Lakeland Lily

by Freda Lightfoot

  Lily resolved to finish the work, no matter what the cost, so that Amy would not have died in vain. She no longer found any pleasure in it. Bitterness and cynicism now clouded any sense of achievement. But everyone else was beginning to appreciate the miracle she had wrought.

  ‘The Cobbles’ll be the best part of Carreckwater before we’re done,’ Rose told Edward. ‘The nobs’ll be queuing up to buy houses here. And Edward Clermont-Read will be its greatest benefactor.’

  This seemed to please him, but to Lily, her arms still aching for want of her child, it seemed yet another bitter irony, proving once more the folly of her quest.

  Surprisingly, Dora Ferguson-Walsh proved to be a tower of strength. Knowing Lily could not bear to work with the children, she set up a fund to collect money for clothing and shoes then lined up scores of urchins in the street, dosed them with medicine, shaved off their lice-ridden hair, and sent them away reeking of disinfectant and happily sucking on a mint ball.

  ‘It’ll only grow again and the lice come back,’ Lily bluntly told her, and Dora’s plump face broke into a smile.

  ‘Then we’ll have to come and do it all over again, won’t we?’

  Lily didn’t say she was grateful for Dora’s efforts, she couldn’t. Instead, she demanded to know why she was bothering to help. ‘Don’t say because I asked you to.’

  ‘For Bertie. Who else?’

  The sense of guilt which pierced Lily’s heart at this simple statement added still further to her pain. Dora should have married Bertie, not herself. She would have made him a better wife.

  Lily grew thin and pale and both Rose and Dora urged her to take more rest, which only made her strive all the harder. Lily wanted to put right everything she had made wrong, but couldn’t. It was far too late.

  The only answer to her pain was work.

  She was attempting to lift a huge block of limestone one morning when a harsh voice rang out.

  ‘That isn’t your job, Lily Thorpe. You’re making a grand effort here, but leave that for the men.’

  Staggering beneath the weight of the stone, Lily stubbornly clung on. ‘I can manage. It’s no business of yours what I do.’ Without even glancing up she knew it to be Nathan. In her mind she could see him before her, standing so straight and tall, arms folded, face dark and condemning. She dragged the stone inch by inch, sweat pouring down her face, soaking her cotton frock, as with gritted teeth she stubbornly held on. She might have succeeded too, she decided, if she hadn’t come over all peculiar. The top of her head seemed to lift off as pain shot up her arms and gripped her by the back of her neck, even as her shoulders seemed to be dragged from their sockets by the weight of it.

  Then her knees buckled and Nathan caught her as she fell, pushing aside the offending piece of masonry to grasp her tightly in his arms. He whispered her name, laid his cheek against hers. It was smoothly shaven, like cool silk against her burning skin. The familiar scent of him enveloped her as surely as his arms enfolded her, and Lily gave herself up to the bliss of it. No one else had held her so throughout the terrible weeks of her grieving. Now, suddenly, it was too much to bear.

  All her carefully built defences collapsed.

  Tears welled up from a place deep inside that Lily hadn’t known existed. At first they came in great dry racking sobs, breaking from her like shards of broken glass. Then despair overwhelmed her in great gulps of anguish. She wept, she sobbed, she railed, she raged. The pain was indescribable, like nothing she had ever known, nothing she would ever wish to know again. She wanted to lash out and destroy everything, as if in that way she could dispel the pain. Nathan held her fast, preventing her.

  When the storm finally subsided into heartbreaking but sorely needed tears, he wiped them away with the palm of his hand, cradling her close on his lap as if she were a child - or his very dear love. And in that instant, Lily wished that she were.

  From the day Lily finally broke down and wept on Nathan Monroe’s shoulder she kept away from The Cobbles. The hard work, even the anger, had been an essential part of her grief. Now she couldn’t bear to go near. It was up to others to carry on without her.

  All very right and proper, according to Margot. ‘Life must go on, and it was a doomed enterprise from the start.’

  ‘It’s not doomed. I just need a rest.’

  If Lily was as concerned with avoiding Nathan as The Cobbles, she made no mention of that fact. She recalled her bargain with Edward and used this as an excuse to stay away, expressing herself willing to carry out Margot’s bidding. ‘I want to be a good wife to Bertie. Show me how.’

  ‘Well, well. So we may make a human being of you yet.’

  With more resignation than she had ever intended, Lily submitted to Margot’s tutoring with gritted teeth. As expected, Margot rose to the challenge with an almost sadistic pleasure. Day after day she had Lily walking up and down stairs and passageways with huge volumes upon her head.

  ‘The proper deportment is essential to straighten your back.’ In Lily’s opinion it wasn’t crooked.

  She lectured and hectored her daughter-in-law upon the gentility of a lady’s existence, the protocol of paying social calls, working for charity, acquiring social chit-chat, and of course such niceties as the correct method of pouring tea, lifting a cup and saucer without spilling it, and filling hours of each day with perfect cross-stitch.

  ‘You must pay a call upon all the young wives in the district.’

  ‘Why?’ Lily was driven to ask, and Margot’s eyes widened.

  ‘In order that they will call upon you, of course. My dear, if you do not pay calls when they are due, you will be cold-shouldered, even cast out, by society.’

  Lily longed to ask how she could be cast out from a society which still did not recognise her existence, but Margot was still talking.

  ‘If you wish to be included in all the many entertainments next season, you must do your duty. For Bertie’s sake, if not your own. Hasn’t he sacrificed enough?’

  Lily’s heart sank as, too late, she recognised the trap. Bertie was a sweet and kind husband and she had brought him nothing but unhappiness with her ill-fated quest for revenge. She’d given him sickness, poverty, and the death of their only child. Nothing else must be allowed to spoil his life. Certainly not Nathan Monroe. She vowed to be the wife Bertie needed.

  Lily’s very first dinner party was a disaster. She had taken particular care with her gown, a beige-pink with burgundy trim, and Betty had piled her soft brown hair into a most becoming chignon. Lily was standing before the long mirror in her room, going over all Margot’s complex instructions in her head, when her mother-in-law walked in.

  ‘I’ve decided it would be best if you did not attend dinner tonight. One of the young men has cried off so our numbers are uneven, and you really are not ready for society yet, my dear.’

  Lily was shocked. Days of acquiring the necessary etiquette, hours getting ready, and all for nothing? ‘But I must.’

  Margot smiled and patted the air an inch from Lily’s hand. ‘I shall explain you’ve been ill. That you are not quite up to the mark.’ Which was true, for once the tears had started, they’d barely stopped. Lily had sobbed herself to sleep night after night, misery hanging about her like a shroud. Each morning she woke to a dark depression, wishing she needn’t rise from the safety of her bed to face the world. Only her wish to recompense Bertie for the terrible damage she had done him got her through the day.

  ‘Bertie will expect me to be there.’

  ‘He will understand perfectly that you cannot be.’

  ‘Yes, but...’

  Margot was halfway to the door. ‘Help Mrs Greenholme in the kitchen, there’s a dear. I’m sure you wish to be useful, and all the maids will be fully occupied serving.’ A final frosty smile and she was gone, the door clicking firmly closed behind her.

  And so Lily’s first dinner party was spent in the kitchen. Rivers of tears fell into the greasy water as she washed up at the big pot sink with
a huge apron wrapped about her fine party gown. Mrs Greenholme studiously kept her opinions on the matter to herself.

  The ban continued for two whole weeks.

  ‘How can I ever learn if I am not permitted to try?’ Lily persisted.

  Bertie, still numb with grief, chose not to intervene and for once she felt like hitting him. At last Lily persuaded Margot to allow her to join them for a dinner party - a decision she was soon to regret. Lily used the wrong knife for the fish course, dropped a spoon from sheer nervousness, and earned herself a reproving glare by declining the oyster patties. Then, as Selene pointedly leaned over to adjust Lily’s napkin to the correct position on her lap, somehow a glass of red wine got knocked all over the white damask tablecloth.

  Afterwards she was called to the little parlour for her sins to be listed. ‘You see, my dear. As I said, you are not ready.’

  She wanted to protest that if Selene hadn’t interfered at exactly the moment she’d reached for her wine ... But what was the use? Even Bertie seemed bent on seeing her in the worst light.

  ‘Most embarrassing for Mama. For all of us, actually.’

  Lily swallowed her misery and sense of failure. ‘I was nervous. I need more practice.’

  ‘Exactly. Mama has told me how you resent her offering advice - which is for your own good, don’t you know? You can’t go on sulking in your room, forever being difficult and refusing to cooperate. Life goes on and you’ve got to face up to your responsibilities, old thing.’

  Lily’s mouth dropped open. She longed to protest. Margot had entirely twisted the truth, making out it was she who had refused to attend the dinner parties, rather than Margot refusing to allow her to come.

  Lily wanted to say that she had never willingly spent time in her room. Someone, kind-hearted Betty perhaps, had removed the broken fragments of cradle. Now the room seemed emptier than ever, and she could scarce bear to stay in it for a moment longer than necessary. But what was the point? Why make matters worse than they already were?

  The ‘lessons’ were redoubled and Lily dutifully, if somewhat reluctantly, accompanied her mother-in-law on a relentless programme which, as well as the recognised social events such as Grasmere Sports, Rydal Sheep Dog Trials and Yacht Club events, included soirees, picnics, tea-parties and balls which took place almost every week in one or other of the fine houses around Carreckwater.

  Strangely, it was Bertie who was the one most likely to cry off these days. He spent less and less time at home, claiming he preferred to take long walks over Benthwaite Crag or up to Glebe Woods. He’d often disappear for the entire day on the surrounding fells, carrying his lunch in a pack on his back. He’d walk over Hollin Fell, or as far as Little Langdale. He never asked Lily to go with him on these rambles, nor did she offer, assuming them to be a necessary part of his healing process. Sometimes he’d disappear for days on end and tell no one where he’d been.

  But he never missed one of Margot’s steamer picnics. The steam yacht would sail, silently and majestically, out to one of the many islands with only a passing moorhen to disturb the peace.

  A huge table would be spread with the finest china and glass upon pristine white cloths. Should the weather appear uncertain this would take place aboard the yacht beneath the striped canopy; otherwise in the open at the selected spot.

  Several bounteous hampers would be unpacked, the quality of the food being beyond description. There would be the finest game pies and roast duck, smoked salmon and potted char, and a choice selection of desserts to tempt the most jaded palate.

  Fothergill the butler would serve champagne from a silver bucket marked with the Faith’s crest, and two maids in frilly aprons likewise decorated, so no one was in any doubt about the wealth of the boat’s owner, would serve tea to the ladies and offer delicacies to tempt fragile appetites.

  And while the food was consumed, Margot would instruct her guests upon the scenic beauty around them or launch into a well-rehearsed history of the chosen island.

  ‘A hermit monk once inhabited this place,’ she informed them as they disembarked upon Martinholme. ‘He spent his entire time planting trees, when he wasn’t on his knees praying, poor man.’

  At another she might give details of the Civil War, and how the island had been defended against capture by the opposing forces. Or how a man once held an auction to rid himself of a wife who had become a trial to him.

  ‘Darling Edward would never do such a thing, would you, my dear?’ she simpered, and he harrumphed and lit another cigar.

  No one could say that Margot Clermont-Read was not the perfect hostess, always prepared to entertain and educate her guests. She made very certain that her elegant party was not inconvenienced by sailing too close to the Public Steamers with their unsightly cargo of trippers and mill girls.

  ‘Heavens, at times there are as many as a thousand people milling about the bandstand, tennis courts, and steamer terminal. Why do they clutter up the lake so? They quite ruin its tranquillity.’

  ‘It’s a pity they have nothing better do,’ Edith Ferguson-Walsh agreed.

  Edward’s favourite occupation was, of course, steering, while George tinkered with the engine or fed it chips of wood from the two barrowloads he’d put on board for the afternoon’s sail.

  Lily sat with a frozen smile on her face, hoping her wide flowered hat would not blow off in the breeze, while she strove to remember everyone’s name and all she had been taught. Once more she could feel the trap closing around her. It was no comfort at all to realise she had created it for herself.

  Lily felt quite unable to take her troubles to Arnie. In any case, she guessed what her father’s reaction would be. She’d made her bed and must lie on it. That would be his view.

  In any case, he had enough problems of his own to worry over with a sick wife, work to find, and the girls to bring up.

  Her main source of friendship came from an unexpected quarter. Her regular visits to The Cobbles necessitated her using the ferry to cross from Barwick House, which lay on the western shore of the lake, to Carreckwater on the east.

  The ferry was largely responsible for bringing the outside world to Barwick House. The butcher and grocer’s boys brought their deliveries on it, the postman the letters and even a telegram once in a while. Coal and wood came the long way, by road, but milk was delivered in huge metal churns, right to Mrs Greenholme’s kitchen door.

  Passengers used the ferry to go to town and back for shopping or to visit a friend further down the lake. There were various small jetties used as pick-up points, all marked with a bell or whistle to call the boat over.

  Lily would make her way along the shingled shoreline to where a small folly stood some hundred yards from the perimeter of the gardens. Here a bell was sited, the sound of which would carry across the lake, alerting the ferryman, Bob Leyton.

  Then she would sit, arms curled about her knees while she waited for the old man to set down his mug of tea or leave his fishing line safely secured then ease the small boat from the stone jetty and row across the lake to fetch her.

  Sometimes he would have several customers: walkers, climbers, couples on holiday, children wanting a special treat. At others there would be only herself. Lily liked it best when she was alone.

  Ferryman Bob would take his time then. She’d sit on a log, suck one of his mints, and listen to his stories of his adventures at sea, or the day the Windermere ferry sank with a load of quarrymen aboard. Forty men had perished, Bob’s uncle among them.

  ‘Not my father, he ran the ferry here. My family has held the licence for the Carreckwater ferry for three generations, and I’m to be the last,’ he would tell her, shaking his head over what he termed his sad bachelor fate.

  Lily would only laugh and call him an old sea dog with a woman in every port.

  ‘Just as well I never did wed,’ he’d finally admit. ‘Would’ve made the poor woman’s life a misery.’

  Since then she’d taken to ringing the bell whenever lon
eliness or the ever-present pangs of her loss threatened to overwhelm her. It seemed to Lily at times that she had no one else to turn to.

  On this day in late September, when the woods all about glowed with bright colour, she knew she should feel glad to be alive. But her heart lay cold as stone, heavy and still in her breast, as if there were no longer any point in its functioning. She’d tucked a shawl about her shoulders and walked for miles. Finally she reached the small folly and rang the bell. The sound of it echoed over the water, splintering the golden silence with its silvery notes.

  A cormorant flew across the lake, skimming the water, sharp as a black dart. She could see the familiar thread of smoke coming from Ferryman Bob’s cottage chimney. It comforted her just to see it.

  She sat on a handy log, prepared to wait.

  Ferryman Bob was a round little man with a shining bald head, usually kept covered with a knitted cap into which were stuck a selection of fishing flies and old badges from his navy days. From somewhere within its folds he could produce a stub of a cigarette, a match, safety pin, or even a boiled sweet. He claimed his pockets were too full of string and important tools to find any space for such delicate objects.

  When he wasn’t attending a call for the ferry, or warming his stockinged feet by the fire in his tiny cottage, he was usually to be found on the end of the jetty or sitting on a rock with a line out in the water. There was nothing he enjoyed more than gazing silently upon the broad expanse of water, gemmed with emerald islets. This was his world, and he loved it.

  ‘You’re lucky I bothered to come,’ he said now, tying up the small rowing boat. ‘I could see the water creaming wi’ trout. I’ve probably lost me only chance of catching one now.’

  Lily only smiled, well used to his taciturn manner and knowing he meant none of it.

  ‘I felt like a bit of crack.’

  ‘Talk away,’ he said, joining her on the log. ‘I’m all yours till the next bell rings.’ He pulled out a crumpled cigarette stub and, cupping it between yellowed fingers in the palm of his hand, sucked it into life with the flare of a match. ‘What d’you want to talk about then?’