‘No. I shan’t bring you tea in the mornings any more.’
He smiled at her. They both knew that she would.
‘You haven’t been alone these last two years,’ she insisted. ‘Who was she, Conrad?’
The smile vanished. He turned and made off down the hill, throwing two words over his shoulder as he went:
‘Frank’s wife.’
PART VII
TO WHAT ABODE?
1
JUST before dawn Christina heard a car drive up quietly and stop outside the gate. She was at the window in a moment. It was their car, looking strange and different, as everything did in that light, in the tender, mournful clarity which is neither night nor day.
The town, the sea, the hills, had the same unfamiliar aspect; they slept, the whole world slept, as though unwilling ever to wake again. High up in the sky, over Summersdown, the first rosy clouds heralded the inevitable recall. Only the dead may sleep on, untroubled and at peace, while dawn breaks, and those who have looked upon death during the night turn again to the task of living.
Presently Dickie got out of the car and shut the door very quietly so as not to wake people still sleeping, for so short a time, behind their drawn curtains. There was a remote dignity in his bearing as he walked slowly up the path. For a few hours it would set him apart from other men, until the mystery which he had beheld should be obliterated by the clamour and bustle of the day. He was not yet a mourner, able to name a loss—not yet a bereaved son, interviewing undertakers and sending telegrams to distant cousins. Returning to his house, in this limpid quiet, he was simply humanity, reconciled for a while to its end.
Poor Dickie! she thought. But she knew that he was not, at that moment, poor Dickie.
She ran downstairs. They met in the hall.
‘All over‚’ he said.
‘I know. I saw. I saw you coming back.’
He stood looking at her blankly, as though uncertain where to go next.
‘Go up and rest a little,’ she suggested. ‘I’ll bring you some tea.’
He plodded upstairs. She put on a kettle in the kitchen while the dawn light grew stronger.
The dear old man! He had been so kind, so kind always. Sad! Sad! But natural. Old men die. This one had died with little pain, with less suffering than is the lot of many. He had only been very ill for a couple of days and had never known that he was dying. His beloved Dickie had been beside him. But sad … sad … that people should have to grow old and die, and never hear the birds any more, the birds now sleepily chirping in the garden.
When she took the tray upstairs Dickie was lying on their bed. He had removed his shoes but had not stripped off the candlewick counterpane. At any other time she would have made him get up while she folded it away, for it was one of her treasures. She let it pass, however, after a glance at his withdrawn face. Silently she poured out a cup of tea and gave it to him.
‘Was it … how was it?’ she ventured to ask, after a while.
‘Peaceful. In his sleep, they said. But I think he knew. He had my hand. He gave it a little squeeze just before he went.’
He drank half a cup of tea and then looked at her as if realising for the first time that she could not have gone to bed that night. She was wearing a dark-grey suit.
‘Have you been up all night?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I waited. I waited up. I didn’t want to be asleep when you came back.’
‘Where’s Bobbins?’ he asked, looking round the room.
‘Serafina and Dinah have got him. I moved his cot in there. They’ve been so sweet, trying to save me trouble.’
She poured herself out a cup and sat down on the bed beside him.
‘I’m very sorry I couldn’t be with you,’ she said.
‘You couldn’t have left the children.’
‘No. But I was sorry not to be able to be with you.’
It would have made no difference, as she knew, had she been with him, but she would have wished to be there. A husband and wife ought to go through these things together. Life was not so bad, death more endurable, when they faced it side by side. To go through things together was one of the reasons why people married.
There was nothing to be done for him yet. Later on she might say words of consolation; she could remind him of the happiness which he had always given to his father, and of the old man’s delight in his first grandchild. Later on she could take her part in the many things which must be done. Just now he needed no comfort.
Her own weariness overcame her. She lay down on the bed by his side and gazed, as he did, at the bright clouds beyond the window.
‘I keep seeing him lying there,’ said Dickie suddenly, ‘and at the same time I keep seeing him standing at the gate of The Rowans—oh, it must have been a long time ago. When I was a boy. Turning round and calling to me. I was late for something; church, I expect. A long time ago. Yet it seems as … as fresh as the other.’
‘I know,’ said Christina. ‘It was the same when Mummie died. All the old times seemed so near, as if they were still happening. It made one feel as if there’s no such thing as time, really.’
He turned his head and looked at her with faint surprise, as though he had not expected such a comment from her.
‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘it’s the same for everybody when their last parent goes.’
‘Yes. Everybody.’
The word seemed to go on in her tired brain like a distant murmur of waves: everybody … everybody.…
‘I’ve got a lot I ought to see to,’ he remembered.
‘Plenty of time, dear. Rest a bit longer.’
His black shoes hurt him, she remembered. They were a size too small. She must make him get another pair before the funeral, because he would have to stand for a long time afterwards, shaking hands with people. It would be a big funeral. The whole town would come. There was much to be foreseen; much to be done.
Perhaps I am hard-hearted to start remembering those things so soon, she thought. But it’s not my father, and I am less sensitive than Dickie. He is thinking about death now. Only death. He feels things so. It’s funny. He must have seen a lot of dead people in the war. I suppose there wasn’t time to think then. It’s when people think that they feel. Dickie thinks a lot, so he feels the more. I won’t bother him about shoes, and things like that, till he can attend to it.
She looked round at him and saw that he had dropped off to sleep.
So that’s good, she thought tenderly. That’s good for him, to get a little sleep, my darling Dickie. It’s lucky for him he has me to look after him. I will try harder to make him happy. Never mean or petty. I won’t think about that, because it is all over and we can forget it. We can’t help being angry sometimes; that’s human. But we need not be petty. That we must struggle against; that is the saddest thing to have to remember. And the curtains in the lounge here will do nicely for his new study at The Rowans.
Now that’s hard-hearted! To be thinking of curtains already. I am very sad. I shall miss the dear old man very much. His twinkling eyes when he peeped round the door the day Bobbins was born! Oh, I shall miss him very much. I shall always remember him. And I shall tell the children about him, so they’ll remember him, even after we are dead. He shan’t be forgotten.
Dickie shall have exactly the curtains he likes in his new study. I won’t decide everything without consulting him. He shall have all the room he wants for his books. What he’d really like is to have that thing that Mr. Pethwick … Oh dear! Thinking of that makes me remember the other!
Why can’t somebody take it away from there, where I have to see it every time I go to the café? Reminding me! How mean I was, not telling him, and I never can now. He says it’s got to stay there till an authorised person takes it away. I heard him going along the path with the watering-can; I’m ashamed to think how mean and petty I was. Nobody will ever know I knew, though; even if it all comes out. A point from which we can’t get back, he said. Thank heaven we didn
’t get that far, and it’s all over now. I can’t think why I ever let myself get into such a state. What was it all about? A poor little briary bush! He was whistling that song going down the path … when I didn’t tell him … and that will never be, be, be … that man who never came back … Edward … Edward … never came back any more.…
Her eyelids fluttered and she too fell asleep.
As the first sunbeam shot over Summersdown, Mrs. Hughes came padding softly along the road and let herself into the house with a latch-key that Christina had given to her. She knew what had happened, for Dr. Browning had rung her up before he left The Rowans, as he had promised to do.
Her eyes were full of tears for the loss of a lifelong friend. But she was confident that he had gone to a better place and her mind was occupied with plans for helping the bereaved household. She also was thinking about shoes.
The little house was silent and sleeping. She crept upstairs and found their bedroom door ajar. Peeping in, she saw them both, lying on their bed side by side, fast asleep, their young faces shadowed with fatigue.
In their dark suits, upon the yellow counterpane, they reminded her of something that she had seen once: two spars of wood washed up at haphazard on the beach, to lie like companions until the next tide came and swept them apart again for ever. It was as though they lay there together by chance, and only for a little while.
She stole away on tip-toe and went downstairs to prepare for breakfast. Tears were rolling down her cheeks now; she knew not whether she wept for the living or for the dead.
2
TO be remembered and mentioned last had always been the lot of Dinah Swann. She had neither Joe’s infant pathos nor Serafina’s vitality to recommend her. Adenoids and very imperfect vision had dulled her wits. Nobody felt any impulse to talk to her, ask her questions, or tell her anything; she was merely a third child, stumbling awkwardly after the other two, so little aware of her surroundings that she scarcely knew herself to be deprived.
On the day before the funeral she stood in the Pattisons’ front garden, vacantly staring at a blurred mass of colour which was all that she would ever see of a flower border twelve feet away until somebody discovered that she needed glasses. Even so, she thought it very pretty and continued to gaze at it, with her mouth open, until the gate clicked and an unfocused figure came up the path. She could not be sure who it was until the person got quite close and evolved into a strange lady asking if this was Mrs. Richard Pattison’s house.
‘Yes,’ said Dinah, stirred by a vague memory of somebody else, long ago.
‘And you … are you Dinah?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh!’
The lady plumped down on her knees, flung away a large bucket-bag which she carried, and hugged Dinah, crying:
‘I thought so! Dinah! I thought so!’
She smells like Mummie, decided Dinah. Has she come for me?
‘You’re so like him. Oh dear, I could laugh! You are so like him. I’d know anywhere. Is Mrs. Pattison at home?’
‘No. Have you come for me?’
‘Oh, I will, love. Yes, I will. But not today, I can’t take you. Quite soon, though. Where’s the others? Serafina and Joe?’
‘They’ve taken Bobbins for a walk.’
‘Bobbins? Who’s that?’
‘A little baby. He belongs to Aunt Chris.’
‘Got one of her own, has she? That’s nice. She’s been ever so kind to you, hasn’t she? She must be a very sweet lady. Will she be back soon, do you know?’
Dinah remembered that Aunt Chris had only just gone down to the post office, so the lady suggested that they should sit on Bobbins’ rug till she came back.
‘This lady … Aunt Chris you call her? How long have you been stopping with her?’
Dinah could not quite remember. A long time, she thought.
‘Before that we were at Summersdown,’ she said.
‘Oh, I know. I’ve been up there and found the house all shut up. Gave me such a turn! But the person in the next house told me where you’d gone. Is that your auntie? The lady in black coming along the road?’
‘I can’t see.’
‘You must see. Just coming across the road now.’
‘She’s too far away. I can’t see who she is.’
‘Goodness! That must be attended to. I expect you need … yes, she’s coming in here. Let me get up, love. I must go and say how do you do.’
Dinah let her new friend get up, but retained a clutch on her skirts as they advanced to meet a blurr of black.
‘Mrs. Pattison?’
‘Yes?’
Christina’s voice was a little sharp. She was tired and dying for a cup of tea. Ivy stiffened.
‘I’ve come,’ she said, ‘to enquire about Mr. Swann’s children. My name is Mrs. Wright. At present. On Saturday I’m going to marry …’ She glanced down at Dinah and spelt, with a meaning nod: ‘Mr. SWANN.’
‘What? Their …? You know where he is, then? What’s he been doing all this time? Is he here?’
‘No. It’s a long story. He couldn’t come today. As a matter of fact he’s been ill; nerves! He’s a lot better, but not quite over it yet. So I thought I’d better come.’
‘It was quite time somebody came,’ said Christina coldly.
‘That’s right. But it’s all been rather complicated. It affected his memory. How we shall ever thank you for having been so kind, I don’t know. And I’m so sorry to hear about your sad bereavement. The person who directed me here told me about it. I’m afraid I’ve come at a very awkward moment.’
‘It is rather.’
‘I’m ever so sorry. But I’m only here for the day. I want to fix up about taking them off your hands as soon as possible. So, if you could spare a minute or two …’
‘Yes,’ said Christina. ‘Now you’re here we must settle something. Come in, Mrs. Wright. You, Dinah, run along and play.’
Dinah, however, refused to let go of Ivy’s skirt. For the first time in her life she felt that she belonged to someone. A scene was averted by Ivy, who dived into the bucket-bag and produced a small doll.
‘Take her and sit in the sunshine‚’ she said to Dinah. ‘All smothered she’s been, poor dear, in my old bag. Find out what her name is, will you?’
‘Is she mine?’ asked Dinah.
‘Surely, if you look after her. Air she needs.’
Dinah returned to the rug, tenderly dandling the doll. Ivy, following Christina into the house, explained that she had brought one or two little presents for the children.
‘Just to help make friends,’ she said.
In the lounge they sat down and took stock of one another.
Just a working-class woman, thought Christina. A nice person, and superior. She’ll be all right with the children. But he could have married somebody better than this.
Not out of the top drawer, thought Ivy, whose social horizon was wider than Christina’s. A nice person, but doesn’t quite know how to behave. I’d imagined somebody older; not this little madam in her smart blacks. I hope we’re going to get on!
When Ivy hoped that she was going to get on with people she generally meant that she had taken a dislike to them. She could be, on occasion, rather formidable, as several of her employers had discovered. In as few words as possible she gave an account of Conrad’s arrival in Coombe Bassett, his illness, and his recovery. All the trouble was attributed to nerves, but Christina understood that euphemism perfectly well and would have employed it herself. He was, said Ivy, very much better and had told her everything, but he still had a settled antipathy to the very thought of East Head. He would not even name anybody to whom she might write, so she had thought it best to come herself and have what she called a look round. If it was convenient to everybody she would return within a fortnight and remove the children.
Christina’s feelings became more cordial as she listened to this narrative. The woman seemed to be honest, resourceful and independent. Conrad’s nerves exc
used his strange behaviour, and it was excellent news that he would never come back to East Head. All his things would be sent away now, including that sinister memento of the past, which nobody had yet removed from the Pavilion vestibule. If only it could be taken away and forgotten!
She offered Ivy some tea, in a friendly voice, and rose to get it.
‘Oh, I’ll come too‚’ said Ivy, also rising. ‘You mustn’t trouble to bring it to me, really, Mrs. Pattison.’
Before leaving the lounge she took a peep through the window at Dinah on the lawn.
‘Playing with her dolly as good as anything‚’ she reported. ‘It quite knocks me over, her being so like her father. Made me take to her at once.’
‘You haven’t seen the others yet,’ said Christina. ‘Joe is sweet. And Serafina’s such a clever little girl.’
‘Oh, I’m sure I’ll love them all. But I believe, somehow, Dinah’s going to be my special girl.’
This struck Christina as an odd preference, but lucky for Dinah, who was not likely to win hearts very easily.
In the kitchen the two women felt more at ease with one another. Ivy sat squarely on her chair instead of on the edge of it. She surveyed Christina’s arrangements with an approving eye; very nicely done, for what it was, she thought, with some condescension. No servant, obviously, and a good thing too; a person like Mrs. Pattison would be unlikely to secure one who would be of much use.
And then, quite suddenly, they knew not how, all social barriers fell as they struck up a duet of indignation against Elizabeth Archer. How anybody could be so wicked they did not know. It was like something you read in the newspapers, not something in real life. They had drunk two cups of tea apiece before finishing with her, since they repeatedly agreed with each other and said the same things several times over.
It was a real relief, confessed Ivy, to learn that Elizabeth deserved no consideration. That had been one of her reasons for coming to have a look round. She was not one to steal another woman’s man. She could not have married Conrad with a clear conscience had Elizabeth been faithful and waiting for him at Summersdown.
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