The Silent Tide

by Rachel Hore

‘Can I help?’ Isabel offered. Her mother-in-law was coughing at the dust.

  ‘No, no,’ the woman replied. ‘I’m seeing what’s here.’

  Behind them, something started buzzing at the window and Isabel turned round to see a bumblebee. Poor thing. She went over and managed to get the window open to let it out. On her way back she glanced at a large painted fire screen propped against the wall opposite the door they’d come through. From this angle Isabel saw that it half-covered a second door. A door presumably to an inner room. She stepped across to look more closely.

  ‘What’s in here?’ she asked and her hand went to the door knob.

  ‘You’ll find it’s locked. It’s private.’ Hugh’s mother sounded so fierce that Isabel snatched her hand away.

  The woman was holding what looked like a dress box in her arms. ‘Now,’ she said, lifting the lid. ‘There are some cot sheets in here. And that case up there,’ she nodded towards the top shelf of the cupboard. ‘I’m sure there are some matinée sets in it. One hopes that the moth hasn’t got to them. Can you reach?’

  Isabel pulled down the small suitcase indicated. The little costumes, wrapped in paper, were intact, though they smelled unpleasantly of mothballs.

  ‘I can’t think what I did with that sailor suit Hugh hates so much. He looked perfectly sweet in it when he was two.’

  ‘The baby won’t need it at once,’ Isabel said. She knew she ought to feel grateful for all this, but instead she felt depressed. None of this old stuff felt anything to do with her or any baby she might have.

  The dust and the smell of naphthalene was making both of them cough.

  ‘That’ll do for now,’ Hugh’s mother managed to say.

  As they left the room, Isabel’s eyes rested on the locked door. What was beyond it that her mother-in-law didn’t want her to know about?

  She spent the rest of the morning washing the little woollen jackets and matching leggings in soapy warm water, gently squeezing out the excess. As she pegged them up to dry outside she glanced up at the house. A thought occurred to her. She started counting the windows on the upper floor. Hers and Hugh’s room looked out to the front. At the back there were two bedrooms with a bathroom in between then a blank wall stretching under the eaves to the right. The window of the box room was to the front. She fiddled with the sleeve of the last matinée jacket, and pinned it with the peg she took from between her teeth. It was strangely satisfying to see the little costumes dancing on the line. The matter of the secret room still bothered her. She scanned the downstairs windows to make sure her mother-in-law wasn’t spying on her, then left the wicker washing basket and strolled round to the front of the house to scrutinise the windows on that side.

  Yes, next to Lavinia Morton’s room was the window to the box room. So where was the window to the room beyond the locked door?

  An ancient wisteria grew up the side of the house there, snaking around the box-room window. The flowers had long blown, but the leaves were lush, and in between them she glimpsed something she hadn’t seen before, a small round window like a porthole. The glass glinted, opaque. From that moment on, Isabel’s curiosity as to what lay in the room behind it began to grow.

  After lunch, she retired to her bedroom and took up Hugh’s manuscript once more, finding a stub of pencil to write notes. It was again disturbing to read about herself. Like her, Nanna had become pregnant soon after her marriage and struggled to maintain her normal work patterns, though in Nanna’s case she received no sympathy from her male colleagues. The narrator, Nanna’s husband, had got himself involved in some political intrigue that involved Russian spies, a plot line which Isabel thought worked well, and so skipped over. Instead she found herself marking again and again infelicities in his observations about Nanna. The script ended quite abruptly at a point where Nanna had to all intents and purposes been fired from her job. Isabel lay back and considered this scene, thinking how Hugh could make it more convincing. Then she turned back to the beginning and started to read again, making more detailed notes for Hugh. She was still angry with him, but at the same time she was caught up in Nanna’s story and desperately wanted the character to emerge sympathetically. She worked all afternoon.

  Hugh returned from London the following evening somewhat out of sorts. When they sat down to a dinner of roast mutton, he brushed off enquiries with, ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

  ‘Come now, Hugh,’ his mother said, unrolling her napkin. ‘I can always tell with you.’

  ‘Oh, it’s simply . . . You remember my story about the ageing impresario? Well, at the last moment the magazine wants alterations or they won’t put it in. It’s bad form, if you ask me.’

  ‘I think you should stick to your guns, dear,’ Hugh’s mother told him. ‘More potatoes, Isabel? You are eating for two, you know.’

  Isabel, who already had three potatoes on her plate, shook her head. ‘But it’s a shame if it means they won’t print it,’ she told her mother-in-law. ‘What exactly does the editor want you to do, Hugh?’

  ‘That’s the trouble. It’s not the same editor, it’s a new man. He thinks the ending should be more decisive. Says the readers won’t understand it as it is.’

  ‘I should just insist,’ Hugh’s mother said, liberally piling salt on the edge of her plate.

  ‘Mother,’ Hugh said, ‘it doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘What do you really think about the ending?’ Isabel persisted.

  ‘It follows the integrity of the story,’ he replied, shrugging. ‘Life doesn’t have tidy endings.’

  ‘Perhaps you should think about it. Negotiate with him,’ Isabel said patiently. ‘I’m sure there’s an answer you’d both be happy with, if you look for it.’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Hugh’s mother snapped. ‘Hugh should write what he wants to write and they should be grateful to have it.’

  ‘Oh, Mother,’ Hugh said crisply, ‘if only you ran everything.’

  ‘I think we do, as wives and mothers,’ she said, coquettish. ‘The women behind the men, aren’t we, Isabel?’

  Isabel was eating a mouthful of potatoes and could not speak.

  After dinner, they sat in the drawing room, Hugh’s mother playing patience whilst listening to the wireless and Isabel altering an old dress to fit her expanding shape. Soon Hugh took himself off to his study to write a review and she, tired and fed up, went to bed early.

  She was reading a library book when Hugh came upstairs. The baby was active tonight and she stroked her bump to soothe it, watching her husband potter about the bedroom, getting ready for bed.

  ‘I read your script today,’ she said.

  He looked up eagerly. ‘Did you? Thank you. And what did you make of it?’

  ‘It’s wonderful, Hugh.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘I do. Of course, there are parts that need further attention.’

  ‘Oh?’ Less eager.

  ‘Very, very minor points,’ she said.

  ‘I’m most grateful to you,’ he replied. Did she imagine the sharpness in his voice?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I assumed that’s why you wanted me to read it. To help you.’

  ‘Yes – yes, of course. As long as you like it generally,’ he said. He still sounded defensive and this bewildered her. He’d always taken note before of what she’d said about his work. This had changed. It came to her now. He only wanted her to say it was wonderful, not to criticise.

  ‘There was something important that I didn’t like,’ she said, stung by this realisation. ‘You’ve put me in there.’

  ‘You? No, I haven’t.’

  ‘You have, Hugh. Things I’ve said, things I’ve done. I—’ She almost mentioned snooping for the notebooks, but knew that would be disastrous.

  ‘A writer has to have material , my darling one, but that doesn’t mean I’ve put you in there. Nanna is a certain kind of modern woman. I know several women like her, in fact . I’ve read about others. I assure you, I don’t need to put re
al people in my books . You of anyone should understand how a writer works.’

  ‘I do. But, Hugh . . .’ Something about the look on his face warned her to stop. If she argued, he might become really angry – angry like her father could be. She was frightened about that.

  ‘Never mind,’ she said. She took up her book and tried to read, but the print swam in front of her eyes. There was a lump in her throat and she swallowed.

  ‘I’ve upset you now,’ he said , coming swiftly over to kneel on the bed beside her. ‘I don’t mean to.’

  ‘I’m sorry ,’ she said, trying hard not to cry. She cried so easily these days.

  ‘My poor love,’ he said, settling beside her and drawing her to him. ‘You mustn’t get so worked up about things. I shouldn’t have given you the book, it’s made you upset.’

  ‘No, it hasn’t, Hugh,’ she said . ‘I wanted to read it. It’s that . . .’ Her voice fell to a whisper. ‘It’s that you don’t listen to me any more.’

  There was a pause, then he said , ‘I don’t mean to do that. Perhaps we shouldn’t try to talk about my work.’

  ‘Hugh! Of course we must.’

  ‘Shh,’ he said. ‘Now I wanted to tell you. I went to McKinnon and Holt on my way through today. To pick up a book Trudy had for me.’

  ‘Oh, how are they all?’ Isabel said, cheering up somewhat.

  ‘All very interested to hear how you were,’ he said. ‘I was introduced to Mr Snow, who’s taken your place.’

  ‘Taken my place?’ she echoed, hurt. She imagined this shadowy man sitting at her desk, using her typewriter.

  ‘Why yes, of course, silly. They do need another editor. I imagine we’ll get on – he seemed a decent cove.’

  Richard would be Hugh’s editor. This second wave of realisation was painful. Like Nanna, she had lost her job.

  Chapter 24

  Isabel

  Towards the end of September 1951, as the apples in the orchard were ripening and the nights were growing chilly, a letter arrived from Isabel’s father. This was an event in itself – she’d never had one from him before – and when Hugh brought it to her in bed, Isabel opened the envelope with a sense of premonition. She scanned the single sheet that it contained.

  ‘What is it?’ Hugh asked, seeing her hand go to her mouth.

  She read it again and passed it to him, wordlessly.

  Charles Barber’s message was brief and to the point.

  My dear Isabel,

  Your mother doesn’t know I’m writing to you, being a proud woman who doesn’t like fuss or anyone’s pity. The fact remains that she’s not been well recently and requires a short stay in hospital. I thought you should know this. The operation’s to be next Tuesday and Mrs Fanshawe from across the road will be taking Lydia for a few days. The boys and I will manage perfectly well and there’s no need to trouble yourself at all. I don’t expect you should be travelling much in your condition anyway.

  I hope this finds you well and you’re not to worry.

  Sincere best wishes,

  Your Dad

  Hugh looked up from the letter.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and sat down near Isabel on the bed. ‘Your poor mother. I wonder what’s wrong?’

  ‘I must go to help,’ Isabel said miserably, shuffling off the bedclothes.

  ‘I can see why you’d want to,’ Hugh said carefully, ‘but your father said—’

  ‘I don’t care what he said,’ Isabel interrupted, tying on her dressing-gown. ‘Tuesday is tomorrow. Will you drive me or shall I take the train?’

  ‘What – now? Today?’

  She saw a range of conflicting emotions struggle in Hugh’s face. Finally, decency won. He said smoothly, ‘Yes, of course I’ll drive you. Do you mind if I don’t stay? I do have an awful lot to do at the moment.’

  ‘No. No, I’m sure that would be all right,’ Isabel replied, but she couldn’t help feeling a pang of disappointment.

  The week she spent at the family home was fraught with misery, but was most memorable in the end for a conversation she had with her mother.

  Charles Barber was in one of his difficult moods, obviously terrified about his wife’s illness. The boys were jittery and skulked about, and she had to order them to help. Being nearly seven months’ pregnant, she found the cooking and cleaning exhausting. The hospital was five miles away and because her father went to work as usual and couldn’t drive her, it was only accessible by bus for visiting hours in the afternoon.

  She saw her mother briefly the evening before the operation, which she gauged from her father was to remove a lump from one of her breasts. Mrs Barber’s bed was at the end of the ward, behind a pillar on its own, which gave her a modicum of privacy. Isabel, approaching unseen, was shocked to see the change in her. Her mother, always thin, had lost weight and her face wore a strained look, though she managed to smile when she saw her daughter. ‘My dear, I had no idea you were coming!’

  Isabel sat by her and took her hand. ‘Dad told me,’ she said. ‘I could hardly stay away.’

  Pamela Barber was frightened, though she tried not to show it. She’d noticed the lump some weeks ago when she was bathing, she told her daughter. Initial tests had been inconclusive, so this was to be on the safe side. She sounded as though she was trying convince herself.

  At that moment, a nurse interrupted them. ‘I appreciate that you’ve come a long way, but visiting hours have ended,’ she said, thereby curtailing the visit.

  Isabel’s father came with her the following evening, after the operation. The curtains were drawn round the bed and her mother was drifting in and out of consciousness. All the tubes and machinery unnerved Charles dreadfully, and after ten minutes he couldn’t bear it any more and stood up, saying they ought to get back to the boys.

  Ted and Donald, catching their father’s fear, had refused to come, and five-year-old Lydia was of course far too young, even though she kept asking for her mother, so the burden of the visiting fell on Isabel. She didn’t consider it a burden exactly, but the journey was undeniably tiring and she hated the way other women on the bus stared at her and made intrusive comments about her condition, when normally they’d not have noticed her at all.

  On the Friday afternoon, she found her mother sitting up in bed with her hair brushed and more colour in her face, the drips and machines all gone. There was no one in the next bed, so it felt quite private. Isabel sat close and asked how she was, told her how the boys sent their love and reassured her that Lydia was happy staying with Mrs Fanshawe.

  ‘It’s good of you to take the trouble to come,’ her mother said. ‘I was a little cross with your father. I didn’t think he should worry you.’

  ‘That’s silly, of course I should have known.’

  ‘He hates all this, you know. Illness, hospitals. It’s not that he doesn’t care.’ She smiled. ‘I must say, you’re looking very bonny,’ she told Isabel. ‘Marriage, a baby, it’s suiting you.’

  Isabel hesitated, then said, ‘It’s not as I expected.’

  Her mother considered this. ‘There’s a lot to get used to' she said finally. ‘Men need different things from us. It’s best to accept that.’

  ‘Is it?’ Isabel whispered. ‘But what about me? Are my needs of no importance?’

  Her mother sighed, then reached out and touched Isabel’s hand.

  ‘Of course they are. It’s not always easy,’ she said, ‘but you have to get on with it.’ She was quiet for a moment, searching for the right words. ‘Your father . . . he can’t help what happened to him. At least he came home alive. I remind myself I’m one of the lucky ones.’

  Isabel thought about this, the way her father swung from periods of black depression to latent anger. She knew deep down that he loved her mother. She’d glimpsed this the other day after her mother’s operation, the tenderness and vulnerability beneath his dour surface. Perhaps that was why he’d disobeyed his wife and written to Isabel. It was he who’d needed her to come, as well as her
mother. Isabel could say the things to her that he couldn’t.

  ‘We were so very happy together,’ her mother murmured, her thoughts far away. She smiled. ‘He had a sweet way about him, so charming.’

  ‘How did you meet? You’ve never told me.’ Isabel had not asked before, but then her mother had never been like this, a frightened patient in a hospital bed with time to talk.

  ‘We met in Norfolk on a jetty in the rain.’ Her face lit up, remembering. ‘Your Aunt Penelope and I had a cousin with a sailing dinghy and he used to take us out on the Broad in it sometimes. Well, one day when I was nineteen, another boat tied up next to ours with four young men on it. They’d come for a week’s holiday, up from London. One of them was your father.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I knew straight away he liked me. Whenever he looked . . . he couldn’t help blushing.’

  ‘But he managed to ask you to go out with him?’

  ‘We met up with them again the following afternoon, hung about in a group together, talking. One of Charles’s pals took pity on him and we went out to a film together, with poor Penelope dragged along as a fourth. After that I’d slip out to meet your father on my own, not that we did anything we shouldn’t’ – at this, Isabel smiled at her mother – ‘but he wasn’t shy at all. Oh, we did have fun. After that, he wrote to me from London. Mummy found one of his letters and there was the most terrific row. He had no money or connections or anything. I didn’t mind that, of course, but Mummy did dreadfully and tried to stop it. That was silly of her, because it made me want to be with him even more. I’m not saying I would have changed my mind about your father,’ she assured Isabel, ‘but at least if she’d been more reasonable it would have prevented the family rift. Your generation is lucky. Class isn’t so important any more, but it mattered very much back then.’

  ‘What about Penelope? Granny didn’t approve of Uncle Jonny, either, did she?’

  ‘Oh, Penelope didn’t meet him till much later. After I left home she must have been so lonely. I felt a little guilty abandoning her.’ Pamela looked at her daughter. ‘Penelope was always secretive, you never knew what she was plotting, but if I’d still been there, perhaps she wouldn’t have taken so many wrong turnings.’