Barbara Greer (46 page)

Then, for a while, he sat in the chair beside her, his legs stretched out straight in front of him, and they said nothing.

Then he said, ‘I hear there's been a change of plans. Services at Saint Mary's now.'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, I suppose it's just as well. I've always thought the Catholic religion must have a lot to it. I mean, if you're going to be religious, that's the most religious religion there is.'

She nodded, and they were silent again.

‘Life is funny, isn't it?' he said. ‘Were you in love with him, Barbara?'

‘I don't know,' she said. ‘That's the funniest thing about it, I suppose. I really don't know.'

‘Poor old Barney,' he said. ‘Poor little guy. He didn't know what he was in for, did he?'

‘I think he knew—finally,' Barbara said.

‘But then it was too late, you mean.'

‘Yes.'

‘Poor little guy,' he repeated. ‘He had all the right ambitions. But he just didn't know what to do.'

Slowly he began to pull the flat rubber fins from his feet.

‘I wonder,' he said, ‘if I'd been here Sunday night, if it would have been different? The evening might have gone differently. I talked to your mother on the phone that day, you know. She asked me to come for dinner. But she let it drop that your Nancy Rafferty was coming, so I let out one yelp and fled.'

‘Oh,' Barbara said. ‘I wondered where you were. I tried to call you, too.'

He smiled faintly. ‘Did you? Ah, you should have known—you, of all people. But poor Edith was shocked. Poor Edith never quite understands. But still, if I'd been there, maybe it wouldn't have happened.'

‘Woody, it's silly to think that,' she said.

‘Still, I keep wondering—'

‘It would have happened—anyway. It was me.'

‘I called Carson,' he said.

‘What?'

‘I called Carson, a little while ago, in London.'

‘Oh, Woody,' she said. ‘You
didn't
, Woody.'

‘Yes, I did,' he said simply.

‘Where did you find him?'

‘Tried the big hotels. He'd left a number at the Dorchester.'

‘What did you say to him?'

‘He knew. He knew already.'

‘Oh,' she said softly.

‘Only about—only that Barney was dead. That's all. He'd called Flora and she'd told him that, yesterday.'

‘Oh,' she said. ‘I wonder why he called Flora?'

‘I suppose he was simply looking for you,' he said.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Well, I suppose I should thank you, Woody, for calling him. He had to find out and the only thing was—well, I didn't feel up to calling him myself. I didn't know, I wasn't sure, what I might end up saying.'

‘Sure,' Woody said. ‘I understand that.'

‘He—he hasn't heard anything about what the papers said?'

‘No,' he said. ‘You can tell him about that tomorrow night.'

‘Tomorrow night? What do you mean?'

‘I told him to come home.'

‘And is he?'

‘Yes. He's going to try to be in Locustville tomorrow night. And that, of course, is where you'll be tomorrow night.'

‘No,' she said quietly. ‘Under those circumstances, I won't be there. I'm not ready to see him, Woody.'

‘Yes you are.'

‘I'm not.' She turned to him. ‘You shouldn't have done this.'

He sat facing straight ahead. ‘It's too late,' he said. ‘I've already done it.'

‘Why? Why did you?'

‘Because you love him, and he loves you, my dear. And because your home is in Locustville, Pennsylvania, and that's where you both ought to be when you talk about this.'

‘You're being a little presumptuous, aren't you? Is it really up to you to decide whether Carson and I love each other?'

‘Go on,' he said. ‘Go on, I can take it.'

She was silent. Then she said, ‘Woody, it isn't fair. I need time, time to plan what I'm going to say to him and plan what I'm going to do. I don't want to see him tomorrow night. I can't see him because my plans aren't definite yet.'

‘What do you mean by your plans?'

‘I have a lot of plans, Woody. They're all different. But they all involve going away somewhere, permanently, with the children. Leaving Locustville, and leaving Carson.'

‘Leaving him permanently also?'

‘Yes.'

‘You shouldn't talk that way. This is why you've got to see him.'

‘No. That's why it's useless to see him. Besides, it's no business of yours!'

‘It is, actually,' he said, and his hard brown hand closed around hers. ‘I know a little about love,' he said and his eyes shone. ‘I know a lot about love, my dear—both sacred and profane.'

‘Oh, Woody, you've got me into a terrible mess.'

‘On the contrary. I'm helping you escape. You do love him, don't you?'

‘Do you honestly think he'd want to go on, after this?'

‘That's for him to decide, not you. Let him decide that. But it's up to me to make sure that you see him. I'm responsible for both of you. I introduced you, don't forget. If it hadn't been for me, you would never have met.'

‘Oh, Woody,' she sobbed. ‘Leave me alone. Why don't people leave me alone?'

‘Lilias,' he said softly, swinging her hand in his. ‘Lilias de Falange. Where's your old fire, where's your old spirit? show your grit, woman! The kind of grit you showed when we tried to kidnap Danny Vogeler right beside this pool! Where's your fight, where's your courage? Lilias de Falange had the eyes of a dove but the heart of a falcon …'

‘Woody, Woody …'

‘Remember who you are,' he said.

She looked toward the house. ‘You must have made it sound urgent. He wouldn't fly all the way back unless he thought it was urgent.'

‘It
is
urgent.'

‘But didn't he ask? Didn't he want to know what was wrong?'

‘Of course. But I didn't tell him.'

‘And still he agreed to come. How strange.'

Woody said, ‘I told him you wanted to see him, and so he said he'd come. Is that strange? He loves you, in other words.'

‘But when he finds out,' she said, ‘when he hears the whole thing, hears the scandal, he won't. He won't, Woody. He won't.'

‘Never mind that now.'

‘Last night I thought: Where can I go? Suddenly there didn't seem to be any place. I can't stay here. I can't stay in Locustville—I've always hated that. Where can I go, what can I do? I thought: I've got to go somewhere, though, and do something and take Dobie and Michael with me. Last night I thought I might go to San Francisco, get a little house on the Peninsula or in Marin County, and try to get a job. A nurse for the children—and a job, some sort of job. At least, I thought, San Francisco is far away and a good place to start.'

‘To start what?'

‘To start seeing if I am—if I can be—a decent human being.'

‘Ah—'

She turned, suddenly, and gripped his shoulders with both her hands and pressed the side of her face against his bare, smooth and still-wet chest. ‘Woody!' she cried. ‘I'm so damned scared!'

For a moment he circled her with his arms and held her tightly to him. He stroked her hair. ‘Ah, poor little Lilias, poor little lost Lilias! There are certain advantages, I guess, to being like me—trapped in my environment, imprisoned for ever in my gloomy tower.'

‘Don't you see what's happened to me? There's nothing for me now. I've discovered how truly worthless I am! I don't deserve my children any more, nor my husband, nor my home—nothing. I've done this to myself and now I've got to live with it. I don't deserve anything else …' Tears streamed down her face.

‘Hush,' he said. ‘Hush, hush, hush!' His voice was low, musical and theatrical. ‘You shall have towers,' he said. ‘Towers and minarets and spires and palace gates, forests, shores and islands, gems and pearls and sceptres and all the Emperor's diamonds, and every brilliant in King Oberon's bright diadem! This I swear to you on the grave of Fraulein Ungewitter—that you shall have temples and mosques and fountains, rings on your fingers and bells on your toes, fountains and waterfalls and tapestries and flowers and thornless roses, and—'

‘Oh, Woody!' she sobbed. ‘Woody, please!'

‘But it's true!' he said earnestly. Suddenly he pulled her to her feet. ‘You shall! You can!'

22

Leaving the farm was very simple. At two o'clock they returned from the cemetery, and for a while afterwards, the house was full of people, family and friends, most of whom had attended the services but some of whom had not; and they wandered in chattering and affectionate little groups through the rooms that were burdened with bouquets of summer flowers, out on to the terrace and into the garden—men in dark suits and women in black dresses, hats and veils, who contrasted sharply with the brilliant day and the vivid colours of zinnias, petunias and sweet alyssum. The talk was polite and cheerful, in the mood—intimate and almost gay—that it becomes every mourner's duty to create after a funeral. They squeezed each other's hands and kissed each other warmly, the old and dear friends and members of the family. Some had travelled considerable distances to be here, and some had not seen others for several years. Some were old, like Barbara's grandmother, who drowsed in her wheel chair, with Binky Zaretsky, who wore an ornate black-fringed dress, standing beside her; and some were young, like Cousin Bill's children. But all of them shared a bond of love and sympathy with Edith and Preston Woodcock, with Peggy and Barbara, and their farm and their sorrow.

A few accepted drinks which John passed, but most of them held glasses of ice-water or cups of coffee. They moved, bowing and smiling, taking special care to greet and say a few words to the Callahans, to say that the services had been lovely, that the church had looked lovely, that the house looked lovely and Barney—so peaceful. The pallbearers were graver than most and grave also were some of the people who knew the Woodcocks less well, certain of the older employees at the mill who had never been inside the Woodcocks' house before. They stood in a little respectful group, apart from the family, and left early. Talking, Mary-Adams deWinter overturned her cup and spilled coffee across the front of her dress. As several gentlemen rushed to her assistance with their handkerchiefs she assured them that it didn't matter. ‘Please,' she said, ‘Please—it doesn't matter,' flushed and embarrassed at having caused the attention of the gathering to turn, even so briefly, to herself. At one point, Emily appeared and handed Barbara a letter.

She withdrew a little distance from the others to read it. ‘Sweetie—' it began:

How too ghastly what you must be going through. I read it in the paper and feel responsible—for not having shooed that impossible woman off. I'm so sorry! Darling, I don't know what you're going to do or what your plans are, if any, but I can offer you one if it appeals to you … let's take a trip somewhere together, go to Europe! Remember that wonderful year we had in Hawaii? Let's do something like that again—even go to Hawaii again if you like. Remember, we said we measured out our lives in coffee spoons? Let's do that again and forget all this other mess! Will you let me know?

Love always

Nancy

Barbara folded the letter, thinking that
that
, at least, was one thing she would not do.

As people began to leave, she prepared to leave also. As she spoke to her mother and father, her grandmother, Peggy and the others, she realised that they were all too busy and distracted with the business of greetings and leave-takings to really notice, or care, that she was doing anything different from the others who were ready to leave. It seemed only incidental that John was carrying her suitcase down the stairs to her car. And when she had, in fact, left, and had joined the slowly moving line of cars that was making its way out the long drive, she realised that she had not, in so many words, ever said good-bye.

She made one stop. She had not planned to, but when she reached the road she turned left instead of right and drove to the cemetery again. It was on a hill, on the east side of town, an old and crowded cemetery from which the original handsome cedars had long since been cut, and Barney had been given one of the few places that remained available, in one of the less desirable corners, though a small copper beech tree grew nearby. The grave was covered with massed flowers that were melting sweetly in the sun. She had brought no offering. Indeed, there seemed to be a surfeit of offerings already. She stood among the clutter of marble crosses and weeping angels, looking at the flowers.

It was a silly custom, a sentimental custom, bringing flowers to the dead, who could no longer see them and no longer knew. Perhaps it was even a morbid custom, bringing as it did the past so sharply into focus again, sheerly for the sake of recollections or for the sake of tears. Or as an excuse for tears. But then, of course, maybe they did know, maybe they even saw. She didn't know. She had never had a concrete theology and she could not speculate. Still, she thought, if perhaps in the moment before death came there was the feeling and the assurance that someone would see a spray of white carnations and think: I'll put them there, with you—then it would be a comfort, to have that sort of knowledge just before. She supposed she hoped someone would put flowers on her grave. But you see, she reminded herself, this is what you mean by being sentimental.

The thought that struck her most, standing there, was how little she had really known him, and how different his life had been from her own. He had always seemed such a sad young man—sad and impatient and intense—and she supposed he had never known, or imagined, any of the places that she had known or known what it had been like to be young in such places.