The Magic Hour

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘Your grandmother seems to know best about everything.’

  ‘My grandmother brought me up – because of my mer-mer-mer—’

  ‘Because of your mother dying, I know that.’

  Kay shut what they both knew was about to become her dressing-table drawer with some force.

  ‘We’ll see about what your grandmother says, and does not say about you being a bridesmaid, or about anything else for that matter. After all, it is my wedding, not hers. Mine, to do as I like, and I want you and my goddaughter as my bridesmaids, so that is what I will have,’ she added crossly, slamming down the silver-backed hairbrush that still had the initials LM, for Laura Millington, engraved on the back.

  As soon as she sensed the war that was about to break out between Kay and her grandmother over the wedding arrangements, Alexandra knew that it might actually be impossible for her to go to her father’s wedding. It had to be faced that the battle lines had been drawn long ago. To attend the wedding would be to be disloyal to everyone at Lower Bridge Farm who had helped to bring her up.

  ‘Kay has told me that she is to have you as her bridesmaid …’

  Her grandmother was seated by the kitchen window staring out at the same inner courtyard where she had so delighted to watch her hens peck and scratch for the past forty years.

  ‘I know, she wants me and her goddaughter as bridesmaids, Grandma, so perhaps it would be better if she did, because after all it is her wedding. And she really should have what she wants, don’t you think?’

  ‘She wants everything her own way. She is a London madam. Mark my words, it won’t just be the wedding she takes over, it will be the house soon, every inch of it, and we will not be wanted here any more. Mark my words. She’s even got you calling me “Grandma”, hasn’t she? Mark my words, this is the end.’

  Alexandra ignored this, and since Betty did not turn as she spoke, it seemed to her granddaughter she was speaking not just quietly, but with awful finality, as if she herself knew she was standing by a door through which she must pass and which she knew must soon close behind her, for ever.

  ‘I-I don’t think that’s true, Gran, I-I – er I ther-think she just wants her goddaughter and me for bridesmaids, that’s all, ber-ber-cause it is her wedding.’

  ‘No.’

  The old lady stood up, still staring out at her courtyard at the familiar sights and sounds of her days, and shook her head.

  ‘No, Alexandra, this is it, I’m afraid, the thin end of the wedge. I will be out on my ear very soon, and not much to be done, I’m afraid. I knew this day must come some time, but I always hoped that it wouldn’t; or at least I hoped that your father would choose a country girl, someone who would understand the old ways, who would keep the house the way the house likes itself to be, someone I could work in with. But that would be too much to ask. No, I realise that very soon this will be the end for me, dear, and nothing to be done, for as that Dunbar keeps saying to me, “A widowed mother has no status, Mrs Stamford, no status at all, not in castle nor cottage.” Much he knows about being a widow, or anything else for that matter, feather-bedded all his life that Dunbar, and like all feather-bedded sons he’s turned into a fly-by-night with thoughts only for enjoying himself. No, the end has come for me, Alexandra, and I know it.’

  But before the end could come as her grandmother had so gloomily predicted there had to be a wedding.

  * * *

  It was strange for the now even slimmer, and certainly more sophisticated, Alexandra to dress up in a long pink dress and put rosebuds in her glossy dark hair and stand beside another younger girl, also dressed in a long pink dress with rosebuds in her hair, and watch her father being married to Kay Cullen. Perhaps the whole event was made stranger because she had never seen photographs of her parents being married, or perhaps it was strange because it was John Stamford, Alexandra’s father, saying ‘I take thee to be my wife’ or whatever it was that they were saying in front of all the locals in the village church. Whatever else it didn’t do, it made Alexandra realise that he was going away from her for ever, and he was going to lie with this tall dark-haired woman from London, in a hotel somewhere, and that they would probably have babies together. This thought made her turn away from what was happening in the church and try to think only of other different things, things that were a million miles from church and weddings: of Knighton Hall and the beautiful stable yard, of the old groom who had led her round the boxes, of hay-making in the fields when she picnicked with Frances and her parents; anything rather than what was happening in the church where she was standing feeling much younger than her nearly seventeen years and a little stupid too, what with the rosebuds in her hair that made her look about twelve, and the pink of the dress which suited her skin tones about as much as the awful stockings that her grandmother had always insisted that she wore in winter.

  ‘Do you think Kay is having a baby?’

  Her fellow bridesmaid stared round at the chic proud bride seated with her older husband at the top table. As her words hit home Alexandra blushed scarlet and put down her fork of delicious chicken.

  ‘Oh-oh-oh I der-der-don’t think so!’ she stammered quickly. ‘Ner-ner-no. At least I der-der-der-don’t think so.’

  ‘I do, or why else would they have married so quickly, my mother wondered? I don’t care, but she wanted to know. She thinks she is or else they would never have married so quickly.’

  Alexandra stared at her fellow pink-dressed bridesmaid who was gazing at her with delighted malevolence, knowing that what she was saying must be hurting the daughter of the bridegroom. They were isolated below the top table, like two children being punished for bad behaviour, and perhaps it was because of this that Alexandra found herself struggling not to seize the tablecloth that was covering the stupid table at which they had both been placed, and throwing everything that was on it at the wretched girl opposite her with her fat hands and tiny eyes and her overt enjoyment of Alexandra’s evident discomfort.

  ‘My fer-fer-father would never marry someone for that reason.’

  ‘That’s all you know.’

  Alexandra knew that however vague this statement the truth was that the wretched girl was right. It was all Alexandra knew, and what was more for all she knew Kay Cullen could be pregnant; she and her father could already have lain together, as she and Frances Chisholm always called It.

  Alexandra turned away. She did not want to be there when the happy couple drove off for their honeymoon, but she knew she would have to be, and indeed she was, smiling inanely as Kay purposefully threw her bouquet at her godchild, as her father forgot even to say goodbye to his daughter; and so it was that through all the hustle and bustle of the end of the wedding, all Alexandra could do was to struggle against the thought of her father and Kay lying together.

  ‘Cheer up, dear.’ Janet Priddy leaned forward and tapped Alexandra on the shoulder as the wedding car finally disappeared round the end of the hotel drive. ‘They won’t be back for a fortnight and by that time the world may have come to an end.’

  The world did not come to an end but in the weeks that followed all too swiftly one upon another, Alexandra could not believe how quickly her life changed. There were no rows, no arguments, just a subtle change from day to day as, newly returned from honeymoon and brown as a berry from the sunshine in the South of France, the all-too-confident second Mrs John Stamford gradually took over the reins of the house.

  She began by encouraging Mavis to retire – a retirement that Mavis bravely pretended was what she had wanted all along.

  ‘Why is Mavis going, may I ask?’

  ‘Because she wants to, Mother-in-law.’

  Kay’s eyes gleamed as she turned to stare at the old lady. As she watched her Alexandra had the feeling that the gleam in her eye meant a great deal more than her actual words. The gleam in her eye meant, ‘And what are you going to do about it, Mother-in-law?’ The gleam in her eye finally also meant ‘got you’. Because the truth was that as mu
ch as Kay had got her man, she had also got herself a substantial living, and the unshakable position of mistress of Lower Bridge Farm.

  ‘She never said anything to me about wanting to go—’

  Alexandra had never heard such hopelessness in her grandmother’s voice.

  ‘Really? Well, she told me she wanted to retire to the seaside and enjoy her last years without ever having to cook another steak and kidney pie!’ Kay laughed. ‘She could not wait to leave.’

  This was a stinging blow not just to Betty’s organisation of the kitchens but also to her long friendship with Mavis, a friendship that had lasted through the war, through all kinds of upheavals, and many a culinary disaster, and Kay must have known it, must have known what a bitter blow it was for Betty to find Mavis there one minute and gone the next, when Betty returned from market.

  ‘I expect she’ll send you a card, Grandma,’ Alexandra said, slipping her hand into that of the old lady. ‘I expect she will, when she gets to her cottage.’

  But her grandmother just shook her head, tears in her eyes.

  ‘No, dear, I know my Mavis. She will think this is something to do with me, she’s always been that thin-skinned. Whether it was over a fallen soufflé or burnt chutney, Mavis has always had a skin as thin as gossamer. No, she’ll think it was me, dear, because Kay did it when I was out, she will think I wanted her to go, I let her go without so much as a goodbye.’

  ‘You could write to her – explain.’

  ‘Yes, I could.’ Betty looked down at her granddaughter with sudden hopeless despair. ‘I could if I knew where she’d gone.’

  The news of the turmoil at Lower Bridge Farm spread around the village.

  ‘Apparently that Kay’s hired someone who’s better with the kind of London food to which she’s more used,’ Janet Priddy told her husband with barely disguised relish, because other people’s troubles are seldom discomforting. ‘Yes, Betty is heartbroken, and Mavis gone in a moment, and not a word said to poor Betty. And …’

  Janet stopped, waiting for her husband to put down his newspaper, which, hearing the silence around him, he promptly did with a sigh, knowing that if Janet had a mind to talk that was what he had to let her do. It was after all his solemn duty, particularly if he wanted supper.

  ‘What else, my love?’

  Janet nodded appreciatively, realising that she now had his full attention.

  ‘Well, it seems the new Mrs Stamford’s taken over the running of the house in every way. She did not even like the kind of furniture polish that they’ve always used, won’t have a washing line, doesn’t like the plain white of the walls, nor the way the dining room is situated in the library, too far from the kitchen. Oh, and she doesn’t like the kitchen table under the window, she wants it in the middle of the room. She doesn’t like her bedroom curtains, nor the rugs in the corridors.’

  George Priddy let all this information sink in, before speaking.

  ‘Sounds to me as if the new Mrs Stamford likes very little at Lower Bridge Farm.’

  ‘No, she doesn’t, George, but I have to say, I think she’s right about the kitchen table, it’s never been right under that window, I’ve never thought, blocks off one side, not sensible.’

  Janet nodded with satisfaction, and her husband, sensing that she had come to the end of her news bulletin from Lower Bridge Farm, returned to his newspaper.

  The house had always been in Betty’s sole charge, and as she saw it being changed, her old cook fled, and most of her loved furniture being set aside, Alexandra saw a sense of hopelessness creep over her relative, until finally, after what seemed hardly any time at all, she was following a grim-faced Janet out of the front door of Lower Bridge Farm and climbing into her car, followed closely by her granddaughter.

  ‘Bound to happen,’ Janet Priddy had kept saying, over the previous weeks when she and Betty met for tea at Janet’s house, ‘new brooms, dear, bound to happen.’

  And of course it had been bound to happen, but not as quickly as it had. Even Alexandra had not thought that Kay would take charge so quickly, or so ruthlessly. ‘Mrs Hitler’ they had nicknamed her behind her back, but it did not make the pain of the new reign any less, until finally Betty took down their suitcases and, having dusted them off, began to pack up those things that she knew were hers.

  The silence in the car was profound as Betty Stamford stared grimly ahead of her and the car made its way as slowly as any funeral cortège down the drive to the dear familiar old gates. It would not be Betty’s way to make a fuss or cry, but Alexandra saw that her lace-gloved hands were gripping the overnight bag on her knee as if it were a ledge from which she was now dangling, as if should she let go of it she would fall into a ravine below.

  ‘Oh look, Cherrypan!’ Alexandra pointed through the car window as they passed the elegant chestnut trotting back to the Chisholms’ stables.

  But her grandmother said nothing, staring ahead in grim silence, as Alexandra turned round to watch horse and rider through the back window of the car. It was a fine sight on an early summer morning, but it was obviously not one in which her elderly relative could delight. As both horse and rider grew smaller and smaller, so small that they could have been ornaments on a chimneypiece, Alexandra became aware that what her grandmother had stated only a few weeks earlier was true, her life at Lower Bridge Farm was finally and completely at an end. Nothing could restore Alexandra to her father’s affections again. Nothing could restore John to his mother’s life. They were all being cast adrift, and, as her grandmother had kept insisting while the wedding arrangements had forged ahead, a new woman was coming into the house, a new woman who would change everything, a new woman who already had.

  * * *

  Upon agreeing to marry John Stamford it seemed that Kay had at once marked out the small black and white thatched former workman’s cottage that her fiancé had bought for her to use on her weekends from London as an ideal Dower House for her mother-in-law. Perhaps it was the news of this purchase by her son that had first brought home to his mother that his intentions were to marry Kay Cullen. Whatever the original aim behind the purchase, it certainly proved to be an almost unnaturally convenient place to deposit a teenage daughter from a previous marriage and an elderly, obstinate relative.

  Certainly it was obvious from the moment that Alexandra and Betty stepped into the little house that for the short time of her occupancy Kay must have tarted it up London style, for although small it was surprisingly chic inside with new black and white tiles throughout the downstairs rooms and a scarlet tweed sofa, not to mention a purple Eames chair. They had hardly put down their suitcases when, after looking round, Alexandra’s spirits rose and she turned to her grandmother smiling her delight, but her elderly relative had already turned away, seating herself in the smart new chair in a way that spoke more of despair than cheer.

  ‘This is rather ger-ger-good, don’t you think, Grandma?’ Alexandra asked, once more looking round appreciatively, while not really expecting a reply. ‘I mean, it’s lots better than I thought it would be.’

  ‘It’s got a roof, Alexandra, that is the best I can say for it. It’s got a roof.’

  Alexandra left her staring ahead at nothing at all, her suitcases still in the middle of the sitting room, and, determined to keep looking on the bright side, started to explore the other rooms, all of which she discovered Kay had painted the same white that she had told everyone she so hated at Lower Bridge Farm. Nevertheless, despite the low ceilings and dark beams, the moment she lifted the latches on the other dark wooden doors, Alexandra appreciated that all the interiors did at least look bright and inviting.

  As soon as they had both set out their now surprisingly few possessions and lit the fire, it seemed to Alexandra that they were going to enjoy living at Pear Tree Cottage. In fact she could immediately see that their life together could be a great deal better than they had both at first thought. She could see herself cooking new things for them both, the kind of things that Kay
was busy demanding of the new cook up at Lower Bridge Farm. She could see herself asking Frances Chisholm and her mother to supper. She could see that they could be cheerful together, setting about making the garden as bright and inviting as the cottage interior.

  ‘I say, Gran, I think we’re going to be happy here, really I do.’

  She turned round to the old lady, but she had, for some reason that Alexandra could not fathom, instantly fallen fast asleep.

  ‘A-are you all right, Grandma?’

  There was no sound from the chair, so Alexandra walked quickly over to her. Frightened to wake her from what seemed like a state of near unconsciousness, and realising with sudden, anxious maturity that her grandmother might be taking refuge in sleep, Alexandra put a guard in front of the fire she had just lit, before tiptoeing out to the kitchen to make herself a cup of cocoa, which she took upstairs to her new bedroom and drank in solitary splendour, staring round her at the Victorian prints on the walls, all of which on closer examination seemed to be peopled by young women whom, she imagined, would have been just as grateful as she for such things as hot cocoa and a Rich Tea biscuit, filched from a tin found at the back of a kitchen cupboard. It was difficult not to feel not just lonely, but completely alone. Nevertheless, before long she too fell asleep, curled up under a heavy eiderdown, and not waking until morning, when she discovered Betty Stamford still asleep in front of a now cold, grey fire.

  ‘How is your grandmother?’

  Frances Chisholm was staring at her with such quiet awe that Alexandra knew at once that she must have heard all about the scandal of the power struggle that had gone on at Lower Bridge Farm, of how Mavis had been made to retire, and Betty Stamford encouraged to move out of her home of over forty years.

  Alexandra looked up from her careful grooming of Cherrypan, at the same time standing back to admire the satisfying polish that her hard work had brought about on the horse’s quarters. She was silent for a minute.

  ‘I-I – don’t know, not really. I-I don’t know how she is feeling, but-but she-she-she seems to be like a plant without water. She just sits staring in front of her, and-and then she falls asleep.’