*
Astrid was in one corner of the Chinese Gallery, balanced on top of a scaffolding tower. Tool bags and equipment were strewn across the floor, and a radio was tuned to a raucous commercial station. A supermarket advert blared as Charlie crossed the floorboards towards the tower’s base.
‘Where’s your man?’ he asked when he reached her. ‘Your coving expert?’
‘He’s gone for his tea break. Left me with sunshine fm for company.’
‘What are you doing up there?’
‘Seeing what needs to come off. Right now, it looks like all of it.’ She glanced down at the letters in his hand. ‘What’ve you found out?’
‘The correspondence is between Amelia Tunney and Harry Bramall. Or ‘P’ and ‘HB’, as they sometimes refer to themselves.’
She scratched at the coving. ‘Go on, I’m listening.’
He switched off the radio, but even so, the room was huge, the ambience daunting, the echo loud when he tried to speak. ‘They’re writing love letters to each other, but they don’t make any sense.’
The scaffolding tower gave a great creak as Astrid perched her buttocks against an aluminium support. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You said you’d made a start? How far did you get?’
‘I only read a couple,’ she confessed, ‘to be honest; I found them a bit dry. And the handwriting -’
‘Gives you a headache, yes. I mean, this one -’ he brandished the first gushing letter from Amelia, ‘is quite unequivocal.’
Astrid began a clattering descent from the tower, the metallic noise reverberating around the empty room. Once on the ground, she stood in front of him and gestured to be given it. She read it through, her lips muttering quietly the words. ‘Well, she doesn’t mince words does she? What did he say in reply?’
‘That’s just it.’ Charlie gave her the next one. ‘It’s not what you’d expect.’
‘Puzzling,’ she agreed when she’d finished reading. ‘Makes no mention of the contents of her letter, doesn’t even acknowledge her words. Perhaps they missed each other in the post?’
‘Try the one that comes afterwards.’
‘My dear,’ she read aloud in a dry monotone, ‘I dined at the club this evening. Awful dinner. The piecrust was so thick; I could not saw my way through it. I jabbed at it so hard, it slid straight off my plate and onto the floor. Fellow diners much amused. Myself less so.’ Astrid shrugged. ‘Short and to the point. If it’s an illicit affair, then maybe he has to be particularly careful. Maybe it’s code.’
‘What? My piecrust was so thick, translates as ‘meet me in London on the 23rd?’
She took the next one from him, this time reading with a bored sounding inflection, ‘P. I cannot arrange a meeting I fear until much later in the year, my work here keeps me fully occupied. I am not even sure I will be able to attend Laura’s wedding. My mother is most appalled. Send me word that you can wait. H.’
He gave her Mary Ellen’s diary. ‘Read this -’ he pointed to an open page.
The coving expert, whose tea break was now ended, re-tuned the radio and clambered up the tower. Charlie walked with Astrid towards the far end of the room, coming to rest next to one of the long windows. He looked out over the paddock as she read through to the end of the entry: ‘I am to read all Amelia’s letters, all her correspondence. She must not receive or send any letters without them being opened and examined first. I fear that I cannot be so vigilant, but if I make an objection, Tunney grows fierce with me too. ‘If it please you, you must be my eyes and ears,’ he says.’
She looked up at him. ‘Censored?’ she frowned. ‘But why -?’
‘Not censored,’ he said, ‘worse.’
‘Are you saying Amelia’s letters didn’t reach him?’
‘Never even posted.’
‘But what about his letters to her?’
‘They arrived but she never got to read them.’
She gave him a long searching look, and then with a swift about turn, made off with the diary and headed out of the gallery. Charlie hurried after her.
Back in the office, they contemplated the array of opened papers strewn across the desk.
‘It can’t be,’ she said in disbelief. ‘Something must have got through! When you’ve read everything, you’ll find out.’
‘I don’t think I will. Mary Ellen intercepted them.’
‘All of them?’
He nodded. ‘She was told to do it. She deliberately interfered, stopped the letters from reaching their destination.’
‘Poor Amelia. She had no idea?’
‘It seems that way.’
‘But there are so many of them. Something must have got through eventually!’
He understood how she felt. She’d anticipated a set of evocative love letters, of no great earth shattering importance perhaps, but of beneficial use to Addleston; enough to pique a casual visitor’s interest. Instead they’d uncovered a deeply unsettling act of cruelty. She mentioned something vague about finishing work in the Chinese gallery, but even as she spoke she picked up another of Harry Bramall’s letters and couldn’t help but begin to read it aloud, her voice capturing accurately the note of disquietude, ‘You have not returned word, my love, did you receive my note? You understood that I was busy, did you not? You did not think me cruel and heartless I trust? Are you ignoring me, as punishment?’
She slumped down in her chair.
‘I don’t believe it. All these letters - these words, questions and messages - never received! She must have thought he’d forgotten all about her. Abandoned her. To Tunney!’
‘And he must have thought she’d stopped caring. Given up on him. But it wasn’t true. She loved him.’
‘It was probably the only highlight in her life, waiting for Harry’s visits.’ She nudged at the papers. ‘I suppose it can only get worse. It’s intrusive isn’t it? These things weren’t meant for our eyes.’ She promptly contradicted herself. ‘But they are important historical documents, social history. They have a value; we must read them, if only to find out what we can about the people who lived here.’
Charlie could hear comforting noises from the kitchen garden; the scritch of the hoe, the chock of the spade through turf, the squeak of the wheelbarrow.
‘There’s not much to do in the winter,’ Astrid noted. ‘They’re tidying up, before the Christmas break.’ She jumped to her feet. ‘Come on, there’s something I want to show you.’ Without waiting for him she bounded out of the office and headed for the Great Stair. He had no choice but to follow.
‘Near the Taffeta Silk bedroom,’ she said, as they hurried along the corridor on the first floor, ‘is a picture of Amelia Tunney.’
‘Really? Is she pale and sickly in appearance?’
‘I wouldn’t say that -’
‘Washed out, depressed?’
‘Nope.’ She stopped outside the door and indicated a gilt framed picture hanging on the opposite wall between two windows. ‘That’s Amelia Tunney. According to the post-war inventory, anyway.’
‘That’s her? She wasn’t sunk by U-boat?’
She eyed him askance. ‘Evidently not. What do you make of it?’
The woman in the picture was very far from being the insipid doormat as described by Mary Ellen. In fact, he reflected, she was much more like the passionate woman who’d written the effusive love letters. Now, it made sense. The background was of a pastoral scene, as if the artist had captured her mid-walk. She wore a hat with a ribbon tied loosely under her chin, a red cape draped casually over one shoulder. The other arm was bare, and she clutched a posy of flowers at her slim waist. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her eyes large and round, her mouth ever so slightly smiling, as if in shy deference.
‘Is it a self-portrait?’ he asked.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I don’t know... the diary mentions Amelia painting in the garden. It’s a fine accomplishment for a young lady. What about Richard Tunney, do you have
a picture of him?’
‘Fraid not. It’s a bit of a shame, isn’t it? To have something extant for her, but nothing equivalent for him.’
‘I’m imagining him with a gammy leg, a duelling scar, and a mass of yelping hounds teeming around his feet.’
‘A bit of a Squire Weston?’
‘Exactly! Only meaner. As for Mary Ellen, she must be the plainest of the plain, the most depressed in appearance, the most ill-favoured of them all.’
‘And what about Harry?’ Astrid said.
‘Oh, he’ll be devastatingly handsome, of course. Well dressed, brimming with confidence.’
‘Don’t tell me? A general in Wellington’s army?’
He was struck by Amelia’s bright eyes. ‘This was probably painted before she married horrible Richard Tunney, before she became the abused wife. When she was still in the bloom of youth!’
‘Or - soon after she fell in love with Harry?’ Astrid suggested. ‘When life suddenly got more interesting?’
‘It’s plausible. I wonder what happened to him.’ Something compelled him to open the door to the Taffeta Silk bedroom and step inside. Again he could feel the presence of someone within, and this time he knew who it was. He could see her sitting in the chair at the side of the bed, the embroidered quilt covering her legs and twirling its folds onto the floor, her fingers busy with sewing. Hours and hours she spent in frustrated employment, waiting and pining for a visit from her lover. She was helpless, imprisoned, wondering when would he come? She dropped the embroidery on the bed and moved over towards the window, surveying the meadow and the land beyond. It was then that Charlie noticed Amelia was pregnant. Whose baby? Which child?
Astrid was hovering in the doorway. ‘Am I interrupting?’
He blinked rapidly, refocusing attention. ‘I tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to read the letters together, from beginning to end. You and me.’
‘We are?’
‘As far as we know, Mary Ellen is the only one privy to their innermost. Are we going to allow her the satisfaction of keeping it that way?’
She didn’t quite follow his logic, until he said, ‘I’ll read hers, you’ll read his. Our voices will become theirs. We’ll let them listen to each other’s words for the very first time. ’
‘What would be the point of that?’
‘It will make amends.’
‘It’s not our fault. We didn’t keep them apart.’
‘But we can give them their voices back.’
‘Ah, I see... We’ll find out what happened to them?’
‘Really,’ he said, ‘it’s the only way.’
Chapter Eight
That afternoon, back in Astrid’s office, they divided the letters between them, Astrid keeping Amelia’s, Charlie taking Harry’s.
‘Remember,’ he said, ‘this is the first time they’ve spoken to each other. This is the first time they’ve heard these sentiments uttered; we have to do them justice. Every thought, every desire, deserves due respect.’
‘Duly noted.’
‘But bear in mind also, we weren’t meant to see these expressions of love; they were supposed to be for their eyes only. We’re giving them the opportunity now. We’re doing it for them.’
Astrid took her seat behind the desk, while Charlie settled himself in the battered armchair.
Charlie read the first letter through in his head, familiarising himself with its contents, then licked his lips, cleared his throat and began to recite.
‘My darling, how is my Poppy? My head aches so tonight, but I am seized with desire to communicate with you my love, and so I shall, or never sleep a wink. Much trouble in the House today - my lord of G had caused such an uproar and commotion that he had to be forcibly removed from the back benches. Consequently we could hardly settle to business. I find I have little patience these days for such scenes. Once I relished them, often I joined in! Would that I could hear from you, my love, I’m certain your words would calm me at once. I quite fear the worst - that you are ill or bedridden, that you have not strength to write. Send word by some other, if you can. Set my mind at rest my love. I have drunk too much, my brain is addled. I will stop now and send this tomorrow. Sleep well my darling. Good night, god bless
Your H’
Charlie carefully refolded the letter and left it lying in his lap. ‘I wonder why he calls her Poppy? Do you think she’s tall?’
‘A term of endearment, I suppose. My boyfriend always used to call me Astroid.’
‘Well,’ he said without thinking, ‘that’s because you shine very brightly.’
She stared at him.
‘Oh... sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you. They used to call me Charlie God’s Gift when I was at school. It wasn’t complimentary,’ he added.
She said something about the reference to the House possibly being the House of Commons. If Harry was an MP they could look him up using Hansard. Find out what sort of work kept him busy.
‘What? Yes, of course. Good start.’ Charlie gestured towards Amelia’s letter on the desk. ‘What does she say next?’
Astrid hesitated. ‘I can’t possibly make Amelia sound as alive and real as you’ve made Harry, but I’ll give it a go.’ In the event she read it beautifully.
‘My dearest H,
I am in the pits of despair my love. Every day that passes is a fresh torture. No news from you, I know you have tired of me. I knew it would be so. Everything that keeps me from you remains insurmountable, we both know it, but I had hoped that we might continue as letter writers at least. It tears at me most violently that I cannot even see the words on the page, cannot know that you have been sitting at your desk and addressed those words to me - It makes me wretched. If you have resolved to have nothing to do with me, or can have nothing further to say to me, then please put it down in writing. Tell me honestly, briefly if you must, but do not leave me to guess it. Say it, and I will believe it, as it comes from your heart. But pray, do not ignore me. Let me know you have done with me, and I will accept it. I will respect it. You know I have only your happiness to consider. Not mine. Never mine.
For ever yours, Poppy’
‘Poor girl,’ said Charlie, ‘how she suffers.’ He selected the next letter, and a swift perusal revealed that Harry’s tone had altered; he had become nostalgic, reminiscing about the past.
‘Poppy, my dearest,
It is no use – no matter how busy I am, no matter how important my work, or how many things I am obliged to attend to – my mind will only let me think of you. Just now I am remembering an afternoon in the Gallery, when we were surrounded by neighbours and friends of your father’s... Do you recall? We stood undiscovered for several sweet minutes, quite by ourselves – eavesdropping on conversations – until your aunt, I believe it was, or some cousin or other, had spied us and hastened you away from me. So rapidly, you almost tripped over your hem! I remember how you reached out towards me. You were particularly beautiful that day, my darling.’
Astrid smiled, as though touched by Harry’s fond evocation. When she read the next letter, they found that Amelia had become similarly wistful:
‘Darling H
I had been so bored today, so low in spirits, when I found myself alone in the Chinese gallery. Abigail had finished dusting the pagodas, tutting and muttering to herself over the delicate intricacies in the design, and the horror of attending to so much extra unnecessary cleaning! I told her they were well enough and she might leave off now. I stayed a great while, once she’d gone, fancying I could see you striding towards me across the meadow! You had perhaps entered the park through some secret avenue unknown to me! You had come on purpose to surprise me. It was a pleasant fantasy, my love. It quite cheered me. And then the dreariness of my reality came all too readily to my mind...’ Astrid broke off. ‘It’s like they’re in synch and the Gallery setting is a link between them. Harry’s miserable, Amelia’s tormented. How can Mary Ellen let them suffer like this? I would ha
ve given in by now! I’d have said, to hell with you, Mr Tunney! Your wife is in agonies, I refuse to do your bidding any longer!’
‘Maybe, but these were different times. We don’t know what pressures Mary Ellen was under, herself.’
Astrid was about to select the next two letters when he stopped her. ‘Actually, I don’t think we should do any more.’
She winced. ‘It’s my delivery, isn’t it? I’m making her sound like a drippy idiot?’
‘Quite the opposite,’ he stressed, ‘but it’s too formal in here, the atmosphere isn’t right. I can’t get close enough. We ought to be in the rooms where they held their assignations, or in the gardens, along the pathways, anywhere they might have been alone together…,’
‘I understand. Where would you like to go? The Gallery again? They could have met anywhere in secret, while Tunney was out, or away.’
‘Let’s try The Perimeter Walk.’
‘Whatever works for you,’ she said, folding the letters they’d finished with and replacing them inside the box. She picked up the rest and locked the office door.
*
The Perimeter Walk circled the meadow. A secluded, winding path through the woodland, it had been originally designed for house guests of the incumbent family to take some gentle exercise. These days it was full of joggers and young families out for an afternoon stroll. Following the curve of a narrow stretch of water towards the boathouse, they headed for the trees.
‘Presumably there are plenty of times in your life, when nothing happens?’ Astrid asked. ‘When you’re as normal as the rest of us?’
He laughed. ‘I guess so, yes, whatever normal is.’
‘Oh quite,’ she said. ‘What’s the expression, the past catching up with you? You’re the opposite; you’re catching up with it.’
‘The past has a bearing on the present; you know that.’
She pointed out a fallen tree trunk at the edge of the path where they could sit down and continue reading. Astrid sorted through the letters and handed Charlie the next one in the sequence. While he read it through in silence she watched the grasses waving in the breeze. ‘Ah,’ he said at the end of it, ‘I see,’ and then he began to read it to her.
Secrets of the Past Page 6
