by MARY HOCKING
Later in the evening, as they gathered round the piano for the inevitable sing-song, she was proud to have brought so many of her family together. Even Guy’s parents had come in briefly for tea, leaving soon afterwards because Mrs Immingham could not stand the din. She had sat most of the time staring in offence at Austin, whom she thought a man of the world – a term synonymous with the evil which filled the space beyond the confines of her own home.
Austin, who had heartily disliked making a fool of himself at charades, wearing a straw hat with the brim turned up to make him resemble Bud Flanagan, was surprised at how much he enjoyed this old-fashioned singing. He had a fine tenor voice and Ben a good, strong baritone. They did a spirited rendering of ‘Oh my darling Clementine’ and followed it with ‘Shenandoah’ as an encore. Terence, who had been unexpectedly good at charades, did not enjoy the singing. He was separated from Claire by Jacov, who was making much of her, saying she was still his little girl. ‘It can’t be true what they tell me? You married, with twins? Never! You are still in your gym slip’. Terence was sorry to note that Claire seemed to find this nonsense very pleasing.
Alice said to Catherine, who was sitting beside her on the stool turning the pages of the music, ‘What about you playing, love?’
‘I shall make mistakes.’
‘We all make mistakes, Catherine,’ Guy said.
Ben said, ‘Come on, Kate! It will be a change from your Aunt Alice playing everything in the wrong key.’
She responded better to Ben than to her father and tentatively began to play, soon gaining confidence. Alice sat beside her, turning the pages.
James was trying to make the dog howl to the music. Guy, about to tell him to stop, changed his mind. ‘Shall we take him for his walk?’ The dog’s response was so immediate that James had no time to turn the suggestion over in his mind. ‘We won’t be long,’ Guy said from the door. No one was listening.
It was cold. They walked in silence, shy with each other. The dog darted delightedly from tree to tree, occasionally pausing to wait for them, head tilted, tail thumping. The street was silent, and there was no sound of traffic from the distant main road. There were lights in all the houses, and where curtains had not been drawn they could see brightly coloured glass globes hanging from the branches of Christmas trees. But the sound of voices and laughter was muffled. On this day, life turned inwards, contained in numerous individual boxes, a discontinuous event. Guy and James walked like exiles in this mysterious vacuum. Or adventurers? The idea came to each simultaneously, without words. They felt daring, drawn together in a kind of conspiracy.
James said, ‘Who do you think Austin would have chosen?’
‘I rather think he had his eye on you.’
‘I wouldn’t mind being a detective.’ They walked on for a few paces, then he said, ‘Did you always mean to be an accountant?’
‘I think I thought of being an actor at one time.’
They crossed the road and turned in he direction of the park. James said, ‘I never know when Jacov is acting and when he’s himself.’
‘You don’t remember the St Bartholomew’s Dramatic Society, of course; it was before you were born,’ Guy said. ‘But I played quite a few parts with them.’
‘What did you play?’
‘Well, there was the artist fellow in Dear Brutus . . .’ The dog had squeezed through the park railings and was barking to them to join him. Guy tried to remember the other parts, but all he could think of was schoolboy, soldier, accountant . . . As he stood looking into the park with his son beside him, he had the feeling of being someone else; someone he rather liked, but very shy, a person he doubted he could persuade to return to the house with him.
‘We’d better go back or we’ll be in hot water.’ As they walked slowly homeward, he said, ‘I don’t see you as a detective, somehow. But I tell you what. If there is anything you find you really want to be . . . well, you must do it . . . or be it, I suppose I should say.’
‘Yes, I will,’ James assured him easily.
When they came to the house, the dog ran round to the back garden and Guy, who was reluctant to go inside, said to James, ‘I’ll get him.’ He let James in by the front door and then walked round the side of the house.
Light spilled onto the lawn from the kitchen window. He looked up and saw Louise at the table preparing food. Jacov was standing beside her. They were not talking. Guy stood, waiting for them to begin a conversation, but they did not speak. Louise took sandwiches from their wrapping in a tin and placed them slowly, one by one, on a plate, while Jacov watched, so dark and close he might have been her shadow. When she had finished with the sandwiches, he put up a hand and pulled gently at her ear, and for a moment she turned her head so that her cheek rested against his hand. Nothing else happened. Yet there was such luxury in this leisureliness! The sureness of people who have no need to snatch at each other.
After they had left the kitchen and the light had been switched off, Guy stood in the garden, scarcely breathing in the effort to prevent thought forming which might fragment this image which would then pass like broken glass into his system. Slowly, he let the image down into that well within himself which he never disturbed; slowly, so slowly it went that not a ripple disturbed the darkness of its passage, and in the end it disappeared without leaving a trace.
The dog came up and sniffed his hand, then gently licked it. Guy patted the rough, wiry head. ‘Come along, old chap. It’s cold out here, isn’t it?’
After Austin and Judith had left, taking Aunt May with them, and the children were in bed, Guy poured more drinks and he and Alice tried to recapture the febrile gaiety of wartime companionship; while Jacov told unlikely stories of his tours with ENS A and Ben remembered concert parties on board the ship which had carried him and Geoffrey to Singapore. Louise listened, tolerantly amused. Claire and Terence were obviously ill at ease, Irene joined them and encouraged them to talk about their plans for the twins, which were surprisingly detailed considering the age of the infants.
‘It was good of you to look after Claire and Terence,’ Alice said, when she bade Irene farewell.
They had, in fact, been her protection, but Irene said, ‘I thought they looked a bit lost, poor things. They seem only babes themselves.’
Jacov walked home with her, adapting himself easily to her sobriety.
Chapter Eight
Early in the New Year, Terence and Claire moved to a small house in Kew; a move which was accomplished with the utmost difficulty. There had been a heavy fall of snow which prevented the removal van getting near the house; and such furniture as Terence and Claire possessed had to be manhandled some distance. Claire stood most of the day by the front door, waiting to identify each separate item and give directions as to its destination – downstairs with Terence, or upstairs with Louise, who had come to help. There were great dollops of snow on the laurel bushes and a more delicate filigree on the holly tree. Footsteps made no sound and the struggles of the removal men seemed to be taking place in the world of the silent cinema. Occasionally, she heard the rattle of defeated engines as a slope proved too much for a car or van. Few people passed by; only those who had need had ventured out. The sky looked soiled above the glaring white of the snow.
During one particularly hazardous journey one of the removal men fell, breaking a long mirror and cutting his hand, it’s lucky we are not superstitious,’ Claire said to Terence, looking queezily at the blood stains in the snow. Even so, this could hardly be regarded as an auspicious beginning.
Once the perils of moving were behind them, and the essential services had been restored to some form of order, Claire and Terence addressed themselves to the decorations. Both were too fastidious to consider living within walls which looked as if they had been papered by long-dead occupants. ‘Anyone would think you had been brought up in the East End and expected to find bugs behind the wallpaper,’ Alice laughed.
It was reluctantly decided that the greater part of t
he paintwork would have to await better weather, but that the bathroom must be tackled. Terence’s father offered his services, which surprised Claire, Mr Straker having shown little interest in his son and still less in his son’s wife. ‘He does it in order to get away from my mother,’ Terence told Claire. But Claire thought that Mr Straker, a rotund, highly-polished man with button eyes embedded in a pearly face, was quite capable of finding more congenial ways of doing this. Unlikely as it might seem, she had the impression that he was performing the necessary function of seeing the young on their way. He carried out his task with detachment, something written into the genetic code rather than a matter of the affections.
Occasionally Mrs Straker accompanied him, driven more by loneliness than any desire to be with her daughter-in-law, let alone the twins, whom she ogled without making any truly motherly gestures. She smelt strongly of perfume and was heavily made up, not in the hope of attracting her husband, but because this was her understanding of putting! a brave face on life. She had little in common with Claire; indeed, it was difficult to imagine what Mrs Straker might have to contribute to any relationship. She was so nervous that the most mundane statement could evoke a spasm of giggles.
‘I do so hate the smell of paint, don’t you?’ she said to Claire.
‘I’m too grateful to Mr Straker to let it worry me,’ Claire replied, although she had only recently complained to Terence of having a raging headache.
‘He’ll have his own reasons for doing it.’ His family seemed reluctant to impute good will to Mr Straker. ‘When you’ve been married longer you’ll know all about that.’
‘I’ve been married for eighteen months,’ Claire said loftily. ‘And Terence couldn’t be more considerate.’
‘You wait until it’s ten years.’ Mrs Straker spoke without malice, resigned to her lot. ‘Men get tired of being with the same woman.’
‘You’ll be coming to the christening, won’t you?’ Claire changed the subject.
‘You’ve left it rather late, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid we have.’
‘I thought perhaps you weren’t going to have them christened. I know young people don’t worry so much about that sort of thing nowadays.’ She might have been speaking of the creosoting of a fence or the lagging of pipes.
‘We felt, after consideration, that it would not be fair to allow Vanessa and Hilary to suffer for our beliefs,’ Claire said.
Mrs Straker, anxious not to be thought critical, said, ‘If they were Baptists they wouldn’t have to be christened. My sister’s daughter . . .’
‘But we are not Baptists. We are not, in fact, believers.’
‘No?’ Mrs Straker was baffled by this, never having given thought to either belief or unbelief.
‘No, indeed. But compromises are sometimes advisable in a society which still holds to certain old-fashioned practices. Then, there is the question of ritual. While we don’t believe, we think the ritual itself may be important. We should not wish to deprive our children of ritual.’
Mrs Straker, nervous at being exposed to this earnest explanation, twisted an orange curl around her forefinger and giggled. ‘It doesn’t worry me one way or the other, dear,’ she assured Claire. ‘If you want me to come to the christening, I expect I will.’
‘And then, I believe there may be some legal complications. So, for the children’s sake . . .’
‘Are you going to have godparents and all?’
‘That, of course, is another factor. We wouldn’t want to deprive them of, not just the material benefits, but the moral care which a proper godparent – though I like to think of them as guardians – would feel it their duty . . . Anyway, it’s going to be Alice and Louise and my friend Heather.’ She was glad she had been in touch with Heather again. At least one of the godparents would understand her role.
Mrs Straker said, ‘Do you mind if I smoke, dear?’
‘No, of course not. And I’ll make tea. I expect Mr Straker is ready for refreshment! While I’m getting it, you might like to see Terence’s article.’ She picked up a weekly journal and handed it to Mrs Straker. When she returned with the tea tray, Mrs Straker, who had been gazing out of the window, gave a guilty start and stared intently at the journal, which Claire could see at a glance was upside down. Poor Terence! He had told her that his father’s comment had been, ‘I don’t want to read all this socialist clap-trap.’ Even that showed a degree of understanding beyond Mrs Straker’s.
‘You must be very proud of Terence,’ Claire said, scarcely able to control her rage.
Mrs Straker, looking frightened, giggled. ‘I’m sure I don’t know where he gets it from.’
‘He takes after his grandfather,’ Claire told her. Terence spoke constantly of his working-class grandfather who had been one of Nature’s scholars.
‘That must have been Grandfather Straker.’ Mrs Straker disclaimed responsibility. ‘He never knew my father. I didn’t think he would have remembered Grandfather Straker – he died when Terence was five.’
Mr Straker came in, dapper in white overall. Claire thought that even in the nude he would look the commercial traveller he was. He ignored his wife and said to Claire, ‘You had better come and make your inspection. The bathroom is completed, subject to the approval of the clerk of works!’
‘This is very good of you,’ Claire said, as they went up the stairs.
‘It’s not easy for young people setting up a home.’ They stood in the entrance to the bathroom. ‘Will it do?’
‘It’s marvellous! The brushwork is so smooth. No professional painter would ever have made it look so good.’
‘Ah well . . .’ While they were standing there, Terence passed along the landing, carrying Vanessa, bottom resting in the crook of his arm. The baby gazed over Terence’s shoulder, eyes seriously considering the small space that was her world. The two moved like horse and rider in easy accord. Once, their heads momentarily facing, they exchanged a grave look. There were no chortles and no baby talk, but the trust and love were unmistakable. There was regret in Mr Straker’s little button eyes. ‘I hope you make a better go of it than I did.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘Can hardly wish you less, m’dear.’
Claire, embarrassed, repeated her praise of Mr Straker’s brush-work.
Over tea, Mrs Straker prattled restlessly, her eyes seldom leaving her husband’s face. He ignored her.
Later in the evening, Claire said to Terence, ‘Don’t they ever have anything to do with each other?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He behaves as if she wasn’t there.’
Terence, who had grown up in this situation, said, ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
Ben came to visit them and did a bit of carpentry. Although he was fond of Claire, he had motives of his own. His lodgings were bitterly cold and he had to devise ways of keeping warm when he was not at the office. The carpentry helped. At other times, he wandered round the hothouses at Kew, sometimes spending whole afternoons there at weekends until he became quite an expert on tropical plants. Most often, however, he sat in the library at the British Museum. He was slowly amassing information about the conditions under which people were held without trial in countries around the world. As he worked, England, with its strikes, food rationing, its discontent and class hatred, seemed to become irrelevant. It was not that he hated his country, rather that he did not seem to belong in it. It was no longer the country he had fought to save – perhaps that country had not existed except in his own imagination. Whatever the answer, he must create a place where he did belong and start from there.
In February, when Asmodée was put on, the conditions were atrocious. Power supplies to industry had been cut off and it was reported that power station stocks were running low. Each performance they expected the lighting to be cut off. People came carrying rugs and hot-water bottles, wearing boiler suits, flying jackets and fur hats. ‘Not very cheerful, is it?’ one woman complained during the interval. ‘They might have given
us something to laugh about.’ On the whole, the audience was respectful, being largely composed of people who prided themselves on their intellectual grasp. Alice, hunched on a stool in the wings, was perhaps more moved by it than was proper in a prompt. She was finding life very dull and could have wished for an Asmodée to tear off a few roofs.
A week after the run of the play ended, further snowstorms swept the country, isolating towns and villages and blocking main railway lines. There were ice floes in the North Sea, the Channel, and off the Thames Estuary, British and Polish troops and German prisoners-of-war were engaged in clearing vital roads.
On her way to work, Alice passed an abandoned car, its windows? snowed up save for little slits at the top, like a yashmak. Flower pots and tubs foamed and garden lawns were heaped sugar. Sprigs I of fir pushing out from a stunted tree resembled the sides of an engraved vase, delicately enfolding swathes of snow. In the high street a bus that had made an effort and failed was evidence that nothing could be expected in the way of road transport. Alice struggled to the tube station. There was the silence of death on the crowded platform. She arrived at work two hours late. Mr Hadow, who had probably spent the night in the office, seemed surprised that she should have encountered any difficulty, ‘when I first started work,’ he told her, ‘if there was any trouble with the weather, I got up at five o’clock and walked to the office.’
Miss Bruce, the head of the teachers’ section, who lived within walking distance, was concerned with other matters.
‘Scandalous!’ she said, throwing the report of the staff subcommittee down on Alice’s desk. ‘Scandalous to suggest that people who deal with caretakers’ wages should be considered on the same level as those who deal with teachers’ salaries.’
The Assistant Education Officer, who had been unwise enough to choose this moment to come to see Mr Hadow, made a wry face behind her back. ‘It’s a damned sight more difficult to deal with a school caretaker than a headmaster. Old Norris at Bedford Park Grammar School is working for the day when our blood flows in the gutters. The most the headmaster will ever do about us is to make a complaint to his governors.’
