by Mary Wesley
Dubious Legacy
Mary Wesley
For Isobel
CONTENTS
Part One 1944
One
Two
Part Two 1954
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Part Three 1958
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Part Four 1959
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Part Five 1990
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
About the Author
PART ONE 1944
ONE
‘I THOUGHT YOU SAID you had a car?’
The horse, between the shafts of the dogcart, turned its head at the sound of the woman’s voice. She was tall, with narrow shoulders and narrow feet; she had pale apricot hair and a white skin. The eyes noting the horse were green. She had painted her mouth pillar-box red. The horse, dark and polished as a conker, returned her stare, its startled eye fringed by straight lashes. It breathed out, expanding velvet nostrils and, shifting its weight, caused its harness to creak and jingle. Then, catching sight of the man behind the woman, it pricked its ears, raised its head, whinnied shrilly and lurched forward. The woman, stepping back, crushed a sharp heel onto the man’s instep. She exclaimed, ‘How horrible.’
The man said, ‘Ouch! Hullo, my treasure, my beauty.’ He stepped forward to stroke the animal’s neck and breathe up its nostrils. ‘This is Nellie,’ he said, ‘and there, where Trask is stashing our luggage, is her daughter. She is called Petronella, in honour of petrol rationing. The joke seemed apposite at the time of her birth.’
The woman said, ‘Another cart?’
‘Well, yes. One for us and one for our bags. Trask thought it would be more comfortable for you if he brought both traps.’
‘I thought you said you had a car.’ She stood well back from the horse and looked round the station yard. ‘A Bentley, you said. You said you had a Bentley.’
‘I have. It was my father’s.’
‘Then where is it?’
‘Up on blocks for the duration.’
‘Not here to meet me?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘An old Bentley only goes about ten miles to the gallon. Come on, now. Hop up.’ He indicated the trap.
‘No.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were afraid of horses?’
‘I’m not.’
‘Then hop up. Trask will follow with the luggage. It’s eight miles; it will be dark if we don’t start soon.’
‘I don’t like them.’ Margaret Tillotson stared at her husband.
‘Everything all right, Henry?’ A slightly-built man wearing grey flannel trousers, an open-necked shirt and a sleeveless Fair Isle jersey came up from where he had been loading suitcases into the second trap. He was a servant, Margaret supposed, yet he called Henry Henry, not Mr. Tillotson.
‘Has madam mislaid something?’ he enquired.
‘Madam was expecting to be met by the Bentley,’ said Henry evenly.
Trask said, ‘Oh dear,’ pursing his lips. He had a long upper lip and was clean-shaven.
Henry said, laughing, ‘It is, Oh dear. This is Trask, on whom so much depends.’
Trask, smiling, said, ‘Pleased, delighted, M—’
Margaret parted her red lips, showing excellent teeth, but said nothing.
Trask, glancing at Henry, said, ‘What about the station taxi? It will be back in a minute. It’s only taken the lady who lodges with the Watsons to the Post.’
Henry said, ‘Mrs. Watson is our postmistress.’
Margaret said, ‘Oh yes?’
‘Smells a bit?’ said Henry, questioning the taxi.
‘Combustion engine,’ said Trask, straight-faced.
Henry said, ‘True. All right, then, taxi it is. We’ll wait,’ on a cheerful note.
They stood looking at the empty station yard. From time to time one of the horses shook its head, stamped or blew gustily down its nose.
Trask said conversationally, ‘Coming to meet you, Henry, I drove Petronella and Nellie followed on her own as sweet as pie.’
Henry said, ‘The dear thing.’ He caressed the horse’s neck. ‘And how are things?’ he asked. ‘Is all well?’
Trask said, ‘Yes,’ glancing sidelong at Margaret. ‘Seemingly.’
‘And Pilar and Ebro?’
‘They are fine.’
‘Pilar is the Spanish girl I told you about,’ Henry told his wife. ‘Ebro is her baby, quite a big boy now. Must be three or four.’
‘Nearly six,’ said Trask.
‘Your Spanish maid.’
‘Not exactly a maid, she’s a refugee.’
‘But she cleans?’
‘Well, yes, but nobody asks her to.’
‘I shall.’
Trask said, ‘Here comes the taxi now,’ jerking his chin towards the road. ‘Name of Smith.’ When the taxi drew up Henry walked across to speak to the driver. After a short discussion he beckoned to his wife and called, ‘Come along, in you get.’ He held open the car door. When Margaret was in, he closed it.
Alone on the seat, Margaret said, ‘But aren’t you—’
Henry said, ‘No, I’m driving Nellie.’
Margaret and the taximan watched Henry swing himself up into the trap, pick up the reins and chirrup to the horse, who trotted off, followed by Trask in the second trap.
Margaret murmured, ‘Bastard.’
The driver switched on his engine, let in the clutch and followed.
After watching the traps bowling merrily along for three-quarters of a mile, Margaret said, ‘Can’t you drive faster?’
‘I don’t know the way, madam,’ said the driver.
Margaret said, ‘You must be lying.’
The driver, who had lived in the neighbourhood for only three months and was chiefly employed driving children to school, thought of suitable ripostes but kept them to himself.
Although the horses kept up a spanking pace, inevitably, going uphill, they slowed to a walk. Rather than crawl after them in low gear, the taxi-driver amused himself by idling his engine while the horses toiled uphill, waiting a bit, then making a rush to the top, switching off the engine and coasting down. He excused his method. ‘Saves petrol. Can’t be too careful with my ration, have to stretch it. Though how you stretch an inflammable liquid, your guess is as good as mine.’
Margaret did not reply, but stared past him at Henry’s back.
‘My name is John Smith,’ the driver volunteered. ‘You must be Mrs. Tillotson, new to these parts, like me. Very pretty country, of course. I’m a townsman, myself.’
Margaret was watching the progress of the vehicles ahead. From time to time her husband swung round to talk to Trask in the trap behind him. When the driver stilled his engine she could hear Henry’s deep voice, but could not catch his words or Trask’s, answering in a melodious tenor. After a while Henry stopped turning round and became absorbed by the view of the countryside.
From her seat in the taxi, Margaret took note of it also. They had left the main road immediately on leaving the station and negotiate
d a network of narrow lanes. In the taxi Margaret Tillotson felt enclosed, but the men driving ahead could from the high traps see over the hedges; they called out to each other when they caught sight of anything which attracted their attention. Presently, as they climbed, they reached more open country and crossed a stretch of moorland, before dipping into a valley of large fields bounded by thick hedges and surrounded by woods already turning copper and gold. Sheep grazed in the fields and several times the leading trap startled a pheasant, which flew up cack-cack-cacking. When a frightened hare bounded away Trask called out on a high eerie note and Henry laughed.
‘Pretty.’ John Smith stopped his car. ‘Almost as nice as Kensington Gardens. Or maybe you prefer St. James’s Park? Or would you fancy Richmond? Lot of bushes with berries on them in Richmond. I’d say this is more like Richmond, but wilder.’ His fare did not reply. ‘Well, I guess we’re nearly there,’ he said. ‘That will be the house. Those horses are trying to gallop, must want their tea. Is it as grand as you was expecting?’ She had licked all the lipstick off her mouth, he noted as he watched her in the driving mirror; the only colour in her face was in her eyes. ‘Nice house,’ he said. ‘I’d call it quite grand; just right, not too big and not too small.’
Ahead of them the horses had rattled up the last incline and come to a stop in front of the house. They now stretched their necks and snorted as Henry and Trask jumped down.
The house, built of honey-coloured stone, was seventeenth century. Its walls played host to roses and honeysuckle. On one corner a late magnolia flowered; round another wisteria straggled. The paint on the front door was flaking and the paintwork of the windows was in need of attention; Margaret noted, too, as she sat waiting for the car door to be opened, that a young woman stood smiling on the front steps.
She was short, square and very dark; she had the parrot jaw often seen in southern Spain, black hair drawn back in a bun and small black eyes. The child dragging at her hand resembled her closely. They were a plain couple, but their evident joy on seeing Henry lit their faces with beauty.
‘Pilar!’ Henry jumped down from the trap, put his arm round her shoulders and hugged her. ‘And Ebro! So big!’ He fondled the child’s head and patted the dogs, who had been waiting with Pilar as they moaned and wriggled for attention. ‘Good to be home,’ he said. ‘Wonderful.’
‘Your wife?’ Pilar suggested.
‘She preferred the taxi,’ said Henry, smiling. ‘Come and meet her. This is Pilar,’ he said, opening the taxi door. ‘Did you have an enjoyable drive?’
Margaret Tillotson stepped out of the car.
‘Did he carry her over the threshold?’ the landlord asked from behind the bar.
‘Well, no.’ Trask took a swallow of beer. ‘He did not.’
‘What then?’
‘She’d bopped him one, hadn’t she? Blacked his eye.’
‘She hit him?’ Normally taciturn and discreet, the landlord was incredulous. ‘Whatever for? Why should she do that?’
‘Wasn’t for love.’ Trask took another swallow. He was glad the bar was empty, felt he should not have spoken, but the landlord was trustworthy. ‘Seemed kind of irritated,’ he said.
‘You’re having me on,’ said the landlord.
‘No.’ Trask emptied his glass and watched the landlord refill it.
‘So what happened?’ asked the landlord.
‘She said, “Show me my room, I am tired.”’
‘And?’
‘Pilar takes her upstairs. I hear her telling that she has prepared all the rooms so madam has a choice. Pilar is a bit stumped, if you ask me, and little Ebro doesn’t make things any nicer when he says to Henry in his piping voice—carries miles, that child’s voice—“Henry, that lady hit you, why didn’t you hit her back?” Henry says, “You don’t hit ladies, Ebro.” And Ebro asks, sharp that child is, “Was she really a lady?” He’s never seen a lady that colour.’
‘Has Henry brought back a blackie, then?’
‘No. She’s very pale, very white skin. I’d say beautiful, sort of translucent.’
‘That’s a long word for you, Traskie.’
‘Tall and beautiful.’
‘And translucent.’ The landlord savoured the word as he polished a glass.
‘Yes.’
The landlord pulled himself a half-pint and looked round the empty bar. Later it would fill up with people who would remain ignorant of Trask’s revelations. ‘So which room did she choose, then?’
‘The best spare.’
‘Ah.’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘She has Pilar unpack for her, light the fire, run and fill a hot bottle. She has Pilar on the trot: get me this, fetch me that, I want hot soup. Then she goes to bed.’
‘And?’
‘Stays there.’
‘But that was twenty-four hours ago.’
‘More—’
‘She ill?’
‘Not so’s you’d notice, Pilar says.’
‘And Henry?’
‘Henry goes walking over the hills with his dogs. Came in about four o’clock this morning and goes to bed in the old room, the one that was his parents’, that looks out across country. After an hour or two he comes down, Pilar says, drinks some coffee and goes out again.’
‘He has to think,’ said the landlord.
‘It might have been all right if she had not hit the horse,’ said Trask, sipping his beer, eyeing the landlord over the rim of his glass.
‘She never?’ The landlord set his glass down on the bar.
‘Cross my heart,’ said Trask.
The landlord whistled. ‘Which horse?’
‘Nellie. Swiped at the poor animal’s nose with her bag and then bops Henry in the eye.’
Trask and the landlord exchanged troubled glances. ‘Whatever shall us say to Henry when he comes in for his pint?’ queried the landlord.
‘Don’t know when that’ll be,’ said Trask, setting down his empty glass. ‘Henry has upsticked and gone back to the war. I put him on the train just now. He’s had his think.’
‘And madam?’
‘Still in bed, looks so.’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ sighed the landlord.
‘’Tisn’t you as is called to,’ said Trask.
TWO
HENRY TILLOTSON WATCHED THE dogcart diminish as the mare, with ears pricked and head towards home, clattered down the road. Trask, mindful of possible damage to the young mare’s legs on the hard road, had all he could do to prevent her breaking into a gallop; he neither looked back nor waved.
Henry carried his bag through the ticket office to the platform. He looked at his watch; his train was due in three minutes. Three minutes in which to kick his heels, chide himself for having no book to read on the journey, three minutes or less before the signal’s arm clanged down and far down the line the train would come rumbling out of the cutting to charge into view and loom up, gasping and hissing. Already he could imagine the heavy brass handle of the carriage door, hear the clunk as he opened it, smell the dust and stale tobacco in the First Class carriage, recognize the width of the strap he would grasp to let down the window, to admit fresh air and be damned if other passengers complained of the cold as he found a seat and heaved his bag onto the rack. Henry scowled in anticipation and gritted his teeth.
The train would presently run parallel to the road and from the window he would see Trask.
‘She’s catching your mood,’ Trask had said tetchily on the drive to the station. ‘Look at her ears, laid back. Better let me drive. Look how she’s sweating, she may damage her legs. Better let me drive,’ he had repeated. ‘At this rate she could slip on the tarmac and fall.’
Henry had said, ‘No,’ and held the reins tighter. ‘No.’
Now, pacing the platform, he hoped Trask would have quietened the horse or turned off the road before the train overtook him.
Out of sight the train shrieked. In the station office a be
ll tinkled. Henry turned on his heel. The porter, coming out to meet the train, shouted, ‘Sir?’ He pointed at Henry’s luggage. ‘What about…’
‘I’ll catch a later train,’ Henry called over his shoulder; the train was very close now.
‘None till ten o’clock an’ you have to change,’ shouted the porter. ‘Ain’t no more through evening trains.’
If Henry heard, he made no sign. The porter picked up Henry’s bag and put it aside. When the train had gone he would stow it in the left luggage, but now he must exchange a word with the guard and attend to passengers getting off the train. With a muttered ‘Silly bugger,’ he dismissed Henry from his mind.
Henry walked fast, cutting across the fields at an angle to the road along which he had lately driven in the dogcart, taking a path which led to a wood and through the wood to more fields, down a dip to a stream, along the stream to a footbridge which he crossed into an orchard.
There was a ladder propped against one of the trees; he stopped and looked up.
‘We heard you were home but gathered you were not coming to see us,’ said a voice from among the branches.
Henry said, ‘I’ve come.’
‘Too wrapped up in our newly-wed bride,’ said the voice. ‘Too absorbed and honeymoony to bother about boring old chums,’ it said, ‘taken over by the lusts of the flesh and—’ Henry shook the ladder. ‘Don’t do that!’ said the voice. ‘That’s dangerous, I might fall and break a bone. You know how nervous I am of heights,’ it said. ‘For goodness’ sake hold the thing steady while I come down.’ A gumbooted foot reached for the top rung.
Henry said, ‘Hand me down the basket and use both hands.’ He reached up and took hold of a basket. ‘What are you doing up there, anyway?’
‘It’s the war, my dear, what’s called “doing your bit” and all that jazz. John says I must get used to it.’
‘Always was a bully,’ said Henry, guiding tentative feet down the ladder. ‘Easy does it. You might have got stuck up there all night.’
‘No, no, he’s coming presently. Tip the basket into that barrow. We have so many apples we are feeding them to Hitler and Mussolini.’
‘And how are they?’ Henry watched the legs descending rung by rung until the whole man appeared to skip the last rungs and, risking a little jump, landed beside him.
