A Gathering Storm

by Rachel Hore

  Soon he grew quieter, then drew away. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve funked it. Don’t know what you must think’ He dragged a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose.

  ‘It’s all right, really it is,’ she said, but they were both embarrassed now and sat without looking at one another.

  ‘I’m to see his parents,’ Rafe said dully. ‘Don’t want to, but of course I must. I don’t know what to say to them. I should have stopped us going out so far. It’s my fault really. All my fault. It’s always my fault.’

  What a strange thing to say. Beatrice thought of that moment she’d seen the canoe from the top of the cliff, with the storm coming, and not known what it was. Perhaps she ought to have recognized it and to have raised the alarm then. An abyss of guilt opened in her mind. The hell of guessing what might have been. ‘It’s not your fault, Rafe,’ she said desperately. A phrase Mrs Wincanton used came to mind. ‘Really, you can’t take on so.’

  ‘But it was my idea, buying the canoe. I talked him into it.’

  ‘You couldn’t have predicted the storm. It took everyone by surprise.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ he said, turning and looking straight at her, his eyes wild. ‘It’s always my fault. It’s like a sort of curse.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She was almost glad when, at that moment, Arlene Brooker emerged carrying the tray of lemonade and the cake to die for.

  They saw each other most days after that. There was the terrible afternoon of James Sturton’s funeral. Most of the town turned out for it, and James was buried in the cemetery on the hill above St Florian, while bumblebees blundered in the long grass. It was a drowsy afternoon when in life he might have played cricket or wandered in the countryside whistling his tuneless whistle. Instead he was laid to sleep for ever in the earth, alive only in the minds of those who knew him as a clumsy sixteen-year-old boy with a lopsided smile, a dusting of freckles, a passion for rugby and a dislike of book-learning. Beatrice’s mother had told her she needn’t upset herself by going to the graveside, but she went anyway to support Rafe, and as she stood at the back of the crowd thinking about all the things in life that Sturton would never see or do, the tears dripped down her face.

  Life went on in its unfeeling way. They played mixed doubles at tennis, but not with Sturton’s sister. Rafe came to tea at The Rowans and Beatrice sat stiff with anxiety in case her father was rude or, worse, cold and uninterested. Thankfully, even he responded to Rafe’s polite friendliness, his handsome open face and his happy sensitivity to others.

  ‘You were in the war, sir?’ Rafe asked, and his respectful manner was genuine. ‘My father was, too.’

  ‘Your uncle tells me he got an MC,’ Hugh said, a bit grudgingly.

  Rafe nodded. ‘He saved some of his platoon by leading them through a minefield. I wish I could remember him, but I don’t.’

  Beatrice was intrigued to catch her parents exchange meaningful looks. Then her mother said, ‘Of course you don’t. Now, Rafe, you’ll have some more tea?’

  ‘I feel sorry for your generation,’ Hugh Marlow continued, discarding the cucumber from his sandwich. ‘There’s another war coming, you’ll see, and it’ll be worse than the last.’

  ‘I hope you’re wrong there, sir,’ Rafe said, his expression alert. ‘My uncle says we should stay out of it, that Herr Hitler’s not interested in fighting us.’

  Beatrice’s parents again glanced at one another, and Mrs Marlow’s face was troubled. ‘I don’t think it’ll be as easy as that,’ her father said.

  Her mother smoothed her skirt and shook her head. Beatrice had heard them talk in anxious tones about letters from the family in France. These described the surge of refugees passing through Normandy to board ships to England and America, recounted stories of persecution and brutality that the refugees brought with their meagre possessions out of Germany.

  ‘This will be everyone’s war, I think,’ Hugh Marlow said solemnly. ‘England expects every man to do his duty.’ He pushed back his chair and went to tap the barometer on the wall with his knuckle. ‘High pressure,’ he said. Rafe watched, sensibly making no comment.

  But nor did he let the subject lie. Another day, as they walked on the beach with Jinx, he said, ‘Suppose your father’s right?’

  ‘What would you do, if there were to be a war and you were old enough to fight?’

  ‘I’d fight,’ he said, pulling himself up, suddenly looking older than his sixteen years. There was a strange light in his eyes that made her shiver. Seeing her face he said, ‘But don’t worry. My uncle says Mr Chamberlain will sort things out. You’ll see.’ And he picked up a stick and hurled it across the beach for Jinx to chase.

  Beatrice watched him tear after the dog, his long legs lithe and golden, his shirt unbuttoned, blowing in his wake like wings. She liked to study him when he dozed in the sun, noting his hair to be the exact old gold of corn waiting to be harvested, the glow of his pale brown skin; fascinated by the pulse that throbbed in his throat. Since that day in the Brookers’ back garden they’d not touched except by accident. That matter had never been mentioned again, but Beatrice remembered it, and treasured it when she lay sleepless during the hot August nights. His skin had smelt salty; even the slight tang of sweat had not been unpleasant, but rather alluring.

  Sometimes they talked of deeper things: of his mother, far away in India, whom Beatrice guessed he missed more than he ever had courage to say; of his father, dead when Rafe was only six; of the older half-brother, now at Sandhurst. Beatrice felt a channel of sympathy flow between them.

  More often he spoke of that boys’ world full of thrillingly shocking things that Edward had once described: of sadistic schoolmasters and swaggering bullies, of freezing dormitories and trouncing other schools at rugby, of despised homesickness and the boredom of lessons.

  Sometimes they talked about the future, as if war would never happen.

  ‘I’d like to be a doctor. A surgeon, of course. I fancy cutting people up and moving their insides about to see how they work.’ Rafe was reclined against a sand dune, his arm shielding his eyes from the sun.

  ‘It sounds dreadfully bloodthirsty. Aren’t you supposed to cure people?’ Beatrice, sitting beside him, watched the sand ants bear away crumbs from their picnic.

  ‘I expect I’d have to. Aunt Arlene says Mother writes of me joining Father’s old regiment after Oxford, but I’m dashed if I’ll go and leech my life away in the Colonies somewhere. No, I want to stay here.’

  ‘In Cornwall?’

  ‘Well, England. I hate India.’

  ‘You mean, you don’t like your stepfather.’ Beatrice started tickling his neck with a piece of grass.

  ‘Stop it.’ He pushed it away, opened his eyes and sat up.

  ‘Stop what, talking about your stepfather?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ He looked furious now. He always did when his mother’s latest husband was mentioned. Beatrice thought the man sounded perfectly ordinary. It was the idea of him replacing his father that he couldn’t take.

  She remembered the way her parents had looked at each other when Rafe’s father had been mentioned. ‘Rafe,’ she said, ‘what happened to your father? I mean, how did he die?’

  He looked away into the distance, then down at his hands. Finally, he spoke. ‘I don’t really remember, but Gerald says that I found him. He once told me the whole thing was my fault, you know.’ She saw in his eyes the evidence of some awful horror and it frightened her.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she whispered.

  ‘I was only six. I must have blotted it out. We’d come back from Paris for the summer. Gerald tells me I found him hanging in the barn.’

  ‘Hanging?’ Still she didn’t understand. No one had talked to her about anything like this before.

  ‘He killed himself, Bea. The man who got a medal for bravery went and did a cowardly thing like that.’ Rafe’s voice squeaked in rage now. ‘Gerald says I should have found him ear
lier.’

  ‘That’s stupid.’ Beatrice stood up. She could think of nothing else to say. All this was beyond the comprehension of her sheltered life.

  Rafe saw she was distressed. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go for a swim.’

  She remembered later that Rafe hadn’t asked her what she would do with her life. Nobody had ever asked her, in fact, but change was in the air.

  The future must be decided. Next August, 1938, Angie would be sixteen, Beatrice, the month after. There was only this one more year of sharing Miss Simpkins. Her parents hinted at various possible ideas. Miss Simpkins had suggested Beatrice be sent away to a proper school for three years, an enlightened one that prepared young ladies for university.

  ‘And what would Beatrice do after university? Become a governess?’ her father sneered, when her mother mentioned this.

  ‘Mrs Wincanton has talked of her coming out with Angelina. They’re sending Angelina to school in Paris in September, to finish her.’

  And quite how would we afford all that razzmatazz?’

  ‘She would stay with them in London. I suppose there would be the matter of dresses and expenses, but it would be a great opportunity for her, Hugh. We could send her to Normandy for a few months first, to stay with my family. She must do something. What will there be for her here in Saint Florian?’

  ‘We can’t send her abroad. The Wincantons can do what they like, but I say the political situation is too uncertain.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right, but I don’t know what we shall do with her then.’

  ‘Isn’t anybody going to ask me what I want?’ Beatrice said crossly. Her mother raised her delicate eyebrows.

  And what would you like, Beatrice?’ her father said in a voice heavy with irony.

  She thought about it. What she would really like was for everything to stay the same. For this summer to go on. For Rafe not to go back to school. That couldn’t happen, of course, but she was unable to imagine anything else.

  ‘Go to London maybe?’ she said finally. ‘With Angelina.’

  The more she thought about it, the more the idea grew. She began to daydream about life there, the streets of great white houses she’d seen in films. Trams and buses, the Houses of Parliament and Buckingham Palace, and the dressing up and the parties, though she wasn’t certain she’d enjoy the parties. Angelina’s father lived in Kensington, she’d been told this. She supposed they’d all stay with him and that sounded very glamorous.

  But there was still a year, another glorious year to live through before any of that need be decided. She enjoyed her lessons with Miss Simpkins, had devoured greedily the books the woman lent her, the works of Jane Austen and George Eliot and the Brontës, though the novel by Virginia Woolf was puzzling her. Her father had grudgingly let her borrow some of the leather-bound volumes of Charles Dickens from his study, and a beautiful edition of Gilbert White’s Natural History of Selborne.

  Near the end of the holidays, Rafe was invited to stay with a schoolfriend up-country for a week; though missing him badly, Beatrice spent the days on her old hobbies, collecting insects, pressing flowers and searching rockpools. Sometimes she rode Cloud. And sometimes now there were outings. Her father, who appeared stronger this summer, occasionally borrowed a motor car from a bridge partner, and they’d drive up to the north coast, where the cliffs were higher and crueller and the jagged rocks cradled pools teeming with species she’d not come across in St Florian. Once, she found a great dead blue jellyfish washed up on the beach. She crouched over it, flicking through her book. The picture she found showed the animal’s triangular sail, like an old Portuguese caravel boat, the description ran. She looked out to sea, imagining how sinister an armada of the venomous creatures must look approaching over the waters. Later, she watched an old man carrying the corpse on a spade to bury it further up the beach.

  Late August 1937 brought the Wincantons home, their father with them for a short while, and two little girl cousins for Hetty to play with. Receiving the summons, Beatrice hurried up to the house. Although she was greeted rapturously by everybody except Peter, she noticed at once that things were different. Angelina was growing up fast. It was as though the awkward stage had passed her right by and Beatrice was left behind. She was taller, with an unfashionably full figure, and the old dreamy expression on her face had turned knowing and slightly amused. Something had happened to her in Scotland.

  Once they were alone in Angelina’s room, Beatrice quickly found out what.

  ‘Look,’ Angie said, showing Beatrice a postcard. It was a photograph of a young man in ceremonial Highland dress. ‘The Hamiltons had their nephew Bertie to stay. It was simply too thrilling,’ she whispered, clutching Beatrice’s arm. ‘He wouldn’t let me alone. He trailed around behind me wherever I went and everybody remarked on it. And no one would believe I wasn’t out yet and Mummy let me stay up for dinner, and Aunt Alice got a maid to do my hair. And two nights ago Bertie asked me to go for a walk in the grounds after dinner and I let him kiss me. I wanted to see what it was like, you see.’

  ‘What was it like?’ Beatrice asked, at once horrified and intrigued.

  ‘Oh, once we sorted out where our noses should go it went awfully well. Look, hold still and I’ll show you. No, it’s best if you close your eyes.’ And she pulled Beatrice into her arms and pressed her mouth slowly and carefully onto hers. Beatrice, stiffening at first, opened her eyes wide in surprise. An exciting warm feeling started somewhere in her throat, spreading through her breasts and down through her whole body. She became acutely aware of the heaviness of Angelina’s arms, the familiar smell of her, the gold hairs gleaming on her arms. She broke off, pushing her away.

  Angelina stood back, laughing. ‘You’re supposed to kiss me back, silly!’ she said. ‘We must practise. It’ll be important if we’re to get anywhere with men. Come on, don’t look like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like Granny Trevellian when S.E.X. is mentioned. Your mouth all wrinkled up like a prune.’

  ‘It’s . . . very strange, that’s all. Didn’t it, well, encourage him?’

  ‘Only a little. I wouldn’t want to marry him or anything. He’s awfully serious, you know. He would look at me like a mournful dog. I couldn’t bear him following me around all my life. Fortunately Mummy came out to look for me so I was quite safe. We had such a marvellous time there. Oh, dinners and shooting parties. And Ed shot grouse, though Peter wouldn’t.’

  Beatrice saw that Angelina wasn’t ever going to ask what she’d been doing, so she thought she’d better say it herself. ‘I’ve met someone, too. His name’s Rafe.’

  Angelina’s limpid eyes grew wide. ‘Oh Bea, goodness, your letter. It all sounded too dreadful for words. Is it that boy? Not the one who died, of course, the other one? Everyone said you were so brave. Mummy heard everything from Deirdre Garnett’s mother.’

  Beatrice, who was still trying to blot out that awful day, sat down on the bed and said glumly, ‘I wasn’t brave at all. If old Harry hadn’t been there I don’t know what I should have done.’

  ‘Still, you helped rescue someone, that’s what’s wonderful. And now I suppose he’ll be grateful to you for ever and ever. What’s he like, anyway? Is he good-looking?’

  ‘Oh, Angie, is that all you think about?’ Beatrice said with a groan. ‘I suppose he is. He’s very nice and easy to talk to.’

  ‘We must all meet him then,’ Angie said. ‘There, that’s settled. You must bring him up to Carlyon. I’ll ask Mummy to fix it.’

  ‘He’s been away, but he should be back today. And he’ll be going to school soon, so it’ll have to be quick.’

  ‘Ed and Peter will be leaving next week. I know – bring him tomorrow. I’ll ask Mummy if he may come for tea.’

  ‘All right, ask her,’ Beatrice replied. But the thought of sharing Rafe made her nervous. Part of her desperately wanted to show off the Wincantons, but she feared, too, that then he wouldn’t be just hers any more. He’d be s
wallowed up by them. Though that was nonsense. He wasn’t really hers at all. They’d been thrown together, that was all. He had a mother in India and a brother, and dozens of friends. And he’d be going back to school soon, and then he’d forget all about her.

  Angie fitted the photograph of Bertie Hamilton into the corner of her dressing-table mirror, humming to herself. The picture wasn’t destined to remain. The next day Peter found it and ribbed his sister so horribly that she tore it up in a fit of pique.

  The visit was, from Beatrice’s point of view, a disappointment, but Mrs Wincanton afterwards declared it to be a great success.

  Rafe was enthralled by Carlyon. He paused as they walked round that all-important corner of the drive. ‘Golly,’ he said, and whistled.

  As they waited in the hall for the Wincanton children to be winkled from various reaches of the house and grounds, he wandered round, studying the portraits of long-dead Carlyons, passing a hand over a carved newel post, calling Beatrice over to find St Florian on an old framed map of the county.

  The drawing-room door opened and Ed appeared first, elbowing Peter to keep back. He and Rafe shook hands, instantly at ease. ‘We’ve an Ashton in our house at school, haven’t we, Pete? George Ashton.’

  ‘No relation, I’m afraid. Not that I know of, anyway. There don’t seem to be many of us Wiltshire Ashtons left. But, I say, did we play you last autumn at Eton? I seem to remember—’

  He broke off for Beatrice to introduce him to Mrs Wincanton who had finally arrived, carrying a basket of fragrant roses and lifting a floppy sunhat from her head. ‘You must be Rafe. Welcome to Carlyon, dear. We’ve heard all about you. The girls are about somewhere.’ She glanced back through the drawing room and they all held their breath at the lovely silhouette of Angelina, framed by the french windows as she paused on the threshold to call to the little girls still somewhere in the garden.

  ‘They’re not taking any notice,’ she said, coming into the hall. ‘Oh hello, you must be Rafe.’ Beatrice was dismayed to see how Angie looked sideways at him under her lashes, and he stumbled out a greeting as he shook her hand.