The bus was there, taking on passengers. Helen found a seat to the rear. She and Barbara mouthed farewells through the glass, and raised their hands in a show of good cheer. When Helen looked round from the bend of the road, Barbara was still there, not watching the bus, but lowering her head submissively against the gale and holding down her clothes.
From the day’s sensations, Helen could retrieve the solitude that never now completely left her. And was able to think of how they had read about the past, which was full of desires and dreams and delusions, so that the planet seemed entirely charged with human wishes, existing for the most part silently and in vain. She thought about her brother, to whom Thaddeus Hill had read her letters, and who would die without her. And of Miss Fry, whose talent had been spent in repairs. And of the mother who had been instrumental.
There was the climate of resignation, which had opened to admit her and closed behind her, and from which she must get up and go. Mrs. Fry had said, You must save yourself. She would write and tell him, I am coming.
She remembered the drive out in the bright morning, and how the white-haired man had spoken up for longing, and had gone away exulting for himself alone. It wasn’t enough.
Among the passengers, she recognised the elder of the Fairfax brothers, alone and reading. The back of his head, and of his neck in particular, did not seem invulnerable. He might have been misjudged. He would sometimes raise his eyes to the window, to be reminded of his surroundings or his existence. By the roadside, lone figures walked bravely against the wind; and, within the bus, the same baffled acceptance of obscurity.
She would write and say, I am coming.
IN THE TEA SHOP ALONGSIDE South’s, Helen sits alone with Sidney Fairfax. The hour, near closing-time, is not propitious for lingering, and the shop itself—its very walls, counter, and coat-stand—grows restive. The bookseller next door has already locked up and left. Due to the licensing laws, there is, in the town, no bar where they can sit and talk.
The spring continues blustery, reluctant. Far to the south, the polar ice is, to the souls grappled there, adamantine.
Helen and Sidney have come away from a film called The Blue Lagoon , about a boy and girl shipwrecked on a tropical island, who grow up in a state of nature. At the outset, these two are helped along by a third castaway, a kindly elder who, having taught them the rudiments of survival and served his cinematic turn, conveniently dies. Boy and girl, attaining adolescence, become lovers in all innocence, and produce a child. At the end, they are rescued and borne away to the clamorous, censorious, contentious world.
Sidney Fairfax says that there have been books and other films on the theme; that it is the old story—Garden of Eden, Adam and Eve, the Expulsion. The old mentor was God the Father, revealing the world and leaving them to it. Sidney is aware that Helen considers him over-ready with the obvious, and that the formula is his nutshell of safety and authority. He himself is inclined to agree, having always found his thoughts more original than his utterance.
“An open-and-shut case,” he says, smiling. Tolerant of a commonplace world that refuses to give up on sentiment. Sidney is becoming, literally, a philosopher: that will be his profession. While waiting at Wellington for his snowbound father, he will complete a doctoral thesis: here is another man carrying pages around the world. He, the older of two reticent brothers, is agreeable. The younger, Gerald, is terse, reclusive, sometimes surly. That, at least, is the judgement of the capital.
Of the movie, Helen says, “The first part was a bit like my brother and me with our teacher.” She has not previously mentioned the absent brother, but the background is known in the omniscient town.
She says, “I suppose that there will be no more desert islands. Only castaways.”
He has met her just twice before, but believes that he sees deterioration: among them all, they will wear her down. (It wasn’t in his nature to say “break her.”) He knows, who doesn’t, that she has been separated from an older man: that is no concern of his. He has heard the mother say, “We nipped that in the bud.” Mrs. Capulet.
Helen says, “They’ll poison us here if we don’t go.”
“I feel they already did that.” They have shared one of the glazed buns. “There must be somewhere we can talk for half an hour. If we were to loll in the lounge of the Hotel St. George, would you be fatally compromised in local society?”
“It will be noted. But they do know me there, at the desk.” Not that blame would attach to the gallant Fairfax; only to the forward girl.
They get up and Sidney says, “What a fine green coat.” He himself is coatless, but wears a long striped scarf furled like an undergraduate’s. Ruddy-cheeked, blue-eyed, longish-haired, shortish-limbed, and compact in body, he looks the student. But Sidney, who is twenty-four, has been a soldier in the Ardennes.
Under frugal street-lighting, they walk the chilly block to the hotel, where Helen is soberly greeted at the desk: “Miss Driscoll.” It is agreed that they may sit awhile in the lounge, where all is brown, and where commercial travellers from Invercargill and Wanganui very quietly pass through, and toll calls are announced over a loudspeaker.
Sidney remarks, “They might have been less repressive. It’s not as if we were asking for a room.”
Helen laughs out loud, they both do, at the very idea, and they sit down companionably. Sidney says, “I was never so consistently aware of my position on the face of the earth, were you? Sea-girt, southerly, sundered. And my father so much more so, near the Pole.”
Helen thinks “face of the earth” a fine phrase. Then, “Yes, the islands seem adrift on the atlas. There is our helplessness, even to register. I suppose it could be seen as floating free.”
“My father isn’t helpless. He has chosen. His entombment down there haunts one, but it’s voluntary.”
Helen says that Sidney and his brother have also chosen to pass, here, these months of waiting.
Sidney Fairfax says, “Not quite.”
She asks how his brother spends his days.
Sidney doesn’t look at his watch, but says, “At this moment he is waiting for me. At other times, he also is writing.” Sidney now genuinely turns to Helen for the first time, seeing her not exactly as herself, or as a woman, but as the responsive being with whom he can share, in this brown place, a fragment of self: appreciating her. “My brother Gerald,” he says, “is writing the story of his life. As he is a literate man, it has been proposed that this may help him recover from a breakdown of two years past, which is a factor in our presence at Wellington. His collapse had some origins in early bullying endured at school, but came on during his months of national service, in which he was utterly at odds with his surroundings and assigned to specific hardship tasks intended to make a man of him. When he foundered, in an episode that it would be hard for me to speak of, a medical discharge was procured for him, partly through my father’s influence. For, yes, there is influence, and thank God for it.
“This achieved, Gerald disappeared for a time, having gone to live with an unscrupulous woman, the first woman in his life, with whom he fathered a child that did not live. He then attempted suicide, and has since been in a series of treatments, the latest of which intermittently continues here. All is precarious. My mother, who will come out for my father’s return, has been magnificent throughout and is now exhausted. It was felt that each should have a respite from the other. A curious outcome of all this is that my mother has taken up the study of Law. I had not realised that there are women lawyers.
“My father, meanwhile, departed for his white entombment. It must be said that he could hardly do otherwise. Plans for such a gruelling expedition are begun far in advance—in this case, before the war was over. My father’s withdrawal would have dismantled all. He suffered over this. He is kind, and was tender to Gerald in his trouble. However, in best and worst senses, it was in his character to go into hibernation at such a time. All one can begrudge him, perhaps, is the huge relief with which he mu
st have greeted the first ice floes as he steamed south from Lyttelton.
For my brother and me, Wellington has been our ice floe. I had my own reason to come away. When a life goes off the rails, the casualties are many. One grows by turns patient, even saintly, and furiously resentful. These fluctuations occur in rapid succession or simultaneously, and the habit of abnegation loses its interest. Like others, I turn to my work, which occasionally palls. I resent my broken engagement—with life, as well as to a girl. But this limbo is now best for us both, making no demands. It’s right for my brother to go about a bit, to rehearse being normal. I have friends at the University, nothing exciting. We’re giving up the house at the bay. Even in fine weather, it was melancholy.”
“I remember.” The sad, splintered place, the place of exile. She says, “What a cruel story. Does everyone have a cruel story?”
“I begin to think so. If one’s lucky, the cruel part occurs within a better context.”
“Do people call on you, at home?”
“Yes. Would you come, Helen?”
“Certainly.”
“He needs company that isn’t knowing or solicitous. Someone a bit odd is good, provided they’re sane.”
“I hope to qualify.” Miss Fry would be just the thing. Helen says, “My own brother, who is ill, has been a strength to me.”
“Next time, you’ll tell me.”
They go out through the lobby, Helen nodding, queenly, to the desk.
Sidney Fairfax strolls with her to the tram, puts her on board. Walking home uphill, he feels with certainty that it will not happen: the far man will not come for her: too long, too distant, too much discouraged. Those two, having had their dream, will never meet again. It is in her face, her fate. Everyone has a cruel story.
At home, Gerald has left the porch light on for him, and lit the fire. Such offerings can be deceptive, but are welcome. Gerald is reading The Dominion, but puts the newspaper down as Sidney comes in, and says, “For the first time, this evening, I miss my home. Is that insane?”
22
“AURORA, let me get you another one of those.”
“No, truly. I just want to sit and look.”
“That’s what we do best here, spend time looking.”
“It gives a different sense of the globe.” She said, “I’m loving idleness. Sitting in the sun, which hasn’t yet reached the marrow of my bones.”
“I was the same when I first came out. Haven’t thawed even yet, and it’s been two years. Enjoy yourself.”
She was enjoying it, the heat, hills, and colours; the flowered terrace, and the party. “Everyone’s so kind to me.”
“That’s because you’re a poppet, Aurora. Isn’t Aurora a poppet?”
“Stay on. Stay forever.”
“I’ll think about it.” Laughed. Thought, No.
“What was it, Pimms? I’m going to get you another.”
“Aurora, there’s someone who wants to meet you. Ray Harkness.
“I don’t think I know him.”
“It’s not him, it’s her. Mrs. Harkness. Another poppet. She lives near here, fine property, husband, two kids. She asked to meet you, she’s here indoors. There’s some connection.”
Aurora got up. “I can go and find her.”
“I’ll take you, she’s in the far room. Young and beautiful, like you.”
In the far room, Mrs. Harkness turned her head. She was over thirty, perhaps; and beautiful, certainly. Someone said, “Husband’s a cad. She bears up bravely.”
“Ray, this is Aurora Searle, who’s dying to meet you.”
Peach-pale face, huge dark eyes.
“I am so glad.” Slight accent. Some shyness. She did not so much shake as briefly hold Aurora’s hand. “If we could have a moment together.”
Someone said, “Secrets. There’s a cosy corner in there, past the curtains. Look, I’ll show you. Nobody’ll bother you.”
They sat on a sofa. Mrs. Harkness was simply dressed, in a pale perfect creation. She said, “I think that you knew the writer Oliver Leith.”
“We were very close.” Oh, Oliver, what scrape did you get into with this beauty?
“I saw that he died.”
“It’s the reason I’m out here. Trying to get used to that.”
“I’m very sorry. These are the great sorrows: i grossi dispiaceri.” Voice soft and truthful. “I knew his son, before the war.”
So that’s it. “Aldred.”
“We called him Dino—first, Aldredino, then Dredino, then Dino.” Smiled. “He used to come to my family’s house at Florence. He knew me as Raimonda Mancini.”
“I do remember. I knew him during that time. He’d gone to school with my son.”
“Is your son here?”
“My son died.”
“Was it the war?”
“Yes.” And what if I were to cry now, what if we both cried? Why not? She too, I’ve forgotten it, went through some ultimate experience of war. “You’d like news, then, of Aldred?—and I can give you good news of him.”
“I saw in the paper that he survived the war, and was brave.”
“Braver than anyone.”
“He was good to us in our first trouble, more than good, an angel. His father also, who sent us money when we needed it, although he never knew us. Does Aldred live in England?”
“I saw him in London a month ago. He went to China after the war, to write a book, and came back. Was wounded in the war, but is over it now, and things go well for him. He remains what he was, admired and loved.”
“Did he ever marry?”
“He was married during the war, but they were parted and agreed to divorce. Nothing very unhappy, I think. He means to remarry. There’s a young girl he met in the East, a romance. He was always a Romantic.” You’ll remember, as I do.
Raimonda said, “We used to tease him when he was stern. When he would conceal his kind heart. My family, we all admired him, he wasn’t much more then than a boy, but already a man, the very best man.” She said, “He was a bit in love, at that time, with my sister.”
And what about you, Raimonda?—who ask about him with tears.
“And what about you, Raimonda, how did you weather the war?”
“I have two brothers living, otherwise all are dead. Gigliola died in the war, my father before it, and my mother just afterwards. We mustn’t make each other sad. One of my brothers lives in the house at Florence with his wife and children, and is repairing it. The other is in New York, but will soon come and see me here. I have two little boys, and hope to show them Italy one day.”
“I’ll write Aldred’s address for you.” They scrounged around for pen and paper. “He’s in Germany just now, but soon goes home.”
“Will you see him?”
“Of course.”
“Ask him if he remembers Raimonda Mancini.”
My dearest,
I am in a small town in Germany. The town is the seat of the British Command and entourage. It is ringed by a barbed-wire fence, ninetenths of the houses are occupied by our army, and the only Germans to be seen in the town are those employed by us. The surrounding countryside is pleasant and unharmed, but not exciting. What matters is the extreme futility of our existence. The only solid thing, which is the Soviet menace, makes us afraid and impotent. We talk of a western union, to give ourselves hope. Much else could be done, but will not happen. Possibly some crisis will occur, short of war, to galvanise the West. I wish I could think so.
I find myself again in an army of Occupation, and with less appetite than ever for the role of victor. Out of regard for your tender years, I shan’t describe the forms taken by victory in the ruined cities I’ve so far seen. How, with the evidence before them, men can contemplate more war is incomprehensible and terrifying. It is also completely beyond the ability of people like ourselves to influence. I at last come to believe that, in man, the primitive prevails. My consuming anxiety is that war may seal you up in New Zealand. If war should come
before I can reach you, I beg you to do all you can to get over here, where in spite of added dangers we will be together. My attitude to the war is puzzling even to myself: I believe I have become a pacifist, without any doctrinaire approach. Having had one go at setting the world right, I decline a second opportunity.
Forgive me if I frighten you. The better aspect of this is that we must begin our adventure without delay. My set task here has been extended, but within the month I return to England, where I’ll immediately put things in motion to leave the army conclusively. I must tell you that I spent a very good evening with Bertram—Bertie, as he invites me to call him—the chief ioy of which was talking of you to someone who knows and loves you. We are both anxious for news of Benedict. If I don’t hear from Tad on my return to England, I’ll cable him. Meanwhile, Bertie has been helpful in other and critical ways.
Although I made careful arrangements to have correspondence forwarded, it has been misdirected from Norfolk to London. Thus I am eating bitterness waiting for your letter. Helen darling, how I want and need and love you at this moment. How happy if you were here, how happy we will be.
The news from Peter Exley isn’t good. He sends short letters at long intervals, and my main news of him comes from Audrey Fellowes, who is still in Japan. This, too, I’ll try to look into.
Infinite thanks for the photographs, which are so fine that I assume the hand of Miss Fry, who does everything well. As they are clearly taken with affection, I don’t want to think that anyone else was involved.
Dear Aldred,
Helen tells me that this will reach you as you return to Britain from Germany. I was in Germany on my trip back to the States: a grim scene. Less of a clean sweep than Hiroshima. I always felt, at Hiroshima, that the crust of the earth had been lifted off only to reveal more man-made horrors beneath. Even in California, I still hear the slurping sound that is a world licking its wounds.
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