by MARY HOCKING
The sycamore beyond the window had the wind in it, I could hear the dry rustle of the foliage; there were bands of purplish cloud above the tree. Iris said sharply, ‘Close that window! The wind will blow these papers everywhere.’
‘Does it matter?’ I welcomed the intervention of the wind.
‘Matter?’ She sprang to her feet and ran to the window, slamming it shut, a swirl of movement which further disarranged the papers on the floor. She looked at me, her eyes snapping open and shut angrily. ‘You are thinking of just a few pieces of paper, aren’t you, a silly game? But it’s much more than that. I always felt it was so unfair that men had made all the great voyages of discovery. Women have been liberated far too late to share in that. But this, this is the last unexplored territory. Doesn’t it excite you? The last kingdom to be conquered, the most intractable, the most deeply defended . . .’
‘You sound like Dr. Laver.’
‘Don’t be misled. I’m not under Dr. Laver’s influence and I don’t intend to go too far with this myself; but it is a technique which I can see will be very useful in helping people who are sick.’
‘You’re not accepting the challenge of the last undiscovered territory, then?’
‘What a sharp little tongue you have, Ruth. I’m certainly accepting the challenge. All I am saying is that if one is to pursue it effectively a certain objectivity will be necessary and that can best be achieved by research which doesn’t involve self-participation at a level where one loses objectivity . . . or something like that. I haven’t thought it through yet.’ She moved another piece of paper and seemed satisfied with the result. ‘Dr. Laver has been helpful, of course; up to a point, he is insightful. But he is not indispensable.’
I said, ‘That’s good, then,’ and handed her the letter from the Foundation. She sat on the edge of the table and read it through; then she folded it and gazed at the jig-saw arrangement on the floor as though wondering where the letter might be fitted into it. She had the look I had seen when she read a report on a new case which she thought had exciting possibilities, a certain jubilation which she could never quite restrain although she was aware that it was unprofessional. She handed the letter to me. ‘Interesting, Ruth, don’t you think? Very interesting.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘I don’t think I’m going to ask that.’ She gave me a shrewd, intelligent look, already making calculations about something that was beyond my understanding of the situation.
‘But won’t you have to take it up with the Foundation?’ I said. ‘They will ask questions.’
‘The Foundation is in a lot of trouble as it is. I’m sure they would not want us to involve them in any more publicity.’
‘So what will you do?’
‘When Douglas and Di come in, we will have a talk about it. You had better join us.’
I did not want to join them. I wanted to take them all and place them some distance away, preferably out in the garden; I had the sensation that I could no longer focus on them at close quarters. When Iris had collected her papers and gone to her room, I opened the window and stood looking out, waiting for the rain to come. It was badly needed, there were bare patches in the lawn and the flowers drooped. The waves of agitation settled slowly after Iris’s departure.
There was a lot of work to be done but I had great difficulty in organising myself and by the time that Iris telephoned to ask me to come to her room, I had typed only two letters.
Douglas and Di had read the letter when I arrived. Douglas was unimpressed. He said that as the letter had gone astray there must be other letters which had also gone astray which would have explained the whole thing if only they had reached us. His face was set in lines of stubborn resistance and it was obvious that he had no intention of accepting any other hypothesis; he had enough problems and was not prepared to contemplate any addition to them. Di, who had been gazing at her arms which glowed mahogany in the dim light, looked up and said, ‘The Foundation must know he’s here. Someone has to pay his salary; he’s not doing this for love.’
Iris looked at her in surprise. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘How do you imagine he’s living, for Christ’s sake!’
None of us knew, and while we were speculating, Mrs. Libnitz came to tell us that Dr. Laver had telephoned to say that he had ‘flu and would not be able to come to the clinic until the middle of next week.
‘Where was he telephoning from?’ Iris asked.
‘How would I know? I did not ask.’
‘I wish you would put these calls through to me or Ruth.’
‘He said he does not want to talk to either of you,’ Mrs. Libnitz said with satisfaction and withdrew.
‘I think this may be the last we shall see of Dr. Laver.’ Iris darted a triumphant look at Douglas. ‘But should he return in a few days, I shall have had time to finalise certain arrangements. I think we may able to work this out quite satisfactorily. Don’t worry.’
‘I don’t see any need to worry,’ Douglas replied. ‘There is a lot of ‘flu about.’
Di, who had walked across to the window, exclaimed, ‘It’s raining! I left the top of Kenny’s car down; he’ll be wild.’ This was obviously more important to her than anything that had happened in the clinic.
It rained all the afternoon, soft, quiet, undramatic rain, but very persevering, one could smell the earth yielding to it. The birds made the most of it. The crackle and vibrancy in the air had gone by the time I left the office. Di, who had spent the afternoon sponging down Kenny’s car, offered me a lift, but I refused and set out to walk through the sodden lanes. The dust had been damped down and there was a smell I seemed not to have noticed for a long time, a smell of living, growing things all aroimd me. I remembered how, half my life ago, I had splashed through this lane chanting, ‘Little trotty wagtail, you nimble all about, and in the dimpling water pudge you waddle in and out. . .’ The clouds were breaking up now and as I walked the rain gradually ceased. It was cool and the fields did not steam when the sun came out; everything was clear and translucent. When I reached home I changed into slacks and started weeding the flower borders.
On Thursday evening, Eleanor telephoned. Stewart spoke to her. When he came into the kitchen where I was doing the ironing, he said, ‘Eleanor is coming for the week-end.’ He offered no comment. So, I was to be informed of Eleanor’s visit but not consulted! I pressed the iron down hard and burnt the collar of my blouse. Stewart, who had been watching me, said, ‘Oh, darling, not that pretty blouse! Let me buy you another one.’
‘It’s all right. I’ve had it a long time.’ But I felt tears in my eyes as I put it aside.
Stewart was out watering the lawn on Friday evening when Eleanor arrived. I heard them talking in the garden. Punter came trotting in proudly carrying her handbag. ‘You’re quite a favourite,’ I told her when she followed some minutes later. Stewart put her suitcase down in the hall and said he would take it upstairs when he had finished in the garden. I took Eleanor into the drawing-room and poured her a gin and tonic. She watched to make sure I was not too heavy-handed with the tonic.
‘It’s good to get away from London,’ she said. ‘The heat is dreadful now.’
‘I was up there last week-end.’
‘You should have stayed with me.’ She sipped her drink appreciatively. ‘In fact, if you ever wanted it while I’m away, you’d be welcome to use the flat.’
‘I wouldn’t have anything so valuable to offer in exchange,’ I said.
She frowned into her gin and tonic; for a moment it seemed she would not follow this up, but then she thought better of it. ‘Are we talking about the property value of a flat in South Kensington, or the quality of life?’ She gave me a straight, but not unpleasant look.
‘A mixture of both, I suppose,’ I temporised. ‘It’s a beautiful flat and it’s your own, you’ve furnished it and you run it your way.’
‘I leave my flat at eight-thirty every morning and I return after six
,’ she said drily. ‘I don’t furnish my office or run it my way. The business world is very competitive. Competition is healthy for business, but not for people over forty. I’m tired of competing, Ruth.’
‘Your flat seems so much a part of your personality,’ I protested. ‘You wouldn’t ever think of giving it up, surely? You chose the furniture so carefully; I remember Mother telling me how you went round all the junk shops searching for the treasures one could still find in those days. And you did it all yourself, Eleanor. You’re so self-sufficient.’
‘When I took on the flat I had to be self-sufficient.’ She was quite unmoved by my eloquence. ‘If I ever give it up I shall have to take stock and decide what goes with me and what it is necessary to leave behind. Some of the furniture wouldn’t be suitable anywhere but in a London flat.’
If she had reached the stock-taking stage there were items I thought should be brought to her notice.
‘My mother always missed London so much,’ I said. ‘She found life in the country very dull.’
‘Life anywhere is dull if you don’t get the measure of it,’ Eleanor answered. ‘Your mother was mistress of a comfortable house which is not so sizable that it can’t be run efficiently and without fuss.’
‘But village life is awful if you’re not sociable.’
Eleanor, who was not sociable, was equal to this. ‘Being useful is much more important in village life than being sociable. As soon as the ladies of the various voluntary organizations set eyes on a newcomer they ask themselves one question: could we be sure that any task she undertook would be carried out effectively? If the answer is “yes” the newcomer will be able to play her part in village life.’
‘I don’t think Mother looked at it that way,’ I said. ‘She wanted . . .’
‘That was your mother’s trouble; she always decided what she wanted without considering what was available to her.’
I could think of nothing further to say. Eleanor was sipping her second gin and tonic and reading Country Life when Stewart joined us. ‘What would you like to do tomorrow?’ he asked her. ‘You haven’t seen much of the country round here. I could take you for a drive.’
‘It’s rather hot, isn’t it? I would settle for sitting in the garden if we could go out in the evening.’
‘I’ll see if I can book a table at The Lamb and Flag.’ He looked hopefully at me. I said that I was going to Finals Day at Weston Market Tennis Club and did not know when I would be back. Eleanor turned over the pages of Country Life. Stewart, looking rather dismayed, went into the hall to telephone. ‘The Lamb and Flag are fully booked,’ he said when he returned. ‘But I’ve managed to get us a table at Markby’s; it’s an old country house turned restaurant, and I’ve heard that it’s good.’ Markby’s was supposed to be very expensive, but I did not think it was this that had shaken him.
Eleanor said, ‘It sounds interesting.’ Her calm reaction was calculated not to increase his perturbation. She gave him a brief smile and went on turning the pages of Country Life. Stewart rubbed his hands together and looked round the room in search of activity. Punter, misunderstanding, picked himself up from the hearth-rug, wagging his tail.
‘Yes!’ Stewart acknowledged the signal with relief. ‘You shall have your exercise, my hound.’ He and Punter departed in a flurry of nervous excitement. Eleanor put down the copy of Country Life and sat back in her chair; she did not move her head but her eyes looked about the room. I was reminded as I looked at her of how I had sat on the bed in a foreign hotel, glad to have arrived, wondering what the place would hold for me during the time I would spend in it. I sensed in Eleanor that blend of travel weariness and anticipation held in check by a reserve which is akin to fear that one experiences in the first moments of being alone in an alien place. She looked into the mirror and her eyes met mine.
‘I didn’t know you still belonged to a tennis club,’ she said.
‘I don’t, but some of my friends do.’
She nodded her head, accepting that I did not intend to say any more. I think she was satisfied that I would not be actively hostile, and this was the most that she would expect of me.
I went to the Finals Day in the afternoon and sat watching an indifferent men’s doubles with Peggy, my predecessor as clinic secretary.
‘How is your father taking things now?’ she asked as the server’s ball thudded into the bottom of the net for the umpteenth time.
‘At present he is sitting in the garden with my aunt Eleanor,’ I said. ‘I think she intends to marry him.’
‘No, really? That’s something I couldn’t do. I’d have to be the first.’ Peggy’s eyes rested complacently on her brawny husband who was knocking up on a far court preparatory to playing in the mixed doubles final. ‘How old is your aunt?’
‘Late forties, I suppose.’
‘And never been married?’ Her voice was sharp with disapproval, as though Eleanor was stealing a march on those who had laboured all day in the vineyard. ‘I suppose it’s better than living alone, but she won’t find marriage easy.’
‘I think she’ll make something of it.’ I spoke in defence of Eleanor, but I meant it. I was beginning to perceive that Eleanor’s life with my father might be hampered and restricted, but that Eleanor herself would not necessarily be diminished by this. I did not know how this trick was worked, but I had a feeling Eleanor was going to bring it off. The thought made me feel humble and hollow at the same time.
I returned late that evening. Stewart and Eleanor had only been in the house for a few minutes; they seemed in good spirits in a quiet, more relaxed way. Stewart told me that Markby’s was good and proceeded to describe the good features in detail as though they were a credit to himself. As he spoke I could see his confidence returning; this outing with Eleanor was the first enterprise of consequence he had undertaken since my mother died and it had been a success. A prospect was opening out before him. Eleanor watched him, smiling and making no attempt to interrupt. I saw to my surprise that this was not entirely forbearance; for one thing, she was sitting far too comfortably for one who is being forbearing. Her face looked comfortable, too. Eleanor intended to be kind to Stewart and was already finding pleasure in it. She would watch life coming back to him, the strain leaving the eyes, the mouth growing less wary, the sense of humour restored; and she would think to herself, ‘I did that.’ Perhaps in time she would come to see it as the most creative act of her life and because of this she would come to love him.
‘They really are going to get married,’ I said to myself as I undressed in my bedroom. It was inconceivable, but it was happening. Stewart and Eleanor were attempting to create a relationship which, although limited, would give them a life together which would not be without its rewards. In deference to my mother’s memory they would probably not marry this year; but that would not prevent Eleanor from beginning to make herself a place here. My poor mother, how soon she had been usurped! Even as I thought this, I remembered that when I was cleaning out her wardrobe I had thought there would be more room for my own things. Then, I had dismissed the thought of as little significance; but now I understood better what had prompted it. I had realised that now there was room for me to become myself. But it was one thing to make abstract statements, it was quite another to be faced with the practical reality. Soon, whether I liked it or not, I would be alone, and I had never been alone in my life.
As I combed my hair, I thought of the child with the doll, the young girl aware of her mother and the farmer, the older girl in the attic with the lovely family. I had seen the child and the girls, and now I looked in the mirror at the woman and it seemed to me that they were part of a continuing process, that my whole life was a slow coming into being. I was not sure what this meant, except that there was another person towards whom I was moving even now, and that I was frightened of her.
Chapter Twelve
On the following Monday I had a letter from Hilda. She began by saying that the operation had not been as serious
as she had feared it might be. She then went on, ‘It has given me time to think, which is something I have been unable to do in recent years. You must have realised when you saw me that I was not happy. In fact, even now I hardly dare think about how unhappy I have been. My talk with you was a great help. You will be surprised when I tell you why. I have decided I cannot go on like this— physically, I think nursing will be too much for me in future. But that is not all. I am not the dedicated nurse you imagine; there has been too much nursing in my life and too little else. So, Ruth, I am leaving London and going to live in my country cottage. Can you guess what I am going to do there? You should be able to because you gave me the idea. I am going to have a tea-shop! Now, why don’t you come and join me, dear? There is nothing I would like more. But I sometimes suspect that you find a little of me goes a long way. And if that is so, I have another idea. Aunty May left me so much and nothing to you because of not approving of your mother, and it has always been on my conscience. Now, Ruth, I would like you to have the lease of the London house. When you were staying with me I could not help but notice how you looked around it, thinking what you would have done with it had it been yours. Think about it, dear. You could give it a try and if it didn’t work out you could still come and help me in the teashop. Country life might have mellowed me by then and you would find me easier to get on with! . . .’
