A Time of Hope (Part Five of The People of this Parish Saga)

by Nicola Thorne

  Sally sat at the table with Dora and Jean, her aunts Eliza and Agnes and Lally and Alexander. Alexander kept on glancing at the table where Mary sat with her parents. Not far from them were Sarah Jane, her husband Solomon and her children Abel, the eldest, with his wife Ruth, and her daughters Martha and Felicity. Also at the same table was Hubert Turner, Deborah and an unusually silent Bart Sadler.

  Carson looked round, drew out a chair and sat down next to Sally.

  “You and Dora could be sisters,” he said.

  “I know.” Sally smiled, a frank, refreshing smile, which Carson immediately found attractive. She had fair hair, stylishly cut in a page-boy bob with a fringe and a long, rather slinky evening dress that showed off her figure. She had blue eyes, a broad nose and a firm, decisive-looking mouth. When she laughed she showed a set of beautifully even teeth. She was not conventionally pretty but, like Dora, was a good-looking woman, along with many others in his family. She seemed a cheerful, jolly sort and he liked her. She was also a bit like Connie.

  “It’s so wonderful to find this family,” Sally said. “And Aunt Agnes, who I don’t think I’ve ever met.”

  “Never,” Agnes shook her head. “I was off abroad before you were even born. Hesketh was a very poor correspondent. I didn’t even know he was dead.” She didn’t look very sorry.

  “And your mother?” Carson asked. “Is she well?”

  “She’s well. Leads an active social life in Bournemouth.”

  “Can I get you something to eat, sir?” A black-coated waiter hovered by Carson’s side and pointed to the long serving table still groaning with food despite the fact that the plates of the hundred or so guests were full.

  “I’ll help myself.” Carson smiled, looking up. “I’m not hungry yet. Maybe when the dancing begins.”

  “Oh, there’s dancing. Good.” Sally turned her attention again to the food on her plate. “This is a lovely party. I’m so glad you asked me.” She smiled at Carson, who smiled back.

  “I’m glad too,” he said. “Maybe we’ll see more of you.”

  Sarah Jane had repeatedly told her husband she didn’t want to go to Carson’s party. She hadn’t been back since she’d left Wenham and, as far as she was concerned, that was that. She and Solomon had started a new life, where no one knew them, in Brighton.

  But the new life hadn’t been quite the success Sarah Jane had hoped. She knew nobody in Brighton and making new friends was difficult. She’d had a large family in and around Wenham, besides her own children, and even if she didn’t see much of them, she knew they were there.

  Her family had thought she was foolish to run off with a man twenty-three years her junior, younger than her own son and only a little older than her daughters. They were all solid middle-aged farming folk and they couldn’t understand what had got into their sister to make such a spectacle of herself. No one had attended the quiet register office wedding and, as if they had known she was coming, none of them were here tonight except her brother, Bart, and he was something of a black sheep himself. Two of a kind.

  But Solomon had insisted on coming. He found life in Brighton dull and there was little work to be had as an architect. The economy was in a depression, millions were out of work, a lot of people had lost money and were not building houses.

  Sarah Jane had not been a wealthy woman and all the money she had came from the sale of her house, Riversmead. Her husband only had what money he earned, so they were not well off. Discontent was beginning to set into a marriage only just a year old. Solomon hoped that maybe his stepson, Abel, who had formerly been his partner, might find something for him to do, or Bart Sadler, whose house Solomon had worked on after Bart had bought it from Eliza.

  There was little merriment at their table. Sarah Jane’s children sat glowering at her, as though she was somehow tainted. They too had not come to her wedding, and seemed rather to wish they were not here now. Hubert Turner manfully tried to keep the party going with trivial tales about the parish, which were of little interest to anyone, and Deborah chatted away to her sister Ruth who she saw most days anyway. Bart looked unsmilingly about him, obviously not in a happy mood, until the tables were pushed back and the dancing started. The small ensemble which had been entertaining the crowd with airs from Mendelssohn and Schubert showed its versatility by a change of mood and broke into a foxtrot. Couples who had been waiting for this moment pushed back their chairs, and Bart jumped up and immediately led Deborah to the dance floor.

  “Do you want to dance?” Solomon looked at his wife who shook her head, raising her full champagne glass unsteadily to her lips. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink, dear?” he enquired anxiously.

  With the vigour of the inebriate Sarah Jane shook her head.

  “No I do not.”

  “Come on let’s dance.” He tugged urgently at her hand but she shook him off.

  “No, I don’t want to.”

  “Do you want to make a spectacle?”

  “But we’re not a spectacle.”

  “Everyone will look at us.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Why? Because everyone will say ‘Look at Solomon Palmer and that awful old hag of a wife. She’s years older than he is. God knows what he saw in her.”‘

  During this exchange Abel hurriedly got up and led his wife onto the dance floor. Hubert, realising his labours had not altogether been appreciated, had his attention diverted by some parishioners and eagerly crossed the room to talk to them. Besides, he was not much of a man for dancing. Sarah Jane’s daughters Felicity and Martha remained at the table stonily observing their stepfather’s unsuccessful attempts to entice their mother onto the dance floor. Finally, with a sigh of exasperation, Martha rose, held her hand out to Solomon, and said almost in a tone of command.

  “Come on, let’s dance.”

  “But ...”

  Solomon looked at her, but Martha seized his hand and propelled him into the crowd packed tightly together in the small space that had been cleared between tables.

  “Sorry about that,” Solomon mumbled.

  “Can’t you see she’s drunk?” Martha demanded wrathfully.

  “I can’t bear Mummy making a spectacle of herself.”

  “She doesn’t usually. We shouldn’t have come.”

  “I’m surprised you did.”

  “It’s a very isolated life we lead in Brighton.”

  “You should have thought of that before.”

  “There’s no work, nothing to do,” Solomon went on as though he hadn’t heard her. “Sometimes I think ...”

  The music stopped in time, unfortunately, to coincide with a commotion at one of the tables on the edge of the dance floor. Sarah Jane appeared to have collapsed and was lying face downwards, her head in the bowl of fruit in the centre of the table. Felicity was making an attempt to revive her with a napkin, but everyone else just remained where they were, staring. Martha and Solomon hurried across to her, just as Sarah Jane began making a feeble attempt to lift her head.

  Carson, suddenly stirred into action in the middle of dancing with Sally, stood anxiously next to Martha trying to help.

  “Shall I call a doctor? Doctor Hardy might be here somewhere.” Carson looked about him, but the family doctor, who had been invited as a guest, was nowhere to be seen.

  “I can manage,” Felicity, who was a nurse, muttered, “if someone can help me get her out.”

  “What’s the matter with her? Is it her heart?” Carson appeared seriously alarmed.

  “Mummy’s drunk!” Felicity announced in scathing tones. “Hadn’t you noticed?”

  Martha shot her a warning glance but Felicity was defiant. The few people within earshot exchanged glances.

  Solomon helped Felicity get Sarah Jane into an upright position, but her head lolled like a rag doll’s.

  “We’ve got to keep her upright to stop her from choking,” Felicity said, and with Solomon’s help they began to ha
lf lift, half drag her out of the room.

  Meanwhile, at a signal from Carson, the valiant little band – consisting of two violins, a flute and a piano played by three perspiring men and a red-faced woman – broke into a brisk foxtrot and everyone started to dance energetically again.

  Alexander was very conscious of Mary’s nubile, pliant body so close to his. He had waited all evening for another chance to be with her again after he had returned her to her family following their meeting with Agnes.

  He put his mouth very close to her ear.

  “What did your mother say?”

  “She didn’t notice. There were so many people.”

  “I rather like your grandmother.”

  “So do I. I feel very sorry for her.”

  “Maybe we could go and see her together? You know, without telling anyone.”

  Mary looked doubtful. “When?”

  “We’d find some time. I’m working in London during the week.”

  “Oh, you’ve got a job?”

  “With the family firm. I’m starting at the bottom. We could go one weekend.”

  “We must be very careful. My mother will be furious.”

  “Why does she hate your grandmother so much?”

  “Because she rejected her when she was a baby.”

  “I can imagine that ...” Alexander began, but the band played harder, the music got louder and it proved too difficult to continue the conversation. Instead, Alexander took advantage of the crowd to press Mary even closer to him. He could feel the beat of her heart next to his.

  Lally tried to keep her eyes on the couple on the dance floor but it was very difficult. The lights had been lowered and some couples were openly smooching. A far cry from the decorous dances when she was a young woman, not that there had been much that was decorous about her youth. She was not at all happy about Alexander’s obvious interest in Mary Sprogett, a girl with an awful name, whose father had been a carter, without any education or breeding.

  Eliza was tapping her foot. Next to her Lally turned and studied her profile for a moment, reflecting that Eliza had weathered well. She wore an elegant black sequinned, closefitting evening gown. The streaks of white in her dark hair, which she had had cut fashionably short, a variation on the Eton crop, gave her a decided air of distinction. She wore little jewellery, unlike Lally, who sparkled like a Christmas tree with gems on her fingers and her wrist, and a pearl necklace of great antiquity around her throat.

  “I do wish Alexander would leave that Sprogett girl alone,” Lally whispered to Eliza. “He’ll be giving her ideas.” Eliza looked at her friend in surprise.

  “But she’s rather sweet.”

  “She’s only fifteen for goodness’ sake.”

  “Well I’m sure there’s no romance. She’s scarcely more than a child.”

  “There’d better not be,”

  “Would you really mind?”

  “I would mind terribly. For one thing I would hate an alliance with Elizabeth.”

  Eliza patted her hand comfortingly.

  “I’m sure you can put it out of your head. He will meet a number of very glamorous young women in London. He’ll be spoilt for choice.”

  They both looked up as Carson appeared and sat down at their table.

  “Aren’t you dancing?”

  “No one to dance with.”

  “You must dance with me.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “Enjoying the party?” He looked across at Lally. “Wonderful. The food was superb. You must tell me where you got your caterers from.”

  “Have some more champagne.” Carson beckoned to a passing waiter but Lally put a hand over her glass. “I really think I’ve had enough.”

  Carson stood up and extended his hand to Eliza and together they glided on to the floor.

  “I can’t quite get the hang of these dances,” she said. “They’re all so vigorous. So much jumping about.” Carson laughed and pressed her close.

  “You’re doing splendidly.”

  “And you’re doing splendidly.” Eliza looked at him with approval. “It’s a lovely party and you’re a very good host.”

  The music stopped. Suddenly, all the lights went out and the band began to play ‘Happy Birthday’. Through one of the doors a waiter emerged carefully pushing a trolley on which there was a large birthday cake with its candles already alight. Eliza put her hands up to her face in surprise. Carson led her forward and as all the dancers stepped back, and everyone joined in the chorus, he invited her to blow out the candles, which she did, but not all at one go. There were cheers, laughter and a massive chorus of ‘for she’s a jolly good fellow’, after which Carson held up his hand for silence.

  “I would like to say how pleased my family and I are to see you all here tonight,” he said, “to celebrate the birthday of my dear Aunt Eliza.”

  There followed more cheers and applause as the lights went on again.

  Carson continued, “She has been a wonderful wife, mother, grandmother and aunt and I, for one, owe more to her wisdom and good advice over the years than I can say. I ask you to raise your glasses and drink the health of Aunt Eliza, born in this house seventy years ago today.”

  When the noise had subsided Eliza stepped forward and, as silence fell, she joined her hands in front of her.

  “Thank you all so much,” she said simply, turning to Carson. “Especially Carson for giving me this lovely party, my daughter Dora for helping to organise it,” she looked towards Dora, who waved back and blew her a kiss, “and all of you, friends and relations, who have come here to celebrate this special day. For it is special. It seems that more than seventy years have elapsed since the year 1862 when I was born. Queen Victoria had another forty years on the throne. It is, indeed, like a bygone age, and we have seen so many changes, so many many changes: the arrival of the motor car, the aeroplane, electric light. When I was a child, Pelham’s Oak was lit by candles and gas and oil lamps. The only means of transport was by horse or horse-drawn vehicle. Now there is wireless, telephone - you can hear and speak to people many hundreds of miles away. There are moving pictures in the cinema. It is all miraculous. Quite miraculous.

  “We, as a family, like most of you, have suffered many tragedies as well as had many joys. We have seen a terrible war that has changed the world and decimated so many lives. Even now our country is going through trying times, with thousands out of work and many more living in poverty. Some people still have their lives ruined by ill-health from the effects of the war.

  Nevertheless, I believe that this is a time of hope, and I pray that we keep faith with the future, with unborn generations entrusted to us, and that we never see another war.”

  Eliza, who had never made such a long speech in her life, was almost choking with emotion. She raised both her hands to her lips and blew kisses to her audience who, with one accord, rose to their feet to salute her.

  Chapter Four

  March 1933

  The Becketts and the Martyns had been friends for many years. Frank Beckett was a successful City banker. His beloved only daughter, Minnie, was twenty and had been carefully reared and nurtured: she had gone to one of the best schools in the country, had been finished in Switzerland and had all the accomplishments necessary to make her a fine wife to some fortunate man. But, above all, she was quite beautiful with thick, luxurious black hair, limpid brown eyes, high cheekbones and a secretive rather alluring smile, full of hidden promise.

  Alexander knew the Becketts. He had met Minnie several times, he had played cricket with her brother Ronald, and had lunched in the boardroom with her father, who was a close friend and colleague of Pieter Heering and was one of the company’s bankers.

  Lally’s house in Montagu Square had, in the last six months, undergone a complete refurbishment. There were new carpets, curtains, wall coverings and in many rooms new furniture, though most of it was in fact not new but old: antiques that Lally had bought in her restless trawl through
the salerooms, many of them in Dorset. Lally had an eye for fine furniture and exquisite taste, and she now felt she had a house fit for Alexander to live in during the week when he was in London, and maybe to settle in if he got married.

  She herself preferred to live in the country, though she enjoyed her trips to town. Shopping was her weakness. She loved to entertain: to plan the food and wine with the cook and butler; to order the flowers and arrange them tastefully in large bowls in the hall and reception rooms was a task she always enjoyed. She would play hostess for Alexander, giving a dinner party two or three times a month with a view to introducing him not only to people of interest and importance, but to a variety of suitable young women in the hope that, eventually, he might choose one for a bride.

  The talk at the dinner table was grave. The war had been over for fifteen years, but the consequences continued. The economic situation was still serious, though the National Government, under the leadership of Ramsay MacDonald, was beginning to succeed in re-establishing British credit. On the whole, businessmen were satisfied with the government. However, there were still five million people unemployed and the Labour leader, George Lansbury, had upbraided the government for its indifference to the sufferings of those without work.

  In Germany, Adolf Hitler had become Chancellor, but many considered him a renegade who couldn’t possibly last long.

  This was not the view of Frank Beckett.

  “His party has just polled almost fifty per cent in the German elections. I don’t think you can write him off. I think he might actually be quite good for Germany.”

  “Are you worried about Herr Hitler?” Minnie, her fine intelligent eyes sparkling with amusement, turned to Alexander, who was sitting next to her.

  “I know very little about him,” Alexander replied with a deprecating smile. “But what I know I don’t like, though some people say he will be good for Germany.”

  “I agree with Frank. Germany is in an appalling mess. People who have met him say he is quite charismatic.” Sir David Lankaster leaned across the table towards Frank Beckett, but next to him Reuben Schwartz shook his head. He was a distinguished art dealer and critic who often advised Lally on her purchase of paintings.