He patted his inside pocket where he kept his mother’s letters. He hadn’t known what to think when he’d first heard from her. Of course he knew who she was, and that Roger, the valet, was his father, and had discarded her. But she’d left him with Da when he was really young, so the letter was from a stranger and had been a bolt from the blue.
He groped in his suit pocket for the gold cigarette case which had arrived from Heine and Millie just yesterday. It had a faint engraving on the top. He thought it was a candlestick or something, but it was so worn, he couldn’t really make it out. It was antique, and their generosity overwhelmed him.
They’d welcomed him on the two occasions he’d visited as the long-lost son he was, and his mother had cried to have him back in her life. She had said she’d left him behind because of the uncertainty over her future with Heine, and that a little boy needed a steady, familiar home. She knew that one day he’d understand, but they had been years which had broken her heart.
He’d felt so sorry for her.
He closed the cigarette case, decided against risking Young Stan’s beady eyes when it came to discarding another stub, and sauntered out into the sun again. The smell of hyacinths was carried on the breeze, along with cigar smoke. Ah, there was Colonel Potter, with Sir Anthony. They were both puffing on Havanas, no doubt. Bridie and James were passing, heads down, deep in conversation, and walking towards the back of the marquee. They, in their turn, saw him, and James called across. ‘Tim, Mr Harvey said we’re all needed to take round the champagne and canapés now.’
Tim sighed, waved. For God’s sake, there was no peace. There was always something needing to be done with this family. If it wasn’t helping amputees to sit on horses, it was serving a load of guests. No doubt someone would hint before the end of the day that he should help Bridie muck out stables, or, because he was an engineer, ask him to design some piece of machinery that would help the wounded with their balance, or . . .
He thrust his cigarette case back into his pocket. Millie, his mother, was quite right when she said that when Evie, Ver or Gracie set their minds on an idea, everyone had to fall in. You could add Bridie, he thought, because using horses for the wounded had been her project. Why didn’t they all get out of this backwater and really live?
He ambled along in the wake of the kids, as he’d come to think of them over the last year. Like puppies, they were, barking up the wrong tree, carrying on about the awful fascists. Couldn’t they see what was being achieved on the continent? At the rear of the marquee, Ron Simmonds, who was a partner in the hotel, was waiting with Mr Harvey. Tim had always thought the butler was a great old bloke, but his mother had put him right on that. Interfering old tyrant, she’d called him, but not as bad as Mrs Moore.
She’d been amazed when she heard that Mr Harvey had married Mrs Moore at the end of the war. How she’d laughed; it had made him uncomfortable. In fact, his mother’s laugh was one of the things he didn’t quite like about her. It didn’t sound real, whereas Gracie and his aunts . . .
Ron called, grinning, ‘In your own time, then, Tim old lad. Just you forget that we’ve a load of thirsty people in need of sustenance.’ By his side, at the trestle table, Mr Harvey poured champagne carefully into fine crystal glasses, the bottle wrapped in a damask napkin, each glass tilted, his hand rock steady.
Tim picked up a tray of full glasses, and entered the marquee through the rear flap. Ron called, ‘Take the left-hand section, if you would, Tim. Go as far as the cake table. Bridie and James are each taking the other two thirds, with others roaring about with the canapés.’
The marquee was huge and decorated with white hyacinths and myrtle, for constancy and love, or so Gracie had explained. The fragrance was heavy, contained as it was in the marquee, but as always he could smell the grass beneath the floor, though he could never understand why.
He gave a small bounce, and the floor didn’t even creak. Grandpa Forbes and Tom Wilson, the old blacksmith, both of whom had devised false limbs for the wounded, had done a good job when they created the interlocking wooden sections ten years ago. The difficulty had been getting a tight enough fit. It had fascinated Tim, so Grandpa had let him help. That’s when Jack had thought he’d make a really good design engineer. He was, and all.
Tim skirted the top table, holding the tray on his fingers, and entered the fray, smiling at the guests, who snatched the glasses as though they had been stranded in a desert. Within two minutes he was back outside, replenishing, then he turned on his heel, and re-entered. This time he reached as far as Edward Manton, Gracie’s brother, who was also the vicar. Edward seemed awkward and nervous, but then, when wasn’t he? A drink would do him good.
‘Have a few bubbles, Uncle Edward.’
Edward muttered, ‘Thank you, Tim. So kind.’ He took the last glass and ran his finger down it, leaving a line through the condensation. He looked up thoughtfully. ‘Thank you for escorting Gracie down the aisle. It made it such a lovely family occasion, one that warmed my heart.’
Tim smiled back, noticing that Edward still wore his cycle clips. What a silly old beggar; because it wasn’t a family occasion, was it? If it had been, they would have invited his mother and Heine. Typical, his mother had said on his last trip, and he could see that it was. The family was so tightly bound together that they didn’t live like individuals. He felt the sense of suffocation deepen; it was a feeling that increasingly threatened to overwhelm him.
Gracie was circulating on the right-hand side and chatting to Annie, who held a tray of canapés. Annie saw him, waved, and joined him. ‘How’s it going your side, bonny lad? Mine are being laudably abstemious with the caviar; all waiting for Bridie and Evie’s little miracles, not to mention that amazing cake. Their food is something to behold, isn’t it? I’m so glad it’s a grand day for your da and mam.’
‘They’re really lucky,’ he said, smiling. He liked Annie, who had worked in the kitchens throughout the war, though now she was married to Sir Anthony’s son, Harry, and spent a fair bit of time organising the Neave Wing as well. Perhaps he should talk to her and try to find out exactly how it had been, back then, for his mother when she worked in the laundry?
Annie smiled and slipped away, back into her area, as a guest placed his empty glass on Tim’s tray and took a full one. Soon others would do the same, if he didn’t keep moving.
The marquee opened onto the lawn, and he saw Da manning the beer barrel, and heard his laughter, echoed by those all around. They were people Tim had grown up with, families who had lived here for years, and were still farming, still mining, still . . . His smiled faded.
His mother had said that it must be dreadfully boring for him, and he hadn’t realised until then how true that was. God, he was glad he had an escape route, one leading to Berlin where there were clubs, dancing, excitement, full employment, a country moving forward.
At the front, in the shade of the marquee, Kevin, the former bootboy, was taking over the beer barrel, which he could manage perfectly with his undamaged hand. Yet another war wound. Tim sighed. Everyone seemed to accept Sir Anthony’s new idea of a Peace committee, even Bridie with her loud mouth, so why couldn’t they see that becoming a fascist meant much the same? Who better to get on well with the Nazis?
Together the two countries could sort the unions, clear out the Reds looking to Russia for their orders, and anyone else causing trouble. They could then stride ahead, in full employment, and never have another war. What about that for a Peace committee? Tim smiled at Uncle Edward, who was still drifting about like a lost soul, and through the entrance he saw Uncle Aub coming across to his friends, duty done, taking a pint himself, deep in conversation with his da. It was all so predictable.
‘Penny for them, Tim?’ Young Stan stomped towards him, in his inimitable way.
Tim shrugged. ‘Oh, just thinking of this and that.’
His mam came to him now, slipping her arm through his. ‘I’ll walk with you while we deliver this champagne, bonny
lad.’ She moved him around the room, talking all the time of her love for him, and for Jack, and how wonderful it had been that he had delayed his holiday with his mother so that he could be here.
‘It would have been just awful without you. In fact, I rather think Jack would have cancelled the thing and left me waiting at the altar for another twenty years.’
She wore her familiar Rose Garden perfume, and her hair was long enough to be coiled over her ears. Well, her one ear; the other had been dislodged by shrapnel in the war. Tim felt his shoulders relax, leaning into her, nudging her slightly as they passed Sister Newsome and Matron, who had arrived in 1914 and were still here. They were clearly squiffy and in need of food, as they giggled quietly at some naughtiness of old Dr Nicholls, who was widowed now, but still a lot of fun.
Then he sobered, because there they all were, happy, chatty, and where was his mother? Not here, not invited, though they knew he was close to her again. Suddenly he was enormously proud of Millie, for grabbing at a life for herself, and at last he understood why she had left him behind. If she hadn’t gone, she would still be here, drowning in this awful little pool. It was as she had said: one day he would understand, and now the lingering hurt at her leaving him, and the time it had taken her to find him, disappeared, and he was light-hearted.
‘Just look at your da.’ His mam was pointing to Jack at the beer barrel, as Uncle Mart and several miners joined the group, including the union rep.
Tim had seldom seen his da looking so happy. How pathetic it all was. ‘I’d better let you get on, dearest boy.’ His mam moved off, doubling back to Matron and linking arms with her, guiding the elderly woman to a chair in the ‘let’s take a break’ area.
He worked his way through the melee of laughing, talking guests, until only one glass of champagne remained. Ahead of him was Sir Anthony with Lady Margaret – who liked to think she was Aunt Ver’s friend, though the feeling was not mutual – and Herr Bauer. Sir Anthony insisted that Lady Margaret should have the champagne. Tim grinned. ‘I’ll return in a moment, if you can hang on, or I can call Bridie or James, they have a few on their trays.’
Sir Anthony shook his head, ‘No, Tim. I’m happy to wait.’ Tim smelt the brandy on his breath, presumably from a flask he carried on his person for such events. Not surprising when the photos took so damned long.
Tim looked at Herr Bauer, who nodded. ‘Indeed, I too am more than happy to wait.’ His English was immaculate.
Tim checked the German’s lapel, but there was no badge that denoted he was a member of the Nazi Party, and he was disappointed.
He dodged his way back to Mr Harvey, who poured the champagne slowly, which was the only way to do it. Tim noticed the liver spots on his hands. God, he was old, his feet must kill him, but he only served on special occasions now.
Six glasses had been filled, six to go. It was mesmerising. They’d had champagne in his mother and Heine’s apartment near Hamburg to celebrate Tim’s return to the fold, as his mother put it. He remembered how the champagne had fizzed and overflowed the glasses. He had laughed, taken the bottle from Heine, and shown him how to tip the glass. ‘Slowly, slowly,’ he had said.
His mother had told him later that it was rude to take over like that, and he must respect Heine. He had apologised in the morning, and Heine had just stared with those pale blue eyes and then laughed. ‘It is nothing,’ he had said. ‘We must just get used to one another’s ways, now we are a family.’
Tim watched Mr Harvey, who was the person who had shown him how to pour champagne, how to remove a cork from a wine bottle, how to taste and recognise the different wines: three more glasses to go. Ron Simmonds put his hand on Tim’s shoulder. ‘Mr Harvey, should we bring out another dozen bottles from the cellar, some more ice, and put them in the water bucket?’
The only thing that didn’t move in Ron’s mobile face was his nose, which was a replacement for the one that had been blown off in the war. It was the new plastic surgery procedure that had saved so many faces, Tim’s mam had said – his mam, Gracie, not his mother, Millie. God, he told himself, it’s so damn complicated.
Soon the time would come when he would have to make a firm decision about where he belonged.
He picked up the tray. Mr Harvey said, ‘Yes, I think perhaps we should have those bottles, Ron.’
But Ron was pointing to the geese that were flying over, in perfect formation. The three of them watched it. Ron said, ‘It’s such an amazing sight.’
The Luftwaffe had flown like that, when Heine had taken him to a military exercise soon after Germany took back the Rhineland. The Versailles Treaty forbade re-armament, but Hitler knew what he wanted, and took it. Tim grinned. What strength the man had, and who had objected? No-one.
Mr Harvey continued to pour the champagne, engrossed, uncommunicative, which was what he said one should be: totally absorbed, or one made mistakes. When he’d finished filling the glasses he said, ‘Perhaps you’d be kind enough, once everyone has a glass, Tim, to return for a bottle, and top them up.’
Tim entered the marquee again, snatching a look around. Bridie had gone, and it was just James handling the other side of the marquee. Aunt Evie and Ver were no longer here either, which meant they were beavering in the kitchen, and soon the guests would be called to the buffet set up along the right-hand wall.
He made his way back to Sir Anthony, his hand aching from the tray. Guests reached for champagne and he allowed the first few to do so before, dodging manfully, arriving with enough for Sir Anthony’s group. Lady Margaret’s daughter, Penny, had joined them. She looked alarmingly like her mother, with the same horsey face, and he smothered a grin. It was Bridie who had pointed that out long ago. Would Bridie kick over the traces and leave, or would she fester here?
He offered champagne to Colonel Potter, who had drifted up. ‘I say, you counted well, dear heart,’ he barked. ‘Well done you. Just one glass left now.’
Tim eyed the remaining glass. ‘I need to find a home for this tiddler.’
Sir Anthony said, ‘For goodness’ sake, young man. Put the tray down for a moment and join us.’
He didn’t need asking twice. ‘Only for a moment, though. Mr Harvey has a bottle I must bring out. By the way, it was so kind of you to give the caviar to Da, Sir Anthony.’
Sir Anthony said, ‘My pleasure.’
Lady Margaret almost neighed. ‘Dear old Harvey, still battling on, I take it. Such a tower of strength, that man.’
‘Indeed,’ Sir Anthony said, raising his glass to Tim. ‘Cheers, and a happy and peaceful future to everyone everywhere, whatever boat they may crew.’ His look was meaningful, and he held Tim’s gaze.
‘Indeed,’ repeated Tim, and found he was flushing at the hint of friendly support.
It was Sir Anthony who had delivered his mother’s first letter to him at his office in Newcastle. This wonderful old boy had met Heine at a cocktail party in Berlin, apparently, and started talking of the Neave Wing, and hence the world at Easterleigh Hall. This was how his mother had found him, though he wasn’t sure why she hadn’t tried just writing. She had said it never occurred to her they would still all be here.
Lady Margaret was talking of the finishing school in Switzerland that Penny would be attending from September onwards, just for a year, after which she’d ‘come out’.
Colonel Potter said, ‘You’ll learn to cook, I suppose, young lady, and converse in many languages, that sort of thing.’
Lady Margaret seemed to draw herself up another foot. ‘She will become familiar with menus. She will not cook. One does not, Colonel Potter. One has staff.’
Tim studied his glass, twisting it round and round, and couldn’t stop himself. ‘Well, someone has to, Lady Margaret, as you well know. And some do it rather well. I think I can hear Mr Harvey’s dulcet tones.’ He half bowed, turned on his heel and weaved his way back through the crowd, surprised at his sudden wave of anger.
Lady Margaret was a snob, and what was wrong with
Evie and Bridie earning a living? What’s more, they made bloody good food too. It was then he felt his da’s arm on his shoulders. ‘Don’t let Lady M bother you, lad. It wouldn’t be the same if she wasn’t upsetting someone. It’s her life’s work and if I’m not much mistaken, Penny will also be that way inclined.’
Tim laughed, really laughed, for the first time today. ‘You’re not wrong there, but it’s a shame, because Aunt Evie says Major Granville, Lady Margaret’s husband, was the best sort. Died too young. Far too many went, far too many still need help, but it’s not just us, you know. Germany suffered too, far more than us with that pig of a Treaty of Versailles round their neck.’ He could hear the challenge in his own voice.
Jack walked with him to the back of the marquee, his arm still firmly around Tim’s shoulder. ‘Don’t think we don’t all know that they suffered, lad; after all, we fought them, remember. And don’t you take any notice of our Bridie and her tantrums. She misses you, but you’ve a right to your opinions and decisions. That’s what parliamentary democracy is all about. You just remember that, and if you need help, you come straight to your old da, because I’ll drop everything and do what needs to be done.’
Jack’s grip had become so strong his fingers hurt as they dug in. ‘Never forget that your mam and I love you. I know I say it a lot, but I mean it. Don’t forget either that we’re coming to see you off from Gosforn tomorrow.’ He hugged him, slapping his back, and it was then that the guests were called to the buffet, with the groom to lead the fray, ‘With the missus,’ someone bawled.
Tim watched his father go, loving him, loving Gracie. Or was it just habit?
Suddenly, he felt the breath catch in his chest, and it was as though he had been drenched in a shower of rain. For there it was, clear, in that question; was it just habit? Because none of these people were really his family. Not Bridie or James, not the Forbes, Bramptons or Williams.
A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel Page 3
