I must have looked like mischief itself, but she took pity on me. By the time I ran back to my brothers, my arms were laden with spoils: a jam tart each, a slab of cheese, freshly baked bread, a few cold sausages. We tumbled it all into the pannier of an old bicycle and set off, me between the handlebars, Albie pedalling, Freddie balancing precariously over the back wheels. We whooped and wobbled down the drive, and soon we were free, rulers of the country lanes, of the woods where the bright leaves flamed and fell like sparks.
We ate our picnic by the side of a little stream. It was as glorious as a feast; we drank cold water straight from our hands, filling our bellies with the taste of ancient stone and winter to come. It was when we were on our way home, the sun sinking low and golden, that we found the blackberries. Hedgerow upon hedgerow, heavy with fruit.
They squashed between our fingers, upon our tongues. I still remember their taste, perfumed and sweet. Not the bright May sweetness of a strawberry, but deeper, more mysterious, as if they’d drawn the cold smoky nights into their juice, as if they’d seen midnight. We ransacked the brambles, scratching our arms and pulling threads from our clothes, filling the pannier to the brim and never thinking about the stains.
That’s how we look in the photograph, standing all together on the front steps, three dark-haired wild things, windswept and smeared with berries. Father had laughed, called us his savages and fetched the box camera. That evening Cook made a crumble with the berries. I remember it so clearly. I can almost taste it.
I looked for blackberries today as I walked to Saltedge. Of course, there are none; the brambles are bare. The air was icy and stung my throat, but my blood pumped and my body felt strong. It seems impossible that the influenza, which raged so violently through Mother, never touched me. I quickened my steps, remembering summers spent racing this path, the scent of sap and earth and the boisterous sounds of two tumbling young men and Timothy clinging to my back like a monkey, shrieking in delight.
I staggered to a halt. The memory had taken me over so rapidly … I blinked it away. The path before me was empty and beyond it lay the salt marsh. The water was thick with cold, shifting like mercury between the mud-trapped reeds. I could smell its odd rotting scent, saltwater meeting fresh.
I could see the path that led to the village. I knew that Uncle Andrew was expecting me there, waiting in Durrant’s office with the local magistrate, waiting to make official what the solicitor had whispered to me beside the fireplace.
… what remains of my estate shall be split equally between my children: Albert William Vane, Frederick George Vane, Emeline Clara Vane and Timothy John Vane.
Before I could move, the church bell began to toll, tearing those cold, official names to tatters. One, it called, for Albie. Two, for Freddie.
The mud of the marshes came up over the tops of my boots. At any other time I would have looked for thicker clumps of reeds, for firmer ground, but I didn’t think of it then.
A February wind was shrieking from the sea; it bent the grasses low and whipped tears into my eyes. The icy sludge splashed my face but I didn’t care, all I could think of was pressing on, across the flat, brown expanse. Did it ever end? I couldn’t remember.
In summer, the marsh is as green as forest glass, the air heady with salt and seed, the sky dead still and maddeningly blue. Sea-lavender foams in clusters of pink, marsh marigolds are livid yellow and Albie and Freddie pull the old farm cart between them, like a pair of sunburnt packhorses. Timmy is in the back, me out in front, the dry stalks scratching at my legs. There are stems of salty glasswort to chew on, and a white egret flashes in the sun like a question mark.
But that world is buried and this new one is sombre as a flagstone. I do not want the cold comfort it offers, the brassy bugles and the new-cut medals with the tang of the engravers still upon them.
I remember reaching the dunes. The stinging wind made my face numb, but when I crested the top I am sure I cried out in relief. Before me spread the sea: spray-frenzied and empty. Blessedly empty.
June 1969
The tantalizing scent of salt and haddock and batter hits me as I open the door. The tinkling of the bell is drowned out by the radio, The Beach Boys oohing away like happy ghosts.
Steph bounces along, her back to me as she wraps a portion of chips. I glance into the back room, and sneak behind the counter.
‘I have had,’ I murmur into her ear, ‘the strangest day.’
She jumps, but a moment later clobbers me on the head with a heap of rolled-up paper.
‘You bugger!’ she laughs. Grinning, I slip my hands around her waist, and the apron tied there, reaching for one of the chips in the paper. My face rests against her hair, in its dark, blunt bob that she’s always trying to get straight. She smells of hairspray and powder, perfume and grease from the fryer.
She turns a blind eye as I eat a chip, then offer her one.
‘Eurgh,’ she says, ‘no fear.’ She twists out of my arms. ‘And you’d better get over that side. Malcolm’s out back.’
Reluctantly, I shuffle to the other side of the counter and lean there, watching as Steph finishes wrapping the chips, stretching sideways to fetch a bag. Bending in a normal way would be asking too much from her mini-dress. Hundreds of guys must try it on with her, working here. I’ve still got no idea why she said yes when I asked her to the dance in our last year of school; she was – is – one of the best-looking girls around, and the sharpest.
‘So you going to tell me about this day of yours,’ she says with a mocking smile, ‘or just stand there looking at my legs?’
‘Can’t I do both?’
She rolls her eyes at me, but is still smiling as she deftly shapes a sheet of newspaper into a cone and fills it with chips. A flick of vinegar, a hail-scatter of salt.
‘Here.’ She hands them over. I fall upon them.
‘You’re the best.’
‘If Malcolm comes in—’
‘Then I’ll pay for them. Here, look at this.’
Juggling the chips with one hand, I fetch the envelope that contains the five-pound notes and lay it carefully on the tiled counter top.
Steph’s eyes go wide beneath thick, black lashes.
‘Where’d you get ten pounds?’ she demands, taking the notes in her hands like playing cards. I can see her making a mental inventory of exactly which things she would buy in exactly which shops on the King’s Road.
‘I can’t really spend it,’ I say, as she unwillingly returns the money to its envelope. ‘It’s for expenses. I’m going on a trip.’
‘What trip?’ Her face falls. ‘Without me?’
‘It’s a business trip, Steph. My first one ever.’
‘When?’
‘First thing tomorrow. To some godforsaken place in the middle of the Fens.’ I try to sound casual, but the words come with a shiver of anxiety. Do I really know what I’m doing?
‘But we were going to the pictures, remember?’ Steph is saying. ‘The Italian Job is on. Everyone’s been raving about it.’
‘We can go next week.’
She’s looking cross now. ‘I might be busy next week.’
‘Steph, I have to go, this is my first real client.’ She turns away and clangs about the fryer, emptying the chips out of the basket, dumping in new ones. I check over my shoulder; most people buying supper have been and gone and there’s no sign of her boss Malcolm, so I catch her arm, turn her to face me.
‘What if it was the other way around,’ I say, brushing a strand of hair back into place, ‘and someone sent you off to some fashion house in Paris?’
‘That’s different,’ she swipes at me lightly, but she’s smiling again, ‘that’s art. This is business.’
‘True, but I want to do well with Hillbrand, Steph. If he starts giving me my own clients I’ll make more money, and then maybe, we could …’
‘What?’
She’s stepped closer to me, her fingers linked into the collar of my shirt.
�
��Well, you know, maybe, move to town. Or something.’
‘Or something?’ she murmurs, one eyebrow raised.
What am I supposed to say? Just stop talking, you idiot, my brain instructs and I lean down to kiss her hurriedly. I’m strangely grateful when I hear the plastic strip curtain behind me rustle and have to leap away.
Malcolm peers suspiciously out into the shop, his fingers wedged into the accounting ledger.
‘Everything all right out here, Stephanie?’
‘Yes, Mr Tiller.’
He sees me and his mouth turns lemon-sour.
‘Paid for them, have you, lad?’
‘Just about to, Mr Tiller.’
‘Be sure you do.’
I make a face at his retreating back. Stephanie swallows a giggle, barely.
‘That’ll be sixpence, sir.’
I dig a coin out of my pocket. She drops it into the till and – after a brief glance behind her – leans forward, far over the counter.
By the time I pull away I’m flushing, right to the tips of my ears. Stephanie is smiling deviously.
The evening breeze cools my cheeks.
‘Bill!’ she calls, before I can shut the door. ‘Bring me back something nice!’
22nd February 1919, Hallerton
Uncle Andrew is here to watch me. He hasn’t said as much but I can tell, the way I catch him looking, examining my every word and movement. Did Durrant send for him? Or someone from Saltedge? They tried to make me go to London, after Mother’s funeral, but I refused. They see me as a child, do not understand that I’m the one who has been holding Hallerton together for the past year, ever since Albie died.
I see the way they stare, on the rare occasions I go into the village, the way they whisper to each other. They want to see me taken in hand by someone responsible, they don’t think it’s seemly for a woman to be living alone in a place like Hallerton. I’ll not bow to their ridiculous notions.
By the time I returned from the marshes yesterday it was dark. I was shivering, and I must have looked a state, my coat covered in mud and sand. Andrew stood waiting at the front door. He was furious – I had expected him to be – but I saw he was also frightened. What do any of us have left to be afraid of?
I told him that I had not meant to cause concern; that I had only gone for a walk on my way to Saltedge and got lost. That I must have been more tired than I realized. He knew it was a lie. He swore. He had never done so in front of me.
‘I thought you had—’
He stopped. His hair isn’t as dark as I remember. It is as neat as it always was, slicked away from his temples, but peppered with grey now. Mother’s did the same, turned grey quickly after the war began.
He strode about the kitchen, clattering open cupboards – in search of something to steady himself. A noise from the doorway made me turn.
Timothy stood there, his small face pinched and pale. He wore Albie’s old university scarf. Even wrapped three times around his neck it was still too long. His eyes were dry, but so solemn that my heart began to crush itself in my chest when I thought of how I might have scared him. If fear still existed for me, here it was.
I held out my arms and he hurtled into my chest. His fingers were cold, digging like claws into my filthy coat.
‘There is brandy in the study,’ I told my uncle, over my shoulder. He was livid still, but had the grace to leave us.
My little brother clung to me. The same hair as mine, heavy and brown as a bulrush. I leaned my cheek against his head and held him, as though he were a baby again and I a child of ten.
‘What were you doing?’ Timothy whispered. His voice was muffled in the fabric of my coat. ‘You would never lose your way on the marsh.’
‘I didn’t lose my way.’ His hair smelled like soap and soot from the train. ‘I wanted to see the sea. I’m all right now.’
‘Were you trying to run away?’
I pulled back. Timothy’s eyes were serious. There was a muddy smear on his cheek from where he had held me. I wiped it away and as I did so a memory returned, of wiping the sweat from my mother’s face. Of her eyes, burning with fever, spilling over with tears as the doctor voiced the dreaded name of her illness. She’d sent for Uncle Andrew that same night, to take Timmy. She’d been too frightened even to kiss him goodbye. She tried to make me leave too, but I didn’t. It seems like years ago, rather than a mere six weeks.
‘Can I come home now, Emmy?’
Timothy’s eyes were on the kitchen tiles. I wanted to smile, wanted to tell him that of course he could, but Uncle Andrew appeared in the doorway, one of the crystal tumblers clutched in his hand.
‘Emeline,’ he said, ‘I suggest you get cleaned up.’
There was no food in the house, which made Andrew more suspicious than ever. He eyed my clothes, the way they hang loose now. I suppose I haven’t given much thought to eating recently.
They went to fetch provisions, he and Timothy. I resolved to try my best, to be neat and sensible, to prove that he should not listen to whatever the village gossips are saying.
There are no maids here, any more. Edith has been trying to teach me how to run the house, but we barely have time to keep a few rooms clean, let alone starch and iron linens. I found an old dress at the back of the wardrobe, made from heavy grey velvet. It does not fit well any more, but at least it is clean. I pinned up my hair and pinched some colour into my cheeks and tried to smile for Timothy. When they came back, Andrew piled what he had bought on to the kitchen table, and asked me to make supper.
Perhaps he thought it would do me good, remembering how much I used to love cooking. I ran my fingers over the packages and parcels. It was all simple, wholesome food. A pat of butter, primrose yellow; fresh eggs nestled in a box of straw, a string of sausages from the butcher, a loaf of farmhouse bread.
Timothy sat with me as I prepared it all, talking of this and that, of his school and his room in London at Uncle Andrew and Aunt Olivia’s house, and for an hour, I was almost happy. I cut the loaf into doorstop slices and spread them thickly with butter. At the back of the pantry I found a jar of Edith’s jam. Blackberry.
We ate supper in the parlour. I knew that the food should be delicious; soft-boiled eggs and golden-brown sausages, sticky and savoury, bread and jam for pudding, and yet I could not taste it. To my relief, Timothy ate like any nine-year-old boy with a good appetite, and his chatter warmed me, more than the tea did. In turn, I tried to cut into the food on my plate, to raise it to my mouth and swallow, as I should.
Uncle Andrew caught my arm as I shooed Timothy towards the doorway.
‘When he is settled,’ he said, voice low, ‘come back here. We must talk.’
I helped Timothy find his pyjamas in his little travelling case, sent him off to wash his face and brush his teeth in the bathroom while I lit the fire. The water in the pipes clattered and gurgled and I heard him yelp at its iciness. Tomorrow I will have to discover how to make the boiler work. The bedclothes in Timmy’s room felt cold and clammy so I stuck my hands beneath the blankets and rubbed the sheets warm.
I stayed with him until his eyes drooped and his breathing deepened. It seems impossible that this draughty old house, marked by the scuffs and scratches of generations, should come down to we two.
Six years ago, Hallerton would have been filled to the seams with people, the way it used to be every Christmas. Albie and Freddie would invite their friends, and they’d play billiards for hours and entertain us all with their new songs and dances. They would slip me glasses of sherry, even though Mother said I wasn’t yet old enough to drink. We’d light all the candles on the Christmas tree, just for the delight of seeing Timothy’s excited smile. I remember the smell of fir and wax, cinnamon and port, and all of us happy, ignorant of what the next five years were to bring.
Piece by piece, it unravelled. First Albie called up, then Freddie, then friends and neighbours. The war took them all and gave us back soldiers, unfamiliar in their stiff uniforms, with
stiff words embedded in their minds. And we were left to wait, those of us who were too young or old for use, as the money trickled away and the comfort of the world was lost in the violence of necessity.
By the time I went downstairs again, the house seemed darker than before. Uncle Andrew was waiting; he’d brought the decanter of brandy into the parlour. It glowed amber in the light from the lamps. The papers were already spread upon the cloth.
‘Clara’s will,’ he told me, as though those two small words did not hold pain. ‘I presume you know what it says?’
On one of the pages I found Mother’s signature. I traced it with my thumb. Andrew hesitated, leaned over to take my hand.
‘You need not worry about Timothy’s education,’ he said, making his voice kind. ‘I will see to that. I promised your mother as much. And he may continue to live with us, during the holidays.’
‘Why should he not live here?’ Andrew did not rise to the challenge in my voice. Of all things, there was pity on his face.
‘You know why. And I cannot let you stay here alone any longer. You should be where people can care for you.’
I told him what I told Durrant. That this is my home, that I had no desire to leave it. Andrew’s voice was patient.
‘You might not have a choice, Emmy.’
Although I hate to admit it, deep down I know he is right. How can I stay here when there is no money, when there are debts to pay and nothing to pay them with? Unless I sell Hallerton, I have no future. But if I sell … what future can there be for me? Shall I live alone in a flat in London until the money from the sale runs out, and I am left to fall upon the charity of family too distant for love? Too respectable for work, too poor for society, Timothy will be raised up into business, and I will be left, trailing the past, like a rope with nothing at its end.
Where the Wild Cherries Grow Page 3
