The Skeleton in the Grass (8 page)

“I shall not be giving notice. I shall go back to work there:”

There was a long pause.

“So you do not intend to come back here?”

“No.”

She went back to her book. When she had finished a chapter she began to clear the supper things away. Later in the evening, when Sarah had washed up and made two
cups of cocoa, her father said, his voice now having an undertone of whine:

“But what is to become of me?”

“I'll talk to Mrs. Wilcox in the morning. I'm sure there are many women in the village willing to do the cooking and cleaning. I'll find the most reliable.”

“But that will cost money.”

“Yes.”

It did not help that, next morning, when she went to talk to Mrs. Wilcox, she was greeted with: “Well, we'll be seeing more of you in the future, Sarah.”

Sarah had taken off her ridiculous grey hat and coat, and sat in Mrs. Wilcox's semi-detached's sitting-room.

“Actually I shall be staying at my job, Mrs. Wilcox. That's what I've come to see you about.”

“Staying at your job? But we assumed you'd be coming back to look after your father.”

“Did you?”

“Well, naturally . . .”

“Do you think that's natural? I'm not sure that I do.”

“But you being a daughter, and an only child . . .”

“Being a daughter shouldn't make you a natural choice for being a martyr. I've always intended to make some sort of career for myself, and I don't see any reason to change my plans.”

“Well, I
am
surprised. I never thought of you as one of those modern young ladies, Miss Sarah.”

“Didn't you? Perhaps I've only just found it out myself.”

“But what's going to happen to your father?”

They chewed over the subject, and went through the candidates for cook and daily help. They selected the widow of a cowman, who would keep the house spotless, and would cook the vicar a substantial midday meal. She was also, Mrs. Wilcox said, scrupulously honest—which meant, Sarah knew, that she would not take more than the few
scraps from the kitchen that she would regard as her legitimate perks.

“But she's got her three sons,” said Mrs. Wilcox. “I don't know as she'd want to go back to the vicarage in the evening and cook the vicar his supper.”

“I don't see that a man is incapable of learning how to cook a bit of toasted cheese, or open a tin of baked beans and heat it up,” said Sarah briskly. She got from Mrs. Wilcox the going rate for the job, and by evening she had it all arranged.

When she left next morning, just before midday, the new help was already at home in the kitchen, and a steamed meat pudding was on the stove. Sarah had packed the night before, and had dawdled through the morning till she could decently leave. Her father had retired to the study, where he was doubtless polishing the annual balance sheet. Sarah adjusted her only, and dreadful, hat in front of the hall mirror. Nothing was going to make it look anything but ridiculous. Then, her heart thumping, she tapped on the study door and put her head round.

“Goodbye, Father.”

“Goodbye.”

He did not look up, and purposely did not say her name.

So that was it. She shut the front door and walked, case in hand, through the little village. News had obviously spread that she would not be coming back to look after her father, and some of his women parishioners gave her looks of disapproval. News had obviously not got to the station master, however, because as he clipped her ticket, he said:

“Guess we'll be seeing you back here soon, miss.”

“Yes—I may come back for Christmas,” she said insouciantly.

Now the news would spread to male and beer-drinking spheres.

The journey back to Oxfordshire would be slow and circuitous. The train was a tiny local one, going to Crewe, and she had a compartment all to herself. As it pulled almost imperceptibly out of the station she felt a great lifting of the heart, and, following that, a great surge of gratitude to the Hallams that she had not sold herself into slavery. It was Oliver's words that had prepared her, it was the Hallams who—quite unintentionally—had given her the confidence, the courage and the vision to know that martyrdom within a loveless family was wrong.

As the train chugged through heart-stopping scenery, Sarah suddenly jumped up and threw her hat to the roof with a joyful shout. She was free. Life was opening up before her. Then she laughed and laughed with relief, and when she stopped she didn't feel ashamed at all.

S
arah was greeted with great and loving kindness by the Hallams when she returned. Since the subject had never come out into the open between them, none of them asked her if she had made any decision to stay or to return home. When she resumed her ordinary duties next day and said nothing that seemed to augur departure, the Hallams took her decision as read, and were obviously pleased. Eventually Helen Hallam asked her how she thought her father would cope, and what arrangements she had made for him. When they had discussed it for a little—Sarah displaying that reticence that spoke volumes—Helen pressed her hand and said she thought she had been very sensible. “The days of female immolation are past,” she said.

“We've decided we're not going to get worked up over those incidents,” Oliver announced to Sarah over dinner, on her first full day back. He was treating her with great attention, and talking about any subject but the death of her mother. “Why should we dignify them by taking notice of them? It is the silly season, after all.”

“The silly season is newspapers, not people,” objected Elizabeth.

“The only reason the newspapers have a silly season is because people do silly things,” returned Oliver.

This new resilience was a relief to Sarah, and she decided that they were right. Attention was what the incidents seemed to be crying out for, and what they should not be given. The atmosphere in the house was certainly light and cheerful again. Oliver played ball games on the lawn with Chloe and Bounce, and had lots of friends over for tea. The approach of the Oxford term apparently made him wish for company before the serious business of life began again. Helen made a couple of trips to London to buy clothes, and took Elizabeth with her on one of them. They apparently began scouting round for “some dowager,” as Helen put it, to chaperone Elizabeth during her Season. Helen would hardly have liked to do it herself, and as she said, the only people she knew in London were of entirely the wrong sort. Dennis's idea of happiness was being busy, and he was very busy indeed.

“Everyone is dying,” he protested, half-humorously. “And I seem to be appointed necrologer. I've no sooner finished a long memorial piece on Housman than they're after me for an article on Lorca. God—poor Lorca. And there's a dreadful spate of books on T. E. Lawrence they expect me to review, presumably because he was brought up in Oxford. Our paths certainly never crossed in Egypt. Oliver would do a much better job, having at least been to these places recently, but they thought that would look like nepotism, and insisted I do it.”

Only a postcard from Will dented the gaiety. The very stamp and postmark made Helen go white when she saw it: it had been posted in Barcelona. Will wrote that Madrid itself was under immediate threat, and nobody was taking bets on its remaining in government hands long. There was urgent need for young men with military training to join the anti-Fascist forces. There was talk of an International Brigade. He bitterly regretted not having joined the Officer Cadet Corps at school, but anyway he expected to
be ready to fight in a matter of weeks. Already the British volunteers had suffered their first casualties—John Cornford wounded.

“He talks about casualties as if they were a matter of pride”, said Dennis Hallam sadly. “As some people talk about having been blooded after a fox hunt.”

“Who is this Cornford?” asked Helen. “Should we know?”

“He's a young Cambridge hot-head, made quite a name for himself with the up-and-coming generation. Mistresses—a child, I think. And fancies himself as a poet.”

Helen sighed.

“He sounds like the sort of man Will would look up to.” She wiped her eyes. “Please God it ends soon.”

“It's not going to end soon,” said Dennis bleakly.

But they were now quite helpless, and quite unable to influence Will's decisions. From self-protection they put such moments speedily behind them.

Meanwhile the summer was fading, and Sarah learnt that with the turning of the leaves the minds of people in that part of Oxfordshire began turning to the autumn party at the Wadhams'. She had heard of Lord Wadham, whose property began half a mile away, on the other side of the river. People had mentioned him over tea, never with anything less than affection. He was, though, just a name, for he had been involved in none of the visiting over the summer. It was the Hallams who were the “house” people for all the villagers whom Sarah had tentatively begun to talk to. They were all on the Hallams' side of the river, and the Wadhams' greatness, such as it was, was acknowledged in villages on the other bank, to the east. Their house, she had learned, was called Beecham Park, and their party was an annual event.

“The purpose,” said Dennis, grinning, for the Wadhams in general seemed to provoke mirth, “is to mark the end of
summer, or more accurately to mark the resumption of Parliament. You might think from that that Waddy is a highly political person, but he's not. So far as I know he's attached to no party—he merely attends daily at the House of Lords, and speaks at random on whatever subjects attract him.”

“So at random,” remarked Oliver, “that I would think any party would pay him
not
to attach himself to it. His speeches would be sublimely embarrassing.”

“That only shows how boring and humourless politicians are,” said Helen. “They ought to be queueing to sign up such an individual old dear. Waddy in the government would add enormously to the gaiety of nations.”

“He's a love,” agreed Elizabeth. “I wonder if I should ask Lady Waddy to be my chaperone for the Season.”

At this the family collapsed into gales of laughter. The Wadhams, it seemed, were not likely to be formidable hosts. Sarah asked timidly what kind of a party it was to be.

“A fun and games party,” explained Oliver. “Monopoly and murder, and croquet on the lawn in the dark—oh, and what else? Piquet, poker, shove ha'penny, and anything else that can be dragged out of the cupboards at Beecham. Waddy will certainly give readings from Dickens at some point—”

“Dickens?”

“That's right. But he doesn't mind if you slip away. Do I gather you are not up in Dickens, Sarah?”

“Not really. I don't remember we even had copies at home. I've read
Oliver Twist
and
David Copperfield.
Oh, and bits of
Pickwick,
but I never found it as funny as other people seem to.”

“Dear me. Well, I don't think Waddy will do ‘Death of Nancy' or ‘Death of Steerforth.' It's much more likely to be Flora Finching—he has a very good line in Floras—or
maybe Harold Skimpole. I would suggest you prepare yourself by reading
Bleak House.”

“Don't scare Sarah,” said Helen. “It's not at all a scary occasion, my dear. The whole and only purpose is for everybody to have fun—in particular Waddy, who needs some lightening of the spirit before he returns to his duties at Westminster.”

They all laughed. In fact all the Wadhams seemed to provoke such wholehearted and good-natured mirth that Sarah realized there could be no possible element of the alarming in their forthcoming party. She felt she was beginning to mingle with the great on the easiest possible terms, and under the best possible auspices. Nevertheless she began to read
Bleak House.

Meanwhile Sarah had a second evening at the pictures with Roland Bradberry. He rang her up at Hallam, and when she asked Mrs. Hallam if she could have Saturday evening off, Helen said she must just say, not ask, because she was on duty practically all the time, and needed relaxation. Sarah felt that it was impossible to imagine duty that was more consistently and stimulatingly pleasant than her work at Hallam, and she smiled and said of course she would always ask.

“You've found a young man,” said Helen.

“A young man is taking me,” said Sarah cautiously.

“Well, if it becomes serious I hope you'll tell—oh dear, I was going to say I hoped you'd tell your mother. Please forgive me, Sarah dear.”

“I certainly won't tell my father unless there is something definite to tell,” said Sarah.

“I can understand that,” agreed Helen. “I hope if there's anything you want to talk over, you'll come to me. I suppose in a way I'm a stand-in for your mother at the moment.”

But Sarah was determined there would be nothing to talk over, for a while, anyway. Life was just beginning. It had, she felt, begun with her coming to Hallam. The exploration of life's possibilities was hardly under way. There were going to be no hasty decisions, no falling into traps, no steps taken in hotness of blood that would close up possibilities for the years ahead.

Meanwhile the excursion to Willbury Village Hall was a nice night out. The film was
Little Women
and it presented fewer excitements than
Grand Hotel.
The audience took it very much in their stride, and this time voiced occasional comments on the plot as the action progressed. It was altogether a less rapt occasion, but Sarah enjoyed it none the less.

In the breakdown they stood a little aside this time, standing against the wall of the village inn. Barry Noaks showed some sign of wanting to approach them again, but at a shake of the head from Roland he stopped some yards away.

“Hear you've got a nigger up at the hall, that right?” he shouted. Sarah found it difficult to respond tactfully at that volume.