by MARY HOCKING
‘I’ll become a doctor, and marry a doctor, and we shall have four children and make dismally bad parents, the way professional people do.’ She sounded very hard, but there was despair behind the facade. The bomb episode had shaken her into realization that there were things in herself to which she did not want to give expression. Her mother and father had reached an accommodation, but their two natures still warred in Barbara and she could not marry them: one must go to ground. Her mother’s was the more unacceptable by today’s standards; it had had its romp and nearly frightened her to death, and that must be the end of it. Soon people would be saying ‘Barbara’s herself again’ by which they would mean she was crisp and hard as a piece of celery.
Nancy was surprised that Barbara, who had seemed so competent and had the course of her life planned out so carefully, should allow herself to be unsaddled before she’d even got under starter’s orders.
She told her father about Barbara. It was the nearest she could get to telling him of her own exploits. ‘You’d think she’d just put it down to experience, wouldn’t you?’ she said. ‘Try to be a bit more discriminating next time.’
‘Yes, I would have thought that,’ he agreed, thinking about Barbara Jarman and not about his daughter.
Nancy wondered whether to pursue this line. She had had her first love affair and she had come through it without laying any burdens on her father; it was the only pain she had ever kept to herself. If ever she was up against something bad in the future, it might be a help to know she’d managed this alone. She said, ‘Anyway, Barbara will be going to university next fall. It will do her good to get away from her parents for a year or so.’
She knew by the way he took off his reading glasses and laid them carefully on the desk that she had her father’s full attention now. She did not know quite how to start, and he said gently, ‘What is it you want to say, my dear?’
‘I don’t want to hurt you.’
He smiled. ‘I promise not to be hurt.’
‘I’m thinking of staying behind when you and Zoe go; I’ll stay with Meg at Carrick Farm. She and Miss Draisey don’t get along awfully well, but I can cope all right with each of them and I think that would be a help.’
‘It would be a help to them.’ She sensed that the idea did not appeal to him. He said quietly. ‘I’d like to think there was something in it for you as well. Miss Draisey is doing this at the end of her life, and Meg is half-way through hers, but you are at your beginning. Don’t you think this might be the time to train for something?’
‘And have my life mapped out for me by other people before I’ve had time to find my way around?’
He looked down at the desk, rubbing a forefinger across his forehead in a way he had when he was collecting his thoughts. ‘What are you going to use for money?’ he asked.
She bit her finger nail and thought how sordid life was. It wouldn’t have been so sordid if she herself hadn’t cared about money, but the thought of not having enough money to keep a roof over her head filled her with dread. ‘I reckon I can manage for about a year on what Mother left me,’ she said. ‘After that, I might get to be a nurse. I’ve an idea I need something fairly structured, I don’t think social work is for me.’
‘You could train for a nurse at home,’ he pointed out.
‘Yes, I know.’ How could she say that if she came home she would never be free? Her mother had been ill for so long that she had invested too much in her father; now, when she had started withdrawing it, little by little, she dared not stop. ‘It’s just that I have to do things on my own. There was a time when I thought I wasn’t ever going to make out as a person.’ It was touch and go now, but she didn’t add that.
He flipped the hook of the glasses, jigging them about on the desk. ‘This is what we’re really talking about, isn’t it? Not Meg and Miss Draisey needing help, but you needing to make out on your own? Don’t look so upset, my dear. It makes more sense.’
‘We’ll be able to enjoy each other more when I’ve got myself straightened out,’ she said unhopefully. Love and the fear of losing seemed to her to be so inextricably entangled she found it hard to believe that if she loosed the knot that bound her to him love would survive.
He picked up his glasses and put them on. ‘That’s settled then?’ he said. ‘You’ll stay at Carrick Farm and I’ll quite envy you that. I had the feeling I’d have liked to stay there myself once.’ He was drawing his book towards him as he talked.
‘You want to get on with your old sermon,’ she teased. She kissed the top of his head and went out.
Vereker sat with his finger on the page, not reading, after she had gone. You saw all these youngsters bumming around, thumbing lifts through life, and you never thought it was going to happen to your child. Your child was going to grow up nice and steady, be processed through the educational machine and emerge a teacher, a chemist, a librarian, it didn’t matter what so long as it was something which satisfied you she had a good future. He thought: at least Nan wants to do something for people. But it did not console him. “Doing something for people” is sometimes the refuge of the inadequate: he prayed that in her case it meant accepting the discipline and responsibility of nursing.
Zoe was sympathetic when Matthew talked to her about his fears for Nancy, but she was nevertheless conscious of a slight irritation that Nancy’s problems should intrude so soon on her own happiness. She had overlooked the fact that there was an area of Matthew’s life into which she could not enter fully. She had never intended to come between him and his daughter, but she had tended to see them as living in a harmonious relationship, united yet particular, rather like the Blessed Trinity. Fortunately she had time to bring herself down to earth and make a more realistic assessment of their relationship.
‘One of the things I lack,’ she said to Matthew, ‘is a sense of proportion. You will have to remind me of that from time to time.’
Chapter Seventeen
February was cold and grey; February was always a dead time of the year on the island. A few people went to the priory grounds on the first two Saturdays after the bomb incident and hung around hopefully but eventually they were discouraged. It seemed that the movement was unlikely to survive the combined challenge of the bomb and February.
Vereker and Zoe had decided to be married in Southampton on their way to the boat. They wanted a quiet wedding away from both the island and Coppers Town. Nancy was glad about this. Although she continued to be cheerful about the marriage, she did not want to share her father with a stepmother during his last weeks on the island. It was agreed that she would drive Zoe and Vereker to Southampton, attend the wedding and see them off on the boat.
Tudor left the island in the second week of February. He had a talk with Nancy before he went. He suggested that from time to time he might spend a night at Carrick Farm and they could continue to be lovers on a casual basis if that appealed to her. Now that he would be living with the school teacher, he felt he would need a woman on the island as well. Nancy declined.
‘I just don’t have the urge.’ She was surprised that she had the nerve to say this to him. If she had said that she was in love with another woman, or with her father, Tudor would have accepted it, but he would find this answer beyond belief. She hoped he would not take it personally; she did not want to damage his self-esteem. But he began to tell her that she would never develop properly as a person, that she would be unable to enjoy anything fully, music, art, poetry, all would be closed to her; in time she might not even enjoy her food or be able to sleep. So she knew he had not taken it personally. Poor Tudor, she thought, looking at his taut face. He had scoured himself clean of every weakness, of which he believed love to be one, and now only anger moved in him: it had worn him to the bone. She cried for him that night, but after that she did not think much about him.
There was a farewell party in the church hall for the Verekers. Then Nancy and Matthew had the churchwardens and their families to dinner; and the followin
g Saturday they went to lunch with the Maitlands.
After lunch, the Colonel’s lady permitted the men to go for a walk. They turned automatically in the direction of the sea front. It was high tide and there was a stiff breeze coming off the sea, blowing spray in their faces. The Colonel told Vereker about the mistakes which the English generals had made during the War of Independence. Somewhere a radio was switched on and a brass band provided martial music for his discourse.
There were only a few people about; the island attracted no visitors in February. A woman passed them accompanied by an elderly dog with faded eyes; a man and a woman with three children to tire before tea headed purposefully towards the harbour; an old man stooped at the sea’s edge, collecting shells for his grandchildren.
The Colonel was talking about Bull Run; he must have switched to the Civil War while Vereker was watching the people coming and going, like sparrows making the best of things after the crowds have gone. The band was nearer. The Colonel stopped talking and the two men stood listening as the sound swelled. ‘I thought it was on the radio,’ the Colonel said. At first, it was difficult to tell from which direction the music was coming; then, far down the seafront, wintry sunlight glinted on brass. The doors of houses were opened, people came out into the gardens, looking from right to left. Children scampered onto the seafront; parents followed carrying the children’s coats. The band was playing “In the name of Jesus every knee shall bow. . . .”
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ the Colonel said, ‘Someone must have called the Army in.’
‘I should have thought they’d have other things to do,’ Vereker said, not understanding. Then, as they came nearer, he saw the band of the Salvation Army. A woman and a child were walking in front of the band, and behind it marched a long, orderly column with only a few Salvation Army uniforms here and there. There was no hand clapping, no shouts of Alleluiah; although their feet marked the rhythm of the music, there was no swagger in their bearings and they did not shout to onlookers to join them. Their countenances proclaimed that to be of their number was a privilege and one must comport oneself accordingly. People ran forward, tugging on raincoats, putting scarves round their heads, looking not so much eager to join as afraid of being left behind. As soon as they were in the ranks, any exuberance was quietly but firmly restrained; they seemed at first overawed and unsure, skipping from one foot to the other, constantly changing step; then gradually, they became calm as they realized what was expected of them.
The band was nearly abreast of Vereker and Colonel Maitland. The woman in front loped along, her head poked forward slightly. In spite of the blare of the trumpets, the clash of cymbals, she walked with no suggestion that she was taking part in a military parade but rather with the resourceful air of a housewife with a hard day’s shopping ahead of her. Neither Vereker nor Colonel Maitland recognized her until she was quite close to them. If she had walked barefoot in rags, or worn the hair shirt of the penitent; if she had dressed in scarlet and laughed like a mad woman, or been sombre in friar’s habit, the impact would have been no more arresting than the sight of Mrs. Peters in a navy raincoat, too broad in the shoulders for her, but giving nevertheless the overall impression of neat respectability. It was as though, having no riches to give away, she had renounced the obvious signs of her poverty.
To Vereker and the Colonel’s embarrassment, the procession halted at this point to give the long column an opportunity to close ranks. While they waited, the marchers stared ahead of them. One look at their faces told the onlookers they would not be thanked for a laugh and a cheery greeting. These were people who had discovered a sense of responsibility and they were feeling its weight on their shoulders. As one looked from one face to another, it seemed that they were saying, ‘Enough is enough. No more permissiveness, no more improvizing, extemporizing, no more impromptu living. Life is too important to play it by ear. All the nonsense is over; now let’s get down to business.’
Tommy, holding his mother’s hand, looked about him pleased and proud. Vereker dreaded that his mother would do the same. Suppose she turned to him and challenged him to march beside her? But “joining” was not as easy as that: a forfeit must be paid. When she did turn to look at Vereker, she called out, ‘Join us, brother. But first throw that collar away, there’s no place for it in the People’s Movement.’ She looked at Colonel Maitland consideringly and then said, ‘Leave your wife. Colonel.’
The band struck up “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord” and the procession moved off. Colonel Maitland cleared his throat and said to Vereker, ‘Remarkable woman, that!’ The trumpets blared, the cymbals clashed; the voices of the marchers were loud and strong. But it was all very disciplined. These were people who felt they had a long way to go, who knew that strength must be conserved and that spiritual ecstasy is rare as water in the desert not one drop of which must be wasted. It was not the singing which was the most impressive thing: it was the sound of the marching feet. Vereker, listening, was afraid.
“He hath sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat.
Colonel Maidand said to Vereker, ‘You’re not going to throw your dog collar away?’ He sounded wistful, perhaps he was thinking that he wasn’t going to leave his wife. They watched the people marching by. There were a lot of them. Afterwards, they learnt that the procession had started on the mainland, marched in good order across the causeway and right round the island before it reached this spot. In the middle of the column and towards the rear, there were men with fifes and drums who kept the rhythm going when the sound of the band faded in the distance.
“Oh, be swift my soul to answer Him; be jubilant my feet! . . .”
Colonel Maitland said to Vereker, ‘My feet want to follow them.’
They turned and walked slowly away, their coats flapping in the salt breeze. They could still hear the drum-beat but the people had gone and the seafront was deserted, except for a seagull perched on the top of a shelter, indifferent as a pirate in the riggings of a doomed ship.
In his last sermon, Vereker said, ‘Keep the faith, be of good cheer, don’t be frightened by what you see happening around you, by changes which seem to threaten the Church. Change is life and life is dangerous because everywhere we are exposed to God, there are no hiding places and we are always at risk. We are travellers. On our journey, we may pass through a land of milk and honey into a barren country; we may pass from a democracy to a totalitarian regime; we may travel fast, in good company and fine health; at other times, we may move slowly because we are sick and alone. But of one thing we can be sure, life will be change all the way; we could not expect it to be otherwise, for here we have no continuing city.’
As the congregation filed out, Mrs. Hooper was heard to remark, ‘I’ve had a bellyful of change. Thank goodness Mr. Roberts comes back next week.’
Others were more charitable in their comments and genuine in their good wishes; but most of them would by now be relieved when Vereker had gone. Americans had never understood the English. ‘Talking about totalitarian regimes as though this was Germany!’
Before they left, Nancy and Zoe spring-cleaned the vicarage and took from dark stores bowls of hyacinths and crocuses ready to greet the Roberts family who would be arriving early the next week. In spite of their efforts, the house did not seem as peaceful to Vereker as when he had come to it.
He looked for the last time from the library window. The trees were not in leaf yet, but there was a froth of snowdrops the lawn and the daffodils were in bud. What would happen here after he had left? Would his fears as to what might grow out of the meetings in the priory grounds be justified? Would Milo regain control of his movement and what part would the formidable Mrs. Peters play? It seemed wrong that he should go away now. As a child, he had been told, ‘Once you start a job, you must finish it,’ and he had spent the rest of his life learning that we seldom have a chance to see anything through. It didn’t make sense. But it was no use worrying about maki
ng sense of life: we come in after the beginning and we have to leave before the end. They made their farewells, promised to write, invited the Maitlands to visit them in Coopers Town. Then, before Zoe had time to realize she was looking her last on childhood scenes, or Vereker to wonder who would be living in the luxury town houses which now rose like a grey envelope pasted against the sky, Nancy was driving them across the causeway. When they reached the mainland, they craned their necks, searching the island eagerly for a visual image to stimulate their feeling for it, to pin it for ever in their minds. It was small and flat and looked like a large grey whale. Then the road took a sudden twist and the next time they looked back, the island had disappeared.
They drove along a three-lane road with unfamiliar heath-land on either side. Vereker sat back and stared out at the tangle of gorse and heather, and then at parkland intersected by a long drive at the end of which stood an imposing, porticoed mansion. He looked serious and absorbed. They drove on through a small, ugly town and into gently wooded country, past a village with wide streets and pleasant grass verges; and on and on until they were travelling through narrow, grimy streets and over the roofs of the squat houses they could see cranes and the masts of ships.
Zoe took Matthew’s hand. ‘What are you thinking about?’
‘I was wondering what Roberts has been up to in Coopers Town.’
Look, Stranger, on this island now
AUDEN
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.
