The Scent of Water (28 page)

A change had come over it. The chill had become an indescribable freshness and the emptiness was filled with what I can only call vast spaces of liberty. They were waiting, blue and warm, already faintly irradiated with the growing sunlight, and were not only outside me, as I had thought, but inside me too. I was being hollowed out, emptied, and filled with this newness. The little pictures of people and scenes had vanished now but I no longer needed them. I had forgotten them. All I wanted was that the thinning walls of my bodily life should let me go, cast me out like a captive lark freed and flung from a window. And I thought, this is death, and it seemed that I sang already.

But it wasn’t. I was singing, but it was a carol, and about me were the candles and the holly, the elflike children and the tall people like tulips in a border. There was no emptiness any longer but people pressing upon me in so friendly and so close a fashion that they seemed a part of me. I loved them and welcomed them back, though it was so short a time ago that I had loved and welcomed the sun-warmed spaces of liberty. I knew that in another dimension the two were not mutually exclusive but existed together. I also knew that it had happened again. The experience of that other Christmas years ago had repeated itself and I was well.

Now, sitting in front of the fire, I have asked myself, did I really die? No, of course not. Then were the two experiences, this one and the other when I found the cave in the rock, merely the hallucinations of illness? No, for they healed me. They also illumined my mind, for they showed me something of the extraordinary reversals of God. Everything He touches is changed, death to life and emptiness to liberty, and not only changed but changed into Himself since He is Himself reversal. And so it seems to me now right that the two people who mean most to my life, the old man who gazed entranced at the butterflies in my parents’ garden and the child Mary, should have been physically the most parted from me. With both there was only the one meeting, yet they are now more to me than even Ambrose or Jenny. I never grieved that I did not see the old man again and I will set myself to learn not to grieve because I shall not see Mary again. The broken relationship, touched by God, is whole and perfect as it could not have been if there had been the normal sequence of human misunderstandings. I am so thankful for all I have learned here, for the treasure hid in a field. It’s not the final treasure, it’s merely a shadow of coming knowledge, not knowledge itself. For that I must wait. How long? Perhaps so long that I shall go through the thing that I dread most of all, senility, and become so old and childish that I shall forget all I have learned. But then will come reversal again with loss turned to restoration and decay to renewal at His touch.

That was the end. If there had been another volume of the diary it was lost, but Mary felt sure that Cousin Mary had written nothing further. For forty years more she had lived in this house but what she had suffered and learned while she waited for deliverance was something about which she was silent. Mary found that she did not regret the silence, for it gave dignity to Cousin Mary. The silence, she was sure, had extended to the old lady’s daily intercourse with those about her. There had been almost a note of querulous complaint in the words “a misery which no one could understand,” but Mrs. Baker had said, “She never spoke of it,” and Paul had said, “She never complained.” Not even to her diary. She had progressed beyond the need of it.

Mary had, as she hoped she would, suffered in the reading of the diary. She had wept sometimes during sleepless nights, but after this final reading she was left with a sense of triumph with regard to Cousin Mary, and with regard to herself a queer but certain knowledge that she had somehow transcended time, shared her cousin’s experience and consoled it.

T
HE snow did not come at Christmas, and only a light sprinkling in January, to Appleshaw’s relief, for with influenza decimating the ranks the removal of Mrs. Hepplewhite from the manor to her bungalow was a major undertaking. Mr. Hepplewhite forbade his wife to sell the manor, for an old age spent in his library was something from which he definitely refused to be parted, and for which he was prepared to work with renewed energy when he was free again; but it was let for a term of years. Appleshaw was surprised to find itself glad that Mr. Hepplewhite hoped to return one day. They had always felt him to be something of an anachronism, and feared in his person an intrusion from an age they hoped might pass them by if they could keep their heads stuck in the earth for long enough. But now he was more missed than feared. He had not tried to pluck them from their green shade, indeed he had in his own fashion loved it too. They saw that now and began to feel very fond of the squire. The papers had been at great pains to dig out his past history and it had been the greatest service they could have done him, for in the indulgent eyes of Appleshaw stealing that leveled out such gross injustice was scarcely stealing at all. And meanwhile Mrs. Hepplewhite was delighted with her bungalow, and loved traveling by bus, Colonel and Mrs. Adams were deeply happy with their television set and the knowledge that Charles had given it to them, Jean was looking forward to another year of Mary’s friendship with quiet content, the chrysanthemums that Mary had promised herself were doing well in the conservatory and the Randalls’ change of fortune was like a lambent light upon the gray landscape.

Only Mrs. Croft was not entirely satisfied when Mary Baker had told her that country snowdrops must be in flower by Candlemas and watching the tight upright spears in her garden day by day she had been afraid The Laurels’ snowdrops might fail in their duty. But they had not let her down.

“Showing white?” asked Mrs. Croft.

“Right out,” said Mary. “Heads dropped down and out.”

“Mine have been out for a couple of days,” said Mrs. Croft. “The wretched things. Don’t mention snowdrops to me. There’s always a snowfall the moment they drop their heads.” She glanced up at the gray sky. “Look at that, and I’ve a baby due.”

“The Randall baby? I thought Valerie was going to the hospital.”

“She is, and in any case it’s not due yet. No, it’s a gypsy baby. The caravans are down at the far end of Abbey Fields. Gypsy babies always come in the middle of the night and generally in a storm. Thunderstorm, hurricane or blizzard. Any sort of disturbance. It’s all the same to a gypsy baby. They’re elemental little things, like kittens. Tiger shaping well? Well, dear, I’ll say good-bye. I mean to get to bed early tonight.”

Next day the snow began to fall, large slow flakes drifting on a light wind. The sky was leaden and the earth crouched beneath it drained of beauty. All the light and loveliness were in the snow itself, in the movement and glimmer of the flakes large as wild white roses, in the tide of whiteness flowing slowly over the dark earth, like moonlight or the surf of a soundless sea. Mary moved through her day entranced, for this was not only her first snow at Appleshaw but her first country snow. After she had rescued her six snowdrops from the garden she stayed indoors and gazed out of first one window and then another, watching how the whiteness outlined the church windows and the ledges of the tower, how it lay on the shoulders of her cupid in the garden and crept along the branches of the apple tree outside the parlor window. There were sounds at first, Bess barking, the early return of the next-door car bringing the children home from school before the roads worsened, voices of people crossing the green, but with the approach of twilight they one by one fell away. Even the light wind dropped and no longer murmured in the chimney. When Mary at last reluctantly drew the curtains she shut herself in with a silence so living that she moved about the house or sat by the fire as attentive to it as though she were listening to John talking, or Cousin Mary, or to some other music still just beyond her human hearing. Or for some arrival. Who’s coming? she wondered. There was expectancy in her listening but no impatience.

She went to bed early and lit the oil stove she had purchased with the first cold weather. She thought she would keep it alight in this her first snow, especially as Tiger had favored her with his company. When she was in bed with her lamp out, and the little cat asleep on her eiderdown, its glow gave her a cozy feeling of nursery comfort and warmth. The flame had a murmuring voice but no louder than the ticking of her watch, and neither voice could so much as finger the garment of the silence. She did not at once sleep deeply yet she was not aware of weariness. She dozed and woke again and saw the light shining on John’s photo and on her six snowdrops in a vase beside it, and smiled and slept once more.

She woke slowly from her dream of the moving shadows and the candlelight shining on the snowdrops on the altar. It had been hard to tell which had been the shadows cast by the cowled figures, long shadows that ran up the wall in the flickering light and were lost in the smoky gloom of the vaulted roof, and which the men themselves, their hands in their sleeves, their heads bent as they chanted. There were only a few of them, men who had been sick but were now sufficiently recovered to be able to take their part in the first office of Candlemas. Though she could not see their faces the men themselves were very real to her, especially the tall monk who stood before the altar and the short one with the bowed shoulders. It was she who was unreal, for she cast no shadow. She looked for her shadow and could not find it and feeling a little afraid began to wake up. But the light still shone on six snowdrops, the chanting continued, the tall man turned and smiled at her and he was John. Slowly the reality to which she was accustomed asserted itself; John’s photo and the snowdrops in their vase, the familiar outlines of her room. But the chanting continued and lying in her bed she listened to it. When, again with a little tremor of fear, she remembered that Edith had listened to the same thing it was gone. She heard only the clock striking two and then a cock crowing, that first mysterious deep of the night cockcrow that always thrilled her. Yet, with midnight past, it was a new day.

She was beginning to develop the country dweller’s seventh sense about the weather and so she knew without going to the window that the snow had stopped. One of Cousin Mary’s reversals had taken place. The leaden clouds had all been transmuted into whiteness and the stars were shining in a clear sky. Unexpectedly the cock crowed again and a dog barked. Mary sat up in bed, once more with that feeling of expectancy, but the dog did not bark again and she lay down and fell deeply asleep.

The urgent call beneath her window woke Mrs. Croft at once and she was out of bed instantly. This was what she had expected, her clothes were ready on a chair and her bag, packed with all she needed, stood on the floor beside it. With her dressing gown hugged around her shoulders, for it was bitterly cold, she opened the window a little way behind the curtain, called out, “Wait where you are. I’ll be down in a moment,” and banged it shut again. Reuben Heron, the gypsy father, was a dirty fellow whom Mrs. Croft very much disliked, and she was not going to waste precious time going downstairs to let him in; nor have him and his dog dirtying her carpet while he waited. Let him stay where he was. Do him good. She dressed quickly and soundlessly, for no good nurse ever drops anything, so soundlessly that she was able to notice the stillness outside. That was odd, she thought.

She had expected a blizzard. And now she came to think of it, she had been aware of a glory of stars before she dropped the curtain again. She had never known a gypsy baby to arrive in a dead calm before. Very odd. She took her flashlight, went downstairs and let herself out into her snowy garden. There was the softness of a dog’s fur against her legs and a man’s hand gripped her arm in a relief so strong that it nearly broke it. “Nurse! Come on! Valerie’s started!”

“Mr. Randall!” she ejaculated. “Well I never! I thought it was the gypsy baby that’s been due a week.”

“It isn’t. It’s Val’s baby. The phone’s out of order. The snow I suppose. So I can’t get the ambulance. Anyway it would never get her to Westwater in time in this weather. Nurse, you’ve been an hour dressing.”

“I have not,” said Mrs. Croft tartly but breathlessly, for he was rushing her down the garden path as though it were broad daylight and he could see every stone. “Five minutes. Now there’s no need to get in a state, Mr. Randall. I know it’s early but that’s all to the good with your wife the nervous type. Less time for her to work herself up beforehand. There’s nothing wrong with her and she’ll have an easy time I shouldn’t wonder. Is your mother-in-law there?”

“She was coming next week. No one’s there. Val’s alone.”

“Did you phone the doctor?”

“I tell you the phone’s dead. Good Lord, why didn’t I use yours?”

“Mine’s dead too. I tried to put a call through last night and couldn’t. Now don’t take on. As soon as I’ve seen your wife comfortable I’ll pop over to the Talbots’. If their phone’s gone Mr. Talbot can go for the doctor. It’s not far. And Mrs. Talbot can give me a hand; though many’s the baby I’ve delivered singlehanded. How did you find the way to my cottage?”

“Bess brought me.”

“She’s a good dog. Here we are now. Your sitting room fire’s out, I see. I’ll light it up again later and make you some hot coffee. Now I’ll pop up. Nothing to worry about, remember.”

Paul could not see her bright eyes and flushed and happy face. She might complain but there was nothing Mrs. Croft enjoyed more than delivering babies. Especially if the doctor came too late.

Mary was in the middle of a late breakfast when the bell rang. When she had opened the door it seemed to her for a moment that history was repeating itself, for on the steps stood three children and a hamster. But the bare brown legs, the cotton frocks and the crumpled green linen suit had given way to Wellington boots, thick coats and mufflers, so that even the slim Edith looked almost as broad as she was tall. Martha, held in Rose’s arms, was dressed in a pink shawl. Behind them were no longer the green and gold of a spring day but the marvelous glitter of sun on frost and the branches of trees borne down by their weight of snow blossom; great magnolia chunks, Maybloom and blackthorn in arcs and drifts; and so still spring, Mary thought, midwinter spring burgeoning in a silence empty of birdsong yet filled with unheard singing. It was as though the second movement of Mozart’s flute and harp concerto had just died away on the air but the echo remained crystallized in frost.

She was aware that the children were tingling with excitement and that Rose was offering her a letter. “From Mummy,” she said. “The phone’s dead and so’s the Randalls’ phone and Mrs. Croft’s. But the vicarage phone’s all right. Daddy telephoned from there in the middle of the night.”

“It was morning,” said Edith. “It’s morning after twelve. Daddy telephoned at two-thirty.”

“Silly!” said Rose. “It’s night while it’s still dark.”

Edith no longer minded when Rose knew best and allowed this to be washed off her by the sparkling glory of the morning. “We’re spending the day with you,” she said joyously to Mary. “Meals and all. Daddy’s trying to get to work himself but wouldn’t risk taking us to school. Mummy’s at Orchard Cottage helping with the baby. It’s all in the letter.”

“It’s a boy,” said Jeremy. It was his first remark and even while she eagerly opened the envelope Mary was aware of his deep satisfaction. Counting Martha he had until now been outnumbered three to one. She looked down at him and smiled her congratulations but his thoughts had now been diverted in another direction by the aroma of toast and coffee and his nose quivered like a rabbit’s. “Breakfast?” he queried.

“Come along in,” said Mary.

“But we’ve had ours,” said Rose.

“I need help with mine,” said Mary. “Come into the kitchen and eat some more and tell me all about it.”

In the intervals of the children’s chatter Mary read Joanna’s letter. The words “quick and easy and all’s well,” were set to music in her mind, rippling up and down invisible harp strings. There was something special about this birth, she told herself. All birth was a miracle but this new life seemed to be shining out into the snow like light, and for a few extravagant moments the boy seemed to her the whiteness of the snow and the sparkle of the frost. She saw in her mind figures about the child, men and women of Appleshaw past and present and to come, and the light in their eyes was reflected from the child. Just another baby, she kept reminding herself, struggling after a modicum of common sense. But he was not just another baby. He was the future. She had come here to recapture the past and in so doing she found the future shining on her face. She got up eagerly from the table when the children had at last finished. “Come and pick flowers for Valerie,” she said. “My conservatory is full of them.”

Under the vine branches she and Edith and Rose stripped the chrysanthemums of their flowers, red and white, tawny and bright gold. She remembered Mr. Ambrose cutting the manor chrysanthemums for Cousin Mary and smiled to herself. Laughing and talking neither she nor the little girls noticed that Jeremy was no longer with them.

He had followed them no farther than the hall, where he put on his Wellingtons again and his coat and muffler. Then he opened the front door, turned right and plunged gloriously into the deep snow. It was the sea! He struck out for the bottom of the garden, using only his left arm to swim with because his right hand was deep in his pocket holding a treasure that he had there. He reached the rock where the boy who kept the lighthouse stood looking westward and climbed up beside him. Now he could see his good ship
Neptune
, and her sails were so white that they dazzled the eyes. Blinking, Jeremy turned away and looked in the direction of the other ship that he could not see from here, the
Victory
whose captain was away. For a moment he remembered Mr. Hepplewhite very vividly, and the nice smell of his library and the big books with the ships in them, and his hand tightened upon the treasure in his pocket. I will write a letter, he thought, and tell him to come home again. And I will tell him about the boy.