The Lynmara Legacy

by Catherine Gaskin

  ‘Develop your memory,’ Nicole said. ‘Develop your sense of sound. I don’t know how to translate music into Braille for you, but it must be done somewhere. You should be able to remember the sounds I play, and reproduce them …’

  They still quarrelled over his music. She bullied and goaded him on. ‘Scales … scales, Rick. Until you get your technique back you’ll never get anywhere. Strengthen your hands ‒ get your reach back. When the war’s over, there should be some way to get you a teacher.’

  ‘Damn little tyrant,’ he answered. But the effort to help him drove her back to the piano herself. ‘Listen, Rick … listen …’ The vet, Mr Carbury, who had conceived an admiration for her, brought her some lanolin for her hands. ‘The chemist makes it up for me,’ he said. ‘I hear you’re back at the piano with Richard. That’s damn good. Everything shouldn’t be lost because there’s a war on.’

  One day the teacher brought a light cane-harness for Nell, with a raised handle that Richard could hold as he walked. ‘She hasn’t been trained, of course,’ the woman lamented, ‘but she seems to want to do things for you, Mr Fenton. Let her try … There’s no time now to train dogs for the blind, and no one to do it …’

  Help that Richard also seemed able to accept came, surprisingly, from Lord Manstone. Since the time in September when he had come to see Nicole, and in giving her the news of David’s death had finally broken through her hard shell of remoteness, he had come frequently to Fenton Field. At first Manstone had stayed in one of the two rooms The Falcon had to rent, and then Margaret had insisted he stay at Fenton Field. Lynmara had been taken over as officers’ quarters for Hawkinge Fighter Command Base; the Belgrave Square house was requisitioned for the Ministry of Information. ‘There’s Ross’s room,’ she said. ‘He won’t be using it for quite some time. And Allan’s room hasn’t been used since he was married, except when we had the evacuees here. It isn’t luxurious, of course ‒ and it isn’t very warm. We’ve only limited hot water. But then, I suppose things aren’t very different at The Falcon, are they?’

  He had accepted with a curious readiness and humility. They found that they hardly noticed his presence at Fenton Field. He would come for the few days of his leave, bringing his rations with him, and whatever small luxury he had been able to scrounge in London. He would appear in old trousers and sweaters and quite naturally he took over whatever task was to hand. He came quietly, and left quietly, always making his own arrangements about travel. They got used to his coming and going. Richard was even heard to ask, ‘I wonder when John will be back again? He’s the best newspaper reader of you all, do you know that? Charles is second best. I’m beginning to rate you all now. Nicole’s the worst. Too impatient …’

  They knew the degree of acceptance John Manstone had attained in the house on the morning, at breakfast, when Richard said, ‘Would you mind taking a walk with me, John? Nell’s not quite used to this harness yet. I’d feel better with someone along with me.’ Around the table the family glanced at each other. It was the first time Richard had openly asked for something to be done for him, with him. Brusquely, to hide his emotion, Andrew thrust the pot of marmalade towards John, oblivious to the fact that he had honey on his toast.

  ‘Here ‒ take some of this. The Boston Fentons are positively embarrassing in their generosity with food parcels …’

  During his next leave John Manstone managed to borrow a staff car and beg enough petrol to get to Lynmara. From there he drove to Fenton Field, and from the back of the car and the boot came some of the treasures of his cellar ‒ fine old brandy, chateau-bottled clarets and burgundies. ‘I stored it all in the chapel at Lynmara when it was requisitioned ‒ boarded up the windows and the door so those chaps wouldn’t know what was in there. Swore the gamekeeper to secrecy at the price of a few bottles for himself. I thought I was saving it all for David. I just didn’t think about it until you mentioned the food packages from the Fentons in Boston. I suddenly remembered it was there, and there was nothing to save it for any more ‒ and no time when it’s needed more. So let’s drink up. There’s plenty more where that came from, if only I could get the transport.’

  ‘I can get it,’ Richard said promptly. ‘I get an invalid’s petrol allowance ‒ didn’t you know? If there’s any more claret like this to be had, I’ll pretend to be crippled as well as blind …’ It was good to hear him joking about it.

  ‘Pity I didn’t lay down tins of ham and all those sort of things they sold at Fortnum’s before the war. How does one provide for a war, I wonder?’

  They were always, Nicole thought, talking about ‘before the war’ and ‘after the war’ ‒ the second with a degree of bravado and uncertainty. There was a noticeable quietness about Ross and Allan. Their futures were question marks. And every time John Manstone or Charles left Fenton Field to return to London, no one was quite certain that they would return. The bombing had virtually ceased, and yet its threat was still there. So they drank the Manstone wine, and sipped the brandy that had been laid down for David, and they knew they were right to do it. It suddenly seemed foolish to set aside, to store up anything for a future that might not come.

  Nicole noticed how little now they talked of the war news. It had been such a bad year, one whose events they tried to ignore, except that Andrew’s maps would not let them. What was the use to talk about the chances of Ross coming home when Rommel had encircled Tobruk? Allan was locked in the fastness of hinterland Germany, and escape seemed impossible. He wrote that he was receiving further treatment for his leg. ‘In heaven’s name, what sort of treatment would he get in a prison camp?’ Joan demanded. ‘And he doesn’t even say what’s wrong.’ She had turned into a gaunt, almost aged woman since Allan’s capture. Most evenings she ate dinner with the family at Fenton Field; her children were there with their cousins all day. ‘Might as well be in charge of a flock as one or two,’ Henson said, but she herself looked worn and old. She no longer talked about going back to Boston.

  Maps of Greece and Yugoslavia appeared when Hitler invaded in April. Then in May the Germans were in Crete. The maps on the wall became more military as John Manstone supplied some from his office in Whitehall. ‘Maps we have,’ he said with a touch of bitterness. ‘What we need are a few victories.’ He said this, indirectly referring to the sinking of the Hood. There was outrageous jubilation among them when news of the sinking of the Bismarck came to offset it. John Manstone came down that weekend, and insisted that they open champagne to celebrate it.

  ‘I’ve hardly ever tasted champagne as good as this even before the war, only once or twice …’ Nicole murmured.

  John Manstone answered quite casually, and in a voice loud enough for the rest of the family to hear, ‘Well, it’s a good thing you’re drinking it. I got it in preparation for your wedding …’

  Nicole gasped, and then she smiled, realizing there was no malice in the remark. ‘Well, why didn’t you serve it when David finally did get married?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I thought it was unlucky … or something. And don’t forget David had a big London wedding. The bride’s parents saw to all that sort of thing. All I had to do was be present. My mother wasn’t there. She died two months later. It’s one of the things I’m glad of … that she didn’t live until the war. She couldn’t bear to see Lynmara turned into a barracks. That would have killed her, even though she always thought of herself as a great patriot. But it wouldn’t have extended to having young men playing darts against her precious panelling.’

  ‘They’re not? … surely not?’

  John shrugged. ‘Why shouldn’t they? Lynmara isn’t anything special to them. Just a big house. Of course the Ministry removed all the furniture and pictures, had them properly stored. It’s stripped bare. But the wear and tear of a lot of young men … Well, there’s nothing to be too concerned about. After all, when they went up in their planes it worked as much to protect places like Lynmara as a row of terrace houses in the East End. But fortunate
ly, young men don’t think that way. Their job was to shoot down German planes. They did it.’

  John had a thirty-six hour leave on the day the news came that Germany had broken the non-aggression pact with Russia and had invaded the territory of her former ally. That evening, leaving Richard practising scales in the drawing-room, Nicole walked with John down the beech-lined drive of Fenton Field, along the road, heading for The Falcon. She hadn’t realized that she was going to walk with him, that they would head for The Falcon. She still wore her working clothes. It was 22 June, and the summer twilight would stretch to its greatest length. Midsummer’s Day.

  She said, as they walked along, ‘I drank the champagne of my own wedding ‒ the wedding that never happened. What about David’s wife? What about the girl he married eventually?’

  ‘The girl he married?’ John answered. ‘I suppose I’d hardly know her if I met her in the street. She was ‒ is ‒ a conventionally pretty girl. Very pretty. She and David made an ideal pair, as far as looks were concerned. Perhaps they would have made a great pair for the rest of their lives. But David didn’t live. She’s gone back to her parents. Where else could she go, poor girl? Lynmara wasn’t her home any more. They didn’t have time to have children ‒ at least, not much time. So … she will marry again, if she’s sensible and lucky. Marry someone she loves. She has nothing more to do with Lynmara, or the estate. It’s all entailed. Only a son could have inherited. Now it will go to ‒ oh, God, I think there’s some distant cousin in Scotland, whom I’ve never met. Well ‒ what does it matter?’

  They were coming close to The Falcon. With the last twilight of this midsummer night, the windows were wide open. No black-out shades had appeared. The noise poured out in a kind of frenetic welcome.

  ‘All these chaps in here ‒ I’d imagine they’ve lost someone. The family’s been altered in some way. It matters just as much if there’s a terrace cottage to pass on, or a place like Lynmara. It’s only a difference of degree, and that doesn’t really matter any more. It hasn’t mattered a damn since we went to war.’

  They elbowed their way in. John took a couple of glasses and filled them from a bottle behind the bar. No one made any objection. ‘Comes of being an old tenant,’ he said to Nicole. He found some water, and topped up the glasses. Then they fought their way to a bench outside the inn. The noise receded a little. They could hear the birds calling to each other. From this bench Nicole could see the line of beeches planted inside the wall of the graveyard where Lloyd was buried.

  ‘But it isn’t all finished yet,’ Nicole said. ‘David’s mother ‒ your wife. You do remember what you told us that evening? About your wife ‒ David’s mother?’

  ‘My wife ‒ David’s mother ‒ is dead.’

  Nicole leaned back against the harsh, prickling rose bush that climbed the ancient wall of the inn. Its rejection jerked her upright. ‘Your wife? ‒ your wife is dead?’

  ‘Is dead,’ he said. ‘After these long years of being half-alive, she is dead.’

  ‘When?’

  He shook his head. ‘I have to say I don’t know precisely. Yes, they showed me a record of her death. They showed me a place where they said she was buried. How do I know? I hear rumours now that I couldn’t believe then. I hear all kinds of rumours. Before the war hardly any of us chose to believe them. We didn’t think people were like that. In the last years they told me not to come to see her any more. It was useless. She was far gone in dementia. Hopelessly schizophrenic. The sight of me would either leave no impression, or trouble her more. So I stayed away. You remember where she was …?’

  The noise was spilling out of the bar. A few couples strolled out to enjoy the summer twilight air. They seated themselves on a bench across from Nicole and John. The talk drifted over. ‘Damn good show we had at …’

  ‘Hell, that wasn’t anything. You should have been …’

  In another group someone said quietly, ‘I expect we might have to start learning Russian …’

  Nicole had never forgotten his description of the valley in Austria which was so beautiful, and for him the most terrible place in the world. ‘I remember,’ she said. ‘The lake, the beautiful gardens, everything so serene and peaceful, except the people.’

  ‘Do you remember the Anschluss ‒ the union of Austria and Germany? The time that Hitler just walked in. No resistance was offered. It was all over in a day.’

  She wrinkled her brow. ‘That was … was …’

  ‘March, 1938,’ he finished. She had been absorbed in Lloyd, her own life, her children. It seemed a hundred years ago, and what had happened in Austria had happened in another world.

  ‘I went to get her out,’ he said, ‘but I’d left it too late. My fault. I should have known. But not even the British Government took it very seriously. They didn’t expect the German ultimatum ‒ the take-over in a day. I had to wait in London while all sorts of papers were prepared by the Barrington solicitors. You see, they’d tied it all up so tightly that I had no right to go and remove my own wife from that place without the consent of the trustees. Old Barrington had tied the knot too tightly. When I got there, accompanied by someone from the solicitor’s office, and a nurse who would help us move her to Switzerland, everything was changed. The Director who had been running the clinic was gone ‒ Herr Director had been gone for six months. The staff was changed. Even the patients seemed to be of a different type. I got the impression that it had been turned into some kind of luxury prison for those who had offended the Party in some way ‒ or highly-placed alcoholics who had to be watched. Cynthia was there under the name of Mansten ‒ Frau Frieda Mansten. That was to protect David, of course. They showed me a certificate which stated that Cynthia had died of kidney failure about two months before. They showed us the place where she was buried in the local churchyard ‒ a Lutheran church. When I demanded to know why I hadn’t been informed, they shrugged. Herr Director had destroyed or taken away many files when he left. They did not know who Frau Frieda Mansten was. They even called her Frau Manstein. The solicitor demanded an official enquiry, and he got more shrugs. He would have to instigate proceedings in the Austrian courts. Yes, they had received a cheque drawn on an English bank, but the covering letter had not been self-explanatory. They had not known it was for the expenses of Frau Manstein. They would, of course, refund the money. To have an official enquiry into Frau Manstein’s death would be more difficult. There would have to be proof of some real suspicion of wrong-doing. All that had happened was an administrative muddle which often follows the abrupt dismissal of the head of an institution. Perhaps out of spite, or out of fear of malpractice being proven against him, Herr Director had chosen to destroy many files. There had been serious allegations against him, they said. They also added that he had, of course, been a Jew.’

  ‘My God …’

  ‘That was about all we could say. When we asked where we might find Herr Director, we were told that he had killed himself shortly after his dismissal. The fact was that he was never dismissed. When Cynthia was put there, the place had been owned by him. It was simply a case of the Nazi takeover of everything Jewish. They were expelled from every position of power or trust. It could have been quite true what they said about Cynthia. Perhaps she did die of kidney failure. It might have been true that she couldn’t tell them her true identity. But the fact is that the awful suspicion haunts me that they simply carried out the Aryan philosophy of the survival of the fittest, and the destruction of the weak links in society. Those who were mentally deranged were surely the weakest … If that’s what happened, then it was totally my fault. I should have faced the facts long before, and either taken her to Switzerland, or brought her back to England. David was old enough to be told about her, and tough enough to take it.’

  He fumbled in his pockets for cigarettes, and there were none. ‘But you don’t know,’ Nicole protested. ‘That’s just some vague suspicion …’

  ‘It really doesn’t matter whether it’s true or not. I ha
ve to add that the Barrington solicitor didn’t seem to give much credence to the theory. He was just furious that so important a person as Cynthia should have passed so completely from their control. But true or not, I’m still guilty, and I can’t shake that off. It begins when you start to lie. I lied in that marriage to Cynthia. I lied when she began to be ill. I agreed to the lies Barrington wanted. I told myself I did it for David ‒ and Lynmara. And now I’ve come to the point where none of it has been worth a damn. Whether I lied for my own sake, or for David’s, I’ve got nothing left. I’ve got an empty shell of a house, and no son. I have no grandchild. The whole rotten cowardice of my life has come home to roost. How right your mother was to get away from me. Yes ‒ I know I let her go. I hadn’t the guts to even try to keep her. Look, I’d better get us another drink. I need it.’

  He went inside, and finally managed to get the attention of the innkeeper, Fred. Two whiskies were produced. ‘I haven’t got any money,’ John said.

  ‘That’s all right, Lord Manstone. I’ll put it on the slate.’ Fred rather liked Lord Manstone, principally, he supposed, because he had never acted like a lord. He liked him when he had stayed at The Falcon, and better when he started to bring Richard Fenton there for a drink during their walks together. Richard Fenton, Fred thought, needed bringing out. And it pleased him to see Mrs Fenton sitting out there in the evening sun. She didn’t get away from that place nearly enough. He watched Manstone settle himself on the bench again beside her, and he wondered what on earth they had been talking about that made them both look so grave. People took the war too seriously, he decided. It was all right to be serious when you had to get on with the job, but when you were relaxing, you should forget the bloody war. He had given them two extra-large whiskies, when whisky was hard to come by. He hoped he’d see Mrs Fenton smile before she left. Despite the fact that she was a thin little scrap of a thing and Fred liked something more substantial, Mrs Fenton looked really beautiful when she turned those strangely-coloured eyes on a man and smiled.