“A slightly unusual style of protecting your young?”
“Maybe. But she evidently accepted the way that he was. Perhaps that side of things isn’t important to her. And, clearly, she’d have gone all out to show how he was put upon—would possibly have won much sympathy in the process.” I didn’t add And rightly so! but I came close to it.
“Oh, darling, how can you say that? ‘Put upon’, indeed! What nonsense.”
“Shall we leave?” I tried to catch the eye of the waitress.
“All right. But first let me say one thing which I consider needs to be said. I think you’re rather a nice person, Mr John Wilmot. Yes, I do—no, don’t scowl at me like that. I may not have married Mr John D Rockefeller but I think I did okay for myself, just the same. So there you are. Now you can try to attract that poor girl’s attention.”
30
I spent some drink-dulled hours in Fleet Street. The fullest obituary was in The Daily Telegraph, although the art critics of The Times and The Manchester Guardian had also written appreciations. There was little that was personal in any of these accounts. “Oliver Cambourne, who died so tragically on Tuesday night…” “His last exhibition, which was held in September at the Millwood Gallery…” “It is interesting to speculate on how, had he lived, his art might have developed…” “The 39-year-old artist, who was unmarried, will be sadly missed by anyone who cared at all about the state of contemporary painting…” Et cetera. There was also a report on his death in all the other papers I looked at; but in none of them was it a detailed coverage; I learned nothing new. Both The Times and The Telegraph carried a photograph: one that I hadn’t seen before: and I wondered where they had found it. I felt angry about it—that this last picture should be so very unflattering—why hadn’t they re-used others which I had seen in his book of press cuttings? But in fact I soon discovered it wasn’t the last: I came across a far better one in the Illustrated London News. (“Sadly, since this interview took place, the art world has lost one of its warmest, most ferocious, gentle, uncompromising denizens and not only the art world will be a poorer place for that. Perhaps his own words comprise his best obituary.”) Certainly his own words—in so far as they were his own words—made more interesting reading than anything else I had seen that morning; but either the hilarious replay he had given me straight after the interview had been more exaggerated than he’d let on, or the piece had been skilfully edited, for remarkably little of it seemed familiar. But it had immediacy. And this, despite the two strong gins I’d drunk beforehand.
Thank God I had had those. Reading through the obituaries I hadn’t felt particularly melancholy but I did so later, standing alone in the churchyard about a mile from Merriot Park. Yet this state of melancholy wasn’t due to my discovery of Oliver’s tombstone; my first reaction on finding his grave had been practically of gratitude. No, it was due more to the fact of being surrounded by people whose lives had once meant so very much to them. That was depressing. While I stood there I felt I wanted to revolutionize my own life, turn over immense new leaves, be kind and wise and loving, invest every hour of every day with goodness and tranquillity, beauty and significance. But it was too late. After barely three minutes I realized this. The second date on Oliver’s tombstone informed me it was too late. ‘March 24th, 1959.’ The lettering was harshly new beside the weathered anonymity of most of the other stones.
The lettering gave the name, the dates and the following not very original epitaph: “To live in the hearts of those we love is not to die.”
I looked for other Cambourne graves. There weren’t any. I had never asked Oliver much about his father but I remembered he had died in the States, less than a year after his divorce.
“To live in the hearts of those we love is not to die.”
But hadn’t they made some mistake? I began to feel resentful. To live in the hearts of those who love us would surely make the better sense. And—damn it—why the present tense and not the past? It was ridiculous to think the dead could go on loving and even ‘those we loved’ in some way would have drawn me in. I felt resentful even though I knew of course that mere words altered nothing. But at least—as I’d found out before—anger was an easier thing to cope with than awareness: awareness in this case that I was standing a few feet over a decomposing (decomposed?) body which I had once lain close to, held and been held by, kissed and fondled; a body which was now grotesque, ugly, revolting; which might one day become, if it hadn’t already, a home for beetles, woodlice, maggots and the like. Oliver—revolting? I unexpectedly felt sorry he wasn’t just a jarful of ashes on Mrs Cambourne’s mantelpiece. And yet, for myself, the notion of lying beneath the hummocky grass in some quiet and bird-filled setting such as this was still more appealing than the tidier and cleaner efficiency of the crematorium.
Because I was lost in this sort of contemplation I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me and I was startled when a plummy voice addressed me. “Good afternoon, what a perfectly splendid day we’re having!”
Naturally, I returned the greeting, though with none too good a grace.
“No more peaceful place on earth,” the vicar said, “than a country churchyard in the fullness of summer.”
I nodded.
“Passing through? That’s a very fine car you have, if I may say so. I noticed it on my way in.”
“I’m en route to Merriot Park.” I hadn’t meant to say that and couldn’t think why I had.
“Ah … You know the Cambournes, then?”
Inaccurate, I thought. The Cambourne. Singular.
“Yes.”
He gestured towards the gravestone. “Tragic! What a tragic accident! Cut off in his prime. A man with such a gift.”
“Yes,” I repeated, rather more graciously. There were times when talking about Oliver with anyone was better than not talking about him at all.
But he only shook his head and said slowly, “Still … Do you know the words of that fine hymn by William Cowper: ‘God moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform’?”
No, I didn’t know the words of that fine hymn by William Cowper, and there was no “Still…” about it whatsoever, not in my opinion.
“I especially like the fourth verse,” he told me. “The one that goes like this:
‘Judge not the Lord by feeble sense
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.’
So true; so absolutely true; something we should always strive to bear in mind.”
Oh, yes? Try telling that to the Jews in the concentration camps—or to the victims of a violent earthquake. To the man on the gibbet; the witch at the stake. To the people of Hiroshima; the soldiers on the Somme. Try telling it to all those starving masses in Africa and Asia.
Try telling it to Oliver.
“Behind a frowning providence he hides a smiling face…”
He added then, with a little more insight than I might have given him credit for, “But it’s a bit difficult to believe it sometimes—eh?” He smiled and began to take his leave. “Heigh-ho, on such a lovely day, duty has no right to call. Good afternoon to you, young man; this was a very pleasant meeting. Tell Sarah Cambourne that Martin Hanbury sends his love and hopes to pop in to see her pretty soon. God bless you and keep you and cause you to thrive.” I watched his portly figure make its way comfortably towards the front of the church. Before it finally disappeared, he stooped to sniff a rose bush.
31
James opened the door.
“You!” he said. It was involuntary. In all his days in service he had probably never betrayed himself in such a manner.
So why did I need to recall that current of sympathy which had passed between us, in the study, on the morning of—? Need to recall it with a pang?
But then I’d expected this to be that sort of visit—pilgrimage almost: a whole succession of pangs. On the way down I had tried to protect myself against them, yet didn’t k
now how well I’d succeeded, when nearly every mile in the road had furnished some small insidious recollection. Once, I had actually been on the point of turning back. If the mere journey could be that bad, what of the arrival? The house, the garden, the garage; each familiar room? Especially knowing that all of these things might one day have been mine. But I’d pressed down on the accelerator and—by and large—had maintained a good speed.
“James! I had no idea you’d be here!”
(Well, obviously.)
“Yes, sir.” Mask back in place.
“What happened to Tranch?”
“Retired.”
“And you? How are you, James?”
“Quite well, thank you, sir.”
But he still had the knack of rendering me uncomfortable—now more than ever, of course. He made me feel acutely the banality of the question I had just asked and the equal banality of the reply I had received.
“Is Mrs Cambourne at home?”
“I’ll have to find out, sir.”
“Please tell her it’s important.”
“But why have you come here?” That wasn’t any inquiry on behalf of his mistress. Patently, the mask had slipped again.
“I hardly think that’s much concern of yours. But, if you must know, it’s about the will.”
Then I instantly softened my tone.
“Listen, James. I’m sorry for what happened. Words cannot begin to say how much. Now please go and tell Mrs Cambourne I’m here; and in the meantime do you think I might come in?”
Reluctantly he let me pass into the hall. The smell of it, as much as anything (which previously I hadn’t even been aware of), hit me squarely on the heart.
But I was not, I was positively not, going to allow myself to wallow in nostalgia.
“I knew you were trouble the first time I saw you,” he said. “I’ve hated you right from the beginning.”
Yes, well, that figures. It wasn’t any secret. That’s how we came to call you Mrs Danvers.
“I’m sorry about that, James. I’m aware of how you felt about Mr Cambourne and I certainly don’t want to quarrel with you—firstly because it wouldn’t do either of us any good and secondly because I know he wouldn’t wish it—wouldn’t have wished it. I remember he once told me he was very fond of you. But I should, please, like to see Mrs Cambourne.”
Yet, as it happened, I had scarcely finished speaking when there was a movement at the top of the stairs and we saw Mrs Cambourne starting to descend. She came very slowly, holding onto the banister with one hand and carefully setting her stick on each succeeding stair before entrusting her full, slight weight to it. She looked older and frailer; much as she had done from the doorway of her bedroom after my refusal to step out of her son’s life.
I would have liked to rush up and help her, but the shock would most likely have overturned her balance. Besides, I imagined she might well resent receiving aid from anyone. Let alone from me.
She didn’t notice us until she had reached the hall.
“Madam,” James said, now moving swiftly to the foot of the stairs, “he insisted I admit him.”
“Who?” she asked, peering past him. “Who did?”
“Mr Wilmot, Madam.”
Her reaction was practically the same as his—but more deliberate.
“You!” she said, as she walked towards me. “What fresh piece of cruelty and impertinence has brought you here? How dare you return to Merriot Park? After what you did. Don’t you know how much you’re hated in this house and how your name is cursed all round the clock?”
Her body might have been frailer; but her carriage was as upright and her spirit didn’t seem impaired.
“Yes, Mrs Cambourne. I do know how much I’m hated in this house. And rightly so.” I hadn’t said it in the café but I said it now.
“I’d hoped I should never have to set eyes on you again.”
“But I hear you’re contesting Oliver’s will. Then you must have known such a hope wasn’t realistic.”
“Never again at Merriot Park, anyway. Amongst the things I love, amongst my memories. Contaminating them all by your presence. As I told you, Mr Wilmot, I should sooner invite Satan into my home than you.”
“Mrs Cambourne, I really don’t wish to quarrel with you.” I used the same argument I’d used with James. “Oliver loved you very much and I know it would only grieve him.”
I held out my hand to her.
My argument at least seemed partially effective—insomuch as she said, “After what I’ve just told you, I find it totally incomprehensible that you’d expect me to take your hand!”
She stared at it disdainfully.
I let it drop.
“Then why is it you have come? Not, I trust, to pour out more of those easy sentiments you so recently—and so belatedly—committed to paper?”
“They weren’t in the least degree easy. But no. Couldn’t we perhaps go and sit down?”
“He said it was about the will, madam,” put in James.
“Indeed I thought as much,” answered Mrs Cambourne. “A clever beginning you must think it: our quarrelling would only grieve my son. You expect, of course, to go on from there; to persuade me, no doubt, to drop the whole lawsuit. Is that the purpose of your visit?”
“On the contrary.” But that was the purpose of my visit, it suddenly struck me. Just not in the manner she expected.
“On the contrary?” she said, with a brittle laugh. “I can hardly believe that.”
“On the contrary,” I repeated, with emphasis. I knew I had aroused her interest.
There was a silence.
“Oh, very well, then. I suppose that we had better go and talk.”
When we arrived in the drawing room, with the French windows open on to a broad terrace and, beyond that, vast expanses of smooth lawn (I turned my eyes from it: I couldn’t bear to see the garden, couldn’t bear to see the tennis court), she said, “The laws of hospitality dictate I should offer you refreshment. But if you want a drink you must help yourself. You know where it’s kept.”
I poured a whisky. Mrs Cambourne declined to take anything.
I sat facing her, though at a distance.
“Please explain,” she said.
“I want to bypass the solicitors,” I told her. “I want to get this whole thing finished with—and fast.”
She waited.
“I want to settle out of court.”
“Go on, Mr Wilmot,” she said drily. “I’m curious. This settlement you have in mind? Will you settle for nothing? Nothing is what you deserve.” With sudden venom she rapped her stick on the stone hearth. “And if I really had my way I’d even get back that handsome car you’ve no doubt driven here this afternoon. My son was a fool. But for a short time, I admit, even I…”
She didn’t continue.
“Your son was not a fool.” I shook my head. “You’ve no right to say that.”
“Is that so? Mr Wilmot, please don’t drag me down to your own level of cheapness. I loved Oliver while he was alive. I see no need to glorify him now that he is dead. My son was very often a fool.”
She paused.
“But perhaps no more of a fool than I was. As I say, for a period you even managed to pull the wool over my eyes. When I saw…”
Again her voice trailed off.
“When you saw what, Mrs Cambourne?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said.
“When you saw what?”
“When I saw how happy Oliver was and heard everything he said about you I thought that perhaps, against all expectation, you might actually be the sort of person he made out. I observed you narrowly at Christmas and on every other occasion you came. I even grew quite fond of you—do you know that, Mr Wilmot? I could have grown to love you, I believe. In fact, for a while, I very nearly did. Almost like a second son … almost like a second son. And that, I can assure you, was something which had never happened to me before…”
Then she gave a short lau
gh.
“But now, I’m afraid, I feel differently. Now, I am impelled to ask, is there no justice in this world. How can it be right you should go free, after the sheer enormity of the crime which you committed? Is there no punishment—is there no prison sentence—is there no brand of Cain to leave upon your brow?”
Did she know about Elizabeth? Did she know that I had married an heiress? It sounded very much as though she did.
She wasn’t hysterical. It might have been less awful if she had been.
It seemed pointless to search for a defence. In any case, where could I have found one? I stared down at the carpet and waited for her exasperation to pass.
She went on coldly:
“Now I repeat: what is this settlement you have in mind? I, too, would wish to end the matter quickly.”
“I’ll give up the money and the house and the yacht,” I said; and then paused while she stared at me.
“Why?” she asked, in a cracked voice.
“Because I—like you—don’t consider I have any right to them. And even if I had … I’m not sure I’d be prepared to fight for them in court.”
“There’s a catch to all this, plainly.”
“No catch. However, I’ve a list here of some of Oliver’s things I would like to hold onto.” As I spoke I drew a piece of paper from my trouser pocket.
“To which you think you do have some right?”
“No right, but a desire so strong that, if you won’t agree to let me have them, I’ll fight you tooth and nail for the entire legacy. Despite what I’ve just said.”
She hesitated, but not for long. “Then let me hear your list.”
“I want some of Oliver’s books, records and pictures: I mean the pictures painted by him—especially ‘Young Men Reading the Paper’. I want the electric train set he bought the day before he died. I want some of his clothes. And I want—perhaps above all—the medallion he used to wear about his neck.” I suddenly had a terrible fear he might have been buried in it. I added rather sharply, “I think you have to acknowledge none of that’s unreasonable.”
The Man on the Bridge Page 19
