On one arm he had a muddy motor-cycling suit, having ridden over from the army camp at Bovington, where he was presently stationed.
‘Why, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything,’ he said, smiling. ‘A little bit of rain is nothing. It’s the world première of “Tess”, is it not? People have been waiting years for this.’
It was not the world première; a long time earlier there had been an unauthorised production in the United States. But the old man did his best to disregard that.
‘I am not that optimistic,’ he asserted.
Lawrence laughed. ‘Tom, forgive me but, you know, you are not in general renowned for your optimism!’
He pretended to be wounded. ‘I am not a pessimist by nature; when circumstances justify it, I am always optimistic. But this is a very amateur production, I assure you.’
‘He has been like this all day,’ Florence remarked.
‘Of course it is an amateur production,’ Lawrence said, ‘and everyone knows it. Surely that is the charm of it. To have the play first performed by local men and women, in the very heart of Wessex, in a town that Tess herself knew – what could be more appropriate? It is the perfect setting. Think of it in London; how out of place it would be. This is where “Tess” belongs.’ Lawrence’s steady blue eyes shone. ‘I shouldn’t worry if I were you. I anticipate a triumph.’
He was right, thought the old man. Some of his apprehension began to fade. ‘I am not worried,’ he said stoutly. ‘So long as none of them forget their lines.’
‘If they do, it is hardly your fault, is it? But I am sure they have been well drilled.’
Florence intervened. ‘We are a little worried about Alec. He is not quite – what is the word? He is possibly not quite nasty enough. He is a bank clerk. And there is a problem with Angel Clare. He is rather old, and bald, but he is wearing a wig! One only hopes it doesn’t slip!’
The old man blinked. ‘One has to work with the available material. But they have had plenty of rehearsals. Whatever else, I don’t think you will be too disappointed by Tess herself.’
‘I must say,’ said Lawrence, ‘I’m longing to see her. The famous Gertrude Bugler – I’ve heard a lot about her. Everyone says she is something rather out of the ordinary.’
‘She is a remarkable young woman.’
‘She is the wife of a butcher,’ said Florence. ‘It is rather incongruous, is it not, for Tess? It is hard to get out of one’s mind once one knows it! A butcher’s wife!’
She was in the gayest mood, her spirits transformed, but then Lawrence was an inspiring chap. Indeed there were moments when the old man felt that, if he had ever had a son, he would have hoped for someone like Lawrence of Arabia.
Other friends soon appeared, among them James Barrie, the playwright, who to the old man’s eyes looked as urbane and prosperous as a banker. A lifetime in London had barely left a mark on his large forehead, and his moustache, thick and glossy, always seemed a sign of his inner confidence. He fished a large gold watch from his waistcoat. ‘Ten minutes to go,’ he announced grandly. ‘I love an opening night. What an occasion! This is history!’
The old man stayed as long as was necessary, but he was not in the mood for chitchat. With Florence fully occupied, he slipped into the hall. A good few people had already taken their seats, but many of the rows of interlocking wooden chairs were still empty. Below the stage, several members of a local orchestra were gathering; it had been Tilley’s idea that they should play country tunes between the acts, thus covering the time taken for the scene changes. A horn player had his instrument to his lips and was giving a few experimental toots, while the two fiddlers were tuning up. He pushed open a door and walked along a short corridor.
There was almost no room back-stage, and an obstacle course of props and effects confronted him, including bales of straw, milk churns, buckets, a length of wooden fencing, a hay-waggon and also the three pillars which would be used in the final act to represent Stonehenge. As he picked his way around these impediments he came upon Tess’s father and mother, with Angel Clare and Alec. Alec was still reading over his lines, a sight which at this late juncture did not inspire the old man with confidence.
A little further on he found the rest of the cast, among them Gertie. Seated on a milk churn, she was talking to Ethel Fare, who played the part of Izz Huett, and since she had her back to him she did not notice him at first. Near her was Harry Tilley, holding the prompt book.
‘Tom,’ he said, and they shook hands. ‘Everything in order. A full house, you’ll be glad to know.’
‘I was thinking of watching from here, unless I’ll be in the way. Are the scribblers here?’
‘Dozens of ’em. They’re all putting up at the King’s Arms.’
‘“The Times”?’
‘Of course.’
The old man was somewhat relieved. ‘The Times’ could be relied upon to write something favourable. ‘Well, we shall see.’ He nodded at the prompt book. ‘I am sure we won’t need that.’
As he talked to Tilley, Ethel must have said something to Gertie, for she jumped up smiling.
It was not the moment to speak to her alone, and instead he wished the whole cast good luck, adding with more cheerfulness than he felt that he was sure they would not need it. Then he left them, and settled himself on a chair beside one of the pillars of Stonehenge. From here he had a good view of the stage while remaining hidden from the audience. He could hear the quiet murmur of expectation, he could see one of the stage-hands waiting to pull on the rope that drew back the curtains. Already the village girls who appeared in the first act, each one in a white dress and carrying a nosegay of flowers, were taking their places on stage. As the moment approached, the various contradictory emotions that had been vying within him – emotions of longing and desire, and of fear and apprehension – grew ever more intense. Then the stage-hand heaved on his rope, the curtains drew back in a series of jerks, and the play had begun.
Tess herself did not appear on stage for several minutes, but already she was by his side. She gave him a quick, tense smile, which he returned. How alive she was! How easily she became the girl in the water-meadows, vanishing into the morning mist! Then she started – ‘O!’ and he felt some hard object pressed into his right hand. ‘I nearly forgot! Could you keep it for me?’
She stepped on stage.
The old man opened his hand. In the palm lay a gold circle: her wedding ring.
CHAPTER IV
After the strain of last night I wake suffering from a small but painful headache, of the kind that has often afflicted me recently. I wait in the hope that it may go of its own accord, although such headaches never do. I never used to have these headaches and I sometimes think they may be connected to a lack of sunlight, and indeed when I visualise my headaches I do so as dark folds of shadow, heavy curtains hiding light.
I struggle down to breakfast and find my husband in his dark suit. He is reading the newspaper reviews. I wish him good morning, and without a word he passes ‘The Times’ to me. From his expression of extreme displeasure one would conclude that the review must be unfavourable but, on the contrary, it could not be more fulsome. Glancing over it, my eyes alight on the following lines:
‘In Mrs. Gertrude Bugler they have a lady who, one might almost say, was born to act the part of Tess. To begin with, she is so like the Tess of the book in appearance, even to the trick of the smile, that, did chronology allow it, she might have sat for the portrait of this imaginary girl, created before she was born. Another good point is her voice, which is unusually sweet and appealing; and yet another, her undoubted possession of some of that mysterious actor-quality, which compels one to be interested in, affected by, every look and movement and word.’
This is astonishing, more than astonishing; it is patently untrue. Gertrude has dark hair, while Tess’s hair is the colour of earth. As for her mysterious actor-quality – what nonsense! I would say as much but for the iron look on my husband’s fac
e. Biting my tongue, I dutifully read on:
‘A performance full of the right sort of simplicity and breadth, and of a most moving sincerity and beauty – more beauty, one imagines, than could have been achieved by one or two of the eminent actresses who have longed to play this character.’
‘Goodness – that is kind. Although it seems a little excessive. What do the others say?’
My husband with his iron face (one wonders: what would be his expression if it had been a bad review?) passes me the ‘Daily Mail’; it likewise is full of compliments. Then I am passed the ‘Chronicle’. A phrase leaps out at me: ‘one of the most beautiful women in Dorset’.
‘Heavens, look at that! “One of the most beautiful women in Dorset”!’
‘What is wrong with that?’
‘It’s nonsense, Thomas. She is striking, she is undoubtedly striking, no one could argue with that, but she is not beautiful. What else does it say? “Palpitatingly true to life”? “Golden voice”?’
‘She has a good voice. She has the accent to perfection.’
‘But it doesn’t say that, it says she has a golden voice. A golden voice. It is such a cliché. And “palpitatingly true to life” … I’ve never heard the word. “Palpitatingly”? Have you ever heard such a word? What does it mean, “palpitatingly true to life”? It doesn’t mean anything at all.’
I sit down, I lift the coffee pot. My husband is now reading the ‘Daily Express’. He gives a grunt. I say nothing. I pour myself coffee. O, my head aches!
I should stay silent but my thoughts pour out of me.
‘Of course, it depends what one means by beauty. Her hair is very fine, and she has a very clever trick of widening her eyes, but her eyebrows are too thick, and her teeth much too prominent. I agree she is very striking, but she is not a classical beauty. Hundreds of young women in Dorset are I am sure at least as beautiful – more beautiful. In the classical sense she is not beautiful at all.’
How catty of me this must sound; but I am unable to stop myself.
My iron-faced husband hands me the ‘Daily Express’. I spot another mistake. In my frustration I burst out: ‘Look at that – for heaven’s sakes! A farmer’s wife! Her husband has a shop, a butcher’s shop in Beaminster!’
I am afraid he thinks I am being catty, but newspapers ought to be accurate.
Silence.
He looks up at me. ‘It is November the twenty-seventh.’
‘I know.’
I have not forgotten. November the twenty-seventh is the death-day of the first wife, and so we have to visit her grave in Stinsford churchyard.
‘I may walk,’ he says.
‘To Stinsford? It is too far, Thomas. It’s going to be such a tiring day as it is. And the meadows will probably be flooded. I’ll telephone Voss and tell him to come early.’
The breakfast runs its course. My headache eases. I let out the hens and then brush Wessie. White hairs fly off his coat with each stroke of the brush. I am somewhat amazed to hear myself talking to him in a low conspiratorial voice:
‘She is really not that beautiful, is she? She may be striking, but beautiful … And there is something almost hysterical about her acting, I promise you, Wessie, if only you could see it. It is good that the reviews are good, though I wish they could have been more honest. The trouble is that it encourages him, that is the trouble. Why do the reviewers write such falsehoods? Do they have no sense of shame? It doesn’t bother me; after all, what is it to me, I am his wife, if he chooses to believe the reviews what is it to me? But she is not the most beautiful woman in Dorset! She is the wife of a common butcher! She associates with raw meat, hatchets, blood and gore, where is the beauty in that?’
I comfort myself by imagining her husband, a typical butcher, fat and short-legged, red-faced and cheery, chopping joints, hauling carcasses, gutting chickens, sweeping sawdust, mopping blood, the things butchers do. No doubt she helps him string the sausages.
At half past ten Mr. Voss arrives, and drives us to Stinsford. The sky is grey, but at least it is not raining and there is very little wind. We open the gate and walk down the path to her grave, which is located near a large yew tree. Beside it are the graves of his grandfather and grandmother, his uncle and assorted other relatives. He removes his hat (his black hat, reserved for funerals and similar occasions), presses it against his chest and bows his head. With him he has his walking stick (also black), another of these treasured things given him by the first wife.
What he is thinking of I cannot say, but as I stand by his side my own thoughts fly from the bones beneath the stone to the fat, earnest, vain, empty-headed woman with swollen ankles who chattered incessantly about her cats and never listened with attention to anything anyone said. I know this because I visited, I stayed, I saw them together. She was an utter encumbrance to him, she made him unhappy, and yet now she is revered as the woman he always loved. He has written many nostalgic poems to her dead spirit, love poems. You did not love her, Thomas, I would like to tell him, believe me you did not love her and she did not love you, you did not even like each other, do you not remember her mad obsessive railing about the Pope as the enemy of civilisation? Do you not remember that awful certainty in her voice? She was an encumbrance to you and does not deserve this reverence. Of course, if I said as much he would be mortally offended and might never forgive me, or he would say that I do not understand, that I never saw her as she once was, in the old days. Ah, the old days.
Am I conscious that, if she had not died, I would not now be his wife? I am; it is impossible to avoid that thought. Her death and my life are inextricably linked. First and second wives are like sisters.
After a minute or so he clears his throat, but we wait a little longer. The stone lies in considerable shadow. It occurs to me that during the years in which we have been making these dutiful visits the yew tree has grown a good deal, but this is what trees do, they grow, they extend themselves.
He comes to life with another cough. He replaces his hat on his head and touches his moustache.
‘Twelve,’ he murmurs.
‘What’s that?’
‘Em … it was twelve years ago that she died.’
‘Of course it was.’
‘We were married for thirty-eight years.’
‘Shall we go into the church?’
‘I don’t think so. No. Yes.’
He is very old, I remind myself. He looks old now. He has another brown spot on his left cheek, and his eyes seem rather watery. As we go down the path I feel a sudden rush of love and take his arm. I claim him; I assert my ownership of him, I cast the first wife aside. He is my husband, he does not belong to you any longer. Begone: you are long dead.
The air in the church is its usual pleasant musty self. The light is dim, as if we were submerged. We stand by the font in another silence. At length I grow so bored I wander off and study the monuments, though I know them all very well. There are more monuments to husbands than to wives, of course. Wives live in the shadows cast by their husbands; that is how things are. I walk up to the altar, and then back again.
‘Shall we go?’
We are halfway to the car when he announces in an unexpectedly cheerful voice: ‘I may never come here again!’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘I may well not be alive this time next year.’
‘I am not even listening,’ I protest. ‘What a miserable thing to say! Is that what you’ve been thinking about?’
‘My dear, it is entirely possible. I think about it all the time.’
‘I won’t have you saying such nonsense.’
He gives a smile. Visiting the first wife’s grave always seems to put him in such a remarkably good mood, it is a mystery why we don’t do it every day.
I do not want to give the wrong impression. I am not bitter about her; we got on very well together. It is merely the two of them who were so utterly ill-suited.
One thing about their life together I have never quite f
athomed. When I tried to ask him about it before our marriage he always deflected my inquiries, and it was not until soon after we were married, on a warm summer’s afternoon, that I managed to force him into a conversation on the subject. We had gone for a walk with Wessie, who was not much more than a puppy, and as I remember it there were bees humming busily and flitting from flower to flower, and little lambs crying in the distance, and two men scything hay, although maybe I invent these details. Where does the past exist except in one’s mind? That is such a frightening thought but is it not so? (And where the present – but that is even more frightening.) But it is not really important when exactly this conversation occurred; a warm summer’s afternoon is as good a time as any.
I began cautiously, tentatively, aware that it might be a sensitive subject, by asking him whether there was some particular impediment or obstacle that had prevented her from having children. He answered that there was not: ‘It was merely that it never happened, as is the way. Fate decreed otherwise.’ I said: ‘So it was not a decision to which you and she jointly came …? It was not a principled decision?’ – ‘No,’ said he, but a little vaguely. – ‘But did you and she talk much on the subject?’ I asked. – ‘Of?’ – ‘Of children.’ He indicated not. ‘Never?’ – ‘I cannot recall.’ (Here in my memory we drew near the two labourers, scything the pale hay with those lovely easy sweeping movements.)
I knew that he did not wish to continue the conversation, but I was determined not to let the matter slip that easily. I linked my arm in his. ‘But Thomas, you would have liked children, surely? You would have been the best of fathers.’ He gave what might be called a shrug of the mouth. ‘I am not necessarily sure that she would have made a very good mother.’ – ‘But you must have wanted children, both of you, surely?’ – ‘It is difficult to recover one’s true state of mind so long after the event. I am sure we did; yes; but it was not to be.’
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