her here. For if a bad death haunted a place with evil, why should not a good death imprint its own goodness?
It was a long time before she got up, and tried to bring back some warmth to her cramped limbs.
The mist had folded back and back upon itself like a long pillow at the bottom of Low Field. She found mushrooms, more than a dozen of them, with their delicate pink-brown grilles and tops of white suede, she put some in her pockets and carried the rest between cupped hands back up the hill and across the common, to where she found Jo waiting, full of alarm, by the gate. She called out, to reassure him, and the donkey heard her, too, and brayed.
‘Ruth…’
‘It’s all right.’
‘Mushrooms!’
‘I found them in Low Field.’
He glanced at her quickly.
‘I went there. To Helm Bottom. I had to go.’
‘Yes.’
‘I had to go by myself.’
‘Is it all right?’
‘Yes.’
Yes, for now, she had something to hold on to, some kind of reassurance which would take her through this day. It was only the end of it she dreaded, and dared not look beyond, for the worst would come to her, she knew, when, for everyone else, it was all over.
3
AS SHE TURNED into Foss Lane and saw the house, she had again the sensation of being outside her own body, of watching her own actions with interest but without emotion. There were people round the doorway, but they moved back, murmuring a little and then falling silent, as they saw her. She was wearing the brown skirt and coat, and no hat, because she did not possess a hat, and it had not occurred to her to buy one specially. That would have changed her, she would not be the person Ben knew.
At the open door, she paused, and her heart began to beat violently, she gripped her hands together.
There they were. All of them, in black, and the women in hats, the men formal and unfamiliar in suits, with arm-bands. And as she entered the tiny front room, they, too, fell silent. Nobody came to her.
Dora Bryce was in a chair beside the fire, a handkerchief to her face. The room was hot. Ruth felt that she would choke, she wanted to run away from these ashen, sepulchral faces, What had any of this to do with her, or with Ben? She remembered what Jo had told her, about people in the early church who wore white at a funeral for rejoicing.
‘Ruth …’
Arthur Bryce took her arm, and then let it go, awkwardly. His neck looked red and swollen under the stiff white collar.
Perhaps he did not dislike her, perhaps, if it had not been for the women, he might have been her friend, But he went along with them, Dora and Alice, did what they did.
Who were all the others? They looked curiously alike; they must be aunts and uncles and cousins of the Bryces. None of them was related to her. They either glanced at her and away quickly, or else stared with set faces. She thought, you’ve heard about me, and what you have heard you believe, there isn’t anything they will not have told you.
Where was Jo? If Jo would come … She had never felt so lonely, so set apart from other people, in her life, and she had only her own courage and pride to rely on.
‘You’ll want to come up.’
Arthur Bryce was standing in the doorway, at the foot of the stairs and for a moment she did not understand. When she did, she stepped back, the room tilted and her ears rang.
‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘No.’
Dora Bryce lifted her head.
‘You’re not going to pay your respects? You don’t even want to say goodbye to him?’
‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ll come with you, girl.’
Arthur Bryce fingered his collar. ‘He looks …’
‘No!’
She saw the expression on Alice’s face, remembered what she had said that night. ‘You’ve not even feeling enough to cry.’ But she could not go upstairs, the sight of his body, lying in a coffin, which would soon be sealed up forever, would be more than she could bear. And it would mean nothing, now. She looked around the room. So they had all
It was a long time before she got up, and tried to bring back some warmth to her cramped limbs.
The mist had folded back and back upon itself like a long pillow at the bottom of Low Field. She found mushrooms, more than a dozen of them, with their delicate pink-brown grilles and tops of white suede, she put some in her pockets and carried the rest between cupped hands back up the hill and across the common, to where she found Jo waiting, full of alarm, by the gate. She called out, to reassure him, and the donkey heard her, too, and brayed.
‘Ruth…’
‘It’s all right.’
‘Mushrooms!’
‘I found them in Low Field.’
He glanced at her quickly.
‘I went there. To Helm Bottom. I had to go.’
‘Yes.’
‘I had to go by myself.’
‘Is it all right?’
‘Yes.’
Yes, for now, she had something to hold on to, some kind of reassurance which would take her through this day. It was only the end of it she dreaded, and dared not look beyond, for the worst would come to her, she knew, when, for everyone else, it was all over.
3
AS SHE TURNED into Foss Lane and saw the house, she had again the sensation of being outside her own body, of watching her own actions with interest but without emotion. There were people round the doorway, but they moved back, murmuring a little and then falling silent, as they saw her. She was wearing the brown skirt and coat, and no hat, because she did not possess a hat, and it had not occurred to her to buy one specially. That would have changed her, she would not be the person Ben knew.
At the open door, she paused, and her heart began to beat violently, she gripped her hands together.
There they were. All of them, in black, and the women in hats, the men formal and unfamiliar in suits, with arm-bands. And as she entered the tiny front room, they, too, fell silent. Nobody came to her.
Dora Bryce was in a chair beside the fire, a handkerchief to her face. The room was hot. Ruth felt that she would choke, she wanted to run away from these ashen, sepulchral faces, What had any of this to do with her, or with Ben? She remembered what Jo had told her, about people in the early church who wore white at a funeral for rejoicing.
‘Ruth …’
Arthur Bryce took her arm, and then let it go, awkwardly. His neck looked red and swollen under the stiff white collar.
Perhaps he did not dislike her, perhaps, if it had not been for the women, he might have been her friend, But he went along with them, Dora and Alice, did what they did.
Who were all the others? They looked curiously alike; they must be aunts and uncles and cousins of the Bryces. None of them was related to her. They either glanced at her and away quickly, or else stared with set faces. She thought, you’ve heard about me, and what you have heard you believe, there isn’t anything they will not have told you.
Where was Jo? If Jo would come … She had never felt so lonely, so set apart from other people, in her life, and she had only her own courage and pride to rely on.
‘You’ll want to come up.’
Arthur Bryce was standing in the doorway, at the foot of the stairs and for a moment she did not understand. When she did, she stepped back, the room tilted and her ears rang.
‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘No.’
Dora Bryce lifted her head.
‘You’re not going to pay your respects? You don’t even want to say goodbye to him?’
‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ll come with you, girl.’
Arthur Bryce fingered his collar. ‘He looks …’
‘No!’
She saw the expression on Alice’s face, remembered what she had said that night. ‘You’ve not even feeling enough to cry.’ But she could not go upstairs, the sight of his body, lying in a coffin, which would soon be sealed up forever, would be more than she could bear. And it would mean nothing, now. She looked around the room. So they had all
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