The Squire Quartet. Brian Aldiss

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      Christmas is approaching, as the meretricious glitter of the shops in the West End painfully reminds me. I hope that this angst can be quelled soon, and that we can all spend Christmas happily together at the Hall as usual. It’s almost a year since mother died – how fast this hectic year has gone. I hope you and your mother have fully recovered from the shock of your father’s death.

      Your loving

       Tom

      Grantham

       2nd December

      Dear Tom,

      In your latest piece of optimism you outdo yourself. What makes you think I wish to tramp round England as part of your menagerie, promoting your book? What makes you think I want even to hear about it, or the series, knowing your fancy woman is in them both?

      Can’t you realize how you hurt me? I’ve got feelings too you know.

      As for Christmas, I’m sorry but I’m making my own arrangements. I’m going somewhere where I can find some sun and peace. Worry is making me ill. Once I thought I could trust you, but disillusion has crept in. Burst in.

      I’m writing this in bed. Unwell.

      Teresa

      Under the letters lay a little red book bearing the impressive word ‘Memoranda’. In it, in his eight-year-old hand, he had inscribed the bare fact of his father’s death. He did not open the book.

      There was also an official letter in an envelope with a Belgrade postmark, congratulating him on his services to Anglo–Yugoslav understanding. Enclosed with it was a message scrawled in pencil from a man called Slobodan. He did not open the envelope.

      Under the envelope and red book lay a little folder with covers made from wallpaper. Inside were three stories, each under a page long, written in a childish hand and illustrated with pictures done in crayon. They were by Rachel Normbaum, and had been presented to him almost forty years ago. He did not open the folder.

      He cleared the secret compartment of all but the pencil sketch, and stood with its contents in his hand. Time went by.

      Outside it was growing dull.

      He locked the cupboard and went downstairs to the kitchen.

      There, an unpleasant smell distracted him from his purpose. He set the documents of his past down on the table and went over to the tall windows, opening a shutter to let in a ray of evening light. For a while he stood peering out.

      The room appeared sombre and dead. It smelt as if it had been closed for a long while. The large red enamel Aga, which he had had installed in place of the old range when he and Teresa were married, was cold for the first time since its installation. He walked round the room, familiar since childhood, today chill, unfriendly. In one corner were mouse droppings, in another by the scullery door, a damp patch along the floor, where the wallpaper was peeling; the damp had always been there, and looked no worse than before. In the scullery, a tap dripped intermittently. Squire went through to turn it off.

      Back in the kitchen, he prepared a small fire in the Aga. He stuffed some old newspaper and cardboard into the grate and set light to them. He piled the letters and ‘Memoranda’ book on top of the flames. The past no longer meant anything. It had died. He was free, whether he desired to be, or not. ‘I’ll be happier, once this is over,’ he promised himself.

      ‘All I really want is your silence now.’

      As he waited there dumbly, gazing at the blue flames, a key grated in the scullery door. He stood alert, with the door of the Aga open and smoke escaping into the room. Matilda Rowlinson entered the kitchen. She smiled, more composed than he. Squire felt guilty without knowing why.

      ‘Hello, Tom. Lovely to see you. I saw your car in the drive.’ She came and shook hands.

      ‘You’re keeping everything in good order. I’m burning some old stuff.’ He heard the guilt in his voice. ‘Old papers, actually.’

      ‘It’s a pleasure. I love coming over to the Hall. I come every day without fail – generally about this time of day. I like it when evening’s setting in, not being the kind who’s afraid of ghosts.’

      ‘I’ve never seen a ghost.’

      As she went over and closed the door of the Aga, she said, ‘I’m only sorry that you and Teresa aren’t still here together.’

      She had turned from the cooker. They were close. Squire looked with pleasure at Matilda’s pale, honest face. It was slightly spotty about the mouth. Her hair was more attractive, richer, than he recalled. He sensed the warmth of her spirit as she regarded him with shining eyes. Something in her bodily gesture, an eagerness, appraised him of her mood; the knowledge must have shown in his eyes, for she suddenly became embarrassed and dropped her gaze, moving away defensively.

      ‘I thought perhaps you’d like a cup of tea. That was why I came over.’ She started to busy herself with preparations, filling the kettle, switching it on, getting out cups and saucers.

      ‘It’s been a gorgeous day …’

      ‘I remember you when you were a baby, Matilda.’

      She put the milk bottle down and regarded him seriously.

      ‘I’m a grown woman now, Tom, as you are probably aware.’

      He smiled. ‘Yes, I am aware.’

      ‘What are you burning?’

      ‘Just a few old documents. Records of my past. I suppose I have their contents by heart well enough.’ He stirred the pages with a poker. The school magazine was slow to burn. He watched it blacken.

      There was a long silence, in which she stared at the Aga with him.

      ‘Your heart can’t be very easy at present.’ Another silence. ‘I wish there was something I could do.’

      She took her coat off and laid it over the back of a chair. Her neat and modest figure was shown at its best by her green cotton dress.

      ‘I am very grateful for what you are doing.’

      ‘I suppose I meant more personally.’

      As the kettle boiled and switched itself off, he said, ‘You could pray for me.’

      Matilda frowned. ‘There’s no need for you to be ironical.’

      ‘I wasn’t.’

      Filling the teapot, she said with a sigh, ‘I suppose it’s my sheltered upbringing, what else, but human relationships – I do find them difficult to handle.’

      He laughed dryly. ‘We all do. It’s believed that the human race was once endogamous. Ever since exogamy set in, everyone’s found relationships a bit sort of difficult. Fascinating, of course, but difficult to handle, as you say.’

      Accepting the cup she offered, he walked round the other side of the table and took a chair. They sat facing each other. As they СКАЧАТЬ