FAMILY CIRCLE

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘The thing to do,’ Owen said, ‘is to get hold of Timothy and let him sort this out.’

  There was complete silence. Owen looked from one to the other of us. ‘You do know where Timothy is?’

  Mrs. Routh said, ‘One doesn’t tie a young man of Timothy’s age down …’

  ‘But when you last heard from him …?’

  She thrust an impatient hand through her hair. ‘Oh dear! How very difficult it is to explain such things as trust and freedom when confronted by people who don’t understand them. I’m sorry, Dr. Lander. I wasn’t referring to you. I was just thinking what the police will make of this.’

  ‘You don’t know where he is and you have never had an address for him?’ Owen said.

  She shook her head. The expression of dismay on Owen’s face seemed to me as frightening as anything that had happened this afternoon. Of course, he was an outsider and had not known Timothy well, so it was conceivable that he might have some doubts, but that he should take it as seriously as this… . I looked around me. The others were looking at one another too; we seemed to be taking part in a communal nightmare. It was unreal, we waited for something to happen to bring us back to normality.

  Margaret said, ‘Timothy has run away.’

  Owen turned his head sharply. She spoke to him, ignoring the others. ‘He brought those men here, he is responsible for their deaths, and now he has run away.’

  ‘Margaret …’ Mrs. Routh began, but Owen intervened. ‘Mrs. Routh, if she has something to say, you must listen.’ She stared at him angrily, and he made a little helpless movement with his hands. ‘You must know … mustn’t you?’

  She sat staring in front of her for a moment, as though calculating a difficult equation. Then she said to him, ‘But you? What is your position in this?’

  ‘I am your doctor. I shan’t repeat anything. But if you would rather I went …’

  ‘No. I think you had better stay.’

  She glanced at her husband, but he was slumped in his chair, staring unbelievingly at Margaret. If she had suddenly balanced a ball on her nose he would have regarded her in much the same way.

  Owen said quietly to Margaret, ‘You say Timothy brought those men here? How do you know?’

  ‘I overheard him talking about it.’

  She stopped. I expected him to prompt her, but he said nothing. She looked down at her dress and straightened out a fold reflectively. I thought that she was not going to say any more, but eventually she went on:

  ‘I was so worried about that job.’ She looked up and for the first time her attention moved away from Owen; she looked at her mother and said gently, ‘I’m sorry, Mother. I should have told you. But I couldn’t ever seem to find an opening… .’ She regarded her mother’s quietly implacable face and turned away with a sad little shrug of her shoulders. ‘But there it is. I worried about that job.’ She resumed her conversation with Owen. ‘I couldn’t think of anything else, day and night. I just turned it over and over in my mind.’ She stopped. ‘It’s so hard,’ she whispered.

  ‘You were thinking about it when you went to Holland?’ he prompted this time.

  ‘Yes.’ She sighed, grateful for his help in crossing this bridge. ‘On that particular day, I was supposed to go on a sight-seeing tour of Delft. But I felt so sick, I came back to the flat so that I could lie down and give all my time to worrying. I felt that if I worried and worried something would fall into place. Timothy didn’t know I had returned. He came in with some men and they started talking in the living-room. My bedroom door opened out of the living-room. At first, I didn’t take any notice, then I came to a dead end with my worrying, and the voices registered. I heard enough … enough to know that I didn’t want to know.

  ‘After they had gone, I felt so sick I had to go to the bathroom.

  Timothy was still in the living-room. He realized I must have heard. I told him I had too many troubles of my own to care about his; but he was frightened and he wanted to justify himself. I didn’t want to know. I couldn’t take any more. I made myself so sick he had to leave me alone. Then he went out, and I packed and left. I was determined not to be involved. I pushed his affair to the back of my mind. Then, when I was on the boat, I realized that in running away from the one thing, I was running into the other. I was going back to that job… .’ She turned to Mrs. Routh again and strained towards her, spilling out all her stock of emotion in one last attempt to make herself comprehensible to her mother. ‘Have you ever been faced with something you had to do and known you couldn’t do it, Mother? I went ice cold. My brain seemed to freeze and thought went into cold storage. I don’t remember anything after that … I really don’t remember… .’

  Mrs. Routh said, ‘Was it the first trip they were planning?’

  Margaret shivered at the bracing tone. ‘Yes … from what they said, it must have been the first trip. Does that help?’

  ‘I doubt it. But it means that you could have stopped him. And you didn’t even try.’

  Owen said, ‘She was in no condition to try, Mrs. Routh, and even if she had been …’

  ‘I’m not interested in your opinion, Dr. Lander. You have been singularly unsuccessful in sorting matters out so far and I don’t think you can have much to contribute at this stage.’

  She was at the nerves’ edge and allowances must be made. Owen’s face was pinched, but he said quietly, ‘I expect you would like to be left alone to talk things over now. But if I can be of any help, let me know.’

  ‘Help to whom, Dr. Lander? I am never sure whose side you are on. And I now suspect that my daughter’s memory has been gradually restored to her over a period of time and that you were well aware that this was happening.’

  ‘Your daughter has made no confessions to me, Mrs. Routh.’

  ‘Because you did not go about this as you should have done, Dr. Lander. You were so sure of yourself and your own capabilities that you would not admit defeat and call in someone who knew how to handle this kind of thing. You concealed your own inadequacy by blaming her difficulties on her parents.’

  The colour came into his face, but he continued to speak quietly, trying to get words past the barrier of her hatred.

  ‘I am sorry that you think this, Mrs. Routh. But whatever you feel about the way that I have handled things, please don’t be angry with your daughter. You are very upset about Timothy, naturally. But she is just as important and this is a crisis for her.’

  Mrs. Routh turned her head away.

  Owen went to Margaret and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘You’re going to feel rather tired, I expect. So I shall come back later to see you. All right?’

  ‘I’m very wicked, aren’t I?’ she said tonelessly.

  ‘That’s a question for a priest,’ he said lightly. ‘I’m only a doctor. Wickedness isn’t in my vocabulary.’

  I followed him into the hall. He said to me, ‘Stay with them.’ He looked desperately worried. ‘They need all the help they can get. I’m afraid they are going to come unstuck over this.’

  I went back to the room. They were all sitting like people recovering from the effects of an earthquake, afraid to make a move in case they should bring more masonry down on top of them. Mr. Routh was the first to probe about in the ruins. He said:

  ‘Somewhere in all this … this undoubtedly reprehensible trade … there is a gleam of idealism, don’t you think?’ His wife raised her head and looked at him; she did not speak. He went on, ‘I don’t want to condone what is being done, but I cannot help but feel that in the beginning there was probably a rather pathetic attempt to succour people in need. Then, of course, as with so much today, the unscrupulous people moved in. My dear!’ He stretched his hands out to her, appealing for her consent. ‘Didn’t we see this very thing ourselves with the C.N.D. movement and with almost every cause that we have supported? Things which are good so soon become distorted; if one is not very careful one finds oneself becoming a tool in the hands of evil men. And to realize this and to t
ake a stand against it requires a mature judgement. It is a difficult road which young people have to travel nowadays and they do not always see the pitfalls.’

  All the time that he was talking, Mrs. Routh was watching him. She was no longer critical, impatient, analytical; she seemed to give herself to him completely in a way that I had never thought it possible for her to do. Occasionally, as he talked, she would interject a phrase or two, very gently, ‘We have to accept, I think, that this has been a professional operation carried out for gain …’ and he would reply, ‘But whose gain? It is all so complex, my dear, we must be careful not to make judgements too easily… .’ He spoke as though he was instructing her and she accepted this, nodding her head and waiting before making another point. Her face seemed to wither and grow bloodless, but the eyes, shredded of emotion, still held steadily to his. He used her mercilessly, as though it was of vital importance to him to see how much weight he could lay upon her without breaking her; almost, one felt, he would be prepared to risk her destruction and his own to put her to the test. Gradually, she ceased to be a person at all and became whatever it is that takes stress, that holds against pressure, that eases strain, she was a rope, a barrier rail, a windbreak. He bore down upon her again and again, shamelessly exposing his weakness, his anguished eyes piercing her face, using every weapon in his emotional armoury in order to scour the last ounce of feeling from her. It mattered much to Oliver Routh, Methodist minister, writer and broadcaster, that his image of disinterested, liberal Christian goodness should be presented intact to the world; but the man in this room cared nothing for the image he presented to his wife, he would parade every weakness, he would strip himself naked and present himself as a quivering mass of raw tissue and exposed nerve in order to wring from her the response he required. His need for reassurance was so overwhelming that he was prepared to sacrifice everything else to it. I knew, watching them now, that he had long ago gouged all respect out of her and that even love itself was expendable provided that his need for reassurance was met and met and met time without end. And she had made it her task to answer this need throughout her married life at whatever sacrifice to herself and her children.

  I was sickened. This picture of marriage was about as appealing as a cannibal feast; the family life of the Rouths would in future arouse only revulsion in me. I looked at Constance and Margaret. They sat very still, not interfering; they might not have existed as far as their mother and father were concerned and each in her own way, Margaret with bitterness and Constance with serenity, accepted this exclusion.

  Mr. Routh came at last to acceptance of a kind; he had got as much from his wife as he would ever get—it was not enough, it would never be enough, but it would suffice for the present. He could face the world again. He said, ‘I do not think that I could find it in myself to condemn these people … whoever they are.’ He raised his head and stared out of the window; he had taken his stand and no aristocrat at the steps of the guillotine could have presented a more noble aspect. Mrs. Routh said, ‘Then you must hold to that, my dear. You must hold to that.’ She got to her feet.

  ‘Now, before we talk any more, I think we should eat.’

  Constance came to her mother and gave her a little hug. ‘You shall have a lovely meal, darling.’

  Mrs. Routh stiffened and said with a shade of sharpness, ‘I hope we shall all have a lovely meal, Constance.’ It was as though she had only now registered the fact that there had been witnesses at her trial. They were not welcome. There was an area in which her children could only be regarded as intruders.

  Margaret said, ‘I’ll lay the table.’ No one took any notice of her. She looked around at them, searching each face and finding no response. Constance turned and went into the kitchen. Mr. Routh took his wife’s hand and drew her to his side; they stood staring into the garden, a commendable picture of marital unity.

  Margaret and I went into the dining-room. I snapped on the light and she said, ‘Turn it off.’

  ‘Can you see?’

  ‘I don’t want to see. And anyway, we’re good at groping about in the dark in this family.’

  I was too much in agreement with her to make any comment, other than amen.

  ‘But it’s going to be all right, isn’t it?’ she went on. ‘I thought that this was the moment when the universe would crack, when my father would cry out like Lear that his mind was going beneath the weight of this terrible affliction. But he worked his way out of it. I needn’t have worried. There’s going to be a happy ending.’

  I laid knives and forks on the table. She said:

  ‘Those men died. Doesn’t anyone care about that? Somewhere, in a miserable room in Southall or Solihull, a woman is waiting for a man who will never come.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘Hadn’t you? I haven’t thought of much else lately. I can’t get her out of my mind. I don’t think I shall ever get her out of my mind.’ She looked down at the table and said, ‘Does the spoon go above or below the fork?’

  ‘Above, I think. Does it matter?’

  ‘There must be a correct way.’

  She was still fussing with the spoons and forks when I went out of the room, they seemed to worry her more than anything else.

  Chapter Eleven

  Timothy came back the next day. The police had broadcast the description of three men whom they wished to interview in connection with their inquiries into the smuggling of immigrants into the country. Timothy was one of them. He had only been on the run for five days, but from the state he had got himself into he might have been making his way out of Siberia during one whole winter. He came staggering up the village street at lunch¬time, just when everyone was at home and could have a good view of him; his clothes filthy, his hair matted, sporting a four-day growth of beard, the Prodigal Son lurched towards Baileys watched with interest from every house in the village. News of his impending arrival was brought by Mrs. Cunforth who ran ahead of him and thundered at the door.

  ‘Something’s happened to your son, oh, something terrible’s happened to him,’ she informed Mrs. Routh who opened the door to her. ‘I had to warn you …’

  Mrs. Routh went into the street and walked with measured tread to meet Timothy; when she reached him, she, who avoided physical contact on the occasions when it might normally be expected, put her arms around him and kissed him firmly. This broke Timothy completely. She led him weeping into the house. I closed the door on Mrs. Cunforth’s eager face. Timothy stank abominably, but his father also embraced him. Everyone seemed intent on behaving as though this was a joyous homecoming. Then Saul escaped from the kitchen. He came bounding into the hall anxious to join in, checked himself, skidding on the floor, his legs stiff in front of him; his ears went back, his tail went down and he made a wet on the floor. I scooped him up and took him into the kitchen. He looked very ashamed of himself and I stayed to console him; after all, he was only a dog and could not be expected to have sophisticated reactions. I hung around a little after I had finished comforting Saul, and when it seemed that the members of the family had accompanied Timothy upstairs, I crept out and tried to get Owen on the telephone. Nurse McIver said that he had a clinic at the hospital in the morning and would not be back until three o’clock at the earliest.

  The bush telegraph had been at work. ‘Tell them to make the most of their time with Timothy,’ she said. ‘Mrs. Castle says there is a police car waiting at the top of the lane.’

  The police had in fact surrounded the village. Why they made no immediate move is not clear, undoubtedly they knew that they could take Timothy whenever they chose. They may have waited to see what the Rouths would do. The Routh family had caused them a lot of trouble over the years, and the thought that, given a little rope, Mr. and Mrs. Routh might compromise themselves was no doubt attractive.

  When Mrs. Routh came down the stairs, I said to her, ‘I don’t think there is much time.’

  ‘We mustn’t press him,’ she said. ‘He
will feel much better when he has had a bath.’

  I gave her Nurse McIver’s message. She saw the point: Mrs. Routh could accept facts as immutable as police cars.

  ‘Could you heat soup, Pug,’ she said.

  While I heated the soup, she telephoned the family solicitor in Lewes. We gathered in the sitting-room, Timothy still unwashed.

  ‘Don’t talk if you don’t want to,’ Mr. Routh enjoined him. He would have been happy to have left things as they were; but Timothy was bent on confession, he had been carrying a heavy load for longer than he could stand and he was anxious to shift it. He began, ‘God knows what you must think of me!’

  Mr. Routh said, ‘Oh, my son, my son .. .!’

  Mrs. Routh said, ‘We think you havebeen foolish.Youhad better tell us the full extent of your folly.’ He might have broken bounds from boarding school. Betwixt his father’s high drama and his mother’s determination to play down the situation, Timothy foundered.

  ‘Hasn’t Margaret told you?’

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ Margaret said. ‘I was ill.’

  He looked at her resentfully. Perhaps he had imagined that while he was away she would be busy clearing a path for him.

  Mrs. Routh said, ‘You must tell us, Timothy.’

  He began to talk, trying to formulate a story which would satisfy his mother’s dispassionate desire for evidence while making an emotional appeal to his father. He had never been able to strike the right note with his parents and had now settled for a self- disparaging attitude which proclaimed ‘see what a sub-standard sort of person I am’. At times, he seemed almost to be searching for the inadequate phrase.

  ‘I met these fellows when I was sailing at Seaford. Sailing means an awful lot to me… . Vanity, I suppose.’ He gave a ghost of his endearing smile. ‘It’s the one thing I’m good at.’ His lips were cut and bruised and the soup was scalding hot; the pain brought tears to his eyes. Mrs. Routh turned her head away, her hands clenched; Mr. Routh gritted his teeth, and Constance fetched a glass of water. When he had recovered himself, Timothy went on, ‘I met up again with one of these fellows in Holland. He had a boat over there, but he didn’t know much about sailing and I used to crew for him. There’s something about sailing… .’ He appealed to his father. ‘Freedom and all that jazz … the twentieth century slipping away as the shoreline vanishes … you get the scenario?’