Grace Hardie

by Anne Melville

  Now she re-read the letter with new eyes, searching for any sign that the writer was beginning to change his mind; but there was no hint of any craving to feel free.

  The room was too small to contain her restlessness. Pushing the letter into her pocket, she ran down the stairs of the tower, across the garden and down the hill. The boulders had comforted her in times of earlier distress. Would they be able to soothe this greatest hurt of all?

  A blustery March wind lifted the dead leaves as she ran through the wood, sending them flying around her ankles. As she came nearer to the two huge stones, however, she moved more slowly. The sense of awe which they induced seemed to enforce a silent approach. This gave time for her mind to become receptive to the atmosphere. Even before the boulders came into sight she was conscious that there was someone beside them already.

  From the shelter of the trees she observed the figure of a soldier leaning against one of the boulders with his forehead pressed against it and his back to herself. Unmoving, she tried to decide who it could be. Had Kenneth secretly returned home? But no; the man turned and she saw that it was Andy.

  It was here that Andy had kissed her for the last time before leaving to join the army. She had not seen him since. He had been granted leaves during the past two and a half years, but she knew from his father that he had chosen to spend them with his wife and baby in France instead of returning to Greystones.

  How long had he been back? The size and weight of the pack which he now swung on to his shoulders suggested that this must be the beginning or end of his leave. Was he, like Grace, remembering their last parting? Was he hoping to see her again, or did he realize that they could have nothing to say to each other? She watched as he settled the pack into position. Then, as he made his way between the trees, she followed at a distance.

  At the edge of the wood she stood still, in case he should turn his head. He walked down the long drive, past his parents’ cottage and straight out of the gates, striding down the hill towards the city. It was the end of his leave, then. He must have been home for several days, but he had not shown himself at the house, and nobody had told her.

  Well, why should they? The head gardener and his wife had never known that there was anything to tell, and Andy himself would have been ashamed to show his face. Grace watched until he was out of sight and a great desolation overwhelmed her. She had been rejected not once but twice. Andy had said that he loved her, but had married someone else. Christopher had said that he loved her, but would rather be free than married. What was it about her that made them both turn away?

  There was more than unhappiness in her mood as she walked slowly back to the house. She felt disturbed, unable to understand where her inadequacy lay, and uncertain whether to be more angry with herself or with the two men who had let her down. Letting herself in, she went straight to the studio, ringing for a maid as she passed through the hall.

  ‘Send a message down to the shop,’ she ordered when the girl appeared. ‘Say that I’m unwell and shan’t be able to come in today.’

  It was the first time that she had used such an excuse. She justified it with the thought that she was not a paid assistant. She had helped out in the family business for long enough. As the daughter of the house she should be free to attend or not as she chose. But her indignation came near to making the excuse a true one, for she could feel her chest tightening in a manner which was often the first warning of a wheezing bout.

  This time, determined not to give in to illness, she forced herself to breathe steadily as she pulled on her working smock. Instead of continuing to work on the complicated spiral which she was gradually building up, with the risk of spoiling it through frustration, she slit open a new pack of clay. Before the material could be used, it was always necessary to beat it into a malleable form, slapping it down on the workbench over and over again until no bubbles of air remained. The heavy work suited her mood. A little at a time she worked out some of her unhappiness – but not all of it, because a despairing bleakness remained whenever she thought about the future.

  If nobody wanted her, what was she going to do with her life? She slapped and banged with increasing vigour, but no answer came.

  Chapter Three

  It was Midge, arriving for a half-term visit, who dragged Grace out of her despair. No doubt, as a headmistress, she had for years been telling schoolgirls to stop sulking or snivelling. She had enough respect for the feelings of someone who was no longer a child to make a more tactful approach to her niece, but there was a no-nonsense briskness below the surface.

  She was waiting at the gates when Grace was driven home from The House of Hardie on Friday evening, so that the two of them could walk up the drive together.

  ‘Your mother gave me the news of your disappointment,’ she said after the first greetings were over. ‘I was so sorry to hear it.’ Her voice was full of sympathy; yet Grace sensed a hesitation in it – as though she wished to make a further comment, but feared that it might increase the hurt.

  ‘I’m not disappointed. I don’t care.’

  ‘Oh, but that can’t be true! If you’re not disappointed by the ending of your engagement, it must mean that you felt no true joy earlier at the prospect of the marriage.’

  With a sigh Grace indicated her reluctance to discuss the subject. ‘Very well then. I was disappointed when I first received the letter, but now I don’t care.’

  Midge made no pretence of believing her. For a second time she seemed to hesitate. ‘I find this difficult,’ she confessed. ‘There’s something that I would really like to say to every young woman. But for an old maid who can’t possibly know what she’s talking about to speak her mind on such a subject is likely to be regarded as interference – not by the young woman herself, perhaps, but certainly by her mother.’

  Made curious by her aunt’s apologetic tone of voice, Grace waited to find out what this was all about.

  ‘All girls are brought up in the expectation that they’ll become wives.’ Midge spoke more briskly. ‘This is in spite of the fact that there have never been enough husbands to go round, even in time of peace. Now, unfortunately, a great many girls who in normal times would have married and made good wives will be unable to do so. What I would really like to say to those girls – and the others – is that they may in the end be all the happier for being left with the power to rule their own lives.’

  ‘But surely –’

  Midge allowed no interruption. ‘Marriage is only one way of life. It’s curious that girls should be brought up to think of it as almost their sole ambition. When a man marries, he continues to be what he was before – a soldier, a clergyman, a shopkeeper, anything. He isn’t simply a husband. Yet when a woman marries, she becomes merely a wife.’

  ‘Probably she wasn’t anything before,’ suggested Grace.

  ‘That’s exactly my point. All she was before was someone waiting to get married. It’s not good enough, Grace. Girls have minds as good as men’s. They have the same strength of character, the same courage. They can look after themselves and be independent when circumstances force them to. How much better it would be if they were to learn independence as a matter of course! So that if they did eventually marry it would be because they genuinely chose to, and not merely because they feel there’s no choice.’

  ‘By the time they’ve acquired this independence, they’ll be so old that no one will want to marry them anyway.’

  ‘By the time they’re independent, they may never wish to change their status. Well, you can imagine how the mothers of my pupils would come down on me if I started preaching that kind of message in morning assembly! I can say it to you only because you’re not a child any more.’

  ‘But a happy marriage must be –’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Midge’s interruption implied agreement. ‘For a woman whose happiness lies in being a support to someone else, a successful marriage is the perfect life. But not all marriages remain happy for ever. And some women are stro
ng.’

  ‘I’m not one of them.’ In the past three days, as she cried herself to sleep, strength was the last quality with which Grace would have credited herself.

  ‘You haven’t had the chance to find out about yourself yet. You’ve lived here as a dutiful daughter and you’ve always assumed that you’ll become someone’s dutiful wife one day. But this is a good moment for you to take a clear look at yourself and decide what you want to do with your life. Not what you’re expected to do, but what you choose to do.’

  ‘It’s all very well for you to talk like this, Aunt Midge,’ Grace complained. ‘You knew when you were my age that you wanted to be a teacher, and you knew what you had to do to qualify yourself. I haven’t got any such ambition or talent. What use would independence be to me when I don’t know what to do with it?’

  ‘You say that because you’ve never given the matter thought. I’ll ask you a question in turn. You’re the daughter of a family which owns a business. Mr Witney has been managing the business with total devotion, but he won’t be there for ever. Who is going to run The House of Hardie after him? Frank is dead. Kenneth has disappeared. Jay is too young at the moment, and gives no sign of being businesslike. From what your mother tells me, it may be a long time before Philip is well enough to undertake responsibilities which would put him under strain.’

  ‘There’s David.’

  ‘Certainly David could be asked to take charge. But he might be reluctant to abandon his profession. Whereas you have nothing to give up – and unlike David, you’re familiar with the firm’s affairs.’

  ‘But not from any position of responsibility!’ Grace was aghast at the suggestion. ‘I find the keeping of even the simplest accounts a difficulty. To understand a balance sheet and attempt to keep a business profitable – Aunt Midge, it’s an impossible idea!’

  ‘Only because it’s a new idea. But you can hire qualified bookkeepers. As headmistress, I’m responsible for everything that goes on in my school, but I wouldn’t be capable of doing the work of every individual member of my staff. My responsibility is to choose efficient helpers.’

  ‘In a girls’ school it’s expected that the head should be a woman. But in a business –’

  ‘Don’t ever think of yourself as “only a woman”, Grace. You’re a Hardie, and inside The House of Hardie that’s a qualification that no outsider can better. You’d only need to drop the slightest of hints to Mr Witney and he’d be delighted to discuss wider aspects of the business with you and give you the chance to share in decisions. That wouldn’t commit you to anything. But it would give you confidence – and that’s all you need.’

  ‘You’ve taken my breath away! No more revolutionary suggestions for the moment, please.’ They continued their walk in silence.

  ‘Have you been doing any more modelling?’ asked Midge as they entered the house.

  The sparkle of enthusiasm returned to Grace’s eyes. She put her aunt’s extraordinary proposition out of her mind and led the way into the studio to show off the huge piece of work which Philip’s gassing had inspired. It was six feet tall, but so delicate were the circles which surrounded the central stem that there was no feeling of bulk.

  Midge gasped at the sight. ‘I didn’t realize you were so ambitious in your projects!’

  ‘Too ambitious, I’m afraid. When I made pots on the wheel, I could use one of the sculleries for mixing glazes and one of the kitchen ovens for firing the pieces. But this is too large for any oven. I ought really to have made it out of stone.’

  ‘Why didn’t you then?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about choosing or carving stone, and I haven’t got the right tools. But Headington Quarry began its life as a settlement of quarrymen and stonemasons. The tradition must still be alive there. As soon as the evenings are lighter I shall look for someone to instruct me – if Mother will allow it.’

  She paused, surprising herself by what she was about to say. ‘You know, Aunt Midge, if I did want to become an independent person, as you were suggesting, this is what I’d want to do all the time. Learning how to make shapes in different ways out of different materials. Modelling or carving – I don’t know which I like best. I’d much rather spend my life in the studio here than in The House of Hardie.’

  Her aunt looked disconcerted, as though that was not precisely what she’d had in mind while preaching her sermon on independence; but she was able to see the amusing side of it.

  ‘You’re a quick learner, Grace. You’ve understood what I was suggesting and you’re independent enough to reject my suggestion. Well, why not? The important thing is that whatever you do should bring you satisfaction. And you may soon feel that you’re better off being free of someone who could write to you so cruelly.’

  ‘He didn’t even write himself.’ Grace was not ashamed to reveal how much she had been hurt. ‘I learned of his change of mind through his mother.’

  ‘Didn’t write himself! But surely … Grace, dear, you wouldn’t let me see the letter, I suppose.’

  Grace pulled the letter out of the pocket of her working smock.

  ‘I never met Christopher,’ said Midge after she had read it. ‘But when you described him I had the impression of a young man who was brave, not cowardly, and considerate of other people’s feelings.’

  ‘I thought so too. But it isn’t his fault that he can’t speak to me face to face. For an officer serving at the front, a letter –’

  ‘But a letter that he didn’t write himself! Have you given no thought to the reason for that? Only the most shameful coward would ask his mother to free him of some entanglement merely because he regretted it. There could be other reasons which would reflect more credit on him. Suppose he’s sick or wounded. He might have spoken to his mother – or even sent a message through a friend – while in delirium. He might not even be aware now of what has happened. I wouldn’t want to raise your hopes when I don’t know the true state of affairs. But it seems to me that you have been very quick to take this letter at its face value.’

  ‘I was humiliated,’ said Grace. ‘And upset. But in a way I’d expected this to happen, that he’d realize I wasn’t good enough for him.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ said her aunt brusquely. ‘Judging by this, he isn’t good enough for you. But I do think you should give him the benefit of the doubt. I’m sure your mother would be willing to accompany you to his home, so that you can have a frank talk with his parents.’

  ‘I could do better than that,’ said Grace slowly. Mr Bailey had mentioned in the course of his visit that he was a telephone subscriber. There was no line to Greystones, but the shop had a receiver. Tomorrow morning, as soon as she arrived at work, she would make a call to Mrs Bailey and discover the truth of the matter.

  Chapter Four

  The maid who answered Grace’s telephone call at half past eight the next morning was unused to the instrument, treating it as though it were a speaking tube to be moved between mouth and ear. Each urgent question was followed by a long silence before the answer came faintly over the line. No, Mr and Mrs Bailey were not at home and no one knew when they would return. They were staying in London to be near the hospital.

  ‘Who is in hospital?’ Grace asked, knowing what the answer must be.

  ‘Mr Christopher.’

  ‘What –?’ But no; the nature of his injury was not something to enquire from a servant. Grace waited impatiently for details of the hospital to be fetched and dictated.

  ‘I have to go to London,’ she said, bursting into Mr Witney’s office. ‘I’m sorry to let you down. But a friend – no, my fiancé …’ Emotion made her incoherent. The manager stood up and took her by the shoulders.

  ‘Steady,’ he said. ‘Steady. Is Major Bailey wounded?’

  Grace nodded. ‘Will you send a message to my mother, please? I don’t know when I shall return. But I shall be with Mrs Bailey. And may I take some money from the till?’

  Within a few moments she had caught a tram and within ha
lf an hour was sitting in a railway carriage. Paddington Station was noisy and smoky and confusing, but there were cabs waiting for passengers and she was quickly on her way to the military hospital.

  The bustle here was as confusing as at the station, for porters were pushing patients on trolleys through a maze of corridors, while beneath the painted board which listed the wards was a haphazard collection of pencilled arrows to more makeshift arrangements. Grace eventually found the ward whose name the maid had given her, but was stopped by a VAD.

  ‘It’s too early for visiting, I’m afraid. The doctors are doing their rounds.’

  ‘But I’ve come all the way from Oxford. I’ve only just heard … I must see him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Major Christopher Bailey.’

  The young nurse gave a comforting smile. ‘Major Bailey is out of danger. Nothing terrible will happen before visiting time. I’ll show you where you can sit.’

  The wait seemed interminable, but at last other people began to arrive in good time for the official visiting hour. Amongst them were Mr and Mrs Bailey, who looked startled as Grace rose to her feet, but then embraced her warmly.

  ‘How did you know?’ asked Mrs Bailey.

  ‘Your maid told me. I telephoned. That letter – I couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘He dictated it and made me promise to send it,’ said Mrs Bailey, as the two women sat down on the bench to wait. ‘I didn’t want to – but I didn’t want to upset him by refusing, either. I understand how he felt, but I’m so glad you’ve come, dear. Even if, later on, you want to do as he suggests and be free again, he’ll be stronger by then and better able to accept it. It can do nothing but good for him to have your support now. He’s bound to find the next few months hard.’