He felt calmer now, his head clear. Perhaps it was over, and he would simply sleep. Beth was watching him. He smiled at her, and she did not smile back. She said, ‘There’s a secret. But I think I could tell you now, you’re going back.’ Her voice was cool, formal as the letters. ‘I may marry Henry Partington.’
Then he knew that his sister had gone completely from him.
‘John?’
For a moment she looked concerned, wanting his approval.
Henry Partington, a lawyer who played golf with their father, who had looked as he looked now for as long as Hilliard could remember, though he must be only forty-five or -six, who had a son, was long widowed, had been to dinner twice in the past three weeks and talked the way they were all talking here. But Hilliard had not guessed, had seen nothing. How could he have seen? Henry Partington
‘He’s a very good man. He’s so kind. I’ve really grown quite fond of him.’
He tried to take in what she was saying but could not do so, even in the light of the realization that his sister had changed, had altogether gone away from him. Until, suddenly, it became clear. For who else was there for her? They were all away, her old friends, all being killed, there were no prospects. Beth was not beautiful, she was almost twenty-four, and had their father and mother to contend with daily.
He stood up.
‘John – I’m sorry I didn’t tell you but … but I haven’t actually said anything to him yet, I haven’t …’
‘You will.’
‘He thinks very highly of you, John. I’ve often talked to him about you.’
How? What had there been to say? She knew nothing about him now.
‘You’re not offended are you? Because I didn’t tell you?’
His hand rested on the cold china of the door knob. Tomorrow, he was going back, it was all right, nothing else could touch him.
He said, ‘Of course not. You’ve every right to your own secrets.’
‘Not a secret, but … Oh, you know.’
‘Yes.’
She was still sitting up, hugging her arms around her knees. If he came home again, this room would be empty. He tried to picture her in a wide bed with Henry Partington, and because she was no longer the same person for him, it was easy, it seemed entirely fitting.
He said, ‘It’s a good idea. I think you will be perfectly happy.’
‘Oh, John! Yes, you’re right, I will, I know I will. But I did want you to see it, I did want you to think so.’
He smiled, turned the door handle.
‘John – why did you go on to the beach? Was anything the matter?’ She had lowered her voice again, the old conspiracy, not to waken their parents.
‘Is it because you don’t want to go back tomorrow?’
‘No.’
He went back to his room and closed the window, to shut out the scent of the roses, he lay on the top of his bed, fully dressed, waiting for the first, thin light of morning.
His mother said, ‘I shall come with you to the station.’
‘NO!’ But seeing her face, he added more quietly, ‘I think I should prefer to go alone.’
For the truth was that he was leaving early, far too early. He could have caught an afternoon train from Hawton, for he did not have to embark until late that night, which should mean – even allowing for the crowds and the delays and the slowness of travel – not leaving Victoria until evening. But he had been up by seven with everything packed and ready. His room seemed once again as if it no longer belonged to him, the bed stripped, the top of the dressing table empty. He had looked into all the cupboards and drawers, and seen the things his mother had stored away – his school books and the shirts and trousers and socks he wore when he was twelve, the Meccano, the shells and stones he used to collect, cricket photographs: and, in one of his father’s old tobacco tins, the small, bleached bones from the owls’ pellets.
He wanted to be on his way.
‘I didn’t mean to come to London, John. But I would just like to walk with you down to the village, to see you on to the train.’
They were standing far apart from one another in the morning room. Constance Hilliard had her back to him, was looking out through the tall windows on to the lawn, baked and yellowing after the long weeks of summer. His father was becoming obsessive about the state of the lawns, pacing about them each morning and evening, poking with his stick, and holding, bitter, repetitive conversations with Plummet.
Once, his mother’s hair had been butter-coloured, but he could scarcely remember that, she had gone grey very early. Now, the sun made it glint with a curiously artificial light, like something concocted out of wire and floss by a theatrical wigmaker. She was a tall woman, tightly corseted, upright. But not graceful, though she always wore graceful clothes, which flowed and folded about her, she was fondest of silks and cashmere and lawn. Her dress today was of lawn, pale cream, with full sleeves and a high neck, bands of lace.
‘You look as if you were going to a wedding, mother.’ Though in truth she might always have been dressed for some wedding – or garden party or dinner or opera, she was a provincial woman who bought the type of clothes designed for some London society hostess. She said, ‘I do have standards.’ As a boy he had been embarrassed by the grandeur of her costume, when she came to see him at school. They said, ‘Who is she? Who is she?’
‘Hilliard’s mother.’
‘Only Hilliard? Good Lord!’
The sun shone, too, on the round walnut table which stood between them, on the Meissen figurine, and the copy of Blackwood’s and the bowl of roses. Roses.
‘I am dressed to come with you to the railway station.’
He was silent for a moment. Somewhere, around the side of the house. Plummet began to mow the lawn.
‘Look, actually I do have to go fairly soon, mother. I’ve got some things to do in London … shopping … and …’
‘You won’t be staying for luncheon?’
‘I – no. I’d better be off.’
‘Is there anything you like to have in your parcels? Anything in particular? It is so awfully difficult to know. Your father was asking.’
‘Whatever you like. Anything, thank you.’
‘Fruit? Sweets?’
‘Yes.’
‘You used to be fond of muscatels and almonds, as a small boy. Mary will bake you plum cakes, of course, they are so much better than anything we could buy.’
‘I don’t mind what you send, mother. Anything.’
‘Fortnum’s are very reliable, I think? You do get what we ask for? They send out things of good quality?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Now you are to complain, John, if anything is not quite right. We pay enough for the parcels, they should not put in substitutes, or anything which is not of the best.’
‘Mother, the parcels are perfectly all right, don’t go on about things. I’m grateful for whatever you send, that’s all. Don’t trouble.’
‘I like to trouble. That is the least I can do.’
He did not reply. Looking at his mother then, she seemed less of a stranger than she had ever been, almost closer, now, than Beth. He could hardly believe it. She had not changed, she looked no older. There had been no real communication between them since he came home, no more than throughout his life. Yet for this time, he loved her.
He knew little enough about her, however, did not even know tiny, factual things – as, what particular illnesses she had suffered in childhood, where she had first met his father, what she did in the mornings after breakfast, when she shut herself up in her sitting room overlooking the bay and would not see anyone, how much money she had to spend.
Her hands were folded together, palm to palm, in front of her. What kind of a woman? Would he be able to say anything at all about her when he got back to France?
From the bowl on the table in front of him came the terrible scent of roses.
‘I had better go. I really ought to leave quite soon.’
‘Is there a great deal you have to carry?’
‘Oh, no. Anyway, I’ve got used to lugging things about.’
‘Then perhaps we might walk. As it’s such a fine morning. As you are going before it gets too hot. Perhaps we could walk to the railway station?’
No, he thought, no. He wanted to leave Cliff House alone, to turn the bend by the blackthorn hedge and go out of their sight, he wanted to go.
He said, ‘All right, mother. If you feel like it. I’ll get my bags downstairs.’
Constance Hilliard nodded. And went to get ready also, to put on a huge, cream-coloured hat and pin it with pearl-headed pins, to change her shoes and take up the lace parasol, to look like a Queen, walking down the gravelled drive and along the lane and up to the main street of Hawton towards the station.
They said nothing. He saw that people looked at her, and he was no longer embarrassed by her extravagance of dress and her height and her coolness of manner, for he understood, suddenly, that she was obliged to make the best of what she had, here in this dull, restricted neighbourhood, and that she was perhaps unhappy, after all, bored with herself. He saw that she was beautiful.
By the time they reached the station he was sweating inside the heavy uniform, his shirt collar felt tight as iron. It was only a little after ten-thirty and already the sun was high and hot in a silvery sky. The awnings of the ticket office and the waiting room cast hard-edged shadows. On the opposite platform a young woman sat, nursing a child. Nobody else. They walked a little way up, beyond the buildings, towards a bench.
‘Off back then,’ Kemble said – Kemble who had seen the phantom Russian troop trains go through Hawton like thieves in the night, Kemble who remembered all the times he had waited here for a train to go back to school.
‘Kemble is letting this station go,’ Constance Hilliard said firmly, looking about her at the banks on either side of the line, where the grass grew tall and was seeding itself, with poppies and sorrel in between.
‘It always used to be so neat and tidy, we used to be proud of our station, but he seems not to care as he did. His son was killed at Mons. Do you remember Kemble’s boy? Or else he is too old, it has got too much for him.’
And it was true that the paint was flaking off the name sign, there were cracks in the green bench, a few sweet papers and cigarette packets lay as they had been dropped, in corners, to gather the summer’s dust.
‘Perhaps they don’t let him have any money for refurbishments.’
‘It isn’t a question of money. He could take a pride in things.’ She poked at a dandelion, growing up through a crevice in the stone, at her feet. ‘He has let everything go.’
She looked as if she would never let go, would never allow herself to loosen her corset, to have a crease in a dress or a spot of dirt left on her glove. She did not stand still beside him but walked up and down in the sunlight, casting a long, rippling shadow. She might have been nervous. Hilliard saw the young woman with the child watching her, saw Kemble the station master watching her. As he himself watched her. Was she aware of it?
It was very quiet. A pair of cabbage-white butterflies fluttered up and down like tiny kites blown by some breeze. But there was no breeze, no movement of air at all. Sun. Heat. Country silence. The rustle of his mother’s dress as she turned towards him again.
He thought, she has told me that Kemble’s son was killed, at Mons, and has gone on to speak of other things. Does she not know? Does she not think of it?
She said, ‘We look forward to your letters.’
Her skin was hardly lined, it had the moist look of chamois, though there was a tightness about the eyes and throat which revealed her age. He wondered if Beth felt bitter that she did not inherit such beauty, as he did. For he had his mother’s features, though they were arranged less disdainfully, he had the same grey eyes and pale hair and length of limb.
He looked at the gloved hand holding the parasol, at the small, flat ears beneath her hat. Should he say something to her? What would be the truth?
‘I shall not worry over you. I promised myself that when you first went away. Your father says that you will all be home by Christmas, in any case, it will be all over. And there is really no point in one’s worrying or one would simply never stop.’
‘Oh, no. Quite.’
‘There are so many things one could begin to imagine.’
Could they?
‘So many things are possible.’
Yes.
‘So you see, one simply tells oneself not to worry.’
Kemble had come out of his office holding the flag. Across the metals of the rails, the heat shimmered. The girl with the child had not moved, was still watching Constance Hilliard. Nobody else had come. He knew that when he left here he would not be able to believe it would all continue to exist, would go on in the same way, no matter where he himself was, or what happened to him. A small station, ill-kempt, with a ridiculously large clock. Butterflies. Long grass and sorrel. Half a mile away, the sea. Hawton.
‘Really, John, it’s quite like your going off to school, only then there always seemed to be more of a rush and a fuss, you never organized yourself in those days, you always chased about the house and forgot things and made us late. You haven’t forgotten anything today?’
‘I don’t think so.’
He knew that he had not, that there was nothing left of himself at Cliff House, only pieces of a past belonging to some stranger. Everything he had, everything he was, stood on this quiet platform in the sunlight, a tall young man in uniform, who had seen what he had seen, who knew – some belongings packed into a dark valise. Nothing more.
In the distance, the train was coming, very slowly, leaving behind a trail of steam, each puff of which remained separate upon the air.
‘Really, I think I shall have to ask Mr Kemble to ring up for Plummet, it is getting altogether too hot to walk back to Cliff House. I have to lunch with the Callenders and I do so hate getting dusty. But I should get dusty. I should have to change again. Perhaps I am dusty already?’
‘No, mother.’
For she was not. When the train pulled out, he looked back for a long time and saw her tall figure in the huge hat and the cream-coloured skirts, standing motionless in the sun. They did not wave to one another. On the opposite platform the girl sat, holding the child, transfixed by the sight of Constance Hilliard. And the picture of the two of them like that remained in his mind and was thrown up by it every so often, without reason, during the weeks and months that followed, like some painting remembered from a gallery. There were moments when he forgot that it had not, in fact, been a painting, had been real.
The train was almost empty. He put his case up on the rack and unbuttoned his tunic and dozed, watching the parched fields and thick, lustreless trees glide by the window, thinking of nothing, neither past nor future. He had, again, the odd sense of completeness, of holding everything within himself, of detachment.
It was the thirtieth of August.
By three o’clock in the afternoon there was nothing left for him to do. He had been to The Army and Navy Stores and gone slowly from counter to counter buying what he needed, and after that, looking, looking. The war had brought out a fever like that of Christmas among manufacturers and salesmen, there were so many possible things to buy, expressly for the men in France. Hilliard watched people buying them, mothers, aunts, sisters, wives, who had no idea what might be really suitable, who wanted to send something extra, who were misled by the advertisements and the counter staff into ordering useless gifts to be packed up and sent. He saw bullet-proof waistcoats and fingered them in amazement, remembering the bullets, saw leather gauntlets, too stiff and thick and hot, saw ornamental swords and pistols of use only to gamekeepers, saw the shining new metal of entrenching tools and spurs.
But he wanted to buy something then, something that was entirely superfluous, an extravagance, a gift to himself. He moved about among the women and could see nothing, felt a
s he had felt on a day’s outing from school, when the money his father had given him burned a hole in his pocket and he was almost in tears at the frustration of finding nothing he desired to buy.
He spent more than two pounds on a pale cane walking-stick with a round silver knob, and, carrying it out into the sunlit street, felt both foolish and conspicuous, as though he had succumbed to the temptation of some appalling vice. The cane looked so new. At school it had been the worst possible form to have an unblemished leather trunk with bright buckles: the thing had been to kick it, or to drop it several times from luggage van on to station platform. Now, he felt like a soldier who had not yet been to France, because of the cane: people looked at him and he wanted to shout at them, ‘I have been before, I have been and now I am going back. I know.’
There was nothing that he could think of to do. Outside Victoria, crowds of women and soldiers and children gripped hard by the hand. An old woman in a black veil fed the pigeons. The heat was unbearable, striking up from the pavement. He had not eaten and did not want to eat. There were three hours before his train.
And so he went into the shadow of the station, where it was a little cooler, and found a bench and sat, his cases and the cane walking-stick beside him, sat for three hours. At first he bought a paper, and did not read it, bought an orange from a barrow, and did not eat it. Only watched the gleaming trains come in and go out under the vaulted roof and saw, beyond it, the curve of blue sky. He felt nothing, no particular fear or despair.
The world came and went, then, for three hours, inside Victoria station. Men departed for the front and returned from it, and he saw those who came with them to say goodbye, and those who walked in agitation up and down the platforms, waiting, saw partings and greetings, saw the waving and the tears. He thought of his own farewell to his mother, remembered her still figure in the cream-coloured dress. Once or twice he made as if to move, to get up and stretch his legs, go for a drink in the bar, walk outside and take a look at the sky and the pigeons and the taxi-cabs, but in the end he did not, he simply sat, watching.