As Mrs. Lister went on, Lila kept springing up, to look and see and touch, and my heart leaped into my cake-filled mouth, and I heard myself saying, just like one of those mothers in Fenwick department store, “Please, do sit down . . . Do sit still.”
“Oh, let her have a look,” said Mrs. Lister, smiling, enchanted. “Those are my dolls,” she said. “I’ve been collecting them since before I got married.”
I could tell Lila liked the china-faced dolls. And I could see that Mrs. Lister could tell, too.
“Which one’s your favorite, pet?” Mrs. Lister asked Lila.
Lila thought for a moment, then pointed to one.
“Ah yes, she’s lovely, isn’t she?”
Lila nodded. “She looks like a princess.”
“And you know, she probably was, pet—oh yes, she probably was.”
Lila turned to me. “Can we stay here, Mummy?”
“No. We can’t—we have to get on.”
“You could, you know,” said Mrs. Lister, glancing about her and wondering how it might be done.
“No, really, that’s very kind of you. But we have the dog, and I have a reservation at a hotel at Berwick.”
“Ooh, Berwick indeed!” said Mrs. Lister, as though the border town were the French Riviera. “Well, I can’t compete with that.”
“I don’t want to go to Berwick,” said Lila. “I want to stay here.”
I smiled at Mrs. Lister, already tearful. And then I rose to my feet.
It was too many cakes and biscuits and all those china dolls, I thought as I finally got Lila into the car. But Mrs. Lister hadn’t made it easy, and now, as she bent down and tapped at the passenger window, blowing kisses to Lila, and as I tried to say good-bye to her, she suddenly said, “Hold your horses a minute,” and scurried back into the cottage.
She emerged a few moments later with something shrouded in a linen tea towel, and I had an idea what it was. She opened the car door, lifted the towel and placed the doll in Lila’s eager hands. “That’s from me to you, my pet,” she said, wrapping her arms about Lila and shedding tears into her hair.
As we drove away, as Lila held her doll and looked back at Mrs. Lister—standing in the middle of the road and waving the towel in her hand—she sobbed. And I was surprised and unnerved by the strength of her emotion. I handed her my handkerchief; I said, “Sweetheart, why are you so upset?”
“Because she was lovely . . . That’s all.”
I nodded. She was; had always been. And as Lila’s tears abated, as she settled and then fell asleep, I decided I’d write a letter that very night. After all, Mrs. Lister did not like her sister’s house, and a summer in the Highlands with Lila, Rodney and me might be just the ticket.
We set off from Perth early and before lunchtime drew up outside the village store. When I emerged with our groceries, the first person I saw—the first person I recognized and remembered—was Mr. McNiven. With a hand pressed up to the window, he peered into the car, at the dashboard. Another motoring enthusiast, I thought, for even when I spoke—addressed him by name—he seemed more interested in the machine than in me. When he eventually turned, I could tell he didn’t know me, and why would he? But after I jogged his memory, he shook my hand so vigorously, I thought my arm might drop off. And as Lila skipped about the pavement with Sammy—the dog yapping excitedly and jumping up at the piece of shortbread in Lila’s hand—Mr. McNiven offered me his belated condolences, and then asked about Delnasay.
It was ours, I told him—nodding my head in the direction of Lila. Well, that was good, he said, because there had been rumors, lots of rumors. In fact, he himself had heard that the place had been sold to Germans, and his brother had heard it was to be turned into a hotel. No, I assured him, that was not going to happen. And then I was honest and told him that though I wasn’t sure how much time Lila and I would spend at the house, it would certainly not be sold. That was most reassuring also, he said, because the whole area was changing with new people—many of them foreigners—coming in, buying up places going cheap, and all of them with too much money and queer ideas. At least I think that’s what he said.
As he spoke, the woman who had served me inside the shop appeared in the doorway. She stood with her arms folded as I tried to reassure Mr. McNiven once more. “The old butler, Mr. Watts? And also the former cook—Mrs. Lister?” I said, trying to jog his memory. “They’ll be joining me soon . . . I’m sure you’ll remember them when you see them.”
“Aye, well, good luck to you,” said McNiven grimly, watching me as I opened the boot of the car and placed the groceries inside.
“I’m sure we’ll be fine, Mr. McNiven,” I said, slamming the boot shut.
Then the woman spoke. She said, “They came back, you know, the Campbells—after the war. But only the once . . . only the one time.”
I nodded. Rodney had told me he had returned to Delnasay with Hector and Ottoline the summer after the war’s end. But Ottoline hadn’t been well enough to entertain any houseguests, and returning there had not been a good idea. The place had been too quiet, held too many memories, he said.
“Aye, it’s a sad thing for such a bonnie place to have been deserted,” muttered McNiven, watching Lila and scratching his beard. “And not a living soul within its walls for two years.”
“Och, that’s not strictly true, Fraser McNiven,” said the woman. “Mr. and Mrs. Baxter have continued to look after the place regardless. Mind you, they’ll be anxious to speak with you—to know what’s happening,” she added, eyeing me.
“Yes, of course.”
I knew I needed to see the couple, the old retainers—the former gamekeeper and his wife—who lived at the gatehouse. I wanted to reassure them, wanted them to stay on.
“And there’s him down at the cottage.”
I stared at her: “Him—at the cottage?”
“Aye, keeps himself to himself. Bit of a recluse—a hermit, isn’t he, Fraser?”
“Shell shock, I reckon,” murmured McNiven.
“Which cottage?” I asked, looking from him to her.
“The old gamekeeper’s place,” said the woman. “He’s been there for a wee while now. How long would you say?” she asked McNiven.
The man scratched his beard again and drifted into ponderance. Lila skipped toward us with Sammy.
“Bonnie wee thing,” said the woman. I wasn’t sure if she meant the dog or Lila. “We do deliveries now, you know. You can even telephone in your order.”
“Six months? . . . Aye, maybe six,” said McNiven.
“Mummy?”
I looked at the woman. She seemed more compos mentis than McNiven—who continued with his calculations and murmurings about months. I said, “The man at the cottage—do you know his name?”
“Och, I wouldn’t know that, dearie. He’s only come in here the odd time . . . you know, for this and that,” she replied, wrinkling her nose.
I turned to McNiven, focusing on his tobacco-stained fingers as he worked them through his gray beard. And despite knowing it was impossible, despite knowing the name had been on a list, a list of dead, I still said it: “It’s not Mr. Stedman, is it?”
“Now then,” said McNiven, holding up a finger, determined not to be hurried, “was he Lady Ottoline’s cousin?”
“Yes—Ottoline’s cousin. Ralph Stedman.” My voice sounded desperate.
McNiven squinted up at the overcast sky; I stepped forward; he shook his head. “No, it’s not him. He was killed in the war. And both her sons as well.”
“Mummy!”
I opened the car door. Lila climbed inside with Sammy.
I raised my hand to McNiven and the woman. Or maybe I raised my hand to no one. Because they had both gone—disappeared by the time I climbed inside the car. And as Lila giggled and covered Sammy with kisses, I stared down at the dashboard, the steering whee
l. But my mind had gone blank. I couldn’t remember what to do next, how to drive. I heard Lila say, “Come on, Mummy.”
I turned to her. “I just need a moment.”
She reached over, placed a small sticky hand on mine. Tenderly, she said, “We’re nearly there . . . Not too much further now.” Words I had said to her for the last two hours.
Then, finally, it came to me: ignition, hand brake, clutch, gear- shift and accelerator.
All the way up the street and then on, along the hillside and narrow winding road, I replayed words, over and over. Yes, it was a man. He—not she. A hermit, she’d said. Shell shock, he’d said. And then I slowed, and then I stopped. Sure enough, smoke rose from the chimney. The place was inhabited. Someone was there. But he was killed in the war . . .
“What are you looking at?” asked Lila, sitting forward and peering through the windscreen.
“Just the view,” I said. “Isn’t it pretty?”
“I like the sheep,” she said. “Baa!”
I tried to laugh as we drove on—down the steep hill, over the bridge, through the pillared gateway, toward the castellated gables and oak front door.
“Here we are,” I said, coming to a halt.
And I was waiting for her to say, Mummy, I don’t like it, but instead she said, “Ooh, I like it. Yes, I like this place.”
I took the key from the envelope and unlocked the door. Walking back into that place was like walking back into a dream. Nothing had changed. The same boots were lined up on one side of the stone floor; the same tweed cloaks and raincoats hung on the stand; shooting sticks and canes huddled in the compartments beneath them. The walls in the main hallway were still painted yellow, still festooned with stuffed heads, antlers and weapons.
But the Baxters had done a good job, for although the place smelled musty and a little damp, it was surprisingly clean and tidy. I would get rid of the stag heads, and the weapons, I thought as I followed Lila up and down the stairs, as we unpacked the car and carried bags to our rooms, Sammy trailing in and out after us. And I would repaint it all—in time.
I took the bedroom I’d had before, and put Lila’s bag in the one next to it. Then I went down to the kitchen and did some reconnaissance, checking out the larder and cupboards. I wiped down the dusty surfaces before I unpacked our groceries; then I made us a meat paste sandwich and sat down at the pine table with Lila.
“It’s a bit bigger than home,” I said.
“But it has a nice feeling.”
“Really? Do you think so?”
“Mm.” She nodded, her mouth stuffed full. I waited as she chewed, watching her tiny, sweet jaw. “It doesn’t feel too big,” she said, agreeing with herself and then shaking her head: “Not like that other place.”
“Birling?”
“Yes, that place . . . That was a sad place.”
After lunch, I went to find the Baxters, but there was no one home, and so Lila and I took Sammy for a walk down the valley, following the rough road that ran adjacent to the river and turned into a track, then a path. We walked for an hour or so through sunlit pastures and shaded groves of birch and elder, their branches dipping into the crystal water, until we finally came to the clearing, the spot where Ralph and I had spent our last afternoon together. There we paused, and I sat down and watched Lila as she stood on the grassy bank, staring down into the river.
“Can we come here for a picnic, Mummy?”
And I longed to tell her. I longed to tell her about her father, how it was one of his favorite places, how alive and beautiful he’d been when he’d dived into that water and swum there—the last time I had seen him.
We walked back following the same path, and I watched Lila as I had watched Ralph—striding ahead, from time to time stopping to bend down and examine an insect, a cobweb, or look up at the hills. And as I stared at her long golden hair, hanging loose and already down to her waist, my heart performed an acrobatic flip—once, twice, thrice. Could McNiven be wrong? Could Ralph be alive and living at the cottage? Had he gone back there?
There was only one way to find out. But I couldn’t take Lila; I’d have to wait, find someone to mind her for an hour or so. Mrs. Baxter?
But the Baxters were still not at home, and so we returned to the house, removed dust sheets, brought in logs and laid fires. Around five we had tea, and sat outside with it so I could better see the gatehouse and the Baxters’ return. Around six, we made a list of everything we needed to buy for the place—and do. And then another: of our five most favorite people in the world. “But only grown-ups, Mummy.”
Lila’s list ran thus: Mummy, Sammy, Misses Lister, Amy, Mister Watts, Mertel.
And mine: Kitty, Ottoline, Amy, Rodney, Mrs. Lister. I missed out only one name.
Around seven, I suggested to Lila that she have a little explore of the gardens before bedtime and take Sammy with her. I gave her the whistle I’d bought at the shop. I said, “Don’t go far. Stay in the garden, please.”
I returned to the kitchen and fiddled about for a time, trying to quell an ever-growing nervous anticipation. Then I went back outside. I’d wait a little while longer, then try the gatehouse again, I thought. And I began pulling at weeds, deadheading the geraniums in the tubs on the step outside the front door. I could hear Lila—out of sight, but somewhere nearby—chastising Sammy for not doing as he was told. I smiled as I turned. The plunging sun was still warm, flickering above the hills and flickering beneath my eyelids when I closed them.
When I saw Mr. McNiven—walking up the gritted driveway, beneath the trees—I put my hand to my brow. And blinking into the sun, still smiling, I called out, “Hello again!” But nothing came in return. And then, slowly, as my eyes focused, as the figure emerged from the shadows and into the light, I saw that it was not McNiven. The man walking toward me was Ralph.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Golden-haired youth had gone, along with a broad-shouldered, muscular frame. It had been replaced with something leaner, more fragile and perhaps finer. A gray beard obscured his features, and yet that gaze, unforgettable and for so long cherished, was as intense as ever. I have no idea how long we stood there, staring at each other without any words. For both of us—and even time itself—seemed to seize up in that instant: Seasons unraveled in backward motion, too many to count. Years froze to seconds. And where and how could we begin? I was different to the girl he’d known in 1914, and he was a changed man.
“The geraniums . . . ,” he said at last, looking away from me to them, and without finishing the sentence.
“Yes,” I said, as though he had.
Then, after a second or two: “You’ve had your hair cut.”
“Yes.”
“It suits you.”
“Yes.”
“Very du temps, as they say in France.”
“Do they?”
“Moderne.”
“Yes, moderne. I suppose it is,” I said, locked, already lost, and then, reaching for my hair—and something else, something to keep me afloat—I went on. “There’s a woman. Well, not a woman. She’s more of a girl, really . . . who does it. Does it for me. In London. Where I live. Was living . . . What I mean is, before I came here.”
My stumbling was agony, but his eyes crinkled up into a smile, the lines around them etched deep. And because he didn’t speak, I continued on in that inane and meaningless staccato. “She’s really very good. Not at all expensive. Her mother takes in laundry, you know. And her father, he has—”
“Pearl,” he said, interrupting me. And that was all he said. My name. But the sound of it on his lips brought me back to the here and now, and to him.
I said, “I had no idea that you were . . .”
“Alive? Oh yes, still alive—just.”
“But you were on a list. One from Geneva.”
“So I heard. But it was an R. M. Stedman
. And I am R. S.,” he said, as though I needed reminding.
From the flagstones down onto the grit, I moved. And he, too, took another step—smiling, frowning—as unsure as I was.
Then came Lila’s voice: “Mummy . . . Sammy’s being very naughty.”
Ralph turned his head. I watched him take her in.
“He won’t come, Mummy . . . and this stupid whistle doesn’t work.”
Sulky-faced, bored and swinging the whistle about on its long string, Lila walked toward me. She wore the new floral dress I had bought for her at Liberty, violet colored like her eyes; her once white socks hanging about her thin ankles and brown with dust from our walk.
“This is Lila,” I said, and then, as she wrapped her arms around me: “Lila, this is Mr. Stedman. He is—was—Ottoline’s cousin.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said, wearily, perfunctorily.
Ralph stared down at her. “And it is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Morton.”
“Morton?” she repeated, unwrapping herself, wrinkling up her nose and giggling. “I am not Morton . . . I am Gibson!”
Ralph glanced at me, already a question in his eyes. I said, “We are Gibson, of course . . . Perhaps you have forgotten.”
“I heard otherwise,” he replied quickly.
“Morton!” said Lila again, still giggling. “Who is Morton?”
“Sweetheart, you really should go and find Sammy, you know.”
“Oh, he’ll come back,” she said, twirling the string and whistle about, staring at Ralph.
“Is Sammy your brother?” Ralph asked her.
Another peal of laughter. “No, you silly—”
“Lila!”
She glanced at me—and then she turned and looked at Ralph with new sympathy. “Sammy’s only a dog, really.”
Ralph slapped his forehead with his hand. “You’re right, I am a silly Billy, a complete and utter silly Billy.” Lila’s expression changed. She smiled at him in a different way. And I could tell already that she liked him, this disheveled, confused, self-confessed silly Billy called Mr. Stedman. She said, “Don’t worry, we all make mistakes—don’t we, Mummy?”
The Echo of Twilight Page 28
