He approached the A39; pausing at the junction to watch the swallows skimming in the sunshine above the quiet fields, and then driving the short distance to the turning to Selworthy. For the first time since he had been coming here, the church car park was empty. He got out and shut the door, staring across the vale towards Dunkery, rinsed rose and gold with early morning sunshine. He crossed the narrow lane and climbed the steps into the churchyard, turning left and bending his head as he passed beneath low, over-arching branches of the great yew tree. He wandered over the mossy grass amongst the grey headstones, not knowing where to look for the little cherub with his stone vase. He knew where Milo’s family was, grouped on the west side, and he paused here and there, reading the names until he saw with a shock her own name: Helena. It was carved beneath the words: ‘In Memory of Miles Grenville who died at Bloemfontein 1860 – 1900 and his beloved wife Helena 1872 – 1925’.
He stared at it; oddly shocked and confused by this stony manifestation of her existence and paying his own quiet homage. After a while he grew conscious of a bird singing in the trees nearby and he raised his head to glance around for it; he left the grave and walked slowly along the wall where ivy clambered and some young ash trees grew. Behind their twisting roots, beneath the ivy’s straggling branches, the cherub lay under the wall: chipped and rubbed, he was barely visible. Matt crouched, staring at him, and then he reached to pick him up, lifting him out gently so as to study him more closely. There was no inscription, no dates or names; only the cherub, his wide, blind eyes looking past Matt’s shoulder, his lips curved in a smile.
As he crouched there, an idea presented itself, shadowy at first but becoming clearer. He stood up, still holding the cherub, and walked among the grassy paths: here it was. ‘In Memory of George Grenville 1890 – 1919’. The small blond boy who had played with his toy engine at the Summer House, more than a hundred years ago. Matt stood silently, saluting him across the years, and then made his way back beside the wall, pausing to gather some buttercups. He went once more to Helena’s grave, scattered the buttercups over the close-cut grass beneath the headstone and turned away.
He wasn’t at all surprised to see Lottie strolling down the drive with Pud running ahead. Matt stopped the car at the turning down the avenue to the Summer House and went to meet them.
‘I think I know,’ he told her. ‘I think I’ve guessed the truth at last, Lottie.’
He was shivering with emotion and she took his arm. ‘Can you tell me?’
‘Of course I can, I want to. Can you come back with me now?’
She nodded. ‘You go on and we’ll catch you up. We shan’t be long.’
She was right. He needed to look again at the painting, and to put the chairs on the veranda; even make some coffee. He was aware that he was setting the scene, and marvelled at this detachment that, even in a moment of such overpowering excitement, insisted that he must somehow tell it as a story. He was ready for her when she came round the side of the house. The two high-backed wicker chairs were in place with a table between them holding a pot of coffee, two mugs and the paintings.
‘Pud’s foraging,’ she said, sitting down. ‘So tell me.’
He pushed the painting of the cherub towards her and poured some coffee. She lifted it, turning it so as to study it, and then looked at him questioningly. He passed her the two other paintings of the little boy.
‘All three of them have something extra,’ he said. ‘Can you see what it is?’
She looked again, moving the paintings to and fro; then her face changed and she stared up at him, her eyes bright with discovery.
‘There’s another child,’ she said. ‘Like a little ghost in the background.’
‘Exactly. A little ghost. D’you know what I think? I think this little boy, George, had a twin who died. Helena paints him in with George here at the Summer House and in the garden. See him just there in the shadows of the hedge? I think he was probably stillborn and they simply took his body away and disposed of it. I think the cherub is his memorial.’
He reached down beside his chair and lifted the little stone cherub up. ‘He was in the churchyard, down by the wall. I think she put him there in memory of George’s twin, hidden under the wall because she couldn’t give him a proper grave. But some trees have grown up and their roots had knocked him over. It was only because I was looking for him that I saw him.’
Lottie took the cherub very gently: she touched his stony scars and ran her finger round the chipped rim of the vase.
Matt watched her. ‘She couldn’t forget him, you see. Like Mum.’
Lottie’s hands were stilled; she frowned at him.
‘Yes,’ he said urgently. ‘That’s the whole thing. Like Mum, Helena had twins and one died, but she couldn’t forget him. She grew reclusive and shut herself up here but little George was a constant reminder of the child she’d lost. Don’t you see? That’s the connection I can feel. I think I had a twin who died. It explains my sense of loneliness, as if something is missing. And my nightmares and memories where I can feel as if I’m being separated from someone and see my own face in a mirror-image.’
‘There was a child,’ remembered Lottie, still cradling the cherub. ‘When I asked Tom why Helen was so melancholic he said that she’d had a miscarriage.’
‘Did he, though? Are you certain that those were the words he used?’
‘You mean he might have said that she lost a baby and I immediately assumed that it was a miscarriage?’
‘It’s what we all believed, wasn’t it? We grew up remembering some distant mention of Mum losing a baby and, for some reason, imagining that she’d miscarried. And nobody was ever allowed to talk about it. Supposing I’m right, and that I had a twin who died when he was very small and she simply couldn’t bear it? And then Dad was killed and she just completely lost it? She wouldn’t talk about the past, would she? Her face would go all stony and angry. And I would have been a constant reminder of him, wouldn’t I?’
Lottie was frowning thoughtfully. ‘Yes, you would. And so the photographs … ?’
‘Helena painted George’s twin into the pictures. He’s always there with him. Supposing those photos Mum took of me was her way of remembering my brother? She put me in different clothes, and in different backgrounds, pretending that he was there but in a slightly different world. That was why Im was never there with me. Mum couldn’t have pretended so well then, could she? Painting lends itself so much better to the fantasy.’
He drank some coffee, his hand trembling. The solution to this long-carried burden seemed like a miracle; a promise of peace at last. Lottie was watching him compassionately. She set the cherub on the table between them.
‘I believe that you’re right, that you had a twin—’
He broke in eagerly, ‘I just feel it so strongly. As if Helena’s here trying to tell me, and to ask me to remember George’s twin. We could ask Milo about it, couldn’t we? But I don’t want anyone else to know about me yet.’
‘Not even Im?’
He hesitated. ‘Not quite yet. I need to accustom myself to it. Although, to be honest, it seems so right and natural that it’s hardly even a surprise. Just a huge relief.’
‘You must tell her when it’s right for you.’ She drank some more coffee whilst he gazed unseeingly across the garden, wrapped in thought. ‘I must get back to breakfast. Venetia will be wanting her morning cup of tea.’
They both stood up, and she embraced him, holding him tightly for a moment. He smiled down at her wordlessly, and she gave him a little smiling nod in return, and then went away along the terrace and round the side of the house, calling to Pud. Matt watched her go, then he picked up the little cherub and went into the house. Gently he washed the mud and stains from the rough stone and dried it with a soft cloth. Carrying the cherub he wandered through the house, looking for a suitable place for him.
He climbed the stairs, which turned halfway up and then led on upwards to the broad landing, and here
he paused. He’d set a small sofa before the wide window, with a little table beside it holding books and magazines. Now he placed the cherub on the windowsill, half turned so that his smiling gaze looked out upon the garden, and then he sat down on the sofa and made his own quiet act of remembrance.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The weather turned chill and wet, and cold winds from the south-east battered the new, delicate blossoms. For two weeks Venetia’s outings in the wheelchair were rare but one morning, when the icy wind had shifted to the warm west, Milo took her to Dunster. Inside her little house again, Venetia looked around with pleasure; she’d missed it more than she’d realized. Whilst Milo was bending to pick up some letters from the hall floor, she limped into the sitting room wrapped all about with a warm sense of homecoming. She stood, leaning on her stick, surprised that she should feel quite so strongly. After all, she was very happy at the High House with Lottie and Milo – glad to be safe and to be cared for – and yet, now, she suddenly longed to be home again. She’d missed those little impromptu lunches with her friends; bridge sessions followed by some supper by the fire; watching whatever she chose on the television. Milo was a darling, but he tended to have strong, disapproving views on her favourite soaps, and he always hogged the remote. Lottie didn’t seem to care much – she usually had her head in a book – and she’d found it just a tad embarrassing to say that her favourite programmes were the very ones that Milo considered suitable only for the mentally deficient. Thank God he loved The Archers. And she’d been rather put out by his tendency to silence at breakfast. She hadn’t suspected that he was one of those grumpy types who retired behind the newspaper. Luckily, Lottie was quite prepared to be sociable over the toast and completely ignored Milo’s patently paper-rustling irritation at their cheerfulness and bursts of laughter.
Venetia hobbled back into the hall. She could see now that it wasn’t all jam living with Milo, though Lottie seemed perfectly happy in her odd, detached kind of way. As for herself, well, it might be very nice to have them both close at hand for company, and in an emergency, but she knew now that she’d be looking forward to coming home again. She followed Milo into the kitchen.
‘I’ve checked everything,’ he said. ‘No problems. I’ve left the garden door open. I thought you’d like to look outside. ’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I would.’ Her dear little garden, surrounded by its high stone walls, hardly big enough to grow anything more than the climbers: delicate, purple-flowered clematis alpina, white jasmine with its trumpet-shaped flowers and twining stems, and the honeysuckle that scrambled over the roof of the little stone shed, and whose scent she loved.
Today, with the strong westerly wind buffeting the town, the garden remained protected from the wind; warm and sheltered.
‘You’ll soon be able to come home.’ Milo stood at her shoulder. ‘No point in trying to rush it, though. You’ve got to be properly recovered, but you’ll want to be here for the summer.’
She looked at him, wondering if he were speaking from his personal viewpoint or if he had sensed her longing to be back amongst her own things. He was looking around the little courtyard with approval, even affection, and she was unexpectedly overwhelmed with love for him. Oh, how confusing the emotions were, swinging first one way, then another.
‘It will be nice to be home,’ she admitted – trying not to sound too keen lest he should be hurt.
He raised his eyebrows as if surprised by her caution. ‘Of course it will. There’s nowhere quite like your own patch, is there? I’ll be able to help you with your tubs and pots and things. I know you like to make a bit of a show in the summer.’
‘Well, I do. There’s no space to make a proper border but I like to make a splash once the frosts are over.’
‘Well, we can do it together if you’d like that.’ He glanced at her sideways. ‘I promise I won’t interfere. I’ll simply take orders.’
She burst out laughing. ‘That’ll be the day,’ she observed caustically. ‘But, yes, that would be kind. It’ll be a bit tricky, one-handed, though I’m getting better so quickly now.’
They went back into the house and he locked the door. She limped ahead of him down the hall, pausing at the bottom of the stairs where she’d lain in such pain and terror. Panic seized her. Remembering the fear and helplessness of that moment she wondered if, after all, she should opt for safety and stay at the High House. She stood, gripping her stick, fighting down the panic: reminding herself that the little suite of rooms at the High House would be waiting for her if she were to need help or company. Her courage gradually reasserted itself and she straightened her shoulders: she wasn’t quite ready yet to give up her independence.
‘I shan’t attempt the stairs,’ she said. ‘Have you got my letters, Milo?’
‘In my pocket,’ he said. ‘Shall we go and have a drink in the Lutts?’
She considered his suggestion; a drink in The Luttrell Arms would be very pleasant, and perhaps lunch too. Milo had promised her a day out and she was determined to make the most of it.
The Dodger was watching Pud with great caution. Each time the older dog twitched in his sleep, The Dodger’s tail would thump anxiously. Pud, meanwhile, continued to slumber and presently The Dodger relaxed and he began to quarter the floor of the garden room, one eye on Pud’s recumbent form.
Im and Lottie watched, amused.
‘It’s so good for The Dodger to have Pud to teach him how to behave,’ Im said. ‘I think they really enjoyed the walk, didn’t they? Poor old Pud. The Dodger’s a bit of a pain but he’s very patient with him most of the time.’
‘He’s coming on very well,’ agreed Lottie. ‘It’s always useful to have an older dog to show a puppy the ropes, and it’s good for Pud too. The Dodger’s livened him up no end. How’s Jules?’
‘Fine. Listen, I’ve got some good news. The Websters have offered to let us buy the barn.’
‘Really? Oh, that’s fantastic. But how odd that they didn’t suggest you buy it at the start. Why now?’
‘I don’t know. I think that they’d got into the mindset of having a permanent tenant rather than holiday lets when they first suggested it to Jules, but probably, like most farmers at the moment, they’re a bit short of cash and so they’ve decided to sell it. I think they know that we wanted to buy, really, and they seem to like having us as neighbours. It’s just so brilliant because we love it so much but we never imagined they’d sell. It’s quite small, but that’s OK. I love where it is, and the views.’
‘So no regrets about the Summer House?’
‘None. The barn is just right for all of us, and I’m beginning to get my project going. You know? Sourcing Exmoor holidays for young families. There’s a lot to research but I’m really enjoying it. Hope it works.’
‘I think it’s a great idea. I imagine that you’ll be checking all the riding stables personally?’
‘You’re so right. I can’t wait to get on a horse again. I think I’m ready now. I had to get through that bit of being terrified of taking any kind of risk after Rosie was born but I’m over it now. Is Matt joining us for lunch?’
‘Yes, he is. He’ll be here any minute, I should think.’
The Dodger had found Pud’s ball. He butted it and it rolled away; he dashed after it and cannoned into Pud, who started up, alarmed, with a sharp bark. Rosie, who had been deeply asleep in her stroller, jerked into wakefulness, and Im sighed.
‘Our five minutes of peace and quiet are over. Can I help with the lunch?’
Im bent over the paintings, studying each one carefully. Beyond her, through the window, Matt could see Lottie and Rosie playing in the garden with the dogs. The garden room was full of bird song and sunshine, though the westerly winds still roared overhead.
‘And you really believe this?’ She raised her head to stare at him, shocked. ‘You think you had a twin who died?’
He nodded. ‘It all fits, if you think about it. It explains how Mum behaved with us; y
ou and me, I mean. I could remember, you see, how she used to be happy. I had memories of her playing with me and someone else and laughing, and then I realized that it was before you were born, so there must have been another child around. And it explains that feeling I’ve always had of being separated from someone.’
‘And how long have you suspected this?’
He shook his head, shrugged. ‘Not long. And yet I feel that I’ve always known it now. The fact that nobody ever talked about him didn’t help, of course. Memory needs feeding when you’re very small, doesn’t it? Anyway, a couple of weeks ago I found the paintings and I saw the little ghost-figure and that’s when I began to have this strong feeling that I identified in some way with it. I think George’s twin was stillborn, which is why there’s no record of him anywhere, apart from the cherub. Milo can’t remember ever hearing about him. But Helena would never have forgotten, would she?’
Im shivered; she wrapped her arms around herself and stared out of the window where Rosie was staggering, holding tightly to Lottie’s hand, and screaming with delight.
‘Of course she wouldn’t. Oh, Matt. How awful. Poor Helena. And poor Mum. But you think your twin lived?’
He nodded. ‘I remember him, you see. I remember watching her lifting him and swinging him up high, and I remember looking at him sitting opposite, in the bath or in the pram, perhaps, and it was as if I were looking at myself. Just glimpses, that’s all, but I’m sure of it now.’
She was silent for a moment. ‘But what would have happened to him?’
‘I guess that he died of some illness out in Afghanistan and she just couldn’t bear it afterwards. You know? Leaving him out there when we came home. I think that Dad asked people not to talk about it because it upset her so badly. And then he died out there too, and it was the last straw.’
‘Oh God, how sad it is.’ There were tears in her eyes. ‘How awful for you, Matt.’
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