I was grateful, and I understood what he was trying to say – but it was too late for me now.
Next morning Ben dozed in the chair for an hour after he had eaten his breakfast, then he went upstairs to change and came down in his best suit, wearing a black tie and with his cap in his hand. Even then I tried to refuse, to say I could not go, but his face was like granite and my words trailed away and I picked up my handbag. I thanked Mrs Greenhalgh, scarcely knowing what I said, and Emmie hugged me at the door, but still I was numb.
At the station Ben went ahead to the booking office, and when he came back I realized he was apologizing because he had forgotten and taken third-class tickets. I kept whispering, ‘It doesn’t matter, Ben, it doesn’t matter.’
At Manchester he was fussing about the tickets again and I spoke sharply: ‘Get third, Ben – don’t waste your money.’ He looked hurt because he had offered to pay for first – but I was glad I had hurt him – he had forced me to come and I hated him for it: I wanted to hit out in my grief and anger.
The wheels pounded in my head – I had to fight to stay still in my seat – I wanted to throw myself against the walls of the compartment, against the hard shining windows – to bruise myself, to inflict pain on my numb body. But I did not move. The man opposite was watching me, so I dared not move.
Mr Shepherd came out on to the platform at Hareford, his face grave. ‘I’ll ring for the car, my lady – there’s a good fire in the waiting room.’
Ben sat awkwardly by my side, his flat cap on his knees. When the stationmaster came in and told me the car had arrived Ben stood up and held out his hand. ‘I’ll have a look round the town, and walk up to the church later. Goodbye, Lady Helena.’ I shook the hand he offered, but I could find no words of thanks. My throat had closed.
Norah had a bath waiting for me, and then she dressed me again in black and I went down to lunch. As we walked into the dining room Letty muttered under her breath, ‘I told Mother you were staying with a friend from the war – she thinks it was another VAD.’ I looked blankly back at my sister – what did it matter what my mother thought or did not think? What did anything matter now?
We ate our meal in silence; Papa barely touched his food and even Mother’s careful make-up could not conceal her red-rimmed eyes. Alice and Letty looked only at their plates. And then it was time to leave.
We were in the car driving slowly behind the carriage carrying my brother’s body, and for a moment I thought it was Eddie’s funeral, and I turned to comfort Robbie beside me – but Robbie was not with me now – he travelled ahead of us, screwed down in his brass-handled coffin.
The bearers hoisted their burden on to their shoulders and began to walk slowly towards the church. Letty gripped my arm and forced me to follow.
‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me…’ But I did not believe, not any more.
‘I know that my Redeemer liveth…’ And from long ago I heard a girl’s clear voice sing these words – and knew with a sick certainty that I would never sing again. My voice was dead: it had died with Robbie.
‘I will keep my mouth as it were with a bridle…’ In my head I heard Ben Holden command: ‘You’ll have to keep your mouth shut.’ I bowed my head.
‘I became dumb, and opened not my mouth: for it was thy doing. Take thy plague away from me: I am even consumed by means of thy heavy hand.’ But I did not ask for the plague to be taken from me. Let me be consumed. And the terrible cadences rolled on. ‘Thou turnest man to destruction… In the morning it is green and groweth up: but in the evening it is cut down, dried up and withered… Thou hast set our misdeeds before thee; and our secret sins in the light of thy countenance…’
As we stood in the churchyard beside the open grave I remembered Robbie, young and happy, running with Eddie over the green lawns of Hatton – laughing and calling – ‘Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live… He cometh up and is cut down, like a flower…’ And at the last it was I who had cut him down.
The coffin sank slowly into the deep hole. My father moved forward with a handful of earth. ‘…earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…’
I could see no longer; as Letty pulled me back from the graveside I thought in despair that at least Robbie and Eddie had each other now – but I had no one, no one.
We sat in the drawing room, waiting. The church had been full, and Papa had stayed at the lych gate shaking hand after hand, acknowledging the low-voiced condolences. Alice’s husband had brought us back and then we had sat and waited.
Mr Hyde came in with Papa; after the lawyer had greeted us he sat down and took out a piece of paper – Robbie’s will. His dry clipped voice read steadily on, retailing a series of bequests: to servants, to Miss Ling, to men from his regiment who were disabled or in difficulties – oh my little brother, even at the last you had thought to do this… ‘And all my real and personal estate not otherwise disposed of by this my will I bequeath unto my beloved sister, Helena, with grateful thanks for all that she has done for me.’
‘Done for me, done for me – she has done for me.’ Oh Robbie, forgive me – but I could not let you suffer so. And for a moment I remembered the gratitude in his eyes as I had plunged the needle home – and knew that I would rather suffer my guilt for a lifetime than that he should have endured such agony for a single minute longer. And for that moment I felt strong – but only for that moment. Then I stood up and ran from the room and blundered upstairs and threw myself on the bed and wept and wept. Alice came in, but I screamed at her to go away, and after a while she went, and left me alone. Alone.
The next day Dr Craig came to Hatton and asked to see me. As soon as the library door closed I told him: ‘I have held my tongue, as you wished – except for one man, and he did the same himself once, in the war – so he will not speak.’
I heard his loud sigh of relief. ‘I’d have denied it, in any case – sworn you were off your head with grief and didn’t know what you were saying, on oath if necessary – but I prefer not to have to.’ He paused, then his bony face flushed as he added, ‘If there’s anything I can do for you now, my lady, you’ve only to say the word.’
‘No, there is nothing, thank you.’ There was silence. Then he turned and left me.
Ben Holden wrote to ask how I was; he said Emmie sent her best wishes. I remembered my promise and went to ask Letty if she would let me have some of her last season’s clothes. She produced quite a sizeable armful – she brought them to me herself and said her maid was not too pleased about it, but she had been given several frocks already. I wrote a brief note to Emmie and told Norah to parcel the clothes up and send them off.
Emmie wrote back a very effusive letter of thanks. She said that Ben was working very hard on his plot – it took me a moment to remember who this Ben was – my mind was so slow these days. Miss Ling wrote as well: she was painfully grateful for Robbie’s bequest; she said it would enable her to purchase an annuity for when she became too old to teach – but she was so sorry, so very very sorry. I remembered her patient kindness to my brother when she had first come to us, and was proud that he had remembered too.
There were so many other letters, but Mother and Papa answered those. They had decided not to open Cadogan Place for the beginning of the Season – Mother said she might go up to Town later, but for the present they would remain at Hatton, and perhaps invite a few guests to stay. My mother suggested that Letty go on a visit to Alice, but my sister said she had plenty of reading to do before going up to Cambridge in the autumn, so she stayed in Cheshire too.
But other people irritated me, and I hid from them whenever I could. The next weeks passed in a dream: I knew neither the day nor the hour. Norah got me up in the morning and I sat long hours in my bedroom, staring at the wall, until she came to tell me it was lunchtime, and then I ate only enough to curb my mother’s angry glances.
One day I drifted into the music room; the piano lid was raised and I
went to it and struck a chord and opened my mouth as if to sing my scales – but my voice cracked and broke – as I had known it would. I dropped the lid and turned away. I remembered from another world the words of Elsa Gehring: ‘You must not sit and fruitlessly weep, no, you must turn your sadness into song – how fortunate we singers are.’ But I was a singer no longer; my voice had been buried in the grave with my brothers. ‘I became dumb, and opened not my mouth.’ It was a fitting punishment.
I put on my hat and coat and walked down the wide tree-lined avenue and out of the Lostherne gate and across into the narrow country lane that led to the churchyard. I pushed open the weathered lych gate and climbed up between the gravestones until I came to the one I sought. And there I stood, gazing at the inscription.
Sacred to the Memory
of
Lieut the Hon. EDWIN JOHN ALFRED GIRVAN
L&CLI
Who Died of Wounds Received in the
Service of His Country
19th June 1916, aged 20 years
‘Faithful unto Death’
And also of his Twin Brother
Captain the Hon. ROBERT JOHN GEORGE GIRVAN
L&CLI
Who Died as a Result of Wounds Received
in the Service of His Country
27th March 1920, aged 24 years
They were lovely and pleasant in
their lives, and in their death
they were not divided: they were
swifter than eagles, they were
stronger than lions.
II Samuel i.
‘And in their death they were not divided’; but I, I was left alone.
Chapter Eight
One day Mother told us at luncheon that the Eameses were staying with Sam Killearn, and they were all coming over to Hatton that afternoon. I did not want to meet other people, so as soon as we had left the table I put on my brogues and mackintosh and slipped out of the family entrance. There was a blustery wind and squally bursts of rain beat into my face, but I was grateful to the weather for it meant that I could let the tears run unchecked down my cheeks, and no one would notice. My legs carried me mechanically in the direction I wanted to go – I had no need to think, only to weep as I walked up the lane to Lostherne.
I stood for a long time in the churchyard, but I could not feel my brothers there; so at last I turned away from their grave and trudged slowly back to Hatton. But I had only just taken my wet shoes off when Letty came bursting into my room. ‘Hellie, thank goodness you’ve come back – you must come down to the drawing room at once.’
‘No – I don’t wish to meet the Eameses – or Sam Killearn.’
‘Don’t be silly, Helena – of course you can cut the Eameses as often as you please – it’s not that – your engine driver’s here.’ I looked at her blankly, so she added impatiently, ‘You know – Ben Holden. For goodness’ sake pull yourself together, Hellie – Mother’s eating him alive downstairs, and the poor man’s only come because of you.’
‘Because of me?’
Letty mimicked Ben’s Lancastrian accent mercilessly: ‘“To see ’ow Lady ’Elena’s keeping” – Come on, put some shoes on.’ Helplessly I obeyed her. ‘And splash your eyes, Helena – you look a fright.’
Mother was with her guests in the big drawing room – the room was full of smartly dressed, clever people, talking in drawling, confident voices. Ben Holden sat among them perched uneasily on an elegant gilded chair – and looking as out of place as a heap of his own coal would have done if dumped on the Aubusson carpet. As soon as he saw me he reared up and the delicate gold chair rocked dangerously. All the careless eyes turned to stare a moment in our direction, before averting blank, well-bred faces from the sight of his ill-cut suit and my tear-stained cheeks.
As Ben blundered towards me Mother’s voice hissed in my ear. ‘Perhaps you would like to take your guest somewhere else for tea, Helena.’ I turned without a word and Ben followed me through the door and into the hall. But at the foot of the staircase I stopped – I could not go into the small drawing room now.
John stepped forward. ‘The library, my lady.’ He swung the door open and I walked in, Ben at my heels.
We stood in the centre of the room and looked at each other. The sweat stood out on his forehead like tiny beads as he pushed his damp hair back with his large work-roughened hand. ‘I asked for you – but they didn’t know where you were.’
‘I was in the graveyard.’ And as I spoke the tears slid smoothly down my cheeks, but now there was no kindly concealing rain and the man in front of me stepped forward, his face appalled.
He began to rummage in his jacket pocket. ‘I’ve got a clean handkerchief, somewhere.’
I shook my head and reached into my sleeve. ‘It’s all right, Ben – I always carry one ready now.’
He said, ‘I shouldn’t have come – I’ve only made it worse for you.’ His face was drawn and disturbed, and I felt pity for him in his clumsy dismay.
‘No Ben, nothing can make it worse.’
The door opened silently; it was John with the tea tray. The drawing up of chairs, the silver gleam of the tea pot, the discreet, ‘Shall I pour, my lady?’ – all served to restore my composure a little and I managed to smile my dismissal and keep my hand steady as I reached for the curved silver handle. ‘Milk and sugar, Ben? Oh, but you don’t take sugar, do you – how silly of me to forget. Do have a scone.’
It was very quiet in the library; the heavy connecting door muffled the low murmur of conversation from the drawing room – nearby, there was only the steady champing of the jaws of the man opposite. At last he swallowed, took a deep gulp of tea and said baldly, ‘I were worried about you.’
I felt a faint flicker of warmth touch me. ‘Then it was kind of you to come, Ben.’
He leant forward, his voice urgent. ‘I don’t reckon it’s good for you to stay here, Lady Helena – what with memories and all. Isn’t there anywhere else you could go – your brother – the one in Canada – couldn’t you go an’ visit him, mebbe?’
And as he spoke a longing for Guy took hold of me, and for Nanny - but no, not Nanny. The hope shrivelled and died. ‘How could I go there - and not tell them?’
‘Aye.’ His lips tightened.
The words of the priest echoed in my head: ‘I will keep my mouth as it were with a bridle… I held my tongue and spake nothing.’ And I must speak nothing, least of all to Guy who had loved Robbie, and Nanny who had nursed him at her breast. ‘I must keep silent, Ben.’
Ben Holden’s eyes fell before mine. Then, with an effort, he spoke again. ‘But you don’t have to keep silent with me – I thought, it might help you – if I came – me knowing…’
He floundered on and I felt sorry for him in his distress so that the lie came easily: ‘Yes, it does help – thank you Ben.’
His expression as he looked up was that of a dog who has received an unlooked-for pat, and now he spoke more confidently. ‘So I were wondering, if mebbe you’d like to come to Ainsclough one day – and spend afternoon with me.’ His last words came out in a rush.
‘To Ainsclough, with you?’ I was bewildered.
‘Just for a break, like. I told clerk I were available for next few Sundays, so I’ve not got full day off – but in week I’m on earlies for a while, I can be home soon after ten some days – mebbe you could come one of them?’
I did not reply, so he went on, ‘We could go for a walk on tops – on moors. Moors helped me when I first came back from war. I could meet train – all trains, say, from eleven while one. If you’re not on, well, no matter – I’ll be having a chat with Jim on platform. So you needn’t feel bound – just if you want to. I’d be going up on tops meself, anyroad – you can come if you fancy – but only if you do.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Ben – but I’m not sure –’
He broke in, ‘I’ll give you a choice – I’ll write soon as I know more about me shifts and tell you dates – then you needn’t decide l
ike until morning itself. I’ll wait, just in case. Don’t feel bound, but I’ll be there.’
And now I was touched by his simple, uncomplicated kindness. He had told me how the moors had helped him, and had come to offer his own solution to me. ‘Thank you, Ben – I’ll remember.’
He stood up quickly. ‘Then I’d best be off.’
‘I’ll ring for John to see you out’ – but he was through the door before my hand had touched the bell. As I went back upstairs I felt a little wanner; I could not go, of course – but I was grateful for his well-meant kindness.
At dinner Mother vented her annoyance at Ben’s untimely arrival on me. She was angry too at my distraught appearance before her guests: ‘Really, Helena, you’re behaving like a child – it’s time you pulled yourself together.’ I fought back the threatening tears with difficulty.
She was even more angry with me a week later, when Sir Ernest asked me to sing for him and I told him I could not. He accepted my refusal without protest, but later that evening Mother berated me for my lack of social accomplishments. I sat dumb before her until her face sharpened and she said, ‘Molly Eames has a secretary now – you can act as my secretary, Helena – it will do you good, and be better for you than mooning around in a dream as you are at present. Come to my room at ten o’clock tomorrow. If you won’t sing at least you can write. I presume you can still write, Helena?’
‘Yes, Mother – I can still write.’
When she left us later Letty asked, ‘Whyever didn’t you say “No”, Helena? It’s quite simple, when you know how.’ I did not reply and she went on, ‘I never have any trouble with Mother – but you see she knows you’re frightened of her. But I admit it’s easier for me – I can always play my trump card. You’re not so fortunate there.’
Song of Songs Page 48
