by Mary Mackie
To enliven my spare time, I joined several societies, including the local federation for women’s suffrage; for exercise I chose the cycling club and the tennis club, and I became an avid visitor to theatres and cinematographs – moving pictures never failed to excite me. Thinking of my future, I took typewriting lessons, and wrote articles for our student magazine. Visits to the East End, to observe the condition of the poorest people of the city, provided more material. I frequently translated the pieces into German to send to Gudrun. Gradually, I discovered myself to be a socialist, and a pacifist.
In lectures and during social activities, men and women mingled freely, with an innocence hard to credit in retrospect. But most of my friends, of either sex, were intent on intellectual pursuits and Great Causes that left no room for romantic nonsense. Which suited me, too.
My foreign upbringing gave me an exotic appeal and friends would seek my opinion on the latest news about German stances as tension waxed and waned. In the background of life, like a wind blowing through distant trees, expectation of war remained a constant refrain. It was summed up in the words of a song, written for earlier troubles but still as relevant and widely sung: ‘We don’t want to fight, but, by Jingo! if we do, We’ve got the ships, we’ve got the men, we’ve got the money, too.’ Odd, for that had also been the refrain in Germany – ‘We don’t want to fight, but if you push us, watch out!’ Like a loaded blunderbuss, waiting only for the flint to be struck. But who would be the first to strike it? And on which side would my heart lie?
* * *
That first term passed in a whirl. Hardly had I settled in than it was time to think about Christmas. Win Leeming planned to continue her research as long as the museum stayed open – she had no other home to go to. Miss H had demonstrations to attend and meetings to organize – she, like Scrooge, thought Christmas was humbug.
Imagine my surprise when Grandmother wrote to say that she would be pleased if I brought my new friend Miss Leeming home with me for the holiday. When I imparted this invitation, Win’s mild brown eyes widened behind her specs. ‘Why, your grandmother doesn’t know anything about me. How very kind…’
‘I imagine Uncle Frank has told her what a lovely person you are,’ I said. ‘She probably thinks you’ll keep my wilder excesses in check.’
Win blinked at me, never sure how to take such remarks. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Kate. Why, there’s not a more sober and industrious student in the school.’
Innocent Win didn’t guess what a reputation I had at home, nor imagine the turmoil going on beneath my ‘sober’ exterior. Even as we spoke, I was wondering if I might see Philip Farcroft, and what I should say, and what he might do, and whether that fearful, turbulent lightning would flare between us again. I wanted it, but I feared it, too.
Though snow and sleet kept us indoors most of the time, Win Leeming seemed to enjoy herself at Denes Hill. She showed a kindly interest in Tom and, up in the sanctum over games of chess, she and Emmet had sparking arguments on emancipation and socialism. Her presence made us all more polite with each other, but I was aware of walking on shifting sand, with my behaviour under scrutiny.
I attended church with most of the family – except Frank, who was a professed atheist – and found the Christmas devotions evocative and moving, just like the services in Berlin, with candles flickering in the darkness, even the same hymns sung to the same tunes. Philip’s rich dark voice, from somewhere behind me, added depth to the carols he evidently loved. When I glanced round, our eyes met, shooting a lightning bolt through me. I hoped to steal a word with him as we left the church, but couldn’t get close enough without drawing attention to myself. Anyway I had the distinct impression that Philip was avoiding me. Maybe he too had thought better of his impulse to make friends with a girl from Denes Hill.
It being only four months since Grandfather died, the New Year’s Eve party was less gay than it might have been. The entire family, with a few intimate friends – including the solicitor, Mr Wells – dined at eight thirty. Afterwards, the younger element were planning to go on to gatherings at other houses where first-footing and other ‘gorgeous japes’, to use Emmet’s phrase, might be had. Only a small party of us remained to see out the year.
Vicky installed herself at the piano, inviting Mr Wells to stand beside her and turn the pages of her music while she favoured us with more carols and her latest piece, ‘The Mysterious Rag’. Grandmother excused herself and went to bed, while Win and I made for the library, to find a book we had been discussing earlier.
It was cold in that big room, despite barred shutters, thick curtains and the fire which had been burning all day. I was glad of my blue shawl – a Christmas gift made by Mother, who loved to do fancy crochet work. ‘I’m sure it was somewhere here,’ I said as I climbed the library steps to search a particular shelf.
‘Actually, Kate…’ Win blinked up at me, lamplight making golden ovals of her glasses as she huddled in her own brown wrap. ‘Would you mind awfully if we left it for tonight? I have a slight headache. And I want to write to Stanton – I always write on New Year’s Eve, it’s a sort of tradition with us, swapping resolutions. I didn’t want to say anything in front of everybody, but… Would you mind awfully?’
‘Not at all.’ I was not sorry to climb down from the steps. I too was tired, and depressed. Somehow I had hoped to manage a meeting with Philip – stupid, I knew. ‘What are your resolutions this year?’
‘To persuade Miss H to give up her militancy, and… to stop chewing the ends of my pens. Good night, Kate. Happy New Year.’
Dear Win, she left me smiling over her innocence.
Enjoying the respite from crowding company, I went to curl up in the leather armchair by the fire, letting its wings enfold me along with the shawl which still retained a faint scent of Mother’s perfume. What was she doing tonight? Were dancing candles glowing in the windows of Berlin, as always at New Year? I stared into the warm heart of the fire, letting the silence seep into me as I wondered what resolutions to make. To forget Philip Farcroft, the answer came at once, making me sigh ruefully.
Katie! Be careful!
Inside my head the warning sounded as loud as a shout, jerking me erect with wide-open eyes. No one at Denes Hill ever called me Katie. I looked round, half expecting to see someone there, but the library was empty – empty of tangible presences, that is. Unseen presences swirled about me, making my nerves sizzle and my hair lift. As clearly as if someone had spoken, I knew my invisible friends had sent a warning. About what? Was I, perhaps, being warned not to become involved with Philip Farcroft?
‘So there you are!’ The male voice was not loud, but it sent the spirits scattering as Oliver Wells, darkly handsome in black tie and tails, closed the door and came across the polished parquet and the Turkish rugs, moving lightly for all his size, like a dancer in patent leather shoes. ‘No, don’t move, please. I didn’t intend to disturb you. What are you doing here all alone? Has Miss Leeming gone to bed?’
‘She was tired.’
‘It has been a long day,’ he agreed. ‘Do you mind if I join you? Would you mind if I smoked a cigar?’
I indicated the chair opposite mine. ‘Please…’
He settled in the chair, making a performance of clipping the cigar and lighting it with a spill from the fire, every movement graceful and elegant. Blowing out a stream of aromatic smoke, he squinted at me through it, smiling. ‘Are you making any New Year resolutions tonight?’
‘Only to apply myself more assiduously to my work.’
‘How frightfully worthy! All work and no play, you know. I would have thought a pretty girl might have more personal matters on her mind.’
‘Such as?’ I enquired cautiously.
‘That’s up to you to decide. How are you getting along in London? I expect you miss your Berlin friends a good deal.’
‘Yes, I do, at times.’
‘But you’re managing to find others?’ The cigar wrote a writhing figure in t
he air. ‘Apart from the estimable Mouse Leeming, I mean.’
I sat up, frowning. ‘Miss Leeming is a good friend. I won’t have her mocked. She’s a deal brighter than most people I know.’
‘I don’t doubt she’s a fine intellect – she was tying elaborate knots in young Emmet’s arguments at dinner – but she’s a little… lacklustre, don’t you think?’
‘We can’t all be scintillating company like Vicky.’
The wry gleam in his eye appreciated the irony in that, but he didn’t rise to it. ‘There must be other acquaintances you’ve made. More after your own style.’
Was he making idle conversation, or had Grandmother sent him to spy on me? I said evenly, ‘My style? Coldly disdainful and given to sullen silences, you mean?’
Mr Wells blinked, removing a speck of tobacco from his tongue with well-manicured fingers as he narrowed his eyes at me. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Isn’t that how you characterized me after our journey from Berlin?’
‘Is it?’ A frown creased between straight dark brows as he sighed. ‘Yes, perhaps it is. And I apologize. That journey…’ He sat forward, leaning on his knees as he gazed at the fire. ‘That journey was a sore trial to me – as it must have been for you. It was beastly hot, and I was disconcerted to be asked to play escort to a strange young woman – an extremely attractive young woman, if I may say so.’
‘I’d much rather you didn’t. Flattery isn’t necessary.’
‘It’s not flattery, it’s plain truth.’ The baric-brown eyes met mine, deep and direct, startling me with the realization that he was, after all, a man, with normal human thoughts and feelings. ‘If I was stiff and awkward with you, that was the reason. Sheer embarrassment.’
I said nothing, mainly because I didn’t know what to say. My assessment of him was undergoing another adjustment. He was not much older than Uncle Frank, whom I considered almost a contemporary. But Frank was fun, lively and joking; Mr Wells was all formality, with a gravitas that made him seem older. Perhaps his profession was to blame for that – plus the fact that, like me, he never felt quite at ease at Denes Hill.
‘But you were saying,’ he went on, relaxing in his chair and crossing his legs comfortably, ‘about the new friends you’ve made. You must have met some young men, too.’
‘One or two,’ I answered cautiously.
‘But no one in particular? Or, er, perhaps your affections are still engaged elsewhere?’
Suddenly aware of the chill of the room, I gathered my new shawl more closely round me and said stiffly, ‘If you mean Herr Leutnant Carl-Heinz von Siemens, you can tell my grandmother I’ve forgotten him. Completely.’
A corner of his mouth twisted wryly. ‘So had I, as a matter of fact. I was thinking of someone closer to home. The young man in the library in Lynn, for instance. The young man with whom you sheltered under the Greyfriars Tower.’
A finger touched my spine, freezing, or was it boiling? Even my face tingled and I knew my flush betrayed me. ‘He’s no one. A stranger. I only met him that day. He told you how I started to choke and…’
Deep, dark eyes perused me with a gleam. He said softly, ‘You’re a very bad liar, Kate. Remember that, if you’re ever called to give evidence in court. The whole truth, and nothing but the truth…’
No use prevaricating, then. ‘Did you tell Grandmother?’
An eyebrow twitched in hurt surprise. ‘What do you take me for? Why… would she object to this acquaintance?’
She would if she knew who he was, I thought. Thank God Mr Wells hadn’t recognized him. ‘She might. Though… I shan’t be seeing him again.’
The gleam deepened, as if he understood. Then, one long finger against his lips, he ruminated, ‘I was thinking… I have to go up to London on occasion. May I call on you there? We might go out for a meal, or to a theatre. I gather you do that with Frank when he’s in town. I know I’m not your uncle, but I am an old friend of the family and as such, perhaps…’
The ensuing silence sang with all kinds of nuances. Was he hinting that if I refused he might tell Grandmother about the young man in Lynn?
Before I could decide, the door crashed back and Vicky erupted into the room, crying, ‘Oliver, are you— Oh!’ She was startled to find me with him, but: ‘Come quickly. Quickly! It’s almost midnight. We must all be together when it strikes. You too, Kate. Hurry!’
But as we started for the door we heard a faint cheer from the distant salon, and the first ‘bong’ of midnight from a longcase clock in the hallway. ‘Too late!’ Vicky mourned. ‘Oh, dash it, we’ll just have to…’ She came to peck the air near my ear. ‘Happy New Year, Kate. And you, too, Oliver.’ To him she lifted her cheek, her pale skin flushed along the cheekbone where he brushed his lips.
From the salon the others were laughing, crying excited greetings. Harry called for Vicky and she hurriedly ducked away from Oliver, as if discomposed by that daring moment of intimacy.
‘Well…’ I offered him my hand, keeping my distance. ‘Happy New Year, Mr Wells.’
‘It’s Oliver,’ he said in an undertone, his warm hand folding firmly round mine. ‘Goodness, you’re cold!’ His other hand came to complete the wrapping as he moved closer, his dark gaze on my mouth. ‘And a Happy New Year to you, too, Kate Brand.’
Aware of disturbing vibrations between us, I tried to pull away, but he held me, and might have drawn me closer except that a clatter of heels on parquet made him let go. Saffron came dashing to bring us back to the party, where we exchanged more New Year greetings and all joined hands to sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’. Vicky contrived to have the solicitor next to her, well away from me. I couldn’t meet his eye. I was too jittery, startled by my own equivocal reaction to him. Part of me was disgracefully flattered that Oliver Wells found me attractive.
* * *
On the train going back to London, Win and I relived the holiday. ‘Such nice people,’ she had found them. ‘So very kind. Tom’s a dear. And Emmet, so very bright. He needs a few misconceptions knocking out of him, but that will come in time. He’s awfully young yet.’
I couldn’t help asking, ‘What did you think of Oliver Wells?’
‘Very handsome. Very charming. A respectable, professional gentleman, comfortably off and with all the social graces.’ Her reply was typical of her, logical and analytical. ‘He’ll make a very good husband. The wonder is he isn’t married already.’
‘Perhaps he and Vicky will make a pair.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Win at once. ‘If Vicky has her heart set in that direction she’ll probably end up an old maid, like me. Anybody with eyes could see. Mr Wells was only paying her attention out of politeness. The one he really wanted to be with was you, Kate.’
This assertion made me fidget. ‘Oh, really…’
‘I know he’s a little older than you, but an older man is more stable. He’d be a good catch. And he’s sympathetic to the prime tenets of the Cause. As a lawyer, he’d be an asset to the suffrage movement.’
‘That’s all very cerebral,’ I argued. ‘But logic is not a good reason for marriage. Not on its own.’
‘I suppose it’s not enough when your heart’s yearning for more. There’s someone else on your mind, isn’t there?’
I stared at her. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘I watch, and I listen. Often it’s the things people don’t say that tell you most. Gracious… I don’t envy any of you. What a whirligig! I think I’ll stick to my books.’
* * *
Thick winter fogs hung about the London streets, getting into one’s throat and eyes. They reminded me of Philip and the day Eddy was born, when the cool grey sea fret had cloaked us from the world, affording a kind of privacy for things best kept untold. I even imagined I saw Philip in London, looming out of the fog, but always on second glance the man proved to be a stranger.
The fog had other echoes in my mind. Strange hidden stirrings, as in mud at the bottom of a cloudy pond. Something about fog that I
should remember. Something vitally important. Maddeningly, the meaning of such hints and portents remained elusive.
Continuing my studies and my social activities, I exchanged letters with Mother, Saffron and, dutifully, with Grandmother. Correspondence with friends in Berlin began to dwindle, inevitably, though I kept in touch with Gudrun. In my head I composed letters to Philip, too, but it was probably best to leave that door closed. As time passed my memory of him blurred, partially erased by common sense: I didn’t really know him; he had been kind when I was vulnerable and my response had been natural, but not necessarily lasting; we were both young, of a mind to fall in love with any likely member of the opposite sex, especially someone forbidden. Besides, could I really visualize myself as a farmer’s wife?
Time was what I needed. Work should be my main preoccupation from now on. But I was eighteen years old, and oh! with the cold, the fog, the short, dank days and the long, dull nights, work became unutterably tedious at times.
One evening, after a particularly enervating day in the museum, I came out on to the steps, eyes sore and shoulders aching, and stood viewing the choking brown swirl that, dimly penetrated by streetlights, filled the museum courtyard. I was feeling miserable, recovering from a head cold, my studies seeming futile, when a dark figure striding vigorously up the steps resolved itself into… Oliver Wells. I felt my heart skip – with surprise, mostly – as his harassed expression broke into a broad smile of pleasure. ‘Kate! Thank goodness I caught you. I was afraid we might pass each other unseen in this fog. What a peasouper! May I see you back to your lodgings?’
He had come to London on business and, he said, with only his own company to look forward to he had decided to chance calling to see if I would do him the honour of having dinner with him. I had intimated that he might call on me, had I not?