Song of the Skylark

by Erica James

  Downstairs in the kitchen and still in her nightclothes, Tess took her first cup of tea of the day outside to enjoy in the summer house. Opening the doors, she was met with the airless, woody smell she always associated with childhood, of keeping her father company in his shed at the end of the garden. Funny how some things never leave you. Like memories of the summer school holidays, the endless carefree days of sunshine with the sound of doves cooing, the call of a cuckoo, afternoons spent strawberry-picking, the taste of ice lollies brought from the ice-cream van with its tinny chiming rendition of ‘Edelweiss’ that lured the children to the street like the Pied Piper. She smiled. How easily the tedious days when it rained had been erased from her memory.

  What a powerful instrument the memory was, she thought, thinking of poor Ingrid. What a dreadfully lonely childhood the girl must have endured. Her need to stay in control explained so much about her, and Tess’s sincere hope was that maybe now, now that Ingrid had revealed this vulnerability to them as a family, she would feel more able to accept their love and care in the way they had always wanted her to.

  Thank God Luke was like his father, blessed with a patient nature, and would, now he knew the full story, be able to encourage Ingrid to believe that she was loved just as she was. Wasn’t that the basis of every healthy relationship, an acceptance of who and what we are? Goodness, if Tess had to hide all her bad habits and insecurities from Tom, she’d never have time in the day to get anything done!

  When Tom had told her that he’d asked Lizzie to try and speak to Ingrid on her own, Tess had been against it; it had seemed like a recipe for disaster, and it almost had been, provoking poor Ingrid to a state of near collapse. Lizzie had been devastated at what had happened as a result of her getting Ingrid on her own, but as Tess had told her that it only went to show just how precariously balanced Ingrid had been, and that if that moment of breakdown was going to happen, better it was done amongst those who cared about her.

  Tess had urged Luke and Ingrid to stay over last night, but Luke had wanted to drive them home and, much later, when Ingrid was sleeping, he’d phoned to reassure them all was well. He’d sounded relieved more than worried. From what Tom had shared with Tess, it sounded as though Luke had been anxious that there was a far greater problem lurking within their marriage.

  What an afternoon it had been, and what a way to start the new week – Freddie’s last week with them. How odd it would be not having him here with them. But at least with Freddie back at nursery it meant that she would be able to return to helping regularly at Woodside; she was looking forward to that.

  She sipped her tea and wondered how long it would be before Lizzie found a place of her own. When that happened, Keeper’s Nook was going to feel very quiet without Lizzie and dear little Freddie around.

  Until the next drama in their daughter’s life, perhaps, Tess thought with a wry smile. Or Luke’s, for that matter. She and Tom must never make the same mistake they had recently, of overlooking Luke because he so rarely caused them any trouble.

  Hearing Freddie’s voice calling to her – ‘Hello, Nana!’ – Tess looked up to see Lizzie standing at the back door with Freddie in her arms.

  ‘Hello, Freddie!’ she answered him, rising happily to her feet. It was time to get on with another day.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Increasingly Clarissa had little idea what day of the week it was, they each blurred into one after another, but today she knew it was Friday and that it was Lizzie’s last day at Woodside. It seemed like only yesterday when the girl first started working here.

  Just as Lizzie was leaving Woodside, so too would Clarissa. Her dear old friends and family, the people she loved most in the world, were constantly on her mind and she longed to be with them; she had been parted from them for long enough. She had told Ellis she was now ready to go to them. ‘So you’ve finally come to your senses, have you?’ he had said to her in the early hours of this morning.

  She had been woken by a brilliant flash of light in the room, and seconds later a terrific clap of thunder had made her heart nearly leap out of her chest. That was when Ellis had appeared at the window. ‘You always did like a dramatic entrance,’ she’d said to him. ‘You could outdo the Grim Reaper himself!’

  He’d laughed. ‘I should hope so.’ Then, coming over to the side of the bed, he’d peered down at her. ‘I’ve come for you, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘One more day,’ she’d bargained with him.

  Shoving his hands into his trouser pockets, he’d paced the floor and demanded to know if she was ever going to put a stop to her procrastinating. ‘Aren’t you tired of living this way?’ he’d asked, ‘when the smallest of things takes so much effort? Wouldn’t you rather be with us and be young again?’

  ‘I want to say goodbye to Lizzie,’ she’d told him firmly, ‘it’s her last day. Then I’ll be ready. I promise.’

  ‘I shall hold you to that.’

  Through the window now, Clarissa watched Jed surveying the storm-damaged garden before setting off with his wheelbarrow to start work.

  Earlier, and using what little strength she still possessed, she had managed to open the French doors – for one more time she had wanted to breathe in the cool, damp afternoon air that smelt of wet earth and leaves. It was a smell that reminded her of being a child, of being with her parents in France, of a time when she had seen them at their happiest, when life had revolved around the simplest of pleasures – of her father lifting her up onto his shoulders so she could pluck a lemon from the tree; of helping her mother to fill a large china bowl with the first cherries of the season. Of piling into their ancient jalopy with a picnic and driving down the hillside through the olive groves to the coast. How different life might have been if her father had been able to support his little family with his writing and they could have remained in France. There would have been no returning to Boston, no having to work at the bank, no ending of his life and leaving behind a heartbroken wife and daughter.

  But then, if none of that had happened Clarissa might never have left America and found a new home in England and led the life she had. There would have been no Belle Etoile, no Artie, Ellis or Effie, no Betty, or even the ghastly Marjorie. She would never have got to know her English grandparents, there would have been no William and her precious Nicholas, and no Thomas, Walter, Lily and Mrs Cook – oh, and so many others who had played their part in making her life so complete.

  Over the course of her long life, she had often been asked if there was anything she would have done differently if given the chance to live her life again. It was a good question, and she had never found an answer that truly satisfied her. For as much as she wished she hadn’t lost the ones she loved, she knew that a meddle here would inevitably lead to a meddle there, and before she knew it, the colourful and intricately woven tapestry that was her life would unravel and be unrecognisable. Moreover, she was pragmatic rather than sentimental – age did that – and she could see nothing to be gained in hypothetical speculation.

  Much to Clarissa’s amusement, Lizzie had come up with the idea of taking her for a drive so Clarissa could show her the landmarks of her life in Shillingbury. It was sweet of the girl to think of it, but Clarissa was much too weary to be bundled into a car and hauled off to see what she had left behind.

  Out in the garden, Jed had moved on to tidying the flowerbed directly in front of Clarissa’s room. He was putting plant supports in place, and tying string around the flattened clumps of stonecrop and achillea. Cutting off a length of string, he looked up and saw Clarissa observing him. He waved and she raised her hand in return. How odd it was that her hand felt so heavy, that it took so much effort just to lift it.

  Jed had admitted to Clarissa that he was going to miss having Lizzie around. He wouldn’t be alone in that; there would be quite a few at Woodside who were going to miss her, the girl had won many a heart here. Clari
ssa hoped that before too long Lizzie would view Jed as more than just a friend – anyone with half a brain could see they would make a well-suited couple.

  Tugging on the woollen blanket that had slipped off her legs, Clarissa closed her eyes. She was sleeping a lot these days. At first she had fought to resist the lethargy, but she soon gave in, powerless to prevent her eyelids from closing and her head drooping. Sometimes she woke with a start to find a hand adjusting the cushion behind her back, or somebody asking if she wanted a cup of tea. Sometimes she woke so disorientated that she looked around wondering where on earth she was, or wondering who all these people were crowded into her home. But then, like the slow clearing of a mist on an autumnal day, the confusion passed and she remembered.

  Autumn would soon be here, but knowing that she wouldn’t experience this one, that she would miss the glorious spectacle of leaves turning colour before being shaken from the trees in the chilling winds, did not upset her. Instead her heart was filled with peaceful acceptance. She had promised Ellis she was ready to call it a day, and she meant it. Everything was as it should be now. And as she gave herself up to a deep, enveloping sleep that took her gently in its inviting embrace, she heard the sweetest sound – it was a skylark singing for her; it was calling her home, calling her back to Skylark Cottage.

  For Lizzie it was the end of term all over again, that feeling of happy excitement underpinned with a hint of sadness that there were friends and classmates she wouldn’t see again. Funny to think that that was how she now viewed all those she’d got to know at Woodside. Her mother, who was enjoying being back at the care home, had said the experience would do Lizzie good, and she’d been right.

  Something else Mum had been right about was that her friendship with Lorna was broken beyond repair. Last week Simon texted Lizzie to say his parents were moving to Southwold. If that was Lorna’s solution to avoid bumping into Mum in the village, it seemed an extreme step, but the day after the sale board went up at Orchard House, Dad met Keith for a drink at the Bell and came home saying that the move had been on the cards for some time. Nobody at Keeper’s Nook was convinced.

  On Monday Lizzie would be starting work at Skylark Radio and over the weekend, with Mum and Dad’s help, and Jed’s, too, she was moving to Bury St Edmunds into a flat a short walk from the radio station. She’d lost out on the lodging opportunity, but then Ingrid had come up trumps with a friend of hers who wanted somebody to rent her flat during an overseas posting.

  Lizzie was under no illusion that a month ago Ingrid would have considered her sensible enough to make use of a friend’s flat, but things had changed, and for the better. Ingrid was much easier to be around these days; she was less prickly, and had even allowed Mum to give her a proper hug one day. All this meant that Luke was looking much more his old relaxed self, which meant Mum and Dad were happy again. The weekend of the harvest supper in the village, they had offered to have Freddie for the weekend so that Luke and Ingrid could treat themselves to some time away together, just the two of them. It also, rather conveniently, got Mum off the hook from having to help at the supper.

  That particular weekend, Jed had invited Lizzie to visit a friend of his who had a boat over in Wroxham on the Norfolk Broads. She was looking forward to it. However, determined to keep her promise not to get involved with anyone too soon after her disastrous relationship with Curt, she was keeping it light with Jed. He seemed perfectly happy with the arrangement, so that was good.

  Meanwhile, she had her last day at Woodside to get through. Mr Sheridan had put in a request after lunch that she play backgammon with him, a game he had taught her to play.

  She found him in the library where he was waiting for her with the board all set up. They’d been playing for a while when he asked if she had seen Mrs Dallimore today.

  ‘Not yet, I’m seeing her after you’ve once again thoroughly annihilated me at this wretched game,’ said Lizzie. ‘I’m going to feel quite sad saying goodbye to her, even though I’ll pop in next week to annoy you all.’

  ‘She’s had enough,’ Mr Sheridan said gruffly, moving one of his pieces on the board. ‘I’ve seen it before.’

  ‘What do you mean, she’s had enough?’ asked Lizzie.

  ‘Exactly what I say. She’s hung on for long enough and now she’s preparing to make her exit. She told me as much yesterday. Mark my words: you won’t see her again. I saw it with my wife. She’d been ill for some months when, out of the blue, she said it was time to say goodbye. I didn’t believe her, but she asked me to round up the family so she could talk to them for the last time. I did as she said, and the next day, just a few hours after our youngest son managed to get a flight from Paris where he was working, she died. It was as if she had it all planned. I’d heard before that people can hang on until they’ve decided they’re ready to die, but I didn’t believe it. Not till I saw it with my own eyes.’

  Lizzie was shocked. ‘But surely you don’t think Mrs Dallimore is about to die, do you?’

  Mr Sheridan stared at her from beneath his bushy eyebrows. ‘Haven’t you noticed a change in her? It’s like the stuffing’s suddenly gone out of her.’

  The truth was, Lizzie had noticed the change, but she hadn’t wanted to dwell on it. She knew, though, that a much closer eye was being kept on the old lady, and that in the fortnight since the Bank Holiday weekend she was spending a lot more time asleep. Their conversations had been less frequent and were often curtailed by Mrs Dallimore nodding off, or her forgetting where she was.

  Half an hour later, and with Mr Sheridan’s unblemished record of backgammon champion still intact, Lizzie hurried away to Mrs Dallimore’s room.

  After she’d knocked twice and still didn’t get a response, she turned the handle and pushed the door open.

  The old lady was sitting by the French doors, which were ajar and letting in the chilly damp air. Motionless, her head resting against the back of the armchair, she looked to be sleeping peacefully. Lizzie was about to retreat when she thought better of it. What if the old lady wasn’t asleep? What if …?

  Filled with unease, she stepped further into the room. Close up, the unnaturally pale colour of Mrs Dallimore’s face added to her concern. Hardly daring to, Lizzie touched one of the old lady’s hands. She almost let out a gasp at the coldness of it. She turned to cross the room and press the call bell to summon help, when a muscle twitched in Mrs Dallimore’s face and her eyelids fluttered open.

  ‘Is that you, Lizzie?’ she asked faintly.

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ said Lizzie, relief flooding through her. ‘I’m just going to shut the window, it feels a bit cold in here for you.’ When she had the window shut, Lizzie knelt in front of the old lady and tucked the blanket around her. ‘How about a nice cup of tea to warm you up? Maybe even a hot-water bottle?’

  Mrs Dallimore blinked. ‘There’s no need.’ She leaned forward. ‘You’ve been a dear friend to me these last weeks, Lizzie,’ she murmured. Her voice was unbearably weak and her pale lips trembled. ‘But now it’s time to say goodbye.’

  Lizzie took hold of Mrs Dallimore’s cold and insubstantial hands. ‘But it’s only goodbye until I see you next week. Remember I said I’d come back and tell you how my new job is going?’

  For the longest moment, the old lady stared directly into Lizzie’s eyes. Then, as if exhausted by the effort, she sank back into the chair, her shoulders sagging. ‘No, Lizzie,’ she said so weakly Lizzie instinctively moved in closer, ‘I shan’t be here next week. This is – this is a forever goodbye.’

  Tears sprang into Lizzie’s eyes. ‘Don’t say that, Mrs Dallimore. Please don’t.’

  The old lady’s mouth quivered and her chest visibly rose as though she were struggling to breathe. With her heart hammering against her ribcage, Lizzie’s own breath got caught in her throat. ‘Shall I ring for matron?’ she managed to ask. ‘Are you feeling unwell?’

  Very slowl
y Mrs Dallimore moved her head from side to side, her eyelids drooping. ‘I waited for you,’ she murmured, ‘to say goodbye. Now it’s time for us to part company.’

  Tears trickled freely down Lizzie’s cheeks. ‘I wish we didn’t have to,’ she said. ‘I’m going to miss you so much. I’ve learnt so much from you this summer. You really did take me under your wing, you know.’

  ‘All you needed was a fresh perspective.’ The old lady’s voice, little more than a rasp, faded away and her breathing became more laboured. Then, letting out a long exhalation of breath, her head tipped to the side and her eyes closed.

  Lizzie felt the colour drain from her face. ‘Mrs Dallimore,’ she said softly, ‘can you hear me?’

  But even as she asked the question, she knew she wouldn’t get an answer. With a calmness she didn’t know she could feel, she rose to her feet, pressed the call button and then returned to kneel in front of the old lady. In the still silence, she held Mrs Dallimore’s hands and quietly cried for this extraordinary woman.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Woodside,

  Great Magnus,

  Suffolk.

  1st September 2015

  Dear Lizzie,

  You must excuse the formality of this letter, but I dictated it to my solicitor, who then had it typed for my signature.

  If my instructions are followed correctly, you will, in due course, receive a letter from this same solicitor. I won’t go into the details now, but suffice it to say I have arranged to leave you some money in my will. It is a modest gift to thank you for your refreshing company this summer. The gift comes with just the one proviso: you must do something ‘worthwhile’ with it, something of which I would approve. I have every confidence you will think of something!

  Forgive an old lady preaching to you, but I want you to believe what I do, that you have so much more to offer the world than you give yourself credit for. Yes, you have encountered a run of bad luck and made mistakes in the past, but so have we all, so please do not make the bigger mistake and allow yourself to be defined by these things. ‘Pick yourself up and fight another day’ is as good a motto as any in my experience.