Ceremonies of Innocence

by Annie Bullen

  ‘Well one day she dived in and never came up. I don’t think anyone noticed at first because there was such a crowd of us all doing our best to get it over and done with. By the time anyone realized it, it was too late. Someone started shouting and then everyone rushed to the end of the pier and crowded onto the jetty. Some of us tried to dive in to look for her, but we were all yelled at and told to go and get changed while they got men with boats. Everyone went very quiet while they poked and prodded with long poles and then a couple of divers turned up. It was nearly dark when they found her, tangled up with some cables going down from the pier supports. I suppose she hit her head or something, going in. I suppose that’s what happened.

  ‘They carried her back to school in a sort of procession, with long torches. We were all back by then, peering out of the windows. This line of light and the front door opening and swallowing her up. We never saw her again.’

  ‘Aaaaaah.’ Hugh, whose eyes had become glazed with excitement during the telling of the tale, expelled a long breath. He was leaning forward, gazing at Dorelia, bony wrists and sausage fingers dangling at his knees.

  He saw long white limbs threaded round with waterweed strands, gentle streamers of soft black hair, peacefully floating in the swell of the slapping waves.

  ‘I knew a bloke that drowned. Down at Newquay it was. He was zonked out of his mind and went surfing. What a way to go.’ Fergus too was excited, but by the morbid nature of the conversation. He wanted more.

  ‘Oh, yes, well. It was some time ago now. Sad really.’ Dorelia bent her long neck over the baby and started to croon the little song.

  No one heard Clem enter the house, shouting for Kattie. The prospect of another night in hot London had been too much. Sandra had been sent off back to her banker boyfriend with a friendly pat on the bottom. On the journey back he started to think of Angela, planning to have a proper look at her recent work, perhaps think of an exhibition. He sang loudly and joyously in the car, Welsh hymns, his powerful voice booming out as he drove fast, home to real life.

  But when he arrived, the house felt curiously empty. Angela was with Marjorie Pelham and Kattie had gone to charm the vicar into helping with the finer details of her organ-christening concert.

  Clem dumped his overnight bag in the hall and flung open the door of the sitting room. The windows were open onto the garden but the tension, which he could not recognize at first, made the room feel stuffy. His daughter seemed as calm and as happily self-contained as usual, her head bent over the kicking baby, crooning a little tune which he recognized as one that he used to sing to her as a child. Hugh and Fergus were like highly coiled springs ready to burst into some sort of violent action. Clem looked at the Madonna-like pose of his daughter and at the two men. A clear vision of a unicorn trotting tamely in to lay its white horn in her lap slid in and out of his mind.

  Clem had no fixed idea about his daughter’s future. For the first time he wondered what would become of her. Try as he might he could not imagine her settling down to a job, marriage, children. She talked of journalism, working for a magazine, but as far as he knew she had made no real commitment to training courses or to looking for work. He had never questioned the assumption that this was her home for as long as she wanted to drift back to her family, or that he would continue to pay her an allowance until things changed. The concept of his daughter as a woman, separated from him and Kattie, with a different life to lead, a sexual identity, only now entered his mind as he watched the two men she held in thrall.

  He spoke more strongly than he intended, irritated by his exclusion from the scene.

  ‘I thought you’d fixed yourself up, Fergus. Isn’t it time you started to get your own affairs straightened out? Got the farm going again?’

  ‘What farm? – Fergus isn’t a farmer. You a farmer, Fergus?’ Dorelia made as if to put the baby on the floor, thought better of it and gaped at him.

  ‘Oh, that. Yeah. Yeah, I am, I suppose. Want to see it?’

  ‘You’re kidding! What sort of farm?’

  ‘Pigs. Hundreds of them. It’s mine, like, but I got a tenant in to run it. There’s a house, though. Well, a bungalow.’

  ‘Well, what are you doing here?’

  Oh, well. You know.’ He slumped, arms dangling by his side, unable to explain, unable even to sort things out in his own mind.

  Clem coughed with displeasure.

  ‘Dorelia, I’d like a word if you don’t mind.’ He heard a giggle from Fergus as he left the room and felt a stab of resentment at the invasion of his home by Kattie’s people.

  But, as he waited for Dorelia he started to feel mean, a lout stamping on flowers, stirring up muddy water. And what the hell he was to say to her, he didn’t know. His instinct had been to get her out of the stuffy room, away from the two men.

  Dorelia seemed oblivious to his mood. She ran out, without the baby which she had dumped in Hugh’s lap, and pushed her arm through his.

  Marjorie Pelham was sitting at a small octagonal table, writing. Several large notebooks, sheets of typed manuscript and three pens lay in front of her. She was working on her diaries, a task which occupied her daily. Just now she was jotting down details of Angela’s visit, the day before. She had been intrigued, but not surprised, at the sudden appearance of the girl – woman, now – from the past. Marjorie was a fatalist who knew with a conviction that was her great strength, that if you held steady and waited long enough, things turned full circle, patterns repeated themselves. Coincidence was not a word she entertained. There was an overall design in everything. Even in her son’s death.

  In fact, as far as her philosophy went, Toby was not dead. She had been close to her son during his life and still confirmed her relationship with him, writing down her thoughts and feelings, seeing him continue his brilliant career, talking to him in the same way that she did with his father, her husband, whose aeroplane was presumed to have been shot down over a mountain range in Greece during the war. Robert had been piloting the bomber, and no trace had been found of the missing aircraft, of him or his crew. Missing, presumed dead.

  She had had the strength then to wrap her philosophy around her, behaving (and almost believing) as if her husband was merely away for an indefinite period of time. Afterwards Toby had joined him. But they each grew older, more graceful, more manly, more particularly her own property, as the years went by. When Marjorie moved to the village she brought them with her, concerned herself with the small excitement of village life and waited for what was to happen.

  As far as she conceived the past, Angela had been a tiny episode in Toby’s life, although she had to concede that to him the girl had probably been important. But now, the woman who had stood nervously in her sitting room bore no relation in Marjorie’s mind to her son. She had been unable to help the girl in her distress after the messages ceased from the boat lost somewhere in cold foreign seas. Did the woman want help now? She was staying, Marjorie knew, up at Puttnam, with the Augiers. Had she come to live with them, as so many ill-assorted people seemed to?

  Marjorie doubted that she would be able to help Angela in any way. For a start she felt no compulsion to become a comforter, neither could she make any connection between their two lives. In fact it occurred to her that Angela smelled like prey, something vulnerable, a small animal to be patted into a corner to await its execution. Her eyes narrowed and she put that thought away. Doubtless Angela would be back.

  Billy too had been thinking of Angela; she was the only reality he had left now. The daily routine – washing, dressing, meals, a clean bright house – had gone. There were no signals any more. No clean clothes, no hot water, no one to say, ‘Lunch is ready.’ There was not even the smell of oil paint to rail against; nothing to complain about, nothing to measure himself against. Without that he himself was nothing. A cripple with not even the will-power to sort out the mechanics of day-today living. A man with a stick instead of a leg. He lay, immobilized by lack of will, on the bed he had once shar
ed with Angela and, whilst refusing to acknowledge that he missed her, blamed her and the whole of eternity for his miserable condition. There was only one way out of this awful mess. She had to come back to look after him. But there had been no reply to his letter which announced that he was coming to England – perhaps the postman had deserted him, too? He knew that he would have to go to England to fetch her, make the journey back to some sort of sanity. It did not enter Billy’s mind that his wife would refuse his request.

  Grunting with the effort, he swung himself carefully off the bed whose cream linen cover was now creased and marked, and, with the help of his stick, hopped and jumped across to his study to make preparations for the trip.

  Angela meanwhile was beginning to enjoy herself. Her solace during the years with Billy had been her painting. She would not call it her work – that was a title which bestowed too much importance, held too much responsibility for her to cope with. But now, at Puttnam, she was clearly needed. Only a few days ago, on her arrival, the house had been a haven, a self-contained unit, full of purpose and life. Everyone had gathered at appointed times, for drinks, meals, talk. But now the rhythm had been somehow shattered.

  Somewhere in the house a baby wailed; Dorelia had shut herself in her room, and the leavening she had brought as she swooped and danced from room to room was slowly being replaced with gloom as everyone was isolated and the gatherings became accidental.

  Kattie was brooding. She was not making lists, planning meals or sitting down for long cosy chats with her protégés. She and Clem were closeted in their untidy comfortable bedroom, leaving the rest of the house in a state of unease.

  Angela, sitting in the kitchen, could almost feel the dust gathering, the thorny branches of the climbing roses invading the windows and doorways, the cobwebs encompassing the still shiny copper pots and pans above the range. She felt a surge of energy. Maybe she could not immerse herself in painting just yet, but surely she should be able to bring some order back into this house. She stood up, ready to go in search of the baby whose thin wails could be heard across the passageway. But as she walked across to the far end of the room, the door opened and Fergus shambled in.

  Angela’s heart sank. She wondered if Kattie still wanted her to ‘talk’ to Fergus. How she was to open any sort of communication with him stretched her imagination, and now she could not remember what the talk was supposed to achieve. She doubted very much if Fergus had any clear idea of what he was doing day to day, and if he had any plans formulated for the future she was sure he would not impart them to her. So she smiled vaguely and asked if he would like some coffee.

  ‘Oh, yeah. Why not.’ He sat down at the kitchen table and gazed, unblinking, at Angela as she shifted the kettle onto the hottest part of the range to boil.

  ‘Dorelia, right. What’s she up to? Is she a student, do you know?’

  ‘What? Well, I’m not sure. She did say something about going to some sort of media studies college, but I don’t know if that’s all fixed up. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Dunno really. Seems strange somehow, her just wandering around, doing nothing, like. I mean she’s been to that posh school abroad. Seems she should be at college now, or working. She speaks French doesn’t she?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Perfectly, I understand.’ Angela poured boiling water onto ground coffee. There didn’t seem to be any of the instant stuff. She stirred it and looked round at Fergus, wishing she didn’t respond to him just like a stuffy middle-aged woman. He was leaning forward, elbows on the table. She poured coffee into a cup and handed it to him. He shovelled in plenty of sugar.

  ‘Any milk?’

  ‘Oh yes, here.’ She passed a bottle over to him and he slopped some into his cup.

  ‘Fergus …’ she began, with no clear idea of what she was going to say. Why the hell couldn’t she unbend? This must be the first time she had addressed him by name. He looked up and sniffed loudly.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What about you? How long have you been here? Are you going to stay?’

  ‘Dunno really. Got to get sorted out. You see, I’ve been inside. You know that, right? Well, I’ve got me own property and that, but it’s all in a muddle. Kattie said I could come here. A breathing space, she said, but I don’t seem to have got very far. Things seem a bit different now.’ He looked accusingly at her. ‘What about you then? And that pompous old prick, what about him?’

  ‘Hugh – do you mean Hugh?’ Angela was distressed at the dislike in Fergus’ voice.

  ‘Yes, him. He’s after Dorelia you know. Dirty old git. I’ve been watching him. Composer my arse. He’s just a randy old sod. I met that sort before.’

  ‘But surely not.’ Angela watched the grimace of hate flicker across his face. ‘Hugh is almost old enough to be her grandfather.’

  ‘Doesn’t stop that sort – look at his wife. Anna isn’t it? I saw her when she came. She’s young enough to be his daughter.’

  ‘Why are you so concerned about Dorelia? I’m sure she can take care of herself.’

  ‘She doesn’t have a clue, that one. She’s clever-clever all right, but she doesn’t know she’s been born.’

  Angela thought of Dorelia closeted in her room, a fairy princess locked in a fantasy tower, whilst horsemen circled below. She shook her head to dispel the image.

  ‘Don’t you worry about Dorelia. I’m sure she knows where she is going. I mean she’s lived abroad and spent a lot of time living with friends in London. She drives her own car, goes out with people, I expect. Kattie and Clem must have some ideas for her future. Anyway …’ Angela heard the brisk edge in her voice talking down to the slumped Fergus as she deftly cleared the coffee things into the sink. ‘Anyway, it’s none of our business really, is it?’

  The thin high wail from Hugh’s baby daughter was now piercingly insistent, and they both stopped to listen.

  ‘Hugh’s looking after the baby,’ said Fergus. ‘Dirty old sod.’

  Dorelia was lying on her bed, humming softly to herself. Her face was calm, uncreased, and her hair was spread out, a bright wound on the white pillowcase. Her hands lay loosely, palms upward on her flat tummy. Her hip-bones, two sharp little points, like baby teeth about to break through the skin, made mounds through the thin fabric of her dress on either side of her long fingers. She was brooding.

  Her first reaction when Clem had tackled her on the apparent aimlessness of her life had been one of wounded anger, but now she was ready to challenge him back. The myth that she was to have been a journalist had been created by Kattie. Dorelia herself had no intention of taking that path – enduring years of boring training, trailing around with a notebook, asking dreary people dreary questions, dealing with facts, ferreting out truths.

  Dorelia was not quite sure how to acknowledge truth. Morality was something else. You read in a book that the sun was ninety-three million miles or whatever from the earth, and because scientists and astronomers said so, you had to accept the fact, because you had no way of finding out for yourself. But that was nothing to get excited about. It was more important that the sun shone on a particular day or that the water was hot when you wanted a bath or that the apple you bit into was crisp and juicy. Honesty and truthfulness were unrelated. It might be truthful to tell her mother that she was too plump now for the full gathered skirts she often wore, but the honesty that existed between mother and daughter would be destroyed in such a disclosure. It couldn’t be honest for people to maim each other the way they did. Look at poor old Hugh and that bitchy wife of his, screaming at each other, causing the utmost discomfort, not only to themselves but to others around them. The morality that should have been implicit in their relationship had foundered long ago – surely they must see that.

  Now Clem, who should have understood that if left to herself she would have slipped naturally onto the right path when it appeared, was trying to force her to do something, anything, simply because he considered that it was high time she made a decision. She understood that the tens
ion created by Fergus and Hugh, circling round her like a pair of stiff-legged dogs, sniffing and growling, had forced his ultimatum. But that was their problem. Not hers.

  An idea which had been creeping around the back of her mind ever since she came home was coming to the fore. Dorelia breathed in deeply, closing her eyes and forcing her breath out in a long sigh so that she felt her stomach swell and contract under her outspread fingers. She would like to go abroad to live. If she had to work for her living, why not challenge her father to help her? He had often spoken – after a good meal with lots of wine it was true, but often enough to be taken seriously – of opening a gallery in France.

  Dorelia lay there, her face as bland as a pure white bone china plate speckled with fresh flowers. A pretty thing, to be displayed with care. It was not that she wanted to spend the rest of her life protected in a glass cabinet, but she knew that she would live differently from other people. Who wanted to settle down with one man and split themselves into pieces caring for children and a home, breaking off bits like chunks of bread that were to be fed to the birds – here’s a bite of me for you and one for you? She shuddered. But she knew that pressure to come up with plans for the future would be on her now and, unless she could decide, she would be packed off, as she had been to the school in Switzerland, to college or to some job that her parents chose. She raised both arms upwards, admiring their symmetry, and then she sighed, swung her legs off the bed and went to look for Angela.