by Ruth Wade
‘Could it be I’m suffering from a form of inherited madness?’
Dr Mackie placed the pencil precisely parallel to his notebook and sat back in his chair. He raised his caterpillar eyebrows.
‘My dear, Miss Potter, is that at the root of your concern? Why you’ve elected to see me today? If so, I can knock that notion on the head this minute. Let me remind you that your father was one of the most intelligent and highly respected men in his field; do you think he could have earned his place as a pioneer in the treatment of neurasthenia in combatants with the time bomb of his own mental disease ticking away? Because such a thing must have been in his blood at birth in order for him to, in turn, bequeath it to you. And the evidence shows that couldn’t possibly be the case. As he was over twice your current age when he succumbed, his decline was undoubtedly due to senility; a softening of the mind brought about by the advancing years. Although none of us can be certain we might not be similarly afflicted when our life force begins to dwindle, it is not something we should fritter away our middle years worrying over. The time on this earth allotted to us is ours to live, to make the most of ... Tell me, what do you do with yours?’
The change of direction was so unexpected that Edith was wrong-footed; her assumed composure crumbled and she found – to her acute distress – that tears were filling her eyes.
‘I ... I keep my garden. Undertake various things on behalf of the vicar’s wife ... I read ...’
‘What? Romances, detective fiction?’
‘I have a subscription to National Geographic. And sometimes I take out books from the public library on the history of scientific discoveries; or perhaps a biography.’
‘All very worthy but none likely to afford you much in the way of light pleasure, I’d have thought. Is there nothing you partake in for the sheer fun of it? I appreciate in the light of your loss being so relatively recent, that what I am about to say might draw down an accusation of insensitivity, but wasn’t there some hobby or pastime that you might take up again? Re-establishing old routines can go a long way in recovering from grief, in fact I’d go so far as to say that they are necessary.’
Edith wanted to be able to make something up, to invent a youth filled with exciting activities she’d simply been waiting for permission to lose herself in once more. But her life had never been any less bleak than it was now. By the look on his face, he knew it too. In the seconds before her gaze dropped, she saw Dr Mackie’s understanding slide into pity.
‘Too often these days I see women left to face life alone – one of the many terrible consequences of the Great War, I’m afraid. In nearly every case having like-minded souls around to raise the mind above the mundane demands of simple existence can help dispel the introspection of isolation. My diagnosis is as plain and simple as loneliness, Miss Potter.’
Surely she should be feeling relief? But instead a profound humiliation flooded her soul. To be so condemned: on the one hand as utterly ordinary; on the other as someone whose suffering was entirely a product of their own nature. She wanted to put a stop to this by asking for the bill, except her mouth was too dry.
‘And I have access to a suitable remedy I’m going to take the liberty of prescribing. There being a reliable bus service into town, I’d like to suggest to my lady wife that she invite you to join her little group. They meet once a fortnight to chat over topics of mutual interest ... music, I suspect, art appreciation and the like ... intellectual pursuits at any rate. Most certainly generating the type of absorbing and stimulating conversation you’ll find just the tonic you need to take you out of yourself. What say you? Shall I make the recommendation?’
Nothing would induce her to become a curiosity to be probed and prodded, and gossiped about the moment she left the room. But she nodded in a way he’d interpret as considered acceptance, before, at long last, bringing up the subject of settling her account.
CHAPTER FIVE
The man at her garden gate could only be described as loitering. If he was a salesman then she would see him off before he stepped foot on her path. Except the doctor’s damnation had left her unsure of being able to handle even the most perfunctory of interactions. For a moment she considered hopping over the churchyard wall and letting herself in the back door but decided that such cowardice was not going to help her any. With a determination that was skin-deep at best, she tucked her chin into her chest, lengthened her stride, and fished her key from the bottom of her handbag; she didn’t want to be caught fumbling when it mattered most.
‘Hello, Edith.’
She had to look up at that.
‘I thought it was you sitting at the back of the bus but didn’t think it fair to surprise you in the company of strangers. You haven’t changed a bit, you know.’
He was only a yard or two away now but the low sun was behind him causing her to squint, and obscuring any detail more refined than his shape.
‘Don’t you remember me? It’s Edward. I must say it’s not very flattering to realise the years have treated me so badly.’
Edith dropped her key. He paced the space between them and picked it up.
‘Let me deal with that. This must’ve come as quite a shock. You are going to invite me in, aren’t you? I have come a very, very long way.’
Her throat was so tight she couldn’t reply. Edward. He had walked down the path and was putting the key in the lock, his broad shoulders familiar at last. Edward.
*
He filled the armchair in the parlour as if it had been made for him, his long legs stretched out in easy relaxation. Edith waited for the tea to brew in the pot and watched him gazing around the room; free to examine his features, she noted that he had been ruthlessly accurate about the passage of time. He’d been twenty-eight when she’d last seen him. His skin, which had tanned so healthily, was now the colour of walnut juice; it made the tattered-edged scar on his temple stand out. A face matured into elegance and with the same laughter lines – only deeper and longer – that had always led you to believe he hugged a secret joke.
He turned his head sharply and brought her scrutiny to a blushing halt. She leaned over the tray on the table in front of her, re-centring the teacups on their saucers.
‘It will have to be with milk; I’m afraid I’ve no lemon.’
‘So you haven’t forgotten everything about me then?’ His voice danced with gentle mockery. ‘Can I move now? I mean, there’s only so long I can sit like a portrait subject while you take in the changes ...’
Edith felt her cheeks grow even hotter as she fiddled with the sugar cube tongs.
‘Why are you here, Edward?’
The question could no longer be avoided; even though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.
‘You were the first person who came to mind the moment I stepped off the boat ... Well, to be more honest, I was overwhelmed with the compulsion to see you ... Because, the truth is, my dear Ede, that you’ve never been out of my thoughts.’
She bristled at his use of her private name: he had no right to assume a re-kindled level of intimacy so soon – perhaps, ever. She stirred the contents of the teapot, cringing at the rattle of china against china as she replaced the lid. If only she could stop from shaking, give the impression of outward composure at least. He must’ve noticed. But then what did he expect? This was the second time he’d come back into her life unannounced and initially unrecognised. They’d known each other as children. The Head of the Psychology of the Special Senses lab had often consulted with her father over cases of traumatic accidents and Edward had been one of them. His presence in the house had been a welcome change in routine and they’d politely played together. The visits had dwindled until over a decade had gone by without their paths crossing. Then, one day, a handsome stranger had knocked on the door and asked to speak to the skinny girl who lost her temper when defeated at tiddlywinks. Although she hadn’t known any other young men to judge him by, his easy humour and obvious interest in getting to know her a
gain had enchanted her over the months that followed. And then the trouble had started ...
‘You said you came off the boat; have you been away?’
She focused her eyes on his chin as she passed him his cup of tea. His hand hovered in the air for a moment before taking it.
‘Virtually the whole time since we said goodbye.’
That explained the unusual nature of his clothes; the jacket was foreign cut – long and loose-fitting with narrow lapels – his trousers were baggy with no turn-ups; both made from a lightweight material of a greenish hue. His hat, which was now resting on the floor beside the chair, was a slightly grubby battered Panama. A traveller then. Had he been running away for eleven years? But that was unfair: not everybody made their choices on the basis of escape.
‘Doing what?’
‘Oh ... this and that.’
Edward drank his tea, tipping his head to one side as he regarded her. If he felt any awkwardness or embarrassment at their meeting again then he wasn’t showing it. Why should he? He’d had longer to prepare for the encounter than she had; she’d only been aware he was still alive at the sound of his name.
‘How did you find me?’
He gave her his familiar lopsided smile and Edith couldn’t help but unbend a little.
‘It wasn’t difficult. I corresponded with Dr Myers – you remember him, don’t you? I learned your father left Cambridge virtually in my footsteps to retire to an out of the way place in Sussex. The newspaper clipping – which was six months out of date when I got it – mentioned the name of the village ... I was so very sorry to read about the terrible manner of his death, Ede. The Lord knows he was never going to be on my Christmas list after the way he treated me but no one should have to leave this earth in such a way.’
She’d never been privy to the details of what had led to Edward’s banishment – which he’d conveyed in a note she’d thrown on the fire in anger at his apparent unwillingness to fight for her, and then cried over for days that she hadn’t kept. When she’d thought about it since then she had wondered if her father hadn’t miscalculated and it had only been the clandestine nature of the relationship that’d made it burn so intensely, and stretch to fill eighteen blissful months.
‘Things must have been extremely difficult for you.’
Not quite the doctor’s words but close enough to make her wince. She busied herself with dribbling the last of the stewed tea into her cup.
‘Yes, thank you. I’ll put the kettle on again and make another pot. It won’t take a minute.’ She shifted her weight forward to rise from the sofa.
‘Not for my benefit, please. I’ve drunk more than enough dishwater in the last week. I’m sorry, that sounded unforgivably rude. What I meant to say was that years of thick black coffee and strong maté have inured my palate to the extent that I can no longer appreciate delicate flavours. There ... have I scrabbled back onto safe ground and regained my beachhead?’
Edith’s throat tickled seconds before the laughter burst out. This man – Edward – sitting across the room as if he belonged there was making her happy. She hadn’t been expecting it – neither the companionship nor the lightness of mood – but she was glad he’d come. Pleased to have him teasing her out of her over-serious nature and self-preoccupation. She allowed herself to imagine a future full of them taking each other back to the younger, if never entirely carefree, selves they had been. Only she didn’t know if now that his curiosity, desire, urge, to see her again was fulfilled he might not simply vanish from her life once more. Her breath fluttered in her chest at the prospect. She lined up the sugar tongs on the tray.
‘You never ... I mean ... are you ... married? Have a family waiting for you in a foreign port somewhere?’
Now it was his turn to laugh. A deep rumble that filled the space between them.
‘Good heavens, no. A rolling stone, me. Never really settled in one place long enough to put down what you might call roots.’
He crossed and uncrossed his legs.
‘In all truth there might have been one or two occasions when the opportunity could have presented itself, if I had been that way inclined. But even if I had been genuinely tempted, it wouldn’t have been fair on the young ladies in question. Because there was never any avoiding the truth that I gave my heart a very long time ago.’
Edith met his gaze directly for the first time. When she saw the depth of his seriousness, she flushed. But she didn’t look away.
‘I carried a picture of you in my wallet. Do you remember? We were standing under the big oak tree and one of the officers your father was treating for shell-shock had taken up photography to help him get over things. There he was intruding on our precious time, insisting we put our heads closer together or place a hand up against the trunk or whatever else it was he wanted for the perfect composition.’
Did he really think she could have forgotten? It had been 14th June 1915. Her father had been attending a medical conference, leaving them free to sneak off for a picnic in celebration of her twenty-fifth birthday. Edward had borrowed a motorbike and she’d never been so exhilarated by anything before – or since. Her blood had still been tingling when he’d parked up and suggested they finish the last bottles of beer sitting in her father’s rose garden. He’d picked an unblemished yellow blossom to tuck in her hair. They’d kissed – sweetly and chastely; if she concentrated she could still recall the tiny bubble of saliva he’d left on her lower lip.
‘I was so angry with him at the time for disturbing us, but blessed him for it ever after. Without that snapshot I’d have had to rely on my memory to conjure you up, living with the knowledge that over time it would fail me until, one day, it would let me down completely and I could no longer picture your face in all its perfect detail.’
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pipe and tobacco pouch which he held up for her inspection.
‘May I?’
Edith got up and fetched her father’s ashtray from where she’d hidden it away in the sideboard. She placed it on the arm of Edward’s chair. He brushed her hand with his as he repositioned the heavy cut glass.
‘As I said, you haven’t changed a bit. You were, and have remained, a beautiful woman, Edith.’
All those forgotten girlish, bubbling, heady feelings came back in a rush. Edward had been her first – and only – love. Anyone could have predicted that after such a dispassionate and cloistered upbringing when she finally fell, she’d fall hard. And because she’d been sent away at the height of their shared emotions she’d never had to discover whether Edward could accept the realities of her own ravaged body as calmly as he did his. Perhaps she should be grateful to her father for insisting it was her patriotic duty to undertake urgent War Work in London: disillusionment being infinitely more difficult to live with than idealised longing.
As if he were still dictating terms, the old man’s clock in the hallway chimed five. Edward stopped packing his pipe and uncurled himself from the chair.
‘I’ll smoke this whilst waiting for the bus. There’s only two a day; how silly of me, of course you know that. I’ve taken a room in Uckfield – I hope you don’t mind me staying in the vicinity but I had entertained the thought that it might mean we could see each other again. I mean, if you want to, that is?’
Edith didn’t trust herself to speak, settling for a chin to chest nod instead.
‘Grand. I’ve no pulls on my time and enough wherewithal to indulge myself as a man of leisure, so am available whenever it suits you. Drop me a note care of the Chequers Hotel.’
‘Why don’t we fix something up now?’ The suggestion was out before she realised she was going to make it. ‘We could go for a picnic ...’
She watched his features grow soft with delight. He held that day precious, too.
‘... Sunday, after church. But don’t come and pick me up; the people in this village have nothing better to do than mind everybody else’s business.’
‘Ah, say no more.
We wouldn’t want to give them anything to gossip about so early in our rekindled relationship, would we, Ede?’
The room filled with his laughter as Edith cursed her newly awakened tendency to flush with emotion.
‘The Uckfield bus stops at Tilgate. There’s a lovely copse there with a watercress stream. If we said we’d meet on the road by the entrance to the trees at around one o’clock then whoever’s bus is there first shouldn’t have to wait too long for the other to arrive. I’ll take care of the food.’
‘Then consider my contribution to supply the drink. And I’m sure the hotel can spare a couple of rugs. I’ve a pair of binoculars we can use for bird watching. It’ll be just like the old days, won’t it?’
It wouldn’t, she knew that. But it would be close enough not to matter. Edward leaned forward, and for one heart-stopping moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Instead he picked up the ashtray, placed it safely on the table, and held out his hand. Edith felt her fingers enveloped in his warm, firm grip.
‘Until the day after tomorrow then. I’ll see my own way out.’
And he was gone.
CHAPTER SIX
Edith couldn’t remember the last time she’d been blessed with such a good night’s sleep. The lack of nightmares had left her deeply rested, which was just as well as she had so much to do today. She turned to a fresh page in her housekeeping notebook and jotted down the order in which she needed to do things. First, get the range blazing so she could heat up enough water – she should do that prior to leaving for the shops. Then, when she got back, launder her best skirt and the blouse with the lace around the neck. The flat iron would need heating up too.
She’d reached task number fifteen when she was seized by the realisation that she needed to do something about herself; not in the looks department, she’d already thought of everything she could possibly achieve in that regard, but how she could be transformed into a stimulating companion. Someone he could conceivably spend an entire afternoon with without being bored. The answer wasn’t long in coming: there was a pile of National Geographic in the front room. All she had to do was sit down and cram; at the Ministry she’d been the best at picking up the salient points in the daily briefing reports and remembering topological facts couldn’t be nearly as hard as assimilating codes and ciphers. Armed with a little knowledge, she’d be able to get Edward to talk about his exploits. It would entertain them both and – this was the real beauty of the idea – allow them to share in the years that’d separated them. She wrote become interesting in large capitals at the bottom of the page, underlining it twice.
