Death in Summer

by William Trevor

  She fears the dog may roam at night, but there is only silence when she listens. The air is colder than it was. The stillness is different from the stillness of the lanes and fields.

  Cautiously she pushes open the door in the wall. If the dog comes she’ll call its name and pat its head, the same’s she’s done a dozen times. But only a black cat darts from her path.

  A fading moonlight casts grey shadows in the greyness before dawn begins its mellowing of the house’s bulk. Windows gleam then, curtains showing in some. Contours sharpen, trees and shrubs reclaim their colours. Lawns do not come green, but an insipid yellow. Borders and heather slopes lighten. Rooks scavenge for leather-jackets.

  In the summer-house there are deckchairs against a wall, croquet mallets and croquet balls, a slatted table folded with the chairs, sun-glasses on a windowsill, a tray with Gordon’s gin and other bottles on it, a coloured umbrella in a corner. Outside, on a white iron table, its round surface an openwork pattern of flattened roses, two empty glasses have each attracted a wasp, motionless now. Near the brick-sided cold-frames, potatoes have been dug, their haulm withered on the dry earth.

  She pokes about the cobbled yard. There is the car she has seen the couple in; Subaru it says on it, Justy. The other car is his — the one that in a dream he drew up beside her, near the graveyard. There’s nothing of the old woman’s anywhere, neither a car nor anything else.

  At half past six the post van comes. She leaves the garden then, to watch from the doorway in the wall, and sees the first curtains pulled back. At twenty past seven a newspaper is pushed through the front-door letterbox, another brought round to the back. At five past eight a milk float comes; voices speak in the yard. The dog lollops up to her to sniff damply at her legs, then pads off to the ragged grass beneath the trees.

  Hungry now, Pettie remains. The woman in black clothes crosses the yard. The hall door opens and is left like that.

  Anyone could slip into the house. Anyone could pass through the hall, could take possession of the silver fowls on the dining-room table and then skulk away. It is typical of him that he doesn’t think of that, typical of the person he is.

  When he appears she wants to go to him, to say she knows he has guessed there wasn’t ever a ring, to tell him all the truth. But no good would come of that, and instead she watches while he carries a deckchair from the summer house. The old woman spreads her familiar, differently coloured rug on the grass and moves the chair he has erected for her. He goes to the house and returns with his baby.

  While miles away, all morning, a chain-saw whines, Pettie watches the woman she has come to hate. She watches her turning the pages of her book, standing up to attend to some need of the baby’s, then settling herself in her chair again. She has a white hat on, wide-brimmed, to protect her from the sun, and dark glasses to protect her eyes. Her head droops once or twice, but then she is alert again.

  Calm now and yet excited, unaffected by her hunger, Pettie waits, but all that day the moment does not come.

  9

  Four days go by, during which Maidment is unaware that his eavesdropper’s role is shared. Nor does Zenobia know that she is regularly observed lingering in the sunshine after gathering herbs. Thaddeus is ignorant of a passion that will not be stilled. Mrs. Iveson knows nothing of her detestation. Her death in midday sunshine, her death in the dark of night, coming to her in sleep, her death most suddenly in the hall, on the landing, on the stairs, catching her naked in her bath, touching a half-spoken word, arresting the movement of an arm: she does not know this has been real, before it shrivelled away to nothing. She does not know a greater reality remains, a single chance that gathers strength with time.

  Over lunch on the fifth of the days that pass — consomme, oatcakes, cheese, coffee — the conversation in the dining-room, usually conducted along similar meal-time lines, includes a variation.

  ‘I’m glad I came,’ Mrs. Iveson confesses, seeking to convey more than the words imply, yet not too much.

  ‘And I am that you did.’

  ‘Are you, Thaddeus?’

  He smiles and reassures her. Listening, she wonders if her daughter knew him better than she does now. Or was there always, for Letitia too, a reticence that is the shell of his protection? Mystery in a person is attractive: more often than not it is its presence that inspires the helpless, tumbling descent into love. When Thaddeus was a stranger to her, as he was before this summer, it was always incomprehensible that Letitia appeared to sense something of the mysterious in him: it is less so now. Mrs. Iveson cannot tell her son-in-law that she likes him better, although he knows, of course, that once she did not like him at all. To say what she has said already is as far as she can go today, and probably ever.

  ‘We haven’t quarrelled.’ Thaddeus smiles away the word that doesn’t belong, for it is ludicrous that they should quarrel, neither by nature being the kind to. He wonders if she knows that, for his part, he nurtures no animosity towards her and never has, although aware of her misgivings as regards himself. ‘I doubt we ever shall,’ he adds, preferring to say that than to touch upon his feelings.

  ‘When I first suggested a nanny for Georgina, and later when I suggested our present arrangement, I felt you could not at all have managed. Perhaps, though, you could have.’

  ‘It’s better for Georgina to have someone as a mother.’

  ‘If it’s a strain, you must say.’

  ‘And of course so must you.’

  ‘All this is much more than something for me to do. It is everything, but that should not come into it.’

  ‘It does come into it, because you are who you are, because Georgina is your child too.’

  They hover, like uncertain birds. They skirt emotion, steer clear of words that might drag it out of hiding. Thaddeus’s hands are occupied, slicing cheese, his concentration guiding the slow movement of the knife. Her eyes unwavering, fixed now on the sliver cut from the Etorki, Mrs. Iveson does not speak. Then, suddenly, she says:

  ‘You made Letitia happy.’

  ‘Don’t people in marriages try for that?’

  ‘People in marriages are often wretched.’

  Cautious again, they do not say more. On the table in the hall the telephone rings and Maidment, passing with the coffee, settles the tray on the table’s edge, one hand still holding it. As he lifts the receiver he wonders if- as several times recently and still a puzzle — there will be no response when he speaks. But a woman’s voice says at once:

  ‘Mr. Davenant?’

  When Thaddeus comes the same voice tells him that Mrs. Dorothy Ferry has asked if he might be contacted and informed of her admission.

  ‘Admission?’

  The name of a hospital is given. ‘Mrs. Ferry’s comfortable, Mr. Davenant, but there is cause for some concern. I rang at once.’

  ‘That was very good of you. Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll give you our address, sir.’

  ‘Yes. Please do.’

  He listens and is told, informed that in the circumstances he may come at any time. Directions are given, should he care to do so. ‘This afternoon would not be inconvenient for us, Mr. Davenant.’

  ‘There is some urgency?’

  ‘We would not advise delay, sir.’

  In the dining-room, when the conversation as it was is not resumed, Thaddeus says he’ll be out for a bit, explaining that someone has been taken into hospital, not giving details.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes, so am I.’ And he wonders as he speaks if once he would have so promptly agreed to make this journey. Reflecting further, he knows he would not; and knows that making it now is another response to the influence of death and the sentiment it trails.

  Twenty minutes later, hanging clothes on the line in the yard, Zenobia sees the blue Saab backed out of the garage. Through glass and vine leaves, drawing on his after-lunch cigarette behind the conservatory, Maidment observes it halt for a moment on the tarmac sweep, the passenger door pushed
open. On her way from the dining-room, Mrs. Iveson hears Rosie called.

  The hum of the engine fades and then can not be heard. Pettie listens for the sound of the car returning — something forgotten or some sudden change of plan. But nothing disturbs this dead time of the afternoon.

  ‘My dear!’ Mrs. Ferry greets her visitor from bright white pillows, her effort at jauntiness collapsing before it has a chance. ‘My dear, I didn’t think you’d come.’

  Her voice is weak, a croak that is a whisper also. She tries to smile. She pushes out a hand.

  ‘It’s homey here,’ she says. ‘A little place is.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed.’

  ‘Can’t stand the big ones.’

  ‘I’m sorry you’re not well, Dot.’

  ‘Dear, I haven’t been, you know.’

  ‘You said.’

  ‘You didn’t go along with it.’

  ‘Of course I did.’

  ‘I couldn’t blame you, dear.’

  Again there is the effort at a smile, but something collapses in Mrs. Ferry’s face and from beneath closed eyelids tears run on cheeks that are innocent of make-up, the first time Thaddeus has ever seen them so.

  ‘You rest now, Dot. Don’t try to talk.’

  ‘A pity we didn’t tie our loose ends together. A pity we didn’t get round to it.’

  Her voice fades, is hardly audible when it returns, solitary words rising out of a jumble to hang there meaninglessly, the names of men, items on the menu at the Beech Trees, childhood words. In the small hospital they have given her a room to herself, to which a nurse now brings two cups of tea. She takes one away, realizing at once that her patient cannot manage it. When Thaddeus has drunk some of his he says:

  ‘I think you’d like to have a sleep.’

  ‘You pour us a drink, dear? He has to see the tax man. He won’t be back.’

  Children are playing somewhere, a distant sound, muffled by double-glazing.

  ‘Come back to bed, Thad.’

  A sister bustles in, brisk and jolly, her manner filling the little room. She takes Mrs. Ferry’s pulse. ‘Lovely,’ she says, then motions Thaddeus to the door. ‘Your mother’s quite poorly,’ she says more quietly.

  ‘Actually she’s not my mother.’

  ‘Oh, I thought they said — a friend, are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s not too bright. There’s been sedation, of course.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘She’ll know more about herself when she’s had a sleep. She lives on her own, we’re to understand?’

  ‘Yes, she’s on her own.’

  ‘You can always tell. I’m sorry about that little error.’

  ‘I’ll go in a moment.’

  The sister nods and goes herself. Mrs. Ferry’s murmuring continues when Thaddeus returns to her bedside. It ceases when she opens her eyes. Slowly a smile begins, then wearily languishes.

  ‘Your wife,’ she says. ‘I often think about that kindness.’

  ‘I’m a widower, Dot. I wanted to tell you that.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A widower.’

  ‘Never, dear. He married a Lytham lady. Still clonking along, the pair of them.’

  ‘No, Dot, it’s -’

  ‘June eighty-eight, the registry in Lytham. Funny, how some people make a go of it.’

  She closes her eyes, then with an effort opens them again.

  ‘The pancreas. They say — it’s not so good.’

  ‘It’ll be all right, Dot.’

  ‘You’ll take me to your lovely home, will you? Will you, Thad? I always wanted that.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Butter side up, Thad. I always knew you’d settle butter side up. I used to say to Oscar, I said to Chef. “Good-looking boy,” Chef said. Well, you know what Chef got up to.’

  Thaddeus doesn’t, but nods all the same.

  ‘It’s final, you know,’ Mrs. Ferry murmurs. ‘You know that, Thad? This lovely summer and it’s final.’

  ‘Of course it isn’t.’

  ‘I liked it best at Blackpool. I never thought I’d like a place like Blackpool, but I did. Time we were naughties there, you and I.’

  He does not deny the claim, only wondering if for the moment he is someone else for her, or if the confusion’s in her memory.

  ‘I wanted you, Thad. Oh, my dear, I wanted you so.’

  ‘You had me.’

  ‘Not ever. A boy you were. To this day, Thad. Pour us a drink, dear.’

  ‘In a moment. Just rest a while.’

  ‘You think he knows? You think they told him? The day he married me he said he was the luckiest man on earth and all I did was lead him a dance. You tell him that from me? You tell him I’m sorry, Thad?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Like yesterday, Blackpool seems. But then again it isn’t, is it?’

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Well, there you go, as they say.’

  ‘You rest now, Dot.’

  ‘Your lovely house, your lovely wife. I’m happy for you, Thad.’

  Her head drops back, a dribble runs from one corner of her mouth. Alarmed, Thaddeus presses the bell that hangs near the pillow.

  ‘She’s sleeping now,’ the nurse who comes says.

  Rosie noses about the hospital car park. Leaning against the side of the car, he lets her for a while. Butter side up, and of course that’s true. Why could he never have been less elusive, less private with a woman who so longed for him to be forthcoming? As she lay there now he could not even say that his garden is suffering from the drought, nor that his mother-in-law has come to his house, that he and she — old enemies — are determined to create a family of a kind and that, for both of them, there is the beginning of recovery after the shock of death. He is ashamed he could confess today to being a widower when he could not before.

  The guilt that shadows a relationship accompanies him on the drive home, still hanging about his thoughts when he leaves the traffic behind. Not far from Quincunx a rabbit scuttles from one thorn hedge to the other and he slows down to avoid it, even though rabbits are a nuisance in the garden.

  10

  ‘No, that’s Mr. Davenant I’d think,’ Maidment says in the drawing-room.

  He speaks soothingly, standing over her, looking down at her. She is huddled on the sofa, one hand grasping the other in an effort to prevent their shaking. Rosie is in the garden again, having given her single, staccato bark. A door closes, and there are Thaddeus’s footsteps in the hall and then he’s in the room.

  ‘The child’s been taken, sir,’ she hears Maidment saying, and Thaddeus saying Zenobia has told him already. Thaddeus asks what happened exactly and she says it was her fault. While she’s speaking there is the sound of another car.

  ‘When I woke up Georgina wasn’t there,’ she says.

  Maidment goes before the doorbell summons him. The hall door opens and there are voices. Thaddeus’s tone is expressionless when he asks again what happened.

  ‘I fell asleep,’ she says.

  The police officers are two men and a woman. Unable to prevent herself, she wonders if they’re the ones who came before, their presence now connecting the two events. The two events belong together, an insistence hammers in her brain: if Letitia had not died this would not be happening now. That makes no sense, yet already has gathered a rationality of its own.

  ‘Mr. Davenant?’ one of the officers greets Thaddeus. He is a bulky, dishevelled man, not in uniform, the frayed part of his tie half hidden in its knot. The tie is red and green, held in place with a tiepin. There’s a trace of cigarette ash on the brown of his jacket.

  ‘Yes,’ Thaddeus says.

  She looks up to nod when Thaddeus says who she is. She says again it was her fault.

  ‘No one’s fault, ma’am, something like this.’ The policeman shakes his head, his tone tiredly sympathetic. She can feel him wanting to sigh; she knows he blames her. Old, he’s thinking, trying not to l
et it show. ‘Let’s just sort out the facts,’ he says.

  None of the three sits down, although Thaddeus has indicated that they should. The uniformed man is short-haired, in early middle age, a finger missing from his left hand. The woman is much younger, and smarter in appearance, her blue uniform freshly pressed. A poor skin well disguised, Maidment observed when he opened the hall door, but Mrs. Iveson doesn’t notice that.

  ‘Is there anyone you can think of?’ The man who is not in uniform continues to be in charge, the short-haired one fiddling with some kind of recording gadget or bleeper, she can’t tell which.

  Thaddeus shakes his head. He says he has only minutes ago returned to the house. Then he turns to her.

  ‘Please tell us.’ He looks down at her, his voice calm, as if he wishes to be soothing, as Maidment was a moment ago. She thought it was a dream when she awoke and saw the rug empty but for the toys and the carry-cot on it. She stood up and looked around her. She stared at the rug and the toys and the carry-cot, feeling she was still in a dream.

  ‘I ran about the garden like a mad creature, calling Georgina’s name over and over again. I went on calling out, thinking she had crawled away. But of course that was ridiculous.’

  ‘And there is no one either of you can think of?’ Patiently the question is posed again. And then: ‘The child’s mother is not here, sir?’

  Mrs. Iveson closes her eyes; again there is the feeling that she is in a dream. Thaddeus says he is widowed.

  ‘I see, sir.’

  Relentlessly, or so it seems to Mrs. Iveson, the man goes on. His colleagues are not wearing jackets, but he has made no concession to the heat of the afternoon. His untidy brown suit is heavy and wintry-looking.

  ‘There’s no one who could have an interest in the child, sir?’

  ‘No.’

  For a moment, when the Maidments brought her into the house, she found it hard to speak. Maidment suggested brandy but she didn’t want it. When he was on the telephone she asked Zenobia what time it was.

  ‘And you can think of no one, madam?’