A Winter's Child (65 page)

‘Goodbye, Euan.'

She let him get to the gate and then, snatching her coat, ran after him. ‘I'll just walk with you to the station.'

‘Thanks, Claire.'

He held her hand through the compartment window, very tight, his fingers cold, his body so taut that she could feel the uneasy, overstrung vibration of his nerves, the beginnings of revulsion and panic, of pity too deep to be endured: and the inevitable, ineradicable hate.

‘I think I'm up to it,' he said. ‘It helped – telling you.'

He had not asked her to go with him. But she had only to get into the train, now, as she was, and she thought he would be glad. Why not? A reckless, ridiculous step perhaps, but her spirit was poised to take it. The open road, perhaps, without hearth or anchor, but a part of her nature responded to that. Euan – if he managed to come to terms with the destruction of his faith and love – could offer her freedom. What could she offer him?

‘See it through,' she told him.

‘I'll try. You're right, of course. If I don't, then it's bound to finish me off.'

The whistle sounded, its screech unnerving her, throwing them fiercely together.

‘Wait for me, Claire.'

‘Yes I'll wait.'

Time had reeled backwards, two years of it, three years, and one promised anything when those whistles blew. He smiled, still clutching her hand.

‘I told you, Claire – it's always Passchendaele.'

‘I'll come with you,' she said. Had she spoken aloud? Had he heard? It made no difference. The train was already pulling away. ‘If I keep on smiling then he won't get killed – he won't die of wounds – he won't be paralysed and blind – he won't be crippled and castrated, neither in his body nor in his soul.'

Her smile was fixed and set when she turned the corner to the boarding house and saw MacAllister's sister standing at the gate, shading her eyes, looking for someone.

‘Mrs Swanfield – oh Mrs Swanfield –' The hand began to wave in evident agitation, a square of orange paper clutched within it. Claire came nearer, her smile deepening, becoming as blank and brilliant as Euan's.

‘God love you, Mrs Swanfield, you'd been gone no more than five minutes when they brought you this.'

She held out the telegram as gingerly as one might handle dead vermin and for a moment Claire went on smiling, as incapable of taking it as Euan had been incapable of turning off the gas.

There had been too many telegrams.

‘Bad news, I reckon,' said Teresa MacAllister, stating a fact, not asking a question, since she had lost two brothers, numerous cousins, in France and knew what telegrams were for.

Yes. Bad news. Not Euan, at least she could be sure of that. Not yet. Nor Kit either. Somehow she knew that. But Benedict was travelling in Italy. If there had been an accident, if he had been taken ill – and remembering that drawn, hollow look she knew it was possible – would it occur to anyone to let her know? Yes. Toby would think of it. Then it must be Benedict. How could she get to him? Colour left her so rapidly that Teresa MacAllister put out a hand expecting her to fall in a faint, and then, as she snatched the envelope and tore it open, her pallor changed, beneath the Irish woman's kindly, incredulous eyes, from chalk to rose; her expression of horror changing too, to what
could
have been – although Miss MacAllister was ready to give her the benefit of the doubt – a kind of wondering, excited delight.

‘It's Edward,' she said, ‘my mother's husband. He died this morning.'

And crumbling the dreaded orange envelope in her hand she went on down the street, walking with a decided bounce in her step, towards the sands.

She was free. It was the only thought in her mind. Absolutely free. And through the sheer, lark-soaring delight it aroused in her she was unable to feel anything else. No pang of guilt came near her. How could she bring herself to grieve, in any case, for an old man dead in his bed of natural causes when she had seen others blown to pieces at nineteen, burned and blinded at twenty-three? Nor did she hate him. She was simply overflowing with gratitude, burgeoning with gladness, that he was gone. She had never, for a moment, expected it. She had thought him indestructible, that his whine might grow thinner perhaps, but that Edward himself would continue to cast his shadow through her life, to hold her back, keep her down, manipulate her through Dorothy, for ever. Now she could go back to Faxby and lead her life as she pleased. Now she could go to High Meadows when and if she chose, with no fear of what Edward might do to her mother should she decide not to go at all. Now – for the first time in her life – it no longer mattered what the Swanfields had to say. She was free. She was her own woman. Had she even been consciously aware of how much he had oppressed her until now when the crushing burden of him had been lifted? But she was very light now, floating in blue air without it, possessed by an impossible, probably – she supposed – an indecent joy which carried her buoyantly along the sands to the post office where, having composed herself sufficiently to request a black border without offending the clerk she sent an answering telegram, solemnly worded and correct, promising to return on the next train.

The funeral was not conspicuously well-attended, Edward having had few relations, no personal friends, and, in view of his long retirement, only one or two colleagues and clients who remembered him well enough, or kindly enough, to make the journey to Upper Heaton. The neighbourhood, of course, did what it could, curtains remaining drawn as a sign of respect for the whole afternoon, a gesture which, the weather having turned unseasonably cold and rather more than usually wet, most people considered to be adequate. Miriam sent a lavish wreath of lilies and white roses, and her excuses. She was not quite well herself and funerals depressed her in any case. Poor, dear Mr Lyall would not have wished her to court pneumonia trudging behind
his
coffin, she felt very sure of that. Benedict was still in Italy. No one expected Polly to stand at a graveside. And so the Swanfields were represented by well-meaning Eunice and easily set-aside Toby, the very ones Edward himself had least regarded.

‘I think Miriam might have made the effort,' said Claire because she knew Dorothy thought so and would not say it.

‘Oh no – not at all.' Dorothy had not yet convinced herself that Edward could no longer hear, and was visibly intimidated by the presence of a pair of Lyall cousins who much resembled him. ‘Her flowers are very fine.'

‘Just a quick'phone call to a florist, mother. Not much recompense for all of Edward's frantic devotion.'

The Lyall cousins, one male, one female, exchanged pained looks. Dorothy flushed and bit her lip, knowing that in their eyes she had remained no more and no less than the young governess Cousin Edward had so surprisingly taken it into his head to marry.

‘I am pleased to see,' said the female Lyall, ‘that you have kept the silver in good condition.'

‘Tell me,' said the male, ‘should there not be two of these
Cloisonne¥/
vases? The value diminishes considerably unless they are kept in pairs.'

‘Certainly there were two,' his sister answered him, both of them turning to Dorothy with the air of those who feel entitled to an explanation.

‘Oh –' she said, badly flustered. ‘I don't remember. Could one have got broken, do you think?'

‘Hardly – since they are made of metal. Someone could have dinted it, of course. Did someone do that?'

‘Does it matter?' said Claire coldly, rudely. ‘And even if it did, I rather think my mother has more important things on her mind just now than Chinese vases.'

‘Indeed,' snapped two pairs of thin Lyall lips, two pairs of small, black eyes, wintry with disapproval, looking Claire up and down.

‘Indeed,' she said.

‘Oh dear,' said Dorothy, flushing scarlet as the Lyalls proceeded outdoors to assess the condition of the garden. ‘I think you have offended them.'

‘I certainly hope so. They were talking to you like a housekeeper, mother, and not a particularly good one either. Why on earth do you put up with it?'

‘Oh – don't make a fuss, Claire, please. They are Lyalls, after all – Edward's family.'

‘And you were Edward's wife. This is your house now and if they start bothering you again about vases or silver spoons or
anything
then just tell them to leave.'

‘Claire!
I can't do that.' For a moment Dorothy looked terrified.

‘Mother –?'

And when there was no reply, ‘Mother – what
is
going on?'

‘Nothing. What should be? And what a vulgar expression. It's just that – well, this is a family house. The Lyalls have always lived here – and –'

‘Do they want to buy it from you? That might be a good idea.'

‘No they don't.' Dorothy's temper was flaring to cover her embarrassment. ‘This house has never been bought or sold since Edward's grandfather built it.'

‘And now it's yours – isn't it?'

Not even Claire thought so poorly of Edward as to believe that he could have left his wife without a roof to shelter her.

‘Yes, of course it's mine. At least… Yes it is mine. For now, at any rate. And some money to look after it and live in it. For my lifetime, I mean. And then it's theirs.'

‘Theirs!
Mother – they're older than you.'

Dorothy gave her heavy, exasperated shrug, her cheeks burning. ‘Well, I can't help that, can I? And they have a nephew, Edward's– I don't know – second cousin, I suppose. He's only thirty.
He'll
outlive me. Oh, for Heaven's sake, Claire, it was all agreed before we were married – what I was to have and what was to be kept in the family.'

‘It's a strange family, mother, that doesn't include a man's wife.'

‘Just don't make a fuss. It was all agreed – all signed and sealed years and years ago – and that's that. I was so much younger than Edward, you see, and he'd been a bachelor for so long. It just wasn't fair to the Lyalls – I understood that. I shall have quite enough to live on. A nice little allowance and all the household maintenance to be paid out of the estate.'

‘Mother!' And now it was Claire's turn to be horrified. ‘Do you mean to say you've been working all these years,
slaving
in this house, at the beck and call of that man, just for an allowance?'

Cornered, well aware of the awkwardness of her position but refusing wildly to admit it, Dorothy rushed to the attack. ‘I mean nothing of the kind. It's all quite usual with second marriages – in good families, that is, where there's property – it's the way things are done. If you don't believe me then ask Mr Duckworth, Edward's solicitor – he'll explain it all to you.'

Herbert Duckworth, a slight, bone-dry little man who had been practising the law so long that he no longer troubled to conceal how very much it bored him, gave Claire five minutes of his time the next morning, yawning behind a thin hand as, tonelessly, tediously, he confirmed her fears. Dorothy was to have nothing outright but the use of her late husband's home, the enjoyment of its contents and a certain monthly income.

‘How much?' asked Claire.

He told her.

‘Those are housekeeper's wages,' she said.

Nevertheless, Mrs Dorothy Lyall had agreed to them. Eighteen years ago perhaps the sum concerned had seemed more satisfactory. He had explained the agreement to Mrs Lyall himself and she had made no complaint. Young brides outlive their elderly husbands. More often than not, they marry again. Mr Lyall had merely taken the precaution of ensuring that should his widow choose to bestow her hand and heart on another man she could not include the Lyall property with it. Quite usual. No more than prudent, particularly as Mrs Lyall had a daughter of her own to whom she would naturally wish to bequeath any inheritance she might acquire on the way. Hardly fair, thought Mr Duckworth, yawning again, to the remaining Lyalls, three in number, Miss Richmal and Mr Charles and their nephew Mr Henry, the son of their late elder brother. A charming young gentleman, soon to be married. In the course of time the house and its contents would go to them. Mr Duckworth supposed there could be no objection to an inventory of those contents being taken? Miss Richmal Lyall had asked for it and it would probably save awkwardness later on. Miss Lyall had also put forward what seemed the entirely reasonable proposal that certain items, the silver for instance, and a particular dinner service – far too large, Miss Lyall thought, for a woman alone – might be given as a wedding present to the Lyall nephew, of whom Miss Richmal Lyall was very fond. And since the matter
had
arisen, Miss Lyall had expressed the view – a view only, he hastened to add – that certain pieces of furniture, Mr Edward Lyall's desk and bookcases for example, might be of greater use to young Mr Henry Lyall, at present bearing the heavy cost of setting up a home, than to Mr Lyall's widow. Bedrooms too.

‘Bedrooms?' asked Claire.

Yes, indeed. How many bedrooms would Mrs Dorothy Lyall' be likely to need? Miss Lyall thought it could hardly be more than two. It had, therefore, occurred to Miss Lyall that there would be beds and sideboards and some rather splendid carved mahogany wardrobes to spare.

‘I see,' she said.

Mr Duckworth, understanding that she saw very well, shrugged shoulders as narrow and brittle as a bird's.

‘There is also a question of linen. There is a great deal of it, Miss Richmal says. Rather more than would seem necessary for your mother's needs. It would be a kindness, in view of the exorbitant cost of matrimony, to offer a portion of it to young Mr Henry.'

‘He was not at the funeral.'

‘No. He is on holiday, somewhere in Austria, I believe, and in view of the suddenness of the event … I think it safe to assume that his aunt, Miss Richraal, will speak for him.'