by MARY HOCKING
Mary Hocking
THE SPARROW
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
To Bernard Canter
Chapter One
I
It was early morning, the time of the mind’s release from imprisonment. Ralph woke with a sense of lightness, a joy, in existence undisturbed by memory. The sensation was pleasant, and when he became aware of the faint tick of the clock on the bedside table he did not turn his head to look at the illuminated dial. He wanted to prolong this moment when all bonds were loosed, and—although he would not consciously have admitted the wish— when he was free of involvement with the rest of the human race.
It was so very still. He could not remember when it had last been so still in this clamorous neighbourhood. It was as though something strange and wonderful had happened out there beyond the drawn curtains. His heart rose to the old lure of a magical expectancy. But emotion, as usual, broke the spell and he became aware that there was a harshness in his throat. He realized that fog was responsible for this paralysed stillness. What a miserable drab reality is! he thought wryly. Beside him, Myra, his wife, moved her head uneasily in the hollow of the pillow.
Now he did look at the clock. Just after six. But there was something the clock did not tell him. This was Saturday: the Saturday. The morning sweetness had not been entirely illusory, after all. In the breathless calm of the house he could prepare himself, undisturbed by other claims and demands, for the day’s burden. It scarcely seemed a burden, this enterprise so far removed from the narrow routine of his life; it was more like a promise of fulfilment. He still believed in fulfilment in spite of all the small frustrations.
He lay looking upwards; it was too dark to see the ceiling but he suddenly remembered that there was a bad crack near the chimney and that Myra had said he must ring Randles about it. He closed his eyes, hoping to seal off his mind from all the little problems that splintered his determination, drained his energy. He found the lost tranquillity again, his mind focused exclusively on the one thing which overrode all other considerations. For a few blessed moments he achieved harmony and wholeness within himself.
Then, further down the landing, a door opened; there were soft footsteps in the corridor. His mind framed the question: ‘Now why is anyone up at this hour?’ The answer came almost immediately; the first gritty dust of the day rubbing across the surface of his mind. Another problem with which to cope. As he listened to the footsteps descending the stairs, he tried to contain the wanderings of his mind. This was not the time to be concerned with individual problems, however poignant; today must be devoted to the great challenge and all lesser issues must be put aside. But, the breach having been made, it was difficult to stem the flow of trivialities; he found himself wondering whether that wretched crack in the ceiling had got any worse. Perhaps he needed to be more ruthless. Surely in all dedicated single-mindedness there is a necessary element of ruthlessness? Beside him, his wife moved restlessly. He hoped she would not suggest that he should ring Randles this morning, because there just would not be the time.
II
Something stirred in the house. Immediately the child awoke, just as, in answer to some mysterious signal within her own being, she had woken suddenly on dark Christmas mornings. But this day’s advent was not an occasion for joy, and the child was uneasy as she listened for a repetition of the sound that had alerted her brain. The house was silent again. The child sat up in bed. Beyond the window fog had formed and some of it had seeped into the room, rasping in her throat. She thought about the fog. Perhaps they had not allowed for it when they made their plans the night before? Somewhere along the passage a door opened softly, footsteps went past the door of her room and then the stairs creaked. This would be her cousin, Jill, tousled and scowling in the cold, grasping the banister rail with the determination with which, not long ago, she had grasped her hockey stick. Jill would not be defeated by fog.
When the kitchen door shut behind Jill, the child pushed back the bedclothes and sat for a moment shivering on the edge of her bed. No light came from the slit where the curtains just failed to meet across the window. She went to the window and peered out. Her room was at the side of the house facing the graveyard and the church. Aunt Myra thought that the view was pleasant because it evoked memories of the village that was now lost in the sprawl of London. But the child, who was frightened of the church, was grateful to the smudgy darkness which had obliterated everything but the outline of the garage roof immediately below.
While she stood there looking down at the roof of the garage, the door of the room next to hers opened. A woman spoke, her voice light and amused:
‘It’s foggy, Ralph.’ There was a hint of malice in the voice as it went on: ‘Will it affect your plans, I wonder?’
The reply was resolutely cheerful:
‘I shouldn’t think so. It won’t last; not at this time of the year.’ There was a pause while the man and the woman moved around in their room, and then the woman went out on to the landing.
‘Not a very good day for Jill’s young man.’
She spoke half to herself, her tone—a complex mixture of bitterness and compassion—puzzled and disturbed the child. She had overheard her aunt speaking in just that same tone to Jill the other day.
‘We shall have to be careful what we say to Sarah about this young man. That child’s reactions are so incalculable.’
The child, Sarah, listened as her aunt went down the stairs. Soon she heard her uncle follow. Then there was silence again until at last Sarah, half-dozing by the window, heard the scrape of a door drawn back across gravel. She looked down and saw the faint beam of a torch moving in front of the garage door. Jill was on her way. Sarah stepped back from the window, her heart thumping, and sat on the edge of the bed.
Jill was going to fetch the strange young man. He was to live in the attic room which Aunt Myra and Jill had spent several days cleaning out. They had told Sarah of his coming with a nonchalance which in no way deceived her. She had known from their careful choice of words and their sudden silences, from the way that conversation petered out sometimes and their eyes met above her head, that there was something wrong. For one thing, although he had been referred to as ‘Jill’s young man’, Sarah had overheard her cousin saying: ‘I hope I recognize him.’ This lack of identity was particularly frightening to the child. She wished, as she sat on her bed listening to the car’s engine revving up, that the young man would die. She pictured him somewhere waiting, faceless, shapeless, muffled in fog: was there any reason why he should step out of the fog? Surely God, who had so capriciously taken her parents, could also arrange to take this unwanted stranger?
She was so cold that she could not sit still. She went back to the window. Jill had the car out in the drive now. Perhaps there would be a crash? Sarah hoped that Jill might be saved, but she was prepared, if the worst came to the worst, to sacrifice Jill who only came to stay occasionally and would not, therefore, be greatly missed.
Jill hesitated and looked towards the house as though she were regretting leaving its solid comfort. Then she turned and stamped down the drive, banged the gates back and kicked at the bolts. It was all rather a waste, this show of determination, because there was only Sarah watching and Sarah was not in the least deceived. Jill was frightened, too.
Was it possible that Jill might turn back? The thought did not bring the relief that might have been expected. Although the child�
��s fear was real, that part of her that had once liked the weird, frightening bits in the fairy stories now looked forward with terrified fascination to the young man’s coming. There was a dark enchantment in the thought of him; some magic would be worked when he came which would mean that nothing would ever be quite the same again.
Below, the front door opened and Sarah heard her uncle call out to Jill that he would shut the gates. Jill shouted and laughed and words tumbled out in gusts of excitement.
‘What a dreadful day for you! You won’t be able to tell friend from foe. The poor old bobbies will be picking one another up by mistake!’
Sarah could still hear her voice when the car had nosed out into Sloe Lane. ‘Oh, I’ll be all right,’ she was saying vehemently. ‘I’m just a bit bothered for him. It would be so ghastly if I kept him waiting. Such a day, too!’ And then, reluctantly it seemed, the car started up and she was gone. Soon afterwards, the church clock chimed seven. It was too late to go back to bed now so Sarah began to dress. It took her a long time because she always thought of all sorts of other things that she wanted to do, like acting out a scene between herself and the hated P.T. mistress at school in which Sarah would emerge triumphant. By the time that she had pulled on the thick woollen stockings that she disliked because they scratched her legs, the darkness was giving way and the gap between the curtains was the colour of dingy cotton wool.
Sarah went softly down the stairs, avoiding the treads that creaked, and opened the front door. The fog was lifting here and there; she could see the apple tree, rather spectral in the middle of the lawn, and odd branches and brambles emerging from the tangled wilderness at the bottom of the garden. Beyond the wilderness the brick wall represented the end of all things; the laundries and coal depots in Sloe Lane had been blotted out and only an orange haze in the distance indicated the existence of the High Street.
To the right, it was clearer. The child could see the dark bulk of the church; she could also see that there was a light burning at the far end, small and weak like a very distant star. Her uncle must have walked over to the church after Jill had gone. The child frowned at the light. At the moment she wanted very much to be with her uncle. For one thing, if she went into the kitchen she would have to help Aunt Myra prepare the breakfast and it would be more fun to help her uncle who never checked on what she did. This, she told herself, was the reason why, frightened as she was of the graveyard, she now clambered over the low brick wall and threaded her way between the tombstones towards the church. The grass in the graveyard was high and dank with fog. The church had still something of its night face, dark, mysterious and cold. So very cold. And yet the child seemed to be driven towards it.
She wanted her Uncle Ralph. But she did not really want to help him, neither did she want to talk to him or confide in him; she merely wanted to satisfy herself that he was there. The mysterious undercurrents of the last few days had disturbed her and she feared that what little remained of her world was in danger of swirling away. The one person with sufficient authority to prevent this calamity was her Uncle Ralph. It was unlikely, surely, that God would take Uncle Ralph away since he was doing God’s work. This immunity from disaster was of tremendous importance. But there were other reasons why Sarah felt secure with her uncle. He was very calm and unhurried, it was impossible to be panic-stricken or flustered in his presence; also, unlike her Aunt Myra, he made few demands and never took her by surprise with sudden outbursts of affection. Now, as she reached the porch, she told herself that if she found him as calm and untroubled as ever she would have no need to fear the strange young man. But suppose . . . Her heart began to thump painfully and her hands were clammy as she edged her way into the porch and slowly eased the door open a fraction.
A single light burnt above the choir stalls and the great crucifix cast a dark shadow across the chancel. God, at least, was here, Sarah thought; she felt the chill of His presence. But then she saw with a surge of relief that her uncle was also present. He was standing at the pulpit with a sheaf of notes in his hands. After a moment he put the notes down and bowed his head slightly. His lips moved and for a moment Sarah thought he was going to speak to her, but he said:
‘Prepare me for this day.’
The remark, Sarah supposed, must be addressed to God; she hoped He was listening, but the church seemed suddenly very hollow and empty as if He had turned away. Her uncle tried again:
‘Let me hear Thy call.’
But again there was only emptiness. Sarah stepped into the church. Her uncle heard the grating of the door and raised his head, staring down into the darkness.
‘It’s me, Sarah,’ she called.
He smiled, unsurprised, because he had no idea that the child was frightened of the church and that her visit was therefore something of an ordeal. He beckoned to her to join him and then came down from the pulpit and waited between the choir stalls. The light shone full on him now. He was a square, well-built man with a thick thatch of dark hair unstreaked by grey. His expression retained a youthful quality of eager enthusiasm, suggesting either that the years had treated him kindly or that he had in some way evaded their consequence. The face was strong, tapering from a broad forehead to a pointed, but resolute chin; the mouth was firm, but lifting a little at the corners; the eyes were light blue and possessed a kind of concentrated gentleness which some people found rather disconcerting. He came slowly down the steps as the child moved towards him.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, his voice deep and kind.
‘I came to help you,’ she answered.
He had to prepare for a special service tomorrow because there would be no time later in the day. Later, Sarah knew, he had to go and sit somewhere in Uxbridge. That was why he could not be here when the young man came, and Aunt Myra was angry about it. His warden was angry, too. Sarah had heard him say to Aunt Myra that he wished the vicar spent more time on his knees and less on his behind. Probably they would both have been annoyed if they had heard him at this moment, lightly dismissing his duties:
‘It’s all finished. There wasn’t much to do.’ He held out his hand. ‘Come and sit beside me.’
They sat in the front pew.
‘What a cold little paw,’ he said, rubbing her fingers between his hands.
Years ago, when Jill was young he had sat her on his knee and fondled her, wishing that she was his own child. This, he knew, he must not do with Sarah and it had not occurred to him that there might be other ways of awakening this lonely child. Now, as so often lately, he became absorbed by his own thoughts as he stared up at the crucifix. Sarah, who preferred people to remain remote from her, sat quietly beside him, happy enough until he said suddenly:
‘You know, Sarah, great things are being done today, although few people realize it.’
He spoke in the light, confiding tone in which he began his addresses at children’s service; but there was an undercurrent of stronger feeling from which the child withdrew instinctively. She was filled with a sudden dread that he was about to suggest that they should pray for the young man. In order to fend off this embarrassing moment, she said:
‘Tell me his name again.’
A puzzled frown drew the fine brows together. He looked down at her as though bringing himself back with difficulty from a great distance.
‘His name,’ she repeated. ‘The young man who is coming here. Tell me his name.’
But even as she spoke she realized, in surprise and joy, that her uncle had forgotten all about the young man.
‘Wilson . . . Wilson . . .’ he muttered. ‘Ah, yes! Keith Wilson.’
‘Will I have to call him Uncle Keith?’
After a moment’s hesitation, he answered:
‘You won’t have to. But I expect he would like it if you did.’ They talked for a little while about the young man, but they did not pray for him and Sarah could tell that her uncle’s thoughts were elsewhere. Slowly, the darkness in the church was lifting, a cold grey light robbed it
of some of its dark majesty and the fantasies of the night released their grip on Sarah. Some of the magic slipped away, too. The young man, it seemed, was not so very important since he was so soon forgotten.
III
Sarah was not the only person who had heard Jill set out on her journey.
The verger’s cottage was on the opposite side of the road to the church, which was inconvenient from the point of view of supervising the church premises, but useful if one happened to be interested in the comings and goings at the vicarage. Spencer, the verger, was convinced that his fate was inextricably at the mercy of the whims and fancies of the vicar and his wife. Consequently he was overwhelmingly interested in the affairs of the vicarage. On his bad days, he imagined that the vicar and his wife must devote their entire conversation when they met at breakfast, dinner, tea and supper to the subject of Spencer and his failings. Admittedly, they seldom criticized him openly. But Spencer early in his life had developed an exquisite sensitivity to snubs and slights which had matured over the years until now he frequently found himself reacting to an anticipated rather than an actual insult. When he first became verger he had sensed immediately that his lack of suitable clothes offended the vicar and his wife. No sooner had this been remedied than he had realized that they objected to his slight lameness which detracted from the dignity of the ceremonial occasion. And so it had continued. When he was a young man Spencer had not put up with this kind of thing but had packed his bags and moved on. But he was old now and in need of a settled refuge. In the two years that he had endured this torment— and this was the longest period that Spencer had ever endured the torment of work—he had lived in daily fear of dismissal. The slightest deviation in the normal routine of life at the vicarage had the most sinister implications for him: if the vicar’s warden called twice in one week. Spencer was in despair.
At present, the conviction that doom was about to befall him was particularly strong and he brooded over it as he set the pot of tea down beside the plate of toast on the table by the window. It did not occur to him that his depression might be due to the fact that Christmas—a period of extreme ill-will where Spencer was concerned—was not long past. Spencer was not content with a seasonable explanation of his woes; he preferred to identify them with a particular person. In his long life the burden of blame had rested on many shoulders. His mother, his unknown father, the warden at the hostel where he had grown up, the sergeant-major who had bullied him, the padre who had duped him with such high promises on behalf of God, his schoolmates, his workmates and subsequently his cellmates, had all helped to make Spencer what he was. It was true that over the last two years life had been deceptively kind to him; but he was not deceived by this bland benevolence. His tormentors were still there, unappeased, and now it seemed that he had made the mistake for which they had been waiting.
