Penmarric (95 page)

And as I stared at her, too appalled by her knowledge to reply, her unnatural calm disintegrated and her frail old body began to shudder beneath the terrible burden of her grief.

Later I said, “So you knew.”

“Wasn’t I supposed to?” Her mouth twisted a little but she could not even smile in irony. Her face was drawn with grief. Tears scarred ugly furrows down her withered cheeks. “How could I not know? I knew Philip better than anyone else in the world. Do you think I didn’t know all his faults as well as all his virtues? Do you think I was so stupid as to believe him to be perfect? Do you think I never noticed that he preferred to be with that coarse, rude, unspeakably vulgar little miner? How blind you must have thought me! How fatuous and besotted! Of course I noticed! I noticed everything. But it didn’t matter to me.” Tears overcame her for a moment, but she brushed them aside. “I didn’t care,” she said. “It didn’t make any difference. How could it? He was still Philip. All I wanted was for him to be happy, and if he was happy with Trevose, then that was what I wanted for him.”

Her cheeks were wet with tears again. She sat hunched in her chair, an old, old woman who had lived too long and seen too much.

“I never said anything to him about Trevose,” she said. “I didn’t once reproach him. It would have been wrong for me to interfere, wouldn’t it? I always tried not to interfere. I didn’t want to antagonize him and I was afraid that if I made him angry he wouldn’t realize that all I ever wanted was the best for him. How can it be wrong to want the best for your children? How can it be wrong to want them to be happy? I wanted Philip to be happy … but he wasn’t. He was restless and becoming more so each day. He was already dissatisfied with his life at Penmarric—if it hadn’t been for Esmond he would have left again by now. He was longing for the mines again. He talked of Australia, South Africa. No, he wasn’t happy here. I knew he wasn’t happy.

“Maybe it would have been different if he had loved Helena a little—if there could have been children—but their marriage was nothing. I spent such a long time hoping he would marry her. I was so convinced she would make him happy, but of course in fact I couldn’t have been more wrong. I realized—too late—that poor Helena was the worst type of woman whom a man of his inclinations could possibly have married. She was too cold, too self-contained, too withdrawn—poor girl! No doubt her misfortunes accentuated her worst attributes, but what kind of woman accepts her husband back under such impossible conditions? Certainly not a woman with normal passionate emotions.

“Yes, it was a pity they ever married. If I had known … But I didn’t know. And then one day I saw Philip just looking—looking—looking—I thought he was looking at Helena. I went into the parlor saying, ‘Oh, Philip, how nice of you to bring Helena to see me!’ But it wasn’t Helena at all. It was that surly, repulsive little man. I suppose you could never imagine how it feels for a mother to know what I knew then. For a moment I thought I would faint, which was silly of me because I never faint, I’m not one of these women who swoon at every slight jolt to their nerves. So I didn’t faint. I believe I was quite composed. I said good afternoon politely and asked them if they would take tea and told them to sit down and make themselves at home. I didn’t want Philip to know, you see. I don’t know why. I suppose I didn’t want him to feel ashamed—or obliged to make some sort of apology or worse still an, explanation. Anyway I didn’t want to interfere, and once I had lived with the knowledge for a while I found I could accept it and not mind. I tried so hard not to mind. You see, if it made Philip happy … You do understand, don’t you, Jan-Yves? I only wanted Philip to be happy.”

“Yes, Mama,” my voice said. “I understand.”

She went on looking at me, her eyes bewildered, her cheeks still wet with tears. “Then what went wrong?” she said. “I did all I could—no one wanted him to be happy more than I did, so why couldn’t I get what I wanted for him? Where did I go wrong?”

But there was no answer I could give her. She looked at me for five silent seconds with those bewildered eyes full of grief, and then as if guessing the answer which I could never have voiced aloud, she put her hands over her face again and began to cry softly to herself in that cold, empty room.

I could not leave her. I remained with her till dusk and then suggested she come with me to St. Just and stay the night at my house.

“I would like to see him,” she said, her hands twisting themselves together restlessly. “Will he be at Penmarric?”

“By now, yes, I expect so. A group of his old mining friends went off to the shaft to bring him to the surface, and the ambulance was driving up as far as Ding Dong mine to take the body to Penmarric. But you can see him tomorrow, Mama. Come home with me now and rest. My housekeeper will make you comfortable.”

“I can’t leave Annie,” she said, referring to her simple old servant. “She wouldn’t understand if I went away.”

“Then I shall stay the night here with you, but first I must make some telephone calls. Where’s the nearest phone? At the rectory, I suppose.”

“Or Polzillan House,” she said, but I had no wish to go calling on Simon Peter Roslyn.

“Will you be all right if I leave you for about half an hour to make these telephone calls?”

“Oh yes,” she said blankly. “Yes, of course. Whom are you going to telephone?”

“William, to see what’s happening at Penmarric. He left Carnforth Hall as soon as he heard the news and went over to Penmarric to be with Helena and help her make the arrangements. I also want to try to speak to Donald in Penzance. The news was such a shock to Jeanne that it brought on a miscarriage. Donald was just about to take her to the hospital when I last spoke to him.”

But she did not take it in. Her mind was filled with Philip’s loss and could not absorb news of a second tragedy in the family.

“No doubt Jeanne will be all right,” I said uneasily, “but the baby will be two months early and might be in danger. I must phone Donald and find out what’s happening.”

“Yes,” said my mother. “Yes, of course.”

“When I see the rector shall I tell him to call?”

“Not tonight.”

“Very well. I’ll try and be as quick as possible.” I stooped, kissed her and went outside into the twilight.

Five minutes later I was halting my car outside the rectory and asking Forrest if I could use his telephone. I phoned Penmarric first. Medlyn, sounding very subdued, answered as usual and on hearing my voice said he would fetch William at once.

“Jan?” said William a minute afterward. “Thank God you’ve phoned. I was just wondering if I should go over to your mother’s house to fetch you. Where are you now?”

“Zillan rectory,” I said, feeling my scalp prickle at the tone of his voice. “Why? What’s happened? Surely, not—-there’s not more bad news, is there? Is Jeanne all right?”

“She’s very gravely ill. Helena left half an hour ago to join Donald at the hospital in Penzance.”

“And the baby?”

“Born dead,” said William, “and I’m afraid I have to tell you that Jeanne’s not expected to live either.”

After a long moment I said blankly to William, “What shall I do?” My mind was blurred, sweating palms made the receiver slip in my hands; my head ached and I felt dizzy with fatigue. “Shall I go to the hospital?”

“No, I think you should stay with your mother. Helena and Donald both realize you have to be with her—I discussed it with Helena before she left. But don’t tell your mother yet about Jeanne or the baby.”

“No … no, of course not.”

“I’ve spoken to Adrian on the phone and he’s coming down to Cornwall tomorrow. Lizzie telephoned for news of Jeanne, but that was before we knew anything definite, so there was nothing I could tell her.”

“And Philip—the body … Is it—”

“Yes, they brought him back here. That’s all been attended to. Esmond’s here with me and he and I are keeping each other company.”

I guessed from his tone of voice that Esmond was nearby.

“I’m glad you’re with him,” I said. “I’m glad he’s not all alone at Penmarric.”

“Yes … Is there anything else I can do while I’m here? I assume you’ll be staying overnight at Roslyn Farm.”

“Yes, I’ll be staying there tonight and tomorrow I shall be driving my mother over to Penmarric to see Philip. You’ll still be there then, won’t you?”

“Probably.”

“If there’s any definite news about Jeanne—”

“I’ll drive over to the farm to tell you.”

He arrived at two o’clock in the morning. I awoke with a start to find my mother stooping over me with a candle in her hand.

“Jan …” She was shaking my shoulder tremulously. “Jan, someone’s knocking on the front door and there’s a car outside with it’s headlights on. Who can it be?”

I was awake in an instant. I flung back the covers and scrambled out of bed. “I expect it’s William,” I said, pulling on my trousers. “He said he might call.”

“But it’s two o’clock,” said my mother, a bent old woman huddling in her shawl. “It’s two o’clock, Jan.”

“Yes, I know. Now you go back to bed, Mama. I’ll deal with this.”

“I can’t sleep. Why is William calling?”

“I think it might be about Jeanne.”

“Jeanne?”

“She lost the baby, Mama. The shock of Philip’s death—”

“Yes, it was a shock, a terrible shock. Poor Philip. Poor Jeanne … she lost the baby, you say?”

“I’m afraid so, Mama.” I slipped on my jacket “Now you go back to your room and after I’ve seen William I’ll make some tea and bring it to you.”

“Jeanne’s too old to have a baby for the first time,” said my mother. “Thirty-six is too old. I was thirty-six when Philip was born, but he was my fourth child.”

“I won’t be a minute, Mama. I’d go back to bed if I were you.”

But she lingered in my room. I left her sitting on the bed and ran downstairs lightly, barefoot. When I opened the front door I found William waiting in the porch.

“Is Jeanne—”

“I’m afraid so. Helena has just arrived home from Penzance.”

There was a long silence. The old house creaked and sighed as old houses do, and the wind moaned far away in the eaves.

“Come in,” I said at last. “Mama always keeps brandy in the store cupboard. Let’s have a drink.”

“I’d better not come in.”

“It’s all right. She’s upstairs.”

He stepped reluctantly over the threshold and looked around him. He had not been to the farmhouse before.

“This way,” I said abruptly and led him down the passage to the kitchens.

When we were seated at the table with our brandy glasses before us he said, “Poor Helena looked as if she was walking in her sleep. I felt so sorry for her. Naturally I felt more than sorry for Donald too, poor fellow, but Helena’s lost her husband and her best friend all within the space of twenty-four hours and that’s too much to expect any person to bear, in my opinion. I don’t know how you manage to believe in God, Jan, when such appalling and unwarranted misfortunes fall upon as blameless a woman as Helena and as decent a fellow as Donald McCrae. Where’s the justice in that? There’s no justice in the world and no God, that’s all I can say.”

“Say that to Adrian,” I said, drinking the brandy. “He’s the clergyman. I’m sure he knows all the answers.”

“Adrian doesn’t see death as I see it. He believes in the Resurrection.”

“So do I.”

“Do you, Jan? Do you really? How can you? It’s beyond me. I’m afraid the older I get the more of an atheist I become.”

“I’m too much of a coward to be an atheist,” I said. “I couldn’t bear not to believe in anything. I have to believe there’s God, but don’t ask me what Donald’s done to deserve Jeanne’s death and don’t ask me what Helena’s done to deserve a double bereavement, because I don’t know. I’m not God and I’m not a clergyman and I don’t have all the answers at my fingertips.”

We were silent for a while. William helped himself to more brandy. “I suppose,” he said as he swirled the brandy in his glass. “I suppose Jeanne at least had a taste of a happy, normal married life. She did at least have some sort of reward for all those years when she nursed that poor devil Gerald Meredith at Polzillan House. Also I suppose all Philip’s dreams died with Sennen Garth and he had nothing much to look forward to. But I still don’t see why Donald and Helena—”

The floorboards of the stairs creaked; from far away at the front of the house my mother called my name.

“Coming!” I shouted and added to William, “Wait here.”

“All right. Don’t tell her about—”

“No, of course not.”

I left the kitchen and hurried up the passage to find my mother waiting uncertainly in the hall.

“Was it William?” she said.

“Yes, it’s all right, Mama. I’m just giving him a drink in the kitchen. Shall I make you some tea?”

“No,” she said. “No, I don’t want tea. Jan dear, I’m so worried about the funeral. I can’t sleep for worrying about it. I don’t want that new rector burying Philip. I don’t like him and he never knew Philip anyway. Do you suppose Adrian—but Adrian’s very important now, isn’t he? He’s at Exeter Cathedral. Do you think it would be right to ask him to bury Philip?”

”I’ll telephone Adrian tomorrow and talk to him about it,” I said. “You mustn’t worry about that now, Mama. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“Perhaps he wouldn’t want to bury him,” she said. “His own brother. It would be too sad.”

“Leave it all to me, Mama. I’ll talk to Adrian tomorrow, I promise you. Now let me help you back to bed.”

“No, don’t bother to come upstairs. I can manage. But do you think Adrian would—”

“Yes, Mama, yes, I expect so. Try not to worry about it any more.” In spite of her protests I helped her upstairs to her room and saw her safely into bed before I returned to the kitchen.

“I’m sure Adrian will conduct the funeral service if your mother wishes it,” said William when I told him what had been said. “I don’t think it would be too much to ask at all. I’ve no doubt Adrian’s sorry that Philip’s dead, but they weren’t close friends and anyway Adrian isn’t so affected by death as I am and he’s accustomed to funeral services. I’m sure he would conduct the service if he was asked to do so.”