by Nicola Upson
‘Once I’d calmed down, I had to go back and talk to William. I expected you to be there still.’
‘No. I wasn’t really in the mood for company, so I left soon after you did.’
‘Yes, they told me,’ he said. ‘Obviously, I needed to apologise, but I also wanted to know more about their childhood – to try and understand what relations were like between the three of them when they were growing up.’
‘And has it helped?’
‘A little, I suppose. He couldn’t really tell me anything I didn’t know – what Jasper did to my mother was as much of a shock to him as it was to me. More so, perhaps, because he was there with her at the time. Now he’s having to reinterpret what he thought was happiness – and he feels guilty, of course.’
‘For not being able to protect her?’
‘Partly that, but it’s more complicated. He feels bad about the way he and my mother used to shut Jasper out when they were children. There was no malice in it, but you can never tell what effect you’re having on somebody’s emotions in private, can you?’ He sipped his whisky thoughtfully. ‘I have to say – William’s much more generous than I am. All I can think about is how the bastard must have made her suffer.’
‘Do you know how he is?’
‘William telephoned the hospital. There’s no change.’
‘Trouble seems to come in threes – look at Harry, Morwenna and Loveday. And if I’m honest, there were the same sorts of rivalries in our house when I was growing up. My youngest sister and I got on splendidly – but there was always a sense of duty in any time I spent with my middle sister, and I know she was aware of that. Things have always been rather forced between us. I’m not saying it’s the same thing at all, but it’s all about a balance of power. You’re lucky to be an only child.’
‘I’m beginning to agree with you. I used to think about what good friends William and my mother were as adults, and how Lettice and Ronnie always stuck up for each other no matter how much they argued in private, and I felt like I was missing out on something. Now, I’m not so sure.’
Josephine realised that this was the first time she had ever heard Archie talk about his childhood in any depth. They had regularly discussed the war and their shared past – probably discussed it too much – but he had only ever referred in passing to his life before she knew him. Thinking about it, that was probably because he had always genuinely believed it to be happy and trouble-free: the urge to analyse and reconstruct your past tended to come only with the realisation that things were less than perfect, and she sensed that he would be eager to talk now if she gave him the right encouragement. ‘Morveth said your mother told your father about Jasper,’ she said. ‘He must have been a very special man for her to trust him with what she was most ashamed of. It’s one thing to tell another woman, but trusting a man – especially a man who loves you – not to make things worse by how he reacts must have been quite a risk.’
‘Yes, he was special.’ Archie offered her a cigarette, and lit one for himself.
‘I’ve never asked you about him, and I don’t even know what he did for a living. Was it something on the estate?’
‘I suppose you could say that he shaped the estate – or a lot of it, anyway. He was a plantsman, and he knew everything about the land here. There wasn’t an acre of it that he wasn’t intimately familiar with. It was almost as if he felt he had a duty to it because his family had given it away – like he had to prove it wasn’t personal.’ He looked long into the fire, remembering. ‘When I was young, he took me everywhere with him – through the woods, round the formal gardens, into the hothouses, and he’d tell me the name of every plant that he’d grown and cared for. You’ve seen all the shrubs that screen the outbuildings near the house and the vineries on the walls?’
‘Only in the dark.’
‘I must show them to you – they’re still very much as he created them, although on a much smaller scale. You know, we used to have fourteen acres of apple orchards alone – but I suppose William’s told you how magnificent the estate was before the war?’
‘Not really. He said that the war changed a lot, but some things were on the decline anyway.’
‘Maybe that’s true. I suppose my memories are bound to be different – I was young and I didn’t have the headache of keeping it going – but I think William’s doing himself an injustice. Loe was in its prime back then. He took it over about ten years before the war, and he and my father made it pretty much self-sufficient. Except for coal, it looked after its own community and more besides – we had crops for food, wood for building, even our own brewery at one stage, although I gather it was much safer to buy your ale over the bar.’ He leaned forward and topped up their glasses. ‘Then suddenly there was no one left to run it. We lost more men every month until we were down to a skeleton staff. I was at university by then, and every time I came back the place seemed more deserted. It wasn’t just the men, either – the horses disappeared, even the trees. Teddy wasn’t the only thing that the Royal Navy took from William,’ he added dryly. ‘Acres of oak went to them as well – hundreds of years of growth. It changed the whole character of the landscape in places. I know it’s not the same thing as losing a son, but it broke William’s heart.’
‘So he threw himself into the war effort instead. He told me that much.’
‘Yes, and my father was ill by that time, so there was really no one left to stand Loe’s corner. She suffered along with the rest of us.’
Like Ronnie, he spoke of the estate as a woman, she noticed. As interested as she was in this new aspect of the war’s impact, though, she tried to steer Archie back to a more personal history. ‘It’s a tribute to what your father achieved that anything managed to survive that,’ she said. ‘He must have had an extraordinary vision.’
‘He did. The sort of vision that comes from respecting the past, I suppose. He had hundreds of opportunities to move on – people were always coming to him for advice, offering him work on country estates that were a lot grander than this one. He could have been a rich man, but there was never any question of his leaving Loe. He was tied to it by something very powerful – so was my mother. But you’re right – he did look to the future. He was always experimenting, and his knowledge was extraordinary. Even in later life, I can remember him sitting by the fire, exclaiming with delight over some new discovery he’d made. He never lost that childlike excitement.’
‘You have that, you know – when you let yourself forget about work for long enough.’
‘Once or twice a year, then,’ he said glibly, but she could tell he was pleased.
‘And that explains the books. I’ve been having a look through, trying to guess what belongs to whom. Who’s the Trollope fan?’
‘That was my father. The Lodge was always crammed with books. I’ve kept his favourites, but lots of the more specialist volumes have gone to a library in Penzance. It seemed a shame to keep them here, unused. My mother had lots, too, but her interests were less scientific.’
Josephine looked at him. ‘Less scientific? In what way?’
He smiled. ‘Morveth’s not the only person round here who put her faith in unconventional remedies – at least, she wasn’t when my mother was alive.’
‘You knew?’ she asked before she could stop herself.
‘Was that another secret I’m supposed to be oblivious to?’ Josephine blushed, but he made light of it. ‘It was never an issue for her – just another way of looking at things. And she did share things with me,’ he added, more seriously. ‘That was one of the things I loved most about her – and why I was so shocked this afternoon. I thought I knew her inside out, but I suppose some things were outside that understanding – and I have no choice now but to accept that. Her belief in folklore wasn’t one of them, though.’
‘But you were so dismissive of Morveth the other night at dinner.’
‘No, not at all. I was – I am – dismissive of the idea that people have certain powers
that are beyond our understanding – for good or evil. I don’t like it whether it comes under the name of religion or magic or quackery. But as far as healing is concerned – people have managed for hundreds of years without some of the things we know now, and who’s to say that their ways are no longer valid? Both Morveth and my mother chose to put a spiritual importance on their learning which I can’t accept, but that doesn’t detract from the facts. It’s knowledge, just like my father’s, and when I chose to study medicine, it was down to both of them – the healing and the science. But it wasn’t to be.’
‘The war again,’ Josephine said bitterly. She knew the reasons for Archie’s change of career but – privately – had always believed it to be a change for the better, the one precious thing to have come out of the sadness. Now, though, she was not so sure, and felt for the first time the loss of direction which Archie must have experienced on leaving that tribute to his parents behind.
He hesitated. ‘The war was part of it, but it really only confirmed what I knew. In my heart, I’d already decided that medicine wasn’t for me. Or rather, that I wasn’t for medicine.’
‘Why? It sounds to me as though you were born to it.’
There was a long silence, and Josephine poked the fire unnecessarily as she waited for him to speak. ‘Can you take another secret?’ he asked eventually.
‘As long as it’s yours. I’d much rather share one with you than know something you don’t.’
‘Everything I told you about my father – all the learning and the knowledge – it made the way he died so cruel. He suffered from dementia for the last few years of his life. It was gradual at first, and still quite mild by the time I went up to Cambridge, but the estate wasn’t the only thing I noticed a change in whenever I came home. I wanted to put my degree on hold for a bit but my mother wouldn’t hear of it – she said my father would never forgive himself if he realised, and I suppose that was true. But it was hard on her, that sort of steady decline. Sometimes he’d go missing for hours and she’d find him in the gardens, desperate because he couldn’t find something he’d planted or remember the name of a flower. He’d get so angry – with himself and then with her. Then, of course, it got worse and it was my mother and their marriage that he had no connection with.’
‘I can’t imagine anything more difficult. My mother’s illness was terrible for my parents, but at least they faced it together and took some strength from each other. She must have felt completely isolated from all she loved most.’
‘Yes, that’s exactly how she felt. It wasn’t so much the physical strain of caring for him – that was bad enough, but William and Morveth were a great help to her; it was the loneliness that nearly destroyed her, being taunted with a physical presence which was so familiar to her and yet having no emotional connection. For someone like my mother, that was a living hell.’
‘Lizzie died soon after your father, didn’t she?’
‘That’s what I’m coming to. She was actually diagnosed with cancer a few weeks before his death.’ Josephine said nothing, unable to articulate a response which would do justice to the series of events that had transformed Archie’s life. ‘She hadn’t felt well for a while, but she ignored it because of how things were at home. By the time she did something about it, it was too late. They gave her six months. She was absolutely devastated when she found out.’
‘Worried about what would happen to your father?’
‘Yes. It was the beginning of the summer holidays, thank God, so at least I was there. That was the first and only time I ever saw her completely lost. It wasn’t the natural way of things, you see – my father was several years older than her, and she should have been able to care for him until he died. She accepted her own fate, but not at the expense of his. I couldn’t bear to see her like that. At first, I refused to believe her diagnosis. I tried to persuade her to see other doctors, but we both knew it was a waste of time, and my not accepting the situation was just making things more difficult for her. Anyway, by that time she’d already faced up to her responsibilities – at least, that’s how she saw things. She had vowed to look after my father until the end, and that’s exactly what she did.’ He paused, obviously trying to find the right words to explain. ‘There’s no easy way to say this.’
By now, she knew what Archie was going to say, and tried to make it easier for him. ‘She restored the natural way of things – would that do?’ He nodded, unable to look at her. ‘Did you know what your mother had done?’
‘Yes. He died peacefully one night and she was so calm about it. She knew I’d guessed, but we never spoke of it – I suppose she didn’t want to involve me, just in case someone else found out, and I didn’t want to make it any more difficult for her than it already was.’
‘Did Morveth know, do you think?’
‘No. I think it was something private between the two of them, the last intimacy they shared.’
‘It was brave of her not to share it more fully. She could have saved herself a lot of pain if she’d chosen to die with him.’
‘But that would have implicated my father in some sort of pact, and she wouldn’t have wanted anything to tarnish his memory. For my sake, apart from anything else. She stayed around as long as she could to help me through his loss – I can see that very clearly now.’ At last, he looked up from the fire. ‘Are you shocked?’ he asked.
She thought for a moment, knowing how important it was to both of them that she gave an honest answer. ‘No, not shocked. Surprised, perhaps – but only in the sense that I’m always surprised when someone does something utterly selfless. It doesn’t happen very often.’
‘You think it was selfless?’
‘Of course it was. She protected the people she loved from further suffering and unbearable guilt without any thought for how it would damage her own emotions – her peace of mind, if you like – during the last few weeks of her life. I can’t think of anything more selfless. I’d call it heroic if it didn’t come out of such bloody misery, and I only hope that someone would have the courage to do the same for me if it were necessary.’ It was hard to tell what effect her answer had on him, if any. ‘It doesn’t matter what I think, though,’ she continued. ‘You obviously felt it was wrong in some way, or you wouldn’t have abandoned the path you set out on.’
‘No – that’s just it. I was so sure it was right – that’s why I couldn’t go down that path. I wish it hadn’t happened, of course I do – but never for one moment have I doubted that she did the right thing. I’d have even done it myself if she’d asked me, and that’s not the attitude to have if you hold someone’s life in your hands. I was afraid of that certainty. It’s more than just making a decision and sticking to it – it can so easily become arrogance, and I’ve seen that in too many other people to think that I’m immune to it myself. Policing is different – you have to have evidence and it’s never just down to you, no matter how good you are. You can’t play God.’
‘Is that really what you think she did?’
‘It’s what I was afraid I might do, given the opportunity.’
‘And do you regret the decision, if not the act that led to it?’
‘Not very often these days. I love what I do, and I’m good at it, but…’
‘But what?’ she prompted.
‘I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about everything that’s been going on here lately, and perhaps I was wrong ever to go away at all. William could do with some support now, and God knows what it’s going to be like when he’s older. Lettice and Ronnie are hardly likely to take over the reins. Perhaps I should come back here, after all.’
‘Is that really what you want?’ Josephine realised suddenly how much she depended on Archie’s being in London, and tried to fight a selfish impulse to influence him. She could hardly expect him to base his future on their friendship while she remained free to walk in and out of his life as she pleased, but it occurred to her now that much of the pleasure she took in her visits sout
h was down to him, and her earlier words to William came back to trouble her: Cornwall was a very long way from Inverness. ‘Would it make you happy, do you think?’
‘No, probably not, but sometimes living your own life feels like a very self-centred thing to do.’
‘You have to answer to yourself for not doing it, though.’
‘Is that what you’ve done? You gave up your freedom to go back to your father when your mother died.’
‘No I didn’t. I gave up a reasonably satisfying job as a physical training instructress, which would have given me up eventually anyway. All right, I resented it at first simply because it was expected of me, but it didn’t take me long to see that it would work for me. I have as much freedom as I want, with time to write, time alone, and the financial means to come and go without feeling guilty. And I’ve never been tied to my father – he’s not an invalid, just a man.’
Archie laughed. ‘I know you get on well.’
‘Yes, most of the time, and he respects what I do. I might complain about a few domestic chores but it suits me, this life – you know it does. So don’t make me a martyr, for God’s sake. I couldn’t bear that.’
‘All right. I take it back.’
‘And don’t be one yourself. I know how this sadness affects you, particularly where Morwenna’s concerned, but distance isn’t the same thing as detachment. Do you think Morwenna would have found such comfort in talking to you if you weren’t to some extent an outsider?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Anyway, from what I’ve seen, William’s got a while to go yet before he’s ready to ask for help. Perhaps in a few years’ time, when you’ve got your feet under the chief superintendent’s desk and you’re tired of pushing papers. Think about it then. In the meantime, we should get some sleep. I expect you’ve got another early start?’
‘Yes. Listen, before you go to bed – did you manage to find out anything from Loveday?’ He looked sheepish. ‘I feel rather hypocritical about asking you to act as my spy when I’ve set up camp on the moral high ground, but now I’ve done it, I may as well reap the benefits.’
