by Rose Meddon
Across the table from her, Naomi looked up. ‘Yes?’
Curling her fingers into the palms of her hands, Kate hesitated. ‘I’ve… just realized that I can’t hear Esme anywhere.’
‘I expect she’s with Ned.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said, edging away from the table and, in overly exaggerated fashion, peering towards the door. ‘Happen I should go an’ check.’
‘As you wish.’
Out in the hallway, Kate looked quickly in both directions. Seeing no sign of anyone at all, she turned towards the porch. Ah, there he was – out on the drive, letter in hand. But, on the point of making her way towards him, she faltered. If it was bad news, would he want to share it? Knowing so very little about him, she had no idea. Had it been Ned receiving news he didn’t like, he would have been waving his arms and cursing and muttering words like gross unfairness, injustice and rotten luck. Rowley, though, seemed markedly less effusive.
After a moment’s indecision, she went towards the front door anyway. Worse than having him think her nosey would be for him to turn around, see her loitering, and think that she was spying upon him.
As it happened, she had made it all the way to the porch, and was stepping out onto the gravel, before he had even moved.
‘Kate,’ he said upon seeing her, his tone suggesting that he had been far away in his thoughts.
‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘but I wondered whether everything is all right?’
When he raised his hand and waved the letter, she read his gesture as one of disappointment. ‘While I can’t report that anything is actually wrong,’ he said, holding her gaze. ‘It’s rotten news all the same.’
When he didn’t then go on to elaborate, she felt moved to prompt him to do so. In the event, all she could think to say, was, ‘Oh.’
‘It appears I am not to be granted my wish to fly again.’
This time, she replied with rather more feeling. ‘Oh! Oh, I’m real sorry to hear that.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I know that wasn’t what you were hoping for.’
The sinking of his shoulders alone conveyed the extent of his dismay. ‘You’re right. It wasn’t. You know, I did keep reminding myself that this might happen. I even told myself that it wouldn’t matter too much if it did. But now that it has, I find that it does matter. And rather more than I imagined. Once a flying man, always a flying man, I suppose.’
Lost for any words of consolation, she shifted her weight. ‘Could you ask them to think again?’
In response to her question, he shook his head. ‘No point. When I went before the medical board that day, I made sure to stress just how badly I wanted to go back up – to return to spotting. And I saw them noting down what I was saying. But, according to this letter, in recent months, operational needs have changed and, with only about a third of current sorties now being devoted to reconnaissance, what they need today isn’t so much airborne observers and photographers as men on the ground, interpreting the information already coming in, and marking up the images.’
What did that mean, she wondered? Taking in the glumness of his expression, she decided not to ask. Instead, she said, ‘So, do you know where you will be going?’
He glanced to the letter. ‘Actually, I am to be offered a choice. I can either accept a secondment to a military department in Whitehall—’ Whitehall. That was in London. Well, unless there was more than one place with that same name. ‘—or else I can volunteer for a new division being set up in Gloucestershire. Other than describing it as being classified secret, of this second choice they say nothing more. Well, apart from emphasising that it carries a promotion.’
Feeling the onset of panic, Kate drew her hands behind her back. ‘And… which will you choose?’
‘Well, I’m certainly in no rush to disappear down a Whitehall rabbit hole – for fear of never making it back out again.’
So he wasn’t going to choose London then – unless his comments were meant as a joke. She couldn’t really tell.
‘No,’ she said, hoping that her reply could be construed either way.
‘But Gloucestershire might not be too bad.’ Cautiously, she raised her eyes to look back at him. ‘It’s not so very far from my family home. And the work could be interesting – certainly worthwhile. And the promotion might go part way to making up for being stuck on the ground.’
Overcome by a gloominess she felt lost to understand, Kate started to turn away. She had come to find him in the hope of learning that the news was to his liking. But, clearly, it wasn’t. And nothing she could say was going to change that.
‘Would you like anything more for breakfast?’ she asked. Heavens, how banal. ‘Only, you didn’t have the chance to finish your plate.’
He shook his head. ‘Sorry about that. But no, thank you, I find I am no longer hungry. In fact, I might go for a stroll and… well, you know, see if the news sits any more easily once it sinks in. And then, I suppose, I shall weigh up my options.’
The smile she managed was a weak one. Ordinarily, she would have offered to go with him. On this occasion, though, she imagined he would prefer to be alone.
‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘But if you change your mind, and find that later on you’re hungry, just say.’
‘Thank you, Kate. You’re very kind.’
And you’re very sad, she thought, turning away from him to head back indoors.
* * *
‘Goodness. I can scarcely believe this. Lawrence is being discharged from Priory Glen. He’s coming home!’
It was a grey and showery morning several days later. And, when Naomi had wandered in with their second post of the day, Kate had been sitting staring out through the French doors, lost to know what to do with herself.
Watching Naomi reading her letter, she got up and went towards her. ‘So soon? Is he cured, then?’ After barely ten days it seemed hardly likely.
‘He writes that although not fit enough to return to service, the doctor has decided to allow him to come home and continue his regimen of activities here. Apparently, by doing that, not only will he benefit from being back with us, but his place at Priory Glen can be taken by someone who would otherwise be without what he describes as “access to a suitable environment for recovery”.’
‘Does he say when he’ll be here?’ she asked. For Naomi’s sake, she did hope that he was properly better and not just being pushed out to make way for someone else.
Naomi scanned the letter afresh. ‘Friday—’
‘The day after tomorrow? This Friday?’ Heavens, that was quick.
‘It would seem so, yes. He writes that he hopes to catch the early afternoon train.’
She studied Naomi’s face; it seemed to convey only disbelief. ‘For certain you must be… pleased.’
‘To be quite honest with you, Kate, I’m somewhat shocked. Two to four weeks – that’s what they said when they admitted him.’
‘Then in just ten days he must have made excellent progress.’ She did hope he had. At the very least, she hoped they had managed to cure his rages, and cure the way he saw things that weren’t there while, at the same time, failing to recognize those that were.
‘Friday,’ Naomi remarked, apparently deep in thought. ‘Oh! You know what we should do – we should throw a party!’
‘A party?’ Had Naomi taken all leave of her senses? Ignoring the fact that so many things were in short supply, there was the small matter of them being at Woodicombe – hundreds of miles from anyone who might reasonably accept an invitation to such a thing.
‘Not a party on the scale my mother would hold,’ Naomi rushed to clarify. ‘I rather meant a tea party, out on the lawn, weather permitting of course. Sandwiches, cakes, parlour games. You know, put on a jolly welcome back for him.’
When, picturing such a thing, Kate exhaled a long sigh, Naomi turned sharply towards her. ‘Oh, my dear Kate, forgive me. What was I thinking? You’re in mourning. We’re all in mourning. Oh, I’m so
sorry – the last thing we should be doing is holding a party.’
‘No,’ she said, reaching for Naomi’s hand. ‘You’re right. Mr Lawrence being well enough to come home is tremendous news. We should celebrate it. Without a shadow of a doubt Luke would want us to.’
Despite her reassurance, from Naomi’s eyes she still read only uncertainty.
‘Are you sure? You’re not just saying that for my benefit? Only, I know that’s how you can be.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m sure of it. Luke’s passing shouldn’t stop everyone else from getting on with their lives. And he’d agree with me on that, I know it. He’d even be cross to see me wearing this…’ Reaching to her skirt, she fingered the crepe of her mourning gown. ‘…this thing. He’d say it makes me look pale and miserable. And he’d be right.’
‘Well, if you promise me you mean it – if you promise you won’t be offended or upset by the gaiety…’
Unable to help it, Kate shook with laughter, the sound of such merriment from her own lips an odd thing to hear. ‘Offended by gaiety? Me? Never!’
‘Then shall we go down and see what Edith thinks she might be able to scrape together for such a thing? No sense trying to organize something for which there wouldn’t be any food.’
‘We shan’t go down and see her, no,’ she said, still smiling. ‘That task is yours alone. Me, I intend keeping well away. I have no desire to hear Edith bemoaning all the extra work.’
As it happened, Edith didn’t complain at all; by Naomi’s later reporting, both Edith and Mabel were more than happy to suggest fare to which the pantry’s rather meagre contents might be stretched. Thus, unwilling to risk them changing their minds, Naomi wasted no time in driving straight to Wennacott Farm to procure two dozen eggs which were, according to the farmer’s wife, two or three days old but perfectly fine for baking. From there, she drove in the other direction to Farmer Braund, who kept cows rather than sheep, returning this time with two irregularly-shaped pats of butter, a half-gallon of milk, a block of hard cheese, and a wedge of blue-vein that smelled to high heaven.
‘I used my charms,’ she said when her haul met with Edith’s approval. ‘And an overly-generous number of coins from my purse.’
‘Ah, that’s the Braunds for you,’ was Edith’s observation.
From that moment on, the hours seemed to fly and, almost before anyone thought it possible, Naomi was setting off for the railway station to meet Mr Lawrence; on her face an expression she said she hoped conveyed her delight at seeing him again, while giving away nothing of the surprise awaiting him back at the house.
Once she had left, Kate helped Mabel and Edith put the finishing touches to arrangements on the lawn.
‘Could have done with a mite less breeze,’ Mabel opined, securing the tablecloth to the trestle with yet another weight. ‘But at least the sky seems set fair.’
‘We shall have to hope it don’t blow out the flame on this burner,’ Kate remarked, striking a match to light it, only to have it immediately extinguished by a gust of wind.
‘May I?’ Turning about, she came face to face with Rowley. ‘Only, when it’s windy,’ he said, ‘there is something of a knack to it.’ Stepping back from the table, she handed him the box of Cook’s matches and watched, as, striking a new one, and shielding the little burner with his hand, he offered one to the other. ‘There,’ he said, adjusting the wick. ‘Burning nicely.’
With a smile, she accepted back the matches. ‘Thank you.’
‘Pleased to be of assistance. And if there is anything else I can do, please, do feel free to put me to work.’
She glanced about, the wind causing her to reach for the brim of her straw hat even though she had secured it with an extra pin. ‘Thank you for your offer. But I think we’re done for now.’
With a polite nod he withdrew, just as Mabel arrived.
‘Not a bad spread, all things considered,’ she remarked, setting down the handful of teaspoons she had been carrying.
Kate smiled warmly. It was good to see Mabel looking so much brighter. ‘You’ve worked wonders,’ she said. ‘I mean it. Mr Lawrence will be delighted. And I know for a fact Naomi is.’
‘It was a joy to be able to set about something cheery for once,’ Mabel admitted. ‘Like it’s a joy to see you with a little more colour to your cheeks.’
Suspecting Mabel knew what had put it there, and feeling herself blushing, Kate stared down at the front of her flowery frock – something else that was giving her more colour. All day, she’d been in two minds about her decision to leave off her mourning gown in order to wear this one.
‘You don’t mind that I’ve shed my weeds?’ she turned back to Mabel to ask. ‘It is only for this one afternoon. And only then because, otherwise, I should feel such a poor influence on what is, after all, a joyous occasion.’
‘Me? Mind? Not in the slightest, love. How you choose to observe your mourning is a matter for you alone to decide. Wearing black always did seem to me more about showing everyone else how dutiful and sorrowful you are. No, as I see it, ’tis more meaningful to have a sincere heart inside than a false display out.’
Reassured, Kate slipped her hand through Mabel’s arm. ‘And that’s the truth.’
‘’Course it is. Now, while there’s still time enough to bring about a remedy, can you spot anything we’re missing?’
Although knowing perfectly well what Mabel meant, Kate laughed. ‘I can hardly see that summat’s missing if it’s not here to start with!’
‘Heavens, you daft child. You know what I mean.’
She looked along the trestle. Secured upon it was a tablecloth from the household’s third-best set of linens. Examined closely, it was possible to see scorch marks left by a too-hot smoothing iron, and the tiniest of moth-holes. But, as Naomi had said, it was perfectly adequate for dining al fresco and infinitely preferable to getting grass stains on one of the better ones. Weighting it down were two butler’s trays, one stacked with tea plates and cutlery, the other with cups and saucers. Wisely, Mabel had eschewed the porcelain tea services, remarking that despite this one being ironstone, it did a fair impression of being something smarter, aided as it was by its plain white colour and surprising overall delicacy. It was, she had supported her recommendation of it to Naomi, robust.
Taking it all in, Kate moved further along the trestle. If the late Mrs Latimer could see her Georgian teapot put to use in the garden, she would turn in her grave. But, along with the matching coffee pot, they were the only pieces of their kind that were both large enough and still sufficiently presentable. Side by side, waiting to be filled, they also happened to be from the same set as the two milk jugs – covered against the flies with little circles of mesh that forever reminded her of hair nets – and the sugar basin with its matching tongs, the little crystal knob on its lid catching the sunlight.
Behind the arrangement of ostentatious silverware, the towering hot-water jug was now perched on the burner, the smell of methylated spirits strong enough to make her feel queasy. Heaven only knew where Mabel had found that particular jug; the last time that thing had seen light of day had to be more than decade ago. Same went for the length of union jack bunting, which could only have come from the party Mrs Latimer had held for the coronation of King George.
Exhaling a long sigh, she stood back. In relatively few years, Woodicombe, along with much of the world beyond it, had changed beyond all recognition. And oftentimes, today included, she found herself wishing that it hadn’t.
Determining not to succumb to gloominess, she turned about, her eyes falling upon the Royal Worcester cake stands, their contents protected from flies by the draping of tea towels. With the provisions Naomi had procured, Edith had managed to produce a Victoria sponge, a cherry Madeira, and what had originally been intended as a Dundee cake, but which had, when blanched almonds had proven impossible to come by, been substituted with a tea loaf. Still to come up from the kitchen were plates of sandwiches: crab and cucumber,
cheese and tomato, and egg and cress. Not bad for a spur of the moment thing.
Stepping back, she folded her arms across her waist. Had things been different, they could have been putting on this very spread to celebrate the return of not just Mr Lawrence but Luke as well – both of them returning victorious from battle rather than, in Mr Lawrence’s case, from an asylum, and in Luke’s case, not at all. But perhaps it was best not to think in terms of if only.
At that moment, a flash of sunlight glinting on brass brought her back from her reverie: the Humberette was swinging in through the gates, Mr Lawrence at the wheel. Then he must truly be better, she thought, shielding her eyes to look across at him, otherwise Naomi would definitely not have allowed him to drive. Unless, of course, he wasn’t better and had simply insisted; few men, even unwell ones, would choose to sit in the passenger seat.
When the motorcar came to a halt in front of the porch, and Mr Lawrence stepped down onto the drive, his amusement and surprise at the sight before him came as a relief. Perhaps he was better; for Naomi’s sake she hoped so. But, as the afternoon progressed and, later, she found herself watching him reclined in one of the canvas chairs, his long legs stretched out in front of him, her delight began to give way to something else. She was joyed for him, of course she was – and relieved to see him looking so much less grey and harrowed. He even looked to have put on a little weight. But none of her early happiness softened the recognition that, for a second time, while Mr Lawrence had come home, Luke hadn’t. It didn’t alter the fact that she had gone from being a wife, full of hope, to a widow with none, all of the things she had spent four years waiting for snatched away to be replaced by… to be replaced by what?
As the days slipped past, her picture of the life stretching ahead of her became no less fuzzy. As things stood, when Naomi returned to Hartland Street, she would, of course, go with her. But to do what? She couldn’t spend the next five decades as Naomi’s housekeeper-cum-companion. Yes, it was possible that Naomi might go on to have children of her own – might – even so, those children were unlikely to need her: they would have a nursemaid, then a governess, and then go away to school. And anyway, she couldn’t live the rest of her life vicariously, no matter her fondness for the Colbornes. Be kind to Aunt Kate, she was widowed in the war. No, she was going to need something of her own to live for. But what, precisely?
