The Road to Lichfield

by Penelope Lively

  David Fielding called, ‘Hello.’ He began to wind in his line, the familiar noise again reconstructing other times, another person.

  She came up to him and said, ‘Hello. Don’t let me disturb you.’

  ‘You’re not. I was just going to pack it in anyway. It’s too early in the year to expect much. I hadn’t realized you were up here again. How’s your father? I’m afraid I haven’t managed to get in to see him this week.’

  ‘Much the same. No, that’s not quite true. A bit worse. I can see a difference from last time I was up. It’s as though – as though he were getting a little more indistinct all the time. Fading.’

  David nodded. She saw the red line of a scar on his thumb as he fiddled with the reel and said, ‘How’s your cut?’

  ‘Fine. Thanks to your ministrations.’ He delved in a canvas bag. ‘My thermos will stretch to two cups, I think. Only tea – I’m afraid. Your father would have had a flask of brandy, I seem to remember.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  They stood on the river bank, watching the water. David said, ‘A dipper – look.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There – on that stone.’ His hand rested for an instant on her back, between the shoulder blades, turning her in the right direction; she could feel it as a phantom pressure after he had taken it away.

  ‘Oh, yes – on the island,’

  The river divided around a hummock of turf, creating a scenery of miniature rapids, the water whitening over pebbles and catching at a projecting stone. The dipper bobbed, and flew away upstream. They drank the tea, hot and sweet (man-made tea, Anne thought, women never make tea as strong as this, he made it himself). She said, arbitrarily, ‘What is the fascination of rivers?’

  ‘Speculation about what might be in them, as far as I’m concerned. There – something rising again. They always do just as you’ve packed up.’

  ‘Oh, I was thinking much more confused things,’ she said, ‘about the continuity of places and all that.’ She turned to look at him and was dazzled by the setting sun, seeing only his hair fringed with a halo of light, his face in shadow. He said abruptly, ‘Would you like to have something to eat in the local pub?’

  ‘Thank you, that would be nice.’ Walking across the field, she thought: isn’t his supper waiting for him at home? His wife?

  They reached the road and passed, on the outskirts of the village, an ancient and desolate house that reminded Anne of Splatt’s Cottage. She told David about her involvement with it, and the ambiguity of her feelings towards its preservation. He said, ‘We’re not so squeamish in these parts. Someone would have taken a bulldozer to it, one fine day, and no more said.’

  ‘Well, I don’t approve of that, but I do wonder if … oh, well. It used to have some awful fascination for Judy, when she was small. Apparently she thought there were eels in it.’

  ‘Freudian, I suppose.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Well, eels are a sexual fantasy, aren’t they, in dreams, anyway? How old was she?’

  ‘Oh, very small – three or so. Actually I think they were perfectly straightforward eels. There was one in a ditch there, once, she said.’

  ‘I thought these things never could be straightforward. Here we are – it’s fairly basic, I’m afraid, as pubs go.

  ‘It’s nice. Father used to come here.’

  Anne went to a settle by the fireplace while he stood at the bar. She picked shreds of dead grass from her trousers and threw them into the fire, watching them curl and spark, and was suffused with a sense of the most extraordinary pleasure. I am extremely happy, she thought, for really no reason at all. And when David stood before her, holding beer and plates of food, she found herself smiling with a radiance that must, she thought, seem affected or ridiculous. They ate, perching plates on the too-low table.

  ‘Still sorting out the past?’

  ‘I suppose so. It’ll be a long job. Father seems never to have thrown anything away.’

  He drank his beer, looking at her over the mug. ‘Why do you feel so driven to impose order? Is all your life so tidy? No mysterious corners?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Really not, she thought. Hardly any concealments, except a parking fine I never mentioned to anyone, least of all Don, because it made me so cross. I have only been unfaithful to him in thought, which presumably he has done too so it doesn’t count. ‘Oh, I’ve done things I’m ashamed of,’ she said. ‘Things I’d rather not talk to anyone about.’

  ‘I worry more about the things I haven’t done. Ambitions unfulfilled. Compromises. All one’s craven moments.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought you were all that craven.’

  He said, almost sharply, ‘Well, I am.’ And began to talk about something else. The impression he gave of stillness, of wariness, she realized, concealed some kind of restlessness, suppressed energies channelled into many directions – work, involvement with local activities, chairmanships of this and that. Like Sandra? she thought. And then, no, not like Sandra at all.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘How does it strike you, provincial life?’

  ‘I live it myself.’

  ‘Rubbish. The home counties are entirely different.’

  ‘Oh, come,’ she said, and saw that she was being teased. They laughed, and David went to buy more drinks.

  When he came back he said, ‘And how long will all this re-arranging of the past take you?’

  ‘Ages.’ She drank some more beer. ‘As a matter of fact, I wish I’d left well alone.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve come across something I knew nothing about. My father had a mistress, for many years, it seems. My brother knew. I had no idea.’

  David Fielding said, ‘How extraordinary. I’m very surprised.’

  Why did I tell him that? she thought, have I had too much to drink? But she felt quite clear-headed, had spoken with deliberation.

  He said, ‘Would you prefer not to have known?’

  ‘I’m not at all sure. In some ways I feel cheated at not having known for so long.’

  ‘Cheated by your father?’

  She was silent for a moment. ‘No, I don’t think it’s quite that.’

  ‘He presumably wanted to spare you embarrassment. Or distress.’

  ‘Graham – my brother – says it doesn’t alter the person he was. The person one knew. The whole person, I suppose he means.’

  ‘That’s a somewhat naive view, possibly.’

  ‘I thought so too.’

  ‘It’s upset you?’

  ‘In a way. Confused, perhaps, more than upset.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘The odd thing is,’ she said, ‘that I find I want to go to see this woman.’

  ‘It could be disconcerting.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Gloucester.’

  ‘I’ll take you if you like,’ he said casually, looking away.

  ‘That’s very kind. Thank you.’

  Yes, she thought, it is kind and I would like that so much. She wanted to say so, with more enthusiasm, but in the slight pause an awkwardness had already grown between them: David Fielding was fiddling with his plate, and then caught the eye of someone he knew at the bar, with something that seemed like relief. The man joined them for a few minutes, a local man, talking pleasantly of local things, small, safe, humdrum things. He had known Anne’s father (‘Not well, mind, just to pass the time of day’) and asked after him. When he left them Anne said, ‘I should get back.’

  They walked through the darkened village. David said, ‘I met your brother once, briefly, I think, last year. Cheerful kind of chap.’

  ‘Yes. We’re not much alike.’

  ‘I haven’t found you particularly sombre.’

  She smiled. ‘Good.’

  ‘Truth to tell, I found him a bit out of my world. Television, is that right?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a producer.’ He didn’t like him
, she thought, and David said, ‘I think I might find him a bit difficult to get on with.’

  She could feel him looking at her, prepared to have offended, suffering the compunction of those driven always to say what they think, or feel. ‘He’s not so bad really. A bit selfish, I suppose. But then he’s not married so it doesn’t matter all that much. He’s got no one to be selfish at.’ She laughed, trying to put him at his ease again, but he said nothing and they walked on in silence.

  Outside the house they stopped and stood for a moment, both speaking then at once. ‘Do come in for a minute, I think I can find some coffee ….’ ‘Well, I mustn’t keep you up, let me know if ….’

  Inside the darkened hall, the telephone began to ring. Anne broke off, fumbling in her pocket for the keys.

  David said rapidly, ‘Thanks – thanks for the evening. Bear Gloucester in mind, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I will. And thank you.’ Turning at the door, dragged by the noise of the telephone, she saw him walking away. She picked up the receiver and said ‘Yes?’ again, the front door still open, framing the crescent moon now high and bright above the rooftops.

  ‘Anne? Where on earth have you been?’

  ‘Just having a meal. Sorry, darling. I had a meal at the pub. Is everything all right?’ The street was empty now. She pushed the door shut with her foot.

  ‘There’s some fuss about a shirt. Here’s Judy.’

  Judy’s voice, petulant, distant, said, ‘Mum, I can’t find my clean school shirt anywhere ….’

  ‘Oh God, really, Judy – I told you, in your top drawer …’ The moon was a line of splintered light now, in the frosted glass of the door panel; down there, in Cuxing, it would appear, at this time of night, just a little to the left of the house opposite and immediately above the yew tree in its garden. ‘ … Give the phone to Dad now. And get up to bed. Don?’

  Going to bed herself, presently, she opened the window of her room and fancied she could hear the river rustling in the distance at the bottom of the field. Or was it too far, and the noise repeating itself merely in her head, an echo from earlier in the evening? She lay awake for a long time, in what seemed a state of acute consciousness, haunted by images and snatches of talk.

  Thursday, thought David Fielding … Thursday, which is the Staff Meeting, and the Oxbridge Entrance lot, in the afternoon, and after school the parents of Kevin Grant, to whom I do not know what to say. Thursday, he thought, will be a varied day. And after Thursday there is Friday, which is the interviews with the candidates for the chemistry post, and in the evening the Music Society AGM, which just about accounts for Friday. And then there is Saturday, and then there is Sunday. And then Monday, which is Oxbridge Entrance again, and the Lower Fourth, amongst whom there are one or two problems, and the History Club in the dinner hour. He went to the bottom of the stairs and called up, ‘I’11 be in for a meal tonight.’ A voice came back acknowledging this information, and he went out to the garage and got into the car. I measure out my life, he thought in Thursdays and Fridays and Mondays and Tuesdays, which I suppose is not so very pitiable, all things considered. As mother would have said, it’s nice to know where you are. I know where I am all right.

  The Midlands, he thought in the Staff Meeting, is a funny place. Are funny places. Now here am I, and there is George Barnes over there, and we were born not many miles apart in, I should guess, around the same year, and I daresay to the unpractised eye we might seem pretty much of the same ilk. We both speak with what is called an educated accent, behind which, nonetheless and I suspect rather to George’s annoyance, our origins are detectable. I say ‘poonch’ for ‘punch’, as Doctor Johnson is alleged to have done. I don’t know about George, never having heard him say the word that I can recall, but I, and most people in these parts, could nail him after three or four sentences as a Leicestershire man. It is not merely a question of pronunciation, either, this subtle difference so unapparent to the uninitiated. George would prefer to be somewhere else; he is here because he is not, frankly, all that good and has never landed one of those jobs in minor public schools or the big direct grant schools that he would like. I am here because I want to be, for reasons I find difficult to define, especially to myself. And now, if we are not going to run on into the next hour, I am going to have to shut George up. He knows, and I know, and we all know, that there is very little if anything to be done about the delays to the new science block. He cleared his throat and set about shutting up George Barnes.

  Would you like, he said, two hours later, to the Oxbridge people, would you like an essay on ‘What is meant by historical method?’ Something along those lines?

  The third year sixth (History) thought the matter over and were unenthusiastic. Paul Craxton said he thought that was a bit general. He said he felt he needed to get down to things more.

  ‘Why do you want to read History at university, Paul?’

  Paul Craxton said, smartly, that he felt we could all understand our own society better if we knew more about the past. I mean, he said, you can sort of evaluate social problems and interpret things better if you know what has happened before. And the past can warn us about the future, can’t it? You know where you are better, he said, don’t you, if you know some history. But I suppose you don’t say that in an interview, do you, at least not about knowing where you are? The others laughed. If I get an interview, he said, which I shan’t.

  David said, ‘Ah …’ He looked at Paul Craxton and thought of Paul Craxton’s father, with whom he had spent nearly half an hour two weeks ago. Paul Craxton’s father was a Sales Manager in an engineering company and was worried about what Paul was going to do in the end, ultimately, after university. He’d seen the way the wind was blowing, nowadays, in industry, and frankly you could be out of work just as easily with a degree to your name as without. It just doesn’t, Mr Fielding, he said, have the pull it used to, fifteen, twenty years ago. It was only a thought, mind, but he’d been wondering if Paul mightn’t maybe do just as well to pack it in now and go into the works right away. There was an opening he’d been told about, and he’d talked it over with Paul’s mother, and they couldn’t help wondering.

  David, listening to him, had thought of his own father and said, ‘What does Paul think about it?’ And what Paul thought was made manifest now, by the fact that he was still here, on a Thursday afternoon, saying that what he’d really rather do for this week would be to go over some old Entrance papers again. He didn’t know a thing, he said, about the rise of the gentry. And none of them, said Tim Langdale, had done much on Tudor economic stuff.

  David said, ‘I think, all the same, you can do an essay on the kind of thing I suggested.’ Read Butterfield, he said, and Marc Bloch. And you could look at E. H. Carr. And Marx, come to that. Think about it, he said; if you’re really set on spending three years studying the past you might as well be sure why you’re doing it. You might as well know where you are. The third year sixth laughed, writing down names and titles.

  ‘Ah …’ he said, to the parents of Kevin Grant. ‘Do sit down.’ He couldn’t remember having met them before. They drew their chairs together as though, David thought, closing ranks. The woman was smartly dressed, carefully made-up, her head straight from the hairdresser, but her glance slid past him, avoiding his eye. He wanted to put them at their ease.

  ‘I’m so glad you’ve come to see me,’ he said, ‘I’ve been wanting …’

  The man interrupted, leaning forward a little, his hands planted on his knees. ‘One thing,’ he said, ‘we’d better get clear from the start. We’re not taking him away from the school. That’s definite.’ His wife nodded. ‘And it seems you can’t ask us to, seeing as he only got probation. I’ve checked on that – had my lawyer check on that.’ He looked defiantly at David and David thought in bewilderment: what the hell has been going on here, what have these people got into their heads?

  He said, ‘But there’s no question of that, Mr Grant. We don’t want Kevin to leave the schoo
l. All we want - and presumably you too — is to try to see that he keeps out of this kind of trouble in future.’

  The man said, ‘Most youngsters get in a bit of trouble, one time or another.’

  ‘Mr Grant,’ said David, ‘not many appear before a juvenile court three times in one year. You realize that if it happened again he would be unlikely to get probation? He and his friends did several hundred pounds’ worth of damage, I gather.’

  ‘Asking for trouble,’ said the woman suddenly. ‘Leaving that place empty at night. What do they expect? Boys of that age, they’re bound to be a bit high-spirited. You must know that, Mr Fielding.’

  David said tersely, ‘I know that. And what they expect, Mrs Grant, is that people treat public property with the same respect as their own. Do you allow Kevin to tear your house apart?’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  They sat staring at each other in hostility. Well I’m damned, David thought, I didn’t think it would be like this at all.

  ‘Personally,’ the man said, ‘I believe in giving kids a bit of a free rein. Letting them do their own thing. I’m not saying I approve of what Kevin did, I don’t, but the fact is he’s old enough and that it’s not altogether our business, my wife’s and mine.’

  ‘It’s only up to a point you can interfere, nowadays, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Grant. ‘I mean, it’s the way things are, with young people.’ She smoothed her skirt over her knees with rosily manicured fingers. ‘You can’t fight the times, can you, Mr Fielding?’

  David said, ‘You amaze me.’ He got up and went over to the window. There was a solitary car in the Visitors’ Car Park. He said, ‘Is that your car?’

  ‘Is it in the way? I’ll move it.’

  ‘No,’ said David. ‘It’s not in the way.’ He looked across the car park to the playing fields, where boys eddied to and fro, including probably Kevin Grant, aged fourteen, whose parents owned an expensive new car and were complacent in their respect for the times. Beyond the playing fields the cathedral squatted against the skyline. Nearby, invisible behind rooftops, stood Samuel Johnson’s birthplace. Lichfield schools had been catering, in one way or another, for the sons of Lichfield tradesmen since before the days of Samuel Johnson. He turned back to Mr Grant (whose occupation was given, in Kevin’s file, as company director) to hear Mr Grant saying that he did not think they need take up any more of Mr Fielding’s time, now that they all knew where they stood. He watched Mr and Mrs Grant leave the room and sat alone for several minutes, thinking not of them, but of the sound of the river running over stones, out at Starbridge.