by MARY HOCKING
She removed her hand from his arm. When he ventured to look Thomas saw that she was crying, her face crumpled and ugly. He was dismayed, but the instinct of self-preservation was strong in him. ‘A bad time this for you,’ he said, taking her elbow, but addressing his remarks to the path ahead, instinct telling him that eye contact was to be avoided at all costs. ‘But you will find your way. One does. Not much alternative. It’s that or go under, and you’re not the sort to go under.’
It was gloomy now and no light glinted in the sepia hollows between the trees, while above them the snow lay thick as felt on the arched branches.
After a time, Florence said in a dull, conversational tone, ‘My son announced this morning that he is going to the north of Canada. The bleaker the landscape, the more it appeals to him.’
Don’t weaken, Thomas urged himself. Not far to go now; a few hundred yards and the house will be in sight. He swung his stick again. ‘You will come in and have a drink with us?’
Florence thought not. Frances would be there and would see that she had been crying. ‘I merely wanted to thank you for your expression of sympathy,’ she said formally. She declined his offer to walk with her.
He watched her go regretfully, knowing she needed help and that he had rejected her. If only she had not been quite so outrageous . . . He was aware of a surprising and inexplicable gratitude.
Florence was thinking: Not the sort to go under – he made me sound like an inflatable woman. As she turned to a wider track a woman appeared suddenly out of the gloom. She had fair, curly hair which had probably served her well all her life without her having to make much effort and the sort of face which has grown pleasant by habit. ‘Another merry Christmas behind us,’ she said with wry good humour.
One of those women who make the best of things, Florence thought, swept by a gust of resentful anger; the sort who are grateful to eat the crumbs from the rich man’s table. As she went on, having barely acknowledged the friendly greeting, she felt faint with rage. There was no sun. The air no longer had any bite but seemed more bleakly cold. Here in the wood, everything was grey. This was the dismal aftermath of shining days – days of invigoration and intense activity; skaters, their bright scarves flying like flags; the rush of air tearing one’s hair and filling one’s lungs as the sleigh careers downhill; the walks with leaping dogs and stumbling, happy children . . . All gone, the sparkle and the gaiety; the tumult stilled, brightness obliterated.
It took the combined efforts of Nicholas, Anita and Sophia to prevent complete collapse when Florence returned to the cottage. ‘You should have had a proper lunch,’ Anita shouted angrily as her mother stumbled about the hall, wheezing and crying at the same time. It was difficult to get her coat and boots off because she kept clinging to her helpers and grabbing at them whenever they seemed about to move out of arm’s reach. Eventually, they managed to get her into an armchair with her feet propped on a stool, a blanket wrapped around her. Even then she complained of the cold, and brandy and a hot-water bottle did little to revive her.
Nicholas built up the sitting-room fire. Sophia said to him, ‘We shall need more coal. I’ll get it.’
He looked up, about to say that he would do this, then noticed how drawn her face was. He followed her into the hall.
‘You probably need a respite from all of us. If going out to the shed is your form of retreat, go ahead. I’ll see to the coal later.’
She had her hand to her side and seemed to be breathing with difficulty, her face putty colour.
‘What is it?’ he asked, concerned now.
‘It’s only that I’m used to living alone most of the time. I get into a silly state when I have people on top of me. Something inside me begins to feel as if it’s trying to claw its way out.’
He put an arm round her bent shoulders. ‘These last days must have been very hard for you and we haven’t been considerate guests.’
Florence called from the sitting-room. ‘Where is everyone? Why have you all left me?’
Sophia straightened up. ‘Dear Nicholas, bless you for understanding. I’ll go out to my retreat now.’
In the kitchen, Anita was preparing food. ‘A lightly boiled egg and a plate of bread and butter and she’ll be all right,’ she said to herself, not knowing whether she believed this or even cared.
‘Where’s Sophia?’ she asked Nicholas when her mother had been persuaded to eat.
‘She went out to get more coal.’
‘Shouldn’t you be doing that?’
‘I think she wanted a chance to get out.’
‘And she’s not the only one.’ Anita went out of the room and could be heard going slowly up the stairs – scarcely the tread of someone about to make a break for freedom, Nicholas thought with wry satisfaction.
He sat opposite his mother, nursing Tobias, who had had a troubled day. His instinctive sympathy was with the cat. In his view animals behaved impeccably in comparison with humans.
Sophia stood at the door of the wood shed, looking up the garden. The snow was now scaled like a fish except where it lay smooth in the violet shade of the hedge. A magpie perched guardian of the gate, the only creature. Beyond the gate the trees had regained their skeletal structure, the winter blossom gone from many of the branches, though here and there tufted whiteness brushed against the pale clover of the sky. It was freezing again and the soft breath of snow falling from branch and roof had ceased. It was still, as if time had stopped; but she felt moisture in the air on her face and knew that this scene would change soon. Tomorrow the fish scales would fill with water and gradually the land would emerge. In time, the forest would green, but not for her. She looked at the scene as if familiarising herself with every detail, studying its composition, remarking how the snow imposed a simplicity on the landscape, learning the changed contours of her world.
She stood there a long time while the shadows crept towards her, deeps of blue from which a tree stump rose like the funnel of a sunken steamer. On the other side of the hedge, and between the bars of the gate, the sharpness of outline blurred into a mist of pink and grey shot through here and there with a sheen of palest turquoise.
As she looked at the gate, the old excitement stirred in her, fiercer than ever, and she marvelled how gates concentrate the mind. She was aware of past and future gathered here, of the company of other women who had, and would, stand at this door, looking to this gate.
Although it was only a little after three, the light was failing. Anita had now missed the men who would have given her a lift into the town. As she watched the dwindling of the day, her lack of belief in herself was more acute than ever. How selfish I am being, she thought, picking at flaking paintwork with a fingernail, wretched and yet somewhat comforted by her wretchedness because it provided a justification for inactivity. How could a good daughter, or even an indifferent daughter, ever think of leaving her mother at such a time? She got up listlessly and rummaged in a drawer. Presently, she went to the bathroom where she washed her hair. This was something she always did when cornered by circumstances which seemed beyond her control, whether professional, personal or merely domestic.
As she came out of the bathroom, Nicholas called from the hall. ‘Phone call for you, Anita.’ She wound a towel round her head and went down the stairs.
Terence’s voice came over the wire, the choked-with-emotion voice he had used when she found out about Thelma Armitage. ‘I was in such pain when you came I scarcely knew what was happening; I had a terrible time after you flounced off. Then I waited all day yesterday expecting you would come again, or at least phone. But I understand now. Nicholas has just told me that your father died.’ There was silence; when she did not fill it, he went on, ‘Darling, I’m so sorry. I really appreciated him, you know. You can’t believe how miserable it is to be lying here, not able to do a thing . . .’ He was trying hard, but as he was tone deaf to his own feelings, the more effort he made the more insincere he sounded. ‘You are there?’ he asked anxiously.
‘More or less.’
‘I’ve been wondering – I realise this may not be the moment . . .’
‘If it’s the car that’s worrying you, I haven’t done anything about it.’
He made a noise between a moan and a whinny. ‘I was wondering whether we oughtn’t to get married.’
‘Married?’
‘Well, it’s been good in patches over the last few years, wouldn’t you say? We’ve outstayed most of the couples we know. We understand each other pretty well. I’d say we’re suited.’
‘Why now, Terence?’
‘Lying on one’s back, helpless, makes one more aware, I suppose. When you went flouncing off – which you certainly did – I thought: this will happen once too often if we don’t do something about it.’
She was becoming conscious of how softly he was speaking. ‘I can’t hear you very well, Terence.’
He said agitatedly, ‘I can’t shout, for Christ’s sake!’
She had a mental picture of him, head cocked, listening for noises on the landing; if he shouted Mrs Carteret might hear and Terence liked to keep all his options open. She said, ‘I quite understand. I can’t say too much at the moment, either.’
He said petulantly, like a little boy who is sick and half afraid, ‘I need you, Anita.’
‘I’ll be in touch, Terence.’
She went back to her room and began to brush her hair. This is my grandmother’s house, she thought; the house to which my mother came as a child. Perhaps Sophia will leave it to me and it will become my house. Looking in the mirror, she saw that the room had become her frame. The mirror was old; her grandmother must have looked in it, probably her mother, too. How could one hope to break out of this frame? Certainly Terence had not been, nor ever would be, the answer.
‘You will break my heart.’ The voice startled her, for it was her mother’s; but she had spoken the words at another time than this and had certainly not intended them to relate to her daughter’s present situation. How long ago had Florence said this, and why? Undoubtedly, it was in childhood, for the phrase, which becomes banal with usage, had carried all the implied terror of real breakage.
The mother had a tendency to dislike her daughter’s friends. ‘That’s a rather common little girl – I hope you’re not going to learn from her’, followed by the mimicry at which Florence was so expert. Or: ‘Darling, she’s so intense. I really don’t like these intense friendships. They are not healthy.’ After which she would constantly interrupt their play, swishing into the room with vases of flowers or in search of an imaginary book (she was not much of a reader). ‘How solemn you two are! No laughter. Don’t young girls laugh any more?’ ‘Secrets?’ she would shout when Anita protested about this interference. ‘Oh, I don’t like that. What have you to be secret about?’ These exchanges gave rise to a longing for boarding school which Anita’s reading led her to believe was a place where secret pleasures might be enjoyed endlessly. Her mother’s reaction to this suggestion had done nothing to dispel the illusion – in fact, Florence’s rejection hinted at secrets of a darker kind than any Anita could conceive. Once, when they were by the seaside, she had made her way into a famous girls’ boarding school and hidden in the locker room, just as if she expected the great building to set sail with her in it. It had been after she was handed over to the police by an unsympathetic games mistress that her mother had said, ‘You will break my heart.’
It seemed to Anita as she looked into the mirror, that those words which, had the child only realised it, had been spoken heedlessly at the time, nevertheless contained in them the answer to a mystery. All her childhood she had seemed to stand on the wrong side of a door which was guarded by a magic phrase and would open only to someone bold enough to disregard its warning. Florence had shown the way through when she said, ‘You will break my heart.’
Anita got up and, edging backwards as if something terrible would happen if she turned away, moved out of the mirror’s frame. She stood in the corner of the room, waiting, her own heart seeming ready to break.
Somewhere below a door opened; there was the sound of footsteps ascending. Nicholas called from half-way up the stairs, ‘Anita, Mother wants to know why you’re hiding away up here.’
Anita came as far as the landing and looked down at her brother. ‘I’ve been washing my hair.’
‘Could you put the kettle on. Mother would like a pot of tea.’ There was a fleeting expression of triumph in his eyes, an awareness that she had submitted to his judgement. Anita said, ‘Yes, sire.’
When he had gone, she went to her father’s room and looked down at the still form. She had no sense of his presence and had not expected it, but she knew that he had loved her, so she said, ‘You came alone, not knowing why or where; pray that I have a little of your courage in me, something of your sheer cheerfulness of spirit.’ She saw that her mother had replaced the carving of the boy with the dancing bear on the shelf. She picked it up and took it with her.
In her room, she towelled her hair dry; then she packed her case with a quick efficiency which would have surprised her mother. On the landing, she could hear Nicholas and her mother talking in the sitting-room so clearly that it was apparent that the door must be open. Impossible to get down the stairs carrying a suitcase and hope to give a reasonable explanation if detected. But as this was an enterprise wholly lacking in common sense, it seemed appropriate to take the risk that it would fail at the very beginning.
She was half-way down the stairs when Tobias, who was sitting in the hall, caught sight of her and began to yowl loudly. Anita hurried back to the landing, heart thumping, mouth dry, overwhelmed by a sense of retribution awaiting her, of being caught in an ultimately unforgivable act. The sitting-room door opened wider, then Florence’s voice said sharply, ‘Do you respond so immediately to humans every time they mewl or cry?’
‘Humans can get their own supper.’
‘But it may not be supper they are crying out for.’
The door slammed to, an expression of Nicholas’s irritation which effectively cut him off from Anita. ‘A good try,’ she whispered as she passed Tobias. ‘But it didn’t work this time.’ He made a noise in his throat, difficult to tell whether a curse or God speed.
It was not fully dark when Anita let herself out of the back door. The sitting-room curtains might not be drawn, in which case her mother or Nicholas would be able to see her as she went up the garden path. She must make for the shelter of the trees at the back of the cottage. This would mean starting her journey on an unfamiliar track – or, worse still, having to make her own track. She set off aware of the fact that she had no idea where she was going or what would become of her, and with few other facts at her disposal.
As she walked she became aware of something else, a change which had come about. Although the walk was as uncomfortable as she had anticipated – she stumbled over twisted brambles, dislodged snow from branches so that it trickled down her neck, her case got heavier and heavier – a tension had snapped and she felt pressure eased around her skull. A light breeze whispered and was answered by a sigh among the trees as if some discomfort were subsiding. It was possible to imagine that not only the workmen but the forest itself was going about the business of restoring normality and it seemed a part of this natural process to see a woman leading a pony coming towards her and to be greeted with friendly cheerfulness, ‘Are you lost? Can I help?’
‘I have to get back to London,’ Anita gasped.
‘Then you’re in luck.’ The woman looked at Anita with such genuine pleasure she might have been seeking someone whom she could benefit. ‘My sons are going back to London. They work in the City and believe that their merchant bank will founder if they’re not at their desks tomorrow morning.’
‘This pony is a miracle worker,’ Anita said as they settled the case on the broad back. ‘Every time he appears something wonderful happens.’
‘Well now, it’s not the way I’ve thought of Tufty until tod
ay, because he’s naughty and obstinate and will wander. But this time his wanderings took him to Thomas Challoner.’ She did not say why this should be in any way wonderful, but she stroked the pony’s neck fondly.
Anita said, ‘I’m surprised Thomas didn’t know it was your pony.’
‘You know him? But, of course, you must be the person who found Tufty on Christmas Eve. Definitely we owe you a journey. As for Thomas, we haven’t had much contact. He has always seemed so remote until today.’
‘How old is Tufty?’
‘Seventeen. My youngest was four when we first had him. It will be lovely to have a child ride him again.’
‘Andrew?’
‘Yes. We’ve agreed that Andrew should ride him whenever he likes.’
They walked in silence for a time and then the woman asked, ‘Where in London?’
‘Holland Park. But your sons can drop me anywhere once we get within hailing distance of London.’
‘Nonsense. You shall be taken to your very door.’
There were three handsome cars in the clearing close to the house and inside it, in varying degrees of impatience, waited her three tall, dark sons.
They insisted that Anita should have tea, over which it transpired, unsurprisingly, that her hostess was long-widowed.
‘You must give my good wishes to Thomas,’ Anita said when she set off, ‘I didn’t have time to make proper farewells.’
‘Shall I telephone Sophia and let her know that you have a lift to London?’
‘Please – but later, say in an hour.’
The woman made no comment. Anita could tell that she accepted all that had happened this day as a gift, not to be questioned.
Things will not be the same again, Anita thought, as she sat in the car of the third son. She was a little frightened by the way in which her journeying had been taken out of her hands once she had made up her mind to it. But she did not look back on the forest as they came out into open country.
‘They’ll be back soon,’ Florence was saying when the telephone bell rang. Nicholas had been sent out to find Anita, who, Florence said, could not have gone far – ‘She is not in the least intrepid and will already be regretting this piece of nonsense.’ In spite of this assertion, she stood very still, holding her breath while Sophia went to the telephone. From the words overheard it was not possible to gain a clear picture of what had happened.