The Caxley Chronicles (23 page)

Bertie was glad to see her so independent and was relieved too that she need not face the upheaval of another move. His own house was pretty full and he would have had to sacrifice his sitting room to accommodate his mother if she had wanted to come. This he was prepared to do willingly. Winnie had suggested that she should go and live with Hilda, so that she would not be alone, but it was done half-heartedly for she did not want to leave Bertie, and the children were happy in the house. It seemed best, to let things go on as they were, and so far everything had gone very smoothly.

Winnie heard from Kathy occasionally. They usually wrote when one of the children had a birthday, and then exchanged news of Caxley and Edinburgh. Kathy had been left comfortably off, and her parents-in-law were kind and understanding. She was beginning to meet people again. Her visit to Caxley was planned to coincide with the opening of Sep's
restaurant in April, and she told Winnie that she hoped to stay with her parents for several weeks.

Winnie never suspected the turmoil which went on behind her brother's calm countenance when she read these letters to him. Kathy was never far from Bertie's thoughts. Henry's parents, whom he had never met, he viewed with mixed feelings—gratitude for their care of Kathy and alarm at their solicitude for her future. It sometimes seemed to Bertie that they were busy looking for another handsome Scot for his Kathy. Would she never return? Should he take the plunge and go north to see her? Natural shyness restrained him. Her loss was so recent. She must be given time to find herself again. He must await her coming to Caxley with all the patience he could muster, and speak to her then. He had nothing to lose: everything—everything in the world—to gain! Bertie watched the calendar as avidly as a homesick schoolboy.

She came soon after Easter, three days before the party to celebrate the opening of Howard's restaurant. Winnie and Bertie were invited to supper the day after her arrival, and as they sat at the great table, waiting for Sep to carve a handsome round of cold beef, Bertie remembered all the other meals he had eaten in this room and with this family. Robert sat now where Jim used to sit. Mary was beside him. Kathy sat opposite, lovelier than ever, but thinner than he remembered. Life had dealt both of them some pretty shrewd knocks, thought Bertie, and they were both a good deal older and more battered than when he had sat there bringing shame upon the Norths by starting to eat his roll before Sep had said grace. Bertie smiled now at the recollection—but how he had smarted then!

Kathy's children were asleep in her old bedroom, but Winnie insisted on creeping up to see them and Bertie went with her. The boy was a Howard, dark and handsome. The baby already displayed a few wisps of auburn hair and the fresh complexion of her Scottish father.

'What do you think of 'em?' asked Sep proudly, when they returned. 'I'm all for having 'em at the party, but Kathy won't hear of it. Everyone else in the family will be there. Seems a pity to me!'

Excitement was in the air. The party was to take place on Saturday evening. The restaurant opened on Monday. All those connected with the building and creation of the new premises were invited. Old Caxley friends and the whole of the Howard family would be present. This grand affair was to start at seven o'clock, and the party would sit down to a superb dinner of Sep's devising at seven thirty.

'Now, do keep an eye on the time, Edward,' begged Winnie at lunch time. He was going fishing with Tim Parker, and when thus engaged the hours flew by unnoticed. 'You must be back by six at the latest to get cleaned up.'

Edward nodded absentmindedly. Uncle Bertie had promised to enquire about a rod in Petter's shop window. Had he done it, asked the boy?

'Sorry, Edward. It slipped my mind. I have to go out this afternoon. I'll call in then. If he's asking a reasonable price you can come in with me later on and see if it suits you.'

Edward's face lit up. The rod he used now had once been Bender's and was sadly the worse for wear. A new one was the height of Edward's ambition. He could scarcely wait to tell Tim the good news.

As Winnie had feared, it was half past six before the boy returned on his bicycle, drenched, muddy but supremely happy. He was pushed swiftly into the bathroom and exhorted to hurry. Winnie fluttered back and forth between her own room and Joan's, arranging curls, fastening necklaces, and smoothing stockings.

At last the party set off, Edward still damp from his bath, his hair as sleek as a seal's. He gazed in admiration at his uncle's neat figure.

'You've got a new suit!'

'Do you like it?'

'Very much. It makes you look quite young, Uncle Bertie.'

'Thank you, Edward. How do I usually look?'

'Well, not exactly old, but—'

'Middle-aged?'

'That's it! But not in that suit. I suppose it's because it's more up-to-date than your others.'

And with this modified praise, Bertie had to be content.

The restaurant was ablaze with lights, although the evening was bright with sunshine. Sep had chosen white and gold for the interior of his new premises, and vases of daffodils added to the freshness. The tables had been put together to form two long ones down each side of the room with another across the end. The new table linen glistened like a fresh fall of snow, the glass winked like diamonds, the silver reflected the gay colours of the women's frocks and the golden lamps on the tables.

Through the french windows could be seen the green sunlit lawn running down to the Cax. More daffodils nodded here,
and a row of scarlet tulips stood erect like guardsmen. The Cax caught the rays of the sun, flashing and sparkling as it wound its way eastward under Bender's rustic bridge. There was no doubt about it, Sep's dream had come true, and this evening he rejoiced in its fulfilment.

The meal was as sumptuous as one might guess with Sep as host, and although he himself drank only lemonade, he saw that his guests were served generously with wine. One of the waiters poured out some sparkling white wine for Edward, unnoticed by his elders, and the boy drank it discreetly. It looked remarkably like Joan's fizzy lemonade across the table, he noticed with considerable complacency, but tasted very much better. This was the life!

He caught sight of his Uncle Bertie at the other end of the table and remembered his fishing rod. He was too far away to call to—he must catch him later. Meanwhile it was enough to sip his wine, and see if he could find room for cheese and biscuits after all the courses he had managed already. He eyed the pyramids of fruit ranged down the tables for dessert. Somehow he doubted if he would have room for fruit as well...

Now his grandfather was standing up to make a speech—and heavens!—how loudly the people were clapping and cheering him! And how pretty grandma Howard looked tonight in her pink silk frock—as pretty as she looked in the picture Dan Crockford had painted long before Edward was born. Edward leant back in his chair and let the room revolve gently round him, too dizzy and happy to listen to speeches, too bemused to see anyone in focus.

When, finally, the guests moved from the tables and coffee
was being served, Edward was obliged to look for the lavatory. His head throbbed so violently that he could not be bothered to seek out the luxurious accommodation provided for the restaurant, but slipped up the familiar stairs to the Parker's bathroom. It was blissfully cool there after the heat and cigar smoke below. Edward splashed his burning face with cold water and began to feel better.

He leant his forehead against the cold window panes and gazed at the market place below. Queen Victoria was bathed in a rosy glow from the setting sun. Her bronze features gleamed as though she had been rubbed with butter. A car or two went by, and a girl on a piebald pony. A man with a violin case hurried into the Corn Exchange. How peaceful it was, thought Edward!

Below him he could hear the hum of the party. He must go back again before he was missed ... back into that strange noisy grown-up world where men smoked and drank wine and clapped his pale little grandfather. It was good to have escaped for a few minutes, to have found a brief refuge in the old familiar quietness above.

But it was good, too, to go back, to join his family, to be one of the Howards and one of the Norths too, to be doubly a man of Caxley. He belonged both upstairs and down in this ancient building.

Swaggering slightly, Edward descended the stairs.

An hour or so later, as the guests were beginning to depart, Edward remembered his fishing rod and looked for his Uncle Bertie.

'He went into the garden,' said his mother. But Edward could not find him there.

'Maybe he stepped into the market place,' suggested Grandma North. There was no sign of him there either.

'Have a piece of crystallized ginger,' advised his sister Joan. 'You can see Uncle Bertie any day. You won't see this gorgeous stuff tomorrow.' Edward shelved the problem of his Uncle Bertie's disappearance and joined his sister at the sweet dish.

At last only a few of the family were left. It was beginning to get dark. The evening star had slid up from the Cax and hung like a jewel on the dusky horizon.

'Cut along home, my boy,' said his grandfather's voice. 'To our place, I mean. Your mother's just gone across. I'll be there in a few minutes.'

Obediently, he set off across the darkening square. A child was filling one of the iron cups with water, and Edward realized how thirsty he was himself. He made his way to the next lion, and pressed the cold button in its head. Out gushed the water from the lion's mouth, giving him the same joy which it had always done.

He let it play over his sticky fingers and hot wrists before filling the cup. He tilted it against his parched mouth and enjoyed the feeling of the drops spilling down his chin. Wine was all right to boast about, but water was the real stuff to drink!

At that moment he heard his grandfather approach and turned to greet him. At the same time he saw Uncle Bertie and Aunt Kathy emerge from the doorway of Howard's Restaurant. How young Uncle Bertie looked tonight! It must be
the suit. And how happy! That must be the wine, surmised Edward, unusually sophisticated.

He suddenly remembered his fishing rod.

'Uncle Bertie!' he shouted towards the couple. 'What about my fishing rod?
Uncle Bertie? Uncle Bertie!'

Sep's hand came down upon his shoulder.

'He doesn't hear me!' protested Edward, trying to break free.

'No, he doesn't,' agreed Sep equably.

The boy stopped struggling and watched the pair making their way towards the river. There was something in their faces that made him aware of great happenings. This was not the time to ask about his fishing rod, it seemed.

He gave a great tired sigh. It had been a long day.

Sep took his wet hand as he had done when he was a little boy. They turned to cross the market square together.

'There's always' tomorrow, Edward,' Sep said consolingly. 'Always tomorrow...'

1939–1945

I
T WAS
six o'clock on a fine May morning.

The market square was deserted. Long shadows lay across the cobblestones, reaching almost to the steps of St Peter's church. Pink sunlight trembled across its old grey stone, gilding the splendid spire and warming the hoary saints in their niches. A thin black cat, in a sheltered angle of the porch, washed one upthrust leg, its body as round and curved as an elegant shell. Not even the pigeons disturbed its solitude, for they still slept, roosting in scores on the ledges of the Corn Exchange and the Victorian Town Hall.

A hundred yards away, the river Cax, swollen with spring rains, swept in a shining arc through the buttercup fields. The haze of early hours lay over all the countryside which surrounded the little market town, veiling the motionless clumps of elm trees in the fields and the cottages still sleeping among their dewy gardens.

The minute hand of St Peter's clock began its slow downhill journey from the gilded twelve, and Edward Howard, pyjama-clad at his bedroom window nearby, watched it with mounting exhilaration. This was the life! How wonderful to be alive on such a morning, to be twenty-one and—best of all—to have a place of one's own!

He flung up the window and leaned out, snuffing the morning air like a young puppy. The sun touched his face with gentle
warmth. It was going to be a real scorcher, he thought to himself happily. He laughed aloud and the thin cat, arrested in the midst of its toilet, gazed up at him, a tongue as pink as a rose petal still protruding from its mouth.

'Good morning!' called Edward civilly to the only other waking inhabitant of the market square. The cat stared at him disdainfully, shrugged, and then continued with its washing.

And Edward, turning towards the bathroom, followed its good example.

Lying in warm water, he ran an appraising eye round the bathroom and mused upon his good fortune. At this time last year he had been living at Rose Lodge, a mile away on the hill south of Caxley, with his mother and grandmother North. It had been his home for seven or eight years, and he had, he supposed, been reasonably happy there in the company of the two women. But these last few months of bachelor independence made him realise the restrictions which he had suffered earlier. Now there was no one to question his comings and goings. If he cared to stay out until two in the morning, there was no waiting tray, complete with hot chocolate in a vacuum flask, to reproach him. No parental note reminded him to bolt the door and switch off the landing light. It wasn't that he didn't love them, poor dear old things, thought Edward indulgently as he added more hot water to his bath, but simply that he had outgrown them.