A Sentence of Life

by Julian Gloag

  “My dear old chap, she thinks we’re children. But then, what woman doesn’t think that about any man?” Colin gave a shade of a chuckle. He pushed through the gate and Jordan followed him. They stood side by side within the garden. The light was kind to the huge ugly rectory, erected in the middle of Victoria’s reign to replace a smaller, rose-bricked early Georgian house, of which the only remains were a small print in Trevor’s study. The scars of lighter brick on the wall where the fig tree had been were almost invisible now.

  Inside, the fire would be refreshed with new coals, the roast beef almost done, and the women would be waiting for Jordan to pour the sherry. As he moved in step with Colin across the lawn, he wondered at his own lack of anger at Mary, wondered at his calm acceptance of the news. But of course, like the coming of the Redeemer which Trevor would declaim from the lectern on Tuesday, it was news staled by centuries. The child was born, and the child had died. And that was that.

  “Hungry,” said Colin, “damned hungry.”

  “So am I,” he said.

  34

  The first day of the holidays was usually much better than this. Even Uncle Trevor’s giving him a glass of sherry before lunch—“My dear Mary, it won’t do him any harm. He’s nearly fourteen and had a term, a good term, at public school—one of the men now, eh, my boy?”—had not restored the proper magic to the day.

  It was because Uncle John was missing, a stupid prospective new curate sitting in his place at lunch.

  “Where’s Uncle John?”

  “He’s in his room. He’s not feeling up to much.”

  “Isn’t he having any lunch?”

  “Don’t be inquisitive, my dear.”

  “Well, can’t I go and see him?”

  “No. He’s probably sleeping now. He’ll be down tomorrow.”

  “Jordan, my boy—” Uncle Trevor cleared his throat—“I think you and I should have a little talk later on this afternoon. Perhaps after tea, hum?”

  “Okay.”

  “Jordan, we are not Americans—yet.”

  “Sorry, Aunt Mary. I meant alright.”

  “One word or two?” Trevor smiled.

  “One,” said Jordan.

  “I was glad to hear you’ve decided to give up boxing this term,” said Aunt Mary loudly, actually directing the remark at the curate. “A wise decision—wouldn’t you say so, Mr. Mansard?”

  The clergyman raised his head abruptly, and a forkful of cabbage fell onto his plate, splashing gravy on his cassock. “Ah, dear me yes, yes indeed, Miss Freeman. The danger of permanent injury from brain concussion I have always felt does not warrant—”

  “Danger? Fiddlesticks. A boy has to stand up for himself. Boxing is not a team sport, that’s what’s wrong with it. It doesn’t develop any team spirit.”

  “Ah—yes.” Mr. Mansard looked down and tentatively stabbed the errant cabbage. “I do agree indeed.”

  He’d better, thought Jordan. Table manners were a consideration to Aunt Mary—this and the major test of being taken round the garden had important bearing on whether or not the curate would be accepted. Mr. Mansard was failing badly on the table test, and he didn’t look, either, as though he knew much about gardening. But clumsiness and ignorance were not fatal bars and might actually prove assets if allied with sufficient docility. Mary could never stand the chatterers and the know-alls. Which was one reason why Jordan did not tell her that his renunciation of boxing was due, not to his liking for team sports, but to his prep school headmaster’s refusal, in his last term, to award him the silver medal for having won his weight, which all the other winners had been given. “Maddox will not receive a medal. He did not box. He fought.”

  By the end of lunch, Jordan had already decided to go to see Uncle John, whatever Aunt Mary said. He would knock very softly and peep in. If Uncle John was really asleep, he wouldn’t wake him, and no harm would be done. But Jordan was pretty sure John wouldn’t be asleep.

  In order to throw Aunt Mary off the scent, he accompanied her and Mr. Mansard round the garden for a while.

  “These are the tulip beds. We’re particularly proud of our tulips. The soil is very suitable. These will be chrysanthemums; we transplanted them this year. They need more sun. We had a very disappointing show at the Harvest Festival last year.”

  “Ah, yes indeed, we must pray for improvement, then.”

  “There are more important matters for prayer, Mr. Mansard. However, we may hope for the best.”

  In deprecatory panic, Mr. Mansard pointed at random. “And what grows here, Miss Freeman?”

  “Nothing. The roots of the fig tree are beneath that bed, and the soil would not give proper nourishment to anything else. You are aware, I suppose, that the fig tree is the finest specimen in the county. It is the rector’s only relaxation. These are lilies of the valley. I regard them as a weed.”

  Mansard was easy meat. If he were asked to tea, he would be in. His urgent submissiveness gave him a good chance, thought Jordan as he wandered off idly, as though to inspect the orchard.

  He entered the rectory by the kitchen door and went up the back stairs to Uncle John’s bedroom. There was a tray of food in the corridor on the floor. Jordan lifted a metal lid from a dish. Nothing had been eaten.

  He tapped softly at the door and then turned the handle and looked in.

  The room smelled faintly of leather and tweed and pipe smoke, although Uncle John was strictly forbidden to smoke upstairs. The bed was unmade, but there was no sign of Uncle John.

  Jordan went back into the corridor and closed the door. There was only one place his uncle could be. He retraced his steps and took the second flight of stairs that led up to the attic.

  He stood in the middle of the attic and listened. Amidst the mustiness of old luggage and discarded furniture waiting its turn for the next bazaar, he stayed still and uneasy. The workroom door was shut, but he was almost certain Uncle John was there. Where else could he be? But why this silence? Perhaps he really was ill. Perhaps he wanted to be left alone. Jordan was suddenly dazed by questions, filled with a dread he could not formulate. He walked forward quickly, loudly, so that his coming could not be missed.

  The door was not latched, and he pushed it open.

  John sat in the chair in front of the table, his face lifted to the sun which streamed in through the dormer window. He wore pyjamas and his old dressing gown and leather bedroom slippers. He moved his head a little as Jordan entered, but said nothing.

  Jordan took his usual chair. There was no sound, for that was the rule. But now there was nothing to watch, for John’s hands lay idle on the table, a half-painted puzzle beside them.

  Jordan tried the old ritual examination of the workroom. It was all surely the same as before. The neatly stacked sections of plywood, the jars of tempera, the tools aligned in size order.

  A fly buzzed on the windowpane.

  Jordan could not help looking at his uncle.

  There was a deceptive air of concentration to John’s unwavering gaze. But the hands, so dexterous and delicate in movement, were still, except that now and again a tiny tremor would curl the fingers.

  The old man muttered something inaudible.

  Jordan was afraid. He wanted to run from this. Where was John, slapping his hands, sniff-sniffing with military imperiousness, greeting him with a rough handshake, and smiling that smile of hidden knowledge and delight which suddenly would be shared with Jordan as together they fought a battle?

  “Uncle John?” He hesitated. “Are you making a puzzle?”

  John blinked at the sun. “Puzzle … puzzle,” he murmured. Beneath the weathered flesh of his neck, the open collar of the pyjamas exposed a V of clear white skin.

  “Are you ill, Uncle?” Jordan asked desperately.

  “Ah, ah,” John’s mouth snapped twice. Then slowly he turned his head and looked with sun-blinded eyes to where Jordan sat. “Home,” he said, “home, eh?” He seemed to be making a great effort. “Sent home,” he mut
tered. Two tears started in his eyes and trickled uncertainly down his cheeks. “In disgrace.”

  “What did they do to you, Uncle John?”

  John gave his old sharp chuckle. “Sent me to bed. That’s it.” His voice trembled into apology, “Old wounds. Old wounds, they reopen. Hospital, you see. Wake up and … the nurses, dear little things, all smiles and white starch.” He became vehement. “The spoils of war. Everywhere roses and laughter, wine and kisses—after all that mud. Shouldn’t have made a fuss. How could I know she’d make a fuss?” He pulled the neck of his pyjamas together and straightened his shoulders for a moment. “Eh, eh, eh?” he cried loudly.

  “Uncle …” What was wrong? He reached out to touch John. But the old man started back.

  “You an officer, sir?” he barked. He blinked quickly and leaned forward to where Jordan sat in shadow. “Rank? Regiment?” Then gradually he relaxed, his hand falling from his throat, his face turning back to the window.

  Jordan stood up. “What’s happened, Uncle John? Has something happened?”

  After a few moments of silence, the old man began to murmur as though he were talking to himself. “Disgraced the regiment. An officer and a gentleman. Have to send in my papers. If they let me. No, you see, Henlet will back me up, and Waidlaw. Good boy, Waidlaw. But it won’t make any difference. Disgraced the regiment. The verdict any day now. Where there’s life there’s hope. Waiting, waiting. Confined to quarters.” He began to weep again.

  Jordan lightly touched his uncle’s forearm. Immediately the old man’s hand returned the grip, clutching at Jordan’s arm. Very gradually he turned his head and looked up at his nephew, and for a moment there was sense again in his blue eyes. “A losing battle, Jordan,” he said. “A losing battle.” His grasp weakened and his hand slid down to the table and his head moved back to the dusty window and the cross-hatched oblong of cloudless sky.

  Although Jordan touched him again and spoke to him most gently, the old man did not respond or shift his position.

  At last Jordan left. He closed the door with precision. Something had opened within him, a glacier mouth upon the edge of which he stood and stared. He did not move, but after a while he raised his eyes. Although he did not look, it seemed to him the hole was filled with furious struggling. Anger poured into him and spilled out in a few brief tears.

  He walked quickly across the attic and down the stairs and into the kitchen and along the dark passage to Trevor’s study. He knocked and pushed open the door at the same time.

  Pen in hand, Uncle Trevor looked up with a smile, which turned to a frown as he saw the clock. “I thought we had agreed to have our little chat after tea. Or is my memory failing me?”

  “I want to talk to you now.”

  “It’s not a very convenient moment, my boy. Why—?”

  “I want to talk to you now.”

  “Oh well. Well, come in and sit down.” He put his pen down and touched the tips of his fingers together. “What is it?”

  “What have you done to Uncle John?”

  Trevor looked annoyed. “Have you seen your uncle?”

  “Yes. And I’ve talked to him too.”

  “Didn’t your Aunt Mary specifically tell you not to go up to John’s bedroom?”

  “He wasn’t in his bedroom.”

  Trevor half rose in alarm. “Not in his bedroom? Where was he? Tell me at once.”

  “He’s alright. He’s in the workroom.”

  “The workroom? What was he doing?”

  “He wasn’t doing anything.”

  Trevor looked at his watch, then sat down again. “Mary will have to be informed about this. Dear dear. I’d better go and tell her.”

  “Can’t you talk to me first?”

  “Well, perhaps. He can’t come to much harm in the workroom. But we’ll have to cut it short, my boy.”

  “What have you done to him?”

  “Jordan, I’m not at all happy that you saw fit to deliberately disobey your aunt. Rules are rules, whether at home or at school. We mustn’t start off the holidays on the wrong foot, must we? Perhaps we can overlook this; after all, it is the first day of—”

  “Uncle Trevor! What have you done to Uncle John?”

  Trevor opened his mouth angrily, then shut it tight. For a moment he was not the gently dithering clergyman. But almost at once he had control of himself. “I wanted to talk to you about that, my boy. That and your term’s work.” He gave a mechanical little laugh. “There’s something very, er, unpleasant, I’m afraid, I have to tell you. Frankly, I’m not sure you’re old enough to understand, but you are bound to be hearing certain rumours in the village, so I, er … Well, it’s to do with your Uncle John, I’m afraid.”

  “What’s to do with Uncle John?”

  “A very unpleasant incident, I’m afraid.” With sudden vehemence—“A shocking thing. Shocking. Your uncle has been, well, involved—and involved all of us, I may say—in very serious trouble. Very serious indeed. You may understand when I tell you that it also involves a certain young female. From the village. Most distress—”

  “Who?”

  “Please do not interrupt me, Jordan. This is not easy for me, for any of us. I’m not at liberty to tell you the name of the girl.”

  “Was it Greta Candle?”

  “What? John must have told you, dear oh dear me.”

  “Uncle John didn’t tell me anything. But I know Greta. Everyone knows Greta. Greta’s always in some mess or other. She’ll let anybody do anything. I should have thought you’d know that.”

  “If you think I have time to spare to investigate the sordid side of Sibley life, you are quite mistaken. I must say I am surprised at you, Jordan; it seems to me that you should be devoting your energies to more elevating things than common tittle-tattle. No wonder you’re still falling behind in your Latin.” Trevor took a deep breath and looked for a moment at the Bible stand under the window. “I am not concerned with this female’s reputation. I …” He stopped. He seemed to have lost the thread—it often happened in his sermons.

  “Did he get her pregnant?”

  “Jordan!” Trevor’s rather plump face went completely white.

  “Well, did he?”

  “Jordan, I do not care for your language or your attitude. I understand you are distressed. We all are. But impudence is neither called for nor wanted in this house. What your uncle did was, I’m sorry to say, far more serious than what you mentioned. You may find that difficult to believe. I found it difficult to believe myself, until I heard it from the lips of Inspector Pender. Your aunt has received a wound that I seriously doubt she will ever recover from.”

  “Is it rape?”

  Trevor took out a handkerchief and wiped his lips. He deliberately looked away from Jordan. “The charge—if it is brought, and I may say we are moving heaven and earth to avoid that happening—the charge will be one of attempted rape. So the police inform me.”

  “Attempted rape? It’s impossible! I don’t believe it.” A terrible, contemptuous fury pulsed in his ears. “Everyone knows Greta Candle’s a little tart. She’s been shagged by—”

  “Jordan Maddox!” Trevor was on his feet, shouting, “Shut up! Filth! Where did you learn that filth? How dare you? Like your father—vulgar. Vulgarity! Is that what they teach you at school? Is it? Is it? You dare speak to me like that, you dare import your filth into this house?” Trevor brandished a black ruler. His face was white and wet with sweat, and his lips trembled like speared worms.

  Jordan was terrified at this man, black and yelling at him. But the terror was indistinguishable in his blood from his own rage. “Is that what you said to Uncle John? Is that why he’s like he is? Because you shouted at him?”

  “Sit down! Be silent!”

  “Didn’t you even give him a chance?”

  “Be silent!” Trevor thumped the ruler on his blotter. “Sit down!”

  Slowly Jordan sat. He watched Trevor striving to control himself, his arms shaking as though
he were operating a road drill. The rector dropped the ruler. “Wait here,” he mumbled, and he hurried out of the study.

  Jordan heard the door of the small chapel open and close. He was shivering, too. As he waited, he felt his anger dribbling away, leaving his body cold.

  When Trevor returned and sat down at his desk and cleared his throat, Jordan looked at him with distaste. As though aware of it, Trevor smiled defensively. “I must ask you to forgive me, my boy. I am afraid I said things I shouldn’t have done. It is not always easy. Jesus is a hard taskmaster. A hard taskmaster.” He sighed. “This is a trying time. A difficult time. But we must remember Job, eh, my boy?”

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “It is out of my hands. We can only hope and pray. Our position at Sibley is seriously jeopardized. The archdeacon is most upset. Indeed.”

  “But Uncle John?”

  “Yes. He is, of course, not fully responsible for his actions. We’ve never tried to disguise that from you, have we, my boy? No, no. But I sometimes think we have disguised it a little from ourselves. And this is the result. A foolish charity. John would always have been happier, I think, with, well, those of his own kind. But your Aunt Mary would not hear of it. Won’t hear of it, even now. Even if the police—well, even if nothing more serious happens, we will have to take the most stringent steps. Your aunt has explained this to John, but I’m afraid he is in no condition to grasp, er, the enormity of what he has done, let alone the consequences. We will have to keep a close watch.” He paused and brushed imaginary crumbs from his lapel. “I’m counting on you, my boy. To help.”

  “To spy on Uncle John, you mean?”

  “Please. I don’t want to lose my temper again. I’m sure you don’t want me to either. I can see that I’m going to have to inform Mr. Prideaux of your negative attitude. You are behaving like a child. Obviously I overestimated your sense of responsibility.” Uncle Trevor wiped his cheeks, his forehead, the palms of his hands. “You must listen to me. Are you listening?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. We shall have to lay down some rules for the holidays. First, you are not to go upstairs at any time during the day without my permission. Is that clear?”