But it was the loss of freedom on Thursdays that Eliza’s visits caused that ignited the deepest fires of resentment in Dorothy. After Dorothy’s marriage, Eliza had changed from being the severe but doting mother of a self-centred young woman and had instead assumed the role of hyper-critical matriarch. She could not understand Dorothy’s discontent with her lot, and certainly had no sympathy for her aversion to housework. That jealousy played some part in her ‘attitude’ should have been clear to Dorothy; but Dorothy had a discontented nature, and did not believe that she possessed anything that her mother could envy.
Eliza’s routine on Thursdays was identical every week. She would catch the bus into town, do some light shopping, and then make her way to Dorothy’s house on the council estate comfortably in time for lunch. On one occasion she had turned up at the parish church day school where Bryony had been enrolled in the reception class, and asked if the girl could be allowed to leave early so that she could accompany her grandmother to her home before lunch. This had caused a furore in the Atkins household, and Eliza was expressly forbidden from attempting such a ploy again. In a rare moment of unity, Dorothy and Ronald had both turned on her and accused her of jeopardising Bryony’s future. Eliza, whose own attitude to education was far from cavalier – she was acutely aware that she herself had not had the benefit even of the rudimentary schooling available to most children at the turn of the twentieth century, because her mother was always expecting yet another baby and was therefore dependent on her eldest daughter to stay at home and help – and furthermore, look how she had allowed Dorothy to attend the high school when money had been so short – could not help reflecting that depriving Bryony of a few minutes playing at shop before the bell went was hardly likely to cause permanent damage. But she apologised, and acknowledged that she had been wrong – and even felt secretly glad that Dorothy and Ronald could act in unison when the occasion demanded.
On Eliza’s visiting days, they always ate fish. Dorothy was not certain how this had come about, but it was a tradition that she never sought to break. The fish would be followed by a milk pudding or a large jam tart with custard. Very occasionally a treacle tart – Ronald’s favourite – would be served instead.
Eliza was not short of airs and graces. She would not hang her coat in the hall with all the other coats, but insisted on folding it carefully, lining outwards, and placing it on Dorothy’s and Ronald’s bed. She would divest herself of her scarf – usually of chiffon, often mauve or purple in colour – but kept her hat on for the duration of the visit. This had been the custom of the ladies who had visited her employers during her youth, and she was in no doubt that the dictates of good manners demanded that she continue to observe it. Others might let standards slip, but she would not. She would make a point of washing her hands before she came to the table (it appeared that the children were not required to do this), and always fetched herself a glass of water from the kitchen tap before the meal started. She liked to drink out of a vessel known in the household as ‘Daddy’s beer-glass’. It was the only piece of clear glassware in the place. Drinks for the others were a little hit and miss. If the ‘pop man’ had visited, the children would have dandelion and burdock or cideapple to drink, served in thick jacquard glasses. Otherwise, they rarely drank with the meal, but would help themselves to orange squash afterwards. Dorothy and Ronald did not drink when they were eating, but invariably partook of a cup of Camp coffee after the plates had been cleared away. To Eliza, ‘that stuff’ was an abomination and she said so. Asked if she had had enough to eat, she would say, “I have had an elegant sufficiency, thank you,” and glare at the children as they slid out of their seats and left the table without asking if they might. Dorothy was usually dispensing tight-lipped sarcasms by this stage. Ronald meanwhile had dispatched his lunch in the quickest possible time and departed for his office with relief. He felt cowed in his own house when his mother-in-law was there.
From Dorothy’s point of view, the Thursday afternoons spent with Eliza were better than the mornings. Once the dirty crockery had been cleared away, and Ronald and the children had returned to work and school, there was nothing for Dorothy to do except sit and talk to her mother while Eliza worked at her current piece of embroidery. Occasionally Dorothy would knit, but more often she just chatted. They sometimes broke off their conversation for half an hour to listen to ‘Mrs. Dale’s Diary’ or a serialised play that they had each been following separately all week on the radio. Dorothy felt reasonably at peace on such occasions. No-one required her to do anything other than entertain her mother and make the occasional pot of tea in the little brown earthenware teapot that served two; and listening to Eliza chattering about the doings of her many sisters or her life with Mrs. James was, in fact, quite entertaining. It was only when she came to reflect afterwards on Eliza’s taken-for-granted imposition on her time that she felt furious.
That Eliza’s death would take place on one of these outwardly tranquil domestic afternoons could not have been predicted by even the most acute observer. Curiously enough, Ronald was the only member of the Atkins family who had not been present when she had died – and even more curiously, Ronald was the person whom the police had interrogated the most thoroughly, for no other apparent reason than that he was the ‘head of the household’.
On the day in question, Ronald had arrived home earlier than usual for tea, because he was returning to the factory that evening to conduct a guided tour of the sugar processing plant. It was the last Thursday in October and the start of the tour season. Ronald had been in a good mood: he had just been awarded a pay-rise, the winter tours would also give his wages a further boost and he would not have to sit and talk to Eliza until she set off for the seven o’clock bus because everyone would understand that he had work to do. He rattled his bike over Marine Street, the unmetalled road that skirted the estate, and then jumped off it just before he came in sight of his own gate so that Dorothy would not harangue him about ‘racking it up’ by taking it over so many muddy ruts and hollows. He was pushing the bike sedately down his own path and about to prop it up against the wall so that he could remove his bicycle clips, when the back door was violently flung open and Bryony rushed out. She would have run past him if he had not quickly ditched the bike and caught her.
“Steady on,” he said. “What’s the big hurry?”
It was only after he had spoken that he looked properly at her face. It was flour white, her eyes dilated with terror.
“Daddy!” she said, “Daddy! Come quickly! Nana’s fallen down the stairs!”
She clung to him, sobbing in a dry sort of way that on later reflection had struck him as rather theatrical – but at that moment he had had no time to think about it. He did notice that Bryony had his mother-in-law’s mauve chiffon scarf draped around her shoulders. She seemed not to want to come back into the house with him, but he put his arm firmly around her and led the way. At this point he did not realise that Eliza was dead: Bryony said nothing more, and he asked her no questions.
There was no-one in the kitchen when he entered, though the light was on. He walked straight through into the dining-room, which was also the room in which they sat during winter evenings and where the lights were also burning. The television had been turned on, but the sound was too low to be audible. Hedley was lying on the sofa with one of its yellow-frilled cushions held up against his head, as if he had earache. He did not speak or look up. Ronald let go of Bryony – she ran to the armchair opposite the television and curled up on it, her eyes fixed on the screen – while he continued more hesitantly towards the hall.
The door from the dining-room to the hall opened inwards. Ronald pulled it towards him and almost stumbled over Dorothy, who was kneeling on the brown Marley tiles, her slippered feet pressed under her. She was crouched over Eliza, whose head was lying at a strange angle on the floor. Eliza’s legs and the lower half of her body were splayed over the bottom three or four step
s of the stairs, and seemed to be almost at right angles to her upper torso. She was still wearing the beige two-piece in which he had seen her at lunch-time, though the skirt had ridden above her knees to reveal Lisle stockings and pale blue directoire knickers. Incongruously, her close-fitting purple velvet hat was still clamped firmly on her head.
Dorothy was just kneeling there, speechless and motionless. She was making no attempt to revive Eliza, to talk to her, or even to feel her pulse.
“Dorothy,” he said. “Let me through. Quickly.”
She turned to him, and he felt terrified by the look he saw in her eyes. He had thought that she was weak and numb with shock until he looked at her properly and saw the naked malevolence in her gaze. If he had been at all fanciful, he would have described it as evil.
He pushed her to one side, and knelt to take Eliza’s pulse.
“Get up, For God’s sake,” he said to her. “Go round to Harry Daff’s and ask if you can call an ambulance.”
Dorothy had rearranged herself against the hall wall while he was speaking, her feet drawn up against her chest, her arms wrapped around them. She did not move when he spoke. All the animosity that he had witnessed the moment before seemed to have evaporated and she appeared to have sunk into a kind of trance.
“Bryony!” he shouted in fear and exasperation, “Get round to Mrs. Daff’s and ask her to call an ambulance.” Harry Daff owned the only telephone in the street, because he worked for the Electricity Board and had to be reachable to be called out if there were emergencies.
He heard Bryony get up and the back door opening and closing. He turned back to Eliza.
He could feel no pulse, either at her wrist or her temple. The light in the hall was dim, but he could see that her face had turned blue. Her eyelids were half-closed. The look on her face was not peaceful, but he couldn’t quite interpret her expression: it could have been one of fear, or pain, or even hatred. Was Eliza capable of hatred? He knew that her daughter was!
“I think that she’s gone,” he said quietly. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Dorothy had half-buried her head in her knees. She looked up when he spoke, but remained silent.
“Dorothy! Pull yourself together. Tell me what happened. Now!”
“Oh, shut up,” she spat at him. “You think you’re so wonderful, don’t you, coming bursting in here to take charge. What do you know, or what can you do. She fell. She went upstairs to get her coat and other things and had a funny turn when she was coming out of the bedroom and she fell downstairs. The kids have both fallen down these stairs and not even hurt themselves. She was unlucky.”
“Did you see her fall?”
“No. I was in the kitchen, getting the tea ready. I heard a bump – nothing more than that – and then several thuds. Bryony came to fetch me. I found Mother where she is now. Hedley was in there looking at her – I think he had been in his room. I sent them both into the dining-room to watch television. That was when you came in. It only happened a few minutes ago.”
“Why haven’t you got help?”
“I was going to. But I thought I’d wait for you first – I knew you’d be home soon.”
“Dorothy, don’t you understand that this is an emergency? Isn’t it obvious that there isn’t time to wait around when someone’s dangerously hurt? Let’s hope that she died outright. I hope you realise that we’ll have to call the police. They’ll want statements from you and from the children. There’s bound to be an inquest.”
Someone rapped the front door knocker.
“Tirzah, it’s me, Eileen. Are you all right? I’ve got Bryony with me. She says that you need an ambulance.”
“Eileen, come round to the back door”, called Ronald. “Stay there,” he said to Dorothy. She did not acknowledge him.
As he hurried through the dining-room, he saw that Hedley was lying in the same unnatural pose on the sofa, staring unseeing at the TV screen. Really, that boy was an oddball – such a little pansy. No backbone at all. God knew where he got his character from.
Eileen – or Bryony – had already opened the back door. They were standing together on the large square of cocoa-nut matting in the kitchen, looking nervous. Eileen was holding Bryony’s hand. She was a midget of a woman with permed wispy red hair and very protruding front teeth. According to Dorothy, she was domesticity personified, and spent her days baking, bottling, and making jam and children’s clothes. You wouldn’t catch Dorothy wasting her life in that way.
“God help us, Ronald, you look terrible.” Eileen’s demeanour was half compassionate, half avid with undisguised curiosity. “What on earth has happened? I heard the children screaming earlier. Where’s Tirzah?”
“She’s in the hall. Don’t you go in there,” he added, as Eileen took two steps towards the living-room. “She’s with her mother. The old lady’s had an accident – she’s fallen downstairs. We think she’s dead.”
“Have you tried first aid? I’m in St. John’s. I may be able to help.”
“Yes,” said Ronald – afterwards he was not sure why, except that he knew that somehow he had to keep Eileen out of the hall. “No use, I’m afraid. There isn’t a pulse. Definitely. Would you mind calling an ambulance for us, and the police?”
“Of course,” said Eileen, though something like doubt flitted across her horsey face. “I’ll take Bryony with me, shall I? What about Hedley. Is he all right?”
Ronald shrugged. “He’s watching TV. He’s all right as far as I know. Strange kid.”
Eileen Daff gave him an odd look as she left with Bryony. Bryony was clutching her hand very tight.
By the time the ambulance and the police had arrived, Dorothy was sobbing like any normal, bereaved daughter. At the inquest, the coroner pronounced Eliza’s death ‘an unfortunate accident’.
Chapter Eleven
When I was at primary school, a missionary nun came to talk to us. Her name was Sister Hilda. She showed us films of children in Africa singing and studying Maths. She was there herself in most of the footage, wearing a long loose cotton dress and a navy-blue nun’s headdress with a wimple. She also wore thick-framed spectacles, and had long uneven teeth. She exactly fitted my idea of what a nun should be like.
Sometimes there was a man with her in the film as well, a monk dressed in a dark rough habit fastened with a cord. He had a long ascetic face. She called him ‘Father Anselm’. She explained that Father Anselm was the leader of the mission to which she belonged and that he was part of the active branch of his order. He and the other monks who shared his vocation went out to do good works, to help and educate people everywhere who needed them, at home as well as in places like Africa. There were other monks as well, who belonged to the same order and shared the same beliefs, except that they did not work or mix with people in the world outside their monastery. They devoted themselves exclusively to prayer. The active monks supported them in this, and even looked up to them as being more pious than they were themselves. They prayed all the time and barely spoke to anyone except God. She said that what they were doing was like stoking a furnace, sending up a continuous ‘funnel of prayer’ to Heaven on behalf of all the rest of us sinners.
I soon got bored with Sister Hilda, especially when she tried to teach us Maths in the way that she had taught the African children, but I was fascinated by the idea of the funnel of prayer. It appeared to be such a good way of sorting things out, without getting involved in any unpleasantness. Instead of confronting problems yourself directly, you could just keep on bombarding God with prayers until he intervened. Her visit to my school had been timely, because I was a shy, nervous child and I had a particular problem that I needed to solve.
Before I say any more, I should like to make it plain that I am not one of those moral degenerates who goes through life continually blaming their parents for their own shortcomings. My childhood was difficult – both my fathe
r and my mother had terrible defects – but I do believe that there comes a time in every person’s life when they should stop blaming their parents for who they have become and instead accept that they have enough freedom as adults to mould themselves. Philip Larkin may have been right about parents ‘fucking you up’, but even he broke free; and it has to be said that he did not have a mother like Tirzah. I wonder if he called his mother, Mother? Bryony and I almost invariably called ours Tirzah – though that was not her real name, but one invented by some old man that she knew long before we were born.
Tirzah has always been the big conundrum in my life. She achieved notoriety when I was a very young man by going to prison for killing my grandmother and my relationship with her both prior to this and afterwards was tricky. Yet I was – not exactly – proud of her, but always influenced by her; obsessed with her, even. And it could not be denied that she possessed a profound distinctiveness.
My father was quite different. He was a weak and treacherous little man who liked to keep in with the big bluff farmers for whom he worked and enjoyed boasting about his pitiful possessions to the neighbours. I understood why Tirzah hated him for this; and why she was sickened by his appalling manners. She despised him; and therefore Bryony and I despised him, too.
Like many weak men, my father indulged in a certain amount of casual violence. He would smack me across the face or legs and, although he rarely laid a finger on Bryony, he had still been known on occasion to strike her with the flat of his hand. Far worse were his rages. He would be completing some simple task – such as drying the dishes for my mother – when a chance remark would pitch him into an immediate frenzy. His face would darken and the veins stand out on his forehead, and he would shout a tirade of abuse at anyone within his range – sometimes at my mother, but if either of us was there he would deflect his anger from her and hurl it at us instead. His face became hideously jowly and ugly and he would spit involuntarily as the words came tumbling out. On one of the dish-drying occasions, he threw the tea-towel into the washing-up bowl and swept the cups and saucers that were draining into the sink, where some of them broke treacherously under the soap-suds. Sometimes my mother would retort; sometimes she just fixed him with the stare that told him she despised him. On other occasions she would cry, though when I was older I realised that it was a hard, dry kind of crying, designed perhaps to illustrate what a bastard he was, rather than springing from any real distress.
In the Family Page 7