Many people were surprised that Carson had married again. They had hoped that he and Connie would repair their differences. Connie was a local girl, and a popular one; she was the mother of his children; they had been a happy and united family. The community had felt very let down when the separation occurred; no Woodville had ever divorced before. Yet it was Connie who had remarried first, making a reunion impossible.
To some people it seemed that there was a curse on the house of Woodville. It was a family with more than its fair share of troubles which afflicted one generation after another. Maybe the new Lady Woodville would change all that. Hopefully, she would have children of her own to fill the long corridors and high rooms of Pelham’s Oak with their happy voices.
After lunch the clouds gradually dispersed and the sun came out. Guests wandered out onto the lawn, some still clutching drinks in their hands while the servants moved chairs and tables swiftly onto the terrace. The atmosphere was of growing festivity. Chattering became clamorous as Sally and Carson hand in hand continued to mingle with the guests.
All the family were there except Sophie Turner who would not attend any occasion at which her daughter and son-in-law were present.
Alexander, urbane as usual, elegant and charming, moved slowly with Lally on one arm, Eliza on another, pausing here and there to chat. Bart Sadler paraded with Deborah, Solomon Palmer tagging along behind.
Sally and Carson stopped to talk to them. “How’s the new baby?” Sally asked.
“Beautiful,” Bart replied. “You must come and see him.”
“We will.”
Bart turned to Sally.
“You met my architect Solomon Palmer, didn’t you Sally?”
“We met at Aunt Eliza’s party,” Sally smiled. Solomon inclined his head.
“Is Sarah Jane not with you?” Carson looked around.
“She wasn’t too well,” Solomon mumbled. “Sent her apologies.”
“I’m sorry. You must bring her to dinner soon to meet my wife.”
“That would be delightful.”
“I hear the new houses are beautiful. Are they selling?”
“Not yet, but they will,” Bart said. “You ought to come and see them.”
“We shall,” Carson promised.
They continued their leisurely stroll among their guests, the lawn and terrace now full of people who had come out to test the air. The afternoon promised to stay fair and Pelham’s Oak was a picture in the sunshine. Its walls of Chilmark stone and its gleaming white paintwork were redolent of an earlier, more gracious, but less democratic, age when the lower classes would have been banished to the servants’ quarters or a marquee on the lawn to quaff ale and eat hearty country fare, while the local gentry ate quails’ eggs, lobster and haunch of venison and drank champagne in the house to the sound of a string quartet.
Those days had gone. Now there were fewer class distinctions, and local tradesmen, farmers and builders mixed as equals with people who, in former days, would have felt it demeaning to talk to them. Much of this was due to Carson who had grown up among ordinary people and felt at home with them. Had not his Nelly been a barmaid? Did he not retain a hint of the broad vowels of a Dorset accent? If ever there was a man of the people was it not he? For Carson, it was nostalgic to recall the number of occasions when his family had entertained the populace to celebrate some milestone in the life of the family: weddings, christenings, funerals, birthdays. One of the last had been the marriage of Ruth and Abel. The most recent celebration had been Eliza’s seventieth birthday, when he had first met Sally.
There had always been family squabbles. It was still a fact that many members did not see eye to eye and avoided a meeting if they could. He had had to ask Elizabeth and her family, but only she and her husband had come. They turned their backs on Alexander, snubbed Eliza and talked almost exclusively with worthies of the town who were colleagues of Graham Temple’s. Abel and Ruth avoided Bart. Since Bart had started his own building company he had stolen most of Abel’s men. Sophie was not there, though Hubert was his usual affable self, very short-sighted now and overweight, but as Christian a man as you could find, the embodiment of his Master’s virtues.
Carson sighed. Family differences there were, and he supposed always would be, as in the past.
It was a joy to see Alexander and to know that between them such a good relationship had developed. In many ways he wished Alexander were his heir and could inherit Pelham’s Oak, but he would be a very wealthy man when, in time, Forest House became his, and Toby – the future Sir Toby Woodville – had all the makings of being the sort of man who would make any father proud when he grew up.
In a huddle on the lawn were Pieter Heering, Dora, Jean, Alexander and Eliza deep in discussion. Lally and Agnes sat side by side, out of the sun, chatting from time to time but keeping a sharp eye on the crowd, always a rich subject of gossip. As Sally and Carson approached the group on the lawn, conversation appeared to peter out.
“Don’t let us interrupt you,” Carson said. “It seems extremely important, whatever it is you’re discussing.”
“Pieter is convinced there will be a war,” Eliza’s expression was deeply troubled.
“Oh, don’t say that.” Sally looked aghast. “Is it as bad as that? We’ve missed so much since we’ve been away.”
“The German army is three times the size allowed by the Treaty of Versailles.” Pieter Heering waved his cigar around in the air. “A move condemned by the League of Nations.”
“Who are without power,” Jean Parterre said contemptuously. “All sound and no substance.”
Bart, who stood nearby, removed his cigarette from his mouth, saying politely, “Excuse me, I couldn’t help overhearing. Germany are not the only people re-arming, you know. We too have expansion plans for the services. The RAF will be trebled in size in two years. You can’t blame the German Chancellor if he reacts in response to rearmament in Britain.”
“That is nonsense.” Pieter turned on him. “Hitler’s plans are openly expansionist. Look what he has done in the Saar.”
“I know what I’m talking about,” Bart responded airily. “I go to Germany on business frequently. The Germans feel threatened and misunderstood. No sensible German wants war.”
“I don’t really see –” Pieter began heatedly when Carson put a restraining hand on his arm.
“This party is to celebrate my wedding, not to discuss the awful and, I hope, unlikely prospects of another war.”
“Still it is prudent to be realistic,” Pieter insisted, turning to Alexander. “You are worried about it, I know, aren’t you Alexander?”
Alexander nodded.
“Italy concerns me particularly. Mussolini is in cahoots with Hitler and has his eyes on Abyssinia. An alliance between Germany and Italy could lead to conflagration in Europe.”
“Stop, stop.” Dora put her hands to her ears. “I find this whole conversation out of place. I refuse to listen to any more of it. Especially, as Carson says, on a day like this.”
“I am inclined to agree.” Eliza said gravely. She had been listening to the discussion with mounting distress. Having lived through one war she could not contemplate another.
Dora put her arm through Carson’s and drew him away from the group.
“All this talk of war frightens me.”
“Do you think it could happen?” Carson looked at her. “What is the mood in France?”
“They feel the same. They are worried about the extent of German rearmament. You know France signed a pact with Russia in case of attack? With so much sabre-rattling in Germany, where they have already introduced conscription, France does feel threatened. If there was a war, Carson, I’d come home.”
“Please don’t say that.” Carson put his hand on her arm. “Don’t even think of it. With my new-found happiness ...” He paused uncertainly. “Dora, what’s the matter?”
“What do you mean ‘what’s the matter’?” Dora looked at him wide-eyed.
“I am happy for you,” Dora insisted. “If it’s what you want. I love you very much and I only want the best for you, you know that. I just feel you don’t know Sally very well.”
“But I do know her. I’ve known her for nearly a year.”
“It’s not very long.” Dora ran her hand along the back of a chair, her expression thoughtful.
“My dear it is very long,” Carson protested. “Most of that time we’ve been living together.”
“I see. I didn’t realise. Well then, as I say ...”
Dora left her sentence unfinished and turned away. Carson gazed perplexedly after her. He couldn’t understand the attitude of his favourite cousin, who he’d always been so close to. He thought that she liked Sally, the relationship had seemed warm. Why the change? It hurt him and he felt a kind of emptiness, a nagging worry. He looked round for solace and saw that Sally was still with the group on the lawn deeply engrossed in the depressing subject of the deterioration of the international situation.
Carson sat down on one of the chairs and lit a cigarette, smoking for a few moments in silence. He loved Dora and he wanted her to love Sally. As Alexander detached himself from his little group and wandered over to his father, Carson patted the chair beside him.
“You look out of sorts, Dad,” Alexander said sitting down. “You shouldn’t on a day like this.”
“No, I’m not at all,” Carson briefly placed a hand on his knee. “It’s just that Dora seems to have taken against Sally and I can’t understand why.”
“Maybe she’s jealous.”
“Jealous?” Carson looked at him in amazement. “Of Sally? But she’s got Jean.”
“I mean of you.”
“I don’t think I understand you.”
“Well, Dad, it’s no secret, is it, that Dora lived for years with another woman. Maybe she feels that way about Sally.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Carson said, in a rare burst of anger with his son.
But, nevertheless, the suggestion troubled him and he continued smoking in silence for a few seconds while Alexander deeply regretted making such a stupid remark.
Solomon said urgently.
“I must see you again. Alone.”
“Don’t be so silly,” Deborah hissed back. “All that’s finished.”
“You don’t understand. Seeing you torments me. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Deborah looked at him slyly. There were so many people on the lawn that they were lost in the crowd. Bart was still occupied, engaged in defending Germany, where he had so many business interests, to the group who persisted in discussing the situation in Europe.
Solomon had seen Deborah walk away and had followed her until they stood partly shaded by the overhanging branches of the great oak tree. He thought she looked breathtakingly lovely, tall and fair, her figure slight and still youthful. Never a great dresser, despite her marriage to a rich man, she wore a summery dress of blue taffeta with a high neck and leg-of-mutton sleeves, whose effect was to make her look about eighteen. Her fair hair was caught back by a matching blue band. The effect was disarmingly simple, contrasting with the outfits of many of the overdressed women.
“You once called me a slut.” Deborah had an edge to her voice.
“You know I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t.”
Deborah hesitated. “Bart would kill us if he found out ...” Solomon’s heart leapt with hope. “You mean – there is a chance?”
“There’s always a chance,” she said vampishly. “Why don’t you give me a call when he goes away to Germany again? Then we’ll see.”
And as she eyed him she flicked the tip of her tongue round the outside of her mouth, as if in a gesture of anticipation.
Sarah Jane made her way confidently into the lounge of one of Bournemouth’s largest hotels and sat down on a sofa by a window overlooking the sea. It was important to show this confidence; to look as though you had a purpose, knew where you were going, what you were doing, perhaps meeting someone.
It was just after noon, her second call of the day. She usually walked along the front from the pleasant house they now occupied in Allum Chine until she came to the promenade and made the first of her regular calls, though she varied the places a good deal. Hotel staff kept a careful eye on solitary women, and there were already a few places where she knew she wasn’t welcome and would be politely asked to leave as soon as she stepped inside the door.
It was a long way down from her place as a respected member of the Wenham community, wife of one of its prominent citizens, allied to the great Woodville family. But she didn’t see it like this. She thought that times were better now than they had been; that there was still a lot to live for, fun to be had, alcohol to be consumed, gentlemen to be met with whom to pass the time of day.
Solomon generally left for work early in the morning and then Sarah Jane had the place to herself. Bliss. She liked this. She was glad he worked so hard, for having him around irritated her. Her time wasn’t her own.
She wished now that she hadn’t married him, that she’d taken note of what her children had told her. They’d warned her that this would happen. There was too big an age gap for the marriage to have any chance of succeeding. They had so little in common. At the time she’d put their reaction – particularly the girls’ – down to jealousy and ignored it. It had been a heady time: to be desired by a man so much younger than herself. Wisdom was abandoned. Caution fled. But passion soon abated and recriminations set in. Inevitably she had found solace, strength and comfort in drink.
Often when Solomon came home she was in bed. She pretended to be asleep as he entered their bedroom, having had a drink or two himself. She knew he was unhappy. They both were, but it was difficult to know what to do about it. She now had no money left and was dependent on him. He probably would like to leave her, but he had that formidable alliance of Woodville and Yetman families to consider and, most important of all, the fact that his wife was the sister of Bart Sadler, his powerful employer.
Sarah Jane usually got up around nine, listened to the wireless, had coffee and her first, and sometimes only, solid food of the day. She read the Daily Mail sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette or two. Then she had a bath, taking some time over her toilet and choosing her clothes with care.
For many years she had let herself go. After Laurence’s death she hadn’t cared if she lived or died. She had became depressed. She was a farmer’s daughter and appearances had never meant much to her. When she was younger she was a bonny girl, sturdy and robust, uncomplicated, not a beauty but pretty enough to capture the heart of Laurence Yetman who had been such a promising, vital young man. He had been a loving husband, a caring father and they had had a good life.
She had been ill prepared for what happened. His death, so unexpected, had seemed cruel and unfair. One moment she had everything to live for, the next she had nothing. Suicide was a terrible thing; it destroyed not only the person who committed it, but everyone who loved them. It had changed her and it had changed her children. Increasingly she had withdrawn into herself and found it difficult to communicate with them. Nothing had ever been the same again. For many years, she had lived in a kind of limbo until the young Solomon Palmer had come along and swept her off her feet.
Sarah Jane was now fifty-three, no longer young, not so robust, but she knew she had a quality that still attracted men, men a lot older than her husband, of course. She had a sort of faded prettiness, her brown hair not so luxurious but still brown, her eyes not quite as sparkling as they had been, or might have been had she drunk less, her skin a little withered and wrinkled, particularly round the eyes. They were not lines of laughter, but lines of age and hard living. Her figure was good, she had a neat bosom and legs that attracted men’s eyes, and lesser thoughts. She had a quality of sexual allure that still stirred t
he loins. But she never went to bed with them. She led them on so far and no further. After that, when her meaning became crystal clear, she usually didn’t see them again. No matter, there were plenty of other lonely men cast up on the Bournemouth shore, as in many other seaside resorts throughout the country, eking out their last days, desperate for a final fling.
As well as looking good, she now dressed well. She had bought a lot of clothes: pretty dresses and nice hats, well-cut costumes for winter, good leather handbags, shoes and gloves. Stylish. She was carefully made-up, smartly turned out, and ready to sally forth.
First she usually had a large brandy to steady her nerves and give her the courage she needed to face the day. Even with experience, it still did need courage to go by herself into a hotel for the purpose of drinking and hoping to attract male company.
Sarah Jane liked Bournemouth. It had the edge on Brighton, with a better class of person, a nicer kind of hotel. The retired squirearchy, the army veterans and businessmen seemed, on the whole, less crude, better mannered, with more money.
Ensconced on the comfortable sofa within sight of the sea Sarah Jane crossed her legs, lit a cigarette and when the waiter approached ordered coffee. “Oh, and brandy,” she added as an afterthought, “make it a large one.”
The waiter nodded and a short time later he was back.
The day had begun with clouds, but it was getting better. Solomon had gone off to Carson and Sally’s wedding reception, but she hadn’t been able to face it – all her family, the accusing looks, sly glances. She felt Wenham was no longer part of her life and she didn’t care if she never saw the place again. She liked the sea, the shops in a smart resort and the large anonymous hotels.
Sarah Jane lit a fresh cigarette and stirred her coffee. As she raised her cup to her lips she looked up and saw an elegant gentleman staring down at her, a deprecating smile on his lips.
“I wonder if I could trouble you for a light?” he said in a cultured voice indicating the cigarette in his hand. “I appear to have left my lighter at home.”
“Of course.” Sarah Jane produced her lighter. The gentleman took it, lit his cigarette and returned it to her with a smile.
A Time of Hope (Part Five of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 17