Consolation

by James Wilson

  ‘So I knew then who you must be,’ she said. ‘Though of course I didn’t tell them I’d actually met you, and you’d brought me back my copy of She. But the next day I went to the library, and borrowed The Mists of Time for myself, and simply – I cannot tell you – adored it. So when I returned it, I took this out.’ She picked up the book on the table, and folded it so that I could read the title on the spine: The Little Mouse. ‘And, if such a thing were possible, I’m loving it even more! And because … well, because I know you, it’s almost as if I can hear you telling it to me … I mean, to me personally … as I read. And that’s wonderful, because no one’s ever told me stories before in my entire life.’

  ‘Well, that’s very gratifying, of course,’ I said at last. ‘I’m naturally delighted you’ve found some enjoyment in my books. But I wish I could have succeeded in doing more.’

  She frowned. ‘But what? What more could you have done?’

  I shrugged. ‘I should have liked to have tried to heal the wound in some way. Rather than simply applying a temporary balm to it.’

  She shook her head, puzzled. ‘What wound?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Your wound.’

  ‘My wound?’

  ‘The … the suffering inflicted on you by your parents.’

  ‘Oh.’ She rolled her eyes, as if the subject exasperated her, and she was already impatient to change it. ‘No one can do anything about that now, can they? It’s all over and done with.’

  ‘Well, yes. But I thought … if it were somehow possible … to track down your mother, and ask her –’

  ‘What, Emily Cooper!’ she cried.

  I must have made some noise, because she stopped and looked oddly at me for a moment.

  ‘That was her name,’ she said. ‘Emily Cooper. Née Studd.’

  ‘But … but you told me,’ I said, ‘I’m sure you did … when we first met … that you had no idea who your parents were –’

  ‘I told you I had no idea where they were buried. Or even whether they were alive or dead. Not that I didn’t know who they were.’

  ‘But what about all the stories you used to tell yourself? About how your mother was a Balkan grand duchess? Or you’d been stolen by gypsies as a baby?’

  ‘That was when I was a child. Just before my wedding, my guardian told me the true story.’ She glanced quickly at the house, and then into the neighbouring garden, as if she had suddenly remembered where we were, and was frightened of being observed or overheard. ‘He said he was not my father, but that he had married my mother after I was born, and they had four children of their own, who would like to meet me. And I said: what about my mother? Would she like to meet me, too? And he said no. That she … that she wanted nothing to do with me. Ever.’ There was a tremor in her lip that seemed to chop the words in the wrong places, dicing them into a barely comprehensible mush. She hesitated a moment, to bring it under control, before going on, in a half-whisper: ‘And if Emily Cooper were to come through that french window now, and throw herself at my feet, and beg my forgiveness, I would get up and walk away.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, as gently as I could, ‘that’s absolutely natural, of course. But – you never know – perhaps she had her sufferings, too. And if you could begin to understand them, and why she behaved as she did, it might make you feel –’

  She clamped her hands to her ears. ‘Please! Don’t speak about it! Don’t speak about her!’

  ‘I’m only thinking of you,’ I said. ‘If you realized how unhappy she had been –’

  ‘No!’

  ‘But don’t you –?’

  She began pushing her head violently from side to side. ‘People will see!’ she moaned. ‘People will hear! They’ll say things about me!’

  ‘Who will?’

  She drew a circle in the air, encompassing the whole world. Then she put her face in her hands and began to sob – not tearfully, but with a dreadful dry screeching that shook her entire body.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I really didn’t –’

  She started to wail, blocking out my words. I was at a loss what I should do. I shut my eyes. What I was hoping for, I am still not sure: guidance or inspiration, perhaps, though from what or from whom I have no idea. What I found was that I was immediately back, once again, in the world of the caravan story. But there was a difference, this time: drifting through it, like visitors to a theatre waiting for the play to begin, was a crowd of people from other worlds: Elspeth, and the Little Mouse, and Mme. Bournisien, and Alice Dangerfield, and Emily Cooper – and, flitting between them all, barely more than a stirring of the air, the ghostly child that had found refuge in my head. That was strange enough: odder still was that, instead of jostling or fighting one another, as I would have thought such a disparate hotchpotch of characters must inevitably do, they seemed to acknowledge each other quietly and politely – united, or so it appeared, by a common expectation of resolution and pleasure.

  I opened my eyes again. Mary Wilson had stopped crying, and was peering at me from behind her hands. I heard myself saying:

  ‘Shall I tell you a story?’

  ‘My story?’

  ‘No,’ I said, leaning down, and slipping the letter back into my bag. ‘A new story, that I’ve never told anyone before. About Alcuin Hare and Mr. Largo Frog.’

  She did not reply, but through the lattice of her fingers I could see her nodding her head. ‘Very well, then,’ I said. I gazed up at the sky. For a moment all I saw was an expanse of blue. Then, in sure, quick pencil-strokes, a picture started to form.

  ‘Well,’ I went on, ‘one evening, when he was at home, finishing his supper, Alcuin Hare heard a strange noise outside the house. Even afterwards, when he was telling me about it, he couldn’t find the right word to describe it. “It wasn’t a sighing, exactly,” he said. “But then nor yet a groaning or a roaring, either. A mixture of all three of them, if you can imagine such a thing.” So he decided he had better go and see what it was – though, being a thoughtful, careful sort of an animal, not before putting his knife and fork neatly on his plate, and wiping his mouth with his table napkin.

  ‘“Oh, my ears!” he cried, when he got to the window. For there, on the other side of the grassy meadow, the trees in the wood were rustling and roaring and throwing up their branches, as if someone had just told them the most tremendous news, and they were all in a great taking about it. “There’s a storm brewing, and no mistake,” he thought. “Pity the poor creatures that can’t get home in time before it comes. But at least I shall be cosy enough, thank goodness.” And he went into his study, and took down his long churchwarden pipe, and put another log on the fire, and then sat contentedly with his slippers on the fender, listening to the song of the wind in the chimney, and the tattoo of rain on the roof, and saying to himself: “You know, Hare, old chap, I think you really must be the luckiest animal alive!”

  ‘The next morning, when he was still in his dressing-gown, there was a knock on the door. And when he went to open it, who do you think he found standing on the step?’

  ‘Mr. Largo Frog?’ said Mary Wilson.

  ‘That’s right, Mr. Largo Frog, boggle-eyed, and dreadfully out of breath. “Ah, Hare, Hare,” he gasped. “I’m so glad you’re in.”

  ‘“Why?” said Alcuin Hare. “Whatever is the matter?”

  ‘“Well, this morning, after all that lovely rain, I thought the pond would be just perfect for a swim; so without even stopping for breakfast I put on my togs and hurried off. But I hadn’t gone quarter of a mile when I found something.”

  ‘“Found what?”

  ‘“That’s just it. I haven’t a clue.”

  ‘“Well, where was it?”

  ‘“In the woods. Please, Hare, won’t you come and have a look at it, like a good fellow, and tell me what I should do?”

  ‘So Alcuin Hare got dressed, and followed his friend back across the wet meadow. Mr. Largo Frog, of course, was incapable of remaining serious for very long, and e
very few yards or so he would completely forget the purpose of their expedition, and stop to splash in a flooded lark’s nest, or to shake the water from a particularly thick blade of grass, laughing and crying out, “Oh, this is delicious, delicious!” as the drops showered down on his upturned head. Years ago, Alcuin Hare might have argued with him, but he knew better now, and merely continued on his way. He had never gone very far before he heard Mr. Largo Frog’s voice calling frantically after him:

  ‘“I say, slow down, won’t you, Hare, and wait for a chap!”

  ‘Proceeding in this three-legged-race kind of a way, they at length came to the wind-racked wood, where Mr. Largo Frog paused at the base of a tall beech tree ringed by bluebells.

  ‘“There,” he said.

  ‘“Where?” asked Alcuin Hare.

  ‘“There,” said Mr. Largo Frog, prodding a pile of fallen leaves and broken twigs with his webbed foot.

  ‘Alcuin Hare saw a flash of pink and yellow stirring amongst the browns and greens. He squatted down to take a closer look at it. A tiny, shivering thing with a gaping orange-lined beak stared helplessly back at him.

  ‘“What is it?” asked Mr. Largo Frog.

  ‘“It’s a bird.”

  ‘“A bird! Birds fly, don’t they?”

  ‘“They do when they’re grown up. This one’s a baby. Its nest must have been blown down in the storm.”

  ‘“Well, what are we going to do with it?”

  ‘“I don’t know. We’ll have to ask Theophilus Owl.”

  ‘Owl was not best pleased at being disturbed so early, complaining that he didn’t know what things were coming to, when a respectable creature like himself couldn’t get a good day’s sleep any more. But as soon as they had explained why they had come, he opened his eyes, and puffed out his feathers, and said he would fly down and take a look for himself.

  ‘“Well,” Alcuin Hare asked him. “What do you think?”

  ‘“The parents won’t be able to look after it now,” said Theophilus Owl. “There’s only one thing for it. You’ll have to take it to the country beyond the bridge, or else it will die.”

  ‘“The country beyond the bridge!” scoffed Mr. Largo Frog. “There’s no such place! It’s just a fairy-tale!”

  ‘“There is such a place,” said Owl. “I saw it myself, once, when I was young, though I’ve never been there. It’s where all the lost creatures in the world are found again.”

  ‘“And how do we get there?” asked Alcuin Hare.

  ‘“You just have to follow your heart.”

  ‘“Oh, but honestly!” said Mr. Largo Frog. “It’s all very well for fellows like you to go gallivanting off like that, I dare say. But some of us, you know, are busy animals. We have responsibilities. We can’t simply –”

  ‘“I’ll go on my own, then, if you like,” said Alcuin Hare.

  ‘“Oh, no, Hare, of course, I didn’t mean that!” spluttered Mr. Largo Frog. “If you’re going, naturally I will, too. Who knows what trouble a silly ass like you might get into if I weren’t there to keep an eye on you? And, besides, after all, it was me who discovered the thing, wasn’t it?”

  ‘“Very well,” said Alcuin Hare. “Then we’ll ask Badger if we can borrow his caravan, shall we?”’

  I glanced across at Mary Wilson. She was still watching me, but her hands were now folded in her lap. The hard lines of her face had softened into a smile, and her eyes were half closed – not with tiredness, but with blissful relaxation. As I sat looking at her, wondering if I should go on, I felt a familiar agitation in my temple, and for a moment almost panicked. Then, slowly, I realized there was something different about it: rather than blindly thrashing about, it seemed to be moving purposively, straining to prepare itself for some great effort.

  ‘One day, if you like,’ I said, ‘I’ll write down for you the whole story of their journey together – of the adventures they had, and the people they met, and how Mr. Largo Frog used to catch flies for the little nestling, and ended by fancying himself the best nurse-maid in the world.’

  Her smiled deepened, and she settled luxuriously against the back of her chair.

  ‘But not now,’ I said. ‘Because you’re starting to doze off, and before you do I want to tell you about the moment when they finally came over the top of a hill, and saw below them a wide river, and beyond it the most beautiful country they had ever laid eyes on.

  ‘“Oh, my!” gasped Mr. Largo Frog. “Is that the place, do you suppose, Hare?”

  ‘“Yes,” said Alcuin Hare, wonderingly.

  ‘“How can you tell?”

  ‘“Because it couldn’t be anything else.”

  I paused. Mary Wilson nodded dreamily.

  ‘“He knows,” said Alcuin Hare.

  ‘“Who does?”

  ‘“The little nestling.”

  ‘“Knows what?”

  ‘“That he’s almost home. Listen.”

  ‘A sound was coming from the caravan. It was a sound they had never heard before: a wild, joyful cheeping.

  ‘“And how do we get to it?”

  ‘“Look,” said Alcuin Hare. “There’s the bridge.”

  ‘At first, it was no more than a vague shadow on the water; but as they descended towards it, it began to take shape, and they saw it reaching out towards the other side, as slender and perfect as a rainbow.

  ‘“It looks awfully thin, doesn’t it?” said Mr. Largo Frog doubtfully. “Do you think it’ll bear the weight?”

  ‘“It’s borne more before,” said Alcuin Hare. “And it’ll bear more again.”

  I heard a long, soft whistling sound. Mary Wilson was asleep.

  Go on. Go on, said a voice in my temple.

  ‘All right,’ I murmured.

  And I shut my own eyes, so that I could see what happened next. First there was some comic business with Mr. Largo Frog getting tangled in the reins; then Alcuin Hare brought the nestling from its box and, holding it before him, so that it should be the first to reach the other side, slowly led the horse on to the bridge. I watched them until they had grown so faint that it was impossible to tell what was caravan and what was bridge and what was mist.

  And, in that moment, I felt a strange shuddering, such as a branch must feel when a bird that has been perched on it takes flight, and knew – with a shock of grief and relief that remains with me even as I write this, looking out of my window, more than three thousand miles away – that the still-born child had finally left my head.

  Albany, New York

  1913

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I must begin by gratefully acknowledging the support of Arts Council England, for their generous assistance during the writing of Consolation.

  Thanks to the many friends who have contributed encouragement, inspiration or practical help, among them: Nicholas Alfrey; Martine Annandale; June Burrough; Sally Darius and Derek Robinson; Louise Greenberg; Tony Hipgrave and Sue Barlow; Muriel Mitcheson Brown; Roland and Kaye Oliver; Dominic Power; Richard Skinner; and Steve Xerri.

  I’m indebted for their professional advice to Professor Peter Atkins, of Durham University; Heather Joynson; Carol Kirby, of Hallaton Museum; the staff of the Lambeth Archive; M. Jean-Luc Leservoisier, Conservateur de la bibliothèque municipale d’Avranches; the Archivist of the National Army Museum; Jane Russell Hurford; and Karen Sampson of the Lloyds/TSB Group Archives.

  Sue Hourizi did a magnificent job of genealogical detective work uncovering Mary Wilson’s story. Her efforts finally led me to a long-lost cousin, Jenny Pugh, who provided a treasure-trove of invaluable material. My warmest thanks to both of them.

  Special thanks, as ever, to my exceptional agent, Derek Johns, and all his colleagues at AP Watt; and to everyone at Faber – Kate Burton, Lee Brackstone, Neal Price, Kate Ward, and the rest of the team – for their help and kindness. I am particularly grateful to Angus Cargill, who edited the finished manuscript with his usual intelligence and sensitivity.

  And thanks, finally,
as always, to my family: to my mother, for her unstinting moral and practical support; to Tom and Kit, for offering such a heartening antidote to the shadowy world into which the writing led me; and to Paula, for her unwavering love and understanding.

  About the Author

  James Wilson has written plays, TV documentaries (including the award-winning Savagery and the American Indian for the BBC) and a critically-acclaimed history of Native Americans, The Earth Shall Weep. His novels are The Dark Clue, The Bastard Boy, The Woman in the Picture, described by Kate Saunders in The Times as ‘a multi-layered, deeply absorbing and entertaining novel’, and Consolation.

  Copyright

  First published in 2008

  by Faber & Faber Limited

  Bloomsbury House, 74–77 Great Russell Street, London WC1B 3DA

  This ebook edition first published in 2015

  All rights reserved

  © James Wilson, 2008

  Cover design by Faber. Cover image of woman © CORBIS

  The right of James Wilson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

  ISBN 978–0–571–30716–6