The figures in the picture started moving; curiosity stirred in me again. I would go back to Brandham and find out what had happened after I left.
Defying augury, I took a room at the Maid’s Head, and the next day I recklessly hired a car and drove to my objective.
My memories of the village were very hazy, but even so I shouldn’t have recognized it. The angle of vision makes a difference: I was a foot taller than when I had seen it last, and it seemed many feet lower. A passing motor-car cut off half the height of the houses; I saw a woman standing at an upper window, and her head and shoulders were invisible, the window was so low. The place had changed with all the changes of fifty years—the most changeful half a century in history. I did not even feel a revenant; I felt a stranger. “What will have changed least?” I wondered. The church. To the church I bent my steps, and having reached it I went straight to the transept. There were two new mural tablets.
“Hugh Francis Winlove, Ninth Viscount Trimingham,” I read. “Born Nov. 15th. 1874, died July 6th. 1910.”
So soon! Poor Hugh! His could never have been a good life, I reflected, not in the doctor’s sense. Suddenly I thought of him as a man much younger than I, he who had seemed so much older: a young man of thirty-six, but looking any age; his face too damaged by the hand of man to respond to the kinder surgery of the hand of God. It had never struck me that besides the damage one could see, there might be other damage that one couldn’t.
Requiescat.
Had he ever married? I wondered. The tablet did not record a viscountess. There seemed to be no way of telling. But yes, there was, for here was another tablet, stuck away in the corner.
“Hugh Maudsley Winlove, Tenth Viscount Trimingham. Born Feb. 12th. 1901, killed in action in France June 15th. 1944; also of Alethea, his wife, killed in an air-raid Jan. 16th. 1941.”
If these were facts, then they were very odd facts. Little as I remembered of the circumstances of my departure, I was quite sure that Lord Trimingham was not married when I left; indeed, his engagement to Marian had not yet been made public. How had he contrived to get married and have a son in less than seven months?
That the explanation didn’t dawn on me shows what a deep impression the scene in the outhouse had left on my mind. I could not conceive of Marian going on after it; it was not only worse than death, it was death too: she was rubbed out.
Shaking my head, still puzzled and a little irritated—for I, who had got the better of so many facts, did not like it when facts got the better of me—I sat down in what I thought was the pew I had occupied fifty years before, and found myself, like myself of an earlier date, looking for a memorial to the eleventh Viscount.
But there was none. Had the line died out? Then it occurred to me that the eleventh Viscount might be still alive.
Thinking back to my past, lost self, I remembered how impatient I had always been with the Litany and with Christianity’s general insistence on sin. I did not want to think about it! Since then I had thought about it a great deal, though not in a religious spirit, and not as sin. I was resigned to my lot and sometimes congratulated myself on it; but when I rebelled against its drabness, I knew where the blame lay, and my resentment against Brandham Hall and all its works had hardened into a general grudge against mankind. I did not call them sinners—sin was not among my terms of reference—but I did not like or trust them.
But what of the sense of praise and thankfulness that I had then? What of the song I used to sing with so much gusto (singing was one of the studies I had given up): “My song shall be alway Thy mercy praising”? I would not have sung it now, even if I could have reached the notes. There seemed so little room for praise or thanksgiving in the modern world, and the mercy of God, on which people were all too prone to throw themselves, had been left behind with the Psalms.
In the porch as I came in I saw a notice which said that the church was kept open to visitors partly for the purpose of private prayer; and would the visitor pray for the parish priest, for the congregation committed to his charge, and for the souls of the faithful who had passed away in the hope of a joyful resurrection?
Though my church-going days were over, it seemed ungracious not to comply; and when I came to the souls of the faithful, I did not fail to say a prayer for Hugh, nor for his son and daughter-in-law; and then I remembered Ted, and though I could not be sure that he had been buried in consecrated ground and was eligible for the benefits of prayer, I said a prayer for him too. But still I was not satisfied. I remembered all the persons of our drama and prayed for them, and in the end I even prayed for myself.
I went out of the church uncertain what my next step should be. I had come to Brandham without a definite plan of campaign, but with some vague idea of searching out the oldest inhabitant and asking him or her for information. The pub was the most likely place to find such a person, but it was early still and the pubs would not be open for an hour. Anyhow I do not like pubs and had rarely been inside one.
I stood in the churchyard and looked down on the cricket field. It was mid-May, and they had been mowing it and rolling it and generally putting it in order for the season. Evidently cricket still flourished in Brandham. The pavilion was still there, facing me, and I tried to make out where I had been standing when I made my historic catch, wondering what it felt like to be a cricketer, for cricket was another thing I had been excused when I went back to school.
I turned and made my way down to the village, and as I entered the street I saw a man whose face seemed less unfamiliar to me than the others. He was a young man in the middle twenties, not the sort of person I was looking for; probably he was also a stranger to the place. Certainly he was a stranger to me, and I did not care about talking to strangers. But there was one question he might be able to answer.
He was wearing a sports coat and an old pair of corduroy trousers; his face was closed in thought.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but is there still a Lord Trimingham living at Brandham Hall?”
He looked at me as though he shared my prejudice against strangers, and as though he wanted to be left alone, and yet didn’t want to be left alone.
“There is,” he said rather shortly, “and as a matter of fact I am Lord Trimingham.”
Very much taken aback, I stared at him. I remembered his colouring: it was like a wheat-field, a ripe wheat-field in the month of May.
“You seem surprised,” he said, and his tone suggested that my surprise was uncalled for. “But I live only in a corner of the house—the rest is let to a girls’ school.”
I recovered myself a little. “Oh,” I said, “I didn’t mean that, though I’m glad to know you live there. You see I stayed there many years ago.”
At that his manner changed completely and he said, almost eagerly:
“You stayed there? Then you know the house?”
“I remember parts of it,” I said.
“You stayed there?” he repeated. “When would that be?”
“In your grandfather’s time,” I said.
“My grandfather?” he said, and I saw that he was on his guard again. “You knew my grandfather?”
“Yes,” I said, “your grandfather, the ninth Viscount.” Out of some unsealed chamber of memory the pompous phrase slipped past my tongue. “He was your grandfather, wasn’t he?”
“Of course,” Lord Trimingham said, “of course. I never knew him, I’m afraid: he died before I was born. But I believe he was a charming man, if I may say so of my own relation.”
“You may,” I smiled. “He was a charming man.”
Lord Trimingham had lost a little of his aplomb: it was as though the breath of the May morning had gone out of him. He hesitated and then said:
“And did you also know my grandmother?”
This time it was for me to echo him. “Your grandmother?”
“Yes, she was a Miss Maudsley.”
I took a long breath. “Oh yes,” I said. “I knew her very well. Is she still alive?
”
“She is,” he said, without too much enthusiasm.
“And living where?”
“Here in the village, in a little house that used to belong to an old retainer of the family, called, I think, Nannie Robson. Perhaps you knew her, too?”
“No,” I said, “I never saw her, though I heard about her.… Is your grandmother well?”
“Quite well, except that she’s got rather forgetful lately, like old people do.” He smiled, a tolerant, youthful smile that seemed to relegate her without regret to the category of the old. “Why don’t you call and see her?” he went on. “She’d like to see you, I’m sure. She’s rather lonely. She doesn’t have many visitors.”
The inhibitions of fifty years rose up in me and took control of my face and voice.
“I think I’d better not,” I said, “I’m not sure she would want to see me.”
He looked at me a moment, good manners struggling with curiosity in his face.
“Well,” he said, “it’s for you to say.”
Suddenly I remembered that, Trimingham or no Trimingham, he was much younger than I was and I could claim an older person’s freedom of speech. At the same time I was aware of an Ancient Mariner in me who might be trying his patience.
“Would you,” I asked, “do me a great kindness?”
“Of course,” he said, with a fleeting glance at his wristwatch. “What is it?”
“Would you tell Lady Trimingham that Leo Colston is here and would like to see her?”
“Leo Colston?”
“Yes, that is my name.”
He hesitated. “As a rule I don’t drop in on her,” he said. “I sometimes telephone.… What a boon it is! Was there a telephone here in your day?”
“No,” I replied. “It might have made a great difference if there had been.”
“Yes indeed,” said he. “My grandmother is a great talker, you know; old people sometimes are. But I’ll go if you like. I—” he stopped.
“It would be a great kindness,” I repeated, firmly. “Like you I shouldn’t want to—to take her unawares.” I thought of the last time I had done so.
“Very well,” said he, overcoming an obvious reluctance. “Mr. Leo Colston, was it? You think that she’ll remember the name? She’s rather forgetful.”
“I’m sure she will,” I said. “I’ll wait here for you.”
While he was gone I strolled about the street, searching for some object that would put me visually in line with the past. But nothing clicked. I saw the village hall, a sombre structure of smooth, dark-red brick, which looked incongruous among the glittering, grey flint houses. I ought to have remembered it, for it was the scene of my last public triumph, but I didn’t.
I saw my envoy coming towards me and went to meet him. His face was clouded, and the resemblance between him and Ted was stronger than ever.
“She didn’t remember you at first,” he said, “and then she remembered you very well. She said she would be very pleased to see you. She also asked me if I would give you luncheon, as she can’t: would you like that?”
“Yes,” I replied, “if you would.”
“I should be most happy to,” said he, not looking at all happy, “if you don’t mind taking pot-luck. But she wasn’t sure you’d want to come.”
“Oh, why?” I asked.
“Because of something that had happened long ago. You were only a little boy, she said. She said it wasn’t her fault.”
“Your grandfather used to say,” I said, “that nothing is ever a lady’s fault.”
He gave me a hard look.
“Yes,” I said, “I knew your grandfather extremely well, and you are very like him.”
He changed colour, and I noticed he was standing away from me, as his grandfather had at our last meeting.
“I’m very sorry,” he said, reddening, “if we didn’t treat you well.”
I was touched by the “we” and, remembering his grandfather’s fatal capacity for contrition, I said hastily:
“Oh, you had nothing to do with it. Please don’t give it another thought. Your grandmother—”
“Yes?” he said sombrely.
“Do you often see her?”
“Not very often.”
“Not many people go to see her, you said?”
“Not very many.”
“Did many people go to see her when she was at the Hall?”
He shook his head. “I fancy not very many.”
“Then why does she go on living here?”
“Frankly, I can’t imagine.”
“She was so beautiful,” I said.
“I have often been told so,” he replied. “I don’t quite see it myself.… You know your way to the house?”
I answered, conscious of having said it once before: “No, but I can ask.”
I noticed he didn’t offer to go with me, but he told me how to find the house. “Luncheon about one?” he added, and I promised to be there. I heard the rustle of his corduroy trousers as he walked away. And after a second or two I heard it again. He was coming back.
When he drew level with me he stopped and said, obviously making an effort, but without looking at me:
“Were you the little boy who—?”
“Yes,” I said.
Marian received me in a small, heavily curtained room looking on the street, and below street-level—one went down a step to reach it. She was sitting with her back to the light.
“Mr. Colston,” the maid said.
She rose and held her hand out uncertainly.
“But is this really—?” she began.
“I should have known you,” I said, “but I couldn’t expect you would know me.”
Actually I shouldn’t have known her. Her hair was bluish, her face had lost its roundness, her nose had grown more prominent and hawklike. She was very much made up and had developed a great deal of manner. Only her eyes, faded as they were, had kept their quality, their frosty fire. We talked a little of my journey and of what I had done in life, both subjects that were easily disposed of. For conversational purpose, an ounce of incident is worth a pound of routine progress, and my life had little incident to record. My temporary loss of memory at Brandham Hall had been the last dramatic thing that had happened to me. She went back to that.
“You lost your memory at the beginning,” she said; “I’m losing mine at the end—not really losing it, you know, but not quite remembering what happened yesterday, like poor old Nannie Robson used to. My memory for the past is still quite clear.”
I pounced on this and asked a question or two.
“One at a time,” she said. “One at a time. Marcus, yes, he was killed in the First War, and Denys, too. I forget which went first—Denys, I think. Marcus was your friend, wasn’t he? Yes, of course he was. A round-faced boy—he was Mama’s favourite, and mine too. We were a very devoted family, but Denys was never quite at home in it, if you know what I mean.”
“And your mother?” I prompted her.
She sighed. “Poor Mama! It was a shame, those nervous people! I got over it, I got over it very well. We didn’t have the ball, you know; it had to be cancelled. Your mother came down—I remember her very well, a sweet woman—grey eyes like yours, and brown hair, and a quick way of moving and talking. We had to put her up at the inn. The house was chock-full for the ball, everyone tumbling over each other, you not speaking, Mama screaming out all sorts of Biblical words. It was a nightmare! And then Papa took charge and restored order. By the next day everyone was gone who could go; you stayed until the Monday, I remember, and how you heard about Ted we never knew. Perhaps Henry the footman told you: he was a friend of yours.”
“How did you know I knew?”
“Because one of the few things you said was ‘Why did Ted shoot himself? Wasn’t he a good shot?’ You see at first you thought he shot himself by accident, and a good shot wouldn’t have; you don’t have to be a good shot to shoot yourself. Ted had a weak streak in him like Edward
has.”
“Edward?”
“My grandson. He should have waited till it all blew over, as I did. I knew it would blow over, once I was Lady Trimingham.”
“And Hugh?”
“And me?” she queried, puzzled.
“No,” I said, “Hugh”—I hooted it.
“Oh, Hugh,” she said. “He married me; he didn’t mind what they said. Hugh was as true as steel. He wouldn’t hear a word against me. We held our heads very high. If anyone didn’t want to know us we just ignored them, but everybody did. I was Lady Trimingham, you see. I still am. There isn’t another.”
“What was your daughter-in-law like?” I asked.
“Poor Alethea? Oh, such a dull girl. She had such dreary, stupid parties—I hardly ever went to them. I was living at the Dower House, and people came to me, of course, interesting people, artists and writers, not stuffy country neighbours. There are stuffy people even in Norfolk. My son wasn’t a sporting man, you know, he took after my father—he was the very image of him. But he hadn’t Papa’s drive. Papa was a wonderful man, and Mama was wonderful too—it is something to have had such very exceptional parents.”
“You haven’t told me what happened to your mother,” I reminded her.
“Oh, poor Mama! She couldn’t stay with us, you know, she had to go away, but we often went to see her, and she remembered all about us and was so glad I had married Hugh—she always wanted that, you know. I didn’t really, but I was glad I had, or people might not have been as nice to me as they were.”
“And your father?”
“Oh, Papa lived to be very old, nearly ninety, but he lost interest in the business after Mama left us, and when Marcus and Denys were killed he gave it up. But he often came to see us at the Hall, and when I was living at the Dower House he paid me many visits. We were always a very devoted family, you see.”
“How happy,” I thought, “has my life been compared with hers!” I couldn’t bear to hear much more, and yet I wanted to have the picture fitted in completely.