The Distant Hours

by Kate Morton

  I started my enquiries, as I usually do, by asking Herbert whether he knew anything about unsolved kidnapping cases from the early part of the century. One of my hands-down favourite things about Herbert – and the list is long – is his ability to find precisely the information he’s after in the face of apparent chaos. His house is tall and skinny to start with, four one-time flats patched back together: our office and printing press takes up the first two levels, the attic’s been sacrificed to storage, and the basement flat is where he lives with Jess. Every wall of every room is lined with books: old books, new books, first editions, signed editions, twenty-third editions, stacked together on mismatched, improvised sets of shelves, in a glorious, healthy disregard for display. And yet the entire collection is catalogued in his brain, his very own reference library, so that he has every reading experience of his life at his fingertips. To see him home in on a target is a thing of beauty: first, his impressive brow furrows as he takes in the query, then a single finger, delicate and smooth as a candlestick, raises and he hobbles, wordlessly, to a distant wall of books where the finger is given free reign to hover, as if magnetized, above the spines, leading him, finally, to slide the perfect book from its place.

  Asking Herbert about the kidnapping was a lazy long shot, so I wasn’t really surprised when it yielded little of use. I told him not to feel bad and headed to the library, where I befriended a delightful old lady in the basement who’d apparently been waiting there all her life on the off-chance I’d show up. ‘Just sign in over here, my dear,’ she said eagerly, pointing to a clipboard and biro, and shadowing me closely as I filled in the requisite columns. ‘Oh, Billing & Brown, how lovely. My dear old friend, may he rest in peace, published his memoirs with B&B some thirty years ago.’

  There weren’t many other folk spending that gorgeous summer’s day in the bowels of the library, so I was easily able to co-opt Miss Yeats to my purpose. We passed a lovely time together, trawling through the archives, turning up three unsolved kidnapping cases in and around Kent during the Victorian and Edwardian periods, then plenty of newspaper reports concerning the Blythe family of Milderhurst Castle. There was a charming, semi-regular column of housekeeping advice written by Saffy Blythe throughout the fifties and sixties; numerous articles about Raymond Blythe’s literary success; and some headlining reports of the family’s near loss of Milderhurst in 1952. At the time Percy Blythe had given an interview in which she made an emphatic case: ‘A place is more than the sum of its physical parts; it’s a repository for memories, a record and retainer of all that has happened within its boundaries. This castle belongs to my family. It belonged to my ancestors for centuries before I was born, and I won’t see it passed into the hands of people who wish to plant conifers in its ancient woods.’

  A rather pernickety representative of the National Trust had also been interviewed for the article, lamenting the lost opportunity for their new Garden Scheme to restore the property to its former glory: ‘It’s a tragedy,’ he began, ‘to think that the great properties of our nation will be lost to us over the coming decades, through the sheer bloody-mindedness of those who cannot see that in these lean and austere times, individual residence in such national treasures is tantamount to sacrilege.’ When asked about the Trust’s plans for Milderhurst Castle, he outlined a programme of works including, ‘the structural repair of the castle itself, and a complete garden restoration’. An aim, I’d have thought, that was very much in line with Percy Blythe’s wishes for her family estate.

  ‘There was a lot of ambivalence about the Trust at the time,’ said Miss Yeats, when I ventured as much. ‘The fifties were a difficult period: the cherry trees were taken out at Hidcote, the avenue at Wimpole was cut down, all in the service of a sort of all-purpose historical prettiness.’

  The two examples meant little to me, but all-purpose historical prettiness certainly didn’t sound like much of a match for the Percy Blythe I’d met. As I read further, matters became clearer still. ‘It says here that the Trust planned to restore the moat.’ I looked up at Miss Yeats, who inclined her head, awaiting explanation. ‘Raymond Blythe had the moat filled in after the twins’ mother’s death: a sort of symbolic memorial. They wouldn’t have been happy with the Trust’s plans to dig it out again.’ I leaned back in my chair, stretching my lower back. ‘What I don’t understand is how they could’ve hit such hard times in the first place. The Mud Man is a classic, a bestseller, even today. Surely the royalties would have been enough to keep them out of trouble?’

  ‘One would think so,’ Miss Yeats agreed. Then she frowned and turned her attention to the rather large stack of printouts on the table before us. ‘You know, I’m sure I . . .’ She shuffled the pages back and forth until one was chosen and held right by her nose. ‘Yes! Here it is.’ She handed me the newspaper article dated May 13th, 1941, and peered over the top of her half-moon glasses. ‘Apparently Raymond Blythe left a couple of large bequests when he died.’

  The article was entitled: ‘Generous Gift from Literary Patron Saves Institute’, and was accompanied by a picture of a grinning, dungaree-clad woman clutching a copy of the Mud Man. I scanned the text and saw that Miss Yeats was right: the majority of the royalties were divided after Raymond Blythe’s death between the Catholic Church and another group. ‘The Pembroke Farm Institute,’ I read slowly. ‘It says here that they’re a conservation group based in Sussex. Committed to the promotion of sound ecological practice.’

  ‘Rather ahead of their time,’ said Miss Yeats.

  I nodded.

  ‘Shall we check the reference files upstairs? See what else we can find?’

  Miss Yeats was so buoyed by the prospect of a new research tangent that her cheeks had taken on a rosy sheen and I felt really rather cruel when I said, ‘Not today, no. I’m afraid I haven’t the time.’ She looked crestfallen, so I added, ‘I’m so sorry. But my dad’s expecting a report on my research.’

  Which was true, and yet I didn’t go straight home. When I said there were three reasons I was happy to give up my weekend to my dad’s library task, I’m afraid I was a little disingenuous. I wasn’t lying, they were all true, however there was also the small matter of a fourth and more pressing reason. I was avoiding my mother. It was all the fault of those letters, more accurately, of my inability to leave the damned shoebox closed once Rita had given it to me.

  I read them all, you see. The night of Sam’s hen party, I took them home and devoured them, one by one, beginning with Mum’s arrival at the castle. I endured with her the freezing early months of 1940, witnessed the Battle of Britain raging above my head, the nights spent shivering in the Anderson shelter. Over the course of eighteen months, the handwriting grew neater, the expression more mature, until finally, in the wee hours, I reached the last letter, the one sent home just before her father came to fetch her back to London. It was dated February 17th, 1941, and read as follows.

  Dear Mum and Dad,

  I’m sorry that we argued on the telephone. I was so pleased to hear from you both and I feel terrible about the way it ended. I don’t think I explained myself very well at all. What I meant to say is that I understand that you just want the best for me, and I’m grateful, Dad, that you’ve been to speak with Mr Solley on my behalf. I can’t agree, however, that my coming home and finding typing work with him is ‘best’.

  Rita is different from me. She hated it here in the country and has always known what she wanted to do and be. For my entire life I’ve felt that there was something wrong with me, that I was ‘other’ in some important way I couldn’t explain; that I couldn’t even understand myself. I love to read books, I love to watch people, I love to capture the things I see and feel by arranging words on paper. Ridiculous, I know! Can you imagine what an odd, black sheep I’ve felt my entire life?

  Here, though, I’ve met people who enjoy these things, too; and I realize that there are others who see the world as I do. Saffy believes that when the war ends, which it must do soon, I hav
e a good chance of getting a place at one of the grammar schools, after that – who knows? Perhaps even university?! I must keep up with my schooling though, if I am to stand a chance of transferring to grammar school.

  So I beg you – please don’t make me come home! The Blythes are happy for me to stay and you know that I’m well cared for here. You haven’t ‘lost’ me, Mum; I wish you wouldn’t put it like that. I’m your daughter – you couldn’t lose me if you tried. Please, though, please let me stay.

  With much love and heaps of hope,

  Your daughter, Meredith

  I dreamed of Milderhurst that night. I was a girl again, dressed in a school uniform I didn’t recognize, and standing at the tall iron gates at the bottom of the driveway. They were locked and far too high to scale; so high that when I looked up at where their tops should be they seemed to disappear into the swirling clouds above. I tried to climb them but my feet kept slipping, they’d gone all jelly-like, the way they often do in dreams: the iron was icy beneath my hands, yet I was filled with a deep longing, a fierce desire to know what lay beyond.

  I looked down and saw that a large key, rusting around the edges, lay across my palm. Next thing I knew, I was beyond the gates and sitting in a carriage on the other side. In a scene borrowed directly from the Mud Man, I was being drawn up the long and winding drive, past the dark and shivering woods, across the bridges, until finally the castle loomed above me at the top of the hill.

  And then, somehow, I was inside. The whole place felt abandoned. Dust coated the corridor floors, the paintings hung crooked on the walls, the curtains had all faded, but it was more than just the way it looked. The air was stale, cloying, and I felt as if I’d been locked within a box inside a dark and musty attic.

  A noise then, a whispery, rustling sound, and the merest suggestion of movement. At the end of the hall was Juniper, dressed in the same silky dress she’d been wearing when I visited the castle. I was aware of a strange sense within me, the dream’s pervasive mood of profound and troubled longing. I knew, although she didn’t say a word, that this was October 1941 and she was waiting for Thomas Cavill to arrive. A door appeared behind her, the entrance to the good parlour. There was music, a tune I felt I knew.

  I followed her into the room where a table had been set. The room was thick with anticipation, and I drifted around the table, counting the places, knowing, though I’m not sure how, that one was set for me and another for my mum. Juniper was saying something then, that is, her lips were moving but I couldn’t make out any words.

  Then, suddenly, I was at the parlour window, only, in a strange dream twist of logic, it was my mother’s kitchen window too, and I was staring at the glass pane. I looked outside and it was stormy and I realized there was a glistening, black moat. Movement and a dark figure began to emerge; my heart struck like a bell. I knew it was the Mud Man and I was frozen where I stood. My feet had become one with the floor, but just when I was about to scream, my fear suddenly disappeared. I was filled instead with a flood of yearning and sorrow and, quite unexpectedly, desire.

  I woke with a start, catching my dream in the process of dissolving. Tattered fancies hung like ghosts in the room’s corners and I lay very still for a time, willing them not to dissipate. It seemed to me that even the slightest movement, the merest hint of morning sunlight, would burn the imprints off like fog. And I didn’t want to lose them yet. The dream had been so vivid, the heaviness of longing so real that when I pressed my hand against my chest I half-expected to find the skin bruised. After a time, the sun rose high enough to slide across the rooftop of Singer & Sons and pry through the gaps in my curtains and the dream’s spell was broken. I sat up with a sigh and noticed Gran’s shoebox on the end of the bed. At the sight of all those envelopes addressed to Elephant and Castle, details of the night before came rushing back and I was hit by the sudden, clear-light-of-day guilt of someone who’d glutted on a feast of fat and sugar and someone else’s secrets. No matter how glad I was to have acquired the voice, the pictures, the small sense of my mum, and no matter how convincing my justifications (the letters were written long ago; they were intended for an audience; she’d never have to know), I couldn’t erase the expression on Rita’s face as she’d given me the box and told me to have a good old read; the hint of triumph, as if we two shared a secret now, a bond, a connection that excluded her sister. The warm feeling of holding the little girl’s hand had gone, leaving only the sneak’s remorse in its place.

  I would have to confess my crime, that much was certain, but I made a deal with myself. If I managed to leave the house without running into Mum, I could have a day’s grace to consider how best to do it. On the other hand, if I ran into her before I reached the door, I would confess all, then and there. I dressed quickly and quietly, took stealthy care of all additional grooming needs, rescued my tote from the lounge – all was going brilliantly until I reached the kitchen. Mum was standing by the kettle, robe fastened around her middle, a little higher than it should be, giving her an odd snowman-like shape.

  ‘Morning, Edie,’ she said, glancing over her shoulder.

  Too late to backtrack. ‘Morning, Mum.’

  ‘Sleep well?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  I was rustling up an excuse for skipping breakfast when she put a cup of tea on the table in front of me and said, ‘And how was Samantha’s party?’

  ‘Colourful. Noisy.’ I gave her a quick smile. ‘You know Sam.’

  ‘I didn’t hear you come in last night. I left you some supper.’

  ‘Oh . . .’

  ‘I wasn’t sure, but I see you didn’t—’

  ‘I was pretty tired—’

  ‘Of course.’

  Oh, but I felt like a heel! And the unfortunate pudding effect of Mum’s robe made her seem more vulnerable than ever, which made me feel even worse. I sat where she’d put the tea, drew a decisive breath and said, ‘Mum, there’s something I need to—’

  ‘Ah!’ She winced, sucked her finger then shook it quickly. ‘Steam,’ she said, blowing lightly across her fingertip. ‘It’s this silly new kettle.’

  ‘Can I fetch you some ice?’

  ‘I’ll just run it under cold water.’ She turned on the tap. ‘It’s something in the shape of the spout. I don’t know why they keep redesigning things that work perfectly well already.’

  I took another breath, but let it out again as she continued talking.

  ‘I wish they’d just focus their attention on something useful. A cure for cancer, perhaps.’ She turned off the tap.

  ‘Mum, there’s something I really need—’

  ‘I’ll be right back, Edie; let me take your father his tea lest the bell begin to toll.’

  She disappeared upstairs and I waited, wondering what I was going to say, how I was going to say it, whether it was possible to phrase my sin in such a way that she might understand. A fond hope, but I dismissed it swiftly. There is no kind way of telling someone you’ve been peeking through the keyhole at them.

  I could hear the edges of the low conversation Mum was having with Dad, then his door closing, then footsteps. I stood quickly. What was I thinking? I needed more time; it was foolish just to rush in; a little thought would make all the difference – but then she was in the kitchen saying, ‘That ought to keep His Nibs happy for the next fifteen minutes,’ and I was still standing somewhat awkwardly behind my chair, as natural as a bad actor in a play.

  ‘You’re off already?’ she said, surprised. ‘You haven’t even had your tea.’

  ‘I, ah . . .’

  ‘You were saying something, weren’t you?’

  I picked up my teacup and studied the contents closely. ‘I . . .’

  ‘Well?’ She tightened the belt of her robe, waiting for me, the merest hint of concern narrowing her eyes. ‘What is it?’

  Who was I kidding? More thought, a few additional hours: none of it was going to change the facts. I let out a sigh of resignation. ‘I have something for y
ou.’

  I went back up to my room and collected the letters from beneath my bed.

  Mum watched my return, a slight crease in her brow, and I laid the box on the table between us.

  ‘Slippers?’ She frowned lightly, first at her slipper-clad feet, then at me. ‘Well, thank you, Edie. One can never have too many pairs.’

  ‘No, but you see, they’re not—’

  ‘Your gran.’ She smiled suddenly, a distant memory firing. ‘Your gran used to wear this type.’ And the look she gave me then was so unguarded, so unexpectedly pleased, that it was all I could do not to seize the lid from the box and declare myself the ghastly traitor that I was. ‘Did you know that, Edie? Is that why you bought them? It’s a wonder you could still find the old—’

  ‘They’re not slippers, Mum. Open the box; please, just open it.’

  ‘Edie?’ An uncertain smile as she sat in the nearest chair and pulled the box towards her. She offered me a last wavering glance before turning her attention to the lid, lifting it and frowning at the pile of discoloured envelopes within.

  My blood ran hot and thin, like petrol beneath my skin, as I watched the emotions flit across her face. Confusion, suspicion, then the intake of breath heralding recognition. Later, as I ran the memory over in my mind, I could pinpoint the precise instant at which the scrawled handwriting on the top envelope metamorphosed into a lived experience. I saw her face change, her features adopting, once more, those of the almost-thirteen-year-old girl who’d written the first letter to her parents, telling them about the castle in which she’d found herself; she was there again, caught in the original moment of composition.

  Mum’s fingers rested on her lips, her cheek, then hovered above the soft indentation at the base of her throat, until finally, after what seemed an age, she reached tentatively into the box, withdrew the pile of envelopes and sat holding them in both hands. Hands that were shaking. She spoke without meeting my eyes. ‘Where did you . . . ?’