Sacred Country (30 page)

‘Well, I don’t know that I can be precise, but – ’

‘Try to be precise.’

‘Well. Take clothes, for instance.’

‘Clothes?’

‘Yes. Mary, always, from a young age, hated to have to wear a dress. My wife told me of one occasion, when Mary would have been six or seven, when the wearing of a smocked dress caused her great distress.’

‘You weren’t present on this occasion?’

‘No. But –’

‘Can you think of an occasion when you were present when your daughter showed similar distress?’

‘Well. Many occasions. She used to say she looked ugly, felt stupid …’

‘You used the word “behaviour”. Clothes condition behaviour to some extent, but you couldn’t define them as
being
behaviour. What expectations of certain behaviour in Marty’s childhood caused her unease?’

‘Unease? Well. Toys and games, I suppose. We expected her to play with dolls, play at being a mother …’

‘And she refused to do this?’

‘Yes. She wasn’t interested in this.’

‘But you insisted that she continue with this kind of play?’

‘No. Not really …’

‘Where was the unease, then?’

Mary glanced at Harker. He took one of his familiar oil-scented handkerchiefs out of his trouser pocket and wiped his face with it. It was hot in Twickenham. Mary felt guilty that he was here in this hot room.

Beales asked his question again: ‘If you didn’t insist that play be centred on mothering and domestic tasks, where did Marty’s anxiety have its root?’

‘We didn’t insist. But I think we went on assuming that she
would play with dolls and so forth and be interested in giving pretend tea parties and all the things which Pearl – ’

‘Pearl. Your real daughter?’

‘Yes. Pearl loved her dolls. She had a pram for them. She tried to wash their hair …’

‘So you never played cricket with Pearl?’

‘Cricket?’

‘Yes.’

‘No.’

‘But you did with Marty?’

Harker turned to Mary. His face looked petunia-red. ‘Cricket? Did we, Mary?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘Don’t you remember? In the garden. I used to mainly bowl – with that old tennis ball I had.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Harker. ‘So we did. So you did. So we did!’

Dr Beales was writing on his pad: Cricket(??). Harker blew his nose. Mary tried to remember what kind of bowler she’d told Dr Beales she’d been. She thought this would be his next question, but it wasn’t. He put the top on his expensive pen and turned to Harker. He spoke gravely. He said: ‘On Marty’s first visit to me, she told me that in childhood you tried to annihilate her. What do you think she meant by that?’

Harker said: ‘Do you mind if I take my jacket off?’

‘Go ahead,’ said Beales.

As Harker struggled out of his linen jacket, Mary struggled to remember how old she said she’d been when her real parents had died. She thought she’d probably remembered the two-minute silence and said six, but she wasn’t certain. She’d forgotten she’d ever talked about Sonny, ever used the word ‘annihilate’. Always, when she was with Beales, she found herself believing that Edward and Irene were her mother and father.

She stood up. ‘It wasn’t him, Dr Beales,’ she said.

‘What?’ said Beales.

‘It wasn’t Edward. It was my real father I was talking about. He tried to annihilate me. Before he died in the Silver City crash.’

‘He tried to annihilate you when you were four or five years old?’

‘Yes.’

Beales turned to Harker. ‘You knew about this?’

‘Well …’ said Harker.

‘You didn’t know about it?’

‘Oh yes. I knew there’d been some trouble. Sonny was always –’

‘What was meant by the word “annihilation”?’

‘Well …’

‘It’s a very strong word to use, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘But not, of course, a word that a six-year-old child would be familiar with. So what incidents or feelings was Marty referring to that occurred before you became her adoptive father?’

‘I don’t know exactly …’ said Harker.

‘You’ve been her surrogate parent for fifteen years and you’ve never made it your business to find out what damage was done to her in early childhood?’

Harker turned to Mary. He wiped his face with his handkerchief. ‘I expect you talked about this to Irene, didn’t you? Not to me.’

‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘I don’t think I ever talked about it to you.’

Dr Beales threw down his pen. He got up and crossed to the window. He stood there with his back to Mary and Harker, looking out. Harker mouthed the words: ‘I’m sorry,’ to Mary.

There was a fly in the room. Its mad buzzing against the window was the only sound. Mary thought, silence is all right when you know what a person is thinking in it, but not when you don’t.

She stared at objects. She saw that the label on Harker’s jacket read ‘
Milsom and Sands (Norwich)
LTD.
Men’s Outfitters. Estb. 1895
.’ She wished Edward was there in a Norwich clothes shop, free to saunter out into the sunshine whenever he wanted to.

She looked at the pen and ink stand on Beales’s desk. It was
leather and had a matching blotter. She wondered whether the ink well was made of porcelain. It was the kind of possession Georgia might have boasted about, but it appeared rather tarnished by lack of use.

Several minutes passed before Dr Beales came back to the desk. He was smiling a secret smile, as if he had seen something that amused him while looking out at the waters of Twickenham. He looked affectionately at Harker. He rested his elbows on the matching blotter, obscuring his notes. To Mary’s surprise, he returned to the subject of reincarnation. The word ‘annihilate’ seemed to have floated out of his mind.

He let Edward Harker describe his life as a nun. He appeared to listen attentively while Edward recounted what he could remember of his nun’s routine, his use of Coal Tar soap, his fondness of the Psalms, the bitter cold of his hands. Mary heard Harker’s voice relax. He sat back in his chair. He seemed to think that all the lying was over. But Mary had seen Beales’s smile. He would let Harker ramble and then he would return to the subject of her childhood.

He didn’t return to it. He continued to listen courteously until Harker could recall nothing more of his life as a Sister and then he got up again and thanked Harker for coming and asked him to go back to the waiting room.

Harker looked confused. He stroked his creased linen jacket. He started to apologise for his faulty memory, but Beales cut him off. He wasn’t smiling any more. He said: ‘Wait outside, please. Thank you.’

When he’d gone, Beales sat down. He closed his eyes. With his eyes closed, he didn’t look like a kitten or a fox any more, but like a thin Caesar, waiting to have his head modelled in bronze.

With his eyes still closed he said: ‘By doing this, you’ve set your cause back six months, maybe more, maybe for all time.’

‘By doing what?’ said Mary.

Beales ignored this. He said: ‘It means that all my notes are worthless.’

He opened his eyes wearily, took some pages from Mary’s file and scattered them over the desk.

‘Why?’ said Mary.

‘Why?’ said Beales. ‘You know why.’

‘No …’

‘Because you’ve been lying, inventing, telling stories. Your parents are not dead. Your parents are John “Sonny” Ward and Estelle Maria Ward, née Cord. They live at Elm Farm, Swaithey in Suffolk. You invented their death; you invented this very likeable father. I conclude that you have therefore invented all or part of every single thing you’ve told me. This invalidates every session we’ve had. I warned you once before about lying. So there it is. You must find someone else to take your case – if you can. I have no more time for you.’

Mary felt a weight come into her chest. She thought this might be how you would feel – just for the tenth of a second – if someone had fired a bullet at you. You would stare in disbelief at your assassin, just as she was staring now at Dr Beales, and then you would fall and cease to be.

At the station, Edward said: ‘I failed you. It was my fault.’

‘No,’ said Mary. ‘He knew the truth all along. Nothing you could have said would have made any difference.’

‘What are you going to do now, then?’

‘Find someone else.’

‘Will that be difficult?’

‘It’s all difficult, Edward. I wish none of it was like it is.’

Harker kissed the top of Mary’s head. Then he got onto the train.

It sat waiting in dusty light and he sat inside it feeling old and a fool.

He waved at Mary, who stood on the platform, and she waved back. They waved because they thought the train was moving, but it wasn’t. It was only being shunted a few yards. They felt stupid having this waving rehearsal, so when the train did begin to move they both raised their hands very tentatively, in case this, too, was a false departure and not the real thing.

*

Mary went back to her room. She stood in the middle of it and stared at her possessions. For such a long time now she’d been preparing the room for Martin Ward. Her pen and ink sketches of war were taped to the walls. She’d painted the ceiling black. Above the cooker hung a photograph of Jeanne Moreau riding a bicycle.

She sat down on the bed and lit a French cigarette. She thought of the brightness on the river and the heat in Dr Beales’s room. Her hope and her future had been in those places and she hadn’t truly realised it until now, when they were no longer there and had no existence anywhere.

There seemed nothing to do but smoke and stare. It was Friday. She would spend the weekend staring at all her black and white things.

She had no plan. Only the eternal plan of becoming Martin.

She was in the middle of her third Gitane when she remembered the letter from Pearl. She pulled it out of her pocket and looked at Pearl’s round, childlike writing on the envelope. She felt glad to be staring at something that was going to speak to her and not remain mute like the room. From some previous, dimly lit life she heard Miss McRae ask: ‘What is this baby doing in my lesson, Mary?’ And this made her smile.

She opened the letter. She wiped her glasses on her sleeve and read:

Dear Mary,

I am going to send this letter with Edward. I know something is wrong, but he won’t tell me what. Please write and tell me. I’ve never forgotten Montgolfier and the universe. I don’t want you to be unhappy.

I’m doing my exams. Biology is my best subject. English is my worst. I have no imagination. For literature we’re reading a book by Joseph Conrad called
The Rover
which I don’t understand. There are quite a few
sentences
I don’t understand, even. One of them is ‘Réal’s misanthropy was getting beyond all bounds.’

Our main things in Biology are called Kingdoms. There is a Fungus Kingdom, for instance. The Animal Kingdom has a sub-kingdom called Protozoa. A fluke is one of these. A fluke leads a life inside other things, e.g. a snail, then a fish, then a human liver. I think this is more interesting than something like ‘Réal’s misanthropy was getting beyond all bounds.’ Don’t you? Think of flukes inside people!

Edward said perhaps I could come to London for the day and you could take me to the Natural History Museum. Could I? Mum has just said Pearl if you don’t come down now I shall give your supper to Billy.

(Will go on later.)

Later

Here is some news for you.

I went into Swaithey church one evening to water the flowers and Timmy was there by himself. He was praying. I don’t think he noticed me. (Sorry about new pen.) While I was doing the flowers he started to cry. I went and sat with him and the watering can. He just cried more and more. Then he told me the news, he’s doing Theology in a Correspondence Course. He wants to become a vicar and not die working on the farm. I can’t imagine him as vicar, can you. He’s too small. Your father can’t imagine it either. He thinks Timmy’s just trying to annoy him. He’s told Timmy he will never sell the farm as long as he lives. Timmy said: ‘Pearl, he refuses to imagine what it’s like to be me.’ I said: ‘I expect he wasn’t good at English, like me, and has no imagination, which is why he is a farmer.’ Timmy had no hankie. And I didn’t. He had snot all over his hands.

I hope I could come to London and go to the N.H. Museum. And see Earl’s Court, where you live.

I hope you are O.K. Do you like Brian Poole and the Tremeloes?

Please write.

love from Pearl

Mary read the letter again and then another time and then another. She didn’t know why it was comforting. She read it over and over, on and on until she felt sleepy. Then she put out her cigarette and drew the curtains over what remained of evening in the lightless airwell.

She didn’t undress. She got into bed still wearing her jeans. She put Pearl’s letter on her pillow and placed her head on the round writing and soon slept.

Nothing happens in Swaithey.

We continue. We listen out for clues to the world. The east wind blows in from Murmansk. Things pass overhead: jet planes; news from Iceland.

Then one day a tragedy takes place.

On a Friday evening, Walter Loomis took off the straw hat Grace made him wear in the shop. He hung up the hat and hung up the white meat-stained overall. He had a suitcase packed. Strapped to the case was an old guitar. Grace didn’t know about the packed case and the musical instrument. She sat in her booth doing the week’s sums, knowing nothing.

He came down, wearing a bomber jacket Grace had never seen. He put down the suitcase. He said: ‘I’m going now. I tried to warn you about this a hundred times, but you were never listening.’

The shop was closed for just a week. Grace put up a
Notice to Customers
, apologising for the inconvenience caused.

During the week, I went on one of my walks to the river. It was a damp day. I saw Grace standing still under a black umbrella, looking at the water. She reminded me of a photograph.

I asked her into the house for tea. I sat her by the Rayburn. Her eyes were red and dry. She said: ‘Don’t let me interrupt your afternoon.’