Letters From Constance

by MARY HOCKING

  As we unpacked I imagined how those pioneer women must have felt unloading the covered wagon. ‘From here on these wheels stop rolling,’ I seemed to hear them say. And these are my sentiments. I am definitely a settler.

  We didn’t have to break virgin soil, but there were times when I thought we might have to construct our own home. You have time on your hands, I trust? Make yourself comfortable, put your feet up. Some of this will not be new to you, but I mean to get this saga down on paper.

  Our friends in Ealing said when we finally departed, ‘You may have had to wait a long time, but at least you have your very own house.’ They, poor things, bought ready-made houses which had all the disadvantages of electric points in the wrong places, intrusive wallpaper and no downstairs loo. We, on the other hand, were about to take possession of a house which represented a series of compromises - between our architect and ourselves and between our architect and the builder. The architect gained the ascendancy over us because he had the expertise, any amendments we suggested being ruled out on the grounds that we were building on chalk; the builder triumphed over the architect because it would have been too expensive to remedy his misreadings of the plans. But people still think we have a house built to our own specification.

  If we had had a ready-made house, we should have moved in a year ago, contracts exchanged without fuss; quietly and efficiently we should have set about imposing the Byrne imprint with the aid of furniture, pictures, books and a miscellany of toys. Instead of which we moved in against the advice of our architect, threatening litigation against the advice of our solicitor who, I am sure, has many a cosy chat with our builder at masonic meetings.

  I have a feeling, however, that fortune may have changed sides. Our builder has recently been awarded a contract to erect a new estate on a field at the far end of the village. Fergus and I went to see him last week when he was inspecting the site - it is impossible to see him in his office which has a series of escape passages designed to ensure he never comes face to face with one of his customers.

  Fergus explained to Mr Buggins (this is not his real name, but I have taken to referring to him in this way in case I should say anything slanderous) that we had one or two things which we wished to talk over with him. While these things were under discussion, I stood beside Fergus, holding my new-born baby in my arms, my other children tugging at my skirts, and contrived to look both defiant and ill used, the way the gypsy women did when they were turned off the campsite near Western Avenue. Dominic, who felt it all very undignified, sulked, Kathleen glowered and Cuillane cried. It would have contributed much had Stephen cried too, but he is a cheerful baby and groped with pudgy fingers in Mr Buggins’s direction, his eyes full of delight as if another wonder of the world had revealed itself to him.

  Mr Buggins’s cohorts withdrew a respectful distance and occupied themselves in an intense scrutiny of an area of grass indistinguishable to the untutored eye from the rest of the field. There was a faint wind stirring washing on the line in the garden of a nearby cottage and I was reminded of the pennants fluttering in that exhilarating battle scene in the film of Henry V. I had never before seen Fergus engaged in battle as distinct from argument. He was remarkably calm. If the adrenalin was pumping through his veins, as it was through mine, there was little sign of it. It would not be true to say that his red hair flamed and his face was afire; perhaps there was an added glow of health in his skin and his eyes were shining bright as the Bob Martin’s dog; but there was nothing Mr Buggins would recognise as cause for concern.

  Mr Buggins is a coarse person and believes that every verb, noun and pronoun should be prefixed by a four-letter word. So cluttered is his speech that it took him some time to deliver himself of even the most direct of injunctions - Get out!

  Fergus said he would appreciate it if Mr Buggins would moderate his language in front of me and the children. Mr Buggins said it was Fergus’s decision to bring his missus and the bairns along of him. I hadn’t realised anyone still said bairns and I don’t think Mr Buggins usually does, but some new-found need to win sympathy made him dig into his limited stock of homeliness. He went on to suggest that if Fergus didn’t want to shelter behind his family they should conduct their business at some remove and he turned and walked a few paces, Fergus reached him in one stride and spun him round.

  I was intrigued. I didn’t know how much in control of his temper Fergus was; or whether, even in control, he might not think it a good idea to hit Mr Buggins just for the hell of it. I think the same thought occupied Mr Buggins’s mind as they stood nose to chin, Mr Buggins being the shorter. He had the look of a man anxious not to make a wrong assessment. Eventually, he told Fergus that he could get himself into a lot of trouble. He said this with just the faintest hint of sadness on Fergus’s account, but as though it were a matter of no consequence to himself.

  Mr Buggins’s cohorts were edging towards us in a way that suggested they might rally if the standard were raised, but not at too great a risk to themselves. I did a bit of closing in as well and Kathleen suddenly shot forward and punched Mr Buggins on the thigh, thus unwittingly robbing her father of the initiative. Cuillane and the baby cried and Dominic, my first-born, ran away.

  Mr Buggins said he wouldn’t bring charges against the little girl, but as for her parents . . . Fergus interrupted to tell him that if he was thinking in terms of charges he should know that there was worse to come. It was our intention to camp out on this site and warn any prospective buyers that Buggins and Company never finished any work they began and, by way of proof, to invite them to inspect our house.

  For the first time since I had met him, I felt we had not only Mr Buggins’s full attention, but his respect as well. ‘It wouldn’t do you any good,’ he said. But I could see that, good or ill, he believed Fergus would do it.

  ‘It wouldn’t do you much good, either,’ Fergus pointed out.

  ‘Ay, that’s a fact,’ Mr Buggins acknowledged without perceptible rancour.

  The next day workmen arrived at our house. They seem intent on working hard and appear to bear us no grudge.

  Do you ever get the feeling that there is a continuing process of change going on inside you? Consider this affray in the field. I, who had been brought up to believe it was ill-bred even to mention money, not only stood by while Fergus and Mr Buggins disputed, for the enlightenment of any villagers within a mile’s radius, amounts paid and owing, but interposed with a recital of figures relating to the heating system. Even more to be deprecated than the mention of money, was the discussion of anything pertaining to one’s health. Only the lower classes, my mother had assured me, make health a subject of conversation. Yet I was prepared to let Mr Buggins know that I attributed to his negligence Dominic’s constipation, Cuillane’s rash and Kathleen’s indigestion. I had never imagined that I would consent to discuss my business publicly or to draw attention to my misfortunes with such abandon.

  This is not, I can see, the best possible introduction to one’s neighbours. But they, too, know what it is to be out of favour. As you’ll remember, we live in a road which has been cut into downland - ours is the last house, the final desecration. Our next-door neighbour is an amiable civil servant who told us things were very sticky when he and his wife came to live here six years ago. ‘One can’t blame them,’ he said philosophically, gazing at his down- scaped garden. ‘We ruined the village. Much worse things have happened here since, but this road started it.’

  It marks the end of real rural life in Sussex. First of all, they ploughed up the Downs during the war and now that the war is over, we have come. It’s all very sad, but I think we will be able to live with our consciences and I expect we will soon be thinking of it as our village and fighting to keep it free of undesirable invaders.

  Fergus and the children love it because they can be up on the Downs within minutes of leaving the house - and bring down-land back into it on their return. They are up there as I write.

  The people are a mix
ed bag - a brigadier, an ex-district commissioner of the benevolent Sanders of the River variety, civil servants, a publisher, teachers, and the farming community who stand aloof, one hand on shot-gun, waiting to pick off anyone who strays from a footpath. The people we have so far met socially don’t dress up and they entertain modestly. Better still, they drink only moderately but number a few immoderate talkers to keep Fergus company of nights. They have looked us over and I think they have decided they will be able to absorb the Byrnes without too much difficulty once this trouble with the builder is settled. The Brigadier, in fact, approves of Fergus’s stand. ‘Audacity,’ he said to me over his beech hedge. ‘Don’t see enough of it nowadays. I look at the painting by Goya of the Iron Duke and I see it in the eyes - audacity.’ I told Fergus the bit about audacity without bringing Wellington into it. There will be a time for him to discuss the Iron Duke with the Brigadier.

  By half-term all should be more or less orderly and we shall be ready to receive guests. Would Linnie like to come to us for half¬term? I know how shy she is and I don’t want to press the invitation if it is going to be upsetting for her; but you did ask me to be godmother, so I feel I should be allowed a certain licence. It does seem to me that now she is nine she should be getting out more among other children. She touches my heart, she is so meek and demure, like Fanny in Mansfield Park. But there won’t be any Edmund for her in this age, will there? Not that I would really wish Edmund on any girl. We would love to have her. Indeed, come Christmas, we would love to have all the Druces, if you could ever contemplate such an upheaval. Think on it.

  My love as ever,

  Constance

  Sussex

  November, 1955

  My dear Sheila,

  I was so glad you persuaded Miles to let Linnie come. I can understand his being reluctant to share his treasure. The first time Kathleen stayed the night with a friend there was an icy hole inside me as the family gathered in the evening and she not among them. Then, when she returned, I was sneakingly pleased she was so taken aback because things were ordered differently in her friend’s home, neatness taking priority over comfort. ‘I didn’t know where it was all right to sit,’ she wailed. Of course, I defended the right of each family to order its home life according to its own values and I dealt with each specific complaint with commendable charity, but I was gloating inwardly. Yet I knew a warning had been sounded. One day she will go away and find things to her liking which we don’t have to give, either because we can’t afford them or because we don’t have it in ourselves to supply those particular needs.

  I had no idea Miles’s childhood was so lonely and unhappy, but that shouldn’t mean he has to build a containing wall around you and the children. He is under no threat. One has only to look at you to know that you are all brimming with love for him.

  Linnie showed us the pictures taken at the recent concert. Miles looked incredibly slim and the tousled hair is a very effective frame for that sharply chiselled face. I said to Fergus, ‘See how well Miles has kept his figure, not an ounce of superfluous flesh on him!’ Alas, Fergus’s appetites are stronger than his vanity and he merely said that you don’t feed Miles properly. ‘The poor man looks harrowed.’ Perhaps you had better not show Miles this letter. In fact, I am never quite sure whether he reads any of my letters. I do show yours to Fergus from time to time. I hope you don’t mind? He appreciates your sense of humour and he thinks you can be outrageous in your opinions, something by which he sets great store.

  I must attend to Stephen now. He has been left in Dominic’s charge and this is a situation which needs frequent monitoring. Stephen is a serene baby, utterly sure he is lovable, but Dominic’s mind is full of bad thoughts and I sometimes catch him looking at my angel with pure hatred.

  My love to you all and particularly to our enchanting little guest, Linnie.

  Constance

  Sussex

  December, 1955

  Sheila!

  You lock away my letters. What is this? You need a part of your life that is your own, a place where people only enter by invitation? Does Miles understand this? If Fergus started to lock away his letters it would arouse my deepest suspicions. No doubt you know best, but I am a bit disturbed. I had always imagined you would drain yourself for your loved ones. Far from withholding letters, Miles would only need to look wistful and you would shower them upon him.

  One is forever having to reassess situations. I sometimes wonder how much I know about my own marriage. Fergus and I went out to dinner last night. A young woman in the village came to look after the children. ‘I think I may have forgotten how to behave in adult company,’ I said to Fergus as we strolled down the road, just the two of us, no one lagging behind or running too far ahead, no one wanting to be carried or do a wee-wee.

  We were separated as soon as we arrived and for a few minutes I suffered all the agonies of childhood parties where I always seemed to arrive when everyone else was warmed up and didn’t know how to fan my little flame. As usual, in such circumstances, I talked too much about too little.

  At dinner, Fergus and the Brigadier got into an argument about this trouble which is building up in the Middle East. Personally, I think Nasser needs to be put in his place and that was the Brigadier’s view. I had hoped we wouldn’t get on to any contentious subjects because I want us to make friends here. Men, however, seem able to disagree without inflicting lasting wounds on one another. I said to the Brigadier when we were drinking coffee in the sitting-room, ‘I’m afraid my husband tends to express himself rather strongly,’ and he said, ‘Let’s say that most Irishmen enjoy a fight and I saw to my relief that he liked Fergus. He is one of those quiet Englishmen, humorous, steadfast, of the type to whom my mother would have liked to see me wedded. I wonder what my life would have been with someone like him.

  Later in the evening, looking round the room, I saw my neighbours in the comfortable glow of firelight, good, reliable Anglo-Saxon folk, settlers, pillars of the community, the kind of people who serve on committees, clear the snow outside their frontage and warn the neighbours when they are going to light a bonfire. And then I looked at Fergus. It’s not that his conversation is more interesting (only more extended), nor, I must concede, is it his looks which set him apart; it is a quality of relaxation in him, a freedom from a kind of pressure which English people put on themselves. I sometimes feel he is still here on a visit, free to leave and continue his travels whenever the impulse takes him. Although as yet he has shown no footloose tendency, he is not naturally a settler, he has put down no roots in our culture. I shall never understand him. He is a continent of which I have explored only an outer island. So who am I to comment on what goes on between you and Miles? Forgive me.

  My love,

  Constance

  Sussex

  June, 1956

  My dear Sheila,

  Just when we are safest, there’s a sunset touch . .. A poetic way of saying that when at last you feel settled that’s the time the unexpected guest will call. For me, to be settled represents proof of good living, a state to which I constantly aspire. Lately, a dreadful doubt has formed in my mind. Can it be that settled is not the natural state of the world?

  That was a marvellous letter from you. Yes, yes and yes, I am fascinated by this suspicion of a thaw taking place behind the Iron Curtain. I, too, had thought of these countries as merged into one uniform greyness, sterilised beyond hope, their people reduced to automatons. Now that something is stirring, I find myself painfully moved by this cracking of the ice, the slow coming to life. But you didn’t sit and agonise, you went off to the Red Cross with bundles of clothes for Poland with which you could ill afford to part.

  It is a beautiful spring day and as I write I can see Fergus in the garden shed. He is supposed to be cleaning his implements. He sits in the doorway, a far-away look in his eyes, completely happy. I never knew anyone who could be so fulfilled by the thought of work. Soon, he will begin to paint the handles, some red, s
ome green; time will pass while the paint dries, June will turn into July and then he will rub the steel until it shines like plated silver. This is becoming a yearly ritual which he lovingly performs while the weeds grow waist high. Some of these implements, I suspect, have never actually touched earth.

  Fergus is happy. His wife is not. Cuillane is attending the little nursery school here, so there is only Stephen at home during the day. I have made friends with a young woman in this road who has two children. She looks after Stephen for me sometimes and in return I look after her two. This means I suddenly find myself able to get out on my own. I feel as if I am emerging after a long spell in detention, exposed and unsure of myself Something seems to have happened to the world while I haven’t had my eye on it.

  Not only is there this stirring in Europe, but there is unrest of a different kind nearer home. My vicar, an admirer of the late Bishop Barnes, likes to think of himself as a humanist Christian. I think of him as an agnostic Christian. He is young, of a fresh complexion and assured countenance, with thick brown hair en brosse and eyes, greatly magnified by horn-rimmed glasses, gleaming with intelligence. It is apparent, as he radiates down on us little people from the pulpit, that he regards the Mysteries - the Virgin Birth, the Divinity of Christ, the Resurrection - as little more than aids for the weaker brethren. I’m not sure where God stands in all this. A mixed marriage tends to tone up the spiritual muscle of the partners. God has become important to me and I don’t like to be left behind when it comes to faithfulness. So I made an appointment to discuss the matter with the Vicar.

  Let me try to recreate the scene for you. I need to share it with someone and the affairs of my church are not of interest to my family.

  His wife opened the door to me. She’s an agnostic proper and only married him on the understanding that she would not be expected to involve herself in parish affairs. Unfortunately for her, the parish tends to intrude in the form of people like me.