The Girl in a Swing

by Richard Adams

Einstein, I think, who used to speak of work as 'the great

  anodyne'. That melancholy autumn, however, I myself found

  work to be only one constituent of a general demand upon

  my whole being not to let things slide: if they did, I knew,

  it would only be harder, later, to clamber back. When I was

  a little boy Jack Cain, our jobbing gardener who came in

  odd days, used to have a well-worn joke, no doubt a souvenir

  of the army: 'Fall out for a smoke. Those without a cigarette

  will go through the motions.' (I'd no idea what he meant,

  but I used to laugh, since it seemed to be expected.) Without

  even a fag-end, I went through the motions, at first with

  reluctance and wretchedness; but after a time less drearily,

  as they themselves began to sustain me. I answered the

  letters of condolence, checked and even queried an item in

  the undertaker's heavy bill (I carried my point, too), dug up

  the asters and manured the bed, persuaded my mother to

  come to a concert in London (or did she persuade me?), explained

  to Mrs Taswell what a gross was and how a regular

  wholesaler differed from a private person who wanted to dispose

  of a no-longer-wanted breakfast-service; dropped in on

  Mrs This to thank her for the flowers, returned the book

  which Mrs That had lent me six months before and remembered

  to ask after Mrs The Other's arthritis after church on

  Sunday morning. It took a weary lot of doing - anyone who

  has ever had to set himself to do it will know what I mean

  55

  There is a continuous, underlying feeling of the triviality, the

  uselessness of all activity, and one is obsessed by memories

  of the cruel, pointless suffering of the loved one. If this

  seems a too deeply-felt reaction to the loss of a father, I can

  only say that I knew not seems - it was. Like Guy Crouchback's

  to him, my father remains for me the best man I have

  ever known. If he had not died when he did things might, perhaps,

  have turned out differently.

  The early chrysanthemums bloomed. The clocks went back.

  The leaves fell. Little by little, normality returned. I began

  to grasp that I had succeeded to a solvent business, with a

  large stock and a good deal of capital at my disposal. With

  its organization I had, of course, been familiar for a long

  time - our debtors and creditors, investments, overheads,

  accounting arrangements and so on. There were no surprises.

  What was new was the sense of being in full control. My

  father had been admirably sensible in his running of the

  business, and I doubted whether I could run it so well. And

  yet - and yet it depends on what you mean by well, said the

  inner voice. Ceramics are Man's gift to God. They are what he

  renders back from the earth he has been given. It had now

  become my responsibility to play a serious part in seeing

  that Man, at all events, got the best; and also, that he had

  the opportunity to learn what was the best.

  It was not until the following spring, however, that I took

  the plunge and embarked upon my grand design of gradually

  turning over a full half of our space and capital to the sale

  of antique and fine modern ceramics. This was no light project,

  and before coming to my decision I discussed the whole

  scheme in detail with my mother and asked for her agreement.

  She had, of course, already known what I had in mind,

  but now I told her, carefully and responsibly, my reasons

  for feeling sure that I could make the idea work. She replied

  that since, clearly, my whole heart was in it, she believed I

  would. She only begged me to be prudent and not to forget

  all I had learned about running the day-to-day side of the

  business. Her trust in me - for after all, it was her living, too,

  that was at stake - increased my own confidence.

  Nevertheless we both knew that the step was going to in56

  volve nothing less than a fairly long struggle. In terms of new

  business methods and altered ways of thought and work,

  I might almost as well have been changing over to estate

  agency or motor-cars. For one thing, when you deal in fine

  porcelain and earthenware you can't order in bulk, or return

  a line that doesn't sell. For another, your sources of

  supply are altogether different from those of a normal retail

  business, the kind of people you deal with are different

  and so are the ways in which you go about selling. Purchases

  tend to be individual and often a single item can constitute

  a hazardous venture of capital.

  In spite of my determination to succeed I could not help

  feeling anxiety. It would have been worse, but early on my

  mother, of her own accord, took a step which had never

  entered my head and which removed at a stroke one of my

  major sources of worry.

  'Alan, dear,' she said one evening, 'I've been thinking that

  one difficulty you're up against is how the ordinary retail

  side's going to go on running while you go off to places like

  Christie's or Phillips. Have you decided what you're going

  to do about that? You can't just leave it to Deirdre and Mrs

  Taswell, can you? They'd never cope. Either it'll be a cornplete

  cat's cradle in six months or you're going to have a

  breakdown from overwork.'

  'I know, Mummy,' I said. 'I'd thought of that too and I

  must admit it's bothering me rather. I've been seriously

  thinking whether I couldn't find a manager - someone with

  a bit of tact and business sense who can take control without

  upsetting the girls. But the salary of anyone worth having

  would be more than I've got to spare - enough to put

  the whole plan at risk, I'm afraid. It can't be done - I'll just

  have to try and run twice as fast, that's all.'

  She didn't answer at once but, almost absent-mindedly,

  picked up some catalogues which I had left lying on the

  floor, piled them together and put them tidily on the windowsill.

  Then she came over, sat down on the arm of my chair

  and began stroking my head in a way she used to when I was

  small. It had remained a kind of private joke or sign of affection

  between us, meaning - well, meaning, I suppose, 'You're

  57

  still a little boy and I'm looking after you'. She used to do it,

  for instance, when she saw that I was depressed about something

  like having to go back to school; or more delightfully,

  when she was about to disclose something exciting, like an

  unexpected present or an expedition to the river at Pangbourne.

  'I think I know someone who might do,' she said. 'A

  widow, who doesn't really want to be sitting about all day

  by herself. She's had some previous experience, even though

  it was more than thirty years ago. I don't think she'd need

  paying: you see, she rather likes you - oh, Alan, don't be

  silly, darling! There's no need to start shedding tears!'

  It seemed to me that all she had ever done for me was

  not to be compared with this. I realized, too, that she had

  known all the time wha
t I, in my passionate determination,

  had been blinding myself to - that with all the resolution in

  the world, I could not have carried the load by myself.

  Single-minded people can go a long way and overcome big

  obstacles. The Holy Ghost, as it were, teaches them what they

  ought to do (which usually amounts, more or less, to another

  favourite phrase of Jack Cain, 'Bash on regardless!'). I began

  to advertise regularly, not only in the Newbury Weekly News

  and other local papers, but also in Country Life, Apollo and

  The Antique Dealer and Collector's Guide. I started the

  Newbury and District Ceramic Society and paid people like

  Bernard Watney and Reginald Haggar to come and address

  it. I saw to it that people in general, from Reading to Marlborough,

  knew that I was interested in buying (and some

  funny things I was offered, too, as well as several startling

  and exciting ones). I engaged an agent in London and took

  pains to get him genuinely on my side. After a time he knew

  my mind and means so well that he could seize a going

  opportunity and buy for me on his own initiative - to say

  nothing of the Americans he steered in my direction. Several

  of these were charming people, whom my mother and I entertained

  at Bull Banks; our name began to be known among

  American ceramic enthusiasts, and I received invitations from

  Colonial Williamsburg and the Rockefeller Collection at

  Cleveland (which I was far too busy to accept). Unexpectedly,

  58

  one of my most far-reaching and successful strokes was the

  building-up, not for sale but simply for display and the edification

  of potential customers, of what is called a 'study collection'

  in English blue-and-white. Each case contained an

  explanatory card, but in addition Deirdre - who was taking

  to the business - was taught to hold forth on the collection

  to any visitor who seemed of sufficient importance. ('And

  this 'ere lot's called Moth-and-Flower, see, 'cause you looks

  close, that's what they got on 'em.') The Americans loved her,

  and their generous tips she split with Mrs Taswell. One day

  I remarked, 'We'll have to dress you in historical costume,

  Deirdre.' 'What, like them waitresses round the Tudor Caff,

  Mistralan? I never reckoned a great lot to they.'

  What happy days they seem now! When an enterprise has

  turned out successfully we not only forget, in retrospect, the

  anxieties, disappointments and costly mistakes; we also forget

  that we were not aware, then, that we were going to win.

  In memory the whole Stimmung changes and our recollections

  become like a story we have read before and whose

  ending we know. Aware, now, that our fears were illusory, we

  recall only what seems like our own courage and skill. The

  first two years were, in fact, a severe strain, partly because

  of the work itself and the continual pressure of important

  decisions, but chiefly because of the unceasing fear that I

  might fail, that the money spent would show no worthwhile

  return and the capital not hold out until the ships came

  home. If it had not been for my mother - and heaven only

  knows what worry she too underwent, for she never showed

  any -1 believe I might have given up. I went through a period

  of irritability, sleeplessness and nervous indigestion, and at

  one time my dreams became so insupportable that I seriously

  thought of seeing a psychiatrist.

  One of these I have never forgotten. Appallingly vivid, it

  preyed on my mind for days afterwards, so that I would

  start up from my chair or desk, uttering aloud meaningless

  phrases - 'Wait a bit, wait a bit!' or 'Come on, now, come

  on!' - as though by main force to interrupt my intolerable

  thoughts and to shatter, like a mirror, the dreadful image obsessing

  me.

  59

  I dreamt that I was swimming in the sea, diving and corning

  up again in calm water. At first I seemed to be alone, but

  then I made out, in the distance, someone else also swimming

  - a woman. I drew close and recognized Mrs Cook

  (whom in fact I had not seen since leaving Bradfield). She was

  naked, and as pretty as I remembered her, but now there

  seemed about her beauty a more disturbing quality; a kind

  of eager, acquisitive voluptuousness, glittering from her face

  and body like the water itself.

  'Hullo, Desland!' she called. 'Do you think you could do

  one more dive - just for me? You needn't if you don't want

  to, but I hope you will.'

  With the same sense of simultaneous excitement and misgiving

  that I had once felt in her drawing-room, I dived

  again.

  'Deeper!' she cried. 'That's right! Oh, you're marvellous!'

  As she spoke I found myself on the bottom. It was littered

  with all manner of debris, like a vacant shop when the owners

  have sold up and gone. There were broken plates and cups,

  smashed china figures and fragments of pottery and earthenware.

  Papers, too, I could see - old invoices, receipted bills,

  catalogues and bank statements - all crumpled and dirty,

  strewn about the sea-bed. 'I don't reckon much to this,' I

  thought. 'I'm going up again."

  Then, in the cloudy mirk, I made out another figure - not

  Mrs Cook - apparently crawling along through the mess. It

  was a little girl, perhaps three or four years old, groping her

  way among the shards on hands and knees. As I went closer

  I could hear her crying bitterly.

  'What's the matter?' I asked. 'Who are you?'

  'I'm Phoebe Parr,' she answered. 'I'm looking for my

  mother: only it's such a long way across the sea.'

  Til take you,' I said. 'Come on!' and I grasped her hand.

  As she turned to me I saw, with sickening horror, that she

  must have been in the water for weeks. Her face, not yet

  entirely destroyed, was more dreadful than that of a skull.

  The rotten, spongy flesh of the limbs was almost soaked off

  the bones. Her little body was streaked with dark-blue lines

  of decay, like the bruises of some savage beating. The hand

  60

  I held in my own was no longer attached to the wrist. She

  tried to speak again, but could not, only reaching out, groping

  blindly and stumbling towards me.

  I woke screaming, and found my mother sitting on my bed,

  clutching my hands. 'Alan,' she was saying, 'wake up! You

  must wake up!' I had woken her, it seemed, but having

  rushed into my room she had had some difficulty in fully

  waking me.

  I told her the dream, sobbing like a child myself. She said

  all the things a mother ought to say, shook up the pillows

  and brought me some hot milk and rum. 'You mustn't let

  dreams worry you, darling,' she said. 'They're not real, you

  know. All the same, I think you ought to take more care of

  yourself and not work so hard - for a few weeks, anyway.

  You're thoroughly over-strained, and you mustn't risk a

  breakdown. I'll tell you what - why don't you come and

  sleep in my room
, just for a night or two? After all, there's

  no one here to laugh at us or think we're silly.'

  And so I did - actually for three nights, for I found myself

  sleeping a great deal more easily and soundly. And I

  may add that we used to read Beatrix Potter (that admirable

  stylist) together before putting the light out. There is a lot

  to be said, in times of stress, for old, well-tried favourites of

  childhood.

  The nicest thing that happened that summer was Flick's

  wedding. To borrow a phrase of Deirdre, she had been going

  steady for some months before my father's death, and would

  have married earlier if it had not been for that. Everybody

  liked Bill Radcliffe ('I'd marry him myself for two pins,' said

  my mother), a popular and able teacher, a first-rate cricketer

  and as certain a future headmaster as could well be discerned.

  Even I found myself thinking that while nobody, of

  course, could be good enough for Flick, I didn't see how in

  this imperfect world she was going to come across anyone

  better. She, too, had been very hard hit by my father's death.

  I sometimes think that not even my mother was more devoted

  to him, while she had always been his beloved darling,

  the lass with the delicate air. Now, in the midst of my own

  worries and heavy exertions, it was splendidly encouraging

  61

  to see her truly happy once more. I sold the best piece of

  my private collection to do the wedding in style; and style

  we certainly achieved. The weather was perfect and Tony

  not only made a first-rate and very moving job of the service,

  but also spoke well himself, without embarrassing everybody

  as wedding addresses so often seem to. Unconventional

  as ever, he departed from custom on this occasion too by

  taking a text - Revelation xix, 9. Everyone seemed to enjoy

  it.

  As Flick came out through the west porch of St Nicholas,

  with Royals rocking the tower above to tell the world that

  my dear sister was married (on a still day you can hear St

  Nicholas bells beyond Hamstead Marshall) and the cars

  lined up along the Roary Water (our nursery name for the

  outfall of the Kennet from West Mills) to drive to the reception,

  I whispered to my mother, 'You're lucky; you're allowed

  to cry.' Flick was honouring us. She had honoured us all her

  life, by condescending to be born in our home and become

  Florence Desland.

  That evening, after everyone had gone and we were eating

  a snack supper, my mother said, 'I hope your wedding'll be

  every bit as nice as that, Alan'; and then, pulling herself up

  as she always did when she felt she had said something that

  might seem like trying to influence me in a matter properly

  for my own decision, added, 'I mean - you know - whenever

  it is."

  She was slipping, I thought. She had not contrived to suggest

  her equanimity in the probable event of my never marrying

  at all.

  IT was early this year - 1974 - some four and a half years

  after my father's death, that I began at last to feel that there

  were solid grounds for believing myself out of the wood. To

  say 'the gamble had paid off' would not really be appropriate,

  for at the bottom it was not a question of money. I

  62

  was after something more valuable and important than that.

  Our turnover was a good deal less than formerly, not only

  because we were carrying a smaller stock of ordinary household

  china, earthenware and glass, but also because it had

  become generally known in the district that this was no

  longer what we were principally going in for. I was as

  secure as an antique dealer ever is. I now wore old clothes

  and didn't buy new ones much. The two cars had become one.

  ('Melted down?' inquired Flick, in reply to my expressing

  myself thus in my fortnightly letter to Bristol.) It had been

  a little extravagance of my father to buy new dahlia plants

  every year. Now, I lifted and stored the tubers in autumn,

  like Jack Cain or any other villager. To be sure, I had

  capital - a fair amount, actually - but I kept it like ammunition,

  and made every shot tell. I knew a lot more than before

  about pottery and porcelain, and to enter the shop gave me

  renewed pleasure every day. (I was so eager to get inside that

  one morning my mother, giggling at my ardour, said that