The Caxley Chronicles (42 page)

Within ten minutes the doctor had arrived. There was no demur from Sep who, with the tea untasted, lay frail and shrunken against Kathy's bright cushions, with a blanket tucked around him. The examination over, the doctor spoke with false heartiness.

'You'll see us all out, Mr Howard. Just a tired heart, but if you take care of yourself, you'll be as sound as a bell for years yet. I'll write you a prescription.'

Bertie accompanied him into the lane, well out of ear-shot.

'Tell me the truth, doctor. How is he?'

'As I said. If he takes his pills regularly and avoids excessive exercise, he can tick over for a few more years. Your job is to persuade him to take things easily.'

'That's one of the hardest things in the world to ask me to do, but I'll try. Should he spend the night here?'

'It would be best. Tell him to stay there until I call again in the morning.'

Sep submitted to the doctor's orders with unusual docility, and as soon as he was settled in Kathy's spare room Bertie hurried to the market square to tell the news to Miss Taggerty.

It grieved Sep, in the months that followed, to lead such a comparatively inactive life. True, he rose at the usual time and supervised the shop, the restaurant, and the bakehouse, as he had always done, but he walked from place to place more slowly now, and tried not to mount his steep stairs more than was necessary. The doctor had advised him to rest after his midday dinner, and now that the weather was warm, he took to sitting in the old arbour by the river at the rear of the restaurant. This had been his old friend Bender's favourite spot, and Sep had made sure that it was kept as spruce as Bender would have wished.

Jasmine starred and scented its rustic entrance, and an Albertine rose added its splendour. Kathy made the rough seat comfortable with cushions, and provided a footstool and rug. It was a perfect sun trap, and as she went about her affairs in the restaurant, she could watch Sep dozing in sheltered warmth, or gazing at his life-long companion, the river Cax.

The family called to see Sep more often than usual. Hilda North took to paying Sep an occasional afternoon visit. Winnie drove her down the hill from Rose Lodge and left her to keep the old man company while she shopped in the town.

The two old people, who shared so many common memories, were closer now than ever they had been, and as they took tea together in the arbour they enjoyed reminiscing about their early days in the market square when their children had played together in this same garden, and floated their toy boats on the river before them.

Edward and Maisie spent as many weekends in Caxley as they could, but both were busy, for Maisie had taken a part-time teaching post. Miss Hedges, the middle-aged headmistress who lived in a neighbouring flat, had soon discovered that Maisie was a trained teacher, and had no difficulty in persuading her to accompany her three mornings a week to school. Here Maisie helped children who were backward in reading and thoroughly enjoyed the work.

'But we don't call them "backward" these days, my dear,' said Miss Hedges with a twinkle. ' "Less able" is the most forthright term we are allowed to use in these namby-pamby times!'

Maisie was glad to be doing something worthwhile again. She and Edward were blissfully happy, but he was off to work before half-past eight, the tiny flat was set to rights soon after, and Maisie was beginning to find time hanging heavily on her hands when Miss Hedges had appeared. It was a happy arrangement for them all.

Maisie found her new life absorbing. She looked back now upon her doubts and fears with amusement and incredulity. How right Joan had been, and how lucky she was to have found Edward! They had much in common. As a Londoner, Maisie shared Edward's love of the theatre and they spent many evenings there. Aunt Mary, going from strength to strength as she became better known as a character actress, saw them frequently, and was loud in her approval of Edward's choice.

'And when are you going to Caxley?' she enquired one September evening, after the play. She was in her dressing-room removing make-up with rapid expert strokes.

'The weekend after next,' replied Edward.

'I meant for good,' said his aunt. She noted Edward's surprise.

'Hadn't really thought about it,' said Edward frankly. 'This job is growing daily, and the journey from Caxley would take too long. We're still hoping for a house in the country somewhere, but it will have to be nearer than Caxley.'

Aunt Mary did not pursue the subject. How it would come about she did not know, but in her bones she felt quite sure that Edward and his Maisie were destined for Caxley one day.

She rose from her seat before the dressing table and kissed them unexpectedly.

'Give the old place my love,' she said. 'And all the people who remember me there. Particularly Sep—yes, particularly Sep!'

The last Friday in September was as warm and golden as the harvest fields through which Edward and Maisie drove to Caxley. It had been a good crop this year and the weather had been favourable. Most of the fields were already cut, and the bright stubble bristled cleanly in the sunshine.

Winnie was staking Michaelmas daisies in the garden of Rose Lodge when they arrived. Edward thought how well she looked, and his grandmother too, as they sipped their sherry and exchanged news.

'And Sep?' asked Edward.

'Fairly well,' said his grandmother. 'I had tea with him yesterday afternoon and he's looking forward to seeing you.'

'I'll go and have a word with him now,' said Edward. 'Coming?' he asked Maisie.

'Tell him I'll look in tomorrow morning,' she answered. 'I'll unpack and help here.'

'Don't be long,' called Winnie as he made for the car. 'There's a chicken in the oven, and it will be ready by eight o'clock.'

'That's a date,' shouted Edward cheerfully, driving off.

The long shadow of St Peter's spire stretched across the market place, but the sun still gleamed warmly upon Sep's shop and the windows of his house above it. Edward parked the car and looked around him with satisfaction. Choir practice was in session and he could hear the singers running through the old familiar harvest hymns. Queen Victoria wore a pigeon on her crown and looked disapproving. At the window of his own flat he could see old John Bush, peering at a newspaper held up to the light. This was the time of day when Sep's house had the best of it, Edward thought, and remembered how, as a boy, he had explained to his grandfather why he preferred Bender's old home to Sep's.

'It gets the sun most of the day,' he had told the old man. 'You only get it in the evening.'

But how it glorified everything, to be sure! The western rays burnished Sep's side of the square, gilding steps and door-frames and turning the glass to sheets of fire. Edward ran up the stairs, at the side of the closed shop, and called to his grandfather. Miss Taggerty greeted him warmly.

'He's pottering about downstairs, Mr Edward, having a final look at the Harvest Festival loaves, no doubt. The chapel folk are fetching them tomorrow morning for the decorations. Lovely they are! He did them himself. You'll find him there, you'll see.'

Edward made his way to the bakehouse. There was no-one about at this time of day and the yard was very quiet. He entered the bakehouse and was greeted by the clean fragrance of newly-baked bread which had been familiar to him all his life. Ranged against the white wall stood two splendid loaves in the shape of sheaves of corn, with smaller ones neatly lined up beside them. There were long plaited loaves, fat round ones, Coburg, cottage, split-top—a beautiful array of every pattern known to a master baker.

And sitting before them, at the great table white and ribbed with a lifetime's scrubbing, was their creator. He was leaning back in his wooden arm chair, his hands upon the table top and his gaze upon his handiwork. He looked well content.

But when Edward came to him he saw that the eyes were sightless and the small hands cold in death. There, in the centre of his world, his lovely work about him and his duty done, Sep rested at last.

Dazed and devastated, an arm about his grandfather's frail shoulders, Edward became conscious of the eerie silence of the room. Across the square the sound of singing drifted as the boys in St Peter's choir practised their final hymn.

'All is safely gathered in,'
they shrilled triumphantly, as the long shadows reached towards Sep's home.

I
N THE
bewildered hours that followed Sep's death, the family began to realise just how deeply they would miss his presence. He had played a vital part in the life of each one. He had been the lynch-pin holding the Norths and Howards together, and his going moved them all profoundly.

After the first shock was over, Edward and Bertie spent the weekend making necessary arrangements for the funeral, writing to friends and relatives, drafting a notice for
The Caxley Chronicle
and coping with the many messages of sympathy from the townsfolk who had known Sep all his life.

As they sat at their task, one at each end of Bertie's dining-room table, Bertie looked across at Edward. The younger man was engrossed in his writing, head bent and eyes lowered. His expression was unusually solemn, and in that moment Bertie realised how very like Sep's was his cast of countenance. There was something in the slant of the cheekbone and the set of the ear which recalled the dead man clearly. Age would strengthen the likeness as Edward's hair lost its colour and his face grew thinner.

There was also, thought Bertie, the same concentration on the job in hand. Edward had assumed this sudden responsibility so naturally that, for the first time, he felt dependent upon the younger man. He had slipped into his position of authority unconsciously, and it was clear to Bertie that Edward hence
forth would be the head of the family. It was a thought which flooded Bertie with rejoicing and relief. It was all that Sep had hoped for, in his wisdom.

The chapel in the High Street was full on the occasion of Sep's funeral. Edward had not realised how many activities Sep had taken part in in the town. He was a councillor for many years. He had been a member of the hospital board, the Red Cross committee, the Boys' Brigade, and a trustee of several local charities. All these duties he had performed conscientiously and unobtrusively. It was plain, from the large congregation, that Sep's influence was widely felt and that he would be sorely missed in Caxley's public life.

The coffin, bore the golden flowers of autumn. The chapel was still decorated with the corn and trailing berries of Harvest Festival. Edward, standing between Maisie and his mother, with Kathy beautiful in black nearby, was deeply moved, and when, later, Sep was lowered into the grave beside his adored wife, the dark cypress trees and bright flowers of Caxley's burial ground were blurred by unaccustomed tears. Sep had been a father as well as a grandfather to him. It was doubly hard to say farewell.

But, driving back to Bertie and Kathy's after the ceremony, he became conscious of a feeling of inner calm. This was death as it should be—rest after work well done, port after storm. Death, as Edward had met it first during the war, was violent and unnatural, the brutal and premature end of men still young. Sep had stayed his course, and the memory of that serene dead face gave his grandson comfort now, and hope for the future.

***

He and Maisie said little on the journey back to town, but later that evening Maisie spoke tentatively.

'Did you wish—did you feel—that your father should have been there, Edward?'

'Yes, I did,' replied Edward seriously. 'As a matter of fact, I wrote to him and told him.'

'Where is he then? I'd no idea you knew where he was!'

'I haven't. Mother would never speak of him—nor, of course, would Sep. But I found an address among his papers when Uncle Bertie and I were putting things straight. Somewhere in Devon. Heaven alone knows if he's still there, but it might be sent on to him, if he's moved. I felt he should know.'

It was the first time that his father had been mentioned, though Maisie knew well the story of Leslie Howard's flight with an earlier love when Edward was only four and Joan still a baby in arms.

'Do you remember him?'

'Hardly at all. I can remember that he used to swing me up high over his head, which I liked. The general impression is a happy one, strangely enough. He was full of high spirits—probably slightly drunk—but willing to have the sort of rough-and-tumble that little boys enjoy.'

'And you've never wanted to see him again?'

'Sometimes, yes. Particularly when I was about sixteen or so. Luckily, Uncle Bertie was at hand always, so he got landed with my problems then. And I knew mother would have hated to see him again, or to know that I'd been in touch. As for Grandma North, I think she would have strangled my father with her bare hands if she'd clapped eyes on him again! He certainly behaved very badly to his family. Sep minded more
than anyone. That's why he never spoke of him. He was such a kind man that I always thought it was extraordinary how ruthlessly he dealt with my father.'

'Sep was a man with exceptionally high principles,' said Maisie. She crossed the room to switch on the wireless, and paused on her way back to her chair to look down upon Edward. He was so solemn that she ruffled his thick hair teasingly.

'And a Victorian,' added Edward, still far away, 'with a good Victorian's rigid mode of conduct. It must have made life very simple in some ways. You knew exactly where you were.'

'You're going grey,' said Maisie, peering at the crown of his head, and Edward laughed.

'It's marriage,' he said, pulling her down beside him.

One morning, a week or so later, a long envelope with a Caxley postmark arrived for Edward. It was the only letter for him, but Maisie had a long one from Joan, full of news about the baby and Sarah's recovery from measles. Sipping her breakfast coffee, and engrossed in the letter from Ireland, she was unaware of the effect that Edward's correspondence was making upon him, until he pushed away his half-eaten breakfast and got up hastily.