“Things are different in France; girls aren’t allowed——”
“What is he like?” she interrupted.
“You mean Charles?”
“Yes, I’ve never seen him. I’ve heard a lot about him, of course, but that doesn’t give you any clear idea of a person.”
I was surprised to hear that she had never seen Charles. I knew that while I was away he had come to the Vicarage quite often to talk to mother and play the piano.
“Oh, well, I’m at school all day,” explained Lottie. “And I often go and spend the week-end with the Meldrums. We have fun,” she added with a little smile.
“You haven’t been to Riverside since I came home.”
“They’ve all gone for a cruise to the Mediterranean, that’s why. Mrs. Meldrum wanted to take me but she couldn’t get a cabin. She said she would take me next time . . . or perhaps to Switzerland at Christmas for winter sports. Mrs. Meldrum thinks it’s very wrong for you to have left school, Sarah.”
“Mrs. Meldrum doesn’t understand,” I said quickly. “It was the right thing for me to leave school because I want to study languages.”
“It must be so dull!”
“It isn’t dull at all.”
“I should hate it.”
We were silent for a little, drinking tea and eating scones and honey.
“You haven’t told me about Charles,” said Lottie at last. “What is he really like?”
I tried to describe him to her.
“Sarah – I believe – you’re in love with him!” she exclaimed, gazing at me with wide blue eyes.
“There’s nobody like him in the world.”
“Oh, Sarah! And does Charles . . .”
“He said I was a child.”
“So you are,” declared Lottie, nodding seriously. “You’re younger than I am in lots of ways. I’ve got several admirers.”
She said it with such a self-satisfied air that I had to laugh.
“You needn’t laugh, Sarah. I meet lots of boys at Riverside, and it’s better to have several admirers because it keeps them up to the mark. I’ve learnt a lot from Madeline; she’s grown-up now, and very pretty and attractive, so she has a string of young men . . . and she keeps them guessing.”
“Keeps them guessing?”
“Madeline says a man gets tired of a girl if she makes herself too cheap . . . so she keeps them guessing. That’s what I’ll do when I’m older – and that’s what you ought to do. Charles will get tired of you if you let him see that you think there’s nobody like him in the world.”
I was silent. I thought of the way I had thrown myself into his arms and hugged him – I had been so pleased to see him that it seemed the natural thing to do – I had told him that I loved him and asked him to kiss me! Perhaps Lottie was right; perhaps he would get tired of me; perhaps already he had become tired of the affection of a “child” and had found someone else; someone pretty and attractive, like Madeline, who would keep him guessing.
“What’s the matter, Sarah?” asked Lottie.
“Nothing. I was just thinking.”
“Does Charles write to you?”
“No, he’s very busy. He’s in Austria with his father, helping to manage the estate.”
“Is it a big estate?”
“Yes, it stretches for miles and miles; there are farms and woods and fields and a huge castle which stands on the edge of a cliff; it has belonged to his family for generations.”
“What fun. Perhaps you’ll go there some day.” She sighed and added, “I’d like to see Charles.”
*
I had told Lottie that Charles didn’t write to me but a few days later I received a long letter from him; it was a warm friendly letter.
Charles began by explaining that he had found his father’s property sadly neglected and he was trying to put things right. He was in the saddle all day, riding to outlying farms and arranging for the repair of roofs and barns and a proper supply of water to the peasants’ houses.
“All this should have been done long ago but my father cannot be bothered with these things and Rudi, who ought to be looking after his inheritance, has no drive. He is vacillating so people do not attend to what he says. The people here are pleasant and kindly but they need an iron hand in a velvet glove. Alas, Rudi has neither so he does not get on with them well; I hope he will gain confidence in himself when he is married. He is now engaged to be married to a young girl whose parents have been friends of our family for many years, so the match is suitable and our father is pleased. Anya would not suit me; she cannot talk of Druids’ stones and cuckoos and the reign of Queen Elizabeth of England. However Rudi is devoted to her and they are to be married in November. The wedding is to be a very grand affair, both families have large connections in Vienna, so I must be here to help Rudi through the ordeal and I must stay with my father and Gretchen while Rudi and Anya are away for their honeymoon (which is to consist of a cruise round the world). This means that I shall not be able to return to Oxford for some time.
“It is sad that I shall not have the joy of seeing all my good friends at Fairfield but it is important that I should be here. We are living in my father’s house in Vienna – as you will see from the address – but things are so unsettled that I am anxious for my father’s safety. I want my family to return to Schloss Roethke as soon as possible and live there quietly and try to keep clear of political affairs. I think I told you that my father speaks his mind too freely? That is dangerous here where the pie-crust is thin . . . but at Schloss Roethke he will be amongst our own people who are faithful to the family.
“Unfortunately Anya finds the Schloss cold and damp so it has been agreed to instal central heating and to make several alterations in the west wing, including a self-contained flat for the newly married couple; all this must be done while they are away and I must be here to keep an eye on the work. Once this has been done, and my family is comfortably settled, I shall be able to leave them with an easy mind.
“I have explained these matters fully so that you will understand why I cannot return to England as soon as I had hoped . . . and now I must explain what happened at Nivennes. When you did not appear at our rendezvous I went up to the house and had an interview with Madame Delormes – it was an unpleasant interview! Alas, I made trouble for you! It was foolish and impulsive of me to ask you to meet me; my only excuse is that you looked unhappy and this made me lose my wits. I hope you will be kind and forgive me.
“Please allow your parents to read this letter; I ought to write to them and thank them for all their kindness to me but I am very busy.
“Take care of yourself, little Sarah. I am glad you are not here, but safe in England where the crust is thick.
“Yours ever,
“Charles.”
When I had read the letter and digested it I handed it to father and he read it carefully.
“It’s a very good letter,” said father. “Charles is a good son. It’s a pity he isn’t his father’s heir; the brother doesn’t sound much use.”
I didn’t reply. It was true that Rudi didn’t sound much use, but I was glad Charles wasn’t his father’s heir.
“We’ll show the letter to Mother when she comes home from Craignethan. Meanwhile keep it safely,” added father.
I answered Charles’s letter, of course, and after that we wrote to each other fairly regularly. He told me about his brother’s marriage, which was a gorgeous affair, and he told me about the troubles he was having with the builders. The walls of the old castle were so thick and strong that the instalment of the central heating was much more difficult than anyone had expected and the other alterations which Anya wanted were even more troublesome. In one of his letters Charles wrote, “I have a feeling that Anya does not want to leave Vienna.” This simple little sentence told me a good deal.
It was not until Christmas 1937 that I had a short letter from Charles to tell me that the Schloss was ready and they were on the point of moving. Once he
had seen his family comfortably settled he would be free to do as he wanted.
All this time I had been going to Mademoiselle Bénet twice a week for French conversation and had been having German lessons from the organist of St. Margaret’s in Larchester. He was a German – Herr Müller – but he had become a naturalised British subject and had changed his name to Mr. Miller. He was thorough and conscientious so I enjoyed my lessons with him.
Chapter Fourteen
The Anschluss took place at the beginning of March 1938; Hitler marched his troops into Austria and took over the country. I was dismayed when I heard the news: where was Charles and what was happening to him?
Strangely enough there seemed to be little trouble in Austria – some people said it was better for Austria to be amalgamated with Germany and now Hider would be satisfied. Was this true or was it wishful thinking? I talked to Mr. Miller about it but found him very reticent; however, when I pressed him he said, “There is great power for evil in the man.”
By this time father had read Mein Kampf, which had been translated into English, and he was of the opinion that sooner or later there would be war. The queer thing was that a great many other people had read the book but very few of them seemed to believe that Hider meant what he said.
Life at home went on as usual: Lewis was still at St. Clement’s College and came to see us now and then; Lottie was still at St. Elizabeth’s and Willy had left Barstow and was in Mr. Romford’s engineering works. He was very happy there and Mr. Romford was pleased with him but his hours were long and he didn’t get home very often.
We had a reunion for my eighteenth birthday. All the family came. We hadn’t been all together for a long time so it was lovely. Lewis and Willy were very friendly to each other, much more so than when they were younger.
It was a fine March day so we all went for a walk together in the woods and then sat down to a splendid tea; mother and Minnie had made a cake and decorated it and put eighteen candles on it. They all chaffed me and we had jokes and were very happy. Afterwards, when I looked back and remembered my birthday, I wished I could have it all over again.
I received some delightful presents, including a new bicycle from father, a gold wrist-watch from mother and fifty pounds from the grans. Grandmama wrote and said they were sending me money as I might like to buy “some pretty frocks.” I had hoped for a letter from Charles but was disappointed.
A few days later mother suggested we should go to Larchester to spend some of my “birthday money” and I agreed. It was always fun going for an expedition with mother and I wanted some new clothes.
We had an early lunch and caught the one o’clock bus. It was a dull misty day, not very pleasant, but we did our shopping satisfactorily. I bought a very pretty rose-red frock with some of the grans’ money; it was a colour that suited me and mother said it was very becoming, then we had tea together at a small tea-shop before coming home.
The tea-shop was run by two Scottish ladies who made the scones and cakes themselves. We had been there before several times and they had discovered that mother was a fellow-countrywoman. To-day we were rather late so the tea-shop was empty and Miss Ferguson came and sat at our table.
At first she and mother talked about Ryddelton; Miss Ferguson said she knew it well, she used to stay there sometimes with an old aunt.
“It’s still the same as ever, very quiet and peaceful,” said mother.
“Peaceful?” said Miss Ferguson with a sigh. “It’s nice to think of somewhere peaceful in these troublous times. That Hitler is a dangerous man; you never know what he’ll do next. He has swallowed Austria but that won’t satisfy him.”
“What do you mean?” asked mother in surprise.
“My sister says if he attacks Poland there’s sure to be another war.”
“Another war! Oh, there could never be another war – that would be dreadful!”
“Haven’t you read his book, Mrs. Morris? My sister and I got it the other day; it’s quite terrifying. He says Germany is encircled by enemies and he wants ‘lebensraum.’ He means to take it by force if he can’t get it any other way.”
“There couldn’t be another war,” repeated mother in a breathless voice. “You must be wrong, Miss Ferguson! War is terribly wicked and . . . and dreadful. It couldn’t happen again! I must ask Henry . . . yes, I must ask Henry.”
Miss Ferguson looked at me and I shook my head so she began to talk of something else but mother didn’t listen. She sat there for a few minutes as if she were turned to stone and then rose and said we must go.
We had never spoken about the possibility of another war in mother’s hearing – father had warned us not to mention the subject – but she saw the papers every day so it seemed strange that she hadn’t realised the danger. I have wondered about it since, and have come to the conclusion that to mother the last war was “the last war” and the idea that there could be another had never entered her head.
Coming home in the bus I tried to talk to mother about our afternoon’s shopping expedition but she didn’t answer . . . and when we arrived in Fairfield she got out and walked very quickly up the hill to the Vicarage. I collected the parcels and followed. It was unlike mother to leave me to carry all the parcels, but she wasn’t thinking of parcels; she was thinking only of getting home to father as quickly as she could.
When she got to the Vicarage gate she staggered . . . and would have fallen if I hadn’t dropped all the parcels in the road and seized her in my arms.
“I feel . . . so . . . queer,” she said vaguely.
“You’re tired,” I said. “You’ve been hurrying up the hill.”
I managed to get the gate open and made her sit down on the bank at the side of the path. I was frightened; I didn’t know what to do – whether to stay with her or go for help – her face was quite grey and she was breathing heavily.
“You’ll be all right in a minute,” I told her. “You were racing up the hill – that’s what’s the matter.”
I waited, holding her hand, but she seemed to be getting worse. “Just sit there quietly while I run and get Father,” I said.
Fortunately father was in his study and between us we managed to carry her into the drawing-room. We laid her on the sofa; her eyes were open but she seemed only half-conscious. She was clinging to father’s hand as if she were drowning.
“Ring up Dr. Weatherstone – quickly,” said father.
*
Mother was terribly ill; her left leg and arm were paralysed and most of the time she was unconscious, but occasionally she emerged from the mists and recognised us and spoke to us. Dr. Weatherstone sent for a nurse; father and Minnie and I took turns in sitting by her bedside and helping to lift her.
I told father and the doctor exactly what had happened; the doctor said it was not the mental shock which had caused the seizure, it was hurrying up the hill when she was tired. I thought he was wrong but it was not for me to argue with a doctor . . . and in any case it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was for mother to get well.
Nurse Ede was kind and capable; she was very attentive to mother and gave little trouble in the house but she talked too much and too cheerfully. At meals nurse chatted happily about her other patients and told us how she had “pulled them through” when the doctor had given up hope. Of course mother was just another case to her – so it is unfair to blame her – but father and I were in agonies of anxiety and apprehension so we found it almost intolerable.
We had asked Dr. Weatherstone whether we ought to send for Lewis and Willy and he had replied that we could do as we liked, but it was better for mother to be kept very quiet; excitement would be the worst thing possible . . . so father decided not to send for anyone. I felt worried about it (if I had heard that mother was desperately ill I should have wanted to go to her), so I sat down and wrote to the boys and told them all about it; I wrote to the grans and to Lottie.
There was no question of Lottie coming; she had gone to Monte Carl
o with the Meldrums for the Easter holidays, but I thought she ought to be told.
For five days mother’s condition was unchanged; she lay in a coma, her arm and leg were limp and useless, but on the morning of the sixth day I thought she seemed better; her face was less grey and drawn and her eyes brighter. When I was giving her a drink of warm milk she looked up at me and smiled.
“You’re feeling better, aren’t you?” I said.
“Sarah, I can’t . . . remember what happened. Did I fall down and . . . and break my arm?”
“No, darling. Your arm isn’t broken, it’s just rather stiff.”
“It’s heavy and limp . . . but I can move my fingers.”
I looked at her poor hand and saw that it was true; she was moving her fingers. She was getting better!
“I was hurrying,” said mother. “I wanted to talk to Henry . . . about something . . . but I can’t remember what it was. What was it, Sarah?”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“It was something important,” said mother, frowning.
“Don’t worry about it. Just drink your milk.”
“What a nuisance I am! Sarah, I must be better before the Sale of Work.”
“Yes, of course, darling.”
At that moment Nurse Ede came in with a rustle of her starched apron. She said, “Oh, you’re a lot better this morning, Mrs. Morris . . . and I see you’ve been a good girl and finished all your milk! We’ll soon have you running about like a two-year-old.”
*
Nurse Ede and I had established a routine. She preferred to be on duty for the first part of the night and wakened me at four. I sat with mother until eight, then had breakfast with father and did anything that had to be done in the house and the parish. In the afternoon Minnie took over while nurse went out for a walk and I rested. Father always sat with mother in the evenings. In addition to this arrangement of duties one of us was available to help nurse if we were wanted.
Now that mother had begun to get better she was improving every day; even Dr. Weatherstone, who had been very gloomy, was pleased with her progress . . . but father still went about looking dazed and miserable. The only time he was cheerful was when he was sitting with mother; when he was with her he showed her a smiling face.
Sarah Morris Remembers Page 11