by MARY HOCKING
‘But it’s traffic they’re talking about, you must know!’ she insisted.
‘They take the decisions, we just have to make the best of whatever system is devised.’
‘They’re going to oppose the scheme for the by-pass, aren’t they? That’s what they’re telling people in there, isn’t it?’
Again, there was that little ripple all round Dorothy, ‘they’re going to turn down the scheme for the by-pass,’ ‘the scheme for the by-pass has been turned down’.
‘There’s always a one-way system,’ the inspector said unwarily. ‘That would keep the traffic flowing.’
‘We don’t want it to flow!’ Dorothy told him. This time there were waves rather than ripples in her wake.
‘We want it to go so slow it bloody well can’t move at all!’
‘Get it out of the town!’
‘Never get the motorist to accept that,’ the inspector opined.
‘A one-way system is devised for the convenience of motorists passing through a town,’ the elderly man with the umbrella pronounced.
‘And councillors who own shops in the main streets!’
Dorothy, feeling something more emotive was required, shouted, ‘But what about the people who live here? What about us?’
‘A lot the council cares about the people who live here!’
‘If they go for a one-way system, Arundel Road will become a race track.’
‘. . . continental lorries stuck in St. Peters’ Passage . . .’
‘They’ll widen the bridge over the canal to take heavy traffic.’ ‘Encouraging it into the town!’
Dorothy shouted, ‘We want a by-pass!’ They began to shout, ‘We want a by-pass! We want a by-pass!’ After some minutes of this, the town clerk appeared at the door.
‘The scheme for the by-pass has been prepared by the Department of the Environment,’ he said in an admonishing tone as though this was a fact which should fill the crowd with shame at its unruliness. A section of the crowd invited him to tell them something they did not know.
‘Your council’ (jeers and laughter) ‘has called this meeting for the express purpose of gaining your reactions . . .’ His voice was drowned by cries of ‘let them come out here and get them, then!’ The clerk waited impassively for the interruptions to die down and then went on, ‘Your council is so anxious to have your reactions, that a further meeting will be held which you will have an opportunity to attend.’ He looked down at the crowd over the rims of his glasses, like a priest waiting for expressions of regret from a penitent.
‘And no decision will be taken until after that meeting?’ Dorothy asked.
The town clerk pressed his lips together as one tried almost beyond endurance. The crowd chanted, ‘Answer! Answer! Why don’t you answer?’
He said, ‘I am here to tell you . . .’
‘Answer the question!’
‘You can put any questions you wish to the chairman of the highways committee at that meeting . . .’
‘What’s the use of putting questions if the council has already made up its mind?’ Dorothy asked.
‘I did not say . . .’
The crowd began to chant, ‘Answer! Answer!’
Dorothy was delighted to witness the discomfort of the town clerk. He stood for authority. She disliked authority very much: authority was pompous, cravenly fearful of criticism, blind to the rights of the individual, tyrannically lusting after power . . . Dorothy found herself lusting after violence. Had the town clerk shown any sign of withstanding the just demands of the citizenry, Yeominster might have been treated to the spectacle of one of its health visitors physically assaulting the town clerk on the steps of the town hall. But the clerk, who was aware of the danger of councillors being seen to disregard the views of the electorate, as distinct from doing so discreetly at confidential meetings, finally committed himself to an exasperated statement that ‘naturally no decision will be taken before that meeting’. Dorothy, baulked of physical violence, nevertheless felt considerably elated when she returned to her car.
Before she rounded the corner into Eastgate and found herself in that crowd, she had had no strong feelings about the by-pass; and as she drove towards Knocke Hall she still had no strong feelings on the subject. She had simply experienced an overwhelming desire to take charge of events. She garaged the car and hurried into the house. Daniel would be going to Southampton. Erica would probably be up and about, heartened by the news. Everyone would be talking about Daniel’s new job. In return, she would talk about her part in the demonstration: it would account for any unevenness of temper.
She opened the front door. There was no one about. She went upstairs to her mother’s room and peeped in. Old Mrs. Prentice was watching a favourite television programme and pretended not to notice Dorothy. Erica was still in bed; the door of her bedroom was open and the scent of eau-de-Cologne hung heavy as a reproach on the landing. Giles was playing records; he had friends with him and Dorothy heard Emma’s voice and that of another girl.
Dorothy went downstairs and unpacked her shopping basket. Then she filled the electric kettle and plugged it in. She decided to eat in the morning-room. It would be advisable to put on the electric fire, the central heating only gave background warmth. She approached the room warily.
Daniel was in there, asleep, his cheek resting on a cushion he had propped against the wing of the chairback. The muscles of jaw and mouth were relaxed, but a frown drew the brows together and gave to the face an air of stress; the open mouth snatched too hastily for air and expelled it with a harsh grunt, the rib cage strained as though sleep, instead of being a sinking to rest, was a hill to be climbed with increasing effort. Dorothy stood looking at him, dismayed by an emotion which she did not care to define. ‘So you didn’t get the job,’ she thought. She switched on the electric fire, the room was cold; then she went back to the kitchen to make tea. While she was doing this, she concentrated on the practical task of assembling teapot, cups, saucers, milk-jug and sugar bowl. It seemed to be an exercise which demanded considerable clarity of thought and precision of movement. By the time she returned to the morning-room, she appeared to be in command of herself. Daniel heard the jar of crockery and sat up with a start, pushing the cushion on to the floor. His hair stood up spikily on the crown of his head and there was a weal down one cheek where a crease in the cushion had marked his face and given it a battle-scarred look. He rubbed his hands against his eyes and gave a long, shuddering sigh. Dorothy poured tea and handed him a cup.
‘No job?’
He shook his head.
‘Post already filled?’
‘No. I was offered it.’ He told her about it.
She said, ‘You couldn’t possibly have accepted it.’
‘You really think that?’ He looked at her eagerly. Ah, then, she should have been warned how rapid were his powers of recovery! But she went on, speaking warmly:
‘Of course I do! What would be the point in resigning from Brocklehurst and then taking a job with an outfit like that?’
‘You make it sound so logical,’ he said in a tone which, in any other man, might have been described as wistful.
‘But you must have worked it out logically,’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘I’ve lost myself.’ And, for a moment, he did contrive something of the disorientated terror of the lost dog as he looked round the room. It was too much.
‘Oh, Daniel! Daniel! You mustn’t despair. Not you!’ she cried in anguish. It wasn’t fair, didn’t he understand? Didn’t he know it wasn’t wise so to touch the spring of tenderness? Who knew what might come of that? But it was too late for conjecture. She was in his arms and there was no despair there.
How untrustworthy men are, she thought as she lay in bed unable, and indeed disinclined, to sleep; how ill they reward one for the slightest gesture of concern, no predator is quicker to pounce at the first hint of weakness. At one moment, he had seemed to be falling apart, and then it was as though all the for
ces within him had united in a formidable power concentrated upon her. She trembled at the memory of it and moved restlessly in the narrow bed. How treacherous he was, how false! She gazed out of the window at the stars pricking the dark sky and said, ‘This must not go any further.’ The words were part of a ridiculous convention and carried no meaning for her. She had made a great discovery. ‘I have an immortal soul which Daniel could not see under the microscope, which cannot be tested by repeated experiment, of which no model can be constructed and whose properties are not known, but I feel it, and it is treacherous and false and very, very strong!’ She stretched her arms above her head and moaned exultantly, ‘I must fight this.’
Chapter Twelve
‘The town clerk was very concerned that a member of staff should have taken part in the demonstration.’ The establishment officer adjusted his glasses more securely on his nose and sniffed. ‘An active part, I gather.’
Dorothy said, ‘Yes, I can see he would be concerned.’
‘You are usually so self-controlled,’ the establishment officer said uneasily.
‘I’ve been self-controlled for a long time,’ Dorothy said. ‘It’s become an effort.’ In fact, it had reached a stage where the effort was more apparent than anything else. People were becoming rather frightened of her. The establishment officer, for example, was dealing with her as though she had ‘handle with care’ branded on her brow.
‘I hope this won’t happen again,’ he said.
‘I don’t think the opportunity is likely to arise again, do you?’ She must stop trying to control herself, she thought when she returned to her room. It would be interesting to see what happened. An explosion? Perhaps she would lose her job. Well, that might be no bad thing; she had served the community so long she would soon be doing it and herself a disservice. The telephone rang. She picked up the receiver, listened, and said, ‘No, she isn’t here and I can’t take a message. I’m in the middle of something very important.’
In the middle of Dorothy Prentice, in fact. She snatched up her handbag and went out. She walked through the town thinking about Dorothy Prentice. One should not be concerned with self. She had lived by this principle for years and self was now crying out for a little concern. She yielded to its plea for the rest of the morning.
Her meditation failed to produce a better frame of mind. She was increasingly aggressive with Erica.
‘You must pull yourself together!’ she said angrily when Erica announced her intention of staying in bed the next day. ‘This has been going on for over ten days now. If you can’t snap out of it, you must see the doctor.’
‘There is nothing he can do.’
‘But you have your family to think about. You can’t leave everything to me. I’m busy. I can’t cope indefinitely with your affairs as well as my own.’
‘Everything goes on all right without me,’ Erica said drearily.
‘What about Daniel? Things are going badly for him. He’s your husband. You have a responsibility to him.’
She wanted Erica up on her feet, fighting. Erica preferred to cling to the ropes; she said, ‘I wish Daniel was dead – or I was dead; it doesn’t matter which.’
‘Don’t be so melodramatic’
This was no way to handle Erica. The more vehement Dorothy’s protests, the wilder Erica’s statements became.
It was Harry who inadvertently succeeded in rousing Erica. He had deliberately stayed away from Knocke Hall because he did not wish to intrude at an awkward time; caution played as large a part as delicacy of feeling in this withdrawal. Events had moved too rapidly lately and he had felt himself in danger of being drawn inexorably into the Kerrs’ affairs. He did not like the inevitable, one should always have a choice. It happened, however, that he needed an up-to-date list of the members of the conservation society and he called to obtain this one morning on his way from visiting a client. Erica was alone in the house. This was something for which she longed whenever people were about; but as soon as they had gone out, she felt frightened and deserted. She had been thinking about putting her head in the gas oven, and visualising the devastating effect this would have on her family when Harry knocked at the door. When she opened the door and saw him standing there, pleasantly smiling in the winter sunlight, she knew this was something that was ‘meant’.
‘This is so kind of you,’ she said when they were seated in the drawing-room.
She was pale, heavy-eyed and obviously in need of sympathy. As he was not quite sure at exactly what point sympathy should be applied, he asked, ‘How are things?’ This was much too comprehensive an inquiry. Erica needed someone to lead her item by item through her miseries; her tired mind could not cope with the amorphous mass of worry. She burst into tears.
Harry was not without experience of weeping women. On more than one occasion women clients had discovered, looking into his gentle brown eyes, that the moment had come to unburden themselves of their troubles. He came and sat on the sofa, took Erica’s hand in one of his, and patted it with the other. He had found that more was seldom required and that thereafter the patient tended to cure herself When Erica had cried herself to a standstill, she whispered, ‘I feel much better now,’ and he gave her his handkerchief.
‘This must be a trying time for you,’ he hazarded.
‘I can’t cope with it.’ She looked at him, pitifully perplexed by an inadequacy so uncharacteristic of her that it was barely credible.
‘That’s hardly surprising. You’ve had rather a lot to cope with lately, haven’t you?’
This simple statement did more to restore Erica than any number of bracing injunctions to pull herself together. She gave Harry the first smile she had ventured for a long time. He put an arm lightly round her shoulders and said, ‘Poor old lady!’
‘Oh Harry!’ She was tremendously grateful for these few words of affectionate sympathy; they solved nothing and yet she felt as though a load had been lifted from her.
‘What is the thing you find most difficult?’ he asked.
‘Having Daniel at home . . . it isn’t as if I know when he will be in and when not . . . I can’t . . .’ She was never safe from his disturbing presence, but she could not bring herself to say that. ‘I can’t organise myself.’
‘Would it help if he had a temporary job?’
‘Yes, I think that would help.’
‘It would give you both a breathing space, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes. That’s what I need—a breathing space.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘You’re very good to me.’
Harry stroked her upper arm. After a moment, he asked, ‘Have you thought about the future?’
‘The future?’
‘I was wondering whether you planned to stay in Yeominster?’
‘Of course I plan to stay in Yeominster.’ She looked rather affronted. It was plain she had not yet reached a stage where she could make any decisions about her marriage.
Harry looked at her thoughtfully, wondering whether he should kiss her. Her face was blotched with tears and emotion had brought up an unbecoming cluster of pimples on her right cheek. He said, ‘I’ll see about the job, at any rate.’ He was not sure that he was prepared to undertake anything more. Certainly, he needed to think quietly before it was too late. He liked the irrevocable even less than the inevitable.
Erica, however, now felt assured of her future. She would marry Harry. Quite how this was to be achieved, she was not sure, but she assumed he would work out the details. She realised, however, that there was a long, dark night ahead which she must somehow get through before she could emerge into the radiant new life that awaited her. She was not sure she could manage without help. She thought about the vicar, but he would tell her to pray. Of course, she did pray; she talked to God more or less all day, whether she was making the beds, rolling out the pastry, collecting meals or taking notes at meetings, she was in constant communication with Him. But in this instance, prayer was not really eff
ective because there was the problem of divorce from which her mind skidded away. She dismissed the idea of going to the doctor. There was nothing physically wrong with her and she resented the thought that he might put her on drugs, as though she was a neurotic. Then the answer came to her one evening, quite suddenly, while she was ironing one of Giles’s shirts. She was taken aback by the audacity of it; at first, she dismissed it, but she returned to it later that night, and by the following morning it seemed to have taken root. She would go to a psychiatrist! ‘I am ready for this,’ she told herself. ‘This is my moment.’ She made arrangements to see a man who had once lectured at the young wives’ group and whose personality had seemed to her to be particularly sympathetic. She was very excited. Psychiatry had become a part of twentieth-century life, it was a service of which the intelligent modern woman should avail herself. The thought that her own particular exploration was about to start had a liberating effect on her. All the things she wanted to tell the psychiatrist began to bubble to the surface of her mind, she could hardly contain them. She waited with mounting impatience for the first appointment.
Now that vigour was restored to her, she began once more to take an active part in the affairs of those around her. Emma was studying too hard; Giles had a ridiculous notion that he wanted to leave Mansfield and go to the technical college; old Mrs. Prentice was launched on one of her periodic obsessions with lost treasure - this time an old snapshot album for which she searched incessantly, rummaging in drawers, turning out cupboards and suitcases. Erica darted in and out of all this like a terrier snapping at a ball. She was particularly concerned about Dorothy’s attitude to Daniel.
‘I know you don’t like him,’ she said. ‘But you ought to control it a little more. Whenever he comes into a room, you become a different person. You probably aren’t aware of it yourself, that’s why I’m telling you about it. You become nervy and restless, and I notice you have a bad effect on him. I thought you were terribly rude to each other at lunch, over nothing at all; just out of the blue there was an explosion between you.’
