From A Distance

by Gloria Cook

  Fetching the flasks, Emilia stepped out into the cold. Mercifully the rain had also eased and now fell only in a pathetic drizzle. Alec was up on a ladder, removing the remaining loose grey slates of the cart-house roof. She wanted to shout to him to be careful, in recompense for thinking about Perry. For still loving Perry, for loving him more than she could ever love Alec. But that might startle Alec and cause him to fall off the ladder.

  Will and Tom came either side of her, the elder a typical strapping black-haired Harvey, the younger, rangy and his head topped with rich coppery-brown locks, like hers and Lottie’s.

  ‘Blood and bones! What a mess.’ Will beat his fists together, eager to get to work. He was always the first of the brothers to speak. He was chuckling inside because he had secretly threatened Lottie that he’d lock her in the cupboard under the stairs if she didn’t stop bothering him to be allowed to come outside. One thing she was afraid of was the dark. He wouldn’t ever do it, but it was the best way to make her shut up.

  Tom always measured his thoughts before he spoke. ‘There’s damage all over the West Country according to the news on the wireless. No mention of anyone getting hurt, thank goodness.’

  ‘Good,’ Emilia said, smiling at Tom. ‘But the storm’s not over yet for others, it’s shifting south-east. You boys feed the horses, then clear the paths to the outhouses. We don’t want anyone tripping over wreckage. You know what to do with anything useful for firewood.’

  ‘Dad!’ Tom yelled suddenly and was dashing towards the cart house.

  ‘What? Oh, my dear God!’ Emilia froze. The top of the wall that Alec was up against was rocking as if by some unseen giant hand. There was nothing she could do. The large granite stones came hurtling down. Alec was swept off the ladder and buried under the rubble.

  Chapter Two

  Ben Harvey, Alec’s youngest brother, who owned property on the other side of the village, was pleased to find only a few regulars in the village pub that night. He was in no mood for company and welcomed the dim light and subdued atmosphere. He offered a quick hello to Gilbert Eathorne, the shopkeeper and postmaster, who was perched on a stool at the bar with his brother Sidney, who owned the butcher’s shop and had his well-trained border collie with him. Ben hoped the red-faced, cheery, nosy pair, who looked as if they were about to pounce on him with, no doubt, some exaggerated gossip about the consequences of the storm, would take the hint that he wanted only a quiet drink. He nodded to deaf old Mr Quick, who was scrunched up in his usual seat at a barrel table beside the crackling log fire, and received a trembly headshake in reply.

  On his way to the bar he felt another pair of eyes on him. Unfriendly eyes. Due to an accident in his youth Ben was partially sighted in his left eye, and when he turned to look in that direction he was annoyed to see another drinker. He ignored the well-built, fair-haired young man stretched out in a territorial manner in a dark corner and puffing out a cloud of cigarette smoke. He and Jim Killigrew had despised each other from the time Jim had worked as a labourer on Ford Farm, and it was not unknown for them to be involved in a fist fight.

  ‘Your usual, Mr Ben?’ The landlady, Ruby Brokenshaw, a good-natured but no-nonsense war-widow, nearing middle age in a plump yet stylish manner, made straight for a bottle of single malt.

  ‘Make it a double please, Ruby.’ His voice was full of sighs. ‘What a day.’

  ‘You’re telling me. It’s quiet in here tonight what with so many mopping up after the gale,’ Ruby said, putting the glass of whisky and a jug of water in front of him. She took the ten-shilling note Ben proffered. He waved away the change and pushed away the water. ‘And for that poor soul to die like that. Terrible!’

  Puzzled, Ben raised the dark brows of his strongly contoured face and took his time bringing out a gold cigar case and lighter from the inside breast pocket of his coat. The Eathornes, portly and short, in ancient raincoats, were on their feet and moving in on him, their habitual wide-toothed grins missing as they stared at him for his reaction. They could damn well wait. Ben lit the small, fragrant cigar. While Alec saw most people as equals, inviting all to call him by his Christian name, Ben did not. He believed money counted in one’s standing and good breeding counted even more. He had a proud bearing and towered over his brothers, and with the milky pea-sized spot in his damaged eye, he seemed like some fine battle-scarred warrior. He had great presence, which he had carefully cultivated, and which like now, even when he wasn’t seeking to, ensured that he was usually central to the scene. Alec might own more land in and around Hennaford, but he, through his various businesses, including the local garage and filling station, was now the wealthier, and he wanted everyone to acknowledge it. At last he said, ‘But my brother didn’t die in the accident. He’s suffered a broken leg and broken ribs and cuts and bruises. He should be released from the infirmary in a day or two. I’ve just driven Mrs Harvey home from there. The roads are still in a fine old mess.’

  Ruby Brokenshaw’s pink-lipsticked mouth opened in shock. ‘I wasn’t talking about the squire! Had no idea he was hurt. It’s Leslie Annear I’m on about. He was struck down by lightning outside his own workshop. Killed instantly.’

  ‘What? That’s terrible.’ Ben dropped the cigar in a brass ashtray, shaking his dark head in disbelief. The Annear carpenter workshop was half a mile further along Back Lane from where he himself lived; all part of the former Tremore estate. Leslie Annear had rented a cottage and a small piece of land off him. ‘I was in Truro on business when I heard about my brother’s accident, otherwise I would have heard about this. What’s happened to the Annear children? I feel a responsibility towards them.’

  Gilbert Eathorne answered in the lowered tones of an actor narrating a tragic play on the wireless. ‘The young’uns have been taken in for now by Miss Rawley, but one’d expect nothing less from that dear fine lady. Ill-fated family, the Annears. Young Isaac was killed in the Great War. The parents were both took in the terrible ’flu epidemic just after that. Leslie was their last surviving child. His little wife died of cancer just last autumn. Now he’s gone too. A sorry story, if ever there was one.’

  ‘What happened to the squire then?’ Sidney jumped in. ‘Get caught out in the storm too, did he? Anything we can do?’

  To avoid too many questions Ben pulled on his cigar and gave a brief outline of how Alec had been injured.

  ‘So lightning got him too!’ Gilbert gasped, his crinkled eyes wide in astonishment. ‘It hit the village twice. Well, twice as far as we know. You never know what’s going to happen.’

  Sidney thumbed, with a disapproving glare, at Jim Killigrew. ‘According to he there, our brother’s farm got off lightly, but that’s where young Killigrew should be now, on Druzel land. Must be a lot of clearing up to do. Leaves everything to Eustace and young Wally, he does. Just because his sister’s married to Wally and he’s moved in with ’em, he thinks it gives him leave to sit back on his laurels. Hope the rest of your property didn’t fare too badly. Eh, Mr Ben?’

  Ben wasn’t given the chance to answer that all his other concerns had mainly been spared.

  ‘You can mind your own damned business, Sidney Eathorne!’ Jim Killigrew tossed down the butt of his cigarette, then rose swiftly and gulped down the last of his pint of bitter. ‘I’d only just got here, remember? I’m off. Trouble with my life is I can’t get away from you ruddy Eathornes. G’night, Ruby.’ Before thrusting his way out of the Ploughshare, he tossed enough copper coins on old Mr Quick’s barrel for the pensioner to buy himself drinks for the rest of the night.

  ‘Thanking you kindly, boy,’ old Mr Quick said, gathering up the money in his bony, arthritic fingers, his slowness of wit making him unaware of the bad feelings. In his worn flat cap and topcoat, once both a good fit but now overwhelming his small, wasted form, he gazed at the slammed door, puzzled and disappointed that he was to drink alone. Jim Killigrew was usually a sociable young fellow. He had formed a way of communicating with him. Most people selfishly left him t
o abide on his own in his silent world.

  ‘I’ll thank you not to drive my customers away, Sidney Eathorne,’ Ruby Brokenshaw said sharply. Her sister Effie was married to Gilbert. Gilbert had some good qualities but Sidney had few, and she was suspicious that he cheated with his meat measures. ‘I’ve got to pay someone to replace the blown-down slates on my roof, you know. Jim weren’t hurting. He always sits quietly. And I, for one, believe he’s a hard worker. Make some maid a good catch, he would.’

  ‘The boy gets above himself. Don’t hurt to remind him where he come from. The workhouse.’ Sidney was unrepentant and a malicious gleam showed in his pale eyes. ‘If you ask me, all’s not well on Druzel Farm. In fact we know it isn’t, don’t we, Gilbert?’

  ‘We do,’ Gilbert agreed. ‘Thing is, Wally’s soon to be a father again and the house is getting cramped. Killigrew’s in the way.’

  ‘Well, I like Jim.’ Ruby was equally defiant. ‘And he’s hardly a boy now, must be all of twenty-seven.’

  ‘Well, we know why women like him.’ Gilbert made a knowing face before raising his nose sanctimoniously.

  ‘I won’t have that sort of talk in here! It was only rumours about him and that dreadful Bosweld woman anyway. It was someone’s husband she was involved with,’ Ruby huffed, then carried another half of mild to old Mr Quick. After the Harveys, the Eathornes were the most well placed in the parish, and to her mind the Eathornes were becoming pride-ridden snobs. They had no upper-middle-class blood in them as the Harveys did. Instead of returning to her side of the bar she went up to Ben and asked quietly, ‘How’s your little girl, Mr Ben? Wasn’t too frightened by the gale, I hope.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her since breakfast. She’s in good health, thank you, Ruby.’ Talk involving his daughter reminded Ben why he hadn’t gone straight home after dropping Emilia back at the farm. He loved seven-year-old Faye but was frustrated over his wife’s two subsequent miscarriages and her reluctance to become pregnant again. The atmosphere at home was as gloomy as in here, and as charged as when Jim Killigrew had stormed out. He wanted a son and couldn’t see why he shouldn’t have one. But Brooke had come to the conclusion that she couldn’t face another disappointment and that he should be happy with just Faye and herself as family. Why couldn’t Brooke understand that a son and heir was important to him? Alec had two sons – Brooke had accused him of being jealous of Alec. It was true that in most things Alec had more than him, but if Alec had three daughters and not Will and Tom, he’d still want to have a son. Brooke should understand this. His other older brother Tristan had a daughter born the same year as Faye, and even he, the calm, content one of the family, had said that he was proud that his first born, by his first wife, was a son.

  It wouldn’t be so bad if Faye was more like Lottie, or Emilia. But his daughter was soft and fluffy and loved things like ballet and clothes; a career man’s wife in the making. Brooke was an American, from Wyoming, but there was no pioneering stock in her or her daughter. He had nothing to look forward to. His injured eye had caused him to miss out on the army career he had coveted. He would probably have been killed in the war to end all wars. He wished he had. A hero’s death and eternal veneration would have been preferable to this half life he was living.

  He rubbed his brow. He was getting a headache. And he was being unfair to Brooke. She was a good wife. His recent harsh moods, his inconsideration, might kill off her feelings for him if he didn’t change. He should go home and tell Brooke about Alec’s condition. She would be worried about him, and worried about how safe the roads were for the journey home from Truro. It struck him then how much he had enjoyed the journey home with Emilia. Always a woman of strong feelings, she had been distraught over Alec’s near death. For some moments, so she had said, she had thought Alec was dead as she and the boys had frantically pulled the rubble off him. ‘I can’t tell you how I felt at hearing him breathe. I couldn’t bear it if I lost him, Ben.’

  Would Brooke feel the same way if he had nearly been killed by a collapsing wall? And if he did die, would she sell everything he had worked so hard for and move back to America? He gulped down his whisky, relishing the comforting burn down his throat to his stomach. He should go. But Emilia had probably phoned Brooke with news of Alec. There was no need to hurry. Brooke would guess he was here. She was probably vexed with him. She would show this by an irritating polite quietness, the ruse she employed to keep him from making loving approaches. Emilia would tackle Alec over such a thing the moment he got inside the door. Ben would prefer this to passive sulking.

  He had been engaged once to his spirited sister-in-law. He should have married her instead of blaming her, unfairly, and causing years of estrangement, over the loss of his sight. Emilia was strong-willed and tough. She hadn’t been afraid to have another baby after Jenna’s death and that was far more tragic than a couple of early miscarriages. Alec was going to need a lot of attention in the next few weeks but Emilia would manage. She’d cope with Alec and with running the farm. Pity Brooke wasn’t more like her.

  He finished the cigar and pushed his empty glass forward on the highly polished mahogany bar top. ‘I’m ready for another, Ruby.’ He would leave his sporty motor car here and walk home.

  ‘Double again?’

  ‘Yes, please, and whatever you and the others are having. And Mr Quick must have a packet of Gold Flake for his pipe.’ He met the Eathorne brothers’ grateful grins with a melancholy smile. ‘Let’s drink to the memory of Leslie Annear.’

  Chapter Three

  The funeral cortège left from Ford House, the home of Elena Rawley, the custodian of the two Annear children. While making the arrangements for today, she had told Emilia, ‘I couldn’t let the children go back to their home. Alan witnessed his father’s death, and he and Martha had sat beside the body for hours before the tragedy was discovered.’

  Elena’s late father, once Hennaford’s Methodist minister, had bought the grand four-bedroomed property for his retirement, cheaply from Alec. Alec had been glad to get rid of it – tragedy and troubles had beleaguered many a member of the Harvey family in the house. Elena knew of the house’s history but avowed she found it peaceful. The villagers put this down to her character. She was modest and humble. She was old-fashioned in dress and in some of her views but never judgemental. She lived on the proceeds of a small trust fund, carrying on with her life as she had always done, serving those in need with understanding and without prejudice, and for this she was highly respected and was known as the heart and angel of the village.

  It was the custom for few women to attend a funeral, but the sadness of the occasion ensured as many women as men were at the church and the wake afterwards at Ford House. As Elena greeted the mourners at her front door, with four- year-old Alan and infant Martha clinging nervously to her long tweed skirt, she was unaware that her home held differing memories for some of the arrivals.

  While Emilia was relieved and thankful she didn’t have a funeral to arrange – Alec’s – her thoughts turned to Perry the instant she entered the house. He and his family had been its last tenants. It was here in the dining room, which had been turned into a bedroom back then for Perry, who had lost a leg during war service, that he and a doctor friend of his, at her request, had examined Jenna and she had learned the full horror of her condition. She stood motionless before the table, laid with ham, and egg and cress sandwiches and the usual fare consumed at funeral teas, recalling how in this room she had also shared her first kiss with Perry.

  ‘No sherry, but one doesn’t expect to be served a decent drink in this household.’ Ben nudged her arm. ‘Good spread though, but all the village chipped in with the refreshments. Brooke sent over those chocolate biscuits. She calls them cookies. Try some, Em.’

  ‘What? Oh, I’m not hungry, Ben.’

  His wide-shouldered, black suit was of finer quality than any other man’s present, his tie was silk, and he cut an excellent figure. Under the guise of fussing to locate his handkerchi
ef he looked Emilia up and down. She was tall and in perfect feminine shape, vigorous and healthy and, as always, a little stately. She was also a picture of winsome sorrow in a cross-over, fur-collared coat and a small pull-on hat. This was one of the rare occasions she wore stockings and high heels. It was a treat to see her divine legs and neat ankles, but he liked her too in working clothes when she wore a shirt and trousers. When her hat came off, her hair would spring back in chin-length coppery waves. ‘Are you fretting about Alec? He’s got enough people dancing attendance on him, surely? He’ll knit together soon enough. Harveys are made of rock and steel. Is he being difficult?’

  ‘You know Alec never makes a fuss. Sometimes I wish he would, to show me his spirit is returning. He lies on the couch most of the time, staring out of the bedroom window. I just feel sad, that’s all. This is a sad house.’

  Ben joined her in a silent moment, their minds going back down the years to when Tristan Harvey, the third Harvey brother, then an army captain away fighting in the war, had owned the house and his first wife, Ursula, had died here in childbirth, the baby sired by her lover. He and Emilia had sat through that terrible occasion and were linked unendingly by her deathbed wish, the promise they had made to ensure her baby would be well cared for. A promise that had turned into a secret shared also by Alec, a very reluctant Tristan, the medical attendants and the baby’s adoptive aunt. Ben wanted to say that there weren’t only bad memories for him here. During their brief engagement, when he had loved Emilia so much, she had willingly gone upstairs with him and they had made love. The first time for both of them, a special time. Since their reconciliation, brought about by Jenna’s death, he had returned to cherishing that sweet occasion. He wished there had been more. What he liked best about Emilia was her earthiness and independent spirit. Emilia was a fighter, she got on with things, she was stoical and unfussy. He knew then that he would never stop wanting her. He reached out and touched her hand. ‘Em…’