Asylum Part 13

"n.o.body there."

She knew it was him.

Three days later Max told her he was applying for a staff job in a mental hospital in north Wales. He imagined, he said, that it was his for the asking. She knew what he was telling her: he was too good for it. He had not yet told his mother about any of this. She wondered how he'd break it to her. Would he tell her he'd been ruined by a s.l.u.t?

Memories of Edgar would take her by surprise, catch her unawares and leave her gasping with pain as though kicked in the stomach. But the pain was tempered now by her conviction that he was trying to reach her, by the spurt of hope this aroused. Though when Max was at home she found it impossible to sustain even a numbed facade. She believes he knew what was going on, any psychiatrist could diagnose a broken heart at this close range. He didn't attempt sympathy, and she hated him simply because he wasn't Edgar. He wasn't Edgar, yet he was there, and because he was there he was hateful. It was unfair but there was nothing she could do about it. When she didn't hate him actively she was filled with a blank, dead, unfeeling indifference that she recognized as a form of pa.s.sive aggression. Had she not been so exhausted she couldn't have tolerated living like this. But she needed shelter, and she needed Charlie, so she shuffled through her days and kept the house going and waited without interest for what north Wales would bring, and at the same time felt her heart leap every time the phone rang.

But it was never him. The weather grew darker and wetter and the prospect of winter gave her an odd sense of comfort. For one who craved sleep, the chilling air and the lengthening nights promised an easy drift into darkness. She thought she might wake up in the spring, if she had the inclination. Sleep promised oblivion, and that would at least release her from the constant hovering phantom of Edgar. Where was was he? Often she lay on her bed, or wandered in the garden, these damp autumn days, and constructed scenes of his return, their reunion-would he reappear, or would he send for her as he had before? And wouldn't she go? Wouldn't she do it again, without hesitation? She didn't know. She didn't know. he? Often she lay on her bed, or wandered in the garden, these damp autumn days, and constructed scenes of his return, their reunion-would he reappear, or would he send for her as he had before? And wouldn't she go? Wouldn't she do it again, without hesitation? She didn't know. She didn't know.

Though what lay most immediately ahead was the storm she must face when Brenda was told the news. Max was reluctant to do it, this was clear, and kept putting it off; but it couldn't be put off forever. He drove up to Cledwyn a few days later and came back less dispirited than Stella had expected. He said there were interesting possibilities. Interesting in what way, she asked him. Oh, he said, the hospital. It's run by a man I used to know. He has some good ideas. He wants to make changes.

"Where will we live, Max?"

"I thought we might buy a farmhouse and fix it up," he said. "They have big stone farmhouses up there. Quite handsome in their way. It might be fun."

Since when had Max wanted fun? Ambition thwarted, was he attempting a new philosophy of life, one that involved fun? It appeared the work would not be as grim as he had antic.i.p.ated, therefore he would have fun; or he would during the day, at least, while he was at the hospital. As to whether he would have fun when he came home in the evening, that was a different question.

"What did you say?" he said.

"I said, Why not?"

They were in the dining room finishing the wine after supper. Charlie had gone up to his room to read.

"When will you tell Brenda?" she said.

Max had produced a weary sigh when she said, Why not? He expected enthusiasm from her, or at least an attempt at it. He felt that if he was trying to sustain the appearance of domestic normality, then surely she, as the one who had so violently disrupted that normality in the first place, could do the same. But he knew it did no good to get angry with her. Hence the sigh.

"I think I'll call her tonight," he said. "Get it over with."

"She'll be terribly disappointed."

"I'll try and soften it. But she'll be horrified at the idea of us being in north Wales."

"Not us. Just you and Charlie. She won't mind me being up there."

He didn't trouble to contradict her. He took his gla.s.s and went off down the hall to the study. He closed the door behind him.

She sat at the table, oddly lethargic, unwilling to move. How Brenda would hate her now, she thought, the woman who was dragging her son and grandson into exile with her. Dragging them down, depriving her of them. Yes, she would hate her more than ever.

It didn't go well, she could see this as soon as Max emerged from the study. He sat down heavily and to Stella's mild surprise filled his gla.s.s again.

"We won't have a farmhouse to fix up," he said. He couldn't meet her eyes.

"Oh?"

"If we go to Cledwyn we don't see another penny from her."

"What about your salary?"

"The salary won't begin to support the way we live. Staff psychiatrist in a little bin in the back of beyond-"

He was ashen as he contemplated their imminent poverty Stella remembers feeling as indifferent to this as she was to everything else at that time. Then something occurred to her.

"Max," she said. "If you divorced me. If you and Charlie went to Cledwyn without me. Would she cut you off then?"

He didn't answer. This meant no.

"I see," she said. "She's given you the choice. Get rid of Stella or there's no more money"

Still he said nothing.

"It's me or her, Max," she said. "Up to you."

Poor Max. She almost felt sorry for him. What a position his mother had put him in. Though he didn't have any real choice at all. Having made up his mind to do the gallant thing, he couldn't change course for money. It was a matter of principle.

"We can keep the car, I suppose?" she said.

He looked up at her then, bitterness and disgust twisting his weary features.

"Yes, Stella. We can keep the car."

She didn't care. "Well, that's something," she said.

She began to pack up their things. It was mindless work, and it was predicated on the idea of a family that moved from place to place and cohered throughout. But what bound them together, what sort of future made this thinkable? She could conceive of none, but felt she had no alternative. So she wrapped their china and gla.s.sware and put it in cardboard boxes, taped up the boxes and labeled them. Then their pictures, their clothes, their bedding, all packed up, all labeled. Mrs. Bain helped her, not because she wanted to, for she didn't, she made that clear, but because she thought she should. Room by room their possessions went into boxes and packing crates and cabin trunks and suitcases, and it somehow felt like a proper thing to be doing, this packing up of the old life to ship it elsewhere.

One morning as she was working with her tape and boxes I came to see her again. She made me a cup of tea and told me she couldn't stop working, she had too much to do, but I was welcome to talk to her while she packed books in the drawing room. So I watched her for a while before telling her what was on my mind.

"Stella, is Max giving you medication?"

She stood bent over a box of books and stared at me. She was genuinely surprised by the question.

"No, of course not," she said. "Why would he?"

"I think you're depressed."

"Well of course I'm depressed, wouldn't you be depressed?"

She straightened up and pushed a hand through her hair. Now it amused her, to have me sitting there frowning and telling her what she would have thought perfectly obvious.

I wasn't amused.

"It'll be hard for him to see the signals," I said.

"What signals?"

"Someone should be keeping an eye on you. Someone other than Max."

"What is it you're saying to me?"

She sat on the edge of an armchair and lit a cigarette.

"You're vulnerable at the moment. You're about to move to a part of the country not known for its warmth to strangers, where you know no one, and with a husband who's still very angry with you. It worries me, Stella."

"I shall cope," she said quietly.

"I hope so. I expect you to write to me."

"I will."

"Regularly."

"Yes, all right!" She was laughing now. "Can north Wales really be so bad? You make it sound like Siberia."

"For you it might as well be Siberia."

"Oh nonsense."

At the front door she asked me her pressing question.

"Have you heard anything of Edgar?"

I took a moment to decide how to respond to this. She a.s.sumed our common interest in his welfare; a.s.sumed too that I was as preoccupied with his whereabouts as she was. I curbed my impulse to tell her to put him out of her mind altogether. Instead I just shook my head.

"Poor man. Peter, where does his son live?"

"His son?" son?"

"Leonard."

"He has no son."

"Yes he does."

"Stella, he has no son. Don't you think I would know?"

She gave a small brittle laugh.

"We shouldn't talk about him, should we?" she said.

She wandered through the empty rooms and remembered the events of the summer. In less than a week they would be in Wales, and she would never see this house again. Max had found them somewhere to live, not a place of their own but part of a large farmhouse divided in two. They would rent one half of it from the owner, who lived with his wife in the other half. Max said it was on the side of a hill and looked out over a valley. There was no real garden, he said, but there was plenty of open country around, fields, woods, a quarry. Charlie listened closely, wanting to believe they were going to a better place.

There were no farewell parties. Jack Straffen gave Max a gla.s.s of sherry in his office. I was there; they murmured plat.i.tudes to each other, the mansion of psychiatry having many rooms and so on, and Jack expressed his sympathy; though what sympathy could you offer a man who wanted your job and would probably have gotten it had his wife not sabotaged him so decisively? People had begun to question Max's judgment in marrying a woman capable of doing what Stella had done. Could he be sound? sound? I tried to keep an open mind, and encouraged others to do the same. Though I thought then, and still think, that Jack was right to let him go. This is too sensitive an inst.i.tution to have a man like Max Raphael occupying a senior post. I tried to keep an open mind, and encouraged others to do the same. Though I thought then, and still think, that Jack was right to let him go. This is too sensitive an inst.i.tution to have a man like Max Raphael occupying a senior post.

I did stand by her, I can hear him saying; I did stand by her, despite everything.

It was raining the morning they left. The removal men had come the day before and carried their furniture out to a huge black van, and then the packing crates, and then the neatly taped and labeled boxes that held the rest of their possessions. When they were finished Charlie and Stella watched them drive away, while Max went around the house locking up. They drove to the Main Gate for the last time and handed in the keys. Then they left for the north.

The journey took several hours. Charlie was more interested in the scenery than Stella was, so he sat in the front seat and Max did the driving. At least they still had the car, Stella remembers thinking; she was fond of that comfortable car. Somewhere north of Birmingham a terrible thought occurred to her: how will Edgar find me? When he comes looking for me, who can tell him where I've gone? Who can he ask? She stared out of the window and willed the tears not to come. She caught Max's glance flicking up at the rearview mirror, watching her, always watching her, waiting for moments of weakness like this when he would have it confirmed, again, that she was still elsewhere and unrepentant. Oh, Edgar, why have you done this to me, why have you left me here to twist and weep under the cold eye of this unloving man? She was angry with her lover then, she could afford to be: she knew he was trying to reach her.

It was already dark when they arrived. They would spend the night in the town and meet the removal men at the house the next morning. Max was tired; he was also angry, for it had not escaped him that Stella had been crying, and he knew she cried for Edgar Stark. He had distracted himself by having a long conversation with Charlie, and when after a while she paid attention again she discovered she was indifferent to what they were talking about but fascinated and horrified at how he was shaping the boy's thoughts, imprinting him with the patterns of his own logic, drawing him beyond the reach of her influence, though whether he was doing this from a conviction of her unfitness as a mother or from a more primitive impulse to punish her, she was not sure; she suspected the latter. For a while she was disturbed by this; Charlie was at just the age to take the impress of a grown-up mind, he was like soft wax.

They were in the hotel, eating together in the dining room, and Stella had leisure to examine the shabby provinciality of their surroundings. She was suddenly convinced that the house they were moving into the next day would be ugly.

"Max," she said, "is it ugly, this house? Will I hate it?"

Father and son stopped talking and looked at her. She had interrupted them. Good, she thought. She must interrupt them as often as possible. She must not allow Max to have the boy for himself. To steal his soul.

"I don't think it's ugly no," said Max. "On the contrary it's rather a handsome house."

"What is it made of?" said Charlie.

"It's a stone house," said Max. "They build with stone here."

"It sounds cold," Stella said to Charlie. "Don't you think so, darling? Doesn't it sound cold?"

Charlie was uncertain.

"Is it cold?"

"There's a wood-burning stove in the sitting room, and storage radiators, and all the rooms are carpeted except the kitchen."

"That's not what I meant," said Stella.

"What did you mean?"

"I meant cold for the spirit."

Max said nothing. He lifted his gla.s.s and watched her over the rim as he sipped his water. His eyes said, Be careful, stop now. Charlie looked from one to the other, not understanding.

"We'll make it warm, won't we, darling?" said Stella.

"What do you mean?"

"Mummy means we're going to be happy in the new house," said Max. "Don't you?"

CHAPTER ...

You could see the house from the road when you were still a mile away. The valley was broad, contained by long, low hills crested with stands of trees. It was a clear, bl.u.s.tery day and she was filled with dread. Banks of cloud rolled across the open sky. The road was narrow, and splattered with dung, and there were thick, bristling hedges and stone walls on either side. When they were three or four miles outside the town Max pointed it out, a gray square block of a house high up the valley. It seemed built for defensive purposes, to protect its occupants, but against what? Max glanced at her in the rearview mirror.

"What do you think?" he said. "Think it's handsome?"

There was, she said, a jaunty tone in his voice now; he knew she was trapped.