A Song of Sixpence (21 page)

‘It's not what was said, dearest Grace. Did you not see how he looked at me!'

Mother was a long time coming upstairs. When she came she sat down heavily at the table and put a hand to her brow. She alarmed me. I had been sweating and now I began to shiver.

‘Mother, what's wrong?'

She raised her head slowly and looked at me.

‘It will never end for us, Laurie. Never, never. Miss Greville is going out of her mind.'

How strange were the months that followed, for me so unreal as to maintain me in a perpetual daze, and for my mother so charged with an ever-growing anxiety, the extent of which I did not realize till later, that her nerves were worn to shreds, causing her to start and turn pale whenever some unusual sound would reach us from the main part of the house. Even now I can scarcely bring myself to re-create the pitiful disintegration of a mind that I had always regarded as cultured and superior, the more so since that mental dissolution shaped itself ostensibly in the pattern of farce, the spinster's infatuation for the young clergyman, subject for the music-hall stage, for vulgar laughter provoked by a cheap comedian with baggy trousers and a red nose. For us, it was far from funny but a reality with which we lived and suffered. That Miss Greville, of all people, should be the central figure, the victim, of such a spectacle—I could not believe it.

Yet, although of course I could not know this, Miss Greville's condition was one now well recognized in psychiatric medicine and not at all uncommon in women of her age and condition who have slight paranoid tendencies. In such subjects at the involutional period a flood of libidinal impulses, hitherto repressed, or sublimated, or dealt with by other mechanisms of defence, is released with specific imbalance of hormones and resultant delusions which are frequently centred upon a favourite physician or clergyman. This absolute and utter certainty that they are beloved and to be married is explained by the most cryptic indications, yet in a supremely reasonable way.

This to me was the most perplexing feature of Miss Greville's behaviour, the rational manner in which she gave effect to her delusion. Her preparations for marriage were proper and well considered. The additions she made to her wardrobe, no longer exuberant, exhibited a severity which, as she informed my mother, befitted the clerical status of her future husband. The plans she outlined for doing up the vicarage could not have been bettered, and the materials she had already bought for new curtains were all in quiet good taste. Her activities in all directions were endless, she seemed always on the move, going to and coming from the town, and when she found time to sit down she would take up sewing, or start cutting out and shaping patterns, with commendable industry.

Most baffling of all was the manner in which she received every attempt to dissuade her. At first my mother had been diffident, tactful and discreet in her approach, but as time went on and all her efforts failed she had come to speak in the strongest terms and to use outright and forceful arguments which no one could reject. Miss Greville rejected them. With her calm and confident smile she would listen, amused almost by Mother's intensity, then, with a shake of her head, would dismiss the most irrefutable logic: ‘You don't understand, Grace. There are reasons for everything.
I know.
'

These two final words, absolute conviction of inner knowledge, were unassailable to reason. Mother was at her wits' end. From whom could she seek advice? Those acquaintances at St Anne's, familiar with Miss Greville's previous foibles, were disinclined to take Mother seriously and advised against action on the grounds that this new manifestation would pass. In any case, from their position with the school, it was apparent that they had no wish to be drawn into the affair. Campbell, with whom Mother tried to take council, was not helpful. This deaf, taciturn woman had from the beginning resented our presence in the house. She considered that she had prior rights on her employer and was not prepared to divulge the address of Miss Greville's brother in Kenya when Mother proposed writing to him. The difficulty presented by any course of action seemed insuperable, since the first sign of interference on our part would undoubtedly precipitate a scandal in the town. There was nothing to be done but wait. And so there ensued a period of suspense during which Mother often exclaimed, in a tone of gathering foreboding: ‘ How will it end!'

I must confess that the bizarre aspect of the situation with its suggestion of further awfulness had a morbid excitement for me, stimulated by the changes developing in Miss Greville's personality and physical appearance. Phrases of unprecedented frankness startled and embarrassed me. Her bust and hips were fuller and she had a new way of standing with her legs apart, and what I took to be her stomach but was undoubtedly her pelvis, thrust forward. The fascination of these transformations was, however, dulled by persistent intrusions of a most depressing thought. If Miss Greville did not resume her normal state, if she continued to deteriorate, how could she fulfil her promise to send me to school? What of my giddy aspirations then? They would never be realized. Never. My heart sank at the dismal prospect. I would be lost.

It may be imagined then how anxiously I studied Miss Greville on the occasions when we were together. These were diminishing, since in the evenings Mother kept me closely by her side. Nevertheless, lack of opportunity did not debar me from hoping and fearing, nor my spirits from rising and falling, like a barometer. In the main, I was optimistic. This can't go on, I told myself, it must pass. Nothing will come of it. And if we can last it out for another six months all will be well. Alas, I was deluding myself. Other factors were already operating, contingencies I had not even contemplated. All my thoughts and efforts had been concentrated on Miss Greville. I had forgotten about Mr Lesly.

It was a wet Saturday afternoon and Mother was reading the
Ardfillan Herald
which always appeared at the week-end. Suddenly I heard her exclaim, in a startled voice:

‘Merciful heavens!'

She had changed colour, yet she did not put down the
Herald
, but went on reading almost desperately. Then she let the newspaper slip from her hands and lay back in her chair staring unseeingly at me. This could only mean disaster. Already my scalp was beginning to creep as I put that too familiar question.

‘What's wrong, Mother?'

She did not answer, did not apparently discover me within the remote field of her vision. Her lips were moving not, experience told me, in prayer but because, silently, she was talking to herself. I was about to repeat my question more pressingly when, as though breaking through the sound barrier, these words escaped her.

‘She's bound to see it … or to hear of it.'

‘Mother.' I had to shake her arm. ‘What has happened?'

She had to find me before she answered.

‘Mr Lesly is going to be married.' She paused. ‘On the fifteenth of next month.'

As though unable to continue, she handed me the paper. A paragraph in the Social and Personal column was headed:
Popular Vicar to Wed.
And beneath in smaller type:
Nuptials announced of Mr H. A. Lesly and Miss Georgina Douglas.
Reading on, I was not long in discovering that Miss Georgina was none other than the sister of the spin bowler, my late cricketing acquaintance in whose conversation that twin-funnelled steam yacht had largely testified to parental wealth. Hurriedly I skimmed through the rest of the paragraph: a long-standing attachment … sudden decision on the part of the happy couple … welcomed by their numerous friends and wellwishers.

‘But this is wonderful,' I cried. ‘It settles everything.'

Mother eyed me silently.

‘Don't you see, Mother, when Miss Greville sees he's going to marry someone else she'll know he can't marry her.'

‘That will be a great help to her, poor creature.'

Mother's pale, sad smile disconcerted me.

‘You mean, she won't …'

‘I don't mean anything,' Mother said firmly, with an air of terminating the conversation. ‘ But I don't want you to go down to her for a bit. Not till we see how things work out.'

All that evening Mother and I kept very quiet. The house was quiet too. On the following morning we went out to the ten o'clock Mass. Occasionally on Sunday we had an invitation from Miss Greville to have midday dinner with her. Today, when we returned from church, there was no invitation, and Miss Greville had not gone to St Jude's.

The house was still quiet. I forgot what Mother made for our lunch because, for once, I certainly did not notice what I was eating. Afterwards Mother lay down for an hour, while I did my week-end homework. At four o'clock I made the tea. We were now so under the spell of this perpetual stillness that we were talking almost in whispers. I took the tea things to the sink, glancing at Mother while I washed and dried them. I could see that she was terribly on edge, she kept walking up and down our little corridor, but softly, in her indoor slippers, listening all the time with her head to one side.

It was getting dark now and it had begun to rain again. Suddenly, as I was about to light the gas, there came a knock at our door.

Visibly, Mother started. I looked at her, with questioning alarm.

‘Shall I open it?'

She shook her head and, moving to the door, threw it open.

Campbell stood there, a sudden apparition, her thin, black, angular figure ominous in the dusk. But her expression was as withdrawn, as impassive as ever. Her hands were folded in front of her starched apron.

‘Madam would like to see you,' she said formally.

‘Yes,' Mother said slowly. ‘I'll come.'

‘Madam: wishes, to see you both,' Campbell said, in the same manner as before.

There was a pause.

‘I don't think—' Mother began, turning towards me.

‘It's all right, Mother,' I interrupted. ‘I'll go with you.'

Nothing heroic prompted this declaration. My heart was beating fast and my knees were uncertain, but I did not wish to be left out of this. I felt indeed that Miss Greville, facing a crisis in her life, might well be impelled to a vital declaration upon my future.

Mother hesitated. I sensed that she wanted to question Campbell, to glean some information as to the present state of affairs. But Campbell was not one to be questioned. Already she had begun to move off. We followed her. Outside Miss Greville's bedroom she paused and, always correct, opened the door for us.

It was a large room with a double window opening on to the front terrace, but now the lined silk curtains were drawn and the gas lamps lit. I had never been in this room before and would have been curious to examine its furnishings had not my attention been immediately riveted to Miss Greville. She was sitting at a long sofa table, not fully dressed, but wrapped in a fringed bathrobe, and writing so industriously that as we entered she did not look up. Four letters had apparently been written—instinctively I counted the stamped envelopes that lay on the table—and now she was busy on a fifth. She seemed calm, indeed perfectly composed, and although her hair was in some disorder, the normality of her appearance gave me a quick glow of reassurance.

‘There!' she exclaimed at last, putting down her pen. ‘Do forgive me for keeping you.'

She folded the letter, tucked it in an envelope which she then sealed, addressed and stamped. Gathering all the letters together she made a neat pile in front of her and sat up, erect and competent.

‘Well, Grace,' she remarked mildly, ‘I suppose you have seen the paragraph in the
Herald.'

There was no point in denying this and Mother did not do so. I could feel her relaxing with relief at Miss Greville's reasonable attitude. Not a sign of frenzy, hysterics or delirium.

‘I thought at first that I should ignore it,' Miss Greville went on, ‘since it is, at best, a clumsy device. But on considering the matter more fully I have decided that action is necessary.'

Mother had gone rigid again.

‘You realize, of course, that
he
, poor man, had no part in this. The whole scandalous affair is an intrigue, instigated by that woman with the connivance of the editor of the
Herald
and, in all probability, the provost of the town.'

Brushing aside Mother's attempted protest she continued, as moderately as before, but with a new note of gravity.

‘So I have written these letters … which you will be good enough to post for me, Carroll.' She held them out and I found myself accepting them. ‘One is to Mr Lesly, another to his Bishop, the third to the editor of the
Herald
and the fourth to the town clerk. The final letter is to that woman.' She paused, glanced significantly towards her dressing-table. I felt Mother start. The foils had been brought up from downstairs and their end buttons removed. ‘Yes, Grace, I have challenged her to a duel.'

‘Oh, no,' Mother cried. ‘You simply mustn't do that.'

‘Even if I must not, I will.' Miss Greville smiled, and in its vacuity, its total blankness, I knew it was the smile of an utterly demented woman, even before she added: ‘Naturally, dear Grace, I am relying on you to be my second.'

I don't know how we got out of that room. The moment we escaped Mother went straight downstairs to the telephone and rang Dr Ewen. He came in about half an hour. By that time, overcome by a sense of utter desolation, feeling like an idiot myself, I had retired to my burrow in the kitchen alcove. There I remained during the doctor's visit, emerging only as I heard signs of his departure. As I locked over the banister of the stairs into the hall below I heard him say to Mother:

‘She will have to be certified and removed at once.'

Three months later, sitting opposite Mother in the Winton train. I examined her covertly, trying to read her face. What I saw there gave me a sinking in my inside. I sensed that desperate measures were in prospect for us. Several times, in the hope of discovering the secrets that sealed her brow, I had made an effort to draw her into conversation and presently I tried again, using the visit we were now making to Castleton Asylum as an opening gambit.