by MARY HOCKING
I know you are unable to cope with too many people, so I won’t allow you to be invaded by the Byrnes; but I would like to come on my own if this is permitted. I don’t want to give Linnie any trouble and should be happy to stay in a b. & b. in Stroud. It is many years since I had any time to myself. My family regard me as being totally domesticated and it would do them no harm to know that I am capable of surviving in the wild.
Love, much, much love, from us all to you and Linnie,
Constance
Sussex
September, 1967
Sheila, my dear,
I do so wish we might have recourse to that arrogant, demanding abomination, the telephone. You must cease your membership of the Non-Telephone-TV-User Society. I need to speak to you so that you can hear the warmth and utter conviction with which I assure you that all this self-loathing is a symptom of weakness, just as aching limbs and throbbing head are symptoms of flu.
You are not useless, selfish, a failure; you are ill, Sheila. If proof were needed, your eulogy of me would serve. Mothering and organisational skills: who can this paragon be? Certainly no one my family would recognise. When you make these foolish comparisons, remember that so far as household tasks are concerned, I have a labour force at my disposal. Kathleen and Cuillane do a certain amount of house cleaning, resentfully, as befits young people of fifteen and eighteen respectively. Gillian, at ten, actually likes cooking; which is to be encouraged, being the first sign of independent life in one who has until now been too much under the influence of her twin.
James is a nice lad, but, like Kathleen, more than a mite thrustful. Since it came upon Gillian that the one great art form is to be discovered in the kitchen, he has had to exercise his leadership skills on Stephen. This is not so rewarding as it might seem, because even when Stephen gives the outward appearance of co-operating, one is never entirely sure what is going on within. ‘You would make a good spy,’ I heard James say last week. ‘Except that you would be caught because you are so careless.’ James would not make a good spy. It is perhaps a good thing in one who has a strong temper that storm signals should be unmistakably visible so that those in danger can take cover; but, hothead though he may be, he is a robust lad and works well in the garden under supervision, provided it is accepted that the labourer is worthy of his hire.
Peg likes mending. When she was young she cared for her dolls tenderly, unlike Kathleen, who beat hers up. My mother never ceases to point out, ‘That one is a real little mother.’ Now, dolls discarded, she looks about for animate substitutes. We are all, adults, children, animals, subjected to Peg’s mothering. Our long- suffering lurcher is at this moment having his paw bound up. So, you see, even the cherishing is now in the hands of an eight-year-old.
And then there is Fergus, without whom . . . I won’t say we haven’t had our difficult patches, but they are part of the weathering. He said the other week that he would like to run a pharmacy in a village. ‘In Ireland, perhaps. A small town in Ireland.’ I have the impression something in him is spent, that if he had not had seven children and a wife to support he might have broken loose and done work more to his liking. Who knows? The fact is, we did marry and have seven children. What we might otherwise have done is not relevant.
What I’m trying to say, as I ramble on, is, ‘Don’t make the mistake I made with you and Miles.’ The Byrnes are not the ideal family. Fergus and I are only together because we have become part of the furniture of each other’s life - a bit worn here, a place there that won’t bear much weight, some repairs visible, and faded overall, but moulded by our requirements and cherished accordingly.
Think how much we all love you and try to believe you are worth all our care and concern.
Love,
Constance
P.S. I have had a long letter from Toby. Life in the desert is the only life; just as two months ago, there was nothing to compare to the rarefied atmosphere of the high sierra. We shall make a travel writer of the lad yet.
Sussex
October, 1967
My dear Sheila,
Linnie tells me she’s been reading my letters to you and will I please produce a new one. The request comes opportunely. A week ago the police arrested the man who lived solitary with his wife at the Manderley house. Apparently, the house was full of stolen objects, a modern treasure horde. The value of its contents increases with the telling; paintings of humble origin are now attributed to Rubens.
Mrs George Raft (her name is really Mrs Shipman), never previously having set foot in any of our houses, was suddenly in one or other of them most of the day, protesting at the wickedness of authority. She says, ‘He just liked having nice things. And he looked after them so well. The people they’re going back to will never look after that silver the way he did.’ One is tempted to have the same feeling of sympathy towards the Shipmans as to an adoptive couple forced to return their charges to the natural parents.
There is obviously a difference in our conception of how life is to be lived. It is possible, of course, that she does not have concepts. I would find it more accurate to describe her as conceptless than innocent. She must be quite young for she is plump without being flabby and dimples come and go in her cheeks without leaving a trace, let alone a furrow. Yet I would never think of her as carefree. She has big china-blue eyes which give an odd impression of not performing the usual functions of observation and I am never sure when she looks at me whether she has me in focus or whether to her I am merely an animated blur. She seems as tenuously related to her surroundings as a baby, yet she evinces none of a baby’s delight in daily discovery; of all the emotions those big eyes could register, surprise is the one I would least expect to see.
‘Did your husband ever sell any of the paintings?’ I asked, not convinced that it was a matter of good stewardship.
‘That’s what my solicitor keeps saying,’ she said resentfully. ‘Did I know about the transactions, that’s what he says.’
She had been with me an hour on this occasion and I could see I would have to ask her to stay to lunch. It seemed not unreasonable that she should satisfy my curiosity in return. ‘And did you know? I mean, did they come and go, your treasures? Did one replace another from time to time?’
‘I wouldn’t have noticed. One silver teapot is much like another. As for the paintings - fat women with off-the-shoulder dresses, off the breast sometimes.’ She pursed her rosebud mouth in disapproval. ‘If you’re as fat as that you can’t get away with it.’
It seems inconceivable she should be as naïve as she pretends. Yet her sense of grievance is genuine enough.
‘We saw so little of you,’ I said, trying to introduce a note of reality into our discussion over lunch. ‘You never accepted invitations or invited anyone into your house. Why was that?’
‘I can’t be bothered with entertaining. I’m no cook. And then there was the stuff. You can’t trust people with your belongings. Look what’s happened to us now.’ She put down her coffee cup. ‘I’m getting short of cash. How am I supposed to live while all this is going on?’
‘Perhaps you could get a job,’ I suggested. She left shortly after this, saying she intended to call on the Vicar.
As I washed up I reflected that shameful though it may be, there is no doubt that this episode has brightened the village considerably. No wonder we are all such avid readers of detective stories; the absence of police intervention in our lives is obviously a loss for which we have to find a substitute. At teatime I rang the vicarage.
‘Is Mrs Shipman still with you?’ I asked the Vicar’s wife.
‘Oh, goodness! Is she on her way here?’
‘She was, about two hours ago.’
‘Well, she didn’t arrive.’
Now that we were so well into the detective situation, we both recognised the ominous phraseology. The Vicar’s wife insisted I should go round to the Shipmans’ house to make sure all was well. ‘And you must ring me back and reassure me,’ she said eagerly
.
The door-bell did not seem to work and the knocker was stiff. The letter box had one of those brushes attached which prevents draughts and discourages prying eyes. I walked round the untidy flowerbeds and peered in windows, holding my breath in anticipation. The sitting-room betrayed no sign of occupation, no books or newspapers, not even an ashtray with cigarette ends in it. The kitchen bore witness to Mrs Shipman’s statement that she was no cook: neither crockery nor pans had been disturbed. I went home and rang the vicarage. This time I spoke to the Vicar, who sounded exasperated but allowed himself to be persuaded by his wife that he should accompany me in a search for Mrs Shipman.
We walked in the direction of the river. Physically, Mrs Shipman seemed unsuited to downland. As you probably remember, between the village and the river there is a stretch of water meadows intersected by numerous channels. We walked beside a channel overhung with willows. The bank on one side is a foot above the meadow and walking along this ridge we could see the flat, waterlogged fields stretching so far into the distance the river itself was hidden, although we could see people walking dogs along its banks. There were sheep in the near field, cows in the far fields. No sign of Mrs Shipman, upright or horizontal. We called to the dog-walkers but they were too far ahead to hear us. Nothing in their behaviour indicated they had come across anything untoward. The Vicar, neither a walker nor a detective story reader, was getting tetchy.
Half-way across the field I saw a sheep lying on its back. It was so still that at first I thought it was dead; but it must have been gathering strength for further effort, for suddenly it rolled from side to side, its little hooves stabbing the air unavailingly. Then it was still again, legs sticking up like dead twigs. The Vicar and I crossed to it. The poor thing was panting with exertion or fright. The Vicar, reluctantly accepting the role of good shepherd, gingerly eased a boot beneath the backbone while I tugged at the heavy fleece. The sheep made a convulsive effort and righted itself, whereupon it relieved itself mightily.
‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘I hope it’s going to be as simple as that with Mrs Shipman.’ The Vicar, his face screwed up in distaste, gazed in the direction of the village, his eyes homing in on the church spire. Until then I had looked upon this as an afternoon’s outing not unpleasantly spiced with drama; now the possibility that we might actually find her face down in the river made my legs tremble. But we saw no sign of her, dead or alive. When we returned to the vicarage, the Vicar telephoned the police station in town.
By now I felt upset and guilty. The seriousness of the matter was emphasised by the visit of a police inspector, who told me that it had been very foolish to set out on a search without informing the proper authorities. He asked whether Mrs Shipman had seemed in a distressed state when she left me. I told him she hadn’t been exactly happy, but I hadn’t felt she was distressed in the way he meant. He thought I was a tiresome, hair-splitting woman.
Peg and the twins had returned from school and were quarrelling in the garden. As the Inspector and I talked, Stephen wheeled his bicycle past the window and propped it against Fergus’s shed. After a few words with James he came into the house.
‘That poison Dad’s brewing smells awful,’ he called out.
‘My husband has taken to brewing his own beer,’ I explained to the Inspector. It is remarkable how lame the truth can sound when someone else has a livelier scenario to hand.
Stephen came into the room and did a guilty start which would have ensured him a part in any Victorian melodrama. The Inspector, a tired, heavy man, was unamused.
‘We are a little concerned about Mrs Shipman,’ I said to Stephen, endeavouring to signal to him that the Inspector and I were at one and that he was to co-operate with us. ‘Did you by any chance see her on your way home?’
The Inspector said, ‘I would prefer to ask the questions, if you don’t mind, Ma’am.’
Silence ensued. It gave the Inspector time to observe Stephen. You know how it is with Stephen; he has something of Fergus in him and finds strict adherence to factual truth dull. When he tells me what has happened at school I have difficulty in distinguishing between what I am expected to believe and what is offered for my enjoyment. This, of course, does not justify his telling the inspector that he had seen Mrs Shipman riding pillion on PC Barker’s motor scooter. Stephen’s blond hair and angular features give him a Saxon look which arouses expectations of straightforward reliability. People get muddled about him. I could see the Inspector was muddled, confronted by a youth who promised to deal straight and turned out to be the joker in the pack.
The Inspector said, ‘Don’t get clever with me, lad. Did you or did you not see Mrs Shipman on your way home?’
Stephen appeared to consider and then asked, with every appearance of craftiness, ‘Why do you want her?’
The Inspector’s neck went red but he answered with commendable restraint, ‘I want her because your mother has reported her missing.’
Stephen said to me, ‘That wasn’t very sporting of you.’
‘He hasn’t seen her,’ I said hastily. ‘He’s at the age when they have to tease.’
‘I’ve got two of my own.’ But I could see that hadn’t reconciled him to this particular one. It is a bad policy to get on the wrong side of the police, so I persuaded him to have a cup of tea. Stephen went up to his room to contemplate the sad fact that there is a Judas in every person, even one’s own mother.
As the Inspector was leaving, Fergus arrived home from a trip to Reading. When we told him what had happened, he said he had seen Mrs Shipman at the station, waking for the London train.
‘Perhaps she has gone to see her solicitor,’ I suggested.
‘Gone back on the game, more like,’ the Inspector said sourly.
I blame myself for not offering to lend her something from the housekeeping to tide her over.
There it is, our little drama. What do you make of it? It says much for Mrs Shipman’s persuasive powers that we prefer to think of her as a victim, the more so now that we know to what lengths she has been driven by her misfortunes. I hear that the Vicar prayed for her at Matins last Sunday. Several ladies of the parish plan to contact the Salvation Army in the hope that they may gain information on her whereabouts. Kathleen is considering the probation service as a future career.
I hope you feel well enough to stay with your parents in Ealing for Christmas. It is no use suggesting a visit here, too noisy and overpopulated. I will try to come to you for a few days at the beginning of December.
I am to be received into the Catholic Church next Sunday. Pray for me.
We all send our love to you and Linnie,
Constance
Sussex
December, 1967
My dear Sheila,
What a splendid Christmas present for you. You say you cannot cope with it, but your part is done. The publishers will take care of the printing, and if you don’t feel able to do the proof-reading, Linnie will do it for you.
Let it lie in your mind, my love, and you will gradually see what a blessing this is; a new life springing from the darkness. We are all so delighted and send our love to you and Linnie and your parents.
Constance
Sussex
April, 1968
My dear Sheila,
I am up at six o’clock to write this letter. The magnolia outside the front door is a mass of blossom, its laden Skirts sweeping the lawn. Beyond, the trunks of silver birches shine in a white mist; the other trees are as yet only lightly sketched on the day. The grass is combed with silver. There are primroses and primula between the cracks in the paving stones. I must do this daily. It will refresh my soul and sweeten my nature.
You did even better, walking while the earth was still steaming. I like to visualise you and Linnie on the heath - an old crone and a young girl, you say - but I’ll have none of that; I see the mist parting to reveal two timeless figures walking slowly side by side. You are not to imagine yourself as woebegone as Tess. Your sense of ti
ming is much sharper; had you stabbed the dastardly Alec D’Urberville it would have been long before Chapter 56.
I can understand that Linnie found it frightening, some people have this horror of great space; but you must embrace it, if you feel that its vast disinterestedness is healing. Don’t let other people’s fears drive you back into that cottage where the walls close in on you. I am not so sure about the lone nocturnal walks and should be happier had you a dog.
Let me have news of the progress of the book.
Love,
Constance
Sussex
August, 1968
My long lost friend.
It was good to have news direct from your pen again, even though Linnie had faithfully informed us of your progress. Your spectacular progress, it would seem. You draw a vivid picture of these publishing folk. It must be exciting for you; the first stimulating contacts you have made since the days when you handled Miles’s affairs. But isn’t this all happening rather fast? Even allowing for your phenomenal powers of recovery, time is needed for proper healing.
I was sorry you weren’t able to come to us during the summer, but perhaps it was as well since we are not at our best just now. Kathleen has set her face against university, which she dismisses as élitist. Fergus pointed out that it would continue to be an élitist education if people like her turned their backs on it; but to no avail. She is taking a social science course at the technical college. We are lectured daily on the evils of the class system and the baleful influence of the family. She is at an age where to shock is as necessary as scratching an itch.
We are taking her and Cuillane out to supper tonight before going to the local theatre. This will involve arguments about dress. Cuillane, in her absurd miniskirt, is like some shy plant peeled of its early foliage; while Kathleen’s long hair does service for a skin. Fergus says he doesn’t care to be seen with them and I say, to give myself courage, ‘Not only will you be seen with them, but you will be seen to be enjoying yourself. All will be well. As soon as we arrive at the restaurant and encounter the first disapproving glance, Fergus will behave as if he was escorting two princesses.
