âFine.'
âGlad to be back in England?'
âYes.'
âFound a job yet?'
âNo.'
âAustin, please don't drive so fast, Austin,
please
â'
Austin applied the brakes violently and the big car jerked, shrieked, bumped over something. Somebody screamed. Matthew, before his head struck the windscreen, had a vision of a little girl of about six in a pink dress running into the roadway after a ball. The car moved on quietly, stopped against the kerb, half slewed across the road, Matthew held his head. He looked back. The little girl was lying on the tarmac. Austin was holding the wheel and staring straight ahead as if he were in a trance.
Garth got out and Matthew followed. He saw, very bright and clear, the dusty hot street, the child lying still with the sun shining on a bare arm, the texture of the pink dress, a trickle of blood increasing, a woman in an overall kneeling in the road. The woman was gasping, trying to scream with each gasp, trying, until someone stopped her, to lift up the child's head.
Garth said, âWe must telephone, get an ambulance and police.'
A number of people had collected and two other cars had stopped. It was a poorish street, a long wall with gates in it, several small terrace houses and a bomb site with a caravan. Garth said, âThere's a telephone box â' Someone said, âI've already â' The sun shone on trickling blood and a pink dress and things from which Matthew averted his eyes. There was no doubt that the child was dead. Someone had picked up the ball and was holding it helplessly in his hand. The woman was swaying and choking, wailing raucously, her mouth wide open and dripping. A man who had come out from the caravan sat down on the pavement with his back against the wall.
Austin was standing behind Matthew. Garth was talking to a man at the telephone box. There was the sound of a siren in the distance. Matthew held his head with both hands. Something was blazing just above his eyes. He said to people standing nearby, âThe child ran in front of the car.'
âYes, it wasn't your fault.'
âDid you see it?'
âYes, it wasn't their fault.'
âThe child ran out.'
âThe car was travelling too fast.'
âMatthew,' said Austin over Matthew's shoulder, âwill you say that you were driving?'
âWhat?' said Matthew.
âWill you say that you were driving? You're sober. It wasn't our fault. No one can say that it was our fault. You're sober. Do you understand?'
Garth came back. âThey've telephoned for everybody.'
âMatthew, will you say that you were driving? Do you understand me?'
Someone had taken charge of the woman and led her back to the pavement. The child lay alone, no one near her now. The blood had made a sticky pool in the gutter. The woman sat on the kerb, sobbing now. Two women, passers-by, were crying too.
âMy little girl, oh my little girl â It wasn't their fault. She ran out. It wasn't their fault. It was my fault, my fault â'
âBe quiet, Mary,' said the man who was sitting against the wall.
Someone said, âAre you the child's parents?'
âYes.'
âMy little girl, my darling, oh my darling â'
âI can't stand this,' said someone.
âIt wasn't their fault.'
âThe car was travelling too fast.'
âBut the child ran out.'
âIt could happen to anyone.'
âMatthew,' said Austin. âI'm not sober and you are. Will you please please say that you were driving? No one saw. It wasn't our fault, was it, it really wasn't our fault. Will you say that you were driving?'
âNo, I'm sorry,' said Matthew, âI can't.' He went and sat down on the pavement with his back against the wall, near to the child's father. His head was on fire. Perhaps his skull was broken. If only that awful sobbing would stop.
Ambulance men were stooping over the poor remains in the road. The man who was holding the ball had put it down in the gutter where the blood had reached it. Austin, pale faced and shuddering, was talking to the police. Matthew fainted.
Dearest Hester,
have you heard the absolutely awful news? Austin Gibson Grey, driving Matthew's car, ran over a child and killed it. A little girl, about six, Matthew said. Isn't it
ghastly
? Apparently the child ran straight under the car, it wasn't Austin's fault. But how terrible, imagine it, I suppose it could happen to any of us. I just don't think I could live with myself after a thing like that, could you? Imagine facing the child's parents. An only child too apparently. I am so sorry for Austin â and one can't help feeling it
would
happen to him. Matthew got a nasty crack on the head hitting the windscreen and has been under the doctor. Oh dear, I can't think of anything but poor Austin, I must write to him, and I'm sure he'd be glad if you wrote too.
On brighter topics, we've fixed the wedding for August 18 after all, as Ludwig will be busy in Oxford from September, and I do hope you and Charles won't be abroad then. They've been offered a college house, which will solve the accommodation problem for the moment, but I do rather see them in the country. There are such lovely Cotswold houses near Oxford. Remember the lovely one Richard Pargeter bought after his second marriage and then they were divorced before the central heating had been installed? Is it true by the way that he's taking out Karen Arbuthnot? I should think he's old enough to be her father! Anyway, I rather fancy Gracie as the Lady of the Manor. It's nice to have a rich child! ! Let me know when you'll be in town, I've found a new Italian restaurant, scruffy but delicious. Are you coming to the opening of Mollie's boutique?
With love
Clara
PS. When will Sebastian know about his exam? Do write to Austin. Isn't it
awful
?
Dear Patrick,
I send this by the hand of Williamson minor to say that no I will not see you this evening. After our talk at the pavilion, which I should have thought made the situation abundantly clear, it seems to me pointless to continue arguing. I know you want to because even argument with the beloved object is something gained. But for the beloved object himself it is just a bore. I am sorry that my reaction seemed to you to be, to use your own words, âmindlessly conventional'. It is not, actually, convention but psychosomatic instinct which is in question. I enjoyed your company before your curious declaration because you seemed to me to possess an interesting mind. Now that you have, by your own volition, drawn my attention to your hair, eyes, nose, breath, complexion, patchy signs of incipient whisker, in short, and I use the word in a general sense, to your sex, I cannot feel the same unmixed interest which I felt when I conversed freely with what I could take to be an unembodied intelligence. Moreover I now have no inclination to continue colloquies into which you have obviously entered, recently at any rate if not at first, with ulterior motives. Be man enough to see the point and get over this absurdity. And meanwhile keep out of the way and for Christ's sake keep your mouth shut and don't make spaniel's eyes at me in chapel. I presume you do not want to figure in my life merely as a pest. Excuse this rather peremptory manner, but I am older than you and know a good deal more of the world. In case it might help the healing process I may as well tell you that I am in love with a girl. And let us both shut up about this matter as from now. Sorry.
Ralph
My dear Ludwig,
your mother and I have talked the matter over again with Mr Livingstone and he thinks that your wisest course is to plead total conscientious objection. With our religious background, and with Mr Livingstone's backing, which he promises to give, there is every chance that this would be allowed. What your legal situation would then be in relation to the draft I am not sure, and whether you would be required to do some other form of national service might depend on the view of your case taken by the tribunal. I am making further enquiries about this aspect of the matter, and also about what legal assistance we shall require to contract for. I am afraid it may be an expensive business, and possibly a lengthy one, and should be set in train
at once
. I suggest that you write to the military authorities, whose address I trust you have retained,
today,
and inform them that you have only just received the documents, that you propose to return to the United States forthwith, and that you are a total conscientious objector. (Do not use the word âpacifist' which has some unfortunate connotations.) Emphasize that your objections are âreligious in origin'. Mr Livingstone thought that this would be a judicious phrase. If by any chance you have not retained the address of the military authorities, send me a cable and I will ascertain its details. It is important to get these right. Any suggestion of slovenliness on your part at this stage could give the wrong impression and damage your chances. Act please on this advice
today
, as delay could be most hazardous.
About what you term your engagement, your mother and I have mixed feelings. We want above all things your happiness, and we are sure that Miss Tisbourne is a charming girl. You are possibly a little young to consider marriage. Moreover your immediate future is, to say the least, uncertain. We are glad to know that you did not learn of the young lady's fortune before you courted her, though we are in any case aware that you are above any mercenary motive. We trust that she and her family knew of your initial ignorance of her circumstances. (When you say that âher family are very good', do you mean that they are âhigh society'?) As I say, we are concerned above all for your happiness and we beg you in this matter to make no definite plans for the present. The young lady looks very young, scarcely more than a schoolgirl, and this is not, as I am sure you will on reflection agree, the moment for you to take on the responsibility of a young wife. Also, and quite in general, your mother and I feel dismay at the prospect of your marrying an English girl. This is not a matter of racial prejudice, but of geography. You speak, it seems to us rather lightly, of our all being united âin Europe'. Is this the wish of Miss Tisbourne and her family that you express here? As we have told you, your mother and I have no wish to uproot ourselves at our age and no inclination to return to part of the world which has for us only the unhappiest of associations. Please consider carefully what you feel to be your duty in this respect. You will in any case have to return to this country for some time to sort out your position in relation to the authorities. My advice is that you should explain the whole matter frankly to Miss Tisbourne, if you have not done so already, and explain that you cannot in the circumstances make any definite matrimonial plans. In the farther future, when you have made yourself right with the authorities, Miss Tisbourne and her family might be pleased to come over here and present themselves to us, and this would also be the occasion of a proof of the longevity of your mutual affections. Meanwhile please do not enter into any definite arrangement. You must also of course inform the Oxford College that you cannot at present take up your appointment with them. It is flattering that you should have obtained this honour. You might in the circumstances suggest to them a visit of a year's duration perhaps in several years' time. We are surprised in fact that the college should appoint you, having regard to your anomalous position in relation to the United States government. Possibly they are ignorant of it? It is, I need hardly tell you, your duty to inform them of it fully, and when you have done so there is little doubt but that they will advise you to return to your own country at once.
I am sorry to write in this vein and to counsel so urgently a severance from a life which I am sure is pleasant to you, but this is a matter of great seriousness. I cannot feel confident that you are entirely well-informed about extradition, which is a nightmare to us. If you do not put yourself right now, the consequences to you will be lifelong. A delayed or irregular return will mean imprisonment under the harshest conditions from which you might emerge mentally and physically damaged and with loss of civic rights. The alternative is permanent exile. Consider what, with your whole life before you, you would be choosing, My son, do you really want to become an outlaw and an exile from the country which has given to us refuge, freedom, an end of wandering and fear, and to you the full status and being of an American? You have gained without effort or desert a privilege which millions, including your parents, have had to achieve by years of painful striving, and for which millions of oppressed people have yearned in vain. Ludwig, you are an American. Do not lightly throw this precious title away, but realize rather that it involves responsibilities and ties of a deep and lasting nature.
I say nothing here of your scruples and reasonings about the war. I trust profoundly that the compromise which we have suggested will be acceptable to you. Above all, you must act immediately. Your mother sends her fondest love and joins me in begging you to do as we suggest.
Your affectionate father
J. P. H. Leferrier
My darling husband,
I have heard the terrible news of the accident. Mavis told me this afternoon. Do not be angry, I ran straight round to Miss Ricardo's house immediately, but you were not there and Miss Ricardo said she didn't know when you would be in. I would have left a note then, only I had no paper and I was so distressed. She said she would tell you I called. Do not be angry with me for going round, I felt I had to see you at once, I am so terribly upset, I have been crying ever since. Do not blame yourself, my darling, do not blame yourself at all. Mavis said the child ran straight in front of the car and no one, not the best driver in the world, could have avoided what happened. Oh do not be too grieved and unhappy and do not blame yourself for this awful thing. It was brought about by chance and not by you. I want to see you so much but will now wait for you to write to me. Oh let us meet soon, let us be together soon. This separation has been my fault and I weep for it and ask your forgiveness. Let us somehow be together again soon and keep all the world out as we used to do. Forgive me for going round to the house, it was all such a shock and I felt I had to see you. Write soon to your loving child, your wife
D.
Dear Mrs Monkley,
I write on behalf of my brother and myself to send our profoundest and most heartfelt sympathy to you and your husband on this irreparable loss. My brother, as the police agreed, very much thanks to your own generous and prompt evidence, was not to blame for the accident. However we cannot but feel a responsibility and a grief which will remain with us always at having been the instruments of this dreadful occurrence. We need your forgiveness for having unwittingly so altered your lives. I cannot find the words to express our sorrow at this thing, and our sense of having engendered, however innocently, a lifelong responsibility. Our lives can never be the same now, any more than yours can. I hope you will forgive and accept, from both of us, this clumsy expression of our grief. It was kind of you to let me know the time of the funeral. I will certainly attend. My brother, whose work precludes his attendance, sends his profound condolences. I will, as I said on the telephone, hope to call on you and your husband a day or two after the funeral. If there is any help which my brother and I can give you in your bereavement we would esteem it a privilege to give it. Please excuse this clumsy letter. We are more wretched than words can express at what has happened. I will be at the funeral.
Yours sincerely
Matthew Gibson Grey
My dearest little girl,
thank you so much for your sweet letter, which cheered me up a lot. Please
don't
come to Mitzi Ricardo's place. I'd rather you didn't come there. It's not a very nice place. I only wish I had a place that was worthy of you, Dorina. A palace with a great garden and I'd set you in the midst with fountains playing all round you. I will see you
soon
. I will write again when all this ghastly biz is over, I don't want you mixed up in it. It's such a mess, and I've got hundreds of things to do like going to the bloody funeral and seeing the parents and so on. The father is being rather awful about it all. Oh God I wish it hadn't happened. It was all because Matthew would insist on my driving and made us go round that back way. I am still in a state of shock and I am thinking of seeing a doctor. But don't let my darling girl worry about me. I am
all right
and I will survive and recover, I have had worse blows than this. Don't go away anywhere, will you, and don't come to Mitzi Ricardo's place again. We'll meet soon, I'll write, and yes we'll be together again before long and keep them all out. Look after yourself and keep yourself safe and secure for your loving husband
Austin
PS How did Mavis know about the accident? Did Matthew tell her?
Dearest Gracie,
so Austin has run over a little girl. Good for him. He has certainly maximized happiness in the Tisbourne family. Ma was incoherent with delight about it when she telephoned and I could just imagine her face, pulled into that false sadness with glee looking through. And don't tell me you don't feel exactly the same. I would be moderately bucked myself if I hadn't got other troubles. As it is, I wake up in the morning and feel at once that at least
something
nice has happened.
I have told my love. Ralph rejected me, not nastily but with a much more awful high-mindedness. And now he refuses to see me and has written me a disgusting missive. I am sorry I wrote you a horrid letter by the way. Misery has made me benevolent, I can't at the moment see the point of being unpleasant to anybody, I am even nice to my housemaster. A matter on which you can help me: Ralph alleges he is in love with a girl. Who is she? Could you try to find out? You might ask Karen Arbuthnot who knows everything.
I don't know what to do about Ralph, I am more in love than ever and feel utterly sick with it. I sweat and my hands tremble and I can't eat. Do you feel like this about your Ludwig? (Have you â by the way? ?) What restrains me from instant suicide is a tiny hope. Ralph's grand disgusting letter felt at first like a kick in the guts. But later on I thought that a longish letter, indeed a letter at all, was a sign of interest. What do you think? I may be deceiving myself. But there's just enough left of the sense of a game to be played to keep me out of the madhouse. I am not sure what I shall do. I am tempted to write twenty pages in reply. But possibly the wisest thing might be to answer laconically saying OK, and then wait for him to make a move! But will he? Supposing he just doesn't? Oh God. Anything rather than the end.