Towards Another Summer (13 page)

—I met Anne there. I was baching and got invited to an evening at Tim’s house (you’ll know Tim) and Anne was there. She saw me and went for her life to grab me, and she got me.

It was the usual half-joking explanation of courtship and marriage, which Philip contrived to sound complimentary to Anne, who instead of looking with a bridled resentment, smiled fondly at him, lovingly establishing his identity, instinctively fulfilling the true purpose of love, that is, courageously to place
the loved one apart from oneself. Union is strength - the strength to acknowledge that one is two; supported by love any tissue-paper identity may stand like stone.

High in the sky, buffeted by the winds from everywhere, trying to persist in her course of flight as a migratory bird, Grace felt the need for a warm supporting wind blowing in her direction. Yet she was not envious of Philip and Anne; she felt pleased and satisfied at the certainty of their love. She was interested that Philip had so arranged his life that he seemed to live for ever, in work and play, on the ‘wild wet West Coast of New Zealand’. At the interview in London he had remarked,

—I feel more nostalgic for New Zealand than Anne does.

He was saying it now,

—I’d like to go back there; it’s an exciting, young country, full of ideas . . .

Anne laughed gently,

—Do you know, he used to be so disgusted with the place that every night he played Bach on the gramophone to console himself.

—I admit that, Philip said.—Now that the old identities are dying, those West Coast towns have a nothingness that is quite frightening. There are fewer interesting people.

—You met me there!

—Oh, you’re different. You’re an exceptional member of the human race!

Grace was surprised that Philip did not leave his remark as a natural, expected compliment. No sooner had he made it than he looked uneasy, and with careful, almost frightening accuracy, he began to qualify it.—No, of course you’re not an exceptional member of the human race; you’re human, like anyone else, no more, no less . . .

How strange, Grace thought. Being human seems to mean so much; being
normally
human, if such a state can be discovered and recorded. She wondered at the source of the momentary fear in Philip’s eyes as he heard his compliment spoken aloud and hastened to retract it; perhaps, after all, it was merely the journalist’s passion for the truthful statement?

What would Philip and Anne say, Grace thought, if I confessed that I am a migratory bird? It is likely that they would turn upon me and kill me. When Philip talks of the West Coast there is an apprehension deep in his eyes: I
know
. Isn’t it there, in the south, that they have discovered the flightless bird, the takahe, long thought to be extinct? Is there a fear that it will flourish and increase, ‘take over’ the sparsely populated country? Why is so much fiction preoccupied with the conquest of the human race by birds, vegetation, insects, visitors from outer or inner space? Why is a sensitive intelligent husband like Philip so aware of the common threat that he cannot make an ordinary remark to his wife without being perturbed by its underlying dreadful seriousness?

—You know there was a bird discovered recently on the West Coast. The takahe. It was thought to be extinct.

Grace shivered. Why did Philip say that, at this moment? Was there, after all, some communication on this weekend of platitudinous I like your cooking, You’re good with the children, yes I like Winchley?

The word ‘extinct’ had always been, to Grace, one imbued with an emotion different from the personal unhappiness aroused by the word ‘death’. It was curious that ‘extinct’ had been a favourite word used by Grace’s mother who had seemed, in some way, to be in touch with the past, to be able to reach and shake its trees till the fruit of yesterday dropped in her lap: those groves of shadowy trees like the underground orchard where the boughs were silver and the fruit was gold and a branch separated from its parent bough gave forth a sighing sound like plaintive horn music; all those groves of trees, the branches filled with birds, now extinct, and the mammoths like out-of-date Victorian furniture, stumbling through the undergrowth, their tiny dim eyes like drawer-knobs; the poor bric-a-brac of the animal world . . .

—They’re
extinct
now, Grace’s mother used to say. Extinction was the fate of animals and birds and insects, seldom of people. And what a fascination lay in the tuatara house at the Zoo! Crowds gazing at the tuatara waiting for it to show signs of life;
gazing and thinking, we’re alive, you
may
become
extinct
. Most of the animals and birds known by you are
extinct
. Yet is there not envy, too, in their gazing?—What was it like, tuatara? Why don’t you speak to us, why don’t you
tell
,
explain
?

Then, resentful of the silence,

—Who cares about you, anyway? Who bothered to save you? Why were you saved?

—Yes, Grace said.—The takahe was believed to be
extinct
.

She emphasised the word. What a clear final sound it had! How wonderful to be able to dismiss a species in one word! One hoped that the word would keep its place among animals and birds but one never knew with words . . . remember magazine, sleeper, school, and the kerosene tin for which the nation sang its prayer?

They drank their coffee. It was almost three o’clock. The day was darkening swiftly and already the frost was pressing its sucker-fingers upon the windowpanes. After-dinner comfort could not erode the determination of Philip and Anne to carry out their promise to show Grace Winchley and to change Sarah’s library book.

—You don’t mind going to Winchley?

—I think it will be very pleasant.

(After all, Grace thought, they may be longing to go to Winchley.)

—We’ll have to hurry. The market closes early. We wanted to show you the market. And there’s Sarah’s library book. You’re sure you’d like to go?

Do they mean me to say Yes or No, Grace wondered. I have no social intuition. I’m not used to dancing around invitations simply to make a pretty pattern of No’s and Yes’s. I’d like to go to Winchley. But the day’s grown colder and darker and we’ve just had a meal and everyone’s feeling lazy; but they’ve promised, and they can’t go back on their promise and - who knows? - extraordinary pleasures may be waiting in Winchley.

Grace joined in the general excitement of people getting ready for an expedition. While Anne dressed the children and Philip found his coat Grace went upstairs for her boots, coat and headscarf, and when she came down to the kitchen everyone was waiting ready to burst from the door in excitement.

 

They went outside. They looked at one another, shrank into their warm coats, turned up their collars, pulled their gloves more tightly about their wrists. Already the children’s noses were glistening and their screwed-up little faces were blue
with cold. Noel began to whimper.

—We’re going to Winchley, Noel, Anne said brightly.—We’re going to show Grace the market and change Sarah’s library book.

They waited for the bus. There was no pretence now about the weather, no cheerful reminder that the sun had promised to shine, only a tacit admission that promises are strictly for people and that the weather has no conscience about the survival or extinction of the human race. Standing, all shivering now, their shoulders bowed, they might have been naked, their clothes seemed to provide so little warmth. The two children had an aged appearance, as if they had strayed from the pages of
Jude
; their next move, Grace considered, might be frightful, they were so exposed to the merciless judgment of the weather. The melodramatic ‘Done because we were too many’ seemed not unimaginable.

As the bus drew near Anne took Sarah, while Philip lifted Noel from the push-chair.

—Will you take Noel, Grace?

Grace took Noel in her arms, careful to hold him the correct way, to show anyone who happened to see, that she was used to small children. She was so careful with him, her arm was arranged just so tucked under his bottom, while his head leaned over her shoulder, and just for a moment Philip and Grace were husband and wife taking their little boy (how like his father!) on the bus to Winchley. With a lightning snatch, like a goldfish after its food, Grace seized the swimming moment and was not disturbed by her greed in sharing it with no one for she was calmly and thankfully aware that Philip had no desire to feed upon it.

He took Noel in his arms once again.

—Thank you, Grace.

Her face burned. She took her handkerchief from her cardigan sleeve and blew her nose. Anne and Sarah came drifting towards them like islands separated from the mainland; then, as a family continent harbouring a migratory castaway, they climbed on the bus, travelled ten minutes, and arrived at Winchley.

—Our first call is at the library, then the market, Philip said
with determination, using his words and their certainty as part of a campaign against the bitter cold. There seemed nowhere to escape from the snowfilled sootfilled wind. It blew upon their skin as if their outer layer of skin had been peeled away leaving a raw rasping wound spread over their body. They struggled along the grey streets in a bizarre enactment of an Arctic expedition which could have been recorded in the usual dramatic diary - ‘Supply of warmth diminishing; hope to reach library and market by five-thirty; hopes failing . . .’ Grace would not have been surprised if Philip had suddenly stopped and said, with a stricken look on his face, ‘I’m going a while. I may be some time . . .’

 

They reached the library. Anne changed Sarah’s book while Sarah watched, dismayed, as the seaside book where the animals had been picnicking on the sands, eating tomato sandwiches, ice cream and bananas, disappeared over the desk, and when the new book was found for her she looked suspiciously at it.

—Where’s my animal book? Where’s the picnic at the seaside? Mummy, Mummy, Sarah began to cry in despair.

Noel began to cry in sympathy.

Anne explained that the animals had been in a library book, to be shared with other children, and now Sarah had a new book with different animals and people in it.

—But will they be at home when we get home? They were at home today.

Noel began to wail.

—It’s the cold, Philip said, playing the role of the embarrassed husband.—We’ll hurry to the market. It’ll be warm there.

The market was warm with bodies, steam, sweat, smells. The little group straggled along the rows of stalls. They passed a stall hung with flashy jewellery and knick-knacks where a young man and woman were standing, staring at a chocolate-box picture.

—Ooh, cooed the woman, isn’t it lovely?

—It’s twenty-eight bob, the man said, and drew her away.

—Did you hear that? Philip said to Grace.

She laughed.—Yes.

—Beautiful jewellery, Philip said laughing.

—Wonderful, Grace agreed, with a brazen air of - I like flashy things, you know, I appreciate this market!

They stopped at a stall displaying household furnishings and dress materials.

—I wonder, Anne said, in a meditative voice,—if they have any sheeting.

Clearly, she said this on the sudden wave of a domestic dream. Philip said quickly in a tone of mild disapproval,

—Not now, surely, love!

Anne looked slightly ashamed, but persisted.—I thought I might get some sheeting while we’re here.

—Another day, Philip said, embarrassed at the sudden absorption in domestic matters.

Rejoicing, apart, Grace felt as complete and shimmering as a mermaid. She felt sorry for Anne. She guessed that Anne might not have another chance during the week to buy the ‘sheeting’, that children, house and home (and
Ulysses
) would be taking all her time; when her father returned from Edinburgh and the extra meals began again, there would be no time at all to saunter into Winchley to buy a length of sheeting.

Anne’s eyes were clouded with what could only be described as domestic concern: instinctive concern, like the look in the eye of a bird when it sees a stick or length of straw that could be used for its nest.

With conscious good humour Philip gently drew Anne away from the stall of household furnishings and steered them all from the warm market into the freezing air. Even in the half-hour they had been in the market, the sky had darkened; people were hurrying; the streets were busier.

—Time to go home. But first I’ll show Grace the viaduct.

—Yes, Anne said loyally,—You must see the viaduct.

Grace burned with guilt; she saw Anne casting backward glances at the market and the vanished sheeting.

—Today’s the kind of day to see it, Philip said.

—I think, Anne said boldly, her eyes glowing with warmth
as she looked at Philip,—I’ll buy some Parmesan while you show Grace the viaduct.

—All right, love.

 

 

 

 

—There. There’s the Winchley Viaduct.

 

Grace looked at the viaduct. What could she say about it?

—Yes. M-m-m-m-m, she said, making a stupid noise as if she were eating cake. She cleared her throat, and stared, trying to put an intelligent expression on her face, as if she were ‘taking in the effect’.

—I’m not boring you, showing you this?

—Oh no, of course not. I find it most interesting.

She slummed, as usual, in her choice of spoken words; either too many words to an idea or not enough furniture for the idea itself or somebody else’s furniture; always a muddle and clutter of speech.

—What are you thinking about?

 

Grace did not answer. To herself she said, Tease is the operative word. Archways and eternity. ‘Thou cold pastoral dost
tease
us out of thought as dost eternity.’ ‘All experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untravelled world.’