Read Online In the Springtime of the Year by Susan Hill - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan Hill
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afternoon had brought it back to her, because it had been the same. They had sat on the edges of uncomfortable chairs in the front room, drinking tea out of the best china cups, and Ruth had been unable to think of anything at all to say to them, and so had remained silent, and they had taken that for pride, she was branded for life with that one word. She remembered the way they had looked at her, and how Ben, too, had fallen silent, unable to help her, and only Jo had been himself, talking about a place he knew of, where you might find wild raspberries.
She thought, now I will never come to this house again. There is no love, no kindness, no friendship to bind me to them, and they will be glad of that. I will die to them, as Ben has died. No, more, because they will hoard their memories of him and cling to them, as people keep old letters, Dora Bryce will cling to the past, before I married Ben, she will indulge her own grief and self-pity for the rest of her life, but she will easily rid herself of me.
The extent and depth of her own bitterness frightened her. The night went on. She counted her own heart-beats and listened to the wind, and there was no comfort to be had.
‘Oh Ben he is dead and laid in his grave,
Hum. Ha. Laid in his grave.’
When she was certain that dawn must be near, because she had lain awake in that cold room for a hundred years, she put on her stockings and, carrying her shoes, went down through the silent house, stopping every so often, in dread of waking them. They did not wake. In the kitchen, she saw that it was ten to five by the clock, but the sky was still dark. It was bitterly cold, and the wind had risen again, a gate banged, somewhere in the lane.
On the dresser was the parcel, wrapped in brown paper. Alice had pointed it out to her last night. ‘You can take it with you. It all belongs to you now, doesn’t it?’ and Ruth had been too dazed to follow what she meant. Now, she touched it, and supposed that it contained some old things Ben had never taken up to the cottage, things they now wanted rid of.
For a second, she hesitated, suffused with guilt. Perhaps she ought to write a note to them, to apologise. But what did she have to say that they would believe? It would make no difference, things were as they were. And she could not breathe in this house, she wanted to shake the sight and smell of it off her for good, to forget that she had ever been here.
She took up the parcel and opened the door, and the wind blew hard and cold into her face, the roadway gleamed with black ice. And then she was running down the still-dark street, her hair was wrenched back and streaming behind her like a banner, she was stumbling and almost falling every few yards on the slippery road, but she thought of nothing except getting away, getting home. Somehow, by running, forcing herself into the wind, she might scour herself clean of yesterday. But, just outside the village, she was forced to slow down, and stop, the blood rang in her ears, her head throbbed, and she gasped and shuddered for breath.
The sky was just beginning to pale, as she walked, slowly now, for she was exhausted, up the slope leading to the common.
Here, everything looked familiar, impersonal, like the surface of the moon. There was no life. The revelation of the previous day, the sense of joy and insight and illumination, were gone, and would never return, for they had surely been delusions? She had not been in her right mind. Now, she saw the cottage and the common and the tops of the trees, and knew her world for what it was, in the stained, seeping light of dawn.
But she was home. She was grateful for that. Here, she could be herself, live or die. Do nothing. Endure.
The wind had dropped quite suddenly. She opened the back door and waited for the silence of the house to engulf her. Knew what she had to do. Now, at once, there could be no running away. She went up the stairs.
*
She had forgotten what the room looked
She thought, now I will never come to this house again. There is no love, no kindness, no friendship to bind me to them, and they will be glad of that. I will die to them, as Ben has died. No, more, because they will hoard their memories of him and cling to them, as people keep old letters, Dora Bryce will cling to the past, before I married Ben, she will indulge her own grief and self-pity for the rest of her life, but she will easily rid herself of me.
The extent and depth of her own bitterness frightened her. The night went on. She counted her own heart-beats and listened to the wind, and there was no comfort to be had.
‘Oh Ben he is dead and laid in his grave,
Hum. Ha. Laid in his grave.’
When she was certain that dawn must be near, because she had lain awake in that cold room for a hundred years, she put on her stockings and, carrying her shoes, went down through the silent house, stopping every so often, in dread of waking them. They did not wake. In the kitchen, she saw that it was ten to five by the clock, but the sky was still dark. It was bitterly cold, and the wind had risen again, a gate banged, somewhere in the lane.
On the dresser was the parcel, wrapped in brown paper. Alice had pointed it out to her last night. ‘You can take it with you. It all belongs to you now, doesn’t it?’ and Ruth had been too dazed to follow what she meant. Now, she touched it, and supposed that it contained some old things Ben had never taken up to the cottage, things they now wanted rid of.
For a second, she hesitated, suffused with guilt. Perhaps she ought to write a note to them, to apologise. But what did she have to say that they would believe? It would make no difference, things were as they were. And she could not breathe in this house, she wanted to shake the sight and smell of it off her for good, to forget that she had ever been here.
She took up the parcel and opened the door, and the wind blew hard and cold into her face, the roadway gleamed with black ice. And then she was running down the still-dark street, her hair was wrenched back and streaming behind her like a banner, she was stumbling and almost falling every few yards on the slippery road, but she thought of nothing except getting away, getting home. Somehow, by running, forcing herself into the wind, she might scour herself clean of yesterday. But, just outside the village, she was forced to slow down, and stop, the blood rang in her ears, her head throbbed, and she gasped and shuddered for breath.
The sky was just beginning to pale, as she walked, slowly now, for she was exhausted, up the slope leading to the common.
Here, everything looked familiar, impersonal, like the surface of the moon. There was no life. The revelation of the previous day, the sense of joy and insight and illumination, were gone, and would never return, for they had surely been delusions? She had not been in her right mind. Now, she saw the cottage and the common and the tops of the trees, and knew her world for what it was, in the stained, seeping light of dawn.
But she was home. She was grateful for that. Here, she could be herself, live or die. Do nothing. Endure.
The wind had dropped quite suddenly. She opened the back door and waited for the silence of the house to engulf her. Knew what she had to do. Now, at once, there could be no running away. She went up the stairs.
*
She had forgotten what the room looked
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