The Solitary Child

by Nina Bawden

  Evans found him there. He came into the house noiselessly, through the dairy and the big kitchen. James did not hear him. He was standing in the drawing-room, looking out at the orchard. It was a shock, Evans told his wife, he stood so still, like a ghost from the grave.

  “Mr. Random,” he said, and James made a slight, recoiling movement as if he were afraid even of this man whom he knew so well.

  “You should have let us know,” Evans went on, fumbling for words. “The wife would have put things tidy for you.” His voice echoed in the dim, white room. It embarrassed him. He stood, shoulders bent, twirling his cap in his hands.

  “Yes, I’m sorry,” James said, apologising for his unexpected presence in his own house, for creeping back like a rat to his hole.

  “Oh, no.” Evans stammered, feeling he had said the wrong thing. “It was just a surprise, like. I saw a lamp last night, thought it might be a tramp or something.”

  “Thank you.” James moved and Evans could see his face more clearly. It was unshaven and very pale. “I hadn’t meant to hide. I was coming to see you to-morrow.”

  It was so transparent a lie, so clear that he had never thought of to-morrow, that Evans did not answer. He looked with pity at the crumpled figure, shuffled his feet and sought in his slow mind for the right words.

  “I’m glad they let you off.” It sounded bald, and James looked surprised.

  “Oh! Oh, yes. They let me off,” not suspecting, even then that a man he knew so well could think him guilty.

  “You’d best come back with me and let the wife fix you a bite to eat.”

  “No,” said James, “no,” a little startled by the violence of his own alarm at leaving the safe, silent house. “I’m all right here.”

  Evans’s voice was soothing as if he were talking to a frightened horse.

  “There’s no one home but us. Janet’s away with her auntie. Mrs. Evans will be right pleased to see you.”

  “To-morrow, perhaps,” he said, pleading for a few hours’grace, a little more peace alone.

  “And you’ll be wanting to have a look round,” Evans went on patiently, not letting go.

  He gave in. Putting on his coat, he followed Evans out of the house, wincing at the bright, winter sun. The cottage and the farm buildings lay beyond the orchard; as he trod the crisp ground he fought with the panic within. This was his home. These people were friends, not strangers. He was innocent; there was no reason for fear.

  They came to the white gate at the orchard’s end. Evans looked past him his face red.

  “I’d best go on in and tell her. Give her a chance to make herself tidy, like.”

  He squelched across the muck-strewn yard to the cottage. The farm buildings lay quiet; the yearlings, brought in for the winter, stamped in the trodden straw of their shed. Milk pails, upended on the white palings, shone cleanly, and in the field behind the cottage chain-harrows rattled over five acres of new-sown seed.

  He shivered in the sun and waited. A face appeared at the cottage window, pale above the potted geraniums, and disappeared again. Mrs. Evans came out and ran across the yard towards him, the flowered print apron shaking over her breasts.

  “Mr. Random, I don’t know what he was thinking of. Keeping you out here in the cold. Come along in this minute.”

  She addressed him formally but in her brisk, scolding tone there hung an echo from his boyhood. When he first came to the farm she had been a capable woman in her thirties. She had acted as an unpaid Nannie, fed him buns and milk in the middle of the mornings, nursed him when he fell and cut himself, helped him with his holiday task when he was home from school.

  He smiled feebly. “All right, Mary.”

  Her light eyes watered in the wind. She was stout and pale like a plant grown indoors. She had been a schoolmistress from the town before she married Evans and she hated the country, seldom leaving the cottage from October to the winter’s end.

  She waddled back to her warm kitchen and James followed her, rubbing his bloodless knuckles against the cloth of his coat. The kitchen was small and dark and stuffy and smelt of home. The floor space was almost entirely occupied; against one wall a vast mahogany sideboard gleamed, covered with family photographs in chromium frames. The big table was laid with a starched, white cloth; there was farm butter oozing water droplets, new bread.

  Evans tiptoed in his socks across the flagged floor, his face glowing from the harsh towel that hung behind the kitchen door.

  “It looks a bit rough, Mr. Random,” he said, “but you’re very welcome.”

  “It’s wonderful.” James thought of the small, high-windowed cell. Evans thought of it too and blew his nose loudly.

  His wife, creaking stiffly in her corsets, bent over the range fire to make the tea.

  “There was a newspaper man called this morning,” she said. “Looking for you, Mr. Random. I said you weren’t here and even if you were you wouldn’t have anything to do with him. He said he wanted an article for the Sunday papers. I told him you wouldn’t have anything to do with that sort of trash.” She rose, scarlet, from the fire. “You’re going to have trouble with his sort, once they know you’re here.”

  There was a note, almost of reproof, in her voice. Her heavy chin quivered as she looked at James.

  “I expected them,” he said lightly. “Don’t worry. They’ll go away once they know there’s nothing to be got out of us.”

  The silence was sharp and uneasy. James looked at them both and wondered what had gone wrong. Their taut, unhappy faces told him. They had not liked being treated as allies. Their invitation had been an act of charity, not welcome.

  Immediately, he wanted to go. But he stayed with a kind of stubborn courage. He had to learn to accept whatever compromise was offered him; he was no longer able to dictate his own terms.

  He smiled falsely. “Don’t worry,” he repeated. “I don’t suppose they’ll trouble you again.”

  And he sat down at the laden table with the two nice, anxious people who thought that he had killed his wife.

  Afterwards, every return must be in a way a reminder.

  I looked at him as he sat quiet at the wheel of the car. We had been out of England for two months; the Swiss sun had given his face width and colour and bleached his hair. He looked well and untroubled, only since we left London had his face acquired a remote and anxious look. We had not spoken for perhaps an hour. I think I had slept a little; I know it was a shock when I looked at my watch and saw how late it was.

  I touched his arm. “How long will we be now?”

  He came back from a great distance. “About another hour. Hungry?”

  “A bit. Driving makes me hungry.’

  He laughed. “Greedy girl. You’ve been asleep. Snoring with your mouth open.”

  “Beast. You should have woken me up.”

  “You looked peaceful and very sweet. Happy?”

  “Yes. I shall be glad to be home.”

  “Will you?” He glanced at me inquiringly.

  “Of course. I hope there’ll be a fire.”

  “There will. Ann is quite domestic.”

  I thought sleepily about Ann. “Will she like me?”

  “She’s sure to. But it’s more important that you should like her.”

  “What’s she like?”

  He smiled. “I don’t know. It’s difficult to assess your own sister. I’ve known her too long. She’s two years older than me, she lives in a couple of converted Victorian cottages, she breeds Boxers and writes country articles for monthly magazines. Of the to-day I heard the first cuckoo,’ kind. She has a familiar called Maud.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “You’ll meet her sometime,” he said dryly, sounding as if he wasn’t very fond of Maud.

  He slowed down for a bend and went on, “Ann’s our local literary lady. She sits on committees interminably and drives a shabbier car than she need. It’s all in the conventional picture—the rural spinster with an interest in culture. Not q
uite true, somehow. It’s a little too pre-war. I think it’s a kind of joke—perhaps a defence. She’s very shy.”

  “Did she ever want to marry?”

  He smiled to himself. “She had the expected heartbreak. A man who was killed in the war. But it should have been the first war, not the second. And he should have been a dashing, young subaltern, not a middle-aged schoolmaster who went into the ranks and stayed there.”

  “And there’s never been anyone else?”

  “In a way there has been. About two years ago she nearly married the local vet. Chap who grew up with us. But then Maud came along and it never came to anything. Can’t say I’m sorry. I can’t stand the fellow. He’s a drunk who sees himself as a Dickensian character. I think Ann saw him as a brand to be snatched from the burning. I have an idea that all he wanted was an interest in the farm.”

  “Does it belong to Ann? I thought it was left to you.”

  He frowned. “Mother made a rather silly will. Ann wasn’t married and she was worried about her future. So she left the farm to us jointly.”

  “Is that silly? It sounds quite fair.”

  His voice was annoyed. “You can’t do it with agricultural property. So much of the profit has to be ploughed back into the land all the time or there soon wouldn’t be any profit at all. It’s only proper that whoever runs the farm should have control of any profit there may be. If Ann stood on her legal rights we should be in a nice mess. Fortunately she’s a reasonable creature—I make her as decent an allowance as I can.”

  I said, “It’s nice of her to get the house ready for us. How many miles is it?”

  He chuckled. “You are scared, aren’t you?”

  “A little.”

  “You don’t have to be scared of Ann. She’s much more likely to be scared of you. She’s terrified of what other people think and say about her. She used to live in London, and after the trial she left her flat to come and look after me. She hated every minute of it, and was desperately anxious I shouldn’t know. She likes her drama to come in neat parcels from the Book Society. I packed her off to London, but she came back again and bought the cottages. I think she was afraid of being thought a defaulter.…”

  “Why did she hate it?” I asked, watching the road, not thinking.

  “Can’t you guess?”

  The happiness had gone from his face, he looked tired and suddenly lonely as though my being there beside him was not important at all.

  I thought: there will always be something, a look, an ill-judged phrase, to wrench him back into a sick and private world. Once, in Switzerland, we had run into a man he knew. It was a day that had been, until then, wholly happy. We had been swimming in the lake and had come in for lunch, hungry and glowing, hand in hand. The man waved and we crossed the room to his table. James was laughing, his fair hair was still dark with water. The man was neat with a dark moustache. He greeted James with the loudly false affection customary between people who have been to school together and afterwards met rarely. James introduced me and there was a brief and startled silence.

  Then the woman said, “Your wife?” in a tone of pure surprise. She recovered herself at once and we had talked for a little, politely, before going back to our table. James told me later that the man was in the colonial service and had been out of England for years; the kind of papers that carried a full account of the trial would not have reached him.

  James said, “We were in the Sixth together.”

  “Did he know you were married?”

  He grinned savagely. “He was an usher at my wedding.”

  I put down my fork and stared at the omelette on my plate.

  James said, “For Christ’s sake, Harriet, pull yourself together. What did you expect me to do? Produce a short résumé of my life?”

  “I don’t want any lunch. Of course you couldn’t explain.”

  We were talking in angry whispers, conscious of the couple at the other side of the restaurant. I wondered if they were watching us and did not dare to look.

  After a bit, James said, “Don’t watch me eat as if it made you sick.”

  I got up from the table and went to our room. I lay on the bed for a little and then I had a bath and washed my hair. I dried it, crouching in front of the radiator.

  James came in as the afternoon grew dark. He took me in his arms and held me tightly.

  He kissed me, his face was wet with tears.

  “You were angry,” I said.

  “Not with you. Darling, not with you. Perhaps with myself.” Then he said, a little later, “I wish it was the beginning for us both.”

  “It is,” I said. “You know it is.” But by then I didn’t believe it. Nor did he.

  I said, “I shouldn’t have said that about Ann. I’m sorry.”

  He glanced at me briefly. “You don’t have to be. It wasn’t such a brick.”

  “I’ll do better soon,” I said.

  He took my hand and held it. “Don’t try too hard,” he said. “Whatever you do, don’t try too hard.”

  We drove through Ludlow and on, towards Wales. It was very dark when we reached the valley. We passed through a village, straggling steeply up a hill, and out on to the bleak road above. I could see very little from the car but I could feel the bareness of the country and hear the wind. It slashed like a whip against the windows.

  James said, “We’re about two miles from home. It’s a lovely view in daylight,” rather like an estate agent with a prospective customer.

  The main road wound sharply downwards and after a little while we turned off it along a lane. The car lights lit up the sodden hedges where the last leaves clung and the shining runnel of water as we forded the stream. The car bumped up and out of the hollow. James said, “The brook marks the boundary of the farm on one side. It used to be quite a considerable river.” We passed through open, white gates and ran smooth on gravel.

  James put on the brakes. “Here we are,” he said and cleared his throat. “You won’t see much of the house to-night. Full inspection to-morrow.”

  The trees crowded round the dark hulk of the house, crackling in the wind. There was a lamp in the wide, stone porch and an island of honey-coloured light showed in a first-floor window. I got out of the car and stumbled in the blackness. My feet prickled with cold. James took my arm.

  “She won’t have heard the car. There’s too much noise to-night.”

  The front door opened in immediate contradiction; light streamed on to the gravel. Two dogs ran out from behind the waiting figure and jumped up at us. James pushed them away, shouting, “Down, Jill, down, Gentian.”

  Then we were inside the house. Dutifully we kissed, moving apart after the perfunctory gesture and standing awkwardly, like amateur actors waiting to be told the next move.

  Ann said, “Welcome home, both of you. Harriet, especially you. Did you have a good journey?”

  She stood, hugging herself against the cold, her face patchy with nervousness. She was tall, taller than I had imagined with big bones. Her face was long and narrow with high, flat cheekbones and protruding blue eyes, curiously like the kind of sculptured face that broods over tombstones in Norman churches. James had told me she was forty but she looked older by a decade, deliberately obscuring youth with flat heels, lisle stockings and the kind of hand-knitted jersey that has a lacey pattern and no shape at all. She looked nice, sensitive, and shy.

  James said, “Go along, you two. I’ll put the car away.” His voice sounded over loud and brisk, as if he were glad to find something to do.

  Ann looked startled. “All right. There’s plenty of room in the garage. We’ll be upstairs. Cyril’s here.”

  “Oh, God,” said James. “Why are you upstairs, anyway?”

  The stillness of her face seemed achieved by some tremendous, nervous effort. I found afterwards that she had a bad tic in her left eyelid and was very conscious of it.

  “We’re in mother’s drawing-room.”

  “Oh!” Their eyes met. “
All right. Be with you in a minute.”

  He closed the door behind him. Ann and I looked at each other. “Well,” she said, “come to the fire.”

  The hall was big and cold as a barn. The walls were panelled with dark wood, the ceilings rose, dim and high above us. The floor was stone and the rugs that covered it were shabby. Later, I was to realise that the house had a kind of spare beauty; just then I was appalled at the size and bleakness and the air of discomfort.

  She smiled slightly. “Not exactly cosy, is it? But we’re more civilised upstairs.” She led the way up wide oak stairs to a long passage that seemed to run the width of the house.

  “There’s a downstairs drawing-room but we haven’t used it lately. The ground floor is flagged and impossible to heat. My mother furnished an upstairs room for herself, when she left James closed it up. He worshipped mother, you know. It seemed such a waste—all her pretty things with no one to enjoy them. I thought it was about time I laid the ghost.… I got a man from the village and had it done up.” She glanced at me anxiously. “You don’t mind? I was afraid you might think me interfering.…”

  She took me into a bedroom where a fire burned in the grate. It had an immense double bed with brass rails and heavy, beautiful furniture, the colour of conkers. She took my coat and hung it in the wardrobe.

  “Of course, the place is absurdly big. We used to have three maids and a cook, now you’ll be lucky if you get a girl from the village. It turns you into a slave, a big house like this.” She blushed, red patches appeared on her face and neck. “You must think me very discouraging.”

  “No. I think I shall like a big house. I’ve always lived in the semi-detached kind where you live intimately with your neighbours.”

  She smiled gratefully. “Good. Come and meet one of your neighbours now.”

  The floor of the passage was oak, the boards hollow and silky with age. The drawing-room was warm and bright, very feminine. The furniture was light and pretty, there was a delicate, Buhl desk and a Sheraton china cupboard.

  “Harriet, this is Cyril Sully.”

  He was short and bald, his face very Irish with its red skin and broad nose. Wiry, grey eyebrows bristled surprisingly above eyes of a deep and shining brown, looking as if he had bought them for amateur theatricals and stuck them on with spirit gum. He wore a crumpled tweed suit and an incongruous red velvet waistcoat covered with stains and almost completely without buttons.