Tall Chimneys: A British Family Saga Spanning 100 Years

by Allie Cresswell

  ‘You should go to the dance,’ she said, taking the baby off me and looking for a discreet corner where she could feed him.

  ‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘I’m too old for dancing.’ At thirty two, I considered myself old.

  ‘I’ve seen you dance,’ Rose retorted, ‘too old my foot.’

  ‘There’s Awan,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll mind Awan,’ Rose said. ‘Kenneth won’t want to go, and I won’t go without him.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I demurred. ‘I’ll see,’

  We drove home under a sky so heavy and angry it had brought the day to a premature close. Awan fell asleep in the car, and I carried her into the house and put her straight into bed. She had straw in her hair and streaks of dirt on her face. Her hands were as grubby as a street urchin’s. Her dress was torn on the back.

  ‘What a wonderful day you have had, my darling,’ I said as I pulled a sheet over her.

  The house seemed to be deserted. I went to Mrs Simpson’s room and drew myself a deep, cool bath. I looked at myself in the long mirror while it was drawing; I looked like a scarecrow, every bit as dishevelled as Awan. I soaked for a long time, vaguely aware of the officers returning, the thump of water in the pipes, music from the gramophone. As I dried and put up my hair, I heard wheels on the gravel as a car disappeared up the steep driveway, and then silence. Outside the window, the day had turned purple with portent, the outline of trees barely visible against the indigo sky, the air alive with electricity which made my hair stand on end when I brushed it.

  I slipped on a clean dress and descended the gloomy staircase into the dark well of the hall.

  I noticed his smell before I saw him; that assimilation of Tall Chimney smells - good earth, soap, wax polish, sap. Then I made out a figure standing by the half open door, a ghost against a slice of shadow surrounded by impenetrable dim.

  ‘There you are at last,’ he said, turning as I descended the last stair. The white of his smile opened up an envelope in the dusk. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Ready? For what?’

  ‘The dance of course,’ he said. ‘I’ve waited behind, to take you.’

  ‘Oh!’ I exclaimed, ‘that’s kind, but I’m not going.’

  There was a beat. ‘Not going? Why not?’

  ‘There’s Awan,’ I began, but he interrupted me.

  ‘Rose is in the kitchen. She’s listening out for her.’

  ‘And then there’s...’ I looked down at my dress, pretty enough, but not my best.

  ‘Your dress is just fine,’ Cam said, reading my gesture. ‘Now come on. This storm’s gonna break any minute and the roof of the jeep leaks.’

  Time took me by the elbow and propelled me forward three or four minutes. Before I knew it I was in the jeep beside him and we were speeding up the black throat of the drive.

  ‘But I haven’t got my bag!’ I cried, ‘my…’ Lipstick, I had been going to say.

  ‘You don’t need it,’ he shouted back, over the roar of the labouring engine.

  The dance was being held in the mess room. Before we even entered it I could feel the heat which billowed from it in gusts like dragon’s breath. The noise inside was deafening; the four piece band, the shriek of the women, the pounding of feet on the wooden floor. Soon it was augmented by the pelt of rain on the corrugated roof. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and beer fumes and almost saturated with cologne - the men must have doused themselves in it. I had the fleeting impression of a machine, a turbine of bodies in frantic generation of the electricity which crackled and hummed in the storm-laden air. Then I was swept onto the floor and something - I don’t know what it was - some restraint which had held me since I had been a child - slipped away and I was swept up in a coil of an entirely different ilk, a twitching, throbbing, primeval thread of movement which attached itself to my feet, and looped itself around my spine and burst out through the top of my head. I danced like a marionette, without thought. My body obeyed the music and became one with the crowd. It submitted to whatever beat the band played, followed where my dance partners led, drank the beer which was pressed into my hand. I grew dizzy with it, intoxicated perhaps, as the room whirled out of my control, and my body gyrated on the lifting pulse of trumpet, drum and double base like a piece of flotsam on a flooding tide. And always, within that maelstrom of music and heat and beat and pleasure, Cam’s hand was there to steady me. I felt it in mine, a solid anchor point, or in the small of my back, spinning me this way and that but always at a safe centre of gravity. His face remained in focus while all others were a blur.

  Presently the rhythm of the music slowed and Cam put his arms around me. In the periphery of my vision I could see other couples clasped and swaying, like us. Some of them were kissing, careless of who might see. I saw hands kneading breasts and scaling stockings. It was shocking, and thrilling, both.

  The floor had emptied; only two dozen or so people remained. Two girls were slumped across three or four chairs at the edge of the room, fast asleep. A few men who had failed to secure partners were leaning on the bar looking sour. I could see the barman polishing glasses.

  ‘It must be over,’ I thought, and my sadness was overwhelming. Cam pressed me closer into him, but he didn’t attempt to kiss me, and I was glad. ‘We couldn’t be closer,’ I thought, or perhaps I spoke the words out loud. In any case, he took my hand and led me from the room, out into the rain.

  The shock of the cool night and the pouring rain made us both laugh, and we ran for the jeep.

  The roof of the jeep did indeed leak. Water collected on its canvas roof and then poured in streams from various places depending on the speed and trajectory of the car. Consequently we were deluged first from one place and then from another - on our laps, down the backs of our necks, on our feet - and we shrieked every time it happened.

  In the tunnel of the drive we were more sheltered, the soakings stopped and our mood sobered, but something else, something which I suppose had been there all along but which I had not recognised, took the place of the frenetic energy of the dance and the hilarity of the ride home. The water sloshing around our ankles and soaking our clothes turned into something potent, like neat spirit, a sort of ectoplasm of sexual tension. It positively hummed as we drew into the courtyard and Cam switched off the engine and the lights.

  ‘Rose will be inside,’ I said, my voice trembling.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  We climbed out of the car and dashed through the bucketing deluge across the yard to the door. My hair was plastered to my head. My frock, I suppose, was transparent with wet.

  When we got into the kitchen the easy chair by the fireplace was empty and the lights were off. I had no idea what time it was.

  ‘Perhaps she went across to feed the baby,’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ Cam replied, and he was very close to me, I could feel his breath lifting the wisps of hair on my cheek, ‘perhaps she did.’

  And then he kissed me, and one hand was under my chin, gentle, as though cupping a flower-head, and another between my shoulder blades. So proper, so respectful was his embrace, so clean and correct; there was no hint, no suggestion of the pawing and groping I had seen on the dance floor. But his kiss. He kissed me with warm, moist lips, gently, slowly. At their nudging encouragement I opened mine. On a screen in my mind there played a film of our association: the quiver of laughter which twitched at his lip, a toe poking through the seam of his sock, his injured arm, his neatly packed drawer, his shirt-sleeved body working in the garden, the furrow which came between his brows when he concentrated on a fiddly task, his face in the crowd at the dance, his lips, now, on mine. His tongue was soft but incredibly sensual, tasting my mouth as though sampling a new and exotic fruit; exploring in such a way that the idea of it on other parts of my body couldn’t help but suggest itself. A current of desire coursed through my body. I felt my knees sag. My skin cried out for his touch. A distant part of my mind cried ‘Stop! Stop! Remember what happened with Giles,’ but my heart
and some syrupy valve in my belly silenced it. I lifted my hands to place round his neck; I wanted to feel the warmth of him, the texture of that close-cropped hair on his neck, the corner of his mouth where his smile simmered. His tongue probed deeper and I opened my mouth wider and tasted him as he tasted me.

  Then, suddenly, the room was all brightness. Cam pulled away from me. A man’s voice said, ‘Good evening, Evelyn,’ and I turned to see John standing at the entrance to the corridor which led to our rooms.

  John’s return home was of some duration, but it was not all pleasure and holiday. He had come, ironically, to be trained at the airfield. My understanding of his role in the Intelligence Corps took a seismic leap. I had imagined him translating German transmissions, listening in and reporting back on Axis radio and telephone communications, perhaps making the occasional mischievous or misleading broadcast. I had had no doubt that it was arduous and stressful, but I had always assured myself it was safe, anonymous, miles away from any bullet or bomb. But now he was to be trained to parachute and there was only one conclusion to draw: he was to be sent behind enemy lines.

  ‘I need to be prepared, that’s all,’ he assured me. ‘All the chaps who are able-bodied are being trained. The war in France is going under-ground. We’re forming a network of agents and informants who can operate to frustrate the Nazis and we need to be ready to support them, if necessary.’

  ‘But surely,’ I insisted, ‘no-one expects you to…’

  ‘Why ever not? I’m not entirely incapacitated, you know.’

  ‘Your chest…’

  ‘Has been much better, of late, and anyway it wouldn’t be a physical impediment. As a matter of fact I’m rather excited by the prospect.’

  ‘Of throwing yourself out of an aeroplane?’

  He gave me a slanting glance. ‘Indeed. It seems it gives one a certain kudos. I hear all the girls in the village are mad for the airmen.’

  ‘I think it’s the stockings, chocolate and cigarettes they provide,’ I suggested, dryly.

  ‘Do you, now?’

  Nothing had been said about the episode in the kitchen. How much John had seen, I did not know. John didn’t seem to object to the airmen and officers in the house, accepting their coming and going in what had become our private space. He took it as read they would join in our meals and family times and welcomed them, including Cam, participating in the jocular talk.

  But after John’s return home, Cam spent more time at the base, flew extra sorties and, when he was home, tended to spend time outdoors rather than with us. From time to time our eyes would meet. There was so much unsaid between us, unfinished business on a number of levels. I felt confused and perhaps also a little ashamed at my behaviour at the dance, and afterwards. What had I been thinking? I told myself my body had betrayed me - I had spent too many lonely nights. I even blamed John: what did he expect, leaving me alone for so many months? But, if I was honest, I knew Cam had touched more than just a sexually frustrated nerve. My relationship with him - if it was a relationship - was nothing like my association with Giles Percy, who had simply provided an outlet for sexual angst and envy. No, I liked Cam, I really liked him. Perhaps I was even a little in love with him. The idea of him brought a glow to my mind, warm with affection. When he flew, I scanned the skies. When I knew he was jumping, I worried.

  Awan went back to school and John began his training, returning each evening bruised but full of enthusiasm. He was precious of his hands and arms, for obvious reasons, wearing layers of extra padding and several pairs of gloves. Having said that, he did little painting, preferring to take long walks despite the weather, which was unsettled, often wet with sudden, drenching downpours. He engaged on lengthy telephone conversations with people back in London, his voice hushed; I could just hear the drone of it from the butler’s pantry, where the below-stairs telephone extension was connected. We did not argue but there was an atmosphere between us, our conversation was bright and rather brittle, our comments tended to have an edge which was flippant to the point of sarcasm.

  ‘I suppose you wouldn’t like to go to the pictures?’ he said to me one afternoon in late September.

  ‘In York?’ It was nearest picture-house that I knew of.

  ‘Yes, indeed, Evelyn, in the wild and far-flung metropolis,’ he replied, caustically. ‘They do speak English in York, you know.’

  ‘Of course I know that,’ I retorted. ‘I’m only thinking of the time it will take to get there and back again.’

  ‘An hour and a half each way.’ He stroked his chin and pretended to contemplate the enormity of such an undertaking, ‘Do you fear your body will spontaneously combust in the attempt? It is quite an expedition, but no so far as Scarborough.’

  Word of our outing had clearly got to him; Awan, I supposed, had regaled him with the details. And why not? It had been a perfectly respectable day out even if I had returned home without stockings. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I snapped. ‘I simply wonder who will iron these sheets and prepare supper while I’m gone.’

  ‘Or if Tall Chimneys can remain standing, in your absence,’ he muttered, sotto voce, before adding, more forcefully, ‘as you know, people have outings, Evelyn, they go out and enjoy themselves. It’s normal. They eat meals, they drink port and lemon in pubs. They even have holidays. It’s allowed. As you now know, the sky will not fall.’

  I realised then he was jealous, and I should have laughed at him and collected my hat and gone to York, but I didn’t. My day at the sea was precious and unique, and another outing would reduce it to just one in a sequence, something I didn’t want. So John collected Awan from school and took her to the pictures instead. I spent the afternoon fuming with annoyance and resentment. Awan would be too late in bed; she would never get up for school the next day. Something would happen in York - I had no idea what, but in my imagination the city was a dangerous place, dirty and full of traffic. They would have an accident travelling across the moors, without lights in the blackout; what foolishness to contemplate such a thing! Really, I suppose, I was angry at myself. Why hadn’t I gone with them? It would have reassured John and put my seaside adventure into its proper context. It would have broken for good the artificial and perhaps even dangerous precedent which Scarborough had tested.

  While they were gone I came across Cam in the greenhouse, draining the watering system he had installed earlier in the summer. ‘It will freeze and burst the pipes if we leave water in there,’ he explained, over his shoulder.

  ‘It’s very good of you,’ I said, more formally than I had intended.

  Cam shrugged his shoulders. ‘Where’s Awan?’ he asked. ‘I promised her a tour of the airfield and I’ve never gotten round to taking her.’

  ‘She’s gone to York with her… with John,’ I said, ‘to the picture-house.’

  ‘The movies? And you didn’t want to go along?’

  ‘I wasn’t…’ It wasn’t true to say I hadn’t been invited, and to suggest I hadn’t been welcome would have been petulant. ‘Free,’ I said at last.

  Cam nodded sadly. ‘You’re not free,’ he echoed.

  The truth of it felt like a stone in my gut. I fiddled with something further along the bench, the air loaded with all my fulminating over John, my unresolved affair with Cam, a new and frustrating sense of entrapment.

  ‘Did Aloysius tell you that we’ve been posted?’ Cam threw out.

  I felt as though I’d been shot. ‘Posted?’ I stammered. ‘Where?’

  ‘Somewhere pretty remote. Land’s End? And then we’ll be deployed. I don’t know where, yet.’

  ‘Abroad?’ I asked, stupidly.

  ‘That’s where the war is!’

  I couldn’t keep the tremble from my voice. ‘And… and when will you come back?’

  Cam gave me a rueful smile. ‘That isn’t the way war works, Evelyn, you know that.’

  John and Awan got home quite late in the evening. As I had predicted Awan was shattered and querulous. The film, called Bambi, had
made her cry, and I gathered she had snivelled all the way home, to John’s annoyance.

  ‘So much for the happy family outing,’ I quipped, darkly.

  In bed, at night, John and I slept apart, keeping scrupulously to our own sides of the bed, except once or twice, between sleep and wake, when I found his hands on me, and my automatic response was to pull him close. We spoke no words. Our sex was urgent, somewhat combative, and soon over with. I resented him access to me but could not deny him. I resented my own desire which rose to meet his. In the mornings, after these encounters, I felt strangely guilty if I met Cam in the kitchen or coming down the stairs, as though I had in some way betrayed him.

  John’s training finished but he did not return to London. Instead, he started painting, walking up to the gatehouse each dawn and staying there until the light had faded, which was early; October was almost upon us. I couldn’t help thinking of the times in the past when I had walked up there to take food to him, eager to be with him; the pleasure and welcome I knew would greet me there, the sense of companionship which would sink into me as I sat in the chair by the fire while he painted above. Now I couldn’t be sure if I would be welcome; he certainly never suggested I call in on my way to collect Awan from school. He didn’t tell me what he was working on, but then again I didn’t ask. Many evenings he didn’t return until quite late, well after I had served supper to Awan and the officers. Several nights he did not come back at all, and I lay in bed wondering what was happening to us, where the fiery passion had gone to, and all the more drawn to Cam’s draughty bedroom on the north wing.

  October came, and the leaves in the woods turned golden and bronze, and fell to ground. Kenneth drained the fountain and serviced the generator, ready for winter. In the surrounding farmland, land was ploughed, cattle brought in for over-wintering. The boys in the village began collecting wood for the village bonfire and Awan, Bobby and Brian began work on their Guy. The world of Tall Chimneys was turning as it always had, and always would, I thought, a comforting ritual of seasons and celebrations; Advent would follow Guy Fawkes’ night, Christmas would follow Advent, then Easter, Summer, Harvest and so round to Guy Fawkes’ again, and so on, ad infinitum, down the years.