The Clouded Land

by Mary Mackie

  I remembered Miss Yearling pointing out landmarks and recounting the area’s history – she had had a passion for more ancient days, when woad-dyed warriors roamed these hills under Boadicea’s command. She had told us that the Eveningham valley had once been a bay of the sea, with the ridge forming the shoreline – an image that had terrified me. During high winter tides I had been afraid that the sea might rush back and reclaim the valley. The notion had given me nightmares.

  But then, my childhood had been laced with nightmares.

  Photographs crowding on the walls of the sanctum provided endless nostalgia, especially those from the turn of the century, when Mother and I had been among the groups – she the beauty of the young adults and I one of the children, small and plain in my pinafore, with lank dark hair hanging under a floppy sun-bonnet. In summer the house had swarmed with friends of my uncles: cricket matches, croquet parties, tea on the lawn and days at the beach. Happy occasions, recorded for ever by the camera.

  Among them, I sought out one particular face – my lost uncle, John. I found him in many of the older group pictures and also photographed on his own – here in mortar board and graduand’s robes, there in riding breeches with a horse, and elsewhere dripping wet on a pebble beach, wearing a clinging dark bathing dress, with a big grin on his face. Just as I had seen him on the marshes. Except for the grin. He hadn’t been smiling as he waited for my train to pass.

  A sceptic would, no doubt, have told me that I had seen the picture when I was young and that I had grafted the memory on to the view of the marshes as my train approached Denes Hill. But I knew I hadn’t imagined seeing him. John had been there, waiting for me to come by, though I had yet to find out his reasons.

  There would be reasons. There always are.

  John had been the oldest boy, but not the oldest child – my mother was the oldest, born just seven minutes before her twin.

  Just as I was trying to recall what she had said about John, Emmet’s cheery voice came floating up the stairwell, calling to Frank, ‘Have you seen the elbee?’ At least, that’s how it sounded, however nonsensical, but then Emmet was a great one for making up words and using slang.

  Frank answered sharply, to which Emmet replied, ‘Oops! Right, I’ll go up and find her,’ and he came thumping up the stairs, two at a time, grinning at me. ‘So this is where you’re hiding. Again. You don’t strike me as the jigsaw-puzzle sort. Is it the ripping views that bring you up here? Or the fact that it’s miles away from the rest of us?’

  ‘Don’t you ever stop?’ I asked with a sigh.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ragging. Poking fun. You always were a horrible boy – pulling pigtails and leaving dead mice in girls’ beds.’ Emmet laughed and threw himself down on a window seat. ‘I’d forgotten about that.’

  ‘I hadn’t.’

  Attention caught by a chess board where a game was half played, he reached out and thoughtfully moved an ivory pawn. ‘I wouldn’t blame you for hiding away. The house is hardly fizzing at the moment. Must be a jolly bore. Pater would have hated it. “Don’t mourn over me,” he said. “Have a wake, like the Irish do. Get drunk and tell muddy jokes.”’

  ‘Emmet!’

  He looked up, blue eyes wide and ingenuous in a face that was beardless and almost girlishly pretty. ‘It’s true! I heard him say it to Frank. He wouldn’t have said it to the Mater, of course – this fearful solemnity is all for her benefit. Mater believes in doing the done thing. But I expect you know that.’ With which he frowned down at the chessmen.

  Going to stand by him, I took over the ebony pieces, immediately threatening his queen. ‘How should I know it?’

  ‘Clara must have told you. She rocked the boat. Did the thing not done.’

  ‘By marrying my stepfather?’

  ‘Um.’ But he was more interested in the board, rubbing his chin and pondering his next move.

  ‘Because he’s German?’

  ‘Probably.’ He looked up again, serious now. ‘What is that crazy Kaiser of yours up to? What a jackanapes! Strutting about in those fancy uniforms with that silly moustache… It’ll take more than threat and bluster to beat our chaps, when the time comes.’

  ‘Complacency may be your undoing!’ I retorted – it was what Berliners said of England, that she was too sure of herself. ‘The German army is the best fighting unit in the world. If we’re backed into a corner—’

  ‘We?’ Emmet’s fair brows shot skyward in surprise.

  I didn’t know how to answer him. If war came, whose side would I be on? ‘Oh… Let’s not talk about it. Please God, it will never happen. Look… it’s checkmate for black in two more moves. Who were you playing with?’

  ‘Myself. No one else plays. Well, Frank does a bit, but he’s not really…’ He glowered at the board, trying to work it out. ‘Two moves? Where?’

  So I showed him. Much to his disgust, I was right.

  ‘We must play a proper game some day,’ Emmet said, stretching. ‘Just look at that gorgeous sunshine. Cricketing weather if ever I saw it. And us under curfew until after the jollities next Monday. No wonder Pater looks so pot-faced, lying there in his box. He loved cricket. Still… we must contain ourselves in doleful patience, to please the Mater.’

  ‘Don’t you care that your father’s dead?’ I asked, finding his constant levity distasteful.

  As he looked at me, I saw the answer in his eyes – yes, he cared a good deal. ‘He’s been horribly ill for ages, Kate. Going downhill every day. Losing all his dignity. Isn’t he better off where he is?’

  ‘I suppose… In heaven, you mean?’

  ‘Zeus, no! I don’t believe in any of that old tosh. Do you?’

  I hesitated, then said quietly, ‘Oh, yes. I know it’s true.’

  ‘Oh, do come along, Katie B! Nobody but a fool would claim he knows about all that. I thought you were a modern thinker. When you die, that’s an end of it. Dark, blissful nothing. Eternal rest. It’s the only logical ending.’

  ‘If you say so,’ I replied, knowing it useless to argue with him. ‘Now, tell me, since you’re here… this photograph… who is…’

  Studying the pictures on the walls, we picked out faces and he named them for me, though there were some whom neither of us could identify.

  Apart from the group pictures, individual studies showed the seven Rhys-Thomas children in early adulthood. The family resemblance showed clear – the long Rhys-Thomas nose from Grandfather’s side, the stubborn chin that was pure Thorne, from Grandmother. The pictures were mostly in sepia tones, of course, but in reality the family all had fair hair, varying shades from Emmet’s pure gold to Victoria’s strawberry-blond, with deeply blue eyes, dark like slate or vivid as summer skies. That was another thing that marked me out as different: all I had inherited from Mother, in looks, was the shape of my chin; the rest of me must be Brand, straight dark hair and eyes of a blue so pale they were almost colourless.

  ‘There were eight of us,’ Emmet said, ‘but baby Pearl, who’s here on the Mater’s knee, died when she was two. Then John went, of course. We nearly lost Harry, too. He was badly wounded in South Africa, fighting the Boers, you know. That’s why he’s so thin – only got half a stomach left, poor old chap.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Now that he mentioned it, I did remember being told about Harry. However, looking at the picture of my uncle John in his student’s robe, I was surprised to find no memory of him. ‘What happened to John?’

  From the corner of his eye, Emmet shot me a guarded look. ‘He drowned.’

  ‘Well, yes, I know that. But how, exactly?’

  ‘It happened in the summer of nineteen-oh-one. That long, hot summer. The year the old Queen died. We were on the beach nearly every day. The royal grandchildren all came down to Sandringham. We played beach cricket with them. We had tea at their bungalow. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Of course.’ Memories of the two summers I had spent in Norfolk had blended into one long blue and gold blur. Paddling
in tiny wavelets over crinkled sand, picking cockles for tea, grey pebbles hard under small soft feet, sand sifting between my toes. And behind me the adults on the dunes, picnic hampers and tartan rugs, blowing ribbons and chiffon skirts, laughing and chatting. My beautiful mother, in her late twenties then, wearing a huge straw hat to protect her complexion, surrounded by adoring men… Of course I remembered.

  Emmet’s blue gaze perused my face with puzzlement. ‘John was swimming right out near the deep channel, with some of the other men. And then a sea fret swept up, and John got cramp. No one on the beach realized he was in trouble, because of the mist. Oliver Wells, who was nearest, tried to save him, but…’ He peered at me disbelievingly. ‘Don’t you remember any of it?’

  ‘Why…’ I tried, but nothing remained of that day. ‘No. Nothing. I can’t have been there.’

  ‘Oh, of course you were! You were paddling on your own, lost in your usual dream world. You’d wandered quite a long way out – you remember how shallow it is for miles when the tide’s low. When the mist came up, it swallowed you and your mother got anxious and went looking for you. You must remember!’

  Irritated by his insistence – and by the lacuna that had, apparently, blanked part of my memory – I snapped, ‘Well, I don’t! And neither would you, I dare say, if you hadn’t heard your family talk about it a hundred times since. I don’t recall Mother ever mentioning it. She hardly ever talks about John. I expect the memories are too painful.’

  His face seemed to close up, as if a new thought had darkened the picture. ‘Oh,’ he said flatly. ‘Of course.’

  ‘And what does that mean?’ I cried. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t all be so unkind about my mother. Are you surprised she wants to forget such an awful tragedy? John was her twin.’

  ‘And she hated him!’

  Feeling as if he had slapped me, I stiffened and drew back. What on earth did he mean?

  ‘Emmet…’ Uncle Frank’s low voice came from the doorway. ‘That’s enough. Go and find Tom. Tell him it’s time to wash for luncheon.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Right.’ Sliding me a shamefaced look, Emmet hurried away as if glad to escape.

  ‘My brilliant little brother talks too much,’ Frank said with a wry smile that didn’t reach his eyes – his glance was appraising, and concerned. ‘He only knows what he’s been told. Stories get exaggerated, you know, and with your mother not being here to defend herself…’

  ‘I’m beginning to see why she chose to stay away,’ I said bitterly. ‘They seem to have made her the scapegoat for everything. What did she do, Uncle Frank?’

  He rubbed his cheek, smearing a spot of bright yellow paint as he came to stand beside me and gaze out to the sea. ‘She was young and foolish. Perhaps they expected too much of her. It’s not important, Kate. It’s all so long ago. Tell you what – why don’t you and I get away for a few hours tomorrow? I need to see Harry. You could do some shopping, and get acquainted with your aunt Saffron. She’d probably be glad of some feminine company at present.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The, er, “happy event” is expected soon, I believe.’

  ‘Oh!’ Saffron was pregnant? I had thought she was merely fat!

  ‘So we’ll do that, shall we?’ he said. ‘Jolly good. Now I’d better go and get some of this paint off before luncheon. See you later, old girl.’

  Once again, though I was some while in realizing it, he had adroitly sidestepped an uncomfortable subject. No one was prepared to tell me exactly what sin my mother was supposed to have committed.

  Four

  After breakfast next morning, Grandmother sent Annie to me with a dust coat to go over my mourning and a veil to wrap around my black hat, to protect it and my face, before Frank and I went down to the stable yard where he kept his Silver Ghost. Someone had polished the car, leaving the silver plate and paintwork gleaming. Watched by an envious Emmet and Tom, who had been refused permission to join us, I ran admiring fingers over the high-arched mudguard. ‘She really is a beauty.’

  ‘Best car in the world.’ Frank allowed me to sit in the driving seat while he cranked the engine into life, and then he climbed over the passenger door and settled beside me, offering me his driving goggles. ‘Well, put her in gear, girl!’ he answered my look of astonishment. ‘You told Emmet you could drive.’

  The mechanics were a little different from Willi’s Benz, but I managed to set off without entirely making a fool of myself. We took the ‘long way’ round, avoiding the disputed short cut across Farcroft acres.

  After a few days’ drying, the road was in good condition. Soon we were taking the fork down into Eveningham village, past a row of shops and cottages and on down the lane towards the station.

  Just after we passed the Farcroft farm, ancient and comfortable behind its barns and duck pond, I had to toot the horn to warn a male pedestrian out of our way – I could hardly see in those goggles. Unfortunately, the movement caused me to lose control of the wheel and the car veered to the right. The man leapt aside, on to the overgrown verge, where he stumbled and nearly fell into the hedge. I heard him shout some angry epithet, but I was too busy avoiding a rut to look at him. Beside me, Frank laughed uproariously. ‘Nearly got him!’

  In the station yard, where we covered the car in case of rain, we heard the train whistle as it entered the far end of the cutting. We had time to buy our tickets and walk on to the platform just as the engine sighed to a halt. Touching his cap, a porter opened the door to an empty first-class carriage. ‘Morning, Mr Rhys-Thomas, sir.’

  ‘Morning, Playford,’ said my uncle, following me into the carriage. I sat by the door, facing the engine, unwrapping my dust veil and arranging it in elegant folds about my shoulders.

  Just as Frank settled beside me, running footsteps brought another passenger to the door – the same young man who had been hurrying in the lane. He had obviously broken into a run after we passed him, for he was gasping for breath, his face red and shiny with perspiration. His tweeds sat on his rangy frame in dishevelled fashion and mud smeared his shiny brown boots. One foot on the high step, he saw us and stopped, every line of him saying that he wished he had chosen another door. But, visibly squaring his shoulders, instead of turning away he stepped up to join us. He took the far corner seat, where he resettled his jacket and ran his fingers through curly nut-brown hair before twisting his cap between work-hardened hands, all the while staring out of the window away from us. I could see a muscle working in his jaw, as if he were grinding his teeth.

  A slam of doors, a shrill whistle, a flutter of green flag, and the engine took a deep breath and shook out her couplings before gathering her carriages behind her like so many chicks.

  ‘You should have flagged us down, old chap,’ my uncle remarked to our companion as we drew out of the station. ‘We could have given you a ride.’

  The young man flashed him a cool glance. ‘I made it without your help, thanks all the same.’ His voice was surprisingly deep and cultured and his eyes slid to me, a swift, assessing look that said he was curious despite himself.

  ‘Let me introduce you,’ Frank offered. ‘Kate, this is our neighbour, Philip Farcroft. Farcroft, my niece, Miss Catherine Brand.’

  ‘Von Wurthe,’ I corrected, nodding at the young man. ‘Katarin von Wurthe. How do you do. I must apologize, please, if we startled you on the road. I did not realize the horn was quite so loud.’

  His expression didn’t lighten in response to the apology, though he said, ‘It was probably my fault. I’m sorry if I said anything that—’

  ‘Whatever it was,’ Frank put in, ‘we didn’t hear it, did we, Kate?’

  ‘Just as well,’ the man murmured darkly, his eyes still on me. Whoever he was, I didn’t care for his manners.

  He appeared to be in his early twenties, a tall, lean man, broad of shoulder and long of limb, with big hands and feet and a bony face, deeply tanned. He had a tough, strong look about him, as if he was used to hard work in the open air. Yet he spoke li
ke an educated man. That deep, mellifluous voice…

  When we reached Lynn, Frank and I alighted first, and, as Philip Farcroft passed us, he touched his cap to me in farewell: ‘Miss von Wurthe,’ and made off along the platform with a long, loping stride that carried him rapidly out of sight. At least he pronounced my name correctly, I thought.

  ‘He’s smitten,’ said Frank with a twinkle. ‘I bet he’s kicking himself for using such muddy language after you tried to run him down.’

  ‘I didn’t—’ I began hotly, and decided not to rise to his bait. ‘Anyway, that’s not the impression I had.’

  ‘So why did he sit in our carriage, if not to have a good look at you?’

  ‘Stubborn pride – he wasn’t going to give us the satisfaction of actually seeing him deliberately avoid us, however much he wanted to.’

  Frank was laughing at me. ‘You like him too!’

  ‘My heart is safely under lock and key elsewhere,’ I informed him loftily. ‘Do I assume Philip Farcroft is related to the “troll who lurks under our hill”? What is he – grandson?’

  ‘Son. By a second marriage.’ He took my arm, turning me towards the exit. ‘Not such a bad chap, when all’s said and done. It can’t be easy for him, living with Mad Jack.’ He was making allowances, seeing the other man’s point of view, as was his wont. But I kept recalling a pair of marsh-green eyes alight with antagonism. It seemed to me that Philip Farcroft disliked us just as much as his father did.