Where the Wild Cherries Grow

by Laura Madeleine

  June 1969

  ‘Now remember, use the trouser press if they have one, and hang your spare shirt up as soon as you get there,’ Mum says, knocking away my hand to tighten my tie another fraction of an inch.

  ‘Mum,’ I choke, ‘I’m going to Norfolk, not to Ascot Races.’

  ‘All the more reason.’ She squints at my shoes for any trace of dirt. ‘You’ll be showing them what a proper London businessman looks like.’

  Louise snorts from the breakfast table. ‘Who’s he going to impress in the middle of nowhere? A load of farmers and fishermen?’

  ‘Don’t go eating at Berni Inns every night, now.’ My dad winks, stripping the last flesh from his kipper.

  ‘Like there’ll be a Berni Inn for a hundred miles,’ grumbles Louise, but I can tell she’s jealous. I shoot a smirk over at her, as Mum takes down the house savings jar from the shelf.

  ‘Here’s ten bob,’ she tells me, pressing the note into my hand.

  ‘He’s already got ten pounds!’ Louise bursts.

  ‘Well, just in case. Put it in your sock, then even if the rest gets stolen—’

  ‘Stop fussing, Mother,’ Dad interrupts. ‘Bill’s big enough and ugly enough to look after himself. Might have a family of his own to worry about one of these days, if his Stephanie has anything to do with it.’

  ‘Well, see you then,’ I say loudly over Dad’s guffaws, making my escape before Louise can start taunting and Mum can offer any more sage advice.

  It feels strange to watch the bus come and go at the stop, to take a different one that toils through the heart of London all the way to Liverpool Street.

  Outside, it’s another brilliant summer morning, but inside the station is dark. The bricks are dark, the wooden benches are dark, even the glass of the huge old clock is dark with grime. The crush of commuters is ebbing, but still, the place is overwhelming. Footbridges cross and criss-cross the space, labelled with conflicting arrows and soot-blackened signs that are of no help to anybody. Finally, I find my way to the ticket booths. There’s a long queue; with the rush hour over, most of the staff seem to have sloped off for tea breaks and second breakfasts.

  When I reach the front, I heft my briefcase importantly and ask the woman behind the desk for a return to Saltedge. She does not look impressed. In fact, she looks blank. I repeat the request, and she rolls her heavily made-up eyes at me.

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  She pulls out a ledger and idly turns the pages. Her hair is so blonde its white, coiffed and crisp as a meringue.

  ‘Reg,’ she calls over her shoulder, ‘ever heard of Saltedge?’

  I’m turning red now, as customers in the queue behind me start to shift, annoyed by the delay.

  ‘Saltedge?’ a thickset man replies, shuffling into view, mug of tea in hand. ‘Never heard of it. Where is it?’

  ‘Norfolk,’ I stutter, ‘somewhere in Norfolk, I think.’

  The ticket lady’s look says, Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? Her finger flicks faster.

  ‘Saltedge,’ she says at last, pink nail on an entry. ‘Here it is. On the North Norfolk Line.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, ‘could I have a—’

  ‘Closed.’ She smiles tightly. ‘Two years ago.’

  ‘Closed?’

  ‘You can thank bloody Beeching for that,’ Reg says, after another slurp of tea. He doesn’t seem to care about the ten or more people in line behind me. ‘Nearest station’s probably Sheringham, ain’t it, Pam?’

  ‘Sheringham,’ she agrees, slapping the book shut. ‘Return or single?’

  ‘I, um, return, please. It’s for business—’

  ‘Eight shillings and six.’

  I hand over one of the five-pound notes. Pam gives me a withering look.

  ‘Haven’t you got anything smaller?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Don’t have much change,’ Reg says cheerfully, ‘busy morning, and no one’s done the bank-run yet.’

  If my cheeks were red before, they must be close to spontaneous combustion now. I glance back at the line of people. Most of them are pointedly checking their watches and huffing and not quite catching my eye. Gritting my teeth, I bend down and fish the ten bob out of my sock. It’s warm and slightly clammy. Someone behind me suppresses a laugh as I offer it up. Gingerly, Pam takes the note between her finger and thumb.

  ‘Platform four,’ she tells me, tearing off two tickets, ‘the nine-fifty train to Norwich. Change there for Sheringham.’

  Before I board I find a kiosk and buy a newspaper, a packet of fudge and a box of matches, just to break up the damn five-pound note. The train is waiting. I open the first compartment, but there’s a man in there from the ticket queue so I hurry back out and walk to the very end of the train. The last compartment is empty. I shove my suitcase on to the luggage rack and settle with my briefcase by the window. Eventually, a whistle blows, the brakes hiss and clatter and we lurch like a belch from the throat of the station.

  Soon we’re passing through Bishopsgate, through the brick and smoke and washing of the East End. Briefly, the Bryant & May factory tower appears, exhaling phosphor into the flawless June sky.

  The sun shines straight through the glass on to my face as we travel east. Stratford, Forest Gate … The fabric on the seats is rough and scratchy. Ilford, Romford, Brentwood … The light is making me sleepy. Joggled by the train, my eyes droop closed over an industrial landscape.

  I awake with a start, for a reason I can only guess at. It’s warmer now. I lean forward to shove the window down and stop in surprise. The warehouses and grey, stilted roads are gone. Instead there are fields, stretching green and yellow to either side. London is all behind. I’ve spent my whole life within a bus ride of its smog; never left the city on my own. There, I’m Bill Perch, solicitor’s assistant, but where I’m going, I’ll be a stranger. It’s an odd thought.

  The compartment grows hotter as the day gets going. I wish I was wearing a T-shirt. I can just imagine Mum’s face. She still thinks that wearing them in public is shameful. My mouth is gluey with thirst. I should have bought something to drink, but all I have is the fudge and that only makes my tongue more claggy.

  At Norwich there’s a station café, full of passengers fanning themselves, rail workers with their overalls tied around their waists. I buy a lemonade and it’s warm and sugary but washes the dryness from my throat.

  The train to Sheringham is tiny: one open carriage filled with lumpy bench seats. It’s painted green and crawls like a caterpillar through banks of dry grass. It’s flat here, so flat that the sky looms pale and parched over everything. I’m the only passenger, except for a few old ladies. At last, the brakes squeal on the hot metal track and we drift to a standstill. SHERINGHAM, says the sign, above a narrow platform. A few children hang over the barrier gate to gawp at the train. End of the line. End of the bloody world, it feels like.

  I try to shake off the torpor of the journey and hurry after the driver, struggling with my luggage and briefcase. He’s abandoned his train and is making a beeline for the ice-cream van that’s parked on the corner.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I gasp out at his shoulder, ‘do you know how I can get to Saltedge from here?’

  The driver squints at me, as if I’ve just asked him to recite Pythagoras’ theorem. His waistcoat is hanging open, hat and jacket missing. He takes out a handkerchief, wipes his face and drapes it over his bald head.

  ‘Saltedge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He nods slowly and starts fishing in his pockets for change.

  ‘I’d say y’ent above a walk, down that way.’ He jerks his head. ‘Train used to come all the way to Saltedge at that time of day, but it were mostly for Hallerton. Course there e’nt no point now.’

  His accent is broad, all strange-sounding vowels. I hope I’ve understood.

  ‘Hallerton, as in Hallerton House?’

  ‘Zackly.’

  ‘And it’s not far?’

 
I feel like I’m melting in the sun. I’m tempted to spend more of the expenses on trying to find a bus, or even a taxi, to take me to Hallerton, but that seems extravagant for such a short trip.

  He shakes his head. The damp handkerchief doesn’t move, stuck to his scalp. ‘Y’ent far.’

  ‘All right, thank you.’

  ‘Mind how you go, bor,’ he drawls, returning to his contemplation of the ice-cream truck. My mouth waters at the thought of a strawberry split, or a lemon ice, but what if someone saw me? I’m a professional solicitor and solicitors don’t eat ice-lollies.

  The path isn’t signposted. It runs across the train track and down the edge of a field. I set off, thinking explicit thoughts about cold lemonade and a cool bath. It’s nearly two now, and the sun is hammering down, the air stifling. Mad dogs and Englishmen. I have to stop to remove my jacket and loosen my tie an inch. I’d roll up my sleeves, but I want to arrive looking like a businessman, not a holidaymaker.

  Five minutes later, I come to the end of the field. Ahead, there’s a track, gravelly and dusty and barely wide enough for a car. Still no signs. It can’t be much further. I switch my suitcase into the other hand and plod on.

  Every time I look up from my feet I expect to see buildings, houses and a sign declaring ‘Welcome to Saltedge!’ but there’s nothing. No fields even, only an expanse of cracked mud with clumps of reeds. Is that buzzing noise the sound of insects, or the blood pulsing through my head?

  I wipe my face with my tie. My shirt has turned translucent, plastered to my back, and I’m sure that if I took my vest off I could wring it out. Have I taken a wrong turn? Why the hell did I listen to the train driver? He’s probably having a good laugh with his friend the ice-cream man, about how he sent the idiot from the city off on a wild-goose chase. He’s probably on his third orange Mivvi.

  I stop dead. Ahead is a crossroad. The same pitted track. I look around for a sign, a road name, anything, but there’s nothing. I want to cry with frustration, and almost do, until I hear a different sound, a juddering rumble, growing louder by the second.

  I barely have time to leap into the hedgerow as a filthy green monster rackets round the corner and bounces to a halt, showering me with grit. As I cough through the dust, a woman’s head appears out the driver’s window. At least, I think it’s a woman. Her hair is long, sun-bleached and tangled, her face is tanned, not a scrap of make-up. She’s staring at me, smiling as the dilapidated Citroën 2CV wheels slowly backwards. There’s a strong smell of petrol and burnt rubber.

  ‘Hey,’ she says.

  I croak out a ‘what?’ but am reminded of the sticky bus child and turn it into a ‘pardon?’

  The woman doesn’t seem fazed. She looks cool – in both senses – in a thin T-shirt of some indeterminate colour. A leather necklace dangles to her chest. She looks older than me, by about ten years.

  ‘Hey,’ she repeats. ‘Sorry I missed you, man, didn’t realize the time. Jump in.’

  What would my mother say? No doubt she’d whisper about drugs and the danger of taking lifts from hippies.

  ‘I’m OK walking,’ I tell her haltingly. ‘I’m only going to Saltedge. The train driver at Sheringham said it wasn’t far.’

  The woman at the wheel snorts and leans an elbow on the sill.

  ‘Not far if you’re a train. It’s about two miles, down this way.’

  I stare at the arid farm track, swimming with heat.

  ‘Oh.’ Her previous words finally trudge into my brain. ‘What do you mean, you missed me?’

  ‘At the station. Was supposed to pick you up, two o’clock sharp, give you the keys to the place. Dicky fixed it. I mean Mr Hillbrand.’ She’s grinning.

  I can’t help but smile in return. ‘He didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Just like him. So you want to jump in? Frying out there.’

  She shunts open the passenger door. I twist to put my suitcase in the back seat. There’s barely room. The car is cluttered with boxes, gardening twine, bits of pipe, old newspapers. The briefcase I keep on my lap. It takes two attempts to slam the door closed behind me but the shade is an instant relief. Sitting down has never felt so good.

  ‘All right,’ breathes the woman to herself, and the car jolts forward again. Soon, we’re rushing down the country lane, the wind streaming through the open windows. Hippy or no, I’m swamped with gratitude.

  ‘How do you know Mr Hillbrand?’ I yell over the clattering of the car.

  ‘He’s my cousin,’ the woman yells back, ‘once removed or something. Haven’t seen him for years.’

  The thought of this woman and Hillbrand being in the same room, let alone the same family, is almost too much to comprehend. No wonder he didn’t mention her.

  ‘I’m Bill,’ I remember to say, ‘Bill Perch.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ She grins. ‘I’m Jem Durrant.’

  24th February 1919, Hallerton

  Someone from the village told Andrew they saw me on the dunes, near the sea. Although I said that I was only walking, that there was no harm in it, he has made me promise not to go out alone any more. Sometimes I think all he does is frown and ask me how I am feeling. How can I tell him that there are times when I feel like my mind is not my own …?

  Of course, I cannot. I can see his face now, horrified, looking at me like I am a stranger rather than his niece. He tells me that I am overtired, that I should rest. He doesn’t know that the only time I sleep is when I take a few drops of the morphine that Dr Lewis left for Mother. She could not swallow by then, so there is almost a full bottle. I have hidden it beneath my pillow and am grateful for it.

  Andrew has invited guests for dinner. To what end I wasn’t sure at first, until I heard him on the telephone, describing the house, the grounds, the proximity to sea and rail. He found me shortly afterwards, in the boiler room with Edith, both of us with our sleeves rolled up, shovelling coal into the furnace to try to make it work. I will admit I was shovelling with greater fervour than necessary. I dug the spade furiously into the coal. Andrew wanted to talk. I did not.

  ‘Emeline,’ he said eventually, over the scrape of metal and the roar of the flames, ‘come up to the study, please.’

  I heaved in one spadeful, then another, my back muscles cramping and protesting until I heard him leave. Edith laid a hand upon my arm.

  ‘Go on, miss,’ she told me, ‘there y’ent much left to do here.’

  Andrew was seated behind the desk. Why did my jaw clench to see him there? He told me that some of his acquaintances would be coming for dinner, the day after tomorrow. They are all in a position to purchase property and have expressed an interest in Hallerton.

  ‘So soon?’ I could not help but ask it.

  ‘It’s as we agreed. A swift, private sale to a trusted party will be in your best interests. That way, we may be discreet about your financial situation, in the event of …’ He trailed off, fingers shuffling through the papers before him.

  ‘Of?’

  ‘You are out in society now, and with no one to … no other companionship, I wondered if you had thought about marrying. The sale of Hallerton will provide you with financial security for a time—’

  Beyond the window, movement caught my attention. A crow was limping around the lawn, looking for all the world like a jaunty ne’er-do-well with his hands in his pockets. When I was a child I used to leave them things, the crows; bits of coloured paper or ribbon. Once, I left them a tin ballerina. They took her too. I liked to imagine her, leaving the playroom behind, soaring into the trees in the safety of their claws, up into the clouds and on, to the secret places only the birds knew.

  Silence brought me back into the study. The lawn was empty, and I found that I was staring instead at my reflection, a thin face, ghost-pale and streaked with coal dust, hair loose and tangled. Andrew was looking at me in that desperate way, the same way Durrant had.

  ‘You are right about the dinner, I am sure.’ I tried to summon words that made sense. ‘How many are we to h
ost?’

  His pause made me realize that I had missed something, something important, but there was no help for it.

  ‘Four,’ he said eventually, ‘Mr Thorpe and Mr Granson from London, they are both in business in the city. Captain Johnson from Harwich and Mr Rossiter, who has concerns in the North. I was saying, I thought you might like to cook us a little supper, the way you used to. But if you do not feel strong enough then it is no matter.’

  Andrew was watching closely, watching for weaknesses. A dinner could be my chance to prove that there is nothing wrong with me; that he can trust me to look after Timothy, to run Hallerton. I gave him my best smile and told him that I thought it was an excellent idea.

  ‘Do you think quail might suit?’ I asked him. ‘And fish to start? There are eggs in the pantry for a dessert, but I do not know about sugar.’

  ‘Emeline,’ he took my hands in his, black with coal dust as they were, ‘should I call for the doctor? You do not seem well.’

  I told him that I was fine. He spoke again, but all I could think about was the bottle of morphine, cold beneath my pillow. I do not think he suspected me, even though I almost ran up the stairs. Timothy called to me from the playroom as I passed, but I didn’t stop. My hands were shaking so much I was barely able to lock my bedroom door. My breath was too quick, too hard, but the little bottle was there. I upended it over a glass of water, more drops than usual.

  I have slept half the day since then. It is dusk as I write this. The bottle stands, un-stoppered, next to me. Timothy will be wondering where I am.

  June 1969

  ‘Sure you don’t want to go straight to the village? You look dead beat.’

  Jem holds the wheel loosely with one hand, green stains embedded in the grooves of her nails and knuckles.

  ‘Thanks,’ I tell her, feeling awkward and stuffy in my sweat-soaked polyester. ‘I’d prefer to make a start at Hallerton. We’re on a deadline, you see.’