He turned away, composing himself for the second part of his plan. He had sacrificed the house; now himself. Death by fire, death by water—he had chosen fire for the house, water for himself. It was really rather pleasing that it was Good Friday. Walking quickly through the gardens, he realized that he would never see them again: the fountains, the statues, the summerhouses, the ha-ha. But still he did not stop for a last look. He had to make sure he was gone when the fire was discovered.
Across the lower lawn went his feet, down the steps to the lake. He threw the paraffin cans in, one after the other, hurling them as far as he could. Then he went into the grotto and sat on the bench. As an afterthought, he unwrapped his pocket-book and pencil from their protective oilskin, tore out a page and wrote a bland farewell message to his parents. He placed the note and pencil on the bench, weighted by a stone; then he sat leafing through his own poems and Alex’s letters, his most precious possessions.
No-one must find them after his death. He should have given them to the flames.
He kissed Alex’s signature and traced the flamboyant capital A with his fingertip. Then he folded the loose sheets inside the notebook and wrapped the oilskin tightly around. Standing, he tossed the package into the water: the words and eventually the paper would dissolve them, and all the feeling in them. Now he undressed, removing his jacket, his tie, his shirt, his boots and socks, breeches, undergarments. He smoothed his finger-tips over the initials EP, marked in tiles. He had a memorial here, ready-made.
Now.
He stood naked by the water’s edge. It felt like a gesture of bravado, exposing himself to the air: he could not rid himself of the notion that there might be snipers behind the trees and machine-gun posts on the slopes facing him. Across the lake the trees were beginning to come into leaf; he looked at the delicate colours, the pinky-browns, the first shadings of green, a frosting of wild cherry-blossom. The woods were full of birdsong: birds going about their business of nesting and living, while he went about his business of dying.
He closed his eyes and thought of Alex diving into the river near their Picardy farmhouse, where green weed flowed like hair. Alex was a strong swimmer; Edmund was not. It was time to follow.
The water was colder than he would have believed possible. He dipped one toe, stepped in with both feet, waded on yielding, sandy mud. There were creeping shocks of coldness as the water reached his testicles, stomach, chest—how
wet
it was! Now the final chilly clutch over his shoulders, ears, hair, and he was in, swimming. He would have to combat his instinct to keep afloat, deliberately fill his lungs with water. He raised his head, took a deep breath (why?) and ducked, sweeping with his arms to take him deep, out to the middle of the lake where weeds would entangle him and keep him down.
He was so busy concentrating on drowning that it took him a while to register a commotion in the shallows behind him. Annoyed, he surfaced, and the same instant a hand grabbed him painfully by the hair. He turned his head as best he could and came face to face with a pair of bulging eyes, goggling, asquint, level with his in the water.
Joe Baillie, the gardener’s boy.
‘On’t! On’t!’ Joe shouted, and then he sank, his arms, in heavy corduroy, flailing wildly. Edmund realized that the boy could not swim. Having plunged in to save him, Joe was now in danger of drowning.
Damnation! Edmund had no choice but to postpone his suicide. He pushed and shoved the boy’s unwieldy body back towards the edge. As Joe still thought he was the one doing the saving, the result was a locked-together thrashing and stumbling, to shallower water and then the muddy path. They stood there, gasping, the boy’s eyes flicking down at Edmund’s naked body. They were both cold, starting to shiver.
A new idea struck Edmund: pleasing, mischievous. He guided Joe towards the shell grotto.
‘Take off your clothes, Joe. Put on mine,’ he told him.
Joe stared at him, his head moving from side to side, one eye on Edmund’s face and the other over his shoulder. Edmund helped him off with his sogged corduroy and wool, and on with the officer’s uniform. Joe, getting the idea, began to chuckle, thinking this a good dressing-up game. It took an age to do up all the buttons and fasten the tie.
‘Your own boots,’ Edmund said. Joe pulled them on and spent some moments puzzling over the laces. Then he stood up, fully dressed, looking like a parody of a soldier: smartly-clad but bedraggled, wearing badges of responsibility and a half-witted, lopsided grin.
‘Good. Now my turn.’
Joe Baillie was large for his age and his clothes were baggy and worn. Edmund wrung water out of the trousers and pulled them on, then the checked shirt and finally the ill-fitting jacket. Joe looked at him and sniggered.
‘One more thing. Let me . . .’ Edmund reached for the pencil-stub he had left on the bench in the grotto. To the note he had written for his parents, he added:
I name Joe Baillie as my heir. I bequeath him Graveney Hall
and its estate.
‘You’re welcome to it, Joe—what’s left of it. I’ve done with it. I hope it makes you happier than it’s made me.’ He took the boy by the shoulders. ‘Now, Joe, I want you to go back to the cottage and wait there for your father. Do you understand?’
He had to repeat his instruction twice before the boy nodded.
‘And give him this.’ Edmund handed Joe the note. ‘Give it to your father. You understand?’
A slow, uncertain nod.
‘Go, then. Now!’
Edmund stood watching while the boy climbed laboriously up the steps, pausing at the top to wave. Waving back, Edmund turned and walked along to the farthest end of the lake; then he took a narrow path that led up a gradual slope and out to the barley field beyond.
He had made a decision.
His life as Edmund Pearson had ended when he plunged into the lake, though not in the way he had planned. Since Joe’s arrival had dragged him back to life, he would have a new identity. Edmund Culworth, he decided: a kind of marriage, his name with Alex’s. Edmund—no, better change it to Edward—Edward Culworth, farm labourer, would concoct some story and serve out the war as a private soldier.
His new resolve had almost driven the fire out of his head. Four fields away he paused, looked back and stood shocked and horrified at what he had accomplished: Graveney Hall was ablaze, flames leaping from the roof, the gardens obscured in a drift of smoke. The fire that had started with a few matches was as big as the house, ravaging, consuming. As he gazed he pushed away his moment of panic, and a smile spread slowly over his face. There was no room for regret. He was escaping, triumphant. Graveney Hall would never claim him now. For so long pushed and manipulated, he was leaving with this spectacular gesture of self-assertion.
‘He saw what he had done,’
he muttered,
‘and behold, it
was very good.’
A dry ditch and hedge at the edge of the field marked the limit of the Graveney estate. Edmund stumbled and half-fell in the long grass and nettles, picked himself up, pushed through the twiggy mass of the hedge and was free, in his neighbour’s cow-pasture. Wiping dried cow-pat from his boot, he hurried on across the grass. He did not look back.
Henry Pearson felt sick and faint. He stood by the fountain, gazing at the smouldering ruins of his house. What paintings and bits of furniture the servants had been able to save were dotted crazily about the terrace and around the fountains. He had the ridiculous feeling that if he asked Baillie to drive him back to church, if he repeated his journey home, he would see Graveney Hall standing proud and unblemished, as he had left it. This—this was
impossible
! His home charred and smoking, disembowelled by fire . . . And Graveney was more than his home; it was his past, his future, his life’s purpose. Where was Edmund? He needed Edmund; he felt so old and suddenly frail that Edmund would have to take charge . . .
‘I’m very sorry, sir, to trouble you in your distress, but I think you should see this.’
He turned slowly, dull-witted; saw George Baillie holding out a scrap of paper. ‘Yes, Baillie, what is it?’
The gardener approached him reluctantly. ‘It’s Mr Edmund, sir. I—I believe he’s drowned himself in the lake. He left this note.’
Henry Pearson stared, unable to take in this second shock. He snatched Edmund’s note and tried to make sense of the words:
To my parents.
You will have realized that I have not been myself
since returning from the Front. I am most sincerely
sorry for the anguish this will cause you but I cannot
face returning to France and am taking the coward’s
escape route.
Your loving son,
Edmund.
I name Joe Baillie as my heir. I bequeath him
Graveney Hall and its estate.
Henry Pearson made a gargling sound and sagged at the knees; Baillie realized with alarm that he was about to faint. Supporting with strong arms, he helped his employer to a low wall and sat him down, then called to one of the servants who was dithering by the steps to fetch brandy and a rug. Shortly after, Mrs Pearson appeared and took her husband away to the groom’s apartment which was being made ready as temporary accommodation. George Baillie wondered whether he should break the news to her too, then decided not to. He had tucked the suicide note into Mr Pearson’s pocket. Sadly he thought of young Mr Edmund, two nights ago, at the cottage door. He had been kind to young Joe, sure enough, and standing there he had looked for a moment so wistful that George Baillie had thought of inviting him inside. He wished now that he had. Who knew what was going through the young gentleman’s mind, for him to do away with himself? Nothing that a chat and a cup of tea could have put right, but all the same . . . Baillie sighed, shook his head and went back to his work, helping to carry furniture up to the apartment above the stables.
Next day Henry Pearson summoned Baillie to his makeshift rooms to discuss the matter further. Baillie, having got from Joe that he had seen Edmund plunge into the lake and that the young master was now gone, had to confess the rather embarrassing detail that Joe had appeared wearing Edmund’s uniform. Where Joe’s own clothes were, he had been unable to establish. George suspected that Joe had thrown them into the lake.
‘This note,’ Mr Pearson said curtly. ‘I think we can assume that my son was of unsound mind when he wrote it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’d be most grateful if you’d refrain from mentioning it to any of the other servants—and Joe won’t, of course. I shall have to report my son’s death to his regimental headquarters but apart from that I would prefer to let it be believed that he has returned to the Front. We shall have to try to find the—the body . . .‘ He held out a hand over his eyes and breathed deeply in and out.
‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
‘Suicide—it’s a bad business. My wife’s devastated, of course—we both are. We wouldn’t want it known.’
‘Of course, sir. I understand.’
Baillie, who suspected that Joe had had something to do with the starting of the fire, was relieved that his employer did not go on to raise similar doubts. Dismissed, he said, ‘There’s one other thing, sir.’
‘Mm?’ Henry Pearson, haggard, exhausted, managed a flicker of interest.
George Baillie handed over Edmund’s pocket-book.
‘I went down to the lake, sir—took Joe with me to see what sense I could get out of him. He seemed to say it must have been near the grotto, so I had a good look round, even waded in, to see if I could find Mr Edmund’s . . . er . . . body. I couldn’t, but I did find this near the edge of the water. It’s his notebook, sir, and this bundle of letters—wrapped in an oilskin, and fortunately not too damaged. You’ll want to have them. I hope they may give you some comfort.’
‘Thank you, Baillie.’
The gardener left. Henry Pearson opened the pocket-book and took out the damp bundle of letters tucked inside its back cover. The edges of the paper were stained with water, and some of the ink had spread, but most of the writing was quite legible.
Carefully unfolding the first, he started to read.
My
dearest Edmund
, it said in Alex’s swooping black handwriting.
Refraction
Greg’s
photograph:
a huge eighteenth-century
mansion standing alone. It is built in classical
style: weighty, monumental, symmetrical. The
frontage is of Portland stone; twin flights of steps
rise to the pillared main entrance. The central
section is surmounted by a decorative triangular
panel sculpted with reclining figures and a Latin
inscription. At a glance, you’d think you were
looking at a stately home—a National Trust
property, perhaps. Only when you look properly
do you see that the door and windows are blank,
that there is no roof, and that the house is an
empty shell.
Jordan walked into Greg’s room and took off his clothes and got into bed with him.
They lay side by side, facing each other, looking, looking. Jordan’s eyes were sea-green, night-warm. Greg was afloat with happiness, pillowed and billowed by it, his brain awash.
‘I love you,’ he whispered; and then, because the words sounded so awkward in his mouth, ‘Is it all right?’
‘Yes, it’s all right,’ Jordan said. ‘I know.’
Greg reached out a hand to touch Jordan’s face: curve of browbone, eyelid, straightness of nose, shapely upper lip: a facescape familiar and strange, his to explore. Parting teeth nipped his fingers and held them: gentle, teasing. The eyes opened wide, fixing gleefully on his, and he saw what a stupid mistake he had made. The face was not Jordan’s but Tanya’s—bright smiling teeth, glittery eyes, sparkly hair. The body was hers too: smooth, inviting.
‘I don’t love you, stupid. Come here.’ She pulled him on top of her. ‘What’s love got to do with it? It’s just sex. You need practice.’
He could not answer. He could only bury his head in her neck, and thrust and thrust, give himself over to his body’s urges . . . she was moving with him, and laughing, and her nails and teeth were so sharp . . .
oh,
let me let me . . . ohhhh . . .
And then he was looking at the dawn-grey curtains, finding himself alone in his bed, dizzied with the shock of waking. Warmth tingled through his limbs, nice . . . he felt the hot stickiness on his thighs and on the sheet, rapidly cooling.
Damnation!
He thrust back the duvet and stripped the undersheet, bundling it into a heap. A glance at his watch showed that it was only six-thirty, much too early for anyone to be up, thank God. He stuffed the sheet into the laundry basket in the bathroom and took a clean one from the airing-cupboard, then got into the shower.
He squeezed a dollop of minty Energizing Body Gel, turned the shower dial so that the flow was hot and needling, and remembered what day it was. Sunday, Open Day at Graveney Hall. While he washed and minted and energized himself, the dream lingered in his mind, vivid and disturbing.
Truth? Nonsense? Which?
He stood under the shower until the bathroom was filled with steam and the mirror clouded over.
Now what?
He had promised to meet Faith at the Coach House, to help set things out. But it was earlier than early. On Sundays the pool opened at seven, and Jordan would be there. The team didn’t train at weekends, but he had told Greg that he felt restless and lethargic unless he began each day with a hard swim.
Mental
, Greg had said; didn’t he like a lie-in once a week? No, Jordan replied; he was conditioned to wake up at six-thirty and go straight to the pool without even thinking about it.
Greg remade his bed, then dressed in his swimming shorts, with jeans and a sweatshirt, and rolled clean underpants into a towel with his goggles. Quietly, he let himself out of the house.
Sunday morning was for the keenies: no children, length-swimmers only, the pool marked off into lanes. Greg nodded to Paul, who was on the lifeguard’s chair, and saw Jordan in the far lane, recognizable by his dark head and streamlined front crawl. He knew Jordan would not notice him, head in the water, intent. Finding a space two lanes away, Greg dived in.
The water was not at all cold, but the shock of wetness jolted him into action. He adjusted his goggles and settled into his stroke, enjoying the rhythm, the push into blue water, the silky flow over his skin. He had not so far taken up Sandy’s suggestion of coming to a training session, but now he thought he might. Jordan had said no more about it, but that wasn’t surprising. Jordan had hardly spoken to him all week.
Now?
When he judged that Jordan was reaching the end of his session, and the pool was beginning to be taken over by casual swimmers, Greg moved over to the far side, ducking under the red discs of the lane marker. Jordan swam up fast, grabbed the rail and stopped. He looked at Greg in some surprise through the blue-tinted plastic of his goggles. ‘Oh,’ was all he said, lapped by backwash.
Greg thought of his dream; courage failed him. ‘Thought you’d be here,’ he said feebly.
‘So?’
‘Give you a race?’ Greg suggested. ‘Two lengths, front crawl?’
‘If you want.’ Jordan half-smiled—a fleeting ghost of one, but still the nearest thing to a smile Greg had seen for over a week. They lined up, feet against the side, arms back, hands grasping the rail. Jordan let Greg give the nod to start. He swam level with Greg for the first length, almost lazily, not even bothering to do a tumble-turn at the end, just pushing off the side. Then, on the return, he moved into a different gear; he was not going to let Greg win.
Struggling to catch up, Greg glimpsed him from both above and below the surface: upraised arm arrowed at the water, head pillowed by it, legs kicking below, and the long slim body, fluent and beautiful in motion. Jordan was in his element: swimming, alone, absorbed. He was ahead, out of reach, while Greg floundered behind.
The church, Faith’s church, was ahead of Greg as he pedalled up London Road. It served as a useful landmark, its square tower dominating the skyline; the bus stop next to it was a convenient meeting place. He hadn’t been inside since junior school, when a yearly carol service had been held there. Last time he had been inside a church was for his cousin’s wedding in the spring, and then he’d felt silly and dressed-up, expected to sing hymns he didn’t know and join in the prayers.
But this was Faith’s church. He wanted to see what she saw every Sunday.
Self-consciously he locked his bike by the stone wall. The town was almost deserted this early, but what if anyone saw him? Gizzard, say? He’d have to pretend to be interested in the Roll of Honour or something. There was probably a service going on, anyway. The heavy wooden door opened to his push, creaking loudly; he saw warm light inside.
He hesitated in the porch. No voices, no organ music. Cautiously he went in, closing the door behind him. He smelled polished wood and hundreds-of-years -old coldness, and faint dusty warmth from an inadequate heater. Looking up, he saw daylight cut into shapes by stained-glass windows. On the wall opposite was a Memorial Tablet listing the dead of both wars—some three dozen for the Great War, fewer for the Second. Greg went across to look, glancing at the place where Edmund Pearson’s name would have been, but there was no Pearson. There were two Baillies: G.E. and J.P. Both Joe’s brothers! Joe had started life as one of three, ended up an only child. That could have been enough to send him half-demented . . .
By the lectern someone had made an arrangement of autumn foliage: scarlet berries, and green and golden leaves, and the silvery tufts of old-man’sbeard. An altar-cloth showed loaves and fishes in embroidered silk. Above was a large crucifix of carved wood, with a Christ-figure attached, skinny and suffering. Greg looked, wondering what he was seeing: a torture victim, an executed prisoner, a Middle-Eastern Jewish man who had lived and died two thousand years ago, made to look European for easier appeal to English eyes; the man who said he was the son of God. Faith’s Jesus. He was not Greg’s Jesus, but nevertheless he—or the myth he had become—would not be diminished by unbelief. Greg looked at the sideways-tilted face, with cheeks hollowed out by the woodcarver’s chisel, and a crown of thorns gouging the forehead.
‘Who are you?’ Greg asked aloud.
If it were true that Jesus was God’s son and that he showed the way to heaven—if it ever had been true—then it was true for ever. And if it was not true now, it never had been. It was a mass delusion. Greg sat down in the front pew, and looked, and waited to see if a revelation would prove him wrong.
His thoughts wandered. Edmund Pearson must have sat here, he thought, spreading a hand over the cool grain of the wood. It was all hierarchical, wasn’t it? People didn’t sit anywhere they chose—they had their own places, and a wealthy family like the Pearsons would have been at the front. What had Edmund thought, the last time he sat here?
He called himself back to attention. Now that he was seated in the pew, facing the altar, he had to make an attempt at saving Faith’s faith, however stupid and self-contradictory it sounded.
He cleared his throat. ‘Look, if there’s anyone listening,’ he began, speaking so quietly that he could barely hear his own words, ‘could you do something for Faith? You know her, don’t you? Could you show her you’re there? I mean, you wouldn’t want her to lose it, would you? You don’t turn people away, specially not people who want to believe. And it’s my fault, whatever she says, so if you could put it right I’d be really glad. I hope you don’t mind me asking; it’s a bit of a cheek, really. Anyway, that’s it. Thanks.’
What a prat, eh? Asking favours of a wooden effigy.
Behind him, the door opened with a creaking sound.
The back of his neck tingled; the air felt alive with electricity. It’s him, he thought. He’s come to find me. He knows. But it seemed impossible to turn round, as if his head were held in a neck-brace.
Heeled shoes clopped on the stones of the aisle. Half-standing, Greg saw an oldish woman, carrying a water-jug and a bunch of leaves and berries. He blundered out of the pew, clumsy with disappointment. The woman, smart in a grey coat with a scarf at the neck, stared at him, curious and wary. She doesn’t know if I’m here to pray or to nick the brass candlesticks, he realized, glad that she hadn’t come in a few moments earlier to hear him mumbling to himself.
‘Good morning?’ she said. She wasn’t used to teenagers, he could tell.
He tugged at his sweatshirt. ‘Just looking round.’
He was still early at Graveney Hall, though he could see from the number of cars parked along the frontage that the helpers were here in force. ‘Marvellous news!’ Margaret, Faith’s mother, greeted him by a striped pagoda set up as the official entrance. ‘Have you heard?’
‘No?’
‘That young boy, Dean. He’s started to get the feeling back in his feet and legs. They think he might make a full recovery after all! What a relief for everyone.’
But I didn’t pray for Dean, Greg thought for a confused second.
‘There’s a card inside,’ Margaret went on. ‘We’re all signing it, and we’ve got him a present. Make sure you put your name. It looks like rain, but if we’re lucky it’ll hold off till this afternoon. I don’t know where Faith is. She’s around somewhere.’
Greg found her in the Coach House, getting Maura to sign Dean’s card. She waved him over: ‘You as well, Greg!’ People had already written things like
So
glad to hear you’re making progress
and
Hurry up and get
yourself out of there
, as if they were Dean’s favourite uncles and aunties, and Dean a nice little boy. Greg wrote
Get well soon. Greg.
‘Not paralysed after all,’ he said to Faith. ‘He’s going to take up his bed and walk! Did your prayers do that, or what?’
Faith shrugged. ‘Who knows? Would have happened with or without them. I’m glad, though.’
‘A bit of a miracle, you could say?’
‘Who do you want me to say that for—for me or for you? What’s a miracle anyway?’
‘Something that goes against the laws of Physics. Something that can’t be explained.’
‘Well, this can be explained,’ Faith said. ‘His spine wasn’t as badly damaged as they thought it was at first. Easy.’
Her mother brought up another whole box full of jam and lemon curd and chutney, all in jars with frilly caps, and each needing a
Friends of Graveney Hall
sticker with the price written on; then the postcards and guidebooks had to be set out. Then Mike came over to say that the numbers were already more than expected, and could Greg go out to help supervise parking along the front drive. Greg stayed there, guiding the cars into neat lines and stopping people from backing into each other, until Phil came out to relieve him.
Back on the garden side of the house, he stopped to take in the scene. A wind quintet, arranged with their music stands in a semi-circle on mown grass near the steps, played something elegant and classical. There were people everywhere: gazing into the ruins, sitting on white plastic chairs with their refreshments, wandering around the garden, gathering for the next guided tour and looking up at the uncertain sky, which promised rain. Children ran across the grass, parents pushed buggies, one couple had a pair of identical King Charles spaniels on leads. A second pagoda displayed raffle goods, and a queue had formed at the entrance to the Coach House, where sandwiches, cakes and quiches were set out in a spread far in excess of the usual Sunday offerings. What would the Pearsons have thought of all this?
I hope the Friends never restore the place too much, Greg thought. I like it as it is.
Faith came across the grass with a plate of sandwiches and cakes. ‘I know,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Feels like the place has been invaded, doesn’t it? It’s nicer when we have it to ourselves. But think of all that money rolling in! This many people—loads of money at the gate, and that’s before they spend anything else. Here, I’ve brought our lunch—Maura’s taken over the jam and stuff so we can have a break.’
They sat on the low wall to eat, but were sent scurrying into the Coach House by a sudden fierce shower of rain. ‘Good!’ Faith said, trying to run with two wedges of chocolate gateau still on the plate.