The Book and the Brotherhood (55 page)

Rose opened the door. She had heard the sound, for which she had been waiting, of Duncan’s car arriving upon the gravel drive. Duncan stepped out of the car and without hurry locked it up. He came to the door and through it, wiping his feet carefully upon the mat. It was raining. Rose closed the door and held out her hand. Duncan took her hand and kissed it, something he had never done before. No word was exchanged. Rose led the way into the drawing room.

‘How is she?’ said Duncan.

‘All right. She looks like a ghost –’

‘She’s expecting me?’

‘Yes. I didn’t say a time.’

‘She still wants to see me?’

‘Yes, yes. You want to see her – you’re not just coming out of –?’

‘Out of what?’

‘Sense of duty, thinking it might do her good –’

‘I feel it is my duty and I think it might do her good. On the other hand it might not. I am being guided by you.’

‘Oh
Duncan
,’ said Rose, ‘you know what I mean!’ She was feeling exhausted and ready to cry.

‘Yes. I do want to see her,’ said Duncan.

‘And you hope –’

‘I hope, but I am prepared for the worst.’

‘What would that be?’

‘Oh anything – her wanting to go back to him and only wanting to see me to explain it, her finding she hates the sight of me, my finding I hate the sight of her. As we said on the telephone, it’s a gamble.’

‘You said it was.’

‘But as I think we agreed, it was better not to put it off.’

‘You mean
he
might turn up?’

‘Not particularly that.
He
might turn up at any time, whatever happens, between now and the end of the world.’

Rose shuddered. ‘Would you like some coffee, or a drink?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Well, if you’re ready, I’ll go up and tell her you’re here.’

She went upstairs and into the bedroom. Jean, who had now been at Boyars for several days, was up and dressed and sitting on the green sofa which had been drawn up near the fire. She was wearing a tweed dress which belonged to Rose. The dress was too large for her, but pulled in at the waist by a belt. Her ankle was tightly strapped in an elasticated bandage. She stood up when Rose appeared.

She looked now to Rose like a stranger, a strange bony sharp-featured elderly woman in an ill-fitting dress. Her dark hair which Rose had, after insistence, helped her to wash, was fuzzy and untidy. Her thin hands were always restless, one now repeatedly smoothing her dress, the other picking at her throat. She had cried a great deal in the days at Boyars and her eyelids were red and swollen, conspicuous in her white face. She was tearless now however. As Rose approached her she lifted her hand from her dress and made a curious gesture in the air as if setting aside some invisible web or curtain. Rose could not help wishing that Jean could have been as beautiful as she used to be to receive Duncan.

‘I heard the car.’

‘Yes, he’s here,’ said Rose. ‘Would you like to see him? There’s no need to now if later would be better.’

‘He wants to see me?’

‘Yes, of course, that’s why he’s come!’

Gerard, who had made the arrangement with Rose by telephone, had misgivings which he had not expressed. He had simply not been able to make Duncan out. Gerard had expected, as Rose too had expected, some kind of gratifying scene in which Duncan would express relief, his love for his wife, his satisfaction that she had left ‘that man’, a touching gratitude to those who had stood by him and supported his faith and his hope. Gerard imagined that, after the first understandable shock, Duncan would unburden himself as never before, rehearsing now the fears and hopes with which he had lived during this awful interim, and expressing at least
a sober confidence in a future where ‘all would be mended’. Duncan had declined any further meeting with Gerard, but they had talked on the telephone. Gerard had emphasised two things, that Jean had
decided
to leave Crimond, the parting was her initiative and her wish, and that Crimond had accepted her decision, so that they in fact parted
by agreement.
He added of course that Jean now very much wanted to see Duncan. He mentioned, vaguely, a car accident and a sprained ankle. Duncan listened to all this without comment, and eventually rang Rose to say that if Jean wished it, he would come. Rose, who had carefully composed what Gerard was to say to Duncan, was in fact not at all sure that she had understood Jean’s state of mind. She had been unable, talking to Jean, to make up any coherent picture of what had happened. Jean had been frantic with grief: grief, Rose could only assume, at having lost Crimond. For Rose recalled Jean’s first cry of ‘He’s left me!’ and did not believe in the ‘cold mutual agreement’ which Jean spoke of later. It was Gerard who had been so anxious to hurry on the meeting with Duncan. Rose felt it was premature. But Jean had actually said, in answer, it is true, to Rose’s repeated questions, that she wanted to see Duncan, and Rose had passed this on without qualification to Gerard. Gerard was certainly far from clear about Duncan’s state of mind, even after he had realised how absurd his earlier expectations were. Duncan’s laconic coldness on the telephone had expressed a continuation of his attitude of ‘what is it to me?’, though he had, evidently after reflection, told Rose (not Gerard) that he would see Jean. But did he wish to see her perhaps simply to revile her? Might he even attack her? Duncan was Gerard’s old friend, but he was also a fey creature, a big unpredictable bad-tempered wild animal. Of course, as Gerard later told himself, Duncan must feel the gravest doubts about the story of Jean deciding to leave and Crimond agreeing, and had excellent reasons for believing that Crimond would
never
let Jean go.

‘Bring him up then,’ said Jean.

The door closed behind Rose. Jean moved toward the centre of the room. She stroked down her untidy hair with her
fingers and looked up at the darker blue latticed square where the picture had been and where the colours were still ‘jumping about’, sometimes the blue foremost, sometimes the white. Her pale face was now flushed, her cheeks red as if brushed with rouge. She moved a few steps back, turning to face the door.

The door opened and Duncan came in alone. He turned and shut the door quietly, then turned back toward Jean. He was smartly dressed in a dark suit, one of his best, with a blue and white striped shirt and a dark tie. He had shaved carefully and combed down his wavy crown of dark, now rather longish, locks. He looked huge in the room, fatter perhaps, bulky, broad. They stared at each other. Jean, trembling, clawed at her throat again. As Duncan moved towards her she felt fear but did not move. She could not have spoken.

She saw a strange frightening look upon his face. Then he said, ‘Suppose we sit down? Suppose we sit down
there?
’ He pointed to the green sofa.

Jean backed awkwardly, then sat. The sofa groaned under Duncan’s weight as he sat down beside her. He turned his big head towards her. Shrinking a little away, she looked at him.

‘Do you want to be with me again, Jean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, yes –’

‘Then that’s settled.’

He put his arms round her, enveloping her, and they both closed their eyes. The strange look had been his attempt to control an agonising tenderness and pity which he now allowed to distort his face as he looked away over her shoulder.

Rose, now back in London, was surprised a few days later to receive the following letter.

The letter upset Rose, frightened her, made altogether a disagreeable impression. She assumed that the ‘important’ matter must be Jean, and that Crimond wanted her to intercede or interfere or mediate on his behalf. What impertinence! Rose at once started to write a reply saying that Jean was happily reunited with her husband, and Rose could see no useful purpose to be served by a meeting. While writing this she reflected that perhaps after all Jean had given a truthful account when she said that the parting had been mutual, and in that sense willed by Jean. After Duncan’s reappearance the idea that Jean had left Crimond was of course emphasised by her, and also by Rose. Crimond’s appeal, if that was what it was, was at least valuable as evidence for this view of the matter. After further reflection, and before she had completed her indignant letter, Rose began to wonder if there were not possibly something else which Crimond wanted to say to her. Crimond’s motive in thus coming, a motive anyway, might even be his wish to display his indifference to Jean’s departure. Rose wondered uneasily if this something else might concern Gerard. Perhaps it was in this quarter that her mediation was being asked for? Perhaps Gerard had for some reason refused to see Crimond, and Crimond wanted Rose to remove a misunderstanding? It might be something to do with the book; and the wild idea even occurred to Rose that Crimond wanted her to persuade Gerard to provide a preface! Anything which connected Crimond with Gerard made Rose feel very uneasy. On reflection she thought it was more likely to be something
about Jean and Duncan, though not necessarily what she had assumed at first. Perhaps Crimond simply wanted confirmation that Jean and Duncan were now reunited. Rose felt very disinclined to talk to Crimond about her friends, such talk, however careful, might be misleading and seem disloyal. However, she could be brief and it was an opportunity to set the whole matter completely beyond doubt. Last of all it occurred to her, and seemed quite likely, that Crimond was coming formally to thank Rose, and through her the
Gesellschaft
, for their financial support all these years! He had, in this, preferred her to Gerard, since Gerard would want to ask questions about the book. She decided to see Crimond. Her instinct was to tell Gerard at once, but she thought better of it. The meeting was best kept to herself until afterwards, until she knew what it was about and could compose a suitably calm and rational account for general consumption. If she told Gerard now he would fuss and speculate and make her even more apprehensive. So Rose wrote a reply saying simply that she would await him at her flat at the time suggested.

Duncan and Jean were still at Boyars, being looked after by Annushka. Rose and the others were, after so much anxious speculation, overjoyed at what at least appeared to have happened. On that rainy morning, after Duncan had gone upstairs, Rose had sat in the drawing room with the door open unable to do anything except wait and listen and tremble. Annushka brought her some coffee. Should she take coffee to Mr and Mrs Cambus? No! Annushka was just as anxious as Rose, but they exchanged no words on the subject, not even looks. Time passed. Rose walked up and down the drawing room, wandered into the dining room, into the library, into the study, into the turret room, into the billiard room, stood on the front steps and looked at the rain, listening for any sound from up above. What did she fear? Cries, screams, the sound of weeping? Nothing could be heard at all. Then, at a moment when she was back in the drawing room, Duncan came down the stairs. He looked stolid and enigmatic. He said nothing at once but marched across to the fireplace, followed by Rose who had run to meet him.

Duncan replied, gravely, ‘I think it is all right.’ But by now something in his face, a sort of composed complacency, had told Rose that things were not bad, were perhaps good.

‘You mean,’ said Rose, anxious for clarification which could be clumsily obtained now and might be more difficult later on, ‘You mean you’ll be together again, really and truly together?’ She avoided asking: have you forgiven her? That might not be the way to put it at all.

‘We hope so.’ (Rose was glad of that ‘we’.) ‘It appears that we don’t, in spite of recent events, hate the sight of each other. Rather the contrary.’

These few words were, characteristically, the extent of Duncan’s report.

‘Oh I’m so glad!’ said Rose, ‘I’m so glad!’ and kissed him.

Then, with his permission, she ran upstairs to Jean. Jean cried, Rose cried. Jean had scarcely more to say, except for murmuring that she was relieved and happy and felt she had come out of a nightmare into the real world.

Then Jean came downstairs, Rose ran to tell Annushka, who already knew of course and came into the drawing room to be kissed by Jean and Duncan. Rose opened a bottle of champagne, she and Jean cried some more, they had lunch.

After lunch Jean rested, Duncan sat in the library reading Gibbon, Rose telephoned Gerard. Then Rose rested. She fell into a marvellous sleep and dreamt about an exceedingly beautiful garden in which Rose and Jean and Tamar were dancing with some children. After that they all had tea and talked ordinary talk. Rose suggested and they agreed that Rose should return to London and leave them to themselves for a while at Boyars, so that Jean’s ankle could get better: the sprained ankle had assumed a special importance, symbol perhaps of deeper and more painful dislocations. Rose stayed that night and then departed. Of course she and Gerard agreed in the discussions which at once ensued that there was so much to mend, so much to be said, so many gestures to be made and accepted, it would be a long time before those two could be at peace together. Rejoicing was premature, what
had really happened remained to be seen. They did rejoice however, and were glad to think of Jean and Duncan together at Boyars, and to have an interval before the anxieties attendant on their return to London, and reintegration into something like their former life. It was agreed that nothing could ever be the same, after the honeymoon at Boyars the recriminations were bound to begin, there was so much resentment and so much pain to be somehow worked through and worked off, it would be a long time before their reunion could be established as secure. Besides, what had really happened between Jean and Crimond, and how would what had happened affect Jean and Duncan? Might Crimond suddenly reappear in the role of Demon King? Along these lines Rose and Gerard and Jenkin went on speculating for some time, and Gulliver and Lily and Patricia and Gideon and everyone in Duncan’s office and large numbers of other people less closely concerned had the pleasures of similar, and often less charitable, speculation.