by MARY HOCKING
‘I have known your mother ever since I married. Your grandfather and my dear husband were cousins.’ They already knew this but it gave her the opportunity to talk about her husband. ‘Do you know, Herbert used to take me out to lunch every Sunday. I was never allowed to cook lunch on Sunday. We used to go to the Country Club for a drink. It was so pleasant, so many nice people there – people who knew how to enjoy themselves. And then we would go to Paul’s Restaurant in Ealing. In the Broadway. All gone now, of course. But what can you expect with people like Mr Kinnock living there?’ She put a dainty foot on the path. ‘Well, goodbye, Steffie. Goodbye, my treasures. Say goodbye to Hugh for me. It’s so long since I saw him.’
‘Perhaps he will walk down to see you this afternoon,’ Stephanie said.
‘Oh, I shouldn’t expect him to do that. I know that your mother wants you to be together today.’
‘Together in our family doesn’t mean you can’t spend five minutes apart.’ Stephanie watched as Deutzia walked stiffly down the path. ‘We can’t let her walk home, can we? I’d better get the car out.’
‘She walked here,’ Patsy pointed out. ‘Uphill all the way.’
‘That was because she came uninvited. If we had asked her for a drink she would have expected to be picked up. Deutzia! Wait a minute . . .’ She off-loaded Marcus on to his brother and strode down the drive where she exchanged remonstrances with Deutzia. When Patsy passed them Deutzia was saying, ‘I wouldn’t dream of it!’ A few minutes later, as Patsy walked up the hill she heard the sound of a car turning out of the drive. In the distance Hugh came into sight, a small child in his arms, another trudging beside him.
Patsy walked to meet them and she and Hugh greeted each other briefly. As they talked the wind blew their hair about. Windblown hair became Hugh who was a diffident, rather solemn man. Patsy remembered that when he was a youth the solemnity had been rather touching. Now it had developed into a tetchy anxiety. She resented the anxiety which she saw as a reflection on herself. She gathered the children to her and they went on over the brow of the hill, while Hugh walked back to the house.
In the garden he found his father and his younger sister, Katrina, who had just returned from church. He and Murdoch began to pace the lawn while Katrina went into the house. She stood in the hall, eyes closed, fists clenched, breathing heavily, not entirely because she had catarrh. She seemed concerned to breathe disquiet into the very atmosphere of the house. After a few moments, she toted her burden of anguish into the sitting room and flung it on the hearth rug. As she lay, head pillowed in her arms, small distressful noises escaped her.
Eventually Stephanie returned from doing her duty to Deutzia. She stood in the doorway and considered her sister. ‘Did you go to church looking like that?’ She might have been a school matron good-humouredly chiding a naughty but lovable child.
Katrina sat up, clasping her knees. ‘I’m not sure how I look. Tell me about it.’
‘Dressed for the circus.’ As Katrina wore striped pink and white baggy trousers and a pink shirt beneath a black embroidered waistcoat this was not entirely unfair. Her hair was dyed a dark, metallic red and stood up spikily around her head. Stephanie said, ‘Poor Daddy!’
‘I don’t supposed he noticed. The vicar looked a bit surprised and the woman next to me hung on to her wafer and dipped it in the chalice in case of Aids.’
‘Well, I hope you are going to change for lunch.’
Katrina shambled out of the room. She joined her mother in the kitchen. ‘Steffie is being stuffy.’ She nibbled a piece of raw carrot. ‘I hope I won’t be like her when I’m her age.’ She wore no make-up and beneath the garish red hair her face had a lost, unfinished look. ‘I want to talk to you,’ she said portentously to her mother. ‘I’ve been waiting for the opportunity.’
Her younger brother, Malcolm, appeared at the window, beckoning. When Janet inclined her head towards him, he said, ‘I am your son. But don’t let it get about. There are spies everywhere.’ He withdrew and Katrina said, ‘I wonder if I count for anything in this household?’
While Hugh folded his troubles and uncertainties within himself, Malcolm had always made a package of his feelings – whether of joy or sorrow – which he presented, gift-wrapped, for others to share. He had the ability to make a pleasure of the transaction. Even Stephanie acknowledged that ‘Suffering with Malcolm is more rewarding than celebrating with Hugh.’ Today, in good spirits, he sidled in at the back door, exaggerating each movement for the sheer joy of demonstrating yet again that he had a lithe, supple body.
‘Not Ariel again!’ Katrina said.
‘No, Puck. Much more interesting.’ He straightened up. ‘Has D gone?’
‘Our big sister took her home.’
‘Let it not be forgotten that I bore the burden of the day.’
‘That’s your reward for being ungodly and not going to church.’
‘I went to the First Mass of Easter last night with Mother. It was really quite splendid. That moment when the candle is brought into the darkened church . . .’
‘Did D ask you why you only wore one earring?’
‘No, I think we’ve got that straightened out now. She had a long confidential talk with me about some poor woman she once knew who was in rep. and never got a decent part, and passed all her days in cheap lodging houses, AND never learnt how to live in the Real World.’
‘And you said . . .’ Malcolm dodged behind Katrina, looking over her shoulder, and they chanted together, ‘But which is The Real World.’ They did a few shuffling steps around the kitchen, singing “Underneath the arches I dreamed my dreams away . . .” until Katrina, pointing a shaking finger at a baking tray, shouted, ‘What is this I see before me?’
Malcolm said, ‘You mustn’t misquote the Scottish play.’
‘Mum, you haven’t put the potatoes in!’
‘Oh dear, neither I have.’
They looked at her in dismay.
Katrina said, ‘They won’t do now, will they? We shall have to have them boiled.’
‘I expect Patsy would say they are better for us this way.’ Janet took a knife and began to scrape off the fat.
‘We’re too young to bother about healthy living,’ Malcolm objected. He took a piece of kitchen paper and moodily helped to rub the remaining fat from the potatoes. ‘You have ruined my lunch, but I shall always love you.’
Katrina said, ‘I’m not sure I shall. I hope you haven’t forgotten anything else.’
‘I don’t think I laid the table. You can do that.’
‘You don’t think? What is this all about?’
Katrina went out of the room. She stood in the doorway to the dining room, frowning, ‘No, you haven’t.’
Stephanie joined her. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Our mother has had a brainstorm.’
‘Perhaps you would like me to lay the table while you get dressed?’
‘It’s not funny any more, Steffie. And she forgot to put the potatoes in to roast.’
‘She is slipping. I’ve noticed one or two signs myself.’ They began to lay out the cutlery. ‘We must make sure she does something that will stimulate her now that we have all left home.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, certainly not dwindling away doing housework and little jobs with the WI. Open University might be the answer.’
‘I’ve never thought of Mum as being at all academic. Suppose she didn’t pass?’
‘She doesn’t need to be academic, only intelligent.’
‘But how intelligent is she, would you think? I mean, you should know.’
‘Psychology isn’t just a matter of administering intelligence tests!’ Stephanie said rather sharply. While she was talking Janet came into the hall and stood listening. ‘And anyway, it’s difficult to tell when it’s a member of one’s own family. But I have a feeling she might do well enough if she came out from under father’s shadow.’
‘But what would he think about it?’
‘It wouldn’t interfere with him provided she studied while he was writing. So long as he was fed he wouldn’t really notice any more than Matilda and Humphrey. In fact, Humphrey would be the more put out, since he might not get his early morning walk. After all, Daddy is not a man who makes small demands. He doesn’t want Mother to go rushing in to admire every paragraph he writes. Not like Piers who expects me to stand by with a hammer every time he bangs in a nail.’
‘She couldn’t do English, could she? That would be . . .’ Katrina bit a thumbnail. ‘Sacrilege.’
‘Katrina!’
‘That’s how I felt. I imagined being asked to analyse one of his books and I knew I just couldn’t do it. It would be a sort of invasion – not just of the book but of us as a family.’
‘Is that why you chose Management Studies, of all things? I always wondered.’
‘Yes, as unlike as possible.’ Katrina sounded glum. ‘Malcolm wanted to do English. He chose History instead and came unstuck.’
‘I should have had something to say had I known all this nonsense was going on!’
‘That’s why we didn’t tell you.’
‘To allow one’s parents to exert such an influence!’
‘Why do you think Hugh chose law?’
‘Because he’s a dull old stick who needs to have everything cut and dried. Patsy was the one unconformist impulse of his life.’
‘And you? Why did you choose psychology?’
‘Clairvoyance, I should think. To help me deal with Piers when he came into my life. It had nothing whatsoever to do with my family.’ Perhaps aware that she was speaking a shade too vehemently, she qualified this, ‘At least, no more than all our choices can be said to grow out of our childhood.’
‘Oh, quite, quite! So, we’ve established that Mum can’t do English, so what are we to do with her?’
‘She ought really to do something which would enable her to take a part-time job. Social studies would probably be the answer. Her trouble is that she is so used to seeing other people in relation to Daddy. But if she could learn to adapt the skills she has employed on him I see no reason why she shouldn’t become a good auxiliary social worker – so long as she was well supervised.’
‘What was that?’ Katrina said sharply.
‘Only a door banging.’
‘You’ve been away from home too long! Doors in this house can’t usually be made to close, let alone bang.’ Katrina went into the hall. ‘Oh hullo, Hugh. Did you slam a door?’
‘No.’ He was on the threshold of the front door. He looked quiet and perplexed, older than his twenty-seven years and the last person to close a door in anger. He followed Katrina into the dining room and busied himself at the sideboard uncorking a bottle of wine. ‘You’d think we might rise to two bottles for six people!’
‘Not till Daddy’s on the bestseller list!’
They were soon joined by Malcolm, who exclaimed, ‘A quarter to two! There is nothing for it. The woman will have to go.’
Murdoch Saunders appeared in the doorway. He had come in from the garden where he had received his wife’s instructions and had not yet removed his cap. He was a short, rather stockily built man and the cap, so often accessory to the aplomb of the country gentleman, in his case accentuated a pawkiness reminiscent of a Scots comedian. He stood, moving his head from side to side – calculating the number present to see how many times he must make his announcement. His features were knobbly without being bony and would lend themselves to a variety of parts. It would not have been surprising to discover that he was come here to preface a tragedy or to tell a lewd story. In fact, what he said was, ‘Mummy would have you know that lunch is ready.’
As they prepared for their respective duties, he said to Stephanie, ‘Where is Piers?’
‘Daddy, I told you last night. He is taking some quite impossible children from his school on a camping weekend. I suppose he chose Easter as a way of reminding God that He isn’t there any more.’
‘That means I shall have to carve. Heigh ho!’
Chapter Two
‘She talked about Herbert all the way home,’ Stephanie said. ‘Of course, I don’t remember him very well, but I did get the impression when he was alive that she wasn’t all that satisfied with him. George, you can either go into the garden and play with Humphrey, or you can eat your dinner. I leave it to you to decide.’
Hugh said, ‘Well, he’s dead now.’
‘I am aware of that.’
Malcolm said, ‘Hugh meant that we should let Herbert rest in peace.’
‘Letting him rest in peace is one thing, consenting to his canonisation is another.’ Katrina said, ‘Oh, stuff it, Steffie.’
Stephanie said to Murdoch, ‘Would you be willing to take Mother out for Sunday lunch each week?’
‘I like your mother’s cooking too much.’
‘But would you, if she wanted it?’
He looked down the length of the table, his eyes screwed up as though viewing a figure at the wrong end of a telescope. ‘Do you want to go out to Sunday lunch?’
‘I don’t want you to become like Herbert Stapleton.’
‘Mummy!’ Stephanie exclaimed. ‘What is the use of trying to help you?’
‘Help me?’ The words were flung back at Stephanie like a deflected knife.
‘All right, all right!’
There was an uncomfortable silence during which Stephanie helped Marcus to cauliflower which he did not want.
Malcolm said, ‘In the pause which followed Hugh began to speak about his children.’
Hugh looked bewildered and Marcus began to cry. Malcolm said, ‘How were Sam and Francesca?’
‘At first they were shy and by the time I had overcome that, they were tired.’
‘Succinct. Not very informative, but succinct.’ Malcolm turned to Katrina. ‘What news from you, my sister Northumberland?’
‘A bleak and barren place we will not speak of.’
‘You have only been there for two terms,’ Stephanie said. George said, ‘Our cat eats wool. And when she does her business it’s all pink . . . or blue . . .’
Murdoch took no part in the conversation, but it would have been a mistake to assume that he was in no way involved in what happened around him. The truth was that he had difficulty in making much sense of what was said. His critics frequently noted that he was not good at dialogue. But, more than anyone else in the room, Murdoch felt what was going on around him. As he looked from one to the other his nerves quivered, exposed to so much pain – Stephanie’s insecurity, the frustrated desire of Katrina, Hugh’s sense of rejection and Malcolm’s loneliness, all this he felt. They surrounded him, busy hands and busier tongues, clothed in the garments best suited to protect them, but to him, all peeled.
How can he write so powerfully when he never seems to notice people? they often asked themselves. But it was not his gift to see people – other than his wife – as sharply differentiated individuals, but rather to experience them as raw material. And so the members of his family talked without taking him into account, maintaining a precarious order in their lives, passing mint-sauce and pouring wine, and all innocent of their unpeeled state.
Today, however, there was something new. A different element was loosed somewhere, deeper, deeper than he could reach; something he might not be able to use and therefore very disturbing since it would not go away, but remain there beyond his power to transform its substance. Until now, for him the process of writing had been a feast at which the water was constantly turned to wine. He had always accepted that one day there might be an end to this.
They were leaving him now, carrying plates, the children banished to the garden. Katrina was saying, ‘You did put the apple tart in?’ In the kitchen, Janet said, ‘Go away and don’t fuss me.’
‘Surely there is something we can do?’
‘Please!’
‘The cream, at least.’ Katrina picked up the jug and they went out.
In the hall, pa
using before going into the dining room, Stephanie said, ‘It is rather overpowering in there. She needs an extractor fan. To say nothing of a modernised kitchen with a dishwasher.’
Katrina said, ‘I expect they could do with central heating, while you’re about it, Stephanie. That would stir up a few spirits who haven’t been disturbed much over the centuries!’
‘I don’t know about spirits, but I doubt whether their bank balance or the structure of the house could afford central heating!’
Janet stood looking round the kitchen. It had happened again. The colour had gone and the kitchen was black and white, save for the eerie blue flame above which the kettle was boiling. She turned off the gas and stood bracing herself to open the oven door. When she did so, it was as she had feared. The pastry was pallid, sepia, just as the meat had been. Ever since she was a child the world had presented itself to her eyes with a jewelled brilliance, its outlines crystal clear. It had taken her a long time to understand that others did not see it in this way, that this acute awareness of light – sheen on fruit, bloom on a child’s skin, transparent delicacy of an old face, gossamer spider’s web, intricate pattern of leaf or fretwork of frost – all this was her special gift. Endless joy, it had seemed, no single effect of light ever repeated. Now gone. She turned away from the oven and opened the garden door.
In the dining room, Katrina said in a low voice, as if speaking during the action of a play, ‘She can’t have forgotten to put it in because I can smell it.’
Hugh got up and Stephanie said, ‘Don’t hustle her.’
He looked at her in surprise. ‘I was going to pour more wine.’ He held the bottle up to the light. ‘Only enough for half a glass. Should we open another bottle?’
Murdoch, to whom wine was a luxury, put a hand over his glass.
Hugh looked at the others, none of whom was prepared to make the decision for him. He poured the remaining wine into his own glass and sat down again.
Malcolm exclaimed, ‘She’s out there!’
They all turned to the window. The children were playing hide-and-seek in the shrubbery. Janet was sitting on the bench beneath the apple tree, the golden retriever leaning against her leg. Both appeared to be asleep.
