by Parks, Adele
Presently he asked, ‘Do you think I made the right decision letting her go to London?’
‘I really don’t think you had much say in the matter. She’s a grown woman.’
‘She’s gone alone. Wouldn’t hear of taking Dickenson with her.’
‘She probably didn’t want to overburden Ava by taking her maid along too.’
‘I wonder what people must think, her off shopping and partying and what have you, so soon after my father’s death.’
‘Oh, I don’t think anyone of any value will think about it at all,’ commented Sarah breezily. She turned to Lawrence and smiled at him reassuringly. ‘All the people we care about are far too busy to waste time gossiping about what other people are doing, aren’t they?’
Lawrence thought this was sensible and agreeable, if not entirely accurate. He really wished Lydia had not headed off so swiftly. He understood that she cared about how she looked and that she would want the most flattering and beguiling black clothes, but he’d rather she’d stayed here and not bothered with mourning rituals; no one really expected anyone to wear black for longer than a week nowadays. He’d have liked to have her around. He wanted to discuss some of the decisions about the property sales; he wanted her to start to instruct the servants here, otherwise his mother might never give up the habit. Last night he’d been thinking about when he was a boy and used to go fishing with his father and his older brothers. They’d spend hours up to their thighs in the stream, sunlight and salmon dancing on the glittering surface; tadpoles slipping carelessly in and out of the frilly grasses near the water’s edge. It was a lovely memory and he’d have liked to share it with someone; but none of them were here now. Brothers and father dead. Lydia gallivanting. He couldn’t risk sharing it with his mother – it might upset her – and he had no intention of saying any of it to Sarah, so they fell silent again. It was a companionable silence, though, not awkward or toxic. He could hear the fountain flowing; although it was out of view, he could imagine it clearly. He knew every inch of Clarendale. The dogs were barking at something or other. Playful chaps.
‘Thank you, Sarah.’
‘What for?’ She looked genuinely startled.
‘Well, being here, with Mother. With me. It’s kind of you to agree to stay on.’ It had been Lydia’s suggestion. She’d mentioned it the day before the funeral, saying to Lawrence how wonderful it would be for Sarah’s children to stay at Clarendale Hall for a spell. ‘They never get a holiday,’ she’d pointed out. ‘It will do Sarah a power of good too. She needs a break from all the gloom at Seaton Manor.’ He’d thought that Lydia wanted to spend time with her godchildren, and had agreed instantly, but then Lydia had made her plans to rush off to London, leaving Sarah and the children to their own devices.
‘The children are having a marvellous stay.’
‘Finding things to amuse themselves, are they?’
‘Too true.’ Lawrence had seen them on the croquet lawn in the mornings and heard the rhythm of the racquet and the ball when they played on the tennis court just after lunch. ‘They’ve spent a great deal of their time fishing in the stream,’ said Sarah.
‘Have they really?’
‘Yes. They end the day smelling revolting, carrying something worse, but sun-kissed and happy.’
‘I’m very pleased.’ Lawrence resisted intruding on Sarah’s contentment by adding his own stories about fishing. He realised that it was enough that the stream was being enjoyed in that way again; he didn’t need to talk about his childhood now that others’ childhoods were blooming at Clarendale.
Sarah let out a contented sigh and sat back in her chair. She closed her eyes for a moment. Lawrence thought perhaps she might even nod off; he wouldn’t mind. The woman was a hive of activity, always playing the piano or doing something with knitting needles, or crochet needles, or darning needles – some sort of needles anyway – or running about looking after the children, or her brother, or neighbours; it was rather a treat to see her peaceful and at ease. He watched her lips part, just a fraction. The creases round her mouth and eyes softened. Her breathing became deeper. Then she seemed to sense him staring; she opened her eyes and grinned at him. ‘How rude of me.’
‘Not at all,’ he reassured her.
‘It’s so tranquil here. I’ve always loved Clarendale, from the very first moment I saw it.’
‘When was that?’
‘Your engagement party.’
‘Quite so.’
‘What a night that was.’
‘Indeed.’
‘You had a full-size orchestra, one hundred musicians playing from a marquee on the lawn.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I remember the smell of jasmine and candle wax lingering in the air. There were literally thousands of paper lanterns. It was so romantic.’
‘Yes.’
‘Arthur and I made love in the herbaceous border.’
Lawrence choked on his lemonade. It was such an audacious comment, and so out of character, that he thought he must have misheard. Sarah turned to him and grinned, revealing a rarely exposed mischievous side. ‘There’s a very real chance that John was conceived here.’
‘Well.’ He was without words.
‘I only have good memories of Clarendale,’ she added.
‘I’m glad.’ Lawrence tried to recover some of his composure. He had never made love outside a bedroom, not with Lydia or with either of the two women he had had love affairs with before he married. Both of those women had been rather loose and adventurous, but even so, neither of them had suggested or hinted that al fresco might be an option. He hadn’t realised that proper couples, married people, his friends, did such things. He was disconcerted by a feeling of both inadequacy and envy. Then he remembered that Arthur was dead, and he simply felt grateful that the man had known his wife outdoors. ‘It’s so important to hold on to the good memories, if we can,’ he said.
‘Yes, if we can.’ The truth was that the war had taken away the pleasure of pottering about the past, or bravely plunging into the future, come to that. It required enough courage to stay in the present.
‘Sarah …’ He paused. Her comment about making love in his garden had chiselled away at the usual formality that existed between them, but the question he wanted to raise was deeply personal to them both.
‘What?’
‘Do you think … Are you angry that …’ How to begin? ‘What I’m trying to say is …’ He could not say it. He could not ask if she resented men like him, ones who had had desk jobs. He didn’t want to hear her answer, not really. What he wanted was for her to politely excuse him; he wanted a salve. She’d give it, he was almost certain, but it was selfish to demand it of her. For months now Lydia and Lawrence had been locked in a grim stalemate. This absurd notion that she had, that they were being punished. What rot. Who could believe in a just world after what their generation had endured? God was not balancing the scales, adding and taking away weights at will, like some sort of grocer measuring out flour and currants. Save a son here, inflict infertility there. It didn’t make sense.
None of it did.
That was the only thing they could be sure of: none of it made sense.
Besides, it was some time ago. They ought to move onwards and upwards. It wasn’t polite to linger and poke the embers. Sarah had the right idea: the only thing to recall was the bright times. Why relive the atrocities? Nothing could be undone. It was clear Lydia was humiliated by his actions, resented him. On occasion she behaved in a way that made him think she almost despised him. He would not ask Sarah for a salve, it wasn’t fair. He could do without, because he hadn’t done anything wrong and he had to believe that. Questioning his position, well, that way madness lay. Instead all he said was, ‘I’m glad you find peace here.’
It was clear that Sarah understood the deeper level of his comment when she replied, ‘I lived with years of gnawing anxiety when he was at the Front. There was so much time to fill. Endless. I tried to
punctuate my days, make sense of them.’
‘Keep to a routine.’
‘Yes, that’s what we were advised, wasn’t it?’ That sort of advice came from the Home Office, although not Lawrence’s department; he hoped it had helped. ‘In the mornings I’d visit the children in the nursery room. Then I’d sew or darn. In the afternoons, I’d garden.’
‘Very useful.’
‘Well, I was able to grow vegetables. Then the afternoon would creep into the evening, another day gone, no telegram. That was all that mattered. Get by without the postboy stopping at your gate. Thank God when he stopped at your neighbour’s. Ask God to forgive you for that thought. I would have been better becoming a VAD or something, exhausting myself physically so that there was no room for mental examination. It might have been some relief to be too busy to long for the next letter to arrive, to dread the next telegram.’
‘But you had the children.’
‘Yes, indeed, it would have been impossible for me.’ Sarah sighed wearily. ‘It is just one of my many fantasies about the war. One of the lesser ones.’
‘You must miss him very much.’
Sarah pulled her face into something that was supposed to approximate a cheery or at least a brave smile; in fact she looked savage. Lawrence regretted the platitude. He had meant it sincerely, but it had fallen short of its mark.
‘One recovers from the shock, eventually, just as I don’t doubt one gradually gets used to the fact one can’t walk and is dependent on a chair, but one never gets over the loss and one will never be the same.’ She paused. ‘I wouldn’t wish it on another soul.’ Her attitude was in stark contrast to Lydia’s. Neither woman really accepted things as they were, but Sarah endured, whereas Lydia railed. There was something about Sarah’s sad but quiet dignity that made her appear absolutely stupendous. ‘Every man who came home was a miracle.’ She looked directly at Lawrence and held his gaze. ‘Every man who stayed home was a blessing.’
Emotion welled up in his throat, choking him; it blocked his airways and stung his eyes. He coughed. She turned away from him and looked out at the garden. Lawrence leaned towards her and placed his hand on hers in absolute gratitude. She continued to look out on to the green lushness and didn’t acknowledge his contact.
‘I’m waffling, sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me. I only wanted to say that here is one of the only places where anxiety slips from me. I appreciate the invitation. I like being here, and so do the children.’
Lawrence nodded, knowing that the moment of understanding, which he’d relished, must dissolve. He withdrew his hand and settled back in his chair. ‘Look, here they are now.’
‘Talk of the devil and he shall appear.’ Sarah laughed. Lawrence knew she was joking: her entire demeanour lit up when the children were in her sight. In fact she twinkled so brightly that it caused Lawrence to understand that the rest of the time she wasn’t very happy at all.
Both adults watched as the children made laborious progress up the bankside and stumbled towards the open patio doors. They’d been spotted. Molly waved enthusiastically; John was lugging a steel pail that evidently was full of water and who knows what else, so he did not expend any unnecessary energy by throwing a greeting their way.
‘Hello, you two. Had a good day?’
‘Excellent, thank you,’ replied John. Molly ran to her mother and tried to climb on her lap.
‘Oh, sweet one, you are filthy. You’ll get me dirty too.’ But Sarah’s objections were half-hearted; she couldn’t resist the weight of her younger child on her knee.
Lawrence turned to the boy. ‘Caught anything?’
‘Two frogs.’
‘Good show.’
‘May I have a biscuit?’
‘You should wait until you are offered,’ said Sarah quietly but firmly. She was a stickler for manners; she didn’t want it said that she’d brought up the sort of children who were spoilt or unruly. It was bad enough that they did not have a father; much harder if everyone expected the worst of them because of the fact.
‘Oh.’ John hung his head, embarrassment and disappointment blistering out from his demeanour.
Lawrence allowed a heartbeat and then said, ‘Would you children like a biscuit?’ Smiling, they reached out; their day’s adventure was smeared on their hands.
‘You ought to go and run your hands under a tap,’ said Sarah; it was now her turn to look embarrassed and disappointed.
‘Oh, a bit of mud never hurt anyone,’ offered Lawrence. He glanced at Sarah to check that he hadn’t offended her by contradicting her in front of the children. He didn’t want to undermine her, just put her at her ease. He was pleased to see that she looked relieved and not in the slightest irritated.
‘It’s lovely here,’ murmured Molly, as she rested her head back on her mother’s chest.
‘Isn’t it? However, we’ll have to leave tomorrow.’
‘Really? So soon?’ Lawrence found the idea of Sarah’s departure disquieting.
‘No!’ the children chorused; they clearly found it upsetting too.
‘You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.’
‘Thank you, you are very generous, but I got a telegram from Bea today. I think Cecily would like me to return. You know, to help with Sammy.’
‘I see. Absolutely. Selfish of me to delay you.’
‘I don’t want to go home, Mummy,’ groaned Molly. ‘Not yet.’
‘But the stable master said he’d take us riding tomorrow,’ said John. ‘We never go riding at home. There’s no one to take us.’ Lawrence knew that the staff at Seaton Manor were overburdened with the care of Samuel and there was no time for anyone to indulge children with horse-riding lessons in the holidays.
‘And we’d planned to go fruit-picking,’ mumbled Molly. She put three fingers in her mouth, a habit Lawrence had noticed she employed to stop her crying.
‘Uncle Earl Lawrence said he’d teach me to shoot,’ added John, with ill-disguised petulance. He kicked the gravel hopelessly; small stones splattered about and pinged against the pail. Lawrence looked sheepish. It was true, he had offered to take the boy to the target range; there had been talk of clay pigeon shooting by the end of the summer, perhaps even grouse in August. Lawrence had been making plans. He hadn’t thought about when the children would have to leave; it was careless of him. Truthfully, he’d been as excited by the idea of the shoot as the boy was, but now he felt dreadful; he hadn’t wanted to put Sarah in a tricky position. She looked hot and flustered.
‘That’s not how you ought to address the Earl of Clarendale, John.’
‘Oh, that doesn’t matter one bit. I think it’s rather a fun name,’ said Lawrence.
‘I’m not going home.’
‘You certainly are, young man.’
‘But I like it here.’
‘May I make a suggestion?’ Lawrence could see that both Sarah and the children were becoming increasingly irate, and locking horns never did anyone any good. ‘Perhaps you could go home and help Cecily but the children could stay on here. If you don’t mind and don’t think they’ll be too homesick.’
Before the words were completely out of his mouth, John and Molly started to plead and yell.
‘Can we, Mummy?’
‘What a super idea. I won’t be homesick, not one bit. I promise. Can we stay?’
Sarah laughed. ‘Oh, I see. I’m totally dispensable, am I?’ Lawrence could tell she was torn. She didn’t like to be separated from the children and she wouldn’t want to exploit his hospitality, but on the other hand, she couldn’t fail to see how excited and delighted they were at the prospect. He waded in.
‘Well, I know I’d love that, and Mother would too. She’s adored having the children about. You could come back again at the weekends, if you want and if Cecily and Bea think they can manage.’
‘Well, I—’
‘Please say yes, Mummy. Everyone wants you to.’
Sarah gave in with a graceful smile. She wasn�
�t one for disappointing people. ‘Well, if everyone wants me to, how can I do anything other?’
‘Good, that’s settled,’ said Lawrence firmly. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes for a moment. The heat from the sun rested on his lids in a pleasant, almost soothing way. It was the first decision he’d felt totally content with in several days. Sarah had such a charming smile. It was a joy to see her use it.
40
‘THERE YOU ARE, darling. I’ve been quite mad with worry. No one at all knew where you’d disappeared to.’ Ava kissed Lydia on both cheeks, but despite her words she did not look agitated or overly concerned.
‘What happened to your face?’ Lydia gasped, shocked. Ava had become used to her beaten appearance and forgot that it was startling. Shocking. Initially she’d been macabrely drawn to every looking glass in the house; she couldn’t stop examining the violence, couldn’t stop thinking about it. But she was pretty sure that the cut on her lip was healing reasonably well, and she was able to open her mouth again properly. For a day or so eating had been difficult; her jaw ached, and if she chewed vigorously, she opened the cut where her top lip met her bottom one. Her temple was still tender, and she suspected that injury might leave a scar; she’d had another headache this morning. She’d watched as the bruises lost their angry red hue and rushed through a kaleidoscope of colours; at first they had darkened to a bluish purple which, despite the fact that Ava was far from the romantic sort and rarely subject to silly notions, she could not help but compare to the colour of forget-me-nots. Then they’d turned a sludgy green, the colour of the English Channel in the autumn, and now they were saffron, suggesting that the bruising was almost healed. Another day or so and she would be able to go out and about again without any comment at all.
‘Oh, nothing.’ She waved her hand dismissively. ‘A horse. I got thrown from a horse. A huge ignorant brute. One moment he was placidly plodding along and the next this terrible flash of temper.’
