18
She recorded the fact that in the midst of death she was in desolation, but rejoiced at the inquest’s conclusion that her sister’s demise was accidental. Emma seemed to have turned on the gas heater and absent-mindedly forgotten to apply a light. There was a willingness to believe such an assumption after the family general practitioner said that, having known her for twenty years, he considered her a normal outgoing person, of whom it was inconceivable to think that the misfortune could have been anything other than an accident. The exoneration helped them to feel that Emma’s carelessness was only another manifestation of her feckless nature. If she had died at home, however much more upsetting it would have been, they might not have been tormented by the suggestion that she had betrayed them after cutting herself off so entirely from help. She did not want to be part of them any more, a feeling that, after the first paralysing weeks, diminished Clara’s gnawing pain.
From one stance she changed to another, would sit hours by the fire – even in the summer it was cold that year – while her mind went through endless conversations with Emma as to what had gone wrong. Talking aloud, she would walk between the door and the window:
‘But she committed suicide, you fool, whatever the coroner decided. Her man friend went back to the Sudan and she couldn’t stand the thought of being alone. Perhaps she was pregnant, and this time didn’t want to be. She was alone because we didn’t mean enough to her. She cared nothing for my support, nor father’s, in the final mood she got into. She’d been in that state ever since I can remember, till her condition became so bad she could do little except find a way out, which must have come easily, whether or not it was an accident. Thank God she didn’t do it at home and take Thomas with her, though it might have been a blessing in disguise if she had.’
But she wept at the thought of all that had not been done to stop Emma dying, though when she wondered what she might have done it was apparent that nothing would have been possible, because the time and place of a person’s death was decided the moment they were born – and with such words she cleared her mind of futile speculation.
Clutching the door handle in order to go out, she could not turn it, and had only the strength to get back to a chair. It was impossible to know whether she stayed a minute or an hour. The days were long, and darkness came late. Then she sprang from her inanition and went out of the room, believing that if she had stayed a moment longer she would have been paralysed for life.
She walked along the hall, and entered her father’s study without knocking. He sat in an armchair, and put the newspaper to his knees on hearing the door knob rattle. She sat on a stool at his feet. ‘I’ve come to talk to you.’
‘I used to read quickly,’ he complained, ‘but I have difficulty fixing my eyes nowadays.’ He took off his wire spectacles and rubbed his forehead. ‘I can’t sleep, either.’ His skin was lined and deadly white, nose thin and bones prominent. Nor did he eat much except porridge, orange juice, or mashed potatoes. Nothing but nursery food. ‘What do you need to talk about?’
She had forgotten, but wanted to be near him because there was no one else. Since Emma’s death she felt a need to be with him, but was afraid of seeming a nuisance. ‘It’ll soon be time for dinner. I thought you might like to come down with me.’
‘I’ll eat in my room,’ he said sharply.
‘I got some Dover sole from the fishmonger this morning, and cook has made one of her marvellous soups.’ She wanted to talk, if only to get a response from a voice not her own. She missed Emma’s. There was no speech, nothing but vague noises of Audrey and cook laughing together, or of the baby that never seemed to stop grizzling.
‘I won’t come down.’
‘I’m not going to eat alone any more in this house,’ she said.
‘Oh, aren’t you?’ He stood up, and took off his dressing-gown. ‘Where’s my collar and tie?’
They were hanging on a chairback. She gave them to him. ‘Shall I help you?’
His hands trembled. He snatched the tie. ‘Get my jacket.’
She found it in his bedroom, and when she came back he had already fastened on his collar and tie.
‘We still have a lot to talk about,’ she said.
‘Have we?’
‘I can’t make every decision myself.’
His small blue eyes, from seeing nothing, glittered acutely. ‘You don’t have to. I make them, in this house. Where’s my tie? I’ve been looking all over, and can’t find it.’
It was not the time to play jokes. ‘You’ve put it on already.’
He sat down, and placed a hand to his throat to make sure she was telling the truth. ‘Did you say there was Dover sole?’
‘And soup. And batter pudding.’ She held out her hand. ‘Come on, father, it’s nearly time.’
‘You go,’ he said. ‘I can manage.’
She walked downstairs to the dining-room, thinking that even if she heard him fall she would not help. He wasn’t even fond of her. He liked no one. All he had was the power of the man in the house, and he enjoyed that, though she was determined he wouldn’t have it much longer. But she was afraid to turn and deride the way he had snubbed her. Her fear of him was as intense as her pride that would not allow her to make one more attempt to become friendly. He blocked himself in, and she locked herself out, but she knew that without being able to speak his thoughts his eyes pleaded for her to come close to him. He was too afraid to ask, and his pride would stop him even if he weren’t. Emma once told her that pride was a sophisticated form of fear. The family was rotten with it, but because it was Clara’s only means of self-respect, and therefore defence, she would guard it jealously. Emma had thrown hers overboard, and look what had happened.
Percy held the spoon high against his chest as if about to beat a tattoo on a drum. The soup steamed. He looked ahead, unable or not willing to move.
‘We mustn’t let our soup get cold.’ It wasn’t possible to begin before he did, though she supposed he might not notice it in his abstracted condition.
He broke his bread and started to eat. The cook had decanted a bottle of burgundy, and Clara filled two glasses.
‘I pour the wine,’ he said. ‘I always do.’
She smiled at his petulance, her mouth wired to stop a cry breaking out. ‘I’ve already done so.’
He hung the napkin from his waistcoat. She reminded him again to begin. When cook took the plates she heard the far-off wail of Thomas from upstairs. Thank goodness for Audrey, who had replaced his mother, but how long could it last? ‘What are we going to do with the baby?’
He spoke, the unexpected precision startling her. ‘He must go to an orphanage. That’s the only place, when there are no proper parents.’
She flushed warmly at such a drastic and outrageous solution, with which she felt in immediate agreement. She couldn’t bring up a child, and Audrey’s plebeian ministrations were only a stopgap. ‘He’s a bit young, isn’t he?’
‘They’ll take him. I know a place. I’ll write to the director and make special arrangements. We’ll pay the bills by the year.’
She had seen him wearing his napkin in such a fashion after coming out of convalescent homes, and then only until Rachel told him to place it on his knees. Let him use it that way. She didn’t mind, except that it gave his aspect an air of childish authority that must have been exercised over him while he was under care. In the present situation he knew exactly what to do, though she was surprised that he would make her share the expense. ‘But is it the right thing to do?’