The Witch of Exmoor

Title Page

Table of Contents

Dedication

Copyright

THE VALE OF IGNORANCE

TIMON'S FEAST

LUNCH ON THE LAWN

THE VALLEY OF ROCKS

STEPPING WESTWARD

A BEAST IN VIEW

THE CAVE OF GLOOM

HINDSPRING

For Adam Swift
and Sindamani Bridglal

Copyright © 1996 by Margaret Drabble

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Requests for permission to make copies of any part
of the work should be mailed to: Permissions Department, Harcourt
Brace & Company, 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida
32887-6777

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Drabble, Margaret, 1939—
The witch of Exmoor/Margaret Drabble.—1st ed.
p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-156-006040-0

I.Title.
PR6054.R25W58 1997
823'.914—dc21 97-10952

Text set in Bembo
Printed in the United States of America
First Harvest edition 1998
C E F D

Begin on a midsummer evening. Let them have everything that is pleasant. The windows are open on to the terrace and the lawn, and drooping bunches of wistaria deepen from a washed mauve pink to purple. The roses are in bloom.

The meal is drawing to a close. The bowl of fruit has been plundered. A hacked yet noble slab of Cheddar cheese, a flattening liquid disc of Brie circulate slowly on a heavy round grey veined marble slab. The salad wilts a little in its various oils. There are crumbs and stains on the dark pink loose-woven cloth. Dishes are stacked high by the Aga, in full view, should one wish to look that way, for this is a farmhouse dining-room, and it is open plan, on the twentieth-century, more or less servantless model. The painted moss-green walls glow in the fading light. This is England, but Spain and Italy have coloured the dishes and displayed their bowls and plates upon the wooden dresser, adding their cobalt Mediterranean blues and their hot mustard yellows. The wine is French, and the precociously rosy apples are from New Zealand, but the bread was baked here this afternoon, and the gems of lettuces and the dark red veined oak leaves and the splinters of chive are from the garden. Are the grapes from South Africa? It is hard to tell. Let us say that we are in England, in Hampshire, and that we approach, but not too closely, and not it would seem very rapidly, the end of the twentieth century.

Much bread has been baked by Patsy Palmer over the weekend, for her family and guests are in good appetite. They have been walking, swimming, playing tennis. They work hard during the week, in their different ways, and now they are taking their ease and eating slice after slice of solid brown bread. They have already devoured spinach soup and two large free-range chickens and a platter of roast potatoes garnished with rosemary. Now they eat bread, and cheese, and nibble at grapes, and talk.

This is the home of Daniel and Patsy Palmer. Daniel is that lighthaired, skinny, freckled chap who is absent-mindedly refilling his own glass from a bottle of claret. He looks lean, hungry and athletic of mind and body, and is wearing jeans, although he must be in his forties. An academic, a civil servant, a lawyer, a diplomat? Something like that. His wife Patsy is plumper than he, though by no means yet fat, and she also is wearing jeans, and above them a navy-blue Chinese silk shirt and an apron with a pattern of ducks upon it. Her hair is short and brown and slightly fluffy. She could be a headmistress, or a gynaecologist, or a magistrate. And those two young people must be their children, for the family resemblance is strong, and their manner at table is offhand and familiar–and in young Simon's case verging on the rude. Emily looks like her father; her hair is a clear red-gold, her eyes a Nordic blue. Simon, too, resembles his father in colouring, and his nose is sharp.

He bites his nails between grapes, and avoids eye contact. A mother–but perhaps not his#x2013;would note that he is too thin.

The other women at table are also related to their host Daniel. They are his sisters. You can see that at a glance. Both born Palmer, they are Palmer no longer, for both have married, and both belong to the generation of women who took their husbands' names. Thus Rosemary is now Rosemary Herz, and Gogo (as Grace is known within the family) is Gogo D'Anger. Both the younger Palmers have married out.

Rosemary is the beauty of the family, or so it has always been said, and there is a residue of truth in the saying. Her hair is a light pinkish gold, slightly paler than her niece Emily's, and assisted in tint by her hairdresser. (She is the only woman in the room to give evidence of regular visits to a hairdresser.) Her eyes, like Daniel's, are a challenging intellectual blue. She is the most becomingly dressed woman at the table, for she has changed, after tennis, into a pale lilac soft cotton dress (an interesting choice of colour, but effective) and added some green glass beads to dangle into her freckle-dusted cleavage. Rosemary has style. She could be an actress, or a television presenter, or a journalist. Her husband, Nathan, is rather a surprise. He is short and squat and fat and hairy and balding and very ugly. She wears him with pride, like a fashion accessory.

Rosemary and Nathan have two children. They have gone upstairs to the bunk room to watch TV or play some computer game. Or so their parents assume.

Gogo is the middle daughter. She is taller than Rosemary and a little heavier in build. (Does Rosemary watch her diet? Probably, though one would not think so from the amount she has eaten this evening.) Gogo's hair, which had been family fair at birth, had turned darker in her teens, as though making a protest against its powerful and problematic heritage, and it is now a dull brown; she wears it tied back with a scarf, for she says that the feel of it upon her brow annoys her. This habit gives her a slightly Bohemian appearance, which she accentuates with bright colours–on this occasion, a bold shirt of geometric purple and red, worn over a long orange skirt#x2013;but she counteracts this gypsy look with an expression of forbidding severity. She could be called handsome, but not beautiful. She has the Palmer nose. One would not like to speculate upon Gogo's profession, for fear of reprimand or ridicule if proved wrong. (That she has a profession is manifest.)

Her husband, David, in contrast, has a most engaging manner, as though to compensate for Gogo's austerity. He is Guyanese, and he is as handsome as Nathan is ugly. One could gaze at him with pleasure for hours, and many do. He and Nathan get on well. They do not often meet, but when they do they like to talk. They form an alliance against the Anglo-Saxons.

Gogo and David have only one child. He is upstairs, playing or watching TV with his cousins. Or doing whatever it is that children of that age do.

David and Nathan are talking now. This weekend was set up as a family conclave, but David and Nathan agree that they cannot spend all their time playing Unhappy Families. They have already spent much of the weekend talking about the problem–in the pool, on the tennis court, walking in the shrubbery, chopping parsley#x2013;and now it is their turn, at least for a brief respite, to talk about something else. The Palmers, tacitly, agree. They too have had enough, for the moment, of what to do about Mother. They are refreshed, by the claret and the roast potatoes. They are willing to play David's game, which he says is called ‘The Veil of Ignorance'.

He has tried to explain it to them in simple terms, but some of them are not very quick#x2013;or perhaps they are too quick by half, for they keep interrupting him and going off at tangents and having ideas of their own. They are not as docile as his one-time students. But then, they have no examinations to pass, and for them nothing hangs upon the game itself, or upon his approval.

It is only a game. Gogo knows the game already, has known it for years, so she sits back, smiling her sardonic smile, as David politely and charmingly persists.

‘No, it's not a question of imagining a Utopia,' he repeats. ‘It's more a question of unimagining everything that you are, and then working out the kind of society which you would be willing to accept if you didn't in advance know your own place in it. If you knew you would have no special privileges or bargaining powers. It's a much more modest proposal than a Utopia. All you have to imagine is that in the original position of choice you don't know who you are or where you stand#x2013;you don't know if you're rich or poor, able or disabled, clever or mentally subnormal, plain or beautiful, male or female, black or white, strong or weak. You don't know if you're an optimist or a pessimist, a risk-taker or a traditionalist, fertile or infertile, straight or gay. Nor do you know if the society itself is going to be rich or poor#x2013;pre-industrial, technologically developed, rapidly developing, booming, declining. You can't expect to be yourself, nor can you expect society to be anything you recognize. Your eyes are veiled by the veil of ignorance. And from this position you have to examine the first principles of justice, and decide what they are. If you cling to any trace of your existing self you will find yourself constructing a theory of justice and a society that favour you.'

‘As
these do us,' murmurs Emily, but nobody hears her.

‘Let me get this straight,' says Patsy, who has been trying to concen trate through distractions about bread provision (could they really finish off yet another loaf?–she was damned if she was going to bake at midnight, and she has a busy day on Sunday). ‘Tell me again, David. You mean I've got to construct a society in which I would be vailing to take my place as the poorest of the poor and the lowest of the low?' ‘Well,' says David. ‘It's not the whole of the society you have to construct, it's more the principles on which it is founded.'

(‘I can't see the difference,' murmurs Emily.)

‘You could decide', continues David, ‘that a small contingent of the very poor are necessary for the proper functioning of society, and that it would just be bad luck#x2013;a sort of social sacrifice#x2013;if you ended up as one of them. It would be quite hard to argue, I think, that a numerically overwhelming mass of the very poor can constitute a just society, but it certainly has been argued.'

(‘Not to say practised,' murmurs Emily.)

‘I don't see a problem,' says Patsy. ‘I can't see how anyone can ever vote for anything other than a society in which there's no possibility whatsoever, however numerically remote, of ending up at the very nasty bottom of a heap. I know I'd end up at the bottom of the heap if there was a bottom. I've never had any luck at gambling. So I'd prefer a nice safe foolproof society, please, where even if I pulled the shortest straw I could still survive quite comfortably. In fact I'd like a society without a bottom of the heap at all. Would that be a practical possibility? Would the rules of the game permit it? Would the earth's resources permit it?'

‘In practice, it's very difficult to design a society in which there's no bottom of the heap. Millions have died for it, but no country on earth has managed it,' replies David, smiling his civil, engaging, disarming smile.

‘Really? It sounds so little to ask. Such a modest request.'

‘You always think you're being modest, Ma,' says Simon. ‘It's one of your most persistent delusions.' (He speaks more sharply than his sister, with a more unpleasant edge, but Patsy chooses to ignore him.)

‘What I want to know is this,' says Rosemary. ‘If it were all worked out, according to David's rules–the universal principles of justice and all that#x2013;would anyone dare to press the button and make it happen? If there
were
a button to press, would anyone press it? Would anyone be willing to rip off the veil and open his eyes in the brave new world of Social Justice? Would one risk all, if one were a professor at Harvard instead of a man in a cardboard box?'

(The man from the attic, who has crept silently down the backstairs to help himself to a banana from the larder, listens intently for the answer.)

‘Of course one wouldn't dare,' says Daniel Palmer. ‘It would mean giving up all this.' He gestures widely and with a lifted eyebrow, perhaps of dissociation, at his lawns, his Aga, his wife, his dissenting children, his deliquescent Brie, his three empty bottles. ‘I like all this. I've worked hard for this. Years of my life have gone into all this. Years of Patsy's life have gone into it. I want to see the bay tree reach six foot. Slow growth. You know, slow growth. Why should I press a button and risk losing all of this?'

‘You might not lose it,' says his daughter Emily more forwardly, and this time they are obliged to listen. ‘You could', pursues Emily, ‘redesign society
exactly as it is.
Stone by stone, leaf by leaf. You could work out a theory of justice that said it was proper and necessary for the whole of society that there should be such a person as you in such a house as this, and then you could press the button. And you might end up right here, having this very same conversation.'