The Innocents (16 page)

“Goodness me, if
you
start talking to yourself we'll soon be for the loony bin the lot of us!” remarked Jessie cheerfully. “Bain't it a shame I can't get to the Sale?”

By the time I reached my gate half-a-dozen such phrases were ready on my tongue:
“Now you're going to live with your pretty mummy who's come all the way from America for you!”
—But what did Antoinette know of America?—
“From all across the sea,”
I substituted,
“just to take you back to live with her, she's so fond of you!”

I could think of no better way to approach, and handle, and try to alleviate. I even prepared a new version of the Cinderella story, in which the pumpkin turned not into a coach but an aeroplane; and the key-phrase
your pretty mummy
I decided to begin harping on at once, as soon as I got back to Antoinette.

Only I couldn't find her.

3

Her cot was empty. The quilt was still so smooth, just a top corner pushed back, I guessed she must have slipped out and up almost as soon as I'd left her. But where was she?

I searched in all her usual retreats—within doors, under the cot itself, without, under the artichokes; explored the exit from the old coal cellar—no track of Antoinette nor any answer to my call.—I explored the terrace, and every part of the garden, still calling and still without result. Then the second time I went through the house I noticed, as but for my increasing distress I should surely have done sooner, that the trunk on the landing had its coracle-lid on.

Somehow or other Antoinette had managed to climb inside and pull it on after her.

For there she was, curled with her knees against her chin and her hands over her eyes, drawing still a few shallow breaths.

All children like to hide so, Antoinette had often curled up there; but it must have taken much deliberate effort for her to tug up the heavy lid, and maneuver it into place, before she put her hands over her eyes; perhaps as much effort as it took Bobby Parrish to load his pockets with stones before he slid feet-first into a dyke.

She was soon quite recovered, after I lifted her to an open window, and rubbed her hands and blew my own breath into her mouth; and appeared to have no memory of what she had done. However before I went up to London next morning I made sure Mrs. Brewer could spend the whole day in the house, and asked her especially not to leave Antoinette at all alone. Mrs. Brewer didn't ask why.

I made no mention of the incident to Cecilia; but as I say went up to London, to see Mr. Hancock.

17

1

I had no appointment with him; I simply took the bus to Ipswich, then a cheap day return, and then a taxi to Gray's Inn. I was there soon after half-past ten and (as I wrote on the back of my card) could wait seven hours. But to my pleased surprise it was only noon before a clerk showed me in. (The clerk I remember seemed equally surprised.) On his own ground, behind his own desk, Mr. Hancock was a good deal more imposing than across my tea-table; he stood up, we shook hands, we sat down, with formal precision. Then he did something I shall always remember with gratitude. There was on the desk a little folding leather clock, so placed—I am not unobservant—that he could keep an eye on the time without looking at his watch. Now he leaned forward and shut it.

“I still shan't keep you long,” I promised. “I simply want a legal opinion. Of course on the usual terms.”

“Of course,” agreed Mr. Hancock.

“You remember Antoinette Guthrie?”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Hancock. “How is the bairn?”

“Very well,” said I. “That is, physically very well indeed, and mentally out of danger.” (I do not know why I used that particular, clinical-sounding term; it just came to my tongue, and indeed, when I considered, precisely described Antoinette's situation; so long as left undisturbed, subject to no mental strain, she was off the danger list.) “She still can't read or write,” I added honestly, “but she understands far better, and can ride a pony.”

“I should like to see her,” said Mr. Hancock.

I refrained from telling him Cecilia had put a stop to it. I equally said nothing of Antoinette's having been left alone at night in a strange place, and her running back through the dark to my doorstep. I had no intention of abusing Mr. Hancock's great kindness in shutting that clock, by embarking on a tale of woe. I said simply that in spite of all these improvements, Antoinette's mother, now that she had returned, still felt that more could be done for the child.

Mr. Hancock considered a moment.

“Without any breach of confidence,” he then said, “I think I may mention that Mrs. Guthrie too has paid me a visit.”

I was foolishly surprised. What indeed could be more likely, even necessary? And if Cecilia hadn't mentioned it, why should she—thinking it no doubt none of my business?

“Then you know,” said I, “she plans to take Antoinette back to New York for special teaching and analysis and speech-therapy?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Hancock.

His face, like his voice, was quite expressionless. I put the question I had come to ask.

“Is there any possible, legal way of preventing it?”

“No,” said Mr. Hancock.

2

He was still extraordinarily kind to me. He even detailed one of his clerks to give me lunch—at least I somehow found myself, without recollection of any transit, instead of opposite Mr. Hancock across a desk, opposite a very young man across a table with a white cloth. It was proper damask, properly laundered, as were the napkins; evidently we were in some very old-fashioned, very expensive City chop-house. My young cicerone proffered the wine list; but when I asked for milk—shades of my poor father, what an opportunity for
him
, amongst the ports!—settled on his own account for a light ale. However I was glad to see that though my own order, from a menu broad as one of the napkins, was just an omelette, his was for oysters and turbot followed by treacle sponge, all of which he consumed with such dispatch, he easily saw me onto the 2:15 home.

“One of these days you must come and let me give you tea!” said I in farewell.

“I still think you should have a brandy,” replied he, rather oddly, “but I've told the guard where you get off …”

What he hadn't told me, and what I hadn't immediately noticed, was that the carriage he'd put me into was First Class. Fortunately for my conscience and purse no ticket-collector disturbed what I think must have been a slight nap.—“I don't blame you!” Mrs. Brewer would have said; it being universally acknowledged in the village that a day trip to London is as wearisome to the flesh as exhausting to the spirit.

Antoinette appeared neither glad nor sorry to see me back; certainly perfectly incurious as to where I had been. It was as though she had made a final retreat into passivity. Mrs. Brewer reported her good as gold all day, just curled up on her cot so quiet as a carrot. I had often thought that Mrs. Brewer's similes seemed to spring from quite deep, if unconscious perception. With too much to bear, her last desperate and final escape frustrated, Antoinette was retreating from being a little animal into becoming a vegetable.

3

It struck me forcibly at this juncture how essentially friendless I was. Which may sound absurd: on the face of it I had many, lifelong friends; besides new friends. But my way of life with Antoinette had for the last five years rather cut me off from the old, and my new had their own preoccupations.

The Gibsons were my friends; and had often praised my devotion to Antoinette—so often, indeed, the phrases had become as meaningless (in reverse) as the liturgical recognition of themselves as miserable sinners. Old Mr. Pyke was my friend, and Major Cochran; Cecilia reminded the one of his mother and the other of his first love. There was in fact no one I could look to to take my and Antoinette's part with any staunchness; and it would be no exaggeration to say that scarcely an hour passed without my thinking of Doctor Alice.

It so happened that the day after I saw Mr. Hancock was the day a small memorial tablet to her was unveiled in the south aisle. She had been buried, almost anonymously, somewhere in London; but the whole village agreed (and even backed the opinion by subscriptions of not over five shillings), that she deserved proper commemoration. Even Old Age Pensioners—in fact, all Old Age Pensioners—contributed their mites; and as mites made up the majority of contributions, the result was not a brass but a very nicely lettered piece of slate, recording her many years of service to a grateful community. I was of course invited into a front pew for the dedication, and behind me the aisle was quite packed. The entire Mothers' Union was there, and the Women's Institute, and the Darby and Joan Club, and even the British Legion Old Comrades Association; but not a soul, I am convinced, mourned Doctor Alice as sincerely as I.

“You know what?” remarked Mrs. Brewer, as we parted in the porch. “You know what I liked about her particularly? She was never one to be bamboozled. Properly sick, she'd get you to hospital in her own car, never mind waiting for the ambulance: but she was never one to be bamboozled by such as that son-in-law of mine faking sheer idleness into arthritis.”

I had always known Mrs. Brewer to hold a perhaps unfairly poor opinion of her son-in-law, but in general I agreed; Doctor Alice had never been one to be bamboozled.

As I say, this was on the day after I saw Mr. Hancock; there were only three left, before Cecilia took Antoinette back with her to New York where there'd be just the two of them together.

18

1

As Cecilia had said nothing to me of her visit to Gray's Inn, no more did I to her of mine. Indeed, I would have preferred to avoid her altogether, though in the circumstances this was manifestly impossible; and was glad, taking tea at the Vicarage that afternoon, not to find her there. It was a small party—the only guests besides myself Honoria Packett and Major Cochran and Mr. Pyke: quite like old times!

We always have very interesting conversations at the Vicarage. On this occasion, I remember, after we had all paid renewed tribute to Doctor Alice, it turned on ends justifying means, such as a crime committed to prevent a worser.

“Such as if I, witnessing a rapist in the act, leaped upon and strangled him,” proposed Mr. Gibson.

Times change, and vicars with them. His predecessor would no more have pronounced the word rapist in mixed company than he'd have unbuttoned his fly. But none of us pretended not to hear.

“You'd probably get off,” said Major Cochran.

“Don't be obtuse,” said the Vicar. (Another change: he was addressing one of his most substantial parishioners.) “We're considering the moral aspect. Would my conscience let me off?”

“Mine would,” said Honoria. “Mine would let me off for strangling a man I saw kneeing his horse.”

“Then you'd be for it,” said Major Cochran. “Not even justifiable homicide.”

“Entirely justified!” neighed Honoria.

“What's your own standard,” asked Mr. Gibson, “of justifiability?”

“If a chap broke into my house with a shotgun,” said the Major readily, “and I chucked him downstairs and he broke his neck.”

“Accident,” snapped Mr. Gibson. “Not deliberate. Someone justify me a deliberate killing. What about it, Pyke? Think!”

—Again, even if I am repetitious, what a change, to be required to
think
, on any social occasion! But Mr. Pyke, thus adjured, did so. The process always takes him a little time, but he generally arrives at some sensible conclusion, and we waited as patiently as for the local bus.

“Maltreating the helpless,” said he at last. “If there's no other way to stop it …”

For a moment no one spoke, as I suppose we all at the same instant remembered his father's reputation as a flogger. Then Mrs. Gibson remarked rather incoherently that of course he was quite right, anyone's conscience would be clear, and she only hoped they'd be undiscovered. I always took something home to think about, after tea at the Vicarage!

19

1

At the beginning of October East Anglia often enjoys its best weather of all: the air, after the equinoctial winds are blown out, peculiarly still, and the sun putting forth its last strength. If there has been no unusual rain the sea is as warm as in August, or even warmer; at Aldeburgh bathing-dresses have been observed hanging out to dry as late as mid-month. So it was now, and there was general pleasure that Cecilia's last days amongst us should be even exceptionally fine, even though it made it from her point of view all the harder to leave. “If that old airline suddenly cancels the flight,” Cecilia told Mrs. Gibson (and the Cockers and the Pennons and the Amorys and the butcher and baker) “I honestly don't know whether I'd be glad or sorry!” But Pan-Am remained faithful to its word, and Cecilia was far too conscientious to disarray them by a cancellation of her own.

“Only I've still just got to have a last swim!” declared Cecilia.

Why not? The estuary water was even warmer than the sea; only she should have thought of it sooner, that evening two days before she and Antoinette were due to leave. The sun in early October for all its strength sets very quickly—at six, all still light, at half-past darkness; and it must have been well after five before she suddenly commandeered the Pennons to drive her to the pool and the Pennons (with a spare seat) kindly insisted on stopping for me too. “There's going to be such a sunset!” called Janice as their car halted outside my gate, I in the garden in my gardening boots. “Even if you won't swim, come and see it across the estuary!”

Connoisseur of weather as I am, I always feel a sunset reflects the entire day—redly striated, like a bullock's eye, after a windy buffeting, angelic with small pink cherubs' wings, or, as now, a calm wash of rose misted over with grey. So I was lured. Mrs. Brewer was still in the house, whom I knew wouldn't go, leaving Antoinette alone, till my return. But though the air was so mild, I still scented a nip of autumn, and put on a good thick coat.