The Last Summer (29 page)

When we motored up the driveway that day we were stunned by what we saw. The gardens, only five years before so lovingly tended and well kept, were lost, hidden under giant thistles and waist-high weeds; cows roamed about, grazing on what had once been the tennis lawn, and the whole place was littered with debris: dilapidated huts, piles of wood, rolls of barbed wire, abandoned wheels and oil drums. ‘Like a gypsy encampment,’ Mama said, staring out of the car window as we approached the house. Tank tyre tracks had slewed up the earth where manicured lawns and neatly arranged flower beds had been; and great clumps of grass, dandelions and rampant ivy clung to every ornamental wall and flagstone pathway. Without Mama, without the gardeners, the wilderness had finally marched in on the place, exactly as I’d once imagined.

I wondered then if Tom Cuthbert might be about. I knew Mrs Cuthbert still lived at Deyning, in the same cottage, but I’d never once heard Tom’s name mentioned. In fact, I had no idea where he was or what he was doing with his life. And though I still dreamt of him from time to time, I hadn’t actually thought of him in a while. I’d been busy, looking after Charlie and seeing to our new home. We’d recently moved into a house not far from Mama’s, and she and I had spent the preceding weeks selecting wallpapers, fabrics and new furnishings. The move had distracted me, and perhaps Mama too, from the impending loss of Deyning. And she seemed to have finally accepted that Deyning, like William and George and Papa, belonged to the past and not the future.

As our car came to a standstill I felt a sense of dread, and wondered what awaited us inside. But my father had been right: the house
had
been wrecked. Spindles – and even some of the balusters – had disappeared from the staircase; shelves
and panelling – gone; a number of doors were missing, others, hung splintered from shattered hinges; and broken windowpanes, crudely boarded over, made the place appear even more dark and gloomy. My mother quietly wept, shaking her head in dismay as she walked about the place, moving slowly from room to room, unable to comprehend the decimation.

‘I can’t believe it,’ I said. ‘It’s only been five years.’

‘But a long five years,’ Henry replied.

‘Yes. A very, very long five years,’ my mother whispered.

‘Mrs Cuthbert’s been wonderful, and Mabel’s come back to help too. She’s in the kitchen, I think. We’ve all worked jolly hard. You should’ve seen the place when we arrived here . . . it was bloody filthy,’ Henry said and then laughed, but his laugh was forced and shrill.

My mother moved towards him, lifted her hand to his face, and stroked his cheek. She said, ‘Henry, my darling boy, your father would be so proud of you. This is not what he would have wished for, not what he would have wished to see happening, but he would be proud of you, my dear.’

But the atmosphere was strange, and Henry’s mood odd and unpredictable. He pulled away from her, began to rub the place she’d touched, as though wiping away something, as though in pain.

‘It’s all right, Henry,’ she said, in a barely audible monotone. ‘Everything is fine. All will be well.’

I suppose she knew the signs, even then; knew when Henry was about to have an attack.

‘Clarissa, could you please ask Mabel to serve tea now. Henry and I will be in the morning room.’

I walked away, down the passageway towards the kitchen, and at the door I stopped and turned back to look at them. Henry’s head rested upon Mama’s shoulder, and I thought he looked as though he was crying. She was stroking his hair, whispering to him.
It was the first time I’d seen what my mother would later refer to as Henry’s ‘panic attacks’.

The following morning I rose early. I’d decided to have a final ride across what was still our land, on Father’s old horse, Brandy. We’d always kept livestock at Deyning, always had horses. Before the War, before our younger horses went off to the front, I think we’d had over a dozen. But now there was only Brandy; and he, too, despite all my pleadings, was going to auction.

It was a bright morning, the stable yard filled with sunshine and the warm smell of manure. I saddled up Brandy myself, and as I stood in the shadows – on the mounting block – I was vaguely aware of someone out of the corner of my eye. I took no notice, thinking it to be one of the men from the village Henry had brought in to help clear the place up.

I mounted Brandy, gathered up the reins.

‘Hello, Clarissa.’

It took me a moment to realise it was him. He looked so different: unshaven, shabby. And for a split second I thought I might be dreaming, that perhaps he wasn’t real, was a vision. I’d heard that sometimes – even when we’re least expecting it – we’re able to conjure up absent loved ones, like ghosts. He must have sensed my shock, because he grimaced as he turned away from me.

‘Tom . . . I didn’t know . . . didn’t know you were here. No one said.’

He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking down at the ground. Then he raised his head and without turning to look at me, he said, ‘I think my congratulations are a little late, Mrs Boyd.’

I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know what to say.

He moved across the cobblestones towards me, and I could feel my heart, pounding so violently I thought I might faint.

‘I saw your wedding photograph, of course . . . in
some
magazine or other,’ he said, standing in front of me, reaching out to stroke the horse’s nose. ‘And I wish you both well. Charlie’s a decent chap . . . and a lucky man,’ he added.

He leant forward, rubbing the side of his face against Brandy’s jaw. And I wanted to reach down, touch him; run my hand through his hair.

I said, ‘So, how are you? You look . . . a little different.’

He didn’t look up, but kept his face pressed against the horse.

‘I am different,’ he said. ‘And you are too, Clarissa.’

‘Yes, we’re all changed, Tom. Life’s changed.’

He stepped back, raised his eyes to me. ‘It is. And times move on.’

‘Yes, times move on . . . they have to,’ I said, feeling that tug: a pull in my solar plexus. ‘And doesn’t it seem like a lifetime ago,’ I continued, trying to sound like an old friend, ‘that we were all last here, all of us together?’

He stared at me. ‘Yes, a lifetime. It’s a different world.’

‘A different world,’ I repeated.

‘But a lovely morning for a ride,’ he added. Then he turned, walked across to the stable-yard gate and opened it for me. I pulled on the reins, moved across the cobblestoned courtyard, and as I passed through the gate I looked down at him and simply said, ‘Thank you,’ the way I would to anyone. As I entered the meadow, looking out upon that place which had once been ours, I shut my eyes. Then I heard the clunk of the gate behind me – like a latch dropping on my heart – and I turned back, but he’d already disappeared.

My ride was not the ride I’d anticipated. All I could think of was him. Each point along the way led me back to him: every tree and field, each fence and gate and stile. Every familiar point on the horizon, memorised and cherished for the moments I’d spent there with him, or thinking of him; each landmark and
vista reminding me of him. A white veil of mist hung over the lake, and beyond it, a windless, serene landscape: dream-like and out of reach.

When I returned to the stables, an hour or so later, a young boy helped me to dismount and took Brandy from me. And I contemplated going to Mrs Cuthbert’s cottage and knocking on the door. I wasn’t sure what I’d say, or even if he’d be there, but I wanted to see him, wanted to say so much. But how could I? And what was there to say now? I was married. I was Mrs Boyd.

Over breakfast, and before Mama came down, I asked Henry what was to become of Mrs Cuthbert. He told me she’d be fine; she’d stay on in her cottage, he thought; probably continue as housekeeper at Deyning. It wasn’t the right time to ask too many questions, and Henry didn’t seem to cope well with questions – so I tried to leave it at that. I tried but I couldn’t.

‘I saw Tom Cuthbert this morning,’ I said, as I buttered my toast.

‘Oh yes,’ Henry replied, from behind the newspaper.

‘Has he been here for long?’

He lowered the paper, stared across the table at me. ‘He’s been here for years, Issa. You know that.’

‘Yes, yes . . . I know he’s lived here for some years, but he went away to war too,’ I said, wondering if Henry had somehow momentarily forgotten about the War. ‘What I meant was has he been back here long?’

‘Oh, I’ve no idea. He’s certainly been around for the last couple of weeks, but how long before that I’m really not sure.’ He shuffled the newspaper, folding it and laying it down next to him, then added, ‘Yes, now I come to think of it, he did ask after you.’ He looked across at me and smiled. ‘You know I always had a hunch that he . . . rather liked you. Even looked a tad despondent when I told him you
and
your husband would be coming down.’

‘Charlie had to stay in London . . . he’s still having treatment. And, anyway, he wouldn’t have coped with the chaos and upheaval here.’

Mama had already informed me that our day was to be spent listing all of the items that were to be sent to London, and those that were to remain at the house to be auctioned. A full day’s work, she’d said to me the previous evening. I couldn’t disappear, and I knew that she would not be pleased to know Tom Cuthbert was about, back at Deyning. And, though I was worried about how she would react to that news, I decided I had to tell her I’d seen him; explain to her, prepare her. But the thought of uttering his name to her made me shake so much that when I lifted a slice of toast to my mouth I noticed my hand already trembling.

In the end it was easier than I’d anticipated. We were sitting in what was once her boudoir, ticking off items on Henry’s scrawled inventory.

‘Yes, I knew he was here,’ she said, without looking up at me. ‘How is he?’

‘He’s . . . fine. Older, of course,’ I said, surprised by her lack of reaction, her calmness.

‘How was he with you?’ she asked, moving papers about.

‘Perfectly fine. It was brief, Mama. We said very little, but he wished me well on my marriage.’

‘Good,’ she said, and then she looked up at me. ‘Do you still love him?’

I couldn’t quite believe she’d asked me that question, so boldly, so openly. And even now, I find it hard to believe that she did. For in those five words she finally acknowledged something: that I had loved Tom Cuthbert.

‘I don’t know,’ I answered, honestly.

‘I do what I think is best for each of you . . . both of you,’ she said, lowering her eyes again. ‘It could never have come to
anything. But I think you realise that now.’ She peered at me, over her spectacles, and I could tell she wasn’t quite finished. ‘You’ve been through a great deal, Clarissa, but it’s all in the past now. Leave it there. Don’t be tempted to revisit those dark days.’

At first I wondered what she meant. Was she referring to my baby? Was she worried I’d tell Tom?

‘I have no intention of revisiting them, Mama,’ I replied, looking away from her to the list in front of me.

It had been two years. Two years since I’d discovered I was pregnant with Tom’s child, and yet it felt to me more like ten. So much had happened in that short space of time: I’d been sent away, given birth to my daughter and given her away; and now I was married. But of course only my mother knew all of this. A piece of my history, those
dark days
– that indelible part of my story – could never be acknowledged; never be spoken of. Some losses, it seemed to me, particularly in wartime, were noble sacrifices, but the loss of an unplanned, illegitimate child was beyond shameful; it was, quite simply, unmentionable. Later, upon reflection, I knew exactly why my mother was so concerned. She was worried that my seeing Tom Cuthbert again would reopen what had once appeared to her to be a gaping, messy wound. After all, it had tidied up nicely, left no visible scars.

That evening, having our before-dinner drinks in the dismantled drawing room, he appeared; dressed for dinner, shaven and dapper. I was shocked. I half expected my mother to ask him to leave, but instead she moved towards him, asked him how he was, spoke to him kindly, even tenderly, and he was nothing less than a gentleman in his demeanour and replies to her. Henry was in the mood for a party and played ‘I Wonder Who’s Kissing Her Now’ on the gramophone.

‘Come along, Issa . . .’ he shouted, tugging at my hand, already
half drunk. He sang the words of the song, pulling me across the bare floorboards, a cigarette hanging from his dry lips, as Mama looked on, smiling nervously, her head slightly lowered – ready, expectant of anything. He would peak early and collapse, I thought, and I’m sure she thought that too.

Julian Carter and Michael Deighton had been in the same year at school with my brother. They were Henry’s only two surviving friends – along with Charlie and Jimmy – from what he’d once called The Set. Almost their entire year had been killed in action. Michael had been a patient at the same hospital in Edinburgh as Charlie for a while and was a gentle, fragile soul, with a nervous smile and quiet manner. Julian had once been like Henry: handsome, loud, and full of fun; but all arrogance had been knocked out of him. He’d served in the Royal Flying Corps and had been badly burned and blinded when his aeroplane crashed returning from a night mission. No girls would ever again be rushing to kiss his mauled lips and badly grafted face.