In the Springtime of the Year (15 page)

She had clutched hold of his arm, then, in sudden dread, and to try and bring him back to her, to this world here and now, she was afraid of his distance from her when he spoke like this, afraid of the things he seemed to know, and of what might happen.

‘Don’t… don’t talk about it, you mustn’t talk about dying. You must never, never die. I won’t let you die.’

‘Ah, Ruth.’ And he had looked at her, his face full of a kind of sadness, and knowledge, ‘Ah, Ruth.’

It was as though he had just spoken to her, now, aloud in this quiet bedroom, she could see every detail of his face. And he had had to die.

She sat up, startled. Where had that come from? How did she think of that? For it was not a phrase remembered, nor a fancy. It was a piece of truth, and vital to her.
He had had to die
.

She lay back on the pillows, unable to comprehend it. But quite certain. She slept, and dreamed no dreams, and woke, at the sound of the first bird call, in the pearly dawn of Easter Day.

*

Yesterday, the world had been full of flowers and trees; today, it was the birds that she saw everywhere, as she walked to church in the early morning. The sun shone again, as Jo had said it would, though the grass was heavy with dew, her shoes were soaked before she reached the top of the garden. Low down in the bushes, chiff-chaffs pinked out their sharp, repeated notes, and high up, spiralling until they were almost out of sight, were the larks, streaming with song. In the fields she saw pheasants, the clever and the lucky ones who had escaped the gun, and were free now, the shooting season over; the trailing tails of the cocks glowed gold and copper and rust red. Everything was singing, it was as though she could hear the faint, high humming as the world turned. She thought, I am still happy, I am still sane; and was certain that it would last, at least for today and perhaps for as long as the sun shone. She seemed to be lifted a little way out of herself, to be floating above the ground.

Jo was waiting for her at the corner of the lane, looking serious and suddenly older, taller, in his dark
Sunday
suit. Today, she could see in him no resemblance to Ben at all.

The last time she had been inside the church was for Ben’s funeral. Well, she would not brood about that, it was over and she must think only about this day, trying to understand. And she must go in among all the people and never mind if they stared at her and judged her. But seeing them walking up the hill ahead, and a group standing in the church porch, she clenched her hands tightly, and it seemed that her heart would leap up into her mouth.

‘Oh, Ruth, look! Look.’

They had reached the lych-gate. Jo was pointing. She looked.

Had she been blind last year? Had it looked like this? The churchyard was brilliant as a garden with the patterned flowers, almost every grave was decked out in growing white and blue, pink and butter-yellow, and underneath it all, the watery moss and the vivid grass; it was as though all the people had indeed truly risen and were dancing in the sunshine, there was nothing but rejoicing and release. She walked slowly across the turf to the side of the church and stood, looking towards Ben’s grave. It was like a sunburst. She did not need, or want, to go nearer.

Jo touched her arm. ‘You see,’ he said, his voice full of wonder, ‘it did happen. It does. It’s true.’

‘Did you ever doubt it?’

‘Once,’ he said carefully, ‘one time.’

Only once. Ruth realised how close to Ben he was, in his way of seeing and understanding the world; he had the same clear grasp of the truth that lay beneath the surface of things, he saw, as she had only glimpsed once or twice, the whole pattern. They had the gift of angels.

Stepping into the church was like stepping into some sunlit clearing of the woods; there were flowers and leaves and the scents of them everywhere, the altar and pulpit, the font and the rails were wound about with ropes of white and golden blossoms, the ledges were banked with bluebells on mounds of moss, and the sun shone in through the windows, sending rippling coloured lights on to the stone walls, catching fire on the brass of the cross and the lectern. Ruth felt nothing but happiness, she walked down between the high wooden pews right to the front of the church, and looked here and there and smiled, if she caught someone’s eye, and did not mind that they seemed embarrassed, uncertain of her. She went into the same pew and for a second saw again how it had been that other day, with the long pale coffin that had seemed to fill the whole building, the whole world.

But what she became aware of after that was not the presence of the village people sitting or kneeling behind her, but of others, the church was full of all those who had ever prayed in it, the air was crammed and vibrating with their goodness and the freedom and power of their resurrection, and she felt herself to be
part
of some great, living and growing tapestry, every thread of which joined with and crossed and belonged to every other, though each one was also entirely and distinctly itself. She heard again the strange music in her head and her ears, and yet somewhere far outside of them.

But it also came to her that she might, after all, be simply going out of her mind, and she wondered if grief could become a sort of madness, which did not only cause one to weep and to despair, but to be light-headed, with invisible sights and unheard sounds, imaginary consolations.

She opened her eyes again and saw the flowers and the sun on the walls, and these were real, living and beautiful, she was not imagining them or the joy they gave her, the reassurance; and when the clergy came in and they stood to sing the Easter hymn, she felt for the first time, not since Ben’s death, but since coming here at all, that she truly belonged, that these people were part of her life, as she was of theirs, and there was no need for her suspicion and hostility, her pride and fear, these were dangerous, cancerous, and could, in the end, destroy her. Everything, everything, she saw and believed and understood, that Easter morning. She knelt. She said, ‘I shall never do wrong again. I shall not weep out of pity for myself, or doubt what is true or fail to be grateful. I shall be well. I shall be well.’ And it seemed impossible that it should not be so, she was so full of strength and purpose and
assurance
, so far away from the nights of bitterness and despair.

Nothing could ever harm her again.

Coming out of the church, so elated and charged with resolution, she found herself separated from Jo, and beside some of the others, those she had smiled at going in to the service; and now she wanted to speak to them, too, to show them how much she had changed, and that she no longer dreaded the sight of them, no longer wanted to cut herself off. But the words would not come, she was shy, and so, waited for one of them to approach her and begin, to make it easier for her; she looked expectantly from face to face.

And she saw that they had not changed, that they still feared her, and the taint of death and grief she carried upon herself, still smarted from the rebuffs she had so violently dealt to their offers of help and sympathy, still resented her pride. They had learned to keep their distance, because that was what she had wanted; why should they recognise any change now?

She saw them turn away, after swift, uneasy glances at her, watched as they went off, in twos and threes down the church path, and felt the full force of their rejection. She wanted to shout after them, make them understand, that it was Easter and a new life, that she wanted to be different, and where was their charity, why were they not ready to take her among them, by saying a few words, to welcome her? How could they ever expect her to make this new start entirely alone?

But she knew, she knew. She was reaping what she had sown. She felt faint with a sudden, overwhelming desire to have Ben with her, shielding her from the rest of this hostile world, for then, she would never want anyone or anything else, they could all go their way.

She looked about her. Everything was the same. Everything had changed. The world was quite empty, although the sun still shone, the birds sang, darting about the flowered churchyard, just as only moments ago and ever since yesterday morning, it had been brimming full; there seemed nothing whatsoever that might comfort her or give her strength and protection. When Jo came out of the church at last, she saw him for what he was, a young boy, vulnerable and with his own needs, his own life to live, not someone she could ultimately depend upon.

But what had happened? And why, why? After she had prayed and been so certain, so confident of herself, after the words of the resurrection had sounded in her ears and meant that she had all power, all possessions? She felt deceived, tricked. The people had excluded her, had not let her make any fresh beginning. Well then, she would do without them still.

‘Jo – listen, if you go home and change out of your suit, I’ll make a picnic, it will be hot all day – we can go right over the ridge, we can walk all the way to the river if you like, we…’

Jo looked at her miserably.

‘Ruth – Ruth, I can’t. I can’t go with you anywhere.’

‘Can’t?’

‘I want to – I’d rather be with you, only … I have to go and see Grandmother Holmes at Dutton Reach, we’re all going, I promised I would when I was walking back home last night – I told my father. I have to go now.’

Yes, of course he had to go. She could not always have Jo, he did not belong to her. However much she might dislike them, his family had some claim upon him, it was right that he should visit his grandmother.

‘Of course – I didn’t realise. Of course you must go.’

‘But you …’

‘Oh Jo, don’t look like that, don’t worry. I can do lots of things. The garden – I ought to do something in the garden, and go and see Miss Clara, too – she might not be well, she wasn’t in the church.’

‘I don’t want you to be by yourself.’

‘I’m all right, Jo. I shall be all right.’

‘It’s just that I do have to go, I promised.’

‘Yes. It’s Easter. Your grandmother will want to see you – all of you.’

‘I’ll come up tomorrow, I won’t leave you for another whole day.’

‘Jo…’

‘Yes?’

She wanted to tell him that he was good and she loved him, that he must never let her take advantage of him, never forsake his own freedom, his own
life
. But she said nothing, in the end, only put a hand on his shoulder as they walked away from the church.

*

She knew that the fault was not in the world but in herself and so, it was her own self that she hated and wanted to be free of, as she sat outside in the afternoon sun. But she was the same, just as her situation, her widowhood was the same and would not alter. Yesterday had been a delusion, too full of hope and contentment, too soon; yesterday, gathering the flowers and dressing the grave, she thought she had accepted completely that she was alone now, and would not see Ben again on this earth, and could bear it, had enough strength and to spare.

She could not bear it or believe it. And if this was all there ever would be, if she was to be lifted up and then hurled down again upon her face, and never certain of anything, then she could not go on living at all, for neither joy nor mourning, pleasure or pain seemed to have any final meaning.

In the middle of that morning, she had gone down to the village, to Miss Clara’s house, wanting company, now that Jo was away with the Bryces to Dutton Reach. She did not resent that, only missed him, and envied this new closeness in the family from which she had always deliberately excluded herself.

Miss Clara was out, the house was locked up, front and back. So she had friends, after all, or relatives, people Ruth knew nothing about.

And now, the house was empty of him and what lay under the flowered grave diminished with every hour and would soon be nothing. She doubted that Ben had ever existed.

She closed her eyes but that gave her no relief from the turmoil inside her head; rather, it grew worse, it was like dark blood, boiling up and spilling over, confusing her utterly; she saw it behind her eyelids and was giddy, she had to look out again at something, anything, a tree or the donkey or the stone beside her left hand, to steady herself. In the end, she wept with exhaustion, lying on the grass, and rubbing her hands to and fro. ‘Oh God, Oh God… I knew … I don’t, I don’t know anything… Oh God, I am mad.’

She was shocked at the sound of the words, spoken aloud. ‘I am mad.’ She lay still and the earth teemed beneath her. ‘I am mad.’ And she waited for some final, appalling explosion, waited for the light to spin and fall inwards upon her, breaking and smashing open like a wave, to find that she was indeed mad, to hear herself screaming or laughing uncontrollably.

Nothing happened. The world was quiet again. The sun was warm on the back of her head and on her outstretched arms. She dozed, and remembered the flowers in the churchyard, and seemed to be on
the
brink of some very simple, very great truth which would explain everything about her own life and about Ben’s, about his death and all the life and death of the universe.

She did not know if she had really slept but when she came to herself again, she was rested, there was no longer any confusion or fear. Somehow, somehow, she might yet save herself.

No.

She stood up slowly. Something else had fallen into place. She had no power at all to save herself. And that was the meaning of Friday, and today. Nothing she herself had thought or done or felt since the day of Ben’s death had any significance, for feelings were not truth.

She went into the house, where it was cool. Two pieces of knowledge. Ben had had to die, and she had no power to save herself. But the rest of her life was still a tunnel through which she could not yet see any way ahead. She wept again, out of tiredness and longing to have Ben back, to be at an end of this terrible journey before it had begun, she said, ‘How can I bear it? How can I go on and on?’

Silence lay upon the air like dust.

Easter passed, the spring flowers withered and were swept off the graves and burned, April went out in a flurry of snow, and in May, the rain began again and Ruth discovered no more truth, only went on, not
thinking
, not daring to ask for anything at all. And then, at the beginning of July, when she felt that she had lived alone forever and yet could not accept that Ben was dead, the hot, hot days had begun.