by Jane Gardam
Through the short June night that never seemed to get quite dark I lay in the drawing room and sometimes I slept and sometimes I didn’t. At some point, after I think I had probably slept, I faced Barry’s last command and said, out loud, “And finally, of course, there was no ghost.”
I dare say I wept then, but slept again and about four o’clock woke to the marvellous chorus of the summer birds, at peace.
When it was light, I looked across to see if he’d left the photograph on the mantelpiece, wondering if I could forgive him if he had. He had not. I wondered if I dare look in the hall and see if the dirty shirt bag was there. I dared not. But I laughed. Then I went to sleep again.
I woke properly at a little before six, walked stiffly across the room and looked out at the Road and its dewy gardens. I looked at where number thirty-four used to stand. Nothing. I examined my clean fingernails, thin white arcs.
The paper-boy slammed up and down the road, his feet slapping on the flights of steps, clattering the gates, fading away. One quiet early car drifted self-consciously by. Then up the Road came Old Bernard on his bike, knees out sideways like a grasshopper, off to the Common for his daily meditation on the mystery of his continuing life. He did not turn his head, but raised a hand to me in salute. I wondered if he was some sort of a sign.
Certainly not, for we need no signs. We need no extras, no tickets or labels or tags. Dulcie is wrong—it is sufficient just “to be.” “And signs only appear, it seems to me,” I said to the empty space before me, “when the need for them is over.”
As I said it, the room behind me grew perfectly still and I turned and looked at the telephone on the gold and glass table. Presently it began to ring.
“Oh, hullo,” said a voice. “Sorry, I’m rather early. This is Joan.”
43, Rathbone Road,
London, S.W.
1 July, 1990
My dear Joan Fish,
Do forgive me for being so long in writing. Your early morning call must now be about two weeks ago—perhaps longer—and I am ashamed of myself. I am very busy and very happy which is my only excuse, and one I think you’ll understand.
It was a delightful surprise to hear you, and no, of course, you were not at all too early. Henry and I have lived abroad so much that the one thing we do understand is the time difference. I was anyway up and about.
And I was so flattered that Lucien had “recommended” me. I am I fear rather an elderly “au pair,” but I can last, I’m sure, until Vanessa comes back to roost. I’m glad that Lucien convinced you that I would be suitable, though I believe Lucien could convince anyone of anything. I’m rather afraid, though, that he didn’t tell you that I’ve had very little to do with children and have had none of my own.
But your grandchildren and I do get on very well, even though I’m well aware that I’m only a substitute for Vanessa, and very temporarily, for I’m sure—absolutely certain—that she’ll be back. She is volatile but not irresponsible. She loves her family and they adore her. When she does get back I’m going to make Nick put her in touch with the nuns on the Common who were invaluable to me once when I was tending to get a bit low.
Now I have to tell you—but don’t panic please—that before long I have to go to America with my husband where I’m to meet for the first time my sole surviving relative, and, also, my stepdaughter. I shall not go until the Fishes are back to normal. There’s no hurry. And you are not to make any plans to come over here yourself. Sorry to be bossy, but with a “wonky leg” you should stay where you are, even if as you say you are “not yet eighty.”
I must tell you something so nice. When you rang I happened to be standing at the window, looking out at where your old house used to be. I remember it, you know. It was very bomb-damaged but I loved its garden. I used to try and imagine what the people there had been like—I never knew that it had been Nick’s family’s house before he was born.
But the queer, nice thing was this. When I picked up the phone and you spoke I suddenly remembered my mother’s voice, and she died when I was only six.
Now—back to the shirts. I do Lucien’s and Nick’s with my husband’s—not Amanda’s. She’s all for drip-dry. I could easily send to a laundry but I’m rather good at ironing. The baby I fuss over like a fool. He is really my heart’s love. I go over every day and stay till his bedtime. I’m happy in that house and there is only one thing I have been tough about—that Nick gets rid of those filthy fish-tanks and that creature they keep in a saucepan by the kitchen stove. I’m making them give the money to The Society of the Risen Christ!
My cooking improves daily. I make them eat everything. When their mother comes back they’ll tell her about all my hang-ups. Butter knives, clean handkerchieves, etc. Ah well.
Some escape and some never.
Thank you for ringing. Perhaps one day we’ll meet? You don’t know what you did for me by getting in touch. God bless you for it.
Sincerely yours,
Elizabeth Peabody
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jane Gardam is the only writer to have been twice awarded the Whitbread Prize for Best Novel of the Year (for The Queen of the Tambourine and The Hollow Land). She also holds a Heywood Hill Literary Prize for a lifetime’s contribution to the enjoyment of literature.
She has published four volumes of acclaimed stories: Black Faces, White Faces (David Higham Prize and the Royal Society for Literature’s Winifred Holtby Prize); The Pangs of Love (Katherine Mansfield Prize); Going into a Dark House (Silver Pen Award from PEN); and most recently, Missing the Midnight.
Her novels include God on the Rocks (shortlisted for the Booker Prize), Faith Fox, The Flight of the Maidens and Old Filth, a New York Times Notable Book of the Year.
Jane Gardam lives with her husband in England.