by MARY HOCKING
Twelve thousand pounds! he thought as he left the estate agent’s office. He was so overwhelmed that he did not notice that one of the people whom he passed in the street was Richard Oliver. Twelve thousand pounds! What would Anna do with twelve thousand pounds? It did not matter, she must do what she wanted, enjoy the freedom that he had never had. He was not really curious. It was not of Anna that he was thinking, but of Melita. This was his gesture to her. It had taken him a long time to make it.
It was nice to have started putting matters right. But there was one thing that still worried Silas; so once again he turned away from the taxi rank. He went past the estate agent’s office and walked to the far end of the high street where the police station was situated. It would have surprised his family to have seen the air of familiarity with which he entered the building: it would have surprised them even more to have heard him greeted by the constable at the desk with the jovial brightness reserved for persistent but harmless time-wasters.
‘Morning, Mr. Jory! You’ll be wanting Sergeant Farrar, no doubt. He’s in conference at the moment, sir.’
‘He must be very busy.’ Silas sounded disappointed. ‘The last few times that I’ve been here he’s been in conference.’
‘Ah, it’s been a bad week, sir.’ The constable shook his head, at the same time reaching for the telephone. ‘A bad week . . .’ He pressed a button and intoned into the receiver, ‘Mr. Jory to see you. I told him . . .’ He paused and a look of incredulity came over his face. ‘Yes. I’ll do that.’ He put the receiver down. ‘Seems the sergeant’s free after all, sir.’
Silas was conducted to the sergeant’s room, a dim, bare cubicle which overlooked the yard at the back of the building.
‘I’m afraid I’ve nothing to tell you, Mr. Jory,’ the sergeant said as soon as they were alone together.
‘But I have something to tell you,’ Silas answered.
Beneath the faint ginger eyebrows the sergeant’s alert little eyes grew still, nothing else changed in his face.
‘We’ve had a caller at the farm.’
Silas told the Sergeant about Richard Oliver. The sergeant listened impassively, his eyes on the blotter on his desk. When Silas had finished, he said:
‘Are you making a charge, sir?’
‘A charge?’ Silas winced at the thought of anything so definite as a charge. ‘I don’t think there is anything that I could charge him with.’
The sergeant spread his hands out on the blotter, blunt hands furred with ginger hair.
‘Then there is nothing that we can do, is there, sir?’
‘I just thought that you should know. In view of the fact that he . . .’ Silas’s voice began to shake. ‘My wife . . . he mentioned my wife, you see. It was a shock.’
‘Yes. I see, sir. I’ll make a note of it.’
Silas looked relieved, as though by this simple statement the sergeant had taken a burden from him. He got up, apparently anxious to go. But the sergeant did not move, and Silas was stayed by his immobility.
‘You reckon this man Oliver is a bit of a villain, do you, sir?’
‘No.’ The sergeant looked up, the shrewd little eyes sharp on Silas’s face; but Silas was thinking and he was unaware of the sergeant’s scrutiny. ‘No.’ Silas sounded surprisingly sure of his judgement. ‘He is not a bad man.’
‘Then there’s nothing to worry about, is there, sir?’
‘I suppose not.’
The sergeant got up and came round the desk; he had become quite genial and he ushered Silas out of the room and even accompanied him to the front steps of the police station where he stopped for a moment to talk about the weather.
Silas went out into the hot, dusty street. The sergeant was right, of course; there was nothing to worry about. In fact, there was something rather comforting about Richard Oliver; he was big and strong and decisive—all the things that Silas had always longed to be. And he was not cruel. Silas had never wanted to be cruel. Perhaps tomorrow he would go down to The Cod and Lobster and talk to Richard Oliver; he might even ask his advice about the sale of the house.
He had a salad at a nearby hotel and sat in the lounge until the bus to Polwithian was due. At supper that evening Catherine watched him anxiously. He could tell that she was unhappy about his appearance, but whether this was because he looked ill, or guilty, he could not be sure. He had meant to tackle his mother about the sale of the house, but when he tried to formulate the words his heart thudded so uncomfortably that he could think of nothing else. Perhaps tomorrow it would be cooler and he would be able to tell her. He would make provision for her, of course; he would draw out his savings which should be sufficient to see her through to the end of her days. He did not think about himself and Catherine. He had been afraid lately that he might marry Catherine, she had wanted it all the years that she had been at the farm. He hoped there might be some way out of that: she had comforted him and he had relied on her, but he did not want to marry her. Perhaps she would be so angry with him about the sale of the house that she would not want him any more.
The visits he had recently made to the police would make her even more angry. The thought of those secret visits, and the confusion of mind which had caused them, made his heart bad again. He went to his room and lay down on the bed. His heart jerked as though he had been hit in the back; the stairs had been too much for him in this heat.
He lay there and gradually it grew cooler. He dozed and then wakened as his heart jumped again. The room was quite dark now but he could see a silver line where the curtains parted. The air coming into the room was cool, as cool as a woman’s hand across his forehead. He remembered Melita. He remembered her so often lately, but never as clearly as at this moment. It was as though she was in the breeze stealing against his cheek, her soft fingers in his hair. He must get to the window and open it; he felt she was there, waiting to be let into the room. Although he knew that it would be bad for him to get up, he did so, but gently, pausing at each movement. He went softly across the bare boards, drew the curtains and opened the window wide. And the miracle was complete, because Melita was there standing on the lawn beside the cedar, young and beautiful as she had ever been. He leant forward, calling to her, and she turned. His heart seemed to break for joy and then he dived forward, down into her open arms.
Chapter Eight
Old Hester was magnificent. This was the verdict of all the villagers, with the exception of Rhoda who was the only person cynical enough to decide that Hester was unmoved by the death of her son. She must have been through a lot, people said, what with the lumbering police enquiries and the meal the coroner made of the inquest; if she had decided not to come to the funeral service at the chapel it would have been understandable. Yet there she was, bent but not broken, her wrinkled old face raised, the black eyes staring past the minister. Her inscrutable expression was taken to betoken a grief beyond communication. She relaxed only once during the sermon when she turned to whisper to Catherine, ‘Never could keep his sermonizing short, could ’e?’ This remark was heard only by Catherine and it was generally assumed that Hester was saying ‘amen’ to one of the minister’s references to Silas.
In spite of the fact that in life Silas had failed to make any marked impression on his fellow men, the minister found a lot to say about him. He spoke of the virtue of meekness and said that Silas had never done any harm to anyone and that the gentler qualities which he possessed were too often neglected. He glared angrily at the congregation and invited them to examine their hearts. ‘Our Lord has taught us that the meek shall inherit the earth. If we believe this, must we not bear some responsibility for what happens in our own time, when only too often the meek go to the wall?’ He gazed at them sternly, and they stared back at him, taking his challenge as stoically as they had resisted all his attacks over the years. Not for the first time, Jonas Harkness realized that he had no idea what most of his flock believed, if in fact they believed anything at all.
His uncompromising hon
esty did not allow him to ascribe virtues to Silas which the man had not possessed, so he refrained from speaking of him as a good son and father. Nor did he dwell on the grief of the bereaved. Thus limited, his sermon was, in spite of Hester’s complaint, shorter than usual.
The congregation rose to sing “Nearer my God to Thee”. They sang lustily, glad to exercise their muscles again. Catherine, who had chosen the hymns, did not join in. Catherine, it was generally agreed, had not stood up to events as well as Hester. Only Anna shed tears. But then it must have been a great shock for Anna to have her father tumble at her feet like that, and some sign of emotional strain was to be expected. Few thought that she cried as a daughter for Silas.
As the mourning party moved slowly down the right aisle, Amy Causer could be heard saying to her sister, ‘They played it when the Titanic went down. Oh dear, oh dear! How it carries you back! I kept thinking of Jim.’ One way and another, it could not be said to be Silas’s day.
Richard Oliver was at the rear of the chapel. He had the decency to stand well back as the mourning party passed him, but he was a man who could not fail to make his presence felt. Rhoda Penryn frowned and Anna bent her head low. Old Hester eyed him openly. Catherine’s eyes remained nailed to the coffin, but her lips resumed a private incantation which had gone on for the greater part of the service.
When the business of burial was over and Jonas Harkness had prayed his last long prayer, Rhoda said as the car moved away from the cemetery:
‘We will now go back and have a nice, strong cup of tea.’
‘How could you!’ Catherine protested automatically.
‘I need it, and Silas certainly wouldn’t have begrudged me it.’
‘Silas wouldn’t have denied any of us anything according to the minister.’ Hester looked at Anna, ‘Didn’t know ’ee had a saint for a father, did ’ee?’
Catherine closed her eyes. She looked quite dreadful, Rhoda thought, as though the last drop of blood had been wrung from her. But the face had not the repose of the dead; the cracked lips twitched and a nerve agitated the skin beneath the right eye. It was very unpleasant, this rebellion of nerve and muscle against the long subjection to the will. Rhoda looked out of the window.
‘Mr. Harkness is following us on his bicycle,’ she observed. ‘I hadn’t realized he was coming back to the house. We should have offered him a seat in the car.’
‘I didn’t want him in the car and I don’t want him in the house.’ Hester looked around her, inviting opposition. Catherine, always the unsuspecting foil, obliged.
‘It is usual to have the minister back to the house.’
‘Usual?’ Hester’s black eyes brightened. ‘What do ’ee mean by usual? I don’t bury a son every day.’
‘Customary,’ Catherine amended wearily.
‘Customary!’ Hester savoured the word. ‘Customary, is it? Oh, that makes a difference then. We mustn’t do anything that isn’t customary, must we?’
‘We will let him have tea with us,’ Catherine said.
‘A nice, strong cup of tea.’ Rhoda brought the conversation full circle. But Hester was not to be denied the last word.
‘Let him come, then,’ she said. ‘He’ll find that I can quote the scriptures, too.’
The devil always can, Rhoda thought, noting the gleam of unholy pleasure in Hester’s eyes. Then, rather shocked by her own attitude to the whole affair, she turned her attention to Anna. But Anna was lost in a world of her own. She was still tearful, but there was no real tension in her. Rhoda wondered whether she was crying for Silas or in response to some emotional stimulus which found relief in tears. When they got back to the house, Anna ran upstairs to her room. Catherine wanted her to come down, but Hester said:
‘Leave the girl be. She’s doing you no harm.’
‘She should be here when the minister comes.’
‘That’s customary, too, is it?’
They went into the drawing-room. Rhoda opened the window; Hester was too busy provoking Catherine to notice. It was very hot and still; not a blade of grass moved in the parched garden. Rhoda left the two women arguing and went into the kitchen to fill the kettle. Catherine had prepared a tray with cups, saucers and plates before leaving the house. Rhoda wondered what was to go on the plates; as was often the case, Catherine’s inspiration had stopped short of food. Rhoda put the kettle on the range and then went to the larder. She found some saffron cake in a tin, it was not too dry and it smelt good; perhaps Anna had made it, she did so occasionally under Hester’s direction.
When Rhoda returned to the lounge Jonas Harkness had arrived after his arduous uphill ride. His square face was a mottled purple and sweat matted his corrugated grey hair. He was conscious that he was not welcome and this stirred all his most aggressive instincts: he was not a man who could afford to extol the virtues of meekness. Perhaps this came of years of rebuking others and never being answered in kind. If so, it seemed he might be on the threshold of a new experience.
‘It was a beautiful service.’ Catherine had rallied and was saying the appropriate things. Hester was hunched in her chair. When Rhoda offered her cake she hissed:
‘Think I’ll take me teeth out.’
‘I should wait until after tea,’ Rhoda said. ‘Otherwise you won’t be able to bite.’
Afterwards she wondered whether it might not have been wiser to have encouraged Hester to vent her feelings in this vulgar, but relatively harmless way.
‘Much of what you say is so true.’ Catherine held the cup to her lips as though it was a chalice, and repeated intensely, ‘So true.’
‘And much of it ain’t.’
Hester was a great scene stealer: she had all the attention now.
‘And what, in particular, struck you as false?’
Jonas Harkness believed in meeting attack head on.
‘Meekness!’ Hester gave a crackle of laughter which reminded Rhoda of the sound of burning faggots. ‘You’ve no more patience with meekness than I have.’
‘It is one of the great Christian virtues.’ All the force of his personality was in his face at this moment; the inflexibility of bone and muscle was quite frightening.
‘I don’t know about virtue,’ Hester snapped. ‘But meekness don’t run a farm. Doesn’t the Bible tell us a man shouldn’t bury his talent . . .’
‘He had no talent for farming.’
‘He hadn’t much talent for anything else. And them as can’t schemey mun louster.’
‘My aunt means that those that aren’t bright must work hard,’ Rhoda translated.
‘You are speaking of your son,’ the minister said severely to Hester.
‘Aye!’ It was just the cue she wanted. ‘My son! No one has a better right to speak about him than his mother, and don’t ’ee forget it.’
‘Aunt Hester, Silas is dead,’ Catherine intoned. ‘Let him rest in peace.’
‘He’ll do that, never fret. Always good at resting was Silas!’
‘My aunt has worked very hard all her life.’ For some unaccountable reason Rhoda was moved to excuse the old woman. ‘It has not been easy for her to see the land dwindling away.’
The minister swept this charitable intervention aside.
‘I am sorry if any word of mine has caused distress. The point I was making was that we must refrain from passing judgement. We have been commanded to love one another . . .’
‘And that we should not lust after our neighbour’s wife.’
In the long pause that followed, Rhoda heard a bittern booming far out on the moors, the sound carried on the taut air. Hester sat back. She picked up a piece of saffron cake, broke it and ate a good portion with every appearance of relish. Jonas Harkness tried to put his cup down quietly on the table, but his hands were shaking and the tea spilt over. He had lost his colour and the red veins stood out like tiny wounds all over his grey face. Rhoda had never seen anyone quite so totally disarmed. He said hoarsely:
‘I don’t know what you mean by that.’
‘Don’t ’ee? And you caring so much about truth!’
‘Don’t take any notice,’ Rhoda advised crisply. ‘She doesn’t know what she’s saying. It’s been a very tiring day for her.’
But he was an incurably passionate man and he had no discretion.
‘This is wickedness,’ he accused Hester.
‘Wickedness, is it? You should know, I reckon. She went down to you for instruction in the Christian faith and she came back with bruises on her arms.’
He got up and went out of the room. No one followed him. There was nothing to say. Catherine put her hands to her face.
‘And what are you looking so whisht for?’ Hester demanded. ‘You knew it as well as I did. But you never admit what you know. That’s your trouble.’
Catherine pushed her chair back and stumbled out of the room; it was one of the most ungainly exits she had ever permitted herself.
Hester looked up at Rhoda.
‘I’ll have another dish o’ tay, me lover.’
It was no use remonstrating with her, Rhoda reflected. In her dealings with her fellow men Hester did not acknowledge the principles laid down in the Sermon on the Mount. Rhoda poured her another cup of tea and then went in search of Catherine.
Catherine, however, had locked herself in her room and would not open the door.
‘It’s bad for you to bottle up your feelings,’ Rhoda told her. She tried to sound firm, but it was difficult to be really authoritative on the wrong side of a locked door. Eventually, she said, ‘When you feel better, come to mine and we can talk.’ Then she went away and the house became very quiet.
How appalling life was! Catherine thought. All this terrible hypocrisy about goodness and love . . . it was a great illusion, a wicked joke played on mankind. There was no love, only lust. She thought about Jonas Harkness and Melita. She could see them in that austere room of his. It was uncomfortably real, as though time had no meaning any longer and it was all happening now, on this breathless July night. She could see him getting up from his chair, coming round the side of the table. She had no idea how Melita felt, but the terrifying thing was that she did know how he felt.