by Rachel Hore
‘There’s no need for that. You’d be exhausted. I can get a train.’
‘Lucy, I insist.’
‘Seriously, Will, I don’t want you to.’
‘I’ll ring tomorrow,’ he said. ‘And see how you’re getting on.’
When he’d rung off, she felt angry. She could look after herself. Why was he doing this? She didn’t want the pressure; it stopped her feeling free. She bit her lip, thinking, then switched off the phone in case he rang again.
Chapter 4
Lucy heard a distant cry. She’d climbed a steep flight of stone steps and paused at the top to catch her breath, listening to the sound of Sunday church bells. The Rowans, she saw, was set in the hillside before her, half-screened by a privet hedge. High above, a seagull coasted in slow, rhythmic arcs. It cried out again, like a warning.
That morning, after breakfast, Cara had handed her a white envelope, brought by Simon Vine, with Miss Lucy Cardwell written on it in black italics. Inside, a short note on thick cartridge paper suggested that she call on Beatrice Ashton at three o’clock that afternoon.
It was five to three. As Lucy pushed open the garden gate, she found herself in a secluded garden. The Rowans was a fine semi-detached house with a white and blue painted frontage and an enclosed glass porch. Patches of spring flowers, saffron, indigo and china white, studded a neat lawn.
NO HAWKERS, NO COLD CALLERS proclaimed a sticker on the front door. Beneath a circle of mullioned glass and a small security spyhole, an iron lion’s head snarled. Lucy lifted the ring in its teeth, tapped several times and waited.
The door rattled then sprang ajar, and a pair of brown eyes in a wrinkled face peeped out. The frail hand clutching the door jamb was studded with jewels. ‘Lucy Cardwell, is it?’ The woman’s voice was musical and strong, the consonants perfectly pronounced.
‘Yes.’
Beatrice opened the door to admit her. ‘I’m delighted you’re punctual. It’s not a virtue much in fashion today.’
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ Lucy said politely.
Beatrice Ashton shut the door and leaned against it as she looked Lucy over, not rudely but with curiosity. She was shorter than Lucy, and slight, with waves of silvery-white hair pinned up at the back in a gold clasp, and regular features in a grave, oval face with a pointed chin. Lucy had the vaguest of feelings that she’d seen her before.
They were in a gloomy hallway where a feeble ceiling lamp struggled to illuminate the dark wood panelling and dingy carpet. In here, it was difficult to believe that it was sunny outside. From the shadow of the staircase a grandfather clock uttered three sombre chimes.
‘In here.’ Moving slowly, Mrs Ashton led Lucy into a comfortable sitting room where a fire burned in the grate. She went and stood by the french windows. Outside was a small wilderness of back garden, with the hillside rising beyond and the pine trees, with their rooks’ nests, filling the strip of sky. On the terrace a couple of blackbirds capered in a birdbath, fluttering water up all around.
‘I’ve been watching these silly creatures,’ Mrs Ashton said, smiling. ‘They’re acting up for us, the little blighters.’ She tapped lightly on the glass and the birds startled up but, seeing no danger, resumed their game. ‘They know they have an audience. We always have an audience, don’t we?’
‘How do you mean?’ Lucy asked.
‘There’s always someone to watch us and criticize.’ Mrs Ashton, intent on the birds, was bathed in a thin shaft of afternoon light, and Lucy found herself doing exactly what the woman complained of, watching her critically. She must be very old, getting on for ninety and she was well-dressed, in a pale-blue cashmere cardigan and light-grey trousers. A touch of face powder and pink lipstick completed the effect, whilst her flecked nails gleamed with clear varnish.
Mrs Ashton turned to face her and Lucy caught a floral fragrance. It was like opening a door into a past world, a world of golden summer afternoons and teas on the lawn.
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ Mrs Ashton asked.
‘No, I don’t.’ Though . . .
‘Never mind,’ the woman said, almost to herself.
‘Have you lived in this house long? Mr Vine said you lived in Saint Florian as a child.’ Lucy glanced about at the prints of English landscapes, at the pair of faded armchairs before the painted mantelpiece, at the Daily Telegraph lying on a side-table, folded to the crossword, a spectacle case beside it. All these and the carriage clock on the mantelpiece might have been there long ago. But some things marked change. A digital telephone sat in its cradle, and on the coffee-table near the dancing flames was a tray with mugs rather than teacups, and a flask with a modern flower pattern. There were touches of the exotic, too – an Orthodox icon on the mantelpiece, African wood carvings. An abstract painting glowed like a jewel in an alcove.
‘This was my home when I was a child. My father left it to me when he died, some years ago now, and later I lost my husband. It was time to come back. Lucy.’ Mrs Ashton looked up into Lucy’s face and the young woman saw toughness there, and pain. ‘Tell me why you’ve come.’
‘It’s about my father, Tom Cardwell. I don’t know if you knew him at all, but he was a Wincanton. He . . . he died recently.’
‘I know,’ Beatrice whispered. ‘Your great-aunt told me. However, only a few months ago.’
‘Aunt Hetty? So you do know the Wincantons. Mrs Ashton, you must be something to do with Rafe. I’ve been trying to find out about him. My father was very interested in him, you see. And I don’t know why.’
Beatrice inclined her head gravely. ‘I can tell you everything. I very much want to explain things to you, but, you see, it’s difficult. You turning up like this – it’s a shock.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Lucy said contritely, by now utterly bewildered. ‘I had no intention of causing any trouble.’
‘I know you didn’t. Don’t worry, my dear. The situation is not of your making.’
‘You asked if I remember you. Well, I don’t, not really. But it sounds as though you knew my father?’
Mrs Ashton stared out of the window as if at something beyond the garden. Finally she said, ‘I knew Tommy as a baby. After that, I . . . lost touch with your grandparents.’ She frowned and added, with some effort, ‘Until Angelina’s funeral. I saw you there.’
Her face was so full of anguish Lucy asked, ‘Mrs Ashton, are you all right?’
‘Yes, yes, of course I am.’ She suddenly smiled at Lucy. ‘So here you are, Tom’s daughter. My dear, it’s quite astonishing that you have Angelina’s lovely hair.’
Lucy said, ‘Thank you. Mum is fair, too. It was always a joke Mum hated, that Dad married late and to someone who looked like his mother.’
‘It’s not the kind of joke I would find funny.’
‘No, exactly.’
‘It must have been an awful shock to lose Tom. It was for me, but much worse for you. Your father—’
‘Mrs Ashton, I’m a bit confused. How did you know my grandmother? And Rafe. I’m sorry if this sounds unkind in any way, but my family didn’t ever mention Rafe and I don’t know why. But Dad spent some time before he died trying to find out about him.’
‘Rafe was my husband.’
‘Oh. And the Wincantons, how did you know them? I’m so sorry if I sound rude asking all these questions.’
‘Not at all,’ Beatrice said sadly. ‘You have every right to ask them. I met the Wincanton family here in Saint Florian when we were children.’ Here she smiled, and Lucy had a sudden sense of her as a young girl. ‘I first met Rafe on the beach.’
On the beach. Lucy remembered a photograph of girls on a beach in Granny’s box, and the one on the croquet lawn with the four Wincanton children and the slight dark girl. It struck her now that Beatrice might have been that girl.
‘My name was Marlow then,’ said Beatrice. ‘Now, why don’t we sit down?’
She settled herself in the armchair by the fire that faced the garden and Lucy took the one opposite
. She was thinking that this was one of the strangest conversations that she’d had in her life, but very thrilling.
‘My help Mrs P. left us tea,’ Beatrice said. ‘You wouldn’t be a dear and pour, would you? I’m not as steady as I was.’
‘Of course,’ Lucy said, reaching for the flask.
Beatrice pushed a plate of shortbread towards her and said, ‘I gather you’re staying at the Mermaid. Are you here long?’
‘A few days, probably. It’s a bit unplanned.’ Lucy gathered up her strength. ‘Mrs Ashton, I feel I haven’t explained myself very well. I came because of a mystery. Dad, before he died, was on a quest. As I say, I don’t think he knew anything about his Uncle Rafe until recently, and he became obsessed with finding out about him. I don’t know why, but my great-uncle wasn’t ever mentioned at all at home and I never saw any pictures of him. Until I found this.’ She put her hand into her bag and brought out an envelope. ‘Mrs Ashton, is this Rafe?’ She passed across the photograph of the boy leaning on the wall.
Beatrice took it and sat absorbed, her face softening. When she reached to give it back to Lucy, the girl saw that her eyes were watery.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s Rafe.’
Lucy sighed. ‘Mrs Ashton, would you tell me what happened to Rafe?’
‘I can, but it’s a long story. I’m not surprised your father was so interested.’
‘I don’t know what set him off. He loved reading about the Second World War, certainly. He left a whole lot of notes, and boxes of memorabilia belonging to my grandmother. That’s why I thought to come here, to see whether I could find out more. The whole thing had clearly been bothering Dad at some level, you see, and I just wanted to try to understand.’
Beatrice said, almost to herself, ‘He’d have been too young to remember.’
‘To remember Rafe?’
‘Yes, and what happened. No, this is silly of me. I’m telling everything in the wrong order.’
‘What do you mean, Mrs Ashton?’
‘Why don’t you call me Beatrice?’
‘Beatrice. What wouldn’t Dad have remembered?’
Beatrice opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.
Lucy decided to try another tack. ‘Mrs Ashton – sorry, Beatrice – I followed up Dad’s notes and found out that he’d investigated the War Intelligence archives.’
At this, Beatrice Ashton sat up straight in her chair, looking alert and rather terrifying. Seeing she’d struck a nerve, Lucy went on, ‘Dad had found out that Rafe had been in Special Operations during the war – you know, helping the French Resistance or something. Anyway, I don’t know exactly how he made the links but he looked up Rafe’s file.’
‘Rafe’s file? Did he find it? What did it say?’ the old woman demanded.
‘Well, that’s just it. He did find it, but it had nothing in it. Nothing in it at all.’
Beatrice sank back in her chair and closed her eyes. Her tone still sharp, she said, ‘I’m not surprised that it was empty. They never wanted everyone to know. Too much blame.’
‘What do you mean?’ Lucy asked patiently. ‘I thought all the war files were supposed to be open now. Don’t we have a right to know?’
Beatrice’s eyes flew open. ‘Oh, this “right to know” business! Your generation has no idea how close this country came to disaster and how important it was to keep things secret.’
‘I do. I’ve read about it.’
‘Then you’ll know of how little importance we were as individuals. Sacrifices had to be made. Sacrifices, yes. We had to put our country before everything, some of us. Before our families and friends.’ Her eyes danced black, angry.
Lucy felt lost suddenly, questions and answers writhing around in her mind. She wondered whether Mrs Ashton wasn’t muddled in her head.
‘I’m tired now,’ Beatrice said suddenly, and indeed she did look tired: strained and exhausted. ‘There’s too much to think about. You’d better come back tomorrow.’ She started to push herself up from her chair, but Lucy stayed her.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll see myself out,’ she said. She was horrified that she’d made this old lady tired and upset, and indeed, was feeling upset herself. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘No, thank you. Well, perhaps a glass of water.’ She waved a vague hand. ‘In the kitchen. Glasses in the cupboard over the fridge. Oh, and you’ll see my pills. Bring them, too.’
Lucy went to investigate. The kitchen was modern and its cleanness emphasized by a dreadful stink of bleach. Lucy selected a glass. On one of the work surfaces was a tray, laid for supper. A note in blobby biro said Bacon/egg pie and salad in fridge, yoghurt for afters. A cocktail of pills lay on a saucer. Beatrice’s must be a lonely life.
When she returned to the sitting room, Beatrice was lying back in her chair, her eyes closed, and this worried Lucy. She placed the water and the pills on the table to hand and was reassured when Beatrice opened her eyes and sat up.
‘Thank you, dear.’ She seemed gentle and frail suddenly. Watching Lucy collect her things she surprised her by saying, ‘Promise me you’ll come back in the morning, my dear? Promise?’
‘Of course I will, if you don’t think I’ll upset you,’ Lucy said softly. Beatrice did not reply, and Lucy thought she couldn’t have heard. She was about to speak again when she realized Beatrice was struggling with emotion.
Eventually she said, ‘I need to tell you the whole story. It’s all quite a tangle and I hope I’ll be able to tell it straight. But you’ve asked me about Rafe. Lucy, I loved Rafe Ashton. I loved him more than any man I’ve met before or since. His story is my story, too.’
Lucy was glad to stumble out into the warmth of the late-afternoon sunshine. In The Rowans, she had felt as if she’d been in another world, a world of the past. Beatrice Ashton had known her father and her grandmother, too. She’d been a friend of her grandmother and had known Tom Cardwell as a toddler, yet Lucy had never heard of her before. She took a deep breath of cool fresh air.
Outside in the lane she stopped to switch on her phone. There was only a message from work that she could deal with later. Nothing from Will. She stuffed the phone back in her bag and considered what to do next.
She glanced up towards the cliff path, where it snaked away into the distance. There was a light breeze blowing off the sea, bringing with it lovely harboury smells. The view was breathtaking up here, of the long headlands protecting the bay, and of the sea. Little waves broke the surface here and there – as a child, she’d been told they were the manes of horses. In the far distance, the bright sky met a bright sea dotted with white sheets of sail.
As she descended to the harbour via the perilous Jacob’s Ladder, she thought again about Beatrice Ashton. She’d been drawn to the woman, had sensed warmth and sincerity. There had been a . . . tenderness about her. But steel, too. The woman was terribly bitter about something. Lucy felt a connection. Perhaps she sensed the young girl that Beatrice had once been.
After Lucy had gone, Beatrice Ashton swallowed two pills and sipped some water, then lay back in her chair, waiting for her heartbeat to steady. Her eyes were closed, but she wasn’t asleep. Her mind was too active for that. She was thinking about Lucy Cardwell and everything her visit meant. She was lovely, Lucy, with that honey hair, the stubborn chin and the turned-up nose, scattered with freckles. Hers was a beauty of character and strength, not a painted-on prettiness. She looked forward to seeing her again.
Lucy was assured, like many of these modern girls, but there was something a little untried about her, too – uncertain, unbroken. Perhaps something still had to work its way out. Of course, it used to be that bad things happened in families – dreadful things – and everybody shut up and put up with it. None of this talking about it like today. And yet she rather envied them their closeness, today’s parents with their children.
She remembered, only yesterday, coming out of her gate to see a tourist with his little daughter on their way up to the cliff path and sh
e’d had a sudden glimpse of herself at the same age, nine or ten. She’d never held her father’s hand in that possessive way this little girl did. And he seemed so natural with the girl, explaining something or other patiently to her. Beatrice’s parents had mostly spoken to her to give her instructions.
She breathed deeply to calm herself, and was sure the scent of old roses floated in the air. Funny how the house still smelt of them. They had been her mother’s favourite: climbing roses round the house and bowls of dried petals in every room. Perhaps the smell had got into the wood. She opened her eyes, for a moment confused not to see the room as it had been long ago, when she was a child, the china shepherdess on the mantelpiece, her mother’s French library books neatly piled on the coffee-table, her father’s walking stick near the fire, the big wireless where the television stood now.
Perhaps she should never have come back here, should have stayed in Paris after her husband died, but she had never sold the place after her father had left it to her, and the long-standing tenant had moved out and it seemed the right time. She’d just felt a terrific yearning to return to this place where, as a child, she’d been so happy. She’d thought she’d find a kind of peace here, too, but she hadn’t, not really. She was aware of the ruin of Carlyon Manor, high above the town, and remembered too much. She’d been made to keep so many secrets and they’d festered. Still, the people involved were mostly dead now. Except Hetty Wincanton, and Peter. There was no real reason to sit like a dragon on its gold.
And now the girl had come, wanting to know things, and she deserved to, though it might be painful for them both. Beatrice smiled without humour. She’d tried to tell some of her story once, after the war, but no one had been interested in the truth then. They’d twisted her words against her. She’d seen what had happened to some of the others who’d spoken out, how they’d been pilloried in the newspapers. But now that so much time had passed and the people with reputations to protect were all dead, there was more genuine interest in uncovering the truth. And yet it wasn’t so simple. It was more personal than that.