The Lost Life (12 page)

But, just as she thinks this, she hears it. A boom, yes, a boom. His head is thrown back and the boom of his laughter shatters the afternoon autumn stillness and quiet, and all heads turn to the hearty soul who possesses such laughter. For it is the kind of laughter, Catherine can’t help but think, that comes from someone with a warm heart, albeit cool hands. And
she remembers the early-autumn chill in the church, and concludes that, no, Miss Hale does not feel the same cold hand that she did.

That evening, and it is a luminous Wednesday evening, Catherine sits on a bench in the high street near the bus stop at the old marketplace, waiting for Daniel. She has a good view of the street from here. Down to where Daniel’s father has his shop (and at which Daniel has been all afternoon) and up to the top of the high street to the house that Miss Hale and her aunt and uncle have rented for the summer.

The music, and its effect on her, has lingered all afternoon; as she walked home, as she read, as she dressed to go out tonight. So much so that before coming here to meet Daniel she wandered back to the church. She had time on her hands, the chill that had been in the air earlier in the day had gone, and it was a good time for a walk — a warm evening, a glowing sky. Besides, inside the church the memory of the music would be stronger, she thought, and so it was. Unexpected pleasures, she mused, standing at
the back of the church (for although there was no service in progress, there were two other people in the church, possibly praying, possibly visiting like herself), are all the more memorable for being unexpected. The memory of the music was no stronger but she could visualise the scene again and lingered a while.

Then, just as she was about to leave, she noticed the man seated a few rows in front of her. He was familiar, but why? And then she noticed the beak-like profile, the hair combed back, smooth and flat, with a parting down one side, not unlike his Mr Prufrock, and she stopped in her tracks. He was silent, perfectly still. It was a large church but she could see, when she looked more closely, that his lips were moving. And she realised, with something of a shock, that he was praying. Catherine didn’t go to church and never really thought much about God, and it occurred to her that she’d quite possibly never really observed, close at hand, someone praying. And just as the music had had unexpected power, watching Miss Hale’s friend pray was a strangely powerful experience, even moving. And she couldn’t say why — not to herself, not then, and not now as she sits on a bench at the bus stop — except to say that it was the
almost imperceptible movement of the lips, in the midst of all that stillness. And was there the faintest of whispering or not? He was, she concluded, almost happy. And, at that moment, she had willed them both on to happiness, Miss Hale and her friend, as she had in the rose garden. But she was, nonetheless, vaguely troubled by the image of Mr Eliot. There was something, well, almost wrong about Mr Eliot kneeling before anyone or anything, even a god. No, especially a god. She had to stifle the impulse to tell him to get up, that
her
Mr Eliot did not kneel. But more troubling, and here she was thinking of Miss Hale, was the distinct impression that, inside that church, he was a man who might, like anybody, enjoy human company, but who could, if pressed, get by without it.

Now, on the bench, she mulls over the words of Miss Hale (no doubt, at this moment, back in the house with her aunt and uncle, doing whatever they do at this time of day); the words of Miss Hale, these different kinds of love, and her friend (who seemed so complete, so contained, and yes, even happy, as he knelt in the private world of prayer), as well as the whole idea of love, of being eighteen, the sex thing, and Daniel, who is leaving in a week. And, just as
she has had the sensation of stepping into and being part of a story for some time now, she now has the feeling that it is not entirely accidental that they have all crossed paths. All four. Strains of the music come back to her from the concert, four players, four melodies, weaving in and out of one another until they come to an abrupt halt and we know that a movement has been completed. There is a pause in the air and a lingering silence hovers over the square, the lingering silence that comes between the end of one part and the beginning of another.

She looks up the high street and notices the old bus groaning towards her, passing Miss Hale’s house (who may well be observing the same bus), and imagines her friend, no longer kneeling, but strolling back to meet her. Then she turns her head as she rises, wondering where on earth Daniel could possibly be (they are going to the cinema at a town nearby), and sees him approaching, smiling, eyes alight as if contemplating some little prank, and she is aware of her whole mood lifting as she rises, instantly forgetting that world of high churches where lips that would kiss form prayers instead, and goes to meet him, their bodies, their mouths, coming together magnetically.

Twilight begins to settle over the town as the bus carrying them lumbers out. The sky, the trees, the sheep fields glow. And so, it seems to Catherine, do they. She knows, beyond doubt, that whatever Miss Hale and her friend may have settled upon, whatever has brought them back together, and whatever has brought her all this way over land and oceans and time, far from her school and away from her girls, to a small English town for the summer, whatever has done all that and whatever it is that sustains them, she would give it all away, just to be Catherine at this very moment, holding Daniel’s hand with her heart beating like mad.

Has the letter
been left out on the hall-stand for Catherine to read? So that there will be no need for anybody to ask or answer questions, so that the mood in the house can be observed and understood and her visit be as brief as possible because nobody is really in the mood for talking. After stepping into the hallway, with the book in hand, to be signed on this bright Thursday morning, the first thing she saw was the letter lying on the hall-stand (with what appears to be a publisher’s card pinned to the top of it, as though the letter itself has been passed on via another party). Was it left out so she could read it, or would she be prying?

Miss Hale, after a brief greeting, takes the book from her and leaves Catherine alone in the hall beside the stand upon which the letter sits, and Catherine, after asking herself if she dares, can’t help but read the thing.

Will T.S. Eliot please return to his home
68 Clarence Gate Gardens
which he abandoned Sept. 17th, 1932.
Keys with WLJ

It is short enough to be taken in at a glance, yet long enough to be a story in itself. And Catherine instantly recognises that it is a very sad story for the person who wrote it (presumably the wicked woman who clings to things long after she has any right to). But, as much as it tells a sad story, it is also, she assumes, a disturbing letter to receive, as the mood of the house instantly tells her: although the house itself would probably choose to call it ‘awkward’. As she looks up from the letter and down the hall into the drawing room, she can make out Miss Hale whispering to her friend who is staring out a window, nodding as she speaks.

As is often the case when she is in this house, Catherine doesn’t know whether to stay or go. The timing is all wrong and she is sure she is imposing on them at a particularly delicate moment. But just as she is about to raise her arm, just as she is about to signal to Miss Hale that the timing is all wrong and that she will leave and return another, more opportune, time,
or not return at all (she doesn’t really need the signature and should never have asked for it), just as she is about to signal all of this, Miss Hale’s friend turns to her, and the transformation in his appearance shocks her into inertia. Gone is the face that emitted such booming, hearty laughter the day before, and upon which everybody turned and smiled, for it had been the happy sound of a hearty soul, the sort of sound that lights up other people’s faces and lives, and lets them forget, or simply put in perspective their concerns for a moment. That face has gone now, along with the matinee looks and the twinkle in his eye (the same sort of twinkle that Catherine has seen in Daniel’s eyes, just before he launches into some practical joke or other). And Catherine suspects that that lost happy face is the one that Miss Hale’s friend would rather go through life wearing from now on: that after years of being Westminster Abbey on legs he wants to live and laugh, and possibly be allowed to fall in love again, just like anybody else. Maybe even waste his time in idle pursuits, for he has the look of someone whose life, whose days, even whose hours, have, for year upon year, been organised like a school timetable. And you can only live like that for so long. So perhaps he’d like to throw some of his timetabled
days away reading Sherlock Holmes, even memorising whole pages for a party trick; he looks the sort. But it is all proving to be extremely difficult. No, the face that yesterday had emitted such booming laughter is gone, and the one that now turns to her is transformed utterly. Above all, it is the eyes. No trace of a twinkle, no hint of a prank. And it is not just this sadness that she sees there, but something else. For the face that he shows her is not only the face of someone upon whom sadness has fallen, but someone who is also frightened. His eyes are opened wide, and a dark mood, almost physical in its intensity, seems to be emanating from him. Even more than frightened, and Catherine now remembers Miss Hale’s words (that seemed so melodramatic at the time) about goddesses, and hauntings and Furies, and concludes that the fear she sees in the eyes of Miss Hale’s friend is the fear of someone who sincerely believes himself damned to be haunted and pursued for life. And whereas she was once tempted to laugh at such an idea, she’s not now. Nor, she is sure, is he acting. Or, if he is, he is an exceptional performer.

He then nods, a faint sense of recognition that says, yes, we have met before, and yes, I promised to sign your book ‘gladly’, if I recall correctly, and so I
shall — but you’ll forgive me if the gladness has gone from me for the time being. Then he looks down as Miss Hale hands him the book and he stares at it with a perplexed expression, almost as if looking upon the book for the first time and wondering who on earth the person was who wrote enough poems to fill a whole volume. Could it really have been him? But of course it was (albeit a sufficiently distant him to be someone else), and he quickly signs his name on the title page and hands it back to Miss Hale, nodding briefly in Catherine’s direction before turning his gaze back upon the garden outside.

As Miss Hale returns, her face gives nothing away to Catherine. A promise has been made, and a promise has been kept. A duty dispatched. She has looked after one of her girls, and she hands back the book with the kind of controlled poise that suggests, without it being stated, that this is a trying moment. And it is then that Miss Hale looks down and sees the letter, open on the hall-stand for all the world to see, and, as she snatches it up, she looks abruptly back at Catherine, attempting to fathom if the thing has been read, has remained unread, or was even noticed. Catherine is quick to avert her eyes, and is aware of Miss Hale’s enquiring gaze, but like the
woman beside her, Catherine gives nothing away. And, from the corner of her eye, Catherine notices Miss Hale stuffing the letter into her pocket while she guides her to the door.

Again, Catherine is wondering, as she stands on the doorstep, saying goodbye to Miss Hale, was the note left out for her to read, and was the surprise of finding the letter open to the enquiring eyes of strangers another piece of performance — or had the news the letter contained been so disturbing that it had been dropped on the table in the hall and forgotten about until Miss Hale had returned the signed copy of her friend’s poems and seen it lying there, exposed to the enquiring eyes of strangers such as Catherine.

Catherine turns to Miss Hale as she leaves. ‘Thank you,’ and adds, falling in with Miss Hale’s coded language, ‘tell your friend he is very kind.’

Miss Hale nods, the faintest trace of a smile. ‘You’ll forgive us if we don’t ask you to stay, but it’s been a — what shall we say? — an awkward morning.’

‘Of course.’ And with that she turns, following the curve of the high street down to the shops, leaving Miss Hale standing at the door, the faraway look in her eyes giving every impression that,
although physically in the doorway, she is still living in another time and place, and whatever was left undone might yet be completed.

Later that morning in her room, Catherine is staring at the tobacco tin exhumed from the rose garden on what now seems to be such a distant day. Not the beginning of this autumn, but last autumn. Or the one before. She does not open the tin, but can hear the small metal object inside shift whenever she moves it. She doesn’t open it because that would be snooping. It’s bad enough that she’s even in possession of the damned thing, but peering into the private life inside? That much she can control, and so she doesn’t snoop. Like gossip, snooping is beneath the lady.

And while she is staring at the small tin (the name of a well-known brand of pipe tobacco printed on the lid), she is asking herself, what she can do. By which she means what can she do to help, given that she can find no way of giving back the tin, of retrieving the act of folly in the rose garden and restoring some part of Miss Hale’s happiness. What
can she do, not only to help Miss Hale and her friend without revealing the cause of their troubles, but to rid herself of the nagging guilt that, while not as intense as it was, is still, nonetheless, always there. Especially on mornings such as these when she feels her guilt all over again.

And then, as if in answer to her question, there is a knock on the door. Her mother is at the school preparing for the new term and Catherine opens the door to find a little girl from the town (whom she has seen about the place, but whose name she doesn’t know) standing in front of her, a sealed envelope in her hands. The girl peers at her quizzically. She is clearly on an errand.

‘Is your name Catherine?’ she asks like an adult.

‘Yes,’ says Catherine, as if speaking to one.

It is then that the little girl thrusts the envelope into her hands.

‘The American lady in the high street asked me to give you this.’

Catherine has no sooner taken the envelope than the girl is gone.

‘Thank you,’ she calls, and the girl waves without turning as she runs off, no doubt back to her friends with a small reward for her mission.

When Catherine opens the letter, she finds the briefest of messages.

‘Can you please come? E.H.’

It doesn’t say so, but the brevity of the note implies urgency, and so Catherine quickly returns to her room, puts the tin back in her drawer, and prepares herself to face the street, and Miss Hale for the second time that morning. Or should that be E.H.? There is, she notes, a certain satisfaction in the note being signed with her initials only, for the initials speak of one adult requesting the company and the help of another.

The door is opened soon after she knocks and Miss Hale ushers her into the house. ‘Thank you for coming so quickly. Please, sit.’

Miss Hale’s friend, Catherine notes immediately, has gone. Miss Hale is on edge. She is not herself. There is no hint of playing. She is not acting like someone on edge. She simply is. She sits opposite Catherine, her fingers tapping on the small table between them. One moment her eyes and mind are far away, the next she speaks as if inwardly having dispelled any doubts about saying what she is about to say. ‘I have a request. You may accept or decline. It is
entirely up to you. I will understand if you refuse. So, do
not
feel you must. It is simply a request.’

Catherine nods, puzzled, intrigued, even excited, but says nothing.

‘Well.’ Miss Hale nods in return, placing both hands on her knees, as if to say that she will come directly to the business at hand. ‘As you know — as I have mentioned — my friend, my dear, dear friend, in his youth made a bad marriage. No one is to blame,’ Miss Hale says, lifting her palms and her gaze to the heavens, ‘but it was a marriage made in hell, all the same. And now my friend wishes to leave the marriage, only she won’t let him. She is, as I have said, the type who clings long after she has any right to.’ There is a brief pause as she looks down to the floor, slowly shaking her head from side to side. ‘How, how indeed, do you leave someone who refuses to be left?’

Miss Hale lifts her head and eyes Catherine, gauging if the full import of what she is saying is being taken in, and, if so, what the girl is thinking.

‘She follows him to his work. To official functions. She has even tried to post an advertisement in
The Times
, telling him to come home. Home?’ Miss Hale raises her eyebrows as she says the word.

Catherine nods, knowing straight away that Miss Hale is referring to the letter left out on the hall-stand.

‘She might even hire a detective. Who knows? The woman is obsessed.’

Catherine notes that the emphasis on that last word is not acted, but carries with it a whole summer, perhaps even years, of frustration.

‘It must stop,’ Miss Hale continues wearily, then looks down at a sealed envelope on the table, bites her lip, and stares directly back at Catherine.

‘Will you take this to her?’ she asks, indicating the envelope.

‘Personally?’

‘Yes.’

The eyes of Miss Hale give nothing away. She remains impassive. But, in spite of the steadiness of her gaze, in the silence that follows there is urgency in the air, the faintest hint of desperation of someone at the end of her tether, driven to such measures. A stranger in town, turning to the only person she can think of who might help her through this difficult time. And there is part of Catherine that feels that she herself has conjured up this request from Miss Hale, for in quietly asking herself the question ‘What can I
do?’ just that morning, did she not call, and was her call not answered? And while others might reasonably reply that as much as they sympathise, it is, really, none of their business, Catherine cannot. For Catherine knows it
is
her business. And without even taking time to weigh it all up, she knows what must be done, and nods again, a second time. Yes, she will. Yes, she is, after all, one of Miss Hale’s girls, and would never dream of letting her down any more than she would betray her trust. You need only, the nod says, you need only ask.

There is the most minute of sighs from Miss Hale before she continues. ‘You may wonder why you have to. Why I simply cannot post the letter in question myself. But I do not want my friend to know and you must never breathe a word of it. It must be as though the letter never existed.’ Here she fixes Catherine with an uncompromising stare to which Catherine nods twice this time. Taking the nods to be a pledge, Miss Hale goes on. ‘He would be aghast if, even by the wildest of chances, anything ever got back to him. Perhaps humiliated. And that would be the end of the friendship. Do you understand the importance of this?’