Jackson's Dilemma (7 page)

Rosalind, who was standing nearest to it, closed it. She was thinking about what to say next.

‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Oh yes, thanks—I hope I’m not in the way—’

Edward turned, moving promptly upon his heel, and marched fast further down the hall into a dark corridor. Rosalind ran after him, mopping her eyes to remove the sunlight and the sudden tears with the back of her hands, she had no handkerchief. She emerged from the corridor into a large airy sunny kitchen.

Edward had put the kettle on. Frowning, he was spooning coffee powder into mugs. His hand was trembling. Rosalind came nearer to the big well-scrubbed wooden table. She looked at his long hands and pale slim fingers. ‘Can I help?’

‘No.’ He put down the mugs and gazed at the kettle.

Rosalind, suddenly feeling rather faint, said ‘Oh dear—’ and sat down on a chair.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, yes. Oh Edward - I’m so - terribly sorry -’ She put a hand up to her throat.

With a kind of military precision Edward was pouring the boiling water into the mugs. He said, ‘Milk and sugar?’ Rosalind nodded. He said, ‘Let’s go upstairs. Would you like to look at the pictures?’ He gave her a mug and left the kitchen carrying his own.

Rosalind, holding her mug carefully, followed him up the stairs. She did not want to look at the pictures. She wanted to sit quietly beside Edward and talk to him. Pausing to sip the coffee she found it burning hot, and without milk and sugar.

The gallery, established in the late eighteenth century, was a very long room with a shining parquet floor overlooking the garden. It contained a medley of pictures collected by various owners with various tastes. Edward had only lately, since the death of his father, been able to indulge his own taste. Rosalind put down her mug carefully on a window ledge behind a bowl of flowers. Flowers, which had been picked yesterday for the bride! She looked out at the sunlit garden, so immobile, so still, near to the house the big clipped box, a line of sentinels, the laburnum walk, then the great trees, receding into the distance, very old trees, oak and beech and chestnut and deodar, some of them four hundred years old or more. The absolute silence in the sunshine. Rosalind, her eyes dazzled, turned back to the room, picking up her mug and spilling some coffee on the glowing parquet. Hastily, looking about her, she mopped it up with her sleeve. Edward had gone, no he was a little way away down the room. Once again she felt faint. What was it now, that sudden startling pain:
Marian could have owned all this, all of it, this garden, this house, these pictures, Edward.

Edward, who had put his coffee down somewhere, was now returning towards her. She saw his face clearly, it was pale, almost white, gathered into a steel mask, his grim mouth, his lips pale, his eyelids, his hawkish nose. She tried to think quickly of something to say to him, and sudden words were put into her mouth.

‘I met Spencer in the meadow on the way.’

Edward’s face changed. He said, ‘Yes, Spencer, that dear old chap.’ Then he said, ‘I bought a picture lately, a modern one, it’s down there.’

She followed him, passing a brilliant Goya on the way. She only once had been in this gallery. Why? Perhaps because Marian was not interested in paintings.

 

There was a sound. Someone had entered at the far end. It was Benet.

Edward turned to go towards him. Rosalind paused then followed. She could see at once that Benet was displeased with her. The impression was momentary, but connected in some way with the pain she had felt by the window. Benet reached out his hand towards Edward. Edward with a slight hesitation took Benet’s hand. Benet with his other hand gripped Edward’s shoulder for a moment. Then they both drew apart.

Benet said, ‘There’s no one downstairs. I thought you might be here. I didn’t like to come earlier. At least I thought at first you must have gone to London. Then I -’

‘I’m glad to see you.’

Rosalind moved past them. She said, ‘Goodbye, Edward - I’ m so glad Benet has come - I -’ She felt at once this was the wrong thing to say. She hesitated. She thought, I should say something about Marian -

Edward said, ‘Thank you for coming, Rosalind.’ He made a vague gesture. She turned and went away.

Benet said, ‘Oh dear boy—’ He had not said this to Edward before. He found himself thinking of Uncle Tim. He said, ‘Let’s sit down somewhere.’

‘Let’s go downstairs,’ said Edward.

Benet followed him down the stairs and into the drawing room. It was dark, the blinds had been drawn against the sun. Edward put up one of the blinds. He sat down upon the big settee which faced the huge fireplace and Benet sat beside him. Edward moved away, leaning upon the arm of the settee. He uttered a deep sigh. Benet thought, how pale he is, well he has always been pale and thin, now suddenly he looks gaunt like his father, and has he, since yesterday, cut off some of his hair?

Edward, now wrinkling up his face and half closing his light-brown eyes said, looking down at his feet, ‘You must blame me.’

‘My dear, blame you, of course not!’

‘I think many people will blame me. After all, she may have decided, and had her reasons, and at the last moment-it was a great act of courage -’

‘You have a noble heart,’ said Benet.

‘She must have had reasons, I must have heard, seen -
I
should have checked it at the last moment - perhaps she wanted me to - I should have done it, only I was so anxious—’

Benet, not sure what Edward was saying, and feeling his own anguish said, ‘You are both young and you just don’t want to be hasty. Later you may both see - other things will come - and anyway nothing that has happened means that you cannot put things together again later on—’

‘No, no, it’s just another thing, another wound in my life, or not a wound, wounds can heal, damage, my fault - anyway I mustn’t detain you.’

He stood up. Benet stood up too, trying desperately to think of some right thing to say. Awkwardly he said, ‘You know how much I have wanted you to be - that you should marry - and happiness - you know how much I care and will care. Are you staying here tonight or going to London?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I shall stay at Penn-would you like to come over for lunch, or well now, for dinner?’

‘No, no. I may go to London. Thank you for your visit.’

 

Benet drove his car, a rather elderly Rover, back to Penndean. The sunshine, the quietness of the countryside, the beauty of trees and flowers made him ready to weep. He had done nothing for Edward, he had come to him simply to pour out his own anguish. He had so passionately wanted Edward to be, as it were, his son-in-law, as Marian was, as it were, his daughter. Now, it came to him more and more clearly, he had
lost both
of them, and
for ever.
And nothing at Penn would ever be the same again.

When he reached the house he found a car before the front door, Owen’s glossy blue Volvo. As he opened the door he heard voices in the drawing room.

‘Oh here he is! Benet, I’m carrying off Mildred - we were waiting for you - where have you been?’

Owen and Rosalind had emerged into the hall.

‘Won’t you stay for lunch,’ said Benet, ‘won’t you stay the night -?’

‘Well, no, sorry - we thought you would be going to London, back to -’

Mildred was coming down the stairs carrying a suitcase.

‘Benet dear, will you be all right? Shall we stay? The house is-’

‘I’ll be all right,’ said Benet. ‘I’ll probably come back to town tomorrow. Let me help you with the luggage.’

‘It’s all packed now I think,’ said Owen, taking the case from Mildred. They were anxious to go. Benet followed them out into the sunshine.

‘Where’s Tuan?’ said Benet. He had forgotten the young fellow’s existence.

‘He ordered a taxi to take him to the station—’

‘That’s
miles
away -- ’

‘We offered but he was in a terrible hurry, and we weren’t ready -’

‘Well, see you soon - I’m sorry - that you have had this dismal—’

‘We are all in the same grief,’ said Mildred. ‘Perhaps we shall suddenly find her running back.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Owen. ‘Thank you, dear Benet, for - well, thank you -’

Mildred put her suitcase into the boot and after Owen climbed into the big car, she wound down the window. ‘Where’s Rosalind? Yes, the hired car, she’ll drive it back, she’s gone into the house, she wants to stay with you - you can console her better than we can - dear dear Benet -’ She stretched out her hand. Benet kissed it. The big car disappeared among the trees, Mildred’s hand fluttering.

Benet, returning, found Rosalind sitting on a chair in the hall. He brought up a chair and sat down beside her. He was about to speak, but she spoke first.

‘I’m so sorry, I know you didn’t want me to run to see Edward, I oughtn’t to have done - and I couldn’t say anything good to him, I just disturbed him, I’m so sorry, I know I shouldn’t have been - ’

Benet, who had now recalled his faint annoyance, said, ‘But, dear Rosalind, I didn’t mind your going to see him, why should I. I am sure he was glad to see you, he took you to see the pictures - it was I who interrupted -’

Rosalind, shaking her head and screwing up her eyes, said, ‘Oh, never mind - Benet, I’m sorry -’

‘Won’t you stay here? I’m not going. My dear child, do stay, please.’

‘No, no, I know you want to be alone. I want to be alone too. I must go. It is all such a
nightmare - ’

She rose. He wanted to say something loving and consoling, but could not find the words. He said, ‘I will see you very soon. Perhaps you will find her, perhaps she will come to you - she would come to you, not to us - very soon everything may be put together, they will run to each other - it will all be—’

Rosalind said, ‘No, she will not come, not to any of us ever again, she will never come.’

‘Don’t say that, Rosalind - we don’t know—’

‘It’s like witchcraft, it’s like being transformed into quite a different thing - or like - like in hell.’

‘Won’t you stay with me?’

‘No, dear Benet, I want to be alone - I have my things in the hall, and look - Clun has driven the car round.’

Clun had indeed brought the hired car to the door, and then vanished into the greenery as was his wont. Benet helped her to put her things in, those things which had been so precious yesterday. She got into the car, wound down the window and kissed him hastily. ‘Goodbye, dear dear Benet.’

The car disappeared and he walked slowly back to the house. He thought, they all want to leave me, we shun each other, they think this place is cursed,
that
could not have happened anywhere else, perhaps it is witchcraft, somehow it is my fault.
Oh
God. He entered the house and closed the door. He looked at his watch and found to his surprise that it was not yet five o‘clock. Earlier he had told Sylvia to go home, though not before she had laid the table for possible remaining guests. There were none. He made his way to the kitchen, then wandered back to the drawing room. A terrible solitude came over him, he felt he was gasping for breath - how could all these terrible things have happened - and be just
beginning -
things that affected everyone, and all his fault. He had been so happy, he had believed he was collecting a family. He must do something, he felt like crying and tearing his clothes. Should he go back to Germany? He couldn’t, he had been there too long ago, his sort of life, his long life, had been shattered. He was beginning, something new, something awful, he heard Rosalind’s words, it’s witchcraft, it’s
bell.

He shuffled into his study, he looked at Uncle Tim’s bronze dancing Shiva wildly waving his four arms inside a circle of fire. He looked down at the words he had written the day before yesterday. He sat down.

What on earth does he mean, thought Benet, or what do
I
mean? I thought it would be an escape - instead I am just involving myself in a dark spider’s web, the web of
his mind.
And did dear good Célan, they say, visit him in his mountain hut - and Hannah Arendt forgive him - and he dare to take over great Hölderlin, as well as the Greeks? Alas, that awful darkness is there, but for me it is
my
darkness, it is
my
neighbour and
my
heavy chain. I am small and I do not understand. How I wish I had stayed in the light and devoted my life to poetry, not philosophy. I used to write poems when I was young, before I became bemused by
that
philosophy! And now it is all impossible. Only Tim could hold up a light for me in the dark. And the Greeks, the Greeks, even
they
are fading away.

I wonder if I am going mad, thought Benet, as he rose from his desk. What was he to do now? How could he blunder about in this raving mess when this day had produced nothing but horror? He went slowly, heavily, back to the kitchen. He tried to eat an apple. He opened a bottle of red wine and drank some. He sat down and put his head on the table, then raised it again. Was he
crazy?
Where was Marian now, floating in the Thames, self-destroyed by poison in some shabby London room, where months, perhaps years, could pass before she was discovered? And Edward - what, with all his busy scheming, had he done for Edward now? He got up and went out into the garden. The garden was motionless, even the birds seemed to be silent. He walked as far as his ginkgo tree. He embraced the tree, rolling his forehead upon its smooth bark. Then he came back to the house and lay down on the sofa in the drawing room and fell asleep. He woke in a haze of misery. The day was going, though it was not dark. Suddenly he decided he must go back to London after all. He hurried about, picking up his coat, and snapping a variety of locks and bolts, and left the house. The Rover was close by under the trees. He got in, and before leaving, laid his head down upon the steering wheel.