by R P Nathan
Frances looked uncertainly at Margret for a moment but then there was a shout from the group by the windows. “Oh listen to what he’s got to say, Frances. He’s come all the way from London and he’s lovely.” There was much laughter from that end of the room. John turned pink.
“Mind your own business Elsie!” Frances called back; but we caught her giving a stagey wink as well. “Fine then,” she said turning to us once more. “It’s not like I get many visitors so I can’t look a gift horse in the mouth. What are you called, dear?” she asked me.
“Sarah.”
“Oh I like the name Sarah. I’m going to sit next to you.” She came forward and took my arm. “I like you already. Aren’t you pretty? Don’t you think she’s pretty?” she said to Patrick and John. I felt myself blushing profusely. “You two boys sit down there,” she said pointing at the couch opposite. Margret disappeared again to get some tea.
“And what are you called?”
“Patrick.”
“John.”
“Good. Now we all know each other.” She frowned for a moment. “I’m so bad with names and faces and everything these days. I can’t remember if you’ve been before. Are you from the school again? Because I don’t really get any visitors these days. That’s the problem with not having any children you see. Everyone else either forgets about you or gets too old. And who’d want to come to a place like this anyway? Unless they want something…” She looked down at her lap, musing. I cast a glance at John but he nodded at her hand holding to my arm. I gave a little sigh.
“Did you never get married then Frances?” I said tentatively.
She looked up again. “What was that dear?” I repeated the question. “Oh no. Funny isn’t it.”
“Did you never meet anyone you liked?”
“Not really. Not after Howard anyway.”
“And who was Howard?”
“He was my sweetheart. Just before the war, dear. Just before. I was only twenty-six then. Can you believe it?” She looked at me, her face crinkled and old. “Can you believe I even was twenty-six once? I can’t.”
“You look very good for your age.”
She smiled at me happily. “Oh thank you dear. You’re very kind. I knew I was right to sit next to you. You should look after her,” she said staring at Patrick admonishingly. He looked back startled, his head nodding obediently.
“Is he your boyfriend?” she whispered to me coyly.
I giggled. “No he’s my cousin.”
“Oh is he?” She sounded disappointed for a moment but only for a moment. “He does look like you, you know. He’s quite handsome just like you. You’re all good looking you know. So young,” she said, smiling at me warmly, her eyes almost disappearing in a mass of wrinkles but sparkling happily, holding tight to my arm and giving it a little shake. “So much time.”
“And Howard,” I said gently, hoping the dread I felt didn’t show through. “Your Howard, what happened to him?”
“Oh he was my sweetheart. So lovely. Always funny and such a lovely moustache. Can’t ever see a man with a nice moustache and not think about him.”
“But you didn’t get married?”
“No dear.” Her voice suddenly became grave. “He wanted to. Everyone was doing it you know. It was such a dangerous time and he was flying missions over France and Germany. Girls were getting married all the time, sometimes to fliers they hardly knew. Yanks. All sorts. And I’d known him for months already, and he wanted to but I thought it best to wait. I didn’t want to have a baby with him and then for it to grow up without a father.”
I felt I suddenly understood her and I exchanged a glance with Patrick and John.
“But I wish I had now. Not for the baby but just for Howard. It would have made him so happy. It wouldn’t have made any difference of course. They’d still have shot him down. But he would have been so happy. Everyone always says it’s the happiest day of your life and I’ll never know.” She looked at me, not sadly, just matter-of-factly. “But there’s no point dwelling on these things is there. You just get on don’t you. My mother did when Papa died. You just make the best of it don’t you? Oh thank you Margret.”
Margret had returned with a steel pot of tea, cups and a plate of biscuits. She poured the tea for us and one for herself and then sat down on her own chair to one side of us but just within earshot in case anyone needed her.
“Do have a biscuit, dear,” Frances said offering me the plate with a shaky hand. “It’s always lovely when we have visitors because they bring out the nice biscuits.”
I politely took a bourbon from the selection on the plate which seemed less special than the range I always had back in my flat, and then handed the plate on to the boys.
“So,” said Frances, holding her cup with both hands and blowing at the steam. “What was it you were here for dear? I’m sorry if you’ve told me already. I can’t really remember anything of anything these days.”
I took a deep breath. “We came here because we have something of your father’s.”
“My father? But you’re too young to know my father. He’s dead you know.”
“Yes we know. We – well, John here...” I looked at him to see if he wanted to tell the story but he waved at me to go on; but smiled at me as well to show he thought I was doing fine, and I felt buoyed by it. “John here found a notebook – a diary really – a few years ago when on holiday in Italy. We think it belonged to your father.”
I pulled it out of my bag and handed it to her. She took it curiously and opened it and saw the name inscribed on the inside cover. “But this is Papa’s,” she said, looking at me her eyes wide with wonder, and I felt a surge of relief and happiness flood through me. “This is Papa’s writing and this is his name. Henry. Arthur. I always thought if I were to have children and if it was a boy then I would call him either of those names. Kings’ names. Oh what a pleasant surprise dear. Where did you get it did you say?”
“John got it from Italy. I believe your father was posted for a while in Italy during the First World War.”
“Well of course he was dear. Of course he was.” She flicked through the pages stopping here and there and smiling. “But he’s talking about me here,” she said tears coming to her eyes. “He’s talking about me. Little Frances. That’s me isn’t it?” We nodded at her. “That’s me,” she said in a tiny voice now flicking on. “Oh how he loved Mama. He loved her so much. She would have so loved to have seen this you know.”
“It must have been very hard for your mother when your father died.”
“I remember how upset she was straight after. Distraught she was.”
“But how could you remember that?”
She looked at me sharply. “Young lady, I might not be able to remember what happened five minutes ago but I can remember that. I can remember my mother crying for days on end.”
“I’m sorry,” I said gently. “It’s just that you would have been so young then.”
Frances smiled at me again now. “So kind,” she said to the boys. “She’s so kind to me. I was young then I suppose,” she said dreamily.
“And did your mother remarry after... I mean when your father died.”
“Oh no, dear.” She looked at me quite surprised. “Oh no. She would never have done something like that. She so loved him you know. So much. She would never have dreamed of marrying someone else.”
“So she spent all those years on her own.”
“I suppose it was a long time wasn’t it when you look at it like that. Fifteen years?” she ventured uncertainly.
“Sixty years,” said John.
“Oh no dear,” she said confidently. “I don’t think it was that long. Or maybe...” She looked a little confused. “Could it really have been as long as that? Everything becomes a little hazy when you get older and I never was much good at dates and arithmetic any way. Never any good at it. You’re probably right. But it was so many years to be without the person she loved. Her best friend she a
lways said. But she had her memories of course.”
“And she had you.”
“Yes. She had me as well. We were great friends Mama and I. I know your generation thinks we were all very starchy and proper but we were great friends Mama and I.”
“From what we read in your father’s diary she sounded like a very intelligent and very caring woman.”
“Oh she was. She was. I still miss her you know.” Her voice was sad now.
John cleared his throat. “It’s hard isn’t it when you lose your parents. Mine died a few years ago. It can be very tough.”
“Oh dear, that’s very hard for you. Give me your hand dear.” John reached over and she gave his hand an sympathetic squeeze. “And you’re so young too. Always harder when you lose your parents young. I was lucky in that respect.”
“You lost your father early though didn’t you?”
“Oh yes but not as young as you dear.”
“I think you were even younger,” I said to her gently, trying to keep her mind on a level.
“Oh maybe you’re right,” she said shaking her head.
I looked over at Patrick and John and they returned the same sympathetic smile. I thought I’d get back to a safe topic. “But like I was saying your mother sounds lovely.”
Frances perked up again. “Oh she is dear. Oh what am I saying. She was.” Her face suddenly screwed itself up as though she were about to cry. I looked over at the nurse in sudden alarm. Margret was poised to get up but then Frances’ face relaxed again. She was silent for a moment and then she said, “It’s hard being old sometimes. Often it’s like waking from a dream and you tell yourself that you’re seventy-something or eighty-something and you can’t believe it. And suddenly you remember something and it’s as though you’ve heard a piece of news for the first time and it’s so vivid it makes you want to cry. But you were saying dear. My mother was lovely. You’re right. Did you know her then?”
“Oh no.”
“You weren’t one of her children by any chance?”
I was taken aback. “No, Miss Shaeffer.”
“Frances dear. Please.”
“Frances. You’re one of her children.”
“Well of course I am.” She was amused by this. “I was wondering whether you were as well.”
I blinked at her and cast an unsettled glance at the nurse. She gave the minutest shrug of her shoulders back at me. “How many children did your mother have?”
“Oh... hundreds.”
I laughed at this but Frances looked at me seriously and then slightly worried. “Oh dear have I made another mistake.”
“No it was just funny the way you said it. So were you from a very large family then. I thought it was just you and your mother?”
“Oh yes dear. Just us. And Papa of course.”
“Then the children you mentioned?”
“Oh yes hundreds of them in the end. Maybe even as many as a thousand. All Mama’s little children.” She nodded at me proudly and I smiled, feeling my eyes start to tingle.
“Of course,” I said
“But it was so sad when Papa died,” she said the smile fading from her face again. “So sad. We all felt it. And Mama said that after he died it just seemed like it had all gone so fast. The years were like days she said. Gone so fast. Years like days. But of course I feel like that as well now.”
Suddenly I found it hard to breathe. I felt a hotness behind my eyes, and my head was constricted. I hurriedly stood up. “We have to go now, Frances.”
“Oh really dear. So soon?”
I nodded and saw John and Patrick were on their feet as well. My face was screwed up whilst looking in their direction so that Frances would not see it. John took a half-step towards me but I signalled that I was OK. I took a deep breath and looked back to Frances who by now was standing, resting on her stick.
“I’m sorry we have to leave so soon,” I said, forcing a my face into composure.
“Oh that’s all right dear. I understand. Thank you all very much for coming over here to talk to me. And thank you very much for my book. I shall enjoy reading this. Yes I shall. What a lovely present.”
“You’re welcome,” I said softly, just wanting to be out of there.
“But I want you to have something too. For coming all this way. I’ve got a little something for you.” Frances reached up and grabbed my arm again. “Come with me my dear. What was your name again?”
“Sarah.”
“Sarah. Such a pretty name. Come with me. I have something I’d like you to have.”
“Oh I couldn’t,” I said nervously. “Really I couldn’t.”
“Oh I insist. Come on dear.” She started walking, pulling at my arm with surprising force.
“But... I mean shouldn’t Patrick and John come with us as well,” I said hopefully to her.
She giggled suddenly. “Well, it’s my bedroom dear. I can’t have young men in my bedroom with me. I’m not sure whether Maggie would allow it.”
Margret looked at her smiling. “If you want to I’m sure it will be fine. I’ll come along too.”
“No that’s fine, Maggie. I just want my Sarah.” She raised her voice slightly. “The boys can stay here and keep Elsie entertained.”
I cast one last appealing glance over at John and then allowed myself to be dragged round the corner through the double doors and down a corridor, Margret following at a discreet distance.
The door to Frances’ room was unlocked and she went inside whilst I stood in the doorway.
“I won’t invite you in properly dear. It’s a bit of a mess at the moment.”
I looked around the tiny room. It was spotless inside and immaculately tidy. A single bed by the near wall, made, the sheets carefully turned back square. A writing desk with a single hard wooden chair at it on the right hand side with a bookcase beside it filled with books, most of the shelves double stocked. On the facing wall was a window and a radiator and then on the left hand side was a mahogany wardrobe next to the bed and in the corner a dark wood chest of drawers. It was to this that she walked.
“It’s just a little something dear. Just something I think you’d like.” She smiled at me for a second more and then turned to the chest of drawers. On top of it was a wide old box two feet by one foot and six inches deep. The top was plain dark wood but the sides were of metal, brass or bronze perhaps, a dull golden glow showing through the dust. Brightly coloured crystals were set into the metal but on the side facing forwards was a recess the size of hen’s egg from where one of the baubles had long since been lost. Apart from the books it seemed to be her only possession in the room.
She opened the box and pulled out various items from within: mostly papers, but also an old fashioned necklace, an enamel square, and a few pairs of earrings: the scant remnants of a lifetime.
Eventually she took out a handful of envelopes, tied with red ribbon. She looked through the bundle and then selected one letter, putting the remainder back in the box. Then she took a brown envelope from the top drawer of her writing desk, slipped the letter inside it, sealed it and presented me with the package.
“This is for you, dear.”
“But it’s one of your old letters—”
“Of course it is. But I want you to have it. It’s the last letter Papa wrote to Mama from the Great War. I think he would have liked you to read it and she would too.”
“No really I can’t take it. It’s far too precious a thing to give to a stranger.”
“Well then,” she said with a suddenly sly look in her eyes. “Why don’t you just borrow it? Why don’t you take it away and read it and then when you come back here to visit me again...” She looked at me hopefully. “When you come back you can bring me the letter as well.”
“Well, I’m not sure...”
“Whether you were going to come back? Oh I understand dear,” she said breezily.
I felt tears in my eyes. “No. I mean I’d like to come back.”
“Oh
would you? Would you really?”
I nodded. “Of course I would. If you want me to.”
“Oh yes dear. Please come and see me again.” She forced the letter into my hands. “I have so enjoyed speaking with you. But don’t if you’re busy. I will understand.”
I was choking to hold back my tears and just shook my head. “I’ll come,” I said eventually. “You can count on it.”
“Oh thank you dear. Thank you so much.” There were tears in her eyes as well. And then she leant forward and gave me a kiss and she held me close and she felt old and smelt old and I thought my heart would break.
I went back through the lounge, without saying anything to the boys, to anyone. I just had to get out into the fresh air. And the moment I was outside I started running down the gravel drive, faster and faster, until I’d passed through the gate and was stood on the pavement of the world beyond; and then I just sobbed.
Chapter 34
We got the slow train back. Stopping at what would normally have been an interminable list of hick East Anglian villages: Foxton, Meldreth, Shepreth. But today the longer the journey the better. It was insulation against the real world.
We didn’t speak about the visit on the way to the station. In our own ways all three of us were processing or reflecting or running from it. And now, resting my head against the cool glass I emptied my mind of everything except the succession of brown and yellow fields flashing through my vision.
Patrick had fallen asleep almost immediately the train started moving. He leaned against me, his head swaying as the train swayed. I felt very fond of him in that moment and was happy he slept. He had always had a tremendous capacity for sleep when travelling, but this was something else, exhaustion from being outside again, of overcoming his fears.
In the seat opposite me, John read his book. I recognised it as the same one he had dropped on my foot, a thick black and yellow Penguin Classic. I tilted my head to read to spine: The Count of Monte Cristo. Is that how he saw himself I wondered? And then decided probably not as he was only a third of the way through it. He yawned and looked up and smiled at me and I found myself smiling back.