I Remember You

by Harriet Evans

  October 1943

  She was sent to her room after she had told her mother, like a little girl. A little girl with a six months’ pregnant belly.

  ‘Go to your room, Leonora.’

  ‘Mother—’

  ‘Go to your room.’ Leonora had never seen her mother so—was it angry? No. Terrified, she thought. Fear was written on everyone’s faces these days as a matter of course, though people tried to hide it, pretend everything was all right; but Leonora saw it magnified on her mother’s face that sunny autumn day, when she finally plucked up the courage to tell her.

  ‘I’m—I’m sorry,’ Leonora whispered. She was clutching the fine lawn cotton of her dress in her hands; it was creased and puckered, her hands were clammy. It was cold in her mother’s sitting room; the fires were never lit now, much of the house was shut up. They were getting ready to turn it into a girls’ boarding school, and much to her father’s displeasure the family was packing up to move into the town, to Leda House, her mother’s family home.

  Alexandra Mortmain looked out of the window, down towards the black iron gates of the entrance to the hall. She swallowed, and Leonora felt sick, sicker than the nausea that had gripped her for months now and that never seemed to go away. Her mother was scared, too. That made it worse.

  ‘Mother, I haven’t told you everything—who—’ She paused. She simply didn’t know how to frame the words. It’s Philip, Philip Edwards, she wanted to say. I love him, I’ve always loved him! We’re going to get married, Mother, he comes back on leave in a month, I’ll tell him then! Somewhere in Leonora’s mind was the tiny kernel of an idea that perhaps, just perhaps, it could all be satisfactorily resolved. Couldn’t it? It said in the marriage service, ‘with my body I thee worship’, didn’t it? For he had, oh, he had, and what had happened was because he honoured her and she him. And she loved him, yes she did…But Leonora knew, if she was absolutely frank with herself, that it was not to be. The look of horror, disgust, fear, written so large on her mother’s face was evidence enough.

  For months now, Leonora had kept the growing secret to herself; she was sure Eleanor, her maid, must have had some idea. For she was sick every morning, she felt sick all day, in fact. She felt as if something were dragging her down, pulling her inside out. She didn’t know what it was and, because menstruation was something shameful, to be discussed only in the most urgent of circumstances, she put her lack of monthly bleeding down to one of the many symptoms that seemed to be assailing her. She was dying; she was being punished for what she had done with Philip, for loving him.

  It wasn’t until she felt her baby kick, and carry on kicking, five months into her pregnancy, that Leonora realized what was happening to her. And what could she do? There was nothing she could do, nothing at all. She couldn’t tell anyone. She might have told Eleanor, but she wasn’t there, she had been put to work at Home Farm. She had no friends, now school was over, and young Miss Mortmain had not been encouraged by her parents to befriend any of the girls at her school. She couldn’t tell Philip—how could she put this in a letter? One day, one of her father’s dogs, whom she feared almost as much as her father, jumped up and nearly pushed her to the ground. The dogs were kept permanently hungry, the better to run after anything that trespassed on the grounds. Tugendhat’s black expressionless eyes, his snarling teeth glistening with saliva, terrified her.

  When she knew there was no other option, it somehow gave her a strength of purpose. She knocked on her mother’s door one afternoon, holding her head up high, waiting for the slightly querulous, petulant ‘Yes?’ in answer, entered the room, and told her.

  Leonora sat in her room, ten minutes later, swinging her legs off the edge of the old bed which creaked as she rocked gently back and forth. The baby moved inside her; she rubbed her stomach tenderly, as she could only do when she was by herself. She gazed out of the window, trying to find order in the rhythmical ache of the bed; the curtains around the bed swayed slightly, giving off a haze of dust that swam in the golden light flooding through the glass. There was nothing she could do; she had to tell them.

  She thought of the last time she had seen Philip, at a tea dance her parents had given for the town after the church fete. It will not stop us, this war, everyone said; we will carry on having church fetes, tea dances, living our lives. They had smiled across the room all evening, talked briefly in front of others, sharing secret looks, knowing they would see each other at some point. Then, as Leonora returned from the kitchen where she had been supervising the lemonade, Philip had emerged silently from the shadows, and pulled her towards the back corridor which led out to the kitchen garden, where the boots, the coats, the servants’ things were kept. They kissed, they did not say a word, and she gasped, shocked by her own pleasure in him again, amazed at this—this which was was happening to her—as he ran his hands up her bare legs, unbuttoned her dress, kissed her skin, held her breast in his hand, boldly moved her hands to the front of his trousers, so that she could feel what she did to him. He would have gone further—

  ‘No,’ she said, smothering a laugh. ‘Not here, Philip—how can you!’

  ‘But I’m going away,’ he said, kissing her neck. ‘I want you so much, Rara.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, soothing, mothering him, stroking the back of his neck where his painfully short cropped hair met the top of his spine. ‘Soon, I promise.’

  ‘Very soon,’ he said, kissing her again. ‘My Atalanta.’

  She laughed softly again, and put her head on his chest; he touched her hair gently, and sighed. From the grand sitting room came the strains of a song, played on the wind-up gramophone.

  ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘What are they playing?’

  ‘I heard it in London,’ he said. ‘They play it all the time, in the officer’s mess.’ They swayed slowly together, just the two of them, silhouetted against the light pouring through the door from the setting sun and he sang to her, so softly, as the song played faintly, the notes echoing on the polished floor.

  I remember you, You’re the one who made my dreams come true, A few kisses ago…

  He held her hand, put his finger in the centre of her palm so she felt the pressure of it, fleetingly, as they separated, and walked back towards the drawing room again.

  And that was the last time they had spoken. That was all she had. That, and the strangely sunny certainty that he loved her and he would come back for her—for that she never doubted.

  So as Leonora waited in her room, and the minutes turned into an hour, maybe more, she thought of that last meeting, relived it over and over, her hands resting on her bump, the rocking motion of the bed and the memories of Philip soothing her, lulling her into a sort of calm.

  The sharp rap at the door, when it eventually came, made her jump. ‘Miss Mortmain. Your father wants to see you. In his study. Says immediately.’

  It was dark now. Leonora climbed gingerly off the bed, put on her sandals, and opened the door.

  She came down the stairs gently in the dark, the gloom of the unlit hall making the slippered wood treacherous. A strip of light slid out from under the door to her father’s study. She raised her hand to the dark oak, and saw it was shaking. She knocked.

  ‘Come.’

  For months now, Leonora’s father had been writing a new book, his first since Roman Society which had been published nearly eight years ago. It was about the army, about battle stratagems and campaign fighting, and it had a peculiar resonance now, of course. Leonora had often wanted to ask her father about his work, but she never could pluck up the courage. He terrified her.

  Sir Charles Mortmain stood by the window behind his chair, with his back to her as she entered. Piles of books surrounded him, and a pipe rested on the green leather surface of the desk, the edges of which were tooled in gold. The door creaked loudly behind her as she gently shut it. The loud ticking of the grandfather clock was the only sound in the room.

  ‘Father—’ Leonora began. She stood by the doo
r, all composure gone. She didn’t know whether to advance further.

  ‘You will not call me so.’ Sir Charles did not move; she strained to see his face in the reflection of the glass. ‘You will leave here tonight. A motor car is on its way now. I have spoken to—’

  ‘Father, if I could—’

  ‘Stop!’ Her father’s hand was held up, and his voice was loud, clear and sharp. ‘I. Have. Spoken. To.’ He paused. ‘To Miss Wheeler, who is your mother’s old nurse. You will go to her tonight.’

  ‘Father—’

  ‘DO NOT CALL ME THAT NAME AGAIN.’

  At the rage, the venom in her father’s voice, Leonora stepped back, involuntarily, bumping into the door.

  ‘You are not my daughter,’ her father said. ‘We simply—’ he paused, as if choosing his words—‘yes, we simply do not have a daughter any more. You will have this bastard, God damn it to hell, and you will return to Langford, and we will never refer to it again.’ And then he turned round, and she saw his face, and fear washed over her anew. ‘But be clear on this matter. Be very clear. You are not my daughter, nor shall you ever be.’

  The baby kicked inside her. Leonora leaned against the door; the varnish was cool; her head was swimming.

  ‘Do you have anything else to say?’

  She shook her head, miserably.

  Sir Charles stepped out in front of the desk. ‘Do you accept what I have said?’

  Leonora bowed her head. A tear dropped onto the floor; her hair hung in front of her face. Her father walked towards her.

  ‘So that we are clear, I shall say it for the final time. You are no longer my daughter,’ he said, and then he hit her. His open palm smacked hard onto her cheek; the force of it sent her head flying to one side, and the bones in her neck clicked loudly. She cried out, briefly, clutching her cheek, tasting blood. Her other hand covered her mouth, to muffle her sobs, and Leonora stared up at him, her eyes wild.

  He did not look shocked, or upset, or even discomposed by what he had done. His eyes were utterly cold. He looked at her with faint disgust, as if she were a beggar on the street obstructing his path, and then he stepped behind the desk and sat down, cracking his knuckles as he did.

  ‘You may go and pack now,’ he said, and he picked up his pen again. He waved it at her, dismissing her, and Leonora turned and opened the door, feeling the blood pool in her mouth and wondering if she was going to be sick. She did not look back, but closed the door behind her and ran towards the great staircase. She put her hand on the bannister, and looked up to see her mother framed in the doorway of the drawing room, watching her with a peculiar expression, her hair escaping from its bun. Alexandra Mortmain nodded, and simply turned away from her only child.

  ‘The motor car will arrive in an hour,’ she said, as she retreated into the drawing room, and the door shut behind her, leaving her young daughter standing in the darkness. From outside, she could hear her father’s dogs barking cruelly, their jaws snapping viciously, a violent and fearful sound. She shivered, tears running down her cheeks, and climbed slowly upstairs.

  Leonora’s baby, a little girl, was born in a nursing home fifty miles from Langford, in deadliest secret. She came in early December, a month early. The day before, Leonora had received a letter from Primmie, Philip’s sister, telling her he had died in Greece in November 1943, one of thousands of men to die out in the Aegean as the British tried to recapture the Dodecanese Islands from the Italians.

  Sweet, unsuspecting Primmie had written:

  I knew you and he were particularly close. He was always extremely fond of you—I hope I may be so forward as to remind you of this?—and I know he cherished your friendship. I thought that, although this news is of the worst kind, you would wish to hear from me, while you are away completing your nursing training. He would have wanted you to hear before others, I am sure.

  The baby came early. Leonora knew it was because of the shock of hearing about Philip. They both nearly died; Leonora lost a lot of blood. She never knew how much, she was never told, never asked. She cradled the letter numbly in her hand when she woke, two days later, to the mewling sound of her tiny daughter in the wooden cot by her bed. She called her Philippa, and when she gave her to be adopted by a family twenty miles away, that was the only thing she asked, that they keep her name.

  Leonora went home a month later. Years afterwards, when she briefly allowed herself to think of that black, awful time again, she would wonder how she got through it. The answer was that she honestly didn’t care any more if she lived or died. She discovered that it was possible to live, to put one foot in front of the other and walk, to smile and say hello, to wash one’s face in the morning, brush one’s hair in the evening and everything else in between, and yet be totally dead inside. For whom was she living, anyway? Who cared about her? Philip was gone, her baby was gone, taken away from her, and she had been told flatly that she would never see her again. Who else mattered?

  Her family never mentioned it again. Unless forced to, her father never spoke to her after that. She was rarely allowed out of the house. So many of the young men of her generation, one of whom she would have been expected to have married, died. And so Leonora inherited the ruined estate when her mother finally died, and moved out of the Hall as soon as she could. She stayed on in the house in Langford, sitting at the window, watching the world go by, ruminating inwardly on what might have been. She had waited for years for her parents to die, so that she might do as she pleased.

  But by the time it happened, it was too late for Leonora, too late to save her. Perhaps it was a wind that blew through the town one day, like the old saying, and changed her for ever. Perhaps she was more her father’s daughter than she realized. But something inside her had been poisoned, and the poison stayed within her, until not even her beloved Philip would have recognized her. She forced her own daughter to hate her, and her grandson too. It was a tragedy, and perhaps saddest of all is that, with time, the wind that changed Leonora made her forget the girl she had once been, the love she had once felt, the man she had once remembered and the baby she had held for two short weeks, crying over her tiny writhing form as if her heart was breaking—which, in fact, it was.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Dear Tess,

  An early Christmas card for you from San Francisco. It is beautiful here, raining a lot, but when it’s not it’s crisp and sunny. There’s a great bar round the corner where we hang out after work, which shows the game, I am quite converted to the 49ers these days. I’ve been hiking a lot and hanging out with the guys from work, it’s all really cool. I think you’d like it here, too!

  Thank you for the postcard of Langford, I can see where you get your quaint charm. It’s very British, isn’t it? Like something from a film set. Funny.

  Thinking of you always, only a few weeks to go now till Christmas. I can’t wait.

  Peter

  x

  The whole town would out to see the lights being switched on, though it was a bitterly cold night. Tess walked along the lane towards Leda House, where she was to pick Adam up on the way. The streets were strangely deserted, and she hugged herself, shivering in the sharp, cutting cold. It was a clear night and a nearly full moon was out, while hundreds of stars studded the sky. It hurt to breathe in, though, and frost was already gathering on the car windows and the hedgerows.

  She sang to herself:

  ‘O little town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie, Above thy deep and dreamless sleep The silent stars go by…’

  She slapped her palms against her arms, to warm herself up. Ahead of her walked a couple, each holding the hand of a child. Their progress was naturally slower than hers and she caught up with them. Only when it was too late to turn back did she realize with a sinking feeling that it was Jemima, her student, with her husband and two children.

  ‘Hello!’ Jemima called, as Tess unsuccessfully tried to walk briskly past her. ‘Tess, it’s me!’

  ‘Oh, hi there, Jemima.’


  Jemima was beaming almost graciously. ‘Look! This is Gideon, and this is Maisie!’ She pushed the two small figures at either side of her forwards. They stood there, shyly, Maisie’s stubby plaits swinging from side to side as she furiously sucked her thumb.

  ‘Hi,’ said Tess awkwardly. She looked at Jemima’s husband. ‘You must be Jon,’ she said, congratulating herself heartily on remembering his name.

  Jon smiled and shook her hand. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said. ‘You’re Jemima’s teacher, right? Sounds great, your course.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Tess. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’m very envious of your trip to Langford Regis,’ Jon said. ‘I’m an architect, I’m really keen to go there sometime.’

  ‘Shall we carry on walking?’ said Jemima urgently. ‘Jon, I really don’t want to miss getting a good position, it’ll be so incredibly disappointing for the children if we do.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jon. ‘Right.’ They all carried on walking; they were nearly at Leda House.

  ‘What are you working on at the moment?’ said Tess.

  ‘Actually,’ said Jon, ‘It’s nothing very flash, but I’m pretty excited about it. It’s a new community centre in Morely. It’s solar powered. They want it to be as green as possible.’

  ‘Jon! Tess doesn’t want to hear you droning on about your work,’ Jemima said, and Jon shrugged, sliding Tess a smile. ‘Tess, I was meaning to ask you, are there any programmes here you think the children would like?’

  ‘Er—’ Tess looked blank. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, just activities, organizations, that sort of thing. It’s so frustrating when you hear everyone else’s children have gone to the water park, and the water park was only open for two bloody weeks back in April!’ She laughed, almost frantically.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Tess politely. ‘I’ll keep my eyes open.’

  ‘Would you, please? I do so want the children to get the most out of living in the country. Maisie! Don’t suck your thumb!’