by Mary Stewart
I came.
19
He took me back through the park, and set me down by the bridge, refused the offer of tea – ‘I’ll get mine at half-six when I’ve done’ – and then drove off.
As soon as I was in the house with the door shut I sat down at the table and pulled the vicar’s envelope out of my pocket.
It was a meagre crop, though I supposed it was worth six and eightpence of the vicar’s time. The first was the copy of my grandparents’ marriage certificate: Henry Welland, gardener, to Mary Campbell, domestic servant, witnessed by Jeremiah Pascoe, carpenter, and Giles Brandon, farmer – ‘farmer’ being the accepted label for the owners of the land, the gentry. I had heard it all from Gran, of course, how Sir Giles had not only attended the ceremony, but had made a speech at the wedding breakfast in the village hall, and given the young couple the tenancy of Rose Cottage, which had ‘just been done up lovely’ after the death of its previous occupant.
Then, a decent year and a half later, the certificate of baptism of Lilias Mary, their daughter, with the godparents duly noted, Margaret and Jeremiah Pascoe.
Why I should have hoped for anything from the next slip of paper I do not know. It was some years now since I had drummed up my courage and written to Somerset House, and I had my own copy of my birth certificate, but I sat there staring at the vicar’s careful copperplate as if something might be written there between the lines. It was the certificate of baptism of Katherine Mary, daughter of Lilias Welland. Father unknown. And the godparents, friends to the third generation, James and Annie Pascoe, with Sybilla Lockwood, the vicar’s wife.
And that was all. I bestirred myself at length. I got up and went to lift the Unseen Guest down from the wall and push the papers into the safe.
I had barely readjusted the framed text when there was a knock at the door.
I suppose I stood there for a full ten seconds, my hands still on the frame, tightening till the knuckles showed white. My first thought was, It’s the foreigner, the gipsy, he’s here already, the stranger who’s been asking questions about my family – now perhaps I’ll find out some of the things I want to know. My second, I wonder if I want to hear them after all? And finally, as I pried my hands loose from the Unseen Guest and turned to the door, And Davey’s back at home by now, and a good two miles away …
I opened the door.
It was no foreigner, though the woman who stood there was something of a stranger. I had not seen her for some time, but she never seemed to change. The elder Miss Pope, Agatha. And behind her was Miss Mildred.
‘Well, how nice to see you, Miss Agatha!’ I said, and relief must have warmed my voice into such a delighted welcome that she looked surprised. ‘And Miss Mildred, too. How good of you to call! Do please come in.’
‘I know it’s not Friday,’ said Miss Mildred, following her sister into the room.
‘She means,’ said Miss Agatha, ‘that normally she only walks to meet my train on Friday. But we’ve been in Sunderland to the pictures, and Sister persuaded me to come here with her on our way home because she was worried, and wanted to talk to you.’
‘Oh?’ I said, at a loss. ‘Well, please sit down, won’t you? I’m sorry the place is a bit untidy, but I’ve been trying to sort things out for the movers. Would you like a cup of tea? It won’t take a minute, I was just going to put the kettle on anyway.’
‘No, thank you. We always have high tea when we’ve been into town, and it is all laid ready.’ She sat down, still holding her handbag firmly on her lap, as if ready to go at any moment. I took my place by the table again, and she fixed me, much as the Ancient Mariner fixed the Wedding Guest, with her glittering spectacles. Miss Mildred, perched on the edge of the rocking chair, made a little chirping sound like a nervous young bird. I began to feel a little nervous myself. Perhaps the strange foreigner would have been a little less alarming.
Miss Agatha spoke in her deep, rather pleasant voice.
‘My sister wanted me to come with her to tell you,’ she said, ‘though I have no idea what she is talking about. It’s very difficult, but I always say that when a thing is difficult or unpleasant one had better say it at once.’
I’ll bet you do, I thought, and said aloud: ‘Oh, dear. Well, you’re probably right. So what is it, please?’
‘Only that Miss Linsey is insisting now that she saw your mother here in Todhall last Sunday night. In the graveyard,’ said Miss Agatha, and shut her lips tight on the word.
A twitter from Miss Mildred, then I said, ‘But I know that. She told me herself.’
‘My sister was afraid—’ began Miss Agatha, but Miss Mildred rushed in, the blue eyes filling with tears, the kindly face flushed.
‘Poor Bella. Her dreams, it’s those wretched – I mean those dreams of hers she thinks are visions. She lets them upset her so … Well, you remember I told you that I thought there had been someone here, at Rose Cottage, with a light, on Monday night?’
‘Yes, of course I remember.’
‘Well, I wasn’t thinking, and I told Bella what Bob Crawley had said, about someone digging there near the toolshed, and I said, “Perhaps it was your ghosts, Bella,” quite without thinking, and she looked so queer, and said, you know the way she does, “A warning. It could be a warning. Sometimes even the unenlightened are used to warn of a death,” and she just put her cup down and went without another word. She was having tea with me at the time.’
‘When was she not?’ said Miss Agatha, under her breath.
Miss Mildred swept on without pausing. I thought I could acquit her of wanting to pass on disturbing news, but if it had to be done, then she would get it over as quickly as possible. ‘I’m afraid I put it out of my mind, because, well, you know Bella, but it kept coming back to worry me, so I told Sister, and she said it was far better to tell you ourselves than for Bella perhaps to come down here frightening you with her tales.’
‘As a matter of fact—’ I began.
‘Go on. If you’re going to tell her, tell her,’ said Miss Agatha firmly, with a brave disregard for both her sister’s feelings and mine.
Miss Mildred gulped, then said distressfully, ‘It’s just that I had this feeling’ – she waved a hand somewhere near what I was sure she would have called her bosom – ‘that it was all my fault that Bella got the idea that someone was here digging a grave, as if it wasn’t bad enough for you to have to listen to all the other’ – a pause – ‘the other stuff about your poor mother in the cemetery.’
For Miss Mildred, the word was an expletive. And with it she had apparently shot her bolt. She sat back, dabbing at her eyes. I gave her a smile which she didn’t see, but Miss Agatha looked suddenly interested.
‘You knew this already.’ She made it a statement, not a question.
‘Yes. Thank you for coming to tell me, it was kind of you, but actually Miss Linsey did come here last night, and we had a talk. We – well, we got her dream sorted out, I think.’
‘Well, really!’ Miss Agatha’s deep voice went deeper. She added, rather unfairly, ‘If that isn’t just like her! Anything to get something frightening off her chest and onto yours! I never did hold with all that nonsense of Bella’s. She’ll be breathing ectoplasm next.’
‘I don’t think one actually – that is, never mind, but look, Miss Agatha,’ I said hurriedly, ‘whatever Miss Linsey thought it might mean, or whatever Bob Crawley said about the digging, there’s nothing to it, really. I went and took a look myself yesterday. It’s true that someone has been digging there recently, over by the toolshed, but—’
Another tiny sound from Miss Mildred, and a deep, ‘Really?’ from her sister.
‘Yes, but it’s not a grave, nothing like one, it’s just a small patch that’s been dug over. Nothing there. I told Miss Linsey that, and she seemed quite ready to dismiss it. Dismiss it, I mean, as not being anything to do with her vision, or dream, or whatever you like to call it …’ I turned a hand over. ‘But not, I’m beginning to think, not n
onsense, Miss Agatha.’
‘Indeed? Well?’
I leaned forward in my chair. ‘Look, let’s get one thing clear. It’s obvious that whatever these dreams of Miss Linsey’s may mean, it’s nothing to do with my mother or with me here and now. She died years ago. And it’s even longer since she was here in Todhall. Even if she were still alive, and came back here, would anyone recognise her straight away like that, and in the dark, too?’ I drew a breath. ‘Listen. There’s something I think I ought to tell you, but for the present, please may we keep it between ourselves till I find out more about it? I heard today that a man called here recently, at the vicarage, asking about my grandfather’s gravestone, and he had a friend with him.’
‘Ah!’ That was from Miss Agatha. ‘A woman?’
‘I don’t know. It could be. If so, it’s possible that it was that couple Miss Linsey saw in the cemetery.’
‘Do you know who he was?’
‘No. A stranger to Todhall, apparently. It was Lil who answered the door to him.’
‘And she’s not been here very long herself. A stranger to the village? So what was his interest, do you suppose, in your grandfather’s grave?’
‘It’s Aunt Betsy’s, too.’ In face of that intelligent, unwinking stare I did not feel like taking the thing any further, and said merely, ‘Davey Pascoe and I went up there today with flowers, and there were some already on Aunt Betsy’s grave. They could have been put there on Sunday.’
‘Connections of Betsy Campbell’s. I see. Yes.’ A final, summing look at me that apparently decided her to leave the subject. ‘Ah, well.’ And Miss Agatha, stiff, deep-voiced, still braced with disapproval of the whole world of dreams and visions and ghosts from the past, sounded resigned, rather than relieved. ‘Well, Mildred, it seems as if Bella may have been right, even if misguided.’
‘Poor Bella. She has been so distressed.’ That, tremulously, from Miss Mildred, and it brought a snort from her sister.
‘Then she might at least have kept it to herself. It’s a mercy that Kathy here has so much sense.’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ I said. ‘But I must say I hope Miss Linsey isn’t going around telling her story to everyone in the village!’
‘I doubt if she will. She is in some ways,’ finished Miss Agatha, with (I thought) considerable restraint, ‘a difficult neighbour. But I think I can assure you, Kathy, or should I call you Mrs Herrick now?’
‘Kathy is fine.’
‘I can assure you that this won’t go any further. We only came to tell you about it because Millie here has been so upset, and we did not know what Bella had already said to you. And you need not worry that she will go about repeating her nonsense in the village – for nonsense it is, whether true or not,’ she finished robustly. ‘I have spoken to her myself.’
And I’ll bet that puts paid to any more dreams for a fair while, I thought, then was afraid I had said it aloud, because Miss Agatha smiled suddenly, her eyes twinkling behind her spectacles. ‘I’ll see that it does,’ she said. ‘And I’m sure you are far too sensible to lose any sleep over it. Come, Millie.’
They went.
Sensible or not, I did lose a fair amount of sleep that night, but morning came safely at last, and brought Prissy, elegant, laughing, and laden with goodies for lunch.
20
She had brought smoked salmon and some fresh rolls, and a bag of peaches.
‘I didn’t think Barlow’s shop would be stocking these quite yet,’ she said cheerfully, dumping them on the kitchen table. ‘And I won’t tell you where I got them. The blackest of markets, needless to say, but it’s my conscience, not yours, and I’ve had more practice with that than you, being a vicarage child. I keep my conscience in my stomach these days, anyway. Here, I brought a lemon, just in case. There’s a tin of ham, too, but since you’d asked me to lunch I thought I could leave the main course to you. You used to be a good cook before you went up in the world.’
‘Stewed rabbit,’ I said, and then laughed at her carefully expressionless face. ‘No, don’t worry. There’s no one to shoot the poor little beggars now. It’s chicken.’
‘Well, thank goodness for that! I thought that heavenly smell couldn’t be rabbit! So there’s a black market here in deepest Todhall, too?’
‘Only pale grey. I was lucky. I remembered Mr Blaney used to do a poultry round on Fridays, and I got a spare. Oh boy, this salmon looks wonderful! Thank you! That makes it a feast. Drink first? I scrounged some reasonable sherry from the Black Bull. Now, canny lass, sit thisel’ doon, and for a start, tell me how you got that gorgeous figure, Podgy Pris?’
‘Doing without smoked salmon and roast chicken. Years, just years, my dear, of disgusting things like raw cabbage and carrots and home-made yoghourt. But it’s worth it in the end. It’s Slim Scilla now. Thanks. Cheers.’ She raised her glass and sipped sherry. ‘Not bad, for Todhall! Yes, Gordon won’t have me called Prissy any more, I’d have you know.’ She laughed. ‘I went up in the world too, my girl! I didn’t see it like that at the time, because I fell for Gordon in a big way before I knew anything about him, but marrying a wealthy banker is definitely a step up from any vicarage you care to name!’
I laughed. ‘I believe you! Scilla? It’s pretty. Same with me. I’m Kate to all Jon’s friends, but somehow now I’m back here Kathy comes more natural. And so, I’m afraid, does Prissy.’
‘Fair enough. So long as you forget the Podgy bit!’
‘How could I even think it, seeing you now? Hang on a minute while I look at the chicken … Yes, it’s about ready. Now, we’ve a lot to catch up on. Tell me all about it. I know you got some sort of teaching job after Gordon was sent overseas, and then the school was evacuated to Canada. When was he demobbed, and are you settled over here now, and where are you living? Heavens, we have lost touch, haven’t we? Your mother and I keep up, of course, Christmas and birthdays and such, but I don’t really know a thing about you, except that you’re happy, and now that you and Gordon are together she’s dying to enter the Granny stakes. Any hope for her?’
‘Not up and running yet, but her name’s down.’ She laughed, stroking a hand down over her flat stomach. ‘Podgy Pris will soon be with us again.’
‘Well, that’s wonderful. When?’
‘Oh ages, Christmas, and you will be godmother, won’t you? We mustn’t lose touch again. You’re surely not thinking of living here? I heard about Aunt Betsy, but I don’t know – I mean, how’s your grandmother? Is she—’
‘Still alive? Sure. She went back to Scotland after Aunt Betsy died. She’s fine, at least she’s in bed just now getting over the flu, but she’ll be with us, please God, for a lot of years yet. Look, shall we start on the salmon?’
‘I brought some brown rolls. They’re in that bag. I hope you’ve got some butter, or is it still Gran’s marg?’
I laughed as I set the dish on the table. We had always been able to say things like that without offending. ‘Here you are, ma’am. They make their own at Strathbeg, and Gran gave me some to bring. Help yourself, there’s a whole half-pound.’
It was a delightful meal. There was five full years’ news and gossip to make up. She knew only the barest facts about my marriage, and, cut off as I had been from my childhood’s friends, I had never talked about it before, that brief, frantic span of my life, when I had spun from rapture (I had loved him dearly) to dread, the nights that were not passed with him spent wakeful, listening for the planes overhead, trying, uselessly and without comfort, to count them, the number going out, the lesser number returning. And then the final grief, the long-expected, numbing blow that stops the pain and brings a kind of relief. Life had stopped. Life would have to go on. Life went on, and in time the unbelievable began to happen; pleasure and happiness came back, and even joy. But love? Not again. I said it very firmly. Not again.
‘Not anyone?’ she asked.
‘It’s just that I don’t think that could happen to me again. It would be different now, love w
ould, I mean. I’m older, and want different things. Coffee? It’s Barlow’s best, which isn’t exactly fresh-ground, but it’s quite okay.’
After coffee we washed up, then wandered outside into the sunshine, down to the gate and on to the bridge. The sun was hot on our backs as we leaned elbows on the railing and gazed down into the clear, sliding depths below.
‘There’s one! Look over there, in the shadow of that stone. Do you remember when we came looking for eels, and Davey Pascoe fell into the beck and broke your grandfather’s rod, and got thrashed for it?’
The flood of memories, as deep and clear as the stream below us, took us well into the afternoon, till Prissy, looking at her watch, said reluctantly, ‘I’d better be going, I suppose. We’re leaving tomorrow. Gordon has to be in London for two or three nights. How long did you say you’d be here? And will you go back to London, or up to your Gran’s?’
‘I’ll go north first, to see her settled with all her stuff, and I’ll stay, if she’ll let me, till she’s out and about again, Look, won’t you stay a bit longer, and have some tea?’
‘I really can’t.’
‘Well, come back in and get your bag, and we can exchange addresses. Would you like some flowers?’
We had been making our way back as we spoke, and she had paused at the gate, where the roses and honeysuckle had gone wild along the fence.
‘Love some. Hotel bedrooms are kind of soulless, and I haven’t been back in England long enough to get used to these heavenly gardens.’
‘Half a minute while I get the scissors.’
When I got back into the garden she was over by the toolshed. ‘This rose! Isn’t it just lovely? Would it last if I took some?’
‘Not long, but it’s worth it. I’ll cut it in bud, and that should get it to London with you. Take care, it’s pretty prickly, and I’m not sure if these scissors are strong enough. Ought to have secateurs, really, but they’ve gone. Gran gave the tools away to Davey.’
