The Crow Biddy: A Novel by Gillian White | eBook

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The Crow Biddy

A Novel

By Gillian White

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

CHAPTER 1

Dame Elouise Clough-Ellis touches the autumn leaves with the tip of a bronze boot. A statue to iron endurance. Her eyes, deep in their moulded sockets, look uncannily deader than death and water drips from her nose and her tarnished fingers because Appleyard, a long-stay patient from Underwood Hospital, has just given her her monthly hosing down.

'There,' he says. 'That's done.'

It is Appleyard's last job of the day before he winds up his hose and dumps it along with his earthy rakes and his spade into the wheelbarrow, to be taken back to the shed, tidied and put neatly away before he makes his way home to his ward and the high tea that will be awaiting him. Tuesday—scrambled eggs and chocolate ice cream tonight. Appleyard, puffing moistly on his pipe, is always glad to get out of this bit of garden. Because of his condition it is important that he avoid thoughts and places that might circle him and pull him down. And this bit of garden, especially in autumn, he thinks to himself as the wheel of the wooden barrow squeals up the narrow, box-hedged path towards the vegetable garden, is definitely such a place.

Years and years ago when Appleyard was a young man, in the days when they gave ECT without anaesthetic and used leather straps, years and years ago he had scrubbed Dame Elouise Clough-Ellis with a mixture of turpentine and emery powder given to him by Hunter, Farendon School's head gardener. Got between her folds and undulations with a tough little wire brush used for difficult flowerpots. Oh, he wouldn't have dreamed up the idea on his own, the Founder was far too austere a personage for that, he'd never have dared, he would have thought it desecration. But Hunter insisted and Appleyard put it off and put it off until one day Hunter teased him with, 'What's the matter, Appleyard? Too much of a woman for you, is she?' And gave him the mixture ready prepared and a dreadfully intimate selection of brushes.

And after the experience, after wiping the smooth arms, the waxen buttocks (under the skirts, of course, but he could feel the buttocks there), the spindly ankles and the great, round pigeon breasts, Appleyard found himself apologising. His knuckles and wrists looked huge next to her neat little ones. The hair on the backs of his forearms, compared to all the smooth rotundness of her Queen Victoria jowls, seemed coarse and animal. Now whether he had done something to the eyes—dislodged something, maybe—or whether he hadn't, from that day on (and there is no doubt about it) Dame Elouise Clough-Ellis gives Appleyard the glad eye every time he rounds the corner into the lawned expanse of Farendon's front approaches. Her smile isn't pious, after all. It is fleshily sensual. And Appleyard finds her quite shocking.

It is drizzly. The day has never turned properly on, the sky has never coloured. But now the dusk is full of vaporous autumn, the grass dripping damp round the brick walls of the potting shed as Appleyard shrugs himself into his macintosh. Before he leaves he pokes an old bonfire still smouldering in the corner and stamps the loose soil from his heavy boots. In the distance the bell rings for supper. He is too far away to hear but Appleyard imagines he can hear the chattering of girls as they cross the quad from their various houses, obligatory cloaks thrown over shoulders as they skirt the browning oak with its rustic seat, the kissing bench. No games after supper until the spring term, now. No point in him working overtime in order to observe, scythe in hand down among the lush grass by the side of the hockey pitch, breasts and thighs ... breasts and thighs and white flesh wrapped in high-pitched squeals. No point in sloping back to the cloakroom where tunics and shirts hang haphazard from pegs and black stockings are strewn across the benches like crazy legs.

And in the summer—tennis. There is always work to be done by the chain-link fences down at the tennis courts. And often Appleyard is called to the swimming pool in order to scoop out some decaying mammal—once it was a fox with a brush sodden and heavy, wringing wet—so that the young ladies can swim in uncontaminated water. But the girls aren't neat like they used to be. No short tunics and black stockings any more. No longer those little cotton shifts, tied tight round the waist for games, that make them look like lime-green nymphettes in a grassy underworld.

The Founder, surely, would not have approved of this new modern look, or would she? She is perched on a plinth on the central sweep of lawn before the Gothic entrance, reading and giving nothing away. Round her, at half-terms and holidays, sweep the powerful, long-nosed conveyances of parents as they negotiate the chain of puddles and swing round the final bend to confront the school after a half-mile approach between lakes and rhododendrons, upwards ever upwards, getting glimpses of the clock-tower above the door which fades and reappears, flickering like a lovingly made home movie.

Farendon is built like a child's greystone fort without the drawbridge or the castellations, as if the Founder had feared that one day her girls might find themselves under attack. You could walk right round the flat rooftop which is, however, strictly out of bounds. The school forms an oblong round a quadrangle and in the middle of the quadrangle, softening the whole rather aggressive effect, is a 250-year-old oak: every autumn Appleyard has to barrow the leaves out through the front door, because it is the only approach wide enough.

The front, downstairs part of the oblong forms the School proper and upstairs is School House. The lefthand, lower ridge of buildings accommodates St Hilda's and opposite, on the right, St Joan's. And on the furthest side of the quad the long, low building that matches the School in length is divided into two houses, St Claire's and St Mary's.

Appleyard hears the regular night-sounds of the School, as familiar to him as the bubbling sounds inside his own body, as he pulls on his bobble hat and starts down the drive. The bass beat of heavy metal music, the occasional hoot of a whistling kettle, chords and arpeggios from the music rooms and the sound of voices in perfect harmony from the choir, practising in the chapel in the woods. Safe sounds. Sounds he is easy with.

Will they let him come here still after they move him?

They say they are closing the Hospital down and that they will find him a home somewhere in the town, but he tries not to think about that. Mr Robbie, Appleyard's psychiatrist, explained this to him last month in that grieving voice he uses to impart bad news.

'Now you will be given an opportunity to speak out, Norman,' he said, folding himself over his chair, finding a comfortable position for his chin, accentuating the over-large cleft in it as he assumed the position of thinker. 'After all, Underwood has always been your home and moving at this stage in your life might well be traumatic for you. But it will be done gently over a period of months so that you get used to the changes ... nothing sudden will happen, I promise you that.'

Appleyard nodded on a nonexistent neck and pretended he understood. His smile was institutionally ever-ready. He wondered, if this was such a good idea, if it was full of the enormous implications Mr Robbie said it was, why it hadn't been done before. He had lived in Underwood since he was ten years old, most of those years on the same ward, the first five in bed. He couldn't quite understand what Mr Robbie meant by 'moving out'. But Appleyard sensed it would be all right. Someone would look after him. They always had, hadn't they? Appleyard smiled again.

Robert Cohen regarded his patient with baleful eyes. You could stare at Norman Appleyard and find your eyes spiralling for no clear reason. If you stared long enough you virtually experienced trance, as if Appleyard's emptiness was pulling you, sucking you into his own void, drawing you into his own black hole as if he was employing some sort of magnetism, and it then took great effort to draw back again. Poor devil. Poor, brainless, creepy innocent.

In spite of a lifetime of pallid slops, eggy puddings and sticky medication, Norman was remarkably rounded and fit. And not a strand of grey in that coarse brown hair, not a line on his face. But the unblaming eyes were penetrating, and it was the gap between his two front teeth that made his face seem childlike. Norman Appleyard went stone deaf in his teens and nobody noticed until an alert junior doctor decided to syringe his ears. Robert Cohen sighed and felt, again, a deep sense of shame. Norman would never survive outside. Hell, how Cohen hated this role of devil's advocate.

Norman Appleyard walks on rusty leaves down the winding drive towards the main road where he comes out of the myopic safety of Farendon School and feels the world's invasion pressing against his head like rubber pads. Nearly at the railings beside the road where staked and spindly sycamores replace the blighted elms, he thinks he hears a scuffling in the bushes ... a badger, perhaps, or a pheasant trying to hide ... stupid birds, pheasants. Appleyard stops and sniffs. Searches in his pocket for his handkerchief. Someone told him once that they guessed where he came from because only Underwood patients still used name-taped handkerchiefs, Underwood patients and boarding-school girls. By the bridge is the usual five-thirty traffic jam and Appleyard hates to walk along beside the cars because you can feel the people inside staring at you and talking about you, especially if you are forced to keep pace with them.

Appleyard loves his work. He glories when his back groans and sweat sheens his face. With his fingers in the soil or the bite of his spade in the earth he is free, for a while, from himself. Work puts the other aches out. Working hard keeps the blackness away. He hates Bank Holidays and Sundays, he especially loathes Christmas. Autumn is a worrying, melancholy time during which he likes to work extra hard and now, as the darkness envelops him, he resents it as anyone else would resent being interrupted during a specially good television play.

But you can't shout at the darkness and tell it to go away.

Three-quarters of a mile to get yourself home. Over the river with your head thrust forward and your scarf across your chest, reflected in the staid, green water you can see the Hospital walls floating in the street lights. Here you join with other, ordinary people making their way home from work with packs on their backs and toolbags. A clutch of head-scarfed women gabble on a corner. Appleyard wants to stop and pick up the litter in the gutters, it offends him. There is never any litter in the Farendon grounds, he sees to that, he and his trolley and his industrial waste bags.

Humble shops only in this part of the city ... shabby tobacconists selling lighters and floppy birthday cards ... a tool-hire shop with chainsaws decked with ribbons to give them window appeal ... a hardware display of galvanised stepladders and gaudy washing baskets. Across the crossing, watching carefully for the little green man, and through the tall gates he goes, joining with the first early visitors who bear white-wrapped bunches of flowers like babies in shawls in their arms. Some bang the bundles loosely against their knees, slouched a little—with shame, that they should be visiting such a hospital at all? Or have their beaten bearings been a factor of breakdown in the first place?

The time on the clock in the entrance hall, so big you can see the hand moving round in surreptitious little jerks, tells Appleyard that his journey has taken him fourteen and a half minutes. He knows because he has timed his departure by the clock on the Farendon tower—and that was at five thirty-two.

Appleyard likes to keep a check on the minutes of his life, to make quite sure that someone, somewhere, isn't trying to take them away from him. Because he doesn't trust them, no he doesn't, he doesn't trust them an inch.

CHAPTER 2

Old girls.

Old girls who don't like to think about their schooldays and who never go back to reunions.

A hundred miles and a world away from Farendon one such old girl sits in the Priest's House, thinks of the Priest's House wryly as her Innisfree for recital of which she won, at school, the Bernard Trefold Elocution Prize. The Priest's House at Ashbury is 'of clay and wattles made', quite probably, and in it Molly Tarrent daubs with pen on pad while the night clouds gather. And the slithering plaster within the house's old walls could well be said to sound like linnets' wings.

Molly wrestles with a problem as she sits at the mullioned window with the firelight crackling behind her. And that problem is—how can she turn Jesus into Crispin?

She sucks her pen and brings neat eyebrows together, creates two furrows over a snubbish, freckled nose. Tap tap tap, her teeth are tiny like baby teeth and as pearly white. She hasn't done her 'homework' and it is the writing group tonight. 'Jesus' is the topic but it could be 'Madness', 'Sacrifice', 'In My Mother's Kitchen'—it could be any subject at all but it is all the same to Molly because she will write about Crispin. She will find a way. Shocking them all into appalled silence with her vitriolic pen. This clean, red woman with a face as shiny and scrubbed as any farmer's, with her pony tail and her dungarees, shocks them into silence every week like that.

But Jesus?

Writing for Ourselves is the heading for which the group gets its grant from theWEA. And writing for themselves is precisely what they do, for someone is always going through, heading for or recuperating from a crisis. And what better way to get it safely out ...

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Molly taps her teeth with her Bic and is lulled by the sound she makes—a night clock ticking. She calls for help from the sky with wide blue eyes, from her glass with her lips. Jesus.

Why does she have to change anything at all? Crispin is goddamn Jesus, after all. Except that with his crinkly black hair and the gold tooth just where his smile starts, he looks more like the Devil. And he does Devil things, like marrying Rose. After eighteen years of marriage to her he ups and offs and marries Rose.

Leaving Molly in the Priest's House which they bought together as a holiday home, leaving Molly in the Priest's House, weeping between the bean rows. And the currant bushes. And the nests in the thatch where the birds twitter happily each morning outside the bedroom that used to be hers and Crispin's.

And now Rose is pregnant. Just when the twins are eighteen and leaving home.

When the telephone rings, Molly jumps for she is out in the Wilderness for forty days and forty nights with a hircine Crispin—a lewd-mouthed Mary Magdalene stalking him among the crags and knowing exactly how she wants to love him in this landscape of biblical browns. Only knowing now, of course, now it is too late ...

It is Effie Tate from the writing group on the telephone and she says in her usual brisk, busy way, 'Got a problem. Someone here. Wants to come tonight.'

'Who is it?' The new phone, the stupid lightweight new phone has to be held by an elbow to its moorings or it will fall to the floor. How could anyone design such a monster to replace the sturdy old GPO instrument with its friendly dialling face? Things lightweight and simpering, like Rose, seem to be the vogue these days, replacing anything well-tried and familiar. Even the Volvo, she's been told by Charlie at Gant's Garage—she insisted on keeping the Volvo—runs, nowadays, on a Renault engine.

'A client of Roger's ...'

'A client?'

'She's really terribly nice or I wouldn't be asking.'

'But you don't know her?'

'I didn't know her,' says Effie, her voice low and confidential. 'But I know her now. She's been here all day talking money with Roger. She'll fit in. She's okay. Believe me.'

Sometimes Effie doesn't treat the writing group with the reverence it deserves. Effie is not a reverent person and vaguely Molly wonders what she will do with the Jesus theme. But Molly doesn't really care. Let the woman come. Let the stranger come. Let anyone come. What, at the end of the day, does it matter?

She tells Effie, 'You'd better check with everyone else. You know how wounded Jessica can get.'

'I will. See you later.'

'By the way, what's her name?'

'Erica,' says Effie with the phone already half-down. 'Erica Bryant. Poor thing's a widow. It's all terribly sad.'

Don't know that name. Can't be from round here. Must get back to Jesus.

Memories that for years Molly tried to push to her far subconscious, memories too dangerous to deal with, they are always there when she starts to write, they waver round the fuse with all the white-menace of a nursery night-light, vaporous, shadowy, but Molly never lets them in. Farendon memories and the sight of Amy Macey's mother's face ...

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Crow Biddy by Gillian White. Copyright © 1990 Gillian White. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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The Crow Biddy: A Novel

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