So Well Remembered (14 page)

“I did.”

“And what did he say?”

“That’s my business, if you don’t mind.”

“Why… certainly. I beg your pardon.” But by this time Dr. Whiteside’s
interest, both private and professional, was thoroughly aroused. He was not
really a stupid doctor, only a rather perfunctory one when people came to him
with vague complaints, such as “a little trouble with my eyes”. On the
occasion of that visit several years before, he had discovered a few symptoms
of strain and had recommended a local oculist who would make a more detailed
examination. As he never heard that Channing visited the oculist, he had
concluded that whatever was wrong had got right of its own accord, as so many
ailments do; but now, staring closely, he detected other symptoms— much
more serious ones. Of course he couldn’t be sure, but if what he instantly
thought of were possible, then it was rather appalling…

He continued, automatically turning on the jaunty air that he always
adopted at such moments, yet at the same time reflecting that the real object
of his visit was now more necessary than ever: “Matter of fact, I didn’t come
to talk about you at all.”

“Good—because it’s the one subject I try not to be interested in.
What DID you come to talk about?”

Dr. Whiteside answered bluntly: “Livia.”

“Livia? Fine—go ahead. Too bad she’s out shopping now, or you could
talk to her yourself… What about her, though?” Then with sudden darkening
urgency: “She’s not ill, is she? There’s nothing happened to her?”

Dr. Whiteside saw a loophole into the argument which he knew had to come.
“If she WERE ill, John, or if anything WERE to happen to her… and I’m
telling you this frankly, mind… it would be nobody’s fault but yours.”

“But she’s NOT ill… tell me… tell me…”

“No, she’s not exactly ill. She’s just in a rather nervous state…”

“I know—she ought to go away. Matter of fact it was all
arranged—”

“Yes, Richard told me, but he didn’t tell me she hadn’t gone.”

“He doesn’t know that yet… But she’s not ILL?… You’re not keeping
something from me?”

“I’ve said she’s in a rather nervous state. That describes it pretty well.
A VERY nervous state… as apparently you are yourself.”

“Oh, never mind me. Leave me out of it.”

“But I can’t entirely—in what I have to say.”

“Then for God’s sake get on with saying it!”

After a pause Dr. Whiteside resumed: “She’s very fond of you, isn’t
she?”

The question seemed to bring instant calm to the discussion.

“I daresay. I am of her too. She’s kind to me. You’d never believe how
kind to me she is. I often wonder why, because—as I’ve told her
—I never did anything for her except bring her into the world, and
that’s a doubtful privilege… but she’s so kind—so WONDERFULLY
kind.”

Dr. Whiteside cleared his throat; he would soon be on delicate ground.
“Has it ever occurred to you…?” He hesitated, then leaned forward to pat
the head of the terrier and was disconcerted when the animal growled at him.
“A faithful dog, I can see.”

“Livia gave him to me. Becky, his name is. She gave me this pipe too
—though I can’t smoke any more—it hurts my head to have a pipe in
my mouth. She doesn’t know that—please don’t tell her. She’s always
giving me things. I give her things too, but I can afford so little
nowadays… and those records were never returned. The railway people never
found them. They were Mozart records—she loves Mozart.”

Dr. Whiteside nodded grimly. Presently he said, beginning afresh: “Has it
ever occurred to you that she never remembered you as a child… so that when
she saw you a few years ago it was like meeting a stranger for the first
time?”

“Why, of course. That’s what makes it so remarkable. Two strangers. And
very much at odds with the world—both of us. We’ve managed to get along
pretty well. But I agree with you—that is, if the point you’re making
is about her health… a long holiday… Richard’s right… she needs it.
Sarah says so too…” Then suddenly, in a changed voice: “Dr. Whiteside, I’m
not well—I have to admit that. In fact, there are times when I’m very
far from well. Will you please tell me—quickly, please— because
there’s not a great deal of time… exactly what are you driving at?”

Half an hour later Dr. Whiteside left the house, having discovered a great
deal more than he had allowed the other to realize, and having said perhaps
more than he himself had intended.

Livia’s shopping was considerably delayed that afternoon.
She was not
temperamentally a very good driver of a car, and after such rain as had
fallen during several consecutive days there were extra hazards in travelling
to and from Sloneclough. It was quite a phenomenal rain; all the streets near
the river were under water, with basements engulfed and families living in
upper floors; the Advertiser and the Guardian both reported it as the worst
flood within living memory. This would have been enough for Browdley to
gossip about, yet when Livia entered shops to make her purchases she could
feel she was changing the subject of scores of conversations. For the town
was already full of rumours about Stoneclough. A few words from Watson had
been sufficient; their very fewness gave larger scope to theory,
interpretation, pure invention. The whole history of the Channing family,
their crimes, scandals, and downfall, was revived under a new spotlight. It
was impossible not to wonder what secrets lay behind the eyes of a girl who
looked and talked as if she were half a child and half an adult, but nothing
at all of an eighteen-year-old.

She shopped at the butcher’s, the grocer’s, the pastry-cook’s. It was
remembered afterwards (by individuals) that she had bought some pipe tobacco
at the tobacconist’s, and some lengths of coloured ribbon in the drapery
department of the Co-operative shop. She was quick-spoken, as always; knew
exactly what she wanted, what it should cost, and if it were of good quality.
A true Channing in that respect, at least.

After dusk she set out on the return journey. The old Citroën spluttered
slowly uphill with water leaking under the hood; it was a car that did not
take the hill too easily at the best of times, but now both wind and rain
were beating against its progress, and every cross-street sent rivers of
muddy flood-water swirling against the wheels. It was all she could do to
hold the road, and no more easily as she climbed, because the stream through
the clough had become a torrent breaking bounds in places. She hoped Martin
would be asleep by the time she reached the house, because if not, he might
be worrying about her safe arrival. He usually dozed off about dusk and would
often wake again past midnight, when it was her habit to cook a small meal
which they would eat in the kitchen; after which they would talk until he
felt like dozing again, or sometimes, in fine weather, they would pace up and
down the garden in the darkness.

The strain of the drive had tired her, and when she finally slewed the car
into the garage she saw with relief that there was no chink of light at the
drawing-room window. That meant he had already gone to bed and might well be
asleep. Suddenly as she closed the garage door she noticed tyre-marks in the
yard that were not from the car, or from Watson’s motor-cycle; and a moment
later, seeing Watson wheeling his machine out of the shed where he kept it,
she asked if anyone had called during the day.

“Only Dr. Whiteside.”

“HE called? Why?”

“Oh, for a chat, I suppose. He didn’t stay long.”

She remembered then that when she had recently met the doctor in Browdley
he had said something about calling round to see her father; though she
hadn’t expected him to do so with such promptness, especially during the
rain. “You’d better be careful,” she warned Watson. “The road’s nearly washed
out down the hill.”

“Oh, I’ll be all right, miss.”

He jumped on his machine and was off. She idly wondered where he could
think of going on such a night; she was as far as ever from guessing that
Stoneclough’s inhabitants were beginning to get on his nerves.

She entered the house through the kitchen. As she passed Sarah’s room,
near by, she heard a voice and listened; but it was only Sarah herself,
praying aloud in a curious wheezy whine. The whine was based on jumbled
recollections of Methodist local preachers whom Sarah, in the past, had
admired; the wheeze was merely asthmatic. Sarah had always prayed aloud
before going to bed, and it brought back to Livia memories of a thousand
childhood nights when she herself (at Sarah’s command) had done the same,
kneeling and shivering in a night-dress, and how the nightdress popping over
her head just before she began had become a symbol of prayer, so that the
words “Night is drawing nigh” in the hymn had meant “Nighties drawing nigh”
to her until long after she began to read.

She went upstairs to her own bedroom and was asleep within minutes. She
did not pray; somehow the act of prayer seemed more fitting before a whole
night’s sleep, not just a few hours until midnight. And besides, she was apt
to pray harder during the day, while she was doing other things as well.

But that night, had she known, she might have said an extra prayer, for
when she awoke it was almost dawn; from utter exhaustion she had slept eight
hours. Immediately—and perhaps it had wakened her—she heard the
bark of a dog in the distance, the little white dog whom Martin had called
Becky, because (they had both noticed) it never seemed to follow them when
they walked, but liked to run on ahead and then turn round, as if
beckoning.

The bark continued, giving her a sudden premonition of tragedy. She
hurried through the dark house and across the garden, following the sound,
and Becky came running forward to meet her at the top of the clough.

Martin’s body was wedged between rocks where the river poured in spate;
she made the discovery quickly because Becky jumped into the torrent near the
exact spot. She tried to drag the body out of the water, but lacked the
strength. She noticed later that where the path came nearest to the rocks
there had been a small landslide.

It was full dawn as she returned to Stoneclough. Sarah was
still asleep,
Watson had been out all night; the house was cold and grey and silent.
Entering it she knew she could not tell anyone yet; she felt herself spinning
into unconsciousness as she flung herself on a couch in the drawing-room.
Just a little while to gain control, and then hold it for a lifetime—
just half an hour, maybe, until the sun was up, until Sarah, taking tea to
his room, would herself discover the absence. Presently she noticed that
Becky was wet and shivering, and the dog’s simple need roused her to equally
simple action. But a moment later, while she was in the kitchen rubbing him
with a towel, some men appeared in the yard outside. They were Browdley
Council workmen, in charge of an engineer; they had walked up the clough to
see if the flood-water was abating; and in so doing they had found Martin’s
body.

One of the workmen claimed afterwards that when Livia was given the news
she said in a low voice, “Yes, I know,” but she denied this later in the
morning to Dr. Whiteside, and under his tactful handling the matter was not
raised at the inquest, though it was freely gossiped about in the town. She
was so distracted, anyhow, that (as all the men agreed) she might not have
known what she was saying even if she HAD said it. But it was still a little
odd, as were a great many other things.

Christmas and the Christmas Number of the Guardian came a
few weeks later, and George Boswell, summarizing the local events of the year
in a special article, then wrote as follows:

“… In November Browdley suffered its worst floods within living memory,
while in the same month the death, under suspicious circumstances, of Mr.
John Channing, of Stoneclough, recalled the Channing Mill crash of a
generation ago—an event notable in the history of our town both on
account of the number of its victims and the sensational criminal trial that
followed it…”

When George handed this to Will Spivey, his sub-editor, printer,
proof-reader, ad-salesman, and general all-purposes assistant, the latter
scrutinized it, grunted, then carefully blue-pencilled the word
“suspicious”.

“You can’t say that, George.”

“Why not? Isn’t it true?”

“Have ye never heard ‘the greater the truth the greater the libel’?”

“Libel? Who’s libelling who?”

“The verdict at the inquest was ‘accidental death’.”

“Aye, and everybody knows why—because old Whiteside was coroner and
made ‘em believe what the girl said… As if anyone sober or in his right
mind would be taking walks in the clough at night during the worst storm for
years—”

“I know, George. And there’s some say he wasn’t sober and there’s others
say he wasn’t in his right mind and I’ve even heard it whispered
that—”

“Nay—I’m not saying or whispering anything, because I simply don’t
know and I refuse to believe gossip. I’m just content with the word
‘suspicious’.”

“No good, George. The jury found it was accidental—you can’t
contradict ‘em. Change to ‘tragic’ and you’ll be safe.”

George reluctantly made the substitution. It was his first year as editor
and he did not want trouble. Already he had discovered that the written word
had more pitfalls than the spoken, and that the Guardian was a rather sickly
infant whose survival could only be contrived from week to week by the most
delicate nursing.

“There you are then,” he muttered, handing back the corrected copy. “And
if I’m safe, that’s more than Channing’s ever was…”

Ever since he could remember, the Channing name had been
part of his life.
He had known that his father worked at ‘Channing’s’ before he had any idea
what Channing’s was, and when he was old enough to associate the word with
the humming, three-storied, soot- blackened cotton mill at the end of the
street, it had taken shape in his mind as something fixed, universal, and
eternal. As a child the rows of windows had seemed endless to him as he
walked under their sills, and it became an exciting dream to think that as he
grew up he would presently be tall enough to see through them. When that time
did come he found there was nothing to see—just the faint suggestion of
moving wheels behind the wired and murky glass, with the humming louder when
he put his ears to it. He had grown up to feel that work at Channing’s was in
the natural order of events, like play along the canal-bank and chapel on
Sundays. Indeed, it was the shrill Channing’s ‘buzzer’ that marked Time, and
the Channing’s brick wall that marked Space, in his own small boy’s
world.