Jackson's Dilemma (16 page)

 

It was some time after that that a motorist was stopped by a half-clad man, incoherently weeping, pointing down toward the beach. Later, other people came, the police came, Randall’s body was carried away.

 

Edward now, sitting in the sunlight upon the stones beside the calm sea, was crying, wailing. He had never, until now, returned to this place. The little hut was still there, the sea and stones were there, the emptiness and no one. Edward had for many years wondered if he would ever come back. He had never been forgiven, his father had never forgiven him, his father hated him, he hated himself. Everybody remembered, many pitied him, nobody spoke of it of course. What had made him come now, perhaps he knew. He had made another death, that of Marian. Even if she was alive, she was dead. And
between
these two deaths, there was yet a
third thing,
a third crazy thoughtless deed, which must forever be hidden in darkness.

Marian, whom everyone was worrying about and searching for, was not dead. She had considered suicide. She had stared down at the shining rails at tube stations and felt in her body the trembling passionate energy which would be needed, timing it carefully, to hurl herself in front of a train. She thought about drowning in some dark place, among abandoned buildings, beside the Thames. But she was a good swimmer and fierce violent instincts would simply prevent her, nor could she imagine thus some slow death. She had no access to poisons. She could of course throw herself in front of a bus, but this might be bungled, leaving her hideously disfigured and damaged. She had always feared high places and could not see herself awkwardly opening windows and climbing onto window sills. All these thoughts were superficial, false, unreal, hideous dreams which segregated her from the ghastly
reality
of what had happened to her, what she had
done,
and now forever after would have to live with.

Now, at present, she was sitting on a bed in a small cheap hotel down a side street near Euston Station. She had cried so much, she was still crying. It was morning. She had, weak with exhaustion, at last slept part of the night. She had dreamed a happy dream, and for a second waking held it. Now the horror was all back again, like a huge steel building collapsing, grinding down upon her. She had
lost,
she had
destroyed, wantonly and forever,
everything that was good and happy in her life. She had made an effort to cease her crying, not just the flow of tears, but now the rhythmic wailing, the convulsive repetition of ‘ah!’ ‘ah!’. On the previous day someone had knocked on the door, then opened it, and asked if she was ill. Of course she was ill, but she said no, no, not at all, she was so sorry, she was quite well. Outside the sun was shining. Her watch told her it was morning, after seven o’clock. This was the beginning of yet another day in which she had stayed in the hotel. She must go somewhere, she must do something, but where and what? She thought, I must go back to Canada and never never return to this country again. But why Canada? She could not face her mother, she had ruined her poor mother as she had ruined all the others, all the other people, whom she would never never see again. She still had her handbag with her, her money, her cards. She must
get away,
somewhere, and become
another person.
That is the same as dying. Perhaps she should go to a priest. But she had given up priests long ago, as her mother had. Oh her mother, her dear, dear mother - everything had fallen, everything had been destroyed -
and
so quickly - it is like murder, it is murder - I am ill, I am very ill, she thought, trying now to check her moaning, I am going mad - am I to run out of here, and run about the streets? My face is swollen and hideous, no one will recognise me. She sat upon the bed, gasping, half dressed, stuffing her wet handkerchief into her mouth.

 

The condition into which Marian had entered, into which she had
thrust
herself, had origins further back. She loved her sister. But as they grew up her love was, she knew, very slightly touched by envy, later jealousy. Marian was rated more beautiful than Rosalind. It wasn’t that. Marian was not sure what it was. Perhaps it was simply a growing up, and a determined parting of the ways. Rosalind had been bright at school, a ‘scholar’, she was clever, she was going to be an art historian. Marian, though not a fool, and far more naturally sociable, became aware that Rosalind was more sought after, more admired, more witty, more
interesting.
Rosalind knew what she was going to do with her life. Marian had no idea what was going to happen to hers. Both girls had learnt French, and a little Italian at school. Marian had now forgotten much of hers, whereas Rosalind preserved these, and was adding Russian. They went on pleasant trips to France, Italy, Spain. Marian then decided to go round the world, to brush up her languages, she said laughingly. Anyway she wanted to
travel,
to
get away,
to go to
strange lands
and have
adventures.
This tour came about, funded by her mother, by Benet, more liberally by Uncle Tim; and at last Marian, taking leave of England with lengthy wavings of farewell, turned her face to the wind and felt more deliriously happy than ever in her life. The beautiful white ship, ignoring Europe (which she assumed her wealthy passengers already knew) passed through the Mediterranean, stopping at Egypt, on down the Red Sea, then on to India, down the coast for temples and swimming, on to Ceylon, then at last the long sea voyage to Sydney. The stay at Sydney was proving unusually long because of some engine trouble. This did not worry Marian. She had made pleasant acquaintances on board, but let loose in Sydney she discovered even more delights and interesting friends. She sent postcards home, especially to her mother, Rosalind, Uncle Tim, Benet, and Edward, mentioning the pleasant delay. Just at this time Uncle Tim had died. There had been some argument about whether or when she should be told. At last a telegram finally brought the sad news. Marian sent a reply:
Terribly sorry Uncle Tim. Probably staying on in Australia. Note hotel address.
Marian had already informed her lovely white ship (her name was
Calypso)
that she must now travel on to see New Zealand without Marian. Marian had fallen in love with Australia.

From her hotel in Sydney Marian subsequently sent, not this time a postcard but a letter, to Edward. Marian had for a considerable time been aware that Benet, Tim and others were quietly hoping that she might marry Edward Lannion. Randall’s sudden death had damaged the rather stiff but perceptible connection which had existed between Hatting Hall and Penndean. Mourning for that death existed for a long time. Edward left the university; his father died and Edward took charge of Hatting, spending also much time in London, having, at any rate for the moment, given up his historical novel and his poems. At that time too he became better acquainted with Benet and Tim, and also with the girls. On the boat Marian had been thinking about Edward, and had at her hotel composed and recomposed a tactful letter to him. She received a reply from Edward which, though very characteristically cautious, left her in little doubt. This whispered clarification left Marian suddenly not only more happy but more free. Now she was enjoying Australia. Then, before long, she should fly back. She had money in her pocket. Most of all, she could now toy with the idea of being ‘the Mistress of Hatting Hall’! There was, in her change of plan, another shadowy consideration. Suppose she were to stay too long away, and find that Edward had found some other bride - or decided to marry
Rosalind?
She wrote a sort of love-letter to Edward, received a vaguely similar reply, and cast away her anxieties.

Marian had by now, though still based in her hotel, ventured a little out of Sydney on various expeditions. She had also acquired some Australian friends, been invited to parties, then to dinner parties. She was, after all, a totally unaccompanied beautiful girl. The bright friendly atmosphere of lovely Sydney suited her, especially so since that shadowy uncertainty had been removed. She would of course go home soon, only not just yet. She wanted to go to the Great Barrier Reef, to the Brisbane Zoo, to Ayers Rock, to see Aborigines, real bush and real free animals, koalas, kangaroos. As happens in Sydney she met all sorts of people. She met a man called Cantor Ravnevik. She met his name before him and thought it a strange lovely name, and she was glad to meet its eccentric owner. They had a drink together, they lunched together, they danced together. He told her about his family and his name. His great grandfather on his father’s side had come to Australia from Norway. His mother’s family had come more recently from Germany, half German and half Irish, also half Jewish. That, he said, accounted for his name. His other Scandinavian family name, being unpronounceable for Australians, had been smoothed down to its more attractive present form. His parents were dead, he had only one brother, who was older than him, and who ran a sheep farm. He was very fond of his brother, his brother had a lovely wife who was going to have a baby, no, he himself was not yet married. Marian, though still not sure what the man was, began to like him very much. She had felt it proper to mention that she was engaged (or as she put it ‘perhaps sort of engaged’) to ‘someone in England’. She showed him pictures of Lipcot, and Hatting and Penn, and country all around, and Benet and Rosemary and Edward and Mildred and others. Cantor noted these and smiled. He did not ask who the people were. He expressed his wish to take her to the farm. Marian, now feeling ‘safe’, allowed him to drive her out into the country, and was suitably amazed at the immensity of the farm, the vast distances, the hundreds and hundreds of sheep, ‘not at all like England’. His elder brother (Arne Ravnevik) and his sister-in-law (Judith, Jewish, long known to the family, hence Cantor’s name) welcomed Marian warmly. When Cantor asked her if she could ride she was delighted to say she certainly could! Then they rode together over beautiful wild country. She found Australian horses naughtier than Canadian ones and they laughed about that. Back in Sydney Marian visited Cantor in his flat and they made love.

Before this Marian had already explained, in answer to a question by Cantor, that she was not a virgin. She had indeed had a few adventures after leaving school, amounting, she said, to nothing. She had of course informed Edward of these facts. Edward accepted them calmly and said no more. Marian had not asked about him, about his previous life, though she was certainly curious about it. She had heard Benet say that ‘really nobody knows about Edward’. Marian had asked Edward a few tame questions; she was content to leave more information until later. That would be what Edward would desire. She loved him and was proud to be, as it was emerging now, chosen as his wife. She was also a bit afraid of him, but that of course, would pass. She knew, as everyone knew, of Randall’s death. This was a dark shadow, and there might be other ones, in Edward’s life. She hoped and believed that love and patience might in time dispel them.

Marian lay down again with Cantor. She lay with her face deep in his blond hair. She had received another letter from Edward. She had booked her seat in the aeroplane which was to take her home. She told Cantor that she was leaving. He took the news with a little gesture and a slightly rueful smile. She was grateful for his calmness, she had been an episode, he had been so gently beautifully kind to her, but he would easily do without her. He also, perhaps because she was going, told her more about himself, how he did work for his brother, how he ran a literary newspaper, how he wrote a bit, how he attempted to help the Aborigines. Marian, on the point of leaving, was sorry now that she had not questioned him more about the Aborigines. Anyway it was too late and she would never see him again. She gently made a habit in the last days, of talking a little about Edward. The time came for departure. Cantor drove her to the airport.

 

 

 

The time between Marian’s return and the completion of their wedding plans was longer than she had expected. When they met again she was shy and Edward was nervous. They lay together in Marian’s flat and made some gentle fumbling love with closed eyes. They both, tacitly, reserved this time as a sort of holy preparation. Their great perfect union lay ahead when all would be achieved and revealed. Everyone was delighted with them. Rosalind’s feelings (much discussed of course) about Edward were in fact of relief, not (as some believed) of envy. Watching her sister, whom she loved, she could quite early on see her ‘made for him and Hatting’. Benet meanwhile, almost too briskly, arranged for the pair to be alone when they might have preferred company. For some unspoken reason there was to be no love-making in Hatting Hall, or of course at Penndean, only in Marian’s flat. Hatting was ‘out of bounds’ until afterwards, until ‘after the wedding’. Meanwhile, immediately after the wedding, they were to go (still in secret of course) to France. Weeks had passed and everything was moving in slow motion. Marian’s heart beat faster and faster and she was longing for it all to be over and they could be in France.