Rose Cottage (24 page)

A pause. I didn’t speak. After a few moments she went on. ‘I was housemaiding there, you know that. Well, one night when they, the gentry, were all at dinner I went up to help turn the beds down and carry the hot water – you had to do that in those days – and when I went into his room he was there. He hadn’t gone down to dinner. He hadn’t even started to change. He was just sitting on the bed in his shirtsleeves with a letter in his hand, and he was crying.’

Another pause, then she went on with the story.

It really was, as she had said, an innocent one. The young man – a boy of perhaps eighteen – had come back from the day out with the other guests to find that a letter had come with the afternoon post. It was from his mother, breaking the news to him of the death of his dog, at thirteen years old the beloved companion since he could well remember. The old dog had been run over by some brute who had driven away and left it to die in the road. His mother had given no details, but the agonising end could be guessed at, and his distress had left the young man quite unable to face the company
downstairs. The rest followed naturally. He had tried to hide his tears, while she, in all simplicity offering what seemed natural comfort, had run to put her arms round him and try to soothe the grief away.

They sat side by side on the bed while he talked, and later she contrived, unseen, to get a tray of supper up to him. And the acquaintance thus begun had blossomed. Next day – her afternoon off – he had met her with his car at the end of the lane to Rose Cottage, and they had spent the rest of the day together. After one or two snatched meetings during her working days at the Hall, he took to driving down after dark through the Hall grounds to wait by the wooden bridge, and Lilias, whose parents went early to bed, found it easy to creep out to meet him.

‘He stayed three weeks,’ she said. ‘Then we said goodbye and he left. I suppose we would have said we were in love, but we both knew there was no question of getting married, and we both knew it would never have done. But we had a lovely time together, and we
liked
each other, as well as being romantic, if you know what I mean. And it was a couple of months after he’d gone before I knew about you coming, and another few weeks before I dared tell Mother and Dad, and there’d have been no point in trying to chase him up and make trouble, and in any case he’d told me that he was trying to get a job abroad somewhere. India, I think, or Australia. Somewhere like that. So you see?’

‘Yes.’ It was somehow not a conversation one could have had with the mother who had brought one up, but we were, as she had said, on a level. Certainly I could
not have asked the question that had been suggesting itself to me, irresistibly, as she told her story. ‘And are you going to tell me that I started life in the back of a car?’

She looked shocked, then she giggled. ‘It was a two-seater. There’s some details you don’t have to have! But if you want to know, it was probably up there in Gipsy Lonnen.’ A lift of the shoulders and a little laugh that told of tension relieved. ‘Oh, I knew I’d love you again, even with all the time lost, and all the changes!’ She took in a long breath, and let it out in a sigh. ‘Oh, well, it’s all a very long time ago, and if you’re the wages of sin, Kathy love, all I can say is, it was worth it!’

There was another pause, then for the first time she made a move to touch me. Her hands came out, and mine went to meet them. She said nothing, but it was in answer to something unsaid that I told her,

‘It’s all right, it is, really.’

‘If you knew how I’ve dreaded this! It was the only good thing about being cut off from the family, but I knew I’d have to come back some day and get it over with. I’ve told you all I can, but look, Kathy, if it matters so much to you, there are ways of finding out the rest, what happened to him, I mean.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m glad you’ve told me this much, of course I am, but I’d rather not take it any further. I mean that.’

It was the truth. I felt nothing but relief, the lifting of a vague dread that had nagged me ever since I had come back to Rose Cottage. And I had spent the first ten minutes or so of the interview wondering if I was
going to hear that my father had been some married man with a reputation and career to lose, or one of the visiting chauffeurs who hadn’t cared to take the responsibility of a child. It came like a burst of sun clearing the mist away, that it didn’t matter either way.

I smiled at her, and repeated it. ‘It doesn’t matter at all. I think you and Gran and Granddad were right about that. I couldn’t have had a better home or better folks than I did have, except for missing you.’

That brought the tears, and with them at last the kisses and the final relief of spent emotion. Only for a minute or two, then my mother, recovering herself, reached for her purse and started on repair work, while I retreated to the fireside to tend the fire and dab my eyes dry unseen.

Still kneeling by the hearth I watched her for a few moments, then said, uncertainly, ‘Look, I’m sorry, but we can’t leave it quite yet. Why did you say you didn’t remember who he was, when actually you do seem to remember everything? We’ve agreed to do nothing about it, okay, but really, this is one thing I do have a right to know.
Who was he?
’

She sat back in her chair, while a look compounded of mischief, embarrassment, and sheer irrepressible amusement brought the sparkle back to her face.

‘I only meant,’ she said, ‘that I don’t remember his name.’

‘Lilias!’

‘I know, I know! But it was such a long time ago, and in some ways it’s gotten that it’s not much more than a dream. All I remember is that he was handsome, and he
was a real sweetie, and he stammered a bit when he was excited, and he had a red sports car with a copper exhaust pipe and a strap over the hood, and everybody – me, too – called him Bunny, but I think – I’m pretty sure – that his name was George.’

Five seconds or so of complete silence, then I laughed.

Not quite the ‘proper’ reaction, perhaps, and there may have been a touch of hysteria there at this ending to my long search, but it was a good ending, and, as I was fast discovering, I was my mother’s daughter. So I laughed, in reaction, relief, and because it was funny.
Take life easy
.

Lilias stared, gasped, then giggled, and suddenly all was well, very well, and the lost years, the Aunt Betsy years, were past and done with, and the future was ours. America, Strathbeg, Rose Cottage, it didn’t matter. It was ours.

My mother sat up, dabbing her eyes again. ‘Oh, Kathy, honey, I love you …! Darn it, I’ve got the hiccups now! Just let me put my face right again, and what do you say we tell poor tactful Larry and your handsome Davey to come in, and for godsake is there a kettle around here some place, and have you any tea?’

There was, and we had, and I boiled the kettle and found some cups, while Davey shifted the chairs to the fireside and pulled the cracket forward to act as a side table, then followed me through to the back kitchen where I was hurriedly pushing the flowers into the milk bottles and a couple of the remaining slices of bread into the ancient toaster.

‘Okay?’ was all he said, and I nodded.

‘I came down just in case. You don’t mind?’

‘Of course not.’

‘He seems a nice chap, the American. Easy to get along with. Seems he has a big business, selling property. Real estate, he called it. That’s all we talked about, really, and cars. That’s an Armstrong-Siddeley he’s hired, and he’s quite keen on it. I thought you’d like to know.’

‘About the Armstrong-Siddeley?’

‘Don’t be daft. You know what I mean.’

‘Yes, I know. It’s all right, Davey, I’m all right. It went – it was okay.’

He still lingered. ‘Kathy?’

‘Mm?’ The first two slices popped up and I put two more in and started the buttering.

‘What d’you say I go home and tell my folks that she’s here and it’s all okay? Since you talked to Mum this afternoon she’s been like a cat on hot bricks, wondering if it’s all real. Can’t rightly believe it.’

I stopped buttering to consider it, knife in hand. ‘Better still, why not bring them down? It’s getting late, and I doubt if Larry and Lilias plan to call anywhere else tonight, and they’re going back north tomorrow. Tell you what, ask them, but I think that’d be great.’

It would also, I couldn’t help thinking, as the toast went on popping and I went on buttering, help to spread the burden, leaven the lump, whatever metaphor meant ‘make the situation less close and overloaded with emotions’.

While the last two slices were toasting I carried the flowers through to set them on the mantelpiece, to find that Lilias, who had been reading the letters retrieved from the Unseen Guest, was making a kind of laughing ceremony of consigning them to the flames. But as the papers blackened and wisped away up the chimney I, from where I was by the mantelpiece, could see a faint reflection of the firelight on her cheek, as if a tear had spilled there. She caught my eye and smiled, then dusted her hands together and said, gaily, ‘There! That’s the past disposed of, Kathy love, and the future to drink to. And in English tea!’

And presently, with tea and toast – the toast I would have had for my breakfast – the three of us settled
round the fire with a fair assumption of cosiness, and put together what was left of the story – those parts of it which could, with Larry there, be told.

My story had to come first. Gran had told Lilias about the missed years of my girlhood, and what she could about my marriage with Jon and its rough ending on that April night over Pas de Calais. Later, I supposed, my mother would want to know more about those whirlwind months, but now she kept to easier topics, my life since that time, the London job, my home there and my friends, and what I thought of Todhall where, like Larry in Hexham, I was ‘rediscovering my roots’.

This brought us home to Rose Cottage, and I had to tell the story of my house-to-house detective work, and my attempts with Davey to unravel the mystery. Lilias, half amused, half wistful, plied me with questions about the village and the people I had talked to, unconsciously betraying what Larry had told me about her homesickness. He, listening half absently, as if to some fairy tale, sat smiling, with his eyes on his wife’s face, and – I noticed – leaving his tea untasted.

When I told them about Miss Linsey and her gipsy ghosts my mother laughed, and sent a sidelong look at her husband. ‘A gipsy? Well, I suppose he could be. They say you always fall for the same type, don’t they? I’m Larry’s third, and the other two were both blonde.’

‘And beautiful,’ said Larry, giving her the sort of fondly admiring look that Americans find it easy, and Englishmen impossible, to bestow.

Then it was America’s turn, and I heard about Iowa,
and their home there, and the two daughters (‘sweet girls’) who were both married now and lived not too far away; and this in its turn led to invitations and promises. I must go to Iowa and visit with them; in fact why wouldn’t they take me right back with them when they left? I could make it right with my boss in London, surely? They had originally meant to fly back this next weekend, Larry told me, but it could easily be put off. He himself had to be home by the beginning of July, but if Lilias wanted to stay on, and maybe bring me back with her …? But in the meantime I obviously could not stay here in this half-empty cottage, so, since they had promised Gran to drive straight back to Strathbeg, and take me with them—

‘Tonight?’ I said, startled into stupidity by a vague memory of American hustle during the war.

But no. Tomorrow. Tonight they would be going back to their hotel. Not the one in Corbridge, where they had been staying while Larry hunted up his Northumbrian ancestors; they had called there on their way south and had telephoned ahead to book into a hotel in Durham.

‘The Three Tuns, it’s called,’ said Larry, ‘and I’m told that Durham’s only about nine miles from here. When I called them I said we might be pretty late, but they’ll hold the rooms. For you, too, of course.’

‘Well, thanks very much, and of course I’d love to go to Strathbeg with you, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather stay here tonight. I’ve still got – well there are things to do, and … would it be all right with you to pick me up here tomorrow?’

I think he would have persisted, and I would certainly have found it hard to explain my reluctance to leave the cottage for the comforts of the Three Tuns, but I was saved by the noise of the Pascoes’ van coming down the lane.

Lilias, jumping to her feet, ran to the door and opened it.

‘Annie! Why, Annie!’

‘Lil!’

They flew together, and the rest was lost in a flurry of greetings, and a long colloquy, mostly in whispers, held halfway up the garden path. Then, both talking at once, they came back into the kitchen, with a grinning Davey in the rear. He pulled up an empty packing case that the removers had left behind them, set it beside me and sat down on it.

‘Your father,’ I said, ‘isn’t he here?’

‘No,’ still grinning. ‘He knew how it would be. Let them get it out of their systems, he said, and come and tell me about it later on. They’ll be back, he said, and that’ll be time enough. He takes life easy, my Dad.’