A Time for Courage

by Margaret Graham

  Eliza went back to Penhallon in April and Joe took Hannah on a short walk across the moors. They read the letter that arrived the next day together and Hannah wondered how Frances had come to know the truth and Joe explained that Eliza had written. Hannah sat in the deck-chair and smiled as she read.

  Dearest Hannah,

  Forgive me, I should have known. It all seems to have been such a dark time of struggle and stress. Forgive me and come back.

  Frances.

  She passed it to Joe who read and nodded and then returned the letter to the envelope. They both sat back and let the sun wash over their faces. Joe looked tired, there was blue around his eyes and he slept as she slept all that day.

  The families who were staying took the jingle to the sea the next day. It was too cold to bathe but one of the children had consumption and the fresh air would be good, Hannah had said.

  ‘Shall I write to Arthur now?’ Joe asked as they watched the wagon disappear. Hannah picked at the tartan blanket which covered her legs; her hand was still white and blue veins still stood out, but not so much. She did not want to think of Arthur, only of the myrtle which she was watching Edward planting out in the borders and the thyme which was growing well now. Arthur was London, not home. Arthur did not belong here, when she was ill and her hair was dull and her flesh hanging on her bones.

  ‘No, he thinks I have measles, let’s leave it at that. He doesn’t want to come out in spots. The club wouldn’t like it.’ She grinned.

  She still hadn’t told Joe that the marriage would be at the end of the year for it was 1914 now but he had not asked of her future plans and she could not tell him.

  Each day they walked further and picked early violets and Hannah breathed in the scent and Joe too. Soon there was colour in her cheeks and she could eat a little butter on her bread, and melt it on her scones. There was still no word from Harry though and she did not think of Esther. Joe would not talk of her either because it made his cheeks burn with anger.

  As the sun warmed the earth and the birds nested and sat on eggs Hannah walked in the sea with the families, feeling the salt water stinging her legs as she lifted her skirts, laughing as Joe splashed her, throwing seaweed as he came closer. He rolled his trousers up above his knees and the children screamed as he swung them high and skimmed their toes in the cold water while the gulls screamed above them.

  Eliza came with Sam and they had not heard from Harry either. ‘We would have heard if there was something wrong,’ Sam said and Hannah nodded. Yes, of course they would, and she wanted to push the shadow away because there had been so much darkness and now it was light and the sky was clear and the air was fresh. She could breathe; at last she could breathe. Sam and Hannah played jacks with the children and Eliza baked Chelsea buns and Hannah wound hers and showed the children how to make pastry rings on their fingers.

  When they had gone Hannah and Joe walked to the hill and as she gulped in great breaths of air he laughed at her, but said that it was putting roses in her cheeks and they talked then of asking Edward to grow some ramblers up the stable wall, of replacing the conservatory glass, broken in the winter gales, of painting the outside of the house and it was good to talk of domestic things, of tomorrow.

  Her legs felt strong as they walked round the lower slopes of the hill and Joe ran on, throwing up his yellow kite, feeding out the line until it was snatched by the wind and soared above them. The moss was damp with rain and everywhere was green and fresh. Hannah let her hair hang loose now and it swirled about her face. They walked down to the stream and sat there to eat their pasty. They shared just one and the crumbs fell on to her skirt and his trousers and Joe still held the string of the kite in his right hand, playing it, pulling it back and forwards.

  ‘I’d love to fly,’ he said, his mouth full.

  ‘Don’t be disgusting,’ Hannah said. ‘Wait until you’ve finished your mouthful, what would the children say?’

  ‘There aren’t any here,’ Joe said, his mouth still full. ‘You are the only one and you’re doing enough nagging for a regiment.’ He was grinning and Hannah laughed.

  ‘You’re thirty, old enough to know better, Joe.’

  She picked at the moss, it came away in a bunch. ‘Your father said that there was an aerodrome nearby where you could start lessons.’

  Mr and Mrs Arness had come over for lunch last week. They did so every month, Joe said, and his father taught painting to the visitors.

  ‘I know. Maybe I’ll try one day.’ He brushed himself down, throwing the crumbs into the stream which rushed over boulders and scythed into the bank, taking earth with it. ‘When there’s time to spare.’

  ‘No trout to tickle here,’ he said quietly and Hannah looked at him and nodded. She had remembered that day too. How old they both were now and somehow she could not believe that so much time had passed. She looked across the moor; the stunted trees, the fresh grass growing amongst the bright heather. A few ponies were grazing amongst the sheep. Across to the west there were clouds building up and a wind. She threw the moss into the air and it was caught and blown three feet away. The kite was jerking as though fighting to leave the string and race instead with the blackening clouds.

  ‘We’d better go,’ Hannah said, for she knew that though she was stronger she could not run if the rains came.

  Joe rose and pulled her to her feet before hauling in the kite, his tongue between his lips as he wound the string around the wooden frame he had made. Once it was free of the wind it plummeted down, helpless without the force of air and was no longer graceful but clumsy as he carried it under his arm, the tail hanging limp.

  ‘You’re too old for a kite,’ she laughed and he nodded.

  ‘Oh I know,’ he agreed. ‘I just do it to amuse the children and I have to practise to keep my hand in.’

  ‘Liar,’ she murmured and they both laughed as he nodded.

  He took her arm and they talked of London and of the arms race and the Kaiser who had threatened France and Morocco. Joe said that perhaps there would be a war and Hannah thought of Uncle Simon and was glad that she knew no soldiers. They talked of the vote and she told him that she would work with the suffragists now, constitutionally lobbying. It seemed that Labour were supportive now.

  The clouds grew heavier and the rain began but they were back in the fields which were enclosed by dry-stone walls and were near a stone-built shelter which housed hay for the cattle in the winter. Joe dragged her in and she sat hunched on a hay bale and watched the rain as it lashed across the moor in great waves. It was not cold and she felt safe, as she did when she lay warm in bed and heard the rain beating on the panes.

  There were no bars here on the moor with Joe, no sense of anyone pulling at her, there was just peace and they sat in silence watching the stunted trees bend before the rain and the wind and the cows turning their backs or laying down.

  Her back ached now and Joe moved nearer. ‘Lean on me,’ he said and she did, feeling his warmth, smelling his skin. The rain sprayed into the entrance as the wind veered and the scent of wet hay reached her.

  ‘I never want to leave here,’ she murmured.

  ‘Stay then, Hannah,’ he whispered.

  She wanted to, how she wanted to stay, and as they walked back when the rain had stopped and she felt her dress soak up the water from the grass she could hardly bear to look at all this around her. She loved it all so much. Neither could she look at the man who walked beside her, his arm on hers.

  ‘Stay with me, Hannah,’ Joe said as he held open the gate into the drive. The trees were dripping on to the sodden grass, and the sun was already heating the ground so that there was the sweet smell of warm soil.

  She put her hand near his, the wood was soft with the wet and the grain stood sharp and she could feel it with her fingers. She looked not at him but at the land which ran to the sea and then at the grey stone house surrounded by daffodils and tissue-sheathed crocus and then at the drive, at her hand, his hand. So firm, so s
trong, so familiar.

  And then at his face which was always ready to smile and laugh, which seemed to bring the sun and air into every room, at his eyes which were normally so blue but were now dark.

  Why did she want to stay so much? Was it just for the peace of the place or was it…?

  ‘Hannah, Miss Hannah.’ It was Edward, running down the drive, his leggings flapping, water splashing from the puddles which he ran straight through.

  ‘A telegram, Miss Hannah.’ He was breathing hard. The yellow telegram was wet and limp in his hand.

  ‘It came two hours ago but we didn’t know where you were,’ Edward panted to Joe while Hannah tore open the envelope and read.

  Hannah,

  Your brother is back Stop He is very ill Stop I will allow you to return to house for purposes of nursing Stop

  Father.

  19

  Hannah climbed the steps to her father’s house and rang the bell. She had no key now; she was merely a visitor and did not want to enter, but Harry was here and so she must. Was he very ill? But she must not think of that, she must push it away until he was with her.

  It was not Polly who answered but Beaky, her nose still sniffing the air for bad odours. Well, this particular nasty smell has risen to haunt you, hasn’t it, thought Hannah, and smiled to think that her return would discomfort this woman, grateful too that she could focus on this old antagonism while she stepped in through the door of her father’s house.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Brennan,’ she said. ‘I’m expected.’

  Peppermint still wafted on Beaky’s breath as she walked into the dark hall and it was as it had always been, but smaller somehow. Red still shafted in from the two side windows set in either side of the doors. The wire cage on the back of the door held no letters and there were no visiting cards in the bowl standing on the carved rug-chest but then there was no lady of the house any more, was there? She wanted to go straight up the stairs to Harry but the darkness dragged at her, slowing her.

  She put down her valise. ‘My trunk will be arriving shortly. Perhaps you could make sure that it is sent up to my mother’s room.’ She was pulling off her gloves as she talked, and now she climbed the stairs. She could not run and it was not just that she did not feel strong enough. The banister was smooth and shining beneath her hand.

  ‘Your room, you mean, Miss Hannah, on the top floor,’ Beaky said, standing at the foot of the stairs, clothed in black with her white apron stiffly starched.

  ‘My mother’s room,’ Hannah insisted without stopping, for that room was the only place in the house that held the warmth of past memories.

  ‘Harry is in his old room next to Mother’s?’ she asked turning as she reached the half-landing. She watched for Beaky’s nod but did not falter in her stride. Up past the half-landing on to the dark red patterned carpet which ran down the length of the landing. The dark varnished floorboards either side were dusty and the glass fronting the prints which hung on the walls was cloudy. It was so quiet, Hannah thought, and did not pause outside her mother’s room but in time with each step she took ran the words. ‘He’s not here. Thank God Father’s not here.’ His hat and stick had not been in the hall.

  She was nearly there now, nearly at Harry’s door. She opened it and there was the thick smell of fetid air and the darkness of drawn curtains. She left the door open and moved, not to the bed but to the curtains and drew them back letting the sun flood in, and then she heaved at the sash windows, pulling the bottom one up and the top one down. She felt the air on her face and knew that soon the draught would have cleansed the room and only now did she turn to the bed. Harry was there; his eyes were open and he smiled as she came towards him, lifting his hand, which she took. It was trembling and thin but brown from his years in the sun.

  She bent and kissed his forehead. ‘So, you’ve come home, Harry,’ she said quietly moving her hand to his wrist. His pulse was weak. She kissed him again and sat down on the upright chair by the bed. Thank God he was home. She had missed him so much. His face was too thin, the lines ran deep and there were so many. She lifted his hand and kissed his palm and Harry knew that he was safe. His voice was dry as he said, ‘Oh Hannah.’

  She poured water from the muslin-covered jug into the glass but could tell it was not fresh; there were bubbles clinging to the sides. She gave him a sip and another and listened as he told her of Baralong, Frank and the diamonds, the Rand and how they had floated through the night, rested in the day and then had found a cart which took them to the station. There they had taken a train to Cape Town with the money which Harry had on him.

  ‘I left him there,’ Harry said. ‘He wouldn’t come, it is his home, you see. That hot land where he is less than the dirt is his home and I did nothing to alter the system. I left him there.’

  His voice faltered and Hannah hushed him, checking his wound which had now been cleaned but was still infected; his body was hot with the fever of it.

  ‘I sent him money, half the money from Amsterdam. He says he will use it to fight, but there’s been so much brutality, Hannah. Too much.’ His voice was fading and Hannah poured water on to her handkerchief and laid it on his forehead.

  ‘Sleep now,’ she said but he opened his eyes.

  ‘I’m rich, Hannah, very rich so I can have her now, can’t I?’

  Hannah took his hand again and nodded. ‘Yes, my dear, you can have her now.’

  His eyes closed and he looked so ill and so very tired. Hannah sat until his breathing was deeper, steadier, and then looked around at the dark mahogany furniture, the chest of drawers, the shoe-stand, the wardrobe which stood against the wall. There was a layer of dust on all of them and a mustiness to the room which had nothing to do with illness. The framed prints of Hastings and Dover were also filmed with dust.

  She checked Harry again and then walked down to the kitchen where Beaky was drinking tea with the cook and the maid.

  Hannah told them that if there was not fresh drinking water in Harry’s room every two hours they would no longer be employed in this establishment. She leant on the scrubbed wooden table and told them that every room in the house was to be cleaned by the end of tomorrow but that she would do Master Harry’s room because absolute quiet must be maintained. She stared at Beaky as she said that Master Harry was not to have his windows closed, was not to have his curtains drawn.

  She addressed them all when she repeated that there was to be cool water brought in a washing jug every two hours night and day for the next three days. There were to be clean strips of sheeting supplied also torn from the best linen in the laundry cupboard if necessary. The sheeting was to be ironed so that it was sterile; it was to be picked up only by the edges with washed hands and placed on the steel tray which must be heated in the oven and untouched except at the handles.

  She then told Beaky to send for the doctor and would expect him to arrive within the hour. She ignored the heavy frown, the crossed arms which clenched heavy breasts.

  The doctor arrived within half an hour and checked the wound again and explained that the bullet had been left in the body too long. It had apparently not been removed until Harry had arrived in Amsterdam and he had then wanted only to get home so that there had been no time for recovery.

  ‘Will he recover now?’ Hannah asked as the doctor packed away his stethoscope. His hat was on the dark side table next to the oil lamp which Hannah would need throughout the night. The lavender she had picked after speaking to the staff was in the vase on the dresser, next to Harry’s hairbrush and comb and the scent soothed her.

  The man looked up; he was dressed in a dark frock coat and his side whiskers were as grey as his hair.

  ‘Yes, in time he will be restored to health. Whether it is full health remains to be seen.’

  Hannah nodded and looked again at her brother who was sleeping now, his face flushed from the pain of the examination and the fever.

  ‘I wonder if it was worth it?’ she murmured, and shook her head as
the doctor looked up at her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m just thinking aloud.’

  She arranged that he would come every day and that no nurse would be necessary because she was back in her father’s house again. It was not until seven-thirty that her father came home. She heard the dinner gong and left Harry who was sleeping. She drew her hand from his but for a moment he tightened his hold and groaned, then relaxed and slept again. She was not hungry, for he was there, downstairs, waiting for her but he must be faced. There was no choice.

  The dining-room door was open and she made herself breathe slowly as she entered. The table was laid with a white cloth and her father was sitting in his mahogany carver chair at the end of the table as he had always done. Beaky had laid her place halfway down the table as though no time had elapsed since her mother had died.

  Hannah moved to her chair aware that her father continued to read from the book which rested on the bookrest at his left side as though she did not exist. He was older, his black hair had streaks of grey and his moustache too; his skin was sallow and dry and hung loose around his neck.

  The room was dark, though behind the drawn curtains Hannah knew the evening was still light. The gas lamps hissed as they lit the moulded sideboard and the picture of the stag at bay. It did not seem as large as memory had made it. The tantalus still held whisky and brandy, the same amount as always. Did he ever drink any?