by Jane Gardam
‘Thomasina?’
She was asleep.
‘Did you . . . last night . . . were you saying something or did I dream it? Are you wanting to see the baby?’
‘What?’
‘If you are, my dear . . . My dear, if you are—you are wanting to see the baby—no question, we’ll see the baby and Holly’s husband’s people, of course we will. The wedding’s nothing.’
‘Why ever should I want to . . . ?’ She turned from him, eyes shut.
‘You said so. Last night. As you were falling asleep.’
‘No. I said it settled it. I needn’t go. Great excuse, darling, really. It’ll be a nice wedding.’
He saw that her face had lost its quiet mask of sleep and now wore another: one of amused weariness.
‘I’m afraid we are not going,’ he said; ‘we are going to see this child.’ Then he asked what he had not dared before. ‘Thomasina, why not? Why are you such a coward?’
Twenty minutes later, swooping out of the bathroom, she called out, ‘Giles, I think you’d better hurry up and get the bill if we’re to get off before eight. We’re never going to do it by two if we have to go round by your house.’
‘We don’t. We’re not going, not to the garrison nor to the wedding. You want to go to Faith. I know you do. Why can’t you just go? Thomasina, I know what I’m doing. If you don’t face what’s happened to Holly, if you don’t face the fact that Faith is part of Holly—’
‘You have no idea what you’re talking about,’ she said. Her face looked old, her mouth a trap. ‘You and your childless wife.’
‘A last chance,’ he said in the car. ‘North or south? This place where Faith has gone is ten minutes away. I’ve looked it up.’
‘I must go to the wedding.’
On the grind south neither of them said much more. Cars and lorries roared and spun along, nose to tail, three columns. Past road works, accidents, and police cars sitting in side roads waiting to pounce, they drove, jerking and manoeuvring through the costive approaches to London, round London, out of London.
The general’s red-brick box of a house seemed to hold no interest for Thomasina. As he dressed for the wedding upstairs she sat downstairs doing her fingernails on the edge of a businesslike oak desk, not looking out of the window where there were playing fields and skin-head soldiers running. The general, immaculate, came down the stairs, holding several hats made of felt and feathers and a plaited and limp pink turban with a gilden brooch. ‘I’m afraid Hilda wasn’t great on hats,’ he said.
Thomasina had walked away to the hall mirror then, taking a silk scarf from round her neck. She wound it round her head and pinned it with her own brooch, whereupon it became a delicate if slightly precarious hat. ‘We must go,’ she said.
The house was bleak about them. She saw lists pinned up, memos, framed mementoes of a directed life, many photographs of the regiment and a decoration mounted behind glass in a frame in the hall. The Queen’s signature. The place she felt suddenly as a trap, an airlock. Who was he—the man she had clung to naked for three weeks of loving nights, three weeks of days when she had delighted in looking so perfect with him, perfect for him? So safe, so adored. But whoever was he?
‘Do you love me?’ she asked.
It could not have been a worse moment. The general in his morning coat was checking his watch. ‘We’ll just about make it. Come along. Sorry about poor Hilda’s hats.’
She thought, And how can he possibly know me if he can offer me her hats?
Better end it, she thought as they tiptoed agonisingly late into the church, she first, smiling her lovely apologetic smile at faces here and there (‘Thomasina’s here,’ whispered old Hugo to Pammie. ‘Man she’s with looks a bad-tempered cuss.’ ‘Don’t look,’ said Pammie) and Giles behind her, chin out like the rock of ages.
Giles stood to attention through the remainder of the service, trying to breathe steadily and become unnoticeable inside the kaleidoscope of colour, the stained glass of the windows, the pink of the bridesmaids and pages, the creamy, foamy mass of the large, smiling bride, the emerald and silver of the vestments, the flowers everywhere—late roses, phloxes, michaelmas daisies, country things—the young men out in force in their gladrags, the urgent, painted girls, clever and silly, self-interested and yet yearning. Long, long lives ahead. He thought of love and youth. Could he really love Thomasina? He hardly knew the woman. Better end it.
The old woman in front of them turned round to him—beautiful woman, old as time, quite bats, obviously rather fun though—she turned to him and said, ‘Hello, Giles darling. Do you remember Egypt?’
19
As Thomasina and the general were sitting down at their moorland hotel for their gigantic breakfast at seven o’clock before their long journey of discord to Surrey, ten miles away across the heather Jack was walking in the wet mist of his fields, conversing with God.
At The Priors the view shone and glittered. The heather was rosy, swimming in miles of light like a coating of pink bluebells. Wet sheep stood in its wooden stalks, silvery on the dark deserted moor roads. Larks were plucked up from it like fish on a line, fluttering and spluttering with enthusiasm for the sunlight. Below them the clefts in the moorland were filled up with mist so that the heather seemed broken with white water. These lakes were just beginning to smoke, drawn up like the larks towards the sun.
As the mists drifted upwards, sometimes masking the road and the sheep and the heather on the ridges for several minutes and leaving things wetter than ever so that the sheep steamed too and the hard patches of road shimmered with mirage, as it all drifted upwards, the valleys emerged brilliantly green. Little round knolls with trees on top cast miles of shadow over farmland and fields. The ragged ruin of The Priory arch stood over Jack’s sheds like an elephant above chickens. It held itself nobly, the sun streaming through the stonework to settle on the prefab jumble of shanties Jack had somehow been allowed to build in the cloister. A number of tombstones had been moved to stand near the gatehouse in a cluster, tipping a bit, their shadows behind them.
Jack went in to his tin-can church now and lay face down, arms outstretched, prostrate in the sunlight, thanking God for the wonder of His grace.
Then he went out and unlatched the door of the chicken houses, determinedly not looking towards the Tibetans’ quarters. It saddened him to think that Himalayan people could like to stay in bed in the morning. He had hoped his folded moors might have enlivened them. They were after all mountain folk who would probably never see their own land again. He was having difficulty, more each day, in getting the Tibetans to work in the fields and hoe the late vegetables, which tasks had been part of the deal of their coming. The weather was so warm compared with Lhasa’s, the air so easy, and the conditions of life he considered so close to God they ought to bring healing. Jack was the last person to make anyone work any harder. Jocasta in the handicraft and artistic department of The Priors had much more success with the women at the looms. Slowly cloth was beginning to be dyed as they had seen it in Darjeeling on their honeymoon visit to the Tibetan Centre there. Jack tried not to be jealous of Jocasta and was pleased that the newest tenants at The Priors seemed contented enough. He loved to hear the drone of meditation and music coming from the sheds and found that it more than made up for the amount the Tibetans ate and their passion for confectionery. Seven pounds of Cadbury’s chocolate fingers and three of chocolate wheatmeal had been consumed in a month. But the perpetual political discussion and rowdy quarrels among the younger ones, all conducted in Liverpool accents, rather disappointed him and the late leek crop went unplanted. He was glad when the two Tibetan men suddenly packed off.
But about the Tibetans’ attendance once a day for worship in The Priory he was adamant. He did not care if they conducted their own meditations but he insisted that an hour of worship in the interpretation of God’s name must be undertaken. He h
ad assumed that this would come easily to Buddhists and left them to it and they did turn up more or less every day. But in the matter of weeding they needed instruction and they did not present themselves for that. The Smikes, who had been undergoing intermittent instruction for three years, were still not distinguished hoers and the rest of the staff at The Priors were all overworked already with cooking and laundry and teaching and keeping the shabby place going.
Oh, thought Jack, if Andrew could only stay here a while, it would not only help The Priors but calm him, the poor guy. He would have liked to work beside Andrew in the fields, two brothers hoeing together in a biblical sort of way. He hardly knew Andrew now, but it was Andrew who had brought him Jocasta, his dark jewel, his strange princess. And, of course, Philip. Thinking of Philip, Jack paused in the shed where he was trying to find a sickle in an unholy clutter of tools. He was unable to get anywhere near Philip, and Jocasta wouldn’t speak of him.
I ought to be able to imagine, he thought. I ought to be able to feel close to Philip. I ought not to expect him at eleven years old to be helpful in the fields, with his school work to do. They say he’s very clever, though I must say his handwriting doesn’t suggest it. We don’t know what sort of life he’s had. Jocasta will never say. Pretty rough, I dare say. No spiritual guidance. Jocasta keeps her counsel about Belief. It was God directed Andrew here. Andrew is a good man—fine doctor. To try to help Jocasta he brought her here to me. She was only one patient among many. A routine operation, he said. I never heard exactly what.
And now Jocasta was his. His own, his one love, his great love before God. It was wonderful of her that she never let him say so.
And her celibacy. So magnificent. He began to hoe, edging cruelly and expertly round the carrots, destroying weeds, worms, creatures of all kinds—and that must be the reason for the Buddhists refusing to work, now he came to think of it. The celibacy was hard on him, he had to say. He felt deprived, though he prayed nightly for patience. He would love to have a child. God had not yet answered him.
At eight o’clock he left the fields and returned to The Priors, where nobody much was about except hens. He found that the eggs had not yet been gathered, filled his pockets with them and cradled the rest in his hands. In the kitchen The Missus was standing over a pan of porridge. He filled a kettle (she was in one of her remote moods) and made coffee for himself. He said, ‘Maybe Philip would like an egg.’
‘Philip,’ she said, ‘as I’d have expected you to remember, is not here. He’s down Teesside with his grandparents, so-called. Oh yes, and The Smikes didn’t come home.’
‘I’d forgotten,’ said Jack, smiling at something through the window. ‘And where is the baby?’
‘The Tibetans came for her early. They’re good with her. She seems to love them.’
‘I’ll walk across,’ he said. ‘Andrew’s taking her down to see Toots and my mother today. Exciting moment. I wish I had time to be there with them.’
The Missus said, ‘She’s not looking her best. Her eye’s inflamed. Her granny won’t think a lot of that.’
But Jack was not listening. He had seen Jocasta walking across the scruffy cloister wrapped in a purple shawl, and forgot all else. He went out to her and brought her in.
20
Dolly,’ bellowed Toots. ‘Dolly? Where are you? Can’t you hear me, Dolly?’
Bumps from the bedroom above. Complaints and sighs. ‘I’m coming. Whatever is it?’
‘Doorbell.’
‘Doorbell? Whatever—? Half-past six in the morning? You’re dreaming.’
‘Doorbell.’ (It rang piercingly.)
‘You’ll wake Philip. For heaven’s sake, be quiet. On and on.’
She was downstairs and peering from his bedsit window without her teeth in, her hair long and grey, the ghastly old coat again in play. ‘I shan’t answer it. This time in the morning you never know. It might be burglars. Oh, good gracious me, it’s The Smikes. Now what in the world . . . ?’
Ernie and Nick trailed in and were summoned by Toots to stand before him, side by side at the bottom of his bed. ‘Great Scot,’ said Toots. ‘Strike a light. The riffraff of England.’
‘I’ll make some tea,’ said Dolly. ‘You both look worn out.’
‘Not with any work they’ve been doing. Give me back twenty years and a good leg, I’d have the pair of you up on that farm knocking weeds down a penny-piece a row and cleaning up that filthy yard. Days off all the time. Eating your heads off like you were still in prison. It’s the hard world now, boys. They ought to bring back hanging.’
All four began to drink from teacups, Dolly giving no countenance to mugs. For a while she was coming and going with half slices of buttered toast.
‘I’m sorry there’s no marmalade. At least there is, but it’s only Silver Shred. Mrs. Middleditch got it for us but it’ll have to go back. If either of you two is going past the supermarket you might change it for me. I’ll wrap it up. I like a dark marmalade but not that awful stuff with whisky in it.’
‘Dolly, will you shut up about marmalade. Just sit down and look at this filth. Come on. Let’s hear why you’re here.’
The Smikes stood pale and dirty in slept-in clothes.
‘Come on. Where did you spend the night? Truth, now.’
‘In a boat ont prom. Under t’covers.’
‘Why aren’t you at Jack’s? There’s acres of experimental courgettes—’
‘Night off,’ said Ernie.
‘Bike wouldn’t start back,’ said Nick. ‘Full of sea water.’
‘Sea water? Great Scot. My godfathers!’
‘Sidecar coom off. Philip was bashin’ it. It ran into t’ sea.’
‘Philip never said a thing about it.’
They looked more alert. ‘Hast seen ’im?’
‘Well, he’s in bed upstairs, dead to the world. Arrived here about nine o’clock.’
‘Nine twenty-one,’ said Toots. ‘So he was with you, then? I thought as much. Stinking of grease and chips.’
Nick and Ernie appeared to relax. Ernie sat down on the bed and Nick switched on the electric fire and began to rub the bit of his back between the shoulder blades against the mantelpiece.
‘OK, then, was ’e?’
‘We don’t know what he is until he’s awake. Mrs. Middleditch found him wandering and brought him here and he’s asleep. He was off soon as look at you, in all his clothes. I couldn’t get him into night clothes. Why ever didn’t you drop him off, Nick, on your way down? If Jack finds out . . . ’
This thought seemed to hold no terror for The Smikes. Ernie asked Toots for a fag. Toots said no, pointed to two upright chairs beside a clothes airer Dolly was setting up, and glared. ‘Sit,’ he commanded. ‘The pair of you. You’re no better than dogs.’
‘I taught you,’ he said. ‘In my time. In my C stream. My boys. Gallows fodder. It’s looking at the likes of you breaks my heart, lying here. Whatever good did I do? Forty years a teacher. Gold earrings, long hair, skinheads. What’s going to win the 2.30 at Doncaster, then?’
‘Gold Flake,’ said Ernie.
‘Heart o’ Day,’ said Nick.
‘Get away with the pair of you,’ said Toots. ‘Nicholas Nickleby. Dead cert. Put me a fiver on it.’
‘Toots?’ said Dolly.
‘Gi’s the fiver, Toots,’ said Nick, who was undoing his jeans to reveal a wallet stuffed with notes.
‘You’ll get no cut on this,’ said Toots. ‘You didn’t look after Philip. We know he’s no joke to look after but it’s no excuse. You’ve been lads on your own yourselves. Philip’s a lad alone. I’ve no use for you.’
‘Get on,’ said Nick. ‘Philip’s got ’undreds round ’im.’
‘And would you have been suited brought up there, then? Sermons and Tibetans?’
‘It’s good for a laugh,’ said Ernie.
&
nbsp; ‘Oh, ’e’ll be OK,’ said Nick. ‘We stick it out, don’t we?’
‘We’ve given Jack every loyalty,’ said Ernie suddenly lapsing into radio-speak, quite emotionally. ‘We support Jack all the way. Jack ’as nowt to complain of in us. ’E’s a nutter but ’e’s OK. ’E’ll do. I reckon ’e needs us to keep in touch with everyday life. I’m a Nationalist meself and I don’t see what we need with foreign ’omeless. We’re pretty near ’omeless, us two, ant we? Nick and me? It’s us ’e ought to be putting first. But we’re all like ’is children, Jack. ’E’s OK.’
‘He has a child now,’ said Dolly. ‘The baby. Is she nice? I’ve done you both a bit of bacon. Tell me about little Faith. We haven’t seen her yet.’
‘She’s OK,’ said Nick.
‘Now, Nick, I asked what is she like.’
The Smikes pondered and looked into their hearts. Nick saw the buggy tray, a bundle strapped across it. Ernie saw a hump in the folds of the Tibetan woman’s anorak, the Tibetan woman glaring as she marched away with the hump towards her own domain. ‘She’s great,’ said Ernie. ‘Comfortable.’
‘Comfortable is not what you call a baby you’ve never seen before. Who’s she like? Not like Toots, I hope.’
‘She’s more like thee, Dolly,’ said Nick, surprisingly. He wiped off his plate with bread and tossed the plate empty on Toots’s bed. ‘She’s bonny.’
‘Blue eyes, I suppose?’
‘Oh aye, blue eyes. One of them’s all gummed up, they were saying. They were saying they’d have to take her to ’ospital.’
‘No! Oh dear. Well, it does happen. Mind, it never happened to either of mine. It’s all in the washing powder and the cotton wool you use. And clean hands.’
‘The Tibetans is looking after ’er.’
‘Smear themselves in rancid butter?’ asked Toots.
‘Be careful, Toots; that’s racial,’ said Dolly. ‘I’ve just seen Mrs. Middleditch coming.’