A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel (3 page)

James nodded. ‘Well, clever girl, you. Sometimes, Bridie Brampton, you put two and two together and make four. Not often, mind, never could count, as I rem—'

They heard Evie call again. ‘Better go.' They ran now, James in the lead, and he called over his shoulder, ‘What about Prancer's daughter, Fanny, how's she training? And the mare, in foal to him? You have to remember, Bridie, he's an old boy who had a tough old war, so he can't go on forever.'

She shouted back as they ran along the gravel drive of Easterleigh Hall, past the wedding marquee set up on the lawn in front of the cedar tree, ‘I'm sick to death of hearing about the war. We need to be thinking about today, James, because it's
like
a bloody war. Have you seen the latest newspapers? Have you forgotten the fascists are opening a British Union of Fascists' Meeting House in Hawton? A pit village, for pity's sake. So, we haven't time to witter on about the past, we need to see how we can stop these buggers right now.'

Colonel Potter was walking down the steps of the Hall and he looked up, startled, as Bridie ran past him, kicking up gravel. She called, ‘Sorry, Uncle Potty, we're late.'

James called, ‘Morning, Colonel Potter. Sorry about Bridie, appalling language and manners. Don't miss all the photos, and you too, Sir Anthony.'

Potty laughed and Bridie heard him say to Sir Anthony Travers, who walked at his side, ‘Ah, the
energy of youth. Makes one feel quite exhausted, what?'

Bridie was on the grass now, and her mother was gesticulating and frowning. ‘Oh, heavens,' Bridie groaned. ‘She heard me swear.' She reached Evie, who dragged her beneath the branches of the cedar. The shade was deep, and so was her mother's frown.

‘I've told you several times, Bridie. You
will
mind your manners, you will not swear and you will address Colonel Potter properly, or I will want to know the reason why.'

Bridie longed to pull away, but knew better than to try. ‘Oh, Mam. Yes, I know, and I try, but I've always known him as Uncle Potty, and I forget.'

‘Well, don't. Not again. And don't rush about kicking up gravel, and I repeat, mind your language. It's disgraceful and won't do.'

Bridie swung round as Tim's voice carried to them, from the wedding party who were drifting about nearby. ‘What's she done now, James? Isn't it time she grew up?'

Tim was standing near Sir Anthony Travers, who headed the consortium that sponsored the Neave Wing rehabilitation unit. The photographer was pointing at people here, there and everywhere for the group photograph. Bridie glared at Tim because his tone had been cold and harsh, not teasing like it used to be. She felt tired suddenly, and upset. She muttered, ‘Families are damned confusing.'

Her mother warned, ‘Language, Bridie.'

‘Sorry, Mam.' She still looked at Tim, so tall and handsome, his hair with that red glint, his eyes almost black. He was ordering James about now, because it was what he had taken to doing. ‘Surprised he's not wearing his Blackshirt uniform.'

‘Sorry?' said Evie, starting to walk towards full sunlight. ‘I didn't hear you.'

Bridie said, ‘Never mind.'

Evie turned and beckoned to her. ‘Come along now.' It was an order, given in
that
voice, which meant: you're on a knife-edge, young lady.

She followed. If he did have a uniform, would he take it to Germany tomorrow when he went out to see his mam again? Bridie felt the now familiar hurt at Tim's rejection of her and James, when they had always been so close. As she left the shade of the cedar, Tim called, ‘Do hurry, and for God's sake, try and behave.'

Her mother turned and gave her a warning frown. ‘Bridie, don't react. Not today.'

It was too late, and Bridie felt the words leaving her mouth, and she didn't damn well care. ‘I am an adult, I'm working just as hard as you in your airless little office, if you don't mind, and why have you changed, Tim Forbes? Because you are a Forbes, you know. You're being corrupted, bonny lad, by your damned moth—'

‘Bridie,' roared her father, who had been talking to the photographer. She stopped dead, horrified at herself. She saw that everyone had turned and the
chatter had stopped. Jack had stiffened, Gracie had paled, and Tim had flushed. Above them birds flew across the blue sky; the clouds chased one another in the cool east wind. That was the only movement for what seemed like hours, and then her father took a step towards her, but Jack held him back, shaking his head, forcing a laugh. She heard him say, ‘They always nitpick one another.'

James took a step towards her but Ver and Richard held
him
back. Bridie swallowed, her body so rigid it hurt. She shouldn't have said it, she knew that, but why did no-one say anything to Tim when he behaved like that? Were they scared he'd leave for good if they did? It was the first time she had asked herself that question and was frightened at the possible answer, because she couldn't bear never to see him again.

Evie almost ran back to her, saying in a voice low and fierce, ‘How dare you, Bridie Brampton? Really, how damned dare you? We've all talked about this over the last few months. We will not make a judgement about Tim, do you understand, or are you too high and mighty to do as Uncle Jack has requested?' Her mother ended on a hiss.

Bridie rested her head in her hands for a moment, wanting to run from the whole lot of them. But then she looked up. ‘You swore then, Mam, so it's not damn well fair.'

Her mam raised her finger, shaking it. ‘Not one more word, Bridie, unless it is an apology, and keep
your voice down. This is not your day, and I won't have you ruining it.'

‘But Mam, he was so arrogant.'

Evie raised her finger higher.

Bridie wanted to bat it away, but instead felt her fury turn to an awful sort of silent sobbing in her chest. She swallowed, and again. Above her the cedar branches were moving in the breeze. She felt chilled, and alone. She whispered, ‘I'm so sorry, but he used to like me. He was always there, the three of us. He made me feel safe, us feel safe. It's not the same now and it's as though . . . Oh, I don't know. It's all just empty, it's changed us all. Poor Uncle Jack, poor Aunt Gracie, and I've made it worse, and I hate it without him. Hate it. Hate him.'

The photographer was calling and beckoning to the family members, who came to life and began to move as directed. James looked over at her, and winked. She felt weak with relief. Good old James, at least they still had one another. He'd help her through the next few hours, even if everyone else was furious.

Her mother was saying quietly, ‘Stand up straight, wipe your tears, put on a smile. Your uncle and aunt are married, and as Grandma used to say, far too often, “All will be well.” But that, of course, will be after you've apologised to everyone.'

They straightened their shoulders, smiled at one another, and headed off to join the group. At that moment her mam squeezed her hand. ‘It will be
alright, Bridie, and you're right, he was horribly superior. If you hadn't said anything, I fear I would have done, so that makes me a hypocrite for snarling at you. What a pair we are. Now let's smile for the camera and remember that Tim is probably very muddled at the moment. Who wouldn't be, having a real mother coming back into your life? Let's keep thinking of that, and understand.'

Bridie wished that Grandma Susan and Grandpa Bob were still alive, because they wouldn't have put up with Tim's behaviour for one moment. Or would they? She didn't really know about much any more. She gripped her mam's hand, tightly. She couldn't bear it if Evie wasn't her real mother, and she hadn't thought of it like that before. Pity for Tim overwhelmed her, and as they reached the wedding party, she began her apologies. The first was to him, and heartfelt.

He smiled, and shrugged. ‘Don't give it another thought. I won't.' Again there was that sneering harshness. She walked away.

The wedding guests circulated within the marquee, or lingered outside where they smoked, talked, or just admired the herbaceous borders. Tim stood alone, and ground out his cigarette on the lawn, checking that Young Stan, the head gardener, wasn't looking. Instead he was talking to someone who had been introduced by Tim's da, Jack, as Herr Bauer.

Apparently Jack and he had met when Bauer was an officer at Da's German prisoner of war camp and had helped out Jack and his marras. They had kept in desultory contact since then, and as he was in the country he had accepted an invitation to today's wedding.

Young Stan was pointing out hyacinths, bluebells, peonies and a clump of something which had not yet bloomed. Young Stan looked around, saw Tim, and called across, ‘Hope you put that stub into one of the sand buckets provided.'

Tim almost stood to attention, before picking up what was left of the stub. He waved it at Young Stan, who nodded before turning back to Herr Bauer. Tim half laughed at himself. Scared of a gardener, for heaven's sake, but then Young Stan had inherited
his grandfather's way with words, and volume, or so Mam said. He couldn't really remember Old Stan. The laugh died in his throat because Gracie wasn't his mam. His mother was in Berlin.

He felt a rush of nervousness at the thought of seeing his mother, but this was mixed with excitement, and anticipation. Heine and Millie had been living in a little town near Hamburg last year, when she had first written to him, but since then Heine had been promoted, and was now an officer in the SS, the Schutzstaffel, a major paramilitary organization under Adolf Hitler and the Nazi Party, and they had just moved to a smart apartment in Berlin.

When he arrived tomorrow they would have a dinner party for him, his mother had said, and after that she'd take him to a coffee house. Perhaps they'd have a stroll round the lake, and later, the opera. He walked to a sand bucket and dropped the stub, where it lay amongst others. He sneaked a look at Young Stan, who nodded his approval, then walked on with Herr Bauer.

Tim moved to the shade of the cedar. Somehow it seemed to block out all noise, though that was impossible; it must just be psychological. He stared up through the branches. He realised he'd never asked who had blown up the original one and no-one ever talked about it. It was so long ago, he supposed, but what a foul thing to do.

He patted his inside pocket where he kept his mother's letters. He hadn't known what to think
when he'd first heard from her. Of course he knew who she was, and that Roger, the valet, was his father, and had discarded her. But she'd left him with Da when he was really young, so the letter was from a stranger and had been a bolt from the blue.

He groped in his suit pocket for the gold cigarette case which had arrived from Heine and Millie just yesterday. It had a faint engraving on the top. He thought it was a candlestick or something, but it was so worn, he couldn't really make it out. It was antique, and their generosity overwhelmed him.

They'd welcomed him on the two occasions he'd visited as the long-lost son he was, and his mother had cried to have him back in her life. She had said she'd left him behind because of the uncertainty over her future with Heine, and that a little boy needed a steady, familiar home. She knew that one day he'd understand, but they had been years which had broken her heart.

He'd felt so sorry for her.

He closed the cigarette case, decided against risking Young Stan's beady eyes when it came to discarding another stub, and sauntered out into the sun again. The smell of hyacinths was carried on the breeze, along with cigar smoke. Ah, there was Colonel Potter, with Sir Anthony. They were both puffing on Havanas, no doubt. Bridie and James were passing, heads down, deep in conversation, and walking towards the back of the marquee. They, in their turn, saw him, and James called across. ‘Tim,
Mr Harvey said we're all needed to take round the champagne and canapés now.'

Tim sighed, waved. For God's sake, there was no peace. There was always something needing to be done with this family. If it wasn't helping amputees to sit on horses, it was serving a load of guests. No doubt someone would hint before the end of the day that he should help Bridie muck out stables, or, because he was an engineer, ask him to design some piece of machinery that would help the wounded with their balance, or . . .

He thrust his cigarette case back into his pocket. Millie, his mother, was quite right when she said that when Evie, Ver or Gracie set their minds on an idea, everyone had to fall in. You could add Bridie, he thought, because using horses for the wounded had been her project. Why didn't they all get out of this backwater and really live?

He ambled along in the wake of the kids, as he'd come to think of them over the last year. Like puppies, they were, barking up the wrong tree, carrying on about the awful fascists. Couldn't they see what was being achieved on the continent? At the rear of the marquee, Ron Simmonds, who was a partner in the hotel, was waiting with Mr Harvey. Tim had always thought the butler was a great old bloke, but his mother had put him right on that. Interfering old tyrant, she'd called him, but not as bad as Mrs Moore.

She'd been amazed when she heard that Mr Harvey
had married Mrs Moore at the end of the war. How she'd laughed; it had made him uncomfortable. In fact, his mother's laugh was one of the things he didn't quite like about her. It didn't sound real, whereas Gracie and his aunts . . .

Ron called, grinning, ‘In your own time, then, Tim old lad. Just you forget that we've a load of thirsty people in need of sustenance.' By his side, at the trestle table, Mr Harvey poured champagne carefully into fine crystal glasses, the bottle wrapped in a damask napkin, each glass tilted, his hand rock steady.

Tim picked up a tray of full glasses, and entered the marquee through the rear flap. Ron called, ‘Take the left-hand section, if you would, Tim. Go as far as the cake table. Bridie and James are each taking the other two thirds, with others roaring about with the canapés.'