"That is only his method of pushing the unwelcome fact away from him."
"Unwelcome," Bee murmured.
"Yes, unwelcome. And very naturally unwelcome. You make things difficult for yourself if you don't accept that fundamental fact. You remember Patrick with your adult mind, and are rejoiced that he is still alive." He turned his head to look at her. "Or-are you?"
"Of course I am!" she said, a shade too emphatically. But he let it go.
"Simon doesn't remember him with an adult mind or adult emotions. To Simon he is a remembered emotion; not a present one. He has no present love to fight his present-hatred with."
"Oh, George."
"Yes; it is best to face it. It would take an almost divine love to combat the resentment that Simon must be feeling now; and there has never been anything in the least divine about Simon. Poor Simon. It is a wretched thing to have happened to him."
"And at the very worst moment. When we were all ready for celebration."
"At least this is the answer to something that has puzzled me for eight years."
"What is that?"
"The fact of Patrick's suicide. I could never reconcile it with the Patrick I knew. Patrick was a sensitive child, but he had a tremendous fund of good common sense; a balance. A far better equilibrium, for instance, than the less sensitive but more brilliant Simon. He had also, moreover, a great sense of obligation. If Latchetts was suddenly and unaccountably his he might be overwhelmed to the point of running away, but not unbalanced to the point of taking his life."
"Why did we all so unquestioningly accept the suicide theory?"
"The coat on the cliff-top. The note-which did read like a suicide one, undoubtedly. The complete lack of anyone who had seen him after old Abel met him between Tanbitches and the cliff. The persistence with which suicides use that particular part of the coast for their taking-off. It was the natural conclusion to come to. I don't remember that we ever questioned it. But it had always stayed in my mind as an unaccountable thing. Not the method, but the fact that Patrick should have taken his own life. It was unlike everything I knew about Patrick. And now we find that, after all, he did no such thing."
"I shut my eyes and the lilac is no colour; I open them and it is purple," Bee was saying to herself; which was her way of keeping her tears at bay. Just as she counted objects when in danger of crying at a play.
"Tell me, are you pleased with this adult Patrick who has come back?"
"Yes. Yes, I am pleased. He is in some ways very like the Patrick who went away. Very quiet. Self-contained. Very considerate. Do you remember how Patrick used to turn and say: 'Are you all right? before he began whatever he was planning to do on his own? He still thinks of the other person. Didn't try to-rush me, or take his welcome for granted. And he still keeps his bad times to himself. Simon always came flying to one with his griefs and grievances, but Patrick dealt with his own. He seems still to be able to deal with his own."
"Has he had a bad time, then, do you think?"
"I gather it hasn't been a bed of roses. I forgot to tell you that he is lame."
"Lame!"
"Yes. Just a little. Some accident with a horse. He is still mad about horses."
"That will make you happy," George said. He said it a little wryly, being no horseman.
"Yes," agreed Bee with a faint smile for the wryness. "It is good that Latchetts should go to a real lover."
"You rate Simon as a poor lover?"
"Not poor. Indifferent, perhaps. To Simon horses are a means of providing excitement. Of enhancing his prestige. A medium for trade; for profitable dickering. I doubt if it goes further than that. For horses as-people, if you know what I mean, he has little feeling. Their sicknesses bore him. Eleanor will stay up for nights on end with a horse that is ill, sharing the nursing fifty-fifty with Gregg. The only time Simon loses sleep is when a horse he wants to ride, or jump, or hunt, has a 'leg'."
"Poor Simon," the Rector said reflectively. "Not the temperament to make a successful fight against jealousy. A very destructive emotion indeed, jealousy."
Before Bee could answer, Nancy appeared.
"Bee! How nice," she said. "Were you at Evensong, and did you see the latest contingent from our local school for scandalisers? Two adolescents who are 'studying the prevalent English superstitions': to wit, the Church of England. A boy, very hairy for fourteen, it seemed to me; and a girl with eleven combs keeping up her not very abundant wisps. What would you say a passion for combs was an indication of? A sense of insecurity?"
"Beatrice has come with a very wonderful piece of news," the Rector said.
"Don't tell me Simon has got himself engaged."
"No. It is not about Simon. It's about Patrick."
"Patrick?" Nancy said uncertainly.
"He is alive." And he told her how.
"Oh, Bee, my dear," Nancy said, putting her arms round her friend, "how glorious for you. Now you won't have to wonder any more."
That Nancy's first reaction was to remember that private nightmare of hers broke Bee down altogether.
"You need a drink," Nancy said, briskly. "Come along in and we'll finish what's left in the sherry bottle."
"A deplorable reason for drinking sherry," the Rector said.
"What is?"
"That one 'needs a drink'."
"An even more deplorable reason is that if we don't drink it Mrs. Godkin will. She has had most of the rest of the bottle. Come along."
So Bee drank the Rectory sherry and listened while George enlightened Nancy on the details of Patrick Ashby's return. Now that her weight of knowledge was shared with her own generation, the burden was suddenly lighter. Whatever difficulties lay ahead, there Would be George and Nancy to support and comfort her.
"When is Patrick coming?" Nancy asked; and the Rector turned to Bee.
"On Tuesday," Bee told them. "What I can't decide is the best way of spreading the news in the district."
"That's easy," Nancy said. "Just tell Mrs. Gloom."
Mrs. Gloom kept the sweets-tobacco-and-newspaper shop in the village. Her real name was Bloom, but her relish for disaster caused her to be known, first by the Ledingham and Ashby children, and later by all and sundry, as Mrs. Gloom.
"Or you could send yourself a postcard. The post office is almost as good. That is what Jim Bowden did when he jilted the Heywood girl. Sent his mother a telegram announcing his wedding. The fuss was all over before he came back."
"I'm afraid we are going to be at the exact centre of the fuss until the nine days' wonder is over," Bee said. "One must just put up with it."
"Ah, well, my dear, it's a nice sort of fuss," Nancy said, comforting.
"Yes. But the situation is so-so incalculable. It's like-like — "
"I know," Nancy said, agreeing. "Like walking on jelly."
"I was going to say picking one's way over a bog, but I think the jelly is a better description."
"Or one of those uneven floors at fun fairs," the Rector said unexpectedly, as Bee took her leave.
"How do you know about fun fairs, George?" his wife asked.
"They had one at the Westover Carnival a year or two ago, I seem to remember. A most interesting study in masochism."
"You see now why I have stuck to George," Nancy said, as she walked with Bee to the garden gate. "After thirteen years I am still finding out things about him. I wouldn't have believed that he even knew what a fun fair was. Can you picture George lost in contemplation of the Giant Racer?"
But it was not of Nancy's George that she was thinking as she walked away through the churchyard, but of the fun-fair floor that she was doomed to walk in the days ahead. She turned in at the south porch of the church and found the great oak door still unlocked. The light of the sunset flooded the grey vault with warmth, and the whole building held peace as a cup holds water. She sat down on a bench by the door and listened to the silence. A companionable silence which she shared with the figures on the tombs, the tattered banners, the names on the wall, the Legion's garish Union Jack, and the slow ticking of a clock. The tombs were all Ledingham ones: from the simple dignity of the Crusader to the marble family that wept with ostentatious opulence over the eighteenth-century politician. The Ashbys had no crusaders and no opulence. Their memorials were tablets on the wall. Bee sat there and read them for the thousandth time. "Of Latchetts" was the refrain. "Of Latchetts in this parish." No field-marshals, no chancellors, no poets, no reformers. Just the yeoman simplicity of Latchetts; the small-squire sufficiency of Latchetts.