That They Might Lovely Be

by David Matthews

  ‘We must be going,’ said Dr. Furnival, ‘but, before we do, is there anywhere I can have a private word, Simmonds?’

  ‘I shall take Dr. Furnival into the study, Delia. Perhaps you can show Mrs. Furnival the garden and the schoolyard. Point out where I plan to dig the pool behind the pigsty. Your mother can be left a little longer.’

  Once they were alone, Dr. Furnival thanked him for passing on the sealed letter from Dr. Spode, addressed simply to Mrs. Simmonds’ doctor. It had been a very full letter, all very clear, describing Mrs. Simmonds’ depression during and indeed after her pregnancy, expressing the opinion that she may not be the most competent nurse for the new baby, that there had already been one regrettable accident but no apparent damage sustained.

  ‘I’m indebted to Dr. Spode for his explanation, Simmonds. I gather this was an unwanted pregnancy and quite a shock for you, for the whole family, I’m sure. The menopause or Change of Life can take longer in some women than others. A woman who has missed the cycle over a number of months may still, in this perimenopausal state, be fertile. If coition occurs at the same time, then there is, of course, a chance of conception. I gather this is the case here. There is a school of thought that shock may contribute to these freak irregularities in a perimenopausal woman. Dr. Spode wonders if the news of your elder son’s death could have been the cause. Personally, I think that’s rot. Not much point speculating; there’s been next to no research. Fact is though, it’s knocked your wife for six. She can’t be expected to fulfil her conjugal duty. Separate bedrooms, Simmonds, if abstinence is difficult. You understand me?’

  Simmonds nodded curtly. Dr. Furnival continued,

  ‘Your wife’ll need some attention. And then there’s the child. Your daughter will be a help, I’ve no doubt, but she’s a young woman with her life ahead of her.’

  ‘She’s intended for the school, Furnival.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I see. In that case, given any thought to extra help?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have. That’s all taken care of. I’ve engaged young Mrs. Baxter.’

  ‘Very satisfactory all round, I’ve no doubt.’

  There was a pause before Dr. Furnival continued.

  ‘Meant to ask why Weston-super-Mare? It’s a deuce of a distance when there’s Walmer or the Sussex coast near to hand if it’s sea air you wanted and I’d have been on hand.’

  ‘Of course. But we had connections in Weston. My wife’s from the midlands and she wanted privacy above all else. I’m sure you understand. And now, we must not keep you any longer.’

  ‘Quite. I shall pop in on a regular basis, Simmonds. Be sure of that. Good-bye.’ He stepped out through the hall and into the yard. ‘Now where is she? Clare!’ he called.

  With the Furnivals gone, father and daughter returned to the drawing room and faced each other in silence for a while.

  ‘I have no doubt it will get better, father.’

  ‘Better? We shall get used to it. It is fortunate that your Dr. Spode took it upon himself to write so comprehensively yet circumspectly to Furnival. Fortunate for everyone. But your mother has become a gynaecological phenomenon to litter Mrs. Furnival’s small talk.’

  If that is all, thought Delia, then I am content.

  ‘Things could have been much worse, Delia. If there had been two babies, there would have been twice as much to live down. Things will never be the same but they could have been much worse. We must have everything in check from now on. I hope you recognise that.’

  She did. From this point onward, there would be opportunity for neither recriminations nor sympathy. There should never be any need to revisit where she had been. It was as fresh a start as she could ever have expected.

  Tuesday, 1 June 1920

  The previous Sunday, Trinity Sunday, had been chosen as the date on which to dedicate the new west window to The Fallen: village men of the army and navy (there were none from the nascent air force) who had died in what everyone was now calling the Great War. Delia had accompanied her father to the ceremony. There had been an invitation. She had wanted to attend. Not only was Hubert’s name there in brass, but all but three of the others from the village had been boys at the school, taught by her father. Their whooping laughter in the schoolyard had told out Delia’s childhood as much as the school bell, rung by these dead in their turn on the bell-monitors’ rota, at five to nine and twenty-five minutes past one each day.

  Although it was just a step across the road to the schoolhouse, they had not lingered afterward at the church. Delia knew not to leave her mother too long alone with the baby. Later, however, in the early summer’s dusk, she had taken a walk toward Courtenay Farm before returning, via Boughton-under-Blean. As she walked up through the village, she noticed activity at the South Lodge. The gas was lit and oblongs of light fell across the front garden from the unshuttered windows. Delia would have thought no more about it, assuming that new tenants were due to arrive, if the carrier’s daughter had not then emerged from the lodge and met her in the lane.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Simmonds.’

  ‘Good evening. Are there new people coming for the summer?’

  ‘Why no, miss. That is, “yes” in a manner of speaking. It’s Mr. Cordingley. He’s coming home with a wife but he won’t set foot, they say, in the Big House nor have nothing to do with Lady Marg’ry.’

  ‘My God!’

  ‘That’s right, miss. There’s those that say they don’t know how he can bear show his face and the glass only just set in the church window. But we’ve had our instructions and my dad’s to collect them tomorrow from Canterbury.’

  Delia had always known that there was a likelihood Geoffrey would return at some point to his family estates and that she might encounter him again. She had assumed, however, that he would reside at the Big House and not take up residence in one of the lodges where the chance of a meeting in the shared lanes would be far greater; for those who lived at Mount Benjamin need never leave the grounds except by motor or on horseback, cocooned from any familiarity with their humbler neighbours. To have Geoffrey as a near-neighbour, Delia told herself resolutely, need not be awkward after the first meeting; it would be for her to lay down some pattern of distant cordiality. His wife would block any complications. Why would she seek any connection with the schoolmaster’s daughter? It was hugely unlikely that Geoffrey would ever have described his last meeting with Delia to his bride. And he would never want to court the risk of her telling his wife all she knew of his degeneracy.

  Who, she asked, is Geoffrey now to me? He is nothing but a dead friend who is responsible for a gross betrayal. I know that I have those grim events securely locked away. Only three other people, my father, Anstace Catchpool and Dorothy Lean could ever pick the lock and there is no reason to suppose any of them will attempt it. I have fought for this equanimity. Nothing, not even this awkward news will disturb it.

  Delia decided that she would not even mention this bit of local news to her father for to do so would give it a weight that it did not deserve. She knew that his front had hardened to impregnability; if he should encounter Geoffrey by chance, in the village, he would give him no more notice than he would a stranger.

  It was on Tuesday evenings in the summer that Lady Margery allowed the village children to use the lake in the grounds for their swimming lessons. Simmonds’ dream of building a pool in the school grounds had not yet come to fruition. Delia accompanied the swimming party, supervising the dozen or so children as they changed into their heavy, formless costumes in their separate bamboo clumps. Her father, his legs stained yellow to the knee from the clay at the bottom of the lake, spent the hour in the water supporting each child in the shallows until they had learned to float.

  Mr. Simmonds had transported the infant boy in the wagonette fixed to his bicycle. This was normally used to gather bracken to bed the livestock and Simmonds had left a deep cushion for the little boy to nestle in. He had left him lying there asleep, knowing that if he woke, the si
des of the wagonette would keep him penned in. Above the child, the breeze rustled and plied the bamboo fronds.

  Delia, some yards away near the water’s edge, was half-lost in her own memories of this annual summer activity and did not at first notice the figure on the far bank. He was standing at a point where the bulrushes were not growing so densely and the grass, pecked short by the grazing water fowl, extended down to the lake’s edge. Even though he was only in silhouette and the low sun, reflecting off the water’s surface, splintered the light, Delia recognized him. She knew the lopsided stance, the loose slouch. The way he put his hand up to his head and pushed back the hair from his forehead was all soo familiar. It was extraordinary what the memory could resurrect when, had anyone asked, she would have found it impossible to describe all that was now so acutely real. He seemed to be shielding his eyes the better to peer over the water to watch the schoolchildren bathing. Perhaps he too, thought Delia, is remembering all these summer swimming lessons which have taken place over the years. But it seemed as if he were looking for something or someone. He was moving now along the far bank, still straining to find what he was missing. She watched as he raked the far shore and then she was certain he had seen her. For a moment, surely, although each was too far from the other to be seen distinctly, they had locked eyes. As if to confirm this, he immediately turned and moved off away into the trees.

  Despite all her previous resolve, Delia was shaken; her self-possession was mashed. Seeing Geoffrey like that was disturbing for he was more a spectral version of Hubert’s friend (the man who had walked her around this very lake on numerous occasions that heady summer) than the wasted, broken creature she had last seen. She felt the phases of her life converge and tangle. They should have occupied distinct spheres circling on separate orbits and never sliding into the same plane. She turned away, angry with herself and with him that he could still wield such force.

  A slight, well-dressed woman was bending over the wagonette by the bamboo. Delia gasped. What was happening? Why these apparitions? What mad coincidence? But of course it was no coincidence. It was worse than that.

  Delia strode over to where Anstace was smiling at the child, now sitting up in the midst of the bracken.

  ‘It’s you,’ she seethed, ‘It’s you. You’ve married him. You’re the one.’

  ‘Hullo, Delia.’

  ‘Why have you done this to me?’

  ‘Delia … Delia.’

  There was no apology, no explanation. There was not even any embarrassment, which would have been something. There was just a mute assumption, in the way that she repeated Delia’s name, that acceptance and tolerance (if not understanding) should naturally flow and that any other reaction would be a distortion.

  ‘Let me ask you again: what have you done? No. No. Don’t simper. I don’t care why you’ve picked him up, why you’ve made him yours. I don’t care about any of that. I just want to know why you have come here. Why bring him back to Dunchurch? This is where I live. This is my home.’

  ‘It’s also where he lives. This is his home.’

  ‘How can you say that? He has not been here for years. He couldn’t stand the place.’

  ‘But it’s his and he has a right to live here. He needs to know he does not have to hide forever.’

  ‘He needs to hide from me.’

  ‘Does he? Why?’

  As if on cue, the child began to babble. Instinctively, Anstace looked down and smiled.

  ‘There’s no reason for him to be here. Don’t think it.’ Delia asserted and the steel in her voice checked any lightening which Anstace might have felt as the child tried to attract their attention.

  ‘I did not want you to find out by accident. It’s why I came down to the lake after I called at the schoolhouse and the girl told me you were here. Geoffrey does not want to trouble you. He does not want to upset you.’

  Delia laughed at that.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Anstace. He cannot upset me. He is afraid of me.’ As she said it, Delia could herself believe it. Perhaps he always had been afraid of what she, as Hubert’s sister, could stir in him. ‘But let me tell you: I am not afraid of him. I have nothing but contempt for him. And he needs to know that. And if he wants to be reminded of that, day by day, by living in this village with the schoolhouse just down the lane from the South Lodge and all his memories of Hubert and that summer, then stay! Damn you!’

  She left Anstace by the wagonette and half-ran up the bank and then round behind the lake to cut across the meadows on the edge of the estate. It was more than a mile back to the village, even taking this route, but she caught up with Geoffrey as he was ambling down the lane, on his approach to the South Lodge. She called out to him.

  He carried on, turning into the front garden. She called again and he stopped, one hand on the doorjamb to steady himself. He turned wearily and her anger, which she been fuelling in her haste, almost melted at that point. Close to, he was as much a wraith of the man she had first known as when she had last seen him in Ipswich. His hair had grown but it had lost its corn-like tones. The moustache might have given some distinction to his face if it had not emphasized the hollowness of the flesh it adorned. The cheeks were too sunken, the jawline too weak.

  Delia approached the garden gate slowly; she tried to steady her breathing. She stood no more than a few feet away from him and dropped her voice to little more than a whisper. It would have given him dignity to take him up in any other way.

  ‘I am appalled that you have come back,’ she hissed.

  ‘You need not have anything to do with me. We shall never meet. I have not come here to be near you.’

  ‘Why have you come back then?’

  ‘Anstace says this is my home.’

  ‘Is that the reason she has given?’ Delia was scathing.

  ‘Anstace has been marvellous.’

  ‘Of course she has. It is what she does best. What has she told you?’

  ‘She has told me who I am.’

  ‘That does not answer my question.’

  ‘She has told me nothing about you, if that’s what you’re asking. We have not talked about you nor about him nor about anything from behind. Delia, do not think that I have forgotten, but I do not want to remember.’

  ‘I am not surprised. You did things to me; you betrayed me in your twisted abuse of Hubert.’

  ‘I do not want to remember.’

  ‘Do you think I do? Do you?’

  ‘Can we not pretend to forget?’

  Was it going to be this easy? Just when she thought battlelines were to be drawn, was there going to be an immediate cessation of all hostilities? A truce? A treaty even?

  There was to be a silence. Of course: Anstace preferred silence. But Delia understood that silence could be taken and articulated to one’s own design. She could master this silence.

  She looked straight at the wretched man in front of her. She pierced him. He flinched, unable to meet her eye, then turned and went into the lodge, retreating into its depths, leaving the door open behind him. She took in the clutter in the hall, the packing cases, the brown holland draped over the newel post; there were cobwebs matted with dust, stretching across the fanlight above the door; the brass knocker was begrimed and dull. Smales’ daughter can only have given the place a cursory clean.

  He had arrived with no fanfare of welcome. If this was to be his home then he was welcome to it. Had Anstace really convinced him that it would be any different? Of course she hadn’t. He had gone along with her fanciful notions of redemption because he knew that to return to Dunchurch would be his purgatory. He expected to be despised and ostracized. He wanted it. He craved punishment. It was fitting.

  At the lake, Anstace had waited by the wagonette, playing with the baby, until Mr. Simmonds had emerged from the water and thrown on an old jacket. His costume sagged heavily. She had found it touching that two or three of the older girls had loitered in the vicinity, protective of the infant.

  ‘Mi
ss Catchpool.’ He greeted her cordially enough but they did not shake hands as his, he grimaced apologetically, was damp and wrinkled. She did not correct her name; Delia would explain soon enough.

  ‘I am staying nearby, as it happens, and heard you were all down here. I caught Delia before she had to hurry back. How nice to see you again.’

  He busied himself checking the wagonette was properly secured to his bicycle and threaded some rope between the straps on the child’s dungarees before knotting this to hasps on either side of the contraption.

  ‘The girls tell me he’s called Bertie.’

  ‘That’s right. His mother’s choice was “Hubert” but “Bertie” is more suitable.’

  ‘And how is Mrs. Simmonds?’

  ‘Having the child was a strain. She’ll never be as she was.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes. Few are strangers to sorrow.’

  ‘But there is a lot to be thankful for too.’ Anstace smiled and ruffled the child’s fair head.

  Simmonds nodded his farewell and pedaled off with the baby in tow.

  Talk

  ‘My dear, you look a complete fright—so very damp and blotchy.’

  ‘I always seem to find myself stuck in the tea tent at these summer bazaars. It gets so dreadfully stuffy. And I do hate the heat.’

  ‘You wouldn’t call this heat if you had lived in India. Even when one retreats to The Hills, the temperature is insufferable: at times, so appallingly enervating one can hardly summon the energy to crawl from under the mosquito net.’

  ‘But then I don’t suppose you had to stand over a tea-urn all afternoon. Sometimes, being the vicar’s wife—’

  ‘A rector’s wife. You must not forget your new status.’

  ‘Of course. A rector’s wife. Status: oh dear. It can be very difficult if one does not have the knack.’

  ‘You have to be assertive if you want to tame the natives.’

  ‘Is that what you did in India?’

  ‘Dear me, no! We left that to the regiment. We ladies were all deliciously idle. Bridge or whist and gossip could occupy us for a whole season.’