Penmarric

by Susan Howatch

  I accepted more tea. I felt better, aglow with the satisfaction which arises after a tricky task has been successfully accomplished.

  I had a foot in the door.

  3

  A week after that I gritted my teeth, scraped the barrel of my current stock of hypocrisy and called on Rebecca to congratulate her on her son’s good fortune. She was cross with me since I hadn’t been near her after my ill-fated visit to Penmarric, but I was used to her being cross and presently I had ironed away her ill-humor and she was smiling. She even asked me to stay to lunch, but I had arranged to have lunch in St. Just with William and Charity, so I postponed the invitation until another day.

  William was thinking of moving from St. Just. He had taken his dismissal from Penmarric surprisingly philosophically, and I realized then that he had disliked working for Philip and was welcoming the opportunity to begin his duties as bailiff at Carnforth Hall. Philip’s policy of single-minded extortion to provide money to keep Sennen Garth alive had hardly coincided with William’s traditional policy of maintaining good relations with the tenants and showing consideration of their financial affairs when they were in trouble. Philip had accused William of inefficiency and I had been too well acquainted with the muddled state of William’s office to deny this charge on William’s behalf, but there are worse sins in the world than inefficiency and I had had no hesitation in recommending William to my father-in law once I knew William was to lose the job at Penmarric.

  When I arrived at his house that afternoon Charity told me that Adrian had already arrived from Oxford and would be preaching his first sermon at Zillan the following Sunday. Having unburdened herself of this latest item of news, she then retired to the kitchen to attend the lunch and I had the chance to be alone for a time with my two half-brothers.

  They were standing by the hearth together as I entered the room, Adrian very tall and thin, William an inch or two shorter in height and many inches thicker around the waist. They did not look alike and yet there was a curious likeness between them. They had the same set of gestures, the same mannerisms, the same tricks of speech, and this elusive resemblance was never more noticeable than when they were side by side.”

  “Jan-Yves!” said Adrian warmly and held out his hand in greeting. He stepped forward, his spare frame blazing vitality, his handshake tight with a power that grabbed the attention. He had a useful personality for a clergyman. No one could question his integrity, and he had the masculinity which would make him respected by both sexes, not merely by the female portion of his flock. He had a strong mouth, receding brownish hair and blue eyes with sparks in them.

  I often wondered why he had never married.

  “Welcome home,” I said, shaking hands with him. “How does it feel to be back in this part of Cornwall? I’m looking forward to hearing your first sermon.”

  “I shall certainly need some moral support! I’m glad to hear you were thinking of coming.”

  “Nothing could keep me away,” I said with a smile, “and nothing could keep my mother away either, you’ll be surprised to hear. She told me privately some days ago that Zillan was much her favorite church and she had no intention of worshiping anywhere else. She daren’t tell Philip, of course, but I think she’s looking forward to your first appearance in the pulpit.”

  There was a silence. William had that neutral expression on his face; the expression he always wore when my mother was mentioned, but I saw his eyes widen in skeptical surprise. I glanced at Adrian. There was neither neutrality nor skepticism in his expression. For one brief second he looked as embarrassed as he was astonished, but then that was wiped off his face and succeeded by an expression of polite interest. “Really?” he said pleasantly. “That was a brave decision for her to make and I look forward to seeing her in the congregation. But all the same, I won’t call on her until she invites me. It’s one thing to face me in church where I lose my identity beneath my surplice and quite another to entertain me over a cup of tea in the farm parlor.”

  I knew then that he had no wish to call on her, and I didn’t blame him. She would have been the last person I would have chosen to call on if I’d been in his shoes.

  “I suppose you’ve heard Philip’s made Jonas his heir,” I said in an effort to change the subject. “And have you heard how Simon Peter Roslyn is flourishing these days? Philip seems to have taken the most extraordinary fancy to him.”

  “I don’t think it’s extraordinary at all,” said William before Adrian could reply. William was much shrewder than many people supposed. “Philip fancies Simon Peter not in spite of who he is but because of it. If Simon Peter were a gentleman I doubt if Philip would have paid him any attention whatsoever; we all know Philip suffers from inverted snobbism and this is just one more example of his preference for the working classes.”

  We discussed Simon Peter further while William mixed the drinks and handed us our glasses. Adrian was of the opinion that it was very commendable that Simon Peter should be doing so well after such a humble start in life, but I pointed out that humble or not Simon Peter had at least had money behind him; Rebecca’s father had left his only nephew a useful legacy some years before.

  “… and we all know Joss Roslyn got hold of his wife’s money and then spent very little of it,” I concluded. “Simon Peter must be comfortably off financially. In fact,” I added, struck by the injustice of the situation, “he must be the hell of a lot better off than I am.”

  I thought about this unwelcome fact later when I was driving home to Carnforth Hall, but finally I pushed it to the back of my mind and resolved not to think of Simon Peter any more. I still felt he was beneath my notice, and although my instincts told me I should acknowledge his unwelcome presence in my life by an active dislike, my pride told me that the best way to treat small fry was to ignore them.

  So I ignored Simon Peter Roslyn. It was to prove one of the most expensive mistakes I ever made.

  THREE

  In the arrangements which the king made for the government of the country during his absence, he showed little political wisdom or judgment of character.

  —Oxford History of England:

  From Domesday Book to Magna Carta,

  A. L. POOLE

  King Richard could refuse his mother nothing. When she asked [that] John might be allowed to keep her company in England he was released from his oath to keep away. Nevertheless, Arthur was Richard’s heir… [Arthur] was only three years old and still in the keeping of his mother Duchess Constance … alleged to be the mistress of John Lackland.

  —The Devil’s Brood

  ALFRED DUGGAN

  PHILIP LEFT PENMARRIC WITH a suitcase in either hand and a raincoat slung over his shoulder and caught the train from Penzance en route to Southampton. My mother wanted to go with him to the very docks and say goodbye to him only when he boarded the liner, but he wouldn’t have it. He disliked protracted farewells. At his request I drove them both to the station in the Carnforth Hall Daimler and went onto the platform with my mother to see him off. He was casual about his departure, offhand.

  “Take care of yourself, Mama,” he said, kissing her and graciously permitting her to cling to him for a few seconds. “I don’t want anything to happen to you while I’m away. And make sure there’s plenty of elderberry wine to celebrate my return in 1933.”

  My mother, understandably, began to cry.

  “Please!” he said harshly. “Don’t be upset! I’ll come back. I came back from Allengate, didn’t I, and that was seven years! I’ll be back this time. You’ll just have to be patient, that’s all.”

  I was just thinking what a callous brute he was when he turned away from her and I saw the tears in his eyes.

  “Goodbye, Philip,” I said. “Good luck.”

  He didn’t answer. I don’t think he was capable of it. He got into the train as the guard blew the warning whistle, and within seconds the engine was dragging the coaches forward and pulling him toward his new life in another land. I w
ondered how he would like it, tried to imagine what was in his mind at that moment, but it was no use. I found it as always impossible to understand him.

  “Come on, Mama,” I said at last. “It’s time we went home.”

  She was suddenly an old, old woman with shaky movements and an aged face. I gave her my arm, led her out of the station and helped her into the car. She cried all the way back to the farm.

  “Don’t go, Jan,” she said when I drew the car up in the farmyard and prepared to help her out. “Please stay a little while. Please.”

  “Of course, Mama. I was going to suggest it myself.” But I was beginning to be anxious. Naturally I was sorry for her, but I had my own life to live and my own business to attend to, and I had no wish to be saddled with her problems indefinitely. I had already resolved to make it clear to her that while I was prepared to visit the farm once a week I was not prepared to dance attendance on her whenever she felt like it. I thought that was reasonable. I would observe my filial duty toward her as befitted a practicing Christian, but I intended to spell out exactly where that duty began and ended. After all, one had to preserve some sort of independence and I disapproved of old people leaning too much on the young.

  However, it proved harder to leave the farm than I had anticipated. I had lunch with her willingly enough, but when I saw she expected me to stay to tea as well I did my best to lighten my future burden by reminding her that I wasn’t her only child.

  “Why don’t you ask Mariana to come down for a visit?” I suggested cunningly. My mother had been proud of Mariana’s success in society and Mariana had gone through a phase of being the favorite daughter some years ago. “I’m sure she’d like you to see Esmond again.”

  But my mother shook her head. “She wouldn’t want to come. It’s too provincial for her here and she doesn’t like to be reminded that her mother lives in a farmhouse.”

  This was undeniably true. I began to feel uncomfortable. It was no good suggesting that I should summon Lizzie instead because I knew that Lizzie wouldn’t come; my mother had never regarded her with much favor and there was an antipathy between them. I saw clearly for the first time that once Philip was removed from her she was quite alone.

  “I’ll fetch Jeanne,” I said at last in desperation, although I knew Jeanne was far too deeply involved with her invalid husband at that time to pay my mother more than a fleeting visit. “I’ll drive over to Polzillan House now and bring her back here.”

  “I’d much rather have you than Jeanne,” said my mother tremulously and tried to cling to my sleeve to delay me.

  I felt lower than the lowliest worm. “Now, Mama,” I said severely, “that’s not very fair to Jeanne, is it? You know how kind and sympathetic and well-meaning Jeanne always is.”

  “I don’t want her fluttering around me as if I were an invalid,” said my mother, “I don’t want Jeanne.”

  Old people were really most difficult sometimes. I felt myself becoming irritated by her, “I’ll call tomorrow, Mama,” I said, “but I really must go, now.” Taking my leave of her firmly, I tried not to see the tears in her eyes, her shaking hands, her mute expression pleading me to stay.

  I drove off down the lane in the Carnforth Daimler and flicked the sweat from my forehead as I turned onto the road to Zillan. I felt exhausted. When I arrived at Polzillan House I almost asked the butler to bring me a shot of whisky but thought better of it. Half past two in the afternoon was the wrong time for drinking whisky and I hardly wanted the rumor that I was an alcoholic to buzz around Zillan parish.

  My sister kept me waiting five minutes before entering the drawing room to join me. She looked tired and plain. I could remember a time long ago when she had been a pretty child, but now she was too tall, too thin, and her mouse-brown hair was straggly and unattractive. She had large patient blue eyes and an anxious long-suffering smile.

  “I can spare you no more than five minutes,” she said nervously after we’d exchanged greetings. “Don’t be cross but Gerry’s so ill and I don’t like to leave him. Dr. McCrae is coming at any moment and as soon as he arrives I’ll have to leave you.”

  I knew my brother-in-law had taken a turn for the worse, but I had had no idea matters had reached such a critical stage. I hesitated uneasily, not sure how to phrase my request, but by that time Jeanne had already guessed why I had come.

  “I suppose Mama sent you,” she said. “Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t possibly leave Gerry—it’s quite out of the question! I’m sure Mama will understand that my husband must come first.”

  “But if you could go to the farm just for an hour—she really does need you, Jeanne—”

  “Oh no she doesn’t!” said Jeanne fiercely, and with a shock I saw that the expression in her eyes, usually so gentle, was stony with anger. “She never needed me! I spent so much of my time at the farm trying to please her but the only ones she cared about were the boys—and now all the boys are gone she expects me to come running to her! Well, I won’t! She never did anything for me, so why should I do anything for her? All she did was spend her time telling me I was on the shelf and would never get married, and when I did get married she thought me a fool and spent her whole time making contemptuous remarks about my husband! I despise her—and you can go back to Roslyn Farm and tell her so!” And before I could even begin to reply she burst into tears and rushed out of the room.

  I was so astonished by her uncharacteristic behavior that for a moment I remained exactly where I was in the middle of the drawing-room carpet. Finally, having pulled myself together, I left the house and walked outside to my car.

  Dr. McCrae had arrived from Penzance. As I moved out of the front door he was running up the steps of the porch toward me. I knew him slightly. After old Dr. Salter of St. Just had retired he had recommended McCrae to me and I had consulted him when I had fractured my wrist six months ago. He was a dark, stocky Scot with a pleasantly ugly face and flawless English accent.

  “Hullo, Castallack,” he said in surprise as he saw me. “Been visiting the patient?”

  “Just pausing for a word with my sister. How are you?”

  “Busy. Worried. Otherwise fine.” He glanced past me through the open door to the silent hall beyond. “How did you find your sister?”

  “Well, since you mention it, very tired and overwrought. I suppose this must be an upsetting time for her.”

  “Very,” said McCrae abruptly. He seemed to shun the use of complete sentences. “Tragic.” He glanced past me again as if he were afraid of being overheard and muttered in a rush, “Wonderful woman, your sister. Woman in a million. You ought to be proud of her. Well …” He drew a deep breath, hustled past me and added over his shoulder, “Have to rush—sorry old chap—my regards to your wife.”

  “Thanks,” I said, staring after him, and began to speculate how many more surprises were in store for me before I arrived safely home at Carnforth Hall that afternoon.

  I wondered if Jeanne was aware of Dr. Donald McCrae’s unstinted admiration. Whether she was or not, I was glad her merits were being appreciated at last. I had a suspicion her invalid husband had long been too self-pitying to realize his good fortune in having a saint to look after him in his ill health.

  I slid into the driving seat of my car, lit a cigarette and paused to think. My watch told me it was three o’clock. I could drive back to the Hall, have an early tea, finish reading my detective novel and go for a ride before sunset. Perhaps after dinner I could take Felicity out to the talkies to compensate for my recent surliness toward her; Philip’s will had made me bad-tempered, and since she was the one who had to live with me she was also the one to suffer most when I was in one of my bleaker moods.

  I felt a glow of satisfaction at the prospect of a pleasant evening ahead of me after such a trying morning and afternoon. Starting the engine, I eased the car down the drive of Polzillan House, turned left at the gates onto the road to Penzance and drove jauntily along humming to myself beneath my breath.


  After a quarter of a mile I stopped humming. After half a mile I felt my glow of satisfaction fade away. Finally, a mile from Polzillan House I drew up the car in a gateway, lit another cigarette and tried to pooh-pooh my ridiculous feeling of guilt which was threatening to ruin my peace of mind.

  For five long minutes I thought of my mother, all alone at Roslyn Farm.

  “Serve her right,” I said to the cows grazing in the field nearby. “I was alone at Penmarric for six years. She never came to see me when I needed her.”

  I thought of her crying on the station platform, crying all the way home in the car, crying in the parlor of Roslyn Farm because without Philip she was alone and knew it and could do nothing to make the situation otherwise.

  “So what?” I said to the cows. “She’ll get used to being alone. Old people should expect loneliness. It’s one of the penalties of old age.”

  I thought of her clinging to my sleeve, begging me to stay, watching me depart with tears in her eyes.

  “Damn it!” I yelled at the cows. “I owe her nothing! Nothing! Of all her children I have the least obligation to go out of my way to help her! She left me alone and now I’m damned well going to leave her alone and she can see how she likes it!”

  I backed the car onto the road once more and resumed my journey to Penzance, but it was no good. I could curse as much as I wished, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to go home and forget all about her. Wrenching the gears into place, I reversed into another gateway, turned the car and drove back enraged to Zillan.

  There was no need for me to go back, I told myself. I had done my duty and had lunch with her. She had no right to expect anything else. No right at all.

  But I drove on to the farm.

  I parked in the farmyard, scattering the hens, and slammed the door after me as I got out. I went into the kitchen. It was empty.