Inherit the Skies

by Janet Tanner

  ‘I think so too. Aren’t we lucky?’

  ‘Yes.’ But she felt no envy now. She was only glad to be going back. That was how important her work had become to her.

  When she had loaded her things into the car dickey she kissed Stephen, cranked the engine to life and climbed in. As she drove off along the road she turned to wave to them, standing there on the steps of the guest house, Annie with John on one side of her, Stephen on the other. They looked, Sarah thought, more like a part of a family than she would ever be, and she experienced a wave of love, all the stronger because she was going away and they had no further claim on her.

  Annie was a perfect friend, a perfect wife and mother. She is better for Stephen than I am, far better, Sarah thought, and for once felt not a tinge of jealousy. The motor turned the corner and they were lost to sight.

  Chewton Leigh was in a state of uproar. The seriousness of Lawrence’s illness had come as a bombshell for they had come almost to take his hacking cough for granted and he had managed to hide from them just how tired and ill he had been feeling for many months now.

  ‘The boy is in a bad way,’ Gilbert told Sarah when she went to see him in his office on her return. ‘Haley tells me he told him months ago he should go into a sanatorium. Why the devil didn’t he do it? Why keep it to himself?’

  ‘I expect he was worried about losing control of the office. You know how much it means to him,’ Sarah said, not liking to mention that she had been in Lawrence’s confidence.

  ‘Well, whatever, it’s immaterial now. He’s off to a sanatorium whether he likes it or not. But he was asking for you, Sarah. He seems to think you know best what he’s been doing. Is that right?’

  ‘I have been giving him a helping hand, yes …’

  ‘And you are willing to continue?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll do whatever is necessary to keep the wheels turning until he is fit again.’

  The worried frown lines creasing Gilbert’s brow eased; he smiled and there was a trace of pride in the smile.

  ‘You are a good girl, Sarah. I know I can depend on you.’

  ‘Mama – can we go into the tunnel – please?

  ‘No, John, play nicely on the beach, there’s a good boy.’

  ‘But there’s nothing left to do on the beach. We want to explore.’

  ‘Please, Aunt Annie!’ Stephen added his voice to John’s pleas and Annie shook her head in amused exasperation.

  The holiday had been pleasant but not nearly as pleasant as if Sarah had been there too. Annie had read her way through two romantic novellas while the boys played, and enjoyed the sun and the bracing breeze from the sea, but now the novellas were finished, pushed to the bottom of her beach bag along with the apple cores and the remains of the sandwiches the landlady had made for them and Annie too, truth to tell, was becoming a little bored of the same stretch of beach.

  Worse, another family had set up camp nearby, a rather common family in Annie’s opinion – a man with a paunch which hung over the top of his trousers and a knotted handkerchief on his head, a shrill voiced woman and four noisy children who continually ran over the small fort of pebbles which John and Stephen were trying to build, knocking it down.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But only if I come with you.’

  She picked up her bag and followed the boys, who were already running towards the tunnel in the outcrop of rock. The pebbles cut into her feet, making walking difficult, and Annie thought she would not be sorry when it was time to go home to Chewton Leigh – and Max. Though he worked so very hard these days and spent so little time at home, yet it was a comfort to know he was near. When they were apart she always missed him but never more so than now, and she thought maybe it had something to do with the fact that she was pregnant. Though she had not been sick this time as she had been with John she felt heavier and more uncomfortable and at the same time desperately in need of someone to rely on if – just if – she should need them.

  The boys disappeared into the tunnel and Annie followed, picking her way over the tumbled rocks and soft sludgy sand. It was chilly here out of the heat of the sun, a dank chill which made her shiver and she could hear the drip of water on the rock walls of the passage. The dark was complete, the tunnel much longer than she had expected, but as the boys had said there was a glimmer of light at the far end which was briefly eclipsed as first one boy, then the other, squeezed through the neck of the passageway, then slipped back inside to call to her.

  ‘Mama! There’s another beach!’

  ‘Come and see, Aunt Annie! It’s lovely!’

  Gamely Annie struggled on. It was rather wet underfoot; she felt her shoes squelch in water and hoisted up the hem of her dress – too late. The soaked material flapped around her ankles.

  I should have put my foot down and made the boys stay where we were, Annie thought. But it was too late now. They had disappeared again and moments later she emerged from the narrow cleft in the rocks to find herself on a narrow, secluded stretch of beach.

  ‘See? Isn’t it wonderful, Mama?’ John shrieked, swooping towards her. ‘See – it’s sand. Stephen and I can make sandcastles and pies. Come on, Stephen! We’ll build the biggest castle ever. One that not even silly old Kaiser Bill could knock over!’

  They ran off again and, smiling at their excitement, Annie followed.

  The tiny beach was indeed sand, much more fun for the children than the pebbles they had left behind. And it was so quiet – only the seabirds wheeling and crying as they came in to land on the steep cliffs which encompassed it and the gentle lapping of the tide to break the stillness of the summer’s afternoon. The only trouble was the sand was not powdery dry to sit on but firm and slightly damp to the touch. Annie tested it and wrinkled her nose. She didn’t want to catch a chill. It wouldn’t be at all good for the baby.

  She spread her rug and sat down, idly watching the boys digging with their hands and thinking about the baby. Would it be another boy – or might it be a girl this time? A girl would be nice – but there was something special in being the mother of boys. She glanced at John, taking intense pride in his sturdy body and limbs and the bright little face serious now with the effort of concentration on the task in hand. Another boy would be company for him too for though he and Stephen were like brothers Stephen would not always be there. But then again it might be fun to have a girl, to be able to buy pretty dresses and ribbons for her hair and never ever have to worry about her going off to war – if there should be another one. But there wouldn’t be, of course. This was ‘the war to end wars’, that was what everyone said …

  Annie found her thoughts growing slightly confused and realised she was getting drowsy. The sun was hot, beating down with such strength that it managed to make small trickling patterns of light through the straw of her wide-brimmed hat. She settled more comfortably on the blanket, resting her head against her loaded beach bag. The cry of the gulls and the sound of the waves were fainter now and a little muzzy; even the shouts of the boys seemed to be coming from a long way off. Annie put her hand up to shade her eyes and let herself drift. Just a little nap … just a little one …

  ‘Mama!’

  ‘Aunt Annie!’

  The boys voices, urgent suddenly, woke Annie. She fought through the layers of sleep to feel them tugging at her skirts.

  ‘The sea – Mama, the sea!’

  ‘Aunt Annie, wake up! Wake up!’

  She struggled to a sitting position, a prickle of alarm touching her spine. The tide had come in while she slept. It was now lapping around the sand castle they had built, no more than a yard from her feet.

  ‘Come on, boys we had better go …’

  But as she scrambled to her feet she saw to her horror that the way back to the tunnel was underwater – the opening in the cliff completely hidden.

  ‘Oh my God!’

  Hearing the panic in her voice John began to cry. ‘Mama! Mama! The sea!’

  She snatched up the rug, desperately tr
ying to force herself to be calm.

  ‘Be quiet, John. It’s all right.’

  She looked around. The beach was now no more than a strip of sludgy sand, already at its edges the waves were lapping the foot of the cliffs.

  ‘Come on.’ She retreated towards the central point of the beach, dragging them with her. Beneath her feet the sand was ominously firm, the rocks towards which they were heading looked shiny, frighteningly clean. Back, back, as close to the enclosing cliffs as they could go but in her trembling heart she knew it would not be far enough. The cliffs rose behind them, sheer and impassable, and in front of them the sea still encroached a little further with each creeping foam-topped wave.

  ‘We must call for help,’ she said. ‘There were people on the other beach – remember? They’ll hear us. Together now. Ready-HELP!’

  But the roar of the sea was loud now and the wind seemed to take their reedy voices and blow them away.

  The first wave lapped around John’s toes; he clutched at her legs in terror.

  ‘Mama! I don’t like it! Mama!’

  ‘Someone will come,’ she said. ‘Someone will find us.’

  But even as she said it she knew they would not. Or if they did they would not be in time.

  She dropped the beach bag, a wave lapped around it, depositing a layer of creamy foam. Annie drew the boys to her, one on each side with her arms around them, holding them in close to her skirts, and tears of pure panic stung her eyes.

  ‘Oh Sarah – I’m sorry!’ she whispered. And, ‘ Max – Max – I love you! Help us, please!’

  But Max was a hundred miles away and so was Sarah. No-one heard her cries and no-one came.

  And then there was only the sea, swirling deeper and deeper. She lifted the boys clear of it as long as she was able. And then there was nothing left to do but wait.

  ‘Drowned?’ Sarah whispered. ‘I don’t believe you. What do, you mean – drowned?’

  ‘Darling, it’s true.’ Eric’s voice was gentle, his hands held hers. And his face, ashen and haunted, was the confirmation of his words.

  ‘No!’ Sarah gasped. The protestation was wrung from her like a sob, tearing at the soft heart of her with a pain that seemed to tear her in two. ‘Annie was with them. They can’t be drowned!’

  ‘Annie was drowned too.’ There was no gentle way to say it.

  ‘No – not Annie.’

  ‘Yes. They were caught by the tide on this little beach.’

  ‘What beach? What beach?’

  ‘There’s a tunnel that is accessible at low tide. They must have gone through not realising … a family on the main beach saw them go.’

  ‘Then why didn’t they say?’

  ‘They didn’t realise. Until they were found …’

  ‘I don’t understand! How could they? How could she …?’

  ‘We shall never really know.’

  ‘All of them? All of them, drowned? Stephen and Annie and John?’

  ‘Yes. Poor Max …’

  ‘Never mind poor Max!’ she cried with a flash of anger. ‘Annie has killed my baby! She has killed Stephen!’

  ‘Sarah, it’s no good blaming Annie. Not now.’

  ‘But I do blame her! I trusted her with my son!’

  ‘Sarah – stop it!’ His voice was tortured but firm. ‘You can’t blame Annie. You might as well blame me – or yourself – for not being there.’

  Her eyes went wild. ‘ Yes!’ she screamed. ‘ Yes – of course I should have been there! But I wasn’t. Annie was. She’s simple, Eric. She’s not as bright as you or I. I should have known it. I should have known it!’

  Her nails were tearing at her face in the paroxysm of her grief. He thought, mildly surprised, that he had not realised just how much she had cared for Stephen. Sometimes it had seemed to him she thought the child more of an encumbrance than a joy, a burden standing between her and all she wanted to do, just as he sometimes felt that he, himself did. But this …

  He was not to know that it was Sarah’s guilt that fuelled her terrible punishing grief. He did not realise when he told her she might as well blame herself for the tragedy how close he had come to the inner torture that was tearing her apart.

  I never really wanted him, thought Sarah, and now I have lost him. This is God’s punishment on me for being a bad mother, just as I was punished as a child by having my mother snatched away from me.

  ‘Sarah …’ Eric put his arms around her in an attempt to comfort her but she pushed him away.

  ‘Don’t! Leave me alone!’ The venom in her tone made him draw back. He did not know this Sarah. Surely now in their grief they should have been able to draw closer, be – what was it the marriage service said? – of mutual comfort one to the other? But she was like a wild thing, flying, retreating from every other living soul, he could not reach her. Somehow in that moment he doubted he ever would again.

  ‘Oh Sarah,’ he groaned. It was a lament for more than a dearly loved lost son.

  The darkness was complete. It closed in around her waking and sleeping. Sometimes for a brief moment when she woke with the dawn she found herself wondering just what was the weight around her heart, then memory would come rushing in and with it grief – and guilt. She had killed Stephen. She had signed his death warrant leaving him there with Annie. She had blamed Annie but in truth she had no-one to blame but herself.

  For perhaps the first time in her life Sarah could see no glimmer of hope for the future for nothing else seemed to matter. The love she had somehow failed to lavish on Stephen during his lifetime came on her now in a rush so that it seemed she was drowning in it as surely as he had drowned in the waves. Her son – the child of her body – was dead and she was to blame. She could scarcely eat, scarcely sleep, and the one solace she had turned to all her life seemed now to evade her for neither could she work. There was nothing, nothing but the blackness, nothing but the all-consuming grief and guilt.

  And then just when she thought she would never surface again came the letter from Lawrence.

  ‘Sarah – I know I have no right to ask it but I am relying on you. I am a little better I think and knowing you are looking after things for me is a great comfort. For God’s sake, Sarah, don’t let Leo take the reins. If he does we will never get him out.’ And then a paragraph which touched her, probing through the thick layer of grief. ‘ I have never told you how sorry I am for what happened long ago. I could have saved you. I knew the truth. But I was weak, just as I am weak now. Be strong for me, Sarah – and forgive me.’

  That day Sarah dressed, tidied herself and went to the works. She had wallowed for long enough. It was time to begin the long fight back.

  The news reached them a week later. Lawrence was dead. She accepted it calmly – death was becoming commonplace. Only the irony of it struck her. Half the family had gone to war – one might conceivably have expected it was they who should have died. But they had not. No, it was those whom they had left behind in supposed safety who had gone. Dear sweet Annie, little John, Stephen for whom she would grieve to the end of her days and now Lawrence. Strange, how strange, the tricks of fate. And how cruel.

  Somehow, inexplicably, Sarah began to heal. And with the healing came a new strength. Let fate do its worst. Hadn’t it always? But she wouldn’t be beaten or cowed down. Forged in the fire she would be tempered like steel. Sad but determined Sarah faced the future.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ‘You are looking positively radiant tonight, my dear,’ Gilbert said to Blanche as they went in to dinner one evening shortly before Christmas.

  Blanche smiled. There was indeed a glow about her which Gilbert might have suspected had come from a bottle of spirits if he had not known better – she looked almost intoxicated.

  ‘Has something happened to please you?’ Gilbert pressed her. Again she smiled, but said nothing, and he added: ‘Well, whatever it is, I must say it suits you!’

  Blanche turned, clapping a hand over her mouth in almost girlish fas
hion, then laying it on Gilbert’s arm.

  ‘I’ll give you a clue, Gilbert. Leo has something to tell us at dinner tonight. But I mustn’t say any more or I’ll spoil the surprise. You will just have to be patient a little longer.’

  Gilbert crossed to pour a small glass of sherry for Blanche and a brandy for himself.

  ‘I’m not much good at guessing games, my dear,’ he said passing her the drink.

  ‘Hmm …’ She sipped, regarding him over the rim of her glass. ‘How have things been at the works today? Have you found an answer yet to that nasty new German plane – what did you call it – a Fokker?’

  Gilbert almost choked on his drink with surprise. Blanche actually taking an interest in the business – amazing! She must be in a good humour!

  ‘A Fokker, yes,’ he confirmed, naming the fast, light monoplane fitted with a synchronised gun which was threatening British supremacy in the air. ‘And the answer is no, we haven’t come up with a definite prototype yet. But Max is working on it and I have high hopes. That young man has a touch of the genius: if anyone can produce a machine even more manoeuvrable than the Fokker it is him.’

  The door opened and James and Leo came in. James was home from Oxford for the Christmas holidays and though he no longer attached himself to Leo like a shadow yet the impression remained.

  ‘Drink?’ Gilbert suggested. Leo accepted but James shook his head. What was the matter with him? Gilbert wondered. Was there nothing normal about him at all? Irritation made him testy.

  ‘I understand you have something to tell us, Leo,’ he said.

  Leo’s jaw dropped a shade. ‘ Well yes, but …’ He glanced at his mother accusingly. Her smile had died.

  ‘I – I’m sorry, Leo … I was so excited!’

  ‘Excited about what?’ Unnoticed by any of them Alicia had entered the room. None of her new batch of recuperating officers were yet fit enough to be downstairs and she had settled them in their rooms before coming down to dine with the family. ‘ What is going on here that I don’t know about?’

  ‘Leo has something to tell us.’