A Time for Courage

by Margaret Graham

  He danced her close to the curtain and then through into the dark of the cold glass room with its hanging ivy, its jasmine, which was in bud in this cold spring, and they no longer danced but kissed and the taste of grapes was no longer there.

  She held his head between her hands, seeing the oat-coloured hair against her skin, the width of his shoulder, sensing the power in his back, his arms, his legs.

  She felt his breath as he talked. ‘I need you and love you, Hannah. You are good for me. You don’t ask too much of me. We are well suited, my dear, both strong, both independent, both undemanding, and my parents do so approve of you. One day we should marry but, as you know, I cannot until I am thirty. Let’s have fun while we wait.’ His mouth was on her eyes, her cheeks, his lips soft, his hands holding her arms. Hannah looked out at the dark night which was dimly lit by the cold distant moon and nodded calmly. She had known somehow that this would happen and it would be good to have Arthur’s easy, laughing company while she waited. And waited. And waited.

  The horses had collected at the front of the house, stamping and tossing their heads, responding slowly to their red- and black-coated riders. The morning was crisp and there had been a light fall of snow in the night. Hannah sat side-saddle on her roan mare, black-coated, breathing deeply, glad to be away from the dining-room which had smelt of port and cigars from the night before. Arthur brought his hunter up close. It was arching its neck and she could hear the clink of the bit as the horse chewed and worried it.

  ‘You’ll be fine on that mare,’ Arthur said, leaning down to take a glass of hot punch from the silver tray that one of the maids was bringing to each rider. His red coat made his hair seem paler.

  ‘I hope so,’ replied Hannah, taking the warm glass from him, smelling the nutmeg, seeing condensation on the leather of her gloved finger.

  ‘There are about twenty of the hunt here now. Sir Edward will be sounding the horn in a moment, so drink up. Just follow, come at your own pace.’ Arthur turned and looked over the snow-covered grounds and then the distant hills. ‘You won’t lose us, all this red against all that white.’ He laughed and pointed with his riding crop, silver-headed and stamped with the family crest.

  Red against white, Hannah thought, turning her thoughts aside from the words, pushing back the flight of the fox and the hounds that were baying. Thinking instead of the red of lobster against white meat, the red of a cricket ball against Arthur’s hand, the red of Joe’s blood against his skin. She shook her head. No, not that.

  The maid stood by her horse, her hand lifted to take the glass and Hannah drank it in two gulps, feeling the sharp heat.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling as she bent down.

  Arthur was talking to Esther who was reining in to his other side, her riding crop held firmly in her gloved hand, her hair netted and glistening under the black top hat. She laughed at his words, craning forward to tell Hannah.

  ‘He says the language should be better now that we’re along. Such a shame, darling, we could have learnt a few words to scream at Miss Fletcher’s children.’

  Hannah laughed and Arthur put his hand on hers. ‘Don’t take the fences if you don’t feel confident. Go round by the gates. I’d rather see that than see you hurt, my dear.’

  Sir Edward was moving towards the front of the riders and the horn began to blow and the hounds to bay and they were off, trotting first, the snow deadening the sound of moving horses as they left the house and followed the drive down through to the open ground. There were riders each side of her. Arthur tipped his crop against his hat and moved forward at Sir Edward’s request. Esther rode well, sitting comfortably, her face alight with excitement. She turned to Hannah.

  ‘This is so wonderful. To be this rich, to live this life.’

  Hannah nodded. ‘Yes, it must be very easy.’ She kept her voice low and wished that Esther would also, because Harry was behind them and he was not rich, he could not offer Esther this life, and Hannah feared for him; but now the horses were into open country and the trot became a canter, the canter a gallop. The field stretched out and Hannah loosened the reins and let the mare have her head, feeling the wind as it rushed past, seeing the snow in drifts against the dry-stone wall, loving the speed, the freedom. Harry kept to the back of the field, holding in his hunter, not letting it get the bit between its teeth. He watched Esther as she lifted her head into the wind, following with his eyes and his heart as she took the low wall, leaning forward, urging her horse on.

  He had heard her words but knew already that he could only hold her if he could offer her something like this. He looked back at the house as he cantered past the small copse which Sir Edward had first thought the fox would head towards but the hounds had swept past and were baying in the distance.

  Gold had brought wealth to many, he knew that but those days were over now. The big conglomerates had created a monopoly on the gold fields but they paid well, well enough to stake a try at a diamond strike and that is what he was pinning his hopes on. The wall was close now and he dug in his heels, feeling the power of the horse as she took the jump almost in her stride. The snow was crisp and cold still, not slippery, not dangerous.

  He had not told Esther that there was no hope of wealth for some while. He could not do that, she would not understand. He veered right as the hunt took a different line, heading towards the row of elms which fringed the lake where he had fished with Arthur each summer. His breath was coming quickly now as the horse cantered and pounded the ground.

  But whatever happened he must make sure that he did find diamonds or there would be no future for him because life without his love was no life at all. But would she wait? Could she wait? He must make sure that she did and he looked ahead, searching for Hannah’s black coat. Would Hannah help? Did she care enough about him any more? And deep within him guilt stirred at the thought of the girl in the white dress with the blue sash. Perhaps there were too many cold years between then and now; and as he rode his hunter forward he realised that he had missed his sister.

  Hannah heard Harry call to her and she turned, ready to rein in, but Arthur’s voice carried over her head to her brother.

  ‘Come up, Harry, come up.’

  And she saw Harry pull to the left, away from her, his face shadowed and grim. He did not look at her as he drew level and she called to him.

  ‘Harry, shall I come up with you?’

  He rode on past without looking or speaking and Hannah wondered if she had imagined his call because she wanted to hear it too much.

  The hunt took two hours to close on the fox. Hannah was flushed with effort and tiredness. Her arms ached from guiding the mare onwards and over walls and gates. The sky had cleared of heavy clouds but it was still white, not blue, and the air was cold. Esther was up at the front, her black coat clearly visible as they thundered down the slope which led to a thin copse standing stark and almost black in the white air, its branches thin and hopeless without their cloak of green. Into the trees they went, and the mare cantered gently now, not fast because Hannah did not want to see the fox or hear the hounds, down the slope and then in amongst the trees which were beech, smooth and straight and not black at all but brown smudged with green moss.

  There was little snow here and it was dark. She trotted the mare along stony root-bound ground. There were no birds singing here, only the baying of the hounds which was louder now and faster and higher. Hannah walked the mare, looking up into the trees and through the branches to the pale sky. The mare’s breath came in quick clouds; she slipped on a root, her hoofs clinking on smooth stones and Hannah talked gently to her. Then they were out into the fields again and the light was harsh and the sounds too.

  The hunt was there in front of her, gathered together, not cantering now or even walking but standing still and at the front the black jacket of Esther stood out loud against the red. Sir Edward and Arthur were not on their horses, and neither was Harry. He stood at the side of the two men, his horse’s reins lyin
g idle in his hands. Hannah saw this and beyond them the hounds which ravaged and tore and screamed over the run-out fox, and there was red against the white snow and horror grew as she had known it would. She turned from this to Esther but she was smiling and her eyes were alight and eager as she watched and listened and now Hannah turned to Arthur and his face was the same and so was Sir Edward’s as he laughed and waded into the hounds, calling them off, then bending over.

  She looked at Harry and his face was not the same. It was set and enclosed, not looking at the squealing mass but above them to the hawk that circled in the air away in the distance and Hannah dismounted from the mare and moved first one step and then another in snow that was white on her black boots and along the hem of her black skirt. But before she reached him Sir Edward turned from the mêlée his knife red in his hand. There was something else in the other. Another step and another and as Harry stood still she saw Arthur take the fox’s tail from Sir Edward’s outstretched hand and step close to Harry and rub each cheek with the dripping fur and again there was red against white, and laughter and applause as he pushed the tail into Harry’s hand before slapping his shoulder and turning back to Sir Edward.

  Hannah was there now and she took the fox’s tail from Harry’s lifeless fingers and dropped it, not watching to see where it landed, and then tore off her blood-stained glove and bent to dig her hand into the snow, and wipe the blood from his face. But she could not wipe the look from his eyes and so she scrubbed harder as she heard Arthur’s laugh. And harder still and now the blood was off and the snow dripped pink on to the ground. But still there was that look in Harry’s eyes.

  She dried his face with her lawn handkerchief, knowing that laughter and talking were all around and horses were being turned and hounds called to order and still there was no change in his eyes. She lifted Harry’s hand, kissed it and held it to her cheek, taking his reins from the other hand, and slowly he lost the horror, the pain, and as Arthur came and threw the tail to the hounds and slapped him on the back Harry smiled at him and laughed as Esther laughed and nodded as she called, ‘Blooded now, my darling. It’s such fun, isn’t it?’

  Hannah rode back with Harry and they watched but did not see Esther and Arthur canter ahead; they watched but did not see the hounds brought to order and set off in a pack for home. They rode alone and Harry could still feel her hand on his face and the tears which had not fallen but which had filled her eyes. He could still feel the grip of her hand as she held his and the warmth of her lips, and he knew that he had missed her strength over these long years and that deep love was still there despite everything. And now tears were in his eyes and they fell, running into his mouth and her hand came again, as he knew it would, and this time it was he who held it to his lips and kissed it, feeling its cold, dragging off his glove and putting it on her hand. And now, as the day closed in and the sky darkened with perhaps more snow, they talked and Harry told her of his horror of cruelty. Was it cowardice, he asked, and she said it was not. Of his fear that Esther could not wait and of his need of her, and Hannah said she would help. Of his fear that in South Africa he would fail, and Hannah said he would not. And he told her of her picture and his beating and this time she cried and tears ran into her mouth at all the wasted years.

  And now she told him of her fear of her father, her hatred, and he could only nod. And she told him of her fear for her mother and again he could only nod. She told him of her women and he said that he thought he had always known and was glad. She told him that when the waiting was over she was going to join the suffragettes and he was not surprised. And then she told him of Joe and he took her hand and said that she had her brother now, to fill the empty space.

  They passed the line of elms and snow was falling lightly and they talked of many things, and as they reached the drive which led up to the house Hannah spoke again of her women and how they also needed holidays and how could she arrange it?

  11

  Hannah looked down on the garden from her mother’s bedroom. The late spring had given way to a hot summer and the yellowed grass made the earlier snow at Arthur’s seem impossible.

  ‘Such a fine crop of pears, Hannah, my dear.’ Her mother’s voice was even slower today, and quiet again.

  Hannah leant against the window-frame and nodded. Pears were clumped against leaves which had curled in the heat and shone pale from this distance. There were already windfalls on the grass. Hannah had seen the bees nuzzling into the soft moist fruit, heads deep into darkening holes. Bees had been all around the lavender too as she picked small bunches to put into the three vases in her mother’s room.

  There had been a few late roses on the bushes planted behind the neat box hedges, some with flowers tightly formed and freshly coloured and these were now in the crystal vase by the bedside. Hannah turned to her mother who sat quite still in the padded wicker chair, her head leaning back but her eyes open and looking beyond the room to the sun.

  ‘Would you like to go back to bed now, Mother?’

  Her mother smiled but did not turn her head, did not move her eyes from the blue sky and the green.

  ‘No, my darling. There is time enough for that.’

  Hannah turned again, not to the window but into the room, seeing the oak blanket chest at the foot of the bed as it had always been; the small easy chair which had been moved whenever a cradle appeared; the pictures of Cornwall which hung on stiff wire from picture rails, two on each wall except where the wardrobe stood, heavy and unyielding. Only one picture had been hung there and that was to the left of the fireplace. The scuttle was full, with coal heaped high. The fire irons stood erect in their stand.

  Hannah walked past the bed to the dressing-table which held the silver candlestick and lavender in a vase. She cupped her hand around a stem and bent her head, breathing in the heavy scent, and then rubbed a few dark blue flowers between her fingers, releasing the oil, holding her hand to her face and breathing in again. Her mother was dying. She knew that now. She had known it the day she returned from the hunting weekend and had seen her with fresh eyes. How could she have not known, she had asked Aunt Eliza, who held her hand and said that perhaps she was too close to see. Eliza had gone home now, just for a few days she had said, to arrange a few things, and Hannah was glad she’d gone because now she was alone with her mother and they could talk or not talk, touch or not touch and always be as one.

  She looked at her mother’s pin-boxes; the china ring-stand with her betrothal ring still on the same stem; her hat-pins which caught the light from the candle when it was lit; the pin cushions which were stabbed by bead-topped pins. It was the same today as it had been yesterday, and last year and all the years preceding. She looked into the mirror at the lines which ran down to her mouth, the circles beneath her eyes. Her eyes were not the same; they recognised that it was almost over and she turned because she could not think of that. For a moment she could not see her mother or the light which flooded into the room, or smell the late summer wind which wafted in through the open window, nor the lavender which was on the hand that she pressed against her mouth and then her eyes because there was no time for the wracking sounds of grief which pushed and tore and howled within her. There was no time now, each second was too precious. Hannah turned back to the mirror smoothing her hands down her dress, picking off pampas-grass from the drawing-room, pushing back the pain until it no longer showed and then she walked to her mother, kneeling on the faded carpet by her chair, resting her head on the pale hand which in turn lay on the arm of the wicker chair and there they sat and watched the shadows lengthen as the high sun passed over into late afternoon.

  Edith Watson could feel the breeze gentle on her face, her hands, her hair, could feel it as it wafted against the cotton of her nightgown which was loosely tied at the neck and unstarched on Hannah’s orders.

  She smiled but her lips did not move. How Mrs Brennan had scowled at that but her Hannah did not mind. She was strong and bold and so good, so very good. E
dith turned her head from the tree whose leaves were flickering as the evening brought a stronger breeze and looked at the chestnut hair of her daughter. How she loved her. Did she know how much she loved her? ‘I love you, my darling child.’ And she knew that her lips moved and that sound came but had it been enough? Her free hand was heavy, so very heavy. She moved it from the blanket which covered her knees and laid it against the soft warmth of Hannah’s hair and she felt her daughter’s hand cover hers, heard words which told of love. She turned again to the window and far away, far far away she saw two children running, running and coming closer, on through the long grass down to the wide, spreading horse-chestnut tree. She saw them laugh, watched as they swung first one and then the other round and round and round on the long thick rope. But she could not hear them though they were calling to her. She could see that they were calling and she wanted to hear; wanted so much to hear. She leant forward because there was strength in her now. ‘Mother,’ Hannah said. ‘Lie still.’

  The children faded and there was only the pear tree again and the horse-chestnut and an empty garden and then Edith felt Hannah’s hands smoothing back her hair, heard her voice gently soothing and now there were sounds of carriages on the cobbles and the cries of hawkers and tradesmen, and birds as they called and collected in the branches, and her body was heavy again.

  ‘Tell me how your holiday home is progressing, Hannah,’ she whispered and listened as Hannah held her hand and told her of the concert they had planned for next Saturday, with Esther playing, of course.

  ‘And you, Mother, in the place of honour.’

  They both laughed gently together and Edith knew that Eliza would be back by then, her arrangements completed, and Harry would be there too, his departure delayed because of her illness. But Arthur was in Scotland shooting.

  Arthur seemed a nice boy, she thought as though from a distance, and Hannah was easy with him and that gave her pleasure. It gave her father pleasure too and Edith ceased to smile for the thought of him was cold and brought her fear. But he would not come tonight. It would be just the two of them tonight and now the smile was here again.