by MARY HOCKING
He said, desperate to recall her, ‘When you make so little of the things that matter to me, you make little of me, too. Do you realise that?’
She turned to him in distress. ‘But I don’t make little of the things that matter to you, Edward. Only now you spoke of the love of music we share, of our walks in the park to which I look forward each day.’
‘You spoke of them as pleasure.’
‘I think it was you who did that, Edward. I but followed you.’
‘But with such contempt. You have a contempt for the pleasures of my mind.’
‘Never, Edward! Oh, believe me, my dear, I have the greatest respect for your mind.’ She clasped her hands together in a gesture that was both eager and supplicating. ‘I see you as a good householder, making room for the proper furniture with which you can live so that your mind becomes a repository of treasures.’ She saw that her words were not reaching him, so icy was his despair. ‘It is only that we respond in different ways that makes this difficulty between us. If I could but make you understand!’ She turned her head to one side and looked at the shadows gathering beyond the circle of light shed by the lamp; when she spoke it seemed as if she was addressing some unseen person. This was her only way of confiding her deeper thoughts.
‘You are so cultured, Edward, and you have such a depth of knowledge, that you must make allowance for my lack. I am incapable of the kind of appreciation that you are able to give to a work of art. But for me, sometimes, very rarely, there is a moment of recognition, the sharing of an experience – my own experience, clarified, beatified, even. It is like coming to a cave in a wild, unpopulated place and finding a painting, or a tool even, that tells me someone has been there before me – it’s not the disappointment of the explorer who wants to venture where no human has been, for whom the importance is to be the first, but the tremendous reassurance that in the remotest place humanity has existed and left this message from thousands of years ago. That Greek sculpture of the shepherd boy, that you thought rudimentary – archaic, I think you told me – affected me in that way, direct, without intermediary.’
He looked at her, scarcely able to believe that she could refer to that time in Greece when he had first realised the gulf between them, had stood on its giddying brink.
She was feeling her way towards something that was very difficult for her, but she went on, wanting to make a gift to him, however imperfectly articulated. ‘Perhaps because I haven’t your learning, experiences like that don’t usually come to me in art galleries or museums; it is places that seem to confront me in that way.’ She paused to reflect on this, then nodded. ‘Yes, confront. The moor confronts me.’
His face was bloodless, nostrils pinched, the lips dry and puckered; when he was like this he seemed withered to the bone. After a time, perhaps no more than a matter of seconds although to him it seemed like minutes, she turned towards him. ‘Edward?’
He roused himself. ‘What nonsense you have been talking, my dear. I see that we must not discuss, it tires your brain.’ He got up and went to the window to draw the curtains. When he turned she had picked up a book that she had earlier laid on the stool by the fire. There were bright spots of colour on her cheeks that he did not much like, but her face seemed composed, even haughty. There was a point beyond which she would not be driven in her efforts to comfort him. At such times, his fears for her health became disquiet about the woman herself.
‘I thought we might make an excursion tomorrow,’ he said. ‘A change of scene would be pleasant and I recall when we were last here there was a delightful village in a wooded valley with a stream running through it. The colour of the trees should be superb now.’ She said, without looking up, ‘Yes, that would be agreeable.’
‘That is, if you would enjoy it?’
‘As you say, the trees will be particularly fine.’
‘I hope you are not annoyed, my dear?’
‘No, I am not annoyed, Edward.’
She turned a page.
‘I expect Veronica would greatly like to have time with us. She has been very patient with the children, but she is, after all, older and needs more mature companions.’
‘I am sure she would like it.’
‘Indeed, she must be prepared for a more mature environment since she is to go to this school that you are convinced will be of such benefit to her.’
She looked up from the book, surprised by this unexpected gift, as he had meant her to be. ‘That is very generous of you, Edward.’
‘I only want what is good for you, my dear.’
‘It will be good for her, Edward, I know it will.’
He bowed his head; he had made his sacrifice and would not go back on his promise, but he was not prepared to accept that good might come of it for Veronica. He saw it only as a means of keeping one of his treasures in his safe-keeping. Their daughter, by the nature of things, he would probably lose anyway, and had been preparing himself for that sorrow. But he could not resist saying, ‘So long as you can bear her loss; I am afraid that is something you may not have taken into account.’
‘It is a day school, Edward. We shall not lose her.’
‘Do you realise the subjects she will be studying? She will cease to be the unaffected, spontaneous girl who is such a delight to us.’
‘That would go along with her girlhood, anyway; and she will become an interesting woman in whose learning we shall delight.’
‘Let us hope so.’ He entertained no such hope himself.
Out in the yard the dogs were barking, their quick ears picking up the sound of horse’s hooves while the rider was still some little distance from the farm. Voices sounded below and soon they heard the farmer greeting the newcomer. Edward said, ‘Surely that is the vicar again? I think you should stay here until I find out what tidings he brings.’ But she followed him out of the room.
It was dark outside now and the rider filled the threshold. Perhaps they saw him framed there for no more than a matter of seconds, but for that time he seemed to hold the night at bay. Then he stepped into the house, a tired man but with some energy still at his command. As he shouldered off his cloak, Jory told them, ‘The little maid is not with the sister. She said Jarvis hadn’t been near her for a twelvemonth.’
Harold said heavily, ‘Then we’ll start a search at first light.’
Eleanor put her hand to her face and moaned, rocking to and fro, ‘Oh, dear Lord, dear Lord!’
Jory said, ‘The villagers are out already.’
‘And Jarvis?’ Harold was to the point, irritated by his wife’s wailing.
‘Gone, no one knows where. For his own safety, it would be better were he to be taken into custody.’
‘His own safety!’ Edward, whose peace was greatly disturbed by this, could scarcely believe what he had heard. ‘It would be better were he to be hanged here and now.’
Jory turned, subjecting Edward to a brief, dispassionate appraisal. ‘For what would you hang him? The child has yet to be found.’
‘But will be soon enough. This is a rough land, I would have thought summary justice still prevailed.’
Although Jory did not speak slowly, it was noticeable that he never allowed himself to be rushed; he made space for words and this made his listeners take note of him. ‘I have read enough in the old records at the church and in the parsonage to make any man sicken of summary justice. People were burnt as witches not far from here for no worse crime than that among the sick whom they tended a few happened to die.’
‘But this man, Jarvis . . .’
‘It’s Jarvis’s child we have to find.’
‘And you expect to find her alive?’
Again that thoughtful appraisal, after which he decided no answer to be necessary.
Eleanor moaned, ‘Oh, I should have done more. Leastways, I should have done less complaining that he owed rent.’
The farmer said angrily, ‘Let’s have no more o’ that nonsense.’
‘But it’s been on my mind,
Harold. He’s such a lying, thriftless creature and I got so angry with ’m.’
‘I want to hear no more o’ that. Now get into the kitchen and find out what Millie’s about. Mr Jory here needs food after his journey.’
She went away crying into the kitchen and the farmer said to Jory, ‘Come in here, where we can talk without this weeping and wailing.’
Edward turned to Rhoda, who was standing half-way down the stairs. She was as still as people are in that moment when they hold an indrawn breath; in the lamplight her dress shimmered, it was the only thing about her that appeared to have motion. ‘Now you realise it,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Evil! That’s what confronts you out on the moor. Evil!’
Her eyes looked over his shoulder at the half-open door into the parlour, where firelight reflected the shadow of one man on the wall.
Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
‘Oh, dear lady, you look so beautiful standing there.
‘I see such sorrow in your eyes that I am sure you see me and that you have come to help me. I loved my children, I wasn’t a good mother, but I loved them . . .’
‘Joan, what happened to your children?’ Dame Priscilla asked gently.
‘Leave her,’ Dame Ursula said. ‘At least she becomes quieter when she talks to Our Lady.’
‘But it may help her.’
‘Are you suggesting we may help, rather than Our Lady?’
‘It was after the Battle of Tewkesbury, dear Lady,’ Joan said, addressing her reply to the space where she usually seemed to locate the lady, whom she persisted in describing as wearing a shimmering lavender gown, although this was not one of the accepted attributes of the Virgin. ‘I can’t recall quite when that was.’
‘It was in 1471,’ Dame Ursula said, tricked into taking part in this discussion by a desire to make a show of her knowledge of events some fifteen years past. ‘Queen Margaret was taken prisoner and her son killed.’
‘Your children . . .’ Dame Priscilla prompted Joan, not minded to take a history lesson from Dame Ursula.
‘I had two children; the boy by the steward and a girl by my husband. A mismatched pair who quarrelled much . . .’
Martin had told her she was a bad, mother, never instructing or beating the children. She was not good at anything women were supposed to be good at: seeing to the running of the household, sewing, rearing children. She had no trouble in loving the children. The boy, who was now eight, grew daily more like the steward, long since departed. Each time she looked at that dark head, the hair curling crisply at the nape of the neck, she trembled with longing and could hardly conceal the agitation of her limbs from her husband.
She did not attempt to control the two children and when her husband was away from home they rampaged, doing as they wished. She enjoyed, and even encouraged, their high spirits; their appetite for mischief satisfied something in herself. But when Martin came home they were a sore trial to her and in an attempt to gain control she would shout abuse and throw anything that came to hand. Once, it was a lighted brand that scarred her son’s lovely face. She hadn’t meant any harm, she had never meant any harm in all her life. But the servants whispered among themselves.
News came that spring of a battle near Tewkesbury. A troupe of players brought tales of it, but people treated them much as they did the scenes the players performed and, indeed, in the telling of it it was difficult to distinguish fact from fantasy.
Martin Mosteyn had never been in a battle and had not intended to be in this one, only the fighting had overflowed into the lane down which he was riding on his way to deliver a message to his lord’s brother. He had been clobbered about the head and had lain for a long time in a ditch. What happened after that he had been unable to recall very clearly, nor did he know how he came by the charger which carried him home, slumped more dead than alive in the saddle.
Joan sent for the nuns’ priest, who was reputed to know about medicine, as he knew about most things. The priest did not, in fact, know very much, but he could recognise a dying man when he saw one.
‘He has a fever,’ he told Joan.
‘But he has wounds, too. Do you think my lord might send his physician if he knew? Martin has been dutiful in his service.’
The priest doubted if his lordship would wish to be concerned with a humble squire at this time, but to satisfy her he said he would see what could be done. He went away and Joan was so occupied in tending Martin that she had no time to lose hope as the hours drained away.
At some stage of his journey, Martin Mosteyn had begun to think of his wife as she was when he first saw her. ‘Full and golden, full and golden as the harvest moon,’ he whispered as she bent over him. He would have no one else beside him, which suited the servants, who could not bear the stink of him. When she moved away from the bed, he shrieked and clutched at her gown. It was no use trying to reason with him, his mind twitched and jerked as much as his body. Joan dressed his wounds and bathed his face as best she could. All the love and longing he had never been able to express towards her now seemed to overflow; he repeated her name over and over again and babbled endearments.
There was an old woman in the village who could work remarkable cures and she came to the house to tell Joan what she should do, but her remedies seemed to Joan to be very painful and she said, ‘He is in such pain already, it would not seem kind to make him suffer more.’
The servants were shocked that she would not do as the old woman told her. They knew of her seduction by the steward and imagined that she planned to have him back and make him master of the manor.
When she was asked if she wished to send for the priest she said, ‘Later, later,’ because Martin claimed all her attention and she had no time to think about fetching the priest. She had no more forethought as to dying than to living and imagined the most important task she had to perform was to remain with Martin, to comfort him and ease his pain. This she did tirelessly; it seemed to come naturally to her, just as making love had come naturally, and little else besides.
In the early morning, just before daybreak, he became calmer and the fever seemed to leave him; he lay quiet, his face thin, the nose like the beak of a bird. He looked at her wonderingly and she put her hands over his, confident that a miracle had been worked and that all would be well. Outside, a blackbird perched on the chimney was singing. She bent forward, regardless of the foulness of his being, and rested her cheek against his; when she moved away, his eyes had turned up.
He had died without being shriven. A thrill of horror ran through the household at the presence of evil.
The priest when he came was revolted by her brute stupidity; but he had smelt enough burnt flesh in his time and considered it worth some effort to save her from her folly.
‘You would be advised to leave here. Can you not go to one of your sisters?’
‘But the manor belongs to my son now. And in any case, I could not go to my sisters. They would have me live as they do, and that I should not like.’
The day after her husband was buried, she walked in the hills, gazing in wonder at the land of which Martin had had the care. She felt very grateful to her husband and proud of him. The thought that someone else must now look to the care of the land did not immediately occur to her. She was a naturally hopeful person and thought that life would be easier in future.
In the fields there were children who should have been working, but were laughing and playing. As she came towards them, they ran away; she called after them to reassure them, but they ran all the faster. One of them had a fever that night.
‘Oh, dear Lady, I loved the children . . .’
Chapter Eleven
While her husband was out riding Rhoda took the opportunity to write her diary.
I see them both so clearly and they see me, but whether they see each other, I do not know.
The years have composed the face of the older one, although the eyes are searching still. But the other one vibrates with the expectations of
youth and I wonder if she is one of those who never become reconciled to disappointment. Certainly, she seems to know little of discipline. Sometimes she sings, and then her voice echoes as it would not in this house and I think she is singing in the priory, from the stones of which this house was built. But the other one . . . I am becoming more than ever convinced that she lives in a world of which we have no knowledge.
Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. Edward would say that it is because of this place, or it is the state of my mind. But I do not think either of these explanations is the right one. I begin to get some inkling of the truth and, if I am right, then I know that I must not turn away from the strange visitors who share these moments with me.
We do not speak, but their eyes carry a message and I begin to understand what that message is. Do they see that same message in my eyes, I wonder?
Chapter Twelve
‘Is there anyone out there?’ asked Pericles.
‘I’m sorry’ Clarice said. ‘I’ve lost the place.’
‘So have I, dear.’
‘You do realise,’ the director said at the end of the morning rehearsal, ‘that we only have two more days before we go up?’
A dispirited silence acknowledged their awareness.
‘There’s no more I can say, is there? I’ve done all I possibly can. It’s up to you whether you want to put on a good show or not.’ They bowed their heads and avoided eye contact. This, they knew from previous experience, was the calm indifference that follows the storm. Or, as Alan put it to Clarice as they ate their packed lunch up on the moor, ‘The moment when the gods depart from the earth leaving the mortals to wallow in their own mire.’
