Read Online In the Springtime of the Year by Susan Hill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Hill
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like. It was very cold. It might have been empty for years past. She walked around it, opened the door of a wardrobe, and then a drawer, a cupboard, looking at what was there, she picked up his hairbrush and touched the bristles to her face. None of it seemed to have anything to do with her now. Then was this all? Was there nothing more to come? Was this deadness to be what she had to live with, the absence of all grief or love or fear? Nothing more?
She took off her coat and laid it on the chair. And then, because nothing was going to happen, and there seemed nothing else she had to do, she opened the brown paper parcel. She had not thought. It was so obvious and yet she had not expected it. She took them out, one by one, these clothes in which he had died, the blue shirt and the dark, woollen jersey, the corduroy trousers and thick socks, and lifted each one up, wanting to smell, beneath the wool or cotton, his own smell. She did not, and then realised that the things had been newly washed and ironed.
She put her head down and pressed her face into the pile of garments and at last the grief broke open and drowned her, for they had taken even this away from her, they had washed away his blood and now, she understood fully and finally that Ben was dead and gone from her, that she had nothing, nothing left.
4
THE DEATH OF Ben Bryce had been like a stone cast into still water, and the water had become a whirlpool with Ruth sucked down into the terrible heart of it. But the waves spread out, through the countryside down to the village and beyond the village. People felt changed, as by war or earthquake or fire, even those who lived closest to death and knew its face.
And shock and grief drew them closer together, feelings were observed and understood among them, though nothing might be said. For no one could remember being so affected by any one death. Accidents happened, life was uncertain, a child or an old man or an animal was killed, new graves were dug in the churchyard often enough, there was mourning. Why was this different? What had it been about Ben Bryce? They thought of him and tried to discover, and each of them had some particular memory upon which to dwell, and the memories, taken together, revealed all the aspects of love.
Potter, in his own cottage, planned to set out the first vegetable seedlings under glass. But he did nothing, except sit, with some half-eaten bread and cheese at his hand, remembering. And his dog Teal, sensing the change in him, was restless, would not settle in front of the fire, but padded about the house, or came up to Potter and bumped its head against the man’s leg for reassurance
Potter had known death. Had seen his own brother cough and choke himself dead, of a slow lung disease, had been at the bedside of his mother and his father, when death had come to them, in old age. But that had been expected, a natural thing, he would not have had them grow any older, weakening and crumbling in body and mind, suffering more. This was not the same. He could not believe that Ben Bryce was dead. Ben, who had been so vital, and contented with himself, and with the world. Those who were with him had felt his health and pleasure and confidence in living overtake them and seep into their own minds and hearts, though he had not been any saint, nor always an easy man to work with, there were times when he withdrew into himself, as though in defence, and no one could tell his thoughts, people kept at a distance from him. There were times when he spoke his mind and it was too close to the truth.
It was not only the circumstances of the accident which Potter could not forget, the creak and crash of the falling tree and the silence which had followed. It was what had come over him as he bent down and knew that the man was dead. In that moment, he had discovered some great, clear truth and that truth had changed him. Kneeling on the moist earth beside the still figure, he had felt entirely alone with
She took off her coat and laid it on the chair. And then, because nothing was going to happen, and there seemed nothing else she had to do, she opened the brown paper parcel. She had not thought. It was so obvious and yet she had not expected it. She took them out, one by one, these clothes in which he had died, the blue shirt and the dark, woollen jersey, the corduroy trousers and thick socks, and lifted each one up, wanting to smell, beneath the wool or cotton, his own smell. She did not, and then realised that the things had been newly washed and ironed.
She put her head down and pressed her face into the pile of garments and at last the grief broke open and drowned her, for they had taken even this away from her, they had washed away his blood and now, she understood fully and finally that Ben was dead and gone from her, that she had nothing, nothing left.
4
THE DEATH OF Ben Bryce had been like a stone cast into still water, and the water had become a whirlpool with Ruth sucked down into the terrible heart of it. But the waves spread out, through the countryside down to the village and beyond the village. People felt changed, as by war or earthquake or fire, even those who lived closest to death and knew its face.
And shock and grief drew them closer together, feelings were observed and understood among them, though nothing might be said. For no one could remember being so affected by any one death. Accidents happened, life was uncertain, a child or an old man or an animal was killed, new graves were dug in the churchyard often enough, there was mourning. Why was this different? What had it been about Ben Bryce? They thought of him and tried to discover, and each of them had some particular memory upon which to dwell, and the memories, taken together, revealed all the aspects of love.
Potter, in his own cottage, planned to set out the first vegetable seedlings under glass. But he did nothing, except sit, with some half-eaten bread and cheese at his hand, remembering. And his dog Teal, sensing the change in him, was restless, would not settle in front of the fire, but padded about the house, or came up to Potter and bumped its head against the man’s leg for reassurance
Potter had known death. Had seen his own brother cough and choke himself dead, of a slow lung disease, had been at the bedside of his mother and his father, when death had come to them, in old age. But that had been expected, a natural thing, he would not have had them grow any older, weakening and crumbling in body and mind, suffering more. This was not the same. He could not believe that Ben Bryce was dead. Ben, who had been so vital, and contented with himself, and with the world. Those who were with him had felt his health and pleasure and confidence in living overtake them and seep into their own minds and hearts, though he had not been any saint, nor always an easy man to work with, there were times when he withdrew into himself, as though in defence, and no one could tell his thoughts, people kept at a distance from him. There were times when he spoke his mind and it was too close to the truth.
It was not only the circumstances of the accident which Potter could not forget, the creak and crash of the falling tree and the silence which had followed. It was what had come over him as he bent down and knew that the man was dead. In that moment, he had discovered some great, clear truth and that truth had changed him. Kneeling on the moist earth beside the still figure, he had felt entirely alone with
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