by MARY HOCKING
There was silence. Gradually the silence was filled by sound. Many fields away a dog was barking excitedly. Further away still, only a faint trace on the air, church bells rang. Then, something nearer, at first a little alarming because it was unidentifiable: bath water running away. Eddie! Strange that he was actually in this building, towelling himself, perhaps looking forward to toast and marmalade. A louder, more insistent noise: the buzzer on the switchboard downstairs. It seemed to buzz for a long time, perhaps Mrs. Libnitz was in the lavatory? Iris was breathing shallowly. Di scuffed her sandals on the floor. There was a scratching in the eaves where the martins were nesting and grit spattered the window pane.
Iris said, ‘I can see the branches of an apple tree.’
Another silence. We were all breathing shallowly. Eddie flushed the lavatory. Mrs. Libnitz came up the stairs; we heard her open several doors, then she went past our door, saying just loud enough to be heard, ‘If people aren’t taking calls I wish they would tell me!’
Iris said, ‘Close. Close about me. Branches.’
Dr. Laver said, ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in the tree.’ The voice was her adult voice, but the way in which she volunteered the information was childlike.
‘What can you see from the tree?’
‘People.’
I began to think that if Iris was going to be led at this pace through the events of her eighth birthday the most we need fear was boredom. Perhaps Douglas felt the same, because he took a deep breath and settled more comfortably in his chair.
‘People,’ Iris repeated with childish interest. ‘My father is down there and my brothers.’ There was a pause while presumably she inspected them and they her; then, ‘Not all my brothers. Timmy isn’t there.’ This seemed to please her. ‘Timmy is indoors crying. I can hear him crying through the open window.’ She was speaking faster. ‘They are all looking up at me, telling me to come down. I throw apples at them and hit Harry. I hate Harry. I hate Harry and Fergus and Hugh; and most of all I hate Timmy. I pushed Timmy in the fish pond. That’s why I’m up the tree.’ She sat with a little smile on her face savouring this rediscovered triumph.
Dr. Laver was not prepared for her to rest on her laurels and he asked how she got down from the tree.
Iris began to talk about her father fetching a ladder. While her father was mounting the ladder I began to feel drowsy. I was aware of the people in the room, of Iris talking and Dr. Laver prompting her from time to time; then I seemed to hear a voice in my own head. There was something odd about the room, someone there, someone who should not have been there . . . I jerked myself awake. The action had moved on, leaving me behind. I did not know whether Iris was up the tree still or not. No one was speaking. Perhaps it was all over and Iris was coming round.
Dr. Laver said, ‘What happened to make you push Timmy in the pond?’
Iris frowned. She appeared to have some difficulty with this. The corners of her mouth turned down. ‘My birthday book,’ she said in a grieving tone. ‘My mother is reading my birthday book to me and Timmy. Timmy doesn’t understand, but I do. He keeps interrupting and asking what is happening and what words mean. I answer him to show Mummy how much I understand. But she is looking at Timmy all the time.’ Iris was grizzling. ‘Timmy says “don’t want any more of silly old book.” I say to Mummy that I would like to hear some more, but she closes the book. Timmy runs into the garden. I run after him, very quietly across the grass. He is standing by the fish pond. I give a big push in the middle of the elastic that holds up his shorts.’
Iris sat quietly having delivered herself of this.
Di said, ‘Kids do that sort of thing all the time.’
Douglas said, ‘Mine certainly did.’ He sounded fond and relieved. Iris said, ‘I . . . hate . . . all . . . little . . . boys.’
Dr. Laver drew the palms of his hands along the rim of the desk and then gave the wood a congratulatory pat. He said, ‘I’m going to put you to sleep now. Iris.’ The room was getting very hot. I began to feel sleepy again. Dr. Laver was saying, ‘I am going to put you into deep sleep now. Iris. When you wake you will feel refreshed.’
‘I doubt that any of us will,’ Douglas said glumly.
But Iris did look very peaceful. As I watched her, I felt overpoweringly sleepy and I must have dozed off because I don’t remember what happened when Iris finally woke. Then, a long way away, I heard Dr. Laver telling Douglas to think of something visual which he found pleasing and peaceful. I thought, ‘Douglas can’t have . . . surely, he can’t . . .’
It was while Douglas was going to sleep that I saw the child sitting in the corner of the room; she was about three, I suppose, sitting on a low stool with a doll held tight in her arms. There were other voices in the room now, not Dr. Laver’s or Douglas’s.
She was holding the doll tight against her chest and she was thinking, ‘Why don’t they notice me? Please let them notice me; please let them notice me.’ The feeling was so intense you would think it must break such a tiny thing. There was a lot of crossness in the room, the walls shook with it, they were going to keel over and come down . . . The little girl said in a high, tearful voice, ‘Dolly’s upset; Dolly’s very, very upset.’
A woman came and knelt beside her. ‘Poor Dolly!’ She bent her golden head, smothering her face in the doll’s. Over the golden head the child looked up at the man who stood hesitant in the centre of the room. ‘Dolly’s upset. Make Dolly better.’
He said, ‘Would Dolly like to go for a walk, do you think?’
The woman said, ‘Dolly wants to go to sleep.’
The child looked from one to the other. Sometimes they played a game with a thimble; they clenched their hands and she had to guess which of them had the thimble. Now there wasn’t any thimble, but she still had to choose. She began to cry because she couldn’t play the game without the thimble. The woman put her arms round her and held her tight. She said, ‘Oh, my baby, my baby!’ Now, she was crying, too.
The man said, ‘You’re upsetting the child. I’ll take her down to the corner shop to get a cow for her farmyard.’
The woman said, ‘Little girls aren’t interested in farmyards.’ She held the child away from her so that she could look into the little face. ‘Do you want to go down to the corner shop to get a cow for your farmyard?’
The child picked up the doll which had fallen on to the floor. ‘I’ll ask Dolly.’
‘Oh, you and Dolly! Go on then, go down to the corner shop and get your old cow.’
The man took the child’s hand. ‘It’s all right, my pet. Mummy’s not very well; she doesn’t mean it.’ He led the child away from the woman who was standing with her back to the room, looking out of the window and crying.
The child had gone now; and where she had been was a side- table with a stack of files on it and a tupperware box containing Dr. Laver’s lunch. My head was throbbing and my ribs ached. I scarcely dared to look at the other people in the room for fear of what I might see written on their faces. Then I realised that after I had fetched the needle I had not returned to the chair in which I had been sitting previously; instead I had detached myself from the group and taken a chair near the window. I was slightly behind Dr. Laver and facing Douglas and Iris. Di was to my right; I could see her face in profile, but she would have had to turn round to see mine. However I had reacted to these unhappy ghosts, it seemed likely that no one had observed me. Iris was occupied with her own thoughts. Douglas was saying, ‘Talking of refreshment, I propose to have coffee now. I don’t know about anyone else.’
I said, ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ My voice sounded hoarse, but no one seemed to notice. It was a small thing, I suppose, after all that had happened. I got up and pointed myself in the direction of the door; as I walked I felt I was keeling over and it took an effort of will not to grasp at chairs for support. I went to the lavatory and dashed cold water on my face. After a minute or two I began to feel better. Dr. Laver must have stronger powers than he r
ealised, and he had inadvertently connected me with some past happening in this house; I would take care not to attend his sessions in future. I went back to my room, made the coffee, and carried the tray into Dr. Laver’s room.
Dr. Laver was talking about people who resist hypnosis; apparently they were invariably emotionally crippled and intellectually enchained. Dr. Laver said he was sorry for such people in a tone which suggested that he thought they deserved to be mutilated as well as crippled and enchained. It seemed that his session with Douglas had not been very satisfactory.
Di said to Dr. Laver, ‘I promised to ‘phone the leader of the play group about my kids, if you don’t mind.’ He looked surprised but shrugged his shoulders acquiescently. She took a cup of coffee and went out of the room.
Iris took a spoonful of sugar and spilt some of it in the tray. ‘We all have a lot of thinking to do, and we need a period of quiet.’
Dr. Laver said, ‘What kids was she talking about?’
‘Her own,’ Douglas answered. ‘She has two, a boy and a girl.’
‘By different men, I suppose?’ Primly.
‘By her husband.’
Iris said, ‘A time for reflection; then we may be able to talk about it . . .’
‘This Alec she is always ‘phoning is her husband?’
‘No, he’s the man she lives with.’
Iris said loudly. ‘The important thing is to be constructive about this.’
‘Yes, yes, yes.’ Dr. Laver was testy. He heaped sugar into his coffee and stirred vigorously. Then he took a packet of biscuits out of his drawer and swore because he could not get the cellophane wrapper off. He rummaged for scissors. There was some urgency about this; one might have thought him diabetic were it not for the sugar. When he had extracted a wheatmeal biscuit he looked up and seemed surprised to find us still there. ‘I think we have concluded our experiments for this morning,’ he said.
‘What about Ruth?’ Iris asked.
‘Ruth is very obstinate. That is her defence.’
Douglas said, ‘She is very sensible. Life is no place for the undefended.’
Dr. Laver took another wheatmeal biscuit and dipped it in his coffee.
When I returned to my room Di was there, reading a magazine. I began to open the morning’s post. ‘Dr Laver must have hypnotised me to some extent,’ I said, ‘because I found my mind wandering on to things quite unconnected with the clinic. I lost the thread of Douglas’s recital.’
‘There wasn’t one. He went off and nothing happened except a lot of heavy breathing.’
‘Didn’t he say anything?’
‘Not a thing. Dr. Laver kept telling him he was blocking something and how bad it was for him; but he just stayed blocked. I thought “Good on you, chum!”; but he didn’t look as good as Iris when he came round.’
‘How did he look?’
‘As if he’d done himself a mischief.’ She tossed the magazine down on the table. ‘If you ask me, Dr. Laver’s a warlock.’
‘I don’t know why Iris and Douglas allowed themselves to get involved in this silliness,’ I said.
All that afternoon, the child cried in me.
In the evening, instead of going home, I cycled into Weston Market and went to the library. I told the assistant that I was interested in histories of the area, particularly in the old houses, such as March House. She fetched three books from the reserve stock and I settled down with them in the reference room. Two of the books contained a lot of information about farming methods and urban development, but were short on ghosts. I put them aside after a brief examination. This left me with ‘Now fades the glimmering landscape’ which purported to chronicle ‘the life and times of a byegone era’. When I handed it to the assistant to be stamped, she said, ‘No one has had this out for years. I expect you could keep it if you asked.’
Stewart said he was going to watch cricket on the village green. He took Punter with him. ‘You’ll have to mind he doesn’t chase the ball,’ I said as they departed. As soon as I had finished the washing-up I settled down with the book. There were a lot of illustrations and I looked at them first; there had been something familiar about the child and I was sure I had seen a portrait of her somewhere. But ‘Now fades the glimmering landscape’, while offering numerous rustics standing outside their cottage doors, had no pictures of solitary children. Nor were there any ghosts of interest. I read until it began to grow dark and Stewart returned.
I was glad to go to bed. But sleep would not come. The house grew quiet. I lay awake and was afraid. Then, because I feared sleep, it began to overwhelm me. But I am sure that I was not asleep when the child returned; I was in that area of half-waking, half-sleeping when thoughts slide past our guard. She was squatting up in bed, her feet beneath her, the toes cold against her buttocks. Voices came up the stairs.
‘You shouldn’t let yourself go like that in front of the child.’
‘You don’t know what it is to have a child! A bedtime story is all she has from you. I have her all day. I take her for walks, and play with her, and listen to her talking to Dolly. She talks and talks and talks to that doll; it never stops!’
‘But this is what all mothers have to do, surely?’
‘What is “a mother”? I don’t know what it is, it’s not me. I’ve got a little girl; I adore being with her. I do, I do! You don’t believe that, do you? You think I don’t love her because I want to get away from her sometimes. You’re away from her all day.’
‘I don’t want to be away. I often think of you both during the day and wish I was here with you. I look forward to coming home; it distresses me so much that . . .’
‘I look forward to you coming home so that we can go out together.’
‘We can’t leave the child.’
‘Mrs. Mason would come.’
‘I should have to fetch her, and take her back.’
‘And that would be too tiring, wouldn’t it? So what will you do? You’ll work in the garden until it’s dark, two hours, three hours out there; that won’t be too tiring for you, because it’s what you want to do.’ The voice was rising to a high plateau. ‘Well, I want to get out of this house. I must get out of this house, I must, I must . . .’
A door banged and the shuddering repercussions seemed to fill the house. In the dark bedroom, the child bent over the doll. There was a slit in its belly and her fingers tore at it and twisted inside, methodically pulling out the stuffing.
I was sitting trembling on the edge of the bed. There was a wrenching pain in my side. Perhaps I had appendicitis? I rather hoped so; it was an explanation I could live with. But before deciding in its favour, there was something I had to do. I pulled on my dressing-gown and went on to the landing. Punter was there. He raised his head, but was too sleepy to do more than wave his tail languidly. The moon was bright and I could see my way without needing any other light. I went down the stairs. In the hall there was an old oak chest. I had polished it last week; while I was polishing it I had thought that I must turn out the contents, which were of a sentimental nature. I removed the vase of flowers and raised the lid of the chest. The family album was large and I found it without difficulty. I went into the sitting-room and turned on the reading-lamp. It didn’t take me long to find her. She was sitting on a chair and clutching the doll in her arms; my mother had written under the photograph, ‘Ruth with Dollie.’
It should have been perfectly obvious, of course, from the first moment that I saw the child; but I had not been prepared to accept that the unreal world of the clinic and the real world of home were now in dangerous collaboration.
Chapter Eight
The next day at breakfast I said that I was not going into the office; I felt I needed a rest. My father was pleased because he had been saying this for some time. I looked at him. He was my father again; my objectivity had not lasted long. Yet there had been a change. I could not regard him as Stewart, a person from whom I had detached myself; but neither could I return him to a time when
he was a figure to be taken for granted, accepted as one of the unalterable facts of my life.
‘Do you the world of good,’ he said. ‘Take a chair out into the garden.’
When you have a shock you should pick yourself up and get straight back into the swing of life before the effects have time to creep up on you. Give an inch, and it becomes increasingly difficult to keep your hold on normality. I searched my mind for other pieces of advice. Self-indulgence is a recipe for disaster. Yes, that was a good one. I took more toast and buttered it. Whatever else happens you have to keep going; one foot before the other, don’t mind where you’re going so long as you keep going. I assembled these bits and pieces of counsel meticulously, anxious not to leave anything out. I had no intention of doing anything about them, but I found pleasure in making as large a collection as possible to be flouted.
‘I might stay away for the rest of the week,’ I said.
‘Why not? Today is Wednesday; no point in going back on a Thursday.’
Wednesday, Thursday, Friday all to myself. Whatever would it be like?
‘You could take Punter for a walk, only don’t go windward of the Hamiltons’ or you’ll have the most awful trouble with him . . .’ He began to map out my day for me.
There was something wrong with me. If he looked at me closely he would see that I was hideously out of focus. But he had no need to look at me closely. I was his daughter, day by day and year by year he had created me, adding a line here, a shadow there, until I was safely matured. A rearrangement of the furniture in the sitting-room would have affected him deeply, but he did not look for, or expect, change in people. My mother had been more difficult to get on with because she noticed people: I hadn’t realised that before.
