by Nina Bawden
“Oh, you fool,” she burst out contemptuously. “Just because I’m old, you speak to me as if I were a child—or an animal. You don’t know how I feel. You wait till you’re old, you’ll know what it’s like.”
Concerned, he asked, “What’s the matter? Aren’t you happy with us? Don’t we look after you?”
“Yes, you look after me,” she admitted ironically. “You feed me, give me a fire to sit by. But you don’t care. When you’re young there’s an illusion that someone is bound to you, a husband, a lover, a child…. It’s only when you’re old that you can’t escape the truth. Then you know you’re set apart, shut away inside your body and your mind with no one caring how you feel or think. I never knew I was lonely until I grew old.”
Her hands trembled together in her lap. For a pitying moment he glimpsed the terror and the sadness that possessed her but he could not understand it. He felt no desire for other people. Loneliness, to him, was freedom. He longed for it like a lover.
“Everyone is alone. You don’t have to be old to know that. There’s no comfort in other people,” he said wearily, feeling suddenly worn out, finished. His body was a life sentence, it gave him claustrophobia.
“The Church,” he said with difficulty. “Faith might help….”
“I don’t believe in God,” she said. “A fairy story for weaklings.”
For a moment, her eyes brightened, she sat more stiffly in her chair. But it was only a temporary recovery: almost immediately she slumped back into a hunched, defeated position. When Charles spoke to her, she made no response and fell, quite suddenly asleep, whimpering a little, a stream of pale dribble running unheeded from the corner of her mouth. With surprise he saw, for the first time clearly, that she was really very old. In the last few years she must have declined without his noticing it. Up to this moment he had, he realised, thought of her not as she was but as he had, as a young man, known her. Then, when her deafness was only partial, she had flourished a hearing-aid like a decoration and been an asset to any dinner party. She had been Charles’s fascinating aunt, the wit, the monumental old character. At nearly sixty she had tramped Europe, an intrepid water-colourist, with one hundred pounds and a hot-water bottle in her rucksack.
Now he looked at the ruin and thought, without much pity: poor old girl, but I suppose we all come to it in the end. An indignity, perhaps, but is there any use in whining? Some people were luckier, though—for himself, he prayed passionately for a quick death, no dragging years of uselessness.
As he left the house to look for Hilary it began to rain, big, pattering drops like a summer storm.
Hilary shook her head violently and, dropping his hands to his sides, the man stepped backwards.
“You should be more careful,” he said. “I knew a little girl got stuck in one of those pipes. She was playing a game and she got stuck inside.”
She looked up at him, her hands gripping the edge of the pipe. “What happened to her?” she asked curiously.
“I don’t know. Her friends ran away and left her. They didn’t tell anyone. They were afraid that if they did, they’d get into trouble. So they left her and pretended that they’d been somewhere else all afternoon.”
Hilary nodded. She was not surprised at what seemed to her entirely natural behaviour. Her legs felt cramped inside the pipe. “I feel stuck,” she said, horrified. The man smiled kindly and bending, hauled her out. Her dress was crumpled and covered with red dust. He brushed her down with his hands, muttering softly to himself. Then he spat on a corner of his dirty handkerchief and wiped the rust from her hands and face. When he had finished, he looked at her critically and smiled.
Then he sat down with his back against the sun-warmed pipe and took out a hunk of bread and cheese. He hacked at it with a penknife, singing a tune under his breath. He ignored Hilary completely.
She stood and watched him, shifting from one foot to the other. She sighed deeply. Nothing interesting was going to happen after all. It was a dull and pedestrian climax to the excitement that had seized her inside the pipe. She sidled up to the man and stood beside him, breathing heavily.
He said, without looking up, “Do you want something to eat, girlie?”
“Yes, please.” She sat beside him and watched his thin fingers tear the bread into two. He gave her half the bread and a piece of dry, cheese rind. She ate it quickly, stuffing it into her mouth and swallowing it in lumps. His eyes flickered briefly over her face before he went back to the business of his own meal. He ate daintily, rolling the soft bread into grey, smooth pellets and pecking at them like a bird. As he swallowed, his long hair fell forward, curving across his face with a smooth, glossy motion like a bird’s wings folding.
Hilary watched him with fear that felt like ecstasy. She sat quite still so as not to disturb him, her knees drawn up to her chin. When he was done, he brushed the crumbs from his coat and turned his head. He stared at Hilary with dark, mournful, unblinking eyes until she felt as if she were drowning in them. She could not look away.
He smiled, a gentle, loving smile. “You’re a funny little girl, aren’t you?”
“Why?” she asked expectantly. Delicious shivers ran through her body.
“A pretty little girl,” he continued without answering her, “but are you a sensible little girl, I wonder?” He cocked his head on one side and regarded her inquiringly. “I think you are,” he said. “I think so, yes, yes, yes.” He bobbed his head jerkily like a Jack-in-the-box and Hilary felt the laughter forcing itself up inside her. She clapped her hands over her mouth.
He leaned back comfortably against the pipe and laid his hand on her knee. Dreamily, his eyes half-closed, he went on, “I like little girls, but not when they run away or scream. I can’t bear it when they cry. You wouldn’t run away or scream, would you?”
His eyes sought hers and she shook her head dumbly. She was afraid when he put his face close to hers and she said, to divert his attention. “Where do you live?” It was the first thing that came into her head.
“Over there.” He waved his hand in the direction of the caravans, a field away. Beyond them, on the coastal road, Hilary could see the roofs of the cars winking in the sun.
“Wally lives there, too,” she said. “He promised to show me his caravan one day.”
“Do you want to come and see where I live?” He made the offer casually but as soon as he had spoken the idea seemed to catch his fancy and he went on in an urgent, coaxing voice, “I’ve got a bird. A soft, little, yellow bird. You can feed it if you like. It feeds out of my hand. It won’t be frightened of you if you’re nice and quiet.”
He stood up and lifted her to her feet. His hands were hard and trembled against her body. She wanted to go with him and yet she was afraid to go. She shrank from him and, at the same time, longed for him to enfold her with his love. Irresolute, she put her finger in her mouth and stared at him.
“Come now,” he said, and took her hand.
“No.”
The wind blew in her face, the sky grew dark. She remembered Poppet, walking along the front under the perilous, cold sky; Peregrine; the Devil’s cloven hoof. Fear beat like wings in her throat and burst from her mouth in a single shouted word.
His voice was thin. “You’re afraid.”
Somehow, she knew that was the danger point. She forced herself to stay still, to look up at him. “I’m not,” she said. “Only just now, I have to go. I’ll come another time, if I may, but not to-day. It’s very important,” she went on, extemporising wildly, “you see my grandfather is coming to tea this afternoon. He’s very rich and he loves me a lot, much, much more than Peregrine although he’s much nicer than I am really. You know Peregrine, don’t you? You saw him the other day, at Uncle Jack’s. My grandfather is going to leave all his money to me when he dies and not to Peregrine, so I must be there when he comes, mustn’t I? But I’ll come to-morrow, I promise. I’d like to see your bird. Good-bye.”
She held out her hand. He did not take i
t. He did not move. He watched her with a surprised look on his thin face. Then his eyes narrowed. “I remember you,” he said and took an undecided step towards her.
Slow drops of rain began to fall: one splashed on the top of her head and trickled through her hair on to her scalp, like syrup. Very slowly, she began to walk backwards, watching him. He made no move towards her. When she was a few yards away from him, she turned and walked towards the cliff. She wanted to run, her spirit raced ahead of her on desperate feet. He had said: I don’t like little girls who run away or scream. She must walk slowly so he would think she was not afraid. Her tongue felt thick and swollen and filled her mouth: if she tried to scream, no sound would come out of it. Dear God and Jesus, if You let me get home or, if that’s too difficult for You, if You let me get to the Downs, I’ll be good always, I’ll do what I’m told, I’ll do my homework, I promise, for Thine is the Kingdom, the Power and the Glory, for ever and ever, Amen.
No prayer goes unanswered if you pray with your heart, Nanny had said. She put all her strength into her prayer, seeing God like Father Christmas, robed in red, sitting on a cloud.
She reached the edge of the field and came out on to the cliff top by the shelter. Then she turned, slowly and deliberately, and saw him looking after her. It was raining hard, now, but he stood quite still. He looked sad and lonely, she thought, and she was suddenly ashamed because she had run away from him. He was unhappy because she had left him, she knew. The thought made her feel pleased and important. She waved her hand to him kindly and after a moment he raised his arm in reply, holding it stiffly in the air like a benediction.
“I’ll come to-morrow,” she called and the wind blew suffocatingly into her open mouth. She looked along the cliff top towards home and saw her father walking towards her. He walked with long strides, his big body top-heavy on his thin, old man’s legs, his coat collar turned up round his neck. He was too far away for her to see his face.
At the sight of him, her legs felt weak and her eyes misted over. Darting into the shelter, she knelt on the slatted seat and gazed through the glass at the swelling sea. The rain was making black, pitted holes in the water. She began to sing, “There is a green hill far away,” in a high, tuneless voice. The hymn answered her emotional need and, as she reached the lines, “There was no other good enough, to pay the price of sin,” her voice quivered and failed. A gush of warm tears overflowed her eyes and she felt cleansed and purified. When her father came into the shelter, she looked up at him and said, in an indifferent voice, “Oh, it’s you.”
“My little girl,” he said in a hoarse voice. Lifting her bodily from the seat, he buried his face roughly in her neck. She wriggled and he set her down, holding tightly on to her hand.
“Never do this again, never, never,” he said. His nails dug into her wrist. His strange, hot face, the pale tears in his eyes, embarrassed her beyond bearing. She pulled away from his hand and when he would not let her go, bent her head and bit his wrist. She heard his cry of pain and saw his face like a great, red sun swimming towards her. With an inarticulate wail, she ran towards the cliff edge. When she came to the drop, she turned and put her hands before her eyes, hiding from his anger and the enormous wickedness of her deed.
She looked as if she were cringing from an expected blow and Charles, who had never struck his children, was deeply moved.
“My poor little love,” he murmured, “my poor baby.”
Alice had recently been reading a book on child psychology. She had carefully rehearsed her scene with Hilary beforehand.
“Now dear. I think we must have a little talk, don’t you?”
Hilary, bathed and fed, shuffled in her chair before the nursery fire. Her eyes were bent sullenly on the floor. Alice felt that the little talk would be better staged if she had the child on her lap and, sitting on a low stool, tried to draw Hilary towards her. Hilary pulled away, pursing her lips and shaking her head. Annoyed, Alice clasped her hands round her knees and addressed her with less sweetness than she had intended.
“You’re quite old enough to be talked to like a sensible person. It was naughty of you to run away, but that isn’t the important thing. What is important, is why you did it. Do you know why?”
Hilary stared at her blankly.
“I’m going to tell you why. And you must listen carefully because if you understand why you ran away, then you won’t want to do anything like it ever again. Now—sometimes you are a rather silly little girl. You think Mummy doesn’t love you. It isn’t true, of course, but all the same you sometimes want to punish Mummy for not loving you. You thought, to-day, that if you ran away she would be frightened and unhappy and it would pay her out. That was why you ran away, wasn’t it?”
Alice was pleased with her explanation. She felt it showed a thorough understanding of the child mind. When Hilary did not immediately respond, she wondered whether the use of the third person had bewildered her. She leaned forward and spoke more directly. “You ran away to frighten me, didn’t you?”
Hilary shook her head and said in a bored voice, “No. I didn’t.”
Vexed at what seemed deliberate obtuseness, Alice insisted. “It would be better if you told me the truth. Let’s try again. You ran away to make me unhappy, didn’t you?”
Hilary’s eyes sought hers with a faint, imploring look. For a moment, Alice had her doubts and then, when the child answered, “I don’t know. Perhaps,” they were easily dispelled. It was not a complete admission but it was good enough: it laid the foundation for the rest of her argument.
“That’s better, dear. Now, listen to me. We all love you so there is not the smallest reason to be afraid of that. I love both my children. You and Peregrine. Sometimes you are a little jealous of Peregrine. Do you know what that means?”
Hilary breathed heavily through her nostrils. Alice knelt on the floor beside her. She was curiously excited. She wanted to caress the child but desisted.
She said carefully, “Well, dear, it means that sometimes you wish you were a boy. Because you think I love Peregrine best. Sometimes you even wish he wasn’t there at all so that you could have Mummy all to yourself. Isn’t that true?”
Hilary’s brow cleared. She even gently smiled as if this were a simple and perfectly impersonal question like three-times-eight or who burned the cakes? She said helpfully, “Sometimes I wish he would die.”
Recoiling, Alice searched her face for some signs of sly, intentional cleverness. Seeing the unpretending truth, she cried loudly, “Hilary, don’t you love your little brother?”
Hilary was aware that she had disappointed her mother. “I suppose so,” she answered, her doubtful eyes watching Alice’s face. Then, with a pleading smile, she thrust out her arm so that the pink flannel fell away and pointed to a red mark on her baby flesh. “Look,” she said with a faint, placating whine, “I burned myself, too. We were only playing a game.”
“Nonsense,” said Alice strongly, “Do you expect me to believe that?” Her head was throbbing. How bad a mother had she been for her children to hate one another? She longed to hurt this stupid, passionless child who had exposed her failure so plainly. “It is very wicked of you to talk like that,” she said in a low, spiteful voice. “It was very wicked of you to hurt Peregrine. Mummy only had Peregrine so that you wouldn’t be a lonely little girl without any brothers or sisters. Mummy suffered terribly when he was born and all her pain was for you.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Your little brother is a holy trust,” she whispered.
Hilary burst into loud, raucous weeping. When soft, loving arms were folded round her, she did not resist, but clung tightly to her tormentor. Rocking her gently, murmuring soothing words, Alice felt satisfied and calm. She had achieved her object, not the direct pleasure of causing pain, but the resulting fulfilment of her urgent maternal need—a positive response from her unresponsive child. She knew she had been cruel and, later, this would disgust and shame her, but now, in her assured position of comforter, she was rich and
secured against the world. Drawing the child deeper into her embrace, she said softly, “It’s all right, darling. Mummy loves you. Do you love Mummy?”
“Yes, yes,” Hilary moaned, her hot face buried in the scented breasts.
Such an emotional exchange was unusual between mother and daughter for both were deeply shy: Hilary’s admission aroused in Alice a storm of proud, possessive love. “My own darling,” she murmured, and with a consciously tender gesture kissed the defeated brow.
Hilary woke in fear. She crawled up from sleep through a dark tunnel and, waking to the light, was unable to remember what had frightened her.
The storm had blown itself out and a pale sun filled the room. Through the open window, she heard the late holiday-makers on the Downs, their voices ugly and unfamiliar with lazy, suburban vowels. Come here now, this minute, or I’ll give you what-for. In the high, blue sky, she watched a seagull floating, turning in the sun. Idly, she floated with it, for a moment she felt the warm wind on her own breast. She thought, who am I? Wonderingly, she touched the cool flesh of her arm.
She remembered the man, a terror, haunting her dreams, and turned over on to her face.
A little later the curtains were closed and the room was dim. Peregrine, in his night clothes, was standing by her bed. As she opened her eyes, she surprised a secret expression on his face as if he had been watching her for a long time. She hated the thought that he had seen her asleep and sat upright, saying, “I wasn’t really asleep, you know. Just thinking.”
He took her lie without a flicker of disbelief. “Daddy and I brought you a present,” he recited hoarsely and fumbled beneath his pyjama jacket.
The tabby kitten danced, stiff-legged, across the counterpane and stalked Hilary’s delighted hand among the bed-clothes. Half-away, looking into the sea-green eyes, Hilary thought, who am I? A cat, a wild cat, a tiger in the undergrowth. She touched it. Its fur was so soft that it was like nothing else in the world. It fled joyously to the end of the bed and crouched flat-bellied with twitching tail.
