Beyond the Green Hills (28 page)

She fell silent, and they walked on a few paces while she brought herself to the point.

‘I need your advice, Marie-Claude. I need it badly.’

Clare then told her about Ginny’s letter and about the sad, distressed days she’d spent since it arrived.

‘I’ve thought and thought, Marie-Claude, and I don’t know what to do. I’m so grateful that Ginny’s written and I do so want to see her, but I can’t decide what to do about Andrew. I can’t get him out of my mind.’

‘Do I take it you still love him?’

‘I certainly care what happens to him,’ she said, resignedly. ‘Sometimes I think I don’t really know what loving someone is supposed to feel like. I know about desire, and that’s easy enough,’ she added lightly. ‘But that’s never been what I wanted.’

‘What do you want, chérie?’

‘To feel safe. To feel in command of my life and have a friend at my side,’ she said simply.

‘And with Andrew you did feel safe? A friend at your side?’

‘Yes. Most of the time. There was a kind of unspoken understanding between us. Even when he couldn’t explain himself, I often knew what he was feeling. And it worked the other way round as well …mostly.’

‘But not always?’

‘No, not always. Sometimes I felt a barrier come between us. I blamed it on his family and the way
they’d treated him. That’s why we planned to go to Canada.’

‘You were going to run away?’

‘No, we were going to marry and go out and make a new life,’ Clare replied, seriously. ‘Like so many have done before us.’

Marie-Claude smiled at her. ‘You’re taking me very literally, Clare,’ she said gently. ‘Are you sure that making a life in Canada would have resolved the difficulties? Were you not perhaps hoping to leave behind problems that would have been waiting for you when you arrived?’

‘You may well be right,’ Clare agreed promptly. ‘I knew I had to get away from Ulster. Andrew was so relieved, so excited, when we decided on Canada.’

She paused, aware of a sudden revealing thought. ‘Perhaps, after all, Canada meant different things for each of us.’

Marie-Claude looked at her, saw the familiar knitted eyebrows, the preoccupied look in her eyes. She decided to say nothing and wait and see what emerged.

‘You know, the very first time I flew, the weather was awful,’ Clare began. ‘We climbed very steeply and suddenly we came out above all the murk and it was magnificent, pure blue sky and great mountains of cloud towering up to the west of us, snowy white. It made me think of Canada and the Rockies, all that space and clear air. That was what kept me going, those last months before my Finals, the thought of Canada, and Andrew, and escaping …’

‘Escaping?’

Clare looked at her friend, saw the warmth and concern in her eyes, and took her hand.

‘You are so tactful. So wise. What you have just helped me see is that Canada was a country of the mind, not a reality. Neither Andrew nor anyone else could ever take me there,’ she said, suddenly weary. ‘So what do I do now?’

Marie-Claude squeezed her hand in reply. ‘You take me to lunch, and we celebrate your hard work. Separating reality from illusion is very hard work indeed. So hard, I have many friends twice your age who’ve never had the wisdom to attempt it. We shall need a very good lunch indeed. In a little while, you will begin to feel the rewards of your achievement.’

Late that afternoon, after the two friends had enjoyed each other’s company and parted in the best of spirits, Clare sat down and wrote to Ginny. It wasn’t really difficult at all, even after this amount of time. Clare wrote just as she would have spoken had Ginny been sitting on the other side of the table. Warmly and directly, she told her there was absolutely nothing to forgive. That she too had had things she’d not been able to cope with any better than she had.

She responded enthusiastically to the idea of a meeting in London, saying she was over quite often on business, though usually at rather short notice. She would certainly come to her wedding, and was already looking forward to meeting Daniel.

She told Ginny a bit about her own life, picking out what would entertain or interest her, describing
the marvellous collection of horse pictures in her boss’s office, her first attempts at skiing back in March, and some of the funny things that happened when translation broke down. It was only as she came towards the end of a second large sheet that she realised she had a decision to make. To mention or not to mention Andrew.

She sat quite still for a long minute, staring at the bright eyes of the daisies in Madame Givrey’s bouquet. Yes, that was what they reminded her of. The ox-eye daisies outside the forge, growing up around the old reaping machine that no one ever came to collect, the one she’d driven across the Canadian prairies. She took up her pen again and finished the letter quickly.

‘I’m glad things are better for Andrew now,’ she wrote. ‘I think of him and would like to know how he is. I’ve been told that winding up estates can be a rotten job. I hope the worst is over and that all is well at The Lodge. Do let me know when you get a chance to write. With love and all the good wishes in the world for your engagement. Clare.’

She read it through once and changed nothing, folded it, and wrote the address on the envelope. The breeze had got up and was blowing little spatters of rain across her window. She pulled on a jacket and took the letter to the post box, a sense of excitement rising as she turned to come back and felt the wind begin to buffet her, blowing rain in her face and whirling leaves around her feet.

‘Life will always bring change, and unhappy change at that, but there will also be joy,’ she said to
the empty quayside. ‘Like Aunt Sarah said, “All things pass, good and bad.” Perhaps what is really important is learning to make the best you can of the good bits and accept as well as you can the bad. That was what Emile used to say when he was looking at the state of a company.

‘It’s going to be a wild old night,’ she said to herself, as she stepped under the archway and climbed the steps to her own entrance. ‘A good night to be at home by the fire,’ she went on, ‘with the lamp lit and a book.’

She was pleased at the idea of Emile’s ‘dictum’, which had suddenly come to her. She could see him now, sitting so quietly at the boardroom table, his papers neatly lined up in front of him, suggesting to the prospective borrowers that perhaps they had resources that were not visible in their balance sheet, the resources that came from the experience they’d gained.

As she opened the door of her apartment and saw her writing materials where she’d left them, spread out on the table in a pool of light from the lamp, suddenly and unexpectedly her spirits soared. She felt just as if the sun had come out again from behind a cloud. Some darkness of spirit had passed away. Wouldn’t Emile say she had gained precious experience from the pain of all her sadness and loss?

R
efreshed by her few days’ holiday and delighted by the prospect of seeing Ginny again, Clare shared her good news with Robert as soon as she went back to work.

‘But this is splendid. Of course you must see her when next we go to London. I shall keep an afternoon free and you must ask her to lunch. Perhaps I shall go and look at some pictures,’ he added, as if the thought had only just struck him.

‘Like the morning you packed me off with Charles Langley?’ she replied, laughing, and nodding towards his newest acquisition.

‘I have few vices,’ he said, with a slight twinkle. ‘At least this one hurts nothing but my wallet.’

He stood up and handed her a sheaf of papers.

‘You will find almost everything there is in French, but I should like you to assist me nevertheless. Regrettably it’s Avignon and not London, but that’s only a matter of time. Tell Ginny we shall certainly be over before Christmas.’

She looked down at the sheaf of papers in her hand, hesitated, and made up her mind.

‘Robert, there’s something I wanted to ask you, but I’ve never found quite the right moment. Perhaps
there isn’t a right one, so can I ask you now, or are you very pressed?’

By way of reply he lifted his phone.

‘Paul, I do not wish to be interrupted. I shall tell you when I’m free.’

He put the phone down and waved her back to their armchairs.

‘Last time we were in Avignon, I met some young people down by the river,’ she began, taking a deep breath. ‘It was the afternoon when you visited your sister. They were so nice, a boy and a girl and a spaniel called Conker. It was because of him we got talking. It emerged that the boy’s mother ran away with him when the Germans advanced. She’d told them about the Stukers firing at them.’

She looked at Robert, anxious lest the memories should still be painful.

‘The village she mentioned was Aiguilles.’

He jerked his head upwards.

‘That was where my sister-in-law lived,’ he said flatly.

‘So their mother might possibly have known your wife?’

‘Inevitably,’ he said abruptly. ‘As likely as it is for your grandfather to have known Charlie Running or Mosey Jackson.’

Clare looked at him sadly, wishing she hadn’t spoken. Was it really worth upsetting him with the possibility that this chance meeting might somehow help to resolve the fate of his son, one way or another?

Robert leaned back in his chair as if he were
suddenly very weary.

‘What do you think we should do?’ he asked.

Clare was taken aback. Often enough in the course of their work he asked her opinion. But never before had he put such a personal question to her. And never before had she seen such a strange, pained look on his face.

So what did she think? Was it better to let the past be the past? Or should she trust her intuitions. She thought again of the sturdy figure, so like Robert himself, walking along the river bank with Conker. Somewhere there might be another perfectly ordinary young man of the same age and the same sturdy shape who might turn out to be Robert’s son.

‘I know you tried to find out what happened to your son. You told me about it when first we met, but you haven’t mentioned it since. Are you still in contact with any of the agencies?’

He shook his head sadly and said nothing, his whole manner suggesting he had no power to act. She had never seen him look so defeated before, not even when a major negotiation went wrong.

‘Then I think we should look at the list together,’ she said firmly, amazed at her own coolness. ‘We can ask whichever one we choose to write to the children’s mother and see if Madame Duchamps can help in any way. We’ve nothing to lose.’

‘And everything to gain,’ he said, gathering himself up and smiling, as if he’d been released from a disabling spell. ‘A long time ago I set hope aside, but I have never turned my back upon it. I’ve often
told you that banking is about risk. So is life. If you protect yourself all the time from hurt, there is little possibility of joy. But sometimes one needs to be encouraged. It is time to try again,’ he said easily.

He stood up, crossed the room and took an envelope from his desk.

‘I saw my old friend Hugo at the weekend, the jeweller who made your necklace. He is copying the Missus’s brooch for you. Meantime, he has sent you this. I think you will find it interesting.’

He walked to the door with her.

‘I’ll bring my files of letters for you tomorrow and there’ll be time in Avignon to answer your questions.’

Clare ran lightly downstairs, hardly aware of the familiar view over the banking hall or the still lingering smell of new paint and new carpet as she approached her office, her mind full of their conversation.

Expecting to see Louise, she smiled as she opened the door to their office, but the room was empty. On her desk a folded sheet of paper sat like a tent. She took it up and read: ‘
Dentist
and
then
couturier,
by
order
of M.J. After the
drill
and
the
pins
I
shall
expect
lunch
and
sympathy.
Rue
Scribe 12.30.
Your
turn.
All
right?
Much
love,
Louise
.’

Clare smiled, amused by her note. She was pleased too, for Louise now left her notes in Italian and she’d managed all of it without having to fetch a dictionary.

She sat down and carefully opened the brown envelope Robert had given her. Inside, there was a
letter written in a flowing hand on an elegant but yellowed sheet of paper, a note in biro in a firm, clear hand that sometimes ran below the lines designed to guide it and a sketch on a piece of invoice paper. Unambiguously, the sketch was the design for the emerald brooch The Missus had left her.

The letter was dated April 1895. The ink had scarcely faded, but the loops and curlicues of the elaborate hand were difficult to disentangle. The French was not only old-fashioned, but slightly strange. The signature went some way to explain this. Despite the flourish with which it had been completed she was able to read quite clearly the word ‘Voroshinsky’.

‘Russian or Polish?’ she whispered to herself.

‘My dear Zimmerman,’ she began, reading aloud.

There was some courteous expression which she couldn’t decipher and then the flourishing signature.

‘A signature fit for a Prince?’

She took up the note in biro. It was perfectly easy to read, despite the fact that the lines of words ran downhill.

‘He never came again,’ she repeated sadly, as she put the letters and sketch carefully back in their envelope.

It was Paul who’d suggested she have the emerald brooch copied because it was too valuable to wear, and Robert who’d expressed surprise at the similarity between the brooch she’d brought to him and the necklace he himself had given her for her birthday. She hadn’t noticed herself until she’d seen them together. She was delighted. It seemed she’d
made an important link with the Missus. They’d both had jewellery made by the Zimmermans in Paris.

‘I hope you marry your Prince,’ The Missus had written in the note Andrew had found and passed to her solicitors. Clare sighed. Well, she hadn’t. So many puzzles, so many questions with no answers. She thought of the two gold rings in Harry’s safe. She now knew the date they’d been made, but the story of those lovers she’d have to invent for herself.

She put the brown envelope in her top drawer, took up the first of the documents in front of her and gave her mind totally to the present.

It was some five weeks later that Clare and Robert once again had meetings in London.

‘Clare, you look marvellous. I’m
so
pleased to see you,’ said Ginny, as she threw her arms round Clare and hugged her vigorously, quite indifferent to the glances of the other women who sat in the foyer of the hotel in Park Lane.

‘And I’m pleased to see you too, Ginny,’ said Clare, kissing her. ‘Any hope that Daniel will be able to come?’

‘No,’ she said, shaking her head vigorously. ‘I told him he’d have to wait till the wedding; I wanted you all to myself. I want to hear
everything
about Paris and all these wonderful trips you do. How was Italy? I loved your postcard …’

Clare could hardly believe the transformation. Admittedly, the last time they’d been together was the week of Edward’s funeral, when at least one of
them had been in tears at any time. But it was more than that. This was a quite new Ginny. She’d always been open and direct in manner and was often very amusing, but often enough in the past Clare had seen her withdraw quite suddenly, only happy when she was working alone with her horses.

‘Louise sounds fun,’ Ginny went on. ‘Have you made a lot of new friends? Daniel seems to know
masses
of people. I’ve never been to so many parties in my life.’

As the two girls walked towards the dining room, she said shyly, ‘Have you noticed, Clare?’

‘Yes, I have,’ said Clare honestly. ‘It’s quite wonderful. What about the other one?’

Ginny sat down and stroked back the shining auburn fringe that lay across her forehead. A fine white line ran above her left eye and disappeared into her hair on the right temple.

‘I have special make-up I can wear if I want to put my hair up, but they say it will fade further. And if it doesn’t, I can have it done like the ones on my cheeks. I can’t believe it, Clare, I really can’t. I thought it was the end of the world. Though I suppose it might have been but for Andrew.’

She stopped, put her hand to her mouth and gasped.

‘Oh Clare, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mention Andrew. It just slipped out. Anyway, we mustn’t talk about my silly old scars. They’re nearly gone. It’s time I forgot them.

Clare shook her head. ‘Don’t be silly, Ginny. I want to know what’s been happening to you. And you
don’t have to avoid mentioning Andrew. I want to hear about him too,’ she said, reassuringly. ‘And you mustn’t “forget” your scars,’ she went on, looking closely at Ginny’s face, ‘even if I can’t see them any more. I have a lovely friend in Paris; she’s a good deal older than we are. She says you must never forget what’s happened to you. “How can you learn from your experience if you forget it?” she says. “Look back to learn, look forward to live,” that’s Marie-Claude’s philosophy. I think she has a point, don’t you?’

Ginny grinned sheepishly. ‘You think more than I do, Clare. I don’t believe I really thought about anything very much till Teddy died. Then I thought so much, I got in an awful mess. I had to have tablets for depression. I couldn’t face seeing anyone. I didn’t go out for weeks. I got Barney to sell Conker for me because I couldn’t look after her properly. Andrew was the only one I could talk to. He said all things pass, however awful. That you have to see if you can make anything of them, so that, when you come out on the other side, you’re further on than you were …’

Ginny broke off as the waiter came to take their order.

‘Go on, Ginny. What happened then?’ Clare said, as soon as he had retreated.

‘Well, Andrew made me go out, and then he took me to this nice man in Belfast. He made me talk about Teddy and how I felt about him. It was awful, Clare. I used to just sit and cry and he’d pass me tissues and wait till I stopped. I went to him for
weeks. It must have cost a fortune.’

When the food arrived they both admitted how hungry they were.

‘Mm … this is marvellous,’ said Ginny, as she munched her pasta.

Clare ate more slowly and listened as Ginny talked in short bursts, mostly about Daniel but also about Caledon and Drumsollen. A hazy picture of what had been happening to the Richardson estate began to emerge. By the time coffee appeared, Clare had quite a number of questions to ask, but she wasn’t sure how accurately Ginny could answer them.

‘So The Lodge will end up as a hotel, will it?’

‘Probably. It was going to have to go anyway, because of the death duties and the upkeep costs. Mum and I have some money from Grandad Barbour, but dear old Barney hasn’t a bean. His first wife was rolling in money and he helped her spend it. They had a wonderful time and were terribly happy, but when she died, hers was all gone and he was broke as well. I wondered why Mum ever got involved with him. Actually, I was rather horrible about it to begin with,’ she confessed. ‘If it hadn’t been for Teddy I’d have gone on being a pain about him. But Edward told me off. Barney is just so kind, and being kind is worth a ton of money, he said.’

She picked up her cup and drained it. ‘Is there any more in that pot, Clare?’

‘Yes, lots and lots,’ Clare replied, reaching for her empty cup.

She remembered so clearly a tear-sodden morning
when she herself had wept all over Barney’s rough tweed jacket, and he’d lent her a silk handkerchief with racehorses on the border.

‘Well, Andrew got stuck in,’ Ginny went on. ‘He took advice and sold off the Caledon farmland to the people it had been let to, except for some fields close to the house and the paddocks. Then he got a something on the death duties. Can’t remember the word. It means they don’t throw you in jail for debt provided you cough up what you can and pay the rest within a certain period. And he raised a loan, so Mum and Barney could find a house. Oh Clare, it’s the loveliest house, quite small, only four bedrooms, down at Rostrevor, looking out over Carlingford Lough. It has wonderful gardens. You’d love them.’