“But he’d have to be there alone at some time,” I said. “He didn’t expect you to stay there with him, did he?”
She shook her head. “Oh, no, he didn’t want to go back to stay. He said he would never live there again; never spend another night there. But he had to go back because—well, he’d left in a hurry, he said and—well, everything he owned was in that place. He’d left his car there, and there were other things he needed: money, papers and various things. He said he’d pack what he needed, then sell the place and never go near it again.”
“But why did he come to you?”
“I think—because he knew I would believe. Yes . . .”
She looked at me searchingly, then looked away again. “I always have. I know—that things exist beyond our reasoning. They do exist. We may not understand them but that doesn’t mean they can’t be. You find people so ready to—to scoff at anything they can’t figure out, can’t reason, and those same people will turn straight round and tell you that they believe in God. Is He understandable? Is that belief backed up by reasoning, scientific logic? We live with mysteries all day long, all our lives, but because they’re familiar mysteries we accept them. Well, you’d have to—or go mad. Who understands life? Yet we live it. We hang on to it. We accept it just as we accept the inevitability of death. Life and death: the only two absolute certainties we’re aware of, but we can’t even begin to understand them.” She became quite animated here, forcing her words home with little jerky movements of her hands. “And there are other things, I know. Things that perhaps only—only touch us—and only touch some of us. But they’re there. Perhaps they are not quite life, not quite death—perhaps they’re something quite—quite beyond the powers of our—our earthbound conception altogether—and of course we don’t understand them. But I know they’re there.” She paused. “And if I was never sure before, then I’m certain now.”
She took a cigarette from the pack that lay beside me. I flicked my lighter, watched as she drew on the wavering flame.
“I wish I hadn’t seen you,” she said. “I’d made up my mind that it was all finished—once I could get over all the—remembering. I never wanted to think about it again. But you had to come here.”
Into the silence that fell I said, “You loved my brother.” It wasn’t a question.
After a second she nodded her answer, yes. “I never told anyone before,” she said. “No one knew. I never even told him.” The smile she gave was rueful. “He didn’t love me, though. He only loved Helen. I’m sure he never dreamt how I felt.” She nodded again, slowly. “Yes, I loved him. He was—a good man.”
I thought suddenly of the defaced photographs, the slashed paintings.
“Are you sure he loved her?” I asked.
“Oh, yes.” She looked at me in surprise. “Yes, he did. I know that. And she loved him—at least, that’s how it always looked to me . . .” She seemed lost in thought for a moment, then she added: “I always thought she did—love him. That’s why I couldn’t believe—at first—she could do to him what she did. Mind you, I don’t know what they were like—at the end . . . not really. He hardly spoke of her at first when he came round to see me on that last day. And when he did he never once called her by name. He said very little, actually. Just asked me—begged me—to drive him down to the cottage. And when I asked him why, that’s when he told me, told me that he was . . . that he was afraid. I can remember his words, so clearly. He said she was there, still there. ‘She’s waiting for me,’ he said, ‘and I’m afraid to be alone with her . . .’ He began to get almost incoherent then—just rambling on and on. I tried to calm him. Certain things could be done, I told him. He didn’t have to give up living in his house. But I couldn’t get through to him. He wouldn’t have any part of it.”
“What did you mean? What could have been done?”
She didn’t answer at once, just drew hard on her cigarette and watched as the smoke drifted, melted away. Then she said:
“There’s—there’s someone I know—a priest in the High Church. He has some experience of such a thing, I know. We talked on several occasions—not about Helen, of course—I didn’t know about her then—but before . . . other situations . . .”
“. . . You mean—exorcism?”
“Yes. He could have helped, I’m certain. He believed. And he would have helped. But no. Colin said no. All he wanted was to go down there, get his belongings and get out.”
“So you went.”
“That same day. I didn’t park in his driveway. Although it goes a long way back from the road it’s very straight, and my car could have been seen by anyone passing by and—well, there’d been enough talk already. And apart from that, Colin had his own car there.”
“So you parked in that little clearing almost opposite the house.”
“Behind the trees. Yes, it seemed the best thing.” She paused. “I let him out first and then I parked. When I went up the drive a couple of minutes later I found him sitting in his own car. He was afraid to go into the house. In the end I went in first and he followed. Then I helped him get his things together.”
“I saw his suitcases,” I said, “all packed. I couldn’t figure it out.”
“We’d almost finished,” she said. “It was quite late by then. I’d done about as much as I could do and was just waiting while he finished sorting out some odd papers and things. You should have seen him then. With the darkness he had got more and more—edgy. He was working feverishly—almost in a panic, so anxious—desperate—to be gone.”
She stopped then. I said nothing, just waited for her to continue. It was easy to see she didn’t want to. I said at last:
“What happened? Something happened. Please . . . tell me . . .”
Carefully she stubbed out her cigarette and then her hands came together again, fingers gripping hard, the knuckles whitening.
“. . . The lights all . . . went out.” She barely breathed the words and I leaned closer to her. Her eyes were screwed up, tight as her fists. “All the lights. Just suddenly went out . . . For a little while we were in almost complete darkness—there was only the moonlight coming through the window. I remember Colin giving a kind of—cry. I called out to him not to worry, that there was nothing to worry about. I could tell he was absolutely terrified. As I was. Then I remembered the candlesticks on the sideboard and I edged across and lit one of them. I could see him then—still kneeling in front of his suitcase, almost—transfixed. I started to carry the light over to him. I was saying something—I don’t know what—trying to calm him—making out it was all going to be all right, I suppose—going on about a power cut or a fuse, when he suddenly said to me to be quiet. ‘Listen!’ he said to me. ‘Listen . . . !’ So I just . . . stayed where I was. I didn’t move . . .
“And that’s when I heard her. Breathing.”
25
I walked back onto the asphalt path, leaving her still sitting there on the grass, the tears running from her eyes, wet on her cheeks.
Amongst the other sojourners in the park I wandered. I felt dazed, disorientated. Of their own accord, it seemed, my uneven steps led me out, through the gates and onto the pavement again. From there, just because I had planned to, I set off for my father’s house, flagging down a taxi and, as I opened the door, giving my father’s address.
I think it was the driver and his aggrieved look that brought me closer back to reality. He managed to both smile and frown at the same time as he whined.
“Oh, guvnor, I was goin’ ’ome—in the opposite direction.”
He obviously wanted—perhaps expected—me to close the door again and send him on home with my blessing.
“Is your sign on?” I asked shortly. I still held the door open.
“Well, yes, but . . .”
“What does it say?”
“Well—For hire . . .”
“Thank you, that’s good enough for me.” I got in, slammed the door, slid back the glass partition between us and repeated t
he address I’d given. “And if that still doesn’t suit you,” I said, “you can make it the nearest police station.”
“That’s all right, sir,” he said grudgingly, “ ’ampstead’ll do fine.”
When we got there I counted the exact fare into his outstretched hand. No tip. Just a smile.
“You’ll learn,” I said.
As my father opened the door to me all he said was: “I expected you earlier.”
I followed him through into the lounge, took off my jacket and sat down while he continued on into the kitchen. “I’m just making some tea,” he said through the open doorway, and I said that would be nice, thanks. We kept up a desultory exchange as he busied himself—the predictable, polite questions and answers: Yes, he was getting on all right; yes, the garden was looking good, and no, there wasn’t anything he needed. The talk dwindled, died, and I thought again of Elizabeth Barton as she had sat there in the park, clenching and unclenching her hands. I recalled the feel of my own hands—stiff, wet with sweat when she had spoken of the breathing. I had wanted to say: Yes, I too. I’ve heard her too . . . But I stayed silent.
“I’m not making it up,” she said. “I really heard her. It was—frightening. I could see Colin there, more clearly in the candlelight . . . and I shall never forget that look on his face. He was—tormented. His eyes were wide open, staring. He was rigid. With fear. He suddenly shouted out, ‘No! NO! Leave me alone . . . !’—just kneeling there, bolt upright . . . And she just—laughed.”
Hands lifting, she covered her mouth, her breath beginning to come in dry, rasping sobs. The tears sprang into her eyes and ran down onto her fingers. “That laughter,” she said, “—I can’t describe it. It was so vile, so cruel, so—so smug. He went as pale as death, Colin, when she laughed, and he shouted out: ‘I’m going! I’m leaving!’ Yet he still knelt there. It was as if he wanted to get up, but couldn’t. His eyes were rolling back in his head; he looked as if he was in agony. ‘I hate you,’ he kept shouting. ‘You murderous bitch, I hate you!’ ” Her hands stayed at her face for moments longer, fingers pressing into her cheeks, then she let them fall.
“I couldn’t do anything,” she continued after a moment. “Nothing at all. I could only—watch. His mouth was opening and closing with no words coming out. And then he started to gasp and clutch at his chest, and then to shout things like ‘No! No! Don’t! Keep away. Don’t . . . !’ He managed to get up, but it was as if he was fighting to do so. I watched him struggle to his feet, hands flailing, lashing out, clutching at his chest again. He turned towards the door . . . And that’s when my candle flickered and went out. But I could—could still hear him. Oh, God, yes. I heard him as he cried out—a terrible, strangled kind of sound. And then he ran outside.”
She sat staring ahead, the tears running down. “That’s all,” she said at last. “After a few seconds I heard the sound of his car. I heard it, starting up very fast. Then came the sound of the crash. He must have been going at such a speed. I was like—well, as if I was frozen there, but then I got up and went out to him. I could see at once that he—he was dead. I knew there was nothing I could do. I—I went back, into the house, to get my bag, my keys . . . and I just . . . sat. Alone.” She shook her head. “No, not alone. She was still there. Helen was still there. There were no more sounds, but she was still there. Quiet . . . quiet . . . but there . . .” Across her cheeks she brushed her hands, wiping away the tears. “After a time I left.”
And soon after those words I had left her, Elizabeth Barton; walked past the tennis court where the girls pressed on with their game; and so to my father . . .
He was pouring tea into the cups. Now he looked up at me and asked:
“So to what do I owe this visit?”
Back to us then—him and me.
“I’m getting married tomorrow.” Now, when the time came I just blurted it out. No subtlety at all. He looked at me blankly for some seconds, then said:
“You haven’t wasted any time. You haven’t been back five minutes.”
I laughed, too loudly—it sounded false, forced. “Oh, I didn’t meet her here. I’ve known her a long time.” I added lamely: “Her name’s Shelagh.”
“I thought you came back to England on your own.”
“I did. She just arrived a few days back. She’s in the hospital right now. She had an accident. But the doctor says she can come out tomorrow . . .”
“Good,” he said. “Good.”
“I’ve—I’ve come to see whether—well, whether you’d like to come to the wedding. I mean—we’d like you to be there . . .”
He was hesitating. I’d put him on the spot, I could see. Not for long, though.
“Well . . . I don’t get out much, as you know,” he said. “What a pity you didn’t mention it earlier.”
He wasn’t my father for nothing.
So that was that. I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks, anger and humiliation burning inside me. I wouldn’t ask him again and give him another chance to cut me down. I wanted to get up at once, leave abruptly, but I lacked the courage for that. Instead I let the seconds tick by while I stared into my cup and tried to tell myself it didn’t matter.
After the longest ten minutes I got up to go. I made some excuse about having to hurry back—but it was superfluous, anyway; he wasn’t about to press me to stay. And still I couldn’t figure out whether his feelings for me were of indifference or positive dislike . . .
As I put on my jacket my eyes took in again the photographs: Colin; my mother on the gate, my father at her side, proud and protective. He looked happy too, and relaxed; I’d never known him during that period of his life. I picked the photograph up, looked more closely at his young, hopeful face. I couldn’t see that I resembled him, and I was glad.
As I moved to replace the framed picture on the sideboard I propped up again the envelope that had fallen over on its face. And saw that the envelope was addressed to me.
It was an air mail envelope, written in Colin’s hand.
Looking quickly back, questioning, to my father, I saw that his eyes were on the envelope. Then his eyes lifted to mine, flicked away again and he began to speak, quickly, with an attempt at casualness, trying to cover embarrassment.
“Oh, yes . . . Colin wrote that to you—while he was staying here . . .”
I picked up the envelope. “I wonder why he didn’t post it . . .” It was unstamped.
“He—he asked me to. I said I would. I was going to and then—then that happened—just a few hours later—and—and there didn’t seem much point in it any more . . .” He wouldn’t look at me.
“No, maybe not . . . Even so, you could have given it to me when I was here before . . .”
He shrugged. “I was going to. I forgot.” A slight pause. “Anyway, it’s not that important, is it?—now?”
I stared at him, then looked back at the envelope, moved to open it. Stopped.
“It’s already been opened,” I said.
My father’s silence drew my gaze back to him. He was still avoiding my eyes.
“You opened it,” I said, not quite believing.
He said nothing.
“You opened it,” I repeated. “Colin wrote to me and you opened the letter, and read it.”
“Colin’s dead,” he said shortly. I could hear the anger in his voice. I drew the letter out, opened it up and saw the date, Tuesday, 16th May. Colin had written it on the day of his death. “You should have let me have this,” I said.
My father said sharply, guilt turning more and more to hostility: “Anyway . . . What does it matter about some letter.”
“It matters,” I said. My hands were trembling. “He wrote it to me. Not to you. He wrote it to me.”
I turned away from him, refolded Colin’s scrawled pages and put them back in the envelope. And as I did so my father—as if the bitterness had been building up inside him—said, “Yes!”
I stared at him.
“Yes!” he said ag
ain, his head jerking as he flung the word at me. “Yes. To you! He didn’t write to me. But to you.”
So that’s what hurt so much. Now it was clear. I could understand it now.
“He had no need to write to you,” I said, “not when he was staying here in the same house with you. He could talk to you—in person.”
“Talk.” The word was dismissed with a wave of the hand. “He didn’t talk to me at all. He told me nothing. Nothing that mattered, anyway. He told me nothing of what he was going through, and it was obvious to anyone that he was going through a—a bad time. No. You were the one he chose for that.”
He hated me in that moment. It was so clear. It wasn’t indifference. His feelings for me were very positive. Colin hadn’t confided in him—but on his last day on earth Colin had written me a letter. And that my father couldn’t forgive; he couldn’t forgive me for it.
We stood in silence while inside me a lifetime’s simmering resentment came up to the boil. Trying to keep my voice low, even, I said at last:
“If I’d been perfectly normal you could have accepted everything, couldn’t you—in time?”
He was taken aback, I could see. He stared at me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said shortly.
But I wasn’t about to be put off. Not now, not after all this time.
“It wasn’t my fault that she—that she died—my mother. I didn’t ask to be born.”
I’d said it at last, and it had been easier, so much easier than I would have dreamed. I went on.
“If both your sons had been perfect you could probably have accepted it, couldn’t you?—her death? We, Colin and I, would have been equal; no deformity, no—label—to separate us. We would have been identical in every way, and the fact that she had died giving birth to one of us—me, the second—wouldn’t have reflected on me, would it? But no. She died giving birth to something which, in your eyes, wasn’t worth the sacrifice, wasn’t worth being born—a cripple. With the birth of Colin you had just what you wanted; you had a son and you had your wife. And then hours later I come along. She dies, and what have you got instead?—a sickly baby who has a congenital dislocation of the hip.”
Sweetheart, Sweetheart Page 23
