The Lorimer Line

by Anne Melville

  His family position seemed as secure as his business achievement. The three children were well-behaved in the half-hour a day which was all he saw of them. His wife gave him no cause for complaint. She did not excite him either, but that was not something he had ever expected of her. His younger brother had devoted himself to study at Oxford in a way which no one would ever have predicted of Clifton College’s Captain of Cricket; and all reports suggested that Ralph’s way of life was more sober and respectable than could be expected of any normal undergraduate.

  As for his sister Margaret, William had never pretended to approve of the idea that a woman of respectable family should rudely force her way into the male profession of medicine. When he gave his permission, he had not expected her to survive the social problems and intellectual strains for more than a few months. But to his surprise she had done more than survive. Every visit made it clear that she was thriving on the difficulties of her training.

  She was always tired when she arrived, and withdrawn, as though the horrors of what she saw in the hospital wards were too vivid to be dismissed from her mind in the course of the short journey from London to Bristol. But her first meeting with the children on each occasion was enough to dispel the strain. Within moments she was merry, laughing with a light-heartedness she had never displayed when she was living as the daughter of wealthy parents.

  Her relationship with Matthew and Beatrice and Arthur was so close that William occasionally wondered whether their mother might become jealous. But Sophie only shrugged her shoulders. She did not wish to play in nurseries or schoolrooms herself, but had no objection to Margaret doing so as long as the discipline of the governess was not undermined. Sometimes William watched from a window as the children played on the lawn with their aunt. Margaret cuddled them in a way that no one else did and it was easy to see from the way they pressed up against her and fought to hold her hands how much they enjoyed the experience. Even Matthew, who was nine by now and far too old for nursery behaviour, clamoured for piggy-backs and wheel-barrow-walks with the others.

  Once or twice William had been tempted to interfere, fearing that the boy would become soft. But although he was not a demonstrative man, he was sensitive enough to recognize that Margaret’s feeling for Matthew was that of a mother rather than an aunt. She had loved him from babyhood, and her love seemed to have increased as it became more and more likely that she would never have a baby of her own.

  This was something which William by now took for granted, though he could not guess whether Margaret herself still entertained any hopes. Even if she had not deliberately cut herself off from marriage by her choice of career, she had passed the age when she could expect to find a husband. William saw it as a kindness in himself to let her borrow Matthew, so to speak, as the target for all her family affection. John Junius had never encouraged his children to love him and had often caused them fear. William was anxious not to achieve the same effect with his own children. Unable to show any warmth to them himself, he was more liberal than many of his friends in allowing the nursery timetable to include a few moments of happiness.

  Margaret had proved to be speaking the truth when she claimed, before starting her training, that it would make family relationships easier and not more difficult. William had known even at that time that his sister would not have fitted comfortably into the household if she had been forced to live there as an unmarried woman without occupation. He could not have been as cool as Sophie about suggesting a paid post as governess elsewhere, for this would have reflected unfavourably on his ability to support his sister. As it was, she visited Bristol every Christmas and again for a month in the summer, bringing with her a brisk cheerfulness which made Brinsley House briefly a more lively place. Because she and William no longer had any common interests, there was nothing which could cause them to quarrel.

  So, three and a half years after his father’s death, it seemed that William’s position as head of the Lorimer family was as successful as his business. The first sign of disturbance to its well-ordained routine came on Beatrice’s fifth birthday. The day was a Saturday: Margaret had promised to travel by railway train from London to be present at the party, and to stay overnight. William had already sent his brougham to meet her at Temple Meads when he was surprised by the arrival of another member of the family.

  Ralph had used Brinsley House as his home during the university vacations as a matter of course and now, after a holiday visit to a friend, came back to it without ceremony. Unlike Margaret he had little interest in children. He had forgotten that today was Beatrice’s birthday, and did not even notice when his niece, already wearing her party frock, ran hopefully to the top of the stairs as he came through the door. As William stepped into the hall to greet his brother, he observed both Beatrice’s silent disappointment and Ralph’s frowning concentration on whatever it was that he had come to discuss.

  They went together into the library. Since John Junius’s death the tower room had been locked up. Sophie thought it a dangerous temptation to the children, Margaret’s last memory of it still filled her with horror and even William, who was not often sentimental, found its atmosphere forbidding. His ships no longer came up river to the old Bristol docks, so that the pride of watching them pass below had gone.

  ‘Have you had your examination results yet?’ he asked Ralph as they sat down.

  His brother nodded.

  ‘Yes. I have my degree, although not a good one. I only got a Third. But I was fortunate not to be plucked.’

  It was all the same to William. By the time he was twenty-two - Ralph’s age now - he had been an experienced businessman, and he set no very high value on a university education. He had sent Ralph to Oxford as a gesture to show that the Lorimers were not a family who surrendered to temporary setbacks and because the boy had set his heart on going. Shocked by the frivolity of most of the undergraduates, Ralph had worked hard. No one had expected him to do brilliantly and William did not propose to criticize, even though Ralph himself might be disappointed by the result of his Finals.

  Whether or not Ralph’s mind had improved, his physical development was striking. As part of the self-discipline with which he punished himself for his misbehaviour with Claudine he had abandoned cricket. Instead, needing some form of regular exercise, he had taken up rowing because he did not enjoy it. It strengthened his muscles and broadened his back and had helped to make him an outstandingly good-looking young man: his face had always been a handsome one. William - himself small and sharp-featured - looked appraisingly at his tall, blond brother.

  ‘Now that you are down from Oxford you must allow Sophie to find you a wife,’ he said jokingly. ‘It is an activity very much to her taste, and you have everything to recommend you. She will guarantee you a fortune, and perhaps a pretty face as well.’

  Ralph was not amused. His sense of humour had never been very keen - a failing which William himself shared -and on this occasion his expression showed the aversion he felt for the subject.

  ‘I want to tell you my plans for the future,’ he said, wasting no time. ‘You already know of my determination to go as a missionary to the West Indies, to make what amends I can for what our family did there.’

  ‘You told me your intention when you were younger,’ William agreed. ‘Has reflection not persuaded you that you have no personal responsibility? At least you must spend a little time in an English living to start with. You cannot hope to be noticed for preferment if you leave the country as soon as you take Holy Orders.’

  ‘This is what I have to tell you,’ said Ralph. ‘I have considered the matter very carefully. I have decided to return to the Baptist faith.’

  William did not attempt to conceal his angry astonishment. ‘You have never been a Baptist! How can you return?’

  ‘You understand me well enough. Our forefathers were Baptists: Brinsley and William and John.’

  ‘Our forefathers were slave traders,’ William said bluntly. ‘If you are as
hamed of that, why should you choose to associate yourself with any of their other attributes?’

  ‘I have studied the situation in Jamaica as carefully as is possible at such a distance. From all I read it seems clear that the Church of England allied itself for so many years with the slave-owners - the planters and overseers and attorneys - that no minister of that denomination can even now hope to gain the confidence of the people descended from the slaves. It was the Baptists who fifty years ago helped the slaves in the years before and after emancipation, and who are trusted by their people still.’

  ‘That is hardly a good enough reason to justify a change of faith,’ said William.

  Ralph pointed out that no change of faith was involved. ‘Anglicans and Baptists are both Christians,’ he said. ‘The difference is one of authority. As a Baptist minister I shall enjoy more independence, both in my own thoughts and in matters of organization. I shall be able to minister to my congregation in the way that best suits them, not in a manner prescribed by an archbishop thousands of miles away. When our great-grandfather led his family into the Church of England, I suspect his motive was to identify himself with a certain class of society. That is my motive too in moving back again. I need to come as close as I can to the people of my new community and I see this as the best way to do it.’

  ‘You are throwing away your life,’ said William. He had observed the feelings of guilt and sin which had dominated Ralph since his schooldays, but had hoped that this would prove only a youthful phase, to be forgotten in the freedoms of adult life. Because his nature was a careful one, William himself had no extravagant vices, but he had never placed any kind of restraint on Ralph since John Junius’s death. In fact, he would positively have welcomed some evidence that some of his brother’s time at Oxford had revealed the kind of high spirits natural to his youth.

  The Church would not have promised a fortune, but someone of Ralph’s striking presence might have hoped to become at least a dean one day, if not a bishop, and the profession was a respectable one for a younger son. To bury himself as a Baptist minister in some steaming West Indian village for the few years in which a white man could hope to survive yellow fever was to bury at the same time not only ambition but talent. William made it his business to study character and beneath the self-criticism which he hoped was only a temporary ruler of Ralph’s temperament he recognized qualities of application which could turn his brother into a good administrator or manager.

  ‘You could be of value to me at Portishead,’ he said abruptly. ‘I stand in great need of someone down at the docks to calculate the most efficient uses of berthing and warehouse space. I will employ you tomorrow if you wish, and you will have every opportunity to advance yourself.’

  ‘Do you not understand what vocation is?’ asked Ralph. ‘You are in a business exactly fitted to your tastes and talents, and no doubt you’re happy in it. But what I feel is something far stronger than that. An absolute conviction that my destiny lies in one particular place, one special kind of work. A compulsion, you could say. As though it were out of my power to choose a different path. Margaret will understand that, because she has her own vocation.’

  William fought successfully to control his annoyance. Unlike his father, he rarely made his displeasure obvious. One of his talents was the ability to recognize the occasions on which argument would be unprofitable. He was at this moment angry with Ralph on three separate counts. The sense of wasted talent combined with a social irritation which he did not formulate clearly even in his own mind -a consciousness that in moving from nonconformity to establishment three generations earlier the Lorimers had subtly increased their respectability, and that Ralph’s move in the opposite direction was a threat to it. Added to these two thoughts was the even more prosaic one that all the money he had provided to complete Ralph’s education had been wasted.

  In spite of all this, Ralph was wrong if he thought that his elder brother did not understand the strength of his convictions. William was sensitive enough to accept the existence of a sense of vocation, although he had no sympathy for it. He muttered something non-committal, allowing Ralph to believe that his declaration had been accepted, without barring a return to the subject at some more promising time.

  Ralph, having said what he had come to say, seized the chance to escape when the butler came in to announce that one of William’s captains would like a word with him. William frowned to himself, thinking that an intrusion of this kind could only mean bad news; but Captain Richards was apologetic. His ship had returned to Portishead the previous day from the Californian coast. He had already made his report to William and handed over the log and all the documents relating to the cargo. Now he confessed that he had forgotten at the same time to perform one more personal commission. He held out a letter, folded and sealed.

  ‘Locked this in my box for safe keeping, sir,’ he said. ‘Went out of my mind till I was home last night. Gentleman in San Francisco asked me to do him the favour of setting it on its way.’

  William looked at the inscription. The letter was addressed to Miss Margaret Lorimer.

  ‘I’ll see to it,’ he said; and then added casually, ‘What sort of a gentleman?’

  ‘Difficult to say. Strange kind of clothes they wear in San Francisco. Run into someone looking like a tramp, and you find he owns a gold mine. See another fellow dressed fit to meet the Queen and you’re warned that he lives on his card-playing. Not rich, not poor, this one, I’d say. Respectable tradesman, perhaps, neat and tidy. A good-looking young man, that I do remember. About your own age, I’d guess, Mr Lorimer.’

  ‘Did he ask you any questions about Miss Lorimer? Whether she still lived in Bristol, for example?’

  ‘That very question, yes. So I told him as she’d gone off to London and I didn’t know where, but I would give this to you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said William. He studied the inscription carefully for a moment and then tucked the letter into an inside pocket. None of his questions had really been necessary; nor was his identification of the handwriting. There were a good many people in San Franciso who might have reason to communicate with William Lorimer in the way of business. But there was only one man there who would address a letter to Margaret.

  William bit his lower lip in annoyance as he considered what to do. He had hoped that the Lorimers might have heard the last of David Gregson.

  4

  A contented appearance is a dangerous disguise if it conceals any secret longing for change. William observed his sister closely from the moment she arrived at Brinsley House, not long after Captain Richards had left. If Margaret had known what depended on her behaviour that day she might have sighed and languished. But she did not know, and so she arrived with a smile on her face and a brisk eagerness to help with the party.

  It was easy for William to avoid any mention of the letter in his pocket until he had time to collect his thoughts on the subject. Margaret could have no possible reason to mention out of the blue a name which had not been spoken in Brinsley House for three years. In any case, the birthday excitement meant that she was in as much hurry to visit Beatrice as Beatrice was to see her. The little girl’s previous disappointment at Ralph’s empty-handed arrival was quite forgotten in the pleasure of discovering a rosy-cheeked Dutch doll inside the box which Margaret was carrying.

  Already the other young guests and their nursemaids were beginning to arrive. Their white flounced muslin dresses and pale blue sashes fluttered over the lawns as though a swarm of butterflies had suddenly descended. It was a pretty sight - although William frowned to see that Arthur, who was nearly four and should have known better, had stained his satin suit with green by sliding down one of the grassy banks. His over-excitement showed itself in noise and naughtiness. He chased the girls, jumping to tug at their hair ribbons, until Margaret calmed him with the responsibility of forming the first bridge for a game of Oranges and Lemons. Matthew, by contrast, stood aloof, knowing himself too old for a gathering
of such little girls, and yet accepting some of the responsibilities of a host. He was quick to help anyone who tripped and fell, but between such duties returned to stand, straight-backed and solemn, at the head of the stone steps.

  William noted his elder son’s grave courtesy with a pride which expanded to take in the whole occasion. Who could have imagined, four years earlier, that the children of the best families in Bristol would ever play in the gardens of Brinsley House as his guests? The achievement was as satisfactory as it had been swift. He nodded to himself in self-approval as he stood at the library window. Then he returned his thoughts to the question of Margaret and the letter.

  There was no opportunity to talk to her during the afternoon. When it was time for the party tea, she stood watchfully in the background to make sure that no shy guest found herself neglected and no spilt jelly led to tears. Afterwards, in the great drawing room, she sat beside Beatrice as the conjuror produced doves from his hat and yards of coloured silk handkerchiefs from his sleeve. It was not until later that evening, when the party was over and the Lorimer children had been taken upstairs, that William had the opportunity to test her attitude. The four adults were sitting together in the family drawing room as he asked her first about the progress of her training.

  She smiled with pleasure at his show of interest.

  ‘I have had more examinations to pass this summer,’ she said. ‘But they were not as important as last year’s First M.B. Most important of all will be the Second M.B. If I feel myself to be sufficiently prepared, I shall sit for that in July next year.’

  ‘What does the Second M.B. comprise?’ asked Ralph, still near enough to a life of examinations to be interested in his sister’s.

  ‘Everything you can imagine. Pathology, surgery, midwifery, medicine and forensic medicine. Even toxicology. As well as the written papers, there is a viva voce on each, and practical sessions of dissection and analysis. I am frightened already by the thought of it all.’ But she was smiling as she spoke, so that William, watching her closely, could detect her excitement at the challenge of the course.