‘Come on then, Hannah, we’re going up to the loft. Tea won’t be for a while.’
She turned. For the men it was as though nothing had happened and she steeled herself to follow suit, for after all she had a promise to keep.
She liked the apple loft. It had been where Uncle Simon had always taken them. He would choose for each of them a green apple streaked with red, a leaf still on the stalk. That way, he had said, it smelt of the fresh air. The wooden stairs which led to the loft ran up from the stable-yard.
Simon had said that the lofts had once held the hay when his father kept a full stable of hunters, but that had been long ago, in the heyday of the mine and so this one had been fitted with slatted benches and put to better use. Hannah ran her hand up the green-mossed banister. It was slimy from yesterday’s rain and marked her gloves. She removed them. The last time she had been up with Uncle Simon was when she was eleven. She remembered now that he had lifted her up on to a hunter he had borrowed and it had seemed a million miles from the ground. It was not possible that he would never come again.
Sam was holding the door open for her and she felt her lips smile as though they were not part of her. Sam said, ‘Eliza will be along soon. She said she’d come down and collect us when the tea was set up. It’s to be on the terrace today. The fresh air will do your mother good. Your father has gone to see the Vicar about tomorrow’s sermon.’
Hannah stepped into the room and smelt the fruit. Harry had already reached the bench and was spacing out the few apples that remained. Some were wrinkled and drying, some as lush as when they were first picked, though there were not many of either left because the harvest would soon be in.
She leant back against the old dresser which had been moved out of the kitchen and now held twine and old flowerpots. Beyond her brother she could see through the open window across the fields and to the sea. It was blue today and ships were plying eastwards to the harbour. She felt very tired now and ran her hands along the surface of the dresser. Its grain had risen with age and she could smell the twine.
It would do her mother good to walk up on the cliffs or, if she hadn’t the strength, perhaps they could use a bath chair. She would ask Eliza if they could arrange it. Yes, that is what she would think about today and later, in the quiet of the cottage when the lamps were out, she would think of other things, of Uncle Simon as he held her hand and ran with her in the orchard.
Harry rubbed a firm apple on his sleeve and took a bite. It was firm and the juice ran on to his chin. It tasted better than any other apple he had tasted and he grinned to himself. Perhaps life is sweet, he thought, never having considered death before. He wiped his chin with his handkerchief and then felt Sam’s hand on his arm.
‘I’ve something I want to show you, now more than ever,’ Sam murmured and walked across to the old desk. Harry followed and waited as Sam opened the top right-hand drawer. Its knob was of brass and was dull and scratched. He withdrew a bundle of letters wrapped in a red ribbon. ‘These are from Simon. I feel this last one is of particular interest to you but take them all. You’ll bring them back of course before you leave for London. Your aunt likes to feel that they are here, where he spent so much of his time.’
Harry nodded, though he did not understand. Simon wasn’t here so what did it matter where the letters were? Once you were dead, you were dead. He took the top one; the one that Sam was pointing to and read it.
Dear Eliza,
It is so very hot still and many of the men are sick with enteric, but this month we have not engaged the enemy. The Boers can hide anywhere. They are quite amazing and will be the death of some of us. But enough of that maudlin talk. Sam would love it here at any other time. The mines, Eliza! Gold and diamonds just spilling out of the earth. I know that a few big names hold the monopoly on the mines but there is still room for the small set up. Cornish miners are already here and more hard-rock men are needed, especially for the gold-fields, which make Penhallon look very small. But, my dear, I can’t write any more. We have to set out again. Take care and my love to you and regards to Sam. Tell him to show this to Harry. Perhaps he would like to come back with me. I’ve bought a smallholding as a base.
The paper was stained and the ink faint. Harry looked up at Sam. ‘Yes, I thought you might be interested.’
Harry read through the letter again. God, why did Simon have to go and get himself killed, the stupid fool? He could have got round the old man, persuaded him that this was a better idea than stewing in some God-forsaken cavalry. Look at the money the South African mines had brought to London, the new rich who were buying up the big houses. He threw the letter on the table.
‘It sounds good, doesn’t it, Sam. Will you go?’
‘Good Lord, it’s not for a man my age, but maybe it’s right for you. Anyway you have plenty of time to decide. You’re still at school. But have a look at the rest of the letters. Poor Simon. He had such plans.’ He reached over and took one himself. At least the war looked as though it would soon be over, he thought, but it would be too late for Eliza, who still mourned Simon’s loss so much – a loss which seemed to have made her think that life was very short. He had been grateful to Mrs Arness for encouraging Eliza to help a little with her school; it had helped with the grief but she still cried at night and Simon’s room was just as he had left it.
Hannah heard Eliza’s steps on the stairs and her heavy breathing as she entered. She looked fatter, better somehow, Hannah thought, even in black. She watched as Eliza waved to Harry and came across to her. Her face was softer since she had married Sam, but there were dark marks under her eyes and they were shaded as her mother’s were when a baby had failed to live.
‘Well, Hannah.’ Eliza spoke softly, trying to collect her breath. ‘Dear me, what a climb. I’m not as fit as I used to be. Or is it too much cream?’ She laughed. ‘Sam does like his cream, you know.’
Sam turned at the mention of his name. He was leaning with Harry over the letters on the desk. ‘Don’t go blaming everything on me,’ he called, putting his arm round Harry’s shoulder. Harry caught Hannah’s eye and she saw that he was embarrassed by the gesture. Perhaps he too thought Sam was not quite good enough for Eliza, thought Hannah, but she had decided he was just right. He had changed Eliza into someone easy to be with.
‘So, Hannah, how are you enjoying yourself at the Arness’s? Mr Arness is hung in all the best galleries, you know.’
Hannah remembered the marigolds in her room and was not surprised. There was a vigour to his paintings that pleased her.
‘It’s very different there,’ she replied quietly, looking towards Harry and Sam, but they were bending over the papers again.
Eliza nodded. ‘But are you enjoying it?’ Her grey eyes were questioning; her wide mouth was still slightly open while she waited for Hannah’s answer.
Hannah watched the motes in the light from the window as she picked out her words. ‘Yes,’ she replied finally, ‘more than I could have dreamed I would ever enjoy anything. Being with the Arness family has shown me how people can live and think and feel – if they want to. But I want to ask if you knew what it would be like.’
She had never spoken openly to her aunt before and wondered whether it was safe or if she would be admonished.
‘Yes, I did know, Hannah.’
‘But why did you do it? You know what Father would say and Mother. You knew that I would have to act at the Arness’s in a way which, if discovered, would bring disaster on me.’
Eliza flushed. The child was direct, as Edith had once been, and that was the key of course. Hannah was very like her mother with the same spirit that had once been present in that shadow of a person whom she barely recognised as her sister. And that was partly why she had sent her to the Americans’ cottage. Her spirit was being stifled by that man, by the tenets of the society he so heartily endorsed. He had crushed Edith and was now doing the same to his daughter in spite of the fact that the world was changing, and for the better. Mr
s Arness had shown Eliza and Sam. Now she wanted Edith’s daughter to flourish, not to wither as her poor mother was doing. That, though, was only part of the reason but it was the only one she was prepared to admit to herself for the moment, so she said, ‘Because I felt you needed to see another kind of life and it might give you cause to think and consider. Might show you that to enjoy the benefit of some things it is sometimes necessary to engage in a little subterfuge, if that is the only way that it can be brought about.’ She smiled and patted Hannah’s hand. ‘But of course you must plan your advancement in the context of your mother’s health.’
She was looking hard at Hannah now. ‘She is a very tired woman, Hannah. We won’t discuss the whys and wherefores but she must try to achieve a measure of peace. And you must do the same.’ She had turned now, back to the door, and Hannah had to strain to hear her last words. ‘You owe that to yourself and that is where the problems will arise.’
‘Aunt Eliza,’ she called after her but Eliza had stopped on the top step.
‘Come on now, all of you, tea is in the garden and the wasps will be having a splendid time with the strawberry jam.’
She would sit Sam next to her and hope that Mr Watson, for she could never think of him as John, would not be back for a while. And Mr Watson was, of course, the other reason for sending Hannah to the cottage, she admitted to herself at last as she crossed the stable-yard. She hated Hannah’s father for the way he treated Sam, hated his arrogance, his hypocrisy. Let him try to restrain his daughter now, let him try to suck every spark from her. He would be beaten in the end, and that thought gave her great satisfaction.
And as Hannah followed her down the loft stairs she looked back at Harry and wondered whether Eliza would have told him to plan his advancement in the context of his mother’s health and knew that she would not. It was to be her burden alone.
5
In the hall of her uncle’s house on New Year’s Eve a great fire blazed; holly hung on top of the portrait of Esther’s grandfather, flopping down and half covering his face. Hannah wondered if she had instructed the maids to do that. Esther had not liked the old man – his nose dripped. But Hannah had thought he had been kind, drawing barley sugar from the inside pocket of his frock coat, pulling her to his side and saying Happy New Year, Hannah. The fire had always stung her with its heat because he stood just there, in front of the mantelshelf, to welcome them. She looked at the stone mantel, at the stag’s head which was above it attached to a wooden shield. It had blue glassy eyes and looked like Harry had done when he had drunk too much champagne on Christmas Eve. Aunt Camilla would only allow it to be dusted with an owl’s wing because the barbs were excellent, she always said, for preventing moths, fleas and a shiny nose. The wooden panelling looked more welcoming than usual because of the Chinese lanterns hung at intervals around the room, but that was the extent of the greeting, for there was no one else except for the butler who took Father’s hat and Harry’s too.
‘I’ll announce you, sir,’ he said before turning towards the drawing-room door.
‘I miss the old man,’ whispered Hannah, ‘he always had a smile along with the dew-drop.’
Harry grinned. He seemed happier since the holiday in Cornwall. More approachable. She felt in her coat pocket. Yes, it was still there – the musical box that Joe had sent for Christmas. It didn’t seem like four months since he had taken her into his father’s studio, rich with colour and the smell of oil paint and turpentine, and then on into his own. She had seen his carpenter’s bench; the chisel, the small knives that he would have used to carve the box. It played Tchaikovsky’s 1812 but didn’t have the cannon, he had written in the note which had accompanied the Christmas present, but at least it would remind her of the day the storm came.
She ran her gloved fingers over the indented surface of the box, thankful for deep pockets, thankful for her father’s preoccupation at his cousin’s absence for it would prevent him noticing the bulge. She had been forbidden to bring her presents to show Esther; it was vain and self-indulgent, Father had said. But this was so beautiful and made especially for her – it had to be displayed.
When Joe had taken her to his workshop before the end of the holiday the wood shavings were heaped into one corner. Some, though, still lay curled like ringlets on his bench and she had put her finger through the middle of one then taken an end and pulled it out full length. It was so long and fine and smooth and all around there was the clean smell of wood in the room.
It all takes time, he had said, when he had shown her the objects he had made. Boxes, animals, and a half-finished chair in one corner. It was plain, in light wood. I don’t like clutter, he had continued. I like clean lines in a room. He had told her how he taught the other pupils some of his skills for one hour each day. He said that his mother felt it important that horizons should be broadened, and when the Vicar had said that he felt it was diverging from the bare necessities of instruction, she had answered that if woodwork was good enough for his Jesus Christ, surely it was good enough for his flock. The Vicar had choked on his cake, Joe told her, and his father had slapped his back so hard that his tea had spilt.
Hannah looked at Harry’s hands as he withdrew his watch yet again to check the time; he had been doing it since they left the house. The snow had held up the carriage and the road sweeper had slipped and fallen as they passed, his broom skidding over the hard-packed ice and frightening the horses. The gardener had been driving the horses and had had difficulty restarting them until sand from the roadside had been heaped under the wheels and on the ground beneath their hooves. That’s taken ten minutes, Harry called, and she had seen her father’s mouth tighten. To be late for the rich cousins was like forgetting to curtsy before royalty.
Hannah had looked from the window and checked that the sweeper was unhurt. That is none of our business, her father had replied when she told them.
Now, waiting for the appearance of Uncle Thomas, she watched Harry click the watch case shut with long, tapered, white hands. Were Christ’s hands like Joe’s then? They must be, she thought, so why were they always portrayed in paintings as hands like Harry’s? In all the heat of Jerusalem he must be brown anyway. In fact he must be a Jew. Her father hated Jews. Swarthy creatures, he would say. Did he not know Christ was a Jew? The Vicar’s Christ had looked all pink and white in the crib for the Christmas service. Perhaps she should tell the Vicar that Christ was not an Englishman. Perhaps he would also choke and she wanted to laugh out loud.
Her father was tapping his leg with the silver-tipped walking-stick her mother had given him for Christmas. It would be New Year’s Day tomorrow – perhaps his cousin Thomas was seeing to some last-minute affairs. He seemed to have a lot, mostly of the unmentionable variety, or so Mrs Brennan had told Cook – whatever that might mean.
Harry had brought out the watch again. It was ridiculous, she wanted to tell him, when there was a perfectly good grandfather clock in the corner over by the dining-room door. It had a gold face too, just like his watch.
She knew why he did it, of course, and thought of the embroidery set which was all she had been given for Christmas from her parents. But would her father allow Harry to keep the watch when he announced to them all the decision he had made? Would he tell them today, when he had the support of Thomas, for her uncle did support the boy, she knew that. Father would blame it all on Eliza of course, and Cornwall – try and talk him round, forbid him perhaps – but it must be right for there was a light in Harry’s eyes now, a looseness that made him want to talk to her, made her enjoy him again. He had even brought her a painting for Christmas, one of Newlyn, full of light and children, and she sighed with pleasure.
Miss Fletcher had said that she should pass the entrance examination with no difficulty and King’s College London were accepting more and more women now. Her father had not yet mentioned university to her and her mother would not allow her to ask, but she was full of hope. Would Esther come too or would it be finishing school f
or her? And where was she anyway? Hannah tugged at the white scarf which was wound round her neck and fastened at the back with a safety pin. Her mother sat down on the old leather chair by the fire; it was the grandfather’s chair which had pipe burns on the arms and no antimacassars. Mother looked tired again and was unwell in the mornings. Hannah walked across and touched her shoulder.
‘Are you all right?’
The blue was there again under her mother’s eyes and Hannah felt a churning in her stomach. She could not bear to look at her father, his great weight and height. Had he done it again? Had she, her mother, allowed him to again? Hannah squeezed her mother’s shoulder.
‘It will be all right, Mother. I’ll look after you.’ She felt her mother lean against her, just for a moment, but then her father hissed from his place near the Chippendale table, which had no letters on its silver plate, ‘For goodness sake sit up, woman. Thomas could be here at any moment.’ His voice was low and vicious and Hannah could see the reflection of his back in the gilt mirror which hung over the table, she felt the stiffening of her mother’s shoulder and tried to keep her close but her mother forced herself upright as the door from the drawing-room opened.
‘My dear John, how lovely to see you.’ Thomas was in evening dress too, his white waistcoat creased into folds across his stomach. Camilla was behind him, her hair caught back in combs at the sides, then allowed to fall down in loose curls at the back.
She called out to them all, ‘So very sorry to keep you all waiting. We were just sorting out a few details. Cook seems to have become confused about the numbers again.’ Camilla came across to Hannah. ‘Pop upstairs, dear. Esther is waiting in the nursery. She has such plans for this evening.’
A Time for Courage Page 9
