Atonement (51 page)

“There’s
a lawyer talking,” I said. “Drumming up business for
yourself.”

He laughed
politely, though he must have thought me profoundly stupid. It is quite
impossible these days to assume anything about people’s educational level
from the way they talk or dress or from their taste in music. Safest to treat
everyone you meet as a distinguished intellectual.

After twenty
minutes we had spoken enough, and as the car reached a motorway and the engine
settled into an unvarying drone, I fell asleep again and when I woke we were on
a country road, and a painful tightness was around my forehead. I took from my
handbag three aspirins which I chewed and swallowed with distaste. Which
portion of my mind, of my memory, had I lost to a minuscule stroke while I was
asleep? I would never know. It was then, in the back of that tinny little car,
that I experienced for the first time something like desperation. Panic would
be too strong a word. Claustrophobia was part of it, helpless confinement
within a process of decay, and a sensation of shrinking. I tapped
Michael’s shoulder and asked him to turn on his music. He assumed I was
indulging him because we were close to our destination, and he refused. But I
insisted, and so the thumping twangy bass noise resumed, and over it, a light
baritone chanting in Caribbean patois to the rhythms of a nursery rhyme, or a
playground skipping-rope jingle. It helped me. It amused me. It sounded so
childish, though I had a suspicion that some terrible sentiments were being
expressed. I didn’t ask for a translation.

The music was
still playing as we turned into the drive of Tilney’s Hotel. More than
twenty-five years had passed since I came this way, for Emily’s funeral.
I noticed first the absence of parkland trees, the giant elms lost to disease I
supposed, and the remaining oaks cleared to make way for a golf course. We were
slowing now to let some golfers and their caddies cross. I couldn’t help
thinking of them as trespassers. The woods that surrounded Grace Turner’s
old bungalow were still there, and as the drive cleared a last stand of
beeches, the main house came into view. There was no need to be
nostalgic—it was always an ugly place. But from a distance it had a stark
and unprotected look. The ivy which used to soften the effect of that bright
red façade had been stripped away, perhaps to preserve the brickwork.
Soon we were approaching the first bridge, and already I could see that the
lake was no longer there. On the bridge we were suspended above an area of
perfect lawn, such as you sometimes see in an old moat. It was not unpleasant
in itself, if you did not know what had once been there—the sedge, the
ducks, and the giant carp that two tramps had roasted and feasted on by the
island temple. Which had also gone. Where it stood was a wooden bench, and a
litter basket. The island, which of course was no longer that, was a long mound
of smooth grass, like an immense ancient barrow, where rhododendrons and other
shrubbery were growing. There was a gravel path looping round, with more
benches here and there, and spherical garden lights. I did not have time to try
and estimate the spot where I once sat and comforted the young Lady Lola
Marshall, for we were already crossing the second bridge and then slowing to
turn into the asphalted car park that ran the length of the house.

Michael
carried my case into the reception area in the old hall. How odd that they
should have taken the trouble to lay needlecord carpet over those black and
white tiles. I supposed that the acoustic was always troublesome, though I
never minded it. A Vivaldi Season was burbling through concealed speakers.
There was a decent rosewood desk with a computer screen and a vase of flowers,
and standing guard on each side were two suits of armor; mounted on the
paneling, crossed halberds and a coat of arms; above them, the portrait that
used to be in the dining room which my grandfather imported to give the family
some lineage. I tipped Michael and earnestly wished him luck with property
rights and poverty. I was trying to unsay my foolish remark about lawyers. He
wished me happy birthday and shook my hand—how feathery and unassertive
his grip was—and left. From behind the desk a grave-faced girl in a
business suit gave me my key and told me that the old library had been booked
for the exclusive use of our party. The few who had already arrived had gone
out for a stroll. The plan was to gather for drinks at six. A porter would
bring my case up. There was a lift for my convenience.

No one to
greet me then, but I was relieved. I preferred to take it in alone, the
interest of so much change, before I was obliged to become the guest of honor.
I took the lift to the second floor, went through a set of glass fire doors,
and walked along the corridor whose polished boards creaked in a familiar way.
It was bizarre, to see the bedrooms numbered and locked. Of course, my room
number—seven—told me nothing, but I think I’d already guessed
where I would be sleeping. At least, when I stopped outside the door, I
wasn’t surprised. Not my old room, but Auntie Venus’s, always
considered to have the best view in the house, over the lake, the driveway, the
woods and the hills beyond. Charles, Pierrot’s grandson and the
organizing spirit, would have reserved it for me.

It was a
pleasant surprise, stepping in. Rooms on either side had been incorporated to
make a grand suite. On a low glass table stood a giant spray of hothouse
flowers. The huge high bed Auntie Venus had occupied for so long without
complaint had gone, and so had the carved trousseau chest and the green silk
sofa. They were now the property of the eldest son by Leon’s second
marriage and installed in a castle somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. But the
new furnishings were fine, and I liked my room. My case arrived, I ordered a
pot of tea and hung my dress. I explored my sitting room which had a writing
desk and a good lamp, and was impressed by the vastness of the bathroom with
its potpourri and stacks of towels on a heated rack. It was a relief not to see
everything in terms of tasteless decline—it easily becomes a habit of
age. I stood at the window to admire the sunlight slanting over the golf
course, and burnishing the bare trees on the distant hills. I could not quite
accept the absence of the lake, but it could be restored one day perhaps, and
the building itself surely embraced more human happiness now, as a hotel, than
it did when I lived here.

Charles
phoned an hour later, just as I was beginning to think about getting dressed.
He suggested that he come to get me at six-fifteen, after everyone else was
gathered, and bring me down so that I could make an entrance. And so it was
that I entered that enormous L-shaped room, on his arm, in my cashmere finery,
to the applause, and then the raised glasses of fifty relatives. My immediate
impression as I came in was of recognizing no one. Not a familiar face! I
wondered if this was a foretaste of the incomprehension I had been promised.
Then slowly people came into focus. One must make allowances for the years, and
the speed with which babes-in-arms become boisterous ten-year-olds. There was
no mistaking my brother, curled and slumped to one side in his wheelchair, a
napkin at his throat to catch the spills of champagne that someone held to his
lips. As I leaned over to kiss Leon, he managed a smile in the half of his face
still under his control. And nor did I mistake for long Pierrot, much shriveled
and with a shining pate I wanted to put my hand on, but still twinkly as ever
and very much the paterfamilias. It’s accepted that we never mention his
sister.

I made a progress
round the room, with Charles at my side, prompting me with the names. How
delightful to be at the heart of such a good-willed reunion. I reacquainted
myself with the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren of Jackson who
died fifteen years ago. In fact, between them the twins had fairly peopled the
room. And Leon had not done so badly either, with his four marriages and
dedicated fathering. We ranged in age from three months to his eighty-nine
years. And what a din of voices, from gruff to shrill, as the waiters came
round with more champagne and lemonade. The aging children of distant cousins
greeted me like long-lost friends. Every second person wanted to tell me
something kind about my books. A group of enchanting teenagers told me how they
were studying my books at school. I promised to read the typescript novel of
someone’s absent son. Notes and cards were pressed into my hands. Piled
on a table in the corner of the room were presents which I would have to open,
several children told me, before, not after, their bedtime. I made my promises,
I shook hands, kissed cheeks and lips, admired and tickled babies, and just as
I was beginning to think how much I wanted to sit down somewhere, I noticed
that chairs were being set out, facing one way. Then Charles clapped his hands
and, shouting over the noise that barely subsided, announced that before dinner
there was to be an entertainment in my honor. Would we all take our seats.

I was led to
an armchair in the front row. Next to me was old Pierrot, who was in
conversation with a cousin on his left. A fidgety near-silence descended on the
room. From a corner came the agitated whispers of children, which I thought it
tactful to ignore. While we waited, while I had, as it were, some seconds to
myself, I looked about me, and only now properly absorbed the fact that all the
books were gone from the library, and all the shelves too. That was why the
room had seemed so much bigger than I remembered. The only reading matter was
the country magazines in racks by the fireplace. At the sound of shushing, and
the scrape of a chair, there stood before us a boy with a black cloak over his
shoulders. He was pale, freckled and ginger-haired—no mistaking a Quincey
child. I guessed him to be about nine or ten years old. His body was frail,
which made his head seem large and gave him an ethereal look. But he looked
confident as he gazed around the room, waiting for his audience to settle. Then
at last he raised his elfin chin, filled his lungs, and spoke out in a clear pure
treble. I’d been expecting a magic trick, but what I heard had the ring
of the supernatural.

This is the
tale of spontaneous Arabella

Who ran off
with an extrinsic fellow.

It grieved
her parents to see their firstborn

Evanesce from
her home to go to Eastbourne

Without
permission, to get ill and find indigence

Until she was
down to her last sixpence.

Suddenly, she
was right there before me, that busy, priggish, conceited little girl, and she
was not dead either, for when people tittered appreciatively at
“evanesce” my feeble heart—ridiculous vanity!—made a
little leap. The boy recited with a thrilling clarity, and a jarring touch of
what my generation would call Cockney, though I have no idea these days what
the significance is of a glottal
t
. I knew the words were mine, but I
barely remembered them, and it was hard to concentrate, with so many questions,
so much feeling, crowding in. Where had they found the copy, and was this
unearthly confidence a symptom of a different age? I glanced at my neighbor,
Pierrot. He had his handkerchief out and was dabbing at his eyes, and I
don’t think it was only great-grandfatherly pride. I also suspected that
this was all his idea. The prologue rose to its reasonable climax:

For that
fortuitous girl the sweet day dawned

To wed her
gorgeous prince. But be warned,

Because
Arabella almost learned too late,

That before
we love, we must cogitate!

We made a
rowdy applause. There was even some vulgar whistling. That dictionary, that
Oxford
Concise
. Where was it now? Northwest Scotland? I wanted it back. The boy
made a bow and retreated a couple of yards and was joined by four other
children who had come up, unnoticed by me, and were waiting in what would have
been the wings.

And so
The
Trials of Arabella
began, with a leave-taking from the anxious, saddened
parents. I recognized the heroine immediately as Leon’s
great-granddaughter, Chloe. What a lovely solemn girl she is, with her rich low
voice and her mother’s Spanish blood. I remember being at her first
birthday party, and it seemed only months ago. I watched her fall convincingly
into poverty and despair, once abandoned by the wicked count—who was the
prologue speaker in his black cloak. In less than ten minutes it was over. In memory,
distorted by a child’s sense of time, it had always seemed the length of
a Shakespeare play. I had completely forgotten that after the wedding ceremony
Arabella and the medical prince link arms and, speaking in unison, step forward
to address to the audience a final couplet.

Here’s
the beginning of love at the end of our travail.

So farewell,
kind friends, as into the sunset we sail!

Not my best,
I thought. But the whole room, except for Leon, Pierrot and myself, rose for
the applause. How practiced these children were, right down to the curtain
call. Hand in hand, they stood in line abreast, taking their cue from Chloe,
stepped back two paces, came forward, bowed again. In the uproar, no one
noticed that poor Pierrot was completely overcome and put his face in his
hands. Was he reliving that lonely, terrifying time here after his
parents’ divorce? They’d so much wanted to be in the play, the
twins, for that evening in the library, and here it was at last, sixty-four
years late, and his brother long dead.