I don’t knock on his door; there is no point in trying to speak to him: John Jameson’s photographs are my dumb accusers, and won’t be denied. I’ve looked at them over and over again, but I fail to see what Robert sees.
Today, though, just as I arrive in the breakfast room, he comes to speak to me. I stand by the table with its white tablecloth and blue crockery; he stands just inside the room with a letter in his hand. Acres of red Turkey carpet seem to spread between us. ‘Dr Lawrence has written,’ he says, shortly. ‘There is someone he recommends – an eminent specialist who is coming up to speak at the university this evening. He has kindly arranged an appointment for us at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, when Dr’ – he glances at the letter – ‘Dr Franklin will be free. Naturally, I shall write to decline the offer. His intervention is not required now.’
It is not required, I think, because Robert no longer desires to touch me. That I may wish to touch him, and be grieved at my inability to do so, does not seem to occur to him. ‘Then everything between us is at an end?’ I say, holding on to the back of my chair for support.
He doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t contradict me either. He looks through the window and seems to be considering something a long way off, out in the churchyard, or beyond the hedge. ‘I don’t know,’ he says, eventually. ‘I don’t know what to think any more. I truly believe I would have given my life for the old Margaret – the Margaret I thought you were. But now it seems you are somebody else, and I don’t think I can love that person.’
‘But we are the same person, Robert. I mean, I am the same person.’
‘Are you?’ His voice sounds hollow. ‘Are you really the sweet girl I courted? Is your mind as unpolluted as I always imagined it to be?’ He turns and fixes me with his eye. ‘Can you swear to God that is the case?’
I look down. The pattern in the carpet seems to swirl up to meet me. I cannot swear an untruth; I would be struck down in an instant.
‘You see, Margaret? It is, admittedly, to your credit that you tried to confess to me – and to my considerable shame that I would not listen. But the fact remains – you are a different woman. And neither you nor I can change that.’
He turns to go, and I notice that the back of his coat is creased in deep horizontal lines, as if he has been sitting in it for a long time. Perhaps he has even been up all night, deciding what he is to do with this stranger-wife of his. I stare at his back, the way his shoulders stoop. Surely matters cannot end like this – here on a bright clear autumn morning in this comfortable little room, with its fire burning cosily and the table nicely laid with butter and jam and marmalade? I must make some sort of effort to preserve my marriage.
‘Robert –’ I say. And he turns back hopefully. Perhaps he thinks I’m going to take the solemn oath after all. I wish I could do it; I long to make him happy again. But I cannot lie; and I cannot defend myself except by adding to my shame.
He looks at me, but still keeps his hand on the doorknob to indicate his wish to depart and have done with all this unpleasantness. I step towards him, conscious of a long band of sunlight which suddenly falls across the carpet between us and seems to emphasize how separate we are. Maybe if affection for me doesn’t move him, I can appeal to his love for Christ. ‘Have you forgotten about forgiveness?’ I say. ‘That is Our Lord’s commandment – even for the worst sinner, and for the worst sins. And I don’t think I’m quite the worst sinner, am I, Robert? Even though I have made us both unhappy.’ I consider sinking to the floor in front of him to show him how penitent I am, but I fear he may find me ludicrous; more like a slave girl of the Roman Empire than a respectable communicant of the Church of England.
‘I have forgiven you, Margaret,’ he says, his hand still on the doorknob. ‘I bear you no ill will, no ill will at all. But forgiveness is one thing, and loving and cherishing you as a wife is quite another.’ I see he has steeled himself against all appeals. He won’t even look at me as he goes on, doggedly. ‘As you pointed out, we have grounds for annulment. But I’ve seen what it’s done to other men and women, even the highest in the land. We must find another way less painful to us both, a way in which we may keep our dignity at least.’
‘Thank you, Robert.’ I clutch at this small shred of comfort. An annulment would be dreadful. I’d have to move to Mama’s house, and spend my life in shadowy corners; a woman with a doubtful past and no future. And Robert would have his manliness and judgement held up to ridicule, his position as a clergyman open to question, his ability to remarry damaged perhaps for ever. And then there would be the medical examination, the opening up of my most secret self for all to gossip about. I’ve wondered over and over what gruesome procedures that would entail. If I’ve shrunk from my husband, how much more would I shrink from the physician’s touch? And, worst of all, I don’t know what would be revealed; I don’t know what a doctor is able to tell from mere inspection. But one thing is certain; it would involve shame for me. No woman can escape such investigation with her reputation intact.
‘I am glad you agree about that.’ He nods to himself in a distracted way, and I see that it is costing him a great deal to be fair and reasonable and not to break down under it all. His world is upside-down; but he is doing his best.
‘Yes. Let us be friends, at least.’ I cross the band of sunlight and put my hand on his arm. I can see now that his coat sleeve is flecked with crumbs of bread and pieces of thread, and that there is ink on his shirt cuff. His hair – usually so sleek – is unbrushed, and his shirt doesn’t look very fresh. He has the air of a neglected bachelor and I feel a surge of new love for him.
He shakes me off lightly. ‘No, Margaret. That only makes things more difficult.’
I recoil, feeling the chill of his distaste and thinking how our roles have been reversed in such a short space of time: I now the beseecher; he, the hard of heart. If only I hadn’t rebuffed him quite so many times; if only I’d tried harder to overcome my repugnance. Perhaps if he came to me now, in this reduced state, I could bear his caresses; I could close my eyes and forget all about Papa’s hot skin on mine, and live only in the moment. ‘Maybe the London doctor can still help,’ I suggest feebly, grasping at any straw now, any chance, any hope. ‘Perhaps we should keep the appointment after all.’
He closes the door and places his back against it. He looks at me as though I am, actually, mad. ‘Keep the appointment? But, Margaret, what would be the purpose? You have admitted the cause of your shame. Do you really want to share it with others?’
Do I? I don’t know. I can hardly find the right words when I try to describe to myself what happened. How could I find them in front of a stranger? And would not a stranger feel – as Robert feels – that I must have been in some way to blame; that there was something in my smile, or in my kisses, that urged my father on against all natural feelings? It goes against the grain to sit down mutely and say nothing, but would be even worse to speak and be branded as a young Salome. ‘I suppose not,’ I say.
‘Quite so. The awkward thing is withdrawing ourselves after Dr Lawrence has gone to such trouble. I shall have to find a suitable form of excuse. I shall plead a change of heart on your part.’
‘But that is not true.’
He turns beetroot red. ‘Nevertheless, that is what I shall say. I simply wished you to know of my intention.’ Then he pulls open the door, and departs.
I sit down heavily at the breakfast table and put my head in my hands. My elbows crash into the crockery, upset the milk; but I don’t care.
Then I see it, level with my eye, half under my plate: a letter. The small neat writing is shockingly familiar. I can hardly believe it, and I half think he has got to know of my despair by some supernatural means; I cannot think how otherwise he would choose to write to me just at this moment in my life. I pick it up, thanking God that Robert does not know John Jameson’s distinctive hand.
My dear Mrs Constantine (or may I still call you Daisy?),
Permit me to congra
tulate you on your recent marriage and to hope your life with your new husband will be a long and happy one.
It’s some time since we last met over a cup of tea; in fact we did not strictly meet over anything in those days – except Mr Smith-Jephcott’s rooms. However, I would take it as no uncommon courtesy if you would grace me with your company at four o’clock tomorrow. Dinah is no longer with us, and neither is Benson (O tempora! O mores!), but I am on the same staircase as ever, with a splendid new scout who keeps me in order and seems to produce jam tarts at the drop of a hat. Take care to bring your hat, therefore, or you may end up hungry.
Please reply to the undersigned, and not, under any circumstances, to that puffed up impostor, James St-John Clark,
Your dear friend, as always,
John Jameson.
I laugh. And then I re-read the letter and laugh again. I’d forgotten how happy John Jameson always made me with his incapacity to take anything very seriously. Just to read his words makes me feel young and carefree and full of vitality, as if I have escaped into another world and all the wretchedness of my life has vanished in an instant. He says nothing of my troubles – of course; he doesn’t know them – but just the mention of tea and jam tarts and I am back in his rooms and remembering all the fun I had there. Robert is right in a way: he’s never made me as happy as John did – and that happiness was untainted with any sense of sin or failure. And now that my spirits are soaring again, I realize that for much of my adult life I have not been fully myself. I’ve never been the Margaret that Robert thought I was; I was always Daisy inside.
And I suddenly want to be Daisy again, to go back to those wonderful afternoons; to have as much tea and jam and bread-and-butter as I like; to ask questions; make up rhymes, answer riddles, eat chocolate limes, and altogether worry not a jot about the Eye of Society. I want to laugh and be silly, and forget adult life and its disappointments completely. And I can do it. I get up hurriedly to pen an answer, to express my joy at the prospect of seeing John again.
But I stop dead. Far from seeing him, I cannot even risk a reply. If Robert were to find out, he’d assume we’d been engaged in some underhand connection all along and even the faintest hope of reconciliation would be gone. My sudden burst of happiness dies within me, and the clerical gloom of the past week returns like a wet fog. I slump back in my chair. It seems I’m now in the worst of all possible worlds. There’s no comfort to be found in my husband, and certainly none from my family; and the only friend who might cheer me up is forbidden to me. I start to weep, overcome with the hopelessness of my position. Women who have lost the love of their husbands generally console themselves with their children. But I have none, nor am I ever likely to have.
Minnie comes in to clear the dishes, and sees me in tears. ‘Oh, dear,’ she says. ‘Are you ill again? Shall I call the master?’
‘No, no,’ I say, indicating the letter. ‘It’s just the loss of an old friend.’
Minnie puts her hand in her pocket. ‘Would you like a sniff?’ she says. ‘It always helps me if I’m feeling a bit down in the dumps.’
So that explains the bottle’s permanent presence in her apron. ‘Why not?’ I say, and she brings the smelling salts out with alacrity. The pungent aroma knocks me back, but, as she says, I feel strangely the better for it. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I’ll remember your advice.’
She smiles. She has a jaunty smile, in spite of her pinched appearance. Then she looks at the table and puts her hands on her hips. ‘Oh, you’ve hardly eaten anything. It’s been like that all week. And Mr Constantine the same, although he’s usually a good trencherman. Mind, he says put anything that’s not eaten into a basket and he’ll take it to the poor, but Cook says she’s not cooking for the poor and anyways scrambled eggs don’t keep.’
‘Have you already made up a basket?’ I ask. Parish visiting is, after all, my duty. And it’s something I’m used to. Mrs Carmichael used to let us accompany her around Headington, carrying her baskets while she held her Bible. And after Christiana married Charles, she and I would often go together to Jericho and St Ebbe’s. People always said I was good at listening, and didn’t make them feel ‘preached at’. And there were always the children to pick up and nurse. I’d tell them stories sometimes – even take along Daisy’s Daydream and tell them it was all about me. And Robert was only last week encouraging me to start my rounds.
‘Yes, it’s on the slab in the pantry, waiting for Mr Constantine to pick it up. There’s some apples from the garden, and bread from the day-before-yesterday that’s still quite nice, and a couple of oranges, and half a steak and kidney pie (because Cook and I won’t eat kidney), and a ham bone with quite a lot of meat on it and some hard-boiled eggs.’
‘I shall take it,’ I say. ‘Do you know who it’s intended for?’
‘Some family in Parsloe’s Lane, I think. I’ll ask Cook. If she knows you’re going, she’ll put in a few extras.’
Cook has indeed put in a few extras and the basket is quite heavy. I enjoy the pull of it, though; the physical nature of it, as I walk along. I haven’t had a good walk for a long time, and I relish the exercise and the freshness of the autumn breeze. Parsloe’s Lane is at the very edge of the parish, on the Oxford road, and it takes me quite a while to get there. It’s a little, narrow, run-down row of houses giving straight on to the unmade street, and there are children playing in the mud outside, teasing a dog with a bone. They rush up to me as I approach, the dog wagging its tail. A little boy with bright eyes catches on to my skirt. ‘Have you got any cake, miss? Have you got a napple?’ He gives me the most brilliant of smiles, and there is something in his face that I take to straight away.
Before I can say anything, a woman comes out of one of the houses, shading her eyes against the slanting sun. ‘Come here, Benjy!’ she calls out. ‘Leave the lady alone.’
I stare at her. She’s very plump, now, and her hair is not nearly so neat, but her voice is exactly the same. Yet how can she be here – in a broken-down street on the outskirts of my husband’s parish? I fear I have conjured her up from my imagination, but I see she is as real as the little boy by my side. She continues to look at me, hand raised. ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ she calls out. ‘I hope he hasn’t muddied you. He means no harm.’
I don’t care if he has muddied me. I don’t care if I muddy myself from head to foot either. I break into a run, splashing through the puddles and bits of broken brick that litter the lane, the heavy basket beating against my leg. ‘Nettie!’ I cry.
She looks startled. She doesn’t recognize me.
I stop in front of her. ‘It’s me, Daisy!’
‘Daisy?’ She seems confused at the idea. Then she puts her hands to her face. ‘Daisy Baxter! Oh, my dear Lord! Oh, my dear Lord!’
She is just the same. Just the same. I rush into her embrace, nearly knocking her over. She still smells of biscuits, and it makes me cry just to breathe in that old familiar scent. We hug each other for a long time. When we pull apart, I can see the tears coursing down her own cheeks. ‘My, my!’ she says. ‘I would never have recognized you! You’ve grown up so fine.’
‘You’re just the same,’ I say. ‘Oh, Nettie, I’ve thought about you so often! But I never thought I’d ever see you again!’
‘Me neither,’ she says, hugging me again. ‘Me neither. And how is my darling Benjy – my other Benjy, I should say – is he well? He must be – what – eleven or twelve now?’
‘He’s eleven. But he’s ever so tall, just like Papa. He’s away at school, now, spending all his time on the cricket field.’
‘And your ma and pa? Are they keeping well?’
‘Oh, Nettie, didn’t you know? Papa died six months ago –’
She looks nonplussed. ‘Mr Baxter? But he was always so fit and healthy!’
‘– And Mama has gone back to Herefordshire. But,’ I say, trying to change the subject, ‘are all these children yours?’ There are about nine of them, crowding round us, full of curiosity.
‘Oh dear no. Benjy’s mine, as you might have gathered,’ she says, pointing to the bright-eyed boy. ‘He’s a terror. And this is my Daisy – my other Daisy, I should say.’ She indicates a younger child, sucking at a piece of cloth. ‘And there’s the baby indoors. These two – Billy and Lizzie – I look after, and the others over there aren’t nothing to do with me. But where’s my manners? You must come in and have a cup of tea.’
‘Oh, I will! But first I have to take these things to a Mrs Bunch at number nine. Do you know which house that is?’
‘Indeed I do,’ she says with a laugh. ‘It’s this house. Mrs Bunch is me, Daisy!’
I feel awkward to be bringing my one-time mother a basket of leftover scraps to celebrate our first meeting in over ten years. I can’t help thinking of the picnic fare we had that day on the river, the largesse for a mere ten people, all the delicacies set out on the white tablecloth. ‘Mr Constantine sent it,’ I say.
‘Oh, yes. He sends things most regular.’ She takes the basket from me, and the little ones start to lift the napkin to see what’s inside. ‘He knows I have trouble making ends meet – five mouths to feed and Mr Bunch with a weak back. He’s a kind man. I’ve always said that.’
‘So you approve of my husband, then?’
She draws back in a fresh onset of amazement. ‘Don’t say you’re the rector’s new wife!’
‘I do say,’ I reply with a certain pride, but feeling all the same something of an impostor.
After Such Kindness Page 32
