height, and a flat-topped post every six feet or so, to hold on to. She rehearsed the lifting of her skirt, with another look round, then quickly steadied her walking shoe on the lower rail, while gripping the upper one, but in the same second she knew that of course she couldn’t get over it, and she went on to the distant gate, in a flustered pretence of being in no particular hurry.
The High Ground had just been mown, and as soon as Freda had shut the gate behind her, she found the cuttings, still green and damp, were clinging to her shoes. And there they were again, George and Mad, crossing the far end of the enormous lawn, which must have been a good two acres in itself. She felt she had been ambushed by the very thing that she was hoping to avoid; but also perhaps that it was futile to try to avoid it. They kept to themselves, always talking, always walking, Freda sensed no one cared for them much, and George had always been somewhat shy and stiff – until (there it was again) Cecil had come on the scene. She had tried not to watch him at lunch, knowing what she knew: this weekend must be distinctly uncomfortable for him; she was surprised in a way that he’d come. Though if he had, in whatever fashion, loved Cecil… Now she saw the gleam on his glasses, his bald brow quite distinctive, they spotted her and said something to each other – then George waved. She hurried on for a moment, but no – she saw them so rarely… she stopped and picked up a black feather, its tip sheared off by the mower, then she turned and strolled slowly towards them, with a frown and smile, and awkward side-glances, and the air of nurturing an amusing remark.
The fact was that this whole business with the letters was kept alive by her own sense of guilt – dormant, forgettable, easily slept with for much of the time, but at moments like this crinkling everything she said to him into bright insincerity. She should never have read them; but once she’d found them, taken one from its envelope with a shifty but tender curiosity, and then read its astounding first page, she found she couldn’t stop. She wondered now at her own grim curiosity, her need to know the worst when surely she would rather have known nothing. She glanced at George, beaming mildly, fifty yards away, and saw him on the morning she’d confronted him, George in uniform, grieving for his brother, fighting a war. Her own grief must have triggered it, licensed it. And he hadn’t known what to do, any more than she had: he was angry with her as he had never been, they were private letters, she had no right, and at the same time he was haggard with shame and horror at his mother knowing what had gone on. ‘It was all over,’ he said – which was obvious, since Cecil was dead – ‘it had all been over long ago.’ And then before the war was out he had proposed to this dreary bluestocking, so that she felt, at her most candid and unhappy moments, that she had condemned him herself to a life of high-minded misery. ‘Hello! Hello!’ said George.
Freda raised her chin and grinned at them.
‘Enjoying your walk, Mother?’ said Madeleine.
‘It’s been rather lovely’ – she looked up at them with the raffish twinkle of a parent dwarfed by her children.
‘I didn’t know you liked walking,’ said Madeleine, suspiciously.
Freda said, ‘There’s a lot you don’t know, my dear,’ and then looked at her own words with a touch of surprise.
‘You’ve had your little chat with Sebby,’ said George.
‘Yes, yes’ – she dismissed it.
‘All right?’
‘Well, I really had nothing to say.’
George gave a little purse-lipped smile, and gazed around at the woods. ‘No, I suppose not.’ And then, ‘Are you going back to the house?’
‘I’m very much ready for a cup of tea.’
‘We’ll come with you.’
As they walked they looked at the house, and it seemed to Freda they were each thinking of something they might say about it. Their self-consciousness focused on it, with an air of latent amusement and concern, but for at least a minute none of them spoke. Freda glanced up at George and wondered if the incident that was gnawing at her self-possession was equally present to him. In the nine years since, it had never once been mentioned; bland evasiveness had slowly assumed the appearance of natural forgetfulness.
‘Oh, have you looked at the tomb?’ said Madeleine, as they went through the white gate and into the garden.
‘Well, I’ve seen it before,’ said Freda. She disliked the tomb very much – for strong but again not quite explicable reasons.
‘Quite splendid, isn’t it.’
‘Yes, it is!’
‘I was thinking about poor old Huey,’ said George, in this at least chasing her own thoughts.
‘Oh, I know…’
‘We must go, darling,’ said George, taking his mother’s arm with what felt to her like extravagant forgiveness.
‘To France…?’
‘We’ll go this summer, during the long vac.’
‘Well, I’d love that,’ said Freda, gripping George to her, then glancing almost shyly at Madeleine. It seemed to her a mystery, another of the great evasions whose nothingness filled her life, that they hadn’t been already.
She left them in the hall, and went up to her room, freshly, nearly tearfully, preoccupied with Hubert. Really his death should have put all these other worries in proportion. The heavy ache of loss was quickened by a touch of indignation. She felt that at some point she must finally and formally talk to Louisa about Hubert, and ask her to acknowledge that the worst possible thing had happened to her as well. That Huey wasn’t clever or beautiful, had never met Lytton Strachey or written a sonnet or climbed anything higher than an apple-tree – all this she was somehow forced to acknowledge at each tentative mention of his name to Cecil’s mother. She took off her hat, sat down, and attended rather violently to her hair.
She knew it was pointless, heartless, to begrudge Louisa the consolation of having been with Cecil at the end, the aristocratic reach across the Channel that had brought him back, when tens of thousands of others were fated to stay there till doomsday. Daphne said it was the reason the old lady resisted moving out of the big house: she wanted to stay where she could visit her son every day. Freda was picturing Huey, back at ‘Two Acres’, on his last leave – and now the tears welled up and she dropped the comb and fiddled in her sleeve for her handkerchief. In the letters that were sent to her after his death, they had spoken of the wood where he had fallen, trying to take a machine-gun post that was concealed in it: Ivry Wood. Over and over in those weeks she had looked out across her own modest landscape, her own little birch-wood, with a rending sense that Huey would never set foot there again. Almost impossible to grasp, on that first day, that he’d been buried already in France – under shell-fire, they said, with a reading from Revelations. Already he’d been put away for ever, out of the air. And whenever she thought of it, and pictured Ivry Wood, it was her own little spinney she saw, for want of anything better, strangely translated to northern France, and Huey running into it, into the desultory spray of the guns.
Later he had been reburied, and she had photographs of the grave, and of the interment itself. A padre in a white surplice, under an umbrella, men firing a salute. Well, now at last George would take her, and Daphne too perhaps, over to France, they would all go, and she would look at it. She had only been abroad once, before the War, when she and Clara made their pilgrimage to Bayreuth, two widows on the smutty ferry, the stifling trains with German soldiers singing in the next carriage. The thought of this new visit, of the resolute approach to the place, squeezed at her throat.
8
When Daphne was getting dressed that evening Dudley strolled in to her room and said, almost in a yawn, that he hoped Mark Gibbons wouldn’t take against Revel. ‘Oh,’ said Daphne, faintly puzzled but more concerned about dinner, and the horrors of the seating-plan, where she felt her skills as a hostess most exposed. ‘It seems to me Revel gets on with everyone.’ She slithered her pearl-coloured petticoat over her head, and smoothed it down with her palms, pleased to hear his name at such a moment. She would have him sit near, though not next to her. Naturally her mother must sit on Dudley’s right, but if Clara was tucked away safely in the middle was it better to
