A Brighter Tomorrow

by A Brighter Tomorrow (retail) (epub)

  It was where Morwen’s brother, Sam, had died in the collapse of Ben Killigrew’s rail tracks, on a clayworkers’ outing to the sea. And that was the death that had resulted in Morwen and Ben taking in three orphaned children to their hearts and their home; Skye’s own mother, Primmy, and Walter and Albert.

  Morwen had been born in one of the little cottages overlooking Killigrew Clay, which was the pivot of all their hopes and dreams. It was where the heart of the family belonged, and it was where Skye knew she had to be while she concentrated her mind on praying for the safety of her son. She knew how badly she needed the spirit and passion of those ancestors around her now.

  She toiled up the wintry slopes, scorning the use of a car or a bicycle, needing to feel in contact with the earth, and not caring if she was behaving like a madwoman, as crazy as the old witchwoman in the hovel on top of the moors.

  Sunlight was thin and watery on this December day, but it still glinted on the soaring sky-tips as it had always done, unchanging and eternal. The clayworks were silent now, with work done for the day, and no endless shifts of men and women and children scurrying about as they had done in days gone by.

  The milky green pool where Celia Penry had drowned herself through the shame of being raped was still and deep, hiding its secrets. That other Celia was someone Skye had never known, but whose memory was forever perpetuated in the name of her own daughter. All for Morwen’s sake. All for the grandmother she had loved so much…

  Without warning, Skye felt a huge bitterness surge in her heart. Hardly aware of her own actions, she picked up a stone and hurled it into the clay pool, watching the ripples spread across its surface and spoil its evil serenity. Without warning, she was shouting hoarsely into the silence.

  ‘Damn you, Granny Morwen! Damn you, and Great-Grandma Bess and Great-Grandad Hal, and Mom and Dad, and every Tremayne and Killigrew who ever lived. I want no part of you. I don’t want to be beholden to your past. This is my life, and mine alone. I wish I had never come here to be entangled with you all. I was a fool to think this was where I belonged.’

  The rippling patterns of the pool grew wider and wider as she threw stone after stone into it, trying to exorcise every memory of those earlier ghosts. The ground was glossed with dew in the late afternoon, but she noticed none of it as her feet slid and slipped.

  She was filled with a weird sense of exhilaration, of freedom and excitement, as if the oppression and weight of all those family ties was being abandoned for ever. It didn’t feel like a betrayal, more a sense of becoming herself at last, instead of being just a continuation of all that had gone before. And she gloried in the feeling.

  She laughed out loud, revelling in the sound, since it seemed so long since she had laughed, or danced or sung. Her feet gave a little skip of pure joy, and the next moment she went sprawling and rolling on the damp earth, her arms spread out to save herself, but still laughing, as if fully aware of how ridiculous she must appear, a middle-aged woman behaving like a wild thing.

  But with the sound of her hysterical laughter came a slower and fuller awareness of where she was, and who she was. She was aware of the madness and futility of her actions in denying her past, and above all in denying those loving ancestors who had helped to shape the woman she was today.

  ‘Oh God, forgive me, Granny Morwen,’ she heard herself mumble, as her head dropped to the ground and she tasted the dankness of the earth on her lips and felt its coolness on her cheeks. Sobs welled in her throat, where moments before there had been laughter. She knew she had been truly in the grip of madness, for to deny her heritage was to deny her own Celia and Wenna – and Olly too.

  She heard a scuffle of feet, and as she sensed the shadow above her, her eyes closed in shame. If this was that grizzled old witchwoman, about to shriek abominations at her, then she would know she had truly let the devil into her heart…

  ‘Have you hurt yerself, Mrs Pen?’ she heard Daphne Hollis’s scared young voice say. ‘Should I go and fetch me Ma or somebody?’

  Skye jerked up her head, knowing how stupid she must look, a grown woman lying face down on the moors with her arms spreadeagled as if in supplication, and her face covered in clay dirt. She rubbed at her cheeks and sat up carefully, breathing deeply for a few seconds before she spoke shakily.

  ‘I’m not hurt, Daphne. I slipped and got winded for a minute, that’s all.’

  ‘Yer’d better come to the cottage and let me Ma clean yer up then,’ the girl said practically. ‘If yer don’t mind me sayin’ so, yer look a real sight, Mrs Pen, like one o’ them clayworking gels in the old newspaper pictures.’

  ‘Do I, Daphne?’ Skye said huskily. The thought sped into her mind that out of the mouths of babes and vaccies could often come more common sense than ever came from an educated woman’s brain.

  ‘Come on then,’ Daphne went on. ‘We was just going to ’ave our tea, and me Ma will be wond’ring what’s happened to me. We’ve got summat to tell yer, anyway.’

  She couldn’t hide the excitement in her voice as she put out her arm to help Skye to her feet.

  ‘Have you? What’s that?’

  Oh honey, tell me anything to help me rid myself of the madness of the last ten minutes, Skye thought.

  ‘We’re gettin’ hitched,’ Daphne announced in triumph. ‘Gary wrote to me Ma to say he’s bein’ sent back to America on account of his war wound. So we’re gettin’ hitched before Christmas and goin’ wiv ’im. What do yer think of that!’

  ‘I’m astonished!’ was all Skye could think of to say.

  She hadn’t known that Gary had a war wound, either, but it was clear that Daphne was totally swept away by the glamour of going to America. And what a coup to tell her school friends about, was her next thought. Above all things, Daphne needed to feel important and this was clearly the pinnacle of her dreams.

  ‘I’m really happy for you and your Mom, honey,’ she went on, giving the girl a quick hug.

  Daphne squirmed away. ‘Yeah, well, as long as I don’t have ter start talking funny, like you do,’ she giggled.

  Skye began to laugh. ‘Daphne, you can talk any way you like, and you’ll always do me a power of good.’

  ‘Will I?’ Daphne said suspiciously. ‘It’s not what me Ma says then. She says I’m a proper caution.’

  ‘You’re that too,’ Skye told her solemnly.

  * * *

  ‘Where the hell have you been, Skye?’ Nick said angrily when she finally returned to New World, having had her ears stormed by how wonderful life in America was going to be for the Hollises once they were mutually hitched to Gary. ‘I was about to send out search parties for you. And what in God’s name has happened to your clothes?’

  ‘Oh, don’t fuss, Nick. I fell over, that’s all, but Mrs Hollis let me have a wash and brush-up at the cottage.’

  ‘You’ve been up on the moors? Skye, it’s practically dark now! Anything could have happened to you.’

  ‘Where else would I go when I needed to think?’ she snapped. ‘And how could anything bad happen to me with Granny Morwen looking after me?’

  She bit her lip. She should be past all that weird stuff at her age, and she knew Nick didn’t like that kind of talk, anyway. Besides, she couldn’t forget the guilty fact that she had totally rejected it herself just a short time ago. She lowered her eyes, feeling a swift shock that she could have done so, and then she felt her husband’s arms fold around her.

  ‘I should have remembered,’ he said softly. ‘She would never let any harm come to you.’

  She caught her breath at his unexpected understanding and acceptance before raising her face for his kiss, and in that moment she had never loved him more.

  * * *

  The Hollises were gone before Christmas. Americans moved with admirable swiftness, Skye told Butch when he came home from White Rivers and reported that the cottage was empty. Daphne had already called to say goodbye, and it might have been a far more emotional one, but for her obvious exciteme
nt at going on a ship to the other side of the world.

  Just for a moment, Skye had felt a huge tug at her heart, imagining Daphne’s feelings at her first sight of the New York skyline, and the green Statue of Liberty rising out of the ocean like a fantasy figure, welcoming all who saw her.

  Then she grinned wryly. Knowing Daphne, she would probably not even notice Lady Liberty, except to make some rude comment.

  ‘Are we having Christmas this year, Mrs Pen?’ she heard Butch say cautiously. At his uneasy look, Skye felt a rush of affection for him.

  ‘Why, what a thing to say, Butch. Of course we’re having Christmas. Why on earth wouldn’t we?’

  His blush met his carroty hairline. ‘Well, because of – of Olly, and we’ve all been so sad lately – I thought perhaps we should all be quiet—’

  ‘Well, we’re not going to be quiet at Christmas-time. Goodness me, what would New World be like without celebrating Christmas? We can’t let it pass as if it’s just another day, can we?’

  But she swallowed hard as she spoke, and she didn’t let him see how bright her eyes were, or what an effort it was to constantly remind herself that life went on, even if hearts were breaking.

  In the end, it was the best idea of all to fill the house with people. Celia was home, and so was Wenna with Harry Mack. All the relatives came as usual, and Skye kept a determined smile on her face as they all drank a toast to Olly, saying stoutly that this time next year he would be drinking a toast to all the stay-at-homes instead.

  ‘And long before this time next year, God willing, we’ll all be living in a free world again,’ Nick added.

  ‘I can’t remember what anything was like before the war,’ Butch said, frowning.

  ‘Good Lord, I don’t suppose you can, kiddo,’ Celia said, glad to change the subject before her mother’s smile slipped. ‘Well, when it’s all over we’ll have bananas by the bucket-load, and so much chocolate it will make you sick. You’ll get so fat you’ll be waddling up to White Rivers every day—’

  ‘Stop it, Celia,’ Seb laughed. ‘Leave the boy alone. He’s doing a grand job at the pottery, and I won’t have you teasing my star pupil.’

  ‘He’s your only one, isn’t he?’ she grinned back at him, and ducked as he made a mock swipe at her.

  Watching them, and listening to their nonsense, Skye thought what a handsome pair they made. If Celia wasn’t still so madly in love with Stefan von Gruber – a hopeless liaison in her opinion – she was sure she and Seb could have made a go of it. It wasn’t unheard of for cousins to marry – her own parents bore witness to that – but fate had evidently decided that Celia was a one-man girl.

  She had thought that about herself once, when she and Philip Norwood had only had eyes for one another, but fate – and Nick Pengelly – had proved that love could come for a second time, and be just as spectacular.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’ she heard Nick say beside her.

  ‘I was just thinking how much I love you, and how good it is to have all our family around us,’ she said steadily. ‘And even those who aren’t here now are still with us in spirit, aren’t they, Nick?’

  ‘Always,’ he said.

  * * *

  The remote Norwegian farmhouse was warm and cosy, the wood fires in every room burning fiercely to defy the bitter cold from the snow outside. The girl with the long silvery hair leaned over the bed of the young man with the ugly jagged cuts on his cheeks and chest.

  The wounds were healing satisfactorily now, but they were still too tender for him to bear any bedding touching them. The girl’s heart ached for the once-fine sight of the young man’s body, criss-crossed with such hideous scars now.

  They would fade in time, and few would know the raw vividness she and her brother had seen when they had brought him here a month ago, nearer dead than alive. He had been lucky to be found just days before the first bad snows of the winter had set in. A few days more, and he would surely have perished. Some were born lucky, and Birgitta had known instinctively that he was one of them. She knew about such things… she was acknowledged as a healer and she could sense the need for survival in this man.

  The patient stirred in his sleep now, and Birgitta wondered if this would be the day, at last, when he would recover full consciousness. Until that day came, they had no idea who he was. His garbled shrieks and mutterings gave no clue as to his nationality or identity, and all remnants of identifiable uniform and dog-tags had been ripped away from him long before they had found him.

  But the hand holding hers was becoming increasingly strong, and she prayed that he would soon awake. It was foolish to fall in love with someone whose gaze was so vague as yet. But his eyes were as startlingly blue as her own, and they made her heart race each time they looked at her.

  Birgitta came from fierce Viking stock, and fervently believed in the old legend that said that the man whose life she saved forever belonged to her.

  She felt her brother’s hand touch her shoulder, and she waited a moment before looking up at him. Her long straight hair fell over her face, and she hoped swiftly that it hid the passion in her eyes for her unknown warrior.

  ‘Come away now, Birgitta,’ Rolf said gently. ‘You know we can’t let this go on much longer. We don’t know if he’s British or Polish, or even German, but people will be looking for him, and we have to notify someone soon.’

  ‘Why must we?’ she said fiercely. ‘We’ve tended to his wounds, and he’s healing well. He should be allowed to recover in his own time.’

  ‘But there will be others who are missing him. He may have a wife and family—’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I would know if it were so. I would feel it. Besides, I’m sure he’s not German.’

  Rolf spoke more sharply. ‘Birgitta, you can’t rely on your instincts in this case. It’s time to inform the partisans that the man is here, and let them decide what to do next.’

  As if in answer to his words, the man in the bed stirred, and his incoherent mumbling began as usual. But as Birgitta leaned closer, she heard that some of his words were better formulated than usual, and she frowned.

  ‘Olly?’ she said, looking up at her brother. ‘What does this mean? What is Olly?’

  The man’s grip on her hand tightened, and she saw that his eyes were a fraction clearer than before.

  ‘Olly,’ he whispered painfully and slowly, as if finding it hard to move his dry lips over the simplest of words.

  ‘Olly – Oliver—’ he managed, and then his clasp slackened again and he slumped into sleep once more.

  ‘Oliver,’ Birgitta repeated after a startled moment. ‘I know that name, Rolf, and so do you. It is the name of the boy in the famous British story who asked for more gruel. This is an educated man to speak such a name.’

  She looked at Rolf again. ‘He’s told us something else too, I think. Whoever he is, he’s British. Thank God.’

  ‘Then we know where to start. I’ll alert the partisans right away, and they will inform the British authorities.’

  ‘Must you?’ Birgitta said, all her feelings in her eyes, and desperately wanting to keep him to herself for just a little while longer.

  At least until the moment when he opened his eyes properly and realised that she was a vibrant young girl on the brink of womanhood, and not merely a pair of healing and caring hands that had tended his most intimate requirements in these past weeks.

  ‘I must, my love,’ Rolf said quietly. ‘And you know it. He doesn’t belong here.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  There had been a time, long ago, when all that Stefan von Gruber had dreamed about was becoming a respected vintner like his father. Of following in the family footsteps, and carrying on the tradition of growing the grapes on the vast von Gruber Estates that produced such fine German wines.

  As a small boy, still enchanted with his heritage, he had known the magic of seeing how the rows upon rows of the bare winter sticks of the vines gradually came into shining green leaf. Th
ere was even more magic in the way the tiny clusters of dry pips developed into the luscious purple globes of the grapes, their sensual aroma enveloping the crystal clear air of the vineyards.

  During the boredom of being interned, he used his imagination fully to exercise his mind, recalling the halcyon days of childhood. He could still imagine the lovely, squishy feel of the grapes in his hands, staining his clothes and his fingers purple, and could well remember knowing he was in for a scolding from his mother, and indulgent laughter from his father.

  In the last few years, such memories had sustained him in a way he would never have believed. When the Gestapo had so viciously commandeered his home and imprisoned him along with other political prisoners for refusing to co-operate, he had thought himself one of the forgotten men.

  Their guards hardly knew what to do with them, since the prisoners were all intelligent and influential men in their own right. They weren’t even criminals in the general sense, and they were given as much leeway within their confines as it was possible to have, without allowing them their liberty. The guards were canny men, and while keeping them strictly at arm’s length, had become as sociable with their prisoners as dignity and hierarchy allowed.

  In the dying months of 1944, they, like everyone else, knew that the end of the war was in sight. Hitler would inevitably be overthrown, and they would want to be known to have been lenient. And when another new year had come and gone, and the Allies were burgeoning their way through Europe, many of the captors simply panicked and fled, leaving the prisoners to discover that their doors were no longer being locked at night.

  There was nothing to prevent them from leaving their isolated strongholds and going their separate ways. But for many, the enforced camaraderie of the past years did not spill over into this new freedom, and they knew it was not going to be easy to resume life in a country that was so vastly different now from the way it had been five years before.