by Jan Harvey
The tree cover was dense as we walked along a narrow path.
At the end was a low iron kissing-gate. Rory slipped through it then held it open for Scooter who bent his way around it like an eel.
‘Kissing gate,’ Rory said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, as he held it from the other side for me to pass through. I went through it with a smile.
Suddenly, I realised we were in an overgrown graveyard, the tops of gravestones just visible in the long grass. The worn path turned a corner, and as we rounded it, we were standing in front of an old church. The stone porch was small with an old noticeboard to one side. It still displayed yellowing notices that were held in place with rusty drawing pins. Rory used a similar key to the one for the house and let us in. Scooter was made to sit and wait for us in the porch, though I did wonder how long that would last.
The church was tiny, with box pews, the walls whitewashed, the wood dark brown. A tiny spiral staircase led up from just inside the door to a gallery. There were marble plaques on the walls around us with worn inscriptions. The altar was simple, a wooden table covered in a blue cloth, mildewed and stained with white marks. The whole church was no more than twenty-five feet in length whilst to the right in the middle of a small organ chamber was a stone font.
An old organ with stops and yellow keys was in the corner, its wooden sides leaning up against it as if they had fallen off when it was moved. There was an oven or fireplace of some sort in the wall opposite and a table with faded leaflets pushed up against the wall. It smelt damp, sad and neglected, though not as bad as Lapston itself. I leaned against one of the pews, taking it in. ‘So this was the church for the house?’
‘Yes, the families from the house used it, and their servants, for weddings, funerals, christenings.’
‘And when it was a children’s home?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ve been told they used the morning room because it once had a stained-glass window, but I don’t know for sure.’
I bent down and picked up something from the floor. It was a peg doll, two eyes drawn on it and a little strand of red woollen hair. I smiled because I made one just like it when I was a little girl.
I looked back up at the gallery over the door and then again at the opposite end. There was no colourful stained glass, just diamond-shaped leaded lights, but all of them transparent. Outside, I could see the waving branches of a beech tree.
We left the church and locked it. Quite predictably, Scooter had moved, no doubt on his elbows, from the porch to the nearest gravestone, and looked suitably guilty when he was reprimanded. Rory pushed against the heavy wooden door, making sure it was firmly locked. ‘There are so many churches being burgled and vandalised these days, I come down here a lot to check on it. I hope anyone coming here thinks they might be caught in the act.’
The tall skirting wall of the house was running the full length of the graveyard; its Cotswold stone tumbling over in places. It would soon come crashing down and then anyone could invade Lapston’s privacy.
‘Through here,’ Rory said, ducking and edging past a yew tree that took up almost all the space between wall and church. I followed him, the needles of yew caught on my jacket.
At the other side of it, he was standing in the mottled shade, pointing towards a gate. It was a small archway through the wall, the gate solid and, I presumed, locked, but Rory clicked the handle and it opened. All at once, we were in the grounds of Lapston again, this time on the west side. A gravel path led us up steeply to the sound of rushing water. Twenty feet away, the river was gurgling and spluttering through a cordon of rocks, then it fanned out to be much broader like a sheet of gold as it caught the sun’s rays. It was roughly a square, a man-made pool, and on it, two swans swam galleon like on the surface, unfazed by the two humans who were suddenly standing on the bank looking down on them.
Lapston rose above us, majestically, the early evening sun warming its buttery walls. We picked up another path that curved back on itself as it ascended through the long grass and at the top appeared a wooden bench. It was old, lichen encrusted on its wooden slats, but it was sturdy enough. We sat and watched as three ducks quacked overhead, one of them peeling off, urging the others to change direction.
‘Thank you,’ said Rory.
‘For what?’
‘For waking me up to the beauty of Lapston, and its gorgeous little church again. It’s only when you show someone around that you really appreciate these things.’
‘Thank you for showing me,’ I said. ‘I’ve really enjoyed seeing them.’
We sat for a while watching the evening light settle on the meadow across the river. There were flies cutting shapes out of the air, the evening balmy, a thin clean air all around us. I felt like I could sleep here and never want to wake up.
‘How many people have sat here I wonder?’ I said lazily.
‘Hundreds I expect,’ he said. He was leaning back face to the sun, eyes closed. He was so easy to be with, so relaxed, so not Steve.
I had to be heading back soon but this was one of the most peaceful places I had ever been. I stole a glance at my watch it was five fifteen.
‘I must go,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘Steve will be back from school soon and I have a casserole planned for tonight and I haven’t even chopped the onions.’
‘Martha,’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘I want to make love to you.’
26
The guests were gathered in the lounge, music blaring from the gramophone, a Bing Crosby number, I forget which. Alice, in a beautiful white silk dress that I had never seen before, was in full flow and her friends were gathered around her in a group. The chatter was dominated by the hee-haw laugh of Gerald Caruthers, he with his flat feet. The other chinless wonders with their reserved occupations were in tails; white pressed shirts relics all, from a time so long ago when no one had a care.
‘Carrick, how lovely to see you.’ It was Dylis Fullerton-Jones, dressed in a frilled thing, consuming her, making her seem asinine and old-fashioned. I was already used to the simple lines and style of French couture.
‘Good evening, Dillie. I trust you are well?’
‘I’m very well, thank you, and you?’ She had a shrill voice. It had always been extremely annoying. ‘How lovely of you all to host a party for us. Alice looks frightfully well and, in spite of everything, happy. I was so terribly upset to hear about Henry.’
I thanked her for her condolences and was wondering what I might say next when Cécile entered the room on George’s arm. She was so stately, so very chic, as she proceeded into the lounge and made her way towards Alice.
The music crackled to a finish, leaving a suspended silence around the room whilst everyone had turned to look at the two of them. George looked incredibly proud as he greeted Alice with a kiss and introduced Cécile to the waiting guests, and I noted that Alice too was thoroughly enjoying herself. Grant was pouring champagne, a small glass for everyone. He had raided the cellars and brought up two of the last remaining bottles. I knew he had kept them back especially for these birthday celebrations and for the day of victory.
George tapped his glass and the conversation ceased, an expectant silence.
‘I would like to take this opportunity to thank you all for joining us at Lapston. What a joy it is to see you here to celebrate the twenty fifth birthday of my dearest sister, Alice. For the three of us it has been a dreadful year.’ Here he nodded towards Alice then myself. ‘But we have come through because we are so supporting of one another.
‘I would also like to welcome Madame Cécile Roussell, who, in a very short time, has been a blessing to us. She has lifted our spirits and I know that Henry would have been absolutely delighted to see us enjoying each other’s company.
‘And now to Alice’s present from me. A little early, sister, but thi
s party was the perfect diversion to stop you prying.’ There was a murmur of laughter in the room and Alice protested, but she was shouted down. ‘Grant, if you would.’ I suddenly realised that Grant, Mrs Hall and Lizzie were standing by the door, all three grinning.
Grant disappeared for a second and when he came back he was holding something in his arms. Dillie was blocking my view so that I had to move for a better one. Alice cried out loud when the thing was passed to George. It solicited such a joyful response I guessed what it was; a small black labrador puppy. George kissed Alice on the forehead as he handed over the little chap who yawned and made a delightful squeak.
‘Oh thank you, George. How simply wonderful, how truly wonderful.’ She was crying with joy, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand. She pressed the dog’s small round head to her cheek and the puppy closed one eye about to fall asleep, his pink belly full, fat and round.
‘Our last dog died back in thirty nine and it simply didn’t seem right to have one since, but I, for one, cannot go on any longer without a canine around the place.’ George rested a hand most lovingly on Alice’s shoulder as she hugged the little black body to her neck. It was a truly moving moment but when my eyes wandered to Cécile, I being the only one who was watching her, it surprised me that her face was so impassive. She was entirely unmoved by what was, without a doubt, a most touching scene.
She was unaware of me watching her and, from her lack of reaction, I could only presume she did not like dogs. Whatever it was, she was most clearly unresponsive. I was about to move towards her when I saw her expression alter, as if a light had switched on inside, for her whole countenance changed. I followed the direction of her eyes and saw that George was beaming at her and she was returning the warmth in his eyes.
Dillie began talking again, the whine in her voice so immensely irritating, I listened only to every other word. Her fiancé was due back shortly on leave, from the RAF. ‘When do you imagine it will be over, Carrick?’ I wasn’t listening to her, instead I was watching Cécile talking to George, her hand lightly placed on his forearm. They were merry, her eyes almost glittering. I swallowed hard. ‘What do you think, Carrick?’ the whining continued.
‘I do beg your pardon, Dillie. I must see Grant about something.’ I touched the back of her arm and left her standing, a champagne glass in her hand and absolutely dumbfounded.
I was outside gulping for air, it was very important not to succumb. If I focussed on the knot garden, the play of moonlight on its low hedges and the faded colours of the dying roses between them, if I could just focus, I told myself, just focus.
‘Carrick.’ I spun around, my heart skipping a beat, but it was only Alice. She stood behind me looking like an apparition, a spectre in her white silk dress.
‘Alice. You made me start; I didn’t expect you.’
‘You thought I was our lady ghost?’
We used to invent ghosts as children, George and I, to frighten the life out of Alice. She was always incredibly unaffected in fact, on reflection, I think we scared ourselves more.
‘Do you remember when you locked me in the secret cupboard in the attic so that I could watch her through the fretwork? Only you forgot I was up there and one of the maids had to come and find me. What was I, five?’
I nodded. ‘Some such young, impressionable age,’ I said as she moved towards me. ‘I fear we were very cruel to you.’
‘You could have damaged me psychologically for the rest of my life,’ she replied.
The moon was high and a sliver of silver light touched her hair. In contrast, the glow from the lounge was poor since the dim out was still in force. She looked very pretty and so young.
‘Instead, ironically, it was me,’ I said.
She took my hand and held it in both of hers. I didn’t remove it for it was comforting.
‘Carrick, I have something to say, something I have been meaning to say for a very long time.’
‘What is it?’
‘In spring last year, you proposed to me,’ she said. ‘Do you remember?’
How could I forget, the embarrassment and awkwardness was seared into my mind. ‘What of it?’ I asked.
‘Carrick, darling,’ she continued. ‘I want to tell you that I made a mistake; I refused you, it was foolish of me.’
‘It’s of no import,’ I said stiffly.
‘Oh, but it was because you stopped writing to me. I know you were terribly hurt, I realise that now.’
I turned my face away and let go of her hand, unable to think of what to say next, but she filled that space for me.
‘I want you to know, if you asked me again I would say yes, I wouldn’t hesitate.’
‘Mouse, I–’
She placed her fingers against my lips. ‘Don’t say anything, I don’t want to rush you.’ She took hold of my hands again. ‘But I want you to know that, for my part, I love you and I always have. I was young and foolish in turning you down. I think we could be happy together, I am certain we could make each other happy. I know this now and I want to look after you. I–’
‘Alice stop, stop this nonsense.’ I stepped away angrily, shaking her off me. ‘Stop it.’
She looked terribly confused and understandably quite alarmed. ‘Carrick.’ She grasped for my hands once more, but I pulled them away angrily.
‘Stop it, Alice.’ I put my head in my hands.
‘Are you unwell, darling?’
‘No, will you stop asking that, Alice. No!’ I wheeled round, confronting her.
‘Alice, I love someone else. You are too late. Please leave me alone.’
She was speechless, her hands dropping to her sides. For a moment, she was staring at me, an ugly frozen moment, her eyes searching mine for answers to impossible, unspeakable questions. Then she turned and walked away, the gravel crunching underfoot.
I waited five minutes, heat blazing through my body, and then I went back into the house and straight upstairs to my room.
I pulled out my suitcase and packed.
I would be leaving with Cécile as early as possible the next day.
27
‘Rory, I–’
‘Don’t say no, please don’t let me down.’
‘I must go,’ I said, but I didn’t mean it and I didn’t move an inch.
He shifted along the bench and sat next to me. Gently, he placed his arm around my shoulders and we sat staring across the meadows. A lone butterfly fluttered around us and was gone in an instant. I felt the weight of his arm, the arc of it around my shoulders.
Neither of us spoke.
The river was gushing between its banks. The old church, at the foot of the slope of tangled grasses, stood unmoved behind the crumbling wall, a keeper of secrets for all time. I didn’t want this perfect moment to end. I sank back into him and he brushed my hair with his lips.
‘I wouldn’t make you do anything you didn’t agree to. If this was the only moment I ever had with you I’d accept it,’ he said softly.
‘I couldn’t do it to Steve,’ I told Rory honestly. ‘Not after all this time.’
‘Have either of you ever been unfaithful?’
‘No, it’s never been anything other than him and me.’
Rory sighed, but didn’t move. We sat together for ten or fifteen minutes, in absolute silence, and the thing that bothered me most was that I felt completely comfortable and secure in him, like nothing would or could ever come between us.
‘I must go,’ I said as a heron launched its lazy flapping wings into the sky, causing enough distraction to stir me to action. He removed his arm and we stood up, the sun’s heat had warmed us both, the feeling of relaxation was hard to break.
Back at the gates, I watched Scooter leap into the four by four.
‘I can’t, Rory, I just can’t, but if I could.’
‘I know, you wo
uld. All the nice girls say that.’ He slammed the door shut. ‘Well, don’t say I didn’t ask politely.’ He was such a kind and giving man.
I smiled and kissed him lightly on the cheek and he pulled me to him, resting his head on top of mine and his hug was strong, it consumed me and I couldn’t pull away. There in the sanctuary of his body lay another way, a chance to change, move on, find a new me, but at what cost?’
‘Don’t mind me!’ The voice was jovial but the shock of it, breaking in on us, took me completely by surprise.
It was Simon. He was wearing walking boots and a gilet and was holding a Nordic walking stick in each hand. He was almost upon us as I pulled away from Rory, my face scorched with embarrassment.
‘Hello Martha. So sorry to interrupt a moment between you two. My only option was to go back in the other direction, but I need to use the footpath past the church, you see.’ He held up his walking sticks as if he thought it might explain.
I stared at him searching for something to say. ‘Hello Simon, I er, I…’
‘You must be Martha’s husband,’ he said brightly. He freed a hand from the loop in his stick and moved forward extending it towards Rory.
This was a truly ghastly, awful moment, and if there was a God he was already paying me back for my adulterous thoughts. I ran through all the things I might say, all the lies I might come up with to convince Simon that I was not a cheating wife.
‘We’re actually good friends,’ said Rory. ‘I’m working on a project with Martha, the history group’s book. Martha and I have just been exploring Lapston’s old church.’
‘Really,’ Simon said, looking from Rory to me and then up at the gates behind us. I didn’t dare look at him, I felt so ashamed.
Rory continued. ‘We’re old friends, Martha got me an article in Land magazine last year and I was delighted to repay the favour by showing her around. Have you seen the house?’ He was so controlled and unfazed whilst I, at the same time, was beginning to tremble.
