WELCOME STRANGER Read online

  ‘And this is your room, darling,’ Judith said, after they had clambered up narrow stairs to the second floor. In her own home, Alice had been rebuked for being possessive when she first demanded a room of her own. Here, where the relationships were so much more fragile, the room must be conceded without argument. It was small, with a tiny casement window, irregular walls and sloping floor. Alice guessed it really was her own room, since the other stepchildren were married and would require a larger room.

  ‘It’s just the sort of place I love,’ she said, and was touched to see how much this pleased her mother, who had not hitherto been very dependent on appreciation.

  ‘We’ve squeezed a desk in there so that you can write your books.’

  That will put paid to my writing a single line, Alice thought, her throat aching for the relief of tears.

  Fortunately, the telephone rang and Judith hurried away to answer it. A few minutes later, when she came on to the landing to go to the bathroom, Alice heard Austin saying, ‘What! All my pretty chickens . . . At one fell swoop?’ Judith replied, ‘Don’t be silly,’ in a tone Alice remembered from childhood.

  There seemed to be no one about when she came downstairs. Here was a house where one felt one could stroll out at any time without giving offence to one’s hosts. This made whatever tensions there might be bearable; but it also imposed no obligation to come to terms with problems. No doubt Austin subscribed to the comfortable masculine belief that, left long enough, problems will sort themselves out. He rescued Alice from the hall and led her into his study. ‘It’s warmer in here, and we haven’t enough fuel for fires at this time of the year.’

  Judith told her that Claire had telephoned. She and Terence were coming for the day tomorrow, and Louise would probably come with them. They had a glass of sherry, then Judith went to prepare lunch which, it seemed, had replaced dinner as the midday meal. Alice was relieved when Austin led them into the dining-room. At least they would not be expected to eat with food balanced on their knees, a procedure which had been equated with ungodliness in the Fairley household. This proved the only concession to God. No grace was said. Alice had frequently grumbled about these rituals, but nevertheless expected her mother to be the guardian of tradition. The conversation at table was general, which suited Austin who could talk with ease on a range of subjects. Conversationally, he had perfect pitch. Alice felt it was important to strike the right note. She would be very embarrassed were she to say anything which jarred on the ear. He would think her disharmonies charming because of her youth, but this would not prevent his commenting on them in an amused manner after she had gone. Austin would have been surprised had he realised how exactly she judged the situation.

  In other ways, her assessment was less accurate. Because he seemed to her to be so urbane, she could not imagine him to have feelings. She thought him cold, a man with many layers between himself and reality. She noticed that her mother was subdued, eyeing her husband thoughtfully as if testing his mood. It did not occur to Alice that this was a natural consequence of introducing a stepdaughter to the house.

  As her contribution to table-talk, Alice described rehearsals for Asmodée. Austin did not know the play, but said it sounded like The House of Bernarda Alba, which Alice did not know. Judith said to Austin, ‘You must take me to the theatre. This is something I have missed.’ Alice wondered how she could be so disloyal.

  ‘I always feel rather sorry for playwrights,’ Austin said, although in fact this had not much occupied his thoughts. ‘The novelist can speak directly to the reader, but the playwright has to rely on interpretation.’

  ‘I think the actor who plays Asmodée isn’t suited to the part,’ Alice said. This was one statement she could make with assurance, since Austin did not know either play or player.

  ‘Not sufficient of a devil?’ He knew about that.

  ‘I think Jacov might do it very well,’ Alice said to her mother.

  There was a pause while Judith explained Jacov Vaseyelin to Austin. ‘He was our next-door neighbour. It was his mother who was killed with Stanley when the bomb came down.’ She went on quickly, ‘I can’t see Jacov playing the devil with anyone. He isn’t nearly forceful enough.’

  ‘But can you imagine ever being in a room and not noticing that Jacov was there? I think the actor who plays the part must convey a certain depth . . .’

  ‘And Jacov has depth?’ Austin asked.

  ‘Like a well has depth.’

  ‘Alice,’ Judith said to Austin, ‘is the thinker of my children.’

  Austin raised his eyebrows. Alice thought he was querying the statement, as well he might; but, in fact, he thought the remark ill-judged.

  Conversation petered out. It was Ben who unwittingly came to the rescue. He saw no need to match Austin’s urbanity. As the meal progressed he administered a series of sharp jolts to the precarious calm, taking upon himself the role of scapegoat, becoming the outward expression of the anxieties and frustrations of those around him. He was by turns vehement and taciturn, as awkward in his change of temper as he had been in changing gear. Austin, watching this performance with a wincing compassion, accommodated himself to the unpredictable swings of Ben’s mood. His behaviour towards Ben puzzled Alice until she noticed the photographs on the sideboard and remembered that Austin had had a son who was killed at Dunkirk. Her mother had told her that, after his wife died, he had brought the children up himself, hindered rather than aided by a series of amorous housekeepers. He had refused to send them away to boarding school. ‘Because they had lost their mother, seemed to me no reason why they should then lose their father.’ The death of the son whom he had so cherished must have come very hard.

  After lunch, Judith took Alice into the garden while, surprisingly, Austin and Ben washed up. Judith was entranced by her garden and led Alice round the borders introducing her to every shrub, clipping, weeding, adjusting stakes as she went along.

  ‘Do you remember the garden in our Sussex home?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course I remember,’ Alice said indignantly. ‘I was eight when we moved to London.’

  ‘So you were! You and Claire made up a game about a house in Sussex, didn’t you?’

  Alice remembered the dream house they had constructed to console themselves amid the dreariness of Shepherd’s Bush. It had been similar to this house. How strange they would have thought it had they known it was their mother who would inherit their dream!

  Alice had longed to have a close emotional talk with her mother, but instead she became engrossed in weeding and tending the plants. By the end of the afternoon she was surprised to realise how much she had enjoyed herself.

  ‘We’ll make tea,’ Judith said. ‘I expect the men are talking about those drawings. Austin says they won’t make money, but he is staggered by them.’

  ‘So he won’t publish?’

  ‘Oh yes. He says there are some losses a firm must be prepared to bear if it really cares about books.’

  ‘Bully for him!’ Alice said grudgingly.

  ‘Those drawings mean a lot to Ben. And I can understand why now that I have seen them.’

  ‘I don’t want to see them.’ Alice had made herself watch the films of the Belsen concentration camp, and this was horror enough for the present. As she watched, she had soon given up any hope of discovering Katia. Even had she survived, there would have been no possibility of recognising the busty schoolgirl among the moving heaps of bone. Afterwards, Alice had known that life would never be quite the same again because the knowledge that people could do this to one another would always be there.

  In the study, Ben was saying, ‘About the captions. I can see that, particularly in the early drawings, they don’t always fit Geoffrey’s conception . . .’

  Austin shook his head. ‘No alterations! The difference enhances the drawings. One is aware of two people who are very unalike at the beginning. And one of the rewards is tracing how they gradually come together . . .’

  ‘I was
the one who came.’

  ‘No. There is more bite in those drawings towards the end. Hadn’t you noticed? Let me show you . . .’

  Later, when they had finished looking at the drawings, Austin said, ‘You’ve never thought of writing professionally?’

  ‘Not seriously. Should I?’

  Austin sat hunched over the table, arms crossed, head down as he thought about this. His son had done some quite respectable engravings. Austin had worried as to whether he was talented enough to earn a comfortable living. Now, when the knowledge was irrelevant, he knew that the realisation of even the smallest gift is more important than comfort, provided a man is able to accept his limitations. He did not know whether Ben had sufficient humility for that.

  ‘You can turn a phrase effectively. It might be worth having a try. Don’t dismiss it out of hand because it isn’t profitable.’

  ‘I’m in local government at the moment – with London County Council. I need all the money I can get if I’m going to escape from that.’

  Austin looked across the book-lined room to the window with its view over cool green lawn to the Downs now swathed in blue muslin. ‘I must seem to live rather well to you, so probably this advice will come amiss. But, believe me, money doesn’t buy much that is worthwhile. It only makes mediocrity more bearable.’

  Ben, physically weakened and lacking belief in himself, was not in a state to contemplate risk-taking. Who knew but that the mediocrity might not reside in himself rather than his situation?

  Judith called that tea was ready and they went into the kitchen which was pleasantly warmed by the heat of the oven. The rest of the day passed quietly. Alice discovered that one of the advantages of having dinner was that its preparation and consumption filled that time in the evening when darkness draws people indoors to seek one another’s company. When the meal was over, she insisted on washing up and Ben, who looked very tired, went to bed. Austin retired to his study. Judith, judging by the banging of doors and creaking of boards, had tasks to perform in various parts of the house. Alice, valuing this time of solitude, thought it just possible she might come to enjoy visits here, although, of course, she would never regard it as home.

  Later, in her bedroom, she opened the little window and leant out to breathe in the night air. She could see the light of solitary cottages here and there – a good sight, after so many years of darkened windows. It was a moonless night, and she could only just make out the line of shrubs at the end of the garden. Beyond, although she could not see them now, were open fields and she imagined the breeze brought the earthy smell of them into the room. She hoped that one day she might live in the country again. Her mother and sisters were getting on with their lives. If only hers would begin!

  The next day she went with her mother to chapel, and then to the station to meet the new arrivals. Claire hove into sight like a galleon, the loose clothes billowing before her, while Terence bobbed protectively around her, the sun flashing signals from his hornrimmed glasses. Louise was not with them.

  ‘When is the baby due?’ Alice asked her mother.

  ‘Not until July.’

  ‘Goodness!’

  After she had been eased into the car, Terence told them how astonishingly well Claire was, and Claire said what a pity it was that most women had forgotten that childbearing was natural. Her red hair was more fiery than ever, and her usually pale face glowed with health and contentment.

  ‘I wondered if I should call on Uncle Harry – after all, they live quite near,’ she said.

  Judith thought it ominous that she refrained from mentioning her Aunt Meg. Claire had a habit of eliminating those people who had offended her. One might have thought Meg to have the greater cause for offence, since Harry had been unduly fond of Claire.

  ‘You can telephone Aunt Meg and see if it is convenient for you to go. I have no idea what she will say. She hasn’t been in touch with me since I came down here.’

  Claire looked bewildered, as if the mention of Aunt Meg was an irrelevance. She said, ‘I’m sure Harry would like to see me.’

  ‘If Aunt Meg agrees, you can certainly go. But you won’t be able to do anything else,’ Judith told her. ‘We only have a limited amount of petrol, and Austin was planning to take you up on the Downs after lunch.’

  Claire, who hated being presented with choices, appealed to Terence. ‘What do you think I should do?’ But Terence had no wish to solve this particular problem for her. As far as he was concerned, he had enough to cope with in the way of family without the introduction of Uncle Harry, who, he gathered, had been Claire’s guide and mentor. Terence was disposed to dislike Uncle Harry.

  ‘How does Austin manage to get petrol?’ he asked Judith. He found the Rover offensive enough, without black market implications.

  ‘We’ve been saving it up for this weekend. Usually, Austin cycles to the station. He’s rather proud of how fit it makes him feel! And I think he enjoys the incongruity of the briefcase strapped to the handlebars. At first, he insisted on carrying manuscripts in a canvas bag – but after one was almost ruined in a hail storm he had to give that up.’

  They had left the town behind. Terence looked towards the green flanks of the Downs, smooth as if a sculptor’s hand had stroked them into being. ‘I came here on a scout camp once,’ he said. ‘There was a little winding path that led up and over, somewhere beyond the Bo Peep farm.’ He had been wet and cold and miserable, but now saw the experience in a more heroic light.

  ‘There are several ways up,’ Judith said. ‘Austin was planning to take you to Firle Beacon. It will mean a bit of a walk, but Claire could stay in the car . . .’

  ‘No, I can walk, provided we take it slowly.’

  ‘You must have your rest,’ Terence admonished.

  ‘It won’t hurt to miss it once in a way.’ She would take deep breaths of pure hill air and store them in her lungs against her return to murky Hammersmith.

  Terence was silent, afraid that if he argued she would revert to her intention of visiting Uncle Harry. Alice, who had the same fear and very much wanted to go to Firle Beacon, changed the subject. ‘How are things at school?’ Terence was teaching. As his subject was economics he had had to go into a grammar school where he taught social and economic history at sixth-form level. ‘The children are all right – very dutiful and middle-class, of course, like so many peas in a pod. But the staff are intolerable. They spend more time arguing about the effects of the 1944 Education Act than anything else. They are terrified of finding themselves in a school where they really have to teach!

  Claire made the explanation she always deemed necessary when Terence’s school work was mentioned. ‘He’s only going to do it for a little while, until he has made his name in journalism.’ How this was to come about was never clear, since he did not seem to be doing much in the way of writing. He appeared, however, to have the answer to most of the problems facing the country, so there was no doubting his vocation.

  Ben was in the garden clipping the hedge when they arrived. ‘You look as if you’ll give birth to a double bass!’ he greeted Claire affectionately,

  ‘Triplets,’ Terence asserted with pride.

  Over lunch Terence asked Austin what was going on in the publishing world, and then told him what he should be concentrating on. He then asked Alice about her work, which led to his giving a lecture on the need to abolish all private education. He had in fact been to a county grammar school himself, but he spoke as one of the severely under-privileged.

  ‘I agree with you, of course,’ Austin said mildly. ‘I only hope we shan’t be in too much of a hurry. If we are planning to do away with all forms of selection, I would have thought we would need to think very carefully about how we are going to provide such subjects as Latin and Greek . . .’

  ‘How many schools in fact teach Greek?’ Terence leant forward as he asked this question, stabbing the table with his fork. ‘And to how many pupils, answer me that?’

  ‘Terence is so passio
nate in his beliefs,’ Claire whispered to Alice.

  Ben, who was not much impressed by Terence’s passion, said, ‘What I find incomprehensible is all this nonsense about secondary modern schools.’

  ‘An interim stage.’ Terence flicked aside Ben’s remark, irritated at being interrupted.

  ‘Interim nothing. These are the old elementary schools given a different name – same buildings, same staff . . .’

  ‘You can’t work miracles overnight.’

  ‘Isn’t that just the point Austin was making?’

  ‘He was talking about Greek . . .’

  ‘And if they think they can work miracles just by raising the school leaving age and calling old, out-of-date schools “modern”. . . .’

  The argument continued throughout the meal.

  ‘Ben is very opinionated, isn’t he?’ Claire said to Alice when they had a few moments alone while they were clearing the table. ‘I suppose one has to make allowances, after all he has been through.’

  Ben’s raised voice could be heard in the garden. Alice was acutely conscious of Ben, who seemed to rub on her nerves like emery paper. Yet although he provoked and disturbed her, she was quick to answer any criticism of him, and became angry if he was belittled. The Cornish being a clannish folk, Alice had a lot of distant relatives whose kinship would scarcely be acknowledged elsewhere. She had not been aware of her third cousin, Ben Sherman, until she was twelve and had been allowed to go alone to stay with Granny and Grandpa Tippet in Falmouth. Ben, who had recently lost his mother, had also been staying with the Tippets. He had been her discovery and she had been possessive about him ever since. Over the years he had been the recipient of her confidences, and although not always a sympathetic listener, he had usually taken her seriously. She repaid his interest with her loyalty.