Trio

by Sue Gee

‘That waitress looks like Grace Barrow.’

  Steven couldn’t remember what Grace Barrow looked like.

  ‘She and Nellie did the supper at that autumn concert.’

  He took her hand across the table, remembering the rain, the mass of people he didn’t know, the beauty and power of the music, moving him almost to tears.

  ‘Who would have thought it?’ he said, as her dark eyes gazed back at him. ‘Who would have imagined that you and I—’

  ‘I would,’ said Margot, as the waitress came up with her pad.

  ‘But why?’ he asked, when they’d given their order. ‘I mean, on the face of it—’

  ‘Something in you just moved me. That’s all I can say.’

  And she thought of him then, tall and pale and shy, with that flop of light brown hair and a smile, when it came, which changed everything.

  ‘Margot.’ He lifted her hand to his lips. A little girl at the next table was told not to point.

  After tea they followed the path to the ruined Priory. The sea wind blew through broken arches, and rippled the grass. They walked through the spaces of cells and cloisters.

  ‘Tell me things,’ said Margot, her hand in his.

  ‘The Lindisfarne Gospels,’ said Steven, and remembered how Margaret had loved them, and once had her girls copying initial letters in powder paint. ‘You know about them, you must have seen pictures.’

  Had Miss Renner talked about them? Shown a book? Or had that been at school?

  ‘Tell me.’

  And as they walked on in the sun he tried to describe them – the illuminated manuscripts, eighth century, exquisitely done, using Anglo-Saxon jewellery designs, pigments from local vegetables and animals. All written and painted by just one man, Eadrith, Bishop of Lindisfarne.

  ‘I suppose Eadrith gave his life to them, the Gospels, and he created the most beautiful thing. But he died before he could finish it all.’ He put his arm round her. ‘When I was at Durham we heard a lot about them – they were housed there until the Dissolution. Now they’re in the British Museum.’

  They came to the long grassy space of the refectory. The sun was slipping down, and the shadows of the ruins began to deepen.

  He drew Margot closer. ‘End of lesson. No more lessons now.’

  They stopped, and looked out over the shoreline: one or two fishermen’s cottages, boats here and there. It was growing much cooler now, clouds beginning to gather. And with this change in atmosphere, this sense of the long summer day beginning to ebb away, Steven all at once felt sadness and sorrow well up once more, and could do nothing to stop it.

  Beside him, Margot said again, ‘You know everything.’ She leaned her head on his shoulder.

  ‘Except how to live a life.’ He couldn’t stop himself.

  She lifted her head and looked at him.

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He looked away.

  ‘But why do you say it?’

  ‘Just—’ He spread his hands. ‘Moffat has set something off in me, that’s all.’

  Her look was so searching and deep, but she didn’t ask anything further, and he could sense her pulling back, not wanting to say: ‘About your wife? About Margaret?’ And he thought: Am I going to hurt her? When we’ve only just found such happiness? Or perhaps she’ll hurt me – she might grow tired of all this. Then he remembered something.

  ‘Here.’ He reached in his pocket, pulled out the stone he’d picked up from the shore, small and smooth and perfect. ‘This is for you. A keepsake.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She turned it over, held it between finger and thumb. ‘It’s lovely.’ But he could sense her caution, as she slipped it into her bag.

  ‘That little song,’ he said gently.

  ‘What little song?’

  ‘The one you said your mother used to sing – about the day ending. Remember?’

  She remembered. Such sweet poignant lines. And that he had remembered it, after hearing it only once, that he understood what it meant to her – she was filled with tenderness again.

  ‘We are close, you and I,’ she said slowly. ‘Whatever happened – whatever is making you sad – I think we’re very close, really.’

  He drew her to him. ‘I think so, too. Forgive me?’

  She kissed him. She was warm and loving and alive, and his misery began to dissolve. He gave a great sigh.

  ‘Oh, that’s better. Sing the little song?’

  And she sang it as they made their way back to the long stretch of sand leading across to the mainland, where mighty Bamburgh Castle, miles down the coast, stood silhouetted against the sinking sun.

  ‘Now the day is over,

  Night is drawing nigh;

  Shadows of the evening

  Steal across the sky . . .’

  Seabirds wheeled above them; slowly the waves began to come in and retreat, to and fro, to and fro, as always.

  3

  The exams were over. The exams were over! Down came the Quiet Please notices, Miss Aickman picking away at the sticky tape; up came the usual roar of noise in corridor and playground. There was a sudden burst of summer rain, washing away the dust on the trees and pavements of the Square; next morning, it felt as if a whole new world were beginning, the air fresh, the sun shining bright as anything. And Northumberland beat Yorkshire Second XI. Murray was 104 not out!

  ‘Sir, sir, that’s grand, isn’t it?’

  ‘Splendid. Straighten that tie.’

  Only the absence of a thin white coughing boy cast a shadow over the general jubilation. His name was crossed out in the register: Steven felt it the hardest mark he had ever made on paper since he came to the school. And everyone felt it, the first morning when he went down the line of names.

  ‘McNulty?’

  ‘Here, sir.’

  A pause. ‘Potts?’

  Potts was here, Potts was filling the gap. It might be something he remembered all his life, thought Steven, as he went on.

  ‘Wigham.’

  ‘Here, sir.’

  He closed the register. At break, Potts and McNulty went out together, two boys who’d never had much to do with each other before.

  The exams were behind them; then came the results. Not for the upper school, taking the School Certificate and Higher levels: those would come in the holidays, though everyone had a pretty good idea of who was going to do well, and who might be leaving at the end of the Upper Fifth. Tom Herron and Jack Halpin were bound for Oxford, a first for the school.

  ‘Thanks to you, Mr Embleton,’ Straughan said in the termly meeting. Frank shook his head. ‘They’re bright, hard-working boys, I’m sure they’d have done it anyway.’ Beside him, Dunn dropped a book.

  But now, for the lower school, it was marking, marking, smoke and swearing filling the staffroom, people lugging boxes home. Within a couple of weeks the results, and the places, were pinned up on the boards, the boys crowding round. The usual whoops, the crestfallen walking away. And then the wretched re-sits.

  Out on playground duty, Steven tried to console.

  ‘Never mind, Hindmarsh, you did your best.’

  ‘Not good enough, though, was it, sir?’

  ‘Not as bad as all that. And cricket this afternoon.’

  ‘I’m not that good at cricket, either.’

  It was true. Steven let his arm go briefly round beefy shoulders.

  ‘You’re a good lad.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  And no one could fail to be cheered by the walk to the playing fields, down the hill and across the sparkling burn, the sun on the hills, the sight of the nets and pavilion.

  ‘Sir, sir, who’s taking us?’

  ‘Duggan and me.’

  ‘And Mr Embleton?’

  ‘I think he’s on tomorrow, with Mr Gowens.�
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  ‘Where’s his car?’

  Steven looked across to the railings. No bright gleam of red, but sometimes Frank parked further down. And no Frank at lunch, now he came to think of it, but sometimes he went out at lunchtime, everyone did now and then, when they weren’t on duty, just to have a breather, buy cigarettes or tobacco.

  As they all trooped out with their kit he looked up and down along the Square. No Imp beneath the trees.

  ‘Where’s Embleton?’ Gowens, at break time next morning, checking the cricket list.

  ‘Anyone seen Embleton?’ David Dunn, tight-lipped at the tea trolley.

  ‘Sir, sir, have you seen Mr Embleton?’ Todd, from the Upper Fifth, knocking at the staffroom door.

  ‘Has anyone seen Mr Embleton?’ Miss Aickman, coming in as the bell rang.

  No one had seen him. No one had seen him since yesterday morning, now they came to think of it. No one had a clue where he was, and in the sunlit staffroom Steven felt himself suddenly go cold.

  And then the letters came.

  Great Whitton

  30th June 1938

  Dear Mr Straughan,

  The office, with its ancient smell of musty textbooks and pipe smoke, had the windows wide open to the morning air. Out on the hills the sheep had been taken for shearing, and it was unusually quiet. Straughan read on.

  I know that this letter will come as a shock, and I must apologise. I have waited as long as I could: now that the examinations are over, I hope you will not think that what I am doing is too irresponsible . . .

  He read on to the end. He read through it again, put his head in his hands.

  Dear Dunn,

  I want to thank you for all your good work this term, and in the past. I know it has not always been easy . . .

  In the crowded noisy staffroom, standing in the corner by the pigeon holes, David Dunn gave his mad harsh laugh. At first, no one took any notice.

  My dear Steven,

  I know that this letter will come as a shock. I have often wanted to confide in you – indeed, there were times when I wanted to suggest that you joined me in what I’m about to do, but I knew that it wasn’t right. I know you will magnificently fulfil the duties which I hope old Straughan will give you now. I have decided . . .

  No sheep on the hills, steady and eternal. No Frank. Perhaps no Frank ever again. Steven read on, and the image of a fist smashing into the foreground, of devastated buildings, leapt suddenly out from a bright spring morning. He knew who had written that book, and why: of course he did.

  You might think it all futile now, but there’s going to be one last push . . .

  He read on, and his hands were shaking.

  Dearest Mother and Father . . .

  I hope you can forgive me. By the time you read this . . .

  Sun poured into the breakfast room at Great Whitton, winking off the cut-glass jar of marmalade. At one end of the table, the letter was crumpled into a ball and hurled across the room. At the other, Priscilla Embleton pushed back her chair and ran sobbing into the hall. Behind her, her husband roared out, ‘And where’s that silly girl?’

  But Diana had got up early, and driven over to Hepplewick for breakfast in her nippy little car, singing Happy Days Are Here Again as she sped away over the hills.

  Dearest Margot . . .

  At first, she had thought it was a letter from Steven, and her heart leapt. Then she saw the handwriting, and frowned, standing there in the porch in the morning sun, the dog beside her, as the postman cycled away.

  Wait until the others are with you before you read this, and give them both my love. I give you my love, dearest Margot, as I have always done, though I always knew it was hopeless. Now put this back in the envelope. Go on, darling – I shall never call you that again. Go and have breakfast now.

  She was trembling from head to foot.

  ‘Father?’ She walked slowly, unsteadily, into the hall. ‘Father?’ Then she remembered: a meeting in Morpeth, back for lunch. Beside her, the dog put his nose in her hand.

  The post came early at Coquet Bridge. In the shady hall, ­wisteria stirring at the leaded windows, George, in his dressing gown, bent to pick up the letters. He leafed through them, most for his parents, as usual: he could hear his mother moving about in the kitchen, and smell the toast; from the dining room, he could hear his father turning the pages of The Times. Then he saw the one for him, saw that distinctive, beloved hand.

  His parents’ letters fell to the floor. Slowly he opened the envelope.

  My dear George,

  I ask you to forgive me, and to understand. I know it will be hard . . .

  He read on, standing absolutely still, feeling the blood drain out of him.

  Diana turned into the drive and drew up. George’s bicycle was flung against the porch: everyone must be up early today – that was what summer did to you. She turned off the ignition, sat for a moment listening to the birds. Sometimes through the open drawing room window you’d hear the other two tuning up, or playing a little duet. Not today. She picked up her music, got out, reached for the cello. As she walked towards the house she could see the outline of the two of them through the open drawing room windows, just sitting there.

  ‘Morning!’

  No answer.

  She turned into the porch, walked through the hall as the grandfather clock struck nine.

  ‘Bong! Bong!’

  Margot and George just looked at her, Margot now standing there in the middle of the room, he flung into the wing chair looking – well, very strange.

  ‘What’s up?’ Diana set down the cello. ‘What on earth is the matter?’

  ‘You haven’t heard,’ said Margot. ‘You haven’t had a letter.’

  ‘A letter? Who from? The post hadn’t come—’

  ‘From Frank,’ Margot said slowly. ‘He’s gone to Spain.’

  ‘Spain? Why? What on earth’s he going to do there?’

  And what would he do? Look at pictures in Madrid? Visit the Alhambra?

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘He’s gone to fight, you dolt.’ George was ashen. He got to his feet. ‘He’s gone to fight – there’s a war there, remember? Do you never think of anything beyond your own silly nose?’

  She burst into tears.

  ‘Oh, George, don’t.’ Margot began to cry too.

  ‘Don’t what? Don’t be angry? Don’t be upset?’ He paced the room, and the girls ran into each other’s arms. ‘Don’t feel?’

  ‘George, please! I’ve never seen you like this—’

  ‘No,’ he said, shaking. ‘You haven’t. You haven’t seen a bloody thing.’ He clamped his hand to his mouth. And then he too began to weep. ‘What am I going to do?’ He paced up and down like a mad thing. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘Come here,’ said Margot, breaking away from Diana. ‘Let me – let me—’

  ‘No!’

  He turned and ran from the room, out through the hall, out from the porch, into the tranquil garden, and the dog got up from his basket and followed. Everything glistened, and the air was full of song. For a moment or two George just stood on the flags, sobbing. Then he began to run, the dog running joyously after, down the dewy lawn towards the ha-ha. Margot and Diana watched him, tight in each other’s arms.

  ‘He doesn’t know what to do with himself.’

  ‘I know.’

  It was one of Nanny’s expressions. ‘You don’t know what to do with yourself, do you, my duck? You come to me.’

  But George did not come to them. At the brink of the ha-ha he stopped, and they saw him fling out his arms, in a gesture of utter despair. Then he turned, and raced back, the dog racing with him.

  ‘Go away!’

  He ran, gasping, into the shade of the cedar, and grabbed at the swing. He got on, and pushed hi
mself back on the worn dark grass, still weeping, till his feet left the ground and he was away, swinging and swinging, flinging his feet back and forth until he was higher than you would think possible, though he was so light that it seemed he could fly to the moon.

  ‘Frank!’ His sobs rent the air. ‘Frank!’

  Above him the cedar spread its enormous arms; above him, the bough where the rope had been fastened all those years ago began to creak, and the rope, worn and frayed now, out in all weathers, year after year, began to give a little.

  George swung higher, his legs like pistons, pulled under, then flung out before him, up and down, up and down, and then there came a sound which no one had ever heard before in this lovely old garden – a bough finally beginning to break, twisting the swing, ready to fling him unstoppably into the air and down to the ground far below, until Barrow, working in the kitchen garden, looked up for a moment at a sudden wild barking, dropped his hoe, and went haring towards the gate, and Margot and Diana, screaming George’s name, went flying out of the house, and managed, just, to save him.

  4

  It was like an earthquake. The suddenness of Frank’s departure, the shock of it, the enormity of the realisation that he might never return – it was like rocks hurled into the air, like plates shifting within the earth. Nothing could ever be the same, and anything could happen. In a strange way, it gave permission for anything to happen.

  And for weeks, fragments of the letters came back to haunt them all.

  All my life, I have had such a burning desire to do more . . . I cannot live the life I was brought up to lead . . . We are on the brink of catastrophe, and we have to act . . .

  Up at her dressing table, Priscilla Embleton gazed at her pretty face unseeingly.

  I thank you both for all you have given me . . .

  From the dressing room came the sound of clothes swept violently along the rail, and a roar of irritation. Priscilla turned from the mirror and looked at her wedding photograph, in its silver frame. She picked it up, and turned it over, face down on the kidney-shaped glass, with such a lovely print beneath. Roses. Roses and phlox. Then she went quietly across to the wardrobe, with its heap of hat boxes, and pulled down a little suitcase, lined with oyster silk.