And then she told him, every detail. About the day before, as she had walked home from Thefton and seen the world transformed, about the rose-quartz and the quiet evening with Ben, and then how it had been, without any warning, in the garden.
‘I knew,’ she said.
The room was quite dark now.
‘Where did they take him? Who took him? Who touched him?’
‘The doctor – Doctor Lewis from Thefton. We moved him, after the doctor had done. I lifted him up myself – with Carter. We carried him down to the lane and put him into the trap. That was all. There was nothing else for us to do after that.’
‘And then everyone heard about it, everyone knew, the Bryces and all the village, everyone … But I knew it first. I knew the same moment. How did I know?’
‘It happens. Things happen between two people.’
Ruth said, ‘I didn’t see him … when he was dead. They all saw him, at the house, they went up and stared at him. And I didn’t. I was afraid. I didn’t want to see what he looked like. I wish I had now.’
‘But you’ve got what you need, to remember. You have that, Ruth.’
‘If I’d seen him … You said it wasn’t his face?’
‘I’ve told you the truth. You’ve a right to know it. I’ve told you how it was.’
‘I don’t want to have my feelings spared.’
‘You’ve not had that.’
‘No.’ She looked at Potter. ‘And now…’
She was aware of a change in the room, because at last, there was the truth, and nothing left to know and because she had shared it with him and she saw exactly how it had been for him, too. Something lay between them like a fine thread which could never break. Potter. He had held on to all this knowledge, all these truths and memories and feelings, kept them for her until she was ready to receive them.
‘Now …’ But she did not know what she could say about now, about the present or the future, about Ben, about herself. And his body had been lying on the ground, the life crushed under the weight of the fallen tree, and the blood staining his clothes and seeping away into the soil. But not his face.
Without any warning, the tears rose up and broke out of her, and Potter sat on his chair, saying nothing, and yet being a comfort to her, taking some of her grief on to himself. She wept as she had never wept before in front of any human being and it was a good thing to do, it was of more value than all the months of solitary mourning. It brought something else to an end.
*
Potter prepared a meal for them both, cold beef and bread and pickles, and although Ruth said she could eat nothing, when she tasted the pink, moist meat, she found that she was ravenously hungry. Potter watched her.
‘You should eat. It’s not good to neglect yourself. It’s not what he’d have wanted.’
And she was not angry or resentful, as she had been at the beginning, when people had told her what Ben would have said or thought or wanted. Potter was right and she accepted it and the concern which had made him speak.
She looked down at her empty plate. This was the first time that she had shared a meal with anyone at all, even Jo, since Ben’s death. Somehow, Potter had brought her out of herself, though he had not talked very much, after he had finished the story of that day. She wanted to ask him, now, whether he minded being alone here, how he lived, for perhaps there was some secret that he might teach her, a knack to it. It was how her own life would be, and for good, she was sure of that. She would be alone, and must make the best of it. But she could not bring herself to pry, as others might, and she feared to offend him.
She got up. She would go home, she said, and he walked with her over the common, the dog bounding away ahead of them.
‘I’m glad I came. I’m glad you told me – told me all of it.’
‘You’ve to live with it now. It won’t be something you can forget.’
‘I don’t want to forget.’
‘If I’d not told you the truth, you’d have imagined worse.’
‘Yes.’
Oh, and she had, she had, her dreams, waking and sleeping, had been full of the sight of Ben, with his face crushed and broken, altogether changed, and dying slowly under the weight of the tree, screaming out in pain, alone. Well, it had not been as bad as that and perhaps she could live with the truth.
Potter said, ‘I’ll look out for you. When I go by, I’ll look out.’
But she knew that he would never intrude.
He called back the dog, and she stood just inside the gate hearing his footsteps go away. It was a warm night and clear, and as she looked up, she remembered that Ben had tried to teach her about the stars, had told her their names. He said, ‘It’s easy. It’s like a town you get to know – streets you could walk through. When you’ve looked often enough, it’s easy.’
But the pattern of the sky had never been clear to her, each night the stars seemed to have shifted their places, they were like flowers strewn about anyhow in a meadow. She had liked their names. Ben had written some of them down for her and she had spoken them aloud to herself, for pleasure.
Perseus. The whirlpool. Nebula. Ursa Major. Auriga, the Charioteer. Eridanus, the river. Camelopardum. The Pleiades…
Yet even as a small child, she had not believed, as others did, that heaven was in the stars, up and up above her, for there was something that frightened her in the night sky, a coldness, with only air rushing through the dark spaces between. No, she had always sensed that heaven was no further away than the tips of her own fingers, and if she were given eyes to see, it would be there, all about her and astonishingly familiar. She felt it now. If she reached out
She dropped her hand to her side. She could not do it. She could only wait, live her life as best she might. And today had been important, something had been achieved, some step taken.
She went down the garden to put away the hens.
11
SHE WONDERED SOMETIMES if she had been alive at all, during those years before she met Ben. For it seemed that he had taught her all she knew, and she had depended upon that and never doubted or questioned what he told her, she had had no cause to think independently. And now she must. But still, as autumn spread out its hands and covered the countryside, everything she saw and heard and recognised and knew by name, had come from Ben. She supposed that she must have been aware of the changed time and weather, from season to season, during the years at home with her father, but she could remember nothing of them, the flat land and sky and estuary had only been a pale backdrop to her everyday, closed-up life. Coming here, she had been born into a new world, she had gained the use of eyes and ears, had discovered how to smell and taste and touch. Some said that only in childhood were all the senses free and sharp, but that had not been true for her. She had been a chrysalis muffled in an opaque, papery shroud and it was Ben who had awakened her.
After the evening with Potter, she slipped back again into that slow rhythm of living, which she had grown used to since the late spring; she slept and worked and ate alone, and the days passed, each so like the last that she could not tell whether it was Monday or Friday. But she was rested, she no longer wept for part of every single day and night, though tears would still overtake her abruptly in the middle of doing some job, while she was not even consciously remembering or missing Ben.
She was not happy, but neither was she truly unhappy. She existed. And the colours and sounds changed, the evenings drew in a little like shadows and the early morning smelled raw, at night, it was cold.
Jo came, walking all the way up to the cottage from school, but not every day now. She saw no one else, except the man who brought the sewing from Rydal, and Potter once or twice, as he passed by the gate, or went over the common with the dog, and paused, looked for her and lifted his stick in greeting. But he did not come near.
The trees darkened to rust and brown, or paled to topaz yellow, though some lingered, a dull green. Hips and haws reddened in the hedgerows, and on the common and alo
ng the lanes the blackberries ripened slowly to the colour of wine, and sloes to slate and indigo blue. She thought of all the things she might do – gather crab apples and strain them to make jelly, and sloes for gin, buy windfall pears from Rydal and bottle them. During the two previous autumns, Ben had taught her what to look for, which fruits to gather and when, and how to transform them into the juices and jams, clear and thick in their glass jars. But she only picked a handful of blackberries now and then, and ate them raw, spitting out those which were still hard and sour. For where was the point of taking the basket and filling it and spending hours in the kitchen, where there would be no one but herself to eat and enjoy what she made, through the coming winter? She supposed that she might sell things and make a little more money. But she did not.
She sat in the garden or walked across the fields and into the wood, which was very still, very dark and smelling of decay, she went down as far as the river and stared into it and all through these days, felt that she was the still centre of a disintegrating world. Birds gathered and fell in flocks down through the sky like confetti, ready to fly south, others, the bramblings and fieldfares, would come; bevies of lapwings and partridge followed the plough as it turned over the soil of the fields and left it brown. There was no longer any singing, only the low, peevish chatter of jays and magpies. Wood pigeons huddled silent among the dying trees and grasshoppers hid in silence, close to the ground.
But still, in the middle of the day, the sun shone, it was warm and dry, and the farmers and gardeners were uneasy, the cattle inert, prayers were said in the church for rain.
12
BUT ALWAYS, IT was the woods which drew her, she rarely walked in the open fields now, or up and over the ridge, and as September ripened and trailed away into the next month, the air that hung about the trees was close and still and there was a slow fermentation of leaves and soil and fruits and fungus, a dampness which came from mists and dew, but which seemed rather to be sweat forced out of pores in the bark. She was half-afraid of the sweet smell of decay, and the silence everywhere. But as the first leaves dried up and fell, there were gaps through which the sun shone, as in early spring, and sycamore wings came spinning slowly down the beams of light.
The heavy sleep of the early weeks after Ben’s death had given way to disturbed restless nights, when she seemed always to be just on the brink of consciousness and disconnected images and sounds streamed through her head. She got up early, and looked at herself in the glass and saw fine, pale patches beneath her eyes, though her skin was tanned after all the days of sun. She said, I am older. And indeed, her face had altered, the roundness and blurred outlines of childhood were sharpening, her bone structure was defined. Was twenty old or young? She could not tell.
Now, she turned over in bed and opened her eyes and the room was still dark, but she knew that she would not sleep again, and although the air was cold, her skin, and sheets and blankets seemed to be burning. She got up and went to the window, and saw that it was that dead time between the end of night and the beginning of morning.
She went out. Silence. Stillness. It was what she was so used to, she was never afraid; though why she needed to come out like this and walk down through the lanes and into the woods alone, she did not know, for it tired her, the country was cold and lifeless, she saw nothing, heard nothing, except the sound of her own footsteps and the beating of her own heart. It was a change, though, from the dryness of heat and brightness of the daytime, she could think more clearly.
She went first to Helm Bottom, feeling her way through to the clearing and the fallen elm. Its surface had changed now, soft, spongy fungus had crept over the dead bark, and insects were hidden in the crevices and ran lightly over her hands and in between her fingers. There was a fetid smell.
Death, she thought. For she was surrounded by it, and it was not sudden death, a clean severing of body and soul, as Ben’s death had been; it was slow, stealthy death. What had been growing and full of sap, sprouting and erect, taking over the world, had been overcome and was shrivelling back within itself, there was mould and corruption and fading, things dried and fell, and were gradually blotted up by the moisture from the earth. There had been spring and there would be winter. But then spring again. Death and a new life. She could feel both within herself, as though the old blood was drying out, and giving way to new, though the process had hardly begun. It was change, and she could only let it overtake her, without knowing what might be to come, what emotions and beliefs and experiences would replace those of the past. But they could only grow up out of the soil of that past. So everything had been necessary.
There was a paleness at the edges of the wood, and she sat waiting, as it spread and reached her, so that she could just see the silvery trunks of the surrounding trees. She got up and went on down towards the stream. It had almost dried up, the trickle of water scarcely moved and the stones were silted over with a fine mud.
She wondered how long she would drift, and feel weary, in the heat of the day, and come out here, to sit for hours, or walk slowly between the trees, what would eventually break the pattern and waken something new in her, some desire or hope, and give her the energy to pursue it. There were times when she blamed herself and believed that no change could come about unless she herself willed it and sought after it; and times when she knew that she could do nothing but wait, for something to come from outside and shake her alive.
Certainly, until now she had brought about no real developments in her life by any exercise of her own will; things had happened to her, and she had accepted that, and could not tell if it had been right or wrong, good or bad. She was afraid of taking any initiative with time and circumstance, people and places. She had never done so, because her father had been there, and Ben. No, she would be still, she would simply wait.
The stones of the stream were whitening and the water took on a slight sheen under the strengthening light. And then she heard it, the voice of a man, somewhere behind her in the wood, heard a desperate, broken calling out and sobbing. She did not move, though she was not afraid. But who else would ever come here in the early hours of the morning, to stumble and then halt, then grope forwards again, and all the time letting out such cries, of anger or pain or distress? Who?
She waited by the stream, thinking that the man might come upon her. It had grown a little lighter and then the dawn had settled back on itself, to a greyness, mid-way between dark and day. There was no sun.
The footsteps stopped but the crying went on, muffled now, and coming from somewhere up the slope. It was a harsh noise, with, occasionally, a rasp of breath, in and out. It reminded Ruth of something. Yes, of her own ugly weeping, during those early days and nights.
She began to search. But when, eventually, she did come upon him, she stopped dead, shocked and not daring to go nearer, not understanding. It was Ratheman, the curate. He was sitting on the ground, his knees drawn up and his back bent over, his head down. He was sobbing and clenching and opening his fists over and over again, and his hair was tangled and wild, anyhow about his head. He was muttering something, too, but his words were choked and garbled together, she could not make them out. He had not heard Ruth and she stood there for a long time, anxious and without any idea of what she might do. She noticed that his clothes were crumpled as though he had slept in them, and the trousers were stained with damp, and torn here and there, as they had snagged against briars and branches. She had never in her life seen a man cry. She wanted to go away. But how could she? He was half-mad with some terrible grief, she could not simply walk off and leave him alone. And in the end, she took a few steps forwards. He did not move. A fine rain had begun to drift down.
She said, ‘What is it? Oh, what is it?’
Though her voice was scarcely more than a whisper.
For a moment after he looked up, she knew that he did not see her, did not know where he was or why. His eyes stared, and they were swollen and red, his face was trammelled with lines of tears.
He looked strange, and old, though he was not old. He was not wearing his clerical collar and his neck looked white and dead, as flesh which had never before been exposed to the daylight. He began to shudder, and then shook his head violently. And looked up at Ruth again. He was kneeling, but in silence now. She went up to him. Knelt down.
‘I heard you. I was by the stream and I heard you … what is it?’
He continued to watch her face blankly, and made no effort either to speak, or to wipe his eyes and face. He was huddled up like an animal or a child in great pain. The thin rain was falling without making any sound, but his hair and the shoulders of his coat were beaded with it. Ruth thought, we prayed for rain and here, at last, is an end to the dryness and the endless shining of the sun. She reached out and touched the man’s sleeve.
‘Shall you come home? It’s raining. It’s only six o’clock in the morning. Shall I go home with you?’
And, hearing herself, she realised that she was saying those things which other people had once said to her, and they had made her angry, but now she understood how the words and questions had had to be spoken out, for they were offerings, attempts to share and soften her grief. And she had rejected them.
‘What are you doing here? You? Why are you here?’ He spoke harshly.
‘I – I often come. I wake up and come out to walk. It’s quiet. I usually come here, into the wood. And I heard you. Are you ill?’
He shivered again.
‘Did you hear what I was saying?’
‘No. It wasn’t clear. You were crying out but I couldn’t tell the words.’
‘Crying out. Yes. I was …’
He was very quiet now, and there was no expression in his voice. The rain was falling more heavily, pattering down through the leaves.
‘You shouldn’t sit here. It’s wet. Not here.’
‘No.’ But he did not move. He said, ‘My daughter is dead. Yesterday she was ill, and today she is dead. Today she is dead.’