Louisa Pesel drew herself up. “That would indeed be an unfortunate supposition. But I am taking the long view – the very long view. Working in a nine-hundred-year-old cathedral does that to you. This symbol –” she gestured at the fylfots on the bishop’s statue – “is thousands of years old. It will long outlive a party of fascists. I felt no need to pander to them by not using a good design when I saw it. If I did that, they would have won, wouldn’t they? Instead I am reclaiming it for its true meaning. It is not the Nazi Party that gets to decide for me what interpretation to place on the fylfot. I call upon the long history of the symbol; that is what is important to me. I hope that once people see the fylfots, they will think of them every time they sit in the choir stalls, and connect them to the Cathedral and to the Bishop of Edington rather than to German fascists. The Edington sculptor used the symbol in all innocence. I have used it as an act of subversion. A single thread can make quite a difference.”
Arthur cocked his head to one side. “I don’t know if you are brave or foolish, Miss Pesel.”
Louisa Pesel laughed. “Possibly a bit of both.”
Violet looked at them smiling together, clearly pleased with each other and no longer battling over interpretation. He has met his match, she thought. Miss Pesel was probably in her early sixties, just a year or two older than Arthur, and Violet could imagine them married, sparring over coffee and marmalade toast of a morning, discussing what they had read in the paper or heard on the wireless. Violet herself was superfluous to this moment. These two people were far nobler than she could ever be.
A yawning gap opened up inside – the dark abyss she felt whenever she lost something important – and Violet had to turn away so that they would not see the tears that pricked at her eyes. “I’m terribly sorry, but I must go. I’m late …” She hurried down the aisle towards the exit.
“Goodbye, dear, see you next week,” Miss Pesel called, oblivious. Violet did not hear Arthur; she did not want to.
Outside she turned and strode across the Outer Close towards the High Street. It was just getting dark; people were leaving offices and shops and heading towards home or trains or busses, raising umbrellas against the drizzle that had begun while she was in the Cathedral. She had forgotten hers and could feel the damp clinging to her.
She had just reached the Old Market Inn when Arthur caught up with her. “Violet.”
She kept walking, though she knew it was rude and childish.
Arthur took her arm. “Please.”
Violet shook off his hand. “I really am in a hurry.” Hurrying to her drab room and her beans on toast.
Arthur stepped in front of her so that she had to stop, and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Please, love.”
His brief words rooted her, though she could not look at him. Arthur took her elbow and led them into a quiet passage, so that they were alone. He had an umbrella, and raised it over their heads, sheltering them from the rain and creating their own world.
“Why did you leave us?” he said, his face anxious in the dim light of a distant street lamp.
Violet sighed, and her breath seemed to forge a path for the words that followed, emerging slowly and then tumbling out faster and faster, like a spring that has been unblocked and is finding its way into the river it will become to travel to the sea.
She did not talk about him and Louisa Pesel, because it was too painful. Instead she talked about herself. “I am tired,” she said. “I am so very tired. I’ve been tired since 1916. First George died, and then Laurence. After that I felt as if I were in a deep hole that took me so long to climb out of. It was as if I were sleepwalking, awake but unable to say anything or do anything to make my life – come to life again. Father helped, but Mother made it worse.”
Arthur adjusted the umbrella over their heads, but did not speak.
“After Father died, it got worse and worse until finally I came here. And then – things improved, bit by bit. The moment it began to feel as if I were no longer being held back was when I was in the ringing chamber with you. Then I felt I was coming back to life at last, like the shift between winter and spring. Or like a day in late spring when you know you can safely leave the house without a coat, when you can stop holding your body tight, clenched against the cold. When you will be warm. That is what I felt with you and the bells.”
“Not with the broderers and your kneelers and cushions?”
“They are a help too. I am grateful that they provide a means for me to make some small lasting mark. And they give comfort to people, cushioning them so they can think about things other than aches and pains. I am glad to be able to do that. But that is what we women are trained for – to give to others, to make others comfortable, whatever we feel for ourselves. It can be tiring, thankless, to be so generous all of the time. I would like to be a bellringer – just to go up in the tower and for an hour concentrate on nothing but the sound of the bells and my place in them. That to me would be heaven.”
“Can you ride a bicycle?”
Violet stared at him. Rain was dripping down one of the umbrella spokes and onto his face. Arthur didn’t seem to notice. “I don’t have one here. Mine is in Southampton.”
“Can you get it in the next few weeks?”
“I think so.”
“Good. We’ll wait a month or two until it’s warmer and lighter.”
“Wait for what?”
He wouldn’t say. Instead he declared, “I know what you need now more than anything.”
A kiss, she thought. Your hands on me. The Perseids. She felt her body pulse.
Arthur did not kiss her or touch her. He led the way to the Old Market Restaurant and bought her a three-course meal, with custard on her apple crumble and cream in her coffee. Afterwards, she felt almost sated.
Chapter 23
VIOLET NORMALLY LET HERSELF into her mother’s house without knocking. However, since Dorothy’s arrival she felt more formal and less able to treat the Southampton house so casually. And so on the Sunday closest to her birthday in April, she knocked on her old front door.
Dorothy answered after a moment. “Happy birthday, Violet,” she said, standing aside to let her in. She seemed unchanged by her new role as a companion; her hair was still frizzy and ungroomed, her dress hem hung at an angle, and she smiled vaguely, her eyes somewhere over Violet’s shoulder. “I have made the cake,” she added.
Mrs Speedwell was sitting by the fire, though it was a warmish spring day. While physically much recovered from her apoplexy two months before, her spirit was rather cowed – by the presence of Dorothy, Violet suspected. “Hello, dear,” she said, and held up her cheek to be kissed. “Happy birthday. You know Dorothy made the cake? I told her you liked Victoria sponge, but she would go and make lemon drizzle.”
“It is you who likes Victoria sponge,” Dorothy countered as she came into the room, “and it is not your birthday. Violet is the sort of person who prefers the sweetness of her cake cut with something tart.”
Violet looked at her. Dorothy was gazing into the middle distance. And she was right.
“Sit with me for a moment, Violet,” her mother said. “Put the kettle on before you go out, will you, Dorothy?” She sounded tentative rather than bossy.
“I’m not leaving just yet. But I’ll put the kettle on.”
“I have to be careful what I say around her,” Mrs Speedwell whispered as Dorothy left, “or she can be difficult.”
“Why, what does she do?”
“She leaves the room!”
Violet burst out laughing.
“I don’t see anything funny about it,” Mrs Speedwell declared, indignant. “There’s nothing worse than being ignored.”
“I know.”
“What do you mean, you know? How can you know what I’m going through?” She was sounding more like her old self.
At that moment Violet heard the front door opening and Tom’s familiar “Hello!” She noticed he did not seem to feel the need to knock wit
h Dorothy there. “Happy birthday, old girl!” he cried as he appeared in the doorway, the two older children behind him. He handed her a bouquet of flowers. “Hello, Mum,” he added, kissing his mother.
“Happy birthday, Auntie Violet!” Marjory and Edward repeated several times, frisking around her like dogs that need a run. Evelyn came in, solid and steady and exhausted, with Gladys in her arms. The baby was three months old and now able to hold up her head unaided. She was dressed all in white in a variety of knitted items, and looked about her with a thoughtful frown.
“Hello, Gladys,” Violet greeted her niece, taking up her little fist and shaking it. Gladys’ frown deepened as she stared at her aunt. She had something of her grandmother’s indignation about her.
Violet turned and kissed her sister-in-law. “Cup of tea? Dorothy’s making it.”
Evelyn sighed. “Oh, yes. Thank heavens for Dorothy.”
Violet understood her sigh. When a woman wants a cup of tea, usually she has to make it for herself, and for the others around her. There is no better taste than a cup of tea someone else has made for you.
Marjory stood at her elbow and placed a hand on her arm. “Auntie Violet, I want to give you my present now.”
“After lunch, Marjory,” her mother corrected.
“I want to give it now,” Marjory repeated. “I know you will love it. I know it!” She had become much more confident in the past year, Violet noticed. The trick was to foster her new-found spirit rather than to squash it. She wondered if she could have her to stay in Winchester on her own for a weekend.
“Perhaps I might have one of my presents now, and the rest later?” she suggested. “And if I may, I’d like that present to be Marjory’s.”
“All right, then,” Evelyn agreed. “Marjory, it’s in my bag in the hall.”
Marjory hurried out. “I’ll tell you what your present is from me,” Mrs Speedwell announced, pipping Marjory at the post. “Almond oil for your skin. Dorothy fetched it for me from Plummers. I began using it at your age and that kept it from fading for a few years.”
“Thanks awfully, Mother.” Violet glanced at Evelyn, and they smirked.
Marjory returned with a package about the size of Violet’s hand, crudely wrapped in brown paper. She set it in Violet’s lap and hopped from foot to foot, glancing up at Dorothy, who had brought in the tea tray and was leaning in the doorway. Violet felt a twinge of jealousy: she had not expected her niece to have any sort of relationship with Dorothy, but they seemed familiar with each other. If I had stayed to look after Mother, I would have seen more of Marjory, she thought, then stopped herself, and focused instead on her present.
She opened the brown paper to reveal a needle case embroidered in purple, pink and cream, the pattern imitating the alms bag Violet had stitched. It was like a little book, with inside pages of felt for holding needles, similar to the needle case Violet had made for Marjory’s Christmas present. “You made this?”
“I did!” Marjory couldn’t contain herself and began to jump up and down. “You made one for me and now I’ve made one for you!”
“Now, Marjory, stop jumping and be honest,” Evelyn chided. “Dorothy helped you a great deal, didn’t she? Marjory was over here most days, working away on it,” she added.
As Violet studied the case more closely, she could see where Dorothy had embroidered and where she had cleverly left dropped stitches and small tangles uncorrected to indicate Marjory’s work. She glanced up at Dorothy, who was smiling into the fire, then at her niece, whose face was shining with a pleasure Violet knew well, of having made something useful and beautiful.
“I love it,” she said. “Thank you so much, my dear.” She gave Marjory a hug. “I am going to put my needles in it straight away.” Knowing children liked instant results, she reached for her handbag and got out the ragged needle case she kept there.
“So that’s where my needle case got to!” Mrs Speedwell glared at her daughter.
“Yes, Mother, it came in very handy to me, thanks.” Violet transferred the needles from the old to the new case as Marjory watched, delighted.
“I am going to be a broderer when I grow up,” she announced.
“I shall introduce you to Miss Pesel,” Violet replied, setting her mother’s case aside. “For that is what she does. She even taught embroidery to Greek girls. And she rode a camel once,” she added, to make Louisa Pesel’s life even more exotic and appealing, however tenuous the connection between stitching and camels.
“That is what I’ll do, then,” Marjory declared. “It’s settled.” She glanced sideways at her mother and grandmother, as if expecting to be challenged. But Mrs Speedwell had not followed the exchange between her daughter and granddaughter, and Evelyn was distracted by Gladys’ fussing. Marjory looked at Violet, and they smiled at each other.
There was a knock on the door, and Dorothy disappeared to answer it. She returned as Violet was pouring tea, accompanied by Gilda. To Violet’s astonishment, her friend was greeted casually by the rest of the Speedwells, who had clearly met her more than once. “Happy birthday, Violet!” Gilda cried. “I hope you liked Marjory’s present. Didn’t she do well?”
“She did.”
Gilda turned to Violet’s brother. “Tom, Joe said he might have something for you. You’re to give him a ring and he’ll tell you more.”
At Violet’s questioning look, Tom shrugged. “I’m thinking of getting a bigger car. More room for the kiddies, you know. Gilda’s brother is helping me.”
“I see.” There was a whole layer of family life that Gilda and Dorothy seemed to be embedded in that Violet was not a part of. The price I pay for remaining in Winchester, she thought, and nodded. She was willing to pay it.
Dorothy had donned her green coat and beret and was waiting by the door. “We’ll be off, then,” Gilda said.
“What are you seeing?” Evelyn asked.
“The Indiscretions of Eve.” Gilda glanced at Dorothy and smiled. “We missed it first time round.”
“Lucky. Some day we’ll go back to the cinema, won’t we, Tom?”
Dorothy nodded at Violet. “Enjoy your lemon drizzle and your afternoon. Panem et circenses.”
“Oh, the Latin!” Mrs Speedwell groaned. “What would Geoffrey think?”
“He would approve,” Violet answered.
“Smashing girls,” Tom declared after the front door closed.
Violet did enjoy her bread and circuses. The mellowing of her mother helped, for she was able to feel less guilty, and could tease and indulge her more. For her part, Mrs Speedwell told stories about other birthdays, and even managed to mention George. “When your brother first saw you,” she said, “he was sorely disappointed that you could not stack building blocks with him. ‘Take her away until she can!’ he cried. ‘Take her away …’” Mrs Speedwell repeated, chuckling.
She seemed to be in a good mood, and waited all the way through the lunch, the cake, the tea, the presents before clearing her throat. “I should like to say something.”
Violet was holding Gladys while Marjory leaned against her knee. Aunt and niece were conferring over whether they might remove a layer of knitting from the baby, as it was warm in the room and her face was red. Violet glanced at Gladys’ parents: Tom and Edward were playing cards and Evelyn was sitting on the sofa, her eyes closed and her feet up. “I think we might,” Violet decided, and began to peel off the white cardigan as Gladys observed her gravely. She did not cry, but reached over and squeezed Violet’s nose.
“I have reached a decision,” Mrs Speedwell continued. Tom looked up from his hand, and Evelyn opened her eyes in alarm. “I have decided that it is time for me to leave this house. It is too big for me. I shall be moving to Penelope’s in Horsham in the summer. She needs my help. She has far too much to do, looking after her mother-in-law and all of those grandchildren. My presence will be invaluable.”
Tom and Evelyn and Violet stared. “Mum! Why didn’t you tell us you were considering this?
” Tom cried. “You don’t have to—” A shake of Evelyn’s head stopped him.
You do, Violet thought. You do have to. What a sensible decision. Thank you, Aunt Penelope. She should have felt relieved, but instead she wanted to cry. She buried her face in Gladys’ neck, which smelled warm and tangy.
“What about Dorothy?” Marjory asked, a surprisingly adult concern. “Where will she live?”
“Don’t you worry about her,” Evelyn replied. “I’m sure she’ll find somewhere to go.”
“Dorothy already knows,” Mrs Speedwell said. “I have discussed it with her. It was she who first suggested the idea to me. Sensible girl. She and Gilda are out now, looking at places before they go to the pictures.”
“Do you mean – a place for Dorothy to live – in Southampton?” Violet stammered.
“For them both to live. It’s good to have such a good friend, isn’t it? Though how Gilda will put up with all of that Latin, I’m sure I don’t know!” She did not call them man-haters or describe them as deviant. Does Mother know? Violet wondered.
She met Evelyn’s steady gaze. She knows, Violet thought, though she is sensible enough not to say anything, not even to Tom. “How will they live?” she asked, more to herself than to her mother.
Mrs Speedwell sat back, smug with knowledge. “They are looking for jobs. Dorothy to teach Latin, and Gilda is answering adverts for bookkeeping. Even in these difficult times, books need to be kept and children taught.”
“What about her brother’s garage?”
“Her sister-in-law intends to keep the books. ‘Awful Olive’, Gilda calls her. She does sound dreadful. Gilda said she wears dresses that are far too tight for a mother.” Mrs Speedwell tutted happily.
This is what Gilda and Dorothy are making, Violet thought, recalling Gilda’s bright, happy face as they left. She surprised herself by adding: Good for them. It made her hug Gladys till she cried.
Chapter 24
VIOLET HAD TO DRAW on all of the reserves of her patience while waiting for Arthur. She had brought her bicycle back from Southampton and got Gilda’s brother to pump up the tyres and oil the chain for her. It now waited for Arthur as well, in Mrs Harvey’s back garden, a tarpaulin covering it from the insistent April rain.
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