‘Don’t mind if I do,’ chirped Daisy, ‘Copley House is a palace compared wi’ Jackson’s Yard.’ She filled the sink with water and rolled up her sleeves. ‘An’ I love meeting new people.’
‘Aye, you were all over them ramblers what came in last night,’ retorted Susan sourly. ‘I noticed you got all dolled up for ’em.’ Mostly male, the ramblers often admired Daisy.
‘I like to look nice wherever I am,’ Daisy retaliated, then added dreamily, ‘an’ one of ’em’s ever so good looking.’ Susan and Sally exchanged spiteful glances.
By contrast Cally merely functioned at the lowest level. Gone was the pretty girl who had taken such care with her appearance when supervising in the hotel. Now the same black dress, or another of similar drabness, sufficed. Her hair was scraped back into an unbecoming bun, her face devoid of make-up. She made conversation whenever necessity demanded it: other than that, she simply went through the motions, neither knowing nor caring if the guests were satisfied.
Red absorbed himself in work; or at least it appeared that way. Every morning he dressed and wandered across the paddock to his workshop on Blackstone Farm. Each evening, returning home late, he slumped in a chair, tense and miserable, unable to comfort Cally or draw comfort from her.
They still shared the same bed but at night she slept, or lay awake, as far away as possible from him. Whenever he reached for her she shrank from his touch. One night he forcibly took her in his arms, wanting to share her grief, to let her know he understood the pain she suffered, for he was suffering too.
Like a wild cat Cally turned on him, clawing his face, beating him with her fists, hissing and yelping hideous accusations. After that Red left her alone, afraid to try and make amends, afraid she was lost to him forever.
Like leaves that shrivel and fall unnoticed or the last of the summer roses that wilt and fade, their petals strewn unheeded, Cally and Red’s love died. There was no common ground, no words to heal the hurt. They lived in a vacuum.
Cally knew Red was hurting and that she was the cause of much of his pain. She also knew if she forgave him for his weakness in the aftermath of Richard’s accident, it would help her to come to terms with her loss, but the demon of blame hardened her heart. Whenever she was tempted to relent, to take him in her arms to share and soothe the pain, ugly recriminations clouded her mind, preventing her from making a move. Barty was his friend: Red was to blame for his being at the party. He’d known Barty was drunk but he hadn’t kept an eye on him. Like the lapdog he was he’d been too busy entertaining Sybil. Worst of all he’d let her manipulate him into finding solace in drink when he should have been at the infirmary with Richard and her. How could she forgive such crimes?
One evening, two months after Richard’s death, Red returned home early and without a word he went into the bathroom then the bedroom, reappearing washed, shaved and changed into a smart suit and a crisp blue shirt. Crossing the room to the bureau, he withdrew his wallet. Curious, Cally watched him tuck it into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Out,’ he replied curtly. ‘I’m not wanted here so I’m going to spend time with people who actually know I still exist.’
‘Yes, you do that,’ she spat, jumping up from the chair by the fire. ‘You go off and enjoy yourself; have fun with the boys, get drunk, forget your son’s lying dead in the churchyard because your friend killed him.’
Red flushed and hung his head. ‘I’m only going to the picture house in Marsden, not some wild night out on the town.’
‘Ah, yes, we mustn’t forget your great interest in films, must we?’ Cally sneered. ‘You go and lose yourself in some fantasy world. That’s all you’re good for.’
She darted across the room to the table under the window. On it sat an old film projector Red had acquired before Richard’s death. Thrilled to have his own machine he’d spent hours repairing it. With one enormous swipe Cally pushed it off the table. It crashed to the floor, the casing split wide, springs and sprockets scattering from inside.
‘There,’ she screeched, ‘that’s what I think of you and your bloody fantasies. I’ve smashed them to pieces just like you and your bloody friend smashed mine.’
Wordlessly, Red walked out of the room, softly closing the door behind him. Cally gazed at the wreckage, the cruel action quenching her animosity. Engulfed in shame she knelt to gather up the broken machinery, crying for Richard, for Red and herself.
*
‘What’s happening between you and Red, Cally?’ Mary asked, as they sat with Sykes in the Balmforth’s sitting room, discussing the impact war would have on the hotel.
Cally shrugged. ‘Nothing. Exactly that. I can’t forgive him and I don’t suppose I ever will.’ The words were spoken with such bleak finality that the Balmforth’s exchanged anxious glances, frightened by Cally’s lack of feeling.
‘I know he behaved badly,’ said Sykes, ‘both Mary and I were shocked to the core by his flagrant disregard for responsibility – and yes, he deserved to be punished – but you can’t go on like this. Red wasn’t to blame for Richard’s death.’
‘Sykes is right.’ Mary said. ‘You had good cause to be angry at the way he behaved after the accident, but now you must pull together, comfort one another and be a family again for Marianne’s sake.’ Mary was close to tears.
‘I can’t,’ said Cally, and walked from the room, leaving the Balmforths to comfort one another.
*
Cally might not have found it in her heart to forgive Red but Daisy saw things in a different light: smitten by the tall, handsome man whose aquiline features were made all the more appealing by the sadness in his eyes and the lost, hurt expression on his face, she sought to comfort him.
‘There you are,’ she cooed, as Red entered the coach-house late one night. ‘Let me take your jacket and you sit by t’fire. It’s as cold as Christmas out there – but then it nearly is. I’ve put your slippers to warm and I’ve made a nice hotpot. I’m sure you’re fair worn out after all that work.’
Red chose not to mention that he spent most of every day sitting in his workshop staring into space and smoking countless cigarettes, the engines and gearboxes waiting for repair untouched.
Daisy handed Red a dish of stew. ‘Our Cally’s in bed, she went as soon as she’d finished in t’dining room. She’s still not ’erself, you know. I worry about ’er. She dun’t seem to get any better an’ I think it’s awful the way she treats you.’
Daisy’s voice full of concern, her sweetness so sincere, Red found himself unburdening his woes, the stew forgotten. ‘I can’t say I blame her. I’ll never forgive myself for acting the way I did that awful night of Richard’s accident,’ he began. ‘I failed her and I failed him and now…’ The words tumbled out, and when he fell silent Daisy went and sat on the arm of his chair, cradling his head to her breast. Red, deprived of a warm, gentle touch for far too long, clung to her, and when he raised his head Daisy kissed him. He kissed her back.
*
A chill December wind rattled bare branches of an apple tree against the windowpane, the sound making Cally smile as she stooped to button Marianne’s coat. ‘Did you hear that, Marianne?’ she said, popping a woolly bonnet on Marianne’s head. ‘It’s so cold out there even the trees are knocking to come in and sit by the fire.’
Marianne laughed. ‘They’re too big to come in.’ A thoughtful expression creased her face. ‘Do trees really feel cold, Mam?’ It was the sort of question Richard would have asked.
Cally’s heart missed a beat. She forced potential tears into a chuckle. ‘No, they’ve got their bark to keep them warm, just like you’ve got your thick, winter coat. I was only being daft saying that.’
Marianne was glad her mam was being daft. She hadn’t been daft for ages. She’d been sad for a long time, but today she was smiling and playing silly games.
Somehow the bleak despair had lifted. Cally felt alive again. Richard was gone and life would never be the same, but ther
e was Marianne and so many other things to be thankful for. Last night she’d dreamed about Richard. He was in some sunny place, happy and smiling. He’d run to her, a posy of wild flowers in his chubby hand, his bright, blue eyes gazing directly into hers as he handed her the flowers. ‘Don’t cry, Mam,’ he’d said.
The moment was so startlingly beautiful Cally had wakened, sure to find him by the bed. He wasn’t there, of course, but as she lay back trying to recapture the dream a feeling of utter peace and contentment enveloped her and with it realisation; Richard wanted her to be happy.
And today she was.
Chucking Marianne under the chin she said, ‘Come on, get your mittens on and we’ll go over to your dad’s workshop; give him a surprise.’ Suddenly it became imperative to share this newfound happiness with Red: to put things right.
‘Yes,’ cried Marianne. Red’s workshop was a mystery of unusual objects waiting to be explored.
Cally shrugged into her coat and pulled a felt cloche down round her ears. She still wore her hair in the severe chignon, and adjusting the hat, she made a mental note to visit the hairdresser; soon. Then she darted into the bedroom and applied a touch of powder and lipstick, grimacing as she looked in the mirror. ‘You’ve let yourself go, lady,’ she told her reflection. ‘It’s time to do something about it.’
Taking Marianne by the hand, Cally stepped out into the bitter cold. Overnight frost had turned the grass into a silvery carpet and Marianne tugged her hand free to skip across the lawn, laughing merrily at the trail of footprints she left behind. Cally was reminded of how she had done exactly the same when she was young.
Life goes on in reels and coils, an ever-revolving cycle; it repeats itself, renews itself and makes everything worthwhile, she mused, her eyes lingering proudly on the converted stables. Her idea to make them into accommodation had proved extremely successful, a regular flow of ramblers boosting Copley House’s annual turnover considerably. Today, with all the apartments unoccupied, Cally wondered if people would still ramble now the war was on.
Much to her surprise the door of the nearest apartment opened. A figure stepped out backwards then rested his hands either side of the doorframe.
It was Red.
Cally, puzzled to see him there, stepped closer.
Red, totally unaware of her presence, craned his neck, leaning inwards to something or someone hidden from view.
He spoke.
Cally couldn’t catch the exact words but she recognised the soft, playful cadence in which they were delivered. Daisy’s girlish laughter rang out. Cally stayed rooted to the spot. Daisy’s face appeared, her lips pouted. Red kissed her.
‘Look, Mam!’ Marianne shouted, pointing to the crazy trail of footprints she had made to the end of the lawn.
Red whirled round.
Daisy squealed and shot back inside.
Red, his face suffused with surprise and shame, shuffled the gravel beneath his feet, his eyes darting from Cally to Marianne as he attempted to regain his composure.
Cally marched up to him, pausing only to give a glare of withering contempt before pushing past him into the stable. Daisy, wearing only her petticoat, was frantically straightening the sheets on one of the beds.
‘Daisy! Pack your bags and go home to Calthorpe. Don’t be here when I get back.’
Daisy left that day, and three weeks later Red left for Chester. He’d joined the Royal Air Force.
*
Before Red left, they talked. He begged forgiveness. Cally promised none. But she did listen. Without any sign of self-pity he told her how inadequate he felt; how inadequate he had always felt. He’d failed to live up to his father’s expectations; he’d even failed to live up to his own. More importantly, he’d failed Cally.
‘It was seeing you following your dream and being so successful made me feel such a waster. I never fitted in at Copley House. My head was full of ideas to do with cinematography. When you thought I was working, I was dabbling in dreams and fantasies,’ Red admitted ruefully. He sounded so remorseful, Cally’s heart went out to him.
‘Why didn’t you put them into practice?’ she’d asked, without a hint of reproach.
‘Because I’m afraid of failure, it’s my greatest fear and yet, somehow I manage to achieve it in everything I do. The night of Richard’s accident I ran away, unable to face the awful truth. I was to blame. My friendship with Barty allowed it to happen.’ He covered his face with his hands, choking on his words. ‘I honestly believed Richard wouldn’t die; couldn’t die. When he did, I blamed myself for that too. I’m a weak, irresponsible, immature fool.’
Red had wiped his hands over his face as though to wash it clean, then reaching for Cally’s hands he took them in his own. Essaying a penitent, embarrassed smile he confessed, ‘I was flattered by Daisy’s admiration, in desperate need of someone to bolster my pathetic ego. You didn’t want me so I turned to her. How despicable is that? I can’t expect you to love me ever again, but I’ll love you for the rest of my life.’
Cally had listened without recrimination. To attribute blame seemed pointless now. Instead, she had learned. The stark realisation of how little she understood her ‘angel’ had cut her to the bone. They had shared the light-hearted love of courtship and overruled objections to their marriage yet they had never plumbed the depths of a serious relationship. Instead, they’d just muddled on.
Cally had smiled sadly. ‘The blame’s not all yours. I was too wrapped up in my work and my ambitions for Copley House. In some ways I’ve achieved my hopes and dreams, but at what cost? I rarely ever enquired after yours, and when we should have been pulling together I drove us apart.’
She’d pulled him closer then, and placed her arms about him. As she cradled him to her breast she couldn’t help thinking it was as though she had been the player in the enactment of their lives and he merely a spectator.
They parted amicably. Not as lovers but, at least, as friends.
29
Cally missed Red more than she had thought possible. He was stationed in Chester and, judging by the letter she’d received that morning six weeks after his departure, he was enjoying his training. At the end of the letter he begged her to write back, and she promised herself she would reply later that night. We may have our differences, she thought, but I wouldn’t want to lose contact with him. After all, he is Marianne’s father and my husband: although it doesn’t quite feel that way now.
Red’s letter put aside, Cally lifted breakfast dishes; cups, bowls and spoons, two of each. My family gets smaller with each passing month, she mused sadly, plunging the crockery into sudsy water. A froth of lacy white bubbles surfaced, evoking memories of Richard. He’d loved to stand on a chair at the sink dabbling his hands in the water, making frothy lather.
Soon, Cally thought, Marianne will be begging to do the same and I’ll encourage her to do just that and many other things, even if they bring back painful memories. Her rites of passage cannot be denied because Richard is no longer alive. Marianne’s all I have now.
A timid knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. She wiped her hands and went to answer it, the colour draining from her cheeks as, through the glass in the upper panel, she saw Barty.
He looked different. He’d shed at least two stones in weight and his usual florid complexion was paler, his features more defined. He saw her through the glass and smiled, uncertainly. Cally opened the door.
‘Come in, Barty,’ she said, greeting him solemnly.
He hesitated, as though he’d take flight at any moment. ‘Is it alright?’ His voice shook and perspiration dotted his top lip and brow.
‘Yes, it’s alright.’ Cally spoke gently. ‘We had to meet sometime. I suppose now is as good a time as any.’ She was glad Marianne was out walking with Sally.
She led the way into the sitting room, inviting Barty to sit down. He perched uncomfortably on the edge of a chair.
‘I had to come,’ he mumbled. ‘I was afraid, but I couldn’t go away
without seeing you. I want you to know I’ll never forgive myself for what happened. I loved Richard. I didn’t mean to do it, Cally. I didn’t mean to hurt him.’
Great choking sobs erupted from Barty’s throat. Cally let him cry. Eventually he fumbled for his handkerchief, blew his nose lustily and gazed imploringly at her.
‘I know you didn’t, Barty,’ she answered softly. ‘Why would you want to hurt him? I don’t know if I can ever truly forgive you but I do understand you didn’t do it on purpose. In some ways I imagine you feel worse than I do about it. And if you do, then maybe I should pity you. It’s an awful burden to bear.’
Barty nodded, tearfully. ‘I can’t stop thinking about him,’ he said. ‘I keep seeing him beg me to lift him up one more time. I told him you didn’t approve but he was so disappointed. I thought just one more time wouldn’t hurt. I’m so sorry, Cally.’
‘I know, I know,’ she soothed, ‘I’m sorry too, but what’s done is done. Any punishment I might choose to give will be nothing compared to the punishment you inflict on yourself. As I said, I might never truly forgive you but I don’t really blame you. It was an accident; a terrible accident neither of us will ever forget.’ Cally closed her eyes, choking back the tears. When she opened them she looked directly into Barty’s. ‘But we have to go on, Barty, and we might as well go on as friends rather than enemies.’
A glimmer of hope lit Barty’s face. ‘Do you mean that, Cally,’ he blurted, ‘do you really mean we can be friends again?’
She nodded, unable to speak for the unshed tears clogging her throat. They sat in silence for a while. There was nothing more to say. At last Barty stood up and Cally did too. He held out his hand and she took it.
Out in the yard Wilf waited patiently for Barty to join him. Barty stepped out of the coach-house, Cally behind him. He walked over to Wilf who gave him an encouraging smile and patted his shoulder. Cally called out, ‘Hello, Wilf,’ then suddenly recalling Barty’s words she added, ‘What did you mean, you couldn’t go away without coming to see me?’
The Child from the Ash Pits Page 24