Theo it was who’d inherited the musical gene. Ettie could see no evidence of it in Colin, nor little Lottie, despite their mother’s insistence that they learn instruments from an early age. ‘You can take a horse to water,’ thought Ettie with a smile. But Theo was a natural and she’d found it impossible to refuse his requests for piano instruction, even though Hugh had made it clear that, for some reason, Flora didn’t want him to learn.
Ettie couldn’t see the harm and simply encouraged Theo when she found him playing on the grand piano. She explained the musical stave to him and praised him when he mastered a simple tune, picked out by ear. She only instructed him in matters of technique if he asked questions, but she took care to leave suitable music on the piano where he was sure to find it. Her conscience was clear. She wasn’t giving lessons; there were no appointments; she didn’t suggest he practice. There was no need. Theo played whenever he couldn’t get into the garden and whenever Flora was out of earshot. Sometimes he’d stop by the church on the way home from school to play on the vestry piano or to listen to Mrs Churchill practise the hymns on the organ.
Hugh’s feelings about his son’s musical talent were clearly mixed. It must, Ettie supposed, be the small element of deceit. Hugh knew that Flora disapproved although no one, Hugh included, seemed sure why. Flora’s eccentricities were beginning to verge on the irrational. Ettie wondered whether the gossip she’d overheard on the bus about the minister’s wife being a secret tippler might actually be true? It would account for a lot. She wouldn’t put anything past Flora. That child had always met trouble halfway.
Ettie wished there were something she could do to help the unhappy couple. She couldn’t imagine why Flora was so miserable with all her blessings. Ettie was sure if she were married to Hugh - but here her speculations came to an abrupt halt. She couldn’t actually imagine what it would be like to be married, let alone married to Hugh. She found it hard to imagine even touching Hugh or being touched by him. (Although he did kiss her on the cheek on New Year’s Eve, when Big Ben struck midnight.)
Ettie liked to think of Hugh as her nephew-in-law (was there such a relationship?) but she acknowledged reluctantly that her feelings towards Hugh were not very aunt-like. It was true she didn’t think of him in a physical way - at least not very often and then with a vagueness based on complete ignorance of male anatomy - but she had to admit that her feelings were not in the least maternal. (What was the adjective to describe the feelings of an aunt? Was there one?) What feelings was an aunt supposed to have towards a nephew? It seemed rather a grey area.
Ettie admitted that, occasionally, when Hugh looked particularly tired or downcast, she would have liked to put her arm round his shoulders to comfort him, but despite her relative height, she thought she wouldn’t be able to reach. In any case, she concluded, the gesture was quite inappropriate, however kindly meant.
Poor Ettie. I spent some of my teenage years and half my adult life thinking, ‘Poor Ettie’. Poor old, plain, lonely, ridiculous Ettie. Beneath the constraints of her sensible liberty bodice, there beat a passionate, loyal and poetic heart. But that wasn’t the half of it. Beneath her goodness lay shame.
She finally absolved us all from guilt by dying at the age of fifty-eight.
Even then she didn’t take centre stage.
1974
Flora shivered in the unheated bedroom. They should have left this job until the spring. The wardrobe was almost empty now. As she sorted Ettie’s clothes, she folded them into neat piles then put them into labelled cardboard boxes. She left the coat-hangers on the rail.
‘You know, Hugh, this is a good coat. We can’t put this in a jumble sale. Ma should keep it for herself.’
He looked up from the floor where he knelt in front of a bookcase, sorting through books. ‘I don’t think your mother would ever wear anything of Ettie’s. Not now.’
‘No. I suppose not. Jumble, then?’
‘Yes. It will go to a good home, I’m sure.’ He watched Flora fold the coat and then looked around the bedroom. ‘It wasn’t much of a room, was it? Reminds me of my monastic cell. So small.’
‘Ettie led a small life. She had two rooms until Rory was kicked out of the nursery, when we were seven. Her study became Rory’s bedroom. I don’t suppose she really minded. Well, she was hardly in a position to mind.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Hugh turned back to sorting the books.
‘Ma said to keep as many as you want.’
‘There’s quite a few on music. I thought Rory might… ’ Hugh’s voice tailed off.
Flora sighed. ‘Who knows what Rory wants? And it’s high time we got rid of all this stuff. It’s been months. You have them. It’s what she would have wanted.’
Hugh set some books aside and put others into a box. He took the lid off a beribboned chocolate box and examined the contents. ‘There’re some photographs in here. Concert programmes, postcards. Do you want to sort through these?’
‘No. Keep the photos and throw the rest away. What are the photos of?’
Hugh shuffled through them. ‘The family, I think. Yes, they’re all family snapshots. I expect Dora will want to keep them.’
‘Show me.’
Hugh passed them up to Flora. As she glanced through them she smiled. ‘These aren’t family snapshots.’
‘What do you mean? Of course they are.’
‘I mean that isn’t why Ettie kept them. These are all photos of you. You’re in every single one.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes. Look.’ She handed them back and Hugh studied them.
‘So I am. Well, what of it?’
‘She kept them because they were photos of you. Look at that one.’ Flora stabbed at one with a finger. ‘You and a lovely view of the back of Theo’s head! And that one: us on our wedding day - except you can’t actually see me because my veil has blown right across my face! Why would she keep that? These are all photos of you, Hugh.’
‘But - I don’t understand. Why would she…?’
Flora stared at him. ‘Did you never realise Ettie was in love with you?’
‘Ettie?’
‘Yes. You mean to say you didn’t know?’
‘If this is a joke, Flora, it’s in pretty poor taste.’
‘She always loved you. I think everyone knew, we just never talked about it. No point really. You married me.’ Flora tossed the photos on to the bed and turned away from Hugh.
‘When did - I mean, do you know when Ettie realised she felt… that way about me?’
‘Oh, right from the word go, I think. When you moved into the parish. She was suddenly awfully keen to go to church. We both were. She and I spent hours discussing the finer points of your sermons and what a nice man you were. I didn’t realise then of course. What would I have been? Fifteen? It was only after we married that I began to notice.’
‘What?’
‘How she lit up when you came into the room. How she hung on your every word. Little things. But quite obvious. We all turned a blind eye, so’s not to embarrass her.’
‘But she was much older than me!’
‘Not really. Five years older. But a middle-aged woman might as well be invisible as far as men are concerned,’ Flora remarked bitterly.
‘I’m sure I never gave her the slightest encouragement.’
‘Oh, no, you treated her like the ageing spinster she was. No one could ever accuse you of being a flirt, Hugh.’
‘I wish I’d known.’
‘Why? What difference would it have made? Would you have kept your distance?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘So why shouldn’t she have had the pleasure of worshipping from afar? You were probably the most excitement Ettie knew in what must have been a pretty dull life. She had no expectations of anything better.’
‘But to have loved all those years. Without hope.’
‘Oh, come off it, Hugh! Don’t be so sentimental.’ Flora dragged a cocktail dress, never worn, from the
wardrobe and set the metal hangers jangling. ‘There are worse things to endure than hopeless love.’
Hugh looked up at her from the floor, his eyes moist. ‘Are there? Not many, surely?’
Flora gazed at him blankly for a moment. She heard her own words, then his and fled from the room.
Depending on how warped your sense of humour - and mine darkened considerably with advancing years - the web of tortured relationships in my family seemed Shakespearean in its ludicrous complexity. We were the stuff of farce, but when farce is actually happening to you it doesn’t seem funny, it seems tragic.
That’s because it is tragic.
1965
As Flora’s knees buckled, Rory was already on his feet and moving round the dining table. He barked, ‘Hugh, catch her!’ As Hugh stood up he sent his dining chair toppling backwards and caught Flora neatly as she fainted.
Dora cried out in alarm but Ettie said calmly, ‘She’s fainted. It’s all right, it must be the heat. She’s just fainted.’
Grace poured a glass of water quickly and passed it across the table to Rory who dipped a napkin in it and dabbed at Flora’s face. ‘Take her to the music room,’ Rory said, not taking his eyes off his sister. ‘It’s cooler in there. Lay her on the day-bed.’
Hugh scooped Flora up in his arms and strode towards the door with Rory following. As Ettie watched the men depart, she murmured, ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ and headed for the kitchen.
Grace turned to Dora, her face anxious. ‘Should we ring for the doctor?’
‘No, I don’t think that’ll be necessary, my dear. I’m sure Ettie’s right. It’s just this dreadful heat.’ Dora thought there might be another reason why Flora had fainted, but she didn’t like to mention it now. Hugh might not even know yet.
Hugh arranged Flora’s limp form on the day-bed. Rory opened the French windows to let in a breeze, then sat down automatically on the piano stool. He watched as Flora’s eyelids flickered and she returned to consciousness. A wave of relief flushed his face. Smiling, he glanced up and saw that Hugh had been watching him, not Flora.
Ettie entered the music room bearing a tea tray. ‘Hot, sweet tea,’ she announced. ‘Just the thing!’ She handed a cup to Hugh with an unguarded look of admiration.
As Flora regained consciousness she was aware of her brother’s large grey eyes watching her intently. Hugh stood by his side, but appeared to be watching Rory. Ettie was handing her a cup of tea, but was gazing at Hugh. Flora sat up and tried to speak. Clapping a hand to her mouth, she pointed across the room. All eyes turned as Rory lunged, grabbed a waste paper basket and thrust it in front of Flora’s face, just in time for her to vomit into it.
‘Oh, well caught, sir!’ said Ettie.
I wish I’d known about Ettie, all about Ettie. Not for her sake. Had I known the whole story I think I would have felt even more crippled by embarrassment than I already did. But if I’d known, I might have felt differently towards my mother. I might have respected her more, perhaps even liked her more.
At the very least I might have understood my mother’s silence.
1974
Hugh was passing the telephone when it rang.
‘Hugh, it’s Dora. Am I disturbing you? I wonder if I could have a word.’
‘Of course. How can I help?’
‘I need your advice - as a minister but also as a member of the family. It’s about the wording of the memorial stone. For Ettie.’
‘Would you like me to call round so we can discuss it? I’m on my way out to Evensong now. Shall I drop in afterwards?’
‘Yes, please, if you would. I promise not to keep you too long.’
‘Not at all - I’m glad to be of service at this very difficult time.’
‘You’re a comfort to us all, Hugh. There’s just one thing, though—’
‘Yes?’
‘I’d prefer you not to mention this to Flora. It’s a rather delicate matter…’
When Hugh arrived at Orchard Farm Dora was in the front garden dead-heading roses. As she collected the faded blooms and placed them in her battered trug, petals fluttered to the ground around her feet. At the sound of the gate latch she looked up and smiled at Hugh, raising her secateurs in salutation. Hugh strode up the path and bent to kiss her on the cheek.
‘Now, Dora, you know I said if you want any garden chores done you only had to ask. You really mustn’t overdo things, you know. You look quite worn out.’
‘Oh, pooh! This isn’t a chore. It’s just an excuse to be in the garden on a glorious evening. There won’t be many more this year.’ Hugh took the trug and offered her his arm as they walked towards the house. ‘Thank you for coming. I’m probably being a silly old woman and making a mountain out of a molehill, but it wasn’t something I felt I could discuss on the phone. Let’s go and sit on the terrace. We’ll catch the last of the sun there. Shall we have a sherry? It’s rather a long story, I’m afraid…’
1932
Dora stood outside Ettie’s room and composed herself. Her words were well-rehearsed for she’d had many years to consider them. However much pain they caused, they must be said. Ettie had a right to know. She knocked gently.
‘Come in.’
Dora entered the cheerful, tidy bedroom. Birthday cards were arranged on the mantelpiece and several new books were piled by Ettie’s bedside. She sat on the bed with a writing pad on her knees. ‘I’m on the very last thank-you letter.’ She signed off with an adolescent flourish. ‘I got such a lot of presents this year - and they were all splendid.’
‘Well, it was a very important birthday.’
Ettie folded the sheet haphazardly and pushed it into an envelope. ‘I suppose I’m meant to feel very grown-up now, aren’t I? Shall I have to start behaving in a more lady-like manner?’ She pulled a face. ‘Fat chance!’
Dora bent and kissed the girl impulsively on her forehead. Although there were only nine years between them she looked upon Ettie as a child and her feelings towards her were maternal rather than sisterly. Dora had been married for four years and there had been no pregnancy, not even a miscarriage to give her hope. She wondered sometimes whether she and Archie would ever have another child, one of their own, to love.
Dora took Ettie’s hand and squeezed it. ‘My dear, I have some news for you. Well, information really. Now, I want you to brace yourself for a bit of a shock. This won’t be easy for you to hear and it certainly won’t be easy for me to tell you.’
Ettie looked alarmed. ‘What’s the matter? Is anything wrong? Are you ill?’
‘No, nothing’s wrong, darling. It’s just that… things aren’t quite as you think they are. And it’s high time I explained.’ Dora sat on the paisley eiderdown, perching nervously on the edge of the bed. She took a piece of paper out of her apron pocket. ‘You’ve turned sixteen. You’re almost an adult. You’ve a right to this now.’ She held out the piece of paper.
Ettie stared at it. ‘What is it?’
‘Your birth certificate.’
Ettie looked a little relieved. ‘Why are you giving it to me now?’
‘Because I want you to read it, darling. I want you to know… who you are,’ Dora said carefully.
Ettie took the certificate from Dora but didn’t look at it. She laughed nervously. ‘I’m your sister - aren’t I?’
‘No, darling, you’re not. But you’re no less loved for that! You’re my niece. My brother’s child. Henry’s.’
‘Henry?’
‘Yes. You were named Henrietta after him. He never saw you. He was killed in 1915, before you were born. You were conceived before he went to the front and he died not knowing there was going to be a child… You’ve always thought Henry was an older brother you never knew. But in fact he was your father. So I,’ Dora smiled gently. ‘I am your aunt.’
Ettie struggled to assimilate her new identity. She studied the certificate, then looked up suddenly. ‘So Mother and Pa…?’
‘Were your grandparents. But they loved you
as if you were their own child! They loved you because you were Henry’s child and later they loved you for yourself. We all did. We all do! You have been a great blessing to us.’ Dora threw her arms around the girl and hugged her. ‘Oh, my poor girl - it’s such a lot for you to take in, isn’t it?’
Ettie nodded, her lip quivering. ‘Who knows? Apart from you, I mean.’
‘Only Archie. And there is no reason why anyone else should ever know.’
‘They weren’t married, were they? My parents?’
‘No, my dear. I’m afraid they weren’t.’
‘Would Henry have married my mother if he’d lived?’
It was now Dora’s turn to brace herself, the easier part of her unpleasant task done. She released Ettie and smoothed her apron across her lap before looking up into the girl’s tearful face. ‘Your mother died shortly after you were born. She never really recovered from the shock of Henry’s death and the birth had been very difficult. But no, Henry wouldn’t have married her. It would not have been possible. But he wanted to, I’m sure. And if he’d lived he would have supported you and your mother, I’m sure of that too. That’s why our parents - my parents, I should say - raised you as their own. They knew it was what your parents would have wanted.’
Ettie looked down at her birth certificate again. ‘Who was Isobel Kerr?’
Dora turned away from Ettie’s wide, enquiring eyes. ‘She was Henry’s aunt. My mother’s youngest sister. She was only nine years older than Henry. She was very lovely,’ Dora added, as if by way of explanation.
1974
‘So you see, Hugh, I would have liked to refer to Ettie on the gravestone as “beloved sister”. But I’m afraid she wasn’t.’
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