A Mother's Gift

by Maggie Hope

  She was deeply absorbed in her calculations when she suddenly became aware that she was cold. The sun had been warm when she came out and she was wearing a thin cotton dress and a cardigan, short white socks but the sturdy shoes she always wore when out on the fell. Now a thick mist had descended and was swirling around the broken-down buildings, even obscuring the top of the rowan tree. Georgina stood up and considered what she should do.

  She could shelter in the farmhouse though if the mist lasted long her mam would be past herself with worry. Sometimes, though the mist lifted quite quickly and unexpectedly, she would wait a short while at least. She looked at her watch; the one Kate had sent for to reward her for winning the scholarship. It was almost twelve. Dinner was at one; she was expected home by then. Well then, she would go.

  She pictured in her mind the layout of this particular bit of moor. It had taken her twenty-five minutes to get here and the sun had been behind her. She had come over the road and gone directly down into the dip on the other side and then to the right, along the sheep trail there. She would go back, she could do it. She drew a diagram in her mind and held it there. Left of the rowan tree to the clump of heather she had been going to pick on her way back. A right turn and up the bank to the road. It was very simple really. She might even pick the heather as she went.

  It was ten minutes past two when Georgie saw the lights set out by Kate and a few moments later saw her father’s car, just off the road. Daddy was here – a surge of joy made her forget how cold and hungry she was. She ran, stumbling over a root only once, down the path lit by the storm lanterns to the cottage.

  ‘Father!’ she cried, bursting in at the door. ‘I didn’t know you were coming today! I—’

  Matthew caught her as she launched herself at him and hugged her close. He had got the telephone call when he was at the works and it had taken him two hours of crawling through the treacherous mists to; get here. And he had just opened his mouth to berate a trembling Kate and Dorothy hovering behind her for allowing Georgina out on the moor by herself and where was the search party for God’s sake?

  He was silenced; he hugged Georgina to him. ‘Where were you? How did you find your way back? You could have been lost, died of exposure!’ he cried, his voice trembling with emotion.

  ‘No, no, I couldn’t be, Father,’ said Georgina. ‘I worked it out how to get back. Only it took a bit longer than I thought it would.’

  Matthew went away again and Kate wondered about going back to the hospital. She longed to go, especially when Georgie went to school in Saltburn. She even went there and got to see Matron.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hamilton,’ that lady said with no preamble. ‘You were becoming a very useful nurse and yes, I was thinking of putting you forward for further training. A pity you didn’t tell me you had suffered from neurasthenia. I understand your mental health is still precarious.’

  Matthew had done his work well, Kate thought bitterly as she returned to the cottage. She realised there was no fighting him, not at the minute. He was a powerful man, suppose he contrived to take Georgie from her? Or make her leave Saltburn? That day when she had thought Georgie lost on the moor had terrified her. She could do nothing that might make her lose her daughter. She just had to wait it out for a few years, after all she was not yet thirty.

  Yet her treacherous feelings still betrayed her sometimes. She caught herself thinking of Matthew with love, felt her body missing him when he was away.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  GEORGIE RAN ALONG the beach with her friend, Julia Wentworth. They had been friends since starting at the Towers School on the very same day in 1943, almost five years now. Five years, thought Georgie and smiled at Julia.

  ‘You’ll miss the beach when you leave, Julia. Why don’t you stay on and have a go at your highers?’

  ‘Because I don’t stand a chance of getting them!’ Julia retorted. ‘It’s all right for a brainbox like you, Georgie. All I can hope for is a job in an office or something like that. You’ll be going to Oxford.’

  ‘I hope!’ said Georgie and the two friends slowed to a walk as they approached Marske-by-the-Sea and trudged through the expanse of soft sand to the village.

  ‘I do love the seashore though,’ said Julia and Georgie grinned. ‘I’ll miss it.’

  ‘We’re like the little kids, aren’t we?’ she asked. ‘It’s because of the war.’ All through the war the beach had been fenced with barbed wire to keep the public off and there had been pillboxes and gun emplacements, even mines in places. When the beach had been cleared it had been great.

  ‘Everything is because of the war,’ Julia said mournfully. They had reached the ice-cream shop and went in. Not that there was any ice cream, but there would be water ices if they were lucky. The post-war shortages affected just about everything.

  Georgie paid for her lemon iced lollipop and watched as Julia got hers, then they went outside into the sun and walked together along the top of the cliffs high over the beach and descended into Hazel Grove at the beginning of Saltburn. Already there were trippers on the sands, families with hired deckchairs and windbreaks.

  Further along by the pier the Victorian hydro lift slid down the rails to the bottom promenade and spilled out its load of excited children and their parents. A dog barked as it ran into the sea and out again, chased by a wave. It was Saturday and a perfect morning, the last perfect day of the summer term.

  It was early on Monday morning and she was in the maths class when Miss Johnson, the headmistress, had sent for Georgie.

  ‘But why, Miss Jordan?’ she asked as the two of them walked along the corridor to the headmistress’s study. But Miss Jordan just shook her head and looked serious.

  Miss Johnson was sitting behind her desk but she stood up when Georgie came in and that was enough to alarm any girl. Had something happened to her mother? Miss Johnson’s first words took that fear away.

  ‘You are to take the train to Middlesbrough, Georgina; there is one at ten o’clock. You’re to meet your mother; she will be waiting at the station for you. I’m afraid there has been a death in the family.’

  ‘But who is it?’ There was only Father; surely it wasn’t Father. Don’t let it be Father, please God.

  Miss Jordan saw her settled in a carriage and stood until the train set off and Georgie was left to her fears. The train stopped at Marske and Redcar and seemed to take ages before it started up again each time. But at last it got to Middlesbrough. Kate was waiting on the edge of the platform anxiously peering along the line, moving impatiently to meet her as she stepped down from the train.

  ‘Don’t ask questions, Georgina,’ she said before Georgie could open her mouth. ‘We haven’t time now; we’ll be late. Come along now.’ She walked ahead of Georgie with quick nervous strides so that Georgie had to almost run to keep up. She asked no more questions for Kate wasn’t going to answer them.

  Kate was lost in her own thoughts as she hailed a taxi outside the station and ushered Georgina into it. She gave directions to the driver in a low voice so that he had to ask her to repeat it and she was filled with impatience at the lost seconds and repeated herself much too loudly.

  ‘All right, Mrs,’ said the driver huffily and set off.

  Kate was filled with anxiety. Why, she had almost missed it! Just as she had missed Gran’s funeral and her father’s. Her heart was scarred because of it, if she missed Matthew’s too, she would never forgive herself.

  It was only because Kate had the special number that Matthew had given her for use in emergencies that she had discovered what had happened. Matthew had been away so long and she couldn’t understand why; it was almost as long as had sometimes happened during the war. Matthew had had a heart attack and he had died. And she, his true wife though not his legal one, was not told. That had disturbed her deeply, she felt like a non-person. She and Georgina could have waited for him to come back to them for ever if she hadn’t rung. She rarely got a newspaper so the death could have been in
the paper one day and long forgotten and she wouldn’t have seen it. Oh, she could so easily have walked into the village and got a local paper. She had withdrawn too much from the world.

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Hamilton died of a heart attack,’ the anonymous voice had said on the telephone and Kate bad dropped the instrument. It was Dorothy who had picked it up and elicited the information that the funeral was today, at eleven o’clock. Today! And she had to get Georgie from school, they had to go to Matthew’s funeral, they had to. He was, after all, Georgie’s father.

  Well, she had managed it though Dorothy had protested it was too much for her. ‘Suppose you’re ill?’ Dorothy had asked. ‘There will be no one to help you. If you insist on going wait a minute and I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No, Georgie and I will go by ourselves. We will help each other,’ said Kate. So there they were at last and she had prayed they would be in time.

  *

  There were two opulent cars outside the cemetery. Georgie and Kate walked past them and through the wrought-iron gates and up the tarmac path towards a group of people standing around an open grave. They stopped a few yards away though, by a stand of trees.

  ‘Behind here, Georgie,’ her mother whispered and Georgie stepped on to the grass, her feet sinking in a little as the ground was wet.

  ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why can’t we just join them?’

  ‘Because,’ Kate said shortly and Georgie, glancing at her mother’s set white face did as she was told.

  There were two women, both swathed in black, and two men, or rather a man and a boy around her own age and of course, the parson. She stepped out to get a closer look.

  ‘Georgie!’ Her mother’s hiss made her step back hurriedly.

  ‘Why are we hiding?’ Georgie asked. ‘Is it Father? Tell me!’

  ‘Sssh. Later.’

  Georgie’s thoughts raced and whirled. Her mother looked so ill, her deep blue eyes red-rimmed in her white face. Oh God, it was Father; it had to be. A deep dread welled up in her.

  Robert Richards glanced up in the middle of the final prayer and his eye caught the swift movement over by the clump of trees. Someone was there, watching them, two women in fact. He felt a twinge of irritation, they had made it quite plain in the death notices that the service in the church was open but the interment was private to the family. Who the hell were they, anyway? Not one of Father’s women, he hoped. But no, those sort of women wouldn’t dare. Just some busybodies no doubt with nothing better to do than gawp at other people’s misery. He stepped nearer his mother and put an arm around her shoulders.

  The parson had finished and Robert led her forward to the small pile of earth beside the open grave. She took a handful and dropped it in on top of the coffin and the rest of the family followed suit. Then Robert, still with an arm around her shoulders, led her away towards the gates of the cemetery and the rest of the party trailed behind them.

  ‘Come back to the Hall, Vicar,’ Robert said. ‘There will be a light luncheon.’

  ‘No thank you, I won’t intrude.’

  Robert shook his hand and thanked him. ‘A good service, Vicar,’ he said. And a jolly good thing it was over, he thought, all his concern was for his mother.

  Mary Anne shivered as she got into the car. ‘Why is it graveyards are always cold?’ she asked but she wasn’t looking for an answer, it was just something to say.

  ‘You can go now, Lawson,’ said Robert.

  Bertram gave him a resentful glance. He was the heir; it was for him to give the orders. But he said nothing for the minute; he would wait until they got back to the Hall.

  Robert glanced back out of the rear window as they crested the small hill; there was a good view of the cemetery. He frowned; the two women were by the open graveside, one was even throwing a handful of dirt into the grave. The cheek of the blasted woman! If it hadn’t been for his mother being in the car he would have stopped it and gone back and sent the pair of them packing. As it was, he had to turn and face the front and pretend there was nothing out of the ordinary.

  The car turned into the gates of Hamilton Hall, crunching on the gravel. It pulled up before the Victorian gothic entrance and Lawson jumped out and opened the door.

  ‘I’ll see to Mother,’ said Bertram with a note of authority. He was first out of the car and offering his hand and arm to Mary Anne. Robert looked at him with approval. Perhaps the lad was going to be more responsible now his father was dead. He certainly hoped so. Robert completely missed the hostile gleam in Bertram’s eye. He helped Maisie out of the car and they walked together up the steps and into the house after their mother and half-brother.

  A cold collation was laid out in the dining-room. There were already a few people there, business friends of Matthew’s, Jackson, the works manager and Parsons, his mine agent. And Mr Fox his solicitor. They were standing around the great stone fireplace and sipping dry sherry. Daisy and Benson the butler were handing round glasses of sherry. There had been a buzz of conversation that quietened as the family entered and the men all turned to look at them.

  ‘Come and sit by the fire, Mother,’ said Robert and the visitors moved away to make room. Though it was summer, there was a definite chill in the air. Outside the sky had darkened and rain threatened. Robert stood beside his mother and sister as the company came to her individually to offer their condolences.

  ‘Mr Hamilton was a good man, a great loss,’ said Mr Jackson as he held Mary Anne’s hand for a moment and Mary Anne smiled briefly and murmured something inaudible. She lifted a lace handkerchief to dab at her eyes.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Jackson. I’m sure my father thought a great deal of your abilities.’ It was Bertram speaking, he had stepped in between Robert and their mother, giving Robert a cool glance as he did so.

  Robert was taken aback, and then amused. Bertram was barely seventeen. His pale skin was smooth as a girl’s, his narrow shoulders accentuated by the black mourning suit. But he had a look of determination, or was it defiance as he caught his brother’s eye as though he expected Robert to push him back again. Of course Robert did not, he moved back himself to have a word with Mr Fox, the solicitor who was hovering near.

  ‘Would you like another glass of sherry, Mr Fox?’

  The solicitor’s glass was almost empty and Robert lifted a hand to call Benson’s attention to the fact. Daisy offered a tray of canapes but Mr Fox waved them away.

  ‘Not at the minute, thank you, Mr Richards, I must get back to the office,’ he replied. ‘But I would like a word with you first.’

  ‘Oh yes, I got your letter,’ said Robert. In all the flurry of his stepfather’s sudden death he had put the letter aside telling him that the solicitor would like to speak to all the family about the will on the Tuesday after the funeral. He had felt a brief surprise that Mr Fox wasn’t going to read the will after the funeral but it was a very minor mystery. There were more important things to think about.

  ‘I thought you would read the will this afternoon,’ he said now. ‘After all, it can’t be very complicated can it?’

  ‘I can’t today. There is another major legatee who will have to be present. What I was going to ask was, could the family come to my office? No, no, that won’t do, I can see you think it won’t. Well, the only answer is for me to come to the house tomorrow. Which would suit you best, morning or afternoon?’

  Robert sighed. ‘Afternoon, I suppose. I must go to the works in the morning. There are so many things to see to in the run up to nationalisation.’

  ‘Yes of course I—’

  They were interrupted by Bertram; who had noticed them having a quiet talk in the corner. Now he came up to them and rudely butted in on the solicitor.

  ‘Are you discussing business? You know of course that I am my father’s heir, do you not?’ he asked Mr Fox. ‘Robert is only a stepson.’

  Mr Fox looked embarrassed. ‘Em, er,’ he stuttered.

  ‘Behave yourself, Bertram,’ Robert said sharply.

&
nbsp; ‘Don’t tell me what to do! This is my house now, I’ll do what I like and say what I like too. You have no authority over me!’

  One or two people near turned to look at them for Bertram’s voice was raised petulantly. They turned back quickly and carried on with their own conversations but a number of eyebrows were raised.

  ‘I see we have joined in the airlift to take supplies to Berlin,’ said one. ‘These communists have to be kept down, I say I—’ Whatever else he had to say was drowned in a murmur of agreement.

  ‘Bertram, come here, dear,’ Mary Anne said quietly and Bertram, flushed and scowling, had no alternative but to go to his mother’s side.

  ‘It’s only right, Mother,’ Robert heard him say. He turned back to Mr Fox.

  ‘Will three-thirty suit you?’ he asked. ‘I can be back by then. And I’m sure the others will be in. But what do you mean, another major legatee? How can there be?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge the name of the person until tomorrow. I gave my word to Mr Hamilton. Now I’m afraid I must get back to the office. I’ll just have a word with your mother, poor lady. Pay my respects.’

  Robert was glad when all the visitors finally took their leave; the reception seemed to take for ever. When the last of the cars crunched over the gravel on its way out he breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘Thank God that’s over,’ he said to Bertram as they turned back into the Hall. ‘Now what was the point of that little tantrum you threw earlier? Mother must have been ashamed of your behaviour.’

  Bertram turned to him in fury. ‘Don’t talk to me as though I were a child! I am a man now and head of the firm, it is for me to take my father’s place and I can throw you out if I so wish. So you’d better mend your manners when you talk to me.’

  Robert sighed. ‘Oh I can’t be bothered,’ he said tiredly. ‘If you consider yourself an adult then act like one, especially where Mother is concerned. If you can’t then keep out of her sitting-room until she retires.’ He turned his back and walked into the little sitting-room that Mary Anne had made her own. She was seated in a chair by the window looking out over the rose garden. At this time of year the scent of the roses was heavy in the air coming in through the open window.