Valley of Decision (19 page)

‘Don't talk like that, David. I'll come to see you.'

‘No, you won't. Not today. Thanks very much, but I've plenty to occupy myself with. I shall be all right.'

‘What did Mrs Stiles say, David?'

‘That she couldn't understand it.'

‘That's exactly how I feel. There's part of the puzzle missing. It doesn't seem like the Mary I knew.'

‘It's happened,' he answered, and blushed, hotly.

‘What will you do, David? Will you write?'

‘When she writes to me.'

‘Do you think she will? Now she's told her parents. She'll know they'll break it to you.'

‘Perhaps.' His mind made no contact with the problem.

‘There's no chance of going over there? At Easter?'

‘No. The quartet has two concerts. And I'm playing in the
Matthew Passion
Good Friday.'

‘Yes. I see. It's awkward, isn't it?'

‘Not the word I'd choose.'

‘David, I'll ring you again after I've talked to your father. May I?'

‘Yes. Where is he?'

‘He's gone to the hospital to visit Mr Frimley, the old head clerk at Blackwall and Small. He's dying.'

‘That's not very like Dad, is it? Thought he couldn't stand hospitals. Did you nag him into it?'

‘Yes. He knew he'd have to go.'

‘What's wrong with Frimley?'

‘He's old, David. And he's been living on his own since his wife died. He's neglected himself.'

‘Um.' His mind drifted away from Frimley, in a tide of trouble.

‘Is there anything I can do?' Joan asked.

‘No, thank you.'

‘It's awful, David. I don't know what to say.'

‘Uh.'

‘David, do you mind if I ring Mrs Stiles?'

‘What for?' The question shot out of evil temper.

‘I'd like to talk to her. It's as bad for her as it is for me. Worse. She may be able to throw some light.'

‘She knows no more than I've told you.'

‘Wouldn't she think of ringing up and talking to Mary?'

The thought had not crossed his mind, in that he'd imagined the Stileses would take the same view that he did, that Mary's decision was irrevocable. He made no answer.

‘We don't know what pressure Mary has been under. In a new country, with the stress of the opera, and then this man Redvers Gage,' Joan said, each word emphasized.

‘You've met him, haven't you?'

‘Yes.'

‘What's he like?'

‘He didn't make much impression on me. They all praised him, said how marvellous he was, and what a dictator, but he was quiet. He dressed like an Englishman when I saw him, sports jacket with leather on the sleeves. His hair was beginning to recede. Very polite to us, but he wasn't a great physical presence.'

‘So you were surprised that they all made such a god of him?'

‘Not really. I never thought about it, or I took it for granted. They'd had a success nobody had anticipated. I mean, the thing was nothing, some little university event, and after two or three performances it was being praised all over the country. Gage is well known, I've heard of him, and I don't doubt he's a fair number of friends who are journalists or television critics, but
Semele
's been done before, and nobody's gone overboard about it. No, it must have turned a few heads.'

‘Mary's for instance?'

‘It's possible. It doesn't seem likely, does it? I think Gage has some contacts with international opera. He's going to do something at the Metropolitan, isn't he?'

‘The main roles will be settled.'

‘I suppose so. They have to book so far ahead. But I wasn't thinking in those terms about Mary.' Both ran out of energy; there was nothing to be said. ‘You're sure you don't want to come round, David? I'll talk to your dad. He may have some ideas. And I will ring Mrs Stiles, if you don't mind.'

He had sat so still through the call that his limbs were stiff as he rose. The exchange had done him good; his mother did not think the last day on earth had come. Miserably, he marked essays, prepared himself for the morning's departure, listened fitfully to Janá
č
ek's first quartet which ended Radio Three's broadcasts, fortifying himself with some whisky. He did not sleep badly.

After assembly, where he sat gowned, theirs was an old-fashioned school, and where eight hundred boys rumbled through ‘New every morning is the love/Our waking and uprising prove', and the headmaster read a collect without enthusiasm and left colleagues and pupils to find their own way in and out of the Lord's Prayer, but recovered élan at the weekend's rugby and cross-country results, David was surprised to find Kenneth Reeve hovering in the corridor outside the common-room door.

‘Ah, Mr Blackwall.'

For a crucifying second David wondered if his mother had been in contact with the headmaster. Reeve ushered him into his study.

‘Shan't keep you a minute. Dick Wilson's father died this weekend. Friday night.'

Black Friday for the history department.

‘He's been up there all the weekend. Returned last night.'

‘Was it unexpected?'

‘No. I don't think so.'

‘When I asked him about his father, he said it wasn't serious.'

Reeve looked over his shoulder. For eavesdroppers?

‘He seems,' he said with quiet acidity, ‘to be unable to accept the inevitable. That's not unusual. He would not take the doctor's word.'

‘That's not like Dick.' He thought of the good suits, the black-sided reading glasses, the far-back voice, the air of authority.

‘I don't know about that. He's the nervous type.' Reeve knew his way in the world. ‘Keep your eye on him. Nothing spectacular.' He laughed. ‘Let it be known in the staffroom. My impression is that he probably looks on his father's death as an embarrassment. It's often the case.' Reeve's voice was low, sympathetic, understanding, so that David felt suddenly that he should confess his own misfortune. He resisted the urge.

‘That's all then. Thank you.'

Reeve, back to himself, had picked up a letter from his tray. David slipped out and into the staffroom where the PE master, in magenta tracksuit, complained loudly.

‘He got the bloody things wrong again.' Obviously the head's announcements in hall. ‘You write it all down for him, and then he cocks it up every time. I don't think he can read.'

‘Perhaps it's your writing,' Dick Wilson said, passing on the way to his class.

‘That's another such.' The PE man had waited, David noticed, until the door was closed.

‘His father died on Friday,' David said.

‘Have they told him yet?' But the PE man looked shifty, bounced out.

THE STILESES CAME
over from Derby.

Father made the arrangement on the telephone, under instruction from his wife, who kept her powder dry somewhere out of the way. The old man cleared his throat often, said David was not to make any special provision, though, yes, a cup of tea would be acceptable, cough, nervously strangled chuckle. David questioned him, but he was not forthcoming. Yes, Mrs Blackwall had spoken to Mrs Stiles, had dropped in. No, the three had just talked. No, they had not written to Mary yet; they wanted to speak to him first. No, they had heard no more from her. No, they didn't expect to. Well, yes, it was a bad job. George Stiles hung up with relief, but repeated the time and day of their visit, knowing quite well that if he had missed out some detail, he would be made to repeat the exercise.

David, without evidence, suspected that his mother-in-law had listened to the conversation on the shop extension. There was nothing vindictive or devious about Eva Stiles, but she knew her husband would back away from difficulty, given half a chance, and she was determined not to allow it. Mrs Stiles understood, if nothing else, man-management.

On the watch at the front-bedroom window David observed their car draw up. Mr Stiles checked the doors, while his wife stood a yard away disregarding the drill. Along the short garden path, she walked slightly ahead, entered the house first.

She grinned, the stiff baring of teeth could only be so described, while her husband shook hands with his son-in-law. George Stiles wore a decent off-the-peg suit, with herringbone stripes, and black shoes with ancient, polished toecaps; he hung grey trilby and raincoat in the hall. When David asked if they'd like him to make the cup of tea now, George said, ‘Yes,' but Eva countermanded this. All three laughed, differently.

‘Let's sit down and talk for a start,' she said. ‘Then we can think about tea.'

David had the gas fire on in the front room, a place barely used since Mary's departure.

‘It's warm here,' Eva began, choosing her own chair, pulling her hat clear. ‘It's cold at night still.'

‘There are signs of spring in the garden.' George occupying the settee. David settled opposite his mother-in-law. They had been afraid of him, he thought, because he represented wealth and education, but now they were sorry for him. The phrase ‘in reduced circumstances' played in his head, foolishly like muzak.

‘Have you heard any more from her?' he asked.

‘No. We haven't.' Eva. ‘I don't think we could expect to.'

‘My mother came to see you?'

‘Yes. She was very upset. She couldn't understand it. It didn't seem like the Mary she knew. It was, she said, as if some material evidence was missing. That was right. That was exactly how we saw it. I mean, Mary knows quite well what marriage is. People don't regard it as we do, these days, but at least she was brought up to know what we think.'

Eva leaned forward without aggression, trusting reason, not using her hands yet.

‘We went over and over it. It must have been getting on for half past eleven when your mother left. And we were as puzzled as when we started. Perhaps we talked too much. I mean, you can, can't you?'

‘So you didn't come to any conclusion?'

‘No. Mary was always one for her own way. If she wanted anything, she'd make no bones about it. But she seemed happy. You let her do that opera tour in Germany, and then in London. I wondered at the time. I said so to George. She was a big admirer of Elizabeth Falconer, who's always off here, there and everywhere. She taught Mary a bit. And she lives up this way now at Plumpton Hall. I wondered if she wanted to be like her. Never at home. She's not been married ever so long, has she? Elizabeth?'

‘About five years.'

‘What's her husband called?'

‘Fane. Sir Edward Brook-Fane.'

‘What does he do?'

‘He's a landowner, in a big way. And a financier.'

Mrs Stiles pulled a sour face, plucked at the dress over her knees. There was something of Mary's energy in her impatience with life, something unaccomplished to be complained of.

‘Now there was one thing your mother said . . . She said, “Go and see David and ask him to tell you why Mary has acted as she has. It's better for you to do it than me.” The more I thought about that, the more sensible it seemed.'

David waited, looking at the carpet between his feet.

‘Go on, then.' Mrs Stiles stridently.

‘I don't know.'

‘Your mother said that's what you'd say. Well, make it up then.'

She dropped her eyes before his rude stare.

‘This isn't a game,' he said.

‘Will you try? It may not be the truth. Just make it up.'

‘Invent something?'

‘Try to account for it.'

That seemed good, honest, unshrinking. He saw his mother's influence here, saw the sense of it, that he might let something out. He knew too why his mother had not pressed him herself on the matter, for fear he'd be on the defensive, clam up. But she'd trusted Eva Stiles not only to do her dirty work, but to evaluate it, or at least report it properly. He smiled at his mother-in-law.

‘I'm as much at a loss as you are,' he began. ‘I don't know why Mary's done this. I thought you might be able to drag something out of her past that might give us a hint. But I'll make something up, as you put it.'

‘Thank you.'

She spoke with firm politeness which touched him. This woman, stiff as she appeared, gave what little help she could. On the settee George Stiles nodded almost frantically, beside himself.

‘She goes to America. It's new and strange. She's uncertain. She also feels unwell with morning sickness and anxiety about being pregnant.' He looked his parents-in-law over to judge the effect. They sat stock still, with faces to match. ‘This man Gage is kind to her, helps her through the trauma and she comes to depend on him. Then on top of it all the opera becomes an unexpected success, and she finds herself feted, and now she's grateful to him.'

‘And it turned her head?' Mrs Stiles, sotto voce.

‘In a new, strange place. Daily excitement. Praise, Parties. Drink. Yes, it's possible.'

‘Would it have happened to you, David?'

‘It might.'

That was not the answer she wanted. Mrs Stiles breathed in, a long, loud sniff not of displeasure, nor disbelief, but as a life-saving procedure for herself. She rallied herself to continue.

‘I'm surprised you say that, David. Perhaps that explains it.'

‘Perhaps.' Sarcastically.

‘You might have taken up with some other woman?'

‘In those circumstances.'

The three sat uncomfortably, not quite still.

‘What do you say, Dad?' Mrs Stiles broke the silence.

‘I don't know what I can . . .' George rolled uncomfortably.

‘All I'm telling you,' David interrupted, in a flash of ill temper, ‘is that most people might well have been tempted in those circumstances, and acted as she has.'

‘Even though you knew it was wrong?'