Still Waters (43 page)

‘Yes,’ Tess whispered through numb lips. ‘It means our daddy’s dead.’

For days Tess worked ceaselessly, doing all the things Marianne should have done. She and Peter’s commanding officer arranged for the body to be brought back to Norfolk, she and the local undertaker made what funeral arrangements they could, though the body could not be buried in the little churchyard by the Broad until the frost allowed the grave to be dug. Then she and the vicar planned the service, and whereabouts in the graveyard her father would be buried.

The Throwers and her uncle and aunt offered to help but Tess, numbed by the tragedy, said she would rather do it herself. And then she simply kept her head down and worked as hard as she possibly could, because when she was frantically busy she did not have to think. Indeed, she found it best and easiest to push the reality of her father’s death to the very back of her mind; to deny it, in fact. She told herself that her father was away, that was it, simply away! Later, when she could bear to do so, she would face what had happened to him, but whilst she had so much to do she would do it in a vacuum.

Nights would have been hard, but the doctor had given Marianne sleeping tablets. Shamelessly, Tess stole some and slumbered each night, though she woke pale and heavy-eyed, often with a thumping headache. But even a headache was better than lying awake all night, trying to make sense of it all. Peter had been making his way from his offices to his billet, but because of the black-out he had not seen the Army lorry approaching and the lorry had not seen him. It was such a wicked, stupid waste, and whenever Tess allowed herself to think about it she felt red rage, followed by a deep, black sorrow. He had been such a marvellous father, such a
good
person; even if he wasn’t actually my father by blood, he never let it affect his love for me, Tess told herself. And he was a volunteer, he needn’t have gone back to the Navy. So why had it happened? Why, why, why?

What was more, she knew she had braced herself for Marianne’s death, for the horror of finding her stepmother’s body, frozen stiff, somewhere out in the snow and ice. She had not even dreamed that it might be her father whose death she would be mourning. It had come as a bolt from the blue, and there were times when she railed against fate, which had pretended to be about to snatch Marianne and, whilst Tess was doing her damnedest to find her stepmother, had taken Peter, instead.

It is as though I had my back to him, Tess grieved to herself. As though I was so busy over Marianne that I couldn’t spare time to think of Daddy. So he was killed.

She knew it wasn’t so, of course. Peter had been killed before Marianne had gone missing. But true or not, that was how she saw it. A malignant fate, seeing her absorbed in Marianne, had done the unexpected and taken her father from her.

‘He was killed outright, he wouldn’t have known a thing,’ Peter’s commanding officer told Tess. He had tried to talk to Marianne, but as he told Tess afterwards, he could see her distress was so great that she wasn’t really taking in what he said, so he had turned to Tess, doubtless thinking that because she was handling all the arrangements she was a calmer personality, less likely to weep all over him. ‘What’s more, Miss Delamere, he was very happy with us. He was an excellent teacher who enjoyed passing on his knowledge, and he loved feeling a part of the war effort. If it’s any consolation, I believe he died a happy man.’

So when all the arranging was done and the funeral date fixed, Tess made herself look at her loss, and acknowledged that it would change her life. She had relied on Peter in a hundred ways, trusted him totally, confided in him as far as she was able. And having faced up to the loneliness which would be her lot with only a stepmother to support her, she also realised that, in a way, she had lost Leonora all over again. Peter had been the one source of information on her mother’s past. Now he had gone, as Leonora had, without really telling Tess all that she longed to know about her earliest years.

But oddly enough, losing Peter seemed to have made Marianne far less aggressive and difficult towards her stepdaughter. Indeed Marianne’s grief, which took the form of endless tears and a good deal of sleep during daylight hours, also helped, in an odd sort of way, to give Tess strength. I always knew she loved him far more than he loved her, though I never believed her capable of very strong emotions, Tess thought. But I was wrong; she lived for him. All that jealousy and unpleasantness were because she was deathly afraid of losing him, and now that the worst has happened and he’s lost to her – to us all – she sees me as an ally, someone else who loved him, instead of an enemy, someone who shared his love.

It was strange but pleasant for Tess to find Marianne touchingly grateful for all that she did and was doing, strange when Marianne asked her stepdaughter’s advice, wept on her shoulder. But Tess feared that it wouldn’t last. She’ll revert to normal once the shock of her loss begins to lessen, she thought cynically, and I don’t want to be around then. I remember how I used to tell Daddy that it was better for me to be in boarding school so Marianne and I had less time together. Well, it’ll be true again. Just give her time.

But time was passing, the weather was easing at last and there were things to plan which would have distressed Marianne unbearably, so Tess took herself off to Staithe Cottage and the comforting and comfortable presence of Mrs Thrower. Together, they would plan the tea which they would serve after the funeral service, and discuss how they should let people know that a date had been agreed, since the notice in the
Eastern Daily Press
had simply stated that the funeral would take place ‘shortly’, meaning, of course, when the ground was sufficiently soft to enable a grave to be dug.

‘I think another notice in the paper, giving the actual date, would be best,’ Tess decided, sitting at the terrible old kitchen table scarred with knife marks where various Throwers had gutted fish, jointed game, chopped turnips. And carved initials from time to time, she saw, trying to find an unblemished bit of wood on which to rest her writing pad. ‘What do you think, Mrs Thrower? I had thought of writing personal letters, but that way I’ll miss all sorts of people who might like to pay their last respects. There are people in Blofield who may want to come; my mother came from there, and Daddy lived in Brundall when he was small.’

Tess had agonised over whether her father would want to be buried in Blofield, close to Leonora, but had decided that it was quite impossible. Too many explanations, too many people hurt – and how could she ever explain to Marianne, and Cherie?

‘Right enough,’ Mrs Thrower said. ‘Your uncle might do that.’

‘Yes, a notice in the
EDP
would be best; now I come to think of it there may be people from Walcott who still remember Daddy,’ Tess said distractedly. ‘I wouldn’t want anyone to feel left out. We lived there, you know, when I was small, before my mother died.’

‘That’s awkward when a feller marry more than once,’ Mrs Thrower said, as though she had been reading Tess’s mind. ‘I dare say he were powerful fond of your ma, an’ all, ’cos he took his time remarryin’. But he’ve made his life here these past years. He’d not want to be taken away from us.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Tess said. ‘I did wonder myself, actually, so it’s a weight off my mind that you agree, because it isn’t the sort of thing I could say to anyone else. Now, shall we plan the funeral tea, and begin to make a guess at how many we’ll be catering for? They won’t all come back, I don’t suppose. Now. Sandwiches, of course . . .’

‘Aye, we’ll have salmon, ham an’ egg for the fillin’s,’ Mrs Thrower said. ‘Some o’ them little round biscuits wi’ bits an’ pieces on top an’ my shrimp boats; Mr Dela . . .’ she stopped short and Tess saw a tear slide down her cheek, but then she rallied, brushing the tear away, smiling determinedly. ‘Well there you are, my woman, I can’t believe he’ve gone no more’n you can. Never thought I’d be cookin’ this sort o’ tea for your pa.’

‘I know,’ Tess said. ‘Isn’t it odd, Mrs Thrower, that not really believing it helps a lot at first, and then it begins to make it harder, not easier? There’s a part of me that just won’t believe it’s happened, but then when something makes you face it, the hurt is as bad as it was at the beginning. Once the funeral’s over, perhaps things will seem real and I can go back to – to living my life again, but now I keep expecting the door to open and Daddy’s head to poke round it. I can absolutely
see
his grin, hear him saying,
fooled you that time
–
you thought I was dead
,
didn’t you
? And half my mind really does believe it’s going to happen, whilst the other half . . .’ her voice wobbled and she stopped speaking for a moment, then heaved a tremulous sigh and continued. ‘The other half is sore and aching because it knows it won’t ever happen, no matter how long I wait.’

Mrs Thrower heaved herself out of her chair, walked fatly round the table, and put her arms round Tess’s thin shoulders. ‘That’s what funerals are for, lovie,’ she said. ‘You see the person you love committed to the earth, and there in’t nothin’ more final than that. An’ you cry, my woman. You let all your grief out in a gurt flood of tears, and you’re better for it. Acceptance, see? That’s what a funeral does, it makes you accept that the person you love in’t around no more, nor they won’t be. That they’ve moved on, like. And then you realise that there’s allus a part of a person in the place they loved, an’ that helps an’ all.’

‘Right,’ Tess said. Tears formed and welled over. ‘Right, Mrs Thrower. I’ll hang on to that.’

‘That’s my girl,’ Mrs Thrower said, patting. ‘Now here’s a thought – Mrs Delamere’s a fustrate cook, she’ve telled me so over and over. How about if we get her to make some cakes an’ that? Only that in’t right to clutch your grief to yourself an’ ignore everyone around you. Whass more that in’t healthy. She in’t even
tryin’
to git a holt on herself, act normal, and she’s puttin’ all the work on you an’ young Cherie.’

‘Perhaps French people always behave like that,’ Tess said doubtfully. She had wondered, herself, whether Marianne had simply reverted to her roots over this matter, for even her accent had got heavier since she had been widowed. ‘I know Greek and Italian peasants do that sort of wailing thing, and rend their garments, like in the bible. Not that she’s rending her garments, but she doesn’t bother to dress half the time and when she does, she wears stained blouses and jumpers with holes in. And she’s got heaps and heaps of really nice clothes.’

Mrs Thrower sniffed. ‘She in’t a peasant, as she’d be the first to tell you,’ she pointed out. ‘She’s downright
enjoyin’
her grief if you ask me. An’ the kid’s mortal upset by it – seein’ her ma mekin’ a spectacle of herself.’

‘I know. But from what you’ve just told me, don’t you think that, after the funeral, she’ll begin to come round a bit?’ Tess said. ‘Especially since I’ll probably have to leave home quite soon. I’m going to do war work, I think it’s even more important now that Daddy isn’t – isn’t around any more to help with the war effort. Surely she’ll have to pull herself together then, or she and Cherie will starve.’

‘You’re probably right. But you won’t be off for a bit, will you, an’ Mrs Delamere need to pull her socks up soon, that’s for sure, do she’ll never get to the funeral. She’ll mek some excuse or other and stay at home.’

Tess sighed. ‘I’m not really sure what to do, Mrs Thrower. I can’t say too much to Marianne or she rushes out of the room. But I can’t simply stay at home keeping her up to the mark, I’ve got to do my bit, and perhaps when she realises, Marianne will start to pull herself together. Only . . . when it comes down to it, the services may turn me down, which would mean I’d be stuck with the situation at the Old House. Unless I went into munitions and had to live out, of course.’

‘They won’t turn you down, gal Tess, they’ll grab you wi’ both hands, a nice, clever young ‘oman like you,’ Mrs Thrower said robustly. ‘I’m sorry for young Cherie, mind. She’ll have her work cut out once you’re gone. I dessay you’ve spoke to young Mr Ashley, have you? What did he say?’

Tess knew that Mrs Thrower rather liked Ashley, who teased her, got on well with her sons and flirted with Janet. She agreed he was demanding, but seemed to think this, whilst unacceptable in a woman, was natural in a man. He would make a good husband, she told Tess firmly, and no one could deny he was generous and good-natured. Tess, who thought his generosity generally had an end in view and his good nature broke down if you didn’t laugh at his jokes, said she wasn’t interested in a husband just yet and received an unbelieving stare: Mrs Thrower thought girls ought to be interested in husbands from the moment they could walk, the stare said.

‘Oh, yes, Ashley knows,’ Tess said now. ‘He said he’d get leave for the funeral. He didn’t say much else. We’re quite good friends, Mrs Thrower, but we’re not particularly close. He’d like us to be, but we row too much, have too many fights. I think we’re best with some distance between us.’ She hesitated, then picked up her pen again and bent over the paper. ‘Daddy didn’t like him much,’ she muttered. ‘He thought I ought to meet more fellows before I took any sort of plunge.’

‘Mebbe your dad were right,’ Mrs Thrower said magnanimously, overcoming, Tess knew, her feeling that Ashley Knox was an ideal match for Tess. ‘Anyroad, if he come over for the funeral you can talk to him then. And our Janet’ll come home too, if she possibly can. I telled her to say it was her uncle; that’ll fetch ’em!’

Tess giggled and finished her notice for the
EDP
, then put down her pen. ‘Mrs Thrower, what a whopper! And you always told us lies were
never
necessary! What’s your excuse, then?’

‘That’s nice to hear you laugh,’ Mrs Thrower said. ‘Don’t feel guilty to laugh, gal, it don’t mean you’ve forgot your dad for one moment, it mean you’re facin’ up to life the way that stepma of yours should. As for lyin’, wars change things. You can lie in wartime, if that’s necessary. Stands to reason; if it’s all right to kill people lyin’ can’t be that bad.’