The Hardie Inheritance (30 page)

‘It's not worth it, Trish. People think that just once isn't much of a risk, but for some reason the first time seems specially likely to produce a baby. You must wait till you're married. You're sensible enough to understand that, while you're looking at it rationally. It can ruin a girl's life, being landed with an illegitimate baby.'

‘Gordon would marry me.'

‘Gordon's only eighteen, and he won't be planning to stay in England much longer now. Far too young to want to settle down. The sort of marriage that starts with a shotgun wedding never quite escapes from the feeling that one partner or the other has been trapped.'

‘Well anyway, of course I don't intend to do anything silly.'

‘I'm sure. All I'm asking is for you to turn that into a promise. Just for the next twenty-four hours. Your own resolve to yourself might get swept away in a general mood of celebration; but if you make a specific promise, from you to me, I know you'll keep it.'

‘I promise,' said Trish, although there was a note of sulkiness in her voice. But as soon as she emerged from the studio her
feeling that the day had been spoiled was swept away by the sight of Gordon in his uniform.

‘Might as well make it clear that I won the war personally,' he grinned. ‘You nearly ready?'

‘Not quite. We'd better take a picnic meal with us, don't you think? I'm just going to see what Mrs Barrett can spare.' All her ebullience returned as she ran off to the kitchen. This was going to be a day to remember.

Even the train journey to London proved to be part of the celebration. Undergraduates were not allowed to leave Oxford during term without special permission from their tutors, but it looked as though almost the whole student body would be fined or sent down if the rules were to be enforced today. There was a good deal of singing and every Union Jack flying within sight of the track provoked a burst of cheering. Trish and Gordon were as noisy as the rest.

Only one moment of seriousness interrupted their gaiety.

‘You'll be able to make plans now,' Gordon suggested. ‘Difficult to think ahead, isn't it, in wartime, knowing you're likely to get pushed around. What are you going to do when –'

‘If you say “when you're grown up” I shall never speak to you again. I'm grown up now.'

‘I know that. When you've finished at college, I meant.'

‘I don't know. I don't even know whether I'm going to go on with the course. There's so much dull stuff. Drawing from plaster casts. I'm not really interested in drawing. I tell myself that it's a necessary skill, a kind of basic foundation, but I don't enjoy it. I like sloshing colours about, and I seem to have picked the wrong teachers for that.'

‘I was asking a more general question. Do you see yourself in five years' time, say, as an artist?'

‘Yes,' said Trish emphatically. ‘Some kind of artist. Not the sort who sits in front of an easel painting rectangular pictures, though. That's the problem, in a way. I can't quite visualize what it is that I want to paint, and so I don't know whether I'm going the right way about learning how to do it. But you're
right about the end of the war making a difference. Grace will let me live in London now, I'm sure. And then I shall feel that I'm in the swim of things at last. I mean, I know how lucky I've been to be brought up at Greystones, but it's a sort of backwater, if you see what I mean.'

‘It doesn't seem to worry Grace.'

‘I think Grace is a genius,' Trish said seriously. ‘All these marvellous things she creates just come out of her own imagination. She could do them anywhere, wherever she happened to be. I'm not like that. I need to have new experiences bouncing off me all the time so that I can choose to grab one or two of them that interest me and see what I can do with them.'

‘Reckon you're right, then, that London is the place for you. It's not likely to seem a backwater today. The centre of the world, more like.'

He leaned over to kiss her on the lips as the train pulled into Paddington. The undergraduates in their compartment cheered their approval as loudly as if they had seen another Union Jack. It was that sort of day.

The hours passed in a happy jostling. The only time silence fell was when Big Ben chimed three o'clock and the dense mass of people in Whitehall listened over loudspeakers to the Prime Minister's announcement that the war in Europe would end at midnight.

The cheering turned into singing. To the strains of ‘Land of Hope and Glory' Trish and Gordon were carried by the tide of bodies into Trafalgar Square. They held hands tightly in order not to lose each other in the crowd.

‘Buckingham Palace?' Gordon suggested. But they were not the only ones who had decided to visit the royal family, and the Mall was so crowded that it was hardly possible to move.

‘We could go along Pall Mall,' suggested Trish. ‘Let's call on The House of Hardie.'

The shop was closed, of course, but they paused for a moment in front of its unpretentious entrance. Gordon laughed.

‘You could say this is responsible for my existence!'

‘How d'you mean?'

‘Well, when my dad first arrived in Australia he bummed around prospecting for gold, without ever finding anything to make a fuss about. Time came when he needed a job if he was going to eat, and he was told my grandfather was looking for labour. First thing he was asked – well, the
only
thing he was asked – was whether he knew anything about growing grapes or making wine. Shouldn't think he'd ever pruned a vine in his life, but he pitched in strong about how he'd been brought up in this great family wine business. Got the job and went on to marry the boss's only daughter. Which is how he comes to own a vineyard.'

‘And you'll own it one day.'

‘Unless I do something so crazy that I get the boot. But that won't happen.' They began to walk along the street again. ‘Something I've noticed. People who have money – cash – like to jiggle about with their wills. Always thinking of something new they could do with it. This week it's Auntie Jane, next week it's the cook, next year it could be the local orphanage. Seems to be part of the fun, imagining someone's pleasure and someone else's disappointment. But people who've got land, property, are different. They want to know for sure who's going to inherit, because they're spending the whole of their own life working for that person. My dad works like a nigger clearing new land and planting it, digging irrigation systems, all that lark. Doesn't make sense, really. He can live well enough on what he's got. But he wants me to have more than he had. That's his pleasure. If I were to say to him one day, “Sorry, Dad, but I'm going to be an opera singer or something and I don't want the land,” it would break his heart. What would be the point of anything for him?'

‘I hadn't thought of it like that,' said Trish. ‘I've never wanted to inherit anything. Because first of all someone you love has to die. And because it seemed – well, greedy, I suppose – to want what belongs to somebody else.'

‘Some people
are
greedy. You have to look at your own feelings straight. I know in my case that it gives my father pleasure to know that in thirty years' time I shall be walking between the vines he's just planted. Holy cow, look at this!'

From the top of a flight of steps they stared down at a carpet of heads. The carpet was both moving and singing.

‘The hokey cokey! Come on, in we go.' Together they ran down the steps and joined the huge snake of dancers.

The movement brought them at last to the front of the palace. They cheered the king and queen and the two princesses on the balcony, they sang and danced, they cheered the king and queen again.

By ten o'clock they had been on their feet for eight hours and retreated, exhausted, to sit on the grass in Green Park.

‘When d'you think you'll go back to Australia?' asked Trish.

‘Dunno. This could be the snag about coming over here to join up. The Jap war isn't over yet, so the Aussie brigades may be sent back straightaway. But if the British work on the first in first out system, I'll be well down the list. All the same, it's soldiers on the ground, not aeroplanes, they'll need to occupy Germany. The ability to drop a bomb in the right place won't be in much demand. They might decide that there's not much point in paying me to hang around.'

‘You'll be glad to go?'

‘Glad and sorry both.' He turned his head to look at her. ‘Glad to get home to my own personal backwater. But sorry to leave you, Trish.'

‘Sorry enough to consider staying? You might take over the Greystones vineyard.'

‘That's only a toy project. A sideline. Not a full-time job for a man. One of these days you're going to find yourself ditching it. I remember you told me you wanted to keep it going in memory of my Uncle Philip. But that's not good enough. A vineyard's not like an ordinary farm. It isn't enough just to hoe it and prune it and tie it and spray it. You have to, well, love it. My dad, he can't think of anything else. But no
one has room for more than one enthusiasm like that. Grace has got her carving and you're going to have your painting. Unless Andy takes it off your hands, you're going to find it a burden.'

‘That's why it would be so marvellous if you'd take it over. As something to do while your father is still in charge of his own property.'

Gordon shook his head. ‘It doesn't work like that,' he said. ‘He let me go because coming here was something I wanted to do. But he's not trying to keep me at arm's length until it's time for me to take over. He's working for me and I must work for him. Kind of partnership.' He leaned across and kissed her on the lips, pressing her back until they were both lying on the grass. ‘I really am sorry, Trish. I love you, you know that.'

‘Not enough,' said Trish, struggling with a wish to cry.

‘Maybe you'll come out to Australia one day.'

‘Maybe.'

Now, when it was too late to take back anything that had been said earlier, she realized that this conversation could never have been more than a summing up. Without realizing what she was saying, she had made it clear on the train that she would find as little stimulus in an Australian backwater as she would in Greystones. And now he was telling her in so many words what Grace had warned her of already: that he was not yet ready to think of marriage.

She flung her arms round his neck, pulling him down closer as though the strength of her embrace could hold him in England. At first he kissed her as passionately as she could have wished, pressing his lips against her face and neck until she was gasping with the wish to surrender to him. But almost as though he was aware of the promise she had made to Grace – and knew that she needed help if she were to keep it – he drew away, sighing with the effort.

‘Wouldn't be right when I'll be going so soon,' he muttered, almost to himself. ‘Reckon we ought to be getting back.'

Looking at her watch, Trish saw that they could catch the
last train. She stood up and smoothed down her frock. Out in the street the crowds were still noisy, singing to the sound of accordions or mouth organs. But the park was a quiet place of whispers. She held Gordon's hand tightly as they made their way between couples who for the rest of their lives would remember VE-Day for the beginning of a love affair rather than an end.

In the train going home, Trish sat close to Gordon. Her head pressed against his shoulder; his arm squeezed her waist. They did not speak. There was something bitter sweet about their recognition that soon they would part and might never see each other again. It was in keeping with the mood of the day, the ending of the war. For almost six years people had been talking about what they would do when the war was over, and now it was. A new era was starting, and part of its thrill lay in the fact that Trish had no idea what it might hold for her.

So, as the train clattered through the night, she found herself happy and sad at the same time. Peace would bring homecoming, and ‘home' meant something different to everyone. Gordon would go to Australia: Rupert and Jean-Paul and Terry would come back to England. Max would return to Harrow. She herself could choose to leave a house which had become her home simply because her father had married its owner. A new life was about to begin.

Now that the war was over, Ellis returned to Greystones. Unsure what direction his own career should take, he set himself to the task of organizing a new exhibition of Grace's sculptures.

This proved difficult, for the triumphs and disasters of war had inspired her to work on a heroic scale. There was no London gallery which could display more than one or two of these pieces or provide them with an appropriate setting.

It was Terry, a natural salesman but unencumbered by any knowledge of the traditional methods of selling works of art, who came up with a solution. He appeared without warning on an afternoon at the end of May, his head dramatically turbaned by a bandage which covered one eye and ear and wound round his forehead.

‘My luck ran out,' he announced. ‘After five years without a scratch! Still, at least it's going to get me an early demob. I've got a medical board next week, but I've seen the doctor's report. No more marching, no more drill.'

‘But does that mean that there are going to be permanent effects?' asked Grace anxiously.

‘Looks like it, yes. Hasn't done my left eye much good.' He grinned at his brothers. ‘Shall I wear a black patch and look like a pirate? Good thing Jerry hit something I've got two of. How's everything here?'

Accepting his wish to change the subject and keep the conversation cheerful, Grace told him about Ellis's efforts to arrange a selling exhibition for her.

‘He's up in London again today,' she told him. ‘But he doesn't seem to be having much luck.'