by MARY HOCKING
‘My mummy was Aunt Myra’s sister.’
It seemed to take him a long time to digest this simple announcement, but eventually he gave a rather lop-sided smile and said:
‘Was she like Aunt Myra?’
‘No.’
When the door closed behind Sarah, Wilson straightened the paper out and read the words again in their sprawling, unsteady capitals:
DO THEY KNOW ABOUT YOU AT YOUR JOB?
They did not know about him, he had taken care of that; even the editor did not know. But it was not the implied threat that they would soon know that so sickened him; it was the fact that he was the recipient of such a letter. He wanted to confide in someone; but there was only Myra now. There was no place in their relationship for comfort. She tormented him and he allowed her to do it—much as he accepted the ridicule at the youth club— because it was a test to which he must submit or never trust himself again. But that didn’t mean that he had to go crawling to her for sympathy.
Jill’s image stole treacherously into his mind. Or had he, although he would not admit it, been thinking of her all the afternoon as the air drifted into the room, raw with the aching promise of spring? He looked at the carpet littered with bunched-up scraps of paper; something, it seemed, had been distracting him. He went across to the window. There were a few children playing on the green beyond the church and in the opposite direction a van was unloading outside one of the laundries. He remembered his arrival; he had wanted to walk away from the vicarage and the demands of a new life; one of the things which had held him steady had been the thought that Jill visited the house and that he would see her sometimes. Well, he had successfully put paid to that little dream! He slammed the window as though by this simple act he could cut out memory. He picked up the scrap of paper and looked at it again.
Down in the hall the telephone started to ring. Sarah answered it and in a very short time she was calling up the stairs:
‘Where’s Uncle Ralph?’
Her voice was more raucous than usual, denoting perhaps a genuine urgency. He hurried down to the hall.
‘Who wants him?’
She stamped her foot.
‘Where is he? It’s Joanna Dove; she’s very bad and they want Uncle Ralph.’
He took the receiver from her, thereby undermining her sense of self-importance. She stood by glaring malevolently while he told Mrs. Dove that the vicar was visiting Mrs. Thomas senior. When he put down the receiver he could see that she was trying to make up her mind how she should react to this event. He decided to make things difficult for her by distracting her attention.
‘Let’s save Aunt Myra some work and get our own tea.’
He forgot about the screwed-up piece of paper which he had left by the telephone on the hall table. Myra found it when she came in from the young wives’ meeting.
‘Is this the first?’ she asked as soon as Sarah had left the kitchen.
‘Yes.’
As she stood by the window holding the note up in the fading light her face, cold from the March wind, had a pinched look and the lips were chapped, bloodless. This is only a beginning, she thought; there will be other letters and soon I shall be involved. Out in the garden the wind shivered in the apple tree and shadows of the shrubbery swayed across the lawn. Who writes this kind of letter? She turned away from the window. She did not want to answer that question; it was better not to venture into the darker recesses of the human spirit. She looked at Wilson. His features were composed into the bored expression which was supposed to indicate that he did not care, but a nerve at the side of his jaw throbbed; his hands flexed and unflexed and she could hear the knuckles crack. What had possessed her when she allowed herself to become involved with this neurotic young man? All the exhilaration of the past few weeks had gone. She felt cold and desperately tired; she wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible so that she could lie down. The need to lie down was imperative, just as it had been when the doctor told her, years ago, that she could never have a child.
‘What does one do?’ Wilson asked. ‘I’ve not had much experience of this kind of thing.’
‘Ralph will speak to the editor of the paper.’ She wrenched her mind back to Wilson’s problem with some difficulty. ‘He knows him slightly and he can tell him that you didn’t do anything very dreadful’. He will believe it, coming from Ralph.’
‘Thank you!’
‘Don’t be so touchy,’ she said wearily. ‘We all accept an unbiased view more readily than self-assertions.’
‘I prefer to handle this myself. And I shan’t make any assertions. What you don’t seem to realize is that I rather enjoyed my little essay in violence. I’m a much more vindictive character than you imagine.’
‘Stop dramatizing yourself. Isn’t it a fairly common experience among men? The male has a streak of violence. Are you any worse than the others?’
‘But how can I tell?’ He had become very quiet. ‘How does one measure the relative strength of one’s destructive urges?’
She saw suddenly that he was not dramatizing himself; there was indeed a dark region inside him and he could never be sure what might emerge from it. And then her mind seemed to give a great leap and she understood that it was because of his ability to stand between her and the darkness that Ralph was so necessary to her. She, like Wilson, was never quite sure what might emerge from within. It was only in the shelter of a happier spirit that life could be tolerable for such people. How often she had laughed at Ralph for his buoyant optimism, his enthusiasm, his capacity for joy and wonder! and yet she had drawn on his strength, his belief kept her afloat, his radiance alone lighted her path. Without him . . .
She sat down at the table and put her head in her hands. It came almost as a surprise to her to realize after a few moments that Wilson was still there. She said:
‘Please go. Go away from me.’
He seemed to grope his way out of the room. The door slammed, his footsteps stumbled on the stairs and after that it was quiet until Ralph came in with the news that Joanna Dove had died.
IV
Wilson looked at the squares of moonlight patterned on the carpet beneath the window. He tried to absorb himself into the pattern so that his mind could rest. The effort made his head ache but in no way muffled his thoughts. Jill had not turned away from him; she had not told him to go away. He stopped studying the pattern of moonlight and burrowed down among the bedclothes; he counted up to a hundred and seventy and then surrendered. He went through every moment that he had spent with her. He even allowed himself to remember her final tenderness, although now it brought him nothing but pain because he would never see her again. How could he see her again? He had nothing to offer and she deserved so much. What was more, she undoubtedly expected much. She had made it quite clear that for her life was to be a shining adventure; she would scarcely be prepared to start it hand in hand with someone who had already crippled himself.
And now the fear stirred, a chill paralysis creeping up his limbs; his lungs breathed in cotton wool, there was an iron bar pressed against his chest. He sat up in bed, drumming his fists against his temples. Think, think, don’t let yourself be overwhelmed like this each time, bring your mind to work on it. You have been shown a side of your nature that you don’t like; but that happens to most people at one time or another. It was no use. The suffocating pain in his chest confused his mind, overpowered reason; the heavy throb of blood in his veins blotted out everything except the fear that it might be the darkness that won final control. He had to creep down to the lavatory to be sick.
Later, when he was a little quieter and the sweat was cold on his shaking limbs, he asked himself: ‘And can you involve a girl like Jill in your affairs, ask her to share this appalling risk?’ The answer, of course, must be no. He went to sleep at last, confirmed in a dreary determination to suffer alone.
In the morning he hurried to the office. But the editor was at home, confined to bed with an attack of gastric ’flu, and i
t was not until the following week that Wilson was able to tell his story. The editor listened to him a little impatiently and then said:
‘Well, thanks for telling me. But as it happens, I already knew.’
The police sergeant had, in fact, recognized Wilson; he had been in the H division at the time and knew all about the case. He had assured the editor that the Ted was a miserable little runt who deserved all that he got.
‘And don’t think I’m going to sit in judgement on you, either,’ the editor said. ‘We’re too soft with these young thugs. A good belting is the only thing some of ‘em understand.’
He was becoming quite a popular character, Wilson thought as he left the office; if he beat up a few more people they would give him a medal. He had to cover a meeting at County Hall. It was early and he decided to walk part of the way. Kensington Gardens was nearly empty, except for a few truant couples lying in the damp grass or leaning against the trunks of trees. The sight of them, aroused in him an ecstasy of self-pity. When he reached the far side of the park he went into the first telephone box that he came to and rang Jill’s office. She was out for the day.
Chapter Nine
I
Wilson was not the only one who was subject to irrational impulses on this particular day. It was a day of mild tumult and confusion with vagrant clouds scurrying formlessly across the sky, the wind fractious, stirring the litter beneath the trees in the parks, rippling the surface of the water in the ponds, making the pigeons ruff up their feathers. The promise of spring unleashed many impatient, elusive longings in people as different as Spencer, Sukie Price and Ralph Kimberley.
Spencer was primarily conscious of the ache in his limbs and the less specific but more painful ache in the centre of his being which aroused a hatred for this season of renewal when everything except Spencer would blossom and flourish. He thought back over the long years stretching away with very few green memories to soften their lean harshness. He was not helped by the sight of Wilson striding out in what looked like a new jacket. Wilson was on his way to break the news about his record to his editor, but Spencer did not know this; he noticed only the ease of the long limbs which did not know the cramping pains of rheumatism, the arrogant carriage of the head which had not yet acknowledged failure.
Sukie Price was more fortunate. She found God in the pale gleam of sunlight on the bare branches of the tree outside her window, in the complacency of the fat blackbird enjoying the motion of a branch swayed by the wind, in the sleek contentment of a ginger cat curled up on a cushion which someone had thrown out in the yard. She was sufficiently moved by all this to say grace aloud at breakfast. Her brother used the four-letter word for the third time and her father said: ‘What did I say?’ and hit him across the mouth. Sid retired to the hall from where he said that the church made him sick and the things that went on inside the church hall made him even more sick.
‘I’m not going back no more,’ he informed his father from the comparative safety of the half-landing. ‘Ordered about by a yellow bastard like that who hasn’t the guts to stand up for hisself with another fellow and then tumbles the vicar’s niece when he thinks no one’s looking.’
‘That’ll give you something else to pray about,’ Sukie’s father said to her. ‘Give us a rest.’
Ralph had found rest of a kind, too; a strange, hushed pause during which he seemed to stand at the crossroads and the path which he had long sought lay before him, narrow, rough-hewn, spiralling into unknown territory. The moment was so tremendous as to be almost beyond belief. There was a quality of unreality which he had not anticipated: good news, it seemed, could have the same effect as bad news, something in oneself was unready to receive it and the result was a momentary numbness. As he got out of Pym’s car in East Acton and waited to cross Western Avenue, he was afraid that the whole thing might be a mirage of the mind. And yet, a few minutes earlier, Pym had said:
‘I don’t know what your next venture is, Vicar; but I’ve heard there’s a list of people to be picked up and your name is high on it.’
‘Is that so? Thank you, Pym; thank you very much.’
Later, Pym said to his wife: ‘Anyone would have thought I’d told him he’d won the pools.’
As Ralph walked towards Frank Godfrey’s bookshop his heart was beginning to thump with excitement, and by the time that Frank opened the door of the flat above the shop, Ralph felt that the news of his election must shine from his face. Frank, however, was concerned only with prosaic apologies because he was washing-up for his wife who was serving in the shop. To Ralph’s ‘What a wonderful day!’ he responded by blinking cautiously down the stairs into the street, like some forest animal awakened from hibernation. ‘Still sharpish, though.’ He closed the door hurriedly and led Ralph into the sitting-room.
It was a box of a room which Ralph, being stockily built and energetic, always found uncomfortable. Today, when joy made him more expansive than ever, the limitations of the room were particularly exasperating. Communication was difficult, too. From the next room came the sound of scales being played on a violin, which indicated that the youngest Godfrey was at home; while outside a bus changed gear and the whole room shuddered. Ralph, wanting the right moment to share his news, waited for some semblance of peace.
‘A dreadful noise, but we have to endure it,’ Frank said, untying the strings of the apron which he wore round his waist and indicating a chair to Ralph. Whether he was referring to the violin or to the bus, was not clear. Ralph, despairing of a peaceful moment, said:
‘Pym has just told me . . .’
But Frank was speaking again.
‘I suppose you want to hear about the meeting last night? They were sorry you couldn’t be there, but delighted to know that you are prepared to lead the onslaught at the B camp . . .’
‘Pym has been warning me . . .’
‘Yes; we gathered that sentences were likely to be severe.’ Frank sat down, slowly, as though his limbs no longer had any spring in them. ‘And I suppose that this time we must expect to be arrested . . .’
‘Inevitable. Quite inevitable!’
Ralph sounded exultant; his face was that of a man on the threshold of victory.
‘What will you do about the shop?’ he asked. ‘Your wife won’t be able to manage alone, will she?’
After a pause, during which the violin scraped agonizingly, Frank answered:
‘My eldest son will help her.’
‘But after he has gone to Oxford, what then?’
‘There won’t be the money for that now.’
Ralph, who had spent the happiest years of his life in the stone- sequestered tranquillity of Oxford, was shocked.
‘Someone will look after that, I’m sure.’
‘I doubt it. Why should others pay so that I can go to prison in comfort?’
‘But your son?’
‘He says that he will study in his spare time; he prefers it that way.’
He took off his glasses and wiped them, his head averted to hide the pain in his eyes. He himself had studied in his spare time and he knew that it meant slogging without the richer rewards of learning. The mind needed leisure in which to expand: he had wanted to make that gift to his son.
‘I hope I’m doing the right thing.’
He was not a man who normally took much pride in his possessions; yet now, as he adjusted his glasses, he looked round the rather commonplace room, his eyes lingering lovingly on its meagre comforts.
‘One’s own contribution seems so small,’ he muttered.
So Frank was looking for a way out! Ralph was obscurely elated. Frank’s weakness made him more aware of his own strength. He felt a great compassion for the older man. He had sometimes wondered whether Frank might not be a saint, in spite of his lack of belief; but now, looking at the strained face, he was conscious only of human frailty at its furthest extreme. This surely was not what was meant by being called to be a saint? The acceptance of a burden that seemed too heavy; the c
ourage that carried a man through with nothing left to spare, no breath for joy, no pulse to sing in the blood; to reach the summit at the last gasp, with eyes too dim to glimpse the splendours for which the effort had been made: this was too utterly grim a thing to be confused with sanctity; this, surely, was the terror of the man who has pushed himself too far.
‘You have played your part,’ he said. ‘You should rest now.’
‘I’m not an actor.’
‘You’re a pioneer.’ Ralph was surprised how much it mattered to him to convince Frank that he was no longer the man for the task. ‘You’ve shown that there is a way through the jungle and now you must leave it to others . . .’
‘What nonsense! Spare me your oratory, Ralph. I am a simple man with one belief to which I have endeavoured to be true all my life. Don’t try to persuade me to desert now.’
He had been a conscientious objector in the first world war; while other men fought and died, he had been in prison. It hadn’t been pleasant, but it had been safe and he had been spared things which he was never quite sure that he could have faced. He dared not now desert from his own chosen battlefield. He looked at Ralph’s face, so fine and calm and confident; a faint hostility which he could not overcome made him probe for weakness.
‘You have problems which are probably greater than mine,’ he pointed out. ‘You will be worrying about things in your parish, afraid that mistakes will be made that only you could put right. Perhaps asking yourself whether, with your vocation . . .’
‘I doubt whether I am cut out for work as a parish priest,’ Ralph cut in quickly. ‘There are times when I would gladly stand aside and let someone else cope with Rutledge, Spencer, and the vexed question of the Benedicite.’ He paused and listened for a moment to the screeching of the violin; perhaps it touched a nerve, for a shadow crossed his face.
‘At least you will have carried out your Easter duties,’ Frank said. ‘It’s a good thing it was fixed for Easter Monday.’
A bus rumbled by; Ralph waited until it had passed before he answered:
