The Golden Cup

by Marcia Willett

  At one point we wondered if he’d been killed but after a while we heard some rather unpleasant rumours about him setting up with another woman. Well, I’d had to face the fact that there were other women, Vivi, but it was all quite horrid. I’d begun to suspect that he was a gambler as well as a few other undesirable things, and then I began to have dunning letters from people I’d never heard of and discovered that the rent hadn’t been paid for months. I believe, now, that he was the black sheep of someone’s family, sent out to India before the war to a friend or relative. He was always a bit cagey about what he did and where he went but he did it with such an air and with enormous charm. I must admit that it was beginning to wear a bit thin, though, and the rent was the last straw. Hubert and Honor bailed me out, as usual. They were such good people, which sounds a bit stuffy, doesn’t it? But they were. Hubert was so clever with people. He’d get straight on to their wavelength and he was such a comfort. Honor was very motherly, warm but sensible. I often think about her and then I feel hot under the collar, imagining her looking at me from the shadows, as I walk in the Paradise gardens with her child. She was so straight, so sweet – but she’d have wanted Bruno to be properly looked after, not by an old aunt or his grandfather, but by someone who knew him from a baby and shares his history. He simply loves it when I talk to James about Hubert’s work.

  I can hear the children’s voices; they’ve been with Aunt Julia and Mousie down at The Row.

  God Bless, darling.

  Madeleine

  She stands for a moment, watching from the kitchen doorway. The little group have walked up from The Row over the cliff path, Emma being wheeled in the little collapsible pushchair that hasn’t been used since Rafe was a small boy, and they are all rather hot and tired. Mousie kneels before Emma, smoothing the child’s fair, tangled blonde hair and dabbing with a handkerchief at some smears upon her cheek.

  Mutt is touched by the tenderness in Mousie’s gestures and filled with anxious love at the sight of her daughter. She is shouting with excitement – ‘Baa, baa black sheep’ – and her face is bright with anticipation. Aunt Julia’s capacious bag contains some tea-time treats and Emma is greedy for sweet things.

  ‘Stand still,’ implores Mousie – but she is laughing too, and she gives Emma a quick kiss on her rosy cheek before standing up with a gesture of helpless resignation.

  ‘Your sister,’ she says to Bruno, ‘is a little monkey.’

  Just for a second his expression freezes into a kind of still watchfulness and then he looks at Emma – still chanting the one line of the nursery rhyme – and he smiles with an extraordinary adult affection.

  ‘She can’t help it,’ he tells Mousie with a rueful tolerance. ‘Daddy used to say …’ He hesitates awkwardly, stumbling over his words, and Mutt comes swiftly to his aid.

  ‘Have you had a lovely time?’ she cries, as if she has only at that moment appeared. ‘Do be quiet for a moment, Emma, darling, we’ve all heard your rhyme. Poor Mousie.’ She smiles sympathetically at the younger girl. ‘Are you exhausted yet?’

  She sits on one of the kitchen chairs and puts an arm about Bruno, giving him a quick hug, her heart beating fast. These are the moments she dreads, fearing that Bruno might be caught unawares. She is filled with guilt each time she sees the expression on his small face change from innocence to uncertainty, hating this need to be continually on guard, but she manages a smile as she watches Aunt Julia unpack her bag. She knows better than to suggest that this formidable woman might find the children wearying; their noise makes as much impression on her as the waves have upon the rocks in the cove. Tall and stately, as she stands at the table, her presence is both formidable and reassuring. Emma climbs onto a chair, hoping that there will be a pot of jam in the bag and looking eagerly for the little cakes that Aunt Julia brings out with a small flourish. Mousie steadies Emma as she screams with delight and the chair rocks unsteadily beneath her.

  ‘She screamed all the way home,’ says Bruno, almost admiringly – and indeed he is impressed by Emma’s cheerful determination to have her own way. He finds her ignorance of what has happened in India restful. The horrid memories that trouble his dreams coupled with his terror that Mutt might be taken away from him are like shadows waiting at the edges of his waking hours. In Emma’s company, he too is free of these fears; her passionate love of life carries him along with all the natural force of some great element: water or wind. She and Mutt have always been part of his world and he is prepared to go to any lengths to keep them with him. ‘She doesn’t like riding in the pushchair unless she’s tired,’ he explains to Mousie and Aunt Julia, wondering if they can understand that terrible frustration of being pinned down when you need to run and jump and climb. Emma has no words yet to explain this, but he knows exactly how she feels. ‘She likes to be in charge.’

  ‘She insisted on pushing the chair herself and I was afraid that she might topple over the cliff with it,’ admits Mousie. ‘The walk back was a bit of a tussle but she agreed to ride the last bit. I brought something to show you.’

  Mutt watches with apprehension as Mousie opens the satchel bag she wears over her shoulder on a long strap and brings out an envelope. The photograph shows Hubert on the deck of a large ship in a group of other young men: he half frowns, half smiles at the camera, his hands stuck in the pockets of his trousers.

  Mutt pretends to study the photograph, her cheek pressed against Bruno’s head as if for comfort – although whether it is to console him or herself she cannot tell.

  ‘Hubert sent it from India,’ says Mousie. ‘It was taken on voyage.’

  She waits for a moment but there is no response from Honor, who appears to be engrossed in the photograph yet unwilling to comment on it. Mousie experiences a now-familiar sense of confusion. Hubert’s widow sends out conflicting signals – now friendly warmth, now cold rebuff – and she is puzzled. Anything to do with the past seems to be out of bounds and Mousie longs to talk about Hubert, whom she loved so much. Even Bruno seems reluctant to talk about his father. She hopes that the photograph might ease the path to reminiscence and that she might learn something more about him; it seems terrible that he might be forgotten, his name never spoken again.

  When Mousie mentions this privately to her mother she is not encouraged to dwell on it.

  ‘Give her time,’ her mother says. ‘Remember how we were when Daddy died …’ and, though she could argue that the memory of her own father is not shrouded in silence, Mousie allows the subject to drop. Nevertheless, her instincts warn her that there is a mystery here that she cannot fathom. She studies Honor secretly, envying her easy graceful way with Uncle James and observing the genuine affection with which she charms Jessie and old Dot. Mousie longs for that kind of mature sophistication although, at present, she feels more comfortable with the children than with the older members of her family. She likes young men, though she is rather shy with them, but she cannot help comparing them unfavourably with all that she can remember of Hubert. Her early bitter reactions to the news of his marriage have faded but she is fascinated by Honor. Mousie sees, from the few photographs Hubert sent, that Honor has changed; the long bell of hair has been cut short and curls very prettily; the face looks thinner and the eyes deeper set.

  ‘It’s the grieving,’ says her mother. ‘The poor child has lost weight, you can see that by the way her clothes hang on her.’

  Mousie feels guilty; ashamed at her readiness to be critical of the woman Hubert loved and who must miss him so terribly. She misses him too, hoarding up her few mementoes and remembering her cousin with a longing adoration. He would have been disappointed in her reaction she tells herself now, bracing herself against her own grief and smiling at Honor whose arm cradles Bruno so tenderly.

  ‘I thought you’d like to see it,’ she says casually, though still confused by the silence. ‘Later on, Bruno might want it.’ Gently she retrieves the photograph, replaces it in the envelope and puts it away.

  ‘Tea-tim
e,’ says Aunt Julia firmly – and Mutt breathes a huge silent sigh of relief and her hold on Bruno relaxes.

  3rd August

  Vivi darling,

  We’ve been having rather a busy time here in Paradise. First of all, guess what. Simon came down to stay for a long weekend. He comes at intervals to see everyone, which I think is rather sweet of him, and James is so fond of him that it’s quite touching really. They talk about Hubert and the things he and Simon used to get up to, cricket matches and sailing and goodness knows what, and dear old James relives it all over again. Simon and Rafe took us out sailing – they keep a boat in the old boatyard – and we took it in turns with the two of them: Mousie with Bruno and then me with Emma, who was utterly silent with joy and amazement. She sat so still next to me on the thwart – or whatever the seat is called! – as we skimmed across the silky silvery water, out past the sharp black rocks, the gulls swooping and screaming round the cliffs towering above us. It is so odd, Vivi, to look back at the shore from the sea. Odd and terribly exciting. I felt a wild, piercing sense of freedom, as if some umbilical cord had been cut, and I was able to soar, untrammelled by earthly cares. The triangular white sail was like a bird’s wing, stretched taut over the crumpled surface of the sea, while the clean, fresh wind fled past me, tingling on my skin. Oh, how I loved it.

  Simon said, ‘I expect you didn’t get much chance to sail in India’ and I was able to reply confidently, ‘No, none at all.’ He said: ‘Hubert would have missed that,’ and I just nodded but Rafe could see how thrilled I was by it all and he smiled so sweetly at me and said rather shyly, ‘Now that we’ve broken up for the holidays I’d be very happy to take you out any time you like.’ ‘I’d simply adore it,’ I replied at once – and then prayed quickly that there was no record anywhere of Honor suffering from seasickness!

  On Sunday afternoon we went picnicking up the valley to the Saint’s Well. Fuchsias grow wild here, tall bushes of delicately arching stems with red, bell-shaped flowers – and there are butterflies everywhere. We laid the rug down where we imagined the door of the cell might have been and Simon rolled up his sleeves and built a little fire on a flat stone beside the stream to boil the kettle. Bruno was beside himself with delight and made a dam while Emma paddled, being very splashy and noisy and refusing to hold Mousie’s hand.

  I wondered if Mousie might be attracted to Simon but she made no sign of it, no silly shyness, or sidelong little glances; no showing off or flirting. She’s training to be a nurse at Truro but – although she’s direct and practical and wonderful with the children – she seems much younger than her age and I am fearful that she might find herself trapped here with her mother and uncle. You might think it odd that I use that word ‘trapped’ when it’s clear that St Meriadoc is such a spectacularly beautiful place but I know that when we were seventeen, Vivi, we’d have wanted a bit more from life than this group of older people – however sweet they are – and a younger brother, even in a paradise like this one. If someone like Simon had shown up when we were her age we’d have fought over him like cats.

  He’s awfully attractive. Quite tall, very tough-looking, nice hands, and I think his legs would be good; straight and strong. He shows no interest – not that kind, anyway! – in Mousie. It’s as if we’re the two adults, he and I, and the others are all children. Perhaps it’s because he’s known her for ever. I’d like to take her in hand a bit. Her hair is thick and a quite pretty colour, light brown with gold and reddish lights in it, but she bundles it into a plait without much care. Eyes a lovely, dark slatey blue and a clear, creamy skin, but no touch of make-up, not even a little slick of lipstick. The trouble is, I’m afraid to get too close; she sees too much.

  She was aware of Simon and me lounging on the rug with our cigarettes whilst Rafe helped Bruno with his dam and Emma paddled. It was so good, there in the hot sun, with the cold clear water bubbling out of the well and a lark so high that we couldn’t see him but could only hear his golden voice, the notes falling, tumbling down to us through the blue air. I was reminded of Meredith’s poem and recited a few lines to Simon:

  ’Tis love of earth that he instils,

  And ever winging up and up,

  Our valley is his golden cup,

  And he the wine which overflows,

  To lift us with him as he goes.

  It fitted so perfectly with this glorious valley and the lark’s song, and I could see that Simon thought so too.

  ‘There he is,’ he cried suddenly, and he leaned, pointing upwards, so that his bare arm brushed my cheek.

  Oh God, Vivi. That warm touch of his skin against mine, I can feel it now. I actually jumped, my heartbeat was all over the place, and he looked at me, just one look, and then got to his feet, very calm, very natural, and strolled over to the dam.

  ‘Pretty good,’ he said. ‘You’ll make an engineer yet, young Bruno.’

  I couldn’t have moved, my legs wouldn’t have supported me, I simply lay back in the sunshine, shielding my eyes with my hands – which trembled slightly.

  But that’s quite natural, isn’t it, Vivi? After all, I’ve been married and I miss having a man to lie with and hold me. My body missed Johnny terribly after he’d left, it still does, even though I know with my brain that I wouldn’t want him back. I’m only twenty-seven and it’s not wicked, is it, to be attracted to a man? Of course, I can quite see that everyone here, including Simon, would see it as disloyalty to Hubert’s memory – after all, he’s only been dead for a few months – but the truth of the matter is that I’ve been alone for nearly a year and I do get so lonely. It’s not just the physical side, though I do miss it, it’s the company and the jokes that I miss; knowing he’s your person, whatever his faults and failings. It’s sharing his cigarette and driving in the rain with him, dancing to ‘Whispering’ all close and romantic, and waking in the night and watching him sleeping.

  I was grateful when Emma stamped up out of the stream and simply threw herself on top of me, all damp and warm and shrieking with delight. It broke the tension and I was able to pack up the tea things and pull myself together.

  We’re all having supper together this evening, a real family party, though goodness knows what dear old Dot and Aunt Julia are concocting. The rationing is really bleak and if it weren’t for Home Farm and the herring from Port Isaac I’m not sure how we’d manage to feed ourselves. Dot looks after James – well, all of us, now – and she’s an old sweetie. Her husband worked most of his life at the boatyard and died at the beginning of the war. On the other side of Aunt Julia is Jessie Poltrue. Like Julia she’s a war widow, although her children are grown and gone, one son working the fishing fleet at Port Isaac and the other at Padstow. Dear James is a kindly old pasha to all us women but I think he’s delighted to see Simon and have some adult male company for a change.

  And so, dear Vivi, am I. Simon speaks my language, that’s the point. He’s young and witty and attractive and he shows me what I’m missing. But I’m not going to complain or start regretting things. I’m so lucky to be here, in one piece, with kind people and my baby safe. Sitting there beside the little stream, pretending not to be looking at Simon, I remembered Goblin Market and poor Laura longing once more to hear the goblin cry and to taste the fruit again. And Lizzie says to her:

  ‘You should not loiter longer at this brook:

  Come with me home.

  Let us get home before the night grows dark:

  For clouds may gather

  Tho’ this is summer weather,

  Put out the lights and drench us thro’

  Then if we lost our way what should we do?’

  I’ve left a bit out in the middle but you know what I mean, Vivi. It was just as if you were warning me. I miss you so much. And Honor and Hubert too. I feel that I’ve lost you all at one stroke.

  I love you, darling.

  Madeleine

  The supper is a great success: each person sitting round the dining-room table is aware of an undercurren
t of excitement though only Mousie, sitting between Bruno and Emma, can accurately guess at its source. Beyond Bruno is Rafe and then Honor who sits beside James at the head of the table. Julia is on the other side of Emma next to Simon on James’s left hand. Jessie’s older son has bagged a brace of rabbits and Dot has concocted a delicious pie.

  Julia, helping Emma to a minute portion of pie, is convinced that the conviviality is the result of the cocktails Simon produced earlier. He usually brings a bottle or two with him to Paradise, much to James’s delight, and this evening everyone apart from the children has a drink. Julia enjoys her measure, it reminds her of naval parties and Ladies’ Nights, and she feels young again and rather frivolous. It is she who persuades Honor to allow the children to join the party, arguing that it is unfair that they should miss the pie and that such treats in these times of rationing are few and far between. Smiling at Honor’s look of surprise – Julia knows that she is looked upon as a strict disciplinarian – she adds that, after all, Simon is Bruno’s godfather, which adds to the occasion.

  Nevertheless, she restrains Emma securely in her highchair and provides her with the glass snow scene, a charming object with which she is allowed to play on only very special occasions. Julia, keeping her occupied with the snow scene and mouthfuls of rabbit pie in turn, is too busy to notice Simon at her right side. She cannot see, as Mousie can, how often his eyes rest on Honor or his strange restlessness as if he is subduing some need deep within himself.

  Honor, on the other hand, is devoting her attention to James, although she exchanges remarks with Rafe from time to time when he is not explaining to Bruno the art of sailing. Mousie sees that Rafe is taking a great deal of trouble with Bruno and her heart warms to her brother. He is a keen sailor and it is clear that Bruno has enjoyed his first experience on the water; Rafe is describing in vivid word pictures how Hubert taught him to sail in the Kittiwake when he, Rafe, was no older than Bruno is now. The little boy’s eyes are alight with interest and pleasure and Mousie smiles with approval upon her young brother and looks again at Simon.