The Ballad and the Source

by Rosamond Lehmann

  ‘Oh, as to that dear you must not repine. It was God’s will for you in this life.’

  ‘Oh, no doubt it was meant. I was delicate as a girl. Harold said from the first he’d never let me risk it. And starting married life out East … Oh, that was such a jolly life! Waited on hand and foot—so much going on, such a cheery crowd, always someone dropping in, dances galore, theatricals … I had some lovely friends. The war put paid to that gay life, of course. Harold threw up his job, he was getting to the top, and back we came. We both did our bit. After he went out to France in the REs I worked in a canteen, all through. It was hard, but there were some jolly times, so much esprit de corps. I daresay you were still in the schoolroom Mrs …’

  Her voice ran down, she yawned, lapsed into silence. The rocking chair creaked, creaked. The visitor’s hand started again to make scarcely perceptible movements on her lap, simulating rapid writing. Now now steady on, wrote the hand, come come keep smiling smile awhile this is called free association very therapeutic. What on earth is going on where am I who are they??? Come come no crying now take a deep breath it’ll all come right I am so lonely nonsense nonsense stick to facts observe surroundings observe Miss Stay she’s made of clay dried clay and wire she wears a shingle cap pink silk net with strings tied beneath her scrawny chin why does she does she never take it off is it functional to tether a wig perhaps is it a wig such a curious colour or is it meant to add the final piquant touch??? I made one observation on the boat elderly people look a sad sad sight asleep puffing their lips out sagging so down in the mouth down and out done for LOST PROPERTY NO ONE WILL EVER CLAIM IT now stop that don’t be like Bobby morbid think about lovely sleep sleep that knits up the ravelled sleep and forgetting forgetting think about children asleep—at home in their sleep drowned fathoms deep exposed and safe like fruit and flowers under glass think about water lilies on dark water now folds the lily think of moss-feather cocooning birds’ nests think of chestnuts cream-dappled golden-brown moulded firm into hard green caskets lined with whitest softest spun silk substance DELICIOUS SIGHT that’s better hold on to that dwell on things beautiful indifferent that lizard now those palm trees tossing in the moonlight leaning all together mop heads edged with silver lifting falling . . . Those women are asleep I think not noticing me thank goodness shall I write my dream down no I can’t let’s see if I remember it. She closed her eyes. Her hand lay still. Last night’s dream pieced itself together.

  A vast seashore flashed open suddenly: abstract of loved, played-on shores of childhood, the tide far out, cobbles and shingle sloping to tawny sand with ripples in its surface, the light strange, sunless. A girl on a pony galloping from nowhere, a girl with long fair plaits, recognised but different; and the pony half-familiar. Riding, almost flying, with joyful expectation, to reach the sea. Then girl and pony vanish; there is no more buoyant riding, no more shining sea. A hateful shrubbery builds up before her, undergrowth choked with dull dusty spiny thick-fleshed plants and shrubs; everything parched, starving, thirsty. A voice calls: ‘Look at the tree!’ And there, all at once, in the midst of that poisoned vegetable obstruction the tree appears, tall, slender, delicate as in a Japanese print. Its crown breaks out in blossom, snowy, rose-flushed. It shoots a branch out, and on this branch a bird: a bird with a jewelled crest and iridescent feathers. A Bird of Paradise. A voice says: ‘Love Bird!’ She stretches out a hand. It bends its head and pecks with a cruel beak; vanishes. A voice says: ‘This tree must be cut down. It’s dead.’ She cries out: ‘No! No!’—starts up awake, in terror.

  Appalled all over again, she opened her eyes, looked wildly round to find Miss Stay gazing at her from the depths of hooded eye-sockets and murmuring:

  ‘It’s a mortal treat to see a fair woman in this corner of the globe. I love to see a fair-skinned woman. Lovers galore on her travels, I’ll be bound!’

  ‘Wait till the gay lads see you!’ cried Mrs Cunningham with a light laugh. ‘Not that they’re … but they do appreciate artistic types. Trevor will want to photograph you, as sure as eggs. And you’ll be a treat for Johnny. Between you and I, Johnny is my dream lover. But you’ll cut me out, I fear me.’

  ‘Oh no … I’m not … you’re quite wrong, I’m not … I haven’t been feeling very well …’

  Tears spurted uncontrollably, streamed down her face. Mrs Cunningham leaned forward and gently dabbed at them with a tiny lace-edged handkerchief.

  ‘What a shame dear. I thought you seemed a wee bit down. Not that you look it. All she needs is making a bit of fuss of, doesn’t she Staycie? We’ll see to it you’ll soon pick up.’

  ‘Thank you. Very kind … I’m sorry to be so …’

  ‘Say something, Staycie!’ cried Mrs Cunningham surprisingly.

  Miss Stay said nothing, but remained with her head sunk on her chest as if in meditation. Her curious contours seemed to alter, to become stilled, imposing. Presently she shook her head dejectedly, uttered a deep sigh. In the ensuing silence something seemed to be concluded. The visitor wiped away the last of her tears and felt her throat unlock. Mrs Cunningham started to hum the dance tune that came floating, throbbing down from the hill across the bay; broke off to remark:

  ‘That tune is packed with sex. It makes me feel quite funny.’

  ‘Packed with sex it is!’ agreed her friend with fervour. ‘Ah, there’ll be some canoodling going on up there, no doubt of that! There’s a time to dance, a time to—a time for all things in God’s blessed world. But give me one of the old songs dear for personal choice. Annie Laurie now, or Barbara Allen. ’Twould be a mortal treat to hear your sweet true voice.’

  But Mrs Cunningham stopped humming and said almost with indignation: ‘No, Staycie, no. I’ve forgotten all my songs. I’m quite ashamed to hear myself. You may not credit it, my dear, but once upon a time I was urged, positively urged, to take up a professional career. Mr Barstow was all for it—Rex Barstow, my teacher, you may have heard of him. A musician to his finger tips and such a charming man. When I broke it to him I was getting married he went quite speechless. The veins in his forehead stood out—I was startled. He was a married man, getting on for fifty. I always felt somehow there wasn’t much sympathy between his wife and him.’

  Uncoordinated sounds broke from the lips of Miss Stay, acknowledging a strong man’s struggle for self-mastery.

  ‘Round fifty is a tricky age for men, so I believe,’ continued Mrs Cunningham reflectively. ‘They have their funny time. I do sometimes wonder was he partial?—or could I have made good on the concert platform? But Mummy wouldn’t hear of it. She felt I’d never stand the strain.’

  ‘Ah, as to that, a mother would know best. Instinct would be her guide. She would sense the weakness—’

  ‘I was never weak.’ Petulance gave an edge to Mrs Cunningham’s voice.

  ‘Oh, morals are not in question, dearie! My meaning is, she would sense that the good fairies round the cradle had not bestowed one gift—the stamina, you know—to cling to the top of the tree against all comers. Dear, it was all for the best.’

  ‘Well, it was Fate,’ decided Mrs Cunningham. ‘Everything is Fate, I think, don’t you?’

  ‘And therefore for the best!’

  ‘Oh Staycie you are silly sometimes!’ exclaimed her friend. ‘What about the Bad Fairy? Seems to me she pops up at every christening.’

  ‘Ah, there’s a deep thought! What a deep thought you have uttered, Ellie. To tangle the skein and set us to the unravelling. What would life be without the challenge of it? Take it from me, girls, take it from this old bag of bones fit for nothing but the jumble sale, all for the best should be our theme song. Our trials and tribulations are just our schooling time, just our opportunity to learn our lessons. Just the Divine Plan for us.’

  After a pause Mrs Cunningham remarked on a brighter note that we shall know one day.

  They went on rocking, rocking. The visitor tested with caution
the new element of peace and forgetting in which she seemed suddenly to move. Presently, as if arrested by some invisible beam, she intercepted the eyes of Miss Stay, like sunken wells with a star in their veiled depths, dwelling on her as if from a great distance. A deep voice issuing from her throat pronounced:

  ‘Trust your unhappiness as you loved your happiness and great good will come to you and greater freedom.’

  Then Princess glided into view, murmuring unintelligibly; whereat Miss Stay came to, struck her forehead and exclaimed: ‘My Ancient of Days awaits me! Not to speak of new arrivals shortly to appear. Ellie I declare you are a siren. Linger longer Lucy is your theme song. I must stop my ears and wend my weary way.’

  With a violent stamp of her black plimsolls she shot from her chair, executed a military salute, covered the length of the verandah in three loping strides, and was gone.

  Mrs Cunningham burst into merry laughter. ‘She’s forgotten all about you! You stay here, don’t dream of moving. Between you and I, dear old Carlotta isn’t the best of cooks: Staycie doesn’t notice. I was so spoilt in the East myself, I shouldn’t criticise. But if Mr Bartholomew saw you dining alone he’d be likely to invite you to join him. He’s the soul of courtesy but he can be a wee bit difficult. Do keep me company. My lord and master won’t be back till—there’s no knowing when. My guess is he’ll end up with Jackie and her crew. They make a fuss of him.’

  A handbell vigorously swung resounded from above.

  ‘That’s Staycie, take no notice. Poor Staycie, poor old darling. Isn’t she priceless? That woman is a treasure.’

  ‘She keeps reminding me of someone …’

  ‘Fancy that! I would have been inclined to suppose that Staycie was unique.’

  ‘Something in her turns of phrase, the same sort of picturesque vocabulary.’

  ‘How well you put it! Picturesque is the very word.’

  ‘Someone called Auntie Mack.’

  ‘Fancy! Your Auntie, was she?’

  ‘No, no relation. I only saw her once. I was about eight or nine I think. I haven’t thought of her for years. Once, one afternoon; but she made a great impression. She seemed not quite real, like a pantomime character: a sort of witch, but a kind unfrightening comic one. I imagine a child might be—startled by Miss Stay. But fascinated.’

  ‘Anybody might be. Staycie’s outward form is quite a handicap. Her reflexes have simply gone to pot. You’ve heard of St Vitus’s Dance?—it’s something of the sort, brought on by shock. There’s some grisly skeletons in poor Staycie’s cupboard: madness, suicide, heaven knows what. I’ve never liked to probe, and personal troubles are what she never mentions. She’s a lesson to us all.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Indeed yes. Never mention personal troubles. Pack up your skeletons and smile, smile, smile.

  ‘I don’t know if you realise she’s Guided.’

  ‘Guided?’

  ‘By Spirit. Entirely guided by Spirit. By her Voices. She’s spoken through—when people come to her in trouble. She’s never got anything for me, but then I’m not in trouble. If I ever were, I’m sure she’d give me guidance. That was a Message she gave you just before she left, it wasn’t Staycie speaking. I tell you in case you were a wee bit puzzled. I believe it’s the one Voice only nowadays.’ The visitor remaining speechless, her hostess chirruped on. ‘About trusting you know, and better times to come. I couldn’t help listening. I thought it was so helpful.’

  ‘Oh yes, it was, I thought so too. I—’

  ‘Don’t worry dear, I’m not inquisitive, nor is Staycie. Likely as not she wasn’t aware of what came through. But I can tell you’ve had a nasty knock. You must just look forward, like she said. Maybe it was meant, your coming to this lost corner of the world. Don’t think me nosy but it does seem strange you turning up alone, a bonny lass like you. We do mostly get couples, one sort or another.’

  Dragging up words from a once more stiffening throat, the visitor said:

  ‘I didn’t intend to come alone. But at the last minute I got a message—’ With a painful grin she added—‘Not Staycie’s kind. A telegram. Delivered to my cabin. “Change of plans.”’

  ‘Change of plans?’

  ‘At the very last moment. We were going away together. He decided against it, I suppose, I don’t know why, he didn’t say … The shock was …’

  ‘No explanation?’

  ‘No. Just: “Breakdown. Forgive. Will write.”’

  ‘Breakdown?’

  ‘It’s a word he uses when—when our plans go wrong. I’ve heard nothing since.’

  Stunned silence for a full half minute; after which broken words and phrases, such as cad, brute, men are all the same, much better off without, a woman’s pride … issued from her shocked and sympathetic hostess; who presently enquired:

  ‘You aren’t his wife, dear?’

  ‘No, going to be. At least that was the idea. He’s got a wife. He’d left her, more or less, before we met.’

  ‘A married man, oh dear! Well, my advice is you forget him. He’s not worth another thought. Playing fast and loose like that with two women—I dare say more than two.’ This unwelcome thought, which had crossed the visitor’s mind, caused her to flush darkly. ‘Harold would say he ought to be horsewhipped. So he ought!’

  ‘You’re so kind. It’s such a relief to talk to someone. On that nightmare boat I stayed in my cabin the first days. But when it got warmer I couldn’t. So I stayed on deck in a long chair and pretended to be ill. But there was a Colonel on board, a widower, he was very persistent—’

  ‘You mean he was attentive?’

  ‘Very. It was just curiosity I think. He said I was enigmatic. In the end he proposed to me.’

  ‘Well! Didn’t that cheer you up?’

  Remembering the Colonel’s conversation and appearance she violently shook her head.

  ‘Some would say it’s the greatest honour a man can do a woman. Still, if you couldn’t fancy him …’

  ‘I expect I ought to have been more grateful.’

  Nonsense talk, schoolroom talk, Girl’s Own Paper talk, out-moded code of chivalry and gentlemanly behaviour talk. But comforting. Let the cad appear and be horsewhipped—yes, by Harold. The image rose and a spasm of laughter shook her.

  ‘Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn dear, but I hope and trust you’ll have nothing more to do with him, not if he comes crawling on bended knee, as no doubt he will.’

  A moment’s mad conviction seized her of Mrs Cunningham’s exceptional wisdom and prophetic insight. With an effort she rejected it, saying, but on a more cheerful note: ‘It doesn’t seem somehow quite in character. Let’s not talk about me any more. Tell me about Miss Stay—her Voices.’

  ‘Her Voices, well … She keeps quiet about them, or people would flock to her from far and wide. Or on the contrary she says they would have her certified. Not so very long ago she’d have been burnt as a witch, you know, like Joan of Arc. As it is she’s had to pay and pay: gifts of the Spirit always have to be paid for, so she says. She can see as well as hear, you know. We had oh! such a lovely boy, a bull terrier, Sammy his name was, short for Samson. He died peacefully of old age but we broke our hearts. He’s buried down there among his favourite bushes, where he hid his bones. Staycie looked in some days later and she saw him come in as usual, looking so frisky and rejuvenated, and shove his old head into my lap as he always did, then settle down by Harold’s chair. I believed her of course, it seemed only natural, but Harold nearly had a fit. He thought we were—well, worse than barmy, wicked—playing monkey tricks with that precious animal sleeping quietly in his grave—pretending to raise him, or something of the sort. Staycie got round him in the end, she always can, he does respect her. In fact I think in his heart of hearts he longs to believe. Staycie’s so clever with his prejudices. You may be wondering from the way I talk why ever I married th
e man.’

  ‘No, no, not at all. Why people marry is so …’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it? A mystery. Not like anything else.’

  ‘Besides, prejudices make for variety in people. Your husband might be less interesting without his prejudices.’

  ‘Oh, you think he’s interesting, I am so glad. He’s a nice man, but his moods do give me the pip sometimes. Some people he cannot abide. Nothing will shake him once he’s taken a scunner.’

  ‘I do hope he’ll manage to abide me.’

  ‘Good gracious, I should think so! He loves a woman with style … though come to think of it, style doesn’t always answer. A most distanguay woman turned up here, I think I told you, not long after we came out—what was her name?—it’s on the tip of my tongue, I never remember names. Well, anyway—she was quite elderly, very frail, weak heart. In fact, she died here. She and Staycie struck up an intimate friendship. Harold could not be in the same room—like some people are about cats. She had strange eyes that seemed to stare right through you—that’s what he couldn’t stand. No wonder, I told him, with a murky aura such as his.’

  ‘How did he take that?’

  ‘Oh I can always coax him back into a good temper if I go too far. Or nearly always.’ She chuckled. ‘Marriage is nine-tenths habit, don’t you think? I sometimes wonder, if Harold should pass on before me, how could I break myself of saying “we”? That’s marriage in a nutshell.’