THE VERY DEAD OF WINTER

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘Would you like your breakfast in bed?’ Sophia asked.

  ‘Certainly not. I have a lot to say and I would prefer to say it when I am up and dressed.’

  Anita, wan as the day, stopped at the turn of the stairs, startled by the strong sweetness of hyacinth. And there below in the hall were hyacinths and crocuses released from their dark store, and winter jasmine wet with melted snow. Something twisted inside her, like the start of menstruation. She sat huddled on the stairs, hands clasping her elbows, instinctively protecting her body. Through the window she could see the underside of a hedge, black beneath its topping of snow. Neither colour nor movement. No early spring out there. Someone was singing. She got up and walked stealthily towards the sound. In the kitchen, Sophia was moulding cakes on a baking tray, singing ‘Tomorrow shall be my dancing day’. She looked over her shoulder at Anita and said, ‘No long faces. Go out and come in again.’

  Anita did as she was bid, but managed only a crooked smile. ‘This is the best I can do.’ She sat at the table and watched her aunt. Sophia was wearing the bright patchwork gown in which she had first greeted her Christmas guests. She had folded her hair back and secured it with a whorled ceramic clasp; the effect was to make her look more composed and formal. Anita remembered a phrase much favoured by her Great Aunt Edith: One must honour the occasion.

  ‘I was doing this while I was waiting for your mother,’ Sophia said.

  ‘You’ll have a long wait. She’s only just gone into the bathroom.’

  Now that Sophia’s face was free of the straggling hair one could see that the skin was criss-crossed by tiny lines, not driven deep, but like scratches on old parchment. What interested Anita was the bone structure. In the broad planes of this face she saw how her mother must have looked when the skull was not so fully fleshed.

  ‘We don’t want instant coffee at a time like this, do we?’ Sophia took a bottle of wine from the dresser. ‘All my consequences have come home at the same time,’ she said as she handed a glass to Anita. ‘Your mother has business with me.’ She made a wry face, like a child who has undertaken something quite outside its capacity and hopes the adult world will understand.

  Anita said, ‘A ticket to Tahiti? You’d have time while she is assembling herself.’

  Sophia sat opposite to Anita. There was a bowl of hyacinths on the table and the scent tickled Anita’s nostrils. She sneezed. ‘I’m not ready for spring.’

  Sophia waited.

  Anita said, ‘Last night I was a child again. I can’t explain.’

  ‘Never mind explanations, tell me. And then you must get out of that wretched dressing gown and put on something more suitable.’

  It was the unlikeness to her mother of which Anita was now aware. This was a person one could not pigeon-hole, classify, contain by a few terse comments. Anita’s defence against her mother’s vehemence and loquacity was the crisp, concise rejoinder. That wasn’t going to work with Sophia.

  ‘What was this child doing?’ Sophia asked.

  So I am to be the one to talk, Anita thought, to give myself away, to lay myself open to the terse comment. Can I bear that? She reflected on this, reminding herself that she was trained to deal with just this sort of situation. What was required was a psychologist’s report, unemotional, objective and, above all, distanced.

  ‘She was going round an art exhibition with her father. He knew a lot about art, but it wasn’t the sophisticated, critical, assessing kind of knowing that most people respect nowadays. He appreciated and applauded; every stroke of genius dazzled him. He looked at each Picasso as though the paint were still wet on it. He dodged about, viewing from every angle, trying to catch the painting unawares and exclaiming with delight. He was a big man; he bumped into people and got into their line of sight. Some were annoyed, others amused. He interrupted conversations. One woman was telling her companion how much she adored Chagall and he said, “Yes, yes, he has a great sense of fun, but it’s a pity he has to fill every space.” ’

  She stopped, short of breath, aware of the sensation that spaces in herself were filling up. Her hands, those most betraying of members, were knotted tight together.

  Sophia said, ‘And the child?’

  ‘She didn’t realise how much she could learn from him, not just about art, but the way of looking at life.’ In spite of the clenched hands something was happening internally over which she had insufficient control; she began to speak more quickly, sensing she had not much time. ‘She went home feeling a bit out of sorts with him and herself, not quite knowing what was going on. Then, when they got home, they found that her mother had invited people from the tennis club in for drinks.’ She fought back tears as desperately as if she were on a sinking ship, shutting doors, closing bulkheads. ‘She was showing off and making silly jokes about balls and back-handers. The father moved among them as out of place as he had been among the people at the exhibition. But he listened.’ She bit her lip and the eyes streamed; she mopped the eyes and the throat muscles strained, the nose watered. ‘He listened far too intently while they talked about how old Jock always drove down the middle; he looked as if he were eating up their faces, which wasn’t the studiously casual response they understood. It was the artist in him, of course, not noticing the mundane words but fascinated by the bones and teeth and eye sockets.’ There was no way of preventing dissolution; the last control went and Anita abandoned herself to crying, the words barely distinguishable from the rending sobs. ‘But she couldn’t see it, she couldn’t understand. She only knew that her parents were an embarrassment to her – the mother because she showed off and the father because he showed up. She hated them both.’

  Sophia watched dispassionately until the storm ran out; then she said, ‘Why was it so dreadful, do you think, this one incident which must be typical of things that happen to so many children?’

  Anita said bleakly, looking at the hyacinths, ‘All that promise never realised.’

  ‘Promise can be renewed.’

  Anita shook her head. ‘I began to grow away from my parents after that. It didn’t matter about my mother. Our relationship depended on arguments, back-answers, protest and counter-protest – that intensified. What I had with my father ended there.’ She shouted as if Sophia might interrupt, ‘Don’t talk to me about renewed promise. It wasn’t just a stage that I passed through. Do you understand that? I ended there. The world shrivelled and wizened. And when, much later, I made a break the best I could do was to shack up with Terence.’

  There was a long silence while Sophia looked down at the grain of the table, not reflectively, but as a place to rest her eyes.

  Anita said, ‘Well, no words of comfort from you. Thank you for listening – if that’s what you were doing. But I don’t suppose you took much of it in. You’ve no idea what it’s like to live in a space that is getting smaller and smaller. It’s terrifying. I’m well beyond comforting myself with bowls of hyacinths.’

  Sophia sipped wine. For a time it seemed she would not answer. Anita looked at her with loathing, thinking, I’ve sicked up my guts for you and all you can do is enjoy a glass of wine. And she did seem to be enjoying it, savouring each sip, meditating upon its quality.

  At last, Sophia put the glass down, but seemed reluctant to turn her attention from it. She ran a finger lightly round the rim of the glass. Then, ‘Your experience has certainly been different from mine,’ she said. ‘Your mother and I were born to parents who didn’t show off or stand out. They were rather dull. Our mother would have liked two nicely behaved, quiet little girls – small adults would have been her preference, I think. Until we were ten we were taught by a governess. I’m afraid all that we learnt from her was that education was one enormous yawn. A time of day was set aside for supervised play and in the evening our mother read to us from suitable books. We didn’t have other children to play because we had each other. Except for the time we spent in this cottage with our grandmother, we were very bored and under¬occupied. I couldn’t beli
eve everything was as muted and well regulated as in our home. I ran away in order to find out – just for a day here and there. I spent long summer hours with a gypsy family. I don’t suppose they were very clean or honest or any of the things the Romany lovers romanticise about. What I loved about them was that the children weren’t set apart; no one played special games with them or talked a special language in front of them. They were members of the tribe. The most frightening thing in my life was when I was made to realise (after my parents discovered where I spent my time) that I couldn’t be a member of the tribe. It took me some time to accept that the gypsy way wasn’t the way for me; but I learnt from them and that knowledge was stored away deep inside me.’

  Anita said with some urgency, ‘How long? How long before you found what was your way?’

  ‘I would have been in my thirties.’

  ‘Why so long?’

  ‘I suppose I wasn’t ready. How can one tell? The last thing we understand – if we ever do – is our own inner process.’

  Now Anita sipped her wine and considered.

  ‘And Mother – did she come with you when you ran away?’

  ‘No. She thought one had to go much further than the gypsy camp on the heath. She saved up her money in a china pig so that she could get to faraway places.’

  Anita said, ‘That’s sad.’

  Sophia got up. ‘But today we are not sad. So you must go upstairs and change your clothes.’

  Anita went and soon returned in a neat black dress enriched by a rainbow scarf which did much for the dress but made little impact on the raw, swollen face.

  Florence entered a few minutes later, ominously immaculate in kilt and white blouse. ‘I shall have my breakfast first and then we will talk,’ she said.

  ‘There’s porridge on the stove,’ Sophia replied. While Florence breakfasted, she took the cakes from the oven and arranged them on a wire tray. Their spicy smell mingled with the smell of the hyacinths.

  ‘Gingerbread?’ Anita asked.

  ‘For Andrew, who thinks I’m a witch. Try one, Florence, they’re delicious hot.’

  ‘It would stick in my throat.’

  Tobias, who had appeared from nowhere, had no such inhibitions.

  ‘He’s unnatural, that cat,’ Florence said. She added her used crockery to the pile on the draining board.

  Sophia said, ‘We’ll wash up once a day to conserve hot water.’

  ‘In that case,’ Florence opened her handbag and took out the carving of the boy with the dancing bear, ‘It’s time we talked about this.’

  ‘Then we should go to the shed,’ Sophia answered calmly. ‘Will you fetch Nicholas, Anita? He’s in your father’s room.’

  Early that morning, Thomas had walked over to a neighbour’s house to telephone Sophia. Now, very correct in these matters, he had written letters of condolence to Florence and Sophia.

  ‘But we shall see them,’ Frances objected, tense as a rebellious schoolgirl, black-browed and hands fisted. ‘Surely, we shall go to see them.’

  ‘Later, perhaps.’

  ‘I’ll deliver them,’ she said, jauntily assured.

  He looked at her, rubbing a finger against the side of his nose, bewildered by the changing expressions of her face. His own features had long since ceased to keep pace with feeling.

  ‘There isn’t any other way for them to get there,’ she appealed, eager now.

  ‘Or for you to get there?’

  ‘I’ll just drop them in their post-box.’ Now pleading. ‘I promise. And I’ll take Andrew and Jasper with me.’

  He looked consideringly down at the letters, marveling at the instability of youth, impossible to hold as quicksilver. She thought he was more like a soldier than ever, contemplating whether to send a patrol out on a dangerous mission.

  ‘It isn’t the letters we are concerned with, is it?’ he said without looking up.

  ‘I suppose not.’

  He sighed and handed them over. ‘As long as you are careful my dear. No, no!’ He held up a hand, seeing her face darkening. ‘Not that. But don’t give everything to someone who will always reject.’ It troubled him to think that this should be her early experience of love, fearing it would weaken the zest for living.

  ‘Why do you say that of Nicholas?’

  ‘Because he’s the sort of man who is no good to a woman.’

  She said steadily, ‘I can only promise not to be careful.’

  He looked at her in surprise and suddenly smiled. It was a moment of understanding which they had never shared before and no words were needed.

  He watched them set out, all three delighted at their release. Andrew said, ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To the gingerbread house to deliver letters.’

  ‘That’s not very far, is it? I ’spect Jasper’d like a long walk.’

  ‘After we’ve been to the gingerbread house, we’ll go to the Hoopers’ and make sure everything’s all right there.’

  They walked beneath great oaks still bearing their wounds in scarred trunks and lopped limbs, a few upturned like huge mops. Andrew and Jasper ran ahead, playing hide-and-seek.

  As she walked, Frances was thinking of Konrad and Sophia. It was during the hurricane that they had got to know Konrad; previously, he and Sophia had been careful not to socialise. ‘Why doesn’t he come to see you when he’s there?’ Frances used to ask Thomas and Margery, curious about Sophia’s companion.

  ‘A matter of honour,’ Thomas had said.

  The hurricane blew away honour. For days they were without water as well as electricity and Konrad came down to fetch water from the stream. Then he and Thomas got on to the roof to pull tarpaulin across the great gashes. Sophia’s cottage had suffered comparatively little damage and it was there that she and Margery cooked meals for them all. Frances remembered Konrad at that time as a big, brawny man who enjoyed the physical labour. He told her that his grandmother had been a high-wire performer in a circus.

  ‘You’re having me on.’

  ‘No, no.’ He was quite shocked. ‘I remember a picture of her, on a rope ladder, in spangles, with thighs like tree trunks.’

  ‘Didn’t you ever see her – apart from the picture?’

  ‘I may have done; but before I was old enough to store anything here.’ He tapped his head.

  Margery had been calm and Thomas effective during the hurricane and it was thanks to them that Frances and Andrew had not been unduly frightened. But it was Konrad and Sophia who enabled them to enjoy the aftermath. Margery was too unaffected a person to pretend to be other than dismayed and Thomas was anxious about her. Konrad and Sophia behaved as if the whirling demon which had struck down giants and ripped off roofs were a part of the natural order – or perhaps it was that they believed in disorder? the older Frances wondered. Whatever the answer, they had been tremendously reassuring. There was a lot of laughter in that cottage.

  Frances knew that Thomas and Margery were deeply attached to each other, but, shadowed by the death of Jonathan, they were feeling their way, day by day. The spontaneity of response which so often reveals the nature of a relationship was lacking. It was Konrad and Sophia who first made her aware of a kind of loving that was different from the breathless discomfort she had experienced when she was with Jonathan. There was robustness in their exchanges as they worked together, an awareness in the way they looked and listened, combined, most puzzlingly, with a certain taking for granted which at times expressed itself in abruptness and even indifference. That Konrad delighted in Sophia’s vagaries was shown in the way he watched her as she stood in the open doorway gazing at a robin on a branch, a tray of steaming baked potatoes held in her unheeding hands. To him, this vision of Sophia seemed well worth one half-cold potato. Frances, working with him and Thomas to clear a path through a tangle of torn branches, had been annoyed. But he liked his food and at other times when his expectations were disappointed he could huff about like a great tormented bear. Or a dereliction of duty might infuriat
e him so much he would mimic her in a way Frances thought horribly childish. He loved to hear her praised. When Frances admired one of the necklaces she had made, he said, ‘You like it? You think it is very fine?’ eager, as if her approbation alone could set the seal of approval on it. Sophia, for her part, would sit by the fire in the evening, hands clasping her knees, her pleasure in listening to Konrad talk revealed in the deep satisfaction with which she watched him. But there were times when, unaccountably, she would tire of this and walk out of the room leaving him in mid-sentence. ‘You have no idea,’ he had said to Thomas on one such occasion, ‘what a challenge it is to love a woman who has absolutely no interest in you at all.’

  As she walked through the shadowed snow, Frances remembered seeing them on autumn evenings, frost riming the fallen leaves. They had walked holding hands, not talking. That deep silence had been what most impressed her and what she would always remember about them.

  ‘I don’t know what it is you had,’ she said aloud, as though they still walked there, ‘but I want it – and I will have it.’ She vowed she would not be like a Victorian heroine letting vitality die within her; she would make sure she stayed alive however long it was that she had to wait.