After Clare (6 page)

A radiant Dee emerged into the sunshine half an hour later as Mrs Hamish Erskine.

It had rained the day before and the weather had turned cooler, but it was bright enough to hold the reception in the immaculate garden at Steadings, where the striking-looking pair whom Emily – and everyone else – had remarked on in church introduced themselves to her. So this was Poppy Drummond and her brother Valentine, the little boy to whom she had sent occasional presents on Paddy's behalf, and who had sent such stiff, polite little letters back. He seemed awkward, perhaps moody, unlike his sister, who smiled and talked a lot and had a tinkling laugh. She is too determined to please, thought Emily, alerted, which I shouldn't think is her usual style. She was rather relieved when, after a while, with a look from under her eyelids at her brother, the girl left them and drifted off to be immediately surrounded by several young men.

Valentine turned out not to be moody at all, simply harassed by the formal wedding clothes which seemed not to fit him too well, and slightly constrained, for some reason, in the presence of his sister. After she left, he smiled at Emily, found her a seat on the terrace, brought her strawberries, and then relaxed and began to talk naturally, encouraged by her interest. She drew him out and learned that he had survived the war, and was not long down from Oxford. Relaxing even more, he confessed when she asked what he was doing now, that he had written a novel, which to tell the truth had been rejected by the Markham Press, then immediately looked annoyed with himself for having said so much.

‘Sorry, you don't want to hear about that. I've drunk too much of this stuff,' he said, setting down his champagne glass on the stone balustrade. He looked hot and tugged at his tie. ‘What I'd give for a beer!' His eyes followed Rosie as she once more took charge of the page and the little bridesmaid, who were rushing about, hot and overexcited, too full of ice-cream, and changed the subject. ‘I say, she's a topping sort of girl, Rosie, isn't she? Oh Lord, look out, here's her father.' He looked wildly around, but Gerald was intercepted by a great-aunt. ‘Lucky escape.'

‘From Gerald? Why should you want to avoid Gerald?'

‘Oh, I don't, not really. Well, yes, of course, my book. I'm a fool, I shouldn't have said anything about that – told you I'd had too much bubbly.'

‘Well, I'm sure he won't embarrass you by mentioning it in front of other people.'

‘Might be better if he did, perhaps – talk about it, I mean. To me, anyway. I'd like to know where I've gone wrong, and all that. Where I go from here.'

‘Why don't you have a word with Dirk?'

‘Stronglove?' His glance followed Emily's, to where Dirk was basking in the admiration of two of his lady readers. ‘Oh, mine's not his sort of book at all.'

‘Nevertheless, he must know a thing or two, to be as successful as he is.'

‘Perhaps I will,' he replied uncertainly. His eyes strayed again to Rosie, who caught his eye, smiled, blushed and looked away.

This young man interested Emily. ‘Come down and stay with me. I should like to get to know you better – on my own as well as Paddy's behalf. Next week?' she said impulsively, as Poppy rejoined them. And then, in what was fast becoming a constant reminder, she thought: I'm only a guest, I shouldn't be issuing invitations . . .

‘Stay with you? Oh, er, thanks, I don't know,' Val murmured in some confusion, but Poppy had overheard and had no such inhibitions, seeing herself included in the invitation.

‘Why, how
kind
! We'd love to, Lady Fitzallan!' Her face fell. ‘At least, Val can – I'm afraid I shall be too busy. I'm a business girl, you know.' She explained the interior decorating business, which was, however, struggling, she admitted with a deprecatory little laugh. Though to tell the truth, she was getting sick of it, a bit sick of London, too. She thought she wouldn't mind living in the country. Val listened without expression, Emily with amusement at the thought of this little London sophisticate turning into a country mouse.

‘All right,
coming,
Archie!' Poppy called to the best man, who was beckoning, holding out a glass he had procured for her. ‘Do excuse me.' She flashed a smile and wandered away again.

‘Your sister is a very popular young lady. And very pretty.'

He followed her glance. ‘Archie Elphinstone certainly thinks so. I wish she'd give him a bit more encouragement, only . . . well, there was somebody else, but . . .' He shrugged. Another one killed in the war, Emily thought sadly. ‘You mustn't mind her,' he went on awkwardly. ‘She's a good egg, really – works very hard, you know. Only, we're both rather in the soup nowadays . . .'

Emily recollected what had happened to these two young things, and was sorry. Their mother had run away to Italy with someone reprehensible and had never been spoken of again, whilst their father, an inveterate gambler, apparently totally bereft by her desertion, had managed to lose every brass farthing he possessed with a speed that had left even his betting cronies gasping, before shooting himself dead in despair.

‘Please, Valentine, I should like it very much if you would come down and see me.'

‘Is that the young chap who's written the book about the war that's no good?' asked Rosie, taking the unoccupied seat next to her grandfather, who'd had enough of standing about.

‘Rosie, my dear, discretion, discretion!' But no one was near enough at that moment to overhear. ‘On the contrary, there's a great deal about the book that's admirable, or so your father tells me. He's an angry young fellow, and there was a lot he needed to get off his chest, but that's not sufficient, you know. Won't do, I'm afraid. As it is, it's just not publishable – or not by us.'

‘I thought you had editors to correct spelling and grammar and that sort of thing?'

‘Hmph. I believe there's nothing much wrong with his spelling, or his grammar, come to that.'

‘Then what?'

‘Timing, mostly. The sentiments are there, but . . . well, nobody wants to be reminded of all that suffering, my dear. Besides, whether there's anything else in him is debatable.'

Rosie looked disappointed and once again her eyes strayed to Valentine, and to Poppy, who had been at the same school as Dee and had sometimes spent holidays at Steadings. She had grown so smart, unlike her brother, though Rosie thought him handsome in a dishevelled sort of way, and rather scornful of all this flummery, which made him even more interesting. Perhaps she'd get a chance to speak to him, and wondered what they would talk about if she did.

Hugh, too, was wondering about Val. An idea stirred.

Once, in the hideous time after her brother David had been shot down in flames over Flanders, in one of those cardboard and string contraptions they called aeroplanes, Hugh had thought that Rosie might take his place at the Markham Press – women nowadays baulked at nothing – but although there was a bright intelligence there, he had soon had to admit that her father was right, she was not cut out for work in a publishing firm. Her interests were wide, however, her sympathies equally so. She would find ways of fulfilling herself, very likely in caring for others, in marriage most probably, which Hugh thought a very good thing. He had a good many reservations about these so-called career girls and their unseemly ambitions, which he'd always been afraid would come to the fore once they got the vote. But he rather liked the cut of that young feller's jib.

‘Leave it to me, Rosie,' he said, and reflected that he seemed to be saying that quite a lot lately. He might have a word with Emily first.

Mr and Mrs Hamish Erskine departed in a shower of confetti for a honeymoon in Biarritz. And then it was all over.

‘Shall I tell you a sad secret? I come over here to Leysmorton quite often when I want to hide with a book,' Rosie admitted, making a face, guilty, as if confessing to a sin.

Odd, that, Emily thought, in a household whose existence depended on the publishing of books. But Stella was definitely not of a bookish persuasion and probably frowned on too much reading, whilst here Rosie could read undisturbed; Markhams had always been free to take advantage of the Leysmorton House gardens.

‘It must always have been like this,' Rosie went on, adding romantically, ‘sort of timeless.'

‘Somewhat less in need of attention than it is now,' Emily replied drily.

‘Then we'd better get started on this mysterious project of yours, Lady Fitzallan.'

‘It's not mysterious at all. Come with me and I'll show you what I have in mind.'

They walked towards the end of the garden, Rosie trundling the wheelbarrow she had come equipped with, complete with tools she had commandeered: a pair of tough gloves, fork, spade and a box of matches, all ready to start the bonfire they intended to make, as a start. Emily had resisted the impulse to check Rosie's good intentions by telling her that someone else could be found to do the preliminary hard work. She was young, strong and healthy, and besides, it was quite on the cards that a modern girl like her might be offended if it was suggested something like that was beyond her.

The empty patch of ground was a place no one bothered with, at the farthest extent of the estate, a clearing that came as a surprise after an awkward approach through a dense, dark little copse. They made unsteady progress, Rosie manfully managing to keep the barrow upright along a path which was not much more than a track, where either side, under the beeches, bluebells were a picture in spring, but were now dying their unlovely death in a spreadeagle of decaying leaves. In February there would have been swathes of snowdrops, followed by aconites, and windflowers in great drifts of white. At one spot, overhung by hart's-tongue ferns and mosses, a mysterious little spring bubbled through the rocks, then disappeared. You could find primroses, thick as clotted cream, on its banks early in the year.

The clearing into which they emerged, blinking, was separated from the copse by an overgrown hawthorn hedge blanketed by bindweed, through which honeysuckle scrambled upwards in search of the light; bristly stems of sweetbriar held pure, delicately pink blossoms, and white flowering elders grew rampant. The rough grass outside the spreading reach of the great yew tree which stood there, black-green against the sky, was a foot high.

Beyond it the high wall which surrounded the property was in need of attention. Bricks and coping stones had fallen off along its length, and in one place it was down to the lowest course, making an opening large enough for anyone to step through – enlarged, no doubt, by those needing a short cut, across the meadow bright with buttercups at this time of year, then the stepping stones over the river, and thus to the road leading to the village. The loose bricks had been tossed around anyhow, most of them landing on top of the remains of the old tree house, making a large heap stitched tightly together by stinging nettles, brambles, ground ivy and couch grass. The spot had a forlorn and neglected air, and for a moment the scary childhood feelings Emily had always tried to pretend didn't exist – about the tree especially – were almost real again, and goose pimples rose on her arms. For all that, this had been their very own place, above all Clare's, and it was an affront to see it looking so desolate.

‘Oh dear, I'm afraid it's going to be a daunting task.'

‘Not to worry! Leave it to me,' Rosie said.

Emily had explained her intentions, and Rosie immediately donned her gloves and began to tear out brambles preparatory to clearing away the fallen masonry, anxious to do it alone, while Emily perched on what was left of the wall, watching her cheerful exertions, half wishing she could join her. It was at times like this that one became impatient with one's own physical limitations. What she hoped for should not take long – in fact, she wanted little more than to return this remembered spot back to what it had been: half-wild, wholly mysterious. Perhaps the effort needed would prove to be a waste of time and energy, but that scarcely mattered. The point was to exorcize at least some of the ghosts that were disturbing her peace since she had come home.

No ghosts, however, were hovering on this mild, soft summer morning. The Hecate tree, it seemed, was in its benign mood, the sun filtering through its thickly needled branches onto the loose scales of its purplish brown bark. It was over a hundred feet high now, gnarled and scaly, its fluted trunk formed of several growths from the root bole which had fused together to make one trunk of immense girth. A fissure at the base made a doorway right into the hollow at its dark secret heart, a hidey-hole where Clare hid her treasures: the little heap of small, pearly pebbles, a string of ‘magic' blue beads, a place where she would duck in and pull Emily after her, to crouch in the dark and hide from hateful Miss Jennett, their horrid governess, who would never have dreamt of peering into such a nasty place. Emily had never liked being in there, in fact she'd hated it, though she would have died rather than admit it to Clare. It didn't smell nice inside and sometimes, faintly, you could hear the snufflings and squeaks of the bats who had made their roost high up. She felt inclined to shudder as she wondered if the bats' descendants were still there.

It was Clare who had prevailed upon Papa to build them a tree house in the yew's branches.

It went up in a day, made by Gifford, who did all the carpentry work around the house and garden, out of planks sawn from a mighty beech which had been torn from the earth in one of the great winter storms, revealing spreading, unbelievably shallow roots to have anchored such a giant to the earth. A tree unlike the Hecate tree. Nothing grew beneath the dense canopy of the yew except its own knotty roots, and though they were visible, pushing up through the dry and dusty earth, they spread like claws to maintain a secure foothold in the ground.

‘Last for ever, that will,' Gifford had said, positioning the sturdy ladder he had constructed for them to reach the finished structure, firmly settled in a cup where the branches spread from the trunk. Emily was sure it would. Anything Gifford made was, like him, solid, heavy and everlasting, like the yew itself. She liked the little house better than the tree that supported it – although she did not
really
believe any of those creepy things about the Hecate tree; neither did she share Clare's unaccountable fascination with it.