‘Very well, then,’ said Edward. ‘No boarding school. Well, not yet. Meanwhile there’s a good girls’ school, not far, it would be a few stops on the Tube and a short walk.’
Victoria was thinking, She’ll have a bad time. She’ll be with girls who have money and the things the Staveney’s have, and she’ll come home to … it would certainly ask a lot of Mary’s kind heart: two worlds, and she would have to fit in to both of them.
Victoria said to Lionel, who was the author of this plan, which in fact fulfilled her dreams for Mary, ‘I couldn’t say no, how could I? It will be such a big thing for Mary’ And now she dared to turn to Thomas, reminding them all that he was after all the child’s father. ‘What do you say, Thomas? It’s for you to say, too.’
‘Yeah,’ said Thomas. ‘Yeah. That’s exactly right.’ Here his belligerent look at his father, and his brother, told them that he was feeling - as usual - belittled. ‘Yeah, it is for me to say too. And I say, Victoria should have the deciding vote. Providing Mary doesn’t go to Beowulf, that’s the main thing.’
Victoria said, ‘If I say no, I could never forgive myself. Hut I’d like to talk it all over with - she’s not my sister, but I think of her as.’
Bessie heard what Victoria had to tell her, nodding and smiling
A central fact was there, out in the open, still unvoiced, with its potentialities for pain and gain. Mary had spent a month with the Staveney’s, and that experience had made it urgent for her to be rescued from her environment and be sent to a good school.
‘Well,’ said Bessie, ‘she’s going to come out the other end educated. Which is more than can be said about Beowulf
‘You went there and you do well enough,’ said Victoria.
‘You know what I mean.’
They were back at what was not being said. For one thing, it was Mary’s way of speaking, which was very far from the Staveney’s. Thomas might speak badly, bis phoney American, or his cockney, as he called it, but she had never heard a cockney - who were they when they were at home? - talk like that. And the Staveney’s spoke posh, and Thomas too, most of the time. Mary’s voice was ugly compared to theirs.
‘She’ll have a hard time of it,’ said Bessie. ‘There’s no pretending she won’t.’
‘I know,’ said Victoria, thinking that she had had a long hard time of it, and yet here she was, she had survived it. Bessie had had a better time, because of Phyllis being her mother, but she was having a hard enough time now - and she would survive it too.
She wrote to Thomas, asserting his rights, ‘Dear Thomas, I agree to your kind suggestion. Please tell your father and your mother thank you for me. It won’t be easy for Mary but I’ll try and explain it all to her.’
Explain what, exactly? And how?
Mary must be thinking many things already that she might not want to say to her mother. She was kind - that was her best quality: she had a good nature. And she wasn’t stupid. Victoria could easily put herself back into herself at Mary’s age. Kids always know more than adults think, even if they know it the wrong way around, sometimes.
And Victoria knew more than the Staveney’s about the future.
Mary would go to that good school where most girls were white. She would have many battles to fight, of a different sort from the tough-housing of Beowulf. The Staveney’s would be Mary’s best support. Probably when the girl was about thirteen, the Staveney’s would ask if she, Victoria, could consider Mary going to boarding school. Neither they nor Mary would have to spell out the reasons why Mary must find things easier, for she would no longer have to fit herself into two different worlds, every day. Victoria would say yes, and that would be that.
There was another factor, which Bessie was reminding her of. Victoria was an attractive woman, not yet thirty. She was going now every Sunday to church, because Bessie did, and there she enjoyed the singing. She had been noticed. She took the lead in some hymns, was no longer just one of the congregation. The Reverend Amos Johnson had taken a fancy to her. Her dead Sam, who with every year became more of a perfect man in her memory, could not be compared with Amos Johnson, who was twenty years older than she was. The incomparable lustre of Sam made it possible for her to consider Amos, She had visited his home, full of God-fearing and sober people, and while she was not particularly religious, liked the atmosphere. She had always been a good girl, Victoria had - like Mary now.
If she married Amos she would have more children. Little Dickson, the child from hell, as he was known generally around and about the estate, would calm down, with brothers and sisters.
And Mary? To match the Staveney world with the world of Amos Johnson - she even laughed about it despairingly, with Bessie.
Yet if she married Amos she would be binding the two worlds together, even if both were careful never to get too close. And Mary, poor Mary, in the middle there. Yes, thought Victoria, she will be pleased to get out of it and into boarding school: she’ll want to be a Staveney. Yes, I have to face it. That is what will happen.
THE REASON FOR IT
Yesterday we buried Eleven, and now I am the only one left of The Twelve. Between Eleven and One in our burial place is an empty site, waiting for me, Twelve. All gone now, one by one. The night Eleven died I was with him. He said to mc, ‘While The Twelve have been dying the truth has been dying. When you come to join us no one will be left to tell our story.’ He grasped mc by the arm, pulling all his strength back into him to do it. ‘Tell it. Call The Cities together and tell it. Then it will be in all their minds and cannot disappear.” And with that he fell back into dark and the Silence.
His mind had gone, otherwise he could not have said, ‘Call The Cities.’ It is a long time since that has been possible, But the substance of his message has been burning inside me. Not that it is a new message. What else have we Twelve been talking about these very many years, always fewer of us. How long is it since we could have said: Let us call The Cities together? Nearly half my lifetime, at least. When I left Eleven I came home here and sat where the scents and sounds of a warm starry night could come wafting over me from the gardens and splashing waters, and I was challenging the indolence in myself, which I have always known was my worst enemy. You could call it - I have called it - many more flattering names, prudence, caution, the judiciousness of experience, even my well-known (once well-known) Wisdom: they call me they used to call me -The Sage Twelve. The truth is it is hard for me to act, to gather up my energies behind a single focus and simply do. I see too many aspects of a situation. For every Yes there is a No, and so, through the long years, while The Twelve have one by one vanished away, I have thought, Is this the time to do it? I have never known, we, The Twelve have not known. We always ended by sending DeRod, our Ruler, yet another message. I remember right at the very beginning of his rule we jokingly
