by H. E. Bates
‘No, in fact I hadn’t. Isn’t it awfully early, darling?’
‘Not really, darling. It’s almost always the first rose, that one.’
‘Is it? Well, you’re the observant one. That’s your field.’
‘I’ll tell you what, darling. I’ll go and cut it and we’ll have it on the breakfast table.’
‘No, I’ll go and cut it, darling.’
‘But darling, you don’t know where it is.’
‘Then I’ll find it, darling. Voyage of discovery.’
Always, both in private and in public, John and Virginia Claridge called each other darling: so much so that, even though she wore no wedding ring, they were quite often mistaken for husband and wife. Their mutual, bonded affection was vividly plain for all to see. They were, in fact, brother and sister.
She was forty-two: an age at which, at one time, people might have said she was on the shelf. But with her dark hair, quite unblemished by a single strand of grey, she looked in fact rather younger. Her figure was firm and compact; and though she never wore lipstick the skin of her face and hands and arms was smoothly brown and fresh from much work in the garden. She seemed, in fact, to be a person of serene contentment: except for one thing. At times, in the strangest way, her eyes seemed to be listening for something: a voice perhaps, an unconfirmed whisper, an invitation that was never really there.
‘You’re far away, darling.’
‘Oh! was I? Sorry, darling. I was thinking perhaps I ought to remind Parsons to hoe through the lettuces.’
He, by contrast, looked a little older than his forty-five. His hair was already grey, his face pale, looking, with its bony rectangular features, rather as if it had been carved out of discoloured marble. His eyes were a cool, neutral blue. They were never caught in the act of listening.
The two of them shared what had once been the parental home: a big, rather chapel-like Edwardian country house that actually had, here and there, stained glass windows. When at certain times of the day sun shone through the panes of blue and scarlet and green and gold it was much as if rainbows had been spilt on the carpets. Often the brother and sister noticed this effect simultaneously and were moved to exclaim, almost like children, ‘Oh! look, darling, the rainbows again’ and so deepening their bond of harmony.
They had, in fact, not only never quarrelled with each other; they had never had a cross word, a difference, still less a clash, of opinion, even the mildest of arguments. He, every morning, read The Times for an hour and then busied himself with letters, accounts, bills, investments. The provisions made by his father, a prudent stockbroker, had been wholly sound and admirable. Neither brother nor sister would ever have a financial care in the world.
She, by contrast, spent as much of the day as possible in the garden or, when the weather was bad, in one of the three big greenhouses, in one of which a vast purple-fruited vine grew. The garden was large; it spilled over, at the northerly end, into a long dark stretch of woodland, mostly hornbeam and hazel, where many primroses scattered stars in spring; at the southern end rose great tracts of rhododendrons, even greater mountains of burning copper beeches. All this created an impression of cocooned seclusion, of a dreamy, embalmed peacefulness.
Every night this peacefulness seemed to be perfectly sealed when he kissed her fully on the lips, as if in fact she were his wife, before going to bed.
‘Good-night, darling. Sleep well. See you in the morning. Sweet dreams.’
She did not, in fact, sleep well; nor did she ever have sweet dreams. As soon as she lay down in bed a great restlessness possessed her. She always bore this, open-eyed, for an hour or more, and then when she could bear it no longer she got up, switched on the light, found a book and, while reading it, drank the better part of half a bottle of whisky.
He, in turn, never thought of the peacefulness as anything but permanent. He knew nothing of the restlessness, the sleeplessness, the lack of dreams or the whisky. He accepted her as other men very often grow, in time, to accept wives, as a fixture, secure, taken for granted, for ever. If he had been asked he would have said that he hadn’t a care in the world. She would probably have said the same: except that nobody ever asked her.
There finally came a day when the peacefulness, so evidently a permanent fixture like herself, was broken. John Claridge, coming home from London about eight o’clock on a humid summer evening, found his sister sitting at a bamboo table under one of the vast copper beeches, drinking champagne. On her face was a profound, enraptured look of satisfaction, as if her eyes had at last found, or heard, what they had long been seeking.
‘Champagne, darling? Good Heavens. Why the celebration?’
Rather coolly she sipped at her champagne and then asked: did one necessarily have to have something to celebrate as an excuse for opening champagne? It was a warm, lovely evening and champagne happened to be the drink she felt like.
He stared, was silent for almost a minute and then said:
‘I see there are two glasses.’
Again she sipped at her champagne, rather coolly.
‘Yes. As a matter of fact I’ve had a visitor.’
‘Indeed? May one ask who?’
‘You may ask, of course. Roger Trenchard.’
He stared again, his cold blue eyes puzzled, and then asked who, if she didn’t mind, was Roger Trenchard?
‘Oh! don’t say you’ve forgotten the Portmans’ wedding. Roger was best man.’
‘But good God, the Portmans’ wedding was ten years ago.’
‘Of course it was. And Julius Caesar made his first landing in England in 55 B.C. But that hasn’t been forgotten.’
During all this exchange they hadn’t once called each other darling; and now he said:
‘And what caused Mr Trenchard suddenly to appear after all this time?’
She slowly sipped at champagne.
‘He’s just been made secretary of the County Nature Preservation Society.’
‘And what, pray, has the preservation of Nature to do with you?’
‘He’s carrying out a survey of the Common.’
‘Common? What Common? Not denominator?’
‘Fairfield Common.’
And what, he asked, was so special about Fairfield Common?
‘Oh! a great many things. It’s fascinating. It has associations going back to the Bronze Age. It has all sorts of flora and things which you hardly find anywhere else in the county. Oh! it’s fascinating.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Yes. He’s going to take me round it next week and explain it all.’
He stared hard again.
‘I think I’ll go in and wash.’
‘Won’t you have a glass of champagne before you go? You can have my glass. I don’t mind drinking out of Roger’s.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said and strode away to the house to wash his hands.
‘Yes, that’s cotton grass.’
‘Oh! how beautiful. It looks like little flakes of snow left over from winter.’
‘Or feathers from a white bird.’
The delicate tufts of cotton grass, trembling in the light wind of a hot June morning, were very white against the wet dark peat bog.
‘By August the bog will be covered with asphodel. All yellow.’
‘That sounds lovely too. Isn’t there a poem about it? “Fields of Asphodel” or something like that?’
‘No, “meads of asphodel”. Pope.’ He quoted:
‘“By those happy souls who dwell
In yellow meads of asphodel”.’
‘How lovely.’
Roger Trenchard was a man of forty-five, thin and tall, with grave, gentle brown eyes and long-fingered hands that moved so quickly as to seem perpetually nervous. Virginia Claridge was so fascinated by these hands that now and then she lapsed into one of her listening trances, half as if expecting the hands, and not his voice, to do the talking.
‘You see the bog never dries up. Even in the hottest summer. That’s
why we built this footbridge across it. No, it’s perpetually wet – that’s what makes it unique.’
At the far end of the wooden footbridge Roger Trenchard suddenly stopped, knelt down and then drew her attention to what might have been a group of little golden sea-anemones that could have mysteriously strayed in from the coast.
‘How strange. What are they? Flowers?’
‘Those are sun-dews. Can you see them moving?’
‘They seem to have tiny little hands.’
‘They’re insectivorous. They catch flies.’
‘No? Will we see them do it?’
‘We might. On the other hand we might wait all day. It’s like a lot of other things. You start watching and then nothing ever happens.’
‘I’m prepared to wait all day.’
He stood upright, laughing quietly.
‘Well, I must confess I’m not. Do you know it’s one o’clock already? I could use a drink. Shall we walk as far as the Blacksmiths Arms? It’s just down the road.’
‘One o’clock? My goodness, we’ve been here three hours. It’s gone like wildfire.’
In the bar of the Blacksmiths Arms she sat and sipped at whisky, several times confessing, yet again, that she couldn’t believe how fast the morning had flown.
Roger Trenchard said he would confess to something too. He was raving hungry.
‘They do quite good lunches here. I often drop in for mine. I wonder – would you join me today?’
‘I’d love to.’
As they sat over lunch, sharing a bottle of Hock, she suddenly remembered something.
‘Do forgive me. I forgot to ask how your wife is.’
‘I lost her two years ago.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
Over strawberries and cream she lapsed again into one of her listening trances.
‘Brandy?’ he said.
No, she thanked him all the same, but the wine was really enough.
‘Oh! come on. Be a devil.’ He laughed again. ‘I’m going to. Keep me company.’
She laughed too.
‘Oh! well, if you put it like that.’
He had parked his car back on the Common, under the shade of a huge Spanish chestnut tree. When she got into it she let her head rest, with a drowsy sigh, on the back of the seat; and then said that since it seemed to be a day for confessions she’d confess to something else.
‘Today’s been just about the nicest thing that’s happaned to me for a long, long time.’
‘I’ll second that. It’s been pretty nice for me too.’
Suddenly he quietly pressed his lips against the side of her forehead, letting them remain there for several moments.
‘Was it the brandy kissing me just now? or simply you?’
‘Simply me. And I hope not for the last time.’
With his quick nervous hands he suddenly held her face, kissing her full on the lips.
‘Well, I’ll make one more confession,’ she said at last. ‘I hope so too.’
It was past five o’clock when she got back to the big Edwardian house, happy and slightly drowsy still.
‘Where on earth have you been?’
‘You know quite well,’ she said, ‘where I’ve been. I’ve been exploring Fairfield Common with Roger Trenchard.’
‘It seems to have taken an awful long time.’
‘Naturally. There are over two hundred acres of it. There’s a great deal to see.’
‘I’m sure.
Suddenly she seemed to lapse into a trance, but this time not of listening but reflection.
‘Cotton grass and sun-dews and meads of asphodel.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘Have you ever seen a sun-dew? It’s like a little golden sea-anemone. It’s a flower that catches flies.’
‘Does it indeed?’
‘And the cotton grass looks like flakes of snow left over from winter, or feathers from a white bird.’
‘Excuse me, I’ve some letters to write. And you might have said you were not coming back for lunch. Grace had cooked a chicken.’
‘I’m sure you enjoyed it.’
‘You might have telephoned.’
Head chilly and erect, he strode abruptly from the room.
After that she went up to her bedroom, slipped off her dress and lay down on the bed. In a few minutes she was deep in the sort of sleep that always evaded her night after night: wrapped in deep, heavy breathing, utterly tranquil.
When she finally woke it was nearly eight o’clock. For some minutes she lay staring at the ceiling, wondering where she was, what time of day it was and whether the day behind her was reality or dream. Then finally she remembered it all again, but now sharply, brilliantly magnified: the cotton grass, the sun-dew, the wine, the brandy and the meads of asphodel. She also remembered something else: it was all going to be repeated, a second time, the following day.
She and her brother always had dinner very formally, every evening, in the big dining-room. Grace, the housekeeper cook, a plump woman of middle age who rarely spoke unless spoken to, always laid out on the large round mahogany table the silver cutlery, the silver saltcellars, the silver pepper and mustard pots, the silver wine-coasters and the silver candlesticks, together with the wine glasses and the central vase of flowers, in the same traditional fashion that had gone on for years. In addition to all the other silver there was also a little silver bell and this Virginia Claridge rang in order to summon Grace between the courses.
That evening she duly rang it, as usual, after the soup. For a good ten minutes, most unusually, there was no answer.
‘Where the devil is that woman? She’s been getting terribly slack lately. She’s never damn well here when you want her.’
‘I hadn’t noticed it.’
‘Then all I can say is you’re singularly unobservant.’
‘Perhaps I am. But there’s no need to be irritable about it.’
‘I am not irritable!’
‘All I can say is it sounds remarkably like it. Don’t fret – she’ll come.’
‘She damn well better. And quick.’
A minute later Grace arrived in the dining-room carrying the fish course, shyly and confusedly apologetic.
‘Grace, where on earth have you been? We must have been waiting at least a quarter of an hour.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m terribly sorry. But just as I was getting the fish ready a messenger boy arrived with some flowers.’
‘Flowers? Flowers? Who on earth for?’
‘Miss Virginia, sir.’
‘Good God. Did you order flowers, Virginia?’
‘No.’
‘There was this note pinned to them,’ Grace said. ‘They’re carnations. All colours. About four dozen of them I should say.’
Virginia Claridge took the note that Grace handed to her. Her brother was silent and stiff as she opened it. Then as she read the note she suddenly flushed, deeply, from the throat upwards.
‘Well, who’s the extravagant donor?’
‘They’re from Roger Trenchard.’
‘Fast worker I must say.’
She leapt sharply to her feet.
‘That,’ she said, ‘is a fatuous, puerile and contemptible remark.’
She started to stride, trembling, from the room.
‘Where are you going? Aren’t you going to finish your dinner?’
‘I do not,’ she said, ‘feel like eating. I prefer the harmless company of my room.’
In the kitchen she hastily arranged the huge bouquet of carnations in a vase and then took them to her bedroom. There she poured herself a recklessly large whisky, but her hands were trembling so much from both excitement and anger that she spilt a good quarter of it down her dress. Hastily she then drank the rest of it and then filled the glass to the top again.
For the next half hour or so she sat impotently in a trance, not now either of listening or reflection but of both joy and fury. The sight of the carnations in their man
y variations of red and yellow and white and orange several times moved her so much that, near to tears, she buried her face in her hands. Several times too she renewed her whisky.
After about an hour of this, not quite fully conscious of what she was doing, she leapt up and went unsteadily downstairs. There, in the dining–room, after his customary fashion, her brother was calmly sipping a glass of port. Instantly inflamed by this, she actually raised her voice.
‘If you do not apologise for that remark I shall in future take all my meals in my own room. I will not sit here and be spoken to like a dog.’
Her brother, silent, merely sipped at his port.
‘Are you, or are you not, going to apologise?’ She was now actually shouting.
‘I see nothing to apologise for.’
‘Are you going to apologise?’ she yelled.
‘Good God, you sound as if you might be drunk.’
‘Which, in all probability, is what I am. Moreover I profoundly hope the condition will be permanent. It may help to relieve the strain of undergoing penal servitude with you.’
At this she turned and started unsteadily for the door. Then at the door she suddenly remembered something and turned back to say:
‘Oh! and one more thing. I had in fact invited Roger Trenchard to dinner tomorrow night. I shall now cancel it. I wouldn’t want him to have the unpleasant experience of eating with a pig.’
Her brother merely toyed with his glass of port. This further infuriated her so much that she shouted:
‘And don’t forget this, you smug insulter. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned!’
After that she went upstairs, drank more whisky and then lay on her bed for a long, long time, weeping bitter, scalding tears.
* * *
Not once, after that, did she appear at dinner. When she didn’t take it in her room she took it, at some country pub, a restaurant or at his own cottage, with Roger Trenchard. Sometimes, when the evenings were fine and warm, they didn’t even bother with the formality of a meal. She would make sandwiches, he would bring a bottle of wine and then they would wander across the Common, across stretches of heather and asphodel now in pink and yellow flower, until they found some dry, secluded place to picnic. When the food and wine were both finished they lay down together in long and often completely silent embrace, exchanging long, all-consuming kisses or simply staring up at the sky until the first specks of stars began to break the twilight.
