The beater man gave her a nod and a wave as she passed the doors to his domain. With the Fourdrinier machine and the beaters running full tilt, and the agitators in the stuff tanks turning, and the water turbines thundering, it was easier to gesture than to talk. Most of the workers were used to Donny and Pudding, and knew that their occasional presence was to be expected and tolerated. Still, Pudding knew that the men had work to do, and that it wasn’t a safe place to be, and she made it her business to extract Donny as swiftly as she could when he paid one of his visits. The engineer pointed at the new generator house, and Pudding waved to thank him. She found Donny in front of the huge Belliss and Morcom steam engine, which – somehow – made electricity for the whole mill. It was still shiny in spite of all the soot and smoke in the air, rearing fourteen feet above the tan and white tiled floor. Donny was standing with his arms loose at his sides and the machine looming over him like some great black animal. To Pudding’s eyes it was all pipes, belts and cylinders, and pressure dials with trembling red needles. She wondered if Donny still understood how it all worked, or if, like her, he simply saw metal and mess now. She didn’t know which would be worse – she hated to think that he stood there in full knowledge of his new, flawed existence. There was sweat on his brow, but whether it was from the heat or some internal struggle, she couldn’t tell.
Then, with a jolt, Pudding noticed Tanner. He was behind them, tucked into a corner near the coal heap, asleep with his cap pulled down low over his face and a brown bottle nestled tenderly in his arms like a baby. She caught her breath, filled with dread at the thought of him waking up and finding them there, as witnesses. His clothes were all sooty and dark; smuts had settled into the creases of his face so that he looked like an old, old man. He’d been let go more than once before, she knew, for just the same thing. Drinking on the job – or drinking and being incapable of the job. Or, once, drinking and throwing a junior beater into the mill race during a row over an imaginary insult that had nearly ended with the other man drowned. Somehow, Alistair always managed to give him another chance, but the last time, six months earlier, Pudding had overheard Nancy and Alistair arguing about it in the mill office when she’d passed on the way to find Donny.
‘No more, Alistair. The man is a liability,’ Nancy had said, at her most adamant, which was when she usually went unchallenged.
‘Nobody else will employ him, Nancy.’
‘And there’s a good reason for that.’
‘What of his family? All those youngsters?’
‘Enough youngsters to send out to work, and cover his lost earnings. Of all the inbred peasants we’re forced to employ, he really does take the biscuit – he will be the death of himself, or somebody else. Or of the mill.’
Alistair’s subsequent silence had been telling, but perhaps he’d spoken to Tanner because the man’s presence in Slaughterford had been relatively unobtrusive for many months, and Mrs Glover’d had it from Trish Tanner – his wife, who rarely spoke a word and trudged through life with the air of a woman who’d abandoned hopes and dreams at a young age – that he’d given up the drink altogether. He’d come back to work at the mill again, and now he was passed out drunk in the coal heap. One of his sons, one of those Pudding and Irene had seen at Thatch Cottage, was shovelling coal into the two boilers. He gave her a black glare when he saw her looking, and Pudding jerked her eyes away. Whether the man was found out or not, it wouldn’t be her who reported on him; it could hardly be her business, when she wasn’t even supposed to be there. She roused Donny with a hand on his arm.
‘Time to go home now, Donny.’ The steam hissed, the boilers roared. The gentle summer day outside was lost and forgotten in that building, with its alien machinery and high metal rafters, and suddenly Pudding longed to escape from it. She tugged at Donny’s arm but, in spite of her size, there was no way she could move him until he wanted to move. He looked down at her in that underwater way of his.
‘I used to know all this,’ he said. ‘Didn’t I?’ Pudding’s heart sank.
‘You did, Donny. Yes, you did.’
‘It’s like I still know it, Pud. Only … I can’t remember what I know.’
‘Never mind, Donny,’ she said, trying not to show her dismay. ‘You’ve other work now, haven’t you? In the gardens.’ He nodded, turning back to the steam engine. His brow creased with thought – with the effort of thought.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But I used to know all this.’ Pudding didn’t know what to say. The Tanner boy watched them, suspiciously, resentfully; he was filthy from the coal and the sweat, and Pudding could see his exhaustion at that late hour of the day – a judder in his muscles with each dig of the shovel.
When she finally managed to coax Donny out, the evening had mellowed, and the western sky had a bruised, yellow look. Pudding crossed her fingers behind her back and hoped there wouldn’t be a thunder storm. The noise terrified Donny, and left him wild-eyed and piteous, unable to escape from himself or the fear. Last time, Pudding and her father had played records for hours to drown out the weather, but Donny had flailed and crashed about, attempting to barricade himself into his room by heaving the furniture about, and when Pudding had looked into his eyes it had seemed as though her brother were no longer in there at all. She didn’t like to remember it.
‘I dreamt I was back in the mud in France, Pud,’ Donny had said, quietly, the morning after. ‘Stuck there near the lads on the washing lines, and the smell they had. And I couldn’t get away; I couldn’t.’ They walked up the hill to Spring Cottage in silence, since every time Pudding thought of something to say, a glance at her brother’s closed-off face silenced her. Buzzards wheeled above, with their high, lonely cries; rabbits scattered into the bank, and glossy black bumblebees milked the clover. Change was definitely coming, Pudding thought then. She could feel it gathering, drawing in its breath. She was just no longer at all sure that it would be for the better.
* * *
However early Irene got up in the morning – and she had been getting up earlier each day, with the noise of the farm and the sun streaming through the crack in the curtains – Nancy was up and dressed before her. Irene wondered if she needed sleep at all, or merely carried on throughout the night, being impenetrable and efficient and entirely correct. Now, only a single place remained at the breakfast table, for Irene; Alistair’s and Nancy’s had been used already and cleared away. On the sideboard, the mushrooms and kidneys had gone cold, and the house already had the left-behind air of a place abandoned by busy people. Irene was completely unprepared for the letter that had been left for her, beside her place setting. She knew the handwriting at once, and her face flooded with blood, knowing that Alistair and Nancy must have seen it already, and known exactly who it was from. She stood staring at it for a long time, listening for anyone approaching, wondering whether to open it there, as she ached to do, or to take it somewhere private. Somewhere she could revel in it – her writing room, perhaps, where the paint wasn’t quite dry. She could hide herself away and let his words – his voice – wrap themselves around her. When she picked it up, her hands juddered uncontrollably. There could be nothing in the letter that would change what had happened, nothing that could undo the fact that she was married to Alistair Hadleigh, and living in a different universe to the one she knew. Nothing that could undo the fact that Fin was still married to Serena. Yet seeing his handwriting felt like being given air. She held it to her face and inhaled, hoping for a trace of him.
Nancy came in so quietly it was as though she’d simply materialised. She was dressed for going into Chippenham, in a calf-length skirt and matching jacket; her heels had hardly made a sound on the rug. She stood with one hand on her hip and a revolted expression on her face, and Irene felt like a child caught picking her nose. Or worse. Nancy’s judgement weighed more than a millstone, and Irene took a breath.
‘May I not have a letter from a friend without being castigated? Must I always be castigated?’ she said, not caring
that her voice shook. Nancy cocked an eyebrow.
‘We weren’t born yesterday, you know, my dear. If it were simply a letter from a friend, believe me, nobody would castigate you. But then, from what I gather, you have few enough friends left. I’ve always taken it as a good measure of a person – how far back in time they can trace their friendships. It implies a constancy of character, wouldn’t you say?’
‘It must be nice to be unimpeachable in that regard, Nancy.’
‘Yes. It is.’ Nancy sounded amused at this, in her hard way, which only made Irene feel more wretched. More angry.
‘Perhaps it’s easier to achieve when one feels nothing whatsoever, for anyone. What gives you the right to … to treat me with such disdain, Nancy?’ said Irene, forcing out the words in little more than a whisper, terrified, knowing that they could never be unsaid. Nancy pursed her lips for a minute and studied her, as if she were having the same inward battle. There was no trace of doubt in her voice, though, when she did speak.
‘Because as far as I am concerned, Irene, you entirely deserve it.’ In the pause, the mantelpiece clock ticked, and a horse kicked at its stable door outside. ‘My nephew is one of the best men you’ll ever meet. One of the best men anyone will ever meet. Goodness only knows how he turned out as kind and loving as he did, having been raised by me, but he did. Goodness only knows how he came through the war without it ruining him, but he did. And he deserves a far better wife than a chit of a girl, starving herself for fashion, who’s only married him to dodge a scandal of her own creation, and hasn’t the slightest idea how to behave.’
Shocked into silence, Irene stood rooted to the spot with Fin’s letter in her hands. Something flickered in Nancy’s eyes, and it might have been the acknowledgement of how far she had gone – a seed which might have germinated into repentance, in another person. But Nancy was too stony ground for that.
‘I see,’ said Irene, too shaken to say anything else.
‘We Hadleighs set the standard, as I told you before. This family’s good name is sacrosanct, and I’m damned if I’ll let you make a laughing stock of us. Had Alistair’s mother been alive, you’d still be under house arrest in London, you know. Tabitha was very Catholic, and you’d have been quite beyond the pale. She might have been a papist delusionist, whom I never much liked, but we saw eye to eye on certain things. Why do you think Alistair married you in such a hurry?’
‘Because he … loves me.’
‘Perhaps he does, silly boy. But he also knew I’d have put a stop to it, if I could. I’d got him out of an inappropriate engagement before, and I’d have got him out of this one, too. I have always done what needs to be done around here, even when others may not see it, to begin with. It would certainly have been better for this family if I’d had a say in your … union. But, here you are.’ She sighed slightly, through her nostrils. ‘But this isn’t a game, you know, Irene. You’re married to Alistair now, so I suggest you get on with it.’ Her eyes flicked to the letter. ‘I simply won’t have you embarrassing my nephew. Besides, only an idiot would cling to … flotsam, when a ruddy great lifeboat was sailing right by.’
The front door thumped shut behind Nancy, and Irene sank into a chair at the table. It took a long time for her pulse to slow. She wondered how on earth she was supposed to go on living under the same roof as Nancy; how she was supposed to cope with the woman reiterating every bad thing she thought about herself on a daily basis. Clenched in her hand, the envelope of Fin’s letter had grown damp. Irene opened it, reeling with the mad hope that whatever he’d written, it could somehow save her. It could make her feel again the perfect rightness of being with him – a rightness that had flooded out and encompassed the whole world around her. Dear Irene, he’d written, I hope this letter finds you well. We are both quite well, and will be leaving London soon to spend the remainder of the summer in France, with Serena’s parents, so I thought I would take this opportunity to write. Serena had wanted to do so herself, but I persuaded her to let me. It just won’t do, you see, Irene. Your continuing to write to me. It bothers Serena terribly, when everyone is trying so hard to carry on with life as it ought to be lived. It makes the servants smirk, and you know how she can’t bear that. And you are a married woman yourself now, after all. I can’t imagine your husband welcomes the knowledge that you and I continue to correspond, if, that is, he is aware of it. I hate to write a letter such as this, but thought it for the best, in the long run. Your letters pain me more than I can say, and must stop. I wish you all the best, Irene. Kind Regards, F. S. Campbell.
Irene stayed at the table for a long time. At some point, she became aware that the remainders of breakfast had been cleared away, though she hadn’t noticed it happening. The buttery sunshine outside seemed, like everything else, to deride her. For the first time in weeks, she wished her mother were there; but even though she had come to Irene and Alistair’s wedding, her mother hadn’t forgiven her yet either. More judgement. More castigation. She sat, without moving, and felt as though she were drowning – cold waters of despair closing over her head. It was the feeling of all her hopes dying; the snuffing of that last final spark inside, the one that had whispered, treacherously, that love would somehow save her. If it were a good thing, she couldn’t believe it just then. Outside the window, Pudding Cartwright rode past on Robin, the horse that had been meant for Irene. The girl looked too big on him, and the horse looked put upon, and the absurdity of it was as bitter as everything else. Irene wondered where the lifeboat was, that Nancy had mentioned. She wondered if she were simply blind to it, or incapable of reaching it, because the drowning feeling continued, unabated, however long she sat there, and she didn’t think she could be expected to carry on that way. She could not carry on that way.
Towards lunchtime, Alistair came to find her in her writing room. She had little memory of making her way there, but when he appeared at her shoulder and roused her she found herself in front of her typewriter, with a clean sheet of paper loaded and Fin’s letter open on the desk beside her, for anyone to see. She didn’t know if she’d planned to write anything, and when she realised that Alistair would see the letter her heart gave a jolt, but it was too late to hide it. She couldn’t even look at him.
‘Irene …’ he said eventually, quietly.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Were you going to write back to him?’ His voice was unsteady.
‘No. I wasn’t,’ she said, truthfully.
‘To whom, then?’
‘No. No, I was just …’ She looked up at him, numb, guilty. ‘I honestly don’t know what I was going to do.’ For a while, neither of them spoke. The air in the old schoolroom was cool and clammy; in spite of all her expensive new furnishings, the prevailing smell was of mildewed books, old wood, forgotten things. The sounds beyond the walls – of animals, labour, life – seemed to come from very far away. Alistair pulled up a chair and perched beside her, taking her hand. His expression was heavy, weary and sad, and suddenly the thought of being the cause of that, the thought of him giving up on her, made Irene feel even more wretched.
‘I know you’re lonely, Irene. I know … I know you’re unhappy here. I just wish …’ He shook his head, opened her hand and dropped his forehead into her palm. ‘I just wish I could help.’
‘You are! You do … Alistair, You do. I just … I don’t feel I belong here.’
‘I know. And we won’t always have to stay here in Wiltshire, we can go up to London. It just might be better not to until … the dust has settled.’ He sighed. ‘I thought I could make you happy. I thought coming here would make you happy.’
‘No, Alistair – please don’t say that. Please. I can’t bear it. I’ll get better, I know I will. It will get better. I’ll … try harder.’
‘No, you’re right, I ought not to say that. And you mustn’t try, Irene. Nobody can try to feel anything – we either feel, or we don’t feel. We must both be patient, that’s all.’
‘Yes,’ s
aid Irene, trying, nevertheless, to feel hopeful. Alistair smiled.
‘You could … invite a friend down to stay. Or your mother …’ He trailed off, having never got along with Irene’s parents. ‘Or anybody, really. Anyone you like. If it’d make you feel more at home.’
‘Perhaps I will,’ said Irene, not wanting to say that she had written to all her friends, repeatedly, and to her cousins, and had asked them all to come to stay, or to have her stay with them. She’d had few replies, but those she’d had had been full of apologies that people were far too occupied with their summer plans already.
‘Or Cora – why not invite her around, or take a trip into town together?’
‘Town?’
‘Yes, Chippenham. It’s not exactly the West End, I’ll grant you.’ He smiled again. ‘But it has coffee shops, a cinema, shops. People who might have travelled beyond the bounds of Wiltshire now and then … It would be a change of scene, I suppose.’
Alistair stood, and pulled Irene up by her hands. She looked up into his face, and her relief at seeing that the heaviness had vanished from it surprised her. Her shoulders dropped, and she felt a little of the tightness behind her ribs ease.
‘Why do you love me, Alistair? Why did you want to marry me?’ she asked.
‘Why?’ He shook his head. ‘I really don’t think love needs a why. Some things simply are. I saw you, and I watched you dance and smoke … always with that lost, embattled look in your eye, and I knew that you were kind, and bright, and different … and it simply happened. It came into being. And I am so, so happy that it did.’ He touched her face, smoothing back a lock of her hair.
The Hiding Places Page 11
