THE VERY DEAD OF WINTER
Page 18
‘Well?’ she said, when Sophia returned.
‘That was Mary Kingsland – the owner of the pony.’
‘Blast the bloody pony!’
‘It seems Thomas dropped a note in her door. She thinks it may have been you she met on her way to claim the beast.’
‘I passed a woman, certainly, but that is neither here nor there.’
‘On her return, some time later, she met Anita.’
‘And?’ The gravity of her sister’s face was not reassuring to Florence. ‘Why didn’t Anita have the grace to telephone herself?’
‘Because she is on the way to London with one of Mary’s sons.’
Florence sat down. For a long time she was silent, then she said, ‘There’s something odd about the timing, wouldn’t you say?’ She might have been trying to fit together the pieces of a puzzle. ‘It must have been before three o’clock that this Mary Kingsland and I passed each other. It is now nearly half-past six.’
‘She said that Anita set out some time ago. The pony had to be settled and she couldn’t phone earlier.’
‘Even so, they must have spent quite a long time together, Thomas and this Mary.’ She had the palm of her hand spread out before her, examining it carefully as though reading the life line. Sophia pressed the tips of her fingers into the hollows of her cheekbones. For some moments they sat quietly, each contemplating the mysterious interweaving of beginnings and endings in the woof and warp of their lives. Then Florence made a fist of her hand. ‘Our numbers do seem to be dwindling, don’t they?’
‘Nicholas should be back soon.’
‘But not for long.’ Florence looked around the room, studying it critically for shortcomings which were not hard to find: frayed upholstery and cracks in plasterwork, improvised lampshades and other indications of impoverishment. Sophia thought of Nicholas, who would go away still bearing the burden of an unexamined childhood.
Florence said, ‘I have always needed company. That I acknowledge. It is part of the human condition, isn’t it? And if I have been more dependent than some, it is surely a very human failing. It’s not a sin to be gregarious.’ She spoke as if ticking off from a list things that must be said. ‘And if I have a dominant personality, is that my fault? I dare say I haven’t given all the thought I might have done to other people’s requirements. But which of us does? My husband didn’t provide me with what I needed – nor I him, it would seem. That is by no means unusual in a marriage. As for my children – well, children are by nature ungrateful and no doubt I made mistakes, making mistakes is the lot of a parent.’
There was a long pause. Sophia pressed a clenched fist against her mouth, her eyes enormous in a face growing more shadowy in the dim light. Florence said, ‘I suppose you would say that I have never made my own life. How can I now?’
‘How can you not?’
Florence looked at her sister speculatively, as she might inspect an item at a sale. ‘Are you happy here? It was all right when we were children, but it’s so cramped and not at all comfortable.’
Sophia, withdrawn into her corner, looked as if she would have liked more space between herself and her sister.
Florence sat up straight, her chest thrust out. ‘You know you can’t go on living here when you get older. I notice you’re already looking rather frail. You’d better come back with me. I have always been the stronger. I shall be able to look after us both. We are older and more sensible now. I dare say we could live together quite happily. I’m sure that is what Mother would have thought appropriate.’
Sophia looked at her, eyebrows raised, and Florence returned the look defiantly. The corners of Sophia’s mouth began to twitch, her nose wrinkled like Tobias’s. Some internal insurrection appeared to be taking place in Florence; her eyes started out from their sockets, her cheeks bunched and her face grew red. Sophia doubled up, forehead on knees, shoulders shaking. Florence said, ‘How can you?’ But it was no use, mirth overwhelmed the small display of anger. It was some time before either was capable of speech, but at last Florence gasped, ‘I haven’t laughed so much in years.’ Since their mother was no longer here to ask, there was no need to rack their brains as to why they were laughing.
Sophia’s face had become very pale. It no longer seemed so well firmed, as though in some intermediate stage, not yet changed by illness but become a stranger to vitality. Whatever Florence’s next demand, it seemed unlikely she could summon the resolution to resist.
Florence said, ‘Nicholas won’t always be able to go running off to faraway places and Anita will certainly discover she can’t manage on her own. I shall have to keep the house going for them . . .’ In spite of her exhaustion, Sophia’s senses were still sharp. Now she detected something mechanical in her sister’s delivery, as though she were going through the motions of a game. Where had she heard this note before? It was the flickering light on the wall that gave the answer. The treasure hunts their grandmother had organised for them – the house in darkness save for firelight casting gnomish shapes on walls and ceilings. Florence had worked hard at the treasure hunts, though with a strange reluctance to come to the right place, as though she feared that what she might find would not be treasure in her terms. As she came towards the end of all her explorations, she would say, ‘Might as well try here – it’s not very likely, but we ought to look,’ finding yet another excuse for delay before making the final discovery.
The lamp was burning low, but neither of the sisters wanted to move. The firelight flickered and Florence, too, watched it; it gave her pain and reminded her of fears which she had not understood and never would now that they had been consigned to memory’s keeping. In the last few days she had carried out a very thorough investigation; every door had been tried, every lock tested, each window and corridor examined. She felt a kind of satisfaction at having researched so exhaustively, a pride in a project well executed; nothing had been overlooked, every alternative had been pushed to the limit. Now, drained of feeling, hands resting limp in her lap, she was aware only of a great emptiness. She said, ‘So, how am I to manage on my own?’
Sophia, about to dredge up an answer, checked, recognising a difference. This question was not addressed to her; Florence was asking it of herself. She got up quietly and went to the window. The night was still, no moon or stars, only the faint glimmer of the snow; too dark to see the gate. She drew the curtains.
‘I’ll make tea,’ she said.
Mary Hocking
Born in London in 1921, Mary was educated at Haberdashers’ Aske’s Girls School, Acton. During the Second World War she served in the Women’s Royal Naval Service (Wrens) attached to the Fleet Air Arm Meteorology branch and then briefly with the Signal Section in Plymouth.
Writing was in her blood. Juggling her work as a local government officer in Middlesex Education Department with writing, at first short stories for magazines and pieces for The Times Educational Supplement, she then had her first book, The Winter City, published in 1961.
The book was a success and enabled Mary to relinquish her full time occupation to devote her time to writing. Long before family sagas had become cult viewing, she had embarked upon the `Fairley Family’ trilogy – Good Daughters, Indifferent Heroes, and Welcome Strangers – books which give her readers a faithful, realistic and uncompromising portrayal of ordinary people caught up in extraordinary times, between the years of 1933 and 1946.
For many years she was an active member of the `Monday Lit’, a Lewes-based group which brought in current writers and poets to speak about their work, an enthusiastic supporter of Lewes Little Theatre, and worshipped at the town’s St Pancras RC Church.
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First published in Great Britain by Chatto & Windus Ltd 1993
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