by Mary Mackie
I stared at him over the blue of the scarf he had given me, head aching, heart suddenly sick. The chill I felt was more of the spirit than the body. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Gun practice. With the Field Artillery. On Salisbury Plain.’ His eyes gleamed. Obviously he relished the prospect.
‘I see,’ I said, my head numb. Who was he going to be shooting, if and when trouble came? Fritzi? Carl-Heinz? And they wouldn’t be sitting idle – they’d be shooting back.
Hoping that some fresh air might help my head, we decided to take a walk, though first we called at Lincoln Square, where Philip waited on the corner while I went to the house. I asked Mrs Armes to tell Uncle Frank, when he arrived, that I was ‘out with friends’ but would be home in time to get ready for whatever he had planned for the evening.
‘Always assuming he does come,’ I added when I told Philip about it as we walked hand in hand along the streets.
‘I thought you said he’d promised he would.’
‘He did, but…’ A shiver of apprehension ran through me. ‘You’ll think I’m silly, but I have the strangest feeling there’s something wrong. This morning…’
The story poured out of me – the dream, the card with no letter, my fears for Mother… He comforted me, sweetly reasoned and gently teased me out of my fears. No wonder I had nightmares, he said; my head was full of funny notions, though he wouldn’t change me for worlds. Couldn’t there be some innocuous explanation for the opened envelope of Mother’s card? As for Frank, why, he’d be there later, large as life. He’d bet a week’s pay on it.
Darling, darling Philip. Walking in the park with him, my fingers intertwined with his, watching his mobile face and expressive green eyes, listening to the deep, caressing voice that sent shivers down my spine, how could I cling to my ‘funny notions’? I was risking my reputation being seen alone with him, but in London who noticed one couple among many? For all passing strangers knew, we might be engaged; we might even be married. At the very least Philip would be taken for my best boy. Which he was. And I his best girl. I didn’t care who saw us. If one day was all we had then I planned to make the most of it.
By mutual, unspoken consent, in Kensington Gardens we found ourselves in a secluded corner among shrubs, where we paused and looked at each other shyly, nervously. Neither of us could deny the longing that surged between us, or memories of a passionate embrace accompanied by thunder and lightning and drowning rain. It had been so long! Even so, when he reached for me I braced my hands against his chest, afraid of my own feelings. If we began, would we be able to stop? And then I saw the uncertainty in his eyes and was sorry. He had made the first move, coming all this way to see me. Now it was my turn.
‘Philip,’ I breathed and, like one mesmerized, tipped up my face.
The force of that first tentative kiss wrenched me to the soul, twisting sweet pain inside me. Then he lifted his head to look at me with anxious eyes. ‘Is it all right?’
‘Yes. Oh, yes!’ Against my palms the muscles in his arms felt firm under the tweed of his jacket. How strong he was. How fine! I said hoarsely, ‘Please… hold me!’
He drew me to him, pulling me ever closer. And oh! he was warm and strong and wonderful to lean on. I gave myself to the delight of being with him. Nothing else existed. Only Philip and the swooping joy that filled me. If only we had been alone! But not far away people strolled by the Round Pond, children squealed with laughter as they played. A sudden flutter in the trees made us break apart guiltily, only to see a pigeon launch itself away, startled to find us there. In its wake, we looked at each other and laughed, and held each other again, tucked up warm and close and contented.
‘Do you miss me?’ he asked.
‘Every day! Terribly!’
‘Even when you’re with your other friends?’
Lifting my head to look at him, I said laughingly, ‘Other friends? You mean, like Win Leeming?’
‘I meant… other men.’
My fingers combed through his crisp hair, tracing the shape of his ear. ‘There aren’t any other men, Philip. Not like you.’
‘There might be.’ His touch had altered subtly, caressing through my clothes. Strong fingers smoothed my back and shoulders, his darkened gaze sending shivers through me, setting my body alight. ‘When I remember how you looked in that ball dress…’ he said fiercely. ‘When I think of that lawyer with his arms round you—’
‘Hush!’ I silenced him with fingers across his lips, letting my nerve ends feel the shape of his mouth. ‘There’s no one else.’
‘Swear it!’
‘I swear.’
Watching his lean brown face and those bright, devouring eyes, I felt a wild need build in both of us. My body was alert, responding to his nearness in ways that had no connection with my conscious mind. Disturbed by the force of those feelings, I said, ‘Anyway, what about you? You and Lou Roughton?’
‘I told you – that’s over.’
‘Did you give her up because of me?’
He hesitated, then gruffly said, ‘Yes.’
Fierce joy soared through me. ‘Mrs Gaywood will be disappointed. She said you’d marry Lou Roughton if you knew what was good for you.’
‘Blast Mrs Gaywood!’ He bent to kiss me again, crushing me against him, his body telling me he felt the same instinctive hunger that I did; then he pulled my head to his shoulder, where I could hear the lovely rhythm of his heart thudding as he muttered against my hair, ‘I love you, Katie Brand. I love you so much I could explode.’
Oh, Philip! As a knot of joy unravelled inside me, I clenched my lips, and my eyes. I couldn’t speak. For long moments I stood pressing my face against him, trying to control the emotion that raged through me.
‘Katie? Did you hear what I said?’
I lifted my head, showing him my happy tears before I surged up to find his mouth and give him the answer silently, with all the passion in my bruised, lonely soul.
Never have hours passed so swiftly. We even forgot to have lunch. I wanted to stay with him until he caught the train at Paddington, but he said he didn’t want to trail me around London – he had to go back to Liverpool Street to get his kit bag, and he’d probably be meeting his friends from the West Norfolk Yeomanry, who’d be arriving about that time. No, he’d see me safely back to Lincoln Square – I had to get ready for my birthday treat with Uncle Frank. He hated goodbyes, anyway.
What he meant, I deduced, was that he didn’t want to risk having his friends see him with a girl. But, ‘At least we can now write to each other,’ he promised me as we clung achingly close. ‘There’s no hurry, is there? We have all the time in the world.’
It did seem that way. We were young, and we loved each other. Our feelings wouldn’t change, however long we waited. We assured each other of that as we parted with tears and sweetly aching kisses, on my twentieth birthday, that year of 1913.
And then he was gone and I trailed up to the house, disconsolate. Even the prospect of an evening with Frank didn’t make up for Philip’s leaving. But at least I had some memories to dream on, and the summer to look forward to.
Mrs Armes must have been peering out from her curtains, watching for me. She opened the door as I climbed the steps.
‘Is my uncle here?’ I asked, before I clearly saw her face – she looked troubled.
‘No, dear. No, he didn’t come.’ Drawing me inside the hall, she closed the door and handed me a small envelope. ‘But there’s this. It came for you three hours ago.’
A telegram…
The envelope held bad news: I could feel the vibrations crackling against my flesh. Each of the people I most cared about flashed in my thoughts as my fumbling fingers tore the paper. Mother? Frank? Tom?…
The telegram said:
Harry died this morning STOP Please come Hawthorn House STOP Frank.
Fourteen
The numbing news gave me just time to catch the late afternoon train to Norfolk. Its wheels sang a mournful song: Harry was dead, Saffron
alone, Eddy left fatherless… The brightness of the evening sun, as it sank to its setting in a glory of gold and flame, was a mockery, turning my lovely day with Philip to ashes. This, then, was what the warnings had meant.
By the time I reached King’s Lynn, only streaks of pinkish light remained in the darkening sky and on the station electric lamps beamed. I had half expected Frank to be waiting for me, but when he wasn’t there I took a taxicab to Hawthorn House.
The double-fronted villa stood silent, its curtains firmly drawn to hide its grief. Light showed through the rose-patterned glass in the front door, a gleam falling on the paintwork of Frank’s Silver Ghost, which stood in the gravel driveway.
Taking a deep breath, I started down the drive towards familiar brick steps. I felt as if I were sleepwalking, going through motions which, by bright morning, would seem laughable. But this was no joke. Frank’s face, when he opened the door, convinced me of that.
‘Kate. Thank God. I wasn’t sure whether you’d be able to get here tonight.’ He took my heavy bag and dumped it by the foot of the stairs. ‘She’ll be glad to see you.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Upstairs. The doctor’s with her. She’s been asking for you.’
A pall of silence lay over the house and, despite the brightness of electric light, shadows shifted just out of sight, beyond open doorways leading to dark rooms. That was odd. I had expected the place to be full of people. ‘And the others? Where is everyone?’
‘She told them to go away,’ Frank said. ‘She’s not very rational, as you’ll discover. Some harsh words have been said. I’m afraid the Mater went back to Denes Hill in a huff.’
He stopped as voices sounded from the hallway above and a man appeared – a doctor, carrying a black bag. Beside him, the maid, Maisie, looked pale, her eyes awash.
‘Ah, Mr Rhys-Thomas.’ The doctor had seen us. ‘And is this Miss Brand? I’m glad to see you, young lady. Your aunt’s in need of some feminine company. Why don’t you go up and see her? But don’t excite her. She needs to be still and quiet. I’ve given her some medicine that should help.’
I hurried up the stairs and along the hall, to tap on the door of the master bedroom. Saffron’s low ‘Yes?’ beckoned me in.
A cool draught met me. A standard lamp glowed in the corner by the window, which was wide open, drapes drawn back and nets blowing inward. Several moths diced with death, fluttering near the light, and in the high bed Saffron lay flat on her back.
‘You’ll catch your death!’ I exclaimed, hurrying to close the window, only to be stopped by her gasp of, ‘No, don’t! Leave it, Kate. I need the air. I can’t bear to be shut in. I can’t breathe! Please…’
In the glass, against the darkness outside, I caught a glimpse of my own reflection, and for a second another figure stood beside me: Harry, thin and anxious. His image faded almost at once and with it the breeze died, the nets stopped flapping. As he let go his final earthly ties, I sensed that he was handing over to me, trusting me to care for his wife, and for his son. A shiver ran through me at the thought. It was not a responsibility I wanted. Why me? What could I do for them?
‘Kate…’ Saffron’s voice made me turn to see her stretching out a hand towards me. She was alone now, with no one left but her small son and a family of in-laws amongst whom she had never felt wanted. If fate had destined me to be her ally, I had to accept the task.
Avoiding zooming moths, I approached the bed where she lay with her hair tangled across white pillows and her cotton-clad arms outside covers pulled up to her breast. Her fingers knotted tightly with mine as I sank down beside her, seeing her hair damp with sweat, her face sallow and blue-shadowed. Hazel eyes stared out from dark, puffy sockets. Tearless. Even calm. No, not calm. Inside, I saw, she was screaming.
Her nails dug into my hand as she said, ‘Thank you for coming. It was a rotten birthday present to send you. But Frank said you’d want to know.’
‘Of course I did!’
‘Eddy will be glad to see you. He’s asleep now, but in the morning…’ Her lips trembled and she lay back, staring up at the ceiling. ‘I was horribly rude to the old girl. But she was trying to take over, d’you know what I mean? She insisted we close all the curtains, and I hate feeling shut in. I thought I’d go mad.’ Her eyelids squeezed shut, spilling a thin tear down her temple into her hair. ‘I know he’s her son, but…’
Not knowing what to do, or say, I simply sat and held her hand, stroking damp strands of squirrel-red hair away from her brow and watching her struggle with her grief.
Eventually, as if continuing a conversation, she shook her head and looked at me, trying a husky laugh that told of her pain. ‘Of course, you know what it is – I just don’t believe it’s happening. I keep thinking if I lie here and wait long enough he’ll just walk in and we’ll go on as we always have. Do you know what I mean? He was fine on Friday evening. Just his usual self. We had dinner, and then we both went to look at Eddy, as we often do, and then we sat listening to the gramophone. He read his paper, and I was writing letters – one to you, it’s still there waiting for a stamp…’
She had to tell it in detail, recounting every last memory of Harry. He had got up early that morning, while she was still asleep. Waking, she had found the place beside her empty, and cold. She had found Harry slumped on the tiled bathroom floor. He too had been cold. She had tried to rouse him, but Eddy’s nurse had come and eased her away.
Turning tear-filled eyes on me, she said hoarsely, ‘I shall never forgive Oliver Wells! He did it. He killed Harry! As surely as if he’d stabbed a knife into him.’
‘Aunt Saffron…’
‘It’s true!’ she cried. ‘I don’t care what Lady Vi says. We all knew Harry’s heart wasn’t strong. He’s never been strong since he came back from the South African war. But lately Oliver’s been pressing him to do something about the mutterings at the cannery. Worrying him. Bullying him! And on Friday he went to the office and… I don’t know what was said. I only know Harry was upset.’ Her face contorted into bitterness. ‘Oliver’s never liked Harry. Never thought he was capable of running the—’ She caught her breath, pressing her hands to her stomach, her knees drawing up as she rolled over, away from me, her face contorted in agony.
I jumped up, leaning over her. ‘What is it? Are you in pain?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she got out.
‘Of course it matters! Shall I go and… What can I do?’
The spasm must have passed, for she began to relax. ‘There’s nothing you can do. It’s too late. It’s already happened.’
Was she talking about Harry’s death?
Still lying on her side, her back to me, she added in a small, hollow voice, ‘I hadn’t told anyone. Only Harry. He knew. But it was too soon to announce it to everyone else. Not quite three months.’
A fist seemed to close round my heart, squeezing. ‘Another baby?’
‘It would have been. Not now. I’ve lost it. Miscarried. That’s why the doctor… He’s gone to make arrangements. To get me into hospital. They’ve got to scrape it all away, haven’t they? Get rid of it all. Oh, God. God! Why did this have to…’ She curled up even more tightly, screwed into a tight ball of despair while helpless sobs shook her; then suddenly she threw herself on to her back to look at me, hatred burning behind drowned eyes. ‘He killed my baby, too! Oh, what am I going to do? Help me, Kate. Harry… I want Harry…’
* * *
With Saffron in hospital, resting after her miscarriage, Frank and I helped the nursemaid transfer young Eddy and his belongings to Denes Hill. The tragedy had not been entirely unexpected, but even so its suddenness had been a shock. To Saffron most of all.
Whatever insults her daughter-in-law might have uttered in her extremity, Grandmother decided to set them aside for the sake of family unity. She went about tight-lipped, ashen-faced, but despite her grief she managed to organize everything needful. The house held an air of numbness; none of us could believe Har
ry was gone. But Eddy was happy toddling about the gardens, or playing in the nursery suite with Rollins, his nurse, and we all took pleasure in his company, especially poor Tom, who became deeply attached to the little boy. Making a pet of Eddy seemed to be Tom’s way of compensating for Harry’s loss.
Emmet had been summoned from the engineering works at Lincoln. His mother toyed with the idea of putting him in Harry’s place at the cannery, but decided Emmet was much too young and inexperienced, especially with the workers agitating for better terms. As a stopgap, Oliver Wells had taken over management of Chef Foods, where, assisted by Harry’s deputy, he was handling the strike threat with admirable aplomb.
‘Well, he would,’ Vicky remarked one evening at dinner. ‘Oliver’s a born diplomat. If you ask me, he should be appointed permanently.’
‘He’s a solicitor, not a manager,’ Frank reminded her.
‘He could do both, couldn’t he? George Chorley’s quite capable of managing day-to-day affairs. Don’t you think so, Mother? Oliver could hold a watching brief, on behalf of the family.’
‘He’s not family!’ Frank snapped.
‘Not yet,’ Emmet put in with a sly look at his sister.
Hot colour stained her pale cheek, though she ignored the hint. ‘Well, who else is there?’ she challenged Frank. ‘I can’t see you giving up your life of ease to join Chef Foods.’
‘I work for my living,’ he retorted.
‘Enough!’ Grandmother’s voice cut in. ‘Isn’t it bad enough that Harry’s place is empty, without you quarrelling over it? Let us be thankful that Oliver is willing and able to take over, pro tem.’
‘Oh, let’s do that, yes,’ Frank muttered with an evil glance at Vicky. ‘Good old Oliver to the rescue again.’
Tom said, ‘He’s not!’ and leapt up, sending his chair clattering on its back. ‘He’s not!’ he cried again. ‘He’s not!’
Emmet reached him first, laying a hand on one knotted fist. ‘Calm down, it’s all right. What’s wrong, old man?’
‘He’s not having Harry’s place!’ Tom wept.