No Talking after Lights (11 page)

‘They are lucky, in many ways,' said Henrietta. ‘When I think of my own education … crumbs from my brothers' table.'

‘Will you break the news to Charmian?'

‘It looks as though I shall have to. I'll think about
how best to do it for a day or two first.'

‘You don't think she could be stealing, as a reaction to what's going on at home?'

‘How could she? She doesn't even know about it yet. No, she may be a silly child, but I don't think she's a wicked one. Much more likely to be one of the lonely or unpopular ones.'

‘Sheila?'

‘Could be. Who knows? It could be almost anyone. Well, I must tidy myself up. I'm expecting a couple of prospective parents in ten minutes.'

Constance had finished her prep ahead of everyone else and gone to sit in the tiny library, where she knew she could be sure of being alone for twenty minutes before the supper bell rang. She had discovered
The Rubáiy
à
t of Omar Khayyám
on the shelves, drawn by its exotic title (what
was
a Rubaiyat?), and was entranced by its lush and sensuous language. ‘And Wilderness is Paradise enow …'
Enow
somehow it's far more mysterious than enough. At table you've had enough, but enow …I'll never have enow.

Why, she thought,
why
is everyone happy except me? How do they do it? They giggle and chat and muck about. They do things together - pets and gardening and things - and they all sort of belong, all except me. Why is it so hard to be happy? She remembered the simple, light-hearted time when she was living at home and going to the school up the road, when she too had skipped and played and joined in. During special treats with Mummy and Daddy, when it was all too wonderful for her to take another breath, she used to shut her eyes and try to blank out for minutes on end, thinking, I'll store this; I won't enjoy it now, I'll put it away for later, when I need it.

Now, she tried to summon up those stored moments
- at the circus, or on Christmas Eve after she'd heard her father tiptoe in with the fat, crackling stocking and pin it to the end of her bed; or when her parents were playing tennis with friends and she was ballboy and her father had said ‘Well
done
, Constance! You
are
a good ballboy!' She'd wanted to burst with pride at hearing him say it in front of everyone. Sitting on the floor, an open book on her knees, she twined her arms round herself, put her head down and shut her eyes, breathing deeply to bring back those precious, stored moments. Nothing came.

‘Well
done
Constance!' she whispered, trying to recapture Daddy's voice. ‘Well
done
, Constance!' but it was her own whisper she heard inside her head. The lovely moment was gone. Her bottom was cold on the stone floor and the book was sharp against her cheek and no happiness came flooding back.

Someone was running down the stairs. Into the library, light and airy, all trailing tendrils and swinging skirt, came Hermione. She stopped when she saw Constance.

‘Gosh, you do look mis, poor old sausage. Cheer up! What's the matter?' she asked.

‘Sorry - aren't I meant to be here?' said Constance.

‘I've no idea. I don't know who you are, but so long as you're not a squit you're allowed to be in here. Anyhow until the bell goes.'

‘I'm not a squit, I'm in the Lower Fourth. I'm Gogs,' said Constance.

‘Poor you.'

‘Well, I'm Constance King really, but they call me Gogs.'

‘Never mind; they call
me
Hermy-One.'

‘I know,' said Constance, not daring to add, ‘Do you mind your nickname?'

‘Oh, gosh, I haven't a clue where the soppy old
poetry books are,' said Hermione, with an appealing air of helplessness. ‘I can't think why Miss Worthrop sent
me
. I'm the last person who'd know.'

‘Here,' said Constance. ‘Are you looking for anyone special?'

‘Michael Arnold? Malcolm Arnold? Arnold some-body-or-other.'

‘Matthew. Here.'

‘I say, well
done
, Constance!' And Hermione smiled her careless, magic smile as she pranced out.

‘Hermione' murmured Constance to herself, pronouncing it right. Not Hermy-One! How wonderful she is, how kind and lovely. I shan't tell anyone. Hermione.

Opening the door of the staff-room on her way to marshal the supper queues in the Covered Way, Sylvia Parry was rewarded by the sight of Hermione Mailing-Smith cantering along the corridor towards her. She is like a young racehorse, thought Sylvia; her beauty compels devotion, it is so perfectly appropriate.

‘Sorry, Miss Parry,' said Hermione, slowing to a walk and flashing a perfect smile as she passed.

Is it possible for people to be happy? wondered Sylvia. Suppose my wildest dreams were realized and that beautiful creature belonged to me, would I be happy? No, because in my dreams I want her to love me and me only, for ever; to live with me and cherish me; to depend on me and cleave only unto me, as long as we both shall live. She stood motionless in the corridor as other girls hurried past. Well, all right, if
that
happened, would I be happy? Yes, but I have designed for myself an impossible happiness, in which there is no secrecy, no jealousy, no change, no boredom: just an eternity of loving Hermione. It is impossible. Other people can be happy, but not me.

She began to walk slowly towards the queues lined up for supper, their high-pitched hum of talk and giggles muted by her arrival.

‘Silence!' she shouted at the top of her voice, entering the Covered Way. The next person to speak has an order mark. I want total, complete and utter silence until the bell goes. Is that quite clear?'

Under their breath, one or two girls muttered, ‘Batey-batey!' or, ‘OK, OK, keep your hair on …' but fortunately Miss Parry didn't hear them.

Mrs Birmingham, after a difficult and tearful half-hour with Charmian, told the child to go to Matron and say she'd been sent to lie down. Matron had been warned of this possibility and would, she knew, give her a ‘tonic' to make her drowsy. Best to sleep off the immediate effects of a catastrophe.

Why do people expect to be happy? wondered Henrietta. Why should that flighty, fading little woman, Charmian's mother, believe she has any right to happiness? How dare she send her daughter adrift, distress her husband, abandon her home and ensnare another man, in the belief that she has any entitlement to happiness? They have everything, these women -husbands, children (how many of my generation missed out on
those?)
, wealth, comfort, attention; and in spite of all that they are bone idle and mindlessly greedy. With their fastidiously painted finger-nails they constantly reach out for more.

Happiness is not our lot in life. Love of God and our neighbours, being true to our word, doing our duty,
that
is our lot. Happiness has nothing to do with it. Was my beloved brother Jamie ever happy? No. Or my parents, with half a son left out of three? No. Is Lionel happy? No, alas. James …?
O dear God, let my son James be happy, of Thy goodness and mercy I pray
Thee. Not for myself I ask it, but of Thine own great love for Thy son
.

Have I ever been happy, she wondered, other than through my brother Jamie, for such a little time when we were children together, and for a long time now through my son James? Certainly I was not happy as a young girl. That day on the hills with Roly. Blot out the images, Henrietta, blot them out. Such a gentle, companionable beginning, as she had shown Roly her favourite walk to the clear, shining lochan near the top of Ben Mor. They had walked easily together while he told her about his long friendship with Jamie - for they had met and become friends in their very first half at Eton. Then he had reminisced about triumphs on the cricket field, long reading holidays, mutual discoveries of Lucullus, Ovid and Donne, of Macaulay, Browning and a poet she'd never heard of then, called Gerard Manley Hopkins. He had walked and quoted and she had walked and listened until, with the sun high and hot, they had stopped to eat their picnic in the shade.

Cook had packed cold chicken and cold beef, fruit pie and a bottle of father's good claret. Henrietta drank water, watching Roly with the wine bottle tipped to his mouth, his lips squashed around it, his throat swallowing strongly. He smiled at her, then settled himself down into the heather saying, ‘Will you be all right if I sleep for a little - half an hour - before we go on?' She sat a little distance apart from him, watching the hawks circling lazily high up in the sky as they waited for some unwary small animal to betray its presence as it scuttled hundreds of feet below. Insects buzzed and twittered, but otherwise there was a great stillness all around. She could see deer on the opposite hillside, grazing and lifting their heads and dropping them to graze again. She herself was not drowsy but alert, for once full of serene thoughts about Jamie's brilliant
schooldays. At least he'd had that, she thought; he has good memories, too. Her heart, which had been hard as marble, warmed for the first time in weeks to a sort of passive restlessness that could not be called happiness, but was not icy either. She could not understand herself, but she saw a glimmer that promised light and warmth one day, and maybe even fire - not the fire that in her dream had annihilated Jamie, but a thrilling, life-giving fire. She looked towards Roly, to see if he still slept.

He was not asleep, but looking at her.

‘Come here, Henrietta,' he said, his voice very steady and neutral. He sat up. ‘Come here.'

‘Shall we go on?' she said. ‘It's another good hour if you want to look at the view from the top.'

‘How does a girl like you, a sheltered young miss who hasn't yet put her hair up or her skirts down, a gently reared, devout girl, know about rogering?
What
do you know?'

She was afraid. Men should not say such things, no, nor do them.

‘I heard the word yesterday for the first time. I didn't understand at first. Mr Graham, shall we go on? Or shall we at least talk about something else?'

‘Henrietta, whatever is the matter? Why are you frowning like that? My dear, are you all right?' asked Peggy Roberts.

‘Why,' said Henrietta Birmingham slowly, ‘why do people expect to be happy?'

‘… Eleven … twelve … thirteen … FOURTEEN!'

On the last count Fiona Cathcart, still in her pyjamas, flew into the air, tossed upwards by the energetically heaving arms of the four girls who were giving her birthday bumps. She landed in a heap on her bed as the others in her dormitory began to sing, their excitement overtaken by the almost dignified clarity of their strong, sweet voices:

‘Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday dear Feeny,
Happy Birthday to you!'

Then they clapped and gave the ritual call for ‘Speech!' Fiona stood up on her bed and, grinning with joy and embarrassment, was just starting off, ‘Friends, Romans, country - I mean, fellow members of Starlings …' when the door opened and Miss Peachey walked in.

‘I know,' she said, to their cries of protest. ‘I know perfectly well that it's Fiona's birthday - many happy returns of the day, dear - but that's no excuse for you all to be late down to breakfast. No she may
not
, Charmian, she can open her cards later. Now then, there's only five minutes to the bell: get a move on, all of you!'

At eleven o'clock when the bell rang for Break, half the form ran to the Covered Way with Fiona to look for her name on the parcels list. Birthday presents were always held back until the actual day, even if they'd arrived earlier, so she had the satisfaction of seeing Fiona Cathcart (5) on the list for everyone to read. She and Anne Hetherington collected her parcels together and put them up in the dormitory, to be opened during Rest. It was generally considered better to wait, even though you didn't see your birthday presents till two o'clock; but it meant you enjoyed the luxury of anticipation, and of being able to unwrap them slowly.

While they were upstairs, Constance was opening a letter. She didn't know the writing on the envelope, nor was the postmark familiar, so she turned it over for a while, savouring the mystery. Inside she found a letter from Mrs Simpson, the twins' mother, inviting her to spend half-term with them. She pushed the straw through the hole punched in the cardboard milk bottle top and sucked as she read.

‘Your Mother tells me you've taken to the school like a duck to water and I'm sure the twins will be glad to have someone to play with over half-term,' wrote kind, misguided Mrs Simpson. ‘You'll find us pretty dull I expect — don't pitch your hopes too high! I'll drive down and collect the three of you on Friday at lunch-time. Don't worry! I won't be late!'

Constance looked around for Mick and Flick in case they'd had a letter by the same post, but they were whispering together with Deborah, empty-handed. Her face and shoulders sagged, but she knew it was best to get it over with, so she walked across to them. They looked at her with closed expressions.

‘What d'you want?' said Flick.

‘Nothing. Sorry. Well, actually it's just that your
mother's been smashing and she's, um, invited me to spend half-term with you.'

‘Oh, super,' said Mick, flatly.

‘How jolly dee,' said Flick.

‘Yes, um, thanks very much. It's terrifically kind of her … of you.'

‘Not
us
. First I've heard of it,' said Flick.

‘I say, hard
luck
, old beans,' Constance heard Deborah say as she walked off. ‘What a mouldy rotten chiz. Your half-term too …'

The bell rang, piercingly imperious in the confined space of the Covered Way, and everyone began to move towards their form-rooms, some dawdling with their heads still bent over a letter, others in cheerful groups. Sheila and Charmian walked together, Charmie jiggling impatiently, Sheila flat-footed and solemn. Hermione came running lightly down from the music rooms, her smile like a flag waving its impartial brilliance. Charmie and Sheila straightened up and walked on with self-conscious deportment, turning to each other with excited whispers as soon as she had passed.