The Echoing Stones

by Celia Fremlin

  Did he? Arnold thought about it, trying to picture this nebulously dishy man sitting across a tea-table from his, Arnold’s, wife, chatting and laughing with her. He scoured his mind for some flicker of appropriate emotion – jealousy? resentment? common or garden curiosity? – but could find nothing. Was he, then, so altruistic a person as to be actually pleased that his estranged wife should be having a good time with another man? Not really. Arnold was aware of his tendnecy to prefer contented people to discontented ones, but this was less due to the saintliness of his nature than to the fact that contented people don’t make demands on one’s time. Not so many, anyway.

  “No,” he said thoughtfully, at the conclusion of these reflections. “No, I don’t mind at all!”

  “Oh – you –! You don’t mind anything!” his daughter exploded. “That’s always been the trouble in our family!” With which parting shot she sprang from her chair and slammed out of the room.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was not until Gordon invited her for this third time to drive with him to Emmerton Hall that Mildred began to wonder, just a tiny bit, whether Val might not, after all, have been right?

  “He’s up to something!” had been Val’s verdict when, at nearly midnight, she began to clear away the dishes – still not allowing Mildred to help, even though the dinner guest had been Mildred’s friend and not Val’s.

  “He’s using you, Mills! You need to watch out. You know what you are. You’re so accustomed to being a doormat for some man, you don’t even notice that it’s happening.”

  Mildred was a little taken aback at these adverse comments on their guest, for it had seemed to her that the evening had been a great success. So far as she could see, Val and Gordon had been getting on extremely well – almost too well at one point, with Val becoming positively flirtatious, and Gordon responding with rather more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary. It had already become clear, even before the party began, that Val’s scornfully dismissive theories about the male sex were distinctly at variance with her behaviour when confronted with an actual specimen of the species. Early in the afternoon Mildred had surprised her friend winding her hair into hot rollers; and later Val had spent a quite unconscionable amount of time in the bathroom experimenting with a new face-pack. And finally, just before Gordon was due to arrive, she’d emerged from her room resplendent in a Chinese-style robe of peacock blue embroidered with gold. The wide sleeves swung gracefully just below the elbow, and the high shimmering collar set off to advantage the good bone-structure of her face: as did the long filigree earrings which quivered and trembled fetchingly as she moved, and which Mildred had never seen before. Indeed, she had never seen any of the outfit before; nor had she ever seen Val wearing eye-shadow as well as lipstick and a subtly-tinted peach-blossom powder. And so when she first caught sight of this vision, sweeping down the stairs towards her, she gave an involuntary gasp of admiration.

  “Oh, this old thing!” Val remarked deflatingly, in response to Mildred’s little cries of approval; and Mildred, thus silenced, and uneasily conscious of her own unexciting navy frock with white collar and cuffs, busied herself with the drinks. For some reason, this didn’t count as helping, and so Mildred was free to set out what she thought fit: dry sherry, medium sherry (not sweet, it wouldn’t do, even though it was her own favourite) and three different kinds of nuts. Also, of course, since their guest was a mam, whisky. Aware that this line of reasoning was all too likely to activate Val’s anti-sexist antennae, she kept quiet about it, and slipped out to the kitchen for ice while Val was preoccupied with last-minute touches to the dining-table.

  After which, there was nothing for Mildred to do but to sit and feel more and more agitated until, very punctually, the door-bell rang.

  *

  It was lucky that Gordon and Val got on so well, right from the beginning, because Mildred was almost paralysed with the nervous strain of anticipating all the things that might go wrong, and could barely manage to effect the introductions, let alone initiate any conversation. Luckily, Gordon had had trouble parking, which is always a good ice-breaker, and fulfils almost the same function as the weather used to in simpler days; and they were soon well away about their cars, and all Mildred had to do was smile, and pass the nuts this way and that.

  The meal had gone well too. Gordon had brought a bottle of Beaujolais about which Val had proved herself flatteringly knowledgable, and had protested not at all at Gordon’s macho style of opening and distributing the same, including the futile little tasting ritual at the beginning.

  Wines. Cars. House prices. Airports. Holidays. Amusing misunderstandings with foreigners. And, towards the end of the meal, Emmerton Hall. How splendidly it had been restored, and how remarkable was the collection of portraits assembled there. About these Mildred, who ought to have known at least something, having lived in the place for weeks, knew absolutely nothing, whereas Val – who also knew absolutely nothing – managed nevertheless to keep her end up, saying things like, “I think it’s marvellous, the things they could do in those days without any of our modern technology.” Which of course set him off happily enough about the kinds of technology they did have in the sixteenth century, and how they had contrived marvellous long-lasting pigments from various plants and herbs, some of them poisonous …

  Not the sort of thing you actually had to listen to, but Mildred enjoyed the sound of her new friend’s voice, so cultured and well-informed: enjoyed, too, this opportunity of showing him off to Val. Not everyone of Mildred’s age and modest attainments is able to acquire so presentable a man friend, and she was pleased for Val to be appreciating this fact. He was knowledgable about music, too, and towards the end of the evening Val played him some of her favourite classical records. Well, Mildred had never noticed them being favourites of hers before, in fact she had never known Val listen to any music at all except what happened to be on the radio when she was doing the ironing. These records which she was playing this evening must be part of the collection left behind by the errant Malcolm and hitherto totally neglected. Still, it made a pleasant interlude, and a rest from thinking of subjects for conversation, and the evening ended happily enough with arrangements for a further outing to Emmerton Hall on the following Sunday. It seemd to Mildred that everything had gone beautifully; which was why it was such a shock when, after the guest had departed, Val should start straight away being so nasty about him.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Mildred had retorted sturdily. “How is it ‘Using’ me, to invite me for a pleasant outing in his car? After all, he knows I’m interested in the place – not for the same reasons as he is, of course, but all the same … And besides, it’ll be very convenient, there’s still a whole lot of things I want to bring up from the flat. All my winter clothes for a start. I’m sure Arnold’s fed up with having them cluttering up his wardrobe …”

  “That reminds me,” Val interrupted, “I forgot to tell you, Mills, Arnold rang up to ask what he should do with your stuff. I’m afraid I gave him a piece of my mind.”

  Which piece? Val’s mind was so crammed with opinions, not all of them wholly compatible, that Mildred felt nervous. Much though she didn’t want to rejoin her husband in his hare-brained and nerve-racking adventure, she didn’t want him antagonised either. The two of them still needed to make contact over various matters, like the sale of the house, and their joint anxieties about Flora. And, of course, this business about Mildred’s things. She really did want to get this sorted out as soon as possible.

  “When was that?” she asked anxiously. “When did he ring, I mean?”

  Val shrugged. “I can’t remember. Saturday I think. You were out shopping or something. How did he find out you were here, anyway? I thought you were supposed to be hiding from him?”

  It was true. On that first hot-and-bothered afternoon of her arrival, Mildred had indeed claimed that she needed somewhere to hide. “That’s wonderful of you, Val!” she’d cried gratefully. “I know I’l
l be safe from him here, I know you won’t give me away!” She’d said all this, and had meant it. But as the days went by, and nothing happened, and Arnold made no attempt whatsoever to drag her back to her wifely duties, or even to find out where she was, her fears had subsided, and were succeeded by – well, a need for her winter clothes. Autumn was coming on.

  “Well, I suppose I was, to start with,” she admitted. “Hiding from him, I mean. “But now that he seems to know where I am anyway …”

  “Yes, and that’s what I thought was a bit much. Just calmly telephoning you here, as if nothing had happened! What makes you think she’s here; I asked him? – and he sounded quite surprised. Well, I took for granted she was, he said; and honestly, Mills, that really did make me see red! Whenever a man tells me he takes for granted something about his wife, I always … Oh, God, Mills, put that jug down! Please! Haven’t I told you a million times that I don’t like being helped?”

  It was a shame that so pleasant an evening should end in so dismal a bout of bickering, and Mildred slunk off to bed deflated, and wondering – in defiance of all Assertiveness principles – where she had gone wrong? Had she upset Val some way, in the course of the evening? Had her praise for Val’s unquestionably excellent cooking been insufficiently fulsome? And it was over an hour later, when she was almost falling asleep, that another possibility occurred to her: was it plain old-fashioned jealousy? Had Val been offended at not being included in Gordon’s plans for the expedition down to Emmerton Hall next weekend? It would have been civil of him to have invited her. What could be more appropriate than a nice little threesome enjoying a day in the country on a sunny autumn Sunday? Mildred found herself feeling quite embarrassed on Gordon’s behalf. He should have invited Val, she having been effectively his hostess. Though perhaps he didn’t realise this? Perhaps he hadn’t taken it in that it was Val, not Mildred, who had roasted the duck: had set the table with the special cut-glass wine glasses: had filled the Avocado pears with that delicately flavoured dressing? Or perhaps he’d meant to ask Val, but had wondered … Before Mildred had reached any satisfactory conclusion, sleep had overtaken her, and by next day the subject seemed to be closed. Val made no comment when she observed Mildred getting ready for her expedition on the following Sunday, and had even asked her, on her return, if she’d had a good day?

  But when the outing was repeated yet again on the next Sunday, and the Sunday after that, even Mildred herself began to wonder what it was all in aid of? By now, she’d fetched her winter clothes, and her boots, and the thick Tartan rug because her bed at Val’s was none too warm now that summer was over. All this had been achieved without actually meeting Arnold in the flesh at all. This had come about by mutual, unspoken consent, for they were both feeling equally embarrassed at the prospect of an actual encounter. A time and a place had been fixed for Arnold to deposit the selected objects, and for Mildred to pick them up. It was like, she supposed, the arrangements contrived by divorced parents for the handing-over of their children in accordance witht the Court Order for access by this parent or that.

  Flora, of course, could have helped in the matter, but didn’t see why she should; and since neither Arnold nor Mildred could think of the answer to this, the matter was dropped. Indeed, on these weekly visits Mildred saw almost as little of her daugther as she did of her husband. The awkwardness of being served by an aloof, unsmiling waitress who was also a daughter was more than she could take, and so she kept away from the Tea Room. Luckily, this was no deprivation for Gordon, only for herself. He didn’t care for tea. and liked to spend his time as intensively as possible making notes on such of the exhibits as were of special interest to him: in particular the very fine tapestries which hung in the ante-chamber to the Great Hall. Mildred didn’t exactly query the single-minded intensity of his application to his hobby: men were like that. But after a while she did have to admit to herself that she was beginning to feel left out, and at a loose end: especially since there was no prospect of a break for a cup of tea, and maybe a scone with jam and real butter.

  She didn’t complain, of course; but it did mean that she spent rather a lot of time sitting about on benches taking the weight off her feet. This is an activity – or, rather, a non-activity – well known to be conducive to idle thoughts; and on this particular Sunday the idle thought that floated into her mind more and more insistently was the idle question: what am I here for? Why does Gordon want me with him when I don’t know anything about any of it and can’t even ask intelligent questions? I can’t drive, either. And, close on the heels of these reflections, came the memory of Val’s words after the dinner-party: “He’s using you, Mills. You need to watch out.”

  It so happened that while she was musing thus, seated on a bench by the lake in the last of the afternoon sunshine, something rather strange happened. A very tall, very ancient gentleman with a shock of wild white hair came to a halt in front of her and gave a small bow.

  “At what hour was Her Grace brought to bed?” he enquired politely.

  Now, Mildred was quite used to feeling at a loss when spoken to suddenly by strangers. It was always happening, and she could never collect her wits fast enough to think of the appropriate answer: and this occasion was no exception.

  “I’m sorry, I’m a stranger here myself,” was the best she could do; and then waited for him to more on, to ask someone else.

  But it didn’t happen. Instead, he took a step nearer, peered at her more closely, his pale-grey shining eyes suddenly hard and suspicious.

  “Madam, this is no time for trifling!” he reproved her; and indeed it wasn’t. It was a time for flight. Or for screaming for help. Something like that. Mildred looked wildly to left and to right; and, lo and behold, help was at hand.

  “Flora!” she cried, “Flora, come quickly!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Not for months – not for years, really – had Mildred had occasion to feel this total relief at the sight of her daughter. Usually, she was scarcely able even to see the girl properly, so thick was the cloud of maternal anxieties that lay between them. But today Flora appeared as a guardian angel, and from Mildred’s point of view behaved like one. Confidently, smilingly, she approached Mildred’s unnerving interrogator, and held out her hand to him.

  “Come,” she said. “We have to reach the wood before dark, remember?” and straight away, unprotestingly, he allowed himself to be led away.

  From where she sat, Mildred could see that Flora was talking earnestly to her companion as they walked away, but she could hear nothing of what was being said. Her feeling, though, that she herself was the subject of the discourse was confirmed when Flora, some way away now, turned and looked back over her shoulder, and then continued speaking to her companion.

  Saying what? Explaining that the lady seated on the bench was her, Flora’s, mother, and reproaching him for scaring her? Or – more likely – explaining to him that it was a waste of time trying to get a sensible answer out of the silly old moo?

  Trembling still, and by now stiff with cold, for the sun was quite gone and a sharp little breeze, forerunner of the night, was ruffling the grey water which had been so blue and bright when she’d arrived, Mildred heaved herself off the bench. Clutching her handbag tight to her side, as if that made her warmer somehow, she set off to the main house. It must be time, nearly, for the place to close; Gordon would be waiting for her. Arnold, too, would be anxious to hustle the last stragglers out of the grounds. The old anxieties about her husband’s performance of his multifarious duties here, and her own ill-defined but burdensome share in them, began to nag at her all over again. Which of course was ridiculous. It was no business of hers any more, none whatsoever.

  *

  Sure enough, they were waiting on the terrace, both of them. To her amazement, they were together, deep in conversation, which they only broke off when they saw her approaching.

  Were they talking about her? Had they somehow recognised each other, and effected mutual
introductions on her account? Or had they just got together by chance over some learned topic inspired by the recent guided tour?

  Both, apparently.

  “An interesting man, your husband,” Gordon remarked as he backed cautiously out of the still-crowded car-park: but before Mildred could seize on this remark as introducing a subject on which, for once, she actually had an opinion of her own, he had launched straight away into a detailed summary of Arnold’s intriguing theory about how the Venetian tapestries could have been safely transported from Italy at the alleged date, despite the ravages of the Piedmont wars.

  “Yes,” said Mildred, as the car gathered speed towards the main road: and, “Yes, I suppose so,” and “Yes, Arnold knows a lot about that sort of thing.” And presently the lights of the great city embraced and enclosed them, and they were home.

  Well, back at Val’s. She didn’t invite Gordon in, for a confused medley of reasons, uppermost among which was the conviction that he would refuse. For some polite and plausible reason, no doubt, but all the same she would be left wondering if he was beginning to find her boring?

  Having successfully by-passed this question at the moment of parting – with the usual chaste kiss on her cheek and brief clasp of the hand – she was faced with it again, later in the evening, as she and Val embarked on their inevitable post-mortem on the day’s outing.

  “I don’t want to be rude,” Val remarked – well, not rude enough to bring further confidences to a frustrating stop – “I don’t want to be rude, but what, exactly, does he see in you?”

  A good question. It had been churning around in Mildred’s own mind for some time now, so that she was not so much offended by the remark as relieved at the chance it gave her to put her fears into words.

  “Well …” She paused, trying for the sake of her self-respect to see some light at the end of the dark tunnel that the question was forcing her to explore. “Well, one thing he did say, Val, he says I’m a good listener!”