The Clouded Land

by Mary Mackie

  ‘Oh, Frank!’ I choked, grasping at his hands, hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry.

  ‘I also told her,’ he added, ‘that she should have had the courage to tell you the truth about your origins herself, rather than have you find out from vicious gossip.’

  ‘Oh.’ His voice and his expression told me there was more, so I waited, feeling numb. Was I about to find out why she had lied to me? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

  ‘Kate, my dear.’ He touched a finger under my chin, making me look at him. ‘She swears you’re William Brand’s child. There was no “other man”.’

  The stillness about me deepened, so profound that it sang in my ears. No ‘other man’? What an odd way to put it, as if his identity was in doubt. Couldn’t she admit, even now, to being attracted to Michael Farcroft? ‘What else could she say?’ I asked dully. ‘She wouldn’t admit that she’d actually—’

  ‘If she was lying, I’ll eat my hat,’ my uncle said, regarding me earnestly over our joined hands. ‘I know when my sister’s adjusting facts to suit her own purposes and this time, I’ll swear, she was telling the truth. Her husband, William Brand, was your father. You were conceived lawfully, inside wedlock. Believe it, Kate.’

  I shook my head. The notion was too momentous. A million questions tumbled in my mind. Why, how, when, where… Which did one ask first?

  Before I could speak, Frank leapt up, startled by a sound in the gardens. A wheelbarrow trundling. Someone coming. ‘I must go,’ he muttered.

  ‘You can’t!’ I grasped to stop him, but he evaded me. ‘Oh, Uncle Frank, please! Come to the house. Have a bath. Something to eat.’

  He shook his head, poised to fly, watching for the oncoming danger in one direction while assessing his escape route in the other. Like a cornered, wounded animal. ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t you even want to see Judy Love?’

  He caught his breath, wincing as if her name had stabbed him. ‘Is she here?’ Clawing a thin hand through his hair, he edged away. ‘She mustn’t see me like this. Give me time, girl. Don’t tell her. Don’t tell anyone. Look… I’ll let you know where I am. I promise. Maybe in time…’

  ‘Oh, please!’ I begged. But he was gone, shambling off into woods full of September leaf and golden light.

  * * *

  My head ached with confusion as I returned to the house. Should I have stopped Frank from leaving? Where would he go? How would he live? Like a tramp? Denes Hill was his home, his inheritance. I wished Oliver would come: I needed to talk to someone. But Frank had begged me to say nothing. Should I respect his wish? The problem solved itself when I learned that Oliver had telephoned to say that his clients had received bad news about their only son and needed company. He would dine with them and sleep, later, at the flat – he had early engagements tomorrow.

  Totally alone, I couldn’t rest. I wandered the private apartments, then climbed to the sanctum and stared unseeingly at the view. Around me the air seemed to vibrate with mingled hope and dread as I faced my own dilemma. Was I really William Brand’s child, not Michael Farcroft’s? How could I ever know? C.L.B., they had called me. Clara’s Little Bastard. How had the mistake been made? Mad Jack believed it. Oliver, too. Grandmother had confirmed it. But if they were wrong? Oh, Philip, if they were wrong…

  My heart, not my common sense, led me down to the farm in the last of that day’s light. The sky hung pale, clear of cloud now, with a trace of orange in the west, and beneath it the world was dissolving into shades of grey and black. No lights showed in the farmhouse, though the curtains were open and the main door stood ajar, letting in the soft evening air. As I approached, I heard Judy giggle, answered by Philip’s laugh – the deep, warm note quivered along my nerves. If only…

  Then sharp-eared Titch came yapping to the door. I bent to pet him, but he backed off, still nervous of being touched, as someone came into the lobby. I knew it was Philip, wearing thick khaki socks and brown corduroys, even before my glance slid up to the grey blur of his shirt.

  ‘Kate?’ His soft voice questioned my wisdom in being there; it also said he was glad to see me.

  ‘Hello, Philip.’ I forced my unsteady legs to straighten. ‘Where’s Boss tonight?’

  ‘Gone to the Black Horse with Dad.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Is… is Judy here?’

  ‘Who is it, Philip?’ Judy appeared, peering round his shoulder. ‘Oh – Kate! I didn’t expect to see you here, dear. Is that husband of yours off on his jaunts again?’

  Ignoring this sally, I said, ‘I need to talk to you, Judy.’

  ‘And I need to talk to you, dear,’ she answered. ‘After the way your blessed husband spoke to me—’

  ‘This isn’t about Oliver!’ I cried, a hand to my buzzing head.

  Philip stepped forward, taking my arm. ‘What’s wrong, Kate? Come inside and tell us.’

  ‘I can’t stay. I didn’t intend…’ But I let myself be persuaded into the living room, to sit on the sofa with Judy, while Clementina drew the curtains and Philip lit lamps. As light washed over him I opened my senses to the sight of him, the sound of him, the sheer vibrant reality of his presence. How much longer would he be at home? How long before I had to dread every day’s post?

  As if she read my thoughts, Judy said, ‘He’s off tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ The word half choked me, while Philip’s eyes met mine in perfect empathy.

  ‘Only to London,’ he said. ‘For interviews. I’ve been accepted by the RFC. Pilot, probably. Or a navigator. I don’t care which, so long as I get to fly. Of course, there’ll be a few weeks’ training first. I… I thought that was maybe why you came. To say goodbye.’

  I only stared at him, my head buzzing. If he joined the Royal Flying Corps he’d be going up in those spindly, precarious, frighteningly glorious wood and metal and fabric contraptions that had already killed too many young men. Was he going to be shooting his puny rifle at those huge Zepps, or risking his life over enemy lines? I didn’t want him to go. Yet I was glad, for him, that he’d gained his dream. Rather that than endure the trenches yet again.

  ‘She didn’t know you were off,’ Judy informed him. ‘I was going to tell her, but that blasted man interrupted. I told you—’

  ‘Don’t talk about Oliver like that!’ Feeling as if my head might burst, I pressed my fingers to my temples. ‘Judy… I’ve seen Frank. He was here this afternoon.’

  A flurry of unguarded emotions silenced her. In that instant she forgot she hated Oliver; she forgot Philip; her whole being centred on Frank and her eyes filled with tears that spilled over to plop down her face on to her shirt. ‘He’s alive? Where? Can I see him?’

  She didn’t care about details. He was alive. That was all she could take in, for now. If I had doubted her feelings for Frank, I had been wrong.

  A hoarse shout from the yard took Titch scrabbling out again. Mad Jack was back, coming roaring in with Boss at heel, full of some argument he’d had at the Black Horse. ‘Blast, that old fool of a Benstead! Hen’t got no more sense than a May gosling. Why… what’s to do here? What’s Judy now blahrin’ about? Not bad news?’

  ‘No, good news,’ Judy wept, smiling through her tears. ‘I’m off to bed. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Kate. Good night, Mr Farcroft. Philip…’ And she ran up the stairs, going to weep out her relief alone.

  Clem reappeared from the kitchen, bringing a tray with five mugs of cocoa on it. Leaving one with me, one on the table near Philip and another on the cold hearth for the old man, she took the tray upstairs with her as she, too, tactfully retreated. Philip straddled a wooden chair near the table, arms folded on its back, while the two dogs settled on the hearthrug. The old man had flopped into an armchair, from where he rumbled on about happenings at the pub. Had I not been hampered by brimming hot cocoa, I might have fled. Or did the cocoa provide a good excuse to stay?

  At last the farmer seemed to sense the atmosphere, looking from Philip to me. ‘Well? What’s to-do?’

 
‘Frank Rhys-Thomas is safe,’ Philip said.

  ‘Oh, hum?’ His father glowered at me. ‘That why she’s here, is it – to spread the glad tidings? En’t you got the sense to stay away, girl? You’re as bad as your mother. Worse. She was no more’n a young ’un. You’re a married woman.’

  The surface of the cocoa rippled in response to my trembling. Unable to face either of them, I stared down at the mug as if it were a crystal ball. ‘My uncle has been to Germany. He’s seen Mother.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, he told her I’d found out about her and Michael. And… And she denied the whole thing.’

  ‘Hah!’ the old man snorted. ‘Squit! Does she reckon my old girl lied, then? What about that letter?’

  I looked across at him, though I couldn’t see him clearly. ‘I don’t know! That’s why I came, to find out. You’re the only one who might know… When was it? What year? What month?’

  ‘How the hummer should I remember?’ he demanded, shifting in his chair. ‘That was haying time – that’s all I know. As to the year… well, how old are you?’

  For a moment, I couldn’t remember. ‘I was born in ninety-three.’

  ‘Then it must have been ninety-two.’

  ‘Haying time?’ Philip said sharply. ‘Kate’s birthday is the last day of May. If Clara was last here a whole year before—’

  ‘Maybe I’m wrong!’ the old man broke in, waving a gnarled brown hand. ‘Maybe that was harvest – August, or September. A few months is neither here nor there. No—’ His eyes narrowed as a thought struck him and he peered at me. ‘No, that must have been haysel, because it was afore the fatstock show. I remember now. Our bull won the rosette that year. Best in Show. Blast, yes! And Michael was too busy moping to care. I clipped his ear for him. “Not too old for a good beltin’,” I say. “Not yet, you en’t, bor, for all you’re a great long streak o’ pump water. Nineteen’s still on’y a boy, far as I’m concerned. You better forget that blasted mawther, right quick. She’s turned you shanny.”’

  ‘Nineteen? Blast—’ Philip leapt up, sending his chair crashing on its back as he swept up the lamp and rushed out, still in his stocking feet, to a yard puddled by the day’s rain.

  ‘Where’s he now off?’ the old man muttered irritably. ‘He’ve gone shanny, too. Blasted women!’ The look he speared at me glinted with venom. ‘What good’ll it do you, even if that do happen to be so? You’ve got a husband. Philip’ll never come between man and wife, that I do know. What’re you trying to do, send him addled?’

  Shaking so much that I was in danger of spilling the cocoa, I leaned and set the mug down on the floor, saying hoarsely, ‘I need to know the truth, that’s all. No, I shan’t trouble Philip any more. It’s too late for us. But I need to know…’

  The outer door crashed as Philip returned. He had left the lamp behind, but in his hand he held a blue rosette, faded and dusty from being on some shed wall. The look on his face made my whole body jump – bright, elated, fiercely triumphant… ‘Eighteen ninety-one,’ he said, shaking the rosette in the air. ‘That’s when our bull won Best in Show. You said Michael was nineteen, Dad. That would be right, wouldn’t it? Eighteen ninety-one…’ We gazed at each other wordlessly, both of us thinking the same thought – if Mother had been sent away in June eighteen ninety-one, then she had last seen Michael Farcroft two whole years before my birth. He couldn’t possibly have fathered me. And if I wasn’t his brother’s child, then Philip and I…

  It made no difference. It couldn’t. I was married to Oliver Wells.

  Distracted, I jumped up. ‘I must go. I shouldn’t have come. But I wanted to tell Judy about Frank, and…’ I glanced back at the old man, who was squinting at me, maybe hiding a touch of regret.

  ‘I din’t know,’ he muttered. ‘I din’t give it much thought. You told me that was true and…’ and he had wanted to believe it, because it gave him back a part of Michael. Oh, yes, I understood. I didn’t blame him. The one I blamed, with a rising, choking fury of bitterness, was my Grandmother: she must have known the truth, but she had allowed me to believe this lie. She had done it to separate me from Philip!

  I started for the door. ‘Good night, Mr Farcroft. Philip… thank you.’

  ‘I’ll come—’

  ‘No!’ I recoiled from him, holding my hands to ward him off. ‘No, don’t come. I can find my own way. I have my torch. Good night. Oh, and… good luck for the interviews tomorrow.’

  He didn’t reply, not in words. He didn’t need to – green eyes heavy with sorrow told me all that was in his heart.

  As I walked unsteadily across the wet meadow to the gate that led out to the short-cut lane, stars glimmered in the damp night and a thin new moon leaned over the sea. Soon, trees thick with leaf hid me from the sky. Where the woods were blackest I stopped and flipped my torch off, letting the night draw closely round me. Despite the mild air, I was shivering, hugging myself both for warmth and for comfort. At the farm I had been so sure, so righteously angry. Now, doubts crept in. The old man’s memory might not be reliable. How could I be sure? How could I ever be sure? Why had no one else noticed the two-year gap? Two years, not nine months. Oh… what did it matter? Even if someone brought proof positive, Philip and I could never—

  A sound behind me made me whirl, a hand to my throat. As I fumbled with my torch it slipped out of numb fingers, falling soundlessly on wet grass at my feet. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘It’s me.’ Philip’s deep voice came out of the darkness. ‘Did you think I could let you go like that? Only I had to get my boots on and… Where’s your husband? Is he at the house?’

  ‘He’s staying in Lynn tonight.’

  That made him swear under his breath, then he reached for me, touching my shoulders, cradling my face… ‘You should never have married him, Katie. You never would if things had been normal. I know you’re not happy. How can you be, with a man who—’ He bit the word off.

  ‘“A man who” what?’ I managed.

  ‘Nothing. I don’t know the man, do I?’

  ‘What has Judy been saying?’ I asked breathlessly. ‘She… she may have reasons to want to hurt Oliver. She’s always been attracted to him. If she made up to him and he…’

  ‘What? Judy’s not like that!’

  His vehemence only confirmed my own feelings. No, Judy was not like that. I had never really believed it. ‘But why should Oliver lie?’

  ‘To cover his own guilt, maybe.’

  What did that mean? ‘Philip!’

  ‘Well, human nature’s more suited to sin than sainthood,’ he said gruffly. ‘Didn’t you know that? Oh… forget him. Are we going to say goodbye yet again without being honest with each other? This may be our last time, Katie. Our only time.’

  ‘What is there to say?’ I croaked.

  ‘Plenty. To begin with – I love you.’

  He might as well have stabbed me. ‘Don’t say that!’

  ‘I’ve got to.’ He moved closer, his warm breath on my face as his hands slid behind my neck and into my hair. ‘I love you. I love you. I never stopped loving you. I never stopped praying for a miracle. Now it’s happened I’m not going to waste it.’

  ‘We can’t be sure it—’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Your father might be wrong. No one else has queried it. How could they make a mistake like that?’

  ‘Easily, when it’s twenty years ago! There must have been gossip when your mother went away. Then she marries an old man. She has a child. She stays away several more years. It would all get mixed up, wouldn’t it? Who would bother to stop and work it out? Dad didn’t. You and I didn’t.’

  That was true. Mother had been only seventeen when she went to Cumbria. John the same, Oliver a little younger, Frank and Harry younger still – they wouldn’t have been told the real story. Fudging dates was how Vicky had explained the anomaly.

  ‘Besides,’ Philip said, his voice hoarse and savage, ‘even if we’re wrong, I don’t think I care any
more. I love you. If you’re feeling as bloody as I am, then…’

  ‘Philip. Oh…’ Like one bewitched, I melted into his arms, reaching my hands behind his neck. Oh, so sweet. Oh, so right. Our bodies met and blended, and when he bent his mouth to mine glory shuddered through me, waking every nerve and fibre, making me cling more tightly. Desire washed over us both, claiming us, fuelled by too long a waiting and a love too deep to deny. We needed each other. We belonged to each other. Right or wrong. As it had been from the beginning of all things, because he was he and I was I…

  We devoured each other with kisses, rediscovering each other, hands stroking and caressing, impatient with the clothing that formed barriers between us, needing the closeness of flesh on flesh. How warm and strong his body felt under my adoring fingers. What joy to have him touch me. At last, at last. Philip. My Philip. Unbearable beauty in his readiness for me and mine for him. ‘Come to me. Please! Please!’

  A cry escaped me, mingling with his groan as our bodies became one. Philip, my soul, my heart, my joy. We were part of the universe, with all that had gone before and all that was yet to come. A little death. A new beginning. A seal on our belonging.

  As I clung round his neck, weeping, I became aware of tree bark digging into my back, dark woods rustling wetly around us, our bodies sticky with sweat, bonded together. ‘I love you,’ I breathed, and kissed his jaw and his throat, my lips savouring the harshness of stubble on his chin. I could say it now, freely and sincerely. ‘Oh, I love you! So very much.’

  ‘And I love you,’ he murmured. ‘For ever, Katie. Whatever happens, no one can take this away from us. If this is to be all there is—’

  I stopped the fearful words with my fingers. ‘Don’t say that. Don’t, darling.’ Loving the shape of his mouth, I let my fingers trace his lips, wanting never to let him go. ‘We have all our lives before us. You must believe that. Philip… Oh, Philip, I love you! I wish—’