Dark Angel

by Sally Beauman

  “Nevertheless. That is what I feel. I shall … halloo her name, to the reverberate hills.” Acland, standing on the fence, did so. “Victoria,” he shouted. “Victoria.”

  As Acland shouted, the woods called back. The hills resounded to a name. Acland, embarrassed by this, knowing his gesture had been extravagant, climbed down from the fence and leaned against it. He narrowed his eyes. He measured the dimensions of his fields. He felt he loved these fields. They were no longer something to grapple with, sullen, difficult places that never produced an adequate crop, fields that resisted his flocks. They were something to pass on. He wondered whether he might say this, and—catching Steenie’s cold blue eye—decided better not.

  “Papa liked this place.” Freddie, too, rested against the fence. “He liked to stand just here. I came up with him, once or twice.”

  “He would. You can see the whole estate from here. It looks big. He liked that—being kingpin.”

  “Shut up, Steenie. He was all right in his way. He wasn’t such a bad sort.”

  “Did I say he was? I just said he liked to be kingpin, monarch of all he surveyed. Which happens to be true. I loved him too, Freddie. He drove me ’round the bend—however, I did love him. Just a bit. Well, more than a bit.” Steenie sighed. “I don’t think he noticed. My hair distracted him. I don’t think he liked it so blond. I think its exceptional blondness distressed him. Still, there you are.” He drew on his cigarette. “When does Wexton arrive? It will be nice to see Wexton again.”

  “In the morning.” Acland did not look around. “Constance is coming then too. And Winnie. Maud motors down separately. She comes to the ceremony, then goes straight back. It might be quite a good idea, Steenie, if you didn’t remark on that.”

  “Would I?” Steenie gave both brothers a look of injured innocence. “I can be tactful, you know, when I want to be. Deeply tactful. I shan’t mention Montague once.”

  “Oh, it’ll be all right,” said Freddie in his comfortable way. “It was ages ago. Maud will be fine. She always is.”

  “Darling, I’m sure Maud will be dignity personified. It’s not Maud I’m worried about. It’s Constance. Constance adores scenes. She’s bound to do something perfectly ghastly. It’s probably why she’s here—”

  “She’s here to be Victoria’s godmother. She insisted, and I agreed. She’s not staying long, anyway. Two days, three at most. And you exaggerate, as usual, Steenie. Constance has stayed here umpteen times. She comes over every year, and there has never been a scene.”

  “Ah, but that was with Stern. He keeps her in check. And Stern isn’t coming.”

  “Her husband is not the only person capable of keeping Constance in check.” Acland sounded irritated. “I can do it, if need be. Freddie will help—won’t you, Freddie?”

  “I suppose so.” Freddie did not sound confident. “I’ll try. But I haven’t seen her in years. I’m not sure I remember what she’s like.”

  Steenie made no comment. He smiled in an enigmatic way, perhaps intended to irritate. He leaned on Freddie’s arm as they returned downhill. Freddie puffed in the effort to keep up with Acland.

  By the time they reached the bottom of the rise, the light was failing fast. They crossed the river, took the path that led past Jack Hennessy’s cottage, back toward the village and the woods.

  The garden of Hennessy’s cottage was very overgrown: Weeds encroached on the path and the walls. Its roof sagged. Its uncurtained windows were dark.

  “What a beastly dump,” Steenie said, once they were safely past. “Acland—wait for us. Does Jack Hennessy still live there?”

  “Yes. He likes it.” Acland glanced back. He shrugged. “He asked for it, when he came back from the war. It seems to suit him. You know, he’s not quite normal. He’s something of a recluse.”

  “But what about Jenna? Is it true he hit her? Hennessy the wife-beater! Well, I’m not surprised. He always gave me the creeps.”

  “He hit her the other week. I don’t think it was an habitual thing. There’s only trouble when he drinks. Anyway, Jane dealt with it. Jenna will live in the house now—she’ll look after Victoria. It’s convenient, all ’round. Come on.” Acland began to move off.

  “You ought to do something about that place, Acland,” Steenie said, trotting to keep up with him. “It’ll fall down on Hennessy’s head one of these days. And these houses, too.” They stopped. They had reached the village green. Steenie peered about him. He gave a sigh.

  “It does look a mess, Acland. Maybe it’s just that I haven’t been back for a while, but it looks so horrid. Half the houses look empty.”

  “Half of them are empty.” Acland gave a gesture of annoyance. “Would you like to know why, Steenie? They’re empty because half the work force has left. Because I can’t afford the wages of men to live in them. No one wants to buy them, you know—”

  “Well, someone must want the houses, surely? Writers, painters, poets—those sorts of people. Potters! Potters love places like this. You could do the houses up. I remember how it used to look. It was particularly charming, in a feudal sort of way. There were vegetables. Lines of runner beans, and hollyhocks—”

  “Jesus Christ, Steenie.”

  “Well, there were, Acland! I’m just remarking. It’s true. You’ve let the place go downhill.”

  “Steenie. There was a war.” Acland gave a sigh of exasperation. “Do you understand that? I wonder sometimes if you do. Just try and think about it, will you? All those men who worked here, who planted the runner beans and the hollyhocks—do you know how many of them ever came back? No, you don’t, of course. You’re too busy gadding about.” He turned away. “There’s a memorial in the church. You can look at it tomorrow. Count the names of those who never came back. Work it out for yourself, why don’t you?”

  “Oh, the war, the war!” Steenie’s voice rose. “I’m sick of the bloody war. You harp on about it. Jane harps on about it. Even Wexton harps on about it. For God’s sake, the war’s over. It’s been over for twelve years—”

  “Over? You think it’s over?” Acland turned back. He caught hold of Steenie’s arm. He turned his brother back, in the direction of dereliction. “Just look, Steenie. And think for once. The war didn’t end in 1918. That was just the beginning. Look at your village, Steenie. Go on, look properly. You know what it is? A little war zone, all of its own, right in the heart of Winterscombe. You know what kept this place going? Investment income. Low taxes. Cheap servants. Ridiculous, misplaced, feudal loyalties. All that has changed. I’m even glad it has changed. And yet, I can’t let it go. I keep propping it up, trying to make it work again. My wife provides the money, and I provide—I try to provide—the energy. It gets harder and more expensive to do so every year. And you get more expensive too. You might remember that as well, Steenie.”

  “That’s not fair!” Steenie gave a wail. “I hate it when you talk like that. You sound so quiet and so grim. I try! I said I’d economize. I try to economize. If Papa had managed things better, I’d have been all right. How was I to know half the money would disappear? Mama always said …” Steenie’s voice hit a high note. It cracked. Tears spouted suddenly from his eyes. They plopped down his cheeks. “Now look what you’ve done! You’ve made me cry. Oh, hell—”

  “You cry very easily, Steenie. You always did.”

  “I know I do. I can’t help that.” Steenie blew his nose. He wiped his eyes. He gave both Acland and Freddie a dignified look.

  “It’s my nature to cry. When people are beastly to me, I cry. There’s not a lot of point in my trying to be manly, is there? And the tears are sincere. If you want to know, I’m crying for the hollyhocks, and an idyll that never was—”

  “And yourself, Steenie—don’t forget that.”

  “All right, myself as well. I know I’m weak. But it isn’t awfully nice, being a remittance man—”

  “Steenie, you’re impossible.” Acland’s voice had softened. He gave a small shrug, as if to shake off the last of
his anger. He turned. “We’d better go back anyway. There’s no point in arguing. Come on—it’ll be dark in a minute.”

  “Say I’m forgiven.” Steenie hurried after Acland and caught his arm. “Go on. Say I’m an idiot and a horrible social butterfly and selfish and impossible—and you forgive me.”

  “You’re a pain in the backside.”

  “And I’m your brother—”

  “Oh, all right.” Acland sighed. “You’re a pain, and my brother. And I forgive you. Why not?”

  “Say something nice too.” Steenie put his arm through Acland’s. “Say … Oh, I don’t know. Say you like my yellow gloves.”

  “Steenie. I cannot tell a lie. Your gloves are bloody awful.”

  “That’s better.” Steenie gave a chirrup. “I feel quite cheered up now. Come on, Freddie. Look at the three of us, marching along! Three brothers! Isn’t that nice?” He gave them, in turn, a mocking glance. “What shall we do now, do you think? Go back to the house for tea—or talk about Moscow?”

  Freddie’s theatrical tastes had never run as far as Chekhov. He did not grasp the reference, but knowing a further quarrel had been averted and animosity healed, he began to grin, then whistled. He disliked contention. He began to dwell on the question of tea.

  “Shall we cut through the woods?” he suggested as they came to a fork in the paths. “The quick way—through the clearing? Let’s. I’m starving.”

  At this, to his surprise, both Acland and Steenie hesitated.

  “It’s not that much quicker …” Acland began.

  “It is. It’s a good ten minutes quicker. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Acland hesitated. “Nothing really. I don’t usually go that way—”

  “The vengeful ghost of Shawcross!” Steenie gave a somewhat nervous giggle. “I hate going that way. I don’t mind admitting it. I’m a terrible coward—especially when it’s dark. That part of the woods is distinctly creepy—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Freddie turned down that path. He considered toasted crumpets. A warm fire. Tea—perhaps cake. “For God’s sake, what’s the matter with you both? I don’t believe in ghosts, and neither do you. Come on, hurry.”

  He set off down the path to the clearing. Acland followed, with reluctance. Steenie let out another affected wail, which made Freddie jump.

  “Wait for me,” he called. “Wait for me!”

  When they reached the clearing where Shawcross had been trapped, they all—by unspoken consent—slowed. In the middle of the clearing they stopped.

  “You see what I mean?” Steenie peered at the bushes. “It is creepy. It gives me the shakes.”

  He took out from his pocket his silver hip flask. He took a large nip. He offered it to Acland, who refused it with a shake of the head, then to Freddie, who took a swallow.

  The brandy kicked in his stomach, then exuded a pleasant warmth. Freddie handed back the flask. He looked about him.

  Ridiculous though it might be, Freddie felt that Steenie was right. In the twilight the trees and the bushes pressed close. Outlined against the graying sky, the bare branches of the trees reached out. The undergrowth, hummocks of brambles and holly, piled with dead leaves, took on a threatening look. Freddie peered about him. He wondered exactly where it had been—that trap.

  Over there, he thought, somewhere in that undergrowth. He gave a shiver. When Steenie handed him the flask again, he took a second swig. He looked at his brothers. Acland was staring at the undergrowth, his face fixed and pale.

  “It was over there.” Acland spoke so suddenly that Freddie jumped. He pointed to a hummock of brambles.

  “Just there.”

  “Are you sure?” Steenie peered. He shivered.

  “Yes. Just to the right of the path.”

  “How do you know that?” Steenie’s voice had risen sharply. Acland, shrugging, turned away.

  “The thing had to be moved—afterwards.”

  “I thought Cattermole did that—”

  “I came down with him. With some of the men.” Acland’s voice had become terse. “I forget who. The Hennessy brothers, I think.”

  “Ugh. How horrible.” Steenie gave a shudder. He stared at the spot Acland had indicated.

  “Yes, it was. There was a lot of blood. Torn clothing. It wasn’t a pleasant job.”

  Acland moved off a few paces. He stood with his back to his brothers. There was another silence. Having reached this place, Freddie felt it exercised a peculiar power over them. None of them had wanted to stop, and, having stopped, none of them seemed able to leave. Freddie told himself that on a bright sunlit day the place would hold no terrors. It was the gathering dusk that made it sinister. He said, in a voice less firm than he would have liked:

  “Let’s go back.”

  “Do you remember what Mother said—when she was dying?” Steenie put the question. He seemed not to have heard Freddie’s remark. He glanced toward Acland.

  “Yes, I remember,” Acland replied shortly.

  “Remember what?” Freddie said.

  He had been in South America, flying his mail planes, when Gwen died several years before. Her illness—pneumonia—had been brief. Freddie, alerted too late, had arrived at Winterscombe the day after her death. This had hurt him at the time, and hurt him still. Steenie and Acland had been with her; Jane had been with her. He had let her down.

  Freddie looked from brother to brother; he stared back at the undergrowth in a miserable way. There was a wound in his own relationship with his mother which antedated her death by many years. It had never quite healed. He would have liked to tell his mother, before she died, that he loved her. Yes, he would have liked to say that.

  “What did Mama say?” he prompted again.

  Acland did not reply. Steenie gave a sigh.

  “Well, at the end”—he hesitated—“she talked about Shawcross. It was rather ghastly. She talked about him a lot.”

  “Oh, God.” Freddie bent his head.

  “She wasn’t distressed, Freddie,” Steenie said, taking his arm. “Honestly. She was quite calm. But I think … I think she thought Shawcross was there in the room. Don’t you, Acland? She seemed to. She spoke to him.”

  “You said it was easy,” Freddie burst out. “You both told me that. You said it was easy—you said she just … slipped away.”

  “It was. Sort of.” Steenie frowned, as if trying to fix the memory. “She seemed glad to go. She didn’t protest. But then she never did really, about anything. She’d raise objections, and then she would give in. Oh, God—I wish we hadn’t come this way. How did we start on this?”

  “I want to know. Acland”—Freddie grasped his arm—“what did she say?”

  “Nothing.” Acland shrugged off his hand. “She talked about Shawcross, that’s all. As Steenie says. The drugs they prescribed made her drowsy. She didn’t know what she was saying—”

  “Yes, she did.” Steenie turned back. “She said that when Shawcross was here, the night of the comet, he heard her call. He told her, before he died. It was the last thing he ever said to her. Then, when she was dying, she remembered. It was very strange—”

  “Strange? Strange in what way?”

  “She became awfully agitated—didn’t she, Acland? I think she knew we were there. It was as if she wanted to tell us something—and then couldn’t. It was as if she was afraid.”

  “She was very ill,” Acland said in a curt voice. “There’s no point in resurrecting all this, Steenie. She was confused.” He hesitated. “She slept after that. It was peaceful, Freddie, in the end. She was … tired. I think she was glad that it was all over.”

  Steenie drew in a shaky breath.

  “That’s true,” he said. “Really, Freddie. Once Papa died—she missed him, I think. She needed him, and once he’d gone …”

  “She stopped fighting.” Acland’s voice was flat. “Well, at a certain point we all do that.”

  “Oh, God, I’m so miserable.” Steenie clasped Freddie’s arm.
“I hate this place. I wish we’d never come here. It brings it all back. Look at us. We all disappointed her, in our different ways. She made all those plans—and now look at us. Acland, trying to pretend he’s a farmer. Acland is a failed aristocrat. I’m a failed painter. Freddie is—”

  “Oh, I’m the worst. I’m a failed everything.” To the surprise of his brothers, Freddie made this pronouncement in a robust, quite unbitter way. “There’s no point in wallowing in it, Steenie,” he continued in a sensible voice. “Anyway, it’s not totally true. Acland keeps this place going—against all the odds. That takes courage of a sort. You may not paint now, but you keep going too. You make people laugh. You are what you are. You don’t apologize for it—and that takes courage too. And I—well, I muddle along, just as I always did. I don’t do much harm, anyway. At least I try not to. We could be worse. I think we could be worse. We’re still here. We have each other—”

  “Oh, Freddie.” Steenie began to smile. He put his arm around his brother’s shoulders. “You are totally absurd, do you know that? Only you could give us a homily like that—”

  “I don’t care,” Freddie replied stoutly. “I know I’m not a brain-box. It’s true what I said. We’re like everyone else. A mixture of bad and good. Just … ordinary.”

  “And hungry,” Acland interjected, turning. He smiled. “Don’t forget that, Freddie. Come on—we’re all becoming maudlin, and Freddie is right. There’s no point. Think of all the things we could be thankful for.” He turned. “I miss my wife. I miss my baby. I want my tea. Come on, let’s go back to the house.”

  Freddie at once felt cheered. They began walking, first slowly, then at a brisker pace. They left the woods behind; the shadows lessened; the undergrowth retreated. He felt a sudden welling of affection for his brothers. There it was, a large warm thing, situated in his heart. He could have put his hand on the exact spot. They would not have disappointed his mother, he thought, in this.