Secrets of the Past

by Estella McQueen

  ‘Can’t wait,’ he said.

  *

  When he pulled up in the car park she was already waiting for him.

  ‘You’re looking very nice.’ She was wearing tights and a dress, the first time he’d seen her without jeans and Kickers.

  ‘Thanks. Let’s go.’

  The ancient MG Roadster was an undeniably attractive vehicle, with its dark green livery and open top, but she was inclined to kick up a fuss. ‘I could have driven; I do have a car of my own. I know how to change gear, and everything.’

  He gave a low laugh. ‘I’m being a gentleman, don’t knock it.’

  With no central locking he leaned across the gear lever to undo the passenger side. She climbed in and slammed the door so hard the chassis bounced wildly from side to side.

  ‘Careful,’ he said. ‘Bits of bodywork tend to fall off. I lost the exhaust once on a speed bump.’

  The chair was too far forward. She hunched it into position and struggled with the tangled seatbelt. ‘When was the last time you had a passenger?’

  ‘Er, a while.’

  The old engine spluttered into life, and for a while they drove along listening to its every noisy utterance. Eventually Charlie switched on the tape player. ‘Old fashioned technology,’ he apologised, ‘I don’t have a CD player.’ He pressed play. ‘Not sure what’s in there at the moment…,’

  A piano melody bobbed up and down, accompanied by an acoustic guitar, too indistinct to make out. He adjusted the volume. ‘Oh, it’s Nick Drake. Do you like Nick Drake?’

  ‘He’s all right.’

  The lyrics were sweet, wistful, tragic. ‘Oh poor boy, so sorry for himself…,’

  ‘What’s this,’ she said, ‘your signature tune?’

  ‘It’s not music for sharing, is it?’ Charlie suggested. ‘I used to listen to this on headphones in my room at home. God, I was a sad fucker!’

  The swear word, with all its ugly sharp awkward edges, jarred badly. As though he’d taken a loud hailer and bellowed it across at her. Mortified, he said, ‘I didn’t mean to say that! It just came out.’

  ‘It’s all right. You can swear in front of me, it won’t offend my delicate sensibilities.’

  ‘Northern sky…been a long time…’

  He leaned forwards and pressed the eject button. Nick Drake stopped abruptly with an awkward squelching noise.

  ‘Pinch wheels,’ he remarked.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Something my Dad says. If you don’t eject the tape properly, it bends the pinch wheels.’

  Astrid glanced across.

  ‘He says it all the time. Very annoying. I don’t even know what pinch wheels are, do you?’

  ‘Haven’t the foggiest.’

  He put the radio on and for the next few minutes they concentrated on the news bulletin. He didn’t understand where this inability to speak had come from. Away from Addleston House, they could no longer communicate. Without the letters, they were lost.

  His fingers tapped now and again on the steering wheel. When he finally risked a direct look her face wore a familiar troubled expression. What was bothering her this time?

  ‘Nice Christmas?’ he asked in desperation.

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘Who did you see? Did you stay with anyone?’

  ‘Nope. Relative-free Christmas this year. Just the way I like it.’

  He was puzzled. ‘No family, or friends?’

  ‘Nope. How about you? Did you see Adam? Your step son.’

  ‘I’m well aware who he is, Astrid, and no, I didn’t see him.’

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to overstep the mark.’

  What could they talk about? What would entertain her, while he drove? Erudite conversation, sparkling repartee – his powers failed him. Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt.

  ‘Mark Twain,’ she said out loud.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it? So was I.’

  ‘So now you’re the mind reader?’

  ‘Not the only one with a special skill, are you?’ She shifted in her seat, her features softening to a smile.

  They arrived at their destination – an ivy clad Georgian residence set in a large garden – and were greeted by Margaret Brownlow, the housekeeper, a shapeless woman in raincoat and boots, brandishing a large bunch of keys.

  The house was a modest building by Addleston’s standards, privately owned and partly converted into guest rooms, but as it was off season they had the place to themselves.

  ‘It’s very good of you to let us in,’ said Astrid.

  ‘Oh no bother,’ said Mrs Brownlow. ‘I live locally, I have to keep an eye on the place, anyway.’

  Margaret unlocked the front door and took them through the dimly lit entrance hall and into a long gallery filled with floor to ceiling windows. A lushly thick, moss coloured carpet absorbed all extraneous noise; its fibres bisected by strips of light from the semi drawn curtains.

  The paintings in the collection were darkened with age, their muted palettes threatening to melt into the varnished panelling behind. A casual visitor might well dismiss this room as being of insufficient historical interest - irrelevant to today’s society - and walk straight through in search of the toilets. But Charlie was no casual visitor.

  He was inclined to defer the prize as long as possible, but it was too late. He recognized him in an instant.

  He beckoned Astrid from across the room and pointed to a portrait. ‘Here he is. That’s him right there.’

  Positioned in front of a sweep of red drapery, was a tall figure in a black coat with large lapels. He wore a half-buttoned waistcoat revealing a white shirt and an elaborately tied neck cloth. His hair was dark brown, with natural highlights, and slightly dishevelled, like he’d pushed his fingers through his fringe. Light was reflected on the smooth, neat nails of his slim fingers where he clasped hold of a folded newspaper. His nose was straight; his eyes a greenish brown, very bright, very striking. The closed mouth and slightly jutting chin conveyed the tiniest hint of amusement, as though he was modestly responding to flattery.

  ‘Oh my God,’ breathed Astrid, ‘he’s a handsome bastard.’

  Charlie regarded her with baffled amusement.

  ‘Don’t you think so? Don’t you think he’s the most attractive man you’ve ever clapped eyes on? No wonder Amelia was in love with him.’ Her eyes roved every inch of the painting, as if she was scanning it into her brain forever.

  ‘I’m with you,’ said Margaret Brownlow. ‘It’s alchemical, isn’t it, the way an artist can produce a likeness using nothing more than a sequence of deftly placed brushstrokes on a piece of canvas.’

  ‘It’s hardly Thomas Lawrence,’ argued Charlie. ‘But then why would Harry Bramall sit for a society portrait? He isn’t an earl or a dignitary, he’s a journalist.’

  The housekeeper was unperturbed. ‘Well, whoever he is, he was bought in a sale. Part of a job lot. Someone in the family in the twentieth century decided they didn’t have enough family portraits, so they set out to acquire a few at auction and pass them off as their own.’

  ‘You mean he has no connection to this house?’ said Charlie.

  ‘None whatsoever. But it was money well spent, I say.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Astrid. ‘This man is in the maelstrom of early nineteenth century political life. He’s witnessed the setting up of the Regency, Queen Caroline’s divorce trial, George IV’s coronation…,’

  ‘And yet every night he lays his head on the pillow and dreams of his beloved Amelia!’ Charlie had taken one of the empty leather seats in the middle of the room. When Astrid at last tore her eyes away from Harry’s face, she noticed that he was holding a pair of letters in his hand. ‘What are you doing with those?’

  ‘I thought that if we got the chance, we could…,’ he glanced towards Mrs Brownlow who inclined her head slightly and left the room.

  ‘You wa
nt us to read them, here?’ She sat down next to him, facing the portrait and opening Amelia’s letter.

  ‘It might help.’

  ‘What would Mrs Toon say if she knew?’

  ‘Who cares? It’s an experiment… do you want me to go first?’

  He didn’t wait for her say-so, but opened Harry’s missive and began reading it aloud. His voice was muffled and warm in the close confines of the long, low ceilinged space. The mid-day sun cast a bright sheen across Harry’s portrait; small spots of illumination highlighted the features of his face, animating his eyes and mouth.

  ‘Darling, I have been so busy this week, my head is spinning. Picture me now at my desk in my gloomy chambers, tucking into the first meal I have eaten all day... I cannot get away, my love, all I can do is write. Even though I am supposed to care for ambition, progress, success – without word from you, it means naught. Imagine my kiss, my darling, you shall have it again. One day, I promise.’

  When he’d finished, Astrid took over with Amelia’s letter to Harry. Directing her speech towards the portrait, she was halfway through when they both realized there was a whole section that was new.

  They’d been distracted during the earlier reading by Amelia’s presence in the rose garden. Astrid hadn’t made it to the end. She read on now:

  ‘Harry, my love, remember that I love you. Have faith in me, your silly Tall Poppy. I shall never forget that last time I saw you, walking down the steps away from me, when I had told you that I was with child again. Your face revealed the pain of it, the dejection – I know, I felt it. You quickly hid it, my love, you were brave to try, but I saw and understood it. You explained that you did not know when you would be able to visit again. The business with the Queen was going to take up much of your time, and I had said, ‘Try, my love, please try.’ You agreed, of course you did, to allay my fears, but I guessed what was in your mind that day. You did not realize, as I did not at the time, that Tunney had seen you leave. I stood and watched you walk down the steps and away down the long drive. You had no carriage of course, you had come on foot. You did not turn back, not once. And when you’d gone Tunney was in a towering rage, and there followed such a violent incident, adding to my existing torment so grievously – But I will not talk at length about that. Suffice to say, the event that had so disquieted you, will not now take place. It is ended. And although I shed many tears, a part of me is glad it is ended. You can infer what you will from these allusions, I cannot bring myself to write it in plain English. All I want to tell you, my darling, is that I think of that last kiss we shared, each and every day. I will remember it forever.’

  Astrid finished the letter and looked up at Harry’s portrait.

  What did Amelia mean? What had Tunney done to her? What was the violent incident?

  And then the oddest thing happened. He was on the steps at Addleston House. The sun was high in the sky; the breeze was blowing his fringe into his eyes.

  All he wanted was to kiss her. One kiss, for pity’s sake. Like he always used to.

  The fire in his blood was threatening to combust his insides. He wasn’t sure where these violent thoughts came from, why he was trying to goad her, what he was trying to get her to admit to.

  Harry has paused at the top of the steps and given Amelia the longest, sweetest kiss, the last he will bestow on her, for the time being, at any rate.

  ‘You’ll come back to me, won’t you?’ she says. ‘After the baby is born? And you’ll write to me as soon as you’re able? It’s only a few months after all. The separation is for decency’s sake. Letters will sustain us.’

  He can feel himself gripping her forearms. She is rigid in front of him, unable to move forwards or backwards. Her eyes are level with his coat front. He has an unbelievable desire to undress her, right here, right now.

  But then he lets go of her arms, and pushes past, leaving her weeping at the top of the steps. No! That was wrong! He wasn’t supposed to do that. He mustn’t leave her… Amelia?

  He doesn’t look back; he walks hurriedly down the steps, too upset to do otherwise.

  A scuffling noise is behind them, the footsteps rapid, purposeful. Richard is approaching. Amelia whirls around, interposing herself between her husband and the view of her lover as he recedes into the distance. Richard mustn’t see him; Harry must have time to leave. Is it too late? Richard’s face is angry; he means to do her harm. She takes a step backwards but her heel misses the edge of the step; she staggers, clutching desperately at air. Her ankles give way and she tumbles, falling hard and heavy against the sharp edges of the unforgiving steps, her knees twisted in the fabric of her skirts.

  *

  Charlie’s arm flapped in mid-air. He tried to locate something solid and secure to hold onto. Astrid seemed unaccountably distant, right at the far end of the gallery, like he was squinting at her down the wrong end of a telescope.

  Sound was swallowed up in a vacuum; he couldn’t hear what she was saying. Blackness crowded at the edges of his vision, she began to recede from view… His knees buckled and everything swooped in on top of him.

  ‘Got you,’ she said, catching hold as he dropped. She guided him towards the leather seats where they sat together for some moments while his dizziness calmed down.

  That hadn’t happened for a while. A boy at school once saw him sink to his knees near the boys’ toilets and wasted no time in spreading the word. Another one of his quirks, it confirmed the overall view: Charlie Gilchrist - Weirdo. Sometimes it came over him, this strange collision of brain cells, as if his synapses were overloading with information.

  Eventually his heart stopped palpitating against his breast bone and he forced himself upright. ‘I know. Horrible, girly thing to do…,’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Astrid asked.

  ‘I will be in a minute,’ he said, although he was reluctant to leave the security of her arm and the warmth of her body. ‘It’s probably just low blood sugar. I haven’t eaten all day.’

  ‘Don’t give me that,’ she said softly. ‘You saw something, didn’t you?’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mrs Brownlow advised them to drive into the nearest town. ‘Try Millie’s. I go there on a Wednesday after my swim. Plenty of choice and not too pricey.’ After trawling the High Street they located the genteel establishment and installed themselves at a table. His appetite revived with the smell of bacon and coffee.

  ‘We need sustenance,’ Charlie told the teenage waitress clearing the tables.

  She looked at him in panic.

  ‘He means food,’ Astrid enlightened. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Self-service,’ she said. ‘Pay at the till.’

  Charlie bought the works, piling his tray high with sandwiches, soup, tea and cakes. Astrid thrust a pile of napkins at him. ‘Better now?’

  ‘Much. Thank you.’

  ‘Okay, what happened?’

  ‘A jolting dislocation. Two memories at once. It wasn’t nice.’

  She passed him a plate. ‘You said you didn’t channel them like that.’

  ‘I don’t, usually. Maybe it’s a first? The memories were confused, as though there were conflicting versions of what happened on the steps. I could feel the presence of more than one person. What if Amelia was pushed?’

  ‘Hang on. What?’

  Charlie lowered his voice, conscious that they were surrounded by eavesdropping diners. ‘That last meeting, under the portico, Amelia had admitted to Harry that she was pregnant for the second time, and he, bitterly disappointed - betrayed even - left her standing at the top of the steps, distraught. Tunney spots the lovers together; he watches Harry leave, then he rushes up behind Amelia, next thing she’s at the bottom of the steps.’

  Astrid pulled a face. ‘You think he pushed her deliberately? That’s why she miscarried?’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  ‘But why would he do that? And why are you saying that Harry feels betrayed when it’s Richard who’s the cuckold?’ />
  ‘The first baby, the one that died, wasn’t Richard’s child; it was Harry’s. But the second baby was Richard’s.’

  ‘Let me get this straight: Harry walks off in a snit because he thinks Amelia’s having Richard’s baby; Richard pushes her down the steps because he thinks it’s Harry’s?’

  ‘She must have been wretched, poor girl - two dead babies, an abusive marriage, a lover she couldn’t be with…,’

  ‘So what happened to her after Richard Tunney pushed her down the steps?’ She poured them both a cup of tea. ‘What happened to Harry?’

  ‘That’s what we need to find out.’

  She avoided his eye.

  ‘What is it?’ he said. ‘What’s really going on?’

  ‘Where? What do you mean?’ She cut her bread roll in half.

  ‘You can’t keep secrets from me. You know I’ll find out.’

  It was meant to be a joke; he didn’t expect her to take it seriously. She began to scrape and scrape at the tiny margarine container, removing every last smear of spread, working herself up to a response, obsessively buttering the poor, defenceless bread roll. ‘I don’t know where these rumours come from, Mrs Toon’s imagination I suppose. The thing is, you were probably right, before, about needing to keep things professional. God knows I only have to talk to one of the male volunteers and I get branded as some kind of predator. I mean – a bit of mild nonsense leaves me with this reputation of being a raging flirt.’ The bread roll had been buttered into submission, its innards destroyed. She stopped abruptly and put down the knife. ‘But it wouldn’t do my awful reputation any good, would it, if everyone knew that I was -’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Entangled with you.’

  ‘What am I?’ he said. ‘A spider’s web? A trawler net?’

  She concentrated on the soup, tearing up the bread and stirring it into the bowl. The spoon scraped repetitively at the base.