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

by Nicola Thorne

  Few came genuinely to mourn her. The majority of the townsfolk turned out to gawp, to observe the behaviour and demeanour, above all the expressions of the members of Sarah Jane’s family who had been stricken yet again by tragedy, by scandal and, finally, by mystery. If Solomon hadn’t murdered his wife, who had?

  Sally stood by the gate with Dora and Eliza. There was to be no family gathering. It didn’t seem appropriate, somehow. They shook hands with many of the townsfolk who stopped in the hope of gathering a bit more gossip. But they had none to give. They could tell them no more than was public knowledge. Eventually they were joined by Sophie and Lally, with Agnes dawdling along behind talking to Hubert Turner.

  “I’m taking Abel, Martha and Felicity back to Riversmead for a drink or a cup of tea. Would you like to join us?” Eliza asked Sally, who nodded.

  “That would be nice, but I think Carson has some business with Bart. I don’t think he’ll come.”

  “Did anyone see Solomon go?” Eliza looked around, but he was nowhere to be seen. “I feel rather sorry for him.” Everyone shook their heads.

  “I think he slipped out by the side gate,” Sophie said. “Poor man. I feel sorry for him too. He once saved my life, you know. I wish I could do more for him but, in view of what has happened ...” she left her sentence unfinished.

  “We know, we know,” Eliza said. “I think Carson is going to talk to Bart today about the situation.”

  She was referring to the fact that Debbie had been ejected by Bart from the house after her confession and sent home to her mother .She had not attended the funeral.

  “I must get back to Debbie,” Sophie murmured. “She is really in a terrible state.”

  Eliza nodded understandingly. “Would you like me to come in too? I can, the others can go on without me.”

  But Sophie shook her head.

  “Perhaps later. Maybe Carson will have some news for us.

  Eliza beckoned to Sarah Jane’s children and, with Lally, they set off along the path across the fields to Riversmead leaving Sally and Dora to wait for Carson and Alexander, who had moved on to two graves where they now stood silently, oblivious to the rest of the mourners, heads bowed.

  The tombstones now bore the legends:

  Nelly Allen

  1889-1931

  Mother of Alexander

  Mary Martyn1917-1932

  Beloved wife of Alexander

  and mother of Catherine Mary

  “You know I think he still loves Nelly,” Sally murmured sadly, and Dora put a comforting hand round her shoulders.

  “He may still love Nelly, why not? But I’m sure he loves you.”

  “You think so?” Sally shook her head. “I think if only I’d known what a complex character Carson was I should never have married him.”

  “That’s what makes him so appealing,” Dora said. “But don’t forget you’re complex too.” Her grip on Sally’s shoulder tightened as if in an expression of solidarity, as well as understanding. “Come on – let’s go and have a drink with mother.”

  “Whisky?” Carson asked.

  “Thank you,” Bart said. He remained standing while Carson poured the drinks and handed him his glass.

  “Do sit down,” Carson pointed to a chair. They were in his study off the main hall.

  Carson sat opposite him, but before he could speak Bart said, “I suppose this is about Debbie?”

  “Naturally, I feel some responsibility for her.”

  “Well, I’m not taking her back.”

  Carson studied his glass.

  “That, in the circumstances, may be excusable, but to deprive a mother of her children is not.”

  “Debbie is not fit to be a mother, you know that.”

  “On the contrary, every time I have seen her with the children she has struck me as a very good mother.”

  “You’re forgetting the bastard son in Bristol. She has never set eyes on him almost, I think, since his birth.”

  “That is very sad but understandable. It was a very traumatic time for Debbie. She was very young. The boy is well looked after and cared for.”

  Bart sat back in his chair and stared at Carson, the expression on his face severe. Carson had never had anything against Bart, hadn’t shared the hostility of the rest of the family towards him. But he knew he had an uphill task to ensure that Debbie got fair play. Bart was the sort of man you deceived at your peril and he thought Deborah should have known this.

  There was a very irresponsible streak in his niece and she had caused a great deal of trouble in her life. However, she was flesh and blood, the daughter of his brother George and he would act for her in loco parentis. It was no less than his duty.

  But for a proud man, what Debbie had done was inexcusable, and Bart was not only proud but powerful, and violent too. Not for nothing was he feared by people who knew him.

  “What is it you propose, Bart?”

  “I propose to divorce Deborah and apply for custody of my children. I have no doubt I shall succeed. I shall try and prevent her having anything more to do with them, but I may not be as successful in this. I shall try and keep contact between them to a minimum. I may, as a matter of fact, even sell up and move out of the area. It’s not something I want to do as I have my business interests here, and I love my house, on which I’ve spent a fortune. But I may. I may even move abroad or live there for much of the year. I haven’t decided. Germany is a place that appeals to me. Not the cities, but somewhere like the Bavarian mountains or the Black Forest.”

  “But what about the situation there?”

  “That has no terrors for me. I’m convinced there won’t be a war. Once Hitler has what he wants he will settle down and make friends with everyone. You’ll see.”

  “I wish I shared your confidence.”

  Bart finished his whisky and stood up. “I think that has taken care of things, Carson.”

  “Not really.” Carson rose too. “You can’t expect Deborah to want to stay with her mother. She’s not a child. For the moment she needs Sophie but, eventually, she will want her own house. I am not satisfied that the court will grant you sole custody of the children. It will be vigorously opposed. But what Deborah needs right now is financial support from you to find her own home. And I can assure you that if it is not forthcoming, Bart, things will be made very difficult for you.

  “You may consider yourself a powerful man, but I am not without influence and I shall do everything in my power to protect the interests of my niece.”

  “Thank you for the whisky,” Bart said stiffly. “I’ll see myself out.”

  After Bart had gone Carson remained where he was for some moments watching his car speed down the drive. He reflected sadly on the fact that neither of them, in the course of conversation, had once referred to poor Sarah Jane, as though now that she was dead she was no longer a person of consequence. Reluctantly he had been drawn into Bart’s selfish determination to rid himself as quickly as he could of his wife, so that he had forgotten Sarah Jane too.

  When Sally got back to Pelham’s Oak in the early afternoon she found Carson waiting for her in the hall.

  “I wondered where you were.” he said.

  Sally smiled. “I went back to Riversmead for a drink with Eliza. We all felt we needed it.”

  Carson grunted and the reason for his missing her soon became clear. He was in a melancholy mood, and wanted to talk. He told her about Bart’s visit and admitted his guilty thoughts about Sarah Jane, and his concern about his niece.

  “After all,” Sally said when she’d heard about Bart’s determination to wreak vengeance on his wife, “you cannot really blame him. Debbie should have thought of all this before she got into bed with Solomon. I think you’re too ready to forgive her because she’s your niece.”

  Sally turned towards the hall mirror and began to take off her hat. Black depressed her and unrelieved black had been the order of the day. She shook out her hair and immediately felt better, groped in her bag f
or a cigarette and then gave her full attention to her husband.

  Carson, arms akimbo, leaned against the great oak chest, carved with the Woodville arms, that had stood in the hall for as long as he could remember. Legend had it that it was carved from the oak which had preceded the one planted by Pelham. Maybe, therefore, the present oak was the progeny of the one that had been made into the great hall chest – an unbroken succession for hundreds of years, rather like the Woodvilles.

  “I don’t want to make excuses, but I’m concerned about Debbie. I mean, she can’t be cast off without a penny. And she does love her children. Besides, it’s very unfair on Sophie who has had quite enough hardship in her life. I thought,” he paused, remembering the furore his behaviour had caused when Connie was his wife, and went on hesitantly, “I thought we could have her here for a while. I mean, we’ve plenty of room.”

  Sally puffed on her cigarette and gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling, saying nothing.

  “I mean, would you mind?” Carson went on, “it would only be until we had a settlement. But Debbie doesn’t get on too well with her mother and –”

  “You can’t help coming to the aid of the underdog, can you Carson?” Sally’s smile this time was a little forced. “That’s one of the things that Dora warned me about you.”

  “Oh really?” Carson’s expression was impassive. “And what else did she warn you about?”

  “She said you were complex.” Sally, extinguished her cigarette, went up to him and put her arm around his neck. “And that I was too. Look, why don’t we get changed and let the wind blow the cobwebs away, go for a ride?”

  It was a good idea. The morning had been dull, but now the clouds had dispersed and the land around seemed to sparkle in the sunshine. Carson felt his good humour and his equilibrium returning. Sally was really expert at defusing situations. She had an innate common sense that Connie had lacked. Whereas Connie would have made a fuss about offering a temporary home to Debbie – she also had accused him of always supporting lame ducks – Sally would think about it and when she had, give a measured response. Connie flew off the handle and sulked. He had never seen Sally sulk. She just became thoughtful which was more positive.

  They cantered down the meadow leading from the house, gathering speed as they jumped the hedge and galloped across the fields to where Ryder’s white-washed cottage gleamed with a recently applied coat of fresh paint.

  As they neared it Sally slowed down and Carson, behind her, slowed too.

  “Are you going to let it again?” she asked.

  “Oh no. It is Massie’s home for as long as she wants it. I mean she’s going to need time off from looking after Kate.” By now they had stopped and Sally was gazing at the cottage.

  “Is it open? Can we go in?”

  “You’ve never seen inside?”

  Sally shook her head.

  Carson jumped off his horse, tethered him to the post by the gate and, walking up the path, tried the handle of the door. It opened and he beckoned to Sally who followed his example, joining him in the pleasant main room of the cottage with its pretty chintzy covered chairs, long shining table and large inglenook with fresh logs ready to be lit for a fire.

  “What a lovely place,” Sally murmured looking round.

  “It belonged to Uncle Ryder.

  “I know,” Sally nodded. “That’s why I wanted to see it. He died before I was born. Do you remember him?” Carson shook his head.

  “I was only young when he died. About eight.”

  “He had an accident didn’t he?”

  Carson nodded. “Fell off the roof of the cottage at Forest House, which was why Julius Heering would never live there.”

  “It must have been awful for Aunt Eliza.”

  “It was.” Carson’s sombre mood returned. “We’ve had a lot of bad luck in the family.”

  “No more than most.” Sally put an arm around Carson’s waist. “Show me upstairs.”

  “Why do you want to see upstairs?” He looked down at her.

  “Because I do.” And removing her arm, she ran up the stairs ahead of him and into the main bedroom which had pretty blue walls and a narrow single bed with a white counterpane. Through the window it was possible to see Pelham’s Oak a couple of miles distant on the top of the hill. Sally went over to the window and, unfastening the catch, threw it wide open.

  She was aware of Carson behind her and when she felt his breath on her neck she suddenly turned.

  “Was this Nelly’s room?”

  As if taken aback, he could only nod.

  “Was it where she died?”

  Carson nodded again, and suddenly his features seemed to crumble and his eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh, my dear,” Sally cried, flinging her arms around him again. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to upset you.” She gazed into his eyes and saw the tormented expression on his face.

  “You still love her, don’t you Carson? I saw you standing by her grave today and I knew then how you felt. You were miles away.” Carson didn’t reply and Sally went on. “I think Nelly was the love of your life. For her you sacrificed your marriage to Connie. The only thing is,” she paused as if struggling to find words, “I don’t really know why you married me. I don’t think you’ve ever really loved me, Carson.”

  “I did. I do.” Carson’s voice sounded strangely unlike his own. “I can love you and Nelly too. I don’t want to forget her.”

  “That’s what Dora said.” Sally drew away from him and sat on the bed.

  “You have been talking to Dora a lot, haven’t you?” Carson said scathingly.

  “It’s just that, well, she knows you, and I don’t. You’re a very hard person to know, Carson. I don’t think I understand you at all.”

  Carson went over to be bed and sat down beside her.

  “I’m sorry.” He put his arm around her shoulder. “I will try and do better.”

  “You can’t show affection you don’t feel. It’s,” Sally’s tone grew bitter, “not something you can manufacture.”

  “But I do feel it. I do love you, not as I loved Nelly, not as I loved Connie. Different but still love. I want you to believe that Sally.” He turned her face towards him and gazed earnestly into her eyes.

  She returned his gaze wishing hard that she could believe him, here in Nelly’s room, where she’d died.

  Martha Yetman looked round the sitting room of the house where her mother had spent her last days. It was a large, though rather impersonal dwelling, with little sign of having been lived in, few intimate possessions.

  Solomon had asked her to clear out the house, as he felt himself unable to go back there. He had left for an unknown destination – at least unknown to the family. The police who had released him so reluctantly would know where he was.

  Martha worked on a newspaper in Fleet Street; one of the few successful women journalists of her day. She had started as a typist and worked her way up. The stories she was given were largely women’s issues and she neither wished, nor had the strength to report on the murder of her mother. She was grateful they did not have the same name, so she could preserve her anonymity. Not that the murder had provoked much comment in the national dailies. At first it had seemed an open and shut case of a disgruntled and dissatisfied husband killing his wife. But now Martha knew there was more to it than that. She was quite convinced that Solomon was innocent because a disquieting picture had emerged of her mother as a sad, lonely woman with a drink problem who frequented Bournemouth hotels and picked up men, any one of whom could have killed her.

  It was an image so alien to the woman she had known that, at first, Martha could hardly believe it. It was so unlike the strict, mother who had brought them up, not exactly with a rod of iron but with discipline and little outward affection. Martha had only been five when her father died and it was an event she could not recall. There was a hazy recollection of a catastrophic event, before which she had a faint recollection of a jolly childhood with lots of laught
er and, at the time, love bestowed on her, her sister and brother by their parents.

  Sarah Jane had never been very tactile, she did not kiss and hug but she had been warm and when Laurence died that warmth and spontaneity went with him. Perhaps she had loved him too much.

  Martha wandered around the house and thought there was very little to do here, a few scattered objects, nothing really personal. It was a rather chilly autumn day and the cold seemed to permeate the house, making it even less welcoming. She would be glad to be done by nightfall. Then she could close the house and restore the key to the solicitors who would see about the disposal of the contents and the furniture.

  Her mother had not left a will, at least none could be found, but then she had little to leave and what there was would go to her husband. Martha thought how sad it was not to have any mementoes of the woman who had given birth to her, and when she walked into the bedroom she picked up a cardigan that had been thrown over a chair and pressed it to her face. She fancied she could smell the very essence of her mother, the faint fragrance she’d worn, the familiar, not unpleasant, body odour. The close sense of bonding that an infant has at the breast.

  Martha’s eyes filled with tears and she sat on the chair hugging the cardigan as if it had been her mother’s body, last seen in the funeral parlour a few days before her funeral. The face had been made up and, except for traces of swelling that remained, she had looked very peaceful. A scarf had been tactfully arranged round her neck, disguising any sign of visible injury.

  Martha had not wept then or at her funeral, but she wept now. After Laurence’s death, Sarah Jane had become remote, fault finding, a bitter woman who took her sorrow out on her children. The girls, who perhaps had suffered more than the only boy, left home as soon as they could, Felicity to train as a nurse, Martha as a shorthand-typist.