by Anita Frank
Annie shunted the drawer to. ‘Dr Mayhew … There are things he doesn’t understand.’
‘He seems to understand very little about grief.’ I made no attempt to conceal my bitterness.
‘Which is something we both know all too well, miss.’
I looked at her. I could only speculate as to what damage might lie beneath her carefully crafted façade. She had lost everyone dear to her. Jim Burrows had died to save his master’s daughter, condemning his own child to a life without the love and security of a father. How had that made her feel? Less valued? And then her poor mother, left to bear the burden alone – it was a tribute to her they had remained free of the workhouse. I could only imagine what deprivations they had been forced to endure. Perhaps, then, it was not so surprising Annie was odd and aloof – her world had been ripped apart at such a tender age and for what? Lydia had died anyway. Sometimes I wondered how she could bear to be around us. Perhaps she couldn’t.
She dipped a curtsy and made to leave, but before she could close the door behind her my mother appeared, sweeping in as Annie slipped out. Feeling petulant, I turned away.
‘Have you been smoking in here?’
‘I don’t smoke, Mother.’
‘Don’t treat me like a fool, Stella!’
She bustled over to my nightstand and pulled open the shallow top drawer, its brass handle rattling with the violence of her action. She began rifling through the contents.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Where are they? The pills Dr Mayhew gave you?’
‘Why do you want them?’
She held out her hand. ‘Give them to me, Stella.’
With rising ire, I yanked open a drawer in my dressing table. I snatched out the small brown bottle and slammed it into her palm.
‘There!’
She held it between her forefinger and thumb and raised it to eye level. ‘Untouched,’ she observed.
‘I don’t want his pills, Mother. I don’t need them.’
‘These pills are to help you.’
‘These pills, Mother, are to sedate me. I can’t be any trouble if I’m not capable of functioning.’
‘They are to help you cope.’
‘I won’t take them. I simply won’t. I don’t want to be numb. I want to feel – I need to feel.’
‘Sometimes we feel too much.’
‘That is better than feeling nothing at all! You can’t just wave a magic wand and make me forget everything – make me better. You heard Mayhew. I might never recover.’
‘Oh!’ Mother threw up her hands in disgust. ‘Listening at doors now are we, Stella? Is that what you have been reduced to?’
‘With the two of you conspiring to put me away, I will indeed listen at doors. At least then I know what you’re planning.’
‘Oh, Stella.’ She collapsed on the end of my bed, her shoulders sagging as the fight deserted her. She tapped the bottle, the pills rattling against the glass like a maraca. ‘I don’t want you to be “put away”, Stella, but neither do I want to lose you. I’ve already buried Lydia, I cannot bear to give up another child.’ Her face creased with pain, and she suddenly looked so aged and worn that I was rather shocked. It was like coming across an old doll, fondly remembered as young and beautiful, but finding it had become ragged and chipped from too much play. Pain numbed her eyes as she looked at me. ‘I do understand what you are going through. I know you think I don’t. But I do know loss, Stella, I know the pain it brings.’
Of course, she knew loss, I could never deny that, though I resented her belief that Lydia’s death affected her most of all. She would tearfully declare that she had lost a part of herself, whereas, in her view at least, Madeleine and I had only lost a companion. But Lydia was so much more than that. She was our constant shadow, our extra limb, she was our clown when we were in the doldrums and our willing scapegoat whenever were in trouble, always confident her angelic sweetness would deffuse our parents’ anger. She was our sister and if not a physical part of ourselves, she was a precious, irreplaceable feature of our very existence and even now we carried her in our hearts, always.
I had never quite forgiven my mother for withdrawing from us the way she did, wallowing in her own grief whilst almost ignoring ours. But with the loss of Gerald, I had perhaps come to understand her more, her apparent selfishness, for I was convinced no one else could possibly be suffering as I was. My grief for Gerald was not indulgent, it was all-consuming, and its intensity seemed to validate the love I had always felt for him. He was my future, but when he died, that very future was taken from me. I now had to consider that Lydia’s death might have left my mother feeling the same way.
‘I’m not going to do anything silly again,’ I said at last.
‘Promise me?’
I forced a smile and sat down beside her, our shoulders brushing. I took the bottle from her hand and tossed it into the grate. It clattered onto the tiles of the hearth. ‘I refuse to take the pills, but I promise, I won’t do anything to hurt myself. I couldn’t do that to you.’
She nodded, her innate dignity struggling with overwhelming emotion. She took my hand.
‘Good,’ she said, issuing a gentle squeeze before relinquishing her hold as she stood up. She patted my shoulder and took her leave, but she paused in the doorway.
‘It will ease, Stella – your sadness. You will learn to live with it. We all learn to carry on in the end.’
I sat quietly once she had gone. It was my fault, of course, that she lived on her nerves, so readily entertaining her worst fears, her greatest nightmare. I had to acknowledge my culpability.
I had not been home a week when Annie Burrows dragged me from the lake. I’d managed to escape my mother’s watchful eye and I knew exactly what I wanted to do with the precious moments her distraction had afforded me. I walked out, setting a steady but unhurried pace, straight to the lake, striding with intent down the wooden jetty, my footsteps echoing on the boards, the water gently lapping below. I paused for a moment when I reached the end, briefly allowing myself the succour of my most cherished memory, before I stepped out into thin air. The freezing cold of the dark waters as they closed over my head was shocking. Yet as I sank lower, threads of pondweed tickling my legs as my skirts billowed about my waist, I made a conscious decision not to struggle, not to kick towards the silvery light diffused across the surface now far above my head. In that moment, I experienced peace the like of which I hadn’t felt for weeks. I relaxed into the lake’s watery embrace, which was no longer frigid and frightening, but warm and consoling. I was not afraid. I think I was relieved.
Swallowed by my watery tomb, I did not hear the splash of Annie Burrows leaping into the lake beside me. It wasn’t until I felt urgent fingers clutch at my waterlogged clothing that I realised I was no longer alone. As I was hauled round her face appeared before me, glowing like a moon in the midnight sky. I fought against her, trying to prise myself loose from her iron grip, lashing out with my feet, bubbles rippling from my mouth, but she was surprisingly strong and stubborn. She wrapped her arm around my chest, ignoring my clawing fingers, and powered herself upwards with such force we both exploded through the glassy surface, instinctively gasping for air. I cried in fury as she dragged me towards the edge, our boots slipping in the silty bottom. She grunted with effort as she wrenched me up onto the bank. I sobbed with frustration as we lay on our backs, exhausted and soaked to the skin, our hair streaked across our faces, breathless, staring at the leaden sky above us.
She spat out sour water and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, her chest still heaving. People came running towards us, shouting in alarm: my mother, my father, Mrs Scrivens, Brown, a gardener. Mother was wailing. We were both hoisted to our feet. Someone began pulling at my wet things; a jacket was draped around my shoulders. Amidst the flurry and fuss, Annie stumbled towards me, thrusting her dripping face into mine the second before she was tugged away.
The young maid’s words became lost in th
e jumble of voices as we were bundled towards the house. Later, when I was finally left alone and had time to ponder the evening’s events, I separated them from the cacophony. They sent a shiver down my spine.
‘He says it’s not your time.’
Chapter Four
I couldn’t fail to notice that even the gardens were suffering from the detrimental effects of the war. The box hedges would have been scissor-cut to precision just a few years ago, but now, neglected, unkempt shoots were spurting out in all directions, and dandelions were thrusting up through the gravel pathways.
A stone in my shoe caused me to pause by the fountain. Though once it had shot plumes of water high into the air in a magnificent display, it now sat dormant, with only a murky pool in its wide basin. I steadied myself against its crumbling edge while I unbuttoned my shoe and shook loose the chipping.
I looked up at my home and felt, as always, a familiar tinge of sadness. Once it had been a perfect example of Palladian architecture, the main house being three storeys high, with two-storey additions stretching out on either side in perfect symmetry, all elegantly dressed in golden Bath stone. But now it stood uneven, oddly unbalanced, with no vestiges remaining of the destroyed east wing. The charred shell left from the inferno had been like a leper’s appendage, blackened and dead, its windows empty sockets, its walls stripped of grandeur like flayed bone. I could still recall the acrid taint of smoke lingering in the air the morning after, as firemen continued to damp down persistent embers, their hoses running like veins across the lawn, drawing from the lake. My father and I had visited the bereft Burrows family, to express our sympathies and gratitude, and on our return we had stopped to observe the firemen’s efforts, soberly aware that within those blistered walls, amongst the rubble and detritus, were Jim Burrows’ remains.
The ruins were soon demolished for no one wanted an enduring reminder of the tragedy, but the red bricks used to seal the gaping wound stood stark against the buttery stone of the remaining house, like a scar that fails to fade.
I slipped my shoe back on and continued to the house, wishing I had not allowed my mind to stray onto such unhappy recollections. I did not like to dwell on the night of the fire; doing so evoked upsetting memories and raised disturbing questions that I had spent the last ten years doing my best to ignore.
I entered by the door that led into the rear hallway and began stripping the gloves from my hands. I could hear muffled voices as I approached the drawing room and realised Mother must be entertaining. I had no wish to be embroiled in one of her tedious meetings, so I kept my head down and picked up my pace as I passed the open doorway, but all to no avail.
‘Oh, there she is. Stella!’
I made no attempt to stifle my exasperated sigh. I spun on my heel and headed towards the door. I stopped in the opening.
A tall man in uniform stood with his back to me, his brown hair neatly clipped to his nape, while Mother stood facing me.
‘Look who has come to see us!’
For a split foolish second, I felt a burst of unimagined joy: Gerald – it had all been a terrible mistake! A rapturous smile pulled my lips and my heart leapt, but as the officer turned to face me, the smile dissipated, and my effervescent joy stilled, as reality reasserted itself.
‘Hector. How lovely to see you.’
My brother-in-law, Hector Brightwell, smiled broadly and manoeuvred himself from behind the sofa to greet me. He held the tops of my arms as he kissed my cheeks. ‘Hello, Stella.’
‘I was beginning to worry that you wouldn’t be back in time to say hello,’ Mother said.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were expected.’ My absurd disappointment began to fade.
‘Oh, I called by on the off-chance. Work brought me this way and I thought I should pop in and see you all.’
Hector had by some good fortune – I suspect linked to his family’s considerable fortune and influence – secured a safe uniformed position in Whitehall for the duration. I tried not to resent him for this, something I found especially difficult after Gerald was killed. I did not dislike him – he was intelligent and affable, though a little stiff at times – and I could not fault his devotion to my sister.
‘Well, it’s very nice to see you, Hector. How is Madeleine?’
My sister had telephoned a few weeks previously to give us the most welcome news: she was expecting a baby. It had been the first time since Gerald’s death that I felt actual happiness. Madeleine was cautiously buoyant, tempering her excitement with the acknowledgement it was still early days, but ever the pragmatist, at three months along she knew she would soon be showing so felt we ought to know.
‘She is well, thank you, very well.’ Hector retook his seat whilst I settled myself down and Mother poured out some more tea. ‘She may have told you, she’s gone to stay with my mother at our country estate, Greyswick.’
‘Oh yes, she mentioned that in her last letter. The Zeppelin attacks on London must be terrifying.’
‘I know they can be a bit hit and miss, but quite frankly I would rather Madeleine wasn’t anywhere near them, especially given the circumstances. And in all honesty, I’m unable to spend much time with her, what with things the way they are.’
‘Of course. Well, I’m glad to know that she will be safe. It is all such a worry.’ My mother paused. ‘And she is well, Hector?’
‘Quite, quite well,’ he assured her with a gentle smile. ‘She’s doing wonderfully.’
He and my mother talked on, but for me Hector’s presence had brought back memories that were bittersweet. The last time we had been at Haverton Hall together was the wedding. By some miracle Gerald and I had both managed to wangle leave, enabling us to attend together. In a way I wish it had been the last time I had seen him. Perhaps it would all be easier if I could remember him like that – handsome in his dress uniform, laughing, a glass of champagne in his hand, carefree in the sunshine. But we were to meet once more, in tragically different circumstances.
Hector’s apologies as he rose to depart brought me back to the present.
‘I’ll have your driver bring the car round,’ Mother said, tugging the thick bell-pull that hung by the fireplace. Hector crossed to her and bade her a fond farewell, but as he came towards me, running his cap through his fingers, he stopped.
‘Would you walk me out, Stella?’
‘Of course.’ I set down my teacup, taken aback by the unexpected request.
We walked through the hallway together, Hector opening the large front door to allow me out onto the steps first. The sky had clouded over to an impenetrable white layer. Looking up, I could see the gauzy glow of the sun trapped behind it. A stiff wind cut through my clothing, and I hoped he wasn’t going to keep me outside for long.
‘I didn’t just happen by today. I very much wanted to speak to you,’ he admitted.
‘Oh?’
He pulled the peak of his cap down low over his brow. ‘It’ll take my driver a while – shall we walk?’
We crossed the gravel driveway and ambled over the lawn at the front. In the distance the lake stretched across the horizon, the wind rippling its surface. I noticed that Hector drew to a stop before we got too near, perhaps fearing its appeal might prove irresistible to me.
‘I’ve actually come to ask you a favour.’
‘A favour?’ I failed to mask my surprise. He might be my brother-in-law, but Hector was almost a stranger to me. I was already stationed in France when he met Madeleine at a fund-raising event in town. He was someone I read about in letters – a one-dimensional creation, a list of descriptive words. I met him for the first time at the wedding, when, selfishly perhaps, I was more intent on spending precious time with Gerald than with my new brother-in-law and the pompous entourage he brought with him. Since my return I had only seen him a handful of times, all brief encounters, where pleasantries were exchanged but little familiarity gained. But now he had come for the sole purpose of exacting a favour from me.
�
��I was wondering whether you might consider visiting with Madeleine for a while – at Greyswick.’
It was hardly an onerous request. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to visit my sister, and no doubt we would have come to the arrangement ourselves in a few weeks. I hadn’t seen her now for a couple of months and I missed her company and support, but I was alerted by the undercurrent I detected in the question.
‘Hector, of course I will. Is everything all right?’
His eyes pinched as he focused on the skyline. I realised I was holding my breath, waiting for him to break the silence.
‘I’m worried about her.’
‘Why?’
He seemed loath to answer. He pulled his cap from his head and raked his fingers through his neatly combed hair. I could tell he was biding his time, contemplating his response. I felt a spike of unease.
‘She doesn’t seem to be at all herself.’ The words spilled from him. He stopped. I was impatient to hear more, my concern acute now; my fingers flexed as I resisted the urge to shake him. Sensing my rising agitation, he stumbled on. ‘She’s so quiet and withdrawn. Mother’s constantly complaining about how jittery she seems, scared of her own reflection.’ He let out a sharp breath. ‘I think she’s terrified something’s going to happen – to the baby.’
I relaxed at once on hearing this, rather relieved. It was perfectly natural of course that Madeleine should be unsettled. She had always been the more sensitive of us two, the one more prone to worry, to fear the worst – ironic really, given the way things had turned out.
‘Well, I’m sure that’s to be expected. It’s an anxious time for her – for any new mother – but I’m sure it’ll all be fine.’
‘Well, that’s just it, it might not be.’
The reassuring smile I had mustered wilted under his grim countenance. ‘Why shouldn’t it be?’
‘We’ve been here before, you see.’ But it was clear to him that I didn’t see at all. He sighed. ‘Madeleine lost a baby, Stella.’