Philippa Carr: Pool of St. Branok

“I wish to God it hadn’t happened. It’s just the worst time for Ben.”

“Do you think people believe …”

“People like to believe the worst. It is more exciting than the best.”

“What’ll happen?”

“Ben won’t get in this time.”

“It will be a terrible disappointment to him. He has worked so hard.”

“He’ll survive. The luckiest thing is that the verdict was what it was. It might have been very unpleasant. We have to be thankful for that.”

He kissed me good night.

I went into the house but not to sleep.

Uncle Peter was right. There was no miracle, Ben did not win the seat.

Uncle Peter said: “It was hardly likely that he could.”

So there he was … defeated.

I said to myself: At least he is innocent of Lizzie’s death. If he had planned to kill her he would not have done so at such an important time.

I felt relieved at the thought.

Ben came back to London. Grace had now returned to her own home; but she was constantly at one of our houses. She said she would sort out Lizzie’s clothes and send some of them to the Mission. She took them there and had a long talk with Frances. She was becoming very interested in the Mission.

I saw Ben now and then.

Uncle Peter said he was disillusioned and was talking of giving up politics. “It will take him some time to live this down,” said Uncle Peter. “People don’t like this sort of thing to be attached to their Member. They think he should be beyond reproach, not committing the sins of ordinary people.”

I said: “Ben has committed no sin.”

“No, but his wife died in mysterious circumstances. They’ll reckon that, even if he didn’t murder her, she took her own life. They’ll say, Why was she so bemused as to take an overdose? It must be because she had an unsatisfactory home life. Constituents do not like their Members to have unsatisfactory home lives.”

Uncle Peter thought he should face it and not show himself to be in the least put out by failure. Perhaps next election they would give him a constituency up North where the people might be less aware of what happened.

Aunt Amaryllis did not give dinner parties for a while. The family was in mourning. But she did gather us all together though; and when she did, Grace, Morwenna and Justin were often of the party.

“I look upon you, my dears, as members of the family,” she told Morwenna and Justin. “I really don’t want strangers at such a time.”

So I saw Ben often. We talked a little, in snatches and quietly because usually there were others in the room. These conversations normally took place after dinner or just before while we were waiting to go to the table.

I asked him if he felt badly about the election and he said he had expected it would go that way.

“After all your work, Ben!”

“In politics or in life for that matter, everything can change in a week. I knew as soon as it happened that I was sunk.”

“You will fight again?”

“I expect so. But it takes a long time for them to forget.”

“By the next election perhaps?”

“Then there will be someone to bring it up … refurbish it … dress it up as new, I daresay. It will cling, Angelet. I wish I could have done something. It was my fault. I just ignored her. I should have explained. It is too late now.”

“Time will pass and it will be better.”

“I keep thinking that all the time. Then we can start again … you and I.”

“I couldn’t talk about that now, Ben.”

“Perhaps not … but later.”

Grace came over to us.

“I hope I am not interrupting,” she said brightly.

“Oh no,” I told her.

“You seemed in deep conversation.”

“No … we were just talking … idly …”

I looked up and saw Justin. He was looking at us very intently. I smiled and he came over; and the conversation turned to generalities.

The next morning to my surprise Justin called. He was carrying a small parcel.

I wondered why he had come so early in the morning. We were in the sitting room—just the two of us.

He said: “I wanted to see you rather specially, Angelet.”

“Yes, Justin, is something wrong?”

“No … not just now.”

“You mean something might be? Morwenna?”

“No, not Morwenna. She doesn’t know I’ve come.”

“You are being very mysterious, Justin.”

“I don’t know how to say this or where to begin. It’s just a hunch I have. It’s just something I feel you ought to know. I never thought to tell you … or anyone … but since Gervaise did what he did for me … at such a time when we were not even friends … I have felt I owed you something. I’ve wanted to look after you for his sake. I’m not a very admirable character, as you know, but I really think that changed me. It’s because of that …”

“Justin, this is getting more and more mysterious. Why don’t you say it outright?”

“I will. But first I want you to read this. Then … when you’ve read it, I’ll talk to you.”

He put the package into my hands. “What is it?” I asked.

“It’s a diary. I’ve had it for some time. Read it … and when you have read it, we must meet again and I will tell you what I am afraid of. You wouldn’t believe me … until you read that and then I think you would understand a good deal.”

“A diary? Whose?”

“Angelet, I must ask you not to show it to anyone. Will you promise?”

“Of course, but …”

“Take it to your room. Wait till tonight. Read it when you are quite alone. That is very important,”

“I am very puzzled, Justin.”

“I know. But just do as I say. Take it straight to your room. Lock it away and when you retire tonight and can be sure of being quite alone, read it … and when you have read it I will come and see you and tell you why I am behaving in such an extraordinary way.”

“Why can’t I look at it now?”

“Someone might come in. You would be interrupted. Please, do as I say. Promise me, Angelet.”

“All right. I’ll promise.”

“Thank you. I’ll go now. I’ll come tomorrow and we’ll talk.”

Then he left.

I looked at the parcel and was greatly tempted to open it, but having given my promise I took it to my room and locked it in a drawer.

Really Justin was behaving in a very odd manner.

I retired early that night and as soon as I was alone I unlocked the drawer and took out the package. Stripping off the paper I found a diary. I glanced at the dates at the top of each entry and the small neat handwriting.

I undressed, got into bed, and began to read.

On the flyleaf was an inscription: “For Mina with love from Mother.”

Mina presumably was the owner of the diary.

January 1st : I found this diary when I was getting ready to leave, and I remembered that last Christmas Mother had given it to me. She had said: “Write in it, Mina.” Then you can look back on your life at this time in years to come and it will seem as though it is happening to you now.” I thought I would, but I didn’t. And now she is dead and I have to leave here and start a new life. I think it might be interesting. What to write about is difficult to know. So much will be just not worth recording. I shall see how it goes. This is my first entry and it seems I am telling myself things I already know. I don’t suppose I shall continue. I am just starting because it is all new and I am leaving here and have to earn my own living. Mother never wanted that, but the little she was able to leave is not really enough to live on. I don’t want to scrimp and scrape all my life. Besides, what would ever happen to me here? I had to take this job with the Bonners, for the only thing a woman can do when she has to earn a living and she is in my position, is to be a governess. I shall look upon it as an adventure and if it is intolerable I shall not be completely penniless. I can look for something else. So this is a start.