Veronica went on ahead. The smooth trunks of beech trees patrolled the wood, regular as colonnades, raising a great vault of branches above them. Their canopy of silver-green leaves fluttered in the afternoon breeze, scattering shards of light through the upper air. Once or twice, a squirrel scampered down from the sunlight and hung upside down to observe them with trembling nose, its button eyes like phials of light in the woodland gloom. Muddy ran through the bracken, occasionally yelping at a smell, but always swerving back to them, pausing on the track ahead before jumping again into the undergrowth. Tony caught up with her.
“I suppose you don’t like me,” he said.
“Oh,” she replied, with a non-committal shrug. She wondered why the people Mother brought into her life wanted her to like them. She didn’t want to be liked. She had other plans.
“I mean,” he continued, “you always seem so—so disgruntled.”
“Why should I be gruntled?”
Tony didn’t reply, and for a while there was only the sound of their feet in the bracken, and the occasional muffled yelp from Muddy as he explored the undergrowth ahead. Whatever Tony and Simon were planning, she thought, it was for the long term. Not a theft but a take-over.
“Anyway,” he said at last, “I like you. Shall I tell you why?”
She shrugged her shoulders again. Whatever he said wasn’t going to change her view of him. He was a dummy, a puppet, a pretence.
“I like you because you see through things. You see what’s trapped inside.”
Veronica thought about this as she watched a pheasant that Muddy had startled, and which took off through the branches with a squawk and a clatter of wings. She couldn’t imagine anything trapped inside Tony.
“Where do you think Simon went?” she asked. It seemed like the most effective way to change the subject. But something in Tony’s response caused her involuntarily to look round at him. His eyes were tearful and his mouth trembled slightly.
“He was very upset,” he said.
“Oh.”
“Yes, he knows you see through him.”
“Really?”
“It’s like the thing I wanted to give you: the little man inside the fish. I know the little man. And I see the silly fish, splashing and buffooning and making such a fool of itself. And I feel ashamed of him, and ashamed for being part of him. But I have to play the game. I know I shouldn’t say this.”
Veronica listened in astonishment.
“What game?” she asked. They had arrived at a little clearing, where there had been a cottage of stone. Two of the walls still stood, visible through the choking screen of brambles. Veronica thought of the life that these walls had sheltered and which had now vanished from the world. She felt a peculiar sensation, as though falling unhindered into the past. And suddenly she remembered something—something that promised to explain Simon, Tony, Mother, everything.
“I call it hide and seek,” said Tony, who seemed calmer now. “Hiding what you are, and seeking what isn’t yours.”
“You mean stealing things?”
“You could call it stealing. Sometimes it feels like that.”
Tony looked at her, and his look seemed humble and beseeching. If he were really a thief, she reflected, he would not confess the fact so easily.
“Only of course it isn’t literally stealing,” he went on, “when the victim consents. You see Simon is like me—he has got nothing of his own.”
Veronica gave a scornful shake of the head.
“He’s got an Aston Martin.”
“I’m not talking about toys, Veronica.”
She didn’t like him using her name and walked on in silence. It was shortly before Father died: she must have been seven, maybe just eight. They were riding at the edge of the meadow, she on Clover, he on the big black hunter called Jim. It had been a difficult morning, Father just back from the city, tetchy and belligerent, Veronica frightened of the pony and out of sorts because she had quarrelled with Nanny Draper, probably about nothing, or maybe about borrowing Mother’s makeup. Jim had begun to canter and then took the bit between his teeth which got Clover going too and soon the animals were racing out of control through the gate and on to the bridleway below the wood. Someone was walking in front of them: a small bald man with a loping gait who seemed lost in thought. Father was crying out to him, but the man seemed not to hear. The bridleway was narrow, hemmed in on both sides by tall hedges of blackthorn. There seemed to be no way that the man could save himself. Veronica screamed and the man turned.
He stared at her from large brown eyes and then threw out his hands as though to ward them off; in an instant the horses were over him, thundering on towards the old stone cottage by the wood. Later, when they had wrestled the horses to walking pace, Veronica looked back down the bridleway. The man stood at the place where they had galloped over him, staring into the void. Veronica wanted to go back and apologize, but her father, whose face was livid with anger, forbad it with a snort. They rode on past the cottage.
It was the man on the bridleway that Veronica had suddenly remembered, recalling the ghost-pale face and wide brown eyes in which she had seen both terror and sadness. And now she could put a name to that face, and the name was Simon. A queer feeling of triumph came over her.
“So what is it you and Simon haven’t got?” she asked, slowing a little so that Tony could come up beside her. “Oh, I know what you haven’t got, and that’s parents. But when you’re Simon’s age you don’t need parents anyway.”
“No,” said Tony, “but you need the thing that parents give you. You need a home.”
“But you can’t go around stealing other people’s homes. I mean, you can steal their furniture, their houses even. But that’s not the same.”
“You’ve noticed then.”
Tony spoke sadly. Veronica’s thoughts were racing now. Maybe Tony was an ally. Oh, he obeyed Simon’s instructions; he charmed the ladies and was a foil to Simon’s saintliness-my-foot. But he didn’t like what was happening any more than she did.
“Can’t Simon be your home? I mean, can’t he adopt you?”
“He’d have to be married. And I wouldn’t like his wife.”
“So what’s the solution?”
“There isn’t one. Only Veronica...”
Muddy barked loudly and furiously at something just out of sight. They were approaching the edge of the wood now, and the sunlight on the meadow was visible through the trees. Muddy went suddenly quiet.
“Only what?” she asked.
“Only, you see, Simon has never settled down. He’s the only thing I’ve got, but I can’t hold on to him. He’s everywhere; which means he’s nowhere.”
“You’re wrong. He’s here.”
And Veronica pointed to the figure sitting on a tree-stump at the edge of the wood. The man had one hand on Muddy, who was resting on his haunches and wagging his tail in the bracken; the man’s other hand was clamped to his face as though in pain. He rocked back and forth so that his bald head kept bobbing into a shaft of sunlight and out again. He knew they were watching him, Veronica concluded, which was why he was putting on this show. It occurred to her that Simon had been three weeks at Ingleton, yet they had exchanged hardly a word. She strode forward ahead of Tony.
“You’ve found me,” Simon said, without looking round. There was a tremor in his voice, which Veronica dismissed as theatrical.
“It wasn’t hard,” she said. “You weren’t trying to escape.”
Simon sighed.
“I wish I could,” he said, “I wish I could.”
And slowly he lowered his hand from his face and looked round at her. She hated it when adults cried. Their faces became rag-like and soppy; the control of things, which after all was their responsibility, fled from their features; the futility of existence, the pointlessness of growing up, were blatantly displayed as in some grotesque satirical advert. And the eyes, which were designed by God to look out from their sockets like bright policemen, turne
d inwards, and showed you their sightless backs. The effect was particularly disgusting in a person whom you could not like, and Simon’s crumpled face as it slowly turned to her caused her to shudder and look away.
“You did though, once,” she said.
Tony was beside her, looking at the ground and kicking at a tuft of grass. He wore bespoke shoes that had been carefully polished. He was always immaculately presented and she wondered all of a sudden where his money came from.
Simon rose slowly to his feet.
“Sorry, Tony old chap. I was being a bit sentimental. Hope you weren’t too worried.”
“Oh, you know...”
“You didn’t have to come back,” Veronica persisted. “You could have found somewhere of your own, just like Aunt Jerry and the twins when Uncle Toby kicked her out.”
Simon’s face was settled now and sombre, and he looked at her gravely from his deep brown eyes.
“There is only one person I could have lived with. See over there?”
He swung round quickly and pointed to the cottage across the meadow. The new owners had put bright orange curtains in the windows, and the garden was full of junk.
“I tried to buy that place. All those years ago. When Harry Ingleton got wind of it, he stepped in and bought it for himself.”
“You mean Father didn’t want you here either?”
She hadn’t meant to be so blunt, but she didn’t regret it for he had no business referring to her father. She remembered how her parents had fought over the cottage, Mother saying that they had no need for it, that he was buying it to spite her, that he was squandering the money set aside for Veronica’s education, that he was behaving like his land-crazed ancestors, who had driven all natural society from Ingleton and brooded in melancholy silence in the great cold house. And so Veronica had taken Father’s side. They would restore the cottage, she said, and maybe sell it at a profit. Father died two months later and the cottage stood empty for years. Then Mother sold it to pay for Uncle Mick’s swimming pool. When Mick left, the cottage was sold again. Nobody knew the people who lived there now.
Simon suddenly looked at her with a wry smile.
“After that, you see, I went away, lost touch completely. For two years I never set foot in England, except once when Tony was ill.”
He spoke confidingly, undeterred by her hostile stare. She thought of the man in the fish, and wondered whether she was seeing him now. She was conscious of Tony watching her, wanting her to be other than she was.
“I was a fool,” Simon went on. “Behaving as though I’d been rejected.”
“It sounds like you had been,” she said. Something in his tone frightened her. “Let’s go,” she added. “They are all waiting for us. I was only showing Tony the way.”
“Nice of you, Veronica. I’m sorry I’ve been such a nuisance.”
Simon turned, waved vaguely at the meadow, and began to intone.
“For nature, heartless, witless nature,
Will neither care nor know
What stranger’s feet may find the meadow
And trespass there and go,
Nor ask amid the dews of morning
If they are mine or no...’
Tony was still scuffing the turf with dust-covered shoes.
“That’s all rot, Simon,” he said, not looking up.
“What’s all rot?”
“Housman. Victorian drivel.”
“At your age, I thought the same,” Simon retorted. “The censoriousness of youth. This young lady suffers from it too.”
He looked at Veronica with a forgiving smile.
“Let’s go,” she said again. “Young lady” made her sick. She was striding along the path, and could see the dark green mound of brambles around the ruined cottage in front of her. Tony and Simon were somewhere behind, walking side by side, not bothering to catch up with her. Once, glancing back down the path, she saw them holding hands. She had made her point; she was not going to speak to them again.
During the picnic, however, Tony addressed his remarks constantly to her. They were sitting around a spread napkin bearing marmite sandwiches and a large sticky fruitcake. Julie was angling for Tony’s attention; Mother was looking frowningly at Simon who stared down at his hands; Aunt Julie and Anna were stuffing their mouths in silence, having set up their chairs by the edge of the wood. Tony was talking about pop groups. He recommended Billy Idol, who was the favourite in his year at St Cuthbert’s, though there was a cheesy side to him. The Beatles and the Rolling Stones you had to admire, even though they were long in the past, because they were classics, though personally, he thought it was Elvis had the real talent. Veronica made the occasional monosyllabic response, but was so struck by Simon’s defeated look that she could not attend to Tony’s words. Suddenly Simon looked up and said to no one in particular:
“We’ll be going back tonight, if that’s OK.”
“Of course it’s not OK,” said Mother as Julie said “Oooh!” in a disappointed voice. “What on earth has got into you?”
“Tony has some shopping to do.”
Mother gave Tony an accusing look, and then walked off into the wood. Simon sat for a moment before rising with a sigh to follow her.
There was a silence, and then, “It’s always like this,” said Tony, “when the buffooning stops. And of course, this place is special. I mean, your mother’s special.”
Veronica shrugged.
“So are you,” he added. “You know that, don’t you?”
Veronica made no reply but stared for a while at Muddy, who was rolling delightedly on his back, scenting himself in a patch of dust. Then Julia began to gabble away about her musical tastes, mentioning groups that Veronica had never heard of, and trying to appear super-erudite about a subject over which, in Veronica’s opinion, erudition was as absurd as counting aloud to a million.
Mother looked angry when she and Simon returned. Aunt Jerry had already packed the picnic things, and they drove back as they had come, with Mother, Veronica, Muddy and the twins in the Land Rover, the rest in Simon’s Aston Martin. It was only as they turned the corner into the drive of Ingleton Court that Mother broke the silence.
“Why do you hate Simon?”
“I don’t hate him; I just don’t want him around.”
Mother pursed her lips and rammed the car into a lower gear as they went over the cattle-grid. The rattle of wheels on the iron pipes made her shout the words:
“You mean a lot to Simon, did you know that?”
“How can I mean a lot to Simon? He doesn’t know who I am. He doesn’t know, for instance, that I am the girl who nearly ran him down six years ago on Clover. And anyway, I don’t want to mean anything to him, so there.”
Veronica sensed the onslaught of tears—tears of rage and humiliation. So Simon cared about her! The thought was like a contamination: she wanted to run away from it, to plunge into running water, to lose herself in streams of unconsciousness. Mother parked the car at the side of the house and the twins got out. Veronica waited until they had disappeared through the kitchen door before jumping on to the gravel and running down to the lake.
Tony was already there, walking on the path. He was frowning, and the long eyelashes as he turned to her seemed to wriggle slightly under the pressure of his brow.
“Don’t cry, Veronica. It isn’t your fault. Simon’s blown it, and now we’re on the move again. The usual story.”
That was fine by her, but there were troubling details that needed explaining. She kept her distance from Tony, fearing he might reach out to touch her.
“But why are we special? I mean, why does Simon have to come back here, with you in tow?”
“That’s what I hoped you’d understand. Simon wanted you to be part of him, as I am.”
“I’m not part of anyone,” she cried.
“But that’s how he sees it. He wanted to be accepted here, to have you as a friend.”
Veronica thought about this for a while.
“Why isn’t Mother enough for him?”
“I leave that to your imagination.”
Veronica’s imagination encompassed many things, but stopped short of her mother’s love-affairs. She decided to change the subject.
“Are you gay?” she asked. It was OK to be gay; even more OK to show that you accepted it.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Tony looked at her askance.
“And Simon?”
“Simon? Of course not!”
“So Simon wants actually to move in here, to settle down?”
“Well, he did want that. But only on one condition.”
“And what was that?”
“That he could win you over.”
‘Yuk!’
Suddenly there came the sound of Mother’s voice calling from the house. “Tony! Tony!” It wasn’t Mother’s style to shout, and the sight of her waving frantically in her hideous yellow dress filled Veronica with irritation. Mother’s arms milled helplessly and the dress went up and down around her knees with a ludicrous pumping motion. She seemed like a holograph, projected on to the air of Ingleton from some unseen store of comic fictions. Tony was running towards her, and Mother came down the stairway with small hurried steps to meet him. Veronica decided on a policy of indifference. Then she heard Julie screaming.
She discovered them by the swimming pool. The twins were sobbing under the diving board, Julie pressing her fists into her mouth and Anna adopting the special rabbit posture, legs crouching, arms extended, that she kept for real emergencies. Tony, Mother and Aunt Jerry pulled at Uncle Simon’s feet, which were still encased in the brown leather shoes he had worn for the picnic. His shirt had come unbuttoned and floated round his head like the wings of some heraldic creature. Simon’s body smacked against the side of the pool, sending little wavelets across the bare pink flesh, and when at last they lifted his stomach on to the tiles, so that only the head still lolled in the water beneath its blue cotton canopy, the arms came suddenly straight out of the water as though giving a thumbs-up of triumph.
It was only as Veronica said thank you to the woman at the ambulance service that Mother came over to speak to her. The phone clattered as Veronica replaced it, and Mother was forced to repeat her words.
Souls in the Twilight Page 4
