by Julian Gloag
“She wrote to me and told me.”
“You’ve kept rather quiet about all this, haven’t you, Jordan?”
“Yes. How did Trevor find out, by the way?”
“Nothing much gets past Mary.” Colin raised his eyes and stared briefly at Jordan.
“Prying old bitch,” said Jordan, suddenly furious.
Colin picked up his glass and looked at it. “Well, I dare say. Up to a point. But I think it’s only her concern for the welfare of others that leads her to step over the boundaries of other people’s privacies.”
“Or is it the other way round?”
“I don’t think so. Look, Jordan, don’t underestimate Mary. I don’t want to be pompous, but she’s a remarkably fine woman in many ways. A long time ago now she was very much in love, and he with her. But she wouldn’t marry him, out of loyalty to her brother. She knew Trevor would be lost without her. And then John. There was considerable pressure towards the end—perhaps you know this—to commit John. Mary wouldn’t have it. She fought that tooth and nail. And after your mother’s death it was Mary who took you out of the peculiar menage Charles had set up. But she never said a word against your father, you know. She always welcomed him to the rectory. And … well, the point I’m making is that you’ve got to balance Mary’s occasional high-handedness against her very real courage and loyalty and, yes, tenderness—for I think under her abrupt common-sensical manner she’s a very tender woman. Although you may not believe it.”
“I don’t.”
“Well,” said Colin slowly, “that’s beside the point, really.”
“And the point is that Trevor’s in a puritanical tizzy. I suppose he thinks that—that my affair with Annie will ruin my chances of a first.”
“That may be part of it. But only a small part. Jordan, you’re very young, you’re just beginning, and—”
“I know very little of the world and I shouldn’t be thinking of burdening myself with a wife at this stage of the game. Is that it?”
Colin opened his hand palm upward and stared at it as though it contained the symbols of wisdom. “In part, perhaps. But there’s also rather a considerable difference in background, isn’t there?”
“I don’t know. We come from the same place. We know the same people.”
“I meant social background.”
“Not our class? So what?”
“It matters, you know. Differences in upbringing, outlook. Marriage is a long pull, and sometimes the connections between man and wife become, well, strained. Some of these connections are social, matters of upbringing—links of mind and attitude which are possibly the more important for being unspoken. It seems to me to be a handicap to a marriage to have those links missing. I don’t say it’s an insuperable handicap, but it’s there all the same. Have you considered that?”
“No. I mean, yes. There are other things that are more important than that.” He heard his voice tremble.
“Love, you mean. Yes, love.” Colin shifted in his chair.
“What’s wrong with love?”
“Nothing. Only—sometimes it wears out. It’s a bit of an unknown quantity until it’s tested over time. I’m not advocating free love or anything, but there are lots of women in the world. In Cambridge too, I expect.” Colin smiled.
It was not finished, Jordan knew. He was trapped in the Berkeley Grill. He was filled with unspeakable resentment against Colin and the cage of quiet reason that he was constructing.
“How’s that girl you introduced me to when I was up in the spring? The one with the farfetched name. Wilhelmina, wasn’t it?”
“She’s a nincompoop. The only good thing about Willy is her mad mother.”
“I thought she seemed rather fond of you.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. Coffee? Will you have a brandy with me?”
“No thanks. Oh yes, yes I will.” He needed something to make him reckless against the deadly sobriety that walled him in.
They were silent until the brandy arrived, and then Colin said, “Jordan, I don’t mean to pry, but you mentioned something about an ‘affair’ with this girl—Annie. Have you slept with her?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business, Colin.”
“No, it isn’t, you’re quite right. I just wondered if you, er, had been taking the proper precautions and that sort of thing.”
“Precautions!” Jordan’s laugh was tremulous beyond control.
“Jordan, believe me, I’m not saying anything against Annie Brierly—”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I just want to find out how you feel and—”
“So that you can report back to Mary and Trevor.”
Colin shook his head quickly. “No. I want to give you another view, that’s all. I’m not disinterested, Jordan, and I’d be a fool if I pretended I was. But if you’ve made up your mind to something, that’s your business and I respect it. Perhaps I can be a bit more objective than you, and objectivity never did any harm. I hardly know Annie—of course when I’ve been down to Sibley at Christmas and … well, I knew who she was, but I have no basis of judgement of her as a person. But there are other things that go beyond the immediate consideration of person when you are thinking in terms of marriage. That’s what I wanted to say, to make sure you understood. There’s the family. You have to be prepared for reactions. When it comes to marriage, you can’t conduct the thing in a vacuum. And it’s not only you, but it’s her, too. If everything isn’t plain sailing—and it won’t be—how do you think she’ll take it? Have you asked yourself that?”
“Do you think that it’s been plain sailing, as you call it, up to now?”
“I simply don’t know.”
Jordan finished his brandy. He put the glass down on the smooth white tablecloth. “What makes you such an expert on marriage, Colin?”
“You’ve got a point there.” Colin laughed. “Your immediate family circle is a bit short on experience of wedlock, I’m afraid. Firsthand, that is—I suppose old Trevor’s married hundreds in his time.”
“Why didn’t you ever marry?”
“I was in love with your mother. I was always in love with Lily. But she always loved Charles, and he her.” He smiled at Jordan. “He was much the better man, and he made her completely happy. That was the comfort I had. Still have, as a matter of fact.”
Jordan could think of nothing to say.
“Well,” said Colin, “shall we be getting back? You’re coming with me to collect your copy of Death Sentences, aren’t you?”
Jordan stood up. “Alright,” he said. He felt the alcohol then, fumbling his mind, wearying him.
He was met at Sibley station by Trevor with the old Wolseley. Trevor stood on the platform, book in hand and one finger marking his place, and regarded the train with a hesitant smile as though, by stopping, the engine would do him an honour of which he was both uncertain and unworthy. The station was at the parish limits, and there Trevor’s assurance terminated. He would be excessively polite and vague with the ticket collector, as though the man were the representative of another world, touched by a foreign majesty.
“Ah, well well. A good term, my boy?”
“Not bad, thanks.” Jordan avoided looking at his uncle. He put his bags in the boot and sat in the front seat.
There was no vestige of joy left in his return. They passed the war memorial with a few of last year’s derelict poppies at its base. The walled pound filled with nettles and tall grass. The school with its drab patch of fenced-in playground.
He hated the dead familiarity of it all. He knew every aspect of this desert to the inch: Trevor’s tentative cough as he worked himself up to ask about the prelims, Aunt Mary’s cheek quickly presented and withdrawn, the smell of his room, the celebratory chicken for dinner, junket with nutmeg and stewed plums, the glass of cheap port, the deadly seriousness of the trivial.…
The post office was already shut. Behind the metal grille on the door, in the back room, would be Ann
ie and her father and Emerald. As the Wolseley drove slowly by, Jordan wanted to fling open the door and run into the post office and hear Annie tell him that nothing had changed. He had had no letter from her since the brief note when her mother died—two weeks ago. She was busy, of course, and the natural grief—he had told himself that it was understandable.
“Well, my boy.”
“Hello, my dear.”
“A glass of sherry, eh?”
“The tomatoes are doing quite well this year.”
“No great events at Sibley, you know. Poor old Mansard’s having trouble with his kidneys again.”
“Malingering.”
“Oh no, my dear. He is getting more forgetful than ever though, I’m afraid. Only last Sunday he …”
It was exactly as he had known it would be.
After dinner he told them he was going for a walk.
He went slowly down to the village. He had written to Annie that he would come at nine. She must be expecting him, yet he was reluctant. He walked as though to an ordeal, nerving himself.
There was no one about as he knocked at the post office. The pub was at the other end of the village and the men would be there. But Sibley had always been a silent place as long as he could remember.
The bolt was pulled back and the door opened. It was hard to see her in the dusk.
“Hello, Annie.”
“Hello, Jordan.”
He tried to smile at the dim figure in the doorway. “Would you like to come for a walk?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t, Jordan.”
“Didn’t you get my letter?”
“Dad’s out, and I can’t leave Emerald.”
“Well then, may I come in?”
“I don’t think … Alright. Not for long though. Dad’ll be back soon.” She held open the door.
He followed her across the worn boards of the post office and into the back room. A tiny room—he had never been in it before. He didn’t even know what they called it. The living room? The parlour? Three huge chairs, two by the empty grate and one in the corner filled with the mongoloid hulk of Emerald. Annie went to her sister and wiped the thick wet lips carefully. Emerald bubbled and nodded and tried to peer round at Jordan.
Annie turned.
“I was—was sorry to hear about your mother.”
“Yes.”
He moved towards her, hoping that if he touched her …
“Annie—what’s wrong?”
She looked at him then. “Wrong? There’s nothing wrong.”
“Annie, you can tell me. Don’t keep it pent up. I know your mother’s death … well, I remember what it was like when Uncle John—”
“That was different. I was never that fond of Mum.”
He could hardly believe her stoniness which yet so closely fulfilled his cold dozing terrors in the train coming down. “What is it then? What is it?” The urgency of his voice attracted the attention of Emerald and she smiled delightedly.
“There is no it.”
He glanced round the miserable dark-brown room decorated with cheap prints of jolly red huntsmen blowing horns and drinking jolly English ale from huge tankards. “Annie …” The flavour of roast chicken and port rose to his mouth, and with it a spurt of hatred against the desolation of it all. “Annie, I’ve decided. When I’m twenty-one—it’s only nine months away—let’s get married at once. There’ll be the money John left me and—”
“I’m not going to marry you, Jordan.”
He stared at her. “You’re doing your hair in a different way.”
“I’m not marrying you.”
“Why?”
“Now Mum’s gone, someone’s got to look after Dad and Emerald.”
Emerald chortled at the sound of her name.
“But that’s no reason. I mean, we always knew that—that things might be difficult. But that doesn’t make any difference.”
“We were just kids then.”
“But Annie! You can’t. We’re in love. Don’t you love me any more?”
“That’s neither here nor there, Jordan. I’ve got my duty and that’s that.”
“Then you do love me still?”
“I said, we were kids then. That was all a lovely dream. But it’s over now.”
“Over? For Christ’s sake, Annie. We’re just beginning.”
“I’ve got other things to think of now. I can’t leave Emerald or Dad. And I wouldn’t. Our marrying would never have worked. I always knew that in my heart of hearts.”
“I don’t care a damn about Emerald and your father. Hang them. I want you.” He tried to beat at her with his vehemence, but somewhere within he was hopeless. He knew this frozen waste too well to believe there was any hope of nourishing green fields and human life.
They stood in silence. Each cold moment made him more incapable of speech.
“You better go. Dad’ll be home any minute now.” She walked to the door and into the post office. He followed her. He gave one glance back at Emerald. She was grinning, her face shining, her lips wet once more with saliva. She raised a hand and motioned at him in a brokenwristed way. “Bah-bah, bah-bah.”
“Annie.” He was close to her in the doorway. “Annie, it’s not over. It can’t be, not like this.” But his words were feeble as those of a child protesting against the inevitable bedtime.
“Annie, can I kiss you?”
It was her first moment of hesitation. “Alright,” she said then. But as he bent forward, she turned her head, so that his lips only touched her cheek in the brief and dutiful gesture he knew so well.
“Goodbye,” she said.
“Goodbye, Annie. I’ll … But he didn’t know what he would do, and, as he stood there on the scrubbed step, she closed the door, quietly and firmly, and he heard her footsteps retreating through the shop into the back room.
He went back to the rectory and up to his room. He sat on his bed with the white-and-blue coverlet, and he didn’t turn on the light. He sat there a long time. Then he got up and unpacked his cases and repacked one. In the morning he told Trevor and Mary that he had to do some work at the British Museum. He stayed in a boardinghouse in Bloomsbury. He wrote many long letters to Annie but he didn’t post any of them.
He went up to Cambridge for the long vac term and drank a lot of beer and saw a good deal of Wilhelmina Benton.
He returned to Sibley for one night to fetch his things for the Michaelmas term. He didn’t see Annie.
33
He and Willy went back regularly for Christmas at Sibley. He would see Annie then, after church on Sunday among the tombstones. Mrs. Brierly had been buried not far from Lily Maddox.
Sometimes he and Annie would speak a few stiff winter words about the weather. Each time it seemed to him her clothes were a little dowdier, her hair drawn tighter to the bun at the back.
He was glad to break away and walk at Colin’s slow pace down the long lime avenue that led from church to the rectory. Ahead of them Mary and Willy sped briskly to attend to the roasting beef and the trappings of Sunday lunch. Mary and Willy seldom talked together; they were so beautifully attuned, they did not need to use the awkward tool of words. They met in the ordering of garden and house, of solid meals and men’s foibles, discipline and fresh air. Willy arranged a vase of flowers exactly, to the very petal, as Mary would have done. It was a long time since their first visits when he and Willy would sit in the bedroom sipping forbidden whiskey.
Colin took out a cigar and clipped the end. He held it unlit in his hand and said to Jordan, “Can’t light up till we’re off consecrated ground.” He put the cigar under his nose and sniffed. “Matins always give me the itch to smoke.”
The even sound of their feet on the gravel walk reminded Jordan of the slow tread of pallbearers. He looked away to the fields and down to the pond covered with duckweed and half hidden by the still lingering morning mist. On the other side a short hill rose abruptly—a fine defensive position against cavalry.
“Damn b
ad sermon. Poor old Trevor. Still, you can’t expect a clergyman to make religion interesting. Years ago I remember when the church was brimming every Sunday. But now when that posse of faithful old women die off, Trevor’s going to be without a congregation.”
“There’ll always be Annie Brierly, I’m sure. And old Goff the organist.”
“Ah yes.” They came to the wicket gate which opened into the rectory garden. Colin paused and lit his cigar, rolling it tenderly between thumb and forefinger to make sure it was evenly caught. “Sensible girl, that.” He drew gently. “Great help to Mary with all these church things, I hear. Surprised they get on so well.”
“Surprised—why?”
Colin blew at the tip of the cigar until it glowed. “That business about you and her being engaged. Water under the bridge now, thank God. Great tribute to the girl that she doesn’t bear any grudge, you know. I always thought Mary may have been a bit hard on her.”
Jordan turned and looked back down the avenue. There were rooks among the high branches of the lime trees. In the churchyard a few villagers were still grouped, talking, waiting for the rector.
Jordan took his hand from the gate and put it in his pocket. “Mary spoke to Annie?”
“You knew that, didn’t you?”
“Only vaguely.”
“I don’t know what she said exactly. I imagine she pointed out the general unsuitability of Annie’s marrying you. But I rather fancy there must have been a bit of a row. Mary isn’t the most tactful person in the world sometimes.”
Jordan squinted at the pale yellow sun. “That must have been about the end of my first year up.”
Colin nodded and let a mouthful of cigar smoke drift from his lips. “In my opinion it was all a bit high-handed, but Mary was determined to have it cleared up before you came home for the long vac. And in the event, I suppose she was right. I must say, I was relieved when you broke up with the girl.”
So that’s what had happened. So very simple, yet he’d never guessed. He remembered the little back room and the idiot Emerald burbling. A child ought to have been able to see in Annie’s rigid stance the implacable iron of Mary. How odd that he hadn’t. He said, “Mary never thinks anyone is capable of ordering their own affairs without her help.”
