'It's OK,' she'd said. 'Really it is. How is Hester?'
'She's great. Fantastic. But I had such a strange feeling while I was there, and she . . . told me things, Mum. About Grandfather being a friend of the family. She's said I can go and stay and I'd really like to do that, if you don't mind. She was very clear about that – you knowing about it and agreeing to it, I mean. Would you like to telephone her, you know, just to check things out?'
'No,' she'd answered quickly. 'No, not yet, but you go if you want to, Jonah. Honestly, I think you're right about it being meant, and if Hester really wants to talk . . .'
He'd been so relieved, so grateful, that she'd felt the usual guilt and fear twist her gut. She'd kept silent for so long, despite Jonah's longing to know about the past.
Well, it was out of her control now. Staring out at the passing countryside, Lucy wondered what Hester would tell him, what questions might arise from their meeting, and her gut flipped again at the prospect. Yet, beyond the guilt and fear, a calm certainty took possession of her: it was time.
CHAPTER TEN
The letter was lying beside Hester's place at the breakfast table. The sight of the spiky writing on the recycled envelope, along with its second-class stamp, caused her heart to beat with pleasurable anticipation but it wasn't until Clio had finished her toast and set off to see Lizzie at Michaelgarth that Hester opened her letter.
St Bede's Convent
All Souls' Day
Darling Hes,
I've been thinking about you particularly during these last few days and not only because we've been holding you closely in prayer since your operation. It's the time of year, isn't it, when we think of all those people we've loved but who 'now worship in a greater light and on a farther shore' and I've been remembering our family especially. Little cameos from the past, recalling happy holidays at Bridge House, student days at Cambridge and more sombre thoughts about the boys, killed so early in the war, and then, later, dear old Edward and Michael. What a terrible time it was. And, before that, your parents, Hes: Aunt Emily and Uncle Nicholas.
Just lately I've been thinking a great deal about Uncle Nicholas and what a terrible blow it must have been to you especially, Hes, when he died. There are certain people – just one or two if we're lucky – that seem to be vouchsafed us on our journey: people who truly know us and not only love us but enjoy us, if you know what I mean. Your father felt like that about you, Hes. He understood you, and enjoyed your imperiousness and curiosity and passion for truth; and your oblique take on life which was immensely endearing and made you a difficult but fascinating child and, later, characterized your books about John Clare and Christopher Smart. I think it was clever of you to draw the parallels between the two, showing how their 'madness' was grounded in their passionate response to the physical world. How proud your father would have been, Hes, to read your work.
I can see why, when he died, you transferred your love to Edward. He was so like him, wasn't he? Not only physically but he had that same intuitive understanding for looking beyond the surface of people and an appreciation for the finer points of character. I always felt that your mother's love was too concentrated on her sons (and I was included in that love, for which I thank God!) to appreciate her daughters properly – and that is why she gave up, poor soul, when the boys were killed and Edward taken prisoner.
It was a blessing, I suppose. Seeing Edward, best beloved of all her sons, so broken and destroyed when he finally came home, would have been terrible for her. I'm only just beginning truly to understand how appalling it must have been for you, Hes. Edward valued you in the same way that your father valued you and oh! how we need that real true kind of loving to grow up properly. Without that particular kind of valuing, which has nothing to do with spoiling and smothering the child with possessive affection, it is difficult to develop with confidence and self-esteem. Most of us have to do our best without it.
You are so much in my mind, Hes, you and all the others, and I'm so glad that you are recovering well – but how do you feel about the long journey up here for Christmas? It wouldn't be the same without you – and I know the sisters feel the same – but I'm rather worried about you driving so far, especially at that time of the year. Would it be wise this year to come by train? Is Clio still at Bridge House? How sweet of her to take her holiday time to be with you, although I expect that she's glad to have the opportunity to show her gratitude for all the things you've done for her. You valued Clio in the way that I wrote about just now and it shows in her. Give her my love.
On a different note, we have a new convent cat. He has appeared from nowhere and the sisters have taken him in joyfully, having been in mourning for weeks for dear old Mouser. On being applied to for a name – and having in my thoughts your book on Christopher Smart, which I was rereading – I said he should be called Jeoffrey. Remember Smart's lines 'on his cat Jeoffrey' from the Jubilate Agno?
For I will consider my Cat Jeoffrey
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
Anyway, I'm hoping that the name will inspire our newcomer and that he will remember that, according to Smart, 'the mouse is a creature of great personal valour'. I wish I could introduce Jeoffrey to St Francis.
Let me know how you are, Hes,
Love as always,
Blaise
Hester put the letter down, folding it automatically, smiling at Blaise's choice of name for the cat whilst, at the same time, rather shaken that the letter had been written on the day when Jonah had first arrived at Bridge House. She was moved by Blaise's references to her father's feelings for her, and to her work.
Thoughtfully she put the letter back into its envelope, thinking now about Christmas. Ever since Blaise had retired from his parish duties to take up the position of chaplain to the sisters at St Bede's she had driven up to Northumberland each year to spend Christmas at the convent. Usually she took the journey in stages, stopping off at Cambridge and Lincoln to see friends and colleagues. Just at present, however, the thought of the long drive north filled her with trepidation. Yet the prospect of Christmas alone, without seeing Blaise or the nuns of whom she had become so fond, was a bleak one.
St Francis leaped onto the table. He gazed hopefully at the butter dish, which Hester immediately picked up. She got to her feet and began to clear the table, ignoring his look of reproach.
'There is a new cat at the convent,' she told him. 'His name is Jeoffrey and we must hope that he is a more efficient rodent controller than you are, old friend. Or they might be saying, "Poor Jeoffrey! The rat has bit thy throat."' She smiled again as she remembered Blaise's words, already forming a reply in her head; framing phrases and sentences and quotations that would make him laugh. She shared with Blaise the passion for words that she'd once shared with Edward.
'I'm only just beginning truly to understand how appalling it must have been for you, Hes.' Was that what was puzzling her: that Blaise should be thinking so much about the past again and especially that particular period of time that she was beginning deliberately to call up so as to communicate it to Jonah?
Hester was surprised by the quick uprush of joy at the mere idea of seeing Jonah again, of talking to him and sharing with him. She saw suddenly that it was a great privilege to find someone to whom she might pass her history and the history of her family – someone who was passionately interested and deeply involved. The story must be accurate, the details clear and without confusion or muddle.
Distracted by this thought, Hester abruptly abandoned the clearing up and went to her study. There was work to be done before she was ready for Jonah.
Alert and hopeful, St Francis watched her well out of sight before he jumped up onto the drainingboard and began to eat the butter.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
'Clio has returned to London,' Hester wrote to Blaise on Sunday evening.
Her departure was rather horrid; just like going back to school years ago. I can only imagine th
at it's because she's been here for four weeks and this has given her the opportunity to look clearly at her situation both at the agency and with Peter. If it hadn't been for Peter I think she would have made a change a year ago, but falling in love does rather cloud the judgement and, now she's had the chance to think about things, she gives the impression that she's rather fearful that she made a mistake in staying at the agency. That's what is horrid, Blaise, watching her going back to London and knowing that she's lost her confidence in what she's doing. Clio is usually very positive, as you know, so it shows when she's having a wobble. On the other hand, I should be deeply relieved to hear that this affair with Peter is over. Naturally I can't interfere but you know how unhappy I have been at the thought of Clio involved in a relationship that can have no future. Having had my own similar experience all those years ago I'm in no position to throw stones at Clio but I worry that there are so many people who could be hurt. Not least the children. Anyway, I really have hopes that she is seeing clearly now.
Your last letter was so very much in tune with what was happening here that I've been wondering how to reply to it. Michael's grandson has been here, Blaise. Clio met him – I won't bother you with how or where at the moment – and brought him to Bridge House at his own request. Something very odd happened. It was as if at some emotional level he tapped into his whole history, and he's coming again next week. He wants to know about those war years. His mother up until now has refused to talk about it – and who can blame her? – although he's seen old snapshots of us all. I remember sending photos to Michael during the war, so as to keep him in touch, and Jonah (that's his name) specially remembers one of Lucy with Jack and Robin. He's clearly a very intuitive boy – well, he seems like a boy to me, probably thirty – and he had a very strange experience on his arrival here.
She paused, wondering how to explain Jonah's experience and her own reaction to it, and at that moment the telephone rang and Hester put down her pen and went to answer it.
It was odd, she reflected in the few seconds that this took, that though she used the computer for most of her correspondence she still wrote to Blaise by hand, with her fountain pen and sitting at the table in the breakfast-room. Before she could come to any conclusions about this, she'd picked up the receiver and said as she always did, 'Hester Mallory.'
'Hester.' The familiar voice was warm, flexible and very charming. 'How are you?'
'Robin.' She spoke his name on a little gasp of surprise. 'I can hardly believe this! I've just this minute written your name in my letter to Blaise. How extraordinary.'
There was a tiny pause before he said: 'Oh?' A chuckle. 'Nothing defamatory, I hope?'
'Of course not. I've been looking at some old photos of you and Jack. How are you, Robin?'
'I'm very fit. No problems there.'
Hester took the telephone to the table and sat down. The inflexion was slight but she knew Robin of old and she grew alert.
'So where do you have a problem?'
'Oh, Hes. I never could fool you, could I?'
His voice was rueful now, self-deprecating – almost the voice of the small boy caught taking more than his fair share of the sweet ration, spoiled by his mother and by Nanny. Their voices echoed in her head.
'Now, you mustn't be too cross with him, Hes. He's too young to understand. You're sorry, aren't you, Robbie? There, you see. Give Jack a hug and he shall have an extra sweetie next time.'
'Come to Nanny, there's a good child. He's a bit unsettled now that Lucy's arrived. It's only to be expected. It's not his fault.'
'I hope you wouldn't want to fool me, Robin,' she answered, putting the memory of the small, engaging boy out of her mind. 'So what is it?'
'Well, it's the usual thing but rather more serious. I owe a bit of money, Hes, and things are a trifle tricky.'
'My dear, I told you last time that I have no more money to lend you. I'm living on my pension now and it doesn't go far.'
She forbore to point out that he never repaid her 'loans' and tried to bear in mind that since his wife had died Robin had lost the one person who had been able to keep his impracticalities and extravagancies under control.
'I know that.' Her nephew's voice shifted key; became conspiratorial. 'It's a bit different this time and I don't want a loan. I've had a different idea. It's to do with the house. I need to sell my share and I have the feeling that Amy might be rather glad to sell hers. She could do with some extra cash just now with her rapidly growing family.'
Hester straightened in her chair, holding the telephone tightly, but she did not speak.
'I was wondering,' he went on rather tentatively, 'if you'd begun to think about selling up.'
'Sell Bridge House?'
'It makes good sense if you think about it.' He spoke rapidly, as if the idea were more palatable if the words were said quickly. 'It's a big place for you to keep going and, as you've said already, it must be a bit of a struggle on your pension, especially as you pay me and Amy rent.'
'I see you've thought it all out,' she said drily. 'You make it sound as if you'd be doing us all a favour.'
'Well, don't you think I might be?' He sounded almost jaunty, jollying her along. 'I'm quite sure Amy could do with the money and wouldn't you find a little cottage or a bungalow in Dulverton much more convenient, especially now, after your operation? Surely you must have thought about moving, Hes? After all, at your age it's bound to happen sooner or later, isn't it?'
It was as if he'd slapped her: she felt old and shocked and humiliated.
'I know you've lived there since you retired, Hes,' his voice continued sweet and persuasive in her ear, 'but the bottom line is that it's a family asset: it belongs to the three of us. And it's not as if you'd be homeless.'
'That's a relief.' Her own voice was as sharp as a lemon. 'But how can you be so sure, after the proceeds have been split three ways, that there will be enough for my little bungalow. Or was it a cottage?'
He laughed, reassured by her astringency. 'Well, as to that, I asked a friend of mine who was down on holiday to have a quick glance at the place. Only from the road, of course, but he's a chartered surveyor and he had a look at the local agents and he said that we're sitting on a little goldmine down there by the river.'
Hester tried to control a sense of revulsion: she'd been spied upon by some stranger assessing Bridge House, weighing it up, looking upon it as a commodity to assist Robin out of his gambling debts. Momentarily possessed by anger and fear she was unable to speak.
'But if you're really against selling up then why not think about a mortgage, Hester?' He was wheedling now, as though he guessed that he'd made her angry. 'Equity release is really worth looking into. The mortgage company would take it over and you wouldn't have to pay a thing. They give you the cash, the interest rolls up and they sell the house when you die. It means that Amy and I could have our share now and you could continue to live in the house.'
Suddenly she remembered Amy's unexpected phone call; her solicitous enquiry after Hester's health and her anxiety that the house and garden would be too big for Hester after her operation.
'Have you spoken to Amy?'
'Well, to be honest I have. She's quite keen, actually. Her oldest boy is off to school soon and it's going to be a real squeeze for them.'
'She's always said that she's looked upon Bridge House as a last resort: a kind of insurance policy against her old age. That's what Jack intended when he transferred his share to her. After all, they're not badly off. You've always said the same, Robin.'
'I know I have. But let's face it, Hes. I'm not that far off old age and I'm in a real mess. It was OK for Jack; he was lucky. He never needed financial help, so he was able to pass on his share to Amy, but I never had his flair with investments. To tell you the truth I've overreached my luck this time and it will be seriously embarrassing if I can't raise the funds soon. I wouldn't ask it otherwise. You know how it is.'
'Now, you mustn't be too cross with him, H
es. He's too young to understand. You're sorry, aren't you, Robbie? There, you see. Give Jack a hug and he shall have an extra sweetie next time.'
'Come to Nanny, there's a good child. He's a bit unsettled now that Lucy's arrived. It's only to be expected. It's not his fault.'
'It doesn't sound as if I have too much choice if you're both decided.'
'Oh, don't take it like that, Hes.' He wanted her to be kind to him; forgiving his weaknesses and making it easy for him. 'We'd hate you to be upset. To be honest we both thought that this was the right time, after your operation. It must be a hell of a place to keep up, and Amy and I can't help much when it comes to running repairs.' A little hesitation here. 'My chap said that the roof is looking pretty dodgy and I don't think any of us could afford a new roof at present.' Casually said, it had the air of a trump card though his voice invited complicity: an agreement that property was a financial nightmare.
'You've made your point, Robin. I'll have to think about it.'
'Of course you must.' He was generous in his relief. 'All I need to be able to say is that I own this asset, which will be turned into cash as soon as possible. Look, take your time and I'll phone again in a day or two. Think it through and don't forget the mortgage option if you're set on staying. Bless you, Hes.'
The line went dead.
Hester took a deep, deep breath. Presently she went back to her letter. Picking it up, she read it through; but somehow she hadn't the heart to finish it.
When the telephone rang again she hesitated for a moment before answering it. This time it was Clio to say that she was safely back in London.
'It seems odd after being away for so long.' Her voice was rather wistful. 'Are you OK?'
'Of course I am. Don't worry about me. I'm getting ready for Jonah.'
'There can't be much to do.' Clio sounded almost indignant. 'His bedroom's ready and the freezer's full.'
Memories Of The Storm Page 8
