‘Do you ever just pop out, Anstace, dressed as you find yourself?’
‘Probably not. Besides, I like hats. And if one is visiting, isn’t it a courtesy?’ She picked up her hat where it had slipped off the hallstand. It was a snugly fitting straw affair with a couple of pheasant’s tail feathers tucked, forward-facing, into a purple band. She glanced quickly in the mirror before turning to Delia, who stood holding the door open for her.
‘Have you noticed how much like Hubert Bertie is growing?’
‘Is he? I don’t think about such things.’
‘It’s not a question of thinking, it’s just noticing. You should look at him sometimes. It’s not just his face—something about the eyes—it’s the way he moves, at home in his body. It’s another reason why I am so fond of him.’
There was nothing to say in reply and Delia closed the door. Why is it, she thought, that Anstace can never leave without smiling or, if not smiling, saying something buoyant. ‘Buoyant’ is absolutely the word to describe her. How irritating she can be!
Her own good mood had evaporated but she rejoined Gladys who was bustling about preparing something for supper before she left off her work for the evening.
Taking a dustpan she swept up the faded daffodil heads from the threshold. This sort of introspective play of his was surely evidence enough that Bertie was as far removed as ever from conventional communication. She would not worry herself on that score. There was enough chatter in the world; if he chose to remain silent, no one would suffer. The less he intruded on her world the better. He came from a time best forgotten. He was, she believed, an elective mute rather than a simpleton but, that being the case, she imagined his mental powers and rational thought would probably dwindle without conversation. Something in his head would atrophy for lack of use.
Was that so dreadful? Had not she consciously allowed any musical ability she might have had to wither away? She imagined she would now certainly be the equal of Anstace on the piano had she continued to practise. As girls, she had been the superior player but she had chosen not to keep it up; working at subtlety of expression or complex fingerwork had not engaged her. Now she only played in so far as she was obliged to, once or twice a week, for her pupils’ singing instruction.
Anstace probably sits and plays for Geoffrey most evenings. No doubt they have something of a routine. How thrillingly dull! I wonder if Anstace will return home and tell Geoffrey how like Hubert she thinks Bertie is growing and how increasingly fond of him she is! That conversation would be worth overhearing.
That night, in her dreams, darker images shuffled around the shadows of Delia’s mind, flitting about from pillar to pillar as if circling a great cloister: Geoffrey and Hubert, together in their secret world. And there was a third figure, smaller, more agile, making strange whooping noises as he ran across the quadrangle, madly traversing back and forth, back and forth, his arms spread wide and beating the air as if trying to fly.
Tuesday, 13 June 1928
Anstace had brought Mrs. Simmonds a bunch of roses from her garden but she had not stayed. It was not unusual for the two women to sit in what Anstace hoped was companionable silence when she visited. She came around to the schoolhouse at least once a week and there was often little to air; their lives ran on such uneventful tracks. Anstace, with her Quaker upbringing, never found the silence irksome but she would take her cue from the older woman. If she found Mrs. Simmonds more lively (and sometimes she could be as sharp as when Anstace had first known her), they would talk energetically of the world at large. At other times, Mrs. Simmonds simply seemed to appreciate Anstace’s presence and conversation might be no more than a gentle amble around the topic of their gardens, prompted by whatever flowers Anstace might have picked that day, or some anecdote about the school. Sometimes, however, it would not take Anstace long to sense that Mrs. Simmonds wanted to be left alone. She never said as much but she was gruff in her greeting and fidgeted.
To be dismissed in this way never troubled Anstace. Why would it? Her only purpose in visiting was to provide some company to the other woman so, if this were not wanted, it was nothing to her if she then withdrew. On these occasions, she would act as though it had always been her intention simply to pop her head around the door before having a chat with Delia or seeing if she could borrow a book from Mr. Simmonds. The fact that this would never be the case did not particularly concern Anstace. The deceit—if it warranted such a description—merely communicated a desire: she wished it might be so. It was all academic anyway for she was certain that the members of the Simmonds’ household had not really talked to each other for years.
This was one of those days. Anstace had left Mrs. Simmonds, carrying the roses away with her, into the kitchen, so she could bruise their stems and put them in water. The colours were not particularly harmonious and the stems too short and lax to carry the blooms to advantage but the flowers’ scent was lovely. It was one of those unaccountably ‘good summers’ for roses and they were blooming in such profusion on the trellises in her garden that Anstace had filled a trug without hesitation. As she arranged them, she chanted the names to herself, as she often did, as a sort of paean of gratitude: Gloire de Dijon, Ville de Bruxelles, Madame Alfred Carrière.
She had hoped she might find Bertie in the kitchen for Gladys had started employing him to blacken the stove or work the knife-grinder. However, neither of them seemed to be about this afternoon. Although the canvas bag, containing the dolly-pegs, was open and its contents lined up on the table in some precise configuration, which suggested Bertie had not been gone long.
Then glancing out of the window as she topped up the vases, she saw the boy across the yard, in the lea of the pigsty. He looked like a wild man, grubby and unkempt. He had obviously been watching her and now, guessing that he had been spotted, he slunk back out of sight; he had something in his hands. Anstace dried her hands and left the roses on the hall table where she hoped they would give general pleasure before slipping out the front door and around the side of the schoolhouse in the hope of surprising Bertie. Sure enough, he had not anticipated her manoeuvre and jumped when she spoke, even though she barely raised her voice.
‘What have you got there, Bertie? Will you show me?’ She stepped across the yard toward him. ‘What is it? Can I see? Or is it something special you want to keep a secret?’
She paused. She did not want to frighten him off. He was obviously about some business which he thought would be disapproved of. She crouched down, folding her skirt behind her thighs to keep it from dragging on the cobbles. Squatting like this, at his level, she would pose no threat.
‘You don’t have to show me, if you don’t want to. I haven’t seen you for quite a long time, Bertie. I think you’ve grown, you know.’ She waited, absorbing his stern gaze smilingly into her own. She continued to chat inconsequentially.
Her courtesy and patience was productive. She saw the frown recede and he flicked the heavy flaxen fringe away from his eyes. Tentatively, he held out his cupped hands to her. She rose to her feet and moved, slowly conspiratorial, toward him. He was nursing a tiny ball of fluff and feather, a wide fledgling’s beak and a pair of black eyes just discernible.
‘Oh, Bertie! A little baby bird! Wherever did you find it? I hope you didn’t take it from its nest.’
Vigorously, he shook his head and drew his cupped hands back against his chest.
‘I wonder what sort of bird it is. Do you know?
He shook his head but pursed his mouth into a pouting O, relaxed his lips and made the same shape again and again.
‘I think I can guess. And, looking at his sharp toes, I’m sure I’m right. You’ve found a little owlet. You must feed it the best food if you are to be its mother and father. It won’t be easy because owls are hunting birds.’
The boy gave her a straight look and she laughed.
‘Of course you know that already. Clever boy. I expect you’ve been watching the owls forever.’ Again, he made a sile
nt hooting shape with his mouth. Anstace continued. ‘I know someone who would be very interested in your baby owl. I should like it very much if you brought him to my house one afternoon so Geoffrey could see it. I wonder if you’d do that. I think he might be able to help you learn how to feed it.’
Bertie had come the following day. Anstace had set up her easel at one end of the lawn and was mapping the re-planting of her borders. Geoffrey sat a little apart, in the shade of a fig tree.
‘The trouble is,’ she mused, ‘I’m not sure enough of the heights of some of these cultivars. I want the delphiniums to really stand out, doing their vertical best…’
‘But you’ll never keep them exactly where you plant them. You never do. Just wait and see.’
‘That’s why I’m doing this designing while it’s summer so I know what to keep and what to move then, in the autumn, when things have died back, I can get it right the first time.’ She looked up to check her vision against what was there and saw Bertie at the far end of the border. He was standing under the pergola, haloed by the starlike flowers of solanum alba.
‘Hello!’ she called. ‘Geoffrey, I wonder if you can guess who has come to see us. Come and join us, Bertie. Have you brought your baby bird? Show Geoffrey.’
The boy was wearing a shabby tweed jacket several sizes too large for him but with capacious pockets to serve his purpose. He knelt on the grass in front of Geoffrey’s deck chair and produced the owlet from one pocket and a dead mouse from the other. The bird cheeped crossly making ineffectual stabbings at the animal with its immature beak.
‘Oh dear,’ said Anstace.
‘That’s not going to work, is it?’ said Geoffrey. ‘Let’s send Anstace into the house to make some lemonade while I show you what to do.’ He looked up at his wife. ‘Off you go. We’re going to do a bit of butchery.’
He spread his handkerchief over the back cover of the novel he was reading and produced his penknife.
‘The thing is, Bertie, the mouse needs to be in smaller bits for the baby owl. Normally his mother would tear her prey up and feed him little slivers so we’re going to have to do that for him. Let’s have the mouse and I’ll show you what to do.’
Geoffrey had never eviscerated anything in his life but he had seen many a gamekeeper paunch a rabbit and, as a boy, had watched the cook draw a pheasant. And he knew his basic anatomy. The mouse was limp, its back broken from the spring of the trap, and still faintly warm. Geoffrey was acutely aware of the delicate structure of bones beneath the soft skin as he lay it on its back and cut down from throat to tail. Bertie peered over, pointing at the spillage of gut, escaping oozily from the body’s cavity.
‘Shall we see if the little fellow fancies the innards?’ Geoffrey severed a coil of gut and offered it on the edge of his knife to the squawking fledgeling. ‘Not at all dainty in its habits. No doubt quite hungry too.’
He did his best to dismember the mouse but it was impossible to do so tidily. Apart from a natural reluctance to handle the dead creature, the book kept sliding on his lap and the handkerchief prevented the knife cutting through cleanly. He persevered so that the boy was able to dangle a continuous stream of small morsels of mouse in front of the ravenous bird. After a while, he noticed Bertie was taking more of an interest in the dismembering.
‘Here. You do it. Forget the handkerchief. Cut on the book. It was a tedious thing anyway. Just make sure you give the bird tiny bits. I think when he’s bigger, he’ll eat the bones and everything but I’m not sure whether he can at this stage. You’ll have to watch carefully and see what he can manage. Instinct will take over. I’m going to wash my hands. You’ll have to do the same when you’ve finished. That’s important.’
Indoors, Geoffrey looked at his hands as he pressed them against the porcelain of the washbasin. The warm water in which he had submerged them shifted gently, distorting their outline. He felt lightheaded (it had not been one of his better days) but also elated. The afternoon had suddenly swerved away from its predictable course.
He had risen above the nice conventions of the home counties to answer a primal call. The tended lawn and the neat herbaceous borders had been replaced by a raw environment where stronger forces operated. A carnivorous creature needed feeding. Squeamishness is a learned reaction, he thought. This strange, lost brother of Hubert’s did not have it. Mice were trapped every day in millions of houses across the land; he had simply made use of a carcass. This death had been productive. Geoffrey was gratified that he had been able to help.
However pathetic the offering, he felt a sacrifice had been performed. The altar may have been no more than a verbose novel and the holy cloth a used handkerchief but the ritual remained. But to what or to whom had they sacrificed? And why, in the name of all that might be holy, should sacrifices of living things still be so potent? Had there not been enough ritual slaughter to last a millennium?
Why, he thought, is killing so elevated when death is so drab?
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the mirror. He needed to master his breathing. He needed to control his racing heart. It was the boy. He had recognised Hubert and now he needed to carry this newly borne image of his friend. Bertie is how Hubert was before I ever knew him. I need to cherish this child, this Hubert-Bertie, a wild innocent, before the world’s mesh entraps him. I would be the sacrifice. I would throw myself on the pyre, if that’s what it takes, to hold everything as it now is with Hubert resurrected into this beautiful boy, forever safe.
Anstace would have returned to the garden now with a jug of lemonade. Geoffrey had no doubt that she would have taken the mutilated mouse in her stride and, matter-of-fact, managed Bertie’s handwashing, making sure he understood he must always use soap when he’d fed the vulnerable chick.
Geoffrey splashed his face with water and steadied his breathing before joining them under the fig tree. He told Bertie he could keep the penknife provided he looked after it and kept the blade clean.
‘Until your father gets you one of your own or the owl is big enough to hunt for himself. I’ll show you how to keep it sharp if you come again but you must be careful not to cut yourself.’
Tea was inevitably a quiet affair with the adults focused on the silent child and he absorbed by the owlet, bunched on the grass at his feet. Lingering over the refreshment was not something which interested Bertie. He was off before long, carefully transferring the owl to his pocket, but smiling shyly before he left. Geoffrey insisted on offering the child his hand to shake and something in the way Bertie responded, moved Anstace profoundly. He was emerging from wherever he had been, she felt sure, and glad to be doing so.
Later that evening, when she was sitting at his bedside before retiring to her own room, Anstace told Geoffrey how good he had been with Bertie.
‘You talked so easily to him as if you had known him forever. I’m sure you were right to not to expect him to respond. Gladys has got the same knack.’
‘You forget the practice I have had talking to myself.’
‘I shall never forget. But this was not talking to yourself. You understood him absolutely. He was utterly at ease with you and taking everything in. Geoffrey, there’s nothing wrong with his mind, I’m sure of it.’
‘But he never speaks.’
‘So they say. But I am sure he talks in his head and sometimes he almost talks aloud.’
‘I wonder what’s gone on.’
‘The schoolhouse is a bleak place to grow up in.’
‘Is it just that Hubert’s not there? There are plenty of other families who have lost a son or a brother and coped.’
‘But plenty who haven’t.
‘And no one else lost Hubert.’
‘Did Bertie remind you of him?’
‘Yes. Yes. Painfully.’
The silence which followed was heavy with memories jostling for ascendancy.
We have so little control, thought Anstace, over what floats to the surface. If only I could filter what confronts Geoffre
y. I’d like to hold a golden riddle and sieve his memories for him. But for that to be possible, he’d first have to throw them all — all of them—into my lap.
Anstace did not want Geoffrey to turn out the light, weighed down by the past or whatever version of the past he might conjure out of the darkness. She was so sure that, if he could only see Bertie for who he surely was, his whole perspective would brighten. There would be a future to obliterate the past.
‘I think we should encourage Bertie to visit us as often as possible. Next time I see Delia, I’ll mention it and suggest I take some scissors to his hair. It’s like a thatch. You wouldn’t mind if he was a frequent visitor would you? It wouldn’t hurt too much?’
‘I don’t fear the hurting. How could I be hurt by Hubert’s brother. And now, good night. You must go. You can’t sit with me all night.’
‘You’ll need a new book to read. Shall I find you something?’
‘Tomorrow.’
She kissed him on the forehead and went to her own room, wondering how long it would be before Geoffrey woke her with his nightmares. One day, she prayed, they would be dispelled forever.
Thursday, 14 March 1929
The afternoon light had dwindled to nothing. Anstace rose and closed the curtains. She would have to ring for more coal within the hour and build up the fire for the evening but, for now, she settled herself again in the wicker chair she had drawn up to her husband’s bedside.
She thought Geoffrey was asleep and very gently, so as not to disturb him, she placed her hand over his, as it rested on the counterpane: a mute reassurance of her presence which might drift into his dreams.
‘I want to talk … to you.’ His breathing was laboured, the words a difficulty.
‘Oh, Geoffrey, did I wake you? I’m so sorry, my dear.’
‘I was awake … just resting … but I want to talk. There are things … I want to say. There may not be … another time.’
‘There is no need, you know.’
‘No need for you but … I don’t have your … capacity … for silence … not now … not at the end.’ He tried to squeeze her hand and she, registering the gentlest pressure, responded. ‘In the end … silence is too ambiguous. But it has been … you, Anstace, have been … my balm.’ He turned his face from hers and she felt, rather than saw the tears well up and pool his eyes. She wished he could weep openly. She felt the grasp of his hand loosen as if his last reservoir of feeling was seeping away with his tears.
That They Might Lovely Be Page 4