“No, I don’t remember. I don’t believe this. I don’t believe I’m hearing it. And I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Acland, I can quite see you may prefer to forget, but I remember the incident perfectly. I think I was twelve.”
“It never damn well happened.”
“None of it happened,” Steenie interrupted, his voice rising in pitch. “Don’t argue with her, Acland—there’s no point. Constance bloody well tells lies. Her father was a nasty cheap little liar, and she’s exactly the same—”
“Steenie, do be quiet.” Constance gave him a dismissive glance. “Your mascara is running. You’re about to burst into tears, as usual—”
“You’re a bitch,” said Steenie, whose powers of invective were never at their best when he was emotional. “You always were an absolute bitch. Boy’s
dead.
He can’t defend himself—”
“Steenie, it’s really very silly, calling me names, when we both know you’ll come running back to me, sweet as pie, three days from now. Also, you look awful. You always do when you lose your temper. You’re beginning to look raddled, do you know that? Truly, Steenie, another few years and you’ll be a pathetic old queen.”
“Oh, really?
I
look raddled?” Steenie, sniffing, drew himself up. “Well, let me tell
you,
darling—I’m not the only one. Maud said you were ill-bred. She said it was beginning to show—and it is. Nasty little lines, all ’round your mouth, darling. By the time I’m a pathetic old queen, you’ll look like a harpy. I should ring the plastic surgeon, dear—ring him quickly—”
“Steenie, do go away.”
“My dear, I’m going.” Steenie, even quivering, managed a certain dignity. “I shan’t give you an audience. Not for a performance like this. I haven’t seen so much ham in a theater in years. Way over the top, dear—even for you, and that’s saying something. Wexton, are you coming?”
“No. You go. I’ll stay.” Wexton hunched himself in his chair. He fiddled with his knife and fork. “You’re right. It is over the top. But it’s kind of interesting. I want to see what she’s planned for her finale.”
“Well, when she gets there,” said Steenie, on the move, flouncing, “
do
ask her about the stevedore in New York. I gather that should be
very
entertaining.”
Steenie slammed the door. Wexton looked from Jane, who had not spoken, to Acland, who had turned his back. He smiled. He settled himself more comfortably in his chair. He poured himself another glass of claret.
“You know,” he began in an amiable way, “Steenie’s wrong. I
don’t
want to know about the stevedore. I don’t think it would be entertaining. Now, you’ve gotten rid of all the people you wanted out of the way—except me.”
“Wexton! How unkind!”
“So why not come to the point? Jane’s here. Acland’s here. You’ve fired your tracer bullets. I guess you can see your main target. Go ahead.”
“No, Wexton,” Acland interrupted. “I’ve had enough of this. This isn’t a game. This is my family, my brothers. Steenie’s right. Boy isn’t here to defend himself. I won’t hear him spoken of in that way.”
“Heavens! What a cold voice! What are you going to do, Acland? Manhandle me out of the room? I might like that.”
“That won’t be necessary. This is all just a little one-sided, it seems to me. Before you go, Constance, why don’t you tell us about yourself? Why not tell us about this afternoon? After all, that’s what provoked all this, wasn’t it?”
Constance gave a small sigh. “Do you know,” she began slowly, “I think it was. I realized something this afternoon, and I’ve just seen it in action again. An English family, closing ranks. Perhaps all families do that—perhaps it isn’t purely an English quality. It shouldn’t surprise me, I suppose. I am the outsider here. I always was.”
“That isn’t true.” Jane leaned forward, her voice indignant. “Acland’s family took you in. Even today—you asked to be a godmother. Acland agreed. I invited you here.”
“Ah, but reluctantly, I think? Constance as a godmother. I know you couldn’t have wanted that.”
“You’re right. I did not want it.”
“Well, well, I won’t argue with that.” Constance smiled. “A very sensible attitude. I always did tend to bite the hand that feeds me. A defect in my nature. Is it charity I resent? No. I don’t like to be patronized, I think.”
“Is kindness patronage?”
“Jane, don’t argue with her. It’s pointless.”
“Oh, Acland—don’t stop your wife!” Constance glanced back at him with a radiant smile. “I love to listen to Jane’s arguments. I find them edifying. Sometimes I think that if I listened to Jane long enough, I might reform. I could become just like her. Calm and good, unfailingly reasonable, invariably right. And then I think—no, I’d rather be dead. I like to … walk on the wild side, you see. I always did.”
“Walk on the wild side. Jesus.” Acland turned away. “That’s what you call it? I never heard such crap.”
“It’s a term, a phrase. I can think of others. It’s very odd …” Constance rose. She began to walk about the room. “Whenever I come to Winterscombe, I begin to feel … oh, very wicked. Like an anarchist. I look around me, at this splendid house and this splendid family—and sooner or later, I itch to blow it up. One bomb! A great conflagration! This whole edifice, hurtling up into the air. It’s very strange. Five minutes in this house and I turn into the most ardent revolutionary.”
“You’re destructive, in other words,” Acland replied shortly. “I suppose you always were.”
“Is that destructive?” Constance seemed to consider the question seriously. “Perhaps it is. It doesn’t feel like that—I see it as cleansing, all those flames licking up through the roof. No more good intentions. No more pretenses. No more secrets. You see, it always seems to me that Winterscombe is a very
flimsy
construct. So many cracks in the walls—and everyone busily papering them over. Now, when
I
see a crack, I always want to prise it open. I want to make it gape, wider and wider—and then I want to step through, into all the rubble and chaos. Where it’s dangerous.”
“Why?” Jane frowned. “Why do that?”
Constance gave a little shrug. “Just to see what’s left, I think. To see if there’s anything still standing. After all, who knows what I might find there?” She smiled. “I might find all the things people say are good. I might find love. Or truth. On the other hand, I might find nothing at all. Not one single thing.’ Don’t you think that’s brave of me? I do. None of you would risk following me. Well, Wexton might. But not you, Acland, or your wife. You’d rather stay here, where it’s safe.”
“Safe?” This word seemed to distress Jane. Color mounted in her cheeks. “That isn’t true, Constance. If you’d seen the war at firsthand, you wouldn’t say that. This house—this family—it isn’t just a refuge. It’s something I believe in, and Acland believes in. It’s fragile, and vulnerable—we both know that. We have to struggle, every day, to make it work—”
“Your marriage, too—do you have to work at that?”
“Jane, don’t argue with her. Can’t you see that’s what she wants?”
“I will.” Jane’s face had become fierce. “I won’t sit here and let her dismiss everything I care about. She makes it sound so plausible, so attractive—and she’s
wrong.
You’re selfish, Constance. You tell lies, and you don’t care who’s hurt by them—”
“Lies? Have I told lies tonight? About Steenie? About Boy? Everything I said was true. Heavens!” Constance gave a small grimace of irritation. “It seems to me I’ve been very merciful. I never mentioned Freddie—and I could tell you some very amusing things about Freddie. As for Acland—”
“Leave Acland out of this—”
“Why should I? Acland is a perfect example of what I mean. I have a long memory. I remember how Acland used to be, before you set about taming him. And now look at him. The perfect husband. The perfect father—”
“Is that something to be ashamed of?”
“Not exactly.” Constance paused. She picked up, and considered, her table knife. “He plays the role very well. I’m almost convinced. But not quite. Certain elements don’t add up. After all, here we all are, gathered together for a christening. All this rejoicing for the birth of a little girl. A first child, at last. Except—she isn’t a first child. Acland had a son once. By Jenna—whom he used to love. A little boy called Edgar, with eyes exactly like his father’s.”
“Stop this.” Acland swung around. “Dear God, will you stop this—”
“No, Acland.” Jane rose. She laid her hand on his arm. “Let her finish.”
“Thank you, Jane. I was about to say, Edgar is dead. He’s been conveniently dead for a long time—so I suppose it is easier to pretend he never existed, to continue to lie about him. After all, so long as we all go on assuming he was Jack Hennessy’s child, we’re safe—aren’t we? We paper over that particular crack. But is that right—all that deception? Here we all are, downstairs—and who is upstairs minding the new baby? Jenna. And Jane is, apparently, devoted to Jenna. I find that astonishing. Is it the result of ignorance? I ask myself. Or is it true generosity of spirit? Is Jane stupid, or magnificent? Did you know, Jane? And if you knew, how did you manage? Are you never jealous?”
There was a silence. Acland turned away. He pressed his hand across his eyes. Jane and Constance continued to face each other. Wexton—the bystander in all this, as he was later to say to me—continued to watch.
Jane did not reply for some while. She frowned a little, as if uncertain what to say. She clasped her hands together. The firelight flickered against her hair; her eyes rested on Constance’s face.
“Constance,” she said at last, “I
know
all this. You are not the only person to think of Edgar. I think of him too. I speak of him—to Acland and to Jenna. I thought of him this morning, in the church—and I am sure they did also. He is not forgotten, Constance.” She hesitated. Faint color came to her cheeks.
“Acland and I have been married twelve years, Constance. Rather too long for secrets. Jenna once lost a child. I have lost two. We understand each other. Whatever happened in the past, it doesn’t cause division. Can you understand that? It brings us closer together. Acland and I, and Jenna—we deal with this in our way.”
There was a silence. Constance made an odd, faltering gesture. “Twelve years?” Her expression became confused. “Is it twelve years?”
“Constance, why do you do this?” Jane’s voice was quiet. Moving forward, she laid her hand on Constance’s arm. “To speak of a child in that way, to use a dead child as a weapon—why would you do such a thing, today of all days? Why ask to be a godmother, and then do this? I don’t understand. Why go to such lengths to cause pain to others?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Steenie’s your friend—and you’ve hurt him.” Jane paused. “Winnie may have misunderstood some aspects of Wexton’s poem, but she understood the heart of it. Wouldn’t it have been kinder to leave her with her illusions? Boy, Freddie, Acland—I know you care for them, Constance, so why behave as if you hate them?”
“I love them. They’re my brothers.”
“Then why hurt them, Constance? All it does is isolate you. Can’t you see that you hurt yourself, far more than you could ever hurt us?”
The word
us
stung. It was gently said, but Constance flinched. She jerked her face away as if she had been slapped.
“Don’t you pity me—don’t you dare to pity me.” She backed away until she was pressed up against the table. “You’re stupid, you know that? The ex-nurse! I wouldn’t come to you to bandage my finger. You know why Acland married you? For your money. Because
I
told him to.”
Jane paused, then gave a small shrug of exasperation. “Very well. And I have the opportunity to thank you at last. There isn’t very much money left. Even so, you gave my husband good advice. For which we’re both grateful.”
As she said this, Jane glanced toward her husband. Perhaps it was the quality of that glance, affectionate and wry; perhaps the fact that Acland then moved to his wife; perhaps the fact that Wexton, the bystander, smiled. Whatever the reason, Constance’s control snapped.
As always, her rage was sudden, and physical. Her hand smashed down on the table. She swung it in an arc. Knives, forks, plates, crashed to the floor. Wexton ducked, then rose to his feet. Constance began to hurl glasses. Crystal showered; wine dripped. Debris filled the air. There was a small violent whirlwind of energy in the room, a smashing, crashing concatenation. Then, eerily, silence.
“Shall I, Acland?” Constance said.
She stood in the midst of quick disorder, wrist outstretched. The stem of a wineglass, with one pointed shard still attached, was poised in her right hand.
The flurry of movement stopped; the group resolved itself. Wexton to one side of her, some few yards away; Jane and Acland to the other; the table behind her. Constance stood at bay, her face white, her eyes fixed and glittering, her black hair springing away from her small, set face.
“You think I won’t? Don’t come any nearer. You think people don’t do that—they don’t cut themselves up in other people’s dining rooms? I will. Acland knows I will. I break all the rules—”
“Constance—”
“Get back. All of you. Come any nearer, and I’ll do it.”
Jane gave a gesture of alarm. Acland took a step forward, then stopped. Constance’s face lit with triumph.
“Shall I, Acland? Which—wrist or throat? This glass is very sharp. Cut the right vein the right way, and it’s very quick. One great fountain of blood. You can all watch.”
“All right.” Acland folded his arms. His voice became grim. “We’ll watch. Go right ahead. Only make sure it’s an artery and not a vein, if you want it to be quick.”
“Acland, don’t. She’s ill.” Jane took a step forward. “Constance. Put the glass down.”
“Come any closer and I’ll smash it in your stupid sanctimonious face—”
“Leave her alone. Stay where you are.” Acland moved between Constance and his wife. Constance’s eyes fixed themselves upon his face. She gave a small shiver. Her black eyes took on a dead look.
“Shall I, Acland? Shall I jump? Is it a very long way down?”
“Far enough.” He hesitated. “It always was.”
“You did understand—this afternoon?”