The Last Summer

by Judith Kinghorn

“No,” he replied quickly. “No, I don’t. I was no one then . . . I was the housekeeper’s son, always looking from the outside in, never quite part of things. Look at me now: the owner of Deyning Park. I’ve achieved everything I ever wanted, bar one thing . . .” And I closed my eyes, for I knew what was to come. “I don’t have you.”

  “It’s impossible . . .”

  “Yes, it would seem so,” he said, nodding. Then he laughed, but it was a hollow, hard laugh. “Here I am, trapped in the place that belongs to you . . . without you.” He looked up to the sky. “Such a waste,” he added.

  Walter drove us back to London, and I felt as though I was going to a funeral, perhaps my own funeral. That hard knot had returned to my stomach, accompanied by a feeling of dread. We sat in the back of the car holding hands, and from time to time he lifted my hand to his lips, and held it there, pressed to them. But he seemed distant now, preoccupied. As we headed into the sprawl of London I turned to him, but he didn’t look at me. He kept his eyes straight ahead, as though concentrating on the road, our journey. And so we passed through the streets of Battersea and Chelsea in silence. And when the car finally came to a standstill outside my home, he turned to me and said, “I need you to understand . . . try to understand—there’s a child now.” He closed his eyes. “I can’t leave her, Clarissa. I can’t abandon my child.”

  I nodded.

  He climbed out of the car and moved swiftly to my door, but I’d already stepped out. “Thank you,” I said, and I reached up to his face, placed my hand upon his cheek. “I wish only for your happiness, Tom.”

  I didn’t look back; couldn’t bear to watch him go. But as I closed my front door I heard another slam shut, then the rumble of an engine, slowly fading as it moved away down the street. I put down my bag, walked through to the drawing room and poured myself something—I’m not sure what—from a decanter, and sat down upon the sofa. It was Sonia who later came into the room and asked me if everything was quite all right; if there was a reason why I’d locked and double-bolted the front door.

  That evening, Charlie returned home from work earlier than usual, muttering about the traffic and some ghastly man he’d had to sit next to on the tube. I sat in silence with a book in my hand as he poured us each a drink. And I wondered why he’d come home early: was it to interrogate me, accuse me? I had no plan, no idea what I was going to say, but I wasn’t going to say anything until he’d laid the ground, as it were. Innocent until proven guilty.

  “So, did you have fun last night?” he asked, his back to me, as he replaced the glass stopper in the decanter. “Tom tells me he took a few of you back to Deyning for dinner,” he continued. “Must have been a blast.”

  “Yes, yes, it was. It was fun.”

  He sat down opposite me. “So . . . who went down there?”

  “Oh golly, I really don’t know . . . some of his and Nancy’s friends. Such a shame you couldn’t make it. Did you manage to get your work finished?”

  He sniffed, looked away. “Yes, eventually. We finished at three . . . that’s why I didn’t come home . . . made sense for me to sleep at the office. But what time did you get back?”

  I shrugged. “Oh, probably around that same time.”

  He nodded. “You’re not cross then?”

  “No, of course not. Not at all.”

  “It was unfortunate timing, but he’s putting so much business our way now . . . well, you know.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I understand.”

  “And he promised me, promised me that he’d make sure you weren’t left on your own, and that he’d take you to dinner. You see, I told him, told him how much you hate those sorts of things, how you usually avoid them, and how wretched I felt at having talked you into attending—only to abandon you. Although, I have to say I had no idea he was going to take you back to Deyning . . . and when he told me today, well, I did rather wonder.”

  “Wonder?”

  “Yes, you know, wonder if you’d got caught up in some jamboree you didn’t feel part of, and then been forced to go back there with them all. I said to him, ‘Oh dear, I do hope my wife isn’t going to be cross with me—otherwise I may have to increase your fee, ha!’”

  I laughed. “Really, Charlie, it was perfectly fine. I was fine.”

  “Good. He’s a decent enough sort, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is. He’s charming.”

  Later, over dinner, Charlie asked me more about the evening, my trip down to Deyning, and I heard myself lie. We’d eaten in the dining room, I said, had beef—cooked to perfection, and then a wonderful chocolate pudding. Yes, the house had looked the same, and yes, it was his usual driver who’d brought me home. I was vague once more about who’d been there, but as I tried to recall names and describe nonexistent people, he’d helped me out, offering me a few to grab on to. Then I said, “Ask Tom. He knows who they all were.”

  “I can’t ask him that,” he replied.

  “Why ever not?”

  “I’m his lawyer, not his bloody mother, Clarissa.”

  I knew I wouldn’t hear from Tom again after that day. He had a proper family now, or the start of one. And anyway, what could we have done from there? We couldn’t have had an affair. Secret rendezvous and snatched afternoons in London hotels were not an option for us. We wanted all of each other, everything. We both knew it had to be all or nothing; we couldn’t share, you see. We couldn’t have a part-time stake in each other’s lives. To embark upon an affair would have been tantamount to my leaving Charlie, and him abandoning his wife and soon-to-be child. I knew the scandal would ruin him, and kill my mother. And so, my life continued. Ahead of me, years and years of emptiness, stretching as far as the eye can see, like the Sahara Desert.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  . . . M Zelda almost came up with yr name yesterday. Of course, I feigned confusion, but she would keep on at it, in that way of hers, & insisted that there was something “more.” She said she saw a curtain over my life, and behind it a man, & V suggested it was my father. “NO!” said MZ, “this is not a father . . . this is a love, a lover.” I nearly fell off my chair.

  It’s always been something of a mystery to me what exactly motivated her to get in touch with me when she did, but a few weeks—perhaps a month—after I’d seen Tom I received a letter from his mother. My address would have been easy enough for her to find; Charlie and I were listed. She said that she was coming to stay in London with a cousin and would very much like it if I could meet with her, perhaps for tea. Of course, I replied, I’d love to catch up with her over tea. I suggested a time and venue, to which she replied—by way of a postcard—and confirmed our arrangement.

  We met in the tearoom at Swan and Edgar, and after ordering afternoon tea for two we settled into predictable, cozy reminiscences of life at Deyning before the war. I wondered if perhaps she was simply lonely, had wanted to see me to go back to a time in her life when she’d been needed. Then she mentioned him, telling me “in the strictest confidence” that his marriage was “not what it ought to be.” She said she suspected her son was not a faithful husband; that he was unhappy and that he should never have married “an American.”

  “Well, Mrs. Cuthbert, I’m certainly no expert on marriage. And, it has to be said, Tom’s a grown man now, a man of the world.”

  “I don’t know why he married her, I really don’t.” She shook her head. “I wanted him to be settled.” I nodded. “I wanted him to have a family. I thought that’s what he needed, you see—to make him happy. But it hasn’t turned out like that. And perhaps I was being selfish, because I knew . . . I knew at the time he didn’t love her, not the way he should’ve done. And there was me thinking of grandchildren and oh, I don’t know what . . .”

  “All marriages, it seems to me, are rather hard work,” I said.

  She shrugged, sighed. “I wouldn’t know, and that’s part of the problem. You see, I want him to have someone to share his life with . . . not end up like me. But really, what can
I do now?”

  “Nothing,” I replied, refilling her teacup. “You simply can’t blame yourself, Mrs. Cuthbert. I know, I know as his mother you only wish for his well-being and happiness, but . . . there’s a baby to think of now.”

  She looked perplexed for a moment. “Oh, you’d heard?”

  “Yes, I’d heard . . . I can’t recall through whom,” I said, quickly, and I wondered if that was why she’d wanted to meet me: to tell me about Tom’s baby. “Who knows, perhaps this baby is what he needs, what the marriage needs.”

  She shook her head again. “I’m not so sure. It’s not as straightforward as that with him.”

  No, I thought, nothing ever is with Tom. “Oh, really?”

  “He’s like me. Once he’s given his heart, he can never give it to another.”

  I remained silent. She looked so small and vulnerable, and for a moment I thought she was about to cry.

  “You see, he fell in love so many years ago, and he’s never got over that.”

  I picked up my cup and saucer. I wasn’t sure what to say. What could I say?

  “Life’s not turned out the way I expected either,” I said, looking down into my teacup. “Sometimes it’s not easy . . . not for any of us.”

  “But I think you know . . . I think you know, Miss Clarissa. There’s never been another . . .”

  I looked up at her and smiled.

  “You’re everything to him. You always have been.” She looked down at her lap, twisting a white handkerchief in her hands.

  It was awkward. More awkward than I can begin to explain: for there I was, taking tea with Mrs. Cuthbert, hovering on the brink of talking to her intimately about her son. I wasn’t sure what, exactly, she knew, what Tom had told her, and I was flummoxed to know what to say to her. And all at once, I felt my mother’s presence. I could see her wide-eyed stare; feel her bemusement.

  I reached out, placed my hand over hers. “Mrs. Cuthbert, you told me I had to let him go; you said I had to let him move on . . . and I did. And now . . . now . . .” I stopped; I don’t really know why, don’t know what it was I was going to say from there, but I suddenly thought of Emily, my child, her granddaughter. I stared at her, into her pale gray eyes, and I saw the years of sadness behind them.

  “The thing is, Miss Clarissa,” she began again, and at that moment I wished she’d stop calling me Miss Clarissa. It sounded so . . . subservient, so wrong.

  “Please, please—no Miss, just Clarissa,” I said.

  She smiled. “Clarissa, the thing is, I need to explain . . . I want to tell someone . . .” She paused again.

  “Yes?

  “About Tom’s father.”

  “Mr. Cuthbert?”

  “That’s just it. You see, there never was a Mr. Cuthbert.”

  “Oh. Yes, I see,” I replied, realizing what my mother had always suspected.

  She took a deep breath, looked into my eyes, and then announced, in an unequivocal, clear voice, “Tom’s father was the Earl Deyning.”

  I was silent for a moment. Stunned, and a little shocked by the thought (and concurrent image) of Mrs. C and the old Earl at it. But I remember thinking how utterly perfect. And I almost wanted to rush to the public telephone to inform Mama. It had never made an iota of difference to me whether Tom’s father was an earl or a pauper, but I’d have liked to have broadcast that particular piece of news to quite a few people, some dead, others still living.

  I lit a cigarette. “Does Tom know this?” I asked.

  “No, he does not. Oh, I’ve wanted to tell him, and so many times, but it’s so hard . . .”

  “But why . . . why did you want to tell me this?”

  “Because someone should know. I’m old. My days are running out and I want someone to know the truth. He loves you . . . and I think he believes in his heart that one day . . . one day you’ll be with him.”

  She looked tearful again, and I felt for her. I wanted to tell her that of course I loved her son. I’d always loved him, always would. But I couldn’t.

  “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. I promise you that.”

  She wiped her nose. “Thing is . . . if anything were to happen to me, if I’d never told him, would you?”

  “Do you really wish me to?”

  “Yes. I want him to know, and I want him to understand why . . . why I never told him, why I couldn’t tell him.”

  “Then of course I shall. Of course.” I put my hand over hers once again. “You have my word, Mrs. Cuthbert.”

  She smiled. “Please, call me Evelyn. It’s my name . . . and no one ever uses it. No one calls me Evelyn anymore. Not for years.”

  “Evelyn,” I said, gripping her hand.

  “You said to me that day—when you came back to Deyning—that you loved him. Do you still love him?” she asked, looking at me beseechingly.

  “Perhaps I’m like you and Tom. Once I’ve given my heart I can never give it to another.”

  When we emerged from the department store into the London throng that day she looked out of place, quite lost; and I wanted to put my arms around her. I wanted to take her home with me. This was Tom’s mother; this was Emily’s grandmother. We were connected in love and in blood. As we said good-bye, I held on to her hand, and when I kissed her cheek I was struck by its softness, and the faint fragrance of lily of the valley. But as I walked away up Regent Street, I felt wretched, and all at once sad beyond words, and I turned and began to walk in the opposite direction, toward Piccadilly. I’m not sure why I needed to go back to her, to find her, or what I wanted to say to her, but at that moment my whole life seemed to depend upon it.

  I found her, eventually, in the bus queue for Acton, and I wrapped myself around her as though she were my own long-lost mother. What people in the queue must have thought, I really don’t know. She said to me, “You’re very special, Clarissa, so very special.” And I stood there with her, holding on to her hand, until the bus came, and when she climbed on board, I shouted after her, “Evelyn! Evelyn! I’ll come and visit you, I’ll come down and visit you soon.”

  I moved along the bus looking in at her through the window and watched her take her seat. She raised her hand, waved at me, and I blew her a kiss. Then the bell rang, and as the bus pulled away I felt the most profound love for her: Tom’s mother. I stood and watched it disappear down Piccadilly.

  I’m pleased I went back to her that day.

  —

  Charlie and I didn’t travel, mainly because of his disability. Our life was firmly London based, and so, but for the occasional Saturday to Monday at a familiar house in the country, we rarely ventured far. He did not cope well with unknown, uncharted terrain; could no longer ride or dance, or pursue so many of the activities being a houseguest in the country seemed to entail. I suspect he’d always liked predictability and order in his life. But his time in the army, coupled with the limitations incurred through his injuries, had made him a zealous adherent of routine, and fearful of any spontaneity or disruption to that routine.

  We didn’t often visit Charlie’s sister, but it was a house he knew and could cope with. And the following spring, perhaps six months or so after I’d met Mrs. Cuthbert, we went down to Sussex to stay with Flora and her husband, David. They lived about fifteen miles from Deyning at that time, in a sixteenth-century timber-framed cottage: a hotchpotch, rambling place, and, like so many others, still without electricity or running hot water. Their two sons, my nephews, were both away at school, and they lived a somewhat eccentric, Spartan existence, tucked away there, without any luxuries and with only candlelight at night.

  I hadn’t planned to drive over to Deyning, but on Sunday, the day after we’d arrived, there was a pause in the day and it seemed the perfect afternoon for a drive. It wasn’t long after Easter and the countryside was just beginning to take on the soft, luminous hue of springtime. And of course, being so close to Deyning, I couldn’t not think of the place; couldn’t not think of him. The previous evening, over dinner
, Flora had mentioned him to me, and I’d immediately felt that momentary sense of loss, a feeling I had each time I heard his name. It was different with my brothers, I’d often thought, because two of them were dead; they had gone and could never return. And Henry? Henry may have disappeared but he was alive somewhere, I knew that, and I also felt sure he would return to us some day. But Tom, Tom had not died, nor had he disappeared. He lived and breathed on the periphery, somewhere on the edge of my life. Flitting in and out of conversation, lurking in the shadows.

  Flora told me that she and David had been to a charity fund-raising dinner at Deyning a month or so earlier. “Golly, he is a dish,” she said, leaning toward me, as David and Charlie talked business. “But he’s not at all at ease with himself. And for all his money, he doesn’t strike one as . . . particularly happy.”

  I smiled but said nothing. I did and didn’t want to talk about him. I wanted to ask questions, but didn’t altogether wish to hear the answers. Then she said, quietly, “Of course, there’s talk that the marriage has been in trouble from the word go.”

  “Oh?”

  “Mm,” she said, taking a sip of wine and glancing at David. “Apparently he’s in love with someone else.”

  I looked at her. “Perhaps he just works hard,” I replied.

  She smiled, knowingly. “I think there’s a little more to it than that, dear.” She’d hooked me. I was intrigued.

  “And . . .”

  “Well, you’ll recall Mrs. Wade, who cooks for us?”

  “Yes,” I said, although I didn’t really.

  “She sometimes helps out over at Deyning, when they have big dinners there and so forth, and she’s been there rather a lot of late.” She paused, lit a cigarette from the candle on the table. “She told me it’s common knowledge he’s in love with someone else, someone in London, I think, and that the marriage is in trouble.”

  “And how does Mrs. Wade know this?”

  She laughed. “Clarissa, really, you more than anyone should understand that servants know everything.”