before him so that he could not forget them again.
His nights were disturbed by the voices. People who had written letters visited him to read them out loud and the scenes they described were presented to him like plays that he was forced to watch. Small children cried and hid their faces behind their hands, but the tears came through their closed fingers and the voices began to call his name. They asked for help. They told Frank that he was their only friend and that he alone could save them. They begged and pleaded and wept and he could not get away from their anguished faces, and the voices, when he woke, sweating, were still speaking and crying softly in his ears.
He fled back to England. He had long since sold the flat by the sea, and now he hated the open spaces that had once spelled freedom. He moved into a London flat at the very top of a house with a skylight that let in light and brightness and a small balcony on which he could sit looking over the tops of the trees to theHeath. He changed the old, heavy, dark furniture, spending a great deal of money on new, pale-painted cupboards and chairs with light covers, on white rugs and bright pictures. He had plenty of money. The flat was airy and quiet. But the voices and the faces could not be sold or otherwise disposed of and were there, released into the clear, clean spaces of their new home.
He never slept easily now. Small children pressed in on all sides in his dreams, the unhappy, piteous, damaged children of the letters. They implored him to help them, wept and held out their arms to him and then became angry and violent towards him and shouted out his name in hating voices, blaming him. He got up and walked about the flat and, sometimes, even dressed and walked the streets, hearing the sound of sirens, seeing the amber glow of the distant lights. Cars passed him and cats streaked in front of him across the road and he went on walking until he was exhausted, but when he returned to the flat he dared not lie down for fear of the dreams.
He thought of going back to South Africa, or else travelling to another country, to Chile or New Zealand or Japan, but he let the thought go, having the sense to know that the children would fill his dreams just as well there and that he had no escape from them.
*
The letters were all answered for him, but once or twice his publishers sent one on because it was a different kind of letter, perhaps from someone who knew him, which was how he received the announcement, clipped from the local newspaper, of his mother’s death.
17
‘S he should come back here,’ May said. ‘It’s still done. It’s always done. For people to pay their respects. I don’t understand why you think we should do anything else.’
Colin and Berenice were silent, not catching her eye.
‘You think it will still make a difference? Of course it won’t. It’s over – what Frank did is all over and forgotten. People don’t remember that now.’
Though she knew that they did, for how could such things be forgotten?
‘They know that none of it was true.’
But they did not.
‘They’ll want to come as usual and we should have the coffin here. She should go from here.’
‘Oh yes,’ Colin said quickly, ‘I agree with that. Of course she should go from here.’
‘It’s having the coffin here . . .’ Berenice said. ‘Perhaps it would be best if the undertaker brings her here and we just follow.’
‘They came to see Father. You remember how many people came.’
‘That was before.’
‘Before Frank.’
‘Mother was respected as much as he was. It would be wrong not to do what’s always done.’
There was sudden quiet so that they could hear the faint whirring of the chimney cowl.
‘You do what you think is best, May.’ Colin got up. ‘It’s up to you.’
‘We should agree. I don’t understand why you’re objecting.’
‘Because,’ Berenice said gently, ‘it would be a humiliation if no one came.’
‘I
His nights were disturbed by the voices. People who had written letters visited him to read them out loud and the scenes they described were presented to him like plays that he was forced to watch. Small children cried and hid their faces behind their hands, but the tears came through their closed fingers and the voices began to call his name. They asked for help. They told Frank that he was their only friend and that he alone could save them. They begged and pleaded and wept and he could not get away from their anguished faces, and the voices, when he woke, sweating, were still speaking and crying softly in his ears.
He fled back to England. He had long since sold the flat by the sea, and now he hated the open spaces that had once spelled freedom. He moved into a London flat at the very top of a house with a skylight that let in light and brightness and a small balcony on which he could sit looking over the tops of the trees to theHeath. He changed the old, heavy, dark furniture, spending a great deal of money on new, pale-painted cupboards and chairs with light covers, on white rugs and bright pictures. He had plenty of money. The flat was airy and quiet. But the voices and the faces could not be sold or otherwise disposed of and were there, released into the clear, clean spaces of their new home.
He never slept easily now. Small children pressed in on all sides in his dreams, the unhappy, piteous, damaged children of the letters. They implored him to help them, wept and held out their arms to him and then became angry and violent towards him and shouted out his name in hating voices, blaming him. He got up and walked about the flat and, sometimes, even dressed and walked the streets, hearing the sound of sirens, seeing the amber glow of the distant lights. Cars passed him and cats streaked in front of him across the road and he went on walking until he was exhausted, but when he returned to the flat he dared not lie down for fear of the dreams.
He thought of going back to South Africa, or else travelling to another country, to Chile or New Zealand or Japan, but he let the thought go, having the sense to know that the children would fill his dreams just as well there and that he had no escape from them.
*
The letters were all answered for him, but once or twice his publishers sent one on because it was a different kind of letter, perhaps from someone who knew him, which was how he received the announcement, clipped from the local newspaper, of his mother’s death.
17
‘S he should come back here,’ May said. ‘It’s still done. It’s always done. For people to pay their respects. I don’t understand why you think we should do anything else.’
Colin and Berenice were silent, not catching her eye.
‘You think it will still make a difference? Of course it won’t. It’s over – what Frank did is all over and forgotten. People don’t remember that now.’
Though she knew that they did, for how could such things be forgotten?
‘They know that none of it was true.’
But they did not.
‘They’ll want to come as usual and we should have the coffin here. She should go from here.’
‘Oh yes,’ Colin said quickly, ‘I agree with that. Of course she should go from here.’
‘It’s having the coffin here . . .’ Berenice said. ‘Perhaps it would be best if the undertaker brings her here and we just follow.’
‘They came to see Father. You remember how many people came.’
‘That was before.’
‘Before Frank.’
‘Mother was respected as much as he was. It would be wrong not to do what’s always done.’
There was sudden quiet so that they could hear the faint whirring of the chimney cowl.
‘You do what you think is best, May.’ Colin got up. ‘It’s up to you.’
‘We should agree. I don’t understand why you’re objecting.’
‘Because,’ Berenice said gently, ‘it would be a humiliation if no one came.’
‘I
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