A Time for Courage

by Margaret Graham

  ‘He said it was a girl and so death was a blessing.’ The words were a broken whisper, the eyes dark with grief and pain, and Hannah knew she spoke of her father.

  When dawn had broken and her mother was asleep and the nurse sat where Hannah had been throughout the night, she took the vase which held the lush, heavy lilac, carried it down the stairs and into the sitting-room, where she lit the fire which Polly always laid, and burnt it, bloom by bloom.

  She rose then, easing off her white kid dancing shoes, her silk stockings, before opening the French windows and walking on to the paved terrace which was still wet, out into the early morning sun. It was not dew which soaked her bare feet but the ravages of the night.

  It was cool and she felt the grass between her toes and saw again the running stream and the trout that she had tickled and Joe’s hand outstretched for hers.

  She found the axe in the gardener’s shed. It was heavy but not too heavy. She felled the lilac within the hour, its leaves showering her with water with every thudding stroke, her breath heaving in her chest, her arms aching with each swing. She dragged each branch, each leaf, each browned bloom past the blackened daisies to the back of the shed, stacking them into a pile, pouring paraffin over them, and throwing a lighted match into its heart. Soon the lilac was completely gone.

  She picked lavender now, sprig after sprig, and carried it back through the sitting-room, up the stairs, feeling the carpet warm now beneath her feet, seeing her dress so soiled and creased.

  But that did not matter now; the baby was dead but her mother must live. She dug her nails into the fragrant stems before entering the room. She knew that she had made a choice and that the shouting, the fighting must go on without her, for now. She stood outside the door. Hadn’t Eliza said that everything must be done in the context of her mother’s health? And so where did that leave her now? And she dug her nails into the fragrant stems again.

  9

  The wheels of the bath chair had dug furrows from the gravel path to the base of the pear tree. Hannah sat in her own wicker chair, which creaked as she removed a fallen leaf from the green-and-white checked wool blanket which lay around her mother’s legs. Her mother did not stir; her hands lay limp and thin and translucent, their veins too easily seen, too blue.

  ‘It’s such a beautiful day, Mother, for September; it’s usually such a changeable month but this time it’s been kind to us. Joe says it is called an Indian Summer after the redskins who live on his great plains and have warm autumns too.’

  ‘Is September autumn, Hannah? Is it soon to be the start of winter?’

  Edith Watson’s voice was light and frail and sank almost to a whisper as she finished. Her hands were still motionless, it was only her lips that had moved.

  Hannah looked away, up into the tree, to the green leaves and the blue sky beyond. If she put her head right back that was all it was possible to see; just flickering leaves, the faded brown of the branches, the sky streaked with high thin cloud. The pears were few this year after the storm of that June night. Hannah sighed, pushing her hair back with her hand, lowering her head so that she could see her mother again, her head resting against the white cushion that Hannah had sewn and embroidered, stitch by stitch, as she sat day after day, night after night at the bedside. Beaky had smiled and said that her father would be pleased to see such industry. He had need of another antimacassar. Hannah had said nothing but drawn through another strand of silk, pale pink this time and seen a frown form and thicken on the housekeeper’s brow. This is for my mother, Hannah had said at last, as she cut the strand. There had been no answer. Were the needle-grinders still dying, Hannah wondered now, but was too tired to care.

  Since the June night when it had all happened the days had been full of sun; she knew, because Esther had told her. Ascot had been brilliant when her cousin had gone with Harry and Arthur and how it had shone at Cowes; and what gaiety there had been at the Coronation which had at last taken place in August. But there seemed to have been such darkness here, such struggle in forcing away the weakness which dragged greedily at her mother, such effort in breaching the cloak of despair which had wrapped tightly round Edith Watson and slowly but steadily drawn the breath from her body and the sense from her mind. It had taken all Hannah’s strength, all her energy to pull her back.

  She rose from her chair. Its legs had sunk into the ground and earth coated the bamboo. She walked to the trunk of the tree.

  ‘Look, Mother, do you remember this?’ And she dug her nails into the bark and peeled a layer back. It broke off in her fingers and she handed it to her mother, watching as the dulled eyes travelled to the bark, then up to Hannah’s face. She was so drawn, this mother who was more like her child, but Hannah did not allow this thought to show but crouched down beside the bath chair, hearing it creak as she placed the bark in the limp hands, then, resting her arms on the side, her dark blue skirt trailing on the grass, ‘Layer after layer, do you remember?’ Hannah took her mother’s hand in hers, the one which held the bark, and she smiled as her mother nodded. She ran her mother’s other hand over the layers, seeing the dust leave its trail against the pale of her skin.

  ‘Yes, my dear Hannah, I do remember but it seems so long ago.’ And her voice trailed away but Hannah sat down again, pleased that today the improvements continued.

  Miss Fletcher had been so kind. The new college year had begun of course and lectures must not be missed, though the work in the classroom, her Headmistress had insisted, could always be curtailed

  Neither was she needed to canvass support for Mrs Jones, a suffragist fighting for a seat on the Parish Council and Hannah had wept as she was limited to writing letters to local dignatories.

  But this had enabled her to stay for part of the morning with her mother, leaving her for the afternoon in the care of the much improved nurse, and so she should be grateful.

  Harry had not been home except for lunch one Sunday. He had stayed with Arthur for the vacation. It was not the place for a young man to be, her father had said, his voice cold, but Hannah would not think of that. He had travelled to Biarritz in between day trips with Esther and Arthur.

  He had begun at the School of Mines full time. Nothing must be put in the way of his pleasure or career, she thought, feeling the muscles in her neck tense, and she took the bark and threw it down towards the old hutches, which were now barely recognisable as such.

  ‘Will you be long this afternoon?’ her mother asked, her eyes filled with pleading, her face uplifted, her hand rising to touch Hannah’s skirt.

  Hannah shook her head, looking out across the garden at the neat hedges, the pruned roses, the horse-chestnut tree with crisp brown leaves. ‘No, Mother, I won’t be long and nurse will be here.’

  Arthur’s mother, Lady Wilmot, had called and left her card soon after the dance and her father had smiled at his daughter during dinner that evening. When this unfortunate episode with your mother is over I would be happy if you were to see more of the Honourable Arthur, he had said, and Hannah had been surprised to think of Arthur in that way.

  Well, Father dear, she thought grimly as she took and held her mother’s hand, you will be happy tonight because this afternoon Arthur and I are going with your son and his love to the Zoological Gardens to take tea in the conservatory, with all the other gentlefolk. But, Father dear, what would make you less happy is the thought that before that I am going to see a mere colonial, and on my own.

  ‘But you won’t be long, you won’t leave me alone for long,’ her mother persisted.

  Hannah crouched down again, stroking her hand, burying the scream and saying gently, ‘No, I won’t leave you for long, Mother. I will never leave you again, you know that.’ And love fought with anger and her mind whirled in circles of despair.

  The horse-bus took her to the station and she breathed in the free air along with the hawkers’ cries, the traffic’s clatter and the conversation which nudged at her on either side of the seat. Straw had been laid on t
he floor to soak up mud but there was none today, and dust danced in the air and caught in throats. She hugged her thoughts to her, her joy, her relief because she was going to see Joe and he would give her succour; his strength would become her strength. How she had waited for him, all the long summer, and at last he was here, working in wood, carving, sanding as he had done last year. Had he changed? Would he think she had changed? She moved along the bench as the bus halted at the stop before the station to make more room. The men went upstairs on top of the bus, and the woman sat next to Hannah, her black coat straining across her breasts, her face red in the heat. It was too warm closed up inside the bus but women were not allowed upstairs. Hannah eased her collar and the bus jerked and moved forward again but only for a few minutes for then the station loomed.

  The underground train was loud, and steam and sulphur filled the tunnels and the dark carriages and Hannah wondered how Joe could bear the noise, the grime, the smell of London after the Cornish air. He had only been here for two weeks working under the auspices of his father’s friend and attending classes at the art school. Hannah had warmed at the thought that at last he was here but knew that her father would never allow a foreigner to visit his house, one without a pedigree. And so she had written to Joe and told him this, knowing that truth was the only course with him.

  He had written again. Then come to me, he had said. I’m not fussy about foreigners in my home, even if it’s one who goes on the moors without a chaperon. She laughed now as she climbed the stairs from the train into the light. Joe, oh Joe, how I need you. And the picture of Esther and Harry and Arthur laughing and talking, travelling and boating while her mother fought for life faded into nothingness.

  His room was off the Fulham Road. She walked along, buying a bunch of dahlias from a street trader, feeling the water soaking through the tissue paper into her glove, looking into shops as she passed, smelling the meat from the butcher’s, the bread from the baker’s, moving out of the way of a man carrying furniture to a van, dodging past an open cellar down which coal was being tipped from a sacking bag.

  She turned right and right again and the noise of the street was left behind as the roads narrowed, sprouting alleys across which washing lines were strung, some heavy with clothes, others empty and drab.

  Hannah looked at Joe’s note again. It couldn’t be far now. She had passed the second pub with its stench of beer reaching right out into the street. Women passed her, shawls over their heads instead of hats like hers, and one stared, then smiled, her blackened teeth ugly in her face.

  Hannah quickened her stride. There seemed no daylight here, with the streets so close together but it was still warm. Why did Joe have to rent a room out here? Was this where his father’s friend had his studio?

  She looked around her. Endon Terrace, his letter said. She checked again and walked back the way she had come. Perhaps she had missed it but then she heard him.

  ‘Hannah, Hannah, this way.’ She turned and he stood at the entrance to a street, not an alley, just a bit further than she had walked, and he was taller and bigger but his smile was the same and his eyes too and the colour of his hair was as warm and red as she had remembered.

  She walked towards him, a smile broad across her face, wanting to run to him, wanting him to hold her and to listen to her and make everything all right again. The walls she passed were stained black, the pavements broken and uneven and Hannah saw that Joe was a man now and she stopped as she reached him.

  ‘Hello, Joe,’ was all she said, because he wasn’t the boy she had known and she was no longer a girl and the air was not easy between them.

  ‘Well, hello again, Hannah,’ Joe said. Hannah was glad that he had not come to her house, because in that cloaked and formal atmosphere it would not have been possible to recapture the friendship which filled the space where her brother had once been. Would it be possible here to break through the change which letters had masked?

  The stairs up to his room were dark and the cart which belonged to the children who lived downstairs partially blocked their way. Joe took her arm as she stepped over it and for a moment she was frightened. There was a smell here of dirt and food and his hand was touching her, this boy who had become a man. Fear caught in her throat. She shouldn’t be here. She would be compromised if it became known. His hand was still on her arm. They were climbing the stairs, side by side. It was dark; she wanted to go home. To write to Joe on white paper with the thought of him in her mind, not with the feel of this strange hand on her arm. And then he spoke and in the darkness the voice was Joe’s, the drawl, the soft laugh, and now she barely felt the hand as he opened the door of his room and light fell out into the dark of the landing, and on the wall which she faced as she entered was the painting of marigolds which had been above the washstand of her room at the cottage. She stepped inside, and slowly, very slowly, the tension was leaving her and the cry of the gulls, the feel of the wind was here, but faint still, so faint.

  ‘Shall I take your coat, your hat?’ His eyes were on hers and his voice was hesitant in the daylight and Hannah was surprised – Joe was always so certain. But she shook her head. She needed them on; they were a protection, a barrier against this man who might not be the same boy she had known and written to and trusted.

  Joe pointed to a chair, one of two which stood at a small kitchen table. His smile was tentative but it was there and Hannah sat, her lips stiff, her hands tight around the dahlias. Their fresh smell reached her suddenly and she held them out to him.

  ‘To welcome you to your new home.’ She watched as he took them, holding them to his face, the water dripping from the paper on to his hands, which seemed too large to be so gentle, and from them on to the floor.

  ‘They’re so lovely, Hannah.’ He moved to the stone sink in the corner of the room and put them in an earthenware jug. He stood for a moment, looking at her, then around the room, and she could think of nothing to say.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ He spoke at last, the drawl so different from Arthur’s clipped neat speech, the soft checked shirt so different to the starched white of Harry’s.

  He filled the kettle, his arms strong, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There was no iron in the water this time. She looked past him at the bed which ran along the length of the wall. His sheets were pulled down and she could see where he had lain. She looked away quickly. Frightened again. This room was his bedroom too.

  His letter was still in her hand, crumpled now, and she straightened it, then folded it again and again into neat exact lines, looking no further than the paper against her knee. She flicked the fan shape that she had made up and down against her skirt, hearing the kettle heating on the stove, remembering his fan, remembering his letters, remembering his hand in the storm; and now the kettle was singing. His hands, as they handed her the blue and white cup were the same, large and steady; were they as hard?

  She looked only at her cup now, bringing it to her lips, feeling the tea too hot in her mouth but if she did not drink she would have to talk, to look, and there was nothing for her to grasp that was familiar now. The moors were vanishing with the cries of the gulls. The bed loomed large in the corner. Joe stood at the table, not drinking his tea but looking at her as she drank hers. He was too different, his world was not her world and she gripped the handle of the cup tightly. But he had been her support throughout the days and the months and she pictured his written words. He had been her strength, but now there was nothing but strangeness and she thought of Arthur waiting for her at the Zoological Gardens, of Harry and Esther, clipped voices and neat clothes, familiar manners and conventions.

  She put down the cup; the tea was finished and her mouth was sore. She must go from here, and she started to rise, not looking at him, but he took her again by the arm, and she lifted her face to his. He was close now, his smile was there and his eyes were warm and blue.

  ‘See what I’ve made for you,’ he said. ‘My Hannah, my Cornish girl.’ And his tee
th were white against his lips, his moustache was red-gold and hairs curled from the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. His smell was the same and he was close, so close, but he turned her from him and she saw, on the far side of the room, the work-bench, which she had not noticed before. It was the same one that he had shown her in Cornwall. Wood chips lay on the floor and there were brushmarks and sawdust where some shavings had been swept into a pile in the corner. The broom rested on the wall. She moved from him across to the bench, seeing motes rising and falling in the light which streamed in from the window set high in the sloping roof.

  The jewellery box was made of mahogany, highly polished but devoid of intricate carving. The beauty was in its simplicity, its cool uncluttered lines. Hannah removed her gloves, and did not lift the box but ran her fingers along its surface, leaving a blurring of condensation. She looked along the bench, smelling the wood, and she picked up a curled shaving, pulling it out to its full length, then letting it roll up again, warm and marked with its grain.

  ‘This one has no tune. It’s just a straight box but I dare say now you’ve grown into a woman you’ll be needing it.’

  He was beside her now as he had been in his work-room in Cornwall and she watched as he turned and took up the broom and swept the floor quite clean beneath the bench. And then she laughed, picking up the box, holding it to her and laughing because he was the same boy, the same man, who had entered her life a year ago and she pushed the clean and clipped Arthur away from her again.

  They talked of his tutor who had a studio near the Art School; of this room which he had chosen because of the light; of the dolly-pegs he made for women to stir their washing with in the dolly-tub; of the wringer-rollers which were made of sycamore for fitting into mangles. And Hannah had asked why, when he could make a box like this.

  He laughed and she smiled to hear him and he told her that it made him more money than all the fine furniture and boxes in the world because no one wanted simplicity yet, but they would. One day they would and she warmed to hear his certainty, his strength.