In any case, if her mother lived to be a hundred, as Father Andrew anticipated, how would she herself survive five more gruelling years? She already felt close to cracking up, especially when her mother cried – a hopeless, silent weeping that seemed almost worse than the fretful agitation of three years ago. Yet, it seemed unutterably selfish to be thinking of her own needs when there was no guarantee that Hanna would improve at Forest Court. Indeed, the move itself might be so disorientating, it could actually make her worse. And what about the risk of abuse: untrained, low-paid carers victimizing patients when no one was around to check?
Suddenly, all vacillation vanished from her mind. Returning to the sitting-room, she knelt in front of her mother so she could look right into her eyes. ‘You’re not a tyrant, Mama,’ she said. ‘You couldn’t be. It’s just not in your nature. And,’ she added, speaking loudly and distinctly – to herself as well as to Hanna; to Amy, Carole, Jacqueline and June, and to all her other friends and neighbours, ‘I promise faithfully I shan’t leave you – ever – not this Christmas or any Christmas, let alone for longer. You can stay here, safe at home with me – yes, however long you live.’
Her decision was right – she knew that. Hanna had looked after her when she was at her lowest and her worst – ill, despairing, reckless and rebellious – and then looked after Amy, too; a devoted mother and grandma, not sparing a thought for her own needs, or life, or job.
The least she owed her in return was to be equally devoted.
Chapter 3
‘ETERNAL REST GRANT unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her …’
Maria was unable to shift her gaze from that loathsome, hateful coffin. Despite its gleaming mahogany and the shower of white chrysanthemums extravagant on top, it seemed cruel in the extreme that her beloved mother should be cramped up, claustrophobic, in a box, when, apart from the last tragic decade, she had been always busy, active, upright.
‘Mum, darling,’ Amy whispered, seeing her distress.
Maria clutched her hand – a life-raft. She had been on tenterhooks all week, acutely worried that Amy and Hugo might not make it for the funeral, with such heavy snow blocking roads and disrupting all the trains. Her overwhelming relief at their last-minute arrival had made her realize just how hugely she had missed them during her long, lonely years of daughter-deprivation. Indeed, since Hanna’s death, they had become even more important, as her only remaining family.
‘Lord have mercy … Christ have mercy,’ Father Charles intoned, resplendent in a black-and-silver chasuble. ‘Absolve, we beseech thee …’
Words were flashing past, but it was impossible to grasp them. She was reliving the shock of Boxing Day, when she had dragged herself downstairs, pre-dawn, to take Hanna her usual tea and milky porridge, and found not a living, breathing mother but an already stiffening corpse.
‘O God, Your nature is ever-merciful …’
Mercy, mercy – the word was near unbearable. If God were truly merciful, He would have given her a chance to say goodbye; ensured she was there when Hanna actually died; allowed her time to hold her mother close, comfort her and pray with her, as she had always planned and promised.
‘… bid Your holy angels lead her home to Paradise …’
Could Hanna really be in Paradise, joyfully reunited with her husband after sixty-six years of widowhood? Or was she simply decomposing, soon to be food for worms? The thought induced a wave of nausea, not helped by the overpowering scent of the lilies on the altar, or the choking fumes of incense that seemed to have lodged deep in her throat
She jumped as Hugo squeezed past her in the pew, having totally forgotten that he had agreed to give the first reading. The last ten days had passed in a sort of churning fog of desolation, disbelief and endless busyness – a whole tidal wave of arrangements and decisions, at a time when she could barely decide whether to offer people tea or coffee when they called to pay their respects.
She tried her best to concentrate by focusing on Hugo’s tall, athletic figure, standing by the altar; his blue-grey eyes and neatly cut blond hair. How extraordinary it always seemed that Amy should marry someone so English; someone from a good professional family, his father a retired headmaster, his mother a magistrate. If only she could run time back to Amy and
Hugo’s wedding, held in this same church; be singing celebratory hymns rather than mournful dirges. Hugo was now returning to the pew and she hadn’t taken in a single word he had read. And when the congregation stood for the Gospel, she was still lost in her own thoughts and had to be nudged to her feet. Her distraction was due partly to the fierce internal battle she was fighting: one part of her determined to remain courageous and controlled, as her mother would expect, while another, reprehensible part wanted simply to give way to her grief; startle these worthy villagers with wild shrieks of lamentation. And didn’t she have reason? Since the moment of her birth, she had been the centre of her mother’s life, the main point of Hanna’s existence, her overriding concern; and now mother and daughter were cut callously adrift. Yet, whatever the pain of losing such a bond, she knew she must restrain herself. Grief could be excessive; even a sort of greed – and greed was sinful and selfish, as Hanna had taught her early on.
‘Amen,’ she said, as much to her mother as to the Gospel, before settling wearily back in the pew for Father Charles’s homily.
He smiled around at the congregation, extending both hands in his usual declamatory manner. ‘Welcome to you all, dear people. We are gathered here to mourn the passing of our sister, Hanna, and I like that phrase, “the passing of Hanna”, rather than Hanna dying, because, as Catholics, we know that death is not the end. Our faith tells us that Hanna lives still …’
If only, Maria thought. If her mother could be granted just one more hour of life, with all her faculties intact, then she could apologize for her grouchiness on what had proved to be their final day together. How appallingly remiss it now seemed to have spent Christmas Day resenting her captivity and longing to be with Amy in London, surrounded by cheerful people, instead of being cooped up with her silent, brooding mother, who had refused to swallow anything beyond a dab of mashed potato and a scant spoonful of custard.
‘It seems a paradox,’ Father Charles continued, against a background of muffled coughs, ‘that at baptism we celebrate dying to this world, whereas at funerals we celebrate rising to new life.’
Her shame mounted as she remembered Amy’s baptism – again, in this same church; Hanna her usual valiant self, but she a mutinous rebel, thinking less of her new baby than of her shattered hopes and dreams.
‘Hanna’s faith never wavered throughout her long, unselfish life, despite the crosses she had to bear, chief of which was the loss of her husband, Kenneth, a heroic sergeant, slaughtered in France, after the D-Day landings. And, only three years earlier, she’d had to endure the equally tragic death of her mother.’
Father Charles paused to clear his throat, then raised his voice above a wailing infant. ‘When she came up here as an evacuee, she was pregnant and alone, yet she didn’t waste time feeling sorry for herself. She thought only of the welfare of her baby, who was born here in the village, of course. So, when the other evacuees were sent back home, she decided to stay up here and make a new life for herself and her child. And we’re very glad she did stay, because she’s proved an extremely valuable member of our community. Right from the start, when she had very little to live on, she proved her independence and resilience. She took in sewing, found a job at Wood End Farm, helping with the paperwork and typing and, later, worked at Mrs Plowden’s, the draper’s, where many of us older folk remember her.’
Maria’s cheeks were burning at the contrast with her own behaviour, when she, too, had a baby, and no man around to help. She had cursed the Pope for banning contraception; cursed even her saintly mother for bringing her up a Catholic.
‘So today, dear people, we celebrate the life of Hanna and her many sterling qualities. But we mus
tn’t forget that there’s another, even greater celebration, taking place in Heaven, because not only has Hanna been reunited with her husband, at last, but one of God’s most faithful servants has come home to her eternal rest.’
Maria had to clench her fists and clamp her lips together to stop herself from breaking into sobs. And she could no longer cling to Amy, because she had arranged with Father Charles that, at the end of his sermon, her daughter should say a few concluding words about her beloved grandmother.
She watched as Amy went up to the lectern, amazed, as always, that she had produced a child who was all the things she wasn’t: slim, stylish, elegant, successful, clever, confident. In all those aspects, she resembled Hugo, yet in appearance they were strikingly different: Amy sultry-dark and exotic-looking; Hugo tamer in his colouring and dress.
‘I owe so much to Grandma,’ Amy began, in the refined accent she’d adopted at Cambridge; a marked contrast to her former Northumbrian burr. ‘She more or less brought me up, because Mum had to work, of course.’
Maria shifted in her seat. Did Amy even know that, far from working, she’d been plunged into depression, unable to change so much as a nappy, let alone earn the money to buy them? Hanna, always loyal, had never divulged to a single soul the sad truth of those first years.
‘We were three women in the house,’ Amy went on, showing no trace of nerves or hesitation, ‘but we all pulled together to make it work and I can honestly say that there’s no one I love more than Mum and Grandma – well, except for my husband, of course,’ she added, flashing Hugo an apologetic smile, which produced a ripple of laughter from her listeners. ‘Father Charles has already praised my grandmother, and all of us here know how special she was. But I want to praise my mother, because she deserves a tribute, too, for her unswervable devotion to Grandma during the last extremely difficult years. I know, because I’ve barely seen her. However tired she was, or desperate for a break, she refused to come and chill out with me in Dubai, or even London, because she knew how much her absence would upset Grandma.’
Maria’s flush had now changed to one of embarrassment. It seemed wrong to hear herself lauded, when, in point of fact, she had often been in tears of frustration at her mother’s increasing dependency, or racked with fear about how much longer she could cope with her at home. No one, not even Amy, realized quite what huge reserves of patience it required. And, even now, she felt burdened by the amount she had to do – not just the whole business of probate, but the total renovation of the cottage. Whilst devoting her time to Hanna, she had neglected the house and garden, and now the latter was overgrown and choked with brambles, and the former sorely in need of a face-lift.
She glanced up at Amy, svelte in her smart black suit; her dark hair swept up on top; a single strand of pearls – a gift from Hugo’s mother – gleaming in the light. ‘Stop!’ she wanted to shout, as her daughter continued singing her praises. ‘I don’t deserve this tribute.’
‘So I’d like to conclude by saying, “Well done, Mum!” I know everyone here agrees with me that you’re every bit as unselfish and remarkable as Grandma was herself and, to me, you’re simply the best mother in the world.’
‘Hear, hear!’ Hugo whispered, edging a little closer in the pew and laying his arm across Maria’s back and shoulders. And, only then, did she sob, letting her tears fall unchecked. She was crying not for her mother, nor in response to Amy’s truly touching words, but because she had never had a husband to put his warm, supportive, loving arms around her.
Chapter 4
‘I DON’T KNOW about you two, my loves, but I’m completely knackered.’ Maria collapsed into a chair, kicking off her tight black shoes. ‘Mind you, the wake went well, don’t you think? I mean, all those people turning up, even in this lousy weather. Thing is, it’s so hard to keep chatting and smiling when …’ Her voice tailed off.
‘Yes, I felt choked, too,’ Amy said, ‘especially when I got talking to that weird old Mrs Melrose. I hadn’t realized she’s the same age as Grandma. She said they’ve been friends for over sixty years, and she was telling me how hard it was when Grandma first came up here, not knowing a soul and being billeted on strangers. And even on VE Day, when everyone was dancing in the streets, Grandma must have felt more like howling, especially with her mother dead as well. I never even knew how that happened, but according to Mrs Melrose the house suffered a direct hit in the Blitz.’
‘Yes,’ Maria reflected, ‘in 1941. And Mama only escaped because she was working in a munitions factory and so not allowed home except at weekends. The bomb fell on a Tuesday and your great-grandma was killed outright. In fact, her life was pretty wretched altogether, as far as I can gather. Mama never said a lot about it but apparently Theresia was orphaned very early on and brought up by nuns in a convent in Ossiach. Eventually, she became a maid to Lady Stanley, who was a benefactress of the convent and living locally. And when her ladyship returned to London, she took Theresia with her, which is how she came to be in England.’
‘So how did she meet Great-Grandpa?’ Amy asked.
‘Oh, that’s quite a romantic saga. He fell head over heels in love with her when she was only sixteen, but, of course, the nuns weren’t having any of that! They brought her up incredibly strictly and refused to let her even look at boys. But, once she was in London, Franz-Josef simply followed her over and kept on pestering and pestering until, at last, she agreed to marry him.’
‘I know the feeling,’ Hugo laughed. ‘Amy took a fair bit of persuasion before she married me.’
Amy gave him a friendly punch. ‘Only because life was so hectic. There just wasn’t time to plan a wedding.’
‘Well, you didn’t do too badly,’ Maria said, smiling as she took a sip of her wine. ‘The whole village still talks about it – your fantastic dress and the amazing cake and everything.’
‘But what about Theresia?’ Hugo enquired. ‘Did things go well once she’d tied the knot?’
‘Not really. Lady Stanley dismissed her, for a start, and money was terribly short. So she had to take in sewing, and Franz-Josef was only a waiter, so he can’t have been earning much. But, despite the lack of cash, he remained a romantic at heart and had plans for a great big family – five boys and five girls was the general idea, I think. But those other nine were never to be, because, of course, he was interned and, after that, he became a broken man.’
Amy shuddered. ‘You know, when I first told Hugo that my own great-grandpa was sent to break stones in a prison camp, like a common criminal, he was gobsmacked, weren’t you, darling?’
Maria flushed, aware of the contrast between her own beleaguered ancestors and Hugo’s well-to-do family, rooted securely in Shropshire from generations back. ‘Well, you see, he was classed as an “enemy-alien” and so a danger to national security, because no one really understood that Austro-Hungarians were different from Germans. Which is why, all the time she lived here, Mama never breathed a word about her foreign origins. She didn’t even confide in the parish priest, which I suppose is understandable. I mean, she was miles from home, and pregnant, and recently bereaved, so better to play safe. The last thing she’d want was to be shunned as a “bloody German”.’
‘But, going back to Franz-Josef,’ Hugo said, draining the last of his wine, ‘what happened to him after his release?’
‘Well, for one thing, Mama was distinctly put out, when this haggard stranger showed up! She was only four at the time, you see, and had no idea who he was, because he’d been interned in 1915, just months after her birth. And, anyway, she tended to be excluded, as he became increasingly dependent on his wife and perhaps resented having to share her with a child. And he couldn’t get work, since people still suspected him of being on the enemy side. And, saddest of all, he died of pneumonia, when Mama was only sixteen, so she and Theresia were on their own in London, again, and had to get by as best they could. And being Austro-Hungarian must have been even more of an issue then, what with Theresia’s foreign accent
and her unpronounceable surname.’
‘Oh, Mum, it’s all so tragic!’
‘Well, I can’t speak for Theresia, but as far as Mama’s concerned, she wasn’t a tragic person, as you very well know. And life was easier for her than it ever was for her parents. I mean, she didn’t have an accent and no one knew her maiden name, Radványi. Hanna Brown sounded reassuringly English. She was actually christened Johanna – shortened to Hanna in the convent – and most people assumed it was the English Hannah, with an “H” at the end.’ Maria gave a sudden laugh. ‘It was the Brown that saved her bacon, though! In fact, I sometimes wonder if she married Papa just on account of his surname.’
‘Yes, and then her darling Mr Brown goes and gets blown to bits,’ Amy said, bitterly.
‘But, even when she was widowed, which was devastating, obviously, she always made the best of things. She told me once, much later on, that the night she heard the news, she happened to be knitting Papa a sweater, and she insisted on finishing it during the next few weeks, because she couldn’t believe he’d never actually wear it. And, apparently, he’d given her this bar of chocolate – part of his army rations, I suppose – which she said she kept for years and years, as a sort of precious memento, even when it had gone all grey with mould.’
An Enormous Yes Page 3