From here, to the left, you could see the terrace at the back of the big house, and just about make out the distant figures on it. Once, a lifetime ago it seemed, scented women with stay-boned waists and pouter-pigeon busts, sweeping skirts and high-necked lacy blouses, had sat drinking Earl Grey from delicate Crown Derby china, with nothing better in the world to do than make flirtatious conversation with the men in stiff collars dancing attendance on them, ready to refill their cups or ply them with pretty little cakes and cucumber sandwiches, and pay them delicious, silly compliments. Unaware of the looming catastrophe which would shortly change their privileged world for ever. Now, behind the French windows that opened onto the terrace, Lady Sybil’s once elegant, flower-filled drawing room, with its white marble fireplace, French porcelain and silk lampshades, was denuded, still part of the convalescent hospital it had been turned into at the beginning of the war.
Those women with their elaborate clothes, hair and jewellery seemed a distant dream that might never have happened; there were only nurses there now, noticeable from here by the white sails of their headdresses. And, of course, the men wearing the lurid hospital blue suits, white shirts and scarlet ties meant to proclaim their honourable wounds. Red, white and blue, the colours of patriotism. A stirring word which had summoned ardent young men in their thousands, eager to do their bit; an admonition that now had a hollow ring for those whose cost had been their limbs, their sight, their livelihood…for some their sanity.
Nella could see them strolling or limping on crutches by the overgrown parterre, sitting in wheelchairs, reading or simply talking, with empty jacket sleeves, and trouser legs pinned up over missing legs, learning to readjust their lives. That would be Warrant Officer Shawcross lying in the bed she had wheeled out into the afternoon sunshine. She hoped Nurse Burkin, inclined to be too busy to be thoughtful, would remember to take him inside and give him an extra blanket before he became too chilled; it was growing late and he soon felt the cold, not being able to move about, though he never complained. Perhaps Eunice, kind, shy little Eunice, would see to it if she came in to talk to the patients, or read and write letters for them, as she had taken to doing, unasked.
Nella jumped down from the stile and wrapped her cloak more closely around her, picked up her basket and walked briskly on towards the rectory. The crows settled in their nests in the bare elms and the sun slid behind the belt of oaks that hid the village from Oaklands.
Joe Strudwick, verger, sexton and general handyman, had almost finished digging the grave for the funeral later that week of old Mrs Cromer as Nella pushed open the lychgate, and was leaning on his spade by the heaped earth in the corner, taking time for a smoke before going into the rectory for his tea, after which he’d be off home. He raised his hand to his cap when he saw Nella, and began to pack up his tools. She waved back and walked on.
The evening meal was nearly ready. The time was always arranged to suit Nella’s working shifts, however awkward the hour, and as she opened the kitchen door, she was greeted by the homely smell of something savoury simmering gently on the hob, and the spicy scent of an apple pie Grandmama Villiers herself had made, she who had once barely known what it was to enter a kitchen.
Nella sensed something expectant in the air the minute she walked in. Grandy was wearing her neat, tucked-in little smile, and Florrie, sturdy, dour and unflappable as usual, was humming tunelessly under her breath, a good sign if ever there was one. As for Amy, curled up in Florrie’s rocking chair by the fire, shoeless, polishing her fingernails with a tortoiseshell-backed nail buffer, she could hardly wait for Nella to get inside the door before making the breathless announcement that there was a letter on the dresser. ‘Guess who from?’
‘And there’s a bacon hock Percy Troughton left when he brought the milk,’ added Florrie, at the sink, draining potatoes and picking up the wooden masher. ‘What a day!’
Nella was already making a beeline for the dresser.
‘It won’t disappear if you wait to take your outdoor things off, Nella,’ said Mrs Villiers.
‘And that hideous cap,’ Amy added, swinging her foot and admiring the curve of her instep.
Nella absently snatched off the offending cap, universally hated by all VADs as well as Amy, leaving a red mark where it had rested low on her forehead, slipped off her cloak and began to read the letter eagerly, leaning against the dresser. She read the short message through, twice, then folded it and put it down carefully.
‘Home. He’s coming home.’ William, home again! She spoke softly, quietly, otherwise she would have shouted for joy and felt perhaps she wouldn’t be able to stop.
‘But not just yet,’ said Amy. ‘He says he has things to do first. What things are more important than coming straight home?’
‘He’s going to Sussex, he says. I expect he’s gone to see the Beresford parents.’
‘Oh.’ Amy flushed. She knew William and his friend had been right through the war together, right until Piers Beresford had been killed, just a few weeks before the Armistice was signed. There was a moment of silence. But then Nella couldn’t help grabbing her grandmother round the waist and whirling her around. Everyone was beaming, even Grandy, whose smile was usually as neatly controlled as her greying hair and the upright carriage of her little figure. And Florrie, who scarcely smiled at all. William was suddenly there, in the room amongst them. Tall and broadshouldered, his thick thatch of foxy hair flopping untidily over his forehead, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he laughed.
‘How very fortunate we are,’ said Mrs Villiers softly.
Florrie, red from the fire, suddenly found a reason to examine the bacon more closely, forking it up and letting it hang suspended, dripping over the pot, pink and succulent, the skin glistening golden brown, before flipping it expertly onto a plate. ‘Well, it’s a nice bit of bacon,’ she remarked after a minute, ‘and bit’s the word all right, though I suppose we should be grateful for what we can get, and I dare say the stock’ll make some good pea soup.’ She removed the rind and began to slice the meat from the bone – it was mostly bone, and pathetically small for five people. ‘Make short work of this, Mr William would,’ she went on, eyeing its proportions with resignation. ‘The major, we shall all have to call him now, I suppose – fancy!’
‘I don’t imagine he’ll want us to call him anything of the sort, Florrie, if I know William.’ Mrs Villiers divested herself of her apron, hung it tidily behind the door and patted her hair. ‘It’s more likely he’ll want to forget the army as soon as possible.’
‘Hmm. Well, major or not, it’ll be grand to see him again, and I’m sure Strudwick’ll be glad of someone to help bring in the coal, not to mention seeing to that pile of leaves blocking the gutters. He don’t fancy ladders nowadays, says he’s getting too old.’
Eleanor Villiers smiled again, not envisaging immediately co-opting William into the role of handyman, though he’d always enjoyed energetic work, making himself useful, but thinking more of the warmth he would bring into the house, the vitality and sense of purpose. She for one would not be sorry at that. It was time to put the past behind them, and not only the war years but the unresolved mystery which the enormity of the war itself had overshadowed.
Amy was delightedly imagining the excitements that were sure to follow William’s return.
The last time she had seen him she’d been a little overawed at her giant of a brother, so much older, so dashing in his army uniform, his Sam Browne gleaming, his peaked cap at a jaunty angle. Second Lieutenant William Wentworth, all geared up and ready to fight the Hun, trying to look serious and responsible, the effect spoilt by his big, cheerful smile, the freckles on his nose and the fact that he was just twenty-one. Straight out of university, his studies abandoned. How brave, Amy thought, how daring to do that. No wonder Papa had been so – disappointed. But no wonder, either, that William had been a hero, mentioned in despatches. She hugged to herself the warm, comfortable feeling that they were all to be together
again, the whole family…all except Marianne, of course. But Marianne had been gone for so long now, her image was already fading, and the sad feeling was hard to maintain, although the way she had died – and the guilt, and all the rest of it – still frightened Amy when she thought about it.
But there was always Nella. Her two elder sisters had been so close in age, talking and laughing together about things Amy didn’t understand, that Amy used to feel excluded, but it was different now, had been ever since that night when Nella had cuddled Amy to sleep in her own bed, at the end of that awful day when Marianne had been found dead.
Nella removed her apron and drew on the cardigan her grandmother had thoughtfully set to keep warm for her on the rail over the boiler, and snuggled into its comforting warmth. ‘Father’s seen the letter, of course? What did he say?’
‘You know your father, Nella. He’s pleased – who wouldn’t be? – but of course he won’t show it.’
‘No, I don’t suppose he would.’
Another silence fell, this time of a different kind, an unease settling over the room like dust, a small cloud dimming, if only slightly, the joy of the moment. Francis Wentworth, who was against fighting for any reason whatsoever, had not been delighted when his only son had left Oxford before taking his degree. As a member of the Officers’ Training Corps, both at school and university, William had had no difficulty in obtaining a commission, determined not to be left behind in the jingoistic fervour (as his father saw it) to fight for king and country when all his friends were doing the same; but the habit of non-communication between father and son was too strong to be broken and typically, after voicing his initial protests, Francis had shrugged and retreated into his books.
The big wooden clock on the wall gave its usual irritating whirr before bonging out a slow, unmusical five. Mrs Villiers said briskly, ‘Well, time we were eating. Do stop fussing with your nails, Amy, this is not the place for that sort of thing. Put your shoes on, and give Florrie a hand with the dinner things. Make sure those plates are hot, Florrie.’
Florrie, having set aside her own portion, and a bit for Strudwick, which could be supplemented by that leftover sausage, juggled a pile of plates that were burning her fingers; there was no need for reminders – unless the plates were red hot from the oven, the food would be cold in a few minutes in that icebox of a dining room. Why they didn’t eat in here, she couldn’t think; they all congregated in the kitchen, or in the little parlour, for much of the time anyway, since they were the only really warm rooms in the house. The girls would have welcomed the idea, Florrie was sure, but she was equally certain that, although some standards had necessarily slipped during the war, the idea of dining in the kitchen would never have remotely occurred to Mrs Villiers. She had only recently given up changing for dinner every night.
‘Will Father be joining us?’ asked Nella, folding a cloth around a vegetable dish to carry it to the table. You could never be sure whether he would or would not.
‘Not today,’ replied Mrs Villiers. ‘He’ll have something in his study, perhaps, later.’
Nella and Amy exchanged glances. The atmosphere lightened perceptibly.
Chapter Five
Some hours after the telegram from William had been received, Francis Wentworth had finally abandoned his attempt to write his sermon, called for Queenie the Second, daughter of the first much lamented Queenie, and set out for a tramp over the hills.
He strode through the village, and walked steadily up the Hill. As he climbed higher and continued along the ridge, the wind grew keener, so icy it brought tears to his eyes and so strong it threatened to lift his tweed cap so that he had to jam it more firmly onto his head. Here, up on the brow, the trees bowed and swayed to their own wild songs. There was a smell of new earth and the clouds flew before the wind. He walked quicker, to keep warm. It was cold enough for snow. After a mild start, this March looked like turning into what they called around here a blackthorn winter: that unexpected snap of very cold, frosty weather just when the blackthorn blossom was giving promise of spring, which could nip the early flower buds and blight fruit in the bud. Nevertheless, the icy air invigorated him and soon his stride had achieved an effortless rhythm, with Queenie bounding along in front of him, stopping occasionally with her nose to the ground, sniffing for rabbits while his own thoughts whirled around in his mind.
The war which he had so bitterly opposed had at last, at last come to an end, and the son who had gone off so gallantly was coming home.
He was a little afraid of meeting William again. There were bridges to be built, and as yet he had no idea how that was to be accomplished. He and William had parted at the beginning of the war, not in anger, that was true, but in an uneasy truce. Francis had been unable to accept the war, and still could not, but had found no ally in his opposition to it except for young Grev, who had been as passionately opposed to it as he was, and who had yet died a hero’s death in the midst of battle. He could hardly bear to think of that talented young life, extinguished.
He wondered, often several times a day, how he had allowed himself to drift into the situation in which he found himself. He was still comparatively young. Not in the mirror, perhaps, where he saw a bitter man robbed of his youth. Would he ever entirely rid himself of the legacy of those years following Dorothea’s death, when he had struggled through a slough of despond, finding no one who could give him the spiritual assistance he needed, the absolution from guilt? He had not felt able to approach his fellow clergy for help, nor even his bishop – especially his evangelical bishop, projecting, as Francis had scornfully thought then, his own threadbare spirituality on to the world in general by writing popular books so that he had no actual time to spare for his flock. How do we misjudge others!
He was all too aware of his own major weakness, a reluctance in himself to face up to things, a wish to run away and hide, especially after his darling Dodo died. His mother-in-law, however, had not been prepared to let him get away with anything of the sort. She demanded tartly what he was going to do about his children, reminding him of his responsibilities to them, and since he knew they were not to blame for the punishment God was inflicting upon him it had pulled him up short: this period in the wilderness was a penalty he alone had to pay. And so, after some deliberation, he had written to Sybil.
He often wondered if that had not been the greatest mistake of his life.
He walked on, a prisoner of his dark thoughts, until presently he came to the wall which marked the boundary of Hatherley’s lands, lying spread out below him on the descent into the next valley beyond Broughton. He cupped his hands and drank from the icy stream that tumbled down the hillside and found a spot where he could hitch himself onto the wall which dipped below the brow of the hill, out of the wind, while Queenie plunged about, muddying the edges of the water, happy with her own pursuits. He made sure the gate in the wall was shut. In the field below sheep and their new young lambs were grazing, a large flock spread over the hillside, and she could not always be trusted with sheep.
It had been nearly four years ago, twelve months or so into the war, when Father Dorkings had at last died, and the jovial bishop had come to see Francis. They had been given a good lunch by Mrs Villiers, repaired to the study, and after an almost indecently short interval the bishop had told him forthrightly that hiding here didn’t mean he could hide from God. That he had no right to wallow in self-pity any longer. That ordained ministers were needed as chaplains to the forces in the front line and there was therefore no one to replace Father Dorkings. That it was time Francis pulled himself together, stopped running away and prepared to take his place as rector. Francis had felt as if he were a schoolboy being lectured by the Head.
He was offended by the simplistic approach to his problems, when he might at least have been entitled to put forward all his complex theological doubts in a scholarly exchange of views. More to the point, how could he stand up in the pulpit and offer comfort and advice to his congregation, when
he had none to give? What could he give his parishioners, he asked, especially at this appalling time? What about his doubts as to the rightness of the war, and the place – or absence – of God in it?
‘Do you think, then, that we don’t all have such doubts? Do you think that any of us know the answers? But we carry on.’
The good bishop departed, leaving Francis in a state of confusion that bordered on hysteria. Had he been given no alternative, or was he still left to make a decision? Was the bishop really saying that God had not yet forgiven him, that he must expiate his guilt in this way, carry on for form’s sake, as others seemed able to do, despite doubts and uncertainties?
He had given in. The lace and the incense that Father Dorkings had so loved disappeared and the village had a rector again. His parishioners did not expect too much, after Father Dorkings’s unworldly ministry, and a hunting parson before him, and Francis began to feel, if not happy, then at least a little more at peace with himself. And no one but he – and God – knew what was in his heart.
In the wide bottom of the valley, the slow-winding stream curved round the Hill as it left Broughton and meandered off to join, eventually, the great Severn. Tucked into a fold of the opposite hill was the original farmhouse belonging to the Hatherleys, now several centuries old, low and red-roofed, looking as though it was some natural growth of the land. It was now occupied by tenant farmers, while situated dead centre of the valley was the very large and extremely ugly house which Hatherley’s grandfather had built and moved into when he became rich on account of allowing the railway, a mile or so distant, to pass through his outlying farmlands. Landscaped gardens and a parkland surrounded the house. The whole valley looked as serene and well tended as the gardens themselves.
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