He could fend them off, the appalling moments. Fight them.
The thing was to keep occupied. He banged about in the scullery, hunting for wire. He would make the Britches impenetrable, tackle the dead trees and plant saplings.
As soon as Louise had left, Helen went to the telephone. She picked up the receiver, dialled Giles Carnaby’s number, and then replaced the receiver before the connection was made. She wasn’t quite ready yet, after all. In fifteen minutes’ time, she told herself sternly. Just a little longer to get oneself into the right frame of mind, run over the right casual, uncommitted phrases. ‘It just occurred to me you might like to …’; ‘If you’re free on Wednesday, I thought maybe. .
She too resolved on activity. She had been intending for days to make a start on clearing out the cloakroom; now was the moment — she would make a preliminary survey, set aside what should be kept, see if there was anything good enough for Oxfam. Then, suitably relaxed, she would telephone Giles.
Properly.
The cloakroom led off the hall. It was large exception ally
cold, and housed a primitive washbasin; the lavatory was separate, an internal room of its own. The walls were lined with layers of raincoats of a uniform dun, as though their colours had run together; they went back years — some had even belonged to her father and were so stiff and cracked that they could have stood unsupported. There was a pair of mackintosh waders; there were shooting-sticks and an Egyptian flywhisk and an alpenstock.
The pegs above the raincoats were occupied by assorted headgear — berets and peaked caps, a riding bowler, sou’westers, knitted hats, deerstalkers. Everything had associations — Dorothy’s, Edward’s, given by so-and-so, bought on a particular holiday, left behind by relative or friend; Helen saw an insistent kaleidoscope of references, shimmering tiresomely behind the garments and the implements, as ineradicable as the blackberry stains on a sleeve or the ingrained mud on everything.
And the whole lot smelt — a pervasive stench of damp and mildew. High time something was done about it. Starting in one corner, Helen began to lift garments from pegs and drop them on the floor in a pile — a mack of her father’s, something of Edward’s not worn within living memory, a very ancient corduroy jacket of Dorothy’s, also unused for many a year. It occurred to her that it might be wise to go through the pockets; her father’s garment yielded an old penny and a broken pipe. In Dorothy’s jacket was a letter.
Unopened and addressed to Helen.
She knew the handwriting at once, of course. Until ten years or so ago a bundle of similar envelopes had lain in a drawer of her desk; one day in a fit of vigour she had torn them up and thrown them away.
She sat down on the battered settle and opened the letter.
‘Dearest Helen,’ he began; that was interesting — the letters in the destroyed bundle usually began with ‘Dear’ or ‘My dear’. He went on to say that he felt they were both being rather silly and he wanted to make amends. He was missing her, he said. He had phoned a couple of times but she had been out. Anyway, maybe he could say what he felt more easily in a letter. She knew he wasn’t good at expressing himself. If she was still cross with him please would she stop. He was sorry about what was mainly a misunderstanding. He wanted very much to talk to her. There was something in particular he wanted to talk about. Please would she meet him for a long dinner on Friday — he would expect to hear from her tomorrow or the next day. He signed himself ‘With a great deal of love — Peter.’
The postmark on the envelope was March 10th 1965.
The hand of fate is brutal but impersonal. The hand of one’s mother is something different. Witting or unwitting? Carelessness — the thing picked up off the hall mat, thrust into her pocket and forgotten — or deliberate appropriation? If the latter — why had she not gone the whole hog and burned it? Well, one would never know and either way the effect was the same.
Helen began to shake. She saw her own hands with a certain detachment, holding the letter and trembling convulsively. She did not otherwise feel at all detached. Her mind raced. A number of things fell into place — click, click, click — with distant muffled echoes like stones dropped into a well. That time. The tiff. The coolness about … about what had it been? ‘A misunderstanding’.
Those weeks, not seeing him, wondering, too proud to make the first move. And weeks becoming a month, two months, three … a year. Anger giving way to misery and then to regret and eventually to … nothing. Until now, when one sat here in the cloakroom, surrounded by old raincoats, shaking as though struck down by fever.
One could, presumably, trace Peter Datchett. It would be relatively simple — she could think at once of how it could be done: the casual enquiry of a mutual friend with whom she still exchanged Christmas cards, the phone call to the college at which he had been a lecturer. And then the reply: ‘Dear Peter, I have at last received your letter of March 10th 1965. I hope it is not too late to say yes, I’d like very much to have dinner on Friday and I too feel we’ve been rather silly and it has all been a misunderstanding. .
And there is Peter, on the receiving end, opening it over breakfast with his wife and children … no, children if any are flown by now, Peter is fifty-six … with his wife (and the wife one is of course assuming, merely, but the assumption seems reasonable enough, things being what they are), who says ‘Who’s that from?’ And he shoves it in his pocket with some dismissive remark and wonders what the hell he is to do. How embarrassing, he thinks. God — poor old Helen.
No, one will not set about tracing Peter Datchett.
At this precise moment, thought Helen, I hate my mother. It was a refreshing feeling — invigorating, even. And worth indulging: it stifled various other feelings.
She knew that she would not have lived happily ever after with Peter Datchett. No one lives happily ever after. Very likely there would have been a further coolness or misunderstanding and they would have parted. The point was that one would never know, now. And so would wonder, and go on wondering. One would construct alternative scenarios, and brood about them.
One would furnish houses and arrange landscapes; one might go dangerously far and people them with … children. One would conjure up occasions; things would be said and done.
All this thanks to Dorothy. Still ordaining.
No, said Helen. She rose from the settle. She put the letter in her pocket. In due course she would dispose of it, but not just yet. Think of what was, she told herself, since only that is relevant. What might have been is neither here nor there. She tried to reconstruct the physical Peter Datchett: tall, thin, black hair that tended to flop forwards, a mole on one cheek. He taught at the College of Further Education a few miles from Spaxton; she had met him through a rambling club. His physical presence was all mixed up with muddy tracks, overgrown woodland paths, rain and barbed wire fences and glasses of beer in steamy pubs.
And then of course the relationship had become more personal and exclusive: lunches and dinners, films, visits to stately homes or places of scenic interest. Intimacy, of a kind; they were both reserved people, they didn’t rush things. She did not remember passion, but a certain eroticism — that, definitely. They were on the brink of sex; it was a matter of time, she had known — next week, the one after. She had explained to him about her mother; he had met her mother; he had seemed to size up the problem, had said the right things in his oblique way. Dorothy had referred to him as ‘that chap with the birthmark on his face.’
Love? It had been in the air, certainly — around the corner, along with sex. What she remembered was a sense of expectancy, of confident expectancy. They had been a unit, had shared jokes, exchanged small gifts, written to each other when unable to meet for a week or two; the assumption was always that this would continue, and expand.
Why didn’t he write again? Telephone? Arrive on the doorstep?
Because, thought Helen, he was as he was. Reserved; a touch diffident. And why did I do nothing? Ditto.
She went out into the hall. She picked up the receiver and dialled Giles Carnaby’s number. The ringing tone came: once, twice, six times … Out, she thought. Good. Reprieved. But honour is satisfied. You can put the thing down.
‘Hello?’ said Giles.
‘Oh.’ The prepared words evaporated. ‘Is that …? Could I speak to Giles Carnaby?’
‘You are.’
‘This is Helen Glover.’
‘But how very nice. I didn’t recognise your voice.’
‘I was wondering. .
‘And I’d been thinking of you only yesterday. How are you?’
‘Very well. I wondered if. .
‘Your mother’s affairs progress. Slowly, as I’m afraid is always the case. The Probate Office moves in its own mysterious way.’
‘Actually,’ said Helen, ‘that wasn’t what I was ringing about.
My brother and I are having a few people in for a drink before lunch on Sunday. I wondered if you might be able to come.’
There. No going back now.
‘But I’d be delighted. What fun. Last weekend I was away but this one I’m as free as air. I shall look forward to it. By the way I’ve finished the Earl Grey. Things are getting desperate. And you never did come and have a cup.’
‘Oh. No. You can buy it at the delicatessen in Long Barton, you know.’
‘I’m never in that direction. Do you think you could get me a packet next time you’re passing?’
‘I’ll try. I mean yes, I will.’
‘Bless you. And thank you so much for ringing. What time?’
‘Time?’
‘On Sunday.’
‘Oh — twelve, I think.’
‘Twelve. Splendid. Till then.’
‘We’re having some people in for a drink on Sunday. Before lunch.’
Edward, dealing out Puffed Wheat to the birds, swung round sharply. ‘Whatever for?’
‘I thought we should.’
‘But we’ve never done it before.’
‘It’s the sort of thing that’s done all the time, in other households.’
‘I can’t think why. Who, then?’
‘Doctor Taylor and his wife, I thought. A few others from the village. And our solicitor, Giles Carnaby.’
‘But you went to hear him sing,’ said Edward. ‘Surely that was quite enough.’
‘They will arrive at twelve and stay probably for an hour and a half or so. I’ll get the drink but you’ll have to help pour it out.
Is there anyone you’d like to ask?’
‘Certainly not. And I hope this isn’t going to be a precedent.’
She made telephone calls. She hoovered and dusted the sitting room. She found glasses that were unchipped and as nearly matching as possible. She bought sherry and white wine and whisky. She bought bags of little biscuity things. ‘You make me laugh,’ said her mother. ‘I never saw such a carry-on. Who do you think you’re fooling?’ Nobody,’ Helen replied. Least of all myself. ‘And that chap — Giles Thingy — do you imagine he’s going to be taken in? A man like that.’
‘Enough,’ said Helen. ‘You have no right. Nor ever did. From now on I’ll be mine own executioner.’
‘Whatever have you done to the cloakroom?’ complained Edward.
‘Cleared it out.’
‘I liked it the way it was.’
‘We’ve still got nine raincoats and anoraks between us. And eight different hats and an alpenstock and a flywhisk and four walking-sticks.’
‘I used to enjoy the way you never knew what you’d come across next.’
‘I don’t share your feelings,’ said Helen.
She considered making a ceremonial pyre. She would burn Peter Datchett’s letter and that dress in one fine condemnatory blaze.
There you are, mother — there they go, properly disposed of at last. A few years too late. Or did you always think they had been? Were you careless or calculating? And what did you do it for? Were these sins of omission, or a devilish scheme? I can’t know if you succeeded in changing the course of my life, but it’s possible. And for a person in a somewhat delicate emotional condition, as I believe myself to be, this is hard to contemplate.
She did not believe that marriage, or pairing, or however you cared to define a sexual relationship, was the key to happiness and fulfilment; you only had to look around you to see that this was not so. Which was worse — to have tried and failed or never to have tried at all?
She thought of her father — that grey and distant figure associated only with anchovy paste and a rustling newspaper. It was not comfortable to consider her parents’ intimate life; she could recall no demonstrations of affection or indeed even of much displayed interest in one another. Usually, Dorothy had been engaged in shifting her husband around like an inharmonious piece of furniture. His own image was one of compliant self effacement. He went out to work by day, conveniently, at a firm of accountants; in the evenings and at weekends he made himself as unobtrusive as possible. God knows what went on at night.
In the end she pushed the letter into the drawer of her desk and left the dress where it was, in the corner of the wardrobe.
All in good time.
Edward, practised in self-deception, forgot about the guests until Sunday morning and was therefore surprised to discover Helen, at ten-thirty, wearing unexpected clothes and straightening cushions in the sitting room. She was also flushed and evidently in a state of unrest, which made him feel chivalrous and sympathetic.
He decided to be nice about the whole business, though he still could not see the point of it, and offered to put the little biscuity things into bowls. He gave some of them to Tam in the process.
It was not so much that he had anything against people in general, more that he saw no purpose in deliberately setting up occasions on which you stood around trying to think of something to say. Moreover, the whole process was self-perpetuating; the guest became the host in an act of social revenge and thus it
went on for ever. The only sensible course was never to start it in the first place. He could not think what had got into Helen, normally as rational as himself about all this, or so he had thought.
Nevertheless, when the doorbell rang he was ready and waiting, with an agreeable expression and a fluent command of what to offer by way of drink. He had been feeling a bit better for the last few days. He had repaired the fence between the Britches and Ron Paget’s yard, filled two black plastic sacks with rubbish and had embarked on a vigorous assault upon dead and decaying trees. It all felt very positive and forward-looking.
The visitors arrived. There were not enough of them to make the large Greystones sitting room look as though much was going on; people stood in small clumps, eyeing one another; awkward silences broke out. I told you so, thought Edward, ploughing valiantly around with a bottle in each hand. Tam scrabbled at each pair of legs in turn, remembering the biscuits; the more uninhibited guests kicked, furtively. Apart from the doctor and his wife and Giles Carnaby they were all people from the village who had not had an opportunity for a good look at the inside of Greystones for quite a while and were busy taking note. ‘I s’pose you may be thinking of selling the Britches now, Edward?’ asked a neighbour. ‘Oh no,’ said Edward. ‘There’s no question of that.’
He couldn’t remember her name; her face was as familiar to him as the frontage of the village shop or outline of the church tower; he had always been hopeless at names. The solicitor detached himself from another group and joined them. ‘Giles Carnaby — we haven’t met. Your sister is busy hostessing so I’m introducing myself.’ Oh,’ said Edward. ‘Yes. Hello. This is Mrs …’ He gazed wildly at the neighbour who said crossly, ‘Jean Powers.
Actually Edward’s known me for ten years, but there we are.
You live in Spaxton, don’t you?’ Edward, thinking with relief that he could leave them to it now, began to withdraw, clutching the bottles that gave him a certain exemption, free to come and go. The solicitor laid a hand on his arm, making
Edward wince: he didn’t like to be touched. ‘Were you talking about the famous Britches? Helen’s told me so much about the place. May I have a conducted tour sometime?’ No you certainly can’t, thought Edward, and what’s all this ‘Helen’ stuff? He said, ‘There’s absolutely nothing to see and it’s awfully full of nettles’; at the same moment Jean Powers was saying noisily that not a solitary soul had been into the Britches in years and the village wondered what Edward got up to in there — ha ha! — some people said he must be into black magic, or maybe he was growing cannabis.
Edward laughed politely, slid from Carnaby’s grip and edged towards the group by the window, who were talking about hedges in tones of some desperation. As he did so Helen passed him; her neck was red, a sure sign of agitation. She hissed, ‘Do do something about the Taylors and old Mrs Phipson. They’ve been stuck together for hours.’ How?’ enquired Edward; he meant it — he had absolutely no idea of the mechanics involved.
Helen gave him a look of fury. The group by the window turned to him anxiously: ‘Is that hedge yew, Edward? None of us can decide.’ Really, thought Edward, people must be out of their minds, submitting themselves to this sort of occasion quite voluntarily.
Kill or cure, Helen had thought. As soon as she set eyes on Giles Carnaby again she knew that whatever it was it was not a case of cure; her heart thumped, she felt unstable. There he was. Here he was. Smiling at her over people’s shoulders while she could not move because someone was telling her at length how much she must be missing her mother. And then she saw him talking to Edward and Jean Powers and then someone had mislaid their glass and she had to find another and then there was the problem of the Taylors and old Mrs Phipson. And then eventually she could cross the room towards him. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I have been most restrained — I could see you had your hands full.
*****Passing On***** Page 13