by MARY HOCKING
‘I’m fond of my mother. Just because I can’t get on in the same house as her, it doesn’t mean I don’t want to live in the same county. Sussex would be like going home. After all, I was born there.’ And didn’t Lewes have a Little Theatre? It wasn’t just the parts she would play that raised her spirits, but the prospect of the company of men. ‘Lewes has nice views,’ she said to Guy.
Alice and Ben ate their supper happy in the rightness of their life sentence. That night, Ben slept the sleep of the physically exhausted, while Alice spent the wakeful night of the emotionally over¬stimulated.
She woke the next day with a slight headache and a tendency to review her past life and catalogue the benefits of independence. She went into the wood before breakfast to snatch a few moments on her own, in the hope of composing herself, and Ben followed to find out what she was doing. She was not accustomed to accounting for her movements.
It was agreed at breakfast that Louise and Guy should have a day to themselves. Alice and Ben set out on a circular walk which the guidebook assured them included all the glories of the Chilterns area, from grassy uplands and enfolded villages through beech woods to a pleasant market town on the old coach road to the Midlands, said to possess a character of welcoming charm which never palled on the wayfarer. They were just about to enter the beech wood when Ben decided that Alice had had enough of wayfaring.
‘I’m good for many more miles,’ she assured him.
‘But you said you couldn’t finish yesterday’s walk.’
‘This is today.’
‘We’ve walked the same distance. You don’t want to push on and then find you can’t manage the journey back. I don’t suppose there are many buses.’
Looking at the beech wood, it seemed to Alice to be of the utmost importance that she should continue the walk, on her own if need be, but that whatever happened, she should not be hampered by his indisposition. She had made a generous gesture yesterday and he had reacted by assuming its repetition.
During the wakeful hours of the night she had dwelt less on Ben’s virtues – his constancy and honour, so lacking in Gordon; his forcefulness, unmarred by Ivor’s subtle cruelty – than his possible weaknesses. She had thought of the way in which his war experiences had made him moody and unpredictable. She had recalled men whose personalities had changed disastrously after they had been injured in battle.
She must find out now, before things went any further, whether Ben was so injured by his experiences that he would not be able to tolerate a wife who would sometimes wish to go for a walk on her own.
‘If you don’t want to go on, would you very much mind if I do?’ she asked, trying to make it sound like a question rather than a declaration of intent.
He bent his head, making a business of studying the route while he calculated the mileage still to be covered. It was a purposeless exercise, since he had already come too far. Ahead, sunlight fell through the trees in shafts of autumnal glory. Alice was staring at the wood and he imagined her to be drawn by its beauty; whereas in fact it was of him that she was thinking, hoping for her due of generosity. He traced his finger along the line of the route they must follow. ‘I expect I could pick up a bus to this market town he’s so sold on. There’s bound to be a coaching inn. If you really want to go on, we could meet there for a drink – say about six o’clock?’ He made the suggestion without enthusiasm.
‘That sounds fine,’ she said brightly.
He handed her the guidebook. ‘If you’re sure you’re not nervous? It will be lonely in the wood.’
‘Beech woods aren’t dense; they are airy.’
‘If you turned an ankle . . .’
‘I don’t turn my ankles.’
He stood watching her as she walked away, looking gloomy if not actually reproachful. She felt guilty and surprised by her own bloodymindedness. It was herself as much as Ben that was being put to the test. She had been so overwhelmed with joy by the discovery that he loved her, and had apparently loved her for some time, that she had reacted precipitately and was now as unsure of herself as of him. A lot of the beech leaves were down and the wind was a dry rustle in the branches. The path she followed was well-defined and she walked steadily, fists bunched in the pockets of her jacket, eyes on the ground. Only occasionally did she raise her head to see the trees and sparse leaves so finely scored against the glancing sunlight that the scene might have been engraved on glass.
It was not a lack in Ben, but in herself which now occupied her thoughts. She did not think he was the kind of man whose loving tentacles would close around his wife so that she had no freedom of movement. But she did fear that because of his experiences he might have to set himself limits and she could not face a life in which she would always be expected to accommodate herself to his pace. She supposed it was possible that she might learn to do this voluntarily as an act of love, but not in answer to his expectations. She did not have sufficient humility for that and it would sour her. She felt sour and tense already.
And yet . . . Alice came out of the wood and walked across a meadow towards a brook where little trees moved gently on slender shanks, casting long, wavering shadows. The grass was aglimmer with shining greenness and a piebald horse posed there, head to one side, in a waiting stance. He longs for a flank to nuzzle against, she thought; and I long for a hand in mine. She began to quicken her pace, walking through her own shadow as the angle of light shifted, fearing that she had something to lose, might already have lost it.
In the market town, she found the coaching inn without difficulty. She was a little late, but then he would not have expected that she could be exact in her timing. She went into the saloon bar. It was not crowded and she saw at once that Ben was not there. ‘This is nothing to worry about,’ she told herself as she made for the ladies. ‘It will give me time to tidy up.’ But she did not take much time and her hands were shaking as she combed her hair. He had not arrived when she returned to the bar. No doubt he had come punctually at six and, being an impatient person, had refused to wait; he would have left a message for her and gone for a stroll. She went up to the counter and said to the elderly man who was polishing a glass, ‘I was expecting to meet a friend here. Did he leave a message for me?’ He held the glass up to the light as if studying a rare jewel. ‘No one’s left any message.’ As she turned away, she heard him say to the men drinking at the far end of the counter, ‘Notice the sling bag? Wrens. We used to have a lot of them in here during the war.’ His tone implied they had been up to no good.
There was a bench outside the inn and Alice sat on it to compose herself. Obviously, Ben had been taken ill. She should have asked where the nearest hospital was before leaving. There was always the police station. The police would not make nasty comments; they might even take her there in a police car. Her mind refused to work on this theory. Of course! There would be more than one coaching inn in a town this size. All she had to do was to make enquiries . . . But she remained sitting on the bench. He had been so happy yesterday and the very next day she had turned on him and shown him the worst in herself. The feeling that this was the one important love of her life asserted itself with a certainty which brooked no argument. How could she so wilfully have subjected this precious gift to analysis, questioning this, making a condition of that? For whom else had she ever felt such love, respect, trust, tenderness, combined though these delightful reactions might sometimes be with the most extreme exasperation? If only she could have one more chance, she would . . .
And there he was, at the far end of the street, walking leisurely towards the inn! She stood up and he recognised her and waved. As he came closer, she saw that he was carrying a small parcel.
‘There’s a woodcraft exhibition in a barn just outside the town,’ he said. ‘I had a long chat to one of the old fellows there who makes chairs. I wouldn’t mind turning my hand to that. As a hobby, of course. My grandfather was a carpenter. I didn’t have much money on me, but I bought this for you.’ He handed her the
parcel, which contained a small wooden basket, and turned in the direction of the inn. ‘Most of the industry is in High Wycombe now . . .’
‘I don’t want to go back there,’ Alice said. ‘The man at the bar behaved as though I was hanging around for a man.’
‘Well, you were, weren’t you?’ But he put his hand under her elbow and steered her towards the market square. ‘I passed a little café that was still open. I don’t know about you, but I feel more like tea and buttered toast than anything else.’
Over tea, he talked about the life of the woodsman. ‘There are still some charcoal burners, you know. Only a few. And the woodcutters still use the kind of woodbreak the Romans would have used . . .’ He sketched it for her on the back of the guidebook.
He did not ask her about her walk, so great was his interest in the wood trade. No doubt he had been angry when she had gone off without him, but he had soon put it behind him. The agonies of separation had been all hers. If she was to have a complaint about his behaviour in the future, it was likely to be that once he was absorbed in something which aroused his interest nothing else registered with him.
‘I don’t think you have given a thought to me walking through that lonely wood,’ she said.
‘You obviously didn’t come to any harm.’
Perhaps a time would come when she thought he depended too little on her company? If so, she knew that this was something she would learn to accept.
When they were sitting in the bus on their way back to the youth hostel, he said, looking out of the window, ‘In a month or so I’ll be in better shape. We’ll do a really long walk then.’
‘We’ll do Offa’s Dyke in the spring,’ she said.
In the evening light the hills were damson blue, a long smooth line unbroken by trees; but beneath, in the valley, evergreens massed like dark clouds.
Why did I insist on walking when we might have sat together in that wood? Alice thought. I have lost one glorious day that we could have shared. It must never happen again. Gifts are for the taking.
Chapter Thirteen
They had not unpacked before the telephone rang. It was not Judith with news of the children, as they had anticipated, but Irene. ‘There is something I have to tell you,’ she said. ‘May I come round now.’ Louise, who took the call, simply said ‘Yes’, although she would normally have resented such a brisk demand. Irene’s tone had not suggested that the matter could wait until the next day.
It was a dull evening with a hint of fog. Winter had come suddenly. It had touched Irene. When he saw her coming towards him, it had seemed to Angus that her feet barely touched the ground, so light was her step; but now that verve which he had so valued in her had gone. As she walked, head down, chin deep in the high collar of her coat, her features were drawn together as if she were trying to force thoughts into order through a grid of pain. The quiet, ill-lit streets passed by on either side – she was barely aware of her own movements as she tried to compose herself to tell her story lucidly. She would begin with the coming of the two men.
There had been no hint of winter to herald their advent. It was a perfect late autumn evening, the air fresh and smelling of the last grass cuttings, the outlines of trees sharp against a clear sky. She sat by the window marvelling at its serenity. A light breeze stirred the fallen leaves; and, reflected on the window pane, tall white anemones danced on the garden wall. Her parents were at a concert, yet she thought of them as present and sharing this quiet moment; as they perhaps thought of her as they listened to the Elgar piano quintet. Although she was an only child she seldom felt alone, and as yet had had no sense of the absence of love.
She liked reflections on glass. They seemed to impose a pattern – or made one more aware of an actual pattern? She was meditating this, and debating whether to adjust the sash window, so that she could feel the air on her face at the cost of losing the reflection, when there was a knock on the front door.
‘Miss Kimberley?’ the taller of the two men asked, and smiled, as if to put her at ease before boarding her vessel – there was something about the smile which prompted buccaneering imagery. He had very broad shoulders, but the rest of him tapered away into a dark, well-cut suit; in the evening light his face glowed mahogany, but the eyes had no colour. It occurred to Irene that he was the kind of man her father would not have welcomed at his club. By this time they were all standing in the hall and the tall man had suggested they should go into the drawing-room. She could not remember afterwards at what stage he had told her that he was a policeman making a few enquiries. The other man followed him like a shadow. No doubt he was there to testify that the interview had been conducted according to whatever conventions obtained in this situation – a partial observer.
‘I believe you are a friend of Angus Drummond?’
‘Angus! Has he had an accident?’ It was her one involuntary remark and did more to establish her innocence than anything she said or did subsequently.
‘We are trying to get in touch with him, and having some difficulty. We wondered if you had any idea of his whereabouts?’
‘You’ve tried his flat?’ she said stupidly.
‘It seems he has not been there for several days – judging by the accumulation of milk and daily papers.’
‘His office?’
‘It is his non-appearance at his office which has given grounds for concern.’
‘His family, then – they live near here, in Shepherd’s Bush.’
‘We have spoken to his parents. It seems they have not seen him for over a month.’
‘They weren’t very dose.’ She felt a need to dwell on the more homely details of Angus’s life, as though by doing so this matter might be kept on a domestic level. Her hopes, longings, her chance of happiness, all were running out, and yet she sat straight and still, behaving in a manner she imagined to be quiet and reasonable, unaware that her white face and brittle eyes gave the appearance of a person in shock. She said, ‘He has a married sister who lives in Norfolk.’
‘We are interviewing all his friends and relations. That is why we are here. Do you remember when you last saw him?’
‘Just over a week ago. We went to a concert.’
‘He seemed all right then?’
She thought about this, aware that Angus was not a person whose state of mind or heart was reflected in his behaviour. There was a gulf between the inner and outer man too wide for boarding enterprises. She said, ‘He seemed quite lively. More so than usual, in fact.’ Her tendency to deliberate created the impression of her having something to hide.
‘You mean he was excited?’
‘By the music, yes.’
‘You knew him well, I take it?’
No, she thought, I don’t think it can be said that I know him at all. Her head jerked up. ‘Why do you ask if I knew him? What has happened to him?’
‘That is what we are trying to find out. Miss Kimberley.’
‘You say papers had accumulated at his flat. Did someone go in? He might be ill.’ This was urgent. Why were they all sitting here speculating?
‘It had occurred to us that he might be ill. Someone did go in to his flat. Everything was in order, and as far as could be seen, nothing was missing – not even toilet effects, such as toothbrush, razor.’
A toothbrush and razor, mundane necessities to give such a turn to the heart! She pictured Angus somewhere beyond her reach, lost and vulnerable, without means of shaving or cleaning his teeth.
The tall man was speaking. ‘We have not precluded the possibility that he has had some kind of breakdown involving loss of identity.’ His companion was looking round the room. She saw now that his function was to make background notes. Her father was a liberal-minded man who read widely. On the book shelves would be found Marcus Aurelius and Karl Marx; The Anatomy of Melancholy, Laski’s Grammar of Politics, Plutarch’s Lives and Camus’s L’Etranger.
The tall man said, ‘You mentioned a sister in Norfolk. I believe you stayed there with Mr D
rummond some time ago – during the floods?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you will recall an incident at the police station when Mr Drummond was asked about the contents of his briefcase?’
‘Not very clearly. We were all rather tired.’
‘But you knew that . . . certain equipment was discovered?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know what it was?’
‘I think I thought perhaps it was a camera – or a wireless transmitter – or that something else was concealed inside some sort of container . . .’
‘This didn’t strike you as odd?’
She thought about this and about Sergeant Fletcher who had been Louise’s lodger. On a night during an air raid on London, he had come into the sitting-room when she and Angus were baby¬sitting for Louise. He had been the second visitor that night. The first had been a man who had brought copy for Angus which he said was urgently required by the printer. ‘One of those rather sad little working men’s groups,’ Angus had said by way of explanation. But Sergeant Fletcher, who had seen the man leaving the house, had said he was a ‘proper little Bolshie’. Angus had asked her if she would be able to forget the incident, and she had replied that she would not talk about it. It was not possible to dispose of it: knowledge is irrevocable. And although nothing of any great moment had happened during that encounter, the man had seemed to her to be one of those unfortunates, so riddled with sickness that their very gaze can contaminate. She had had a feeling of corruption from which she had never entirely shaken herself free. The incident had disturbed her much more than the discovery of this equipment which, whatever it meant to these policemen, to her belonged in the comparatively healthy world of John Buchan.
She said, ‘I knew Angus had worked with the Resistance during the war.’
‘And you thought that would involve carrying such items as wireless transmitters – or cameras – about with him in peacetime?’
‘I didn’t think one thing or the other.’ She was aware of how staccato her voice had become. ‘I wanted hot soup and a bath.’