A Secret Garden Affair, page 20
The crying had stopped now, the house perfectly silent. But finding myself still unable to sleep, and seeing that it was now four-thirty and not yet light, I decided I would make an early start on the day.
Downstairs, I added some precious coal to the Rayburn and made myself a cup of hideously weak tea – Bess ruled the roost when it came to eking out our rations and woe betide me if I was too heavy-handed with the butter or sugar. I took my tea through to the dining room which was where I liked to work. We had no need of the large table for entertaining these days and so I put it to good use as a desk, where I could lay out my papers and notebooks and where they wouldn’t be touched.
Not surprisingly my garden design work had dwindled with the war. Lambert Chase in Northampton had been requisitioned, as had Strickland Hall in Buckinghamshire and Gillingham Court in Kent. I had been kept on a retainer basis for some years by the owners and the work had generated a steady flow of income, but that was gone now.
Only yesterday my sister had written with the news that Tilbrook Hall was to be requisitioned and used as a hospital and a camp for POWs. So that too was a source of income that was gone.
Things were so tight it was as well I had only Bess and Alfie’s wages to find these days. Alfie, who looked younger than his sixteen years, had fooled no one at the call-up centre in Bury St Edmunds when he’d tried to claim that he was eighteen and therefore old enough to fight. Privately, and with no Amos to help me in the garden, I was glad the lad had been turned down as I desperately needed his assistance, especially as we were all digging for victory now. The surplus of fruit and vegetables we produced was sold in the shop in the village. There was also a fair bit of bartering that went on, but perhaps the less said about that the better.
Possibly out of consideration for my financial situation, Prudence’s husband had persuaded her to relinquish her joint ownership of Larkspur House. I had no idea how he had convinced my sister that she should do this, but he had the arrangement legally drawn up so I would have the security of knowing my home was my own. I would forever be grateful to George for this act of kindness on his part.
Sipping my tea, I thought of Prudence’s letter and pushing away the planting plans I was supposed to be working on for Bourne Park in Hertfordshire, I decided to reply to her, if only to get the task over and done with. She’d written a stream of grumbles about how unfair life was and how obviously the war was being hopelessly mismanaged. Her husband, she claimed, would soon sort out the mess if he was given the chance. Too many young men were being put at needless risk as, in her view, the Air Ministry obviously didn’t know how to run a tea party, never mind manage the affairs of the RAF. Everything was so obvious to her. Churchill came in for a share of her vexation, with her referring to him as that ‘corpulent, cigar-smoking buffoon’ who had obviously only become the prime minister because Chamberlain was a weak fool and Lord Halifax had been too scared to take on the responsibility of the job.
Nikolai had shared with me in his letters how worried he was for some of his old friends who had left Russia during the revolution and moved to Austria and Germany for safety, only then to find that because they were Jewish, they were at even greater risk. Nikolai had urged them to leave while they still could, but they had believed that their status as doctors and wealthy businessmen would protect them. Even when Kristallnacht happened in November of 1938, they saw themselves as shielded. But now, according to Nikolai’s letters, they realised their mistake and lived in fear of what might happen next as every day more of their rights were taken away.
Hunting through my papers for Prudence’s letter, I was distracted by the last one Nikolai had sent me and which I had yet to add to the rest. I kept his letters in the chest of drawers in my bedroom and sometimes, late at night when I couldn’t sleep, I would re-read them, just to feel closer to him. Some, though, I just couldn’t read again; they were too painful, too strong a reminder of what we’d lost. Of what might have been.
I put Nikolai’s most recent letter to one side and returned my attention to the one I should write to my sister.
Dear Prudence, I began, I’m sorry to read of your woes, but …
But what? I pondered. Pull yourself together and accept that we all have to make sacrifices for the greater good.
Or: What do you have to complain about when you have the house in Mayfair to live in, or the place in Scotland where you could hunker down and pretend there isn’t a war raging across Europe?
I sighed and took another sip of my tea, willing myself to think better of my sister.
I was saved from putting pen further to paper, by Bess appearing in the doorway. ‘Presumably the baby woke you?’ she said.
I nodded. ‘He’s a vocal little chap, isn’t he, and tenacious with it.’
‘In the end I went to see if I could help.’
‘Of course you did,’ I said with a smile. ‘Alice is lucky to have you on hand.’
‘I don’t know about that. Shall I make us some porridge?’ she asked.
‘Do we have enough?’
‘I’ll make it stretch, don’t worry.’
‘You’re a wonder, Bess, truly you are.’ It was on the tip of my tongue to add, what would I do without you? But I didn’t. The last time I’d uttered the words Bess had worked herself up into a fearful tizzy of apologetic guilt, declaring it would have been better for me if I had never met her because it was all her fault that I had lost my baby, for which she could never forgive herself.
No matter how vehemently I repeatedly attempted to disabuse her of this conviction, she refused to budge and continued to blame herself.
But then I carried my own share of guilt. Had I guessed the predicament in which Bess had found herself, that that vile man Michael O’Halligan had raped her, I would have done all I could to find a better solution than the one she’d devised for herself. And one I knew she regretted.
We had our fair share of secrets, Bess and I, but there was one that weighed so heavily on us both we neither could bring ourselves to talk about it. It was always there though, hanging over us like a large black cloud. My only hope was that the passing of time would eventually lift that cloud from our lives.
Chapter Twenty-One
July 1981
Larkspur House, Suffolk
Bess was not happy. Not happy at all.
‘That girl has wreaked havoc in my pantry,’ she said, emerging from the pantry into the laundry room. ‘I can’t find a damned thing.’
Elfrida was washing her hands at the sink and on the draining board was that morning’s harvest from the kitchen garden – strawberries, redcurrants, cherries, tomatoes, peas, runner beans, new potatoes, bunches of herbs, and a cucumber along with a butterhead lettuce. It should have been a sight that had Bess rolling up her sleeves and putting everything to good use, but Libby had banned her from so much as making a drink and it was driving her round the bend with boredom and frustration.
‘Language,’ said Elfrida, drying her hands now. ‘And if I’m not mistaken, I believe that girl, for our own good, is on a mission to cleanse us of our bad ways.’
‘But I like my bad ways. God help me, I even like your bad ways. I don’t want things to change. I certainly don’t want my pantry rearranged. Or the dresser stripped of everything that was useful. Doesn’t it bother you?’
‘No. What bothers me far more is you not doing as you’re told. Now come and sit down in the kitchen where I’ll make you a cup of tea before we watch the wedding.’
Bess puffed out her cheeks with exasperation. ‘I’m perfectly capable of boiling a kettle myself,’ she snapped.
‘Really? Yet you couldn’t find what you were looking for in the pantry?’
‘Please don’t be clever with me. Or imply I’m losing my marbles. Not when I’m trying to make a point.’
‘Which is?’
‘That you and Libby are treating me with kid gloves, and I really don’t like it. The way you both look at me it’s as if you think I’m about to drop dead any minute. Do you have any idea how unnerving that is? How would you feel if you were in my shoes? And how would you like it if Libby was rearranging your greenhouse or digging up your precious garden?’
‘I’d chase her away with a broom and hosepipe!’
‘Well then.’
‘Well then, nothing. I’m not the one with angina, you are. So let’s have no more of your petulant nonsense, or … or I’ll have to take a broom and hosepipe to you!’
‘I’d like to see you try.’
‘Don’t tempt me.’
‘If I could interrupt this happy little spat, everything’s ready in the drawing room. I’ve put the television from your bedroom in there, Bess. Perhaps you’d like to go and sit down now?’
They both turned round to see Libby standing in the doorway of the scullery.
‘Do I have any choice in the matter?’ muttered Bess.
‘Do as she says or she’ll send you to your room without anything to eat,’ said Elfrida.
‘The same goes for you too, Elfrida. Do as you’re told, or no lunchtime snacks for either of you. Go on, off you go.’
‘What about all this I’ve just brought in from the garden?’ said Elfrida, indicating the trug of fruit and vegetables on the draining board.
‘I’ll see to that.’
‘In that case, we’ll have two coffees and a couple of chocolate digestives, and make it snappy,’ said Elfrida. ‘Come on, Bess, let’s go and make ourselves comfortable.’
With a weary sigh of resignation, Bess did as she was told. In the drawing room, she sat down in her usual wingback chair which Libby had moved so that she would have a perfect view of the small television now positioned on a table some eight feet away. They used to have a proper-sized set in this room but after it stopped working it had never been replaced, so if there was anything Bess wanted to watch, like Crossroads, Take the High Road, or Dallas, all of which Elfrida dismissed as rubbish, she did so upstairs in the privacy of her bedroom.
‘Don’t be too cross with Libby,’ said Elfrida, ‘she genuinely means well. I think it would be better for us to give in graciously and acknowledge our appreciation of her help.’
‘You’re right, I know, but it’s just so maddening constantly being told to take it easy.’
‘That’s because we’ve never been very good at it; we’ve always gone at life full tilt. No such thing as half measures for us.’
‘But now,’ said Bess, ‘life is to be rationed for me, portioned out in measly doses.’
Elfrida looked at her, her unwavering gaze as familiar to Bess as her own. ‘A few adjustments here and there, that’s all, we’ll soon get the hang of it.’
‘But I feel such a fraud doing nothing when I actually feel so well. Better, in fact, than I have in a while.’
‘That’s thanks to the medication you’re taking and Libby’s censure of you. So let’s keep it that way, shall we?’
Bess frowned, knowing that Elfrida was right. But oh, goodness, it was so hard doing nothing!
Then, as if they’d said all that needed saying on the subject, they both turned to look at the television screen and the scene from the Mall in London. A BBC commentator was now standing amongst a group of Pearly Kings and Queens. Behind them was a large crowd of people waving flags and wearing patriotic hats of red, white and blue as they waited eagerly for a sighting of the royal carriages leaving the palace.
‘Takes one back to the Coronation, doesn’t it?’ said Elfrida as a group of revellers struck up with an enthusiastic rendition of ‘Land of Hope and Glory’. ‘If there’s one thing we British can be relied upon, it’s to put on a decent show of pomp.’
‘Do you suppose they’ll be happy?’ asked Bess, remembering the excitement of watching the Coronation on their first television set in the summer of 1953. At the time it hadn’t seemed possible that they could be watching such an important moment in history unfold before their very eyes. She’d felt as though she’d actually attended the grand occasion.
‘Who?’
‘Charles and Diana.’
‘Oh, I dare say they’ll muddle through.’
‘There’s a lot to muddle through, though, isn’t there? All that royal protocol and smiling and handshaking and posing for the cameras, it must be extremely tiresome.’
‘I expect they’ll both be glad to have today behind them so they can escape the attention of the press.’
‘She seems so young. I wonder if she slept a wink last night.’
‘Did you the night before you married Amos?’
‘Not really.’
‘My memory of your wedding was how nervous you looked.’
Bess could still recall just how nervous she’d been. Worried to death about consummating the marriage, she’d been terrified that she might not be able to let Amos touch her, that the very act of making love would make her physically ill. Her other fear was that he’d guess that he wasn’t her first. In her nightdress in bed with him, she’d squeezed her eyes shut and willed her body to relax, to forget all about Michael O’Halligan and how he had violated her. Afterwards, and full of awkward embarrassment, Amos had apologised that it had been over so quickly, but she’d kissed him and said it was perfect.
In time they were both more at ease in bed together and she was able to give more of herself to her husband. She knew it was wrong, but she had initially seen lovemaking as a duty rather than an act of passion. But gradually that changed, and for the better. For Amos there was always the hope that sex would result in the creation of a child. But it never had.
‘After the fuss that’s been made of the dress,’ observed Elfrida, ‘all I can say is that it looks like it could do with a jolly good iron.’
‘Imagine the weight of all that silk taffeta,’ murmured Bess.
As the BBC’s Tom Fleming kept up a steady commentary, Lady Diana, minutes away from becoming Princess Diana, was slowly climbing the steps of St Paul’s with Earl Spencer at her side and where inside the cathedral three and a half thousand guests awaited them. The poor man appeared so frail, thought Libby, as if Diana was the one supporting him and not the other way round. There was no denying the affection they held for each other and it brought an unexpected lump to Libby’s throat as she thought of her own father and how sad she’d been when planning her wedding that he wasn’t alive to walk her up the aisle. To her mother’s chagrin, Libby had said that because nobody could replace her father she had intended to break with tradition and would approach the altar alone.
‘Earl Spencer looks so proud and happy for his daughter, doesn’t he?’ said Libby, passing round a plate of smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwiches, along with another of vol au vents and cocktail sausages she’d cooked in a sticky marinade of brown sugar and Worcestershire sauce.
‘For a man who had a stroke and was in a coma not so long ago, I’d say he looks remarkably chipper,’ said Elfrida, helping herself to a sandwich and a couple of sausages. ‘Any more champagne going?’
‘Of course,’ said Libby.
‘Am I not allowed a tiny amount so I can toast the happy couple?’ asked Bess.
‘Just a drop,’ conceded Libby. She felt so torn when it came to her great-aunt. On the one hand she wanted to let her be happy and be left to do everything she always had, but on the other, she badly wanted to wrap her in cotton wool and keep her safe. But a small amount of champagne wouldn’t hurt, would it, she told herself – it was a special occasion?
By the time she’d poured the champagne and helped herself to something to eat, Lady Diana and Earl Spencer had completed the seemingly endless walk up the aisle and now the radiant twenty-year-old bride stood beside Prince Charles who was decked out in his full dress naval commander uniform. They certainly made a striking couple, but then she supposed most brides and grooms did.
‘Do you think Marcus is watching this?’ asked Elfrida.
‘Good grief!’ tutted Bess. ‘Could you be any more insensitive?’
‘That’s okay,’ said Libby. ‘It’s a fair enough question. My guess is no, he’ll be giving it a miss.’
‘We could have done the same,’ said Elfrida.
‘Certainly not,’ said Libby, keeping to herself that had she been on her own in London she would have probably avoided switching on the television, but being here with Bess and Elfrida it didn’t seem such an ordeal. ‘After all,’ she added with forced brightness, ‘it’s billed as the wedding of the century and when I’m your age I want to be able to say I saw it happen.’
Out in the hall the telephone rang.
‘Just leave it,’ said Bess with a frown.
But the phone kept on ringing.
And ringing.
‘Shall I go and answer it?’ suggested Libby.
‘No, I’ll go,’ said Elfrida, ‘you’re the one who wants to remember this big occasion in your dotage.’
Elfrida picked up the telephone receiver, wondering who on earth it could be. Surely the world and his wife would be glued to their television sets? Personally, she would sooner be in the garden than stuck inside.
‘Hello,’ she said in her most authoritative voice, the one she used when she wanted to cut short an unwanted caller. Occasionally she would be bothered by some garden club committee person asking to arrange a visit. ‘Absolutely not,’ Elfrida would bark down the phone, ‘I don’t open the garden anymore.’ Her other tactic would be to say the caller had the wrong number and then leave the telephone off the hook.
‘Elfrida?’
She recognised the voice straight away. A voice that could be even more imperious than her own.
