by Jane Gardam
‘Oh heavens, no!’
‘I thought you might be. I’m sorry. You looked so very much together the day you came walking in to breakfast in the country.’
‘Oh that was just accident. It’s like that at Lady Celia’s. The others there were all famous and old so we were rather thrown together.’
‘Arty-crafty place isn’t it? It’d suit the poor old Poultice.’
‘I think he loved it.’
‘Did it suit you?’
‘Well some of it.’
‘Bit of a delicate flower, isn’t he, actually? If we’re really honest. Something of a joke.’
I said nothing. He said, ‘I’ve put my foot in it. Dear God, I’m sorry. And you must be so worried about him. He’ll be back soon, you know. He’ll get some leave.’
‘He wanted me to go up to London for his embarkation leave but of course I couldn’t.’
‘Really? I’d think it would have been fun for you. Well, “it’ll be over by Christmas”, so we are told. Endlessly.’
We walked on the beach and went out in the trap and visited The Hall—but nobody was there. The shutters were up. There was a chain across the mausoleum door. The sun shone every day as if it were a festival year—a deep, beautiful autumn. Rebecca left Cambridge and briefly visited us, then departed with set jaw to London on political matters, she said. ‘She’s anti-suffragette,’ said Theo, ‘like so many bossy women.’
He taught me to play tennis on the new court and laughed at me for being so stately, not making it seem foolish. I spoke German with him and with Mrs Zeit—they said they would forget it all soon and could only speak it when the servants were not about. ‘How beautifully you speak,’ she said; ‘a perfect accent,’ and I said, ‘That’s Mrs Woods.’
But I had forgotten Mrs Woods. I had forgotten home altogether—the household, the housekeeping, Alice. I went home only to sleep and pray for the next day to come fast.
I woke up very early one day and wondered why. It was sunny and still. I felt that something had just stopped and went to my window and saw outside the yellow house Theo sitting in the pony-trap in the early light. He was not attempting to get out but simply sitting, staring ahead. He had a queer, patient, staid look about him and seemed to be staring at, but not seeing, the old convalescent home where soldiers were now marching on a newly-made parade-ground, up and down, up and down. The tinny bark and echo of the sergeant-major bounced towards the house occasionally. Surrounding Mr Pocock’s old Chaplaincy by the nunnery, a city of tents had gone up, spreading out onto the marsh itself. The broken-ended esplanade had been extended.
Theo was sitting so remarkably still, even for him, that I dressed and rushed out to him without doing up my hair and he turned and looked down at me.
‘Are you warm enough?’
‘Yes. It’s a lovely day.’
‘Could you—jump in?’
‘Yes, of course.’
The front door stood open behind me for the sand to fly freely in, and I had not looked even to see if Mrs Woods was all right, and I had not seen Alice, and I was not wearing a hat. He leaned down and helped me up beside him and we moved off inland, turning away from the lane-end that led to the Zeits, away from the sea. We meandered inland towards the church, but veered away from it again, and on past a farm and haystacks, then northward towards the Works. We sat watching them across the stubble—fields which were growing new flowers among the straw, for the summer would not cease. It was quiet except that I thought that I had never heard so many birds. He said, ‘Polly, we’ve just heard from Rebecca that Paul Treece is dead. He was killed a week ago.’
The birds went on and on and the smoke from the chimneys stood in the blue sky. The horse shook its head vigorously and clattered a shoe. It moved to the hedge and began to pull up and crunch the grass beside it. After a time Theo put an arm round me and I put my head on his shoulder. He smelled of soap and man. I had not smelled man before. I began to cry, not because The Poultice was dead but because of my wickedness in being so excited by the smell of Theo Zeit.
He turned the trap with one hand and we drove back very slowly to The New House with my hair against his face. I believe that people passed us and saw, but I didn’t move and nor did he. When we reached The New House drive I still did not move, but there was a flash of light from somewhere above us and I jumped and sat up; but he still held on to me.
‘It’s all right. It’s the telescope. It’s being dismantled. Government orders. They think we’re German spies.’
‘I once thought I saw an angel up there.’
‘I saw you once from there. You were trying to fly like a bird.’
‘I was twelve. It was years ago.’
‘I thought you were lovely.’
I disentangled myself and sat up straight and tried to sort out my hair.
‘Could you take me home?’
‘Not yet. You’re to come to us. Mother ordered it,’ and she was standing on the steps in her funny over-decorated dress, all brooches and necklaces, her face lifted up like Hecuba with tears on it, her short, plump arms held out. I thought, ‘She looks as if she’s going to sing,’ and nearly laughed.
‘My dear, dear child!’ Such hugs and kisses as I had never known, and had no notion what to do with. But I felt them less than I felt Theo standing near and watching me; and I cried again at my wickedness at having been made happy by a death.
I hadn’t even thought about the death yet. I would get to that when I went home.
‘Would you very much mind if I went home?’
‘My child, very much, very much.’
I sat down to coffee and then breakfast with cheese and small sweet cakes, but I didn’t like to eat them. Maids padded about outside the door, people spoke in whispers. Down the creamy cheeks of Mrs Zeit the tears flowed and she was unashamed. I thought, how foreign she is.
But Theo sat beside me.
‘I must go and get tidy,’ I said and Mrs Zeit took me to her bedroom and I sat at her dressing-table before a forest of photographs: powerful short men with short beards, women with chins and frilled crinolines and mountains of crinkly hair and firm, gigantic bosoms. Rebecca, a sparkling child, and Theo—no one but Theo—a baby with watchful loving black eyes. He wore a satin suit and sat firmly on a satin chaise-longue.
‘You are to stay here with us for a little while, Polly, my dear. A day or two.’
‘No, I must go back. There’s Mrs Woods.’
‘Polly, soon we are to talk about Mrs Woods, you and I together. It is time that something was decided about Mrs Woods.’
‘She’s got no one.’
‘Which is no reason that you should sacrifice your young life.’
‘Please, I don’t want to talk now.’
‘Of course not. Of course not. But we shall be talking soon. I have decided. We are to talk about your future. About the university. Yes. I have decided. It is to be Oxford I think. Please do not look at me so. It is to be Oxford for you.’
I said that I wanted to walk home and Theo came with me as far as the terrace. I felt his gentle eyes watching my back all the way down to the faraway gate. I tried not to think of this—to think only of Paul Treece—dead Paul Treece, the ears, the sloping shoulders, the hands that had touched the books, had touched my hair, all rotten, limp, bundled into a hole in France. I managed for a minute or so.
At the gate I turned back to wave to Theo but found that I had been wrong, for he was not there.
I helped Alice when I got home. We changed Mrs Woods, talked about meals, domestic things. ‘D’you want a rest?’ said Alice. ‘You look right lowered.’
‘There’s somebody killed,’ I said. ‘It was the young man who called the day of the Declaration of War.’
‘I remember him,’ she said. ‘He was artless-looking. Well. He’ll not be alone out there. Mr Box of Boagey’s has gone and many another more. There’ll be many and many a hundred yet. It said in the papers “The Greatest European War in History”. It
’s hard to believe, isn’t it—being a part of History?’
I went each day to the Zeits’ for four weeks then and for four days after that, and the late autumn was still golden and hot and berries shone on the trees and hedges. The house was busy with comings and goings. We were allocated the billeting of Belgian refugees, though I never saw any. Great consultations went on usually behind closed doors and I sat at Mrs Zeit’s desk, writing the letters, checking endless rather obscure lists while she went about the rooms, talkative and busy—often talking apparently to herself. She set up another desk for herself near a giant telephone and Theo, amused, delighted with her, often caught my eye including me in his affection. She was in total command. Sometimes, however, the discussions behind the locked doors left uneasiness in the air when the doors were opened.
‘We still don’t know what they’re going to do with us,’ he said.
‘What could they do with you?’
‘Stick us in prison. Intern us.’
‘Oh Theo, how ridiculous. You’re English. You’re as English as I am.’
‘Yes. I’m sure it won’t come to it. It’s all very haphazard. Shall we go down and look at the sea—as near as we can get? We’re rich, you see. There’s jealousy. In Newcastle they’re interning all Germans who aren’t naturalised, whoever they are. Newcastle’s where we started from in England—the family. When we left Europe. It’s hard to believe we don’t belong.’
We walked by the sea and we walked in the fields and as late as early November we sat out after dinner on the terrace. When it grew colder they found me an old fur coat. It was silky. ‘They’re sables,’ he said; ‘you are a princess.’ He kissed me sometimes. I found that I was very good at kissing after a time, as good—rather better—than he.
A letter came from Paul Treece with a poem in it called “At the Gate of the Past.” It arrived a week after he was dead, posted the day before he died. The poem floated along on the top of my mind and I did not allow it to go deeper. I carried it everywhere with me, and although I was never so indecent as to let it be seen, I knew that my motive for having it always in my pocket was not a pure one, and in the end, I did casually mention it to Theo. ‘You were in love with him,’ he said, so solemnly that my heart lifted.
‘No,’ I said, ‘no I wasn’t, not in love.’ But I said it with an inflection on the ‘I’.
‘You and he were very close though. Books and so on. Weren’t you? I felt it. I suppose you’d known him a very long time.’
‘Oh—a year or so.’ (Not, ‘I had met him twice.’)
‘You’ve known me longer. You’ve known me for five years and I’ve known about you for longer than that—since the day you were being a bird, behind all the old birds.’
‘Not known,’ I said.
‘I’m afraid I don’t read much. Only the Sciences. Well—just the books everyone has to.’
‘You’d read Robinson Crusoe. You said so on the beach.’
‘Well everyone knows about the footprint. That’s not a novel though, is it, Robinson Crusoe—isn’t it biography? He was real, wasn’t he?’
I was sleeping at the Zeits now, only going home occasionally. There was to be a Christmas party at The New House—just a few close friends of the children, Mrs Zeit said—and I had written to Maitland—we wrote every month or so. She wrote funny formal dry little letters back and always said that I was to say if ever I needed anything. For the party she had sent me a dress—with Lady Celia’s blessing, so that I was supposedly forgiven for the defection at breakfast last year. The dress was of pure silk muslin, golden-brown, with needlework bands and a high neck stitched with blue silk thread. I was thinner than when she had measured me at Thwaite and Alice had been altering it. I went home for this dress only and Alice was as pleased as I was with it. So we arranged for Boagey’s to bring a car for me on the night of the party and at The New House we worked at preparing the party all the day before until we were tired. In the evening Theo said, ‘Come out. Put on the sables, Mistress Flint, and we’ll look at the stars.’
It was as a frosty night at last, but I was warm, and we walked about the marsh and on the sand-hills. We lay down in the sand-hills and under the sables he undid my dress. I said, ‘We’ll be seen. There are soldiers. I don’t think we should be here anyway. Even if we are just walking.’ But we did not go. We stayed there for hours.
‘We’ll go home,’ he said. ‘You’re staying tonight. We have the whole night ahead of us.’
And so I went to bed at the Zeits and waited for him. I wore my silk nightdress, Maitland’s last Christmas present, and I brushed my hair two hundred times as Aunt Frances had taught me. The big clocks downstairs struck eleven and then twelve and at last, oh at last, some time after that, the handle of my bedroom-door began to turn.
Mrs Zeit came in to the room and sat on the end of my bed.
‘How we shall miss you, Polly. Oh we shall miss you so. As a daughter and as a sister. The whole family will miss you. We’ll be gone in three days you know—only three days left before London. Now, we want you to know. We all want to help you. We’re not going to let you waste your life here.’ She picked up the sables which were lying across a chair and put them comfortably over her arm.
I said, thank you.
‘Somehow or other we are going to get you to Oxford. Now what do you think about that? Go to sleep. Go home in the morning and don’t think of coming in again. You’ve worked so hard for the children’s little party. Just have a good rest at home until it’s over. And if we just don’t see you again before we leave, you must not think we have forgotten you. We shall never lose touch, dear Polly. Good night my child.’
She left the room, stroking the furs, and I lay awake until the pale, cold morning came and, still dark, the maids began to stir about the house.
Theo was very affectionate when we said goodbye, and kissed my cheek and Mrs Zeit kissed me, too, as the chauffeur held open the Daimler door. Mother and son stood side by side upon the steps, she with the kindest of faces, he to attention, looking over our heads, not exactly smiling but not quite achieving the blankness he was aiming at. But perfectly in control.
‘We can’t have you walking home,’ said Mrs Zeit, ‘after all you’ve done. Such hard work. And the car can go on afterwards to the station and pick up the guests.’
At first, in the car, I allowed only the most immediate things room. How to tell Alice about the dress. Whether I should tell her that I’d made a frightful mistake. That it had never been intended that I should be at the party. But I saw the disappointment and hurt for me in her red, rough face, and then the fury rising up and knew I couldn’t bear it.
As the car slid past the church and the ghosts of my saints, I prayed, I think for Alice first: ‘Dear God, set this to rights. Oh, amidst the chaos of nations and the deaths in France and the great disasters in the turning world, and although I am still un-Confirmed into the Church of England I pray through Jesus Christ our Lord that this miserable hurt in my worthless grain of a life may somehow or other be resolved and used at last.’
‘Why, the poor old sowl!’ said Mrs Treece, ‘And after years. Just gone in a minute! Well, it happens. Gone in her sleep. But just as you stepped in from visiting? You’d feel badly, not being with her at the end.’
‘Well, yes I did. You see she was the last of the people I’ve known since I was a child. I felt so guilty. You see, she and I had never been friends. She’d resented me when my aunts took me in. She’d always adored one of my aunts you see, and when I came, that aunt began to adore me instead, and—’
‘Nose out of joint,’ said old Mrs Treece. ‘Well, she’s to be prayed for. Strokes is terrible things. I remember my father lying.’
She was so small that her feet scarcely touched the floor and the rocking chair she sat in stayed upright and steady. She wore black of course, for Paul—black ankle-strap shoes like a child’s, over woollen stockings, and even the upright, soldierly collar round her child-size neck was tr
immed with black lace as was the long apron over her woollen dress. Out of it all her face shone clear and rosy and her hair shone silverish. She was peeling big potatoes over a newspaper and washing them in a bowl beside her before dropping them into the pan on the fire.
Outside the farm kitchen it was snowing fast and the snow had gathered in the same corner of each of the nine little panes of the window over the stone slab sink where we washed the dishes. The fire was bright with precious small-coal for the cooking and I sat on the fender in my friendly brown-velvet dress, my back warm against the copper where the water heated in a deep dark font. A chicken was roasting in the fireside oven, for it was Christmas Day. My invitation to stay at the Treeces’ farm had been waiting for me at home the morning of my banishment, when I had walked in upon Mrs Woods’s death.
‘And her funeral a sad tale, likely?’
‘Oh yes, it was. There were so few there. Some nuns—she was very keen on nuns, though she never really got to know any of them separately. She hadn’t the touch for friends at all, poor Mrs Woods. She was awfully clever. She spoke three languages and she’d been all over the world. But she’d got into the habit of being grim.’
All my life I have felt that I would find it very easy to talk to people if I could just once get started and here, at last, on a farm in the North-West fells, with Paul Treece’s mother I was achieving it—though only, perhaps, I thought, because she keeps to her own unselfconscious track. And maybe it was her grief that had made her so totally uncritical, so accepting. It might well not last.
At present however I felt that I had lived with her for years.
‘The poor old sowl!’ she said again. ‘No friend to mourn her? Paul has his mourners, and in high places.’
‘Yes he has.’
‘Paul knew some of the greatest in the land, even before he went to college. His room’s full of letters from people very well born. Writing, clever people.’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘Which is how I found you out, Polly, among all the letters from universities and lords and ladies. I went and sat up there and I read everything that there was in that room, on and on. On that first day his father and Laurie left me. They fettled for themselves. Maybe three days, all by themselves. There was bread and ham and a bit of cheese and some potatoes. What I did, when the telegram came, I took cloths to cover the pictures and the mirrors and I opened the windows all over the house. Bitter weather, bitter. I went up and sat in his room. It’s always been the coldest in this old place, Paul’s room, but he never ailed a thing, never. Mind he wasn’t here these last years, scarcely, and I did think he was looking terrible thin just before he went to France.