by MARY HOCKING
He looked back at the house and realized that he, too, was being inspected; a curtain had been pulled aside and a child’s face peered from a ground-floor window. The child at least was real and her presence demanded action on his part. He opened the gate and went up the drive. As he stood at the front door, he heard voices. A man and a woman were speaking just inside the door, he could hear their conversation quite clearly. The man’s voice was rather unpleasant, thick, ingratiating.
‘It’s just that I wouldn’t want the vicar to think that I haven’t done everything I could to keep that old boiler going . . .’
‘I’m quite sure he appreciates . . .’ The response was mechanical, and the ingratiating voice flowed on:
‘I wouldn’t like you to know how long I’ve worked at that old boiler, Mrs. Kimberley. I really wouldn’t like you to know. Sometimes I’ve been up as early as . . .’
The child had reappeared at a side window, her nose flattened against the glass. Wilson knocked with defiant heaviness and the door flew open so quickly that it startled him.
‘Oh, it’s Mr. Wilson!’
The woman spoke with exaggerated delight, as though she were greeting a dear friend. She was so near that Wilson could not focus on her properly; but he was aware of the old man standing behind her, tall, stooping, his deeply furrowed face wearing an outraged expression as though he had just sustained some terrible injury.
‘Spencer, I’m so sorry! But I must look after Mr. Wilson now.’
The old man gave ground unwillingly; as he passed Wilson he directed at him a look that was surprisingly venomous.
The woman shut the door and sighed with relief.
‘You couldn’t have come at a better time! He was just building up to some grievance or other about the boiler.’ She gave her visitor a quick glance, neither hostile nor friendly. ‘You must be hungry. I’ve got some coffee on and I expect you would like egg and bacon.’
It was more of a statement than a question and he did not dare to tell her that he was not in the least hungry. She led him into a big, rather chilly room. The furniture was large and old-fashioned and the rugs were frayed at the edges. There was a child of about ten curled up with a book in an armchair by the fire. The woman said that she could smell bacon burning and hurried out of the room. The child closed the book and regarded the young man thoughtfully. She had a thin face and large brown eyes set rather close together; lank brown hair dangled over her forehead. Wilson thought that she was not an appealing child, but he felt that he should make an effort, so he said:
‘What’s your name?’
‘Sarah-with-an-h.’
She studied him critically as he sat down on one of the stiff- backed chairs.
‘Are you my Uncle Keith?’
He nodded.
‘I thought you were going to be quite different.’
He did not pursue the matter and she looked disappointed. The radio was on. At first he did not notice, but after a time he found himself listening. The commentator sounded excited, in a controlled way, as though he were relating a superior kind of adventure story.
‘There were just a few of them at first, huddled together in the fog. As the hours passed, others came in twos and threes, dropping down silently. There was no gaiety, no singing. This, one thought, is defeat. Even those among the observers who were not friendly refrained from laughter: the English are sentimental about lost causes. The fog was thick where I was standing and the grey line soon faded into nothing. “This shows their real strength,” a policeman remarked. Then, about ten o’clock, the fog lifted suddenly. There was a patch of blue sky, a rather watery sun. And in front of us a great, silent crowd stretching away as far as the eye could see. “Blessed if I expected that!” the policeman said mildly. One or two of the leaders were standing up, looking at the crowd: I think they were surprised, too.
‘And so it has been . . .’
Wilson had a vision of the people sitting there, quiet, orderly, and very virtuous. He was glad when Mrs. Kimberley came in, turning the switch off as she went by.
‘I get that all day long without having it on the radio.’ She put a tray down on the table and set food out before him. Then she said quite kindly: ‘I don’t suppose you want light conversation just now, so if you don’t mind I’ll get on with my chores.’
While he ate, she dusted the room. She moved lightly and quickly; but there was a nervous impatience about her actions which communicated itself to him. If she had sat opposite him tapping her fingers on the table he could not have been more uneasy. He toyed with the bacon and pushed the fat to one side of the plate, watched disapprovingly by the child. When Mrs. Kimberley went out to put the kettle on for washing-up, the child said:
‘I’m not allowed to leave food.’
‘Bad luck.’ To distract her from further comment, he said: ‘What are you reading?’
‘I’m only pretending to read. It’s a dull old book that Aunt Myra gave me because she wanted me to be quiet this morning.’
He did not want to know why she had to be quiet, but she was not to be cheated, and after a moment’s silence, she said sadly:
‘I was supposed to play with my friend, but I can’t because her sister is worse this morning.’
He made the sorry sound she probably expected, but she was not prepared to let him escape so easily.
‘Her sister’s called Joanna and she’s going to die soon. She doesn’t know, of course; but it won’t be long now.’
There was a hint of pleasure in her voice, as though death had some kind of fascination for her. Wilson was both repelled and moved.
‘That’s sad for her mother and father,’ he said.
But he was careful not to sound sad himself and he took another piece of toast.
‘It’s tragic,’ the child said severely.
He began to butter the toast.
‘You ought to be upset,’ she insisted.
He shook his head.
‘Why aren’t you upset?’
‘I don’t know her. So it would be silly for me to pretend to be any more upset than you are.’
While the child was digesting this remark, Mrs. Kimberley returned.
‘Now then, Sarah. Are you going to help me to show Mr. Wilson to his room?’
The child responded by giving Wilson a long, level look.
‘I think I’d rather read my book, thank you,’ she answered coldly.
‘I’m sorry about Sarah,’ Mrs. Kimberley apologized as she took him up the stairs. ‘She’s not very fond of people. Her mother and father were killed in a car crash. We look after her and she bears with us, but that’s about all. I suppose one can’t expect more.’
But the dry bitterness in her voice suggested that she, at least, had expected more. She pushed back the door of one of the rooms on the top floor.
‘But then you probably have something in common with her. You must feel bitter and empty, too.’
‘I haven’t any reason to be bitter.’
‘Does one need a reason? Unhappiness usually makes us bitter, whether we deserve it or not.’
She went across to the window and drew back the blinds. He could see the top branches of the apple tree; the fog was clearing and there were patches of blue sky. In the light from the window he saw her clearly for the first time. She had a sharp-featured, heart-shaped face framed in a mass of dark hair that she wore at an unfashionable length, neither long nor short. She must have been pretty once and the face still belonged to a young person although time had drawn cruel lines on it, dragging the mouth down at the corners, underscoring the deep blue eyes. She had not accepted the years gracefully and they had had to impose forcibly upon her, wrecking her sprightly prettiness and giving nothing in return. He supposed she must be about forty.
She moved away from the light.
‘Did I apologize for my husband? He would have met you himself, but he has a . . . very important engagement and Jill was eager to come. So . . .’
‘She
asked me to explain about the car.’
‘It doesn’t matter. She rang up as soon as she got to the office.’
He hesitated and then said: ‘Does she live here, too?’ The enquiry did not sound as casual as he had intended.
‘No. I’m afraid not. She has a flat in the unfashionable part of Chelsea. But she comes to see us quite often.’ She was watching him with a faint amusement that was not without malice. ‘She’s such a nice girl.’
He looked away.
‘It’s very kind of you and your husband . . .’
She shrugged her shoulders impatiently and moved towards the door.
‘Thank the others, if you must, but not me. I’m the useless one around here. I’m not really very kind, either.’
Then, as she saw him standing irresolute, she seemed to be moved by an unwilling compassion. Her voice softened.
‘Why don’t you lie down? It must have been an ordeal. Sleep through the rest of the day if you want to. We can talk tomorrow when my husband is here.’
As she went out of the room, she laughed and added with a return of the malice he had noticed earlier in her voice:
‘That’s if he’s not in jail by then.’
Chapter Two
He was not in jail. The thought gave him no satisfaction as he mounted the chancel steps and turned to face the congregation. In fact, he felt rather more martyred here in St. Gabriel’s than he would have done had he been condemned to spend the morning at Cannon Row police station.
The organist struck the first note of the hymn and the choir stood up; the congregation remained seated while the organist played the introduction, then it, too, rose shuffling and rustling throughout the first line of the hymn. Ralph Kimberley gazed down, trying to regain his usual gently amused detachment. What very naughty children they were! He had asked them so often to stand at the same time as the choir. He studied the individual members of his flock. Some were simply forgetful, others were definitely obstinate. The obstinate ones maintained that they had always stood when they were required to sing and not before, and while they did not mind accepting a suggestion from the vicar now and then, it would be a mistake to give way too often in case he got the idea that he ran the church. Ralph could see this attitude personified in every line of the small, square figure of Rutledge, his warden; an arrogant, strutting little cockerel, chest puffed up and behind sticking out jauntily. Ralph allowed himself the luxury of a moment’s irritation with Rutledge.
Rutledge was frowning. Ralph felt guilty, as though his thoughts had been read. Then Rutledge turned to look behind him and Ralph, following the direction of his gaze, realized the cause of his annoyance. The Nigerian family had come in late and Spencer was shepherding them to a pew half-way up the north aisle instead of allowing them to slink quietly into the back row. Why must Spencer demonstrate his usefulness in this obtrusive way? Ralph remembered that he had promised to see Spencer after the service. What could the man want? He hoped that it was something to which he could say ‘yes’: it was so very exhausting and time-consuming to say ‘no’ to Spencer. Spencer, Ralph acknowledged, was one of his failures.
He was rather shocked at this point to discover that the congregation was kneeling while he led them in the General Confession. This lack of concentration must be due to weariness after his long vigil yesterday. ‘We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts . . .’ Perhaps weariness also explained his uncharitable thoughts? Yesterday had been so inspiring—that heart-warming moment when the fog lifted; today, surrounded by the pettiness of church routine, the exaltation gave way to an ignoble querulousness of spirit. There was something else, too; an uneasiness which had a tinge of guilt in it. It was a feeling with which he was not entirely unfamiliar and it usually meant that he had left something undone which he ought to have done. The choir dragged behind the organ in the singing of the Venite and the leader of the Sunday School stumbled over the reading of the first lesson. Ralph tried not to notice these things. Doubtless there would be those among his congregation who would be watching to see how he had survived yesterday’s events. It would not do at all if he were to present a picture of a tired, ill-humoured man who would have liked a day in bed. A day in bed . . . He remembered that just as he had been dragging himself out of bed Myra had reminded him of something that she wanted him to do.
‘O all ye Works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord . . .’
Extreme exasperation comically distorted Rutledge’s face and Ralph chided himself for not mentioning to his warden that he had agreed to the choir master’s request that the Benedicite should be sung at least once every month.
‘O ye Waters that be above the Firmament, bless ye the Lord . . .’
How interminable it was! Rutledge was perfectly right. And Perkins, the choir master, had chosen one of the more laborious settings, which was too bad of him.
‘O ye Showers and Dew, bless ye the Lord: praise him, and magnify him for ever . . .’
What was it that Myra had wanted him to do? His only recollection was of a vague resentment.
‘O ye Winter and Summer, bless ye the Lord: praise him. . .’ After a time he began to feel as though he were going to fall forward; it was a feeling he had often when he was very tired. He tried to count the congregation to steady himself and keep his mind alert. There was Inspector Pym’s wife, cheerful and aggressively pregnant. He must remember not to say to her that it was a long time since he had seen her husband, otherwise she would answer as she had last time: ‘That’s because you keep him working overtime, Vicar.’
‘O Ananias, Azarias, and Misael, bless ye the Lord: praise him, and magnify him for ever.’
At last it was over. The congregation buckled at the knees and seemed to prepare for sleep. During the second lesson, read much too dramatically by the people’s warden, Ralph remembered what it was that Myra had asked him to do. ‘You must telephone Percy Nicholls and get him to arrange a special interview at the Labour Exchange for Wilson. Otherwise he’ll get into that dreadful man Brooker’s hands.’ She had first mentioned this while he was having his supper late last night, so tired that he could hardly eat. ‘After all,’ she had pointed out. ‘It was your idea that he should come here. He’s your responsibility now.’
Ralph looked down at the second pew where his responsibility sat nervously attentive between Myra and Sarah. He looked forlorn and defenceless; it would be a pity if he were to be confronted with a dry, inhuman man like Brooker. But was he really so defenceless? Wilson, Ralph reflected on a closer scrutiny, did not look so simple and straightforward as he had seemed in prison. They never did, of course, once they came out and collected their identity along with their civilian clothes. What did this mean in Wilson’s case? Confidence had undoubtedly been undermined, the features lacked firmness; yet this indecisiveness, one suspected, was not habitual and the face was not weak. That was not necessarily a good thing: the strong cannot always reconcile themselves to injury. All Ralph’s uneasiness culminated in a feeling of extreme inability to deal with this new demand on his energy. For a moment, Wilson and his problem seemed more important than anything else and Ralph was surprised to find how heavily he had to draw on his reserve of strength to pull himself free of this particular snare.
He raised his head and looked beyond the young man. Spencer had not turned the lights on at the back of the church and there was an impression of twilight, as though the last of the day were dying out while it was yet morning. He stared into the twilight area over the heads of the congregation, searching for something that lay beyond the little pricks of pain and guilt and despair, the small-change of humdrum lives. Gradually, his face grew calm, the lines smoothed out, the muscles relaxed at last; but although there was a nobility about him now, serenity eluded him. Perhaps weariness accounted for the harshness in the eyes; otherwise one might have thought that their intensity revealed a hint of fanaticism.
In his seat in the third pew from the front, Rutledge nudged his wife.
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‘Vicar’s off!’ He glanced at his watch. ‘If he goes on longer than a quarter of an hour, I’m going to speak to him about it.’
The vicar paused for some twenty seconds, partly to collect his thoughts and partly to satisfy his sense of drama. Sarah shivered in the solemn hush. The church with its alcoves and shadows was full of menace and the brass candlesticks glinting darkly on the altar aroused emotions which Sarah suspected were not holy. She concentrated on her uncle. This morning she would listen very carefully to everything that he said and perhaps, because she was opening her heart to His words, God would save her. Her friend Sukie had been saved, and so had most of the other girls who went to the Bible group. So far, however, God had not called Sarah. This worried her because it seemed to indicate that she was less acceptable than the others. Once or twice she had tried to work herself into a state in which she would imagine that God was calling her, but there was some part of her that remained aloof and disapproving so that the experiment always failed.
Today the experiment failed for another reason. After Uncle Ralph had been speaking for a few minutes, Mr. Wilson picked up one of the hymn-books and began to turn the pages with quick, nervous movements as though exercising his fingers rather than exploring the book. Sarah, who had found it necessary to do this sometimes herself when the atmosphere in the church was particularly oppressive was not surprised to see that he was moistening his lips and swallowing with difficulty as though his throat were sore. After a moment, he put the hymn-book down and sat gripping the seat so that the veins stood out on the backs of his hands. She knew how he felt; his heart was thumping and there was something stretched tight as elastic across his forehead that was going to snap at any minute. Her body understood, but the understanding did not produce sympathy. She hated him. How dared he force his ugly pain on her? Would he faint, or scream, or get up and run out? And why did no one else realize that something dreadful was going to happen to him at any moment? There was a funny little tick beneath his left eye. She watched, fascinated. How horrible he was! Suddenly, he turned and looked at her. To defend herself, she crossed her eyes and made one of her particularly hideous faces at him.
