The Convalescent Page 9

  He sat on a rock and saw that he was quite far now from the second hamlet. He had travelled a surprisingly long way. He would just sit here, he thought, not so much surveying the land as attending to it gratefully, resting his eyes, listening to the silence.

  Eventually he walked towards the second hamlet. It had welcomed him before. It welcomed him again now. What he did then he knew to be absurd. A parody of housework.

  Stooping, he began to blow dust off one of the machines, and then, standing back, standing back and taking aim, he flicked at the dust with his handkerchief. Thus occupied, blowing and flicking, he passed about quarter of an hour. It was as if he was just one of many on the farm with a small task to perform.

  Now – as if the last day of summer was to be one of apparitions and riddles – an old lady was coming towards him. First, in the morning, the dust cloud and his terror, now this frail shape, her gait alternately weak and obdurate, tottering and stiff. (Little puffs of white dust, raised with each step she took, seemed to linger, patiently and watchfully, after she had passed.) At first William mistook her for a man, so well-worn were the trousers, so nearly bald the head. And even when he saw her as a woman he could, with just a little effort (as though the marks of gender grow less with age), see her as a man again. Her right hand was pressed to her side, in expectation of pain rather than in pain, her mouth was open, and her eyes had a hollow look, as if in her final years she had given up hope of finding anything agreeable to look upon. And regularly, as at flies or midges, she swept her left hand across her face – a definite movement, very definite. It was its very definiteness, in fact, which made William suspect that it was involuntary, a spasm of old age. Watching her through the binoculars, he wasn’t sure whether what he was seeing was senility momentarily transcended by insight and remembrance, or clarity passingly shadowed by senility.

  He had been dozing, but was now fully awake. (There had been drunken dreams, once, from which it had been difficult to wake, which had set the mood, with some terrible image, for the rest of the day. To realise that this wasn’t one of them was an immense relief.) He was steady, and out of his steadiness he moved towards her, calling out gently, “Hullo! Hullo there! How are you?” She didn’t respond, so he waved, but again she didn’t respond. Oblivious, she came towards him, the definite movement – a kind of swipe – happening every five or six steps. He had time to notice this. Time, also, to notice that her head was set at a strange angle: chin drawn upwards and slightly to the right, as from years of traction. It gave her an air of slightly crazed expectation.

  He saw that he would have to make a joke of it. He placed himself in her path and, when she came up to him, still unseeing, he grasped her quietly by the wrist. It was the hand which had been making the swiping movement and he felt the frustrated spasms.

  “Now then,” he said, “you must be tired. To be out walking on a day like this! It’s too hot even for me, and I’m used to it. Come in. I’ll get you some tea.”

  “How very kind of you,” the old lady said, her voice, as from years of over-scrupulousness, cracked and pedantic. “I’d forgotten about tea. Is it teatime, or have I missed it? Have I missed it?”

  “Our teatimes are movable here,” William said, leading her into the farmhouse. “Don’t worry.”

  She allowed herself to be lowered into a deckchair, watching him closely as he helped her, watching him as he put on the kettle, made tea. Her manner was that of one who, entirely passive, hopes to get by with a kind of ingratiation: now trusting, now grateful, now pensive, now resigned. Faces for all occasions, but whether the faces of vacancy or of rich old age he didn’t know. He discovered a tact and subtlety in himself, however, which he hadn’t known since he had been with his children. He improvised. First he fanned her lightly with a newspaper, then, because she was unable or unwilling to hold the saucer or the cup, he fed her the tea with a spoon. After each mouthful she smiled, or made a movement with her lips which might have struck William as a smile had it not been so unvarying.

  “Was that the gong?” she asked.

  “No, my dear,” William said, sure now that she had wandered from the Montgomery Nursing Home nearby. “You’ve walked a long way, you know. Three miles at least.”

  “I used to love walking,” she said, her eyes clearing, her air briefly that of one affectionately familiar with her past. “But they don’t allow you to walk much there. And some of them can’t walk at all.”

  She had a habit of dropping her voice at the end of her sentences, as though she had long since despaired of being found interesting. Mumbled self-address. It distressed William.

  “Will you stay for a meal with me?” he asked. “You’re very welcome to. Stay till you’re quite rested. I’ve promised myself a ham salad. We can share it.”

  “I know no one now really,” the old lady was saying. “No one really. No dogs either. They don’t allow pets there. Fair enough. I suppose. Can’t have their mess. We’re messy enough.”

  “What time did you set out?” William was standing above her, half believing that if he could ask the right questions in the right spirit she would come to herself again.

  “When did I …? Many years ago. When I was twenty, I think, Or was it eighteen?”

  “Where were you hoping to get to?”

  “The moor used to have the most beautiful views. But I can’t remember which I liked best.”

  She smiled, and William smiled with her, but it was apparent that they weren’t smiling at the same thing – they weren’t smiling in accord – and this too distressed him. It was as if, to relieve him of the need to talk to her (or herself of the need to talk to him), she was beginning to make a show of her forgetfulness.

  “A stupid question,” he said. “I couldn’t tell you what my destination was either. This house; these trees; these fields.”

  “And very lovely too,” the old lady said, yawning. “The trees especially, only one can’t remember if it was the ash or …”

  She fell asleep so suddenly that William wondered if she had taken ill. But her breathing was regular and her face more composed than when she had been awake. Touched that she had fallen asleep here, with him (as if it wasn’t accidental where one fell asleep), and remembering the times when the children had fallen asleep with him (touched by that too), he went from the room and phoned the Weirs.

  Sheila Weir said that she would ring the home and then come over. She also said that she thought she knew the old lady: a Mrs Craig, whose husband had entered the home with her, only to die after just two days.

  William sat in the back of the car with the old lady as Sheila drove to the nursing home. She was distressed now, crying and shaking her head. He held her hand and remarked on the beauty of the countryside. But they were soon at the home, driving up to the front steps, which were set grandly between Corinthian columns.

  At the bottom of the steps, on the gravel, stood the matron, and halfway up two nurses, all three so still they might have been there for some time. They were wearing white uniforms, but in the beautiful evening light these seemed unpleasant, emblems of disease and enclosure. The old lady had to be persuaded by William and Sheila to get out, and, when she did, she went her own way, which was not up the steps, but round the side of the house. One of the nurses, respectful of her distress, followed slowly, the other went inside.

  They were left with the matron who, smiling politely, thanked William for his help, explaining that because the Montgomery was understaffed such escapes were occasionally to be expected. Then, as if suddenly embarrassed by what had happened, she shook their hands and turned away, going rapidly up the steps.

  September 19th, 1978

  I was the one who suggested there should be this annual meeting of educational publishers (it is the third year we have met), and that it should be held in the Lake District. Sometimes I think I just wanted an excuse to come here. It is the same hotel as before, though a little shabbier, I fear, than last year. The proprietor’s wife, ill
when we last saw her, died over the winter, and this has noticeably slowed down the staff. Because of her death (confident, anyway, that things will be back to normal next year), we don’t complain as we surely would have done otherwise: tepid coffee, cold bacon and eggs, sometimes an absence of towels from the bedrooms. The splendour of the setting makes up for it however. The glistening expanse of the lake invades all the rooms which overlook it, turning the light towards crystal, making the air vibrant. On my bedroom ceiling there are movements of light which are also movements of water: exalted refractions. I could watch them for hours.

  I may well be watching them for hours if we have another meeting like the one we had this morning. It was my idea, but it didn’t go well. Perhaps I didn’t put my points across clearly enough; I have long thought, you see, that we ought to do more than just serve the educational establishment. We ought to drop hints, take the initiative, be pioneers. Instead of turning out standard textbooks year after year, we ought to be producing books which, sold to schools and colleges, would shed light, enrich the curriculum, loosen prejudices. A book can have more character than anyone who teaches it. That is the trouble. I often feel that it is the short-term welfare of unformed and insecure minds that determines what books are chosen – and I don’t just mean the minds of the pupils. The young are bored by such choices; they end up by dismissing books altogether. But if we could entice the teacher with new books and new enterprises, if we could persuade them to take risks, then our risks would be justified. We would be a force in education, not just a cog in the wheel of its conservation. We would be helping to draw up the menu, as it were, not just to serve unappetising meals.

  These poetry anthologies, for instance. I have long suspected that those asked to compile them are told what to choose by the headmasters. They are only apparently independent; behind them are the headmasters, with their fond traditional tastes. They are flattered, though, these editors, and well paid and they don’t quite know what is happening. Is it any wonder that the young scorn poetry? In my opinion, we should commission poets directly to compile anthologies. It is with them that we should collaborate, not the headmasters. The headmasters shouldn’t come into it.

  I am told that my view is shaky. It isn’t always the case that the headmasters are responsible for the anthologies. May I not be slightly paranoid in thinking so? Have I not got a thing about the educational establishment? Still respected by my colleagues – though occasionally suspected – I defend myself vigorously. The session ends with me being accused of a fondness for unacceptable risks. I remember a line of poetry and quote it – “Old men should be explorers” – adding that that should go for the middle-aged and the young as well (adding, too, a line of my own, “It is the young we should be serving, not their enemies”). I am hushed, then, made to feel (I quite often am these days) that I am overstating my case, pushing too hard, building up a head of desperate steam. It is perhaps true, but in the face of inertia what is the alternative? The listening face that is not really listening – doesn’t it have to be vexed somehow?

  Over lunch, I am as usual complimented on my drive, my originality. You’d think I was the king of them all, rather than the flawed prince. It never ceases to amaze me how boardroom disapproval, enmity even, can in an unofficial context – the pub, a stroll, an aeroplane – become its opposite – admiration, high respect. I am incapable of this myself; I am all of a piece, the same in the pub as in the boardroom. No wonder I am so popular; I satisfy my colleagues’ need for continuity. I am the peacemaker still. In me the different games with their different rules become the one game (though I’d be hard pressed to explain the rules). What of those who play many games, however, whose behaviour here is contradicted by their behaviour there? Who will tell you on the twelfth tee that schoolmasters should be ignored, but who then, the very next day, write earnest letters to these same creatures? What is one to make of them? If it was a case of hypocrisy I would understand, but I don’t think it is, for hypocrisy involves the condemnation of what one essentially favours, and these people don’t, so far as I can see, essentially favour anything. Where is one to locate them – the bedroom, the boardroom, the golf course, the garden, the church? I am no philosopher, but it sometimes seems to me that the man for all seasons has, not a complex reality, but no reality at all. He is mostly between games (I see hunched figures scuttling across alleyways in the rain) and between games there is nothing. Nor am I any kind of historian, but I’m inclined to think the Scots are worse in this respect than the English. Too long inferior, subordinate, a nation for ever on the verge of becoming itself, we assume whatever forms our masters (whoever they might be) require of us, our endless talk about independence, tradition, nationhood no more than an attempt to persuade ourselves that the reality is otherwise.

  Anyway, tired of their capriciousness, I go for a walk after lunch with Jennifer. She is an editorial assistant who joined us recently. She does her work well, without making any kind of fuss about it. (Why do so many young women make a drama of their jobs?) It might even be said that she does it well without being particularly involved with it. I like this about her. She does it with the air of one looking beyond it. Has she a lover somewhere? Is she hoping to find one? Is she leaving or joining the church? Writing a book? She is very amiable, doing what she’s told, not because she has no ideas of her own but because she doesn’t think that anyone will want to hear them (a justifiable suspicion, I’d say). One reason she likes me is that I am interested. I often ask her what she thinks, and she always smiles, as if honoured that I should ask. To begin with, though, she doesn’t reply, as though uncertain of my sincerity or hoping that her friendly smile will be enough. I prod her however and eventually – with an enthusiasm she occasionally checks – she talks. But we do have a pact: I am never to ask her what she thinks during a meeting. It is to be kept private. I don’t mind; it means, not just that I have an excuse to seek her out, but that, when I do, there will be (as now, strolling by the lake) this delightful sense of isolation.

  I am awed that the still surface of the lake should be able to trap so much light. I ask Jennifer – but casually, as if, really, there are more important things to talk about now – what she thought of my morning performance.

  “You were right, William. Maybe too sweeping, though. Are all headmasters cultural conservatives of the most deadly kind? But what would they do without you? How would they know what they thought without you to contrast themselves with?”

  “True,” I reply. “I am the rock they love to dash themselves against. Like all good rocks, however, I’m on the edge of the cliff.”

  It is time to go back for the afternoon sessions. The subject is mathematics textbooks. I have my opinions on these too, but suddenly, as Jennifer and I go through a wood between the lake and the road, as the sun falls on her hair and on the path, I can’t be bothered. I can’t be bothered. Jennifer cautions me, but I’m resolute. I tell her that I’ll meet her in the bar at five. She hesitates for a moment, then goes off. I admire her walk, as modest and vulnerable as she. She turns once and smiles. I smile back, mimicking the drink we’ll have together at five. It is apparent, however, that she suspects that I’ve had a brainstorm.

  I return to the lake and just stand there. What else can one do in perfect autumn weather before a lake like this except stand? The afternoon sessions do not exist for me. All this light and stillness is an invitation. I am terribly excited.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  William heard on the transistor that a low pressure front was approaching from the west. And that night it began to rain. It kept him awake until dawn – the unfamiliarity of it, the relentlessness – when he fell asleep, sleeping later than he had done since coming to the farm. It was still raining at eleven o’clock, and he realised, getting dressed, that he didn’t have the clothes for such weather. It had been a summer to persuade the unfortunate that in some ways they were not so. But now it was over. Looking west from the kitchen at the settled greyness,
he couldn’t believe that yesterday it had been otherwise. Another country. He had eaten his lunch in the yard of the second hamlet, resting in the sun until mid-afternoon. Apart from the machinery, making the odd ticking or cracking sound after so many months of heat, it had been silent. Now the hamlets, landmarks throughout the summer, were barely visible, and the only sound was that of rain obliterating the lovely susurration of summer.

  He stayed in the house until the rain stopped. That was not until the evening. Then he tucked his trousers into his socks, like a cyclist, and set off for the first hamlet. The paths he had made during the summer (he had grown proud of them, he realised) had already turned to mud and he slipped frequently. Once he fell, cursing, soaking the left leg of his trousers. A curse sotto voce, though, for he feared ungovernable cursing fits, the sense they had given him of being consumed, reduced to a pair of crazy lips uttering senseless words. Rather than curse he would slap his thigh and pause. He would turn on the transistor. (Rather than curse he would weep.) He found however that the transistor too had been affected by the weather. Stations which hadn’t failed him during the summer were indistinct now, remote behind rushes of static. Alarmed, he held the transistor at every conceivable angle. Occasionally voices would rise from the roaring silence before being claimed by it again. Fragments of information. “It has been decided, following a meeting of the coal …”

  “Arbitration has been considered but …” “A lioness in a private zoo in Wiltshire has … more seriously than …” “An adequate contract, leading to the decision not to …” “the party … South Africa …” “Looting and burning, therefore, is expected for …” “Prayer can take many forms …” “Three hundred and two all out …” “The silkworm, given the correct …”