In all these rather horrible discussions Rose took part with a rather important reservation. She had, now, her own rather special view of Crimond, ‘her Crimond’, which must be henceforth and forever her darkest secret. Rose had, even before Jenkin’s death, recovered from what now looked like the amazing, unique, inexplicable fit of insanity wherein she had felt herself to be madly in love with Crimond, during which Crimond from being nothing had become everything. Rose, who had at once told herself to ‘return to reality’, had managed reasonably well to do so within a few days of her ‘seizure’. Gradually the lurid glow faded, her usual attachments regained their power, above all the agonising, tormenting sense of a possibility, a possible move, began to leave her; and she was able to be thankful that she had
not
found Crimond in the street when she ran down after him, had
not
written him a compromising letter whose existence would have disturbed her ever after. Of course she couldn’t love Crimond! She loved Gerard, and could not, for thousands of reasons, love both of them. Moreover, she absolutely could not, for Jean’s sake, have anything to do with Crimond. Crimond was a person she disapproved of, was perhaps even a mad person – what could have been madder than that sudden proposal? He was not someone with whom she could envisage spending time, let alone developing any close relation. One of her best comforts, in the early days of her recovery, was the thought that Crimond was actually a bit deranged and would have repented of his rash idea soon enough if Rose had shown any interest in it! All the same, and she realised this as soon as she was able to tell herself that it was over, something remained, and perhaps, Rose told herself with an odd mixture of sadness and pleasure, would always remain. There was some
bond between her and that man, which was there even if, as was likely, he regretted his move and saw it as an aberration; and even if he now consoled himself by hating her for her graceless reception of him. Rose could not perceive exactly what this residuum was. No doubt it was something which would wear and change with time. It was partly that she was, in retrospect, so flattered, and so touched, by his suggestion. It is hard for a woman not to feel some kindness for a man who adores her. He, strange Crimond, whom people feared and hated, had been for a moment at her feet. How surprised everyone would be – but of course no one would ever know. But there was also another, and better, she felt, component. For a short time she had
loved
Crimond, her love, like a laser beam, had reached right into him, finding, however blindly, the real Crimond, the lovable Crimond, who therefore must exist. She did not allow herself to imagine that she would ever tell Crimond that she had loved him; and she could scarcely, even much later, apologise suitably for her rudeness without in some way hinting at those very different feelings. In that direction, there was no road. But her wish that somehow he could know remained as a point of pain, and she guarded her curious knowledge of him like the emblem of a forbidden religion.
This was her state before the news of Jenkin’s death and its strange circumstances. The shock of this frightful blankly inexplicable disaster brought back to Rose her view of Crimond as something black and lethal. Rose and Gerard agreed that they could not and must not entertain the notion that their friend had been murdered. It was too incredible and too awful a charge to set up without a shred of evidence. ‘We mustn’t formulate this hypothesis, even to ourselves,’ said Gerard. But they
had
formulated it, and were upset and sickened to find it being freely uttered by others, based simply upon malicious speculation. Here again Rose had her own private torment: it came into her mind that Crimond had indeed killed Jenkin, as an act of revenge against her, and against Gerard whom he might blame for Rose’s rejection of him. This idea, when it suddenly appeared, caused her such
agony that she felt she might go mad, even be mad enough to blurt out the whole thing to Gerard simply so that he could share her misery. She thought, so
I
am really responsible for Jenkin’s death, if only I had been kinder to Crimond, if I hadn’t been so cruel and scornful… Here however Rose’s deep base of sanity eventually prevailed, her strong moral sense joined with her sense of self-preservation, and she judged this picture of the matter to be not only a crazy, but an evil fantasy.
Within a short space of time Rose had attended two burial services, both of them Anglican. Gerard, who had instantly taken it on himself to organise Jenkin’s funeral, had decided that since Jenkin had latterly appeared to be something of a fellow traveller of the Christian faith, the solemn words of the Prayer Book, so sober and so beautiful, should bid him farewell. Jenkin had no family; but at the funeral a surprisingly large number of people whom Rose and Gerard had never seen before appeared and manifested their grief. Gerard decreed cremation, because he vaguely recalled Jenkin having approved of it, but chiefly because he could not bear the idea of his friend’s body continuing to exist, rotting away in the earth. Better not to be. Laura of course was buried in the churchyard of the parish church in a place reserved for Curtlands. An argument about her tombstone was already going on. The two services were similar, except that the body of the departed was committed, in one case ‘to the earth’, in the other case ‘to the fire’. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Later that morning Rose was sitting in the library, where Reeve Curtland had been writing letters answering the numerous expressions of condolence upon Laura’s death. The young people had departed, Neville to St Andrews where he was in his last year of studying history, Gillian to Leeds where she was in her first year of psychology. Both of them had failed to get into Oxford, but were proving it possible to flourish elsewhere. Reeve, who had also failed to get into Oxford had, as he often complained, passed a gloomy and profitless period at a minor London college. It had only lately occurred to her that Reeve, who was about her age, might have envied and
perhaps disapproved of the golden times which Sinclair and the others were obviously having at the old university. Reeve had cheered up considerably, however, as uncharitable observers remarked, when his father inherited the title. The Curtlands were Anglicans, not Nonconformists or Quakers, but there was a puritanical streak which emerged at intervals. A Curtland had been an officer in Cromwell’s army. Rose’s Anglo-Irish mother had cheerfully tolerated Sinclair’s homosexuality, but her gentle father had been quietly shocked. Of course Rose had never discussed these matters, or indeed anything of grave importance, with Reeve. Always searching for likenesses, she discerned in Neville’s blond handsomeness a certain look of Sinclair. It was certainly clear that Neville, always nearly engaged to different girls, did not share his cousin’s ambiguous propensities. Reeve bore no marked resemblance to any of his relations or ancestors, he certainly lacked the jaunty look which Curtland men seemed to have had, judging from the family portraits, a look which both Sinclair and Neville pre-eminently incarnated. He was not, like them, tall. He had mousy brown hair, not grey but balding a little, dark brown soft puzzled anxious eyes, a ruddy complexion and a much lined brow where the pitted rubbery flesh rose in little hillocks. His lips were anxious too. His eyebrows thick and furry. He somehow managed to look young. He was often shy and even
gauche
in conversation, unlike his son. He liked to stay at home all the time and work on innumerable jobs. He always wore a tie, even when out on the tractor. In spite of his awkwardness and sometimes maddeningly tentative approach to the world, he did not lack charm, perhaps the charm of some timid touching animal. As people also observed about him, he did in fact, for all his poor showing, manage his estate, and his investments, reasonably well. He also played the piano creditably and painted in water-colours.
‘Reeve, I must go back to London,’ said Rose, uttering words she had wanted to utter for some time.
‘Oh no! Why? The children have gone but there’s still me to look after! And how will the house run without you? You
haven’t anything to
do
down there. I’ve often wondered why you weren’t with us oftener. You should regard this place as a second home.’
‘Oh I do,’ said Rose vaguely.
‘Evidently you don’t, as you’re so mean with your time! You know how attached the children are to you, how much they depend on your advice.’
Rose could not recall ever having ‘advised’ Neville and Gillian, who were bouncily independent young people, though it was true that she had had some ‘good talks’ with them during this, exceptionally long, stay at Fettiston.
‘How much they need you,’ Reeve went on, ‘and will – even more – in the future –’
Rose heard uneasily the slight weight which he put upon these words. She said, rather firmly, wanting now to be clear, ‘I must get back. Gerard is in a rather unhappy state because a friend of his died in an accident.’
‘Jenkin Riderhood.’
‘Yes. I didn’t know you knew –’ Rose was surprised.
‘Francis Reckitt told me, you know, Tony’s son. Someone in London mentioned it to him quite recently and he remembered the chap’s name. I met him with you once, years ago.’
‘Of course, you met Jenkin, I’d forgotten.’
‘Odd business – that man Crimond, wasn’t it – that Communist or whatever –’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t say anything to you. I felt we had enough on our plate.’
‘Indeed. Anyway – I feel I must go home – I’m sure you understand.’
‘I think this is your home, but I won’t argue! There aren’t many of them left now, are there –’
‘You mean –?’
‘Gerard and his friends. He’s living with his sister now, isn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, come back again soon. We do need you very much.
Things are going to be different now – and – Rose –
blood is thicker than water.
’
‘A lot of things have happened since you went away,’ said Gerard.
Rose had telephoned him on her return and he had come round at once.
‘So you’re living in Jenkin’s house?’
‘Yes. He left everything to me. I think I shall stay there.’
‘So Patricia and Gideon got you out after all!’
‘Yes. But I wanted to go. I’m tired of being surrounded by possessions. It’s time for a radical change.’
‘You mean you’ll become like Jenkin?’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Sorry, I’m being stupid. I feel terribly stupid just now.’
It was late evening. Rose professed to have had supper, though she had only had a sandwich. Gerard also said he had eaten. They were drinking coffee. He had refused whisky. The preliminaries of their conversation, so much looked forward to by Rose, had been awkward, almost irritable, as though they had both forgotten how to converse. She thought, he’s angry with me for having stayed away so long. I hope it’s only that.
Gerard looked different. His curly hair was dull and disordered, standing out in senseless directions, like the fur of a sick or frightened animal. His sculptured face, whose fine surfaces usually cohered so harmoniously, looked disunified and angular, even distorted. His mouth was awry, twisted in repose by a twinge of distress or annoyance. His normally calm eyes were restless and evasive, and he kept turning his head away from Rose in a sulky manner. Sometimes he became still and abstracted, frowning, as if listening. Oh he is
ill, he is not himself, thought Rose miserably, but it seemed that she could do nothing now but irritate him.
‘You know Duncan’s resigned from the office?’
‘No.’
‘Of course that’s since you went away, you’ve been away such ages. He kept saying he’d resign, and now he’s resigned. They’re in France now looking for a house.’
‘What part?’ said Rose.
‘I don’t know what part!’
‘I rang their number, I wanted to see Jean. So they’re away. How are they?’
‘Very cheerful, not a care in the world.’
‘How are Gull and Lily? I hope
they’re
all right.’
‘Not very,’ said Gerard with an air of satisfaction. ‘You know Gulliver ran off to Newcastle? Yes, of course you know that. Lily hasn’t heard from him.’
‘I expect she thinks he’s got a girl up there! I think she should go after him. So you’ve seen Lily?’
‘No, of course not!’
‘Perhaps he wants to vanish until he can return in triumph.’
‘In that case he’ll just vanish.’
‘But you’ve seen Tamar?’
‘You think I’ve seen everybody! Actually, I have literally seen Tamar, but not to talk to. My God, she’s sleek, you wouldn’t recognise her.’
‘What do you mean, “sleek”?’
‘Well, fit, in cracking form.’
‘Really – how splendid!’
‘I don’t know whether it’s splendid,’ said Gerard, ‘it doesn’t seem real. I think she may be deranged or drugged or something.’
‘I could never make out what was the matter with her – just Violet I suppose.’
‘Do you know, I don’t think Tamar cared at all – about – Jenkin –’
Rose said hastily, to cut off his emotion, ‘I’m sure she cared. She’s such an odd girl, she conceals things.’
‘She’s been seeing that priest, your parson.’
‘Father McAlister.’
‘She’s been baptised and confirmed.’
‘Good heavens! Well, if it’s done her some good –’
‘She’s been stuffed full of a lot of consoling lies. Gideon’s been looking after her too.’
‘Gideon?’
‘It seems so. I found her round at my – his – house twice lately. Of course I tried to see her, but she wouldn’t see me.’
Rose thought, he’s furious because Gideon is succeeding where he’s failed. I must change the subject. ‘Do you find you can work well in Jenkin’s house? Are you writing something?
‘No. I’m not going to write – anything. I’ve decided not to.’
‘Gerard!’
‘I haven’t anything to say. Why write half-baked rubbish just for the sake of writing?’
‘But you –’
‘Crimond’s book is being published by the Oxford University Press. I may be able to get hold of a proof copy from somebody who works there.’
As soon as Crimond’s name was spoken it seemed as if the whole conversation had been simply steering towards it. Gerard, who had been looking away, now looked directly at Rose, he flushed and his lips parted, his face expressing a kind of surprise.