INDIFFERENT HEROES

by MARY HOCKING

  Judith said the little place nearby would do very nicely.

  There were only a few people in the cafe. They had a corner table. When they were seated, he gave her a rather wry look which seemed to say, ‘I suppose we have to go through this process?’ Or perhaps he wasn’t saying that at all? Yet, in spite of her uncertainty, she was aware of having immediately answered the look.

  They drank sherry while they studied the menu. He tasted and made a face. ‘This sherry is like cat’s pee.’

  ‘I’m not a judge of either, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘I was brought up strictly teetotal.’

  ‘Did you actually sign a pledge?’

  ‘I think I pledged myself when I was young. But it’s rather gone by the board since the children grew up.’

  ‘You must forgive my interest. It’s so different from my upbringing. Everything in moderation was our motto.’

  ‘Very bland.’

  He smiled at her. There was a relish in that smile which was quite unmistakable. She was glad to be sitting down, otherwise her knees might have betrayed her weakness. This was inconceivable. She was in her late forties. He turned his attention to the menu, and she drank half a glass of sherry rather quickly.

  ‘I think the fish seems the least of all the evils, don’t you? Good gracious!’ He considered what he had just said. ‘Am I bland?’

  ‘I hardly know you well enough to answer that.’ She was distinctly more at ease, and beginning to savour the pleasures of being with a man again. He seemed a more sophisticated person than the usual run of her acquaintances, but she felt she could hold her own, at least during this meal. She had undoubtedly put a check on any complacency he might have about his childhood. When it came to a contest, there was nothing like a puritan upbringing to toughen the muscles. Over the fish, he began to talk about his childhood – obviously determined to make it clear that there had been a great deal more to it than moderation. She gave him a civil hearing before speaking of the rigours of life in Falmouth – ‘a father always at sea, and me the eldest of seven!’ It was remarkable that in so short a space of time they should seem to be in contention: now he was telling her of the harshness of his life at boarding school, waking in winter with snow on the sheets because there must always be an open window. She was finding it quite hard not to appear aggressive.

  As he spoke of his university life at Durham, and explained why he had decided against an academic career (while making it clear that one would have been open to him), she studied his face. Now that she could see him in a good light, he was impressive. A big man, with a head to match, broad and strong. The face was not as forceful as one might have expected; impatient eyes counteracted a slight suggestion of self-satisfaction about the mouth. Perhaps by fifty one might be allowed some cause for satisfaction? Yet something about him made her feel that this was a man who had, perhaps temporarily, lost his impetus.

  He began to speak of more personal affairs. His wife had died twelve years ago. ‘I thought I shouldn’t marry again until the children were old enough to leave home. I had unhappy examples of my friends who had introduced stepmothers into the home. It was bad for the children and hell for the unfortunate woman. So I had a series of housekeepers, each more determined than the last to achieve marital status. It became quite a challenge.’ He allowed a pause before he said, ‘But that’s all over now. The children have departed. No more housekeepers.’

  Judith made her contribution. ‘My children have departed, too.’

  If he is sensible, she thought, he will leave it at that for the moment. He was sensible. When they parted he made no suggestions for future meetings. She was pleased to have time for reflection. There was no doubt of their mutual attraction. He might be difficult, but she had had experience of a difficult man. In his favour, he was not entirely selfish. Whether his decision had been right or not, he had done what he thought best for his children at some cost to himself. When he told her about this, he had been leading up to the fact of his being free now and had not been trying to impress her. She was the more impressed. In her eyes, his lonely battles with amorous housekeepers counted for more than his distinguished performance at Durham University; or the fact that he had launched several well-known writers whose talents others had failed to appreciate.

  Time passed. He will wait until what seems the right moment for him, Judith told herself, without giving thought as to whether it is also right for me – but that is the way of mankind.

  She settled down to her own affairs. For the first time in her life, she had a room of her own. The room pleased her. It had the simplicity of rooms in her childhood with its low bed, white-painted wicker chair, and ottoman covered in faded blue with patchwork cushions. The threadbare rug was blue and rose, and the floor boards had been painted white. The room was cool, uncluttered and peaceful. It looked out across fields to Lewes. Judith knew that she would not wish to spend the rest of her life alone; but she was reassured at finding herself able to take advantage of this quiet interlude in the middle age of life.

  During the day, she was busy working with the WVS. Her landlady, Mrs Chace, had a car but did not like driving. It had become the practice for Judith to drive her to the local WVS headquarters where she spent the day. Judith was then available to drive the car to whatever emergency might present itself. This was an arrangement congenial to the WVS organizer, who had become alarmed by the number of accidents recorded by Mrs Chace. On two occasions, when taking sick children to hospital, Judith had to visit the downland village where Austin Marriott lived. To her disappointment, she failed to find his house.

  In the spring, Alice and Louise came to visit her. Louise stayed in the house and Alice in a neighbouring YWCA. Now that they had their mother to themselves, each showed a tendency to revert to childhood. In Louise, this was unusual.

  Why does she want to be a child again? Judith wondered. James and Catherine were staying with Aunt May. Was Louise enjoying an innocent freedom from responsibility? Motherhood had come naturally to her; she had never made a burden of it, as some women do. Judith did not think that Louise was feeling released from the small daily acts of cherishing. No, she thought, it is more than that. She is enjoying being on her own because she can imagine herself free – just as I am free now. But I am well into middle age and must limit my expectations; while she may look to a second flowering.

  Alice was torn by the desire to be her mother’s child, and the equally compelling need to be accepted as a mature woman. In the interests of the latter, she spoke much of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. From her manner, one would have supposed the freedom to speak explicitly to represent greater sexual maturity than the actual performance. Certainly, she imagined herself much superior to her mother, if not to Louise.

  Judith thought that Alice would outgrow all this nonsense without coming to any harm. Alice felt more deeply than her sisters, and she made heavy going of things which came easily to Louise. But Judith felt in her bones – or in her mother’s heart – that Alice would be all right. But Louise? She could not be sure of Louise.

  ‘It is the greatest driving force in Nature,’ Alice assured her more experienced listeners when they were on a picnic together, surrounded by Nature at its most temperate. Moreover, she assured them, it was as natural as food and drink, and should be part of the daily diet. She looked expectantly to her mother, wanting her respect, yet needing her dissent. It was important that her mother should remain old-fashioned in these matters. A sexually adventurous mother was the last thing she wanted.

  Alice was sitting on the bank of a stream, dangling her feet in the water. In her white blouse and black tie and skirt, she looked more like a penguin than a priestess of sex. Louise, humming a tune, gazed across the stream towards the water meadows on the other side, carpeted with celandine. It was doubtful whether she had heard much of what had been said.

  Judith said, ‘The greatest driving force in Nature? Well, if it’s as powerful as that, I’m surprised you should think it can be
played with at will.’

  Alice, taken aback by her mother’s vehemence, said, ‘Man converts power to his own use daily.’

  ‘Harnesses it.’

  Alice took her feet out of the water, which was ice cold. She contemplated them as they dried in the sun. She had tended to think of her own generation as uniquely circumscribed by sexual taboos. It had not previously occurred to her that limits had always been imposed, by the tribe, the race, the church, the state . . . ‘If we don’t free ourselves of all that, we shall never be really adult,’ she pronounced gravely.

  ‘What are you looking at out there?’Judith asked Louise.

  ‘I was thinking that that is mimulus down by the water’s edge. Do you think it would grow in the damp crack in Mrs Chace’s yard?’

  ‘What a splendid idea! She is always complaining that it looks so dreary. But is this the time to transplant it?’

  ‘It has to be. It’s the only time I’m here.’

  Alice said, ‘I am hungry. What have you got in that hamper?’

  ‘Bacon sandwiches.’

  ‘Bacon!’ Louise exclaimed. ‘Has Farmer Giles killed a pig or something?’

  Alice stretched out her arms. ‘Oh, I am so happy! I shall always remember this day.’

  Louise took a sandwich. ‘You’ll soon be able to make a book of your memorable days.’

  ‘You shouldn’t laugh at her,’ Judith admonished.

  ‘I’m not laughing at her. I think it’s wonderful to be only her age and have had so many days she will always remember. When she is old, she will be forever telling her grandchildren about her happy life.’ She rounded her shoulders and spoke in a croaking voice, ‘My dears, there was that day down by the river, when we had bacon sandwiches . . .’

  The next day was happy, too. Judith had to collect a child from Austin Marriott’s village. Alice and Louise accompanied her. On the return journey from the hospital, she took a different lane into the village and here she came across Marriott’s house. It was not large, but, standing in half an acre of land, it seemed impressive to Judith – an old, red-tiled building which had the look of a place which pre-dated the garden and most of its neighbours. An old man was clipping the hedge, and from one window a plumpish woman in an overall shook a duster—a ‘daily’, definitely not a housekeeper.

  Louise said, ‘Do you know any of the people here?’ It was an idle question, yet Judith sensed that something had communicated itself to her daughter.

  Alice said, ‘What a lovely old house! Do stop.’

  Judith stopped the car in the shade of an ash tree. ‘We mustn’t seem to stare.’

  Alice was enchanted by the house. Here, she felt, the work of man – in this case, the house – grew from the earth like the trees which surrounded it, not aggressively imposed on the landscape, but a partner with fields and hills. She thought of the smoke rising from the house in winter as the leaves turned and the trees became bare. The life of the house would send its light into the winter darkness.

  The remainder of their time together was not so enjoyable. It was apparent to Alice that her mother was becoming increasingly involved in local affairs. She knew a lot of people at the chapel, and was active there as well as with the WVS. For the first time, Alice saw herself and her sisters as part of her mother’s life, but not everything. Although she herself sought to break free of the ties of family, Alice expected to remain everything to her mother.

  On the Saturday evening she announced that she would prefer to go to the Church of England service the next morning. She made this announcement in good time, anticipating argument.

  Her mother said, ‘Yes, I think you should have experience of other services.’

  In the face of such ready acceptance, Alice herself must assume the burden of disapproval.

  ‘You used not to think like that,’ she accused.

  ‘Well, your father had very definite ideas, and it was better for us not to argue too much. You were all much better off living up to his beliefs. I should have made a mess of your religious upbringing if it had been left to me.’

  Alice was upset that they should talk in this dispassionate way of her father. It seemed that her mother, perhaps unconsciously, was conveying the impression that in reality she had been the wiser of the two. Alice felt her father was being robbed of his dignity and was shocked that her mother could so forget her loyalty to him.

  ‘Don’t you miss Daddy at all?’ she asked.

  ‘Miss him?’The question had taken Judith by surprise and her eyes filled with tears. ‘Miss him?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t know . . .’

  The momentary loss of control was soon over, but Judith did not turn from her emotion. Perhaps she realized what had prompted her daughter to behave in this way. She said, ‘I would give everything to have those years again.’ She paused and seemed to consider this statement; and then, its veracity tested, nodded her head. ‘Yes, everything.’ The brisk, sometimes formidable woman was momentarily gone, and in her place Alice saw a rather careworn, lonely person.

  ‘That was awful of me.’ She fumbled for words. ‘Why don’t you live with Louise . . .’

  ‘Because I don’t want to.’ Judith was brisk again, but affectionate. ‘I can manage this way much better. Probably because it isn’t just managing, marking time, getting through the days somehow, which is what some widows do. I am finding out things about myself. Sometimes, I can be quite surprised by what I do and say. This is right for me. I’m not meant to spend the rest of my life being Stanley’s widow and your mother, my love. Though, goodness knows, the things we are meant to be, aren’t always what we want to be.’ She paused, seeing Louise in the garden. Louise had been planting the mimulus in the crack, and was now lingeringly surveying her work – Judith thought: she is preparing herself for something.

  Alice said, ‘You aren’t happy, are you?’

  ‘Happiness, in the sense in which you mean it, is irrelevant.’

  ‘I don’t think I understand.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you do. But you will one day.’

  The next morning, they went their separate ways. Alice attended church in Lewes, while Judith went to her chapel. Louise said she would like to go to a country church. She walked across fields; and, as usual, allowed herself to be distracted by lambs and wild flowers, and any other pleasant sight which claimed her attention. Her dalliance, however, was a charade; even as she lingered, enchanted by wild daffodils and cowslips, she felt her impulse drawing her strongly across the fields. Although she was habitually late, she always meant to arrive.

  As she walked up the path to the church, the few people who had attended the service were leaving. On the threshold, she hesitated, coming from sunlight into shadow, and began to shiver. By the time she took her seat in one of the pews, the church was empty save for the vicar and the churchwarden, who were counting the collection in the vestry.

  She sat quietly, composing herself to her task. She did not pray regularly, but only when she had something to say. She imagined God probably found this quite refreshing. Lately, there had been rather a lot to say. Perhaps she had overdone it. The words would not come now. Worse than that. Her thoughts, of which she was usually complete mistress, refused to address themselves to this business of acquainting God formally with the fact that, as she could only reach true fulfilment with Ivor, she must renounce her marriage vows. But it was Guy, and not Ivor, who occupied her mind. Guy, so diffident, so self-deprecating, had somehow succeeded in holding his own against his more forceful rival. How had this come about?

  She looked around her, as though the building itself might explain this waywardness. She did not know the name of the church, or the village which it served. But she realized she had been in it before. It was small, bare and rather dark. A Saxon church which in past centuries must have served a poor farming community. There were no plaques commemorating the lords of the manor; not so much as a humble esquire was immortalized here. She rec
alled the hymn sung at school on Commemoration Day: ‘And some there be which have no memorial. Who are perished as though they had never been . . .’ In like manner would she have cast off Guy.

  Her eyes travelled. There were three small stained-glass windows beyond the altar; the side windows were clear glass. Her eyes were drawn to one of the side windows. She remembered that when she was last here, there had been a flower festival. This had been the Magdalen window. She could see the flowers now: all the reds arrayed, from the pale crown to the dark hem, in a flowing robe of gaiety, love and joy, deepening into passion. She had had some kind of vision as she looked at the flowers. They had told a story, older than words. But she had misinterpreted it, and had gone out celebrating her love for Guy.

  And now? Now, here she was, about to explain to God that this choice of Guy had been a mistake, he hadn’t lasted well once she had got him home. She had thought to shrug him aside like a bad buy because she had found something which suited her better. And she had expected God to condone this bargain basement approach to marriage.

  She had been happy when she last came to this church. Now, she was full of pain. Yet, the image of the flowers was still the same, only the colours that made up the swirling hem of the garment had deepened.

  There was a stabbing in her breast. It was so bad she thought she would be unable to move. The churchwarden came out of the vestry. He would make a fuss, probably he would want to fetch a doctor. She forced herself to her knees, bowing her head, holding to the pew in front. His footsteps stopped for a moment, while he wondered whether there was anything he should do. Then he passed on to Sunday lunch. After all, there was still the vicar in the vestry.

  The vicar, when he came, asked if she was all right. There had been that girl who had crept in unobserved, pregnant by a GI, and had delivered herself of the baby on the chancel steps, of all places. He cleared his throat and said, ‘Is there anything . . . ?’