by Mary Mackie
‘My skin was yellow when I was born and my father… well, he had an odd sense of humour. I should be grateful he didn’t call me Crocus.’
‘Or Sunflower,’ said Frank. ‘Or how about Turmeric?’
We were still laughing when the maid appeared to inform Harry that he had a visitor. ‘He says it’s important, sir.’
‘Damn it!’ Harry muttered. ‘Sorry, my dears. I knew I should have stayed at the works. This is probably…’ Half out of his chair, he stopped as he saw the figure in the doorway, tall and broad, formally dressed in dark suit and stiff collar, carrying a briefcase. ‘Oh, it’s you, Wells,’ he said as he dropped back into his seat.
I sensed a sudden barrier go up around the table, then Saffron was saying brightly, ‘Why, Oliver!’
The solicitor strode out to join us, apologizing, ‘Forgive me, I had no idea you were still at luncheon. I could come back if—’
‘No need for that,’ Saffron replied, all gracious hostess. ‘We’ve finished eating, we were just talking. Come and join us. Have a glass of gingerade. Or would you prefer a cup of coffee?’
‘Thank you. A glass of something cool would be welcome. I wanted a word with Harry – and you, too, Frank, since you’re here. I’ve been out to the factory, but…’
Sliding out of my chair, I suggested, ‘Take my seat, Mr Wells.’
After a surprised glance at my face, his gaze leapt with renewed interest over the rest of me, as if he had only just realized who I was.
‘Yes, what a good idea,’ Saffron agreed. ‘Kate and I will have coffee indoors. Then you gentlemen can talk in peace. Kate, dear…’ She held out a hand and I helped her up, allowing her to lean on me as we made our way back into the breakfast room. ‘Take this hat for me, would you? Toss it on that table for now, Maisie will see to it. I think we’ll stay in here. It’s cool when the sun’s gone round, and I’m comfortable on this couch.’
Was it only coincidence that from the chaise-longue she had a clear view of the table where the three men were now sitting? She chatted amiably to me, but her mind and her gaze kept sliding away and her eyes were narrowed as she watched the scene in the garden.
We couldn’t hear what the men were saying but it was plain that some argument was ensuing. Oliver Wells’s overtures were being met with strong resistance. Harry sat stiffly, now and then shaking his head in negation, while Frank lounged in his chair, arms folded and one foot crossed on the opposite knee, his face a mask, his eyes hooded.
‘Uncle Frank doesn’t like Mr Wells much, does he?’ I said.
‘None of us does. Lawyers!’ She flapped at a hovering fly and reached for a fan lying by her couch, using it to cool her face. ‘He behaves as if he were one of the family, and Lady Vi encourages him in it. The trouble is, the old man put a lot of faith in him – too much, Harry says. Harry thinks Oliver has his fingers too deep in the pie. Knows too much, d’you know what I mean?’
‘Isn’t it part of a lawyer’s job to know all his client’s business?’
Saffron looked as if she hadn’t thought of that. ‘I suppose so. But Harry says… oh, I’m not sure I understand it myself. They just don’t like him and that’s all there is to it.’
‘But didn’t he risk his life, trying to rescue Uncle John?’
‘Oh, that!’ She flashed me a sidelong look. ‘Well, yes, I suppose… Oliver was quite the hero for a time. I’m not denying his courage, but that doesn’t excuse his nasty habit of ruffling feathers.’
Poor Mr Wells. Had I misjudged him, as he had misjudged me? Escorting a strange young woman half across Europe, especially when she was an unwilling traveller, could not have been easy for him. Perhaps he simply had an unfortunate manner, all stiff formality, taking himself too seriously. Perhaps we had both been wrong about each other. I looked at him with new eyes, seeing him as another excludee from the Rhys-Thomas inner circle. Like me, he was close to them, but not close enough.
The sun had gone behind a cloud, leaving the garden less bright. Was that another coincidence? Why did I have the uneasy feeling that Oliver Wells had brought the shadow with him?
Five
A mixed procession of carriages and motors accompanied Sir Lionel Rhys-Thomas to his rest. Surrounded by fresh flowers, he himself travelled in a glass-sided hearse pulled by six horses plumed in black, while behind him in the first carriage rode his widow and his younger daughter, with his oldest son and his wife. The other close family – Frank, Emmet, Tom and I – travelled in Frank’s car, with Frank at the wheel since no man on the staff was yet capable of acting as chauffeur. Grandmother had wanted to exclude ‘noisy contraptions’, but when some of the wealthier mourners, including the local MP, had turned up in cars, Frank had decided to defy the decree.
‘Father liked my motor,’ he had argued. ‘Dash it all, Mother, he made a lot of money out of “noisy contraptions”. You should be grateful for that. Whether you like it or not, we’re in the twentieth century now. Motors are here to stay. Horses are yesterday’s story.’
‘Then, perhaps, so am I!’ she had replied, head tipped back as she glared at him with her Thorne chin set.
On the hill the weather was bright, a clear blue sky letting the sun pour down. But as we made our slow way round by the main drive and the coast road, to reach the Eveningham fork, a mist gathered over the sea, rolling in over shore and marshes in a grey wave perhaps thirty feet high. The top of it shone white in the sunlight. An extraordinary sight.
‘Sea fret.’ Emmet leaned from behind me to explain. ‘It’s a kind of condensation – when colder air meets a warm sea. Or is it vice versa?’
‘I think she knows that,’ Frank replied, sending me a glance from eyes that seemed intensely blue in a tanned face set amid formal mourning.
‘Oh,’ said Emmet, chastened for some reason. ‘Of course.’
In the village, women had come out to stand at their gates and men paused to doff their hats in respect as we passed by. The shops had closed their doors and drawn their blinds temporarily.
Grandfather was to be laid in the crypt beneath the church of St John, set in its yew-circled graveyard on the slopes of the ridge. Large as it was, the church was full, London luminaries, gentry and local dignitaries obliged to sit next to managers and men from the workforce of Thorne-Thomas Engineering and Chef Foods. With the front pew taking only four people, because of the position of a stone pillar, I found myself in the second row, between Vicky and Saffron, with Frank near the aisle. In front of us, Grandmother sat erect, her long black-swathed neck rigidly supporting a huge hat. She was accompanied by Harry and the twins – Tom was in such a state of distress that his sobs punctuated both liturgy and hymns, despite Emmet’s efforts to calm him.
Soon after the service began, I became aware that Saffron, swathed in voluminous, concealing black, was in some discomfort. She kept easing her back when we were seated, shifting from foot to foot when we had to stand. Her olive skin had acquired a glistening patina of perspiration in the light pouring through stained-glass windows. Once or twice I saw Vicky glance at her, eyes wide with disapproval.
‘I hope she’s not going to be ill!’ she hissed.
‘It’s these hard seats,’ Saffron muttered under cover of ‘Lead kindly light’. ‘My back aches. Frightfully. Oh, dear…’ She swayed against me, pale to the lips as I turned to support her.
‘Sit down,’ I suggested. She did so, her head in her hands, while I hovered, not sure whether to join her or remain on my feet. Against the pillar, Vicky ignored us, facing front and resolutely singing the hymn in a reedy, flat voice.
Grandmother looked round. Under the vast black swoop of her hat brim, behind a heavy veil, her face was cold, her eyes like knives. ‘For goodness’ sake! Take her out, Kate! Frank—’
‘Yes, all right, Mother,’ he breathed. ‘We’ll see to it. Come on, Saff. Some air’s the thing. Give us a hand, Kate.’
I saw Harry make a move to follow, but Grandmother stopped him. ‘She’ll be all right
. You stay where you are.’
Supporting the swooning Saffron between us, Frank and I made our way down the aisle, our progress followed by a hundred pairs of curious eyes staring from pale, singing faces amid a sea of unrelieved black.
Outside, the sea fret had filled the valley, making the air like warm grey soup hanging under yews along the path. Saffron gulped greedily at it, trying to clear her head. ‘I shall be all right,’ she kept saying. ‘Just give me a minute. Oh, my back! I need to walk. Let me walk.’
We accompanied her down the path. Beyond the lych gate, half hidden in the creeping mist, patient horses waited in harness while bored coachmen stood about in small groups. Interested eyes followed us as we walked past the line of carriages.
‘You shouldn’t have come, in your condition,’ Frank fretted.
‘I had to,’ Saffron replied bitterly. ‘She’d never have forgiven me if I’d stayed away. She’d have said I was doing it deliberately. Harry said I should stay at home, but I know what she’s like. I can’t do anything right for her. You’d better go back, Frank, or she’ll blame you, too. She’s already in a rage because I’ve made a spectacle of my— Oh!’ A new pain made her body spasm. ‘Oh, Kate! I want to go home. I must lie down. I can’t stand this… O-oh!’
Frank and I exchanged a glance. Obviously Saffron wasn’t going to be able to return to the church.
‘Think you can drive her home?’ he asked me.
The prospect alarmed me, but: ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
‘Good. I’ll find the doctor and we’ll follow on. He must be here somewhere. Come on, Saff. Kate’ll take you back to the house. The car’s just here, look. You can be home in five minutes.’ He looked at me over her bent head, adding hurriedly, ‘Take the short cut. If the old troll tries to stop you, run him down. All right, Saff, nearly there.’
We eased her into the passenger seat, where she sat clutching her back and grimacing with pain.
‘Is it the baby?’ I breathed, praying that it was not – if she started in labour while we were alone I wouldn’t have a clue what to do.
‘It’s not due yet – I told you that! It must be those beastly pews, after the bumpy carriage ride. I should have listened to Harry. I should never have come. Oh, Kate…!’
Frank bent by the bonnet, swinging the crank handle. After two or three times the engine coughed into life and settled down to a satisfying growl and rattle that I could feel in my bones.
‘Go, girl!’ Frank shouted, slapping the bonnet as he stepped back. ‘Don’t stop for anything. I’ll be right behind you with the doctor.’
That was a comforting thought.
I had never been completely in charge of a car before, or responsible for someone who was half fainting from pain and fright. But driving wasn’t so difficult – so long as the engine didn’t stop. That was my worst fear – being forced to stop.
‘You’ll be all right,’ I told Saffron stoutly, as much to reassure myself as her. ‘We’ll soon be home.’
White-faced, clutching her stomach now, all she seemed able to moan through gritted teeth was, ‘Oh, Kate. Oh, Kate! Oh, dear…’
Denes Hill seemed a long way away, especially with the mist so thick I couldn’t even see the hill. But a baby took longer than a few minutes to be born: Mother had been hours in labour with each of my little half-brothers. I consoled myself that there were women at the house – Annie, Mrs May the cook, and other staff waiting to serve the funeral repast. All I had to do was get there.
Having made it through the village to the station road, I had to slow down in order not to miss the short-cut turning. Worrying about gears and steering, I had all but forgotten about Mad Jack Farcroft. But thanks to the mist he wouldn’t see the car, and anyway, with the funeral taking place, he wouldn’t be expecting any of us to come this way today. Or so I told myself with gritted teeth.
Aware of Saffron’s discomfort, I tried to steer a course between ridges in the track. Not much further. Around the bend, up the slope, and if it weren’t for the mist the back gates of Denes Hill would be in sight.
‘The pain’s easing a bit,’ Saffron gasped. ‘Perhaps it’s indigestion, d’you think so, Kate? It can’t be the baby, it’s not due for three weeks. Oh, Kate! Watch out!’
I had taken my eyes off the road to glance at her. Now, startled back to my driving, I saw a dark bank ahead, right across the lane. I stabbed my foot at the brake before I realized the obstruction was only branches – cuttings from thorn hedges, and long strands of brambles. The solid tyres would go straight over them, or through them, pushing them aside as we went. Just keep going. Keep going…
But we had slowed down too much on the rising slope. Even as I stepped on the fuel the engine coughed and died. Oh, no. Oh, no! The car sidled to a stop – and settled with a jarring jolt, its right front wheel in a hole. No, not a hole. As I leaned out, I saw that the car had pushed aside the branches. Beneath them someone had dug a trench, deep enough to have wrecked the car if we had been going at any speed. The thought made me feel sick. That wicked, evil old—
‘Are you all right?’ I asked Saffron.
‘I think so.’ Her hat was askew, her bloated face blotched with tears. ‘What’s happened? Did we hit something?’
Uttering the worst German word I knew, I leapt out of the car to survey the situation, angrily tearing my skirts free of groping briers. Not only was the car stopped, the front offside wheel was jammed in the shallow trench; there was no way I could get it out alone.
‘O-ooh,’ Saffron groaned. ‘That pain’s coming again. Let’s go, Kate.’
‘We can’t! That crazy old man… He is mad! He might have killed us. If we hadn’t been going so slowly because of the mist—’
She wasn’t listening. The pain had seized her again, convulsing her face and body. Sweat ran down her face. It was the baby, I thought frantically. Oh, where was Frank?
I climbed back into the car and jumped up on to the seat, one foot on the back, from where I could see over the hedges. Not that I could see far. About fifteen yards all round, I guessed. Towards the farm, part of a harvested cornfield showed. In the other direction lay a field of green tops – beet, or turnip, or mangolds, perhaps – how did I know? The village was half a mile away, a hopeless distance when I couldn’t leave Saffron. She was moaning incoherently, squirming in agony, pulling her knees up to her belly as if to soothe the ache.
‘They must be coming soon,’ I said. ‘They can’t be far behind.’
Just as I was about to step down from my perch, a movement in the stubble caught my eye. A rabbit darted there. Then a gun blasted. The rabbit tripped, rolled over twice and lay still. Out of the mist raced a black, shaggy dog, to pick up the still-twitching body in its mouth. A whistle summoned it back to its master.
Was it the old man? Was he coming this way?
Even Mad Jack Farcroft would be better than no one. He couldn’t refuse to help two women in distress, especially when one of them was about to have a baby.
Desperate, I cupped my hands to my mouth, calling, ‘Hello!… Over here!… Help us, please! Please! Over here.’
After a moment of total silence when my ears sang, a faint male voice answered. ‘Where?’
‘Here! In the lane! Oh, come quickly, please! Please!’
‘Who is it?’ Saffron managed. ‘Is it Frank?’
‘No. It’s…’ The dog appeared first, dashing into the circle left by the mist. A moment later its master strode into sight. Not Mad Jack, thank heaven, but a younger, lankier man – a farmhand, from the looks of him. Collarless twill shirt with sleeves rolled up, waistcoat hanging open, corduroys and heavy boots, peaked cap, shotgun safely broken over his arm, a couple of rabbits dangling from his belt…
My heart quirked with dismay as I realized, ‘It’s Philip Farcroft.’
‘Who?’ But she didn’t really care who. ‘Oh… O-oh! Kate! It’s coming again. It’s getting worse. I can’t have my baby here. Not in the car! Not in the open air. La
dy Vi’ll never forgive me!’
Philip Farcroft had paused, as if surprised to see me peering over the hedge.
‘Well, don’t just stand there gaping!’ I scolded, frantic with worry. ‘We need help. My aunt’s ill, and we’re stuck here! All because of your wicked old… Come back!’ He had run off, out of my sight. He wasn’t going to help! In my agitation, I lost my balance and toppled over, to land in an ungainly heap in the back seat, half winded and wholly distracted. By the time I righted myself, the dog was running up, barking loudly. Saffron screamed, though whether because of the dog or because of her pain I didn’t know.
‘Oh, be quiet!’ I yelled at the dog, clambering out of the car, going to open the passenger door. ‘Aunt Saffron! It’s all right.’
She huddled on the seat, her hat battered, her hair dishevelled round a blotched face running with sweat and tears. ‘It’s not,’ she whispered. ‘I think I’m dying, Kate. I’ve lost the baby. I’m losing so much blood…’
‘That’s not blood,’ Philip Farcroft’s brisk deep voice said from behind me. ‘Your waters have broken, that’s all. Let’s get you out of that car.’
Shouldering me aside, he laid his gun down in the grass and bent over the car. He lifted Saffron as easily as if she were a child, taking her to the thick grass of the verge where he laid her down, kneeling beside her.
‘I need to take a look at what’s happening,’ he told her, quietly but firmly. ‘I’m no doctor, but I’ve played midwife to a lot of animals in my time and I don’t see why this should—’
Outrage made me catch my breath. ‘You can’t—’
He threw back his head to spit me on brilliant green spears of anger. ‘Then you do it, if you prefer. No? No, that’s as I thought. Then keep your mouth shut and let me handle this. Mrs Rhys-Thomas… if your waters have broken that means the baby may be here any minute. When the pain comes, do you feel the need to push?’