‘Oh yes – yes!’ said Rose. ‘It came from that beach –’
‘Yes, I know where.’ They smiled at each other. Reeve continued to hold the stone.
‘How’s farming?’ said Gerard.
‘Awful.’
‘I’m told farmers always say that.’
‘Rose tells me the Cambuses are looking for a house in France. Everyone seems to be on the move.’
‘Reeve is looking for a house in London,’ said Rose.
‘Really?’ said Gerard, smiling pleasantly.
‘Well, or a flat,’ said Reeve apologetically. ‘The children have been wanting one for ages.’ He exchanged a glance with Rose.
The door bell rang.
Gerard went to the door and opened it onto the east wind, the rain, the dark street with distant yellow lamps reflected in wet pavements, Reeve’s Rolls-Royce glittering in the light from the doorway. A youth was standing outside holding a parcel.
‘Mr Hernshaw? I’ve got this for you from Oxford.’
‘Oh, thank you – won’t you come in? Is that your motor bike? Have you come all the way –?’
‘Oh, all right – thanks. I’d better lock up the bike, I suppose I can lean it against the wall here.’
Gerard took the parcel, it was bulky and heavy. He put it on the chair in the hall. The boy, inside, slid off his mackintosh. He took off his crash helmet revealing a mass of blond hair.
‘Come in – would you like a drink? Let me introduce, Rose Curtland, Reeve Curtland. I’m afraid I don’t know your name?’
‘Derek Wallace. No, I won’t have any sherry, thanks. I wouldn’t mind a soft drink.’
‘He’s ridden from Oxford on his motorbike in the rain,’ said Gerard.
‘Well, no, it’s only just started to rain.’
‘You’ll have had the wind in your face all the way,’ said Reeve, who thought about winds.
‘I expect you’d like something to eat too?’ said Rose. ‘Or what about some hot soup?’
‘No, really – just lemonade or Coke or something. I mustn’t stay long, I’ve got to get back.’
‘Are you an undergraduate?’ said Gerard.
‘Yes.’
‘What college? What are you reading?’
Rose, in the kitchen, was fetching out orange juice, a tin of soup, bread, butter, cheese. She had seen the parcel in the hall
and knew, for Gerard had told her he was expecting it, what it contained. She felt sick and unreal. The tall blond boy had a resemblance to Sinclair. She thought, Regent scratching at the door, and now this. Oh God. But it’s nothing to do with Sinclair. We are surrounded by demons.
‘Did that young chap remind you of anyone?’ said Reeve, guiding his Rolls through the London evening traffic.
‘Yes.’
‘Of course, Neville’s not so thin, and the nose and mouth – no, not really like –’
‘Not really.’
Of course, thought Rose, they don’t remember Sinclair, they don’t recall what
he
was like. Do they ever look at photos of him? No, of course not. They have
unmade
him. Originally, they had to. Now he’s just forgotten. They must have felt uneasy about that inheritance, not exactly guilty, but it must have been an awkward transition which they wanted to put behind them, to be as if it had always been
them
and not
us
. They had not wept at Sinclair’s funeral, at that disposal of his broken body. They never knew Sinclair, they never really liked him. Perhaps that wasn’t unreasonable. He had always treated them as country cousins. They did not have long to wait for the title, the father so soon followed the son into non-being. Another bit of luck. They could not but have been pleased when that accident happened. At the funeral they must have been concealing their delight at such a remarkable unexpected turn of events. Sad of course, but for them, lucky, splendid, for them and for their children and their children’s children.
As Reeve, who was not used to driving in London, fell silent, preoccupied with the Shepherd’s Bush roundabout where an unwary driver may suddenly find himself on the motorway, Rose was being assailed by terrible new fears. That boy, that
revenant
, what was he doing now, alone with Gerard, what was happening now? Had Gerard noticed the weird resemblance, how could he not have done? Supposing Gerard were to
fall in
love
with that boy, that sudden sinister
intruder
, coming in out of the rainy dark and bearing such a fateful burden? People who so much resemble the dead may be demons, suppose the demonic boy were to kill Gerard, suppose he were to be found mysteriously dead, like Jenkin? Perhaps the mystery of Jenkin’s death was but the forerunner, preluding that of Gerard? The hideous idea then occurred to her that perhaps the fateful figure was
Sinclair himself
, Sinclair returned after due time as an envious ghost or revengeful spirit, taking, through Gerard, revenge upon them all. For were they not all guilty of his death, for not preventing him from taking up that fatal sport, or not, on that day, proposing to him some other plan? Did we not bring about his death, she thought, we who loved him so much, by our negligence, by certain particular careless acts – and they, the others, the gainers, by their perhaps unconscious prayers? Rose knew that these were awful and
wicked
imaginings, brought about by all sorts of present accidents, by grief itself, old old grief and the torture chamber of fate. Yet she could not stop the swift work of her sick thought, the spinning out of awful pictures. The boy had brought
that book
, which was even now with Gerard, its proximity so dangerous to him, a vibrating ticking infernal machine. Perhaps Gerard, sitting up to read the book, would die mysteriously in the night?
Reeve, now safely in the Bayswater Road, the next hazard being Marble Arch, was saying, ‘Of course no one can take the place of their mother, but they’ve always been so attached to you, ever since you were their Auntie Rose when they were little. And, you know, this change has been so terrible for us all – we have to think ourselves into a new era, make, really, a new beginning. Our life must have a different pattern – as of course it must anyway with the children almost grown up – well, some would say grown up, I suppose, but in so many ways they
are
still children, they’re at a dangerous vulnerable age, they need love and care, they need a home with a centre. That’s where you come in. We
must
see more of you – and my idea is this, and I hope you’ll think it over, that you should come to live with us at Fettiston. Mrs Keithley can run the
house, she practically does it now, and we’re getting in another village woman, a sturdy soul. You won’t have to be a housekeeper. What we want is your
being there
, and somehow as being
in charge of us
. You know how highly we think of you in every way. And of course we’ll be in charge of you too. It’s too early to talk of happiness, the children can’t conceive of being happy again, but of course they will be – and I shall recover, I shall have to, and people do. And, dear Rose, I do see your being with us in that new way as something, for all of us, happy and good. We’ll have a place in London, a big flat or a house, and we’d hope you’d live there too, or keep your present flat as well, we wouldn’t monopolise you! But I can’t help feeling your belonging more to us would be good for you too. We’ve often thought – well – how lonely you must be all by yourself. I know you have old friends like Gerard and Patricia, but they inevitably have other interests, and there’s nothing like family. Anyway, think it over. I’m sorry to spring it on you in this hugger-mugger way, I didn’t mean to say it in the car! The children have been at me for some time to make this little speech! I feel sure we’ll persuade you – when you realise how much we need you, you’ll want to come!’
Rose thought, Aunt Rose, the lonely ageing spinster aunt, so much needed, to take charge, to be taken charge of. Perhaps they had even discussed what to do with her in her old age. And why not, to all of it why not? It was not just the voice of common sense, it was the voice of love. She thought, perhaps after Jenkin’s death all the old patterns are broken. I must stop mourning and yearning. She had missed Neville’s and Gillian’s childhood. Soon she could be baby-sitting for them, cherishing their children, holding them on her knee. (But I don’t
like
children, thought Rose!) New duties were after all a source of life. Somebody needed her in a new way. And Gerard – perhaps even now she had already lost him, or lost, it was more just to say, her illusion of something
more
, something closer and more precious, which he had yet to give her.
‘To talk of more frivolous matters,’ Reeve was going on, ‘we’re planning to go on a cruise in the Easter vac, four whole weeks, and we want you to be our guest – please, please! It
sounds marvellous, the Greek islands, then southern Russia. I’ve always wanted to be on the beach at Odessa! You will come, Rose dear, won’t you?’
‘I’ve got some engagements round about then,’ said Rose, ‘an old school friend is coming over from America –’
‘I’ll send you the details – do fit it in, your being with us would make it perfect – and let us know soon because of the booking.’
Rose was shocked at the speed with which she had invented the old school friend. Well, she knew how to lie. And all her old illusions, were they not lies too? She did not want to say yes to the cruise, yet she realised she did not want to say no either. Did she not at last – had it come to that – simply want to go where she was needed?
Reeve was silent now, manoeuvring round Marble Arch, finding the right street to turn into, following Rose’s directions. There was the question of where to park the car. Did a yellow line matter at this time of night? The street was already crammed with parked cars. Would it not be best if he set Rose down to claim their table? He hoped to be back fairly soon! Rose got out of the car, waved goodbye to her anxious cousin, and saw the Rolls move slowly and uncertainly away. At least it had stopped raining. She hurried into the hotel and left her coat. After that, instead of going to the dining room, she found a telephone and rang Gerard’s number. The ’phone rang several times, Rose could already picture herself in a taxi racing back to his house with death fear in her heart.
‘Hello.’
‘Gerard – it’s me.’
‘Oh – yes –’
‘I’m at the hotel. Reeve is parking the car.’
‘What is it?’ He sounded remote and cold.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Is that boy still with you?’
‘No, he had to go back.’
‘Are you reading the book?’
‘Crimond’s book? No. I’m just going out.’
‘Oh – where to?’
‘To get something to eat.’
‘Will you read the book tonight?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. I’ll go to bed.’
‘Gerard –’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll see you soon, won’t I?’
‘Yes, yes. I must be off.’
‘The rain has stopped.’
‘Good. Look, I must go.’
‘Goodnight, Gerard.’
He rang off. Of course the telephone always irritated him. But if only he had said, ‘Goodnight, Rose.’ She could have lived a while on that, as on a goodnight kiss.
Gerard, already in his overcoat, looked at the large parcel which was still where he had put it down on the chair in the hall. Of course Gerard had noticed the resemblance which had struck Rose as so frightening. Gerard too, in a different way, could not help sensing a meaning in the fact that just
this
messenger had come bringing just
this
object. Close to the boy, as he filled his glass with orange juice, he had a very odd quick flash of memory, the
smell
of young hair. Or perhaps it was simply the colour of the hair, so painfully reminiscent, its particular blondness, its lively growth and sheen, which he was perceiving and seeming to smell.
Now, alone with the object, he could not help seeing it as a fatal package – fatal to him, fatal perhaps to the world. For a moment he thought that, if this were the only copy, he would feel it his duty to destroy it.
Oh let there be not hate, but love, not pity, but love, not power, oh not power, no power except the spirit of Christ, prayed Father McAlister as with clasped hands, after pulling down the skirt of his cassock and setting his feet neatly together, he sat and watched the battle raging to and fro.
Violet’s flat had been invaded, Violet was at bay. Tamar had
invited
Gideon and Patricia and Father McAlister to
tea
. No one had said anything to Rose or Gerard. The decision to exclude these two had been a tacit one.
Pat was cleaning the kitchen. She had already been in Violet’s bedroom and collected the mass of mouse-nibbled plastic bags into a sack, ready to be thrown away. The tea party had been taking place in Tamar’s bedroom, where the lamps were switched on in the dark afternoon. Tamar had put a pretty cloth upon the folding table at which she used to study. Most of the tea things had been removed, even, by Pat, washed up. The ham sandwiches had attracted the priest, no one had touched the cakes. Gideon was in charge.
‘Violet,’ he was saying, ‘you must give in, you must let us look after everything, you must let
me
look after everything. We’ve been pussy-footing around for long enough, it’s time for drastic measures. Can’t you see that things have changed, it’s a new era? How can we stand by and see you sink?’
‘I am not sinking,’ said Violet, ‘thank you! And nothing has changed except that Tamar has become cruel and has given up even trying to be polite to me. But that is
our
business. You and Patricia and this clergyman just walked in –’
‘Tamar invited us.
‘This is
my
flat, not hers. I was not told or consulted –’
‘You would have said no!’ said Tamar.
‘Evidently my views are of no account. I don’t want to talk to you – I have asked you to go – I ask you again, please go!’
‘They are my guests,’ said Tamar, ‘and they want to propose a plan, it’s a
good
plan, so
please
hear it – you let us come to Notting Hill at Christmas time –’
‘I was forced to come and I did not enjoy it.’
‘Please understand, Mrs Hernshaw,’ said the priest, ‘that
we mean well, we mean, as Tamar said, something good, we come in peace –’