by Rose Tremain
She stared up at him from her pillow, her grey eyes popping with fear.
‘Oh, it can’t be anything, Vera. Just some odd thing. Your muscles have seized up after all that gardening you did yesterday.’
Because she had (and it wasn’t like her) gone out that morning to do some weeding. The border was in a shocking state, she said, so she’d sallied forth, her stringy hair tied in a dishcloth turban, and with such a passion did her hands dig and root that by lunchtime the earth at the dahlias’ feet was as clean as a hoovered rug, and Vera’s cheeks were an undreamed-of pink.
‘Blimey!’
Coming into the kitchen, wisps of hair escaping from the dishcloth, she looked, very briefly, quite young, younger than Sadler had ever seen her look.
‘It suits you, Vera.’
‘What does, duck?’
‘Gardening.’
So it must have been that, he told her. She’d done too much, strained her back and legs with all that bending and kneeling. Whatever it was, she mustn’t worry. He’d telephone the doctor and in the meantime, while they waited for him, Sadler would make breakfast and bring it to her.
‘No. Nothing for me, Mr Sadler. Couldn’t eat a thing.’
‘You ought to, Vera.’
‘No. No, I can’t.’
And tears began to slide down her yellowy cheeks. She made no sound at all, no sobbing, no catching of breath, just lay there staring up at him while her tears rolled down her face.
The doctor came and went and came back when the ambulance arrived and Vera’s matchstick body was carried downstairs wrapped in a red blanket. Because she would need proper nursing, the doctor said. It was too early to tell yet whether she’d ever get back the use … much too early … and the stroke was a very severe one … she must have absolute rest and quiet …
‘Come an’ see me, Mr Sadler, won’t you? They forget about you in ’ospitals, don’t they?’
The doctor smiled.
‘Of course they don’t, Mrs Prinz, they—’
‘Vera. You’ve got to tell everybody they must call me Vera.’
So. On his own after that. In his fifty-fifth year, still with a thick head of hair, grown rather long now that the Colonel wasn’t there to remind him to have it cut. And with nothing to do but observe the little empty kingdom he ruled.
He often wondered how the Colonel would have filled his time, left on his own. But he found that he couldn’t say, because it seemed that he’d never really known the Colonel, not as he’d known Madge, through all her little reminiscences. There had only been one occasion, one evening as Sadler was clearing the silver from the dining room table, leaving just the port decanter and one glass, when the Colonel had suddenly turned to him and said, ‘I expect you think we lead jolly boring lives, don’t you, Sadler?’
Madge had gone to bed. She hadn’t been sleeping at all well, so she’d gone to bed early and taken a pill.
‘Jolly dull lives, eh?’
‘It’s not for me to say, Sir.’
‘Quite right, not for you to say. That’s the kind of answer we expect from you, Sadler.’
There was a little wooden tray and a soft brush Sadler used to sweep the crumbs off the table. He began to walk round with it.
‘Like port, Sadler?’
‘I haven’t often tried it, Sir.’
The Colonel lifted the decanter.
‘Fetch a glass!’
‘Are you sure, Sir?’
‘Quite sure. Wouldn’t have said that, otherwise. You get a glass and you can help me finish this lot.’
Sadler brought a glass and stood at the Colonel’s elbow.
‘Sit down. Go on.’
Sadler pulled out a chair, noticing, half ashamed, that his response to this odd invitation was a kind of dull tiredness. The room constrained him and made his body ache.
‘Taylors ’38.’
Sadler nodded.
‘Go on then. Sniff a bit, then sip. Never gulp.’
‘It’s very nice, Sir.’
‘Thought you’d like it. Trouble is, no one to drink it with these days. That’s what happens when you get old, no friends – all gone. Much better to kick the bucket at sixty, let them all come to your funeral. Good health, then, Sadler!’
The Colonel raised his glass, drained it and filled it again. Sadler took another sip at his, found that the more he drank, the warmer the taste became.
‘Cheers, Sir.’
‘That’s it. Thought you’d like it.’
It was 31 May 1953, two days before the Colonel died, and for once in his life he decided to say a few words about himself.
‘… put it all down to loneliness, Sadler. I’m a stickler for convention, can’t bear to live a day without keeping to the rules. If old Colonel Jarman I used to serve under walked in now, he’d say: “You’re breaking a cardinal rule, Bassett, a cardinal rule.” Know what that rule is?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Never socialize except with equals. Never go up, never go down – cardinal rule. “Both lead to trouble, Bassett,” old Jarman used to say. Bound to lead to trouble. But loneliness, old age – same thing – means you have to start breaking rules.’
‘Are you lonely, Sir?’
‘What? Lonely? Yes, I suppose I am. Bloody stupid of me to admit it to you. All round the kitchen, anything I say, what? That’s why I’m so damn careful. That and old Jarman. Never talk to anyone. Never say a thing. Always been a cardinal rule.’
‘Very wise, Sir, I should think.’
‘You know what they say – Prudence is the better part of … something or other. Valour, that’s it, isn’t it? Funny. Always used to think the wrong thing when anyone said that, used to think of a girl I once met called Prudence, used to imagine she’d gone off and married a chap called Valour or whatever it was. Better part – better half – you know? Damn silly. Can’t think what made me think of that. Something to laugh about, I daresay. Don’t find laughing too easy. Never did. I remember my school reports right back to prep school. “Takes himself very seriously” they used to say. “Takes himself very seriously” – damnfool thing to say about a boy.’
‘Did you like school, Sir?’
‘School? Enjoyed Eton. Eton was the making of me, you know that, Sadler? Not that there was a great deal to make, eh? But it taught me the cardinal rules – Eton and the Army. You get a lot of people these days saying they don’t like rules, all panting to do what they like, any old way. But that’s not right, not in my view, old-fashioned and all that. No fun shooting tame ducks, eh?’
The Colonel smiled. He didn’t often.
‘Talking too much, aren’t I? But I don’t suppose you mind. I expect you’ve often said to yourself, I wonder what goes on in the old fool’s head? I wonder what he thinks about with all that time on his hands? Haven’t you?’
‘I always wonder about people, Sir. It’s part of my job to try to find out how people think, then I know what pleases them.’
‘Damn good answer, Sadler. You’re a bright chap, Madge always said so. I daresay you’d have done all right in business.’
‘Oh I never had that kind of brain.’
‘But you’re quick, Sadler. That’s what I looked for in my men, quickness.’
‘Oh it’s just some knack I’ve learnt. I once worked for a butler called Mr Knightley. He made me learn the importance of quick answers.’
‘Lot of mumbo-jumbo most of the time, I suppose? Yes Sir, no Sir, three bags full Sir. Get on your nerves, does it?
‘No.’
‘It’s quite right, of course. The guardians of graciousness, people like you; that’s a phrase I thought up years ago at a house party and I thought it was so apt, I kept on using it. Even wrote it down, I think. Have to write everything down. Always did. Even wrote a memo to meself to ask my wife to marry me! Damn silly, eh? Especially when she was so bloody pretty. Margaret Kenyon. Prettiest thing I’d ever seen.’
He paused, took a long sip of his port.
&nbs
p; ‘Never forget it. Met her at a house party someone had given. Spent the whole weekend trussed up in my lieutenant’s uniform. Far too hot, should have been wearing white flannels, but she said she loved the army, said she thought uniforms were whizzo, or whatever it was we used to say then. So I kept it on, just for the pleasure of having her look at me. And then do you know what she said when I left? Said she’d changed her mind about uniforms, thought they were horrid things if they made people so hot and uncomfortable! Serve me bloody right, eh? Conceited young dog. “Takes himself very seriously” – quite right, what?’
Sadler smiled.
‘Can’t imagine why I should tell you that, Sadler, except that it’s damn nice to remember things out loud for a change. That’s what old age brings y’know, memory. Curse it sometimes, wish I couldn’t remember a damn thing. Give anything just to have a blank. Not possible, though. Just not possible. That’s all you are when you get old, Sadler, an old windbag stuffed with the past. Jolly good past, though. No regrets. That’s what a contented man ought to say, isn’t it? Come on Sadler, never let the glass get more than half empty – cardinal rule.’
Sadler held out his glass and the Colonel filled it.
‘Tell you what, though. I married a wonderful woman and I’ve never tolerated a word said against her, not in my presence, but I used to do a bit of rampaging – a man’s right in my view – and I broke a rule, Sadler, only once, mind, but nevertheless I did. I broke a cardinal rule and let everything get out of hand, just that once, couldn’t help meself, fell head over heels.
‘You see, you’d never have dreamt it, would you? What a boring life the old buffer has, you said to yourself, didn’t you? No excitement, eh? Well, it was only once, mind, the year before you came, the year before the War began. And what a lady! Never knew the slightest thing about her, except that she was fond of gymnastics. Picked her up in Kensington Gardens, but nobody could infer from that that she wasn’t a lady. Years younger than me, of course. Years and years, and what a goer! She never stopped, Sadler, and I just used to lie there and marvel at her, marvel at meself too, never knew I had it in me. And of course it made me so bloody happy, I couldn’t leave her, Sadler. I couldn’t let go. Always had been able to let go before, when I was young, abroad you know and all that, but this time I couldn’t. Don’t know what it was about that girl. Do you know she could turn a cartwheel on the window sill? Bloody marvellous, eh? Cartwheel on the window sill. I used to make her do it over and over again until she was dizzy.’
Sadler laughed.
‘Funny, eh? Yes, I suppose it is really. I was funny to her, I expect. Probably said, silly old buffer, probably had dozens of young chaps queueing up. But she’d never take money. Never took sixpence from me, not that type at all. A present now and then, of course, some little thing I’d bring her, but never money. Angela, her name was. I used to call her my angel.’
‘Do you still see her, Sir?’
‘Me? No. She got tired of me. Much too old for her. Not surprising. Much too old. Can’t think why I’m telling you this, Sadler. Probably because it was so important to me. I was in love, Sadler, hook, line and sinker. I used to say to myself, I’m in love with an angel. Damn silly, really. Thing was, I couldn’t let her go. I couldn’t say to meself, Geoffrey Bassett, you are never going to see your angel again. I just couldn’t do it. And that’s the rule I broke, Sadler. Never pester, never put yourself where you’re not wanted any more. But that’s exactly what I did; I pestered and pestered her because I said to myself, it’s the last time, I’m much too old for it to happen again, much too old for love and all that business, to do it properly. But I could with her, you see. She made me do it. I’d only got to see her. I’d only got to say: “Angel, what about a cartwheel …?”’
‘She got married, did she?’
‘What? Oh yes. So she said. Going to marry an American, so she said. Nice young American, good at baseball. Good for you, Angel, I said, but she knew I didn’t mean it, knew I’d go on pestering her till she threw me out one day. Suppose it was all she could do. I was such a damn nuisance.’
Sadler nodded. Sipping port like that, he and the Colonel might have been old friends.
‘Never wanted to get married, Sadler?’
‘Me, Sir?’
‘Yes. Never thought of trying it?’
‘No. I’m really very content, Sir, stuck in my ways, too.’
‘Lots of tomfoolery talked about marriage.’
‘Yes.’
‘Damn right. A lot of tomfoolery. Mine’s been happy, mind, even though I muffed it where it mattered. I muffed it – not Margaret’s fault. She knew what it was all about, said she’d imagined it thousands of times, her “wedding night”. Thousands of times, eh? Women are bloody marvellous sometimes, aren’t they? Full of romantic dreaming. Funny thing is, nothing seems to disillusion them. But I muffed it all right. Drank too much. Too bloody nervous; Margaret Kenyon, I thought. Margaret Kenyon – my wife! But I never imagined we’d have to go our own ways like we did. I wanted her all right because she was a marvel, Sadler. I could find a picture of her that’s better than Garbo! Bloody marvellous looker, my Madge was. Kept sheltered, of course. Neurotic mother, father in a looney bin – or should have been. Never forget going and asking the old man if I could marry Margaret. He was walking in the orchard, in a tailcoat and no shoes. Barmy! And d’you know what he said to me? “I know what you’ve come for,” he said, “you’ve come to confess, haven’t you? How was it, then? Was it satisfactory? Did you take her from behind when she wasn’t expecting it? She’s a smart one, my Margaret, don’t try and tell me you caught her unawares!” Mad as a hatter, Sadler, impossible to communicate with. So I thought, fine, old chap, I’ll play your game, if that’s they way you want it. So I told him I very much enjoyed going to bed with his daughter. “I enjoyed it very much,” I said, “so did Margaret. Now we’re going to get married.” But that narked him, you see. “Taking her away, are you?” he said. “Can’t do that, young man. No one takes my daughter away from me!”
‘They took him away, poor old boy. Quite right, of course, dreadful liability. But then again, he was quite lucid some of the time, knew just what was going on and said he didn’t like the idea of being locked up. I felt sorry for him. Madge used to be very distressed. But going to see him wasn’t any good. We tried, of course. Several times. He’d talk to me all right, very friendly even, but he wouldn’t say a word to Madge, never would say a single word to her. Some incident on a train, or something. Never did find out. But he never talked to her after that – tried to pretend she wasn’t there. How’s your glass?’
‘I’m doing fine, Sir, thank you.’
‘Being boring, am I? Expect I am. Never could tell a story like Jarman could. He had a knack. Old Jarman even made you laugh when he couldn’t remember the ending. Well, so you like a good port, do you, Sadler? Does your heart good – in moderation. Everything in moderation, another cardinal rule. Drank too much when I was young, of course. Champagne was the thing, not so expensive as it is now. I taught Margaret to like champagne, always thought it might help us in bed. Couldn’t have been more wrong. Terrible business. The saddest thing of my life. Just couldn’t make it, Sadler, not with my wife. All right with anyone else, but not with the woman I loved. Ghastly business. But she never mocked me. Never once in her dear sweet life did she say an unkind thing. She’s loved me all that time, Sadler. She’s been my life’s companion, all these years, and I never once satisfied her. Sometimes I ask meself, how can you hold up your head and look at her? How can you bear it?’
Sadler granted the Colonel the silence for which, the following day, the old man would undoubtedly be grateful. It was getting dark in the room and both of them were thankful in a way for the dark. A minute or two passed and then the Colonel suddenly said, ‘Better go and take me trousers off. Bloody wet meself.’
VIII
Sadler dozed again. When he woke the room was full of orange light. Sunset. For a mome
nt he couldn’t remember if it was summer or winter, if the sun going down meant night or only mid-afternoon. He lay still and stared at the windows. The sky was marvellous, a real charcoal fire of a sky. ‘Last!’ he said to the sunset, ‘go on, last!’ Less than half-an-hour, though, and it was gone and the room quite dark.
His body in the saturated bed felt cold and weak, and there was cold sweat on his lip. He wanted to call someone. A face, arriving at his bedside, a hand to hold his that felt so limp and useless – if only he could have called out for that. Mrs Moore would have done. Anyone would have done. And a cup of tea. He would have asked for a cup of tea and sat in the armchair drinking it, while the sheets on his bed were changed.
There was a bell dangling above his bed. Downstairs, outside the kitchen, a red disc marked Bed. 2 inside a glass case was set jiggering when you pressed it, so that the servants would know which room to run to. Sadler reached up and pressed the bell and he heard the dog begin to bark.
Vera was all right, he thought, in a hospital. In hospital, there was always someone to answer when you rang a bell. Vera’s own special nurse had wide, freckled arms, and when Vera wanted to shit, those arms would lift her as easily as they might have lifted a child and hold her firmly as she sat on the pan.
‘You know, Mr Sadler,’ Vera had said once when he visited her, ‘I’d always ’ave said it’d be ’umiliating, all that carry on, but they sense it, you see, nurses sense how you’re feeling.’
‘She seems nice, that nurse, Vera.’
‘Oh she’s lovely, i’nt she? I don’t know what I’d do without kindness, Mr Sadler. You were always kind to me, and now ’ere …’
She cried so easily. She cried every time he went to see her. He’d sit in the chair and Vera would lie there crying, not even bothering to wipe away the tears.
‘Come on, Vera dear. You’re taken care of. And what about that tingling you had in your leg the other day? That was a good sign, wasn’t it?’
‘Didn’t feel it no more. Think I imagined it.’
‘You don’t imagine things like that.’
‘Well I do.’