Dreams That Veil

by Dominic Luke

  ‘Recent events, sir?’

  ‘This business in Ireland.’

  ‘Ireland soon will be free.’ Kolya spoke up. He’d arrived at Clifton only that afternoon after an absence of many months. ‘Ireland will be free. Is inevitable.’

  ‘Free?’ Dr Camborne looked at him, puzzled. ‘Free? No, no, you’ve quite missed the point: you wouldn’t understand, being foreign. The Irish are a feckless race. They need firm government. Only England can provide it. This farrago of Home Rule—’

  It was Rosa this time who interrupted. ‘Home Rule is a reality, Doctor. The bill has been passed under the provisions of the Parliament Act. Kolya and I have a friend, Mr O’Connor, who says that the Irish will never accept anything less than Home Rule and if Ulster won’t accede, there will be civil war.’

  ‘I’m not sure if . . . it’s a rather complex . . . but you young people see everything in black and white. When you get to my age . . . as Lucretius said . . . or was it Cicero . . . and who can fathom the Irish, rebellious as they are?’

  The doctor’s eyes ranged round the table as if seeking a way out. Perhaps there were no pearls of Latin wisdom about Ireland, thought Eliza. But just then, rather alarmingly, the doctor’s gaze came to rest on her.

  ‘Well, now, young lady, and what do you have to say for yourself? You are looking forward, I’m sure, to Frau Kaufmann’s visit. A plucky girl, Frau Kaufmann. How she nagged me about that boy Richard. There was one occasion when—’

  Dr Camborne was cut short once more, this time by Mama, who began to get to her feet, the signal that dinner was over. Kolya jumped up to pull out Mama’s chair, a characteristically unexpected gesture which made Eliza smile. Roderick, meanwhile, was lending Rosa a hand even though he knew it would irritate her. ‘Women are not flimsy, helpless creatures, Roderick. We can fend for ourselves, you know.’ It was just as well, thought Eliza, for there was no one to help her: she had to get out of her seat by herself.

  In the drawing room, Mama took up her cross-stitch and Rosa opened the newspaper as they waited for the gentlemen to join them. Eliza was restless, wandering around the room. She couldn’t bear to listen to anything more from Dr Camborne. It was utterly disheartening, the way he summarized life in a few short Latin phrases.

  When Mama became absorbed in a particularly fiddly bit of needlework, Eliza took the opportunity to slip behind the curtains and silently open the French windows. She stepped onto the terrace. She breathed in, smelling grass and pollen and the faint scent of flowers. She breathed out, expelling the miasma of a long, boring dinner.

  Leaning over the parapet, she surveyed the summer twilight. On the far horizon to her right, a fading residue of the vivid sunset was sliding slowly beneath the rim of the world. The first faint stars were glimmering high above. She tried to gauge her state of mind – not an easy task these days. She was happy of course to have Roderick home now that he’d finished with Oxford; she was happy that Kolya had come and that Dorothea would soon be on her way. So why did she feel that – oh, what was it she felt?

  A faint sound wailed through the gathering dusk like the cry of some plaintive animal calling in answer to her mood. It was the hoot of a far-off locomotive: a train must be passing on the Lawham branch line. She could see it in her mind’s eye steaming through the gloaming, lights showing in the long carriages. She populated it with passengers invented off the top of her head: a woman with a covered basket on her knees; a stately man with a top hat and a cane; a boy in school uniform. The basket held a live chicken. The cane was shod with silver. In the boy’s pocket nestled a sling. Where were they going, these people, so late and so lonely? To Broadstone or Leamington or Timbuktu? How she longed to go with them. How she long to share in all the excitement of other people’s lives.

  Discontent stirred within her. Why go back into the stuffy drawing room? Why not rebel, like the rebellious Irish?

  She took off her shoes and her stockings, rebelling. She ran down the steps. The grass was cool and damp and strange against her bare feet. Worms oozed in the mire. Beetles scuttled. She outfaced them, she was not afraid.

  She climbed the fence into the Old Close. The last dregs of daylight were draining from the sky. Everything was mysterious and half-known as the dusk deepened. Here was the gate leading onto the bridleway. There was Becket’s little cottage, one dim light showing in a downstairs window. The archway leading into the stable yard was like a yawning mouth opening onto a black pit. In the brick wall opposite was a rickety wooden door leading to the gardens. She pushed it open. She plunged headlong through.

  The dark was thick and black beyond the wall. She felt her way, treading gingerly, her toes curling. The scent of rosemary and of sage rose to greet her: Becket’s herb garden. There was lavender, too, rich and fragrant, the long stems brushing against her. She had reached the notorious lavender jungle, she told herself: she was a bold and fearless explorer, stepping off the edge of the map. And what was this, looming in the shadows? Ah, the potting shed, I presume!

  No: not the potting shed. A gilded palace. A gilded palace long forgotten, lost in the depths of the jungle. She was the first to rediscover it – she, the bold explorer. (Could girls be explorers? But girls could do anything, everything: that was what Rosa said.)

  The gardens were a whole world, measureless in the dark. Rookery Hill was lost in the night, a myth on the border of knowledge; the village was as remote as the stars. The faint sound of the church bell striking the quarter-hour was a message from the far-flung reaches of the universe, from the infinite deeps of time. What did it say, this message? The nights are steeped in the peace of ages. England lives on. England endures. Forever and ever, amen.

  The sound of the chimes faded. There was a rustle in the dark. Something moved, a sliver of blackness. A lion, perhaps, or a tiger. She tracked it across the flower beds, she stopped to sniff a rose, she ran on, bent double. It was in her sights now, the lion, the tiger. She leapt forward. She scooped it into her arms. It writhed against her, a bundle of warm fur.

  Pressing her face into the cat’s soft body, she whispered, ‘Oh, Whisky, Whisky! My, how you’ve grown!’ My, how you’ve grown: it was what grown-ups always said. It was what Dorothea would say the day after tomorrow. Eliza tingled all over at the thought of Dorothea at Clifton.

  With the cat in her arms, Eliza paced the cinder paths until she reached another doorway. She looked out. There was the house framed against the dark; the spreading boughs of the cedar tree reached out like supplicating arms towards the bright lights of the windows.

  The front door opened. Yellow light spilled down the steps and pooled on the gravel. At the same moment Billy Turner appeared out of the shadows to the right with Dr Camborne’s old horse and gig. The gig creaked and rattled. The horse plodded. A wise old beast, Billy called it: ‘He’s had to find his own way home on many a night, haven’t you, boy!’ Dr Camborne now emerged, tottering down the steps as Basford looked on, silhouetted in the doorway. Billy helped the doctor into the gig, handed him the reins, stepped back.

  ‘Gee up!’ The doctor’s voice sounded sharp and savage in the wide silence. The gig moved off. It turned into the drive. It disappeared from view. The sound of it slowly faded into the night.

  Billy and Basford exchanged a few words, chaffing each other, amiable and careless, so different from how they usually spoke. Or maybe, thought Eliza with a pang: maybe this was how they really were and what she knew of them was false, all false. If only . . . oh, if only. . . .

  Billy went lumbering off towards the stables. Basford for a moment paused with one hand on the door, looking up at the stars meshed in the branches of the cedar tree.

  ‘I have to go now, Whisky. I have to go.’ Eliza let the cat leap from her arms. ‘Goodbye, Whisky! Goodbye!’

  She ran. The gravel hurt her feet. But this was her last hope: she must reach the house before the door shut or she’d be lost in the dark forever! Already Basford was turning to go.

  ‘Basfor
d, wait!’ She flew up the steps, she slipped breathlessly through the narrow gap. ‘Oh, Basford – Herbert – thank goodness! I was about to be marooned on a dark continent, the prey of lions and tigers and nameless savages!’

  Basford broke into a grin as he shut and locked the door, eyeing her bare feet. ‘You’re a wild one, Miss Eliza, no two ways about it!’

  ‘I’m an explorer, Herbert. An adventurer. Girls can do anything now, didn’t you know?’

  ‘She’s here! She’s arrived!’

  Eliza flew down the stairs. The front door was open, Mr Ordish and Mrs Bourne in attendance. Eliza hung back, inexplicably shy. She could see through the doorway Mama standing statuesque on the steps. Kolya was there with a book in his hand. Roderick and Rosa were side-by-side. As the motor appeared at the head of the drive and turned towards them, rounding the cedar tree, Roderick put his arm round Rosa as if staking his claim. Or could it be that he was nervous too? Was this possible in someone as dauntless as Roderick? Rosa, who might have been expected to begrudge such a proprietorial gesture, seemed to acquiesce instead, leaning against him a little as she had leant against him in the hallway at 28 Essex Square all that time ago. Eliza wished that she had someone to lean on, someone’s hand to hold.

  The motor came to a halt at the foot of the steps. Jeff Smith opened the door. A lady in a cream travelling coat and a feathered hat got out. Was this really Dorothea?

  The lady stood for a moment looking up at the front of the house just as Mama had done last September on returning from Scarborough. Then she turned to Jeff Smith. She touched his arm. She spoke a few words. She raised a smile even on the poker face of the self-important chauffeur. So it really was Dorothea, the same Dorothea, working her magic as of old.

  Up the steps she came. She crossed the threshold thronged about with people.

  ‘And here you are, Eliza! I couldn’t see you at first. Let me kiss you, dear Eliza. Goodness, how you’ve grown! You must be taller than me now.’

  ‘Come, Elizabeth, let Dorothea get by.’ Mama eased Eliza aside. ‘Tea is ready in the drawing room.’

  Cook had done them proud. There was a mountain of sandwiches. There were innumerable cakes. Mama poured tea, presiding.

  Dorothea was the centre of attention. Her journey had been long and tiring but it was worth it now seeing them all again. It was a great pity that Johann at the last moment had been unable to come too: something to do with his medical training. But he had pressed his wife to go ahead with her plans, which was very typical of him: no one could be kinder or more thoughtful. They would see for themselves when they came to Hamburg. They must all come to Hamburg. Why not next summer? Hamburg was at its best in summer.

  Clifton was just as Dorothea remembered, the village too from what little she had seen driving through. But there had been changes, of course. Roderick had finished with Oxford and was now a married man: what a surprise that had been! Rosa, naturally, was a most welcome addition to the family. And they were expecting a child. How lucky they were! A baby was such a blessing!

  ‘I have been taking my life in my hands teaching Antipov to drive,’ said Roderick. ‘Yesterday we drove right through a hedge and over a flock of sheep.’

  ‘After the baby is born,’ said Rosa, ‘you must teach me to drive too, Roderick.’

  ‘Oh, I must, must I?’ Roderick’s dark eyes flashed as he looked at his wife in a way that would have made most people quail but Rosa seemed quite unconcerned. Was it possible, Eliza wondered, that Roderick had met his match?

  Roderick turned back to Dorothea. ‘Are there motor cars in Hamburg, Doro? I expect it’s a beastly place, still in the Middle Ages: no wonder you have come hurrying home.’

  ‘Dear Roddy, still the same as ever: how I have missed your teasing! But I’ve been married two years. I have hardly come hurrying back. Hamburg now is home for me.’

  Mama brought teatime to an end. ‘We have a room ready for you, Dorothea.’

  ‘I was thinking, Aunt: if I may, I would like my old room in the nursery.’

  By all means, Mama said: whatever Dorothea wanted.

  Dorothea smiled at Eliza. ‘It will be just like the old days,’ she said.

  ‘I am taking my dog out,’ said Roderick next morning after breakfast, ‘if you’d like to come, Doro.’

  ‘There’s nothing I’d like more. And you must come too, Eliza.’

  But Eliza felt rather a spare part trotting along with Hecate at their heels as they strolled past Becket’s cottage and turned right, passing through the kissing gate and taking the path that led up Rookery Hill.

  Roderick flung a stick for Hecate. ‘You have arranged things very nicely, Doro: you will be here for my birthday.’

  ‘The eighth: I haven’t forgotten.’ Dorothea held up her skirts to negotiate a steep section of the path, taking it in her stride. ‘You will be twenty-two, all grown up. From what I hear, you are planning to take the helm at Uncle Albert’s businesses.’

  ‘Perhaps not quite yet. I’ve a lot to learn. No good trying to run before I can walk.’

  ‘Goodness! I was wrong about you, Roddy. You are not the same. You used to know it all.’

  ‘I shall ignore that remark. I shall rise above it. I shall tell you instead about the estate: I’ve been looking into the estate. I daresay it hasn’t been properly run since Grand-father’s day in the 1880s. The estate agent is too busy with his own allocation at Home Farm to worry about the rest. Things drift. Nothing gets done. That is where I come in. Land can’t be made to pay, I’m told. But it must be worth a try. Rents need reviewing, there are repairs to be done, everything must be put on a proper footing.’

  Dorothea glanced at him curiously. ‘You have never bothered with the estate before.’

  ‘Ah, well, now that my son and heir is on the way—’

  ‘What if your son and heir turns out to be a girl?’

  ‘I shall sell her into white slavery and try again. Girls – as I’ve often told you in the past, Doro – are a waste of space.’

  They were laughing together as they toiled up the last green slope. Eliza followed them to the brow of the hill. The tall poplars rose behind them, the view was spread out before them, vast and clear under a cloudy yet bright sky. There was haymaking going on in the fields beyond the Lawham Road, the workers like matchsticks. Nearer at hand, Eliza could see the gables and chimneys of Home Farm where the agent lived who was too busy to bother with the estate.

  As Roderick wrestled a stick out of Hecate’s mouth, Dorothea murmured, ‘There is so much to do, so many people I want to see, the village. . . .’ But, shading her eyes with her hand, she was gazing out not at the village but at the rounded summit of Windmill Hill in the distance with the green smudge of Grange Holt at its foot. The house of Hayton Grange, home to the Fitzwilliams, was invisible from this angle.

  Roderick threw the stick. It traced a great arc through the air. Hecate, barking, went bounding after it down the hill. Shoving his hands in his pockets, Roderick frowned as he stared at the wide panorama. ‘Is this all there is?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Dorothea. ‘What more could you want, the heart of England in high summer? And you’ve a wife now, and a baby on the way, and the fac-tories and the estate: plenty to be getting on with.’

  ‘Yes, I know, my cup runneth over: I ought to be glad. But there are times when I feel . . . I don’t know . . . as if I want to do something. You’ve had your big adventure, Doro: your Teuton and Hamburg. What is there for me? Nothing.’

  ‘I didn’t want to leave. I would have lived happily at Clifton forever if Johann hadn’t happened along. It was love that changed things.’

  ‘I want more, Doro: more than this.’ Roderick wrinkled his nose, kicking at the grass. ‘Oh, don’t mind me. It’s just talk. It doesn’t mean anything. I’ll buckle down when it comes to it, you’ll see.’

  ‘I know you will,’ said Dorothea. ‘I’ve always believed in you, Roddy.’

  She threaded her ar
m through his and they turned away, Roderick whistling for Hecate as they made their way between the poplars. They had slipped easily into their old intimacy as if Dorothea had never been away.

  Left on her own, Eliza looked down at the grey house, her home, half-hidden by the trees: firmly fixed; a lasting part of the landscape. It will be like the old days, Dorothea had said. But it wasn’t. Eliza in the old days had never imagined that the old days would end, whereas she knew that this here and now was just a passing moment: all too soon, Dorothea would be gone again. What would happen after that? Roderick had Daddy’s factories, had the estate, his future was mapped out. What was her portion; what did the future hold for her? She must sit, she supposed, and be decorous, twiddling her thumbs until the time came when she must get married. And who would she marry? She couldn’t think of anyone she liked even half enough to marry them.

  She had been so pleased with herself the other evening, stirred by the sound of the distant train, imagining herself an explorer. But the dark continent had not been real and the half-heard train had steamed off without her. A year ago in the moonlight she had walked as far as the canal without giving it a thought; now she didn’t dare leave the gardens unless someone went with her.

  Girls could do anything. But how to begin? She felt as if she was set on a course that couldn’t be altered. She lacked the courage to do so. It would take an upheaval as big as an earthquake to make a difference. But nothing would ever shake the foundations of Clifton Park that were so deep-rooted and enduring.

  ‘Here is a note from Colonel Harding,’ said Mama, unfolding a piece of paper brought in on a tray by Mr Ordish, as they sat in the morning room after breakfast. Another Wednesday was upon them: the days of Dorothea’s visit were passing all too quickly.

  Roderick looked over the top of the newspaper. ‘A note from Colonel Harding? Oh, lord, what does he want?’

  ‘He suggests an expedition,’ said Mama, her eyes scanning the piece of paper.

  ‘An expedition,’ scoffed Roderick.

  ‘An expedition,’ repeated Mama, not looking up, ‘to the Eidur Stones. To mark the bank holiday. And – oh – in honour of your visit, Dorothea.’