Keeping the World Away

by Margaret Forster

  Below, she heard the front door open and close. Their father was home from his office. The house seemed to breathe differently. Still sitting on the window seat, Gwen listened, raising her head like Mudge, stretching her neck as he stretched his. She must not move, must not betray her presence. The light, never strong on such a day, was fading. She liked the dimness, it made the room friendlier, as its bulging furniture was half lost in the gloom. She heard her father’s voice below, and the striking of the grandfather clock, and then his footsteps, slow and measured on the stairs. He was going to see her mother. He would send Winifred away and spend half an hour with his wife, alone, and then they would be called to high tea where they would sit silently, eating and drinking. Their father would ask only the occasional question, and Thornton would reply. If their walk had been reported, there would be a lecture. Gus would have to say where they had been, and why. He would tell the truth. So long as he did not mention the Gypsies, it would not matter. They would all say they were sorry.

  Winifred looked round the door. ‘Why are you in the dark, Gwen?’ she whispered. Gwen did not reply. She got up from from the window seat and followed Winifred down the stairs to the nursery where Gus was sprawled on the floor in front of the fire, drawing, and Thornton was turning over the pages of his atlas. ‘Mama is going away,’ Winifred said, ‘I heard Papa say so.’ They all looked at her. She was pleased to be important and smiled at them. ‘Nothing to smile about,’ Gus said, ‘the aunts will come again.’ Thornton groaned and slammed his atlas shut. Gwen said nothing. It was always happening. Their mother would be too ill to get out of bed and then, when she seemed a little better, and had come downstairs sometimes, she went away and the aunts came and everything changed, and there was nothing that could be done about it.

  They waited at the table for their father to tell them what Winifred had already told them but he said nothing until the meal was over and then he cleared his throat. ‘Two pieces of information for you to digest while you digest your food,’ he said. ‘One, your Mama is going away for the sake of her health. Two, Aunt Rosina and Aunt Leah will come to be with you. You must all be obedient.’ None of them said anything. Gwen wanted to cry but if she wept in front of her father he would want to know why and he would keep her at the table to explain what she felt did not need to be explained. She bent her head and concentrated on her plate, tracing the flowery design over and over, forcing her eyes to follow the outline of the pink roses and up the green stems and round and round the prettily painted leaves decorating the rim. Her father was saying something else. ‘When your Mama returns, we will go to Broad Haven.’

  This news helped. Gwen saw herself at once in her own tiny room there, at the very top of the house, bare except for its truckle bed and the mat on the floor and the stool in the corner. Her mother had wanted her to share with Winifred, as she did at home in Victoria Place, but she had begged and pleaded to be allowed to be by herself at Broad Haven. The room was like a cell, Thornton said, and neither he nor Gus envied her it. She had never been in a cell. But a prison cell would surely have little or no light and her attic room was full of it. She could lie on the bed at night and look up at the moon and the stars through the uncovered skylight, and in the morning the racing clouds, flashes of white, woke her. Winifred’s room, and the boys’ room, had views of the sea, but she did not care. Views of the sky excited her. She had tried to draw the sky, seen through the skylight, but nothing came of it.

  *

  Yesterday had been market day in Haverfordwest. The streets and squares of the town had been full of activity, thronged with cattle and pigs herded by the drovers and with strong, tall Welsh women carrying creels of oysters on their broad backs. But what had fascinated Gwen and Gus were the Gypsies, great gangs of them, taking the town over, acting like kings and queens in spite of their raggedness. Their encampment was outside the town but Gus had vowed he knew the way to it and she had agreed to let him take her there, though she had not quite believed he would want to do something so dangerous when the time came. But he was determined, and had woken her, and she could not let him go alone. They stole out of the house soon after dawn, using the side door which was the easiest to open, with no big bolts on it like the front and back doors. The single key turned smoothly, and was never taken out of the lock. It led into a narrow, covered passage which they crept along, knowing that the window above was Eluned’s and that she was a light sleeper (or so she claimed). Another door opened into the garden, and then they could run through the bushes down to the hedge and the wooden gate in the middle of it. This was locked, but it was easy to climb over. Gwen tore her dress slightly on a nail, but cheerful Aunt Leah (whom the children called Lily) did not fuss about such things, and Aunt Rosina (known by them as Rose) who did, would never notice because her eyesight was not so good.

  Gus knew where to go. They had an hour. If they were back by six, they could slip in the way they had slipped out and neither Eluned nor the aunts would ever know. Even if discovered, they could claim to have wanted to see if there were mushrooms ready in the field opposite. Gus was so very young but his daring astonished her. Gwen was not afraid of the Gypsies but she would never have approached an encampment, or been bold enough to talk to them. It worried her that she was older than Gus and ought to be more responsible and that she should have forbidden him to go where he went instead of agreeing to accompany him. She knew that their father feared that they might be kidnapped by the Gypsies, especially Winifred, though Gus had no fear. He said he would like to be kidnapped and live the life of a Gypsy.

  She did not think that she would like it. There was no order, so far as she could tell from spying on them with Gus, and no privacy. But she longed to look inside a caravan, though she did not see how this could be safely managed. She would never go near to one, and would not allow Gus to do so. She had told him she would scream if he left her side. All they were going to do this morning, all she would permit, was to observe the Gypsies from a distance, securely hidden in the long grass. There would be much to see. Today the Gypsies would move on. They would hitch their carts and caravans to their ponies and horses and move away. Their fires would be put out, and their pots and pans packed up and all this would be entertaining enough. It was their clothes that fascinated Gwen most, the startling colours, the voluminous skirts, the rich mixture of textures, so many fabrics thrown carelessly, triumphantly, together. She longed to dress like them, despairing of her sensible attire. Aunt Rose said the dress of Gypsies was vulgar and loud. When Gwen ventured to express the opinion that, on the contrary, it was colourful, and cheerful, a half-hour lecture on the sin of vanity followed.

  The sun had risen, a red glow spreading low on the horizon, and the mist, though still dense elsewhere, was lifting from the fields outside the town. They hurried along the lanes, making for the woods on the slope of the hill. For a small boy, Gus had an unerring sense of direction. The path by the River Cleddau was narrow and often muddy but today, after the long hot spell, it was dry most of the way. She could see the dark bulk of the castle looming out of the rising mist across the grey tidal flats on the other side of the river. Gus did not pause to check that she was following but rushed along, his footsteps loud slaps in the silence. The path ended abruptly. To enter the wood they had to ford the river over stepping stones. Gwen skipped from one stone to another without wetting her feet, but Gus slipped and soaked his right boot, another thing that would have to be explained later. In the wood the undergrowth was thick with bramble bushes, but Gus knew the path. She followed him closely, glad that he now kept stopping and turning, finger to his lips. He was being cautions, and it struck her that in spite of his bravado he was as frightened as she was. Then they saw and smelled smoke. Gus halted, gesturing that she should turn with him to the right, and take another half-overgrown track. She wondered how he had come to find it, so far from the walks they had all taken together with their father. But now they had emerged on top of a small hill, and below them was t
he Gypsy encampment. The noise rising up from all the activity was tremendous, the shouting and yelling, the cries of the horses, the screams of babies, the clattering and crashing of goods being loaded onto carts. They lay on their stomachs and watched without speaking. The biggest, most decorated caravan was directly in line with Gwen’s vision. She was looking down on to the top of it, but the window at the side was propped open with a cane, and she could just see into the caravan’s bottom. There was a blanket, red and white, thrown over something, and yellow cushions with tassels, and a glimpse of a table top with a blue teapot on it. She imagined the rest and tried to draw herself into that space, but she was baffled – she could not fit herself into it.

  They were off. Mounted horses led the procession of carts and caravans, pulled slowly by older, heavier horses. Children ran alongside and so did the dogs, howling and barking and jumping. The silence they left behind was eerie. Suddenly, Gwen could hear birds singing and the cracking of twigs all around. She got up. ‘Come on,’ she said, touching Gus gently with her foot. He still lay prone. She prodded him again, and he rose, his face a scowl. This time, she led the way, remembering it perfectly, but he was slow, and he dawdled. She had no means of knowing the time but she feared it must be nearly time for Eluned to go into the kitchen and she did not want to have to face her. But Gus did not care. He was in a dream, away with the Gypsies. The thought of home made him miserable. Their mother had been away a long time. Gwen was miserable, too, but she would not care to show it. It did not do to show her feelings. Crying brought unwelcome attention. She wanted to hide, to find her room at Broad Haven and lock herself into it.

  At the gate in the hedge, she waited for Gus. His head was down, but he was coming along a little more quickly. They tiptoed through the garden. Gwen noticed her father’s curtains were still drawn. So were all the others in the house so it could not be six o’clock yet. On the stairs, she paused, waiting for Gus, and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back. Softly, she crept into the bedroom she shared with Winifred and got into bed, fully clothed. In a short while, the household would come to life. She knew all the sounds off by heart, though the order varied. Sometimes Aunt Rose sang her hymns as she got up, sometimes she did not. Sometimes both aunts waited until Father had breakfasted and left for the office before emerging themselves. Today, none of the sounds were right. A faint click downstairs told her Eluned was up, but none of the other usual sounds followed. She lay there, alert. There was whispering on the landing above. Who? The aunts never whispered. Her father, to one of the aunts? He never whispered either, never. She sat up. More whispers, this time passing her door. Then a gentle knock. ‘Gwendoline? You are to dress, and dress Winifred, and come downstairs. Your father wishes to see everyone.’

  She got up and drew open the curtains on the bright August day. She helped her sister to dress and brushed her hair as best she could. She heard her brothers jumping down the stairs and a loud ‘Sssh!’ from Aunt Lily. Her heart began to beat a little rapidly. She put her hand over the place where the beating was and held it there. Winifred looked up at her anxiously, and she tried to smile. Hand in hand they descended. Eluned and Gwenda and Josiah were standing in the hall, side by side. Aunt Lily emerged from the morning room and beckoned to them. Thornton and Gus were already there, standing awkwardly in front of their father, who had his back to the fireplace. He stood very still and erect, gazing far off over the heads of the boys. Then he told them. Afterwards, barely pausing, but touching Winifred’s hair as he passed, he walked into the hall and repeated the news. Then he went up the stairs, steadily, not holding on to the banister. They heard his bedroom door close. Winifred was weeping and Aunt Rose went to her and tried to embrace her but she wanted only Gwen. Gwen let out a loud ‘Oh!’, almost a shout, and Gus echoed it louder, and called out, ‘Mama! Mama is dead!’ and began to run round the room hitting things, and Aunt Rose could not stop him. He ran out into the hall and the other children followed him, crying and laughing at the same time, and he yelled over and over that Mama was dead and they laughed hysterically and sobbed and clutched each other. The aunts and the servants did not know what to do.

  All day, curtains and blinds were pulled tight shut, and the aunts sorted out sombre clothing for them. Mama was dead. How? Gwen wanted to know. When? Where? And did this mean they would not go to Broad Haven? Gus drew, all day. He covered white page after white page with mysterious crosses drawn in thick black charcoal. Gwen longed to be outside, anywhere. Inside, the walls pressed in on her and the ceilings lowered towards her and the doors came to meet her. She felt she would burst. She had to shut her eyes tight and rise out of the house and hover above. It was so exhausting and frightening.

  ‘Gwendoline has not wept a single tear,’ she heard Aunt Lily say to their father.

  *

  They were going to leave Haverfordwest and move to Tenby. No reason was given. Eluned was going with them, and Gwenda, who helped her. Gwen heard Eluned tell Aunt Rose that she would give it a try but did not know if she would take to Tenby. Gwen felt superior. She had been to Tenby many times, with her mother. She remembered the bay, and the beach with the bathing huts on it, and the palm trees. She felt glad to be going there, away from the house to which Mother would never return. It hurt so much to look into her bedroom and see Mother lying there and know she was not really there at all, that it was only her imagination. The room was empty. Her father had moved out of it. He had taken his clothes and moved to the bedroom next to the boys’, and no one went into that other room any more. Except for Gwen. She did not put the light on, or open the curtains, but stood with her back to the door, and looked. The room was all shadows, merging into each other, streaming across the quilt on the bed, an army of them. Half-closing her eyes, she made sinister figures out of them. They were frightening but that suited her mood. Being frightened was preferable to aching with misery.

  They all had to help to pack. The aunts had tried to organise the packing before they themselves left, but they were too distressed, and too concerned with their own departure, to succeed in getting the children to empty their drawers and cupboards and put the contents in trunks. Gwen had been surprised the aunts were not coming to Tenby, and had not understood why. It was, she thought, something to do with her father. Did he dislike his sisters-in-law? It was impossible to tell who or what her father liked. He did not talk to them, unless to give orders, and he had said nothing about the aunts, except that they had done their duty and he was grateful. Aunt Rose’s face, when he said that, in front of them all, was strange. Gwen did not know whether she had seen anger or contempt there, or perhaps only pain. There was no point in thinking about it. There was no point in thinking about a great many things, but she could not help brooding.

  It was exciting taking the Tenby road out of Haverfordwest. They had all wondered if they would cry when the door of No. 7 was shut for the last time, but nobody did, and nobody looked back. ‘Where are we going?’ Winifred whispered. Tenby meant nothing to her. She was only five, and had never been there. ‘Beside the sea,’ Gwen said, feeling that was all she needed to know. Beside the sea. But when they got to Tenby, glimpsing the tawny sails of the fishing smacks, they found that their new home was not exactly beside the sea. It was not one of the tall yellow houses above the harbour but was up a dreary side street off the Esplanade, one in a row. The paint was peeling off the window frames and it had a shuttered, dingy look. No one said anything. They were afraid to offend their father by expressing their dismay. Silently, they entered the house which seemed dark and crowded with mahogany furniture. It was a tall house, with a basement and three floors and attics above. ‘Soon we will be settled,’ their father announced, but there seemed no comfort in his words. Gwen hardly dared to climb the stairs behind her father. On and on he went, never turning to look at her and Winifred, never speaking. ‘Wait,’ was all he said, when they reached the top landing. He opened the doors to the three attics, looked in them, and then gestured that the girls should
enter the middle one.

  There was a lot to be thankful for. Gwen kept telling herself that. For a start, there was light, two skylights without blinds. And the walls, though papered, had bland, creamy-coloured flowers wandering across a pale yellow background. There was cracked and horrid linoleum on the floor, but the two rag rugs, one beside each bed, were pretty. There was a small chest of drawers, and above it a painting in a gilt frame. It was of a boy wearing a red velvet suit. He was standing with his hands in his pockets, one foot resting on a dog. Gwen shuddered. Her father noticed, and to her surprise said, ‘You may take it down.’ He took it down for her and carried it away. The nail it had hung on looked odd above the blank square below. She would draw something herself to hang there.

  The first night was hard. Nothing felt right, and they all longed for the morning when their father would go to the office and they could escape onto the beach. But he did not go. When Gus asked at what time he would be leaving he said he would not be going to an office again, ever. He would work at home. The news appalled them. They stared at him. They could not work it out. Father always went to the office. He had impressed upon them many times how hard he worked, how necessary it was for him to work to cater for their many needs. What would happen now? ‘You will go to school,’ he told them. ‘It is being arranged. Until then, we will take walks.’ So they put coats on and followed him out, and he walked ahead, as he always did, his carriage rigidly upright, his nose in the air, and they half-ran to keep up. At least they were outside and nothing was so bad. The sun shone, the sky was nearly all blue. Once they got to the Esplanade the sight of the sea lifted their spirits. ‘Breathe deeply, in, out,’ their father said, and they stood in a line and did what he said, in, out, many times. Down on the beach, where they were then permitted to go, they ran away from him, Gus leading, shouting and yelling and chasing the seagulls. The tide was out and there were patches of hard sand where Gus drew pictures with a stick he picked up. Gwen and Winifred looked for shells, collecting them to take home, and Thornton gathered up seaweed and popped it. All this time, their father stood where they had left him, watching, but there was something unusually patient about him. He did not bother them.