by Kate Morton
This morning Ruth walked across the room, well dressed, immaculately groomed, but stiffer than a fence post.
‘Morning, Mum,’ she said, brushing cold lips across my cheek. ‘Finished your breakfast yet?’ She glanced at the half-empty glass before me. ‘I hope you’ve had more than that. We’ll likely hit morning traffic on the way and we won’t have time to stop for anything.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Do you need to visit the loo?’
I shook my head, wondering when I had become the child.
‘You’re wearing Father’s locket; I haven’t seen it in an age.’ She reached forward to straighten it, nodding approval. ‘He had an eye, didn’t he?’
I agreed, touched by the way little untruths told to the very young are believed so implicitly. I felt a wave of affection for my prickly daughter, repressed quickly the tired old parental guilt that always surfaces when I look upon her anxious face.
She took my arm, folded it over hers, and placed the cane in my other hand. Many of the others prefer walkers or even those motorised chairs, but I’m still quite good with my cane, and a creature of habit who sees no reason to trade up.
Ruth started the car and we pulled slowly into crawling traffic. She’s a good girl, my Ruth-solid and reliable. She’d dressed formally today, the way she would to visit her solicitor, or doctor. I had known she would. She wanted to make a good impression; show this film-maker that no matter what her mother might have done in the past, Ruth Bradley McCourt was respectably middle class, thank you very much.
We drove in silence for a way then Ruth began tuning the radio. Her fingers were those of an old lady, knuckles swollen where she’d forced on her rings that morning. Astounding to see one’s daughter aging. I glanced at my own hands then, folded in my lap. Hands so busy in the past, performing tasks both menial and complex; hands that now sat grey, flaccid and inert. Ruth rested finally on a program of classical music. The announcer spoke for a while, rather inanely about his weekend, and then began to play Chopin. A coincidence, of course, that today of all days I should hear the waltz in C sharp minor.
Ruth pulled over in front of several huge white buildings, square like aircraft hangars. She switched off the ignition and sat for a moment, looking straight ahead. ‘I don’t know why you have to do this,’ she said quietly, lips sucked tight. ‘You’ve done so much with your life. Travelled, studied, raised a child… Why do you want to be reminded of what you used to be?’
She didn’t expect an answer and I didn’t give one. She sighed abruptly, hopped out of the car and fetched my cane from the boot. Without a word, she helped me from my seat.
Ursula was waiting for us, a slip of a girl with very long blonde hair that fell straight down her back and was cut in a thick fringe at the front. She was the type of girl one might have labelled plain had she not been blessed with such marvellous dark eyes. They belonged on an oil portrait, round, deep and expressive, the rich colour of wet paint.
She smiled, waved, rushed toward us, taking my hand from Ruth’s arm and shaking it keenly. ‘Mrs Bradley, I’m so happy you could make it.’
‘Grace,’ I said, before Ruth could insist on ‘Doctor’. ‘My name is Grace.’
‘Grace,’ Ursula beamed, ‘I can’t tell you how excited I was to get your letter.’ Her accent was English, a surprise after the American address on her letter. She turned to Ruth. ‘Thanks so much for playing chauffeur today.’
I felt Ruth’s body tighten beside me. ‘I could hardly put Mum on a bus now, could I?’
Ursula laughed and I was pleased that the young are so quick to read uncongeniality as irony. ‘Well, come on inside, it’s freezing out. ’Scuse the mad rush. We start shooting next week and we’re in a complete tizz trying to get things ready. I was hoping you’d meet our set designer but she’s had to go into London to collect some fabric. Maybe if you’re still here when she gets back… Go carefully through the doorway now, there’s a bit of a step.’
She and Ruth bustled me into a foyer and down a dim corridor lined with doors. Some were ajar and I peered in, snatching glimpses of shadowy figures at glowing computer screens. None of it resembled the other film set I had been on with Emmeline, all those years ago.
‘Here we are,’ Ursula said as we reached the last door. ‘Come on in and I’ll get us a cuppa.’ She pushed the door and I was scooped over the threshold, into my past.
It was the Riverton drawing room. Even the wallpaper was the same. Silver Studios’ burgundy Art Nouveau, ‘Flaming Tulips’, as fresh as the day the paperers had come from London. A leather chesterfield sat at centre by the fireplace, draped with Indian silks just like the ones Hannah and Emmeline’s grandfather, Lord Ashbury, had brought back from abroad when he was a young navy officer. The ship’s clock stood where it always had, on the mantlepiece beside the Waterford candelabra. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to get it right but it announced itself an impostor with every tick. Even now, some eighty years later, I remember the sound of the drawing-room clock. The quietly insistent way it had of marking the passage of time: patient, certain, cold-as if it somehow knew, even then, that time was no friend to those who lived in that house.
Ruth accompanied me as far as the chesterfield then cast me adrift with an entreaty to sit while she found where the toilets were, ‘just in case’. I was aware of a bustle of activity behind me, people dragging huge lights with insect-like legs, someone, somewhere, laughing, but I allowed my mind to drift. I thought of the last time I had been in the drawing room-the real one, not this façade-the day I had known I was leaving Riverton and would never be back.
It had been Teddy I’d told. He hadn’t been pleased but by that time he’d lost the authority he once had, events had knocked it out of him. He wore the vaguely bewildered pallor of a captain who knew his ship was sinking but was powerless to stop it. He asked me to stay, implored me, out of loyalty to Hannah, he said, if not for him. And I almost did. Almost.
Ruth nudged me. ‘Mum? Ursula’s talking to you.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear.’
‘Mum’s a bit deaf,’ Ruth said. ‘At her age it’s to be expected. I’ve tried to get her in for testing but she can be rather obstinate.’
Obstinate, I own. But I am not deaf and do not like it when people assume I am-my eyesight is poor without glasses, I tire easily, have none of my own teeth left and survive on a cocktail of pills, but I can hear as well as I ever have. It’s only with age I have learned only to listen to things I want to hear.
‘I was just saying, Mrs Bradley, Grace, it must be strange to be back. Well, sort of back. It must spark all sorts of memories?’
‘Yes.’ I was aware that my voice was wispy. ‘Yes, it does.’
‘I’m so glad,’ Ursula said, smiling. ‘I take that as a sign we’ve got it right.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Is there anything that looks out of place? Anything we’ve forgotten?’
I looked about the set again. Meticulous in its detail, down to the set of crests mounted by the door, the middle one a Scottish thistle that matched the etching on my locket.
All the same, there was something missing. Despite its accuracy, the set was strangely divested of atmosphere. It was like a museum piece: interesting but lifeless.
It was understandable, of course. Though the 1920s live vividly in my memory, the decade is, for the film’s designers, the ‘olden days’. A historical setting whose replication requires as much research and painstaking attention to detail as would the recreation of a medieval castle.
I could feel Ursula looking at me, awaiting keenly my pronouncement.
‘It’s perfect,’ I said finally. ‘Everything in its place.’
Then she said something that made me start. ‘Except the family.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Except the family.’ I blinked and for a moment I could see them: Emmeline draped across the sofa, all legs and eyelashes, Hannah frowning at one of the books from the library, Teddy pacing the Bessarabian carpet…
‘Emmeline sounds like she must have been a lot of fun,’ Ursula said.
‘Yes.’
‘She was easy to research-managed to get her name in just about every gossip column ever printed. Not to mention the letters and diaries of half the eligible bachelors of the day!’
I nodded. ‘She was always popular.’
She looked up at me from beneath her fringe. ‘Putting Hannah’s character together wasn’t so easy.’
I cleared my throat. ‘No?’
‘She was more of a mystery. Not that she wasn’t mentioned in the papers: she was. Had her share of admirers too. It just seems not many people really knew her. They admired her, revered her even, but didn’t really know her.’
I thought of Hannah. Beautiful, clever, yearning Hannah. ‘She was complex.’
‘Yes,’ Ursula said, ‘that’s the impression I got.’
Ruth, who’d been listening, said, ‘One of them married an American, didn’t she?’
I looked at her, surprised. She had always made it her business not to know anything about the Hartfords.
She met my gaze. ‘I’ve been doing some reading.’
How like Ruth to prepare for our visit, no matter how distasteful she found the subject matter.
Ruth turned her attention back to Ursula and spoke cautiously, wary of error. ‘She married after the war, I think. Which one was that?’
‘Hannah.’ There. I’d done it. I’d spoken her name aloud.
‘What about the other sister?’ Ruth continued. ‘Emmeline. Did she ever marry?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘She was engaged.’
‘A number of times,’ Ursula said, smiling. ‘Seems she couldn’t bring herself to settle on one man.’
Oh, but she did. In the end she did.
‘Don’t suppose we’ll ever know exactly what happened that night.’ This was Ursula.
‘No.’ My tired feet were beginning to protest against the leather of my shoes. They’d be swollen tonight and Sylvia would exclaim, then she’d insist on giving them a soak. ‘I suppose not.’
Ruth straightened in her seat. ‘But surely you must know what happened, Miss Ryan. You’re making a film of it, after all.’
‘Sure,’ Ursula said, ‘I know the basics. My great-grandmother was at Riverton that night-she was related to the sisters through marriage-and it’s become a sort of family legend. My great-grandmother told Grandma, Grandma told Mum, and Mum told me. A number of times, actually: it made a huge impression. I always knew one day I’d turn it into a film.’ She smiled, shrugged. ‘But there are always little holes in history, aren’t there? I have files and files of research-the police reports and newspapers are full of facts, but it’s all second-hand. Rather heavily censored, I suspect. Unfortunately the two people who witnessed the suicide have been dead for years.’
‘I must say, it seems a rather morbid subject for a film,’ Ruth said.
‘Oh, no; it’s fascinating,’ Ursula said. ‘A rising star of the English poetry scene kills himself by a dark lake on the eve of a huge society party. His only witnesses are two beautiful sisters who never speak to each other again. One his fiancée, the other rumoured to be his lover. It’s terribly romantic.’
The knots in my stomach relaxed a little. So, she was going to treat the heart of their story in the usual manner. I wondered why I had supposed otherwise. And I wondered what sort of misguided loyalty had made me care either way. Why, after all these years, it still mattered to me what people thought.
But I knew that too. I had been born to it. Mr Hamilton had told me so the day I left, as I stood on the top step of the servants’ entrance, my leather bag packed with my few possessions, Mrs Townsend weeping in the kitchen. He’d said it was in my blood, just as it had been for my mother and for her parents before her, that I was a fool to leave, to throw away a good place, with a good family. He’d decried the loss of loyalty and pride, general in the English nation, and had vowed he wouldn’t allow it to infiltrate Riverton. The war hadn’t been fought and won just to lose our ways.
I’d pitied him then: so rigid, so certain that by leaving service I was setting myself on a path to financial and moral ruination. It wasn’t until much later that I began to understand how terrified he must have been, how relentless must have seemed the rapid social changes, swirling about him, nipping at his heels. How desperately he longed to hold onto the old ways and certainties.
But he’d been right. Not completely, not about the ruination-neither my finances nor my morals were the worse for leaving Riverton-but there was some part of me that never left that house. Rather, some part of the house that wouldn’t leave me. For years after, the smell of Stubbins & Co. silver polish, the crackle of tyres on gravel, a certain type of bell and I’d be fourteen again, tired after a long day’s work, sipping cocoa by the servants’ hall fire while Mr Hamilton orated select passages from The Times (those deemed fit for our impressionable ears), Myra frowned at some irreverent comment of Alfred’s, and Mrs Townsend snored gently in the rocker, knitting resting on her generous lap…
‘Here we are,’ Ursula said. ‘Thanks, Tony.’
A young man had appeared beside me, clutching a makeshift tray of motley mugs and an old jam jar full of sugar. He released his load onto the side table where Ursula began distributing them. Ruth passed one to me.
‘Mum, what is it?’ She pulled out a handkerchief and reached for my face. ‘Are you unwell?’
I could feel then that my cheeks were moist.
It was the smell of the tea that did it. And being there, in that room, sitting on that chesterfield. The weight of distant memories. Of long-held secrets. The clash of past and present.
‘Grace? Can I get you something?’ This was Ursula. ‘Would you like the heating turned down?’
‘I’m going to have to take her home.’ Ruth again. ‘I knew this wasn’t a good idea. It’s far too much for her.’
Yes, I wanted to go home. To be home. I felt myself being hoisted up, my cane thrust into my hand. Voices swirled about me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, to no one in particular. ‘I’m just so tired.’ So tired. So long ago.
My feet were aching: protesting their confinement. Someone-Ursula, perhaps-reached out to steady me, her hand grasping my arm. A cold wind slapped my damp cheeks.
I was in Ruth’s car then, houses, trees and road signs rushing past.
‘Don’t worry, Mum, it’s all over now,’ Ruth said. ‘I blame myself. I should never have agreed to take you.’
I put my hand on her arm, felt her tense.
‘I should have trusted to my instincts,’ she said. ‘It was stupid of me.’
I closed my eyes. Listened to the hum of the radiator, the pulse of the windscreen wipers, the drone of the traffic.
‘That’s it, you have a bit of a rest,’ Ruth said. ‘You’re going home. You never have to go back again.’
I smiled, felt myself drifting away.
It is too late, I am home. I am back.
The Braintree Daily Herald
17 JANUARY 1925
Preston’s Gorge Body Identified: Local Beauty Dead
The body found yesterday morning in Preston’s Gorge has been identified as that of local beauty and film actress, the Honourable Miss Emmeline Hartford, 21. Miss Hartford was reportedly travelling from London to Colchester when her car collided with a tree and rolled down into the gorge.
Miss Hartford was due to arrive at Godley House, the home of her childhood friend, Mrs Frances Vickers, on Sunday afternoon. Mrs Vickers alerted police when Miss Hartford failed to arrive.
An investigation will be held to determine the cause of the collision but police do not suspect foul play. According to witnesses, it was most likely the result of high speed and icy conditions.
Miss Hartford is survived by her elder sister, the Honourable Mrs Hannah Luxton, who is married to the Conservative Member for Saffron Green, Mr Theodore Luxton. Neither Mr nor Mrs Luxton were available for com
ment; however, the family’s solicitors, Gifford & Jones, released a statement on their behalf, asserting their shock and requesting privacy.
This is not the first tragedy to befall the family in recent times. Last summer, Miss Emmeline Hartford and Mrs Hannah Luxton were unfortunate witnesses to the suicide of Lord Robert Hunter on the grounds of Riverton Estate. Lord Hunter was a poet of some note and had published two collections of poetry.
THE NURSERY
It is mild this morning, a foretaste of spring, and I am sitting on the iron seat in the garden, beneath the elm. It’s good for me to get a bit of fresh air (so says Sylvia), thus here I sit, playing peek-a-boo with the shy winter sun, my cheeks as cold and slack as a pair of peaches left too long in the fridge.
I have been thinking about the day I started at Riverton. I can see it clearly. The intervening years concertina and it is June 1914. I am fourteen again: naïve, gauche, terrified, following Myra up flight after flight of scrubbed elm stairs. Her skirt swishes efficiently with every step, each swish an indictment of my own inexperience. I am struggling behind, my suitcase handle cutting my fingers. I lose sight of Myra as she turns to begin up yet another flight, rely on the swishing to lead the way…
When Myra reached the very top she proceeded down a dark corridor with low ceilings, stopping finally, with a neat click of the heels, at a small door. She turned and frowned as I hobbled toward her, her pinched gaze as black as her hair.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ she said, clipped English unable to disguise her Irish vowels. ‘I didn’t know you were slow. Mrs Townsend never said anything about it, I’m sure.’
‘I’m not slow. It’s my suitcase. It’s heavy.’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen such a fuss. I don’t know what kind of housemaid you’re going to make if you can’t carry a suitcase of clothing without lagging. You’d better hope Mr Hamilton don’t see you dragging the carpet sweeper around like a sack of flour.’
