by Betty Burton
And you wanted to write about them?
To put them down on paper, yes. To make some sort of record of their existence. It was a short step from there to writing fiction.
And getting published.
Yes, but it wasn’t too difficult just after the war.
1942
Georgia was surprised at the number of people who attended the funeral. She had invited those Honeycombes and Gracelands with whom her parents exchanged Christmas cards, people whom she knew only by their handwriting. Relations of Georgia’s father she could now, in their presence, pick out by the various shades of red in their hair or that solid white that carroty hair changes to in old age. Her mother’s relations, sharp-eyed, frizzy-haired people who knew how many beans made five – one for the rook, one for the crow, one to rot and one to grow and t’other for I. Solemnly, and with faces set in moulds that those who do not know country people often take to be sullenness, they knelt tight-lidded and prayer-handed in the village church.
As one-time neighbours of the Honeycombes – and long ago from this village too – Nick’s father had come countryman-fashion to pay last respects to neighbours, people of his own kind. Nick wangled a week off and had got Hugh’s neglected car back on the road. On the drive from Markham, Robert Crockford had sat alone in the back of the car as politely remote as Georgia had remembered him from when the Crockfords and the Honeycombes were neighbours at Emberley, speaking only when spoken to in the well-articulated voice which Nick had inherited but had learned to roughen up at school.
Country-fashion, too, in order of precedence, the mourners walk from the church to the graveyard, behind the coffin carrying their wreaths that are made mostly of ivy, snowdrops and early wild daffodils.
‘We none of us begrudged the money for a good wreath,’ an elderly woman had said whilst they all waited for the hearses to arrive, ‘but it’s wartime and all. We done what we could for Cousin Thomas. We should a liked lilies or chrysanths, but ’tis the wrong time to go like, if you wants much in the way of shop wreaths. I’m Hyacinth Jepp (Honeycombe that was), your Pa’s first cousin.’
Now at the graveside, wearing an expensive grey suit loaned by Eve from her mother’s abandoned wardrobe, black shoes, and a new black pill-box hat which emphasized the rampant colour of her hair, Georgia, escorted by an uncle she has never met, throws down two small handfuls of earth, its sandiness sticking between her fingers. The smell of earth is everywhere, it blends with the naphtha of funeral coats, and the green wreaths, and wet crushed grass. She notices that her parents’ male cousins wear suits that must go back to the turn of the century; probably their wedding suits, yet these still fit their work-lean frames. The women all seem to be short and have wide hips and large bosoms. It crosses Georgia’s mind that they probably all went to the same village school, where there was no segregation amongst them because their bus journey was a nuisance, where they were not scorned, not different as she and Nick and the other Country Children used to be.
Dry-eyed and distanced, Georgia looks at the scene objectively.
Even the emotive ‘ashes to ashes’ phrase does not stir her. Although the brass plates are engraved with the names Thomas Honeycombe, Alice Honeycombe, née Graceland, it is as though the coffins side by side contain strangers. Perhaps they do, for it seems to Georgia that she understands this uncle, John, of the Christmas cards more than she did her Pa.
As they walked slowly to the empty grave, he had said, ‘You looks strung up, gel. You a feel better when you’ve had a good howl and got it off your chest. Nobody here won’t take no notice. We all needs a cry at times like these.’
Pa would have said, ‘You don’t want to start crying in front of everybody and letting yourself down.’ But Georgia’s only grief was for the mean act of death itself, snatching away twenty years that were still due to Thomas and Alice. She would have felt the same about the sudden death of strangers.
The Honeycombes and Gracelands had combined resources to provide what was proper on such an occasion. After the ceremony of death, still in procession, they walked from the graveyard through the village where people stood respectfully at their gates and along a tarmacked, pot-holed lane with high hedges on either side. Georgia felt a strange kind of excitement as she listened to twenty or thirty broad Hampshire accents, and knew that Nick would be easy and happy in their company. They had not seen one another for many weeks, but on the journey their conversation was curtailed by the quiet Robert Crockford in the back seat.
‘This here stream comes straight from the chalk,’ John Honeycombe said. ‘The fishing rights is tied to the land and nobody can’t take them.’
‘Really?’ Georgia had never considered fishing rights, but she looked into the bright stream.
‘Best trout in the whole of Hampshire now we seen off the pikes.’
‘Is that one?’
‘He is. He’s a right ole devil, you’d never tickle him in a month of Sundays, nor he won’t take nobody’s bait. He been there so long now that I don’t know as I’d fancy him neither poached nor baked.’
Over his shoulder, John Honeycombe said to his sister, ‘What about that Hyacinth Jepp, she spotted the ole devil soon as she looked in, she’s turned out sight more of a country girl than our Tom.’
The strangeness of Pa, who spent his weekends dressed in stiff white collar and waistcoats, being ‘Our Tom’ to these ruddy faces. And the sudden realization of the praise in being called Country Girl by Uncle John.
Hyacinth Jepp broke ranks and came to walk beside Georgia. ‘Your husband couldn’t get here, then.’
‘No. He’s somewhere off Tasmania.’
‘Well, he’s safe and warm at any rate. And they’re friends of yours drove you here?’
‘From the same village as us. Mr Crockford grew up somewhere round here.’
‘And the other one would be the son, then?’ asked John Honeycombe.
‘Yes, he and I went to school together. He’s in Liverpool now – fire service.’
‘That’s a nasty job, very nasty,’ Mrs Jepp said. ‘Well then, here we are. After you, Georgia.’
John Honeycombe held aside a wide gate that barred a cattle-yard obviously brushed and hosed for the occasion. From a little way off the grunt and squeal of pigs could be heard.
‘I never realized that it was an animal farm… you know what I mean, I imagined that you grew corn and potatoes.’
‘An’t nothing much we don’t grow,’ said John Honeycombe. ‘I should have thought our Tom would have told you.’
Georgia shook her head. ‘I don’t think that he liked farming very much.’
‘No,’ said John Honeycombe with a sharp edge, ‘No. No, Tom never did.’
John Honeycombe led the way diagonally across the yard, along a rough path through a patch of long grass. An ancient tree trunk stood there, with only two branches, from which sprouted young twigs. Geese and a few hens grazed.
Good Lord, thought Georgia, it looks like a calendar, and thought of her Pa hating it and studying hard in the hope of getting away.
Following where she was looking, John Honeycombe said, ‘She’s a rare old apple. Hyacinth won’t let her die without a fight. She budded some of the last young shoots year ’fore last and damme if most of they haven’t took.’ The grass was surrounded by a border that had evidently grown herbaceous plants last year; there was a bottomless bucket from which straw protruded; clay forcing-jars and glass bells under which some green plants flourished; here and there clumps of snowdrops and windflowers bloomed.
The path ended at the porch of the cottage, a low thatched building with a steep roof from which dormers protruded like shaggy-browed eyes. Because the cottage was tucked into the slope of the rising downland, Georgia guessed they must look out over the valley. A farmhouse with some of its history evident in its structure: part old brick and knapped flint with leaded casement windows; part red brick with sash windows; uneven building and roof lines; a few bulges and iron ties; but
a place that seemed as old and solid as the hill in whose shelter it had been built many generations ago.
Once over the threshold, the mourners dropped their formality in honour of the dead for the practicality of comforting the living. Hyacinth Jepp was obviously in charge here. ‘Now my dear,’ she said, ‘while our John sees to the whisky, you come with me.’ Putting into Georgia’s hand a glass containing a large measure of brandy, and taking one herself, she ushered Georgia from the living-room into an enormous kitchen. ‘Drink up, it’ll drive the graveyard out of your feet. Now… I hope you don’t think I was taking things over, but I knew you wouldn’t have no chance of putting on anything, seeing you’re in Markham and all.’
‘It’s wonderful… I never gave a thought to food.’
‘Well no, I doubt you had many funerals.’
‘None. I don’t even know if there are special rations or anything.’
‘Well there you are then, I’m glad I got on and done something. I know our Tom was always a stickler for doing things right. Just so long as you don’t think I’m butting in, I wouldn’t want you to think you had that sort of kinfolk. Tom was still my brother, even though we haven’t met for thirty years and more.’ To a redheaded girl a few years younger than Georgia, ‘Heather, get hold the other end. There!’ Proudly Hyacinth and Heather flung back the sheet from the longest kitchen-table Georgia had ever seen: it was laden with food. Hyacinth and Heather were obviously well pleased with the laden table.
‘Heather, you go and fetch that there young man what drove Georgia – he must be starving by now, great chap like that – and his father.’
‘Mrs Jepp, the last time I saw a table laid like that was at a big centenary dinner in Southampton.’
‘And I’ll wager a penny to a dollar your dinner in Southampton wasn’t home-cooked. Every bit of this was done by Honeycombe women, most of it grown by Honeycombe men. I an’t Mrs Jepp to you, niece – but you don’t have to call me Auntie if you don’t want. Most folk call me Hyacinth.’
The table was a work of art of woven swags of greenery amongst which were placed best china dishes displaying glazed game pies decorated with complicated paste leaves, puffy fruit pies oozing juice through sugar frosting, decorated galantines, plain pressed meats, a brown-skinned baked ham, a leg of cold pork, beautiful shiny loaves, patterned golden butter and several substantial wedges of cheese – yellow, white, blue-veined.
‘Ma and Pa would have been very proud.’
‘Well, who knows, seeing as how Tom had a wish to be buried here; perhaps he come to realize that he was still one of us. The Honeycombes has always been one for family, no matter what. I said to our John many a time, you see if I an’t right – our Tom will come back.’ She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘He was a pretty lad. A pity he had to come back like this.’
Suddenly Nick was beside her, and Georgia saw Hyacinth Jepp’s sharp eyes flick from him to Georgia and back again.
Nick slapped his large hands together in appreciation of the table. ‘Will you just look at that, Georgia.’ Amongst these people, Nick had easily lapsed into the broad tongue he had used throughout his boyhood, but which had recently reverted to the more cultured one taught from the cradle by his father. ‘An’t that the most beautiful sight you ever saw? A work of art,’tis a shame to break into it, Mrs Jepp.’
The praise satisfied Mrs Jepp and she beamed at him. ‘We don’t want none of that, lad. That was all made to end up in hungry bellies.’
‘Here you are, Georgia.’ She handed Georgia a large knife. ‘Give that lad a slice of something. You take over now,’tis your do.’
‘But…’
‘It’s the proper thing. Brother Tom was head of this family, you have to do the honours. I’ll give you a hand.’
Willing to take part in this extraordinary family burial rite, half-party, half-harvest festival, Georgia thrust a knife into the crust of a large game pie.
Hyacinth garnished the wedge with pickles and cress and handed the plate to Nick. ‘There lad. I’ll show you work of art. Now you must have a bite too, Georgia, before all the rest of them gets in here. And what about Mr Crockford?’
‘Have you seen my Dad, Georgia? He’s in there talking away nineteen to the dozen to one of your uncles.’ He smiled, ‘Well, for him it is nineteen to the dozen. I gather they knew one another when they were young.’ To Mrs Jepp, ‘He’s a man who usually keeps himself to himself.’ He savoured the pie and closed his eyes. ‘Oh… wonderful, Mrs Jepp. My mother made game pies like this: I can just remember them, all succulent and herby. Taste, Georgia, just taste.’ He held the slice for her to bite into as Hyacinth Jepp observed with satisfaction.
1989
Had she been flying in from a publicity trip organized by her publishers, a white Daimler would have been awaiting Giacopazzi at the London end; as it was, a discreet black BMW with a discreet brown driver awaited her. The driver took her hand-luggage and held open the door. ‘Hello, ma’am, nice to see you again.’
‘It’s nice to be back, Salim.’
‘Been somewhere nice this time, ma’am?’
‘Jo’burg.’
‘City of gold, they say.’
‘They can keep it.’
The car slid away and headed towards London. Georgia Giacopazzi sank into the comfort of fine leather. ‘I swear they keep moving Johannesburg further away from London. Or perhaps it’s old age.’
He moved his fine Asian profile to the left. ‘Not old age, ma’am. I have it on the best authority that they have in fact moved the entire continent further east.’
Only the best for Giacopazzi. A driver with a sense of humour, who handed her out, dealt with the hotel reception, took care of her bags, saw to it that she had everything she wanted, saluted without subservience and went. Alone for the first time since early yesterday, she kicked off her shoes and sank on to the bed. She longed to phone home but it was a bad time to do so. Her body ached with the fatigue of disguising the nag of arthritis and of keeping on her public face for so many hours, but her mind was afire. As when an idea for a novel was building up, she closed her eyes and allowed her thoughts to take whatever turn they wished.
The phone purred gently. Thinking that they must be phoning from home in spite of the hour, she answered at once.
‘Room eleven hundred.’
‘Mrs Giacopazzi? A call for you.’
‘Georgia?’
Mrs Giacopazzi’s heart leaped. ‘Yes.’
‘This is Eve.’
‘I know…’
‘Georgia? Oh, I thought we’d been cut off.’
‘No, it’s just the surprise… you sound exactly the same as ever.’
‘I’m an old lady.’
‘Who isn’t?’
‘Georgia, I don’t know about you, but I hate telephones. One cannot see the other person’s face. But I wanted to tell you that I think the book is very good.’
‘You do?’
‘Very good. But not at all the usual Giacopazzi story, except the hint of mystery…’
‘My instincts are to make the reader wait.’
‘I couldn’t wait. I read the end – I wanted to know…’
‘And?’
‘I wish that you had told me.’
‘It was all too bizarre, I simply couldn’t.’
‘I had no idea, Georgia.’
‘Of course, how could you? I thought it best to do it short and sharp.’
There was a short silence while Georgia retained her composure. Eve’s voice came through again. ‘Are you still there, Georgia?’
‘Of Course. It’s only that with a fifty-year gap, one doesn’t really know what to say first. Could we meet? Where are you now?’
‘Boston.’
‘Mass?’
‘Yes, visiting with Melanie – my daughter. But I shall be in London again in a couple of days.’
‘I shall wait here for you.’ Another short silence. ‘Eve?’
‘Hullo… yes, Geo
rgia?’
‘You said you thought the book was good… does that mean you don’t mind that I’ve written it?’
‘It’s the truth, and you’ve been kind to us. Which is mostly why I have called you.’
‘Until you get back to London then.’
‘Yes, until then, Georgia.’
1943
Eve Hardy entered her nursing career in London. She was obliged to live in nurses’ quarters, but had a room in Connie’s small flat where she kept some of her things and to which she could flee to sleep like a log on her days off. When nothing had been heard of David for almost two years, she became convinced that he was not only missing, but was dead.
There were moments when she wanted desperately to go to talk to the Greenaways, but thought that they would not like to hear about their son’s involvement with one of the Hardy family or, even if they did not mind, would probably not have much to say to her. She started entertaining young men in Connie’s flat, cooking for them, sewing on buttons, and then wrapping them around with her arms and legs.
Connie would come home and be unsurprised to find a Canadian greatcoat on the hallstand, or a young man with frizzy hair and a black torso washing at the handbasin, or a supply of luxuries from the American PX or the whiff of Gauloise or Camels about.
Once, she had said, intending lightheartedness, ‘God’s buns, Eve! You’re as dissolute as your father was.’
And Eve, stiff and tense, her eyes blazing, had gone white and said fiercely, ‘Don’t you ever, ever, say that I am like him. He’s a cruel, self-centred and dishonest bastard.’
Connie was taken aback by the passion in the attack: she had never supposed that Freddy’s behaviour had so affected Eve. When she had broken it to her daughter that she was leaving home, Eve had appeared quite sanguine: ‘Oh Ma, I’m so sorry for you, because I know how you hate messiness,’ although she never called her Ma or Mother from then on. Apart from her tendency to be secretive, it had seemed to Connie that Eve sailed through life untroubled and unperturbed, never hankering, but content with what she had. Nanny Bryce’s little pet.