“GETTING DOWN TO THE DREGS,” SAID JANE AFTER A LITTLE thought. “Two others, but neither likely to know much. One’s Mr. Tredgold, chaplain at Luftwich for a time. Lives at Canterbury House.”
Canterbury House was a home for retired clergymen. Having spent their working days in big, drafty old rectories owned by the church, the clergy were often hard put to find housing after their retirement, especially when their meager stipends had been eaten up by the demands of the old houses. So unless their wives had independent means, as few did nowadays, they often ended up in places like Canterbury House, which was better than letting them starve on the streets, but still a poor way to treat men who had served God all their lives. It was, I thought, still harder on their wives, who had to give up the accumulated treasures of a lifetime of housekeeping, the heirloom china, the favorite pictures and chairs and ornaments they had looked after so lovingly, and condense their belongings to what would fit into one or two small rooms. “Store not up for yourselves treasures on earth …” was an injunction, however wise, that most of us preferred to ignore.
And like clergy wives, most of us might have to get rid of our treasures someday, if we couldn’t afford to keep our houses, or if their upkeep became too much for our strength … a depressing thought. It was true that you couldn’t take it with you, but I wanted to keep it as long as I possibly could. I wrenched my mind back to the chaplain. “Does his wife live with him, or is he widowed?”
“Never married. Very High Church. Oxford Movement type.”
Well, the Oxford Movement, an attempt to return the Church of England to Catholic practices, happened in the middle of the nineteenth century, about a hundred years too soon for direct influence on the Reverend Mr. Tredgold. Undoubtedly he had imbibed its principles through a devout mother or grandmother, or a clergyman who touched his imagination. “Hmm. He doesn’t sound very likely.”
“Said we were scraping the bottom of the barrel. Only other survivor I know of is even less of a starter. Leigh Burton, widow of Bill’s best childhood friend George. He was at Luftwich, too, though not in Bill’s wing.”
“Oh, well, it had better be Mr. Tredgold, then. He is—um—
compos mentis,
I hope?”
Jane permitted herself a grim smile. “As much as he ever was.”
Typically, she didn’t expand upon that remark.
We went back to Sherebury before heading out to Canterbury House, which was several miles out in the country. I took some bicarbonate of soda to offset the effects of the extremely tannic tea and then asked Alan to call the hospital and check on Walter. I knew he’d get more information out of the nurses than I would.
Alan is one of those irritating people who say little on the phone, so I couldn’t tell from his end of the conversation what was going on. A smile crept across his face, however, so I was panting to hear the news as soon as he hung up.
“Good news! He’s fully conscious, and they’ve moved him out of intensive care. He isn’t making a great deal of sense when he talks, they say, and he has no idea what’s happened. However, he can move all his limbs, is responding properly to stimuli, and wants something to eat. They think he’s going to make a full recovery.”
“Hallelujah! But you didn’t ask when we can go and see him.”
“They volunteered the information, love—said not for a day or two. They want him kept quiet until he’s talking more or less normally. After that, he can have company.”
“I don’t suppose he’s told them anything about his attacker. Or no, you said he doesn’t even know what’s happened.”
“And we knew he wasn’t likely to at first, or perhaps ever.”
“Yes, well, I’m going to run over and give Jane the news. I don’t suppose you’d care to fix us all some sandwiches?”
Jane, working in the kitchen, was pleased with my report, but declined my offer of lunch. She was pouring a brown batter into square pans. “Gingerbread,” she said briefly. “Never knew a youngster who didn’t like it.”
“Who’s it for? I doubt if they’ll let Walter have anything that good, not yet.”
“One pan’s for Nigel and Inga. She’ll be too busy with the baby to cook much. Make another batch for Walter when he can eat it.”
“Lucky Walter!”
So Alan and I ate our sandwiches, and I did a little halfhearted Christmas decorating. When Jane came back from delivering her gift, the two of us headed out again.
“I’m beginning to feel like a traveling salesman,” I complained mildly as Jane negotiated a complicated double roundabout. “I’ve been living in one car or another for the past few days.”
She emerged from the roundabout, shifted gears, and roared down the road. “Hmph! Not making many sales, are you?”
“Not a one. Not even a hint of interest. Am I barking up the wrong tree, do you think, Jane?”
“Turning over the wrong stones? Mixing the wrong metaphors, for certain.”
“All right, all right.” I sniffed the air. “More gingerbread?”
“The other pan. For Mr.Tredgold. Most men have a sweet tooth, even at his age.”
I forbore to comment on her generosity. Jane gets embarrassed easily. “Tell me more about him, Jane.”
She raised both hands in the air. “Can’t describe him. Have to see for yourself”
“In that case,” I said in a strangled voice, “maybe you should concentrate on driving. This road is awfully narrow.”
“Not to worry. Ruts’ll keep the car going where it should.” She grinned, but put her hands back on the wheel and slowed down a little. I tightened my seat belt and tried to breathe normally. The road, little more than a lane, really, had no ruts, but a lot of curves. The high hedgerows on either side reduced visibility to near zero. I wondered what would happen if we met a car, and then decided not to think about it.
I’d heard about Canterbury House, but had never been there. It was certainly a depressing sight as we approached it that gloomy winter day. The predicted rain had begun, turning the long drive up to the house into a squelchy mass of mud. The gravel with which it had once been paved had given up long ago and sunk into oblivion.
The house itself was a Victorian monstrosity in dark brown brick. I suppose it had once been red before generations of coal fires had embedded their soot in the very pores of the house. There were wings and ells and bays and various other excrescences, giving the whole place a vague resemblance to a rhinoceros or some other ungainly animal. I couldn’t imagine any family actually living in such a place. Perhaps it had been built as an institution to begin with, a rather nasty school or an orphanage. Certainly it looked enough like my idea of Lowood. Jane Eyre would have felt right at home.
There were gardens to one side of the house and presumably in back. Those I could see were, like Lowood’s, “all wintry blight and brown decay.” There had been roses, but the bushes were brown and nearly leafless, the beds spotted with coarse grass and tall weeds.
“What a dreary place!” I exclaimed. “How awful to have to live here.”
Jane shrugged. “Not so bad inside. Done their best to brighten it up, paint and wallpaper and so on.”
I personally felt that all the paint in the world couldn’t bring cheer to that repellent place. I shivered as we left the car and scurried through the rain to the door.
Jane was right. It was a little better inside. Fresh paint and a pleasant striped wallpaper disguised some of the innate ugliness of the entrance hall, and touches of Christmas here and there showed someone’s good intentions, but nothing could remove the institutional smell or the atmosphere of resources strained to their limits. The young woman who greeted us, however, was cheerful enough.
“Good afternoon! Actually, it’s a wretched afternoon, isn’t it? I do loathe rain at Christmastime. I’m new here. Do you know your way about, or can I help you find someone?”
I glanced at Jane, but she had folded her arms and retired into silence. I smiled at the young woman. “I’ve never been here before. We wanted to see the Reverend Mr. Tredgold, if it’s convenient.”
The young face clouded. “Oh. I’m not sure if … well, I’ll ask. He—um—he has good days and bad days, you know.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t. I’ve never met him, you see. I just wanted to ask him some questions about—about a mutual friend.” That was less than candid, but I didn’t feel I needed to go into a long explanation to the receptionist.
However, she became even more doubtful. “Questions? He may not—I mean, he isn’t gaga or anything like that. Not like some of them, poor old dears. But he sort of lives in a world of his own, if you know what I mean. Conversations aren’t always—but I’ll ask.”
She picked up the phone. The call brought another woman, older, with the sort of wrinkles around the eyes and mouth that come from smiling. “You wanted to see Mr. Tredgold?” she asked, looking at Jane and me. “Forgive me for asking, but just what did you want to talk to him about?”
I opened my mouth, but this time Jane forestalled me. “Old friends,” she said firmly. “Reminisce a bit.”
“I ask only because there are some subjects that worry him a good deal. He’s a very dear old man, but he feels himself a failure in many ways. He doesn’t like to be reminded of the war, for example.”
Well, then, what were we doing there? The war was exactly what we wanted to talk about. I looked at Jane.
“Know about that,” said Jane. “Just want to talk about one of the flying officers, not the war as such. We’ll be careful.”
“Well—if you’re sure—we have no rules here really, you know, but we do try to keep the residents happy.”
I would have given up then and there, but Jane is made of sterner stuff. “We’ll be careful,” she repeated. “He still lives on the first floor?”
“No, he’s had to move to the ground floor. He can’t manage stairs now, and he doesn’t like the lift. I don’t like it myself, if it comes to that. How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”
“Going on for two years,” said Jane.
“Ah, you’ll find him sadly changed, then. Physically, I mean. He’s virtually lost the use of his legs, and he’s very thin. He’s over ninety, of course, and quite ready to meet his Maker for some time now.”
“Can he have sweets?” Jane indicated the plate of gingerbread.
“Oh, he loves them, and he can eat nearly anything. Shall I show you to his room? I’m afraid the house is a bit confusing.”
She led us through a maze of corridors; I was lost after the first two turns. Eventually we fetched up at the door to a small room at the end of a corridor.
“It’s quieter here. He likes quiet. And the view of the garden is lovely in summer. Mr. Tredgold, I’ve brought you some visitors.”
The old man was sitting in a wheelchair by the window, reading. He was meticulously dressed in a black suit with a gray shirt whose clerical collar, though frayed and much too big for his wrinkled neck, was spotlessly white. His hand, as he extended it to Jane, had once probably been slender and graceful. Now it resembled a claw.
“Miss Langland, isn’t it? How very nice to see you. And bless my soul, is that gingerbread you’ve brought? Oh, that calls for some tea. Mrs. Hart, might we have some tea, please?”
Mrs. Hart smiled and nodded and went away to see to it.
Mr. Tredgold inclined a courteous head to me and then asked Jane, “And your friend is—?”
“Dorothy Martin.” I held out my hand. His was as dry as an autumn leaf, but his grip was firm. His voice, reedy and fluting, seemed made for intoning psalms. Perhaps it had developed that quality through decades of practice.
“Have we met, Mrs. Martin? I fear I am a bit forgetful. Were you one of my parishioners in London, perhaps?”
“No, I’m an American. I moved to Sherebury only a few years ago, and I suspect you were already retired.”
“Retired. Yes. I still read the offices every day, you know. Now and again someone is kind enough to come and read them with me.” He gestured to the book in his lap and I saw that it was the Book of Common Prayer, the old version whose stately language I loved so much.
“Your eyesight must still be very good, sir, if you can read that small type.”
“Bless you, my dear, the book is only a symbol. I know it all by heart. Did you come to read Evensong with me? It’s a trifle early in the day, but perhaps, as I retire very early …”
“I’d love to do that before we leave, but I really came to talk to you about the old days and some of the people you used to know.”
“The old days?” His voice sharpened. “How old? Not—not the terrible time?”
“Well, around then, I’m afraid, but I didn’t want to talk about the war, only—”
“I won’t talk about the war. I can’t talk about it. Please don’t ask me to. I’ve given everything away, everything to remind me of the noise, the stench, the death—they all died, you know, all the young men—pain and suffering and death and hell—”
His voice rose higher. His hands shook. Tears gathered in his eyes and rolled down his incredibly wrinkled cheeks.