Unhallowed Ground

by Gillian White

  Silence. The sounds of heavy digestion, and Georgie felt she was interfering, annoying them by just sitting there, as a morsel of gristle might annoy.

  And then, ‘When did you order the Radio Times? I told them at Buntings it wasn’t ours. I told them we don’t take the Radio Times, never have, and Mrs Betts said you’d been in and ordered it last week.’

  Sylvia, plying her knife and fork with the utmost delicacy, said mildly, ‘It’s easier having the Radio Times.’

  ‘And what is wrong with looking in the paper?’

  The clock on the mantelpiece rang half-past one, its tinklings unnoticed by either opponent. From the lime trees outside came the chatter of sparrows and from behind the shrubbery the burble of pigeons. There was such a thin slither between the world of normality out there and this vicious ritual. If only the walls were of cardboard, Georgie could put out one finger and knock them down for ever. Some other part of her mind could see the radiance outside and faraway like a golden cloud. But these walls were solid and square, shutting the three of them off from every other soul in the world. ‘I can never find the bally paper, Harry, that’s the whole point. You always take the paper and disappear off with it, and then I find it somewhere obscure like the greenhouse.’

  The light in Harry’s eye was now as angry as his wife’s. He worked his fork rapidly and vigorously. ‘I take the paper because I know damn well you never bother to read it.’

  ‘Well, I need to see what’s on TV. That’s why I ordered the Radio Times. So you don’t have to worry about taking the paper away now, do you? If we didn’t have such a dry, boring paper maybe I would read it.’

  ‘It would have been more sensible, Sylvia, if you had ordered a paper like the Sketch, instead of the Radio Times. The sort of paper you might enjoy.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with the Sketch.’ Sylvia’s lower lip was thrust forward obstinately.

  ‘Not if you enjoy scandal and overt pornography, no.’

  A cold, silvery laugh. Sylvia had sharpened her stilettos and was determined to use them. ‘Pornography! My God, Harry, you wouldn’t know what pornography looked like if it slapped you in the face.’

  ‘For God’s sake.’ His eyes lit up angrily. He slammed his knife and fork on the table.

  Silence sat between them for a while and mingled with the smell of mint sauce.

  ‘I don’t know how much more of this I can take.’ There’d be much scrabbling at the handkerchief. ‘I’ve had it up to here and I really don’t think I can carry on with all this…’

  ‘You don’t have to take it, Sylvia.’ Although Harry spoke quietly his fists were clenched, starched as the cloth, and his mouth, under his fierce moustache, was a grim, thin-lipped straight line.

  ‘Oh? Oh? And what is my alternative? This house is mortgaged up to the hilt, I have no means of earning a living, I have given my life to you and Georgina,’—there was never any mention of Stephen—‘and what do I get in return? No gratitude. No respect. Just a miserable existence cutting corners, having to manage this blasted mausoleum with only one maid in the house…’ etc… etc. And when she had finished, she sat there panting while Harry chewed on the stem of his pipe, puffing its contents into furious life.

  The voices were always controlled, never raised.

  Silence. A much longer one this time. And Georgie might dare to chip in with, ‘I might be going riding tomorrow. Sarah said if I helped her clean the stables this morning I could have a free ride tomorrow afternoon.’ Her mind wandered and babbled.

  But her words would be swallowed by quick sips of water as the battle subsided, as the contestants refreshed themselves ready for round two.

  And then there were those tough little puddings: syrup tart, burned jam sponge, hard pieces of pineapple with bits in, blancmanges with leathery skins. And every time Gwyneth or Megan put her head through the hatch there was a stony silence, and every time that hatch was closed they’d be off again with some harmless comment that piled and flowed into conversation, thick and enveloping as the custard.

  Georgie would have to explain to the viewers that they’d always had live-in staff. ‘This was their room, this mean little bedsit next to the kitchen, filled with ill-matching odds and sods: the old-fashioned telly, the glued ornaments, the Lloyd loom chair.’ The staff never stayed long. Most of them came from Wales, and Georgie used to wonder why so many rosy-cheeked girls left their homeland and came to live and work here. Why would anyone choose to live here? The idea was incredible. No wonder they cried so frequently. She would come upon them all over the place, dusters in their hands and hopeless tears running down their faces. It was only when she got older she learned why they got fatter and fatter. They had their babies in the nearby mother and baby home, gave them up for adoption and went.

  The girls got their keep, nothing more. This was just somewhere to hide their shame from the sad little valleys they came from. A charitable venture most convenient for embarrassed gentlefolk with large houses.

  She might stop and explain in the hall. ‘My parents loathed each other, you see, that’s the musty feeling you can taste on your tongue. Their hatred. And I can’t understand why they stayed together, but then people tended to do that in those days. Not like now.’

  And then she might show them the drinks cupboard, sticky still, with the sort of stain you can’t scrub off. No household cleaner is strong enough to take away that kind of stain. And her teeth might clench as the shudder passed through her and she saw the drunken eyes, smelled the sweet stench coming towards her, between the teeth in the dark… no wonder… poor Stephen. They say it is genetic. How come it affected Stephen, not her? A nasty little bequest. She demanded a key to her room in the end and spent her holidays at Daisy’s.

  How could she ever invite her friends there? Her mother was wicked to suggest that she could.

  But in spite of all this, Georgie managed to sell the house to a nice respectable couple with children, who were not put off by the terrible brownness or the clinging of pain.

  Perhaps they didn’t even notice.

  She thought about this as she drove back to London, dreading what lay in store for her there, the internal inquiry was starting tomorrow, but with the worry of selling the cottage off her mind, and with Stephen’s paintings stacked in the boot.

  She was looking forward to choosing her favourites and hanging them up round her flat. She would enjoy showing friends, especially the self-portrait. Discussing them. Exploring them. A family she could talk about at last, a brother she could display with pride.

  And Wooton-Coney seemed far away, as unreachable as any fantasy world.

  THIRTEEN

  HER HEAD FELT AS though it had burst right open—at eleven thirty that night a brick came smashing through Georgie’s window.

  After so many disturbed nights she was exhausted anyway, relieved to be back in her own bed, just dropping off, reaching that dreamy unreal stage when she heard the explosion and leaped up, heart bursting, dry eyes pulsing.

  The first terror was that some madman had broken into the flat. The screaming quiet after the crash buzzed in her ears as she tried to listen. Cautiously she got out of bed, slipping into her dressing gown as she crossed the hall and entered the kitchen. The draught drew her gaze to the window. Jagged shards of glass strew the carpet and a little drizzle dampened the place where she stood. Timidly Georgie stepped forward to draw the curtains before attempting the light. She trod on the brick on her way to the switch. ‘Jesus Christ!’ she shivered in terror, standing still while she stared down helplessly at the crude, broken weapon, clutching her dressing gown more firmly round her for whatever protection that might afford.

  If she had been slightly less tired she might have been able to summon some anger, because it was there all right, a knot in her chest, bulging furiously, screaming to be unravelled and pulled to pieces. But she couldn’t reach it and was left instead with the dry-mouthed, panicky cold of fear. Was the invisible enemy still out there
watching, waiting to throw something else? Was their intention to frighten her stiff? Or were they after more than that, actual bodily harm? She thought about Gail Hopkins; these same attacks were happening to her, poor Gail had even had shit shoved through her letter box, impossible here because the flat was on the first floor and the front door was automatically controlled by the residents only.

  Oh God, she prayed that one of the residents had not been careless tonight—it had been known to happen, somebody came in late, worse for wear, and forgot to click the door after them. Of course, she had never done that herself. Georgie has more self-control.

  So how do you deal with this sort of hatred? ‘You mustn’t take it personally,’ Helen Mace used to say. ‘You have to understand, Georgie, there are a lot of sick sods out there who wriggle to life whenever there’s an excuse for violence. These warped buggers aren’t worthy of your attention. They are sick and they need help, and if you allow this disease to touch you you’re playing straight into their hands.’

  ‘But I’m the one who needs help, dammit. It’s easy to say they are sick, and I’m quite prepared to give them, whoever they are, the benefit of the doubt. But it’s me they are after, Helen! And bit by bit, no matter how ill they are, they are destroying me!’

  ‘Only because you’re letting them.’

  ‘So how do I protect myself? How the hell can anyone dismiss such hostile aggression? You can’t just smile and wave it away. I feel like a kid again, Helen, just as helpless as I was as a child.’

  If only Toby was alive it would mean all the difference in the world. Georgie was all the more vulnerable because she lived alone, with nobody of her own to rely on, to hold her or make her better. What was the point of ringing up friends? Who would honestly welcome a phone call at one o’clock in the morning? She didn’t come first with anyone. Feeling more lonely than ever, and drenched in self-pity, she whispered distraughtly into the silence, ‘Who are you? Who are you and why are you following me? Don’t you think I am suffering enough with a child’s death on my hands? Don’t you think the fire was punishment enough?’ Holding herself together with difficulty she went to fetch a dustpan and brush, ‘It’s OK, Lola, it’s OK,’ and began, slowly and meticulously, to pick up every slither of glass. Tears of fear and self-pity began. The glass shone with rainbow prisms as she stared at it through her lashes, and she loathed herself. Her shame was total as she recognized the feelings—resentment and blame—resentment towards little Angie for allowing herself to die, blaming the child for her own predicament, and hatred, yes, hatred, because of her own unbearable unhappiness.

  Who said Georgie was blameless? She was as guilty as the murderer, more so, she was grotesque!

  She ought to ring someone up, but just couldn’t face those same old platitudes, apart from the fact that her friends must see her as a bore and a nuisance by now. So she sat to attention on the sofa with the light on and the kitchen curtains gently blowing. She tried to watch the TV, but it was some mindless American game show and the canned laughter was mocking. Anyway, that was no good in case she missed some stealthy movement outside. She was far too nervous to pick up a book, to concentrate on anything. The wet patch on the curtain was growing. She fondled Lola’s ears distractedly. She couldn’t stand any more of this. She would have to move, she would have to flee and let nobody know where she was so these maniacs couldn’t find her. She wept, unable to control herself. In spite of her secret hopes, the weekend in Devon had been nothing but a small distraction. It had done nothing to help her, she was back in the same old purgatory again, right in the middle of the monster which threatened to gobble her up.

  Mercifully, by morning, matters did not seem quite so desperate. The threat of physical attack was gone, but other monsters were lying in wait, devils of a different kind. The internal inquiry was starting today, and although Georgie did not fear the outcome, by its very nature it was bound to be unpleasant. This would be no informal chat with sympathetic colleagues, this would be more like the dock. This would raise painful issues: her part in the tragedy. She would have to put into words experiences and impressions so deeply felt they ached. As Georgie changed and showered she thought dully that she would have preferred to face today feeling fresh, no sleepless nights banging her ears or the dull inertia of weariness.

  ‘So how was Devon? Tell me about the cottage. I wish to God I’d come with you. I’ve had a hellish weekend and I’d have loved a couple of days away.’

  She nearly fell on Helen’s neck.

  ‘Helen, you wouldn’t believe a place like Wooton-Coney still existed. So prehistoric, so primitive, and the natives, my God. Now it all seems like a crazy dream. It’s just not possible I was there yesterday, mixing with those oddballs.’

  ‘You make it sound more tempting than ever. I’ve missed out on something bizarre. And what are you going to do about it, have you decided?’

  Helen’s driving was quick and competent. Perhaps it was her largeness that gave off the feeling of total safety, complete control of the car. Helen had insisted on collecting Georgie that morning and she had needed little persuasion. She would have hated to face this ordeal alone.

  ‘I’ve already had an offer and, of course, I’m going to take it. Helen, it was unnerving being there for one weekend, let alone a few weeks in the summer. Not good. Definitely. Bad vibes etc. And I need the money urgently. I’m going to have to move from my flat.’ Relief flooded through Georgie as she shared the terrors of last night with her friend, the calm and confident woman beside her. She was comforted and commiserated with, and Helen’s large and comfortable hand moved from the gearstick and patted her knee.

  How important human touch was proving to be.

  ‘But it’s not for much longer,’ comforted Helen. ‘You’ve got to keep that fact in your head. Soon all this hell will be over, it’ll start to feel dreamlike, as if you’ve never been there. Things always happen that way, no matter how awful. Everything fades in the end, and that’s why it’s so important you don’t do something impulsive. I mean, you love your little flat.’

  ‘Not any more I don’t. Not now it’s been invaded. It feels as if I’ve been invaded, almost as bad as rape.’

  Helen glanced over and caught Georgie’s eyes in the mirror. ‘I do understand, you know.’

  But Georgie found herself wanting to scream, You say you do, but how can you? And she knew if their positions were reversed she would be mouthing the same damn platitudes in the same tone of voice with the same concern. She moaned, ‘I seem to get over one obstacle and then there’s something else. It’s beginning to feel never-ending, and I’m tired, Helen. Really tired.’

  ‘The sooner this ordeal’s over the better. And then it’s obvious what you should do: get away for a good long time, somewhere warm, with lagoons and palm trees.’

  Easy! So easy. Helen made everything sound so simple. And Georgie felt a fierce pang of yearning for Toby.

  Helen’s voice was tinged with anxiety. ‘You do look tired. Worse than usual. Are you sure you can cope with this?’

  Georgie’s laugh was a cold one. ‘Do I have an alternative?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Well then.’

  The massed and pulsing life of London. A medley of noises, woven voices, hazes of sound. Pushing and sweating people. With a startled heart, Georgie glanced at the news-vendor’s headlines, would she be headline news tonight? But no, surely not, this inquiry was private. How infinitesimal one really was—a grain of sand—so much tossed spume created and driven by unseen winds. The morning rush-hour traffic built up around them, and Georgie, shatteringly nervous, wished she was one of those faceless people sitting in the bus, rumbling and swinging, with a certainty about where they were going and why. Taken along with the nodding crowd. Oh, for a ticket to somewhere calm. How she would treasure it. How she would value normality now.

  Eventually Helen dropped her off and disappeared in the jerking stream, just one more atom in the mass of metal, su
ddenly very insubstantial, and the sense of comfort drove away with her… too distant to call back.

  The smiles Georgie faced were bright or sympathetic, nothing in between. Everyone knew why she was here. Even the conference room felt different, probably because they had cleaned it specially and it smelled oddly of polish. With her heart leaping and scuttling she thought about school, only the rubbery gym-shoe smell was absent at this assembly. Acutely self-conscious, her shoes actually squeaked on the floor as she went to take her place at the table. She opened her briefcase and removed the fatal folder, placing it before her neatly, straightening it up with nervous hands, which is what she would have liked to have done with every word in the document.

  She must face this day and be positive, no negative whimpering. This was being done for her benefit as much as anyone else’s.

  Conducting the inquiry was Andrew Finch, indifferent, formal, but a pleasant man, chair of the social services committee. When he took off his jacket the shirt underneath was startlingly white and ironed hard like paper. Roger Mace sat beside Georgie. He said, ‘OK? This’ll soon be over.’

  But she was more than disconcerted by the tape recorder placed in the centre of the table. She’d never approved of her own voice, thinking it unconvincing.

  Strangers and colleagues. They filed into the room casually carrying cups of coffee. They took their places and opened their files. They all glanced quickly at Georgie, who was acutely aware of their stares and the carefulness of their eyes; the lights put a shiny gloss on the room although it was not dark.

  So many times now. Dear God, she’d been over this so many times. And this would not be the last time because the trial of Ray Hopkins was still to come, but that was some time in the future and Georgie could not think that far ahead. The process began. When she spoke she held her hands behind her back, she grasped a wrist tightly to stop any trembling. They questioned her politely and listened patiently to her answers while jotting down notes of their own, and the tape recorder made no sound as it spun round mindlessly gathering its awful information.