'Sorry, sweetie.' Eleanor pitches the butt of her cigarette into the fire. 'I'm trying not to be selfish but don't you see that it might just be me who will unsettle him most? He couldn't quite place me, could he? You, yes. You're still little Hes, you haven't changed that much, and Michael, the old school chum. That's OK. But where do I come in? Supposing he remembers and wants to . . . well, be husbandly.' She shudders deeply and with no affectation whatsoever. 'I couldn't do it, Hes. It's not just because of Michael. Not even just because Edward looks like an old man. There's something else, isn't there? When he took hold of Michael's arm he looked mad. Did you see how Mike winced? And his eyes, Hes . . .'
'I know.' Hester gets up and goes to her as she paces before the fire. 'Look, it's only the first day. Let's not be melodramatic.'
They turn, startled, as Michael comes into the room.
'The MO gave me something to help him sleep.' He looks bleak and very tired. 'He's out cold but I'm going back in case he disturbs and doesn't remember where he is.' He glances at Eleanor and looks away again. 'I shall lock our door,' he says. 'Just in case. I don't want him wandering about in the night and frightening Lucy.'
Eleanor stretches a hand gratefully towards him, as if she is acknowledging the real reason for his wariness, and Hester feels a stirring of the old irritation. Even at a moment like this, Eleanor must take centre stage; her feelings must be paramount.
'That's a good idea,' she says unemotionally, before Eleanor can speak. 'Thanks, Michael.'
'Goodnight then.' He goes out, his face grim, and the two women are left together.
In the days that follow, there are many occasions when Hester is grateful that Michael is on leave. Edward's lucid, calm periods become longer, he seems less confused, but Hester begins to suspect that he is suffering more than they have guessed. She comes upon him one morning, standing just inside the bedroom that once belonged to their mother and which Eleanor now uses.
Eleanor has gone shopping in Dulverton, Michael and Lucy are collecting wood along the river path, and the house is quiet. Only the river can be heard, turbulent after a night of heavy rain, tumbling and rumbustious as it streams towards its union with the River Exe further down the valley. Edward's head is bent, as if listening, and Hester wonders if the river's relentless sound is distressing – she remembers how her mother found it so when she was ill – and she lays a hand very lightly on his arm whilst speaking his name. They are all learning that it is dangerous to take Edward by surprise, to startle him.
He looks at her and his glance is clear and sane.
'I can't believe it sometimes, Hes. That Mother and the boys are dead. I didn't know about Mother and I kept forgetting about James and Henry. All those years when I was thinking of them as if they were alive and that one day we'd all be together again. Poor Hes. However did you manage?'
She bites her lip, carefully contemplating a reply that will not send him toppling over into the abyss where madness lurks.
'I had Patricia,' she says cheerfully. 'And the boys and Nanny. Nanny managed for me. You know Nanny!'
He smiles, as she means him to, and for a moment the empty eyes light with a happy memory, and his lips curve appreciatively.
'I'm glad you had Nanny and Pat,' he says.
'So am I,' she says, heartfelt, 'and they're all looking forward to seeing you when you're stronger.'
His smile this time is a bitter one. 'Don't you mean less mad?' he asks. His stare challenges her to answer truthfully and Hester is truly afraid.
'Probably,' she says bravely. 'You do have very odd moments, Edward. They'll pass, of course.'
'Will they?' His intensity is painful. 'Do you actually know that, Hes?'
He has seized her hand and his grip is painful but she doesn't show that it hurts.
'Yes,' she lies, staring him in the eye. 'The MO told us that it takes time and patience but that it passes. The really important thing is that you mustn't get excited about things, Ned. It sets you back.'
The little childish name seems to reassure him and he relaxes his grip. He turns and regards himself in the looking-glass that stands on the dressing-table.
'Look.' He's still holding her hand and now he pulls her round beside him. 'Look at me, Hes. I look older than our father did when he died.' They stand side by side, staring at their reflections. 'What must Eleanor think each time she looks at me?' He feels the involuntary tightening of her hand and laughs softly. 'Did you really believe I'd forgotten her? Did you, Hes? Don't you think I saw her expression when I turned up with Michael? What did you all expect me to do? Take her in my arms and demand my conjugal rights?' He drops her hand abruptly and turns away from the old man in the looking-glass. 'She's so beautiful, isn't she? I dreamed about her during all those years away from her – when I wasn't thinking about food, that is. You get obsessed with food when you're being starved, you know. You'd steal and cheat and lie for it. It's all that matters in the end: the desire for survival. And that means food, not sex. None of us cared about that. We used to plan menus, our perfect meal, that kind of thing. Eleanor represented beauty and cleanliness and sanity. She was the symbol of peace and all the small, homely, decent things. Coming back to her was the one thing that kept me going. Rather ironic when you think about it. Now we pretend that I haven't quite remembered that she's my wife. You see, there are chunks of time I can't account for and I'm afraid of what I've done. I got a bit violent once or twice on the boat coming home and I had to be restrained. I can't risk that with Eleanor.'
Close to tears, Hester remains silent. Her experience has not equipped her for this. Suddenly, rising up to the open window, echoes the rhythmical sound made by the noise of an axe on wood. Each time the blade makes contact it rings with an almost metallic blow and, with each strike, Hester notices that Edward winces, his face creasing into an anguished frown. Slowly he begins to shake his head, chopping at the air with his hands as if warding off blows and he makes tiny whimpering sounds, though his mouth is tightly closed. Still shaking his head, his arms now held up protectively before his face, he staggers across to the bed and kneels on it. He bends forward so that his forehead touches his knees, his arms folded over his head as if to close out the sound, and the dry sobs continue spasmodically.
Hester runs to the window and leans out.
'Michael,' she shouts urgently. 'Michael, stop!'
He appears below the window, staring up at her, and she shakes her head urgently, mouthing at him that Edward is ill. To her relief, Michael guesses at once and she hears him speaking to Lucy before he comes upstairs two steps at a time. He goes at once to the recumbent form, kneeling beside the bed, talking calmly to Edward though not touching him, and gradually the sobbing ceases and Edward collapses onto his side, his eyes tightly closed.
Hester goes out, closing the door behind her, and hurries downstairs to Lucy.
Studying Edward as she does, Lucy begins to see that there are two people struggling inside his head. It is rather as if he is playing a game, sometimes pretending to be someone else, as she and Jack did: Robin Hood and Maid Marian or Peter Pan and Wendy. In private they played out their parts with great conviction but in front of the grown-ups they had to be Lucy and Jack again. It seems that Edward can't always change over properly. Most of the time he is the Edward who talks quietly to Daddy and to Hester, though he seems to avoid Eleanor rather as if he is shy of her, and then, sometimes quite suddenly, the other Edward appears.
He doesn't seem to mind that the others are there, which makes her think that he is rather brave. She and Jack hated to be caught out by the grown-ups. 'And who are you today?' they'd ask, and it would spoil the whole game. If you had to explain who you were and what you were doing then you stopped feeling that it was real and you simply felt silly instead. Edward doesn't mind feeling silly, though all the grown-ups hate it. She's noticed that odd things bring out the other Edward. It might be a sudden noise or even a pattern. Eleanor has a frock with stripes in black and grey and w
hite that seem to shimmer as she moves about. Only yesterday, when she was laying the table for lunch, swishing to and fro between the sideboard and the table, Edward kept staring and staring at the dress and his eyes slowly opened very wide so that he looked really frightening. Then he put out a hand very fast, just like a snake darting out its head, and caught a fold of the skirt, twisting it and twisting it and pulling Eleanor closer and closer, so that she screamed and Hester ran in and took hold of his hands and made him let go.
Lucy couldn't help wondering what game it was that he was playing and who he was pretending to be. She wishes Jack were still here so that she wouldn't feel quite so lonely – or so scared. With Jack around she wouldn't feel scared; it would just be another game. She's been told that Edward isn't very well and must be treated gently. She's not to shout or creep up on him and shout 'Boo!' like they used to with Nanny or Patricia.
'You know how it is with a car,' Daddy tells her. 'It has brakes to stop it if you are going too fast or someone walks out in front of it. People have brakes too. They stop us getting too angry so that we don't lose our tempers and hurt other people. They stop us telling lies and cheating and giving in to weaknesses. But sometimes the brakes don't work very well if people are ill or overtired. That's what's wrong with Edward. He's been kept prisoner and treated very badly and that's why his brakes aren't working properly. We have to get him better and mend them. Do you see, Lucy?'
And she did see: it was perfectly clear to her. She remembers how they used to rag with Daddy on the lawn; Jack and Robin would scream with laughter and get very red in the face as they rolled round and round, and then Nanny would say, 'That's quite enough now. You're going too far and someone will get hurt.'
Everyone's brakes always worked perfectly well, though sometimes Jack would protest, and nobody ever got hurt. She thinks about Edward's brakes and hopes they will be working soon so that nobody gets hurt now. Sometimes she thinks she would like to go away but then she knows she would hate to leave Hester and Bridge House, for where could they go but to Aunt Mary and the little house in Chichester where not very long ago the V-2s were killing people and it was very dangerous. But if she stays at Bridge House with Hester, then she knows she will see Jack and Nanny again. They have promised to come as soon as Edward is better.
She knows that Eleanor wants to go away, though. She hears her saying so to Daddy. They whisper together as she, Lucy, hides behind the door, holding her breath.
'I'm afraid, Mike,' Eleanor says. 'How much longer can we go on like this? You're going to have to make a decision soon, you know. Your leave won't last for ever. It's because of Lucy, isn't it? I can't see why we simply can't go to London . . .'
She doesn't hear any more because they go out through the French doors onto the terrace, but she feels frightened. Lucy believes that Eleanor's brakes aren't too good: not as reliable as Nanny's or Hester's or Patricia's. She has an image of Eleanor driving a car and putting her foot down hard on the accelerator pedal, going faster and faster so that people and cyclists fly out of her way or are caught under the wheels; but still Eleanor drives on and on with her hair blowing in the wind and a secret smile on her bright red lips. Edward and Eleanor are both dangerous because their brakes don't work properly.
* * *
Each of them is scared. Eleanor takes Michael's arm as they pass out into the garden and he glances round involuntarily, freeing himself quickly in case Edward is watching. Just lately, he has begun to fear that Edward has guessed the truth.
'It's not just because of Lucy,' he says, 'though I don't quite know what I'd do with her in London. It's Hester too. She's not able to look after Edward on her own just yet. Poor old Edward . . .'
His face crumples a little with compassion and Eleanor watches him thoughtfully, weighing his concern for them against his love for her.
'But you do love me, Mike?'
'For God's sake!' He's as jumpy as a new lamb, glancing up at the windows of the house, peering along the terrace. 'It's just not that simple . . .'
'I think it's fairly simple,' she says coolly. 'Lucy can stay with your Aunt Mary and you and I can get a little flat in London. You can see Lucy at weekends.'
He is secretly shocked by her ruthlessness. 'And what about Hes and Edward?'
'They must learn to manage. After all, you can't stay here for ever, can you?'
'And what about you? You are his wife, after all.'
'That didn't seem to bother us a few weeks ago in London, did it? We can't let it get in the way now, why should we? The fact is that I hardly knew Edward when we married. It was all so quick and mad, a typical war-time romance that would have died a natural death at any other time. There's nothing to bind us now. No long years of marriage, no true deep love, no children. It might sound brutal but the truth can be brutal. It'll never work between me and Edward again. We must face up to the truth, Mike.'
She makes it sound so reasonable – and he knows that he is wriggling like a worm on a hook and despises himself for it – but he is unable to take the decision to abandon Edward and Hester. Yet Eleanor is right: something must happen soon. Edward is recovering his strength, he neither sleeps so late nor goes to bed early, and his presence amongst them is causing tension. He is beginning to be unable to hide his feelings for Eleanor, the sight of her exacerbates his madness, and Michael fears some kind of confrontation.
'I suppose you wouldn't consider going away for a week or two, to your chums in London or to your parents? Just to give Edward time to recover?'
She shakes her head, smiling at him as if she knows what he's thinking.
'You don't get rid of me that easily, darling. I'm staying with you. When I go I'm taking you with me.'
And Michael's heart sinks: he knows that he is caught in a trap – a trap of his own making but, nevertheless, a trap.
It is not just selfishness on her part, Eleanor tells herself, it is simply that she is trying to protect them all. The truth is that Michael can't stay at Bridge House indefinitely as some kind of sickbed attendant, and sooner or later Hester must decide what exactly is going to happen to Edward. If it were left to Eleanor herself she would simply put him in hospital – or the madhouse – because, let's be honest, the poor old boy is as mad as a hatter. Madder, because he's dangerous too. And surely they can see that it's asking for trouble to have him around with Lucy. Anything might happen. Oh, it's all very well for Hes and Mike to say that he takes no notice of the child and that she is actually very good with him but they must be able to grasp that he's about as volatile as a keg of gunpowder in a match factory. Much better to get Lucy away with Aunt Mary, even if she's as old as God and hasn't been anywhere since the war started. At least the kid will be safe with her and Mike can get down to Chichester quite easily from London. After all, what else is he going to do with her? She's four years old and it won't be long before she should go to school, and he can't expect poor Hester to take her on. Certainly not now she's got Edward to worry about. No, the right thing is for the two of them to go to London, Lucy to Aunt Mary, and then Hes will realize that she simply can't manage and she'll be sensible and let Edward go into some kind of mental hospital. Then they can all get on with their lives again. And of course it's tragic about poor old Edward, of course it is, but that's the way war works. Some people die and other lives are ruined. It's ghastly, but it doesn't mean that everyone has to suffer because they feel guilty that they've survived. That's simply stupid. It's criminal, in fact, to throw away lives unnecessarily. An utterly pointless sacrifice.
And if Hester and Michael really think that they can sacrifice her along with themselves then they'll have to think again. In fact, rather than behaving in this hole-and-corner way, thinks Eleanor, perhaps the time is coming to force the pace: to push Edward nearer to the edge; oh, not too far, the poor sweetie, but just far enough to make certain that the decision is taken and they can all get on with their lives.
* * *
Edward and Hester sit togeth
er beside the fire. A volume of John Clare's poetry is open on Edward's knee from which he reads aloud. He stops at regular intervals so as to continue a conversation they are having about the past, interrupting the reading each time a new memory occurs to him. Outside, the rising wind soughs through the trees and whips the river into a foaming brown tide, which races beneath the old bridge and slaps against the stone piers as it passes.
Hidden behind the long sofa, Lucy plays with her doll and Rabbit: they are having a tea-party. She has saved a chocolate biscuit – a very great treat – and has broken it into small pieces. The teapot is full of milk, which she pours very carefully into the tiny plastic cups. She has begged the milk from Hester and, as she shares out the biscuit, she wonders if Edward steals food because it is part of the game he plays. She's seen him slip a bread roll from his plate into his pocket when he thinks nobody is looking and take another one to eat there and then, or it might be an apple and, once, an egg from the bowl on the dresser in the kitchen. She's watched him in Hester's kitchen garden – which they still refer to as the meadow because that's what it was before the war – kneeling beside the rows of vegetables and uprooting a carrot or a parsnip. He brushes the earth from it and puts it inside his jacket, glancing quickly over his shoulder to see if anyone is watching.
He is reading again now and Lucy sits quite still to listen because she loves Edward's voice and the words fascinate her. This is someone talking quietly to a friend as they walk along together, just as she and Jack used to, and she holds her breath as she waits to hear what they might discover.
'Up this green woodland-ride let's softly rove
And list the nightingale – she dwells just here.
Hush! let the wood-gate softly clap for fear
The noise might drive her from her home of love,
For here I've heard her many a merry year –
At morn, at eve, nay, all the livelong day,
As though she lived on song . . .
Memories Of The Storm Page 16