelchair back up the ramp, and we trailed soggily behind her. Almost there and we heard the wail of a police siren. We froze in our tracks but it went on by, lights flashing. It scared Juniper into an unusual silence. We loaded her in record time, collapsed the wheelchair and wedged it behind the lavatory pan. Hildie swore – also unusually – at the cistern as her elbow connected with the overflow pipe. Hardy closed all the doors and began to reverse out carefully. We got home and spent quite some time cleaning up. ‘Destroying the evidence’, as Hardy put it.
‘You’re in a good mood,’ Hildie accused.
‘I am. We’ve done it. The whole thing is done with. Viv and Juniper are . . . well, they are themselves again. P’raps for the first time in a long while. I feel free too – don’t you, my maid?’
Hildie thought about it as she washed her hands at the kitchen sink. ‘P’raps I do. Yes, it could be that I do. Like when the prince kisses the sleeping beauty and wakes her up.’ She smiled round at us.
Juniper said irritably, ‘She don’t change. Little Hildie Wendover and her games of pretend.’
Hildie said, ‘Go into the toilet with Viv while I cut some sandwiches. Then we’ll have a bit of supper before you go back to bed.’
Juniper cheered up immediately. ‘You were right about Tall Trees, Hildie,’ she called down the hallway. ‘I’ve had a better time since I went there than ever I had at home!’ She looked up at me as I helped her out of the chair and on to the toilet. ‘I met John Jinks again, and now I’ve put him to bed.’ She cackled, and I had no doubt she was implying innuendo, but I was feeling more than relaxed; I was feeling peaceful. And confident. Tomorrow I would finish my third-person confession and then it would be over.
Twenty-four
Vivian’s story
IT WAS A very quiet wedding; a registry office wedding, simple and sincere. Two teachers came from school; three of David’s friends from his schooldays. And his father. Viv had met Mr Venables twice before; noted his gentleness and his physical resemblance to David, but not much more. David, naturally, called him ‘Dad’ and she called him ‘your dad’. She had to force herself to go that far. The diminutive ‘dad’ meant so many things to Vivvi
e Lennard: love was there somewhere, but uppermost was terror.
She had no idea whether he knew about his son’s impotence. She and David had briefly shared their secrets, and in doing so had somehow exchanged them. She took on his impotence, and he took on her abuse. There was no more discussion. But suddenly she needed to know whether Mr Venables knew David’s secret. After the first visit to his cottage in the Mendips she was warmly appreciative of his quiet welcome, but he gave nothing away. He might think of her as the wife of his son, but if he and David had talked together – and she had no experience of fathers and sons – he could very well know that she was his son’s loving companion, loyal friend, his ‘other half’; not his wife.
He came to see them once a week, usually for a traditional Sunday lunch. She grew to trust him. When he heard that her own father had died he was quietly sympathetic. He said, ‘I understand you had an unhappy childhood, Viv. And now, no father. If I can step into his place it would be an honour.’ She disguised her shudder, but later, when his attitude changed oh-so-subtly, she thought he had seen, and she tried to make up for it. Perhaps she tried too hard, because when he had his stroke, and it became apparent he could not live alone any longer, it seemed as if he expected to move in with David and Viv. They told him they would talk about it . . . sort it out . . . then they drove home from the hospital in complete silence. The combe, snaking uphill, ground dropping away one side, crowded with beech trees, seemed sinister. An omen. They turned into the lane, and David parked the car outside the gate; they sat looking at the view, still saying nothing. She took a deep breath.
‘David, I love you and I want you to be happy. But . . . I don’t think I can bear it if your father lives with us.’
He stared at her for a moment, then gave a great guffaw full of relief.
‘Oh . . . dearest Viv! I thought your sense of duty was going to prevail over anything I might say! You had your nun look. It did not bode well.’ He hugged her to him. ‘Darling, I could not live with my dad. He has always . . . somehow . . . belittled what I do. It is only since I’ve known you that I have been able to paint my feelings, and even now . . . seeing him every week . . . it is—’ He laughed, almost ashamed. ‘. . . shall I say, he inhibits me!’
Viv was amazed. ‘You’re so alike – he’s so gentle and kind – it must all be in your mind, David. Seriously.’
‘Perhaps. I shouldn’t have told him about my “condition”.’ He laughed, making it a joke. ‘Men see impotence as a failure. Which it is, of course. But it should not trickle into every other bit of one’s life.’
So Mr Venables did know. Viv slid her arms under David’s, and held him to her. They were interlocked. She realized how right he had been to bulldoze her into this relationship. It worked. It really worked.
He said, ‘I don’t know how I’ll tell him that we can’t have him. But I’m going to be straight.’
‘Hang on. Let me do it. It will split you two. And that would be a pity. I’ll do it. Lots of daughters-in-law have to make this kind of stand. It would mean me giving up my job, and I’m not willing to do that. I can be straight.’
And she had been, and Mr Venables had nodded agreement the whole time. She had thought he was hurt beyond words.
He went to Tall Trees because an old friend of his, John Jinks, was there already and said it wasn’t too bad. For a while he refused all invitations to the bungalow, then when he came he brought Jinx with him, and they developed a kind of ironic patter which was entertaining in itself, and provided David with another comic strip called ‘Dinner with Dad’. It looked like a Dickensian etching, with the four of them overlapping each other as they leaned into the table exchanging scurrilous gossip about the nursing-home staff. The dialogue was always contained within a pall of smoke from their cigars. Fortunately only one erudite magazine published this series, and the two men never saw it. David sighed once and mourned, ‘The only cartoon that Dad would have appreciated, and I cannot let him see it!’
Viv was surprised. ‘Why on earth not?’
‘He’d recognize too much of himself. He might sue me.’ David grinned.
Mr Venables – Viv still thought of him by his formal name – had two more strokes. They were minor and did not incapacitate him for long. But both times David and Viv had to wrestle with their consciences. David felt bound to go over their circumstances.
‘Thank God you got this place here, Dad! You get professional care – several of the staff are state-registered.’
Mr Venables smiled and nodded, but still said, ‘Viv’s a natural carer, anyone can see that.’
David said sturdily, ‘Viv leaves the house at seven thirty and doesn’t get in until five each afternoon!’
‘She’ll be retiring soon.’
‘Dad, Viv isn’t forty yet. She might retire early, but not that early.’
His father made rumbling sounds in his throat.
He and Jinx egged each other on to behave like schoolboys. Both of them asked Hildie Hardy if she would marry them, though they well knew she was married to the local carpenter and handyman. They discussed in very loud voices the possibility of sleeping with various members of the staff. The staff largely ignored them, though Hildie came back at them at times. The female residents weren’t so forbearing, and some of them made the mistake of protesting. Jinx could make Esmé Wetherby’s face flush crimson just by looking at her, and then spreading his hands helplessly when one of the staff enquired what was going on. Winifred Samson was made of sterner stuff, and told him once that no woman would look at him while Mr Venables was around. It was Mr Venables’s turn to redden with embarrassment, and Jinx’s to ask pettishly what was wrong with him – he had been in charge of all public works in the area for twenty-two years, while old David Ven had merely looked after dead things. Winifred came back witheringly, ‘You are coarse, Mr Jinks. Whereas Mr Venables is sensitive.’ And Jinx had turned purple with sheer annoyance.
He had said cattily, ‘Miss Samson, isn’t it? Perhaps you should have been a little coarser a little earlier in life.’
Esmé shrieked her outrage; nurses came hurrying. Winifred looked at him with scorn. ‘I don’t usually confide in men, gentle or not. But I will just say this. I might be a spinster, Mr Jinks. But I am not, certainly not, an old maid!’
She and Esmé left the arena and left the men, gentle or not, spluttering.
David and Viv went up to smooth things over. The matron was Marlene Richards, but her name was never used. She was Matron.
She said, ‘I’m afraid your father is very much influenced by Mr Jinks, and I cannot ask you to have a word with Mr Jinks. It would probably exacerbate the situation, anyway. If you could explain to Mr Venables that they are acting like playground bullies and genuinely upsetting some of our ladies, I am sure he will cooperate and persuade Mr Jinks to moderate some of his more – er – jocular – comments.’
They did their best. Mr Venables looked totally crestfallen. ‘It was just a bit of fun,’ he said apologetically. ‘If you’d been there you would understand. We get bored. And the nurses are so distant, not like in hospital. Of course, we’re all old. It would disgust them if we simply asked to be hugged.’
David grinned. Viv sat as if turned to stone.
The next day she asked David whether he had told his father about her. He was driving her to school because he needed the car: he had been invited to take six pieces of work to a gallery in Bath for an exhibition the following month.
He flashed her a sideways smile. ‘Well, of course! He knows I don’t do my serious work in a vacuum. Of course I’ve told him about you. I tell him about you all the time.’
She said slowly, ‘Have you told him about my childhood?’
‘Oh. You mean your father? I told him you had a rough time. No details. Of course not. None of his business. What on earth brought that up?’
‘He seemed to . . . know.’ She caught his eye in the rear-view mirror. ‘Sorry. Am I being paranoid? When he asked for a hu
g—’
He interrupted with an explosive sound.
‘He did not ask you for a hug, Viv! And yes, you are being paranoid. He said that if – if he – probably meaning Jinx – asked the nurses for a hug they would be disgusted. Actually, I have a feeling it’s policy these days. Physical contact is taboo. Can lead to being sued in court.’
She thought back, and knew David was right. She dropped her head. ‘Darling, I’m sorry. It’s just the – the – dad thing. Mine is dead and yours is sweet and nice and funny – I mean, he and Jinx together must bring the place alive. But somehow . . . I’m so frightened. And the fear disempowers me. Like a rabbit in the road – I’d heard about them being caught in the glare of headlights but until it happened to us that time . . .’
‘And what did we do?’ he asked quietly.
‘You stopped the car, and I got out and picked him up, and put him on the grass verge. The point was, he didn’t struggle when I picked him up. He had given up. And that is how I was. And I can see that now – remember it – realize that’s how it was. I knew it would happen, and I did nothing. In fact I protected my father. Dad. He was Dad, you see. I loved him.’
David was silent; the car moved into the nearside lane to peel off at their junction. There was a roundabout and he negotiated that. Then he spoke.
‘D’you know, Viv, for a moment there, I felt such deep envy.’
Of all things, she had not expected that. She turned to him, distressed. ‘Oh, David. My love for you is free and total. We hold nothing back – nothing—’
‘Except . . . that.’
‘It’s my stupid fault, David.’
‘And mine.’
There was another silence, and into it she said quietly and with conviction, ‘Thank God we found each other. We should have spoken like this before now. We have something extraordinary, David. We should acknowledge it, honour it, more often.’