Summer House

by Nichols, Mary

  ‘Whatever are you talking about?’ Steve looked from one to the other.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ his mother said wearily. ‘During the last war Uncle Henry kept open house for servicemen and one of them was Oliver Donovan. He was rather sweet on Helen at one time.’

  ‘So?’ He was grinning. It seemed Aunt Helen had hidden depths, but he couldn’t see it was anything to get worked up about. ‘Was she sweet on him?’

  ‘I doubt she’d even remember him,’ his mother put in sharply. ‘Let’s drop the subject. Have you had anything to eat?’

  ‘I had a sandwich at Liverpool Street. Horrible grey bread, margarine and dried-up cheese. These mince pies are great.’

  ‘Yes, well, don’t eat any more of them, they’re for Christmas and I only had one jar of mincemeat. Will an egg do?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’

  Kathy busied herself boiling an egg and cutting bread and butter, and the subject of Oliver Donovan was dropped, but Steve was curious and wondered if Laura knew anything about it. Having devoured the egg, he said goodnight to them and went back to the Hall. It would be his last night there. Tomorrow he would be discharged and would move back home until his appointment with the medical board. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Living at the Hall with so many in the same boat had given him a kind of security; it had been a cocoon protecting him from the outside world. On the other hand, he was fit and well, thanks to Mr McIndoe and Laura, and if he was going back to flying, the sooner he climbed out of that cocoon and tested his wings the better. He certainly did not want to be a witness to Laura’s meeting with Wayne’s parents. But he couldn’t help being curious about what had happened in the past. Had Aunt Helen had an affair with Oliver Donovan? Upright, starchy Lady Helen Barstairs having an affair? No, he couldn’t believe it. But if it were true, his grandmother was right; it would put the cat among the pigeons.

  Oliver stopped when he reached the bend in the drive and stood looking at the old house. From the outside it looked no different. The creeper-clad walls and rows of windows looked exactly the same. Smoke still drifted from its chimneys, its huge oak door still shut out the unwelcome caller. You had to ring the bell, he remembered, and stand on the step until a butler in a tail suit let you in as far as the hall and then went to announce your presence. Then Lady Hardingham, or even the Earl himself, would come forward and greet you, telling you to make yourself at home and would you like some tea, or a bath. And you would go into the drawing room where a crowd of other servicemen would be sitting around drinking tea and talking, waiting for their turn in the bathroom.

  That was in the beginning, before he fell in love with Helen and they started to meet clandestinely. Helen did not want anyone to know about their affair until she had told Richard. She wanted to tell her husband to his face, she had said. He had gone along with that and went off to France, leaving her in tears and wondering if he would live to see her again. He had written to her as often as his duties allowed. He had had one reply and that was before he left England. After that, nothing. His letters pleading for an explanation for her silence had never been answered. He hadn’t wanted to believe the love they had for each other could not survive the parting and he blamed the vagaries of the post.

  He had come back to England in the January of 1918, and then it was on a stretcher. The first thing he did on being declared fit and being given leave was to make for Beckbridge and the Hall. It was once again simply a stately home; there were no servicemen drinking tea and taking baths. He had stopped halfway up the drive to look up at the house, as he was doing now, wondering if she could see him, imagining her at one of the windows looking back at him, trying to gauge how she would feel on seeing him again. But there had been no sign of her, no one came out of the house while he was there, and he had taken a deep breath and continued to the front door. He had been admitted by the same butler, who said pompously that he would see if his lordship was at home. It wasn’t the Earl he had come to see but Helen, but the butler ignored that.

  His lordship’s greeting should have warned him. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to see Lady Helen.’

  ‘She isn’t here and you would oblige me by taking yourself off.’ It didn’t need a clairvoyant to see he was angry and only his innate breeding stopped him raising his voice. ‘You abused my hospitality, made a nuisance of yourself to my daughter, knowing she was married, and now you have the effrontery to turn up again like a bad penny.’

  ‘You do not understand. It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Oh, I understand all right. It is you who are under a misapprehension. My daughter wishes never to see you again.’

  ‘I do not believe that. Let me see her. I want to hear it from her own lips.’

  ‘Helen is not here. She has gone to join her husband. No doubt they will be looking for a home of their own when the war is over. Please leave now, or I shall have you thrown out.’

  He had gone to The Jolly Brewers and got very drunk. It was from Valerie he learnt that Helen had indeed gone away. Valerie was not a complete stranger; he had seen her up at the hall working as a servant, but now she was a barmaid. ‘Better pay and more fun,’ she had told him, laughing. The bar wasn’t busy and they had talked a lot, although he had been far too drunk to be coherent and could not remember anything they said. He had woken up the next morning in the hayloft of a barn and she was beside him, both as naked as the day they were born. He could not remember how he got there or anything about the night before, but it was obvious what had happened.

  Standing in the drive, looking up at the house, in another uniform, in the middle of another war, Oliver wondered why he had come. Did he really want to open up old wounds? But had the wounds ever healed? Surely she could have answered his letters, even if it was only to confirm what her father had told him: that she didn’t want to see him again. It was water under the bridge in any case. He had married Valerie because she told him she was pregnant, and since then he had done everything in his power to make the marriage a success. And he supposed it had been. He should not even be thinking of Helen. It had been a wartime romance that was bound to end in tears for someone. It was one of the reasons he wanted to meet Laura, to convince himself it couldn’t happen to his son. He didn’t want Wayne hurt, but that last letter had made him wonder. It had arrived months ago and since then there had been nothing. If she had sent Wayne packing as he had been sent packing, it would not have put the boy in the right frame of mind to go into battle. Was that why they hadn’t heard from him? His son was all in all to him.

  He threw away the stub of the cigarette he had been smoking and strode up the drive to the house.

  Helen put the toy dog inside the box and stuffed crumpled tissue round it before closing the lid and covering it in crêpe paper, smiling as she imagined Robby opening it on Christmas morning.

  So much had happened since Anne died, and yet nothing at all had changed. Life had gone on and Laura had become a source of great joy, though the revelation about her birth had strained the relationship almost to breaking point and made them both unhappy. Things were getting better and she hoped that perhaps over Christmas they could get back to the quiet contentment with each other they had built up before Wayne arrived. Robby had helped because they both idolised him. He was not yet old enough to be told of their true relationship; it would be up to Laura to decide when, or even if, he was told. He could never be the Earl but he was her heir, and later, when this dreadful war was over and Robby had grown up, Helen would involve him in whatever decisions she took. If he decided he wanted to keep the Hall, it behoved her to hang onto it, though how it could be done, given the expense of upkeep and lack of servants, she had no idea.

  She sighed, wondering how different things would have been if she had not met and married Richard, or if Laura had been his daughter and not Oliver’s; if her parents had lived longer or Anne had not died when she did; if Oliver had known she was pregnant before he left. If only he had
answered her letters; she could imagine one going astray, but not all of them. She had often wondered what they would say to each other if they ever met again, and in the early years after the war she would imagine them falling into each other’s arms and reaffirming their love. She would daydream about it, filling the void in her life with imagined laughter and joy. But the years had blotted everything out – their passion, their ease with each other, the jokes they shared, the love they bore each other. So much love. Twenty-five years on and she couldn’t leave well alone, she had to give the past a little stir now and again, twiddle the knobs on the set to see if any of the music was still there. And all she got was atmospherics.

  She was laughing at her own foolishness when the front doorbell rang. Knowing someone else would answer it, she continued packing her parcel. She had posted all her cards; dreadful things they were because of the shortage of paper and half the factories making other things, while printers were busy with government posters and leaflets about this or that regulation. They were lucky there were any cards being made at all. Laura, who had a talent for drawing, had made all hers and very good they were too. It was the same with gifts. The choice was limited, but Helen intended to make sure Robby had a good Christmas and had bought a few toys and resurrected a few more from the attic, which some of the patients who needed therapy had mended and painted. She had knitted a pullover, some mittens and a scarf from a hardly worn pullover of her father’s she had unpicked. It was what you had to do nowadays: find a second use for everything.

  There was a knock on the door which was opened by the young WAAF who acted as a receptionist. ‘Someone to see you, my lady.’ She stood aside to allow the officer to enter.

  Helen didn’t hear the click of the door as it was shut behind the WAAF, she didn’t move, couldn’t move. She was dreaming. It was all part of that nostalgic trip she had been making into the past. He wasn’t real.

  ‘Helen.’ The voice was real and sounded loud in her ears, an intrusion on her silent tumbling thoughts.

  The tumult inside her set every nerve end jangling. He was here, slightly older, slightly thicker about the waist, but still the Oliver she had known and loved. But had that love survived the years, the whole generation it spanned? And the fact that he had married someone else? With a visible effort she pulled herself together. ‘Oliver Donovan, well I never.’ Her voice was brittle with the effort of controlling it. ‘And still in uniform, I see.’

  ‘The opportunity came to do my bit for the war and I took it.’ She was thin as a rake, her hair quite grey, yet she was hardly older than Valerie. But in spite of that, she was still a remarkably attractive woman.

  ‘Please sit down. I was just wrapping a few Christmas presents.’

  He sat down on the edge of the sofa and looked about him. A thick carpet covered the floor on which stood two sofas and a couple of armchairs. The Times and the local Gazette lay neatly folded on a coffee table, along with a couple of magazines. A flower arrangement stood on a side table and on a shelf in the alcove of the fireplace were ornaments he guessed were valuable; an ornate clock on the marble mantelshelf ticked loudly and there were several interesting paintings on the walls and some photographs in frames on the mantelpiece. It was exactly as it had been when he last entered it, except for the wrapping paper and the toys. There was a child in the house; no one had told him about a child.

  ‘Well?’ she said when he did not speak. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I came hoping to speak with Laura,’ he said, detecting the coolness in her voice.

  ‘Laura?’ She sat down heavily on the sofa opposite him, her mind in a whirl. Had he known about his daughter all along? Had he come to lay claim to her?

  ‘Yes. Wayne wrote so much about her, I thought I’d like to meet her.’

  ‘Oh.’ He hadn’t come to see her after all, but neither did he seem to know he was Laura’s father. ‘I’m afraid she is out. She has taken Robby into Attlesham to buy him some new shoes. He is growing so quickly, all his clothing coupons seem to go on shoes.’

  ‘Who is Robby?’

  ‘Laura’s little boy.’ She was tempted to add, ‘and your grandson,’ but decided not to make matters more difficult than they already were. ‘I thought while he was out of the house I’d wrap up his presents. Didn’t Wayne tell you she had a son?’

  ‘You mean she’s married? Good God! It’s surely not happening again.’

  ‘What do you mean “happening again”? Has Wayne—?’

  ‘No, not Wayne.’ He stood up to face her. ‘You know what I mean. Is she like you, playing fast and loose until her husband comes back and then it’s goodbye and thanks for the memory?’

  She was angry. ‘You’ve no right to say that, no right at all. My husband never came back and Laura is a widow. Her husband was a Spitfire pilot. He was shot down and killed.’

  He stopped to look down at her. She would have liked to have stood, so as to be on level terms, but she did not think her legs would support her. As it was, she was shaking so much she was afraid he would see it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should not have tarred her with the same brush. But why didn’t you answer my letters?’

  ‘What letters? I received no letters from you, not a single one. I wrote, I don’t know how many times… I told you…’ She stopped, unwilling to tell him about Laura, though she supposed he would have to know sometime. ‘I needed you. After my parents found out… Well, life became a little difficult.’ An understatement if ever there was one.

  ‘You wrote and I wrote,’ he said bitterly, sitting down heavily. ‘They must have intercepted the letters.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Your parents. Did you never think of that?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I assumed you didn’t want to know. My aunt said you had had your fun and that was all you were after.’

  ‘Your aunt?’

  ‘Yes, I went to stay with her for a time.’

  ‘And you believed her?’

  ‘Not at first, but when I didn’t hear from you…’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘But it doesn’t matter now, does it? Water under the bridge. You didn’t lose any time in marrying someone else, did you?’

  ‘Can you blame me? I came back. The very first chance I had I came back to you. Your father said you never wanted to see me again, that you had gone to be with your husband and would be looking for a home with him when the war ended. I was gutted. I couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘But you did believe it.’

  ‘Yes, I had to. Everyone I spoke to confirmed it. I’m ashamed to say I married Valerie on the rebound.’

  ‘Liar! Wayne was born only six months after—’ She stopped suddenly, realising where her words were taking her. ‘Papa lied,’ she added quietly. ‘I never saw my husband again after he went to France. He was taken prisoner and died in captivity.’

  ‘I didn’t know that until yesterday. Joyce told me. And for your information, Wayne was a seven-month baby.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes. A mess all round. Don’t misunderstand, though; Valerie has been a good wife to me, taken the rough with the smooth, and we both love our son. That’s why I don’t want him hurt.’

  ‘Is there any reason why he should be?’

  ‘No, but I detected something was wrong in his last letter and that was months ago. We haven’t heard from him since and we are both worried. We thought Laura might shed some light on it.’

  ‘As I said, she isn’t here.’

  ‘When do you expect her back?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It depends on the buses. But she’s on duty again this evening.’

  ‘I’ll come back, shall I?’

  ‘If you like.’ It was said in a monotone. She was exhausted and all she wanted was to be left alone to grieve for what might have been, for broken dreams, for a daughter who was going to be upset all over again before the day was out.

  She stood up and went with him to the front door, half afraid that Laura would be co
ming up the drive. But she wasn’t. He didn’t touch her, didn’t attempt to shake her hand, and she watched from the steps as he strode off down the drive. It was beginning to snow and some of the flakes landed on his shoulders before disappearing. She turned slowly and went back to wrapping her parcels, too numb even to weep.

  Steve had gone into Attlesham with Laura and Robby. He wanted her to help him buy presents for the family and the boys, as well as Meg and Daphne. There wasn’t much choice but he had managed to find something for everyone. Some of the shop assistants had looked a little sideways at him, but he was learning not to mind. The shopping finished, they had a pot of tea and a bun in the British Restaurant before going to catch the bus home. Their conversation had been impersonal, mostly about the shopping and their plans for Christmas; Laura was arranging a party on Boxing Day for those patients fit enough to enjoy one and intended to invite any unattached young ladies to join the men. I’ve asked Meg and Jenny to come – and Daphne, of course, even though she’s no longer unattached,’ she told him, pouring tea. I think it will cheer my boys up.’ The patients were always her ‘boys’. ‘You’ll come too, won’t you?’

  He laughed. ‘I’m not an unattached young lady.’

  ‘No, but until this morning you were a patient. Besides, I want you there.’

  Steve wondered if she knew Major Donovan and his wife were staying in the village. He had a strange feeling their arrival would be significant. ‘Then of course I’ll come.’

  ‘I mean to ask your parents too. And there’s Joyce, of course.’

  She definitely didn’t know. He wondered whether to tell her but decided not to spoil the outing, which it most certainly would. ‘You’ll end up asking half the village.’

  ‘Why not? Food and drink might be a problem, but we’ll manage. I’m sure everyone will muck in.’

  When the bus arrived, Steve took charge of the string bags of shopping while Laura folded Robby’s pushchair and left it under the stairs before moving down the gangway to find seats. The bus was crowded with shoppers, some grumbling about the queues, which seemed to get longer and longer; some making jokes, laughing cheerfully, convinced the tide had turned and the long-wished-for second front was just around the corner. Others talked of relatives and friends who would spend their Christmas a long way from home; some sat silently looking out of the steamed-up window at the winter countryside.