thoughts. I remember her in those early days, or rather, I remember what I heard of her, what Elsa and Felicity told me of her, for she vanished from any scenes of mine for more than a year.
But then, after Silas had been covered up with that shawl (a shawl Bell later calmly went on wearing) I went back to the house and left them there, Bell and Esmond Thinnesse. And after a long while, several hours, after the police had been there and a doctor, and all sorts of adjuncts of the police, Esmond brought Bell back to the house and she walked into the drawing room where we all were. It was almost palpable in the air, the embarrassment everyone felt, everyone that is but me and Felicity, who doesn’t know what embarrassment is, and Elsa. I could tell the others were wondering what they were to talk about, how the rest of the evening was to be passed, now Bell was among them. But their difficulty was momentary. She stood there and said in a voice of cold disdain, a voice that made nonsense of what she said, “I am sorry to be the cause of so much trouble.”
An odd thing to say, wasn’t it? Surely poor dead Silas was the cause, he and what he had done? She said it and immediately turned and went upstairs. Felicity was later obliged to go after her and ask her if she wanted anything, a drink, for instance, or something to eat, a share in the supper of cold Christmas leftovers we were all picking at downstairs. Bell refused everything. Next day the police were back, talking to her, and after being closeted with one of them for a long time in Esmond’s study, she walked in among us.
She was all in black. But I later came to know she often was, it had nothing to do with mourning for Silas. I had never seen anyone like her, never before encountered that air of indifferent confidence and tragic poise. Sorry for her, pity for her, I never felt, though perhaps I ought to have felt it. After all, she was a widow, she had lost her husband only the day before in the most appalling circumstances of violence and horror. I felt only admiration, the kind of hero worship I had not had for anyone since I had a crush on the music mistress some seven years before. What I would have liked was for the two of us to go away somewhere and talk. I would have liked to be with her, alone with her, to talk and learn about her and tell her about me.
Of course this was impossible. Elsa and I were going back to London, were due to be driven to Debden tube station by Esmond in about half an hour’s time. Felicity’s sister and her husband and children had already gone by car, taking Paula and her daughter with them. Bell came close up to the chair where Felicity was sitting with the little boy Jeremy on her lap. She laid her hands lightly on the back of the chair, holding her head high, that mass of untidy fair hair, hair the color of tarnished brass, plaited and tied up on top of her head with a piece of string. Without looking at Felicity, looking at the plaster moldings on the ceiling, the cornice, the elaborately pelmeted tops of the windows, she asked if she could remain at Thornham a little longer.
“Not in the house. In the cottage. Just until I find somewhere.”
Felicity was beginning to say, “But, my dear, of course, of course you must, I wouldn’t dream—” when Bell interrupted.
“I know Esmond doesn’t like me. I know none of you like me.” Did I imagine her roving glance coming to rest for a moment on me and the slightest change, a softening, in her expression, as if she made an exception of me? “But I have,” she said, “nowhere else to go.”
She had a reputation for being honest. On the way to the station Esmond said to us, “It’s true I don’t much like her. Frankly, I didn’t like him. But one can say for Bell that she’s a totally honest person. She is incapable of deceit.”
It is interesting how such reputations are built. They come about through confusing the two kinds of truth telling: the declaration of
But then, after Silas had been covered up with that shawl (a shawl Bell later calmly went on wearing) I went back to the house and left them there, Bell and Esmond Thinnesse. And after a long while, several hours, after the police had been there and a doctor, and all sorts of adjuncts of the police, Esmond brought Bell back to the house and she walked into the drawing room where we all were. It was almost palpable in the air, the embarrassment everyone felt, everyone that is but me and Felicity, who doesn’t know what embarrassment is, and Elsa. I could tell the others were wondering what they were to talk about, how the rest of the evening was to be passed, now Bell was among them. But their difficulty was momentary. She stood there and said in a voice of cold disdain, a voice that made nonsense of what she said, “I am sorry to be the cause of so much trouble.”
An odd thing to say, wasn’t it? Surely poor dead Silas was the cause, he and what he had done? She said it and immediately turned and went upstairs. Felicity was later obliged to go after her and ask her if she wanted anything, a drink, for instance, or something to eat, a share in the supper of cold Christmas leftovers we were all picking at downstairs. Bell refused everything. Next day the police were back, talking to her, and after being closeted with one of them for a long time in Esmond’s study, she walked in among us.
She was all in black. But I later came to know she often was, it had nothing to do with mourning for Silas. I had never seen anyone like her, never before encountered that air of indifferent confidence and tragic poise. Sorry for her, pity for her, I never felt, though perhaps I ought to have felt it. After all, she was a widow, she had lost her husband only the day before in the most appalling circumstances of violence and horror. I felt only admiration, the kind of hero worship I had not had for anyone since I had a crush on the music mistress some seven years before. What I would have liked was for the two of us to go away somewhere and talk. I would have liked to be with her, alone with her, to talk and learn about her and tell her about me.
Of course this was impossible. Elsa and I were going back to London, were due to be driven to Debden tube station by Esmond in about half an hour’s time. Felicity’s sister and her husband and children had already gone by car, taking Paula and her daughter with them. Bell came close up to the chair where Felicity was sitting with the little boy Jeremy on her lap. She laid her hands lightly on the back of the chair, holding her head high, that mass of untidy fair hair, hair the color of tarnished brass, plaited and tied up on top of her head with a piece of string. Without looking at Felicity, looking at the plaster moldings on the ceiling, the cornice, the elaborately pelmeted tops of the windows, she asked if she could remain at Thornham a little longer.
“Not in the house. In the cottage. Just until I find somewhere.”
Felicity was beginning to say, “But, my dear, of course, of course you must, I wouldn’t dream—” when Bell interrupted.
“I know Esmond doesn’t like me. I know none of you like me.” Did I imagine her roving glance coming to rest for a moment on me and the slightest change, a softening, in her expression, as if she made an exception of me? “But I have,” she said, “nowhere else to go.”
She had a reputation for being honest. On the way to the station Esmond said to us, “It’s true I don’t much like her. Frankly, I didn’t like him. But one can say for Bell that she’s a totally honest person. She is incapable of deceit.”
It is interesting how such reputations are built. They come about through confusing the two kinds of truth telling: the declaration of
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