by Mary Wesley
Moving precisely and without haste the woman fetched a jug from a walk-in larder, closing the door quickly to exclude a blast of cold air. From the jug she poured soup into a pan to heat on the stove. Two cats, so tightly balled together it was impossible to distinguish one from the other, remained wrapped in sleep, ignoring her feet. While the soup heated the woman put bread, butter, salt, a knife, a spoon and plate in front of Juno. Then, when the soup was heated, she poured it into a bowl which she put in front of her.
‘Eat that.’
Juno said, ‘Oh!’ as the aroma of pheasant wafted up her nose. ‘Thank you.’
The woman suggested, ‘Take your coat off?’
Juno obeyed, slipping her arms free of the sleeves, letting the coat flop back over the chair-back.
‘Eat it up.’ The woman watched her.
Juno obeyed, spooning the gamey liquid from bowl to mouth. The spoon was silver, smooth on her tongue, not plate as had been the forks and spoons at Quaglino’s where she had last eaten proper food, days ago, sitting between them, listening to their jokes. How could they joke at a time like that? After—
‘Like some more?’
‘No, no, thank you. It’s absolutely delicious, but I—’
‘Yes?’
‘There are knots in my chest like coiled springs, I—’ She pressed her fists against her breastbone. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t finish it.’
‘I dare say.’
Juno laid the spoon in the bowl. There was soup left over; she could eat no more. It was such wonderful soup, she had not eaten much, she was wasting food, it was wartime, it was wicked to waste good food. She could hear Aunt Violet’s voice. I hardly know Aunt Violet, she thought. I don’t want to, but I know what she would say.
‘Jessie will finish it.’
‘Oh!’
Juno watched as the woman removed the bowl and poured what was left into a dog-bowl on the floor. (Imagine, Aunt Violet!) The dog removed her chin from Juno’s knee and sauntered to the bowl to lap. She finished the soup, scraping the bowl along the stone floor to reach the last drop. Her tail waved at half-mast in rhythm with her lapping. She was either a very fat dog or about to whelp.
‘Bed?’ The woman was speaking.
‘Bed?’
‘Those springs in your chest might uncoil. Come along. You won’t need that’—Juno had sprung up, snatching at her coat—‘but bring it if you wish. It won’t run away, but bring it if it makes you feel safer.’ This was a long speech. ‘Come along,’ she said again.
Juno followed her, carrying her coat. In the hall the woman picked up the suitcase, said, ‘No,’ when Juno made to take it, and led the way up wide uncarpeted stairs. The dog followed, her paws shuffling and clicking on the polished wood. Juno, climbing behind the woman, felt such immense fatigue she could barely climb without stumbling. The woman led her along a cold dark passage carpeted at intervals with rugs and into a bedroom, where she switched on a lamp beside the bed, saying, ‘Got a nightdress?’
‘In my case.’ Juno looked about her. The room was large, with shuttered windows. The woman was drawing faded chintz curtains. There was a mahogany chest of drawers, an oak armoire, a cheval glass, a bookcase stuffed with books, an armchair with a sagging seat, its chintz matching the curtains, and across the foot of an enormous bed a chaise longue onto which the dog was climbing to settle possessively, resting its nose on its paws.
‘Bathroom’s through that door.’ The woman pointed. ‘You unpack your nightie and sponge while I put a match—’ She knelt by the fireplace and, taking matches from her overall pocket, struck one and applied the flame to kindling in the grate. ‘Soon warm up,’ she said as the kindling caught and flames drew up the chimney. ‘Don’t take all night.’
Juno rummaged in her case for nightdress and sponge-bag. The woman was stacking logs in a pyramid over the sticks. A drift of smoke blew back sweetly scented into the room, then was sucked up the chimney. ‘Wild night.’ The woman stood up. ‘Come on now, get undressed.’ She reached to pull Juno’s sweater over her head, removing the wool cap as she did so. ‘Pretty hair. Take all these things off and go and clean your teeth.’
Juno unzipped her trousers, kicked off her shoes without undoing the laces and eased off her socks. The woman dropped her nightdress over her head and said, ‘Lavatory,’ pointing to the bathroom door.
The bathroom window was shuttered. The bath was huge with a mahogany surround, the basin and lavatory bowl willow-patterned. There were soft, much-mended towels and rose-geranium soap.
Juno cleaned her teeth, bathed her face and, sitting on the lavatory, stared round the room. She had never seen such a bathroom. There was a dressing table, another armchair, more books and still the room looked large.
In the bedroom the woman had turned down the bed and was unlacing Juno’s shoes, putting them tidily by a chair where she had laid Juno’s clothes. She said, ‘Hop in,’ pointing to the bed.
Juno climbed into bed. The linen sheets were cold and smooth. In the double bed in the London hotel the sheets had been of cotton and Jonty’s and Francis’s bodies had radiated fire.
The woman said, ‘My name is Ann. What’s yours?’
‘Juno.’
‘Then sleep well, Juno, give those springs a chance.’
Juno said, ‘Thank you,’ in a strangulated voice. If she could be alone, she could weep if she needed to. She said, ‘Thank you very much.’
‘Sleep well, then,’ the woman said. ‘I’ll put your light out, the firelight’s nice. Come along, Jessie.’
‘Oh, can’t she stay? Please let her stay.’ Juno was almost shouting. ‘Please!’
Ann stood in the open door, her hand on the knob, the firelight flickering across her face. ‘Very well, if that’s what you’d like,’ she said gently. Then she was gone.
Juno drew in her breath, thrust her legs down in the icy sheets and laid her head on the pillows to stare up at the firelight dancing on the ceiling. Perhaps tomorrow she would meet Mr Copplestone, explain why she had brought the letter, how she had met his son. If there was an explanation, she would have to think of it tomorrow.
A gust of wind went whump in the chimney; hail pattered on the window-panes. On the chaise longue Jessie whimpered, stretched out in her sleep, relaxed.
ELEVEN
REACHING THE PORCH, ROBERT Copplestone kicked off his gumboots and pushed the door open, letting it slam behind him. He stood in his socks, grateful to be in from the icy night, grateful to be home.
Hearing him arrive, Ann came from the kitchen. ‘You’re back.’ She took the hat he held in his hand and helped him out of his overcoat, which she shook before hanging it up. ‘Still snowing.’ She eyed him closely as he pulled off his gloves. ‘And you travelled in that suit—’tis too thin—hot toddy?’
‘Please, Ann.’
‘You walked,’ she accused him, looking at his feet in thin silk socks emerging from black suited trousers. ‘Funerals is always chilly, funeral suits should be warm. You should have changed before you travelled. Where are your shoes, then?’
‘The taxi couldn’t get up the hill, so I borrowed Bert’s boots. I left my shoes and case at the farm.’
Ann clicked her tongue. ‘In this weather! You don’t look fit, look like death—’
‘Well, I did, and I’m here.’ (And I shan’t tell her I was nearly blown over at the moor gate and felt like lying down in the snow and giving up.)
She eyed him anxiously, face drawn with fatigue, usually erect shoulders stooped. She said, ‘The fire’s lit in the library, go into the warm. I’ll bring the toddy.’
‘Where’s Jessie?’ He glanced round the hall.
‘She’ll come. Go and sit by your fire, you’re frozen, don’t want you ill. Go on.’ Ann pushed him gently.
He walked slowly across the hall to his library, thin-socked on stone slabs, to slump in an armchair, stretch hands towards blazing logs, rest feet on warm rug, lay his head back, close his eyes.
Ann came
with hot whisky and water. She had been expecting him for hours; the kettle had been simmering on the hob, whisky and glass ready. ‘Drink.’ She watched him. He swallowed.
‘That’s good. Thank you, Ann. Ah, Jessie! Where were you?’ He put the glass aside, leaning down to pat and stroke his dog, who was lashing her tail and whimpering with joy. ‘Why weren’t you at the door? Are you grown deaf, my beauty? I’ve never known you not be there.’
‘Got better things to do.’
‘Oh, oh, I see! The pups have arrived! Clever girl. How many?’ He looked up at Ann.
‘Two. Drink the whisky while it’s hot.’
‘It’s scalding. Are they all right? Dogs or bitches?’ Obediently he gulped some whisky. ‘Just what I needed. Thank you, Ann.’
‘One of each.’
‘Any clue as to the father?’
‘One’s brindled and one’s black and white.’
‘Smooth-haired?’
‘Can’t tell as yet.’
‘Clever girl.’ He stroked the dog. ‘All right, all right, go back to them now.’ The dog was anxious, torn between loyalties, flattening her ears and glancing towards the door. ‘She won’t want to leave them, will she,’ he said to Ann, ‘not for long, not for more than a few minutes at first. I’ll come to the kitchen in a minute,’ he said to the dog, and to Ann, ‘When were they born?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Ah.’
‘And not in the kitchen.’
‘She didn’t have them in the kitchen? Did you move her basket?’ He frowned.
‘She had them in Mr Evelyn’s room …’
‘?’
‘On the chaise longue.’
Robert Copplestone looked bewildered.
‘She’s taken a fancy to the young lady.’
‘What young lady?’
‘Who brought the letter from Mr Evelyn.’
‘Explain.’
‘It’s on the hall table. I’ll get it.’ Ann left the room.
Robert drained the rest of his whisky. Ann returned with the envelope, carried so long in Juno’s bag. He took the letter, slit the envelope and read aloud, ‘Dear Father, Juno Marlowe needs your help. In my present state I can’t do much. I suspect you will find her rewarding, so over to you. Lovingly, Evelyn.’
Ann said, ‘So that’s her surname.’
‘Is she here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’ His voice rose.
‘I put her in Mr Evelyn’s room. It was the only room with the bed made up and fire laid ready.’
‘But—’
‘She’s ill, sir, temperature a hundred and three. I had to do something quickly.’
‘I must go and see—’ Robert made to rise from his chair.
‘Asleep.’ Ann pushed him back. ‘Been asleep on and off since I put her to bed, she couldn’t even finish her soup—’
‘But—’
‘You can’t see her now. Come and have something to eat or we’ll have you ill too.’
‘The doctor—’
‘Couldn’t get here in the snow. I telephoned. He said aspirin and hot drinks, keep her warm. As if I didn’t know.’
‘Ah.’
‘Soup?’
‘In a minute, Ann. In a minute.’ Robert Copplestone read his son’s letter again, quoting aloud, “… in my present state I can’t do much …” Ann, do you think he knew?’
‘We all knew, didn’t we?’
‘Yes. Yes, we did.’ Robert sighed. ‘But we did not want to know, did not want to admit. Oh god, Ann! The doctor in London said he died in his sleep, his heart just stopped. It has been touch and go for years, but when it happens—’
Ann said gently, ‘Surprise and shock,’ and whispered to herself, ‘That cursed gas.’
‘His next door neighbour found him. She had the key, used to take shelter with him, make soup, she said—she said, I think she said, he seemed very tired that night, exhausted—’
‘Come along, sir, have some hot soup now.’
‘Very well.’ Robert Copplestone got to his feet.
‘Your slippers.’ Ann held them out.
Absently Robert fumbled his feet into the slippers. ‘Aren’t these Evelyn’s?’ His voice was high with pain.
‘Very likely.’ Ann waited. Father and son had always interchanged shoes and slippers. ‘Come on,’ she cajoled.
He made an effort. ‘I’ll eat in the kitchen where it’s warm.’ (And where I won’t be alone.)
Ann said, ‘It’s game soup. I gave some to the girl but she couldn’t finish it.’
To please her, Robert said, ‘But I will finish mine, I am very hungry,’ too tired to have an appetite, but Ann was good, kind, had loved, did love Evelyn. He followed her to the kitchen, sat at the table where she laid a place.
He said, ‘The funeral was quiet and quick.’
‘He would have wanted no fuss.’
‘Fuss! What a word!’
She poured soup into a bowl. ‘Eat up.’ Under pressure she spoke as to a child. ‘It’s game soup, your favourite, just try—’
He picked up a spoon, tasted the soup. ‘It’s delicious.’ He spooned some more, laid the spoon down. ‘He did not want to be a nuisance, he left written instructions with our solicitor, he said the same thing to me some time ago.’
‘The same to me, sir, just the once, then no more mention.’
‘M-m.’
‘Eat it while it’s hot.’
‘What a bully you are,’ he said but he ate the soup.
‘And a nice little omelette.’ She was breaking eggs into a bowl.
‘I couldn’t—’
‘You could, and when that’s inside you, another hot toddy before bed.’
He watched her beat the eggs. ‘We could have some sort of service in the village after the war. What do you think?’
‘Yes.’ She poured the eggs into a pan. ‘When—’ she said but did not go on. How could she say, ‘When we are used to his loss’? She slid the omelette onto a plate. ‘Now eat that.’
Between mouthfuls he asked, ‘Hens bearing up, are they?’ trying to be normal, trying to respond to the woman’s courage.
‘Everything’s all right at the farm. Bert’s short-handed, of course, grumbling. Takes the lads being called up as a personal affront, as Mr Evelyn would say.’ She watched Evelyn’s father eating the omelette. We have to mention his name, she thought, it wouldn’t be natural to bottle it all up. Wish he would shed tears. She leaned her bottom against the stove, taking comfort from its warmth. ‘And there’s been a calf born,’ she said.
‘Bull calf?’
‘Heifer.’
‘Good.’ He had eaten the omelette. ‘Thank you, Ann, I feel a lot better.’
‘Hot toddy?’
‘If you will keep me company.’
She poured whisky into tumblers, added water from the kettle. We are used to doing without lemons, she thought, as we must get used to doing without Evelyn. Curse this war. She handed her employer his glass and stood sipping and watching him as he sat nursing the glass between his hands.
Outside the house the wind rose; there was a spatter of rain against the window. Robert Copplestone raised his head. ‘It’s thawing,’ he said, gulped down his drink and stood up. ‘I have kept you up late, Ann, you should go to bed.’
‘You too, sir.’ She rinsed the glasses at the sink. ‘You look,’ she said, ‘done in.’
Robert said, ‘Is the door—the door of Evelyn’s room open?’
‘Ajar so that Jessie can come and go—’
‘I’ll just peep in—’
‘You can see the puppies tomorrow.’
‘It’s not the puppies I want to see, you silly woman.’
‘Thought not, but all you’ll see is the top of her head—’
‘Let’s hope Evelyn was right.’
‘How, sir?’
‘Rewarding, he said.’
Dryly Ann said, ‘He was a good judge.’
‘Of blond
es.’
They mounted the stair together, walked quietly along the corridor to peer through the open door of what so lately had been Robert’s son’s room. By the light of the fire it was just possible to discern a head on the pillow. Juno slept, her face turned away from the door. On the chaise longue the dog, Jessie, wagged her tail.
Robert whispered, ‘This one’s dark,’ and presently, as he undressed and got into bed, mulled over in his mind his son’s suggestion of reward.
TWELVE
WAKING IN THE NIGHT, Juno was aware of a change in the weather; wind, bitter and persistent bearer of snow, now gusted with the jollity which presages spring. She got out of bed, felt her way to the window, drew back the curtains and unlatched a shutter.
In later years it might occur to her that, seeing that view for the first time, she saw it without thought of Jonty or Francis and was entranced.
What she saw was a stretch of moor etched starkly by the moonlight above a wooded valley. To the left of the woods lay a pattern of silvery fields round a group of stone buildings. Barns? A farm? A glint of water zigzagged through the fields to a large pond, to reappear wider and swifter on its way through the woods, to a valley, to the sea, perhaps? It was difficult to judge distances. As it cut through the fields she felt a longing to follow.
The curve of the lane up which she had driven in the dark was delineated by high black hedges, but the moor, rising and dipping, hid the gate she had wrestled to hold for the taxi to pass through. In the distance hills rose steeply up, but nearer the house stood an avenue of beeches whose branches bowed to the wind and etched the sky.
Immediately under her window there was a stone terrace, beyond it a garden bounded by walls and over the walls a kitchen garden, walled also. Nose pressed to the glass, Juno tried to remember the name of the house she now found herself in. The address had been written on the envelope she had carried so long in her bag. The letter was addressed to Robert Copplestone. This she remembered, but the name of the house? The place? Village? Town?
