Graham Swift - Mothering Sunday - A Romance

Though she had heard the telephone ring.

Mr Niven didn’t actually take hold of her. Not then. And she didn’t faint, even if she had gone pale.

He repeated, ‘I’m so sorry, Jane, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this.’

Why did it seem, at that complexion-changing moment, that she might have been someone else? It was an expression: ‘not to be yourself ’. Why did it seem that she might have been Emma Hobday? Or that she might have been Mr Niven’s own daughter (though Mr Niven didn’t have one), who was also Emma Hobday. That Mr Niven was, himself, Mr Hobday. That the characters in this story had all been jumbled up.

Why did it seem that Mr Niven was projecting onto her a whole confusion of scenes that she might have been in, but wasn’t? She was only the maid — and, temporarily, not even that. Why did it seem that this day and its now terrible meaning — it wasn’t Mothering Sunday any more at all — had blurred the usual order of things between herself and Mr Niven?

He might have been speaking to his wife.

‘Jane. Jane, I have left Clarissa — Mrs Niven — with the others. In Henley. She felt she might be of better — service — there. Of course Emma — Miss Hobday — will drive to be with them. If she is able to. There was the question of whether they might all drive to her — to Bollingford. She is in Bollingford. Did I explain that? Or whether they might all drive to be at the Hobdays’. There is the question, Jane, of where everyone — ought to be. But I thought I should be here, Jane. I thought I should be here to. .’

‘Yes, Mr Niven?’

‘To go to Upleigh.’

‘Upleigh?’

‘Yes. I stopped here first to use the telephone. I have just done so. I was just leaving. I have spoken to Clar — to Mrs Niven. They are still at Henley. But they have decided to meet Miss Hobday — at the Hobdays’. That is the decision. I think that is the best plan. Miss Hobday must come first. Mr and Mrs Sheringham do not wish to return yet to Upleigh. Not yet. You can understand. I shall drive to the Hobdays’ myself later. I am glad — I mean I am sorry — to be able to explain all this to you. But, Jane, you are back early—?’

‘I thought, sir — it doesn’t matter now — I might just come back here and read my book for a bit.’

‘Your book?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, if you— I mustn’t—’

‘It doesn’t matter, Mr Niven. My book doesn’t matter.’

‘Someone must inform the staff at Upleigh, you see. Mr Sheringham has told me that your — opposite number — is called Ethel. And the cook is called Iris.’

‘But—’

‘Yes, I know, they have gone to their families. Like Milly. But they must be made aware as soon as possible of the — circumstances. Mr and Mrs Sheringham told me — oh good God — that Paul drove them both to the station this morning, but they will return separately. This — Ethel — most likely first. So I must go to Upleigh, you see, to await her. To inform her.’

‘Not the station, sir?’

Had she gone pale twice?

‘That might not be the best place for such a purpose. In any case — how can I put this, Jane?’

‘Put what, sir?’

‘I feel that someone must — ascertain the situation at Upleigh in any case. I mean the situation as Mister Paul would have left it.’

‘But—’

‘Yes, of course, he would simply have left the house. Good God, he was going to be brushing up on his law apparently. Yes, he would simply have left the house. There is no situation. But I feel — someone should check the situation. To prepare the Sheringhams. I mean, to reassure them. They are not ready to return there yet. They feel they should be with Miss Hobday. But you can imagine, Jane, you can imagine. The state of their— I offered to do what I have just told you. To make sure of things at Upleigh. They said that when he — when Mister Paul — left, and as the house would have been empty, he would have left a key, under a piece of stone — a stone pineapple, they said. Mrs Sheringham said it was a stone pineapple. By the front porch. So—’

‘So—?’

‘I must drive to Upleigh. To wait for this Ethel. And to ascertain—’

Mr Niven did not seem entirely ready for the task he had plainly volunteered for. He cleared his troubled throat.

‘Jane — may I ask you something?’

‘Ask me what, Mr Niven?’

She was still gripping the handlebars of the bicycle. She realised she was even squeezing its brake levers, though she was standing, quite still, beside it.

‘If you would accompany me.’

‘Go with you, sir?’

‘Of course, I understand it is still your day. If you wish, Jane, if you wish just to read your book—’

‘ Your book, Mr Niven.’ She had no idea why she corrected him.

‘Of course.’

A brief contortion crossed his face, as if the beginning of a smile had turned into something else.

Was he going to sob? This wasn’t his son. He was only an entangled neighbour.

‘Yes, sir. I will go with you.’

‘I appreciate that, Jane. That is very good of you. I don’t suppose you have ever been inside Upleigh House—’

‘Would you mind, Mr Niven, if I went in first and had a glass of water?’

‘Yes — of course. Forgive me. This is all such a shock. And you have been cycling around all day! Yes, yes, of course, you will need to collect yourself, refresh yourself. Forgive me. I will be here, Jane, by the car, when you are ready.’

And perhaps that five minutes or so made all the difference. And when had it ever happened before: Mr Niven waiting for her ? Even standing by the car, when she reappeared, with its leather-lined door opened for her. She thought again of Ethel and Iris.

Inside the house — inside another empty house — her face had momentarily flooded, before she drenched it anyway with cold water. She might even have stifled a scream.

They drove to Upleigh. It was not a long drive at all. But he drove very slowly and carefully, as if to some appointment he might have wished not to be keeping. They found it hard to speak. Yes, she felt like Ethel. She might have been Ethel.

And as it happened, Ethel was ahead of them. The docile and dutiful Ethel had decided, as if unequipped for her day of freedom, to return in time even to make the Sheringhams their tea, should they themselves be back early enough to require it. Her ‘day’ with her mother must have been a matter of just a couple of hours, and perhaps, for her own reasons, she had preferred not to stretch it out any longer. She would have alighted from the 3.42, then simply walked. It was only a mile or so. There were short cuts through fields. The sun would have been turning a deeper gold. Primroses peeping, rabbits hopping. It would have taken the agile Ethel maybe twenty minutes. And they might have been the best twenty minutes of her day.

Even as they drove up the Upleigh drive, between the limes, she had seen the tell-tale sign: the upstairs window. Tell-tale only to her. It was closed now. Someone had closed it. Who else but Ethel? Ethel had been in the bedroom and closed the window.

And so she’d gasped — audibly to Mr Niven — as they still drove up the drive. And Mr Niven had taken it perhaps as a general gasp of distress, since they were both no doubt thinking — if in different ways — of how Paul Sheringham had driven down this very drive only hours ago in the opposite direction. For the last time. So Mr Niven had said needlessly, ‘Yes, it’s terrible, Jane.’

And it was a gasp of distress, but it contained a small gasp of relief. And she otherwise betrayed nothing.

The sun was now off the front of the house and the gravel. When they got out of the car there was even a distinct chill in the air after the earlier heat of midday. And while Mr Niven began looking for ‘this pineapple thing’ and while she restrained herself from pointing at it or saying anything, Ethel suddenly opened the door — as she naturally would, since it seemed that there were visitors. She might even have thought, hearing the car from within, that it was Mr and Mrs Sheringham returning. But there she was on the porch suddenly, with a surprising air of being in charge of — of guarding — the whole edifice of Upleigh.