A Stranger with a Bag

by Sylvia Townsend Warner

  ‘So sweet of you to come all this way to see us!’

  It was the tone in which one adulates a child. He felt he was being made over into the Johnnie of that first visit—and didn’t like it.

  ‘It wasn’t far out of my way at all,’ he said.

  Miranda passed them and went upstairs whistling. When she came down, she was wearing earrings.

  During dinner, his grandmother remarked, ‘You wouldn’t think that Miranda was five years older than me, would you?’

  ‘I don’t know that I ever think much about old age,’ he replied. In case this did not fulfil all demands on tactfulness, he went on to ask how old Woodie was.

  ‘You had better ask her yourself,’ said his grandmother.

  ‘All we know is that she’s been lying about it for years,’ added Miranda.

  Johnnie laughed. There was something cronyish and releasing about his Aunt Miranda. Of the two, it was she he preferred. She was easier to talk to, asking him questions about himself; she did not weigh on his senses, as his grandmother did. Yet obviously his grandmother had the greater tenderness for him (as was natural), and he felt rather uncivil in preferring his great-aunt. To tell the truth, he did not like either of them as much as he had intended to. They were no duller than he remembered and considerably more attentive. But they had not kept step with his increasing regard for them; they were not the two wonderful old English ladies, dwelling in the dignified past, who had lent their actuality to his vision of a country he would come back to from half a world away, and whom, only a meal ago, he had hailed with his ‘You’ve been here all the time!’ At best, they were two typically English old things, dwelling with childish excitement on that one phenomenal winter when they had tossed up for the last cigarette and, starving themselves, gone out in blizzards to feed birds. Yes, that was how they would figure in his memories: two gallant, bird-loving old English eccentrics, sitting below family portraits and eating small warm fragments of smoked haddock on squares of moist toast—for by now dinner had reached that English achievement, the savoury. He had met it already in a hotel, under the name of Canapé Ivanhoe.

  He realized that he had fallen silent and that they both were looking at him. He began to ask questions about the family portraits, and Miranda offered to show him one in her bedroom which was almost certainly a Lawrence. But at that moment Woodie announced that coffee was served in the drawing room, and after coffee he found himself drawn down onto his grandmother’s sofa to look at snapshots of his mother as a little girl, smiling the same gapped smile on beaches in Norfolk, moors in Scotland, and as an attendant on Britannia in a school play. Her second teeth must have been unusually slow in coming—his had been, too; it must be a family thing. He was not able to pursue this, for now his grandmother had opened another album, going back to the days of her own youth: his great-grandfather, winter-sporting; Miranda with dachshunds; his grandmother playing tennis on a grass court, smiling in a hammock, throwing a snowball. She seemed to be snowballing behind smoked glass, for she had turned the pages backwards, and the snapshots were increasingly yellowed and shadowy.

  ‘Which winter was that?’ asked Miranda, who had come to look over their shoulders. His grandmother turned on to another page, and would have flipped it over but Miranda’s hand came down on it. ‘And do you know who these are?’ It was a professional photograph and its glossy efficiency made it look far more out-dated than the snapshots. It showed two little girls. One sat bolt upright, her hands tightly folded on her lap, her long plaits falling over her shoulders; the other, a younger child, had been arranged by the photographer to nestle against her. Both glared resentfully at the camera. ‘That’s Hester.’ Miranda’s finger stabbed at the child with the plaits. ‘The other one’s me. And would you believe it—I was three years younger than your grandmother then.’

  His grandmother said, ‘That’s enough!’ and shut the album with a bang. The movement tilted her up against him; she was so close that her explosion of anger seemed to spatter him like a hot wave. Suddenly feeling affronted, he got to his feet and said without forethought of what he was saying, ‘Do you mind if I go to bed?’

  Together, they accompanied him to his room, talking about the long day’s driving, the effects of country air. They made sure there was a hot-water bottle in his bed, biscuits on the bedside table; they offered him hot milk, they explained that there were extra blankets in the bottom drawer of the bureau, and that the coffin-shaped stain on the ceiling was where the snow had seeped through during the thaw. When they had gone, he threw open the casement window and leaned out, listening for a nightingale. There was an old English saying about nightingales: ‘East of the Severn, south of the Trent.’ He was west of the Severn, so it was vain to listen for a nightingale, but the saying itself was a kind of music. He knew it, and could apply it; and that morning he had crossed the Severn at Gloucester, where the east window in the cathedral, a great wall of glass, is the largest in England, and a murdered English King lies buried. By this time tomorrow night he would be in Wales, where road gradients are one in four and the last wolf was killed. For he would not change his mind and stay another night at Bodkins. It had been built in 1753, and they were his English relatives, and he would certainly come back another time. But he needed to go away before he could reconcile himself to them being so unlike his expectations—smoking so many cigarettes, eating so greedily and taunting each other with age and infirmity.

  Down in the village a church clock chimed out the hour, and from far away in the calm night another church clock repeated it at a slower pace. He undressed and got into bed, catching his breath at the fineness of the linen sheets.

  It seemed to him that he had scarcely fallen asleep before his eyes opened on a light—the little gliding moon shed by an electric torch. ‘Are you all right, my dear? I thought I heard you call. I thought perhaps you wanted something.’

  It was his Aunt Miranda.

  ‘Or did you have a bad dream?’

  A board creaked. The small moon lurched nearer, its shaft falling across his clothes on a chair. Suddenly the door was flung open, the ceiling light switched on. His grandmother stood on the threshold. ‘Miranda! Are you walking in your sleep?’

  ‘I thought I heard Johnnie call out.’

  ‘Did you call?’ his grandmother asked, turning to him.

  ‘Not that I know of. I don’t think I called.’

  ‘Is there anything you want?’

  ‘No, no! I’ve got everything I want, everything, thank you.’

  ‘Well, then—we’ll leave you alone. Quick march, Miranda!’

  Motionless, she watched Miranda trail out of the room. Shutting the door on her, she advanced to his bedside. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Johnnie?’ All the bark and briskness had gone out of her manner; she seemed to be imploring him to feel a little unwell, to need an aspirin or a clean handkerchief.

  ‘Perfectly all right, Grandmother. I’m sorry if I caused all this disturbance.’ She stood there, looking down on him, and he suddenly became conscious of the lowness of his divan bed.

  ‘Do you miss your mother, Johnnie?’

  He hadn’t been aware of missing his mother, but he knew he ought to say something appropriate. ‘Well—yes, I suppose I do.’

  She bent downwards, swaying and toppling. Spreading her hands on his pillow to support herself, she leaned closer and closer. The ends of her two short bristling pigtails descended on him. He blinked, and she settled her lips on his cheek in a long, delving kiss. ‘There! That’s from her.’

  She was so breathless from the effort of stooping that he had to take her by the shoulders and push her upwards. But she walked firmly to the door, opened it, switched off the light, reappeared in silhouette. ‘Fais dodo!’ she said in an artificial, chirruping voice, and closed the door gently behind her.

  He pulled himself together as one does after a bad dream and almost immediately fell asleep again.

  He slept so deeply that he woke not knowing
where he was—only that it was broad day, and must be somewhere in the country, for a cuckoo was calling. Then he remembered the narrow valley and the pear trees blooming along its green windings. Though unforgettably lovely, it was only the beginning of his westward journey. He looked at his watch and saw he must get up at once if he were not to be late for breakfast and delayed in starting. He was half dressed when Woodie came in with a tray: porridge, sausages and bacon, marmalade—a real English breakfast. She set it on a table by the window and stayed to pour out his coffee. ‘Will you be stopping for lunch?’ she asked. He shook his head; and then interrogated her face. Her expression was sad and displeased. Perhaps she had cooked something special—he didn’t want to slight her. ‘Do you think I ought?’

  ‘No, Master Johnnie. Much better not. The ladies ought to take things quietly today, after all the excitement of looking forward to you. They’re not so young as they were. But they’ll both be down to see you off.’

  The garden was so filled with the scent and toss of daffodils, the ribes was so pink and resonant with bees, the sun shone so affectionately on the house and on the farewelling group—his grandmother and Aunt Miranda side by side, Woodie a little behind—and everything looked so exactly as it should, and so like Jane Austen in its gentle sprightliness, that he almost decided to change his mind and stay, as he was begged to do, for lunch. But little clouds were rising, the pure weather might not last, he did not want his first sight of the Welsh mountains to be checkered by a windscreen wiper—which anyhow did not work very well; so he said his goodbyes, and kissed them all, and promised to come again, and got into the car.

  ‘Bon voyage!’ cried his grandmother. It was the same false, chirruping sweetness of that ‘Fais dodo!’ the night before.

  ‘Good-by-ee!’ he shouted, emphasizing its colonial heartiness and vulgarity, and started the car with a roar. That performance in his bedroom had somehow disgraced him. He wanted to get away and forget about it as soon as possible.

  ‘A nice lad, didn’t you think?’ said Miranda, rather stiffly. ‘A pity he didn’t want to stay.’

  The only acknowledgement of this was a brief, scornful laugh.

  ‘Of course he was bored to extinction,’ Miranda said. ‘Never mind; he’s done his duty by us. Duty done, cut and run.’

  ‘I don’t wonder he bolted, after the way you chased him,’ said her sister. ‘Leaping into the car to sit next to him, making eyes at him all through dinner, using that hideous old Bishop Mainwaring, who was no relation at all, as a pretext to get him to yourself—and then, when all else failed, sneaking into his bedroom, only waiting to put on your best dressing gown. Poor boy, no wonder he fled while he could!’

  ‘I wished you had put on your best dressing gown, too. That old one is getting very shabby. And rather smelly—not to put too fine a point on it.’

  Woodie stood in the kitchen, hearing their voices snap and snarl as they tore at each other’s self-respect. They quarrelled continually—it helped pass the time for them. But this quarrel was bound to be worse than usual, because of all the excitement and looking forward. They would get over it, though, poor old cats; there was nothing else they could do. Meanwhile, she must think about cooking lunch, and how best to dispose of the remains of that grand dinner—the big chicken, the expensive asparagus, all that cream. It wouldn’t do to serve up the chicken cold, reminding them. Rissoles would be best; rissoles don’t suggest anything out of the ordinary. And for the evening, an asparagus soup and some creamed rice.

  Johnnie slackened his foot on the accelerator. That first escaping burst of speed had rinsed his mind; now he could drive at his own pace, looking about him, following byroads, stopping to admire. After a brief shower, the sun had come out again, brighter and more enhancing than ever. Trees seemed to be rushing into leaf; the bluebells that grew along the roadside made a perspective of sapphire. And there, shaping out of the distance and quite unmistakable, was Skirrid Fawr—the mountain that split asunder at the moment when Christ died on the Cross. The day was before him, and his own, and time was his to do what he pleased with, and he hadn’t the slightest idea where he would spend the night.

  A JUMP AHEAD

  WE had divorced in amity; when we met again after the statutory six months we found each other such good company that we agreed to go on meeting from time to time. As time went on, and we began to fall into our new ruts, these meetings inevitably lost their elasticity, became formalities of goodwill, obligations of good manners, and took place at longer and longer intervals. By tacit consent, too, we had come to avoid visiting each other’s dwelling, and met on neutral ground. For me, this was a matter of regret since it deprived me of Mary’s cooking or of my own. Restaurant cooking gives me indigestion.

  At our last meeting Mary had been full of plans and excitement. Her great-aunt Barbara had died; minus some miserly bequests to servants and learned societies her estate, a considerable one, had come to Mary as residuary legatee. ‘Barby’s money won’t know itself,’ Mary boasted. ‘There it sat, leading a quiet orderly life. I’m going to make it rattle.’ And she showed me brochures of the luxury cruises she intended to go on.

  I thought it probable that Mary would find a further husband on one of these cruises; and when the flights of picture postcards ceased (the last was from Reykjavic, which seemed an odd place to be luxurious in) I assumed this had happened, and that when I saw her again (if I ever saw her again) she would toss him at me as a fait accompli‚ remarking ‘Michael’s latest idea is to buy an opossum’, before I had made sure of his existence—which would be in keeping with her habit of always being a jump ahead. It was also in keeping with Mary’s habits that she should be married; and I thought of her as such till a small paragraph in an evening paper caught my eye. Then I learned that my stepson, Basil, had been charged with driving while drunk and that his mother, called to give evidence, still bore my name. She had moved to a new address, in a grander quarter. It was from that address, and about a twelvemonth later, that she wrote to me, saying that it was years since we had met, that there was something she particularly wanted to ask me about, and when would I be in Inner London. I suggested a date, I invited her to lunch, I sent a suit to the cleaners; and on my way to the restaurant I bought her a box of langues de chat. I thought it had grown rather too late in the day for flowers. For that matter, it had grown rather late for another meeting. Almost seven years had gone by since the day she told me with such animation about Barby’s money. Neither of us was likely to be improved by that lapse of time. She had travelled—but at the end of her travels she had come back to Basil, a depressing bourne. As for me, I had retired from being a mathematical coach and—as happens when one retires—had grown old.

  To what extent I had grown old I did not realize till I saw Mary’s start of surprise and her immediate assumption of a kind encouraging manner. In her, I saw no change. She had been middle-aged when last we met, and was middle-aged now. Only her hat was different. Then, it had been an inclined plane. Now it was an irregular cone. We sat down opposite each other at a small table, and were in no hurry to look each other in the face. Apparently Mary found the assumption of a kind encouraging manner inhibiting. I realized that talk must be kept up by me. While we drank our cocktails I asked her about her travels, about her fellow-travellers, about her new home, about her investments. I even asked about that oaf, Basil. And all my questions she answered diligently and carefully, and never once cut into what I was saying with some remark of her own. I drudged on with Basil. I had never imagined I should express so much interest in Basil. I thought I had squeezed him dry when another drop oozed out.

  ‘Is Basil thinking of getting married?’

  ‘I don’t know. He goes out a great deal, but not in a marrying way.’

  At that moment the waiter brought our asparagus, and we occupied ourselves with eating it, but Mary must have become mindful that it was now her turn to enquire, for presently she said, ‘And what have you been doing, all this
long while?’

  ‘Growing old,’ I replied.

  ‘You’re lucky to have the time to do it in.’

  As of old, she had left me standing: all my topics, so nicely planned—my retirement, indications of my autobiography, my operation for a hernia, my acquisition of a tortoise with my reasons for calling him Runcorn—all were invalidated by that summary judgement that I had devoted seven undistracted years to growing old, and could afford to do so.

  It seemed a poor return for my interest in Basil. But at least, it was better than kindness and encouragement. With luck, I thought, this unnatural lunch might yet be salvaged; we might yet scramble back onto our old terms and be well into a quarrel by the time I was eating escalope de veau and she Chicken Maryland. Probably all she needed was a little shove. Remembering that she had always been quick to react to a white wine, I ordered a Pouilly Fuissé.

  ‘But, Gilbert, you don’t like white wine. It doesn’t agree with you.’