A Time for Courage (12 page)

‘Aunt Eliza,’ she called after her but Eliza had stopped on the top step.

‘Come on now, all of you, tea is in the garden and the wasps will be having a splendid time with the strawberry jam.’

She would sit Sam next to her and hope that Mr Watson, for she could never think of him as John, would not be back for a while. And Mr Watson was, of course, the other reason for sending Hannah to the cottage, she admitted to herself at last as she crossed the stable-yard. She hated Hannah’s father for the way he treated Sam, hated his arrogance, his hypocrisy. Let him try to restrain his daughter now, let him try to suck every spark from her. He would be beaten in the end, and that thought gave her great satisfaction.

And as Hannah followed her down the loft stairs she looked back at Harry and wondered whether Eliza would have told him to plan his advancement in the context of his mother’s health and knew that she would not. It was to be her burden alone.

In the hall of her uncle’s house on New Year’s Eve a great fire blazed; holly hung on top of the portrait of Esther’s grandfather, flopping down and half covering his face. Hannah wondered if she had instructed the maids to do that. Esther had not liked the old man – his nose dripped. But Hannah had thought he had been kind, drawing barley sugar from the inside pocket of his frock coat, pulling her to his side and saying Happy New Year, Hannah. The fire had always stung her with its heat because he stood just there, in front of the mantelshelf, to welcome them. She looked at the stone mantel, at the stag’s head which was above it attached to a wooden shield. It had blue glassy eyes and looked like Harry had done when he had drunk too much champagne on Christmas Eve. Aunt Camilla would only allow it to be dusted with an owl’s wing because the barbs were excellent, she always said, for preventing moths, fleas and a shiny nose. The wooden panelling looked more welcoming than usual because of the Chinese lanterns hung at intervals around the room, but that was the extent of the greeting, for there was no one else except for the butler who took Father’s hat and Harry’s too.

‘I’ll announce you, sir,’ he said before turning towards the drawing-room door.

‘I miss the old man,’ whispered Hannah, ‘he always had a smile along with the dew-drop.’

Harry grinned. He seemed happier since the holiday in Cornwall. More approachable. She felt in her coat pocket. Yes, it was still there – the musical box that Joe had sent for Christmas. It didn’t seem like four months since he had taken her into his father’s studio, rich with colour and the smell of oil paint and turpentine, and then on into his own. She had seen his carpenter’s bench; the chisel, the small knives that he would have used to carve the box. It played Tchaikovsky’s
1812
but didn’t have the cannon, he had written in the note which had accompanied the Christmas present, but at least it would remind her of the day the storm came.

She ran her gloved fingers over the indented surface of the box, thankful for deep pockets, thankful for her father’s preoccupation at his cousin’s absence for it would prevent him noticing the bulge. She had been forbidden to bring her presents to show Esther; it was vain and self-indulgent, Father had said. But this was so beautiful and made especially for her – it had to be displayed.

When Joe had taken her to his workshop before the end of the holiday the wood shavings were heaped into one corner. Some, though, still lay curled like ringlets on his bench and she had put her finger through the middle of one then taken an end and pulled it out full length. It was so long and fine and smooth and all around there was the clean smell of wood in the room.

It all takes time, he had said, when he had shown her the objects he had made. Boxes, animals, and a half-finished chair in one corner. It was plain, in light wood. I don’t like clutter, he had continued. I like clean lines in a room. He had told her how he taught the other pupils some of his skills for one hour each day. He said that his mother felt it important that horizons should be broadened, and when the Vicar had said that he felt it was diverging from the bare necessities of instruction, she had answered that if woodwork was good enough for his Jesus Christ, surely it was good enough for his flock. The Vicar had choked on his cake, Joe told her, and his father had slapped his back so hard that his tea had spilt.

Hannah looked at Harry’s hands as he withdrew his watch yet again to check the time; he had been doing it since they left the house. The snow had held up the carriage and the road sweeper had slipped and fallen as they passed, his broom skidding over the hard-packed ice and frightening the horses. The gardener had been driving the horses and had had difficulty restarting them until sand from the roadside had been heaped under the wheels and on the ground beneath their hooves. That’s taken ten minutes, Harry called, and she had seen her father’s mouth tighten. To be late for the rich cousins was like forgetting to curtsy before royalty.

Hannah had looked from the window and checked that the sweeper was unhurt. That is none of our business, her father had replied when she told them.

Now, waiting for the appearance of Uncle Thomas, she watched Harry click the watch case shut with long, tapered, white hands. Were Christ’s hands like Joe’s then? They must be, she thought, so why were they always portrayed in paintings as hands like Harry’s? In all the heat of Jerusalem he must be brown anyway. In fact he must be a Jew. Her father hated Jews. Swarthy creatures, he would say. Did he not know Christ was a Jew? The Vicar’s Christ had looked all pink and white in the crib for the Christmas service. Perhaps she should tell the Vicar that Christ was not an Englishman. Perhaps he would also choke and she wanted to laugh out loud.

Her father was tapping his leg with the silver-tipped walking-stick her mother had given him for Christmas. It would be New Year’s Day tomorrow – perhaps his cousin Thomas was seeing to some last-minute affairs. He seemed to have a lot, mostly of the unmentionable variety, or so Mrs Brennan had told Cook – whatever that might mean.

Harry had brought out the watch again. It was ridiculous, she wanted to tell him, when there was a perfectly good grandfather clock in the corner over by the dining-room door. It had a gold face too, just like his watch.

She knew why he did it, of course, and thought of the embroidery set which was all she had been given for Christmas from her parents. But would her father allow Harry to keep the watch when he announced to them all the decision he had made? Would he tell them today, when he had the support of Thomas, for her uncle did support the boy, she knew that. Father would blame it all on Eliza of course, and Cornwall – try and talk him round, forbid him perhaps – but it must be right for there was a light in Harry’s eyes now, a looseness that made him want to talk to her, made her enjoy him again. He had even brought her a painting for Christmas, one of Newlyn, full of light and children, and she sighed with pleasure.

Miss Fletcher had said that she should pass the entrance examination with no difficulty and King’s College London were accepting more and more women now. Her father had not yet mentioned university to her and her mother would not allow her to ask, but she was full of hope. Would Esther come too or would it be finishing school for her? And where was she anyway? Hannah tugged at the white scarf which was wound round her neck and fastened at the back with a safety pin. Her mother sat down on the old leather chair by the fire; it was the grandfather’s chair which had pipe burns on the arms and no antimacassars. Mother looked tired again and was unwell in the mornings. Hannah walked across and touched her shoulder.

‘Are you all right?’

The blue was there again under her mother’s eyes and Hannah felt a churning in her stomach. She could not bear to look at her father, his great weight and height. Had he done it again? Had she, her mother, allowed him to again? Hannah squeezed her mother’s shoulder.

‘It will be all right, Mother. I’ll look after you.’ She felt her mother lean against her, just for a moment, but then her father hissed from his place near the Chippendale table, which had no letters on its silver plate, ‘For goodness sake sit up, woman. Thomas could be here at any moment.’ His voice was low and vicious and Hannah could see the reflection of his back in the gilt mirror which hung over the table, she felt the stiffening of her mother’s shoulder and tried to keep her close but her mother forced herself upright as the door from the drawing-room opened.

‘My dear John, how lovely to see you.’ Thomas was in evening dress too, his white waistcoat creased into folds across his stomach. Camilla was behind him, her hair caught back in combs at the sides, then allowed to fall down in loose curls at the back.

She called out to them all, ‘So very sorry to keep you all waiting. We were just sorting out a few details. Cook seems to have become confused about the numbers again.’ Camilla came across to Hannah. ‘Pop upstairs, dear. Esther is waiting in the nursery. She has such plans for this evening.’

Camilla held a mother-of-pearl fan in one hand and Hannah could feel the draught from it as she waved it briskly in front of her face. Edith Watson rose from the chair and Hannah was quick to grasp her elbow and steady her. Camilla looked elegant in her pale pink dress which glittered with sequins, whilst her mother was subdued in black, cut high on her neck. She wore a jet necklace, which was permissible when one was in mourning, she had told Hannah. Hannah wished that she did not have to wear black also.

Camilla’s neckline was cut away a little but not as much as the ladies in Prince Edward’s set. Her necklace of pearls had gained another string since last year, Hannah noticed. ‘Thank you, Aunt Camilla. Will you be all right, Mother?’ Hannah looked into her mother’s face.

‘Off you go now, Hannah. We will see you in time for dinner, remember.’ Her mother’s voice was strained and high-pitched. She was tired; Hannah knew she was tired. She turned to catch Harry’s eye but he and her father were already being ushered by Thomas into the drawing-room.

The wide stairs swept round on to the first landing and then the second, carpeted thickly in dark red so that her patent boots made no noise. Heavy oil paintings of Esther’s forebears hung at regular intervals, though they ceased when the stairs narrowed on the next flight. Now there was only a covering of linoleum to walk on and her boots tapped with each step.

Hannah looked above her and saw that the wicker gate that had ensured Esther did not fall as a small child was shut outside the nursery landing. She opened it and the tin bell which was attached jangled, the door ahead of her was flung open, and Esther held out her arms.

‘Oh Hannah, where have you been?’ Her face with its eyes the colour of violets was flushed and her blonde hair was dishevelled.

‘Climbing these stairs on my own.’ Hannah answered. ‘I suppose you just happened to have something pressing which required your attention and, coincidentally, saved you a long climb.’

She was panting a little and grinned as Esther pulled a face and drew Hannah into the room, which was lit by gas lights burning yellow at the fringe and blue at the heart. The fire was crackling in the blue-tiled grate, tinsel was draped all around and Chinese lanterns hung from cotton strung across the ceiling so the impression was one of light.

Hannah eased out of her coat, feeling dark and dull against the vivid blue of Esther’s dress. She wore dancing slippers of bronze kid with crossed over elastic. ‘You look far too nice,’ she said to Esther, who laughed and bent forward, kissing her on the cheek.

‘The blue is to match my eyes. I chose it. Your dress hardly looks like mourning, you know, with that black embroidery.’ She pulled Hannah over to the long mirror.

The dark of Hannah’s dress seemed to swallow what light there was around her whilst Esther’s flung it back into the room. ‘Father’s in a rage because we’re late.’ It sounded trivial spoken aloud. Hannah sat down opposite Esther in one of the wicker chairs near the fire. There was a wire guard set up, and on the table where she and Esther had eaten nursery teas when they were younger was a pile of chiffon; pale green, blue and orange. The rugs were the same frayed ones that had always been there but there was a new puzzle set out on the card table in the corner. The outside edges were complete and a pile of pieces waited to be sorted in the centre. Esther sat down opposite.

‘Tell me what dear old Santa Claus put in your stocking then?’ Esther asked, smiling. Her teeth were even and white. She pulled a face when she heard. ‘It’s not good enough, you know, Hannah.’ Her voice was indignant. ‘You should have more than that.’

Hannah laughed. ‘I don’t want a large pocket watch, thank you.’ Esther threw a cushion at her and Hannah caught it, then placed it behind her. ‘How kind of you, dear,’ she mocked. The fire was hot on her face and she pushed the chair back.

‘And were you and George pleased with your presents?’

George was older than Esther, much older. He was twenty-five and Esther was fifteen, as Hannah was. Hannah did not look at Esther while she waited for the answer. She did not really want to know because it would hurt. And then she remembered. ‘But look at this, Esther,’ she said when Esther had run through her list. She stood and picked up her coat from the back of a wooden chair, delving deep into the pocket before returning to her seat. She passed the musical box over to Esther who opened it, laughing at the music and at the thought of Hannah caught in the rain with an American boy while the chaperon was in the cover of his porch, miles away.

Esther closed the lid when the music finished, putting it back into Hannah’s coat pocket then calling her across to the table where the chiffon lay.

‘Do look at this, Hannah, isn’t it glorious?’

Hannah picked up a piece and let it drift down through the air back on to the table. It was so light she could hardly feel it. She looked at Esther who explained.

‘Mother said we should do an entertainment tonight. George did one on Boxing Day. Something light and airy, Mother says, something which is fun. They’ve been to a soirée with King Edward, you know, and think he is a vast improvement on the old lady so these things are permissible now.’ She paused. ‘Well, it was a very big soirée and I doubt if he knew they were there but they certainly knew. Such excitement, Hannah. Anyway, George thinks we should do a dance, the one about the autumn leaves that we learnt at the classes. Mother will play the music.’