What Tomorrow Brings

by Mary Fitzgerald

  ‘But you’re close, you and . . . Mrs Cartwright,’ I said, and an uncomfortable lump was growing in my throat. Tears were beginning to well into my eyes. ‘More than friends.’

  ‘More than friends,’ he agreed. ‘But you are the one I want to marry. You’re my girl, with the chestnut hair and freckles. My brave adventurer. Somehow, dearest Persephone, you have found the door to my heart and whatever happens it will always be open to you.’

  He got up then and walked towards me and even though I was angry and close to breaking down, I let him take me into his arms. I couldn’t speak; the host of different emotions racing through my mind overwhelmed me and all I could do I was let him hold me close and listen to him whisper into my hair, ‘Trust me, darling girl. Just trust me.’

  Chapter Five

  WE WALKED ON the headland the next morning, strolling through the coarse grass towards the little church of St Mary of the Sea. The sun had returned and now shone down generously on us. My white cotton dress with its inserts of broderie anglaise wafted in the breeze which blew my hair into tangles. I should have tied it back, I thought despairingly. I’ll never get a comb through it and I need to look composed and adult this evening.

  I was thinking about my parents’ imminent arrival and the row that would ensue. Mother would be crying her disapproval, while my father would agree with her, take her side completely and then disappear off to his study. That would leave Mother to continue her rant plus – and here my heart sank – Xanthe, elegantly smoking and with a gin and tonic in hand, would be sniping little bits of poison from the sidelines. I was in for a horrid evening.

  Amyas walked quietly beside me. We hadn’t mentioned Mrs Cartwright again since last night but her invisible presence lay heavily between us. Mother’s investigator would have found out all about her, I was sure of that, and I would be the only one who didn’t know the whole truth. It was an impossible situation. I had to know more.

  ‘Amyas,’ I started, meaning to tackle him again, but he stopped walking and put a finger to my lips.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Don’t let’s talk about anything now. It’s a wonderful day and a stunning place. I want to drink in all this beauty so that I can remember it.’

  So we walked on until we were in the graveyard, where wild flowers grew between the leaning headstones, and butterflies, tossed by the breeze, flitted purposely between the plants. I could smell the sea and that hot metallic scent of old granite that I always noticed when I came to St Mary’s. The church was open and we walked inside.

  ‘This is where I want to get married,’ I said, smoothing my hand along the polished oak back of a pew and looking up to the simple leaded window which lit the east end of the church. There was only room for six rows on either side of the aisle and the unadorned stone altar was a projection of the wall, but I loved the atmosphere and the knowledge that generations had worshipped here. I could imagine them, sitting on these very pews in their sixteenth- and seventeenth-century clothes. Fishermen and their wives and children, ignorant of life beyond this district but assured of their presence in God. It was so romantic, I thought, and I wanted to be part of it. ‘It’s small,’ I said, ‘and not many people will be able to come but that’s what we want, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s what you want,’ Amyas smiled. ‘Register office would be fine for me.’

  I held my breath. I’d presumed too much, again. ‘Sorry,’ I muttered. ‘We don’t have to have a church ceremony. I don’t care, honestly.’

  ‘You do.’ He grinned and walked out through the studded oak door. I lingered for a minute in the quiet building, looking at the dust particles dancing on shafts of sunlight, at the brass memorial plaques on the walls and at the stone font beside me, covered now in a circular wooden lid. My children will be christened here, I thought. Mine and Amyas’s. Surely he wouldn’t refuse that.

  He was waiting for me, leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. ‘Shall we go back to the house?’ he suggested. ‘Things to do, you know.’

  I nodded. We had got things to do. Amyas would have to move out, back to the pub. I couldn’t possibly have him in my bed, not with my parents in the house, and I needed to ask Mrs Penney to prepare some sort of a meal for us all. Then I would have to go and collect them from the train. What a journey back that would be. I dreaded it and felt myself give a shudder as we walked along the lane back to the village.

  ‘I wonder where Percy is,’ said Amyas. We squeezed into the hedge as a tractor rumbled by pulling a trailer loaded with hay. The farmer at the wheel of the tractor tipped his cap to me but gave Amyas a long, hard stare. I realised that Mrs Penney’s remarks about us being a scandal in the village was true. Amyas smiled at the farmer, seemingly unconcerned that he was being scowled at, before adding, ‘D’you think he’s already back in London?’

  ‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘He left too late to get the night train. But he’ll be on his way.’ I thought of Percy’s tears on the beach and how distraught he’d been. ‘I do hope his father will be able to comfort him.’

  ‘Maybe he will.’ Amyas shrugged. ‘But I doubt it. Percy is a boy who doesn’t really know what he wants. I despair of him. He should grow up and be more like Graham.’

  ‘That’s not entirely fair,’ I protested. ‘Percy’s got obligations to his family. He can’t simply drop everything and go to a war. That’s understandable, isn’t it?’

  ‘No. It isn’t. If one is convinced by the rightness of a cause then everything else should be set aside.’

  This was the first time he had said anything so positive about conviction. I’d thought that his opinion of the war in Spain was ambivalent, that if you believed in a cause, you should carry it through, but that he wasn’t particularly keen on going himself. Now I wondered whether he’d been inspired by Graham’s resolve and was planning a similar expedition. I sneaked a look at him, strolling along with that half-amused expression on his beautiful face and his normal relaxed demeanour.

  Then I realised that this was an instruction to me. That I must not be afraid of my parents and must hold firm to my convictions. Of course, that’s what he meant. Relieved, I took his hand and held it all the way back to the house.

  Mrs Penney made us omelettes for lunch and afterwards, before she left, she took me into the pantry to show me the platter of seafood she’d prepared. ‘Everything came off the boat this morning,’ she assured me, ‘and is quite fresh, so don’t you worry. All you need to do is boil the new potatoes and make a salad. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said crossly.

  She jerked her head towards the veranda where Amyas was sitting with his feet up on the railing. ‘He going? Before your ma and pa arrive?’

  That was an order as much as anything and I frowned, but nodded again. ‘Mr Amyas will be staying at the pub for tonight and I’ll introduce him tomorrow.’

  ‘Hmm!’ She shook her head. ‘That’ll be a sight to see.’

  I was glad when she left. I wanted to be alone with Amyas for another few hours. ‘Shall we go down to the beach?’ I asked, when I joined him on the veranda.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’ll swim.’

  It was warm and the water was soft on my skin as I waded out into the blue afternoon. Amyas was beside me and held my hand as we dipped into the sea only letting go when we struck out into deeper water. I was confident that I’d be able to convince my father, at least, of Amyas’s worth. After all, he was clever and well read and seemed to know everyone. Mother would be the difficult one.

  Amyas swam over to me and put his arms around my body. ‘Kiss me,’ he demanded and treading water I surrendered to his touch and felt myself floating back into his dream world. My bathing costume was gently pulled off as we let the tide draw us to the shore. Abandoning all thoughts other than those of desire, we made reckless, joyous love in the surf, while the water surged over us and the gulls swooped figures of eight through the cobalt-blue sky.

  ‘I love you, Amyas,’ I bre
athed, my hands running across the muscles on his back.

  ‘You are mine, darling Persephone,’ he replied tenderly. ‘And I’ll never let you go.’ Back at the house I showered and dressed, putting on my white broderie anglaise frock again. I looked in the glass at my unfashionably sunburnt face, the freckles scattered across my nose and my hair with streaks highlighted by the sun. Xanthe would make fun of me, and my mother would be alarmed at how abandoned I appeared. ‘Oh, Seffy, darling,’ she would say. ‘What on earth has happened to you?’

  ‘I’ve made tea,’ I called to Amyas. He had gone into Father’s study to have a last look at the books, I supposed, and then into the bedroom to pack his holdall.

  I was on the veranda when he came out. ‘Have you phoned the pub,’ I asked. ‘To book a room?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘It’ll be busy,’ I said, suddenly nervous. ‘It’s July. Tourists are in the village.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He was looking directly at me. ‘I’m not going to the pub.’

  I knew then. Knew that he was leaving me. But I kept up the pretence. ‘But, Amyas,’ I was gabbling now, ‘where will you stay? I think Mrs Penney’s sister has a boarding house on the quay. You could ask if she has a room . . .’ My voice faded away as I watched him lift up the holdall. He was looking past me to the panorama of the bay and to the sea where only an hour before I’d drifted, yet again, into that world of deep desire which he’d created.

  He turned his face back to me. ‘I’m going to Spain,’ he said. ‘I’ve made up my mind.’

  My heart stopped. I grabbed hold of the railing to steady myself. ‘But what about our plans? Us marrying?’

  ‘It will probably happen,’ he said. ‘Some time.’

  The sun continued to shine above us and I could hear the waves slapping on to the sand below but my world dimmed and Amyas began to fade out of it. I reached out, trying desperately to keep him with me. ‘Was it because I took you to the church?’ I cried. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. We don’t have to marry there. I told you.’

  ‘No, Persephone. It’s got nothing to do with that.’ He walked through the house until he was at the front door and, dropping his bag with a small thump, grabbed his white panama hat from the stand. Placing it carefully on his head he turned back to me and smiled. He’d never looked so handsome.

  ‘Don’t go.’ I tightened my hand around his arm and pulled him back into the doorway. ‘Please,’ I begged and didn’t mind that I sounded pathetic, and that tears were beginning to run down my face. ‘Stay. Stay with me.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘This is something I have to do. I believe in it totally and I thought you did.’ He gently pushed me away and bent to pick up his bag.

  I gazed at his hand. It was thin with long, smooth fingers. A hand that had never used an implement larger than a pen and which would be required, quite soon, if what he had said was true, to carry and use a gun.

  ‘But it was only talk,’ I wailed. ‘We didn’t really mean it.’

  ‘I did.’ He smiled and bent his head to kiss me. ‘Goodbye, my darling girl.’

  London

  I’d been alone for nearly four months. Summer had gone, taking Amyas and any chance of happiness with it. After his departure I had been so heartbroken and sick that I thought I could sink no lower. Until the morning when I realised, as I rushed yet again to the lavatory, that Amyas had left me with a legacy, and I wasn’t sure whether to clutch it to me in joy at still having a part of him with me, or terror at how I would cope. Terror won, and my mother took charge. In my weakened state, I could not fight her insistence that I get rid of the baby. But nothing went according to plan, and in the terrible aftermath I was weaker both physically and mentally than I had ever been, and I just couldn’t summon the courage to get over it.

  I heard the knocking on my door but ignored it. Whoever it was would soon give up, just as others had, leaving me alone with my thoughts. ‘Go away,’ I whispered wearily, not moving from the wooden chair where I sat and looked out on to the London square. Autumn leaves scudded past my window, some momentarily pasting themselves against the glass before flying away to join those littering the grass of the communal garden. They were driven on a raw gusting wind with the sharp spells of rain which rapped against the panes and wouldn’t allow me to relax. I looked across to the houses opposite and to the enclosed garden below, where the trees were reluctantly giving up their foliage and the squat grimy hedges stood patiently, buffeted by the gale but scarcely moving. It was a miserable scene, but it suited my mood. In the months since Amyas had left I’d become a shadow of my former self. And then, last week, I’d been in hospital.

  Life was hopeless. I was hopeless. I didn’t know what to do.

  The knock came again, more insistent this time and then a voice I vaguely recognised called, ‘Blake! I know you’re in there. Open this bloody door.’

  Who called me Blake? I frowned, trying to think, then suddenly I remembered. Charlie Bradford. Of course. Oh hell, I didn’t want to talk to anyone, least of all somebody as perceptive and insistent as Charlie. I bit my lip, waiting for him to go away, but to my dismay he hammered on the door again, calling, ‘Come on, Blake, I haven’t got all day.’

  I could hear a door opening opposite mine. It would be old Mr Weiss, who always came out of his flat to talk to me, on the very rare occasions that I left mine. ‘I think you’re a woman of mystery, Fräulein . . . I forget, what is your name again?’ he would chuckle. ‘Ein Geheimnis. Isn’t she, Willi?’ His little dog, a dachshund, stared at me mournfully from the protection of his master’s arms. I would give them a brief smile and hurriedly head for the lift or, if I was returning from a brief visit to the shops, open my door. I couldn’t be bothered to make a new friend, however harmless. Now he would be standing at his door wanting to know what was going on.

  Damn!

  ‘All right,’ I sighed, getting up. ‘Stop knocking!’

  ‘Good girl, Blake. Let me in.’

  When I opened the door, Charlie stood there, full of life and purpose, one hand resting on the door frame and his blue eyes crinkling a smile behind the rimless glasses. Over his shoulder Mr Weiss beamed at me and lifted Willi’s paw in a little wave. I nodded to him and stepped aside to let Charlie into the flat.

  For the first few seconds we stared at each other. Charlie, despite his wet trench coat and his fair hair plastered to his head, looked the same as I remembered him. I’d liked him and that feeling hadn’t changed, even though I didn’t really want to see him, or anyone at all.

  ‘Christ,’ he said, looking me up and down. ‘What in God’s name has happened to you?’

  I didn’t know how to answer. So I just shrugged and went back to my chair at the window. He followed and looked down at me. ‘You’ve lost weight and you look like hell. Are you ill?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. I’m all right. What d’you want?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, taking off his mac and sitting down on the only soft chair in the room, ‘I wanted to see you, of course, and there was something else.’

  ‘What?’

  He frowned. ‘I’m not sure, now. Looking at you, I mean.’ He got to his feet again and walked back to the window. ‘I see you took my advice and got yourself your own place to live. Nice area, this, but not cheap.’

  Those were the exact words the house agent had used when I’d gone into his office to enquire about an apartment. ‘I have a very good first-floor flat,’ he’d said cautiously, ‘but it may be a little out of your price range. It’s in a very nice area, very central. But not cheap.’

  It was empty and I took it straight away. I bought a few pieces of furniture, not many really, but enough for me. It was a bolt-hole, where I could be on my own and nurse my shredded heart. Of course, Mother and Father had made a fuss, but I was determined. I told them the address, then told them not to visit. After what they’d done, what Mother had done, I could hardly bear to look at them, let alone li
ve in the same house.

  Xanthe had visited once, elegant in a fine tweed suit and matching side-tilted beret. Her heavy perfume almost choked the air. She made fun of the badly decorated rooms and my few sticks of furniture, but she approved of the location.

  ‘It’s quite smart here, actually,’ she’d said. ‘Freddie Machin’s people live in this square and most of the better embassies are around about. As it happens, I’m going to a cocktail party tonight at the German Embassy, which,’ she looked out of the window, ‘I’m sure is not too far from here. One of the attachés was a guest at Jane Delacourt’s wedding and Clive introduced us. He and this German, Count something or other, are great pals. Clive’s going to Germany soon to stay at the Count’s castle. Isn’t that a scream? Anyway, he invited me to go to this party. He’s quite a dish.’

  ‘Clive?’ I said. ‘Clive Powell?’

  ‘Yes,’ she pouted, ‘and what of it? I don’t think you of all people are in any position to tell me what to do.’

  I had no answer to that, but Xanthe didn’t visit again. She knew that I blamed her as well as my parents. She sent a note a few weeks later to say that the count had invited her to visit him in Germany, and she was so looking forward to it. ‘Will have to buy lots of new clothes,’ she’d scrawled: ‘apparently he’s well known in society.’ That was a month ago, so she could be home by now.

  ‘Well,’ Charlie Bradford looked at me. ‘On your own now?’

  What did he mean by that? I wondered and glanced up angrily. Did he know too? ‘I’ve taken a flat,’ I said evenly, ‘if that’s what you’re getting at.’

  ‘What else?’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Look, Blake, I need to talk to you and you look as if you could do with a square meal. Go and get your hat and I’ll take you to lunch. I know a great little place round the corner.’

  I almost laughed. Charlie and his great little places. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ I said slowly. ‘I’ve . . .’