by Mary Mackie
I couldn’t remember exactly what I had said, but the prospect of an outing was welcome.
I don’t recall what we did that evening, but Oliver proved a charming and attentive companion. As the winter progressed, he came up to town every two weeks or so, always with some excuse about business in the city, always happy to treat me to a meal, or a show. We talked about my life in Berlin (skirting round the subject of Carl-Heinz), and about his work. I told myself he was just being kind to the daughter of an old friend, that it was no different from spending time with Uncle Frank. And I almost believed it. Almost.
I still vividly remember one particular Friday evening in March: the dining room of a plush hotel – possibly the Ritz – all pink tablecloths and napkins, tall pink candles in silver holders, with light glinting amber in the brandy Oliver had ordered to go with his coffee. A small orchestra played ‘Oh, you beautiful doll’ and other jolly times that everyone was humming, while Oliver and I had fun drawing up family trees, on pages torn from his notebook, and speculating over the Great Gap between the older and the younger Rhys-Thomas offspring. I remember the gold-topped fountain pen he used, and the slanting, neat but almost illegible scrawl in which he jotted down the names.
This exercise had started when Oliver had remarked that Grandmother had been feeling rather low lately, grieving afresh because of the approach of that day’s date, the eighth of March: exactly forty years before, also on a Friday, Miss Violet Thorne had married Lionel Rhys-Thomas, son of her father’s partner, thus combining the two fortunes.
‘In fact,’ Oliver confided, ‘I’m reliably informed that it was because of that wedding that my own parents met.’
‘Really?’ I was intrigued. He seldom talked about himself.
‘My mother, Hannah, was a seamstress who made clothes for the Thorne ladies – in Lincoln, that was. She happened to be at the house one day, measuring Miss Violet for her bridal gown, when the family solicitor, Mr Joseph Wells, called. They left at the same time, shared a hansom, and the rest is history.’
Oliver had been born in Lincoln, but before long his parents had moved to Hunstanton in Norfolk, where Joseph Wells had become legal adviser to Lionel Rhys-Thomas. Since Hannah Wells had died young, her son had been raised by a succession of nursemaids before being sent to boarding school at the age of seven. ‘It was the same school your uncle John attended, though he was a year ahead of me.’ His smile turned wry, teeth white and even under the attractive line of his moustache. ‘The Rhys-Thomases were sorry for me, poor motherless urchin that I was. In the holidays I was frequently invited to take part in their activities. I virtually grew up with John, and Harry and Frank – and Clara, of course. Beautiful Clara.’
His eyes held a wistful light as he glanced at his brandy balloon, turning it between long, elegant fingers. Lifting it to the light to admire its tawny clarity, he took an appreciative sip of it before looking once more at me. ‘You shouldn’t let me go on so. You’re too good a listener, Kate.’
‘I’m interested.’
‘You’re polite. Rewarding the old bore with your full attention, in return for your supper. If the truth were known, you probably think I’m stuffy, and dull, and old…’
‘No!’
He pulled a wry face, making the dark moustache twist. ‘Perhaps not so old as your father, when he married your mother. But I’m certainly old enough to have been bitterly jealous of him. Do you mind if I smoke?’
I watched him perform the ritual of the cigar, rolling it between pale fingers, listening to it crackle near his ear, clipping its end with a gold cigar cutter and then applying the match, letting the smoke curl out of his nostrils, squinting against it reflectively. His mind remained on Mother, I surmised.
I heard myself say, ‘Every man Mother met seems to have been in love with her.’
‘She did have a very special quality,’ Oliver agreed. ‘I wasn’t the only one who adored her. I doubt she noticed me among the crowd.’
‘Oh, she must have done!’
His quizzical look teased me: was that a compliment? Feeling my face burn, I had to qualify, ‘I mean, well, you were something of a hero, I understand – you risked your life trying to save my uncle John.’
‘Oh, that!’ His gaze slid away, as if the memory troubled him. ‘I’d rather not talk about that, Kate. It’s painful. John was my best friend. And I didn’t save him. He died, in spite of my efforts.’
I fiddled with my cutlery, adjusting the set of it across the empty dessert plate. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I. If it hadn’t happened, I might have had the courage to declare myself to Clara, but, as it was, I felt I should let a decent interval pass before I bothered her, and in the meantime Freddie von Wurthe stepped in. Oh… I don’t suppose she would have accepted me even if I had asked her. But I’ve never forgotten her. Why do you think I’ve never married?’
I hadn’t given it much thought, but, ‘Because of Mother?’
‘I’ve never found anyone to compare with her,’ he said. ‘That is, until…’ He left the sentence unfinished, but the implication hung between us, his meaning written plainly in a pair of clear dark eyes.
I felt stricken, knowing what he was trying to say but wishing he hadn’t said anything. He had pushed me to the edge of an emotional precipice for which I was not prepared.
My feelings must have shown; Oliver’s face twisted and he reached for the brandy glass, draining it in one gulp before thumping it down. ‘Forgive me. Too much wine. Too much brandy. But I’ve always regretted not speaking to Clara. If I lose my chance now…’
‘But I’m not my mother,’ I managed. ‘I’m not like her at all.’
He leaned towards me, umber eyes intent as he reached a hand to cover mine. ‘That’s true. In many ways you’re a nicer, kinder person than Clara ever was. But you have something of that same rare quality. A stillness. A quietness. I find it immensely appealing. My own life has been a turmoil. No mother, a father too busy to care, farmed out to boarding schools, passed to other people in the holidays, never with a settled base. And now… I dash about between clients, the courts, the office… I work too hard, to hide the gap at the centre of my life. I never found anyone to share that centre with me. No woman who…’ He stopped himself, taking his hand away from me and sweeping it through his hair. ‘I’m sorry. It’s the brandy. I won’t embarrass you further. Waiter…’
While he paid the bill I went to get my coat, pausing to stare at my flushed face in the powder-room mirror. I hadn’t expected him to start being so intense, so suddenly. How did a woman handle such a situation?
He summoned a passing motor taxi and, as we moved through electric-lit streets, he sat silent beside me. Groups of men hung about doorways and corners, thrown out of work by the miners’ strike whose ebbs and flows filled the newspapers. But I noticed them only vaguely. Their presence was a mere backdrop to what sang in the shadowed silence between Oliver Wells and me.
‘Kate…’ He took my gloved hand, pressing it between his own. ‘At least think about it, won’t you?’
I said nothing, did nothing, only sat still, staring ahead as if the hand he held was not attached to me. My pulses jumped as he lifted my wrist, parting glove and sleeve to find an area of bare flesh against which he pressed warm lips. His moustache felt surprisingly soft, and his breath stirred the tiny hairs on my arm, sending darts of dismay – or was it delight? – shooting through me.
To judge by the palpitations of my heart, even the one glass of wine I had taken with dinner had been too much. I knew I should stop him, but didn’t know how. I heard myself say, ‘Vicky’s fond of you, you know.’
‘I know.’ His voice was dry. ‘And Lady Rhys-Thomas would not be displeased if I were to press my suit in that direction. It would keep both Vicky and me safely chained to her yoke.’ His hand came under my chin, making me look at him in the flicker of light and shadow as he murmured, ‘Unfortunately, my heart seems to have hitched itself to another star,’ and i
n one smooth motion he slid his hand behind my head, pulled me closer, and kissed me full on the lips. I remember the scent of cigar smoke, a hint of brandy, the steady, confident pressure of his mouth, both pleasurable and shocking…
A commotion outside the taxi interrupted the moment. Shouts and screams sounded, and breaking glass. As we rounded a corner, the cab swerved to a halt, jerking me away from Oliver. I clutched for a handhold, seeing a knot of struggling men and women spilling across the pavement and into the road. Another shop window shattered into a thousand glittering shards. Behind it, flames leapt up, licking round a display of silk fabrics. ‘Votes for women!’ a shrill voice screamed. ‘Down with capitalist male scavengers!’
‘Drive on, man!’ Oliver ordered, but the crowd in front of us barred our way. Handbags and umbrellas flailed and skirts tossed as the women aimed kicks and blows at the men who had run up to stop them. More men were coming, shouting, boots loud on the paving. Some of the women began to scatter, dodging past the taxi on either side.
Recognizing one of them, I opened the taxi door and called to her: ‘Miss H! Hermione! In here!’
She stopped, breathless, started towards me. ‘Kate! Thank God you—’
‘No!’ Oliver pulled me back, sending me sprawling into the seat as he leaned across me and reached for the door handle, saying furiously, ‘Stay away from us, woman! You asked for trouble, now stand and face it!’
‘But we can say she was with us!’ I cried, grasping his arm. ‘She’s a friend, Oliver!’
‘She’s a criminal!’ he answered.
‘Please—’
Hermione Harmistead drew herself up, her face tortured into hatred. ‘Thanks all the same, Kate, but I wouldn’t accept help from a man of his kind. I’d sooner rot in prison.’ The words were lost in a rush of boots as policemen converged to grab her. But before they reached her, and wrenched her away, she spat full into Oliver’s face.
He snapped back into his seat, taking out a handkerchief, muttering, ‘Filthy bitch!’
‘It wouldn’t have hurt us to—’
‘It would have hurt me!’ he broke in roughly, glowering at me through the darkness as, outside, policemen joined the fray and the protesters were hauled away, much to the delight of the onlooking men, who catcalled and whistled after them. ‘I have a professional reputation to protect.’
One of the policemen bent by the driver’s open window, shining a torch on us. ‘Everything all right, sir?’ The beam of light examined my evening wrap and jewellery as I threw up a hand to guard my eyes. If Miss H had been in the taxi, her clothes would have revealed that she had not been with us all evening: we would have been branded as accomplices.
But that didn’t make me feel any more charitable towards Oliver. When the cab moved on, the atmosphere inside it had chilled.
‘I can’t afford to be found shielding criminals,’ Oliver said. ‘And neither can you, if you’re wise. I sympathize with their cause, but I can’t condone their methods. If that woman is a friend, I’d advise you not to become involved in her political activities. Prison is not a pleasant place for a young woman, Kate.’
‘Thank you for the legal advice,’ I muttered, and turned my head away, not speaking again until we drew up in Lincoln Square when, as he reached for the door handle to precede me, I said, ‘No, don’t bother to get out, I can see myself to the door. Thank you for the dinner, Mr Wells. Thank you for all the attention you’ve been paying me. But—’
His hand came on my arm. ‘Kate. Please…’
Shaking free, I turned my head to look him in the eye, feeling cold and angry. ‘I hadn’t quite understood your intentions. You should have made it more plain. You said it would be as an old friend of the family, not… I’m flattered by your interest, but I’m afraid I can’t return it. I’m sorry, but I’m not prepared to be a substitute for my mother.’
Ten
Some of that evening’s window-breakers went to prison but, this being the first time she had been apprehended, Miss H herself was bound over, much to her disgust. Over dinners at Lincoln Square, she and Win and I had long talks about the injustices done to women by men. I remember quoting Lytton, ‘“The pen is mightier than the sword”,’ to which Miss H replied that ladylike reason was a hopeless weapon; the thing to do was to make a row and force people to listen.
Lighter mornings tempted me out early, to walk in Temple Gardens, or by the river, before smoke from city chimneys laid its pall across the sky, but it was not the same as being in the country. Something in me needed to be close to green things, breathing open air. Even so, at Easter I did not go back to Norfolk, largely for fear of bumping into Oliver Wells. I was horribly afraid that, before we had been interrupted, I had started to respond to his embrace. Yet I was not in love with him. That was partly why I had been so angry – because my own feelings troubled me. Better to avoid him until I felt more secure.
Similar reasoning applied to Philip Farcroft, whose presence filled me with an instinctive longing that ran devastatingly deep and disquieting. Philip felt it, too, in his own way. Had we met before, in another life? Were we bound to each other across time? The thought was too much – I didn’t want to face it. It was better – more comfortable – to deny the existence of any psychic bond between us.
In April, Win and I made a trip down to Southampton to say farewell to her cousin Stanton, who was sailing on the White Star liner Titanic, bound on her maiden voyage. Crowds of people waved her on her way, bands played, flowers and streamers flew… As she edged away from the quayside I wished I, too, could be afloat, bound for the Hook of Holland, and home.
‘Never mind, Kate,’ Win consoled. ‘I’m sure you will go back some day. Oh, isn’t Titanic splendid? And totally safe, they say. It has always worried me that Stanton doesn’t swim.’
Only days later, the nation reeled under the shock of the sinking of the unsinkable liner. Win’s beloved cousin Stanton went down with her – a hero, we later learned. Hero or not, he was no less drowned.
The news brought Uncle Frank hurrying to express his sympathy for Win. But Win was inconsolable; neither comforting friends nor her own logic could help her solve this problem. She wept for days, keeping to her room, barely eating.
‘I wish now I’d been kinder to the chap,’ Frank said to me as we walked in Hyde Park among the daffodils. ‘He wrote and asked me to go down and see him off, you know, but…’
‘I didn’t know you had kept in touch,’ I said.
‘I didn’t. He did. The thing is…’ His slate-blue eyes flicked to my face and away again. ‘Stanton seemed to have the mistaken impression that I shared his, um, leaning toward the Oscar Wilde affliction.’
Only when I questioned my friends about the mystery did I realize the shocking thing Frank had been implying. I hadn’t known such men existed. And I certainly wouldn’t mention it to Win – she was hurt enough.
* * *
Though Grandmother had not objected to my staying in London for Easter, her letters made it clear that she expected me to spend Whitsun at Denes Hill. Emmet was having friends to stay – lively young people, whose company I would enjoy, she wrote. Miss Leeming would again be welcome, if she cared to accompany me.
This time, Win couldn’t be persuaded. She planned to visit her old convent school. Though she had no particular religious faith, her grief for Stanton was so insupportable that she, the most rational of people, began to seek answers in strange byways.
After a dismal wet spring, the weather cleared and the Whit weekend brought a foretaste of summer. Not without a few misgivings, I took the Friday evening train to Norfolk and found Emmet and a few of his university friends already installed at Denes Hill. Together with local friends, both men and girls, they made a merry party. But, though I was with them, included in their games and pleasures, I was not quite one of them. Because of my German connection? Because of old stories about Mother? I couldn’t fathom the cause, but the barrier was there.
To my disappointmen
t, Uncle Frank was away that weekend.
‘I seldom know what he’s doing from week to week,’ said Grandmother, a slender figure in black silk frills, seated under a large parasol. We had taken tea on the lawn, at a table now littered with the debris of our repast. Most of the party had gone back to their tennis and croquet, leaving Tom collecting crumbs in a saucer, for his birds, and Vicky slumped in a garden chair frowning moodily into space. ‘Frank never plans anything,’ Grandmother added. ‘He goes as the mood takes him. I had hoped he would be back for the dinner party tonight, but…’
‘Dinner party?’ I broke in, dismayed. Did that mean Oliver was coming?
She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. ‘I thought you might enjoy having a few extra young people in. I know your birthday doesn’t officially fall until next Friday, but you’ll be back in London by then.’
‘Why—’ I was taken aback by such kindly forethought.
‘You see, I’m not quite the wicked old witch that you thought me,’ she said, tossing her napkin across the table as she dipped out from the parasol’s shade. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I shall go up and rest for an hour. Vicky, wake me at six.’
Across the table, I met Vicky’s narrowed eyes. As her mother moved out of hearing range, she said, ‘I hope you’re sorry now for the muddy things you said to her. You don’t deserve her consideration. If it were me, I’d let your birthday pass without even a card.’
‘C.L.B.!’ Tom sniggered to himself, squinting on a level with the table top as he brushed a last few crumbs from the cloth. ‘That’s her, isn’t it, Toria? C.L.B.!’
Her eyes slithered briefly, unwilling to meet mine. ‘Don’t call me Toria, Tom. You know I hate it.’
‘C.L.B.?’ I enquired.
‘Why not?’ she shrugged. ‘It was a silly habit Emmet got into, calling us all by initials.’ Jamming her straw hat further down her forehead, she got up abruptly. ‘This sun is giving me a headache. If I don’t come down for dinner tonight, that will be why. And the fact that Emmet’s friends are so juvenile. It will be all children tonight. Apart from Mother – and Harry and Saffron. But with Frank away, and Oliver…’