Wish Her Safe at Home (16 page)

No, I thought, as far as the outward signs went she hadn’t received a vision. And on the whole (I do have to admit this) I was glad. It would have been a confirmation of his powers, yes undoubtedly, but why should I ever require that? And on the other hand it might subtly have spoiled something if Sylvia had indeed been vouchsafed any intimations. I’d felt almost pleased to hear her final words to him. “Goodbye, old sourpuss. I can’t say I’ve exactly grown accustomed to your face.”

In effect they were also her final words to me—even without that business on the doorstep.

Had she acknowledged him at all it could well have been different (although I didn’t
want
a fellowship) but as it was I felt little compunction about saying to myself as the train drew out, “Well, maybe that’s the last I’ll ever see of you, my dear best friend.” Naturally this decision was not untainted by the shadow of regret; principally in view of that lovely present.

I walked back—still beneath a light drizzle—despite the evening’s being calm and mild and despite it seeming that the sun might soon break through again. I felt carefree. Almost refreshed. I felt that although the remains of a particularly dreaded and mostly awful party still had to be cleared away at home this was obviously a negligible price to pay for the restoration of our peace and privacy.

Oh, hallelujah!

From now on we should be blessedly free of trespassers.

When he was twelve Horatio got lost, not in the Temple but in the Assembly Rooms in Bath, as the result of a dare, and caused
his
parents too a vast amount of worry. But that was nothing of course to the worry he occasioned them a few months later when he nearly died. He’d contracted a chill whilst swimming with his friends and boy-like had neglected it. Pneumonia resulted. But this time I identified with the mother. The fact that every churchyard in the country was filled with the graves of babies and children—sometimes one after another from the same family—did nothing to accustom you to the idea of loss; or rather, resign you to it. I imagined how it must feel to watch the relentless decline of a child who’d been denied to you for years and years but who when he’d finally arrived had been everything you could have wanted: healthy, good-humoured, intelligent, caring.

I myself had never borne a child but now I felt a steady ache of fear and wild rebellious grief—one couldn’t, wouldn’t,
wouldn’t
let it happen! Not to him! Not to Horatio! Was there no God?

Yes, naturally there was. Then didn’t he
know
what type of being he’d created; couldn’t he
see
his value for the future? Had he only given—and after such prayerfulness, such patience and travail—so soon to take away? She wasn’t Sarah. She couldn’t bear to be thus tested. Oh yes, if she
had
been Sarah, then perhaps she could have; but if she was to be only Eliza Munday or Anne Armstrong or Eleanor Jenks, each of whom had stood at more than one pathetic little graveside in the past few years—well,
then
she couldn’t bear it.

And she had always been led to believe that God was good. All-powerful. And a conscientious listener to prayer.

Oh, she didn’t question it—she
couldn’t
question it, for down that path lay only despair, surrender, madness—but where in that case was His mercy? A twelve-year-old child was essentially so innocent.

Oh, God, where
are
you at such times?

So you see, although I had no children, I
knew
what it was like. It would be like someone taking from me my book, my purpose, my power to start again; my portrait, my hope, my belief in the marvel of mankind, my belief in the marvel of life itself.

And I was more than simply mother; I was wife as well. It was as if she saw, Rebecca Gavin, that not only would she lose her son, she would lose her husband too. Jeremiah Gavin was over sixty. He was far from robust. The son’s death would also be the husband’s.

But God
was
merciful (in this instance). And although with one part of my mind I had plainly known all along what was to be the outcome...
still, the enormity of her relief, of her thankfulness, the blessed sense of
calm
following all the tumult and the terror, was nevertheless nearly as much the reaction of Rachel Waring as it was of Rebecca Gavin—it seemed we had both stood to lose real flesh and blood and heart and soul, along with the miracle of innocence and trust and unreserved devotion. The two of us had known something of the same desperation; the two of us now felt the same exuberant return to life.

For I had not at all enjoyed the days wherein I wrote that section of the book. Possibly these had followed too close upon the Achilles’ heel of the bank holiday and possibly the strain of Sylvia’s visit had pulled me down rather more than I had realized.

Perhaps it was that.

But I just couldn’t forget, you see, the fate of poor little Alfredo. Little Alfredo Rampi. (You notice, dear Mr. Morley, I
was
concerned; you had no right to tell me otherwise. I had gone out to the library just the following day and asked for their back numbers and read up all about it. I had also read up as fully as I could about the Maze prisoners and about Toxteth. I had borrowed a book about the Berlin Wall. And I had actually taken the bus and stood outside St. Lawrence’s and
prayed
—only briefly ducking behind a tree when I saw Mrs. Pimm come out of a side entrance. So that really did prove it, didn’t it? I wasn’t just whistling in the dark and I was not, repeat
not
, uncaring!)

So I couldn’t quite get it out of my mind, all the while that I wrote about Horatio. I heard him sobbing in terror down there in the darkness, that little six-year-old, crying out and whimpering for help, wedged fast but not so fast apparently that he couldn’t still slip a little further, trapped there during three unimaginably slow and dreadful days of hell...
until he died. And I kept reliving the moment when a volunteer cave explorer, slim himself like a child, who had forced his body head first down the narrow well, had managed to drop a handcuff round one of Alfredo’s wrists, a handcuff with a rope attached. It must have seemed such a breathtaking moment, with success practically assured and the prayers of thousands almost answered. (Ask and it shall be given you; seek and ye shall find.)

And
yet
...

Small though the handcuff was, the child’s hand had been smaller. All that earnest supplication, all that straining effort, all that anguished clinging on in hope...
Vain.

Completely vain.

Oh, God, where
are
you at such times?

And while we struggled for Horatio’s life I tried very hard not to listen to the prayers of Alfredo’s parents; and not to be dismayed, either, by the attack of nervous indigestion from which I had been suffering all that week.

The day of the christening came. It wasn’t to be held until the afternoon but even in the morning I did no writing. I spent a long time soaking in the bath, then giving myself a beauty treatment. After all, I was going to be meeting many of Roger’s and Celia’s family and friends; I had to look my very best.

I’d considered buying a new outfit for the occasion, had even gone back to my special shop. But they had nothing there that really took my fancy. Except, that is, the sweetest, loveliest, darlingest wedding dress you ever saw—oh, it was so delectable!—with hundreds of tiny roses embroidered all over its bodice and skirt. But perhaps a wedding dress wouldn’t have been entirely suitable for this occasion! Well, not entirely! The assistant who’d been there the first time (it had been another who had served me with my sky-blue) must have seen me gazing at it and even gently touching it—like a penitent in Palestine reaching out to touch the robe of Jesus. She crossed and stood beside me, confidingly.

“Yes, isn’t it gorgeous?” she said. “It seems to have that effect on nearly all of us.” I don’t believe she recognized me.

“What effect?”

“Total captivation. It’s a real heirloom. The sort of thing you would hope to hand down to granddaughters, great-grand-daughters, everyone. It rather makes you want to weep.”

I smiled politely. I thought about handing it down to everyone.

“But you know one of its really most delightful features? It’s so simple that without the train your daughter could easily wear it as an evening dress. The effect would be quite ravishing! Even at the smartest do it would turn all the other ladies into frumps.”

“How wonderful,” I said. “Will that be stated in the guarantee?” We continued to stand there gazing at it. It occurred to me that in March I had liked her rather more.

“So, you see, after the wedding it wouldn’t even have to be put away into mothballs. It could still have a long and a
very
exciting life ahead of it!”

“You mean, as a real heirloom?” I said this a shade ironically but she didn’t seem to notice.

Perhaps it was just as well.

She couldn’t see my hands of course; my gloves were hiding them. I was gratified that I should look married. But at the same time I could scarcely feel surprised.

“And the truly remarkable thing, madam, is just how low the price is!”

“Tell me.”

“Under £200!”

“Really?”

“Yes indeed.” It was a whole penny under £200. She nodded beatifically. “May one enquire, madam, when your daughter’s...
?”

“Oh, the date hasn’t been decided yet.”

“You’ll have to bring her in,” she said. “But I’d certainly advise against your leaving it too late.”

“Yes. Well, thank you.” I bade her farewell with—apparently—great sincerity. But through the window I saw her looking pleased with herself and I laughed as I walked away. I considered that I had most decidedly outwitted her, that over-keen rapacious saleslady. I felt mischievous, clever, triumphant, sad—though perhaps the dominant emotion was really this last. I felt like a mildly melancholic Mrs. Machiavelli, already ashamed of her duplicity.

But I liked the alliteration. I chanted those four words as I went along the street, wondering how rapidly I could say them without stumbling. Thus employed I unthinkingly passed the chemist’s shop.

Well, not
completely
unthinkingly. I must have noticed it peripherally. And my reaction would undoubtedly have pleased the late Professor Pavlov.

“Badedas!” I said.

Oh dear. Like an irrepressibly wilful child I had such an impulse just to open the door, put my head through the doorway, cry out “Badedas!”—and then run! That would be so glorious.

At first I resisted it. I walked on a few steps. But then I stopped. Where honestly would be the harm? It might even cheer people up; provide them with a hearty laugh. It would certainly provide
me
with one.

There were five customers—and himself, thank heaven, not the girl. Yet maybe I should have done it sooner. Then I mightn’t have had time to grow nervous.

But no admissions of defeat, please. “Badedas,” I shouted, as distinctly as I could. There was an instant and very satisfying silence. All heads jerked round to look at me.

Still, I think perhaps I should have practised it at home. I realized, sadly, that I hadn’t managed to inject the word with the full richness it deserved. It ought to have been heavy with the distillation of experience, the kindness of constructive comment. It ought to have been almost
dripping
with importance.

I simply don’t believe it was.

So I knew how actors must feel when they give an under-par performance on a bad night.

In one sense I had obviously picked a good time: there were several people waiting at the counter. A young man and his girlfriend were standing by the door. The young man was the first of all of them to speak.

“And bananas to you too!” he said cheerfully.

His companion giggled. A pert little blonde, she reminded me of Una at the office.

I withdrew—having first, with slightly feigned high spirits, blown my chemist a kiss, on the assumption that if at the beginning he had been labelled romantic it couldn’t in all fairness have been totally for nothing.

Yet I have to admit it wasn’t one of my all-time successes. I didn’t even argue when the young man suggested I should just go home and make myself a hot toddy. Properly nurse my bad cold.

Well, never mind, I thought. Better luck next time. Back to the wedding dress.

No, good gracious me! The
christening
dress.

Anyway I couldn’t really have afforded a new outfit—especially since on the day after Sylvia’s departure, the day before I’d started on that chapter relating the illness of Horatio—I had spent far more than I’d meant to on young Tommy’s christening presents. I had chosen him a silver napkin ring and a lovely little eggcup to which I would add one of my own silver egg spoons, and a boxed collection of Winnie the Pooh with all the original illustrations.

(Whilst in the jeweller’s I saw a wedding ring so much prettier and more delicate than those you normally see. My heart quite ached to hold it, never mind possess it! I joked to the jeweller, “Things always happen in threes! I’ve seen the dress—and now this—what do you think will be the third event? I suppose it
ought
to be an engagement ring, even if the order’s a bit skew-whiff!” He was by no means a beauty but he was such a pleasant little man, immediately and unquestionably on my own wavelength. “Yes,” he answered, clearly in total agreement. “Would you like to see
our
selection of engagement rings?” “Oh, yes—what fun—why not?”)

But even that wasn’t all. I thought my godson would get scant pleasure for the time being out of a napkin ring and an eggcup—even though they
were
doing a rush job to have them both engraved for me, ungrateful little monkey!—and if he couldn’t yet handle a teacup and saucer with aplomb it might still be a year or two before he could really appreciate A.A. Milne. I was fully aware of this. So I got him, too, a large and wickedly expensive cuddly: rather appropriately a cheeky-faced monkey in a natty checked waistcoat! I was sure he’d get costly presents from his grandparents and godfathers and aunts and cousins and all the rest of them; but his
godmother
certainly didn’t mean to be outdone, either now or later. Maurice the Monkey had more sheer character and impudence, a far greater potential for growing into a lasting favourite and a reverently-handled and much-loved member of the family (perhaps, even, a real
heirloom
, madam?) than any mere common or garden teddy bear or golliwog or woolly lamb.

Come to that I shouldn’t even mind too much if
my
little monkey gave
his
little monkey the name of Rachel! The chequered waistcoat didn’t necessarily have to make it masculine—not in this day and age. “I mean, if he really is set upon it, the insolent young pup!” as I was later, laughingly, to say to Roger.

But to return to the morning of the party. I finally decided I should wear my green. My green was very soft and smart and people had frequently said it became me, although in London, strangely, I hadn’t always felt it suited me so well and Sylvia had actually pronounced it a mistake. (
That
seriously overweight and self-styled fashion guru, herself without a single shred of clothes sense or originality, had maliciously asked for my assistance: “It’s the last damned clue in the crossword—infuriating—just can’t get it! Two six-letter words—the first beginning with R, the second with W, ‘intimating the birth of a laughing stock...
this cautionary tale of mutton dressed as lamb?’”) All these months later, however, when I first tried it on I saw it in a wholly different light: one that had almost the freshness of revelation attaching to it. Some premonition must have made me keep the frock, for either
it
had changed or
I
had. Or maybe both of us. But if the picture of Dorian Gray could do it in an attic the dress of Rachel Waring could definitely do it in a wardrobe.

That was a joke, obviously. The portrait of Dorian Gray was inherently evil whilst both my wardrobe and my world were thrown wide open to the begged-for influence of good.

Prior to my bath I coloured my hair. I suppose I took a risk: switching without trial before an important occasion such as this from Brasilia to Naples. But I’d suddenly felt like a change—it was only a very small one—and what better time for changes than before some great event? (At least if the risk turns out to be justified—as this one most certainly did!) I’m normally someone who wouldn’t colour her hair
and
bath all in the same morning—actually, I’m not sure why—but there are few things so pleasant as breaking with tradition even in absurdly minor ways. It gives you the sensation of turning over new leaves and defying dullness and remaining resilient and youthful.

Yes, predictability, not age, is the antithesis of youth. Predictability and the death of hope. An end to seeking.

It was a happy morning full of pleasant anticipation; and this, despite the fact that I made what would at one time have been a most mortifying discovery and one which—even as it was—needed the summoning up of all my resources to handle adequately.

No, not merely adequately. Rather well.

On the back of my left leg, just above the knee, I had several tiny swellings; and further down, now that I had made myself
really
look, little lines of blue—and these were also visible on my right leg!

Oh, sweet heaven!

Young as he was, my father had apparently suffered from varicose veins which he had inherited from
his
father. (In wartime this hadn’t been enough, necessarily, to keep you out of the army. Not that anyway he’d have wanted to be kept out.) And ever since my mother had first mentioned it—needlessly, perhaps even spitefully, her being well aware of my propensity to worry—the idea of that inheritance had never left me.

And now never would.

But I was sensible about it. I admired the fortitude with which I coped. I admired and was surprised by my philosophy. I was becoming quite a girl.

“Rachel, you are becoming quite a girl!”

It was just a pity there was only myself there to say it.

I shook my head a little sadly,
humorous
in even such a situation. “No, it’s no good, I just can’t hear
you
using any expression of that sort!”

And I laughed brightly.

In any case there was no real reason why they’d get worse. Hadn’t I even heard that vitamin E, regular doses of it, could sometimes eradicate varicose veins?

Besides there were clearly ways of disguising such things: makeup or a slightly thicker denier—not
thick
, for heaven’s sake, just a degree less fine. And my skirt lengths would never be above the knee. And I’d never wear a swimsuit.

“Oh, I don’t know. They must have said things like that in your time. Our time? And of course you
have
been listening to Bing Crosby!”

This was ridiculous. I wasn’t even in the sitting room.

Yet what better approach was there than by way of the ridiculous? The whole of life was ridiculous. Varicose veins were
incontestably
ridiculous.

And to illustrate this I did a little Charleston right then and there in my petticoat.

“We dream about,

We scheme about,

We have been known to scream about,

That certain thing

Called the boyfriend.”

Oh, what a hoot it all was! I added a final
Vo-di-o-doh
.

“Yes, I think you
could
say that you felt proud of me.”

I listened for a moment.

Then I dropped him a curtsy.

“Thank you, kind sir.”

I didn’t
need
to be in the sitting room.

“‘Life without him is quite impossible—quite devoid of all charms...
’”

Oh, how you could ride anything when you were gay: not just the
big
challenges but the petty, unworthy, often sordid little things as well—like, in this instance, wanting his approbation but not wanting him actually to know the cause of my deserving it. One’s blemishes weren’t something one was ever keen to advertise.