by Rachel Hore
‘It doesn’t matter. That’s not the point.’
‘It’s your aunt, isn’t it? She pretends to be so aloof, but she enjoys giving the pot a stir.’
‘That’s a horrid thing to say. She’s not like that at all.’
‘Nor is Jacqueline the person you seem to think she is. She’s always been a friend to my family, right since we were small. She’s loyal and kind and helpful, and now you’re hitting her when she’s down. It’s not very Christian of you.’
‘Hugh! I didn’t say she wasn’t any of those things. Oh, you don’t see it at all, do you? I can’t be myself when she’s here. She takes over. It makes me feel useless – useless, don’t you see? And people are talking about it. It must stop.’
‘You’re being irrational. Why does everything have to be a big drama with you? Accusing people of this and that , with not a shred of evidence. It’s wild.’
‘It is not wild, Hugh. Or irrational. It’s a feeling I have.’
‘If we all followed our feelings we’d be like animals. Listen to me. Jacqueline is closer to me than any of my relatives now that Mother’s gone. She looked after Mother, too. Such a comfort to her after my father died.’
Any of your relatives? What about me – don’t I matter?’
‘Of course you matter, you silly thing. But I’m not going to blank my friends because you have feelings about them . It’s balderdash.’
She looked at him steadily. ‘Hugh, I’m sorry that you think so little of my feelings. I am your wife, after all. And I have to ask you something. Are you having an affair with Jacqueline?’
‘How can you even ask that? Don’t you trust me at all?’
‘Just answer the question. Please, I need to know.’
‘I don’t feel I have to. That’s a monstrous accusation.’
‘Does that mean the answer’s no? Please, Hugh, it’s important.’
He opened his mouth then closed it again and looked wildly about the room. ‘I can’t see that there’s any point in continuing this conversation,’ he said. He walked about, randomly picking up clothes, his brush and comb, and putting them down again. Then he threw aside the pillow and grabbed the pyjamas lying underneath.
‘I’ll sleep in Mother’s old room tonight. It’ll give you the chance to calm down.’
‘Hugh, please.’
But he was out of the door without another word. She went after him. ‘Hugh,’ she called, ‘the bed’s not made up.’ But he ignored her, swept into his mother’s bedroom and shut the door. She went and stood outside, and was about to grasp the handle, when she heard the key turn in the lock.
‘Hugh,’ she moaned, throwing herself against the door. She gave a sob . Inside there was silence. After a while she returned to her bedroom where she fell on the bed and cried.
The sense that she’d ruined everything was overwhelming. She’d accused her husband of something of which she had no proof, only an intense suspicion. Perhaps she’d done wrong by Jacqueline, who’d been so generous with her time and energy during the last year or so. Maybe she’d ruined her marriage, irreparably. She’d hardly recognised her beloved Hugh in the hard cold man who’d berated her this evening. Perhaps he was right: she was hysterical, irrational, but she didn’t think she was. He’d been so unjust, when all she’d wanted was loving reassurance. She could not remember ever feeling so miserable. At that thought she wept some more.
In the morning, when she went downstairs carrying Lorna, he was eating breakfast alone . He smiled at Lorna but hardly looked at Isabel. ‘I’ve decided I’m going to London this afternoon,’ he told her in the chilliest of tones. ‘I think it would be best under the circumstances.’
‘Oh, Hugh, shouldn’t we talk?’ she said, unable to stop the sob in her voice.
‘I think we’ve both said enough for now. I rather favour some peace and quiet. Perhaps you’d like to think about what you’ve said.’ He finished his toast, took up his tea and shut himself into his study.
That afternoon, he left for London with only a cold ‘Goodbye’.
.
. Chapter 35
Emily
One Friday in July, Emily left for work first thing, planning to swim before getting down to the business of the day, but when she arrived at the swimming baths a notice informed her they were closed because the heating system had broken. Feeling grumpy, she consoled herself with a takeaway pot of creamy porridge from a sandwich shop. She was so early at the office that the receptionist was not yet at her desk and Emily was the only one in the lift as it juddered its way up to her floor.
When the lift door opened she was surprised to see someone waiting to get in – a small, older woman in a neatly tailored blouse and skirt. She looked startled by Emily’s appearance, but returned her ‘Good morning’ in a friendly enough tone as the lift doors closed between them. Emily wondered vaguely who she was. She’d glimpsed her once or twice before.
She went to look at her pigeonhole, but it was too early for the post. She turned and saw from the panel over the lift that it had stopped at one, indicating that the woman had got out at the floor below. That was the floor of the Reference division, she recalled. Perhaps the woman worked there. Emily wondered vaguely what she’d been doing on this floor.
She opened the door to her office and saw she was the first one in, but at once she sensed that someone else had been there. On her desk lay an envelope addressed to ‘Miss Emily Gordon’, in the same way all the other mysterious envelopes had been. She opened it, her mind still computing connections. Suddenly they all fell into place. That woman she had just seen must have left it here.
She quickly scanned the pages in Isabel’s handwriting whilst eating a couple of spoonfuls of porridge, then stuffed the pages back into the envelope and hurried with it to the door, just as Sarah came in.
‘You’re in early,’ Sarah told her.
‘Sorry,’ she gasped in reply. ‘See you later. I’ve got to catch someone.’
It might sound odd to an outsider that Emily should have worked in a company for almost a year and yet failed to have set foot on one of its floors. But her department operated completely independently from the Reference division, and she had never had any cause to visit anyone there. The first-floor landing, she found, was exactly the same as the second floor in most respects, yet it exuded a different air. There were several posters on the wall here, charts about birds and fish, but these were sad and shabby, the corners curling. Several of the ubiquitous plastic crates colonised the space under the pigeonholes, piled with old reference books no longer wanted in the bright pixelated world of the internet.
Although it was nearly nine now, the place was quiet. How to ask for someone whom she’d only glimpsed for a moment, and whose name she didn’t yet know? Still, she prowled the landing hopefully, and was soon rewarded. At the far end, hidden away behind the lift-shaft, a strip of daylight fell across the carpet, drawing her to an open door. She peeped inside but there was no one there, though the occupant had clearly been in the middle of packing books into crates. It was a small office, with a window looking out on the backs of other buildings, but someone had made it their home.
Entranced, Emily took a step inside to admire the lovely old desk, the floor lamp with its fringed shade, pretty cushions on the chairs. On a bookcase by her elbow was a series of wildlife guides, with beautifully decorated spines, that produced a tug of recognition. She put out a hand to withdraw the one which had always been her favourite. It was about creatures of the sea.
They’re first editions.’ The voice behind her was low and musical. She looked round in surprise to see a pair of brown eyes, intelligent, amused. They belonged to the woman she had seen upstairs, getting into the lift. She was neat, if plainly dressed, and her grey hair was cut into a schoolgirl bob to frame her heart-shaped face.
‘I’m sorry to intrude,’ Emily stammered, showing the book in her hand. ‘I love this series. My father owns a set. He’s always telling us how he bought them
with money from his paper round when he was a boy.’
‘They’re splendid, aren’t they?’ the woman said, selecting another from the shelves and turning to a beautiful frontispiece. ‘I’m particularly proud of having published them.’
‘You did?’ These books were a part of Emily’s childhood, and here was the woman responsible for them. There was something amazing about this.
‘I was the editor, yes,’ the woman told her. ‘Quite a labour of love they were at the time, as we had such trouble with the photographs – but it was worth it in the end. They reprint year after year, you know, even now Can’t think why anyone would want one of those wretched ebooks instead. You can’t look at those on the shelf, can you?’
‘No,’ Emily said in hearty agreement. She glanced about the room. ‘What an awful business, packing up all of this must be.’
‘Yes,’ the woman said. ‘I’m finding it horribly emotional. The whole of my working life, forty-odd years’ worth, is in this room. The files and manuscripts have to go to the archives, and some of the books, but I’m allowed to keep anything they’ve already got copies of.’
‘You’re leaving then,’ Emily said, passing her the book, ‘not just moving offices?’
‘I’m leaving, yes.’ The woman gave a wistful smile. ‘I suppose it’s time. I was planning to retire anyway in the next year or two. It’s come earlier than I thought, that’s all.’
‘I don’t know your name, I’m afraid,’ Emily said, putting out her hand. ‘I’m Emily Gordon.’
‘I know who you are,’ the woman said gravely, shaking it. ‘And I know why you’ve come. I’ve been waiting.’
‘I was right then. It was you who’s been sending me everything about Isabel. Why? I don’t understand.’
‘It was indeed me. Come, sit down for a moment.’ She scooped up some books from a chair for Emily to sit, then herself sat down behind the desk.
‘But how . . . ?’ Emily asked.
The woman folded her hands on the desk in a calm pose. ‘I’m not sure where to start.’
Emily smiled. ‘My granny says always to start at the beginning.’
That’s good advice if one is sure where the beginning is. Well, let me see.’ She regarded Emily thoughtfully for a moment. ‘You may not know this, but I’m on the circulation list for the minutes of your editorial meetings, and I noticed your name next to Hugh Morton’s biography. The biography itself wasn’t exactly a surprise. I knew there would have to be one sometime, and then Lorna warned me it was happening.’
‘Lorna? You know Lorna?’
‘Good gracious, yes. You’re surprised. I thought you’d see more of the connections by now.’
Emily felt more and more confused. ‘I’m sorry, can we go back a step? I still don’t know who you are.’
‘Oh, goodness, haven’t I introduced myself ? I’m Lydia Hardcastle.’ Emily recognised the name only vaguely, possibly from some typed list, but certainly not in relation to Isabel. She obviously looked blank, because Lydia said, ‘Perhaps it will help you to learn that my maiden name was Barber.’
‘Lydia Barber? Then you’re . . . ?’
‘I’m Isabel’s baby sister.’
‘Little Lydia?’ Emily struggled to accept this. A small girl in a pushchair, far away in time – that was Isabel’s sister, not this cultured mature woman sitting across the desk in the offices of a modern publisher.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lydia sighed. ‘I know it’s a big thing to take in. There’s a great deal to explain, and I must ask you to be patient.’
‘Patient?’ Emily couldn’t help bursting out. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve been waiting long enough. It’s quite creepy and stressful, you know, being sent anonymous packages.’
A shadow fell across Lydia’s face and Emily saw she’d hurt her, but it was difficult to regret her words. These last few months had indeed been stressful in a number of ways, and now here was Lydia, whom she had to remember was Isabel’s sister. Suddenly the secrecy and the tension were too much. ‘Why, for goodness’ sake?’
‘Please give me time to explain,’ Lydia said. She seemed sad now, diminished, and Emily felt sorry for her outburst. Lydia Hardcastle must have been having a difficult time, too, dismantling her life here, coming to terms with retirement.
They were both silent for a moment. Lydia glanced round at the chaos as she struggled to find the right words. ‘Do you have the time for this now?’ she said. ‘All I have to do is continue packing.’
‘I’m fine,’ Emily said. ‘No meetings till eleven. And this is important.’
Lydia settled back in her chair and said hesitantly, ‘Have you read any of the material I sent you?’
All of it. Except today’s bit. I’ve only glanced at that quickly.’
Lydia looked relieved. ‘And what did you think about the story so far?’
‘What did I think?’ Emily considered this. Pictures rose in her mind of a young woman, bright, ambitious, full of vitality, whose life changed dramatically after marriage and having a child. An ordinary story, the story of many women, she supposed, though each story must be utterly individual. ‘It was very sad,’ she admitted. ‘Life didn’t turn out as she expected.’
‘Most of us can eventually say that,’ Lydia murmured. ‘Nothing else? ‘I suppose I wondered who it’s important to. Isn’t Jacqueline Morton trying to suppress all memory of Isabel?’
‘Yes,’ Lydia said promptly. ‘She is.’
‘I suppose I can see why. From what I’ve read, Isabel felt oppressed, but Hugh clearly loved her. Even though he probably slept with Jacqueline. Why did Jacqueline hang about like that? It must have been so demeaning.’
‘I agree. Love, I imagine. What else did you glean?’
‘Nothing else,’ Emily said, then paused. ‘I suppose there has to be something, doesn’t there? Something I haven’t read yet. Is there any more?’
‘Not of the memoir, I’m afraid.’
Emily must have looked disappointed because Lydia said, ‘But we do know something of what happened next.’
‘We? Do you mean you and Jacqueline?’
Lydia said quietly, ‘No, I mean Lorna and I.’
‘Lorna?’ Somehow this had been the last person Emily had expected Lydia to say. Lorna, so quiet and compliant, so much under Jacqueline’s thumb.
Lydia looked steadily into Emily’s eyes. ‘When Jacqueline told Lorna about the biography and who was writing it, we despaired at first. It was plain that Jacqueline had Joel Richards exactly where she wanted him.’
‘I think he is a little frightened of her,’ Emily said, feeling she ought to defend Joel, even though Lydia had just confirmed her own suspicions.
‘I think so too. It seemed my sister would never have justice.’
‘Justice? That is a very strong word.’
‘When you learn the whole story, you will understand. Lorna has ambivalent feelings about Isabel. and in her way, she's fond of her stepmother and doesn't want to offend her. Despite all this, she's passionate, absolutely passionate, that her real mother is not just wiped out of any account of Hugh. She wants the truth to be told.'
'What truth exactly?' Emily asked, but Lydia had more to say.
'Lorna felt she couldn't speak out publicly, and she would never let me do it, so eventually we came up with the idea of providing you, the editor of the book, with Isabel’s story, and you could pass it on to Joel. I say it was our idea, but I suppose it was mine, originally. When I saw those meeting minutes with your name, I wanted to come and speak to you in person, but I couldn’t think what you would say. You’d probably have thought me mad , coming along with a garbled story about righting a wrong from long in the past.’
Emily considered this. ‘I might have thought you a bit odd.’
‘Quite. So I left you Isabel’s copy of Coming Home on a whim, as a sort of teaser, if you like. And then when Lorna first met you, she liked you very much, saw you as a person of integrity . So we agreed. We’d
feed you Isabel’s story bit by bit. I already had the file for Coming Home in my office. I called it up from the archive some time ago to help with my own research about Isabel.’
‘And Isabel’s memoir, where did that come from?’
Ah, now that is intriguing. It nearly didn’t survive, you know. Lorna found it after her father’s death, together with the wedding photograph. She was deeply troubled by the account and shared it with me. Did you find it interesting?’
‘Of course, how could I not have done?’ Lydia and Lorna’s plan had been a clever one. Emily had become every bit as fascinated as they’d hoped. She looked down at the envelope in her hand.
‘You haven’t had a chance to read that bit, of course, ‘ Lydia said.
‘No.’
‘Well, when you have, let’s talk again. I’m not leaving here for another couple of weeks.’
Emily nodded. She stood up to go, then hesitated.
‘Information overload,’ Lydia said, smiling. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘There’s something you ought to know,’ Emily said. ‘I’ve been passing all this information on to Joel, but if you intended me to get him to put it all into the book, then I’m afraid that you’ll be disappointed.’
Lydia’s expression darkened. ‘That’s what I feared might happen. How we handle that is one of the matters that we must talk about.’
‘There’s another thing.’ Emily looked down at the envelope. ‘You said this was the final part?’
‘It was all that we found,’ Lydia said quietly. ‘I’m sorry. Those are probably the last words Isabel wrote.’
‘Oh.’
‘But there is something else you can see.’ Lydia went to a filing cabinet and opened the top drawer. From one of the files she took a sheaf of paper.
‘I typed this myself,’ she said , giving it to Isabel. ‘It’s based on a conversation I had with my Aunt Penelope before she died ten years ago, a very old lady of ninety-five. It was she who found me a job in publishing, you know. She thought it would make up for something. I’d only known the barest details before of what she told me, but she wanted me to hear it all. She still felt guilty, she said, all those years later.’
