The Anderson Question Page 8

  ‘No,’ Conrad said, ‘it doesn’t. But then, Paul, I suppose we’re all at fault for having such expectations.’

  ‘Why? We can’t help it. Our parents expect things of us, and we can’t help picking it up. You carry it around with you forever. And anyway, what’s the point of being alive if you don’t expect a lot? I see little enough point at the best of times; take that away and there’s none.’

  Conrad sighed. ‘Oh, I agree with that, but it does tire one, Paul. As I grew older, especially after Alice died, I started to expect less and less.’

  ‘Isn’t that ‘cos there’s no choice? Not much time left,’ said Paul, and Conrad saw that the brutality was unconscious. ‘He is only aware of himself, of what’s going on inside his own mind,’ he thought, fighting to overcome his impatience with the self-pity of someone whose father had been found lying dead by his case, under an open sky, the day before. ‘Poor David,’ was all he said, and as if he understood, Paul went pink, dropping his eyes. They sat in silence for a few minutes, allowing the sound of birds in the overgrown garden to fill the room.

  At last Paul raised his head. ‘I feel so guilty all the time, can you understand that, Conrad?’

  ‘Why, Paul?’

  ‘For everything. Because I let him down, mainly.’

  ‘But you didn’t let him down. Listen, David and I used to talk two or three times a week, and I know. He used to drop in for a little whiskey, you know. Sometimes I wondered if he was checking up on me, the old man living on his own. Eleanor always says I should go into a home … oh, a private one, of course.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Paul looked shocked, but Conrad was smiling, and tapping his nose. ‘Oh, the old man knows what people say, Paul. I don’t blame them. I do find it hard to get about sometimes, when the arthritis is bad. Other times I’m perfectly all right; I just take things more slowly. Anyway, we’re not talking about me. The point is that I know that David was proud of you, and he thought that in time you’d be bound to get the sort of job you want. He had complete confidence.’

  ‘Nothing much to be proud of,’ said Paul, ungraciously.

  ‘That was for him to decide.’

  ‘I never really got on with either of them, you know. At least, it was all right when I was little.’

  ‘I seem to remember it being all right most of the time. Oh Paul, don’t belittle the past because you’re unhappy in the present. It’s a far worse sin than sentimentalising it, which is what I tend to do. Look back with a clear eye. See it for what it was.’

  Paul nodded, and furrowed his brow. Then he murmured ‘Happy’ in a voice that barely found the strength to escape from his mouth.

  ‘Exactly. That’s what I remember too, because don’t forget you and your parents are a part of my past now, as well as each other’s. It’s especially like that in villages. People like Daphne, and the Ainslies and me, and Alex Cater, we all remember you as a little boy, and then as a teenager, and you change more to yourself than you do to us.’

  ‘Oh, but Conrad, you don’t really know people, not really. Just as I feel now that I didn’t really know Dad, not as a proper person. That’s what makes me so angry.’ On the last word he thumped the arm of the chair, and minute particles of dust rose like fine spray, to hang for a second in a shaft of watery light. ‘And now it’s too late.’

  ‘Oh … not necessarily.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that you can let yourself off too easily by saying it is too late. Shall I tell you a secret, Paul.’ The old man leaned forward with sudden intensity. ‘I’m still discovering my wife, Alice, after all these years. Can’t you try to see such discovery as a sort of immortality? I’m afraid it’s the only kind I believe in … the continuing life through people who have loved you, and who still try to find out. Why should it stop at death? It’s much too soon. You know, I’ve spent the last forty years or so tracing other people’s ancestors, and I know there are many people who consider it a fruitless exercise. Why look back, they ask, when there’s so much to be concerned about in the present and the future, and the world is under threat?’

  ‘That’s just what I’d say.’

  ‘Of course – but it’s wrong. It’s only by understanding what lies behind us that we can understand who we are, and it fixes you, somehow – gives you firm roots. It’s jolly difficult for someone your age to understand, but I’ve found that very important. Far from making you indifferent to the present, it only serves to make it more … more … precious, somehow. Part of a pattern you understand at last. As for Alice, her ancestors, making her a family tree, you know. They were Midlands people originally …’

  ‘Oh, were they?’ Paul said, barely able to inject interest into his voice.

  Conrad was leaning forward, his watery eyes shining. ‘Alice knew nothing about her forbears. Her father quarrelled with his father, and they lost touch. Very sad.’

  All this was remote, and Paul shifted impatiently. ‘Conrad’s going off his rocker’ was the thought that flashed so vividly through his head that for a second he imagined he had uttered it aloud, and glanced up with embarrassment. Conrad was still talking, telling him something about a lost connexion through illegitimacy; but Paul looked at his watch. Immediately Conrad slumped back in his chair, the light gone from his eyes.

  ‘Yes, you’d better be going, Paul.’

  ‘Well, Mum may be back by now. I ought to be there.’

  ‘Of course. And Paul, I’m sorry to have gone on so much. It was very inconsiderate of me to bore you with my private obsessions, when David …’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Paul said, dully, not hearing the plea for a denial behind Conrad’s words.

  When he had gone Conrad walked into the kitchen, where the remains of his breakfast still lay on the table, and the old stone sink was piled high with unwashed crockery.Cold water dripped from the tap, as it had for years, with a regularity that Conrad had ceased to notice. Tansy was purring, curled into a ball on a Royal Worcester serving plate on the old dresser; the cat was indifferent to the solitary rotten apple in the fruit bowl six inches from his nose, though perpetually interested in the open knife box beside it, where mouse droppings lay amongst the tarnished silver with its ornately patterned handles. There was a smell of damp and old fat; the cream Aga had grown brown under its layer of dusty grease. Conrad rarely cooked now; he had taken to pouring boiling water into plastic boxes which yielded up a chewy instant meal four minutes later, or relied on bread and cheese. The kitchen had been Alice’s territory, and he remembered delicious smells which still clung, in his imagination, so that he did not notice all the decay around him.

  He struggled with the rusty bolts, and at last managed to pull open the back door for the first time since last autumn. Two stones remained uncovered of what had been the path, before the choking weeds took over, burgeoning in the late spring sunlight which glinted on the waving heads of gypsophila and cornflower. He plucked a leaf of sage from the enormous untidy bush by the door, and rolled it between his finger and thumb, sniffing at the powerful scent which carries with it much more than memory, but rather a knowledge in the blood, of the capacity of other living things to enhance, and to heal. Conrad liked the smell, and put a fragment of leaf on his tongue.

  Shuffling forward so that the light fell fully on him, he blinked and breathed deeply. He smelt the teeming soil, drenched during the night and now evaporating its sweetness into the air, and its richness was almost overpowering, so that he closed his eyes for a moment as if he were giddy. Then he looked round. He knew where everything was in this garden: the herb garden over there with its low brick wall, now buried by tall grass; the rose garden, arranged in gentle gradations of pink and white; and the grey corner where Alice used to sit, now overgrown with the less subtle greens of ivy and convolvulus. Underneath the wildness it was all as she planned it, leading to the long lawn framed by copper beeches, and the massed colour of buddleia, azalea, and lilac. A formal garden with a de
liberate pattern, that was what she wanted; and when summer made the grass and straggling herbaceous plants so tall that Conrad could barely make his way through, Jack Ainslie would do his best to return it to a form of order; though never the same, never as beautiful. Conrad looked at the garden and liked it; no sense of melancholy in his contemplation. There too, he felt in touch with Alice, and a part of her creation. He frowned, suddenly, trying to hold the fact of David Anderson’s death firmly in his mind beside the evidence of growth and continuation and rediscovery, but it was elusive. Conrad said his friend’s name aloud, but the birds sang more loudly in the trees around him, and his human voice was small. The image of David wavered, then disappeared from his mind; the grief he knew he felt somewhere inside slipped away too – chased by this extraordinary happiness.

  They drove in silence, Daphne glancing at Eleanor from time to time, then looking down to where her hands, stubby, red and capable, were clasped tightly in her lap. Eleanor’s hands stayed in the correct position on the wheel, white and tapering, and there was no tension about the knuckles. Her face was set into an expression Daphne could not quite define; there was sadness, certainly, but a mixture of resolve and excitement too, as if Eleanor was making a plan. There was a long grey hair on the shoulder of her sober grey suit, and Daphne longed to pick it off, as if by that gesture, that tiny touch, she could cross the gap and tell Eleanor all the things she was feeling. But she did not, and they approached Winterstoke without speaking. As they drew near to the bus stop, Eleanor stopped the car with a sudden jerk.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Look, Sheila Simmonds, I can’t drive past.’

  A white face, caked with foundation and powder, with red-rimmed eyes liberally daubed with blue, appeared at

  Daphne’s window, and she wound it down. ‘Oh, Mrs Anderson, I’m so sorry to hear. I can’t believe it, I really can’t.’

  ‘I know, Sheila.’ Eleanor retained her grip on the steering wheel; she had not switched off the engine.

  ‘Such a lovely man, the kindest person to work for. And so caring about everybody. It doesn’t seem fair to me; there’s no reason behind any of it, is there?’

  Eleanor shook her head, but said nothing.

  ‘I don’t know if I can go on, working I mean. It’s not the same for me, it never can be, can it? Oh, Mrs Anderson, we’ll all miss him so much. I wish there was some way of, sort of, letting him know. But they say they do, don’t they? I suppose we’ve got to have faith, though it does seem hard at times.’ She dabbed her eyes. Eleanor’s knuckles whitened, but her voice was steady. ‘Look, Sheila, there are one or two formalities we have to go through, as I’m sure you understand, but I’m going to see the rector this afternoon. I’m going to have a Memorial Service for David, so that you can show how you feel. I think the village would like it, don’t you?’

  Sheila Simmonds twisted a smile; Daphne looked at Eleanor with amazement mixed with admiration. ‘Well, that’d be really nice, Mrs Anderson. Everybody will come, too. Everybody feels like I do about him, I know they do.’

  They drove on, and Daphne stared at Eleanor. ‘Well dear,’ she said with some reserve, feeling that she should have been told first, ‘I think that’s splendid. It will please people, but do you think you’ll be up to organising it all? You’re being jolly brave, I must say.’

  ‘Not really, not really brave. It’s just that there’s no choice. At least I know now, and that’s a relief. It was all that waiting. Do you think the service is a good idea?’

  ‘Definitely. And it will help to take your mind off things – organising it.’ There was no trace of irony in her tone, but Eleanor glanced at her swiftly. ‘That’s not why I thought of it.’

  ‘Of course not, dear.’

  They turned into the drive in silence. Paul was waiting at the window, and Daphne started to wave like a puppet, then dropped her hand. The thought that she must seem foolish, to most people, settled suddenly on her head like a dead weight, pressing down with a deeper sadness than she had felt all morning. Eleanor had not wanted her of course; she had made her stay outside, cheating her of a little scene of weak tears, with Daphne there to lean on. Eleanor had disappeared with the policewoman, whilst Daphne waited on a tubular steel chair, smelling a subtle, sickly smell that she could still taste at the corners of her mouth. Eleanor had washed. She had spent a long time in the Ladies’ lavatory, and now the warmth of the car diffused the hygienic, medicated scent from her hands.

  In the hall Eleanor paused to kiss Paul briefly, like a bird pecking at the soil. He said nothing, and Daphne went as if to kiss him too, then thought again and drew back with an odd bobbing movement.

  ‘I meant to ask you, Daphne, how’s the concert coming along?’ Paul and Daphne stared at Eleanor, but she calmly took off her jacket and hung it up.

  ‘Well, it’s very difficult …’

  ‘Oh dear, why? Are there problems? Won’t the rector perform?’ Daphne breathed deeply, and her words came out in a gabble.

  ‘But it’s not right, Eleanor! Not now. I know that’s what people will think; I mean, we just can’t go ahead in … the circumstances. Everyone will agree. I’m sure of it’

  Eleanor looked at her, grey eyes wide with astonishment. ‘Oh but you must. You can’t change things now.’

  ‘Eleanor! The village will want to … to … mourn David properly, like people used to. I can’t honestly see Jack Ainslie wanting to get up and tell jokes, or Margaret sing, not now. You must see that, dear.’

  Paul was looking out of the sitting-room window, drumming the fingers of one hand on the sill, as if to unheard music. When Daphne added, ‘Don’t you think, Paul?’, he neither turned round nor spoke. Eleanor laid a hand on Daphne’s arm, with a grave but slightly reproachful look, rather like an infant teacher who rebukes a child who is a favourite.

  ‘Look, I really don’t want you to cancel it. David wouldn’t have wanted that, either. I know it. It’s hard to explain, but every year since we’ve lived in this village there’s been the concert at the beginning of June. When we went to our first one David said he was glad we’d moved – because he wasn’t sure, you know. He said it was that kind of thing that makes living in a village special – people know each other, and care about each other, not like in London. He saw the concert as jolly and unifying and, well, a sort of symbol, I suppose. Nobody’s a great performer, and sometimes things go wrong, but it never matters. We all see each other and have coffee, and when the children grow up – do you remember you played the piano, Paul, and sang? – there are others to take their places. Like the little Wright girl. It matters. Now I know David’s death matters too, and that’s why I’m going to have the service, with his favourite readings, so that all his patients can remember him. But after that’s over, then it’s right that the village concert should go ahead. He’d want, he’d expect it.’

  Daphne looked dubious. Such certainties seemed remote, encased within her friend’s precise shape like waxy flowers behind glass. So admirable in the flow of thought away from private grief and out towards the village, Daphne thought, and yet (she added to herself with a sudden surge of spite) so demanding and selfish in her assumption that old Daphne would automatically put the village through its paces because Eleanor Anderson had decreed that it should be so. She was still speaking too, although Daphne had not heard. The unnoticed rebellion made Miss Ryan’s heart thump.

  ‘After all, Daphne, there’s over two weeks to go. The memorial service must be next week, and then, after another week, the concert. It’s quite right, don’t you think, Paul?’

  ‘Oh yeah, once Dad’s buried we can all get back to normal. Mustn’t put off the raffle, must we? The basket of fruit might rot.’

  ‘Paul!’ Daphne’s allegiance was restored.

  ‘Don’t worry. He’s upset. It’s only to be expected.’

  Eleanor’s voice was only a whisper, excluding him, reminding him of childhood when they started to whisper at the table, about people whos
e familiar names drifted just beyond his hearing. He wanted to belong and to know. ‘Daddy’s talking about his patients, Paul, just go and play now,’ or ‘David, le petit écoute bien,’ she would say, motioning him to go and play with his trains. Once he found himself staring tearfully at the Hornby express, mesmerised by its endless circular journey, and when his father came at last to kneel beside him, Paul leaned forward and savagely pulled at the points, so that the express cannoned into the goods train, and the coaches rolled on their sides. Gently his father had set all to rights, and asked what was the matter. But Paul shook his head and would not speak, for how can you tell your parents that the longing is not merely to be with them, but rather to be them, just as you were in the beginning, before the awful loneliness and responsibility of separation? ‘She would encourage me to go to children’s parties I hated, and even to stay the night with friends I did not particularly like, and all in the name of growing up, of becoming independent. So complete was that lesson that now I want nothing more than to be utterly alone in the flat cut off by music in the headphones.’

  Later, when Daphne had gone, Eleanor knocked at Paul’s door. When he opened it she saw that his eyes were swollen, and he noticed similar signs on her face, but neither spoke. She walked past him into the room, and sat in the wicker chair, folding her hands in her lap. ‘I just wondered if you were all right.’

  ‘As right as you’d expect. What are you doing downstairs?’

  ‘Just sitting, thinking. Paul … I haven’t told you the details yet, of what’s going to happen.’

  His flesh drew back, he longed for darkness. ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘But you must know, there are things to be gone through.’