A Sentence of Life

by Julian Gloag

  Jordan smiled despite himself. “That’s called job satisfaction these days.”

  “Job balls!”

  They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  Then Colin had an attack of coughing.

  They chatted on for a while. At last Colin said he must go.

  “You’d better stay where you are, by the way. Trevor’s waiting to see you. We came together and I made him toss to see which of us would come in first. Of course he lost. Now I insist I don’t hear from you for at least a month. Take Willy away—and rectify this enforced abstinence. Take her abroad. Out of this damned depressing little country.”

  Jordan stood up.

  “Goodbye, Jordan.”

  “Goodbye, Colin.”

  The old man’s shoulders hunched against a sudden asthmatic assault. Watching him go, Jordan realised that he was not yet inured to the pain of separation.

  45

  “I didn’t know what you might want. Flowers, I thought … but you’re not keen on flowers, are you?” The clerical collar hung like a white halter about Trevor’s grooved and corded throat.

  “No. I’m glad you didn’t. It’s like receiving condolences.”

  “How you resemble your father. He disliked flowers—fruit too. He had a particular hatred of grapes, I remember—” he gave Jordan a small, withered smile—“except in their fermented form.”

  “I thought it was whiskey?”

  “That was later. No—burgundy, claret, sherry, perhaps. Never anything sweet. He always said, if he wanted to be sick, he’d rather drink cocoa. He couldn’t bear what he called ‘cheeriness.’ His room at the nursing home, you know, was quite bare. No colour at all. I remember once when Mary and I went to visit him. Mary took along some flowers, although she should have known better. I’ve never seen a man so angry as Charles that day. I remember it vividly. He said, ‘Don’t you try to pretend this is a living room. Leave it alone. I’ve come here to die.’ I was rather shocked at the time …”

  “And what did Mary say to that?”

  “Ummm? Oh, Mary. She blushed, you know. The only time I’ve ever seen Mary blush in my entire life. She blushed, yes, and walked out. Never visited Charles again. He died not long after. You were too young to remember all that, though.”

  “No. I dimly recall the funeral—and Charles, my father, lying in your chapel.”

  “Do you now? Remarkable. The funeral. I remember the funeral too.” He paused for a long while, and then he spoke slowly and sadly. “Mary got her own back, you know, then. The flowers—oh my goodness me, the flowers at his funeral! I should have stopped her.” He nodded to himself. “But I didn’t … didn’t understand, perhaps.”

  “How are things at Sibley?”

  “As well as could be expected,” said Trevor absent-mindedly, as though listening to some other conversation in another place.

  “I heard you were having trouble with a curate.”

  “Oh yes, a trial—a minor trial, I’m afraid.” He made an effort. “But as one gets older these little tribulations don’t seem to matter so much, you know. Just as perhaps the intensity of one’s satisfactions wanes, so disappointments are less sharp. One should not be sorry for old people. I often think the Lord provides that our ills, as well as our joys, should not be so troublesome to us as we get on. As though he knows we are not so well able to cope … perhaps … as confident youth, youth in its confidence is … can …” He gazed down at his lap, as if there he would find the thread of his thought.

  “There are compensations, of course,” he went on, suddenly summoning the remnants of a pulpit heartiness. “Annie Brierly is one of those. You remember Annie, of course you do. She is a great standby these days. Mary’s memory is not as good as it was—an affliction of us Freemans as we get older. I often think your Uncle John … Well, of course, it is only small things she is apt to forget—such as tradesmen’s bills. The immediate present gets mislaid—the past is as lucid as ever. Tradesmen’s bills—well, that causes a little misunderstanding sometimes. Annie is a great help there, with accounts. And now since her sister passed away, she will have more time to … Oh dear, that wasn’t quite what I meant.”

  “Emerald died?”

  “You didn’t know? Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it then. Well, yes, the unfortunate girl passed away. In most distressing circumstances. Most. I sometimes have the impression that the, well, tragedies of life—which are indeed a part of life—partake these days of an arbitrariness and a, yes, cruelty which I don’t recall. Even during the war. Am I wrong?”

  “I’m not certain. But I don’t believe it’s worse now,” he said. “I can’t think of anything more arbitrary and cruel than what happened to John.”

  Trevor moved his head a little. “Yes, it was a terrible death. But—”

  “I didn’t mean his death. I meant what happened to him in the war and …” No, he could not say it. “What happened to him on the Western Front.”

  Trevor blinked. “Oh. I see.”

  “How did Emerald die then?” Jordan asked quickly.

  “She burned to death. Such a trivial accident too. No one was to blame. You remember Mr. Goff, who used to play the organ? One of the things he liked to do was to sit with Emerald, you know. It relieved Annie in the post office from having to pop into the back room every five minutes to see the poor girl was up to no mischief. Goff liked to sit there and chat to the girl and smoke his pipe. Of course she didn’t understand a word. But then few people understand what Goff says, poor fellow—he has no roof to his mouth. But you know. One day he forgot and left his box of matches on the table by Emerald. When he left, Emerald started to play with them and she … well, she set herself on fire. She didn’t cry out and of course she couldn’t move. When Annie looked in … The burns were so severe she died within three days. Annie blames herself a little, I’m afraid. Such a little thing—after all those years of care. Nothing at all to blame herself for. But that’s not how the human mind works, is it, Jordan? And that poor girl—never harmed anyone, except in the end herself.”

  “Perhaps,” Jordan said slowly, “she would have been better off in a home.”

  “Yes. I always said that. I used to think that,” said Trevor with a sudden spurt of vehemence. “But now … I’m not sure. I think of John a lot these days. I believed—it was my firm conviction—that he too would have benefitted from being in a place where he could have had proper care, hospital care. I thought that—but Mary wouldn’t have it. I bowed to her, as sometimes one must bow, Jordan. But I thought he would be happier, you see, amongst his own kind there in hospital. For he was not happy, not in those later years. And I said to myself, this is why—because we were not able to give him the day-to-day attention, the observation, the security that he would automatically have received in a home, a private institution.

  “That terrible thing would not have happened, I told myself, if he had been where he belonged. I blamed myself for that, Jordan, oh yes. I blamed myself for not persuading Mary. That was where I had failed. I thought so.

  “But when Emerald died three weeks ago … oh, before that perhaps … perhaps when you … I don’t know. But I asked myself, ‘Where did John belong?’ And, do you know, I couldn’t answer that? But I think, I feel now, that perhaps he did belong with us, with his brother and his sister. It seems to me that I was blinding myself all those years. That my failure was not a failure of—oh, how can I put it?—of—”

  “Organization,” Jordan answered.

  “Yes, precisely. Not a failure of organization, failure to take proper measures. But a failure of a different and deeper kind. A failure of the heart. Yes. I believe Annie and old Mrs. Brierly were right—right to keep Emerald with them. And I believe I was wrong. I failed. Dearly beloved brethren—those words have been on my lips for forty years and more now, Jordan. And it doesn’t seem to me I had the least understanding …” He gazed now steadily through the grille at Jordan.

  “How does Mary thin
k?”

  “I have not spoken of it. Mary, you know, would not really understand. She is a simple person—that is her strength. But I thought you …”

  “You thought I’d understand?”

  “Yes, Jordan, yes, I do think you understand. Although it is not understanding I need now, I think, so much as forgiveness … I am not good at this … I failed you. Yes,” his voice grew firmer, “I failed you. When Lily died and your father entrusted you to me, I accepted the responsibility in good faith. I determined to bring you up as I would wish any boy to be brought up—wholesome and active in mind and in body. Truth, I was convinced, was open to a clear and willing mind—and the greatest gift of the mind was understanding. I believed that I could teach you to understand. I knew that I was not good with children—I was not as your father was—but I thought that was a secondary thing. No no, Jordan, do not forbid me. I forbade you. I did not understand that simplest of commands—to let a child come to me.

  “And when you came here, to this place, accused of this terrible crime … I thought, I felt …” A little tremor passed through his hands which lay idly curled on the ledge in front of him.

  “It’s not your fault, Trevor. Good lord, you’re not—”

  “No no. It is just that I feel somehow—do you understand this?—that it is I who should be in your place.”

  “Trevor—I’m sorry that—”

  “Please do not think I am asking for that. It is I who am sorry. And I wanted you—I wanted to tell you this before tomorrow. For I am in a sense an emissary—I have promised to see what I could do.”

  “To make me change my mind?”

  “I don’t suppose it would do any good, would it, my trying to persuade you?”

  “No. Who sent you, Trevor?”

  “Mary wished me to come. She fancied—” he smiled—“that I could, as she puts it, make you see sense. And Willy—”

  “Willy?”

  “We are staying at Woodley.”

  “I thought she was at the Shorts’.”

  “Until this morning she was. But she asked us to come—so we did. She gave me a message—a note—for you. I gave it up to the guard, but he assured me you would get it at once. She told us, of course, what you had said.”

  “How—how does she seem?”

  “She is, I think, in great distress.”

  “And Mary?”

  “Mary will always survive. Your daughter—”

  “Yes?”

  “—has sent you a note too, I believe, in with Willy’s. Willy asks me to tell you that you are not to read her letter until after tomorrow. Unless you feel you must.”

  “Well.”

  “Well.” Trevor got to his feet. “Well, bless you, my boy.”

  46

  Jordan sat on the bed and held the envelope in his hand. Cream-laid paper. In half an hour the lights would go out and he wouldn’t be able to read the letter until dawn.

  He was locked in. The window in the door was shut; only the peephole was ready to glare at him all night.

  He did not want to open the envelope. He wouldn’t sleep. They were pressing him too hard now. He had a sudden impulse to burn the letter unread. But he knew he wouldn’t. He knew also, as minute to minute he put off the act, that he would read the letter.

  He opened it at last, five minutes before lights out. He forced himself to read slowly.

  JORDAN,

  I know I can’t expect you to forgive me for the things I said to you yesterday. It seems so much longer ago than yesterday. It seems years ago—I’ve been so miserable.

  It was not true, all I said. Jordan, please believe that. I did go to bed with Tom once. It was after Georgia was born. And I don’t know why I did it. Perhaps because I thought you wouldn’t find me attractive any more. I know that sounds silly really, and I have thought and thought about why I did it.

  All I know is I’ve felt guilty for ages. Some people can be unfaithful and not seem to mind at all. Perhaps in a way they are healthier than me. Mummy would think so. But I could never truly think in that way.

  Last night Norah said to me—”Oh, I know all about you and Tom, my dear. I don’t care about you, but I do hope he enjoyed it.” It made me feel so cheap.

  I couldn’t sleep last night. So I went down and made myself cocoa. And as I sat down to drink it, I thought that you couldn’t—couldn’t get yourself something to drink in the middle of the night however much you wanted it. And I just cried like a perfect fool.

  Jordan, please don’t do it. I beg you not to do it. It’s not because I care what people think or anything like that. It’s just that I can’t think what I’ll do without you. Twelve years. I can’t bear that. I don’t care what you’ve done. I don’t care if you did murder her. I don’t care if you made love to her. Please please, Jordan, don’t leave me!

  I’m weak, my darling. That’s why I’m going to ask Uncle Trevor to tell you not to open this letter till it’s all over. You must do what you think. I know that. But I hope, I pray you open it today. I can’t ask you to let it influence you. I’ve forfeited the right to ask you that. But I do ask it!

  I’m not good at love, Jordan. And I’m not good at anything else. All I know how to do is be brave. And I’m not brave at all. I’m the greatest coward there ever was.

  Come back to me. Please please come back to me. You are so much more than you think. I will try harder, I promise you that, my darling. And perhaps there is another way. You must teach me—because I don’t know anything but trying harder.

  I know I’ve written this as if you’d read it today. But if you don’t open it till tomorrow, then remember I love you and wrote it like this because I love you. I’ll be faithful. And I’ll wait. I won’t give in. And when you come out of prison, I will be there—if you’ll have me.

  Your wife,

  WLLHELMLNA

  He put the letter on the bed and got up. Something was being taken from him, drawn out of him like a ligature from an amputation.

  As the lights went out, he thought, if only she had not said, “But I do ask it.”

  In the darkness he remembered Georgia’s note. He turned and fumbled for it on the bed. He struck a match and held it a little way from the scrap of paper:

  DEAR DADDY

  DO YOU LIKE ELEFANTS

  I DO

  LOVE FROM

  GEORGIA PEACH

  There was a drawing of a strange fat beast with a curled trunk.

  As the tears slipped from his eyes, he strove to recapture the high ground gained in the early part of the day.

  Any soldier would have done the same.

  A Good War

  47

  He held Uncle John’s hand tight. John was tall and still as a statue, except for the faint grumbling in his throat which only Jordan could hear.

  All the others in the churchyard were listening to Uncle Trevor’s “religious” voice intoning the burial of the dead. Jordan was usually excused halfway through a sermon, but he guessed he wouldn’t be excused this time. Besides which, he knew the men were soon going to lower his father’s coffin into the grave. He didn’t want to miss that, even though he was not really quite sure it was his father.

  By turning his head slightly, he could see the adjoining grave which was always neatly clipped and crisp with flowers. The headstone read: LILY ALICIA MADDOX. That was his mother. On Sunday mornings very often, while the congregation torpidly suffered the conclusion of Trevor’s sermon, Aunt Mary would bring Jordan to this grave. And they would stand together for what seemed like an eternity of silent contemplation. Dimly Jordan grasped that these moments affected Aunt Mary with some deep emotion, and that he too ought to be affected. But he didn’t know how—he only gathered it was something to do with being an orphan. But he had not been a real orphan, that was quite clear, because his father was alive.

  Now, he thought with satisfaction, I am a real orphan. He had looked at himself for a long time in the mirror this morning, expecting to see a chang
e in himself. There wasn’t any. But it didn’t really matter. He just wished there was someone who fully appreciated his distinction—and he didn’t have any grandparents either. Aunt Mary merely got irritable when he pointed this out. Of course, it would be even better if he had no relatives at all. Aunt Mary and Uncle Trevor, however, were not likely to die just to oblige him. For a moment he imagined a glorious life where the only adult was Uncle John.

  But Uncle John was a relative too.

  “… Charles Ardwick Maddox,” Uncle Trevor moaned impressively, and the men gripping the ropes began to ease the coffin slowly into the ground. The lid of the coffin was bare—they’d taken all the flowers off. Flowers were too precious to be buried.

  It was all over soon after that. The small circle of mourners broke up. Looking back, Jordan saw two of the pallbearers taking off their jackets and then beginning to shovel the dry August earth into the hole.

  John took him home, along the sweetly smelling lime avenue.

  “My father didn’t have many friends, did he?” said Jordan.

  “Hundreds.”

  “Well why weren’t they there then?”

  “Because it was a hole-in-a-corner affair.” John crunched the gravel with steps measured to a slow march he hummed in his high tenor. He stared straight ahead. “Shouldn’t have gone out like that,” he said suddenly, breaking off his hum. “Should have had a decent funeral—a military burial.”

  “Was he a soldier then, like you, Uncle John?”

  “Not a regular. But for an artist he did well. A military cross. He had a good war.”

  High away in the sunlight a plane flashed.

  “An aeroplane,” Jordan said.

  “Reconnaissance, I expect,” John answered vaguely.

  They walked in silence.

  “Why didn’t my father live at the rectory with us?” He felt a great daring as he said it. It wouldn’t have been possible to ask anyone but Uncle John—and even Uncle John …