Summer at the Haven (7 page)

“Come in, come in, dear Jessie, but mind baby; he crawls around so fast now, he is always getting under people’s feet. Come in and drink his health.”

Mrs Thornton, however, could not drink his health for there was obviously no more sherry left. She sat down and, as usual, Mrs Langley’s fantasies of the past began to affect her powerfully. Just as once she had thought that she heard the trotting of horses bringing Mrs Langley’s young husband to the door of The Haven, so now she could almost visualize the guests to whom Tom was handing round the diminished cake, as grave and as absorbed as if he were a child in one of those universal games of playing at grown-ups. She could even imagine the lively one-year-old, the centre of the party, that baby who was now a frail old gentleman with a stomach ulcer living unhappily in Birmingham with his successful stockbroker son.

“Now, my precious,” said Mrs Langley, bending down, “it’s time for bath and bed, birthday or no birthday, and you, Dickie –” she called Tom Dickie because that had been the name of Susan’s boy – “take these glasses down to the pantry and wash them very carefully, for they were a wedding present and a lovely present, too.”

She went off to the bathroom and Tom disappeared with the glasses. Mrs Thornton knew these well, beautiful cut-glass ones, which lived on the top shelf of the
corner cupboard above the Worcester teacups. Unfortunately, when Tom was bringing back the glasses after he had washed them, he met the warden.

“What are you doing with those?” she asked him.

“They’re from Lady Mrs Langley’s party,” said Tom.

“Party, what party?”

“Lady Mrs Langley’s been having a party,” repeated Tom.

“Nonsense,” said Miss Blackett, and followed him into Mrs Langley’s room. Mrs Thornton had gone and Mrs Langley, having returned from the bathroom, had gone immediately and peacefully to sleep.

“I can smell alcohol,” said Miss Blackett loudly and sharply. “You know alcohol, unless specially prescribed, is against the rules, Mrs Langley; how did you get it?’

Mrs Langley, so suddenly wakened, looked frightened and bewildered.

“Dickie got it for my party,” she said.

“There was
no
party,” said Miss Blackett, “and, Tom, you must never get anything for the ladies without asking me about it first, do you understand?”

Tom first nodded his head and then shook it.

Miss Blackett sighed and went straight away to write to Mrs Langley’s grandson, which she had been meaning to do ever since the committee meeting. She wrote:

Mr Langley, being one of those to whom time is money, did not find it convenient to visit his grandmother nor, for that matter, had he ever done so. But he saw the necessity now, so he came down to The Haven not too long after receiving this letter.

Mrs Langley greeted him politely but without enthusiasm as her Uncle James. “I am glad to see you looking so well, Uncle,” she said, “though I don’t know to what I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit. Now that I am a married woman I can confess that I once overheard you telling my father that I was disgracefully indulged and you made no secret of the fact that you dislike my dear husband. Still,” she added hopefully, “perhaps you have had a change of heart.”

“I must agree with you, Miss Blackett,” said Mr Langley after this uncomfortable interview, “my poor grandmother is quite senile. It will be much better for all concerned if she can be placed in a suitable institution. I will arrange for her things to be sold, there are some quite good pieces among them I noticed, but my wife does not care for antiques. I must thank you on behalf of my father and myself for all the care you have taken of her since she came to The Haven – and now, if you will forgive me, I must be off. Good day to you. Miss Blackett, you will hear from me again shortly.”

During the weeks since Tom’s arrival at The Haven, Miss Norton had been feeling increasingly depressed; her eyes had been failing more rapidly than had been predicted, and the doctor had told her there was nothing to be done. Up to now she had not faced the possibility of
total loss of sight. She could still distinguish light and darkness and dimly see large shapes of people and furniture, and if she looked obliquely and closely at an object, it became sufficiently clear for her to discern its nature. For instance, peering sideways across the dining-room table, she could tell a sugar basin from a jug, though it was a hazardous job to pour the contents of the jug into a cup or sprinkle the sugar on a plate. She could not bring herself to accept dependence on others for personal intimate services. She felt that death would be more welcome than utter blindness and helplessness and, when the time came, she told herself, there were ways of putting an end to things. A plastic bag would be the easiest; she believed she had the courage for this, though not for long years of darkness and decline. She began to set herself tests over and above the ordinary daily tasks. If she passed these tests she went to bed reasonably content.

One morning, however, she woke with a headache and a feeling of oppression and fancied herself distinctly less able to deal with washing, dressing and breakfast. Spurred on by a sudden onslaught of fear, she decided to set herself a more severe and hazardous test that day. She would walk to the end of the garden and through the copse alone, something she had not done for weeks. She chose her time carefully. It must be after the midday meal when nearly everyone rested and there was little fear of interfering warnings or help. After she had made this decision she felt quite calm and she set off at the right time and aided by her stick, with which she struck at the little iron edging to the gravel path, she successfully negotiated the long lawn and came to the boundary between this and the wood. Originally this had been a ditch which by now was almost filled up, but the path into the copse still crossed it by an old rustic bridge. The invading bullocks had lately broken down the wooden
handrail of the bridge and, as the ditch was now almost level and the rail was scarcely needed any more, and as Fred always had more jobs than he could cope with, it had not been replaced. Meg Norton reached the bridge and followed the path across, but midway her stick failed to find any guiding rail and she halted. She could just make out the shapes of the trees looming up before her, then they seemed to advance and engulf her and panic seized her. She could no longer pierce the darkness and she felt it would be a step into a void and that this void was endless. She had been too engrossed in carrying out her plan to heed the weather, but it had turned colder at midday, clouds had gathered and it now began to rain. A plane roared overhead and to Meg it sounded like thunder and added to her distress. She had always hated thunder. She felt as terrified as if she were a child again, caught up in a nightmare and trying to call aloud for her mother, only no call would come. She forced herself to take a step, caught her foot on a little stump and fell. Then she must have cried out, she supposed, for there came a voice shouting her name and out of the blackness a pair of small, strong hands took hold of her and pulled her to her feet. Tom had been in the wood spying on his family of thrushes and had heard her. She clung to him.

“Why, Lady Miss Norton dear, be you hurt? he asked.

The warmth of his arm about her and the sound of his voice brought immediate comfort and relief. She was so glad it was Tom who had found her, she somehow did not mind
him
seeing her so helpless and frightened.

“It was silly,” she said, “I came for a walk and fell. I’m going blind, Tom, you see. I
am
blind,” she added loudly and firmly.

“Like my bats,” said Tom cheerfully. He began to tell her about the bats as he led her back to the house. It was still raining.

“’Tis a good bit o’ rain,” said Tom. “Don’t our flowers smell happy?”

Meg became aware of the summer scents jostling each other for her attention and a fresh warm tide of life seemed to flow through her. When she got to her room she asked Tom if he could bring her a cup of tea, and she lay down on the bed for, though not hurt, she was shaken by the fall and her fear. But when evening was come, she was quite able to go into supper and then she asked Mrs Perry, her neighbour, for the first time, to help her with her food and to pour out her drink, and Mrs Perry, who had been longing to do this for weeks past but had not dared to offer, did so without comment. It was one of Mrs Thornton’s days for reading to Meg, and she went to her room as soon as supper was over. Shakespeare took his turn as usual after
The
Times.
They were in the middle of
As
You
Like
It
but this evening Meg said: “Would you mind if instead we had that bit near the end of
King
Lear
about Edgar as poor mad Tom, with Gloucester.” So Mrs Thornton found the place and came at length to Gloucester’s speech.

Here Mrs Thornton paused as she thought she heard Meg speak. “Did you say something?” she asked.

“Only what comes next, I think,” said Meg: “‘And that’s true too.’”

“Shall I finish the play?” asked Mrs Thornton.

“No, thank you, dear,” said Meg, “I’m rather tired this evening, so I think I’ll go up to bed now, but thank you very much and goodnight.”

MISS BLACKETT
was anxious to move Mrs Langley to the geriatric department at the hospital before the day of the summer fête and was pleased when she heard, soon after Mr Langley’s visit, that a bed was vacant. The matron rang her up to tell her this and Miss Blackett expressed relief.

“I shall be very busy soon,” she said, “for our great day is coming along and I really cannot supervise the old thing, day in and day out, and yet I feel responsible, of course.”

“I quite understand,” said Matron crisply, “right, well, I daresay I can save you the trouble of bringing her along. We don’t use an ambulance unless it’s necessary, but I have to come your way in my own car the day after tomorrow and could pick her up about noon, if you can have her ready by then.”

Miss Blackett agreed to this.

“I suppose she’ll come without trouble?”

“Oh, yes,” said Miss Blackett, “she’s quite an amenable old soul.”

“Right,” said Matron, “it’s as well to know – we have our obstinate little ways sometimes. About noon, then, Miss Blackett. Goodbye.”

It was not quite as easy as Miss Blackett had hoped.

“Come along now, my dearie,” said Matron, “we’re going to take you for a nice drive.”

“But I don’t know you,” said Mrs Langley, drawing
back. “My name is Mrs Marian Langley,” she added with dignity.

“That’s right, dear,” said Matron, “and we’re going for a lovely drive together.”

Miss Blackett was busy fastening down a suitcase which was difficult to shut and just then Tom came in with a message for her. Mrs Langley caught at his hand.

“Can Dickie come too?” she asked.

The matron looked over his head at Miss Blackett and gave a little nod. “Very well,” said Miss Blackett.

“Right,” said Matron, “let’s be moving then, shall we?”

But when they got downstairs and out into the drive, she propelled Mrs Langley into the car and shut the door, leaving Tom on the steps. Mrs Langley’s attention was distracted by the bright red cushions on her seat and by a mascot of a toy panda tied to the windscreen, and she forgot about Tom until the engine started. Then she leaned out of the window and called to him.

“Never mind, Dickie, you must come next time, tell your mother, please, to have tea ready, I’ll be back very soon.” She waved and Tom waved too till she was out of sight.

But she was not back soon. Instead, Mr Langley’s secretary came down with a man from a Birmingham firm of auctioneers and took away all the furniture, pictures, china and glass, packing the last very carefully and with respect.

“Where be Lady Mrs Langley gone? Tom asked Mrs Thornton. “And when be she coming home again?”

“She won’t be coming home,” said Mrs Thornton, “she’s had to go into hospital, Tom.”

“She weren’t in bed,” said Tom, “she were going for a ride.”

“I know, Tom,” said Mrs Thornton, “but she had to go to hospital all the same, the doctor said so, and you see all her things are gone – she wouldn’t want to come back to an empty room, would she?”

Tom looked puzzled but shook his head in agreement. He went away humming Mrs Langley’s favourite hymn tune, which didn’t now seem so appropriate as at the party. He was heard humming it several times in the days that followed, though he did not speak of her again. But Mrs Thornton noticed a curious thing: whenever he passed Mrs Langley’s door in future, he always went on tiptoe.

Mrs Thornton asked the vicar on his next visit if he had been to see Mrs Langley yet, and how she was.

“Matron says she’s fine, she’s put on weight and she gives no trouble at all, but I found her very quite, very quite indeed. I’m sorry,” he added, “but the committee and the warden all thought it was the right and sensible thing to do.”

Mrs Thornton said nothing.

With Mrs Langley off her hands, Miss Blackett was free to concentrate on arrangements for the fête. She had decided that the deodar tree could not come down until this was over. It would make too much of a mess. A subcommittee consisting of herself, Mrs Mitchell, the vicar’s wife, and Col. Bradshaw was due to meet to discuss all arrangements. The weather seemed settled at last.

“It’s bound to be fine now we’ve decided on the marquee instead of a band,” Miss Blackett said to Mrs Perry and Miss Dawson, who were sitting on one of the garden seats watching Tom watering the rosebeds. Watering was one of the few gardening jobs Fred could give him to do when he could be spared by Miss Blackett. Weeding was out of the question for he obstinately refused to pull up anything.

“They be all as good as one another to him – dandelions and daisies, just as vallible as roses and lilies,” grumbled Fred. But he loved watering. When he had finished the rosebeds he came over to give Mrs Perry’s border its turn. He was humming loudly and happily a Schubert song he had heard on Mrs Thornton’s radio the evening before.

“That boy’s a band in himself,” said Miss Dawson. It was then Mrs Perry had her bright idea.

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t have a band of sorts at the fête,” she said. “My grandson and his sister play in a music group, I know they went all over the place playing last summer. I believe they would come and play for us here if they were asked. Tom could help, too, I’m sure. It would be lovely to have them, and much more fun than a hired band.”

Miss Blackett looked doubtful.

“We wouldn’t want pop music, you know, Mrs Perry, and would they really want to give up the time, we couldn’t pay them.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’d come if they were free,” said Mrs Perry confidently. “Austen is always ready for anything, and Nell’s boyfriend Jake is very musical, properly musical, I mean, so it wouldn’t have to be pop. I’m certain they wouldn’t mind giving up the time. Why, you know Nell and Austen, Miss Blackett, you know they wouldn’t.”

No one at The Haven could help knowing about Mrs Perry’s grandchildren, not to speak of her great-grandchildren. What space in her room that could be spared from her plants was taken up with photographs of them at many different stages. She had five altogether, and now three greats, but Nell and Austen were familiar in person to everyone as they quite frequently came to see her. Austen was in his second year at Oxford and Nell, who had taken an art course and painted flowers really well, had a job in an art gallery in Warwick. She shared a flat with Jake, who was doing a postgraduate course at Warwick University. They talked vaguely of marriage at some distant date.

“I don’t approve, of course,” said Mrs Perry cheerfuly, “but it doesn’t really matter.”

“If you don’t approve, I don’t see how you can say it doesn’t matter,” said Miss Dawson.

Mrs Perry ignored this; she often found it better to take no notice of Frances’s remarks when they seemed irrelevant.

Miss Blackett liked Austen Perry, who always made a point of seeing her when he came. Nell she thought aloof and superior. After some consideration she agreed to put Mrs Perry’s suggestion before the sub-committee and they reacted favourably.

Mrs Mitchell said it was really very sweet of Mrs Perry to think of it.

Col. Bradshaw said: “I’ve met those grandchildren of hers, an attractive pair. If they will come, I think we can trust them to provide a suitable programme, though perhaps we’d better vet it. It’s good to involve young people in charitable affairs whenever possible.”

Miss Blackett said: “Well, it would certainly be nice to have some music after all, but I shan’t be surprised if it doesn’t come off. You can’t rely on the young nowadays, so I don’t think we should count on it.”

Mrs Perry, however, certainly did count on it, and so it was that when Austen Perry looked through his mail one morning, he picked out from the customary bills and circulars an envelope addressed in his grandmother’s distinctive pointed script. He enjoyed her letters, she wrote just as if she were chatting away to him about her plants, and the family news, and amiable gossip concerning The Haven. This was a fatter letter than usual. It gave an account of Tom’s rout of the bullocks, which amused him, and then came to the fête and the real purpose of the epistle.

And she remained his “very loving Gran”.

Austen smiled and pondered a little and then went to his phone and dialled Nell.

“I’ve had a letter.”

“From Gran?” interrupted his sister. “So have I, about playing at their fête.”

“Just so, what do you think?”

“I’ll have to ask Jake and he’s asleep at the moment, but I don’t really see why not. I’ve got nothing on that weekend, what about you?”

“I can make it, who else can we get hold of?”

“We simply must have Elizabeth, is she up still?”

The vac. had begun, but there were always undergraduates still around for one purpose or another, among whom was Austen himself, who liked to get a little work done after the hurly burly of the term was ended.

“In between her conferences and protest marches and meetings, she is,’ he answered Nell.

“Well, even if we can’t get hold of anyone else, the four of us ought to manage something, but we must get together pretty soon if we’re to do it. What about bringing Elizabeth here for a night? You’ve been promising to come for ages.”

“Good thought. I’ll make a point of seeing Liz at once and ring you. Love to Jake – goodbye for now.” Austen replaced the receiver, finished his breakfast and decided to stroll across the Parks to Elizabeth’s lodgings then and there. Early morning was the safest time to find people at home, even if still in bed.

However, Elizabeth came to the door at once in a particularly fine dressing-gown, though her hair was hanging in
wet strands over her face. She ws a handsome, dark-complexioned girl, with large prominent brown eyes and a determined mouth and chin. Her bed-sitting-room was untidy by any standards; everything, clothes, cooking utensils, food, were all mixed up with piles of books, and cascades of paper appeared to be spilling themselves over the whole collection. The only object that seemed to have a proper place was a fiddle on a shelf to itself. Elizabeth was an able violinist. Austen cleared a space on the floor and sat down. Elizabeth remained standing and, seizing up a towel from a heap of mixed garments, started to rub her hair with extreme vigour. Austen gave her the gist of his grandmother’s letter and his talk with Nell.

“No, I’m afraid I’m booked for an anti-nuclear demonstration that day. Sorry.”

“Oh, come off it, Liz, it can’t really affect the peace of the world all that much if you are there or not, and you’re indispensable to us.’

“He who would do good, must do it in minute particulars,” quoted Elizabeth.

“Don’t be sententious, besides, come to that, I bet Blake would be on our side; think of all the certain good you can do in the minute particulars waiting for us to perform at The Haven – whereas!’ he shrugged his shoulders.

“But I promised,” said Liz.

“Well, will you come if I find you a sub.?” asked Austen.

Elizabeth felt herself weakening. She was dismayed to find how unpleasant it was to hold out against him – it would be inconveniently hampering to fall for him in a serious way, and she feared she might be going to. “I suppose so,” she said unwillingly, “but you ought to be demonstrating yourself.”

“We’ll ague that out on our way to Nell and Jake,” said Austen cheerfully. “Thanks a lot, Liz, I’m sure I can find someone. Be seeing you – goodbye, then.”

Austen possessed a wide and devoted circle of friends
and it was not too difficult to persuade one of them to take Elizabeth’s place at the demonstration. “It’s lucky it’s for a respectable cause,” he thought, “and not one of her way-out crazes.”

So, her conscience more or less appeased, Elizabeth packed herself and her violin into Austen’s shabby little car the following weekend, and immediately embarked on an argument on unilateral disarmament. They were still arguing when they drew up outside Nell and Jake’s flat in Warwick. Nell received them joyfully. The flat possessed a fair-sized living-room, a tiny kitchen and bathroom, a double bedroom and one small spare room containing a large mattress that was scarcely ever vacant.

“Oh, by the way,” said Nell to her brother at supper, “I hope you won’t mind sharing your bed with a nice Irish roadsweeper – we’re putting him up till he can find a lodging.”

“That’s all right,” said Austen. “He won’t be drunk, I hope?”

There were limits beyond which he was not prepared to go. “Where’s Liz to sleep then?”

“She’ll have Jake’s side of my bed and he’ll be quite OK on the living-room floor, won’t you, Jake?”

“Of course,” said Jake.

The flat was a pleasant place, tidy and clean and decorated with some of Nell’s flower paintings. Her appearance was deceptive, she was very slim and small, with delicate features and a cloud of silvery fair hair. She looked like a cross between a Botticelli angel and a character from a de la Mare poem. But, in reality, both she and Austen were more efficient and practical than either Elizabeth, the idealist, or Jake, the mathematical mystic. Neither Nell or Jake were great talkers, but the other pair made up for this. At supper they started a vigorous debate on the ethics of space travel. Nell listened a little anxiously. Austen, she knew, argued for entertainment and was quite
capable of changing sides at any moment, but Liz was always in deadly earnest and Nell felt, rather than consciously thought, that at least where Austen was concerned, she was emotionally involved. She was glad that she and Jake seldom felt the need to argue, but went their own ways in peace and comfort. She went out to fetch a jug of coffee and when she came back the argument had somehow shifted to Wagner.