Postcards from the Past

by Marcia Willett

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We’ll share.’

  ‘How can you?’ Billa demanded later. ‘How can you bear to share with him?’

  Ed was silent. During that meeting, once the two adults had left the children to ‘get to know each other’, Tris’s well-behaved mask had slipped a little.

  ‘Have you got a bike?’ he asked Ed.

  Ed nodded. His Raleigh bike – drop handlebars, three-speed – was still very new, a present for his birthday a few weeks earlier.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘but I’m tall for my age so it’ll be a bit big for you.’

  ‘I’ll manage,’ said Tris cockily. His light, frosty eyes challenged Ed: summed him up. ‘Where is it?’

  Silently Ed led him to the garage his father had converted out of old outbuildings. Billa followed them, glancing back towards the house and wondering if they were being watched. The wooden doors were open. Mother’s Morris Minor Traveller was inside and Andrew’s new Ford Consul drop-head coupé stood behind it. It looked rather flashy and self-conscious beside the station wagon. Carefully Ed wheeled his bicycle out and stood holding it, feeling awkward, not knowing quite what to say. Tris, though wiry and tough, was not very tall and the bike looked much too big for him. Nevertheless he took hold of the handlebars, pushing it further out on to the driveway. Ed let go reluctantly and watched as Tris put his foot experimentally on the pedal and then suddenly pushed off. He didn’t attempt to sit in the saddle, he simply pedalled, hell for leather down the drive, and out into the lane.

  Ed and Billa raced after him. When they reached the lane they saw him still pedalling ahead of them and as he reached the bend they saw him jump from the bike, leaving it to wobble and crash, wheels spinning. Ed cried out in dismay, running to pick it up, checking for scratches and damage, whilst Tris stood watching, grinning from the verge.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ cried Billa in a rage. ‘Why do such a stupid thing?’

  ‘Do what?’ asked Tris. ‘I fell off. You shouldn’t have dared me to ride it. It’s too big for me.’

  They both stared at him in silent amazement.

  ‘Dare you?’ repeated Ed at last. ‘We did no such thing. I warned you not to ride it.’

  ‘Prove it,’ said Tris. ‘I’ve hurt my ankle now. Dad said you’d look out for me, seeing that I’m the youngest. He won’t be very pleased.’

  He turned and began to limp back towards the old butter factory.

  ‘But he didn’t hurt himself,’ said Ed apprehensively, watching him go, holding his bike. ‘He jumped clear. We saw him. He wasn’t limping then.’

  ‘No,’ said Billa. ‘But he is now, the little tick. Come on. Is it OK?’

  Ed checked his bike again. There was no real damage apart from a few scratches to the front mudguard. He looked at them distressed, running his finger over them, and then wheeled the bike back along the lane, hurrying to keep up with Billa. When they came into the kitchen they saw Tris perching on the edge of the big slate table, holding an apple, whilst their mother massaged his ankle and his father turned to stare at them with those same light, frosty eyes. He had a lean, tough build and there was an almost menacing air in his quick movement.

  ‘Not very clever,’ he said sharply. ‘Daring a much smaller boy to ride a bicycle several times too big for him.’

  ‘Oh, don’t blame Ed, Dad,’ Tris said. ‘I needn’t have done it. And I’m fine. Really I am.’ And he took a big bite out of the apple and smiled sweetly at Ed and Billa over his bulging cheek.

  ‘That’s a good boy,’ said their mother, putting Tris’s sock back on to his thin, narrow white foot, and touching his russet hair lightly. ‘No harm done.’ She looked mortified, hardly glancing at Ed or Billa, her lips pressed tightly together as she turned away.

  ‘Well,’ said Andrew, ‘boys will be boys, I suppose. And we ought to be getting back to Bristol. How about a cup of tea before we set off, Elinor?’

  ‘How can you possibly share a room with him?’ demanded Billa later. ‘How can you bear it? Thank God I’m a girl and he can’t share with me.’

  ‘It’s better than him having Daddy’s study,’ said Ed. ‘I’ll manage somehow.’

  * * *

  Now, as he looks around him at his father’s beloved possessions, Ed’s mind is still so full of that scene that he is hardly surprised when Billa opens the door with some letters in her hand and says: ‘The post has just come and, guess what, there’s a postcard from Tris.’

  He stares at the card, at the cyclist in his blue jersey and shorts bending over the drop handlebars, and his stomach gives a little lurch.

  ‘But what does he want?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she answers, watching him. ‘I’ve made coffee. Come down and have some.’

  Following her out on to the landing and down the stairs, Ed is filled with apprehension.

  ‘But why should he care how we are? Why should he want to see us?’

  She has put the coffee on the old carved sea chest they use as a table, in front of the hall fire. Bear comes padding out of the kitchen to see if there’s anything going and Billa gives him a small tasty treat, which he crunches with evident enjoyment. He licks his chops and settles down at some distance from the fire.

  ‘I was remembering,’ Ed says, ‘just then, when you came in. I was remembering the first time we ever met him and how he rode my bike.’ He holds out the card. ‘Do you remember?’

  ‘I remember everything,’ says Billa bitterly, ‘though I hadn’t made the connection with your bike. That was the first sortie, wasn’t it, and Mother was always on his side. She was so obsessed with Andrew that Tris could do no wrong. It was so bloody unfair.’

  Ed watches her. Her sudden anger reminds him of those miserable days and how their lives were turned upside down.

  ‘Thank God we were away at school,’ he says. He puts the postcard down on the chest and they both read it.

  ‘A blast from the past. How are you doing? Perhaps I should pay a visit and find out!’

  ‘We can simply refuse,’ says Ed. ‘If he phones we’ll just say no.’

  ‘If he phones,’ says Billa. ‘He might just turn up.’

  ‘Even so,’ says Ed, ‘we don’t have to ask him in. He has no rights here.’

  Billa is silent for so long that he glances up at her; her face is preoccupied, almost grim.

  ‘What?’ he says.

  She shakes her head. ‘Nothing. Drink your coffee.’

  ‘I expect it’s just one of his silly teases,’ says Ed hopefully, but he can see that Billa doesn’t accept this suggestion. He thinks of how his mother’s second marriage altered his life; of how much he missed his father, and of how he began to fear change; to cling to what was safe and known. He thinks of the odd longing to write and illustrate books for children – magical, enchanting books – which he has always denied for fear of being perceived as inadequate; a laughing stock. He drinks his coffee, which tastes as bitter as missed opportunities, and an old, familiar anxiety settles around him, chill as a damp cloak.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sir Alec’s house is a warren of small rooms and unexpected staircases. He comes to meet Tilly at the front door, which opens directly on to the precipitous village street, and takes her into the first of the small rooms. An elderly yellow Labrador rises creakily from a beanbag to greet her and she stops to smooth the broad head and murmur to him. His tail wags rhythmically, gratefully, and Sir Alec smiles approvingly.

  ‘I see that you speak dog,’ he says. ‘That’s splendid. Poor Hercules loves to have visitors. He misses my wife dreadfully.’

  Tilly has already been briefed.

  ‘Sir Alec’s wife died quite suddenly last year,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ve already been to see him since he’s just down in the village and he’s an absolute duck in a right old mess, despite the fact that he has a cleaner who goes in twice a week. Remember that you’re there simply to set up a database for all his contacts. His wife used to do the Christmas card list and it cam
e as a terrible shock to him so he wants to mechanize the addressing system. You’re not there to tidy up, Tilly. The database will take ages as it is. He’s got hundreds of friends all over the world and he stays in touch with all of them.’

  When Sir Alec leads her through into his study Tilly takes a breath: it is almost as untidy as Billa’s office. There are piles of newspapers, towers of books, heaps of letters.

  ‘I know,’ he says, glancing at her apprehensively, pulling a humorous face. ‘Pretty chaotic, isn’t it? Shall we manage, d’you think?’

  ‘Of course we shall manage,’ she replies warmly. ‘And look at that view.’

  The long sash window looks out across the uneven, grey-slate roofscape of the village to the coast. Beyond the cliffs, curving away to the west, the sea surges in, strong and muscular, smashing itself against the steep granite walls and pinnacles of rock. A fishing boat, plunging in the swell, chugs on its course for Padstow with a cloud of seagulls screaming in its wake.

  ‘It’s glorious, isn’t it?’ He comes to stand beside her at the window. ‘Very distracting when I’m trying to work.’

  He looks at her. Tilly sees they are much the same height but his erect military bearing makes him seem taller, gives him a presence, and his eyes are friendly.

  ‘Sarah was rather shocked by the state of the room. She was very polite but I could tell. She said I might find it easier if I were more organized.’

  Tilly gives a snort of amusement. ‘I do rather see her point.’

  ‘It comes of having secretaries, d’you see? I’ve been spoiled. Always someone keeping you up to the mark, reminding you, tidying up after you. And Rose, bless her, was wonderful.’ He sighs, not self-pityingly, just in remembrance of things past. ‘Do you know our curate, Clem Pardoe?’

  Tilly is taken aback by this apparent change of subject. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Ah, splendid fellow, Clem. Wonderful with Rose at the end. He still comes to see me just to keep me on my toes. Or perhaps I should say on my knees. It was he who showed me your advertisement. He used to be in IT in London, d’you see? “This is what you need,” he said. “Phone them up and make an appointment.” So I did.’

  ‘Well, let’s make a start,’ says Tilly, turning away from the window and bracing herself at the prospect before her. ‘Sarah tells me you have a very big address book.’

  He chuckles. ‘We lived abroad for most of our lives. Made lots of friends and I like to stay in touch.’

  ‘We did, too,’ says Tilly. ‘Still do. My father’s a mining engineer. He and Mum are in Canada.’

  ‘I expect you miss them.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m used to it. I was at school here and I’ve got lots of friends in Cornwall.’

  ‘Like Sarah? She said that you were at school together.’

  ‘Yes, although actually it was her sister that was my best friend. Sarah’s older than I am but she always looked out for me and I often went home with them for exeats if it was too far to travel for Mum just for a weekend.’

  ‘And where do you live now?’

  ‘I’m staying with my godfather, Dominic Blake. He was my father’s boss for a while down at Camborne and he’s putting me up until I find another job.’

  ‘Isn’t this your job?’

  ‘It’s one of them. We’ve got a bit of a way to go yet before it’s up and running properly.’ She makes a little face. ‘Perhaps it’s a bit ambitious to think that it might work at all.’

  ‘“Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, Or what’s a heaven for?”’ exclaims Sir Alec.

  Tilly stares at him. ‘Sorry?’

  He smiles. ‘Browning,’ he says. ‘Nobody reads him nowadays. Never mind. Let’s get down to work.’

  * * *

  ‘He told me all about the curate and then quoted Browning,’ Tilly says to Sarah later. ‘I utterly love him.’

  Sarah rolls her eyes. ‘And talking of the curate,’ she says, ‘I’ve had a phone call from the convent.’

  ‘The convent?’

  ‘Chi-Meur. Well, it’s a retreat house now but there is still an Anglican community of Sisters, just three or four of them, but hanging on. Anyway, the retreat house needs someone to organize a new website.’

  ‘It seems a bit odd. A website for a convent.’

  ‘It’s not for the convent. It’s for the retreat house, to encourage people to come and stay. You’d have to talk to them to find out exactly what they’d need and what they offer. Quiet days, courses, that kind of thing. The administrator is secular so you won’t actually be dealing with the nuns. I can do it, if you like.’

  ‘No.’ Tilly shakes her head. ‘I’ll be fine. I’m good with the nutters.’

  Sarah is best with small businesses: builders in a muddle with their filing, decorators confused with their accounting, garages needing a system to deal with their VAT returns. She is efficient, firm and – though she fears that Tilly will be inclined to waste time with their clients – Sarah knows that Tilly is the best one to deal with people like Mrs Probus and Sir Alec. They make a good team.

  ‘You shouldn’t call them nutters,’ says Sarah reprovingly.

  ‘Yes, but I mean it in a good way,’ protests Tilly. ‘I like nutters.’

  * * *

  When she gets back, she parks the car and, on an impulse, walks up to the old butter factory, looking for Billa. She’s very fond of Billa. The older woman’s toughness, her dry sense of humour, her deep attachment to Ed and Dom; all these qualities make her very attractive. She talks to Tilly with a directness that the younger woman appreciates.

  The late afternoon glimmers with primrose light, green and palest gold, and she can hear a strange chorus: hoarse, rasping, resonant. On an impulse she walks round the end of the house and along the path beside the stream. The lake is full of clouds and, at the water’s edge, all among the clouds, are the frogs. Scrambling, crawling, brown-blue bodies in shiny mounds and oily heaps, they clasp each other, singing. The cloud reflections break and reform as the ripples disturb them, spreading across the lake, drifting away into the shadows beneath the willows.

  In the new woodland along the stream, where Ed has planted beech and spindle trees, bluebells and daffodils, Tilly sees Billa wandering slowly towards her with Bear following at her heels. Billa’s head is bowed, her arms are folded beneath her breast as if she is holding herself together, and – even at this distance – Tilly can see that she is deep in thought. Bear pauses to examine an interesting scent and follows it away from the stream, jogging quietly on its track, nose to ground. Suddenly a hen pheasant breaks cover from a patch of dead, brittle bracken; she runs squawking ahead of him and then rockets upwards, wings threshing, soaring to safety in the fields beyond.

  Billa turns to watch, disturbed by the sudden commotion, and sees Tilly who waves and hurries to join her. Billa raises her hand in response and then puts both hands in the pockets of her sheepskin duffel coat, straightening her shoulders as though she is trying to relax.

  ‘I heard the frogs,’ Tilly says, hoping she isn’t intruding on some important train of thought, ‘and couldn’t resist coming to see them. There are going to be millions of jelly babies. I used to love coming here when I was little and taking them off in jam jars.’

  ‘Ed still does,’ says Billa wryly. ‘He’s doing his bit to save the planet. Last year, when we had all that freezing weather, he put lots of them into his tadpolarium, those big plastic containers, and then released them when they’d grown legs and were big enough to withstand the cold or the likelihood of being eaten by birds. You’ll be able to help him.’

  Tilly bursts out laughing. ‘I think that’s brilliant. Does it really work?’

  Billa shrugs. ‘Who can tell? There seems to be even more than usual this year, so I assume it did.’

  Bear comes up behind and overtakes them, disturbing the frogs who dive into the clouded depths in a gelatinous swirl of mud. He pauses to watch them and Billa calls to him.

 
‘No swimming today, Bear. Too cold, and you’ll frighten the frogs. Come on.’

  He turns rather reluctantly and pads on huge paws towards the house; with his lazy, sinuous swagger he looks just like the brown bear for which he was named.

  ‘I’ve had an email from this friend in London,’ Tilly says, ‘saying that she can recommend me to her boss for a job and I can’t decide whether to go for it.’

  ‘What’s the job?’

  Tilly makes a face. ‘IT. Corporate. All among the suits. I’ve done it and I know it’s not really what I want but I can’t decide if I ought to try it.’

  ‘Why “ought”?’

  ‘Well, it’s very nice of Dom to let me use Mr Potts’ bedroom but I feel I’m kind of sponging.’

  ‘Do you pay anything?’ asks Billa in her direct way.

  Tilly shakes her head. ‘He won’t let me, but I buy food and wine and stuff. Of course, Dad’s asked him to look out for me.’

  ‘Does that bother you?’

  ‘Not really. Dom doesn’t patronize me. He sees what I’m trying to do and he respects it. He says he likes having company and someone doing his ironing. Actually, I’m loving it. The thing is, Dom treats me like I’m a friend who’s got a problem and he’s just helping out. He isn’t fatherly.’

  ‘And how is it going with Sarah?’

  ‘Pretty good. The advertisement is getting a really positive response, but it’s difficult to foretell the future and I suppose that now jobs are so thin on the ground I ought to go for the one in London.’

  ‘Even though you don’t want to do it and it’s not where you want to be?’

  ‘You don’t think, then, that it would be a responsible thing to do?’

  Billa smiles at the expression on Tilly’s anxious face. ‘If you had a family to support I might give you a different answer. Right now I think you can afford to give U-Connect a chance so as to help Sarah out while you’re waiting for what you really want to come up. You’re lucky to have Dom but he’s lucky to have you, too, so it cuts both ways. And you’re still working at the pub?’

  Tilly nods. ‘I’ve been offered a few extra hours a week on Saturday mornings and I’ve got some money saved, which helps keep the car on the road, but I really just want to be certain that Dom isn’t feeling … you know … pressured.’