The Three-Body Problem (7 page)

Yesterday, on my way down the long field path to the village of Grantchester, where I had decided to take my tea outdoors, I met Mr Weatherburn, bent on the same errand (if one may call it so). Grantchester is so lovely and dainty, with its thatched cottages, that one feels far away from any town, and I can almost imagine that I will soon see our own dear house appearing before me. We walked together, and talked at length, mostly about books, plays and poems. He knows a great deal of poetry, and we talked much about Shakespeare, Keats, and Tennyson. Arriving at Grantchester, we sat ourselves at a small table in the garden of the tea room, and ordered tea and scones. They came delightfully accompanied with cream and jam, and apart from the kindly lady who brought the things out to us, we were quite alone there, for the weather is still too cool for most people, who preferred to take their tea within doors. The rest of the afternoon passed for me in a haze of delight – I do hope there was no impropriety in it. If there was, Mrs Fitzwilliam will soon come to know of it, and scold me. I have now discovered that Mr Weatherburn’s
Christian name is Arthur. He invited me to use it, but I really feel too timid to do so, though I will often think it.

We talked at great length about all sorts of things. He asked me many questions about my childhood, and I am afraid that I told him all about us, and the fields and flowers and how we used to jump on the grazing ponies just as we were and ride them about together shouting, and about our house and our chestnut tree and how instead of lessons we had primers. He was most interested in every detail of it, so that I quite told him a great many things which I had never mentioned to any outsider before.

Then I wanted to know about how he grew up, and where, and what it was like. He told me that he was orphaned at the age of nine, after which he was sent away to school on a scholarship. He has no family at all, but until the age of twenty-one he had a trustee.

I immediately thought of poor little half-orphaned Edmund.

‘Did you suffer very much in your school?’ I asked him.

The question seemed to surprise him slightly, as though he had never asked himself whether or not he had suffered.

‘I don’t know,’ he answered rather slowly. ‘I d-don’t seem to remember it particularly. I believe I really shut it out most of the time. My memories of the Greek tragedies and the French Revolution according to Carlyle are much stronger in my mind than any actual memories of my own school life. I seem to have retained only a kind of global consciousness of muddy games, and bustle, and food prepared in enormous quantities slapped onto the
plate, and a general sense of permanent capharnaum, from which I escaped as often as possible into the silence of books.’

‘Were the boys not beaten at your school?’ I asked him. ‘Little Emily, Charles Morrison’s niece, tells me that her brother complains bitterly about the treatment meted out to his classmates and himself, and can hardly bear it.’

‘Well, I never was,’ he said musingly, ‘perhaps because I was an orphan, or simply because I never made any trouble of any kind. It was probably for the latter reason; I was not an imaginative or mischievous child, I’m afraid. It certainly happened to others on occasion, but I admit that the reality of it never penetrated my conscious mind. I went all through school as though on a parallel plane, until I went up to college.’

‘When was that?’ I enquired with interest, wondering secretly how old he might be.

‘That was six years ago. After I took my d-degree, I obtained this fellowship; you see, I have not moved about much more than you in my life.’

‘Well, perhaps not,’ I concurred, ‘but still, think how lucky you are to have received such an education. I sorely miss it.’

‘I think that you possess a treasure infinitely more valuable than any education,’ he responded seriously, looking at me, then looking away.

‘Nonsense! Whatever do you mean?’

‘The gift of life,’ he said, reddening slightly. ‘You are like a fountain of spring water. No amount of education can teach that secret; quite the contrary, if anything, it probably dulls
it. An education which consists mainly in running about the Forest of Arden picking wild flowers and jumping onto grazing ponies is much more likely to provide it, if you ask me!

Hmmm. Mr Weatherburn appears to know his Shakespeare very well.

I have decided to devote my short holiday these last four days to a great course of serious reading. I must improve my mind and study seriously in order to keep abreast of my teaching, especially as the oldest pupils never cease to advance rapidly in their studies! Emily’s interests, in particular, are maturing each day, and she needs to read works worthy of them. I have already reread much of Shakespeare. I have also obtained a very recent novel by a very modern, much disapproved of – indeed, quite scandalous, writer, Mr Thomas Hardy. It is called
The Mayor of Casterbridge
, and within the very first ten pages, an obnoxious gentleman puts his wife up for auction at a public gathering, and finds a taker for five guineas! The wife, poor thing, is only too eager to be sold, as she could hardly chance on someone more disagreeable than her own husband. Still, it is most shocking. The very moment the offer is made, she flings her wedding ring into her husband’s face and departs with the purchasing gentleman forever, carrying her baby on her arm. This unusual auction takes place in a tent at a fair,
where people come and sit to eat a bowl of something called ‘furmity’. It sounds delicious; it appears to consist in corn and hulled wheat grains, cooked in milk and flavoured with sugar and spices. It is also generously laced with rum in the case of the horrid gentleman, but I shall not heed that addition to the recipe in trying it out for myself at home!

Your delighted

Vanessa

My dearest Dora,

I have not written for several days, as I was caught up, albeit in a secondary role, in some events which have shaken Emily’s family to its core. Fate has dealt poor Mrs Burke-Jones a heavy blow.

It all began the Friday after my tea with Mr Weatherburn. In the late morning, as I was bent over my desk preparing the lessons for the afternoon, I heard a gentle knock on my door. Such a thing was so rare as to be unheard of, except that Mrs Fitzwilliam occasionally knocks to complain about something. Imagine my surprise upon opening the door, to see Mr Weatherburn upon the threshold!

He did not enter, but stood shyly without, and stammering a little as usual, held a magazine out to me, saying,

‘I wonder if you have c-come across this new literary magazine which has begun to appear only very lately? I came across it on a trip down to London, and brought it back, thinking it might be of interest to you.’

He handed it to me, and I observed the cover and turned the pages. It was called
Woman’s World
, edited by a certain Mr Oscar Wilde.

‘He has taken over the m-magazine but recently,’ Mr Weatherburn told me; ‘it seems he has made it literary, when previously it contained articles mainly about fashion. Oscar Wilde’s relation with the fair sex appears to be one of frank friendship and sympathy, such as can be felt only by a very special kind of man. The contributions are almost exclusively by women; I enjoyed reading it very much in the train. I particularly recommend the remarkable story by Amy Levy.’

I was grateful and moved by his thoughtfulness, and was awkwardly searching for words to express myself, turning over the pages of the magazine, when he continued,

‘I thought perhaps we m-might organise a theatre party for London, to see a Shakespeare play, with Morrison and his sister, and Emily, if you would like to join.’

London! To see a Shakespeare play!

‘Oh, I would
love
to,’ I burst out. ‘I have never been to London!’

‘No, really? Well then, we must make up for it, there’s no time to lose!’ he answered, his face suddenly lit up by a warm and cheering smile. ‘Shall we go tomorrow, as it’s a Saturday? I believe they’re putting on
The Merchant of Venice
. I shall check if the others agree, and arrange for a box if they do. It will be delightful.’

My dear Dora, I could not sleep the whole night for excitement. It seemed like a fairy tale. London – the theatre – things one only reads of!

The very next day, the fairy tale began to come true. Yes, although the day was grey and drizzly, and the omnibus became stuck in the mud and caused a great delay, and our hems became very draggled on the way to the theatre, and our shoes were wet through, still I was carried along in a wave of delight which consisted not only in joyful expectation of the play, but also in the quality of the present moment. There was much laughter amongst us in spite of the bothersome weather; Emily in particular hopped over the puddles, refusing to take shelter under the umbrella, and claiming that the drizzle was sent purposely in order to teach us to appreciate the ‘gentle rain from heaven’.

Arriving in the theatre was heavenly. The luxurious stalls, the plush seats, the gilded decor, the rich curtains; everything was a vision of pleasantness, and the play was magical, thanks to the great effort put into making the dream city of Venice come alive upon the stage. I leant forward to catch every word, and awaited the most familiar speeches eagerly, trying to guess how they would be spoken. Everyone was in the most light-hearted mood, and all was perfect until the interval.

What happened next was so unexpected as to be almost unbelievable. We had just begun to rise and smooth our skirts in preparation for a short exploratory tour of the hall, when there was a knock on the door of our box, which opened of itself, and there stood a sober-faced gentleman with an air of gloom.

‘Pardon me for disturbing you, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I am searching for Mrs Burke-Jones with a very urgent message.’

‘I am Mrs Burke-Jones,’ she said, stepping forward and
growing pale. ‘What is amiss? Is it about my son Edmund?’

‘No, madam, it does not concern your son,’ he said. ‘Step this way, please, I must speak with you alone.’

They departed, and our group remained silent with dismay. After some minutes, Mr Morrison left the box, saying, ‘I shall go and see if everything is all right.’

Not five minutes passed before he returned. He opened the door, and his face bore a strange, hard look. Turning to Emily, he broke the bad news directly.

‘I am afraid it is about your father, Emily,’ he said almost sternly. ‘He is dead. He died yesterday in a boating accident, together with … with Mademoiselle Martin.’

‘Dead! Daddy’s dead! Oh, I never saw him again, and I waited so long,’ she wailed heart-rendingly. Then, glancing about her with a look of panic, she suddenly cried ‘I must see Mother!’ She rushed out of the stall, followed by her uncle, who caught her arm and led her away firmly.

I remained alone with Mr Weatherburn.

‘How dreadful,’ I said, ‘I had believed that her father was already dead.’

‘No,’ he replied softly. ‘He left several years ago. I believe – no, I know, that he left with the young French girl who was Emily’s governess at the time. They had a child very shortly afterwards, and went to live in France, as it was nearly impossible for them to remain together in England.’

‘I begin to understand,’ I said, thinking back over some things that had been said or alluded to in Emily’s house, which I had not really noticed at the time. ‘How difficult it must have been for Mrs Burke-Jones.’

‘I can imagine it was desperately difficult,’ he said, ‘although I did not know the family then. I know that she asked Morrison to leave his college rooms and come to live in her house at that time, and all in all I believe the arrangement suited him capitally. He really is a family man, and loves children.’

The lights darkened, as the play was about to resume. Mr Weatherburn arose, and offered me his arm.

‘I do not believe we shall stay for the second half, after what has happened,’ he said. ‘It is awkward, one does not want to intrude on the family, nor to seem to abandon them.’

The entire audience had by now returned to its seats, and the hall remained nearly empty, so that we soon spotted the small group formed by Mr Morrison, his sister and her daughter, together with the bearer of ill-tidings. They seemed to be conversing urgently. We approached somewhat; I felt badly uncomfortable and much in the way, although Mr Weatherburn’s calm presence and the fact that he was in the same situation as I reassured me somewhat. However, seeing us at some distance, Mrs Burke-Jones turned to us and beckoned us to approach.

‘We must return to Cambridge immediately,’ she said, her face extremely pale and rather stern, much like her brother’s. ‘Perhaps you would prefer to remain here and return independently?’

It was naturally unthinkable. I tried to imagine Mrs Fitzwilliam’s face if I returned alone with Mr Weatherburn from London, late at night. Besides, I believe no one had any stomach for the play after what had happened.

We spent the entire way back to Cambridge in the dark, in almost complete silence. Once there, it was raining heavily, so we took a hansom and directed it first to Mrs Fitzwilliam’s house. Mr Weatherburn bid Mrs Burke-Jones goodbye in the gentlest tones, and descended from the hansom, where he waited below to help me alight. But Mrs Burke-Jones caught my hand in hers before I could descend.

‘I travel to France tomorrow,’ she told me. ‘My brother will accompany me, and Emily insists on coming also, although I am not sure it is for the best. Please excuse her if you do not see her in lessons on Monday or Tuesday. We will return as soon as our business in France is concluded.’

She spoke with dignity, but Emily burst out uncontrollably. ‘Oh, Mother – how can you call it “business”! Oh, Miss Duncan, Father left a little boy there, in France, and he is an orphan now – he has no place to go!’