It Ends With Revelations

  ‘Well, I think I told you we married young. There was nothing to stop us; a fair amount of money on both sides, Sylvia’s father – her mother was dead – was all for it, and my grand mother, the only relative I was closely in touch with, approved of early marriages. Incidentally, after meeting Sylvia and being charming to her, she left us alone as she didn’t believe any young married woman would want to see much of a grand-mother-in-law; I think she only came twice to our London flat – where we lived very comfortably, looked after by Mary Simmonds, the woman who’s still with us. She’d been with Sylvia’s family for years. As you know from that photograph at Hallows, Sylvia was very fragile-looking but she seemed perfectly healthy, and normal in every way. After a couple of months she began drinking perhaps a little more than I cared to see, but a few weeks later she became pregnant and went off drink altogether, so I never gave the matter another thought. Well, Julian was born and she was the most enchanting mother, nursing him herself and utterly absorbed in him – in fact, I was a bit out in the cold, but I didn’t mind too much as I was working very hard. She was anxious to have another child soon, said she wanted a girl, and I’d nothing against it, so Robin was born before Julian was two. Again, Sylvia was a devoted mother; and poor Julian, like me, was out in the cold. But Mary Simmonds looked after him and I thought things would straighten themselves out once Robin grew beyond the baby stage. I also thought that two children would be enough – for the present, anyway – and Sylvia’s doctor agreed with me. He said there was nothing really wrong with her, but she wasn’t particularly strong. She didn’t seem to hanker for more children but she did – rather vaguely – dislike the idea of any form of contraception. Eventually she asked me to leave it to her and not mention the matter again or she thought it would put her off making love. I did as she asked and in no time at all she was pregnant again. I just accepted it but after Kit was born I took care of things – not that I’d much occasion to, as Sylvia was completely absorbed in Kit. Robin had now joined Julian and me in outer darkness. I put in all my spare time trying to console them.’

  ‘Was she actually unkind to them?’

  ‘She snapped at them, and sometimes doled out slaps. I remember my grandmother, on one of her rare visits, saying, “She’s like a mother cat whose half-grown kittens hang around when she’s got new ones,” – but she said it quite affectionately. And she thought things might be better if we weren’t so on top of each other, so she bought a long lease on the Westminster house, and found us an admirable Nanny, because Mary Simmonds couldn’t possibly run the house, look after Julian and Robin, and wait hand and foot on Sylvia – who soon decided she loathed the house and that the Nanny was trying to take Kit from her. By then I’d realized I was married to a neurotic but there didn’t seem anything I could do – her doctor said a psychiatrist would upset her and she just needed patience. And things weren’t quite as bad as they may sound. Mary Simmonds looked after her and Kit, and the Nanny looked after the other two children.’

  ‘And who looked after you?’

  ‘Oh, Mary gave me breakfast and sometimes a meal at night. And I was tearingly busy. One just lived from day to day – until Kit stopped being a real baby. Then there was a wild flare-up. Sylvia said she couldn’t stand the house or the Nanny a moment longer. She wanted to take the children and Mary, and spend the summer with her father at Hallows. Well, that seemed all right. I didn’t know her father well but I quite liked him – I hadn’t the faintest idea he drank – and there’d be some local help so Mary could concentrate on the children; and I’d come down every weekend. Actually, I only went one weekend. Sylvia put me off twice, made some quite convincing excuse about having decorators in the house and there being nowhere for me to sleep – she said she was sleeping with the children. Then I couldn’t go one weekend – I was doing a rush job on my first really important case. So I hadn’t seen them for nearly a month when I got a postcard, written in block capitals, from Julian, who’d been bright enough to send it to the hotel I’d moved to. All it said was: PLEASE COME QUICK. I got it in the middle of the week but, by the grace of God, didn’t have to be in court that day, so I could drive straight down. I tried to telephone but was told the telephone was out of order.’

  ‘Were you terribly worried?’

  ‘Not too desperately. I’d telephoned at the weekend and been told by Mary that all was well except that Sylvia had a cold and didn’t want to talk. I took it for granted that someone would ring me up if anything was seriously wrong and I imagined that Master Julian, who was then rising six, was bored. However, I got there as fast as I could. I found the three children sitting on the doorstep, simply waiting for me. They rushed at me and the girls burst into tears. Julian remained calm. He said – and even at six he could speak with hauteur – “It may interest you to know that our mother and our grandfather are drunk, and Mary is down in the village burying her father.” He then pointed to a shocking bruise on his forehead and said, “So sorry to worry you but I feared one of us might get murdered.” I believe those were his exact words.’

  Jill, too, could believe it, and pictured Julian as an icy child of six. She said, ‘Oh, God, how awful for you, Geoffrey.’

  ‘At first I didn’t realize how awful – oh, I knew something must be very wrong but I thought Julian must mean “ill”, not “drunk”; I didn’t think he knew what “drunk” meant. Anyway, I comforted the girls and then went into the house. Julian came with me; the girls hung back. I went first to the old man’s study – he was, by the way, an old man; he’d been nearly fifty when Sylvia was born. I found him heavily asleep on a sofa and there was plenty of evidence that it was a drunken sleep all right. Then I went upstairs. Sylvia was in bed with her eyes closed, looking terribly frail. I felt sure hers really was a case of illness – until she opened her eyes and said thickly, “Well, fancy seeing you! Just go away and take the bloody children with you.” And then she closed her eyes again. Even then I couldn’t quite take it in that she was drunk. I asked her what was wrong and went on and on questioning her. She took no notice. Then Julian, with a sort of precocious showmanship, waved his hand towards some brandy bottles and said, “I told you.”’

  ‘And you’d never seen her drunk before?’

  ‘Never. And except during the first few months of our marriage I’d hardly seen her drink anything alcoholic at all. I was so bewildered that I was barely capable of thought, but I knew I must get the children away. So I asked Julian if there was anyone who could pack some of their clothes. He said not until Mary came back but he and I could make a start and the girls could help – he thought they’d be willing to come upstairs if I’d see them safely past their mother’s door. So we got them up. Even at four, Robin was clothes conscious and very sensible about what they’d need. I told them I hoped to take them to my grandmother but I’d have to ring up first and the telephone was out of order. Julian said, “It’s just that Grandfather won’t let it ring when he’s like this. I’ll show you.” So we went down to the study and I found the old man had taken the receiver off. He never even stirred while I was telephoning though I had a bad line and had to shout. Mercifully, my grandmother said, “Stop trying to explain. You want me to take the children and I will – as soon as you can get them here. That’s all we need to say now.” Marvellous woman. Just as I came out of the study Mary Simmonds came bicycling back from her father’s funeral.’

  ‘She really had been to it?’

  ‘Oh, lord, yes. And one way and another she was in a state bordering on collapse. But I did get some truth out of her. She said Sylvia had had drinking bouts even in her teens but there’d been none since her marriage, until she came down to her father. Even then, there’d been nothing serious to begin with. Sylvia had kept on pulling herself together. Mary swore only the last bout had been really bad. I asked why she hadn’t let me know and she said Sylvia had forbidden it – and anyway, Mary had thought I’d be down the next weekend. And then her father had died suddenly. Of course she ou
ghtn’t to have left the children but it was no use reviling her; she was sick with guilt and misery – in fact, she rushed away to be physically sick. After that, she helped to finish the packing. I told her I’d get back as soon as I could, probably late that night, and then I drove the children off to my grandmother’s. At least I knew Mary would look after Sylvia.’

  He paused for a moment, and Jill visualized the arrival at one of the tall houses in Queen’s Crescent. She said, ‘It’s a comfort to think of the children safely out of Hallows.’

  ‘That most unhallowed house – though I feel more kindly towards it, now I can think of you there.’

  They smiled at each other. Then, still unemotionally, he went on.

  ‘Well, I didn’t get back until nearly midnight. Poor Mary was waiting up for me. She said she’d got the old man to bed, and Sylvia was asleep, and I’d better sleep in a spare room and not talk to her until the morning. I tried to get some more facts but didn’t have much luck. I can only remember Mary saying, “It’s not her fault. She got it from her dad – it’s in the blood. Everyone round here knows.”’

  ‘What did your wife say when you talked to her?’

  ‘She insisted it was just a freak thing and wouldn’t happen again. But she wouldn’t come back to London with me, said she must stay with her father as he was seriously ill. So he was; a month later he went into a nursing home where he died. She still wouldn’t come back to London and when I went down for weekends she was antagonistic; said I got on her nerves. But there was nothing to indicate she was drinking. Then Mary rang up to say she was as bad as ever. And that’s how it went on. She’d be all right for a while and then break out again; only the periods between the outbreaks got shorter. And she wouldn’t cooperate, see doctors or psychiatrists. I tried taking them down as if they were ordinary guests, but she always found out and locked herself up.’

  ‘Did you go on loving her?’

  ‘I don’t believe I felt any genuine love for her after that day I found the children huddled on the doorstep. But of course I felt completely responsible for her and there were times when I did greatly pity her. There was one particular occasion, when she’d been at Hallows about two years. She’d just recovered from one of her worst bouts and, for once, she’d been apologetic. After I was back in London I got a little scrawl from her saying, “Sorry, sorry, sorry. God, I wish I was dead.” I felt I must make some new effort to cure her and I wondered if it would help if she had another child. You see, she’d never drunk while she was pregnant or feeding a baby. No one I’d consulted had been able to say if that was due to will power or just to revulsion from alcohol, and it was far from certain if it would work again. Also I was none too sure she was fit to have another child; not to mention that she’d shown no willingness to sleep with me – but I thought that might be because she guessed I’d no desire for it. Anyway, I decided I’d at least discuss the idea with her while she was in her present mood and – well, try to be a bit lover-like, ask her for love. It wouldn’t have been too hard, because I felt so much pity that it almost amounted to a return of love. Well, once I’d made up my mind I drove straight back to Hallows. Mary stopped me in the hall and said Sylvia was out walking, and why didn’t I go to meet her? I was just about to when I heard Sylvia’s voice upstairs and then I heard a man’s voice. After that, I got the facts out of Mary. There’d been men for most of the time Sylvia had been at Hallows – even local tradesmen. By the way, the girls know nothing of this side of their mother’s troubles.’

  Jill nodded acceptance. There was no point in undeceiving him.

  ‘I just drove back to London. And I never again considered sleeping with her. I didn’t feel I could divorce her, and if she’d had a child I hope I’d have treated it as my own; but I wasn’t going to risk not knowing if it was my child or some other man’s. Mercifully, she never did have another child. Well, that’s about all, really. I went on seeing her and even took the children. She wanted them sometimes but not for long; and their visits were apt to prove disastrous. Eventually, Kit refused to go near her. The outbreaks of drinking finally led to a long, fatal illness.’

  ‘How many years did it all last?’

  ‘From the day I found out to the day of her death it was eleven years. Her doctors – of course, long before the end I’d had to force doctors on her – couldn’t understand how she could go on and on, especially as she showed no desire to live. Well, now you know – enough, anyway.’

  She said briskly, ‘I certainly know enough to be sure you weren’t to blame. And I can’t believe you think you were.’

  He smiled. ‘How I admire that brisk, matter-of-fact tone. I hadn’t realized you and Kit had so much in common. Oh, I’ll admit I behaved reasonably well during those ghastly years. My crime was in ever marrying Sylvia, in ever believing we could make each other happy. She was an incredibly silly girl – and I knew it and didn’t think it mattered. My God, I must have been a patronizing young bastard. How bored she must have been, with me, my clever-clever legal friends, even with her own highly intelligent children. She wanted to escape from the lot of us. If I drove her to drink it was just by being myself. Perhaps you’re right to be frightened of me.’

  ‘But I’m not, any more … and I never was, really. I see now that I was only frightened for you – and I still am. Oh, Geoffrey –!’ She broke off, suddenly knowing that she did not want to say what she ought to say, did not any longer want to put him off. Sometime during his unemotional narrative she had realized that he was quite as vulnerable as Miles, and it was as hard to think of denying him anything as it was hard to think of hurting Miles.

  He came and sat beside her. ‘Why are you frightened for me?’

  ‘Because you’re trying to make the same mistake again. Compared with you, I’m as silly as she was.’

  ‘You’re not silly.’

  ‘Unsuitable, anyway. And so utterly limited in outlook. The theatre’s such a self-absorbed world. But I’ve told you, I’ve told you from the beginning.’

  ‘And I’ve told you it doesn’t matter. Though if you do want to widen your interests my children are panting to help you. And now, please, could we just sit quietly, not talk, not make love, just be together?’

  He put his arm round her and she leaned against his shoulder. And after a few minutes she gave a little sigh of absolutely peaceful pleasure.

  Little Letter from Cyril

  She had intended to tell Miles of Geoffrey’s visit, very casually, during supper. But she found that Frank Ashton and the play’s young author had been invited to join them, so the conversation was devoted to cheering playwright and impresario up. As Frank Ashton had plenty more money to lose and the author had already sold a new play for television, Jill did not feel too harrowed. But when it struck her that but for the recently dead play’s production at the Spa Street theatre she would never have met Geoffrey, she felt a sudden fondness and regret for it, though this did not prevent her from being bored by the long suppertime postmortem.

  In the taxi, on the way back to the flat, she mentally rehearsed various casual mentions of Geoffrey’s visit but spoke none of them aloud. Only when she entered the sitting room and came face to face with the little urn of flowers did she manage to get out, ‘Oh, look what the Thornton girls sent me. Geoffrey brought it round this afternoon.’

  Miles, having said it was charming, appeared to be gazing at it with extreme concentration for so long that she feared he might be wondering why the girls couldn’t have brought it themselves. Then he spoke, and she realized that his concentration had really been on the travel brochures, which were close to the flowers, for what he said was, ‘Jill, would you very much mind if I went abroad on my own?’

  Of all the unexpected miracles! It was hard to keep intense relief out of her tone, to sound merely kind and unresentful. ‘Of course I wouldn’t, darling. I think it’s a very good idea – more of a change for you.’

  But who was going to constitute the change? She had seen
no indication that he was interested in any young man. But one had to face the fact that it could be just a chance acquaintance. Her job now was one she was accustomed to: she must show no curiosity and yet somehow demonstrate a warm friendliness which would encourage him to talk, if he wanted to. But he obviously didn’t for he merely said, ‘Bless you for being so understanding. Let’s get to bed. I’m dog tired.’

  She did not even ask when he would go, but a few moments later he said, ‘I’ll probably be off tomorrow.’ She could hardly believe her luck – to be free to think her own thoughts, free to be with Geoffrey and the girls! And the fact that he was launching into an affair made her feel less guilty – though so great was her affection for him that she almost wanted to warn him, to cry out, ‘Don’t make it easier for me.’

  While sitting with Geoffrey in the twilight she had remembered the television play she had undertaken to report on. (Miles seemed to have forgotten all about it.) Geoffrey had watched it with her and they had enjoyed it, though she guessed their enjoyment had been largely due to the shared occasion and the pleasure of exploring each other’s opinions. It hadn’t really been a good play and they had both of them disapproved of a noble and mawkish husband in a wheelchair. But she had provoked Geoffrey to delighted laughter by suddenly declaring, ‘Though if you were paralyzed from the waist down, I’d still want to spend my life with you.’ In view of which, he could not have been particularly worried that she still had not, in so many words, promised to marry him. But she had – more or less – undertaken to tell Miles, ‘very soon, just give me a few days.’ Ought she to tell him before he left for the Continent? No, she couldn’t face it. And perhaps he might be at the beginning of some grand, consoling romance, so that it would be easy to tell him when he got back. But she knew only too well that he always returned from such trips more devoted to her, more dependent on her, than ever.