Memories Of The Storm

by Willett, Marcia

  When she'd heard the casual words with which Hester had explained the accident to the tapestry, Lucy had felt an instant easing of mind but also she'd been gripped with anger: anger with herself for giving in to the foolish superstition inherited from her mother. To carry that burden for so many years and then have it described as a simple piece of misfortune was almost more than she could bear. Yet she could see now that it could be true, that the string had worn thin and it had required only a touch to send the whole thing down; anyone dusting it might have done it. At the time it had seemed cataclysmic: she'd touched the Midsummer Cushion and broken it and something terrible had happened that had affected them all. The two events had been welded irrevocably together in her mind: the breaking of the precious, magical heirloom had foreshadowed the disintegration of the family. Even when she was old enough to reason with herself, to rationalize the events of that night, at some deeper level the superstitious fear and guilt remained: by disobeying the rules and destroying the heirloom she'd been responsible for the tragedy. This had been her interpretation. Clearly the tapestry had had no such connotation for Hester. That much, at least, was a relief.

  Pulling Tess's long silky ears, Lucy considered how she might approach Hester. An invitation had been issued; it would be simple enough to accept it – but what then? How should she express her feelings, how ask the crucial questions? In her mind's eye Hester was still young; how would she cope with meeting the elderly woman that Jonah had described? Lucy shook her head, shifting forward in her seat so that Tess stirred and looked at her enquiringly.

  'Time to go out,' said Lucy. 'Come on, wake up.'

  She let Tess out into the garden and stood at the back door, shivering a little and thinking about Jonah. Since that moment in the attic, when he'd first seen the photograph of Bridge House, he'd been driven by a fascination to find out more. He'd longed to know about his grandfather and it was evident that he'd connected with him very deeply after that first visit to Hester. Lucy regretted her outburst – it was cruel that he should be so brutally disillusioned – yet she simply hadn't been able to continue to hide the truth, especially when it was proposed that some kind of screenplay should be made out of the story. The prospect of it still had the power to shock Lucy; again and again she sought for some clue to the way Hester must be thinking about it all that she should even consider the idea, let alone encourage Jonah in it.

  A thought occurred to her: in dismissing the breaking of the Midsummer Cushion so lightly, Hester had actually offered some kind of consolation and lifted the burden of guilt. Perhaps she might also be able to shed light on the events that had followed, making some sense of it all and so easing some of the pain.

  Peering into the darkness for Tess, Lucy wondered what Hester might possibly say that could bring comfort. It was easy enough to account for the affair between Eleanor and Michael: he, grieving, missing his wife; she, lonely, convinced her husband was dead. That wasn't the problem. It was the way they'd behaved that night on the sofa before Edward had come in, and the way they'd run out on Hester, leaving her to face the music, even though she'd encouraged them to go, that was hard to understand and forgive.

  'Why did they behave like that?' she wanted to ask Hester. 'As if they didn't care if he discovered them though they must have known it would send him over the edge into madness. What did Eleanor mean when she said that something terrible would happen and it would be my fault? If it hadn't been for me would they have left Bridge House once they knew Edward was alive and coming home? Why did you stop my father going for help and why did you make him run away once you'd found out Edward was dead? Why didn't you write to me?'

  Lucy caught herself up, surprised by this final question that had come from nowhere. Just briefly she suffered again the anguish of pain, the sense of abandonment by the family. Even after her father had died not one letter or card had come for her, although they must have guessed where she'd been sent. No word from Hester or Nanny or Jack. Oh, how lonely she'd been then. Not until she'd met Jerry had her sense of rejection and loneliness been eased. He'd cherished and valued her and now she had every intention of making herself strong, casting off fear and guilt, in order to care for him. If this meant confronting Hester then she would do it if she could only find the courage. It was one thing speaking of the intention to Jonah; another thing to carry it out.

  Tess appeared out of the darkness and barged past her into the kitchen, looking eagerly for her bedtime biscuit, and Lucy followed her inside and shut and locked the door behind her.

  Jerry was awake, propped up by pillows, reading as usual; the bed was strewn with newspapers and books were piled on his bedside table. He smiled at Lucy, taking off his reading spectacles, glad to see her. Somehow he derived comfort simply from her presence.

  'I've got a pot of mint tea,' she told him cheerfully, 'and some of those biscuits that you like from Marks and Spencer.'

  She set the tray down on a small wooden table on castors, putting out mugs and little plates and making a picnic of it, and he pulled himself higher up on his pillows with a sense of anticipation. By rearranging the room, putting a chest of drawers in the spare bedroom which they now used as a dressing room, she'd contrived a space where he could sit comfortably at the table so making a welcome change from being in bed.

  'Did you sleep at all?' she asked, holding his stick in readiness as he pulled on his dressing-gown and swung his feet to the floor. She noticed that his pyjama jacket had the usual patches of dampness and saw how the rash across his face formed a butterfly formation over his nose and cheekbones – and she was seized with fear and compassion. 'I hope the telephone bell didn't wake you?'

  'I was awake,' he admitted, 'but I've had a good rest. Who was it?'

  'It was Jonah.' She pretended not to see the effort it was for him to walk to the little table, knowing how he hated to have his pain made a subject of preoccupation. 'He was talking about going down to Exmoor to see Lizzie again. He's one of the tutors at her film event. D'you remember I told you about it? It sounds such fun. Twenty sixth-formers are to be selected from schools all over the West Country to write and act out a half-hour piece of television, which they have to film and produce themselves. Lizzie's got a team of professionals to show them how it's done and the local television has agreed to show it, if it's up to scratch. Jonah's getting a script worked out in case they don't have any ideas to begin with. He sent his love to you.'

  'He's been spending too much time down here.' Jerry's tone implied that he thought Jonah was making a fuss, though Lucy knew just how much his son's visits had meant to him. 'I'm glad he's back in the swing of it.'

  'We're lucky that he can be flexible,' she said as she poured the mint tea from a little flowered pot. 'It's been good that he could come down so often this last couple of months but you're much better now, aren't you? I was wondering if we might go out tomorrow. I could drive us over to Stansted House for coffee or to Bosham; not too far but just to make a change. The weather forecast is good and Tess could have a run somewhere. Do you think you'd manage it?'

  'I'm sure I could.' Jerry took his mug and sipped gratefully at the clean, sharp-tasting liquid; the concoction of medication he took each evening always left a disgusting coating in his mouth and ruined the flavour of his after-dinner coffee. He ate some biscuit and watched Lucy's down-turned face; she looked thoughtful but not overly anxious, so that was good. He'd always been aware of the shadow that edged her happiness. He'd been told by Aunt Mary that it was to do with losing both her parents in quick succession when she was small. He'd hoped that it was something she might be able to cast off as they grew up together but it had remained present if not visible, rather like something glimpsed from the corner of your eye, but which disappeared if you turned to look at it directly. He wondered if she'd ever actually been able to do that: to look it in the eye, as it were. Not that he could ask her. He'd feel a fool and, anyway, she'd withdraw a bit and pretend that he was imagining things. But sometimes he'
d wanted to – to ask her if she'd ever tried it because he had the feeling that if she did then it might prove that the shadow was simply that: something that would evaporate if her bright gaze was turned upon it. Well, something like that. Not that he knew anything about it except that he wished she'd try it. Because it held her back, he knew that much. Oh, she'd struggled with it, he could see that; wrestled with it, refused to go under with it, but it was as if she was wrestling with something she couldn't quite see or understand and so she and the shadow were unequally matched and she couldn't ever quite cast it off. It had clipped her wings and stopped her from flying free – if a shadow could do that. He wanted her to be free of it – oh, not for himself, though he knew how much harder she was trying to overcome the shadow now, ever since he'd been diagnosed with this filthy disease. He knew she wanted to be strong and positive, to take the weight. But it wasn't because of that he wanted it. It was simply because he'd like to see her flying free, really free, just once.

  She glanced up at him, as if aware of a new quality in the silence, and briefly, as they stared at each other, some deep exchange was made. He smiled at her.

  'OK, Luce?' he asked. He'd been asking it at intervals through the years and it meant variously: 'Are you happy?', 'Just saying hello', 'Is anything worrying you?, 'I'm sorry about the way things are at the moment.' He was incapable of speaking aloud his true feelings but the question symbolized his love for her.

  She decoded it correctly. 'Of course I am. I was thinking about Jonah going to Exmoor again, and about Hester.' She straightened her back, as if she'd made a decision, smiled at him and stood up. 'And I'm looking forward to tomorrow. I'm going to have a shower. Shan't be long. There's another cup, if you want it.'

  He sat alone, listening to the familiar sounds and drinking his tea, and for some reason he could not understand, his heart felt lighter. It was as though his very real longing for the shadow to be lifted had communicated itself to her and strengthened her resolve.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Some days later, driving into Dulverton, Clio was finding it difficult to concentrate. Piers' idea, conveyed to her by Lizzie, seemed to expand in her head and crowd out all other thoughts. Once or twice in the past she'd considered setting up on her own but she'd never taken it very seriously. However, listening to Lizzie explaining about the couple from Norfolk had sparked her imagination and she'd begun to feel alert and interested, her thoughts already darting ahead, thinking how such an undertaking might be achieved. Hester was quite as positive as Lizzie, both of them convinced that she could make a go of it.

  'And what a great time to start,' Lizzie had said enthusiastically, 'whilst you're here with Hester. You could work from here and keep your costs down until you've got it going a bit.'

  It was only after Lizzie had gone back to Michaelgarth, whilst they were sitting in the bookroom after supper, that Clio had raised the subject of Hester's selling Bridge House.

  'There's no immediate rush,' Hester assured her at once. 'Robin has already raised his loan against his share of the house and Amy can wait a little longer. Anyway, wherever I go I'm sure there will be room for you until you're ready to branch out on your own.'

  'I suppose all I'd need is my laptop and a telephone,' said Clio thoughtfully. 'I'd go to the clients, they wouldn't come to me, so I wouldn't need an office as such. But could I make a living out of it?'

  'Perhaps the bank could give you some advice about that?' suggested Hester. 'You said you'd got some savings so they would tide you over to begin with, and Lizzie is going to pay you, isn't she?'

  'As soon as I've got a business account sorted out. I have to keep things separate to make the tax man happy, you see.'

  'Well, then. Perhaps this is the moment to do that and discuss this new idea with someone at the bank at the same time.'

  Clio fiddled about restlessly, getting up to throw a log on the fire, kneeling down on the rug to stroke St Francis who slept on regardless.

  'You have nothing to lose,' Hester said after a moment, 'by asking questions. Talk to your bank and talk to this couple. Why not?'

  'Do you think I'd manage? Organizing a whole house?'

  'Do you think you'd manage?' Hester smiled at her encouragingly. 'You've organized events in London and you're doing a pretty good job for Lizzie, by the sounds of things. What's the difference?'

  Clio shook her head. 'I suppose there isn't any, not really. It's just the thought of actually going it alone; it's a lot of responsibility.'

  'But you like responsibility.'

  'Well, I do actually. I enjoy a challenge. It's just all the details you don't have to think about when you're employed. Like what do I charge?'

  'I think you simply have to apply your common sense to that. If you decide to stay in this part of the country then you must work out how much you'd need to live on per annum. It would be rather less down here, for instance, than if you want to live in London. Divide it by fifty-two and you've got a rough idea of where to start.'

  'I suppose I ought to check out the competition. I could have a look on the Internet and see if there's anyone around here.' Suddenly she'd been seized by excitement. 'It would be rather fun, wouldn't it? Doing my own thing?'

  Hester had nodded. 'Great fun.'

  And now, as she drove along Lady Street, under the churchyard wall and into Fore Street, she was gripped again by that same sense of excitement. As she waited for someone to back their car out of a space outside the butcher's shop she began to concentrate on her shopping list. Most important was Hester's birthday present. Clio had already decided to visit Julia Maxwell's delightful shop, Eastern Importers, and look at the wonderful Paisley shawls. Hester's ancient shawl was threadbare, to say the least, and one of Julia's shawls might be just the answer. Anyway, Clio enjoyed browsing, looking at the jewellery and the leather bags, talking to Julia. She might even have some tips on starting a business. Clio parked the car and got out. She felt happy, alive, and, as she crossed the street, it occurred to her that she hadn't thought about Peter since early that morning. She checked her watch: there was nearly an hour before her hair appointment with Ruth at Bodmins House so there would be plenty of time for coffee in Woods after she'd bought Hester's present. She paused in the sunshine to look at the display of beautiful rugs in Julia's window and then went inside.

  * * *

  At the same moment, Hester was writing to Blaise:

  So you see that it's come rather out of the blue and taken Clio by surprise but it seems such a good idea and she's already begun to explore the possibilities of earning a living in what is rather grandly called 'lifestyle management'. Piers is speaking with the couple's lawyer to see if a meeting can be arranged and poor Clio is now in a state of terror mixed with bursts of real excitement. But that's such a nice state to be in, isn't it, especially when one is young? Rather exhausting later in life! I can't say that I feel in the least like that about leaving Bridge House. I suppose I could take the option of remaining here but I can only say that something has changed and the prospect of staying on doesn't quite feel the same any longer. That sounds rather foolish but you might understand. It's as if Robin has triggered off a different way of my looking at the future. I suddenly don't feel up to the responsibility of this big old house without Robin and Amy as co-owners. This might be irrational but I can't quite get back to feeling how I did before he telephoned.

  As to Clio: at least being here will give her a breathing space but she'll have to look for her own place soon. She's been searching the Internet for other lifestyle management businesses and it looks as if being centred around here might be quite sensible, not too much competition but a good balance of town and country – and she loves Dulverton so she might look for a small cottage to rent there. Of course, if I were to move into the town then we could go on sharing for a while. To be truthful, Blaise, it's a rather tempting idea but also a selfish one from my point of view. I'm finding Clio's young, lively company very comforting. However, neit
her of us could live with the other indefinitely and I can't decide whether an early break would be best all round. When we sell, I do hope to make enough money to be able to give her a little bit of a buffer to help her with this new project. We shall see.

  We've heard that Jonah will be coming down soon to see Lizzie again so we're hoping that we might find out a bit more about his unexpected silence. It's still a puzzle to me that he should have been quite so non-communicative. I try to persuade myself that it is simply pressure of work combined with his own commitments in London and with his family that have distracted him from his discoveries about the past, but there was so much more to it than that. I think you will agree, Blaise, that I am not someone who is given to wild flights of fancy, yet I felt that Jonah was not simply looking up an old family friend. I described to you at Christmas – because I couldn't do it justice in a letter – how he reacted on his arrival here and we agreed that, in some curious way, Jonah connected with Michael. It was another wild, elemental night and it was clear that some vibration from that other emotionally charged evening touched him. Ever since then he has been utterly involved in Michael's story – and in us too. I can completely understand that he hasn't had time to come back to see us; what I can't understand is his silence. Jonah doesn't, in modern parlance, 'do' silence. He is by nature a communicator and I know that Lizzie, who is an old friend of his, is just as puzzled.

  By this time you will have guessed that I am fearful that I have told him something that, having now been related to Lucy, has struck some tender point or been misunderstood by her. I have sometimes been accused of being too detached, even cold-hearted, but with Jonah this has not been so. I feel sad, as if I have inadvertently damaged something very dear to me, but, more importantly, I fear that some opportunity might have been lost here, though I don't know what it is. Anyway, he is coming down soon and I hope we shall see him or have a message from him.