Air and Angels by Susan Hill
Though there was nothing for her in England. She had been one of only two daughters of a clerical family. But they were all dead, and there were no relatives, none at all. There was just the house, let for years, but empty again now. It was to the house in Norfolk that she would go.
‘And you are to be with your cousins in Cambridge and that is not so very far away. Perhaps our paths may cross again.’
They sat in Miss Lovelady’s cabin. It was early evening. Miss Hartshorn was still prostrated.
‘I love it here – it is like a little sitting-room. Like a home.’
There were beaded cushions, and brass ornaments neatly set out, and an Indian spread over the plain ship’s blankets, there was a little canvas stool and an embroidery frame, a crucifix on a stand with a religious picture beside, rows of books, and a little spirit stove on which Miss Lovelady had made tea. And a fruit cake, and shortbread in tins. All through the late afternoon and evening and again in the morning, walking out on deck or when the weather calmed, sitting there once again, they had talked. Kitty had talked about home and her childhood and about herself, her plans, feelings, longings, bewilderments, desires. She had told stories, about the friends in Calcutta, and life at the club, and poured out her anger, at the cruelties of India. She had never talked so much, or so intimately, never wished to do so, before.
And Miss Lovelady had listened, and nodded and sometimes spoken. But mostly, let her have her head, and only sat, sewing.
Books had been discussed, too, taken down and riffled through. But it was not like the lessons with Miss Hartshorn.
‘Have you read Pilgrim’s Progress? Do you know Stevenson? Kidnapped? Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde? I feel you would so enjoy something that stirs the blood! Such storytelling! And then you should be ready for Dickens now, you have such a passionate heart, Kitty, such a sense of injustice. You would find so much fuel for your righteous indignation in the pages of Dickens – oh, and such vigour and humour. Such life!’
But several times a day, she had admonished Kitty to return to Miss Hartshorn.
‘She may need something – or else just want your company. She may be feeling a little better, now that the storm has subsided. You must be sure to attend to her, Kitty.’
For Miss Lovelady was strict in her sense of duty, and Kitty was not to be indulged.
But Miss Hartshorn lay, drained and weak after the appalling bouts of sickness, and wanted nothing. Though she resented the presence of Miss Lovelady and the holds she had on the girl’s attention, she would have liked Kitty here, in the cabin, quietly sitting. But did not know how to insist.
Miss Lovelady had cards. She taught Kitty the game of piquet, and then they played, engrossed, for hours, at the same time listening to operetta and the music of military bands on an old wind-up gramophone.
She talked only a very little of her own life in India, the country in which she had lived and worked for thirty-two years. There had been long spells at various mission stations, in the Hills, and very remote places. She had loved it completely, and unreservedly, had never had a day’s unhappiness, she had loved everything about the country, the people, the life.
She would never see it again. The pain of that thought was the greatest she had ever had to bear. She could not bear it. And so, it was easier, not to think, not to speak.
‘I shall be interested to see the house in Norfolk again,’ she said, ‘we spent holidays there, when I was a child. I wonder if I remember it aright?’
And looked at Kitty, across the cabin, and Kitty seemed to her to shine like an angel, all innocence and hope.
‘And you have everything before you!’
Kitty looked up, hearing the note in her voice, and smiled. But did not, of course, fully understand.
Only that night, for a long time she could not sleep. But lay, aware of the gentle motion of the ship, and thought of Miss Lovelady and how it must be for her, and perhaps realised, then, the extent of her loneliness. And, she herself seemed to be looking from some great height at her own future life, which was spread out like a new country below her.
She felt herself, and yet not herself at all. And then thought quite calmly of home, and saw that, too, as if it were a picture being unrolled, saw the house, the gardens, and the fountains arching up and over and against the immaculate sky. Her mother, walking elegantly. And she was suspended here, between them, and had no part in any of it, but she was perfectly calm, perfectly content.
The ship creaked and settled within itself, sailing on.
In the opposite bunk, Miss Hartshorn, still weak, her limbs aching, thought of nothing, nothing at all.
Kitty slept.
And in her sleep, in her dreams, Editha Lovelady wandered about the house in Norfolk, went from room to room without faltering, and found that she remembered it all perfectly, and in every detail, it was simply as it had always been, and nothing was forgotten, the grittiness of the sand on the floor of the hall, and the soft, pale mounds of it, pushed into the crevices of her shoes, as she slipped them on, and the muddle of nets and walking-sticks and racquets half propped, half fallen over, in the green painted porch.
As she moved about the house, she opened windows to let in the sunlight, and the sea air, for although she was alone, in her dream they were all expected, everyone was coming down.
She took down books from shelves, old, faded story-books, and banged them. But there was scarcely any dust, there had never been dust here.
Beyond the windows, the short front garden and the path that led onto the lane and the lane that led down to the flat shingle, pale pebbles stretching all the way to the rim of the sea. The smell of the sea, and the sea-shore, pungent, salt, came to her nostrils. On the sandy patch of front lawn, a solitary grey plover, running, stopping, running, stopping, making its little, low whistle.
But it seemed in her dream that she waited alone in the house for hours, going from room to empty room, and that no one came after all, and the tide lay far out, far out, and she knew no way of reaching it.
In corners and cracks, spiders’ webs, and the nests of tiny mice. And when she touched a curtain to draw it back, the faded fabric fell apart, soft as a cloud of powder in her hand.
Waking the following morning, Miss Hartshorn felt better, able to sit up and wash and perhaps even to eat a little breakfast. Later, she might dress and sit in the chair. So that Kitty was obliged to remain with her, to talk and ring for tea, and tidy the cabin a little.
Beyond the porthole, sky and sea were limpid blue with scarcely a blur between.
But at eleven o’clock, she was able to escape, for Miss Hartshorn was very weak after all, she must lie down again on her bunk and rest, though the sickness had gone.
There was a good deal of activity on the ship, people about on deck to enjoy the air again, for it was warm now, a calm spring sunshine.
But the passage that led to Miss Lovelady’s cabin was quite silent, quite deserted, and when Kitty walked down it, a steward barred her way. For Miss Lovelady was dead. Had died in her sleep, in her dreams of wandering from room to room of the house in Norfolk.
Kitty stumbled back, up the iron staircase, and stood on the deck, staring, staring blindly, at the unbroken surface of the sea.
In India, there had always been death, casual death, anywhere, all around her, she had lived with it, grown up with it, and it had scarcely touched her. Eleanor had visited the woman with the dead baby, and there had been other women, with other children, dead of some sudden sickness; a friend at the club had died of smallpox and Father’s clerk had fallen down dead of apoplexy, there were bodies, sometimes, in the ditches, on the streets, and the wailing from funerals and the smoke from the pyres hanging acrid on the hot air, and sometimes the bodies were removed and sometimes they rotted.
But still it had never truly touched her, never caused her heart to falter in its beating, its chill had never rested upon her.
Editha Lovelady had been her friend for four days, she had found
In so far as it was possible, Kitty had even loved her.
And all the doors she had opened still stood so, giving onto new rooms, new worlds.
But she herself was dead, and they would never talk again. An image of the dumpy body, of the pincushion, of grey streaked hair, lying still and stiff on the bunk – was she on the bunk, was she still in the cabin at all? – stood between Kitty and the view before her.
And Miss Lovelady had been alone, entirely alone.
‘I would have wanted to die there, in India. But we cannot choose.’
Kitty began to shake, so that she was forced to hold her hands together tightly until the bones cracked.
She felt terribly afraid, as though she herself might dissolve and disintegrate.
People sat, or stood at the rail, in pairs and little groups, murmuring. People knew. But no one looked at her, no one spoke.
‘What will happen? Oh, what will happen?’ she wanted to cry out to someone. But only stood, her throat constricted, and did not, could not, move one step or speak at all.
‘What will happen to her?’
For she had not the least idea.
It was all over rather quickly. It seemed that the death had scarcely been discovered than it was dealt with, for it caused a shadow to fall across the ship, it discomforted them. It was best got out of the way.
Miss Hartshorn did not feel able to attend. And would have prevented Kitty but did not know how, felt helpless, weak. Afraid, perhaps.
The funeral was at four o’clock in the afternoon.
People kept away, on the other side of the ship, out of respect, or embarrassment. And because a death, an unexpected, shocking death, is an intrusion, it casts a shadow.
But a few gathered, officials, the chief steward, the chaplain, black as a crow, and another missionary, a Mrs Fanshawe, with her mother, appearing from somewhere. (They had never spoken to Miss Lovelady, nor even been aware of her. Only, hearing of her death, it seemed a duty, to attend.)
Kitty stood apart and alone in the sunshine, and her mouth felt cracked and dry. She was terribly afraid. Thought that she might faint. But did not.
The ship’s engine was stilled.
Somewhere below, a small child, crying, crying.
‘We therefore commit her body to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body (when the sea shall give up its dead) and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ.’
No, she would have cried out, oh, oh no, wanted to lunge forward and somehow hold back the grey bundle, for the sight of it filled her with horror and dread, and anger, a terrible anger.
No, I am here, you shan’t go, you are not alone, they must not, no.
But she did not speak or move, and Miss Lovelady, shrouded, quite alone, slipped over the side and was gone and the ship scarcely paused, scarcely faltered in its step, the smooth surface of the water was scarcely broken.
The sun went on palely shining.
In the night, Kitty awoke, trembling, and in the end, got up and went out into the cool, still night, and stood in a corner of the deck.
Who am I? she thought in panic. Who am I? For it seemed sure that she was no longer the person she had always been, the familiar child. Death had touched her, and changed her for ever, it had awakened her irrevocably to the knowledge of mortality, her own most of all. I will die, she thought, over and over again, I will die. She touched her own flesh for reassurance, but received none. And the vision of Miss Lovelady’s grey body slipping into the water remained before her eyes and would not fade. She felt loss and grief, and all the things she might have spoken of, or might have asked and told the dumpy woman in her crowded, reassuring cabin, swirled about like a snowstorm inside her head, and would not settle. Most of all, she would have told how she felt now, the fear, the anger, the sense of betrayal, most of all, she felt infinitely betrayed, but did not know by what, by whom.
Above her head, the night sky was clouded, there were no stars.
In the cabin, undisturbed, Miss Hartshorn slept.
4
DRESSING TO go out (for it is her forty-first birthday, they are to dine at the club), Eleanor holds up a scarf of crimson tulle, and for a second, it veils the light and she sees the world as rose-coloured, softened, comforting, and is reminded of some scene from the past, from deepest childhood, and a rose-red shade or curtain, drawn against the light, and her mother coming in to soothe her.
And is Kitty reminded, and in some such chance and casual way, of her?
But the scarf falls, floats down onto her open palm, and rests there, and it is too hot for the late afternoon, the weather has changed. She thinks wearily of all the business of getting ready for the move to the Hills.
5
BUT INDIA might never have existed, except in dreams. And the afternoon darkened to evening and night, and a light drizzle began to fall, but still, Kitty stood on deck, watching, waiting. And Miss Hartshorn waited, too, but did not watch, only stared at the floor, alone in the cabin, surrounded by boxes and cases, packed and strapped.
Then, the door blowing suddenly open, brought in the smell of rain and river and docks, of Home, and she was filled with joy, joy and then dread. But still, she wanted to jump up and go to join Kitty on the deck, and embrace her and stand watching with her. But did not.
In Miss Lovelady’s locked cabin, all the things that had belonged to her, the remains of her existence, waited for no one and were of no significance now. What will happen to them, whose are they, Kitty would have asked; and she thought, ridiculously, of the fruit cake, and the fingers of shortbread in their tins, and the row of brown, sensible shoes. But she could not bring herself to speak about any of it, and whoever would know?
And the house in Norfolk waited, too, windows tightly closed, yet the spring gales battered at them and loosened the locks, and inside, the floorboards moved, curtains shifted, and then, stillness and silence again, and the empty rooms waited. But for whom, for what?
Kitty’s eyes smarted, with tiredness and watching, her body felt cramped and stiff, but she could only be taut, alert, it was not possible to relax.
On the quayside, the lamps shone fuzzily here and there through haloes of rain and gleamed in pools on the ground. There was the usual clangour, as the great ship edged in.
Florence stood, under a corrugated metal overhang, sheltering from the rain and the bitter wind, and waited alone, for Kitty.
For there had been a moment when she had allowed herself to look the likely truth of things full in the face, and acknowledge it absolutely, like pulling aside a curtain and staring, just once, straight into a mirror before drawing back.
The truth was, that he would not marry her, that he had no interest in her at all. (But nor had he in any other woman. He would never marry. She might take comfort from that.) She might plot and determine, but her own wants counted for nothing, and had no power.
He would avoid speaking to her, encountering her in any way, if he could. And suddenly, the frustration of it had worn her down. (Though as soon as she had glimpsed and admitted the truth, she had turned aside, and could not bear it, she allowed new hope to flicker up from somewhere, and cupped her hands around it tenderly, shielding it like a weak and fitful flame.)
Well, but at least she had a status, she had been a married woman. When she looked at the other women about her, in their society, that too was a comfort.
So she had determined to throw herself completely into the business of looking after Eleanor’s child, and planning out her education. For she had surely some maternal instinct which would serve. And so, for several weeks, she had gone energetically about, letters had been written, visits made.
There were to be classe
Then, she supposed, religious studies, about which, surely, it would be perfectly in order to consult him?
There must be visits to London, too, to the museums and the galleries, perhaps even, from time to time, to suitable plays. (‘She will want more than that. Young girls do nowadays. She ought to be sent to a proper school, she will need to mix with friends of her own age. It is all very different from when you were young.’ So said old Mrs Gray. But was not particularly attended to.)
The room was got ready, a very nice room, Georgiana had said so. It was at the top of the house, long and low, with a window at either end. They had chosen pretty new curtains and a wallpaper. There were painted bookcases, and a small armchair, and the chimney had been swept out to allow a fire to be burned in the grate again.
Beyond the windows the Backs, the meadows, the river, and on the other side, all the rooftops of Cambridge, and the great college tower, whose bells would tumble her awake.
And a mirror on the dressing-table and a desk and chair and a new quilted cover on the bed.
It is what this house has lacked, Florence thought, looking round at last, young footsteps on the stairs, a lighter, brighter voice, energy, interest, eagerness. It is what I have needed. For she had never had anyone but her mother to care for or take trouble over.
She will bring a breath of fresh air into our dreary lives.
6
THE WIND blew, great gales marauding across the bare land. Branches of trees snapped off and whirled away.