AN IRRELEVANT WOMAN

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘What would you say was your mother’s greatest gift?’ he asked Malcolm.

  ‘Being my mother,’ Malcolm said, piping a froth of cream about a nest of raspberries.

  ‘Take yourself out of the picture. Then what do you see?’

  ‘A homemaker.’ Malcolm put the pipe down on the table. ‘I’ve spoiled it. You shouldn’t have talked to me.’ His face was pale.

  Murdoch said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What has happened to her? Why is she like this? What does she say about it?’

  ‘She can’t talk to me about it. I’ve tried.’

  ‘But she was always so easy to talk to. I could talk to her about anything.’

  ‘Anything to do with you, you mean.’

  Malcolm looked vaguely at his father; his mind had a habit of switching off when things were said or done which might threaten him.

  ‘I’m not criticising you,’ Murdoch said. ‘Believe me, I am far beyond criticising anyone other than myself.’

  Malcolm turned away to the sink. He found his father’s behaviour almost as strange as his mother’s.

  The sun was warm now. Janet could feel it on her hand. But she was aware of the warmth only distantly as if it was happening to another person. The members of her body seemed separate entities going about business unconnected with her. But at some time there had been a resolve. She had woken early, responding to that alarm in her brain which had once alerted her to the slightest stirring from the cot in the night. How strange that it still operated even now when all the children had left home. But this one child, the most vulnerable, had returned. Malcolm was here. And it was for Malcolm that heart and hands had made the strenuous effort of washing and dressing, that legs had carried her out here into the garden and deposited her in this chair; for Malcolm that she had exposed herself to the dangers lurking beyond this garden with its high hedges over which birds flew so unconcernedly. And more would be required, much more. It had been such a long, hard business, his separation from home and parents; she could not undo the process now, let the threads slip between her fingers, unravel, come apart . . .

  He was coming towards her wearing an immaculately starched butcher’s apron. ‘What are you doing in that?’ she asked.

  ‘I am cooking. A talent too long unrecognised.’ He held up a hand as though a silver dish was balanced on it. ‘From now on you will have superb meals.’

  She shaded her eyes with one hand as she looked up at him. ‘What do you mean – “from now on”? You are only here for the weekend.’

  He sat on the grass in front of her, legs entwined in the lotus position which he was able to adopt effortlessly. Speech on this occasion was not quite so easy, but he contrived an airy nervousness as he said, ‘I think I might stay a little longer. I need a rest from the theatre.’

  Usually he needed a response and was quick to notice its absence, but he hoped to get this matter over with as little fuss as possible and so was grateful for the pause during which she probed to see what resources were still available within her.

  ‘But this is your first year in rep. You can’t talk about needing a rest! Resting is something you don’t do voluntarily.’

  ‘A period of meditation, then. We are due to start rehearsing Time and the Conways. I am cast as Ernest. Can you imagine? I’m not in the least like Ernest.’

  I am waiting in the wings, she told herself, I am sick with nerves but as soon as I get on the stage it will be all right and I shall be in control. She said, ‘Ernest is a good part. The only good part.’

  ‘The play is so dated. It’s pathetic!’

  ‘But it does give a splendid opportunity to age.’

  ‘I’m not sure about this acting business, anyway.’

  Janet sat up straight in her chair, stretching her spine and moving her head slowly from side to side to exercise the shoulder muscles. She swayed as the blood came rushing to her head and put a hand on the arm of the chair to steady herself.

  ‘What is it?’ Concern tricked him into looking at her carefully. She seemed to have shrunk, but she did not look exactly frail, more like a wooden image long neglected from which sun and rain have peeled away the inessential gloss of colour, leaving the woodcutter’s work unadorned. The eyes, looking out with a message too direct to bear understanding, seemed to say, ‘It is you who equivocate, not I.’ This was one of those images which, if asked the right question, will answer truthfully. But sons and daughters are the last to wish for that. Malcolm said in a rush, ‘You’re not eating enough. I am going to build you up. You won’t know yourself in a few weeks.’

  Janet said, ‘Where is your script? Get it and we’ll have a run through.’ As he hesitated, she said irritably, ‘Please, Malcolm! It will do me much more good than your superb cooking.’

  It was a long time since she had initiated conversation, even longer since she had had any sense of purpose, and she found herself shaking and breathless as if there was not enough oxygen in the air. She took several deep breaths, but this made her even more dizzy. Malcolm returned; gliding across the lawn he came behind her to produce the script from his shirt in the manner of a conjuror, laying it before her with a flourish. ‘Now, if it was Puck I was to play . . .’

  Janet said, ‘Get me a drink, would you? Anything will do. I’m dehydrated – or something . . .’

  ‘I don’t want to tire you.’

  ‘Oh, Malcolm! Don’t make me say everything twice! Just get me a drink.’

  He stalked off, shoulders ungracefully hunched, head thrust down.

  The little flash of temper drained all Janet’s energy Malcolm returned with a glucose drink and a piece of fruit cake. She drank and felt slightly better, ‘Now,’ She took up the script, ‘We’ll do the bit between you and Hazel in the last act when you finally get her to yourself for a few minutes,’ Malcolm sat on the grass, clasping his knees and looking cross and awkward, much as Ernest might have done if forced to join a picnic party. ‘Let’s score each speech – one to ten according to how strong you feel yourself to be in relation to other characters. Now, you are just about to say goodnight to this girl you are so fascinated by . . .’ She drank a little more.

  Malcolm began, ‘ “It’s been a great pleasure to me to come here and meet you all.” ’

  ‘But how do you score when you say that?’

  Malcolm rested his forehead on his knees and addressed the grass. ‘Five, I think. Because he is here, in the Conways’ house, where he has wanted to be; but they are a cut above him socially and he’s in awe of them. While she hadn’t wanted to be left alone with him. So I think they are evenly balanced.’

  Janet thought, without satisfaction, that at this moment she was scoring higher than her son. She said, ‘Start again, then.’

  ‘ “It’s been a great pleasure to me to come here and meet you all.” ’

  Janet read, ‘ “Oh – well -.” ’

  Malcolm said, ‘ “Especially you.” Four – he’s not sure he’s going to get away with that. “I’m new around here, y’know. I’ve only been in the place about three months. I bought a share in that paper mill – Eckersley’s – out at West Newlingham – you know it?” ’

  Janet held up her hand. ‘Wait a minute, not so fast! What happens to your score when you tell her you have bought a share in the mill?’

  ‘My score goes up to eight.’

  Janet took a bite of the fruit cake and they went on. After a few lines she said, ‘Do you mind that she’s not impressed?’

  ‘I don’t think I would let it worry me,’ Malcolm pulled up a clover leaf. ‘He’s the archetypal male chauvinist pig. He knows the mill is important and if she doesn’t understand that it’s because she’s only a woman.’

  ‘But it is the one thing you can boast about, isn’t it? And she doesn’t respond.’

  ‘Maybe I would be a bit crestfallen. Four, perhaps?’

  She began to cough and he rolled to one side and knelt beside her. ‘I think we should stop now.’

/>   ‘No, no! It’s only that I haven’t talked so much for a long time.’

  He looked at her doubtfully. Her face had become flushed and the words seemed to be coming too fast for breath, outrunning thought. But she had always been a bit like that when she was excited, so he sat back on his heels and continued to play Ernest.

  After the entrance of Robin, Janet said, ‘How do you react to him, do you think? To him, not what he is saying about stoking a train to break the strike. What is your score?’

  ‘I don’t say anything to him at first.’

  ‘No, but you are observing him.’

  ‘I think I rate higher than him. Seven.’

  ‘That’s high! After all, he is in his own home, where he belongs and you don’t; and he is surrounded by members of his family. So doesn’t he have the advantage of ownership and collective power?’

  ‘Ernest has a share in a paper mill.’

  ‘And Robin is in uniform. An air-force officer.’

  ‘Which is probably a disadvantage. Because the war is over and he will have to put his uniform away. And he doesn’t know what he is without it.’

  After a pause during which Janet remained silent, looking down at the script, he went on, speaking quietly now, ‘And the Conways are always playing dressing-up games. So really, Ernest looks down on them. Because they behave as if life is a charade and they are all trying out parts; while he knows who he is and where he is going . . .’

  ‘But he still wants the things the Conways have got – the family magic . . .’

  ‘Which he also wants to destroy.’

  ‘No. They destroy that themselves.’ Janet closed the script.

  ‘Do you admire Ernest, Malcolm?’

  ‘I don’t understand him. It’s Robin I should be playing. He sees life in terms of costume. When he talks about his future after the war he says” . . . if I’m going to start selling cars I’ve got to look like somebody who knows a good suit when he sees one.” ’

  ‘Ernest wears formal clothes.’

  ‘But underneath you can feel his body protesting. Whereas Robin is the clothes he wears.’

  ‘Robin had a devouring mother.’ She tossed the script on the ground.

  ‘Unlike you,’ he said quickly, taking her hand.

  She jerked her hand away, her face twisted with the distaste of an ill person for any display of physical affection. ‘I don’t want to devour. Neither do I want to be devoured. Please note that.’

  The silence seemed to stretch a long way. When she turned to look at him he was kneeling in the posture of a courtier who has incurred the monarch’s displeasure and fears for his life. She put, out a hand and touched the soft, brown hair. ‘I should think your score is about half at this moment, isn’t it?’

  He made no reply.

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Or perhaps you think that, being hurt, you score rather higher?’

  ‘What has happened to you?’ he cried.

  ‘I would have liked time to find that out.’

  ‘You can have all the time you want.’ He flung up his head, an angry boy.

  She caught his arm as he threatened to move away. ‘Let’s talk about you. You were always good at finding something to trouble you in whatever you did. What is it in the theatre? Are you afraid you will never be a person, is that it? Just a role player.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘But everyone dresses a part. Not just you. Patsy and Deutzia – their clothes say something about the parts they see themselves playing. People dress up, or dress down.’

  ‘The theatre doesn’t exactly encourage one to find a particular identity.’

  ‘Then that is a risk you will have to take.’ She tapped her fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair. ‘There are risks in every walk of life. If you were a bank clerk you would probably succeed in sinking your precious identity much more effectively.’

  He turned away, his mouth working, his whole face dissolving as if a great cascade of water was tumbling over him. ‘How can I . . . with you like this . . . can’t you understand that it’s too hard?’

  ‘Yes, I do understand. It was hard enough anyway . . . and then I did this to you.’ She patted his cheek. Her fingers were dry as fallen leaves. ‘But I can’t improve while you are here. So what are we going to do about it? You can’t make a success of your life in the theatre while you are worried about what is happening to me; and I can’t get better while you are here pestering me.’

  ‘You are not giving anything, are you?’ he shouted angrily. ‘I am to go back while you – you won’t even try!’

  ‘I will try. I promise you that. What would you like me to do? What would convince you?’

  ‘Start going out again.’ He was still resentful. ‘You haven’t been beyond that gate since the time when you went to that old place on the heath. Only don’t go that way again.’

  ‘After lunch, I will walk down to see Patsy.’

  ‘There you go again! It would be much better to see Deutzia. She has all sorts of ideas about what you should do.’

  And all of them more harmless than anything Patsy might have in mind, Janet read his thoughts. She said, ‘But Patsy does something. No, don’t laugh. She does try.’

  ‘To sort out the affairs of the world while neglecting her children and poor old Hugh.’

  ‘She thinks she is saving the future for her children and I expect she thinks Hugh is old enough to look after himself. We shouldn’t sneer at Patsy, Malcolm. People who live their lives behind high hedges forfeit the right to criticise what goes on beyond the garden gate.’

  Malcolm, who did not have a long attention span, was not listening. He said, ‘On second thoughts, I don’t think you are ready to go out again, just yet. You could do something here. The garden is a mess.’ He encompassed it in a gesture worthy of Oberon. ‘Then, in the autumn, the dramatic society will start rehearsing again. You’re bound to get a part.’

  I am not capable of surviving in the outside world, is that it? she wondered. Or is it – and this is more likely – that he does not want me to be capable because he needs to think of me here, to have an unchanging presence at home, a constant to sustain him in the shadowy, precarious world in which he now moves. She was seized by the fear that he was too sensitive, a little too ready to please, that he would become an easy prey to the more vicious elements in the twilit realm to which those not entirely successful in the theatrical profession are so often consigned. The temptation to say, ‘Stay Malcolm’ was great, not only for his sake but for her own. ‘Stay with me and together we will defy time’s slow corrosion.’ But she had struggled this far and the gesture would be costly and almost certainly pointless. Until this moment she had not thought of her illness in terms of distance covered, but now it seemed she had come a long way and was not sure she could turn back, or that the person whom Malcolm needed was any longer there. A decision was demanded of her; but her brain, which had become so lively while they were acting, was dull as if a sudden fog had descended, immobilising interest and feeling, blotting out the patterns of thought which had seemed so clear only a few moments ago, leaving only an aching tiredness behind the eyes. As she sat there, spent and helpless, Murdoch came out of the kitchen and walked towards them.

  ‘What train are you catching tomorrow morning?’ he said to Malcolm.

  ‘The nine-fifteen,’ Malcolm answered promptly. He seemed to feel that something had been settled. And it had, of course, but by Murdoch, not him.

  Murdoch helped Janet to her feet and then offered her his arm. How strange, she thought, he seems to have kept abreast of me and I had not noticed. As they paced slowly across the lawn, she thought, we haven’t progressed in so stately a fashion since he led me from the altar.

  In her dream that night no one kept abreast of her. Once there had been lights in the city, but now it was dark. She was alone and as she walked she knew that soon, very soon, the thing which threatened her was going to happen. When she woke she thought
that it wouldn’t be so terrifying if she was with people, working with them, sharing in the nightmare . . .

  Chapter Eleven

  The meadowsweet was in flower. Deutzia said, ‘A sign of high summer! It always makes me feel sad.’

  It was a windy day with altocumulus mottling the blue sky. The wind blew downy thistle seedlings into the river, worried at a piece of sheep’s wool caught in barbed wire; light flickered fast through the leaves of the willow.

  ‘It is too windy to sit in the garden, I’m afraid,’ Deutzia said sadly to Rodney and Patience who had come to tea.

  ‘Isn’t that your friend Janet?’ Patience asked. ‘I did not know that she was out and about again.’

  Deutzia looked out of the window and saw Janet walking in the jerky fashion she had recently adopted in order to keep her balance. ‘She is probably going to see Patsy. She has been out with Patsy once or twice in the last two weeks.’

  ‘That must be a great relief to you,’ said Patience who did not really believe that Deutzia was a devoted friend.

  ‘I am afraid she is not fully recovered,’ Deutzia said, pouring tea. ‘We have a newcomer in the old dower-house and I thought it would be nice to have a tea party to introduce her to one or two people. It is always a good way of getting a look at a new neighbour and then if you don’t much care for each other you don’t need to bother again. I asked Janet because I thought it would be a little outing for her. And a very trying occasion it was. The dower-house woman is a rather jarring creature – orange hair, orange lipstick, a rather orange sort of woman altogether. She didn’t help the conversation along but laughed a lot at things which did not strike me as particularly funny – her lipstick had smeared her front teeth. But we managed quite well. The vicar’s wife, Mrs Beaney, told her about the history of the old house and Ann Bellamy described the Warringtons – those eccentric people who used to live there. And this woman just sat looking around as if she was planning to do a sketch of each one of us, which made me feel very uncomfortable. She wasn’t a kind person. And then Janet suddenly burst out, really quite emotionally, and à propos of nothing, “You look marvellous in that gown, as though you and it were woven all of a piece.” “Gown”, I may say, was hardly the appropriate word, more like a rag an artist uses to clean the paint brushes! But the woman was highly delighted and said, “Well, I do take it off sometimes. But I am so glad you like it. I printed it myself.” Which I could well believe. And she began to tell Janet about some design group which makes up these “creations”. It ruined the tea party, of course. I don’t think Janet intended to be disruptive. She just didn’t seem aware that one doesn’t take over the conversation in another person’s house. She would never have been so gauche at one time. But I suppose one has to be thankful she is as well as she is.’