House of Echoes (2 page)

She watched from the churchyard as he strode back to his bike, vaulted onto it and rode away, his pile of books heaped in the bicycle basket. Suddenly she felt very lonely.

The grave stone by the oak tree was simple and unadorned.

Nothing else. No mention of his grieving widow. Or his child. She looked down at it for several minutes. When at last she turned away pulling the collar of her coat up with a shiver against the strengthening wind she found there were tears in her eyes.

It was a long time before she could drag herself away from the old house and walk, thoughtfully, back to the car. Climbing in, savouring the familiar atmosphere of home, she leaned back in
her seat and looked round. On the shelf lay one of Tom’s socks, pulled off as he sat in his car seat behind her, as a prelude to sucking his toes.

She stayed slumped for several minutes, lost in thought, then suddenly she sat upright and gripped the steering wheel.

In her pocket she had the address of someone who knew her mother; who remembered her; who would know where she was now.

Leaning across the seat she reached for the road atlas. Aldeburgh was not all that far away. She glanced up. The sky was a patchwork of scudding black clouds and brilliant sunshine. Evening was still a long way off.

P
ulling into the long broad main street in Aldeburgh she sat still for a moment peering through the windscreen at the shops and houses. It was an attractive place, bright, neat and at the moment very quiet.

Clutching her piece of paper she climbed out of the car and approached a man who was standing staring into the window of an antique shop. At his feet a Jack Russell terrier strained at the leash anxious to get to the beach. He glanced at her piece of paper. ‘Crag Path? Through there. Overlooking the sea.’ He smiled. ‘A friend of Edgar Gower’s are you? Delightful man. Delightful.’ Unexpectedly he gave a shout of laughter as he strode away.

Joss found she was smiling herself as, intrigued, she followed the direction of his pointing finger and threaded her way down the side of a fisherman’s cottage, crossed a narrow road and found herself on a promenade. On one side stood a line of east-facing houses, on the other, beyond the sea wall, a shingle beach and then a grey, turbulent sea. The wind was very cold here and she shivered as she walked down the road looking for house numbers. Edgar Gower’s house was tall and narrow, white painted with a high balcony overlooking the sea. To her relief she could see lights on in the downstairs room and there was a stream of pale wood smoke coming from the chimney.

He opened the door to her himself, a tall, angular man with a ruddy complexion and a startling halo of white hair. His eyes were a brilliant blue.

‘Mr Gower?’

Under his piercing gaze Joss suddenly felt extraordinarily self conscious. He did not appear to be gentle or reassuring as his successor at Belheddon had been; this man of the cloth was a complete contrast.

‘Who wants me?’ The eyes did not appear to have blinked.
Although his gaze was fierce his voice was comparatively soft, scarcely audible as behind her the waves, crashing successively onto the beach, rattled the shingle in a shifting deafening background roar.

‘I was given your address by the rector at Belheddon. I’m so sorry to come without telephoning – ’

‘Why have you come?’ He cut short her floundering. He had made no move to ask her in and she realised suddenly that he had a coat on over a thick rough knit sweater. He had obviously been on the point of going out.

‘I’m sorry. This is obviously not a good time – ’

‘Perhaps you will allow me to be the judge of that, my dear.’ He spoke with ill-concealed though mild irritation. ‘Once you have told me the purpose of your visit.’

‘I think you know my mother.’ She blurted it out without preamble, transfixed by the unblinking eyes.

‘Indeed?’

‘Laura Duncan.’

For a moment he stared at her in complete silence and she saw that at last she had succeeded in disconcerting him. She held her breath, returning his gaze with difficulty.

‘So,’ he said at last. ‘You are little Lydia.’

Suddenly Joss found it difficult to speak. ‘Jocelyn,’ she whispered. ‘Jocelyn Grant.’

‘Jocelyn Grant. I see.’ He nodded slowly. ‘You and I should walk, I think. Come.’ Stepping out onto the path he slammed his door behind him and turned right, striding purposefully along the road behind the sea wall without a backward glance to see if she were following.

‘How did you find out about your mother?’ He spoke loudly against the noise of the wind. His hair was streaming behind him, reminding Joss irresistibly of an Old Testament prophet in full cry.

‘I went to St Catherine’s House to find my birth certificate. My name is Jocelyn, not Lydia.’ She was growing short of breath, trying to keep up with him. ‘Jocelyn Mary.’

‘Mary was your great grandmother, Lydia your grandmother.’

‘Please, is my mother still alive?’ She had had to run a few steps to stay beside him.

He stopped. His expression, beaten by the wind into fiery
aggressiveness suddenly softened with compassion. Joss’s heart sank. ‘She’s dead?’ she whispered.

‘I’m afraid so, my dear. Several years ago. In France.’

Joss bit her lip. ‘I had so hoped – ’

‘It is as well there is no chance of your meeting, my dear. I doubt if your mother would have wanted it,’ he said. The kindness and sympathy in his voice were palpable; she was beginning to suspect that he must have been a very good pastor.

‘Why did she give me away?’ Her voice was trembling and she felt her tears on her cheeks. Embarrassed she tried to wipe them away.

‘Because she loved you. Because she wanted to save your life.’

‘Save my life?’ Shocked, Joss echoed him numbly.

He looked down at her for a moment, then he reached into his pocket and drew out a handkerchief. Carefully he wiped her cheeks. He smiled, but there was unhappiness in his eyes as he shook his head. ‘I prayed you would never come to find me, Jocelyn Grant.’

He turned away from her and took several steps back along the path then he stopped and swung back to face her. ‘Are you able to forget that you ever went to Belheddon? Are you able to put it out of your mind forever?’

Joss gasped. Confused she shook her head. ‘How can I?’

His shoulders slumped. ‘How indeed.’ He sighed. ‘Come.’

Abruptly he began to retrace his steps and she followed him in silence, her stomach churning uncomfortably.

His narrow front hall, as he closed the door against the roar of wind and sea, was uncannily quiet. Shrugging off his own coat he helped her with her jacket and slung both onto a many branched Victorian hat stand then he headed for the staircase.

The room into which he showed her was a large comfortable study overlooking the sea wall and the white-topped waves. It smelled strongly of pipe smoke and the huge vase of scented viburnum and tobacco flowers mixed with Michaelmas daisies, which stood on a table amidst piles of books. Gesturing her to a deep shabby arm chair he went back to the door and bellowed down the stairs. ‘Dot! Tea and sympathy. My study. Twenty minutes!’

‘Sympathy?’ Joss tried to smile.

He hauled himself onto the edge of his large untidy kneehole
desk and looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Are you strong, Jocelyn Grant?’

She took a deep breath. ‘I think so.’

‘Are you married?’ His eyes had travelled thoughtfully to her hands and his gaze rested on her wedding ring.

‘As you see.’

‘And do you have children?’

She glanced up. His gaze was steady. She tried to read it and failed. ‘I have a little boy, yes. He’s eighteen months old.’

He sighed. Standing up he walked round his desk and went to stand at the window, staring down at the sea. There was a long silence.

‘It was after I had Tom that I realised I wanted to find out about my real parents,’ she said at last.

‘Of course.’ He did not turn round.

‘Is that my father – the Philip who is buried in the churchyard at Belheddon?’ she went on after another silence.

‘It is.’

‘Did you bury him?’

He nodded slowly.

‘What did he die of?’

‘He had a riding accident.’ He turned. ‘I liked Philip very much. He was a kind and courageous man. He adored your mother.’

‘Was it because of the accident she gave me away?’

He hesitated. ‘Yes, I think that was part of it, certainly.’ Sitting down behind his desk he leaned forward on his elbows and rubbed his face wearily. ‘Your mother was never very strong physically, although emotionally she was the strongest of us all. After Philip’s death she gave up. There had been two other children before you. They both died before they reached their teens. Then there was a long gap and then you came along. She had already planned to leave. I don’t think she and Philip wanted any more children …’ His voice died away thoughtfully. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but you must have been expecting some tale of woe; why else would a woman of Laura’s background give away her child?’

‘I …’ Joss cleared her throat and tried again. ‘I didn’t know anything about her background. Only the address.’

He nodded. ‘Jocelyn. Once more, can I beg you to forget about all this? For your own sake and the sake of your family don’t
embroil yourself in the affairs of the Duncans. You have your own life, your own child. Look forward, not backwards. There is too much unhappiness attached to that house.’ His face lightened as a quiet tap sounded at the door. ‘Come in, Dot!’

The door opened and the corner of a tray emerged, pushing it back. Mr Gower did not stand up. He was frowning. ‘Come in, my love and join us for tea. Meet Jocelyn Grant.’

Joss half turned in her chair and smiled at the small, slim woman who had appeared, bent beneath the weight of the tray. Leaping to her feet she reached out to help her. ‘It’s all right, my dear. I’m stronger than I look!’ Dot Gower’s voice was not only strong but also melodious. ‘Sit down, sit down.’ She plonked the tray down in front of her husband where, balanced on top of his papers it sloped alarmingly towards the window. ‘So, shall I pour?’

‘Dot,’ Edgar Gower said slowly. ‘Jocelyn is Laura Duncan’s child.’

Dot Gower’s eyes were, Joss suddenly discovered, as piercing as her husband’s. Disconcerted by the woman’s stare she subsided back into her chair.

‘Poor Laura.’ Dot turned after a moment back to her teapot. ‘She would have been so proud of you, my dear. You are very beautiful.’

Joss felt suddenly very uncomfortable. ‘Thank you. What was she like?’

‘Middle height; slim; grey hair, even when she was comparatively young; grey eyes.’ Edgar Gower appraised Joss once more. ‘You don’t have her eyes – or Philip’s. But you do have her build, and I should imagine her hair was like yours once. She was kind, intelligent, humorous – but the deaths of the boys – she never got over that and once Philip had gone …’ He sighed as he reached out to take his tea cup. ‘Thank you, my dear. Jocelyn, please. For your own sake, forget Belheddon. They have all gone. There is nothing there for you.’

‘Edgar!’ Dot straightened from the tray and turned on her husband, her face sharp. ‘You promised!’

‘Dot. No!’

They were locked for a moment in some intense silent conflict which Joss didn’t understand. The atmosphere in the room had become tense. Abruptly Edgar slammed down his cup, slopping
tea into the saucer and stood up. He strode over to the fireplace. ‘Think, Dot. Think what you are saying …’

‘Excuse me,’ Joss said at last. ‘Please. What are you talking about? If this is something to do with me, I think I should know about it.’

‘Yes it is.’ Dot’s voice was very firm. ‘Edgar made your mother a solemn promise before she left England and he has to keep it.’

Edgar’s face was working furiously, reflecting some inner battle as yet unresolved. ‘I promised, but nothing but unhappiness will come of it.’

‘Come of what?’ Joss stood up. ‘Please. I obviously have a right to know.’ She was growing afraid. Suddenly she didn’t want to know, but it was too late.

Edgar took a deep breath. ‘Very well. You are right. I have to abide by Laura’s wishes.’ He sighed again and then, straightening his shoulders, walked back to his desk. ‘In fact, there is nothing very much that I can tell you myself, but I promised her that should you ever come back to Belheddon I would see to it that you were given the address of her solicitors in London. I suspect she has left you something in her will; I know she wrote you a letter the day you were legally adopted. She gave it to John Cornish, her lawyer.’ He reached into a bottom drawer of his desk and after a moment or two riffling through the papers produced a card. He pushed it across the desk towards her.

‘But why didn’t you want me to know about it?’ Joss looked at him in confusion. ‘Why did you feel I shouldn’t know?’ A jolt of excitement had shot through her. She clutched the card tightly. A glance had shown her it was a large firm of solicitors in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

‘Belheddon Hall is an unhappy house, my dear, that’s why. The past is the past. I feel it should be allowed to rest. Your mother felt that way too. That is why she wanted you to have a fresh start.’

‘Then why did she write to me?’

‘I suspect to comfort herself.’

Joss looked down at the card. ‘Can I come and see you again after I have seen the solicitors?’

For a moment she thought he was going to shake his head. A shadow had crossed his face, and something else. Fear. She stared at him aghast, but as quickly as it had appeared the expression
had gone. He gave her a grave smile. ‘You may come whenever you wish, my dear. Dot and I will help you in every way we can.’

It was not until she was out in the rapidly falling dusk and retracing her steps towards the car that she thought again about that remark and wondered what exactly he had meant. Why should she need help – help was the word he had used – and why was he afraid?