The Happy Prisoner Page 3

  John had not seen his wife in the full tilt of motherhood. He had never seen this baby that she overdressed, overwashed, overfed and generally overdid. The war had changed everybody, but Heather more than most. She still looked the same: baby-faced, a little too fat, primrose-coloured hair so curly that she pretended she would prefer it straight, always something jingling at her wrists—and now, of course, that little gold crucifix round her neck as well—plump calves and small feet, but she never used to be so reckless and excitable. She was inconsistent too, fickle to her own personality. Sometimes, she was almost liquid with motherly love; at others, she was as shrill and exasperated as a slum mother boxing her child’s ears in the street. David never knew where he was with her. Sometimes she treated him like a grown-up, sometimes like a baby in arms, sometimes like a show-piece, sometimes almost like a juvenile delinquent.

  She seemed permanently wound up, as if she had lost the ability to relax, even after the children were in bed. She would sometimes come and sit in Oliver’s room with her mending basket, but she fidgeted all the time; jumping up because she thought she heard the baby crying, putting down a sock half finished and starting on a vest, hopping from subject to subject, not interested in anything Oliver had to say and too distrait to say anything interesting herself. She had been lively and high-spirited enough in the days when her biggest worry was in which dress to go to what with whom, but she had usually been good-tempered and she had punctuated bouts of terrific energy with sudden periods of inertia, when she would fling herself down and fall asleep wherever she happened to be. She could dance all night in London, drive up to Shropshire through the dawn in somebody’s sports car, drive off with somebody else to swim in the Severn, play tennis all afternoon, and then suddenly, when there were people in for cocktails, she would be missed and discovered unconscious on a sofa, pretty in sleep as a child.

  She never cast herself down to sleep now, and did not appear to sleep much at night, for Oliver, lying awake, could often hear the floor of her room creaking as she moved about overhead, doing probably quite unnecessary things to the baby.

  Any comment on Heather’s behaviour usually ended with: “I expect she’ll be all right when John comes home.” He had been a Japanese prisoner of war for nearly a year, and since his release was waiting in Australia for a passage home. Oliver had not been at home during John’s last leave before he went to the Middle East, but it was always spoken of as a halcyon time. He and Heather had left David with Mrs. North and gone up alone to a tiny fishing hotel in the Western Highlands. “Whatever happens,” Mrs. North used to tell Heather, “at least you’ll have that fortnight to remember.”

  It was after Heather came back from the nursing-home where Susan was born that she started this business of going to church. Religion was a subject not often discussed by the Norths, but they gathered that Heather had made friends with another patient, a Roman Catholic, who had persuaded her to go to Mass. Mrs. North had written to Oliver in alarm, telling him that Heather had taken to going off on her bicycle before breakfast—even on weekdays—that she had mysterious appointments after dinner in the evening, known as “going out to coffee with someone”, whom Mrs. North suspected of being the priest, and that she had bought a Madonna, and a crucifix to hang round her neck.

  “I believe she thinks of Turning,” his mother wrote. “Can you imagine Heather, who never seemed to give religion a thought! Still, I shall try not to mind, even though I was raised as a good Presbyterian, if it’s going to make Heather happy.”

  Heather did become a Catholic, announcing her intention defiantly, and almost disappointed at the lack of opposition, but it did not seem to be making her happy. Being a convert, she kept more strictly to the laws of the Church than if she had been born to it, and she went about the whole thing in a strenuous, besotted way that seemed to disturb her peace of mind rather than restore it. On the mornings when she was going to early Mass, her strident alarm would wake everyone at six, and she would rattle the handles of her drawers and make no attempt to hush the children, as if she did not see why, if she was awake, anyone else should be asleep. She would leave the house in a tearing hurry and bicycle off tense-faced, with a scarf over her head, and would invariably return cross, tear off the clothes her mother had put on David and dress him in something else.

  She had written to John of her conversion, but she had told nobody what he had answered. It would be interesting, Oliver thought, to see what happened when he came home. He hoped they would stay at Hinkley for a bit so that he could watch how they adjusted their lives to each other. Being in bed had given him a profound interest in other people’s behaviour which he had not felt before. He had never taken much notice of his family, except in relation to himself. He was far more aware of them now that he was a spectator rather than a participator in their lives, and liked to think that he understood them better. Certainly he had not made much attempt to understand them before.

  His mother came in, wearing a heliotrope apron with a row of pockets across the front labelled “Scissors—Hankie—Specs—String—Cash,” each of which, like the rice, sugar, tea, coffee and currant jars on her kitchen dresser, surprisingly held the right thing. Under this, she wore a lavender dress which accentuated the tints of her hair rinse. As she turned her back to pour herself a glass of sherry, Oliver saw that she was wearing her best corsets. Oh yes, of course, Stanford Black was coming.

  “Where’s Nurse Gray?” she asked.

  “She said she was going to help you.”

  “I expect she’s laying the table. She offered to help in the kitchen, but we’re only having cold and I said, ‘My goodness, I’ve prepared dinner on my own so often, I can do it once more.’ She said she knew how to make mayonnaise, but you can never be sure, and I know you like my mayonnaise.”

  “Best I’ve ever had,” said Oliver obediently. His mother took a sip of her drink and put it down on the beam that formed the mantelpiece of the old Tudor fireplace. “I’d better go and see how she’s getting on,” she said. “She may not know where things are. She seems a very nice person, don’t you think, darling? Is she all right with you? You’re quite happy with her?”

  “She’s fine,” said Oliver. “Far better than Sandy.”

  “Oh, now isn’t that just grand. Has Violet been in yet? Really she is the limit. She’ll never be ready for dinner. I’ll send Evelyn out after her, though I suppose she’s not in either. That child’s absolutely running wild, you know. I can’t think what Bob will say.”

  “With all due respect to your brother, he doesn’t seem to take much interest in her.”

  “Now that’s unkind, dear. You know he can’t have her over in the States until he gets a proper home. He’s much too busy. If Violet does come in,” she said as she went out, “remind her that someone’s coming to dinner. I won’t have her coming in in those trousers and muddy shoes like she did last week when Mrs. Ogilvie came. Tell her she’s to wear that blue dress with the white collar.”

  “Surely she’s old enough to decide what she’ll wear.”

  “She doesn’t act as if she was.” Mrs. North got as far as the door, paused, retraced her steps for a nip of sherry, smiled dotingly at Oliver and went out.

  Surely no more inappropriate name than Violet could have been chosen for Oliver’s elder sister. But who could have foreseen at the christening that the baby was going to turn out like this? Mrs. North as a girl was dumpy and plump already, but her bulk was all sideways, and Mr. North had had no bulk in any direction. Violet, however, had gone steadily upwards like a fertilised cornstalk. At twelve, she was the tallest girl in her school, with teeth like tombstones and joints which were always bruised and scarred from being so prominent; at twenty she was nearly six foot, flat as a board, but solid and sinewy; now, at thirty, she could do a man’s work without tiring, and had, so the shoemaker in Shrewsbury assured Mrs. North, the largest lady’s foot in Shropshire.

  She came into the room in a khaki shirt and tie of Olive
r’s, a green pullover, riding breeches, golf stockings and shoes like bulldozers. With her came an old Labrador and a red-setter puppy who made a wild dash for Oliver, scattering the rugs, and bounced by the bed with little yelps, his hind legs quivering as if he were going to spring up.

  “Vi—for God’s sake! If he jumps on my leg—”

  Violet plunged forward. “Dalesman, you ass—come here!” She caught hold of his tail, and as he circled round she clasped his neck, for he had no collar, and knelt on the floor holding him, while he set on her with ecstatic tongue, leaving shining chestnut hairs among the hay seeds and bran dust on her jersey.

  “Awful to be scared of a dog, isn’t it?” said Oliver. “But if you had my stump … It jumps about two feet when it sees anything like that coming. He’s a bit uncouth though, isn’t he, Vi? I thought Ma had forbidden him the house.”

  “He’s young,” said his sister in her deep, abrupt voice. “Come on and lie down with Poppy, show how you can behave.” She dragged the dog over to the corner where the Labrador was lying like a sphinx, and Dalesman resisted her, skidding over the floor with front legs spread wide. “Down!” she commanded him, and he grinned at her, with a yawn that nearly split his head in two. “Down, blast you!” She pushed him to the floor, and he lay where she had pushed him, uncomfortably, with his front legs still spread and his hindquarters half raised, ready to spring up again.

  “Better put the rugs straight, Vi,” said Oliver. “Ma’ll be in for a nip in a minute.” She kicked at them carelessly with the side of her shoe and went over to the table to get a drink. She came back, spilling some of it on to the floor, and flopped into a chair by the bed with her legs stuck out, passing a large brown hand through the cropped hair which emphasised her masculine features.

  “Tired?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Been thatching all day. The stack in the bottom field’s done now, and the two in Waker’s. Fred’s got a new man, just demobbed. He’s a lazy tyke.” Dalesman had left a wet streak along her cheek, which she did not bother to wipe off. If she were a man, she might have been called handsome, with that high-bridged nose, firm mouth and heavy chin. Her skin, although powderless, was not red and shiny, but tanned to quite a mellow shade, like a weathered saddle. Because she was short-sighted, and could not be bothered to wear her glasses, her eyes were usually screwed up under the thick brows.

  Mrs. North came in for a sip at her sherry. She was in a hurry and did not notice the dogs. “Will you just look at these rugs!” She bent down to straighten a corner. “Violet, what do you do to a room when you come in to it? And don’t forget Stanford’s coming to dinner. You’ll have to change.”

  “Oh hell.” Violet slumped lower in her chair.

  “I’ve told your little Nurse Gray to come and get herself a drink,” Mrs. North told Oliver. “She’s folded all the table napkins into mitres, with a piece of bread in each. You never saw anything so cute.”

  “She doesn’t drink, Ma.”

  “Well, she can come in and have some fruit squash or something. It’s seven o’clock Violet.”

  “It’s not, it’s five to.” Violet peered at her watch, which had a thick leather strap and a metal guard over the face. On the other wrist she wore a buckled leather support.

  “It’s two and a half minutes to. Where’s Evelyn? Didn’t she come in with you?”

  “She went with Jack to turn the horses out.”

  “I’d better go and holler for her, or she’ll never come in.”

  “I’ll go,” said Violet. “She’s probably gone up the hill to see Dandy, anyway.”

  “You won’t,” said her mother. “You’ll go and change.” She took another sip and left them.

  “Doesn’t she love to know where everybody is?” said Oliver. “It must be quite a relief to her to have me in bed. At least she knows where I am. Oh look, here’s Elizabeth. You’ve met my sister Violet, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Elizabeth, standing just inside the door. Violet made some gruff noise at her. Anyone small and neat and quick always made her feel larger than ever.

  “My mother thought you might like some fruit squash,” suggested Oliver unhopefully.

  “No, thank you, Major North.”

  “Well, come and sit down, anyway. This is everybody’s off-duty time. We relax.” Elizabeth came forward and sat on the edge of the high-backed armchair by the fireplace. She had changed into a green dress with a drawstring neck and a full skirt. She had put a little lipstick on; not too much the first night, in case Mrs. North did not like it.

  “You look like a salad,” said Oliver. She smiled politely. “Cool, I mean.” He wondered what to say next. Violet was still slumped with her chin on her chest, frowning at her glass.

  Elizabeth looked at her stuck-out legs calmly for a while and then asked: “Are you in the Land Army, Miss North?”

  “God, no. Why? Oh, you mean this.” She plucked a piece of straw off the front of her green pullover. “I pinched this off the last L.G. we had. Left in a hurry.” She let out a sudden guffaw. “Sybil, Ollie. You remember.”

  “Perfectly. I watched her haymaking in the hill field all the last week in July. That ugly old scoundrel Dick, wasn’t it?”

  “Yep. That new stud bull we had gave ‘em ideas.” She guffawed again and Oliver giggled. Elizabeth looked neither shocked nor amused.

  Oliver cleared his throat. “Your room all right?” he asked politely.

  “Yes, very nice, thank you.”

  “Good view of the Wrekin from that room,” grunted Violet.

  “The Wrekin?” Elizabeth turned to her puzzled. She had never been in Shropshire before.

  “That minor mountain over there in the distance.” Oliver nodded out of the window. “You can just see the corner of it from here; it goes purply-black at this time in the evening. It’s supposed to be the earth some old giant dug out of the bed of the Severn. There’s a smaller hill behind it—Ercal—that’s where he shook his spade.”

  “You’re quite wrong, Uncle Ollie,” said Evelyn, appearing suddenly on the lawn outside and resting her chin on the window ledge. She was ten years old and just the right height for this.

  Oliver had given an exclamation and jumped, and Elizabeth started up out of her chair and went to him.

  “You mustn’t do that, dear,” she told Evelyn in a professional voice. “It’s bad for your uncle’s heart. Are you all right, Major North?”

  “Lord, yes. Don’t fuss. I’ll get worse shocks than that before I’m done.” She straightened his sheet without looking at him and went back to her chair. He thought: She’s not worrying for me. It’s her own responsibility she minds about.

  Evelyn’s pale, triangular face, half hidden by a lock of nasturtium-coloured hair with a bow dangling at the end, still hung on the window-sill.

  “What d’you mean, anyway, I’m wrong?” he asked it.

  “He wasn’t digging up the Severn. He’d brought that earth there to dam it, ’cos he had a down on Shrewsbury. But when he had one foot in the river the Bore came rushing along, and he lost his balance and dropped the earth in the wrong place.”

  “Is that a fact? Then how do you account for Ercal?”

  “Oh, wormcasts,” she said casually. “What’s for my supper?”

  “Apple pie, I think.”

  “Jeepers. Look out—I’m coming in!” Two thin hands like a fledgeling’s claws appeared on the ledge and there was a scrabbling noise as she sought a foothold in a crack of the yellow sandstone wall.

  Elizabeth started forward again. “Be careful,” she called. “Whatever are you doing?” But Evelyn had pulled herself up, shifted one hand to the timber of the window and crouched in the opening like a goblin on a toadstool. “Keep your hair on,” she said, “I always do it like this.” With a spring, she was over the bed and cradle, skidded on the rug which Mrs. North had just straightened, picked herself up and went straight to the side table.

  Elizabeth turned to Oliver. “She oughtn�
�t—”

  “Oh, she always does that. She’s quite safe.” He smiled at her. “You needn’t fuss, Elizabeth. You’ll get used to our family in time.”

  “Yes,” she said, and he wished again that she would give some hint of what she thought of them.

  Evelyn came over to the bed, holding the wedge of apple pie in both hands and talking through it. She wore a skimpy pair of trousers, more like old-fashioned cycling knickers than riding breeches, boy’s socks, gym shoes and a grubby Aertex shirt. Round her waist was a boy’s belt with a snake buckle. “I’ve been up to see Dandy,” she said. “He’s filling out beautifully on the grass in that top meadow. Vi and I are going to start breaking him next week, aren’t we, Vi?”

  “If he’s fit enough.”

  “Oh, he will be! He must be if I’m going to ride him at the Pony Club rallies at Christmas.”

  “You certainly wouldn’t think he was that shrimp I paid a quid for at Dunster market.” Violet suddenly shot out a large hand and pulled Evelyn between her legs, gripping her with her knees. She picked something out of the mesh of the Aertex shirt, examined it and said severely: You’ve been giving him oats.”

  Evelyn fidgeted. “Honest, Vi, I haven’t, truly. Well—perhaps just a teeny handful tonight, just to get him used to the taste, you know.”

  “Oats are precious. That pony’s got to work before he gets any. And if you think you’re going to get him all corned up for me to break—you can do it by yourself.” She pushed the child away, tossed off her drink and stood up. Evelyn let a piece of apple fall on the floor. “Vi, you know I couldn’t, not without you!” She slid an appealing look at Oliver. “Oh, make her be nice, Uncle Ollie,” she said in agony.

  “How are you going to start him?” said Oliver casually. “Saddle him first, or wait till you’ve lunged him a bit?”

  “Oh, we’re going to saddle him,” gabbled Evelyn, “next week, and then lunge him with all the tack on!—”

  “We are not,” said Violet, putting down her glass on the seat of her chair. “That pony’s going to stand on pillar reins for two days, with a snaffle in his mouth and a pad on his back, before I take him a step outside.”