Broken Music (5 page)

‘I don't imagine he'll want us to call him anything of the sort, Florrie, if I know William.' Mrs Villiers divested herself of her apron, hung it tidily behind the door and patted her hair. ‘It's more likely he'll want to forget the army as soon as possible.'

‘Hmm. Well, major or not, it'll be grand to see him again, and I'm sure Strudwick'll be glad of someone to help bring in the coal, not to mention seeing to that pile of leaves blocking the gutters. He don't fancy ladders nowadays, says he's getting too old.'

Eleanor Villiers smiled again, not envisaging immediately co-opting William into the role of handyman, though he'd always enjoyed energetic work, making himself useful, but thinking more of the warmth he would bring into the house, the vitality and sense of purpose. She for one would not be sorry at that. It was time to put the past behind them, and not only the war years but the unresolved mystery which the enormity of the war itself had overshadowed.

Amy was delightedly imagining the excitements that were sure to follow William's return.

The last time she had seen him she'd been a little overawed at her giant of a brother, so much older, so dashing in his army uniform, his Sam Browne gleaming, his peaked cap at a jaunty angle. Second Lieutenant William Wentworth, all geared up and ready to fight the Hun, trying to look serious and responsible, the effect spoilt by his big, cheerful smile, the freckles on his nose and the fact that he was just twenty-one. Straight out of university, his studies abandoned. How brave, Amy thought, how daring to do that. No wonder Papa had been so – disappointed. But no wonder, either, that William had been a hero, mentioned in despatches. She hugged to herself the warm, comfortable feeling that they were all to be together again, the whole family…all except Marianne, of course. But Marianne had been gone for so long now, her image was already fading, and the sad feeling was hard to maintain, although the way she had died – and the guilt, and all the rest of it – still frightened Amy when she thought about it.

But there was always Nella. Her two elder sisters had been so close in age, talking and laughing together about things Amy didn't understand, that Amy used to feel excluded, but it was different now, had been ever since that night when Nella had cuddled Amy to sleep in her own bed, at the end of that awful day when Marianne had been found dead.

Nella removed her apron and drew on the cardigan her grandmother had thoughtfully set to keep warm for her on the rail over the boiler, and snuggled into its comforting warmth. ‘Father's seen the letter, of course? What did he say?'

‘You know your father, Nella. He's pleased – who wouldn't be? – but of course he won't show it.'

‘No, I don't suppose he would.'

Another silence fell, this time of a different kind, an unease settling over the room like dust, a small cloud dimming, if only slightly, the joy of the moment. Francis Wentworth, who was against fighting for any reason whatsoever, had not been delighted when his only son had left Oxford before taking his degree. As a member of the Officers' Training Corps, both at school and university, William had had no difficulty in obtaining a commission, determined not to be left behind in the jingoistic fervour (as his father saw it) to fight for king and country when all his friends were doing the same; but the habit of non-communication between father and son was too strong to be broken and typically, after voicing his initial protests, Francis had shrugged and retreated into his books.

The big wooden clock on the wall gave its usual irritating whirr before bonging out a slow, unmusical five. Mrs Villiers said briskly, ‘Well, time we were eating. Do stop fussing with your nails, Amy, this is
not
the place for that sort of thing. Put your shoes on, and give Florrie a hand with the dinner things. Make sure those plates are hot, Florrie.'

Florrie, having set aside her own portion, and a bit for Strudwick, which could be supplemented by that leftover sausage, juggled a pile of plates that were burning her fingers; there was no need for reminders – unless the plates were red hot from the oven, the food would be cold in a few minutes in that icebox of a dining room. Why they didn't eat in here, she couldn't think; they all congregated in the kitchen, or in the little parlour, for much of the time anyway, since they were the only really warm rooms in the house. The girls would have welcomed the idea, Florrie was sure, but she was equally certain that, although some standards had necessarily slipped during the war, the idea of dining in the kitchen would never have remotely occurred to Mrs Villiers. She had only recently given up changing for dinner every night.

‘Will Father be joining us?' asked Nella, folding a cloth around a vegetable dish to carry it to the table. You could never be sure whether he would or would not.

‘Not today,' replied Mrs Villiers. ‘He'll have something in his study, perhaps, later.'

Nella and Amy exchanged glances. The atmosphere lightened perceptibly.

Some hours after the telegram from William had been received, Francis Wentworth had finally abandoned his attempt to write his sermon, called for Queenie the Second, daughter of the first much lamented Queenie, and set out for a tramp over the hills.

He strode through the village, and walked steadily up the Hill. As he climbed higher and continued along the ridge, the wind grew keener, so icy it brought tears to his eyes and so strong it threatened to lift his tweed cap so that he had to jam it more firmly onto his head. Here, up on the brow, the trees bowed and swayed to their own wild songs. There was a smell of new earth and the clouds flew before the wind. He walked quicker, to keep warm. It was cold enough for snow. After a mild start, this March looked like turning into what they called around here a blackthorn winter: that unexpected snap of very cold, frosty weather just when the blackthorn blossom was giving promise of spring, which could nip the early flower buds and blight fruit in the bud. Nevertheless, the icy air invigorated him and soon his stride had achieved an effortless rhythm, with Queenie bounding along in front of him, stopping occasionally with her nose to the ground, sniffing for rabbits while his own thoughts whirled around in his mind.

The war which he had so bitterly opposed had at last, at last come to an end, and the son who had gone off so gallantly was coming home.

He was a little afraid of meeting William again. There were bridges to be built, and as yet he had no idea how that was to be accomplished. He and William had parted at the beginning of the war, not in anger, that was true, but in an uneasy truce. Francis had been unable to accept the war, and still could not, but had found no ally in his opposition to it except for young Grev, who had been as passionately opposed to it as he was, and who had yet died a hero's death in the midst of battle. He could hardly bear to think of that talented young life, extinguished.

He wondered, often several times a day, how he had allowed himself to drift into the situation in which he found himself. He was still comparatively young. Not in the mirror, perhaps, where he saw a bitter man robbed of his youth. Would he ever entirely rid himself of the legacy of those years following Dorothea's death, when he had struggled through a slough of despond, finding no one who could give him the spiritual assistance he needed, the absolution from guilt? He had not felt able to approach his fellow clergy for help, nor even his bishop – especially his evangelical bishop, projecting, as Francis had scornfully thought then, his own threadbare spirituality on to the world in general by writing popular books so that he had no actual time to spare for his flock. How do we misjudge others!

He was all too aware of his own major weakness, a reluctance in himself to face up to things, a wish to run away and hide, especially after his darling Dodo died. His mother-in-law, however, had not been prepared to let him get away with anything of the sort. She demanded tartly what he was going to do about his children, reminding him of his responsibilities to them, and since he knew they were not to blame for the punishment God was inflicting upon him it had pulled him up short: this period in the wilderness was a penalty he alone had to pay. And so, after some deliberation, he had written to Sybil.

He often wondered if that had not been the greatest mistake of his life.

He walked on, a prisoner of his dark thoughts, until presently he came to the wall which marked the boundary of Hatherley's lands, lying spread out below him on the descent into the next valley beyond Broughton. He cupped his hands and drank from the icy stream that tumbled down the hillside and found a spot where he could hitch himself onto the wall which dipped below the brow of the hill, out of the wind, while Queenie plunged about, muddying the edges of the water, happy with her own pursuits. He made sure the gate in the wall was shut. In the field below sheep and their new young lambs were grazing, a large flock spread over the hillside, and she could not always be trusted with sheep.

It had been nearly four years ago, twelve months or so into the war, when Father Dorkings had at last died, and the jovial bishop had come to see Francis. They had been given a good lunch by Mrs Villiers, repaired to the study, and after an almost indecently short interval the bishop had told him forthrightly that hiding here didn't mean he could hide from God. That he had no right to wallow in self-pity any longer. That ordained ministers were needed as chaplains to the forces in the front line and there was therefore no one to replace Father Dorkings. That it was time Francis pulled himself together, stopped running away and prepared to take his place as rector. Francis had felt as if he were a schoolboy being lectured by the Head.

He was offended by the simplistic approach to his problems, when he might at least have been entitled to put forward all his complex theological doubts in a scholarly exchange of views. More to the point, how could he stand up in the pulpit and offer comfort and advice to his congregation, when he had none to give? What could he give his parishioners, he asked, especially at this appalling time? What about his doubts as to the rightness of the war, and the place – or absence – of God in it?

‘Do you think, then, that we don't all have such doubts? Do you think that any of us know the answers? But we carry on.'

The good bishop departed, leaving Francis in a state of confusion that bordered on hysteria. Had he been given no alternative, or was he still left to make a decision? Was the bishop really saying that God had not yet forgiven him, that he must expiate his guilt in this way, carry on for form's sake, as others seemed able to do, despite doubts and uncertainties?

He had given in. The lace and the incense that Father Dorkings had so loved disappeared and the village had a rector again. His parishioners did not expect too much, after Father Dorkings's unworldly ministry, and a hunting parson before him, and Francis began to feel, if not happy, then at least a little more at peace with himself. And no one but he – and God – knew what was in his heart.

In the wide bottom of the valley, the slow-winding stream curved round the Hill as it left Broughton and meandered off to join, eventually, the great Severn. Tucked into a fold of the opposite hill was the original farmhouse belonging to the Hatherleys, now several centuries old, low and red-roofed, looking as though it was some natural growth of the land. It was now occupied by tenant farmers, while situated dead centre of the valley was the very large and extremely ugly house which Hatherley's grandfather had built and moved into when he became rich on account of allowing the railway, a mile or so distant, to pass through his outlying farmlands. Landscaped gardens and a parkland surrounded the house. The whole valley looked as serene and well tended as the gardens themselves.

As he watched, Gervase Hatherley himself emerged from the house, his black retriever at his heels. Even from this distance, he looked self-important and was growing somewhat portly, though he could not yet be forty. He was dapper and correct as always in tweed knickerbockers and Norfolk jacket, a gun over his shoulder.

Ever since William's telegram had arrived, Francis had felt an astonishing compulsion in himself to go out and shout the news to the first person he met that his son was coming home, but he had not anticipated that person being Hatherley, and felt quite able to restrain himself. They had known each other a long time, from when he, Francis, had been a frequent visitor to Oaklands and Gervase Hatherley and his father had also been invited to join the shoots there, though at that time Francis had never taken much notice of him, dismissing him as a pleasant enough, mild and rather dull young man, ten or more years younger than himself. He was extremely wealthy, now a Justice of the Peace, and his standing in the community was high. It was nearly five years since he had come to Francis, asking permission to marry Marianne.

Francis had been more outraged at this than his daughter, who had hesitated, then professed herself well disposed towards Mr Hatherley, though she did not think she could marry him, but please, would her father not speak of it again – a request Francis had been only too happy to agree to. He could not, however, forget it, and had constantly tormented himself ever since by wondering whether his beautiful daughter would not still be alive had she been safely married to Hatherley. Should he not have considered the material advantages such a match would have brought, and tried to persuade her into it? It might have been possible. For all her sweet dreaminess, that daughter of his had not been devoid of common sense, when it came to the essentials of life.

Marianne…the one of all his children who had done most to capture his heart. Marianne, with her dreams and ambitions. Who had died without ever knowing how proud he was of her, what his hopes were for her future.

There in the cold, dying light, out there alone on the empty hillside where nothing moved but the sheep, and the branches of the bare trees as the wind soughed its mournful music through them, he felt his familiar grief touched with a pang that was almost a physical ache. He did not at first recognise it as emptiness and loneliness, but as he turned and walked home in the gathering dusk, and saw the lamplight glowing from cottage windows, he thought of his solitary supper and his books awaiting him in his cold, monastic study, and decided suddenly that he would join his family that evening within the warm circle of firelight in the little parlour the girls had made their own.

He took his boots off in the porch at the side door. The fur underneath Queenie's belly was thick and tangled with drying mud, and she patiently allowed him to clean her up and towel her dry, pushing her black button nose into his face and trying to lick it, her long ears and fringe almost obscuring her blunt face. There were lights in the kitchen, and a dim lamp that was always left burning in the hall. The house was only relatively cold after the iciness outside and there was a smell of food, and he saw a light from under the dining room door which told him they had already started supper. Florrie would bring him something into his study, as soon as she was aware he was home, and for a moment he was tempted to leave it like that. But then he quickly cleaned himself up and popped his head round the kitchen door to let her know he would be joining the rest of his family.

 

Marianne had come to Francis quite unexpectedly, one day, when they had been living in Broughton Underhill upwards of five years and he was at his favourite occupation, dressing the leather bindings of his books. There had been a small but determined rap on his study door. ‘Come in,' he called, not looking up.

Queenie the First had lumbered up from her blanket in the corner of the room she had appropriated as her own and loped across the floor, swinging her short bobtail to show her welcome. Since coming to Broughton, she had made it clear she was Francis's dog, sitting patiently by the door, waiting for him to take her out on one of his long, solitary rambles, following him everywhere and taking up permanent residence in his study. She was not as boisterous as she had been when she was a puppy, but all the same, her huge shaggy bulk nearly knocked Marianne over, tall as she'd grown lately.

Francis looked up. ‘Well, Marianne?' He had a book on the desk in front of him and was patiently working oil into the smooth leather with his thumb, then polishing it with a soft cloth. The only things Father Dorkings had taken with him when he went to live with his niece at the schoolhouse were his books, leaving rows of empty shelves in his study. But Francis had more than enough of his own to fill them, books precious to him which had been carefully packed and transported here. The orderly rows of morocco bindings gleamed opulently, a silent reproach to the rest of the room, which was monastic in its austerity. A desk and chair, a table and a battered old sofa that had belonged to Father Dorkings, and that was all.

Marianne perched on the sofa, running her fingers through Queenie's fur, watching the gentle ministrations of her father's long hands. ‘Why are you doing that, Papa?'

‘To keep the bindings supple.' He indicated the bottle of thick, yellow oil. ‘It's called neat's-foot oil, and it's made by boiling the feet and shinbones of cattle.'

‘How perfectly horrid!'

‘But that means it's a natural lubricant for leather.'

‘Oh, yes. I see that.'

There followed an awkward pause. Marianne, very pale, her soft-spun hair, bright as a new penny and making a halo round her face as she looked down at her now clasped hands, said nothing. Queenie laid her big head on the girl's knee, looking with soulful eyes through her fringe, and nudging Marianne's hand with her nose, asking to be stroked. For once getting no response, she padded back to her corner and subsided with a sigh on to her blanket. ‘Well, child, was there something you wanted?'

Marianne took a deep breath. ‘Papa, may I borrow one of your books?'

‘A book?' he repeated as though it was an alien word he did not recognise, surrounded as he was by them. ‘What do you want a book of mine for?'

‘Well, I've read all the ones we have – hundreds of times.'

‘What sort of book?' he asked helplessly, with a baffled glance at his collection of first editions and philosophical dissertations and religious treatises. Although he had no experience of the sort of literature girls of her age liked to read, Francis could not imagine her wanting to peruse any of the tomes on his shelves from choice. Nevertheless, he felt a distinct stirring of pleasure that she should have come to him to ask.

His children did not often do this. He endeavoured to be just and fair with them, and as they grew older he found it somewhat easier to talk to them, but in no way could they be said to communicate easily. The situation pained him; it was an impasse he did not know how to break. He felt that sharp little Nella, in particular, as she grew older, had become judgemental. And Amy: Amy, who was growing so startlingly, painfully like her dead mother. The same delicate features, the same curve of the mouth, above all the amazing mane of thick hair, a deeper, richer red than Marianne's. Also a little silliness, perhaps, which in Dorothea he had smiled at indulgently and rather liked. Sometimes he found it difficult even to look at Amy, at other times he loved her so much he thought his heart would break all over again. As for William, now eighteen – well, that pained him most of all. Something came between them, something awkward and stiff. They had been apart for most of the boy's formative years, while he was at school, and the gap widened as he grew older. Never having known his own father, who had died shortly after he was born, Francis had no experience of how fathers were expected to deal with their sons, and no instinctive knowledge either.