He was a sweet-natured child and it took some time for Sylvie to notice that he was ‘not quite all there’, as she put it to Hugh one evening when he returned from a difficult day at the bank. He knew there was no point in sharing these fiscal problems with Sylvie, yet sometimes he liked to imagine coming home from work to a wife who was fascinated by ledgers and balance sheets, the rising price of tea, the unsteady market in wool. A wife ‘moulded’ to requirements instead of the beautiful, clever and somewhat contrary one he was wedded to.
He had secluded himself in the growlery, sitting at his desk with a large malt whisky and a small cigar, hoping to be left in peace. To no avail: Sylvie swept in and sat opposite him, like a customer in the bank looking for a loan, and said, ‘I think Izzie’s child may be a simpleton.’ Up until now he had always been Roland, now, apparently defective, he was Izzie’s once more.
Hugh dismissed her opinion but there was no denying that as time went on Roland didn’t progress the way the others did. He was slow to learn and didn’t seem to possess a child’s natural curiosity about the world. You could sit him on a hearth rug with a rag-book or a set of wooden bricks and he would still be there half an hour later gazing contentedly at the fire (well guarded against children) or Queenie the cat sitting next to him, attending to her toilette (less well guarded and much prone to malevolence). Roland could be set to any simple task, and spent much of his time willingly fetching and carrying for the girls, Bridget, even Mrs Glover was not above sending him on simple errands, a bag of sugar from the pantry, a wooden spoon from the jar. It seemed unlikely that he would be going to Hugh’s old school or entering Hugh’s old college, and Hugh grew fonder of the boy for that somehow.
‘Perhaps we should get him a dog,’ he suggested. ‘A dog always brings the best out in a boy.’ Bosun arrived, a large friendly animal with a tendency to herd and protect, and discerned immediately that he had been put in charge of something important.
At least the boy was placid, Hugh thought, unlike his dratted mother, or his own two eldest children who fought incessantly with each other. Ursula, of course, was different to all of them. She was watchful, as if she were trying to drink in the whole world through those little green eyes that were both his and hers. She was rather unnerving.
Mr Winton’s easel was set up to face the sea. He was quite pleased with what he had so far, the blues and greens and whites – and murky browns – of the Cornish seaside. Several passers-by paused in their journeys across the sands to observe the painting-in-progress. He hoped, in vain, for compliments.
A little fleet of white-sailed yachts skimmed the horizon, a race of some kind, Mr Winton presumed. He smudged some Chinese white on his own painted horizon and stood back to admire the results. Mr Winton saw yachts, others might have seen blobs of white paint. They would contrast rather well, he thought, with some figures on the seashore. The two little girls so intent on building a sandcastle would be perfect. He bit the tip of his brush as he gazed at his canvas. How to do it best, he wondered?
The sandcastle was Ursula’s suggestion. They should build, she said to Pamela, the best sandcastle ever. She had conjured up such a vivid image of this sandy citadel – moats and turrets and battlements – that Pamela could almost see the medieval ladies in their wimples waving to the knights as they clattered away on their horses over the drawbridge (a piece of driftwood was to be sought out for this purpose). They had set about this task with undivided energy although they were still at the heavy-engineering stage, digging a double moat that would eventually, when the tide turned, fill with seawater to protect those wimpled ladies from violent siege (by someone like Maurice, inevitably). Roland, their ever-obliging minion, was dispatched to scour the beach for decorative pebbles and the all-important drawbridge.
They were further along the beach from Sylvie and Bridget, who were immersed in their books while the new baby, Edward – Teddy – was sleeping on a blanket on the sand beneath the protection of a parasol. Maurice was dredging in rock pools at the far end of the beach. He had made new companions, rough local boys with whom he went swimming and scrabbling up cliffs. Boys were just boys to Maurice. He had not yet learned to evaluate them by accent and social standing.
Maurice had an indestructible quality and no one ever seemed to worry about him, least of all his mother.
Bosun, unfortunately, had been left behind with the Coles.
In time-honoured fashion, the sand from the moat was piled up in a central mound, the building material for the proposed fortress. Both girls, by now hot and sticky from their exertions, took a moment to stand back and contemplate this formless heap. Pamela felt more doubtful now about the turrets and battlements, the wimpled ladies seemed even more unlikely. The mound reminded Ursula of something, but what? Something familiar, yet nebulous and undefinable, no more than a shape in her brain. She was prone to these sensations, as if a memory was being tugged reluctantly out of its hiding place. She presumed it was the same for everyone.
Then this feeling was replaced by fear, a shadow of a thrill too, the kind that came with a thunderstorm rolling in, or a sea fog creeping towards the shore. Hazard could be anywhere, in the clouds, the waves, the little yachts on the horizon, the man painting at his easel. She set off at a purposeful trot to take her fears to Sylvie and have them soothed.
Ursula was a peculiar child, full of troublesome notions, in Sylvie’s opinion. She was forever answering Ursula’s anxious questions – What would we do if the house caught fire? Our train crashed? The river flooded? Practical advice, Sylvie had discovered, was the best way to allay these fears rather than dismissing them as unlikely (Why, dear, we would gather up our belongings and we would climb on the roof until the water receded).
Pamela, meanwhile, returned stoically to digging the moat. Mr Winton was entirely absorbed in the close brushwork necessary for Pamela’s sunhat. What a happy coincidence that those two little girls had chosen to build their sandcastle in the middle of his composition. He thought he might call it The Diggers. Or The Sand Diggers.
Sylvie was dozing over The Secret Agent and rather resented being woken. ‘What is it?’ she said. She glanced along the beach and saw Pamela digging industriously. Distant yelling and wild whooping suggested Maurice.
‘Where’s Roland?’ she asked.
‘Roland?’ Ursula said, looking around for their willing slave and failing to see him anywhere. ‘He’s looking for a drawbridge.’ Sylvie was on her feet now, anxiously scanning the beach.
‘A what?’
‘A drawbridge,’ Ursula repeated.
They concluded that he must have spotted a piece of wood in the sea and obediently waded out to collect it. He had no real understanding of danger and did not know how to swim, of course. If Bosun had been on watch on the beach he would have dog-paddled out into the waves, heedless of any peril, and snatched Roland back. In his absence, Archibald Winton, an amateur watercolourist from Birmingham, as the local paper referred to him, had attempted to rescue the child (Roland Todd, aged four, on holiday with his family). He had cast aside his paintbrush and swum out to sea and pulled the boy from the water, but, alas, to no avail. This clipping was carefully cut out and preserved for appreciation in Birmingham. In the course of three column inches Mr Winton had become both a hero and an artist. He imagined himself saying modestly, ‘Why, it was nothing,’ and – of course – it was nothing, for no one was saved.
Ursula watched as Mr Winton waded back through the waves, carrying Roland’s limp little body in his arms. Pamela and Ursula had thought the tide was going out but it was coming in, already filling the moat and lapping at the mound of sand which would soon be gone for ever. An ownerless hoop bowled past, driven by the breeze. Ursula stared out to sea while behind her on the beach a variety of strangers attempted to revive Roland. Pamela came and joined her and they held hands. The waves began to trickle in, covering their feet. If only they hadn’t been so intent on the sandcastle, Ursula thought. And it had seemed such a g
ood idea.
‘Sorry about your boy, Mrs Todd, ma’am,’ George Glover mumbled. He touched an invisible cap on his head. Sylvie had mounted an expedition to see the harvest being brought in. They must rouse themselves from their torpid grief, she said. Following Roland’s drowning, the summer had been subdued, naturally. Roland seemed greater in his absence than he had done in his presence.
‘Your boy?’ Izzie muttered after they had left George Glover to his labours. She had arrived in time for Roland’s funeral, in stylish black mourning, and wept, ‘My boy, my boy,’ over Roland’s small coffin.
‘He was my boy,’ Sylvie said vehemently, ‘don’t you dare say he was yours,’ although she knew, guiltily, that she mourned less for Roland than she would have done for one of her own. But that was natural, surely? Everyone seemed to want ownership of him now he was gone. (Mrs Glover and Bridget, too, would have staked a small claim to him as well if anyone had listened.)
Hugh was very affected by the loss of ‘the little chap’ but knew that for the sake of his family he must carry on as usual.
Izzie had lingered on, to Sylvie’s annoyance. She was twenty years old, ‘stuck’ at home, waiting for an unknown-as-yet husband to free her from Adelaide’s ‘claws’. Roland’s name had been forbidden in Hampstead and now Adelaide declared his death a ‘blessing’. Hugh felt sorry for his sister, while Sylvie spent her time casting around the countryside for an eligible landowner with enough mutton-headed patience to withstand Izzie.
In an oppressive heat they had trudged across fields, clambered over stiles, splashed through streams. Sylvie had strapped the baby to her body with a shawl. The baby was a heavy burden, although perhaps not as heavy a burden as the picnic basket that Bridget was lugging. Bosun walked dutifully by their side, he was not a dog that ran ahead, tending more to bring up the rear. He was still puzzled by Roland’s disappearance and was keen not to lose anyone else. Izzie lagged behind, any original enthusiasm for the pastoral outing long since having waned. Bosun did his best to chivvy her along.
It was a bad-tempered trek, the picnic at the end of it not much better as it turned out that Bridget had forgotten to pack the sandwiches. ‘How on earth did you manage that?’ Sylvie said crossly and as a consequence they had to eat the pork pie that Mrs Glover had intended for George. (‘For God’s sake, don’t tell her,’ Sylvie said.) Pamela had scratched herself on a bramble bush, Ursula had tumbled into a nettle patch. Even the usually happy Teddy was overheated and fretful.
George brought two tiny baby rabbits for them to look at and said, ‘Would you like to take them home with you?’ and Sylvie snapped, ‘No thank you, George. They will either die or multiply, neither of which would be a happy outcome.’ Pamela was distraught and had to be promised a kitten. (To Pamela’s surprise, this promise was kept and a kitten duly acquired from the Hall farm. A week later it took a fit and died. A full funeral was held. ‘I am cursed,’ Pamela declared, with uncharacteristic melodrama.)
‘He’s very handsome, that ploughman, isn’t he?’ Izzie said and Sylvie said, ‘Don’t. Not under any circumstances. Don’t,’ and Izzie said, ‘I have no idea what you mean.’
The afternoon grew no cooler and eventually they had no choice but to wend their way home in the same heat that they had journeyed there in. Pamela, already miserable from the rabbits, stepped on a thorn, Ursula was whacked in the face by a branch. Teddy cried, Izzie swore, Sylvie breathed fire and Bridget said if it weren’t a mortal sin she would drown herself in the next stream.
‘Look at you,’ Hugh smiled in greeting when they staggered home. ‘All golden from the sun.’
‘Oh, please,’ Sylvie said, pushing past him. ‘I’m going to lie down upstairs.’
‘I think we’ll have thunder tonight,’ Hugh said. And they did. Ursula, a light sleeper, was woken. She slipped out of bed and pattered over to the attic window, standing on a chair so that she could see out.
Thunder rolled like gunfire in the distance. The sky, purple and swollen with portent, was suddenly split open by a fork of lightning. A fox, skulking over some small prey on the lawn, was briefly illuminated, caught as though in a photographer’s flash.
Ursula forgot to count and an explosive thunderclap, almost overhead, took her by surprise.
This was how war sounded, she thought.
Ursula cut straight to the chase. Bridget, chopping onions at the kitchen table, was already primed for tears. Ursula sat next to her and said, ‘I’ve been in the village.’
‘Oh,’ Bridget said, not in the least interested in this information.
‘I was buying sweets,’ Ursula said. ‘In the sweet shop.’
‘Really?’ Bridget said. ‘Sweets in a sweet shop? Who would have thought it.’ The shop sold many things other than sweets but none of those other things were of any interest to the children at Fox Corner.
‘Clarence was there.’
‘Clarence?’ Bridget said. She stopped the chopping at the mention of her beloved.
‘Buying sweets,’ Ursula said. ‘Mint humbugs,’ she added, for authenticity, and then, ‘You know Molly Lester?’
‘I do,’ Bridget said cautiously, ‘she works in the shop.’
‘Well, Clarence was kissing her.’
Bridget rose from her chair, knife still in hand. ‘Kissing? Why would Clarence kiss Molly Lester?’
‘That’s what Molly Lester said! She said, “Why are you kissing me, Clarence Dodds, when everyone knows you’re engaged to be married to that maid that works at Fox Corner?”’
Bridget was used to melodramas and penny dreadfuls. She waited for the revelation that she knew must follow.
Ursula supplied it. ‘And Clarence said, “Oh, you mean Bridget. She’s nothing to me. She’s a very ugly girl. I am just stringing her along.”’ Ursula, a precocious reader by now, had also read Bridget’s novels and had learned the discourse of romance.
The knife was dropped to the floor with a banshee shriek. Irish curses were thrown liberally. ‘The bugger,’ Bridget said.
‘A dastardly villain,’ Ursula agreed.
The engagement ring, the little gypsy ring (‘a trinket’), was returned by Bridget to Sylvie. Clarence’s protestations of innocence went unheeded.
‘You might go up to London with Mrs Glover,’ Sylvie said to Bridget. ‘For the Armistice celebrations, you know. I believe there are late trains running.’
Mrs Glover said she wouldn’t go near the capital on account of the influenza and Bridget said that she hoped very much that Clarence would go, preferably with Molly Lester, and that the pair of them would catch the Spanish flu and die.
Molly Lester, who had never spoken so much as a word to Clarence beyond a guiltless ‘Morning, sir, what can I get you?’, attended a small street party in the village but Clarence did indeed go up to London with a couple of pals and did indeed die.
‘But at least no one was pushed down the stairs,’ Ursula said.
‘Whatever do you mean?’ Sylvie said.
‘I don’t know,’ Ursula said. She really didn’t.
She was disturbed by herself. She dreamed of flying and falling all the time. Sometimes when she stood on a chair to look out of the bedroom window she felt the urge to clamber out and throw herself down. She would not fall to the ground with a thud and a smash like an over-ripe apple, instead she was sure she would be caught. (By what, though, she wondered?) She refrained from testing this theory, unlike Pamela’s poor little crinoline lady, who had been tossed from the very same bedroom window by a malignly bored Maurice one winter teatime.
On hearing his approach along the passageway – loudly signalled by Indian war whoops – Ursula had hastily placed her own favourite, Queen Solange, the knitting doll, beneath her pillow where she remained safe in her refuge while the unfortunate crinoline lady was defenestrated and smashed to pieces on the slates. ‘I only wanted to see what would happen,’ Maurice whined to Sylvie afterwards. ‘Well, now you know,’ she said. She was finding Pamela’s hysteric
al reaction to this incident more than a little trying. ‘We are in the middle of a war,’ she said to her. ‘There are worse things happening than a broken ornament.’ Not for Pamela there weren’t.
If Ursula had allowed Maurice the little knitting doll, made of unbreakable wood, then the crinoline lady would have been saved.
Bosun, soon to be dead of distemper, nosed his way into the room that night and laid a weighty paw on Pamela’s coverlet in sympathy before groaning into sleep on the rag rug between their beds.
The next day, Sylvie, reproaching herself for her heartlessness towards her children, acquired another kitten from the Hall farm. Kittens were in continual abundance on the farm, there was a kind of kitten currency in the neighbourhood, they were bartered for all kinds of emotional regret or fulfilment by parents – a doll lost, an exam passed.
Despite Bosun’s best attempts to keep a guardian eye on the kitten, they had only had it a week when Maurice stepped on it, during a vigorous game of soldiers with the Cole boys. Sylvie swiftly scooped up the little body and gave it to Bridget to take elsewhere so that its death throes could take place off-stage.
‘It was an accident!’ Maurice screamed. ‘I didn’t know the stupid thing was there!’ Sylvie slapped him on the face and he started crying. It was horrible to see him so upset, it really was an accident, and Ursula tried to comfort him which only made him furious and Pamela, of course, had moved beyond all notion of civilization and was trying to rip Maurice’s hair from his head. The Cole boys had long since scarpered back to their own house where emotional calm was the general order of the day.
Sometimes it was harder to change the past than it was the future.
‘Headaches,’ Sylvie said.
‘I’m a psychiatrist,’ Dr Kellet said to Sylvie. ‘Not a neurologist.’
Life After Life Page 41
