She said the house, or rather cottage, was in a little backwater off George Street and had belonged to an elderly couple who had died. The son had told her there were a few antiques she might be interested in. He mentioned a small collection of glass paperweights, china 1920 pierrots, Rockingham poodles, ships and birds in glass cases. Not wildly interesting, but worth seeing.
My car was being serviced, so I made the journey by train. Everything looked the same: the depot of derelict buses on the right as the train drew in; the bookstall and flower shop on my left as I was leaving the station; the pet shop and the shop we used to call ‘the useful shop’, with a wonderful display of brass handles, knockers and knobs of all kinds. I soon came to the cottage I was looking for, one of a row with tiny gardens in front, and the bereaved son waiting outside with the door open behind him. My business with him was soon settled. I bought everything he offered, including some theatre tinsels of Victorian actors in their original frames, which I knew Mary would be pleased with, and he agreed to deliver them to her flat that evening. The furniture was already sold to a house clearer. It was particularly ugly Edwardian and had an unpleasant smell.
When I left the cottage the spring sun was shining and instead of turning back to the station I made my way towards Richmond Hill, glancing every now and then in the windows of once-familiar shops. Dickens and Jones were already displaying summer dresses, but at that moment clothes did not interest me because I was six months pregnant and growing larger every day. I left George Street and found I was being drawn towards the quieter streets at the back and then up the hill towards the old Forbes house, the place where I had felt so much I’d almost been burnt away, the place that had made me and nearly ruined me. As I stood outside, I could almost feel Gertrude’s presence and see her beautiful, brave figure bending over the flowers. The carved bear still guarded the house. It seemed as if he recognized me with his cold stone eyes.
I felt a strong compulsion to see the back of the house, the wild garden and the thicket. In spite of all it brought back to me I could not resist the desire to revisit the thicket where Gertrude and I used to sit, and look again at the tree where the magpies had built their nest and used to watch us from above as they chattered, and at the juniper tree whose fruit Gertrude used to eat with such abandon and, finally, at the place where those things I would like to forget occurred.
I slowly walked down a side road where there used to be an iron gate leading into the far end of the garden. The gate was still there, but when I looked in, that part of the garden had disappeared. In its place stood a tall block of flats built in Victoria plum-coloured bricks and with a horribly permanent look. The entire spinney had been built over and only the formal part of the garden remained, though it was not so badly overlooked as it might have been because the windows facing it were small ones, lavatory windows perhaps.
The new owners of the house must have sold over half of the ground it was standing on. I wondered what kind of people they were and returned to have one more look at the unchanged front of the house. As I stopped outside the wrought-iron gates, the front door opened and a plump dark woman came out, followed by two handsome little boys. They looked like Arabs to me and were excitedly talking in a foreign language. The mother did not speak at all but gracefully scattered small pieces of bread from a brass bowl for the chirping sparrows that immediately appeared. The boys ran to the old bear; the largest one rode on its back and the little one fed him with crumbs intended for the birds. I was glad to see children living in the house again.
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We, The Accused Jun-09
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These Charming People Feb-10
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Wuthering Heights Apr-10
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When I was Otherwise May-11
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The Juniper Tree Page 19
