Read Online Mrs De Winter by Susan Hill - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan Hill
Tags: Literary, Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Horror, Genre Fiction, Contemporary Fiction, Ghosts
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stupid child, ‘You see she is dead and she died when I was not there. She died in a hospital, she wasn’t at home, I wasn’t with her, I failed her, I let her down. She never ever failed me, never once.’
‘No Giles, no, you shouldn’t blame yourself.’ Useless words.
‘But I am to blame?
I did not say ‘no’ again, I did not speak at all. There was no point in it — nothing to say.
‘She is dead and I don’t know how I can go on with things, you see. I’m nothing now, nothing without her. I never amounted to anything, I don’t know what to do. What am I going to do? I can’t be without her, you see, I can’t be without Beatrice at all.’ And the tears sprang from his eyes and poured unchecked down his face again and he sobbed, great, raucous, ugly sobs, as unrestrained as a baby. And I went clumsily over to him and sat beside him, and held him, a burbling, helpless, lonely, grieving, fat old
60
man, and then, at last, I wept with him, and wept for him, and for Beatrice, too, because I had loved her … but they were not only tears for Beatrice, they were in some strange way, for so much else, other losses, other griefs, and when there were no more tears, we sat, quietly, I holding poor Giles, not minding him at all, only glad to be there, some small comfort for him in that silent, grieving house.
He began to talk again, after a while, and once he had begun, could not stop — he told me so much, about Beatrice, their years together, little happy stories, private memories, family jokes, it was a whole innocent lifetime he laid before me; I heard of their wedding, their buying this house, Roger’s birth and growing up, their friends, their neighbours and so many horses, dogs, bridge parties, dinners, picnics, trips to London, Christmases, birthdays, and as he talked, and I listened, it dawned on me that he scarcely mentioned Maxim, or Manderley, or anything to do with that part of life, not out of tact — he was too far gone, too deeply immersed in himself and the past to think of that, scarcely even aware of my presence, let alone what I stood for — but it was as though Manderley and Beatrice’s early years there, her family, had scarcely impinged upon his own life and consciousness at all.
I remembered the first time I had met Beatrice and Giles, that hot day at Manderley, a lifetime ago and in another life — and I another person, a child, and I had watched him as he lay on his back in the sun after lunch, snoring, and I had wondered with genuine bewilderment why ever Beatrice had married him, and thought that because Giles had already been fat and unattractive, and apparently well into
61
middle age, they could not conceivably have been in love. What a very childish thing - how very naive and stupid and lacking in all knowledge I had been, to believe that one had to be handsome and smart and debonair and sophisticated in manner, seductive as Maxim had been, to be fallen in love with and loved and happily married. I had known nothing, nothing at all, I blushed with shame now to think of it. I had known only a little of being swept off my feet, and of first, passionate, blinkered love, a love that I now saw had been as much like a schoolgirl crush as anything else. I had known nothing of the love that came only with time and age and everyday life together, or of love that had endured misery and grief and suffering, and things which just as easily break apart, sour and destroy love as nurture it.
I felt strangely old that night, infinitely older than poor helpless Giles, stronger, more capable, wiser. I felt so sorry for him; I knew that after all, he would come through, somehow, stumble on and make the best of things, but that it would never be the same for him, and that the best of his life was over, with Beatrice dead, and Roger so maimed and disfigured after his flying accident. Though perhaps the fact that his son was likely to remain at home with him always, because of his
‘No Giles, no, you shouldn’t blame yourself.’ Useless words.
‘But I am to blame?
I did not say ‘no’ again, I did not speak at all. There was no point in it — nothing to say.
‘She is dead and I don’t know how I can go on with things, you see. I’m nothing now, nothing without her. I never amounted to anything, I don’t know what to do. What am I going to do? I can’t be without her, you see, I can’t be without Beatrice at all.’ And the tears sprang from his eyes and poured unchecked down his face again and he sobbed, great, raucous, ugly sobs, as unrestrained as a baby. And I went clumsily over to him and sat beside him, and held him, a burbling, helpless, lonely, grieving, fat old
60
man, and then, at last, I wept with him, and wept for him, and for Beatrice, too, because I had loved her … but they were not only tears for Beatrice, they were in some strange way, for so much else, other losses, other griefs, and when there were no more tears, we sat, quietly, I holding poor Giles, not minding him at all, only glad to be there, some small comfort for him in that silent, grieving house.
He began to talk again, after a while, and once he had begun, could not stop — he told me so much, about Beatrice, their years together, little happy stories, private memories, family jokes, it was a whole innocent lifetime he laid before me; I heard of their wedding, their buying this house, Roger’s birth and growing up, their friends, their neighbours and so many horses, dogs, bridge parties, dinners, picnics, trips to London, Christmases, birthdays, and as he talked, and I listened, it dawned on me that he scarcely mentioned Maxim, or Manderley, or anything to do with that part of life, not out of tact — he was too far gone, too deeply immersed in himself and the past to think of that, scarcely even aware of my presence, let alone what I stood for — but it was as though Manderley and Beatrice’s early years there, her family, had scarcely impinged upon his own life and consciousness at all.
I remembered the first time I had met Beatrice and Giles, that hot day at Manderley, a lifetime ago and in another life — and I another person, a child, and I had watched him as he lay on his back in the sun after lunch, snoring, and I had wondered with genuine bewilderment why ever Beatrice had married him, and thought that because Giles had already been fat and unattractive, and apparently well into
61
middle age, they could not conceivably have been in love. What a very childish thing - how very naive and stupid and lacking in all knowledge I had been, to believe that one had to be handsome and smart and debonair and sophisticated in manner, seductive as Maxim had been, to be fallen in love with and loved and happily married. I had known nothing, nothing at all, I blushed with shame now to think of it. I had known only a little of being swept off my feet, and of first, passionate, blinkered love, a love that I now saw had been as much like a schoolgirl crush as anything else. I had known nothing of the love that came only with time and age and everyday life together, or of love that had endured misery and grief and suffering, and things which just as easily break apart, sour and destroy love as nurture it.
I felt strangely old that night, infinitely older than poor helpless Giles, stronger, more capable, wiser. I felt so sorry for him; I knew that after all, he would come through, somehow, stumble on and make the best of things, but that it would never be the same for him, and that the best of his life was over, with Beatrice dead, and Roger so maimed and disfigured after his flying accident. Though perhaps the fact that his son was likely to remain at home with him always, because of his
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