Read Online The Rain Before it Falls by Jonathan Coe - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Coe
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welcoming. There were no bookshelves, and the wallpaper was faded and peeling, and no fire ever seemed to be burning in the grate. For this reason, it was rarely visited. The boys never came up here, and Beatrix and I only seldom. Our domain was next door, in the crooked, oddly shaped bedroom, tucked among the eaves. Aunt Ivy and Uncle Owen slept on the first floor: so did their two sons. Their rooms were airy, regular, full of a sense of space. Ours was gloomy and enigmatic. The roof sloped at wild, erratic angles and my own bed was wedged into a tiny alcove that made it invisible from most parts of the room. I was completely screened off from the window, from the warmth of the morning sun and, at night, from the moonlight in which Beatrix would bathe as she drifted in and out of sleep. Mine was a realm of ever deeper and darker shadows.
You would think that I would have a clear recollection of what happened in the wake of our escape attempt, but I don’t. It is my suspicion, now, that Ivy and Owen did not even tell my parents about it. Certainly, many years later, when I mentioned to my mother the night that Beatrix and I had attempted to run away from Warden Farm and walk all the way to Birmingham, she said it was the first she had heard of it. Were we even punished, in any way? I stayed at the farmhouse for another six months, at least, and in that time I don’t remember any of the repercussions one might have expected: no being locked in our bedroom, or having to live on bread and dripping for a week; nothing worse, in fact, than a mild dressing-down from Aunt Ivy the next morning, couched not so much in terms of reproof as tremulous concern for our own safety and happiness.
And yet she did not forget the incident, or indeed forgive it. Of course, the whole village must have talked about it, for some time afterwards, and that must have embarrassed her. But I think that Ivy and Owen were enraged, more than that, by the sheer inconvenience to which we had put them that night. Beatrix’s duty, you see, was to remain invisible, as was mine, for that matter, once I had arrived at the house. Ivy’s world revolved around herself, around her position in the village, around her social life, her bridge and tennis, and also, more than any of these, around her beloved sons and dogs. Beatrix did not show up on her radar. That is what Beatrix must have meant, I think, when she told me that her mother was ‘cruel to her’. Ivy’s was the cruelty of indifference.
Perhaps that makes what your grandmother went through as a child seem rather trivial. Certainly there are children, all over the world, who experience much, much worse things at the hands of their parents: naturally, I am aware of that. Even so, it seems to me important – crucially important – that one should never underestimate what it must feel like to know that you are not wanted by your mother. By your mother, of all people – the very person who brought you into existence! Such knowledge eats away at your sense of self-worth, and destroys the very foundations of your being. It is very hard to be a whole person, after that.
Only occasionally did it appear to me that Ivy was not just indifferent towards Beatrix but actually hated her. There is one incident, in particular, that stays in my mind. It was only a small thing, but it has stayed with me, over the years. It concerned a dog called Bonaparte. The family had many dogs, as I have said. There were three full-grown ones while I was there, three over-affectionate Springer spaniels. I soon came to love them, especially a Welsh Springer called Ambrose, who was also Beatrix’s favourite. He had great intelligence, and great loyalty – you can’t ask for much more than that, in an animal or even a human being. But Ivy for some reason was far more interested in Bonaparte. He was a black, wire-haired toy poodle, one of the most unattractive breeds. He was very stupid, and unreliable, but full of energy – I
You would think that I would have a clear recollection of what happened in the wake of our escape attempt, but I don’t. It is my suspicion, now, that Ivy and Owen did not even tell my parents about it. Certainly, many years later, when I mentioned to my mother the night that Beatrix and I had attempted to run away from Warden Farm and walk all the way to Birmingham, she said it was the first she had heard of it. Were we even punished, in any way? I stayed at the farmhouse for another six months, at least, and in that time I don’t remember any of the repercussions one might have expected: no being locked in our bedroom, or having to live on bread and dripping for a week; nothing worse, in fact, than a mild dressing-down from Aunt Ivy the next morning, couched not so much in terms of reproof as tremulous concern for our own safety and happiness.
And yet she did not forget the incident, or indeed forgive it. Of course, the whole village must have talked about it, for some time afterwards, and that must have embarrassed her. But I think that Ivy and Owen were enraged, more than that, by the sheer inconvenience to which we had put them that night. Beatrix’s duty, you see, was to remain invisible, as was mine, for that matter, once I had arrived at the house. Ivy’s world revolved around herself, around her position in the village, around her social life, her bridge and tennis, and also, more than any of these, around her beloved sons and dogs. Beatrix did not show up on her radar. That is what Beatrix must have meant, I think, when she told me that her mother was ‘cruel to her’. Ivy’s was the cruelty of indifference.
Perhaps that makes what your grandmother went through as a child seem rather trivial. Certainly there are children, all over the world, who experience much, much worse things at the hands of their parents: naturally, I am aware of that. Even so, it seems to me important – crucially important – that one should never underestimate what it must feel like to know that you are not wanted by your mother. By your mother, of all people – the very person who brought you into existence! Such knowledge eats away at your sense of self-worth, and destroys the very foundations of your being. It is very hard to be a whole person, after that.
Only occasionally did it appear to me that Ivy was not just indifferent towards Beatrix but actually hated her. There is one incident, in particular, that stays in my mind. It was only a small thing, but it has stayed with me, over the years. It concerned a dog called Bonaparte. The family had many dogs, as I have said. There were three full-grown ones while I was there, three over-affectionate Springer spaniels. I soon came to love them, especially a Welsh Springer called Ambrose, who was also Beatrix’s favourite. He had great intelligence, and great loyalty – you can’t ask for much more than that, in an animal or even a human being. But Ivy for some reason was far more interested in Bonaparte. He was a black, wire-haired toy poodle, one of the most unattractive breeds. He was very stupid, and unreliable, but full of energy – I
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