‘No. The last three weeks should be rather fun. No proper lessons. Is there any more real news?’
The invasion of France had begun a fortnight earlier. She was torn between excitement at the prospect of victory at last and anxiety about her father. Ellis was in almost as much danger as the fighting men whose exploits he was recording on film.
‘More of those pilotless bombs falling on London,’ Dan told her. ‘But it sounds as though everything’s going all right in France.’ It was the fourteen-year-old who most regularly listened to the radio news and moved coloured pins and flags over the large map which hung on the wall of the boys’ bedroom. ‘I moved Rupert today,’ he added. Trish had made tiny figures of the soldiers in whose fate they were all most interested and had fastened them to the heads of drawing pins. ‘There’s a postcard for you. From Rome, I think.’
‘Rome! Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘It’s only just come.’ But Trish did not wait to hear. Already she was running out of the stable towards the hall.
Rupert was her most faithful correspondent. Jean-Paul, who had joined the Free French army, wrote mostly to his father, enclosing only messages for Andy to pass on to her, and Terry was not a letter-writer at all. Until a month earlier he had been stationed near enough to Greystones to enable him to spend every leave there, and felt this to provide sufficient contact with his brothers and their hosts. But for two years Rupert had sent her long letters from the North African desert. Sometimes she felt that they were not exactly addressed to her as an individual, but were merely words that he needed to put on paper, with the choice of recipient to be decided later. But since he did so often choose her, she had no complaints about that.
For several weeks now there had been silence, which was eventually explained by news of the landings in Italy. The announcement of the fall of Rome had been made only a little while before that of the Normandy landings. If Rupert was safely in the city, it must surely mean that the worst was over for him.
Grace caught up with her while she was reading the card for the second time.
‘Trish dear, there’s something I want to ask you about. I had a telephone call from my brother today.’
‘Uncle David?’
‘Yes. It’s about Max. Apparently one of these flying bomb things came down in Harrow yesterday.’
‘Was Max hurt?’
‘Oh no, no. It was in the next street, I gather. Though the blast caused damage over a wide area. All the windows at the back of the house were blown out. More important than that, Sheila had another of her heart attacks. The shock, I suppose. It sounds as though she’ll be all right, but obviously David’s worried. The thing is –’
‘He wants to send Max back here?’
Unlike Boxer and Dan, who had stayed on at Greystones regardless of conditions in London, because they had no home, Max had been shuttled about between Harrow and Greystones in a way which had done his education no good.
For the first eighteen months after the start of the Blitz in September 1940 he had been permanently in Grace’s care, attending the village school with Dan and Boxer and visited by his mother once a month. By the time the raids eased off enough for him to return to his parents, he had become so attached to his new home that he was returned there for each of the school holidays. Trish suspected that this was his mother’s way of protecting him from his father’s discipline. A new wave of bombing brought him hastily back to the country in January 1944, but by the beginning of the summer term this too seemed to have come to an end and once again he had returned home.
‘Well, it would be ridiculous for him to stay there while there’s still danger. And with Sheila in hospital and David at work all day …’
There was a note almost of apology in Grace’s voice, as though she was aware of Trish’s ambivalent feelings towards Max. Trish herself hardly understood her own lack of enthusiasm for this particular visitor. It had something to do with the confidence with which he took his place as a member of the family, making it clear that Dan and Boxer, unlike himself, did not really belong, but were being allowed to stay as a favour because of the special circumstances.
Max was a mother’s boy and had transferred his need to be cuddled and spoiled from his mother to his grandmother on the first day of his arrival. Even Grace, who had never been a kissing or hugging kind of person, seemed to recognize his need to be petted. Trish regarded herself as being the champion of the two East End boys whom she had chosen to bring into the household, but perhaps it was on her own account that she had been a little jealous when Max first came to stay.
But it was her birthday, her exams were over and the sun was shining. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said cheerfully. ‘When’s he coming?’
‘Not till later this evening. He went to school as usual. David only decided to ask me after he’d heard the doctor’s report on Sheila. They’ll catch the 6.20 from Paddington. Trish, you’ll have a chat with Mother about your exams, won’t you? You know how interested she is in all your news.’
Trish would have preferred to dismiss the subject from her mind, but she nodded dutifully.
‘I’ll do it now. D’you know where she is?’
‘Boxer’s just gone to help her outside. She’ll be in the walled garden.’
Stuffing the postcard into the pocket of her school blazer, Trish set out to find them – but was diverted by the sight of a young man of about her own age striding up the hill from the lodge gates. He was wearing civilian clothes but had a kitbag slung over his shoulder. She paused to see what he wanted.
‘Hi, there,’ he said in a voice that sounded American – or was it perhaps Australian? ‘I’m Gordon Hardie.’ He set down his kitbag and held out a hand.
‘How do you do? I’m Trish Faraday.’
‘And you don’t know who I am?’
‘Should I? I’m only adopted into this family. There are probably Hardies all over the world waiting to bob up here and I wouldn’t know any of them, so don’t take it personally. Are you looking for anyone in particular?’
‘Mrs Lucy Hardie, my grandmother.’
‘I’ll go and find her. Would you like to wait inside or do you prefer the sunshine?’
‘I’ll take what passes for sunshine.’ He sat down on the kitbag with his long legs stretched out in front of him. ‘Hey, is that a toy vineyard you’ve got over there? I didn’t know such things existed in England.’
‘There aren’t many and ours is the best. We make a scrumptious white wine. Hang around till October and we’ll set you to work here. Clever of you to recognize it. Most people don’t.’
‘My grandfather out in Australia started one of his own fifty years ago. ‘Spect it’ll be mine one day. Mind if I take a look?’
‘Go ahead.’ Trish set off in the opposite direction to look for Mrs Hardie.
She found her, as Grace had suggested, in the walled garden, standing at the far end of the strawberry rows as she set Dan and Boxer to work. It was a tradition that Trish’s birthday should always be celebrated with a strawberry tea from what was usually the first picking of the year.
‘You’ve got a visitor,’ she called cheerfully as she approached Mrs Hardie. ‘From far-off parts. Mr Gordon Hardie by name.’
‘Gordon? Gordon! Gordon, where are you?’
Mrs Hardie took a single step forward and then stopped, clutching her arms to her chest. A harsh rasping sound emerged from the back of her throat. Then she began to move again. It was difficult to tell whether she was trying to run or merely overbalancing, toppling forward. Whichever it was, she made no attempt to approach Trish along the gravel path, but took a step forward between two rows of strawberries.
The ground was rough with lumps of earth which had been turned up by the hoe and had since baked hard in the sun. Trish could see what was going to happen a second before the fall occurred. Lucy Hardie was a tall woman and in recent years inactivity had made her heavy. She crashed awkwardly on to one side without having time to put out a
n arm to break the fall. Then she lay still.
Trish froze in horror, her hands flung up in front of her eyes: knowing what she ought to do, but unable to move. It was Dan and Boxer who ran to find Grace.
An hour later Mrs Hardie had been taken off to the Infirmary in an ambulance and Trish lay sobbing on her bed. The brightly-painted walls which as a rule gave her such pleasure seemed inappropriate to the day, so that she had pulled the blackout curtains across to darken the room. Grace, coming to look for her, opened them again.
‘Pull yourself together, Trish,’ she said. ‘Accidents happen. They can’t always be helped.’
‘It was all my fault,’ said Trish miserably, dabbing her eyes. ‘It must have been. But I don’t understand why.’
‘Dan told me what happened. He didn’t understand either. But I can guess what it must have been.’ Grace sat down to explain. ‘When you said that Gordon Hardie was here, Mother must have become confused, thinking you meant her husband. I don’t suppose it even occurred to you that it was the same name.’
Trish shook her head. ‘When she shows me paintings and things, she always calls him “Mr Hardie”. And to you she says “your father”. I think I did know that he was Gordon, if I’d thought about it. But –’ She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. ‘He’s been dead for years and years. How could she possibly imagine –?’
‘We can’t all think rationally all the time. The real trouble is that she never saw him die. He went off on an expedition to China, looking for new plants, and simply never came back. For a long time she hoped that he was still alive somewhere. In the end she went out to China herself to look for him. That trip did seem to satisfy her that he was dead. But I’ve no doubt in her heart of hearts she went on hoping that there might have been some mistake, that one day he might walk up the drive out of the blue. So when she heard his name spoken – it wouldn’t have been fright or shock that affected her. Joy, rather. Which means, of course, that there’ll be disappointment to come.’
‘Is she going to be all right?’
Grace hesitated. ‘It’s too soon to say. It does seem to have been an awkward fall. The doctor thinks she may have broken her hip. She’ll probably have to stay in hospital for some time.’
‘Old ladies die of broken hips, don’t they?’
‘Not directly, no. Sometimes it makes them more likely to catch pneumonia, and that’s dangerous. But in hospital she’ll be under observation all the time. The real answer is, I don’t know. Whatever happens, you’re not to blame yourself. It was an accident. As for Mother, when she finds out who this Gordon Hardie is, it will cheer her up no end.’
‘Who is he, then?’ asked Trish.
‘His father is my brother Kenneth. One of the twins who shared the room that Dan and Boxer have now. I’ve just been trying to find out how much Gordon knows about his father, and he seems to have been told the truth, so there’s no harm in my telling you. Kenneth was a conscientious objector in the first war – or rather, he applied to be one, but was refused permission and conscripted instead. He had a terrible time in the army. In the end he deserted. So he’s always felt that he couldn’t return to England – and he was so badly treated that he never wanted to return. It’s been hard on Mother, losing touch. He went with her on her trip to China, but she hasn’t seen him since.’
‘Did they write to each other?’
‘It’s one of the things that’s most hurt her – and that young Gordon’s arrival will heal. All we’ve ever had from Kenneth is a Christmas card sent to Greystones every year; and he never puts his address on it. I think perhaps there were years when he simply didn’t have an address. He worked on ships for a bit, and then he drifted around Australia looking for gold. Perhaps he was ashamed of what he was doing – or perhaps he simply never realized that we didn’t know how to get in touch with him and thought we were ashamed of him. Anyway, now we can learn all about him and his family. Mother will be very happy. As for you, it’s still your birthday and we have a young guest to entertain. So give yourself a wash and brush-up and come and have tea.’
‘Yes.’ Trish stood up. ‘All the same, Grace – I am most terribly sorry.’
‘I know you are. And it must have given you a fright. But you’re not to blame yourself any more.’ Grace walked over to the wardrobe and opened it. ‘Get out of your school uniform and into this.’
She threw a sleeveless cotton dress on to the bed and then stared at it with an expression of such dismay that Trish was alarmed.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
Chapter Two
Grace pulled a face.
‘How awful of me!’ she said. ‘I should have arranged a party for you today.’
Trish could not help laughing. ‘You’ve never had a party for me,’ she said.
‘Never?’
‘Never. It’s simply not something you do. I shouldn’t think you’ve ever had a party for yourself, have you?’
Grace sat down again and considered the question.
‘It’s odd,’ she admitted. ‘The first war caught me at just the age that this war has caught you. And it was a much gloomier war, somehow. So many men being killed. Even if we’d wanted to have parties and dances, there were hardly any young men in England at all. But on the whole we didn’t feel like that sort of thing. Life was too unhappy. It seemed wrong.’ She was silent for a moment, remembering the time when she had worked in the family business, hoping for letters but never expecting invitations. ‘So my mother never arranged any kind of social début for me. I didn’t miss it at the time. But I suppose it had the effect that I’ve never been interested in social life.’ She looked up at Trish. ‘But that doesn’t excuse me for not making an effort for you. The end of exams, nearly the end of school, your eighteenth birthday. We should most certainly have had a celebration. Perhaps –’
Trish interrupted her firmly. ‘I’ve had marvellous birthday presents from you all. I’m just about to hog all the strawberries and I happen to know that Mrs Barrett has made a special cake.’
‘It’s not good enough. Company is what makes a celebration.’
With a heavy sigh Trish prepared to reveal a secret.
‘I wasn’t going to tell you. But if you’re going to go around feeling guilty, I suppose I’d better say. A party today wouldn’t have been any good anyway, because the people who are taking science haven’t finished their exams yet and they’re all busy swotting. But I shall be celebrating my birthday on Saturday. In the plant room. I hope you don’t mind.’
The plant room stood away from the house. It had been built for Mrs Hardie’s husband to carry out his hybridizing experiments near to one of the glasshouses and well removed from his boisterous family of children.
‘I chose that so that you wouldn’t be disturbed by the noise. Everyone’s bringing some food and we shall all eat each other’s. I cleaned the room out last Sunday.’
Grace stared at her in astonishment. ‘Have you done this before?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Each of the past three years. It’s not that I want to have parties specially, but if I go to other people’s then they expect to be asked back. Keeping it secret was all part of the fun. Everyone was told the way they’d got to sneak up without being seen. It’s always been warm, so we could have games and treasure hunts and that sort of thing in the wood. I never told you any fibs about it. I always said that I was going to a party, and I was.’
Grace absorbed all this in silence.
‘What a rotten mother I’ve been to you,’ she said at last.
‘You’re not to say that sort of thing. Did you mind about your mother not having parties for you?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then. Why should I mind?’
‘We’re different, you and I.’
‘You’ve given me everything that it’s possible to give,’ Trish said. ‘Having fun is something that a person – anybody – has to arrange for herself. Because as you said, we’re different
, and different people want different things. What I liked was having a secret party. You couldn’t ever have given me that, could you?’
Lost for words, Grace stood up again. Before leaving the room she pointed to the dress she had thrown on to the bed. ‘Make yourself pretty,’ she repeated.
The telephone was ringing as she went downstairs. It would almost certainly be for Trish, but she answered it all the same.
‘Aunt Grace?’ Max’s voice was pitched high with anxiety and indignation. ‘It’s me.’
‘Hello, Max. I’m looking forward to seeing you this evening.’
‘Well, that’s what I’m phoning about. I’ve only just got home from school and Father’s phoned to say that I’m to be ready to leave in an hour. I know it’s not your fault, but it’s beastly unfair of him making me go tonight, when he knows how important tomorrow is. Nobody else is running away from the doodlebugs and I can look after myself perfectly well and it isn’t because I don’t like coming to Greystones because you know I do but he’s doing it on purpose just to be horrid and I won’t go.’
‘Steady on, Max. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Start again at the beginning and take it one step at a time.’
There was a gulp at the other end of the line as the eleven-year-old struggled to accept his instructions.
‘Father says I’m to come back to Greystones because of these flying bombs and because Mummy’s had to go to hospital.’
‘Yes. He phoned me a couple of hours ago. We’re always delighted to see you here; you know that.’
‘Yes, well, I like coming as well, but I could come tomorrow evening instead so that I could take the exam first. I mean, he’s not even letting me have proper time to pack or anything. He’s rushing me off specially so that I won’t be able to take it. And I’ve worked for it all year and –’
‘Slowly, slowly. What exam are you talking about?’
‘My dance grade. You remember, you fixed for me to go on having lessons when I came back to Greystones in January, so that I could keep up.’
The Hardie Inheritance Page 20
