by Sue Gee
‘It was nice of you to ask me.’
‘Well – everything’s always such a rush at school, isn’t it? Would you like to look round a bit? Before tea?’ She took down a coat from a hook in the porch, not waiting for him to answer. ‘My father’s out with the dog – he’ll join us later.’
‘Let me help you.’ He took the coat from her, held it out so she could slip into the sleeves. She was almost as tall as he was.
‘Thank you.’ She moved quickly away, turned up the collar beneath her dark bob. The coat was a worn old tweed, quite different from the long lined elegance of the one she had worn for the concert, and not unlike Margaret’s, still hanging by the kitchen door in the cottage. Would it ever not hang there? For months, he had thought of it as waiting for her return.
Margot pulled on her gloves. ‘So – off we go.’
She led him to the left, towards the stable-yard where he recognised her little car, and along to the kitchen garden, with a tennis court alongside. She clicked open the wicket gate of the garden and beckoned him through. It was big: he looked round at greenhouse and potting shed and tilled beds just beginning to sprout: onions and broad beans and tight spring cabbage. A light wind was getting up, and the air smelt of smoke from the house and of freshly dug earth. Everything was immaculate.
‘It’s a lot of work.’
‘It is. We have a man who does it all, we’re very fortunate. Mr Barrow – I know, it’s funny, isn’t it? His wife helps in the house.’ They walked along the paths. ‘Do you – do you garden at all?’
‘I do.’ And he told her about the patch he had dug up on Hencote, windswept but surviving, though nothing as far on as here, sheltered by stone walling. ‘I fenced it in from the sheep,’ he said, as they came out through the gate again.
Now they could see the pele tower properly, and for a moment he stopped, and stood looking up at it, a mighty thing adjoining the main house, with its high narrow windows and a weathered door which he guessed Margot’s grandfather might have had made.
‘My boys would like that tower. They like hearing about border raids and battles.’
‘Do they? I’m afraid it’s just where my father keeps his guns: he belongs to the local shoot. Mostly it’s full of Barrow’s tools and things.’
‘His barrow.’
‘Yes.’ She gave a little laugh, and for a moment he felt so easy with her that he almost put her arm through his as they walked on, over the flag-stoned terrace.
‘And you grew up here?’ he asked. ‘You were born here?’
‘Yes. Heslops have lived in this house for over two hundred years.’ They turned to walk over the darkening lawn. ‘We’re a mining family, originally, my father’s still a director – it’s just a small mine outside Morpeth now. He can tell you more about it, if you’re interested.’
‘I’m a historian – of course I’m interested.’ He thought perhaps that sounded as if his curiosity was only professional, was perhaps a bit curt. And he said, as they walked slowly down past the sundial, ‘And you grew up with your friends – with Frank and everyone.’
‘Just for a couple of years, but we stayed very close, we were lucky.’ They came to the edge of the ha-ha, deep and grassy. ‘We used to race down here,’ she said, looking out at the cattle.
‘And Frank always won?’
‘Almost always. He’s one of those people, isn’t he?’
‘I think he is.’
The wind blew over the field, and the light was almost gone. She put her arms about her.
‘Come on – let’s go and have tea.’
They turned and walked back, past the little summer house standing before a line of trees, and up towards the Hall. The cedar overshadowing it was so dense and dark, and the swing beneath it such a fragile thing.
‘We used to love that swing,’ said Margot, seeing Steven turn to look at it. ‘Frank used to make us go higher and higher.’
Two little girls and a skinny little boy – a trio – and the other boy tall and strong and fair and full of energy, then as now: Steven thought that was how it must have been. And as they came to the terrace he remembered, as he had often done since the Christmas concert, that search across a packed school hall for one especial face.
‘Diana and I still swing on it sometimes, in summer,’ said Margot, as they reached the porch. ‘It’s very restful.’ She hung up her coat, pushed open the heavy front door. Inside, in the fire-lit hall, the grandfather clock ticked steadily.
‘Let me take your things.’
‘Thank you.’ He gave her his hat and scarf, shrugged off the heavy winter coat. ‘Let me—’
‘No, no, it’s fine.’ She took the weight of it, crossed to hang it on the stand, his hat and scarf on the hook above. ‘There. I thought we’d have tea by the fire. Come through.’
He followed her into the drawing room. Rugs, pictures, a table piled with books and magazines, another with scores. A couple of music stands were folded against the wall. No longer a concert salon but a great, airy, comfortable room, tea laid on a lamp-lit fireside table, two wing chairs on either side of the hearth.
‘Do sit down – I’ll be back in a minute.’
She went, her shoes clicking over the floorboards, and he crossed to the fire, taking the chair on the right. It was good to sit down; it felt good to sit here, in this calm old room. He stretched out his feet by the flames and looked across at the piano. Might he ask her to play, or did she not like to be asked? He hardly knew her at all.
And though he no longer felt ill at ease, he wondered, as he had done when he first read her letter, that she should do this, that someone with a life of concerts and parties and good close friends should bother with coming into a school to teach awkward boys, or seek out the company of a teacher who until now had been pretty awkward himself.
Photographs stood here and there about the room: studio portraits in silver frames and some more informal. He didn’t like to go picking them up and looking at them, but one on the far side of the mantelpiece showed a woman in profile, dark-haired, with a glimpse of pretty earring, gazing out of the frame in the misty halo photographers liked to use to give their subjects depth and meaning. There was a photograph like that of Margaret at her parents’ house, taken for her twenty-first. She hadn’t needed such a background, and neither did this woman, with her bright expressive face. He knew who it must be.
The clock in the hall struck the three-quarter hour. What a good sound. And here was Margot, bringing a tray: silver teapot and hot water, a silver muffin dish. He got to his feet.
‘Let me help you.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said again, and carried it over to the table, sitting down opposite him, asking if he took milk.
‘Please.’
The last women to pour him tea were his mother, Margaret’s mother, and Margaret herself, from the big brown teapot bought at the auction where they’d bought their bed. Both items had made them feel very married.
Margot lifted the lid of the muffin dish. Hot buttered muffins, strawberry jam, pretty china: he noted a third cup and saucer.
‘Where does your father go walking?’ He took a soft muffin dripping with butter.
‘Everywhere. Sometimes just along the lanes, sometimes quite far afield.’
‘And your mother?’ He nodded towards the photograph. ‘That’s her?’
‘Yes.’
It felt too personal to say that he thought her lovely-looking. He just said:
‘She won’t be joining us?’
Margot put down her cup. ‘Frank didn’t tell you?’
He shook his head.
‘She died when I was eight.’
The muffin was halfway to his mouth. He almost dropped it.
‘Oh, Margot.’
Was that the first time he had used her name? It felt as if it was. And the look he
gave her across the hearth was as if something had been unmasked.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said, as she always said: so much sealed over, for so many years. ‘I’m surprised Frank didn’t tell you, but perhaps he just takes it for granted, it’s so long ago.’ She saw Steven hesitate. ‘Can I remember her? Yes, a little. I think we were very close. And she played the piano– I can remember that, and her teaching me. Starting me off.’
His smile made her want to get up, cross the hearth and kiss him. ‘She did very well,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’ And now it was she who was hesitant. ‘But you – you’ve lost your wife. Frank did tell me that.’
‘Yes.’
And then, leaning back in his chair, he found that he couldn’t speak.
‘Forgive me,’ she said, and he made no answer.
Firelight played over the hearth, the light at the windows deepened. Footsteps came up the drive: a man and a dog, out walking, as every day. For the first time she thought of her father and the man sitting silently opposite her as two widowers, and she wondered at the length of her father’s time alone. Perhaps, like Frank, she had taken something for granted.
The front door banged.
‘I’m sorry to be so—’ Steven struggled to collect himself. ‘I think of my wife all the time, but I hardly talk of her.’ To say this to someone he barely knew, to reveal how much Margaret still lived within him – it felt very strange. Especially, perhaps, because, as he’d stood at the open gates, he had felt her leave him completely.
Footsteps came into the room.
‘Hello, Father.’
‘Hello, darling. Afternoon, Coulter, good to see you.’
Steven got to his feet. His fingers were covered in butter, and he pulled out his handkerchief.
‘Here.’ Margot passed him a napkin.
‘What am I doing?’ he said, taking it from her. ‘You must think I’m—’ He wiped butter away with worn linen. ‘Good afternoon, sir.’ They shook hands. ‘How was your walk?’
‘Very good, thanks. Bit of a wind now.’
And there was the dog, nosing up to him, and he bent to greet and pat him.
‘Good dog, good dog. How was your walk?’
‘He put up a rabbit or two.’ Heslop moved to the sofa, and took his cup from Margot. ‘And how are you, Coulter? Enjoying your half-term?’
‘Yes, thank you. It’s very nice to be here.’ The dog made his way to the hearth, and Steven went back to his chair, and stretched out a hand as he sank down before the fire. Margot gave him a smile, and he returned it, recovering himself, feeling the complicity which two people who like one another – and unexpectedly, improbably, even, it seemed that they did – always feel when they’re joined by a third. Especially if they have been making disclosures.
He glanced across again at the photograph of her mother – surely, like Margaret, much too young to die. And taking fresh tea, passing the muffin dish to her father, he felt his picture of Margot begin to change: behind the accomplished musician, the confident young woman on the concert platform, with a background of friends and comfort, he saw a little dark-haired girl, alone with her father in this enormous house.
The dog yawned and stretched on the hearthrug. He bent to pat him once more, stroked the warm dark coat. The paws twitched.
‘He’s dreaming of those rabbits,’ said Heslop.
Steven gave the dog another pat, and looked up to see Margot’s eyes upon him. She smiled again, quickly, and poured fresh hot water into the pot.
The conversation turned to the house, its history, generations of Heslops, coal. Coal, and the mine outside Morpeth which Heslop still managed, now in decline, like so much industry. Unemployment, and the march from Jarrow two years ago, said Steven, thinking of his class.
‘Me uncle’s on National Assistance, now.’
‘Of course,’ said Heslop, ‘If there’s a war—’
Margot was pouring the last of the tea. ‘I don’t want to think about that.’
Would she play for him, before he left? She would. Was there anything in particular he might like to hear? He shook his head: he knew so little – she should choose.
‘Father?’
‘You know I always like to hear Elgar. Or Chopin. But do what you feel like, Margot.’
She got up, crossed to the piano, leafed through the music there.
‘Mendelssohn,’ she said, after a moment or two, and began to play. Outside, all was darkness, the rising wind in the cedar the only sound. In here, something gentle and quiet began – the kind of thing, thought Steven, which if you hadn’t been listening to music for very long, you could enter and appreciate at once. But as Margot played on, the tone of it deepened, became grave and thoughtful, more complex. He settled back in his chair.
What an interesting choice. He was glad of it: had she played something bright, or sad, he would not have known how to respond. But this – this was music of the mind. And as it gradually increased in vigour and intensity, building towards a climax, he closed his eyes in utter concentration.
It lasted just a few minutes, ending almost as gently as it began. No one spoke. Steven went on sitting there, hearing the sough of the wind, the sigh of the sleeping dog, logs falling apart in the grate.
‘Very nice, darling,’ Heslop said at last.
Steven opened his eyes. ‘What was it?’
‘A fugue,’ Margot turned on the piano stool, and once again he thought how graceful she was. And how pale – did she always look so pale? ‘Did you like it?’
‘I did, very much. Thank you: it was just what I needed. Tell me about it.’
‘It’s just one of a sequence: Seven Characteristic Pieces. That was Number Five. I think they were written for friends.’
‘Like Elgar and the Enigma Variations,’ said Heslop, and gave a yawn.
The grandfather clock in the hall began to strike, and Steven looked at his watch. Six o’clock. He mustn’t outstay his welcome. The windows were pitch black and he had a journey of perhaps two hours.
He rose from the chair. ‘I must be off.’
‘Won’t you stay for a drink?’ Heslop was getting up stiffly, and the dog thumped his tail. ‘Or supper – stay for supper, why don’t you? I’m sure we can rustle something up.’
He shook his head. ‘That’s very kind, but I’ve a long way to go.’
‘I’ll run you into Morpeth,’ said Margot, and then, more hesitantly: ‘May I?’
‘No, thanks, really – I mustn’t trouble you – the walk will do me good. If I could just—’ He gave Heslop a glance.
‘Let me show you.’ The dog followed them out as he led him back to the hall and pointed to a passage door. ‘In there. But do let one of us give you a lift.’
‘No, no, it’s all right, thanks.’
Why didn’t he just say yes?
Too much on your own, love, he heard his mother say, and it was true. He went into the capacious lavatory, and saw in the mirror someone too much on his own, who didn’t know how to break out of it. When he came out he could hear Heslop clattering about in the kitchen at the end of the passage. Margot was playing again, something very gentle, like a nursery rhyme.
She stopped as he came into the room.
‘What was that?’
‘Just something my mother used to play. I haven’t thought of it for years.’ She got up, and came towards him. ‘You’re sure I can’t drive you?’
‘Quite sure, thanks.’
‘I’ll get you your things.’ And she was in the hall in a moment, up at the stand, saying that her father was feeding the dog, and passing his coat and scarf. He wound it round his neck, took his hat.
‘Well – thank you, Margot.’ He put out his free hand. ‘I’ve really enjoyed it – especially hearing you play.’
She took the hand, and released it. ‘Do come again.’ But now it was hostess talk, he could feel it. Then her father was coming up the passage, saying the same thing, and he felt the waters close over the afternoon: he wouldn’t accept their kindness – very well, goodbye. And perhaps he had embarrassed Margot, with his sudden flood of emotion, that long silence, when she spoke of Margaret. Or did he imagine all that? They stood in the porch as he thanked them again, and walked away down the drive. Stars were rising. The door closed firmly behind him.
Had she upset him? Should she not have asked about his wife, whom he thought about all the time? And couldn’t talk about. He’d closed quite off from her again, just had all that talk with her father. She bit her lip. Then she went slowly back to the piano, and played the sweet tune from the past.
Now the day is over,
Night is drawing nigh;
Shadows of the evening
Steal across the sky. . . .
She was on her mother’s lap, she was singing with her, watching the fingers move over the keyboard, as dusk fell over the garden. Such a long time ago.
Out in the hall she could hear her father throwing more logs on the fire, then standing still, listening. She could sense him doing this. Then he went into the library and closed the door.
How had he endured so many years alone?
How had she?
Now the day is over . . .
She played it once more, and then she got up and began to clear away the tea things. A napkin had fallen to the floor beside Steven’s chair: she went over, bent down. No – not a napkin. His handkerchief. She picked it up, and pressed it to her lips.
‘Margot? Darling?’ She was getting supper, heard her father open the library door and call her. She could hear the murmur of the wireless as he walked down the passage to the kitchen. ‘I’ve just heard the news.’ She turned, saw his troubled face. ‘Hitler has entered Austria. It seems they’ve welcomed him.’
3
Primroses starred the grassy verges in the lane from Hepplewick. Daffodils blew in a fresh April wind all the way down the garden and sprang up in the ha-ha. On the terrace, in the far corner of the house, the forsythia was in full bloom: such an ordinary old thing, but Barrow kept it cut back so it grew more vigorously, and she could not remember a time when it had not been there, when it had not greeted her on her return from school in the Easter holidays, bright against grey stone, yellow flowers floating in dark rain pools on the flags.
