Parson's Nine

by Noel Streatfeild

  Catherine went back to Mrs. Bell.

  “Susanna says she’d rather stay and go on with her work. She seems stunned. I doubt if she’s taken things in yet. I must go back to my husband. Baruch fell out of an upper window last night and was killed instantly. The school want to know if he walked in his sleep. I didn’t know, as a matter of fact, as he’s only taken to it recently, but fortunately he had told Susanna about it.”

  “What a mercy. Will it avoid an inquest?”

  “I don’t know, but I hope so.”

  Mrs. Cary had heard that Susanna had received bad news, so she said nothing when she saw her come back to her work. She saw her take a pile of mugs and drop them into her sink, pick up her swab, and carry on as though nothing had happened. “I wish I could say something to help,” she thought. “Poor little girl.”

  But Susanna wasn’t in need of pity. Dimly she heard her mother’s voice say: “He fell out of the dormitory window and was killed,” and subconsciously she kept repeating: “Baruch told me he walked in his sleep.” But the only thing she was feeling was discomfort at the carrot ends bobbing against her elbows.

  Mrs. Bell, in pity, kept her hard at work all day, making tasks for her, which Susanna carried out obediently, though puzzled at the amount of labour falling to her share. In the evening, Mrs. Cary, who had been off duty some hours, reappeared, and said she was seeing her home. They talked as they went of hospital matters, Susanna in rather a strained hectic voice, and were met at the Vicarage door by Miss Crosby, red-eyed, who gave one look at Susanna and sent her up to bed.

  “Here’s a sleeping-tablet for her,” said Mrs. Cary. “They sent it from the hospital.”

  The drug, which Susanna drank unconsciously in some soup, was powerful, and though it was barely eight o’clock she fell asleep at once, and lay fathoms deep for ten hours. When she awoke her fog had lifted.

  For a second, she was conscious that something terrible had happened and was unable to remember what; then as though a dam had broken in her brain, the truth flooded into her. She lay taut, letting it flood, accepting the awful fact. Baruch was dead. She would never see him any more. She didn’t cry at first, feeling too shattered for tears, and certain that when she could collect herself there was comfort for her somewhere, and suddenly she saw it. Baruch was dead, but he was free; they couldn’t send him to the war now; he had known he couldn’t face it, and had chosen this way out. As she realised this truth she began to cry, but was angry with herself for it. “Don’t you dare cry, Susanna, for Baruch is safe; they can’t get him now, and you’re glad; that’s what you are. Nobody must know it but you, but you’re glad.” She found herself repeating: “Baruch told me he walked in his sleep,” and suddenly she remembered her conversation with her mother, and saw its significance. “Baruch told me he walked in his sleep. Mummy made me say that so she could explain how it happened, and she thinks it isn’t true. Well, she shan’t think so any more. I’ll tell her it is true. Only Baruch and I must ever know what really happened, and I’m glad about it.” Sobs shook her, but angrily she forced them back. “I’m glad about it, he can’t be frightened any more.”

  She caught Catherine as soon as she returned from night duty.

  “Mummy, I’m afraid I was a bit muddled when you asked me about Baruch yesterday. Of course I knew he’d been walking in his sleep; he told me last holidays and when I saw him the day before yesterday. He thought it was because he was getting excited about joining the Army. He was awfully excited about it, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know.”

  “Well, he was, and he didn’t tell them about it at school in case it stopped him going.”

  “I see.”

  David took Susanna to the inquest.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of, darling; you’ve only got to speak the truth.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  After hearing all the evidence and notably Susanna’s, the Coroner, in bringing in a verdict of Death from Misadventure, added a rider of sympathy with the relatives, and pointed out that in Baruch the country had lost a useful soldier, since excitement at the thought of entering the Army had obviously been the cause of the sleep-walking which led to his death.

  “Susanna gave her evidence magnificently,” David told Catherine. “I was proud of her; such an ordeal, but she never broke down or faltered, and when she had finished she looked, if I may use the word without irreverence, transfigured.”

  Susanna was a puzzle to everyone at this time.

  “I’ve realised, Crossy,” said Catherine, “how little I really understand my children. I should have expected Susanna to be knocked out by Baruch’s death, and yet sometimes I think she is happier now than she was before he was killed. If it wasn’t so unlike her, I should say she had gone in for spiritualism and felt she was still in touch with him.”

  “She certainly does give one the impression of being helped through this dreadful time in some special way.”

  It was the same in the hospital and throughout the village: nobody could understand her. Everybody who had watched the children grow up had realised the curious bond between the twins, and yet now that Baruch was dead, Susanna, who should have been broken-hearted, looked, if white and thin, contented. An incredible look, they thought, on the face of somebody who had lost a brother who had obviously been more than life itself.

  On the eleventh of November, Susanna and Mrs. Cary were peeling potatoes when cheers came from the wards and the church bells began to peal. Susanna dropped her knife into the sink.

  “What on earth’s happening?”

  Mrs. Cary didn’t answer her for a moment: she was gazing at the potato in her hand with tear-dimmed eyes, then she said huskily:

  “The Armistice is signed.”

  “Armistice?” Slowly Susanna’s face turned crimson. “Do you mean the war has stopped? But it can’t have; it’s going on for months and months.”

  Mrs. Cary looked puzzled.

  “You must have heard that an Armistice was expected.”

  “I didn’t, and I don’t believe it.” Wrapped in her own thoughts, always struggling against misery which tried to get the better of her, she had been blind to happenings in the world around her. She had no further interest in the war, so it happened that she had never realised it was almost over.

  Mrs. Bell came in.

  “Look at you two peeling potatoes as though nothing had happened. There’s a short service in Ward D. Would you like to come to it?”

  Mrs. Cary shook her head.

  “No; you all go. Susanna and I will look after the dinner.”

  Left to themselves they finished the potatoes in silence, then went into the kitchen to baste the joints. Voices came to them from overhead

  “Now thank we all our God,

  With heart, and hands, and voices,

  Who wondrous things hath done—”

  Mrs. Cary, who was kneeling in front of the gas-stove, laid down her basting-spoon and covered her face with her hands, tears dripped through her fingers.

  “Forgive me, Susanna,” she gulped. “I’m sorry to be such a fool; it’s just the war being over, and me having nobody to come back, but of course I’m glad really—”

  “Oh may this bounteous God

  Through all our life be near us,

  With ever joyful hearts—”

  Susanna finished basting, and shut the oven door with a bang. She stood up, her mouth was a hard line, two spots of colour flared in her cheeks.

  “I’m not glad.”

  “Susanna! You mustn’t talk like that.”

  “All praise and thanks to God

  The Father now be given.”

  There was a pause. Then Susanna burst out:

  “I talk like that because that’s how I feel; finishing now spoils everything. It wasn’t any good, a waste, just silline
ss.”

  “What was? What are you talking about?”

  “God save our gracious King,

  Long live our noble King,

  God save the King!”

  On the first notes of the Anthem they both stood silently, stiff as ramrods; it was an unconscious action, a habit after four years of endless National Anthems. By the time it was over Susanna had mastered her tongue.

  “Come on,” she said. “They’ll be down soon, let’s put on the potatoes.”

  She was off duty that afternoon. As she walked homewards down the hospital drive, she heard a party of celebrating tommies singing behind her. It was more than she could bear, so before they had seen her, she pushed her way through a gap in the hedge into a little coppice.

  “Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag

  And smile, smile, smile.”

  “Smile, Susanna,” she said to herself. “In a way it’s funny.” But instead, she dropped on the ground and rolled over on to her face, gripping handfuls of fallen leaves in her agony. “Oh, Baruch, you poor fool,” she sobbed. “Why were you in such a hurry? The war’s over, and you’d never have gone.”

  PART THREE

  Because of Baruch

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  In the year that followed the war Susanna made herself invaluable in the parish. By December nothing was run without her. Judith, when she came to stay, was shocked.

  “Mummy, I warned Susanna years ago she’d be made into a parish puss if she wasn’t careful, and now look at her. Can’t you rescue her? You did me.”

  “I only wish I knew how,” sighed Catherine.

  Susanna had been helping at an old people’s tea. Miss Love piled all the uneaten food into a basket.

  “Just take these round to the old people who couldn’t attend; I’ve made out a list of them for you on this envelope.”

  David, who had been present at the tea in order to say grace, looked after his daughter with pride.

  “She’s my little right hand.”

  “A sweet girl,” agreed the Miss Loves. They set off down the village street.

  “She’s a wonderful help to her dear father,” said Miss Dora.

  Miss Mabel nodded.

  “I must say I never expected one of those Vicarage girls to turn out so well.”

  “I always had hopes of Esther, but of course when Mr. Right came along—” Miss Dora shook her head roguishly. “Judith was always far too pushing and opinionated. Do you remember, Mabel, how just because she was the Vicar’s daughter she expected to take precedence over us, who had worked for her father for years? When I saw her the other day I was sorry to note that marriage had not improved her.”

  “Sad how that large family has broken up, but I sometimes think if all one heard were true, Esdras’s death may have been a mercy.” Miss Mabel dropped her voice. “Old Mrs. Monk was telling me this afternoon about Fanny Griggs. Of course, I told her we’d heard rumours, but she says she believes she only married Ted Halstan just in time, and would never have looked at him if it hadn’t been for what she was expecting. I can’t think how we missed hearing of it. I do wish Fanny hadn’t moved from the village; I would have liked to have had a look at her little boy. If you don’t mind, dear, we’ll call in on Mrs. Honeysett. I sent Susanna to take her some cakes, but I should like her to know it was I who remembered her.”

  They turned into the little shop and rapped on the counter. Mrs. Honeysett hobbled in from her back room.

  “Well, how are you?” said Miss Mabel brightly. “Did Miss Susanna bring you the cakes I sent to you?”

  “Yes, indeed, thank you kindly, Miss Love; beautiful cakes, and I be always pleased to see little Miss Susanna.”

  “Did she tell you what a jolly time we had at the tea?”

  “Well, no, Miss Susanna ain’t one for gossip these days. Sometimes I think it were like as though she were cut in ’alf when Master Baruch fell out of that windy. Didn’t seem to feel it like so much at first, but this last year she ain’t been more than ’alf with us, Miss Susanna ain’t.”

  “Come, come, you mustn’t say things like that.” Miss Dora gave a bright, wholesome laugh. “She’s grown up into a most useful young lady.”

  “Oh, aye, she be useful right enough. Up and down the village street I see her run, main busy she be, but where be her smile? How long since we heard her laugh? Why, I remember her and Master Baruch comin’ in here in their holidays. ‘We’ve got a penny each, Mrs. Honeysett,’ they’d say. ‘What’ll we buy that’ll go furthest?’ Then they’d ’ave all me boxes and bottles down, fair rummage they made; liquorice all-sorts they fancied most. I offered some to Miss Susanna back in the summer, and she gave me a look I won’t never forget; hard it was, like a stone, and she walked out of the shop without a word.”

  Catherine was worried to the point of sleeplessness by Susanna. She watched her, running guides and cubs, teaching in Sunday school, cleaning the church brass, delivering parish magazines, and in their proper seasons organising endless outings and treats, with despair. Susanna seemed to be permanently sucked under by parish duties. She offered her every inducement she could think of to get her away, but she wouldn’t move.

  “Why should I go away?” she would ask. “I’m all right here.”

  “But are you happy? They seem to me terribly dull occupations for a girl of your age.”

  “They do all right.”

  Catherine knew that she was not within a mile of understanding Susanna; that she had never understood her since the day the Armistice was signed, and she had said to her as she came in from the hospital: “Shall we go over and spend the night with Judith? It will be something to do, and we could call in and see Grandfather and he’ll be sure to open a bottle of champagne which will be cheering.” And Susanna had replied with a curious bitter look: “If you like, but I’m in no need of cheering.” And yet she’d been crying, Catherine was sure she’d been crying, and her coat was covered with mud. It had been the same ever since; she resented pity. “Why should I need it?” her look appeared to say. Sometimes she seemed like a wounded animal, asking to be left alone, snapping if touched. Catherine talked about her to Miss Crosby, who always replied: “She’s had a shock, give her time.” And hearing this, Catherine would be cheered, for Miss Crosby knew such a lot about girls, and was probably right. But Miss Crosby wasn’t often with her now, for her only excuse for keeping her on, since nobody needed teaching, was that she liked to have somebody she could trust to send to help Judith and Esther in emergencies, and knowing this, either Judith or Esther was always in a state of emergency. Susanna, having delivered the last of the cakes, turned towards home, and ran into Mrs. Cary. She hadn’t seen her since the hospital had been closed, for with the end of her work she had been unable to bear the loneliness and monotony of the village, and had taken herself and her boy to London, where she had plenty of friends. But the boy hadn’t thrived, so she had brought him back to the country.

  “Susanna!” she exclaimed. “Oh, my dear, I am pleased to see you. Come back and have a late tea.”

  “I’ve had tea.”

  “Never mind, come back and talk, then.”

  As they walked they discussed hospital matters; what had become of their various fellow-workers. In Mrs. Cary’s cottage they sat down in two armchairs by the fire.

  “Did you know I was coming back?”

  “Yes, somebody told me.”

  “Well, I hope you were coming to look me up?”

  “Oh, I knew I was sure to run into you sometime.”

  “Susanna! You’ve changed. What’s been happening to you? You used to be such an affectionate little person, now you seem as if you’d swallowed a poker.” Susanna said nothing. “Did you know you’d changed?”

  “No.”

  “Well, never mind, it’s very nice to see you again, anyway.”


  The next afternoon, Mrs. Cary called on Catherine.

  “Mrs. Churston,” she plunged, “I don’t know you very well, so I’m taking a most fearful liberty, but I’m going to talk to you about Susanna. I saw her yesterday, for the first time in nearly a year, and the shock I got at the change in her kept me awake all night.”

  “You think she looks ill?”

  “Oh no, not that, a little thin and white perhaps. No, the change in her I felt, rather than saw; it’s as if her spirit were gone, she didn’t seem to be in the room with me at all.”

  “She looks wretched.”

  “It’s worse than that, it’s as though some part of her were dead. Can’t you do something? It’s awful to see a child of her age like that.”

  “What can I do?”

  “What caused the change in her? Her twin?”

  Catherine nodded.

  “Yes, there’s been nothing else.”

  “But she seemed to take that so well at the time.”

  “I know. I sometimes wonder if his spirit stayed near her just at first; it’s a fantastic thought, but they were always an unaccountable couple. Even now I can hardly believe one exists without the other.”

  “I should say she hardly does.”

  “I’m afraid that’s true. Oh, Mrs. Cary, it’s not that I don’t realise, it’s that I simply don’t know what to do. I’m hoping she’ll become her old self in time.”

  “A slow process; I wouldn’t wait for that.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Get her right away from here, new surroundings, new people, new occupations.”

  “She won’t budge.”

  “Then you must make her. Oh, forgive me, it’s the most awful impertinence me talking to you like this, but I’ve not seen Susanna for some time, and so I expect the change in her is much clearer to me than it is to you who see her every day, and to me she isn’t a girl at all: she’s a ghost, just a thing haunting the world.”

  “It’s not impertinent of you at all. I’m grateful. I’ll be still more grateful if you’ll tell me what to do for her.”