The Lost Ones

by Anita Frank

  Most of them were whimsical rural scenes – sheep being driven down muddy country lanes; a milkmaid sitting with her ruddy cheek pressed to a cow’s side, her fingers closed on its teats. But as I drifted on, I came upon a much larger painting in an exquisitely carved, gold leaf frame. I stopped. I was acutely aware of Annie’s inquisitive gaze as I tilted my head back to appreciate the striking work of art. It was a portrait of an angelic young boy, his cheeks rosy, blond curls looping round his petite ears, his blue eyes soft and loving, his rosebud mouth prettily pursed. Dressed in a blue sailor suit, his right hand rested on a metal hoop, whilst the fingers of his left brushed the head of the King Charles spaniel that was looking up adoringly up its master with bulging brown eyes. There was something about the portrait that was both touching and totally entrancing.

  ‘Stella!’

  The urgency in Madeleine’s voice sliced through the air, startling me from my strange captivation. She stood stock-still outside her bedroom door.

  ‘Come down, Stella. There’s nothing to see up there.’

  I was unwilling to tear myself away from the portrait. ‘Who is this painting of, Madeleine? Is it someone in the family?’

  ‘Come down, Stella, will you?’

  I felt a devil of resentment inside me as I began my descent.

  ‘Is he one of the family?’ I persisted.

  Annie was standing meekly with her hands clasped before her, but her eyes strayed to Madeleine, as if she too were curious to hear the answer. Madeleine fidgeted, folding her arms across her body, hugging them to her.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered as I reached the last step. She visibly relaxed as my feet finally settled on the carpeted landing.

  ‘Who is it? It’s a charming portrait.’

  ‘It’s Lucien.’

  ‘Lucien?’

  ‘Hector’s half-brother, Lucien Brightwell.’

  ‘I didn’t know Hector had a brother.’

  ‘Half-brother,’ she corrected me. She was clearly reticent about providing more information, but I pressed her for it. ‘His mother was Sir Arthur’s first wife, she died in childbirth. Lucien died of influenza just after Hector was born.’

  I always remember my grandfather advising me to pay attention to the silences in a conversation, rather than the words. When I asked him why, he had removed his ever-present pipe and bestowed his wisdom upon me. The things that are most important are often left unsaid – they fill the pauses, he explained, the rest is often inconsequential. As I stood now observing my sister’s uncomfortable silence, I knew there was a lot more to be gleaned – a story she did not want to share – and I couldn’t help wondering what and why. I had never known her to exclude me from a secret, yet since my arrival at Greyswick I couldn’t dispel the feeling that Madeleine was hiding many things from me, and I feared no good would come from it.

  ‘Mrs Henge will be ringing the gong soon,’ she said. ‘We really ought to get on.’

  ‘What rooms are up there, Madeleine?’ She had been most determined to steer me away from what lay beyond the staircase and I wanted to understand her reason.

  ‘Nothing of importance.’

  ‘Just an entrance to the servants’ quarters.’ Annie’s interjection startled us both. ‘And, of course, the old school room – and nursery.’ Her lowered lashes fluttered up as she spoke. ‘Or so I believe, miss.’

  Madeleine glared at her. ‘That’s right,’ she said, her voice discordant, like an overstrung instrument. ‘But I do not like them. I have chosen a room on this floor for a nursery. And that’s that.’

  ‘Well, that’s your prerogative I would have thought,’ I replied.

  ‘Yes, yes, it is. Now really, we should get ready for dinner. Lady Brightwell does hate to be kept waiting. I must ring for Maisie.’

  And before I could say anything more, she disappeared into her room, closing the door firmly behind her, leaving me to examine the pregnant pauses left in her wake.

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning the heavens opened, and the winds whipped up a fury, dashing rain against the windows and rattling the sashes, as if furious to be denied entry. Madeleine and I settled ourselves in the library to write letters, as there was no chance of us escaping the confines of the house in the face of such onslaught.

  Like the rest of Greyswick, the library was a room designed to impress. Its enormous windows were draped in excessive quantities of gaudy material, quite inappropriate given the nature of the room, and the bookcases which lined every square inch of wall had been specially commissioned, as had the large oak reading tables at which Madeleine and I now sat.

  After finishing my first letter – one to Mother – I drifted around the room, my fingers running across the ornate bindings of books that ranged in subject from theological texts to fashionable scientific theories. Having drawn out a few to investigate further, however, I noticed that none of the pages had been slit: the books were unread. Like so much else in Greyswick, it appeared they were merely for show.

  I was next attracted to a large glass case containing a display of stuffed birds, arranged against a backdrop of dried grasses, gorse and fern. I was not generally a great admirer of taxidermy, but the exhibit was striking, and demanded my scrutiny. A large coot took centre stage, overshadowing a white-throated dipper, whilst behind it, a small falcon had swooped down upon a chaffinch, whose beak was open in distress, its wings raised in fruitless defence. The magpie and mistle-thrush positioned on an angled branch at the back of the case showed no interest in the poor creature’s predicament – instead their black eyes appeared focused on me. But it was the beautiful bird clinging to the furthest fork of the branch that evoked my sharp intake of breath.

  A kingfisher gazed out through the glass side of the cabinet, his dagger-like bill elevated, his golden chest puffed with pride as he turned his stunning blue back on the display’s other subjects. I pressed my fingertips to the glass.

  ‘Halcyon days …’ My brow creased as a bittersweet memory flooded my mind. I closed my eyes, fighting against the pain, to savour it.

  It was the summer of 1913 and a letter had arrived from my godmother, asking whether I remembered Gerald Fitzwilliam at all. I did, of course, though I hadn’t seen him for years. His family had moved to Australia not long after Lydia died, and though Aunt Irene referred to him in passing every now and then, he had rather slipped from my mind.

  I still had his letter, though, the one he sent me just after Lydia’s death. It was the sweetest thing. He wrote to say how sorry he was, and how he hoped I was bearing up, though he realised I must be hurting terribly. He had gone on to say how Lydia had been one of only two girls in his acquaintance whose company he had always enjoyed (in brackets he had assured me that I was the other one. He had made no mention of Madeleine).

  It was such a rarity for me, as a child of ten, to receive a proper letter in the post. The only correspondence I tended to get came on my birthday and at Christmas, when aunts and uncles might send a brief note with a small cheque enclosed, in lieu of a more exciting present. That he had taken the time to do such a grown-up thing had made me feel very special indeed, and the simple kindness expressed in those few lines stayed with me for years.

  Aunt Irene went on to inform me that the Fitzwilliam family had returned to England the previous autumn, and that Gerald was just finishing his first year at Cambridge. She intended to visit him that weekend and, recalling how famously we had got on as children, she asked whether I might like to accompany her on the trip – ‘for old time’s sake’. Having little else to occupy me, I happily agreed.

  She called for me early that Saturday morning, and we had motored off to the Fens. I had never been to Cambridge before, and it was exciting to be somewhere so steeped in history, and see the students walking through the town’s hallowed streets, striking in their black gowns.

  We had arranged to meet Gerald at his college, and for some strange reason I felt a flutter of nerves as the car drew to a stop. He app
eared as soon as the car door opened and before I was even out, he was being heartily embraced by our godmother. Any view of him was blocked by the huge flowered hat she had donned for the occasion. Finally, after much kissing and hugging, Aunt Irene released him and stepped away, enabling me to see my childhood friend for the first time in seven years.

  It would perhaps be trite to say he had grown, but goodness – how he had grown! He was tall, broad-shouldered, and quite breathtakingly handsome. There was still evidence of the boy I had known, though: his thick hair the colour of rich brandy, those eyes that twinkled with mischief, and the lightning-flash grin.

  He escorted us first on a tour of his college and later the town. He was attentive, intelligent, his manners were impeccable, his charm was undeniable, and his humour most refreshing.

  It was a glorious summer’s day, and Aunt Irene had packed a picnic for us to enjoy. Rescuing the large hamper from its strapping on the rear of the car, Gerald suggested he take us punting down the river, so that we could feast in a quiet spot on the meadow. The punt dipped and wobbled as Gerald helped Aunt Irene and myself in, and I was most relieved when I was at last safely planted on the bench seat and no longer in danger of toppling us all overboard.

  It was idyllic, gliding up the wide river, shadows falling on our faces as we passed under the arches of historic stone bridges. Gerald proved a most able punter, manoeuvring us around other boats and easing us on our way.

  When we reached the meadows, he found a spot on the bank suitable for us to disembark. He leapt off first to secure the punt with a rope, then handed Aunt Irene and me back up onto terra firma, before retrieving the picnic basket.

  We found a lovely spot where willow trees wept into the river, their tendril branches tentatively dipping beneath the murky surface. The tartan rug billowed on the breeze as Gerald shook it out before laying it down amongst the buttercups, daisies and purple fritillaries.

  Aunt Irene and I knelt in our light summer dresses and began to unpack, setting out the plates, wine glasses and cutlery before arranging a veritable feast of delights, all lovingly prepared by Aunt Irene’s cook. There was jellied chicken, cold salmon, potted shrimp, boiled eggs, tiny tomatoes, pickles, bread, melting butter and wedges of hard cheese that were beginning to soften in the heat. Gerald threw himself down and pulled off his boater, a red line across his forehead where the rim had cut in. Laughing, he ruffled some life back into his flattened hair and proceeded to uncork the wine. Reminiscing about the past, and filling in the missing years, the three of us ate and drank and talked until we could manage no more.

  Fully sated, Aunt Irene declared herself quite exhausted, and using Gerald’s folded blazer as a cushion, she lay back on the blanket and closed her eyes. We smothered our laughter as she began to snore peacefully.

  I decided to stretch my cramped legs, so I stood up, brushing the crumbs from my skirt.

  ‘Shall we wander over to the river?’ Gerald suggested, scrabbling to his feet.

  ‘Yes, all right,’ I smiled, a little giddy from the combination of heat and wine.

  We ambled quite companionably through the long grass that was alive with the buzzing of bees and chirping of crickets, until the river flowed before us.

  ‘It is so good to see you again, Stella,’ Gerald said, glancing down at me. ‘In a strange way, it seems like only yesterday.’

  I smiled, plucking a stem of grass for want of something to do with my trembling hands. I knew exactly what he meant. In just a few hours, the years had fallen away, until only that easy familiarity we enjoyed as children remained. It set my heart beating a little faster.

  ‘Did you see that?’ he exclaimed. Seeing my puzzlement, he grabbed my hand and led me closer to the river edge. ‘Look! There!’

  I followed his finger just in time to see a bolt of blue shoot into the brown depths, only to appear again seconds later.

  ‘A kingfisher!’ I declared with delight. ‘Why, I don’t think I’ve ever seen one before!’

  The plump bird rested on a low hanging branch, preening.

  We sank down to a crouch to observe it. I was somewhat distracted by how natural it was, for my hand to be in his, and by how comfortable it felt to be beside him once again.

  ‘It’s reputed to be the first bird to have flown from Noah’s Ark.’ He kept his voice low, eager not to disturb the exquisite creature. ‘Myth has it, it got its colouring that day, from the blue sky on its back, and the orange setting sun on its breast. Its Greek name is halcyon. They see it as a symbol of peace and prosperity … and love.’ He looked at me and smiled.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  We both gasped as in a flash of colour, the little bird was gone, darting off down the river. We rose from our haunches. Gerald’s hand continued to clasp mine.

  ‘I’m glad we saw it together,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, here you are. Fancy abandoning me in this heat!’

  We swiftly dropped hands and turned to see Aunt Irene standing a little way behind us, cooling herself with a lace fan. ‘Sadly, my dears, I think it is time to draw this blissful day to an end, if I am to get Stella back to her parents as promised. Do come and help me pack the picnic basket. I think there’s a drop of wine left in one of the bottles – it would be such a shame to waste it.’

  With faces flushed from more than just the heat of the day, Gerald and I led the way back to the picnic blanket. My heart felt heavy at the prospect of our imminent separation. Aunt Irene, in contrast, seemed more gay than ever, as she directed our clearing up, a sly smile creeping across her lips and her sharp eyes observing our every interaction.

  It wasn’t long before we were back at the car, with the basket stowed and us saying our farewells. Aunt Irene kissed her godson fondly and promised to visit again soon, before ducking into the back seat, leaving me on the pavement, waiting to say goodbye. I was rather thrilled when Gerald bent to kiss my cheek, catching my fingers in his hand as he did so.

  ‘May I be terribly forward and ask whether I might write to you?’ he said.

  My heart seemed to explode as I tried to control the unladylike grin that burst across my face.

  ‘Oh! I would like that very much.’

  His return smile was instant. He squeezed my fingers. ‘Good. I think we have a lot of lost time to make up for.’

  I felt six inches taller as I climbed into the back seat next to my godmother. We both turned to wave out of the rear window as the car pulled away and as Aunt Irene settled back for the journey home, she made no attempt to hide her approving smile, nor her brief nod of satisfaction, as her eyes twinkled with glee.

  ‘Halcyon days indeed.’ I withdrew my fingers from the glass, my heart aching. Halcyon days the like of which I would never enjoy again. My throat burnt with contained tears as I bit my lip and turned away from the kingfisher, silently cursing him for his betrayal.

  I was shaking by the time I slid back into my chair, battling to control the unruly sway of my emotions. I snatched up my pen, determined to divert myself with industry, and quickly dashed off a greeting to a Sister I had worked with in France. I paused, my nib resting on the paper, as I remembered how kind she had been on that awful final day. My grip tightened on the pen. I was barely aware of the force I was exerting, when the fine tip broke under the pressure.

  ‘Oh Stella! How careless of you!’ Madeleine chided, having heard the snap of the metal, but her tone changed in an instant as she looked up to see my mounting distress. ‘Stella? What is it?’

  I shook my head, breathing deeply to suppress a deluge of tears. ‘I’m sorry … I’m being silly … lost in unhelpful thoughts.’

  ‘Oh Stella …’ Madeleine rested her hand on my arm.

  I patted it reassuringly before clearing my throat. ‘Well, that was rather silly of me. Where might I find a new nib?’

  Clearly sensing my desire to move on, Madeleine got up in pursuit of a replacement. She rifled through a set of desk drawers, and the writing box on the window sill, b
ut without reward.

  ‘I do know that mother-in-law has spare nibs in her bureau in the morning room – shall I go and look for you?’ she asked.

  Keen to have a moment to myself, I assured her I was happy to go. She told me where they were to be found and with a concerned smile, sent me on my way. I closed the door behind me and paused while I afforded myself time to come to terms with the past. Only when my doldrums were banished, and I felt sufficiently restored, did I set off towards the morning room, ready to face the world once again.

  I knocked lightly when I reached the door. On receiving no answer, I gingerly turned the brass handle. I was most relieved to find the room unoccupied.

  I had seen it only once before, little more than a cursory glance on Madeleine’s whistle-stop tour that first day. In stark contrast to the rest of Greyswick, it was a pretty room, painted a vibrant buttercup yellow, and was perfectly positioned to enjoy the sun which streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows now the storm had abated. Great cut-glass bowls of pot pourri embellished the other window sills, leaving the hint of a faded summer in the air. The armchairs cosily arranged around the fireplace were covered in chintz, and the shelf of the mantelpiece was draped in velvet as if from a bygone era, and it crossed my mind that the décor may have been unchanged since Lady Brightwell first took occupancy of the house.

  I took a moment to examine the abundance of silver picture frames placed about the room. They contained sepia images of largely unfamiliar faces, though some bore sufficient resemblance to Lady Brightwell to suggest a familial connection. There were some pleasantly candid photographs of Hector and Madeleine, as well as the lady herself – there was even a rather charming one of Miss Scott – but I noted with some curiosity there were none of Sir Arthur. He didn’t even figure in the ensemble shots taken at house parties and Christmases past. It smacked of a purposeful omission, as if a concerted attempt had been made to erase his presence, but before I could ponder further on this apparent slight, I found myself drawn to the commanding painting that hung above the mantelpiece.