The Silent Stars Go By

by Sally Nicholls

  She glanced around, looking for help, but the street was silent. Her father would be on good terms with every family in the village – or so it seemed – but Margot didn’t have his confidence. The houses here were smaller, labourers’ cottages, and the thought of knocking and asking for help was impossible – she would rather abandon the Christmas presents than do that. But perhaps... at the top of the next street was Miss Dawson’s house. Miss Dawson was one of her father’s Churchy Ladies, a particular favourite of Margot’s, who could remember being given comfits when out delivering the parish magazine with her father. Miss Dawson would look after the parcels – and if she were out, they could be left in her porch at least. Then Margot could carry James home. Two streets – James could walk two streets, couldn’t he?

  She knelt down beside him in the dirt.

  ‘James, listen,’ she said. In desperation she threw the precepts of her childhood to one side. ‘Would you like another sweetie?’

  He couldn’t stop crying, but he gave a half-nod, shuddering.

  ‘All right, well – we’re going to walk to a lady’s house, Miss Dawson –’ (Would he know who Miss Dawson was?) ‘It’s not far, and when we get there, you can have a sweetie. And then Margot will carry you... Oh no, James, please don’t cry...’

  ‘Carry me!’

  It was hopeless. She hauled him up by the armpits, and he collapsed himself, stiffening his back, slackening his muscles so she had to take the whole of his weight.

  ‘Come on, James. James, please...’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  She looked up, and felt the blood rush into her face.

  Because of course it was him. Of course, of course, it was. Like something in a penny novelette.

  Harry Singer, all dark hair and old army greatcoat, and a scarf in bright scarlet wrapped casually around his neck. He was broader than she’d remembered, and taller and older too, much older than he had a right to be after three years apart. But still nice-looking. Still with that something – was it kindness? – hovering in his eyes. Oh God. And she must look older too. Sometimes, looking in the mirror, she felt a hundred years old. Oh, of all the times to see him! Kneeling there in the dirt, her skirts splashed with mud, James howling and thrashing in her arms.

  Had he got her letter yet? If not – oh, how awful! – what must he think of her?

  Hullo, Harry. This is your son. She had a helpless urge to giggle.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ she said desperately. He’s nice really, honour bright. He’s only behaving like this because I don’t know how to look after him properly. Oh God, he’ll never want us now.

  ‘I made him walk to the shop, and now he won’t walk back. He wants to be carried, but I’ve got these parcels...’

  ‘Most unfortunate,’ said Harry solemnly. ‘Perhaps you might permit me to assist?’

  He talked like a gentleman in a novella too. She’d forgotten he had this habit when nervous. It came from his father, who really did talk like this, and wrote articles for journals about the deplorable state of diets for urban children just like this too. Somehow, knowing he was nervous calmed her down. It made her feel protective, the way it always used to, back when they were both children and love was simple.

  She was smiling despite herself. Ridiculous to be won over so easily by a man! And yet... at that moment, she would probably have accepted a marriage proposal from anyone who offered to help.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. Then, ‘Look, Jamie! This gentleman is going to help Margot carry her boxes, so she can carry you!’

  He didn’t seem to have heard her.

  Harry crouched down in the mud beside him.

  ‘Would you like to be carried home?’ he asked solemnly.

  He had his own little sisters, she remembered. And how prosaic this first meeting between father and son! Because while it was simultaneously like something out of a penny novella, it was also immensely ordinary. The grey Yorkshire drizzle, the wet parcels, the crying child. For so long after that Missing in action telegram, she had wondered if he would ever come back. How awful if he never met his son! How wonderful if he were alive, how wonderful to be able to introduce him to James, to have somebody to share this joy and this grief.

  But it wasn’t like that at all. And the words wouldn’t come.

  James stared, the closeness of a stranger enough to stop his tears. He retreated backwards into Margot’s legs and buried his face in her side. She put her arm around him, realising that she ought to have been trying to comfort him before.

  ‘All right, darling,’ she said. And then, to Harry, ‘If you really wouldn’t mind –’

  He took the brown paper parcels into his arms. There was another spot of rain, and then another, and then suddenly it was raining properly – not heavily, but enough to make James whimper.

  ‘All right,’ she said again, and lifted him onto her hip.

  He was heavier than she’d expected, and an awkward weight against her breastbone. Still, there was nothing else for it. Not looking at Harry, she set off back towards the vicarage, Harry following.

  They walked without talking. Margot couldn’t stop herself glancing at him. He looked like a different person! His hair was darker than she remembered, and thicker, and it fell in a tumble over his eyes. And his smile! She’d often wondered if he’d lost that easy happiness after two years as a POW, and looking at him now, she had her answer. The ease had gone – his happiness was not a straightforward thing, and he knew that now. But the delight in the world was still there. He had fought whatever demons one found in prisoner of war camps, and he had won. The weight of the sky may have wobbled on his shoulders, but now he carried it securely again.

  She envied him, as she always had. Her own sky had fallen onto her head, and she hadn’t the first notion how to lift it up again.

  She looked at him, almost against her will, to see if his eyes were still the same colour and caught him looking at her. She flushed and he laughed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to discomfort you.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry.’ She dared her eyes to remain on his face. His expression was friendly, but there was a wariness there too, something kept back. She swallowed. ‘It’s good to see you. And I really am very grateful—’

  ‘My pleasure.’ He bowed his head. Then, ‘It’s good to see you too.’

  She blushed. Were they – surely he couldn’t expect to have the whole conversation now? He couldn’t – not with James there? Could he?

  ‘Are you – I was sorry to hear you were ill. I hope you’re quite recovered?’

  Now she was doing it too!

  ‘Oh yes, quite.’

  A small pause. They were at the edge of the green.

  ‘And who’s this? A new brother?’

  So he definitely didn’t know. She wasn’t sure how well-kept a secret it was, if at all. Her parents knew, of course, and her friend Mary, and Jos and Stephen. But what about the servants? Had her parents told any of their friends? Surely, surely they must have done?

  Sometimes Margot thought that nobody knew – other times that half the village was maintaining a polite fiction of ignorance. Was this a test? But Harry’s face betrayed nothing but mild interest.

  He’s your son.

  She opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. She stared at him, gaping, then said, all in a rush, ‘Oh – yes – I mean. This is James. He’s – yes. James.’

  ‘Hullo, James.’

  He’d always been good with small children, better than she was, really. Ruth and Ernest had adored him.

  She should just tell him.

  ‘And you? Are you keeping well?’

  No, they were just going to talk as though they were in a drawing room. He was going to ask about the weather in a minute.

  ‘Oh! Very well, thank you. I’m a typist now, if you can believe that.’

  He made a polite noise that began as agreement, then reversed as
he realised his mistake, and ended as a sort of amused confusion.

  ‘Mmm... aaahhmm... Mh.’

  She giggled. He flashed her a sudden, wonderful smile, bright as poppies in a cornfield.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I just... it’s good to see you.’

  ‘You already said that.’

  ‘Well. Well, so it is.’

  They were turning onto the road which led to the vicarage. She could see curious eyes watching them from the front garden. Ruth and Ernest, halfway up the apple tree. Curse them! What were they doing outside in this rain? She slowed, instinctively trying to prolong the walk. If only she hadn’t hurried so at the beginning! Except... with Ruth’s frankly curious gaze upon her, she found she could think of nothing to say. At least... nothing you could ask with those awful infants there.

  Damn him! Damn them!

  ‘It’s awful really,’ she said quickly, desperate to say something that was real at least, something that didn’t belong in a drawing room. ‘I work in a foul school full of dreadful girls. I abhor it.’

  They were at the gate. Ruth and Ernest came sliding down the tree and surged down the path like puppies.

  ‘Harry!’

  ‘Harry Singer!’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Are you coming in?’

  ‘Goodness, it’s wet!’

  ‘Do come in – we’re about to have luncheon.’

  ‘Do come, Harry, and tell us all about being a captive.’

  ‘Was it ghastly?’

  She could strangle them.

  James was tugging on her sleeve.

  ‘Too wet, Margot. Too wet!’

  Harry was detaching himself from the infants with apologies and sixpences and an armful of brown-paper parcels each. James was wriggling out of her arms, his furious little head shaking hair into her eyes. Her mother appeared at the doorway and his face collapsed again, into that perfect, mouth-open picture of infant grief. Margot’s mother scooped him up and shhed him, the expression on her face at comical odds with the gentle motion of her hands.

  ‘There you are! Goodness, Margot, I thought you’d kidnapped him! Where on earth did you go? I sent Ruth and Ernest down to the duckpond, they said you were nowhere in sight.’

  ‘We just – I just – and then...’

  She turned to Harry, hoping to salvage something of the situation.

  But he was gone.

  Glory Days

  Mummy! Margot and Harry were talking and she won’t tell us what he said!’

  The children burst into luncheon more-than-usually full of energy. Really, how did Mother cope with them?

  ‘He didn’t say anything beyond the usual pleasantries,’ said Margot stiffly. ‘And you two should keep your noses out of other people’s businesses.’

  ‘I’m going to be a lady detective when I grow up,’ said Ruth. ‘So I have to put my nose in people’s business. Are you still engaged? Are you going to get married? Oh goody, cottage pie! My favourite! Didn’t he look dashing? Don’t you think he’s dashing, Margot?’

  ‘I think little girls should eat their dinner and stop talking such nonsense,’ said their mother.

  Ruth looked indignant.

  ‘It isn’t—’

  ‘And I’ve got some news that will interest you big girls,’ their mother continued. ‘The Hendersons are having a ball at New Year.’

  Immediate, rapturous attention from Ruth. Pleasant surprise, despite herself, from Margot, and an expression of vague horror from Jocelyn. Only Ernest continued chewing his green beans with an air of indifference. (James was eating upstairs with Doris.) The Hendersons lived in the big house in the village. They were nominally part of her father’s parish, though in practice they only appeared in church on feast days. The vicar sat on several local committees with Mr Henderson, and Basil Henderson had been married in his church, in a great rush two weeks before the Battle of the Somme. ‘Their first ball since the War. I expect you older children will be invited.’

  ‘Heavens,’ said Margot. ‘What on earth will we wear?’

  Clothes were always a problem in the vicarage. Their father might be nominally a gentleman, and expected to send his sons to public school, but he earned comparatively little. Margot and her sisters had spent their childhoods in hand-me-downs from various relations, and party dresses made of their mother’s cut-down ballgowns. Their mother was the youngest daughter of a country squire, and had led what always seemed like a wonderfully glamorous late-Victorian adolescence, attending hunt balls and country house parties, before settling tamely for their father and a draughty vicarage, and a life of missionary teas and Sunday School catechisms and leaking oil-stoves and rising damp.

  She studied Margot now with cool appraisal.

  ‘You might fit into my blue taffeta. It would be worth a try. I expect Jocelyn will get away with your old grey velvet, she’s just about young enough to pull it off.’

  ‘Me?’ said Jocelyn. ‘I’m invited?’

  ‘I believe so,’ said her father. ‘Matthew Henderson said Stephen and your girls, though I don’t think he was talking about Ruth. I expect you’ll get a proper invitation card soon enough.’

  ‘I say,’ said Jocelyn. ‘Does this mean I’m out ?’

  Already coming out was becoming an old-fashioned concept – how much had changed since the War! – but Margot supposed people still did it. Of course, as a vicar’s daughter, Jocelyn wouldn’t have a coming-out ball like Marjorie Henderson had had. But it was still an occasion, one’s first grown-up ball as a young lady.

  Her mother’s face fell.

  ‘Oh heavens,’ she said. Then, seeing Jocelyn’s expression. ‘Oh, Jos, I’m sorry. It’s just – well – if you’re coming out, I suppose the grey velvet really won’t do, and you’ll need proper shoes and – heavens, why can’t little girls stay children for ever?’

  Margot looked at Jocelyn, whose face was a picture of horror. Swallowing, she said, ‘Jocelyn can have the blue taffeta if she wants.’

  ‘But what will you wear?’ said Jocelyn. The blue taffeta was beautiful, supposing it fitted. But Jocelyn should have something nice for her first ball.

  ‘I expect I’ve got something from my flapper days,’ Margot said, trying to remember her adolescent wardrobe. ‘The red, perhaps?’

  Her mother said briskly, ‘I’m afraid the moths have rather gotten into the bodice. I wonder – shall we have a look in Glory Days?’

  Glory Days was the chest where their mother kept her old ball-gowns and cloaks, the children’s outgrown party dresses and bits and pieces of material for rainy days. As children, Glory Days had always been like something out of a fairy tale.

  ‘There surely can’t be anything left in Glory Days now, can there?’ Margot said doubtfully.

  ‘Well – when Granny died there were some things we inherited,’ her mother said. ‘Nothing you could wear as it is, but perhaps we could alter them...’

  Opening Glory Days was an event in itself. The chest lived on the landing which led to the servants’ quarters; their mother opened the lid, and they peered inside. Every dress and wrap had to be lifted out and considered, and everything had a story, which had to be told. Most were family legends.

  ‘That’s the dress you and Nana made me for Peggy Burrows’ tenth birthday – do you remember?’

  ‘I certainly do! And you spilled lemonade all down the front of it and I could have spanked you there and then – the trouble Nana and I took over it.’

  ‘Look! There’s the dress you wore to the dance where you met Daddy.’

  ‘So it is.’ Their mother looked at it fondly. ‘Heaven knows what I was thinking. I’m surprised your father looked twice at me.’

  ‘But he danced six dances with you and came round to call the next day. And Granny was horrified because he was only a poor curate, but you loved him anyway.’ The children knew the story off by heart.

  ‘Is this one of
Granny’s dresses?’ It was black crepe de Chine, very long and fussy. Ruth dragged it out of Glory Days, staring. ‘Goodness! It’s ugly!’

  ‘Granny had that made when Queen Victoria died. Everyone wore black. You and Stephen had little black skirts, Margot, and black bonnets. Your father’s church warden had eleven children and he said to me, “Ma’am, I’m very sorry the Queen has died, but if she had to do it, I do wish it wasn’t just after Christmas when money is so tight.” Poor fellow! He wasn’t the only one who thought that, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘There’s a cloak as well.’ Margot held it up. It was black velvet, gloriously soft, and remarkably undamaged by moths. ‘Couldn’t we do something with this? Just something simple.’

  ‘You always did look well in black, with that hair.’ Their mother took the cloak and spread it out on the floor. She was a keen dressmaker. ‘It’s lovely quality, and there’s plenty of it. I couldn’t do anything before Christmas, mind.’

  ‘Naturally. I could help perhaps?’

  ‘Well... if you could...’ She got up suddenly, holding the black cloak against her. ‘Why don’t you have a look through my patterns and see if you can find anything you like? I dare say there’ll be something in there that we can make up in time.’

  And for a moment, it was almost like being a girl again.

  5 Watery Lane

  Thwaite

  North Yorkshire

  20th December 1919

  Hullo!

  So lovely to see you today. (I said that already, didn’t I? Well it was.) And lovelier still to come home to your letter.

  Please may I come around tomorrow afternoon? Would 2 o’clock suit?

  Harry

  The Vicarage

  Church Lane

  Thwaite

  North Yorkshire

  20th December 1919

  Dear Harry,

  It was very lovely to see you too. Many thanks again for all your help with James.