by Ruth Skrine
We work our way up through the house, looking into each room as we pass. The woman is tall and angular. ‘Beatrice could have this I suppose,’ she sniffs, as she looks round my bedroom. ‘Selina could have the one opposite, but the bathroom is awfully small.’ The curtains hang limp. No wind rustles the seals today.
Her husband is standing by my window. ‘I wonder if that tree is safe. The roots could be undermining the foundations. It’s far too near the house.’
How dare he criticise my oak tree? I lead them back down to the drawing room. ‘I’m sure you would like a cup of coffee. I will go and put the kettle on.’ Their voices follow me. ‘Look, a lift for the food. How quaint.’
‘Where’s that room we saw up the narrow stairs? Jeremy could have that one.’
She must mean the little room where we used to keep the rocking horse.
‘It’s on the floor above, through the billiard room,’ her husband says.
We have never owned a billiard room. He is talking about the nursery, my grandmother’s room. Her shade would be disturbed by the knock of balls. In future the agent can jolly well manage on his own. I am not going to put myself through this again.
While the kettle boils, I show them through to the flat. The agent trails behind us. He has told me it will add to the value of the house and I hope that they will find something nice to say about it. Quentin’s breakfast dishes are stacked in the sink. As I lead them quickly through into the bedroom, my face flushes at the sight of his unmade bed.
Of course, they are determined not to be impressed by anything. ‘It’s awfully small,’ the man says. His dark hair waves onto his collar. He looks silly, a middle-aged man trying to be trendy. ‘Granddad wouldn’t like it.’
‘If he’s going to be with us he will have to get used to a smaller place,’ his wife snaps.
Back in the drawing room they stand balancing their cups as they look across the valley. ‘I suppose that’s the river,’ she says. ‘Could we bring our boat up here?’
If they like the water they can’t be so bad. ‘What sort of boat is it?’
Her husband doesn’t deign to face me but speaks vaguely into the distance. ‘A cabin cruiser, five berth, far too big for this river. Too shallow, no way round the weirs.’ His wife turns away, all interest in the river exhausted as quickly as it came.
My weir is nothing but an obstruction to their gin palace. At least they will not be able to roar along between the banks disturbing the kingfishers. ‘The upper reaches of the Thames are lovely,’ I say, with my sweetest smile. ‘You can get good moorings. It’s not so far away.’
His eyes flick as he gives a disdainful shrug. ‘We could have it on the canal. That line of hedges must mark the towpath.’
When at last they are ready to leave they stand for a moment in the porch. The sun has come out, warming the ochre gravel in the courtyard. ‘It’s an imposing entrance,’ he says grudgingly. I swear under my breath.
‘The whole place would have to be re-decorated from top to bottom.’ His wife’s sniff is audible. ‘The fountain looks as if it hasn’t worked for years.’
These awful people may take possession of my home. I stick out my tongue at their retreating backs. The agent catches me in the act but manages to give me a smile and the thumbs up sign.
As I walk back into the house I comfort myself with the thought of Briony and the children. Although I am sometimes envious of her life style, I don’t want her to be forced to give it up. Her pregnancy will have a better chance if she isn’t worried about money. The thought strengthens my resolve and eases the misery that has been growing from the moment the Awfuls stepped through the front door.
I seize my coat and go down through the field towards the weir. The bare branches of the weeping willows have been transformed, almost overnight, into trailing strands of lime green. Each year they are the first of all the trees to break into leaf. The words of a hymn spring to my lips and I find myself singing:
Time like an everlasting stream
Bears all its sons away.
Sons and daughters, perhaps. I wish more of the women from the past had been captured in paint, so they could balance the power of the men. Only Duncan’s wife gazes out with the others. I have never liked the picture; she looks so severe in her cream silk dress, with its tight sleeves and rows of covered buttons on the forearms. A diamond clip glitters in her hair, setting off the white fur cape round her shoulders. She looks too serious for my cheerful Duncan. Poor Henry, his Emily would never have fitted into such a world, she would have been “inappropriate”. How that word haunts me.
As I look at the weir stretching out in front of me, I can feel my father’s hand in mine. ‘Come on Meena, you can do it.’ The river is fuller than it had been on that day in late summer, when we walked across together. The heavy stones of the landing stage are covered by several inches of water but they still show through, perfectly aligned, immobile since the day they were placed there.
The sound of twigs breaking in the undergrowth on the far bank makes me look up. A black and white dog breaks out of the cover, then disappears again, nose to the ground. I look around but can see no one with him. Perhaps it is one of Patch’s descendants, he who liked to ride on the ferry, or of Percy the ratter, who was the first to find Emily. I see Henry standing at the stern of the flat-bottomed ferry, dropping the big pole at a slight angle so that the drips don’t fall on her.
I hear a splash and the dog swims safely across. He clambers out to stand by my side, then gives himself a violent shake. Muddy drops of water spray onto my legs. I pat his wet head but he is off again on his own business. With my father I had been safe in the water. Now, if I step off the bank, the current will drag me into its weedy depths, knocking me against the stones at the bottom. I remember seeing the body senseless, held down by long strands of hair twisted round sunken tree roots with tattered clothes swirled around the pale form. Today the wind ruffles the surface of the water and no such mirage emerges to disturb my soul. Reaching up I run my fingers over the short ends at the back of my head. My hair can no longer follow its own unruly course. I have taken control of at least one part of my person.
As I walk downstream the frantic noise of the weir falls away behind me. The windows of the house gaze out unseeing across the field. My eye travels to the line of houses standing on the site of the old cottages where the murder took place. I find myself mouthing the rest of the verse:
Change and decay in all around I see.
O thou who changes not, abide with me.
Change and decay, two words linked like Siamese twins. The hymns of my childhood, the words imprinted on my brain by repeated singing at school, flow in my veins, mixed with the water of the river and the genes of a murderer. I cannot cleanse my system, whatever Quentin says.
If Mr and Mrs Awful buy the house, the family spirits may jump out and frighten the children. Serve them right. I smile at my vindictiveness. But then the familiar weight of responsibility returns. To break free of the place I have to put the past to rest. The shades must be enticed to bury themselves deep in the stone walls, or the muddy bank of the river. Perhaps they can transform into the ever-changing sparkles on the water, or hide in the molehills pushing up in the field. There, they would be worn down by the hooves of cows and if they emerged again , surely they would be nothing but innocuous brown mounds.
If Briony’s baby is born healthy, the ancestors will be placated. Everybody loves a baby, especially old people. If it dies… who knows? The spirits may demand my future happiness as a sacrifice. I quicken my step, determined to put such fancies behind me. I have things to do. Tired of hunting, the dog is following me now, in need of human companionship. ‘Go home,’ I say fiercely, but he just wags his tail and entices me to sit down and fondle him. He rolls on the grass with pleasure. The smell of wet dog fills my nostrils.
***
At the first opportunity I go back to the library. All I know about Emily’s father is that he was a
blacksmith who worked in Lower Ditchley, and that he died in 1813. One of the librarians suggests he might be listed in a street directory. She points me to the three shelves that hold the city records. The red bound volumes stand tidily propped against each other, the covers giving off a curious innocence, as if the books hold no responsibility for the treasures or dynamite they may reveal. The names are arranged in alphabetical order, with occupations written in italic against many of them: “lime burner, livery stable keeper, straw bonnet and dress maker”. It takes me a moment to realise that a “fly proprietor” must sell fishing flies. “Miller and corn factor, artificial florist, lodgings”. Ah, here is a smith, but he worked in the centre of the city. At the end of the volume the streets are listed with their occupants but the hamlet with the forge in it is not included. The place must lie outside the city boundary. I return to the enquiry desk.
‘We do have records for the counties as well as the city but they’re very incomplete. The countryside was sparsely populated then, you know.’
She disappears to look for the earliest lists in a back room. It takes her ages to find them. Eventually she returns with four slim volumes. I carry them to one of the tables where a young woman, obviously a student complete with scarf, sits with a novel hidden within a large academic tome. She looks up to gaze out of the window, fiddling with her nose stud, feigning thought as if I have been sent to spy on her. At the next table an elderly man has spread a newspaper in front of him. He picks his nose and then rests his head on one of his hands. As he starts to snore, his mouth judders and his false teeth click.
I look around at the other people, all absorbed in their own worlds, unaware of the importance of my search. For a moment I can’t touch the books in front of me. If the blacksmith has passed some mad gene to Emily, and it has been handed on through her to Jake, her murderous grandson, my flesh is not tainted. If Eddy was sane, then I could be carrying the gene. If I am cursed in this way it is right and proper that I do not produce a child. In fact I should be grateful that my sexual hang-up is stopping me from passing some horror down the generations. I do not want to be responsible for “visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children unto the third or fourth generation” .
A further thought pushes its way into my mind. If Henry has bequeathed me such a twist in my genetic code, Briony too may be tainted. The fault could stretch on into her children. That is the worst possible explanation.
Resolutely, I pick up the earliest list, dated 1805-7. The relevant pages are missing; it is useless. The next volume is for 1811. This is better. People are again listed under their occupations. First there are :”the nobility”, then: “architects, artists, attorneys, auctioneers, bankers, bakers, basket makers”, and at last, “blacksmiths”. Five are listed. My finger traces the names. The fourth one down the page reads: “Edward Curry, Oakdene Lane”.
I have found him. Seeing Old Eddy’s name on the list with the others makes that violent and moody man more real. But I am not much further forward as it doesn’t tell me anything new about him. If I could discover how he died, that death that could not be discussed when Henry visited the forge, I might get some clue to Eddy’s mental state. ‘Can I get a copy of a death certificate?’ I ask at the desk.
‘That’s easy, provided you have the name and the date of death. You just fill in a form for the Catherine House Index. Would you like one?’
‘I don’t have the exact date, only the year.’
‘That’s not good enough.’
The doors of the library are closing. The five-minute bell rang some time ago. The library attendant looks at her watch, turns off the computer and picks up her handbag.
Back at the house I find a note on the kitchen table. ‘Come to supper, I’ve got some salmon – Q’.
After washing the dusty remnants of the past from my hands I walk into his flat. Susan is ensconced by his fire. A twinge of disappointment is followed by a wave of pride in my man. Quentin really is sensitive to the loneliness of others.
I describe my search, making them laugh about the girl playing truant from her studies and the odious man. They are interested in the list of occupations, the corn factor and straw bonnet maker, redolent of earlier times.
‘Did you find what you wanted?’ Quentin looks genuinely interested.
‘I’m not much further on, but I know the blacksmith’s full name now.’ I pause. ‘I need to find out the exact date he died before I can get a copy of the death certificate. I don’t know how to do that.’
‘What about looking in the graveyard for a headstone? They often show the date of death as well as birth,’ Susan suggests.
I am surprised again by her common sense. I find her easier now. Her concern no longer smothers me like a fire blanket.
‘I could come with you tomorrow if you like,’ Quentin offers.
‘Would you? Aren’t you going to the gym?’
‘I could give it a miss. This is important for you.’
‘That would be so great.’ Quentin was the one to suggest that the madness might have come from Emily’s side of the family. I am delighted he has offered to join in the search.
‘What’s so important about it?’ Susan asks.
I keep my answer vague. ‘One of my ancestors had an affair with the blacksmith’s daughter and I’m trying to learn what I can about her family. It’s a romantic story.’
The thought of a journey with Quentin to the family church sets me dreaming. I could wear a white dress and flowing veil. Last time, for some reason, I chose pale grey. As a virgin I would be entitled to wear white for a second marriage. Even my grandmother would give me her blessing if she were alive.
We allow time for the morning service to finish before we walk up the hill. Here is Duncan’s grave, together with a whole lot of other Smedleys. There is no sense in looking for Henry; he was buried in London where he bought a second house before he died. Although my father was cremated, my mother planted a flowering cherry in his memory. I look around for it and then remember that the tree died several years ago. We never replaced it. Many of the family graves are overgrown with brambles. I ought to clear them but the task is too big for me.
Quentin is striding about. ‘What’s the name we’re looking for? We’d better do it systematically. You start at the top and I’ll go down to the bottom.’
The graveyard is on a slope, surrounding the church on three sides. The fourth looks out onto a field with a distant view down the valley. I can just see the tops of two Oakdene chimneys. Henry must have stood here when Aunt Elizabeth was lowered into the earth. Her grave is probably one of those hidden under the brambles. I can imagine him standing very correct among all those relatives in their mourning garb, a pale, romantic young man, tormented by adolescent malaise. His eyes would have been darting about in the hope that he might see his love.
‘Come on, you’re day dreaming again.’ Quentin is working his way steadily up the hill towards me.
The stones are of all sizes. Some of the older ones lean at drunken angles giving the place a dishevelled air. On one side there is a huge mausoleum with steps up to an enclosure that houses a large, stone tomb. I am glad such tasteless opulence is not in memory of a Smedley. A few urns are filled with fresh blooms but many are empty, exaggerating the neglected feel of the place. At least my parents’ remains are not here to bind me to their graves with an umbilical cord of obligation.
The inscriptions on some of the moss-covered stones are so worn they are difficult to read. There are an awful lot of children. Here is a headstone with three from one family:” Mary Bailey age 5, 1878, Sara aged 3 and Tommy aged eighteen months”. I wonder how Jane is doing, and find myself thinking what to give her for tea when she comes to visit. I cannot find the name “Curry” on any of the stones. Perhaps a blacksmith could not afford a headstone. Then it hits me, the reason he is not here: how stupid to forget.
‘Any luck?’ calls Quentin.
‘No, but he won‘t be here, we’re wastin
g our time.’
He has been working more diligently than me and we come together two thirds of the way up the slope to perch on the steps of the mausoleum.
‘Well, we’ve tried,’ he says.
‘I’ve just realised. He went to the chapel, not church. Do chapels have cemeteries?’
‘It’s no good asking me, you’re the historian.’ He rests his arm on my shoulders. ‘Don’t you think it’s time you stopped all this nonsense and started to live for yourself?’
He sounds so sensible and feels solid as I lean against his side. Perhaps, now he has entered my life, I don’t have to follow the trail to the bitter end. I lift my face and kiss his cheek. He looks into my eyes for a moment and then away. ‘You need to lighten up, have some fun.’ He starts to tickle me and I jump to my feet and run, weaving my way between the stones, to the fence by the field. He chases me and flings his arms around me.
We stand for a moment, our bodies close. But it is as if we are playing at being happy. ‘Do you think the minister will be at the chapel? It is Sunday.’
He sighs. ‘We can call in if you want, but I am ready for lunch. I thought we would go to a pub. There is that nice one by the canal.’
We go down the hill and I stop at the chapel. Quentin walks on a bit but then relents and comes back. As we hesitate at the bottom of the steps a man comes out of the door at the top.
‘Excuse me, you must be the pastor?’ I don’t know the right form of address.
He smiles at us and nods. ‘Can I help you?’
In answer to my questions he tells us there is no cemetery but there are some old records. If we give him the name and the year he will look it up when he has time. Quentin produces a piece of card from his pocket and I write “George Curry 1813”, adding my name and telephone number.
‘Must dash,’ the pastor says. ‘I’ve got a wedding at two o’clock.’
