AN: Something very old that I wrote about four years ago...but I'm actually quite happy with it, so I've decided to share it.
Packing up. The haste of departure. How different it was to preparing to leave Monte Carlo with Mrs Van Hopper. We had so little to gather, few worldly belongings. My gauntlet gloves, my stone marten, my leather handbag, all gone in fire. It was quick, brief, harried, a rush to escape. For at Manderley we had lived, but now Manderley was no more. It had been ours, but was ours no more. We left nothing of worth behind, save dear, faithful Frank. It did not matter, for there was nothing of material worth left to leave. There were no portraits, no ornaments, no treasures of the past, but undefinable things, moments of our lives, thoughts, a mood, memories, those we left to forget.
Manderley was not ours. It will not be ever again. Manderley is no more. It will not be any longer. As we drive down that winding drive, through the wrought iron gates, I know we cannot go back ever again. Today we pass through those gates; we pass to a new world, a new life. We are different, somehow, changed in a bizarre way. We are different people; we left Mr and Mrs de Winter at the end of the drive, behind those gates. We will never be them again, I am sure. They died yesterday. They had played charades, dealt with the press. They had despaired over Manderely, been actors in a play, taken condolences. 'Such a shame, isn't it? I am sorry for your loss, Mr de Winter.' It was as if there had been a death in the family, and they had been to the funeral, and they were leaving, and Maxim had shaken this man's hand, spoke a few words, played the good host. 'We look forward to the day Manderley returns in her glory.' But there will be no such day. There will never be such a day. We cannot go back there, not with our memories.
The sky is grey and overcast as we drive to London. It remains that way until London is far behind us. The sun's face does not show until we reach a little hotel, small, impersonal, far removed from anywhere and anyone we'd ever known. I stand on the bleached, white balcony, colourless, anonymous, without character. It is pure, simple, a clean slate. Perhaps as we grow used to our new home it will gain character or perhaps it will not. It does not matter, for it will remain dull and impersonal, for nothing could brighten the dull slip of a thing.
Though we have left England behind, the letters and news follow, haunting us. Beatrice, tactless, but a dear, not recognising Maxim's want for isolation, sends us letters. I read them to Maxim, out loud. We hear that Roger is well again, recovered from the measles. Thankfully, she, tactless though she is, does not mention Rebecca again. 'It would be frightful for Maxim's health to have to go through it all again, now that the verdict's changed to suicide. I'll write to Dick Godolphin, he went to Oxford with Giles, he's the M.P. around Manderley, see if he can't get the press to quiet down, so you can come back. Perhaps you can stay with us...'
I did not read the whole letter aloud. Maxim's temper rests near the surface; I do not wish to rouse it. I have learned to be careful. I had read her whole first letter aloud, and he had stormed and blustered like a gale. I am so glad, so glad she believes like Colonel Julyan, and the rest. Thank God she believes the verdict, thank God she told no one about Communists and drilling holes in boats. I write back, feeling much relieved, that Maxim does not plan to return soon, and that he's brown and sunburnt again. She replies, telling me to keep him that way. Guilt gnaws at me, for he is as silent and pale as marble, as distant and aloof as ever.
Sleeping alone, forlornly, I see pictures flashing before my eyes, like all dreamers do. I see the plate of badly cut ham, Blaize, the dressmaker, and I am back in my bedroom in Monte Carlo. The poetry book, oh, how it taunts me, Satanic, whispering. Only tonight, Beatrice's latest is beside it, as if joined by matrimony. Against my will, uncontrollably, I walk towards them, until I can read the words. Rebecca's sloping hand, R dwarfing the other letters, queenly. Beatrice's 'Mrs Danvers is on trial for burning Manderley, don't you dare bring Maxim home 'till it's over.' They were so different, one tall and sloping, the other square and practical, but it was all the same to me.
I tear the title-page from the book, not bothering to clean the edges. I seize the letter and rip them to fragments, not caring at all for what I have done. I throw them into the waste-paper basket. They are not destroyed. They are still taunting me. I strike a match and watch them burn, every last piece crumpling to ash, unreadable. But their presence lingers still, like a ghost, and I fear they will never leave.