by Mary Mackie
‘My husband is a snob, I’m afraid,’ I sighed.
She gave me a sidelong look, said darkly, ‘No, it’s not that, dear,’ then grimaced and laughed. ‘D’you know what this reminds me of? Five years ago – the two of us standing in the moonlight on the Channel steamer. Lor’, if we’d known then, eh? What was going to come, I mean. The war. And me falling for your lovely uncle, and coming here chasing after him like a love-struck ninny. If you’d read my fortune and told me this was where I’d be, five years on, I wouldn’t have believed it.’
I perched on the broad stone balustrade that edged the terrace. ‘Don’t change the subject – that’s one of Frank’s bad habits. You implied that Oliver has some dark reason for disliking you. How could he, when you hardly know each other?’
‘No, that’s right, dear,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Take no notice of me. Got an inferiority complex as big as this house. Maybe that’s what it is – this house. I mean, the more I come here, the more I think I could never belong, even if old Frank…’
As the silence lengthened, I said, ‘That’s the first time I’ve heard you say “if” and not “when”.’
‘I meant “if he proposed to me”, not “if he comes home”,’ she said at once. ‘He will come, Kate. He’s got to.’
‘No one would blame you if you looked for someone else. He’s been gone an awfully long time.’
Judy stared bleakly into the night. ‘That’s what Philip said.’
‘Philip?’ Was there a jealous edge in my voice? ‘Have you talked to him about Frank?’
‘Oh, yes.’ As she glanced at me, moonlight caught in wetness under her eye and when she laughed it sounded husky. ‘He’s easy to talk to, isn’t he? So straight. Makes it all seem so simple. Black and white. Good and bad. No in-between with Philip.’ She shook her head at me. ‘You were a ruddy fool to let him go, dear.’
In the pause before I gathered my wits to answer, an owl swooped over the heathered hilltop, pale against the black band of the woods. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘’Course you do. I saw you with him, remember? I saw the way you looked at each other. I know why you ran away from the farm. I thought he looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. Then I remembered – it was in London. That tea shop near Liverpool Street. Lor’, dear… Even if you did have a quarrel – even if your family had made a stink – you should never have let him go. He’s worth a hundred Oliver Wellses.’
‘Don’t say that.’ I jumped off the balustrade and, wrapping my arms about myself, moved a pace or two away. She and Philip must have had quite a heart-to-heart. ‘I don’t know how much he told you, Judy, but… He obviously hasn’t told you everything. Trying to protect my good name, probably – that would be like him.’
‘He did say there was a reason, but he wouldn’t say what it was. Involved other people, he said.’
‘That’s right. It involved my mother and his brother. And me.’ I looked round at her in the moonlight, saying flatly, ‘One and one makes three, Judy, if you’re not careful. And when one is a girl from the hill and the other a boy from the farm, and their families hate each other…’
Her mouth made a dark O in her pale face. ‘Kate! You don’t mean—’
‘I think,’ Oliver’s hard voice came out of the blackness round the door, ‘that my wife has said quite enough, Miss Love. You’ll oblige us both by saying nothing of this to anyone. Do you understand me? Slander is a crime in this country and if I find you’ve been spreading this tale…’
I couldn’t look at Judy – I was mesmerized by the sight of my husband materializing from the shadows. But I heard the sudden ice in my friend’s voice as she said, ‘You ought to know by now that I can keep my mouth shut. I’d never hint Kate—’
‘Neither would I!’ he grated, cutting off anything she might have added. Despite his words, he grasped my arm so hard, just above the elbow, that pain shot down to my fingertips. ‘Now go away. And don’t come back. From now on this house is out of bounds to you.’
She gaped at him. ‘You can’t tell me—’
‘I just did! Lady Rhys-Thomas left me in charge here. When she returns, she won’t welcome your sort of person hanging around her house. You’re employed at the farm. So stay at the farm.’
Judy returned glare for glare. ‘This is a Red Cross hospital. You can’t stop me from visiting. All right, I’ll go, but only because it’s late and I’ve got work to do tomorrow. Good night, Kate. I shall see you soon.’
As she ran down the steps to the drive, Oliver and I stood in silence. My arm tingled – he was stopping the blood.
‘You’re hurting me,’ I objected.
He let me go, but he didn’t apologize. He said, ‘So, young Farcroft’s home, is he? Since when?’
‘About ten days,’ I replied, rubbing my arm.
‘You’ve seen him?’
‘I went to see Judy. She wasn’t well. Philip happened to be there.’
‘Convenient.’
‘It’s the truth. I didn’t stay long. And I haven’t been back since.’
‘Sensible of you,’ he said in the expressionless tone he could adopt at will. ‘After all, seeing him will do neither of you any good.’ He took my arm again, saying softly, ‘Shall we go to bed – my love?’
I feared that his jealousy might make him take me in anger, but instead he chose sensuality as his means of revenge, using his skill to arouse me until I quivered under him, begging for release. In the end it was not him I hated but my own body, for betraying me and responding helplessly to his cool cajolings. It had nothing to do with love, neither for me or for him – not any more. Afterwards, he lay stroking me, talking softly, saying that he didn’t like my being friendly with Judy Love.
‘I hadn’t intended to tell you this, but perhaps you should be warned… Miss Love may try to poison your mind against me.’
‘Why should she do that?’
‘“A woman scorned…” Need I say more?’
Whatever was he implying?
‘You will recall,’ he said, ‘that, even during our journey from Berlin, she paraded the train displaying herself for my benefit. You yourself drew my attention to it. Then, after we encountered her at that ridiculous seance, or whatever you choose to call those entertainments, she discovered where I was staying and—’
‘Oliver!’ I breathed. ‘That can’t be right. She’d met Frank by then.’
‘One man is never enough for her type. Obviously Frank was more susceptible than I. He may be genuinely fond of her. And she, no doubt, sees in him a meal-ticket. Why else is she here? She couldn’t go on being a dancer for ever. She must be near thirty. Perhaps now you understand why I’ve tried to discourage your friendship with her. My dear, you’re so young. I love you for your trust in people. But it can’t go on. We must persuade her to stay away from Denes Hill. When your grandmother comes home in a few weeks’ time, I—’
‘Grandmother? Is she coming? And Tom?’ I grasped eagerly at this news as an antidote to my doubts about Judy.
‘I had a letter from her today. Yes, she feels she has been away long enough. Tom seems to be recovered. And,’ he sounded amused, ‘the Welsh cousins are becoming a little restive over her long stay. It will be good to have her home, won’t it?’
‘Yes, it will.’ Good to have her there as a buffer between him and me. ‘Shall we go back to Merchant’s Court?’
‘No, I think not. You like living here, don’t you? But I may ask for a more permanent arrangement. It’s time we had proper quarters of our own.’
So he intended to stay at Denes Hill. That came as a relief – I had not relished the thought of being alone with him again at the flat in Lynn. Yet I was puzzled; I had always thought he would want to get me away from the hill as soon as he could – away from the farm and the Farcrofts, and now from Judy. Would I ever understand the man I had married? Would I ever understand anyone? Even Judy… I didn’t want to believe what Oliver had said about Judy. But why shoul
d he lie?
* * *
Only two days later, on a wet Sunday afternoon, I walked disconsolately on the beach, under a large black umbrella. Oliver had been called out by demanding but wealthy clients whom he didn’t like to put off, even on a Sunday. Heavy rain had driven the holidaymakers back to their boarding houses and only seabirds inhabited the shore. I stood staring at a sea where the swell rolled waveless, dappled with raindrops, murky grey, while my thoughts shifted, forming patterns as in a kaleidoscope: Philip… Philip and Judy; Judy and Frank; Judy and Oliver; Oliver and I; Philip and I, and Mad Jack, and Mother and Michael…
Katie! The cry came from the sea. I knew I had to help. I dropped my brolly and ran – and only as the water splashed up my skirts did I come to my senses and find that I was standing in six inches of water, still wearing my button-strap shoes. The hem of my dress was soaked. And the grey swell of the Wash spread out towards the Lincolnshire coast, empty. There was no mist, no Uncle John shouting hoarsely for help.
That was what had called me – a memory from fifteen years ago, when I had heard John shout and gone running to… gone running to… Eyes closed, I willed myself to remember. What next? What next? Had I run into the sea and stopped, because I couldn’t swim? Had I been forced to stand helpless and watch, while John—
‘I say, Mrs W!’ a voice called from behind me. ‘You all right?’
Oh, not now. Not my unwanted admirer, poor sad Keith Rawson. I tried to ignore him, tried to hold on… But the interruption had disrupted the tenuous thread of lost memory.
As I waded back towards him, Major Rawson regarded me worriedly, pink face with pale, blinking eyes under the brim of a military cap, dark macintosh loose over his hospital blues. He had picked up my umbrella, holding it out to me.
‘Thank you.’ Shivering, I realized the day had turned cold. Or was it only I who had turned cold now that I was so wet?
‘D’you often do that?’ he asked. ‘Go paddling? With your shoes on?’
‘I was deep in thought. Composing poetry.’
‘Ah.’ He rubbed his nose with a short forefinger – he found my penchant for poetry intimidating. ‘Sorry. Wouldn’t have bothered you, only… er, husband about, is he?’
I hesitated, wondering why he asked. ‘Was it my husband you wanted?’
‘Hell, no! Bloody ass. Shouldn’t leave you alone. What if the Hun comes? Good beach for landing, this.’
‘It’s too far from anywhere important,’ I reasoned, keeping my patience with difficulty. ‘Major Rawson, what is it you want?’
‘Ah. Yes.’ His pink nose received another polishing. ‘Message for you. Rum cove. Bit of a reprobate, shouldn’t wonder. Thin chap. One eye. Needs a good wash. Ring any bells?’
What was he talking about? ‘Someone with a message for me? Where?’
‘That temple place. In the woods. Said he’d wait. Only Mrs Wells, he said. No one else. Not a word. Not another soul. Well. I’d seen you go off. Knew where you were heading. Came after you. Of course, I’ll go with you. Can’t leave a lady alone. Not with a rum cove like that. Never know what might occur. Can’t take risks. Not with you.’
‘Did he say what he wanted, or who had sent him?’
The forefinger returned to stroke his nose and smooth the bristly hairs on his top lip. ‘Told me to fetch you. Pronto. PDQ. Only you. No one else. Not another soul. I’d seen you go off. Knew where you—’
‘Yes, you said,’ I interrupted before he could go over it all again. ‘Thank you. I’ll go and see what he wants.’
‘Right with you. Lead the way.’
I might have tried to dissuade him from accompanying me, but I didn’t care for the sound of this ‘rum cove’.
Through pouring rain, huge drops pattering from the trees to splatter off my umbrella, with my skirts and feet wet from the sea, we returned along muddy pathways, making round towards the temple-like folly. As we came within sight of mock-Roman columns framing a dark opening beyond a flight of shallow steps, I hesitated. The place appeared deserted. Was this a ruse on Major Rawson’s part to get me alone in the summerhouse?
‘He was here,’ he said. ‘Right here. Spoke to the chap. Fetch Mrs Wells, he said. Only Mrs Wells. No one else – ah!’
A figure had appeared from behind one of the columns, leaning on the fluted granite as if reluctant to leave the shadows. Worn clothing hung on an emaciated frame. His hair was cropped short to his skull, and a rough beard masked the lower half of a hollow-cheeked face with one sunken eye. The other eye was covered by a black patch which didn’t entirely hide the scar tissue beneath.
I caught my breath, drawing back in instinctive horror. Maybe I blanched. My reaction caused the man a certain bitter amusement. His mouth stretched in a dry, mocking smile.
I think I knew that smile. Even before I recognized his voice. ‘Not a pretty sight, eh, old girl?’ said my uncle Frank.
Twenty-Five
‘You all right, Mrs W?’ Keith Rawson asked. ‘I’ll hold him off, if—’
I shook my head, still staring at Frank. His one blue eye gleamed ruefully in reply. ‘No, it’s all right, Major Rawson. I know him. He… He’s a friend.’ And so he was: beneath the scars, the rags, the beard, the dirt – this scarecrow was my darling Uncle Frank.
I threw myself at him and hugged him tightly. What did I care if he smelled like a horse? He was home at last. How happy Judy would be.
‘No, girl,’ he muttered into my hair as I burst into tears, his arms supporting me. ‘No, don’t. Damn it, that’s why I didn’t come. Didn’t want to distress you, or anyone. Come on, girl, I need you to be strong. For me. Be strong for me. Hold up. Look at me straight – take a good look. This is the way I am. Can you take it?’
‘Yes!’ I wept, but my heart sobbed No! ‘It doesn’t matter. You’re you. Oh, Uncle Frank… Oh, Uncle Frank…’
In time I came to see beyond the scars he bore. But on that first day I couldn’t look at him without lumps in my throat and hatred in my heart for whoever had done this to him.
When I took notice again, Major Rawson had tactfully vanished.
‘Come up to the house,’ I begged Frank. ‘Please! You need a bath, a shave, a change of clothes.’
‘No, Kate.’ His hands gripped me strongly – still Frank’s fine, long, sensitive hands, though hardened by toil and grimed with dirt – and his single gaze held me with blue intensity. ‘No, not yet. I’m not sure I shall ever be ready to—’
‘But there’s no one else there – no one of the family.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I telephoned earlier and got the gist. Do you hear from Vicky? And what of Tom?’
‘Vicky’s fine. She’s married now – to Captain Cavan Fielding. He’s a liaison officer with the general staff in France. And Tom’s well, too. He and Grandmother are coming home soon. You must be here when—’
‘No, girl!’ His hands gripped me again, even more forcefully, as he said urgently, ‘Mother’s not to know. You’re not to tell anyone about this. Not anyone, understand? I didn’t intend to come home at all. Better you thought me dead than see me like this. But I had to see you. I had to tell you about Clara. I’ve seen her, Kate. I saw your mother.’
‘Mother?’ This news dazed me. For a moment I couldn’t think. ‘Where? Is she in England? Oh—’
‘Kate!’ He shook me as if to wake me out of a stupor. ‘For heaven’s sake, old girl, I haven’t much time. Listen!’ We sat on the folly steps, sheltered from the worst of the rain by the overhanging portico and the trees crowding above it, while he hurriedly told me the gist of his story. There was much he left out, even then. Some things he never did tell.
He had been to eastern Prussia, a roundabout trip of voyages in cargo ships, days lying low in varied hiding places and nights stealing through hostile territory. Eventually, he had joined up with some Russians, our allies, who were being driven back to their own borders. He had spent some time with them, recording their activities in the pages of his sketchb
ook.
When a lull came in the fighting, Frank had ‘had an outing’ behind enemy lines – he made it sound like a pleasant tootle in his motor. He had reached Schloss Lindhafen, where the von Wurthes lived, and contrived a brief meeting with Mother. She was well, as were my half-brothers, safe in their own home, in their own country. She wouldn’t think of leaving. She had called Frank a fool, risking his own life and hers by coming to see her – the encounter had been a stormy one.
Afterwards, he had moved back eastwards, come up with a band of Kossacks and been caught in a skirmish. A shell had exploded among them, killing most of his companions and leaving him half blinded. Captured by the Germans, almost dead of pain and loss of blood, he had found himself in a prison camp hospital, where he remained for months, recovering from the loss of his eye and prey to recurring fever. His captors had thought him a Russian.
‘Just as well,’ he said with a wry grin. ‘If they’d known I was British, they’d have shot me as a spy. So I played dumb and stupid. Until the thaw came. Then, a party of us escaped.’
After more adventures in the snow-bound Carpathian Mountains, he had managed to reach England. He had spent further weeks in a hospital, delirious with blood poisoning, weakened by malnutrition and fever, not wanting us to know he was alive. On being discharged he had taken to the road, doing whatever work came to hand. He had almost decided never to come home.
‘Except,’ he said gravely, folding my hand between his own filthy paws, ‘that I needed to tell you I’d seen Clara. I couldn’t let you go on believing…’
‘Did she ask after me?’ I needed to know.
His mouth twisted. ‘Eventually. She does care about you, in her own self-absorbed way, but it seems your stepfather ordered her to cut off all associations here and she decided you might be happier without reminders – she’s good at persuading herself to believe whatever suits her conscience. She was surprised to hear you had married Oliver, though. Surprised, and a touch miffed, I fancy. Probably hoped he’d be hankering after her until Doomsday. So I told her you had grown into a beauty, with dozens of men falling for you.’