The Charioteer

by Mary Renault

  “Laurie, my dear.”

  He turned at the sound of her voice, suddenly shaken as if after physical violence. Anger might have toughened and braced him; but he saw something worse, a cloudy misgiving. He knew that by her own standards she was fully committed, and would be quite unequal in any case to the ordeal of escape; that if he urged it on her she would deny with conviction that any such thought had touched her mind. They sat looking at each other across the used tea things, gagged and helpless. Laurie got to his feet.

  “I’m sorry,” he said with difficulty. “We got to know these chaps and like them. I oughtn’t to have been rude about it. Will you excuse me, Mother? I’ll just go out and look for Gyp.” As he got to the door he thought his mother called after him; but he pretended not to hear.

  It was twilight. He walked up behind the house to the warren, needing his stick but thinking that if you were with a dog, a stick didn’t show. He gave his special whistle and called, “Come on, boy, come on.”

  It was lonely and quiet on the warren, in the lee of the firs. The colonnades opened into deep tunnels of dusk, till over a rise he saw a lake of gold sky and a lace of birches.

  Childe Maurice hunted the silver wood,

  He whistled and he sang,

  “I think I see the woman coming

  That I have lovèd lang.”

  He had known Childe Maurice by heart for years. The tale of this young outlaw, the hidden love-child whom his stepfather murdered, taking him for the lover instead of the son, had always gripped Laurie’s imagination. He had never wondered why.

  He could not find Gyp, and the unfamiliar jerk of walking downhill made his leg ache. When he got back the blackout was up, and his mother waiting for him in the porch. As soon as they had looked at each other, he knew what it was she had to say.

  “Mother. Where’s Gyp?”

  “Laurie darling. Oh, dear, I am sorry. It was dreadful of me not to have told you before.”

  He stared at her, stonily. Part of him refused it entirely; the rest said bitterly that she should have no help with this.

  “Where is he? It’s late. It’s his dinnertime. Do you know where he is?”

  “Darling.” She had only looked at him for a moment. “Poor old dog. You know, he was …”

  Laurie walked past her, through the hall to the corner under the turn of the stairs. The basket was gone. There was only a large crate labelled GLASS WITH CARE.

  He turned around. “What did he die of? You didn’t tell me he was sick.”

  His mother tucked in her lower lip, and he saw that she was beginning to have a sense of injury. “Dear, one doesn’t write worrying letters to people in hospital.”

  “But Gyp was mine. He was my dog.” Like a child he said helplessly, “He was a birthday present, he belonged to me.”

  “Dear, of course I know, but you’ve not been home for a long time” (Gyp must have noticed that too, Laurie thought), “and we had to do what we thought best.”

  “We?”

  “Laurie,” said his mother with grieved gentle dignity, “you’re not trying to make me unhappy, are you?”

  “He wasn’t sick at all, was he? You had him put down.” She didn’t answer. “He was all right when I was here. You had him put down because that—” Carefully he said, “because that man didn’t want to be bothered with him.”

  Now he knew that in his absence she had been reviewing the scene at the tea-table and protecting herself against its meaning. “Laurie, dear, I know you’re upset, but that is a very unfair, unkind thing to say.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t like to be unkind.” He must have known, Laurie thought. Dogs always do. He must have wondered what it was he’d done.

  “Laurie!” He must have been staring through her.

  He said, “You would never have done this before. Did you decide he’d be better off that way?”

  He saw her eyes, frightened behind their anger as she recognized what she had hidden from herself. “Mother—”

  “Aha! So there you both are!” Aunt Olive came tripping out of the kitchen, a fall of fine pearl-gray trailing from her arm.

  “Oh, Olive, dear, how good of you. Did it need pressing again?” He saw that this intolerable interruption had come to her as a rescue.

  “Mother, please could we—”

  “Later, dear, not just now. Look at poor Olive doing everything by herself. Be a dear boy and just see if there’s room in there for the air-twist glasses.”

  He got out the case from the recess under the stairs, remembering how he had trained Gyp to sleep there when he was three months old. The first night he had cried a good deal, but Laurie had known it wouldn’t do to give in to him and fetch him upstairs. He had gone down himself, wrapped in his eiderdown, and Mrs. Timmings had found them both asleep there in the morning; but of course, he had only been at his prep school then.

  Afterwards he made up the living-room divan for himself. Sometimes on cold nights he used to take off the mattress and put it by the fire, but nowadays it was firelight or ventilation. On his embarkation leave, he had looked around his room thinking he would probably never sleep there again; but he had guessed the wrong reason.

  Soon after, his mother came in. He must be good to her, he thought, as if she were going into hospital with something worse than she knew. He found some sherry and they sat down to village gossip by the fire. It wasn’t, he thought, an ill wind for everyone; for she would make a good vicar’s wife if she were allowed to get on with it, unintrusive and kind. She was happy to find that he had stopped being difficult; they chatted quite gaily till, remembering something he had meant to ask before, he said, “By the way, Mother, what are you doing about the house?”

  “Well, dear, really! You don’t mean to say that you’ve not written to the Trevors yet? It’s not fair, you know, to be unbusinesslike with friends, and they depend on it so much. As you didn’t write back about it, I naturally assumed you’d no objection.”

  “Me? Whyever should they mind what I think?”

  “Laurie! Didn’t you read my letter? Surely you do know this house belongs to you now?”

  As she spoke it began to come back to him. It had been fifteen years ago, and he had forgotten with the deep forgetfulness which is not an accident. He had been just old enough to understand that it would be in the nature of things for him to outlive her; his grandfather’s death had been a terrible reminder of her mortality. He had thrown his arms round her and said, “But you’re not going to die or get married, so you’ll have it for ever.”

  Now he didn’t know what he felt. For the present it was an empty possession; even if war regulations had allowed him to keep it as a weekend place, he couldn’t easily have used it with the vicarage a quarter-mile off. But it was something of his own, a fragment of the past that couldn’t utterly be snatched away. No one could cut down the damson or the cedar. “I’ll write straight away,” he said when they had discussed the business. “I’m sorry I left it.”

  He was writing the letter when Aunt Olive, who had answered the telephone, snatched pencil and paper and began to take down a wire, her manner becoming tinged with gloomy importance.

  “I’ll read it you word for word.” She cleared her throat. “ ‘Sharp attack last night doctor vetoes travel very sincere regrets and heartfelt wishes for your happiness Edward Lethbridge.’ ”

  “Oh!” said Mrs. Odell. “Oh, dear. I was so afraid … I asked him if he really felt equal to it, but after what he said about Raymond … Besides—”

  Laurie said, “I’m sorry he’s ill.” His wits moved slowly. Aunt Olive gave him a bright, nonreproachful look.

  “Well, how lucky it is, isn’t it, that you’re here and able to step into the breach!”

  Without quite looking at either of them, his mother said, “Of course I know it’s considered correct, but perhaps …”

  Yes, he had read that part of the letter. He remembered now why Great-Uncle Edward had been so important. As soon as he
became capable of thought again, he realized that there was, in fact, nobody else now.

  “Would you like me to give you away, Mother? Unless someone’s coming who’d be better?”

  “Who could be, darling? I know it’s rather sudden for you; it’s because we’re such a small family. At least,” she said, in the comfortable voice with which she had smoothed the minor crises of his schooldays, “you won’t have to worry about clothes.”

  “I wish I could have put up a pip for you.”

  “Darling, everyone can see why it was you didn’t have time for that.”

  Yes, he thought, of course. He tried to remember how long the aisle was. It was quite a big church. “It won’t look too good. I mean I’m awkward to walk with, rather.”

  “I shan’t find you awkward.” She got up from her chair and kissed him. “We must let Mrs. Joyce know about Uncle Edward at once; she was putting him up.”

  “I’ll go,” he said; but it ended with the two women going together. The house was quite near, Mrs. Joyce buoyant and reassuring.

  There was still the big cupboard in his room to be cleared for the Trevors. If he didn’t do it tonight, he would have to come back to the empty house tomorrow. It could be dealt with quite simply by throwing everything away.

  He got a dust-sheet and began tossing things into it. It was something of a massacre, for he had eliminated the rubbish when he joined the army, with the idea of sparing his mother a depressing job if he got killed; what was left had all had value for him as little as a year ago. When he came to the fencing foil again, he thought it wouldn’t hurt to leave this in the bottom of the cupboard; it took up almost no room, and the Trevors wouldn’t fuss. Then he remembered that out of all that was here, this was the thing he had least occasion to keep.

  He was sitting awkwardly on the floor, doing the kind of job for which it is natural to kneel, or squat on the heels. Suddenly he felt run to a standstill under the accumulated weight of the day’s wretchedness. He struggled to his feet, the foil still in his hand, its lightness coaxing his wrist and the heavy boot dragging at his foot. The guard rang dully as he let it fall.

  Laertes, you but dally, I pray you pass with your best violence; I am afear’d you make a wanton of me. …

  Laurie walked over to the window-seat. The curtains were gone, only the blackout stuff was left. He went and switched off the light. Now the night sky glimmered behind the damson-tree, and as his eyes cleared of dazzle, the stars appeared.

  “You mustn’t worry any more, Spud.”

  There would be frost soon on the pane. Laurie pressed his forehead to the icy glass and shut his eyes. He didn’t know why memories which had lain with his mind’s lumber for so many years, waking no more than a dim nostalgia, should return now to charge the present with so unbearable a weight of longing. On a stricken field littered with the abandoned trophies of his lifetime, he remembered a victory which had once seemed beyond the furthest reach of the most secret aspiration. But he only said to himself that he must have someone to talk to.

  He put on the light and looked at his watch. His mother had only been gone fifteen minutes. Mrs. Joyce was a great gossip; half an hour would be the least.

  He went down to the telephone, called Trunks, and waited. There might be a raid on somewhere, he thought, it might take an hour. He found he had got hold of a loose bit of trimming on the chair-arm and was pulling it off.

  He had made it a personal call; he didn’t want to hear voice after voice saying that Mr. Lanyon couldn’t be found. There were women’s voices outside, already, at the gate. But they were village voices, and passed on.

  “Have they answered yet?”

  “No. Will you try again, please, it’s urgent.”

  “The line has been busy but I am trying to connect you.” A bit of wire many miles off crackled and whispered.

  “Hello, Spud.”

  Laurie’s heart jerked violently, then steadied like a car settling into top gear.

  “Hello, Ralph. How on earth did you know it would be me?”

  “Never mind. Where are you speaking from?”

  “Home.”

  “Well, Spud, how is it? Not madly gay?”

  “Well, so-so. Everyone’s out; back any minute, I expect.”

  “Spud, relax. Forget it’s a telephone. We’re on our own. Loosen up, and tell me about it. House packed up?”

  “Yes; I’ve been doing my room.”

  “How long had you lived there?”

  “About fourteen years.”

  “God. Oh, Spud, about the dog. If you want to bring him away, I think I can fix him up at the Station for a bit.”

  “Thanks. I expect he’d have liked it. He’s been liquidated, only they forgot to tell me.”

  “What? What happened?”

  “He was getting on a bit. I had him all the time I was at school He was eleven.”

  “Spuddy. I’m very sorry.”

  “I’d rather have seen to it myself, that’s all. You can give them sleeping pills first, then they don’t know.”

  “What time is this wedding?”

  “Two.”

  “Village church, I suppose?”

  “Yes. It’s his church. Great-Uncle Edward’s had an attack, so he won’t be coming.”

  “Oh? Your mother very upset?”

  “Well, he was giving her away. It’s a good job I’m here, isn’t it?”

  “What? Oh, no, Spud, nonsense. No, they can’t make you do that.”

  “No one’s actually making me. But it’s hardly a job you can hand over to the churchwarden, when it comes to the point.”

  “Spud, why the hell didn’t you let me come with you?”

  “I can’t think, now.”

  Almost as he spoke, he heard the sound of the front door shutting, and voices in the hall.

  “Spud, can you hear me?”

  “Sorry, here comes the family.”

  “All right, Spud. Don’t worry, good night. I’ll be seeing you.”

  Laurie started to say “I’ll be back by—” But the line had died.

  A few minutes later, he remembered the unfinished job upstairs. But it was almost suppertime. In the end he bundled everything back in the cupboard again. It would have to be tomorrow, after all. He hadn’t meant to take the second night’s leave if he could catch the four-forty; but if he missed it, it couldn’t be helped.

  At ten o’clock, Aunt Olive remarked on the busy day they had had; told Mrs. Odell that she must have an early night; then blushed a congested dark red and changed the conversation. After this Laurie and his mother sat up for another twenty minutes, painfully discussing family friends and the war news. Aunt Olive seemed anxious to leave them together; but they both clung to her company, which must have pleased her, Laurie thought.

  Later, when he was ready for bed, he raked out the fire, and opened the blackout. The stars looked frosty; it was too early for the moon. It would have been cheerful to keep in the fire, pull up the mattress to it and read; but his mother would have been shocked to find no windows open, when she came down to say good night.

  When he heard her, he got up from the bed where he had been sitting and moved out into the room. She walked straight on toward the bed and did not see him until he spoke.

  “Not in bed yet, dear?” On any other night she would have said “I came to tuck you up,” but tonight she didn’t say it. She felt his dressing-gown and said, “This is so thin, darling, don’t catch cold.”

  He put his arm around her waist and kissed her, trying to think of absolutely nothing. “God bless you, Mother dear. Be very happy.”

  “Laurie darling; you must … you will try to get on with him, won’t you?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “All these years, all the time you were little, I’ve thought of no one but you.”

  “I know, dearest. Of course, I know.”

  “You must never repeat this to anyone, but Colonel Ramsay asked me to marry him, when you were at scho
ol. But I didn’t like the idea of giving you a stepfather when you were just at the difficult age. Now I’m not young any more; and next year, or the year after, when you want to get married, I should be all alone.”

  “Mother. I don’t want to get married. If that’s all, I … I don’t think I’ll ever want to. It’s just something I feel. If you don’t want to go through with it, I …”

  “Darling, but of course I do! Whatever put such an idea into your head? At this stage, too.”

  “Sorry, dear. It’s only that …”

  “You must never say such a thing to me again, it’s not kind, it’s very silly indeed.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean it.”

  “I don’t suppose you remember your father, now?”

  “A bit here and there. Not very well.”

  “I wasn’t unhappy with him, you know, till I found out how he was deceiving me. You know, dear, a woman gets, well, used to being married. I haven’t told you, but sometimes I’ve been rather lonely.”

  Once she had come to see him in hospital, before the bone infection had gone down. He had been in great pain but hadn’t wanted to tell her; he had lain watching the clock when she wasn’t looking, and praying silently, “Go away. Please go away.” He withdrew his arm, now, gently and as if by accident, and said, “Well, you be happy, dear, God knows you deserve it.”

  “I’ll have your room all ready for you; all your things, and the books put out.”

  “I’ll have to stay somewhere near a library, for a bit. You can’t read much in hospital. Don’t unpack the books yet, I might have to send for them.”

  “Don’t stay away too long, darling.” He felt that she had dreaded his early arrival in her heart, and was relieved.

  He said, “There’s going to be a frost tonight,” hoping that she would go. He had used his leg a good deal, doing odd jobs and climbing the hill; even with the altered boot it had been too much.

  “Laurie, darling. Don’t go quite away from me.”

  There was space behind him, he could turn his back to the little light there was; he had been right not to stay in bed, trapped against the wall. “If ever you need me,” he said, “ever, wherever I am.”