Rebecca's Tale

by Sally Beauman

  The light was fading fast. I walked ahead of Tom, who followed me more slowly. I sensed that I’d broken off a conversation he might have wanted to continue, that perhaps he’d had more to say to me. I didn’t want to hear it. I quickened my pace, peering for the familiar granite memorial; the grass was so tall, and growing so thickly that at first I couldn’t find it. When I did, I drew back sharply. This grave had been visited, and visited recently. The lichen had been scraped off the low, lozenge-shaped stone, and in front of it, where the tussocky grass had been parted and flattened, an offering had been left: not flowers, but shells, a whole heap of shells, a basketful of them or, I thought with a shiver, an apronful.

  I knelt down and touched them. There were scallop shells, limpets, barnacles, hinged cockles like castanets, mussels like mermaids’ fingernails. I traced the spirals of a perfect unbroken whelk shell with my finger, then lifted it to my ear. I listened to the sounds of the sea secreted inside it, then replaced it.

  Beside me, Tom stood staring down at the grave, and I knew he was thinking, as I was, of that azalea wreath laid at Rebecca’s boathouse. “Do any of the Carminowe family still live in this neighborhood?” he asked. “Relatives—friends? Who would do this?”

  “No relatives, not now. And no friends that I know of. She’s been dead nearly forty years, Tom.”

  “Well, someone’s remembered her,” he said quietly. “I’m glad of that, Ellie.”

  I was glad, too, puzzled but moved, as I could see he was—and I think that these shared feelings helped to break down both his habitual reserve and the constraints between us.

  I drove him back to his cottage, which looked very bare and sad now that all his books had been packed up.

  He returned the key to the Manderley gates that my father had given him. Then he showed me that eternity ring of Rebecca’s for the first time. I held it in my palm. It was tiny—how narrow her fingers must have been!

  He poured me a glass of whisky, and we sat outside for a while, watching the last of the light fade, the little ring glittering on the stone step next to us. “I wrote to that girlfriend of Favell’s about this ring,” he said, after an interval, his gaze on the sea. “She says it’s unlucky. She doesn’t want it back under any circumstances. What am I going to do with it, Ellie? I don’t feel I should keep it.”

  “I don’t see why,” I said; I was feeling much calmer now. “If anyone should have it, it’s you. I think that’s what Rebecca would have wanted.”

  “Ellie,” he said, and hearing the sudden alteration in his voice, I realized too late that for minutes now he’d been struggling with the need to say something, and the fear of expressing it. “Ellie, before I leave Kerrith. There’s things I must say to you, things I want you to know—”

  “I expect I do know them,” I said quickly. I rested my hand on his arm. If he started to tell me about Julia, I felt I couldn’t bear it. “And you don’t need to explain anything, Tom. Truly. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  “Of course, and that means a great deal to me. But I want you to understand—being here has changed me. You’ve changed me, Ellie.”

  “I have?” I turned to look at him in surprise.

  “Of course.” He hesitated, then took my hand gently. “Ellie, you possess so many qualities I admire and envy. Candor, a capacity for trust—I wish I shared it. I wish that very deeply. But I find it hard to trust, hard to talk about my feelings. ‘Entombed in reticence,’ that’s Rebecca’s phrase for it. A very English affliction. I’m not the most forthcoming of people, and I do know that. So I made up my mind: Before I said good-bye to you tonight, I’d be as honest with you as you’ve been with me.”

  “Oh, Tom, I haven’t been honest, not really.” I said before I could stop myself. “I expect you know that. I’m not very good at disguising my feelings.”

  “Why should you disguise them?” he said gently. “Why do any of us try to do that? It’s only self-protection, or false pride—I should know, Ellie: When it comes to defensiveness, I’m the expert.” He hesitated. “I must say this—and, no, don’t interrupt me. Years ago now, I found out exactly how it feels to love someone, and be unable to express that love. I learned how agonizing that can be. I know how you hope in that situation; how you go on hoping, longing, to be told the love is returned, and the joy you feel when you sense a response.”

  He paused again, looking out toward the sea, and I could sense the effort it cost him to speak in this way. “I won’t talk about that,” he went on quietly, “I make it a rule not to do so. But I will say this: In that situation, I know the uncertainty causes more pain than almost anything else. So I don’t want there to be any uncertainty between us. I like you and I admire you deeply, Ellie. I hope we will always be friends, and that I’ll never do anything that might cause you to withdraw that friendship. But you have to know: I care very deeply for someone else—and that won’t change. I loved that person for most of my adult life, and even now, despite everything, I still feel the same unwavering love. Can you understand that?”

  “I can,” I said quietly. “Of course I can, Tom. I just wish…you sound so sad. I wish you could be…” I stopped. What did I wish for him? Happiness, of course; that he might be less lonely. I hoped that, in the future, he’d find a woman who could console him—and I felt sure that, one day, he would. I was unsuitable, that was all. He was not attracted to me. I didn’t say this, I couldn’t find the words, but he read my mind anyway.

  “Ellie, I’d feel this about any other woman, I want you to understand that,” he went on—and I knew we’d now reached the part where a kind man let me down gently. “To be involved with anyone else would feel like a betrayal. I can’t alter the way I feel, you see, no matter the circumstances. So it cannot be more than friendship between us, Ellie. You have to know that. It’s not possible.”

  I’d never heard him speak with this degree of emotion; these were set speeches in a way. I could see he’d prepared them. But the strength of his feelings broke through even so, and I was moved by that. I suppose he thought, now I knew Julia was dead, that I would hope—and he was right; the tiniest vestige of hope did linger on for some days after this conversation, though I’m stronger now and determined to conquer it. That was why he spoke in such a definite, unequivocal way, and I was grateful to him for that. But I felt pain, obviously, and embarrassment, too, so when he began speaking again, and I realized that there was more he intended to tell me, I interrupted him.

  “Tom, don’t say any more,” I said hastily, draining the last of the whisky, and rising. “I understand—truly, I do. I know how hard it must have been to say this. You’ve been kind, and you’ve been clear, and you’ve trusted me. And you’re in no danger of losing my friendship, either now, or in the future. Meanwhile, friends don’t need to explain things. ‘Never apologize, never explain.’…Rose is always quoting that at me….” I hesitated, feeling a great fool. “Besides, if anyone should apologize, it’s me. I don’t usually go about kissing men without warning—I hope you know that.”

  “I had realized that. I had no doubts on that score, Ellie.” He also rose. If he’d then made any ritual remarks about how I deserved better than him anyway, or how I’d make a good man happy one day, I couldn’t have borne it. But he didn’t; he’s too intelligent and too sensitive—and for that I silently blessed him. He looked down at me and, in the last of the light, I watched his face change while he hesitated. He looked affectionate, torn, and undecided; finally he risked putting his arms around me.

  I could sense the ghost at his shoulder. I didn’t want to offend her, or him, so I was scrupulous. We said a sensible good farewell. I promised to look into his cottage and forward any mail that arrived for him. He promised to come to see me and my father as soon as he returned from France. He said he would miss us both, which I think was true, and, finally, as I turned to leave, he drew me toward him and kissed me good-bye.

  It was a kiss I shall always remember, gentle and regretful—a brothe
rly kiss. And that is how I’ve resolved to think of him from now on, as a replacement for the brother I lost in the war. I’ve decided to regard my former feelings for Tom as an affliction, and I’ve set about curing myself. I’ve prescribed remedies for myself, Latimer style. I’ve swallowed the pills of common sense and distraction; there have been side effects—but I’ve told myself that’s only to be expected. I expect time is the surest cure, and I also place faith in absence. I refuse to believe it makes the heart grow fonder—that’s a myth, it’s an old wives’ tale.

  A week after Tom left, I received a postcard with a bright image of a Breton fishing village. A week and a half after he left, I called into his cottage to check on his mail for him, and found the telephone ringing. The caller was a woman Tom had described to me when he told me about his visit to Tite Street; her name was Selina Fox-Hamilton.

  She was in an excited state, and disappointed not to reach Tom (or Terence Gray, as she called him), but once I’d explained who I was, we had a long and interesting conversation. There have been developments at Tite Street, and it’s Selina, among others, who I’m going to see in London tomorrow.

  I’ve arranged to stay overnight at Rose’s house, and will return the next day. I know I’m going to make discoveries—I can feel that imminence again. If I can rely on what Selina told me, and I believe I can, tomorrow I should discover who the anonymous sender of these parcels is. Once I’ve done that, it can only be a matter of time before I lay my hands on Rebecca’s final notebook.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I TOOK THE EARLIEST POSSIBLE TRAIN, AND, SHORTLY after midday, reached London. I hadn’t made a trip of this kind since my father’s heart attack last autumn, so just to make the once-familiar journey was exciting. I leaned up close to the train window and watched the suburbs inch us into the heart of the city. The noise of the crowds and the bustle at Paddington were foreign and exhilarating. I was wearing a stripey full-skirted dress my father bought me for my last birthday; it looked very smart in Kerrith and very old-fashioned here, but I didn’t care. It was a very hot day; in the Underground the heat was infernal. I came out at Sloane Square, and walked toward Tite Street imagining how it must be to live here in the capital; why, you could go to theaters and concert halls and art galleries every day of the week. How astonishing that must be—though I’d miss the sea, obviously.

  I felt very carefree and excited, walking up the King’s Road. I was imagining how I’d describe this day to Tom, when he returned from France and I explained that in his absence I’d made extraordinary discoveries. This mood of elation and optimism carried me as far as Tite Street. It was only as I approached the tall house where Rebecca had had her river flat that my mood began to alter. That street brought back memories of my sister, Lily, whom I still miss very much, and I lost heart a little. I felt nervous at the task ahead of me, also.

  I could see a small removal van drawn up outside the house, and I guessed that the slim girl wearing slacks, who was standing on the pavement giving directions to the removal men, must be Selina. Tom had described her poorly I saw, as I drew closer. She had long dark hair, as he’d said (that day it was drawn up in a ponytail), and she was wearing interesting eye makeup. Tom had been disparaging about this eye makeup, but I longed to copy it. The most noticeable thing about Selina was that she was very pretty indeed—and that he’d neglected to mention.

  I think she was a little taken aback when she saw me, because I looked such an old-fashioned country mouse, I expect, but I took to her and I think she took to me almost immediately. The removal men had finished packing up her things, and they departed, but as arranged Selina took me into her flat, and I sat on a tea chest talking companionably to her cats while she made us instant Camp coffee. I tried to imagine how it would be, living in a room of your own, coming and going as you pleased. To me the bare white space was glamorous.

  “Pack the kettle last and unpack it first,” she said, returning. “I’ve been making tea for the removal men all morning. You don’t mind the cats? They’re getting very jumpy. They can’t wait to leave here, and neither can I. I can’t believe I’m finally going to escape this place.”

  She stretched out on the floor, lit a cigarette, and examined me narrowly. “So, handsome Mr. Gray’s taken off for Brittany, has he? Have you had any luck with him? I tried my damnedest: One long conversation here, then I sent a postcard. I called him at least twice. Result? Precisely nothing. I thought I must be losing my touch, but now I’ve met you I begin to see, maybe I didn’t have a hope from day one. Are you and he…you know?”

  “No,” I said. I considered, then added: “Unfortunately.”

  “Ah, well, plenty of other fish in the sea,” she remarked in a nonchalant way. “Too many minnows, of course, but there you are. Cigarette?”

  I took the cigarette (I smoke occasionally, when I want to look modern). The ice seemed to have been broken, and we talked for some while. Selina told me about the new flat she’d found, and her work at the gallery—she made it all sound so easy. She’d just walked in there one day, and talked her way into a job. “You could do it, Ellie,” she said airily. “A pretty girl can always get a job—it’s fun what I do, but it’s not difficult. Mostly I send out invitations, organize the private-view parties. You’re not thinking of coming to London, are you? I’m going to need someone to share this new flat of mine—unlike this place, it’s pricey.”

  I explained that I couldn’t contemplate anything like that; I explained that my father needed me, and that if anything did happen to him, I had my life mapped out: I was going to pick up where I’d left off and go to university. “Cambridge,” I said. “If they’ll still have me.”

  Selina gave me a very queer look. “Don’t tell me you’re a bluestocking,” she cried. “Give me strength. One of those women’s colleges? Why not go the whole hog and lock yourself up in a nunnery, Ellie?”

  I’d never thought of myself as a bluestocking before, but I suppose it could be true. There’s Rose’s influence to consider, and I do read passionately. I don’t consider Girton a nunnery, either. It’s a palace of learning, a passport to the future—though I could see it might not suit Selina. We discussed all this, I asked Selina how she contrived those marvellous sooty Egyptian eyes (she fetched something called eyeliner and demonstrated). Finally, after about half an hour’s frivolous talk (I’m starved of frivolity, so I enjoyed it very much), we got down to business. In more detail than she had on the telephone, Selina explained the developments that had brought me to London.

  The week before, a package had arrived, addressed to the upstairs flat, the first mail—as far as she knew—that had ever been delivered to its tenant during her own tenure. She found it when she returned from work one day, a brown envelope addressed to a “Mrs. Danvers.” She’d inspected it, then placed it on the shelf for mail in the hall; she’d tried to call Kerrith at once, but received no answer from Tom’s cottage. Four days later, the package was still lying there unclaimed, though she knew that the flat above was not empty—the eerie furniture moving noises had been continuing intermittently.

  On the fifth day, Selina risked the stairs, and knocked on the black door on the landing. She called through the door, using the name “Mrs. Danvers,” to be met with the usual silence. She was certain the woman was there listening, so she announced that a package had arrived, and she was leaving it outside the door, on the landing. Two days later, curious to know what had happened, she crept up the stairs to check. The package was still lying exactly where she’d left it. That was the day she had called Tom’s cottage again, and I had answered. This morning, shortly before I’d arrived, she had checked one last time. The package had disappeared, so it had been claimed at last, presumably.

  “Which means she must be there,” Selina went on, “Yet she’s been totally silent ever since I took that package upstairs. For three whole nights, not one sound!” She made a face. “I was used to the noises, so the silence felt worse. I thought, maybe she’s dea
d, or maybe she’s planning some new routine, creeping downstairs in the dead of night, or something….”

  She gave a shiver. “Are you sure you want to go through with this, Ellie? You’re sure you don’t want me to stay here while you go up? I will if you want—she’s not going to open that damn door, so it won’t take long anyway.”

  I would have liked Selina to remain—I’d looked carefully at the staircase as she showed me in. It was ill-lit; a cataract of bloodred carpet poured down from the landing above; I could see why Selina and her cats avoided it. But I knew I’d never succeed unless I was alone in the house. “I think if she hears you leave or sees you leave I have a better chance,” I said. “You’re probably right, and she won’t open the door—but if she does, she has no reason to harm me.”

  Selina looked unconvinced. “You’re sure, Ellie? Whoever she is, we know one thing about the woman up there: She can’t be too sane.”

  “If it’s who I think it is,” I said, “she was never too sane anyway.”

  I finally convinced Selina that I meant what I said. I helped her pack up the last of her belongings and persuade her cats into traveling baskets. Selina gave me her front door key; I promised to let her know what happened, and we exchanged addresses. The cats began to yowl piteously as soon as the flaps of the baskets shut. Selina left, banging the front door loudly behind her. I could still hear her cats yowling as I stood in the hall behind the closed front door, and Selina loaded them into her car outside. I heard its engine start up, then draw away until its sound merged with that steady background hum of traffic.

  The hall was cool; a thick grayish radiance from the fan light lit the black-and-white tiles and the winding staircase. There were faint creaking noises in the air, which I told myself were movement in the fabric of the building; the slanting light from above the door was thick with motes of dust; they eddied about, as if there were a draft source somewhere, yet I could feel no draft anywhere.