by MARY HOCKING
‘Come and inspect the hall before supper,’ he said to Wilson. ‘You might as well know what you’re in for this evening.’
‘I didn’t know that Keith was starting this evening,’ the vicar said.
Wilson, who had not known either, made no comment. He had become rather taciturn in the last few days and was no longer quite so anxious to please. Also, he had developed a feverish cold and had hoped to go to bed early.
On the way to the hall they were joined first by Sarah and then by Spencer. Sarah wanted her uncle to mend a broken pencil box and Spencer wanted to know what was going on.
‘If I’d known you wanted to get in now I’d have cleaned up a bit,’ Spencer said as they walked up the snow-covered path.
Sarah complained: ‘The lid doesn’t slide any more.’
The vicar, who was trying to sort out a bundle of notes, made a sympathetic noise intended to placate both Sarah and Spencer. Rutledge, who was not of a placatory nature, said:
‘The place is filthy. Once we’ve had the church roof seen to, we shall have to raise a fund for a new hall.’
‘It’s not dirt,’ Spencer interposed. ‘All the paint has worn off. I was meaning . . .’
‘What do you think of it?’ Rutledge asked Wilson as they entered the hall.
‘Perhaps the youth club could paint it?’
It was only an idle suggestion prompted by the thought that it might save him the trouble of keeping the youngsters occupied, but Spencer chose to make an issue of it.
‘A nice mess that would be!’ he sneered.
Colour whipped across Wilson’s cheekbones. The vicar looked up from his notes.
‘It would give them something constructive to do, wouldn’t it?’ He watched Wilson who had embarked on an aimless tour of inspection. ‘Young people need an outlet for their energies. I often think we ought to offer them more projects of this kind instead of feeding them so much sport and jazz . . .’
‘Paint everywhere except on the walls!’ Spencer prophesied. ‘And then it would be left for me to finish.’
Wilson, whose ramblings had brought him up against Spencer, said sharply:
‘Certainly not! You don’t imagine I would allow that?’
It was just what Spencer did imagine.
‘Much chance you would have with that gang!’
‘It would be quite simple.’ Wilson, who had his own private doubts, was defensively assertive. ‘A bit of organizing needed, of course . . .’
‘And it would keep them out of mischief,’ Rutledge said.
‘Organizing!’
Spencer glared at Wilson and Wilson stood for a moment with his hands at his sides, the nervous fingers suddenly still.
‘I’ve had enough for one day,’ he said softly.
‘I planned to do the painting myself,’ Spencer explained, making a despairing attempt at conciliation because he did not like the thin, tight line of Wilson’s mouth. He had also planned how he would spend the money he would be paid for his labours, but he made no mention of that.
Wilson had begun to prowl round the room again, watched by Sarah and Spencer. He rattled the window frames, kicked at loose boards, pulled at door handles. Spencer thought that he would be offering to maintain the place next. Sarah thought that he was in a bad temper. He came back from work now in much the same mood that she came back from school after she had had a P.T. lesson with Miss Lane. Sarah was not good at P.T. and Miss Lane made fun of her clumsiness. Perhaps someone had been making fun of Mr. Wilson? He would not like that.
‘Well, I’ll be on my way.’
Rutledge went across to the door where he paused to prod at a loose floor board.
‘When we want these replaced we know where we can pick up some timber on the cheap, don’t we?’
He looked at Wilson who affected not to understand. Rutledge, feeling snubbed, became aggressive.
‘Don’t tell me you’re that proud! If you were you wouldn’t be wasting your time hulking round Kleine’s timber yard when there are better jobs for young fellows with your background.’
He went out, followed by Spencer who hoped that he might be able to convince him that it would be a waste of money to let the youth club loose on a painting job. Sarah took advantage of the moment’s quiet to thrust her pencil box at her uncle.
‘Will you mend it, please?’
Ralph Kimberley took it from her and poked at the lid in an ineffectual way.
‘You mustn’t take too much notice of Rutledge,’ he said to Wilson. ‘He gives us all a piece of his mind from time to time.’ He shook the box and a few pencils dropped out. ‘You do like it at Kleine’s?’
‘It’s all right.’
‘It’s not what you’ve been used to, of course. But it’s a beginning.’
Sarah watched Wilson, rigid now except for his hands which clenched and unclenched as though kneading some invisible object.
‘Does that big Irishman still work there?’ Ralph asked. ‘Ginger¬headed fellow with a broken nose.’
‘Yes.’
‘A proper trouble maker, I believe. I sometimes have a chat with the priest at St. Ignatius’s—a friendly fellow for all he’s a Roman . . .’
His voice went on. Wilson, aware of Sarah’s gaze, put his hands behind his back. After a while the vicar said in exasperation:
‘Here, see what you can do with this thing.’
He handed the box to Wilson and settled himself on a stack of table tennis equipment where he proceeded to sort out his notes again. Sarah watched Wilson standing with his dark head bent over the box, his lips drawn back in a tight grimace as he wrestled with the lid. He did not seem to be any more successful than her uncle.
‘My notes for a lecture on St. Paul at the women’s guild have got mixed up with an article for the Observer,’ the vicar explained. ‘The consequences could be disastrous. Women become very violent on the subject of non-violence.’
Wilson’s fingers tightened on the box. Sarah held her breath.
‘You know, Rutledge may think you are wasting your time, but I rather envy you.’ The gentle, absorbed expression on Ralph Kimberley’s face might, had he been looking at him, have convinced Wilson that the man was speaking the truth. ‘Kleine’s place has a fascination for me. The great stacks of wood, the shavings—so incredibly delicate, aren’t they?—the smell of the sawdust . . . How I should like to be able to create with my hands! Carpentry, particularly, must be very satisfying . . .’
The box caved in with a sharp crack. For a moment, as he looked down at the splintered wood in his hands, there was an expression of satisfaction on Wilson’s face; his breath hissed through his teeth in a long sigh of release. Then Sarah began to cry. He looked up, amazed, as though he had forgotten that she existed.
‘I’m sorry!’ He knelt beside her, his face so white and his eyes so strained that he terrified her and she screamed louder than ever. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah-with-an-h . . . I didn’t mean to break it . . . I didn’t mean to . . .’
He was violent in his apology and Sarah rejected him with equal violence. Ralph Kimberley hurried across to them. He picked up the smashed box and stared at it in bewilderment.
‘It seems you’re no better with your hands than I am. Sarah! Stop making that dreadful noise.’
‘He did it on purpose!’
Later, Ralph said to Myra:
‘It was quite appalling. I’ve never known her to make such a scene. Wilson was very nearly crying, too. And it’s not as though she ever seemed to be particularly attached to that pencil box.’
‘We could buy her another for her birthday,’ Myra said. ‘At least it’s nice to know of something that will please her.’
She sounded wistful, and he was suddenly moved by her, aware of a store of tenderness in her that was unused. He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her gently just behind the ear.
II
The snow had melted, but on the green there were still mounds of slush which came up above the a
nkles of Sarah and Sukie Price as they trudged towards the vicarage. Sukie walked carefully, picking her way as fastidiously as a cat, but Sarah bounded along heedlessly, in unusually high spirits.
‘I’m acting in the Easter pageant,’ she announced. The words came out explosively, revealing that she had been waiting the moment to impart this news. It was disappointingly received. Sukie said: ‘Are you?’ and frowned as Sarah’s flounderings sent a shower of grey flakes across her legs.
‘I’m a child in the crowd listening to Jesus—you don’t see Jesus, just our faces turned towards Him. And then I’m one of the women at the tomb. Aunt Myra’s going to make me a costume and . . .’
‘What do you have to say?’
‘I don’t have to say anything.’
‘You can’t really be acting, then. You can’t act without saying things.’
‘Yes, you can. Look! I’m acting now.’
And Sarah pinched her nostrils and hollowed her cheeks, at the same time opening her eyes very wide. This was her way of registering horr was certainly expressive of something. Sukie looked at her and looked away again quickly.
‘Who’s doing the pageant?’ she asked.
‘Mr. Wilson.’
‘That’s why you’ve got a part, then. He wanted to please your uncle.’
‘No, it’s not. It’s because I’m good. Look! Look at me again.’
But Sukie was following her own line of thought.
‘My mummy says the men who work with your Mr. Wilson say he’s uppish.’
‘Does she? Do look at what I’m doing now.’
‘She says that it’s funny, an uppish young man like him wanting to work in a timber yard.’
Sarah said furiously:
‘God Almighty! I’m sick of what your mummy says.’
‘Sarah!’
Sarah, who was rather staggered herself, began to make loud noises, jumping up and down and flapping her arms about.
‘I’m a Jabberwock!’
‘You’re just ashamed.’
Sarah shouted:
‘You’re a prude, Sukie Price! That Australian boy in our class says you’re . . .’
‘That boy! He smells. You said yourself that he smells.’
Sarah jumped away and flapped her arms from behind one of the trees that lined the edge of the green.
‘I’m a ghoul now. And you have to pretend to be frightened of me.’
Sukie looked at her and tittered.
‘You always look so funny when you act, Sarah. As though you were going to burst.’
‘I’m a good actress.’
And Sarah sounded so menacing that Sukie stopped laughing. She even pretended to be frightened while Sarah grunted and grimaced and hunched up her body, looking, Sukie thought, more like a monkey than a ghoul—whatever that might be.
The snow was thick and hard still beneath the trees on the green, but in the high street there was only an occasional pile of grey slush in the gutters. The pavements were still damp, however, and mud splashed the backs of women’s stockings and made the going treacherous for Spencer with his lame leg. The sky was the colour of charcoal and a whining wind agitated the awning outside the fishmonger’s and spattered Spencer’s face with water. Evening was coming on. Neon lights were reflected in slimy pavements. Women jostled one another in the rush to get last-minute provisions before the shops closed; outside the supermarket a row of prams was ranged and owlish faces peered out of woollen hoods. A toy was flung at Spencer’s feet and the child howled as he went on without retrieving it. ‘A cry like rending calico.’ This was the one memory of his babyhood which his mother had left with him. The thought stirred the depths of Spencer’s self-pity.
He was glad to turn away from the noise of traffic and babies. A coal lorry manoeuvred out of the yard in Sloe Lane, apart from that the road was empty. In the window of one of the cottages Spencer could see a woman preparing a table for a meal; as she laid out the cutlery she watched the television screen in the corner. Spencer grieved over the joys of family life which, largely as a result of his own evasions, had been denied him. So much had been denied him. He slipped on a mound of slush and heard children sniggering. There was a gaggle of them hanging around in the coal yard, waiting for any kind of trouble that turned up. That’s how it had been with him. Never a chance. He sighed gustily in the damp evening air. His lame leg dragged as he walked.
There was a light on in the sitting-room at the vicarage. Spencer could see Mrs. Kimberley tidying up a pile of books and papers on the window seat. These would be things belonging to Sarah who was always reading and scribbling. Children. As far as Spencer knew, this joy had also been denied him. It was one loss which he felt he could bear. Across the street his cottage turned a dark, blank face towards him. Perhaps he should get a bird? But then he would have to look after it and clean out its cage, and that nosy Mrs. Thomas would be sure to tell him he was giving it the wrong food.
While he was thinking about Mrs. Thomas he had turned into the graveyard. He walked across the long grass between the graves towards the brick wall that separated the graveyard from the garden of the vicarage. From here he could see the drive and the front door but not much else. At the far end of the graveyard, however, there was a gate that led into the back garden of the vicarage. He had used it once or twice lately. Quite why he did this, he could not have said, except that it was a good thing to observe the enemy.
He looked at his watch. It was too dark to see the hands now, but judging by the time that he had left the main road, it could not be much more than a quarter to six. The enemy would not be back until well after six. There was a light on in the church. Perhaps the vicar was praying; he prayed a lot on his own lately. If he came out and found Spencer hanging around in the graveyard he would think it odd. Yet Spencer waited. The house itself had a fascination for him now, framing as it did the little scenes which he occasionally glimpsed and which seemed more and more to affect his security.
For as well as being the enemy Wilson had, in a confusing way, become a part of Spencer himself. The first time that he came out of prison there were people waiting for him, too. They had found him lodgings, given him a job, provided him with some of the comforts of life which he was too lazy to secure for himself. It had been good while it lasted. Once, when they had thought that he was in his room, he had heard them discussing him. A first offender, they had said; you could do so much with a first offender. The others were a heartbreak job. You could give them comfort, help them to limp from one sentence to another; but they were basically irredeemable. You could only slow down the process of deterioration, make a temporary halt on the road to the breaker’s yard. At that time, Spencer had heartily endorsed these sentiments. But time had passed and gradually they had begun to lose interest; he had made another ‘mistake’ and as the years went by there were fewer hands held out to help him. The old tricks no longer worked the desired magic. And now it had come to this: he must work as he had not worked before in order to hang on to this one last hope of a decent old age. Fear had succeeded in keeping Spencer straight where charity had failed.
How he hated those who now stood in his place! Young men like Wilson. To Wilson all would be given, even if the giving was at the expense of Spencer. Perhaps he had even now decided that being verger would be a cushy job; perhaps he had already cast calculating eyes on the cottage across the street. That, after all, would have been the line which Spencer himself would have pursued. The painting of the church hall was probably the first stage in a carefully planned campaign.
And then, just at this moment when the young Spencer and the young Wilson had fused into one person, there came the sound of footsteps on the pavement, footsteps which dragged as they approached the gate of the vicarage. It was as though he had worked a dark miracle. Spencer thought, as he saw Wilson standing at the gate outlined clearly in the light from a street lamp. But a different Wilson; a sorry sight indeed, head down, shoulders sagging. It was not often that the young ma
n let himself be seen like this. But then he did not know that he was observed. Spencer had a small reward for his vigilance as he watched Wilson gathering his strength; the shoulders were braced back, the head arrogantly tilted. He was coughing rather badly and this spoilt his poise, but on the whole he went up the path proudly enough.
Spencer stumbled along the side of the wall making for the gate at the end of the back garden. Whatever risk it involved he was determined to see the ensuing scene which, with any luck at this time of the evening, would be played in the kitchen or the dining¬room, both of which were clearly visible from the garden provided the blinds were not drawn. Of course, it might be that the young man had been sent home early because of his cough, but something about the little scene at the gate suggested a more serious setback in the career of Mr. Wilson.
Mrs. Kimberley was obviously surprised. She was in the kitchen; she must have heard the front door open for Spencer saw her glance across at the clock. Her lips moved. One word. Perhaps she said: ‘Sarah?’ At any rate, it was not Wilson whom she expected to see. She had a mixing bowl in her hands; Spencer saw her put it down slowly on the table, her head turned towards the door leading to the hall which was open. Wilson must have been standing there, just outside Spencer’s range of vision, because Mrs. Kimberley’s lips moved again. A long silence followed; then Wilson appeared in the doorway. What a fool the young man was! Whatever had happened he must need help and yet he stood there looking surly and defiant as though the very last thing that occurred to him was to appeal for sympathy. ‘You’ll have to learn to cringe.’ Spencer whispered angrily. ‘And you will learn, for all that sullen pride. Life has a few tricks yet to play on you, lad!’
Wilson spoke, or rather he seemed to hurl out one sentence. The woman looked startled, then angry. She came round the end of the table and faced him. They talked for a few moments, she had a lot to say and Wilson very little; he looked down at the table, he was pretending not to care but he was too taut to be convincing. Spencer was beginning to enjoy himself when Wilson suddenly had a spasm of coughing. It looked bad, even at this distance, but for a time the woman did nothing to help him but just stood watching. Spencer felt a moment’s grudging sympathy for Wilson. She was a hard one; at least you would expect her to give him a glass of water. And then she did move. She went slowly to Wilson and laying her hand on his arm led him to a stool by the table; he had stopped coughing but was still in some distress. Got himself in a proper panic, Spencer thought. Mrs. Kimberley must have had the same thought, because she raised her hands to Wilson’s head, pressing her fingers against the temples. Spencer watched avidly. She was standing behind Wilson; slowly, she drew his head back against her breast.
