The House

by Hilda Lawrence

  “It’s all right, Mother. But I’d rather not talk about it.”

  She refused her usual game of solitaire, and we sat by the fire until she went to bed. I walked with her as far as her door. She kissed my cheek and told me to sleep well, and I know she watched until I turned into the hall that leads to my room.

  When I left the house much later, no one knew it. I was careful. But Tray knew. He had vanished after dinner; he was not on his rug when I went through the kitchen passage. But wherever he was, he knew, and followed me.

  Tonight I stayed in the garden until the Barnabys’ lights went out I watched the guests leaving. I knew all by name, and some of them I had met I saw old Mrs. Barnaby—they call her Lucy—emptying ashtrays, collecting bottles and glasses, ruffling Joe’s plastered hair and laughing at him. I saw Mike and wanted to call him. I willed him to think of me. I begged him silently to know I was there.

  Tray watched, too, standing motionless beside me. He reminded me of something I thought I’d forgotten. Once, when I was a child, I saw a stone dog crouched at the foot of a grave. There was a story about it A living dog had grieved for his master and died there, and the stone dog was a memorial. I thought then that it was ugly and pretentious. I wonder what Tray would do if I took him to Father’s grave. I wonder if he goes there alone when he disappears for hours each day. I have never seen him leave the grounds or return, but Anna says he does. He frightens Anna. One night she locked him in the kitchen because it was warmer than the passage, and in the morning he was still locked in, but his coat was damp and his paws were full of sand and gravel. He had not been with me that night—I had stayed in my room. But I told her I had let him out.

  It was raining before we left the garden. Tray followed me to my room and waited until I had locked my door.

  There is no sound in this part of the house. There are two things I can do until morning. I can sit here by the window and watch the rain, or I can lie in bed and remember. I can sit by the window and remember, too.

  Mother wants me to take Fathers room, adjoining hers. After all the years of close companionship she cannot bear to have it empty. I’ve seen her standing at the door, looking at the canopied bed with its deep-blue cover, the deep-blue chairs, and the dark, glowing furniture. They keep it in perfect order, as if he were there, never forgetting the bowl of red carnations that he loved. This morning there were red carnations on the mantel above the fireplace, and they doubled themselves in the mirror. The room is exactly as he left it; it has an air of waiting, its emptiness seems temporary...His face was whiter than the linen on his pillowcase.

  No disease? Why do they say that? He was ill for months; he took months for his dying; he fought it secretly, as if, it were disgraceful. There were good days and bad days. On the bad days, when he stayed in bed, I wanted to be with him, but he sent me away. I would stand in the doorway and speak to him. I never entered without permission. Tray was always there, defensive and protective.

  Father would quiet Tray and smile at me. “Run along,” he’d say. “Amuse yourself. I’m an old man, and I’m resting.”

  He was sixty-five, not old enough for death, and he wasn’t resting. He was shrunken and drawn, and his mouth curled with pain. I know it was pain. He wouldn’t eat Mrs. Tench made custards and broth and took them to him herself, but she was unlucky, too. Only once did he ever ask me for anything, and that was when he wanted milk. A full bottle. When I brought it, he took my hand, and Tray got up from the floor and put his front paws on the bed.

  “What do you do with yourself all day?” Father asked me.

  I told him I walked and read and saw the Barnabys.

  He smiled stiffly. “Do you like that? Is it sufficient? Does it keep you happy?”

  “It’s what I always do when I’m home, Father.”

  He dropped my hand and rested his own on Tray’s head. “It seems little enough. I had other plans for you this year. I had enormous plans for the twenty-fourth of December. When a man has an only child and that child comes of age—”

  “There is plenty of time, Father. Summer is still here.”

  “So it is. We don’t know each other very well, do we?”

  I had no answer for that. I couldn’t tell him that he was, or had been, no more than a well-dressed stranger, courteous when we met in the halls and on the stairs, considerate at the table, a counterpart of the fathers of girls at my school who invited me to their homes for holidays. Those fathers, too, asked if I were amused and happy, and they saw to it that I was well served.

  He seemed to know where my thoughts were, for he. said, “Do you want to go away again, Isobel?”

  “No, Father. Ill stay with you. I want to.”

  “Why?” His eyes flamed.

  “I think we should live together now. Mother thinks so, too. I may be—I may be able to help you.”

  “Help?” He laughed out loud, but his hand returned to mine instantly. “My dear girl, that laugh was for myself, not you. Sol Not quite twenty-one, and ready to help.” His eyes closed for an instant, and Tray whined. “You are much on my mind these days,” he went on. “I plan for you constantly; I am as watchful as Tray. I want you to know that and remember it. My style—“ he smiled again—“my style is unconventional, perhaps, but I cant help that. Not now.” There was nothing I could say. His hand gripped mine; it was hot and dry. “Do you like this house, Isobel?”

  “I’ve not spent much time here, Father. Sometimes I think I hardly know it.”

  “That means you don’t like it. But I hope you will stay on if anything should happen to me. Do you think you can promise? Will you stay for at least a year?” He made his voice casual, he could have been asking for the morning paper; but the gripping hand betrayed him. He could have been asking for his life.

  “Father, let me send for a doctor!” Then, because my voice had suddenly become shrill, I tried to be casual, too. “You worry Mother and all of us, and Mike Barnaby asks about you, and I don’t know what to tell him.”

  “Tell Mike Barnaby I’m old and tired and my skin is over-adequate for my poor bones. But I can still make my own decisions, thank you, and no doctor is one of them. I asked you about the house, Isobel. You weren’t changing the subject, were you? I’m waiting for your promise.”

  “Of course I’ll stay.”

  “Thank you, my dear. You may not know it—I’m not always certain of how much or how little you do know—but I used to visit this house when I was a child. When I bought it for your mother and myself, I found I could remember every inch of it, I could find my way blindfold. Well, perhaps not blindfold, but without thinking. That interested me. I’m giving the house to you on your birthday. I’ve told your mother. Can you see yourself as a householder?”

  I could see myself living forever in the dark rooms.

  He read my mind again. “Only for a year, Isobel Then you may do as you like. And don’t misinterpret my use of the word ‘blindfold.’ There’s nothing wrong with my eyes. Isn’t this the cousins’ day?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Then I trust you to paint a convincing picture of my condition. Say whatever you like, but keep them out of this room.”

  He sent me away then. Tray followed me to the door and stood watching as I went down the hall. The door closed, and I heard the bolt plunge into its socket. That was beyond even Tray. I knew then that Father had more strength than I thought.

  That was in August.

  The cousins never saw Father when he was ill, but they talked about him and speculated. In late summer and early fall when the afternoons were mild, they took their tea on the veranda. And they always asked about him. On those afternoons they dressed alike in long white linen suits, white canvas shoes, and small high Panama hats, I can see them now, turning their large pale eyes from Mother to the laden tea table, from their châtelaine watches to the rented car that waited extravagantly under the porte-cochere,

  “Maude, are we going to see dear Marsh today? He’s well, i
sn’t he?”

  “Very well,” Mother would answer. “And very busy. He’s resting now and begs you to excuse him.”

  “Busy! Marsh?” They would laugh then, Cousin Carrie leading the others. “Marsh Ford never did a stroke of work in his born days, unless it was clipping coupons.”

  Mother would smile gently. “How unjust. He does a great deal that you and I know nothing about. Money doesn’t take care of itself, dear Carrie; it needs coddling.”

  “Is he coddling money when he goes off on those long drives? With a dog for company? Down back lanes and muddy roads, parking for hours in disreputable places? Saloons, squatters’ shacks—don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about! I’ve seen his car in the village, and my cleaning woman knows him by sight.”

  “Marsh is democratic, dear Carrie. Come, your plate is empty. Another ice?”

  “Yes, I will. They won’t keep. Jane and Bess, another ice. Not pistachio, Bess, you know what it does to you. Cake, too, Bess. It will dry out otherwise. The pink kind. Fresh-strawberry filling, isn’t it, Maude? The last of the season, I dare say. You know I didn’t mean a thing about Marsh, Maude. Give him our dear love, and tell him we hope to see him soon.”

  Each time they came, they talked of the same thing: Father. They still do. When he was alive, they wanted to know how he spent his days; now that he is dead, they will not let him rest. Their large pale eyes still probe and devour; they think the same thoughts and use the same words. Only their clothing varies with the seasons.

  I have never known the reason for the long drives; I have never known why he died as he did. He didn’t have a disease. He was out of his mind. Get rid of that dog.

  I must do something, talk to someone. Mike rarely comes to the house these days. Is it because I am in mourning? Or does he know more than I do? Is there anything to know?

  This afternoon, when the cousins left, I walked with them to the car. They always send for me when they are ready to leave. They kiss me goodbye as if we would never see one another again. Mother says that is because they are starved for affection and like to pretend I am theirs.

  “Do you miss your father, child? Of course you do, its only natural; you’d be a very strange girl if you didn’t. Still, after all, you didn’t know him very well, did you?”

  I watched the car move under the arching trees and turn into the distant road. Their cottage is five miles away, in the small village at the crossroads. Between us and the village there are fields and woods and the cemetery.

  The house will soon be mine. I want to sell it now, but Mother will not even let me speak of that. She walks through the house at night. I hear her footsteps in the hall, but I never open my door. I am afraid I will see her climbing the stairs, moving along the hall in her long black dress, opening and closing the doors of rooms we never use, holding a candle in one hand and shading it with the other. I know she carries a candle, because I have seen the drops of tallow on the floor. I am afraid to see her face. J think she is remembering her first night here.

  Tomorrow I will go to Father’s room and see what he has left behind him. There are wardrobes full of clothing, but one suit will be missing. There is a desk full of papers. Among these things I may find something that will tell me what was in his mind that morning a month ago when he left the house for the last time.

  That morning I had been walking along the main road and was turning in at the gate when his car came down the drive. Only an hour before, he had returned his breakfast tray untouched and told Mother he was not to be disturbed. And there he was, hatless, driving like a man possessed, the dog on the seat beside him. I raised my arm as he went by, and I will never forget his sudden gesture of dismay.

  If there are letters in his desk, and if I read them, what will I find? He never spoke of friends; if he had them, he kept them to himself. Did he have a special friend, one whose name was too dear for speech? The only names he used were those of his broker and lawyer, and the only guests we had were the cousins and the Barnabys. Perhaps when you are sixty-five, you have weeded and culled until only your first choice remains. Mother was his. I used to see his eyes meet hers with a look of acceptance that told me there was nothing in her heart and mind he did not know. I used to see her meet that look with a smile.

  I did nothing that last day. Mother kept to her room, and the Barnabys drove to town for Joe’s new dinner coat The day dragged. I remember nothing of consequence. I knew that Mother would be strained and silent at dinner, and I dreaded it She suffered on Father’s bad days, and at lunch, which I ate alone, I knew what Anna meant when she said her back ached with the burdens other people were carrying. The day grew older, heavy with foreboding.

  At seven that evening, when Father had not returned, Mother and I dined together, and later we both played solitaire in the small, circular room that overlooks the driveway. Mother sat facing the windows. She played her cards quietly; there was a decanter of port on the table at her side, and a box of Turkish cigarettes was within reach of her hand. She plays the same way now, quietly, and the setting is the same. The decanter of port is still brought in, the cigarettes are within reach, and she still faces the windows. But her dress is blade instead of turquoise.

  That night was clear and cold; Tench, putting fresh logs on the fire, was elaborately cheerful. He said it was a fine night for a drive or a brisk walk and declared his intention to try one or the other. I thought he was making tactful conversation, but he was making a prophecy. At ten o’clock one of his friends in the village called him on the phone, and he took his small car from the stable and drove off. We didn’t know about the call until later, or that he stopped at the Barnabys’ to pick up Mike. We saw him drive by the windows and thought nothing of it Hadn’t he said it was a fine night for a drive?

  It was Mrs. Tench who gave the first alarm. At eleven o’clock she brought us a pot of coffee, unasked, and her hands shook as she set it on the table.

  “We don’t want that, Mrs. Tench,” Mother said absently. “Go to bed.” Then: “What’s wrong with your hands? Have you a chill?”

  “Drink it,” Mrs. Tench said. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  Mother said, “Ring for Anna, Isobel. Mrs. Tench isn’t well.”

  That was when Mrs. Tench told us. “Don’t ring for Anna,” she cried. “Anna’s no good at a time like this. She’s all broken up, and I’m not much better. Heaven help me, I was told to tell you properly, and I don’t know how! They think something has happened to poor Mr. Ford “

  Mother poured a cup of coffee with a steady hand. “Where is he?” she asked.

  Mrs. Tench averted her eyes. “I don’t rightly know.

  Tench got a phone call asking him to come to the old quarry on the other side of the cemetery, and he went. Then a few minutes ago some man called me. I don’t know who he was; he said he was talking for Mr. Tench. He said Mr. Ford was—”

  “Dead?”

  “Thats what he said, Mrs. Ford.”

  “How?”

  “How?” Mrs. Tench bit her lips. “Maybe they’d better tell you, Tench and Mr. Mike and the rest. They’ll be coming later.” She poured coffee for me. “Drink this,” she said.

  Mother left the room as if she were leaving a stage. She walked, with a majestic kind of lightness, straight to the hall and up the stairs. I didn’t see her again for two days. I saw Mike that night, and Tench, and Father’s lawyer. They came long after midnight, bringing the cousins, and told me what had happened. The lawyer talked to Mother in her room.

  This is what they told me: Earlier in the evening a man from the village, checking his rabbit traps a quarter of a mile from the old quarry, saw what he thought was the reflected light of a bonfire. At first he ignored it The village boys often build fires in the quarry at night. They roast potatoes and stolen chickens. But after a while he decided the fire was too large and too hot, and he walked over that way.

  It was Father’s car. It had turned over, and when the man reached it,
there was nothing he could do. He ran to the village and phoned Tench. The license plate, lying some yards from the twisted, smoldering mass, had told him enough.

  I’ve never known more than that. Mike said, later, there was nothing more to know. He and the lawyer and Tench made the final identification; there were shreds of clothing, a scrap of Harris tweed—

  I asked them about Tray. Loyal, fanatic Tray. I had seen Tray beside him, his ears laid back, his mouth open, his body braced. They shrugged. Mike said, “No dog.”

  The coroner said suicide while of unsound mind, but I will never understand why Father chose such a difficult and painful way. I tried to tell myself it was an accident.

  “Why don’t they call it an accident?” I asked Mike. “The car was overturned, the lane is narrow, he could have lost—”

  “You know in your heart that it. wasn’t an accident, Issy. He knew every foot of that ground; he knew where the lane turned at the quarry and how far it was to the edge. There was no skid; his tire marks were clear and clean. And the night was clear, too. Lots of stars; he could see even without car lights. Chin up. He knew what he was doing, and it must have been what he wanted.

  Unsound mind?

  Anna found Tray the next day. Her cat had hidden a litter of kittens in a corner of the old stable, and Anna paid them regular visits. That morning she slipped out before breakfast, and no one knew she had gone. Mrs. Tench was in the kitchen when Anna came back. She was crying. She said Tray was in the stable, chained to a post. He had a bowl of water and a half-eaten steak.

  “He wasn’t there last night when I took out the milk for the cat,” Anna screamed. “He was dead then, burned up in that car!”

  I went to the stable and untied Tray. I saw the bowl and the chain and the meat The bowl and the chain had not come from the house; they were new and strange.