In the Springtime of the Year (21 page)

He lay on his bed, listening, and the voices were like instruments in some terrible orchestra, all at odds with one another, all clashing. When Ben was here, it had been better, Ben had been able to quieten them, not so much by what he said, but just by his presence among them, because he himself was quiet.

Jo forced his fingers hard into his ears, until the narrow, bony tunnels were sore, he tried to read his book again, one of the diaries he had found in his great-grandfather’s trunk, tried to make pictures and hear sounds in his own head which would drown everything else.

‘
September 9
We have had calm now for the past seven days, as though this were our reward, after the rigours and afflictions we endured in the terrible gales of last month. The crew have borne up well and I thank God we have water enough, and no more cases of the dysentery, which took such a toll of the men.

September 11
We are at anchor in the small creek at the far westerly point of this group of islands, and have
before
us a sight of the most amazing and refreshing beauty. A rich green of vegetation, fresh and more vivid than anything to be seen even in the most verdant counties of England. The water is clear and glows in the colours of jade, or aquamarine, in accordance with the changes of light. Today we venture ashore. I am reassured by the memory of a conversation I had with Captain Colefax at Portsmouth, who said we might expect a good welcome here, and no hostility, although a very considerable interest and curiosity in our appearance and doings.

September 25
Hallard, the second mate, died during the early hours of this morning, of an abdominal perforation, accompanied by high fever, for which there could be found no relief or remedy. He lay unconscious for some six hours, but at the last was able to hear some comfortable words read to him from the Prayer Book and the New Testament, and died a good death. He was buried at sea, and saluted by the whole ship’s company, and there was much sadness, for he was a favourite with many, and I feel his death as a personal loss to me.

We shall approach the Java straits this day week. God give us a continuance of this fair weather.’

He had read through the first book, and was almost at the end of this, and there were more volumes, bound in bottle-green leather and fastened with clasps; he
would
read of storms and tropical forests and curious buildings, of birds trailing plumage the colour of jewels and bright enamels, of shoals of porpoise following in the wake of the ship and the night sky crammed with stars, he would read every night, as long as his eyes would stay open, and then lie awake, until the pictures in his head dissolved into dreams, he would travel a thousand miles in minutes and never tire, and listen to the sounds of the sea, of eerie winds and strange voices.

And wake in the morning, uncertain of where he was, and all through the days, there would be hopes singing in him, and fears and uncertainty, too, the sense of guilt and secret betrayal. For he did not know, there was no one, no one who could tell him what he might do, whether he was right to wish himself away, on a ship at sea, whether he would even be truly happy. He did not know. He opened the diaries and read, and closed them, and went out, to walk across the ploughed autumn fields, up on to the ridge. And still, downstairs, in this house, the voices, the anger and the cruel desperate words, the crying. He did not understand any of it, or why there could not be quietness and peace.

Ruth, he thought, and at once felt better. Ruth would know, perhaps she was home again, and if he could be with her, in the cottage, none of it would be important any longer, the voices would not pursue him there.

He sat up suddenly and looked out of the window,
he
said, if I could live there with Ruth, I should not want to go away, to be in any other country, or even in another house. Well then, why should he not go to her? Who would care? But he was doubtful about how he could bring himself to ask her, and whether she would want him, for he might remind her too much of Ben; and he knew, in truth, that she liked best to be alone. He could get only so close to her, and no nearer.

He lay down again, and in the end slept, and the echo of their voices rose up and fought with one another, so that his dreams were full of tears and disquiet. He was not awake to hear, at last, that the house had settled back for the night into a tense, mutinous silence.

15

“WHERE ELSE COULD
I go? ‘What could I do?’

But it was not a challenge now, Alice did not speak in defiance and pride; it was a cry for help. There had been so many, during the past weeks, she heard the echo of all their voices, their desperate questions, including her own.

‘What could I do?’

Alice leaned her head back against the chair, but her body was still tense, she was afraid.

They had been sitting there for hours like this, talking, or in silence, looking at one another, looking away again. Ruth had not known what to say, not because she was shocked, or even still angry that Alice had come here with her troubles. She had only tried to be gentle, and not to pry, to listen, because she knew none of the answers.

But now, she did ask the one question.

‘Why should you not marry him?’

‘Marry?’

‘Rob Foley. It is his child. He ought to marry you. It’s only right.’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

Alice had scarcely done more than mention the name of the farrier, almost as though it was not relevant, or important to her.

Ruth did not know how long she had been seeing him, what was between them.

‘He won’t marry me. Not that it matters. Why should it?’

‘But if you care for him – if he cares for you, and the baby.’

‘He doesn’t.’

‘He said that?’

‘He said, “What’s it to me, girl? Others have come here with the same tale. Likely as not, others will come.” I knew. I hadn’t expected anything more.’

‘But that is wicked.’

‘No. The truth. At least he tells the truth. He never said he cared for me. He didn’t pretend.’

‘He made love to you.’

‘Oh, Ruth! You don’t know anything, do you?’

‘Perhaps not. I know what’s right, between two people.’

‘You had Ben.’

‘Yes.’

‘No one else. Ever?’

‘He was the only person I ever wanted.’

‘Do you think I don’t know that? And that it was the same for him?’

Her voice rose, it was full of envy again, and the old dislike.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why should you be? Ben is dead. You know about that. I know about other things.’

‘But what about you? Do you love him?’

Alice was silent for a while, running her forefinger along the edge of the chair. Ruth had lit a fire, the first of the winter, she had carried in the ash logs which Ben had felled and brought home, the week before he died, she had laid them carefully in the grate, the way he had taught her. But setting light to them had startled and pained her, she had felt some kind of guilt, as the first blue flames had begun to lick and coil like snakes’ tongues around the logs. For she was burning and destroying one more piece of the past, the old life. And it would vanish into smoke and never come again.

But they sat beside the grate, and the fire warmed them both, and gave them something to look at, when they could not talk, and the smell of the woodsmoke was full of memories.

Alice said, ‘I think that I have never loved anyone in my life. Except Ben. Except my brother.’

Ruth felt a shock go through her. But after it, a curious sense of warmth, of understanding and relief. This was why Alice had never liked her, then, had resented her, tried to put her down. This. Love for Ben. And Ruth had taken him away.

But love for Ben was a bond between them, too, the
first
there had ever been. And he had had to die before it could reveal itself and be accepted by them.

Now, Alice was expecting a child, by a man she cared nothing for; why had she ever gone with him at all? If there had been no love or even liking, what else could there have been?

‘Don’t you know what it’s like, living in that house? Can’t you imagine? How I have hated it, hated them for years. There was only ever Ben to make it feel like a home, a place you could be happy in. Be yourself. Then he was dead and there was nothing. Only my mother, wailing and weeping, and my father – and what use is he to anyone?’

‘Jo…’

‘Jo? He’s a child.’

No, Ruth thought, oh no, for Jo understood more than any of them. But she did not say it.

‘And all these years, I’ve had to sit and listen to her. What she was planning for me, what I was going to be, the chances I was going to have. She’s never wanted me to live my life, she wanted me to live hers for her, be the person she chose. She’s never known what I am really like. Or any of us. She only cares about herself. She calls me “Proud”. Well, what about her? What is running through her all the time but pride? I had to do something, get out, go somewhere. Did it matter where? So long as I was showing her I could find a way of my own.’

‘Yes.’

For Ruth saw well enough how things had been, why Alice had gone off, out of frustration and spite, to Rob Foley the farrier, though she did not care twopence for him. He was everything Dora Bryce despised, a man she would not think good enough to give so much as a good-day to any daughter of hers.

So Alice was having a child, and she had been told never to go back to that house in Foss Lane; she might do what she pleased, have her baby or lose it, make her own way as best she might, find friends, a home or a husband, or not. Dora Bryce did not care.

‘She went on shouting and screaming. “Get out of here, get out.” She wouldn’t listen to what he said – he’d have let me stay. He wants a quiet life. “Anything for a quiet life.” He’s not ashamed of me. But she said, “Get out of this house.” And I was glad enough to go, it’s not a place I care to stay in for the rest of my life, is it?’

She closed her eyes. Her skin was taut and pale with exhaustion. Ruth thought, how can people be like that, turn their own children out, not even listen or forgive? That is not how anyone should be.

She said, ‘I’m glad you thought to come here. It was the right thing.’

‘I don’t want you to pity me. I don’t want you to let me stay here out of duty. Because I am Ben’s sister. You needn’t think that’s any use.’

‘No.’

‘I’ll find somewhere to go. I’ll manage. When I can think.’

‘You should stay here.’

‘You don’t like me.’

‘I don’t know you,’ Ruth said, and that was the truth. ‘I have never known you.’

‘Did you ever want to? Try to?’

‘No.’

‘You had Ben. You didn’t think about anything else at all.’

‘No.’

‘Oh, I don’t blame you for that. You needn’t think I blame you.’

She began to cry, then, though quite silently, letting the tears run down and dry on her cheeks, and Ruth only sat on beside her, saying nothing, she spread out her hands to the fire and gazed into it. But she thought, how many tears? Oh God, how many tears have there been? How much unhappiness and despair and exhaustion and anger and loneliness and misunderstanding? For it seemed at this moment that all the people she had ever known in her life had been weeping, all the days and nights of the past months had been full of nothing but tears.

And will it go on like this? Oh, for how much longer will it go on?

*

She made up a bed in the small room, and Alice went to it early, worn out. Ruth sat on by the fire for over an hour, until she was sure that Alice must have gone to sleep. There were no sounds within the house, except for the shifting of the logs, the spurts and sparks of the flames. Yet it felt quite different, another person was here, and her presence seemed to fill every corner of every room.

Ruth knew that what she must do now was as much for herself as for Alice, it was the only possible step, and she was the only person who could take it. She could not stay here, quite alone, not caring for anything else, did not even want that any longer. It was wrong. That was no way to live. Somehow, all the quarrels and unspoken hostilities had to be healed over, and forgotten, and she was as much to blame for them as any one, perhaps more.

She took her coat and went out. The wind was still high now, blowing hard at her from behind, almost lifting her off the ground. The trees were straining and tossing about, like ships caught in a storm. The last, sweet-rotten death-smells of autumn were being driven out, to make way for the first, cold, clear airs of winter. In the woods, the leaves would be falling and piling up in drifts like dry snow, tomorrow, the sky would show in neat patches through the network of bare branches.

There was no moon. But she was used to all these paths and lanes at night, she could have walked through
any
of the fields or copses and found her way easily, would know every step, even if she had been blind.

At the corner of Foss Lane, she stopped, to get back her breath, and her courage, and half-hoped, now, that they would already have gone to bed, and she would have an excuse to turn back. For she was afraid of them, did not know what she might say, how to begin. They might have been people who spoke another language, so great was the distance between them.

She said, they are the same, they are human beings, have the same feelings and miseries, are lonely, growing older. They are the same. Were they?

There was a light showing behind the closed curtains. She pressed her arms hard against her sides, and began to walk slowly towards the house. She said, ‘Help me, please help me.’ And it was Ben she was talking to, she was still half-helpless without him, could never be certain if what she did or said was right.

‘
Help me
.’

The wind came thundering down the narrow street.

Walking into that room, behind Arthur Bryce, she remembered how it had been the first time, with Ben, and how she had felt, and it might have been a hundred years ago, she was so changed. But they were not. Dora Bryce looked at her, without interest. Did not speak.