That They Might Lovely Be

by David Matthews

  ‘I have always known her by her married name of “Cordingley”, although I suppose she is “Mrs. Simmonds” now.’

  Kingsnorth realised he had betrayed himself with this spiteful aside for the daughter broke in, preventing her father from continuing. Although her face was sweaty and a red mottling played upon her throat, his quip had jolted her out of her temporary debility. There was a tremor in her voice but it would not, he knew, stem from any weakness but from the sheer effort of suppressing a dangerous fury. When she smiled at him, and her words were squeezed through this mockery of pleasantness, he knew she had seen through his professional veneer.

  ‘You have an interest, do you not, Mr. Kingsnorth? I am right, am I not, that your wife is the late Mr. Cordingley’s cousin? I am right, am I not, that your wife’s family has never accepted the terms of his mother, Lady Margery Cordingley’s will? And no doubt I am also right that Cordingleys and Kingnorths are rejoicing in a development which they think might give substance to whatever claim they are hatching to appropriate the estate.’

  ‘Miss Simmonds, I can assure you—’

  ‘No, Mr. Kingsnorth, you can assure us of nothing. You are compromised. But even if you weren’t, understand this: my father and I have no interest in Bertie’s legacy. We are not involved. We never have been. Ever. Never. We made that clear before. And I think, therefore, that your only purpose in coming here this afternoon is to malign.’

  She had risen from her chair and taken a step forward so that, even had he not still been sitting, he would have felt threatened. As he stood and tried to muster some advantage (holding onto his lapels as if to emphasise his sombre, professional attire, lifting his chin from the starched constrictions of his wing-collar), he knew that nothing he could say would have the slightest effect. I have crossed a dangerous woman, he thought. I doubt she is entirely sane.

  ‘Sit down, man,’ said Simmonds. ‘You came out here presumably to tell us more than this. You would have expected us to hear of this—this marriage—in due course, without having to set yourself up as the bearer of the news. So out with it. Sit down and out with it.’

  Simmonds is ignoring his daughter. He has no more control over her, thought Kingsnorth, than over a wild thing; and to think that he once was a schoolmaster with every child in the neighbourhood obedient to his instruction.

  Delia had turned aside and was standing away from them. One hand was on her throat, trying to assuage the burning sensation she was experiencing. The other, Kingsnorth saw, hung by her side, the fingers splayed rigid, immobile, but ready, it seemed, to snatch or grab at any weapon for attack or defence. Her lack of any femininity, any graciousness, repelled him and this was licence enough for him to wipe from his mind the humiliating fear for his person which, for a moment, she had induced in him. He turned toward the elderly schoolmaster. He did not care if his face registered the contempt with which he now defended himself.

  He sat down and, maintaining a stiff posture, spoke to the old man. His tone was coldly professional but he could give himself no credit for influencing the temperature of the interview. Frederick Simmonds was glacial. It was not a question of being ‘unmoved’, he did not even appear interested. I might, thought Kingsnorth, be talking about the state of the roads or the length of the queue at the butcher’s. There was nothing, not even a twitch in the jaw muscle or a narrowing of the eyes, to suggest the slightest concern. Kingsnorth persisted; he spelled out, in as much detail as he could, the situation. He hoped that he might bait them into some response.

  He was aware of the woman behind him shifting her position. He would have preferred to have her in his sight but better that she was present than not. He realised that she was more likely, being more emotionally charged than her father, to give him what he wanted.

  ‘It is now ten years since Lady Margery Cordingley willed practically everything to your son, Bertie Simmonds, in the belief that he was not your son but the illegitimate child of her own late son, Geoffrey Cordingley. She was perfectly entitled to do this although there was an expectation that Lady Margery, now childless, would honour the spirit of her late husband’s will and bequeath the estate to her husband’s nieces. And yes, Miss Simmonds, I am married to one of them. However, as you know, in the spring of 1930, Lady Margery suddenly revoked her earlier will and left everything to Hubert Frederick Simmonds.’

  ‘Oh, call him “Bertie” for God’s sake. We never called him “Hubert”.’

  ‘Very well, Miss Simmonds. Lady Margery’s will explained that she regarded Hubert Frederick Simmonds, or Bertie, as her grandson. The question then arose as to whether Bertie was indeed the illegitimate son of Geoffrey Cordingley. And, if he were, who was his mother?’

  ‘None of this is new. I have been hounded by malicious gossip and innuendo ever since that sick woman made her will. You yourself pestered us with innumerable letters and, in the end, my father and I signed affidavits swearing that Bertie was who we had always said he was. What more could be done? We do not need this tedious reiteration from you.’

  Kingsnorth was delighted. His words had begun to sting. He swiveled around in his chair so he could observe the woman’s reaction. But she had composed herself so that her expression was now as stoney as her father’s. They reminded him of some of the less savoury clients he had dealt with early in his career who, clearly guilty of all with which they had been charged, retreated into a stronghold of silence, when under interrogation, in the misguided belief that it lent them some nobility. The Simmonds’ emotionless demeanour did not fool him. It was camouflage.

  If Bertie was who they said he was, how could they be unmoved? He had been a child with arrested mental development, marked ten years before, not only by that bizarre Easter phenomenon but also by Lady Margery’s peculiar favour. His life—Simmonds’ and his daughter’s lives — had changed irrevocably. To feign this carelessness was disingenuous.

  As he continued, Kingsnorth hoped his tone conveyed the right balance of righteous irritation and superior moral perspective.

  ‘You mention the affidavits, Miss Simmonds, but you know perfectly well that it was only much later, when you yourselves had begun to feel the pressure of public opprobrium, that you agreed to sign them. At the time, you merely referred me to his birth certificate as I sought to bring some clarity to an extremely murky situation.

  ‘However. I am happy to leave that to one side. The fact is, three things have now occurred. First, Bertie Simmonds has come of age. Secondly, as a result of this, the Trust set up to manage his inheritance has folded. Thirdly, extraordinarily, he has married Anstace Cordingley. You therefore need to know that my clients, Lady Margery’s nieces, will be filing a legal challenge to Lady Margery’s will and the circumstances surrounding her making of it. You are both likely to be called as witnesses at any proceedings which follow.’ That was it. That dart should penetrate. He felt like jabbing the old man in the chest to make the point even more emphatically.

  Kingsnorth waited but Frederick Simmonds merely let his eyes meet Kingsnorth’s. His straight gaze was unwavering, blind to anything which might cause his eyes to register, by even the smallest muscular contraction, any emotion. There was nothing for the solicitor to read there, neither fear, nor resentment, nor even weary resignation.

  Kingsnorth felt himself thwarted. He had never forgiven this pair for the haughty disdain with which they had always treated him. Who did these country nobodies think they were? They were entangled, one way or another, in this fraudulent appropriation of the Cordingley estate, yet still they refused to acknowledge his professional role and status.

  He would have his revenge and he told them what it would be: to force a court appearance and have them thrown back into the public eye. They continued to sit, stonily impassive, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing a new wound opening. He felt his throat tighten with impotent fury. He swallowed hard and continued, his words level and pointed; he wanted every syllable to be a barb.

  As he spoke,
Delia moved around the room until she stood behind her father. She was silhouetted against the window so he could not read her expression. Was he deluding himself or had her ferocity grown brittle? Was there something about the way she held herself which had sagged?

  ‘Yes, my clients have instructed me to renew their challenge to Lady Margery’s will because this marriage raises two important questions. Perhaps you have already realised what these are. Significantly, Anstace Cordingley is now in a position to inherit or at the very least enjoy the Cordingley estate at Mount Benjamin; therefore, someone other than Bertie Simmonds is now clearly gaining from Lady Margery’s will. Additionally, Anstace Cordingley’s marriage to Bertie means that he cannot be her late husband Geoffrey’s son for such a relationship would be an impediment to marriage. You see, there is much to be picked apart in the courts. There may have been a conspiracy to disinherit Lady Margery’s nieces, her lawful heirs, and appropriate a fortune.’

  Kingsnorth was at his sternest. He intended to convey that behind him sat the full weight of England’s judiciary. He demanded to be taken seriously. He would force some acknowledgement. At last, by rising to his feet, Frederick Simmonds seemed to accept the challenge. But he merely gestured to the door.

  ‘Delia, could you show our visitor out?’

  ‘Mr. Simmonds, I could save you and your daughter a considerable amount of time and relieve your distress if—’

  ‘Do I appeared distressed? You can save me nothing.’

  ‘You cannot hide from this. I must make that clear. You cannot pretend things can stay as they are. Bertie Simmonds (whoever he is) and Anstace Simmonds (as we must now call her) are part of your life. They—’

  ‘They are not. They have no more substance than a wraith, a ghost. Some people might believe in such things just as some people believe in angels, but I do not. Nothing you have said holds any interest for me. The blackcurrants and gooseberries in the garden interest me as do, at present, the spitfires in the skies, but you and what you deal in do not.’

  Kingsnorth felt the physical presence of the man, taller than he was, broad chested and trim in the body. Whether it was the fact that he was being confronted by a schoolmaster or some other trigger, he did not know but Kingsnorth suddenly experienced those same raw feelings of worthlessness and inadequacy which he associated with his early schooldays. He felt bullied and intimidated and the resources which he had acquired over his professional career to counter those feelings now simply evaporated. He was a pathetic thirteen-year-old again and the dry legal processes, which he now peddled, were inadequate; they were no substitute for a heroic temperament. But even at thirteen, bruised and humiliated from some sordid mistreatment at the hands of older boys, he had never been wholly cowed. That same resilience now surfaced. He would beat Simmonds in the end; the law would run its relentless course and it would be something to see the light of defiance finally die in the other man’s eyes.

  In the meantime, however, there was nothing further that he could say which could have any effect against such obdurate disinterest.

  On leaving, Kingsnorth could only snatch a bleak consolation from Simmonds’ sneering, parting words. The fact that he felt compelled to assert his utter lack of engagement was an indication, surely, that some nerve had been laid open, that he— Robert Kingsnorth—had some potency.

  Delia handed the solicitor his hat and coat. She had wanted to look him in the eye and skewer him in the way that her father had but she found she did not have that same cold strength. She said nothing to him and so the only acknowledgement he gave her was a curt nod as he settled his hat. She leaned with her back to the door and listened to his footsteps as he walked away from the cottage. The dog started barking again, challenging the grumbling of the engine as he started up his motor to drive back to Canterbury.

  ‘Oh, be quiet,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Quiet.’ The word was more of a description of her craving than an imperative.

  She returned to her father who was staring out into the garden. The light had shifted with the late afternoon and the heavier woodland, bordering the vegetable plot to the west, now threw much of the garden into shade.

  ‘Have you tuned in the wireless?’ he asked her.

  ‘Not since we finished luncheon. I doubt that there’ll be any more news. Just that guarded optimism now that the skies have stayed clear and the standard warnings about enemy pilots bailing out.’

  ‘Perhaps an invasion really has been averted. But if it hasn’t, I’d not run, Delia. If the Germans came up through Kent, as they would, bound for London, I’d stay here whatever the outcome. I’d expect you to decide for yourself what to do.’

  She knew better than to dissuade him or even to discuss the issue. If the Germans crossed the Channel or dropped thousands of airborne soldiers into Kent, the situation would be critical— literally a matter of life or death—but even that, she knew, would fail to move him. She could imagine others remaining resolutely in their homes, as the invaders fought their way toward the capital, because they would be driven by a stubborn resolve to defend what was theirs, however high the odds were stacked against them. Her father’s immobility, however, was not inspired; there was no moral agency behind his passivity.

  If it had been his intention, by raising the topic of an invasion, to distract her from the business dropped upon them by the solicitor, Delia was not to be so easily diverted. If there were anyone other than her father to whom she could talk, she would have done so, leaving her father to his own thoughts. But there was only one other person alive who understood anything of her family’s real circumstances and that person, Anstace, was the last person Delia could ever approach. So it was to her father that Delia posed her question.

  ‘Why do you think she’s done it?’ she asked. It was the same question she had asked herself, on different occasions, over more than twenty years. Why? What was it that drove Anstace, with her implacable calm, to intrude upon—no, it was far deeper than mere intrusion; ‘invade’ or ‘devastate’ would be more apt—their lives?

  ‘It will have been convenient. Why else would anyone do anything?’

  ‘Spite.’

  ‘Do you really see Anstace as some malevolent force turned against you?’ Frederick Simmonds turned to face his daughter. He raised his eyebrows quizzically; it was the most visible display of emotion he had shown all afternoon.

  ‘What other explanation? Why does she persist… ?’

  ‘She took Bertie ten years ago. Was that spiteful? I remain profoundly grateful to her. You should be too. We have had a much quieter time than we should otherwise.’

  ‘Quieter. Yes.’

  ‘And this marriage … no doubt there has been a ceremony of sorts. It will be legal. But I shall not concern myself with the detail. People marry for many reasons. As I say, it will be convenient.’

  ‘But the talk.’

  ‘There will always be talk. You know that. I told you when you prevailed upon me to swear that affidavit that it would not be the end of it. Now there’ll be more talk. The question is whether you listen to it.’

  We have nothing in common, she thought. We never have. He has never taken the trouble to understand me. He was never particularly interested in me as a child and it is no different now. People might look in on our domestic situation, observing the unremarkable sameness of our routines, perhaps even commending some filial loyalty, and think that father and daughter are no doubt a comfort to one another (for had there not been trouble in the past, some family tragedy?). They would be wrong.

  Temperamentally, she thought, we face in opposite directions. Our history binds us together with just enough slack to give each of us the illusion of free movement until something gives us a jolt. Then, we start up and immediately pull apart, straining against the ropes which shackle us together until they scour their way deep into our flesh.

  Every disturbance confirms his abhorrence of society. It would be monastic if there were any creed sustaining him. It is not mi
santhropy because there is no anger or bitterness. He could be far out at sea staring over the grey, swelling waves, with nothing at the four points of the compass to break the horizon. Or he could be deep in the desert with dune upon dune of sand, unrelieved by any movement except the pattern of their own slowly shifting shadows, as the sun takes its daily course. In either situation, his expression will remain impassive, unperturbed. It is only in places such as these that he could come close to a sort of serenity.

  Whereas I … What would content me? It’s despicable that after everything, the thing I dream of most is still that view from the lawns of the Big House at Mount Benjamin, with the village to the east and its farms rolling away to the south, beyond the ha-ha. Such a thing never came to pass. I shall no doubt end my days in this cottage on the edge of the woods.

  But knowing this does not mean that I can simply settle to my fate in surrender. I have been driven to it but I am not, God knows, at heart, a solitary creature.

  When one’s existence is as thin as mine has become, she thought, anything which steals those fragile courtesies (the casual greeting by a neighbour, the touching of a cap in passing, the nod exchanged with a slight acquaintance met by chance in town) leaves devastation. It is not in my nature to shrink away. I have never been cowed. But that does not mean I can shrug off disdain, or disregard, or even pity as easily as Father turns to the thinning of his carrots.

  I have been worn thin, she thought, struggling against a foe too subtle to grapple with: Anstace.

  It is Anstace who provoked the talk. How could Father feel any gratitude to her for taking Bertie on? It had been she, with her interfering indulgence of the boy, who had provoked that first torrent of talk, rumour, gossip and speculation in the papers which had such a terrible outcome. We had kept Bertie as good as mute before Anstace worked on him.