by MARY HOCKING
At a stage when it was becoming unbearable, Daniel turned his attention to the solution. The relief was tangible, no thriller writer could have hoped for more. Harry smiled and picked up his pencil, just to indicate that if there was anything the Yeominster Conservation Society did not already know, it was willing to learn. Daniel, however, had little patience with small beginnings. He might have found it a hopeful sign to see such a large audience assembled to hear him, but he gave little indication that he found its members’ activities of any significance. All that such societies were doing, he told them, was to attempt to shore up what Ezra Pound had so truly described as a ‘botched civilisation’. It wouldn’t do. The whole system was rotten. We had to start again. He attacked capitalism, the military economies of the United States and the Soviet Union, the myth of growth to which the English politician was so hopelessly addicted, the mumbo-jumbo about the standard of living. What was this ‘standard’ anyway? He looked particularly grim at this stage. One only had to watch his performance, Dorothy thought, to see why so many of the Old Testament prophets came to a bad end. What future, Daniel asked forbiddingly, was there for a people who preferred to retain a choice of detergent at the expense of an effective sewage system, who considered the three-car family a desirable symbol of prosperity while at the same time windily denouncing the rape of the countryside and the pollution of towns and villages, whose government spent more on military weapons than the cure of cancer? This, he assured them, was not a matter for politicians, it was a question of the kind of world in which we wanted to live and for how long. There was a time limit: the sooner this was realised the better. The resources of the earth were not inexhaustible; we had to decide whether we were going to prolong the period during which there was life on earth, or shorten it. The choice was ours, since we lived at a time when man had begun to understand not only his environment but its limitations.
He sat down. Harry asked whether there were any questions. After a rather long pause, a woman in the front row said, ‘I should like to ask Mr. Kerr whether he considers it helpful to buy white paper napkins rather than coloured ones.’ Daniel stared at her as though a joke must be intended; before he decided to laugh, Harry explained that a previous speaker had suggested this was one simple way in which everyone could help in the fight against pollution. Daniel said, ‘I see.’ It was apparent that he was incapable of entering into discussion at this level. Harry said that they had been given a great deal to think about, and he was going to suggest they break for coffee to give them a chance to sort out their thoughts; there would then be a short question and answer session. During the coffee break, Harry had a word with one or two people and arranged that questions of a technical nature should be put which would keep Daniel occupied on information of a sufficiently specialist nature to impress his audience without further antagonising it. The meeting ended at a quarter to ten, which was rather early. Harry thanked the speaker for his stimulating talk which ‘even if we don’t agree with everything he has said, has certainly started us thinking and will keep us arguing among ourselves for some time to come.’ He wished everyone a happy Christmas.
‘I’m not at all sure Mr. Kerr would approve of happy Christmases,’ a woman in front of Erica whispered to her husband.
When the hall had cleared. Erica said to Harry, ‘Do you mind if I don’t ask you back for a drink?’
‘Of course not.’ It was obvious that she was upset. He said gently, ‘This has been a rather amusing experience, hasn’t it?’
‘Has it?’
‘From the platform it was amusing,’ he assured her. ‘All those hungry sheep looking up and being fed with tales of famine and eventual extermination.’
‘The view from the floor wasn’t so funny.’
He felt sorry for her, but could think of nothing more to say, so he laid a hand gently on her wrist and gave it a little squeeze. At the time, she was not comforted, but in retrospect the gesture assumed great tenderness and a time came when she discovered that this was the moment she began to love Harry Clare.
They had been late leaving for the meeting and had had to come by car, in spite of Daniel’s preference for walking. The return to the house was not, therefore, unduly prolonged. Emma and Giles kept the conversation going, Emma complaining about the abysmal stupidity of the audience and Giles proclaiming that only a revolution would save this country. When they reached the house Erica went straight into the kitchen to prepare hot drinks. ‘I don’t want any help,’ she told Dorothy, her face ominously flushed. Giles and Emma were prevailed upon to go to their rooms as soon as the drinks were finished. It was apparent to them that their mother was in a highly emotional state and neither had any wish to participate in the ensuing scene. As soon as they had departed Erica closed the morning-room door and stood with her back to it as though Dorothy and Daniel might be planning an escape. She addressed herself to Daniel.
‘I collected for Shelter, and what did I get?’ He looked at her, considerably startled; her words seemed to him inappropriate enough to verge on madness, but it was obvious that they were inspired by very deep feeling. ‘A man from the local radio stopped me and asked whether I thought it was enough to collect money? Was I prepared to give up a part of my house to a homeless family? I helped for two days at Maresfield and some long-haired youth told me it was just a sop for my conscience, and wouldn’t it be more to the point if I made the local council offer houses to immigrants? I do meals on wheels twice a week and one of Dorothy’s health visitor friends said to me, wasn’t it a shame that we only did it twice a week! I’ve worked very hard starting up the conservation society, and now you come along and tell me it’s all a waste of time because conservation won’t work unless I overthrow the capitalist system! If all the little things I do are so useless, I just won’t try any more. I’ll let everything go hang!’ She rushed out of the room, crying bitterly.
Daniel stared at the closed door in dismay. ‘I had no idea I had upset her,’ he said to Dorothy. ‘Should I go after her?’
‘How do you propose to comfort her? By recanting?’
He looked at her with that expression of subdued obstinacy which she imagined Galileo might have worn when he said, ‘But it does move . . .’
‘She’ll find her own comfort if you leave her alone long enough,’ she advised.
He frowned, torn between concern and disapproval of easy comfort. She said, ‘After all, it’s not as though you left them with any practical suggestions, is it? I fancy most of them must feel that the choice lies between finding their own comfort and putting their head in a gas oven.’
He bit his lip, and released it after a few brooding seconds to ask, ‘You don’t think I came across to them?’
‘Did you want to?’
He looked at her warily. ‘Of course.’
‘It seemed to me you wanted a chance to state your view to a large audience.’
‘That is a legitimate means of communication, surely?’
‘Communication? Come off it, Daniel! You didn’t give that a passing thought. You certainly didn’t consider how your audience could best absorb what you had to say.’
‘I thought I made myself fairly clear.’
‘Oh, you were clear all right! Even the dullest of them must have realised you didn’t think much of the efforts of the Yeominster Conservation Society.’
‘Yeominster Conservation Society! White paper napkins!’
They were by now going at each other with gusto, as though this was a confrontation which each had eagerly awaited.
‘These people may seem very ineffectual to you,’ Dorothy said. ‘But they are the people who work for the community, who get things done, while other people talk and criticise. If you haven’t any time for them, who are you addressing yourself to?’
‘Yes, all right. You have made that point.’
‘You don’t find it pleasant to be bludgeoned? You don’t think it an effective way of putting an argument across? I’ve only been at it for fiv
e minutes: you spoke for one hour and ten minutes.’
She stared at him. Her face, when she gazed so straightly in front of her, was remarkably plain, washed clean of all those concessions to charm which most women feel obliged to make even when they are annoyed with a man.
‘You are formidable.’ He spoke with awe.
‘Formidable?’ She was taken aback. ‘Me!’
‘Nothing escapes you,’ he said. ‘You seem to see through all our pretensions to whatever lies behind. You are extraordinarily perceptive. No . . . perceptive is too gentle a word. Penetrating. The penetration is quite remarkable.’
‘How very unpleasant you make me sound.’
‘No, not unpleasant,’ he assured her. ‘But you are uncomfortable.’
‘I didn’t think you liked comfort, Daniel.’
‘I’m not criticising you. I admire you.’ Up to this moment, he had disliked her. The switch of emotion did not render him speechless. ‘It amazes me,’ he said, ‘that with your gifts you have been prepared to live in this atmosphere which isn’t very stimulating for a person like you. You must find it trying. Indeed, it is obvious that you find it very trying.’
It was true, she sometimes felt impatience welling up inside her, a feeling she would like to take life by the throat and shake some sense out of it. She had imagined she controlled herself well. Apparently she didn’t.
‘I don’t think we’d better talk about this any more,’ she said.
‘I hope I haven’t upset you.’
‘No more than I have upset you.’
‘I really didn’t mean . . .’
‘Oh, don’t start apologising, Daniel! You’ve succeeded in communicating with one person this evening. Let’s leave it at that.’
She went out of the room as noisily as Erica had done. In her room, she paced up and down, clenching and unclenching her hands. She was shaken by the picture of herself which Daniel had given her. It was so hard and unfeminine, so very unattractive. Why should one care so much about being feminine? she asked defiantly. But it was no use being defiant, that merely proved how much she cared. The attempt to resolve the problem ended in angry tears.
Chapter Seven
A few days before Christmas, Daniel was notified of his new posting.
The letter arrived at the very moment when Erica was beginning to feel tried beyond her strength. ‘One more day and something would have snapped,’ she confided to Dorothy. ‘I was getting to the stage where I was afraid to speak for fear of starting an argument.’ The affair of the morning-room furniture still rankled. She had commented before breakfast one morning on the fact that the armchairs needed to be re-covered; it was one of those remarks one makes as one plumps up cushions and she had not expected a reply. Daniel took the remark seriously. He gazed unbelievingly at the upholstery and then bent down to examine it more closely.
‘What is wrong with it?’ he asked, probing it with his fingers as though it must be suffering from a disease not evident to the naked eye.
‘The colours are faded,’ Erica said shortly.
‘But the material is in perfectly good condition.’
‘But the colours are faded!’
He looked at her angrily. ‘It would be a wicked waste of money!’ Erica went bright scarlet and he reacted much as he would to a traffic signal, jamming on the brakes and grinding out a reluctant, ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken so vehemently. We won’t speak of it again.’
Erica, who had been softened by his apology, did not realise until he had taken himself out of the room that not only had he not rescinded his disapproval, but he had forbidden the reopening of negotiations. Dorothy, who was laying the table, murmured, ‘Don’t go after him. Erica. Let it lie for a while.’
‘I’m not going to be ordered about like that, over a perfectly reasonable . . .’
‘It isn’t reasonable to him. Try to see it from his point of view, Erica. He has been living very simply over the last twelve years and to him we seem to be wallowing in luxury. He is genuinely upset by it.’
Erica stared at her, more aggrieved at receiving advice on such a matter from her sister than by Daniel’s outburst. ‘Are you by any chance explaining my husband to me?’
Dorothy shrugged her shoulders and turned away. ‘Just trying to keep the peace, that’s all.’
Erica, who saw herself as the eternal peacemaker, the enduring earth-mother on whom all the family depended, was as outraged as if Dorothy had committed adultery with her husband, indeed, she could have borne this more easily. She was suddenly engulfed by one of the rages which swept over her without warning. These rages were rare, but violent; she had been known to break plates and on one unforgettable occasion had emptied the contents of a casserole on the dining-room floor. The rages were a source of fear to her children who could never discover what sparked them off. They also frightened Dorothy to whom they were evidence of extreme pressure. She remained quiet while Erica shouted, ‘I don’t want to hear any more talk like that from you!’ Her face was white as salt. ‘That is one thing I will not stand. So let that be understood here and now!’ She hurled the breadboard on to the floor and went out of the room.
It was shortly after this that Daniel was notified that he was to join the staff of the research unit at Brocklehurst in Hampshire. Daniel was elated. ‘I was beginning to think the Department had no further use for microbiologists,’ he confessed. To Erica, it was the most wonderful of Christmas gifts. Only Dorothy had misgivings.
‘Does Daniel know about Brocklehurst?’ she asked Erica.
‘Of course he knows,’ Erica said sharply. ‘Scientific information is disseminated all over the world.’ She had gathered this much from Daniel.
‘Scientific information, yes. But all the local rumpus?’
‘That was ages ago, before that treaty about bacteriological warfare was signed. They are probably doing something entirely different by now.’
‘Not in that short space of time.’ Dorothy was aware that the wheels of government departments, even though they may not grind fine, grind exceeding slow.
‘Dorothy, you are not going to say anything to him?’
‘Of course not. But what about Giles? Think of all the campaigning he did about Brocklehurst!’
Erica had been thinking about it and she had already told Giles that he must not say anything which was likely to upset his father.
Giles obeyed her instructions for a variety of reasons, not one of which would have commended itself to Erica. Giles wanted his father to have the experience of Brocklehurst; he had an idea that his father would not enjoy it and Giles had a strong desire for his father to suffer. He was very attached to his mother. Perhaps if he had been an only child, he might occasionally have examined the position from his father’s point of view; but he had a sister who did this with such vigour that he was driven permanently into his mother’s camp. He was much less strong-willed than Emma and ever since childhood he had allowed his mother to fracture all his small projects with her well-meaning interventions and advice, splintering his thoughts and jumbling up the splinters in her loving, misunderstanding way. While Emma shouted at her mother, ‘Leave me alone! I hate you always on at me!’ Giles capitulated. He admired his mother for her jollity and physical strength and allowed her to dominate him. He was grateful to her and put all his failures down to his father’s desertion of the family. He had many rows with Emma over this. ‘Who deserted who, for goodness sake!’ she would shout. ‘Mother took us away from Africa, didn’t she?’
‘Mother thought of our schooling,’ Giles answered.
‘I was infant-school age when she decided it would be better for me to live in England! You weren’t much older.’
Emma could never forgive her mother for taking them away from Africa and from an early age she had behaved like an exile. She wrote regularly to her father and he replied as regularly. She insisted that all book tokens should be exchanged for books about Africa and her room was papered with A
frican landscapes. Giles accepted his mother’s assertion that Africa was not a suitable place in which to bring up children. He rather liked assertions, they made him feel secure; but in spite of this, as he grew older he became angrier and more discontented with life, and since he needed an image on which to concentrate his bitterness, he blamed more and more on his father.
So, when the Brocklehurst appointment was made known, Giles sat back and waited events. Emma said little because she had no intention of precipitating a debate which would be monopolised by her brother. Brocklehurst was Giles’s thing: Emma kept quiet about it.
‘This is going to be a very happy Christmas,’ Erica said to her mother. ‘The first time for years we have all been together.’ Her joy was heightened by the knowledge that after Christmas Daniel would depart for Hampshire and would only come home at week¬ends. ‘It really seems to be meant,’ she said.
