The Clouded Land

by Mary Mackie

  I felt cocooned, surrounded by invisible walls, for I too had been convinced the message was for me. The voice had been so different from the laboured tones of ‘Black Hawk’, vibrant with anxiety, saying my name. But, as far as I remembered, only Mother in rare fits of tenderness, when I was very young, had ever called me by the diminutive, ‘Katie’.

  As Mrs Bly was helped from the stage, the lights went up. The furore diminished as the reverend gentleman came out to thank us all and bid us good night and God speed – and to remind us of the collection plates.

  ‘She might as well have said “Mabel”,’ Oliver said with a glance that spoke of his concern for me. ‘Or “Fred”. Any name common enough for there to be someone in the audience who—’

  ‘I know,’ I cut him off. ‘Win… are you all right?’

  She had a calm, almost beatific look on her face as she returned from whatever dream world she had been lost in. ‘Yes. Yes, thank you, I’m well. She was wonderful, wasn’t she? I felt so… reassured. But I knew Stanton wouldn’t come through tonight. Something told me so. As if he whispered in my ear. But I shall come again. It’s such a comfort, don’t you think, to know there’s something beyond.’

  Over her head, Oliver and I exchanged a look. Win had been taken in – the last person one would have expected to succumb to such arrant trickery – or was it all trickery? Had there been an element of truth?

  We were leaving the hall, emerging into a misty spring evening pooled by the gaslight that still illumined that part of the city, when a bright voice cried my name and I turned to see Judy Love and her friend, the red-headed Elsie, pushing through the crowd towards us.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you, Kate,’ the dancer cried, her butter-blond ringlets bobbing under an impossible yellow hat. ‘Were you in the hall? Mrs Bly’s amazing, don’t you think? Oh…’ She had just recognized the man who stood next to me. Her eyes popped, and then her eyelashes went mad. ‘Why… it’s Mr Wells, isn’t it? You were on the train with Kate. Coming back from Berlin. Kate… do the honours, won’t you?’

  So I introduced them to each other – Oliver Wells, Win Leeming, Judy Love and Elsie…

  ‘Pratt,’ the redhead supplied, preening under Oliver’s cool dark gaze. ‘Elsie Pratt.’

  In a few breathless sentences, she and Judy managed to tell him a good deal about themselves and where he might find them appearing, but he hardly bothered to hide his impatience as he broke away to hail a passing horse-drawn cab.

  As we were taking our leave, Judy grasped my arm, saying in an undertone, ‘How’s Frank? Is he—’

  ‘He’s very well,’ I said.

  ‘Is he? Really?’ She surveyed me worriedly.

  ‘When I saw him last, he was fighting fit. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh – no particular reason. Give him my kind regards, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ I replied, guessing that she just wanted, through me, to remind Frank of her existence. Hastened by the impatient Oliver, I followed Win into the cab, while behind me Oliver tipped his hat to the two Gala Girls, and climbed in opposite us.

  ‘Friends of Frank’s?’ he asked as the cab moved off.

  ‘We met them once,’ I replied. ‘Last summer. Frank treated them to supper – you know how gregarious he is. Judy Love appears to be susceptible to every eligible man she meets. On the steamer that night, she was asking me all about you.’

  ‘Can’t say I noticed her,’ he said. ‘But then, I did have other preoccupations.’

  I couldn’t see his face clearly, but the air was suddenly electric between us. Win had lapsed into a reverie, gazing out of the far window at the passing streets.

  ‘I hope you both realize that what we saw this evening was trumpery,’ Oliver said. ‘I could have done better myself. Red Indian guides, my hat! What’s wrong with people that they turn to such nonsense?’

  ‘What’s wrong with people who refuse to accept?’ Win responded. ‘Tonight, for the first time, I truly believe there is something beyond this life. Couldn’t you feel it, in the hall? A vibrance? The presence of unseen forces?’

  ‘No. I certainly could not.’

  ‘But it was so clear! Surely you couldn’t fail to observe it. Why do you resist it, Mr Wells? What is it you’re afraid of?’

  ‘I’m afraid for both of you.’

  ‘Then don’t be. We are both quite capable of making up our own minds. Aren’t we, Kate?’

  ‘Yes, we are,’ I replied, and took the hand she reached for mine.

  Arriving at Lincoln Square, we all alighted and Win insisted on paying the cabbie before quietly taking her leave, moving up the steps. The cab clopped away, leaving Oliver and me alone in a damp night smelling of smoke, with light falling through blue and white glass in Mrs Armes’s front door. I turned my shoulder to him, my foot on the first step.

  ‘This was not the way I had planned to spend the evening,’ he said with chagrin. ‘I had booked a table, for a special birthday dinner… I know I was taking too much for granted, but I did so want to see you, Kate. I wanted to see you alone. Not at Denes Hill. That’s why I cried off the party last weekend – too many people. But I’ve booked into a hotel in the West End for this weekend. I thought we might—’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I broke in and, when he was silent, turned to look at him across my shoulder. ‘I am sorry, Oliver, but… I’m sorry.’ I didn’t know what else to say.

  He watched me for a moment, his eyes scanning my face as if he hoped to find signs of uncertainty. But I had no doubts. I felt calm, clear, sure of myself. At length, he let out a long sigh. ‘I see. I had hoped… No. My own fault. Charging in too soon. Bull in a china shop, as always. Perhaps one day…’

  ‘No.’ Feeling sorry for him, I added, ‘I can’t let you go on hoping. I’m flattered, Oliver. Terribly flattered. But, you see, I have too much else to do before I think of…’

  His dark gaze fixed passionately on my mouth as he said, ‘Yes. I do see. Very well, Kate.’

  ‘There’s Vicky,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Indeed.’ His mouth twisted bitterly. ‘But it’s a wife I want, not a clinging vine still attached to her mother’s apron strings. I’m obviously destined to die a bachelor. I’m sorry to have… Good night.’

  Tipping his hat, he turned and walked unhurriedly away, not looking back. I almost called after him, but what I had told him was the truth: I wasn’t ready to commit myself to him, or ask him to wait – that wouldn’t have been fair. At that moment I wasn’t sure I should ever want to commit myself to anyone.

  Except, perhaps, Philip Farcroft. Oh, yes, I thought with a passion that made my head spin, if Philip had been with me tonight, the evening might have ended very differently.

  Later, in my room, I lay awake listening to the sounds of the city – a late train hooting, the clop of hooves on fresh tarmacadam, the noise of motors and the squalling of cats. Only then, alone with my thoughts, did I allow myself to remember the spiritualist meeting. I relived the scene, the fat woman on stage, leaping to her feet with black draperies flowing round her, her round pale face a void as the voice came out of her mouth: ‘Katie! Be careful, Katie!’ Not her voice. No. Not even a voice she had summoned up for herself. For behind her, in the darkness, there had been another figure – the same man I had seen twice before, tall, fair and slender, and intent on reaching me…

  I hadn’t imagined him. I was sure of it. My uncle John, drowned eleven years before in the Wash, had this time spoken directly to me through Mrs Bly. Warning me. But warning me of what?

  Eleven

  After sitting exams, I returned again to Norfolk in early July, the time of haying, with gorse blazing yellow above purpling heather on the hilltop in front of the house. Denes Hill was quiet, Uncle Frank in Scotland and Emmet off cruising the Aegean with chums whose people had a yacht. Missing his twin, a glum Tom sought the company of his birds and animals, both those he kept caged and his wilder creatures in the woods. Grandmother and Vicky, assisted by t
he unobtrusive but ever-present Anderson, had their own round of charitable committee work and social engagements.

  Since I always felt an object of curiosity, when company came I made excuses about studying, or took a walk to the beach, or a cycle ride to Hunstanton. There, I often stopped for a chat with Butcher Ehrenfried, who seemed to enjoy speaking his own language for a while.

  Too often, I found myself near the Farcroft farm, on foot or on my cycle. A steam engine hissed and chuntered in the yard, driving a saw, or cutting chaff for feed, while men thatched hayricks against inclement weather. In the fields, hoers moved among root crops and blue-flowered beans, while boys with clappers scared crows from ripening corn. Mad Jack, astride a heavy horse, supervised these activities, a big old man with an iron-grey growth of beard, which he seemed to shave only once a week, and angry eyes glaring under a brown bowler hat. I also saw Philip – working in the fields, or astride a fine bay hunter. Though we exchanged only the occasional nod and time-of-day greeting, my pulses beat faster at sight of him and his eyes told me he shared my awareness. Circumstances separated us, but given the right moment, perhaps…

  One evening, Tom came to supper in a rage against Mad Jack. ‘He’s been shooting my pigeons! Blast him! Blast him! Look!’ And on to the table he threw three limp bodies, bloody from pellets, pale feathers drifting.

  Vicky, with a shriek, leapt up, sending her chair crashing, and Grandmother’s face went grey. ‘Thomas! Take them away at once!’ At his shrinking look, her voice softened. ‘You mustn’t get sentimental over pigeons, my dear. Give them to Cook. You like pigeon pie.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not any more.’ But he took the pigeons away and, as ever after such episodes, we pretended nothing had happened.

  In Lynn, spending a few days with Uncle Harry and his family, I renewed my acquaintance with young Eddy, who at ten months old was a fat, lively baby, already trying to walk. Saffron had by that time lost most of her excess weight, but she would never be slender again. The roundness suited her – she was the earth-mother kind, already talking of having more children. Three or four would be ideal, she said; she agreed with Dr Marie Stopes that control should be practised.

  I endorsed this view, though I hadn’t much idea what it meant. For all my imagined sophistication, the ‘facts of life’ remained obscure.

  Grandmother and Vicky also stayed at Hawthorn House over a weekend when we attended an outdoor meeting of the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies, whose local president was Mrs Holcombe Ingleby, wife of the Lynn MP. Uncle Harry came along to show his support. Indeed, a good third of those present, both in the gathering and on the platform, were male.

  Under trees in the gardens of one of Lynn’s grand houses, the platform was draped with bunting fluttering red, white and green in the sunlight. Rousing songs, and speeches in support of women’s right to vote, preceded a tea, served to the accompaniment of music from the town band. Mingling across the lawns, I encountered several ladies I had met before when staying with Saffron, including the Hon. Mrs Lacey, a doll-like figure who lived in the Manor at Lenhoe, inland from Eveningham. Her sons, David and James, had been at my birthday dinner, their mother reminded me. I had not forgotten; the Lacey boys were charming, though, like their mother, somewhat lacking in physical stature.

  Mrs Lacey was wondering if she might recruit my services during the summer, for the distribution of leaflets and to do some house-to-house calling to explain the Cause. As we chatted, Grandmother hove to beside us, with Vicky behind her and – to my discomfort – Oliver Wells as escort. He gave me a polite smile to which I made no outward response, though my pulses jumped.

  ‘Kate will be delighted to help, won’t you, Kate?’ Grandmother answered Mrs Lacey, adding to me, ‘It will give you something to do with your time.’ Taking Mrs Lacey’s arm, she drew her away, adding, ‘I’d offer Vicky’s help, too, but she has enough to do keeping track of all my commitments. Now, my dear Elfreda…’

  In their wake, Vicky flared her nostrils at me. ‘I’d be no good at it, anyway. I don’t mind addressing envelopes, but doorstep politics are so unfeminine. Don’t you think so, Oliver?’

  ‘Not so unfeminine as some of the antics the militant section indulge in on occasion,’ he answered with a sidelong glance at me that recalled a misty March evening and a kiss in the darkness of a taxi cab, interrupted by breaking glass and flames.

  ‘Some of them feel that physical action is the only way of getting noticed,’ I said.

  He glowered at me. ‘All they’ve achieved lately is to make parliament vote down the Conciliation Bill.’

  ‘Well, that was only a token gesture!’ I flared. ‘All women should have the vote, not merely unmarried ladies of some means.’

  ‘And where did you hear that argument? From your friend Miss H? I trust, for your sake, you’re not intending to emulate her, Kate. Stick to leaflet-delivering. It’s safer.’

  Vicky had been listening like a spectator at tennis, understanding only half of it but growing more annoyed with every word. ‘And who is Miss H?’

  A swift look passed between Oliver and me and I saw his eyes narrow and his mouth twist. ‘Kate has acquired some strange friends while she’s been in London,’ he said bitterly, and laid his hand under her elbow, steering her away.

  ‘How do you know that?’ she demanded.

  ‘Frank told me.’ The lie came smoothly, and over his shoulder he cast me a bleak look. ‘But we don’t want your mother to find out, do we?’

  Was that a threat? I wondered. Might he also tell Grandmother about other friends I had made, nearer to home?

  * * *

  Having acquired the habit of early rising, I frequently went out before breakfast, when everything seemed fresh and new. Tom evidently agreed: at dawn he’d be down with his animals, or carrying out his ‘job’ of guarding the woods. Whenever I roamed close to home, Tom was wont to appear without warning, wanting to talk, drawn to me because he was lonely. I grew fond of him, but his habit of appearing out of nowhere made me cautious about being seen too often near the Farcroft farm. Not that it stopped me – nothing could have stopped me. Something stronger than myself was at work, drawing me to seek meetings with Philip.

  One day I encountered the girl who had been with Philip on the beach at Whitsun. She was coming from the farmhouse carrying a basket of food and a stone bottle of drink and she didn’t recognize me as I rode past on my cycle – I was better dressed than I had been on the shore, with my hair neatly up. Covertly following, I saw her taking the snap to where Philip and the others gathered in the shelter of a hedge for elevenses. She stayed with them, sitting close to Philip, sharing his food. She even drank from the same bottle.

  Knowing I was making myself ridiculous, I went home feeling depressed and vowing not to go near the farm again.

  A letter posted in Lynn awaited me, the address typewritten.

  ‘Who can that be from?’ said Grandmother, who took an intrusive interest in all post at the house.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ In front of her, standing in the over-furnished grand saloon, I opened the envelope and read the letter. It was from Oliver, apologizing with nice humility for losing his temper at the garden party:

  I was in a bad mood, I fear. Nothing to do with you. I beg you to forgive any offence. Please believe that I am concerned for your welfare and your happiness. If we can only be friends, that will be enough.

  Grandmother was watching me. ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s from a friend of Aunt Saffron’s,’ I lied, returning the letter to its envelope. ‘About the Cause. They want me to help, but… I think, if you don’t mind, I’m going to take up Win’s invitation and go to Devon.’

  ‘All that way? Alone? My dear girl… I shall ask Frank to meet you and see you safely on the train for the West Country.’

  ‘I thought he was in Scotland,’ I said.

  ‘So he was. Now he’s at the Mayfair apartment. I told you his movements are erratic. You would be met
the other end, I assume?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll go up straight away and write to Win.’

  I didn’t reply to Oliver’s letter: I burned it in the grate in my bedroom, and stirred up the ashes, which was a measure of my insecurity – I always felt under observation at Denes Hill. I needed to get away for a while – away from Grandmother and Vicky, away from reach of Oliver, and especially away from the proximity of Philip Farcroft. Evidently I had been mistaken in imagining the attraction between us to be mutual. By pursuing him so openly, I felt, I was demeaning myself.

  A day or two later, I was on my way to London.

  A beaming Uncle Frank met me at Liverpool Street and swept me off my feet in a bear hug. I was so delighted to see him again that we were having tea in Lyons Corner House before I had a chance to say, ‘You’re thinner, aren’t you? Are you all right?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better,’ he assured me. ‘Been working too hard, I expect. I don’t eat properly when the muse is at the wheel.’

  ‘I wondered.’ Shadows under those slate-blue eyes worried me. ‘I saw Judy Love some time ago. She was asking after you rather anxiously.’

  ‘Sweet girl, Judy,’ he said. ‘And so are you, to worry about me. Just for that, I shall take you out this evening. And tomorrow… I’ve decided to come down to the West Country with you.’

  That pleased me even more. Round-eyed, I said, ‘To Westward Ho!?’

  Frank laughed at my expression. ‘I’m flattered, but Miss Leeming won’t want your old uncle as an extra. No, I’ll see you safely as far as Exeter and then you take the high road and I’ll take the low road. I’ve friends in Torquay. I plan to do a spot of painting and feed myself up again. Speaking of which, take a look at those cream cakes over there! Which one would you like? Decisions, decisions. Or shall we have the whole plateful? I feel like spoiling my favourite niece.’