Mrs De Winter (7 page)

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were swollen and reddened and welling over with tears. There were tears on his face, streaking through the blue shadows of beard, I could not only see and hear, I could almost smell and feel his misery, the depth of his helpless grief.

He did not say anything, only stared at me, like a child, and then began to sob again, his shoulders heaving, not making any effort at all to stop, he held the peach wrap to his face and cried into it, and wiped his eyes with it, and took in occasional great gulps of air like someone drowning. It was horrible. I was appalled at him, and appalled at myself, too, for the way his abandoned grief repelled me. I was so used to Maxim, he was the only man I had ever known at all, and Maxim had never cried, never once, it was unimaginable. I did not think he could have cried since the age of three or four. When he felt deeply, it showed in his face, he became very pale and his skin tightened, his eyes went hard, or else a shadow would somehow fall, but his self control was otherwise absolute. I did not dare think how he would have responded to Giles now.

In the end, I closed the door and went and sat on the edge of the bed, nearer to him, and for a long time was simply there, silent, miserable, huddled into my dressing-gown, as Giles sobbed, and after a while something inside me, some pride or reserve, simply broke down and I did not mind any more, instead it seemed right that he should be allowed to give way to his feelings like this, and that I should simply be there, to let him, and for company.

What am I going to do?’ he said once, and then again, looking up at me and yet, I thought, not really speaking to me or wanting an answer. “What am I going to do without

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her? She has been my whole life for thirty-seven years. Do you know where we met? Did she ever tell you? I fell off my horse and she came up and got me back on again, and led us home — I’d broken my wrist — she simply took off a belt or a scarf or some such and led my horse with hers and it was a difficult beggar, and it went as quiet as a little child’s pony, had it eating out of her hand. I ought to have felt such a bloody fool - I’m damned sure I looked one, but somehow I didn’t, I didn’t mind at all, she had that effect on me straight off — I never cared less about anything at all with Bea, relied on her, you know, totally, for everything. I mean, she was boss, she saw to things — well, of course, you knew that. I’d never amounted to much, never would have done, though I was quite all right, only somehow or other Bea made it all work and set me on my feet and after that, I was right as rain, not a care in the world, happy as Larry

— it’s very hard to explain.’

He was looking at me now, his eyes searching my face, for - what? Reassurance? Approval? I did not know. He was like an old lap-dog, rheumy-eyed.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I always saw how happy you were

— how well you were suited. It was — well, everyone saw it.’

‘Did they?’ His face lit up suddenly, with a pathetic, sloppy sort of eagerness.

‘Of course,’ I said uselessly. ‘Of course they did.’

‘Everyone loved her, they all admired her, she never

made an enemy, for all her sharp tongue - but she could

say what she thought, give someone a piece of her mind,

and then that would be that, forgiven and forgotten — she

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had so many friends, you know — all those people today, all those people at the funeral — did you see them all?’

‘Yes, yes, Giles, I saw them - I was very touched it must have been such a help to you.’

‘A help?’ He looked round the room suddenly, desperately, almost as though he had forgotten for a moment where he was, and then at me, and his eyes did not take me in either.

‘A help,’ he said dully.

‘Yes, that so many people who had been fond of Beatrice were there.’

‘Yes, but there is no help,’ he said, quite simply, almost as if he were explaining something to a stupid child, ‘You see she is dead and she died when I was not there. She died in a hospital, she wasn’t at home, I wasn’t with her, I failed her, I let her down. She never ever failed me, never once.’

‘No Giles, no, you shouldn’t blame yourself.’ Useless words.

‘But I am to blame?

I did not say ‘no’ again, I did not speak at all. There was no point in it — nothing to say.

‘She is dead and I don’t know how I can go on with things, you see. I’m nothing now, nothing without her. I never amounted to anything, I don’t know what to do. What am I going to do? I can’t be without her, you see, I can’t be without Beatrice at all.’ And the tears sprang from his eyes and poured unchecked down his face again and he sobbed, great, raucous, ugly sobs, as unrestrained as a baby. And I went clumsily over to him and sat beside him, and held him, a burbling, helpless, lonely, grieving, fat old

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man, and then, at last, I wept with him, and wept for him, and for Beatrice, too, because I had loved her … but they were not only tears for Beatrice, they were in some strange way, for so much else, other losses, other griefs, and when there were no more tears, we sat, quietly, I holding poor Giles, not minding him at all, only glad to be there, some small comfort for him in that silent, grieving house.

He began to talk again, after a while, and once he had begun, could not stop — he told me so much, about Beatrice, their years together, little happy stories, private memories, family jokes, it was a whole innocent lifetime he laid before me; I heard of their wedding, their buying this house, Roger’s birth and growing up, their friends, their neighbours and so many horses, dogs, bridge parties, dinners, picnics, trips to London, Christmases, birthdays, and as he talked, and I listened, it dawned on me that he scarcely mentioned Maxim, or Manderley, or anything to do with that part of life, not out of tact — he was too far gone, too deeply immersed in himself and the past to think of that, scarcely even aware of my presence, let alone what I stood for — but it was as though Manderley and Beatrice’s early years there, her family, had scarcely impinged upon his own life and consciousness at all.

I remembered the first time I had met Beatrice and Giles, that hot day at Manderley, a lifetime ago and in another life — and I another person, a child, and I had watched him as he lay on his back in the sun after lunch, snoring, and I had wondered with genuine bewilderment why ever Beatrice had married him, and thought that because Giles had already been fat and unattractive, and apparently well into

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middle age, they could not conceivably have been in love. What a very childish thing - how very naive and stupid and lacking in all knowledge I had been, to believe that one had to be handsome and smart and debonair and sophisticated in manner, seductive as Maxim had been, to be fallen in love with and loved and happily married. I had known nothing, nothing at all, I blushed with shame now to think of it. I had known only a little of being swept off my feet, and of first, passionate, blinkered love, a love that I now saw had been as much like a schoolgirl crush as anything else. I had known nothing of the love that came only with time and age and everyday life together, or of love that had endured misery and grief and suffering, and things which just as easily break apart, sour and destroy love as nurture it.

I felt strangely old that night, infinitely older than poor helpless Giles, stronger, more capable, wiser. I felt so sorry for him; I knew that after all, he would come through, somehow, stumble on and make the best of things, but that it would never be the same for him, and that the best of his life was over, with Beatrice dead, and Roger so maimed and disfigured after his flying accident. Though perhaps the fact that his son was likely to remain at home with him always, because of his disability, might give him a reason for going on and pulling through and eventually enjoying life again. I did not know. He did not mention Roger at all, it was only Beatrice he thought of and wanted tonight.

I have no idea how long we sat there together; I cried a little but Giles did not stop, even when he was talking, he cried, and did not try to restrain or control it, and although at first it had so embarrassed me, after a while, I came to

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respect him for it and to be moved, because of the depth of his devotion to Beatrice and his grief, and also because he felt close enough to me to be able to weep so, in front of me.

Twice, at least, I asked if he wanted me to get him tea, or brandy, but he refused and so we just sat on, among the mess of clothes, in the bedroom that grew cold, as the night drew on.

And then, as though he were coming to out of some sort of fit or trance over which he had had no control, he looked round the room, almost in bewilderment, as if uncertain how we both came to be there, and found a handkerchief from somewhere, and blew his nose several times with great, trumpeting noises.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry, old thing, only I needed to be here — couldn’t have done without it.’

‘I know Giles. It’s perfectly all right. I understand.’ I stood up, and said, rather lamely, ‘I was very fond of Beatrice too, you know.’

‘Everybody was. Everybody. All those people, those friends.’ He wiped his eyes, and then, looking up, said, ‘She never had an enemy in the world you know. Apart from Rebecca …’

I stared at him stupidly, for somehow I had never expected to hear the name again, it sounded odd, like a word in another language. Rebecca. A word from another life. We never spoke it. I do not think it had crossed either of our lips since that terrible night.

For a few seconds in the quiet room, it was as though some beast I had thought long, long dead, had stirred faintly,

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warningly, and growled, and the sound struck fear in me, but then it was silent and still again and the fear was only the faintest echo of an old fear, like the memory of a pain long past, I did not so much feel it as recall that I had once done so.

‘Sorry,’ Giles said again, ‘sorry, old thing.’

But whether it was for mentioning Rebecca’s name, or his keeping me up with him while he was so distressed, I could not tell.

‘Giles, I think I should go back to bed, I’m really dreadfully tired, and Maxim may have woken and wondered where I am.’

Tes, of course, you go. Good Lord, it’s half past four. Sorry … I’m sorry …’

‘No, it’s fine, don’t be sorry. Really.’

When I reached the door, he said, ‘I wish you’d come back now.’

I hesitated.

‘Old Julyan was right, and Beatrice was always saying so. Damn silly, she said, them staying away this long, when there’s no need.’

‘But we had — have to — Giles, I don’t think Maxim could have borne to come home — when — when — there wasn’t Manderley any longer - and oh, everything…’

‘You could buy another place — come here — there’s enough room here - no, no, but you wouldn’t want that. I wish she’d seen old Maxim before — she wasn’t one to talk about feelings, but she missed him - all through the war - didn’t often say it but I knew. I wish she’d seen him again.’

‘Yes,’ I said. “Yes. I’m very sorry.’

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He was staring down at the peach satin robe that he still had clutched in his hand. I said, ‘Giles, I’ll come and help put all this away in the morning — just leave it now. I think you ought to try and get some sleep.’

He looked at me vaguely, then down again at the robe. ‘It wasn’t her usual thing, she didn’t go in for silks and satins and that sort of stuff, more for sensible sort of things.’ He was staring and staring at the shiny, slippery material. ‘I think Rebecca must have given it to her.’

And, as he spoke, a terrible, vivid picture came into my mind, a picture so clear I might have been there, of Rebecca, whom I had never seen in my life, tall, slender, black-haired Rebecca, spectacularly beautiful, standing at the top of the great staircase at Manderley, a hand resting on the rail, her lips curled in a faint, sardonic smile, looking directly at me, summing me up, scornful, amused, wearing the peach satin robe that now lay crumpled in Giles’s fat, stubby hands.

I ran out, and down the corridor, almost tripping over and banging my shoulder painfully against the corner of the wall as I saved myself, and found our room, and burst into it, trembling now, terrified because she had come back to me, she was haunting me again, when I had believed that she was quite, quite forgotten. But in our room, in the first, thin light of day, seeping through the worn old cotton curtains, I saw that Maxim was sound asleep, still huddled in the same position as when I had left him, he had not stirred at all, and I stopped dead, and then closed the door with infinite care, for I must not wake him, and could not speak, nor ever tell him anything of this. I must deal with it myself, lay the ghost, send the beast back to its lair, entirely on my own. Maxim

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must not be troubled or disturbed by it, Maxim must never know.

I did not get into bed, I sat on the dressing stool by the window, looking out through a chink in the curtains at the shapes of the garden, the orchard and the paddock beyond, everything turning from night into grey pre-dawn, colourless, insubstantial, and it was beautiful as ever to me, the sight of it filled me again with longing, and then I was not frightened, I was angry, angry with memory, angry with myself, angry with the past, for its power to spoil and sour this for me, but most of all, angry, in a hard, cold, bitter way with her, for what she had been and done to us that could never be undone, the way she could reach out to us over so many years, as strongly in death as in life. Rebecca.

But as the light strengthened, and I saw the trees and shrubs and then the horses take on distinction and shape, and then the pale, pearly mist of dawn began to rise and weave about them like silk being spun out by some invisible hand, and draped in and out restlessly, silently, a strange exultation began to well up in me, a joy and a glory in the morning, the new day, with this place, home, England, the life ahead of us, so that I wanted to fling open the window and shout across the countryside, all those miles, to where she lay in that dark, silent crypt alone.