“How are things?”
“Pretty good. I’ve just been to the solicitors to hear Billy’s will. He’d left me everything.”
Fred nodded slowly. It was now nearly eight years since Billy went and nobody mentioned him any more. It was as if the people in the village had forgotten that he ever existed. Mother only talked about him occasionally, when she was remembering something that happened when we were children or perhaps when she talked about the horses. The adult Billy was beginning to be wiped from everyone’s memory. Not mine though. In those first years I thought about him every day.
“What about Elizabeth?”
I shrugged. “She said she wanted nothing. Refused to fight the will even though I went to Ireland and begged her. I’ve arranged that she’ll have an allowance. She’s accepted that.”
He grinned, allowing something of the old schoolboy Fred to show through. “She always had a mind of her own, that girl.” His face got serious again. “So it’s official then. Billy is dead.”
I nodded and we didn’t look at each other for a while. I studied the wing of my car, noticing that it had yet another dent in it. I would be able to afford a new motor now. Billy had left a substantial legacy, far more than I could have imagined. He must have been squirreling it away since Father died and I wondered how he’d managed it. Selling high and buying cheap, I expect. That had been his way.
“Come and have supper tonight,” Fred said suddenly. “Miranda was only saying the other day that we hadn’t seen you for ages.”
“Thanks, I will,” I said and got back in my car. It was strange. After all these years of uncertainty, Fred and I were back as friends.
You know, I was the beneficiary of three legacies. Billy’s, making me master of Manor Farm, the sole owner of nearly six hundred acres of land and all the buildings and stock upon it. That was as well as the money in the bank and, to my great surprise, a parade of shops in town. How had Billy come to buy those? Or why? I didn’t know for ages until one winter day, some years after, a woman came to the house asking to see me.
“Mr Wilde,” she said, after I’d shown her in and sat her on a chair in the drawing room. “Mr Wilde, can I talk to you about my rent?”
She was a woman slightly older than me and, from her appearance, the world hadn’t dealt kindly with her. Her face was lined and over-made up and her thin bare legs looked too obvious in a girlishly short skirt. This was not a woman who had lived what Mother would have called a respectable life.
“My agent handles all the rents,” I said. “I know nothing about them.”
We let out the shops and the flats above them and they brought in a good few bob. It was those and the rents from the couple of cottages on our land and the Gate House that made up the income that I gave to Elizabeth.
“I know that,” said the woman, “and I wouldn’t bother you normally but he’s put them up and I can’t afford to pay. I’ve nowhere else to go.”
Her face crumpled up then and I watched in horror as tears started to drip down her face. They made white channels in the bronzed make-up and was such an unpleasant sight that I looked away and picked up the poker to jab at the coals on the fire. I hated women crying.
She started rooting through her white plastic handbag and to my relief took out a handkerchief, but that wasn’t all, a piece of paper was produced and waved before my eyes.
“Read that,” she sniffed
My heart sank when I took the paper and scanned it. I recognised the writing instantly. It was Billy’s. ‘This is to confirm,’ he had scrawled, ‘that Edna Knox can stay in the flat, No.2, The Parade, for as long as she likes, at the same rent.’ It was dated during the war, but not witnessed nor even signed. In law it had no value. But I knew it as Billy’s promise.
“How much do you pay?” I asked.
“Ten and six a week.”
“And what are they putting it up to?”
“Three pounds.”
I didn’t know, but I guessed that this was about right. Ten shillings and sixpence was nothing really. But why had Billy made the promise?
“Why did he promise you this?”
I knew. In that moment I knew who she was and why she had this crumpled piece of paper. But it took her a while before she could bring herself to tell me.
“I promised to drop a case against him,” she muttered, finally. “In exchange for that.”
This was the prostitute that our Billy had beaten up, nearly killed, according to Fred, and this was why she hadn’t taken him to the law. I wondered what she’d looked like then. Younger, certainly, but no looker. And he had preferred her to Elizabeth. He must truly have been mad.
I felt angry with her. How dare she come to this house, bringing back old unpleasant memories? I shuddered when I thought of what he had done to her and how everyone had known it was him. Such a dreadful exposure of our family in public. I was inclined to throw her out on her ear and let her manage as best she might. After all, women like her know what the consequences might be when they take up that style of life. But I looked down again the paper and saw Billy’s badly spelled and untidy promise. I owed that to him.
“Very well, Miss Knox,” I said standing up. “I’ll contact my agent and we’ll leave the rent as it is. But remember, this is a legal document and you are never to mention it in public.”
It was lies, but she didn’t know that, she was simply grateful and tried to take my hand to thank me.
“He loved this house,” she said as I showed her to the front door. “And he spoke about you too. Very proud he was. Of your medals and all.”
That ten and six rent didn’t last for long. She died the following year in the hospital. Cancer, I think.
Marian had cancer. In the womb. That place of hers that had barely been used and had only been a nuisance to her.
Albert told me that she was going die; the doctor had told him, but not Marian.
“I’ll miss the old girl,” he said and surprised me by taking out a large hankie to wipe away copious tears. “Even though, you know…we haven’t been that close, in that way. We’ve been friends.”
She was quiet about her illness. We never mentioned it when she came here or I went to hers, but it was like an aura hovering over every conversation. And that last week, when she was in bed in her large house in town, the atmosphere of death was so thick that you could have cut it with a knife.
“You’ve been lucky, Dick,” she said. Her face was as white as the pile of pillows she rested against and her hands had become like claws. A black, leather-bound bible lay on the bed beside her and she stroked it every now and then, as though it was offering some measure of pain control. Who knows? Maybe it was.
“Lucky?”
“Yes,” she said. “You had Elizabeth. Someone you loved very much.”
“Well, you had that too. Albert is a grand chap.”
She smiled. Her teeth were sticky and strings of saliva clung to her lips. I could see and smell where previous saliva had dried in yellowing crusts at the corners of her mouth.
“No,” she whispered, “it wasn’t the same. I couldn’t be like that, it’s not in my nature. Any more than it was in our Billy’s. You’re different, you know that. But I always loved you like a brother.”
It was meant kindly, I supposed. She was letting me know that she understood the circumstances of my birth. I wasn’t really a Wilde. But she didn’t mind.
There was something I’d always wanted to know and this was my last chance to find out.
“Marian,” I leant forward and took her hand. “Did Billy know?”
“No,” she whispered. “It never occurred to him. You were Dick, his little brother and that was it.”
I sat back and thought about Mother and the Major. Could it be that I was conceived in that same bare bedroom where Elizabeth and I had our young days and nights of passion?
“Father was just as bad.” Marian’s whispered croak broke through my happy memories.
“W
hat?”
“Think about Mabel Parry,” she said.
We were quiet then and later she died, holding Albert’s hand while I stood by the window looking down at townspeople strolling casually along the avenue, enjoying the scented air of an early summer evening. I wept for my little sister, who was my big sister, really.
She left me money. Her money, as opposed to hers and Albert’s. I was embarrassed to receive it but Albert told me not to be so silly.
“I’ve got plenty, Richard, lad. Anyway she wanted you to have it. ‘It should go to the farm,’ she told me. ‘Father said that we always had to keep the place in the family.’” He drew on his cigar and gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling. “That father of yours has had a lasting effect on all his children.”
I bought The Oaks Farm with Marian’s money, the one that had been Sammy Philips place in the old days. Only a couple of hundred acres, but good land and good tenants. I sold it back to their son only a few years ago, but he went under. Didn’t bother to work it properly and he drank. Houses have been built there now.
Of course Mother had gone before Marian died. I told you that, didn’t I? Heart attack it was. I was left alone in this house. Time passed slowly, at first. I did business, I travelled and I spent several weeks every year with Elizabeth in Ireland. But in the evenings, here in the quiet, I did dwell on the past and some nights, the dreams came back. The Jap officer with his sword and then sometimes, Billy got into the dream. That was later, after Elizabeth died and I had a sort of breakdown. The doctors wanted to dose me up but I wasn’t having that. I went to India. Oh it was wonderful. It saved me.
He dropped off to sleep and I came into the kitchen leaving him to dream of India, of spice-laden air and the bright saris and dusty roads. One day I’ll go there too. He’s made it sound so wonderful.
The cleaner has gone and Nurse has driven into town. She is going to do the supermarket shopping today. Her offer. I wonder if she is trying to get back into my good books. There’s no reason why she should. In a few weeks we’ll never have to see each other again and life will be completely different.
Thomas has gone over to Jason’s place this afternoon. He likes Jason and it’s good for him to have a father figure. He asked me the other day if I was going to marry Jason.
“I might,” I said, “in a few months. Would you mind?”
“No. I like him and I like his house, although not as much as here. This has been the best time in my life.”
Poor kid. Nearly ten years old and only in the last year has he had the best time.
“You know we’ll be leaving here when Mr Richard dies? You understand that?”
His face fell. I shouldn’t keep telling him about Richard dying but I don’t want it to come as a shock.
“I know,” he said.
Now he has run across the fields, careless like a child should be and will have a lovely time while I sit here and write up these latest notes.
Chapter 30
“Are you there? Is the microphone attached? I want to tell you now. Now!”
“Yes! I’m here, I’m listening. Just speak, Richard. Don’t worry, I’ll hear you.”
“Oh, Elizabeth, why are you so cruel? I love you. You know that and what I did was for you. Not me.”
“Richard! Listen! It’s Sharon, not Elizabeth. Tell me, just tell me. There’s no-one else here. Carry on from where Billy was frightened by the bull. Ernie saved him. Remember?”
He started to speak then, and his voice was so quiet and weak that I had to sit on the bed beside him and hold the microphone close to his mouth.
“Oh, I do,” he whispered, “I remember everything. Ernie. Poor old chap. He lived a long time considering that he no sense. Even after his mother died and I found him in that hovel of a house, living on bread and pissing against the wall because the septic was blocked up. He should have starved to death then and would have if I hadn’t taken him in hand.
“Are you managing lad?” I asked a couple of weeks after the old lady passed on and all he did was nod, so I took no notice. I went away, to Ireland to be with Elizabeth, but when came back, I saw little Ernie gnawing at a bloody turnip in the top field and I knew. I went straight to his cottage that evening and the poor sod was standing in his kitchen looking at the gas cooker as though it was a space rocket. He hadn’t a clue. Didn’t even know how to feed himself. The place stank and the poor bugger hadn’t had a change of clothes since his mam died.
“Come on,” I said, “you’re living with me.”
Mrs Kirby, who did for me then, wasn’t pleased, but I made sure that she knew that it was either Ernie, or her job. She soon came round. He died only a few years back, in a nursing home. I put him there when he got really bad, not knowing who I was and not able to get about, but I missed him sitting by the fire, keeping me company.
“Richard!” I interrupted, “tell me about Billy and that Christmas week. What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do. Just tell me and get it off your chest. Then you can sleep easier.”
“…. will I, girl? Are you sure?”
“I think you’d better leave him now, Sharon. He needs to rest. Look. He can barely keep his eyes open. Anyway, its time for his injection.”
“No! You mustn’t, not now. Go away, Nurse. Please. Richard wants to finish his story. Let us have just another little while together and then I’ll call you. Please.”
“This is ridiculous. You can’t interfere with my treatment like this. If you don’t let me near him, I’m going to call Dr. Clewes.”
“Get out! Get out, now.”
“She’s gone, Richard. We’ve got a little time before she comes back.”
“….You’ve been a good girl, Sharon. I loved having you here. So good, so kind. Helping us.”
She’s been good hasn’t she, Mother? She can make the cheese and butter almost as well as you, can’t she, and she’s better than the men with the cattle. It was a good day when she came to us. Do you remember that day when she arrived? You and I were in the bedroom sorting out Father’s clothes and we saw her from the window, walking down the drive. That hat! Those curls flying crazily about in the spring breeze. And when she came into the kitchen I watched as she ate your fruit cake. Two pieces, wolfed down. But so dainty she was in her eating. And her eyes laughing at me over the plate. I was almost too shy to laugh back.
You looked at her ragged cuffs and I saw your mouth curl. Not our sort, was she? Oh, I hoped so much that you wouldn’t send her away. I loved her then.
I tried to tell her about Billy, you know, but she wouldn’t listen.
“Tell me nothing,” she said. “I don’t want to know. Whatever has happened is for you and your family to think about. I’m well out of it.”
She was lucky. I had it on my mind for years. Dear God, I was never free of it. If I got up in the morning and it was frosty with the mist lying low on the mountain, then I was back to that Christmas Day, reeling with the horror of what I’d found. And if my dog, Nell, went scrabbling for rabbits in some place that I didn’t know, then I would feel the bile rising in my throat and have to scream at her to come away.
Billy changed after that business with the bull. He was someone entirely different and we didn’t know how to cope with him. It wasn’t as if he had gone back to being violent. We could have almost managed that because I was well able to look after myself and Mother and now the men took their orders from me.
But then neither was he the dirty, drugged man who had spent his time lying in a stinking bed. Would that have been better? I don’t know. All I do know is that after that day in the bull pen, he barely moved from the chair in the kitchen or slept more than a few hours at a time. My brother had turned into a pathetic frightened wreck, silently refusing food and almost incapable of holding a conversation.
Christmas Day dawned milder than the previous days. But it was dull and misty and the cloud was low on the mountain. Mother and I exchanged small presents,
a scarf for her from me and she gave me a heavy gold signet ring. I thought it must have been Father’s and was surprised that it hadn’t been given to Billy, as the elder son. But when I examined it, the initials E.C. were part of the design and I knew who it had belonged to. It was the only hint Mother ever gave and even then she pretended that the fancy scroll was some sort of Celtic design. I was pleased to have it and even more pleased when I found that it fitted my left little finger perfectly. Elizabeth gave me a ribbing about it when she noticed it.
“One of the quality now, are you?” she laughed, but then agreed that it was very fine and that I should be happy to wear it. That was later though.
That Christmas dinner was hellish. Only the three of us: Mother, Billy and me sitting at the dining room table, the forced jollity of the occasion soon giving way to an anguished silence and the dinner eaten without any enjoyment. Mother had laid the table with her customary care, bringing out all the best china and silver and decorated the room with branches of holly and tinsel. But somehow, the decorations only made the whole day more painful. They were a terrible reminder of happier days when we had all had such fun.
We ate at midday as was our usual, even on Christmas Day, we farmers got up early to see to the stock so we couldn’t wait for a later dinner. For all that we ate, though, we might just as well have gone without. The slices of goose, so lovingly prepared by Mother, lay on my plate were only picked at so that the fat congealed white and thick and the vegetables grew cold. Her plate was the same. All we could care about was the still figure at the head of the table who gazed hopelessly into space and didn’t even attempt to pick up his knife and fork.
“Bring in the pudding, Richard,” said Mother quietly, gathering the dinner plates and spooning the left over vegetables into one bowl, but I shook my head. I didn’t want it and I knew that she would only push her helping around her dish.
“Let’s have it later,” I suggested, “when we feel more like it.”
The Love of a Lifetime Page 42