10

FAR behind us stretched the long road from Dungannon. We tramped on silently through the rain. Lusk had not changed. The chopper still lay in the butcher’s window; the oak tree still stood in the middle of the road, its last tattered leaves moping to the ground.

We stopped by the church gate and tried to dry ourselves on our handkerchiefs. We were silent, horribly aware that the moment had come. We still did not know what we were going to do. The wind howled round us; clouds massed, dark and heavy, against a sky already sunless. I opened my mouth to speak; I closed it again. My mind was a blank. I groaned. Had we come all this way for nothing? Should we return to Cornford to find her still there–and could I be sorry if we did? Which was more bearable? I did not know.

Suddenly, Henry caught my arm and looked at me. I couldn’t understand his expression. Neither, for the moment, could I understand what he meant when he said in a queer, strained voice:

‘Might as well’–and here he paused as though in search of the right words–‘take a look at Lusk church, don’t you think?’

What did he mean? Why did he speak in that unnatural way? I stared at him, knowing dimly that he expected a particular answer from me; that he was playing a game which demanded an accomplice like the game I had played here eleven weeks ago when I had demanded his support.

‘There might be,’ he said slowly, still holding my arm and digging his fingers tightly into it, ‘some old brasses worth looking at.’

Immediately, in a flood of understanding, I knew what he was doing. For a moment all thought of Miss Hargreaves slipped from my mind as I said, with an almost sinister promptitude:

‘I hate brasses.’

I thought I heard him sigh, as though with relief that I had found my cue. Releasing my arm he said in a tone deliberately casual:

‘Well, we can shelter from the rain, anyhow. Come on.’

I followed him up the path. My mind went whirling back through the year; from November to October–from winter to autumn–from autumn to dying summer–to the evening when we had first walked up this path. Vividly the memorable occasion came back to me, the actual words of our conversation becoming clearer and more accurate in my mind. I knew what Henry must say; knew what I must say. Something had inspired him to utter the same words he had spoken that August evening; the words that were responsible for our going into the church; the words that were responsible for–

This was the formula we had wanted, I saw in a flash. And, as in August, Henry had, on an impulse, dragged me into this place, so now, in November, on another impulse, he must do the same. All that we had said then must, as closely as possible, correspond with what we said now. For how long? At what precise point must the repetition be varied? At what precise point must the recapitulation find its coda?

I suddenly realized that Henry was rattling the door of the church. As before, it was locked.

‘Thank God for that!’ I exclaimed, remembering my lines as an actor does when he sees a familiar bit of business on the stage. ‘Let’s get back to Dungannon and have a last binge at the hotel. I detest Lusk.’

‘I’m going to get the key,’ said Henry.

But–I was still asking myself–at what point must we steer another course? All depended on that.

Suddenly, I knew. The lectern. The vital words, the three vital words, that, this time, must not be spoken.

‘It isn’t your church,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s Ireland’s, it says so on the board.’

‘It’s everybody’s church,’ maintained Henry. ‘I’m going to find the sexton.’

We were in the porch, sheets of rain blinding the view from us. Violently I struggled to assemble and control my thoughts. It was not, I knew, speech alone that must correspond; it was thought as well. What had my thoughts been that August evening? I had been depressed; I had been annoyed with Henry; I had been almost hauntedly reluctant to go into the church.

‘Oh, come on, Henry!’ I snarled. ‘We don’t want to go into this horrible church.’

The sexton (thank God!) was running up the path, a cape over his head. Henry went up to him quickly.

‘My friend,’ he said grimly, ‘is very interested in old churches.’

‘Holy God!’ cried the sexton. ‘On a day like this?’

Here was an unexpected variation. Suppose he wouldn’t let us in? Suppose his summer enthusiasm for Mr Archer had waned? Suppose he recognized us?

None of these things happened. Even a vile November afternoon could not cool the one passion of the sexton’s life: the beauty of Lusk church.

He produced the key. With almost the same energy as before he unlocked the door, threw himself upon an inner door, dragged aside the curtains and bade us to enter.

‘A very fine old church,’ he reminded us. ‘Built in 1863.’

We followed him. As before, an empty, hollow feeling rose in me. The building was almost in darkness. The pews rose like loose-boxes round us. Pulpit and lectern crouched under their dust-sheets, the same sheets but more dusty.

I sat down. A great weakness was overcoming me. I felt I should not be able to go through with it any longer. The sexton was walking towards the draped lectern, Henry following him, glancing back nervously at me over his shoulder.

‘You will please to observe the beautiful lettering on the Choir walls. “I saw the Lord . . .”’

Knowing I must go, I rose and dragged myself up towards the Choir. Henry whispered to me, ‘My God! This place is awful!’

The words struck an old chord; struck the melancholy chord out of which I had before developed the theme of the past weeks. My thoughts raced back to August; November was forgotten. I re-experienced the same terrible dreariness of spirit, the same overpowering desire to make the day a memorable one.

I gripped the pew; I closed my eyes.

‘Now, I wish you to observe our beautiful lectern.’ I could hear the slipping aside of the dust-sheet.

‘Unique!’ I forced out the word required.

‘Remarkable!’ echoed Henry.

‘Magnificent!’

‘Bloody!’

‘In a class by itself,’ I muttered hurriedly. Hadn’t he said ‘filthy’ before?

‘Ah, it is indeed beautiful work!’ exclaimed the sexton. ‘Given by our people in memory of–’

My heart was beating wildly, my head whirling. Past and present surged together in my mind. Suppose, November tempted me, I were to say again those three vital words? What would happen?

‘–in memory of–’

(‘Create! Create!’ said August. ‘Destroy! Destroy!’ said November.)

‘–our late very beloved pastor, Mr Archer.’

The words were burning on my lips; the fatal words that had sent me dizzily on to the topmost peak of the Spur. On my lips, trembling on my tongue, the words, ‘Dear Mr Archer!’ My mouth was open; my mind was flooded by a sudden vision of an old lady stumbling along a close, dark, narrow plankway–like a tunnel–a place that I knew well but could not then give a name to. Stumbling along, limping with her sticks, crying somebody’s name, alone in the darkness–crying a name. And, while I struggled to hold back the words, ‘Dear Mr Archer!’–and while that old lady cried my name aloud in her darkness–‘Norman–Norman–Norman–’ the calm, level, almost cold voice of Henry sounded from another world:

‘Was the Vicar here for very long?’

My three perilous words fell back into me, slain by Henry’s weapon of the commonplace. Immediately, where there had been that old lady was now only a greenish darkness, broken faintly by a dusty light from some great windows. Her voice died away, far away, echoing deep and long into space, vibrant at first, then thinner; fainter, the ‘n’ like a note struck from a taut string. The silence that was not silence fell round us.

I opened my eyes. I caught Henry’s eyes. Very slowly he nodded; so did I. The wind, that had been roaring round the roof, suddenly stopped. Henry and I lowered our heads as if by mutual understanding. We both knew that she had gone from us.

As we walked back to Dungannon in the rain, the darkness of evening falling over us, the chill of winter in our bones, I said to Henry after a long silence:

‘Why did you stay behind in the churchyard, Henry?’

I had gone on quickly ahead the moment we had left the church. But Henry had stayed for some minutes.

‘I looked–at all the graves,’ he said.

‘Surely that wasn’t necessary?’

‘No. It wasn’t necessary. Her name was nowhere to be found.’

Neither was her place, I told myself. And suddenly I remembered that to-day was All Souls’ Day.

I could not return to Cornford as I had intended. Three days later a letter and a Cornford Mercury arrived from my father. This is what the letter said:

‘I shouldn’t come back yet awhile, boy. Read the paper and you’ll see why. People are suspicious of you. Mother keeps fussing, but I can keep her down. Stay where you are for a few weeks. Money enclosed. Told you not to do it, boy; here to-morrow, gone to-day, that’s what I say. Wouldn’t surprise me if I disappeared at this very moment. What comes first? Figure one, or figure nought? Told you not to do it. By the way, wasn’t Tennyson. Poet called Walke wrote those words. People like you and me have got to be careful.

‘Ever your loving FATHER.

‘PS.–Lessways is gloomy. Miss the harp.’

I searched for the money father had mentioned, but I couldn’t find any. Then I fingered the paper nervously. Finally I braced myself to read it.

‘Scotland Yard is investigating the extraordinary mystery which surrounds the disappearance of Lady Hargreaves, etc. etc. On Wednesday afternoon, November the 2nd, she left her house and was driven by her chauffeur to the Cathedral. As she entered, Mr Josiah Meakins, the Dean’s verger, was showing round a party, then about to proceed up to the nave roof, traverse the whole length of the building and descend by means of the stairway to the Lady Chapel.

‘Lady Hargreaves expressed her desire to join them. The party went slowly along the narrow little plankway between the inner and the outer nave roofs, walking in single file, and it was not until they came down to the Lady Chapel that her absence was remarked upon. Mr Meakins went back immediately, but finding no trace of her, he came down, summoned the other vergers and organized a thorough search of the nave roof, bell chambers, triforiums, galleries, tower and–indeed–the entire Cathedral. Meanwhile, the chauffeur drove back to Lessways to see if she might have returned on foot. She had not done so. The search in the Cathedral yielded no sort of evidence and we understand that subsequent searches have proved equally fruitless.

‘The police take a somewhat serious view of the matter, but were bound to admit that they have no evidence whatsoever that could point to the possibility of foul play . . .’

In the nave roof–alone–crying ‘Norman–Norman–Norman!’ And I in Lusk church with all my power denying–– her existence. Even the realization that destructive thought had at last destroyed could not lighten my wretchedness.

For many weeks I could not bring myself to go back. Staying alone at Dungannon (I did not revisit Lusk), I wrote most of what you have now read. One day, near Christmas, a letter came from Marjorie which made me realize that somehow life had to be resumed.

‘Norman dear [she said], please do come back. Terrible things are being said about you. I can’t bear it because I know they can’t be true. If you stay away everybody will say you have killed her, even when they can’t find the body. I’m sure you wouldn’t do that, whatever you would do. Henry has told me everything and I’m simply forcing myself to believe it. Darling, you must come back and face it. I’ll help you. I’m sorry we quarrelled. I think you’re wonderful, really.’

It touched me. I knew I should have to go. With an aching heart, dreading to face all the talk, I took the boat for Heysham.

I remember moodily gazing at a lot of cows being lowered into the hold and marvelling at their patience. I walked along the deck, attracted by the figure of a nun leaning over the rail and looking at the lights of Belfast. There was something soothing about her quiet, pensive figure, so detached from all the bustle of the ship getting under way.

‘Belfast looks lovely at night, doesn’t it?’ I said to her.

‘Ah, it is always lovely to me,’ she murmured. ‘It was my home. It is twenty years since last I was there.’

‘Twenty years! Well!’ I did not know what to say. ‘But time is nothing,’ I added. ‘Twenty years might be twenty minutes, really.’ And, I was thinking, twelve weeks might be twelve years.

From below, down in one of the saloons, a drunken sailor with a voice that made me grate my teeth started to sing ‘Over the sea to Skye’. I sighed heavily, leaning over the rail, far up in the stern of the boat, and looking at the black sea. The engines started; Ireland was sliding away from us; something, for ever, sliding away from me.

For ever?

I murmured her name into the dark sea.

‘Miss Hargreaves–Miss Hargreaves–’ Could I hear my own name, or was it only the sighing of the wind?

Again I called.

‘Miss Hargreaves–Miss Hargreaves ’–

Mevagissey 1939
La Chaise 1940