being on his own and to be quite calm â even indifferent â about the unending puzzle of understanding her. Judy would probably call it a betrayal; that was the sort of language she went in for, defiant, unhappy language. But there was no deception, Robin believed, in what he had done, no treachery or base abandonment; only a struggle to live with something one had chosen and which had then turned out to be both entirely different from oneâs expectations, and utterly intractable.
He began to walk slowly up the rough bank of the little brook, head bent, eyes fixed upon the mud and the water. Judy had declared that he was angry. Well, he was, in a way, in a complicated way borne of years of battle and effort. Anger at specific things, such as Caroâs failure to tell him until they were married that she couldnât have children, or the sudden demand he should meet her motherâs hospital bills in America, had long since faded. Hadnât they? But he was angry about her illness, that anyone should have to die this ravaged, distorting way, a slow cruelty that seemed to put most other hideous cruelties in the natural world to shame. Yet was he angry with her, for leaving him, by dying, and for subjecting him, before she left, to this long life of the form of companionship without the content? Was it that? He put out a hand at random and grasped a supple young rogue sapling sprouting from the hedge, bending it over decisively and weaving it through the nearest stout upright stems. No, he wasnât angry about that, or at least only as byproduct of the thing that had really cut him to the quick, really caused him the most bitter pain and mortification. And that was that she had never, despite all his efforts and even at the beginning, ever loved him. What is more, he wondered now, had she ever even tried to?
He looked back down the long slope to the river, which ran dark and shining between the muddy banks, only raggedly defined now after the ravages of the floodwater. Slightly to the right of the point where his hedgerow reached the bank, the straggling line of willows began, stooping and craning over the water in their oddly oriental way. It was beside one of those willows that he had proposed to Caro, had said that she could live in his house because by saying that he had believed she would know that he wanted to look after her. He did. Even after she had withdrawn from him to the little bedroom over the kitchen, he had still wanted to look after her. Was that love? Judy would call it possessiveness and male patronage, but would she be right? Wasnât the desire to cherish and protect, even in the face of the death of many intimacies, in fact a kind of love?
He turned resolutely back towards the hill and resumed his progress upwards. Pollution was his problem, must be his problem, he must not be deflected by these futile searchings back into the past, opening doors into rooms Caro had just abandoned, following paths that she had left before he reached her. Grief, the Vicar had said in his one, brief, embarrassed visit to Robin after the funeral, took many forms and he must try to remember that even the most disconcerting reaction was perfectly normal.
âPerfectly,â he said, rising to his feet to show that the interview, to his intense relief, was over. âNo need to blame yourself.â
Robin watched him in silence, as he had at the funeral.
âThe answer,â the Vicar said, pulling on a dark-blue anorak with a drawstring waist, âis probably, in your case, work. Work is a great healer. Work is often the answer to troubles of the spirit.â
He held his hand out to Robin. Robin stood, slowly, and took the offered hand for a mere second.
âI know that,â he said. His voice was full of a contempt he took no trouble at all to hide. âIâve known that all my life.â
Chapter Four
Through the window beyond her office desk, Judy Meredith could see a wall
He began to walk slowly up the rough bank of the little brook, head bent, eyes fixed upon the mud and the water. Judy had declared that he was angry. Well, he was, in a way, in a complicated way borne of years of battle and effort. Anger at specific things, such as Caroâs failure to tell him until they were married that she couldnât have children, or the sudden demand he should meet her motherâs hospital bills in America, had long since faded. Hadnât they? But he was angry about her illness, that anyone should have to die this ravaged, distorting way, a slow cruelty that seemed to put most other hideous cruelties in the natural world to shame. Yet was he angry with her, for leaving him, by dying, and for subjecting him, before she left, to this long life of the form of companionship without the content? Was it that? He put out a hand at random and grasped a supple young rogue sapling sprouting from the hedge, bending it over decisively and weaving it through the nearest stout upright stems. No, he wasnât angry about that, or at least only as byproduct of the thing that had really cut him to the quick, really caused him the most bitter pain and mortification. And that was that she had never, despite all his efforts and even at the beginning, ever loved him. What is more, he wondered now, had she ever even tried to?
He looked back down the long slope to the river, which ran dark and shining between the muddy banks, only raggedly defined now after the ravages of the floodwater. Slightly to the right of the point where his hedgerow reached the bank, the straggling line of willows began, stooping and craning over the water in their oddly oriental way. It was beside one of those willows that he had proposed to Caro, had said that she could live in his house because by saying that he had believed she would know that he wanted to look after her. He did. Even after she had withdrawn from him to the little bedroom over the kitchen, he had still wanted to look after her. Was that love? Judy would call it possessiveness and male patronage, but would she be right? Wasnât the desire to cherish and protect, even in the face of the death of many intimacies, in fact a kind of love?
He turned resolutely back towards the hill and resumed his progress upwards. Pollution was his problem, must be his problem, he must not be deflected by these futile searchings back into the past, opening doors into rooms Caro had just abandoned, following paths that she had left before he reached her. Grief, the Vicar had said in his one, brief, embarrassed visit to Robin after the funeral, took many forms and he must try to remember that even the most disconcerting reaction was perfectly normal.
âPerfectly,â he said, rising to his feet to show that the interview, to his intense relief, was over. âNo need to blame yourself.â
Robin watched him in silence, as he had at the funeral.
âThe answer,â the Vicar said, pulling on a dark-blue anorak with a drawstring waist, âis probably, in your case, work. Work is a great healer. Work is often the answer to troubles of the spirit.â
He held his hand out to Robin. Robin stood, slowly, and took the offered hand for a mere second.
âI know that,â he said. His voice was full of a contempt he took no trouble at all to hide. âIâve known that all my life.â
Chapter Four
Through the window beyond her office desk, Judy Meredith could see a wall
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