In her dream she'd switched on the light just as the French doors burst open and Jonah appeared, calling out, soaked to the skin – and she'd wakened, heart thumping and with that familiar sense that something was not quite right. St Francis was curled in a large warm ball at the back of her knees and Hester continued to lie on her side for a moment, trying to control the feelings of distress that the dream had invoked.
She raised her head to peer at the little illumined face of her clock – half-past three – and groaned inwardly. Such a terrible time to be awake: a time of fear and terror and despair. Insidious images, general and particular, haunted the mind: of the lonely vulnerability of old age, of the anguish in the world, of a dear old friend who'd suffered a stroke and whose witty, clever mind was now imprisoned, still agonizingly alive and aware, in the weighty cage of her immobile body. All these horrors could be offered up in prayer, held in a silent intercession of sharing, and Hester knew that this could bring its own kind of peace. Tonight, however, her vivid dream pressed upon her consciousness: that scene in the drawing-room, the unexpected flash of colour and Jonah bursting in crying out something about the Midsummer Cushion being broken.
Hester climbed out of bed and reached for her shawl. She remembered how she'd woken recently, on the night of the storm, with this same sense of panic: the wind knocking the photograph to the floor and smashing the glass to pieces, just as the Midsummer Cushion had been smashed all those years ago. There was no storm tonight. The moon sailed cold and free above the black silhouette of the trees, and mist lay along the river so dense it looked like drifts of snow. Thick-sown stars glittered, sharp as tiny jewels, dazzling with an icy brilliance above the silent, frosty fields, and even the river's voice was hushed, muted by its fleecy coverlet.
Huddling in the woollen warmth of the shawl, Hester leaned out of the window: how cold it was. The ruts and puddles were freezing over – 'crizzling', John Clare would have called it – and the garage's frosted thatch glimmered whitely in the moonlight. Hester drew her head back inside and closed the window. The sight of the thatched roof reminded her of Robin and her decision, yet to be made, as to whether she should stay at Bridge House. Shivering, she pushed her feet into moccasins and went downstairs to make a hot drink.
Resenting the icy blast of air, missing her warmth, St Francis insinuated his bulk beneath the quilt and resumed his slumber.
* * *
The day finally dawned chill and bleak. The mist rolled silently along the valley, drifting up to obscure the pale December sun and hanging faint and ghostly in the bare black branches of the tallest trees. Later in the morning, a very welcome distraction arrived in the form of a letter from Blaise.
St Bede's Convent
Darling Hes,
Thank you for your letter. You are constantly in my mind at present. So much seems to be happening around you: Jonah, Clio, Robin all needing help, and you in the middle of them all wondering what you should do and where you should go. I'm glad that you've arranged the means for Robin to pay his debts without having to make a speedy decision about moving. You need time to think about such an important change and I have a strong feeling that this should be a period of consideration rather than action. After all, it is Advent: a time of waiting.
I've just taken a few moments to reread your letter. First, Clio. I think you are quite right to say that Clio won't waste any time feeling sorry for herself and I am sure that it will be an excellent thing for her to have a brief respite with you – a time of waiting for her too – before she decides what to do next. This is an important step for her, now that she is – we hope – emotionally freed from a relationship that had no future, and you'll enjoy having her with you. Your idea about asking her to drive you here for Christmas is inspired. If you think she could face Christmas in a convent we should all be very happy to see her, if you don't mind sharing the spare bedroom with her. Since you know the accommodation I have here I can only assume that you've already thought of that.
You know, Hes, when I began to read what you'd written about Jonah I couldn't help but visualize Michael as I knew him all those years ago: that sensitivity to atmosphere that you described – how interesting that he should have 'seen' his grandfather on the bridge – and his strong creative impulse that makes him want to take this piece of history and reshape it into a play. It all sounds very like the Michael I knew and I'm not in the least surprised that Jonah's a scriptwriter and a playwright. How very suitable for Michael's grandson. I'm glad that Lucy has broken her silence on the subject. As far as I remember, I never knew her, shut away as I was in Bletchley Park for the duration, but it does seem odd that she has been so reluctant to discuss his grandparents with Jonah, or for that matter her time with you all at Bridge House unless, in some odd childish way, she felt that you – the family – were in some way responsible for Michael's death. Apart from a natural resentment of her father's affection for another woman, especially so soon after the death of her mother, it's possible that she imagined that his relationship with Eleanor affected his ability to do his work safely – perhaps they continued their affair more openly in London – and all of you have remained tied up with Lucy's unhappy memory of Eleanor. It's rather an unlikely suggestion but the only one I can come up with at the moment. We often attribute far too much importance to small events, or misunderstand things we see and hear, when we are children. Now, at least, you might be able to discover what has been weighing so heavily on her. It is interesting too that Jonah thinks she is trying to cast off her fear so as to face the future more ably. It struck a particular note, as it happens. I have been rereading The Impact of God: St John of the Cross tells us that we can step free from the things that cripple us – fear, hatred, lust, selfishness, guilt – if we allow God the initiative to set us free by his grace. He goes on to say how very difficult this can seem, that it can take a lifetime to open ourselves up, emptying ourselves so that God can enter, but to remember, at the darkest moments when nothing really seems to be working, that we want to be free of whatever it is that is holding us back from peace or joy. I find that it works: just remembering my desire to be free pulls me off the demoralizing suction pad of a bad memory, hopelessness, or fear of some future event and enables me to lift my desire for freedom up towards God again.
I'm not absolutely sure, Hes, why I'm writing all this to you – apart from the fact that I've always written out my thoughts to you – but I feel I have been especially led to do so today.
I've thought a great deal about Jonah's idea of making a play of this small part of your history and after much reflection I can see no real reason why some kind of story shouldn't be created about it, as long as Jonah has all the facts accurately and – very important – assuming that Lucy has no objection. After all, apart from you and Lucy, nobody is left who can be directly affected. As you rightly say, tragic though it was, it mirrors hundreds of small dramas that were happening everywhere at that time. I write all this, however, having no true knowledge of Jonah's character or being able to judge how he will react once he knows the whole story. We – you and I – look back at that time with the compassion and wisdom that hindsight bestows: the pain has been dulled by forgetfulness and overlaid by the business of living.
I paused for a little while there, Hes. I suppose that niggling away at the back of my mind is the wish to know the real reason for Lucy's self-imposed silence. I still feel that there is something to do with Eleanor here that we might not know about. The question is: can Jonah handle the truth about his grandfather? Has he identified with Michael very closely and sympathetically – you say he is very like him physically and clearly there are similarities of character – and might he therefore find it difficult to accept Michael's behaviour at the end? It sounds as if his grandfather – because of the mystery surrounding him and his tragic death – has been built up in his mind to some rather heroic figure. The young can be so puritanical, can't they? That's all I want to say and, remember, I'm writing as usual f
rom a position of ignorance. I'm sure you wouldn't have taken part in all this if you hadn't been sure it was right.
After all, there has already been so much filmed and written about the war that if Jonah feels there is something new to say then it's up to him to say it: that's his decision. I can well imagine both Edward and Michael spurring him on!
As for Jeoffrey! He is much loved. As Christopher Smart puts it: 'For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest. For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.' Poor Christopher, thrown into the madhouse for his compulsive praying in the street! Speaking of which, of course I shall hold you in my prayers – when do I not? – although not in public!
My love, dear Hes,
Blaise
As the day passed, Hester reread the letter several times with a growing sense of unease. She'd taken seriously Blaise's phrase 'as long as Jonah has the facts very accurately' and was trying to remember everything she'd already told him and deciding how very carefully she would have to explain Edward's mental and physical condition when he'd returned to them from the prisoner-of-war camp: those tiny, terrible details of the way he stole and hid food and his incandescent rages if anyone touched his belongings.
Remembering these things sent Hester at once to the study to record her thoughts and to note down the final sequence of events that led to the fight and Michael's return with Lucy to London. Confident that she'd assisted Jonah to build up a true impression of the characters of all the people involved, combined with his natural feel for that brief, relevant period of the war that she'd described to him, she could only hope that he'd view the rest of the story with understanding and compassion.
When she next saw him, however, she was filled with doubt. Jonah was as eager as ever; his longing to know the whole of the story was undiminished. If anything, Lucy's disclosures had simply added fuel to the flames of his curiosity and Hester saw that nothing would satisfy him now but to know everything. The first thing that he asked about, however, was the Midsummer Cushion. Hester was relieved to be able to tell him how John Clare had described a very old custom among the villagers, which was to stick wild field flowers into a slice of turf and place it as an ornament in their cottages. These were the 'Midsummer Cushions' and the custom had so delighted one of Hester's ancestors that she had translated it into a tapestry.
'It was very beautiful,' Hester said, 'and I can well imagine that Lucy would remember it. For some reason it utterly enchanted her and she would ask to be lifted up so as to see it properly.' She hesitated. 'Did you feel that she was quite happy to be talking about all this at last, Jonah?'
'I felt so. It hasn't been a complete volte face, don't think that – she's approaching it very cautiously – but when I talked about Nanny and the boys she told me all about her arrival here, as far as she could remember it, and it seemed to be a very happy experience. Of course, you'd described it too, so I was able to see it as a whole picture. I have to say that having two sides of the same story is fascinating.'
Yet Hester still hesitated to plunge in as she'd done so readily on his previous visit: the warning in Blaise's letter continued to haunt her. The stark fact was that Jonah's grandfather had conducted an affair with his best friend's wife for a year before Edward's return and it had been the sight of them together that had driven the already unstable Edward to violence. How to explain the loneliness of the years between Edward's capture early in 1942 until his unexpected return late in 1945 so that Jonah should not judge Eleanor – or Michael – too harshly? After all, she'd long given up hope that her husband was still alive and it was easy to understand how both Michael – still grieving for Susan – and the lonely Eleanor might be drawn to each other for comfort.
At this point Hester pulled herself up sharply. These were not the 'accurate facts' of which Blaise had written. To describe the events so might be more palatable for Jonah but it in no way gave any truthful picture either of Eleanor's predatory determination to possess Michael or of the gradual weakening of Michael's will. He hadn't loved Eleanor but he could not, in the end, resist her. Hester saw, with a kind of horror, how very easy it would be to distort the facts. She began to fear her ability to achieve telling the whole story honestly without leaving Jonah with a rather unsavoury portrait of his grandfather.
As they sat beside the fire in the book-room, with St Francis draped lovingly across Jonah's chest, Hester started to describe the uncertainty of those years after Edward's capture, and the anxiety and fear that had haunted them all – especially Eleanor. Her physical passion for Edward had been very real and she'd missed him terribly so that Michael's arrival with Lucy had found her in a lonely and very needy state.
As Hester negotiated these dangerous waters she soon realized that Jonah was not at all predisposed to judge his grandfather: he was ready to accept that Michael and Eleanor had both been vulnerable and therefore open to temptation. Hester could truthfully show that it was Eleanor who'd made the running, even if she were aware of Jonah's growing recognition that Michael must have allowed himself to be manipulated – up to a point.
The sticking point, beyond which he would not budge, Hester told Jonah, was Lucy's safety and happiness. It was at Bridge House, with Hester and Nanny and the boys, and Patricia, that Lucy had found some kind of normal life again and Michael refused to move her away though it was clearly impossible to have an affair before the gaze of such a large family. Any leave he had was spent at Bridge House, which though it had its advantages for Eleanor, was also deeply frustrating.
'I'm sure that Lucy was happy with us,' Hester said, though now sounding rather doubtful. 'And though it could be said that Michael and Eleanor behaved badly, it's necessary to remember that for three years Eleanor – all of us – half believed that her husband was dead. The danger really began when poor Edward came back and neither Michael nor Eleanor would make a clean break one way or the other. To be fair, Edward frightened all of us and I wouldn't have blamed Eleanor if she and Michael had decided to cut their losses and had simply gone away together. Afterwards, I wished they had.'
'Afterwards?'
'He came on them unexpectedly one evening.' Hester decided that she could tell him this much. 'They were together in the drawing-room. I think Eleanor was pleading with Michael to go away with her. She was holding on to him and he had his arms round her. Perhaps, in his dark, confused mind, Edward already suspected something between them. Anyway, he lost control and attacked Michael. They fought, it was very violent and horrid, and afterwards there was no question but that Michael should take Lucy at once and go back to London. Eleanor decided to go with them.'
Jonah was looking rather shocked. 'Mum didn't say anything about this.'
'Lucy wouldn't have known. She was in bed, asleep. Eleanor had to wake her up so as to dress her and hurry her away. It must have been very frightening for her and I don't know what Michael and Eleanor told her. Perhaps there was something they said which accounts for her long silence. Shortly afterwards Michael was killed. The whole period was terribly traumatic for her. I feel now that we let her down. I said that she was happy here and I'm sure she was, at least until Nanny and the boys left when Patricia's husband came back after the war. After that she must have been lonely, poor little soul, though she had become used to us by then, and Michael was reluctant to move her to his old aunt in Sussex. When Edward came back, and we saw that he was unstable and deeply disturbed mentally, we should have acted. I see that now, in retrospect, but life is never quite so clear when one is living it, is it? We all dithered, getting through each day, trying to come to terms with this new development. We didn't have counselling in those days. We just got on with it as best we could. Most of the time Edward was very quiet but odd things would upset him and one could never be sure what they might be: certain noises or even colour combinations distressed him. Nowadays he'd have been locked up, of course, or on very powerful medication.' A pause. 'Did Lucy talk about Edward?'
'Only in passing. Sh
e said that he frightened her but took very little notice of her. She said . . .' Jonah frowned, remembering, 'she said that there was an aura of turbulence around him and that he had violent fits of temper but she said that Eleanor also frightened her. She said that you and Patricia were "safe" people.'
Hester smiled gratefully. 'I'm so glad that she felt that and that she remembered Nanny and the boys with affection. Tell me what she said about the Midsummer Cushion. It clearly had an effect on her.'
'Actually, she didn't talk about it as such. She mentioned it right at the end, when I was leaving. "Ask Hester about the Midsummer Cushion," she said.'
'I've been thinking about it,' Hester said, 'and I remember that it broke very soon after Michael and Lucy left us. I found it in pieces on my bedroom floor. The string was worn very thin and had broken. Probably some vibration finished it off. I'm glad she didn't know about that. She loved it so much.' She hesitated, watching him, trying to gauge his reactions. 'Do you think that she might come here, Jonah? Now that you've broken the ice? I would so like to see her again.'
He smiled at her. 'I'd like to think she would,' he said warmly. 'I'm sure it would do her so much good now that she's begun to open up. I'll certainly mention it when the moment seems right.'
'Good.' Hester stood up. 'I thought we'd have a drive tomorrow. The forecast is promising and I think you need to keep the landscape in your mind, as well as the emotions. There will be plenty of time before you catch your train.'
Memories Of The Storm Page 12