Leaves Before the Storm

by Angela Arney

  But before either of them could speak Arthur spun himself forward in his wheelchair and manoeuvred himself between them. ‘You remember Jim, don’t you Megan? he said.

  Megan stared at him. Why was his voice so strange? Remember Jim? Of course she did. Everyone did. What was he talking about?

  Jim spoke next. ‘Megan,’ he said and, stepping forward, clasped her hand. There was a long silence while they stared at each other, and then he said slowly, ‘Of course I remember you.’ He looked down and Megan was suddenly aware of her rough farm girl’s hands and tried to draw them away, but he held on.

  The tall blonde woman at his side laughed gently. ‘You must introduce us, darling. Don’t keep her all to yourself.’

  ‘You look just the same,’ he said, staring at Megan.

  Again Megan tried to draw her hand away, conscious of the crowd around them, and especially of the blonde woman. ‘I am the same,’ she said. ‘Nothing has changed, except that I have a son.’ She nodded towards Peter at her side.

  ‘Henry must be very pleased and proud. Please give him my regards.’ He dropped Megan’s hand and held out his hand to Peter, who took it and executed a stiff little bow.

  Megan thought: surely everyone around them must have heard her sharp intake of breath as she realized that Jim couldn’t know that Henry was dead. For a moment she hesitated, wondering what to say. But Peter filled the silence, his voice clear as a bell. ‘My daddy is dead. A nasty man shot him and then he was shot as well.’

  ‘Don’t let’s talk about that, darling.’ Megan pulled Peter firmly to her side. ‘Let’s talk about the concert, about more cheerful things.’

  The blonde woman stepped forward. ‘I second that,’ she said. ‘There’s far too much talk of war here in Britain.’ She turned to Jim. ‘Tell them about us, darling. About our concert tour here in the UK. Introduce me.’

  ‘This is my wife, Greta Lavelle,’ said Jim. Megan remembered her from the concert. She was a lyric soprano. ‘It was Greta who persuaded me to give up engineering and go back to music.’ His wife slipped her arm through his and smiled at Megan.

  Megan forced herself to smile back, and suddenly realized why Violet and Arthur were looking so worried. They had been as unprepared for this meeting as she had. Clasping Greta’s hand, she managed to say in a steady voice. ‘It was lovely to hear Jim play once more. I must say that I never expected to see him in England again.’

  ‘Oh, Jim and I often pay flying visits here, but we both really prefer New York, don’t we, darling?’

  They look right together, thought Megan sadly. They belong to this glamorous world of music, and I belong on the farm and in the forest. For a brief moment she wondered if Jim remembered the sunlit rides through the forest in the weeks before the D-day landings. Now he looked so elegant in his evening suit. He was not the man she had ridden out with.

  Jim didn’t say anything but went on looking at her until Megan felt she had to say something and get away. ‘Well, this is just a flying visit backstage to see Arthur,’ she said hurriedly, ‘and I have to go now as I promised to take my son to see the royal procession as it makes its way back to Buckingham Palace. It’s been lovely seeing you. Good luck with the tour. But we really must dash now.’

  Everything was a blur from then on. She vaguely remembered dragging Peter away, but how she got through the rest of the afternoon and evening she didn’t know. Of course Peter noticed nothing; he was much too interested in the King and Queen. But back in the house in Cadogan Square Megan knew she had to get away from the proximity of Jim and his wife. ‘I can’t stay. I can’t stay,’ she said, weeping as she packed her case. ‘Will you take Peter for a few days? I’ll say that I’ve had to go back for business reasons.’

  Violet agreed, and Peter hardly listened to Megan’s excuses, he was totally centred on the promised sightseeing trips in London, including a ride on the big dipper at Battersea Park Festival Gardens. That evening a reluctant Violet put Megan in a taxi for Waterloo station.

  By the time Megan eventually arrived at Salisbury and found a taxi it was one o’ clock in the morning and she was exhausted from the effort of trying not to weep in front of people.

  ‘Nurse going back on duty, are you?’ asked the taxi driver as he dropped her off at the hospital entrance.

  Megan let him think that and didn’t ask to be taken to the west wing, her private entrance. After he’d driven away she picked up her suitcase and began trudging round the building. Now, when no one could see, she let the tears stream down her face, oblivious to the busy world of the hospital inside the building.

  When she arrived she tried to let herself in through the big wooden door which fronted their apartment, but the door wouldn’t budge. Then she realized that Mrs Fox, who was caring for Lavinia, was not expecting anyone, and had barred and bolted the door for the night. It was the last straw. Exhausted she slumped down on the suitcase, leant her head against the doorframe and closed her eyes.

  ‘Whatever are you doing here at this time of the morning? I thought it was a burglar.’ It was Mrs Fox, a formidable figure in her red-check dressing-gown, and with rollers in her hair. She was gripping a large cast-iron frying pan.

  ‘I couldn’t get in.’

  ‘I know that. Well, come in now.’ Mrs Fox’s brisk matter-of-fact tone was strangely comforting. She made no mention of the fact that Megan had obviously been weeping, but ushered her into the kitchen. ‘I’ll make a cup of tea,’ she said.

  Megan searched unsuccessfully for a handkerchief, sniffed, then said, ‘It’s what the English always do when there’s a problem. Make a cup of tea.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that.’ Mrs Fox passed her a clean handkerchief. ‘It’s the doing of it that helps. The Lord helps those who help themselves. I’ve always believed in keeping busy; no time to think then.’

  Megan rested her head on her arms on the kitchen table and wondered what it was that Mrs Fox was trying to forget. Was it the alcoholic husband she’d once had, or the constant lack of money? Whatever it was she never complained, just got on with life.

  ‘I do try to keep busy,’ she said tearfully.

  A heavy hand grasped her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. ‘I know, ducks. Forgive me for speaking plain, but I’ve seen you struggling through your marriage, trying to manage the farm with no money to speak of, and bringing up two children with no father in sight. We all admire you, you know.’

  Megan raised a tear-stained face in astonishment. ‘Admire me! Who admires me?’

  ‘Why everyone in the village and all around …’ Mrs Fox petered off, then said, ‘I’ve spoken out of turn. I’m sorry, Miss Megan.’

  ‘I don’t think people would admire me if they knew the truth of everything.’ Megan wiped her eyes and picked up the cup of strong tea placed before her.

  ‘The truth. Aah, now there’s a thing,’ said Mrs Fox slowly. She leaned across the table and gazed at Megan. ‘The truth, my dear, is your business and no one else’s. And it’s for you to decide who you tell, when you tell, and if you ever tell. The only thing to remember is that our Lord knows the truth and loves you for it or despite it.’

  Megan drained the tea from her cup and smiled. Suddenly nothing seemed as bad as it had half an hour ago. ‘You should take up preaching, Mrs Fox,’ she said. ‘You’d make a lot of converts.’ She stood up and dragged her case to the kitchen door. ‘I think I’m ready for bed.’

  Mrs Fox held the door open for her. ‘Goodnight, dear. I’ll leave you in the morning. Come down when you’re ready.’

  When she was ready for bed Megan drew back the curtains. A full moon was high in the sky, and everything was black and silver in the formal gardens of Brinkley Hall. The topiary trees cut in the shape of cockerels stood guard, black sentries before a silver path, and the gnarled branches of the ancient wisteria, which was now covered with early blossom, tapped against the pane of the sash window. It was a mild night, so Megan unclipped the catch on the top of the sash, and pushed t
he bottom window up. The smell of damp earth and the delicate eau de cologne fragrance of the wisteria floated into the room. Megan sniffed appreciatively.

  But it was not the salty tang of the sea: the smell of Folly House, which she’d always loved. There was an edge to that, a wildness, which was lacking in the formality of the gardens at Brinkley.

  Leaving the window open she climbed into bed, and at last let herself think about Jim. Why had he not come back? The answer was, of course, that theirs was a wartime romance. Chance had thrown them together, and then separated them again. Maybe if they had not discovered Henry at that concert things might have worked out differently. But it was just a maybe, not a certainty.

  The moon continued its journey across the heavens and Megan lay in bed and watched it. She felt strangely peaceful now. She remembered the saying: it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. It was true. The golden memories she had would always be there, to be kept in her pocket, golden pebbles, to be looked at whenever she needed to.

  But now the path before her was uncluttered with useless hopes and dreams. She would grasp reality, accept Violet’s offer of money, and begin work on the reconstruction of Folly House. A new house would be built with a new name, because there would be a mêlange of families belonging there in the future. One day the true story of the Lockwoods would be revealed, because she would write it all down.

  She turned over in bed and pulled the bedspread up to her chin. She’d tell Violet and Arthur in the morning of her decision to start work on the new house. They would be pleased.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Summer 1991

  Of course the name of the house was never changed. But the house was rebuilt. It was much larger and completely different, but it remained Folly House, because as Arthur said, ‘Whatever kind of house is here it will always be Folly House because we still have the Folly standing guard down on the shore.’ So it remained Folly House, home of the Lockwood family.

  Megan walked unhurriedly across the lawn in the warm dusk of a summer’s evening. Her progress was slow because she stopped every now and then to enjoy the view. Across the expanse of sea the lights on the Isle of Wight gradually appeared, tiny stars in the night. She was seventy-two now and as slim and upright as she had been in her youth. Years of working outside in all weathers had given her strength. Although in these last years at Folly House hard manual labour had not been necessary, she still did a fair share because she enjoyed it. But mostly her work had been involved in the administration of the Folly House Music Academy. In the forty years which had elapsed since the house had been rebuilt many things had happened and changed, and yet for Megan some things were still the same. She was still alone, and sometimes tender memories of her time with Jim would flood her mind; those memories were as real and clear as if it had been yesterday. But it no longer seemed important that he had not loved her enough to seek her out. There was Peter. That was enough.

  Other times she thought of Henry. Arthur was right: she should never have married him, but if she had not then she wouldn’t be here now, neither would Peter or Rosie, and maybe not even Folly House. Life, she reflected, was like a jigsaw, except the humans involved had no say in how the pieces fitted together. That was left to the hand of fate.

  When she reached the shore she sat on the granite stone. It had been chiselled now into a rough seat and no longer reminded her of Gerald’s death. That too was history. Now, it was a seat with a panoramic view of the Solent, nothing more nor less. Megan shifted on the stone until she was comfortable, then relaxed listening to the sound of a music rehearsal starting back in the house. A flute was playing a haunting refrain, the notes drifting down into the garden then floating out across the sea into the dusk.

  It was the beginning of the summer season for the Folly House Music Festival, and this year a new opera was to be performed. Megan smiled proudly. The opera had been written and was being directed by Peter Lockwood. Quite how Folly House had morphed from a farm into a music school she still found difficult to believe. Originally set up to help Arthur, who had found touring as a soloist more and more difficult as his arthritis made him increasingly disabled, it had small beginnings.

  But it had grown from a small music establishment specializing in piano into an internationally acclaimed music school for singers and instrumentalists, as well as having a famous summer festival.

  Peter had fulfilled his early promise as a musician and was now a well-known composer and conductor. He was married to Klara, a lieder singer, and had two children, Siena and Gabriella. The two girls had grown into lovely young women and were now at university, although they came back to Folly House as often as they could. Megan loved it when the house was full and Rosie teased her, saying she just wanted to be the centre of attention, playing the dominating matriarch. But Megan didn’t feel like a matriarch, that sounded far too old. She didn’t feel old. Where had all the years gone? She was still young in her head.

  Footsteps sounded behind her and she turned to see Rosie coming across the lawn carrying a tray. ‘I’ve brought us both a glass of lovely cold white wine,’ she said as she got near. ‘Some chardonnay, I know you like that.’

  Megan moved up and made room for her on the stone seat. That was another bonus. Sometimes she couldn’t believe she deserved all the happiness she had from having Rosie as a daughter. Who could have wished for a more loving child and grown-up daughter. They couldn’t be closer, not even if she had actually given birth to her. Although always musically talented, Rosie had decided to become a doctor, eventually coming back to work at Stibbington Hospital, where she had met and married another doctor, an amiable man named John Edwards. They were happy; the only sadness in their lives was the lack of children. When Lavinia died they moved into part of Folly House and Megan was never alone. Rosie was fifty-eight now and had decided to retire from medicine and take up the reins of running the Folly House Music Academy and Festival, so that the three founders, Violet, Arthur and Megan could take life a little more easily.

  Megan nodded back towards the house. ‘It’s a little late for the orchestra to start rehearsing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rosie passed her a glass of wine. ‘Peter’s got some visiting bigwig in there whom he met in New York when he was on tour last year. This man wants to hear the opening overture of the new opera. Maybe with a bit of luck Peter will get an invite to take the opera to the States.’

  They sat in silence, listening to the music. A chilly gust of wind blew in from the Solent rippling the smoothness of the sea so that the shingle surged and sighed.

  ‘I’ll go and get a wrap for you,’ said Rosie, and went back towards the house.

  It was beginning to get quite dark and Megan shivered. A ghost walking over my grave, she thought. Suddenly they were all there, the ghosts of the past pressing in on her, demanding her attention. The Jones family; how she missed Bertha’s cooking, and Dottie’s ever-anxious-to-please face. And Lavinia, tall and elegant; even when age had robbed her of the knowledge of who she really was she had retained her elegance. They were all there, Hans and Pat, who had eventually returned to Germany, to a farm in Bavaria amongst the lakes and mountains. Silas Moon, his greasy cap always on his head and a hand-rolled cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. Mrs Fox, Albert Noakes and all the others. Now, all long gone, although in Megan’s imagination still treading the familiar paths.

  But new people were jostling to take their places. Different children rode on their bikes along the lanes to the foreshore, shouting and laughing, without a care in the world. They never noticed the shadowy figures of past inhabitants, not did they see the soldiers lining the shores, ghosts of the men who long ago launched their crafts and set out to sea to fight a battle from which there was no return. The only reminders of those days were the enormous cast-iron bollards, half-sunk into the sand and shingle. But Megan could still hear the sounds and see the sights of those days; the air throbbed with them.

  The
music stopped. Glancing over her shoulder she saw that the lights in the house had all been switched on. Now there was laughter and the clink of glasses. The house was vibrant, alive with fresh life and suddenly Megan felt alone. She turned back and gazed out to sea. A sea fog was beginning to form, soon it would come rolling in. The weather was always changeable at this time of year along the coast, one moment warm and balmy, the next, when the sea mist crept in, cold and clammy. The cold made Megan’s joints ache. Perhaps I’ve lived too long. The thought was depressing. She wasn’t ready to go yet, she wanted to live on and find out what else life had in store for her.

  ‘I’ve brought your wrap.’

  A man’s voice startled her. Megan turned. A tall erect figure with broad shoulders was silhouetted against the lights of the house. Her heart thudded. It couldn’t be. But it was. It was him. He had come back after all. But it was too late. Far too late. Surely he knew it was too late? All the same though, she couldn’t suppress the little flicker of joy in her heart.

  But as she peered at him through the deepening dusk she realized with disappointment that it was an old man. It wasn’t anyone she knew, just an old man walking with slightly faltering steps over the rough turf at the foot of the Folly. When he reached her he leaned forward and gently placed the wrap around her shoulders.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Megan. He sat down beside her without speaking and Megan looked at him. She felt uneasy. There was something about him that filled her with disquiet. Then he turned his head towards her and smiled.