The Rain Before it Falls (16 page)

I should tell you why we were taking our holidays in the Auvergne. The explanation might strike you as rather frivolous, but I hope not. It all began like this. One night at the flat in Putney, after Thea had fallen asleep (we had bought a little camp bed so that she could sleep in our bedroom), Rebecca and I were in the sitting room next door, listening to the wireless. We were tuned to the Third Programme, and they were broadcasting a concert which included, among other items, a selection of Canteloube’s famous arrangements of the
Songs of the Auvergne.
I recall, Imogen – and I hope this does not shock you – that during the course of the broadcast we became rather amorous with each other. In fact I don’t think we ever made love so tenderly and so… fiercely as that night. It was… Well, no doubt the details would be of little interest to you. Afterwards, for both of us, those songs were forever associated with that occasion, but more than that, somehow they became – what is the word? – symbolic? – or do I mean
totemict
? – totemic, I think – of the love between us. There was one song in particular, one of the most famous ones – ‘Bailero’, it is called, a most beautiful love song, very slow, and very sad – it starts with the woodwind voicing such plangent phrases, while the violins play long, lovely, shimmering chords, and then the soprano’s voice enters so unexpectedly, so dramatically, singing this extraordinarily
melancholy
tune… Oh, it is no use, of course, you cannot describe music in words, perhaps the best thing would be if I simply put that song on to the stereo when I have finished describing this picture, so that you can hear it yourself. I will do that, if I remember.

Long-playing records were a fairly recent invention in those days. I can’t even remember if our gramophone was equipped to play them. Most music was still sold on
‘78’
discs, and it was in that form, I am sure, that Rebecca bought a copy of ‘Bailero’ a few days later. We must have driven the neighbours to distraction, playing it day and night. And, from that time on, it became a favourite pastime of ours, to fantasize about making a trip to the Auvergne, for no other reason than to imbibe some of the spirit of the landscape that had given birth to this glorious music. At first it seemed a far-fetched and impractical proposition. We were still accustoming ourselves to the responsibility of looking after Thea, and the thought of taking her to a foreign country with us seemed daunting, and a little capricious. As it became ever more apparent that Beatrix was in no hurry to return, we were obliged to adjust our circumstances, and to make sacrifices. I discovered that caring for a small child was not compatible with studying for a degree, and I dropped out of university midway through the first term of my second year. Rebecca continued to work, and through her diligence we managed to keep our heads above water, financially, and were more or less able to function as a family unit. One of the biggest problems was the attitude of our landlady, who considered the whole set-up most irregular (which it was) and would frequently torment us with threats – sometimes veiled, sometimes not – of bringing the situation to the attention of the authorities, or even our parents – none of whom knew anything about it, for a good while. She could usually be placated, thankfully, with prompt or even advance payment of rent, so that the worst we ever really had to contend with were her constant scowls of disapproval.

We had little contact with Beatrix, and little idea of her whereabouts. Very occasionally, she would telephone. Even more occasionally, she would write. She sent her daughter presents at Christmas (twice) and remembered her birthday (once). Rebecca and I could certainly have been more energetic, in putting pressure on her to return home and bring an end to what was, from many points of view, a most peculiar and unsatisfactory situation. But we did not do this. We adored Thea, and loved having her with us: it was no more complicated than that. We both knew, obviously, that Beatrix was liable to return home at any time, and take her back. This cloudy prospect hung over us constantly. But I suppose that in our way we grew accustomed to it, until it became simply another of our conditions of living.

In the spring of 1955, Rebecca found that she had saved up enough money to buy a small car, and suddenly the fantasy of our trip to France was turned to reality. Thea was by now settled, quite comfortably, in the local primary school; there seemed to be a real solidity in the relations between us, as a family of three, and we felt quite confident about embarking upon our summer adventure. We set off at the end of July and planned to be away for three weeks.

The car was laden with camping equipment. You cannot see it here, but our tent was white, and very plain, and yet big enough for the three of us to sleep in comfortably. Mostly we stayed at official campsites, but at the very end of the holiday, I remember, we pitched camp, for one night only, right next to this shingle beach on the shores of Lac Chambon, and there we found ourselves quite alone. I don’t know who that land belonged to – if anyone – but no one disturbed us the whole time we were there.

Those three weeks in France were undoubtedly the happiest of my life, and everything that was good about them is crystallized in this photograph, and in the song ‘Bailero’, which never fails to evoke for me images of that lake, and that meadow, where we lay all afternoon amidst the long grass and the wild flowers, while Thea played down by the water. There is nothing one can say, I suppose, about happiness that has no flaws, no blemishes, no fault lines: none, that is, except the certain knowledge that it will have to come to an end. As the afternoon waned, the air grew not cooler, but thicker and more humid. We had been drinking wine, and my head was feeling heavy and sleepy. I must have dozed off, and when I awoke, I saw that Rebecca was still lying beside me, but her eyes were wide open, and there was quick movement behind them, as if she were thinking rapid, private thoughts. When I asked her if everything was all right, she turned and smiled at me, and her gaze softened, and she whispered some reassuring words. She kissed me and rose to her feet and wandered down towards the shore, where Thea was collecting pebbles and sorting them into piles according to some eccentric system of her own.

I came to join them, but Rebecca did not turn round when she heard my footsteps on the shingle. She shielded her eyes and looked towards the mountains and said, ‘Just look at those clouds. It will be some rainstorm, if those come our way.’ Thea heard this remark: she was always quick to notice changes of mood – it surprised me, every time, to realize what a sensitive child she was, how attuned to grown-up feelings. It prompted her to ask: ‘Is that why you’re looking sad?’ ‘Sad?’ said Rebecca, turning. ‘Me? No, I don’t mind summer rain. In fact I like it. It’s my favourite sort.’ ‘Your favourite sort of rain?’ said Thea. I remember that she was frowning, and pondering these words, and then she announced: ‘Well, I like the rain
before
it falls.’ Rebecca smiled at that, but I said (very pedantically, I suppose): ‘Before it falls, though, darling, it isn’t really rain.’ Thea said: ‘What is it, then?’ And I explained: ‘It’s just moisture, really. Moisture in the clouds.’ Thea looked down and became absorbed, once again, in sorting through the pebbles on the beach: she picked two of them up and started tapping them together. The sound and the feel of it seemed to give her pleasure. I went on: ‘You see, there’s no such thing as the rain before it falls. It has to fall, or it isn’t rain.’ It was a silly point to be making to a little girl; I rather regretted starting on it. But Thea seemed to be having no difficulty grasping the concept; rather the reverse – for after a few moments she looked at me and shook her head pityingly, as if it was testing her patience to discuss such matters with a dimwit. ‘Of
course
there’s no such thing,’ she said. ‘That’s
why
it’s my favourite. Something can still make you happy, can’t it, even if it isn’t real?’ Then she ran off down to the water, grinning, delighted that her own logic had won such an impudent victory.

The storm never reached us. We watched it break over the distant mountains, and then pass over to the east, but the shores of that lake managed to escape it. We made ourselves a meal and put Thea to bed. Soon the sky was quite clear again, and the stars glittered above us. The moon threw a path of silver across the still surface of the lake.

While Thea slept, Rebecca and I sat on the edge of the long grass, just where the meadow sloped away towards the beach. We sat side by side, more glasses of wine in our hands, leaning into one another. My head was on her shoulder. The silence of that place was absolute, almost shocking. It obliged one to talk in whispers.

Rebecca was the first to speak. ‘You know what Thea said to you earlier,’ she murmured. ‘When she said that something can still make you happy, even if it isn’t real.’ I laughed and said: ‘Yes, she’s a crafty one, all right.’ ‘Do you think it’s true, though?’ Rebecca asked, and there was an odd note of insistence in her voice. I didn’t understand her. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I mean —’ Rebecca hesitated, as if full of fear, and as if to voice that fear was somehow to give it shape and substance – ‘I mean,
this
isn’t real, is it? What we have, the three of us. It’s not
real.’
I laid my hand on her thigh and squeezed it. ‘You both feel solid enough to me,’ I answered. ‘Have I been hallucinating all this time?’ Rebecca didn’t answer; it had been a foolish response. ‘What are you getting at?’ Again, Rebecca said nothing. She sat beside me for a minute or two, still leaning fondly against me, and then, abruptly, she stood up and walked down to the water. She stood there, alone, her silhouette black and heavy in the moonlight. Her arms were folded, her shoulders tensed. I wanted to follow her but I was shocked by her sudden unhappiness, by the savagery of the fear that seemed to have ambushed her from nowhere. When I did step down to the water’s edge beside her, and tried to put my arm around her waist, her whole body seemed rigid and unresponsive. ‘Rebecca, this is
real,’
I insisted. ‘Of course it is. These have been wonderful times, haven’t they, for the three of us?’ But when she answered me, it was in a voice I had never heard before: cracked, faltering, stricken with animal grief. ‘We won’t have her for much longer,’ she said. ‘It’s nearly over. This is the end.’

It’s a mystery to me, even now, where this intimation could have come from. Whatever the source, she was proved right, in a matter of weeks. Early in September, I received a letter from Beatrix. She was coming back from Canada, at long last, and in something like triumph, by the sound of it, with Charles in tow. Somehow or other, she had won him over, reconciled him to the existence of Thea, and even persuaded him to take a job in London. Furthermore, they now had a son of their own, called Joseph, born about six months previously. What a relief it would be, for me and Rebecca, to have the burden of looking after Thea finally lifted from our shoulders! That was what she was pleased to tell herself, in any case.

Less than a week after we received this letter, Beatrix had arrived. And less than two hours after she arrived, she was gone. And Thea was gone with her. Utterly bewildered, utterly forlorn: snatched away and thrust into the bosom of a new family. A family of perfect strangers.

Rebecca left a few days later. She did it in the traditional way – waiting for a time when I was out of the flat, and then clearing out her possessions, and writing a note, which was left propped up for me on the dining table. ‘I don’t want to be in this place without her any longer,’ was all that it said. There was an additional sentiment, implied but not actually written:
‘Or with you.’

So I was quite alone.

Rebecca wrote to me, a few months later, full of remorse. We met up for coffee, but it was a wretched occasion, and neither of us, I think, had the stomach for any more meetings. The last glimpse I had of her was… oh, forty years ago? More, in fact. It was in a London restaurant, but she didn’t notice me, so…

Ah well.

All of a sudden, I am feeling very tired, Imogen. Forgive me, but I don’t feel like finding that song now, and playing it to you. It is very late, and all I really want to do is go to bed. I shall play it to you some other time. Just so that you can hear it for yourself, the way her voice breaks in upon you… That moment, it always makes me think for some reason of a curtain being drawn back – drawn back to reveal, suddenly, a tableau: the cerulean blueness of the lake; Rebecca and Thea; and me, walking across the meadow to join them again.

So, now it is morning, and I am feeling much better. I am ready to tell you all about picture number thirteen: Beatrix and I, sitting on a bench together, late one summer afternoon, in the grounds of a rest home. The name of this establishment escapes me. I am reasonably certain that I only visited it two or three times.

The year of this photograph, I believe, would be 1959. Her accident was the year before, probably in January or February 1958. Following the accident, Beatrix was in hospital for almost a year. Her neck had been broken, and for a while it was thought that she might not be able to walk again. At this particular home, however, she was being treated not for physical ailments but for mental problems which followed in the wake of the accident.

A heavy, grey and uncompromising Victorian house. That is what you can see in the background. The sky behind is a pale blue, mottled with cirrus clouds. The house is symmetrical, with twin gables at each end, each with a pair of chimneys. The photographer (I believe it was one of the nurses) was standing to the right of the house, towards the edge of the wide front lawn, so we see the main building at an oblique angle, which makes it seem a little friendlier, somehow. There are eight windows on the first floor – I seem to remember one of them belonged to Beatrix’s room, which had a decent view over the garden – while on the ground floor there are large bay windows at either end of the house. One of these belonged to the recreation area or common room, where they had a grand piano and a small library. I found it a most restful and appealing house – it seemed positively luxurious, compared to my bedsit in Wandsworth, at any rate – but Beatrix hated it, I remember, regarding it in the light of a prison. I recall that they did some fairly unpleasant things to her there, so one can hardly blame her. Electro-convulsive therapy, and that sort of thing.