The Golden Cup

by Marcia Willett

  He is good-looking, she is prepared to acknowledge that much, and he has very good manners, yet her loyalty will not allow him to be Hubert’s equal. The girls she is training with are not in the least inhibited when it comes to describing their boyfriends and she can see that Simon has sex appeal but, although she cannot quite put it into words, she feels there is something missing at a deeper level. He hasn’t Hubert’s attractiveness; that quality that drew old and young to him is missing in Simon, despite his glamour and sophisticated good looks. She can easily imagine Simon working in the big city hospital or being fascinated by research but he would never be satisfied, as Hubert had been, to work with the poor and the inarticulate. He would be too restless for the patience required in a country practice where stopping to pass the time of day, to discuss the weather and the crops, are all part of the duties.

  Mousie swallows a piece of rabbit with difficulty, remembering how she’d dreamed that Hubert would come back to St Meriadoc and work here amongst his own people. When she started her training, she’d hoped that one day they might even work together. With an effort she turns her attention back to Simon. He has finished his helping of rabbit pie and is leaning forward now, talking seriously, whilst Honor and Uncle James listen intently: Honor’s gaze is fixed on Simon’s face whilst Uncle James, chin dropped, eyes hooded, turns his glass round and round. It is interesting, notes Mousie, that Honor has that same quality of attracting everyone to her: no wonder Hubert loved her.

  Simon is thinking exactly the same thing: no wonder Hubert fell in love with her. Even as he talks he is aware of Honor’s interest in him; a special form of concentration that somehow invests him with an ability to be rather witty and clever. He has no doubt that she makes dear old James feel exactly the same and that it has absolutely nothing to do with the cocktails. She has a magic, this girl, that reaches deep down inside and brings out things you didn’t know you had in you: you want to shine for her. He saw it with young Rafe too, earlier, when they were having a drink in the drawing-room; she was encouraging him to talk about sailing – not merely flattering him but leading him to describe not only the skill involved but also his feelings about it. Rafe glowed in the magic beam of her interest and that too had nothing to do with the drink he was enjoying at the same time. It might be old Jessie with her bunions or Bruno with a broken toy – to each was given that special exclusive attention: no wonder Hubert fell for her like a ton of bricks.

  Simon sips some wine: poor old Hubert, what damned rotten luck. Though they hadn’t stayed closely in touch through the war – both of them were busy and neither was a natural letter writer – yet they’d remained good friends right through school and their training together and he’d been deeply touched when Hubert had asked him to stand godfather to his son. Now, as Honor describes the working conditions in the hospital in Multan, he tries to recall what, exactly, Hubert had written about this wife of his. Of course there was the usual stuff about how lucky he was and what a lovely girl she was but nothing had quite prepared him for Honor. He likes the children’s name for her: Mutt. Oh, dear old Julia might huff and puff about it being unsuitable but there is something rather charming about the nickname and it suits her. There is a slight austerity about the name ‘Honor’ and, though she can be wary, he has seen behind that façade she uses to protect herself. The nickname makes her more accessible.

  ‘It was Hubert’s fault,’ she’d told him. ‘You know how he uses nicknames.’

  Well, he does know – and he doesn’t intend to tell her that Hubert’s rude nickname for him had been Vlad the Impaler because of Simon’s innumerable conquests at the nurses’ home whilst he and Hubert were training at Barts. Remembering, he hides a smile with his napkin, pretending to wipe his lips and catches Mousie’s gaze. There is another of Hubert’s victims. He wonders if anyone remembers that her name is Mary and, as he smiles at her, he also wonders if he might have had a little fling with her had Honor not suddenly appeared upon the scene. Something in Mousie’s clear, slate-blue gaze makes him feel that he probably wouldn’t have risked it: anyway she is almost like a sister to him.

  He doesn’t feel like that about Mutt. By sending that telegram Hubert practically passed her into his care and he feels that it is quite fair to chance his arm once the mourning period is over. Not that he intends to use his Vlad the Impaler technique here: goodness, no. Old James would have him out on his ear double quick and, anyway, that’s not the way he’s feeling; he wants more than that. She’s got under his skin, this Mutt, with her sweetness and her sudden flashes of wit. They speak the same language and he knows that she feels the way he does; he’s sure of it even though it’s early days and she’s behaving very properly … But, good God, that moment up by the well when she’d been lying beside him on the rug and laughing at the children! He’d lit her cigarette and they’d listened to the lark, oh, way up above them, and she’d recited some poetry to him; well, that didn’t mean much, he’d never been one for poetry, not like dear old Hubert, but it was rather nice – something about the valley being the golden cup and the lark’s song the wine pouring into it – and then he’d seen the lark.

  ‘There he is,’ he’d cried, and his arm had brushed her cheek as he’d pointed, and he could feel the contact as though his flesh was on fire from her touch, though her cheek was cool and soft …

  Julia is murmuring to Simon, offering him a second helping, and Honor turns to speak to Rafe and to Bruno so that James is left to himself for a moment. He looks down the table, savouring the atmosphere, wishing that his dear Meg could have been in her place to smile back at him with that little secret look of contentment she wore when all was proceeding happily. Julia misses her sister too; he knows that. Not that she talks about it – goodness, no, neither of them would feel quite comfortable about that – but they understand each other and have their own ways of conveying sympathy. He looks with affection at his sister-in-law as she helps Simon to pie before turning back to administer to Emma. It is clear that Julia approves of Hubert’s little family and is doing her best to make them feel at home.

  His heart constricts a little as he looks at Bruno’s absorbed bright little face: he might be Hubert sitting there, years ago when Margaret was a pretty girl of a wife and he, himself, just back from the war and glad of the peace of this quiet valley. How she would have loved the boy – and Emma too. She’d longed for a daughter but they’d been blessed with only the one child – who, when he was grown, had this calling to work abroad. Neither of them had attempted to dissuade him though they’d both hoped that he’d come back to them before too long. It had broken Margaret’s heart – never very strong – to think of her grandchildren so far away and separated further by war. How she’d missed Hubert. They rarely talked of it, that wasn’t their way, but the house wasn’t the same once he’d gone and they’d both been ready to welcome Julia and the children in their own moment of tragedy. Margaret had been glad to have her sister nearby: they’d always been close friends.

  James sighs and smiles rather sadly at Honor, who is watching him with that particular brand of empathy that so characterizes her.

  ‘Do you have a sister, my dear?’ he asks. ‘Or brothers?’

  Her stricken expression recalls him at once to the present. He remembers that her parents were killed in an air raid, and she has no siblings, and curses his tactlessness. Before she can answer, he apologizes.

  ‘I remember now,’ he says remorsefully. ‘I am so sorry. I was thinking about my wife and how close she and Julia were.’

  He rambles on, trying to hide his clumsiness, aware that the atmosphere is not quite so sparkling, and then Dot comes in with some confection she’s made specially, and the cries of admiration and delight get the whole show back on the road again. James heaves a sigh of relief and reaches for his glass. Damned good wine Simon’s picked up somewhere; better not to question him too closely.

  ‘Good boy,’ he murmurs approvingly – and is pleased to see that Simon has att
racted Honor’s attention, something to do with Emma and the pudding, and is making her laugh. He smiles upon his family, raises his glass to Julia, who smiles back at him. All is well.

  15th August 1947

  Today is Independence Day in India, Vivi, and I’ve felt so strange all day. Honor and Hubert would have understood these mixed emotions. We worked so hard in that little hospital and had such a strangely intricate relationship with those dear, infuriating people. We – the British – relied heavily on the loyalty of the Indians yet always, underneath, was the profound fear of treachery. In Multan – always a bit of a trouble spot – it certainly brought the three of us, me and Honor and Hubert, very close.

  Have you wondered, Vivi, how I am managing for money? Well, there was some for the journey that I have eked out very carefully, but James has realized the embarrassment and is coming to my rescue. He won’t hear of my working – he insists that the children need me here – but he has opened a bank account for me and gives me a small allowance and, this was a shock, has begun enquiries into Hubert’s pension. I had a jolt of terror when he talked about that.

  ‘Do you have Hubert’s death certificate?’ he asks.

  Well, yes. I have all three death certificates. Honor’s and Emma’s are taped carefully between the backboard and the paper cover of Goblin Market along with my own papers. I sent a telegram back to Multan saying that Dr Hubert Trevannion and Mrs Madeleine Uttworth and her daughter had died of botulism and that his wife and children were on their way home to England.

  I had to think quickly but I’ve always been good at that, haven’t I? You were the sensible, practical one, but in a real crisis I was the one to have all the bright ideas. Do you remember how Mother used to say, ‘To be a successful liar you need a long memory’? Well, it’s true. Once I was married to Johnny I needed to be able to get us out of scrapes quite often – and without warning – and I learned to think on my feet. It’s not just a question of remembering what you’ve said but also being able to look ahead so as to see the pitfalls. He had this ability, Vivi, to invest rather questionable acts with a kind of glamour; to make the upright, moral types seem flat-footed and dull. Yet underneath I had a tiny nagging sense that it was all a bit grubby. To begin with it didn’t matter. I loved him, you see. I utterly adored him and he could get round me with no trouble at all. Once Lottie was born things changed. I didn’t want muddle and cheating for her, can you understand that?

  I used to envy Honor and Hubert. They’d achieved what I’d wanted when I decided to go out to India with the IMS rather than going through the army route. I wanted to be amongst the Indians, to work where it really mattered, but somehow Johnny pulled me off course. I worked hard, make no mistake, but there was a wholeheartedness about Hubert and Honor which was lacking in me and, when Johnny came along, his love and approval was more important than all the rest. It was like Robert Talbot all over again, distracting me from my wondering about being a missionary.

  Honor and Hubert managed to balance their lives and I envied them so much. Sometimes I feel that I’ve become a part of their lives now and that some of their goodness and wisdom is rubbing off on me. I admired Honor so much. I don’t mean physically. She had no s.a., if you know what I mean – and she was inclined to put on weight, especially after the children – but she had a serenity that nothing could shake. She was compassionate without going off the deep end and bursting into tears of sympathy like I did sometimes. Oh, Vivi, the poverty and the cruelty we saw! And she was so wise and practical without getting personally involved and taking on too much. I used to do that, try to be all things to all men, and then be unable to do my work properly.

  Honor and Hubert loved me, though. That always surprised me.

  ‘Look after the children if anything happens to me,’ she’d say. We’d promise each other that we’d do that – it was terribly important out in India in those times to know that we had each other.

  ‘Mutt’s the right name for you,’ Hubert would say after some disaster. ‘What a woman!’

  But, at the end, I was the one Honor wanted. I was the one she sent for and she knew I’d get there like I’d always promised I would.

  I’m even wearing her clothes. I brought with me what I was standing up in but not much more and rationing is so strict that I have to wear Honor’s things. I’ve explained to everyone that I lost weight after Hubert’s death and I’m using his mother’s Singer sewing machine to take in seams and I’ve had to let down the hems.

  ‘Have you got taller too?’ Mousie asked – and all I could think of to say was that I felt it was a bit of a change from short skirts. Goodness, I feel so frightened at times.

  Are you living like a queen in America, Vivi? I hope so, darling.

  All love,

  Madeleine

  30th August

  I wakened early this morning, Vivi. How I wish I could show you Paradise. Leaning from my bedroom window, looking out beyond the gardens, I can see tall, fragile trees – all spindle-limbs and feathery arms – drawn in a smudgy charcoal against soft, dense mist which rolls up the valley from the sea. A woolly bundle moves in the meadow below, ambling down the slope as it follows in a rabbit’s track; a dark narrow path marked in the silvery dewy grass. Other sheep appear and a crow alights, walking stiff-legged and jaunty, glossy head on one side as it peers sharp-eyed for a tasty breakfast snack. And now the scene is washed in gold, as the sun edges up over the rim of the world, and dazzling light floods along ‘the golden cup’ – our valley – and into the shadowy corners of the garden.

  When Margaret – Hubert’s mother – died, James moved permanently into his dressing-room at the back of the house. He says he likes to hear the sea on wild nights, and all his things are there, but I feel rather guilty having this wonderful room as my own. We had a touching little ceremony yesterday (Honor’s birthday – I can’t tell you how odd and unreal it all was) when he offered me Margaret’s jewels and one or two precious items. She owned some good pieces: a lovely double string of pearls with matching ear-rings, a pretty garnet necklace set in silver, a few rings – one diamond, a ruby and a charming sapphire engagement ring.

  ‘I know she’d have been so happy for you to wear them,’ he said, rather gruffly – it was all got over very quick because I could see that he was deeply affected by the little scene – and I kissed him and said I would be very touched to have them.

  You can imagine, Vivi, how I felt! I tell myself that it will all be passed on to Bruno and so, in the end, it will be as it should be – but then I wonder how Emma will feel when that day comes and nothing is for her. I’m trying not to think about that at the moment.

  I can hear her upstairs singing to herself in her cot. She’s a happy child, warm and loving, and she and Bruno adore each other. I’m beginning to believe that Bruno is trying to forget about India. He no longer wants to talk about those small things that formed his life and I think it’s because he’s afraid of being confused and letting something out of the bag. I know how he feels! His father’s work is apart from this – he likes to hear about that, but more and more he gently and politely discourages conversations about Sushila and old mali and I wonder if it’s because it reminds him of Honor and other happier times.

  Emma is getting noisier, I must go and fetch her.

  In his own room, listening to Emma’s imperious shouts, Bruno brings the story he is telling himself to a good stopping place and wonders if there will be time for a walk to The Lookout before tea. He loves the strange old house on the cliff and it features in many of the stories he makes up in his head. Jessie has told him about wreckers and smugglers, and he weaves these tales together with the things he remembers about India so that the frightening parts are somehow disarmed, their terror made bearable. Sometimes, if it is a really good story, he acts it out as a game that can last for several days. The grown-ups often have roles, although they don’t know it, but Emma is too young to play – and, even if she weren’t, he has a feeling that she
wouldn’t quite understand the seriousness of his make-believe. This feeling, which comes from the same place inside him as the ideas for his stories, tells him that, young though she is, she is already rooted very firmly in the real world. Her small feet are planted squarely on the earth and her needs are the needs of the body: food and warmth and company. If he is busy working out a story, or letting words make shapes in his head, he will forget everything else but she is never utterly entranced, as he is, by music or by the magical twilight hush; only wild elemental things – the sea pounding the cliffs or a wild westerly gale – excite in her that particular deep-down delight. He knows that when she screams like a steam train or roars like a lion she is trying to express that joy.

  He can hear her now, singing loudly as she tramps up and down in her cot. He hears, too, Mutt coming upstairs and he thinks about the little scene yesterday, when Grandfather gave her Grandmother’s jewels. He is getting used to these moments when Mutt gets flustered. ‘Flustered’ is an Aunt Julia word and it means exactly how Mutt behaves when the India story crashes into the Paradise story. He can quite understand why Mutt has her own pretend game and he is very happy to play it with her. Much though he loves Aunt Julia and Mousie and Rafe, he couldn’t bear to be without Mutt and Emma. Even when he deliberately reminds himself that Mummie and Daddy and baby Em are gone for ever, the knowledge that Mutt and Emma are here with him makes it not quite true. It’s as if they have all become mixed together and though he feels badly – as if he doesn’t care enough about Daddy and Mummie and baby Em – something tells him that he has to allow this acceptance to happen.