It was refreshing to find that neither Thomas nor Michael were snobs, even though it was clear that they were the products of good schools, money and loving parents. They’d gone straight into the army as officers, with probably less ability to lead men than their milkman or greengrocer. The war had few plus points, but it may have made real men out of many of the Thomases and Michaels of this world.
Thomas was twenty-nine. Clara asked him directly, even though she always claimed it was rude to ask a person’s age or what work they did. Michael was two years older. Mabel couldn’t help but think how difficult she would’ve found a tea such as this back when she lived in Hallsands. All the people she knew there, aside from the vicar, were involved in fishing. Simple people, many without any real education. They didn’t own pretty china tea sets, or napkins; the men sat down to meals in their working clothes, and they wouldn’t give a thank you for dainty sandwiches with the crusts cut off.
She wondered how she was ever going to get around to telling Thomas she was Clara’s housekeeper. Neither man had mentioned her being a widow, either – though they probably realized that, as she wore a wedding ring. She found it odd that she cared what Thomas thought; she hadn’t imagined she would ever care about a man’s opinion again.
It was a very jolly afternoon, the first Clara and Mabel had spent since the week before Carsten’s death. The two men were great company – not too serious, but not shallow, either. They talked about so many different things, from a discussion on when England would get back on its feet and rationing might be abandoned, to the new motor cars. Thomas was dead set on buying one, as he’d learned to drive a truck while in France. Clara said she wanted to learn to drive, so she could get one too.
Mabel hadn’t any intention of revealing her ‘psychic power’, as Clara liked to call it. But that came out quite by accident. Clara asked Michael about his war wound, and he said the reason he was still alive was because of his grandfather’s pocket watch.
‘I mostly kept it in the breast pocket of my uniform, more of a good luck talisman than anything else. But I had moved it into a small pocket on the waistband of my trousers, some call it a ticket pocket, because I needed space for a notepad and various other things. The sniper’s bullet hit me right on the watch, splintering it. But without the watch to absorb the main impact, I would’ve been torn right open. I was quite badly hurt as it was. Luckily, the doctor at the field station was determined to save me. I owe my life to him really; another doctor would’ve moved on to a man who wasn’t so severely injured and was more likely to be saved.’
‘Did they really pick who to treat and who to leave?’ Mabel said in horror.
The two men looked at one another and grimaced. ‘Well, yes, no point in trying to save one dying man if there are two others who are treatable.’
‘What happened to the watch?’ Clara asked. Ever the practical one.
‘I’ve still got the pieces. It means even more to me now. It’s as if my grandfather saved me,’ Michael said.
‘You should let Mabel hold it. She can probably get a message from your grandfather.’ As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she clapped her hand over it and looked aghast. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t supposed to mention that,’ she said.
But of course, both men immediately wanted to know what she meant, and Mabel reluctantly told them she did sometimes get messages by holding something personal.
‘That’s a wonderful talent,’ Michael said. ‘Gosh, I hope you’ll try and reach Grandfather for us. We were both very fond of him.’
‘I had decided I wasn’t going to do it any more.’
‘You said publicly,’ Clara reminded her.
The two men looked puzzled, so Mabel felt compelled to tell them about the night in Southampton and how she’d told a woman who believed her husband was dead that her husband was, in fact, coming home. ‘I don’t know what I’m saying when these messages come through, it’s like I’m asleep. It transpired that her husband couldn’t read or write, and that’s why he hadn’t contacted her to say he was in a POW camp. But what if I got it wrong? Built up her hopes that he’s coming home, and he’s dead?’
Thomas frowned. ‘Then it isn’t just the dead that messages come from?’
‘I thought it was, and it should be. I’m really doubting myself now,’ Mabel said. ‘This gift, or whatever you call it, came on suddenly, so I’m a real novice. I wish I could find out if I was right, and he really was in a POW camp. I know I was right on some of it – after all, I got her name correct, and the fact that he couldn’t read or write. But what I don’t understand is why he didn’t let her know he was alive?’
Thomas reached out his hand and squeezed Mabel’s arm. ‘If you got her name right, then the message was a real one – or how else would you have got it? As for why he didn’t let his wife know he was alive, one thing I learned while doing law is that people do behave very oddly sometimes. There is the possibility that he hoped, by playing dead, he could take on a new identity once he got home and slip out of his marriage and responsibilities. I know you ladies can’t imagine anyone could be that callous, but it happens.’
Mabel felt her stomach turn over. When she glanced at Clara, she could see that she too felt disturbed.
‘Do let’s talk about something more cheerful,’ Clara said brightly. ‘And do eat some more, or Mabel and I will be eating curled-up sandwiches and stale scones for the next two days.’
The men left at five thirty, apologizing for outstaying their welcome. Both Clara and Mabel laughed, as they hadn’t enjoyed an afternoon so much for ages.
‘Do come again,’ Clara said. ‘Interesting, entertaining visitors have been rather thin on the ground for some time now.’
After the men had gone and Mabel was washing up the tea things, she said she was worried about Thomas thinking she was Clara’s companion.
Clara laughed. ‘For goodness’ sake, you silly goose. You are my companion, my friend, my everything, truth to tell! You may have come as a housekeeper, but you’ve kind of expanded into other roles.’
‘It’s lovely that you feel that way,’ Mabel said. ‘But a lady’s companion isn’t really classed as a servant, is she? Aren’t they usually a poor relation, or the daughter of an impoverished vicar?’
‘You’ve been reading too many Victorian novels!’ Clara snorted with laughter. ‘The world has moved on a bit since that sort of silliness. But if it is worrying you, next time you see him – and I’m sure that will be soon, judging by the way he was looking at you – he’s bound to ask how we met. Then you tell the truth, that a friend of mine met you in Bristol and told you I was looking for a housekeeper/companion. He can see for himself that I don’t see you as a servant! And I don’t think he’s the kind of man who is looking for an heiress. His family have enough money of their own. Also, he’s a lawyer.’
‘But what about me being married?’ Mabel could hardly bring herself to ask that question.
‘We worry about that when he proposes to you.’ Clara grinned, and when she saw how stricken Mabel looked, she roared with laughter.
‘That was a joke, really,’ she admitted. ‘He does like you, but perhaps not in that way. It may be the same for you too. So just enjoy getting to know him, and be happy. God knows, we could all do with a dose of that!’
15
June 1919
Mabel stood looking at the garden from the door of her little cottage, remembering how often she’d stood in this exact same place and watched Carsten working.
The memory of him had stopped hurting now. She wished their parting had been her seeing him on to a train to go home, leaving her with the consolation of how happy his family would be to have him back, instead of the hideous memory of his tragic death. But time was a great healer, as everyone always said. The pain had faded, first into a dull ache, but now she mostly recalled the happy times and smiled about him.
A reply had come from Carsten’s parents. Mabel had to take it to the camp to get it trans
lated. It was clear that, as devastated as they were by their son’s death, they had taken comfort from Mabel and Clara writing to them. Apparently, in his letters to them he’d said what a pleasant town Dorchester was, and how lucky he felt being allowed to work in Clara’s garden. He spoke of both her and Mabel in every letter home and said many times how sad he’d be to say goodbye to them when the time came to leave.
His parents thanked them both for looking after their son’s grave and gave special thanks to Mabel for nursing him through the flu. Many people they knew had died of it too, and life was exceedingly difficult now in Germany, with shortages of almost everything. They finished up by saying there would be a chasm in their family without Carsten; he was their first-born and they loved him so much. But they had received a letter of condolence from a senior officer who said he was a fine, brave soldier who had been held in high regard by the men he led.
The letter made Mabel cry again. She went up to Carsten’s grave with some flowers and sat there for an hour just remembering him. That day, she felt she’d never be happy again.
Yet Thomas and Michael had been responsible for changing that. Hardly a week went by without them inviting her and Clara to something. Yesterday it had just been an invitation to attend a flower show organized by one of their aunt’s friends. But there had been a couple of concerts, dinner twice with their Aunt Leticia, afternoon tea in the Black Cat tearooms, and walks too.
Clara had said she was going to turn down the next invitation, in the hope that Michael would bow out too and Mabel would have a chance to be alone with Thomas. But Mabel liked being with Clara and both the men; it was fun, with no awkward silences, and she’d got to know Thomas better.
She knew now that he liked to rebel against rules. He couldn’t stand stuffy people, he could eat absolutely anything, and he could play the violin. He said he played it badly, but Michael said that was nonsense. He liked cricket and had just joined the local team. He liked swimming too, and Mabel wondered whether he’d swim in the river with her one day. He liked adventure books – The Scarlet Pimpernel , White Fang and Sherlock Holmes – and said there was nothing he liked better than lying in a hammock in the sun with an exciting book.
She knew his last lady friend had been Hester, from Shaftesbury, who had an impeccable pedigree, but he said she was as dull as ditchwater. His parents had pushed him into it, and he went along with it. Hester found a new beau, though, just before he joined up. The new man was a farmer and was exempt from call-up. Thomas laughed as he told Mabel this. ‘I was glad to be getting away. I wondered how long it would take the new man to wish he would be called up too.’
There was an openness about Thomas; he didn’t ponder on things, just said what he felt. Mabel realized she was growing fond of him, and she had a feeling the only reason he was holding back with her was because of her widowed status. He had hardly asked her anything about Martin – or Peter, as she always called him, when speaking to other people. She was relieved about that, because she didn’t want to tell him any lies. It was bad enough living one.
Tonight, he had invited her to come alone with him to Borough Gardens, to listen to the band. That was far better than Clara engineering it. It would be lovely, as it was going to be a warm night, and people would dance to the band, too. She was going to wear her new dress that she’d made with material she’d bought in Bath; it was a dark blue, but sprigged with little white flowers, sober enough for half-mourning, but still pretty.
He said he wanted to celebrate with her, as he’d completed his two-month probationary period at Shaldon, Peacock and Grace, the law firm, and they had agreed to take him on permanently.
Right on the stroke of seven, Thomas called at Willow Cottage.
When she answered the door, he handed her a posy of flowers. ‘You look beautiful,’ he said. ‘You always do, but tonight especially so.’
‘You look rather handsome yourself,’ she said. His face was very tanned from the recent warm weather and he wore a cream linen jacket, navy trousers and a navy-and-cream spotted cravat, along with his panama hat. ‘You’ll be showing all the farmers up who come wearing their hairy tweed jackets and corduroy trousers.’
‘My aunt suggested I looked a bit too Parisian for Dorchester. I think that was a reproach. Maybe she wants me in hairy tweed too?’
‘Well, I don’t,’ Mabel said, before calling back to say goodbye to Clara, who was drawing in her studio.
As they left, Thomas tucked her hand into his arm, and they headed for the footpath by the river.
‘It’s good to be on our own for a change,’ he said.
‘Didn’t Michael want to come tonight?’
‘I didn’t ask him.’ Thomas grinned. ‘But he has got his eye on someone. Harriet Trott. Do you know her?’
Mabel shook her head.
‘Her father has his fingers in lots of pies. A couple of hotels, a building company, and property he rents out. Bit of a big-head, likes to show off. I don’t like him at all, but Harriet is rather sweet. I think she might be good for Michael. He likes goody-goody girls, and I know he really wants to marry and settle down.’
‘Nothing worse, though, than marrying someone with an overbearing parent,’ Mabel said, without thinking.
‘Did that happen to you?’ he asked.
‘Yes, my mother-in-law was a real shrew. But maybe Harriet’s father will keep his distance. And anyway, they are a long way off marrying, aren’t they?’
‘Have you thought any more about doing a little spirit raising?’ he asked.
‘I have been tempted by Michael’s broken watch,’ she admitted. ‘But I’m scared too. I don’t like the way it makes me lose control, so I don’t know what I’m saying.’
‘Yes, that would be somewhat daunting,’ he said. ‘Apparently, I was delirious when my leg got smashed. I was told afterwards I was saying all kinds of weird things. I just hoped I hadn’t revealed anything embarrassing.’
‘Have you got embarrassing secrets, then?’
‘Well, there is one current one.’
‘Go on, can you tell me?’
‘I think I’m falling in love with this beautiful and elusive redhead.’
That was the last thing Mabel had expected to hear and, worse still, he had turned her round so she was facing him. She knew she ought to lift her head up and say something. But what? She had no sharp retort, no joke or banter.
‘So, we are being even more elusive by not answering,’ he said. ‘You are a puzzle, Mabel, so bright, funny and competent, yet you hold so much back. Why is that?’
‘Right now, it’s because I don’t know what to say,’ she said, lifting her head to look at him. ‘I didn’t expect you to tell me something like that.’
‘Does that mean you don’t like to be told such a thing?’
‘No, it is very flattering. But –’ She stopped, unable to explain.
‘Too soon?’ he asked. ‘But Mabel, I’ve been seeing you every few days for nearly three months. I think about you when I wake up, I go to sleep thinking of you. I can never wait to see you. I know you like being with me too, I feel it.’
‘I do like being with you,’ she admitted. ‘Very much. I’ve been so happy since we met.’
‘You weren’t happy before?’
‘They were troubled times, with the war and the Spanish flu. But there’s so much about me that you don’t know. I’m not of your class, for a start.’
All at once, he had his hands either side of her face and he lifted it up tenderly to kiss her. Just a light touch on the lips at first, as if to stop her protest, but then his arms went right around her, and he was kissing her with such passion she couldn’t help but be swept away by it.
A glorious, wonderful kiss that started a tingle at the tip of her toes, then ran up throughout her body to her head. She knew then she was lost, in more ways than one. It was as if her whole life had been spent waiting for this one moment.
Footsteps and chatter further along the riverbank
made them separate, but Mabel couldn’t let go of his hand, it felt too good in hers. She started to giggle like a schoolgirl, and Thomas laughed too, and the middle-aged couple who passed them looked at them curiously.
It was the best of nights; the warm, gentle breeze, the beauty of the park with its pretty flower beds, and the band playing numbers like ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’, ‘Anytime Is Kissing Time’ and ‘After You’ve Gone’. Everyone around them was dancing. Some couples were trying to fit ballroom dances to the music, but the vast majority were just happily jigging about, with their arms wrapped around one another.
‘I don’t want this night to end,’ Thomas whispered in Mabel’s ear. ‘I want to kiss you till the dawn comes creeping over the hill, then take you home, kissing you all the way.’
But they did go home, not at dawn but soon after ten, as the light was fading fast. The riverbank wasn’t a good place to walk in darkness.
‘There’s a full moon tonight,’ Thomas said when Mabel urged him to leave her and go home. ‘Besides, what sort of cad would let his girl walk home alone along a riverbank?’
‘Am I your girl?’ she asked.
‘I do hope so, after kissing me like that,’ he said, stopping to kiss her yet again.
Later, when Mabel was in her bed, with the window open so she could hear the wading birds on the river and the owls, she felt too happy to think seriously about where this might end. She had loved Martin, but his kisses had never made her feel the way Thomas’s did. As for Carsten, she’d never found out what his kisses were like; perhaps some of his attraction for her was because she knew in her heart of hearts that it could never be. Maybe that’s what he’d meant when he said, ‘I cannot be what you want me to be.’
Clara was all agog the next morning, unusually rising soon after eight, while Mabel was riddling the range. ‘Well, how did it go?’ she asked eagerly, dark eyes shining. ‘Have you got anything to tell me?’
You'll Never See Me Again Page 20