Summer at the Haven (14 page)

Mrs Nicholson, too, appeared older now that look of placid content that beamed out from behind her spectacles during the day was absent. Her face had a bluish tinge and her breathing was a little uneven, but she seemed comfortable nonetheless, clasping her beloved bottle to her and
with her shoulders snuggled into a beautiful lacy shawl knitted by herself.

Night had breached the brisk anonymity of Miss Long. She had taken from the book box named “Pope” a photograph of a handsome middle-aged man, her one-time employer – the one who had bequeathed her the boxes. This she had slipped beneath her pillow as was her wont. He would have been surprised to know that she frequently slept in his arms.

Mrs Smith had moved her bed out of the turret alcove, which to her had appeared spooky. Truth to tell, though she would never tell it, she found the attic room with no one near a bit frightening altogether. Her bed was now pushed against the wall furthest from the turret and she lay in it curled up tightly. Every now and then she twitched in her sleep. Tucked into the small of her back was a very old hairless Teddy Bear.

While all the ladies looked more ancient in sleep, Gisela looked younger. She sprawled across the mattress, abandoning herself to the deep motionless oblivion of youth. The fair hair which Tom admired so much strayed all about the pillow – one arm was flung across the coverlet; emerging from a flounce of bright red and green cotton sleeve, it looked thin and defenceless like a child's. There was a smear of chocolate about her mouth and chocolate wrappings on the foor.

Miss Blackett went to bed early these days. She began the night lying in the centre of the bed, but as soon as she was asleep she instinctively moved to the edge to leave room for Lord Jim. At midnight she half woke, stretched out her hand to stroke him and met nothingness.

One o'clock struck. Mrs Thornton, who was still awake, thought she would try to read herself into drowsiness, and took down the nearest book from her bedside shelf. It was an illustrated copy of Blake's poems, but her old eyes were too tired for reading, so she gazed dully at his pictures
instead – the piping boy, the dancing figures beneath the tree, the tiger, till at last she began to doze and dream, though at first it was more of a vivid memory than a dream which took over.

She was a child, or rather she was watching herself as a child, one day when her darling mother had said, “It's really too lovely a morning for school, well take the train to Brighton and picnic on the beach.” And they had done just this, and there they were at Black Rock with the cliffpath to Rottingdean and the old man with his “Happy Families” box and cap for pennies behind them. Her mother was sitting by a breakwater and she herself, dressed in her favourite white and navy sailor suit, was standing facing the sea at the end of the little stone jetty. Only it wasn't a jetty now but Sir Francis Drake's
Golden
Hind
sighting America, and she was, of course, Drake. Mrs Thornton watched the little girl who was herself and Drake, and knew that she was feeling very, very happy. Then her mother called, “Come along, Milly, I've unpacked the basket and there's Gentleman's Relish sandwiches and squashed-fly biscuits,” and the child turned round, and though it was still the child she had known so well, the face Mrs Thornton saw was Tom's. But her mother had now changed into old Mrs Langley, who was pouring tea into her beautiful cups beneath the deodar tree. Mrs Thornton, deep in the dream by now, saw that everyone from The Haven was gathered round. She was pleased to see Mrs Langley again and Miss Dawson, too, and Lord Jim prancing about Miss Blackett's feet, but as she looked at Lord Jim, he began to grow. He grew huge, almost as large as a tiger, and his fiery coat flamed in the shade of the great dark branches. Mrs Thornton tried to call out to warn everybody, but she could not make a sound. Lord Jim, still rapidly growing, stepping delicately among Mrs Langley's teacups, was now definitely stalking Leila Ford, who, as he gained in golden power, began, as
rapidly, to shrink until she was no more than a pitiful little creature, the size of a wizened child. Mrs Thornton exerted all her strength to move towards her but was quite unable to lift a foot. She was infinitely relieved then when her own Nanny appeared round the tree. “I'll see that the beastie doesna get beyond himself,” she said, “and as for Miss Leila, it'll do her a power of good, so dinna fash yourself, Miss Milly.” Mrs Thornton could not see what happened next, for a cloud of little birds flew down from the deodar branches and obscured her sight, but with Nanny there she knew all would be in order. The birds were singing loudly, but soon their song turned to instrumental music and there, out in the sunshine on the lawn, were Austen, Elizabeth, Nell and Jake, playing away as hard as they could go. Mrs Thornton was momentarily troubled because she could not recognize the music. Was it Schubert? Was it Mozart? Whatever it was, it was divinely inevitable and, delighted, she drew nearer to the players, and now they glanced round at her and each of them had Tom's wide untroubled stare. At the same time she was aware that the lawn was as crowded as on a fête day. All the village were there and, besides, here and there on the outskirts she thought she caught glimpses of figures in fancy dress, some splendid and some rustic, even a fairy or two – actors, she supposed, come over from Stratford. She looked round for Meg and saw her dancing with one of these, for now everyone was dancing and Mrs Thornton was overjoyed to see about her old friends and relatives, some of whom she had not thought of for years and some she remembered constantly with longing. She was not surprised then when her husband appeared close beside her but she could not help exclaiming, “You will laugh at me I know, but I thought you were dead!” He smiled his old amused affectionate smile and took her hand to lead her into the dance, and, as they whirled round, Tom was everywhere and nowhere, in a glance, in a gesture, in the rhythm of the music.

But then Austen, Elizabeth, Nell and Jake stopped as suddenly as they had begun and a way opened up before Mrs Thornton and saw that “set in the midst of them” was Tom himself. Lord Jim, now his proper size, was draped round his shoulders and he had a pipe in his hands. Mrs Thornton caught herself thinking: “But it was a drum, not a pipe, that he had.” But this was only a momentary flashback, for Tom began to play on his pipe and she was caught up by that piping into unalloyed joy. All consciousness of time, place and self ceased, for she was inside the Kingdom.

Then she half woke. She knew she was in bed in her own room but her mind was perfectly blank. She was aware only of peace. She opened her eyes – a wind had risen and dispersed the fog and through the uncurtained window she could see stars. The thought of their multitude, distance and immensity filled her with pleasure and she turned over and went to sleep again.

When she woke the second time, it was full morning and her dream came flooding back. What did it mean? Did it matter what it meant? She remembered that this dream had contained glory, and how could one analyse glory? Through the wall of her room she could now hear Mrs Nicholson's radio broadcasting the first Sunday service of winter time. The resentment she usually felt at any aural invasion of her own territory seemed not to trouble her this morning. She knew that when Mrs Nicholson turned off, as she always did the moment the blessing was pronounced, not waiting for the voluntary, it would be time for her to tune in to her own music programme. The service meant little to her and the music less than nothing to Mrs Nicholson and yet, she supposed, they both really meant the same thing. This unity in variety she now welcomed. What the meaning was she believed she had known for a moment in her dream. The glory had now departed and probably would never come again, but she knew that what it had left her with was a sense of her own blessed irrelevance.

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