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

by Nicola Thorne

  “Oh, I remember her at Aunt Eliza’s party. I’m so sorry. She was a lovely-looking woman. I remember her very well.”

  “You would see a change in her.” Carson shook his head. “She had pneumonia and nearly died.”

  “She now looks like an old wizened lady,” Dora said sadly.

  “And that handsome son Alexander? We had a dance together. He was a charmer.”

  “Well, temporarily we hope, they do not get on and that is partly the reason Lally has been ill.”

  “But she adored him! It was so obvious.”

  “Oh, she does.”

  “Then why ...?”

  “Could we leave this subject for the moment?” Carson said quietly. “It’s something we can’t go into now.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sally looked rebuffed.

  “I’ll tell you later,” Dora said sotto voce as Carson’s attention was temporarily diverted by David, the butler, who had appeared on the scene.

  “I’m sure Miss Yetman will stay for lunch?” Carson looked across to Sally.

  “I’d love to. And, of course,” she leaned forward noticing for the first time the children playing on the lawn, “these must be your children.”

  “They’re over from Italy to spend their holidays with me. Their mother has just remarried.” Carson rose to his feet and cupping his hands around his mouth called, “Children! Come and meet Miss Yetman.”

  The stable lads disappeared. Netta and Harriet got up from the lawn and joined the two boys, who moved shyly towards the new arrival.

  “This is Miss Yetman. She is related to Cousin Dora and your Aunt Eliza. Say, how do you do? children.”

  “How do you do, Miss Yetman?” the children said, one after the other, queuing up politely to shake her by the hand.

  “What beautiful manners!” Sally exclaimed. She stooped to greet them, kissing Netta, who bore a strong resemblance to Carson. The boys favoured their mother. Netta had curly ash-blonde hair, and the same intense blue eyes as her father. She was wearing a pale blue dress and white shoes and socks. Round her hair was a blue bandeau, so that, in many ways, she resembled a character from one of the story books she might have been reading. She was a grave little girl, which seemed to add to her attraction.

  “Why are you not related to Daddy?” Netta asked wriggling up on to an empty chair next to Sally to whom she appeared to have taken a fancy. Toby and Leonard went back to the lawn where the stable boys had been lurking, anxious to resume the game.

  “Well ...” Sally looked up to Dora for assistance.

  “Sally’s daddy was the brother of Aunt Eliza’s husband who was called Ryder Yetman.”

  The relationship angle seemed to appeal to Netta who announced with an air of pride, “We have got a new daddy.”

  “Oh!” Sally looked amused. “Do you like him?”

  “The new daddy is very nice. But we like our old daddy best,” Netta confided. “Only we don’t call the new one ‘Daddy’.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Paolo. He’s Italian.”

  “And do you speak Italian?”

  Netta nodded. “We go to school and everyone there speaks Italian.”

  David appeared on the terrace and hovered by Carson’s side. “Will the young people be lunching with you, or separately, Sir Carson?”

  “Oh, I think we’ll all eat together.” Carson looked around. “Is that agreeable to everyone?”

  Everyone nodded and Netta seized the hand of her newfound friend.

  “Are you going to stay and keep Daddy company?” she asked in her solemn, childish voice. “He’ll be very lonely when we’ve gone.”

  “But he has Dora.” Momentarily Sally looked embarrassed.

  “Dora has Uncle Jean and Louise. Daddy has no one.”

  “Poor Daddy.” Carson, amused, stood up and ruffled her hair. “Go on you little matchmaker and wash your hands before luncheon.”

  Over lunch Sally was the object of everyone’s attention. Carson admired the way she entertained the children who were captivated by her. Obviously she had a natural gift. Dora, as well as admiring this skill, was taken by her looks, elegance, above all by her youth. Dora was fifty and Sally was thirty-two, yet in Sally she saw much of herself. Somehow the age difference gave her a pang.

  She felt she wanted to know more about Sally. After lunch, they sat on the terrace drinking coffee while Carson joined the children for games on the lawn.

  Dora said, “Is there a man in your life?”

  Sally looked taken aback by the remark.

  “I’m sorry,” Dora went on noting her expression, “it’s no business of mine. I just wondered.”

  “Not at the moment,” Sally said. “Why? Do you think I’m after Carson?”

  “Oh, not at all.” Now it was Dora’s turn to feel embarrassed. “Although he is quite a good catch, and very lonely. On the other hand, I think he’s still half in love with his wife and regrets losing her, so he may not be such a good catch after all.”

  “Tell me about Alexander.” Sally seemed anxious to change the subject and Dora launched into the long tragic story which left Sally looking thoughtful at the end. She gazed across to Carson, who was acting as wicket-keeper in an improvised game of cricket in which even Netta and Harriet had been persuaded to participate to make up the numbers.

  “He does look very sad, also much older than when I last saw him. This explains a lot.”

  “What angers me,” Dora said, fiercely protective of him, “is that he’s such a nice man. He’s a good man, always thinking of other people. He doesn’t deserve all this.”

  At that moment Carson came over to them, wiping his face on a towel, before he sank on to the grass at their feet.

  “I think I’m too old for this caper. I’ve had enough.”

  “I’ve just told Sally about Alexander,” Dora said and he grimaced.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Sally murmured. “I’m sure that, as Dora said, after the baby ...”

  “You don’t know Alexander,” Carson said tersely. “Underneath all that charm he’s a very determined, stubborn young man. Even if he thinks he’s wrong he’ll be too proud to admit it. Oh well ...” his voice trailed off. Leaning back on his hands, he gazed across the countryside. On this late spring day it was at its best; the tender young leaves beginning to unfurl on the trees, a carpet of daffodils on the borders surrounding the lawn and the heads of the tulips beginning to peep above ground. It was as if the earth seemed to be proclaiming, that despite everything, it was a time to look forward, a time of hope.

  “I really must be going,” Sally said, suddenly jumping up as if she’d only just become aware of the time. “I’ve been enjoying myself too much.”

  “Oh no,” Carson looked dismayed. “I thought we might persuade you to stay the night.”

  Sally smiled down at him. “I am on my way to Bath to attend a function and I better hurry or I’ll be late.”

  “Well,” Carson got to his feet as Dora rose too, “don’t let it be so long before we see you again.”

  “I won’t,” Sally promised as she led the way to her car. At that moment the children saw she was about to leave and abruptly abandoning their game ran towards her.

  “Oh, no!” Netta said. “We thought you were staying for days and days.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Sally stooped to kiss her.

  “Come back soon,” Leonard said, “before we have to go back to Italy.”

  “But you’ll be here in the summer.” With a smile Sally turned to Dora. “Why don’t you come to Bournemouth? It’s not all that far away.”

  “I may,” Dora smiled back, “but not this visit. I have to return to my husband and daughter. One day I promise I’ll try.” As she leaned over to kiss Sally, her hand fell lightly on her shoulder, but she didn’t let it linger.

  Carson shook hands and then kissed her lightly on the cheek. Sally got into her car and prepared to drive away. They all stood back watching her.

&
nbsp; She reversed the car smartly and, with a carefree wave of her hand, disappeared down the drive and out of sight in a cloud of dust.

  “She was ever so nice,” Netta said skipping beside her father, her hand tightly clutching his. “Why don’t you marry her Daddy?”

  Carson laughed. “Because I hardly know her.”

  “But she’s your cousin.”

  “She’s Dora’s cousin.”

  “But she is family.”

  “Kind of family,” Carson agreed.

  “Does that mean you can’t marry her?” Toby wanted to know.

  “Oh no, I could marry her. I mean, if she wanted to and if I wanted to, and I’m not sure if I do, or if she does. Now look, this is getting complicated.” He patted Toby lightly on the bottom. “If you’re to get your hundred by teatime you’d better be smart about it.”

  Dora and Carson stood watching as, with Harriet, the children hurried back to the lawn. The stable lads had now been joined by off-duty staff from the house, supervised by the majestic David who had taken over from Carson as wicket keeper.

  “It’s amazing that we didn’t know about Sally’s existence for so long,” Carson said as he and Dora slumped once more into chairs.

  “Well, we knew of her existence. We just didn’t know her. I mean I remember visiting Uncle Hesketh a couple of times when I was very young. But he was quite old when Sally was born. She was a late arrival. Of course, my mother was not enamoured of her in-laws as, after Daddy died, they didn’t behave very well towards her. I think there was a bit of a rift in the family.”

  “She is awfully nice,” Carson said reflectively. Then, “She a nice age too.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, you know ... oh, nothing.”

  Carson leaned back, hands behind his head, gazing at the sky. Dora observed a half-smile on his face and it seemed to her that suddenly the years had slipped away and he looked younger and more relaxed than he had for ages.

  Alexander had made up for lost time. In the six months he’d been back he’d managed to impress the members of the board with his diligence and business acumen. He had been given an office of his own next to Pieter Heering, a secretary, and was now obviously being groomed for the succession. He knew, however, that he was very young and this would inevitably be a long time coming.

  On this particular day in summer he had gone over to the warehouse where both Carson and Guy Woodville had once worked unwillingly and unhappily in a small office preparing dreary bills of shipping. Neither of them had been at all equipped for business and both had hated their days cooped up in this small room where Alexander now stood. It was high up in a warehouse, overlooking the river in Lower Thames Street, and contained spices imported from the Far East for further shipment to America and other parts of the world. The whole building smelled deliciously of spice as did the streets around.

  Alexander found business fascinating. He liked nothing better than a ledger full of figures, or examining orders from all over the world. He stood by the diligent young clerk who sat where his uncle and father had once sat doing very much the same kind of work. It had hardly changed with the passage of years.

  “Do you enjoy your work, Smith?” Alexander asked the eager young man who had risen to his feet as he came into the room.

  “Yes, Mr Alexander, very much.”

  “Good.” Alexander turned over the pages of the ledger that had been filled with a fine italic script. “Your work is good. You will be due for promotion.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir.” The clerk blushed and Alexander realised that he was only a little younger than Smith, and yet here he was with a seat on the board, being groomed for the chairmanship, whereas this capable young man would probably never progress beyond the ledger department, though one day he might rise to being chief clerk.

  “Are you married, Smith?”

  “Yes, Mr Alexander. And my wife is expecting our first child.”

  “Mine too,” Alexander said, brightening, and held out his hand. “Good luck to you and your wife, Smith.”

  “Thank you sir.” The young clerk gratefully shook Alexander’s hand.

  “And let me know when the baby is born. I think some sort of bonus might be in order.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir.”

  Alexander left the room and completed his inspection of the rest of the building reflecting on Smith’s deference towards him and on the inequalities of life: the fact that some people were born to power and position, while others would never achieve it, however hard they tried.

  He left the building and in the fine summer sunshine strolled along Lower Thames Street towards the spanking new offices of the group at the side of London Bridge. He stood for a moment gazing into the river and thought that his life, in many ways, was an anomaly.

  He was the illegitimate son of a baronet and a London barmaid whose father had been a porter in Covent Garden. One day, not long ago, he had stood beside the former Lady Frances Roper Home in Clerkenwell where he had been born only to find it boarded up and looking for a new owner. Outside there was still a board proclaiming in faded letters that it had been founded in 1860 by the charitable woman who had given it her name. It was a large Dickensian building built of red brick, now derelict, and discoloured by the smoke and grime from London’s streets and chimneys.

  It looked a bleak, desolate place and Alexander had turned from it, his horror compounded by the knowledge that his mother lay in a grave in Wenham churchyard, after a life of poverty and deprivation.

  And now here he was, only twenty-four years of age, the possessor of a fortune, a lovely young wife who was about to give birth to his first child. He had a comfortable, luxurious home in the best part of London. He was due to inherit a business to which, he now realised, he had a legitimate claim. The Dutchman, Willem Heering, one of the founders of the business, was his great-grandfather, the father of his grandmother, Margaret, who had married Sir Guy Woodville. He now had a right to the business by birth, which he hadn’t had before. He was a Woodville, a member of the family he professed to hate and despise because of the way it had treated his mother. And, by accident of birth, he was a descendant of the great Heering family of Dutch burghers who had brought it wealth.

  Why, now that his claim to the business was not merely as an inheritance from an adoptive father, was he so resistant to the astonishing change of fortune that had come his way?

  As if Pieter Heering could read his thoughts, it was the first thing he brought up when, later that morning, the two men went for lunch to a City chop-house on the edge of Smithfield market. Usually they ate with other executives in the dining room at headquarters but, occasionally, when they wanted to discuss something in private, they took themselves off to one of the many restaurants catering for businessmen. Today, Pieter had suggested the lunch and, after they had ordered, he sat back waiting for his uncle to say what was on his mind.

  “How was the warehouse today?” Pieter asked. “How’s young Smith?”

  “He is coming on very well.” Alexander smiled. “His wife is expecting a baby. I said a bonus would be in order when it is born.”

  “Quite right.” Pieter drummed his fingers on the unpolished table. Around him, earnest diners were engaged in discussing share prices, shipping news, the effects of government policies on the City, and other weighty matters to do with commerce. “How is Mary?”

  “Well,” Alexander inclined his head, “but uncomfortable. The baby is due any day.”

  “You must feel very excited.”

  “I am.” Alexander looked across at his uncle and smiled. “I am very excited.”

  “Alexander,” Pieter paused and resumed his little tattoo again as though he didn’t quite know how to say what he had in mind, “it is a great source of pain to me, as it is to your family, that you persist with this vendetta against them.”

  “I don’t have a vendetta,” Alexander said coldly.

  “Oh, but you do. It is not only painful
to my old and dear friend Lally, but to Eliza, Carson your father, and ...”

  “I would rather you didn’t talk about it, Pieter, if you don’t mind.” Alexander bent over the plate of rare English beef that had been set before him.

  “Alexander, I feel I have to talk about it, especially with your baby due any day. You know that I love you and I respect you. I was overjoyed to know that we were related by blood. I think it should have been a happy time for you and not a sad one. I think you have behaved unreasonably, and I think it’s time I said so.”

  “Thank you. Now can we discuss something else?”

  “If you wish.” Pieter took up his knife and fork, admitting defeat once again. It was not the first time he’d brought up the subject.

  After a while, like the many merchants and men of business around them, they started to talk about share prices, shipping news and the state of the economy, a subject always pressing on their minds. England, in common with other European countries, continued to make a slow recovery from the consequences of a war that had ended sixteen years before.

  “They say we will have another war,” Pieter said gloomily. “Hitler is re-arming at such a rate. Here we have our heads in the sand. No one will listen to Churchill, who is trying to warn them. He says we must re-arm too, and quickly.”

  “My God.” Alexander put down his knife and fork. “I dread a war.”

  “Most of us dread wars,” Pieter said grimly. “Unfortunately some people, and I think Hitler is one, seem to relish them.”

  They walked back to the office enjoying the sunshine. On the way Alexander told his uncle about the progress of the purchase of the villa in Italy which was now going through.

  “I am looking forward to taking Mary and the baby there as soon as he is able to travel. So please God, we don’t have a war,” Alexander said as they turned the corner towards London Bridge.

  “It won’t be as soon as that.” Pieter looked fretfully up at the clear blue sky. “I would say in three or four years’ time. Of course, it might be averted. Please God it will be, with commonsense all round.”

  The two men ran briskly up the steps to the main door, smiling at the uniformed commissionaire on duty who saluted them. As they got into the lift which would take them to the top floor Pieter said, “It’s a ‘he’ is it? The baby? You said you would take ‘him’ to Italy.”