by James Wilson
‘Come along now, Violet Roper. Brave kid. Brave kid.’
I crept away, meaning to wait out the storm in my study. But when I got there, I found a book lying open on the table, and a couple of Hubert’s pipes next to it, and the stale air thick and scratchy with his smoke. I should have known – when he was in the house, nowhere was safe from his presence: it permeated every crack and corner like an invisible gas. In my weakened state, I could not compete with it: it made me feel an intruder even in my own sanctuary.
I turned, and impulsively hurried into the kitchen. Mrs. Chieveley stood with her back to me at the stove, peering beneath the half-lifted lid of a steaming saucepan. Her husband was sitting at the table, one hand on his teacup, reading the newspaper. The hubble of the boiling water must have disguised my footsteps, because neither of them seemed to have heard me.
I cleared my throat. Chieveley looked up sharply, then jumped to his feet.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir, we didn’t know you were back.’
‘That’s all right, Chieveley. How are you?’
‘We’re very well, sir, thank you.’
‘Good, good, good.’
‘But what about you, sir?’ said his wife, turning towards me.
‘Ah, well, you know …’
‘We were so sorry … to hear from the mistress … you’d been so poorly …’ There were tears in her eyes, and she was frantically kneading her apron with her red hands – as if that was the only way she could keep herself from lunging forward to kiss me.
‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’
‘But you really are better now?’
‘Just about back in the land of the living. But still weak as a kitten, I’m afraid.’
She made an odd noise with her tongue. ‘Then you really shouldn’t be walking about, should you, sir? Why don’t you go into the drawing-room, and I’ll bring you some tea?’
‘My wife’s in there, with Colonel Ashburn. They seemed to be having a bit of a confabulation about something, so I didn’t like to disturb them.’
I avoided Chieveley’s eye, for fear of the pity I knew I should see in it.
‘The study, then,’ said Mrs. Chieveley.
I felt myself starting to sway. ‘Look, would you mind if I just sat here for a minute or two?’
‘Of course not, sir.’ Her husband pulled out a chair at the head of the table, and helped me into it. She hesitated a moment, then nodded at the big earthenware teapot. ‘If you don’t mind our tea, sir,’ she said tentatively, ‘that’s just freshly made.’
‘I’d love a cup, Mrs. Chieveley. Thank you.’
We sat in companionable silence for half a minute or so, smiling at the novelty of the situation. Then, from somewhere in the depths of the house, I heard a door close.
‘Who’s here?’ I said. ‘Apart from the Colonel?’
‘Only Mrs. Ashburn, sir,’ said Chieveley. ‘They didn’t like the idea of the mistress being on her own in … you know, under the circumstances. So when they brought her home they decided to stay on for a few days. Just until you got back.’
‘Hm,’ I said. ‘Well, that seems a bit odd, doesn’t it? The simplest thing, you’d have thought, would have been for her just to stay a few more days with them.’
Mrs. Chieveley blinked with surprise. And indeed, I was quite shocked myself: this was the first time, in ten years of married life, that I had ever said anything in front of her or her husband that might have been construed as a criticism of my wife, or as an unseemly attempt to enlist their support against her. Perhaps, I thought, my encounter with Mary Wilson had eroded my sense of propriety. I felt myself flushing, and hastily took a sip of tea.
‘Ah,’ I said, waggling my cup histrionically. ‘Very welcome, Mrs. Chieveley.’
She looked away in embarrassment. But her husband, with his usual aplomb, rose effortlessly to the occasion:
‘I rather think, sir,’ he said, ‘that Mrs. Roper was anxious to see her friends again.’
‘What, the spiritualists, you mean?’
I tried to sound off-hand, but could not keep the exasperation from my voice. Chieveley, though, was the perfect diplomat: he avoided my gaze, and gave not so much as a twitch of amusement or disapproval to suggest that he shared my opinion.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘There’s a new gentleman, in particular, comes here every afternoon. A Mr. Dolgelly.’
‘Dolgelly, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ah.’
Chieveley is one of the astutest judges of character I have ever met, but – curious as I was – I naturally couldn’t come straight out and ask him his opinion of a visitor to the house. So I contented myself with nodding encouragingly. After a couple of seconds my patience was rewarded:
‘He’s a very decided gentleman, sir. At all events, that’s my impression.’
‘Oh, dear. Not rude, I hope?’
‘Not rude, sir, no. Just exceedingly definite. The furniture has to be just so. There mustn’t be any noise. So Mrs. Chieveley and I have to stay in here with the door closed during the sittings, so as not to disturb them.’
‘Hm, well that’s a bit of an inconvenience, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, please don’t think I’m complaining, sir.’
‘And anyway,’ put in his wife hurriedly, ‘what really matters is the change there’s been in the mistress. I couldn’t hardly believe it. I don’t know what he says to her, but whatever it is, it’s done her the world of good. She’s always more cheerful when he leaves, isn’t –?’
She stopped suddenly, as she turned towards her husband and caught his warning glare. Her throat worked painfully, and her face started to redden. Neither she nor Chieveley, I noticed, was looking at me. I studied my teacup and said:
‘Well, that’s something at least, I suppose.’
The words seemed to be sucked into the void, like pebbles in a quicksand. There was a lull, in which we all tried in vain to think of some way to re-start the conversation. We were saved, finally, by the sharp clip of a man’s boots approaching us along the passage. Chieveley got up and moved quickly to the door. The footsteps stopped. I heard my brother-in-law’s voice saying:
‘Ah, Chieveley.’
‘Good evening, sir.’
‘Your mistress isn’t feeling very well, I’m afraid. She’s gone upstairs to lie down. So dinner at eight rather than seven-thirty, please.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Right. Thank you. Oh, and, er –’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Would you make up the bed in the cabin? And light the stove? Mrs. Roper thinks her husband would be more comfortable out there than in the –’
Chieveley silenced him with a tiny jut of the chin; then – as an angler reels in a trout – took a couple of backward steps to draw him further into the room. Hubert appeared in the doorway. He was holding three or four stuffed toys, which he thrust at Chieveley, as if he couldn’t wait to be rid of them.
‘And put these in there, too, could you?’ he said. Then he caught sight of me, and started.
‘Ah, you’re back,’ he said, his face softening into an apologetic smile. ‘Didn’t know. I’m sorry.’
I nodded. ‘Mrs. Chieveley’s very kindly restoring me with a cup of tea.’
‘So I see. Splendid. Splendid.’ He hesitated a second. ‘Look, old chap, why don’t you come through? We need to have a bit of a pow-wow. And no time like the present.’
I was in no mood for a pow-wow with anyone, but there was clearly no way of avoiding it. So I thanked the Chieveleys, and followed him back into the study.
‘Now, Corley Roper, you make yourself nice and cosy here,’ he said, graciously ceding me my own chair as if he were the host, and I some peevish guest. He arranged a blanket round my knees, then scooped up one of his briars from the table, knocked it out in the fireplace, and perched himself on the corner of the desk.
‘Well,’ he said, starting to fill the pipe from his pouch, ‘I don’t m
ind telling you, you gave us all quite a scare. Why didn’t you at least let us know where you were, for heaven’s sake?’
‘I didn’t want to be a nuisance.’
‘It never occurred to you, I suppose, that you might have been a bit less of a nuisance if we’d had some means of reaching you, just to find out how you were getting along?’
I shrugged. ‘I was very well looked after.’
‘Well, I’m glad to hear it. But you know what Violet’s like. How highly strung she is. She was awfully upset about the whole thing.’ He rattled his pocket for matches, and slowly lit his pipe. ‘Sounds a bit far-fetched, I know,’ he said finally, letting the words out gently on a billow of smoke, as if to soften their impact, ‘but she somehow got it into her head that you weren’t really ill at all, but had met some other woman, and run off with her.’
‘What?’ But I couldn’t keep a treacherous blush from spreading up my face. Hubert, mercifully, was still too busy fussing with his pipe to notice it.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘But there it is. So it was a bit of a shock to her when she had your wire saying you were coming back.’
‘And that’s why she doesn’t want me in the house?’
He raised his eyebrows, and nodded gravely.
‘I see.’ But I didn’t. I knew, in fact, that it couldn’t be the truth – or, at least, not the whole truth. Violet had her passions and idiosyncrasies, but jealousy was not among them.
‘Is Mr. Dolgelly involved in this, by any chance?’ I said, as casually as I could.
Hubert coloured. ‘What do you know about Dolgelly?’
‘Just what Chieveley told me,’ I said, feeling the heat spreading up my throat. ‘That he seems to have a great influence over her.’
‘Well, there’s no denying that. I can’t say I care for the fellow myself. But it’s obvious he’s been a great comfort to V.’
I shook my head despairingly.
‘I know,’ said my brother-in-law, rolling his eyes. ‘I absolutely agree with you, of course: it’s pure mumbo-jumbo, all that eyewash about auras and spirit guides and manifestations from the other side. But when it comes to the gentler sex, ours not to reason why, what?’
‘And banishing me to the cabin was this … this table-tapper’s idea, was it?’
He grimaced, and spread his hands in a gesture of baffled impotence.
‘You know me, Corley: I’m a simple chap. I’ve never understood women, and I never will. But the best policy, I’ve always found, when some strange little beastie has taken up residence in their crania, is just to go along with them.’
For a moment I was speechless. This was a man whose own wife was the most timid, mouse-like creature I had ever met; and in the twelve years I had known them, I could not remember one occasion on which he had consulted her opinion on anything – let alone gone along with it. It was hard to believe he was now suggesting I should indulge his sister by tacitly conniving at her adultery with a spiritualist – and yet I couldn’t immediately think of any other construction to put on what he had said.
‘Perhaps I’m being obtuse,’ I said, when I had found my voice again. ‘But I’m not entirely sure what beastie you’re talking about?’
‘Well, I told you, old chap. She thinks –’
‘But surely – I mean, the fact that I’m here – doesn’t that prove pretty categorically that I haven’t run off with another woman? In which case …?’
He sighed. ‘That would seem to be the logic of the thing, I know. But unfortunately, logic isn’t what we’re dealing with here.’ His voice was steady enough, but his face had darkened. ‘You’ve been through it too, of course you have: we all know that. But a woman’s bound to feel the loss of a child more keenly than a man, isn’t she? That’s just nature. Damned unfair, I know, when she takes it into her head to lash out, and you happen to be in the way, but …’ He shrugged. ‘In a couple of months, you’ll see, everything will have calmed down a bit, and she’ll be more amenable to reason. But till then, I’m afraid, there’s nothing much for it but to ride out the storm.’ He tinkered with his pipe. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to a murmur: ‘To be honest, old chap, in your shoes, I’d see it as a blessing in disguise. I mean, I know all you really want is a quiet life – and, frankly, you’ll have a much better chance of it out there than you would here. It’s your own little lair. No one’s going to barge in and bother you there. You’ll be able to do exactly as you please, without fear of let or hindrance.’ He laughed. ‘Sounds like heaven to me.’
I suddenly felt too tired to resist.
III
And that is how I came to find myself living in my own workroom, at the end of my own garden. Chieveley attended to me like a steward on a ship, bringing me my meals, and cleaning and tidying round me as I lay on the bunk. The doctor looked in a couple of times, and pronounced me on the mend. My wife slipped a note under my door saying: Black Bear sez you wer very norty to giv us orl such a fright, and you ar to stay there, and not cum in the howse. Otherwise, I had no communication with anybody.
I had been away almost two weeks longer than I had meant to be, and knew I must start to reassert control over my own life. But the most I could manage during the first few days, as I slowly recuperated from my journey home and the welcome I had received, was to set about answering the condolence letters that had come in my absence. Most consisted entirely of stock etiquette-book phrases, and required nothing more emotionally demanding in reply: indeed, there was something quite soothing about the mechanical process of answering them, which gave me the spurious sense that I was helping to return the world to some kind of order. The only one that breached my defences was a messy note from my old friend Cyril Jessop, written in pencil on sheets torn from an exercise book, and offering me a restorative holiday wandering the by-ways, as we did in days of yore in his gypsy caravan. This provoked such a sharp jab of loss that I crumpled it up and hurled it on to the fire, before hastily opening another Please accept our deepest sympathy to regain my equilibrium.
But as I sealed the final envelope, I realized that my last excuse had gone, and I could no longer avoid confronting the larger questions that were pressing in on me.
The first and most immediate, naturally, was: what should I do about the strained relations with my wife? I had still heard nothing more from her, and had no notion how much longer she meant to leave me living in exile in the cabin. There were moments, indeed – particularly at dusk, when the garden looked especially desolate, magnifying the sense that I had been marooned on a desert island – when I even began to wonder whether she saw it as a permanent arrangement. I briefly considered writing a note, asking her – but quickly rejected the idea on the grounds that it would only weaken my position, by implicitly conceding her the power to decide my fate. I could, of course, bring the thing to a head by giving her notice that I intended to move back into the house on such-and-such a date, and then just turning up; but that risked precipitating a crisis that might drag on for weeks, absorbing all my small stock of energy and stopping me from doing anything else.
So in the end – though I knew I was being feeble – I decided simply to leave things as they were until I had dealt with the second urgent problem: my career. Sitting on my desk was the story I had been working on when Elspeth had fallen ill. Although my publisher had grudgingly accepted that the finished manuscript would now be delayed, he still expected me to deliver it eventually – and I was by no means certain, any longer, that I could. During my conversation with Mary Wilson, some vague nauseous unease about my work had crystallized into positive disgust – and, having once made it conscious and put it into words, I could not seem to banish it again.
Which brought me to the third question: Mary Wilson herself. In some shadowy way I could not quite define, my encounter with her seemed to have wrought a fundamental change in me. For one thing, though the delirium had gone, a hint of it remained in the strange aura of light which continued to hover around the edge
of my vision. The effect was rather like hearing the murmur of a garden party you cannot see: it gave you the unsettling sense that life – real life – was happening somewhere else, just beyond some unreachable horizon.
And sometimes, still, I found, without warning, the image of her face erupting before my eyes. Often, these apparitions seemed to set off a sudden, overwhelming yearning to see her again, which left me weak and trembling, and pricked with guilt at feeling so much more intensely about someone I barely knew than I appeared to about my own poor beloved girl. And once or twice they were accompanied by an odd sensation in my temple – something between a tic and a headache, that would last for anything up to a minute, before abruptly stopping again. I thought of mentioning it to the doctor, but in the end decided it was too difficult to describe, and too trivial, to warrant troubling him with it. The problem of my obsession with Mary Wilson, I decided, like that of my marriage, would have to wait until I had finished my new book.
But when I took up the pages and tried to read them, they seemed as impenetrable as if they had been written in an alien language – and on the rare occasions when a meaning did somehow push its way through, I found it so repellent that I felt physically sick. I forced myself, nonetheless, by an enormous act of will, to sit down at my desk every morning and try to continue the story. It was useless: the words were so many individual atoms, that refused to connect themselves into even the simplest organic structure, and I invariably ended either by drifting off into thoughts of Mary Wilson, or else by simply slumping in my chair, and gazing dully at the bare trees stirring in the wind, and the robins and blackbirds scouring the sodden garden for worms.
What finally shook me from this lassitude wasn’t, in the end, a conscious act on my part, but an irruption from the outside world. One afternoon, at the start of my second week there, I noticed my wife coming down the path towards me. It was the first time I had set eyes on her since my return; and – rather than wait passively for her, like a tame rabbit in its hutch – I pulled on my coat, and hurried out to meet her. As soon as she saw me, she hastily produced her battered toy bear from her pocket and flourished it at me.