MARCH HOUSE

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘Do you think he will come?’ I asked, nervously trying to keep my eyes from the big double bed with its lace coverlet and faded silk cushions.

  ‘I hope so. He would be safe; no one would ever know that he was here.’

  The white cat strolled into the room and rubbed up against my legs. Miss Maud went to the window. ‘There would be no reason for him to leave, no one whom he had to consider, no duty he had to perform. There is all that one needs here. One is free to live as one likes.’ She gazed with contempt at that other world of consideration and duty now almost hidden by the high hedges and straggling weeds. ‘Your mother should have gone off with her farmer. They could have taken a farmhouse somewhere; it would have been easy for them, farmers are so self-sufficient.’

  ‘I don’t think one comes by working farms all that easily.’ I tried to inject a note of practicality into the discussion, as much for my sake as for hers.

  She said, ‘The poor-spirited can always invent a few difficulties.’

  ‘And there was me. She had to think about me.’

  ‘You?’ Miss Maud turned; her eyes glinted as she looked at me. ‘Yes, I can see that you have probably been grossly indulged.’ She was looking at my body again. I had a quite overwhelming sense of Dr. Laver; the smell of him was there in the room. ‘But because your mother made sacrifices for you, you must not assume that other people will deny themselves on your account.’

  I felt guilty about neglecting my father and so I assumed that she was talking about him, that she was telling me that he wanted to marry Eleanor. I wondered how she knew about Eleanor. There was little hope of finding out because she was talking about her life with the Shah again.

  ‘The important thing is to order the day. The nights will present no difficulty; we shall tell stories and play charades. But during the day the imagination must be held in check, otherwise the magic will be lost. So we shall breakfast at ten, and have a few hours in the garden before the sun gets too hot. There will be a light lunch at noon, followed by an afternoon’s work. I am proposing to write my autobiography and I daresay he will do the same; we might even combine on a project, I can think of several subjects which would be suitable. At four, we shall have tea, followed, I am afraid, by housework and gardening. He can have his choice as to which he does, but I am hoping he will choose the housework. Sherry at six, and music, flute or violin, while we watch the light fading. Dinner at eight. And then the night is ours.’ She looked at her watch. ‘A quarter to noon. I am afraid I must ask you to leave now as I have to prepare lunch. I am trying out the programme for the day as it may need a few adjustments here and there. I don’t seem to have allowed much time for cooking.’

  I went quickly before she thought of anything else that she wanted to tell me. The catch was down on the front door and I had difficulty opening it. My hands were shaking and I was sweating. It was a relief when it opened and I stepped into the noonday sunlight.

  As I walked home across the fields I thought of Miss Maud and the Shah living in that house which he must never leave. A world on its own. It was crazy; but people did that sort of thing. I had read in the papers of men who had remained hidden ever since the war because no one had told them we were at peace. When I went to bed I thought of Miss Maud and the Shah, telling stories and playing charades.

  The next day I went back to work.

  Chapter Ten

  Until now I had ordered my life in compartments. When I was a child it had been Sunday school and home; then it was school and church and home: then it was office and tennis club and church and home. It had worked well, giving changes of pace and mood, light and shade, and it had given an agreeable degree of elusiveness to my conception of myself. Now everything had changed. I seemed to be moving along a tunnel aware of people in adjacent spaces but unable to communicate with them. The spaces were like small rehearsal rooms in which I caught glimpses of scenes from plays I did not recognise. The players conveyed a sense of purpose but the scenes were too many and too fragmented for them to have any meaning for me.

  March House presented me with a new set of scenes but apart from that matters did not improve. Mrs. Libnitz greeted me from the reception-room. When I last saw her she had been talking to my father about Tito. Now she was saying, ‘It’s a good job we don’t have neighbours.’ I could hear distant shouts and screams. Mrs. Libnitz told me that Dr. Laver was seeing two of Douglas’s clients and their children were playing in the garden. I went into the garden to observe the scene.

  At first I did not recognise Iris. She had her hair clawed fiercely back from her forehead and secured by a bow at the nape of her neck; her face looked rather shockingly bold and hard. She and Douglas were standing on the path discussing role playing and family alignments while a sturdy four-year-old was dragging her brother and elder sister around in a cart. It was easy to see who was going to be the hewer of wood and drawer of water in this family. Di, who had been sitting on the garden seat, suddenly stubbed out a cigarette and advanced on the children. She said to the older girl, ‘Now, come along, princess; it’s time your kid sister had a ride.’

  The child thus addressed, who bore a remarkable resemblance to the young Shirley Temple, burst into tears. Di lifted her out of the cart and deposited her screaming on the grass. The little boy, shaken by this show of authority, scrambled out of the cart and trundled his younger sister round the garden. Iris asked Douglas, ‘What did you do when your kids behaved like this?’

  ‘It was usually past their bedtime when I got home.’

  My mind recorded all this, but it had no more reality than a scene from a play.

  Di came across to me and said that she had missed me. ‘No one around here has any sense of humour.’ I tried to think of something humorous to say. Behind us, the french windows opened. Dr. Laver came out and bellowed, ‘Stop that noise at once or I’ll slice off your ears.’ He returned to the house and an eerie silence descended. After a few moments’ contemplation little Shirley Temple junior got to her feet and helped her brother to pull the cart round the garden. Iris caught sight of me and held her arms wide. Douglas acknowledged my presence with more restraint. We talked while we watched the children. I was so far into myself that I found it hard to respond. My mind had lost its sharpness and my vision its clarity, everything seemed dull and smudged.

  After about ten minutes the parents came out through the french windows followed by Dr. Laver; the mother gazed at her first born and said loudly, ‘She’s never like that at home.’ The child immediately let go her hold on the cart shaft; her face turned mottled purple and she began to scream, ‘Nasty man . . .’ pointing a chubby finger at Dr. Laver. Her mother gathered her up, but she was not to be comforted and threw herself about so much that she had to be put on the ground where she lay banging her head on the gravel path. Dr. Laver retreated through the french windows. Iris said to the parents, ‘Perhaps we could go to my room for a talk? It’s quieter there.’

  Di said, ‘If that was my child I’d belt her.’

  Douglas said, ‘No one is looking.’

  The fabric of civilisation was breaking up. I turned and went into the house. I had never realised how large the garden was; I was out of breath when I reached my room. There was an untidy pile of work on my desk and I leafed through it without taking much note of it. The thoughts that troubled me at home still engaged my mind and seemed as relevant here. I must get out, I thought; but I could no longer think where was out. I thought about Miss Maud and the Shah. When Iris came in, having finished talking to the clients, I said:

  ‘I went to see Miss Maud yesterday. She’s spring cleaning her house and she says she is expecting the Shah to come and stay with her.’

  ‘What Shah?’ she asked, echoing an uneasy idea at the back of my mind.

  ‘The Shah of Iran. Who else could she mean?’

  ‘That would be enormous fun, wouldn’t it? I wonder what they would make of each other.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  �
��I doubt that Miss Maud was. She’s well in control of her fantasies, although she may like to give a different impression when it suits her.’

  ‘But why should she be spring cleaning?’

  ‘Yes, I must admit I find that a trifle sinister. But I shouldn’t worry about it. There is usually a method in Miss Maud’s madness.’

  Iris was at her most confident. There did not seem to be anything more I could say about Miss Maud and the Shah. I looked at the pile of papers beside my typewriter; it seemed unimaginable that I should ever shift them. Iris extracted something from the pile. ‘I’m afraid there is a lot of typing there. The most important thing is this draft of a TV script. I’ve told Dr. Laver that he must put his reports on tape, so you won’t have to take dictation from him.’

  I suspected she was trying to keep me from Dr. Laver and this gave me a feeling of guilt as though I had not washed and the smell of my condition had betrayed me. I found it difficult to answer without showing my concern; it wasn’t so much the words, as finding the right pitch for my voice.

  ‘I would prefer dictation.’ My voice sounded staccato and unnatural. ‘I don’t like doing audio work; it gives me a funny feeling in the head.’ I emphasised this with a nervous giggle.

  ‘It’s just a matter of getting used to it.’ She looked at me with those big, colourless eyes which seemed always to study another person’s face in order to read their mind and take an opposite view. ‘And quite apart from the question of dictation, I think it may be rather a strain for you to do Dr. Laver’s work. For one thing, he is a very strong personality; for another, his methods are rather unorthodox. It is stimulating for people like Douglas and myself, but I think it would not be right to involve you too much.’

  ‘I am the clinic secretary,’ I said on a rising note. ‘I have to be involved.’ I had unfinished business with Dr. Laver. He had taken me into the past and without his aid I could not haul myself back into the present; I would remain trapped in that reeking tunnel. The thought appalled and excited me.

  Iris laid the TV script on my typewriter and said something about it being wrong to place burdens on people not qualified to bear them.

  I was about to protest when Dr. Laver came into the room. ‘Is that your handbag in the hall?’ he asked Iris.

  She looked round vaguely and said, ‘Yes, I expect so.’

  ‘Then I have to tell you that abominable child has been sick in

  it.’

  The door banged behind Iris and we heard her running down the corridor, opening the playroom door, and then it was quiet. The walls were thick and we could hope for a few minutes’ peace. We breathed. It seemed a great luxury just to breathe. When Dr. Laver spoke it was like an echo of something I had already said. ‘I’ve got to get out of this place.’ I looked at him and saw that his need was as desperate as my own. ‘I’m going to London for the week-end. Come with me.’

  I knew that there were objections if only I could assemble them.

  ‘You can go home at lunch-time and pack a case, if that’s what is worrying you.’ He stood beside me, agitatedly scratching his behind. ‘I’ll meet you on platform two at Weston Market at four- thirty.’

  I managed to put a couple of words together. ‘It’s impossible.’

  ‘Are you really intending to go through life saying that it is impossible to catch a four-thirty train to London?’

  I tried to put more words together. There was the sound of voices in the corridor. I said, ‘The five-thirty is a better train; it only stops at Cambridge.’

  I went home to lunch and put a few things in a zip-bag; then I wrote a note to my father saying that I had had an unexpected invitation to spend the week-end with my cousin Hilda. Hilda was a nurse and my father was always saying what a ‘sterling character’ she was: I hoped her character would vouch for mine. As I moved about the house I was barely aware of what I was doing; the present had no reality, it was moving away from me.

  The afternoon passed quietly and I did not see Dr. Laver. When I went up to his room with post to sign at half-past four it was empty. I told Iris that I would like to leave early because I was going to spend the week-end with my cousin. She made no objection and fortunately it did not occur to her to offer me a lift to the station. I caught the ten past five bus.

  Dr. Laver was waiting for me when I arrived at Weston Market station. He was standing with his back to me studying a timetable on the wall. It was then that I had a moment of panic. As a result of my mother’s illness it was a long time since I had ventured beyond Weston Market. I felt in no condition to enlarge the boundaries of my world and if Dr. Laver had not spotted me at that moment I would have turned back.

  ‘Have you got your ticket?’ he demanded.

  ‘No, I . . .’

  ‘Well, hurry up! We’re going to miss the train otherwise.’

  ‘I thought you would have got it.’

  ‘I’m a bit short of money until we get to London.’ He took my zip bag. ‘I’ll get seats while you get the ticket.’

  I was short of money myself, not having planned this week-end. It was an unpromising start. I had to wait in a queue and by the time I got on to the platform the whistle had gone; Dr. Laver was looking out of one of the windows. He waved as I ran along the platform. The train was already moving as he hauled me into the carriage. I could only assume that had I been a minute later he would have gone without me.

  We sat side by side. The carriage was crowded and very hot. Dr. Laver seemed particularly affected. As the little town fled away behind us he flopped back in his seat, panting. There were four students sitting opposite us; they talked loudly in a manner which suggested that they were infinitely superior to the other hundred or so people on the train. Occasionally they spared us an amused glance, obviously thinking us dull beyond belief. Their conversation was liberally punctuated with four-letter words which, judging by the effect they seemed to anticipate, they must have found rather shocking. Poor things, I thought, with nothing to excite them but this intellectual slumming! Whereas I . . . whatever was I doing?

  The train was going fast now, jerking over points, finding no rhythm. Images flashed by, a signal-box, shunting yard, hoardings, a row of grimy cottages, a crane with open jaws swinging predatory above a scrap heap, warehouses with a canal insinuated between them; bits and pieces of life broken up by the relentless passage of the train leaving who knew what chaos and confusion in its wake. I felt disorientated, as though the crane had snapped me up in its jaws and there was no telling where it would deposit me. I closed my eyes, sick and dizzy. But now I was more conscious of the train itself, of the brutal thrust of it carrying me forward recklessly. I must get out and have a quiet think about this; I must get out at once! It was too late; with a banshee wail the engine plunged into a tunnel. There was a roaring in my ears and a smell that must be brimstone. I gripped the edge of the seat with both hands. The sense of being projected forward at great speed was worse and the enclosing walls of the tunnel emphasised the danger of the enterprise. I decided that this madness must be brought to a halt and looked for the communication cord. It was above my head and seemed rather high, obviously firmness of purpose was required, a quick snatch would not do. While I was debating this the train came out of the tunnel and, leaping forward into the sunlight, found a rhythm and went purring down the track.

  I looked out of the window again. Now there were fields and trees, a level greenness with here and there a hunched down house, and across the quiet, still scene hurtled this extraordinary phenomenon, a horizontal tube in which people sat, talked, read papers and moved swaying down the central aisle, went to the lavatory, ordered coffee; a totally alien life briefly superimposed on the pastoral scene. We passed through a small station where people waited, but not for us. I tried to catch the name but it fled past me. Now that I had tried to identify something, it seemed that it was the train that was still while everything else was in motion. Fields raced towards us, a man on a tractor was suddenly on a level w
ith my window and then retreated into the past. How strange that I had not realised before what a surrealist experience train travel is. I looked at my companions. When I first got into the train they had seemed a long way away, at the far end of my own private tunnel; but now I found to my surprise that they were at normal range. The train had settled to a steady rhythm; it was saying ‘Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here?’ There were fields on one side, a river on the other, a level crossing; more fields, the river winding away from us now; here-and-there houses, then houses arranged in planned relation one to the other, a huge roundabout, streets leading towards a solid mass of buildings, a maze of railway lines. Another train went by, masking the view, and then we were running into Cambridge station. No one got into or out of the compartment. The train started, rattled over points, slowed for a signal, surged forward and found its rhythm again, ‘Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here?’ Fields, another river, children at a level crossing waving. I waved back. Beside me. Dr. Laver said, ‘I never thought we’d make it.’