by Milly Adams
Hand-in-hand they walked along, and now she saw that Polly had grabbed Sylvia’s hand, and soon they were all half marching, swinging their arms, singing quietly that they were the Three Musketeers. ‘All for one, and one for all.’
Then they laughed, startling the birds, which flew from the trees. Verity hushed them. They continued without speaking until Polly stopped, pulling them both to a halt. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been stupid, rude and embarrassing. I feel a total fool.’
Verity said, hurrying them on, ‘Well, darling idiot, you were, but we’ve all done it. Strange to say, Miss Polly Holmes, no one is perfect, not even you.’
They were laughing again as they approached the side of the house through a walled garden that contained weed-covered vegetable beds enclosed by overgrown box hedges, and neglected fruit trees that had been trained along the walls. Verity hushed them when they saw a doorway, through which they could see a yard, and she whispered, ‘Your dad would soon sort this lot out, Polly. Simon, the new young gardener, went off to war of course. The flower beds at the back will be as bad, though I’m sure Mother will have done her best.’
A small cottage lay to the right of the path that led through the yard to the rear of the house. ‘The old gardener’s cottage,’ Verity said. ‘I liked to go in, because old Matthews was a nice bloke and used to hang herbs over the range. Mrs B would give him hell, because the range dried them too much, and would then stuff him with cakes to show him she didn’t mean it. Mother had a soft spot for him too.’
Suddenly, as they passed more shrubs in the walled garden, Verity thought again of the scent of camellias and remembered that old Matthews had nurtured a scented camellia somewhere around here. Is that what she remembered – not perfume at all, but the flowers? She shook her head, sure it was perfume, because she had smelt it on a person.
At the end of the walled garden, Verity put up her hand and peered about to check that the yard was clear, but before they moved forward, Sylvia said, ‘You do still love your mother, you know. It was in your voice just then, wasn’t it, Verity? She is your mother, after all. I mean, perhaps it was just a tantrum, or a concern, that made her trick you and Tom?’
Verity ran the words through her head, then muttered, ‘It’s more than that. I’m not sure she’s ever liked me. I can remember being bathed by someone who was cross. I thought it was the nanny pulling me about, but Mother has often been cross, just like that. Oh, everything is so blurry. All I know is that there was someone else who was kind, someone who smelled of camellias. She was gentle, and sang to me. Now what was it she sang? Oh, I can’t remember. I was just a toddler. Mother and Father never talk about my life – about their lives – back then. But parents don’t, do they?’
They crossed the yard, and just before they reached the steps down into the kitchen, Verity stopped, feeling a rushing, a darkening; but no, she was not going to panic, was not going to let fear and the memory of Sandy, the water, the blood, the uncertainty of what was to come, drag her down. No, that was in the past. No. She breathed deeply, and again.
Polly said, ‘Verity?’
She made herself turn and smile, feeling her heart beating wildly. She said, ‘Across the yard you can see the garages. The old Rolls is not there, so at least Father is absent, and Mother might have gone with him.’ She was gabbling, panting. Sylvia gripped her arm. Then it was over, all gone, like a wave, and now there were just the echoes as she spoke again, strongly and slowly. ‘We can talk to Rogers and Mrs B, which will be better. Above the garages is where Tom lived. He loved the smell of oil, grease and petrol.’
Polly murmured, ‘Sylvia’s right, you know. You did sound as though you love your mum. And I love mine, but sometimes you just can’t forgive.’
Sylvia turned to stand in front of them. ‘Forgive whom? Yourselves or them, Polly? You might not forget, but you must forgive. You too, Verity. Life is much too short to do anything else.’
Verity pushed past and headed off down the stairs, because there was no must about it. Polly stamped down the steps behind her, clearly thinking much the same.
The boot hall was dark, but of course it was – where did the light come from in a basement? The kitchen door off the hall was half open, and the lights were on. Verity entered. Mrs B was chopping carrots on the centre table, her back to them; a large range oozed heat. Gleaming copper pans hung from the ceiling, and at one end of the table sat Rogers, doing what looked like accounts. Verity felt love for these two people, but as for …? She didn’t know at all.
Rogers looked up, his face breaking into a smile. ‘Why, Lady Verity? This is a surprise.’
Mrs B put down her knife and held out her arms. Verity almost fell into them. Mrs B whispered, ‘No, it’s not a surprise, silly old devil. Tom has written to us, so we knew you’d come sometime, and also why. We are so glad that your plans with him are clearer, my love. First, though, have you eaten lunch?’
She ushered Verity to a high stool beside her, and the other two girls to those on the opposite side.
‘Sandwiches, and perhaps leek-and-potato soup. Rogers and I had some for our lunch, but there is plenty, isn’t there?’
They ate. Rogers provided cups of tea, and in the warmth and familiarity Verity found courage. Lord and Lady Clements were due to arrive home at four, apparently. They had been invited for luncheon with a neighbour, so it was to be a light supper, Rogers told them, nodding towards the clock. It was now ten past three. Once they had eaten, Rogers busied himself above stairs, while Polly and Sylvia asked to look round the walled garden. On their way out Polly turned and smiled, mouthing, ‘Find out what you can.’ Aloud she said, ‘We’ll be back by four, in case you need us.’
Verity nodded, so pleased to have the real Polly returning to them. They clattered up the steps to the yard. It was a noise that was so familiar from childhood that she could almost feel the peas that she had shelled with Mrs B, and the carrots that she had cut into long, slim slices, though her mother had not approved because it stained her fingers. As she had worked, the staff and tradesmen had come and gone, and the chatter had been cheerful. Now, as she washed the dishes with Mrs B in the scullery, no staff entered, because there were no more than just the two of them. She and Mrs B didn’t speak, beyond mentioning the canal boats and the weather.
At last they sat at the table, the copper pans glinting in the electric light. Mrs B leaned forward, her plump arms on the table. Verity gripped Mrs B’s hand. ‘So, you know why I’ve come?’
Mrs B nodded. ‘Tom explained, and I have to tell you, it will be a shock for you to learn more – and it is your parents who should tell you.’ At that moment they heard a car in the yard, and Mrs B snatched her hands away and said, ‘You must go upstairs. It won’t do to be tittle-tattling in here, it’s not fair on your mother.’
Both turned to the back door as Verity’s mother, standing in a cream silk outfit, said, ‘What isn’t fair, Mrs B? And, Verity – such a nice surprise. I noticed your friend, Polly, and one other wandering around the flower garden as we drove into the yard. I am delighted to see you all, of course, but I do wish you’d telephoned; we could have made sure we were here. We’ve missed you, haven’t we, Mrs B?’
Mrs B smiled. ‘Indeed we have, even though she’s such a little monkey.’
Lady Pamela was pulling her gloves off. ‘Mrs B, perhaps tea in the drawing room in twenty minutes, for five of us, if that doesn’t interfere with your plans?’
She waited, smiling at Mrs B, who said, ‘Of course. I think I have some scones.’
Lady Pamela smiled at Verity, though she seemed strained and nervous. She turned on her high heels and left, mounting the stairs to the yard again.
Verity sat, feeling as though all the breath had left her body, a reaction her mother had so often created. If only the woman would kiss her, or reach out to her in some way. Mrs B was bustling into the pantry and came out with some scones and honey, arranging them on a plate, just as Rogers rushed in. ‘You know they have
returned?’
Verity nodded. ‘Don’t worry. Mother overheard Mrs B insisting that I talk to them, not to you.’
Rogers shook his head. ‘We’re not worried about that, are we, dearest? We have been with them so long, and there is a reason we stay. Your mother – not your father, my dear, whatever you might think – is the heart and mainstay of this family, and whatever you hear, you must remember that. You need to leave time and space to follow through on all that you learn. The person they will talk about, and your father in particular, is … Well, we have an address, should you need it.’
One of the bells above the door rang. It was the drawing room.
Rogers smiled tiredly. ‘I believe that is for you, not for us.’
Polly and Sylvia could be heard pounding down the steps from the yard. ‘I’m sorry – they saw us,’ Polly said.
‘And now we need to present ourselves in the drawing room.’ Verity rose.
The girls walked across the majestic hallway, skirting the silk carpets. Even Verity found herself walking on tiptoe beneath the portraits of her ancestors. The drawing-room door was open.
Her mother called, ‘Do come in, please, because Mrs B is quite right, this discussion is long overdue.’ There was a mettle in her voice that there hadn’t been in the kitchen. Out of her natural surroundings down there, Verity thought. Perhaps the silk rugs gave her mother a sense of importance, superiority. She felt anger stirring, as it always did, and resentment.
The three of them entered the room. Her father was standing by the fireplace, his walking sticks over his left arm. For a moment Verity thought of Tom. Had he cast both his aside yet? The fire was laid, but not lit. Her mother sat on her usual sofa to the right of the fireplace. Her father smiled. ‘Darling Verity, here you are at last. I feared, after your last visit, we wouldn’t see you again, but I’m relieved you haven’t given up on us. And so good to see you, too …’ He hesitated, looking at Polly. ‘Polly, isn’t it, if I remember correctly?’
Verity walked to the sofa that was placed opposite her mother’s. She stood behind it, with the girls beside her. They looked ridiculous, Verity feared, like three starlings on a telephone wire. She breathed in deeply. No, like the Three Musketeers.
Her mother said, ‘We had hoped to see you sooner. We do miss you, dearest Verity.’ Though she sat ramrod-straight, she looked fragile, though she had lost weight. Her father, though, looked as he always did. Well, unlined, though when he moved, as she did now, he was clearly in pain.
Verity said to her mother, holding Polly’s hand for courage, ‘You could have come to Bull’s Bridge. Or written.’
Her mother looked surprised. ‘But I did write, to the address you left here.’
Verity shook her head slightly. Always an answer – never at fault. She murmured, ‘Oh dear, and I suppose the postman didn’t deliver it? How convenient.’
Her mother looked at her hands, then at her husband. ‘Them. Them, Verity, my dear. I wrote several letters and left them for posting in the hall. Your father takes them …’ She stopped, thought, then looked at him as he stared into the far distance, as though he had nothing to do with the things being said.
Verity shrugged, knowing that her father wasn’t about to be disloyal to her mother and expose her lie. After a moment her mother said, ‘I had things I needed to say, amongst which was to congratulate you on helping Lady McDonald’s daughter, Alexandra. That took great courage.’
Verity squeezed Polly’s hand. ‘And if it had been the postman’s daughter?’
Her mother sighed. Polly nudged her and frowned.
Verity knew she was being churlish, but she didn’t care. She said, ‘So, you know from Lady Celia that Tom and I have found one another again. He travelled with us to Birmingham and back on the Marigold and has now returned to the war.’
Her mother sank back against the cushions. ‘I wrote to you trying to explain why I took the actions I did, to prevent such a liaison. Basically it was out of love, Verity, and experience.’
Verity looked at her father, then back at her mother. ‘I’m not sure you know about love, Mother. But I am to marry Tom.’ She dragged the ring on its chain out from beneath her sweater. ‘I love him, he loves me, and nothing – not even lies – will stop us.’
Her mother put her hand to her mouth. Verity’s father said, ‘Pamela, be very careful. I will take over now.’ He looked at the girls. ‘I do wish you’d all sit down, it’s like some strange seance or similar.’
None of the girls said a word, but just waited.
Verity’s father muttered, ‘Very well.’ He picked up a gold cigarette case from the mantelpiece, using it to reflect the light, then replaced it before turning to face them, taking both his sticks and leaning on them. ‘We love you very much, dearest Verity. Your mother spoke the truth. We utterly do.’ He stopped, staring at the floor as he struggled to find words, but to say what?
Lady Pamela spoke into the silence, face pale beneath her make-up, her hands clasped in her lap. ‘Your father is quite right, we both love you, and perhaps I acted out of turn with Brown.’ She stopped, shook her head. ‘No, let me start again, with Tom. But it was out of fear, you see …’ Now it was she who petered out.
Verity leaned forward. ‘But, Mother, it wasn’t just that you acted out of turn. You’ve spoken to me, dealt with me for as long as I can remember, as though there is no love in you for me. As though you have a barrier between us, one you’ve built to keep me at a distance.’
Tears were streaming down Lady Pamela’s impassive face, but she had not issued a sound.
Verity felt something twist, but her father said, ‘Collect yourself immediately, Pamela. Verity, what we should have told you years ago is that you are my child – the beloved issue of a relationship between me and another woman, in the early days of my marriage to your, shall we say, stepmother. Your real mother was a rather beautiful woman, one of our staff, and I was mesmerised. You were conceived and your … Well, Lady Pamela insisted that the right thing was for you to be brought up here, by your real mother.’
Verity clutched at Polly’s hand as the water threatened to engulf her, and the darkness, and the … No, not now. Now she must listen. She breathed slowly, pushing away the rushing and surging as she listened to her father.
‘Most sadly, your real mother died when you were two, so you were a gift, if you like. You are our daughter, and I believe that your … perhaps we should call …’ He wafted his hand towards his wife. ‘Lady Pamela, your stepmother, feared that with Brown – no, so sorry, Tom – heartache might ensue. I mean that perhaps he was not quite what he seemed.’ His voice broke. He pressed his lips together and couldn’t go on.
As he was speaking Verity had realised so many things. She looked like him, and not her … ‘My mother was my nanny, wasn’t she?’
There was a long silence. Lady Pamela’s silent tears had stopped, but she was diminished somehow, almost a shell, though still she sat upright and immobile. Her hands were clasped together so tightly that her knuckles were white.
‘She was my lady’s maid, before you were born.’ She spoke, but her voice was thin and defeated.
Verity’s father had slung his sticks back over his arm and had opened his cigarette case, but clicked it shut now and tossed it back onto the mantelpiece. ‘It was a mess. I behaved without honour. It was difficult for us all.’
‘Why did she die?’
Lady Pamela whispered, ‘Pneumonia. Your father brought in the best physicians, but nothing could be done. She was taken to hospital, where she died.’
‘Where is she buried?’
Her father had picked up the cigarette case again. It had his initials in the corner and the family crest, and Verity wished he’d leave the damned thing alone and look at her. ‘Her family insisted that she return to them. We, of course, paid all expenses.’
Verity felt her legs trembling. ‘Where are they – my family?’
He shook his head, and Lady Pamela pleaded,
‘Henry, you must …’
‘They were in the East End, that’s all we know,’ he admitted.
‘What did she look like?’ It was all Verity could think of to say, above the hammering of her heart, and she held Polly’s hand so tightly that it hurt her, so it must be just as bad for Polly. She loosened her grip.
Her mother rose and began to leave the room. ‘Your father has a photograph. I will fetch it for you.’
Verity rushed around the sofa. ‘Stay here, you two. I’ll be back.’
She ran after Lady Pamela, who was hurrying up the stairs, her trembling hand clutching the bannister. Verity stayed two steps behind, trying to absorb the information and fit the new knowledge into her memories of her kind real mother, and the scent of camellias. And then, as they reached the landing, she thought of herself, and of Tom, and how she would feel if he loved another, under her own roof. How could she bear it? How? Again something inside her twisted, but as they walked towards her father’s bedroom, she realised that it must take a heart of stone to endure such a thing.
She thought of the crossness and the slapping she had endured as a defenceless young child; of the distance that she felt as she grew up. It wasn’t her fault. It was theirs. Her mother – no, her stepmother – should have been able to keep her husband’s love; her father should have resisted temptation, and her real mother should have walked away before anything happened. Had she no loyalty towards Her Ladyship, and how could she stay here, with a child? Her father – how could he, how dare he?
Lady Pamela swept into her father’s room. There was an adjoining door between this room and her mother’s – no, her stepmother’s. Was it ever opened? The room could only have been a man’s: dull colours, bare, matter-of-fact. On the dresser were three photographs. One of her grandparents; one of herself on Star, before her mother – no, her stepmother – had ridden and killed the mare; and one of … well, her real mother, laughing, with blue eyes and blonde hair.
