The blind years, p.11
The Blind Years, page 11
‘Let me go, Grandma. I want to do something. I’ll go mad just sitting here.’
‘I think, my dear, it would be advisable if you kept yourself in the background until we leave. You don’t want to go bumping into any one of them, do you? You never know what it might lead to, because tempers are pretty high at present. No, I’ll see Frances and I’ll try to locate John and bring him back with me. He can be amusing at times.’
‘Not any more.’
The old lady glanced at her granddaughter, then shook her head before exclaiming, ‘As you’ve said, I think the sooner you get away from here the better. You’re colouring everyone with the same brush.’
Half an hour later Frances, a comely, homely-looking woman in her thirties, tapped on the study door and announced Mr Dickenson.
Mr Dickenson, unlike his son, was a man well over six feet in height. His body was sparse of flesh and hard and straight, and he looked a man of dignity, a straightforwardly honest man. He inclined his head towards the old lady as he said, ‘Good morning, Mrs Gether.’
‘Good morning, Mr Dickenson.’ Hester accompanied her words with a movement of her heavily ringed hand, then added, ‘Take a seat, Mr Dickenson.’
‘Thank you.’ When he was seated, Mr Dickenson looked towards Bridget for the first time and said quietly, ‘I hope you feel better, miss…I…didn’t expect to be able to see you.’
Before Bridget could answer, her grandmother put in, ‘But that’s what you wished, wasn’t it, Mr Dickenson?’
‘Yes, definitely.’ He looked at the old lady, then turned his gaze again towards Bridget. ‘I wanted to have a word with you. Are you well enough to hear me?’
‘Yes, yes, of course, Mr Dickenson.’ Bridget’s voice was low and steady. ‘But I can assure you there’s no need to say anything.’
‘I think there is, miss. Well, first of all I would say that my…my son is in great distress of mind and physically in a bad way. He did not return home till dawn following the…the incident. He had been lying in the wood and had lost a great deal of blood, and if it hadn’t been for the doctor coming quickly on the scene, it might have been very serious. But all this doesn’t wipe out what happened, what he did. I am not making excuses for that.’ He turned his gaze fully towards the old lady as if to add weight to this statement, before going on, ‘But my son is a good man, miss; I’ve never known him to be the worse for drink before. He can take and hold a little like any ordinary fellow, but he drank more than was good for him that day because he was distressed; he was distressed about you, miss. He was concerned for your happiness, your happiness not his own, and I want you to believe that, because some long time ago he had faced up to the fact that you were not for him. I might as well tell you, miss, that I did not agree with him on that point. You might have more money than he has, but when it comes to heritage and breeding he could definitely compare favourably with anything you had to offer.’ Again his gaze flashed towards the old lady, and he added quickly, ‘I am not meaning to insult, madam, you understand that?’
‘I understand you, Mr Dickenson. Go on.’
Mr Dickenson was again holding Bridget’s attention, and he went on, ‘My son was in love with you, deeply in love with you, but he considered you not only above him socially but…well…well, more of a child. A child who trusted him, and he acted accordingly. If he had taken my advice he would have declared his feelings and run off with you. Yes’—his head moved downwards—‘yes, that’s what I advised, and I would like to wager you would have been much happier today if he had taken that advice…And now we come to the other night. I don’t know what happened, and he remembers only vaguely, but he remembers…’ He paused now and removing his gaze from Bridget, he looked down as he said, ‘He remembers trying to make love to you and you resisting him strongly, and then something hit him on the back of the head. When he came to he was alone in the hut and knew he must get away. He let himself down the face of the rock. How he managed that, he cannot remember either. And then he reached the wood. It was hours before he was himself again, at least before he could remember, even vaguely, what had happened, and since then he has been like a man demented. He wrote to you, and when he received no answer to his letter he begged me to phone. He wanted to come and see you and to tell you…that he is not sorry you are no longer going to marry Mr Overmeer, for both he and I know that was the best possible thing that could have happened to you. I am sorry if I am hurting you by saying this, miss, and you, ma’am.’ He again cast a glance in Hester’s direction. ‘But the future will prove the truth of it. But what he also sent me to say was what he would have said himself if he was allowed entry into this house, or if you would have seen him, as he asked in the letter. That he is sorry to the soul of him for forcing himself on you, for frightening you, because that is what he remembers clearly: your terror and his ignoring of it. Even if you say you forgive him, miss, I know that he will never forgive himself…And now may I ask you something as a great, great favour to me?’
Bridget could not help but be deeply affected by the sincerity of this man, who was but an older replica of Bruce. She said gently, ‘Go on, Mr Dickenson.’
‘Well, it is this, miss. When you are well enough, would you see him? Would you let him speak to you? I think this, and only this, will end the turmoil that is in his mind. I repeat that my son is a good man, yes, and his love for you was a good thing. If he doesn’t have peace of mind he will be destroyed. He has never been a man for the women. Like me, he has been singular in his purpose. This, perhaps, makes us a little narrow in our judging of others. Be that as it may, what answer am I to give him?’
Bridget, lifting her eyes from the contemplation of her hands, and looking straight at Mr Dickenson, said, ‘I’m…we are leaving here tomorrow and there won’t be time to see him, but tell him that of course I will later, and tell him…tell him not to worry any more, Mr Dickenson. I understand, and I do know’—she nodded her head to emphasise her words—‘it would never have happened if he hadn’t been drunk. I know that.’
‘Thank you, miss, I’ll tell him. It will certainly ease his mind…And about your arm, miss, I understand it’s broken.’
‘Oh, no, no, it’s not broken, Mr Dickenson. It just slipped its socket. It’s all right now.’
‘Well that will be some source of relief anyway. And now I won’t detain you any longer.’ He rose to his feet, then turning to Hester Gether, he said, ‘It’s a pity you ever left this house, ma’am.’
The old lady, with a characteristic gesture, pushed her eyebrows up towards her white hair. ‘Thank you for the thought, Mr Dickenson, but it remains a matter of opinion.’
Mr Dickenson was again looking at Bridget, and she was waiting for him to speak when her attention was lifted to a movement outside the door. She glanced towards it and heard Kate’s flurried voice exclaiming, ‘They’re…they’re in the study, Doctor.’ The next moment the door opened and John entered.
‘Oh, I’m sorry…I didn’t know…’ He stopped and Hester exclaimed, ‘Oh, come away in; you don’t need any introduction to Mr Dickenson, I’m sure.’
‘No, no, I don’t that.’ John smiled towards the older man and Mr Dickenson’s countenance brightened, ‘Good day, Doctor.’
‘Good day, Mr Dickenson.’
‘I was just off.’
‘Now don’t go because of me.’
‘No, no, I won’t, Doctor, but my errand’s finished. So,’ he turned towards Hester, ‘good day, ma’am, and thank you.’
‘Good day, Mr Dickenson, and thank you for coming.’
‘Good day, Miss Bridget.’
‘Good day, Mr Dickenson, and…tell Bruce it’s all right.’
‘Thank you, miss. Thank you indeed.’
After the door had closed on Mr Dickenson, John did not ask, Why was he here and how on earth did he get in? which would have been only natural. Nor did Hester Gether give any explanation. Instead, pointedly ignoring the subject, she smiled widely up at him as she said, ‘Come and sit down and tell me something amusing, something funny.’
John’s eyes crinkled and his mouth went into a wry grin as he repeated, ‘Something funny, now let’s see.’ He cupped his chin in the palm of his hand and thought for a moment before asking, ‘Do you want it funny ha-ha, or funny peculiar?’
‘Ha-ha.’
‘Ha-ha. You would. Well, I’m sorry, old lady, but I’m short of ha-has at the moment.’ He sat down beside her and with his back half-turned towards Bridget.
He seemed to be ignoring Bridget, for he had not even looked at her from the moment he entered the room and his attitude was incensing her. Why had his manner changed towards her all in a matter of two days? What had she done? She was in trouble and if ever she needed his kindness and consideration, it was now. She could see how her grandmother pooh-poohed the idea of any change in him, for with her he was still his playful self. The old lady was saying to him now, ‘Are you sure you’re really feeling better? Flu, real influenza can take it out of you, and it often leaves a weakness.’
Bridget watched him straighten up and thump his chest with his hand. ‘Listen! Sound as a bell,’ he said. ‘I had an overhaul yesterday and the village crock…I mean doc, said, back to work. But take plenty of recreation, he said. Something different from your easy London life. Navvying, he said, would be fine. What you want, John, he said, is a few weekends with a gang of Irish navvies. Digging drains, preferably. It would give you both mental and physical upliftment.’
‘Don’t be a fool, John.’
‘It’s true, Grandma.’
‘But you’re not starting work yet?’
‘Next week, as ever was, old lady.’
‘Not if I know anything about it. We’ll talk about this later. I’ve got a lot to say to you.’
‘Somehow I thought you had.’
As they both laughed, Bridget rose to her feet. Their apparent indifference to her feelings and presence, not to mention their jocularity, was hurting her, but it was also angering her. She felt that more than ever now they were treating her like a young girl, when it must be apparent to both of them that she was no longer the girl of three days ago.
‘Bridget?’ John was on his feet. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To my room…Why?’ she asked the question coldly.
‘No reason.’ His voice was soft, his manner was soft. ‘Don’t be long. We’ll take a walk.’
‘I don’t feel like walking.’ She could be awkward, too.
‘Don’t be silly, child.’ Hester Gether’s voice was airy and its implication was just too much for Bridget.
‘Don’t call me a child, Grandma…Don’t ever again call me a child.’ She was leaning forward, her voice low and angry. ‘I’m twenty-two and I’m having an experience not given to children.’
If Hester Gether was taken aback she did not show it. She looked squarely at her granddaughter for a moment, then turned towards the table and picked up her embroidered bag. But when Bridget swung round towards the door and John made a move towards her, her hand went out and silently stopped him from following her.
When Bridget reached her room her anger had fled and she was aghast at having spoken to her beloved grandmother in such a fashion. For about fifteen minutes she fought with herself; she must go and apologise, she must. She was actually at the door when she heard her Aunt Sarah’s voice from the landing saying, ‘I told you how it would be; that man should never have been allowed in the house.’ Then her grandmother’s voice came to her, high and disdainful. ‘Well, he was. But what I want to know is how you come by your knowledge of what he said. Were you listening at the keyhole?’
‘How dare you!’
‘Oh, I dare, all right, Sarah; don’t forget I know you. But if you weren’t listening you must have put Kate on duty; she’s got very long lobes has that frustrated lady. And don’t deny the obvious. If you weren’t informed in some way, how were you to know that Bruce Dickenson wanted to meet Bridget, eh? Answer me that.’
There followed a short silence before Sarah Overmeer’s voice, cold and cutting now, said, ‘My answer to you is that this is my house. I have never denied you its doors, but once you are gone this time, I will thank you not to return.’
‘Don’t worry, Sarah, once I am gone from it this time, as you so pedantically put it, I shall not return. We will likely all be on our way tomorrow…John, too.’
‘Oh, no doubt, no doubt John will be accompanying you. Of course, you don’t want any scandal, do you, and it’s so convenient to have a doctor in the family…You would even let him risk his reputation to save her, wouldn’t you?’
‘Be quiet, Sarah!’ The old lady’s voice sounded terrible, even terrifying. ‘You are out of your mind; this business has unhinged you.’
‘Not quite, Hester, and don’t think you can put the fear of God into me, because you can’t. And now let me tell you why the reason I’m intending to give for the marriage being broken off will be the true one. I’m not going to let Laurence take the brunt of this, no matter what he’s done. I’m going to say to anyone who cares to listen that she was having an affair with Bruce Dickenson…and of course time, I feel sure, will prove my words.’
‘You poor crippled soul.’ Bridget could scarcely hear her grandmother’s words now. ‘I could feel sorry for you, Sarah, for you know in your heart that Laurence is no good. You know that to all intents and purposes he has broken up the Crofton home, and that Bridget found out his latest escapade, which of course wouldn’t have been his last with that lady…And who was it before her? A young woman in Cambridge. You had a visit from her father, if I remember rightly. But I needn’t go on. As I said, Sarah, I’m sorry for you…Now kindly move out of my way. I want to enter my room.’
There followed a silence that seemed to vibrate. Bridget waited a few minutes longer before opening the door, then she went out and towards her grandmother’s room, which was the last room along the passage leading from the landing. But she was only halfway across the landing when she was brought to a stiff halt by a door opening behind her and a voice exclaiming, ‘Well! Well!’
She turned slowly and saw Laurence. He was in his shirtsleeves; it was a silk shirt and his bulky chest muscles were pressing hard against the material. Bridget noted this, for her eyes were on his chest and not his face. Her legs felt weak, and the weakness was travelling swiftly up her body as she went to turn from him. But his voice held her, saying, ‘Wait. Oh wait. Don’t deprive me of this small pleasure; I didn’t ever expect to see you again. You were to keep to your room until such time as you were fit to depart. But you are looking radiant. Who has performed the miracle? Ah, yes, yes.’ He raised his hand, his forefinger pointing upwards, the gesture ludicrously like that of a bishop bestowing a blessing. ‘Jonathan! Jonathan, the miracle worker, or is he just the English Dr Kildare? Ah, there…there lies the point. Anyway, he has got you onto your feet, and we are grateful, aren’t we? At least I am.’
Bridget was forced now to look fully at Laurence, and she saw to her consternation that he was drunk; not drunk in the way Bruce had been, his body rolling and his voice thick; no, Laurence had always been able to carry his drink. The evidence of his indulgence was betrayed only by his eyes: it was as if they were covered by an opaque skin. Once before she had seen his eyes like this, one New Year’s Eve, and as the glaze had deepened, so his manner had become more aggressive. But this was not New Year’s Eve, this was twelve o’clock noon. It was unheard of that either he or his father took a drink before the lunch aperitif but he must have been drinking heavily for some time. She knew that the best thing to do was to ignore his taunts and get to her grandmother’s room as quickly as possible. But as she turned in the direction of the door he was facing her again. With an agility surprising in one so heavily built, he had leapt in front of her.
‘Don’t leave me like this, Bridget. This might be our last meeting.’ His voice was mockingly tender.
‘Get out of my way, Laurence; I’m going to Grandma.’
‘She is going to Grandma.’ He nodded his head first to the right and then to the left as if he were addressing an audience. ‘Did you hear that? She is going to Grandma. Tut, tut! How can you suggest she has come out of hibernation to meet Mr Bruce Dickenson? How can you suggest such a thing?’ He now, with exaggerated mimicry, put his head on one side and his hand to his ear as if he were listening for an answer. Then went on in indignant tones, ‘Because his father came and arranged it? Oh, you have a bad mind.’
Now his eyes returned to Bridget’s and he repeated, ‘They have bad minds, haven’t they, to think that you are going to meet dear Bruce?’
‘You’re drunk and you’re…you’re horrible.’
‘Horrible, am I?’ His tone was now thick with bitterness. ‘Horrible, she says. All right, have it I’m horrible, but at least I know what I am, whereas you, you sanctimonious little hypocrite, playing the naive child, while all the time…’ His hands came forward and as they gripped her arms she cried out, as much with pain as with fright: ‘Leave go! Leave go! I’ll…I’ll…’
‘Let her go.’ The command was terse, yet quiet, and Laurence, turning his head, looked towards the stairs where stood John, and sent forth a sardonic laugh. He now loosened his hold on Bridget with one hand but held onto her with the other, and as she swung round and strained from him, John, now only about three yards from them, again said, ‘Let her go!’
‘In my own good time, Doctor.’
‘Now!’
Bridget stopped straining from Laurence and became still. She was suddenly overwhelmed with fear, not for herself but for John. This seemed to be the outcome of the premonition she had had the other evening. Yet this was a John she hadn’t seen before: this man looked like a wildcat ready to spring. But what chance had he against Laurence on the strength of his bulk alone? She heard herself shout, ‘Don’t, John!’ and at the same moment she was aware of a succession of events. As John’s fist shot out with surprising swiftness and caught Laurence on the side of the face, she felt herself hurled against the wall, and then there was commotion all around her. First Grandma’s voice was crying, ‘What is this? What is this?’ And then Kate’s voice shouting, ‘Now, Doctor…sir! Mr Laurence!’ Following this there was a second of quietness that held no movement, each person on the landing remaining quite still. John was now standing against the opposite wall near a pedestal that held a bronze urn. Laurence was some yards from it, his arms hanging forward, his whole body in a crouching position. Then movement was set in motion again by Grandma, her voice commanding, ‘No more of this! No more of this!’
