THE VERY DEAD OF WINTER

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘Andrew. I don’t think he’s a playful child.’

  ‘Difficult, is he? She’ll have to be firm with him. Is she firm with him, this Frances?’

  Anita piled bread into two wicker baskets which Florence had lined with kitchen paper in the interests of hygiene. ‘He needs a sense of security rather than firmness.’

  ‘Those mince pies should be done now. Just take a look and if they’re done, put them in the bottom oven to keep warm.’ She began to roll out pastry. ‘I think I’ll make a lemon curd tart for us to have after they’ve gone. I do so love lemon curd.’ She kept looking out of the window at the swirling snow as she worked. ‘He will never feel secure if she isn’t firm with him. A boy needs to have his boundaries clearly marked.’

  ‘I would have thought . . .’ Anita said, gazing dubiously at the mince pies.

  ‘Oh yes, you would think. Think is all you ever do. Whereas I know. It’s an instinct a mother has.’ She placed a hand on the lower region of her stomach, leaving a floury imprint which Anita thought looked mildly obscene.

  ‘Are these done?’

  ‘Of course they’re done. I can’t think what sort of food you and Terence have if you can’t even tell whether mince pies are done. Do as I told you and put them in the bottom oven.’ She made a neat circle of pastry and laid it in a flan ring. ‘One has to be very firm with boys. I recall vividly when Nicholas was young, we were walking in Gunnersbury Park. I had you in a pushchair. It was snowing and difficult to see. He wanted to go off on his sled down to the pond where some boys were skating. Of course, I wouldn’t let him go. He got into a rage that was quite out of all proportion. You know the way a boy can blow himself up fit to burst over something totally unimportant.’

  ‘His freedom, for example?’ Anita, elbows on table, one hand supporting her averted face, was listening intently now.

  ‘Freedom? Aged six?’ Florence ladled lemon curd into the tart and placed it in the oven. ‘Self-will. I could see this was a confrontation I could not afford to lose. I let go of you and managed to grab the sled. He fought quite violently, screaming, “I have to, I have to!” “There’s only one ‘have to’ I know anything about,” I said. I bent down to unbutton his trousers and he hit me on the nose. He had a fistful of snow and there must have been a stone in it. There was blood everywhere and you rocking about in the pushchair as though you meant to tip it over, and both of you screaming.’ She looked at her most voluptuous, eyes shining and mouth curved in pleasure, savouring her victory as if it were edible. ‘We didn’t have any nonsense about skating on the pond after that. It sobered him.’

  ‘It must have been very frightening for him.’ Anita was sobered too. ‘He probably thought he’d done you a terrible injury.’

  ‘It would have been far more frightening if he had had his own way. You can never afford to lose a battle with a child.’

  ‘It had to be a battle? It didn’t occur to you to say, “Yes, Nicholas, we’ll all go down to the pond”?’

  ‘He wanted to go on his own. I could see it in his face, he meant to get away from me.’

  ‘It probably had all sorts of sexual overtones, too – blood and snow.’

  Florence began to clean the worktop vigorously, shooting more eggshells on to the floor. ‘Spare us the psychology.’

  ‘You emasculated him.’

  ‘How popular you must be with your clients.’

  ‘Psychology isn’t about being popular.’

  ‘More’s the pity. It would be a great deal more successful if it were.’

  ‘And I still like you – God knows why.’ Anita hunched forward, clawing her hair into a ravelled mat which covered her face while she brooded on the matter.

  ‘That’s very unhygienic.’

  ‘I suppose it’s because you are so irrepressible.’ Anita sounded distanced by concealment. ‘It really takes something to go through life being so completely wrong-headed and never coming to grief.’

  Florence’s face suddenly crumpled. ‘How can you talk about grief at a time like this?’

  ‘I would have thought it was an appropriate time.’

  There was silence between them, something neither felt comfortable about. Florence took a piece of kitchen paper and dabbed her cheeks, although there was no trace of tears. Anita found a broom and began to sweep the floor.

  ‘You’ll have to use a mop,’ Florence said. She cupped her face in her hands, meditating. ‘I suppose you could say my life has been a series of unpleasant surprises,’ she said, looking like someone who has ridden every crisis in her life with verve. ‘I married a man who seemed to have a great future ahead of him and let it slip out of his hands. My extremely gifted children failed to use their talents. None of my nearest and dearest has fulfilled their potential, they’ve all turned away from rather than towards. It’s a part of the age, I suppose, this extraordinary dissatisfaction people have, this passion for rejection. Where, I ask myself, does it all lead?’

  Anita, on her knees mopping, said, ‘That’s a rhetorical question, I assume. The last thing you usually want is an answer.’

  Florence tossed another eggshell on to the pile on the floor. ‘You know those films where the man rides off over the crest of the hill and one isn’t encouraged to enquire what happened to him on the other side; or there’s the character who walks away with a radiant face into a new life; or, in the theatre, someone says as the curtain comes down, “Things will never be the same again.” Well, I always feel that’s where I came in. And I know why they never take the story any further. It’s so dull.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said your life has been exactly dull,’ Anita said, a captious Cinderella resting on her haunches.

  ‘You’re too young to know what it was like at first. I expected it to be a marvellously exciting time.’

  ‘You have had quite a few marvellously exciting times, though not always with Father.’

  ‘One must take what opportunities come one’s way.’

  ‘You’ve certainly done that.’

  ‘If I’d had important things to do, it would have been different.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said that sex was something you turned to in the absence of worthwhile activities. As far as you’re concerned, worthwhile activities are things you do to keep your mind off the really important business of sex.’

  ‘You have no idea how frustrating my life has been. Had your father gone into the diplomatic service . . .’

  ‘We shouldn’t have had over forty years of peace if you’d been on the diplomatic circuit.’

  ‘I don’t think you should speak to me like that, Anita.’

  ‘As one of the unpleasant surprises of your life, I feel I should have the right of reply. All I ever heard in my childhood was what you expected – from me, from Nicholas, from my father. I don’t think you once took a really good look at any of us. Perhaps things might not have been so disappointing for you if you’d inspected what was on offer.’

  Florence said, as though appealing to some unseen presence out in the snow, ‘All my life I have been fighting this tendency to let go. I have been the one who has held things together. No one has any idea of the strain I have had to bear.’

  ‘Why not let go yourself and see what happens?’

  ‘But I never gave up in spite of the strain. I meant life to be good and positive and I held on.’ She turned a glowing face to Anita. ‘Do you know what Great Aunt Edith said to me not long before she died? “I marvel at you, Florence,” she said. “You are Bronze Age woman. You were born too late to have known a Golden Age, so you set yourself to construct out of what material was available to you, a goodish Bronze Age.” I’m not sure what she meant, but it was the nicest thing she ever said to me.’

  ‘Sod Great Aunt Edith.’

  ‘I think we’d better go and change now. I seem to have made rather a mess of this skirt.’

  ‘You haven’t taken in anything I’ve said, have you?’

  ‘Fortunately not.’ She went int
o the hall and Anita could hear her singing ‘The holly and the ivy’ as she went up the stairs.

  ‘So many people,’ Konrad said.

  Florence, who had replaced Sophia by his bedside, said, ‘Not yet. They haven’t arrived yet.’

  He was thinking not of the people who would visit the cottage this morning, but of the large cast contained in his own house – the refugee, the husband, father, painter, lover. Too many at this stage of his life. A drastic reduction was necessary, a calling-in of all these people flitting in and out of his house, cluttering up his mind and consuming far too much energy.

  ‘We had to arrange a little party,’ Florence said. ‘For the sake of the young people. They expect something at Christmas. You do understand, don’t you?’

  He lay still, meditating on what her words really meant. It had been like this over the years, the quiet withdrawal which always preceded a response. Who could have known the frantic person rushing hither and thither within him, probing this possibility, discarding that, searching desperately in another corner of the mind before the calm answer was vouchsafed? Always the inside and outside person so at variance. All he had learnt to do in sixty years was impose a certain discipline of presentation, refuse to allow chaos to predominate.

  ‘You mustn’t reproach yourself, Florence.’ He was pleased to have decoded her meaning. ‘There is nothing for which you should reproach yourself.’

  ‘I wasn’t reproaching myself.’ She loomed over him, flushed and agitated. ‘It’s you who should reproach yourself, giving way like this, refusing treatment. “Do not go gentle into that good night . . .” ’

  He smiled, a dubious enterprise in his condition. The grimace momentarily fragmented his face and reassembled it in the likeness of one of the more licentious Roman gods, spewing fountains of mirth.

  ‘I shall never go anywhere gently, Florence – I am a blunderer. But I shan’t rage either. I have never raged and I’m not going to start now.’

  It was the longest and firmest statement he had made for some time and it exhausted them both. Florence fussed with his pillows and poured a glass of water from the jug on the bedside table.

  ‘I’ll come back and tell you all about the party,’ she said as she left the room.

  It transpired that Frances had very little to do in the way of shopping.

  ‘Thomas did quite a lot for me yesterday,’ she said. ‘And on Christmas Day we’re all coming to Sophia – did she tell you?’

  ‘No, I don’t think she mentioned it.’ Nicholas put the gear into reverse, his expression thoughtful. ‘Would Andrew have liked a ride?’ he asked as he turned the car away from the house.

  ‘I didn’t ask him. I wanted an opportunity to talk to you.’ She spoke with the disconcerting straightforwardness of a child.

  Nicholas drove the car on to the forest path with great care, reassessing his part in the setting up of this expedition.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about this ever since Sophia said you were coming. You don’t mind, do you?’

  He stopped the car and looked at her, not quite sure what it was she might have been anticipating. A brightly coloured scarf swathed head and shoulders and the glimpse he had of her face did little to set his mind at rest. How many times in bazaars had he seen the face turned briefly to regard him with that intense curiosity which the stranger arouses? Only these eyes were not dark, they were like clear water and seemed to reflect back at him his own unease. What had he anticipated when he so uncharacteristically suggested this trip?

  ‘I’m not a great talker,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t mean chit-chat.’

  He decided to treat her as an enthusiastic schoolgirl. ‘Well, then – where and when? Here, in the car, before we do the shopping, or afterwards?’

  ‘Oh no. There are so many things I’ve wanted to ask you. I heard you on the radio.’ She seemed to consider this a sufficient explanation.

  ‘I don’t quite see how . . .’ he mused. Nicholas musing always had the look of someone unlikely to arrive at a conclusion. Others besides Frances had thought what mountain winds and desert suns had honed and hollowed that face and faded the searching eyes. A man whom distant horizons called could scarcely be expected to turn his mind to the how and where of domestic intimacy.

  ‘Look, it’s nine o’clock now,’ Frances said. ‘We have plenty of time. We could stop on the way. I’m looking after the house of some friends while they’re away and I have to make sure the heating comes on and all that. I could make you some coffee.’ Again, there was something childish in her assumption of authority.

  He screwed up his eyes, peering ahead. It was snowing hard and the visibility was poor. ‘I don’t want to miss the turning on to the road.’

  ‘Don’t you want to stop at the house? You haven’t said.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised I was expected to show initiative.’ He was aware of sounding as touchy as a Ranger Scout whose seniority has been challenged.

  She did not speak again until they came to the road, when she said hesitantly, ‘You turn left, in case you didn’t realise . . . I mean, I don’t know whether you’ve been to the town before; but then I expect you looked at the map before you set off.’ Out of the corner of his eye he had a glimpse of lowered lids and puckered mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘Oh no, I’m the one – to be sorry, I mean. I shouldn’t have assumed . . .’

  They drove silently into the town. Florence had given Nicholas a long list and it took an hour to fulfil all her commissions. The sky had cleared and the sun was shining, making the snow so much heaped sugar, when at last they returned to the car.

  ‘Now,’ Nicholas said. ‘Direct me to this house.’

  ‘If you’re sure . . .’

  ‘We have to check the heating, don’t we, whatever else.’

  They were silent again, their minds occupied by that whatever else.

  The house was on the edge of the forest, not far from the turning to the track which led eventually to Sophia’s cottage; it glinted and sparkled in its white raiment. At one of the windows a Christmas tree, bedecked with shiny balls of green and red and gold, spoke of goodwill, although its main purpose was as a sign of occupancy. Frances and Nicholas sat gazing at the house for some moments before getting out of the car. It looked as if it was contained in one of those glass globes which when shaken produce a picturesque semblance of snowfall. Neither was quite sure how they had arrived here, let alone why. If they had had more time it might have been different. Tomorrow, however, was not another day, tomorrow was Christmas Day and then there was Boxing Day and after that the workaday world would assert its hold. Nicholas got out of the car and walked up the short drive. The snow came up to Frances’s knees as she followed him. She found the key and they entered the house. It was small and gave the impression of comfort in spite of the intense cold; the drawing-room had been left a little untidy with books lying around and suggested a friendly confidence in the temporary steward. Nicholas and Frances hesitated, looking in from the hall. She said, ‘You must think me very silly, bringing you here like this.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He propelled her gently over to the low settee. ‘Though I’m not sure what it is we have to talk about.’

  She looked at him, surprised he should fail to understand, as though they had already been in communication on the matter. ‘Your travels, of course. Why you do it – all the hardship, the living on the fringes of civilisation, experiencing life on the margins of existence.’

  ‘Oh dear, that sounds very like a quote.’

  ‘Yes, of course it was a quote. I told you I listened to that radio programme.’

  ‘You take things too seriously,’ he admonished.

  ‘But you’re a serious person.’ The grey eyes would accept no denial. ‘I’ve read your book about your travels in India three times. You ask some very serious questions in it – about Western materialism and the worship of technology, the value we place on mo
ney and possessions. You said about books that people here aren’t interested in their content, only in how much money they make and whether the author uses a word processor.’

  Nicholas shrugged. ‘That sort of comment is one of the side-effects of the India experience.’

  ‘But it went much deeper with you, surely?’ She had taken off her anorak and now paused, arms upraised to remove the scarf. ‘When I read your book I was sure you would end up living in India. Why didn’t you?’

  She seated herself, knees drawn together, hands clasped above them, and waited for Nicholas to collect his thoughts, unaware that she had outraged him by this direct questioning of his motives. In his view there was a certain territory sacred to each individual and to trespass would be like breaking a taboo – terrible things might come to pass. He realised, however, that to make too much of this might invite further penetration, so he seated himself beside her and said, in the tone he might have adopted had he been giving a lecture, ‘The Indians seem to me still to be living in a subconscious dream that I’d like to share, but can’t because I’m too wide awake. When people become fully conscious they go mad; like those unfortunates who win the pools, they can only think of getting as many of the goodies within their grasp as possible. That seems to me what has happened to Western society.’

  ‘You didn’t feel you wanted to become like the old men by the Ganges who have given up all possessions?’

  ‘No, I just found myself wondering if it would work so well in a cold climate.’

  She studied him, head to one side, eyebrows raised, conveying the most maddening impression that she knew his reasons better than he did himself. He said, ‘I’m sorry to disillusion you, but all my experiences so far have shown me alternative ways of life which I can admire but not become a part of.’

  The coloured lights of the Christmas tree were reflected on the glaring white of the wall opposite. Beyond the window a robin sang. Frances said wryly, ‘Whereas what happens to most people is they become part of something first and only think about it afterwards.’