said: “Could you stand that?”
“Not for ten years. I might manage three but not more. There are better ways of coping with pain than death, his death or yours. Tell yourself that pain is part of life, to feel pain is to be alive. I envy you. If I could feel such pain I might still be a poet. Value yourself. You’re no less a human being because oneselfish, arrogant, insensitive man doesn’t find you lovable. Do you really need to value yourself by the standard of any man, let alone Gerard Etienne? Remind yourself that the only power he has over you is the power that you give him. Take that power away and you take away the hurt. Remember, Frances, you don’t have to stay with the firm. And don’t say that there has always been a Peverell at the Peverell Press.”
“There has since 1792, even before we moved into Innocent House. Daddy wouldn’t have wanted me to be the last.”
“Someone has to be, someone will be. You owed your father a certain duty in life but it ceased with his death. We can’t be in thrall to the dead.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted them, half expecting her to ask “What about you? Aren’t you in thrall to the dead, your wife, your lost children?” He went on quickly: “What would you like to do if you had a free choice?”
“Work with children, I think. Perhaps train as a primary-school teacher. I’ve got my degree. I suppose it would only mean another year’s training. And then I think I’d like to work in the country or in a small country town.”
“Then do it. You do have a free choice. But don’t go searching for happiness. Find the right job, the right place, the right life. The happiness will come if you’re lucky. Most of us get our share of it. Some of us get more than our share even if it’s concentrated into a little space of time.”
She said: “I’m surprised you don’t quote Blake, that poem about ‘joy and pain being woven fine, a clothing for the soul divine.’ How does it go?
“Man was made for Joy and Woe;
And when this we rightly know
,
Thro’ the World we safely go.”
Only you don’t believe in the soul divine, do you?”
“No, that would be the ultimate self-deception.”
“But you do go safely through the world. And you understand about hate. I think I’ve always known that you hated Gerard.”
He said: “No, you’re wrong, Frances. I don’t hate him. I feel nothing for him, nothing at all. And that makes me far more dangerous to him than you can ever be. Hadn’t we better start a game?”
He took out the heavy chessboard from the corner cupboard and she moved the table between the armchairs then helped him to set out the pieces. Holding out his clenched fist for her to choose black or white he said: “I think you ought to give me a pawn, the tribute of youth to age.”
“Nonsense, you beat me last time. We play even.”
She surprised herself. Once she would have given way. It was a small act of self-assertion and she saw him smile as with his stiffened fingers he began to set out the pieces.
6
Miss Blackett went home every night to Weaver’s Cottage in West Marling in Kent where, for the past nineteen years, she had lived with her older widowed cousin, Joan Willoughby. Their relationship was affectionate but had never been emotionally intense. Mrs. Willoughby had married a retired clergyman and when he died three years after the marriage, which Miss Blackett privately suspected was as long as either partner could have borne, it had seemed natural for his widow to invite her cousin to give up her unsatisfactory rented flat in Bayswater and move to the cottage. Early in these nineteen years of shared life a routine had established itself, evolving rather than planned, which satisfied them both. It was Joan who managed the house and was responsible for the garden, Blackie who, on Sundays, cooked the main meal of the day which was always eaten promptly at one o’clock, a responsibility which excused
“Not for ten years. I might manage three but not more. There are better ways of coping with pain than death, his death or yours. Tell yourself that pain is part of life, to feel pain is to be alive. I envy you. If I could feel such pain I might still be a poet. Value yourself. You’re no less a human being because oneselfish, arrogant, insensitive man doesn’t find you lovable. Do you really need to value yourself by the standard of any man, let alone Gerard Etienne? Remind yourself that the only power he has over you is the power that you give him. Take that power away and you take away the hurt. Remember, Frances, you don’t have to stay with the firm. And don’t say that there has always been a Peverell at the Peverell Press.”
“There has since 1792, even before we moved into Innocent House. Daddy wouldn’t have wanted me to be the last.”
“Someone has to be, someone will be. You owed your father a certain duty in life but it ceased with his death. We can’t be in thrall to the dead.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted them, half expecting her to ask “What about you? Aren’t you in thrall to the dead, your wife, your lost children?” He went on quickly: “What would you like to do if you had a free choice?”
“Work with children, I think. Perhaps train as a primary-school teacher. I’ve got my degree. I suppose it would only mean another year’s training. And then I think I’d like to work in the country or in a small country town.”
“Then do it. You do have a free choice. But don’t go searching for happiness. Find the right job, the right place, the right life. The happiness will come if you’re lucky. Most of us get our share of it. Some of us get more than our share even if it’s concentrated into a little space of time.”
She said: “I’m surprised you don’t quote Blake, that poem about ‘joy and pain being woven fine, a clothing for the soul divine.’ How does it go?
“Man was made for Joy and Woe;
And when this we rightly know
,
Thro’ the World we safely go.”
Only you don’t believe in the soul divine, do you?”
“No, that would be the ultimate self-deception.”
“But you do go safely through the world. And you understand about hate. I think I’ve always known that you hated Gerard.”
He said: “No, you’re wrong, Frances. I don’t hate him. I feel nothing for him, nothing at all. And that makes me far more dangerous to him than you can ever be. Hadn’t we better start a game?”
He took out the heavy chessboard from the corner cupboard and she moved the table between the armchairs then helped him to set out the pieces. Holding out his clenched fist for her to choose black or white he said: “I think you ought to give me a pawn, the tribute of youth to age.”
“Nonsense, you beat me last time. We play even.”
She surprised herself. Once she would have given way. It was a small act of self-assertion and she saw him smile as with his stiffened fingers he began to set out the pieces.
6
Miss Blackett went home every night to Weaver’s Cottage in West Marling in Kent where, for the past nineteen years, she had lived with her older widowed cousin, Joan Willoughby. Their relationship was affectionate but had never been emotionally intense. Mrs. Willoughby had married a retired clergyman and when he died three years after the marriage, which Miss Blackett privately suspected was as long as either partner could have borne, it had seemed natural for his widow to invite her cousin to give up her unsatisfactory rented flat in Bayswater and move to the cottage. Early in these nineteen years of shared life a routine had established itself, evolving rather than planned, which satisfied them both. It was Joan who managed the house and was responsible for the garden, Blackie who, on Sundays, cooked the main meal of the day which was always eaten promptly at one o’clock, a responsibility which excused
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