Mrs De Winter (35 page)

But then, I heard a blackbird pink in alarm, scurrying low into the bushes on the far side of the garden, and the sound of car wheels on the drive, and after a moment, Maxim’s quick footstep, and his voice, calling to me, and the sounds seemed to recall me, so that I was quite myself, running along the passage and down the stairs, to where he stood in the hall, looking up to me.

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Twenty

Cobbett’s Brake was almost completely enclosed in its bowl, with the trees rising beyond, but at just one point there was a spot where the eye was led out, through a gap in the fold of the hill. It was on the west side, at the far end of the kitchen garden, and when we had first come there was only rather an overgrown and scruffy track, leading to an old beech hedge. I had stood several times for the pleasure of the unexpected sight of a distant, silver church spire which at certain times of the day caught the sun, and best of all, in the evening, seemed to recede in a violet blue haze merging with the darkening countryside and sky, and over the past months, I had become especially attached to this quiet corner of the garden. By looking through old books and magazines in the evenings — for I was trying hard to learn as much as I could — I had put together a design, sketching it out several times, before eventually taking it to Ned. He had cleared the ground, and we had planted a little glade of trees, beyond a door in the wall of the kitchen garden, and at the bottom of the glade, we had set a walk of nut trees, tying the tops loosely together to

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form an arch. The beech hedge had been cut down and a small wicket gate set in the gap; eventually, perhaps next summer, I would put a seat, so that I could walk down through the glade and under the nut trees, and then sit, to look out and ahead to the gap in the hills and the silver spire, but for now, a couple of old tree stumps with a plank across served.

I was proud of my piece of garden, I loved it because it was all mine and particular to me, a vision achieved, not inherited or got back from any previous person. I had never felt such a sense of pleasure and ownership before, though I knew it was not much, set beside the other, grander parts of the garden. In the autumn, Ned and I would plant hundreds of bulbs under the trees; he had even investigated an old spring that came up from the ground under some stones, wondering whether we might somehow bring it to the surface again and make a channel for it to flow through.

It was the most beautiful evening, the ends of the days were always best just now, when the staleness and closeness of the late summer air dispersed, and there was a sweetness and the faintest smell of mist beneath the trees. We took our drinks down through the garden, towards the nut walk and the bench, Maxim talking about Scotland, his fishing with Frank, the boys, how the future plans looked now, and I listened to him, and I felt very still and calm and detached, as though he were a person I scarcely knew.

The Maxim I had first met all those years ago had seemed such an urbane man, a man of hotels and London and suits and society, even when we had been at Manderley, he had seemed like it. He had cared very much for the cut of his shirt and where his shaving cream was bought, and whether

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the post arrived precisely on time. I had been afraid of him then, alarmed by his routine and his standards, and although he had never made impossible demands of me, I had always gone in fear and trembling that at any moment they would be made and I would not live up to his expectations.

But then, everything had changed, and he had crumbled in front of me, and become wholly broken and lost, during our years of exile, dependent on me, on my strength and devotion, and closeness. I had grown familiar with that, loved and felt happy with this new Maxim, and been able to relax and be untroubled, so long as we stuck to our safe little measured routine.

Now, looking at him as he sat beside me, I realised how greatly he had changed again; Cobbett’s Brake had been my need, I had first seen and loved and passionately desired it, it had been altogether my dream to come here.

So it had seemed, so I had believed, yet it was Maxim who had been transformed by it. He was a countryman now, in a different way, he was coming to know and love this place, these acres, this particular part of England, in a deeply satisfied, intimate way, to walk the fields and look at the woods and hedgerows, to understand the crops and animals, know the farming tenants, to be the estate landlord in a wholly absorbed and committed way, rather than in the more aloof, feudal manner that had been his with Manderley.

He looked younger, his skin had darkened because he was so much outdoors, he had lost his old, city veneer almost entirely, though he was still well dressed, by an innate instinct for the best cloth and cut and style, he looked right without effort, in a way I never had and now never would.

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I sat and drank my sherry and listened, and looked at him, and after a while, we were silent, and I could just hear, very faintly, the tinny little bell from the far away church, striking the hour. I smiled and nodded agreement, too, as I had welcomed him, and what had happened while he had been away, I buried deep, deep, and turned from. He would never know from me that she had been here and cast her black shadow across the grass and tainted the air and terrified me with her madness, so that I could never feel the same about the house again, but only about this corner, beyond the glade, at the end of the little nut walk. This was mine, she had not been here, not seen or known of it. This she could never spoil.

‘Something is wrong,’ Maxim said.

The air was suddenly chilly, and I had no jacket. We were walking slowly back towards the house. ‘Do you think Frank really may come?’ For that had been the talk. The Crawleys were to come down for a few days in September, to see how they felt, and look at Tinutt’s Farm, which was empty, and which Maxim planned to make over to them. He needed Frank, the estate was far too big for him to run in the way he wanted, on his own. ‘I should love to have them nearby - I’d feel we were somehow extending the family.’

He had stopped in front of me, and now, he looked down at me, his eyes steady on my face, his hands on my shoulders. Tou can’t deceive me or hide it from me or lie to me, you know that we have no secrets.’

I could not speak, only thought of the little layers of secrets that had begun to pile up since we had come home. And before, before.

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What has happened? Look at me.’

He spoke in the old, curt, clipped way I had first known. ‘I know you too well. Do you think I have forgotten? I know there have been shadows — anxieties — fears even. I’ve lain awake at night beside you and known it and seen that troubled expression in your eyes. You are very dear and good and try to be bright and to conceal it from me. You tried very hard when we were abroad and I always noticed, always knew.’

I felt tears begin to sting at the back of my eyes, I wanted to lean on him and cry and tell him everything then, every detail, every past small fear, to pour out what had happened since I had found the wreath, about Jack Favell and Mrs Danvers and most of all, about the terrible, whispering voices. I felt his hands touch me, and knew them so well, the hands I had looked and looked at, holding the wheel of the car, and peeling a tangerine and using a nail file and resting on the rail of the ship, hands whose exact shape I could trace in my mind’s eye and which I loved so well, which meant Maxim to me more than even his eyes or his mouth, his voice or the shape of his head.

But I could not quiet the voice, evil, insidious, disturbing, that whispered to me of the same hands. ‘I’m tired,’ I said. ‘It’s been so hot. And I’ve hated you being away.’

I turned and went in through the door.

Why did I not tell him then? I know now that it was what I should have done, without any question, he would not have been angry, he was strong enough now, he was no longer afraid of the past, did not need me to protect him. He had come through. Yet I said nothing. I was afraid and confused and far from him, and when he

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came behind me into the house, I began to question him more about the Crawleys. He replied briefly, before going down to his study and closing the door. The moment had gone. I carried my secrets still with me, and they were hard, heavy, bitter things.

When I went up to bed later, Maxim was standing at the open window. On the slopes above the house, the little owls were flying between the trees, making their short, harsh cries.

‘I wish it would rain,’ I said.

He did not speak. I went to stand beside him, looking out, but he did not touch me, or turn to me. I was puzzled, sensing a new, different kind of withdrawal. I did not know how to deal with it. I was to blame, I had shut things away from him, and sensing it, he was hurt.

No. There was something else. I felt as if we were being caught and held tighter and tighter in a web of intricately tangled, invisible threads, and whatever movement I made to break or smooth them simply wound them fast.

I lay beside Maxim for a long time, miserable, frightened, hearing the owls, far from sleep.

But at breakfast, he glanced up from the newspaper and said, The weather is set to hold. Perhaps we should give a party.’

‘A party? Who for? What kind of a party? Why?’

‘My dear girl, there’s no need to look so panic-stricken. You’ll be able to show off the garden.’

There isn’t anything to show off, it’s past its best now, and besides, I’ve hardly begun to do things to it.’

‘Does it matter? It looks fine to me, it’s tidy, there are flowers. People will admire it.’

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‘What people?’

‘Neighbours — people from about - we can’t be hermits and as we’re buying land and enlarging the place, everyone will be interested and quite simply, it’s important to get on well with people locally. The Butterleys seem to know everyone, ask her who to invite. I’ve already met some of course. And spread the net a bit, there are a lot of surrounding villages.’

Yes. I knew, I knew. I did not want to think of it.

At Manderley, there had been endless visits to and by neighbours, half the county had come to call, and parties were expected, Rebecca had given parties, she was famous for them. I remembered my only party as mistress there, the fancy dress ball when I had made such an appalling mistake.

‘I thought we would be quiet here,’ I said. Tou never much liked all the social round. You said you wanted us to come back and — ‘ I bit my lip. Hide? I could not say that. But he was changing so much, changing back, I thought, becoming in so many ways the old, confident, Maxim, in charge of things, knowing precisely what he wanted and how it all should be, the time between when he had been lost and withdrawn, had gone forever. I realised that I wanted it back, because only that Maxim, in the years of exile, had been close enough to me.

He stood up. ‘I don’t mean a grand affair - just a garden thing. Drinks - you can see to that can’t you? It’s what you need.’

“What do you mean? Something to occupy me? Something to pass the time?’

‘No, I do not mean that.’

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‘I’m perfectly happy.’

‘Are you?’

‘Yes, Maxim, yes, yes — what is happening? Why are we quarrelling? We never argue, never quarrel.’

He went to the door. ‘Sometimes being perfectly happy is not quite enough,’ he said, and went out.

I stood, looking down at his empty cup and the apple peel, neatly coiled on his plate. I did not understand what he meant. Everything was strange and different and I did not know why, or what to do about it.

Miserably, I went to telephone Bunty Butterley, about our neighbours.

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Twenty One

But it would be my party. I would plan it and arrange and prepare for it, no one else would take it over. It was going to be a wonderful day, because I would make it so. Once I had realised that, I felt quite differently, I began to look forward, and at once, the shadows retreated and there were no more whisperings.

When Maxim had first spoken of it, I had thought at once of the Manderley ball, and been terrified, the evening had returned in a series of tableaux, frozen in my mind, I gazed upon them, and upon myself in the midst of them, and it was as if my heart stopped.

But that had had nothing to do with me, it had been a lavish, ostentatious affair, of the sort I had never liked nor would ever want, and it had been so God knew why — for no good, stated reason. Not, certainly, because any of us wanted it. It was a tradition, and a duty, it was the sort of thing Manderley was for; the county had expected it. ‘It used to make the summer for all of us in this part of the world,’ a tiresome woman had said, We all miss the Manderley gaiety.’

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Rebecca’s, she had meant, balls and parties were how she had showed off, and got people to adore her. They were what she was best at. The party had been her creation, hers and Mrs Danvers’, and the staff’s, and in Rebecca’s absence, things had been no different, I had had no part or say in it at all. Perhaps, I saw now, if I had wanted to, had insisted in hearing every detail of the form and plans, had decided on this or that change or innovation, I would have enjoyed it more — at least before the horrible business of my own costume, the trap into which Mrs Danvers had malevolently led me. But I had been too nervous of them all, even of the men bringing in the chairs, and so it had swept by me like a river in full spate and I had stood hopelessly on the bank, watching.

We could never have that sort of affair now, in the years so soon after the war it would have seemed indecently out of place, Maxim had not suggested it, there would be no lobster or champagne, no band or fairy lights strung by the yard through the trees, no especially laid dance floor, no fireworks or fancy dress. Teams of estate workers had left their normal jobs for weeks and given themselves over to it, the servants had talked and thought of nothing else.