“I can’t believe it,” I said. “It’s only been five years.”
“But a long five years,” Henry replied.
“Yes. A very, very long five years,” my mother whispered.
“Mrs. Cuthbert’s been wonderful, and Mabel’s come back to help too. She’s in the kitchen, I think. We’ve all worked jolly hard. You should’ve seen the place when we arrived here . . . it was bloody filthy,” Henry said and then laughed, but his laugh was forced and shrill.
My mother moved toward him, lifted her hand to his face, and stroked his cheek. She said, “Henry, my darling boy, your father would be so proud of you. This is not what he would have wished for, not what he would have wished to see happening, but he would be proud of you, my dear.”
But the atmosphere was strange, and Henry’s mood odd and unpredictable. He pulled away from her, began to rub the place she’d touched, as though wiping away something, as though in pain.
“It’s all right, Henry,” she said, in a barely audible monotone. “Everything is fine. All will be well.”
I suppose she knew the signs, even then; knew when Henry was about to have an attack.
“Clarissa, could you please ask Mabel to serve tea now. Henry and I will be in the morning room.”
I walked away, down the passageway toward the kitchen, and at the door I stopped and turned back to look at them. Henry’s head rested upon Mama’s shoulder, and I thought he looked as though he was crying. She was stroking his hair, whispering to him. It was the first time I’d seen what my mother would later refer to as Henry’s “panic attacks.”
The following morning I rose early. I’d decided to have a final ride across what was still our land, on Father’s old horse, Brandy. We’d always kept livestock at Deyning, always had horses. Before the war, before our younger horses went off to the front, I think we’d had over a dozen. But now there was only Brandy; and he, too, despite all my pleadings, was going to auction.
It was a bright morning, the stable yard filled with sunshine and the warm smell of manure. I saddled up Brandy myself, and as I stood in the shadows—on the mounting block—I was vaguely aware of someone out of the corner of my eye. I took no notice, thinking it to be one of the men from the village Henry had brought in to help clear the place up.
I mounted Brandy, gathered up the reins.
“Hello, Clarissa.”
It took me a moment to realize it was him. He looked so different: unshaven, shabby. And for a split second I thought I might be dreaming, that perhaps he wasn’t real, was a vision. I’d heard that sometimes—even when we’re least expecting it—we’re able to conjure up absent loved ones, like ghosts. He must have sensed my shock, because he grimaced as he turned away from me.
“Tom . . . I didn’t know . . . didn’t know you were here. No one said.”
He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking down at the ground. Then he raised his head and without turning to look at me, he said, “I think my congratulations are a little late, Mrs. Boyd.”
I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know what to say.
He moved across the cobblestones toward me, and I could feel my heart, pounding so violently I thought I might faint.
“I saw your wedding photograph, of course . . . in some magazine or other,” he said, standing in front of me, reaching out to stroke the horse’s nose. “And I wish you both well. Charlie’s a decent chap . . . and a lucky man,” he added.
He leaned forward, rubbing the side of his face against Brandy’s jaw. And I wanted to reach down, touch him; run my hand through his hair.
I said, “So, how are you? You look . . . a little different.”
He didn’t look up, but kept his face pressed against the horse.
“I am different,” he said. “And you are too, Clarissa.”
“Yes, we’re all changed, Tom. Life’s changed.”
He stepped back, raised his eyes to me. “It is. And times move on.”
“Yes, times move on . . . they have to,” I said, feeling that tug: a pull in my solar plexus. “And doesn’t it seem like a lifetime ago,” I continued, trying to sound like an old friend, “that we were all last here, all of us together?”
He stared at me. “Yes, a lifetime. It’s a different world.”
“A different world,” I repeated.
“But a lovely morning for a ride,” he added. Then he turned, walked across to the stable-yard gate and opened it for me. I pulled on the reins, moved across the cobblestoned courtyard, and as I passed through the gate I looked down at him and simply said, “Thank you,” the way I would to anyone. As I entered the meadow, looking out upon that place which had once been ours, I shut my eyes. Then I heard the clunk of the gate behind me—like a latch dropping on my heart—and I turned back, but he’d already disappeared.
My ride was not the ride I’d anticipated. All I could think of was him. Each point along the way led me back to him: every tree and field, each fence and gate and stile. Every familiar point on the horizon, memorized and cherished for the moments I’d spent there with him, or thinking of him; each landmark and vista reminding me of him. A white veil of mist hung over the lake, and beyond it, a windless, serene landscape: dreamlike and out of reach.
When I returned to the stables, an hour or so later, a young boy helped me to dismount and took Brandy from me. And I contemplated going to Mrs. Cuthbert’s cottage and knocking on the door. I wasn’t sure what I’d say, or even if he’d be there, but I wanted to see him, wanted to say so much. But how could I? And what was there to say now? I was married. I was Mrs. Boyd.
Over breakfast, and before Mama came down, I asked Henry what was to become of Mrs. Cuthbert. He told me she’d be fine; she’d stay on in her cottage, he thought; probably continue as housekeeper at Deyning. It wasn’t the right time to ask too many questions, and Henry didn’t seem to cope well with questions—so I tried to leave it at that. I tried but I couldn’t.
“I saw Tom Cuthbert this morning,” I said, as I buttered my toast.
“Oh yes,” Henry replied, from behind the newspaper.
“Has he been here for long?”
He lowered the paper, stared across the table at me. “He’s been here for years, Issa. You know that.”
“Yes, yes . . . I know he’s lived here for some years, but he went away to war too,” I said, wondering if Henry had somehow momentarily forgotten about the war. “What I meant was has he been back here long?”
“Oh, I’ve no idea. He’s certainly been around for the last couple of weeks, but how long before that I’m really not sure.” He shuffled the newspaper, folding it and laying it down next to him, then added, “Yes, now I come to think of it, he did ask after you.” He looked across at me and smiled. “You know I always had a hunch that he . . . rather liked you. Even looked a tad despondent when I told him you and your husband would be coming down.”
“Charlie had to stay in London . . . he’s still having treatment. And, anyway, he wouldn’t have been able to cope with the chaos and upheaval here.”
Mama had already informed me that our day was to be spent listing all of the items that were to be sent to London, and those that were to remain at the house to be auctioned. A full day’s work, she’d said to me the previous evening. I couldn’t disappear, and I knew that she would not be pleased to know Tom Cuthbert was about, back at Deyning. And, though I was worried about how she would react to that news, I decided I had to tell her I’d seen him; explain to her, prepare her. But the thought of uttering his name to her made me shake so much that when I lifted a slice of toast to my mouth I noticed my hand already trembling.
In the end it was easier than I’d anticipated. We were sitting in what was once her boudoir, ticking off items on Henry’s scrawled inventory.
“Yes, I knew he was here,” she said, without looking up at me. “How is he?”
“He’s . . . fine. Older, of course,” I said, surprised by her lack of reaction, her calmness.
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��How was he with you?” she asked, moving papers about.
“Perfectly fine. It was brief, Mama. We said very little, but he wished me well on my marriage.”
“Good,” she said, and then she looked up at me. “Do you still love him?”
I couldn’t quite believe she’d asked me that question, so boldly, so openly. And even now, I find it hard to believe that she did. For in those five words she finally acknowledged something: that I had loved Tom Cuthbert.
“I don’t know,” I answered, honestly.
“I do what I think is best for each of you . . . both of you,” she said, lowering her eyes again. “It could never have come to anything. But I think you realize that now.” She peered at me, over her spectacles, and I could tell she wasn’t quite finished. “You’ve been through a great deal, Clarissa, but it’s all in the past now. Leave it there. Don’t be tempted to revisit those dark days.”
At first I wondered what she meant. Was she referring to my baby? Was she worried I’d tell Tom?
“I have no intention of revisiting them, Mama,” I replied, looking away from her to the list in front of me.
It had been two years. Two years since I’d discovered I was pregnant with Tom’s child, and yet it felt to me more like ten. So much had happened in that short space of time: I’d been sent away, given birth to my daughter and given her away; and now I was married. But of course only my mother knew all of this. A piece of my history, those dark days—that indelible part of my story—could never be acknowledged; never be spoken of. Some losses, it seemed to me, particularly in wartime, were noble sacrifices, but the loss of an unplanned, illegitimate child was beyond shameful; it was, quite simply, unmentionable. Later, upon reflection, I knew exactly why my mother was so concerned. She was worried that my seeing Tom Cuthbert again would reopen what had once appeared to her to be a gaping, messy wound. After all, it had tidied up nicely, left no visible scars.
That evening, having our before-dinner drinks in the dismantled drawing room, he appeared; dressed for dinner, shaven and dapper. I was shocked. I half expected my mother to ask him to leave, but instead she moved toward him, asked him how he was, spoke to him kindly, even tenderly, and he was nothing less than a gentleman in his demeanor and replies to her. Henry was in the mood for a party and played “I Wonder Who’s Kissing Her Now” on the gramophone.
“Come along, Issa . . .” he shouted, tugging at my hand, already half drunk. He sang the words of the song, pulling me across the bare floorboards, a cigarette hanging from his dry lips, as Mama looked on, smiling nervously, her head slightly lowered—ready, expectant of anything. He would peak early and collapse, I thought, and I’m sure she thought that too.
Julian Carter and Michael Deighton had been in the same year at school with my brother. They were Henry’s only surviving friends—along with Charlie and Jimmy—from what he’d once called the Set. Almost their entire class had been killed in action. Michael had been a patient at the same hospital in Edinburgh as Charlie for a while and was a gentle, fragile soul, with a nervous smile and quiet manner. Julian had once been like Henry: handsome, loud, and full of fun; but all arrogance had been knocked out of him. He’d served in the Royal Flying Corps and had been badly burned and blinded when his airplane crashed returning from a night mission. No girls would ever again be rushing to kiss his mauled lips and badly grafted face.
As Henry pulled me across the drawing room floor in an attempt to dance, these two damaged boys, for that’s really all they were, sat together quietly like old men, watching—or in Julian’s case, listening—to the young at play. And then the gong sounded, and we all marched into the dining room, overly gay, overly animated. I hadn’t spoken to Tom in the drawing room, but at dinner we were seated opposite each other, and I felt a little too aware of his presence, especially in front of Mama. He and Henry, now seated in Father’s place, smoked incessantly, and, I noticed, drank more than they ate. The conversation was mainly politics, with a few ridiculous and highly implausible stories from Henry, who was in dangerously sparkling form. I saw my mother watching Henry, and then saw her whisper something to Tom, seated on her right. And I suddenly realized why she’d wanted him there: to keep an eye on Henry, to look after him. She knew he would, you see.
After dinner, I noticed Mama whispering to Tom once again, in the hallway, before she excused herself and bid everyone good night. The rest of us, four war-torn damaged young men and me, returned to the drawing room. We’d been drinking champagne, the last of the good stuff from my father’s cellar. “Let’s celebrate,” Henry said, returning from the kitchen with two of the young girls Mrs. Cuthbert had hired from the village, and another bottle. “Let’s bloody well celebrate being alive, eh?” he said, smiling at Tom, and passing him the hand of one of the girls. And in a way it almost seemed like the old days. For there we were, celebrating, and dancing to George’s gramophone records. It was a party, a party at Deyning, and but for the missing furniture and carpets, and the absence of two of my brothers, it could have been . . . how it should have been.
“I say, Issa, Georgie would have loved this,” Henry called out to me as he whirled around the young blonde, and it was true: George always loved an impromptu party.
I stood on my own, sipping champagne, swaying in time to the music, watching Tom and his partner. I couldn’t recall ever having seen him dance before, and he moved well, his feet keeping perfect time. I watched him guide her over to where Michael and Julian sat, and a beaming Michael rose to his feet and eagerly took her hand. Tom glanced over at me, then sat down and lit a cigarette. No, he won’t dance with me, I thought; we can’t dance together. Not now. I looked at Julian and my heart ached for him. I wasn’t sure if he wanted to dance, or even if he was able, but I walked over to where he sat with Tom.
“Julian . . .” I said, putting down my glass and placing my hand upon his, “will you dance with me?”
“Ah, Mrs. Boyd, I thought you’d never ask,” he replied, rising unsteadily from his chair.
As I led him to the middle of the room, slowly, he said, “Do you remember the last time we danced together, Clarissa?”
“No, I don’t,” I said, taking his hand and placing it on my waist. “When was it?”
“It was here. Henry’s twenty-first birthday party, the year before . . . before the war broke out,” he said, trying to smile, stretching the tight skin of his new, colorless mouth.
“Yes, of course it was, of course. I remember now . . . you told me that you were waiting until I was eighteen, and then . . . then you were going to ask for Papa’s permission to marry me. You really were such a flirt.”
He laughed. “Those were the days. I don’t suppose I’ll be doing much flirting now, do you? More likely scare the girls off.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Just as well I can’t see myself really. But I want to know, do I . . . do I look particularly gruesome? Tell me, Clarissa; tell me the truth. Do you think anyone might see beyond this face . . . might love me?”
He’d stopped shuffling; we’d stopped moving.
“Well,” I began, looking back at him, almost wanting to cry, “you’re not quite as handsome as you were, Julian, which at least means you give the others a chance now . . . and you’re certainly not going to win any dancing competitions . . .” He laughed. “And if all you’d ever wished for was someone to love you for your good looks, then you may well be disappointed. But if you let someone see inside your soul . . . see who you really are, then yes, you’ll be loved, darling, and she’ll be a very lucky lady too,” I added. And then, quite spontaneously, for I certainly hadn’t planned on kissing Julian Carter that night, and I’m still not sure what came over me or why I did it, I took his head in my hands, placed my lips where his had once been and held them there for a moment. As I stepped back from him, I heard Henry clap and then shout, “Encore! Encore!”
I turned to Tom, and he stared back at me—his head lowered, as though he’d meant to look away.
Julian said, “My God, Clarissa . . . I wasn’t expecting that. You’re the first person to kiss me since . . . in years.”
Minutes later, I led Julian back to his chair.
Tom stood up. “I suppose if I ask you to dance now, it might seem like I want a kiss too,” he said. And Julian laughed.
I placed my hand upon his shoulder, felt the warmth of his flat against my back, and I let him guide me across the floor. I didn’t, couldn’t look into his eyes. I stared at his tie, his shirt collar, the line of his jaw, his mouth. Then, as Henry disappeared—twirling his dance partner through the open French doors—he pulled me closer, and I felt his breath on my face, his fingers spread out over my spine. A woman’s voice sang out forlornly, “I ain’t got nobody,” and as he moved his hand in mine, interlinking our fingers, I looked up at him, into his eyes. He didn’t smile, or speak, he simply held my gaze.
But I’d begun to feel light-headed. I’d drunk far more than I was used to that night, and my physical proximity to him—his touch—seemed to have exacerbated the effects of the champagne. So, as the record finished, and with my head slightly spinning, I said, “Please excuse me. I need some air.”
There was a full moon that night, a long shadow stretching across the driveway in front of the house. I don’t know how far I walked, but I remember standing against a fence, trying to light a cigarette, when he appeared by my side. I knew he’d come. I knew he’d follow me. He took my cigarette, lit it and handed it back to me, and we stood there for a while, smoking, without saying a word.
“You hate me,” I said at last, without looking at him.
I heard him sigh. “No, I don’t hate you, Clarissa.”
“Did you ever love me?”
“Do you want me to have loved you? Is that what you want?”
“I want you to tell me the truth. I want you to be honest with me. I need to know.”
“But you belong to someone else now.”
I looked at him and I wished away the world; wished away Deyning, my mother, my brother, Charlie and everything else I knew.
The Last Summer Page 20
