‘Although I am not your natural father,’ Edward had written, ‘I have loved you all as though you were my own. Remember, too, that I am not a stranger – I am your cousin, and we share the same blood.’
The truth of that last statement had not occurred to Liam before. His determination to cut himself off, to stand alone, was temporarily forgotten as the warmth of Edward’s words penetrated. He read that letter many times over in the succeeding weeks and derived great comfort from it. Edward’s tact and understanding seemed to acknowledge the change in their relationship, projecting them both beyond the narrow confines of father and son, and into the realms of equality.
Previously, he had viewed Edward and his mother as partners in a conspiracy against him, but Liam was now persuaded to reassess the situation. Edward, it appeared, would have preferred to be honest from the start; and it was suddenly blindingly clear that he need not have taken on three illegitimate children all those years ago.
That he should have taken up another man’s responsibilities, both willingly and successfully, said a great deal for his qualities as a man. It was also a humbling thought. Liam did not think he would want to do the same. It occurred to him, too, to consider what life would have been like without Edward as their father, and immediately much that had been rich and secure and satisfying fell away. Without him, as children, they would have been so much poorer. Perhaps not in a financial sense, for Robert Duncannon with all his sins would surely not have seen them starve; but spiritually and intellectually they would each have been so much less. Never once, by word or gesture, had he ever intimated resentment of those three children who were as much Robert Duncannon’s as Louisa’s. Yet Edward had little liking for the Colonel, of that Liam was certain. Theirs, he reflected, had been a happy childhood, and perhaps it was that very fact which made the truth so hard to bear.
If his thoughts of Edward were increasingly more generous, Liam’s attitude towards his mother did not improve. Indeed, she suffered by comparison. In his reply to Edward’s letter, he made no reference to Louisa’s.
Thirteen
Christmas in York that year, Georgina reflected, was going to be a very half-hearted affair. Midway through December, the war was showing no signs of drawing to any conclusion. Indeed, from judicious reading of newspapers and casualty lists, it seemed no better than stalemate. Uniforms in the streets, faces which were either glum with misery or taut with anxiety for absent loved ones; and everywhere a dank, persistent mist. She could not recall a day when the sun had last shone from a blue and perfect sky. She imagined it was in the summer, but summer with its roses and picnics seemed to belong to another age.
The shrouded Minster, as she passed by, seemed shuttered and forlorn, as though God had gone away for the duration. Crossing the road by the south transept, Georgina cut through Minster Gates on her way to meet Louisa for tea. By Coffee Yard her step faltered as she thought of Edward, working away at his beautiful books. For a moment she was tempted to stop by and say hello, but their meetings these days were rare, and while his manner was unfailingly courteous, she had the feeling the sight of her pained him. He was so calm, such a tower of strength, Georgina often wondered whether Louisa understood what it cost him in physical terms. His slender, sensitive face was pared almost to the bone, paler than ever, and, Georgina suspected, showing the signs of incipient heart disease. He needed rest and freedom from anxiety, yet the war imposed additional worries.
The cheery welcome of the tea-shop bell sounded incongruous to Georgina’s ears, but it was warm inside and for that she was grateful. Louisa, sitting by the window, raised a hand in greeting. She was thinner, too, but the haggard misery of the last eighteen months had been relieved by Robin’s news of Liam. Now all she waited for was a direct communication, some sign that he understood and had forgiven her. Georgina, having to listen to that gnawing anxiety whenever they met, steeled herself.
Today, Louisa’s smile was tense, but the pressure of her hand on Georgina’s was warm with gratitude.
‘I’m so glad you were able to come. Edward’s had two letters from Liam this week – one from Australia, posted six weeks ago, and one from Egypt. He’s in Egypt, Georgina! Goodness me, it seems so strange — imagine Liam seeing places like that. Alexandria – it makes you think of the Pharaohs, doesn’t it? – and Cairo.’’
Beneath the table, Georgina squeezed her hands together to still their trembling, and while Louisa fished in her small leather bag for the letters themselves, forced her stiff lips into the semblance of a smile. How ridiculous it was, she thought, that news of Liam – from Liam — should affect her in this way. It had been worse the first time. Even now it astounded her how she had managed to control that wild succession of emotions. Exultant at the broken silence, at his safety amongst good, honest farming people, she was relieved after months of worry. Afterwards, in the privacy of her room, Georgina had sobbed like a child, knowing only then how much had been pent up since Liam’s disappearance.
She had known of it within hours, because they came to her first, demanding to know what she knew, and whether Liam had confided anything to her. But of course he had not, apart from those tentative dreams of his. It had been a slender clue, too slender to provide much hope, but to that everyone had clung. No one accused her of being to blame for his disappearance, but she felt it even so, knowing in her heart of hearts that his feelings for her were what had tipped the balance so drastically. Looking back, Georgina knew that she had deliberately ignored what should have been clear to a blind man, and all for the selfish pleasure of his company.
And because she knew, she did not ask why it was that Liam had reacted so badly to the truth, while Robin had made no more than a token protest and Tisha none at all. And because they were all – even her father – so eaten up with guilt at their own parts in the tragedy, no one thought to question her further.
Past expert that she was at covering her own emotions, Georgina gave nothing away while she listened and comforted and made feeble attempts to reassure. Only Edward looked askance at her. Dear, kind, shrewd Edward, who might suspect, but never accuse.
For the moment, however, there was no need to reassure, Louisa being taken up with Liam’s news, albeit as relayed to her husband. She began by reading parts of the first letter aloud, then, as an increasingly quavering voice betrayed her emotions, handed both to Georgina.
‘There,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes, ‘you read them, I can’t. I don’t mean to be so silly, and I’m delighted to have news of him by any means – I just wish he would mention me...’
Her voice tailed away, and the brilliant eyes stared out over the square. Georgina’s heart ached for her, but there was no comfort in empty, unconvincing words. With Liam’s letter in her hands she forced herself to relax, to convey an outward impression of calm. There was a trick to it which she had learned as a child and employed to excellent use as a nurse. To herself she labelled it acceptance. Accept everything, even the most bizarre situation as normal; don’t question it, don’t react to it, and above all don’t panic. Laugh, weep, rage, or even break your heart, but not until afterwards, not until you are alone.
The forward-sloping hand was not as elegant as Edward’s, but it formed a pleasing pattern on the page, while words and phrases, stilted at first, soon relaxed into a style more mature than Robin’s, whose letters rushed on, youthful, ingenuous, eager to summarize a situation in as few sentences as possible. But Liam, once in his stride, was possessed of the telling phrase, the vivid description which brought everything to life. Reading his letters to Edward, Georgina cursed the food, sighed over the boredom of basic training and shared the frustration of not knowing when they were to sail for Europe. The original date, towards the end of September, was constantly put back as the threat of German warships in the vicinity made everyone fearful of losing that vital convoy.
Liam mentioned the fact that his twentieth birthday had been spent in camp, drilling as usual, but that he and a friend had g
one into Melbourne that evening for a celebratory meal – ‘a good excuse,’ he wrote, ‘for getting away from the inevitable army stew.’
And two weeks later, on 19th October, the troopship Benalla had eventually sailed from Melbourne to join up with the convoy at Albany, Western Australia; and a few days after that they were preparing to set forth across the Indian Ocean.
‘… We have a contingent of nurses abroad, most of them from Victoria. One of them is Mary Maddox, daughter of the people I worked for. Her brother Lewis is also aboard, which made for quite a send-off when we left Melbourne. Mr and Mrs Maddox came down from Dandenong, which nobody expected, and while they had not approved of Lewis joining up, he had their blessing at the end. It was a great send-off, with streamers, bands, sirens blowing, but also very sad, so many girls and women crying on the quayside. Mary was crying, too, but had her brother to comfort her…’
Thanking providence for that, Georgina experienced an irrational surge of jealousy. She told herself that this Maddox family was altogether too good to be true, that they had no right to figure so largely in Liam’s affections, when his own family were so starved of him.
Of that letter there was not much more. Concerned lest he should not have chance to catch the post, Liam had finished it hurriedly with a promise to write again soon, and the second was penned largely at sea, relating the daily routines of exercise, lessons in signalling, and an exciting brush with the German cruiser Emden. The eventual sinking of the German ship by HMAS Sydney had cheered them all, making them keener than ever to reach Europe and ‘get into the thick of it.’
After all the excitement, the letter ended on a note of disappointment. For some reason they were to disembark at Alexandria, which made Liam wonder whether that unscheduled stop had anything to do with England declaring war on Turkey. He hoped not, ‘as the lads joined up to be where the real fighting is, not to be used to mop up some side issue out here.’
The letters begged for news of Robin and Tisha, and in a postscript gave his new address as Mena Camp, which he described as being ‘in the shadow of the Pyramids’. Stricken by that romantic image, picturing Liam escorting some other nurse by moonlight, for a moment Georgina was overcome. He did not ask for news of her, and like Louisa she might have cried, ‘if only he would mention me...’
Instead, she slipped the much-thumbed sheets back into their envelopes.
‘Well,’ she said with as much brightness as she could muster, ‘At least he’s safe in Egypt.’
‘And I thank God for that,’ Louisa murmured. Her eyes were suddenly looking away again, over the square, and Georgina knew she was thinking of her other son, in different circumstances entirely.
Robin had been in Flanders since the beginning of October, involved in a tremendous battle to defend Ypres, and in the firing line constantly for almost three weeks. His battalion, which had started out at something like a thousand, was reduced to one captain, three second-lieutenants and less than two hundred and fifty men. That Robin had come through it without physical injury was, Georgina felt, no less than a miracle. While the battalion regrouped they had been moved across the French border to a reserve position. While he was not exactly out of danger, for the time being their collective anxiety was less intense. His letters were arriving frequently again, if a little less jaunty than before.
The last few weeks, Georgina reflected, had been ghastly; it was no wonder that Louisa looked so drained. ‘And how’s Tisha?’ she managed to ask, hoping for a little light relief.
But Tisha, it seemed, was still behaving as though her heart had turned to stone, enjoying her new job as a clerk at the barracks and out with friends almost every night. She was at home for meals, Louisa said, but other than that they rarely saw her. She read Robin’s letters when they arrived and wrote to him occasionally, but any mention of Liam was a cue for her to change the subject or leave the room. When remonstrated with, she declared cruelly that she was sick of their anxiety for him, he had chosen his own path, and in her opinion was quite able to take care of himself.
‘She’s young,’ Georgina observed, ‘and the young can be very thoughtless.’ Privately, she wondered whether Tisha simply felt neglected. Quiet and obedient for months, when she did begin to assert herself again, she did so implacably. No argument or remonstration would turn her from her purpose. Looking back, Georgina wondered whether Edward and Louisa had strength left to exert much discipline. Tisha, it seemed, was intent on going her own way.
As ever before leaving, Georgina mentioned her father, passing on the love and contrition that Louisa always refused to accept.
As expected, she shook her head. ‘If he had only stayed away... But your father has never understood anything but military duty!’ On a sharp sigh she looked away, and for a few moments silence stretched between them. Then, unexpectedly, she asked about him. ‘What is he doing, these days? I don’t suppose they’ve sent him to the Front,’ she added bitterly.
‘No, to his regret. He’s been requesting it for months, ever since the war began. But, as you may know, his special sphere is Ireland, and has been for some time. They don’t want him to abandon that.’
Again, the silence. With a visible effort, Louisa tried to contain her curiosity, and failed. ‘And what has he been doing there?’
‘I don’t know,’ Georgina confessed. ‘He doesn’t talk about it. I don’t think he’s allowed to.’
A smile which was more derisive than amused passed Louisa’s lips. ‘Oh, so secret, is it? Ah well, Ireland was always dear to his heart. I wonder,’ she added a moment later, ‘whether his masters at the War Office know how he really feels about Ireland? If they did, they might be glad to send him to the Front!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ask him, my dear. Ask your father, not me.’
‘Yes, I will,’ Georgina promised as they parted on Coney Street. Disturbing at the time, afterwards, Louisa’s insinuations seemed no more than the product of bitterness. A deep-seated resentment that a man who had made the army his life — and at the expense of so much else — should be kept away from this terrible war, while innocent boys suffered and died.
Afterwards, too, she allowed herself to think about Liam, writing down that new address at the back of her diary, beneath two others she had remembered and transcribed. In what remained of her afternoon off she sat down to write to him, an oft-repeated exercise which had yet to reach her own exacting standards. In trying to achieve the perfect balance between detachment and affectionate concern, Georgina always erred. She was either too cold, sounding like an elderly governess issuing reprimands, or else her warmth set fire to itself, becoming an impassioned interrogation. Why had he gone away like that, without a word? Surely, after the friendship which had existed between them, he could have confided in her? She would have understood, whatever he had to say, and could have helped and comforted him. Knowing the situation, having suffered herself as a child because of it, she was better placed than anyone to sympathize...
Begging for some communication, even a few words on a postcard, then Georgina would remember that his feelings had been those of a boy approaching manhood, and consequently less platonic than hers. Not knowing she was his sister, mistaking her liking and affection for something more, Liam had imagined himself in love. Although in his letters to Edward he asked for news of the family, like Louisa’s name, Georgina’s was significant by its absence. He had adored his mother, and now it seemed he hated her; perhaps his feelings for Georgina had undergone a similar metamorphosis.
It was the same that afternoon. After an hour of flowing, anguished prose, she was devastated by a sense of futility. This was another letter she could never send. Only if they were to meet could this thing possibly be put right between them. Only face to face could she say what had to be said, explain the past in terms that he would understand, and help him to accept what could not be altered. If only, she prayed, he might survive that long. She could not bear to think that he might die with h
atred in his heart. Whatever Louisa’s sins, which were surely those of omission rather than intent, she was a good woman and a warm and loving mother: she did not deserve the treatment Liam was meting out.
And if it should prove to be that I am guilty of more than I suspect, Georgina thought, then I, too, need to be forgiven.
A week later, with Christmas a matter of days away, Georgina finally came to a decision about her work. As the war gathered pace in those early weeks, she had wondered whether she should volunteer to serve in a military hospital. The idea of escaping from York with all its emotional pressures and responsibilities was certainly attractive. Lately it had become so insistent that she hesitated; it did not seem a valid reason for leaving rewarding work in a situation so completely suited to her talents.
Several nurses and attendants had left already, and with each publication of casualties from the Front, Georgina imagined that one of them might be Robin, or her Irish cousins from White Leigh, both of whom had lately volunteered. Liam for the moment was safe in Egypt, but with the war lurching along into another year, eating up young lives with obscene relish, those Australians would be needed somewhere, sooner or later. She had heard of horrific injuries, and young men sent almost mad from the noise of those heavy bombardments. If she could bring the separate disciplines of her training together, she might save lives, comfort shattered minds, return some of them whole to their families when the war was over.
Fired by that idealism, Georgina was able to recognize the stalemate of her personal life and set it to one side. She had done all that it was possible to do, and now that Liam was writing regularly to Edward, the Elliotts as a family knew of his movements, and could communicate with her and with each other. Her presence in York, as far as she could see, was no longer vital, whereas elsewhere, her training might do great good.
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