Backwater · Chapter 4 (2/3)

When next Miriam saw the black-robed Brooms and their aunt file past the transept where were the Wordsworth House sittings, she felt that to visit them might perhaps not be the ordeal she had not dared to picture. It would be strange. Those three heavy black-dressed women. Their small new house. She imagined them sitting at tea in a little room. Why was Grace so determined that she should sit there too? Grace had a life and a home and was real. She did not know that things were awful. Nor did Florrie Broom, nor the aunt. But yet they did not look like “social” people. They were a little different. Not worldly. Not pious either. Nor intellectual. What could they want with her? She had soon forgotten them and the congregation assumed its normal look. As the service went on the thoughts came that came every Sunday. An old woman with a girl at her side were the only people whose faces were within Miriam’s line of vision from her place at the wall end of the Wordsworth House pew. The people in front of them were not even in profile, and those behind were hidden from her by the angle of the transept wall. To her right she could just see rising above the heads in the rows of pews in front of her the far end of the chancel screen. The faces grouped in the transept on the opposite side of the church were a blur. The two figures sat or knelt or stood in a heavy silence. They neither sang nor prayed. Their faces remained unaltered during the whole service. To Miriam they were its most intimate part. During the sermon she rarely raised her eyes from the circle they filled for her as they sat thrown into relief by the great white pillar. Their faces were turned towards the chancel. They could see its high dim roof and distant altar, the light on the altar, flowers, shining metal, embroideries, the maze of the east window, the white choir. They showed no sign of seeing these things. The old woman’s heavy face with its heavy jawbone seemed to have been dead for years under its coffin-shaped black bonnet. Her large body was covered by a mantle of thickly ribbed black material trimmed with braid and bugles. That bright yellow colour meant liver. Whatever she had she was dying of it. People were always dying when they looked like that. But it was a bad way to die. The real way was the way of that lady trailing about over the Heath near Roehampton, dying by inches of an internal complaint, with her face looking fragile⁠—like the little alabaster chapelle in the nursery with a candle alight inside. She was going to die, walking about alone on the Heath in the afternoons. Her family going on as usual at home; the greengrocer calling. She knew that everybody was alone and that all the fuss and noise people made all day was a pretence.⁠ ⁠… What to do? To be walking about with a quiet face meeting death. Nothing could be so alone as that. The pain, and struggle, and darkness.⁠ ⁠… That was what the old woman feared. She did not think about death. She was afraid and sullen all the time. Stunned, sitting there with her cold common daughter. She had been common herself as a girl, but more noisy, and she had married and never thought about dying, and now she was dying and hating her cold daughter. The daughter, sitting there with her stiff slatey-blue coat and skirt, her indistinct hat tied with a thin harsh veil to her small flat head⁠—what a home with her in it all the time. She would never laugh. Her poor-looking cheeks were yellowish, her fringe dry, without gloss. She would move her mouth when she spoke, sideways with a snarling curl of one-half of the upper lip and have that resentful way of speaking that all North Londoners have, and the maddening North London accent. The old woman’s voice would be deep and hollow.⁠ ⁠… The girl moving heavily about the house wearing boots and stiff dresses and stiff stays showing their outline through her clothes. They would be bitter to their servant and would not trust her. What was the good of their being alive⁠ ⁠… a house and a water system and drains and cooking, and they would take all these things for granted and grumble and snarl⁠ ⁠… the gas meter man would call there. Did men like that resent calling at houses like that? No. They’d just say, “The ole party she sez to me.” How good they were, these men. Good and kind and cheerful. Someone ought to prevent the extravagance of keeping whole houses and fires going for women like that. They ought to be in an institution. But they never thought about that. They were satisfied with themselves. They were self-satisfied because they did not know what they were like.⁠ ⁠… Why should you have a house, and tradesmen calling?

“Jehoiakin!” The rush of indistinct expostulating sound coming from the pulpit was accompanied for a moment by reverberations of the one clearly bawled word. The sense of the large cold church, the great stone pillars, the long narrow windows faintly stained with yellowish green, the harsh North London congregation stirred and seemed to settle down more securely. She saw the form of the vicar in the light grey stone pulpit standing up short and neat against the cold grey stone wall, enveloped in fine soft folds, his small puckered hands beautifully cuffed, his plump crumpled little face, his small bald head fringed with little saffron-white curls, his pink pouched busy mouth. What was it all about? Pompous pottering, going on and on and on⁠—in the Old Testament. The whole church was in the Old Testament.⁠ ⁠… Honour thy father and thy mother. How horribly the words would echo through the great cold church. Why honour thy father and thy mother? What had they done that was so honourable? Everybody was dying in cold secret fear. Christ, the son of God, was part of it all, the same family⁠ ⁠… vindictive. Christmas and Easter, hard white cold flowers, no real explanation. “I came not to destroy but to fulfil.” The stagnant blood flushed in her face and tingled in her ears as the words occurred to her. Why didn’t everybody die at once and stop it all?

Miss Haddie paused at the door of her room and wheeled suddenly round to face Miriam who had just reached the landing.

“You’ve not seen my little corner,” she tweedled breathlessly, throwing open her door.

Miriam went in. “Oh how nice,” she said fearfully, breathing in the freshness of a little square sun-filled muslin-draped, blue-papered room. Taking refuge at the white-skirted window, she found a narrow view of the park, greener than the one she knew. The wide yellow pathway going up through the cricket ground had shifted away to the right.

“It’s really a⁠—a⁠—a dressing-room from your room.”

“Oh,” said Miriam vivaciously.

“There’s a door, a⁠—a⁠—a door. I daresay you’ve noticed.”

“Oh! That’s the door in our cupboard!” The dim door behind the hanging garments led to nothing but to Miss Haddie’s room. She began unbuttoning her gloves.

Miss Haddie was hesitating near a cupboard, making little sounds.

“I suppose we must all make ourselves tidy now,” said Miriam.

“I thought you didn’t look very happy in church this morning,” cluttered Miss Haddie rapidly.

Miriam felt heavy with anger. “Oh,” she said clumsily, “I had the most frightful headache.”

“Poor child. I thought ye didn’t look yerself.”

The window was shut. But the room was mysteriously fresh, far away from the school. A fly was hovering about the muslin window blind with little reedy loops of song. The oboe⁠ ⁠… in the quintet, thought Miriam suddenly. “I don’t know,” she said, listening. The flies sang like this at home. She had heard them without knowing it. She moved in her place by the window. The fly swept up to the ceiling, wavering on a deep note like a tiny gong.⁠ ⁠… Hot sunny refined lawns, roses in bowls on summerhouse tea-tables, refined voices far away from the Caledonian Road.

“Flies don’t buzz,” she said passionately. “They don’t buzz. Why do people say they buzz?” The pain pressing behind her temples slackened. In a moment it would be only a glow.

Miss Haddie stood with bent head, her face turning from side to side, with its sour hesitating smile, her large eyes darting their strange glances about the room.

“Won’t you sit down a minute? They haven’t sounded the first bell yet.” Miriam sat down on the one little white-painted, cane-seated chair near the dressing-table. “Eh⁠—eh,” said Miss Haddie, beginning to unfasten her veil. “She doesn’t approve of general conversation,” thought Miriam. “She’s a female. Oh well, she’ll have to see I’m not.”

“What gave you yer headache?”

“Oh well, I don’t know. I suppose I was wondering what it was all about.”

“I don’t think I quite understand ye.”

“Well, I mean⁠—what that old gentleman was in such a state of mind about.”

“D’ye mean Mr. La Trobe!”

“Yes. Why do you laugh?”

“I don’t understand what ye mean.”

Miriam watched Miss Haddie’s thin fingers feeling for the pins in her black toque. “Of course not,” she thought, looking at the unveiled shrivelled cheek.⁠ ⁠… “thirty-five years of being a lady.”

“Oh well,” she sighed fiercely.

“What is it ye mean, my dear?”

—“couldn’t make head or tail of a thing the old dodderer said”⁠—no “old boy,” no⁠—these phrases would not do for Miss Haddie.

“I couldn’t agree with anything he said.”

Miss Haddie sat down on the edge of the little white bed burying her face in her hands and smoothing them up and down with a wiping movement.

“One can always criticise a sermon,” she said reproachfully.

“Well, why not?”

“I mean to say ye can,” said Miss Haddie from behind her fingers, “but, but ye shouldn’t.”

“You can’t help it.”

“Oh yes, ye can. If ye listen in the right spirit,” gargled Miss Haddie hurriedly.

“Oh, it isn’t only the sermon, it’s the whole thing,” said Miriam crimsoning.

“Ye mustn’t think about the speaker,” went on Miss Haddie in faint hurried rebuke. “That’s wrong. That sets people running from church to church. You must attend your own parish church in the right spirit, let the preacher be who⁠—who⁠—what he may.”

“Oh, but I think that’s positively dangerous,” said Miriam gravely. “It simply means leaving your mind open for whatever they choose to say. Like Rome.”

“Eh, no‑o‑o,” flared Miss Haddie dropping her hands, “nonsense. Not like Rome at all.”

“But it is. It’s giving up your conscience.”

“You’re very determined,” laughed Miss Haddie bitterly.

“I’m certainly not going to give my mind up to a parson for him to do what he likes with. That’s what it is. That’s what they do. I’ve seen it again and again. I’ve heard people talking about sermons,” finished Miriam with vivacious intentness.

Miss Haddie sat very still with her hands once more pressed tightly against her face.

“Oh, my dear. This is a dreadful state of affairs. I’m afraid you’re all wrong. That’s not it at all. If you listen only for the good, the good will come to you.”

“But these men don’t know. How should they? They don’t agree amongst themselves.”

“Oh, my dear, that is a very wrong attitude. How long have ye felt like this?”

“Oh, all my life,” responded Miriam proudly.

“I’m very sorry, my dear.”

“Ever since I can remember. Always.”

There were ivory-backed brushes on the dressing-table. Miriam stared at them and let her eyes wander on to a framed picture of an agonised thorn-crowned head.

“Were you⁠—have ye⁠—eh⁠—have ye been confirmed?”

“Oh yes.”

“Did ye discuss any of your difficulties with yer vicar?”

“Not I. I knew his mind too well. Had heard him preach for years. He would have run round my questions. He wasn’t capable of answering them. For instance, supposing I had asked him what I’ve always wanted to know. How can people, ordinary people, be expected to be like Christ, as they say, when they think Christ was supernatural? Of course, if he was supernatural it was easy enough for him to be as he was; if he was not supernatural, then there’s nothing in the whole thing.”

“My dear child! I’m dreadfully sorry ye feel like that. I’d no idea ye felt like that, poor child. I knew ye weren’t quite happy always; I mean I’ve thought ye weren’t quite happy in yer mind sometimes, but I’d no idea⁠—eh, eh, have ye ever consulted anybody⁠—anybody able to give ye advice?”

“There you are. That’s exactly the whole thing! Who can one consult? There isn’t anybody. The people who are qualified are the people who have the thing called faith, which means that they beg the whole question from the beginning.”

“Eh⁠—dear⁠—me⁠—Miriam⁠—child!”

“Well, I’m made that way. How can I help it if faith seems to me just an abnormal condition of the mind with fanaticism at one end and agnosticism at the other?”

“My dear, ye believe in God?”

“Well, you see, I see things like this. On one side a prime cause with a certain object unknown to me, bringing humanity into being; on the other side humanity, all more or less miserable, never having been consulted as to whether they wanted to come to life. If that is belief, a South Sea Islander could have it. But good people, people with faith, want me to believe that one day God sent a saviour to rescue the world from sin and that the world can never be grateful enough and must become as Christ. Well. If God made people he is responsible and ought to save them.”

“What do yer parents think about yer ideas?”

“They don’t know.”

“Ye’ve never mentioned yer trouble to them?”

“I did ask Pater once when we were coming home from the Stabat Mater that question I’ve told you about.”

“What did he say?”

“He couldn’t answer. We were just by the gate. He said he thought it was a remarkably reasonable dilemma. He laughed.”

“And ye’ve never had any discussion of these things with him?”

“No.”

“Ye’re an independent young woman,” said Miss Haddie.

Miriam looked up. Miss Haddie was sitting on the edge of her bed. A faint pink flush on her cheeks made her eyes look almost blue. She was no longer frowning. “I’m something new⁠—a kind of different world. She is wondering. I must stick to my guns,” mused Miriam.

“I’ll not ask ye,” said Miss Haddie quietly and cheerfully, “to expect any help from yer fellow creatures since ye’ve such a poor opinion of them. But ye’re not happy. Why not go straight to the source?”

Miriam waited. For a moment the sheen on Miss Haddie’s silk sleeves had distracted her by becoming as gentle and unchallenging as the light on her mother’s dresses when there were other people in the room. She had feared the leaping out of some emotional appeal. But Miss Haddie had a plan. Strange secret knowledge.

“I should like to ask ye a question.”

“Yes?”

“Well, I’ll put it in this way. While ye’ve watched the doings of yer fellow creatures ye’ve forgotten that the truth ye’re seeking is a⁠—a Person.”

Miriam pondered.

“That’s where ye ought to begin. And how about⁠—what⁠—what about⁠—I fancy ye’ve been neglecting the⁠—the means of grace.⁠ ⁠… I think ye have.” Miss Haddie rose and crossed the room to a little bookshelf at the head of her bed, talking happily on. “Upright as a dart,” commented Miriam mentally, waiting for the fulfilment of the promise of Miss Haddie’s cheerfulness. Against the straight lines of the wallpaper Miss Haddie showed as swaying slightly backwards from the waist as she moved.

The first bell rang and Miriam got up to go. Miss Haddie came forward with a small volume in her hands and held it out, standing close by her and keeping her own hold on the volume. “Ye’ll find no argument in it. Not but I think a few sound arguments would do ye good. Give it a try. Don’t be stiff-necked. Just read it and see.” The smooth soft leather slipped altogether into Miriam’s hands and she felt the passing contact of a cool small hand and noted a faint fine scent coming to her from Miss Haddie’s person.