She’d like to pick up her plate and smash it over Walter’s head. She wants to get up, scoop Felix from his bed, carry him in her arms, slam out of the door, run hell for leather to the rail station and climb onto the next available train.
“Is there something wonderful for pudding? I must keep up my strength.” Walter raises his head. “Jesus Christ, will you listen to that rain. And the wind… There’s a really nasty storm blowing up. You’d better close the windows, Moira. We don’t want those gusts knocking anything over, do we, now?”
Moira says, “I’m going to Lizzie’s tomorrow for lunch whatever the weather. It’s her birthday. She’s expecting me. I’ve saved up some money for her, as a gift. Mrs Farrell’s having problems with her eyesight. Lizzie’s been finding it terribly hard to keep up with the work.”
“God Almighty!” Walter digs a large spoon into an apple crumble. “Lizzie this and Lizzie that! I wish you cared as much about me as you do about your little friend. Just make sure you leave me some lunch tomorrow. I’ve a very busy day ahead.”
All that night Moira lies in bed beside the snoring Walter. He murmurs in his sleep, snuffling like a warthog, gurgling in his throat. Now and then he mutters a name: “Rowena,” or “darling Jenny,” or “Meg, Meg, Meg.”
Never “Moira, Moira, Moira…”
When he moves towards her in the middle of the night, flinging his arm around her, lifting her nightdress, Moira turns away, dreading his touch, the smell of his breath, the feel of his fingers on her skin.
“No, Walter, no…”
She thinks, Don’t touch me. Don’t ever touch me again.
She can’t sleep. She can’t close her eyes. She can’t even blink. Her face feels cool and waxy, as if she were lying in a closed mausoleum that nobody will ever bother to open.
She knows she has reached the end of the line. Soon, very soon, something is going to tip her over it.
Who cares?
Doesn’t anybody care?
Next morning the storm continues unabated. Walter goes on sleeping. Moira eats breakfast with Felix. As she lifts his bowl, scraped clean of porridge, she kisses her son’s cool round cheek. She has never loved him more than at that single moment.
Neighbours come crashing on their stable door with the news. Boats have been lost at sea. Fishermen are feared drowned. It has been the most terrible night.
Moira doesn’t need to be told.
She wraps Felix in warm clothes and lets him go to play with the twins up the road. Before he races out of the stable door, she hugs him tightly to her heart. He smells of honey and oatmeal.
Moira grabs a set of clean clothes, carries them down to the basement. While Walter’s sleeping, she’ll take a bath. Try her best to wash away the despair and exhaustion of the night, the smell of Walter’s fingers on her skin.
The water’s warm and wonderful. Moira slips her naked limbs beneath it, bobbling the sponge with soap, relishing the scent of coal-tar, its yellow colour, closing her eyes.
Something cold presses against the back of her neck.
“My darling girl,” Walter says, his icy fingers lifting her hair. “How marvellous to see you naked again after all these months! Our bedroom’s always so dark and mysterious. A fumble beneath the sheets hardly counts. But now, I have you completely to myself.”
“No, Walter.” Moira opens her eyes, clutches the sides of the bath. Her wet hands slip and slide. She’s completely at Walter’s mercy. “Please… leave me alone.”
“Why should I, when you look so adorable, so vulnerable… so delicious?” Walter moves along the floor at the side of the tub. He throws off his gown. He’s stark naked.
“Now, I want you to do exactly as I say, exactly when I say it… Are you ready for this, my angel face?”
“No, Walter. No, no, no…”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes, my beautiful angel. I have waited for this moment long enough.”
An hour later, Moira stands in the kitchen. She has emptied the bath, dried her battered body, pulled on her clothes. She has also been sick down the lavatory.
With a ruthlessness she’d never have thought possible, Walter has raped her repeatedly, pushed her over the line and vanished upstairs.
Moira collapses on the basement steps, too weak to move. A pair of Felix’s small blue-leather shoes look up at her. She holds them to her face, weeping into them. Rain pelts down against the porthole window. A dead rat floats by on a gush of filthy water.
She closes her eyes, wanting to forget everything and everybody.
Wanting to die.
Someone knocks at the stable door.
Moira puts down the shoes, one, two, side by side, straight and even on the steps.
She listens as Walter greets the newcomer.
“Amanda! My darling girl! How brave of you to tackle the rain and wind on my behalf. Come up… Let’s get you out of your lovely clothes and dry you all over.”
Moira climbs the basement stairs slowly, one at a time. She hears Walter and his model laughing together. Anger grips her heart, a mounting fury she no longer wishes to control, even if she could. She clenches her fists, making herself stem the tears.
She tells herself not to look at anything in the room that belongs to Felix. Not to think of him. Not to remember.
She moves towards her bureau. From it she removes some money and her passport. She looks at the red-leather purse with its birthday gift – and leaves it in its place.
Then she flings on her raincoat. Her body shakes with pain. Her heart thunders with fury.
She hurls herself at the stable door.
A Thousand Pieces
St Ives, Cornwall, Christmas Eve 1936
“I can’t believe it.” Eleanor’s voice trembles with shock. “I can’t believe my father could have done that to you.”
“I’d hardly have made it up.” Bitterness sparks Moira’s voice. “I knew I was reaching the end of my tether, but I hadn’t anticipated being treated with such cruelty and contempt.”
“Daddy…” Eleanor chokes, “when he was dying, after his accident, he asked me to tell you something—”
“Oh?” Moira looks across at her. “And what was that?”
“He said, ‘Tell Moira I’m sorry.’ Of course, at the time I’d no idea who you were or what he was talking about.”
Moira gives a half-smile. “Well, now you do. And an apology, however abject, is hardly enough. So much too little, and so much too late!”
“I wish it had never happened.”
“In ways neither of us had properly intended,” Moira’s voice shakes with her memories, “both Pierre and I managed to lose ourselves in France. His Parisian friends assumed he’d died of drink. He hadn’t seen his family for years. And if I never returned to St Ives, I thought Walter would either assume I’d drowned in the storm or that I’d left him because I couldn’t tolerate his obscene behaviour a minute longer.”
Eleanor watches as Moira stands to clear the soup plates. She brings slices of roast turkey and green vegetables from the trolley. Her body’s still slim but strong. Her blue silk frock fits her perfectly. She moves with a riveting ease and grace.
Eleanor wills herself to ask, “How did you manage to escape St Ives?”
The colour drains from Moira’s face. “There was a horse and cart waiting outside the baker’s. The delivery man was inside the shop. I threw myself into the back of the cart and covered myself with a bundle of old sacking. I knew the cart would be returning to St Erth. Once it was there I’d be able to catch a train to Paddington.
“I bribed the inspector on the train. He agreed I could hide in a carriage that was carrying parcels and post. The journey was horrendous but I didn’t care. My only mission was to get as far away from Walter as I could, as quickly as possible. I knew I’d never go
back to him.
“Of course, I ached for Felix. I worried about him all the time. But the weeks slipped by. In August, war broke out. It became too dangerous to travel. Every time I even mentioned returning to St Ives to find Felix, Pierre raged and shouted – and then refused to look at me. So I stopped talking about the possibility. In effect, I gave Felix to Walter. I knew he adored the boy. I didn’t have the heart to take him away.”
Eleanor watches as Moira picks at her food. “Were you happy with Pierre?”
“We loved each other from the moment we first met in Oxford. Pierre’s drinking got in the way. I think he was frightened by how much he felt for me. And he wasn’t ready to be a father. But once I’d left Paris, my absence came as a shock. Although it took him time to repent, he really did mend his ways.
“During the war in France I kept my head down and stayed safe. Afterwards, I had all the time in the world to paint. Pierre encouraged me in ways Walter never had. For Walter, my talents were second-rate – or at least, second to his. Pierre spent his time sailing, meeting friends, looking after me.
“I’d made my choice. We married in a simple ceremony in Cannes, a year into the war. I never doubted it was the right thing to do.”
“You were so lucky.” Eleanor’s heart feels heavy with sadness. “I’ll have to go home now, my dreams shattered, my life in pieces.”
“Nonsense.” Moira looks sternly across at Eleanor. “Felix tells me you thrive in Woodstock. Your friends, your tea-room. Build on what you’ve already achieved.”
“Without Felix.”
“There’ll be other men. You’ll see.”
“But I want – I wanted – your son. We slept together. That was such a huge step for me. The fact Felix and I were lovers committed me to him as seriously as if I’d married him.”
“It may have done once, but the world’s changing fast. The established patterns are breaking into a thousand pieces. People are finding new freedoms. Look at how your Prince of Wales found his.”
“I suppose he’s lucky to have found love.”
“Do you think so?” Moira raises her eyebrows. “Consider what he’s given up for it – the throne, the Empire, his family, his home, his country. Wallis has lost everything she ever had, except for money, and she’ll never have enough of that… Do you really think that’s a good basis for a relationship?” She pushes her plate aside, staring into the fire. “When you find your new man, make sure he loves you for what you are, not for what he can make of you. Don’t give up anything you’re passionate about because he asks you to. Stand on your own feet through thick and thin. And make a choice you’ll never live to regret.”
Eleanor takes the sedative the doctor has given her to help her sleep.
She has vivid dreams, full of light and colour. She’s standing in her father’s studio. Anne walks through the door, holding her baby son in her arms.
“His name’s Walter Giffen,” Anne tells Eleanor, giving her the child. “But Jonny and I are going to call him Jay.”
Eleanor looks down at her little brother. He has wisps of red hair and shining turquoise eyes. He smiles up at her, stuffing a fist into his milky mouth.
Eleanor wakes early before it’s properly light.
The pain in her wrist and ankle has subsided. With the greatest care, moving slowly, she slips out of bed, pulls back the curtains and opens the balcony window. She steps into the cool air of the Christmas Eve dawn.
The faint roar of the ocean takes her in its arms.
Be patient, it seems to say, be calm. All will be well. Go home to Woodstock, to the life you created there. It waits for you. So does something else. You thought long and hard about it. Now it becomes the most important…
Sobs rise to Eleanor’s throat but she swallows them into silence. Something in her has radically changed. When she thinks about Felix, instead of flutters of excitement and longing, she feels only relief that she has managed to escape.
She never wants to see him again.
As for her father, when Eleanor thinks about him she feels nothing but a terrible numbness. She’d struggled to forgive everything: his marriage to Lillian, his infidelity with Rosie and heaven only knows who else. His outrageous, sickening affair with Perdita. The cowardly way he’d kept his life with Moira and Felix secret.
But Eleanor can’t forgive her father’s behaviour with Moira.
Walter had known only too well why Moira had left him. If she’d thrown herself into the sea that fatal day of the storm, would anyone who also knew the truth have been surprised? And who would have been responsible for her death?
What Moira has told Eleanor amounts to a step too far…
***
With the sudden clarity born of deepest sleep, Eleanor knows what she’s going to do.
She’ll drive home immediately. She’ll take the letter from Felix waiting for her on the Woodstock doormat and burn it, unopened, in the fire. She’ll find a cottage to rent, begin to live an independent life away from Anne and Jonny.
And in the spring of the New Year, she’ll slay Walter’s ghost and have his studio demolished. In its place she’ll build a small art gallery, with high windows for good honest daylight, wide shelves to support the work of sculptors, white walls to showcase the painters of Oxfordshire.
She’ll write to Moira, asking her to bring new paintings to Woodstock. She’ll commission fresh work from her, establish an ongoing relationship, do everything she can to heal the wounds of the past.
And she will indeed do something else…
Within the hour, Eleanor has bathed, dressed and packed.
She taps on the door of the room next to hers. She bends for a moment over a sleepy Moira, reaching for her hand, murmuring, “My wrist and ankle are much better. I can cope with the driving. I’m going home. Write to me. Take care of yourself. And thank you for everything.”
Eleanor hauls her overnight case out of The Porthminster Hotel.
She stands for a moment on the steps, feeling the sharp sea wind against her face, gulping the cool air into her lungs. Then she makes for the Morris, climbing into it as an old friend, grateful for its familiar steering wheel, its sense of privacy, its boot piled with her worldly possessions.
The car hums into life.
With a new resolution in her heart, Eleanor drives to the edge of the empty road.
She glances for a moment at the sea.
Then she turns right and starts to climb the hill away from St Ives, out of Cornwall, towards home.
Behind her, the figure of a man races up to the hotel.
His dark-gold hair flaps across his forehead.
His coat flies open in the wind. A new watch sparkles on his wrist.
He sees the car, he waves wildly, he sees Eleanor.
But she does not see him.
And within minutes, she is out of sight.
Burning Bright
Oxford, January 1937
Eleanor parks the Morris in Beaumont Street. She checks her makeup in the mirror, smoothes the sleeves of her new coat, picks up her leather gloves and immaculate handbag. She climbs out of the car and starts to walk briskly towards Somerville.
It was the first thing she’d done on her return to Woodstock: crouched by the freshly-lit fire in the empty house, shivering but determined, she’d written a letter to Helen Darbishire.
I expect you thought you would never hear from me again. A lot of water has flowed under my bridge since we last met. I wondered whether you could find the time to see me in College before term begins. I have a very great favour to ask you.
I only hope I shall not be too late.
The principal’s reply came by return of post. She’d be delighted to see Miss Drummond again and sent her best wishes to Eleanor’s mother.
Nothing ever changes her
e.
Eleanor checks in at the porter’s lodge, feeling as if she, however, has changed beyond all recognition. She’s older and wiser, with enough confidence to take on the world. But these walls are the same, the staff at the College are the same, dear old Scroggs is still giving students his help, and Eleanor’s sure the kitchen staff are about to prepare the same menus for the New Year. The College library will have the same layout, except perhaps with a few new books. The bedrooms will be just as spartan, with maybe a few new blankets.
The sense of continuity is reassuring. Eleanor needs to rely on nothing changing at Somerville so she can pick up the threads of her old life and make something entirely new of them. Not immediately, of course. She’s got many other things to do, some more important than others. But in the autumn, when the leaves begin to turn…
Eleanor taps on Miss Darbishire’s door and waits with her heart thumping into her mouth, listening for the familiar, “Come!”
“Last year,” Eleanor says quietly, “without a shadow of doubt was the most difficult of my life.” She shifts position on the small silk cushions behind her back. “Nothing prepared me for it. I’d never had to live without my father. I hadn’t realised how much I depended on him. I was in deep shock. My mother needed a lot of support, more than I could give her. I had to take financial control of our lives in ways that seemed completely beyond me.”
She swallows, unsure how much she should tell Miss Darbishire. The principal’s eyes never leave Eleanor’s face. She feels encouraged by the quiet, devoted listening. She feels free to talk.
“But I discovered they weren’t too difficult. If you’re desperate for money and really single-minded about making it, you can… And then I kept finding out things about my father that I should have much preferred never to have known—”
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