Cuckoo

by Anne Piper

“My dear,” he said, and choked and coughed a bit and peered into her eyes, and I saw her squeeze his hand, he patted her cheek.

  “Come and sit down, Katharine,” I said. I couldn’t bear them to be together against me. “Did you have a good trip?”

  “Yes thank you, Mother. We were delayed a day in Ireland with engine trouble, or I’d have been here yesterday; where does Prudence have tea?”

  She was watching Prudence and the nurse walking past the other window towards the kitchen door.

  “Prudence has tea in the nursery.”

  Katharine looked ridiculously wistful. I think Albert was quite taken in by her and thought she really loved her child. I knew better. I know what it’s like to love a child. You can’t bear to be away from it, even for a day. I’d have died rather than leave John with Albert’s mother when he was small. All his life I wanted to be near him, and look after him and stand between him and trouble. Would to God I could have stood between him and Katharine. But he was so besotted that would have been beyond the power of any mother.

  I’m sure Katharine got her just reward, though. I saw the hand of God in that plane crash the next year. She deserved to die, and she did. It’s as if God had said to me, ‘I’ve taken John from you but I’ve given you back Prudence.’ She’s been mine for seven years now. No, I don’t think I’ll see Katharine in Heaven. I find myself thinking more and more about Heaven and wondering who’ll be there, because of course John will be in my Heaven, but John’s Heaven would have Katharine in it, so I can’t think how it’s to work out — and Herbert. Suppose I meet Herbert again? It’s forty years now since he passed away. He was a man in the prime of life then. Will I still seem to him as he remembered me? Or will he see me as I am now, white-haired and wrinkled? It’s all very difficult, but I expect I shall meet Albert quite early on, and he’s sure to know his way about. I’ll leave it to him to look after me till I can find John again.

  I opened my eyes to see the two little girls over by the swing, not swinging but leaning against the posts, Liz is showing something to Prudence, their heads are together, Prudence twists the rope with one hand and draws the swing towards her with her knee.

  Rose and Alice stood like that having secrets from me — Don’t show Margaret, she’s a baby. Run away and play, Maggie — I don’t know what to play — I pushed the dust into a letter ‘A’ with my black slipper — Well, go and find Punchy. She’ll tell you what to play.

  Trailing back miserably to the house, mid-afternoon and the grown-ups resting behind drawn white blinds. Bump, bump, up the uncarpeted back stairs with a heavy old doll coming up behind, and into the safe coolness of the northfacing nursery. Dark green cork lino, cabbage roses on the window seat flouncings, bobbles all round the red tablecloth, level with my nose, and Punchy at the sewing machine peering at me over her glasses.

  “Well, Miss Nuisance, what’s the matter with you?”

  “Oh Punchy, the others won’t let me play with them.” Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, and Punchy with one arm round me turning the sewing machine handle with the other.

  “Now then, crying won’t make your hair curl. Wipe your eyes and see if you can’t hold the stuff straight while I go down this seam. If you help me we can finish your dress by tea-time.”

  “Oh Punchy, please. And then can I wear it down to the drawing-room after tea?”

  “If you’re a very good girl, and your eyes aren’t red any more.”

  “I’m sure they won’t be, look, I’m not crying now at all.”

  It’ll be good to meet Punchy again in Heaven. We hardly saw our mother. She lay faintly on a darkened sofa. She was a duty, but Punchy was our refuge, and the only real kindness we knew. Punchy told me everything about life that came within her experience. But she never mentioned anything to prepare me for Herbert.

  “Come here, Prudence,” I called out sharply. They were still whispering away together by the swing. “I’d like to say good afternoon to Liz.”

  They came over reluctantly, but Liz held out her hand politely and enquired after my health. I’m not sure that she is the right friend for Prudence, she’s rather a precocious child with little mannerisms picked up from her mother, besides, she’s more than a year older than Prudence.

  “What are you going to play?” I asked them. Prudence looked away from me.

  “We thought of going into the woods for a little,” she said.

  “Oh no — not in those clothes.”

  “I could change, Liz says her dress doesn’t matter, or I could lend her an old one.”

  “Well not till after tea anyway. It’s four o’clock now. I’ll have it ready in ten minutes.” I eased myself up in the chair and brought my legs round slowly to the ground.

  “Oh, Grannie,” said Prudence. “There’s a caterpillar on your hat, a little green one.” I bent my head, and she picked it off for me. She helped me to stand up.

  As I walked toward the house they sat down side by side on my long chair swinging their legs. I wonder what Prudence really thinks about me. I can’t remember my own grandmother. I’m sure Prudence loves me, but I must be rather a spoil-sport for her. When she said that about going into the woods, my first thought was to forbid it absolutely. Woods are dangerous. There’s a jungle spirit in even the smallest English wood. I hate woods unless there’s a jolly, crackling, snuffling noise and a pack of hounds going through and the horses standing round outside; no leaves and bare branches dripping. But alone on a still hot summer afternoon listening for nothing, trees and leaves and grass are alive and wicked, woods and orchards are abominations.

  My hand shook so, I could scarcely strike the match to light the gas, but I knew I was being selfish, and foolish. I might keep Prudence in the garden for another year or two, but sooner or later she would have to fight her own battles and I wouldn’t be there any more to help her. Please God spare me till Prudence grows up, I prayed as I put the strawberries and cream on the dining-room table.

  “Tea’s ready,” I called across the lawn and they raced each other to the door panting and giggling. Liz won, and I sent them to wash their hands.

  During tea I made up my mind. “Prudence,” I said, “you can go in the woods after tea if you wear your glasses.”

  She pouted. “But, Grannie, why?”

  “Just because I say so. And besides you might tread on a snake, if you can’t see where you’re going.”

  “But, Grannie, there aren’t any snakes in Turner’s Woods. I specially asked Joe because you know how I hate them.”

  “Well, if there aren’t any snakes, you might crush a poor worm, and that would be very sad.”

  “Oh all right, but I’m sure I can see a worm without my glasses.”

  I sat down to write another letter when they had gone, but the house seemed very empty and desolate in the flat evening sun.

  “Dear Ada,” I wrote, and then could think of nothing more to say. My young cousin Ada — I say young, but I suppose she must be nearly sixty now — lives out in Kenya and I write every month and give her news of England.

  “The roses round the house are a sight now. I wish you could see them. Prudence, like the delphiniums, is getting very leggy. The new school still seems a success. I shall arrange for her to go away to boarding-school when she is thirteen. It will ease the break if I am taken. I feel particularly well this summer, but it is only sensible to realise that when Prudence is grown up I shan’t be here.” I put my pen down again.

  All day I seem to have been thinking about death. Usually I am far from morbid. During the week I am too busy anyway; perhaps I am not being morbid, but God is telling me that it is time to make plans. Well, when I face up to it, what will happen to Prudence? She will have this house to sell, but the rest of the money goes back to Albert’s family under the trust. Her nearest living relative is her aunt, Katharine’s sister, Claire; at least I suppose their brother is alive in New Zealand, but no one ever hears from him. It makes me feel quite ill to think she may have to go to any of Kathari
ne’s relations, and Claire is so much younger, the afterthought in that family. I’ll live twenty years yet to spite Katharine. All the same I haven’t seen Claire since the funeral. She was only a schoolgirl then. It might be as well if she and Prudence got to know each other. I drew another sheet of paper towards me and began to write.

  Dear Claire,

  It seems a long time since we met. It would be so nice if you could come down and visit us some weekend, or even some Sunday. What about the second Sunday in July?

  You wouldn’t recognise Prudence. She is very tall now, and wears glasses for all close work.

  I do hope you will not be too busy to come.

  Yours very sincerely,

  I signed the letter with a bold flourish. I felt better after that. I took my knitting over to the open window and sat where I could see the garden gate. I wished they would come back. When the fifth clock had chimed six I began to worry. Neither of them had a watch, they might stay out till it grew dark. I jabbed in my hat-pin more firmly, picked up a flower-basket and started off to meet them. The church bells were ringing for evensong. Miss Larkin came out of her gate and waited till I caught up with her.

  “I’m not going your way,” I explained. “I’m after Prudence and Liz. They’ve gone for a walk in Turner’s Woods and they won’t know the time.”

  “Dear girls,” said Miss Larkin vaguely. “What a comfort Prudence must be to you.”

  We parted at the fork in the road and I went on alone uphill towards the dark trees.

  I walked straight in, and left the sun behind. I stood for a minute listening, but I could only hear the bumping of my heart, and the far-away, mournful bells. It was as much as I could do to force one foot in front of the other in the green gloom. They aren’t here, my mind shouted, there’s no need to go on. Go back and wait for them on the warm road. But I suppose to anyone watching, I was only an upright old lady stalking in to gather moss. I hope none of my panic showed on my face because I found the girls quite soon, down by a little stream.

  “Oh, Prudence,” I said. “You’re so wet.”

  “No, I’m not, Grannie, I’ve taken my sandals off, and look, my dress is all dry inside my knickers. We’re building a dam. Isn’t it lovely? When I take away this stone all the water will come rushing through again.”

  “What’s the time, please?” asked Liz.

  “After half-past six.”

  “Oh gosh, I must go, Prue; Nannie said come back at six.”

  “Bother, we were just getting to the best bit.” Prudence scowled at me, and I knew she wished I hadn’t come. She dragged her crumpled dress out of her knickers, and sat down to fasten her sandals in an unfriendly silence. I pretended not to notice, and Liz and I discussed the doctor’s little holiday.

  “He had been overworking,” she told me. June seemed an odd time of the year for a country doctor to be overworked, but I could see they might prefer a fortnight alone without Liz. Prudence got up and started slowly home ahead of us, kicking a fir cone, but once out of the wood and into the sun again she cheered up and came running back.

  “Shall I carry your basket, Grannie? Why is it empty?”

  “I thought I might see some special flowers in the woods, but there’s nothing worth picking.”

  Prudence persuaded me that we should walk home with Liz and from the doctor’s house it is only a step down to the churchyard.

  “But it’s long past your bed-time, Prudence. Edith will be back by now.”

  “Oh, please, Grannie, now we’ve come so far. I just wanted to go and see if the roses are dead.”

  “Very well. But we can’t hang about there.” I suffered myself to be led back to the grave.

  “Oh look, Grannie,” Prudence wailed. “They’ve dropped all their petals. They might have waited till tomorrow.” She knelt down, and began to gather the guilty petals into a dirty handkerchief.

  Everybody in the village came to John’s funeral. They all loved him. I knew I’d done the right thing to bring him home from London to be buried. Katharine was cremated in that aeroplane and there’s nothing of her here except her name on the stone. The child doesn’t know that though. Albert held a little memorial service for Katharine, but the church was very empty. Not many people round here had ever seen her.

  “Grannie,” Prudence tugged my sleeve. “Grannie darling, will you please bring some more flowers down tomorrow while I’m at school. I can’t bear to think of there being none until the evening.”

  “All right, darling. I’ll come down.”

  And soon I’ll be down here for ever, close to John. It’ll be quiet here in the rain and the thickening sunlight. I suppose I shan’t worry about Prudence any more.

  But please, God, don’t let them put me under the trees.

  Part II

  THE FRIEND

  CHAPTER I

  Extracts from a note book belonging to Elizabeth Williams

  Jan. 25th. We were given new little books of prayer in Confirmation Class today. They are divided up into subjects, Meditation, Thanksgiving, Praise and Worship, Intercessions and Personal. Miss Anstruther says that under “personal” we are to put down our particular faults and failings. I’ve written Prue under “personal” in every day of the week. She really is a trial to me. I mean sometimes she’s such fun, and then other times she’s simply awful. Anyway I shall try praying for her and see if that helps. I can’t stop knowing her after all these years.

  Jan. 28th. Have prayed for Prue three days running and she is more nuisance than ever. Tried to shake her off when it was raining yesterday and we had to go for a walk instead of games. Miss A. is always saying we mustn’t be clinging. Ended up going with Phil and Browney, and Prue caught us up just as we were leaving the cloakroom. It was quite fun in the end. We walked miles and miles till my gumboots began to leak and we came to an old empty swimming bath in a wood. It had a pump handle and we all tried pumping it, and I found some snowdrops. Prue has got in a mood when she thinks everything I say is funny. It’s an awful strain. I shall have to stop saying anything, because it’s pandering to my vanity anyway to be thought amusing, even if only by Prue. On the way back a funny thing happened. We were suddenly ambushed by four boys from the naval school. They nearly made us late climbing trees, and we had to run a lot of the way back. We’ve promised to meet them there again on Sunday. I don’t think we ought to really, but Prue is very keen.

  When we came out on the road there were the boys again on bicycles, they must have come round the other way, and one of them swooped past Prue hissing in a dramatic whisper, “Bring a rug and don’t split.”

  Prue had such giggles when they’d gone I thought I’d never get her home.

  Feb. 1st. We met the boys again, but it was awful actually. They had brought masses and masses of sweets and chocolates for us which we didn’t like to eat many of, and they wanted us to smoke. Of course we didn’t dare and they were very scornful. However, Prue climbed a tree higher than any of them and they couldn’t help being impressed. We decided not to see them again, but it was an Adventure in a way. I shall have to start the L.O.S. (Letting Off Steam) Society I had last summer again, when we used to climb on roofs in the blackout and do daring things which made us feel much better.

  I have a tear down the back of my pyjama legs which is very cold in bed.

  Feb. 2nd. We had a wonderful Confirmation Class about making new friends yesterday. Today I made a list of people I know nothing about and it came to 66. I must suggest to Prue that she makes some new friends. She’s really only got me. She’s so bad-tempered with other people that they mostly can’t be bothered with her. I sometimes wish she would be cross with me, she will suck-up so. She even mended my pyjamas this evening.

  Feb. 4th. I do like my room this term. There is the best view of all over to the hills. I wish it was the summer and I could look at it from my bed. Also it is awful having the window bed in the Lent term because of always having to have it open at night and now it is snowing. Prue
’s hands are simply covered with chilblains and she won’t take her calcium. She is just across the passage from me and hangs about the doorway all the time. We are doing the Clock Symphony in orchestra. I do nothing except “tick” for ages and keep losing count.

  Feb. 6th. Meeting of Debating Society. Discussion on “Should reading of young be censored?” I spoke a lot against it. Mummy actually stopped me reading “Sparkenbroke” last holidays. I can’t think why, I hadn’t come to any juicy bits at all. In fact I’d probably have stopped anyway from boredom, but when she said that, I longed to go on more than ever.

  Feb. 8th. Miss A. talked to us about having a Spring Garden in our Souls. I shall make a list of work to be done:

  Spring Garden Weeds to be pulled up:

  Dandelions and deadly nightshade.

  i.e. gossiping, trying to be popular, jealousy, laziness.

  Digging to be done:

  Remember to gargle.

  Saying prayers every morning.

  Getting up the minute the bell goes. Washing before I put on my tunic (however cold).

  Seeds to be planted:

  Rosemary, mignonette, marigold.

  i.e. Remembering relations’ birthdays, being pleasant to people (even those I don’t particularly want to like me), being patient with Prue, thinking about other people more.

  She says we must all remember to be thankful for Good Health. This is very difficult as at this time of year the one thing I want to do is catch chicken-pox and go and be warm in the San where they have fires in their bedrooms. There is a chicken-pox inspection at the end of the passage every morning now since Veronica started it. We all bare our chests and backs to Sister, but so far no luck, only my own spots which Sister knows too well to be taken in by.

  Feb. 14th. Mummy sent me a Valentine and some new gumboots, (in response to repeated requests). Prue says she needs new gumboots too. I said why don’t you ask your aunt for some? and she said, “Don’t be silly, Liz. You know Aunt Claire. She’d never send them. I don’t think she even reads my letters. She’s too busy being an Air Raid Warden.”