Amelia, who had loved her Mother, grieved, wore black, saw less of the few people she did see, and then, after a decent interval, quietly moved to the trim little lavender-laced house she now occupied. She had no desire to meet men, nor, in fact, anyone in particular, and began to live a quiet but industrious life. Amelia’s distractions were simple, and she spent her spare time diligently applying herself to the needs of the house. The majority of this was spent repeatedly rearranging the furniture, redesigning the garden and repainting the walls of her house. These activities monopolised most of her time. She allowed certain periods for quiet, disciplined and contented thought. Amelia was rarely lonely, but when she was she simply set about briskly rebuilding a rockery, or, by some stupendous hidden reserve of strength, began to roll the lawn. At fifty she was tall, if rather angular, wore sensible negative clothes that well covered and reduced in size any parts of her body she considered too prominent. Shapeless but erect, she strode out in brogues and secretly crept about the house in stockinged feet. She had many principles, all of which were her own and strictly non-religious, although she visited church each Sunday in memory of her Mother, who had had a slightly religious bent.
Amelia survived financially on a modest income secured by her Mother’s death; never overspending nor underspending, for she was a generous contributor to the church collections. This induced the clergy to attend her regularly, which she forbore as long as it was confined to Sunday tea and an occasional call in the week to discuss some charitable project.
She was neither cranky nor unwordly in her isolation. She took the Telegraph, digested the news and prayed vaguely for the savages. She was on two committees concerned with various relief works, and generally contributed a valuable service to the community. Occasionally the committees were invited back to the house for tea—although it was an unspoken command that they should leave at six thirty. She read abstractedly, knitted feverishly for no one in particular, the only sign of her age being an occasional guilty nap after dinner.
In fact, should Amelia have ever been called to serve jury duty she would have been vouched for as the sanest, most ordered spinster in the parish.
It was some time since Anastasia and Bella had moved majestically into the grey house. It was decayed and in poor repair, but it had a gracious and a gentle retiring quality that was immediately apparent. Amelia had been pleased to live in the shadow of its fading glory, for it gave a blend of permanency to the bright and so obviously new house she had moved to. The ladies had not immediately invited her in, but had peered from behind their grubby lace curtains and appropriately summarised their new neighbour. After a few weeks they had sent in a grey-toned visiting card and she was summoned to the dim interior. She had been nervous on receiving the invitation and had knocked timidly at the heavily-cast door. After a while it was opened by an old lady in a shawl, but Amelia had difficulty in discerning her features in the gloom. Then suddenly Amelia was inside the dim hallway, and instantly blundering in the shadows she felt a sense of real revulsion. It was musty and very dark, and there was a faint but cloying smell of lavender and some other unidentifiable perfume—something rather cheap. Amelia turned and looked, almost in surprise, at the swathed figure who was now standing back by the doorway. Her surprise turned to bewilderment then consternation. She felt no horror nor fear, nor even pity—she just registered a kind of overwhelming amazement that any human being could be quite so misshapen or ugly. Each part, each limb of the woman seemed to have been pushed or bent out of shape. Moulded like a piece of plasticine, she seemed to be the creation of a child who was trying to model an extreme caricature or simply a gross misconception. Her legs were bent at an absurd angle and it seemed strange that they were able to hold the woman upright. Her hands, hideously large, hung like great hams at the end of long, over-distended arms. The trunk itself seemed too short and inadequate for these monstrosities. But the final insult to normality was the head. Like a withered apple it sat on a neck that was wizened and like a roll of parchment. The eyes, a piercing blue, were lost in the pallidity of the skin and the mouth lolled open obscenely in a permanent half grin. She wore the shawl clasped around her as if to soften the shape of her misformed body, wearing underneath some hideous clothes that sought to emphasise it.
How can she bear to be like this—how can she even live like this? was Amelia’s first impression. Then a rush of compassion overtook these first thoughts:
Poor old thing—I wonder how old she is?
But she was talking—talking out of the wretchedly lolling mouth—saying something that was impossible for Amelia to understand. She had an inescapable fear of people with stammers or throat constrictions—rarely embarrassed, she found it difficult to face their impotent mouthings and vain attempts at communication. Now, the shape of the woman and the futile stab at conversation suddenly filled her with disgust, and she wanted to draw back in case, at a last desperate attempt at contact, the creature should touch her.
With the shawl dragging and shambling in front of her, Amelia walked through the hall and down a corridor to a room at the back of the house. Trying to avoid touching the old woman and feeling guilty about it at the same time, she entered the room.
She seemed to step back—to Mother and her house—to their drawing-room. The grand piano, regaled with a livid velvet cloth, over which hung at least twenty gilded miniatures of long-dead relations; the antimacassars draped squarely across the backs of heavy leather armchairs with deep indentations in their seats and shiny rubbed arms; aspidistras, imitation tropical plants in enormous glass cases—everything an uncomfortable exaggeration of normality. Figurines, dozens of small, useless bowls, empty ugly decanters, Bibles with nests of family death notices, scrolled mantel work, bad lace, musical boxes stuffed full of pins, and ferocious china dogs. Her memories—now re-echoed in a room similar in ornament but sumptuous in effect. Any similarity to these memories of Amelia’s ended there—for each surface in the room twinkled like a myriad of stars. The portraits on the wall were badly painted and dark, but their frames glowed with lovingly applied vigour. Velvet and silver seemed to be the theme of the room, and imitation gold lacing covered mantelpiece and cupboards. The curtains, a heavy damson colour, looked thick and luxurious to feel, whilst the carpet’s heavy pile seemed to relax and cosset the feet immediately they sank into it. In the midst of this finery and seeming to revel in its period perfection sat Anastasia, still and erect in a wing chair, her hands on her lap and her head firmly and stiffly resting on the antimacassar. She looked a wonderful elderly Victorian matron, in radiant health and with a dignity that cried out to be served.
Graciously she beckoned Amelia to her.
“As you can see, I can only afford to spoil myself with my drawing-room.”
Anastasia’s age could have been anything between sixty and eighty. Her complexion was like a young girl’s and her eyes, like her sister’s, were a deep blue. She wore her clothes eccentrically, and it was obvious that she had not bought any new ones for thirty years. But the impression was magnificent, and not dispelled by the fact that Anastasia knew this and played it to the best of her ability. There was a warmth in her personality, almost a twinkle in her eye, and astonishingly little protectiveness to her misformed sister. She seemed to regard her as a cross between a paid companion and a servant.
“Do you like my room?” she suddenly asked abruptly, slightly aggressive as if expecting criticism.
“Oh yes.” Amelia hastily showed the enthusiasm she was really feeling. “It’s a beautiful room—so much like my dear Mother’s—it brings back so many happy memories.” She thought of the loved dusty bric-à-brac that her mother had falsely claimed was priceless.
Anastasia smiled like a pleased child and further conversation was terminated by the arrival of her sister with the tea trolley. They observed in every detail Amelia’s sacred four o’clock habit, and she thoroughly appreciated it.
“This is my sister Bella.” Anastasia waved vaguely in
the direction of the cripple, who was busy pouring out the tea. Amelia shuddered slightly as she watched the shaky movements of the ungainly fingers, and then tried to banish the unjustified feeling of revulsion.
This brief introduction being completed Anastasia made no further reference to Bella, nor addressed her in any way. The cripple perched herself on the edge of a deep leather armchair and seemed to be entirely abstracted. Amelia made hesitant desultory conversation to Anastasia, who regarded her with unwavering blue eyes.
“I hope,” proffered Amelia, “that you find this house to your liking.” She crossed her legs and contrived to look rather ungainly as she attempted a more nonchalant approach.
“It’s quiet—and it’s private,” returned Anastasia, and seemed to wait for a constructive reply.
“Well—it is a quiet and pleasant neighbourhood,” assured Amelia brightly. “This end of the road has a great deal of privacy, although the children are sometimes a little noisy.”
The room seemed to enclose the conversation in an aura of timelessness—a French clock chimed the half-hour and the cripple, as if at a signal, left the room. Amelia, hoping for confidences or searing stories about the past history of the absent sister, leaned forward hopefully to Anastasia. She received nothing, however, but a seemingly trite enquiry as to the comfort of her chair.
“Oh yes,” Amelia stammered, rather flurried, “a very comfortable chair.” That was a fatuous remark, she thought, and strove to find a more intelligent topic. On returning her eyes to the chair vacated by the cripple, she was shocked to see that Bella had returned noiselessly and was arranging cards in a sequence suggesting Patience. The conversation continued on light topics until Anastasia asked her if she would like some lavender to take away with her.
Taking this as a sign of dismissal Amelia began the preliminaries of her departure. This would take some time—she began by replying:
“It’s so kind—I would love some—but it’s rather like taking coals to Newcastle, you know.” Amelia heard herself laugh too heartily. “I have lavender in excess—great clumps of it all the way up my front path. It’s such a beautiful scent, isn’t it?” Her voice tailed away as she watched Anastasia’s face slowly covering with a sulky frown—she looked like a petulant child that had had something taken away from it. It was a startling change of mood, and its very eccentricity disconcerted Amelia. Just in time she pulled herself together and said:
“But I would so like a bunch of yours—somehow.”
“Then you shall have some. Bella, please go and bring a bunch of lavender for our guest.”
The cripple shuffled out and once more Amelia suppressed a mounting feeling of revulsion as she watched the idiot’s lolling parody of a face. Then she felt sorry for Bella, so dominated by Anastasia. It was intolerable that she should be treated as a servant. Still, it was not her business—yet Anastasia seemed pathetic too, with her reaction over the lavender. Cranky, she thought grimly, and shuddered involuntarily at the idea of herself ever becoming like those two strange old ladies. And yet—there was something very likeable about Anastasia.
Bella returned with the lavender and Amelia once more condemned herself as she flinched when she came into contact with the cripple’s hand as the lavender was passed to her. Bella came to the door with her after ceremonial leave had been taken of Anastasia, who had said:
“Please come again—it’s pleasant to have a little company.”
Amelia acquiesced and left, after smiling uncertainly at the cripple as she opened the door. She remained expressionless as Amelia hurried out.
She saw no more of them, except for occasional glimpses in the garden, for three years.
It’s incredible that they never come out—or go into the village, Amelia thought—in fact she thought a great deal about them. During the course of the next three years she did everything that the principles and restrictions of her good neighbourliness would permit. She regularly sent in offerings of her home-made jam—a peculiar concoction that went loosely under the heading of damson. She invited them back to tea three times, and at the third refusal sadly gave up. Either she had put a foot very badly wrong during her first and only visit, or they simply refused to stir out of the confines of the grey house. Twice she had gone to the door and asked if she could run any errands in the village for them. Each time she had been met at the door by Bella and had been forced to communicate with her. Amelia assumed the voice that she either used to speak to foreigners in the street or to naughty children outside her home. She enunciated each word slowly and carefully with a fixed smile on her face. Gradually she began to understand Bella’s gasping diction, and her revulsion became replaced by a little more compassion. But each time she received a negative reply—Anastasia was quite well—no, there was nothing that Amelia could do for them. She then began to respect their demand for privacy and ceased calling.
Tradesmen called regularly at the grey house and were dealt with by Bella. The ladies seemed to want very little and they knew no one. Amelia would sometimes see Bella picking bunches of lavender in the front garden, but any attempt at conversation failed dismally.
The part of the grey house that used to fascinate Amelia was the derelict tailor’s shop that seemed to serve the ladies as a repository for unwanted garments. It seemed ludicrous that they should have so many. A single electric bulb lit the interior of the derelict shop, and the large bay windows were half covered by grubby blankets, blocking any attempt at trying to see inside. From a height, however, Amelia could see inside. The clothes were in great mounds on the old shop counters, and at night the grotesque shape of Bella could quite often be seen moving amongst them. Whatever she did with them, or for whatever reason she bought them, remained a mystery to the intensely curious Amelia.
One early November morning Amelia found difficulty in sleeping. Continuously dozing, she was incessantly disturbed by a slow but monotonous banging. She was an early riser, but now it was only six and normally she allowed herself at least another hour in bed. But the unending banging suddenly became too much for her, and clad in a voluminous dressing-gown, she climbed regretfully out of bed and opened her bedroom window. There was hardly a streak of light and the air outside was damp with an icy wind. Her bedroom overlooked the front garden and she could just see the front door of the grey house. It was unlatched and crashing open and shut in the wind.
Amelia’s first reaction was irritation; she thought longingly of the warmth of her bed and the unwelcome atmosphere outside, but it would be impossible to sleep with the continuous slamming of the front door. Looking out again Amelia could see the hall light on in the grey house. Severely reprimanding herself for extreme selfishness and with the sudden realisation that something could be wrong, she made a Decision. She prided herself on her Decisions, for years past having made none. Now self-dependence induced certain material and emotional decisions, and Amelia was proud that she made them quickly and rarely regretted it. So now, having made the Decision, she threw off her dressing-gown, nightgown, bedsocks and various other sleeping paraphernalia and hurriedly dressed. Over her normal attire she threw on three more shapeless cardigans for good measure, flinging an extraordinary large overcoat over them all. Well equipped Amelia went downstairs, opened her own front door and shivered in the dank early morning air. There seemed to be ridges of ice and hoar-frost everywhere and her progress was cautious and unsteady. Shakily she reached the front door of the grey house and peered inside the hall. Every electric light seemed to be burning downstairs and fearfully Amelia stepped inside.
The scent of lavender still seemed to pervade the house, mixed once more with the obnoxious smell of cheap perfume that she had noticed before. There was no movement—not a sound could she hear from any part of the house. Yet the house, in its stillness, seemed alive and waiting—Amelia ignored her unlikely fancies and tiptoed down the hall. Still no movement, but she could not free herself of the charged atmosphere, the keyed up feeling that precedes some inevitable event
. Vaguely, after three years, she remembered the way to the drawing-room. She was now quite numb with fear. The silence was the worst; it seemed to pervade her as she stood for a moment decisionless and only too vulnerable to the wild panic that made her break out into a sweat.
“Please God—Please Lord—take care of me.”
She moved stiffly forward, her legs moving like a robot’s, and then she felt the fear, strangely like the traditional ‘clammy hand’ creeping upon her. There was no anticlimax—the drawing-room door was open and inside was complete desolation. The room was icy cold and there must have been at least two inches of dust on every item in it. The stillness she had first felt in the hall seemed to have a passive life of its own in here—it brooded amongst the utter despondency of the dust-soaked furniture. But everything was in its place, untouched, although increasing neglect had left the room indescribably filthy.
The numbing fear returned as the shaking ceased, and Amelia stood stock-still in the middle of the chaos. She simply waited and listened as some instinct told her that something was about to happen. Then it came—she could hardly recognise it at first—it was a sob, like a gulp. It came once and was followed by a gulf of silence. Then came another—a sort of broken sob, cut off halfway through and somehow very forced. As it came a third time Amelia’s reactions returned, and caring nothing about the noise she made she ran from the drawing-room into the hall. The sudden new fear that had come to her proved false—the front door was open and outside there was a silvery dawn. She had felt, standing in the devastated drawing-room, that the front door would be closed and the cripple would be descending the stairs, emitting the broken sob that seemed half animal to Amelia. That would be more than she could stand. She muttered a swift prayer of thanks as she passed through the open door and breathed in the air. As she went into her own front garden her breath caught as she smelt lavender—and somehow with the smell of it came the impossible memory of the hall; the lavender smell in the grey house mingled with that of the cheap perfume. Amelia hurried inside and closed her front door.
A Pocketful of Rye Page 11
