The Clouded Land

by Mary Mackie

  ‘No, of course he’s not. Nobody said he would. Come on… Let’s go and see if Cook’s got any scraps for your menagerie, shall we? Excuse us, everyone.’ And he edged his twin out of the room.

  In their wake, Grandmother glowered at Frank and Vicky. ‘I won’t have your petty, childish grievances resurrected over Harry’s coffin. He has been living on borrowed time, ever since he was wounded in South Africa. We’re all upset about it. Throwing mud at each other won’t help.’

  ‘Tell that to Saffron,’ Frank muttered.

  ‘Saffron’s distraught!’ Grandmother replied. ‘She doesn’t know what she’s saying.’

  In those days before the funeral, we were all under tension.

  One wet afternoon I found myself up in the sanctum, stunned by the news that Emily Davison, an ardent suffragette whom I knew a little, had been killed when she threw herself under the King’s horse during the running of the Derby. How unpredictable life was. Life, and death. Staring out of the window through a mist of drizzle towards the Eveningham vale and the Farcroft farm, I wished Philip were there. His humour and good sense would have steadied me.

  Uncle John always seemed close to me here in the tower, where his image smiled from the walls. I would have liked to talk with him, too. What did he want with me? Why couldn’t he rest? With Harry’s death, shadows seemed to gather ever more closely about me: Mother had written of war preparations in Berlin, since when she had been prevented from contacting me. And now Philip was on Salisbury Plain, engaged in artillery training…

  ‘Missing your young chap?’ Frank asked, and when I jerked round I found him seated across the room, pencil poised over his sketch pad.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tut, tut. Manners. What would dear Miss Yearling have said? I presume you mean, “I beg your pardon, Uncle Frank, dear”?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  His smile broadened. ‘Good heavens, girl, I’m rotting you. Lost your sense of humour?’ But as he watched me his brow furrowed. ‘You were miles away. Back in London with, er… What’s his name, Kate? Isn’t it about time you confided in your favourite uncle?’

  My scalp seemed to tighten. ‘About what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ But, as Oliver had observed, I was not a good liar; Frank, who knew me too well, perused my heightened colour with amusement.

  ‘No? Forgotten the young man who, according to my spy, makes you “light up like Christmas”?’ He held up a letter which had evidently come that morning. ‘Judy saw you coming out of a tea shop last Saturday. Place near Liverpool Street station. She says you were with a young man. Tall chap, broad shoulders, rather good-looking.’

  Tossing my head, I turned away in hope of hiding my burning face. ‘Judy’s a pesky gossip!’

  ‘True!’ Frank laughed. ‘So who is he? One of your chums from college? Educated fellow, I gather. Polite. Nicely spoken. Held your hand a lot.’ In answer to my frown, he added dryly, ‘Judy knows the waitress who works there.’

  That was too much! ‘Did she find out his collar size, too?’ I demanded. ‘He’s just a friend, Uncle Frank.’

  ‘Well, if you say so. I shall have to meet him. We’ll go to dinner, next time I’m in town – Judy and I, and you and your school chum.’ Thank goodness Judy was such a bad detective! Close as Frank and I were, he would never understand how I felt about Philip Farcroft, the only son of my family’s bête noire.

  ‘Anyway,’ I countered, ‘what was Judy Love doing at Liverpool Street last Saturday morning? Or shall I guess? On her way to meet the next train, was she? Hoping to meet you?’

  A bland smile was the only answer.

  Remembering why he had not been on the train as expected, I folded my arms, staring out of the window, trying to get my thoughts back in order. ‘Uncle Frank… why do you dislike Oliver so much?’

  The silence went on for so long that I looked round and saw him glowering. He said, ‘I just can’t stand the smarmy toad.’

  ‘It’s not like you to take against someone without good reason. Wasn’t he Uncle John’s best friend?’

  Again he didn’t reply immediately, but watched me under his lashes, his face still. ‘What is it you’re asking me, Kate? Why this interest in Wells – and John, too? All that was a long time ago.’

  ‘I know, but…’ I didn’t really know the answer. Wrapping my arms about myself, I glanced round the sanctum. ‘There’s something about this room. Every time I’m here, I think about Uncle John.’

  ‘Not surprising. When he was in the right mood, he liked to be up here with you young ones. Snakes and ladders. Ludo. He made a special favourite of you. You loved him, too. I suppose he was a kind of substitute father.’

  John’s image smiled at me from the wall, telling me nothing. If we had been so close, how could I have forgotten everything about him?

  ‘If I were you,’ Frank said, ‘I’d let sleeping dogs lie. Look…’ He showed me his sketch pad, where quick pencil drawings showed identifiable parts of me – my elbow, my hand, my hair and part-profile. ‘I’ve been doodling a few ideas. Can we make a start on this portrait?’

  He was changing the subject again. But I let it go. One thing I had learned about Frank – if he decided not to talk about something, he could be just as stubborn as his mother.

  ‘I want you to pose for me out of doors,’ he was saying. ‘Under that oak tree by the tennis court, you know? With your hair loose, wearing something soft.’

  So I indulged him and spent the next few mornings leaning on the oak’s gnarled bark, with the breeze playing in my hair. Frank had a charmingly fey image of me, presented on canvas as an elfin princess, long-limbed, poised, slender as a lily in softly clinging cream gown, long flowing hair, white skin and huge, luminous, faraway eyes. The developing picture had a lonely, yearning quality about it – not the way I saw myself. But perhaps Frank’s vision was true enough: the portrait is of a woman in love. As I posed for it, my mind was miles away. With Philip.

  The family decided that Saffron should not be on her own, for the time being, and when the doctors allowed her to leave hospital I played my part in persuading her to come to Denes Hill. She didn’t argue. Her raging grief and bitterness had given way to numb silences, leaving her like a rag doll robbed of its stuffing. The only time I saw her come to life was when she was reunited with Eddy; then she cried and held him too tightly, frightening him.

  Two days later, Harry was laid in Eveningham churchyard, beside John.

  Grandmother had organized a funeral repast at the house: people seldom missed an excuse to sample Denes Hill hospitality and this occasion would provide good gossip locally. Saffron bore up bravely, head high and back straight, as if determined not to let herself down on that day. She was a fine-looking woman, still young, heavy at the hips, perhaps, but black suited her and the marks of strain on her face paid tribute to her love for Harry. All the same, I heard someone remark sourly that most likely the widow wouldn’t remain a widow for long – well, she hadn’t mourned long for John; as soon as Harry had returned from the Boer war she’d latched on to him. Who would be next – Frank?

  The speaker was Mrs Tranter, a crony of Grandmother’s who had buried her own husband years before and never found another. Catching her eye, I let my expression declare my contempt. She had the grace to look away and change the subject, though no doubt after I moved on she said nasty things about me, too. Mrs Tranter seldom had a good word for anyone.

  I didn’t actually hear anyone comment on the chill that was apparent between Saffron and Oliver, but I noticed some eloquent looks. Whenever he came near her she cut him dead and pointedly moved away, refusing even to speak to him. Though Oliver tried to maintain an air of insouciance, not even he could entirely hide his discomfort. I saw Vicky complain to Grandmother on his behalf, then Grandmother spoke to Saffron, whose reply caused Grandmother to don her very best frozen-dragon glare. I was too far away to hear what was said, but a moment later Saffron had turned on her heel and, in tears
, forced her way between groups of the company, turning heads and causing more speculation as she fled for the stairs.

  Going after her, I found her lying across her bed, every muscle in knots of fury and despair. No, she didn’t need anything. No, there was nothing I could do. She knew I meant it kindly, but would I please go away? I was much too young. I couldn’t possibly understand. Why had that man been here, on this day of all days? Didn’t he have any feelings, any sense of shame? Oh, she hated being in this house. She was going back to Lynn just as soon as she could. And she was going to take her son with her. Lady Vi wasn’t going to rob her of Eddy!

  Worried, I left her alone and went to see my godson, who was screaming his lungs out, refusing to go down for his afternoon nap. Rollins was fretful, too. ‘He’s been like this for over an hour. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, Miss Brand. It’s as if he knew…’

  ‘Let me take him for some air.’ Wondering if little ones could sense vibrations around them, I carried Eddy down to where his perambulator was kept in the lower lobby. The journey down the back stairs silenced his screams, but his little body shook with silent misery. He didn’t want to lie down, so I let him sit up and wheeled him out into the garden, first to see Tom, who was with his birds, and then round the flower garden and the croquet lawn, singing to him. He watched me with huge, miserable blue eyes, lids slowly beginning to droop, until at last he lay down and went off to sleep.

  I tucked his blanket round him, thinking how sweet and peaceful he looked, unaware of the traumas battering round him. He wouldn’t even remember Harry, and that was sad, but we would make sure he knew how much his father had loved him.

  Pushing him in front of me, I wandered into the shrubberies, down a grassy pathway which the gardeners mowed regularly. I was still singing under my breath to soothe the baby: ‘“I’ll be your sweetheart, If you will be mine…”’ and thinking of a shady nook in Kensington Gardens, where strong arms had held me close while warm lips caressed my throat. But my song broke off as I caught a whiff of cigar smoke and found myself near the folly, a mock-Roman temple that made a kind of summerhouse, half hidden in flowering shrubs. Granite pillars framed the entrance, above a flight of shallow steps, and trees reached out their branches as if to guard the roof. The place appeared to be empty. Yet the scent of cigar smoke was unmistakable.

  Nerves tingling, I peered at the growth around me – dark foliage of rhododendron thick with purple flowers, azaleas flaming, trees forming a canopy above, ground ivy snaking across the steps at my feet… ‘Hello?’ I called softly. ‘Is anyone—’

  ‘Kate,’ Oliver’s voice answered on a note of relief and, to my astonishment, he appeared in the doorway of the ‘temple’. He had been hiding behind a pillar!

  His expression derided his own antics, mouth wry beneath the moustache. ‘I thought you were Vicky.’

  I couldn’t help laughing at the thought of him cowering in the summerhouse for fear of a woman. ‘Poor man! Were you terrified?’

  ‘It’s not funny,’ he objected, stepping slowly down to join me. ‘Do you realize I could find myself obliged to marry her, or facing a breach of promise suit, when I’ve never given her the least cause to—’

  ‘You’ve been kind to her.’

  ‘I don’t have much choice. I can’t offend her mother by— Oh, really, Kate!’ as I burst into fresh laughter. But he too could now see the funny side of it and a slow grin quirked at his mouth. ‘Be quiet, you’ll wake the baby.’

  We both peered into the pram, but Eddy was worlds away.

  Close beside me, Oliver said in a low voice, ‘It’s good to hear you laugh, anyway. I suppose I did look a little foolish. Did you feel the need to escape, too?’

  ‘Something of the kind.’ I straightened, putting more distance between us. ‘Eddy was fretful, so I thought a walk might settle him.’ I had started to move on, but stopped as a thought occurred to me. ‘Actually, Oliver, I’ve been hoping to have a word with you.’

  Dark eyes caressed my face hopefully. ‘Have you?’

  ‘About Mother.’

  The hope died, leaving him smiling with chagrin. ‘Ah. Yes.’

  ‘I’m worried about her. I haven’t heard from her since early March.’ I told him about the worrying letter, and the note from Pa which had followed it, and the resealed envelope with my birthday card. To my relief, Oliver understood my concern.

  ‘Would you like me to write to them? In my official capacity, I mean? I’m sure I could invent some good reason for contacting her.’

  ‘Could you?’ A load seemed to lift from me. ‘Oh, Oliver, I’d be so grateful. If I could just be sure she’s all right. With all these rumours flying around…’ Wanting to give something in return, I added, ‘You know, Saffron doesn’t mean to be unkind. She just—’

  ‘I know.’ He laid a hand beside mine on the pram handle, not quite touching me, helping me push as we strolled on along the path under the trees, going very slowly. ‘She’s hurting and she needs a target to hit at. But, I should tell you, in all honesty, Harry and I did have words that day – about the strike situation. We both became somewhat heated. Maybe I was partially to blame for—’

  ‘You mustn’t think that.’

  ‘I can’t help it. All the same…’ He paused in the dappled shade of oak trees, his hand moving warmly to cover mine. ‘I’m glad to know you don’t hold it against me.’

  Steeling myself, I tried not to overreact to his touch. Alter all, if Uncle Frank had laid his hand on mine I would have taken it for a natural, affectionate gesture. Why couldn’t I think of Oliver in the same way? I said, ‘I just wish I knew why…’

  ‘Why Harry hated me?’

  It was no good, I couldn’t stand there and let him hold my hand – he was not Uncle Frank. I eased free and bent over the pram to adjust Eddy’s blanket needlessly. ‘“Hate” is a strong word. I don’t believe Uncle Harry was capable of hating.’

  ‘What would you prefer? Dislike? Distrust?’ He swept his hand across his hair, as if to remove the lingering imprint of my flesh. ‘Don’t forget I was the charity case – the motherless waif whom they allowed to join in their games. And then I grew up. I became useful to their father in ways they could never emulate. Oh, they all tried – except Frank, who always knew he wasn’t a businessman – but not one of them was equipped to follow in Sir Lionel’s shoes. Not even Emmet, from what I’ve seen. He’s bright, but he has no business brain. Strangely enough, Vicky’s the one with the most organizational ability. Now, if she’d been a boy…’

  ‘What about John?’

  His eyes glimmered. ‘John prospered on charm. Everything came easy to him. It made him lazy. I think that’s why we got on so well together – we were opposites, we made a good team. But he was secure in his position as the oldest son, so he didn’t feel it demeaned him to be friendly with someone like me. Which gave Harry and Frank even more excuse to hate me. They never did understand why their older brother and I were so close. Oh… I don’t blame them. In their shoes I might well have felt the same.’

  Behind him, a pale face topped by a mass of red-gold hair peered round a tree. Vicky dodged back when she realized I had seen her, but Oliver turned to discover what had caught my eye and, a moment later, my young aunt gave up the pretence and stepped out into full view, wearing on each pale cheek a flag of scarlet above which her blue eyes blazed. Her thin body was rigid, her neck a pale column rising out of deep mourning.

  ‘I see,’ was all she said, but the words were thick with disgust and bitterness.

  ‘Eavesdropping?’ Oliver taunted.

  Temper flared in her eyes, but she controlled herself, hands knotted at her sides as she said quietly, ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves. Both of you. How dare you gossip behind our backs? Who do you think you are, Kate Brand? As for you, Oliver… I thought better of you. I really thought… I shall tell Mother.’

  ‘Tell her what?’ Oliver enquired. ‘Grow up, Vicky.’

  Her colour deepen
ed, running down her throat to flush her swanlike neck. ‘Don’t speak to me like that! I’m not a child to be silenced.’

  ‘Vicky…’ He stepped towards her, but she drew back, gasping, ‘No, don’t touch me. Don’t touch me ever again. Stay with her. I know that’s where you’d rather be. Well… have her. You deserve each other.’ Darting me a venomous glance, she grabbed a handful of her skirt and turned away, making for the house with as much speed and dignity as her narrow hem would allow.

  ‘Go after her,’ I suggested when Oliver stood unmoving, his broad back turned to me. ‘She has the wrong impression. You can’t let her just—’

  ‘Can’t I?’ He looked at me along his shoulder, umber eyes burning. ‘She doesn’t have the wrong impression, Kate, she has it exactly right – I do prefer to be with you.’

  ‘Oliver—’

  ‘It’s all right.’ A gesture halted my protests. ‘You’ve made it clear you don’t return the feeling. I understand that. I respect it. But does that mean I have to latch on to a girl who leaves me utterly cold? What do you take me for – a fortune-hunter? Vicky deserves better than that. Sooner or later, I trust, she’ll find someone who will genuinely care for her. While I, for my sins, will never care for anyone but you. Excuse me.’

  And he turned on his heel, striding back in the direction from which we had come – the opposite direction to Vicky.

  * * *

  Saffron remained adamant in her decision to go back to Lynn, despite well-meant advice to the contrary. More harsh words were said, I gathered, as a result of which Grandmother summoned me to her private sitting room. She paced restlessly, a thin figure in black, her shoulders slightly bent with age but still imperious, as she instructed me to go with my aunt and spend a few days with her before returning to London.

  ‘We must not allow this to develop into a family rift. Saffron is an excessively stubborn woman. But Eddy is my grandson. I will not be cut off from my own flesh and blood.’ She seemed oblivious to the irony in her own words – she hadn’t cared about being ‘cut off from me for years, and she’d never even seen my half-brothers. But of course we didn’t count – we were not Rhys-Thomases. As for Saffron being stubborn…’