Apple Blossom Time (34 page)

Mother looked rather put out at Grandmother’s judgement. ‘Perfect? I wouldn’t quite say that. He’s nicer than I’d feared, of course – he’d almost be eligible, if he were even ten years younger – but…’

‘Oh, but – don’t you see – he’s the answer. The answer to an old woman’s prayers, I might say.’ She paused fractionally, as though waiting for someone to say that she wasn’t really old. She was too proud to wait for long. ‘How else are we going to put Ansty House back into shape? We’ll never get a building licence for the work without some clout. Timber and bricks are like gold dust. There’s the roof … the gutters…’

‘No!’ Mother shouted – actually shouted – and to Grandmother.

‘Now, don’t be silly, Diana. I should have thought it was obvious enough, even for you. Kate must marry him.’

‘You are not going to sell her to the highest bidder. Kate is
my
daughter and – as you’ve never tired of pointing out over the years – she is
not
an Ansty.’

‘Then she is the next-best thing. She has been reared here. She has a duty to the family. And if Kate won’t marry him, then I shall have to do so myself.’

Grandmother knew when to make an exit. She left us gaping. But she was only joking. Wasn’t she? At the door, she turned for a final dart. She was famous for them.

‘The Anstys have a long history of sons. What a pity, Diana dear – I’ve thought it so often – what a pity you couldn’t contrive to give my son a son of his own.’

*   *   *

A few days later, an envelope with a London postmark arrived for me. There was a letter inside and I guessed that Geoffrey had sent it, but I didn’t take time to read it. It wasn’t important.

There was a photograph, spotty, faded. I pulled it carefully from the envelope.

Half a dozen men sprawled under a pear tree. They were all scruffy, boots filthy and unlaced, hatless, jackets unbuttoned, collars open. It was summer. Three of them had cut off their trousers at the knee to make unorthodox shorts. One had a ratty little terrier yawning on his lap. Another was stroking a kitten. A couple were smoking ridiculous pipes that made them look like schoolboys experimenting behind the cricket pavilion. They were all smiling. And they were all so young, years younger than I was.

One of them was Tom. He seemed to be about to go somewhere. His boots were laced up. Clay was caked on them, bulky as an extra sole. He was bending forward, trying to wrap his puttees and looking up at the camera, making a silly face.

The man next to Tom was my father. I knew that. Thin, rather bony face. Narrow nose. Stubborn chin. He’d caught hold of the loose end of one of Tom’s puttees and was trying to persuade the sleepy dog to grab it. He was laughing.

I had never seen him before, but I knew him. It was like looking at a picture of myself, if I had been a man. I was blood of his blood and bone of his bone. This person had made me in his own image. It was a disturbing thought. He had never seen the result of his love for my mother.

I sat in my bedroom with the photograph in my hands. I sat for a long time. It was difficult to put it away.

Lieutenant E J T Ansty, MC, Princess Augusta’s Own.

There he was at last. Son of Lieutenant-General Sir Hubert and Lady Ansty. Husband of Diana Lampard. Father of Laura Kenton.

I had seen him. The uniform had flesh.

*   *   *

I didn’t get round to the letter until later.

‘We had rather a sticky journey back,’ Geoffrey wrote,

that included a nasty prang at Bullington Cross. We seem to have been dripping brake fluid all the way from your house. I can’t understand it. I make sure that car is properly looked after. My mechanic will have some questions to answer. My poor Kate banged her head and needed a few stitches, but is nicely on the mend now. She’s worried there will be a scar, but I tell her that I shan’t care if there is. It could have been so much worse. I should like to talk to you again. Could you come up to town somewhen? Kate would be so glad to see you. Let me know and I’ll send you a ticket. Or perhaps we could meet when I come to pick up the car.

I sent an immediate telegram to find out how Kate was. I’d decided to wait for the answer before telling Mother and Tom. Mother had enough to worry about.

The reply was short:

BLACK AND BLUE BUT FINE STOP DON’T WORRY MUMMY AND DADDY STOP LOVE KATE

*   *   *

‘I don’t understand it. I’ve given them his name, rank and unit and approximate date of death and the War Graves Commission
still
can’t find him. He must be somewhere. Someone must have buried him. He wasn’t like the bodies that were blown up and disintegrated. If you shoot someone, you have a corpse. They must have put him somewhere when they’d finished with him.’

‘And what will you do when you find him, Laura?’ Pansy asked, a little voice of common sense.

‘I don’t know.’ I stopped pacing round the vicarage kitchen and thought. ‘I don’t know. I simply need to find him. I need to know that he hasn’t been just … just thrown away.’

Pansy shuddered. ‘Don’t say that! Look – I’m sorry – I have to dash round to the church. Mrs Attwood has her twinges again and
someone
has to fill the vases for the flower ladies or there’ll be ructions. Do you think you could sit with Daddy while I’m out? Would you mind? He’s feeling a bit tired today and I don’t like to leave him for too long.’

Mr Millport was in his study. Outside, it was still summer and he had a meagre fire burning, yet the north-facing room was cold, the air heavy and still. Nothing ever warmed it. I could remember my confirmation classes, after tea on winter Sunday evenings. We’d all put extra coats and scarves on to come in, and taken them off to go out. He wore a plaid blanket around his shoulders and his scalp was hidden beneath a knitted tea cosy of a cap. His chair was pulled up to the big desk where he’d written forty-six years’ worth of sermons. Today he wasn’t writing. His head drooped over his chest. I thought he was asleep, but he looked up as I tiptoed into the room.

‘Ah, Laura,’ he said with a tremulous smile of greeting. His voice was like a breeze through a drift of dry leaves. ‘How nice of you to come and see me. I find it a little difficult to get around my parish now, I’m afraid. So kind to come to me…’

‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘Not asleep – no, not asleep, my dear. Just thinking. There’s a PCC meeting tonight. So much to do. New rotas for readers and sidesmen … all in a muddle … oh dear … and the churchwardens at loggerheads, as usual … we must have the war memorial newly inscribed. All those young men. That’s not on the agenda. I must bring it up under AOB. So much to do…’

I hadn’t thought about it until that moment. Of course. It was so obvious. This is what I had to do.

‘Mr Millport – will you put my father on the memorial, please?’

He pushed his spectacles back up his nose and they slid down again. ‘Your father…? Oh, my dear Laura, is that really such a good idea?’

‘I know now – everything. You don’t need to pretend any more.’

‘I’m not at all sure – I don’t think I could go against Lady Ansty’s wish.’

‘My grandmother’s wish?’ I queried, more sharply than I’d meant.

‘She was quite specific. The cross was put up in 1920 and she came to see me before the masons began work. She funded a generous proportion of the cost, of course. I remember the day well. No name, she insisted. I had no objections to your father’s name, of course … though some might … Who is to say what perils and dangers he passed through? “The pains of hell came about me: the snares of death overtook me … I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint: my heart also in the midst of my body is even like melting wax…” It is not our place to judge, Laura … “my strength is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue cleaveth to my gums: and thou shalt bring me into the dust of death…” Yes, yes, it must have been like that for him … poor boy.’

‘And what did my grandmother say?’

‘A strong-minded woman. She said that she did not wish her son’s name to appear on the memorial. Feelings ran very high, then. I don’t think you’d understand, Laura. Your war has been different. There is compassion for men like Edwin, men who couldn’t take any more. But at the time, no-one realized. There would have been talk…’

‘What did that matter? People are always talking.’

‘Perhaps even desecration of the monument, who can guess. There was so much bitterness. Your grandmother is a proud woman. Stubborn, perhaps – it’s not for me to comment. She felt that there were – matters – that were better forgotten.’

‘Oh, yes. I can believe that. How could she treat her son’s memory like that? How could she just pretend that nothing had happened. She wiped him away. I’ll never forgive her for it. Never.’

‘But you must. Child, you must. You couldn’t be so cruel. She is your grandmother.’

‘And she is Lady Ansty. She is patron of your living, after all. What was your conscience compared to that?’

‘Laura…’

His hands came up as though to ward me off. They made me feel guilty. The tip of each finger was quite bloodless. The nails were ridged, tinged with blue.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. That was thoughtless. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

‘You may be right. Who is to say? And was she entirely wrong? I’m not certain.’ His lips fluttered with a little, rippling sigh. ‘I’m certain of so little now, Laura. It’s very confusing. Is it time for tea, yet? Where’s Pansy?’

‘Pansy’s popped over to the church for a moment. I don’t suppose she’ll be long.’ I felt a deep sense of shame over my outburst. ‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?’

‘That would be nice. How kind. I may work for a while on my notes for tonight.’

He’d fallen asleep again by the time I came back. I didn’t like to wake him. The tea would keep warm under its cosy for half an hour or so. The room was very peaceful. I sat and thought about what he had said until Pansy came back.

So much revolved around my grandmother. The cache of letters, the preserved uniform, the missing name. The silences. The denials. The betrayal.

He was her son, for God’s sake.

What a secret woman. What a strong woman. Unyielding. Adamantine. I had a ferocious desire to lock myself in a room with her and
force
her to talk to me. No matter how long it took. How foolish. I could batter myself against her resolve until I was bloody. She would never weaken.

Pansy put her head around the door. I held a finger up to my lips. No need to waken Mr Millport until he was ready. Then the quality of the silence made me think again. The clock was still ticking. The ash of the dying fire trickled through the bars of the grate. Pansy’s father wasn’t breathing.

*   *   *

Kate came down for the funeral, but, wisely, left her lover in town. She had cunningly arranged her hair to hide the cut on her forehead. She looked like a classier Veronica Lake. As long as the wind didn’t blow, Mother would never notice.

Tom noticed, however. He pushed back the curtain of hair and looked in shock at the red, stitched gash. It was longer and deeper than Geoffrey had let on. ‘Sweetheart – what happened?’

‘Just a bump, Daddy. Don’t fuss.’

‘If that man laid a finger on you…’

‘Of course not. Don’t be silly. Just a bit of a smash in Geoffrey’s car. Killed someone’s dog, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, God…’

Fiercely, he clasped her and laid his lips on the scar, then let her go, leaving Kate to stare after him as he slammed out the door.

‘It’s not that bad,’ said Kate, with a shrug.

*   *   *

After the funeral, Kate and I helped Pansy move from the vicarage. Grandmother was letting her have a couple of rooms until she could find somewhere to live, and a job. It was a distressing task. Pansy had been born there.

‘We shall be busy,’ Pansy declared. ‘That’s a blessing. And all the furniture was here when Daddy arrived. That’s something. We shan’t have to think what to do with it. I suppose the new incumbent will want it.’

‘What do you know about him?’ asked Kate.

‘Only that he’s been a varsity Blue before the war and a forces chaplain for the duration. A muscular Christian, I imagine, a bible tucked under one arm and a rugby ball under the other.’

With the energy of a squirrel, Pansy stacked clothes, papers and books. ‘Salvation Army, I suppose,’ she said, adding to a pile of clerical grey suits of Victorian cut, shiny at the elbows and knees. ‘I wonder who could possibly want old surplices? Do you imagine there is a clothing fund for distressed clergymen?’

In a rusty dustbin in the garden smouldered parish paperwork that had accumulated since 1899, when young – but already middle-aged – Mr Millport, the new bachelor vicar, had arrived to care for the souls of Ansty Parva. Surely, he had thrown nothing away since then. Amongst the rubbish, we could have been burning heaven knows what valuable records. The spiral of smoke, flecked with charred specks of paper, reminded me of Ash Wednesday in Cairo. We ought to have put it by for salvage, I suppose, but the effort was just too great.

Still, Pansy rushed round with a smile that might have been set in plaster.

There were crates of books, most of them unimaginably dull. ‘Perhaps that bookshop in Salisbury might take them as a job lot. You know? The one near the Close gate. I must ask.’

‘But you ought to check. Some of them might be worth something,’ suggested Kate.

‘I don’t think so. Daddy didn’t have a thing that was valuable. He didn’t believe in property.’ Pansy said it proudly. It was almost a boast.

And every time Kate or I suggested that Pansy might keep such-and-such a thing, she’d brush the idea aside.

‘I won’t have room. I won’t have room,’ she’d say and rush off to clear somewhere else.

Kate pulled out a drawer in the hall table. ‘Good Lord, Pansy,’ she exclaimed. ‘Your problems are solved. You can open a shop.’

It was full of spectacles. Gold-rimmed pince-nez. Sturdy tortoiseshell frames, the legs elastic-looped for sport. Sixpenny ready-mades from Woolworth’s.

Jonathan grabbed a pair. ‘Grampa’s,’ he said and trotted off into the study. ‘My bring them for Grampa.’