by MARY HOCKING
‘It can’t be as bad as that. You must be doped to the eyeballs.’
‘The doctor didn’t leave that many painkillers. He wasn’t very sympathetic when Mrs Carteret phoned for more. He’s spending his Christmas looking after people who have been poisoned by your mother and he’s obviously happy that someone connected with her should suffer.’
There was a little bowl of snowdrops beside the glass of wine. ‘A nice touch,’ Anita said. ‘From Mr Carteret, are they?’
‘She’s a divorcée.’
‘Ah, the poor soul!’
‘She has been very kind to me.’
‘You’re probably the best thing to have come her way in a long time.’
‘This wasn’t an assignation. I don’t need to go to those lengths.’
Anita stood by the window, trying to gain some control over herself. A short time ago she had felt a new-formed, almost ethereal creature. Now, within minutes of coming into this room, she was subject to the impatience and resentment which Terence only too often aroused in her.
‘You have a cruel, bad-tempered face.’ He meant her to pay for the pain and inconvenience he had suffered. ‘I never noticed it before.’
‘Probably because you never notice anyone but yourself.’
‘A little bit of sympathy would be welcome. But then you’ve never had any patience with sickness.’
‘I sat up with you when you had flu so badly last winter.’
‘Only because you said I was so restless you couldn’t sleep. It’s been a revelation to me, being nursed here.’
‘If it’s revelation you want, I dare say I could provide one.’
She was standing over him, glinting eyes and flushed cheeks signalling one of the outbursts of temper which he usually liked to precipitate. This time, however, he had failed to calculate the risk to himself. He tried to shrink away from her and gave a whimper of pain.
She saw that he was genuinely alarmed. Terence’s emotions were so seldom genuine that this was a moment to be cherished. Her anger evaporated as suddenly as it had flared up. ‘We’ve never been very good at looking after each other, have we.’
‘You’re hardly the maternal sort, are you?’ he said sullenly.
‘Oh well, if it’s mothering you want . . .’ But that, of course, was exactly what he wanted and always had. She turned away and sat down on the window-seat. Terence, who was very dependent on her but did not want to be the one to break off hostilities, indulged in a few agonised intakes of breath.
Anita said, rubbing the pane of glass that her breath had misted over, ‘I’m sorry you’ve had this little upset. Is there anything I can do?’
‘Little upset! That’s a fine way of putting it. But then you have always buggered things up at crucial moments and then made light of it. In the hurricane, if you remember -’
‘Oh, not that again! That’s ancient history now.’
‘. . . you and your mother were holidaying in Lake Garda while I was trying to get a tree out of the bedroom.’
‘I don’t believe you were even there when the tree came down. I think you were sleeping with Thelma Armitage.’
Terence was so outraged that he tried to haul himself up in the bed and knocked over the bowl of snowdrops. ‘For God’s sake mop this up before it leaves a permanent mark on the carpet.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Anita pummelled her cheeks with clenched fists. ‘I didn’t mean to bring up Thelma Armitage. I wanted us to be different this morning. I wanted . . .’ She could find no words to justify the ten years they had indifferently sheltered each other.
‘If you don’t mop this up I’m going to have to call her,’ Terence said, gesturing in the direction of the telephone, which was out of his reach.
‘Oh sod the carpet! You haven’t even asked . . .’ She stopped, shocked to realise that she had been about to use her father as a counter in this shabby quarrel. She got up briskly. ‘Right. Where’s your flannel.’
‘Not the flannel!’
But she was already mopping the carpet. ‘It’s only water. It shouldn’t leave a mark unless the carpet is dirty.’ She tossed the flannel unwrung into the hand-basin.
‘It will smell if you don’t wring it out,’ Terence said pettishly.
Anita put the snowdrops in fresh water. ‘There. I’d better get back now. You seem to be quite well cared for. You’ll have to wait until after Christmas for your present.’
‘There are one or two things I’ll need from the flat when I go to hospital. I’ve made a list. And there’s the car to be seen to and . . .’
‘The AA can do that.’
‘If you want to risk it. Your present is in it. I’ll tell you about the things in the flat next time you come. You may be in a better mood then.’ He looked at her resentfully. ‘You haven’t explained about your hair.’
‘If you must know, I made it into four plaits and then cut them off.’
‘Oh, well, if you don’t want to tell me.’ He could look very appealing when he chose but there was a residual pettiness in him which tended more and more to sour his expression. Anita touched the puckered mouth. ‘You’ll have to watch that.’ She bent forward and kissed him on the lips. ‘I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so much.’
‘It’s not much fun for me, not knowing what you’re getting up to.’
‘It’s distrusting each other so much that has kept us together,’ she said, smoothing the curly yellow hair back from his brow. ‘Don’t suffer too much.’
Now they were all out of the cottage, the intruders. It was only two days that they had been here, yet it seemed weeks that their restlessness had disturbed the hearth. Tobias stretched full length in front of the sitting-room fire in an ecstasy of warmth and peace, the brown face for once eyeless.
A great quiet had descended over all. Beyond the window of Konrad’s room there was no movement. The honeysuckle twigs which had come free of their burden of snow formed a delicate pattern on which the sun shed a geometric grace. Konrad and Sophia, their fingers intertwined, were like figures in a painting from which the frame has been removed.
The sky, which had been blue, was yellowish now. Clouds were forming again, high at present. Through gaps in the trees the unfamiliar landscape stretched for miles. Florence could see a clump of trees on a hill. Before the hurricane, they would have been as finely tapered as a head of hair, but now, after five years, they were still in horrible disarray, the apex shattered while grisly tufts stood out around it, as if a giant hand had reached in twisting and turning.
The snow was hard and walking was very tiring. Florence was aware that she had overtaxed her strength. She rested her back against the trunk of a tree. There was utter stillness.
She tried to warm herself with thoughts of families gathered together, drinking mulled wine, exchanging perfunctory gallantries under mistletoe, putting the last touches to the brandy butter, children clamouring to open presents. But the picture, so precious to her, seemed strangely remote, not only in place but in time. When had it been, this perfect Christmas with which she was so familiar? As she searched for it in her mind she seemed to be tearing at a wonderfully wrapped package which contained a series of boxes getting smaller and smaller until eventually there was nothing but a piece of ice.
How had it come about that she was here, alone, banished from the good fellowship? Left out. She had never before been left out. She had made it her business to ensure that she had a proper role. All her life her position had been central – daughter, wife, mother; she had always had contempt for those who lived on the fringes of other people’s lives: spinsters, maiden aunts, confirmed widows. Suddenly, she put back her head and howled.
Anita, coming briskly down the track, was startled by this cry as of an animal deserted by the herd.
‘Whatever is it now?’ she asked, when she had satisfied herself that her mother was not having a fit.
Florence, who had no wish to speak of the desolation she had experienced, said, ‘They were most ungracio
us, those Prentices. I should have gone to Mass.’
‘You would never have made it to the town. Wasn’t last night’s struggle enough for you?’
‘And how was lover boy?’
‘I think we’d better save our breath. It’s nearly half-past twelve and the Challoner lot are coming at one o’clock.’
A party, Florence thought. It was something for which to prepare and she was grateful for this, but there was no joy in the thought. And she knew, as she groomed herself for the occasion, that something had been taken away that would not be restored to her.
He thought he could hear the ice piano again, each note distinct as a pearl; but now, underneath it, scarcely audible to the human ear, he began to be aware of another sound not composed of isolated notes, a sound that was like the faint whisper of a calm sea as it meets the shore, the breath of wind in the trees, the humming of bees on a summer evening, but was none of these things.
‘Terence is a lecturer at a teacher training college,’ Florence explained for the benefit of Thomas Challoner, seeking to give Terence what respectability could honestly be accorded him. She had seated herself by the lamp in the sitting-room and the light played softly on the curls which dressed the top of her head like a crown of lamb. ‘A stable occupation is something to be thankful for nowadays.’
‘It’s not a stable occupation,’ Anita said. ‘The structure of education changes every time the Secretary of State has a bad dream. The only stable thing is to be on a radio chat show.’
‘I should see if you can help in the kitchen,’ Florence advised.
Anita went into the hall, where she met Frances carrying bread sauce. Nicholas was uncorking a bottle of wine presented by Thomas. Frances said, ‘I like your hair,’ by which she meant she was pleased that Anita’s glory had been shed. Her own dark hair hung loose around the shoulders of her brilliant dress. Anita, unadorned as an exclamation mark in her green sheath, felt her throat constrict as she looked at Frances.
Nicholas said, ‘It makes you look younger.’
Anita went into the kitchen. ‘If you want someone to carve, I’m ready to start on my brother,’ she said to Sophia.
In the sitting-room, Florence was saying to Thomas, ‘One has to be patient and tolerant, I realise that. It’s natural and fitting for young people to toss ideas about and experiment with different life styles. For older people to join in is just pathetic – don’t you think? – like displaying ageing bodies in teenage clothes and kicking up their poor old limbs in the latest dance. The young don’t need us to identify with them – they can get along quite well without our approval. Look at Tillie Pavener,’ she said to Anita who had come back into the room.
‘What about her?’
‘Toiling off to Tibet and becoming a Buddhist. And now her young have got over all that and settled down to a mainstream life in Putney and poor old Tilly and her Buddhism are just a burden to them.’
‘Lunch is served, more or less,’ Anita said.
Florence went into the dining-room talking about the necessity to age gracefully. In acknowledgement of this she had put on a billowy muslin tea-gown borrowed from the Chiswick theatre’s wardrobe. Thomas, following in her wake, looked noble as though on his way to the scaffold and meaning to make a good end.
‘Who was it who said how important it is to let go?’ Florence asked, shaking out her napkin.
‘Sophia,’ Anita said. ‘About an hour ago.’
‘Someone else,’ Florence snapped.
‘I’m sure Nicholas spends a lot of time holding on.’ Frances looked at Nicholas as he poured wine. ‘I mean, to ropes and things.’
Thomas raised his glass. ‘To our hostess.’ He smiled at Sophia. She sat at one end of the table, he at the other. This arrangement had not pleased Florence but as she could not suggest anything more appropriate without giving offence she had consented to it. Now she saw that her forbearance had been well advised, for she was seated next to Thomas and although Sophia occupied the hostess’s place she was unlikely to attract attention since she had chosen to remain in the grey sacking and looked muted as one of those sadly reflective women so beloved of Owen John.
Andrew said, ‘Can we feed the pony when we’ve finished this?’
‘We’ll have to find out who it belongs to, won’t we?’ Frances said to Sophia. ‘He’s obviously well cared for.’ She was worried lest Andrew should invest too much in the pony. Florence thought it an impertinence to talk of ‘we’ as if staking a claim to family membership.
‘P’raps some people brought him in a horse box and they’ve had a bad accident and died,’ Andrew suggested hopefully.
‘You, of course, must know so much about the forest and its people,’ Florence said to Thomas. ‘That silver grey couple were telling me how much work you do on behalf of the Commoners.’
‘I keep an eye on the legal side.’
‘And even if they are alive, I shouldn’t think they’d ever find him now, with all this snow,’ Andrew mused.
‘Your practice was in London, wasn’t it?’ Florence asked. ‘It must be so healing to get away from that frantic existence.’
Nicholas, who had contributed nothing to the conversation, poured more wine.
‘Perhaps he came from Millionaires’ Acre?’ Anita suggested to Sophia.
‘I rather doubt it. Most of their animals are as new as their cars.’
‘. . . hurtling to destruction with all the little management men clutching their briefcases and discussing computer systems.’ Florence was talking rapidly, her colour high.
While Sophia was clearing the main course, Anita went upstairs to Konrad’s room. He looked quiet and peaceful, his face free of stress. There is no one there any more, she thought.
He was, in fact, intensely there. All the sounds had come together into the one sound of a spinning top. The top belonged to his lost early childhood and he now saw it very clearly. It was green with crimson dragons curled around it and it had holes through which light flashed as it turned faster and faster until the sound ceased and the light became continuous.
When Anita returned to the dining-room Florence was talking about her love of the theatre. Anita picked up the bread sauce which had been overlooked and went into the kitchen, where Sophia was pouring brandy over the Christmas pudding. ‘I don’t care how we have this pudding,’ she said wearily, ‘but I expect Andrew would like to see it alight.’
‘My mother is boring on about Mozart and Salieri now,’ Anita said. ‘Never mind that Mozart was given ten talents and returned them a thousandfold, it’s the dreary moral question she’s latched on to. She’s obviously decided that Thomas is a model of virtue.’
‘In some ways, he is,’ Sophia said quietly. She struck a match and after one or two attempts the brandy caught alight. No one, least of all Andrew, who was gazing out of the window in the hope of catching sight of the pony, paid much attention. Florence was busy defending Salieri’s right to make God aware of his dissatisfaction with the way awards and punishments were meted out.
Anita said, ‘All this business about Salieri has been an absolute gift to second-rate people.’
‘There are no second-rate people.’ Florence accompanied this pronouncement with a generous gesture.
‘The world is largely peopled by the second-rate, who don’t make the most of what talents they have.’
‘How many times have you returned your talent, then?’ Florence demanded. ‘You gave up that writing course when you took up with Terence.’
‘Talking to you is like trying to have a discussion with a bird. You wheel away high up above the pull of consistency.’
‘That’s rather good.’ Florence smiled tolerantly. ‘You should be a writer, darling. But then you’d have to learn to spell.’
‘I wonder why we have developed such a passion for precision,’ Thomas improvised, hoping to introduce a subject that would give Florence less chance to scintillate. ‘Take spelling, for example . . .’
‘How
can she talk such rubbish?’ Anita grumbled to Sophia when they were in the kitchen making coffee.
‘It’s not all rubbish. She has always been in charge. Now she is talking of letting go.’
‘She didn’t mean that.’
‘Perhaps not; but she is experimenting with the idea.’
Sophia had put coffee in the grinder; now, she stood staring at it, her face clouded. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t think how this works.’
Anita said gently, ‘Among other things, it works by electricity.’
‘How silly of me. I don’t know what I’m doing,’ Sophia said. Tears ran down her cheeks unchecked.
Anita said, ‘I’ll find some instant.’ She went into the larder and when she returned Sophia was still standing in front of the coffee grinder, crying silently.
‘Why don’t you go upstairs,’ Anita said. ‘I can cope with this.’
‘Yes, in a moment.’ She made no attempt either to excuse or conceal her emotion, but waited for it to pass, standing with her hands resting loosely on the table, her head bowed. She is not like other people, Anita thought, used to the face which must conceal rather than reveal. She is the same inside as out. It made Sophia seem strange, formidable even, not entirely to be trusted, as if there must be some trick.
Nicholas opened the door, Frances behind him. ‘I need to walk off that splendid meal,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘And Frances, too. So no coffee for us.’
‘Do you mind?’ Anita asked Sophia when Nicholas and Frances had collected their boots from the scullery and departed looking restrained, if not actually cross, as if on their way to perform a necessary duty imposed on them against their will.
‘It’s not for me to mind.’
‘She’s your neighbour.’
‘Oh, Frances, you mean?’
‘Well, I didn’t mean Nicholas. He won’t come to any harm.’
‘He will just go away and climb another mountain, is that it?’
Frances stood by the kitchen window while coffee percolated. Her dressing gown fell open to reveal her nakedness and her feet were bare. Jasper sat beside her looking exceedingly glum. Every now and again he swallowed as if his throat were dry.