Dark Companions (4 page)

The house was empty. “You see?” she said aloud. What else had she expected? She entered the kitchen. On the windowsill sat the medicine her mother had bought. “I don’t like to leave you alone,” she’d said two hours ago. “Promise you’ll take this and stay in bed until you’re better. I’ve asked Maureen to buy anything you need while she’s shopping.” “Mother,” Alma had protested, “I could have asked her. After all, she is my
friend.” “I know I’m being overprotective, I know I can’t expect to be liked for it any more,” and oh God, Alma thought, all the strain of calming her down, of parting friends; there was no longer any question of love. As her mother was leaving the bedroom while her father bumped the last case down to the car, she’d said “Alma, I don’t want to talk about Peter, as you well know, but you did promise—” “I’ve told you,” Alma had replied somewhat sharply, “I shan’t be seeing him again.” That was all over. She wished everything were over, all this possessiveness which threatened to erase her completely; she wished she could be left alone with her music. But that was not to be, not for two years. There was the medicine bottle, incarnating her mother’s continued influence in the house. Taking medicine for a cold was a sign of weakness, in Alma’s opinion. But her chest hurt terribly when she coughed; after all, her mother wasn’t imposing it on her, if she took it that was her own decision. She measured a spoonful and gulped it down. Then she padded determinedly through the hall, past the living-room (her father’s desk reflected in one mirror), the dining room (her mother’s flower arrangements preserved under glass in another), and upstairs, past her mother’s Victorian valentines framed above the ornate banister. Now, she ordered herself, to bed, and another chapter of
Victimes de Devoir
before Maureen arrived. She’d never make the Brichester French Circle if she carried on like this.

But as soon as she climbed into bed, trying to preserve its bag of warmth, she was troubled by something she remembered having seen. In the hall—what had been wrong? She caught it: as she’d mounted the stairs she’d seen a shape in the hall mirror. Maureen’s coat hanging on the coat stand—but Maureen wasn’t here. Certainly something pale had stood against the front-door panes. About to investigate, she addressed herself: the house was empty, there could be nothing there. All right, she’d asked Maureen to check the story of the house in the library’s files of the
Brichester Herald—
but
that didn’t mean she believed the hints she’d heard in the corner shop that day, before her mother had intervened with “Now, Alma, don’t upset yourself” and to the shopkeeper: “Haunted, indeed! I’m afraid we grew out of that sort of thing in Severnford!” If she had seemed to glimpse a figure in the hall it merely meant she was delirious. She’d asked Maureen to check purely because she wanted to face up to the house, to come to terms with it. She was determined to stop thinking of her room as her refuge, where she was protected by her music. Before she left the house she wanted to make it a step towards maturity.

The darkness shifted on the landing. Tired eyes, she explained—yet again her room enfolded her. She reached out and removed her flute from its case; she admired its length, its shine, the perfection of its measurements as they fitted to her fingers. She couldn’t play it now—each time she tried she coughed—but it seemed charged with beauty. Her appreciation over, she laid the instrument to rest in its long black box.

“You retreat into your room and your music.” Peter had said that, but he’d been speaking of a retreat from Hiroshima, from the conditions in Lower Brichester, from all the horrid things he’d insisted she confront. That was over, she said quickly, and the house was empty. Yet her eyes strayed from
Victimes de Devoir.

Footsteps on the stairs again. This time she recognised Maureen’s. The others—which she hadn’t heard, of course—had been indeterminate, even sexless. She thought she’d ask Maureen whether she’d left her coat in the hall; she might have entered while Alma had slept, with the key she’d borrowed. The door opened and the panel of sunlight fled, darkening the room. No, thought Alma; to inquire into possible delusions would be an admission of weakness.

Maureen dropped her carrier and sneezed. “I think I’ve got your cold,” she said indistinctly.

“Oh dear.” Alma’s mood had darkened with the room, with her decision not to speak. She searched for conversation in which to lose herself. “Have you heard yet when you’re going to library school?” she asked.

“It’s not settled yet. I don’t know, the idea of a spinster career is beginning to depress me. I’m glad you’re not faced with that.”

“You shouldn’t brood,” Alma advised, restlessly stacking her books on the bedspread.

Maureen examined the titles.
“Victimes de Devoir,
Therese Desqueyroux
. In the original French, good Lord. Why are you grappling with these?”

“So that I’ll be an interesting young woman,” Alma replied instantly. “I’m sure I’ve told you I feel guilty doing nothing. I can’t practice, not with this cold. I only hope it’s past before the Camside concert, Which reminds me, do you think I could borrow your transistor during the day? For the music programme. To give me peace.”

“All right. I can’t today, I start work at one. Though I think—no, it doesn’t matter.”

“Go on.”

“Well, I agree with Peter, you know that. You can’t have peace and beauty without closing your eyes to the world. Didn’t he say that to seek peace in music was to seek complete absence of sensation, of awareness?”

“He said that and you know my answer.” Alma unwillingly remembered; he had been here in her room, taking in the music in the bookcase, the polished record-player—she’d sensed his disapproval and felt miserable; why couldn’t he stay the strong forthright man she’d come to admire and love? “Really, darling, this is an immature attitude,” he’d said. “I can’t help feeling you want to abdicate from the human race and its suffering.” Her eyes embraced the room. This was security, apart from the external chaos, the horrid part of life. “Even you appreciate the beauty of the museum exhibits,” she told Maureen.

“I suppose that’s why you work there. I admire them, yes, but in many cases by ignoring their history of cruelty.”

“Why must you and Peter always look for the horrid things? What about this house? There are beautiful things here. That record-player—you can look at it and imagine all the craftsmanship it took. Doesn’t that seem to you fulfilling?”

“You know we leftists have a functional aesthetic. Anyway—” Maureen paused. “If that’s your view of the house you’d best not know what I found out about it.”

“Go on, I want to hear.”

“If you insist. The
Brichester Herald
was useless—they reported the death of the owner and that was all—but I came across a chapter in Pamela Jones’ book on local hauntings which gives the details. The last owner of the house lost a fortune in the stock market—I don’t know how exactly, of course it’s not my field—and he became a recluse in this house. There’s worse to come, are you sure you want—? Well, he went mad. Things started disappearing, so he said, and he accused something he thought was living in the house, something that ‘used to stand behind’ him or mock him from the empty rooms. I can imagine how he started having hallucinations, looking at this view—”

Alma joined her at the window. “Why?” she disagreed. “I think it’s beautiful.” She admired the court before the house, the stone pillars framing the iron flourish of the gates; then a stooped woman passed across the picture, heaving a pram from which overflowed a huge cloth bag of washing. Alma felt depressed again; the scene was spoiled.

“Sorry, Alma,” Maureen said; her cold hand touched Alma’s fingers. Alma frowned slightly and insinuated herself between the sheets. “… Sorry,” Maureen said again. “Do you want to hear the rest? It’s conventional, really. He gassed himself. The Jones book has something about a note he wrote—insane, of course: he said he wanted to ‘fade into the house, the one possession left to me,’ whatever that meant. Afterwards the stories started; people used to see someone very tall and thin standing at the front door on moonlit nights, and one man saw a figure at an upstairs window with its head turning back and forth like clockwork. Yes, and one of the neighbours used to dream that the house was ‘screaming for help’—the book explained that, but not to me I’m afraid. I shouldn’t be telling you all this, you’ll be alone until tonight.”

“Don’t worry, Maureen. It’s just enjoyably creepy.”

“A perceptive comment. It blinds you to what really happened. To think of him in this house, possessing the rooms, eating, sleeping—you forget he lived once, he was real. I wonder which room—?”

“You don’t have to harp on it,” Alma said. “You sound like Peter.”

“Poor Peter, you are attacking him today. He’ll be here to protect you tonight, after all.”

“He won’t, because we’ve parted.”

“You could have stopped me talking about him, then. But how for God’s sake did it happen?”

“Oh, on Friday. I don’t want to talk about it.” Walking hand in hand to the front door and as always kissing as Peter turned the key; her father waiting in the hall: “Now listen, Peter, this can’t go on”—prompted by her mother, Alma knew, her father was too weak to act independently. She’d pulled Peter into the kitchen—“Go, darling, I’ll try and calm them down,” she’d said desperately—but her mother was waiting, immediately animated, like a fairground puppet by a penny: “You know you’ve broken my heart, Alma, marrying beneath you.” Alma had slumped into a chair, but Peter leaned against the dresser, facing them all, her mother’s prepared speech: “Peter, I will not have you marrying Alma—you’re uneducated, you’ll get nowhere at the library, you’re obsessed with politics and you don’t care how much they distress Alma—” and on and on. If only he’d come to her instead of standing pugnaciously apart! She’d looked up at him finally, tearful, and he’d said “Well, darling, I’ll answer any point of your mother’s you feel is not already answered”—and suddenly everything had been too much; she’d run sobbing to her room. Below, the back door had closed. She’d wrenched open the window; Peter was crossing the garden beneath the rain. “Peter!” she’d cried out. “Whatever happens I still love you—” but her mother was before her, pushing her away from the window, shouting down “Go back to your kennel!” … “What?” she asked Maureen, distracted back.

“I said I don’t believe it was your decision. It must have been your mother.”

“That’s irrelevant. I broke it off finally.” Her letter: “It would be impossible to continue when my parents refuse to receive you but anyway I don’t want to any more, I want to study hard and become a musician”—she’d posted it on Saturday after a sleepless sobbing night, and immediately she’d felt released, at peace. Then the thought disturbed her: it must have reached Peter by now; surely he wouldn’t try to see her? But he wouldn’t be able to get in; she was safe.

“You can’t tell me you love your mother more than Peter. You’re simply taking refuge again.”

“Surely you don’t think I love her now. But I still feel I must be loyal. Is there a difference between love and loyalty?”

“Never having had either, I wouldn’t know. Good God, Alma, stop barricading yourself with pseudo-philosophy!”

“If you must know, Maureen, I shall be leaving them as soon as I’ve paid for my flute. They gave it to me for my twenty-first and now they’re threatening to take it back. It’ll take me two years, but I shall pay.”

“And you’ll be twenty-five. God Almighty, why? Bowing down to private ownership?”

“You wouldn’t understand any more than Peter would.”

“You’ve returned the ring, of course.”

“No.” Alma shifted
Victimes de Devoir
. “Once I asked Peter if I could keep it if we broke up.” Two weeks before their separation; she’d felt the pressures—her parents’ crush, his horrors—misshaping her, callous as thumbs on plasticine. And he’d replied that there’d be no question of their breaking up, which she’d taken for assent.

“And Peter’s feelings?” Maureen let the question resonate, but it was muffled by the music.

“Maureen, I just want to remember the happy times!”

“I don’t understand that remark. At least, perhaps I do, but I don’t like it.”

“You don’t approve.”

“I do not.” Maureen brandished her watch; from her motion she might have been about to slap Alma. “I can’t discuss it with you. I’ll be late.” She buttoned herself into her coat on the landing. “I suppose I’ll see Peter later,” she said and clumped downstairs.

With the slam Alma was alone. Her hot water bottle chilled her toes; she thrust it to the foot of the bed. The room was darker; rain patted the pane. The metronome stood stolid in the shadow as if stilled forever. Maureen might well see Peter later; they both worked at Brichester Central Library. What if Maureen should attempt to heal the breach, to lend Peter her key? It was the sort of thing Maureen might well do, particularly as she liked Peter. Alma recalled suggesting once that they take Maureen out—“she does seem lonely, Peter”—only to find the two of them ideologically united against her; the most difficult two hours she’d spent with either of them, listening to their agreement on Vietnam and the rest across the cocktail bar table: horrid. Later she’d go down and bolt the door. But now—she turned restlessly and
Victimes de Devoir
toppled to the floor. She felt guilty not to be reading on—but she yearned to fill herself with music.

The shadows weighed on her eyes; she pulled the cord for light. Spray laced the window like cobwebs on a misty morning; outside the world was slate. The needle on her record-player was dulled, but she selected the first record, Britten’s
Nocturne
(“Finnegan’s Half-Awake” Peter had commented; she’d never understood what he meant). She placed the needle and let the music expand through her, flowing into troubled crevices. The beauty of Peter Pears’ voice. Peter. Suddenly she was listening to the words: sickly light, huge seaworms— She picked off the needle; she didn’t want it to wear away the beauty. Usually Britten could transmute all to beauty. Had Peter’s pitiless vision thrown the horrid part into such relief? Once she’d taken him to a performance of the
War Requiem
and in the interval he’d commented “I agree with you—Britten succeeds completely in beautifying war, which is precisely my objection.” And later he’d admitted that for the last half hour he’d been pitying the poor cymbal player, bobbing up and down on cue as if in church. That was his trouble: he couldn’t achieve peace.