The Silence of Ghosts (21 page)

Sir Henry died in 1761, but the trade was continued under the auspices of his son William, who strengthened links with Portugal. He himself spent some time in the country, returning in 1745 to marry his old sweetheart, the honourable Jane Fitzgibbons, whose grave I now remember seeing in the churchyard at St Martin’s.

It is about this time that we found something untoward. I haven’t been able to piece it all together, but I can guess at some of it.

Here is the text of a letter written by William soon after he took over the family fortunes.

Hallinghag House

Ullswater

His Grace the Duke of Westmoreland

My Lord Duke
,

I wish to thank Yr Grace for Yr latest communication. It is a relief to know that her Ladyship is fully recovered from her late illness. We have weathered great storms in these past few years
,
have we not
,
m
’
Lord?

I take pleasure to inform Yr Grace that the shipment of Colheitas that was promised last year has arrived safely after having aged in oak barrels for these past 20 years. This firft shipment amounts to only fifty bottles
,
of which I have taken the immense liberty to reserve two dozen for Yr Grace
,
together with a barrel of Garrafeira for the Cambridge Club
,
where it will be laid down for above two years. A second vessel will dock in London in the next week
,
barring foul weather, with what we know on board. If this supply be healthy
,
as we anticipate
,
it will give some breathing space here at Ullswater
.

Last week
,
we lost three to ye gas or to whatsoever else was brought here by ye dancing men. I have asked Dr — to attend us
,
but after the last time he pleads business elsewhere. Perhaps Yr Grace can persuade him as You best know how and have the mood for it and the temperament. I defer to Yr Grace
’
s wisdom in all such matters
,
and I herewith enclose a bag of what you know in order to entice Yr Grace
’
s appetite for more. May I inquire if the young lady I sent last month has proved satisfactory? The supply of such goods is almost limitless
,
but it must be kept dark.
Did Sir Q— receive what they sent from Lisbon
,
that came out of China by way of Cairo? He is too dmn
’
d fastidious and has no knowledge of what else we do here
.

As ever in this matter
,
m
’
Lord
,
I rely on Yr discretion. Should Yr Grace wish to inspect for Yourself what work we carry on here
,
I pledge myself to see to all Yr needs
,
for there is much to be seen
,
though they be restless both day and night. But rest assured they can be pacified. The ones who dance go at their japes & antiques something marvellous. They beat their drums and clash their sticks like the brute savages they are
,
and their black faces are a terror to me
.

Believe me at all times
,
my Lord
,
with sincerity and respect
,
your faithful obliged and humble servant
,

William Lancaster Bart

There were other letters of a similar tenor. All of them light, many of them cross-letters, where the writing of one page is written over diagonally by what follows, in order to save money. Cecil Blanchard explained to me that in that period it was the recipient who paid for post, not the sender, and that heavier and longer letters attracted higher fees. I found these letters hard to read, but I have brought some home in order to apply myself more thoroughly to them. The letters were often in Sir William’s hand and had been returned to him for reasons I could not guess. They do not seem to have been unwelcome, for sometimes the original recipients would add friendly notes in a margin or near the signature. William’s addressees included the Honourable Bertram Grisham, the Marquess of Mallen, the Earl of Dunlop, the Viscount Newton, the Bishop of Durham, and less exalted men – there were no women – such as Sir Waldo Featherstone, Mr John Hawkridge, the Master of Rivenhall, and a number of individuals whom I took to be tradesmen.

This correspondence took place over an extended compass. From one in Scotland, to two in Devon, to another in Yorkshire, one in Northumberland, and several in London. There were also several letters to him from Portugal, some from Lisbon, others from Oporto or Porto, and one from Coimbra, which is a prestigious university town like Oxford or Cambridge.

Later

I have just finished my first examination of these documents at home. They lie on the table like feathers that may, if stroked firmly enough, transform themselves back into birds. Nothing is straightforward. The letters are of very different dates: Cecil explained that it was not the custom then to include the year. There are various bills and receipts, only a few of which relate to shipments or sales of port. Some are for building materials, some are more obscure, like two in Portuguese that carry the tally of
dez es
’
os
, which I can’t disentangle save for the ‘ten’ at the start. Perhaps we can find someone who can read Portuguese better than I, since there are several letters, a few ship’s manifests, and a sort of diary in that language. Cecil tells me he will look for someone at London University. Unfortunately, nobody’s there at the moment since the whole university has moved out to safer locations round the country. The Ministry of Information has moved in. Cecil tells me King’s College has moved out to several destinations, Bristol, Glasgow, Birmingham and Leeds. We’ll have to work out who can tell us where their Portuguese department has gone – if they still have one, that is.

I have organized the papers as best I can for the moment. One thing that has surprised me is a list of names, Portuguese names. The main list is organized alphabetically, and has asterisks against five names. It reads like this:

Adão*

Agostinho

Alícia

Caetano Moura

Clara*

Clarissa

Débora

Dinis

Érica

Félix

Geraldo Paredes

Gilberto Ribeiro

Helena*

Hugo

Irene

Loão

Margarida*

Mateus

Octávia*

Paulo

Raymundo

Rebeca

It is the names with asterisks that frighten me. I was at first quite indifferent to them until I looked more closely. Adão. Clara. Helena. Margarida. Octávia. Adam. Clare. Helen. Margaret. And Octavia. Not English girls at all, not an English boy. Portuguese children, all of them, except for my sister. Unless my father had conceived her with a Portuguese woman during one of his long business trips to the country. Octavia did not in the least resemble my mother, who remained indifferent to her. My sister is dark-haired and looks as Portuguese as an Infanta.

Later

I was working on the documents in the library, where the family books – several generations’ worth – are kept, along with technical materials about wine, port, viniculture and Portugal. It is my favourite room in the flat, and over the years I have taken pains to keep it in good repair and to ensure that everything is maintained in good order. I was starting to feel hungry and realized it must be close to dinner. At that moment, the door opened and my mother appeared. She seemed a little on edge.

‘Dominic,’ she said, ‘have you seen Octavia lately?’

‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Not for some hours. I thought she stayed here today.’

‘Well, yes, she did. She had lunch, then went up to her bedroom for a nap. She didn’t come down for tea, and I thought she had either fallen fast asleep or hadn’t heard the gong. But just now, when I went up to get her ready for dinner, she wasn’t in her room. I’ve asked around, but nobody has seen her. She’s very thick with Mrs Mayberry, but when I asked her just now, she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her. Your father has been into every room, but there’s no sign of her anywhere in the apartment.’

‘Could she have just popped out?’

‘What for? All the shops are shut. It’s curfew time, and if there’s to be a raid, it may not be far off.’

‘Mother, help me up the stairs. I want to look at her room.’

It didn’t take me long to find what was wrong.

‘Her coat is missing, and her scarf. She normally keeps her gloves in this drawer.’ I opened it. Her latest gloves, given to her at Christmas, were gone. Her boots were always lined up beside her shoes, but now they too had disappeared.

‘Does she have money?’ I asked.

I turned round to see my father in the door.

‘As a matter of fact, yes, she does,’ he said. ‘She asked for some
yesterday, enough for a new dress, something by Hardy Amies, she said. I didn’t think Amies did clothes for little girls, but she assured me she’d seen a dress the right size just down on Oxford Street. She told me you’d promised to take her and get her back here all right. Did you make some damn-fool promise?’

‘Of course I didn’t, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t level accusations before you know the facts. She has taken us all in.’

Just then my mother bent down and came up holding a white envelope.

‘This must have fallen off the bedside table,’ she said.

It was addressed to me. Mother passed it over and I opened it.

Dear Dominic
,

Have gone to fetch Rosie back. I can
’
t bear not to have her here. She doesn
’
t seem to like you much
,
but you have to do your best and make her like you again. Have some money for train. Won
’
t be long. Don
’
t wait up
.

I read it and passed it to my father, who was already apoplectic.

‘I said there’d be trouble if you got involved with that slut. What is the stupid child thinking? She can’t get far on what I gave her.’

But I knew Octavia was cleverer than that. She’d put a label round her neck, addressing herself to Rose in Pooley Bridge, and once on the train she’d find a way of asking for help. They’d treat her as a lost evacuee, and someone would be sure to be going her way. I told my parents we should expect a letter or a telephone call tomorrow or the day after.

My father snorted and stormed off. Our brief
entente
had come to an end.

My mother picked up the note from where my father had thrown it to the floor.

‘Your father’s angry. Quite understandably. Give him time to think.’

Saturday, 4 January

There was no point in my setting off in the middle of the curfew. The first ARP warden to set eyes on me would have sent me straight home with a flea or two in my ear. And there would have been no train.

I put my things together before going to bed, including a small case with the documents I had retrieved yesterday. To be honest, I was worried about Octavia. Although she was resourceful, I knew she was also quite trusting, and in wartime it paid to have your wits about you. Her handicap could lead to problems unless she found one or two people to help her. But it wasn’t a straightforward journey, and people at the start might not understand her final destination.

I left at first light in a taxi, leaving a note on the hall table, and pushed my way on to the first train. Getting out of London wasn’t too bad. There were a lot of weekend passes, so soldiers and airmen were packing the inward-bound trains. By the time I got to Birmingham, it was every man for himself, but my leg secured me a good seat all the way.

For my own part, I was furious with Octavia. Rose had made her intentions clear, and I had no idea how to explain what had happened or relieve her mistrust of me. I’d much rather have stayed in London, but Octavia had forced my hand. What was I going to say to Rose and her mother when I got to Pooley Bridge?

It was impossible to read my papers on the train. There just
wasn’t enough room, and trying to hold them across my knees was hopeless, especially since my left leg (or what was left of it) could give way at any second. I had found a book about the port wine trade in the library and devoured it instead. I could feel the taste of the port I was given yesterday, the single
quinta
vintage, as it had lain on my tongue for hours after I tasted it. Someday, I thought, I would have to sit down with one of the company’s tasters and ask him to teach me how to develop a palate.

I arrived in Pooley Bridge by bus from Penrith. I had brought little luggage, and I came equipped with only my stick. It was, thank God, a stout specimen, and it held my weight every time I shifted from foot to false leg. I made my way directly to Dr Raverat’s house, thinking it might be best to consult him before turning up at the Sansoms’.

He was delighted to see me, declared that he’d missed me bitterly, and hoped my time in London had passed well.

‘In some ways, yes,’ I said, in reply to this last remark. We were still standing on the doorstep.

‘I take it you’re on your way to Rose’s place. I’d get there smartish if I were you. I think they get to bed early, now you’re not around to drag them out at midnight.’

‘The truth is, Doctor, I’m a little apprehensive about going there. Would it trouble you if I came in and chatted over a cup of tea?’

He was all smiles at this and snatched my little case up the better to sweep me in.

Once the tea was brewing on the table, we sat down.

‘Tell me all,’ he said.

I told him about introducing Rose to my parents and my father’s wrath. Then I described how I had discovered the papers
I’d brought up, and why I hoped to find some sort of explanation in them that might provide a solution to the manifestations at Hallinhag House. Finally, I told him why I had returned so early, that Octavia, following her definitive diagnosis, had left the apartment and headed north.

‘Do you know if she got here safely?’ I asked.

He shook his head.

‘I haven’t seen her, but she would have arrived late and I was out last night till midnight, with an emergency up on the fells. I’ve been busy all today as well. But why did she want to come back here without you?’