The Innocents

by Margery Sharp

  I have nothing against Alice Philpot—B.Sc., M.D.Lond. No one had. In East Anglia, the tradition of Elizabeth Garrett Anderson is still so living, there was no local prejudice against her (because she wasn’t a man), whatever. Local farmers not only sent a hind to her for antitetanus inoculation as confidently as they took a dog to the local vet, but trusted her equally with a wife’s birthing. To say I have nothing against Alice Philpot is in fact an understatement. I have the greatest respect for her, but I wish she would leave my lungs alone. I have had slight bronchitis, off and on, ever since I was a child, when no more notice was taken of it than to keep me out of the water, so that I have never learned to swim. Doctor Alice, however, with direful warnings against pleurisy, insisted on running her stethoscope over me several times a winter. It being now high summer, I felt entirely justified in refusing to strip to my vest and draw deep breaths. In fact I kept our conversation as short as possible, and for another reason besides my natural annoyance: I was reluctant for her to encounter Antoinette. The village accepted my child as an innocent, and didn’t blame her and was kind to her; I had no doubt of Doctor Alice’s kindness, but still apprehended her constitutional inability to let well alone.

  Fortunately she cornered me within doors—actually at my desk casting up the month’s accounts—and Antoinette was as usual in the garden. However just as Doctor Alice was about to leave, in the child wandered looking for me with in one hand a dead frog and in the other, I was sorry to see, a turd.—Doctor Alice paused.

  “Isn’t that the Guthrie child?” she asked interestedly.

  “Yes,” said I. “Antoinette.—Say good-morning to Doctor Philpot, Antoinette,” I added. “Or must I say it for you?”

  It struck me even as I spoke that I was covering up for the child just as Cecilia had once covered up for her to myself; and only hoped Doctor Alice would be as easily bamboozled.

  Antoinette for her part naturally took no notice of the injunction, but pridefully exhibited the turd.

  “And go and throw that horrid thing away at once,” said I, “and go and wash your hands …”

  This again was for the benefit of Doctor Alice. I had no hope of Antoinette’s obeying. It was a much longer sentence than I usually employed with her, also my tone of reprobation, towards such familiar treasure-trove, naturally surprised and dismayed. Antoinette simply looked dumber than usual.

  “How old?” asked Doctor Alice pleasantly.

  I said three.

  “One doesn’t see her about much,” remarked Doctor Alice.

  “She likes to stay and play in the garden,” I glossed. “Don’t you think she looks very well on it?”

  “Very,” agreed Doctor Alice—at which moment (and this I should have expected), Antoinette was sick. Luckily I had only to reach under the nearest cushion for a paper napkin, and cleaned her up in a matter of moments, at the same time juggling away into my handkerchief both frog and turd. Thus bereft, Antoinette was naturally sick again, but only a couple more napkins sufficed, after which she squatted quite contentedly on my shoes.

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t come to the gate with you?” said I.

  “All young animals throw up,” observed Doctor Alice. “Just let me know if she stops eating …”

  7

  Antoinette’s appetite however even improved—partly perhaps through being so much in the open air. Of course I always put her to bed in the afternoon—too much sun makes a child fretty—whilst I myself took a nap in the cool of my sitting-room. Otherwise, the weather continuing so fine, we lived mostly in the garden, even to the extent of Antoinette’s eating her bread-and-honey supper there—she rather welcoming the attentions of wasps and bumblebees, and I must say was never stung.

  It was a happy time. I even felt a certain guilt, to be so happy; for all this while the wind of war was blowing. But even while the tempest shakes, almost blasts, the oak, the insects in its roots no doubt live out their lives much as usual, and the full gale never reached us. We were not bombed; from so agricultural a community not even all younger men were called up, and though of those who were, or who volunteered, some never returned, it was nothing like the deathly reap-and-bind of the First World War. (The 1914–18 Roll of Honour in our church had seventeen names inscribed on it; in 1945—again I look ahead—there were only eight to add.) A major loss was of Doctor Philpot, who as soon as the bombing of London began returned to the hospital where she’d qualified. All thoroughly understood and respected her motives; we had always known ourselves remarkably fortunate to have so good a doctor in so small a community (though as I have said, her practice extended far beyond its bounds), and London’s need was obviously immeasurably greater; but she was much missed.

  It was a happy time. As I sat in the garden knitting or slicing beans, aware of Antoinette never farther off than under the artichokes or up in the thicket of saplings that bordered a high grassy walk, I found myself repeating again and again another line of Keats’: warm days will never cease …

  Then I received a letter from a Mr. Hancock, from an address in Gray’s Inn, heralding a visit to discuss the future of Antoinette Guthrie, temporarily in my charge.

  3

  1

  For a person who has lived to be sixty I have had remarkably little to do with lawyers. My father left the Bank his executors, and successive managers have always told me what to do. What I was originally advised, or told, to do was to buy an annuity: which still in mourning I did; and though in subsequent, more tycoonish frames of mind I often regretted it, at least I have never faced bankruptcy or being hammered at Lloyd’s. Once indeed I determined to employ Counsel in defense of Mrs. Brewer’s allotment encroached upon by the extension to the churchyard, but she weakly settled out of court.

  I at least knew Mr. Hancock by repute, he having so efficiently wound up Tam Guthrie’s estate; also as even lawyers were children once—as my favourite statue in all London, in Lincoln’s Inn, reminds—so a solicitor is still a man; and most men enjoy a good tea. Thus I made ready for Mr. Hancock new-baked scones, honey and home-made jam, very thin cress sandwiches, and a rather special cherry-cake prematurely snapped up from the Women’s Institute Bring-and-Buy in aid of the Red Cross.

  I gave Antoinette her own tea early. Naturally Mr. Hancock would want to see her, but I feared her messiness with food might give a wrong impression of both of us. I was most anxious to impress Mr. Hancock favourably. I deliberately, in advance, subdued all the tycoonish or fishwife side of my nature which his letter had naturally aroused. I meant to present myself humble before superior masculine opinion. Unluckily, but a moment after he arrived, and we had mutually introduced ourselves, I heard myself quite sharply instructing him to keep his glasses either on or off. For they were sunglasses: Antoinette, at my heels at the gate, was already flinching, when he took them off, perhaps the better to look at her; as he absently put them on again I sensed her beginning to take fright, and all too well saw the probable consequences. I still regretted having spoken so sharply as I did; Mr. Hancock looked surprised, as well he might.

  “Antoinette,” I apologized, “doesn’t like dark glasses put on and off. Let me give you a cup of tea.”

  Mr. Hancock said it would be welcome.—He had a very slight Scottish accent, just sufficient to remind me of Rab Guthrie’s; Scots notoriously hanging together I wasn’t surprised, quite apart from the connection with Tam. Antoinette instinctively kept to the garden; Mr. Hancock (glasses now definitely off), followed myself indoors and to the tea-table.—It was once a curtsy dowagers recommended, to give a female time to think; in the present day and age I myself would recommend pouring tea.

  I poured, Mr. Hancock drank. He also ate. The cress sandwiches he seemed to enjoy particularly, as recalling tennis-parties at the home of friends in Norfolk whose patronymic at least was familiar to me. We had really a pleasant chat. But the pause for reflection advantages both sexes equally, and I was all the time conscious of his shrewd lawyer’s eye glancing over,
taking in (just as Rab Guthrie’s had done), every detail of my sitting-room, and through the french windows a lunar at the garden outside.

  “And now—” said Mr. Hancock, putting down his cup.

  “And now?” said I, refilling mine.

  “I have a proposition to put to you,” said Mr. Hancock, “which you may well reject at once, though I hope not. The child’s parents—”

  “Antoinette’s,” said I.—Little animals, however affectionate, may be anonymous, but children have names.

  “Antoinette’s parents, then,” resumed Mr. Hancock, “having decided it too dangerous to send for her at the moment—indeed at any immediately foreseeable moment—some stable arrangement must obviously be made for her.”

  “Obviously,” said I.

  “Would you consider keeping her here with you for perhaps even a term of years?”

  This was actually the first time, so suddenly had war struck us, that I contemplated its possible duration at all; to my shame (but then I had spent so many sleepless nights!), the phrase “a term of years” actually rejoiced me. Indeed I was willing, I assured Mr. Hancock, to keep Antoinette as long as necessary; and added, which seemed even more important, that I ventured to believe she would come to no harm.

  Again Mr. Hancock took a good look round. He had a proper lawyer’s eye! I was glad to remember my income tax, also rates paid, and my bank account not overdrawn.

  “No; I can’t see a bairn coming to harm here,” said he thoughtfully.

  Why I should have been less offended to hear Antoinette referred to as a bairn than a child I cannot explain—unless because Burns and Sir Walter between them have invested the whole Scots tongue with some insinuating glamour? Mr. Hancock’s “bairn” was so kindly sounding, I began to like him. Of course I thought better of him too for his confidence and trust in me, which to my egoism proved him a good judge of character. But this very trustfulness, however flattering, at the same time roused my conscience; and I felt it absolutely indispensable to say, though I hadn’t said it to Doctor Alice, that Antoinette wasn’t quite like other children.

  To my surprise, Mr. Hancock nodded.

  “So her father suspected,” said he. “Her mother I understand won’t hear of it. But it was another reason why Guthrie agreed to her being left here originally; if I may say so, you made a very good impression on him.”

  I was naturally gratified and flattered afresh. My conscience, less venal, remained active.

  “There is still the point,” said I, “whether she shouldn’t be receiving some sort of special treatment; though if I have to take her up to London for it, or even to Ipswich, I really couldn’t answer for the consequences; so far, here, she hasn’t been even on a bus. And she can say tureen.”

  “Tureen?” repeated Mr. Hancock, I suppose in not unnatural surprise.

  “And vermin,” I continued. “I don’t pretend she means what you or I would mean, but she knows what she means. One just has to learn. All the same, it would relieve my mind if before you go you had a word with Doctor Alice—I mean Philpot.”

  Again the old needle-nose surprised me.

  “In point of fact I took her in on my way,” said he. “She and Robert Guthrie, you may recollect, being acquainted …”

  I recollected no such thing, and said so.

  “Maybe it was just a call he paid,” offered Mr. Hancock. “Certainly he was able to give me the address, and she remembers him perfectly.”

  Of course, when I thought back, even within a couple of days there would have been ample opportunity. Perhaps, and this struck me as most likely, it was after, not before the plan to leave Antoinette with me that her father called on Doctor Alice; which in turn would explain the latter’s visit to myself overtly to check my bronchitis. If there is one thing I abominate it is duplicity—yet I recognized an indirect approach to the child (which I now felt sure it had been), as both sensible and kind; I could well imagine Antoinette’s terror under a stethoscope! All the same, no one enjoys having been bamboozled, and I waited for Mr. Hancock to continue in I hoped impolite silence.

  “Her only prescription,” he added, “is T.L.C.”

  It sounded like some new sort of drug. But I am not easily bamboozled twice. I scented an esoteric joke such as all professionals enjoy together to the bafflement of the laity; and again waited.

  “Or tender love and care,” glossed Mr. Hancock. “In short, like Antoinette’s father, and now, I may say, like myself, she feels there can be no better circumstances. She diagnoses the child simply retarded, not autistic. The only question is whether you yourself are prepared to shoulder the burden.”

  I said I was.

  “Then all that is left is to settle the financial aspect,” said Mr. Hancock.

  Upon which, to my amazement, he proceeded to explain that the Guthries reckoned Antoinette’s keep and expenses at five pounds a week, that is—since he spoke of years—our organist’s annual stipend. It was ridiculous, and I said so. Antoinette’s extra cost to me couldn’t amount to a fifth; also I am not a professional taker-in of lodgers. Mr. Hancock heard me out patiently but remained unmoved. As he said reasonably enough, he had his instructions: a cheque would in any case be paid quarterly into my account, to cash or not as I pleased.

  “Or make a nest-egg of for her?” suggested Mr. Hancock.

  Which was actually what I did. Of course I wasn’t so stubborn as not to draw on it for so to speak extras, which is how Antoinette came to take riding lessons, of which more later.

  4

  1

  So now we settled down, Antoinette and I, to live together for as long as the war lasted; and I had better describe the village that was our nutshell.

  I say “village,” though it is really almost large enough to rate as a small township, because the atmosphere is still a village’s. The inhabitants are very proud of this, as making for a quiet life and good-neighbourliness, and often point it out not only to strangers but to each other. There are no remarkable features—even the most local of guidebooks, mere pamphlets privately printed, illustrated with amateur pencil sketches, do not mention us; but the High Street, if without special character, is agreeable for its human scale: no building higher than three storys except Woolmers, and that, being as broad as tall, doesn’t so much dominate as watch comfortably over its lesser neighbours like a broody hen over chicks. Such big houses are usually found farther outside a village, but whatever rich wool-merchant originally built it—hence the name—must have liked to be more in the thick of things. Evidently the riches declined; Woolmers now, as I have described, being a guest-house. The only other building of any consequence is The Chantry, situated halfway up the hill to the church—by its name recalling some monkish establishment, or probably appanage: a semi-Palladian villa erected on such a patch of flat ground as might have been pasture. I never remembered its being occupied, but there was local rumour of a Nabob and musical parties. At present it is entirely derelict, its gates rusted on their hinges and the rose-beds beyond run to riot.

  Even our church, in a country famous for churches, hasn’t much to recommend it to a guidebook. It is neither thatched, like Theberton’s, nor majestic, as at Lavenham, nor like Blythburgh’s angel-roofed. No one ever came to take rubbings of its brasses, of which indeed there were but two, and neither particularly interesting—no knight in armour, no double file of kneeling sons and daughters, just brief commemorations on the north wall of two now completely forgotten worthies. The name of one was Brewer, but when I enquired of my own Mrs. Brewer she looked blank. There’d been Brewers around, said she, since time and time, but doubted an immediate kinship; and if any old auntie forgot (in the housewifely sense) to keep the brasses rubbed, Mrs. Brewer didn’t blame her.

  My own house stands a little way uphill from The Chantry. Like much else in the village I can best describe it as pleasant but undistinguished. Its chief advantage is a sizable garden, which has the further advantage (owing to the rise) of being on two leve
ls; affording me, above usual lawn and flower-beds, the narrow, grassy, sapling-fringed terrace I call my ambulatory. I grow no vegetables—I have too many kind neighbours with allotments—except artichokes, and those chiefly for their beauty. In my opinion there is no plant more majestically handsome. Even its earliest shoots rise in silver-grey promise of classic foliation; at full height, before blooming first into a brief edibility, then into enormous cobalt-blue thistle-heads, the overarching ribs are simply cathedral-like. Of course with so much ground I need to employ a gardener two days a week, but am happy to say he is not a character.

  Our society is small. Major Cochran and Mr. Pyke I have mentioned; there is naturally a Vicar, and his wife, the Gibsons, whom I am more than happy to see in my old home; if I have never taken up their invitation to pop in and out just as usual it is by no means because I do not like them, but because I have had quite enough of my old home. The well-to-do people of the neighbourhood, though not native to it, are the Cockers, who bought Cross Hall some ten years ago. They are very public-spirited; it is to Arthur Cocker the church owes its new organ, while his wife, Beatrice, practically subsidized the Women’s Institute bill for visiting lecturers—in fact the Women’s Institute was lectured at until boredom set in, though here I must a little blame my old friend its secretary: however natural to make hay while the sun shone, I thought at the time, and still think today, that neither Romance Languages nor Early Mayan Art was a suitable topic.

  But be fair to the Cockers! Nothing is easier than to write a cheque, if one has the means: when our £250 a year organist shot off to help man a barrage balloon, Beatrice Cocker actually played the organ, each Sunday. With the same kindness as shown by Mrs. Gibson, she pressed myself to slip in and play on it too whenever I liked; but I had had quite enough of playing voluntaries. (Even as a girl the term struck me as a misnomer: one didn’t volunteer a voluntary, one was conscripted.) However, I dine with the Cockers I suppose twice a year, and they are so kind, they always offer to send their car for me; but I prefer to hire Alfred’s taxi and keep my independence and leave early before bridge.