Sweet Sorrow (10 page)

She walked over to one corner of the green where excited shouts indicated that a race was in progress and arrived in time to see an attractive-looking girl of about fifteen – lanky, freckled, large-eyed and wide-mouthed – winning the egg and spoon race comfortably ahead of a younger girl with spectacles slipping off her rather large nose.

‘Well done, Jean,’ the younger girl panted. ‘What next? Shall we do the three-legged race together?’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Jean, well done! Come over here, will you? I want to introduce you to Lady Edward.’

Verity looked round to find Byron Gates standing beside her. Despite the heat, he wore his black cape and, round his neck, a highly coloured bow-tie.

‘Jean? That must be your stepdaughter? She’s very pretty. Is Ada here too?’

‘Yes, that’s Ada, with the spectacles,’ Byron said dismissively.

‘Well, I’d like to meet her too, if I may.’

‘If you want to, of course, but she’s terribly dull. Ada, Lady Edward wants to meet you, though I can’t think why,’ he added in a low voice but Verity feared that his daughter had heard him.

She shook hands with both girls and congratulated them on their athleticism.

‘Oh, I’m hopeless,’ Ada said immediately, ‘but Jean’s amazing.’

Verity looked at her pensively. ‘Ada, if you’ll forgive me for speaking frankly, you mustn’t feel that it matters just because you aren’t as fast as your sister. It’s not how fast you run that counts in the end. Don’t let your father hear this but it’s not even how well you do at school. I was hopeless at everything at school. In fact, I got expelled more times than I can count but, when I left school and was able to do what I really wanted, I was all right.’ She was aware that she must sound sententious but Ada didn’t seem to mind.

‘I know all about you,’ she beamed. ‘My father says you are a famous foreign correspondent. You were in Spain, weren’t you? Was it very frightening? Daddy says I can’t say boo to a goose so I don’t suppose I could do what you do.’

‘I always had butterflies in my tummy before anything happened,’ Verity said gently, ‘but when you are in the thick of things you forget to be frightened. When it’s all over I shake like a leaf but . . .’

‘You’re just trying to be kind. I don’t believe . . .’

She was interrupted by Jean who had been hugged and kissed by her stepfather. Breaking away from his embrace, she turned to Verity.

‘Why are you called Lady Edward? That’s a boy’s name.’

‘Don’t be impertinent, Jean,’ Byron reprimanded her.

‘You’re not being impertinent. I think it’s a very good question. It’s one of the stupid things about being married to my husband. He’s Lord Edward so apparently I have to be Lady Edward.’

‘Better to marry than to burn,’ Byron murmured inconsequentially.

‘But what’s your real name?’ Jean persisted.

‘Verity – Verity Browne. At least that’s the name I work under and I hope you will call me by it.’

‘Miss Browne – I mean Verity – can I come and talk to you when you have time? I want to be a journalist but I don’t know if I can. My stepfather wants me to be an actress, like my mother, but I really don’t want to be. I’m no good at performing. Now, Ada . . . she’s brilliant. She can take off anybody. Ada, do the vicar. It’s so funny.’

‘Not now, Ada,’ Byron said quickly. ‘We don’t want to bore Lady Edward.’

‘You won’t at all . . .’ Verity began but it was too late. Ada went off looking crushed.

‘Now the girl’s sulking. I really don’t know what to do with her.’

‘You should be more understanding, for a start,’ Verity said sharply. ‘She’s sensitive and needs her confidence building.’ Byron shrugged and wandered off.

‘Where do you go to school, Jean?’ Verity asked.

‘We’ve both started at Pilbeams – it’s a boarding school the other side of Lewes.’

‘What’s it like?’

‘It’s all right but it’s not easy starting at a new school halfway through a term. Everyone already has their friends and it’s difficult to . . . you know, break in. It’s not too bad for me because I’m good at games – lax and hockey, even cricket – but it’s not so easy for Ada.’ She looked round to make sure that Ada was out of earshot. ‘To be honest, I think she’s lonely. I do my best but she finds it hard to make friends, and my stepfather – well, he’s not very sympathetic. Oh gosh, why am I telling you all this?’

‘I expect because you sense that I had the same sort of problem. My mother died just after I was born and, though I love my father and he loves me, he’s a busy lawyer and I seldom see him. I had a string of nannies when I was little to whom I was perfectly foul. I was sent to boarding school as soon as I was old enough but I hated it – all those rules and regulations. I couldn’t wait to be grown up.’

‘I say,’ Jean looked at her with interest, ‘I’ve had an idea. I know it’s not your business . . . I mean, you’ve got so much else to do but, if you had time, do you think you could have a talk with Ada? She’d take it from you if you told her that it doesn’t matter not being good at school. She’s floundering around at the moment. She’s unhappy even if she doesn’t know it. She hasn’t got a mother . . .’

‘I’ve just been telling her exactly that, but I don’t think she believed me. She worships you, which I expect can be a bit of a burden . . .’ Jean made a moue of distaste and Verity added quickly, ‘Of course, I’ll do what I can but I don’t want your stepfather to think I’m interfering or, worse, setting Ada against him.’ Jean look rather crestfallen so Verity tried to reassure her. ‘But it was a good idea of yours to tell me about her. I’ll see what I can do to encourage her to have confidence in herself. There’s always something we can do better than anyone else, if one can just work out what it is.’

She rejoined Edward and they wandered round the green buying things they did not want and meeting everyone. Although they attracted some curious stares, Edward was pleased to find that their notoriety had not percolated through to deepest Sussex. It was enough that he was a lord to make the women simper and the men touch their hats. He could see Verity would have preferred a little healthy disrespect but it’s a fact that there is no one more conservative than the average English villager.

Edward also bowled for the pig. He was relieved not to win it and then attempted to knock a coconut off its perch with equal lack of success. However, he absolutely refused to bob for an apple despite Jean’s urging. He watched with admiration as she dipped her head in the tin bath full of water to retrieve a maddeningly elusive apple with her teeth. While she managed to look like a mermaid as she resurfaced, the water pouring off her head, he knew he would only look ridiculous.

Seeking other ways to spend money, he discovered ‘roll a penny’ which involved sliding pennies down little chutes on to a board marked with the amount one might win – not more than sixpence – but in the end, to general amusement, all his pennies were lost. Other ancient games, featuring straw ‘dollies’, ‘whacking the rat’ and pinning the tail on a donkey while blindfolded, made everyone thirsty. The children drank ‘pop’ or lemonade. The grownups had a cup of tea and a slice of cake in the tea tent and there was also ‘scrumpy’ – a rough cider – which Edward muttered to Verity must be at least a hundred per cent proof. Then, at five o’clock, Edward and Verity trooped off with Leonard and Virginia to watch the children’s pageant, which Virginia was to judge.

There were nine tableaux in all, each illustrating a famous moment in British history. As each tableau was revealed, Miss Bron declaimed a brief account, written by Miss Fairweather, of the story being portrayed. Two or three children, dressed by their mothers with magnificent inventiveness and inaccuracy, evoked a scene from ‘our island story’, as Miss Fairweather called it: Canute addressing the waves – rolled-up newspaper painted blue – Alfred burning the cakes, Harold with an arrow in his eye, then a big leap in time to the Princes in the Tower.

Henry VIII – impersonated, Verity was surprised to see, by Ada – was shown personally beheading Anne Boleyn with a sword – presumably an axe was considered too heavy for a child to wield safely. Charles I suffered the same fate – decapitated by, it looked to Edward, the same sword. Finally, a loyal tableau was revealed comprising Britannia – Jean waving the sword and obviously enjoying her moment – draped in a Union Jack protecting the two little Princesses, Elizabeth and Margaret Rose. Edward was moved by Miss Fairweather’s appeal, barked out by Miss Bron, for every Englishman to do his duty and defend his beloved country from an unnamed foe. He noticed several of the onlookers dabbing their eyes. Miss Bron had an actor’s ability to discard her normal self and inhabit a quite different persona when the occasion demanded.

When the pageant was over, the children gathered on the little stage to take their bows and everyone joined in a spirited singing of the national anthem – or at least the first verse, which was all that most people could remember. There was much applause as Virginia handed out bags of sweets to each child and a half-crown to the boy who had impersonated Admiral Nelson with another to ‘Lady Hamilton’.

Edward whispered to Verity that it was only right that they should have won first prize as Lady Hamilton had often amused Nelson with similar tableaux which she called ‘attitudes’.

‘I wonder where they got that sword?’ Verity asked of no one in particular.

‘It belongs to me,’ replied Colonel Heron who happened to be standing behind her. ‘An ancestor of mine brought it back from Ramillies. It hangs over the mantelpiece in my library but I always lend it for the pageant. Rather splendid, isn’t it? I’d better go and rescue it before someone cuts themselves.’

‘Yes, it looks quite lethal,’ Edward remarked.

‘Who’s Ramillies when he’s at home?’ Verity demanded when Heron had gone.

‘I’ve just been reading about it, as a matter of fact. You remember? I showed you Mr Churchill’s biography of the Duke of Marlborough. He sent it to me with that very kind inscription. There was a picture in it of the Duke on his horse pointing at the enemy.’

‘Oh, so it was a battle?’

‘Ramillies? Yes, 1706 – fought on a Sunday. One of “Corporal John’s” greatest victories. Did you know the Duke suffered from very bad migraines during or after the battle?’ A thought struck Edward. ‘I wonder if that could be Paul’s problem? He seems to have that white, strained look . . .’

‘Hold on a minute, I think Paul’s going to make a speech.’

The vicar clambered on to the stage and thanked Mrs Woolf for judging the pageant and God for the good weather, and then the fête was over. Stallholders started packing up and the pig was led off squealing by its proud owner.

‘Come back with me and have a chota peg,’ Colonel Heron commanded Edward. ‘It’s hardly out of your way.’

Edward would have given a lot to be able to go straight home but he saw that the Colonel would take mortal offence if they refused.

‘Delighted, but we mustn’t be long. Mrs Brendel, our housekeeper, promised something special for dinner and we mustn’t be late.’

Heron looked at him like a hungry dog but Edward absolutely refused to ask him to join them.

His house – Seringapatam – was a ten-minute walk away. It was a mid-Victorian monstrosity and much too large, Edward thought, for a single man.

‘You called your house Seringapatam after the battle, I suppose?’ he said, to make conversation.

‘Yes, the last battle of the Mysore War. It was either that or Dhundia Wagh,’ Heron laughed, ‘and that would have been a bit of a mouthful.’

‘Now remind me – who or what was he?’

‘He was a robber chief who escaped from prison in Seringapatam and raised an army. Wellington defeated him but, in the battle, he fell off his horse and one of my ancestors defended him until he was able to get up and remount. Of course, he wasn’t the Duke then, just plain Arthur Wellesley or Wesley, I can’t quite remember.’

‘Gosh!’ Verity said. ‘Wasn’t he – I mean your ancestor – made a duke or something?’

‘’Fraid not, but he ended up a general.’

‘Good heavens!’ Edward exclaimed. ‘How interesting – worth a tableau, I should have thought. So your family have always had this connection with India?’

‘Indeed. In fact, I was born in Calcutta where my father was stationed. I served in the Indian Army at the beginning of the last shindig. I was with the India Corps on the Western Front in 1914. They coped magnificently with the rain and mud – a continual monsoon, it seemed – but the butcher’s bill was terrible. Khudadad Khan, who was awarded one of the first Victoria Crosses in the war, was one of my chaps. He remained with his machine-gun despite very heavy bombardment and was bayoneted at his post. A very gallant soldier. We had nine Indian Victoria Crosses awarded on the Western Front and, in the war as a whole, over forty thousand Indians lost their lives in the service of this country. People forget the part played in our victory by troops from every corner of the Empire and of every kind of creed and colour. I was a proud man, I can tell you, when I led my boys “over the top”. And now we’ve got it all to do again.’ Heron shook his head in despair.

‘Brave men, indeed. They make me feel very humble,’ Edward responded.

‘You never married, Colonel Heron?’ Verity inquired.

‘No, Lady Edward. Never had the time. Never met the right woman, I suppose. So I retired here – bought this house and I suppose I’ll die here.’

‘But why here?’

‘I met Mr Woolf in Ceylon many years ago when we were both young men. Then I bumped into him again when I was back in England – at the Travellers’ Club. He was kind enough to suggest coming down here. I had no links with anywhere in particular so I thought, why not?’

‘Mr Woolf seems to be responsible for a lot of people coming to live round here,’ Verity remarked. ‘We are in Rodmell because our friends, the Hassels, suggested it and they came because Charlotte Hassel is a friend of Mrs Woolf’s. Do you know the Hassels, Colonel?’

‘Met them, of course. The husband is that painter fellow, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, Adrian’s a painter – a rather good one I believe, but I’m no judge myself.’

Heron looked unconvinced. ‘Those orange and yellow things and the stick men . . .? Modern art – can’t make head or tail of it. To my mind, Munnings is our only great painter. To look at one of his horse paintings, you just know you are looking at the work of a master. In fact, I managed to buy one myself. Come into the dining-room and I’ll show it to you.’