by Taylor, Lulu
He looked agonised, as though it was taking all his strength to obey her command not to speak.
‘I have to go now,’ she said breathlessly, and pulled out of his arms.
He put out a hand to her, his fingers landing on her upper arm, and she stopped, her back to him. ‘Wait, Delilah, I have to tell you how I feel, ask you if there’s any chance that we might—’
‘Ben, please, no . . . I can’t . . . Not yet. Please understand.’
She began to pad quickly away across the hot terrace, leaving a trail of dark splashes behind her.
‘I’ll wait for you,’ he called after her. ‘As long it takes. Until you’re ready.’
She didn’t reply but hurried to the back door, her towel pulled close around her and her head down to hide the confusion on her face. In the kitchen, Janey was cooking but Delilah did not stop to talk to her. She needed to be alone.
Chapter Twenty-Four
1974
‘Mummy, Mummy, watch me!’
Alexandra looked up, half paying attention. Elaine was on her bicycle, cycling over the uneven paving stones of the terrace. She was approaching it with gusto, pedalling hard despite the way she wobbled. Her dark blue eyes stared intently at the ground, her tongue sticking out with the effort of keeping upright.
‘Be careful, darling. Don’t forget the brakes,’ she called as Elaine careered towards the stone balustrade, looking as though she would slam straight into it. Alexandra knew she wouldn’t. Elaine was fearless whether she was climbing trees or swinging on ropes, and somehow always managed to emerge unscathed from her intrepid adventures. She had only recently learned to ride the pink bike she’d been given for her birthday and had refused her stabilisers from the start, determined to ride like a big girl. She was already riding well but the fact that her feet didn’t quite reach the ground meant that her stopping was a little erratic.
Alexandra turned back to the letter she was reading. It was from John and she found the whole thing pierced her heart.
I am feeling very miserable and I wish I was at home with you and Daddy. Please can I come home, please, please? I will be good, I promise.
She could hardly bear to read the messy print on the paper he’d torn out of an exercise book. She hadn’t wanted him to go away to school but Nicky had insisted. It was what was done – he had done it, his friends had done it, and now the sons of his friends were doing it and so John would do it too. The school wasn’t far and she would see him twice every half-term and for all of the holidays.
‘But he’s only seven!’ she had pleaded. ‘I’m not ready for him to go yet, he’s just a baby.’
‘He’ll have a marvellous time,’ Nicky had said, shrugging. ‘There’ll be hundreds of other boys just like him, games to play, tuck to eat, plenty to keep him busy. It’s a little hard at first but I know very well that you soon get used to it. It’ll make him grow up a bit – he’ll only get babyish if he stays here with you and Elaine.’
She had tried to make him put it off even for a year but he was immoveable. He might be a loving father but he knew how things were done and this was John’s fate.
Seeing her little boy in his school uniform, looking desperately small and frightened beside his huge trunk, had been almost too much to endure. When they had left him in his new boarding house and driven away down the drive, his huge tear-filled eyes staring after them, she hadn’t been able to stop herself breaking down and sobbing all the way home. It went against something inside her to be separated from John like this. Thinking of him wrenched something within her with enormous pain, not only because she missed him but because she felt she had let him down somehow and not protected him when she should have.
Nicky tolerated her mood for the first few days but he quickly grew impatient as it showed no signs of abating. Eventually he lost his temper.
‘I’ve had enough of this stupid moping!’ he yelled. ‘We all make sacrifices, we all suffer! We just have to grit our teeth and get on with it. Do you think I wanted to give up everything I had and come here? I didn’t have a choice, I just did it.’
‘What did you give up?’ she asked, incredulous.
‘My career in photography,’ he shot back.
‘But . . . you got this.’ She waved an arm at the house and towards the window where the green parkland stretched away. ‘And you’ve got me and the children. Aren’t we enough?’
He gave her a scornful look. ‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘There was more to my life than this once.’
‘Then why do you have to make John suffer in the same way you did? Why can’t he be free of it all?’
‘Because he can’t,’ Nicky replied. ‘It was his bad luck to be born to it, just as it was mine, and that means he has to do what I did. That’s all there is to it.’
It was their first real rift since they’d been married and Alexandra was made quite desperate by the sense that she and Nicky were growing apart. They’d been so happy since the children had come along – at least, she thought they had. Had he really been yearning for the city life, and all the girls, and his old studio in London? Had their happiness been an illusion? It seemed particularly terrible that they were at odds over one of the people they treasured most in the world.
Elaine wouldn’t be sent away, Alex was determined about that. At least there was no tradition that girls had to leave home so young. She would go to the local school with all the other children, leave in the morning and come home to her mother in the afternoon. If at some later date she wanted to go to boarding school, that would be considered, but not when she was so little. She kept Elaine close to her, as though the little girl could numb the pain of being away from John, but she always felt his absence keenly.
Gradually the chill between her and Nicky began to ease off and they moved back towards each other, both having missed the intimate companionship they usually shared. He started to make love to her more than he had for a while, seeking her out in the darkness, his hand creeping warm and smooth to her soft breast and then his lips finding hers. She surrendered to it gratefully, taking comfort from his body and the strength of his embrace. She knew that he was trying to give her another baby. Perhaps that would help – if there were another and another and another to replace the ones he sent away. But there was no sign of a baby yet.
When John came home for the holidays, she raced out to meet the car that had collected him, her arms open wide. He came running to her, his cap flying off onto the gravel, and jumped into her embrace. She kissed him, laughing joyfully, but he felt different: bonier and longer somehow. The texture of his hair was just a little coarser under her lips and in his eyes there was something else besides excitement and joy at seeing her again. There was a look of experience she had never seen before and, more than that, she thought she saw reproach. But when she asked if he was unhappy, he said airily, ‘Oh no, I like school very much. I can’t wait to go back actually.’
She ought to have been glad and yet she wondered what he’d endured alone to get through the misery those plaintive little letters had been drenched with.
‘Nanny, where’s Elaine?’
Alexandra came striding into the hallway where she had heard Elaine’s voice only a few minutes before.
‘She’s gone out to ride her bike, ma’am,’ Nanny said, pulling on her coat. ‘She hurried off when I said she could, went round to the garages to get it. I’m just going out after her.’
‘Make sure she keeps warm, won’t you?’ Alexandra reached for her own coat. ‘I’m driving into the village. I don’t know how long I’ll be. Perhaps I’ll be back for lunch. Will you make sure Elaine has the chicken? I’m sure she’s not quite over that cold yet and I do want her to get her strength back.’ She stopped and looked at Nanny. ‘In fact, I’m not sure she should be out at all. A quiet day in the nursery might be better.’
‘Now, ma’am,’ said Nanny soothingly, pulling on a pair of gloves, ‘a bit of fresh air will do her good. I’ll keep her well wrapped
up – she’s in her purple coat. Some exercise for an hour or so, and then we’ll go back in for lunch and she can play with that new doll of hers she’s so crazy about.’
‘Oh, yes. That. All right. But if she seems too cold, do bring her in.’ She looked about her in distraction for the car keys, found a set in the Chinese bowl on the side table and hurried outside. As she went, she checked her pocket for the letter that had come that morning from Aunt Felicity.
Dear Alexandra
I know your father would not want me to write but I feel I must. I cannot believe he really means what he says when he claims that he does not wish to see you again although that is what he has said over the years whenever I’ve talked to him on the subject. You are his only daughter and I had hoped he would eventually relent but I am afraid that he is now gravely ill and time is running out. My dear, write to him, request a meeting. Ask if you can make your peace before the end comes. Surely by now he must see that your life has been a success, with your happy marriage and your children. I hope that the old anger will fade with the nearness of the fate we all face.
Please let me know what you decide to do.
Your loving aunt
Felicity
She had read it and barely stopped to think. Her father was ill, dying, and she must go to him. He must want her and need her now, as the end approached. For seven years they had lived in close proximity and never once had she laid eyes on him or heard from him since his last letter. Her Christmas cards were returned unopened. He had never been to the house, attended the christenings of his grandchildren, or even seen them. Invitations were not replied to – perhaps they burned away to ashes in the grate moments after they were received.
She felt that in some way she deserved this punishment of being cast out. She had sinned after all, deserting her husband and living with another man. But after seven years, had she not proved herself again? She was respectable now, a wife and mother, the chatelaine of Fort Stirling. Surely if she could just see him again, speak to him for a moment, his heart would melt and they would be reconciled. Besides, how could she live with herself knowing that her father was a couple of miles away dying in his bed and she had not been there? Her conscience would not allow it.
She got quickly into the car and roared off across the gravel, heading for the village. Five minutes later, she pulled the car to a halt in front of the Old Grange. Her loud knock on the door was answered by a maid she didn’t know.
‘Yes, m’m?’ the girl asked, looking blankly at Alexandra.
She was struck by the awfulness of not being recognised at her own father’s house. She had expected Emily to answer her knock. ‘I’m here to see . . . Mr Crewe,’ she said, trying to sound commanding.
‘I’m afraid Mr Crewe is indisposed and not receiving visitors,’ the girl said, reciting her sentence in a sing-song way as it had been taught to her. ‘But may I say who’s called?’
‘I’m Lady Northmoor,’ she said crisply.
‘Oh.’ The girl’s eyes stretched wide and she bobbed a curtsey. ‘Yes, your ladyship.’
‘I’d like to come in. I know Mr Crewe. He won’t mind.’
The girl stared at her, obviously caught between the obligation to obey a real lady and the instructions that had been laid down for her.
‘Now, don’t be so frightened. I’ll explain the situation if anyone complains. Please let me in.’ Alexandra stepped forward and the girl was too timid to stand in her way. The next moment she was in the hallway, surrounded by the familiar blue flowery wallpaper, looking into the round mirror over the hall table with everything just the same.
‘Mr Crewe’s in bed, your ladyship,’ the girl ventured. ‘And the doctor’s with him at the moment.’
‘I see. Well, I’ll wait for the doctor. You can take my coat.’ She slipped off her coat and handed it to the girl. Just then she heard a door close on the upstairs landing and the familiar figure of the village doctor came into view. He seemed lost in thought as he came downstairs but looked up to see Alexandra standing in the hall as he reached the ground floor. He knew her well from his visits to the house to see the children.
‘Oh, Lady Northmoor! I’m glad to see you here. I was just about to write to you as it happens.’
She hurried forward, her expression imploring. ‘How is he, Doctor Simpson?’
‘Not well, I’m afraid. He’s very ill, in fact.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘He’s been suffering aches and pains for a while now but we couldn’t ascertain the cause. He began to lose weight very rapidly and I suspected that cancer of some sort might be to blame – in a site that meant it remained well hidden until it had progressed too far for any change of treatment.’
Alexandra gasped. Cancer. That meant little chance of recovery. It was a death sentence, she knew that. ‘How long has he got?’
The doctor looked grave. ‘Not very long at all, I’m afraid, which is why I was on the point of writing to you. I know you and your father are estranged but now . . .’
‘Of course, of course.’ She bit her lip, fighting back the desire to start explaining everything to the doctor. ‘I’d like to see him.’
‘He was awake when I left him. He should be capable of speaking to you, though he’s in some pain. I’ve given him morphine but the effects are diminishing as the disease takes its toll. I’m very sorry to have to tell you such bleak news but I see little hope of anything but a short time remaining to him.’
‘I see.’ She tried not to show that her mouth was trembling or that she felt dizzy and overwhelmed. She realised that she had assumed her father would one day send for her. Now it was obvious that day would never come. She must go to him without being summoned. ‘I’m going up to him now.’
‘Good.’ The doctor smiled. ‘I’m sure he will like that.’
You know nothing about it, she thought, as she ascended the stairs.
The last time she had been in this house was her wedding day. She’d run up these stairs in her torn dress, away from Laurence’s brother and into her room, panicked and wondering what she had done. That girl was long gone now.
She walked along the hall to the door of her father’s room and knocked quietly, gathering her strength. She was afraid but she had to face her fears and do what she knew to be right. A female voice said, ‘Come in,’ and she entered to see Emily standing at her father’s bedside.
The bed was covered in blankets despite the warmth of the room and on the pillows her father’s head rested, looking quite different to her last memory of him: he was shrunken and grey, his hair wispy and his cheeks hollow. His eyes were open but only just, flickering slightly with the rise and fall of his chest and the thick rattling breath that came from him. The sight filled her with desperate sadness and pity.
Emily said quietly, ‘It’s good to see you, miss. I’m only sorry it’s in these circumstances is all.’
‘Thank you, Emily.’ She managed to force a smile. ‘I’m glad to see you too. How are you?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about me. I know it’s your father you’ve come for.’ She beckoned Alexandra closer.
She walked tentatively towards the bed. ‘Is he asleep?’
‘No, I don’t think so. He’s tired out, though. He’s not talking all that much now. Conserving his strength, I should think.’ Emily looked down mournfully at the old head on the pillow.
‘May I have a few minutes alone with him?’
‘Of course. I’ll wait outside. You can call if you need me.’ Emily went to the door and left quickly.
Alexandra walked to the bedside. There was a chair there, and she sat down on it. Her father’s hand, now thin and wasted with the veins raised on his purplish skin, lay on the blanket. She put her own hand out and rested it lightly on his. It felt icy under her touch, as though he was failing inch by slow inch from his fingertips back. He didn’t respond but lay there, his battle for breath taking all his concentration.
She leaned forward. �
�Father? It’s me, Alexandra.’
There was no discernible change.
‘I’ve come to see you, Father. Aunt Felicity wrote to tell me that you’re very ill. I want us to make our peace. I’m so sorry that I disappointed you but I hope you can forgive me now.’
She waited for a response, watching the greyish face with the cracked thread veins running all over it, the purplish-grey circles under the eyes. Where had his eyebrows gone? Once they were thick and dark but now they were sparse, white and wiry. His nostrils had sunk into his nose so that it looked different now – pointed and thin. His lips were a hectic red and cracked too. She could see he was dying. So this was age and illness. This was a body collapsing in on itself, failing at last. From the first new moments of life, the howling baby with kicking limbs, all its future self a blueprint inside, through the strength and vigour of childhood with its imperative to grow and become, to manhood and then to the inevitable crumbling of age, as everything begins to wither and stop, it all led to this, the end of the journey.
And what do we leave? she wondered. Only the memory of ourselves in the minds of those living. And our children, if we have them.
‘Father,’ she whispered. ‘I’m here.’
His eyelids lifted slowly and he was staring at her, his eyes clouded and the pupils huge so that the whole iris looked black. He dragged in a breath and then spoke. ‘You shouldn’t have come.’
‘But I wanted to, Father!’ She smiled and squeezed his hand gently. ‘You’re so ill. I had to see you, tell you how sorry I am that we’ve been apart all these years when we could have been sharing so much. The children . . .’
‘Your children mean nothing to me.’ His voice was harsh and bitter.
She recoiled and then tried to calm herself. He was sick and perhaps not entirely himself. It would take patience and kindness but her persistence would surely triumph so that they could be reunited before he died. They would weep together and he would beg forgiveness which she would grant. Then they could both be at peace.