Memories of the Storm (12 page)

Once Jonah had returned to London, Lucy found
that she was thinking more and more about the
past and her own reaction to it. Apart from talking
to him at length about her arrival at Bridge House
there had been no other opportunity to describe
those later events, the memory of which still filled
her with an instinctive horror. It seemed odd to her
that Hester could talk calmly about that period of
time without thinking of its culmination: the fight
in the drawing-room, Edward knocked backwards
into the river and her father fleeing with her back
to London.

She was certain that Hester had not yet told
Jonah the full story and she was interested now to
find out exactly how much Hester would tell and
how she would explain Edward's death to Jonah. Of
course, she didn't know that there had been a
witness that terrible evening but, even so, Hester
was clearly more than ready to talk about the past.
This was so extraordinary that, if those blows and
cries had not been etched so clearly on her own
memory, Lucy wondered if she might now begin to
believe that the whole thing had been the figment
of one of her nightmares. Yet she knew it wasn't:
the scene was too real, following too close on
the breaking of the Midsummer Cushion to be a
dream.

'Ask Hester about the Midsummer Cushion,'
she'd said to Jonah, spurred by an inexplicable
desire to test the veracity of Hester's account of the
past. How foolish that the mere speaking of it aloud
should have the power to make her heart knock in
her side.

He'd looked puzzled. 'The Midsummer Cushion?
What's that?'

'Ask Hester. See if she remembers it.'

She saw that she'd aroused his curiosity but that
he was deliberately controlling his eagerness to
know more. He'd let her set the pace and was
determined not to press her. Lucy was grateful.
After a lifetime of denial it was very difficult simply
to talk about it all as if it were an amusing little
episode to be told across the dinner-table. She
could see that Jonah was fascinated by Hester's
accounts of his grandfather and that already he
identified and sympathized with the man whom he
instinctively called 'Michael'.

At what point, Lucy wondered, would she be
obliged to say: 'Yes, but he killed his oldest friend,
you see. He'd been having an affair with Eleanor
and when Edward found them together there
was a fight and Daddy killed him. And then ran
away'?

Lucy folded her arms tightly across her breast
and rocked herself in an attempt to contain the
pain of the memory. The pain was still fresh,
driving up from its hiding place, piercing her heart
as she tried to make sense of it. Nothing more
terrible for a child, she reminded herself, than
to see a beloved parent fearful and ashamed. In
some strange way her father's fear and shame had
seemed more terrible than watching him knock
Edward backwards into the river. How wild the
river had been that night: the waters raging and
uncontrollable, mirroring the violence of the scene
inside the house.

It was because the river's voice had been so noisy,
so clamouring, that she'd been unable to sleep and
so had crept out onto the landing and seen the light
on in Hester's room and the door open. Hoping
that Hester was there she'd gone in, ready to plead
for a story or a drink, but the room was empty
and she'd been drawn as usual to the Midsummer
Cushion.

What terrible luck, Lucy thought now, that it
should be on that particular evening that she
should scramble up to look at it more closely,
reaching on tiptoe to trace the bright flowers
beneath the cold glass so that the stool wobbled
unsteadily and she'd instinctively clutched at the
tapestry. If it had not crashed to the floor, smashing
the glass, the dried flowers withering instantly
to dust, would events have been any different?
Certainly she would not have gone downstairs looking
for Hester and, hesitating in the hall, heard the
voice coming from the drawing-room.

Even now she could remember the quality of
urgency in the whisper: the desperation. She'd
gone quietly in, pausing in the doorway. The
chiaroscuro of light and shadow between the lamp
and the firelight made it difficult to see where the
two people sat close together in the semi-darkness.
The voice had ceased now and there was silence.
Another voice spoke, harder but just as urgent.

'It's because of Lucy, isn't it? If it weren't for her
we could get away. You're a fool, Michael. Something
terrible is going to happen and it will be
because of Lucy.'

She'd slipped quickly behind the sofa, heart
hammering, and then everything had happened at
once. Hester had come swiftly in from the hall,
switching on the light and then exclaiming as if
shocked at the sight of the two figures embracing
on the sofa. At the same time the French doors
leading from the terrace had been wrenched open
and Edward stood confronting them. Peeping from
her hiding place she'd seen that his dark, mad eyes
were fixed upon Eleanor and her father, who'd
risen from the sofa.

He'd shouted words unintelligible to her, seizing
Eleanor by the shoulder so that her father grabbed
at him in an attempt to restrain him whilst Hester
tried to intervene. Then suddenly the two men
were struggling together, grunting and panting
like animals and stumbling against the furniture.
Eleanor had begun to scream and Lucy had hidden
her face in terror.

Even now she could recall the suffocating fear
and the trembling of her limbs.

'Are you OK, Luce?' Jerry had come in and
was watching her curiously. 'Have you got a pain,
clutching yourself like that?'

'No, oh, no. I'm fine.' Quickly she got up and
went to him, putting her arms about him. 'Just a
silly moment. You know how it is.'

He held her tightly, imagining that she'd been
worrying about him and their future, and as he
comforted her she despaired that she would ever be
able to change. Her decision to confront the past
had been in the hope that she would become
the stronger partner. Instead it was Jerry who, unknowingly,
was giving her the courage to face it.

Looking up at him she was struck by his expression:
it was clear that he was glad to be comforting
her. Her need was enabling him to show his own
strength – frail sometimes though it might be – and
it was necessary to his pride for this still to be
required of him. She saw that the change for which
she hoped in her own character need not be at the
expense of Jerry's mental toughness and natural
protectiveness; nor must she be so ready to believe
that her weaknesses had become a burden to him.

Briefly she wondered if she might share her
secret with him, talk to him about the past and
the effect it still had on her – but instinctively she
shied away from it. Jerry had never been a natural
confidant, personal revelations embarrassed him,
and she simply couldn't face a verbal pat on the
head – 'I'm sure it wouldn't have been that bad,
Luce. Perhaps you're imagining it' – as a response
to something that was so crucially wrapped about
her deepest sense of self.

He was already turning away lest the embrace
should lengthen into mawkishness, talking about it
being time for a cup of tea and bending to stroke
Tess who'd been slumbering in her basket by the
fire. Lucy accepted that the moment was over and
went to make the tea.

Jonah, unable to contain his curiosity, telephoned
Hester from the train to London.

'I've been talking to Mum,' he said, keeping
his voice low, shoulder hunched to his travelling
companions. 'She told me all about her arrival at
Bridge House. It was great. I mean, she seemed
very ready to talk about it. There wasn't time for
much but she asked me to ask you about the
Midsummer Cushion. Does that mean anything to
you?'

'
The Midsummer Cushion
was the title given by
John Clare to a body of work which he collected
together for a fourth volume of poetry. A friend
persuaded him to change it to the more conventional
title of
The Rural Muse
.' Hester sounded
puzzled. 'I can't imagine that Lucy would have
known about that. Certainly not when she was with
us.'

'It seemed important to her.' Jonah was urgent
in his disappointment. 'Maybe there's another connection.'

At this point he lost his signal and, unwilling to
entertain his fellow travellers with any more of his
conversation, he switched his phone off and gave
himself up to contemplation.

Later, waiting for his train to the north, he
switched his mobile on again and saw that there was
a message on his answerphone. Hester's voice
was very clear.

'So stupid of me, Jonah. Lucy must have been
talking about the tapestry we had once. It was a very
beautiful thing, embroidered wild flowers, with a
particular reference to John Clare that I'll tell you
about at another time. The point is that the string
wore very thin and frayed through and I discovered
the tapestry in pieces on my bedroom floor. It was
very precious to the family – a kind of heirloom –
and we as children, and then Patricia's boys, were
always threatened with dire results if any of us
should touch it so I imagine that's what Lucy can
remember. I recall that she loved it and I used to
pick her up so that she could have a close look at it.
How fascinating! I'm looking forward to your next
visit so that we can talk it over properly.'

The message finished as abruptly as it had begun.
Hester wasn't the kind of person to send affectionate
greetings or indulge in drawn-out goodbyes,
and Jonah was left feeling distinctly dissatisfied. On
an impulse he phoned Clio, only to be told that
there was no-one to take his call. Frustrated, he
boarded the train and settled down to the long
journey north.

Hester wakened suddenly from a vivid dream. In
the dream she'd been standing in the doorway of
the drawing-room, just where she'd stood sixty
years before. It looked exactly the same: mysterious
shadowy corners, golden pools of lamplight spilling
across polished wood, bright reflections in the
mirror above the fireplace where blue and orange
tongues of flame licked hungrily at the wood in
the grate. A newspaper, casually flung down, was
sliding from the chintz-covered cushions of the
long sofa under the window, where damsoncoloured
damask curtains had been pulled against
the wild night, and it was there, from just behind
the sofa, that something pale but bright flickered
suddenly out into the firelight – and just as suddenly
disappeared.

In her dream she'd switched on the light just as
the French doors burst open and Jonah appeared,
calling out, soaked to the skin – and she'd wakened,
heart thumping and with that familiar sense that
something was not quite right. St Francis was curled
in a large warm ball at the back of her knees and
Hester continued to lie on her side for a moment,
trying to control the feelings of distress that the
dream had invoked.

She raised her head to peer at the little illumined
face of her clock – half-past three – and groaned
inwardly. Such a terrible time to be awake: a time
of fear and terror and despair. Insidious images,
general and particular, haunted the mind: of the
lonely vulnerability of old age, of the anguish in the
world, of a dear old friend who'd suffered a stroke
and whose witty, clever mind was now imprisoned,
still agonizingly alive and aware, in the weighty
cage of her immobile body. All these horrors could
be offered up in prayer, held in a silent intercession
of sharing, and Hester knew that this could bring
its own kind of peace. Tonight, however, her vivid
dream pressed upon her consciousness: that scene
in the drawing-room, the unexpected flash of
colour and Jonah bursting in crying out something
about the Midsummer Cushion being broken.

Hester climbed out of bed and reached for her
shawl. She remembered how she'd woken recently,
on the night of the storm, with this same sense of
panic: the wind knocking the photograph to the
floor and smashing the glass to pieces, just as the
Midsummer Cushion had been smashed all those
years ago. There was no storm tonight. The moon
sailed cold and free above the black silhouette of the
trees, and mist lay along the river so dense it looked
like drifts of snow. Thick-sown stars glittered, sharp
as tiny jewels, dazzling with an icy brilliance above
the silent, frosty fields, and even the river's voice
was hushed, muted by its fleecy coverlet.

Huddling in the woollen warmth of the shawl,
Hester leaned out of the window: how cold it
was. The ruts and puddles were freezing over –
'crizzling', John Clare would have called it – and
the garage's frosted thatch glimmered whitely in
the moonlight. Hester drew her head back inside
and closed the window. The sight of the thatched
roof reminded her of Robin and her decision,
yet to be made, as to whether she should stay at
Bridge House. Shivering, she pushed her feet
into moccasins and went downstairs to make a hot
drink.

Resenting the icy blast of air, missing her
warmth, St Francis insinuated his bulk beneath the
quilt and resumed his slumber.

* * *

The day finally dawned chill and bleak. The mist
rolled silently along the valley, drifting up to
obscure the pale December sun and hanging
faint and ghostly in the bare black branches of the
tallest trees. Later in the morning, a very welcome
distraction arrived in the form of a letter from
Blaise.

St Bede's Convent

Darling Hes,

Thank you for your letter. You are constantly
in my mind at present. So much seems to be
happening around you: Jonah, Clio, Robin all
needing help, and you in the middle of them all
wondering what you should do and where you
should go. I'm glad that you've arranged the
means for Robin to pay his debts without having
to make a speedy decision about moving. You
need time to think about such an important
change and I have a strong feeling that this
should be a period of consideration rather than
action. After all, it
is
Advent: a time of waiting.

I've just taken a few moments to reread your
letter. First, Clio. I think you are quite right to
say that Clio won't waste any time feeling sorry
for herself and I am sure that it will be an
excellent thing for her to have a brief respite with
you – a time of waiting for her too – before she
decides what to do next. This is an important
step for her, now that she is – we hope –
emotionally freed from a relationship that had
no future, and you'll enjoy having her with you.
Your idea about asking her to drive you here for
Christmas is inspired. If you think she could face
Christmas in a convent we should all be very
happy to see her, if you don't mind sharing
the spare bedroom with her. Since you know the
accommodation I have here I can only assume
that you've already thought of that.

You know, Hes, when I began to read what
you'd written about Jonah I couldn't help but
visualize Michael as I knew him all those years
ago: that sensitivity to atmosphere that you
described – how interesting that he should have
'seen' his grandfather on the bridge – and his
strong creative impulse that makes him want to
take this piece of history and reshape it into a
play. It all sounds very like the Michael I knew
and I'm not in the least surprised that Jonah's a
scriptwriter and a playwright. How very suitable
for Michael's grandson. I'm glad that Lucy has
broken her silence on the subject. As far as I
remember, I never knew her, shut away as I was
in Bletchley Park for the duration, but it does
seem odd that she has been so reluctant to
discuss his grandparents with Jonah, or for that
matter her time with you all at Bridge House
unless, in some odd childish way, she felt that you
– the family – were in some way responsible for
Michael's death. Apart from a natural resentment
of her father's affection for another woman,
especially so soon after the death of her mother,
it's possible that she imagined that his relationship
with Eleanor affected his ability to do his
work safely – perhaps they continued their affair
more openly in London – and all of you have
remained tied up with Lucy's unhappy memory
of Eleanor. It's rather an unlikely suggestion but
the only one I can come up with at the moment.
We often attribute far too much importance to
small events, or misunderstand things we see and
hear, when we are children. Now, at least, you
might be able to discover what has been weighing
so heavily on her. It is interesting too that Jonah
thinks she is trying to cast off her fear so as to
face the future more ably. It struck a particular
note, as it happens. I have been rereading
The
Impact of God
: St John of the Cross tells us that we
can step free from the things that cripple us –
fear, hatred, lust, selfishness, guilt – if we allow
God the initiative to set us free by his grace. He
goes on to say how very difficult this can seem,
that it can take a lifetime to open ourselves
up, emptying ourselves so that God can enter,
but to remember, at the darkest moments when
nothing really seems to be working, that we
want
to be free of whatever it is that is holding us back
from peace or joy. I find that it works: just
remembering my desire to be free pulls me off
the demoralizing suction pad of a bad memory,
hopelessness, or fear of some future event and
enables me to lift my desire for freedom up
towards God again.

I'm not absolutely sure, Hes, why I'm writing
all this to you – apart from the fact that I've
always written out my thoughts to you – but I feel
I have been especially led to do so today.

I've thought a great deal about Jonah's idea of
making a play of this small part of your history
and after much reflection I can see no real reason
why some kind of story shouldn't be created
about it, as long as Jonah has all the facts
accurately and – very important – assuming that
Lucy has no objection. After all, apart from you
and Lucy, nobody is left who can be directly
affected. As you rightly say, tragic though it was,
it mirrors hundreds of small dramas that were
happening everywhere at that time. I write all
this, however, having no true knowledge of
Jonah's character or being able to judge how he
will react once he knows the whole story. We –
you and I – look back at that time with the
compassion and wisdom that hindsight bestows:
the pain has been dulled by forgetfulness and
overlaid by the business of living.

I paused for a little while there, Hes. I suppose
that niggling away at the back of my mind is
the wish to know the real reason for Lucy's
self-imposed silence. I still feel that there is
something to do with Eleanor here that we might
not know about. The question is: can Jonah
handle the truth about his grandfather? Has
he identified with Michael very closely and
sympathetically – you say he is very like him
physically and clearly there are similarities of
character – and might he therefore find it
difficult to accept Michael's behaviour at the end?
It sounds as if his grandfather – because of the
mystery surrounding him and his tragic death –
has been built up in his mind to some rather
heroic figure. The young can be so puritanical,
can't they? That's all I want to say and,
remember, I'm writing as usual from a position of
ignorance. I'm sure you wouldn't have taken part
in all this if you hadn't been sure it was right.

After all, there has already been so much
filmed and written about the war that if Jonah
feels there is something new to say then it's up to
him to say it: that's his decision. I can well
imagine both Edward and Michael spurring him
on!

As for Jeoffrey! He is much loved. As
Christopher Smart puts it: 'For there is nothing
sweeter than his peace when at rest. For
there is nothing brisker than his life when in
motion.' Poor Christopher, thrown into the madhouse
for his compulsive praying in the street!
Speaking of which, of course I shall hold you in
my prayers – when do I not? – although not
in public!

My love, dear Hes,
Blaise

As the day passed, Hester reread the letter several
times with a growing sense of unease. She'd taken
seriously Blaise's phrase 'as long as Jonah has the
facts very accurately' and was trying to remember
everything she'd already told him and deciding
how very carefully she would have to explain
Edward's mental and physical condition when he'd
returned to them from the prisoner-of-war camp:
those tiny, terrible details of the way he stole and
hid food and his incandescent rages if anyone
touched his belongings.

Remembering these things sent Hester at once
to the study to record her thoughts and to note
down the final sequence of events that led to the
fight and Michael's return with Lucy to London.
Confident that she'd assisted Jonah to build up
a true impression of the characters of all the
people involved, combined with his natural feel for
that brief, relevant period of the war that she'd
described to him, she could only hope that he'd
view the rest of the story with understanding and
compassion.

When she next saw him, however, she was filled
with doubt. Jonah was as eager as ever; his longing
to know the whole of the story was undiminished. If
anything, Lucy's disclosures had simply added fuel
to the flames of his curiosity and Hester saw that
nothing would satisfy him now but to know everything.
The first thing that he asked about, however,
was the Midsummer Cushion. Hester was relieved
to be able to tell him how John Clare had described
a very old custom among the villagers, which was to
stick wild field flowers into a slice of turf and place
it as an ornament in their cottages. These were
the 'Midsummer Cushions' and the custom had so
delighted one of Hester's ancestors that she had
translated it into a tapestry.

'It was very beautiful,' Hester said, 'and I can
well imagine that Lucy would remember it. For
some reason it utterly enchanted her and she
would ask to be lifted up so as to see it properly.'
She hesitated. 'Did you feel that she was
quite happy to be talking about all this at last,
Jonah?'

'I felt so. It hasn't been a complete
volte face
,
don't think that – she's approaching it very
cautiously – but when I talked about Nanny and the
boys she told me all about her arrival here, as far as
she could remember it, and it seemed to be a very
happy experience. Of course, you'd described it
too, so I was able to see it as a whole picture. I have
to say that having two sides of the same story is
fascinating.'

Yet Hester still hesitated to plunge in as she'd
done so readily on his previous visit: the warning
in Blaise's letter continued to haunt her. The stark
fact was that Jonah's grandfather had conducted
an affair with his best friend's wife for a year before
Edward's return and it had been the sight of
them together that had driven the already unstable
Edward to violence. How to explain the loneliness
of the years between Edward's capture early in 1942
until his unexpected return late in 1945 so that
Jonah should not judge Eleanor – or Michael – too
harshly? After all, she'd long given up hope that
her husband was still alive and it was easy to
understand how both Michael – still grieving for
Susan – and the lonely Eleanor might be drawn to
each other for comfort.

At this point Hester pulled herself up sharply.
These were not the 'accurate facts' of which Blaise
had written. To describe the events so might be
more palatable for Jonah but it in no way gave
any truthful picture either of Eleanor's predatory
determination to possess Michael or of the gradual
weakening of Michael's will. He hadn't loved
Eleanor but he could not, in the end, resist her.
Hester saw, with a kind of horror, how very easy it
would be to distort the facts. She began to fear her
ability to achieve telling the whole story honestly
without leaving Jonah with a rather unsavoury
portrait of his grandfather.