by Mary Mackie
Later, the four of us had supper, and the next day Stanton went back to sea. His visit left a glow on Win for days. She was mad about him, but she hoped for nothing from him, was simply glad to be in the same world, to have a postcard from him now and then, and an occasional visit.
‘Cousins have been known to marry,’ I reminded her.
‘Marry?’ The word seemed to horrify her. ‘Oh, Kate, it’s not like that. Goodness… I’ve always known no one would ever want to marry me. I don’t think I’d like it, anyway. I prefer my books.’
The end of the exhibition coincided with the weekend of Eddy’s christening, so Frank and I travelled to Norfolk together. He went on to Denes Hill with the few of his paintings which had not been sold, while I happily made for Hawthorn House, where I was to stay for a few days. Harry and Saffron had decided that their son should be christened at St Margaret’s, the massive and beautiful church in Lynn, where their many town friends could easily attend.
As godmother, I had the privilege of holding the baby throughout the ceremony. Emmet had confessed himself ‘absolutely stiffened’ by the responsibility of becoming a godfather, but Tom stood with bright eyes, hopping from foot to foot and clutching at his twin’s arm as the three of us repeated the promises. Around us undercurrents of disapproval swirled: mean lines bracketed Vicky’s mouth, while Grandmother was long-suffering – she had wanted Eddy to be christened at Eveningham. Ignoring them, I watched my little godson blink and scowl at the vicar as the cold water touched his brow. He didn’t cry, though. Not Edward Henry John, youngest of the Rhys-Thomas clan. ‘The only grandson’, I thought, hurting for Rudger, Pieter and Hansi. Much as I loved baby Eddy, the little men in Germany were just as sweet, and as worthy of love, for all their father’s name was von Wurthe. How I missed them. I thought of Philip Farcroft, too. He should have been here, given due credit for this baby’s safe delivery.
Two days later I walked into town to return some library books for Saffron. In the Tuesday market place, laden stalls stood under awnings, itinerant peddlers next to vociferous street traders, farmers’ wives with carts full of their own vegetables, eggs, butter, jams and pickles. The streets clamoured with farmers’ traps and the occasional rattling, oil-smelling motor jalopy with a loud and arrogant horn barping at pedestrians who risked their necks sidestepping goods stacked outside shops; and in the cattle market red-faced men in bowler hats struck deals over pens full of sheep and cows and turkeys.
Enjoying the bustle, I failed to see rain clouds gathering and was forced to make an undignified dash to the library to avoid a soaking as the heavens opened. A man in a brown tweed suit and cap was coming from the other direction, also bound for the library entrance, where a knot of people sheltered from the downpour. We nearly collided on the step, both drew back, apologizing… and only then did I realize who he was.
‘Mr Farcroft!’ I couldn’t decide which was uppermost – pleasure or confusion.
Philip wrenched off his hat, nodding at me warily. ‘Miss Brand. Shall we go inside?’
The shelterers parted to allow us by. Philip held the door and we both stepped into the dim-lit lobby, brushing at our clothes.
‘I never expected to see you here,’ I said. ‘Have you come to choose some books?’
‘No, I thought I might buy a yearling bull.’ His voice dripped sarcasm and as I blinked at him he added belligerently, ‘I can read, surprisingly enough!’
‘Well!…’ was my sparkling reply as, tipping my chin, I dismissed him with a look and marched into the hushed atmosphere of the main library. The door swung heavily behind me. Philip didn’t follow. Perhaps, after all, he had come in only to shelter from the rain. That suited me well enough, I told myself. What an uncouth oaf he was!
Determined to stay inside until he had gone, I moved between tall bookcases looking at titles. Which might Saffron like – a new play from Mr Shaw, or a political treatise by Mrs Pankhurst? A novel by Mr Conan Doyle, or by Uncle Frank’s prophet of the future, Mr Herbert G. Wells? I couldn’t decide. I was still twitching from Philip Farcroft’s rudeness.
Flipping through a slim volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets, in a quiet corner of the library, I became aware of Philip’s approach. He was sidling nearer, pretending to look along the rows of massed titles. I went on staring at the book in my hand, doing my own pretending.
Pausing behind me, he murmured over my shoulder, ‘Forgive me. I didn’t intend to be unmannerly.’
‘Yes, you did,’ said I sweetly through my teeth.
‘I thought you were ragging me.’
‘You shouldn’t be so touchy. If you—’
‘Ssssh!’ someone hissed, and a lady in a tall purple hat looked briefly round a bookcase to glower at us over a pair of pince-nez.
Irritated, I muttered, ‘This is a fine place to pick another quarrel.’
‘I didn’t pick it – you did!’ he whispered furiously. ‘I was trying to apologize. Anyway, you started it.’
‘How?’
‘By calling me “Mr Farcroft”!’
‘I was being polite.’
‘You have a gorgeous way of putting me in my place without trying.’
‘I don’t have to try!’ I retorted. ‘You’re ready to misunderstand before I even open my mouth.’
The purple hat appeared again, the face beneath it pinched with disapproval. ‘Sssssssssh!’
Philip’s green glare might have sizzled her if she hadn’t ducked away in time. ‘Did you see that?’ he said under his breath. ‘It must have been a snake. It came out, hissing, from under a hideous purple plant pot.’
He kept his face straight, but as our eyes met a bubble of mirth burst out of me and I had to clap my hand over my mouth to prevent myself from exploding.
‘Please!’ The librarian appeared, an anxious little man in black coat and striped trousers, wringing his hands and speaking through lips that hardly moved. ‘If you wish to hold a conversation, go outside. People are complaining. Or do I have to eject you?’
I couldn’t help myself – the thought of his trying to manhandle Philip, who was twice his size, struck me as so funny that I all but collapsed in helpless mirth. Philip took hold of my arm and, apologizing under his breath to everyone we passed, ‘Sorry. Sorry! She’s not well,’ he propelled me past the frowning assistant behind the desk and out through heavy swing doors back into the half-light of the lobby. There, he let me lean on the wall until the giggles diminished. I was wiping my eyes, holding my aching ribs, gasping for breath, when the swing doors bellied again and another man joined us, saying anxiously, ‘Kate? Is that you, Kate? What’s wrong?’
What a moment for Oliver Wells to appear! Suddenly I wasn’t laughing any more, I was choking with dismay while Philip solicitously pounded on my back.
‘Are you ill?’ Oliver asked, peering at me in the gloom. ‘What are you doing here? Are you alone?’
‘She was choosing a book,’ Philip answered laconically. ‘I think she breathed some dust. She was choking, and people started shushing her, so I thought she needed some air.’
‘Did you, indeed?’ Oliver Wells looked him up and down, his mouth a disdainful curve under the dark moustache. To my relief, he didn’t appear to recognize Philip. ‘Well, you can leave her to me now, young fellow. If she needs escorting anywhere, I’ll see to it. Now, Kate…’
Beyond his burly shoulder I saw Philip open his mouth to argue, but he must have caught my silent plea for discretion for his mouth compressed as he turned away without a word and went out. I caught a glimpse of heavy skies, huddled bodies and black umbrellas, and then the door was slammed shut with a thud. Oh, Philip…
‘Are you here on your own?’ Oliver Wells enquired. ‘I heard you were spending a few days with Harry and Saffron. Good heavens, what are they thinking of, letting you wander in the town alone?’
‘I’m not wandering,’ I objected. ‘I came to choose some books. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going back to Hawthorn House. I don’t need escor
ting, thank you. I’m not a schoolgirl. Goodbye, Mr Wells.’
I too went out into the rain, squeezing through the clutch of people in the doorway, hurrying out to the edge of the pavement to look up and down the busy umbrella-sprouting street. Which way had Philip gone? There was no sign of him.
The downpour had settled into a steady drizzle. Finding myself in an area of public garden, I trudged the pathway towards a ruined tower, planning to shelter beneath its arched openings until the rain passed. But before I reached it swift footsteps sounded behind me and as I looked round Philip again grasped my arm.
‘Are you trying to catch your death?’ he demanded. ‘Get under shelter, quick.’
We ran the rest of the way, arriving breathless under the tower. It stood open to the elements through two high archways, with a plain stone sarcophagus set centrally under a curved roof. Around it pathways wound among flowerbeds and shrubberies which muted the clop and rumble of the traffic in cobbled streets.
As we huddled in separate corners, with ten feet of damp draught between us, Philip said, ‘That was Wells, wasn’t it? The solicitor?’
‘Yes. I was afraid he’d know you, but he didn’t seem to—’
‘I’m beneath his notice – except to write threatening letters to. But I’ve seen him about. I felt sure he’d appropriate you.’
‘He tried. I escaped.’
The gleam in his eyes appreciated that. He said, ‘Funny how we keep meeting in churches.’
Shivering, I looked round the ruined walls and soaring archways, blackened by time, limed with birds’ droppings. ‘Hardly a church.’
‘It used to be. It’s all that’s left of an old Franciscan friary.’
‘Really?’ I reviewed the place with deeper interest, touching the ancient bricks.
‘Lynn’s a historic town,’ Philip said, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he leaned on the wall behind him. ‘It’s had two markets since the Middle Ages. It was Bishop’s Lynn once, then it became Lynn Regis. You can still see lots of the old buildings.’
With the odd question from me, he went on to expound on the history of the town and the delights still to be found, making me ever more eager to go out and explore further for myself. But after a while he stopped in mid-sentence. ‘Sorry. I’m boring you.’
‘You’re not,’ I denied. ‘Not at all.’
I could have listened to his caressing baritone all day, watching his face change as he talked, eyes flashing with enthusiasm, hands gesturing to emphasize points. I didn’t know why I had ever thought him uncouth or ungainly or ill-bred; he was a big man, but he had natural grace and, when he smiled, that lean, angular face came alight. And his green, green eyes were so expressive…
Words can’t tell the reasons. The simple fact was that I was immensely attracted to Philip Farcroft. Because he was he and I was I…
‘I’m glad we met,’ I said. ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you.’
‘About what?’
‘Your father was poaching on the hill. Tom was in the wood. There could have been a nasty accident.’
Mouth set, he looked at the floor, kicking a stone. ‘He told me. I’m not going to make excuses for him. He was wrong. I told him so. He said I was soft.’
‘He’d probably say you were softer still if he knew you were here talking to me,’ I observed.
A corner of his mouth went wry. ‘Probably so. But… Dad isn’t an ogre, you know. You should come and meet him for yourself and then you’ll see. Anyway…’ The light in his eyes turned baleful as he remembered: ‘If you had wanted to talk to me you knew where I was. You could have come that night we had our harvest supper.’
‘I—’
‘No, don’t make excuses,’ he interrupted moodily. ‘It was my own fault. I knew you wouldn’t come. But I still walked up to the gate and stood there waiting for nearly two hours. What a fool!’ Levering himself away from the wall, he trudged to the further corner, diagonally across from me with the stone sarcophagus between us, and stood there scuffing his boots, grinding his teeth to make his jaw muscle jump in a way I was beginning to recognize as a sign of tension.
‘Is that why you were so pot-faced in church the next day?’ I demanded. ‘Oh, honestly, Philip! Do you always take offence so easily?’
His head came up. ‘Then why weren’t you there? Couldn’t get away, I suppose. What do they do, lock their doors at sunset, so none of their skeletons can get out and terrorize the countryside?’
‘It so happens I did come! But you were among your friends so I went away again.’ He opened his mouth to reply, but I rushed on, ‘Oh… what’s the point? Perhaps it will be best if I go.’
He started towards me instantly, anxiously. ‘No, don’t. Not yet. Kate… You said once that you aren’t part of the feud. Well, I’m not, either. I don’t want to be. Perhaps it’s up to us to make a start on ending it. It’s stupid for us to be enemies. I feel… Don’t laugh, but… I feel I’ve known you for ever.’
My brain seemed to go blank with shock. I couldn’t speak for the sudden tightness in my throat. That he should feel it, too, and say so…
‘Maybe it’s with Michael having that thing about your mother,’ he added, trying to explain away feelings that were inexplicable. ‘They were friends, you know. When they were children.’
This astounded me. ‘Were they?’
‘Michael used to talk about her a lot. Mother was always telling him to forget her. I don’t remember her visiting. Michael was a lot older than me – fifteen years or so. He was my half-brother.’
‘I see,’ I said faintly, trying to take in this new information. ‘I had no idea. She never mentioned… Oh, I wish I knew the truth about her! When Grandfather was dying… he cursed her. On his deathbed. He sat bolt upright, pointing at me, saying…’ The scene came back in throat-catching detail – candlelight flickering, the awful smell, the shadowy figures of the family… I hadn’t intended to let it all pour out, but I found myself recounting the scene, and how it had made me feel.
Philip was staunchly on my side. Endearingly so. ‘That’s appalling, Kate! That’s so cruel. Whatever your mother may have done, it’s not your fault. How could your own family be so unkind?’
Like one awaking from deep dreams, I realized he was standing close to me, enfolding one of my hands in his big, warm ones as he looked down at me. Did he guess the thoughts that had been in my mind as I talked to him? Intimate thoughts, buried beneath the flow of words – how beautiful his eyes, his voice, the shape of his mouth, the touch of his hands on mine, the rough caress of his coat, the warmth emanating from his body…
I’m not sure which of us moved first to break that tingling contact. Did I twist my hand or did his grasp loosen? All at once we both remembered the world not far away, and our place in it. The rain had stopped and people walked freely again, hurrying about their business. A spear of sunlight touched a million sparkles among the leaves in the garden, making the pathways shine, reflecting light into our dank sanctuary. We stepped apart, and I found myself chattering nervously about nothing.
He reached inside his waistcoat pocket, where a silver chain looped across, and took out a turnip watch, flipping the lid open. ‘Oh, Lord,’ he sighed with a rueful smile. ‘I was going to catch the three o’clock train. It’s now five minutes past.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Philip looked at me, about to make some light comment, but as our eyes met his glance altered, softening into intimacy as it flickered across my face and settled on my mouth. ‘I’m not,’ he said softly, his voice so deep and low that it sent an answering jolt through me and I felt my lips tingle in involuntary response to that look in his eyes.
Even in the privacy of my head, my thoughts darted around like trapped birds in a cage. The power of what lay between us sent tremors through my flesh, twisting my stomach, drying my throat, sending my heart into erratic pounding. Frightening me. I didn’t want to feel that way, about Philip Farcroft or anyone. It was too shatteri
ng. Too soon.
‘May I walk you home?’ he asked.
‘No!’ But the moment it was out I was sorry. ‘I mean…’ I bit my singing lips, trying to make them behave and stop wanting to be kissed. I dared not look at him. ‘It’s a long way, out in the suburbs, and you’d have to come all the way back to the station.’
‘I’ve plenty of time.’ The rueful note was back. ‘The next train leaves just before five. I’d be honoured if you’d allow me to—’
I wished he wouldn’t smile like that. It made my insides feel molten. All I wanted to do was escape from him and get myself back under control. ‘No, you can’t.’ My head shook convulsively. ‘It’s best that you don’t. I must go. I’m sorry. Forgive me, I… Goodbye, Philip.’
I all but ran from him, blindly going in the opposite direction to that I had intended. And then I saw Oliver Wells, coming along the path from the library. I stopped, and he stopped, and glanced beyond me to where Philip stood in the archway under the tower. He must have guessed we had been together.
Knowing only that I had to get away, I darted aside on to a path that took me to the London Road, where I kept walking at a rate that soon put the Greyfriars Tower, and Philip, and Oliver, way behind me. The force of my feelings disturbed me. Everything I had felt for Carl-Heinz now seemed superficial. He had been a fairy-tale prince, a game to be played for fun. But Philip… Philip was no fantasy to be dreamed on with girlish glee, safely alone in my bed. Philip was a threat.
Nine
Back in London, I applied myself to my studies and soon had my own space – seat J14 – in the Reading Room at the British Museum, where I spent hours poring over dusty tomes compiling tables of statistics. For instance, in 1850, how many hours did a man in Northumbria need to work to provide adequately for his family, compared with, say, a man in Streatham? The work taught me how to use resources, how to marshal facts, and how to concentrate. But the details of it were deadly dull.