“Wait for me,” he called. “Wait for me!”
When they reached the clearing where Shawcross had been trapped, they all—by unspoken consent—slowed. In the middle of the clearing they stopped.
“You see what I mean?” Steenie peered at the bushes. “It is creepy. It gives me the shakes.”
He took out from his pocket his silver hip flask. He took a large nip. He offered it to Acland, who refused it with a shake of the head, then to Freddie, who took a swallow.
The brandy kicked in his stomach, then exuded a pleasant warmth. Freddie handed back the flask. He looked about him.
Ridiculous though it might be, Freddie felt that Steenie was right. In the twilight the trees and the bushes pressed close. Outlined against the graying sky, the bare branches of the trees reached out. The undergrowth, hummocks of brambles and holly, piled with dead leaves, took on a threatening look. Freddie peered about him. He wondered exactly where it had been—that trap.
Over there, he thought, somewhere in that undergrowth. He gave a shiver. When Steenie handed him the flask again, he took a second swig. He looked at his brothers. Acland was staring at the undergrowth, his face fixed and pale.
“It was over there.” Acland spoke so suddenly that Freddie jumped. He pointed to a hummock of brambles.
“Just there.”
“Are you sure?” Steenie peered. He shivered.
“Yes. Just to the right of the path.”
“How do you know that?” Steenie’s voice had risen sharply. Acland, shrugging, turned away.
“The thing had to be moved—afterwards.”
“I thought Cattermole did that—”
“I came down with him. With some of the men.” Acland’s voice had become terse. “I forget who. The Hennessy brothers, I think.”
“Ugh. How horrible.” Steenie gave a shudder. He stared at the spot Acland had indicated.
“Yes, it was. There was a lot of blood. Torn clothing. It wasn’t a pleasant job.”
Acland moved off a few paces. He stood with his back to his brothers. There was another silence. Having reached this place, Freddie felt it exercised a peculiar power over them. None of them had wanted to stop, and, having stopped, none of them seemed able to leave. Freddie told himself that on a bright sunlit day the place would hold no terrors. It was the gathering dusk that made it sinister. He said, in a voice less firm than he would have liked:
“Let’s go back.”
“Do you remember what Mother said—when she was dying?” Steenie put the question. He seemed not to have heard Freddie’s remark. He glanced toward Acland.
“Yes, I remember,” Acland replied shortly.
“Remember what?” Freddie said.
He had been in South America, flying his mail planes, when Gwen died several years before. Her illness—pneumonia—had been brief. Freddie, alerted too late, had arrived at Winterscombe the day after her death. This had hurt him at the time, and hurt him still. Steenie and Acland had been with her; Jane had been with her. He had let her down.
Freddie looked from brother to brother; he stared back at the undergrowth in a miserable way. There was a wound in his own relationship with his mother which antedated her death by many years. It had never quite healed. He would have liked to tell his mother, before she died, that he loved her. Yes, he would have liked to say that.
“What did Mama say?” he prompted again.
Acland did not reply. Steenie gave a sigh.
“Well, at the end”—he hesitated—“she talked about Shawcross. It was rather ghastly. She talked about him a lot.”
“Oh, God.” Freddie bent his head.
“She wasn’t distressed, Freddie,” Steenie said, taking his arm. “Honestly. She was quite calm. But I think … I think she thought Shawcross was there in the room. Don’t you, Acland? She seemed to. She spoke to him.”
“You said it was easy,” Freddie burst out. “You both told me that. You said it was easy—you said she just … slipped away.”
“It was. Sort of.” Steenie frowned, as if trying to fix the memory. “She seemed glad to go. She didn’t protest. But then she never did really, about anything. She’d raise objections, and then she would give in. Oh, God—I wish we hadn’t come this way. How did we start on this?”
“I want to know. Acland”—Freddie grasped his arm—“what did she
say
?”
“Nothing.” Acland shrugged off his hand. “She talked about Shawcross, that’s all. As Steenie says. The drugs they prescribed made her drowsy. She didn’t know what she was saying—”
“Yes, she did.” Steenie turned back. “She said that when Shawcross was here, the night of the comet, he heard her call. He told her, before he died. It was the last thing he ever said to her. Then, when she was dying, she remembered. It was very strange—”
“Strange? Strange in what way?”
“She became awfully agitated—didn’t she, Acland? I think she knew we were there. It was as if she wanted to tell us something—and then couldn’t. It was as if she was afraid.”
“She was very ill,” Acland said in a curt voice. “There’s no point in resurrecting all this, Steenie. She was confused.” He hesitated. “She slept after that. It
was
peaceful, Freddie, in the end. She was … tired. I think she was glad that it was all over.”
Steenie drew in a shaky breath.
“That’s true,” he said. “Really, Freddie. Once Papa died—she missed him, I think. She needed him, and once he’d gone …”
“She stopped fighting.” Acland’s voice was flat. “Well, at a certain point we all do that.”
“Oh, God, I’m so miserable.” Steenie clasped Freddie’s arm. “I hate this place. I wish we’d never come here. It brings it all back. Look at us. We all disappointed her, in our different ways. She made all those plans—and now look at us. Acland, trying to pretend he’s a farmer. Acland is a failed aristocrat. I’m a failed painter. Freddie is—”
“Oh, I’m the worst. I’m a failed everything.” To the surprise of his brothers, Freddie made this pronouncement in a robust, quite unbitter way. “There’s no point in wallowing in it, Steenie,” he continued in a sensible voice. “Anyway, it’s not totally true. Acland keeps this place going—against all the odds. That takes courage of a sort. You may not paint now, but you keep going too. You make people laugh. You are what you are. You don’t apologize for it—and that takes courage too. And I—well, I muddle along, just as I always did. I don’t do much harm, anyway. At least I try not to. We could be worse. I think we could be worse. We’re still here. We have each other—”
“Oh, Freddie.” Steenie began to smile. He put his arm around his brother’s shoulders. “You are totally absurd, do you know that? Only you could give us a homily like that—”
“I don’t care,” Freddie replied stoutly. “I know I’m not a brain-box. It’s true what I said. We’re like everyone else. A mixture of bad and good. Just … ordinary.”
“And hungry,” Acland interjected, turning. He smiled. “Don’t forget that, Freddie. Come on—we’re all becoming maudlin, and Freddie is right. There’s no point. Think of all the things we could be thankful for.” He turned. “I miss my wife. I miss my baby. I want my tea. Come on, let’s go back to the house.”
Freddie at once felt cheered. They began walking, first slowly, then at a brisker pace. They left the woods behind; the shadows lessened; the undergrowth retreated. He felt a sudden welling of affection for his brothers. There it was, a large warm thing, situated in his heart. He could have put his hand on the exact spot. They would not have disappointed his mother, he thought, in this.
“We beseech thee,” began the priest.
Constance’s hat came into his view (the hat Winnie had pronounced doubtful, a hat that dismayed the vicar, a hat the color of Parma violets). He averted his eyes. He cleared his throat.
“We beseech thee, for thine infinite mercies, that thou will mercifully look upon this Child; wash her and sanctify her with the Holy Ghost; that she”—he paused—“being steadfast in faith, joyful through hope, and rooted in charity, may so pass the waves of this troublesome world, that finally she may come to the land of everlasting life, there to reign with thee, world without end, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
“Amen,” replied Constance in a quiet voice.
“Amen,” replied Acland and Jane, exchanging a glance, and then a handkerchief.
“Amen,” replied Wexton, looking toward Steenie.
“Amen,” replied Freddie, looking up at the memorial window to Boy.
“Amen,” replied Steenie, thinking of the war memorial—where, as instructed by Acland, he had counted forty-five names.
“Amen,” replied Maud, looking down at the baby.
“Amen,” replied Winifred Hunter-Coote, glancing at Freddie.
“Amen,” replied Jenna from a pew behind, where she sat with William, the butler.
“Amen,” replied Jack Hennessy, who sat alone at the back of the church, one empty sleeve pinned neatly to the front of his best jacket.
The vicar proceeded with the prayers. It was the same vicar who had married Constance some thirteen years before; he had not forgotten that occasion, or Constance. The woman who had insisted her pet dog should attend her wedding. He had a clear memory of this animal, seated on Steenie’s lap, panting during the prayers, yawning during a hymn, and sniffing in a threatening way at one of the pews on the way out.
He had protested.
“He is one of God’s creatures,” Constance had replied.
He had given in.
This he had resented at the time, and he found he resented it still. Indignation intruded between him and the words of the service. Constance was looking at him in a way he found unyielding, and inappropriate. The vicar averted his eyes. He fixed them, instead, on the large and benevolent, the rumpled figure of Wexton, whose poetry the vicar greatly admired. A wise godfather, he said to himself; the meaning of the words returned to him. He proceeded.
There is a point during the Church of England service of baptism when, since the baby cannot speak, the godparents make vows on its behalf. It had been previously agreed that when this point was reached, Freddie and Maud should stand on one side of the baby, Wexton and Constance on the other. Acland had already rehearsed them in this tactful arrangement.
When the moment came, however, something went wrong. Wexton, abstracted and vague, walked the wrong way. He stationed himself next to Freddie, leaving Maud to flank Constance. To the dismay of everyone, the vicar launched into the next part of the service with two godfathers on one side of the baby, two bristling godmothers on the other.
Maud, less dependable than Freddie had said, behaved with provocative decorum. Clutching her prayer book to the breast of her superbly tailored suit, and hitching the furs she wore around her neck, she contrived—with every air of accident—to elbow Constance to one side.
Maud was tall. Constance was not. Constance’s view of the baby was obscured by Maud’s shoulder, and by the mask of the fox fur draped around Maud’s neck. Right on a line with Constance’s eyes was a small, pinched, beady-eyed, triangular, dead fox head.
“Dearly beloved,” began the vicar, pressing on.
“I am so sorry,” said a small clear voice. “I am so sorry, but I seem unable to see.”
The vicar coughed. Maud did not move one inch.
“All I can see,” continued the voice, in a tone of patient reason, “is a shoulder. And a dead fox. I
am
a godmother. I should
quite
like to see the baby.”
“Ah, Constance, is it you?” cried Maud. “Are you there? I must have missed you. I forget … how small you are. There—is that better now?”
She moved six inches to the right.
“Thank you so much, Maud.”
“Perhaps the veil obscures your view, Constance? Might it be an idea, to lift the veil?”
“Oddly enough, Maud, I see through the veil. That is the purpose of veils.”
“Yes. Well, this is hardly the moment to discuss hats.”
Maud turned back to the priest. She had no respect for priests whatsoever. Her brother had endowed this church; its living had been in his gift, as it was now in Acland’s. As far as Maud was concerned, the vicar was a hired man. She gave him a firm look.
“Proceed,” she said.
The vicar gave a sigh. He proceeded.
He completed the initial prayer. He came to the godparents’ vows. He addressed four faces.
“Dost thou,” he asked, “in the name of this Child, renounce the Devil and all his works, the vain pomp and glory of the world, and the carnal desires of the flesh, so that thou wilt not follow, nor be led by them?”
“I renounce them all,” replied three voices. Freddie and Maud spoke firmly, in unison. Constance more slowly, a little behind the others. Wexton did not speak at all. He was looking at Constance in a preoccupied way. The vicar cleared his throat. (Great poets were allowed, perhaps, to be absentminded.) Wexton came back to attention.
“Oh. Sorry. Yes, I renounce them, too, sure.”
Wexton blushed. The vicar continued with the vows. He inquired whether the godparents believed, on the baby’s behalf, in God the Father, in His only-begotten Son, in the crucifixion and the resurrection, in the Holy Church, the Communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, and life everlasting.
“All this I steadfastly believe,” the godparents answered.
It was at this point in the service (or so he decided later) that Acland noticed that Constance, despite all predictions to the contrary, was moved. Throughout the vows she stood still, her hands clasped before her. Her eyes never wavered once from the priest’s face; she seemed to hang upon his words, her face composed, sad, intent.
The baby was baptized; the sign of the cross was made. Acland, looking up from the font, saw that Constance wept. She did so silently; two tears, then two more ran down from beneath the veil. Acland, deeply moved himself, was touched by this. He thought:
Constance is more than she seems.
“Victoria Gwendolen,” Constance said to him afterward, as they walked through the churchyard, back to the waiting cars. She took his arm, then released it.
“Victoria Gwendolen. They’re lovely names.”
“Her two grandmothers’ names—”
“I like that. It links her to the past.” She glanced up. Ahead of them, Maud waited by her car.
“I’ll go back to the house now, with Steenie.” Constance gave a little smile. “I know I’m in the way. I just wanted to say thank you, Acland, for letting me be her godmother. It means a great deal to me. I’m so happy—for you and for Jane.”