'No, I'm not coming with you to Stratford.'
'Sarah,' came the low reproach, for he was unable to prevent it, and then, already in parody, 'You aren't, you aren't coming with me to Stratford?'
'No; nor, it seems, anywhere else,' she said, while tears made the room and Henry's face swim in a watery kaleidoscope.
'Sarah!' He leaped up, as if to go to the sideboard, and actually did whirl around towards it, but turned back and stood behind his chair in a posture of wild accusation, but whether of her or himself she could not have said. Then he visibly took command of himself, actually got to the sideboard, poured coffee, which he drank there and then, a consoling or a narcotic draught, came back, sat down. All she could see was two wounded, accusing eyes. She blinked, and the shining white cloth, the silver, and Henry's face dissolved and reassembled.
'It's messy,' said Henry suddenly.
This was so absolutely in line with the culture clash that she began to laugh. It seemed to her so funny that she was thinking, Oh, God, if only I could share it with someone — who? Stephen? She said, 'You mean, I'm in one room dreaming of you — if I can put it like that — and you're in another room dreaming of me. But that's not messy?'
He laughed, but he didn't want to.
'Well,' she said, her voice back under control, 'if anyone had told me when I was young that when I was — I'm not going to say old — that I would be reasoning with a young man in love with me… I suppose I may say you're in love with me without straining the truth?'
'I suppose you could, at that. And I'm not so young, Sarah. I'll be middle-aged soon. I notice that the young girls these days, they don't see me. It happened quite recently. I tell you, that was a bad day for me, when I first realized.'
'Reasoning with him into sleeping with me, I think I would have slit my throat. But to put it another way — it's amazing how often this one comes in useful — "We know what we are but we know not what we may be." And thank God we don't.'
'Shakespeare, I have no doubt.'
Susan appeared from the garden. 'The coach is here for Stratford,' she said, obviously disappointed about something, which could only be that Stephen wasn't there.
Henry got up, saying, 'This deprived American has never actually seen Romeo and Juliet.'
'A pity it isn't A Midsummer Night's Dream,' said Sarah.
'A quip that's wasted on me. I haven't seen that either.'
Susan was shocked by the anger in this exchange: she looked from one to the other with the timid smile of a peacemaker who doesn't much hope. 'Aren't you coming, Sarah?'
'No.'
'No, she isn't,' said Henry, and accused her with his eyes. 'Enjoy yourself,' he said bitterly.
Sarah borrowed Mary's car and drove to the Cotswolds to see her mother. This was an impulse. It had occurred to her that she sat for hours brooding about the puppet strings and their manipulators, but after all, there was nothing to stop her asking her mother. Why had she not done this before? This is what she was asking herself as she drove, for the idea had seized her with all the force and persuasiveness of novelty. It was absurd she had not thought to ask. Now she would say to her, Why am I like this? and her mother would say, Oh, I was wondering when you'd ask. But as she contemplated the forthcoming scene, doubt had to set in. Her relations with her mother were good. Cool, but good. Affectionate? Well, yes. Sarah visited her three or four times a year and telephoned her sometimes to find out how she did. She did very well, being alert, active and independent. She had lived in the little village for as long as Sarah had in her flat. Briony and Nell liked her, and might drive up to visit her. The one person she wanted to see — Hal — did not visit her. It occurred to Sarah that she could not ask, 'Why is my brother, your son, such a deplorable human being?' Her mother still adored him. She boasted often about the famous Dr Millgreen, but made polite enquiries about Sarah's work.
When Sarah arrived, her mother was working in her garden. She was pleased enough to see her. Just as Sarah, in her mid-sixties looked fifty on a good day, so did Kate Millgreen, over ninety, seem a lively seventy. They sat drinking tea in a room where every object spoke to Sarah about her childhood, but she could not attach memories to any of them, so thoroughly had she blocked it all off. Her mother believed Sarah had come to find out how she was holding out. Old people are afraid of their children, who will decide their fate for them, and so she was a little defensive, as she offered information about her neighbours and her garden, and said that luckily she suffered from nothing worse than mild rheumatism.
Now that Sarah was sitting there with this very old woman, who reminded her of the old woman on the bench that early morning in Belles Rivieres, in her neat sprigged cotton dress and with her white hair in a bun, she was thinking, 'I want her to remember things that happened over sixty years ago.'
She did attempt, 'Tell me, I was wondering what kind of a child I was,' but her mother was disconcerted. She sat there, holding her teacup and frowning and trying to remember. 'You were a good little girl,' she said at last. 'Yes, I'm sure of that.'
'And Hal?' And as she asked, she thought, Why do I never think of my father? After all, I did have one.
'He was ill a lot,' said the old woman at last.
'What was wrong with him?'
'Oh — everything. He got everything when he was a child. Well, it's such a long… I don't remember now. He was threatened with TB at one point. A patch on the lung. He was in bed for… I think it was a year. That's how they treated it then.'
'And my father?'
Again her mother was surprised. She did not like the question. Her eyes, which were blue and direct, not used to evading anything, reproached Sarah. But she did try, with 'Well, he did everything that was needed, you know.'
'Was he a good father?'
'Yes, I am sure he was.'
Sarah saw she was not going to get anywhere. When she left, she kissed her mother as usual and said, as she always did, that if things got too much for her, living by herself, she could always come and live with her in London, for there was plenty of room. And as usual, her mother said that she hoped she would drop dead before she needed to be looked after. Then she clearly felt this was too brusque, and added, 'But thank you, Sarah. You always were very kind.'
I was? thought Sarah. Is that a clue? It sounds a bit suspect to me.
As she parked the car, she saw Stephen and the three boys walking away from the house. They carried spades, crowbars, a jump-drill. Elizabeth stood in a large vegetable garden with a young man who was presumably a gardener. He wore jeans and a red singlet. She was still in her riding clothes — green shirt, olive green breeches — and the red scarf confined her hair. Her pink cheeks flamed. She held one edge of a plant catalogue and the young man another. Both were alive with enjoyment of their task. Elizabeth invited Sarah to admire the garden, and she did. Then Sarah saw Stephen and the boys a good way off near a cottage or small house that had no roof. Presumably its forlorn look was temporary, for as Sarah came up, she saw Stephen was standing over a deep hole, levering with a crowbar at a stone that obstructed the insertion of a new gatepost. The three boys stood watching their father. The stone came loose, Stephen stood back, the younger boys lifted the stone out. On an indication from Stephen, the three politely greeted her. Over their sunny blond heads Stephen gave her a smile that said he was pleased she was there.
A large squat post lay on the grass, obviously salvaged. It was oak, weathered like elephant's hide, and newly soaked in creosote. Now Stephen and the eldest boy, James, lifted it and slid it into the hole. All four gathered up the stones that had packed the bottom of the discarded post, which was splintering and rotten, and when the new post stood in a bed of stones, the boys took up spades and filled the hole and trampled the loose earth hard. The job was finished. James said to his father, 'Mother said we must be home by twelve. She says we must do our homework.'