The Dutch Wife (21 page)

– 5 –

AT ONE O’CLOCK,
they waited in the library for Rowland Vanderlinden’s arrival. Thomas was standing at the window watching for the taxi. Mirrored in the panes, he could see the reflection of Rachel in the floral armchair, the flicker of the fire reflected in its turn in her glasses. Her two cats lay on either arm of her chair, their yellow eyes on him, an interloper from the predatory world that can’t disguise itself from cats. Webber was sitting by the bookcases, a book open on his knee.

A taxi turned slowly into the icy driveway.

“He’s here,” Thomas said. He went to the door and opened it before the bell could ring.

Rowland’s black winter coat and overshoes made him look like a penguin. His face was pinched, but he looked pleased to see Thomas. “I’m glad you’re here. It’s very cold,” he said, as the door closed behind him. “Before the taxi came, I went for a little walk along King Street and I thought I’d freeze.”

Thomas hung up the coat then led him into the library.

When Rowland saw Rachel, he smiled and went towards her holding out both hands. “Rachel!” he said. “How nice to see you.” If he noticed how ill she looked, he didn’t let it show. Thirty-five years of aging might already seem deathly ill enough. She leaned forward in her chair and stretched out her hands to him. He took her hands in his and pressed them. He bent over and kissed her on the cheek.

The cats were appalled at this behaviour of a total stranger and growled, then charged out into the hall, hissing at Thomas as they passed.

Rachel was inspecting Rowland’s face, close up. “Your skin’s smoother now—the pock marks have almost disappeared,” she said.

“I’d almost forgotten them,” he said, smiling.

“How on earth did you do that?” she said, pointing at his mouth. “The black teeth.”

“That’s a long story,” he said. “I’ll tell you about them later.”

Doctor Webber, who’d been standing near, came forward, his hand outstretched. “You won’t remember me,” he said. “Jeremiah Webber. I worked with you once or twice when you were helping the Coroner.”

Rowland shook his hand. “Of course,” he said. “I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

Then he turned back to Rachel, who was still looking him over keenly. They looked at each other with an odd little gleam in their eyes, as though they were trying to superimpose the person in front of them on the one they had stored in their memories.

“Come sit by the fire,” Rachel said. “You must be very unaccustomed to this weather. Thomas, pour some brandy.”

THEY ALL SETTLED DOWN AGAIN,
Rowland in the armchair opposite Rachel, his body hunched into the heat, Thomas at the reading table with Doctor Webber.

Rachel wasted no time beginning the interrogation. She asked Rowland to tell her everything about his life since they’d last met. He did tell her everything, almost exactly as he’d told it to Thomas on the train east—as though that had indeed been the rehearsal for this retelling. As he talked, she seemed, at first, less interested in what he was saying than in trying to comprehend this new Rowland who was saying it.

But she became very attentive when he spoke about his time in Quibo, and his love for Elena and her awful death. When he’d finished, the library was still, with only the tick of the clock and the occasional crackle from the fire.

“Poor Rowland,” Rachel said with a sigh. “And yet, it’s good to have had a great love in your life, isn’t it? No matter how tragic.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” he said.

Again there was a silence. Then he took a deep breath and carried on. He told her about how he came to settle on Vatua and about his life and studies there. He was quite open about the Consort and their daughter. He said his relationship with them gave him an invaluable entry into Tarawa society. “Of course, I’m very fond of them, too,” he said.

“Thomas told us about them,” Rachel said. “I’m sure they must miss you.”

“In their fashion,” Rowland said. “Yes, in their fashion.”

DOCTOR WEBBER REFILLED THE BRANDY GLASSES
. The black-and-white cat slunk back in and repossessed Rachel’s lap.

“Well,” Rowland said. “Now it’s your turn, Rachel.” He was all business. “I know you didn’t bring me from the other end of the world just for a social call. What is it you want to know? What can I do for you?”

Rachel signalled to Thomas. “Bring the photograph,” she said.

Thomas went to the sideboard in the dining room and picked up the silver-framed photograph. He brought it back into the library and gave it to Rowland, who studied it for a long time.

The picture had been taken by Rachel herself with a box camera in the back yard of the house. A man with close-cropped fair hair stood looking directly at the camera, smiling broadly. He was holding a baby—Thomas. The day was hot, with a sun-glare, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up, showing muscular arms.

“Well, well,” said Rowland at last, looking up at Rachel.

“So you remember him?” she breathed.

“Of course I do,” he said.

“He just showed up at the door one day. It was the best day of my life,” she said softly.

Rowland looked at the photograph again, then at her. “Thomas said he died?”

“He was killed in the War,” she said. “We were together for two years. We were very, very happy.”

“I’m very glad of that,” Rowland said. “Tell me about it.”

And Rachel did tell him, lovingly, omitting nothing—even to that last morning when the fatal telegram came that broke her heart.

“How awful for you,” Rowland said. He shook his head sadly. “And so long ago, too. I’ve often thought about him. I wondered what had happened: if he came here, if it turned out well.”

Rachel raised herself a little in her chair.

“Now then, Rowland,” she said, “I want you to tell me everything you know about him. Every single thing. That’s why I sent Thomas to find you.”

Rowland raised his eyebrows. “What I know about him?” he said. “What do you mean? What could I know that you don’t? I only knew him a few weeks. You knew him for two years.”

“No, I don’t know anything at all about him!” Rachel burst out, frightening the cat, so that it leaped from her lap and ran out of the library again. “Don’t you understand?” she said. “I never asked him anything. Even when he wanted to tell me, I wouldn’t let him. That was part of the bargain. Then he was killed in the War and it was too late.” She was looking at Rowland, pleading with him. “For years, I thought it didn’t matter. Now I must know. Please try to remember!”

“You really mean it?” Rowland said. “You really don’t know anything about him?”

“No,” Rachel said. “I didn’t even know his real name.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “Do you know it—his real name?” She was full of hope, as though that answer in itself might be sufficient. “Do you remember it?”

“Yes, of course I do,” said Rowland, looking at the photograph, then back at her. “He was called Will—Will Drummond.”

She sat back in her chair and closed her eyes.

“Will Drummond,” she said. She repeated the name, took possession of it, meditated on it. She softly mouthed the words over and over again, as if trying to make up for all the omissions, all the times she hadn’t said it. Then she opened her eyes again. “Now, Rowland,” she said, “tell me how you came to meet him. Tell me everything.”

“It was such a long time ago,” said Rowland.

“We’re in no rush,” Rachel said. “Just start at the beginning and tell us everything you can remember.”

“Well, I’ll try my best,” Rowland said. He thought for a while. “Let me see. I left to go and do some work at the British Museum. Do you remember that? It was the last time we saw each other.”

“How could I forget?” she said without any irony.

He smiled and went on. “I helped with cataloguing the findings of the Syrian Expedition . . .”

– 6 –

AFTER ABOUT A MONTH
of exhausting work, it was time for Rowland to go back home. He wasn’t especially looking forward to that, for decisions would have to be made. In addition, labour unrest was widespread that year and the ship he’d booked passage on back to Canada was strikebound in the docks at Liverpool. So he was forced to go farther north, to Scotland, where he might still find a ship.

The train to Glasgow didn’t have many passengers and he soon found out why. It seemed to stop at every small station along the way. That didn’t bother him, for he was able to work on his notes in peace. Anyhow, he’d never been that way before and he enjoyed the wild moorland landscape in spite of the grimy compartment window.

When the train crossed the border, it came to a region of ancient mountains worn down by æons till they were no more than rolling hills. After an hour it pulled into a little town with the sign
MUIRTON
on the station wall. The station was right beside what was obviously the main street—a typical row of grey buildings under grey skies: a bank, a church, a general store, a café and a hotel.

Rowland couldn’t help noticing that, of the dozen or so people walking along the street, some were men with severe limps. One of them had to be assisted up the steps to the café.

While Rowland was watching, a well-built man with a duffle bag over one broad shoulder came into his compartment. He had a battered-looking face. He slung the bag onto the rack and sat at the far corner. Rowland presumed he was from Muirton and thought of asking him about the limping men. But he didn’t seem very friendly, and when Rowland looked over at him, about to speak, he closed his eyes as if to sleep. The Conductor appeared shortly afterwards so Rowland asked him instead.

The Conductor seemed surprised at his ignorance. “Didn’t you know Muirton’s the town of one-legged men?” he said. He was only too keen to tell. “It happened ten years ago. The mine elevator was taking a load of miners to the bottom of the mine. The cable snapped and it fell to the bottom of the shaft—they say it was a thousand feet down. When it started to fall, the miners all used the standard safety procedure. Like this.” He showed Rowland how it was done, reaching up and gripping the edge of the luggage rack with his right arm and lifting his right leg off the floor. Then he went on with his description. “When they hit the bottom, the leg they were standing on was crushed.” He smashed his right fist into his left hand. “But that was what saved their lives. They were all given wooden legs.” He smiled at Rowland, enjoying his audience. “Strangers usually notice the men limping when we stop at Muirton.”

Just then one of the limping men came in to the station and hobbled to the ticket window.

“See?” said the Conductor. “Look at his boots.”

The limping man was leaning on the wicket, chatting quite cheerfully to the clerk. Rowland could see that one of his black boots, his right, was worn and scuffed while his left was without even a wrinkle.

THE CONDUCTOR LEFT
and the train got up steam and began to shudder forward once again. The man in the corner still had his eyes closed, though Rowland was almost sure he wasn’t actually asleep. He wondered whether the man was a miner, for he looked rugged enough. But he wore a pin-striped suit and his chiselled tan shoes, though muddy, weren’t a working man’s.

After about fifteen minutes chugging along, the train slowed down and entered a tunnel. When it emerged it moved at a snail’s pace through a pass between some high, bare hills. The Conductor came back in, looking for his audience. “We always have to slow down here,” he said to Rowland. “The ground’s unstable.”

The train was creeping along the side of a hill. The ground fell away on the other side about five hundred feet to a plain that extended for three or four miles till it reached more hills.

“That’s the Plain of Stroven,” the Conductor said. “See, over there? That’s what’s left of the town. You get a great view of it from up here.”

Rowland, looking down across the plain, could indeed see the remains of what had once been a town. In the middle of it was a great dark hole, like a huge drain into which many of the buildings seemed to have slid. Roads emptied into it, rubble and trees still clung to the edges. The houses a few hundred yards from the hole looked quite intact, though they seemed slightly tilted towards the abyss.

“What happened?” Rowland said.

“They don’t know for sure,” the Conductor said, “even though it was twenty years ago. It’s too unsafe to go near it. Some people think the mining caused it. There’ve been mines here for hundreds of years. The ground’s unstable all around.”

“Was anyone killed?” Rowland asked.

“Not many,” said the Conductor. “They had plenty of warning and the buildings began to shift twenty-four hours before the hole appeared.” He looked at Rowland with a little humorous gleam in his eyes. “So, everybody that wanted to get away did get away.”

Rowland took the bait. “Some didn’t want to?” he said.

“That’s right,” said the Conductor. “Some of these people whose families had lived in Stroven for centuries wouldn’t go. They stayed in their houses, and when their houses went into the hole, they went with them.” He glanced over to see if the other man’s eyes were still closed. “Miners!” he said softly. “They’re crazy.”

Rowland enjoyed hearing these things as much as the Conductor obviously enjoyed talking about them. “Carrick’s not too far from the railway track, either,” he said to Rowland. “Surely you must have heard about Carrick.”

“No. Should I have?” Rowland knew the encouragement wasn’t needed.

“I thought everybody in the world knew about Carrick,” said the Conductor. “It’s about ten miles west of Stroven. It’s not inhabited any more either. A disease wiped a lot of the townspeople out.” He paused for effect. “Yes, a disease. A weird disease.”

“Really?” said Rowland.

“Yes, really.” The Conductor smiled, making Rowland wait. Then he said: “The people talked themselves to death!”

Rowland asked him if he was joking.

“All I know is what I read in the papers,” the Conductor said. “They say the people talked non-stop and couldn’t stop talking and eventually died of exhaustion. They think it must have been the water that was poisoned with something, and that’s what did it. But they still don’t know for sure.”