The Clouded Land

by Mary Mackie

  But I didn’t entirely believe it. Instinct told me there had been something odd about the man, standing there so still, so close to the line, watching the train. He had looked at me, as if he knew me. As if he were trying to convey some message…

  We drew in under the wooded rise of the first hill, to pause briefly at Snettisham station, between beach and village, with the storm rolling ever closer. From there, the railway curved round the hill, heading across sandy wastes of gorse and ling, closer to the sea. Half of the water gleamed blue; the rest mimicked black clouds which now hung close above the cutting that drove through the lowest slopes of Denes Hill.

  Landward, the curve of the ridge sheltered the horseshoe-shaped valley where lay the village of Eveningham, red and grey roofs among trees, with the squat tower of the church presiding from its place halfway up the ridge. On gentle slopes around the village, harvest was in progress – I could make out a horse-drawn sail reaper sweeping through the crop, and small figures binding sheaves, setting them in stooks with a sense of urgency. Even as I watched, the approaching storm drew a shadow across the harvest field, shutting off the sun, threatening the ungathered acres.

  Denes Hill was darkened, too.

  For the first time in hours I thought of my grandfather, and was stricken by unease. What if he were really ill? Perhaps dying? What if he really had asked for me? I should be ashamed for coming so grudgingly.

  Strange, how memory came back in fragments, sharpening into focus like pictures in a magic lantern show as I drew closer to those scenes of childhood. The house, the people, the dark, secret woods; family picnics on the beach in summer, and looking for birds’ eggs and wild flowers; cold winter mornings stuck in the schoolroom with slow Tom and clever, spiteful Vicky… The glimpses were all strung together by a ragged thread of unhappiness. I had felt unwanted – even by my own mother.

  The newspaper rattled noisily as my companion folded it and tossed it aside. After a moment, he cleared his throat, making me look at him again.

  ‘Before we arrive,’ he said, ‘I’d like, if I may, to give you some advice. You will probably consider that it’s not my place, but since your mother and stepfather gave you into my keeping I am, in effect, in loco parentis, and so…’

  ‘Yes?’ What was he trying to say?

  ‘Katarin… Kate… Forgive me, but… I think you might be wise not to insist on being known as “Miss von Wurthe”. As you may have gathered, people of German extraction are somewhat suspect in England at the moment. It will be difficult enough for you to go about and meet people, unless you curb that accent you’ve developed.’

  ‘Accent?’ I was genuinely surprised.

  ‘Are you unaware of it? My dear girl… Your English is good – of course it is – but you have acquired a pronounced guttural inflection which makes you sound like a foreigner. And, if you don’t mind my saying so, a more pleasant demeanour wouldn’t go amiss. If you’re going to treat your family to sullen silences and icy disdain…’

  I stared at him, hurt and disbelief robbing me of words. Yes, I did mind his offering such advice, as if I were a child to be reprimanded. I already felt lost and alone. How could I be ‘pleasant’ when my whole life was being upturned?

  Before I could find a coherent reply, the train sighed into the halt at Eveningham. Mr Wells opened the door to climb down to the platform, offering me his hand.

  I refused it, saying, ‘I can manage, thank you.’

  Descending, unable to look at him, I saw the line ahead disappearing into a cutting, among woods that spread thickly up a slope which, here, was steep, showing outcrops of weathered red carrstone. I was only minutes away from a reunion with my English family.

  Lightning and a long, tumbling drum roll of thunder accompanied the banging of the train’s door behind us. The light had faded to dull copper-grey and stinging dust swirled up on a wind that brought a scent of rain. In the station yard, a horse and cart waited for us. The driver seemed nervous, anxious to be on his way before the storm broke.

  ‘They din’t say nothin’ about passengers,’ he complained. ‘I was given to understand as how somebody else would fetch you, sir. That old cart en’t very comfortable for a lady.’

  ‘Well, it’ll have to do,’ said my escort.

  However, just as the man was loading the last trunk, a large open-topped motor car, magnificent with silver paintwork and silver-plate fittings under a film of dust, roared into the yard. Trailing a choking cloud of yet more dust, it slewed round to halt beside me amid a spattering of small stones. As the dust cleared, my uncle, Frank Rhys-Thomas, grinned up at me, doffing his battered Panama as he leapt out of the car. He reminded me of a grasshopper, long legs in ancient cricket trousers worn with a loose, paint-stained shirt.

  ‘Kate!’ he cried, enveloping me in a bear hug before holding me at arm’s length to look at me critically. He was in his early thirties, an attractive though not handsome man. In a tanned face framed by a tangled mane of dark-gold waves so long they fell over his shapeless collar, slate-blue eyes had narrowed with concern. ‘You look terrible,’ he informed me bluntly. ‘What on earth have they done to you, girl?’

  ‘Oh… Uncle Frank, I’m so glad to see you!’ Feeling like a lost child suddenly finding a friend, I threw my arms around him, leaning my cheek to his strong shoulder. He smelled of linseed, and musk, and fresh sea air.

  ‘You, too,’ he muttered in my ear, his arms hardening momentarily as if to tell me he understood.

  Recovering, remembering my dignity and my manners, I eased away, asking dutifully, ‘How is Grandfather?’

  ‘Holding his own. He seemed a little better when I saw him earlier.’

  ‘Then… he is ill?’

  ‘A matter of days, they say. But come on, girl, let’s get you home. You must be tired.’

  He swept open the low door of the tourer and gestured me inside. The car was amply big enough for four or five people, but the wide back seat was littered with painting paraphernalia – canvases and paints, brushes, rags, an easel thrown in at an ungainly angle, the whole roughly covered by a rumpled linen jacket.

  ‘I was down on the beach – a fishing boat went aground and I was trying to draw them refloating her,’ my uncle said as he came loping round to the driver’s side. ‘Quite forgot I’d promised to meet you until I heard the train coming and then I just tossed everything in the jalopy.’ As if remembering that I was not alone, he glanced across the car to where Mr Wells was standing, adding, ‘Sorry, old man. You won’t mind riding with the carter, will you? It will be slower, but just as sure. I’ll tell them you’re on your way. Must get my niece home before the storm hits.’

  He climbed over his door, put the car in gear, and we were off, leaving an irritated Oliver Wells waving his hat at our dust.

  ‘We could have cleared a space for him,’ I called above the roar of the motor as we careered through the gate and into the lane. ‘He’ll get soaked.’

  Uncle Frank grinned at me, yelling back, ‘Well, he won’t melt, he’s not made of sugar. Let’s see if we can outrun the rain. We’ll take the short cut. Bumpy, but much quicker. Hold on to your hat, girl.’

  Midway to the village, he turned on to a rutted farm track, iron-hard after weeks of drought. Ahead of us lay the hill, wooded and dark under lowering clouds, branches swept by the strengthening wind. The track forked, the left-hand branch leading past a pond and huge barns to an old farmhouse with low thatched roof and many chimneys, set back among sheltering trees. We took the right fork, between tall thorn hedges, bucketing over ridges that shook the car and rattled my teeth. A plume of dust rose behind us, and huge drops of rain spat down, harbingers of the storm. The clouds had all but covered the sky, turning the day to dusk. As we climbed the hill I could see the surface of the sea churned into choppy waves, the far shore obscured behind a mist of rain.

  ‘Christ!’ said my uncle.

  A man had stepped out from the hedge ahead, a bulky, bristle-chinned figure in shapeless
hat and weatherproof cape, corduroys gartered by string at his knees. He held a shotgun levelled at our windscreen.

  I ducked instinctively. The car squealed and swerved to avoid the man, throwing me into the door as we hit the verge with a force that jolted my bones. For a moment I feared we might topple. Level with my ear, I heard a dog barking and when I looked I saw its snarling muzzle and wicked teeth as it raced beside us. Boom! The shot half deafened me, but nothing seemed to be hit. We were past the man. Wrestling with the wheel, my uncle regained the track. He was swearing loud and colourfully, his foot on the accelerator making the car leap forward. Behind us, seen through rising dust, our assailant stood straddled, the shotgun aimed over us. Boom! The second cartridge exploded.

  ‘He’s shooting over our heads!’ I shouted.

  ‘I know!’ Frank answered in kind. ‘Blasted madman!’

  The dog was still barking, snapping close by our rear wheel. But we were coming to the edge of open woodland, oak, ash and birch trees growing in copses on the slope, with a few darker pines and shrubby underbrush. The track led between brick gateposts bearing a sign reading ‘Private Property. Denes Hill. Trespassers will be prosecuted’. To my relief, the dog stopped at the gateway as if it knew that it must not come further. Behind it, the figure of its master was lost behind the trees as they closed round us.

  The track headed round the hill, through a tunnel of branches that made the light even worse.

  ‘Who was that man?’ I cried. ‘He tried to kill us!’

  Frank shook his head, grimly amused. ‘Not even Mad Jack would be so stupid. He was trying to scare us, that’s all. Lying in wait for me… Crazy old buzzard!’

  ‘But who is he? Why did he—’

  ‘Why?’ His eyes gleamed. ‘You may well ask. Who knows why a madman does anything? He’s an old enemy, Kate. Farmer Jack Farcroft. An old troll lurking under our hill to play havoc whenever we use this short cut. Take my advice and stay well clear of him.’ He took his eyes off the track to afford me a grin, saying, ‘Though not even Mad Jack would want to harm a lovely young thing like you.’

  Distracted by the compliment, I pulled a face. ‘I’m the ugly duckling. Compared to Mother—’

  ‘Compared to your mother’s delicate, porcelain prettiness, you were an ugly duckling, once,’ he said. ‘But don’t you remember what happens when ugly ducklings grow up?’

  ‘Some of them grow into ugly ducks.’

  ‘Some do,’ he agreed with a laugh. ‘But take it from me, Kate, you’re becoming a swan. With your fine skin against that dark hair, and that willowy slenderness… You’re tall, but you carry yourself well. Your bone structure is wonderful. And those eyes… Such a lovely, luminous ice-blue. Cool, but with the promise of warmth… You’re not just pretty, girl. You’re turning into a beauty.’

  ‘Not in this outfit,’ I said, feeling my face burn as I plucked at my sailor collar.

  ‘That’s surface trimmings. And whose choice was it? Your mother’s – yes, I thought so. Clara never did like competition. Don’t be so gauche, Kate. You must learn how to take compliments. If you knew me better, you’d know that I don’t say such things unless I mean them. I’d like to paint you. Will you sit for me?’

  ‘Oh… Uncle Frank, no! I even hate having my photograph taken. A portrait would be just too much.’

  Horribly flattered and embarrassed, I turned away and adjusted my hat in an effort to get more shelter from the rain which by then was falling steadily. It was some minutes before my confusion subsided enough for me to wonder if Frank had deliberately changed the subject to stop me from asking any more about ‘Mad Jack’ Farcroft.

  Emerging from the wood, we approached the rear of the solid Victorian mansion which my grandfather had bought with his profits from industry. It faced several acres of heathland, on the plateau atop the promontory, and was built of the local red carrstone. I remembered great bays at the front framing a broad stone stair which led up to the terrace and the main reception rooms on the first floor, but here at the rear it was plainer, with gardens and yards spreading out behind.

  The rain became a deluge, accompanied by thunder and lightning. Just in time, we drove into the shelter of what had once been a stable. There we waited for an easing in the downpour before we ran across the yard and up a flight of narrow steps to a side entrance.

  Shadows crowded the narrow hall, among hooks bulging with old coats and macintoshes, hats of all descriptions, with water boots and galoshes scattered on the floor. Shaking wet drops from my skirts and shoulders, I unpinned my boater and patted my piled hair into shape, feeling it loose in places around the pads that lent width. Limp strands fell round my face and neck. I was sure I looked a fright. If I encountered Grandmother while I was in that state…

  ‘You look fine!’ Uncle Frank assured me, taking my arm to urge me towards the lighter spaces of an inner hallway which connected with the kitchens and service areas. ‘Let’s go and see who’s about. I’m surprised they weren’t watching for us. Oh… Annie, where is everyone?’

  A maidservant of uncertain vintage had appeared on the service stairs, wearing a white lacy cap like a doyly on thin greying hair scraped into a bun. She might have been anything from forty to sixty. Her eyes were red from weeping, one of them turned in, so that she appeared to be looking in two directions at once. Seeing us, she paused, turning her swollen eyes on Frank, screwing her apron with her hands as her mouth worked in distress.

  ‘Oh, Mr Frank!’ she got out. ‘Where have you now been? He’s been asking for you. “Where’s Frank?” he say. “Fetch him to me right quick.”’

  My heart seemed to stop as I felt Frank go still. ‘Father?’ he managed.

  More tears bloomed in her eyes and she dried them with her apron. ‘He was took sadly about lunchtime. They’re all up there with him. And the doctor. Oh, I don’t know what your poor mother’ll do, that I don’t.’

  Giving me one swift glance, Frank grabbed my hand and all but dragged me up the stairs into a broad vestibule from which opened three of the reception rooms. Across the grandly furnished saloon, with its chandelier, its Adam fireplace, and its classical bronzes, lay another hallway from which the main staircase angled up to the second floor.

  My grandparents’ private suite filled the end of the south wing. I did not recall being allowed through that door before, but Frank flung it open and took me with him into a sitting room, where a thin, middle-aged man in butler’s dress was in the act of closing a final shutter, as if to bar the storm from a house where death hovered.

  Oil lamps with white glass shades sat on side tables, their light fanning up walls hung with watered silk of a pale sea-blue. Mirrors gave an illusion of space, reflecting a collection of watercolours, white porcelain, and spindly furniture. Thunder rattled at window frames, rain lashed down glass, and the wind found tiny cracks, reaching through to shake long striped drapes in that same delicate blue and white.

  ‘Mr Frank!’ the butler greeted. ‘Thank goodness! Your father—’

  ‘I know,’ Frank said quietly. ‘It’s all right, Billing. Finish what you’re doing. We’ll just go quietly in.’

  Wishing myself anywhere else, I hung behind as my uncle crossed the room to a door where he paused, took a breath, and slowly, soundlessly, turned the porcelain knob. The opening door revealed a cavelike darkness lit by a score of dancing candle-flames. Some were arranged along the foot of the bed, others on tables, another row above the hearth where a fire burned low. Every time thunder rolled, the candles seemed to quiver in response. I could hear a woman softly weeping and, as my eyes adjusted, I discerned shadowy figures grouped on either side of a carved four-poster hung with tasselled red silk. Candlelight glowed on strained faces, all of them concentrating on the man in the bed. I remember wondering cynically who had staged it all so carefully, for full dramatic effect.

  Since I was behind Frank, no one noticed me at first. Several of the people in the room spoke his name, relieved that he had come, and
a woman’s voice bade him, ‘Frank! Come here! Come and speak to him before it’s too late.’

  Her voice seemed to stir the dying man. He muttered, ‘Who? Who’s there?’

  ‘It’s Frank, my dear,’ his wife answered. ‘Your son Frank. He’s come to say goodbye.’

  As my uncle moved to the right of the bed, I saw there the diminutive figure of my maternal grandmother, holding out her hands to greet him. She looked just as I remembered her – just like a picture Mother had – small, neat and imperious, dressed in black with a touch of white at the neck, with her iron-grey hair dressed in piled waves and around her long throat an Alexandra band of black velvet on which she had pinned a brooch of jet.

  A pulse beat in my throat, making it hard to breathe. The room was airless, hot from the fire. A cloying smell of some kind of rubbing oil reminded me of the room where my own father had lain, sick and old, when I was very young. But this was different. I shouldn’t be here. My presence was an intrusion. Yet, if Grandfather had asked for me…

  Uncle Frank knelt by the bed, holding his father’s hand and speaking quietly to him. Watching, mesmerized, I wondered if that emaciated being could really be the tall, portly, red-faced Grandfather I remembered. He had been a terrifying figure, who seldom looked down to notice the insignificant child cowering away from his heavy step. This was the man who had fathered a large family, made a fortune by the sweat of his own brow, earned a name in local politics and won a knighthood granted by Queen Victoria in the year of her Diamond Jubilee. Now, this same man lay helpless under neatly folded covers, flat on his back with his eyes closed, so wasted that he already resembled a corpse. His great beak of a nose stuck out like a granite outcrop from a rock face and he was breathing through his mouth, air whistling and gargling in his lungs. Everyone else was silent, hardly breathing, except for the woman who sniffled into a handkerchief.