The Shifting Fog (24 page)

There was nought I could say to that and so I remained in silence.

There came more groans, more whimpers. She writhed, moaning into the pillow. Her fingers chased elusive comfort across the empty sheet beside her.

Then the still returned. Her breathing slowed. I lifted the cloth from her forehead. It had warmed against her skin and I dipped it again in the bowl of water. I wrung it out, folded it and reached to lay it back across her head. Her eyes opened, blinked, searched my face in the dim. ‘Hannah,’

she said through a sigh. I was startled by her mistake. And pleased beyond measure. I opened my mouth to correct her, but stopped when she reached out and took my hand. ‘I’m so glad it’s you.’ She squeezed my fingers together. ‘I’m so frightened,’ she whispered.

‘I can’t feel anything.’

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘The baby’s resting.’

This seemed to calm her a little. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s always so, right before they come. I just didn’t . . . It’s too soon.’ She turned her head away. When she spoke again, her voice was so low I had to strain to hear. ‘Everybody wants a boy for me, but I can’t. I can’t lose another one.’

‘You won’t,’ I said, hoping it was so.

‘There’s a curse upon my family,’ she said, face still hidden. ‘My mother told me so but I didn’t believe her.’

She has lost her sense, I thought. Grief has overtaken her and she has given into superstition. ‘There’s no such thing as curses,’ I said softly.

She made a noise, a cross between a laugh and a sob. ‘Oh yes. It’s the same that robbed our dear late Queen of her son. The bleeders’ curse.’ She went quiet then, ran her hand over her stomach and shifted so that she faced me. Her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘But girls . . . it passes girls over.’

The door flew open and Myra was there. Behind her was a thin man of middle years and a permanently censorious expression, who I took to be the doctor, though he wasn’t Doctor Arthur from the village. Pillows were plumped, Jemima was positioned, and a lamp was lit. At some point I realised my hand was once more my own, and I was pushed aside, ferried from the room. As afternoon became evening, evening became night, I waited and wondered and hoped. Time lagged even though there were plenty of chores with which to fill it. There was dinner to serve, beds to be turned down, laundry to be gathered for the next day, yet all the while my mind remained with Jemima. 

Finally, as through the kitchen window the final shimmer of the sun’s corona slipped behind the west heath, Myra clattered down the stairs, bowl and cloth in hand.

We had just finished our dinner and were still sat around the table.

‘Well?’ Mrs Townsend said, handkerchief clutched anxiously to her heart.

‘Well,’ Myra said, setting the bowl and cloth on the kitchen bench. She turned to face us all, unable to keep the smile from her lips. ‘Mother was delivered of her baby at twenty-six minutes after eight. Small but healthy.’

I waited nervously.

‘Can’t help but feel a little sorry for her, though,’ Myra said, raising her eyebrows. ‘It’s a girl.’

It was ten o’clock when I returned from collecting Jemima’s supper tray. She had fallen asleep, little Gytha swaddled and in her arms. Before I switched off the bedside lamp, I paused a moment to gaze at the tiny girl: puckered lips, a scrap of strawberry-blonde hair, eyes screwed tightly shut. Not an heir, then, but a baby, who would live and grow and love. One day, perhaps, have babies of her own. I tiptoed from the room, tray in hand. My lamp cast the only light in the dark corridor, throwing my shadow across the row of portraits hanging along the wall. While the newest family member slept soundly behind the closed door, a line of Hartfords past carried on a silent vigil, gazing silently across the entrance hall they once possessed.

When I reached the main hall I noticed a thin strip of soft light seeping beneath the drawing-room door. In all the evening’s drama, Mr Hamilton had forgotten to turn off the lamp. I thanked God I had been the one to see. Despite the blessing of a new grandchild, Lady Violet would have been furious to discover her mourning conditions flouted.

I pushed open the door and stopped dead.

There, in his father’s seat, sat Mr Frederick. The new Lord Ashbury.

His long legs were crossed one over the other, his head bowed onto one hand so that his face was concealed. 

Hanging from his left hand, recognisable for its distinguishing black sketch, was the letter from David. The letter Hannah had read by the fountain which had made Emmeline giggle so. Mr Frederick’s back was shaking and at first I thought he was laughing too.

Then came the sound I have never forgotten. Will never forget. A gasp. Guttural, involuntary, hollow. Wretched with regret. I stood for a moment longer, unable to move, then backed away. Pulled the door behind me so I was no longer a hidden party to his sorrow.

A knock at the door and I am returned. It is 1999 and I am in my room at Heathview, the photograph, our grave unknowing faces, still in my fingers. The young actress sits in the brown chair, scrutinising the ends of her long hair. How long have I been away? I glance at my clock. It is a little after ten. Is it possible? Is it possible the floors of memory have dissolved, ancient scenes and ghosts have come to life, and yet no time has passed at all?

The door is open and Ursula is back in the room, Sylvia directly behind balancing three teacups on a silver tray. Rather more fancy than the usual plastic one.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Ursula says, resuming her position on the end of my bed. ‘I don’t usually do that. It was urgent.’

I am unsure at first as to what she means; then I see the mobile phone in her hand.

Sylvia passes me a cup of tea, walks around my chair to present a steaming cup to Keira.

‘I hope you started the interview without me,’ Ursula says. Keira smiles, shrugs. ‘We’ve pretty much finished.’

‘Really?’ Ursula says, eyes wide beneath her heavy fringe. ‘I can’t believe I missed the entire interview. I was so looking forward to hearing Grace’s memories.’

Sylvia places a hand across my forehead. ‘You’re looking a little peaky. Do you need some analgesic?’

‘I’m perfectly fine,’ I say, my voice croaky. Sylvia raises an eyebrow.

‘I’m fine,’ I say with all the firmness I can muster. 

Sylvia humphs. Then she shakes her head and I know she is washing her hands of me. For now. Have it your way, I can see her thinking. I can deny it all I like, but there’s no doubt in her mind I’ll be ringing for pain relief before my guests reach the Heathview car park. She’s probably right.

Keira takes a sip of green tea then rests the cup and saucer on my dressing table. ‘Is there a loo?’

I can feel Sylvia’s eyes burning holes in me. ‘Sylvia,’ I say. ‘Would you show Keira the washroom in the hall?’

Sylvia is barely able to contain herself. ‘Certainly,’ she says, and although I cannot see her, I know that she is preening. ‘It’s this way, Ms Parker.’

Ursula smiles at me as the door closes. ‘I appreciate you seeing Keira,’ she says. ‘She’s the daughter of one of the producer’s friends so I’m obliged to take a special interest.’ She looks to the door and lowers her voice, chooses her words carefully. ‘She’s not a bad kid, but she can be a little . . . tactless.’

‘I hadn’t noticed.’

Ursula laughs. ‘It comes of having industry parents,’ she says.

‘These kids see their parents receiving accolades for being rich, famous and beautiful—who can blame them for wanting the same?’

‘It’s quite all right.’

‘Still,’ says Ursula. ‘I meant to be here. To play chaperone . . .’

‘If you don’t stop apologising, you’re going to convince me you’ve done something wrong,’ I say. ‘You remind me of my grandson.’ She looks abashed and I realise there is something new within those dark eyes. A shadow I hadn’t noticed earlier. ‘Did you sort out your problems?’ I say. ‘On the telephone?’

She sighs, nods. ‘Yes.’

She pauses and I remain silent, wait for her to continue. I learned long ago that silence invites all manner of confidences.

‘I have a son,’ she says. ‘Finn.’ The name leaves a sad-happy smile on her lips. ‘He was three last Saturday.’ Her gaze leaves my face for an instant, alights on the rim of her teacup, with which she fidgets. ‘His father . . . he and I were never . . .’ She taps her nail twice against her cup, looks at me again. ‘It’s just Finn and me. That was my mother on the phone. She’s minding Finn while the film’s shooting. He had a fall.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘Yes. He sprained his wrist. The doctor wrapped it for him. He’s fine.’ She is smiling but her eyes fill with tears. ‘I’m sorry . . . goodness me . . . he’s fine, I don’t know why I’m crying.’

‘You’re worried,’ I say, watching her. ‘And relieved.’

‘Yes,’ she says, suddenly very young and fragile. ‘And guilty.’

‘Guilty?’

‘Yes,’ she says, but doesn’t elaborate. She takes a tissue from her bag and wipes her eyes. ‘You’re easy to talk to. You remind me of my grandmother.’

‘She sounds a lovely woman.’

Ursula laughs. ‘Yes.’ She sniffs into a tissue. ‘Goodness, look at me. I’m sorry for off-loading all this on you, Grace.’

‘You’re apologising again. I insist you stop.’

There are footsteps in the hall. Ursula glances at the door, blows her nose. ‘Then at least let me thank you. For seeing us. For talking to Keira. Listening to me.’

‘I’ve enjoyed it,’ I say, and surprise myself by meaning it. ‘I don’t have many callers these days.’

The door opens and she stands. Leans over and kisses my cheek.

‘I’ll come again soon,’ she says, gently squeezing my wrist. And I am unaccountably glad.

Film Script

Final draft, November 1998, pp. 43–54

Film Script. Final Draft, November 1998, pp. 43–54

Written and directed by Ursula Ryan ©1998

SUBTITLE: Near Passchendaele, Belgium. October 1917. 45.

INT. DESERTED FARMHOUSE—EVENING

Night falls, along with heavy rain. Three young soldiers in dirty uniforms seek refuge in the ruins of a Belgian farmhouse. They have walked all day after becoming separated from their division in a frantic retreat from the front line. They are tired and demoralised. The farmhouse in which they shelter is the same they were billeted in thirty days earlier on their way to the front. The Duchesne family have since fled as the wave of hostility swept through the village. A single candle flickers on the bare timber floor, tossing long, jagged shadows onto the walls of the abandoned kitchen. Echoes of the house’s past life remain: a saucepan by the sink, a thin rope strung before the stove, heavy with abandoned laundry, a child’s wooden toy.

One soldier—an Australian infantryman called FRED—crouches by the hole in the wall where a door once stood. He hugs his shotgun to his side. In the distance, the sound of sporadic shell fire. Angry rain pelts the already muddy ground, filling ditches to overflowing. A rat appears and sniffs a large dark patch on the soldier’s uniform. It is blood, black and rotten with age. Inside the kitchen, an officer sits on the floor, propped against a table leg. DAVID HARTFORD holds a letter: its flimsy, stained appearance suggests it has been read numerous times. Asleep beside his outstretched leg is the skinny dog that has followed them all day. The third man, ROBBIE HUNTER, appears from one of the rooms. He carries a gramophone, blankets and a handful of dusty records. He places his load on the kitchen table and begins searching the cupboards. In the back of the pantry he finds something. He turns and we draw slowly closer. He is thinner than before. World-weariness has sobered his features. There are dark shadows beneath his eyes, and the weather and the walking have tangled his hair. A cigarette hangs from between his lips.

DAVID (without turning): Find anything?

ROBBIE: Bread—hard as a rock, but still bread.

DAVID: Anything else? Anything to drink?

ROBBIE (pausing): Music. I found music.

DAVID turns, sees the gramophone. His expression is difficult to read: a combination of pleasure and sadness. Our view shifts, trailing from his face, down his arm to his hands. The fingers of one are wrapped in a dirty makeshift bandage.

DAVID: Well then. . . What are you waiting for?

ROBBIE: sets a record on the gramophone and the crackly song begins to play.

MUSIC: Debussy’s Claire de Lune.

ROBBIE makes his way to DAVID, carrying the blankets and bread. He goes carefully, easing himself onto the floor: the trench collapse has left him with more injuries than he lets on. DAVID’S eyes are closed.

ROBBIE takes a pocket knife from his bag and begins the difficult task of breaking the stale bread into portions. The task achieved, he places one on the floor near DAVID. He throws another to FRED at the door. FRED tries hungrily to bite it.

ROBBIE, still smoking his cigarette, offers a portion of bread to the dog. The dog sniffs the bread, looks at Robbie, turns away. Robbie takes off his shoes, peels back wet socks. His feet are muddy and blistered. There is a sudden eruption of gunfire. DAVID’S eyes flash open. We see, through the doorway, the fireworks of battle on the horizon. The noise is terrific. The ragged explosions a contrast to Debussy’s music. 

Looking back into the farmhouse, we see the faces of the three men, eyes wide, reflections exploding across their cheeks.

Finally, the guns fall silent and the bright light dies. Their faces are in shadow again. The record ceases playing.

FRED (still watching the distant battle field): Poor buggers.

DAVID: They’ll be crawling over no-man’s-land now. Those that are left. Collecting the bodies.

FRED (shuddering): Makes a man feel guilty. Not being there to help. And glad.

ROBBIE stands, walks to the doorway.

ROBBIE: I’ll take over. You’re tired.

FRED: No more or less than you. Can’t think you’ve slept in days; not since he (indicating DAVID) pulled you out of that trench. Still don’t know how you got out of there ali—

ROBBIE (quickly): I’m fine.

FRED (shrugging):All yours, mate.

FRED moves and sits by DAVID on the floor. He arranges one of the blankets over his legs, still hugging his gun to his chest. DAVID pulls a deck of cards from his bag.