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

by Nicola Thorne

  “Don’t you want to?” she asked looking up at him.

  “Want to what?”

  “You know.”

  “Of course.”

  “Well then ...”

  Solomon succeeded in disengaging himself as gently as he could and went rapidly across the floor to stop the gramophone. Then he lit a cigarette before rejoining Deborah, who stood by the fire, her hand resting on the marble mantelpiece.

  As he stood by her she sought his free hand with hers.

  “I don’t think we should,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Well ...”

  “Are you afraid of Bart?”

  “Of course. He’d kill me if he found out. He might kill you too.”

  “He would never find out.”

  “What about the servants? They’re all over the place.”

  “They have their own quarters. Nowhere near us. Harold has already gone to bed and he’s always the last.”

  Solomon threw his cigarette stub into the fire.

  “Let’s do it then.”

  “You could sound more enthusiastic.” She put her arms around his neck and looked into his eyes. Then, drawing his mouth towards hers, she kissed him.

  Later that night they woke to the sound of the toddler crying. Solomon sat upright in bed but Deborah remained where she was.

  “The baby’s crying,” he said, turning to her.

  “I know. One of the nurses will see to her. That’s what they’re there for.” Debbie reached up and drew Solomon down beside her. “Don’t worry about the baby. What’s the matter with you? Is it Sarah Jane? Did it make you feel guilty?”

  Solomon gave a sarcastic laugh. He turned on the bedside lamp and groped for his cigarettes.

  “Sarah Jane is a drunkard. She’s no wife to me.” He lit his cigarette and put out the lighter. “Sorry,” he said turning to her.

  “No, I’ll have a puff of yours.” She took the cigarette from his mouth and drew hard on it. “Are you sorry you married her?”

  Solomon leaned back against the pillow.

  “Now I am. At the time I thought it was the right thing to do.”

  “What do you mean ‘at the time’?”

  “Well, I thought I was in love with her. I mean I suppose I was in love with her. And then when the children found out and were so annoyed I felt I had to do the right thing. I couldn’t just abandon her.”

  “When did you know that she drank?”

  “Not really until we moved away. I think the problem began then. I used to come home worn out from looking for work and sometimes find that she’d passed out. You remember she made a spectacle of herself at Eliza’s birthday? It wasn’t the first time. But I can’t just leave her. I don’t know what would happen to her.”

  “Is that why she doesn’t want to come back to Wenham?”

  “Partly. But it’s very complicated. It’s to do with her family and me and her age. When she’s in her cups she says she’s ruined my life, but it’s my fault as much as hers.”

  “You’re a very sweet man,” Deborah said gripping his hand.” I mean genuinely nice. Not like Bart.”

  “Bart’s not nice to you?”

  “Well, he doesn’t beat me. I suppose you must think, though, that something is wrong if I can do this with you.”

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t very good.”

  “You were better than Bart.”

  “Really?” Solomon looked surprised. “I’m astonished.”

  “Why, did you think he was a good lover?”

  “I thought – well –” Solomon shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “You think he’s good at everything. You admire him.”

  “Well, yes, I do. He certainly gets things done.”

  “He certainly gets his own way, you mean.”

  “That too.” He looked at her sideways. “Don’t you love him any more?”

  “I’m not sure. He no longer makes me feel very special. I don’t think it’s other women. I think he’s so wrapped up in his work. The honeymoon was wonderful. It was very exciting to be wined and dined and treated like a great lady. But when we came back things weren’t quite the same. It was as though that part of Bart’s life, the romantic part, was over and he immersed himself in his business affairs. I don’t think he really knows what I do half the time, or cares.”

  “I have to be honest and say that I felt he cared about you very much.”

  “You can’t always tell by appearances,” Deborah said. As if making an effort to dispel her gloom, she threw herself on her stomach and ran the palm of her hand titillatingly across his chest.

  Solomon felt himself aroused.

  This time it would be better.

  December 1933

  Dearest Mother,

  I have never been happier and know I have found my true love. Mary and I have been together now for several weeks and we are certain about this.

  I didn’t want to hurt you, dearest Mother, but I knew you would never consent to our going away, and Mary’s parents would have done all they could to separate us.

  I know I have placed you in a terrible situation and, believe me, I regret it with my whole heart. I don’t want you to think that because I love Mary I love you less.

  I want to marry Mary. She is to have our child, and I want to have the blessing of the Church. I ask you to do all you can, with the help, perhaps, of Aunt Eliza, to bring Mary’s parents round, particularly her mother.

  Nothing now can be undone. The doctor confirmed yesterday that the baby will be born in the summer.

  Anyway, I want to return to England and to my work and show that I am capable of the trust Pieter Heering put in me.

  We would prefer to be married in England, but if that is not possible we shall somehow contrive to be married here. Could you please send me my birth certificate?

  With all my love, dearest Mother,

  Your Alexander

  Eliza put down the letter and looked across at her friend whose face was still tear-stained.

  “You see he will have to know now,” Lally exclaimed.

  “You should have told him before,” Eliza said. “It was bound to happen. But that is not the only problem, Lally. What are we going to do about Elizabeth?”

  “The deed is done. Carson will have to talk to her. If the child is pregnant the sooner they get married the better.”

  Lally picked up the letter again and perused its contents for about the tenth time since it had arrived that morning. It was not the first communication from Alexander since he had gone away with Mary, but it was the first letter. Shortly after they had eloped he had cabled to say they were well. He had also written to Pieter Heering to say he was taking a few months’ leave and he hoped this was not inconveniencing anybody. As he was a major shareholder in the company and possible future chairman this was a foregone conclusion. Besides, Pieter had a fondness for the young man and admired his spirit.

  “I don’t know how I shall survive this.” Lally, who had aged visibly over the past few weeks, put down the letter and gazed into the fire, her handkerchief screwed up in a ball in her hand. “I will have to tell Alexander the truth about his birth and I will have a pregnant daughter-in-law of sixteen years of age. Well,” she looked across at Eliza and gave her a wintry smile, “thank heaven for Carson. He will know what to do.”

  Mary knew that Alexander was becoming restless. He spent a lot of time on the telephone to his office in London, sent and received cables and watched the post anxiously for a letter from his mother.

  She sat on the balcony of the villa they had rented on Lake Como gazing out on the beautiful still waters of the lake towards the town of Como itself. They’d passed the villa one day on a trip out of Milan to the mountains that towered over the lake. There had been a small sign saying it was for rent, which they’d almost missed because Alexander liked to tear along in his high-powered Bugatti. Mary had said ‘what a lovely place’ and at the same time they had seen the no
tice and stopped. They had instantly fallen in love with it and decided that their wandering days were over for the time being. It was just at that point Mary had discovered she was pregnant, a fact she hesitated to tell Alexander, except that he’d guessed. Her urgent run to the bathroom in the morning had given the game away.

  Mary often wondered if he’d planned the pregnancy. She was just an ignorant girl, a virgin when they’d first slept together, but Alexander had more experience. He knew about these things and she knew nothing, not even, really, how babies came. All that scared her a good deal. She had not wanted to be a mother at seventeen but, unless fate intervened, she would be.

  Alexander had been thrilled when their suspicions were confirmed and quickly wrote to his mother. Any moment they expected her reply.

  But what about her own mother? It didn’t bear thinking about. She could hear Alexander on the phone in the salon talking to his office. She knew he was dying to get back. While they’d been touring there had been a lot to occupy him, marvellous things to see. They’d been to the opera in Venice, concerts at the Caracalla baths in Rome. But beautiful though the bougainvillea-covered Villa Scritori was, it wasn’t enough to occupy Alexander’s mind. One could live on love, but for not for ever.

  Mary often looked back to the summer: her last days at school, her refusal to return, the suggestion, no the command, that she should go to a finishing school in Switzerland. The escape to her grandmother, the appearance of Alexander like some white knight dashing to her rescue, and the flight. The night in Dover where they consummated their love, the bumpy Channel crossing, which she spent being sick all the time. The trip to Paris, staying at a hotel near the Louvre, journeying down to the Riviera, then Genoa, Pisa, Venice, Rome and, finally, Milan.

  It had been a very heady brew for anyone, but especially for a girl so young that she had never left her native Dorset, never mind crossed the Channel or stayed in grand hotels on the continent. Almost instantly she had felt herself transformed into a woman.

  Mary heard the doorbell ring. After a few moments the maid entered with an envelope which she handed to Mary who glanced at it. Her heart jumped.

  When, moments later, Alexander finished his call and came into the salon she handed it to him.

  “I think this is from your mother.”

  Alexander snatched the letter from her. Going over to the balcony he opened it and stood there for some moments reading. Finally, his face showing no emotion, he handed it to Mary and sat down studying her face as she read it.

  My darling,

  I don’t know how to reply to the news you have just given me except to say that my heart is full. I think you are quite capable of becoming a good father, but the position of little Mary concerns us all.

  I have talked to Eliza and Carson and we all feel that, of course, you must come home at once. She must have the best possible care and although we have not yet given the news to Elizabeth, we can’t envisage that there will be any objection to a speedy marriage.

  You will have from me, my dearest son, a loving welcome which of course will be extended to your bride. Please cable or telephone me the date of your arrival.

  Your very loving Mother

  ***

  Mary leaned against Alexander’s shoulder, her eyes on the landscape through which the train was passing. Now that the time was finally upon them it felt good to be going home, but she was frightened. For three months she and Alexander had lived in a dream, in another world, and reality would soon banish that dream. In every way the adventure, undertaken without much thought, had been perfect. Perfect understanding of each other, perfect love.

  Alexander, who had been asleep beside her, stirred, opened his eyes and squeezed her arm.

  “Happy darling?”

  “Very happy.” She smiled up at him. “But I wish ...”

  “What?”

  “I wish we were still in our pretty little villa and that we didn’t have to go back.”

  “But you said you wanted to go home?”

  “In a way, though I’m scared of Mother.”

  His arm gripped hers reassuringly. “There is no need to be frightened of your mother now you’re with me.”

  It was so wonderful and comforting to have him beside her.

  To know that he would always be there.

  “When we are married, we can return to the villa again.”

  Mary sighed. “You’ll be so busy with your work.”

  “We can have holidays and when baby is born, we can take him with us.” Suddenly a gleam came into his eye. “Tell you what, if you like I’ll try and buy it for us. I think they’d be willing to sell it. Would you like that darling? It will be my wedding present to you.”

  Mary gulped and suddenly everything seemed to overwhelm her. A whole villa as a wedding gift! Alexander could give her everything she wanted. It took some getting used to. He could and he would, loving and generous to a fault.

  But then that was Alexander: impulsive, positive, decisive, so sure about the future. Mary was less sure. She wondered how long a man so dynamic and talented would be satisfied with a woman like her? She was unsophisticated, poorly educated, with nothing to offer but her love. What would happen when love waned, as people said it did? Could she live up to his high standards, to the glamour of his life? To being his hostess, meeting important people, when they lived in London. Why now, when everything should be so perfect, did she doubt that the future could be anything but bright?

  Alexander tightened his arm round her and looked at her questioningly as if puzzled by the slowness of her response.

  “Are you pleased, darling?”

  “Very pleased. Thank you, Alexander.”

  The sixteen-year-old woman, a mother-to-be, who in many ways was still a child, smiled, or tried to smile back, in an effort to conceal the sense of foreboding she felt: that somehow, despite her great love for Alexander – and she loved him with all her heart – the good times were over and would never return.

  Chapter Seven

  January 1934

  The three people sat as statues, silent and still. The only sound was the crackle of logs in the great hearth of the drawing room at Pelham’s Oak as a huge fire roared up the chimney. Outside, although it was only early afternoon, it was nearly dark and flakes of snow drifted down from the louring sky.

  Finally Alexander spoke, “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” He paused and looked from Carson to Lally, whose eyes were downcast. “You waited all these years to tell me. Why?”

  Lally, her handkerchief crumpled in her hand, shook her head slowly from side to side. Every now and then she dabbed at her eyes. Carson sat upright, his face grim and unsmiling as if somehow his thoughts were miles away.

  “I was so afraid of losing you.” Lally’s voice was scarcely above a whisper. “You were so precious to me.”

  “Besides,” Carson interrupted her, addressing Alexander, “no one knew until I brought Nelly – your natural mother – back to Pelham’s Oak. I certainly speculated about it many years ago when certain characteristics you had as a child seemed to resemble mine.”

  “Yet you said nothing.” Alexander’s eyes bore into those of the man he must now call Father.

  “I had no proof. I didn’t know that Nelly was having a baby. I tried to find her but I couldn’t. We all wondered why you had been left on the Martyn family’s doorstep. To a certain extent you also resembled your mother, your real mother.” Carson looked apologetically at Lally. “You had her colouring. But nothing was confirmed until I brought poor Nelly back here to die.”

  “Even then I should have been told.”

  “No question, now,” Carson said with a rueful smile. “But then we can all be wise with hindsight.”

  “You would have found out when you saw your birth certificate,” Lally said in a small voice. “You need that for your wedding.”

  “Have you my birth certificate?” Alexander demanded.

  Lally shook her head. “You came
with nothing except the crib you were in and the clothes you wore.”

  “Do you know where I was born?”

  Lally looked across at Carson who replied. “At the Lady Frances Roper nursing home in Clerkenwell. They will have a record of your birth.”

  “And Massie knew all this?”

  “Massie was with Nelly when you were born. She knows everything about your first few days of life.”

  “And yet she told me nothing, because I now realise she was frightened of you.” Alexander’s tone became angrier and angrier.

  He rose and strode across to the window, his mind in a turmoil. Of course Massie had been afraid. One couldn’t blame her. Carson had fathered him in the year 1909, when he had been having an affair, in London, with a barmaid called Nelly Allen. Carson, working unhappily for the family business, had been dismissed abruptly for alleged wrongdoing and sent home, and when he tried to find Nelly, she had gone. Many years later circumstances had led him to find her dying of tuberculosis, and he had brought her back to Pelham’s Oak. She had died in the spring of 1931 and had been buried in Wenham churchyard.

  Lally’s voice seemed to come from a distance as Alexander gazed broodingly over the landscape upon which the snow was now falling freely. He thought of Mary waiting for him at Forest House. Maybe she would be anxious. She would certainly want to know what this mysterious meeting that had been called so soon after their return home was all about.

  “Carson did want to tell you, Alexander, but I was afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?” Alexander turned and faced her. He couldn’t bring himself to use the word ‘Mother’, although he knew that after all these years it would be very hard to think of her as anything else.

  “Afraid of losing you.”

  “Well, I’m afraid you have lost me now. I’m dumbfounded by what I’ve heard. It seems to me that I have been deceived all my life about my origins.” He pointed a finger at Carson. “And you, a man I revered. I am now to look upon you as my father.”

  “There is no doubt of it.” Carson managed to force a smile. “I am your father. Nelly confirmed it on her deathbed, I was so anxious to be sure, and I am very proud to acknowledge you as my son.”