by Anne Perry
He looked at the misery in her eyes.
“Mother would have known something to say,” she added.
He knew that was what Hannah had been thinking. “No, she wouldn’t,” he answered. “Nobody does. We’ve never been here before.” He paused for a moment. “What about your friends? Maggie Fuller? Or Polly Andrews? Or the girl with the curly hair you used to go riding with?”
She smiled. “Tilda? Actually she married a fellow in the Royal Flying Corps last year. Molly Gee and Lilian Ward have gone to work the factories. Even the squire has only one servant left. Everybody seems to be doing something to do with the war: delivering the post, collecting clothes and blankets, putting together bags with mending supplies, and of course knitting . . . miles of it.” She sipped her cocoa. “I don’t know how many letters I’ve written as well, to men who have no families. And of course there’s always cleaning and maintenance to be done. And lots of women drive now—delivering things.”
He smiled, thinking of the vast organization of support, everyone striving to do what they could for the men they loved.
“I expect the squire will be to see you,” she went on, changing the subject completely, except that he, by his very position, was part of the old way of the village. He belonged to the past that she trusted. “He’s bound to be a bit tedious, but it’s his duty,” she added. “You’re a hero, and he’ll want to pay his respects and hear about your experiences.”
He debated it. He hated to talk about the men he knew. No words could draw for anyone else what their lives were like. And yet the people left at home who loved them had a need to know. Their imaginations filled in the emptiness, but it would still be immeasurably better than the truth.
“You don’t have to see him,” Hannah cut across his thoughts, but her voice was gentle. “Not yet, anyway.”
“No,” he said. “I’ll see him as soon as he feels like coming.”
She finished her cocoa and put down the cup. “Are you certain? I can put it off very nicely.”
“I’m sure you can,” he agreed. “I’ve seen you. Always a lady, but like Mother, you could freeze anyone at twenty paces if they took liberties.”
She smiled and lowered her eyes.
“If he comes now,” he went on, wishing he were able to lean over and touch her hand, “then I can be very brief, and get away with it.”
She looked up with a flash of understanding. “You don’t like to talk about it, do you? Archie doesn’t, either.” There was loneliness in that, knowing she was being excluded. She stood up. “Do you think you can go to sleep now? I’ll stay if you like.”
That was just what she must have said to her children time and time again, after a bad dream. He felt so very much at home now, as if he were back in the past: the house, Hannah, the books and habits, the best from childhood—all these were familiar and comfortable with use. There were ways in which they were threads that held the core of life together. “I’ll be fine,” he said quietly.
She went out, leaving the door ajar, in case he should want her. He felt like a child, and at least for a short while, just as safe. Surprisingly, he did fall asleep shortly after.
CHAPTER
TWO
Hannah remained at home the following day until the squire had visited in the morning. He seemed to be as relieved as Joseph was that he could just utter a few hearty platitudes and consider his duty done.
After he left, Hannah ascertained Mrs. Appleton was downstairs and would make lunch for Joseph. She herself needed to go into Cambridge and see the bank manager, and perform one or two other necessary errands.
She caught the train in the village and was there in half an hour. The city did not look so different to her—the change had been gradual—but she still noticed the absence of young men. There were a few errand boys, junior clerks, and delivery men, but in streets once crowded with the cheerful conversations of the young with the world of knowledge before them, there were hardly any students. She could not bear to think of how many of them were already dead in France, and how many more would be.
She went into the bank and asked to speak to the manager. She liked Mr. Atherton. He was very capable and she always left reassured.
After a few minutes, a smart young woman in a plain, dark blue suit came out of the side door. The blouse was crisp and tailored, and the skirt was rather full and reached only to the middle of her calf. No doubt the jacket would be long, and equally fashionable. She had also cut her hair short. She looked about Hannah’s age.
“Good morning, Mrs. MacAllister,” she said with a slight smile. “My name is Mae Darnley. How can I help you?” She offered a cool, lean hand, without any rings.
The gesture struck Hannah as odd, but she nonetheless shook the woman’s hand because it would have been rude not to. “I would like to speak to Mr. Atherton, please.” She had already said as much to the original clerk.
“I am afraid Mr. Atherton is no longer with us,” Miss Darnley replied. “He works with the War Office in London. I am the manager now. How can I assist you?”
Hannah was lost for words. Surely things could not have changed so much? This woman could not be more than thirty-five at the most. What could she know?
Miss Darnley was waiting.
Hannah realized she was being discourteous and other people were beginning to look at her. “Thank you,” she said awkwardly. “Then . . . then I suppose I had better confer with you.”
Hannah followed Miss Darnley into the office and even before she sat down she noticed how it had changed. The silver tantalus for whiskey that previously sat on the side table had disappeared. In its place was a vase of narcissi. She smelled their perfume immediately. The photographs were different. Instead of Mr. Atherton’s wife and sons there was an elderly couple in a silver frame, and a young man in uniform, so far framed only in polished wood. And all the ashtrays had gone, too. Apparently Miss Darnley did not approve of smoking in her office.
Hannah sat down while her mind raced through what she could ask this young woman, other than the advice she had come for, and would customarily entrust only to Mr. Atherton. Miss Darnley was clearly waiting expectantly, so Hannah cleared her throat and began. “I have a small amount of money left after my parents’ deaths. And continuing income from my house in Portsmouth, which my husband and I are renting out because I now live in the family home here.”
“I see. And you wish to invest it?”
“Yes. Mr. Atherton suggested certain bonds, but I need more advice before I make up my mind. I don’t wish to trouble my husband with the matter because he is seldom home, and only for a few days at a time.” Already she wished she had not told this smart young woman so much. Perhaps she should ask the family lawyer? He was always reliable.
“Will you require the money within a short time?” Miss Darnley asked. “Two or three years, for example? Or is it a long-term investment, perhaps with your children in mind, or your husband’s retirement?”
“Long-term,” Hannah replied.
“How much are we speaking of?”
“Just over a thousand pounds.”
“Considerable,” Miss Darnley acknowledged. “Houses are usually safer than bonds, which can be affected by a radical change in business, or the markets.” Her lips tightened. “But in wartime houses can be bombed, and of course insurance does not cover war—or acts of God.” She looked at Hannah very steadily. “Have you considered purchasing land, perhaps something that is presently agricultural, but on the outskirts of the city, where future development will take place? That is almost impossible to damage, except by flooding, and will increase in value as well as bringing you a small return now. There is also no upkeep required, as there is on rented houses.”
Hannah was astonished. Her mind raced through the advice for flaws, and found none. Could it truly be so simple? Why had Mr. Atherton not thought of it? “Really?” she said aloud.
“Give it a little consideration,” Miss Darnley suggested. “You could as
k your brother. I believe he is at home. How is he progressing?”
“Well, thank you.” That was a lie. Joseph was still in a great deal of pain. She saw it in the strain in his face, the hollows around his eyes, and the slow way he moved, afraid of jolting fragile flesh, and the raw ends of bone as yet unknitted. Why did she exchange polite nothingness with this woman? Everybody admired those who did not complain, but the denials of truth cut them off from each other, making help impossible, to receive or to give. “No, actually he’s not,” she said suddenly. “He was very badly hurt, and it’s going to take ages, if he recovers completely at all.”
“I’m sorry,” Miss Darnley said with a sudden bleakness in her eyes.
Hannah wondered with a flash of perception if perhaps the man Miss Darnley had been going to marry had been killed, but it would be intrusive to ask. “Thank you for your advice,” she said instead. “It sounds excellent sense to me. I shall think about it, and make some inquiries as to what is available. I hope you will like it here at the bank.”
A quick enthusiastic smile lit Miss Darnley’s face. “Oh, yes! It’s a marvelous opportunity. It’s almost the only advantageous thing about the war—that women are getting the chance to do all kinds of jobs we were prevented from before. It’s my belief that one day we really will get the vote. And then the next thing will be to become part of the government.”
Hannah had meant her remark only as a pleasantry. “Yes, I suppose so,” she said confusedly. She thanked Miss Darnley again and took her leave. But outside in the street the sense of fear persisted. A horse and cart clattered past her, and an automobile went the other way. She had not realized until now quite what dignity and grace there had been in the certainties of life. It was not just the outer peace that everyone could see, but an inner quality as well, a gentleness that was utterly gone.
She almost bumped into the young man in flannel trousers and blazer coming the other way. She started to apologize, then realized it was Ben Morven, one of the scientists who worked for Shanley Corcoran in the Scientific Establishment. She had met him several times here in Cambridge or in the village. She liked his warmth, the way he laughed at some of the absurdities of life and yet treasured the old and simple things, just as she did.
“How are you?” he asked with a flicker of concern.
“I’m well,” she assured him. “Just a little off-balance to find my bank manager has been replaced by a young woman.” She smiled back at him ruefully.
“It’s only temporary,” he replied with a little twist of his mouth. “When the war’s over and the men come home, she’ll go back to whatever it was she did before. She’ll have two or three years at most.”
“Do you think so?” Then as she laughed she was ashamed at her eagerness, and found herself blushing.
They were walking side by side in the sun up King’s Parade. The traffic seemed to have eased. It was nice not to have to explain her feelings to him, even if it was a little embarrassing to be understood so well. She knew something about him already. He came from a small town on the coast of Lancashire, a scholarship boy from a very ordinary family. His mother had died when he was about Jenny’s age and there was a yearning in him for the light and the sweetness of the past. When she had mentioned the death of her own mother, she had seen the swift gentleness in his eyes. No words were necessary to tell him of the grief that still descended on her without warning, almost taking her breath away.
That evening Shanley Corcoran came to see Joseph. Hannah was delighted for her own sake as well. Since her father’s death the children had had no grandparents. Archie’s family lived in the far north and poor health prevented them from traveling. Corcoran told them marvelous stories and made the world seem like an exciting place, full of color and mystery. For Hannah, he was inextricably tied to the memories of family life, childhood, times when pain was brief and permanent loss unimaginable.
Corcoran arrived with a wave of enthusiasm, leaving the door wide open onto the clear evening outside. He was of average height and build, and remarkable for the vitality and intelligence in his face. His hair was white but still thick and his eyes were unusually dark and seemed to burn with energy.
He spoke to them all, asking after each, but he was too eager to see Joseph to wait for more than the briefest of answers. Hannah took him upstairs after a few moments.
Joseph felt his spirits lifting simply because Corcoran was there. Suddenly the idea of rest seemed a waste of opportunity. He wished to be well again and do something. When Corcoran asked him how he was, he replied drily, “It holds me up a bit.”
Corcoran laughed; it was a bright, infectious sound. He sat down on the chair beside the bed. “Doesn’t stop you talking, anyway,” he observed. “It’ll be good for Hannah to have you here, at least for a while. As soon as you’re on your feet you’ll have to come for dinner. Orla would love to see you. She’ll drive over and fetch you. I’m so busy these days I practically have to be delirious with fever before they’ll let me off.”
“I thought you were the head of the Establishment?” Joseph raised his eyebrows.
“Oh, I am! They are my own inner demons that drive me,” Corcoran admitted, then for an instant he was deeply serious. “We’ve got marvelous work going on, Joseph. I can’t tell you details, of course, but what we are creating could change everything. Win the war for us. And soon. So help me God, it’ll have to be soon, the way it’s going at sea. Our losses are appalling.” He spread his hands. “But enough of that now. I imagine you know all you want to already. I’ve seen Matthew once or twice since you were last home. And Judith—” His eyes were bright and tender. “Your father would be so proud of her, driving an ambulance on the Western Front! How times have changed, and people.”
Joseph smiled back. John Reavley would have been passionately proud of his younger daughter, and he would probably even have said so. He would also have feared for her, as Joseph did, while assuring Alys that she was in no danger. Desperately as he missed his mother, he was glad she did not have to endure this.
Corcoran was staring at him, his face puckered. “Are you all right, Joseph? Are you feeling worse? Am I keeping you up? Please be honest. . . .”
“No, of course not,” Joseph said quickly. “I’m sorry, I was just thinking of some of the things Judith has seen—and experienced. She’s a very different woman from the girl who used to tear around the lanes here in her Model T, scaring the sheep half silly.”
Corcoran laughed. “Do you remember her at our Whitsun picnics?” he said with light in his face. “I don’t think she was more than five or six years old when we had our first. I’ve never seen a little girl run as she did.”
Corcoran and his wife, Orla, had had no children. Joseph had caught the sadness in his face, but only for moments, and it never clouded Corcoran’s joy in his friend’s family, nor stinted his generosity of praise and willingness to share the successes and the failures of their lives.
“And the time she decided to show us the cancan, and did a cartwheel that ended in the river!” Corcoran was laughing as he said it. “Matthew had to pull her out, and what a sight she was! Soaked to the skin, poor girl, and looking like a piece of water-weed herself.”
“That was only seven years ago,” Joseph reminded him. “It seems like another world now. I remember that day vividly. We had fresh salmon with lettuce and cucumber, and egg and cress sandwiches, and apple charlotte for pudding. It was too early for berries.” There was regret when he said that. He loved raspberries. He could never pass the bushes in the garden when they were in fruit without taking a few.
The mood changed suddenly. Both were returned to the present. They were lucky: safe and whole, and with people they loved. But even though Joseph considered how warm he was, it was as if the cold of the trenches were only beyond the door to the landing.
“We’ll win,” Corcoran said, leaning forward with sudden fierceness. “We have the science, Joseph, I swear to you. We are working on an entirely new
invention, something no one else has even thought of. And when we’ve solved a few remaining problems, it will revolutionize the war at sea. U-boats will cease to be a threat. Germany won’t strangle us. The shoe will be on the other foot; we shall destroy them.” His eyes were dark and brilliant with the knowledge of what could be, and the passion to bring it about. It was a kind of pride, but the love of it robbed him of all arrogance. “It’s beautiful, Joseph. The concept is as simple and as elegant as mathematics; it’s just the last few details of practicality we have to iron out. It will make history!”
He reached across and put his hand on Joseph’s. “But don’t whisper of it to anyone, not even Hannah. I know she worries herself ill over Archie, like every woman in England who has brothers, husband, or sons at sea—but she can’t know yet.”
Joseph felt a surge of hope and found himself smiling widely. “Of course I won’t tell her. That should be your privilege anyway.”
“To be able to tell her will be one of the greatest rewards of all. But I’m glad you will be home with her for a while. Take good care of yourself. Allow yourself to mend slowly. Build up your strength again. You’ve done such a lot already, you deserve a little time to see the spring.”
Ten minutes later, as Corcoran bade him goodbye, Joseph felt there was a new warmth in the room, an easing of pain. Instead of going back to sleep, or trying to read, he contemplated the reality of being at home for the blossoming of the year. He would see the lambs and calves, the first leaves on the trees, the hedgerows filled with flowers, and all of it untrampled by marching feet, far from gunfire—with nothing broken, poisoned, or burned.
He thought quite suddenly of Isobel Hughes, to whom he had been obliged as chaplain to write and inform her of her husband’s death. She had written back, thanking him for his kindness. A correspondence had developed, only a letter once a month or so. Although they had never met, Joseph was able to convey his feelings of weariness—and his guilt that he could do so little to help. She, in turn, did not make futile suggestions, but gave him accounts of the village in Wales where she lived, providing little stories of gossip, even the occasional joke. It brought him a remembrance again of the sanity of village life where quarrels over a piece of land or a churn of milk still mattered, where people danced and courted, made silly mistakes and gave generous forgiveness.