by Fern Britton
I could smell him. Macassar hair oil and tobacco smoke.
For a fraction of a moment I heard him say my name. I opened my eyes with fright and hope.
It came again. ‘Clara?’
He was here? There had been a mistake? He was alive?
I reached a hand up to the marble mantel and gripped it hard, willing myself not to faint.
He called again. ‘Clara?’
He was just on the other side of the door. I could hear his heels on the tiled floor of the hall.
The door opened and my heart leapt into my throat. Tall, smiling. Bertie was standing before me.
I let go of the mantel and opened my arms, waiting for him to embrace me.
He offered his hand to shake.
‘Clara,’ he said. ‘At last we meet. Ernest Bolitho. Bertie’s brother.’
He caught my arm as my knees buckled.
‘Oh my goodness. The journey has exhausted you.’
‘I’m so sorry. May I sit down?’ I felt for the nearest chair.
‘Not that one,’ he said sharply, ‘that’s Father’s. And …’ He looked at the cigarette burning its way towards my fingers, ‘I’m sorry, but Mother does not approve of ladies smoking.’ He took the cigarette from me and crossed the room to open the large sash window that looked out, as I was to discover the next day in daylight, over the back garden.
I could see the bell tower of the church lit up beyond.
Outside, I knew, lay the palm tree Bertie had told me about and, in the middle of the lawn, an apple tree with a swing. ‘I love that swing,’ he’d told me. ‘Best toy Father ever made for us. When I take you home, you shall sit on it, under the apple blossom, and I shall push you so that your toes reach the sky.’
‘Bertie was always getting caught out with his smoking.’ Ernest’s voice broke through my memory as he threw the cigarette stub out of the window and turned back to me. ‘I’ll leave the window open. Mother has the nose of a bloodhound. How was your journey? You look tired. You’re shivering.’
‘I’m fine, honestly.’ My eyes were fixed on the bare dark branches of the apple tree outside. Bertie would never push me on the swing under the blossom after all. To my embarrassment and Ernest’s discomfort, I burst into tears.
‘Oh dear,’ Ernest said awkwardly. ‘Has anyone offered the facilities?’ he asked, looking around the room; anywhere but at me. ‘Maybe you’d like to freshen up?’
‘Yes, I would,’ I managed. ‘Thank you.’
‘Our maid isn’t too bright, I’m afraid. God knows where Amy got her from but,’ he coughed, ‘needs must, I suppose.’
He pulled the bell rope by the fire and within seconds Dora entered.
‘Yes, sir?’
He gestured towards me whilst issuing orders. ‘Please show Miss Carter to the facilities and ask Cook to organise some tea.’
The maid bobbed. ‘Yes sir.’
I gathered myself and gratefully crossed the room to join her.
I was suddenly aware that I was badly in need of the lavatory, and also to cool my face and neck.
‘Oh, and Dora,’ Ernest barked as we left, ‘put Miss Carter’s luggage in her room. Which one has my sister got ready?’
Dora, her eyes darting from mine to Ernest’s, replied quietly, ‘Mr Herbert’s room, sir.’
I thought I might faint again, ‘What?’
Ernest hitched up the knees of his perfectly pressed Oxfords and sat on one of the ugly sofas, oblivious to my distress. ‘Good. Come back when you’re settled.’
I followed Dora into the hallway and watched as she collected my small case from the foot of the hat stand and began to climb the stairs.
‘I’ll show you to your room,’ she said. ‘It’s a nice room. It overlooks the church.’
I took in my surroundings rather than speak. Linoleum, cold and bare in patches, covered the landing floor. Dora stopped at the second room on the left. ‘Here you are.’ She opened the door with her free hand and stood aside to allow me to enter.
A single bed with a brown headboard faced the one window. A washstand stood in the corner and a heavy mahogany wardrobe against the wall opposite.
Dora put the case on the bed. ‘Lavatory is out of the door, turn left. It’s at the end of the corridor. Miss Amy’s room is just across the landing.’
Shakily, I thanked Dora, and waited until she had closed the door behind her.
Here I was, here in Bertie’s room. He had told me about it. This bed was where he had slept. Those books, haphazardly lying in the bookcase, were the ones he had read. He had sat at that small table, labouring over homework. Biting the end of his pencil and staring at the church at the end of the garden for inspiration.
I opened one of the wardrobe’s double doors and was hit by the powerful smell of mothballs. On the rail were three bare hangers, presumably for my use. I opened the other door and stepped back quickly. Hanging there was Bertie’s coat. The one he had worn when I had first met him. I reached out and touched its sleeve then pulled it to my nose. Yes, this was him. This was his scent. ‘Bertie,’ I whispered into the scratchy wool. ‘It’s me. I’m here in your room. I’m here.’
There was a knock at the door and I dropped the sleeve, shutting the doors quickly.
‘Come in,’ I called.
A woman, very tall and bony, entered. She wore a navy blue dress almost to the floor, high-necked and belted, and stood in the doorway without expression. Her sharp eyes took me in from head to toe. ‘Clara. Mother and I thought this room would be most suitable for you.’
‘Oh yes, it’s … lovely. Thank you. You must be Amy? Bertie talked a lot about you.’
‘Yes.’ Her eyes alighted on my case on the bed. ‘But you haven’t unpacked yet.’
‘I only just got here and I’d like to freshen up before I come down. If that’s all right?’
‘Tea will be served in the parlour. Father will be home at four thirty.’ She moved as if to leave, then as an afterthought turned back. ‘I don’t like to keep meals waiting.’
Chapter Three
Clara, Callyzion
December 1918
I brushed my hair, put on my smarter cardigan and touched up my lipstick.
The church bell was striking the hour as I went downstairs and entered the parlour. It wasn’t looking much more cheerful than when I’d left, but at least there was a fire, albeit struggling, in the grate. What it lacked in heat, it attempted in cheer.
Ernest was on one sofa, as I had last seen him, and Amy was sitting opposite him, with an elderly woman on the other.
‘Here she is.’ Ernest stood up and smiled. ‘Mother, this is Clara.’
‘Come closer, my dear.’ Her smile was clouded with grief. ‘My eyes aren’t what they were and I want to look at you.’
‘Mrs Bolitho.’ I went to her. ‘Thank you so much for inviting me.’
Her grey eyes darted over my simple clothes and figure.
‘You have a good, ordinary face,’ she said to me. ‘I like that. Bertie liked it too. I know. But, too much lipstick.’
I stood my ground. ‘Bertie liked it.’
His mother folded her arms and chuckled. ‘Bertie always liked spirited people. That’s good. He also told us that you have family in Kent?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what do they do?’
‘They farmed. Apples and hops mostly. But we had an excellent dairy herd too.’ My lies poured easily into the room.
‘How many acres?’
‘Goodness knows. Around two hundred at least.’
Ernest interjected. ‘Jolly good.’
‘Yes,’ I gave him my practised, sad smile. ‘But nothing can substitute for the loss of one’s parents when one is so young.’
‘Goodness. We didn’t know,’ Ernest said apologetically. ‘How dreadful for you.’
Mrs Bolitho seemed to me to perk up at this information. ‘Oh, my dear. Come and sit down next to me here.’ She flapped her hand at Amy, ‘Move up, dear
, let Clara sit between us.’ I squeezed my hips down into the over-sprung seat, feeling the thigh bones of the women either side of me.
Amy tried to pull hers as far from me as possible, while her mother wriggled herself around to see me better. ‘What on earth happened? How did your parents die?’
I hadn’t yet thought through a cogent explanation, so I dipped my head and fumbled in my cardigan pocket for a handkerchief.
‘Mother,’ rebuked Ernest, ‘Clara will tell us if and when she wants to.’
Mrs Bolitho covered her disappointment with a sniff. ‘Well I am surprised Bertie didn’t tell us when he had the chance.’ A sigh and a short pause before asking, ‘You did tell Bertie didn’t you?’
‘Yes, of course. I told him everything.’
‘I am glad to hear it. And how is London? I believe you work there?’
‘Yes. As a secretary at the London Evening News.’
‘How interesting. We don’t get that newspaper here, of course. My husband prefers The Times.’
Before I could respond, Amy spoke across me. ‘Mama, it’s time for your cough medicine.’
‘I am perfectly fine, thank you.’ Mrs Bolitho focused on me again. ‘I want to hear all about how you met our dear Bertie. And Ernest, dear, liven up that fire, would you?’
I watched as Ernest got on his knees by the hearth and reached for a log. Every movement reminded me of Bertie and the first time I saw him.
‘Bertie and I met at a bridge club. In Piccadilly.’
Mrs Bolitho nodded. ‘And do you play good bridge?’
‘Not as well as Bertie.’ I remembered him sitting opposite me at the small table, his slender fingers holding his cards. ‘We won a couple of tournaments together.’
‘You must be pretty good then.’ Mrs Bolitho turned to Ernest, who was concentrating on the fire. ‘Clara plays bridge. Perhaps, one evening, we should play.’
‘Rather,’ said Ernest. ‘Amy? Want to make up a four?’
‘I’d rather not.’ She almost shuddered with the thought of it. ‘Where is Dora with the tea?’ She checked her watch. ‘She’s late. I’ll go and chivvy her along.’ She left the room in a rustle of skirts and left the three of us looking at the fire and trying to think of something to say.
‘You must think me very rude,’ I remembered. ‘I haven’t thanked you for the taxi you sent to the station.’
‘Amy organised that.’ Mrs Bolitho waved a hand in the direction of where Amy had disappeared. ‘She runs the house for me. The last few weeks have weakened my spirits.’ She coughed lightly. ‘Was Chewton waiting for you?’
‘Yes, he was.’
Ernest laughed. ‘I bet a penny to a pound that he gave you a tour of the fleshpots of Callyzion.’
Mrs Bolitho tutted. ‘No need for that language. Your father wouldn’t like it.’ She picked up the small watch pinned to her bust. ‘He should be home any minute. I told him to be here at four thirty on the dot.’
As she finished her sentence, as if on cue, we heard the sound of a key in the front door and a deep manly voice called, ‘Halloo. I’m home! Has Miss Carter arrived?’
‘We are in the parlour,’ Ernest called back.
The door opened to reveal an enormous man both of height and girth. Bertie had once described his father as ‘comfortingly solid’, and now, seeing him, I couldn’t think of any better words. He was dressed in a black frock coat, black shirt, black trousers and black gaiters. The only colour was the snowy white of his dog collar.
‘Aha.’ He looked at me warmly. ‘My goodness, how wonderful that you are actually here at last.’ He took two strides to cross the room, and took my hand and patted it. ‘You are so welcome here. Even though Bertie didn’t have a chance to tell us about you we want to know everything for ourselves. You are certainly as pretty as we imagined.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Do you not think so, my dear?’ Without waiting for an answer, he looked about the room. ‘Where is tea?’
It took just a few minutes before Cook’s Victoria sponge and tiny meat paste sandwiches arrived, pleasing everyone and giving us all something fresh and safe to talk about.
After tea, Rev. Bolitho withdrew to his study and Mrs Bolitho returned to her bedroom for a rest.
Amy bustled about with Dora, giving instructions for supper and returning the parlour to its pre-tea state.
Ernest and I were left alone. Ernest began the conversation.
‘Awfully pleased you came. It seems from what his friend Jimmy said, Bertie was quite swept up by you.’
‘And I by him.’ I looked at my lap. ‘It’s so nice to be here, with his family. The people who loved him best.’
Ernest cleared his throat. ‘Yes. We miss him.’
A spark jumped from the grate onto the rug. Ernest reached out one long leg, without having to get up, and stamped it out. Both of us sat looking into the flames.
‘I miss him very much.’ One log, its bark now catching a flame, shifted slightly, turning the flame from blue to yellow then orange. ‘How did your parents find my address?’ I asked.
‘With difficulty.’ He smiled wryly. ‘We didn’t know about you or your whereabouts. It was only when we received Bertie’s personal effects …’
I looked up, fearing what they might have found amongst Bertie’s belongings. Not all my letters? Not every private, shaming, loving word we wrote to each other? Please God, no.
Ernest was speaking again. ‘Among his things were letters from his old friends. One of them, Jimmy?’
My heart flipped anxiously. Jimmy was the friend who had rented us the flat in Ealing. ‘Yes.’ My throat was dry. ‘A good friend of Bertie’s. What … what did his letter say?’
‘Jolly lucky really. He mentioned an address in Ealing.’
I clenched my hands, waiting to be shamed. ‘Oh yes?’
‘It was the first we had heard of you. He wrote something along the lines of, “hope Clara is comfortable in the Ealing flat”.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘He asked how Bertie was doing. The usual stuff. Talked about his own marriage. So anyway, as we had an address for you, Father decided we ought to meet you and we could share our …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Our happier memories of Bertie.’
I relaxed. Bless Jimmy. He had revealed nothing.
‘I was so surprised and pleased to get your parents’ letter,’ I said. ‘It found its way to me eventually. I had to leave Ealing a while ago, you see, and return to Kent – a family matter – but I had left a forwarding address. Just in case.’
‘Well, I am sorry the whole process took so long. But you are here now.’
‘Yes. Here I am.’
‘And can you stay for Christmas?’
I was taken by surprise. I thought I would come for a couple of days, soak my grief in the place that Bertie called home and then return to Kent, to where I was needed the most.
‘I don’t want to be a bother.’
‘No bother at all. I happen to know that Mother is very much wanting you to stay until the New Year.’
New Year? I couldn’t stay for as long as that. Could I? ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Do you have plans?’ I could see Bertie in his eyes, in his voice.
‘Well I … I haven’t brought anything with me.’ I couldn’t stay. I mustn’t. What would Philippa think? How could I miss only my second Christmas with Mikey?
‘Amy can lend you anything you need,’ he said airily. ‘Say yes and it’s settled.’ He smiled at me. Not Bertie’s smile but so similar.
‘Well, I … I don’t have any plans.’
He stood up. ‘Excellent. Now what say we have a game of cards? Rummy?’
And that is how we filled the hinterland between tea and dinner. He told amusing stories about himself, Amy and Bertie growing up. Hide-and-seek in the organ loft, swapping their father’s sermon for a shopping list and the Easter they all had chickenpox. Ernest was an easy person to be with then. I began to warm to him.
; A dinner of beef broth, followed by tiny lamb cutlets and then apple crumble, filled an hour or so of small talk.
We delicately manoeuvred around the subject of Bertie, not one of us wanting to upset the other, and then Ernest announced that I was staying until the New Year, which occasioned much delight in Bertie’s parents.
‘And, Amy,’ Ernest went on, ‘I’ve told Clara that you would lend her anything she doesn’t have.’ He grinned.
I looked up and caught her giving him a horrified stare.
‘No, no,’ I said quickly. ‘I will be fine, honestly.’
Mrs Bolitho chipped in. ‘Amy has plenty of nice things in her wardrobe that she can share. She wears so few of them, it will be nice to see them out and about.’
Amy gave her mother a tight smile and said quietly, ‘Mother, you know it would be impractical for me to wear anything special while I am looking after the house.’
I felt her embarrassment. ‘Honestly,’ I smiled at her, ‘I wouldn’t dream of borrowing your nice clothes. I might spoil them, and then what would you wear for special occasions?’
Mrs Bolitho leant closer to me and, laughing at her daughter, said, ‘Amy doesn’t like special occasions. I can’t remember the last time she went out and had some fun.’
Amy paled, her hands tightening their grip on her napkin. ‘Mother, please.’
Mrs Bolitho blithely continued to discomfort her daughter. ‘But you are young and have your whole life ahead of you, darling.’
The napkin was released and Amy stood. ‘I wonder what Dora has done with the apple crumble?’ We watched her leave.
‘Don’t worry about her,’ Mrs Bolitho said to me.
Reverend Bolitho peered over the top of his glasses and looked at his wife. ‘Louisa. Let her be.’
When Amy returned, we ate our apple crumble in silence.
And when Dora cleared it away, Amy stood again and – looking anywhere but at me – said, ‘Mama, come along, you are tired and I don’t want your cold getting any worse.’