by Mary Mackie
I’m not sure whether it was hearing or instinct that took me running to the section of the walled garden where the aviary and its nesting shed had been built. The gate in the wall stood open, the garden beyond it desolate but for a few winter greens. Black shadow covered the aviary, but from inside it came the sound of birds panicking, scrabbling, crying out. Some of them were flying free in the frosty night.
With a jolt of both alarm and pleasure, I saw Emmet watching me, as if he had been waiting for me. He was in uniform, his hair silver-bright, his face seeming to glow in the moonlight. I ran up to him, gasping, ‘Emmet! No one told me you were coming home! What’s happening? I had a horrible feeling…’
Saying nothing, he gestured, gently and sadly, at the nesting house, as if suggesting I should look for myself. The side door was ajar, I now saw. I stepped towards it, seeing the interior black. From that darkness came wild flutterings and mournful chirpings. And someone weeping, muttering. As I stepped inside, pushing the door wider, a bird flew at me, its wing touching my face as it escaped into the night. Something soft cushioned my foot. I drew back, peering down through the shadows, and an edge of faint light showed me the small feathered body lying there, a trickle of black blood congealing around it. The acrid tang of gunsmoke hung on the cold air, along with the stench of blood, and fear, and desperate grief…
‘Tom?’
He huddled in a corner, curled up in a tight ball, knees raised to chest, arms holding his head. Weeping bitterly. When I touched him, he resisted me, muttering incoherently, ‘He can’t go! Don’t leave, Em…’
‘It’s all right, Tom,’ I breathed and, when he still pulled away from my hand, I straightened and went out to ask Emmet what had happened.
Emmet wasn’t there. The gardens lay empty and cold under the moon.
And then I understood. Emmet had not been there. Not in the flesh. Not that night. Asleep in Lynn, I had sensed the moment of his passing. And Tom, his twin, had sensed it, too. Their combined agony had called to me.
The telegram came three days later. They never found Emmet’s body, but his name is among those carved on the memorial at Verdun.
Twenty-Three
Few of Tom’s beloved birds escaped the onslaught of his grief. Nor was it only the birds which suffered, as daylight disclosed.
Tom must have woken as I did, feeling as though a chunk of his being had been torn from him. He went down to the stables and, trying to rid himself of the terrible tearing sense of loss, expended his feelings on his rabbits, battering them to death with an axe. Then he turned to the birds. Finding that they evaded him, he went back to the house and used the axe to break into the gun cabinet. Some of the birds that were left died of shock; most of those that got loose vanished, probably dying of cold; three budgerigars, and the mynah bird, remained. The dog, Jim, had disappeared.
Tom withdrew into himself, seeming almost blind and deaf. Only Grandmother’s fierce defence of her son prevented the doctor from having him certified. She decided to take Tom away for a while, to the cousins in Wales, where gossip couldn’t reach. She said all he needed was to be away from reminders of Emmet, until he forgot. And he would forget, she was sure. Poor Tom’s memory had never been long.
I didn’t tell anyone that I had seen Emmet in the garden. The fact that Tom and I had both known the moment of his death caused enough speculation and awe. But it was quickly pushed aside and forgotten – most people find such things uncomfortable and prefer rational, if illogical, explanations. Oliver dismissed my dream as coincidence. To his mind, my actions of that night proved beyond doubt that I was hysterical and over imaginative. ‘But it’s hardly surprising – you have too little to think about, Kate.’
‘Too little? I have a highly responsible job!’
Yes, and that irritated him, too. ‘Only while the war lasts.’ What he meant was that I ought to stop working and start breeding.
On the eve of her departure for Wales, Grandmother invited us to dinner. We ate in her private sitting room, Vicky making up the party. I remember it as an evening of conflicting undercurrents which I sensed but could not fathom.
Over coffee, Grandmother astounded me by saying, ‘I hear good things about the work you’re doing, Kate.’
‘It’s a pity her mode of transport is so indecorous,’ Vicky commented acidly.
‘With a war on,’ I said, ‘decorum is the last thing anyone cares about. The bike gets me where I need to go, that’s all that matters.’
‘Indeed,’ Grandmother agreed. ‘Anyway, I want you to know, Kate, that I’m very proud of you.’
‘Why… thank you.’ I hardly knew how to answer such unexpected praise. It seemed to startle Oliver, too.
But perhaps Grandmother was offering olive branches in order to consolidate what she had left of her family. All of us felt the yawning gaps at the table: Emmet gone, and no word from Frank for almost a year – in our hearts we feared the worst for him. Of the male line, only poor Tom remained. And young Eddy, of course.
‘I have stopped trying to reason with Saffron,’ Grandmother said with a tight smile that made me think how thin and cadaverous she had grown. This latest tragedy had sapped her resources. Even her white hair had thinned and her face was a network of lines and grooves, her blue eyes dull with despair. ‘Eddy’s place is here, on the hill, but she avoids even visiting me now. She says Denes Hill is not the same. But nothing has been the same since this terrible war…’ Her mouth trembled and tears gathered in her eyes, but with a visible effort she straightened her back, coughed away the croak in her voice, and went on, ‘Until Frank returns, I look to you, Oliver, as the man of the family.’
He paused in the act of reaching for his water glass, glancing at her with a guarded expression. ‘Why, Lady Rhys-Thomas… I hardly know what to say. It’s very good of you to—’
‘It’s not good of me! It’s a plain fact. You’re Kate’s husband. You’re the only man we have left. And I’m relying on you – as, indeed, I’ve relied on you so often – to take care of family interests while I’m gone. I want you and Kate to move in here.’
No! I thought, my mind reeling from the very thought. No, I don’t want to come back here. Denes Hill is full of shadows, lurking and waiting. Yet a cool breeze on my awareness stirred tiny hairs at my nape and on my arms, speaking of inevitability. Hadn’t I always known my fate lay here? On the hill, in the valley, at the farm, on the beach, in the woods, along the lanes… Whispers along my nerves claiming me. Michael, my father, and Philip, my love. And John’s shadow, trying to communicate. Ever since I first came, I had sensed something here that drew me.
‘But surely,’ Oliver was saying, ‘Vicky will be here.’
Pale to the lips, my young aunt shook her head, folding her knife and fork over a plate still half full. ‘I agree with Mother. I should be happier knowing you were here, Oliver. You – and Kate.’ The glance she sent me struck like ice. Resentment? Lingering jealousy? How odd – I had thought all that was done with. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she added, ‘I’m planning to volunteer for work at the front.’
Grandmother gave a little moan. ‘Vicky…’
‘It’s no good, Mother, my mind is made up. I don’t intend to discuss it again.’ Vicky had taken charge of her own destiny. But why did she hate me for it? ‘Cavan has been appointed liaison officer to the general staff in France,’ she explained to Oliver, ‘and I intend to follow him. We shall probably get married. We would have done so before he left, if it hadn’t been for Tom, and everything. So, you see, there’ll be no one here of the family. Except you two. And someone ought to be here – if only to make sure the house doesn’t get too sadly misused. For Frank’s sake.’ She added the last firmly, defying fate.
‘Well… I’m honoured,’ Oliver said. But humility was not strong in his nature and I detected a secret gleam of satisfaction in his eye. ‘In that case, of course we’ll come.’
‘It won’t be very convenient,’ I pointed out. ‘You’ll have to tra
vel to the office every day – have you thought of that?’
‘I’ll use the train, and keep the car in town.’ As if to forestall any further objections from me, he turned again to Grandmother. ‘Of course we’ll do it, Lady Rhys-Thomas. You’re not to worry about anything here. We shall be pleased to act as your caretakers.’
How could I argue? I had promised to love, honour and obey. Besides… in spite of everything I loved Denes Hill. It would suit me to be here again, close to the farm, able to drop in on Jack Farcroft more often, feeling close to Philip. Memories of him lay everywhere, in the views from the windows, even the changing seasons. Philip in sunlight and rain, Philip in snow, storm and golden harvest days, in the church, across the fields… Would he ever come home again?
Of course he would come! I told myself sharply. If he were dead, I should know. Of that I was sure. At least… ninety per cent of me was sure. The rest was all too fearfully aware that two months had passed since we had heard from him. Our forces had withdrawn from Gallipoli, during a bloody battle when a few had held the rear to protect the retreat. The newspapers spoke of ‘much wastage’ – which meant many more men had died. Some of them had vanished utterly.
Oliver’s hand covered mine, making me jump. As my eyes focused I saw him smiling at me fondly. ‘We should be very happy if it were to happen,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t we, my love?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, wondering what I had missed.
Apparently he had remarked to Grandmother, by way of cheering her up, that perhaps her first great-grandchild might be born at Denes Hill.
* * *
My life changed yet again as Grandmother and Tom left for Wales, with Anderson in tow, and Oliver and I moved to Denes Hill. We took over Frank’s airy bedroom, it being the largest and most congenial, situated at attic level, just below the sanctum. I couldn’t have slept in Emmet’s bed and the only other vacant rooms were in the private suite at the end of the south wing – the blue and white sitting room, with the master bedroom, dressing room and bathroom beyond it. With Grandmother gone, her suite was closed up, sacrosanct, awaiting her return.
For a week or so, Oliver seemed to enjoy our new abode. He went about whistling, and he made love to me with renewed enthusiasm, as if he were trying to ensure that Grandmother had the great-grandchild he had promised her. But gradually old habits set in and I saw less and less of him. He caught the early train to Lynn every day and often dined in town, too. On occasion he telephoned to say he would sleep at his pied-à-terre in Merchant’s Court. Or he went to London for a day or two, or to the engineering works in Lincoln. Oliver had always worked hard and the war seemed to bring him plenty of new business, from which I benefited, materially. No, the situation did not distress me. If I was lonely, it was not on Oliver’s account. And his absence did give me ample opportunity for visiting Far Drove Farm.
Vicky remained cool, when I saw her, which was usually over the dinner table and in the company of other hospital staff. She had won her place with the Voluntary Aid Detachment and was going to France, bound for a place named Le Treport, somewhere on the coast near Dieppe. As the time for her departure came closer, I sensed she was torn between her desire to be near to Cavan, who had been posted to Paris, and her fear of the unknown: Vicky had seldom been away from home, and never without her mother by her side.
On the morning of the day she was due to leave, having heard a sound overhead as I dressed, I discovered her in the sanctum, gazing out across the view as if trying to memorize it for future reference.
‘It never changes, does it?’ I said, going to stand beside her. ‘It’s just the same as when we were children. Looking out at that view, you’d never know there was a war on.’
She continued to stare out of the window, her face set and her arms tightly folded across her VAD uniform. ‘Everything’s changed,’ she said flatly. ‘Everything’s spoiled.’
‘Not spoiled – altered,’ I argued, trying to comfort her. ‘Our memories remain. Our thoughts, our feelings… they linger in places we’ve loved, with people we care about. The earth endures, the seasons come and go. Springtime and harvest. We’re a part of that. All of us. You know… you shouldn’t grieve. They’re all very close – Emmet, Harry, John…’
China-blue eyes blazed fury at me through a haze of tears. ‘Going to lay claim to them, too, are you? Even though they’re dead, you’re in mystic contact with my brothers. Oh, I hate you, Kate! You’re a jinx. A Judas! Ever since you came, nothing’s gone right. You were John’s favourite. And Frank’s. Even Tom loves you better than me. You’ve taken everything. I should have been Eddy’s godmother. I should have been Oliver’s wife. It should be me who’s mistress here.’
‘I’m not—’ I began but she swept on, ‘I tried to forgive you. I even felt sorry for you, and guilty for hurting you. But Clara’s Little Cuckoo came home to roost and turned all the other nestlings out. Even poor Tom… Oh, I can’t bear to look at you!’ She thrust me aside so violently that I overbalanced and sat down on the window seat as she ran away and slammed the door behind her.
We did not speak privately again before she left, nor did she say goodbye to me: when I came in that evening, my leather coat soaked and my trousers muddied to the knee, Vicky had gone. She hadn’t said goodbye to Oliver, either – he was away in Lincoln at the time.
Feeling in need of comfort, I went down through the woods as I had done so many times, with a torch in my hand. The bomb crater had eroded with a year’s weather; the short-cut track now had a sharp dip in it, making it impassable to motors. Which pleased Mad Jack, of course – he disliked cars as much as Grandmother did. As for those newfangled motorized tractors that Thorne-Thomas was pioneering… Devil’s inventions! Typical of Lionel Rhys-Thomas. The old man still had barbs on his tongue where my family was concerned.
That night, when I knocked at the farm door, two dogs answered from inside the lobby – Boss’s note I recognized, but the other was a sharper yapping. ‘Who’s there?’ Mad Jack’s bellow came over the racket.
‘It’s Kate,’ I said.
He opened the door just far enough to peer round it with suspicion before turning away, leaving me to let myself in as he turned back to the lamplit inner door, slippers shuffling on quarry tiles, still favouring his left leg. Boss barked again as I stepped inside and his smaller companion imitated him, a pale shape dancing nervously in the shadows.
‘Hush up!’ the farmer roared, and the dogs fell silent. Boss came to nuzzle my hand, but the little dog cowered, backing away. It was a terrier cross, mainly white but patched with black, limping on one crooked back leg. ‘Found him living wild,’ Mad Jack told me, seeing me stare in disbelief. ‘Timid little thing. Must have got his leg broke at some time, same as me. Gammy left legs we’ve both now got.’
‘That’s… that’s Tom’s dog,’ I said. ‘Jim.’
‘Ah.’ The old man rasped with blunt brown fingers at his stubbled jaw, meeting my eyes with a narrow look – the story of the dead rabbits and birds had soon spread. ‘Well, he’s called Titch now. Reckon that explain how his leg got broke, though. And why he’s wholly nervous. Blast… that boy should’ve been put away years ago.’
Watching the little dog limp away, I couldn’t argue. In my heart I knew Tom wasn’t to blame, but my intellect said he could be dangerous, given the right circumstances – or perhaps the wrong circumstances, someone leaving a gun carelessly about, or a sudden shock like losing a beloved twin. But, to judge by Grandmother’s letters, Tom had calmed down. She was hoping to bring him home before long. Perhaps he would be all right, if we were vigilant. I couldn’t believe he had ever meant to harm anyone. He just didn’t understand.
In the main room of the farm, velvet curtains blacked out the window. The dogs settled on the pegged hearthrug, in the glow from a log fire that shed both heat and light across the room. The only other illumination came from a lamp on the table, beneath which lay a scatter of oily rags and cartridge cases, spilling across the newspape
r which protected the velvet cloth. A jug of ale stood beside a half-full pewter tankard, foam smeared at its rim. Several guns leaned casually against table and chairs, barrels gleaming.
‘Never know when I might need to defend myself,’ Mad Jack said dourly. ‘Do they Huns come, I’ll be ready for ’em. Or anyone else that think I have something they want.’ He gestured at the old sofa, saying, ‘Sit you down. You want a glass of ale? Or some tea?’
‘No, thank you. I don’t intend to stay. I just—’
‘There en’t no news,’ he told me flatly, resuming his seat by the table, rubbing at a gun barrel that was already shining. ‘Still, you know what they say – no news is good news. That’s what his mother used to say. I remember when Philip was a little old bor…’
He liked to talk about Philip. And for me it was joy to say that beloved name aloud and hear stories of his childhood. I settled opposite the old man at the table, content to share a companionable few minutes with him. Talking about the happier past kept both of us from dwelling on a present devoid of news.
‘You’ve got the Whitfield eyes,’ the old man told me after a while. ‘My mother’s mother had light eyes like yours. Far-seeing eyes. Witch’s eyes, so some reckon.’
‘Maybe that’s what Lou Roughton meant – she said once that I gave her the shudders.’
Through the pale glow from the lamp, he regarded me steadily. ‘That seem as how she had cause. If that han’t been for you…’ Out of his pocket, he suddenly produced a battered envelope, which he slapped on the table in front of me. A slender gold chain showed inside it. ‘Look at that.’
The rest of the chain slid out of the envelope, attached to a heavy pendant, gold filigree round a stone of pale ice-blue. It looked like a sapphire.
‘That was hers,’ he said. ‘My mother’s. That gets passed on through the female line. Wife, or daughter. I did reckon as how it might go to Lou Roughton, but… That’s yours now.’