Past Love (Part Four of The People of this Parish Saga)

by Nicola Thorne

  “Are you serious, Dora?”

  “Well, I haven’t given it a lot of thought. I mean only since this afternoon; but I do miss England. I’m English and I love England. I love my mother, my family. I love being near Pelham’s Oak, Carson and Connie. In France, well, we lead a pretty solitary life.”

  It was true that they did. Jean had children by an earlier marriage, but they lived with their mother in the south, and he scarcely ever saw them. The home near Rheims was isolated in the middle of vineyards and they had few friends, though many acquaintances in the city of Rheims and the town of Epernay where Jean sold his grapes. Often, though, he went to Paris for several days without her and she felt even more isolated, far away from home.

  Dora had served in France in the war. She had nursed near the front line and somehow she could never separate that country from the carnage she had seen. It wasn’t so much that she didn’t like France as that she was far from comfortable there.

  “Maybe we could talk about it?” She rose from the bed and, stubbing out her cigarette, looked across at him as she gathered up some clothes to take into the bathroom.

  “There is nothing to talk about,” Jean said, finally giving vent to his repressed anger. “When you married me you knew you were going to live in France. You made some conditions ...” he looked at her meaningfully, “and that was my condition. We had a marriage without sex because that was how you wanted it, but at least I lived at home.”

  “You accepted it, Jean,” Dora replied coldly. “You said you couldn’t live without me. You needed me to make your life complete. Has that changed?”

  “Well ... I hoped.” Jean made a vague gesture. “Yes, I do find it hard, harder than I thought because even now I desire you. I always have.”

  “Even now.” Dora laughed mirthlessly.

  “Yes, even after six years of abstinence I desire you and want you. I love you, Dora.”

  “Oh, God!” Dora exclaimed running her hands through her short, boyish crop. “What have we started? I thought this was all ironed out years ago? Now I see how bitter you are.”

  “No, Dora, I’m not bitter; but I thought ... yes I thought I could seduce you, or should I say, persuade you? That, eventually, you would give in because you wanted me too. I still wish ...”

  “Oh, forget it, Jean, please!” Dora made for the bathroom, but Jean flung out an arm and stopped her. For a moment as she gazed at him the expression on his face frightened her.

  “I do not consent to staying here, Dora. I do not wish to grow vines here or live here. You can come and see your mother as much as you like, but I will not make this place my home. Is that clear, Dora? If you want to be my wife you live with me in France. If not ...”

  Dora wrenched away her arm and flew into the bathroom slamming the door behind her while Jean, white with fury, rage and also a sense of despair, flopped on to the empty bed and rolled across it, his face to the covers savouring her fragrance, torturing himself with the thought of everything he had wanted and could not have.

  It was as if he had risked everything on the throw of the dice all those years ago, and now he knew he had lost. Really lost.

  Chapter Three

  That summer of 1928 was a hard one for Eliza as she wrestled with the problem of whether or not to sell her large house, as her children advised, and get something smaller and more suitable. Finally she made up her mind and put it on the market. .

  Some of her friends could not believe it. One of them was Lally Martyn who, though not strictly speaking a Woodville, had been part of the Woodville family for a very long time.

  She had been a dancer in her youth and at one time the mistress of Guy Woodville by whom she had a son, Roger. In those days, the late 1880s, it had been very difficult for an unmarried woman to keep an illegitimate child, even someone who was a dancer and not as conventional as most people.

  But Lally had embraced respectability, as far as she could, given her humble origins. By the time her son, Roger, was born she was ensconced as Guy’s mistress in a house in London and, to all intents and purposes, very respectable indeed. Accordingly, after Guy had abandoned her, she had her son brought up by a working class woman in Camden Town.

  Eventually Lally married Prosper Martyn, whose sister, Henrietta, was Guy’s mother. He was much older than Lally and a man of great wealth, in business with Eliza’s husband, Julius.

  Now Julius and Prosper were dead and, living near each other, the two widows became much closer than they had been before, though people had always loved Lally. There was absolutely nothing about her to dislike as she was as good and kind and compassionate as she was beautiful.

  In many ways she had changed little over the years. In her youth she had been blonde and petite and now, even though she was not far off seventy, largely because she had spent a lifetime being pampered by rich men, she had retained her looks, her figure and her exquisite sense of style. Her eyes were the colour of cornflowers, undimmed over the years and her carefully coiffured hair was still a rich gold.

  She lived in another beautiful house not far from Eliza and was a frequent visitor. She had an adopted son, Alexander, who was eighteen and had just finished his last year at public school.

  Lally looked sadly round the gracious drawing room of Upper Park where they had had so many happy times, fantastic parties when the children were around, especially before the war from which they all returned much changed, older and graver. Roger didn’t return at all, and his was one of the bodies that was never found. It made it so much harder to bear, thinking of Roger with no known grave.

  “I really can’t believe that all this ... that we’ll never see it again.” She took hold of Eliza’s arm and looked at her appealingly.

  “Perhaps someone we like will buy it and invite us from time to time,” Eliza said lightly, trying to manufacture a cheerful smile. “I really think it is the best thing. Dora is convinced it is.”

  “But you won’t go too far away?”

  “Of course not!” Eliza looked at her in surprise. “I would never leave the area.” She tucked her arm through that of her friend and, throwing open the French windows, led her on to the broad terrace overlooking the perfectly kept lawn.

  Here there were comfortable chairs and a large umbrella to shield them from the sun.

  Eliza was close in age to Lally, though a little younger. She too had kept her looks but she had never been a beauty in the conventional sense, whereas Lally had. But Eliza was striking; people looked at her twice. Her appearance was slightly foreign, slightly Mediterranean, which was a throw-back to Portuguese ancestors of long ago, because she was as English as could be with English tastes and temperament. She was tall, erect, held herself well. She had flashing, tawny brown eyes. Her dark hair was only slightly streaked with grey. She led a healthy life, plenty of gardening and walking and looked ten years younger than her age.

  The two women now sat looking at each other.

  “You could come and live with me at Forest House,” Lally burst out. “There is plenty of room.”

  Eliza touched her hand in appreciation.

  “My dear, it is sweet of you to think of it, but it would never do to have two people like us living together.”

  “You could have your own quarters.”

  “Are you lonely, Lally?” Eliza looked at her with concern. “You have Alexander.”

  She gazed across the lawn where a tall, strikingly good-looking youth was taking a leisurely stroll with Dora. They had been to inspect her horses.

  “You know Alexander will not be with me for long. Besides, I don’t want him to be a mother’s boy.”

  “But he is a mother’s boy.” Eliza laughed softly. “He adores you.”

  “Oh, don’t speak of it, Eliza. After Roger ... he is all I have left.”

  “But he will come to no harm! There won’t be another war, please God, in our lifetimes. He is a fine, healthy young man. One you should be proud of.”

  “And I am proud o
f him. He has done so well in his examinations. First in his year. At one time it was only sports, but Sherborne brought out the best in him. It turned him into a scholar as well.”

  “He’s a perfect young man,” Eliza said fondly. “One who has turned out very, very well. A credit to you, Lally.”

  Eliza spoke no more than the truth because Alexander’s beginnings had been inauspicious. He had been found on the doorstep of the Martyns’ London home in the year 1910 only, according to the doctors, a few days after his birth. There was a note pinned on his shawl commending him to Lally, it seemed, in person by someone who knew her.

  His mother had never been found, but Lally had lavished on him all the attention a foundling could wish of a mother, and he had rewarded her.

  It was universally agreed that he was a most singular young man, and he was highly regarded by everybody.

  Dora and Alexander were now slowly approaching, heads close together. Dora was wearing riding clothes, tall and upright like her mother but, unlike her mother, she was fair, her cropped hair gleaming like a golden cap in the sunlight. She and Alexander were sharing a joke and their laughter echoed across to the two people on the terrace who looked up.

  Alexander wore Oxford bags and a white shirt open at the neck, a cashmere sweater draped casually over his shoulder. He was a slightly languid, very elegant young man with black hair, a lock of which hung over his forehead, high cheekbones and deeply recessed, beautiful eyes which were so dark as to be almost black. He was tall and slightly built, but also muscular and athletic. At school he had first of all excelled at games, scholarship came later.

  “Tell us what’s so funny?” Lally teasingly called to Alexander as the pair arrived on the terrace and collapsed into chairs.

  “Oh, you wouldn’t understand, Mother.” Alexander held out a hand and clasped Lally’s. “It’s a horsey joke.”

  A maid appeared at the open French windows and waited to speak. “I think some refreshment for Mr Martyn and my daughter, please, Frances ...” Eliza said, looking up.

  The maid interrupted her.

  “Madam, the estate agent Mr Barker has called with a possible client. Is it convenient?”

  Eliza immediately grew uncharacteristically flustered.

  “It is certainly not convenient!” she cried. “Tell him to go away and make an appointment, as I have guests. He can’t just turn up at the door.’

  “Yes, Mrs Heering.”

  “Oh, Mummy, don’t be so silly!” Dora chided her mother. “You want to sell the house.”

  “But he has no right to call like this.”

  “We don’t mind.” Dora exchanged a conspiratorial smile with Alexander. ‘If it is someone very nice we want to make a good impression.’

  “Well ...” Eliza’s cheeks glowed pink. “Perhaps I’d better go in.”

  “Would you like me to go, Mummy?”

  “Why don’t you come with me?” Eliza rose and put out a hand. “I confess I am terribly nervous about all this.”

  “The trouble is you don’t really want to sell the house,” Lally murmured with a half smile. “You can’t fool me.”

  Mother and daughter walked indoors, across the large parquet hall and into a parlour by the front door, which stood open. Inside two men were talking, their backs to the women. As they entered the men turned and the agent, Mr Barker, moved forward.

  “I do hope you will forgive this intrusion, Mrs Heering. I know I should have telephoned, but my client is most anxious to see the house, as it has just come on to the market. He is most interested.”

  “Mr Sadler and I know each other,” Eliza interrupted coldly as Bart stepped forward and held out his hand, which Eliza ignored.

  In the background Dora froze, and looked anxiously at her mother.

  “Why, that is delightful.” Mr Barker appeared to relax. “I didn’t realise ...”

  “We are acquaintances,” Bart said with a slight smile, lowering his hand. “If you would rather I returned another time, Mrs Heering ...”

  “I would rather you didn’t return at all, Mr Sadler,” Eliza said without a tremor in her voice. “You are not a person to whom I would wish to sell my house.”

  “Well!” Nonplussed for once in his life, Bart Sadler’s smile vanished. “I can’t see what I have done to offend you, Mrs Heering.”

  “You have offended Mrs Heering? Oh dear.” The estate agent began to look agitated.

  “I said I have not offended her,” Bart said tersely.

  “You can’t altogether escape the blame for the death of my son, Mr Sadler.”

  “Oh, come, come, Mrs Heering. That was years ago. Besides, I had nothing to do with it. I was in no way responsible for the death of your son.”

  “Indirectly, through you he died. I think you were,” Eliza said firmly

  “Mummy, please.” Dora laid a hand on her mother’s arm.

  But Eliza took no notice. “You introduced Laurence to a man who was a crook. You should have known he was a crook. He helped to bankrupt my son who then took his own life.”

  “I was as sorry as anyone, Mrs Heering. I did not know Wainwright was a crook. I knew nothing about him.”

  “Then you should not have introduced him. Good day to you, Mr Sadler.” Eliza turned to leave the room then, as if she had another thought, stopped and stared at the estate agent.

  “Please don’t attempt to bring anyone else here unless you telephone me beforehand.”

  “Of course, Mrs Heering.” Mr Barker grovelled as if in the presence of royalty. “I do apologise.”

  “It will save us all unnecessary embarrassment. Are you coming, Dora?”

  “In a minute, Mummy.”

  Dora watched her mother go and then closed the door after her.

  “I apologise for my mother,” she said, looking at Bart. “It does seem rather unfair after all these years.”

  “It is most unreasonable.” Bart’s voice was petulant. “I am very upset. Upper Park would suit me very well and we could perhaps have achieved a speedy sale. Maybe you could get your mother to change her mind? She has got the wrong end of the stick. I merely introduced Laurence to Dick Wainwright. I lost out on the deal too, because Wainwright never paid me.”

  “But you took no risk, I believe?” Dora interjected. “It’s not quite the same thing.”

  “We had better say no more, Miss Yetman. Oh, I beg your pardon. I believe you married ...”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Dora waved a hand as she opened the door and ushered the two men into the hall.

  “But if you could talk to your mother...” Bart took his hat from the butler and looked pleadingly at Dora. “Hopefully she will let bygones be bygones.”

  ***

  “Not a chance,” Eliza exclaimed over the lunch table when Dora told her of Bart’s parting wish. “You think I can forget something like that?” Agitatedly she crumbled the bread on her side plate.

  Alexander was leaning back in his chair watching her with an air of well-bred amusement. He had never seen her quite so angry.

  “Could you explain what happened, Aunt Eliza?”

  So Eliza told him about her son, Laurence, whose prosperous business was ruined by a man called Dick Wainwright who commissioned him to build a factory near Dorchester and then disappeared without payment. The bank foreclosed on Laurence who, in an act of despair, shot himself in the woods beyond his house, Riversmead, leaving a widow and three children.

  “There were other things too,” Eliza continued, but Lally shot her a warning glance. “All I can say is that he was an unsavoury character and the last thing I want is for him to live here.”

  “But Mother, once you’re gone you’re gone,” Dora said reasonably. “You’ll be miles away.”

  “Sarah Jane wouldn’t like it either. She has little time for Bart, even if he is her brother. No, I will definitely not accept any offers from that man. I want to feel that a house where I have spent a great part of my life, which has memories for me, is liv
ed in by someone I like.”

  “Or approve of, Aunt,” Alexander said solemnly.

  “Approve of. Exactly.”

  ***

  Though pretending to be unruffled by his encounter with Eliza, Bart was furious and vented his rage on the estate agent once they had left the house.

  “You’ve handled it very badly, Barker,” he said as they made their way back to Blandford. “You made a complete fool of me.”

  “I’m extremely sorry, Mr Sadler. I had no idea ...”

  “To go storming in without a phone call ...”

  “But you yourself suggested it, Mr Sadler.” Barker looked at him reproachfully. “You were so anxious to see the property before anyone else.”

  “Don’t argue with me, Barker. You handled it badly and should have known better. I’m dispensing with the services of you and your firm, forthwith.” As they arrived at the market place Bart prepared to get out of Mr Barker’s car. “You made an absolute fool of me. I was humiliated.” He turned his back on the unfortunate man crouching behind the wheel and then jumped out on to the pavement, slamming the door behind him.

  Mr Barker, perspiring freely, drove on to garage his car behind his firm’s office.

  All things considered, he thought Mr Sadler was not a client he would be sorry to lose. If Mrs Heering was to be believed, and she was a person of the utmost integrity, well liked and respected in the neighbourhood, there was something unsavoury in his client’s past, something not quite trustworthy about him.

  Still feeling angry, Sadler watched the car depart and then walked along the market place inspecting the brass plaques outside various doorways.

  What was the name of Elizabeth’s husband? What did he say his firm was called? He stopped before a shop front which was curtained so as to conceal what was behind the name on the glass panes picked out in large gold letters. Pearson, Wilde and Brickell immediately rang a bell. It was a double-fronted window with the doorway in the middle. Bart stopped and gazed at the names on the brass plates running down by the side of the door. Was his name Pearson? He couldn’t recall. Then another name stood out: Graham E Temple LIB no less: a man of letters.