by John Burke
‘We must sell the house,’ Mrs. Swanton was saying. ‘Whoever takes on the practice will need it.’
We . . .
Charlotte felt a need to protest. She did not want to be held responsible for the other Swantons. There were Peter and herself; she did not want to be involved with the problems of anyone else.
But inevitably she tried to imagine what would happen, what it would be like if they all stayed together. To move away altogether, to the city . . . how would that affect Gil? It would deprive him of that deep-rooted connection with the fields and countryside he knew so well, and in which he wanted to work. He would come; he would have to come, and he would find something to do, and he would go on living; but he would not be happy. Yet to stay here was impossible. At the moment they were still recovering from the personal shock of Laura’s wild, insane outpourings; but even when the memory of that hideousness was dulled, there would be the eyes and the murmuring voices of the local people to endure — the veiled derision or the intolerable kindness, the awareness of being pointed out and talked about. For Gil, above all, that would be unbearable.
To move, perhaps, to another country town? If too far away, they would be lost: it would take a long time to settle down and be content. But if the town were too near, the murmurs would ripple after them.
Whatever the decision might be, it would involve a great deal of distress and a great deal of organisation and determination.
‘Poor Gil,’ said Mrs. Swanton, beginning gently to cry.
Poor Gil.
Charlotte was back at the window, staring out into the small garden and watching Gil as he walked stiffly about. He kept his back to the window, which meant that his range was very limited. A few paces one way, then a few back — shuffling rather than walking, looking down into the desolate flowerbeds or up at the fence.
Somehow or other he had to be let out.
She frowned. She wanted impatiently to go right away from this house and leave them to it. It was none of her business. The decision was not up to her. She could not be expected to sort such things out. It was an unfair, unreasonable thing to ask.
‘If only Peter were here,’ sobbed Mrs. Swanton.
Charlotte knew, and was sure Mrs. Swanton also knew, that Peter would have made no difference. Any decision Peter made would be careless and unhelpful. He would want only to shake off the sense of oppression — to do something, anything, hastily, simply in order to feel that things were moving. ‘Let’s get things moving,’ he would say. And he would give little thought to the direction in which they were moving.
It was no good. Charlotte realised, with a twinge of sheer terror, that it was all up to her.
She would have given anything to be able to shake off this growing feeling of responsibility. She had not asked for responsibility, and she had done nothing to deserve it.
But she had married Peter, and was now a Swanton.
If only she had not come here in the first place . . .
But she had come. She had accepted the invitation, and been drawn in. And because of that, a woman had died.
No. She would not accept that. She was the one member of the family free from blame in that terrible affair. She had been ill in bed, she had handled no poison, mixed up no labels, known nothing about Molly Drysdale at all.
But if she had not been here in Brookchurch, if she had never entered this house, then Molly Drysdale would not be dead. Circumstances would have been quite different. Small incidents and hatreds and errors would not have accumulated in the way they had done, things would not have worked out in just the way they had. The woman would still be alive.
And if Molly Drysdale had lived, perhaps there might, in due course, have been other problems.
She must cope with it all. She was the only one who could do so. Mrs. Swanton would be all right: she would talk and weep herself into a recovery, and find a way of going on living without too much pain. But Gil would not find it easy. Gil was blaming himself. Gil would lock up the nightmare inside himself until it grew into something perverted and uncontrollable, unless something were done quickly.
Then there was Peter. She must look after Peter.
The old days were ended. She would never again be able to sit back, waiting for Peter to come home, to give her money and to laugh off everyday troubles, relying on the pleasures and impulses of the moment. She had not just married Peter, as she had thought she was doing: she had married into the Swantons, and they were her concern now. She was the only one capable of making decisions.
It was a task that frightened her, but she must be up to it. She would be.
She half turned towards Mrs. Swanton, as though to begin by putting an end to those convulsive sobs. Then she paused.
Outside was Gil — Gil, with his closed face, Gil with all those things in his mind which must be driven out. She looked at him, standing now quite still with his head down. She saw that this was her major problem. She saw how he would be lost, how he would harden up if she did not soon reach him.
The wind sent a sudden flurry of brittle twigs across the garden, and some of them rapped on the window pane. Gil turned, and looked for a moment at the window.
Charlotte went out of the room and down the passage and out into the garden. He did not move away as she approached; but he did not look up until she spoke. She felt — and prayed that she was right — that his mute stiffness was somehow an invitation, that he was saying to her: Come on. Try. Please try.
She said: ‘Gil . . .’
*
THE END
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