Time's Legacy

by Barbara Erskine

  4

  The Reverend Ben Cavendish pulled out a chair and sat himself down at the kitchen table in Woodley Manor, looking first at his sister-in-law and then at his brother. There was a strong family likeness, the two men tall, with rugged outdoor complexions and greying pepper and salt hair, Ben some five years older than his brother. ‘I know it is a great favour to ask, especially of you, Cal, but I think she could be useful to you both,’ he said gently. It was no secret in the family that some catastrophic investments by his advisers had reduced Mat’s pension to almost nothing. ‘The diocese will pay and as she might be here a while it will work out far more than your average occasional B & B guest who only stays one night. And if she stayed here, rather than with me and Janet, she could do a bit in the garden, maybe help you sort out what you want to do with the designs if you go ahead with this plan to open to the public. Her mother is Laura Rutherford.’

  His brother, Mat, looked blank. It was Cal who reacted. ‘The Laura Rutherford? The garden designer?’ Petite, with hair a similar colour to that of her husband, if slightly more artfully arranged, and with faded blue eyes, Cal leaned forward, her elbows on the table. Her weather-beaten face was eager.

  Ben nodded.

  ‘But the daughter is a vicar, not a garden designer, Ben! It doesn’t mean she knows anything about gardening!’ Mat protested.

  Ben shrugged. ‘She must have watched her mother at some point, surely. And even if she didn’t, it must be in her genes there somewhere, mustn’t it?’ He gave a disingenuous smile. ‘David wants her to have a complete break. She’s had some kind of awful experience with the man she works with. Her first job, she hasn’t even had her own parish yet, and the so and so jumped on her. She wants to resign but the bishop says she’ll make a good pastor; he doesn’t want to lose her so he has decided to send her down to us here to revisit her roots in Somerset. We’ve got to soothe her and reassure her and I’m to be her spiritual adviser. But David is anxious I shouldn’t ram the whole pastoral experience down her throat at the moment, so I thought it might be better to suggest she stay here, based away from the Rectory.’

  Cal smiled. ‘Reading between the lines, she’s obviously a looker and Janet has said, “not in my house thank you very much otherwise she might set her cap at my husband too”!’

  Ben grinned. ‘Something like that maybe, yes. You know my wife. But to be fair, David did say she looked as though she needed feeding up. That is your department, Cal, as you cook like an angel.’

  Cal chose to ignore the compliment. ‘I hope that doesn’t mean she’s anorexic as well as sexy.’

  Mat threw back his head and laughed. ‘I doubt it. If I remember right, David Paxman likes his women curvy.’ He clapped his hand to his mouth in mock horror. ‘Sorry, I didn’t say that. It’s unfair to remember a bishop when he was a boy and the terror of the whole neighbourhood.’

  ‘You’re right, though,’ Ben put in soberly. ‘It does tend to get between one and all the mystique we’re supposed to feel! That’s why I could never be in his diocese. Quite apart from that, though, you clearly haven’t put two and two together! Laura Rutherford was none other than little Lally Purvis from up near Priddy. So we all knew each other in the old days.’ He grinned. ‘Abi is practically family. And we are far enough away from her tormentor here on the other side of the country for her to feel safe.’

  Mat sighed. ‘So how can we refuse. When will she arrive?’ He glanced at his wife. ‘We will have her, right?’

  She nodded. ‘Of course we’ll have her. There is always room for another pair of hands, and if she tries to seduce my husband, she’s welcome to him!’ She punched him on the shoulder.

  ‘Good, because she’ll be here within the week,’ Ben said.

  In the event it was to be much longer. The next day, Ben took a call from the bishop. When it was over he put down the phone and stared blankly at his wife. ‘I can’t believe it. Laura Rutherford is dead.’

  Janet came over and sat down next to him. ‘She can’t be. She is a relatively young woman!’

  Ben glanced at his wife and sighed. Her reaction was typical. He was sure she didn’t mean it that way, but as usual her response to unexpected bad news was to be indignant at a perceived inconvenience rather than instantly sympathetic. He frowned. She was looking particularly elegant today. She was on her way to a coffee morning in Wells and had been to the hairdresser only the day before. It was obviously a ‘smart casual’ affair of the kind his wife spent hours dolling up for, to end up looking so far from casual that it hurt. Well, poor Laura was not going to be an inconvenience to her and neither by the look of things now, was her daughter.

  ‘Laura had a congenital heart defect, apparently.’ He shook his head. ‘David said she had only found out a few months ago that there was something wrong. They thought she would be OK with the right medication, but…’ He shrugged. ‘Poor Abi. She knew nothing about her mother’s condition. It’s been the most awful shock. On top of all her other problems.’

  The room still smelled the same. Of paint and flowers. Abi sat down on the chaise-longue and lifted a corner of the Spanish shawl, holding it up to her face. The house felt so empty. Downstairs, her father was sitting in his study, staring at the wall. It had been the same every day since the funeral, the horrible, godless funeral he had insisted on at the City Crematorium.

  She had offered to stay on for a while and taken his shrug to signal acquiescence. She sighed. She didn’t know how to comfort him. She couldn’t talk to him about the certainties that shored up her own faith; she couldn’t even mention them. She wanted to hug him; even more she wanted him to hug her. When she was a child they had been so close. Her mother’s warmth and affection had enveloped them both, filled the whole house. That had made it so much harder when God had entered the frame. Her father’s fury, his uncomprehending indignation, his assumption that she had rejected him and everything he stood for out of some perverse need to pursue a personal vendetta, bewildered her. Even now he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. When she had made coffee and toast for them both this morning he had taken a cup and a plate without a word and carried them to his study, closing the door behind him.

  Abi walked over to the window and pushed it open, resting her elbows on the sill.

  ‘Give him time, darling.’ Her mother’s voice seemed to come from the room behind her! Abi swung round. ‘Mummy?’

  The room was empty. Of course it was empty. And yet…

  ‘Mummy?’ she whispered again. ‘Are you there?’

  There was no reply.

  She stood for a moment longer without moving, then slowly and thoughtfully she went over to the chest of drawers which stood against the opposite wall and kneeling down she dragged open the bottom drawer. The tin box was where her mother had put it, wedged at the back amongst all kinds of boxes and packages and folders of newspaper cuttings. One day it would be up to her to sort through all her mother’s possessions. But not now. It was too soon. Too painful. Easing out the box she carried it over to the table and putting it down she stood looking at it for a long time. Had her mother realised that she was going to die? Obviously she had known she was ill, but wouldn’t she have said something if she had realised how gravely? Carefully she pulled off the lid. ‘You were going to tell me about this,’ she said to the empty room. ‘Why did you change your mind? What is so special about this lump of rock?’ Unfolding the cloth in which it was wrapped she looked down at it. The uppermost opaque crystal face gleamed softly and she ran her finger over it experimentally. It was cold; inert. Cautiously she lifted it out of the box and laid it on the table. Exposed like this she could see it in more detail. It was a roughly spherical lump of pure crystal with some two thirds of the surface exposed, parts of it crazed and cloudy, some of it clear as glass. The rest was hidden by the rock casing from which it had been hewn.

  ‘It is some sort of crystal ball,’ she murmured to herself. ‘Is that it? An ancient crystal ball?’ She glanced into
the box. In the bottom, hidden by the crumpled silk was a piece of paper. Unfolding it carefully she squinted at the faded brown ink.

  For my little Amelia. When you are grown up the Serpent Stone will tell its story to you if you listen. Treasure it and pass it on to one of your daughters when you in your turn are old. What you do about the story and who you tell is for you to decide. Elc

  It was signed with a faint scrawl. Her great-grandmother had been called Amelia. Abi squinted at the signature. Elizabeth? Elspeth? Something beginning with E. She refolded the paper and tucked it back into the box. The Serpent Stone. She shivered. ‘So, you have a story to tell?’ she whispered. ‘A dangerous story.’ What had her mother said? It had destroyed her faith.

  The door opened so suddenly she nearly jumped out of her skin. ‘What are you doing up here?’ Her father erupted into the room. He was panting heavily from the stairs. He was wearing the same checked shirt he had had on for three days. She could smell the stale aroma of sweat with a faint oily overlay of alcohol. She frowned. He must have been drinking in the privacy of his lonely study. She stood away from the table almost guiltily. ‘I just came up to be near her,’ she said after a moment.

  He glared at her. ‘You can’t be near her. She’s gone. Don’t you understand? She’s gone!’ It was a wild cry of despair.

  ‘I know.’ Abi held out her hand towards him. ‘I miss her too,’ she pleaded.

  Her gesture seemed to inflame his rage even further. ‘You? You miss her? You moved out! You betrayed us! You turned your back on everything we believed. You broke her heart!’ He stepped closer to her and spotted the box on the table with the stone sitting next to it in full view. He stopped in his tracks. ‘That thing! I told her to get rid of it.’ For a moment he seemed paralysed with shock. ‘How could she defy me? How could she lie? After all that happened!’

  ‘What is it, Dad? I don’t understand. What happened?’ Abi looked down at the stone then back at his face. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head suddenly. ‘This is something I have kept hidden from your father.’

  He took a deep breath, visibly trying to steady himself and sat down heavily on the chaise longue by the window. He was still breathing hard from the stairs. ‘When we were first married we were happy. So happy. I had a research post at Bristol University.’ He appeared almost to be talking to himself, staring past her, his eyes fixed on some point in space she could not see. Then you came along. It was all so wonderful and then it was ruined.’ There was a long silence.

  ‘Ruined? By me?’ Abi whispered at last. Her own memories of her childhood were of sunny holidays, fond grandparents, laughing cousins, her parents holding hands, looking into each other’s eyes, sharing jokes, unspoken messages of tenderness, or complicity against the world. They had loved her. She was sure they had both loved her. When had it all gone wrong? And why hadn’t she noticed?

  She moved away from the table and sat down on a wooden chair next to the wall. He didn’t seem to register that she had moved. ‘I was awarded a research post here at Cambridge,’ he went on. His voice was shaking slightly. ‘We were thrilled. It was one of the top jobs in the country.’

  Abi remembered that. She had thought it was wonderful, so different from the Victorian cottage in Bristol, falling in love with Cambridge even as a small child with the ethereal beauty of the colleges, the Backs, the river, its magical atmosphere, its romantic stories and with the huge, rambling grey house into which they moved. The garden had been an exciting wilderness. It was the challenge of all those brambles, those hidden corners and those rampant nettles which had set her mother on the quest for order and beauty and peace which would lead her to fame and fortune. Well, fame. Abi gave a faint smile at the memory.

  ‘That thing was a farewell present from her mother.’ His voice grew hard and cold. ‘Some present! I didn’t even know about it. She gave it to Lally because we were moving so far away; in case we never saw her again.’ His voice trailed into silence.

  Abi sat still, waiting. She didn’t dare speak. He was staring into space, no longer seeing her, his eyes fixed on some moment in the distant past.

  ‘We didn’t, of course. She must have known she was dying.’ He heaved another sigh. ‘Lally brought it to me one day. “Look at this, Harry,” she said, so pleased with herself. “You think you know it all but I bet you can’t explain this!” She was laughing, her eyes so bright. Excited. “Touch it!” she said. “Tell me what it is.” I could see what it was. Quartz crystal. SiO2. Silicon dioxide. It can be quite beautiful, but this was a hideous lump of the stuff, still in its rock matrix. I told her to put it on her rockery and grow something over it. “Oh no,” she said. “No way. Hold it. Feel the vibes!” She was wearing a long gypsy skirt. She looked like a happy child. You must have been about six then.’ So he remembered she was still there. Abi shifted uneasily. ‘She put it in my hands.’ He paused. ‘I felt it grow hot. It was vibrating. The crystal faces appeared to be moving.’ He shuddered. ‘I told her it wasn’t possible. It was a trick. She snatched it away from me. “Women’s magic,” she said. “Not for you!” She laughed at me. She called me a silly old scientist.’ He looked at Abi at last and she saw tears in his eyes. ‘Why did she die! She was fifteen years younger than me. I should have been the one to go first!’

  Abi bit her lip, trying to hold back her own distress. She knew better than to go to him again. At the crematorium when she had tried to take his arm he had shaken her off, in front of everyone, as though her very touch had polluted him.

  As if reading her thoughts he looked up at her. ‘Don’t you dare try and comfort me with platitudes about your Jesus!’ His tone was vicious.

  ‘I wasn’t going to. I know better than that.’

  He wasn’t listening. He moved towards the table and stared down at the lump of crystal. ‘She kept it. She hid it from me, but not from you. She told you. That’s how you were infected with this Jesus business. It not only stole my beloved wife. It stole my little daughter as well.’ His voice rose to a howl of anguish.

  ‘Dad –’

  ‘Don’t bother to deny it. Don’t even try. It’s all too late. I want you to get out. Pack your bags and go. Do you hear? Leave me alone. There is nothing you can do here. Nothing!’ Tears were streaming down his face.

  ‘Dad, please.’

  ‘Get out!’ The howl turned into a scream of fury. Abi flinched away from him. ‘Get out!’ He pointed to the door. ‘Now! As for this thing.’ He grabbed the crystal in both hands. ‘It can go and shatter on the rockery where it belongs!’ Taking three swift paces towards the window he hurled it out into the sunshine. It fell three storeys and disappeared.

  Through the heavy cloud the sun threw splinters of light onto the waters of the mere. It was here he came to pray. He loved it here, outside, on the hill, on the sedge-lined banks, sometimes drifting in a boat, watching the flocks of ducks, the birds, listening to their calls, alien at first but now familiar, listening to the splash of otter and beaver, the cry of the fox and the wolf, the autumnal bellow of a great red stag high in the hills in the distance, a sound which echoed out across the wetlands and spoke of the power of God.

  5

  Abi pulled up at the side of the road and peered across between the lichen-covered stone pillars of the gateway up the short driveway. Woodley Manor was situated on wooded, rocky outcrop rising out of the Somerset levels, halfway between Wells and Glastonbury, barely seven miles or so from the Mendip village of Priddy where her mother and the bishop had grown up as childhood neighbours. The house, long and low with a pillared Georgian front door, and covered in deep richly crimson swathes of Virginia Creeper was built of warm honey-coloured stone under a roof of moss-grown slates and lay dreaming in the mellow sunshine. It was the most beautiful place she had seen for a long time. Pulling across the road and in between the gateposts, she drew up again and opening the door she climbed out, stiff after her long journey, to lean for a moment on the car roof. The air smelled glorious, of warm sto
ne and grass and flowers.

  ‘Abi?’ The deep voice behind her startled her; she had thought she was quite alone. She turned. A tall middle-aged man in an open-necked shirt and shabby cords was standing a few feet from her. ‘Hi. I’m Mat Cavendish.’

  She gave a rueful smile. ‘You caught me, I’m afraid. This place is so beautiful I couldn’t believe it could be real. I just wanted to get out of the car and stare.’

  He laughed. ‘I feel that way every time I drive in. Can I hop in and hitch a ride up to the front door?’

  His wife, Cal, was standing on the steps waiting for them as Abi drew up. ‘I saw you coming. The kettle is on. You must be knackered after your long drive, my dear. Come and have some tea, then Mat can help you with your bags. These are Pyramis and Thisby.’ She indicated the two portly black Labradors which sat on either side of her, tails wagging. ‘Known to their numerous fans as Pym and Thiz. And before you ask,’ she shrugged ruefully, ‘those names are all that now remains of my misspent student past when there was talk of a thesis about plays within plays and Shakespeare. All now forgotten, thankfully.’ She laughed. ‘This way. Mind your head, the lintels are low.’

  Abi followed her hosts down a long, paved hallway to the back of the house and into a cavernous kitchen. She stared half-appalled, half-enchanted at the huge inglenook fireplace where a fire burned steadily under an enormous black kettle which was suspended by an iron bar which was swung out from the back wall of the chimney. ‘You don’t cook on that?’

  Cal laughed. ‘I have been known to cook soup there occasionally, but I’m afraid I have an ordinary cooker for the day to day stuff. Over there, lurking in the shadows, overwhelmed with an inferiority complex because it’s electric! Do sit down, my dear. Take the weight off your feet.’ She paused and took a deep breath. ‘We were so sorry to hear about your mother, Abi. What a terrible shock for you.’ She turned away tactfully. When she turned back a few moments later she was carrying a plate with a chocolate cake on it. Both dogs immediately sat down respectfully one on either side of Abi, their eyes huge and imploring.