by Ruth Skrine
Below this entry there is a cross, the lines rather wobbly and uncertain, and below that the words, The mark of Tom Farley.
I rub my thumb gently over the mark. This is the man who married Emily when she was already pregnant. He had taken another man’s son as his own. He could not read or write, but he had befriended Henry, asking nothing of him in return. Here is evidence confirming the suggestion that the blacksmith was deranged at times.
The last witness is the apothecary. I was called to see the deceased and found him dead on the floor of the forge. I found a cord round his neck and it appeared that the deceased came by his death from suffocation caused by hanging. I attempted to bleed him but without effect.
There then follows a statement in which the evidence is summarised and the main points re-stated once again: Upon the oath of the sixteen lawful men of the said city… Edward Curry not being of sound memory and understanding but lunatic and distracted on the third day of May instant in the parish aforesaid…did kill himself.
Not being of sound memory and understanding but lunatic and distracted. The words echo in my head. Poor Eddy, he was not just fighting a mixture of alcohol and religious fervour, but a madness that finally made him take his life. He may have been a bully, but he was gentle with horses. It is sad that he lived at a time when there was no treatment for mental illness.
I shut the book, hand it back to the archivist with automatic thanks and drift out of the building. A car screeches to a halt, stopping within inches of my back. The driver puts his head out of the window and shouts abuse. I give a small wave of apology and step back onto the pavement.
My eyes trace the lines of the concrete slabs, seeing nothing. I am so distracted that I trip over a dog. The lead gets wrapped round my ankle but the dog, one of those patient labradors, just looks at me with long-suffering eyes, while his owner curses me for not looking where I am going. I apologise and catch my reflection staring out from a shop window: an ordinary looking woman in a light brown suit and lime green blouse, with rather a nice haircut. The body inside is not contaminated. If there is a genetic cause for Jake’s madness it came down to him through his grandmother, Emily, not from Henry.
I find myself opposite the toyshop and go in to buy the new family for the doll’s house. The only figures small enough are plastic with the clothes painted on, the colours crude and gaudy but different enough to make a family, even though they are all the same size. Jane can take them home with her if she wants. I find myself going back up the hill, past the house and on towards the church.
Inside I sit in one of the pews. My family probably had a special place in the old days. I have not been to a service there since the consecration of the tree in memory of my father. My grandmother would not have dreamed of going anywhere but the Catholic Church in the city, where I went with her to keep the peace. Since she died I have not been to church at all, apart from the funeral service for my mother in the crematorium chapel.
The hushed dampness of the old stones kindles a longing to pray. I have no idea how to begin. As I sit suspended in time the silence begins to penetrate my apathy and my body takes on a new lightness. It is not just I who am free of contamination, but Briony and her children are also safe. The Smedley genes may not carry much in the way of genius, Beth says we are rather a boring lot, but we are healthy, and somehow very British. Anglican, middle class and boring, that is my inheritance. Well, so be it. I should be grateful for such a solid foundation, even if something stops me from behaving with the easy, not to say promiscuous, abandon of my peers.
On my way back down the hill I see the minister from the chapel hurrying along in front of me. I run to catch up with him. ‘I’m so glad to see you,’ I call.
He turns. ‘Oh hi, it’s you. Have you had any luck with your search?’
‘Yes indeed. The blacksmith committed suicide, I’m afraid he hanged himself. Would that be why you have no records?’
‘I expect so. I must dash.’ He is always rushing somewhere. ‘I should have been at the chapel five minutes ago to meet a man who’s coming to see about the roof. Will you walk down with me?’
‘I’d like that.’ I quicken my steps to keep up with his long strides.
The minister seems to have plenty of breath to talk and trot at the same time. ‘They wouldn’t have wanted to contaminate the chapel with anyone like that.’ He throws me a kind glance. ‘Are you upset by what you have found?’
‘Yes and no. Mainly no. I am freed by it, but the story is so complicated.’ Looking round the hamlet, I have a sudden thought. ‘Have you any idea where the forge used to be?’
‘That’s a question I can answer. The site was next door to the chapel. You see that cul-de-sac of rather up-market houses?’ I nod. ‘They stand on the exact spot.’
I watch as he leaps up the steps of the chapel two at a time and gives me a quick wave before going inside. I like his friendly, off-hand manner. How different he is from the preachers of those old days, like Eddy who, fuelled by his religious beliefs and periodic insanity, ranted on about the fires of hell.
I turn into the close. This is the place where Henry stood in the yard beside his horse, his son holding the bridle and Emily in the doorway of the little house. Henry went on to spawn a large family, and now in a few weeks there is going to be yet another to add to the line. A scan has suggested that Briony’s baby isn’t growing very well. Each time we talk on the phone I feel impotent in the face of her acute anxiety and unspoken guilt. If wishes are prayers, then I am praying as I stand there on the spot where Henry first saw his son, praying that the new baby will be born in every way complete and perfect.
The elegant houses surround me. “Change and decay…” But this is not decay. Change, yes, no one can check the passing of time. I would have preferred the forge, but with the invention of the combustion engine people no longer need horses. Closing my eyes I imagine the hiss of the steam rising from the hot shoes and the smell of the burning hooves as the metal makes contact. I can see a horse lift its tail and land a large pile of steaming manure in the middle of the yard. Emily runs out and collects it for her vegetable garden, while her children play in the corner.
I open my eyes and see the neat gardens and cars parked in the road. A small girl walks past with her mother, pushing a tiny pram with a floral shade that protects her doll from the weak spring sunshine.
Chapter 20
Mrs Wilson greets me warmly when I arrive to fetch Jane. The baby has a cold and is fretful so she is pleased to have the older child off her hands for the afternoon.
We walk slowly up the hill to the house, stopping to watch some boats going through a lock on the canal. Jane seems mesmerised by the changing water levels as we help to open and close the gates. I promise to bring some stale bread on the way back so we can feed the ducks.
When we get indoors she is overawed by the size of the house but wants to see everything. She takes my hand as we start up the imposing staircase. ‘Who are all these people?’ she asks, stopping in front of Duncan’s portrait. ‘Why is he wearing a red coat?’
‘He is going hunting. Some of the men who organise the hunt do wear red.’
‘I know, I’ve seen them on the telly with their horses and dogs.’
‘They’re called hounds,’ I correct her.
She is still looking up at him. ‘I think he’s smiling.’
‘Sometimes I think he winks at me.’
She turns towards me and wrinkles up her eyes. ‘I can wink,’ she says, but her efforts only produce wild grimaces.
I half expect her to stop as we pass Henry but she doesn’t. In the dining room she sinks to the floor in front of the doll’s house. I tell her of the new family I have bought to go inside but she jumps up, more interested in exploring the real house around her. In my bedroom she picks up my teddy bear out of the corner, the only big toy I have saved from my childhood. Lying him gently on the bed she eases his arms out of the sleeves of his blue jacket. His trousers are to
o tight for her to take off so she clasps him by the leg, dragging him behind her as we walk past the closed door to Briony’s room. The dolls are very beautiful but I have to keep them in case the new baby is a girl. It would be unfair to dangle them in front of Jane and then snatch them away.
I must have glanced up at the opening to the loft, for she points and asks where it goes. Impulsively I pull the stairs down and she drops my bear to clap her hands. I let her clamber up in front of me, keeping a protective arm round her as she rises higher. She reaches the top and I tell her sharply to stand still, afraid she may step between the joists where there are no floor boards. When I reach her side she is standing hunched over with her fingers in her mouth. I must watch every word I utter; she is such a sensitive child. Once she is settled on an old bit of carpet, I wind up the musical box hoping it will revive her. The tinkling tunes echoing in the loft raise my spirits all over again; but she doesn’t recognise any of the old songs and, to my chagrin, soon becomes restless.
Having negotiated the rickety loft steps, the stairs to the cellar are easy. This time I go backwards in front of her. Reaching the bottom I lead her to my escape ledge by the window.
‘Oh Miss, did you really have to escape?’
What a stupid word to use when she has been forced to flee from serious harm. I try to smile into her wide eyes. ‘All children need to be on their own sometimes but not everyone is lucky enough to have a cellar under their house. You’re not going to run away again, are you?’
Her fingers are back in her mouth. ‘I will never leave Ma.’
‘That’s all right, then. Do you think you could call me Meena? We’re not in school now.’
‘Meena, that’s a nice name.’ She peers into the corners of the room, beyond the light of the single naked bulb. ‘Where’s the bear?’
‘We left him upstairs. Let’s go and find him.’
Jane climbs up in front of me and runs to fetch him. ‘May I call him Meena Bear, after you?’
I am absurdly pleased and manage to get through tea with no further mishaps. Sausages and chips turn out to be her favourite meal. I wrap the remains of the cake for her to take home to Ma.
‘The baby eats cake,’ she says. ‘Can I play with the doll’s house now?’
I produce the new family from my pocket and she kneels down to put them inside. ‘I’ll just wash up the plates in the kitchen. You remember where that is? Give a call if you want me.’
She hardly seems to hear and I leave the room feeling more confident that her visit is going well. I had not realised that having a child in one’s own home is so different from caring for them within the routine of school. As I tidy the kitchen the sound of her whispering carries down the lift shaft. I can’t hear enough to catch the gist of what she is saying, so I creep back to peep in at the door and listen.
The boy doll, with painted-on specs and jeans, is lying on the floor some distance from the house. Of course, Jane has no brother so she doesn’t need him. A tiny baby would have been more suitable but the shop did not have one. She has put the mother, with a brown apron painted on the bare plastic, in the kitchen, together with the daughter in a red pinafore-dress. The fourth doll, the one with a pipe, is nowhere to be seen.
‘Put the food on the table like a good girl,’ Jane says in a squeaky voice. She lifts the girl and puts her by the sideboard. ‘What food shall we have?’ she asks, in her normal voice. ‘It is Friday today, so we must have fish.’ Squashing her second hand into the room, Jane picks up the plastic plate and puts it on the table. ‘Look at your hands. You cannot go out till you have washed them.’ The high-pitched voice rises in anger. ‘But Daddy’s waiting,’ she replies, again in her own voice. ‘Do what you are told.’ The mother is screaming now.
Jane picks up the two dolls and crashes them together. ‘I won’t, I won’t.’ ‘I will tell your new daddy. He knows what to do with naughty little girls.’ ‘I hate him.’ ‘You are a bad girl. Stand in the corner.’
I can hardly stop myself from intervening. It may be healing for children to play out their traumas but I long to give her a cuddle.
She picks up the girl doll and walks her out of the house and over to the one in glasses lying on the floor. I hold my breath. At that moment reality breaks in. She flings them away from her and bursts into tears. I rush forward and take her in my arms.
‘I don’t like them. They’re beastly.’
‘I’m sorry Jane, you don’t have to play with them. Let’s do something else.’
She clings to me for a moment, sniffs and wriggles out of my arms. With a determination beyond her years she collects the three dolls and puts them in a tidy line in front of the house. After hesitating for a moment she takes the fourth from her pocket and adds it to the others. ‘They’re only dolls,’ she says. Picking Meena Bear up she leads the way into the sitting room and over to the window. Staring out she goes on, ‘They gave me dolls to play with at the police station. They didn’t have any clothes.’
As I follow her gaze out over my valley, I try to face up to the fact that I have been using her for my own ends – unconsciously perhaps, but that is no excuse. I have come to believe that Louise was right that day in the staff room, when she said I had some special affinity with the child who trailed round after me. How could I have been so selfish as to try to reach my own memories through hers? Such a motive is unforgivable. ‘Would you like to keep Meena Bear for your own?’ I ask.
She turns and throws her arms round my waist, the bear still held by the leg. ‘Can I really?’
‘Of course. I’m sorry I could not come with you to the police station.’
‘That’s all right. I managed.’
Perhaps she had, but at what cost? Children can be resilient but that does not absolve me from my stupidity.
To my relief it is nearly time for us to go. She asks if we can visit all the rooms of the house once more. I will agree to anything to wash the memory of the doll’s house out of her mind. She goes ahead opening the doors and laughing as she recognises each room. This time I open the door into Briony’s room and tell her about keeping the dolls for the new baby.
‘I’ve got Meena Bear, he’s best. Can I come again?’
‘I’ll try and arrange another visit but I’m going to have to move out of this house fairly soon. It’s too big for me all on my own.’
‘I could come and live with you,’ she says.
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. You can come and visit me when I’ve found another place to live.’
‘I’ll do that,’ she says, in her most grown-up voice.
We remember the bread for the ducks and as I watch her enticing them nearer to her outstretched hand I pray to the God that I don’t believe in, that she has not been damaged further by her experiences in my house.
***
On my way to bed that night I pause in front of the portraits, seeing them reflected in Jane’s eyes. At least the ancestors behaved themselves during her visit. In the company of a living child my fantasies vanished. I am left with nothing but pictures, inert pieces of canvas with no more life than the wooden frames that surround them. Reaching my room the first thing I see is the photo of my father, which I had restored to its upright position on my return from Cornwall, gazing out at me. Swivelling away I hurry back down the stairs. The plastic dolls are just as Jane left them. With furious movements I sweep them up, carry them to the kitchen and out to the yard where I hurl them into the dustbin and jam the lid on with a clatter.
At some stage during the night I wake with the certain knowledge that I am going to give up my job in the school. In the darkness I try to understand the decision that seems to have arrived while I slept. I have known for a long time that my lessons are all repeats of those I have given before and that, even if the children are not bored, I weary myself. Then too, I have lost patience with the staff room chatter of boys and babies. If I have to listen much longer it will stifle me as surely as the house is doing.
/> At the same time, I must accept that moving away will not solve my problem. A change of scene can’t obliterate the past. I am sensible enough to know that people carry their hang-ups with them wherever they go. At least I have looked at mine with clear eyes and feel fairly sure that I am not running away – merely trying to live more fully within my own peculiar limitations. I spring out of bed and send Jim an e-mail to say I will be resigning with effect from the end of next term. He will be disappointed that I am not applying for the job of deputy head. Working with a stranger will worry him but that is not my concern. If I don’t get abroad I can work as a supply teacher. At least that way I will see new schools and meet different people. Or… I give a skip of excitement. I could apply for a grant to take a biology degree. They are always looking for science teachers to staff the secondary schools. I could indulge my passion and earn a living at the same time.
Quentin has done no more than exchange a few polite words with me since I came home. I have given him a month’s notice in writing and expect him to move out any day now. I am not planning to speak to him again – ever. But I need the name of the agency that arranged his trip to Africa. Dropping off to sleep again I wake with a start. He wrote the address down for me on a table napkin during our first meal together. How could I have forgotten?
In the morning I go through my accumulation of papers throwing out those parts of my life that I am determined to leave behind. My decisions are almost as reckless as when Susan helped me throw away my grandmother’s things. Lecture notes from college days, newspaper cuttings filed for future use in history lessons, official pamphlets from the department – all of them go flying out. If I continue as a teacher I will have to find new resources.
