Memories of the Storm (15 page)

'The whole period was terribly traumatic for her,'
Hester had said. 'I feel now that we let her down.'

Jonah felt guilty of that too. By pursuing the
past he'd forced his mother into a very vulnerable
position, and at a difficult time when his father was
so ill. A period of respite was needed – for all three
of them. Yet he knew, lodged deep inside him,
there was a driving, seeking element that wouldn't
let him rest: an absolute requirement to discover
the whole truth.

When Eleanor first sees Michael in the drawingroom
at Bridge House she knows at once that he is
going to be terribly important to her. Her friends
might laugh at her passions but they have no idea
of how deeply she experiences this love that overwhelms
her. Oh, she admits that there have been
rather a large number of men with whom she's
fallen so passionately in love – but that doesn't
mean that her feelings aren't genuine and painful.
She loved Edward once – how long ago it seems –
but how can love survive war, separation and, now,
the conviction that he is dead? Love requires two
people, she insists; it can't survive without nourishment.

In the two years since Edward was posted
'missing: presumed dead' – during visits to London
to see her friends – there have been one or two
small romances, nothing too serious, but when she
sees Michael she knows that this time it is different.

'Well, isn't anyone going to introduce us?' she
asks – and is instantly aware of Hester's
antagonism. Well, she is used to that. From the
beginning she's felt Hester's cool gaze upon
her and it keeps her on her mettle: nothing is so
critical or puritanical as the judgement of a young
girl. Usually Eleanor is able to break down any
resistance to her charm – she much prefers to be
loved than disliked – but with Hester all the usual
tactics fail. She is a success with Patricia and the
boys, even Nanny succumbs, but Hester remains
aloof, almost as if she fears that she, Eleanor, is a
threat to Edward.

Of course, Eleanor reminds herself, Hester has
no idea what it is like to have had a physical
relationship with a man and then be denied it: she
cannot begin to understand the neediness and the
longing. She is Edward's sister, not his wife or lover,
and so her anxiety for him is quite different from
Eleanor's own feelings. Despite this antagonism she
prefers to make her base at Bridge House. If she
goes home to her parents they badger her to be
useful, they expect her to be stoic and dutiful, and
she finds it difficult to settle back into the role of a
child, having been a wife. At Bridge House she is
treated with respect, she is Edward's wife: nobody
questions her occasional visits to London and
nothing is required of her – apart from her ration
book – when she is with them. Patricia is full of
compassion and sympathy for Eleanor's plight,
Nanny spoils her, and the little boys are rather
sweet though sometimes she could scream with the
boredom of it all.

So, 'Isn't anyone going to introduce us?' she asks
when she sees Michael in the drawing-room – and,
quite suddenly, she intuits that her life is about to
change.

Of course, she knows very well who Michael is.
Good grief! There's been enough discussion about
him and little Lucy and the tragedy of his wife's
death during the last few weeks, though Eleanor
has kept rather quiet on the subject as to whether or
not Lucy should come to Bridge House. She feels
that it would be tactless to suggest that two children
are more than enough to have about the place and,
anyway, she quickly sees that her opinion is not
going to be sought – but she watches and listens
with interest.

'Of
course
Lucy must come,' cries Patricia, eyes
brimming. 'Poor child, poor little girl. How terrible
for her to lose her mother.'

She clasps little Robin tightly and he gazes up
at her anxiously, eyes wide, whilst Nanny clucks
disapprovingly lest he should be distressed at the
sight of his mother in tears.

'We don't want to upset the little mite,' she says
firmly, removing Robin from Patricia's embrace.
'Let's try to remain calm, dear. Of course Lucy must
come if there's nowhere else for her to go. You'll
like that, won't you, Robin? Having a little girl to
stay with us?'

'Of course he will,' says Patricia quickly, affectionately.
'He's such a loving little boy, aren't you,
Robbie? You'll be very kind to Lucy, won't you?'

Robin looks from one to the other and even
Eleanor can see that he is already calculating how
this new situation might be used to his advantage.
She prefers Jack, who is more direct and much
more generous, but to be honest she is not really
interested in either of the boys though she knows
it is in her interest to make a pretence of affection.
What surprises her is how readily Patricia,
and even Nanny, are taken in by this. They are
so besotted with the children that she can only
imagine that they expect everyone else to feel the
same way.

'And poor Michael,' says Patricia, trying to
prevent more tears welling up, though Nanny has
now taken Robin to find Jack so that he won't be
further distressed by his mother's emotion. 'How is
he going to manage? He must be so cut up about it.
Poor Susan. She was so young and they were so
happy. Do you remember that sweet letter she
wrote to Mother after their wedding, Hester? And
then again when Lucy was born? I know we never
met her but I felt that she was part of the family too.
I'm so glad Michael feels he can turn to us. He
won't feel quite so desperate.'

At least he knows she's dead, thinks Eleanor
impatiently, bored now by all the histrionics. He
can get on with his life. Not like me . . .

She lights a cigarette, slightly ashamed of her
reaction but still irritated. Oh, she knows he is
Edward's oldest friend, and much loved by everyone,
but frankly she is getting rather tired of the
plans and arrangements and the excitement that
Patricia and Hester – especially Hester – feel at the
prospect of seeing Michael again after all these
years.

Yet, as soon as she sets eyes on him, she is struck
by something beyond his good looks: there is a
vital quality, a nervous energy that reminds her of
Edward and makes him very attractive.

'This is Michael,' says Hester almost reluctantly,
but Eleanor cares nothing for Hester's watchfulness,
though she doesn't like it when Hester adds
rather too pointedly, 'And this is Edward's wife,
Eleanor.'

Hester refuses to accept that Edward has perished
– and so, clearly, does Michael.

'Edward's my oldest friend,' he says warmly,
taking Eleanor's hand. 'It's wonderful to meet you
at last.'

His look is sympathetic but she doesn't want his
sympathy – or, at least, only in so far as it engages
his interest and makes a natural stepping-off place
to what must follow. Nevertheless, she is intelligent
enough to see at once that there can be no short
cuts here: Michael is a sensitive man. It is clear that
his grief for Susan and her anxieties for Edward
must be given their due respect. She makes some
suitable greeting, her look conveys understanding –
'We two are in the same boat,' it tells him – and
then Patricia is breaking in with some remark about
the good old days and Eleanor waits for her next
chance to make her claim upon him.

When Lucy appears on the scene Eleanor is taken
aback. The child has an intelligent and penetrating
look – rather like a childish version of Hester's –
and she sees that no easy conquest is to be hers.
It is as if the child immediately grasps the situation
and already sees her, Eleanor, as an enemy.
Michael is sweet with her, Eleanor is touched by his
care for his child, and it is obvious that Lucy adores
him: tact and patience will be required.

When the children rush out into the garden after
tea to show Lucy her surprise, Eleanor hangs back a
little, smiling at Michael in a way that underlines
the fellow-feeling that she hopes she has already
awakened in him. He smiles back at her almost
ruefully.

'It's such a relief to know that she'll be here,' he
says, 'but I shall miss her terribly. I think it's the
right thing to do.'

For a moment she is taken aback: her own feelings
for him are already so heightened that she has
assumed that he will seize an opportunity to make
some kind of remark that relates to the similarities
of their situation: something of a personal nature.
She recovers swiftly – so swiftly that he notices
nothing – and tells him that they will all be making
sure that Lucy is kept happy. She manages to imply
that because of her own loneliness it will be her
special care to watch over the child and he looks at
her gratefully. Yet, even in that look, she sees
awareness of her beauty and a response to her
situation.

'I am so sorry,' he begins to say, 'about Edward. It
must be . . .' He hesitates for a suitable phrase and
she cuts in very quickly.

'I've grown hardened to it. It's been two years
now and I know I shall never see him again.'

Somehow he has taken hold of her hand, protesting
that she mustn't give up hope, but she
resists his attempts to change her mind by simply
shaking her head and indicating that she'd rather
not discuss it. Hester suddenly appears, Michael
drops Eleanor's hand abruptly, and they all go out
into the garden together.

If Eleanor hopes to further her plans by cultivating
Lucy's affection she is doomed to disappointment,
for the little girl resolutely keeps her at a distance.
It is Hester whom Lucy loves most: Hester and
Jack. Robin is gentler but Jack is straightforward
and open, and Lucy feels safe with him. It is to Jack,
finally, that she confides her fear of the old people
behind the curtain. To begin with she keeps her
terror to herself. She doesn't know any of the family
well enough to feel that she can explain properly.
She suspects that any grown-up will simply throw
back the curtain and show her that there is nobody
there – she can do that for herself when the sun
shines brightly in through the window – but when it
gets dark, what she knows no longer counts. The
night-time brings with it a different world where
shadows emerge, creeping and changing shape,
and there are muffled sounds and urgent rustlings
in the silence.

Lying in bed, the blackout down, hardly daring
to breathe, she seems to hear the old people in the
alcove somehow becoming visible,
growing
into
the shoes, which shuffle about and creak as if the
old people are standing on tiptoe, getting ready
to advance into the room. It is Jack who finds her
one night, weeping with fright, huddled under the
blankets. Even then, she doesn't tell him and he
simply thinks that she is crying for her mother.
That's when he shows her the Midsummer Cushion,
so as to comfort her.

'Come on,' he whispers. 'Everyone's having
dinner and Nanny's listening to the wireless. It's
ITMA
, her favourite. Come on.'

She follows him out on to the landing, breathless
with excitement and fear, and waits with him as he
hesitates outside Hester's bedroom, head on one
side, listening.

'It's all right,' he says, and they go in together.

The blackout is not drawn down and the room is
filled with late summer evening light, quite bright
enough to see the frame hanging on the wall.

'But it's not a cushion at all,' she begins,
surprised and disappointed, but then Jack draws
her closer to it and Lucy catches her breath with
delight. The flowers are perfect: each tiny petal is
lovingly delineated in coloured silks so that they
look fresher, more alive, than the faded, pressed
blooms that lie amongst them. Cornflower blue,
poppy scarlet, buttercup gold, grass green – Lucy is
captivated and Jack shows her how to stand on the
little stool so as to see it better.

'But you must never, never touch it,' he warns
her. 'It's very old and precious, and Nanny says if
we touch it something really bad will happen.'

Jack watches her almost proprietorially, enjoying
her pleasure, proud to be the one bestowing
the honour upon her whilst at the same time
frightening her by the prospect of retribution, just
as he and Robin have been warned in the past.

'What sort of thing?' she asks fearfully, still staring
up at the tapestry. Instinctively she thinks of her
mother and her little rituals to ward off evil.

Jack shrugs – no particular punishment has been
described – but he doesn't want to lose his power
over her.

'It's an heirloom,' he says importantly. 'So if it
broke it would be very bad luck for someone in the
family.'

'An air loom.' Lucy puzzles over the words.
She associates them immediately with air raid and
remembers that this is how her mother died: in an
air raid. An air loom sounds a dangerous thing, yet
she is not frightened away from the Midsummer
Cushion, rather it draws her back again and again
to gaze upon the bright, delicate scene.

In gratitude to Jack she makes him a present of
her fear, entrusting it to him though she knows he
might use it against her to tease her or tell the
grown-ups that she's a scaredy cat; an expression
with which he often stigmatizes Robin. He doesn't,
though. He takes it very seriously and offers to
come in one night and wait with her in the dark.

'If they come out,' he tells her, 'I shall run them
through with my sword.'

Lucy looks at his silver-painted cardboard sword
with respect. The hilt is set about with pieces of
coloured glass and the scabbard is carved. She
knows that she will feel braver with Jack beside her.
So it is that one night they sit together, huddled
under Lucy's eiderdown, the faint, flickering beam
of Jack's electric torch aimed upon the alcove
curtain. As the plumbing gurgles menacingly
behind the walls, and mice scamper through the
dark, secret pathways of their territory beneath the
floorboards, the children wait. The weak pencil of
light roves to and fro, up and down, and it seems
that the curtain
does
move, that it bellies a little
and ripples, as if the old people are taking shape
behind it. Lucy's terror communicates itself to Jack
so that a sudden noise – no more than a mouse
skittering behind the skirting-board – precipitates
them into action. Jack leaps from the bed, glad to
expend his fear in physical violence, and assaults
the curtain with stabs of his sword and cries of,
'Avaunt thee!'

The door is flung open, the light switched on,
and Patricia stands there, eyes wide with apprehension,
staring in amazement at the scene. Jack is
tangled up with the curtain and the shoes, hot
and overexcited, and Lucy clutches the eiderdown
tightly in fear of the impending row. Patricia, however,
seems to understand that there is something
more than simple high spirits here and she hurries
to help Jack out of the tangle in the alcove.

'What is it?' she asks. 'Whatever are you doing,
darling?' and she smiles reassuringly at Lucy, who
feels weak with relief. Jack is explaining that they
thought they heard something behind the curtain
and manages to bring the shoes into the story so
that, still rather puzzled, Patricia picks up a pair of
brogues. Somehow, Jack has managed to convey
some measure of their childish horror to her and,
though she doesn't quite understand, she piles the
shoes into a small suitcase and closes the lid.

'These belonged to Grandpapa and Granny,' she
tells Jack. 'I can't imagine why they are still here.
I'll get rid of them. It was quite right of you
to look after Lucy, darling.' She pulls the curtain
right back. 'There's nothing there now, Lucy. See?
Only your nice party frock and your winter coat
hanging on the rail. Shall I leave it open for
tonight?'

Lucy nods wordlessly and Patricia hurries to her
and gives her a hug. 'Poor darling. Nightmares are
so horrid, aren't they? Now, what about some milk
to help you off to sleep again? I'll bring some up
and we'll have a little picnic here in Lucy's room,
just the three of us.'

She goes out, taking the case with the shoes in
it, and Lucy and Jack stare at one another, silent
with relief. Once again, Lucy feels that she owes
Jack something; this time for freeing her from her
nightly terror.

'You were brave,' she tells him admiringly, still
huddling beneath the eiderdown and trembling a
little from the excitement.

Jack sheaths his sword carelessly but he looks
gratified. 'Lucky it wasn't Nanny,' he says mischievously
– and, at the mere thought of Nanny
bursting in upon the scene, they both begin to
giggle. Relief spurts out of them in muffled squeals
of laughter – though neither of them knows quite
what it is that is so funny – and when Patricia comes
back with mugs of milk she finds them fully recovered
from whatever it was that had frightened them
so badly.

To begin with, Eleanor's reaction to Michael goes
unnoticed in the general excitement of having him
with them again. The whole family are delighted
to see him on those rare forty-eight-hour passes,
which give him just enough time to hurry down
to Bridge House to spend the best part of two
precious days with his daughter. Leaving the train
at Brushford Station, he walks the few miles to
Dulverton and then takes the road beside the river
that leads to Eye Marsh.

All through that autumn, whenever he walks to
Bridge House with his eyes upon the gleaming
water and his ears tuned to the birdsong echoing
high up in the woods, he tries to control his feelings
for Eleanor. His stomach churns with excited
anticipation yet he is shocked that he can feel like
this so soon after Susan's death; though it is not
love, he tells himself quickly, nothing like love. Yet
the fact that he has fallen prey to this consuming
sexual infatuation is almost more terrible to him
than if he'd fallen in love. It is shaming that though
he knows that Eleanor is shallow and grasping and
self-centred, he nevertheless remains in thrall
to her physical attractions. He wonders if this is
how Edward felt about her – she is so clearly
not
Edward's ideal mate – and whether the scales fell
from his eyes during the short period of time they
had together.

Michael strides on, reciting John Clare's poetry
in an attempt to distract himself, yet the excitement
persists like some overwhelming addiction and he
curses himself for disloyalty to both Susan and
Edward. At least, he comforts himself, he has had
enough control to conceal his feelings from Lucy
and Hester and the rest of the family. At the
thought of how good they have been to him his
heart expands with love for them: it is unthinkable
that he should betray them. He can never forget
how warmly their mother welcomed him, Edward's
friend, and how she encouraged him in his studies.
His unclaimed love had been instantly given to
them all: to the serious yet loving mother and to the
gentle, maternal Patricia, as well as to the two noisy,
younger boys and small Hester with her tough
mind and uncompromising look.

As for Edward . . . Michael sighs with regret at the
loss of his old friend. He realizes that he is coming
to accept that Edward is dead but whether that is
because he genuinely believes this to be the case, or
whether it is because it soothes his conscience, he
does not wish to know. He thinks instead about his
gratitude to the Mallorys for welcoming Lucy so
wholeheartedly. Lucy: at the thought of her his
heart lurches with anxious love. It is inconceivable
that she should be harmed and he knows that,
whatever his feelings for Eleanor, Lucy shall never
be sacrificed for them. She is safe here, with the
family at Bridge House. When he crosses the little
bridge that spans the Barle they will be waiting for
him.

Although they all accept that it is Lucy he comes to
see, nevertheless each one of them is overjoyed
to have Michael home. Patricia and Nanny like to
fuss over him, to make special meals for him;
it feels more natural to have a man about the
place. He plays cricket with the boys and rags with
them on the lawn – though Robin cries if it gets too
rough – and Patricia and Nanny tell each other that
it is good for the boys to have a male influence.
They ask him his opinion on the latest war news
and when he thinks it will be over, although they
are just as reliably informed by the newspaper
reports or wireless bulletins, and he reassures
them and raises their spirits. He is the nearest to
being the head of the house that they have and
some instinctive need within them responds to his
presence with relief.

For Hester it is a more simple, if poignant,
joy. Michael reminds her of happier times. They
talk about Edward and her mother, retell little
anecdotes and laugh over old jokes. She longs for
him to be the Wilfred Owen of this war, and
encourages him to write, but Michael seems
reluctant. His always dilatory muse has deserted
him, and she doesn't press him too far. Just to have
him here is enough.

Lucy is in seventh heaven: it is
her
daddy who is
the cause of so much excitement and affection,
her
father who is so handsome and popular. She is
so proud and happy she can barely contain her
emotions. Though she feels possessive about him
and clings to him like a limpet, she tries to be
unselfish where the boys are concerned – but she is
not prepared to share him with Eleanor. It doesn't
take Lucy long to understand that, frightening
though the old people behind the curtain were,
Eleanor is a much more dangerous threat to her
happiness. Instinctively Lucy realizes that, unlike
the other women in the household, Eleanor puts
herself first. Her care is not for the children, or
even for the small community as a whole, it is for
Eleanor. She pursues her desires with an almost
childish clear-sighted single-mindedness that Lucy
recognizes – and fears. Eleanor is prepared to grab
what she wants no matter what it costs; and what
she wants is Michael.

Abnormally alert to her father's reactions, Lucy
senses that Eleanor unsettles him. He is not so
natural with her as he is with the other women, and
in her anxiety Lucy tries to force some kind of
scene that will show Eleanor that she, Lucy, is his
favourite. If Eleanor manages to engage him in
private conversation Lucy climbs on to his lap, she
wraps her legs about his waist and her arms around
his neck; she kisses him lavishly and holds his hand
possessively – and all with one eye on Eleanor. Her
father reacts with generous love, believing that his
daughter is missing her mother and is naturally
making the most of every moment that he and she
can spend together.

Lucy's watchful brown eye detects that this
irritates Eleanor but that she cannot let Michael
know that it irritates – that would be to show herself
unsympathetic, unwomanly. Instead she smiles
with a saccharine, understanding expression that
deceives Michael but not his daughter, who is aware
that he is in some way grateful for the protection
she affords. She doesn't understand that her father
is not ready for the advances Eleanor is making,
that he is bewildered – almost shocked – by this
direct approach. She only knows that he welcomes
her shows of affection and makes no attempt to
shoo her away.

Lucy has no idea of the strength and danger of the
undercurrents. She is working purely on instinct,
responding as a small animal that is threatened
might, but she knows that Hester is on her side
and this knowledge increases Lucy's love for her.

Hester watches with disbelief as the affair begins.
In her innocence she has believed that neither
Eleanor nor Michael will betray Edward, even
though it is clear that Eleanor is not above flirting
with Michael, yet soon it becomes evident that
the situation is moving out of control. During
the winter and into spring Michael manages only
a few visits to Bridge House but when the war
ends everything changes. When Patricia's husband
returns home, and she and Nanny and the boys go
back to their home near Plymouth, Hester and Lucy
are left alone with Eleanor.

Travel becomes a little easier, Michael gets his
car back on the road, and Eleanor makes one or
two trips to London. Hester imagines that she
is seeing her parents and old friends but, when
Michael makes his next visit to see them, Hester
sees a change in him. In his presence, Eleanor has
a triumphant air – she is glossy with satisfaction –
and the way she looks at him is unmistakable.
Hester is quick to guess what has happened on
one of those visits to London but she is unwilling
to believe it. That is, she can quite believe such
behaviour of Eleanor but not of Michael.