For what seemed now to have been a long time – after Nicolai, and the near-ruin of her father – she had believed herself to hate him. That cold-blooded insistence that she bear him a son had exacerbated that emotion and had driven the wedge deeper between them. And yet – always it seemed she found herself using those words about Joss – and yet the fact remained that he had not discarded her as he might have when he had discovered her to be carrying another man’s child. Neither had he, as he might have done, made her life a purgatory of penance and penitence. On the contrary, after Ben had been born she had been left to live her own life in a way that she knew to be the envy of a lot of women.
She straightened. Ran her hand through her hair. Opened the cake tin and reached for a small plate.
Then why was she not satisfied? Why – despite the freedom that he afforded her to live her own successful life, despite her insistence to herself that his attentions, physical or otherwise, would be entirely unwelcome, did she perversely find herself lately more than ever resenting that cool emotionally barren relationship that at first she had welcomed? Resenting his absences. His secrecy. His women.
She arranged some of Mrs Brown’s small, appetizing-looking cakes carefully upon the plate.
There. She had admitted it. For the first time. She smiled wryly to herself. It must be a night for honesty. Poor, miserable little Sophie had bared her soul. It must be catching.
She nibbled at a cake, hardly tasting it.
And now, again, as she had known it would, her mind was teasing at the puzzle of that odd occurrence last week. Why could she not forget it? It wasn’t, after all, as if anything had actually happened. Was that it? Was it that the odd, disturbingly dissatisfied feeling that recollection of the incident invariably brought was something close to disappointment? She stood, still and cold, and tried to force herself to honesty.
It had been the night before she had heard of Josef’s illness and had come to the cottage to nurse him. Joss, as he usually did, had come home late, long after the rest of the household had retired for the night. The sound of the cab in the street had awakened her. She had heard the shutting of the front door, and then his light step on the stairs, had registered the slightest hesitancy in his tread that had suggested to her that at least one of his companions this evening had been a vodka bottle. She had lain in the darkness, listening, seeing in her mind’s eye the slight, austerely handsome figure, a little dishevelled, as he climbed the stairs and made his way to his own rooms at the other end of the house. Then it had for a moment seemed that her heart had ceased beating; his footsteps had turned not away from her door but towards it, and then had stopped. A moment later a chink of light had appeared, a needle of lamplight that had pierced the darkness and then widened to a shadowed shaft as he had pushed the door silently open and entered the room. With no conscious thought she had closed her eyes, with an effort kept her breathing even. Yet surely – surely – he must have heard the pounding of her heart? The light of the shaded lamp he held had glowed rosily through her closed lids. He had stood in silence over her for a full minute, that to Anna might have been an hour. And then, neither touching her nor speaking, he had turned and left the room, closing the door very quietly and leaving behind him the faint aromas of his night; the smell of spirits, of cigar smoke and a slight, cloyingly sweet perfume that lingered like poison in the air above her bed.
She had not slept well that night, and had been ashamed of her dreams.
“Damn!” The word was vicious and aimed not exclusively at the milk that was boiling and sizzling on the hot plate. She retrieved the saucepan hastily, held it, dripping, over the sink until its seething had stopped, then with what was left made a full cup of cocoa for Sophie and half a cup for herself.
Settled back in the cosy little sitting room, she pushed her own troubles to the back of her mind and regarded the girl with pensive, questioning eyes.
Sophie fidgeted for a moment under her regard, and then asked abruptly, “Aunt Anna – what am I going to do?”
“I think,” Anna said quietly, “that that’s rather up to you. Don’t you?”
“I s’pose so.” The words were glum. “But, Aunt Anna, I don’t know where to start. I’m never going to fit in – I can’t.”
“Nonsense.” Anna leaned forward, “Sophie – darling – listen to me. First; no one ever solved a problem by running away from it. I think you know that in your heart of hearts already. Second; if you’ve spent all this time thinking about yourself and you’ve come to no constructive conclusions, then why not try looking at things from a different angle? Why not try thinking about someone apart from yourself for a change?” Though the words were a little harsh, the tone was gentle. Sophie was watching her intently. Anna searched tiredly for the words that might help the child. “You seem to think that your parents have sent you away and abandoned you – that they don’t understand, that you’re alone in all this. You know as well as I do that that simply isn’t true. Your parents want to do what they see as best for you; not necessarily for now, this minute – but for the rest of your life. They see things that you don’t. They know things that you don’t. And if they have made mistakes – and personally I don’t believe they have – it’s only in their eagerness to help you. You’re a lovely girl, lively and intelligent,” she stopped the girl’s self-conscious words of protest with a wave of her hand, “of course you are. And times are changing, thank heaven. There will be a place for girls like you in tomorrow’s world, please God; that’s what people like Arabella are fighting for. But if you’re going to take advantage of that you have to acquire a decent education. You surely don’t want to work at the bar of the Red Lion all your life?”
The girl lifted a quick, mutinously defensive head. “If it’s good enough for Papa—”
“But it isn’t. Is it?” Anna asked quietly. “We both know it. We all know it. Your father knows it himself. It’s his stiff-necked pride, his total inability to back down once he’s embarked on a course of action—” She broke off for a moment, a sudden thoughtfulness in her eyes. Then continued, “You of all people should understand. You’re like it yourself. I’m coming to believe it’s an Anatov trait. Your father doesn’t belong in Plaistow running the Red Lion. He should be working in the business with Joss—”
“He won’t do that.”
“I know he won’t. And I think it perfectly ridiculous. But I understand to a certain degree and I know there’s no use in arguing with him. But I also know that he’ll break himself to ensure that you and Maria don’t suffer because of his obstinacy. He knows the difficult position he’s putting you in – but he’s trusting to your courage, your good sense, that you’ll make the best of it – of what he’s trying to do for you. And then how do you repay him?”
Sophie was silent.
“They deserve better of you.” Anna’s voice was still gentle.
“But – it’s all so difficult! So – so stupid! Why must I lie about what Papa does? I’m not ashamed of it—”
“And neither should you be.”
“And why should I bother with people I don’t like—” the girl hesitated, then added, honestly and desolately “—or rather with people that don’t like me?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, child!” her aunt scolded. “Don’t like you? How on earth would you know? How much chance have you given them to like you? If you snub people – show no interest in their friendship – how hard can you expect them to try? You don’t get anything for nothing; you have to work at this the same as anything else. No one’s going to go on bended knee and beg, ‘Sophie Anatov, please be my friend’! You have to show people that you want them. You have to fit in with the society in which you’re living. You have to compromise—”
Sophie shook her head. “You don’t do that.”
Anna stared at her. “My dear Sophie! Of course I do! More than most if you really think about it. I just do it in my own way. And that’s what you have to learn to do. To use not only you
r own talents, but those of the people around you, the support of the group you’re living with. Sophie – you have to stop fighting the world. You can’t win. You’ll never win, not the way you’re going about it. And it isn’t fair – to yourself, to your parents, or to Maria. She’s joining you at school next year, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Then there’s an aim for you. When Maria joins you, let her be proud of her big sister. Don’t make yourself a liability to her. You have to change your attitude. To try – to be happy, to fit in, not to judge people so harshly. You have to soften a little. Don’t be so stiff-necked. So ready to be hurt. Learn to bend a little with the wind. Dead wood breaks, the willow does not—” Once again she had that strange feeling that had assailed her earlier on – that she was talking not only to Sophie, but to another, more obdurate ear.
There was a long, thoughtful silence. Then Sophie, completely calm now, turned her head to look at Anna. “Is that truly what you do? Bend with the wind? Compromise?”
“Of course.” Anna brought her attention back to the child. “But then I believe that we all do, whether we recognize it or not.”
“But you’re so different! So individual! You’re the last person I’d think of as—” Sophie shrugged “—as following the herd.”
Anna shook her head sharply. “I said nothing about following the herd. That isn’t what I’m talking about at all. I said you don’t have to take on the herd single-handed.” She leaned back. The wind had died a little and the room was quiet. “When I discovered that the world expects its women – quite unreasonably – to be physically attractive, regardless of how bright, or talented or intelligent they might be – I didn’t make myself uglier in an attempt to show the world that I didn’t care for its ways. I did care. I cared a lot. So – I did something about it? Do you think any the less of me for it?”
“Of course not.”
“Then – can’t you see that the same applies to you? Except that you haven’t thought it through. You are – at present – making yourself ‘uglier’ – not physically, but in your attitude and character. And yet there are so many people who are ready to help you, if you’ll let them. The headmistress of your school, when I spoke to her this evening, sounded charming, and was obviously very concerned about you. Fortunately, by the way, she hadn’t had a chance to contact your mother and father, so at least they’ve been spared a night of worry.”
Sophie ducked her head.
There was a short silence. “My dear,” Anna said at last, “I think you know – you’re beginning to see – how very silly you’ve been.”
“Yes.”
“And – are you going to do something about it? It won’t be easy.”
“I’ll try.” The young passionate face was touchingly determined. “I promise I’ll try. I’ll remember everything you’ve said tonight. No one’s ever really talked to me about it all before.”
Anna half-smiled. “And whose fault might that be do you think?”
“Mine. I never asked anyone. Never knew how to ask.” Sophie paused, then added, “I don’t think I knew that I wanted to ask.”
“Well,” Anna was brisk, “it’s all agreed, then. A new start. Now, you’d better get off to bed. There isn’t much of the night left and I promised I’d get you back to the school first thing in the morning.”
For the first time the enormity of her crime seemed to strike Sophie. “Was – was Miss Salisbury very angry?”
“Of course she was. And worried too. You won’t get off scot free—”
Sophie pulled a face.
“—but I promise I’ll do my best for you. I’ll have a word with her. Tell her that we’ve talked. That things are going to be better now.”
Tiredly Sophie got to her feet. “Thank you.” She bent to kiss her aunt’s cheek. “Thank you for everything. Good night.”
“Good night, my dear. And Sophie—”
Sophie, at the door, turned.
“Don’t let me down.”
“I won’t.”
“And if you ever need help – someone to talk to – I’ll always be there, if it helps.”
“It does,” the girl said, softly. “Thank you. Good night.”
Anna sat for a moment, listening to the girl’s footsteps as she slowly climbed the creaking stairs. The fire was dying. She leaned forward, chin on hands, to the last of the warmth. “I never asked anyone,” Sophie had said, “I never knew how to ask—” and strangely the words had twisted in her like physical pain.
The fire tumbled at last to ash. Anna gathered her gown about her against the chill, and went to bed.
* * *
Sophie surprised herself with the determination that grew and blossomed from that night. Never one to do anything by halves, grimly at first but then with gathering confidence, success and enjoyment she set about directing that headstrong energy that had been turned until now largely to rebellion and mischief into more positive channels. She learned – not without difficulty – to curb her temper and her tongue, at least for most of the time, learned too to be more tolerant in her reaction to her own and others’ failings. By the time Maria joined the school in 1912 it was to find herself the sister of something of a school heroine on the sports field – hadn’t she scored that famous last-minute goal against the High School and saved the day? – and a girl who, if still not everyone’s favourite, at least and at last was the centre of a small circle of loyal friends. If, still, she sometimes led those friends into mischief it was of a different order than before. There was, Miss Salisbury observed with truth, a world of difference between slightly anarchic high spirits and miserable and bitter rebellion.
That year, that Sophie and her friends spent playing cricket and tennis, and studying Shakespeare and Wordsworth, saw the further deepening of the country’s industrial troubles and the launching by the Suffragettes of a militant campaign of violence. In March, Sophie learned from a letter from Anna that Arabella had been arrested on a window-breaking expedition to London’s West End and, refusing – as all Suffragettes on principle refused – to pay her fine, had been sent to prison for a month, where she had promptly gone on hunger strike. “I do fear for her,” Anna had written, “truly I do. Constitutionally she is not strong, and if half the awful stories one hears of forcible feeding are true, then I shudder to think what she might be going through. But – while Mr Asquith and Mr Lloyd George refuse to honour their promises then Arabella and her friends will keep fighting. To the death, if need be, I fear – though sometimes I wonder, disloyally perhaps, if their actions are not actually working against their aims—”
Arabella was released from prison two weeks later, weak from her ordeal, but still very much alive, and with a spirit far from broken. She did not share her friend’s misgivings. A month later she was on her feet and breaking windows again.
That summer was again a summer of strikes, with the London docks totally paralysed from May to August and the mood of the working classes alarmingly militant, so once again the Anatov girls spent the summer at Bissetts. Josef no longer lived alone, but on Anna’s insistence was looked after by a middle-aged widow named Emmeline Saunders who spoiled him like a child whilst pretending to rule him with a rod of iron. Both Sophie and the placid Maria got on well with her, and for her part Mrs Saunders was always sorry to see the youngsters go.
The following year a new threat was added to those already besetting the British Government; the real possibility of civil war in Ireland. Perhaps it was this, added to the roar of its people demanding industrial and electoral reform that deafened the ears of the country to the growing, deadly murmurs across the English Channel in Europe. The year of 1914 dawned still in domestic chaos.
Sophie Anatov was in her seventeenth year. Still headstrong, often thoughtless, she had, happily, at last developed her father’s capacity for laughter, and the way ahead looked clear and good.
Chapter Eighteen
Sophie renewed her slight and almost forgotten c
hildhood acquaintanceship with Rupert Rose on a warm and breezy early June day when the air was fragrant with the scent of late spring flowers and busy with the hum of winged insects and the song of birds. A great chestnut tree, pink-flowered and full-leafed, rustled above the ruined cottage and swallows dipped and shrieked in the high air. Sophie was by her little pool in the overgrown yard-garden that had been her favourite place for as long as she could remember, watching with some concern a plump, clumsy baby blackbird as it hopped and staggered about the paving stones calling for its mother, when she heard, from behind her, the sound of scrambling footsteps in the tumbled bricks and rubble of the cottage. The baby bird, already frightened half to death, froze completely.
“Ssh! Maria! Do come quietly. There’s a poor little bird—” The footsteps stilled, then resumed, more quietly. Sophie held out a green-stained finger to the bird. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Here, then. I won’t hurt you.”
The bird shivered and gaped. From the high sheltering wall its mother scolded with sharp, clucking sounds that rang with the awareness of danger. Sophie sat back on her heels. “What’s best to do, do you think? It can’t fly yet. And if we leave it here that beastly cat’s bound to get it—”
“Why don’t you put it up on the wall near its mother? If you don’t know where the nest is, that is.”
Startled, she looked up. A tall, slim youth, dark-haired, suntanned and pleasant-faced smiled down at her. He was wearing grey flannels and an open-necked shirt, a cricketing pullover slung about his shoulders. His smile widened as he looked at her green-stained fingers and skirt. “I say – what on earth are you doing?”
She glanced down at her dirty hands, in one of which she held a broken knife. “Gardening,” she said shortly, all the old defensiveness rising.
“With a kitchen knife?”
“It’s the only thing I’ve found that will get the weeds out from between the stones.”
The Rose Stone Page 35