‘We had a sort of forewarning of Mrs Hogg’s death. Willi Stock and I were on our way to the picnic, with Georgina at the back. …
Women were rather fanciful, of course. Edwin often wondered if there was any truth in the story that Mrs Hogg’s son was miraculously cured. Helena was convinced of it. There had been nothing official on the subject. The man in question had been taken under the wing of a wealthy woman, a Theist or Theosophist, something like that. Anyway, the later news was that he had left that woman’s house and departed for Canada to lecture there about his cure.
‘In spite of which,’ Edwin thought, ‘young Hogarth may be a worthier man than me.
Likewise, when he turned to Baron Stock, he murmured, ‘Miserere mei, Deus.’ The Baron, probably a better man than himself, was having treatment in a private mental home and, according to accounts, loving it. He thought of his brother Ernest, so worldly and yet so short of money and not perhaps really keen on that dancing girl. He forced himself to consider Eleanor … ‘All these people have suffered while I have fattened on fasting.’ He meant what he said, and so truly he was not as limited as he seemed.
And to think of his mother-in-law! He reflected, now, unflinchingly on the question of Louisa Jepp. There again he could not quite grasp … smuggling diamonds, a gang, it sounded like an adventure story. Then there was Louisa’s real folly and it was quite embarrassing. Heroically he forced his mind to that moment in September when, at breakfast, Helena limply passed him a letter. The letter was from Louisa. With it was a press cutting from a local paper. The press cutting was headed ‘Sunset Wedding’. It was a long piece. It began ‘In the sunset of their lives two of the old folks of Ladylees have come together in Holy Matrimony. At All Saints’ on Saturday last, Mrs Louisa Jepp, 78, of Smugglers’ Retreat, Ladylees, gave her hand in marriage to Mr J. G. L. Webster, 77, of the Old Mill, Ladylees… . The bride promised to “obey”… .’ This was followed by a substantial account of Webster and his career in the Merchant Navy, and the column ended, ‘Mrs Jepp (now Webster) has one daughter, Lady Manders, wife of Sir Edwin Manders, head of the famous firm Manders’ Figs in Syrup. The Rev. R. Socket who conducted the ceremony stated, “This is a very happy and unique occasion. Though not a regular churchgoer, Mrs Jepp is a figure much loved and respected in the district.”‘
The accompanying letter was brief. In it Louisa remarked, ‘It is not strictly accurate to say that I am not a regular churchgoer as I go to church regularly on Remembrance Day.—’
‘It isn’t for us to judge her wisdom,’ Helena said glumly.
Edwin stared out at the green quadrangle, the blown leaves. Miserere nobis. . . . Have mercy.
Laurence and Caroline had been high-spirited about Louisa’s marriage. That was to be expected of Laurence. He had always adored his grandmother; and indeed she was charming, indeed.
Edwin wondered if Caroline herself was really interested in marriage.
‘She’s waiting for Laurence to return to the Church,’ Helena said. He wondered. Caroline was an odd sort of Catholic, very little heart for it, all mind.
‘That dreadful experience with poor Georgina in the river hasn’t had any harmful effects on Caroline,’ Helena said. ‘She must have a strong constitution. In fact, since then she’s been much more light-hearted. She seems to be amused by something, I don’t know what.’
Caroline had finished her book about novels. Now she announced she was going away on a long holiday. She was going to write a novel.
‘I don’t call that a holiday,’ said Helena, ‘not if you mean to spend it writing a novel.’
‘This is a holiday of obligation,’ Caroline replied.
‘What is the novel to be about?—’
Caroline answered, ‘Characters in a novel.’
Edwin himself had said, ‘Make it a straight old-fashioned story, no modern mystifications. End with the death of the villain and the marriage of the heroine.’
Caroline laughed and said, ‘Yes, it would end that way.
A few weeks later the character called Laurence Manders was snooping around in Caroline Rose’s flat. She was away in Worcestershire writing her novel, and he had gone to the flat to collect some books which she had asked to be sent to her.
He took his time. In fact, the books were the last things he looked for.
He thought, What am I looking for? and flicked the dresses in her wardrobe.
He found the books that Caroline wanted, but before he left he sat down at Caroline’s desk and wrote her a letter.
I have spent 2 hours 28 mins. in your flat [he wrote] . I have found those books for you, and had a look round. Why did you lock the right-hand drawer in the wall cupboard? I had difficulty in getting it open, and then the hair curlers in one box and the scarves in another, and the white gloves were all I found. I can’t lock it again. I have just found myself wondering what I was looking for.
I found an enormous sheaf of your notes for your novel in the cupboard in that carton marked Keep in a Cool Place. Why did you leave them behind? What’s the point of making notes if you don’t use them while you are writing the book?
Do you want me to send the notes to you?
I wonder if you left them on purpose, so that I should read them?
But I remember your once saying you always made a lot of notes for a book, then never referred to them. I feel very niggled.
I will tell you what I think of your notes:
(1) You misrepresent all of us.
(2) Obviously you are the martyr-figure. ‘Martyrdom by misunderstanding.’ But actually you yourself understand nobody, for instance the Baron, my father, myself, we are martyred by your misunderstanding.
(3) I love you. I think you are hopelessly selfish.
(4) I dislike being a character in your novel. How is it all going to end?
Laurence wrote a long letter, re-read it, then folded and sealed it. He put it in his pocket, stacked away Caroline’s notes in their place in the carton in the cupboard.
The autumn afternoon was darkening as he turned into Hampstead Heath. Religion had so changed Caroline. At one time he had thought it would make life easier for her, and indirectly for himself. ‘You have to be involved personally,’ Caroline had said on one occasion, infuriating him by the know-all assumption of the words. At least, he thought, I am honest; I misunderstand Caroline. His letter had failed to express his objections. He took it out of his pocket and tore it up into small pieces, scattering them over the Heath where the wind bore them away. He saw the bits of paper come to rest, some on the scrubby ground, some among the deep marsh weeds, and one piece on a thorn-bush; and he did not then foresee his later wonder, with a curious rejoicing, how the letter had got into the book.
Muriel Spark, The Comforters
(Series: # )
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