Mrs De Winter (9 page)

But I thought that I would like to go and stand beside the grave, quietly, alone, and think of Beatrice, with love and thankfulness, and it would be easier to do so today than at the

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funeral, with so many others surrounding us, and pressing in upon us, all the black crows.

I slipped through the wicket gate, latched it behind me and went across the grass to the path. Beatrice, I thought. Dear Beatrice. And could half imagine her there, but not clearly, it felt too solemn, too quiet a place for her. I saw her better out in the open country, striding, sturdy, never still.

There had been so many people at the funeral, so many friends, and it seemed that everyone had sent flowers. They were piled up and lined the path and spread over on to the grass around the new grave, elaborate crosses and stiff wreaths, and simple home made bunches. Some were too stiffly done, the blooms artificial and waxy looking, as though made out of card or glossy paper, unlike flowers that ever grew in any garden; others were more modest and simple. I bent down to read the cards, found familiar names and those I did not recognise. In fond memory … Loving remembrance… With sympathy… With respect … With love … Ours, ‘Dearest Beatrice … ‘ Giles’s To my darling wife.’ Roger’s ‘Fondest Love.’ Some had had their cards torn off, others were quite concealed, I did not like to peer at every one, it seemed an intrusion, prying into private notes that were somehow meant — and yet not meant — to be read by Beatrice alone.

Then, as I stood up and took a pace back, I saw it. A circle of lilies, pure creamy white, set in a bed of dark, dark green leaves. It was far and away the most striking of them all, it was expensive yet not ostentatious, it was elegant, restrained, and yet it stood alone, impeccably tasteful. I can see it now,

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apart from the rest, as if quite separately, and most carefully, placed. When I close my eyes, it is there, and I cannot tear my gaze away.

I bent down. Touched the cool, delicate, creamy, beautiful petals, the faintly ribbed, heavy leaves, and a sweet scent came into my nostrils from the flowers, intoxicating and yet faintly alarming, seductive, dangerous. There was a card, thick, cream inlaid, with a black edge, and the lettering ‘In deepest sympathy5 engraved also in fine black. But it was not the flowers at which I stared, in horror, not the printed words that chilled me, and froze the world and me, splintered the sky and fractured the song of the blackbird, darkened the sun.

It was the single handwritten letter, black and strong, tall and sloping.

R.

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Six

The very worst thing, and it came to me at once, even before my head filled up with a jumble of questions, like water pouring into a rocky hollow when the storm tide rushes in, even before the real fear, the worst was that I knew I had to bear it entirely alone, there was no one at all, no one in the world that I could tell. But then, following hard upon the first stab of shock, there did come fear, terror, so that I felt faint and giddy, and had to sit down, there on the path beside Beatrice’s grave and the piled up flowers, and put my head down on to my knees. It saved me, I felt my heart beating hard again, and the blood rush to my head, and I scrambled up quickly, in case anyone had come and seen me, I felt confused and foolish; but there was no one, the churchyard was as quiet and empty in the morning sunshine as it had been when I first came through the gate. Only the blackbird pinked its warning once or twice from a laurel bush.

The wreath of white flowers mesmerised me, I did not want to look at it again, and I could not help myself, it was

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as much its beauty as anything that forced me to look at it, it was so very perfect, so pale, so flawless. I stared down at it, but, probably in kneeling so hastily, I had turned the card face downwards, so that I could no longer see the writing.

Then I began to back away, I recoiled from it, as if it were poisonous, like some plant in a fairy-story, so toxic that were I merely to brush against it, I should fall down dead. I turned my back on it, and on the grave and all the other bright, useless flowers, and went quickly round the gravel path, and into the church.

It was open. No one was there. It was cold, and rather dark — the sun had not yet struck through the clear upper windows. I sat in a pew at the very back, feeling sick, and then I began to tremble, my hands shook in my lap, and I could not still them, my legs felt weak.

I felt as I knew one must feel when one has seen a ghost, shaken, disbelieving, confused, with all one’s certainties and reasoning undermined, and thrown about like toys by a malevolent, gleeful child.

The wreath was ghostly, white, strange, unreal, though I had seen and touched it, and if I went back to the graveside I was certain, or almost certain, that it would still be there, but most terrifying of all was the writing, the single, black, elegantly sloping letter R. R for Rebecca, in that old, long familiar hand that was bitten with acid into my memory. It was the same. Her letter. Her hand.

It could not be the same. How could it? And then the tide did rush in, and all the rotten debris, disturbed after lying quiet for so many years, surfaced and floated up

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and filled my mind, jostling, bumping together, claiming my attention.

Rebecca was dead. Buried. Long ago. There was nothing more to be said about it. I knew.

Then who had sent the wreath? Who had chosen it with such care, perfect, as it was, to be exactly the wreath that she herself would have ordered, who had written the letter upon the card? Someone playing a foul, cruel joke, a trick, a mean, cunning, secretive action. Someone clever and knowing, someone who hated us. But why? Why? After all these years? What had we done? For I knew instinctively that although the wreath was beside Beatrice’s grave, it was meant for our eyes to see, mine and Maxim’s. No one wished Beatrice, or Giles and Roger, any harm.

And I must keep this to myself, no one could know, I could spill out my fear and distress to no husband, and I must pretend, too, from the moment I got back I would have to compose myself and be bright and cheerful, calm and reassuring, supportive, loving, strong. Maxim must see nothing, guess nothing, not by any flicker in my eyes, or my voice, or my face.

I wished to God that Frank Crawley had not gone. I might have told him. He was the only person in the world, but he had gone home to Scotland and his new life, no longer really a part of us.

My emotions changed and shifted, as I sat in the church, from fear and horror. I felt anger at whoever had set out to hurt us and succeeded so easily, and then I was bewildered again, then I asked, why, why? What was the point?

We had been so undemanding, only wanted each other

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and a quiet, dull, married happiness, we had wanted the past to lie dead and on the whole, we had got what we had asked for and been grateful beyond words.

Now, I was in the midst of it again, the memories rose and wreathed about me like the ghosts they were, scenes, people, voices, emotions, Rebecca, the ghost of a ghost. Manderley. Yet strangely, they did not overwhelm me, they seemed poor, faded things, they in themselves had no power, they were dead, gone, had left scarcely a trace. It was the present that frightened me, this thing that had happened, the white wreath and the black edged card. R.

Yet when I went at last, slowly, hesitantly back, outside into the pale sunshine, I half expected it to have vanished, never to have been, a trick my own unconscious had somehow played, my own deep, deep fears somehow materialised for a few moments. I had heard of such things, although only half believed.

But the wreath was there, as I had known really that it would be, I saw it at once, my eyes were drawn to it and I could not look away. White against the dark, a perfect circle, on the grass.

‘I won’t think of Manderley.’ That was what I had said. I heard my own voice, clear, convincing, false, as I had spoken the words to Maxim. ‘I won’t think of Manderley.’

But it was all I thought of, more than Maxim could ever be, I thought, and even though I had known it for such a short time and in such wild, desperate circumstances, I was obsessed by it now, it came again and again to me, as I walked back, it lay before me, it was on the other side of every rise, and every next bend in the lane, so that I ceased

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to see anything that lay around me, the trees, the fields, the slopes and woods and gentle inland sky, everything, and saw only Manderley.

Yet I had hated it, it had oppressed and terrified me, I had been crushed by it, I had found it cold and strange and bewildering, and it had sneered at me, I had never belonged there, never even known my way with complete confidence, about its staircases and corridors, among so many closed doors.

Manderley. It was not the people who came so vividly back to life now to mock me, Frith, Robert, Clarice, the little maid, Jack Favell, Mrs Danvers, Rebecca — where were they? I did not know. Rebecca was dead, that was all I was certain of. For the others, I scarcely spared a thought for the others, I did not care. I would never see them again and they did not matter.

But the house. That I longed for, and feared, and was drawn back to. Manderley. I hated myself. I must not, must not think of it, I must put it from me, or it would damage us. I had to think of Maxim, only Maxim. We had saved each other, I must not tempt fate.

I was very fierce with myself, coming slowly down the last slope, towards the paddock, seeing Beatrice and Giles’s pleasant, comfortable, undistinctive house lying below, the smoke rising in a thin spear from its chimney. That would be the morning room then, he would be in there, reading the paper still, looking at his watch now and then, impatient for me to return.

I wished that I had a mirror, so that I could see my face, compose it, put on a mask, as he could. I must pretend.

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What I had seen, I had not seen, what had happened had not happened. I put Manderley out of my mind, and if I could not do the same with the wreath of white flowers, I turned away from them, and would not look, and left the card lying where it was, face down to the ground.

From the house, I heard the ringing of the telephone, and the dogs begin to bark. The horses were back, heads bent to graze contentedly after their exercise. And so I went down, towards them all, and with every step, I forced myself to look forward, and to compose my face, so that it was open, and cheerful … it was with a huge effort of will that I blotted out the wreath and the card and its signed initial, and everything it might mean, from my conscious mind — though I knew that of course they would only sink deep down, and embed themselves forever, they would join all those other things that could never be undone or unknown or forgotten.

I wanted Maxim. I wanted to sit quietly with him in a corner of the house somewhere, with the morning sun slanting through the windows and the fire beginning to pull in the hearth, wanted the trappings of the everyday, and the ordinary around me, for protection and reassurance.

I began to make up an account of where I had been, what birds and animals and trees I had noticed, what good mornings and odd words about the season and the weather I had exchanged, with some old man working on the land — I saw his greasy peaked cap, now, I invented the string tied round the legs of his ancient trousers, just above the boots, so that by the time I went across the garden, he was quite a friend. There had been a woman with a couple of retrievers,

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too, I had admired them, patted them. I was trying to make up names, but all that would come into my head was Jasper, Jasper. I turned my mind hastily away.

I wanted him to comfort me but I could not ask that, I must appear totally calm and unruffled, must be all concern for him. I must pretend, pretend. But the wreath was everywhere I looked, on the path, in the shrubbery, beside the gate, upon the door, cool, and white and perfect, it stood between me and everything else I saw, and the card fluttered and turned over, so that its black letter danced insolently before me. R. R. R.

I stopped in the hall. From the study, I could hear the rumble of Giles’s voice on the telephone. There was a sweet smell of fresh woodsmoke. I closed my eyes, clenched my hands and released them, took a breath.

He was sitting beside the fire in the morning room, his face in profile, the paper discarded beside him on the floor. He was very still, and, I saw at once, miles away from here, unconscious for a moment of my coming into the room.

I looked at him, saw the familiar face, lined now, his hair still thick but grey, saw his hand with the long fingers resting on the arm of the chair, but in the split second, before reaching out to him in relief and in a rush of love, heard the voice drop its syllables cold and clear and emotionless, like stones into a pool, That man is a murderer. He shot Rebecca. That is the man who killed his wife,’ and I wondered wildly if it were a real, malevolent thing, sent deliberately to drive me mad, before, with a tremendous effort of will I shoved it aside and broke through, to reach Maxim, in time to see him

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look up, come to and then smile with such love and joy and gratefulness, welcoming me back.

There was coffee, brought in a homely pot by the woman who came in, not served grandly and all the better for that, and the sunshine did come through the tall windows and one of the dogs had found it and was lying along the shaft, while the other hugged the fire, which kept smoking a little, so that first Maxim and then I had to keep fiddling with it, and I was grateful for that. I was still restless and unnerved, I needed the cover of something to do.

I said, ‘I heard Giles on the telephone.’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you seen him?’

‘He came in and wandered out again — he kept apologising, and blowing his nose.’

‘Poor Giles.’

‘He began to irritate me, I’m afraid, I can’t cope with it. He seems to be crumbling to pieces.’