The next day he pointed out the girl as she walked with a crowd of other lasses on the promenade. She was brassy looking thing, swinging along with her noisy gang. She had come on a trip to Llandudno with some of her friends from a munitions factory in Liverpool.
“She’s older than you,” I said shocked, despite myself.
“Only a couple of years,” said Billy, “that doesn’t matter.” He waved to her but she ignored him.
He didn’t mention her again and I was glad but I know he saw her again because that night, he climbed out of the boarding house window after we’d gone to bed. I was asleep when he came back but the next morning when I asked him, he told me I dreamed it. I know I didn’t.
But something else happened on that last week which took everything else out of our minds. We had one day left of our holiday and the weather had gone windy and the sea rougher than it had been for the whole time we’d been there. Mother said that we couldn’t go swimming anymore because it was too dangerous, but we begged and pleaded for one more paddle.
“All right, then,” she said, “but it’s against my better judgement. Make sure you only paddle.” She turned to our Billy. “Do you hear me, William?”
“Yes, Mother,” he said, as nice as pie.
Of course, when we got down to the water’s edge he didn’t only paddle. He splashed and jumped into and out of the waves so that his knickerbockers were wet up to the waist and even his hair was plastered to his forehead. I stood by the edge, allowing the trickles of water to run through my toes and suck them into the sand as the tide ran back to sea. We were moving with the water round the bay and ignored Mother’s cries to stay close to her. She was busy trying to keep hold of her hat, for the wind had really got up and rain was beginning to patter. Not many people were on the beach.
We had reached the pier where the water was deeper and swirling about and I had to hold onto one of the wooden support posts so that I wouldn’t lose my footing. How the next thing happened, I’m still not sure. I think it was a big wave that simply rolled in and tipped me up, off my feet, pushing my head under the water. Before I could even shout, it had swept me away from the post and out, away from the pier into the bay, where I was way beyond my depth.
“Help!” I yelled, nose and mouth full of seawater and desperately trying to remember how to swim. I truly thought I was going to drown. No, I can’t say that scenes from my short life passed through my mind, but I do remember being dreadfully frightened. It seemed that the harder I tried to swim to the shore, the more I was being pulled out. Of course the tide was on the ebb and we shouldn’t have been in the water at all. Then, just when I was sinking again beneath the angry waves, a hand grabbed at my collar and pulled my head up. It was our Billy.
“Chin up, carrot head,” he gasped and struck out for the shore, pulling me behind him. How we made it, I’ll never know. Put it down to Providence or probably to the fact of Billy’s great strength and ability, but whatever it was, all I know is that my brother dragged me out of the sea that day and saved my life.
What a fuss there was then. Mother crying and people running down from the promenade to help us up the steps. Billy was cheered as a hero and a little piece even appeared about him in the Daily Post. “Brave Schoolboy Saves Brother from Drowning.” It was on the same page as the story about the girl being murdered. One of the girls who come on trip from the Liverpool factory, it was. She’d been found dead on the Great Orme. Father cut out the bit about Billy and kept it in his wallet. He showed it to everyone.
Fair play to Billy, he never boasted about it. I got a bit of extra teasing, name calling and such, but I didn’t mind. You see, the way he could be when we were lads, and whatever happened between us in later years, made no difference. He was my brother and I loved him. He loved me too. I know that.
Chapter 5
I found Sharon looking as though she’d been weeping this morning when I came into the kitchen. She’d arrived early and had made me a bit of breakfast, before getting on with the washing.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Nothing that would interest you, Mr Wilde.” She was short with me and I probably deserved it because it isn’t nice to go interfering in another body’s business. But I was curious, because I’ve got used to her and young Thomas when she brings him, and these days I can’t do with upset.
“I might be interested,” I said. “Try me.”
She poured us a cup of tea then and told me that she was going to have to leave the flat where she and Thomas were living. It was a friend’s place, she said, and the friend wanted it back. They would have to go into Bed and Breakfast until the council could find them housing.
“What about the lad’s father? Can’t he help?” I’d never asked about him before. You never know these days, people don’t get married like they used to. She shook her head. She didn’t want anything to do with him. Neither, it seemed with her parents. From the little she said, they seemed to be a bad lot. They lived in that big estate in the town and I’ve heard stories about what goes on there.
“I want something better for Thomas and for me.”
She got up then and went into my parlour to tidy up while I ate my breakfast. She does have a look of the Major in a way. A sort of fine-boned face with a straight aristocratic nose. He was the younger son of Sir John Cleeton and I heard that he gave his mother and father endless grief. Always in trouble he was, what with gambling and drinking, let alone women. His elder brother had gone into the church, which was unusual even in those days. You would have thought he’d stay at home to look after the estate, but he had a vocation and took his religion seriously. Father told us that he’d crossed over and gone to Rome. For years I thought that meant that he was living in Rome, the city, but then I discovered that he had become a Catholic. He went into one of those strict monasteries where he died, still quite a young man.
That was why after Sir John died, Lady Gwendoline broke up the estate. She already knew that the Major wouldn’t look after it. The Hall was sold and used as a school for a while, but when it burnt down the ruins were left abandoned. Many’s the time that Billy and I played in those ruins, jumping from the tumbled walls and exploring the remains of the cellars. How we weren’t killed, I don’t know, for it was a dangerous old place, full of broken bricks and glass and twisted bits of metal. I did cut my leg badly once, falling down the cellar steps but when I ran home to have Mother wash and bind up the injury, I kept quiet about where accident happened. We’d been told often enough to stay away from the place and Father would have made sure I didn’t forget again.
An estate of houses has been built on that land now. It makes me laugh to think that for years only one family and their servants lived on the same amount of land that now houses three hundred people.
The Major had joined the army and served for many years in India. As a boy I knew nothing about his service career, but later when I was serving on the North West Frontier I came across people who had known him and spoke highly of his courage. In our village though, he was considered something of a joke and was never accorded the respect that his station in life should have demanded.
I suppose he lived off his pension and the money he was left from the estate but he was always broke and trying to borrow from his neighbours. Father wouldn’t lend him a penny.
“Lazy good for nothing,” I heard Father say one afternoon after the Major had been round wanting ‘a private word with your Papa.’
When I brought Father from the yard and showed him where the Major was waiting, in the garden by the laburnum tree, he groaned and said in a low voice, “next time he comes to the house, tell him I’m out. Do you hear me, Richard?”
I nodded and would have hung around to hear what was being discussed but Father sent me away. I went reluctantly back towards the house but when Father wasn’t looking, I dived down behind the dog kennels that were built on beside the back wall and peeped round.
“I’d be most grateful if you
could see your way clear into advancing me five pounds until Lady Day, Mr Wilde sir,” said the Major in his clipped voice. He had to bend slightly forward to talk to Father, being so tall and straight with a military bearing.
“No.” Father didn’t bother with genteel excuses.
“Three pounds then. It would be a kindness most appreciated.”
“No,” Father said again. “I don’t lend money. I buy and sell and give to charity when I’ve got a bit extra. But I don’t lend so I’ll wish you a good afternoon, Major Cleeton.”
I waited for an angry reply but none came. Instead, you’d have thought Father had given him a hundred pounds, the polite way that the Major took his leave. “Thank you for your time, sir,” was all he said as he doffed his soft brown hat and turned smartly away.
I came casually round the corner, pretending that I’d been on the other side of the house and that was when I heard Father saying about the Major being a good for nothing.
“He seems very polite,” I said innocently.
Father snorted and looked at me as though I said something insulting to him. “I’ve no time for him, nor any of his sort. You stay away from the gentry, Richard. They’ll do you no good.”
When I was growing up, the Major lived alone in the Gate House Lodge, which was all that was left of the Great Hall. I used to see him sometimes on my way home from school, or when we went fishing in the lake that had been part of the grounds. He might have been a wastrel, as Father said, but he was always polite and lifted his hat to old and young alike. When I was a little boy, Mother would hold my hand tightly if we met him in the lane. Why, I don’t know, because he never did anything but pass the time of day with her and bow when we moved on. Her cheeks would be red afterwards like they were when she was boiling the clothes in the copper.
Once, he gave me a book. I found it on the ground outside the lodge and thought it must be his. No-one else used that lane, except him and us. It was a back way from our farm to the village. Anyway, I picked it up and somewhat daring, for I was only about eight or nine at the time, I knocked at his door and waited with trepidation for him to answer. He took his time and when he opened the door, I could see straight away that he was drunk.
“Ah,” he said, swaying, “Master Wilde, I believe. And what can I do for you, sir?”
I held the book up; it was a copy of David Copperfield, a story which at that time I didn’t know. I think Mother had read it, she liked Mr Dickens. Anyway, I took a deep breath and said, “I found this in the lane, Major Cleeton. I thought it might be yours.”
“Did you, young sir?” was all he said, taking the book from me. “Well come inside, for a moment and we’ll consider the possibility.” He stepped back and held the door wider.
That was a facer. As I’ve said, I was a nervous boy and certainly not used to conversation with the gentry, but I was curious to see inside the lodge so, throwing caution to the winds, stepped inside.
I had a surprise. Father was always scornful of the Major and his poor farming methods. He had fifty acres of the old parkland on which he fattened a few bullocks, poor stock really and only kept, according to Father, to keep the grass down. They never fetched much at market and would be taken by the butchers from the poorer part of the town, where the customers weren’t so fussy. It was a cheap way of farming, and not for the likes of us. So I expected the inside of the Lodge to be cheap and poor also.
Well, it wasn’t. In the room where he led me, the walls were lined with fine polished furniture and fancy foreign rugs covered the floor. We had one of these rugs on the floor in our hall. It had been Mother’s wedding present from her parents. I’d thought that a poor gift, seeing as it was slightly ragged in one corner, but Mother said it was worth a bit of money and that she had always loved it. It was a reminder of her own home. The Major had several of those rugs, different sizes and overlapping in places. Floor to ceiling bookcases were on either side of the window, stuffed with books of various bindings and obviously well read. The covers of some were tattered and others half protruded from the shelf as though they had been pulled out for a look and then hastily pushed back. A winged leather chair stood by the fireplace with a table beside it on which a pile of books and a half full decanter and glass jostled for space. I was invited to sit on a leather stool while the Major sank into his chair and examined the book.
“David Copperfield. Wonderful!” He opened the book, read the title page and riffled through the pages, an unsteady smile on his thin face. “Yes, Master Wilde, this is indeed one of my books. There,” he turned back to the frontispiece where an intricately designed book plate had been pasted in. “There, see, my name, Edward Cleeton. My proof of ownership.” He smiled at me and lifted the decanter. “A drink, Master Wilde?” My face must have shown my amazement, for he nodded his head and set the decanter down again. “No, perhaps not. But,” he frowned as he looked thoughtfully around the room, “I must show my appreciation for your kindness.”
I wriggled on the stool, anxious now to get away, for even though nothing had happened untoward, I was mindful of Mother and Father’s caution when having dealings with the Major. “I have to go now, sir,” I whispered. “Mother will have tea on the table and worry for me not being home.”
He said nothing for a moment, still gazing round the room and frowning, then suddenly, he slapped the book down on his knee, and I jumped off the stool in fright.
“The very thing,” he roared and getting up, staggered over to where I was standing, now close to the door. “Please accept this book, Master Wilde, as a small gift for your thoughtfulness.”
Barely stopping to say thank you, I hurried out to the garden. “My compliments to your father,” the Major called after me, “and to your most charming mama.”
Mother pretended to be annoyed when I told her about the encounter and showed her the book and Father warned me not to go near the Major again. “Not that he’s bad man, Richard, but he’s not our class and we shouldn’t mix.” I think Mother would have said something about that, but she didn’t. She did ask me later to repeat the bit about ‘your most charming mama.’
That memory of the Major is still strong today, with Sharon about the house, taking a duster to the books on my shelves even now, as I write. I suppose if I wanted I could get up and find that same volume and show it to her. But I want to continue my story and that would be a distraction. That’s the trouble with writing these remembrances, my mind keeps wandering off the subject
The Major died in that cold winter after the Great War. Mother was one of the few people in the village who went to see to him when he was ailing and that caused a row, I can tell you.
My father had died a couple of years previously and Mother and Billy were running the farm. Billy was only in his teens but very much the man about the house and tried hard to rule us just the same as Father, so he was angry when Mother proposed seeing the Major.
“He’s no bloody use,” I heard Billy say, when Mother came out of the house with a basket of eggs and cheese to take to the Gate House. “You should stay away from him.”
“I’ll see no soul left alone to die,” she said defiantly, ignoring his opinion like no-one else would dare to. “Richard can come with me as my chaperone, if that’s what’s worrying you!” That was the winter that Elizabeth had gone back to Liverpool for a few weeks. Her father had got in touch and wanted to see her. Otherwise she would have gone with Mother.
Billy turned away then and got back to greasing the seed drill. Herbert Lowe was listening from the stable and Billy was embarrassed. “I want the bull’s stall cleaned before the day’s out,” he growled at old Herbert, “should have been done yesterday.”
“Aye, boss,” said Herbert. He had easily transferred his allegiance to Billy when Father died. The fact that our Billy was at least fifty years younger than him made no difference.
I went with Mother to the Gate House. It was December and extremely cold with a raw wind blowing off the mountain. I would have pre
ferred to stay by the kitchen range with my book, having a few unexpected days off school. I was coming up fourteen then and was at the grammar, but there were so many who had come down with the influenza that it had been decided to close the school until after Christmas. Billy wasn’t impressed. He had left school three years before, even though he hadn’t reached his thirteenth birthday. Some people are required to grow up quickly.
When we got to the Gate House, it had begun to snow. Only little flakes that swirled about in the wind, but it was bitter and the sky was heavy and dark.
“Major!” called Mother, rapping at the door as we stood in the porch. “Major, it’s Mary Wilde. Can I come in?”
We got no answer and I noticed that she was biting her lip when she looked at me. “He’s gone out,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
Mother shook her head. “I don’t think he can have gone out. According to Elinor Lowe, in the village, he’s not able to leave his bed. She came up to do a bit of cleaning for him.” She knocked again and then turned the handle and cautiously pushed open the door. “Major Cleeton! Hello!”
It was cold inside the house. The room where I’d sat when he gave me the book was dark, no lamps lit and the fire had gone out, leaving a small heap of sour grey ash in the grate. Mother clucked her tongue and pushing aside a pile of books on the polished table, put down her basket. She bustled through to the next room. It was a kitchen, with a range and a scrubbed deal table and a dresser loaded with pretty cups and plates. A fire was still flickering weakly in the range, and someone had left a few logs in a big basket beside it, ready for replenishment.
Mother ran a finger over the dresser and clucked again. “Elinor Lowe wouldn’t know a cleaning rag if it jumped up and bit her,” she hissed and marched out of the kitchen. Before I could stop her, for I was certain Billy would be angry if he knew what she was doing, she had turned back towards the little hall and was climbing the stairs.
The Love of a Lifetime Page 5