by Ann Swinfen
The house was full of rustling paper and secrets. Frances had been well organised this year, buying her presents one by one as she saved enough from her pocket money and her newspaper round in the village. The most important presents were Hugh's and Gregor's. In a magazine in the newsagent's she had seen a brass compass – it was waterproof, with a heavy-duty case and a special kind of gimbals to hold it steady. It was very expensive, but when she had saved enough to buy it, she persuaded Dad to get it for her on one of his business trips to London.
'Hugh will love it, Franny, but are you sure you can afford it?'
'I'm putting all my money towards Christmas, Dad.'
'No crisps? No paperbacks? No nice new notebooks?' He knew her weaknesses.
'Nothing.' She grinned. 'Christmas is much more important!'
Gregor's present was not as expensive, but took more time. A craft shop in Hereford had bought in a stock of a new kind of modelling material which could be fired in an ordinary oven. Frances had seen Gregor looking at it longingly from the time it arrived, but he never seemed to be able to save his money the way she did. With Christmas on the way he had nothing to spare.
One afternoon after school, Frances sneaked off and went into the shop. There she discovered that you could buy a whole range of modelling tools, beautifully made out of smooth, pale wood. Each was double-ended. Some were rounded, some square, some pointed. Some had serrated edges. Some were pronged. The shopkeeper showed her the catalogue which pictured all the different tools, and got out the four types he had decided to buy. Immediately she knew that she must buy Gregor the whole set, as well as the modelling material.
'Could you get the others for me?' she asked.
The shopkeeper shook his head. 'I would have to order at least twenty of each.' Her face fell. 'But, tell you what. I'll give you the name and address of the company, and you can write to them yourself.'
She bought all the tools the Hereford shop could supply, and wrote to the manufacturer. No answer came for three weeks, then when they replied they said they did not deal with private customers – however, they were enclosing a list of local suppliers. Apart from the Hereford shop, the only one she could possibly reach was in Worcester.
The following Saturday she made an excuse to go into Hereford, and caught the train to Worcester. It took her a long time to hunt for the shop, but at last she found it, down a small side street, in the opposite direction from where she had first been directed. The kindly old lady who ran the shop shared her enthusiasm for the delicate wooden tools.
'Beautiful, aren't they?' She ran her finger along the silky wood. 'Almost seems a shame to use them for modelling and get them dirty! I couldn't resist them. I ordered the whole range, though it was daft – I'll never sell them. And you've come all the way over from Herefordshire, have you? Did you say they're for your brother?'
'Yes. Well, he's a sort of adopted brother. He's from Poland – he escaped during the war.'
The lady made clicking, sympathetic noises, and said she thought that as Frances was buying so many of the tools, she might manage a discount. Then she found a very attractive black leather case that had once contained a slide-rule.
'I never could bear to throw this out. I knew it would come in useful some day. My brother, now, he's a surveyor, and the slide-rule he kept in this case got broken once on site. I rescued the case and it's been lying in that drawer for twenty years at least. Look – they'll just fit nicely inside, and you'll have room for the ones you've already bought.'
Frances thanked her gratefully. The pale wood of the tools gleamed against the black velvet lining of the case. As the lady said, they looked almost too beautiful to use.
All her presents were wrapped now and hidden in her tower room, ready to bring down this evening and put under the tree. She shivered suddenly. She had been standing still too long. The sun had disappeared completely, and as she turned back to the house, she felt snowflakes brush against her cheek.
By the time she was crossing the lawn towards the terrace, the snow was falling heavily. The air was very still and the flakes tumbled down straight from the sky in great billowing cascades. It reminded Frances of a nursery rhyme book she had when she was little, where Mother Goose was shown shaking out feathers from pillows, which changed to snowflakes as they reached the earth.
The curtains in the drawing room were still open, so she could see the tree – nearly eight feet tall – standing just inside one of the french windows. For the first time ever there were electric Christmas lights on it, twinkling amongst the branches. The work on restoring the generator had been finished two months ago, in time for the winter, but Natasha had decreed that for Christmas, at least, they would still use the oil lamps and candles.
'It is very practical, I know, to have the electric light,' said Natasha, 'but I have grown used to the softer light here in St Martins. For Christmas, I think we will all be better without electric bulbs.'
Looking through the window now, Frances could see that the fairy lights were the only electric lights switched on. There was a big log fire burning on the hearth, and oil lamps on the mantelpiece and side tables. Mum was knitting, Mabel mending, and Dad reading the paper. At the far end of the room Natasha was talking to Birgit, who sat, as she always did, a little back from the group around the fire. On her lap she held Keith, the silent little boy who had turned up at St Martins a year ago. After long negotiations the authorities had allowed him to stay, and he followed Peter around everywhere. Stephen Howlett, one of Natasha's artist friends from the early St Martins days, had come back for Christmas and was standing on a step-ladder fixing a bunch of mistletoe to the new electric light fixture hanging from the ceiling. Peter was perched on another ladder, tapping in a nail to hold one end of a swag of greenery.
'Be careful,' Mabel called. 'Don't damage the beam.'
'Don't worry,' Peter mumbled through a mouthful of nails. 'They're small, and I'm putting them in the joints, up out of sight.'
Gregor and Hugh were lying on their stomachs in front of the fire, toasting crumpets, then buttering them and piling them up on a large platter. The glow of the fire lit up their faces and shone on Hugh's hair, dark brown, clasping his cheeks, and Gregor's, black and curly.
Frances came in through the french window, stamping the snow off her boots and brushing flakes from her eyelashes.
'It's snowing again for Christmas,' she said. 'Are any of those crumpets for me?'
* * *
'So you've been in Russia,' said Gregor.
'Yes. I'll tell you all about it when we can have some peace.' Hugh studied him thoughtfully. 'Have you ever thought of going back, Gregor? Visiting Poland, going to see your old home? Some people are even trying to reclaim property that was confiscated during the war.'
Gregor shook his head. 'I don't think I would ever want to go back. And I certainly don't want to reclaim our property. Too painful. Ever since you and Frances accepted me I have thought of this as my home. Nothing changes that.'
'I do understand, you know.'
'Of course you do. Off you go and see Natasha now. Look, the Laceys are leaving.'
Hugh walked slowly across to Natasha's table. He had to be exclaimed over and patted by Muriel, who was genuinely delighted to see him, and he promised Richard that he would come to matins the next morning and then have a tour of the railway collection.
When they had gone, he sat down with a sigh of contentment, and stretched out his legs in front of him.
'Tired?' asked Natasha.
'Mmm. A bit. It's the change of time zones too. It may be . . .' he looked at his watch, 'not quite ten o'clock here, but for me it's nearly one in the morning. I expect you're tired yourself.'
'Yes, but only happy-tired. It has been a wonderful day. I'm not too tired to hear your news.'
He looked at her sideways. She is remarkable, he thought. Her carriage is as upright as ever, her eyes unclouded. Her skin, perhaps, looked a little thinner, more fragile, than when
he had last seen her, but that was all. He drew in his legs and sat forward, taking both her hands in his.
'I want to tell you,' he said, 'about my trip to Russia.'
Chapter 14
A sliver of light showed under the door of Frances's tower room. Katya was sitting hunched up on the bed, dressed again in some of the layers of clothing she had been wearing in the morning, although she was still barefoot. She glowered at Frances as she came in, over the lumps of black and grey cloth clutched between her folded arms. One ear of a tattered teddy bear could just be seen peeping out. Frances avoided looking at it, sparing Katya her dignity.
'Hello, darling. You're looking rather glum.'
'Hasn't Natasha spoken to you then?' said Katya challengingly.
'Spoken to me about what? We've spoken about a lot of things today.'
'Obviously she hasn't.' Katya said witheringly.
'What is it, Katya?'
'Everything is just so horrible, but what do you care?'
'Horrible? I thought you looked as though you were enjoying yourself all day.'
'Oh, that. I'm always happy here. That's just the point.'
Frances suddenly felt very tired. She realised now what Katya was talking about, but she had not planned to have this discussion until tomorrow, when they would both feel less exhausted. She wasn't sure she could face it now.
'Oh,' she said, sinking wearily down on the old Lloyd Loom chair, which gave its familiar and comforting creak. She kicked off her shoes and looked at her feet. Her toe was coming through the right foot of her tights, and there were grass stains in a line above where her shoes had reached.
She drew a deep breath and tried at the same time to gather her wits together.
'You mean – about coming to live at St Martins?'
'She has spoken to you, then?'
'As a matter of fact, I was the one who raised it.'
'You?'
'Yes, me. I know you aren't happy in Reading. Would you like to come and live at St Martins?'
Katya sat bolt upright, and her bear popped up under her chin like a magician's rabbit out of a hat. 'Do you really mean it? Can I really?'
She flung herself across the room and on to her mother's lap. The weight – and astonishment – hit Frances like a stone, but the unexpected joy of holding her youngest daughter on her lap, big as she was now, was just as powerful.
Katya planted a large kiss on her mother's cheek, then she looked a little ashamed. 'It's not that I don't want to live with you, Mum. It's just that I don't want to live there. Couldn't you come to St Martins too?'
'I am coming.'
'Really!' Katya shrieked. 'But that's fab! What's going to happen to the house in Reading?'
'I expect it will be sold. But that isn't all, Katya.' Frances put her arms around her daughter and laid her cheek against the dark curls. 'Your father and I are separating. I am leaving him.'
'Oh,' said Katya quietly.
'I'm sorry, darling. I feel I've let you down.'
'Let me down?' Katya squirmed around and looked at her in astonishment. 'Don't be daft. More than half the people in my class have divorced parents or unmarried mums.' She looked grave. 'I've seen it coming, you know,' she said with dignity. 'I don't know why you didn't leave him years ago. I wouldn't stick with a bloke who was always having it off with other women.'
'Darling!'
'Oh, Mum, I'm not a child.' Katya threw out her arms expressively and her bear sailed across the room and landed by the door. They both began to laugh.
'Poor old Ted,' said Frances. 'I wondered where he'd got to.'
'He prefers living here too.' Katya smiled radiantly. 'Can we just stay on here after the weekend, and get a removal firm to send our stuff?'
'No, we cannot. You must finish your term at school.'
'Oh, Mum!'
'Oh, Mum yourself. You must do your end of term exams and tie up all the loose ends. It's only just over a month. Then I'll need you to help me pack everything up in tea-chests. Perhaps Tony will be able to give us a hand too.'
'OK. Can I tell people?'
'Just family for the moment.' She hugged her daughter briefly. 'Whatever you say, I do feel as though I've let you down. Marriage shouldn't be undertaken lightly, and when it fails both partners have to share the responsibility for the failure. I don't want your father blamed. I expect I was never the right person to be his wife.'
She bit her lip and looked beyond Katya, her eyes full of the past. 'Theatrical marriages are put under more strain than most – except perhaps marriages in the armed forces.' She sighed. 'I want to do this with dignity, and I hope that your father and I will be able to remain friends. If we achieved nothing else, we achieved five children, and we are both very proud of all of you.'
'I think you're super, Mum,' said Katya awkwardly. 'And I'll do everything I can to help. I know I've been a pest sometimes, but I really feel I can be a better person if we come to live at St Martins.'
Frances smiled and smacked her gently on her thigh. 'I expect we both can be. Come on, we ought to go down and help tidy up. You'd better put something on your feet. And I'm going to take off my tights and put on some trainers.'
'Have you got some shoes I could borrow? I think I'm going to give up my boots – they're a bit tacky.'
As they came into the main hall of the house the telephone was ringing, but Mabel, coming through from the kitchen, reached it before them.
'Yes . . . yes certainly. I'll fetch him.'
She laid down the receiver and called over her shoulder to Frances and Katya as she hurried back to the kitchen: 'It's the hospital. They want to speak to Paul.'
'Oh, Mum,' Katya looked conscience-stricken. 'I'd forgotten all about poor Lisa. Do you think she's all right?'
'Of course she's all right. They are probably just ringing with the latest bulletin.'
Paul shot out of the back passage drying his hands on a tea towel.
'Yes, this is Paul Fenway here . . . What! Already? . . . I'll be there in under half an hour.' He threw the receiver down and turned to Frances.
'Apparently she really is in labour and there isn't long to go. Why wouldn't they let me stay before? Why didn't they let me know sooner? God, I wanted to be with her all the way through.'
'Give me that,' said Frances, taking the tea towel out of his hands and passing it to Katya. 'Go and get your coat. I'll drive you – you're in no fit state.'
'I'm fine.'
'Just do as you're told, Paul. They can manage without me here. There's lots of people to help with the clearing and washing up.'
'I'll go and help,' said Katya. 'Tell Lisa I said to keep her chin up.'
Paul ran obediently upstairs for his coat and Frances unhooked hers from the cloakroom on her way out to the car. The keys clinked in the pocket. As she was unlocking her car she saw Nigel Laker coming across the stableyard with Alice. Neither seemed to be helping with the clearing up. But I suppose they are guests, she told herself severely, even if they are staying in the house.
'Mrs Kilworth,' said Nigel, startled, 'are you leaving?'
'No, just driving my son-in-law to the hospital. His wife's baby is on the way. I'm not sure how late it will be when I get back, so I'll say good-night.'
'I was going to ask you when we could have another meeting, to arrange a schedule for the shooting of the programme.'
'How about the weekend after next? A fortnight today? Fine. Down here.'
Paul came clattering out of the kitchen door and jumped into the passenger seat.
As Frances got into the car she could hear Alice as she and Nigel turned away toward the house: 'Babies, yuck! I can't stand them. Especially new ones.'
'Don't worry, Paul,' said Frances as she pulled out into St Martins lane. 'I know this route better than the back of my own hand – which I can't say I've ever paid that much attention to! At this time of night it will only take us twenty minutes.'
Paul wove his fingers together and stared out into
the night, which was blacker by far than it would be at home in Worcester. Apart from time spent on field trips, he had always lived in towns, and the denser darkness of the countryside never failed to surprise him. He tried to relax, and lowered his window so that he could look out at the stars.
'They always seem so much nearer in the country, don't they?' said Frances, as though she had read his thoughts. 'When I was a little girl and first came to live here from London I couldn't get used to the night sky. There must have been times during the blackout in London, when there wasn't a raid on, and you could see the stars, but I was probably tucked up in my bed then. The only nights I can remember were full of searchlights and fires and explosions. The quiet when we came to St Martins – it frightened me. And the huge stars – I thought I could reach out and touch them. I don't know what I was doing awake in the night. I was only four. But perhaps the unfamiliarity kept me awake. I remember watching the stars from the windows of my tower. I would pad round from one window to the other, looking out in all four directions at the different stars, and talking to them. I gave them all names.' She chuckled. 'I must have been quite mad.'
Paul smiled at her weakly. 'Probably the first sign of a scientific mind. I'm surprised you didn't become an astro-physicist.'
Frances gave a snort of laughter as she turned on to the back road from the village to Hereford.
'Heavens, I didn't give them scientific names! I thought they were people, looking back at me out of windows in the sky. I always wondered why I couldn't see the windows during the daytime. Not long after that I discovered an old book of Greek and Roman myths in the drawing-room bookcase – it had belonged to my grandfather, Edmund Devereux, Natasha's husband. You know, of course – he was killed in the war, shortly after we moved to St Martins to escape the blitz. It was a beautiful book, published at the end of the last century and bound in dark red leather tooled with gold. Now I come to think of it, it probably belonged to one of his parents. There were wonderful illustrations, each with a tissue paper sheet to protect it. I'd never seen a book like it, and it opened up whole new worlds. A lot of the myths, of course, relate to the stars – Perseus and Andromeda, for example, and Orion the hunter. The stories reinforced my own imaginings, and in a way, I suppose, started me on the road to becoming an historian.'
