What the Heart Keeps

by Rosalind Laker

  “What’s all that about, Mr. Fernley?” Maudie questioned, shading her eyes with her raised forearm to gaze shorewards, a tin of worms for the fishing-hooks in her charge.

  “I’ll go and find out.” Alan exchanged a deep glance of shared foreboding with Lisa as he handed the rod to her and joined others streaming off to investigate. As Lisa began to roll in the fishing-line, a knot of icy dread lay heavy in the pit of her stomach. When Harry made a protest at what she was doing, she answered him firmly.

  “I’m afraid there’ll be no more fishing this time, Harry dear. I believe when your papa comes to tell us what he has learned, he’ll be wanting us to return to London with him right away.”

  Something in her voice quietened any further protest from the child, who could tell she was upset. He began to help her in her task as best he could, while Maudie, suddenly equally subdued as if she and his Mama shared a secret sorrow between them, began to tip the worms over the rails into the sea.

  When Alan returned, he found Lisa waiting hand in hand with his son, her straw hat-brim and the ruffles of her polka-dotted dress flapping a little in the freshening wind, the ribbons of Harry’s sailor hat aflutter. They, with Maudie behind them, formed a little tableau of calm and composure that was in refreshing contrast to the terrible excitement of the milling throngs that he had just witnessed on the promenade.

  “Germany has violated the neutrality of our staunch ally. German forces have invaded Belgium. It is war, Lisa. Our beloved country is at war.”

  She flung herself into his arms. They stood wrapped in close embrace while all around them other people reacted in their individual ways to the spreading news. Some wept and others cheered or stood in stunned disbelief. An enterprising Pier stall-holder had whipped out a tray of Union Jacks and proceeded to sell them to a rapidly forming queue, creating a bright flutter in all directions. Harry, bewildered by all that was happening around him, moved to grab hold of his stepmother’s skirt and his sense of security was immediately restored. He hoped his father would buy him one of the Union Jacks that everyone was beginning to wave. He wanted to be part of that brave show of red, white, and blue.

  Twelve

  Lisa noticed that the first thing Alan did upon their return to London was to file away all the papers on the proposed second cinema. It was being shelved for the duration of the war. Although many people seemed to be of the opinion that the fighting would all be over by Christmas, he did not share that optimistic view. Before the first week was out, one of the projectionists, who was in the Territorials, was called up and Alan had to engage a replacement. Billy Morris, eager to change his commissionaire’s uniform for that of his old regiment, went to volunteer, but he bore the tell-tale scars of debilitating wounds suffered in the Boer War and he was turned down as unfit for service. His bitter disappointment was matched by his wife’s relief at not having to go through constant anxiety for his safety all over again.

  The Fernley continued to play to packed houses. Its comfort had always won over patrons from the more barren cinema-halls in the vicinity, and Lisa maintained a high standard of booked films. Khaki and navy blue uniforms began to appear liberally in the audience as more and more men were called up from the reserve or volunteered for service with the forces. Marching troops and horses and wagons bound for the boat-trains became a familiar sight, and bystanders cheered them on their way. Recruiting posters began to appear on hoardings and buildings and on the sides of the red London buses. Before the first month of the war was out, the Germans had occupied Brussels and taken several important strategic positions, and the battle of Mons had been fought. There were casualty lists in the newspapers.

  On the first Sunday in September, Alan drove Lisa into Berkshire to pay the promised visit to his late grandparents’ old home. As it happened, Harry had developed a cold, and Lisa had thought it best that he should stay at home. It would also give Alan the chance to talk to her without interruption when the moment was right for him, and she had planned things to say in her turn that should put his mind at rest about the future. In Brighton there had been a brief lull in the tension that always lay below the surface of their lives, but once the holiday was over everything had been the same as before. Away from London she was hoping that they might recapture that harmony of companionship for a few hours, and as the drive progressed she knew her hopes were to be fulfilled. The gentle green countryside, the woods, the quiet villages, and the hedgerows full of wild flowers were like balm after the hectic war atmosphere of the city. A glorious feeling of relaxation swept over her and she could tell that Alan was similarly affected.

  Maple House stood in two acres of land. She loved it at first sight in spite of its shuttered look and neglected lawns and garden. There were plenty of fine old trees that had given the house its name, and an orchard with a stream that ran alongside. It had been built about 1820 and, although large, it was quite unpretentious, a rectangular limestone block enhanced by graceful windows and a semicircular porch. She was out of the automobile almost before it had stopped and ran to try to peer in through a crack of the inner shutters, but everything was tightly shut.

  “We’ll live here one day, won’t we?” she asked eagerly as they stood in the porch, he selecting the right key from the bunch he held in his hand. “We could put up a swing for Harry in the orchard and he would have all this wonderful space in which to run about.”

  Alan’s glance was amused. “You haven’t seen the inside of the house yet. It’s old-fashioned.”

  “That won’t bother me.”

  As the door swung open she skipped over the threshold ahead of him into the hall. While she stood looking about her, he went into the drawing-room and opened the inner shutters to let in the autumnal light. All the furniture was covered in dust-sheets, and faded patches on the walls showed where pictures had hung. She followed him into the room to lift the corners of the sheets and exclaim at the fine old rosewood and walnut furniture. He told her that the pictures, mostly oil-paintings and watercolours, were stored in crates somewhere in the basement, as were the china and silverware. When she had fully examined the room, she stood with her hands clasped, taking a deep breath of the dust-moted air as if it held all the fragrance of a flower garden.

  “This is a real home.” Her eyes were shining. “I can tell. It has roots. I could make them my roots since I have none of my own. Let’s see the rest.”

  They explored from the basement kitchen to the attics. As they went through the bedrooms, she played a game of allotting one to Harry and another to their own use, and selecting guest-rooms. She exclaimed with admiration over the bathroom with its rose-patterned Victorian bath in a mahogany surround. When they were downstairs again and she had looked into every nook and cranny, they went out through the rear door to the stables. There he unlocked a pair of double-doors and flung them wide to reveal an early type of horseless carriage residing inside. She gave a hoot of delighted laughter and scrambled up into the high seat behind the steering wheel.

  “Did your grandfather actually drive this?” She pressed the bulb of the horn and the blast of noise would have done credit to a fog-bound ship.

  “Yes.” Alan leaned an arm on the door and set a foot on the running-board as he looked up at her. “As a small boy I had my first experience of a drive in this vehicle. We wore dust-goggles and driving coats. My grandmother had one made to fit me. I’m sure my interest in engineering stems from the days when my grandfather used to tinker about with the engine whenever it broke down, which was quite frequent, needless to say.”

  She sat back in the seat and looked wistfully through the open doors at the old house. “Is it really beyond our pockets to live here? Not all the time, of course, but maybe we could drive down after the last show on Saturday nights and return to London on Monday mornings.”

  “Would it mean so much to you?”

  She shut her eyes on a blissful sigh before meeting his gaze again. “I never realised it until I was in the house today, b
ut I’ve been a rolling stone all my life. I confess to you now that the greatest hardship I have ever known was to leave the States to come back to England. There were special reasons that contributed to it being such a yoke to bear, but one factor was that, apart from all else, I had begun to feel that I belonged to the West. Do you know, I was the only one in the orphanage party who did not weep when she saw the vastness of the prairies. I had a lot to plot and think about at the time, but somehow it was as if I had a sense of destiny that enabled me to adapt to the changes taking place. I knew happiness at Quadra Island, and again at the sawmills in the States. For a while I even thought it would be good if you opened a proper cinema at Dekova’s Place instead of moving to Seattle or anywhere else. I was settling down. I was beginning to feel that I belonged, and for a rootless orphan that meant more than any words can describe. Naturally that was before — ” Her voice trailed off and she looked ahead again, her gaze abstracted, her fingertips trailing absently along the wheel.

  “Before what?”

  She shrugged as if shaking off thoughts she wanted to keep at bay. “Before you made your decision to return to England, of course,” she said briskly.

  For a few moments he had believed her to be on the brink of opening her heart and telling him what had created those barriers between them that had become seemingly impossible to break down. He knew she had never loved him, but she did care for him in her own way, perhaps more than she knew.

  “There are means by which this house could be opened up for you and Harry to make a home here,” he said, the omission of himself deliberate.

  He saw her face blanch and her hands slip from the wheel into her lap. “You’ve volunteered for service, haven’t you?” He nodded. “The Royal Engineers is to be my regiment.” “I’ve known you would go from that moment on the Pier at Brighton when you said we were at war. When is it to be?” “I’ll be called to an Officers’ Training Corps camp in about ten days.”

  “So soon!” She pressed her fingers into her white cheeks. “This house must have cast a spell on me. I’d forgotten the war! I’d forgotten everything. What must you think of me? I went blithering on about coming here at weekends when the whole purpose of leaving Harry behind, as far as I was concerned, was for us to talk about our being separated by your going away. I was sure you would tell me today.”

  He opened the door of the vehicle to take the leather-upholstered seat beside her. “Since we came back from Brighton, just about four weeks ago, I’ve been putting everything in order and tying up business ends here and there. A capable manager can take charge of The Fernley without finding anything overlooked in files or records. I’ve been interviewing men with previous experience of cinema management all the week.”

  She was aghast. “I don’t want anyone else there! I’ll run the cinema in your absence. I know all the ropes. I can handle everything.”

  “What about this house? Now that a second Fernley cinema has to wait until the war is over, there’s some spare cash to put the place to rights for you.”

  “The house can wait until you’re home again. Oh no, Alan! The responsibility of The Fernley must be mine alone.”

  “It would mean doing my work as well as your own. You’d never have any free time.”

  “I wouldn’t want any when you’re away. I was prepared to tell you all this today. I never thought you’d consider letting anyone else take over from me.”

  He began to smile. “I haven’t. You shall be in charge. I’ve been looking for a reliable assistant manager, not someone to take away your authority. It was only your enthusiasm for my grandparents’ old home that made me wonder if you’d prefer to wait in the countryside for my return from the war.”

  She shook her head quickly. “The waiting would seem twice as long if I had nothing to do.”

  “I’ve short-listed three suitable applicants. Would you like to be at the final interviews tomorrow?”

  “Yes, I would.” She reached out a hand and cupped his face. “I pray this war will be over soon,” she declared fervently. “It will be once I get to France,” he joked drily.

  She managed a little chuckle, but there was only sadness in her.

  Before leaving the house they picnicked in the orchard, sitting on a plaid motoring rug spread out on the grass. While Alan refastened shutters and relocked doors, Lisa picked rosy-red apples from the low branches and filled an old basket they found in the stables to take the harvest home with them. When they drove away, he drew up outside in the road to get out and padlock the gates. She looked back over her shoulder to register a last glimpse of the house through the trees. She hoped that the next time she saw it Alan would be safely back from the war and that her sense of belonging to the place would still be there. This quiet corner of England could not be less like the sweeping west of North America, but she loved both areas with equal attachment, and neither could ever replace the other in her affections.

  *

  At first Lisa did not have any preference for the three applicants who were interviewed the next day. All seemed to be agreeable men and well qualified to fill the post. Her choice finally settled on Reginald Hardy, who was slightly older than Alan. Tall and thin with a longish nose and kindly eyes, he was smart in appearance and well-spoken. She thought his only fault might be that he would want to shoulder too much, and she had no intention of letting control of The Fernley slide out of her hands.

  Mr. Hardy began work the next day, Alan introducing him to the cinema’s own particular routine. The newcomer was well acquainted with everything and everybody when the day came for Alan to leave. It was a departure without fuss, as was wanted, his farewells at the cinema having taken place the night before. He hugged and kissed his son, who was then led away by Maudie, leaving him alone with Lisa.

  “I hope to see you in about six weeks,” he said to her. “In any case, I’m sure to get embarkation leave before I’m sent to France. We’ll have some time together yet, my darling.”

  They exchanged a long kiss. Then he took up his suitcase and hurried down the stairs from the apartment to the taxi waiting at the kerb. She watched the taxi out of sight from the window.

  His expectation of leave came to naught. The demands of the war meant the least possible delay in getting highly qualified men of his calibre to the Front, particularly as the Germans had taken many inland Belgian towns and it was essential to keep them from reaching the Channel ports. Six weeks later he telephoned Lisa to meet him at Victoria Station the following day at noon when he would be on a troop boat-train to take ship at Folkstone. She allowed plenty of time to get there, but the congestion of traffic and two long hold-ups due to a recruiting rally delayed her until she feared she would miss him altogether. Plunking the fare into the taxi-driver’s hand, she turned to speed into the station, dodging in and out of the milling throng of passengers, military and civilian, to reach the platform. With the exception of the sergeants in charge, the soldiers were all aboard the train and many whistled and called out to her as she ran along, managing to avoid collision with other people there to see off sons, fathers and brothers. Then, ahead of her, she suddenly sighted Alan anxiously watching out for her. His expression and hers changed to one of mutual joy that she was in time. As she rushed into his arms the troops in the nearby carriages roared their approbation at their officer’s good fortune in securing an enviable kissing session with such a pretty woman.

  “It was the traffic,” she explained, still breathless from her running as they drew apart, his arms still about her.

  “I guessed that, but I was sure you’d get here somehow.” “How are you?” Her eyes searched his face solicitously.

  He grinned at her. “In the pink, as the soldiers say.”

  “Harry has sent you a picture he painted.” She took it from her purse and he slipped it into his pocket to look at later, unable to spare one of these last moments for anything but the sight of her lovely face.

  “Thank him for me,” he said fondly. “Tell
him I’ll put it up on display wherever I am, be it tent or trench.”

  “He asks about you all the time.”

  There was the slightest pause. “Don’t let the boy forget me.”

  She understood the significance of those words and her heart contracted with fear for his safety in all the dangers that lay ahead. For a moment she almost answered with forced lightheartedness that the boy would have no chance since Alan would soon be home again for good, but this was a time for promises and not for any pretence, however well intentioned. “He’ll never forget you. I’ll see to that.”

  He nodded satisfied. All along the train, doors were slamming as those in charge went aboard to rejoin their comrades. One of Alan’s fellow officers was leaning out of a carriage close by, keeping the door open for him to make a last minute dash. Time was running out. As the guard blew his whistle sharply and waved his green flag, Alan gave her a passionate kiss of farewell.

  Suddenly she found she could not let him go without saying the words to him that she had never said and which she knew he had always longed to hear from her above all else. “I do love you, Alan.”

  His face became transfigured. She could never have believed that a man about to face the most horrific confrontation conceived by the human mind could have looked so happy. From the train his companions were shouting to him to come aboard, the wheels taking their first turn. He pressed his loving mouth to hers once more and then tore himself from her to leap into the carriage. The door slammed after him and he leaned from the open window as she ran alongside.

  “I’ll get leave soon,” he called exuberantly to her. “Those of us who surrendered our embarkation leave in view of the emergency are to be the first on the list for Blighty in a few weeks time!”

  “I’ll be waiting!”

  The gathering speed of the train outdistanced her, its smoke wreathing back over the platform. She came to a standstill and waved until she could see him no more. It had been the truth when she had said she loved him. It was a very different love from the consuming, everlasting passion she felt for Peter, but it was in no way demeaned by that comparison. She knew she would remember that joyous look on her husband’s face until the end of her days.