The Clouded Land

by Mary Mackie

  He was silent for what seemed a long time, then answered slowly, ‘It… has been mentioned.’ Of course it had – Grandmother told him everything.

  ‘Did they also mention why I had to stop seeing him?’

  ‘Because of Tom?’

  ‘If only that were all! Oliver… Will you tell me something?’

  A slight pause, then: ‘If I’m able.’

  I glanced round, wanting to see his face as I asked, ‘Did you know that Vicky and Emmet sometimes refer to me as “C.L.B.”?’

  But Oliver was a lawyer, skilled in hiding his thoughts. ‘Those are your initials.’

  ‘They mean something else, too. I’m not William Brand’s daughter, am I?’ Though his face was still, his silence gave me the answer. ‘It’s all right, Oliver. Vicky told me.’

  ‘Poisonous brat!’ His eyes narrowed as he came and took me firmly by the shoulders. ‘You mustn’t mind her, Kate.’

  ‘I don’t mind. In a way, I’m grateful she showed me the letter.’

  ‘Letter?’ Oliver queried.

  ‘A letter from Mrs Farcroft. In which she told Grandfather that her stepson, Michael, and my mother… she caught them together. In the hay loft, she said.’ My face burned, my head felt tight. ‘So they sent Mother away, and found her a suitable husband. Didn’t they?’

  A long sigh breathed out of him and I saw the sorrow in his dark eyes. ‘One heard rumours, naturally, but I have never known who the man was. This explains a great deal.’

  ‘It should also explain why I stopped seeing Philip.’

  He took a moment to think about that, no expression on his face. ‘He knows about this?’

  ‘No, of course he doesn’t! If he had known I was Michael’s daughter, he’d have crossed the world to avoid me. How can you even think—’

  ‘I meant now. Did you tell him?’

  ‘No.’ Restless, I edged further away, drawn to stare at the glowing fire as I rubbed my cheek on my shawl. ‘I… I wrote and told him we must never meet again, but I didn’t say why. I’d hurt him enough. I couldn’t spoil his memories of Michael.’

  ‘Oh, my dear…’ He made a move as if to comfort me, but my instinctive stiffening made him stop and, after a moment, he went to stare out through the netted window.

  I heard myself say in a small voice, ‘I’m sorry, Oliver.’

  His hand, against the window frame, knotted into a fist and when he looked round grim lines bracketed his mouth. ‘How did you get involved with Philip Farcroft? How did you ever…’ I saw the memory hit him like a cold sponge. ‘Was that him at the library that day? Under the Greyfriars Tower in the rain? Damn! I knew he looked familiar, but I couldn’t place…’ Softly on the carpeted floor, he strode back and stood before me, dark eyes intent on my face as he took me by the shoulders, his hands warm and supportive. ‘My dear… You’re vulnerable, just as your mother was. Like her, you yearn for love and security. But you look for it in the wrong places. Forbidden fruit can be sweet, I know. The danger, the excitement, the allure…’

  ‘It was more than that!’ I protested, hearing him voice my own doubts.

  ‘Was it? Are you sure? And what was it for him – a chance to get back at his father’s enemies?’

  ‘No!’ I could not believe that. Not of Philip. ‘You don’t know him, Oliver. He’s not like his father. He’s straight, and honest, and… oh, he has too much mulish pride, at times. But he’s a decent man. A good man.’

  Oliver regarded me gravely, slowly removing his hands from my shoulders. ‘You’re still in love with him.’

  In the red heart of the fire, a yellow tongue of flame leapt into life. It jumped and wavered through my threatening tears. ‘I was.’ Was, am, have been, will be, I thought hopelessly: I shall always love him. ‘I’m sorry, Oliver.’

  ‘That’s what you always say: “I’m sorry, Oliver.”’

  Sensing his dejection, I touched his arm. ‘You asked for the truth.’

  ‘I know.’ Pain lurked in the depths of his dark eyes, but their gaze was clear and steady. His fingers fastened softly round mine, and he drew me closer, his glance flicking to my mouth. ‘I do understand, my dear. I’ve felt that same anguish, as you know. So I’m able to tell you, though you may not believe it now, it will pass. You will love again – perhaps not in the same way. But perhaps even more surely. Excitement doesn’t last. Friendship does. Security, mutual trust…’

  Nearness drove his face out of focus and as I closed my eyes I felt his mouth claim mine with a sensual sweetness that stirred me in spite of myself. Yes, I thought. Yes, Oliver! Make me forget that you’re not the man I want. Make me forget that the man I want is forbidden to me for ever. I liked to be kissed. I needed to be kissed. And he knew how to do it. But when he held me closer, pressing his body to mine, the hardness at his groin startled me and I stiffened, making a little space between us. A pair of dark, dark eyes asked silent questions and gave me frankly sexual answers, while my veins ran with fires I had thought only Philip could wake. The realization shocked me: I was not in love with Oliver, yet my flesh responded to him. As did his body to mine.

  He said steadily, ‘You know how I feel about you, Kate. That will never change. If ever you need me, I shall be there. But I, too, have my share of pride. I shall not come begging, ever again. Next time, the initiative must come from you.’ He leaned to brush his lips against my brow, said, ‘Goodbye, my dear,’ and, turning lightly on his heel, left the room.

  He would come back, I thought, watching the closing door. He wouldn’t just go away. He was testing me. But a few moments later I heard the front door open and from the window I saw him leave, pulling on his hat and coat as he took the steps two at a time and strode off down the street without a backward glance.

  Nor did he come back. Not that day. Not the next weekend, nor the next… He didn’t write to me, either. After a while, I realized that he had meant what he said – he would not come back without some clear sign from me that he was wanted.

  * * *

  Lingering debility after my illness gave me an excuse for drifting, not thinking too deeply, as the months passed and spring edged towards summer. Not only was I grieving for Philip, whom I could never have, but I felt guilty for hurting Oliver, who loved me in spite of my faults.

  That May I reached my majority – a singularly cheerless Sunday which was also, sadly, the anniversary of Harry’s death. Apart from a few cards and a fruit cake baked by Mrs Armes, my wish for ‘no fuss’ was granted. My personal darkness must have made me an uncomfortable companion: everyone stepped round me cautiously, as if I were an unexploded bomb.

  Having sat my final exams, I let Win persuade me to go with her to the West Country – anything to avoid facing reality.

  * * *

  Safe in Devon, at first I slept – how I slept! Then slowly the good air, the plain food and the lazy pace of life on the edge of Exmoor began their work of spiritual healing.

  On a hot, drowsy day in early August, I walked up to what had become a favourite retreat, a secluded fold of the Exmoor hills, where a stream meandered and trees guarded slopes thick with bracken. There I sat with my thoughts, heat soaking through my light summer dress, until the sound of the stream enticed me to take off my shoes and stockings and step into the cooling flow, treading carefully on hard, smooth pebbles. I always loved to paddle; it set my mind free. Sunlight dappled through the straw weave of my hat, glancing bright darts across the ripples, while small fish became visible as they passed beneath my shadow. For the first time in almost a year, friendly thoughts flickered around me, presences elusive as the fish about my feet, but just as real. Just as they had been on a day long ago, on the beach at Eveningham, where my uncle John had been swimming out where the channel ran deep. I had been wading towards him when the sea fret came rolling in—

  The clarity of that memory jerked me back to the present, to stare dazedly round at the empty valley, the guardian trees on the hills. For a moment John had been close, his presence
stirring the fronds of hair that brushed my cheek as he urged me to remember… No, it had gone, for now. But it was coming back. One day I would grasp and hold it. One day soon.

  Looking about with awakened eyes, I knew how Persephone must have felt, emerging from the bleak winter of Hades. The past year of my life was a half-remembered nightmare. But I had come through it. Scarred and chastened, perhaps, but ready at last to go on.

  A new sound intruded – the putter of a small engine. As I looked round, sunlight semaphored off glass, momentarily dazzling me; a motorcyclist was making up the valley, weaving around ruts and grassy extrusions. The wind flapped in loose sporting clothes – he looked as if he were ready for a set of tennis – and his body hunched over the handlebars of the bumping bike. But it was his long hair, blowing wildly behind him from under the strap of the goggles, that gave me the clue to his identity. Shading my eyes against the glare, I saw that the rider was my uncle Frank.

  The set look to his mouth made me aware of the chill of the water, soaking into my feet and up my legs, as he came bumping up to the bank of the stream. There he stopped and let the engine die, long legs braced either side of the machine. In the silence, the stream resumed its chuckling, a sheep bleated from the hillside and a last late cuckoo called its altered note.

  ‘About time!’ was his greeting.

  ‘Uncle Frank!’ Did I look as stupefied as I felt? ‘Where have you come from?’

  He answered me literally: ‘Torquay, actually. The early train.’ Leaning back, he pushed the goggles up, revealing a tanned face streaked with sweat and dust. ‘I hired the bike in the village. Win told me you were up here, but it’s taken me an hour to find you.’ He leapt off the bike and heaved it on to its stand; then, standing straddled with arms akimbo, he chafed, ‘Look at you – paddling like an infant! Fiddling while Rome burns! How much longer do you plan to hide away here licking your wounds?’

  That stung. ‘I’m not hiding!’

  ‘Then what would you call it? For God’s sake, Kate, you can’t keep behaving like a blessed ostrich. Not now. It’s your world, too. Don’t you care that it’s going to blazes in a barrel?’

  What was he talking about?

  ‘All Europe’s mobilizing!’ he exclaimed, throwing out his arms in exasperation. ‘Germany’s on the march. They’ve declared war on France and Russia. They’re already in Luxembourg and moving on Belgium – which means we shall be declaring war any hour. It’s happening, Kate! The Great War. It’s started!’

  The Great War… The thing we had all feared for so long.

  How had it happened so suddenly?

  In recent weeks the shadow had loomed no larger than for years past. The fuss over the assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo had seemed a local problem between Teuton and Slav, which might perhaps draw the Continental powers into conflict. But, last time I had looked at a newspaper, headlines had warned of danger in Ireland, not Europe. I couldn’t take it in.

  Ignoring possible ruination of his shoes, Frank strode straight into the stream and shook me forcibly, blue eyes blazing. ‘Wake up, Kate! We’ve got to get home. Win’s coining back to London with us, but you and I are heading for Denes Hill. The family should be together while we sort out what this will mean to us all.’

  * * *

  The London train was crowded with people returning early from holidays, regular soldiers reporting back to duty, and Territorials heading for their nearest depot. Territorials… Philip… Fresh posters screamed the message of mobilization and people stood in animated groups, pouncing on anyone with the latest edition of a newspaper. As we neared London, more passengers crammed in at every stop and the rash of uniforms grew thicker. Rumours abounded, most of them false – the Germans had landed in Kent; Paris had been bombed by Zeppelins; British people in Europe were desperate to get out before they were caught in the fighting, or interned for the duration…

  Hearing that, Frank relieved the speaker of his paper and read the article for himself, his face grim. ‘Damn it! Judy’s in Strasbourg.’ My heart beat erratically, with both apprehension and excitement. It was happening. Really happening.

  By the time we arrived in London, Germany had invaded neutral Belgium; Britain had delivered an ultimatum, demanding that Germany withdraw her troops, and now the government awaited a reply before the deadline at midnight, European time. The city thronged with jubilant people clamouring for news, shouting support for Belgium and for our government’s stance against the Kaiser.

  Having seen Win safely into a taxi, bound for Lincoln Square, Frank and I made our way through the turmoil in the streets to the apartment off Pall Mall, where we dumped our luggage, ate a hasty supper and went out again to see what was happening. We found Westminster and Charing Cross brightly lit, crammed with people waving Union Jacks and singing ‘Rule Britannia’. A mob jostled with police along Carlton House Terrace, hissing and booing, shouting abuse as they fought to get near the German embassy. As we hurried by we heard windows shattering as stones found their mark. Another mass of people moved along the Mall under a velvet-blue dome full of stars, past beds of geraniums blazing scarlet in electric streetlight. It was impossible not to share the excitement.

  Outside Buckingham Palace, tension spread among the hushed, expectant mass of humanity as we watched the lighted windows in the great house and waited for the deadline to expire. The Privy Council was in session. We clearly heard Big Ben chiming beyond the dark expanse of St James’s Park and, as the clock struck the hour, a man emerged from the palace to pin up a notice. Amid cheers and general excitement, the King and Queen, and the Prince of Wales appeared on the palace balcony. The word spread – Britain was at war.

  Along with manic rejoicing, hatred of all things German surfaced among the milling crowds, jeers aimed at ‘the Hun’, loud boasts of what ‘our boys’ would do to them. Before Frank and I retreated to the safety of the apartment, we were caught up in the rush to smash a shop window where a tobacconist had on display some Meerschaum pipes which the crowd grabbed and broke and stamped on in glee. The atmosphere of mindless loathing terrified me.

  Though I went to bed, I couldn’t sleep. At three a.m. I got up and stood in the apartment’s main room staring out of the tall window. People still moved about the streets below. Now and then raised voices, or splintering glass, could be heard. Were similar stupidities being enacted in Berlin? What was happening to Mother and the little boys at Lindhafen? For me, one bad dream had flowed straight into another, separated by a brief period of bucolic wool-gathering.

  Usually I enjoyed the ultra-modern decor of the flat, but tonight it felt inhumanly ascetic. It was palely bathed in the mellow light from a pink glass lampshade held by the graceful draped figure of a young nymph moulded in bronze – she reminded me of the portrait Frank had painted of me, draped against an oak tree. Inevitably, that reminded me of Philip. Everything that night reminded me of Philip.

  ‘Can’t you sleep?’ Frank asked as he came in, drawing his dressing gown securely over a pair of scarlet linen pyjamas.

  Curtain rings rattled as I pulled the drapes across, shutting out the sight of the street below. The night was warm but I felt cold and wished I had more protection than my nightdress and light wrap. ‘No more than you can, apparently. Are you worried about Judy?’

  He was lighting a cigarette, squinting against the smoke. ‘She’ll be all right. Resourceful ladies, the Gala Girls.’ But he stopped to consider the glowing end of his cigarette, adding in a different tone, ‘Yes, I’m concerned about her. And not only her. It’s to be hoped this whole damned show is over before half the world gets tangled up in it. Fancy some tea? Or chocolate?’

  ‘I’d prefer coffee.’

  His grin was more wry grimace. ‘Now that we’re awake, might as well stay awake, eh?’ Opening a cupboard in the panelling, he took out the phone to call the night porter.

  The coffee arrived, strong and steaming hot, accompanied by a plate of fancy biscuits, all deliver
ed by a uniformed boy. Frank gave him a handsome tip and sent him away, then poured for us both. ‘Come and sit down, old girl. Are you cold?’ Responding to my shiver, he lit the gas fire and sat crouched on the end of the cushioned fender while I curled in an armchair with my hands wrapped round a coffee cup.

  We talked about the war, what it might mean, what might happen… Neither of us was equipped to predict the future. No one was. But we foresaw that this war would be worse than any war before it, because of new weaponry – bombs, guns, submarines, airships – even aeroplanes might play a part, not to mention the tanks so horrifically predicted by H. G. Wells and even now being tested at Thorne-Thomas Engineering. Frank said Emmet could win a knighthood because of them; it was a bad joke. I only hoped that popular belief was right, that it would all be over very soon and we could carry on our lives as if nothing had happened. But every train of thought brought me back to the same frightening question…

  ‘Why are they calling up the Territorials?’

  ‘I suppose they’re mustering all the forces they have.’

  ‘I thought the yeomanry defended their own home area. They won’t be sent abroad, will they?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. Judging by the mood today, most of them would be only too glad to have a go at a real live Hun.’

  It had seemed that way to me, too. I stared down into my cup, willing myself to be calm. But the coffee rippled as if an earthquake were rocking it as I thought not only of Philip but of all the young men answering the call, eager to offer themselves to the gods of war. Was my stepbrother Fritzi among the soldiers who had marched into Luxembourg? And Carl-Heinz, and Willi? Riding proudly on their chargers with banners flying and drums beating… ‘You wouldn’t go, would you?’

  He thought about that, staring down at the carpet for long silent moments, then: ‘Not to fight, no. I can understand the appeal of it – the romance, the excitement, the pride and patriotism. But when I think about what it actually involves… No, Kate, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take a human life.’