Memories Of The Storm

by Willett, Marcia

  'I don't quite know. I suppose I shall have to tell her that I know the truth but that there's no question of . . . going on with it.' He saw her look of puzzlement. 'I'd wondered if I could make a play out of it, you see. Different names and places, of course, but she'd agreed to help me.'

  'Make a play of it?'

  She looked so shocked that he felt the need to defend himself. 'I had no idea about Edward. I suppose I was concentrating mostly on Michael. And you when you were little. Hester was trying to build up the characters of you all because I wanted to know how the relationships had begun, that kind of thing. We'd hardly talked about the ending. It was my idea that I might make something out of it but maybe she thought that it was a kind of exorcism: a way of putting the past to rest.'

  'It is quite unbelievable.' Lucy shook her head blankly. 'That Hester could agree to it, I mean. Of course, she's an academic, isn't she? She writes about dead people and the past and, I suppose, in the end she views everything with that same kind of detachment, even her brother's murder. OK – ' she saw his instinctive reaction – 'his manslaughter, if you prefer it. Even so, I notice that she still wasn't prepared to talk openly about it. She left that to me. Perhaps she imagines that fictionalizing it makes it more palatable.'

  'I don't know what to say. Or do. I shall have to think about it. I'm really sorry, Mum.'

  'So am I.' Lucy stood up, kissed him and moved to the door. 'Try to sleep. I'll see you in the morning. And thanks for coming down, Jonah.'

  Jonah continued to sit at the table. Eyes closed, he tried to remember everything that Hester had told him. He was surprised at how miserable it made him feel to believe that she had lied to him – or, at least, withheld the whole truth. He could understand now why Lucy had been so devastated and why she'd kept it secret. Even after such a short acquaintance with Hester and with only an embryonic identification with his grandfather, Jonah nevertheless felt a keen sense of loss and an odd sense of betrayal. He wondered how Hester would react when he told her that at last he knew the facts, though he shrank from the prospect. Her words repeated themselves in his head.

  'It's a very familiar theme – just a love story that went tragically wrong.'

  'I want you to feel familiar with the cast . . . so that you don't misjudge any of us.'

  'Edward frightened all of us and I wouldn't have blamed Eleanor if she and Michael had . . . simply gone away together. Afterwards, I wished they had.'

  At what point, Jonah asked himself, would Hester have finally disclosed the truth? He found that he was thinking about Michael: the young man whom Hester had described with such affection and who had gone running out into the wild, streaming night to fetch help for his one-time closest friend. And Hester calling after him, 'Michael, wait. There's no point.' She'd seen Edward's lifeless body in the water, no doubt, and her one thought was to get Michael and Lucy away. Jonah wondered what Hester had done afterwards. How had Edward's death been glossed over and explained? An accident, perhaps? After all, it wouldn't be all that surprising if Edward should fall into the river, given his mental state. She might even have allowed it to be known that he'd committed suicide.

  'When Edward came back, and we saw that he was unstable and deeply disturbed mentally, we should have acted . . . Nowadays, he'd have been locked up.'

  He tried to imagine exactly what had happened after the others had fled away. Perhaps Hester might tell him if he ever had the courage to confront her. At least there was no question of Lucy going to see her now. Jonah frowned, trying to work out what benefit Hester could have imagined accruing from such a visit.

  'The whole period was terribly traumatic for her,' Hester had said. 'I feel now that we let her down.'

  Jonah felt guilty of that too. By pursuing the past he'd forced his mother into a very vulnerable position, and at a difficult time when his father was so ill. A period of respite was needed – for all three of them. Yet he knew, lodged deep inside him, there was a driving, seeking element that wouldn't let him rest: an absolute requirement to discover the whole truth.

  PART TWO

  BRIDGE HOUSE: SEPTEMBER 1944– SPRING 1946

  When Eleanor first sees Michael in the drawingroom at Bridge House she knows at once that he is going to be terribly important to her. Her friends might laugh at her passions but they have no idea of how deeply she experiences this love that overwhelms her. Oh, she admits that there have been rather a large number of men with whom she's fallen so passionately in love – but that doesn't mean that her feelings aren't genuine and painful. She loved Edward once – how long ago it seems – but how can love survive war, separation and, now, the conviction that he is dead? Love requires two people, she insists; it can't survive without nourishment.

  In the two years since Edward was posted 'missing: presumed dead' – during visits to London to see her friends – there have been one or two small romances, nothing too serious, but when she sees Michael she knows that this time it is different.

  'Well, isn't anyone going to introduce us?' she asks – and is instantly aware of Hester's antagonism. Well, she is used to that. From the beginning she's felt Hester's cool gaze upon her and it keeps her on her mettle: nothing is so critical or puritanical as the judgement of a young girl. Usually Eleanor is able to break down any resistance to her charm – she much prefers to be loved than disliked – but with Hester all the usual tactics fail. She is a success with Patricia and the boys, even Nanny succumbs, but Hester remains aloof, almost as if she fears that she, Eleanor, is a threat to Edward.

  Of course, Eleanor reminds herself, Hester has no idea what it is like to have had a physical relationship with a man and then be denied it: she cannot begin to understand the neediness and the longing. She is Edward's sister, not his wife or lover, and so her anxiety for him is quite different from Eleanor's own feelings. Despite this antagonism she prefers to make her base at Bridge House. If she goes home to her parents they badger her to be useful, they expect her to be stoic and dutiful, and she finds it difficult to settle back into the role of a child, having been a wife. At Bridge House she is treated with respect, she is Edward's wife: nobody questions her occasional visits to London and nothing is required of her – apart from her ration book – when she is with them. Patricia is full of compassion and sympathy for Eleanor's plight, Nanny spoils her, and the little boys are rather sweet though sometimes she could scream with the boredom of it all.

  So, 'Isn't anyone going to introduce us?' she asks when she sees Michael in the drawing-room – and, quite suddenly, she intuits that her life is about to change.

  Of course, she knows very well who Michael is. Good grief! There's been enough discussion about him and little Lucy and the tragedy of his wife's death during the last few weeks, though Eleanor has kept rather quiet on the subject as to whether or not Lucy should come to Bridge House. She feels that it would be tactless to suggest that two children are more than enough to have about the place and, anyway, she quickly sees that her opinion is not going to be sought – but she watches and listens with interest.

  'Of course Lucy must come,' cries Patricia, eyes brimming. 'Poor child, poor little girl. How terrible for her to lose her mother.'

  She clasps little Robin tightly and he gazes up at her anxiously, eyes wide, whilst Nanny clucks disapprovingly lest he should be distressed at the sight of his mother in tears.

  'We don't want to upset the little mite,' she says firmly, removing Robin from Patricia's embrace. 'Let's try to remain calm, dear. Of course Lucy must come if there's nowhere else for her to go. You'll like that, won't you, Robin? Having a little girl to stay with us?'

  'Of course he will,' says Patricia quickly, affectionately. 'He's such a loving little boy, aren't you, Robbie? You'll be very kind to Lucy, won't you?'

  Robin looks from one to the other and even Eleanor can see that he is already calculating how this new situation might be used to his advantage. She prefers Jack, who is more direct and much more generous, but to be honest she is n
ot really interested in either of the boys though she knows it is in her interest to make a pretence of affection. What surprises her is how readily Patricia, and even Nanny, are taken in by this. They are so besotted with the children that she can only imagine that they expect everyone else to feel the same way.

  'And poor Michael,' says Patricia, trying to prevent more tears welling up, though Nanny has now taken Robin to find Jack so that he won't be further distressed by his mother's emotion. 'How is he going to manage? He must be so cut up about it. Poor Susan. She was so young and they were so happy. Do you remember that sweet letter she wrote to Mother after their wedding, Hester? And then again when Lucy was born? I know we never met her but I felt that she was part of the family too. I'm so glad Michael feels he can turn to us. He won't feel quite so desperate.'

  At least he knows she's dead, thinks Eleanor impatiently, bored now by all the histrionics. He can get on with his life. Not like me . . .

  She lights a cigarette, slightly ashamed of her reaction but still irritated. Oh, she knows he is Edward's oldest friend, and much loved by everyone, but frankly she is getting rather tired of the plans and arrangements and the excitement that Patricia and Hester – especially Hester – feel at the prospect of seeing Michael again after all these years.

  Yet, as soon as she sets eyes on him, she is struck by something beyond his good looks: there is a vital quality, a nervous energy that reminds her of Edward and makes him very attractive.

  'This is Michael,' says Hester almost reluctantly, but Eleanor cares nothing for Hester's watchfulness, though she doesn't like it when Hester adds rather too pointedly, 'And this is Edward's wife, Eleanor.'

  Hester refuses to accept that Edward has perished – and so, clearly, does Michael.

  'Edward's my oldest friend,' he says warmly, taking Eleanor's hand. 'It's wonderful to meet you at last.'

  His look is sympathetic but she doesn't want his sympathy – or, at least, only in so far as it engages his interest and makes a natural stepping-off place to what must follow. Nevertheless, she is intelligent enough to see at once that there can be no short cuts here: Michael is a sensitive man. It is clear that his grief for Susan and her anxieties for Edward must be given their due respect. She makes some suitable greeting, her look conveys understanding – 'We two are in the same boat,' it tells him – and then Patricia is breaking in with some remark about the good old days and Eleanor waits for her next chance to make her claim upon him.

  When Lucy appears on the scene Eleanor is taken aback. The child has an intelligent and penetrating look – rather like a childish version of Hester's – and she sees that no easy conquest is to be hers. It is as if the child immediately grasps the situation and already sees her, Eleanor, as an enemy. Michael is sweet with her, Eleanor is touched by his care for his child, and it is obvious that Lucy adores him: tact and patience will be required.

  When the children rush out into the garden after tea to show Lucy her surprise, Eleanor hangs back a little, smiling at Michael in a way that underlines the fellow-feeling that she hopes she has already awakened in him. He smiles back at her almost ruefully.

  'It's such a relief to know that she'll be here,' he says, 'but I shall miss her terribly. I think it's the right thing to do.'

  For a moment she is taken aback: her own feelings for him are already so heightened that she has assumed that he will seize an opportunity to make some kind of remark that relates to the similarities of their situation: something of a personal nature. She recovers swiftly – so swiftly that he notices nothing – and tells him that they will all be making sure that Lucy is kept happy. She manages to imply that because of her own loneliness it will be her special care to watch over the child and he looks at her gratefully. Yet, even in that look, she sees awareness of her beauty and a response to her situation.

  'I am so sorry,' he begins to say, 'about Edward. It must be . . .' He hesitates for a suitable phrase and she cuts in very quickly.

  'I've grown hardened to it. It's been two years now and I know I shall never see him again.'

  Somehow he has taken hold of her hand, protesting that she mustn't give up hope, but she resists his attempts to change her mind by simply shaking her head and indicating that she'd rather not discuss it. Hester suddenly appears, Michael drops Eleanor's hand abruptly, and they all go out into the garden together.

  If Eleanor hopes to further her plans by cultivating Lucy's affection she is doomed to disappointment, for the little girl resolutely keeps her at a distance. It is Hester whom Lucy loves most: Hester and Jack. Robin is gentler but Jack is straightforward and open, and Lucy feels safe with him. It is to Jack, finally, that she confides her fear of the old people behind the curtain. To begin with she keeps her terror to herself. She doesn't know any of the family well enough to feel that she can explain properly. She suspects that any grown-up will simply throw back the curtain and show her that there is nobody there – she can do that for herself when the sun shines brightly in through the window – but when it gets dark, what she knows no longer counts. The night-time brings with it a different world where shadows emerge, creeping and changing shape, and there are muffled sounds and urgent rustlings in the silence.

  Lying in bed, the blackout down, hardly daring to breathe, she seems to hear the old people in the alcove somehow becoming visible, growing into the shoes, which shuffle about and creak as if the old people are standing on tiptoe, getting ready to advance into the room. It is Jack who finds her one night, weeping with fright, huddled under the blankets. Even then, she doesn't tell him and he simply thinks that she is crying for her mother. That's when he shows her the Midsummer Cushion, so as to comfort her.

  'Come on,' he whispers. 'Everyone's having dinner and Nanny's listening to the wireless. It's ITMA, her favourite. Come on.'

  She follows him out on to the landing, breathless with excitement and fear, and waits with him as he hesitates outside Hester's bedroom, head on one side, listening.

  'It's all right,' he says, and they go in together.

  The blackout is not drawn down and the room is filled with late summer evening light, quite bright enough to see the frame hanging on the wall.

  'But it's not a cushion at all,' she begins, surprised and disappointed, but then Jack draws her closer to it and Lucy catches her breath with delight. The flowers are perfect: each tiny petal is lovingly delineated in coloured silks so that they look fresher, more alive, than the faded, pressed blooms that lie amongst them. Cornflower blue, poppy scarlet, buttercup gold, grass green – Lucy is captivated and Jack shows her how to stand on the little stool so as to see it better.

  'But you must never, never touch it,' he warns her. 'It's very old and precious, and Nanny says if we touch it something really bad will happen.'

  Jack watches her almost proprietorially, enjoying her pleasure, proud to be the one bestowing the honour upon her whilst at the same time frightening her by the prospect of retribution, just as he and Robin have been warned in the past.

  'What sort of thing?' she asks fearfully, still staring up at the tapestry. Instinctively she thinks of her mother and her little rituals to ward off evil.

  Jack shrugs – no particular punishment has been described – but he doesn't want to lose his power over her.

  'It's an heirloom,' he says importantly. 'So if it broke it would be very bad luck for someone in the family.'

  'An air loom.' Lucy puzzles over the words. She associates them immediately with air raid and remembers that this is how her mother died: in an air raid. An air loom sounds a dangerous thing, yet she is not frightened away from the Midsummer Cushion, rather it draws her back again and again to gaze upon the bright, delicate scene.

  In gratitude to Jack she makes him a present of her fear, entrusting it to him though she knows he might use it against her to tease her or tell the grown-ups that she's a scaredy cat; an expression with which he often stigmatizes Robin. He doesn't, though. He takes it very seriously and offers to come in one
night and wait with her in the dark.

  'If they come out,' he tells her, 'I shall run them through with my sword.'

  Lucy looks at his silver-painted cardboard sword with respect. The hilt is set about with pieces of coloured glass and the scabbard is carved. She knows that she will feel braver with Jack beside her. So it is that one night they sit together, huddled under Lucy's eiderdown, the faint, flickering beam of Jack's electric torch aimed upon the alcove curtain. As the plumbing gurgles menacingly behind the walls, and mice scamper through the dark, secret pathways of their territory beneath the floorboards, the children wait. The weak pencil of light roves to and fro, up and down, and it seems that the curtain does move, that it bellies a little and ripples, as if the old people are taking shape behind it. Lucy's terror communicates itself to Jack so that a sudden noise – no more than a mouse skittering behind the skirting-board – precipitates them into action. Jack leaps from the bed, glad to expend his fear in physical violence, and assaults the curtain with stabs of his sword and cries of, 'Avaunt thee!'

  The door is flung open, the light switched on, and Patricia stands there, eyes wide with apprehension, staring in amazement at the scene. Jack is tangled up with the curtain and the shoes, hot and overexcited, and Lucy clutches the eiderdown tightly in fear of the impending row. Patricia, however, seems to understand that there is something more than simple high spirits here and she hurries to help Jack out of the tangle in the alcove.

  'What is it?' she asks. 'Whatever are you doing, darling?' and she smiles reassuringly at Lucy, who feels weak with relief. Jack is explaining that they thought they heard something behind the curtain and manages to bring the shoes into the story so that, still rather puzzled, Patricia picks up a pair of brogues. Somehow, Jack has managed to convey some measure of their childish horror to her and, though she doesn't quite understand, she piles the shoes into a small suitcase and closes the lid.