by Barbara Vine
Her face must have shown everything she felt. No, please, not quite everything, not that longing for him to touch her, to feel just the touch of his hand, which had been growing all the time they were talking. Not that, but the shock of learning what he did, which was like a shower of cold water hitting her. Then the blood came up into her face, burning after the cold shock.
She thought, I will say, “I see,” and he will try to explain, and I will say it’s all right and to forget it, and it will be impossible to have any sort of conversation after that. So she turned the subject yet again and talked innocuously about the children, his grandchildren, and, by extension, her daughters—never an easy topic for her—and that, of course, led to his son. His dead son.
But she heard very little of what he said, though she had encouraged him to talk, and she put on a show of interest. Her right hand lay on the table, beside her glass. She didn’t think about it; it just rested there. But because of her shame and her growing indignation with him, she feigned an almost-effusive sympathy for him, uttering meaninglessly to herself, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
He put out his hand and laid it over hers. Ten minutes before, this action would have been all she wanted. For the time, for a start. Now it had a deadening effect; it was hateful to her. She let her hand lie there, felt his above it, not as welcomed skin against receptive skin, but as an embarrassment, heavy, hot. The waiter came, called by him, and his arrival was an excuse for withdrawing her hand.
It was a relief to him as much as to her, she thought, when she rose to go at barely 9:30. He would walk her back to her house, he said. She argued a little, then gave in. The thought that he might want to come into the house on the chance of getting a look at Gerald’s first editions was bitter. But in the event, he didn’t even come to the front door, only to the garden gate. She realized that on leaving by that gate less than two hours before, she had imagined that on her return he might kiss her. Imagined it as fantasy, but still saw in her mind’s eye the scenario.
“Good night,” she said.
He had been going to say something—she had no idea what—but he didn’t. He checked himself and echoed her own good night.
It isn’t possible by looking at a woman to tell whether she will bear children easily. Ursula knew that even when she accused Gerald of choosing her for that reason. Anyway, it could be true that he thought he could tell, that he had thought that when he first saw her and noticed her generous hips, full breasts, youth, innocence, and ignorance. And he was right. She was in labor for only two hours before Sarah was delivered. In a later age, the hospital would have sent her home in the afternoon. As it was, they kept her in for three days.
Few women then were commenting on the injustice of a preference for baby boys over baby girls. Boys were best, and not only among Muslims. Because Ursula had begun to be frightened of Gerald, had been apprehensive and wary of him throughout her pregnancy, she thought he would mind having a girl. He would blame her, as men did blame women, for having a girl. But for once, he surprised her with a delight and an enthusiasm she had never suspected him capable of.
“I’d been worried,” she said into Sarah’s tape recorder, “that although he seemed to want a child very much, he wouldn’t be so overjoyed when that child was a reality. I didn’t think he knew what it meant to have a baby in the house. Well, I didn’t know myself. But I thought I knew better than he did.”
“And you were wrong,” said Sarah. She said it in a satisfied way Ursula chose to ignore.
“As you say,” Ursula said levelly, “I was wrong.” She reflected on how wrong she had been. “He adored you from the first. He called you his treasure. He used to complain, you know, that no one took a writer’s writing seriously. I mean that they think what a writer does is really a hobby, that it’s not a job, and that it can be dropped for something else at any time, can be interrupted at any time. So a writer, being at home, can undertake any home tasks, is always there to answer the door, or take phone calls, or talk to people who come. And I thought he’d make a point of that not in fact being the case with the baby, with you. I thought he’d insist on never being disturbed by your crying and absolutely never, never being expected to look after you. But he forgot all that with you, with his treasure.”
Sarah was smiling, so she smiled, too. She forced it, but she managed.
“He took you out for walks in your pram. Men didn’t do that then, but he did. He changed your diapers. He would have fed you—only in the nature of things, I had to do that. The doctor was always in the house. GPs would still make home visits in 1966. Every time you weren’t in the peak of perfect health, that poor GP was sent for.”
“You must have felt yourself very lucky,” Sarah said.
“To have that sort of man, you mean? That rare sort of man?” Ursula managed not to answer. “My mother didn’t think it was right. Your aunt Helen didn’t. They thought it must be some failure on my part. My father wanted to know why we didn’t have a nanny or at least an au pair. We could easily have afforded it. Your father wouldn’t. He said there was nothing she could do that he couldn’t, and he did it with a love no mere nanny could feel. Of course, we had a nanny for Hope; we had to.” Ursula paused. “Is this the sort of thing you want?”
“I’d like an anecdote. Something a bit more … well, individual?”
“I can’t think of anything.”
“Okay, then, that’ll do for now.”
Sarah switched off the machine. Just as well, Ursula thought, because I don’t know how long I could go on with this. Anecdotes, indeed. She didn’t know what she was asking. Of course she didn’t. They were approaching dangerous ground, and if they hadn’t stopped, she would have had to start lying.
“Dad changed his name when he was twenty-five,” Sarah said. “I don’t know why. Do you?”
Ursula didn’t believe it. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure he did, but I’m not sure of anything more. You never had the slightest suspicion?”
“Not about his name, no. Why should I?”
“Not about anything? About his not having any aunts or uncles or cousins? You said there was no one belonging to him at your wedding.”
“I suppose I did sometimes think it was rather strange his having no relations at all. No, I thought it strange he could write so much and so well about families when he hadn’t got one.”
“But you didn’t ask him?”
“No.”
“Shall we have a look at Dad’s room?”
Ursula was touched by that “we,” as she always was by anything either of her daughters said that might be construed as implying a bond or link between her and Sarah or Hope. She followed Sarah to the door of the room, and it was only then, when Sarah hesitated and turned her head, that she was aware of her daughter’s stricken face. How self-centered I am, she thought, how absorbed in my own troubles, how unnoticing. It would be an effort for Sarah to go in there—she saw that—it would cause her real pain. Neither she nor Hope had entered the room since Gerald had died.
“Would you like to leave it for another time?”
Sarah shook her head. “I’ll be fine.”
Never had Ursula done her daughters the injustice of believing their affection for their father was less than utterly genuine. There had been no pretense, no affectation. They adored him. As I might have, she thought, if he had been to me as he was to them, if I had been his treasure. There came into her mind, unexpectedly, unbidden, the twelve-year-old Hope saying to her with resentful abruptness, “Why can’t you be nicer to Daddy?”
She opened the door of Gerald’s study and stood back to let Sarah precede her. There was no mist today and the window revealed a bright sky, cold, with racing clouds, a choppy sea, Lundy standing out clear and dark. Sarah looked nervously about the room. She went to the desk, hesitated, and then sat down in her father’s chair. His handwriting was nowhere visible; Ursula had seen to that. She had taken away those selected manuscripts and sent
them to Boston, to Bond Street, to the anthologist in Cumbria. Sarah touched the cover on his typewriter, opened a drawer and then closed it again.
“Are there any more certificates?” she said.
“You mean birth, marriage, death? All we have are upstairs. Do you want me to fetch them?”
“Tell me where they are and I’ll fetch them.”
You will only have to come back in here, thought Ursula. You had better stay and get accustomed to it. She went upstairs and found the file that contained all the family documents, her parents’ death certificates, her marriage certificate, those for her birth, the girls’ births, and now the one for Gerald’s death. Sarah was no longer at the desk, but standing in front of the cupboard with the door open, contemplating those stacked manuscripts. She had grown very pale.
“I’ll give you back his birth certificate,” she said tonelessly, then, vaguely indicating the manuscripts, added, “All these will have to be read, won’t they?”
“Will they? I don’t know.”
She seemed interested only in the marriage certificate and not very interested in that. “Did Dad keep a diary?”
“Not so far as I know. Well, no, I know he didn’t.”
“He put all his life into his books, didn’t he? Everything that happened to him, everything people said, the things he saw and heard.”
He had been famous for it. In lectures, interviews, on radio and television, he had vaunted his tendency to constant autobiography. “Did he tell you that?”
“Not all that long ago, as a matter of fact. Three or four years? Hope and I were both at home and he was reading over something he’d written and he started talking to us about how he had written down everything that had ever happened to him. Well, not everything, not by then, but he intended finally to have written everything.” Sarah paused, her voice not quite steady. “I don’t know if he did. I wonder if he did.”
Ursula said nothing.
“Of course, when it was made into fiction, it was sort of filtered through the author’s creative process, so it changed; he explained that. Anyway, I knew it; it’s something I explain to my students, who want everything Charlotte Brontë wrote, for instance, to be directly autobiographical. But he did use everything; his life was his material, to a degree that I think is unusual. So I suppose we can’t expect a diary, as well.”
Talking had helped Sarah. The academic in her was coming to her aid. Ursula saw the color beginning to return to her face.
“Are you interested in letters?” she asked.
“Not particularly.” An old sharpness was also returning. “This is going to be my memoir—in other words, my memories. I may want Dad’s background, but I don’t want what he said to other people, and still less what they said to him. I may take a look at his notebooks and the latest proofs.”
“Photographs?”
“We’ve got a boxful somewhere, haven’t we? For some reason, we never had albums.”
“No, we never had albums,” said Ursula. “I’ll leave you to it.”
He put all his life into his books.… For a long time, she hadn’t seen it. A Paper Landscape, published a year after Hope was born, had been another story of a family, poor Irish in Liverpool this time, and the eldest daughter’s struggles to become a painter. In the next one, A Messenger of the Gods, a father dies young and his widow is left with two small children and his old mother to support. The change came with Orisons, written after the move to Lundy View House. This was the first novel of his she hadn’t enjoyed, experiencing instead a sense of foreboding when she began to decipher a new chapter.
Yet for a long time, she had made herself resist. It was her imagination, she told herself. These characters couldn’t be based on her sister, Helen, and her husband. She was too introspective, too sensitive; perhaps she was paranoid. It was vanity that made one see oneself in fictional characters. Adela Churchouse, or it might have been Roger Pallinter, had told her that when they used a real person to create a character, he or she never suspected, while people constantly saw themselves as the originals of characters based on others.
But when she came to type Hand to Mouth in 1984, she was no longer able to deceive herself.
10
The seahorse is unique among species in that it is the male who becomes pregnant and bears the young.
—HAMADRYAD
A FAMOUS ACTRESS, WHO HAD ALSO BEEN AN ACQUAINTANCE of Gerald Candless, recited the second half of Tennyson’s “Ulysses.” A rather less famous actor, but one who had occasionally stayed at Lundy View House, read Herbert’s “Jordan.” Ursula, in the front pew, with a daughter on either side of her, the younger in a huge black hat and weeping copiously, thought “Jordan” inappropriate for an aggressive atheist like Gerald, of whom it couldn’t have been said that while he had his God, he envied no man’s nightingale or spring.
Ursula didn’t know, and had indeed never heard of, the soprano who sang a Hugo Wolf song. These were Hope’s choices, and she suspected Hope had chosen what she would like at her own memorial service, if she had been able to contemplate having one. Roger Pallinter, thin in old age, arthritic and on two sticks, recited one of his own poems. It was a surprise to Ursula that he had written any. Colin Wrightson, looking just as old and doddery, gave an address. Eulogy, thought Ursula. She also thought how very odd it was to listen to and look at a man who had once been one’s lover and feel nothing for him but impatience and a faint distaste.
She would have liked to hold poor Hope’s hand but could scarcely imagine what the reaction might be if she attempted to take it. Robert Postle, sitting behind her, had one of those noisy, spluttery colds that spray infection into a three-foot-long radius of atmosphere around their subject. She felt a spot of damp on the back of her neck and shuddered. While Wrightson droned on, his wife, on the other side of the church, put on her glasses and read the black-edged sheet Hope had had printed with the songs and poems on it and GERALD CANDLESS 1926–1997 in times roman at the top. Perhaps she was as taken aback as Ursula herself had been at the Latin epitaph: Vixit, scripsit, mortuus est.
“He lived, he wrote, he died,” Tessa Postle whispered throatily to her.
It made her shudder. She was going home on the 3:50, a train that would get her to Exeter by 7:00 P.M. From there, she would take another, reaching Barnstaple by some time just before nine. Both girls had asked her to stay the night, which amazed and touched her, though Hope’s invitation had been grudging. Her sister, Helen, had asked her to stay, and perhaps she would have done if the prospect of getting from Carshalton to Paddington in the morning hadn’t been so dire. Now it was all over and the organist was playing a voluntary, which Adela Churchouse was humming and to which she seemed to be executing a little dance in the aisle. London’s literati drifted out into the courtyard, into Piccadilly.
Ursula was kissed by people she couldn’t remember ever having seen before. Robert Postle, mopping his face with tissues from a box held by Tessa, said that they must meet; they must talk; there was the new book.… When would she come up again? When would she have lunch with him? “You don’t need me,” she said. A small crowd surrounded her by this time, but no one was shocked; no one was even surprised. It was her grief, her loss, the soul-rocking sorrow any woman would feel at the loss of such a man as Gerald Candless. To her surprise, Sarah came up to her, touched her arm, rescued her. She had a taxi waiting; she and Hope would accompany her to Paddington.
A red-letter day indeed, thought Ursula, who could hardly believe it. Once more, but this time in the taxi, they sat on either side of her, and she was moved by their presence, as nothing connected with Gerald could have moved her. He was gone, but she was still there; she was their surviving parent—Was that it? Was that what accounted for it? Something happened that hadn’t happened for years and years. The tears came into her eyes, and not tears that stopped there, were blinked back, and quelled, but real gushing, pouring tears that spilled over and flooded down her face.
“Oh, Ma
,” said Sarah, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”
Ursula hadn’t felt so happy for ages. She hadn’t felt happy at all for years, but now she did, because Sarah and Hope were being nice to her, were actually both of them kissing her good-bye. She couldn’t remember Hope kissing her since she was a tiny girl. They were a threesome hugging, a great loving embrace; then the girls went, and happy Ursula, making sure they were gone, bought herself a poached salmon and watercress sandwich and a bottle of fresh orange juice in the sandwich shop for eating and drinking on the train, in the first-class compartment.
Sarah told herself that she had come to terms with her father’s behavior, his assumption, for some reason or other, of a new identity. At least she was used to it. She could accept it. The difficulty was that her discovery had stopped her in her tracks; she was stuck as badly as if she had writer’s block. Her father could have told her, though he never had, that if the first few chapters a writer has written are lifeless or have gaps in them, it will be very hard to proceed with any enthusiasm until that earlier part has been satisfactorily repaired. And if these repairs can’t be carried out, the whole work may have to be abandoned.
She couldn’t mend her chapter without the wherewithal for filling gaps. A great reluctance to go on had taken hold of her. How could she write about a man who seemed to have been born at the age of twenty-five? A man who had taken his first job at that age? The Western Morning News had replied to her letter. They had a record of Gerald Candless working for them in Plymouth as a general reporter from the summer of 1951 until late in 1957. She had even read a piece written by him on the Suez crisis of 1956 and soldiers leaving for Egypt on a boat out of Plymouth. But no records seemed to exist of his history before 1951.
The results of searching her father’s study had been disappointing. He had not been a specially orderly man, but on the other hand, he hadn’t been grossly untidy, either. There was no filing system, but neither were there drawers stuffed with rubbish. He had kept letters, still in their envelopes, but by no means all the letters he had received. In spite of what she had said to her mother, she read them and wondered at his choice of what to preserve, at last realizing—it was an unwelcome, even chilling, conclusion—that he had kept letters from the rich and famous, from celebrities and from distinguished writers. Friends’ letters had been discarded. It was impossible to escape the conclusion that he was looking to a posthumous future, when someone would write his biography and include those letters.
