by Kate Morton
‘There you are then,’ he said.
I thanked him and he nodded.
‘I’ll collect you in five days,’ he said, ‘like the Mistress told me.’
I watched the motor car disappear down the lane, turn into Saffron High Street, and I felt a great urge to call him back, to beg him not to leave me here. But it was too late for that. I stood in the dim dusk looking up at the house where I had spent the first fourteen years of my life, the place where Mother had lived and died. And I felt nothing.
I’d felt nothing since Hannah told me. All the way on the journey back to Saffron I had tried to remember. My mother, my past, my self. Where do the memories of childhood go? There must be so many. Experiences that are new and brightly coloured. Perhaps children are so caught up in the moment they have neither time nor inclination to record images for later.
The streetlights came on—hazy yellow in the cold air—and sleet began again to fall. My cheeks were already numb and I saw the flecks in the lamplight before I felt them.
I collected my suitcase, took out my key, and was climbing the stairs when the door flew open. My Aunt Dee, Mother’s sister, stood in the doorway. She held a lamp which cast shadows on her face, making it appear older and surely more twisted than it really was. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘Come inside then.’
She took me into the sitting room first. She was using my old bed, she said, so I would have the sofa. I put my suitcase against the wall and she huffed defensively.
‘I’ve made soup for supper. Might not be what you’re used to in your grand London house, but it’s always been good enough for the likes of me and mine.’
‘Soup would be lovely,’ I said.
We ate silently at Mother’s table. Aunt sat at the head with the warmth of the stove behind her and I sat at Mother’s seat near the window. Sleet had turned to snow, tip-tapping on the glass panes. The only other sound was the scraping of our spoons and an occasional crack from the stove fire.
‘I s’pose you’d like to see your mother,’ my aunt said when we had finished.
Mother was laid out on her mattress, brown hair loose behind. I was used to seeing it tied back; it was very long and much finer than mine. Someone—my aunt?—had pulled a light blanket to her chin, as if she were sleeping. She looked greyer, older, more sunken than I remembered. And she looked flat. Years of sleeping on the same mattress had worn it thin. Beneath the blanket, it was difficult to make out the shape of her body. One could almost imagine that there was none, that she was disintegrating, piece by piece.
We went downstairs and my aunt made tea. We drank it in the sitting room and said very little. Afterwards I managed something about being tired from the journey and started making up the sofa. I spread the sheet and blanket my aunt had left for me, but when I reached for Mother’s cushion it was not in place. My aunt was watching.
‘If you’re looking for the cushion,’ she said, ‘I’ve put it away. Filthy, it was. Tatty. Found a big hole on the bottom. And her a seamstress!’ She tut-tutted. ‘I’d like to know what she was doing with the money I was sending!’
And she left. Took herself up to bed in the room next to her dead sister. The floorboards above me creaked, the bed springs sighed, and then there was silence.
I lay in the dark but I could not sleep. I was imagining my aunt casting her critical eye over Mother’s things; Mother being caught unawares, unable to prepare, to put forward her best foot. I should have been the first to come. I should have arranged things, put on a good face on Mother’s behalf. Finally, I wept a little.
We buried her in the churchyard near the showgrounds. We were a small but respectable gathering. Mrs Rodgers from the village, the lady who ran the dress shop where Mother had done repairs, Doctor Arthur. It was a grey day, as such days should always be. The sleet had held off but the air was crisp and we all knew it was only a matter of time. The vicar read quickly from the Bible, an eye on the sky—whether to the Lord or the weather, I couldn’t tell. He spoke about duty and commitment and the direction they bring to life’s journey.
I can’t remember the details, for my mind was wandering. I was still trying to remember Mother from when I was a girl. Funny. Now that I am old the memories come unbidden: Mother showing me how to clean the windows so they didn’t smear; Mother boiling Christmas ham, hair lank with steam; Mother grimacing at something Mrs Rodgers had told her about Mr Rodgers. But not then. I could see only the grey sunken face of the night before.
An icy wind rushed toward me and whipped my skirts against my stockinged legs. I looked up to the darkening skies and noticed the figure on the hill, by the old oak tree. It was a man, a gentleman; I could tell that well enough. He was dressed in a long black coat and a stiff shiny hat. He carried a cane, or perhaps it was an umbrella, wrapped tightly. I didn’t think much of it at first; I presumed he was a mourner visiting another grave. If it seemed strange that a gentleman, who must surely have his own estate, his own family cemetery, should be mourning amongst the town’s graves, I didn’t think it then.
As the vicar sprinkled the first handful of dirt on Mother’s coffin, I glanced up to the tree again. The gentleman was still there. Watching us, I realised. The snow started to fall then and the man looked upwards so that his face was in the light.
It was Mr Frederick. But he was changed. Like the victim of a fairytale curse, he was suddenly old.
The vicar drew to a hurried close, and the undertaker gave orders that the grave was to be filled quickly on account of the weather.
My aunt was by my side. ‘He’s got a nerve,’ she said, and at first I thought she meant the undertaker, or else the vicar. But when I followed her gaze, she was looking at Mr Frederick. I wondered how she knew who he was. I supposed Mother had pointed him out at one time or another when Aunt was visiting. ‘What a nerve. Showing his face here.’ She shook her head, tightened her lips.
Her words made no sense but when I turned to ask what she meant she had already moved away, was smiling at the vicar, thanking him for his thoughtful service. I supposed she blamed the Hartford family for Mother’s back problems, but the accusation was unfair. For while it was true that years of service had weakened Mother’s back, it was her arthritis and pregnancy that finished the job.
Suddenly, all thought of my aunt evaporated. Standing by the vicar, black hat in hands, was Alfred.
From across the grave, his eyes met mine and he raised his hand.
I hesitated, nodded jerkily so that my teeth chattered.
He started walking. Came toward me. I watched, as if to look away could cause him to disappear. Then he was at my side. ‘How are you holding up?’
I nodded again. It was all I could seem to do. In my mind, whirlpools of words spun too quickly for me to grasp. Weeks of waiting for his letter; of hurt, confusion, sadness; of lying awake composing imaginary scripts of explanation and reunion. And now, finally . . .
‘Are you all right?’ he said stiffly, bringing a tentative hand toward mine then thinking better of it. Returning it to the brim of his hat.
‘Yes,’ I managed to say, hand heavy where he hadn’t touched it. ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘Course I came.’
‘You didn’t have to go to any trouble.’
‘No trouble, Grace,’ he said, feeding his hat brim through his fingers.
These last words floated lonely between us. My name, familiar and brittle on his lips. I let my attention drift to Mother’s grave; watched the undertaker hastily working. Alfred followed my gaze.
‘I’m sorry about your ma,’ he said.
‘I know,’ I said quickly. ‘I know you are.’
‘She was a hard worker.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘I saw her only last week—’
I glanced at him. ‘Did you?’
‘Brought her some coal Mr Hamilton said could be spared.’
‘Did you, Alfred?’ I said appreciatively.
‘Been cold of a night, it has
. Didn’t like to think of your ma going cold.’
I was filled with gratitude; it had been my guilty fear that Mother’s passing had been brought about through lack of warmth.
A hand clamped firmly on my wrist. My aunt was beside me. ‘That’s over and done then,’ she said. ‘And a fine service too. Can’t see she’d have anything to complain about.’ Defensive, though I hadn’t disagreed. ‘Nothing more I could have done, I’m sure.’
Alfred was watching us.
‘Alfred,’ I said, ‘this is my Aunt Dee, Mother’s sister.’
My aunt narrowed her eyes as she stared at Alfred; a groundless suspicion that was native to her. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ She turned back to me. ‘Come on then, miss,’ she said, affixing her hat and tightening her scarf. ‘Landlord’s coming first thing tomorrow and that house needs be spotless.’
I glanced at Alfred, cursed the wall of uncertainty still stretched between us. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I suppose I’d best be—’
‘Actually,’ said Alfred quickly, ‘I was hoping . . . that is, Mrs Townsend thought you might like to come back up to the house for tea?’
He glanced at my aunt who scowled in return. ‘What would she be wanting with all that?’
Alfred shrugged, rocked back and forth on his heels. His eyes were on me. ‘Have a visit with the other staff. A bit of a natter. For old time’s sake?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said my aunt.
‘Yes,’ I said firmly, finding my tongue. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Good,’ said Alfred, relief in his voice.
‘Well,’ said my aunt. ‘Have it your way. I’m sure I don’t mind.’ She sniffed. ‘Just don’t be long. You needn’t think I’m doing all the scrubbing myself.’
Alfred and I walked through the village, side by side; soft flakes of snow, too light to fall, suspended on the breeze. For a time we travelled without speaking. Footsteps muffled by the damp dirt road. Bells ringing as shoppers went in and out of doors. Occasional motor cars whirring down the lane.
As we neared the Bridge Road we began to speak of Mother: I recounted the day of the button in the string bag; the long-ago Punch and Judy visit; told him of my narrow escape from the Foundling Hospital.
Alfred nodded. ‘Brave of your ma, if you ask me. Can’t have been easy, her all on her own.’
‘She never tired of telling me so,’ I said, with more bitterness than I intended.
‘Shame about your da,’ he said as we passed Mother’s street and the village turned abruptly to countryside. ‘Having to leave her like that.’
At first I thought I had misheard. ‘My what?’
‘Your da. Shame things didn’t work out for the two of them.’
My voice trembled against my best attempts to still it. ‘What do you know about my father?’
He shrugged ingenuously. ‘Only what your ma told me. Said she was young and she loved him, but in the end it was impossible. Something to do with his family, his commitments. She wasn’t real clear.’
My voice, thin as the floating snow: ‘When did she tell you that?’
‘What?’
‘About him. My father.’ I shivered into my shawl, pulled it tight around my shoulders.
‘I took to visiting recently,’ he said. ‘She was all alone, what with you in London. Didn’t seem much trouble on my part to keep her company once in a while. Have a natter about this and that.’
‘Did she tell you anything else?’ Was it possible, after a lifetime of keeping secrets from me, Mother had opened up so easily at the end?
‘No,’ said Alfred. ‘Not much. Nothing more about your da. To be honest, I did most of the talking; she was more a listener, don’t you think?’
I was unsure what I thought. The whole day was deeply unsettling. Burying Mother, Alfred’s unexpected arrival, learning he and Mother had met regularly, had discussed my father. A topic closed to me from before I’d even thought to ask. I walked faster as we entered the Riverton gates, as if to walk free of the day. I welcomed the clinging damp of the long dark driveway. Surrendered myself to a force that seemed to be pulling me inexorably on.
I could hear Alfred behind me, walking faster to catch me up. Small branches cracked under foot, the trees seemed to eavesdrop.
‘I meant to write, Gracie,’ he said quickly. ‘To reply to your letters.’ He drew beside me. ‘I tried so many times.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ I said, walking on.
‘I couldn’t get the words right. You know how my head is. Since the war . . .’ He lifted a hand and rapped lightly on his forehead, ‘Certain things I just can’t seem to do no more. Not like before. Words and letters are one of them.’ He hurried to keep up with me. ‘Besides,’ he said, breath catching, ‘there were things I needed to say that could only be said in person.’
The air was icy on my cheeks. I slowed. ‘Why didn’t you wait for me?’ I said softly. ‘The day of the theatre show?’
‘I did, Gracie.’
‘But when I got back—It had only just gone five.’
He sighed. ‘I left at ten before. We just missed each other.’ He shook his head. ‘I would’ve waited longer, Gracie, only Mrs Tibbit said you must have forgot. That you’d gone on an errand and wouldn’t be back for hours.’
‘But that wasn’t true!’
‘Why would she make it up, a thing like that?’ said Alfred, confused.
I lifted my shoulders helplessly, let them fall. ‘It’s what she’s like.’
We had reached the top of the driveway. There on the ridge stood Riverton, large and dark, the edges of evening beginning to enclose her. We paused unconsciously, stood a moment before continuing past the fountain and around toward the servants’ entrance.
‘I went after you,’ I said as we entered the rose garden.
‘You didn’t,’ he said, glancing at me. ‘Did you?’
I nodded. ‘I waited at the theatre until the last. I thought I could catch you up.’
‘Oh, Gracie,’ Alfred said, stopping at the base of the stairs. ‘I’m so sorry.’
I stopped too.
‘I should never have listened to that Mrs Tibbit,’ he said.
‘You weren’t to know.’
‘But I should have trusted you’d be back. It’s just . . .’ He glanced at the closed servants’ door, tightened his lips, exhaled. ‘There was something on my mind, Grace. Something important I’d been wanting to talk to you about. To ask you. I was wound up tighter than a drum that day. Full of nerves.’ He shook his head. ‘When I thought you’d given me the flick I was that upset I couldn’t stand it any longer. Got out of that house as fast as I could. Started down the first street I came to and kept walking.’
‘But Lucy . . .’ I said quietly, eyes on the fingers of my gloves. Watching as snowflakes disappeared on contact. ‘Lucy Starling . . .’
He sighed, looked beyond my shoulder. ‘I took Lucy Starling to make you jealous, Gracie. That I own.’ He shook his head. ‘It was unfair of me to do it, I know that: unfair to you and unfair to Lucy.’ He reached out with a gloved finger and lifted my chin tentatively so my eyes met his. ‘It was disappointment made me do it, Grace. All the way down from Saffron, I’d imagined seeing you, practised what I was going to say when we met.’
His hazel eyes were earnest. A nerve flickered in his jaw.
‘What were you going to say?’ I asked.
He smiled nervously.
The clatter of iron hinges and the servants’ hall door swung open. Mrs Townsend, large frame backlit, plump cheeks red from her seat by the fire.
‘Here!’ she chortled. ‘What are you two doing out there in the cold?’ She turned back to those inside. ‘They’re out in the cold! Didn’t I tell you they was?’ She returned her attention to us. ‘I said to Mr Hamilton, “Mr Hamilton, blimey if I don’t hear voices outside.” “You’re imagining things, Mrs Townsend,” says he. “What would they be wanting standing out in the cold when they could be in here where it’s nice and warm?�
�� “I wouldn’t know, Mr Hamilton,” says I, “but unless my ears deceive me, that’s where they is.” And I was right.’ She called inside: ‘I was right, Mr Hamilton.’ She extended her arm and waved us inside. ‘Well come on then, you’ll catch your deaths out there, the pair of you.’
THE CHOICE
I had forgotten how dim it was downstairs at Riverton. How low the ceiling rafters, and how cold the marble floor. I had forgotten, too, the way the wintry wind blew in off the heath, whistled through the crumbling mortar of the stone walls. Not like number seventeen where we had the latest insulation and heating.
‘You poor dear,’ said Mrs Townsend, pulling me toward her, squashing my head into her fire-warmed breasts. (What a loss for some child, never born, to miss the opportunity for such comfort. But that was the way then, as Mother knew too well: family was the first sacrifice of any career servant.) ‘Come and sit down,’ she said. ‘Nancy? Cup of tea for Grace.’
I was surprised. ‘Where’s Katie?’
They all exchanged glances.
‘What is it?’ I said. Nothing dreadful, surely. Alfred would have said—‘Up and married, didn’t she,’ said Nancy with a sniff, before flouncing off into the kitchen.
My jaw dropped.
Mrs Townsend lowered her voice and spoke quickly: ‘Fellow from up north that works in the mines. Met him in town while she was s’posed to be running an errand for me, silly girl. Happened awful fast. Won’t surprise you to hear there’s a wee one on the way.’ She straightened her apron, pleased with the effect her news was having on me, and glanced toward the kitchen. ‘Try not to mention it round Nancy, though. She’s green as a gardener’s thumb, however much she insists she ain’t!’
I nodded, stunned. Little Katie married? A mother to be?
As I tried to make sense of the remarkable news, Mrs Townsend continued to fuss, insisting I take the seat nearest the fire, that I was too thin and too pale and would need some of her Christmas pudding to set me to rights. When she disappeared to collect me a serve, I felt the weight of attention upon me. I pushed Katie from my mind and enquired after things at Riverton.
