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

by Nicola Thorne

  “I don’t like school,” Mary insisted stamping her small foot. “I am finished with school.”

  “Then what will you do?”

  “She can stay with me,” Agnes said with an imperturbable smile, “and be my companion. I’m sure we can rely on your tact to arrange that, dear Eliza.”

  Eliza, as anticipated, placated Mary’s parents, at least for the time being. That summer was a very precious time for Agnes, one of the happiest she had had for many years. She had a fearsome reputation, but only because she was so lonely and felt so rejected by her family who in the past she had treated quite badly. She relished the company of her granddaughter and they whiled the summer weeks away chatting on the lawn or taking trips in Carson’s motor car, visiting Sherborne or Bournemouth to shop and indulging their appetite for sweet cakes and hot chocolate, the latter taken in some of the fancy hotels in that fashionable seaside resort. Agnes had little money of her own, but what she had she lavished on Mary, doting more and more on her with each day that passed.

  But, best of all, Agnes enjoyed the visits of the handsome, personable young Alexander Martyn, which started soon after Mary took up residence with her and continued through the summer. At weekends they would go riding together at Pelham’s Oak, accompanied by Carson and observed from the terrace by a fond Agnes. Frequently, however, Mary went off alone with Alexander in his motor car.

  Agnes, a lifetime schemer and manipulator, enjoyed the intrigue, the deception. A frustrated romantic, she delighted in the spectacle of mutual awareness as, slowly, Mary and Alexander fell in love.

  ***

  Carson, who had had business in Yeovil, sat on the terrace smoking a cigarette and watching the young riders in the far distance. He noted how Mary’s seat had improved, with what skill she managed jumping the hedges and crossing the streams, her exhilaration as she sped off leaving Alexander to follow on behind, as though tempting him to chase her, which he did, gladly. Mary had grown into a beauty. She was almost womanly in her manner, older, much older than her years, with a kind of unwitting sophistication.

  Finally, Alexander and Mary reached the top of the hill. They slowed their mounts as they passed through the gate onto the lawn, still laughing, where Carson awaited them.

  “I wish I didn’t have to go back.” Alexander jumped down from his horse while the groom, who had run over from the stables, helped Mary down from hers.

  “Why must you go back?” Mary shook herself. She ran her hands through her thick hair and patted her horse that, together with Alexander’s, was led away by the groom, and flopped into the chair next to Carson.

  “Because I have to work.”

  “You don’t need to,” she said teasingly. “Grandma says you’re a very rich man.”

  “That’s why he needs to work,” Carson said laconically, “so that he doesn’t spend his time in idleness.”

  “Besides, I like work,” Alexander glanced at Mary. Then, as if an idea had suddenly struck him, “Look, do you suppose your grandmother would let you come up to London? Just for a visit?”

  “Oh, I’d love that.” Mary clasped her hands together in rapture. “I would adore to go to London. Do you think I could go, Uncle Carson?”

  “I think your grandmother would miss you.”

  “Only for a while,” Alexander said excitedly, “and Mother would be there.” He looked across at Carson. “I mean Mary would be properly chaperoned.” Carson noticed a slight blush on the young man’s cheek and suddenly he wondered if things weren’t going at too fast a pace.

  Alexander jumped up.

  “Come on, let’s go and ask your grandmother.” He held out his hand. Mary clasped it eagerly, her eyes shining with excitement.

  “Take care,” Carson said, looking at them as they got into Alexander’s car. “Don’t rush things. You have your lives before you, you know.”

  But his words, which once upon a time could have applied to himself, were drowned in the sound of the car’s engine as it vanished down the drive.

  There was something different about her grandmother at luncheon that day, Mary thought, her happiness suddenly evaporating, something that made her look warningly at Alexander, shaking her head as though this was not the time to suggest a London visit. Agnes sat there, very stiff and upright, preoccupied, scarcely smiling, and did not even ask them if they’d had a nice morning. She had reprimanded them for being late and hurried them into the dining room where a light luncheon was served by Grace.

  It was not until Grace had left the room that Mary said, “Is there something wrong Grandma? You’re very quiet. Are you quite well?”

  “I am quite well thank you, Mary,” Agnes said glancing at the door, “but I am afraid I’m the bearer of bad news. Your stepfather was here this morning and he insists on you returning to your home in preparation for going to Switzerland. He thinks this period of grace has lasted long enough. They are to take you to Geneva next week. It’s all fixed, I’m afraid. I can’t keep you here without their permission. Your stepfather even murmured something about a court order if I opposed them, as you are still a minor. I also think that news has got to them of the amount of time you’re spending with Alexander. You’re seen gadding all over the place together, apparently.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Alexander demanded.

  “Nothing, as far as I’m concerned. I know the relationship between you is one of friendship, and properly conducted. I reassured Graham Temple on that score. However, I’m afraid, my dear, you will have to pack your bags. Your stepfather is coming for you tomorrow. Meanwhile, you two had better make the best you can of the short time you have together.”

  After lunch Agnes pleaded a headache and went up to her room. Alexander and Mary wandered into the garden and sat in the low chairs under the chestnut tree. It was very peaceful. Alexander put his head back and, closing his eyes, held out his hand, seeking Mary’s.

  As her cool palm slid into his he brought it to his lips and he felt a tremor run through her.

  “I love you,” he said. He opened his eyes, leaned over towards her and kissed her. For a long time they clung to each other oblivious of the possibility of observers from the house.

  “I didn’t think it would come to this so soon,” Alexander murmured when, finally, they broke apart.

  “Come to what?”

  “We have to decide what to do.”

  “I am not going to Switzerland,” Mary said. “I am going to run away.”

  “Don’t be silly. You can’t.” He looked at her aghast.

  “I can. And I’m going to do it tonight.”

  “Where are you going to go to?”

  She looked at him. “Could I go to London with you?”

  “They will know where you are.”

  “Then you can lend me some money and I’ll catch a train somewhere. I’ll write and tell you where I am.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Alexander let go of her hand and leant back in the chair and closed his eyes again, deep in thought.

  “You can go to Switzerland and I can come and see you there. We can write. Or ...” he opened his beautiful brown eyes and a suggestion that took her breath away seemed to lurk somewhere in the depths.

  “Or?” Mary felt her heart suddenly start to race.

  “We can run away together. I can’t let you go by yourself.”

  “Where to?” Her heart went on pounding with excitement. He raised a hand expansively, flourishing it about.

  “Rome, Paris, Vienna ... all the places Aunt Agnes has described to us. We can get married and then you will never have to do what your mother tells you, ever again.”

  Later that night Agnes watched as the Alexander’s car sped away, away from Wenham, away from Dorset and England, on the lovers’ big adventure. In her heart she would follow them, all the way, hour by hour. She had no qualms about what she had done. She didn’t want a granddaughter she adored making the mistakes that had so ruined her own life and deprived her of happiness in the
past.

  She wished them Godspeed.

  Chapter Six

  November 1933

  With the lowering sky, the skeletal trees heavy with frost and the ground hard underfoot it was difficult to imagine what the landscape might one day look like if Bart’s ambitious plans came to fruition.

  Wearing heavy coats and thick mufflers the men tramped over the uneven ground. With his tape measure Solomon paced the boundaries of the house, which would be the first to be built on this newly acquired piece of land on the outskirts of Wenham. Finely positioned overlooking the River Stour it would be a large, elegant dwelling with all modern conveniences as well as outbuildings, stables and a garage for three motor cars. Solomon had lost no time in drawing up plans even before the purchase of the land was completed.

  Also competing to buy this desirable tract of real estate had been Abel Yetman, who had lost out to Bart, who had offered more money. The negotiations had been conducted through solicitors and the two men had not met. In fact, they had not met since Bart had suggested that he and Abel should go into business together employing Solomon Palmer as the architect.

  Deborah and Ruth still saw each other, but family gatherings had come to an end. As Abel had predicted bad blood had been stirred up and Bart’s attempts to reintegrate himself with his family had been set back by years, perhaps for ever.

  But once he had his nose into a piece of business nothing stopped Bart. Sentiment, family connections – nothing was allowed to stand in his way. He had not made a fortune in South America and got a reputation as a hard man to do business with for nothing.

  Solomon carried a set of plans as well as his tape measure and, from time to time, the two men stopped, looked at the plans and examined the lie of the land.

  “It’s an ideal site,” Solomon said, cheeks pink with cold but also excitement. “Exactly in the right position facing north-south, and a beautiful view of the river.” He waved his hand towards the meandering Stour which, flanked by trees and fields, snaked off into the distance to dawdle past Blandford and Wimborne, finally finding its exit in the broad waters of Christchurch Bay.

  “Well, now that we have completed the purchase,” Bart turned to his young companion who was so full of enthusiasm, “we can begin as soon as the weather improves. I have no shortage of workmen ready, able to start as soon as we give the word.”

  “No hope of Abel ...” Solomon began as they started towards Bart’s car.

  Bart shook his head. “I wouldn’t ask him again even if he is my wife’s brother-in-law. I did a lot for that young man and in my opinion he did a very foolish thing in turning down my overtures. I’ve no intention of being snubbed again.”

  “Still, it is a pity,” Solomon said, as Bart got behind the wheel of his custom-built Lagonda. “He was a very good builder. If you employ casual labour you don’t have the same kind of control.”

  “Oh, I’ll have control all right,” Bart put the car into gear, “and you’re mistaken if you think I’m employing casual labour. I have engaged a very good manager who also happens to be a relative. He’s my nephew, Charlie Hardcastle, the son of my youngest sister Maureen, whose husband was also a builder. Oh, Charlie knows the ropes. He’s very keen. You’ll like him. We also have a plasterer, a roofer, a plumber, an electrician and several bricklayers and general workmen.”

  “You’ve been very busy.” Solomon was impressed.

  “I’m going to build new premises, but I’m also thinking of adapting ones that exist already. I’d like you to look them over.”

  “No intention of retiring, Bart?”

  “None at all.” Bart laughed. “I mean to work harder than ever. In fact I intend to expand. You see, once you have the capital you can hardly help making money. You just put it to work for you and, without lifting a finger, the sum increases.” He frowned. “Or it should if it is invested properly. Now young man,” he looked keenly at his brother-in-law, “when are you and my sister going to move to Wenham? We need you here, now.”

  “Well,” Solomon scratched his forehead, “Sarah Jane is not keen to come back. She feels they’re very stuffy here in Wenham.”

  “She can’t stay in Brighton for ever!” Bart expostulated.

  “That’s what I tell her.”

  “You needn’t live in Wenham if she doesn’t like it.”

  “It’s not so much that. It’s her family. They haven’t been very nice to her.”

  “I’ve been nice to her,” Bart protested.

  “I mean the children: Martha, Abel, Felicity.”

  “But only Abel is here.”

  “Sarah Jane is self-conscious; I can’t explain it.”

  “It’s the age difference.” Bart gave him a knowing look. “It matters in a woman but not a man. I’m much older than my wife. Nobody gives a fig.”

  “Exactly. I tell her it’s not important.”

  “And is it?”

  “Not as far as I’m concerned,” Solomon said, but Bart thought his tone lacked conviction.

  “Well you’d better stay with us until you get fixed up,” Bart said, as they turned into the drive of Upper Park. “You’re very welcome and so is Sarah Jane. But you can’t live here indefinitely and once we get busy, as I think we soon shall, you can’t be traipsing off to Brighton every weekend, whatever your wife says. Incidentally,” he looked at Solomon as he stopped the car, “I shall be going abroad to Germany on business for a few days, but by all means stay on here as long as you like. Why don’t you invite Sarah Jane over? She’ll be company for Deborah while I’m gone.”

  To have Solomon Palmer as a house guest was, for Deborah, a welcome diversion. The whiff of scandal about him made him interesting. She thought he was extremely good-looking and, not for the first time, wondered what on earth he had seen in Sarah Jane.

  The first impression was of his height. He was very tall and lean, with an awkwardness of gait and a hesitant manner which betrayed his shyness. He looked much younger than his twenty-nine years and his youthfulness, his smooth skin with little show of beard, coupled with his casualness of dress, gave him the appearance of a scholar, maybe still a student. His tousled, curly brown hair and warm brown eyes, which lit up engagingly when he smiled, only added to his appeal. In short, despite his apparent diffidence, Solomon was most attractive to women who wanted either to mother him or take him to their beds, sometimes – perhaps, in the case of Sarah Jane – both.

  The first night Bart was away Deborah and Solomon went into the dining room as usual. Normally, Bart sat at the head of the table, but to night Deborah sat there with Solomon on her right. Harold, the butler, was in his customary place and the servants stood by the huge walnut sideboard waiting to remove dishes and replace them with fresh ones. From time to time Harold refilled their tall crystal glasses with wine. Between each course there was a pause while Deborah and Solomon smoked cigarettes.

  “How are you finding the new site?” Deborah asked as soup plates were removed and Harold came forward to light her cigarette.

  “Oh, it’s excellent. I can’t wait to get started.” Solomon drew on his cigarette as the butler moved back to issue fresh orders.

  “Bart says you’re looking for a property to buy.”

  “Well not yet. I mean –”

  “But surely you’ll move back to Wenham? I hope so.”

  “It’s not decided.” Solomon’s tone was abrupt.

  “Sarah Jane must be anxious to see her family again.”

  Solomon pointedly didn’t reply and they both fell silent as the next course was served. Because of the proximity of the servants the conversation for the rest of the meal consisted of generalities.

  After dinner they stood awkwardly for a moment in the hall. Solomon was not sure what was expected of him or how to behave in the absence of the host. He didn’t know Deborah very well, nor did he know what she thought of him. In truth she made him slightly nervous with her direct glances and rather flirtatious manner. It surprised him too.

>   “Well,” he said shuffling his feet and looking towards the stairs, “I think I’ll have a look at my plans and then have an early night.

  “Oh, come and have coffee.” Deborah playfully tugged at his arm and led the way towards the drawing room. “I thought we might play a record. Do you like jazz? Coffee please, in the drawing room, Harold,” she called out to the butler who stood stiffly by the dining-room door.

  He bowed and withdrew into the dining room.

  “It’s such fun without Bart,” Deborah said gaily, as she threw open the doors of the drawing room and ran over to the gramophone in the corner. She turned and looked mischievously at Solomon. “I feel like a naughty little girl let out of school.” She indicated a silver cigarette box on the side table. “Help yourself to a cigarette and light one for me.”

  She started going through a pile of records, some she put on one side and some on another. Soon the room was filled with the sound of Jelly Roll Morton’s trumpet. Deborah, hands wiggling by her side, shimmied over to Solomon, took the cigarette from his mouth and put it into hers. Then she held up her hands and, as he stood looking at her rather bewilderedly, clearly not knowing what was expected of him, she seized him by the arms and together they began to gyrate round the room.

  Solomon realised that she was a little drunk. He didn’t know how much wine she was used to but they’d consumed a bottle between them, with a couple of gin and Italians each beforehand.

  The music came to an end and Deborah returned to the gramophone. This time, instead of jazz, a soft smoochy air filled the room. To the sounds of ‘What is this thing called love?’ Deborah sashayed over to Solomon, her arms extended invitingly. He hesitated only for a fraction of a second before encircling her waist and slowly bringing her left hand up to his breast, tucking it in his. Deborah rested her cheek against his and together they danced slowly in time to the music until it stopped. The record went round and round on the turntable.

  “Better change the record,” Solomon muttered trying to break away, but Deborah held on to him.