I had to squeeze past to unlock the scullery door into the back. Once it was ajar, the light of the waning afternoon caught our faces. Master Georgie’s cheeks had flushed pink again, though that was due to exertion. The gate into the alleyway was insecure on its hinges and had been nailed shut to hold it fast. Master Georgie and the boy swarmed over the wall to look for something that might serve as a battering ram to burst it open. They sat Mr Hardy against the stump of a sycamore tree and told me to keep an eye on him, as though he was likely to stroll away. I did, yet I kept my distance, watching the rain glistening on the buttons of his coat.
Until he was dead I’d liked Mr Hardy. He was cheerful and lacking in malice and on the few occasions he’d noticed me his eyes twinkled. At parties he always sang after his dinner, and you could hear his voice all over the house. It was usually the same song, about a little drummer boy who called for his mother as he lay dying on a battlefield, and when it was over and the guests clapped their appreciation he sang it again. It had very sad words but he bellowed so heartily when it came to the line, Mother dear, I am fading fast, that no one could forbear laughing.
Now, if proof were required that the soul flees the body, I might have pointed the finger at him; there was no mistaking his emptiness. For his sake I hoped Mrs O’Gorman had been in the right of it when she’d asserted that rich people always had a friend waiting for them beyond the bright blue sky; he was no great shakes without his cronies round him. Standing there, listening to the melancholy gurglings of roof-top pigeons, I dwelt with pleasure on the unstable and transitory nature of life, seeing I was fortunate enough to be alive. Although the better part of me felt distress, I did know that I revelled in the moment. The mind, like the eye, perceives things more clearly in daylight.
There was a sudden thud against the gate, though it merely shuddered, and then two more blows, after which it gave and swung wide. Outside stood the purple van with its letters gaudily outlined in gold. It wasn’t the Punch and Judy man’s beast between the shafts, for that was no bigger than a donkey and this was the size of one of the dray horses that thundered from the cobbled courtyard of the brewery.
I held open the van doors while Master Georgie and the duck-boy lugged Mr Hardy across the yard. Once the boy stopped to catch his breath and Master Georgie cried out, ‘Hurry … we must lay him flat.’ Possibly the boy thought this levelling was required out of respect, but I knew haste was a necessity, owing to the danger of rigor mortis taking a grip. It wouldn’t do to have Mr Hardy arrive home shaped like a jack-knife.
The interior of the van still held the twisted remains of the puppet box, though Mr Punch wasn’t there, or Judy or the constable. We had to push the lengths of wood to one side to make space, and when it was done and the stiffening legs were straightened I was urged to jump in. Master Georgie was going to sit up with the boy, to give him directions. I didn’t care for the arrangement, but before I could demur the doors were slammed shut, the outside bolt pulled to, and Mr Hardy and I sank into a blackness as impenetrable as the tomb.
The journey was a bumpy affair, the van being light and the horse powerful. I had to put my legs across Mr Hardy and press down hard to keep him pinned flat. When the wheels hit holes in the road we fairly bounced in the air; flying round a corner a sharp object hit me in the chest. Reading it with my fingers, I recognised Mr Punch’s poor baby and stroked its wooden cheek against my own, crooning it mustn’t be afraid.
In the darkness, pictures floated in my head of Mrs Hardy and Miss Beatrice becoming acquainted with the dreadful news. Miss Beatrice was weeping, for herself rather than her departed father, because now he was gone she’d have to stay with her widowed mother and give up the idea of running away to sea. Mrs O’Gorman blamed education for putting the notion into her head, because she’d never pined for anything so outlandish until she was sent away to boarding school in Lichfield. Mrs Hardy was lying in bed calling out for Dr Potter to fetch the port wine. He was too occupied in comforting Miss Beatrice to pay heed, for she was in his arms at last, and his face, loony with delight, beamed above her trembling shoulder. I poured out the wine from the cooler on the dresser and took it to Mrs Hardy; before she sipped she seized my wrist and murmured with popping eyes, ‘You are the only true friend I have in this dark world.’ I replied, ‘It is my duty,’ which struck me as not friendly enough, so I added, ‘and my pleasure.’
Just then, Mr Hardy rolled under my legs. I was frightened his face might get splinters from the lengths of wood, though I imagined dead flesh needed no protection against the arrows of life. All the same, I tugged at his jacket to bring him closer; it was Master Georgie I was shielding.
Tears had sprung into my eyes when I’d thought about Mrs Hardy, for I reckoned she loved her husband in spite of all her moanings to the contrary, and I expect things were different between them when they were first joined. She was cleverer than him and didn’t like his singing and perhaps that had driven them apart. Mrs O’Gorman said they’d met at a horse race in India, where it was so hot that everyone’s judgements got muzzy and they had to lie down every afternoon. It was a question of old habits dying hard, for Mrs Hardy did that even if the weather was cold.
Suddenly the van slowed to a halt and then unaccountably bucked backwards. I could hear the horse’s great hooves ringing on the cobblestones as I tipped towards the doors. After some manoeuvring we lurched to the left, which slid me forward again. I don’t know where Mr Hardy was and didn’t care. I drew my knees up to my chin and gabbled over and over that the Lord was my shepherd and I should not want.
Some minutes later, during which we swayed over rough ground, the vehicle juddered to a stop. The bolt was pulled back and no sooner had I scrambled down, blinking in the light, than Master Georgie took me by the arm and drawing me to one side began to whisper urgent instructions.
‘There’s a carriage at the front of the house, Myrtle … use the back stairs and see where Mrs O’Gorman and the servants are … find out what room Miss Beatrice is in …’
While his breath deliciously quivered against the rim of my ear, far away on the horizon a smudge of smoke blew from the engine box of a scuttling train.
‘… Return as soon as you can … keep a sharp watch on the garden in case that fool Potter is still mooning about the orchard. Don’t let anyone see you, and if they do, don’t utter a word of what has happened.’
‘I won’t,’ I said.
‘It’s a fair trudge to the house,’ observed the duck-boy. ‘We need something to carry him in.’
‘Not a single word,’ repeated Master Georgie, looking as though his life depended on it. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Trust me,’ I said. ‘My lips are sealed,’ and with that I was off, running across the pig field at the side of the house, skirting the fierce rooting sow with the cruel pink eyes, leaping the ditch that ran beside the walled garden.
Mrs O’Gorman was slumped in her chair by the kitchen fire, pinny over her head to keep out what remained of the light. She dozed soundly, the white fabric flaring in and out as she snored, her hand clutching a slice of toasted bread; the dog had its nose on her knee, licking off the butter. I could hear the cook and the maid-servant chirruping above the clatter of pots in the scullery beyond. One exclaimed, ‘Oh, he never, he never,’ and the other screeched, ‘He did. Yes, he did.’
Creeping up the back stairs I peered out into the hall. There was a bluebottle spinning round and round beneath the chandelier, and what with the whine of its dizzy spirals and the thumping of my heart, I didn’t immediately detect the buzz of voices droning from within the parlour. Not daring to go too close, for the door was ajar, I tiptoed as far as the grandfather clock and listened from there. I caught only snatches of the conversation and none of it made sense.
‘It’s true, I promise you … all the way home.’ That was Miss Beatrice speaking.
Then another voice, one I didn’t recognise, pleaded, ‘Did he? Are you sure?’
‘Ha
nd on my heart … look into my eyes—’
‘I beg you not to be swayed by sisterly feelings—’
‘I assure you it’s the truth. All that is required is a little feminine cunning.’
‘Of which you have more than enough to spare,’ interjected a masculine voice, that of Dr Potter and remarkably bitter in tone.
There followed an interchange concerning a proposed tea party, the prospect of which seemed greatly to excite the unseen and unknown young woman, for she cried out, ‘You’re sure he can be persuaded to come?’
Miss Beatrice said, ‘You may depend upon it … although he always has his nose in a book—’
‘Oh dear,’ came the response, ‘perhaps I should go home and read one at once—’ at which both the speaker and Miss Beatrice squealed with laughter.
‘Poor boy,’ observed Dr Potter gloomily. ‘I fear he is doomed,’ and with that the door was flung wide and the hall became loud with the swish of skirts. I was out from behind the clock in a flash and into the clothes cupboard.
They stood by the front door for an age, kissing and exchanging pleasantries, though I could tell Miss Beatrice’s interest was beginning to flag. Her voice declined in fervour and shortly, the rain having temporarily ceased, she declared that ‘dear Annie’ should make haste to her carriage. Dr Potter said he would escort her along the drive but Miss Beatrice cut in and said there was no need. Finally the door slammed shut. There followed a silence broken by a slight scuffle. Dr Potter said, ‘You must think I’m made of stone,’ and Miss Beatrice said, ‘I might prefer it if you were.’ Then their footsteps retreated in the direction of the parlour and I heard the door close.
Snatching Master Georgie’s fur-lined cloak from off its hook, I sped down the stairs, along the passage and out into the garden. In my flight the cloak swung out at the hollyhocks beside the water-closet wall, sending the withered petals flying. The orchard had dimmed now, the shadows swaying beneath my feet. I misjudged the width of the ditch and trod its muddy depths. Bedraggled, I sprinted across the field to where the Punch and Judy van stood waiting.
The duck-boy sat on a bank of earth, head back, with Master Georgie standing over him, engaged in examining the mulberry stain on his lip. I expect it kept his mind off things to play the doctor. When I approached he took the cloak from me without comment, though its hem was soaked. He neither thanked nor scolded, which made me sullen, for either praise or censure would have been some indication of my existence. I told him that the visitor was gone and that Miss Beatrice and Dr Potter were sparring in the parlour. I didn’t have to report on Mrs Hardy, slumber being her regular afternoon activity. ‘Mrs O’Gorman,’ I said, ‘has nodded off. I don’t believe she’ll stir for a good half-hour or more.’
‘Who was the visitor?’ he asked.
‘A young lady,’ I said. ‘She’s sweet on someone Miss Beatrice knows.’
‘Keep an eye on the house,’ he ordered, and I wandered away and watched from afar as he and the duck-boy lumped Mr Hardy out of the van and laid him in the cloak. Slung thus, he was carried across the field. At the start his boots and his hat were balanced on his chest, only they kept sliding off. I ran back to help but Master Georgie waved me aside and finally the duck-boy jammed the hat on his own head. I don’t know what happened to the boots, for I never saw them again and possibly they’re still lying mildewed in the ditch.
Wading ahead through the wet grass, my thoughts became melancholy. The hidden sun was beginning to set now, staining the scudding clouds with crimson, and I took its bloody aspect for an omen. I didn’t like Mr Hardy being dead, because it meant my life would be different than before. I tried to bear in mind the example of King David, who, as long as his son lay on a bed of sickness, implored Jehovah to let him live, and when he didn’t, snapped his fingers and thought no more of it. Everything that happens, I told myself, is the result of necessity, and therefore inevitable. It was of little comfort.
They got Mr Hardy into the house and up to the second floor without mishap, and deposited him on his bed in the blue room at the end of the passage. Mrs Hardy didn’t often allow him into the master bedroom one floor below, owing to headaches and differences of opinion. Mr Hardy’s chamber was a man’s room, devoid of furbelows and knick-knacks apart from a china vase which his mother had cherished and a pennant belonging to the 52nd Light Infantry that an uncle had carried at Waterloo.
Mr Hardy’s hands and face were streaked with dirt from his recent journey, and I was dispatched to bring up water from the kitchens. There was a full pitcher on the dresser but Master Georgie had his wits about him and said it would arouse suspicion if it was found to have been used; Mr Hardy wasn’t a great man for washing.
The cook and Lolly, the maid-servant, were sat at the table playing cards. Mrs O’Gorman was awake, though still in her chair. She wanted to know where I’d been and I replied truthfully that I’d followed Master Georgie into town. Before she could question me further I complained of thirst and once in the scullery filled up a basin and took it out by the side door and in through the front. In my haste, half of the water got spilled, but by good fortune Dr Potter was busy tickling the ivories and the parlour door remained shut.
The duck-boy had gone when I returned, and shortly after, when Master Georgie told me to pull up the window – I reckon he was concerned about Mr Hardy’s approaching decay – I saw the purple van bouncing along the path beside the pig field.
Soon Mr Hardy looked peaceful enough, clothes brushed, hair combed back, cheek to the pillow so as to keep his mouth closed, one fist prised open, the other thumped against his chest. He had died with his eyes shut, either from pain or not wanting to confront what was coming, so he didn’t need pennies on his lids. He was laid out on top of the counterpane, to foster the illusion he’d thrown himself down after a rollicking visit to the Roscoe Club. When we were done I threw the dirty water out of the window and Master Georgie ferreted out a second pair of boots and positioned them under the wicker chair by the wardrobe.
He said, ‘Remember, Myrtle, he died in bed from a cessation of the heart.’ It was, after all, no more than the truth, if one didn’t dwell on which particular bed.
Just as we were quitting the room, a cabbage butterfly flittered in through the open window and settled on Mr Hardy’s naked foot. I made to chase it away but Master Georgie stayed my hand. ‘Think, Myrtle,’ he said, ‘of the contrast between what is fleeting and what is permanent.’ He was weeping, though silently. Afterwards, he went straight to the stables and, saddling his horse, cantered into the gloaming.
When the gong was beaten for dinner and Mr Hardy didn’t appear, it was assumed he was out. It was the maid-servant who found him, an hour or so later, having gone upstairs to see to the fires. She was too shocked to scream and broke the news in a whisper. She told the cook she thought his toes moved, but it was a trick of the candle flame. I was sent off to bring back Dr Potter who had only just left.
I witnessed some of what followed and won’t forget it; Miss Beatrice dashing her head against the metal petals circling the oval mirror in the drawing room, pummelling Dr Potter with her fists as he attempted to mop her bleeding brow with his handkerchief; Mrs O’Gorman kicking the dog for scratching at the lino outside the blue room; Mrs Hardy, composed and quiet as the grave, standing in the hall and staring at the front door as though she expected her husband might yet come home.
Around midnight, Master Georgie returned, accompanied by a distant relative of Mrs Hardy’s, a Captain Tuckett, who happened to be staying in the neighbourhood. Dr Potter took them upstairs to the drawing room to tell them about Mr Hardy, so I didn’t see Master Georgie aping surprise. Mrs Hardy stayed below, and when Captain Tuckett came down again to proffer his condolences, she nodded in a business-like way and turned her back on him. He stood a moment, looking suitably sorrowful, then he put on his hat and took himself off. When I told Mrs O’Gorman she said Captain Tuckett had gained notoriety in bringing an action against the Earl
of Cardigan for taking a pot-shot at him on Wimbledon Common, and in any case was so distantly connected to Mrs Hardy that he scarcely counted.
The comings and goings went on into the small hours, though I was sent to my bed. I didn’t fall asleep until it was almost light, which was odd seeing I’d been run off my feet.
The maid-servant woke me the next morning, shaking my shoulder and urging me to get up. I opened my eyes to a flood of light and the noise of bird-song. Each pane of glass in the window held a square of cloudless sky.
‘You’re wanted downstairs,’ Lolly said. ‘Master Georgie needs you in the blue room. By the state of him, he hasn’t been to his bed all night.’
He appeared just the same to me – that sweet mouth, those wide apart eyes whose gaze never looked, merely flickered over me; but then, I didn’t suppose I saw him as he really was, and never had. He had his camera set up and all his trays placed about the floor. A globule of quicksilver had spilled on to the carpet, where it flashed in the sunlight.
When I glanced at the bed, the events of the day before, until that moment indistinct as a faded dream, returned in odious detail. Mr Hardy had shrunk and his skin grown blotchy, like fruit left too long in the bowl. Someone had kept vigil round him in the night: tears of congealed wax bobbled the stems of the silver candlesticks.
Master Georgie said, ‘You and I share a secret, Myrtle. I blame myself for burdening you with it.’
‘I won’t tell,’ I said.
‘I should never have made you a party to it—’
‘Wild horses wouldn’t make me tell,’ I insisted.
‘I don’t wish you to lie, Myrtle. That would be wrong.’ He was fitting his plates into his camera as he spoke, fingers stained yellow from the iodine mixture. ‘I’m not worried on my account. It’s my mother I have to protect.’
It puzzled me what it was Mrs Hardy needed protecting from. After all, it wasn’t the first time Mr Hardy had been carried home the worse for wear, though certainly it was his last.
The Novels of Beryl Bainbridge Volume 1 Page 34
