The Married Girls

by Diney Costeloe

  He looked across at his mother and saw that she had dried her tears and was simply sitting holding her husband’s other hand, her eyes closed as if in prayer. Was she praying? Felix wondered. Should he be praying too? Prayer had meant little to him during the war years. It had seemed pointless to him to pray to a God that let his friends die, shot down in flames by an implacable foe. Too late, Felix thought, to pray for his father now as he lay still and silent on an October evening in the bowels of a hospital.

  They sat for nearly half an hour in the silent room, lost in their own thoughts.

  ‘He loved you very much,’ Marjorie said, finally breaking the silence, ‘and he was very proud of you.’

  Felix nodded. ‘I know,’ he said softly, ‘and I loved him, but I never told him so.’

  ‘Men don’t,’ replied Marjorie, ‘but he knew it, all the same.’ She released Peter’s hand for the last time and stood up. Gently she leaned forward and kissed his cold forehead.

  ‘Goodbye, my darling,’ she whispered. ‘You were the love of my life and I will miss you, every minute of every day.’

  Felix stood, too, gently replacing his father’s hand at his side.

  ‘Goodbye, Dad,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after Mum.’ He placed a kiss on his fingers and pressed it to Peter’s cheek, then turning he took his mother’s arm and they left the room.

  They found Daphne waiting impatiently in the foyer. When she saw them come up the stairs, she got to her feet and bustled over to them.

  ‘Everything all right?’ she asked. ‘You took a long time.’ And then reddened as Felix simply shook his head at her.

  ‘What are we going to do now?’ she went on, trying to cover her confusion.

  ‘We’re taking Mother home,’ Felix said.

  ‘To Wynsdown?’

  ‘Of course to Wynsdown,’ Felix snapped. Then he asked Marjorie, ‘Where did you leave the car?’

  ‘Outside in the street.’

  They collected their suitcase from the receptionist and walked out into the October night.

  ‘You drive, Felix,’ Marjorie said. ‘I’m too tired.’

  Felix helped her into the front passenger seat, and with Daphne installed in the back with their case, Felix went round to the driver’s side and got in.

  The journey back to Wynsdown was a silent one. Marjorie and Felix were busy with their own thoughts and Daphne was wondering how long they’d have to stay. At least until the weekend, she supposed, and with a silent sigh, set herself to put up with four days in the country in a house where a body might lie.

  As they swung into the manor’s drive, they saw that there were lights on inside, and as the car came to a halt, the front door opened and Avril Swanson stood on the step.

  Felix helped Marjorie from the car and Avril came forward, her expression questioning.

  ‘I’m afraid my father died this afternoon,’ Felix said, adding with a slight shake of his head. ‘I was too late.’

  Avril’s eyes filled with compassion and she reached a hand to each. ‘Oh, Marjorie, Felix, I’m so sorry. He was such a good man.’ Then with a brisk shake of her head she went on, ‘Anyway, come on in. You must be exhausted.’ She stood aside to let them into the house. ‘The fire’s alight and there’s hotpot in the oven.’

  ‘I am tired,’ Marjorie admitted. ‘All I need is my bed.’

  ‘You should eat something,’ Avril said gently. ‘You’ve got to keep your strength up.’

  ‘I’ll sleep first,’ Marjorie said. ‘Tomorrow I’ll eat. Just now I’m too tired.’

  Daphne had got out of the car and now walked in through the front door. Avril had forgotten that she would be there with Felix and turning to her said, ‘Oh, Mrs Bellinger, come into the warm. What a sad day it is. I’m Avril Swanson, the vicar’s wife. We did meet last time you were here.’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ Daphne replied before saying, ‘Our case is in the car, Felix. Will you bring it in?’

  Half an hour later Marjorie was in bed and Felix and Daphne were seated at the table eating Avril’s hotpot. Avril herself had gone home to break the news of Peter Bellinger’s death to her husband.

  ‘David’ll be round to see you in the morning,’ she promised as she left, ‘to make arrangements...’

  ‘What arrangements?’ demanded Daphne when she’d gone. ‘Surely you and your mother make those.’

  ‘For the funeral, of course,’ Felix said. ‘It’ll have to be this week, before we go back to London on Sunday. I doubt if I can get any more leave for the foreseeable future.’

  Sunday, thought Daphne, six days to stick it out here.

  ‘There’ll be a lot to do,’ Felix was saying. ‘I’ll have to have a look through Dad’s papers, speak to his solicitor about his will and that sort of thing.’

  *

  Despite her tiredness, Marjorie lay awake in the bed she’d shared with Peter for nearly forty years. Their bedroom had always been her favourite room in the house. It was their sanctuary, private to them. Their bed was the one Peter had been born in, the dressing table had been her mother’s, brought to the house on her mother’s death. In the winter they would undress in front of the flickering flames in the fireplace, the only source of heat in the room. The fire was alight now, Avril had tried to ensure that the bedroom was warm and welcoming, but as Marjorie lay under the bedclothes she still felt cold, and with no Peter snoring gently at her side, the room was empty. She pulled the pillow from his side of the bed towards her and turning her face into it, cried herself to sleep.

  *

  In the guest bedroom next door, where a fire also burned, Felix and Daphne got undressed and slid into bed.

  ‘It’s freezing,’ Daphne complained as she pulled the blankets up to her chin. ‘Isn’t there central heating in this house?’

  ‘No,’ replied Felix, as he got in beside her. ‘But I’ve banked the fire up and it should still give us some warmth until the morning. Here,’ he said as he reached over and pulled her into his arms, ‘I’ll warm you up.’

  Daphne stiffened a little, but he made no further move to make love to her, simply curled himself round her, sharing his warmth with her, and thus she fell asleep in his arms. Felix, himself, did not sleep for several hours and lying there with his wife’s body warm against him, he had never felt more lonely in his life.

  *

  David Swanson arrived the next morning as promised and Felix explained the need to have Peter’s funeral as soon as possible.

  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ David told him. ‘He died in hospital so there shouldn’t be any problem with the death certificate, and he’ll be buried in the family grave, here in Wynsdown. I suggest we go for Friday. It’ll give you time beforehand and another day with your mother afterwards.’

  ‘I’ll get on to the undertakers this morning,’ Felix said and added it to his list of things to do. ‘Perhaps you could discuss the actual service with my mother. I know she’ll have very definite ideas of what she’d like to be included.’

  ‘Of course,’ the vicar agreed. ‘Perhaps she’d like to come over to the vicarage and we can talk it through.’

  That afternoon, the bright autumn of the previous day turned to grey skies and driving rain. Mrs Darby had come in as usual to cook the meals, and Mrs Gurney, having lit the fires and washed the breakfast dishes, was busy in the washhouse, ironing. Daphne felt like a spare part. There was nothing for her to do. She had thought of going out to explore the village, but the heavy rain put paid to that.

  ‘What am I to do?’ she asked Felix, and it was, he had to concede, a fair question.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Perhaps there’s something you could help Mother with. I’m busy going through all of these.’ He waved a hand at the piles of paper in front of him.

  Marjorie thanked her politely for her offer of help, but said there was nothing for her to do at present, and that she was just going across to the vicarage. Bored and fed up, Daphne drifted off into the dr
awing room and seating herself on the window seat, listened to the rain rattling against the casement. She stared out into the rainswept garden, and the paddock beyond. Under the lowering grey sky it all looked dreary in the extreme.

  How could anyone want to live here? she wondered. What is there to do in a backwater like this?

  As far as she knew, the nearest big town was Bristol and it had taken them nearly an hour to get home from there in the Bellingers’ car last night.

  At least it’s warm in here, she thought, and turning away from the bleak aspect outside, sat down by the fire to wait to be called to lunch.

  *

  When the vicar left, Felix telephoned Mr Thompson, his father’s solicitor in Cheddar, to apprise him of his father’s death and to make an appointment to see him.

  ‘The funeral will be on Friday,’ Felix told him, ‘and I have to return to London on Sunday afternoon, but I would like to meet you before Friday if possible just to go over what’s in my father’s will and any of the estate business that needs immediate attention.’

  ‘Of course, Wing Commander,’ said Mr Thompson. ‘Would you like to come here to my office, or would you prefer for me to call to the manor?’

  ‘Well, there seem to be a great many papers in my father’s study,’ Felix said. ‘I haven’t had a chance to look at them all yet. I will over the next couple of days, but I think it would be easier if you came here, where all the paperwork will be at hand.’

  ‘I agree with you,’ Mr Thompson said. ‘Did Major Bellinger discuss any of the estate business with you recently?’

  ‘No,’ Felix said, ‘though, last time I saw him, on my wedding day, he said we needed to have a chat.’

  ‘I see.’ Mr Thompson sounded thoughtful. ‘Well, in that case I think we should certainly meet, sooner rather than later. May I suggest that I come to see you tomorrow morning?’

  ‘If that suits you,’ Felix said. ‘Don’t know if I shall have been able to have a look at it all by then. You’ve got Dad’s will, I assume.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ replied Mr Thompson. ‘I have the original, but there should be a copy amongst his papers. It’s fairly straightforward.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll have a look for it and we can go over it tomorrow when you come.’

  When they’d rung off, Felix went into his father’s study. For a long moment he stood looking round the room where his father had spent so many hours. It was all so familiar, and yet coming into it now made Felix shiver. There was no fire in the fireplace, but that wasn’t what made the room feel so chilly. His father’s leather armchair was at the empty fireside, the couch where they had laid him still had a blanket draped across it. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered one wall, a big roll-topped desk stood against another and his work table, where he spread his paperwork, filled the bay window that overlooked the garden. The room smelled of pipe tobacco, a smell that had accompanied his father ever since Felix could remember. There was a rack of pipes on the wall, a tobacco jar on the mantelpiece, an ashtray on the work table. On the small table beside the easy chair were a pair of spectacles and another ashtray with the pipe still lying in it. It was all as it had been, but it would never be the same again.

  Felix gave himself a shake and put a match to the ready-laid fire, before turning his attention to the roll-topped desk. When he opened it he’d expected everything to be neatly pigeonholed in his father’s usual meticulous fashion and was surprised when a pile of papers cascaded out on to the floor. He picked them up and took them to the table in the window. Still inside the desk were a couple of large envelopes, labelled with the names of the farms leased to farmers on the estate: Charing Farm where the Shepherds lived and Newland Farm, worked by Richard Deelish. Felix set them aside to look at later and picked up a narrow brown envelope with the word ‘Will’ printed on it. He pulled it out and with it came a smaller, white envelope with his name on it.

  Leaving the will aside for the moment, he opened the envelope and found himself staring at a last letter from his father, dated 9 April 1949, just six months ago.

  Dear Felix,

  I hope you never have to read this letter. It will mean that I have died before I have got everything sorted out. I’m afraid I have to tell you that we are in some financial difficulty at present. Unfortunately your grandfather made some bad investments before the war and many became worthless in the depression of the early thirties. I have to admit culpability for some of this. I should have looked harder at where our money was invested, but while it was giving a reasonable return I wasn’t too concerned. Much of our capital, in the funds, has gone. James took his half of our shared inheritance as cash, leaving me the house and the estate. Unfortunately, he also advised me to invest in a South African mining company, an investment that failed in 1937. During the war, to raise money for the estate, I decided to take out a mortgage and thinking I could soon pay it off, I put the house up as collateral. We still had a small portfolio of shares left but the income from these fell and was not enough to cover the repayments. Things went from bad to worse and I was about to default on payment, so rather than lose the house, which has been ours for four generations, I decided to sell off some of the property. The four cottages in Oak Lane have gone, bought by a Bristol man as an investment, but with the sitting tenants. What he intends to do with them if and when they become vacant I don’t know. I paid off the mortgage with the money from those sales and I have since put the house into your mother’s name, so that she’ll never be without a roof over her head. I’m considering selling Charing Farm to John Shepherd and Newland Farm, over the hill, to Richard Deelish if they can raise the cash. When approached, both of them were keen to have the freehold of the land they were farming and both hoping to raise the money to buy their farms outright. So, Felix, you’ll find that the estate is in trouble. We still own Havering Farm, but it is small and the return is too little to alleviate our financial troubles. I intend to offer it to my foster son, Malcolm Flint, when old Martin Flower gives up. He has no one to take it on and Malcolm, who has been working for John Shepherd for several years now, deserves a better chance in life than he’s been given so far. I know you will honour this intention if it is not already accomplished.

  I intend to keep Home Farm going myself as I have been these last years, but am looking at alternative use of the land, something that may bring in a better return than we’re getting at present. With this in mind you’ll see that I have planted a small plantation of conifers for their timber. Clearly this is a long-term project, but if successful I intend to plant more so that in years to come, it produces a steady income.

  It is my hope that I shall be able to recoup our losses to some extent and die in the knowledge that our estate, what’s left of it, is on a firm footing and will continue in our family for your children and theirs. It pains me that things should have come to this, but God willing we shall come through.

  I know you’ll do your best with what is left, you are a man of great character and strength, a son to be proud of, and I know I can rely on you to see that your mother never goes without.

  God bless you, Felix.

  Dad.

  Felix read and reread the letter. He could hear his father’s voice in every word, and as what he was reading sank in he realised what his father had wanted to discuss with him. Now it was too late for that too. Tomorrow Mr Thompson would be able to put him in possession of the full facts. He stared at the bundles of papers and the two envelopes with the names of the farms on them. All the details of the sales must be in those. If things were as bad as his father intimated they could well lose everything. Felix felt sick to his stomach. He sank into his father’s armchair and buried his head in his hands.

  13

  Charlotte heard the news about Major Bellinger when she went to the post office on Tuesday morning.

  ‘Very sad, isn’t it?’ said Nancy Bright. ‘Poor Mrs Bellinger, so sudden, such a shock.’

  ‘It always is a shock somehow,’ Char
lotte agreed, ‘even if you have been expecting it.’

  ‘Which she wasn’t, poor lady!’ sighed Nancy. ‘Well, at least she’s got Felix down with her now, though I did hear he was too late to see his father alive. Come down by train, he did, yesterday, with his new wife. She’ll be a great comfort to him, won’t she?’