He showed them: there it was, low down on a long list on the memorial cross beside the path. Captain William Russell, RFC. Below that Grace saw a shorter list of names under the heading 1939–1945. That was the other war, the one still referred to by older people as the war. But she was becoming more attuned to the first one, Will’s war, the one she’d sometimes heard called the Great War.
‘RFC?’ Grace queried.
‘He was in the Royal Flying Corps,’ Roger said. ‘Same as my great-grandfather. There was no RAF till 1918 – the Royal Flying Corps was part of the Army.’
‘I wonder if they knew each other?’
‘It’s possible, I suppose. But your William was killed in 1916, and my great-grandfather didn’t come to Marsh House till later, when the war was over.’
‘So,’ Mum asked, ‘are there graves from your family here too?’
‘Yes, over here.’
Roger led the way round to the back of the church along a path that passed under the ancient yew. Fergus Charles Ashley-Clark was there, and his wife Helen Rosemary; nearby, their son Christopher Fergus Ashley-Clark – ‘My grandfather,’ Roger said, and moved along the row to a much newer headstone with fresh flowers laid on the grave. Grace read Roy Christopher Clark, 1946–2016, and Mum exclaimed, ‘Oh! This must be your father!’
‘Yes, that’s Dad. The Ashley got dropped somewhere along the way. We’ve just had the two-year anniversary. He died in July.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Mum said.
Grace wondered if Roger had put the flowers there, or perhaps it was Ian or Gail.
‘My mother died quite young, and Dad never remarried,’ Roger said. ‘He stayed on at Marsh House till it got too much for him, then he moved to sheltered accommodation in Chelmsford for the last few years, and Ian and Gail took over the house. But a lot of his stuff’s still in the attic there. I’ve started sorting through, to see if he kept any papers or photos that belonged to Fergus. Anything to do with the war, or flying, or his facial reconstruction. There might be photos, log books, that sort of thing.’
Not specially interested in the Clark family, Grace went back to the grassy mound of Mark and Christina’s grave and looked again at beloved wife. It wouldn’t say anything on William’s war grave about his wife, would it? And that didn’t seem right. Christina had loved William first, and – presumably – would have stayed married to him if he hadn’t been killed. No one would know that, from these carved letters.
Roger was looking at another grave, two rows back. ‘Here’s Richard Wright, Christina’s middle husband, and his second wife, Amy. There are still Wrights in the village, two or three families. Adrian’s one of them. His surname’s Gregg, but his mother was a Wright before she married.’
Grace thought of this morning’s encounter, of Adrian’s strange reaction to meeting her. She hadn’t mentioned it to her mother, feeling unaccountably ashamed.
So if Adrian was a Wright, that meant Marcus was too. This was confusing: so many Wrights and Russells.
‘But these Wrights wouldn’t be blood relations of the Russells, would they?’ her mother asked.
‘No,’ Roger said. ‘Christina’s marriage to Richard Wright didn’t last long, and there were no children. From the records it looks as if Richard and Amy adopted a son later. Maybe they couldn’t have children of their own.’
‘I wonder why Christina got divorced from Richard?’ Grace asked.
She knew only too well how marriages could fall apart – how her parents, once so solid and permanent in her life, had become two warring individuals who could hardly bear to be in the same room. Perhaps it had been like that with Christina and this middle husband.
‘I don’t know,’ Mum said, with a little laugh. ‘It seems she was meant to be a Russell.’
There were older Russells too; Roger pointed out the older William, the hunting-mad father of Mark and William, and his wife, Isobel, their mother, who’d died young. Granny Izz wasn’t here, though; she had moved away, and in any case would have no truck, as she put it, with churches or religion. ‘A woodland burial for me,’ she had specified. ‘No God stuff. A cardboard coffin. Biodegradable. You can all draw pictures on it.’ And Grace had, with Mum, crying at first but then making it a happy project, a last gift. With felt-tips and pencils and paintbrushes they had drawn and coloured all the things Granny Izz liked: cats, and bars of music, and a giraffe with a surprised expression, and an ice-cream cornet with a chocolate flake sticking out.
Grace liked the churchyard, although not for what Granny Izz had called the God stuff; she liked the ancient yew whose long dark boughs swooped almost to the ground, making a shady green tent, and the swathes of long grass and wild flowers beyond the mown areas. She liked the sense that the church had stood here for hundreds of years and looked ready to stand for hundreds more.
‘We’ll bring flowers for Christina, shall we, next time?’ Mum said.
Grace rode Plum each afternoon that week, except on Tuesday when Mum drove her to hospital for her regular clinic appointment. The prosthetist was pleased with Grace’s progress and showed her pictures of the athletic limb she could be fitted with soon, lighter and springier-footed than the leg Grace had now. She said that the riding was an excellent idea, and recommended asking for extra exercises to stop her knee and hip stiffening up next time she had a physio appointment with Zainab.
It didn’t take long for her to feel confident with rising trot, and soon Jamie said she was ready to canter, which – to her surprise – was easier than trotting, with its rocking-horse motion. She found that she could sit to the movement quite comfortably, and learned to soften her hands so that she didn’t accidentally tug at Plum’s mouth.
‘When can I really gallop?’
Jamie grinned, patting Plum’s neck; she was already puffing from the canter. ‘She’s not exactly a racehorse. Try another steady canter.’
I can do this! Grace exulted as she rode away from him. I can ride! On a pony I’m almost the same as anyone else. She relished the freedom, the regular beat of Plum’s hooves on the grass, the energy she could control or release as she chose.
‘You could ride around on your own now. You don’t need me,’ Jamie said, after she’d cantered in a wide circuit round the field and pulled up breathless and triumphant. ‘But if you want to learn more, you’d better have lessons with Charlie. She’ll teach you better than I can, about impulsion and collected trot and the stuff she goes on about. And jumping.’
‘I’d like to learn to jump.’ Grace wasn’t sure, though, about being taught by Charlie. She enjoyed these leisurely afternoons, with Jamie helping and encouraging. Charlie, she was sure, would be far bossier.
Next morning Jamie arrived on foot, in a hurry, meeting Grace on her way to the office to help her mother.
‘Come down to the lake! Something to show you. If we’re lucky.’
‘What?’
He wouldn’t tell her, instead leading the way through the meadow to the stile, and on through the shaded woodland paths. At one point he stopped, listening, and looked up.
‘Nuthatch! There it is.’
Following his pointing finger, Grace saw a sleek blue-grey bird poised for a moment on a tree trunk, head down, before it flew off.
‘How did you know?’ she asked, impressed.
‘Heard it! Like this.’ He gave a series of shrill upward whistles – a sound she realized she’d heard in the background without noticing, the way he did. ‘But that’s not what we’ve come for.’
His pace slowed as they neared the lake’s edge, and he turned to shush her, though she wasn’t speaking. ‘We might see from here, but we’ll have to creep. I hope they’re still there.’
Through a screen of leaves, Grace saw the shine and flicker of light on water where the stream flowed into the lake. She couldn’t see what Jamie was after, but when she looked at him in puzzlement he put a finger to his lips and crept forward, crouching. She expected kingfishers, but by the stream’s edge she he
ard the rustle of vegetation and then splashing. Leaning forward, she saw a dark, fluid shape slip into the water, followed by a second, much smaller one. She caught her breath. There was an excited yipping as both animals rolled and twisted in the water as if in play.
‘Beavers?’ she whispered. She had only seen them on television.
She saw Jamie’s suppressed smile, while he kept his eyes fixed on them. ‘Not beavers! Otters.’
Of course they were; Grace felt silly. Hadn’t she watched enough wildlife programmes to know that? After a few moments the two creatures slipped away smoothly into the lake, and she saw their flat heads, and ripples fanning out from their strong swimming. Soon they disappeared into undergrowth on the farthest shore, and were gone.
‘They must have bred here!’ Jamie’s delight was evident. ‘That’s a female and her cub. I knew there were otters in Essex, but it’s the first time I’ve seen them here.’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday, and again this morning, early.’
‘Thanks for showing me. That was amazing!’
For those few moments the sense of watching wild animals doing what they instinctively did, freely and joyfully and without fear, had been magical. She began to understand why Jamie felt about the fields and woods the way he did.
He shrugged. ‘Well, I had to show someone. If it was just me I’d think I only dreamed it.’
They waited to see if the otters would come back, but there was no sign. Jamie thought they might have returned to a hole in the bank where the female had made her nest. Holt, he called it.
On their way back to the field gate, Jamie said that he wouldn’t be able to bring Plum for her to ride this afternoon, as he was going out with Marcus. ‘Anyway, Charlie says I shouldn’t keep bringing her over.’
‘Oh!’ Grace felt herself droop with disappointment. ‘No more riding?’
‘Not that! She says you can go over to ours. Starting today, if you like. She wants to give you a lesson, like I said. She doesn’t trust me to teach you properly.’
Grace’s mother drove her round to Marsh House after lunch. Going down through the garden with a sense of trepidation, she found Charlie leading Plum into the stable.
‘I need to show you a few things. Then you can come over and ride whenever you like, on your own, unless Jamie wants Plum, which isn’t very often.’
‘Can I really?’ Grace liked the idea of that: a kind companion for exploring, the pony’s four sturdy legs better than her own one-and-a-bit.
‘Sure. But you’ll have to learn how to bring her in from the field, and groom her and pick out her feet, and put on the saddle and bridle.’
These mysteries were briskly demonstrated. When Plum was ready, Grace mounted, under Charlie’s critical eye, and they went down to a corner of the orchard where an area was marked out with letters on posts. Tracks of worn-bare grass made ovals and circles and straight diagonal lines.
Today Charlie was wearing a red vest top with black leggings and knee-high riding boots, an outfit that gave her the appearance of a circus ringmaster as she stood in the centre. Watching Grace closely all the time, she called out instructions: ‘Walk to A. Circle that end. Diagonal to K. Push on into rising trot.’
It was very different from the relaxed lessons with Jamie, and Grace wasn’t sure she liked it. Luckily Plum – dear, sweet Plum! – seemed to know exactly what was expected, so that Grace couldn’t tell if it was her own suggestions or Charlie’s voice the pony was obeying as she walked and trotted on command. At one point Charlie made Grace trot without stirrups, which was bumpy and precarious, but Charlie said very necessary.
‘You’ve got a lot to learn,’ Charlie said, when Plum came to a smooth halt at the end. She produced a piece of carrot from her pocket and the pony crunched it loudly. ‘But you haven’t made a bad start. You sit well, that’s the main thing. And your leg isn’t too much of a problem. On another horse it might be, but Plum’s pretty unflappable.’
‘She’s so good. Thanks for letting me ride her.’
‘No probs. Next time I’ll ride Sirius and we’ll go out over the fields. Now I’ll show you how to take her tack off, and she can have a feed.’
Grace quite liked the way Charlie had just come out with the remark about her leg, not hedging around it. She brushed Plum down, feeling that she’d made good – if bumpy – progress.
CHAPTER NINE
No Plan C
On Friday, waking to a wet, dismal morning, Grace went to Ian’s art class in the barn, feeling self-conscious as the only young – even youngish – person there. With no clear idea of what she’d do, she found herself sketching dancers: at first tentative, then warming to it, covering sheet after sheet with quick sketches of fluid, graceful poses. Long limbs, flying hair. Strong, supple feet.
Ian paused at her easel and looked at her drawings for a few moments before saying, ‘Interesting. Where does this come from?’
He seemed different here: quieter and more serious than he’d been at the barbecue. Grace explained that she’d been intrigued by the dancers last weekend, though she’d only glimpsed them. He nodded, and although he said nothing she sensed that he understood. Later on he said, ‘You might try crayon if you want to carry on with those. It’d encourage you to be freer, less fussy.’
A stylish Indian lady at the next easel had been looking at Grace’s work with interest. She introduced herself as Sushila, and said that she was a regular in Ian’s classes. ‘I love this place. I come whenever I can.’ She was the kind of elegant older woman who didn’t seem old at all, with iron-grey hair caught up in a jewelled comb and dark brown eyes in a lively face. She wore a long tunic over jeans, and beaded sandals that showed slim brown feet. Her painting was of Flambards in bright sunshine: the house with its coat of glossy ivy and the big cedar tree casting shade, in bold acrylic colours that were larger than life but somehow right. ‘I’d be outside if it wasn’t pouring with rain,’ she told Grace. ‘But tell me about this. Are you a dancer?’
Grace shook her head.
‘Art student, then?’
‘I’m only in Year Nine – I mean Ten, now. But art’s one of my options for GCSE.’
‘So I should hope.’ Sushila nodded at the sketches that now filled Grace’s sheet of paper.
Grace felt encouraged – but, in the way she was beginning to see was a habit, she immediately damped down the spark by remembering Mum, the other night at the barbecue. ‘She’s really quite talented,’ Mum had said. And what Grace had heard was: Why not concentrate on painting and drawing, now that you’re disabled? She knew it wasn’t fair to Mum, thinking that. But she seemed to have developed extra-sensitive antennae, acute at detecting sympathy or pity. Or, in less well-meaning people, condescension. She had to remind herself that Sushila couldn’t possibly know about her leg, or she wouldn’t have asked about being a dancer.
At the end of the class Sushila shrugged herself into a raincoat and said that she’d see Grace next week. Grace had enjoyed the session, and left the barn with her mind full of plans for what she might draw next. Rain was falling steadily, dripping from the chestnut trees and puddling the yard. As she mounted the stairs to the Hayloft, she heard her mother speaking. She paused at the open door, wondering who Mum was talking to, and heard distinctly: ‘Maybe it was a big mistake, coming here.’
What? Grace stood on the landing, still as a waxwork.
‘For yourself, or for Grace?’ It was another female voice – Sally’s – that answered.
A sigh. ‘Well, for both of us. It’ll be heartbreaking if Plan A goes ahead, and Plan B’s bad enough. I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t got involved. Just couldn’t resist, but I should have made it a short visit, at most.’
‘But you will stay, won’t you, till the end of the holidays? You’re not thinking of giving up, going back to London?’
‘No, only for house-clearing and flat-hunting. The sale should go through in a couple of weeks.’ Her chair grated on the floor as she
pushed it back. ‘I’ll make coffee.’
Grace heard running water at the sink, a cupboard being opened, the clink of mugs. She tramped her feet on the landing and went in. Sally was at the table with her lunch box, Mum filling the kettle. They had fallen into the habit of having lunch together most days, in the garden if it were fine, sometimes joined by Roger too. Now Grace looked at them with suspicion.
‘Hi, Gracey. Good class?’ Mum said, as if nothing was the matter.
‘I’m feeling a bit homeless, that’s the problem,’ Mum said later, when Grace confronted her. ‘It’s August already, and term starts in a month’s time. I need to get a move on and find a flat to suit us. I’ve registered with a couple of agencies and I’ll take a day off next week to go down for some viewings. I need to be on the spot. Any decent flats get snapped up as soon as they’re advertised.’
‘Can’t we stay at Nan and Grandad’s?’
‘We could have done, but they’ve let their house while they’re in New Zealand. Besides, it’s too far to school for you, from theirs.’
Grace didn’t want to start thinking about the new term – not while a whole month of summer holidays still stretched ahead. It was like going into the supermarket and seeing BACK TO SCHOOL signs everywhere, and special offers on uniform and pencil cases. Why did shops have to do that?
‘I know! You could stay on here and I’ll stay with Marie-Louise. They’ve got a spare bedroom, or I could share hers.’
Mum only laughed. ‘That might be nice for a week or so. But you couldn’t dump yourself on them for more than that – it wouldn’t be fair. Anyway, I’d miss you! We’ve got to be together.’
It did feel strange, having cut themselves off from home, with no way back. But the thought of leaving Flambards was unwelcome too. That would mean leaving Plum, and the freedom of riding, and the birds and the space and the sky, and even the dead Russells in the churchyard. That day would come, as the start of term approached. But not yet.
The Key to Flambards Page 8
