In the year that followed the war Susanna made herself invaluable in the parish. By December nothing was run without her. Judith, when she came to stay, was shocked.
“Mummy, I warned Susanna years ago she’d be made into a parish puss if she wasn’t careful, and now look at her. Can’t you rescue her? You did me.”
“I only wish I knew how,” sighed Catherine.
Susanna had been helping at an old people’s tea. Miss Love piled all the uneaten food into a basket.
“Just take these round to the old people who couldn’t attend; I’ve made out a list of them for you on this envelope.”
David, who had been present at the tea in order to say grace, looked after his daughter with pride.
“She’s my little right hand.”
“A sweet girl,” agreed the Miss Loves. They set off down the village street.
“She’s a wonderful help to her dear father,” said Miss Dora.
Miss Mabel nodded.
“I must say I never expected one of those Vicarage girls to turn out so well.”
“I always had hopes of Esther, but of course when Mr. Right came along—” Miss Dora shook her head roguishly. “Judith was always far too pushing and opinionated. Do you remember, Mabel, how just because she was the Vicar’s daughter she expected to take precedence over us, who had worked for her father for years? When I saw her the other day I was sorry to note that marriage had not improved her.”
“Sad how that large family has broken up, but I sometimes think if all one heard were true, Esdras’s death may have been a mercy.” Miss Mabel dropped her voice. “Old Mrs. Monk was telling me this afternoon about Fanny Griggs. Of course, I told her we’d heard rumours, but she says she believes she only married Ted Halstan just in time, and would never have looked at him if it hadn’t been for what she was expecting. I can’t think how we missed hearing of it. I do wish Fanny hadn’t moved from the village; I would have liked to have had a look at her little boy. If you don’t mind, dear, we’ll call in on Mrs. Honeysett. I sent Susanna to take her some cakes, but I should like her to know it was I who remembered her.”
They turned into the little shop and rapped on the counter. Mrs. Honeysett hobbled in from her back room.
“Well, how are you?” said Miss Mabel brightly. “Did Miss Susanna bring you the cakes I sent to you?”
“Yes, indeed, thank you kindly, Miss Love; beautiful cakes, and I be always pleased to see little Miss Susanna.”
“Did she tell you what a jolly time we had at the tea?”
“Well, no, Miss Susanna ain’t one for gossip these days. Sometimes I think it were like as though she were cut in ’alf when Master Baruch fell out of that windy. Didn’t seem to feel it like so much at first, but this last year she ain’t been more than ’alf with us, Miss Susanna ain’t.”
“Come, come, you mustn’t say things like that.” Miss Dora gave a bright, wholesome laugh. “She’s grown up into a most useful young lady.”
“Oh, aye, she be useful right enough. Up and down the village street I see her run, main busy she be, but where be her smile? How long since we heard her laugh? Why, I remember her and Master Baruch comin’ in here in their holidays. ‘We’ve got a penny each, Mrs. Honeysett,’ they’d say. ‘What’ll we buy that’ll go furthest?’ Then they’d ’ave all me boxes and bottles down, fair rummage they made; liquorice all-sorts they fancied most. I offered some to Miss Susanna back in the summer, and she gave me a look I won’t never forget; hard it was, like a stone, and she walked out of the shop without a word.”
Catherine was worried to the point of sleeplessness by Susanna. She watched her, running guides and cubs, teaching in Sunday school, cleaning the church brass, delivering parish magazines, and in their proper seasons organising endless outings and treats, with despair. Susanna seemed to be permanently sucked under by parish duties. She offered her every inducement she could think of to get her away, but she wouldn’t move.
“Why should I go away?” she would ask. “I’m all right here.”
“But are you happy? They seem to me terribly dull occupations for a girl of your age.”
“They do all right.”
Catherine knew that she was not within a mile of understanding Susanna; that she had never understood her since the day the Armistice was signed, and she had said to her as she came in from the hospital: “Shall we go over and spend the night with Judith? It will be something to do, and we could call in and see Grandfather and he’ll be sure to open a bottle of champagne which will be cheering.” And Susanna had replied with a curious bitter look: “If you like, but I’m in no need of cheering.” And yet she’d been crying, Catherine was sure she’d been crying, and her coat was covered with mud. It had been the same ever since; she resented pity. “Why should I need it?” her look appeared to say. Sometimes she seemed like a wounded animal, asking to be left alone, snapping if touched. Catherine talked about her to Miss Crosby, who always replied: “She’s had a shock, give her time.” And hearing this, Catherine would be cheered, for Miss Crosby knew such a lot about girls, and was probably right. But Miss Crosby wasn’t often with her now, for her only excuse for keeping her on, since nobody needed teaching, was that she liked to have somebody she could trust to send to help Judith and Esther in emergencies, and knowing this, either Judith or Esther was always in a state of emergency. Susanna, having delivered the last of the cakes, turned towards home, and ran into Mrs. Cary. She hadn’t seen her since the hospital had been closed, for with the end of her work she had been unable to bear the loneliness and monotony of the village, and had taken herself and her boy to London, where she had plenty of friends. But the boy hadn’t thrived, so she had brought him back to the country.
“Susanna!” she exclaimed. “Oh, my dear, I am pleased to see you. Come back and have a late tea.”
“I’ve had tea.”
“Never mind, come back and talk, then.”
As they walked they discussed hospital matters; what had become of their various fellow-workers. In Mrs. Cary’s cottage they sat down in two armchairs by the fire.
“Did you know I was coming back?”
“Yes, somebody told me.”
“Well, I hope you were coming to look me up?”
“Oh, I knew I was sure to run into you sometime.”
“Susanna! You’ve changed. What’s been happening to you? You used to be such an affectionate little person, now you seem as if you’d swallowed a poker.” Susanna said nothing. “Did you know you’d changed?”
“No.”
“Well, never mind, it’s very nice to see you again, anyway.”
The next afternoon, Mrs. Cary called on Catherine.
“Mrs. Churston,” she plunged, “I don’t know you very well, so I’m taking a most fearful liberty, but I’m going to talk to you about Susanna. I saw her yesterday, for the first time in nearly a year, and the shock I got at the change in her kept me awake all night.”
“You think she looks ill?”
“Oh no, not that, a little thin and white perhaps. No, the change in her I felt, rather than saw; it’s as if her spirit were gone, she didn’t seem to be in the room with me at all.”
“She looks wretched.”
“It’s worse than that, it’s as though some part of her were dead. Can’t you do something? It’s awful to see a child of her age like that.”
“What can I do?”
“What caused the change in her? Her twin?”
Catherine nodded.
“Yes, there’s been nothing else.”
“But she seemed to take that so well at the time.”
“I know. I sometimes wonder if his spirit stayed near her just at first; it’s a fantastic thought, but they were always an unaccountable couple. Even now I can hardly believe one exists without the other.”
“I should say she hardly does.”
“I’m afraid that’s true. Oh, Mrs. Cary, it’s not that I don’t realise, it’s that I simply don’t know what to do. I’m hoping she’ll become her old self in time.”
“A slow process; I wouldn’t wait for that.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Get her right away from here, new surroundings, new people, new occupations.”
“She won’t budge.”
“Then you must make her. Oh, forgive me, it’s the most awful impertinence me talking to you like this, but I’ve not seen Susanna for some time, and so I expect the change in her is much clearer to me than it is to you who see her every day, and to me she isn’t a girl at all: she’s a ghost, just a thing haunting the world.”
“It’s not impertinent of you at all. I’m grateful. I’ll be still more grateful if you’ll tell me what to do for her.”
Mrs. Cary got to her feet.
“All right, I will, I’ll think of nothing else, and the moment I have an idea I’ll come and tell you.”
She came back two days later. She found Catherine reading a novel over the fire.
“I’ve just seen Susanna go down the street in full regimentals as a guide or scout or one of those things, so I thought this was a safe moment to catch you alone.”
Catherine pulled up another armchair.
“Well?”
“Do you mind lying a little?”
“I don’t personally, but my husband can’t, he’s quite incapable of it.”
“How laudable.”
“No, tiresome.”
Mrs. Cary lit a cigarette.
“I’ve an aunt who needs a sort of secretary-cum-companion, the sort of person erroneously described as being ‘a daughter in the house.’ I drove over and saw her yesterday and told her about Susanna, and she’d like to have her. She has some appalling fête or bazaar in the offing, so would be glad of her right away.”
“How do you suppose you’d get Susanna to go to her?”
“That’s where the lying comes in. I realise Susanna would refuse at once, so I suggest you tell her you’ve lost some money, and it would be a great help if she could get a job.”
“Heavens! Do you seriously think I could get my husband to say a thing like that? After all, he knows it isn’t true, and besides he’s very satisfied with Susanna; to him her behaviour is perfectly normal.”
“Good God! Is he blind?”
“No, it’s not blindness; she works hard, she goes regularly to the services, and remember the Church’s attitude, ‘a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.’”
“I doubt the ‘contrite’; I should think at present she’s as hard as nails.”
“All right, you needn’t rub it in. I know you think I’m letting things slide, but you don’t realise the difficulties. Susanna refuses to go away, and her father wants her to stay here. I’ve offered her travel with me, or her old governess, or anybody else she likes to suggest. Both her sisters have asked her to come and stay with them: Judith, in fact, would like to entertain for her. Tobit, my eldest boy, who is living with his grandfather as a sort of estate agent, begged her to go there for a bit; said he couldn’t get about quickly—he has only one leg and would be glad of her help—but she refused us all; indeed, she got bad-tempered when I tried to press her. The truth is, poor child, she’s filled up every minute while she’s here, and she dreads having time on her hands. At least that’s how I read her.”
The two women fell silent, gazing into the fire.
“You must send her to my aunt,” said Mrs. Cary at last. “It’s only a temporary arrangement, but it will serve as a lever to get her away from here. Tell her the tale about your money, and tell her you’ve kept it from her father, then advise her to come and see me about finding something to do, and after a decent interval I will suggest my aunt.”
“It seems cruel; Susanna obviously doesn’t want to be uprooted. If only I could be sure it would be the best thing for her in the end.”
“Would you have her operated on if she needed it?”
“Yes, I suppose that is the answer.” For a moment Catherine sat in silence, staring at the coals, and twisting and untwisting her fingers; then she threw up her head. “Right, I’ll try it.”
Susanna raced into the house, and slammed the front door, and started up the stairs.
“I want you a moment,” called Catherine.
“Oh, do you, Mummy? Must it be just now? I’ve got to dash out of my uniform and go to folk dancing.”
“All right. I’ll come up to your room and talk to you while you change.”
Susanna unwillingly pulled forward a chair.
“I’m in an awful hurry.”
Catherine switched on the electric fire.
“I don’t believe you ever light this.”
“I always forget.”
“What a Spartan! Susanna dear, I’m going to take you into my confidence; I’ve lost a good deal of money lately.”
Susanna threw her guide uniform on to her bed and took a dress out of the cupboard.
“Poor Mummy,” she said coldly. “How tiresome for you; but we have plenty, haven’t we?”
“No, not with what I’ve lost.”
“Well, we must eat less and have no new clothes.”
“I want more help from you than that; I want you to be able to support yourself, earn your own living.”
Susanna was pulling her frock over her head; now her face came through startled and frightened.
“Oh, Mummy! Must I? I don’t want to go away.”
“I’m sorry, darling. It’s only for a time, I hope, till things right themselves.”
“But what could I do? I’m not trained for anything.”
“There must be jobs you could do. I thought perhaps that friend of yours, Mrs. Cary, might help you; she lives in London, and seems to know a lot of people.”
“I could ask her. But, Mummy, I don’t eat much, and I’ve heaps of clothes; I needn’t have any more for ages, and I really am a help to Daddy. Couldn’t you possibly keep me here? I’d hate to go away.”
Catherine hesitated. Must she be cruel? Then she pulled herself up as she remembered Mrs. Cary’s “Would you have her operated on if she needed it?”
“That’s not quite the point, darling. I could manage to keep you here, of course, as far as food is concerned, but I feel you should be able to earn, in case things get worse. I might manage to have you trained if there is anything you’d like to do.”
“There’s nothing I’d like to do.”
“Well, will you go and talk to Mrs. Cary?”
“Yes.”
“And you will keep all I’ve told you to yourself, won’t you, darling? I’m not telling Daddy—I don’t want him to be worried—and I shan’t tell the others at present, as I don’t want Esther to be bothered before the baby arrives.”
“All right, I won’t tell them.” Susanna was dressed. “Is that all?”
“Yes.” But Catherine still lingered, fidgeting with the arm of her chair. At last she said lamely: “I’m so sorry, darling.”
“Oh, well, I shall get used to it; it doesn’t really make much odds where one lives, I suppose.”
A week later Susanna was staring at her boxes. Maud had packed her clothes, but had left her to contend with her books and other belongings. She looked round her room, and picked up her clock and her fountain pen, but couldn’t see anything else that she could be bothered to take with her. She pulled open all her drawers; the top four were empty, but in the bottom one lay a brown-paper parcel, at sight of which a spasm of pain crossed her face. It was the bundle of exercise books in which Baruch had written “Our Land.” Catherine had given her one book, saying, “This is some private writing of Baruch’s; I found it in his box.” The others she had taken from under the trunk in the attic. She had been surprised at what a lot of books there were, but had shuddered wincing away from the sight of them, and had tied them up in brown paper, together with some snapshots and one photograph of him, and had never looked at them since. Now, gingerly, she untied the string. The photograph was on the top and gazed up at her. She gave one look at it, then moaned, and hurriedly tied the string again and threw the bundle into her box.