The Beautiful Visit (26 page)

‘Do you good. You look peaky. You may return for tea. I haven’t much to say to him.’

I walked down the drive with a beating heart after lunch, rehearsing what I should say to Mr Tyburn. The whole business had, by then, assumed an urgency, a state of crisis, which I supposed he
would resolve, without any clear idea of how he could possibly do so. It was not until I reached the little grey mouldering church with the gaunt unsuitable vicarage beside it, that the frightful
thought of Mr Tyburn being contained in neither of these edifices, but out visiting, occurred to me.

I resolved to try the church first, as, if he were there, he would, in all probability, be alone, and nobody would know that I had come. The thickly studded door of the church opened loudly but
easily and I went in. A heavy smell of chrysanthemums, baize and damp prevailed, but the church was quite empty. I stood for several minutes, undecided, when the silence was broken by the sound of
a door, and shortly afterwards Mr Tyburn appeared from behind the pulpit carrying a bundle of pamphlets. He began moving among the pews with a decorous but purposeful haste, distributing them, and
every now and then clearing his throat as though he were about to speak. He saw me. and smiled understandingly, as he mouthed some inaudible greeting. Then he conscientiously took so little notice
of me. that I was certain he thought I had been on the point of slipping on to some hassock to pray. As soon as I realized this, it became exceedingly embarrassing not to kneel down to his
expectations. After considering the situation, I selected a pew already loaded with pamphlets and knelt in It. He acknowledge this with a quick movement of the head, and began working steadily in
the opposite direction. There followed an anxious interval; however, when I judged the pamphlets to be exhausted. I rose to my feet and succeeded in running him down at the main door by which I had
entered the church. I was not a moment too soon; his hand was on the latch, he had opened the door by the time I reached it, and I had no choice but to precede him outside. He shut the door,
cleared his throat and bade me good afternoon. He had a heavy cold.

‘Out on one of your walks I take it.’ he added as we walked down the path. I agreed, and murmured something about trying to meet him.

‘Ah, yes. Dreadful weather we’re having. Going to rain again. Yes, I distinctly felt a drop.’

We had reached the vicarage gate. He hovered uncertainly. I took the plunge.

‘Could I possibly come inside for a few moments?’ I asked.

He glanced at the sky and his face brightened.

‘Ah, yes, shelter,’ he said. ‘Of course.’ And led the way.

I followed him up the gravel path to the house. It was built of bright dark red brick, and the front door, which was ajar, was badly in need of another coat of chocolate-coloured paint. The hall
was pitch dark; but undeterred, he conducted me into a small room, possessed of a cold fug and a kind of bare untidiness. An enormously fat, old and matted spaniel rose to its feet and lumbered
towards us. It smelled strongly, and its eyeballs were covered with a blue film. Mr Tyburn patted it absently.

‘Poor old girl. She hears quite well,’ he added, with which excuse for the dog’s continued existence he motioned me to a chair, sneezed violently, and began poking up the damp
uncertain fire, which hissed and proceeded to go out faster than ever. Mr Tyburn sighed and seated himself.

‘And how is Mrs Border?’ he began. He was a man not lightly shaken from his duty.

‘Her brother arrives this afternoon for a visit,’ I replied.

‘Of course. So you have absented yourself for a while. Very right. I’m sure they must have a great deal to say to one another. Perhaps she would rather I did not come
tomorrow?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘She didn’t give me any message about it. You see she – I didn’t know I was going to see you.’

‘Ah,’ he said musing. ‘Then I wonder . . .’ He was interrupted by a knock at the door. It opened and what I imagined to be the housekeeper stood there. ‘Mr
Tickner,’ she said. Mr Tyburn rose to his feet.

‘Of course. Will you excuse me a moment? I don’t think the shower has quite stopped. I shall only be a few moments.’ And he left the room.

The spaniel rose again and staggered snuffling after him. On finding the door closed, she stood motionless, pressing her nose against it; then laboriously resumed her corner.

I stared out of the dreary room at the grey sky. The rain had not stopped, but seemed rather to be settling down for the evening. The church clock chimed, and I realized with a shock that it
must be a quarter to four. I should have to return. It occurred to me that Mr Tyburn had not grasped that I wanted to see him, and the longer I sat there, the more I shrank from my original
intention of telling him about the strange sounds in Mrs Border’s house in the night. The notion seemed, as I sat there, to be utterly absurd. What could he possibly do about it? I should
only succeed in embarrassing him. But then, if I did not tell him, who should I tell? I sat there feebly struggling with this dilemma until he reappeared.

‘I am afraid I shall have to ask you to forgive me,’ he said, advancing into the room, and almost falling over the dog which had risen to greet him, ‘but I have to go out. Most
unfortunate. Perhaps you would like to remain until the rain stops?’

‘Thank you, but I am afraid I shall have to go. I don’t think it is going to stop.’

He peered at the window.

‘I fear not,’ he agreed.

He reached for his mackintosh which hung on a peg by the door, and blew his nose. ‘We can go together,’ he said, trying to make the best of it, and we went.

He wheeled an old bicycle from the black depths of the passage. I opened the door and we hurried to the gate.

‘I hope you don’t catch anything in this damp as I have foolishly done. I have an appalling cold,’ he added unnecessarily. He mounted the bicycle. ‘Very damp place. The
last man died of a consumption, but I expect Mrs Border has told you that sad story.’ And he sped away, waving to me, and then clutching his hat on to his head.

I hurried back, digesting this new piece of information as I went. It had not occurred to me that Mrs Border’s husband, her second husband, had lived and died there. It explained her
knowledge of the parish; her disapproval perhaps of things being done in a different manner; possibly even her refusal to go to church, which must contain many painful memories. Had she, then,
lived in the large dreary house? It was not until I was almost running up the drive (it was raining heavily by then), that Mr Tyburn’s remark struck me as at all strange. I was so afraid of
being late for tea that I dismissed this strangeness with the rather hasty supposition that Mr Tyburn found that situation, as he seemed to find most situations, embarrassing.

When I had changed, I found Mrs Border opposite the profusely laid tea table.

‘You are late. This is my brother. I’ve told him all about you,’ she said almost malevolently.

I apologized and sat down.

Mrs Border and her brother discussed the war during tea. She did most of the talking, while he sat, refusing food, and topping her very general arguments with a few military observations of
which she took no notice whatsoever.

He was a very tall man with a soft melancholy voice, melancholy brown eyes, and a curious small round hole in his face just above his moustache. He sat very upright stirring innumerable cups of
tea; with one leg stretched stiffly out before him. Mrs Border took no notice of me; but several times I caught her brother’s eyes fixed on me in a mournful and inquiring manner. As soon as I
could decently be supposed to have finished my tea I was sent to pick flowers from the conservatory for the table.

When I returned, I found the Major standing with his hands behind his back in gloomy contemplation of the parrot. Mrs Border was not in the room.

‘They live to the most appalling age,’ he remarked, making his way slowly to the fire. I noticed that he had a pronounced limp.

‘Has Mrs Border had him long?’

He did not seem to hear. ‘Bit quiet here for you I should think,’ he observed a moment later. ‘No fun, eh? No parties.’ Then, with sudden animation, ‘Those were the
days!’ He sighed deeply, and repeated, ‘Those were the days. Why, I can remember . . .’ He broke off gazing at me sadly. ‘Oh well. Even youth gets older, doesn’t
it?’ He leaned forward a little with his stiff bony hands on his knees. ‘Or doesn’t it?’ And then distinctly, and very slowly, he winked.

I thought of Mrs Border’s confidence the night before; the wink seemed an awful confirmation of everything she had said. I could make no reply. But he seemed not really to expect one, as
after a second he sighed again and leaned back in his chair.

‘Has – has Mrs Border had the parrot long? I mean is he very old?’ I asked, for want of anything better to say.

‘Supposed to have been a young bird when I bought him. Bought him off a ship’s steward in Liverpool. Just back from India. Thought I’d better bring Madgie something. Clean
forgotten when I was out there don’t you know, and had to rake round a bit for one or two little things. Must have been twenty-five years ago. Never liked them myself. Madgie’s devoted
to it though. Never left her through all her illnesses and everything. Devoted to it. Extraordinary.’

Mrs Border appeared in dining attire. ‘What were you two talking about?’ she exclaimed.

‘About the parrot, Madgie, about the parrot,’ he answered patiently. ‘Getting on now, poor old chap.’

‘He’s lasted better than you,’ she retorted and led us in to dinner.

After this long and exceedingly uncomfortable meal (Mrs Border was argumentative and fractious, and the Major, bored and almost silent, stared at me in the same gloomy and abstracted manner), we
spent an even longer and more uncomfortable evening, in the course of which I remarked that I had seen the Vicar, and that he was coming to tea. This precipitated an avalanche of questions from Mrs
Border. I explained about the rain, and his kindness in offering me shelter. I could see she was very angry and I felt so guilty about my private intention (although I had failed to carry it out)
that I began to wonder whether she suspected it. The matter was eventually dropped on a very high note of tension. She suddenly announced that she was going to bed and motioned me to follow her.
The Major had so thoroughly unnerved me by his staring that I could hardly say good night to him. Mrs Border glanced at us both; I could almost see her suspicion breaking new ground. However, she
said nothing until we were up the stairs. Then, after I had waited for her to reach the top she laid her hand heavily on my shoulder. ‘It is not at all wise to conceal anything from
me,’ she said softly, watching me. ‘I have a very active imagination you know. I am sure you would not like me to imagine the wrong thing.’ And before I could think of replying
she had gone, and the door of her room was shut.

My first impulse on reaching my room was to burst into torrents of tears; but they had hardly begun when I heard the shutting of a door below and sounds of the Major hauling himself stiffly up
the stairs to bed. I lay choking back my sobs for fear he should hear them, listening while he ascended the flight, paused and stumped slowly to his room. And then I did not want to cry. The events
of the day swarmed upon me, disordered, unreal and incomprehensible, a horrible collection of darting inconsequent fears which I could no longer resolve or escape. I thought of Mrs Border’s
behaviour in the passage; indeed her behaviour throughout the evening, the whole day, and many days before that: her extraordinary confidences; her horrible greasy wig; her solitude and her spite.
I thought of Mr Tyburn’s curious parting remark; of his obvious embarrassment on the occasions when we had dutifully discussed Mrs Border; of the inexplicable laughter in the night; of the
fact that Mrs Border had not once been outside the house during the weeks I had known her. I remembered what she had said about her brother, and what her brother had said to me. I found myself
quite unable to remember anything which did not confuse and terrify me. I sat for hours striving to arrange this disjointed flood, these innumerable significances, but without any success, until,
shivering, I rose to my feet, groped for my pocket book, and drew from it one pound and fifteen shillings. I had known the money was there, but it comforted me to hold it in my hands. I sat on the
bed again, clutching the money as some sort of talisman to a solution. I did not attempt to undress or sleep until the night was over. It was very early morning when I suddenly realized that my
fingers were cramped round the money, and that for a very long time I had not thought or felt at all. Then, a little sick with cold and fatigue, I took off my blouse and skirt and slept.

When I descended for breakfast the next morning, I found the Major already seated at the table. He said, ‘Good morning,’ and made as if to rise to his feet, but I slipped quickly
into my place in order to save him the trouble. Spalding brought a newspaper and two letters for the Major, which she placed before him, and then retired to fetch my breakfast. He hardly noticed
the newspaper but seized his letters (one I remember was a very large pale mauve envelope), then looked round vaguely, as though he expected something else.

‘There were only two,’ I said.

‘Two?’

‘Two letters.’

‘Ah yes. Observant young lady. Very observant. I was looking for the thing to open ’em if you take me.’

‘It is on the mantelpiece in the drawing-room. I’ll get it,’ I said quickly.

‘Wouldn’t trouble you. Don’t like messing the thing up though. A knife I suppose.’ He looked about for a knife and upset the salt. ‘Damned uncivilized mess, I beg
your pardon, damned uncivilized.’

Spalding reappeared with my breakfast.

‘Clear that up would you and get me the paper knife,’ he said, settling to the newspaper. Spalding cleared the salt, then fetching the paper knife she put it beside him and left the
room. I suddenly realized how hungry I was, and had begun on my bacon when he put down his paper.