Guilt and fear: all her life she had wrestled with these demons yet, though she had never conquered them, she refused to abandon the struggle. Lately, as Jerry tried to come to terms with his illness, so she had begun to analyse her own character in the hope of becoming stronger through understanding rather than simply condemning herself for her failures. The shock of finding that she must be the carer and that Jerry – who had always taken control and been her refuge – should now look to her for mental and physical assistance had been terrifying. In attempting to deal with this role reversal she was making a greater effort to combat her own weaknesses.
Just lately, during those wakeful nights lying beside Jerry and willing him to breathe peacefully, she'd begun to look back at that part of her life she had so carefully concealed, searching for clues. Now, she was trying for a more positive approach. She'd started to realize that her own negative reactions to her fear – 'Oh, why are you always such a fool!' or 'Why don't you grow up!' – merely served to diminish her already low self-esteem. Against her will, instinct was forcing her back into her past as if the answers might be somewhere there. Cautiously, as if bracing herself for what she might see, she'd allowed tiny glimpses to show themselves. She could believe, at least, that it was partly due to her mother's influence that she'd grown up to become a superstitious child.
At first it is a silly game, hopping across the London pavement, holding Mummy's hand: 'Don't walk on the lines, darling, or the bears will get you.' 'See the magpie, Lucy? Only one. "One for sorrow." Oh, quick. Look for another one.' 'Touch wood . . .' Her mother never goes anywhere without her little carved bird mascot, kissing her daughter three times for luck, and, though she makes these little rituals into a game, deep down there is a hint of something else: fear. When she dies, killed by a bomb whilst playing at a lunchtime recital, Lucy's first terrified thought is that some good-luck formula must have been neglected. Nobody ever finds the little mascot and the small Lucy makes the inevitable connection. So it begins – that first insidious need to feel protected from an unseen adversary.
Her father is strong, and she clings to him, yet even he is not powerful enough to protect himself and, in the end, succumbs to the invisible power of evil: blown to pieces whilst attempting to defuse an unexploded bomb. After that, as indelible as pokerwork, three things remain burned into her memory.
The first, a whisper – a woman's voice, urgent and needy: 'It's because of Lucy, isn't it? If it weren't for her we could get away. You're a fool, Michael. Something terrible is going to happen and it will be because of Lucy . . .'
The second, Jack showing her the Midsummer Cushion: 'But you must never, never touch it, Lucy. It's very old and precious and Nanny says if we touch it something really bad will happen.'
Her first reaction is disappointment. It is not a cushion at all but a tapestry, framed and hanging on the wall in Hester's bedroom. Her initial surprise, however, is swiftly replaced with delight.
The Midsummer Cushion – oh, how beautiful; how magical to the eyes of a small child. A tapestry of every imaginable wild flower – ox-eye daisies, scarlet field poppies, yellow rattle and golden buttercups, eyebright and purple self-heal, all threaded through with long green grasses – lovingly traced in silk. Beneath the protecting glass, dried flowers have been gently placed beside the silken ones so that the whole effect is of a hayfield in June. She is drawn back to it again and again, creeping into Hester's bedroom to gaze enraptured at the pretty thing in its golden frame. One wild autumn evening she climbs onto the little stool and, on tiptoe, leans to look more closely at the tapestry. Losing her balance, she puts out a hand to save herself, catching at the edge of the frame. It comes crashing down, glass splinters all over the rug and the polished floorboards, the dried flowers crumbling instantly to dust. She has broken the Midsummer Cushion and retribution will surely follow swiftly. When the third thing happens, guilt and fear fuse into a single terrified reaction.
'Something terrible is going to happen and it will be because of Lucy.'
'If we touch it something really bad will happen.'
The voices have prophesied truly: murder happens and, in its wake, betrayal and loss of trust.
Lucy stood watching a flock of seagulls wheeling above the new-ploughed field. Against the soft grey sky the white under-feathers shone with a startling purity. Then, all in a moment as they dipped and turned, they were invisible, grey on grey. The voices had ceased to haunt her, though she could still recall the tense atmosphere and the little tingle of terror that had accompanied them. She'd long since realized that the first was the voice of a manipulating and determined woman, pleading with her reluctant lover, and the second was simply the repetition, by a little boy, of something he'd been told many times. Yet they'd had their effect on her, reinforcing the superstitious tendencies inherited from her mother. Even after all these years she felt the twist of guilt, the clutch of fear, when things went wrong or people weren't happy. It was an instinctive response, due to an odd kind of early conditioning involving both nurture and nature: because of her, or something she'd done, someone had died and lives had been wrecked. Yet much worse even than the breaking of the Midsummer Cushion had been the loss of faith in the two people she'd loved and trusted most: her father and Hester.
Lucy reached up to pick a late-flowering crown of pale honeysuckle and a spray of rosehips. Added to a twig of golden birch leaves they looked charming. She'd put them into a vase for Jerry and tell him about the gulls whilst she made their lunch.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hester was enjoying herself. Accustomed to a scholarly approach to work, she'd begun her little history for Jonah with a properly set out table of names and dates: her own family tree to begin with, just to give him something to work from, followed by the stark facts. She'd put in too much information to begin with, distracting herself with odd memories that could be of no interest to Jonah. For instance, stories of the two younger boys could have no relevance here. Killed so early in the war, they were simply two more names to confuse him. They were there on the family tree, of course, but nothing else relating to their lives would be recorded. Only those people who related in some way to Jonah's family would be mentioned. Some of her notes were made from memory, others from the diaries their mother had kept until her death in the autumn of 1942. She transferred the cryptic entries, making her own observations alongside.
1939
July 27th. All the boys home for the holidays and Michael with them. Made a summer pudding. (M's D)
September 1st. War has been declared. (M's D)
I remember that we all listened to the wireless and I still recall the feeling of fear. I could see that Mother felt the same way. Only the younger boys were excited. Blaise and Edward were very quiet.
1940
January 15th. A letter from Michael to tell us that he is married. A small registry office affair. Her name is Susan. Just like Michael's parents, her father was killed in the Great War and her mother died whilst she was still at school. So they are both orphans. I can hardly take it in that Michael is married and a soldier. (M's D)
I can remember her saying, 'Oh, how different it is from everything we imagined for them,' and she was very low for the rest of the day. Michael sent a wedding photograph with a very sweet note from Susan saying how much she was looking forward to meeting Michael's 'family'. It cheered Mother up no end. She was a musician – the violin, I think – but she never managed the journey to Bridge House.
1941
March 16th. Patricia and the children arriving with Nanny for the duration. (M's D)
Her husband, Rob, was at sea and Plymouth was being bombed. Mother was very relieved because it meant that the house would now be too full for us to take in evacuees.
March 21st. The first day of spring. Edward bringing Eleanor to meet us. (M's D)
We were all nervous, I remember. Patricia was afraid that Jack and Robin would be noisy and play up.
April 18th. Edward and Elea
nor are married. A registry office wedding just like Michael's. Oh, this war! (M's D)
Edward telephoned from Ludlow where he was stationed and Mother spoke to them both. She pretended to be thrilled, though disappointed that it had happened so suddenly, but agreed with them that the war changed everything. Afterwards she was very quiet and we all felt rather low. Michael, and now Edward, married and with none of the fun and excitement that we'd once visualized.
November 12th. Edward sent out to the Far East. (M's D)
They'd been living in a hiring near Ludlow and Mother offered Eleanor a home with us. She replied that she would stay on for a little longer with friends. I can remember how relieved we all were!
December 17th. Eleanor arriving for Christmas. (M's D)
I never knew quite why she came to us. Perhaps she had nowhere else to go.
1942
February 15th. Singapore has surrendered to the Japanese. (M's D)
Here her diaries end.
It seemed to Hester, as she worked, that her mother's diaries were unlocking the past for her. Other memories were triggered by these brief entries and though she continued to document them, her thoughts returned again and again to one particular event: Eleanor's first visit to Bridge House. Presently, she stopped writing and gave herself up to remembering.
On this wild spring day in 1941, the wind is so strong and gusts so fitfully that it seems to the assembled family in the big square hall that Eleanor is whirled in upon it, laughing helplessly, her hands to her hair. Edward, tall and elegant at her side, is clearly besotted by his companion and cannot imagine even for a second that his family won't adore her as he does. He takes her foolish little hat from her hands and leads her forward to introduce her. His face blazes with pride and he can barely take his eyes from her.
In the first moment when Hester sees that look on her eldest brother's face her heart sinks. From her position on the fender beside the fire she notes the confident look in Eleanor's eyes, the wide smile on her vividly painted lips and the pretty gestures with which she greets Edward's mother and Patricia, the eldest of all the siblings. Both of Edward's younger brothers are at sea but Patricia's two small boys are at hand, waiting to be introduced.
The eldest, three-year-old Jack, shakes Eleanor's hand, staring up at her curiously, but small Robin is overwhelmed by this tall dark woman who bends over him. He begins to cry. Patricia gathers him to her, comforting but mildly reproving, as though she fears that their guest might in some way be offended. Eleanor simply laughs, takes a sweet from her bag and pops it into his mouth.
As if he is a dog, thinks Hester, to be silenced with a biscuit. Quickly she catches herself up: she must make an effort to be friends with Eleanor, though some deep instinct warns her against this elegant, self-possessed woman.
'And this is Hester.' Edward's thin sensitive face is alight with pleasure at the prospect of his favourite sister meeting his bride-to-be.
Eleanor's hand is warm; her look manages to be both critical and amused.
'Hello, Hester,' she says – and each is immediately aware of the other's antagonism. Eleanor makes some casual, laughing remark about Hester's letters to Edward – 'How do you manage to think of so much to say? Pages of them! I'm always so impressed, but then I can hardly think of enough to cover a single sheet, especially to a brother.' Within the compliment there is a little barb, something that implies that it's all rather pathetic – surely Hester has better things to do with her time than write screeds to her big brother? Hester refuses both the compliment and the jibe, simply smiling politely and saying nothing. Eleanor stares at her for a moment; then, with a tiny shrug and a little moue of the lips, which says that if Hester chooses to be unfriendly that's her problem, she turns away to join Edward who is now speaking to his mother.
Nevertheless, Hester is suddenly conscious of her old flannel skirt and unflattering jersey, and she is relieved when Robin comes to her on unsteady feet so that she can resume her seat on the fender and take him onto her lap.
And then Edward is perching beside her, still with that excited expression, saying, 'What do you think of her, Hes? Isn't she sensational?'
'Oh, yes,' she says obediently, staring at his flushed cheeks and the over-bright eyes that are still fixed on Eleanor as if he cannot bear to lose a minute of her. 'Yes, she's very beautiful.'
'It's like he has a fever,' she says to Patricia later. They are sharing a bedroom, just as they did when they were children, because Eleanor has been given Patricia's bigger room. Patricia is using the other single bed that is usually covered with piles of books. Hester has put them back into the bookcase, and she has allotted part of a drawer in the old painted chest for Patricia's needs. The wind rattles the windows and the river roars tumultuously.
'He has,' says Patricia, bending to peer into the spotted looking-glass, turning away rather despairingly from her pretty but rather indeterminate reflection. She too feels inadequate beside Eleanor's dark, highly polished brilliance. 'He's in love. That's how it takes you if you're lucky.'
'Lucky?' Hester makes a face. 'I wouldn't want to be like that, burning up with something that makes you different and . . . silly.'
She sits up straight against her pillow – arms folded, legs stuck straight down beneath the blankets – hating Edward's new silliness and resenting Eleanor for making her beloved brother look foolish; lovesick.
'It's not his fault,' says Patricia wisely, folding her clothes on the small chair and climbing into the narrow bed. 'You'll see one day.'
'I knew you were going to say that,' says Hester furiously. 'Honestly, you're so predictable, Pat. It's always the same thing: I don't know anything because I'm too young. I'm not that young. I'm thirteen, remember. I know how to feel things,' she adds rather grandly.
'But not being in love,' says Patricia. 'Not yet. It's like a kind of madness, really. A fever, like you said just now.'
'Rob isn't like that with you,' protests Hester. 'He doesn't follow you about like a sick spaniel.'
'No,' says Patricia rather sadly, switching out the light and settling down to sleep. 'No, Rob's rather down-to-earth, I'm afraid.'
'I like Rob,' says Hester. She's rather shocked by Patricia's reaction. How could she respect someone who behaved so pathetically? 'He's . . . sensible.'
'Oh, yes,' agrees Patricia with a little sigh. 'Rob's sensible.'
And now Hester can remember that, three or four years ago when she was first married, Patricia used to have that same expression when she looked at Rob; that blind, worshipping look of adoration.
She stares into the darkness, listening to the river's voice. How frightening it must be to feel so strongly and lose all sense of self; how dangerous to expose one's vulnerability.
'I shall never fall in love,' she exclaims vehemently.
'Oh, shut up, Hes, and go to sleep,' mutters Patricia. 'You know how early the boys wake up, and Nanny has so much to do. I need some sleep even if you don't.'
Hester wriggles down, pulling up the blankets to keep out the draughts. The river's voice can still be heard, singing its endless murmuring song, and she lies still, reciting Clare's poetry to herself:
Here the steep bank, as dropping headlong down,
While glides the stream, a silver streak between
As glide the shaded clouds along the sky . . .
And at last the words and the river's music blend together into a dreamless sleep.
She could still hear the river, louder again now, and with it the sounds of activity somewhere. Hester realized that Clio must have returned from her walk and was probably making some tea. She tidied her notes, saved her computer work and went out to find her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
'I've been thinking, Hes.' Clio took down the battered red Jackson's of Piccadilly tea caddy and peered inside. 'You can have Lemon Burst, Raspberry and Echinacea or Camomile. I really ought to go back to London on Sunday.'
'Raspberry, please. Well, why not? I'm perfectly fit no
w and I'm sure they must be missing you at the agency.'
Clio poured boiling water into two mugs. 'I think that there's a bit of a panic on. Peter never actually insisted on a cut-off date, only that you must be able to manage on your own again after the operation, but I feel I'm needed more there now.'
'It was very kind of him and I've loved having you here but, apart from anything else, I expect you're rather looking forward to getting back to your work and your friends.'
Clio put a spoonful of honey into her mug of Lemon Burst and threw the teabag into the bin. Hester took her own mug and went to sit at the table. Clio's expression was a familiar one, though she hadn't seen it for many years. It was her 'going back to school' face: a rather touching mixture of hopefulness and trepidation.
'Peter will be glad to have you back again.' Hester continued to be positive. 'I know you arranged a very reliable replacement but when you've worked so closely with someone, as Peter has with you – how long is it now? Nearly a year? – it must be difficult to adapt to someone new.'
Clio sat down opposite and St Francis leaped up to sit at the end of the table as if presiding at a meeting.
'I shall miss you,' said Clio. She looked faintly puzzled, almost irritated, at this discovery. 'I haven't spent so long here since school holidays when Mum and Dad were off on some expedition or research trip or whatever. It's been rather like a holiday, this last few weeks.'
'We've had some fun, haven't we? And then, of course, there was Lizzie. You've been quite busy at Michaelgarth, helping her with ideas and fetching and carrying people.'
'I think that's part of it,' said Clio. 'I love my job, really I do, but it's a bit deskbound. I've enjoyed dashing about meeting Lizzie's theatre and film friends and doing my own thing.'
And Peter's knocked your confidence, added Hester silently, and you've had the opportunity to stand back and evaluate your relationship.
'Well, you could stay,' she said aloud. 'We could turn the clock back fifty years and you could be my companion and do the flowers.'
Memories Of The Storm Page 6