by Rachel Hore
‘Sorry.’ Kate grimaced. ‘But thanks so much for having them.’
‘How did it go today?’
Kate told her all about the service and the party afterwards, and finished off by explaining just how valuable the contents of the house might be.
‘I know there is going to be a lot to pay in tax, but we’re still talking serious money here. I . . . I can’t think why so much of it’s coming to me.’
‘You’ll need it if you’re going to live there,’ said Debbie. ‘The modernization will be expensive, for a start.’ She was brushing some biscuit crumbs into a pile as she said carefully, ‘How are things with Simon at the moment? Better?’
Kate nodded. ‘I think so, but there’s a way to go. And he’s not convinced we should keep Seddington House.’
Debbie looked at her quizzically so Kate explained quickly about Simon’s unhappiness living in Suffolk.
‘I have to say, I’m gobsmacked, Kate. But he’s really not seeing this woman any more?’
‘No.’
Debbie nodded slowly, then gave Kate a hug. ‘Oh, I so hope everything works out for you, and that you stay. I know how much you want that house, but don’t let it become a matter of choosing between it and your marriage. A house is only a house, after all.’
‘I . . . I know. But I always thought Simon and I wanted the same things. And now it turns out that we don’t at all.’
That evening, after Kate had put the children to bed, she sat in the kitchen sipping a glass of wine while Joyce cooked supper.
‘Have you had any more thoughts about moving, dear?’ Joyce asked.
Kate slumped in her seat. ‘Not really,’ she said gloomily. ‘I definitely don’t want to go back to London. My life is here, especially now I have Seddington House. Whatever happens, we need to move soon – get out of your hair, Joyce. You’ve put up with us for so long.’
‘I can’t say that it’s always been easy, but I’ve loved having you, dear. Though that isn’t why I asked.’ Joyce put a large helping of fish pie in front of Kate and sat down with hers. ‘How are you and Simon going to sort this out? There I go again. Sticking my beak in.’
‘Except we are camping here with you.’
‘Kate, I don’t mind, really. I just want the best for you all. You must take all the time you need.’ Was Kate imagining a certain weariness in her tone?
‘Thank you, Joyce, you’re so kind. It must be so hard for you.
You never have your book club here or your friends round to supper.’
‘Don’t worry, they do understand, though I sometimes feel a bit guilty not returning hospitality. Still, it’s not long before my holiday, and I can treat them all while we’re away.’ Joyce’s reading group was taking a cultural cruise down the coast of Italy in two weeks’ time. They were meeting tonight at Hazel’s house to discuss their reading for the holiday.
‘And when you come back, we’ll have left for France,’ said Kate. ‘I’ve booked that gîte for the four of us, so you’ll have the house to yourself for a few days.’
‘It will be good for you all to be together as a family, and the gîte looks lovely. Simon has earned a rest and you just need some time away, don’t you?’
‘I suppose we do,’ said Kate. Secretly she was dreading the holiday. Who was going to win this argument about where they were to live?
Simon rang from the airport at eight thirty. He sounded tired but on a high. ‘Yeah, the deal’s in the bag. We’ve been celebrating which is why we’re so late. Should be back half eleven if the trains don’t mess me about. Don’t turn out, I’ll call a minicab.’
Who’s this ‘we’? Kate thought crossly. ‘We’ had always been Simon and her.
‘Oh, and I’ve got some news.’
‘What?’
‘Tell you when I get back.’
‘Simon, I can’t take any more surprises.’
‘Oh, right. Well, my promotion’s in the bag. Gillingham told me on the plane.’
‘That’s fantastic!’
‘I know, isn’t it? I’ve got to talk to him more about it next week, but they’ve been impressed with me over this East Europe thing. Kate, all the time I’ve put in, all these trips, have been worth it.’
She put down the phone with mixed feelings. Simon sounded so elated and she had to feel proud of his achievements. He had never succeeded so well in his career before. And yet at what price had this promotion been bought? And, even more to the point, what was there still to pay?
They would have to talk about it while they were in Normandy – which reminded her. She went to check the computer for confirmation of their tickets. The e-mail she’d been hoping for popped into the in-box, followed by one from Claire. She clicked on Claire’s quickly.
Hi, Kate. Sorry it’s been a long time. You’ll remember what it’s like, this pregnancy lark, feeling too sick and grumbly to do anything at all. I keep having to go home to Mum. It’s also been difficult with Alex. We’re still seeing each other and he says he’ll help with the baby when it comes, but it’s not the same. He’s so angry with me and blames me, though at least, with his Catholic upbringing, he has never suggested I get rid of it. I couldn’t have faced it if he’d said that. So we’re just soldiering on, though he says he doesn’t want to be tied down – he must be free for his singing. His career is at such an important stage, I can see that. Have you heard from Liz at all, by the way? She’s so busy at work these days. I wonder how you are and hope things are better with Simon. I’ll give you a call sometime. Love to the kids. Claire xx
Poor Claire, soldiering along. Kate was just clicking on ‘Reply’ when the computer, which had a mind of its own, disconnected itself. Then the phone on the desk rang and she picked up the receiver.
‘Kate?’ It was her father.
‘Dad? I thought you might ring.’
‘How did today go?’
‘Very well, really. Though it’s sad that there were so few people left who knew Agnes. Ninety-odd years on this earth and only a handful of friends at your funeral. It’s very humbling.’
‘Yes.’ Kate’s father sounded distracted.
‘Is there anything the matter?’ she asked.
‘Your mother’s a bit weepy, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, why?’
‘It’s poor Ringo.’ Oh, the wretched dog. Kate sighed, remembering how much attention her mother vested in those dogs. ‘We had to have him put out of his misery today.’
‘Oh Dad, I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized he’d got that bad.’
‘He was practically in a coma when we got up this morning, it was the only thing to do. But your mother’s upset. I’ve given her a pill and sent her to bed. I . . . I . . .’
‘Dad, are you all right?’ Her father sounded frail.
‘Yes, just tired, my dear. I’ll be all right after a bit of supper.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Just thought you ought to know about Ringo. The other dog’s not too good either, if you want my opinion.’
‘It’s probably miserable about Ringo. Is Mum all right?’
‘Yes, yes, tucked up nicely. I expect she’ll appreciate a call tomorrow. She’s keen to hear more about the house. She still can’t take it in, that it’s yours now, and this nonsense about Cousin Agnes and a baby. I must say, it all sounds very extraordinary. And bad luck on that other chap, her great-nephew. Anyway, I’m sure she’ll want to hear all the news, it’ll take her mind off Ringo.’
‘I feel awful that I haven’t been down to see you for a while,’ said Kate. ‘It’s just it’s a bit difficult at the moment. There’s so much going on here . . .’ She trailed off. Several times she had thought of explaining to her parents about her problems with Simon. They ought to know. And yet she had never found the right words. It was something else that would upset them deeply: wouldn’t they think she had let them down?
‘Yes, yes, I quite understand,’ Kate’s father said now. ‘We’re managing, though. Don’t worry about us.’ Desmond had recovered his usual bl
uff manner by the time they said goodbye, but behind the cheeriness Kate heard a quavering note of uncertainty.
At ten o’clock, Joyce arrived home with a long reading list of novels with Italian themes. She said with deliberate tact that she wouldn’t wait up for Simon to return, she was tired and would go to bed. Kate wished her goodnight and sat up, flicking through the channels on the TV. The news featured a Labour minister who looked, she thought, a little like Marion, and, as she zapped the off button, she remembered their conversation at the funeral.
Marion, who had been in touch with Agnes since the younger woman was a child, didn’t know anything about a baby, but had mentioned a suitor, an older man. Surely that didn’t mean Harry? Where on earth was she going to search next for clues? There was the house itself, of course, and it wouldn’t be long before she and Max would be going through Agnes’s papers. But unless there was a date of some sort to go by, it would be pointless trying to seek evidence of the birth in the parish register or at the Register of Births, Marriages and Deaths up in London. Would there be anyone in the village who was old enough to remember anything? She supposed she could try asking some of the elderly inhabitants. There was, of course, the diary upstairs that started with Agnes’s father, Gerald’s, illness. She must read that properly, though when she had flicked through it, there had been no mention of babies. It was Harry, she thought, Agnes’s affair with Harry, that she should try to follow up.
Suddenly she remembered. The letter accompanying the diaries! Now Agnes was dead, surely it would be all right to open the envelope? She hurried up the stairs two at a time, retrieved the sealed envelope from her bedside cabinet, and, sitting on the bed, read the direction: To my son from his mother, Agnes Lavender Melton. She carefully tore open the flap and pulled out a single page of yellowing foolscap, handwritten on both sides. It was dated May 1950.
My darling child
It may be that we never meet in this world, but I want you to know that I have missed you every day of my life, and that every day I have prayed that you are safe and happy. I also want to tell you that I love you, whoever you are, whatever you are, wherever you are. I loved you from the moment I knew that you were growing inside me; if ever there was a baby that was wanted, it was you. It is the greatest tragedy of my life that, against my will, you were taken from me before I even set eyes on you. You were a part of me: I knew you, the shape of you, the feel of your movements under my skin, although I never held you in my arms and looked into your eyes. Darling, I am sorry, so terribly sorry that the mistakes I made meant that you lost your mother before you even knew her. It has always been my prayer that you found loving parents and that you grew up whole and happy, unaware of the void of separation that I have lived with every moment since your birth.
I expect that, if you want to think about me at all, you will have many questions to ask, so I am leaving you my diaries, which tell my story, which is also your story.
Yours truly in this life and the next,
Your mother, Agnes Melton
Kate lay back on the bed and squeezed her eyes closed. So Agnes had never even seen the child she gave birth to. Someone had separated mother and child without any concern for the consequences. How cruel.
Suddenly her eyes flew open. Perhaps the baby had, in fact, died, and Agnes had lived under an illusion all these years. Kate had often read of occasions in the past when midwives and doctors had thought they were sparing a mother pain by taking away a stillborn baby before the mother could even acknowledge her child and say farewell. They believed they were being kind, as if the mother would really forget that she had ever nurtured a child within her for so long and given birth, and would just get up the next day as if nothing had happened so long as she wasn’t presented with physical evidence of the tragic end of her hopes and labours. Agnes strongly believed her child to be alive – why was that? Was it a delusion or had somebody told her that her living baby had been taken away – to where?
On impulse Kate reached into the drawer of her bedside table and took out the last diary. She turned to the first page. 1943. Agnes’s father was dying. Even Agnes was aware that this was the case as he lay coughing, his breath coming in long strangled wheezes, his chest heaving. Lung disease, the doctor had told her, the symptoms exacerbated by weakness following the gas attack in the Kaiser’s war. And Gerald was losing the will to live. After Vanessa left, his spirits never really recovered. He has been diminished, shut inside himself, though he has taken comfort in the routines of hard work, the rituals of daily life. My mother broke his heart, Agnes wrote. Vanessa broke his spirit.
The entry for 23 July, when Gerald was laid to rest in the churchyard of St Mary’s, Seddington, beside his beloved wife Evangeline, revealed Agnes to be at the lowest point Kate had known.
And so I am alone, utterly alone. Raven has not even come to his father’s funeral. It was a truly sad occasion, the rector clearly bowed down by the loss of a good friend. So many people were not there who should have been. Only Mr Armstrong travelled down from London on the last of his petrol ration, Father’s other business contacts have only sent their condolences. Lister was there, naturally, and Mrs Duncan, all that are left of our small household now Ruby has gone to nurse. And, amongst local people, Diana and her mother, of course, and our neighbours at Fortescue Hall. Lady Fortescue looks so haggard and old what with the news of Paul being missing and their home being requisitioned for troops.
Kate turned the pages. Much of the rest of the diary was about ordinary routines, going through Gerald’s possessions, sorting out the farm estates, details of Agnes’s reading, of visits to Diana in a nearby parish where the curate who had won her was now vicar and she was bringing up four noisy children of her own, together with two evacuees. Gerald’s illness had precluded the accommodation of children from the city at Seddington House. Then came a surprising entry.
This morning, a letter from Vanessa. The first I have had from her, for she didn’t even write on Father’s death. It’s about Harry. She thought I would want to know. He has died in an air-raid. The whole building was destroyed and set ablaze. I can’t quite take it in. The entry ended abruptly, though a few days later, she confided: Harry’s death is the death of all hope. Although my head told me that it was all over, we would never be together, underneath, my heart must have been singing a different song. But now it is, all, truly over.
With the deaths of her father and her estranged lover following in such quick succession, Agnes was plunged into a deep depression. She wrote in her diary only rarely, and in stilted sentences that described how some days she used to walk endlessly around the lanes and fields, as if by physical effort she could fight off the demons, whilst on others she wrapped herself up in a quilt in her favourite attic and stared at the ceiling or slept. She had few companions in these months. Diana came when she was able to make the rare trip to Halesworth. Gerald’s loyal business friend, Mr Armstrong, was an occasional visitor – an invaluable help with the complexities of Seddington business, which Gerald’s lawyer was still winding up. On one of her walks she described walking through Wenhaston, a village some five miles away, and meeting their old housemaid, Ethel, with two of her children.
She said she and Alf had moved there when Alf’s mother had become ill in the summer of 1928. They had lived in Alf’s childhood home until the mother died and the house had become theirs. Alf, thankfully slightly too old to be called up, was gardener at a local hospital now, where the lawns had been carved up to grow vegetables. The children, a girl and a boy of about ten and eight, have Alf’s unruly brown hair and Ethel’s fine hazel eyes. The boy told me they have a sister at home, of nearly fourteen. I said we needed a maid at Seddington House so if the girl wanted a job when she left school, there was a place open. But Ethel seemed offended at that idea, which surprised me. Perhaps she has better ambitions for her children. Maybe there will be more opportunities for ordinary families in this strange upside-down world when the war is over.
&nb
sp; By the beginning of 1945, Agnes seemed to be recovering from her mental turmoil. As the tide of war strengthened in the Allies’ favour she began to plan her life. She was resolved to stay at Seddington House and her mind was once again on her collections. It would be a while before the devastated art market recovered, and so much had been lost to air raids, confiscation and looting, but she wanted to get involved.
In the meantime the mystery of the suitor Marion had mentioned, became plain. After his long and faithful friendship with both Agnes and her father, William Armstrong proposed marriage.
Of course, I had to say no. He is a good man and has been alone for so long, since his wife died. But I just can’t think of him in that way; he doesn’t inspire any passion in me at all. Not after Harry. Harry has spoiled everything. And I’m so used to my own company now. It would be exciting to have a lover, yes, but I feel too crotchety and selfish now to be a wife. Diana thinks it’s a matter of meeting the right person. She says she’s surprised William hasn’t said something before and that there are many kinds of marriage – somebody quiet and steady might be just what I need. She knows about Harry, but she doesn’t know the full story. She doesn’t know why Selcott left so suddenly. Everyone has been waiting for William to say something to me for years, I know, but I thought they were wrong. He was never slushy and romantic with me, his manners have always been perfect, so I just thought his visits were in friendship to my father. Poor William. I have begged him still to come to see me, that we must be friends, but I don’t know whether he will. It’s all a waste.
Kate reached the last page and closed the diary. So Agnes’s suitor had been a dry old widower. And after that? Who knew. Perhaps Agnes had found patches of passion and happiness. She had certainly found success in her chosen life’s work. But her heart had been shattered by Harry and by whatever had happened to part them. And there had been a child, a child born so secretly that even Diana didn’t appear to know about it.
