Passing On

  Phil, sidestepping neatly, said in conversational tones, ‘I s’pose Edward’ll be going back to work soon. I should think he’s a really good teacher. Not like ours. There’s some horrible blokes at our school.’

  Helen was silent; she had forgotten until that moment about Croxford House. Yes, Edward would be going back next week, presumably. A further complication. Or perhaps a blessing.

  Phil, through a mouthful of toast, said indistinctly and in an offhand tone, ‘What did mum want, then?’ Helen looked across the table at him and his eyes met hers. To her amazement, her mother looked at her for an instant out of Phil’s face: a curve of the nostril, something about the set of the mouth. Then it was gone: Phil was not really like his grandmother at all — he resembled his father, had his hair, his build. But even so …

  Well, thought Helen, well, well; genes, hurtling through body after body, willy-nilly, set on a course of their own.

  ‘She just wanted to know how you are. Naturally. She’s your

  mother. Mothers — most mothers — are like that. And she’s missing you.’ This piece of poetic license was not only justified but expedient, Helen decided.

  Phil stared at her. The five-year-old peeked again out of his eyes. ‘You think so?’

  ‘I do,’ said Helen firmly.

  Phil took another slice of toast and appeared to reflect. After a few moments he remarked that he would give Louise a buzz this evening.

  The rain continued to fall. Phil vanished to his room, from which came the muffled rhythmic thump that passed for music.

  Edward also remained upstairs. Helen sat for a while in the kitchen and watched the rain. It drove across the garden in white curtains. If it had rained yesterday Gary Paget would not have come; what happened would not have happened. Thus does the world dispose. Except, Helen thought, that it would probably have happened at some other point, or differently and maybe worse — it was part of a programme whose flexibility is maverick and unpredictable. She thought again of genes, simmering away in the body like invisible volcanoes, harbouring intelligence and irascibility and shape of nose and the tendency to particular diseases.

  It will pass. It may pass without further ado. Leaving damage but not destruction. She wandered into the sitting room where rain still lashed the windows. The dark mass of the Britches heaved and shuddered. From time to time rooks were shaken from it and rowed desperately across the slate-grey stormy sky.

  Helen returned to the kitchen, made a fresh pot of tea and some more toast and put them on a tray which she carried up to Edward’s room.

  ‘I’ve brought you some breakfast.’

  He opened the door. He was dressed but unshaven. ‘I’m not ‘!know you’re not ill.’

  ‘I’m just not hungry.’

  Helen marched into the room and put the tray down on the table. ‘I daresay you’re not. Neither was I. But it helps to keep up the blood sugar level. I read it in a magazine.’

  ‘It’s just that I dislike myself so much,’ said Edward in a blank tone.

  ‘Then you shouldn’t. Nobody else does. You’re about the least dislikeable person I know.’

  Edward shrugged. He seemed about to say something else, and then sat down.

  ‘Thanks, anyway. I’ll have some tea.’

  Helen stood for a moment at the door. ‘Look … things have to go on. It’s the only way. This isn’t the end of the world. It seems appalling to you — to us — because of the way we live.

  Have lived. If you’d lived differently … What I mean to say is that most people who — feel like you — live perfectly ordinary happy lives.’ She stopped, floundering. Better shut up than utter such banalities.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Edward. ‘Nice for them.’

  ‘I mean that you don’t have to feel all this guilt, Edward. All that happened is that you touched . .

  ‘Please go away,’ said Edward, in tones of the utmost courtesy.

  She returned to the kitchen and washed up, violently. As she did so she saw that the leaden clouds had split and were tipping away; crevasses of pale blue appeared, infused here and there with the suggestion of sunlight. The rain stopped; the garden began to glitter; a blackbird patrolled the grass, head cocked. She could hear Ron Paget’s yard, which had been silent, start into life: the chainsaw, a lorry revving up. Tam whined to go out; he chased away the blackbird and completed a bossily investigative circuit of the garden. Helen felt a flicker of the spirit, a momentary reviving uplift. We just have to get through all this, she thought. Time has to pass, for both of us. The world must turn.

  Phil appeared. ‘It’s not raining now. Where d’you say that mower was?’

  ‘In the shed. But I should wait till after lunch — you can’t do it when the grass is still sopping wet.’

  They had eaten together, the three of them — Helen and Edward perfunctorily, Phil with zest. Then Phil had bustled off to the

  garden shed, had returned demanding an oil can, disappeared again. Edward had said, with an effort, ‘Sorry. It’s just that I …”Forget it,’ Helen said. ‘It doesn’t matter. You know, Phil grows on one in the most unexpected way. But I am beginning to wonder how much longer he intends to stay here.’ Edward nodded uncomprehendingly, back in his private prison; he went upstairs again.

  Three minutes later Helen heard a step on the garden path.

  She stiffened. Not Phil — Phil could be seen on the lawn, wrestling with the old hand mower.

  There was a knock at the door. She stood for a few seconds, gathering herself, then opened it. Ron Paget. Of course. He was wearing a suit, she saw at once, not the usual jeans and anorak; this seemed, as no doubt it was intended to be, indefinably threatening.

  ‘I’d like to come in for a few minutes, Miss Glover. I think you’ll know what I’m here about.’

  She held the door open for him, closed it.

  ‘You’re on your own. I’m glad of that. I wouldn’t like to answer for myself if I were face to face with your brother just at the moment. You do know what I’m talking about, Miss Glover?’

  ‘I know that something happened with Gary yesterday,’ said Helen. ‘And I know too that whatever it was my brother is deeply distressed and sorry.’

  Ron drew in his breath sharply. Then he shook his head. ‘Oh dear, dearie me. That won’t do. That won’t do at all. This is a bad business. Being sorry isn’t going to do, is it, Miss Glover?’

  So this is how it is to be, she thought: extract the last ounce of blood. ‘Mr Paget, my brother would make no excuses, and neither would I, all I can say is . .

  Ron pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘You know what your brother did, Miss Glover. He groped him. Not to put too fine a point on it. Know what I mean? Made a grab at his goolies.’ He watched her. ‘No point in being mealy-mouthed, is there? We’re both grown-up people.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Helen. ‘I gathered that was what had happened.’

  ‘The lad’s fourteen. Your brother’s illegal, apart from anything else. I could go to the police.’

  ‘You could indeed. And if that’s what you want to do then I have no doubt that you will.’

  Ron spread his hands. ‘Now look — have I said that’s what I want to do? We’ve been neighbours for a long time, haven’t we?

  I’m as upset about this as you are. But I’ve got my boy to think of.’

  ‘Nothing like this will happen again, that’s out of the question,’ she said. Unwisely.

  He pounced. ‘It’s not what might happen, is it? It’s what’s already happened. But I’m going to look at things reasonably, Miss Glover. I want to behave in a neighbourly way. Right? Do you a good turn — you and your brother. And you may well feel you want to show you’re a bit grateful.’

  There was a short silence. ‘I’m not sure that I understand,’

  Helen said.

  ‘You might want to do a bit of business over that waste ground of yours.’

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ she said slowly. ‘Are yo
u saying that if we sell you the Britches you won’t go to the police about Edward?’

  Ron’s expression was that of a man being offered suspect goods. ‘You’re tying things up, Miss Glover. Nothing’s ever that cut and dried. I’m saying that we can help each other out. I don’t want to see your brother dragged through the courts any more than you do.’

  Helen stared at him for a few moments in incredulity. Of course. One should have thought of it oneself. It even inspired a perverse kind of awe. Eventually, she could speak. ‘What my brother did was wrong. Whatever it was he did. Gary is not much more than a child and it is wrong to make sexual overtures to children. But what you are doing is wrong also. Quite differently wrong. You are attempting blackmail. How do you justify that?’

  ‘Oh come on, Miss Glover,’ said Ron. ‘That’s strong language, that is. What I’m suggesting is an arrangement between ourselves, for mutual convenience.’

  ‘That is not how I see it,’ she replied coldly.

  ‘I mean, if I was to do the right thing, I’d be reporting your

  brother to the police straight off. But I’ve got some sympathy for the both of you. I’m prepared to … well, to turn a blind eye.

  I’ll take your word for it there’ll be no more. I have to think of the boy, right? I’ll do you a favour and you do me one.’

  ‘Paternal concern seems to be being overridden now by other considerations,’ she retorted. ‘I find myself getting quite interested in this. I wonder who is to decide the price for which we sell you the wood. I imagine it will be you?’

  Ron eyed her. Unpleasantly. Gone now was the look of pained indignation. He rose. ‘I’m sorry you’re taking this line, Miss Glover. You’re making a big mistake. I don’t see how I’ve any choice left but to . .

  ‘You’ll have to act according to your principles, won’t you?’

  snapped Helen. ‘As indeed we all do. And now please go.’

  Ron walked to the door. He turned, looked full at her and shook his head. The expression of regret and moral outrage had been recovered. ‘It’s up to you, Miss Glover. And your brother.

  I’d talk it over with him if I was you.’ He went. She heard him go down the path. From the lawn came the sound of the mower; Phil’s cockatoo crest could be seen, bobbing up and down above the shrubbery as he heaved the machine through the long grass.

  And now Edward was coming down the stairs. She turned to face him.

  ‘That was Ron Paget, wasn’t it? I’ve just seen him out of the window. Why didn’t you tell me he was here, Helen?’

  ‘There was no point.’

  ‘What happened was my fault, not yours. Why should you have to see him? You should have called me.’

  ‘There was no point,’ she repeated.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Oh …’ She turned away. ‘He was being offensive. What you’d expect. I said you were distressed and … sorry.’ She could not look at him.

  ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘Nothing much else.’

  ‘What else, Helen?’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I suppose you’ve got to know. He threatened to go to the police. And he tried to blackmail us. If

  we sell him the Britches he’ll … do nothing. I said he’ll have to… do whatever he intends to do.’

  Edward stood there. ‘Yes. I do have to know.’

  Phil appeared at the window. ‘S’a stupid thing, this. It don’

  work properly. You can’t do a good job with it. Why don’ we get a real one, with an engine?’

  FOURTEEN

  So now we simply sit and wait, Helen thought. The whole process will now begin, in its own time. There is nothing to be done, no decision to be made, no course of action to adopt — which is a curious sort of relief. It will happen; the worst part will be not knowing in exactly what way, or how quickly. Or what, precisely, the outcome will be. Will Edward lose his job?

  That is a possibility that has to be faced. If he does, it will not be easy to get another teaching position, and if he does not teach what else is he to do? Fifty-year-olds are not readily employable.

  There will be sympathy — and those inclined to sympathy may well include that scatty headmistress and her board of governors.

  They may decide to close ranks. But there will also be condemnation, now and for ever. There will be the averted eyes, the muttering. Down in these parts, there is neither the anonymity nor the tolerance of metropolitan life. Edward is visible, and will be watched with interest, and judged.

  ‘He rang,’ said Louise. ‘As no doubt you’ve gathered. I could hardly believe my ears. “That you, Mum? How’s things, then?”

  First civil word I’ve had in months. What on earth have you been doing to him? We talked. We actually talked for about five minutes. It could be called a chat. We chatted. This is communication, I kept saying to myself. Real, person to person stuff.

  Nothing much was said, mind. All strictly neutral. I didn’t dare raise the question of coming home. Or school. One step at a time, I thought. I felt quite weepy afterwards, I don’t mind telling you. And furious, as well. The way they can do what they damn well like with you. Because all the cards are stacked

  their way. Parents haven’t a hope. Well, they’ll find out. Their turn will come. Though frankly the notion of Phil as… But it’s all in the scheme of things. Even Phil, I daresay. Breed, and be damned. Well, no, not damned but deprived of free will. Watch yourself join the animals. Except that of course for them there’s an end to it. Get the offspring fledged or self-supporting and then they’re shot of them. Ready to start all over again. The extra bonus for the human race is that it’s for ever. That’s the price of intelligence. Intelligence plus instinct is a wicked refinement.

  You’re nailed. Hooked. Strung up and crucified. Not a thing you can do about it. Reason suggests one thing, and the body rages for another. Reason, frankly, told me not to get involved in the first place. And then the day I realised I was pregnant I was on cloud nine. And now listen to me. No, on second thoughts, don’t. I’m hours late for the office already.

  Anyway, he rang. We’ll talk again soon, Helen. Everything O.K.

  with you? I must fly.’

  We wait. It is just possible, of course, that nothing will happen.

  That Ron Paget will decide that the whole thing is too much trouble, or that the glare of publicity might be distressing for Gary, or that he might be stricken with charitable feelings. It is possible, but unlikely, I’m afraid.

  She continued with her work on the bathroom. It did not occupy the mind, but it passed the time. She finished washing the walls, moved the medicine cabinet, its contents, and all other small items out on to a table on the landing, and prepared the room for painting. There was a tin of emulsion in the cloakroom which would do — left over from some distant and abandoned project. She fended off Phil’s enthusiastic offers of help. Edward emerged from his room, glanced vacantly at her and walked past.

  She said, ‘We’ll have to use the cloakroom for general purposes till I’m finished.’ He nodded. She saw that he was quite unreachable, and flinched. She had known him like this before: that time long ago, and in the weeks after he left that school in the north. She heard him go downstairs, wander from room to room, and come up again. She said, ‘Were you looking for

  something?’ He shook his head, and went back into his room.

  She had no idea what he might be doing in there; the silence was absolute.

  Half way through the afternoon she realised that she needed white spirit with which to clean paint brushes. The village shop would probably have some. She disliked the prospect of going out, and fought it. I cannot skulk in the’ house for ever, she told herself. Do it now and get it over with. She put on a sweater, picked up her purse and walked out of the front door into the sunshine. A van passed, driven by one of Ron Paget’s men, who lifted a hand in greeting. Helen waved back. She made her way to the shop, bought white spirit, exchanged comments
on the weather with two people, smiled at three more. Ten minutes later she was back in the house. Now Edward has to do it too, she thought. Going upstairs again she saw that the door of his room was open; he was not there. She went down again.

  Phil appeared. ‘I been looking for you. We got a spanner anywhere? I found this old bike in the shed. I thought I might use it, but the seat’s all funny.’

  ‘Where’s Edward?’

  ‘I think he went into the wood.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Helen, relieved. ‘There might be a spanner in the kitchen drawer. Or in that box in the scullery.’ She went back up to the bathroom.

  Phil put his head round the door. ‘I can’t find it, Helen.’

  ‘Edward may have moved it. I seem to remember he was using it the other day. I should go and ask him.’

  ‘O.K. Will do.’

  She selected the largest brush, loaded it with paint, climbed on a chair and set to work on the area above the window. Recharging the brush, she saw Phil cross the lawn and plunge into the Britches. She swept the brush up and down, creating a glossy silken surface; there was a bland and mindless satisfaction about the activity. I should do more of this sort of thing, she thought.

  Outside, a blackbird repeated a snatch of song, then improved it with a final flourish. A wood-pigeon climbed from the Britches and tumbled, clapping its wings — once, twice. Helen got down

  from the stool to stir the paint. She watched the pigeon. Why do they do that? Edward would know.

  There was movement, suddenly, on the track into the wood.

  Phil came bursting out of the shrubbery. Not just Phil — Edward also. But Phil was supporting Edward, dragging him — Edward’s arm was hooked about Phil’s neck, his feet weaving around in some sort of stumbling dance.

  She dropped the brush, ran down the stairs. She met them half way across the lawn.

  ‘Can you get round his other side . . Phil panted. ‘I keep dropping him.’

  They heaved Edward through the french windows and into the sitting room and lowered him into a chair. His head lolled.

  Helen said, ‘Has he hurt himself? What . .