Still Waters (44 page)

‘Right, though I don’t think you’ve got a leg to stand on, morally. I mean it isn’t as if you were lying to the Germans, you’re lying to Jan’s commanding officer, whoever that may be.’

Mrs Thrower sniffed again. ‘Get Mrs Delamere to make them little meringue things.’ She wrote laboriously on her list. ‘From what Jan say, her commandin’ officer
is
a bloomin’ Nazi. My heart alive, what a devil she do sound! Do this, do that, don’t you look at no young fellers, where’s your gas mask, straighten your stockin’s . . . oh aye, she’s a tartar, that one. If Jan don’t lie she won’t last long.’

‘Good Lord, Mrs T, if you think that’s the way to encourage me to go into the services . . .’

‘Oh, you!’ Mrs Thrower said affectionately. ‘You’re one of the quiet, sly ones, Tess Delamere. You go your own way when all’s said and done.’

‘Do I?’

‘That you do. You won’t have survived for long wi’ Mrs Delamere, else. Now I’m makin’ two lists, one for myself an’ one for Mrs Delamere. I’ll leave her all the fancy stuff. Right? An’ you mek sure she do it, my woman!’

Twelve

THE FUNERAL WENT
off better than Tess had expected. From somewhere Marianne suddenly found dignity and restraint, and though her tears flowed copiously during the touching and beautiful service in the ancient church of St Michael and All the Angels, she presided over the funeral tea like a normal, rational person, talked to her guests, and did not disgrace herself – or her daughters – by an embarrassing or ostentatious display of grief.

And Tess found that Mrs Thrower was right. Before the service she saw her father, now a pale, stern stranger, lying in his coffin; after the service she saw the coffin lowered into the earth, went forward, with Cherie, and threw a handful of soil into the grave, stepped back and suddenly realised that her father was not lying below the raw earth in the churchyard, neither was he in Portsmouth, carrying out his work. He had, quite simply, gone. To another place, Tess found herself thinking, and found the thought oddly comforting. To a better place? Perhaps. But she would not know that until her own time came.

It was not until the funeral was over and people began to file past her, outside the church, that she noticed Lady Salter. Very correct in a long black coat with a bunch of artificial violets on the lapel, she was walking slowly along, leaning on an ebony stick and turning her head to talk to the young man who walked beside her, head bent, listening. Tess had seen Lady Salter’s estate manager a couple of times and thought it kind that he had accompanied his employer on her sad errand. When they drew near, Lady Salter turned to Tess and held out one thin, elegantly gloved hand.

‘My dear! I’m sorrier than I can say . . . your father will be much missed.’

Tess thanked her for coming to the funeral and told her that tea would be held in the Old House.

‘I’m sure you brought your car, but if not, a friend of mine is giving lifts,’ she said tactfully. Ashley and his father had both offered help with transport, for the church of St Michael and All the Angels was some way from the village itself. ‘My stepmother would be pleased to see you, Lady Salter.’

‘I think, my dear, that I shall go straight home,’ Lady Salter said. ‘But perhaps my nephew might accompany you? I see you don’t remember this young man,’ she added. ‘Well, it’s been a long time. I hardly recognised him myself.’

Tess turned and stared at the young man. Taller than she, but not particularly tall, around five foot ten, she supposed. Dark hair worn rather long, dark eyes behind horn-rimmed spectacles . . . he smiled.

‘Andy!’ Tess almost whispered it. ‘Oh, Andy . . . I can’t believe it! You’ve no idea how . . .’ she stopped short, remembering Lady Salter. ‘I – I thought you were probably miles away,’ she finished lamely.

‘I was,’ Andy said. He took her hand in his. ‘Tess, I’m sorrier than I can say about your father. And I’d like to come over some time, talk about old times. I’ll take my aunt home now, but I’m here for a few days . . . would tomorrow be all right?’

‘It would be fine,’ Tess said. ‘See you then, Andy. Early?’

‘Crack of dawn time,’ Andy said. ‘I’d row over, only the weather wouldn’t allow it, so I’ll walk. Nine o’clock too early?’

‘Nine o’clock’s fine. I’ve taken a couple of days off from work, so I won’t be going into the city. Stay to lunch.’

‘Thanks,’ Andy said. He took his aunt’s arm and the two of them began to move away. ‘Until tomorrow, then.’

Ashley, who had been arranging lifts, came over to her, eyebrows raised. He waited until Lady Salter and Andy had left the churchyard, then addressed Tess.

‘Who was that? Are they coming to the tea? They’ve got a car with a chauffeur, they might be persuaded to give lifts.’

‘They aren’t coming,’ Tess said briefly. ‘It’s Lady Salter and her nephew. Nice of them to come to the funeral, really. They didn’t know Daddy at all well.’

‘Oh, right.’ Ashley put a hand on her arm; it was a proprietorial hand but Tess did not move away. Ashley had been wonderfully supportive, had worked as hard as he possibly could to help her. He had talked to her boss about her having time off, had been very good both with Marianne and Cherie. She did not mean to snub him now, even though, she told herself, their friendship was just that, a friendship. Not the oddly named ‘relationship’ which, in Ashley’s eyes, meant so much more. He had told her only the previous day that he wanted to shoulder her burdens, to help her, and she had been happy enough to accept the help then.

‘So do I take it the old girl’s the lady of the manor? Then who’s the bloke? Her son?’

‘Yes to the first, no to the second. He’s just a nephew. Ash, is it all right if I walk back? Only I – I’d really like to be alone for a bit.’

‘Sure it’s all right,’ Ashley said at once. ‘Your mother will welcome the guests, and Cherie will help. And of course Mrs Thrower is at the house already, putting kettles on and setting out cakes.’

‘I know,’ Tess said. ‘I feel so bad about that, Ash. Mrs Thrower was a far better friend to Daddy than most of the people at the funeral, and she loved him, too. But someone had to put the kettles on, she said.’

‘Mrs Thrower is a practical Christian,’ a voice behind them said, and Tess turned to see the rector smiling at them. ‘She’ll have said her own goodbye to your father and it will be heard whether she said it in church or in the kitchen, boiling kettles and making tea. I came over to remind you, Mr Knox, that you’re giving old Mrs Fretwell a lift . . . she’s waiting down by the lychgate.’

‘Right away, Rector,’ Ashley said. ‘Off you go, Tess . . . by the way, Freddy was terribly sad that she couldn’t come along and support you today, but she couldn’t get leave.’

‘It was nice of Freddy to try to come, and awfully good of your parents.’ Tess said. ‘I’ll be off, then. See you presently, Ash.’

Tess set off at a good pace, for though the snow was thawing, it was still extremely cold. The church of St Michael and All the Angels was at least a mile from the village, so she would have a chance to stretch her legs – it would be the first chance, furthermore, since they had heard of Peter’s death. And it gave her time to think.

Naturally enough, Andy pretty well filled her thoughts. He had been a kid of thirteen when last she saw him, now he was . . . phew, getting on for twenty-two, since she would be twenty-one this coming year. She couldn’t make up her mind how she felt about him, though. He was a stranger, of course, that was why. She had known a boy, now she was meeting the man – there was a world of difference.

Yet against all the odds she was filled with happiness because he had come back. It was dreadfully sad that it had taken her father’s death to bring him to Barton once more, but at least he was back, and he and she had been such friends, had got on so well! He wasn’t a bit like Ashley, who was so complex that he probably puzzled himself; Andy was straightforward. Sensible. He had taken her hand, he hadn’t tried to sweep her into his arms or to embarrass her by pretending they still knew each other intimately, as they once had. She swung along, her boots making quick work of the melting snow, her cheeks warming with the speed of her going, and knew a sweet, uncertain happiness.

It seemed wrong to be happy with Peter only just buried, but she knew that her father would have been glad for her. He hadn’t liked Ashley but he had liked Andy right from the start. He wouldn’t expect her to leap into anyone’s arms, but he would want, above everything, her happiness. ‘If it makes you happy, darling,’ had been a phrase often on his lips as she grew older and began to want more independence. And anyway, she didn’t intend to make a big thing of Andy’s return, she was simply hoping for a resumption of their pleasant, friendly relationship.

She reached Deeping Lane, turned down it, and presently crunched up the drive, which had been cleared earlier in the day of the last traces of snow. At the front door, which was open, she braced herself. Warmth, food . . . and strangers as well as friends must be faced now.

Tess went into the house.

Marianne was doing the honours as Tess slipped into the drawing-room. She was neat and smart and not, to her daughters’ relief, weighed down with widow’s weeds. She wore a black dress with a low waist and a pleated skirt and black high-heeled pumps. She had put Peter’s pearls around her neck and the gold bracelet circling one wrist was the one he had bought her on their first trip to France together. Before they set off for the church she had told Tess, quite simply and sincerely, that she wanted to look her best for Peter’s sake. Tess, swallowing hard, had given Marianne’s hand a squeeze before she moved away.

Now, Tess thought that Cherie looked neat in her grey school skirt and cardigan, a cream blouse and a black band round one arm, and Tess herself was sombre in a charcoal-grey pleated skirt and a black cardigan. The men had mostly put on black ties though the younger ones, of course, wore uniform.

Our clothes say we’re sad, Tess thought. But our faces say it much better. Poor little Cherie is red-eyed and quiet, Marianne is white, my uncle and aunt are drawn. What does my face say? Does it say that I’ve got no one, now? Uncle Phil is a good, kind man, but we share no blood. I’m not even related to Cherie, though we call ourselves sisters. Ah, but I’ve good friends – the Throwers, Freddy and Ash . . . and Andy.

‘Tess?’

Ashley moved across and stood beside her, took her hand fleetingly, then offered her a plate laden with meringues.

‘Oh . . . thanks.’ She took one, bit into it. She thought,
How can I eat Marianne’s meringues, when they were Daddy’s favourites and he’ll never have another one, never tease her again about her cooking making him fat
?

‘Your guests are thinking about leaving, Tess,’ Ashley said gently in her ear. ‘When you’ve finished that, it might be politic to wander into the hall. You and Marianne ought to thank them for coming and so on.’

‘Of course; thanks, Ash.’ She moved over to stand beside her stepmother and people drifted over to them to offer thanks, sympathy, kindness. Ashley stood beside Tess, warm fingers holding her cold ones. He introduced her to her father’s colleagues and workmates. He had been busy finding out who was who whilst she walked back from church. It was a thoughtful thing to have done, Tess realised, and realised, too, that Ashley was at his best in this sort of situation. He looked incredibly handsome in Air Force blue with his wings on his chest, and he was being gentle with Cherie, sensible with Marianne, and tender and loving to herself. She was grateful to him; at that moment she almost loved him. But she knew, ruefully, that it would pass. Ashley wouldn’t be able to keep it up, all this charm. He’d start being clever-clever, sarky, rude . . . and in no time at all they’d be quarrelling.

The Knoxes were amongst the last of the guests to leave. When Tess thanked Mrs Knox for coming the older woman said that she had come for old times’ sake. ‘I knew your father a little and your mother rather better when we were young,’ Mrs Knox said quietly. ‘You mustn’t hesitate to get in touch if you need help of any sort. Ashley’s very fond of you – but I don’t have to tell you that.’

‘I’m very fond of Ashley . . . and of Freddy, too,’ Tess said. ‘But I think it’s Marianne who may need support. She was very wrapped up in my father.’

Mrs Knox squeezed her hand. ‘I’ll keep in touch with her, if she’ll allow me to do so,’ she said. ‘Poor little thing – dreadful to be widowed so young.’

‘There’s no good age for it,’ Tess said, and felt her cheeks grow hot. How pert she had sounded! But Mrs Knox just smiled and repeated her offer and then Mr Knox hooted and she ran to climb into the passenger seat of her husband’s smart car.

‘Ash will help you to wash up,’ she called out of the half-open window. And then she began to crank it shut because it was still very cold, though the thaw had set in. ‘Tell him supper’s at seven sharp.’

‘I will,’ Tess called back, and turned to her next departing guest.

Ashley stayed to supper, in the end, largely because Tess suddenly could not bear the thought of an evening spent without even the ghost of Peter in the Old House. She had taken Mrs Thrower’s advice to acknowledge and come to terms with her loss not because she wanted to do so but because it had happened as the coffin was covered over. Daddy had gone and she knew she could no longer expect to come face to face with him coming out of his study or heading for the stairs. A line had been drawn under her childhood and the house, which had been so much hers and Daddy’s, would be theirs no longer. She would go away and Marianne would gradually make it completely her own. And that was right, Tess acknowledged, it was what should happen, but that didn’t make her like it. So if Ashley stayed, she would be less likely to spend the evening mourning over times past.

It was a good supper, too. Mrs Thrower and Marianne had both over-catered, suddenly terrified by the thought of hungry, disappointed guests. So the four of them sat down to egg and ham pie, home-made bread and pickles, followed by a wonderful apple pie with thick cream.

‘You’re a first-class cook, Mrs Delamere,’ Ashley said, with his mouth full. ‘Tess will miss all this delicious food, I can tell you. They don’t spoil us in the Air Force, you know.’