The Clouded Land

by Mary Mackie

  ‘When you’re dead, you’re dead,’ she grunted in her brusque way as we sat one evening over a jigsaw puzzle of ballet dancers amid a strong aroma of ashtray that clung to her clothes and hair.

  ‘Then isn’t life a little pointless?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course! We’re a biological accident. Microbes on the face of the globe. Doesn’t have to be a point, does there? Doesn’t have to be a reason?’ Placing a piece of a dancer’s tutu, she gave a little ‘hah’ of satisfaction, and looked up. ‘Do you go along with the heaven and hell nonsense?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’m sure there’s something. If I told you I had seen spirits of the dead—’

  She screwed up her face in disgust. ‘Delusions, dear child. Delusions of the mind and eye, that’s all. Far better to concentrate on the living. By Jove, look at the time. I’m off to my room for a gasper. And I’ve got to mix some jam and treacle to pour in pillar boxes tomorrow. We’ll wear the dastards down somehow.’

  * * *

  At Denes Hill that Christmas, all the family gathered, including Saffron and Harry. Young Eddy, sixteen months old, was an entertainment all by himself, staggering about, clapping his hands with excitement, beaming at the candles and the shining baubles on the tree, tearing at wrapping paper – and trying to eat it – until Grandmother cried, ‘Enough!’ and Rollins the nursemaid whisked the baby away. I remember Harry’s thin face shining with contentment as he relaxed in a big chair by the fire, with Saffron curled on the floor leaning on his knees, Tom playing with a new clockwork train set behind the sofa, Emmet winding up the gramophone to play us his new records, Grandmother plying her crochet hook, Vicky reading in a corner, and Frank… Frank that year was subdued, suffering from a cold and headaches that made him complain at every draught and every noise. Nor did he have much appetite for the Christmas fare.

  ‘Chill on the liver,’ Grandmother decided, ordering him to dose himself with castor oil and Godfrey’s.

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ said Frank, helping himself to his own choice of medicine – more brandy – which, as Harry pointed out with brotherly bluntness, probably caused his headaches rather than cured them.

  ‘Oh – go boil your head,’ was Frank’s response. No, he was not his usual cheery self.

  In church, hearing Philip’s voice raised with the rest, I felt frozen, my own voice choked into silence. But I steeled myself not to look at him. It was over. Over. Whatever it had been. Our glances did meet, though just once, for a fleeting second, as I was leaving the church with my family around me – but it was enough to sear me to the soul. Afterwards I wondered at the unhappiness I had read in those green eyes. Was he as miserable as I was? Oh, Philip! Perhaps I should… You should do no such thing! my bitter self replied. Didn’t you act the fool by chasing after Carl-Heinz? And look what became of that. Stop reaching beyond your grasp. Find a man who’s attainable.

  * * *

  The rising tide of international unrest subsided once more. The nations in dispute over the Balkans met in London that winter and signed treaties, Britain acting as peace-broker. Newspapers declared that Britain was interested only in peace, while between the lines – and often more openly – they implied that Germany was spoiling for war. But in Berlin, I recalled, the press had accused Britain, and France and Russia, of trying to cage the German eagle, forcing him into a corner where he would have to fight to secure his rights to a share in world trade and growing empires.

  Which was I supposed to believe?

  The answer came clearer when, early in March, I had a worrying letter from Mother. She asked anxiously after my health, saying she hoped I was taking good care of myself, then, almost as an afterthought to the usual chitchat about everyday matters, the last hurriedly scrawled lines read:

  Pa invited some colleagues to dine last night and, by chance, I overheard some of the conversation. They say that the Kaiser was furious over what Lord Haldane said. Von Moltke advocated immediate mobilization. Now the government has levied a huge new tax. The men say it’s to fund a massive war effort. I don’t pretend to understand what it means but thank God you are safe in England. Stay there, my dear. Yr very loving, Mother.

  I didn’t pretend to understand it, either.

  Not wanting to raise unnecessary alarums, I told no one about the letter until Uncle Frank came up to town, as he sometimes did, and treated me to dinner and the theatre. He was still not well, though he made light of it and brushed off my concern – ‘Just my digestion playing up.’

  When I showed him Mother’s letter, he read it in silence, his face still. Then he said, ‘The Kaiser’s an embittered man, Kate. He takes offence at the slightest thing. It’ll all blow over.’

  But we both knew he didn’t believe it any more than I did. Especially when he tore the letter across, twice, before handing it back to me. ‘Throw it away, girl. Forget about it. Let’s not run after trouble – it might turn and meet us halfway.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘For your mother’s sake, Kate,’ Frank said, his slate-blue eyes sharp with warning. ‘She was fearfully indiscreet to put such things on paper. If anyone found out – even your stepfather…’

  I did as he suggested – I burned the letter.

  My unease increased when, a couple of weeks later, I had a brief note from Pa, written in German, curtly telling me that Mother would not write again until the tension eased. It was diplomatically awkward, at this time, for him to have his wife communicating with England. The politics of it all was beyond me. Or had he – awful thought – discovered that Mother was gossiping state secrets in her letters?

  My own letters went out to her, as usual, at least once a week. I asked her just to let me know, somehow, that she was well – a postcard, that anyone could read, would be enough. But no reply came. On the other hand, no war started, either. Perhaps it had been just another scare.

  I did hear from Saffron, though, gossipy letters about Eddy and Harry and her friends in Lynn, her suffrage meetings, and Harry’s concern about disputes at Chef Foods: the workers were threatening to strike. Saffron thought it a symptom of the general mood of discontent that seemed to have infected all the working men of the country and all the women who were fighting for the vote. ‘Harry says we all need something else to think about. He gets quite snappy at times,’ she wrote.

  In reply, I sent her first-hand news of our troubles with rowdies at WSPU gatherings, which became so bad that in April the authorities banned our meetings. They also stopped publication of The Suffragette, which infuriated me and made me more fervent in the Cause. Not that opposition stopped us – we continued to hold meetings, especially on Sundays in Hyde Park, and we organized a successful May Day procession, despite the young roughs and idle dockers drafted in by our enemies to make trouble.

  My birthday fell on a Saturday that year. Uncle Frank had promised to come up to town for the weekend and take me out to celebrate my being an old lady of twenty. But on the night before he was due I had a strange dream: I was wading frantically into the sea, fully clothed and surrounded by clinging grey mist, with someone I cared about in desperate danger, out of my sight in the waves. I had to reach him! To save him!

  My subconscious must have remembered the day John drowned, I reasoned. But instinct told me the danger was more immediate, though what form it would take, and who it threatened, I couldn’t guess. When I woke, most of the details fled like mist before sunrise. All the dream had done was leave me with dregs of fear forcing my heart to pump at twice its normal speed. It also brought on one of the blinding headaches that sometimes afflicted me.

  The morning post, bringing birthday greetings from friends and family, included an envelope postmarked Berlin and addressed in Mother’s writing. At last! After all these weeks… But as I went to open it I saw that it had already been torn open and clumsily resealed – the sight increased both my fear and my headache. The card bore a sentimental verse, in German, signed with love from Mother, from Rudger, Pieter and Hansi, and from
Pa and Fritzi – she had added those last two from habit. Usually she enclosed a letter with her cards, but this time there was nothing. Had Pa, or some officious official at the post office, tampered with the envelope, deliberately preventing Mother from communicating with me?

  Was it Mother who was in danger?

  Unable to settle to anything, I made my way across town to Liverpool Street station, hoping to meet Frank. I had no idea which train he might arrive on, but the earliest one was due just before eleven.

  Inevitably, the train having been on time, the platform was almost empty when I arrived ten minutes after the hour. Only a few stragglers remained, under wrought-iron spaces echoing with the rattle of trolleys and the noisy sighing of engines getting steam up. Either I had missed Frank or he would be on the next train, which wouldn’t arrive for a couple of hours. Or had something happened to him? Was that what my dream had meant? I could hardly think for the pain in my head.

  And then, as I hovered in muzzy indecision amid the sighing of steam, the clamour of clashing doors and the stench of old stale smoke, everything faded as a man emerged from the left luggage office: tall, lean, wearing a brown tweed suit and a big cap, with polished brown boots. Through a haze of pain, I stared in disbelief. Philip…?

  He had paused to wait for a baggage-laden trolley to clatter by. Across the pile of strapped cases and trunks our eyes met and held, each of us equally startled. Then he snatched off his cap and, as he strode towards me, I reached out instinctively and found his hands waiting for mine, to squeeze so tightly it hurt. Sweet pain.

  He said, ‘Hello, Kate.’

  I stared at him in dazed wonder, oblivious to everything but the message of gladness in his eyes and the vibrance of that rich dark voice. Despite my head’s thumping, my heart was suddenly singing. He’s here. Philip is here.

  ‘What…’ I managed, and he said, ‘How did you…’ and we both stopped, and laughed a little. ‘You first,’ he offered.

  ‘I don’t know where to start. You… what are you doing here?’

  ‘I was on my way to see you,’ was the incredible answer. ‘How did you know I was coming?’

  ‘I didn’t! I was hoping to meet Uncle Frank. He wasn’t on your train, was he? I never expected… How would you have found me?’

  ‘Care of Mrs Armes, Fourteen Lincoln Square.’ Bright green eyes regarded me ruefully as he explained: ‘I bribed one of the Denes Hill lads – the one who takes the letters to the post – to copy down your address for me next time someone wrote to you. Well, I had to do something. I was beginning to think I might never see you again.’

  My initial delight was seeping away as I remembered the way we had parted. Eight long months ago. I eased my hands free. ‘I thought that was what you wanted. Last time we met, you said—’

  ‘I know what I said! But surely—’ A train whistle shrieked, drowning his words. He glanced about the station at the passing people, waiting for the noise to die. ‘We can’t talk here. Can we go somewhere?’

  Hurt pride told me I should refuse. But I needed to know why he had behaved as he had. Most of all I needed just to be with him again.

  We found a tea shop, not a very smart place. The tablecloths could have been cleaner, but the waitress smiled obligingly, hot scones dripped golden butter, and the tea was hot and strong.

  ‘I want you to know,’ Philip said, staring down into his cup, ‘that I’m desperately ashamed of that night at Denes Hill. I know I behaved like a madman. But when I saw you with that chap Wells—’

  ‘You saw us? How?’

  His head came up slowly, his mouth twisting. ‘Through a window. From the terrace.’

  ‘Grief! You were taking a risk. What if you’d been seen?’

  ‘Well, what was I supposed to do? I wrote to you and you didn’t answer. You couldn’t even be bothered to write a letter!’

  ‘I’d been away!’ I cried. ‘I was going to write as soon as…’ Pressing my fingers to my temple, I stopped myself, saying wearily, ‘I don’t understand you, Philip. Why have you come?’

  He sighed. ‘I’ve tried writing letters. But I’ve torn them all up. I’m hopeless with words. Kate…’ His face twisted as he sought the right phrase. ‘I’m not seeing Lou Roughton any more.’ Before I could answer, he reached for my hand and held it tightly between his own, saying frankly and passionately, ‘It’s you I want to see, whatever my father says. Or your family, or the whole bally world. I don’t care about any of them. It’s you…’ He couldn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t need to.

  Staring at him with aching eyes, I couldn’t speak. I knew I looked a fright, pale and heavy-eyed. My head throbbed spitefully; crockery clattered around us, other customers chatted loudly, and a scent of burned toast wafted from the kitchen. Hardly a romantic setting. But all I could think was that Philip cared for me. Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, I simply sat there like a fool, feeling the beat of his pulse against mine and letting myself drink in the sight of him. How I wanted to touch him, to explore the texture of his thick hazelnut curls, stroke the planes of his face, kiss his eyes, his mouth, feel his body against me…

  Staring down at our joined hands, work-hardened thumbs brushing my skin, he gritted his teeth, making the muscle jump in his jaw before he said, ‘I wanted to rush into that ballroom and throttle that blasted lawyer. I felt like pounding on the glass and yelling to be let in, or else. I’d been thinking about you all week, wondering why you hadn’t turned up to meet me. I’d had my heart set on seeing you that Friday. It… it was my birthday. September the twentieth. I was twenty-five.’

  ‘Oh, Philip…’

  His head came up, green eyes sparking with remembered resentment. ‘I’d spent the whole week hoping for a letter that might explain why you hadn’t been able to meet me. When nothing came, I felt so bad that, straight after parade that Saturday, I went up to the Black Horse with some of the chaps, to drown my sorrows. I’d had a few beers when someone said there was a big party up at Denes Hill and… Katie, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t. You scared me half to death! In the darkness. And in that uniform…’ The implications were so awful I had to joke: ‘I thought for a minute you’d joined the Foreign Legion.’

  A slow, rueful smile tugged at his mouth. ‘Didn’t I tell you I was in the Territorial Army? Second Lieutenant Farcroft, Norfolk Yeomanry.’

  Yes, he had told me, I just hadn’t registered its meaning. ‘Is it like conscription? In Germany the young men have to serve for two years.’

  ‘We don’t have conscription here. Don’t need it. Our professional army does the job, when it’s needed. The Terriers are a part-time volunteer force, just for home defence. We train at weekends, and there’s an annual camp in July. But… this year we’re being called for extra training. They want us well prepared.’

  He didn’t say prepared for what. He didn’t need to.

  Hating the thought of it, I said thickly, ‘What will happen if…’

  ‘If the balloon goes up? We’ll be defending our bit of the coast, I expect. But don’t worry, Denes Hill is pretty safe. They’ll never get past our navy. Britannia still rules the waves, however many ships the Kaiser may have built.’ Realizing what he was saying, he squeezed my hand reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry your head about it. Our chaps are taking precautions, that’s all. What with the Balkans, and Ulster… It’s wise to be ready. It doesn’t mean it will happen.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ But I preferred not to think about it. ‘Will you have some more tea?’

  While I poured, he told me how, having discovered my address in London, he had come up to town by the first train that morning. ‘It’s your birthday, isn’t it?’ he added, reaching into an inner pocket for a small package which he awkwardly presented to me. ‘Happy birthday, Katie.’

  The gift was a silk scarf, in a lovely shade of blue. Too choked to speak, I held its softness to my cheek, loving the special way he called me ‘Katie’.

&nb
sp; ‘Oh, Philip… How sweet of you to remember. It’s lovely. Thank you. But…’

  ‘No buts,’ he said, capturing my hand again, more firmly. ‘Let’s just enjoy today, while we have it. I had to come, Katie. I couldn’t go on without seeing you. I’ve been so…’

  ‘Me, too.’ My fingers answered his, stroking and caressing.

  ‘I wanted to speak to you at Christmas,’ he confessed, ‘but you seemed so remote I didn’t dare. I hoped I might see you at Easter, but you didn’t come home. So this weekend, when I got the chance—’

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ I told him. ‘It’s a lovely birthday surprise. The best ever. When I saw you standing there…’ But the expression of chagrin on his face gave me pause. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. Except…’ He sighed heavily. ‘I’ve got a confession – I had to come to London anyway. It was just, when I realized what date it would be, I decided to take an early train and try to see you. I wasn’t even sure I’d have the courage to come calling so, when I saw you there waiting… it seemed like fate.’

  ‘It was fate,’ I said, clinging to his hand and gazing into his dear face. I was sure now – we were soul-mates, bound by old, old ties that stretched from the far past into the far future, linking us for ever. We had known each other, and loved each other, before, and would do so again. I felt that deep in my bones. But I knew better than to tell him so: it would have troubled him. In this life he didn’t share my far sight. He would have thought me fey.

  ‘Of course it was,’ he agreed, tender eyes smiling indulgently at me. ‘It’s given us more time together, anyway. But we’ve only got a few hours. I have to catch another train this afternoon. Four fifteen special, from Paddington.’