“I’ll write to you,” he’d promised, “and explain everything. I still can’t believe that they’ll have me, you see. Not at my age. I still fear that they might change their minds.”
She’d longed to question him but had held her tongue, respecting his privacy but deeply puzzled, almost hoping that his fear would be realised and that he would have to come back to them. Yet, even as she thought it, she knew that he was right in regards to Humphrey’s reaction.
“When’s the old boy going?” he’d asked. “Before I’m back? Oh, well, it’s probably all for the best. I can’t see us really hitting it off at this late date and it will be wonderful to be all on our own again. I expect he’ll be down one of these days, now that he’s back in the country.”
She’d realised that he was far too bound up in his new, exciting future to want to bother with a man he hadn’t seen for nearly thirty years, and had let it pass. Yet she still continued to hope that at some point there would be a reunion.
Brigid drove carefully down the track, parked the car. She collected her shopping, crossed the courtyard and went into the house, Blot like a shadow at her heels. The warmth was like a living presence coming to welcome her, the heat of the stoves, now permanently alight along with several night-storage radiators, beginning at last to make some impact on the old longhouse. She stooped to pick up the letters, still clutching her parcels, and went into the kitchen. Leaving her shopping on the table she began to look through her letters, leaning against the Aga. Although she’d never consciously seen it, she knew Alexander’s writing at once and she put the other letters on the dresser and tore open the envelope. At first the address did not catch her attention and it was only after she’d read a few lines that she glanced back to the top of the page. She frowned. An abbey? Was it after all a converted barracks of a place, sold off to the wealthy, as Frummie had once suggested?
So here I am, Brigid dear, just as I’ve imagined for so many months. I am Roman Catholic, you know, and, although I lapsed when I was a young man, twenty years ago I felt the need to return to the fold. I used to come here on retreat twice a year and soon I knew that once Agneta was gone—she was ill for years, did you know that?—this is where I’d want to be. I’m too old to be a postulant but after the most rigorous searches and, finally, a truly Bechers Brook of a Scrutiny, I have been allowed to join the order as a secular order regular. This means that I live with the community and I make myself useful in the office and the library. You have to prove beyond all reasonable doubt that you are not seeking some kind of nursing home and show that you will not be a liability, mentally or physically, and, most importantly, that you have a deep, genuine longing for God.
To my amazement and intense joy these dear Brothers are reassured regarding these things and I am allowed to make my home here. You can understand, perhaps, why it was so difficult to discuss all this at Foxhole. It is not always easy for friends and relations to be sympathetic towards the life I have chosen but you, Brigid dear, living in your stony sanctuary amongst the wild, empty spaces of the moor, might come to terms with it more easily than most.
I used to go down to Buckfast Abbey to Mass several times a week and I’ve bought you some lavender plants to remember me by. I know that traditionally it is rosemary for remembrance but I hope that you will like the lavender just as much. I left it in a corner of your barn, being too overcome with emotion at the last to give it to you. You are the one thing I regret leaving behind me but I feel privileged to be your friend and so glad to know that my son has had you beside him all these years. I shall look forward to hearing from you and I shall write to you often. Be happy, Brigid dear…
She stood quite still, staring at nothing in particular, whilst the pieces of the puzzle slid into place. A sudden sense of loss numbed her mind and she could only think “I shall never see him again” and was faintly surprised at how unutterably bleak the future looked without him. Presently she saw that there was a card enclosed and she drew it out with unsteady fingers. A dove with wings outstretched, held the olive branch in its beak. She read the verses several times before they made any impact upon her.
No Heaven can come to us
unless our hearts find rest in today. Take Heaven!
No peace lies in the future which is not hidden
in this present little instant. Take peace!
The gloom of the world is but a shadow.
Behind it, yet within our reach, is joy.
There is radiance and glory in the darkness
could we but see, and to see, we only have to look.
I beseech you to look.
And so, at this time, I greet you.
Not quite as the world sends greetings,
but with profound esteem
and with prayer that for you now and for ever
the day breaks, and the shadows flee away.
Brigid rubbed her wrist across her eyes and went back into the hall and out into the courtyard. The lavender plants were grouped together just inside the barn and she crouched beside them, rubbing the flowers between her fingers and sniffing them. She would keep them indoors and plant them in the beds beneath the windows in the spring. Gathering them up, she carried them back to the lean-to where she placed them cm a tin tray on the windowsill in the sunshine.
Blot stood at the door, tail wagging hopefully, and she smiled, taking the hint, lacking off her shoes and pushing her feet into gumboots, taking down her warm jacket. Outside in the courtyard she stood for a moment, watching the doves executing their dazzling dance against the clear, pure sky, listening to the distant music of the river, knowing that now he would always be a part of it. Her sense of loss subsided and she felt his presence as if he stood beside her, strong and comforting. Her heart beat fast with love and hope—and gratitude. Alexander had helped to free her so that now she need no longer look through a glass darkly but could face the future with a clear, steady gaze. The words he had sent her echoed in her mind:
And so, at this time, I greet you.
Not quite as the world sends greetings,
but with profound esteem
and with prayer that for you now and for ever
the day breaks, and the shadows flee away.
“When she’d returned from her walk she would sit down and write to him; a long letter, telling him everything. A sudden joy broke inside her at the thought of this new and very special relationship which would sustain her during the years ahead. Meanwhile, for the first time for many months she had Foxhole to herself, its other inhabitants were gone: Alexander settling into the monastic life; Frummie in London with Gregory; Louise starting again with Rory. So many things had changed between May and November. She had a sister now—and in ten days’ time Humphrey would be home. Smiling to herself in the sunshine, whistling to Blot, Brigid strode away towards the shining stones of Combe-stone Tor.
Read on for an excerpt
from Marcia Willett’s next book
THE CHILDREN’S HOUR
Coming soon in hardcover
from St. Martin’s Press
Early autumn sunshine slanted through the open doorway in golden powdery bands of light. It glossed over the ancient settle, dazzled upon the large copper plate that stood on the oak table, and touched with gentle luminosity the faded silk colours of the big, square tapestry hanging on the wall beneath the gallery. A pair of short-legged gum-boots, carelessly kicked off, stood just outside on the granite paving-slab and, abandoned on the worn cushion of the settle, a willow trug waited with its cargo of string, a pair of secateurs, an old trowel, and twists of paper contacting precious seeds.
The tranquil stillness was emphasized by the subdued churring of the crickets, their song just audible above the murmur of the stream. Soon the sun would slip away beyond the high shoulder of the cliff, rolling down towards the sea, and long shadows would creep across the lawn. It was five o’clock: the children’s hour.
The wheelchair moved out of the shadows, the rubber tyres r
olling softly across the cracked mosaic floor, pausing outside the drawing-room. The occupant sat quite still, head lowered, listening to voices more than sixty years old, seeing chintzes scuffed and snagged by small feet and sandal buckles, an embroidery frame with its half-worked scene…
Hush! Someone is telling a story. The children group about their mother: two bigger girls share the sofa with the baby propped between them; another lies upon her stomach on the floor, one raised foot kicking in the air—the only sign of barely suppressed energy—as she works at a jigsaw puzzle. Yet another child sits on a stool, close to her mother’s chair, eager for the pictures that embellish the story.
” ‘I’il tell you a story,’ said the Story Spinner, “but you mustn’t rustle too much, or cough, or blow your nose more than is necessary… and you mustn’t pull any more curlpapers out of your hair. And when I’ve done you must go to sleep at once.’”
Their mother’s voice is as cool and musical as the stream, and just as bewitching, so that the children are lulled, familiar lands dislimning and fading as they are drawn into another world: the world of make-believe, of once upon a time.
In the hall, outside the door, Nest’s eyes were closed, picturing the once-familiar scene, her ears straining to hear the long-silent words, her fingers gripping the arms of her wheelchair. The telephone bell fractured the silence, breaking the spell, a door opened and footsteps hurried along the passage. She raised her head, listening until, hearing the clang of the receiver in its rest, she turned her chair slowly so that she was able to survey the gallery. Her sister Mina came out onto the landing and stared down at her.
“At least the bell didn’jt wake you,” she said with relief. “—Were you going out into the garden? I could bring some tea to the summerhouse. It’s still quite warm outside.”
“Who was it?” Nest was not deflected by the prospect of tea. Some deep note of warning had echoed in the silence, a feather-touch, of fear had brushed her cheek, making her shiver. “On the telephone. Was it Lyddie?”
“No, not Lyddie.” Mina’s voice was bracingly cheerful, knowing how Nest was inclined to worry about the family’s youngest niece. “No, it was Helena.”
Their eldest sister’s daughter had sounded uncharacteristically urgent—Helena was generally in strict control of her life—and Mina was beginning to feel a rising anxiety.
She passed along the gallery and descended the stairs. Her navy tartan trews were tucked into thick socks and her pine-green jersey was pulled and flecked with twigs. Silvery white hair fluffed about her head like a halo but her grey-green eyes were still youthful, despite their cage of fine lines. Three small white dogs scampered in her wake, their claws clattering, anxious lest they might be left behind.
“I’ve been pruning in the shrubbery,” she told Nest, “and I suddenly realized how late it was getting so I came in to put the kettle on. But I got distracted looking for something upstairs.”
“I should love a cup of tea,” Nest realized that she must follow Mina’s lead, “but I think it’s too late for the summer-house. The sun will be gone. Anyway, it’s too much fuss, carrying it all out. Let’s have it in the drawing-room.”
“Good idea.” Mina was clearly relieved. “I shan’t be two minutes. The kettle must be boiling its head off.”
She hurried away across the hall, her socks whispering over the patterned tiles, the Sealyhams now running ahead, and Nest turned her chair and wheeled slowly into the drawing-room. It was a long narrow room with a fireplace at one end and a deep bay window at the other.
“Such a silly shape,” says Ambrose to his young wife when she inherits the house just after the Great War. “Hardly any room to get around the fire.”
“Room enough for the two of us,” answers Lydia, who loves Ottercombe House almost as much as she loves her new, handsome husband. “We shall be able to come down for holidays. Oh, darling, what heaven to be able to get out of London.”
It was their daughter, Mina, who, forty years later, rearranged the room, giving it a summer end and a winter end. Now, comfortable armchairs and a small sofa made a semicircle around the fire whilst a second, much larger, sofa, its high back to the rest of the room, faced into the garden. Nest paused beside the french window looking out to the terrace with its stone urns, where a profusion of red and yellow nasturtiums sprang up between the paving slabs and tumbled down the grassy bank to the lawn below.
“We’ll be making toast on the fire soon.” Mina was putting the tray on the low table before the sofa, watched by attentive dogs. “No, Boyo, sit down. Right down. Good boy. There’s some cake left and I’ve brought the shortbread.”
Nest manoeuvred her chair into the space beside the sofa, shook her head at the offer of cake and accepted her tea gratefully. “So what did our dear niece want?”
Mina sank into the deep cushions of the sofa, unable to postpone the moment of truth any longer. She did not look at Nest in her chair but gazed out of the window, beyond the garden, to the wooded sides of the steep cleave. Two of the dogs had already settled on their beanbags in the bay window but the third jumped onto the sofa and curled into a ball beside her mistress. Mina’s hand moved gently over the warm, white back.
“She wanted to talk about Georgie,” she said. “Helena says that she can’t be trusted to live alone any longer. She’s burned out two ketdes in the last week and yesterday she went off for a walk and then couldn’t remember where she was. Someone got hold of Helena at the office and she had to drop everything to go and sort her out Poor old Georgie was very upset”
“By getting lost or at the sight of her daughter?” Nest asked the question lightly—but she watched Mina carefully, knowing that something important was happening.
Mina chuckled. “Helena does rather have that effect on people,” she admitted. “The thing is that she and Rupert have decided that Georgie will have to go into a residential nursing home. They’ve been talking about it for a while and have found a really good one fairly locally. They can drive to it quite easily, so Helena says.”
“And what does Georgie say about it?”
“Quite a lot, apparendy. If she has to give up her flat she can’t see why she can’t live with them. After all, it’s a big place and both the children are abroad now. She’s fighting it, naturally.”
“Naturally,” agreed Nest. “Although, personally, if it came to a choice between living with Rupert and Helena or in a residential home I know which I’d choose. But why is Helena telephoning us about it? She doesn’t usually keep us informed about our sister’s activities. Not that Georgie is much of a communicator either. Not unless she has a problem, anyway.”
“I think Helena has tried quite hard to keep Georgie independent, and not just because it makes it easier for her and Rupert,” Mina was trying to be fair, “but if she needs supervision they can’t just leave her at their place alone. Anyway, the reason for her telephone call is to say that the home can’t take Georgie just now, and would we have her here for a short stay?”
Nest thought: Why do I feel so fearful? Georgie’s my sister. She’s getting old. What’s the matter with me?
She swallowed some tea and set the mug back in its saucer, cradling it on her knee, trying not to ask: “How long is a’short stay’?”
“What did you tell Helena?” she asked instead.
“I said we’d talk it over,” answered Mina. “After all, this is your home as much as mine. Do you think we could cope with Georgie for a month or two?”
A month or two. Nest battled with her sense of panic. “Since it would be you who would be doing most of the coping,” she answered evasively, “how do you feel about it?”
“I expect I could manage. What I feel is,” Mina paused, took a deep breath, “or, at least, what I think I feel is that we should give it a try.” She looked at her sister. “But I suspect that you’re not happy about it.” She hesitated. “Or frightened of it? Something, anyway.” She didn’t press the point but stroked Polly Garter’s he
ad instead, crumbling a little of her shortcake and feeding her a tiny piece. Nogood Boyo was up from his beanbag in a flash, standing beside her, tail wagging hopefully. She passed him a crumb and in a moment all three dogs were beside her on the sofa.
“You’re hopeless.” Nest watched her affectionately as Mina murmured to her darlings. “Utterly hopeless. But, yes, you’re right. I’ve been feeling odd all day. Hearing voices, remembering things. I have this presentiment that something awful might happen. A hollow sensation in my stomach.” She laughed a little. “But this is probably just a coincidence. After all, I can’t think why poor old Georgie should be cast as a figure of doom, can you?”
She leaned forward to place her mug and saucer on the tray and then glanced at Mina, surprised at her lack of response. Her sister was staring into the garden, preoccupied, frowning slightly. For a brief moment she looked all of her seventy-four years, and Nest’s anxiety deepened.
“Your expression isn’t particularly reassuring,” she said. “Is there something I don’t know about Georgie after all these years?”
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