The Anniversary Read online

  'Weird,' she said absently. 'But interesting.'

  * * *

  Sally banished everyone from the kitchen except Olga, Spiro and Katya. Bob was sent to his room for half an hour to reflect on his sins. Following Gregor out of the back door and around the corner of the stables to the chapel, Anya felt obscurely resentful. Spiro hadn't taken the trouble to turn up in time for the train, and now he was in the thick of things, while she felt – as she so often did – an outsider, in the way. That he should have been welcomed so warmly into the bosom of her family precisely because he had offered to cook made it seem that he was flaunting before her the very source of their quarrel, instead of trying to make it up with her.

  'I'm really sorry,' said Sally, pulling out the baking tins which had just been washed and stored away. 'It isn't like Bob to be so naughty. Chrissie is the one who is usually up to mischief.'

  'It isn't your fault, Sally,' said Olga gently. 'It was a terrible temptation to a little boy. We should all have been keeping a sharper watch. And I meant to shut the cats into the old dairy, but I simply forgot. They did as much damage as Bob did.'

  Sally began passing down bags of flour, sugar and rice from the wall cupboards, and Katya lined them up on the big kitchen table.

  'I just feel so guilty. You're all going to miss the service, and it's one of the highlights of the day, like A Midsummer Night's Dream this evening.'

  'Don't worry,' said Katya. 'We're like an emergency service. They have to be on duty over Christmas. We're rescuing Natasha's party from disaster. That's more important than going to the service, everyone understands that.'

  Spiro pulled a large basin out of the dresser. 'Can I use this? I'm sorry to miss the service, but if I can help here, perhaps Anya will forgive me for missing that train – she is still very stern with me!'

  * * *

  Gregor had gone off to fetch Frances, who had wandered across the garden and was leaning on the wall gazing at the meadow, with Harry frisking hopefully about her feet. Anya went into the chapel and knelt down in one of the back pews.

  'Help me to see what I ought to do,' she prayed – to a God whose existence she did not believe in.

  * * *

  'I went down to the Ludbrook earlier,' said Frances to Gregor, slipping her arm through his. 'It's quite high, rushing along like anything. And the meadow is so beautiful, full of wild flowers at the moment. Did you know that old meadows like ours are becoming quite rare nowadays? We ought to have someone in to look at it, have it declared a site of special interest, or whatever it is they do.'

  Gregor looked at her quizzically. 'I suggested that at the last committee meeting. Natasha is meant to be looking into it.'

  'We always did that, didn't we? Read each other's thoughts.'

  'You and Hugh did. I'm not sure that I –'

  'Oh, you did. You can't have forgotten.'

  Gregor looked away from her.

  Frances drew a deep breath as they entered the chapel, which enshrined so many milestones of her own past. She had been married here, and all the children had been christened here, in the clumsy old font that some antiquarian friend of Dad's had said was possibly pre-Christian – a pagan sacrificial bowl – taken over and incorporated into the ritual when missionary priests had first come to these parts in Saxon times. 'Great political tact, they had, those fellows. Used the old pagan holy sites and artefacts and festivals whenever they could, so the poor benighted natives thought that Christianity was just an up-market version of their own faith. Very clever.'

  She ran her fingers over the font's lumpy, familiar edge now as she passed. She remembered coming into the chapel on her wedding day on William's arm, as she came now on Gregor's. She remembered the ceremony with great clarity, but the rest of the day had faded and was lost to her.

  * * *

  'You all right, old thing?' asks William, as they stand alone in the drawing room, watching the guests making their way to the chapel. Irina, in sensible Crimplene, has disappeared through the ancient doorway. The room is quiet now that she is no longer fussing nervously with Frances's wreath of white freesias. Natasha, dramatic in something scarlet and pink, has kissed Frances and gone.

  'I'm fine, Dad. Though to be truthful, I'll be glad when all this is over.'

  'I thought it was supposed to be the greatest day of a girl's life.'

  'Oh that,' Frances laughs. 'That's a bit old hat. Walking off into the sunset like a Hollywood film, you mean? Nowadays women have careers, just the same as men. Marriage isn't so important to us now, not as an end in itself.'

  William looks doubtful. 'It's not that easy, old girl.' He lowers his eyes, embarrassed. 'After all, babies and things –'

  'I can manage that,' says Frances confidently. 'Giles is in an OUDS production on the Edinburgh fringe this summer. We're going there straight after our honeymoon. That's where you get noticed, you see, by the West End producers. He's going to spend the next few months getting something lined up for when we graduate next summer. He'll soon be earning enough for us to have an au pair to help with the housework. Then I shall get on with my own career. I'm not going to have any babies for ages.'

  Hugh comes to the french window. 'I think everyone is here. You could come across now.'

  As Frances manoeuvres her wide skirts through the french window he bends and breathes in her ear, 'Good luck, Franny. Take care of yourself.'

  She cannot think why he is looking at her so sadly.

  * * *

  William, shuffling in behind them, supported by Nicholas, watched Gregor lead Frances to one of the front pews and sit down beside her. Their heads bowed forward in unison. He remembered that wedding, Frances and Giles. She looked so lovely, his gallant little Franny, subduing her tomboyish stride to her long skirts, glowing up at that fellow who even then looked smooth and untrustworthy. As a solicitor you got to recognise the signs. You could see it written all over his father, who was something high up in the City and had a chauffeur-driven Rolls. The mother was a mousy, nervous little thing who hardly uttered a word all day. He remembered that, because he had, of course, to partner her and look after her. Irina had been rather flattered by the excessive attentions of Giles's father.

  I never liked him, thought William – or Giles. It was no surprise to me that the father failed so spectacularly the following year and just missed prosecution by a whisker. As for Giles, he's what we would have called a bounder when I was young. Good word. Describes him to a T. I can't understand why Frances has put up with him all these years. For the sake of the children, I suppose, though I'm not so sure that's as good a reason as some people make out.

  Frances and Gregor, now, I always thought they would . . .

  Groaning a little, William fumbled into a pew. And – praying – articulated in his mind words that his tongue could no longer find its way around.

  * * *

  Kneeling in the front pew, Frances closed her eyes and let the atmosphere of the chapel embrace her. She did not try to pray, or even to think very clearly. She could hear a pair of magpies squabbling outside on the lawn, and further off a lark, probably over the meadow. She had seen one tumbling high overhead as she had walked back from the brook. Eric had scythed the grass round the gravestones yesterday, and the smell of mown hay drifted in at the door as people came in one by one, their feet muted on the matting in the aisle, then giving off a dull ring from the stone flags as they edged into the pews. Putting out her left hand she could touch the worn stones of a pillar, and under her knees the sturdy canvas of the hassock creaked gently. Gregor's jersey – darned at the elbow, as she had noticed earlier – brushed against her bare right arm, and she could feel the warmth of his arm through it.

  I know where I am going from, she thought, but I do not know where I am going to. Perhaps if I am very quiet and listen, I will find out.

  * * *

  Lisa sat with Paul at the back of the chapel, in the pew nearest the door. I feel light-headed, she thought, leaning her head on h
er hand, with her elbow on the back of the pew in front, pretending to pray. Almost as if I were drunk. The baby has been very still since it kicked first thing this morning. Oh God, I hope it's all right. Why isn't it moving? Fear rose like sickness in her throat.

  * * *

  Irina had offered her arm to her mother, walking across to the chapel.

  'Thank you, dear,' said Natasha sweetly, laying the tips of her fingers lightly on Irina's arm as once, long ago, she had laid them on the arms of young men escorting her to the Greshlovs' box at the opera, or up a sweeping staircase at a ball, or strolling beside an ornamental lake.

  Humiliated, Irina held up her arm awkwardly, not knowing how to support the butterfly weight of her mother's hand. She walked stiffly herself, aware of the sciatica jabbing along her left leg. How could her mother float along so girlishly at her great age, when Irina would have been glad of a man's arm to lean on heavily, herself. They passed William and Nicholas sitting in a pew halfway down the aisle. William's eyes were shut, and he seemed to be mumbling silently to himself. Irina felt that burst of panic which seized her regularly now, ever since William's stroke. He had always been there – solid, reliable William – apart from those war years. Caring for her, tolerating her social ineptitudes with his kindly smile, understanding (and not minding) her inability to deal with people, admiring and encouraging her painstaking botanical paintings, which she had kept a secret from everyone else all her life. Now his illness had clapped down like a steel shutter between them. It frightened her that she could not even be sure if he was still there, behind the mumbling mouth and uncoordinated movements. The sight of him terrified her.

  * * *

  Poor Irina, thought Natasha, ashamed of herself, and allowing a little more weight to rest on her daughter's arm. I am most unkind to her. I am a wicked old woman and should not tease her as I do.

  She sat down in the front pew on the right, across the aisle from Gregor and Frances, in a swirl of pale blue silk chiffon. This morning she had taken it into her head to wear the same dress as she had worn at the party they had originally held to launch St Martins. Her figure had grown more angular than it had been then, but the dress still fitted. She had never bought many clothes, but she bought the best quality she could afford and looked after them. Her wardrobe was still filled with frocks dating back over the last seventy years. She could remember having this one made, in 1936, when they were living in Chelsea. The flat-chested twenties look was out of fashion, and you were allowed to have some curves again. The dress had been beautifully cut, falling in softly draped folds across the bodice, with a skirt of separate panels that overlapped and rippled against each other as you moved. She had brought it out that day in 1944, defying wartime austerity, making a brave gesture against the knowledge that Edmund was out there, somewhere, on the beaches of Normandy, under fire.

  As she sank gently forward on the hassock, she raised her eyes for a moment to the brass plaque on the wall just above her head. Then she dropped her eyes and talked to Edmund.

  I hope you are pleased, doushenka, at the way our scheme turned out. Fifty years! Who could have imagined it? Are you pleased with me? Is it how you thought it would be? We have had our failures, of course. There was the flautist of absolutely no talent, my darling, who drank like a Moscow droshki driver and then played his appalling music all night. It was very difficult to get rid of him, he was always so ill and sorry in the morning. And there was a crowd of New Age travellers two years ago, who tried to occupy those fields we rent out to Alun Philips. I can't explain about New Age now, darling, there isn't time, but they were not what you would have liked. Not real gypsies – we still get those, and they are no bother, apart from one or two chickens disappearing. No, these other people, they were dealing in drugs, and they became quite abusive. Irina was very frightened, but the police dealt with them in the end.

  Gregor – do you remember Gregor, doushenka? He was the little Polish boy who came just before you left, that last time. A tragic child. Such things he had seen. It reminded me of when I – No, better not to think about that.

  Gregor is one of our successes. He did well at art school, then he became very unhappy and wandered round the world. I thought something had broken in him, perhaps those old memories taking him over, you know? I could understand that. But he came back at last, and has been like a grandson to me. We hardly ever see Hugh, except when he comes for a few months to write one of his books, shut away up in the attics. I'm afraid I don't even know where he is.

  Now, my darling, I must stop talking to you, because Richard is about to start the service and it would be very unkind of me not to pay attention.

  * * *

  'Dearly beloved,' said Richard, as if he meant it, 'we are gathered together . . .'

  * * *

  Chrissie sat on her own in the pew in front of her father and Great-grandpa William, conscious of her dignity. She was the only person under twenty-five in the whole chapel, and she sat primly, with her sandals neatly together on the hassock and the 10p piece Daddy had given her for the collection clutched in her hand. Once, her collection money had slipped through a hole in the pocket of her dungarees and, as she struggled to find it when the plate came round, it had fallen out of the bottom of her trouser leg and gone rolling away under the pew in front. Mummy immediately passed her another coin, but the memory of the mortification still made her go hot.

  She had had some very interesting conversations lately with Natasha about God. Chrissie wasn't quite convinced of the truth of some of the Bible stories, and had become very confused when a new teacher at her school introduced mixed religious teaching. As the only non-English family in the village were Christian Asians, all the primary school children were somewhat baffled, though they liked the opportunity to act out Muslim, Jewish and Buddhist festivals as well as Christian ones. You could count on something nearly every week, with special foods, and candles, and sometimes fancy clothes to dress up in. Miss Baxter was gratified by their enthusiasm and interest, which she reported back jubilantly to the headmaster, who had pointed out rather cynically that there might be some connection with the fact that the following lesson was invariably mental arithmetic.

  On the whole, Chrissie thought, she liked the Jewish ceremonies best. She loved the candlestick with its curly branches and seven candles, and the music Miss Baxter played on the tape recorder. It was wild and haunting, and made shivers go up and down Chrissie's back. Diwali was fun too, but she was dubious about the Muslims. She hadn't liked the pictures of the women wrapped up like parcels so you couldn't see anything but their eyes - they looked creepy. The Orthodox Christians were nice. She was much taken with an icon hanging in Natasha's bedroom, of a very young Virgin with enormous oval eyes and a halo made of real gold leaf. The chapel was very boring compared with these riches, but she felt comfortable here. It aroused in her none of the sentimental religious fancies she sometimes indulged in, but it was a safe place, somewhere you could always slip into, to be quiet and alone.

  Obediently, Chrissie knelt down, her money growing hot in her hand, and repeated, 'Our Father, Which art in Heaven . . .'

  * * *

  The service drew towards its close. Richard spoke simply but movingly of the spirit of St Martins and the many people it had helped. He touched lightly on Natasha's life, knowing that she would not tolerate a eulogy, and spoke rather longer of Edmund, whose death in Normandy they were also commemorating, and the crown of whose life was the founding of St Martins with his wife.

  The blessing. A scraping of feet, and the congregation rose to sing the final hymn.

  Gregor felt Frances's hand brush his as she reached for her service sheet, but he kept his eyes fixed on Richard, set apart in his gleaming surplice from the man who crawled about his railway engines in a dirty green boiler suit. So do our rituals and our garments shape us into different people – alter, subtly, our relationships. If Richard were to stand up in the pulpit before us in his boiler suit, would we liste
n with the same respectful attention to his words? Yet the man would be the same. And if I were to stand there, dressed as he is now, and deliver the same sermon, would they listen to me with the same respect? A man known as I am, these days, for sculptures that are – in Frances's words – brutalist? Sculptures that women like Irina find deeply shocking, and Frances finds distressing? Although I am saying in them many of the same things about the human condition as Richard is saying. Stripped, of course, of the comfortably familiar words and ritual.

  Lift up your hearts! We lift them, Lord, to Thee.

  Do we? Do we indeed, I wonder.

  The small organ, sweet-toned but not powerful, rang out triumphantly, as Birgit played with her own particular dedication. When she and Peter had first arrived at St Martins after the war, emaciated skeletons from Auschwitz, she had told Natasha that she did not believe she could any longer count herself a Christian, after what Christian Nazis had done to her husband's people. Natasha had never pursued the subject, but in time, when the organ had been installed, it came to be understood that Birgit would play it.

  Singing, in spite of himself, as enthusiastically as anyone, Gregor thought of the way certain places, the physical reality of them, had powerful associations for him, so that he could not, however much he tried, escape the past in them.

  * * *

  'This is the chapel, Gregor,' says Natasha in Polish, leading him in by the hand and sitting down on a pile of rubble near the door. Her brightly coloured cotton skirt, like a gypsy's, spreads out amongst the dust on the floor, like flowers trampled in a roadway. 'It has been neglected for years, and I am afraid it has been used to keep chickens in. Don't you think that is a dreadful thing to do?'