Contents
Cover
Recent titles by Sarah Harrison from Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Recent titles by Sarah Harrison from Severn House
A DANGEROUS THING
THE DIVIDED HEART
THE NEXT ROOM
THE RED DRESS
ROSE PETAL SOUP
MATTERS ARISING
RETURNING THE FAVOUR
SECRETS OF OUR HEARTS
THE ROSE IN WINTER
LOVE IN A MIST
HEART’S EASE
HEART’S EASE
Sarah Harrison
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.
This eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
Copyright © 2019 by Sarah Harrison.
The right of Sarah Harrison to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8895-2 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-628-9 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0321-2 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
For those who lived there
One
1977
The family set out at eleven thirty on the eve of the Queen’s Jubilee. This, as Charity pointed out, would have them hanging around at the beacon for a good twenty minutes before anything started, but their mother decreed that it was vital to arrive in plenty of time, not only to secure a good place, but to soak up the atmosphere.
Soak was about right, observed Felicity, it was forecast to rain.
What did that matter? said Marguerite, it was practically midsummer!
Their father commented affably that it was theirs not to reason why.
Which was what Hugh usually said, give or take. His preferred line was that of least resistance, and it had stood him in good stead over nearly twenty years of marriage to Marguerite, being both emollient and a way of keeping his powder dry. Given any real objection on his part, he liked to think he was no pushover. But since real objections were vanishingly rare, there was little discord.
There were five Blyths leaving the house that night, the full complement so far: Hugh and Marguerite, and their daughters eighteen-year-old Felicity, Charity, rising sixteen, and Honor, eleven. They left just one lamp on in the house, to welcome them back later. As they crossed the wide grey pool of the lawn, the soft night gave up what small residual light it had, and they could see their way without the use of Hugh’s torch. They passed with a ‘clink’ through the small metal gate between the rhododendrons, over the narrow lane, passing the sixth tee on their left, and on to the path that led up to the cliffs.
The route was a well-trodden one, the scene of so many family walks at all times and in all weathers that they could have negotiated it blindfold. On either side of the path was a bank, with trees growing out of it, the exposed roots twining and twisting down so it was hard to say whether the trees were clutching desperately at the earth, or the earth being held together by the trees. In daytime on the sunny side of the bank, the side that flanked the golf course, the girls used to hunt for adders. Felicity had even caught one once, using a forked stick, but when it slithered free quick as a whip they’d fled for all they were worth, shrieking in an ecstasy of fear.
Now it was Charity who walked ahead, at a brisk pace; Felicity followed, affecting to go at her own speed, but actually maintaining a safe distance from her younger sister. Bringing up the rear were Hugh and Marguerite with Honor. The three of them moved a little slower because Marguerite’s due date was only three weeks away.
The sisters had reacted characteristically to their mother’s pregnancy. Felicity, with a string of admirers and a prospective flat-share in Fulham, found it faintly disgusting, as if her parents at their advanced age should have known better than to cling on to normal sexual function, let alone flaunt it in the all-too-noticeable form of a late pregnancy. She was just glad that she wasn’t going to be around much.
Charity was not censorious, but drily amused. ‘Don’t tell me that was an accident – after all this time they must know how it works!’
Only Honor was unashamedly thrilled. She walked protectively next to her mother, keeping in step, imagining the baby bobbing along next to her in its safe bubble, wondering about its hair colour, its weight, its sex …
Whenever she asked, ‘What do you think it is?’ her father always said, ‘A baby I sincerely hope’, and her mother, ‘A surprise’, which got her no further forward.
Charity had reached the place on their walk where during the day you had to stop to look out for golfers teeing up or driving off. Now she strode straight across the fairway to where the path in a narrower form plunged between the black ramparts of gorse and scurried on its way to the cliff top.
Despite being a little impatient with her family, which was nothing new, she was enjoying the expedition. The Silver Jubilee was history, of a sort, and she was secretly excited by the idea of the message leaping from beacon to beacon as the flames were lit. And she was prepared to concede, as she led the way, that her mother had been right to make them come early. You wanted to be able to see everything! It was pitch dark on this stretch, but the prickly fingers of gorse on either side kept her on track, and soon she could make out the paler grey of the skyline – nearly there.
Felicity slowed down a little on the fairway, still susceptible to this first sight of the sea. Salting Bay was invisible from here, but to the right you could make out the long wavering arm of the coastline reaching westward, broken only by the river estuary a few miles away. Between here
and the estuary a single set of gliding car lights marked the ribbon of road that led to the cove they used to like going to as children. Not many people bothered to go down to the beach, there were no ‘facilities’ and the access was via a rickety wooden staircase, but once you were down it was like being in your own kingdom, with the sweep of sand guarded at either end by buttresses of rock. Felicity hadn’t been there for at least a couple of years but in private moments she imagined taking her own children there, dipping baby toes in the waves, making a castle with a moat and pebbles, eating egg mayonnaise sandwiches with a tiny crunch of grit …
Marguerite marched at a steady pace between her husband and youngest daughter. This simple exercise was good for the baby, she could feel the well-oxygenated blood coursing round her system, her muscles strengthening for what they would soon have to do. At the cottage hospital they said things like, ‘Number four? Oh well, you’re a practised hand then!’, but all experience had taught her was that each birth, like each baby, was unique, and anything could happen. You needed to be strong and healthy – they didn’t call it labour for nothing.
Hugh touched her arm. ‘OK, Daisy?’
‘Fine!’
‘You, my girl?’
‘Yes thanks.’ Honor was glad of the soft darkness that hid her blushing squirm of pleasure. Though he had three daughters, her father reserved ‘my girl’ for her, perhaps because she was the youngest. She hoped if the baby was a girl he wouldn’t simply transfer it to her. Honor’s was not a jealous nature, but she would find that hard to bear. Not that she considered herself a favourite, parents had no favourites as her mother always said, and anyway she wasn’t favourite material, being plump, plain and neither brainy nor sporty. Sometimes she suspected that those were the very reasons he called her his girl – because she needed a bit of a boost. But if so she wasn’t complaining. It was nice.
Hugh was a happy man, walking through the midsummer night with his trio of daughters and his lovely, fecund wife. He was aware that nowadays such thoughts might be construed by some as unregenerate male chauvinism, but that didn’t tarnish his pleasure. He was proud of his ladies, even when male friends and colleagues made wry remarks about the escalating cost of weddings. Indeed he half hoped that this fourth one would be a girl too, so the picture would remain complete, and he the only man in it. But this was a kind of private joke with himself, and he knew that whatever happened he would be absolutely delighted.
The family were all at the beacon by a quarter to twelve. Over a hundred people had already foregathered, and more were still arriving via the Salting cliff path, and from the direction of the golf club which had judiciously laid on a late licence and buffet supper for members who might want to attend. There were plenty there who knew the Blyths and Charity, who along with a conspicuously pregnant mother had a brisk manner and sharp elbows, got them a place near the front. Hugh, being extremely tall, remained politely at the rear.
The beacon stood on a smooth patch of rising ground amongst the gorse bushes between the cliff edge and the seventh fairway. The path itself, in a continual state of erosion, was not considered safe for large numbers so the golf club had taped off a generous corral for the crowd. There were plenty of torches, and the small group of dignitaries near the beacon carried lanterns provided for the occasion. The official lighter was to be Mrs Drake, a young widow who as well as a very suitable name had the same birthday as the queen. Her two teenage boys, a touch awkward in attendance, wore anoraks over their collar-and-ties. As the moment approached the mayor announced that they should all look out for the beacon ten miles to the east – the signal for theirs to be lit. Mrs Drake mounted the small wooden dais and the younger of her two boys jumped up and down to try and get a look over people’s heads.
‘Yes!’
‘There!’
‘There it is!’
‘Look – can you see?’
And there it was, a distant, flickering yellow flower and a pale ribbon of smoke unspooling into the dark sky. Those at the front stood aside and pointed, children were lifted up, people stood on tiptoe, oohing and aahing. And then it was time to light theirs, and Mrs Drake was handed the taper and applied it to the sticks and logs piled in the metal basket. There was some nervous laughter when at first it didn’t catch, but then the flames took hold, and all their faces were warmed and illuminated by the crackling brightness. Just as it did on bonfire night, the fire drew them together in a simple, primitive way. Mrs Drake was helped down and people clinked cups of coffee and beakers of wine. The mayor said, ‘God bless her Majesty!’ and that became the general toast.
Felicity had bumped into people she knew, so for her this had become a social occasion. Charity had brought her camera to obviate the need for small talk, and was taking photographs, though the likelihood of the flash working was remote with so much competition from the beacon.
Honor remained by her mother, but an old gentleman next to her needed to sit down, and she carried his cup of soup while he was helped to one of the two benches which in the daytime afforded a sweeping view. Having parked him she returned.
‘There’s room if you want to sit down, Ma.’
‘Do you know, I think I’m alright.’
‘OK.’
‘You don’t have to keep an eye on me, as long as you don’t go too far.’
Given leave to wander, Honor wasn’t sure where to, or even if she wanted to. Charity was sidling around the edge of the crowd lining up potential shots on her camera and Felicity was at the centre of a small group of vivacious friends.
‘We don’t want to lose you in the dark,’ added Marguerite.
Honor thought that the best way to avoid such a thing would be to stay where she was, but not wanting to seem either unadventurous or, more importantly, over-protective of her mother, she moved away a little and gazed up admiringly at the beacon which was now blazing merrily. Somewhere in the crowd behind her she could discern Felicity’s clear, teasing voice. She and the others were discussing a barbecue on the beach.
‘Exton Point, right …? There won’t be many people, they’ll all be watching the queen on the box … I know, but it doesn’t matter about the weather, does it? Does it? I’ll bring a bottle of plonk …’
Felicity was enviably lively and attractive. Everyone knew it, everyone said so. She was ‘a delightful girl’, as well as being slim and tawny-blonde. Honor didn’t grudge or envy her any of these attributes. If she, Honor, had looked like that, she might have felt obliged to organize beach barbecues, tennis, trips to pop concerts and so on, when there was nothing she’d have hated more. Honor liked to be at home, or when occasion demanded in other people’s homes. In her limited experience there was quite enough drama and entertainment to be had from domestic life. People like her parents and her older sister Felicity talked about ‘Fun’ as if it were something one was supposed to be having, but the sort of things they meant didn’t interest her. For now that didn’t matter much, but she worried there would soon come a time when she would be exhorted to go out and have the dreaded Fun, and she didn’t look forward to it.
She went and sat down on the bench next to old Mr Jessop.
‘Was the soup nice?’
He peered into the mug as if to remind himself. ‘Very nice. Very tasty. My thanks to whoever made it.’
Honor was pretty sure that was Mr Heinz, but she didn’t say so, and took the empty mug.
‘Who did you come with?’ she asked, and then hoped that didn’t sound rude, as though he were incapable of getting here under his own steam. But Mr Jessop was gentleman enough always to be appreciative and not touchy.
‘My kind neighbours gave me a hand. Do you know the Collingses, Geoffry and Iris?’ Honor shook her head. ‘They’re very good to me, I’m very lucky.’
‘That’s nice.’ Honor liked to think of these good neighbours. She hoped someone would say the same of her one day.
‘We parked at the golf club and they towed me up the fairway.’
&n
bsp; ‘We’re lucky, we live quite close.’
‘I know.’ Mr Jessop gave her the sort of smile in which a wink was implicit. ‘Heart’s Ease, am I right?’
‘Yes.’
‘A lovely house.’
‘It is.’
Honor would have been happy to continue this conversation with Mr Jessop but just then Charity arrived, camera over her shoulder, with an air of brisk urgency.
‘Honor – sorry to interrupt – Honor, we need to go. Ma’s started.’
Honor looked blank. ‘What?’
Charity puffed an impatient sigh. ‘What do you think?’
Marguerite’s first reaction was, ‘Oh no, for heaven’s sake, not here, not now!’ But at least this time no one else could see. When her waters had broken with Felicity she’d been standing in Gents’ Clothing in Marks and Sparks, and it had caused not just a mess, but a considerable stir as well-meaning staff rushed to mop up and get her out of the way of the lambswool jumpers. Now she felt the pop and gush, and there was the familiar warm, salty smell as the liquid coursed down her legs, soaking her shoes and stockings. Everyone around her was chatting, drinking, gazing up at the blazing beacon. She cast round for Hugh and saw him a little further back, deep in conversation. She waved vigorously and began making her way back to him, but he’d seen the wave and came to meet her.
‘All well? Something happening?’
‘Yes, I need to go.’
‘You mean go as in go?’
‘Back to the phone, the hospital.’ She stretched her eyes. ‘Urgently!’
Realization dawned. ‘Right – OK. Wait there and I’ll round up the girls—’
‘Felicity can stay longer if she wants to, as long as she walks back with someone.’
‘Alright, the other two – hang on, don’t go anywhere.’
Hugh disappeared. Marguerite told herself to remain calm, there was time in hand. Wendy Waller hove alongside.
‘Hello! I didn’t expect to find you here.’
‘We wouldn’t have missed it for anything,’ said Marguerite. ‘But actually we’ll be off soon.’
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