by MARY HOCKING
‘You are spending much too much of your time analysing your situation. I will have a word with your mother tomorrow and explain that there is no question of your taking up any kind of research work at the present time. So you can forget about that. But what about starting a secretarial course? It will give you something to do, other than think about yourself. I can’t pretend to much religious knowledge, but I never heard that so much self¬contemplation was supposed to be a good thing.’
She acknowledged this with a faint smile. The smile was not reassuring. It reminded me of my mother’s smile when she was ill; it was the smile of a person who knows herself to be incurable, but who realizes that an effort must be made to preserve the appearance of hope for the sake of those about them.
‘I’ll think about that,’ she said.
She insisted on going back by herself.
‘She remembered!’ I said to Owen. It seemed to me that this must have been happening gradually throughout the day and that her earlier talk about the woman from Khatmandu had been the first faint stirring of memory. Owen put it rather differently.
‘Oh, she remembers all right.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘But she won’t surrender her memories until circumstances force her to do so. We have that fool of a lecturer to thank for today’s disclosures.’
‘Will it make a great difference to her?’
‘It may give her some temporary relief to have talked about it. But what she really needs is to get away from her family. And yet, I don’t know… .’ He stood by the desk, his hands resting on the edge, the thin, over-active fingers still. All the anger had gone from him. ‘I dare not press too hard. If she left her family … who knows? One might be left with half a person. We talk so much nonsense about the family nowadays, as though it had lost its meaning. Yet the ties are very strong. My parents were killed in a car crash five years ago; I hadn’t thought we were very close, yet I think of them more as time goes by, not less. It would be too much of a risk to tamper with Margaret’s feelings about her parents, and it’s not as though I’m all that sure what is wrong with her. There’s something that worries away at her mind that I can’t get at.’
‘Owen,’ I said in surprise. ‘You’re always so decisive, so …’
He shook his head. ‘If anyone tells you they know exactly what is wrong with another person, don’t ever believe them. The human psyche is wonderfully deep and complex, it is quite beyond one person to comprehend it. The most one can hope for is that one may make a suggestion here and there that will open a door, or avert a landslide. There are no cures. We are what we are.’
This was so different from the man who argued with Mrs. Routh with such assurance that I could hardly believe it was the same person. Perhaps he read my thoughts, he went on:
‘I wish I could talk to Mrs. Routh about Margaret. But Mrs. Routh doesn’t discuss, she makes judgements, and in no time at all you are forced into making equally definite statements. If only one could talk quietly it would be so much easier. But she is on the defensive the whole time.’
‘I sometimes think we are talking about two quite different families,’ I said. ‘You see them in a way that I have never seen them.’
‘I haven’t your charity.’
‘What nonsense! Mrs. Routh has been very rude to you and you bear it remarkably well.’
‘I was rude to people when my wife was ill. And goodness knows, Mrs. Routh has her cross to bear.’
‘You said that we should all be grateful to Margaret!’
‘I wasn’t thinking of Margaret.’ He looked at me, and seeing no understanding in my face, said, ‘Well, never mind about that. We’ve exhausted the Routh family anyway.’
‘Except for Timothy.’
‘Oh, Timothy. As a child Timothy was overawed by a father he could never hope to live up to and frightened by his mother’s needle-sharp perceptiveness.’
‘Owen, really!’ I protested. ‘That is going too far. You don’t know Timothy or you couldn’t talk like that about him. Timothy was everyone’s darling… .’
‘He had to be. He was so desperately unsure that he had to keep convincing himself that he was liked. Father applauded it, and Mother saw through it; Timothy was torn apart, no real person had a chance to develop.’ He saw the expression on my face and laughed. ‘You’re absolutely right! I know nothing about Timothy; I merely pass on to you the comments made to me by Dr. Stonor, who did know him.’
‘Dr. Stonor!’
‘You are obviously much impressed by Dr. Stonor’s diagnosis, whereas you were quite prepared to dismiss my opinions. I resent that.’
‘But Dr. Stonor was the genial family friend. You didn’t know him well, he …’
‘He had six children of his own. But don’t worry, he didn’t have any strong views about the Routh family; he thought that the girls would turn out splendidly because they had brains and character. It was only Timothy who worried him. Timothy needed a lot of affection and his mother did not give it to him. She was, according to Dr. Stonor, an admirable, well-adjusted woman, full of goodness and sound common sense, but not given to demonstrations of physical affection which Timothy happened to need. I shouldn’t really be saying any of this to you, but a study of your mouth tells me that you are not a gossip and your eyes tell me that any secret would be safe with you.’
We seemed to have dispensed with Timothy rather abruptly. I was still trying to recover myself, when Owen came and sat near me.
‘In fact, you are a very remarkable person altogether.’
I was as short of breath as if he had hit me a blow in the chest instead of paying me a compliment.
‘You have emerged completely untouched from your contacts with the Routh family; and yet they must have brought a strong influence to bear on you as a child. What a formidable little fighter you must have been.’
It was not a very romantic statement, but he made it with such warmth that the blood throbbed in my face.
‘You’re wrong about me,’ I protested. It seemed very important that he should not be deceived. ‘They were all much more definite and assured than me. I haven’t a strong character at all. I need . . .’
He said, watching me very closely, ‘What is it that you need?’
I could not find words, but as it turned out they were not necessary. We had left the Rouths behind and we were back on the far side of those green hills. This time there was no doubt that our feelings were the same.
It was just after five o’clock when I went back to Baileys. The light was fading and it was quiet, the grey hour of the day. There were bats flying beneath a tall elm tree. The few houses and cottages seemed to have drawn closer together; beyond, the fields, rolling away in darkness, gave off the warmth of the day in a thin mist. The wind already had a touch of night, but it was not cold and there would be no frost tonight.
Chapter Nine
I woke in the morning with a bad headache and a severe sense of anticlimax. I had spent the night racked by doubt, or so it seemed on waking, although in fact my agony may have lasted only an hour in the early morning when I was awakened by something, the slamming of a door perhaps, which immediately frightened me, as unexplained events do at that time of the night. It was then I decided that I had started something I could not finish. Owen would tire of me intellectually and he would find me disappointing physically. Then there was the question of his wife. As the wind swept across the fields, finding no barrier until it hit the wall of the house and my bedroom window in particular, my thoughts were full of fear and unreason. Suppose the rumours were true, suppose he had been unkind to his wife, suppose he had driven her to drink … there was no end to my suppositions. He became a monster. I tried to remember his earlier patience and recent tenderness, but I could no longer see the real man and was prepared to believe that I had never seen him. He was ill. He was on the verge of a breakdown, fate would take him from me before I had had a chance to love him; his image underwent a change, infinitely pitiable, he was consumptive,
dying … Owen Lander, as I had known him in the daylight hours, was nowhere to be found.
My wretchedness was not helped by hearing Mrs. Routh talking in her bedroom to Constance while I was in the bathroom. The door must have been open and they had not realized that I was up yet. I should have turned on the water and made a lot of noise; but instead I sat shivering on the bath stool while my doom was proclaimed.
‘Even before last night I thought that he was making rather much of her. And, of course, she would have no idea how to deal with that kind of thing, our poor little Pug. She was so starved of affection as a child, she will make far too much of his interest in her.’
‘But Mummy, darling, Owen needs someone to make much of his interest! She will suit him admirably.’
‘She’ll never hold him, Constance.’
‘But she isn’t the kind to try to hold a man, or anything silly like that. I think she will make him a splendid wife, they are different enough in temperament to complement each other, and they have enough in common to make a strong bond. I’m delighted.’
‘You are too romantic, my love. He has had a bad time and she is the first person to rouse him again. She will have a health-giving effect on him and when he has fully recovered he will find someone else who suits him better.’
‘Darling, he’s quite carried away by her! Don’t you notice these things? Owen may be able to keep his professional secrets, but his emotions are far from private, they tend to be writ large on his face for all to read. He’s not playing about, darling. He watches Flora all the time. I think it’s absolutely marvellous! I do so like people to be warm about each other.’
Oh Constance, Constance, I forgive you the ballet lessons and later, I will forgive you other things as well.
‘Well, I don’t think you are right.’ There was a pause; the bed springs creaked, no doubt they were occupied in changing the sheets. A lid banged and Mrs. Routh said, ‘I don’t like the man. Flora isn’t the only person who has found him attractive, you know.’
Another pause, this time without activity. I felt something tingle up the back of my neck. Then Mrs. Routh went on:
‘It has troubled me when Margaret has insisted on seeing him so often.’
Constance laughed. ‘Darling, the state that Margaret is in, it would have happened with any doctor who wasn’t utterly repulsive.
And he is very careful. His manner is never more disinterested than when he is dealing with Margaret.’
‘Perhaps. But the same can’t be said for his behaviour with Pug. I really am rather worried about her. She’s a nice enough little creature if one allows for her past history, but she is not a complete person, she is unlikely to ripen physically and as far as personality is concerned, I have always felt she was a little inadequate. It is a terrible thing to say and it grieves me to do so, but she is one of life’s spectators; it would be a mistake for her to think that she can participate. She won’t cope with Owen Lander’s attentions at all well.’
Constance said, ‘Darling, that is a little unworthy of you.’
I think she was shocked, and I was shocked too. There was no doubting the source of Mrs. Routh’s resentment. I had taken my place in this house as a deprived child, and as such I was welcome; but that I, rather than her own children, should partake of the sweetness of life was as though God himself was casting pearls if not before swine then a very uninteresting goat. I did not want to hear any more. I crept back to my bedroom, opened and shut the door loudly and went singing to the bathroom. I turned on the water immediately. It was hot, and I was hot, too; the room fairly steamed. I thought about Mrs. Routh’s comments while I soaped myself; they did not disturb me greatly, my spirit was surprisingly unbruised. Statements of opinion can be challenged and I found myself willing to see Owen Lander as the challenger.
After I had washed, I lolled back in the bath and contemplated my toes. No doubt it is true that I take small gestures too much to heart, read too much into slight indications of partiality. No doubt it is true that I was starved of affection after my mother died with the result that my emotions have been bottled up and are now ready to fizz out as soon as the pressure is lifted. I turned on the hot tap with the toes of my right foot and luxuriated in the slow spread of warmth along my body. No doubt I am gauche, unsubtle, immature and likely to behave extremely foolishly. No doubt I am doomed to unhappiness and ultimate disillusion. But the desire to love and be loved is very strong and now that the mists of early morning have cleared, I find myself very happy. I raised my arms and folded my hands at the back of my neck. Very happy, Mrs. Routh.
Owen called briefly before morning surgery, ostensibly to see Margaret. He looked surprisingly refreshed; it would seem that men do not suffer these agonizing reappraisals. The energy that only lately threatened to burn his strength away, now seemed to have become a healing force; his powers of recuperation were truly remarkable.
Later in the morning I had to go into Lewes to make a formal statement to the police. Mrs. Routh asked whether I would like the family solicitor to be present, but this seemed to me quite unnecessary since I was the victim, not the accused. Constance said that she would drive me there, and this I accepted. As we crawled round Lewes looking for a convenient parking space, I was afraid that she might offer to accompany me to the police station: I did not want this as the Rouths tended to treat policemen in a rather cavalier fashion and I was anxious to get the wretched business over with as little unpleasantness as possible. But to my surprise, when she stopped the car in St. John’s Terrace, it was of something else that she spoke.
‘My mother doesn’t like Owen Lander. It has been a difficult time for her, and he isn’t a tactful person.’ For a moment it seemed to me that she had gone over to the other side. Then she went on, ‘So don’t take anything that she may say to heart, will you?’
‘Of course not.’
She looked ahead, staring up at the golden figure of the lamb glinting on the weathervane of St. John’s church, and said, ‘Love him. Unlock that treasure chest of yours, Flora Brett, and give him all that love you’ve been storing up for so long. He loves you as he’s never loved before.’ Although it was said with a gaiety befitting the extravagant words, a hint of sadness lingered on the air after the sound of her voice died away. It was the only time I ever remembered Constance striking a minor chord. She leant across and opened the car door. ‘Off with you and give your statement like the dutiful citizen you are. I’ll be waiting here.’
I did not look forward to the return to Stanford. The Routh family had given the police no cause to like them, and I had been asked questions about members of the family which seemed to bear little relation to the case. I had returned only the vaguest answers. The whole episode was unpleasant and I wanted to forget it. I certainly did not want to become involved in one of Mr. Routh’s long discourses on crime and punishment.
As it happened, other events intervened to occupy the attention of the Rouths. Dr. Ahmed came to lunch, and there was a lot of talk about the ethics of experimental psychology which passed harmlessly over my head. In the afternoon, the village suffered invasion by hippies. They descended suddenly, a swarm of unwashed, long-haired young people, wearing clothes that seemed to have borrowed something from the style of all ages save their own. They were as harmless and irritating as a household fly. They settled on lawns, in the middle of the street, on stone walls, gravestones. When anyone remonstrated with them, they offered sprigs of heather and a variety of grasses, flowers being hard to come by at this time of the year. A contingent arrived at Baileys and Mr. Routh and Constance went out to them in the orchard.
‘Now this is a marvellous opportunity,’ he greeted them. ‘I’ve always wanted to talk to you people.’
They regarded him with extreme suspicion.
‘Tell me why you do this?’ he said, squatting down in the midst of the group while Mrs. Routh, Dr. Ahmed and I hovered on the periphery.
‘Because we love people,’ one of them said laco
nically. On the whole, in spite of their protestations of love, they seemed to prefer disapproval to this kind of interest.
He stretched out on the grass, supporting himself on one elbow in the easy manner of one prepared to enjoy himself among a group of friends.
‘Now what do you mean by love?’ he demanded.
‘Love,’ one of the girls said resentfully. ‘That’s what we mean. Christ, if you don’t know what love is, we have no basis for discussion!’
‘But you must be prepared to convert people like me,’ he replied.
‘We aren’t evangelical,’ the girl told him coldly.
‘You mean that you don’t want to do anything positive?’ Mr. Routh sat up and hugged his knees.
‘Positively, no.’
‘Where does that lead, being positive?’ a young man of more feeling and less intelligence than the girl broke in angrily. ‘Being positive about things leads to violence and wars.’
‘But one can be positive for good, surely?’
‘It depends what you mean by good,’ the young man said.
‘Ah! There we have it!’ Mr, Routh stabbed a triumphant finger in the air. ‘And I say it depends what you mean by love.’
‘Oh, shit!’ one of the young men muttered.
‘No, that’s being nasty,’ a girl reproved. ‘Love means being warm about people, wanting everyone to be happy… .’
‘But what makes a person happy?’ Mr. Routh rested his chin on his knees and gazed at her expectantly.
‘Well, we haven’t discovered that yet.’ The girl sat cross-legged, elbows on knees, earnest eyes peering out at Mr. Routh through a thatch of tangled hair. ‘But I think it has something to do with getting away from convention, like having to live in houses on top of people you don’t get on with. You see, man has only done this comparatively recently. In primitive times, the man went off hunting, and more recently he was out in the fields working. It’s only recently we have evolved this elaborate pattern of living together for long periods in little boxes like battery hens.’
