by MARY HOCKING
Before I left The Lanes, I bought the medallion. It looked well on my dress so I wore it; but the feel of it round my neck chafed my spirit. I couldn’t be sure whether this was due to guilt at having enjoyed my escape or resentment at having to return. Certainly, I was reluctant to return, because I found another excuse for delay. There was an attractive double bill at the cinema, ‘The Knack’ and ‘The Virgin Soldiers’. I went to the cinema.
It was eight-thirty when I came out. I would not be back in Stanford until after nine. Even so, I drove slowly. It was a dark night. How dark, I only realized when I turned into the lane that led down to the village. There were lights in the cottages and in several of the big houses: not much to venture out for on a late autumn evening. As there was no garage space for my car at Baileys I usually parked farther down the lane, outside the church. I switched on the long beam and the light showed a bakery van; it was not very well-parked and I cursed the driver as I edged past it. There was a stretch of rough grass which served as a car park outside the churchyard gate and here I turned the car. It was very quiet when I switched off the engine.
It occurred to me as I got out of the car that I had not been in the church since I arrived. This was another delaying tactic, of course; I was anxious to prolong my day of freedom. The hinges of the old wooden gate creaked as I opened it; this alone should have warned me of the absurdity of sight-seeing at such an hour. The gate was not well-maintained, neither was anything that lay beyond it; church services were held here once a fortnight and during the interim there was little use made of the building. Church and surrounding graveyard had a rather neglected aspect in daylight; at night, a sense of desolation misted up from the long grass and the damp, broken paving stones. I shuffled along the path, telling myself that I was a complete fool and should see nothing when I got inside; but that delaying impulse drove me on, abetted now by a romantic desire to stand alone at night in this old building, perhaps to conjure up in my imagination a few ghosts from its very long past. As I came near the porch, I noticed a dim light in what must be the Lady-chapel. A lamp left burning? It seemed unlikely. I entered the porch and tried the handle of the door, it was stiff and heavy. I pushed and twisted, but the door did not open. I stepped back and looked up; the light had gone. A tramp perhaps? A cool breeze eddied between the gravestones and flicked away my enthusiasm. I started down the path. Just ahead, to my left, there was a yew tree. I could only dimly make it out, but it seemed to me that there was something wrong with it, the trunk was too thick at the base. I tried to quicken my pace and nearly missed my footing. Ahead there was the squelch of feet treading down wet grass. We met head on.
This is my only encounter with violence, and I remember so little of it that it seems strangely undramatic. Coming to was the most unpleasant thing of all. I remember hands; so many hands, hands that jerked and heaved, pulled and fumbled, and finally hands that were kinder and more sure of their purpose. There was a voice that went on saying, ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear …’ I was still saying ‘oh dear’ when I opened my eyes. Owen Lander was sitting beside me with a fuzz of people behind him. He said, ‘You’re all right now, you’re quite safe.’ I opened my mouth and made a noise like the cawing of a rook, my throat hurt abominably. A glass of water came as though by magic from someone outside my dim range of vision. After that, I drifted off again.
Time passed, people came and went. Voices. Mr. Routh, very emotional, telling Saul that he was a good dog as though Saul had qualified for a canine Victoria Cross. Constance: ‘I don’t know why you should be in extremis; if it had been left to you there would have been no news of the battle of Marathon!’ Margaret talking of bestiality: was she back with the little yellow god? She sounded very intense. Mrs. Routh said, ‘Darling, don’t upset yourself so. Some poor old tramp …’ Later, a man wanted to ask me questions; Owen Lander said that I could not answer questions. Margaret said that none of her family would accept reality.
Later still, I went to bed. I don’t remember much about it except that I insisted on undressing myself and by the time I had my tights off I was ready for death. When I was in bed, Mrs. Routh asked Dr. Lander if there was anything she could get me. They talked for a moment or two and she said, ‘Yes, I’ll see to that.’ At the door, she turned for a last word with him.
‘It was a great mistake to invite her here in the first place. It might have been her death.’
He came and sat beside me; something had happened to his face which I found disturbing. I took his hand. It seemed an odd reversal of the doctor/patient relationship, me lying in bed holding his hand. No doubt we readjusted ourselves; I don’t remember any more because I fell asleep.
Chapter Seven
Rain beyond the window, slow, gentle, inexorable country rain falling on sodden earth. I opened my eyes once. Constance was sitting in a chair by the window reading, a mass of dark, dishevelled hair shielding her face; there was some grey light but the window was steamed over and it was difficult to tell what time it was. I slept again. I had the feeling of being a child, sick, time going by while people came and went, myself no part of the activity, sealed off from the world and its unpleasantness. It was my mother reading by the window; I had not felt her presence so strongly for years, not disturbing and elusive as when I tried to recreate her for myself, but warm and comforting.
Constance and Mrs. Routh must have taken it in turns to sit by me. In the early morning, Mrs. Routh was on duty. She moved to the window, very softly, and opened it. The rain had stopped and a smell of wet earth mingled with the freshness of the morning. I felt much better, and turned my head to speak to her. She was leaning against the window wall, her eyes half-closed; a breeze played across her face and lightly parted her hair. Her features were slack, the mouth a little open, the jaw muscles loose. The light was not kind to her; she looked desperately tired, as though not only her body but her soul ached with weariness. I had always imagined her at her sharpest at this hour, full of energy stored to meet the needs of the day. Now I saw that the day was a grim challenge to her resources. She was not young any more and there were limits even to her strength. And perhaps there was something else, too? She moved her head from side to side as though that gentle breeze stung her face. I felt that she yearned for something, her clenched hands cried out for it. I felt this very strongly, it was my only moment of identification with Mrs. Routh. I wanted to run to her and put my arms round her and say, ‘Darling, get back to bed, you look so tired. I’ll bring you breakfast in bed.’ But she was not my mother. And even had she been, she would not have liked such a gesture; breakfast in bed was the ultimate self¬indulgence in Mrs. Routh’s view. So I turned over and closed my eyes again.
Dr. Lander came at eleven. It had started to rain again, the windows were blurred. I felt drowsy but rather happy for no very apparent reason. He said that I could get up after lunch. The police were coming to take a statement from me. I was not to worry about it. He looked worried to death himself. He said:
‘I feel responsible for this.’
‘What rubbish!’
‘Nevertheless, I shall insist on calling on you regularly to see how you are—probably hourly. And I shall be present when the police come.’
‘You’re making too much of this.’
He smiled ruefully. ‘Yes, I am aware of that; but you will have to bear with it.’
After he had gone, I lay back against the pillows and listened to the soft sluice of the rain; cocooned and cosseted, I did not much care how hard it rained, in fact it gave me an added sense of comfort and good-fortune to hear it and to know that I was secure from it. Constance had gone down to make a milk drink for me. I was alone. The pillows were soft and the gas fire whined companionably. Life seemed very good. My mind, unimpeded by the usual inhibitions and reservations, journeyed on, warm and comfortable like the rest of me. Dr. Lander …
I find Owen Lander most compelling, but I cannot tell why. He is not a good-looking man and he is not particularly distinguished, either. He ma
y have been to public school but if so it has not set its seal on him, he is not important in the way that ‘top’ men are important, he has no gravel-faced air of authority, there is nothing in his bearing to suggest that he is used to command. He is short and slight; he has a wry, intelligent face, bony, and dominated by a rather too-large nose. No one would say that he was equipped with all the social graces. In fact, I have noticed that when not in his surgery, or actually giving medical advice, there is a slight air of uncertainty about him; he is not a good mixer. But these are negative things and he is far from negative. He has some kind of energy which draws people to him; when he comes into a room I feel that we have all been sleeping before he arrived. He is a sharp observer, interested not in the small change of life but in what lies beneath it. His mind is restless, probing, unsatisfied without being dissatisfied. He is not a sophisticate; in fact, I suspect that his enthusiasms are raw and sometimes naive and his taste not always discriminating. Amazing how much I know about him.
Often lately I have found when he is present that I meet his eyes across a room and I am excited, even if we never speak. This, of course, is bad for me. He is a natural magnet and there is nothing personal in this as far as he is concerned; I am simply a new factor in the Routh household and therefore of passing concern to him. He has a feeling of responsibility for me because he was indirectly responsible for my stay here.
I was still numbering off my reasons why my interest in Owen Lander was bad for me, when Constance arrived with my milk drink. Constance showed no sign of weariness, her face was flushed from leaning over the stove but her eyes were clear and seemed to draw all the light into them.
‘You look remarkably fit!’ she said. ‘What do you mean by it, upsetting us all like that?’
‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘Who found me?’ I laced my fingers round the hot glass and waited, it was like hearing the details of an adventure in which I was not involved. She sat on the edge of the bed, laughing as though the incident was farce instead of near¬tragedy. And, indeed, her rendering of it was certainly amusing.
‘It was Saul who gave the alarm. He was out on his lawful occasions, not expecting anything more interesting than a good scent here and there, possibly a rabbit or two, and all of a sudden there was this marvellous fracas going on in the churchyard. He hurtled into it joyously. Timothy happened to be out and thought that the noise was a bit excessive even for Saul. The man was already in retreat when Timothy arrived, so Timothy gave chase. Ineffectively. He is not fleet of foot, my brother. He only stood the pace for the length of one field and came back so winded he couldn’t draw breath without pain for the rest of the evening! The man, of course, got clean away. In the meantime, Saul stood guard over your inert body, bit one of the churchwardens, and kept all would-be rescuers at bay until Daddy and I arrived. He really had a ball! A man from the Sussex Express has been up to take his photograph. Daddy is convinced that he acted as the faithful friend defending the interests of his loved ones, and that he is now pining to reassure himself that all is well with you. He keeps saying to him. “Poor old chap, he’s worried about Pug,” and Saul puts his ears back and shivers as he always does when anyone tells him he’s a poor old chap. He will probably be brought in to have a sniff at you later in the morning.’
‘I’m more than grateful to him,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think I mean all that much to him.’
Saul himself demonstrated the truth of this when Mr. Routh brought him up later. He did put his front paws on the bed and peer shortsightedly, but when he recognized me he immediately lost interest. Nevertheless, I made a great fuss of him and he had no objection to this. Mr. Routh and I got on splendidly while Saul kept us company, but when he departed conversation dwindled. I suspect Mrs. Routh had told him not to make a great drama of the incident and he was at a loss as to what to say.
‘We have friends coming to lunch,’ he told me. ‘Most awkward, we couldn’t put them off at such short notice.’
‘Why should you?’ I said. ‘I’m perfectly all right now.’
‘Would you prefer to have lunch in your room?’
‘No. I’ll join you.’
‘I’m so glad. You’ll like them. They’re dear people.’
In fact, I disliked them on sight. They were young, she was not much older than I. She had taken an Arts degree at Sussex and was now studying Philosophy, which seemed superfluous as her manner indicated that there was very little that she did not know already. She expressed her views with great determination and either rejected those of others with a flat ‘I don’t agree’ or accepted them with an impatient ‘Well, of course …’ Her husband was a lecturer but I never discovered his subject.
The rain had stopped and the sitting-room window was open so that their little boy could play on the grass. It was a good thing to have plenty of air. They smelt high. She wore her hair jagged just below her ears; it had not been washed for a long time and bits of scurf flecked the already soiled navy blue blazer which she wore over an equally soiled grey skirt. Some people are naturally scruffy while others give a bit of thought to it. She had given thought to it. In fact, the whole family had given thought to it, it was part of their way of life. Their casual unconcern, their air of superiority, proclaimed it. Her husband, a thin man with a pale face hiding behind hair as stringy as a willow in winter, was discussing violence when I came into the sitting-room. Everyone was listening with respect except Dr. Ahmed who was watching the child at play. My advent cut short the discourse. I could see that I was an embarrassment to them all.
‘Are you better?’ the young woman asked me, rather tentatively as though I had done something in bad taste of which I might not like to be reminded.
‘Yes, thank you.’
Conversation lapsed. Mrs. Routh said, ‘I’m afraid the police are coming this afternoon, Pug. They were very insistent.’
The young woman said, ‘They would be, of course.’ She and Mrs. Routh exchanged glances of amused contempt,
I said, ‘I don’t remember much about it. I’m afraid I shan’t be able to help them.’
‘That isn’t going to worry you, is it?’ the lecturer murmured.
‘We really had quite a performance with them,’ Mrs. Routh told the young woman. ‘The village was swarming with policemen last night.’
Constance said merrily, ‘There was a senior man from Brighton, face like a stone wall with matching eyes, you know the type.’
The lecturer said, ‘I do indeed!’ and scratched the fuzz of tawny hairs on his chest. ‘And what was all this in aid of? Some poor old tramp who was relieving himself in the graveyard and reacted strongly to being so rudely interrupted.’
‘They even took dogs, believe it or not, and tramped across the fields.’ Mrs. Routh gave a grim laugh. ‘The only thing they disturbed was the livestock. The farm folk are furious.’
‘Ah, passions run deep in rural Sussex!’ the lecturer produced an Archer-type dialect.
‘I don’t think it was a tramp,’ I said.
They all looked at me. The young woman flicked her eyes quickly up and down from the top of my head to the soles of my feet.
Mr. Routh said anxiously, ‘Are you sure, Pug? You will have to be very careful what you say, my dear.’
‘Yes, Pug, do be careful!’ Margaret suddenly erupted into the conversation. ‘It’s bad enough that you disturbed a poor old tramp, but it would be unthinkable if you actually gave a clue to the identity of your attacker!’
Mrs. Routh, the lecturer and his wife, knew exactly how to deal with this kind of outburst, they behaved as though it had not happened. But Mr. Routh would never learn this particular lesson, he was deeply disturbed.
‘Flora, my dear …’ He made a groping gesture towards me with one hand. ‘Forgive us! We wouldn’t have had this happen to you for the world. I hope you don’t think we are insensitive to the injury done you.’
‘We just don’t want anyone to be punished for it!’ Margaret’s eyes blazed in an intent
white face. ‘We don’t like punishment and it is very embarrassing for us to be caught up in the mechanism of police pursuit.’
Mr. Routh winced. ‘My dear …’
‘That’s what you mean, Daddy! Why don’t you say it? Pug would understand. We don’t bear her any malice, do we? We’ve got so many principles lying around in this house someone is bound to tumble over one of them occasionally.’
‘Flora is much too sensible to think anything so silly,’ Mrs. Routh said quietly.
Dr. Ahmed leant forward. ‘But I would like this man to be caught. Otherwise he may injure someone else. Besides, he has done wrong and should be punished. Is this not so?’ He was very polite about it, but his eyes, usually so dark and melancholy, were sharp with anger. He was not a part of the permissive society, he had no understanding of it or liking for it. Mr. Routh stared at him unhappily. The lecturer, however, was one ahead of Mr. Routh when it came to the treatment of aliens; he was as contemptuous of them as he would have been of a fellow Englishman whose views did not accord with his own.
‘Rasim, you come from a country that is still living in biblical times. It makes for simple judgements.’
‘What would you do with this man, then?’ Dr. Ahmed asked.
‘My dear Rasim!’ the girl laughed. ‘With all your knowledge of psychology, you can ask that!’
‘But you obviously know something that I do not know,’ he pressed.
‘But Rasim,’ Mrs. Routh intervened gently. ‘One must find out the reasons why people do this kind of thing, surely?’
‘Surely,’ he nodded impatiently, not much liking her tone. ‘But in order to treat them, one must first of all catch them.’
‘But not with the idea of punishing them. That is so negative.’
‘I do not think punishment is negative. It may not always be desirable, but I would not say that it is negative.’
‘I would have said that it was society’s way of revenging itself on those who refuse to conform to its conventions.’ She was very gentle with him still.
