Apple Blossom Time (46 page)

So much was now clear. I knew the how. I knew the where. I knew the when. But why? The last piece of the puzzle was lying close to my hand. And I’d make it fit, even if I had to break it first.

*   *   *

Just before Christmas, at the darkest time of the year, just when you think that there will never be light again, Pansy and Peter Sutton were married.

It was supposed to be a quiet wedding, suitable for two quiet people, especially since there had been a lot of gossip, not all of it charitable, about their marriage. It wasn’t unexpected that the parish biddies would shake their heads and tut-tut and predict disaster, but Pansy was still hurt by their attitude.

Peter’s widowed mother was there, and a sister whose husband had been in a Japanese PoW camp since the fall of Singapore and was still too weak to travel. Pansy invited Vee and me, of course. And that meant Jennifer and Carlton, too, with picture books to keep them amused during the quiet parts. I was supposed to keep an eye on Jonathan and stop him rushing round the church pushing a toy car that Peter had given him. My grandmother and mother were there, too, with Grandmother wearing a splendid toque that she’d retrimmed using the sable collar from a coat that had caught moth.

She quite outshone the bride, who’d only just been dissuaded by Vee from wearing her Sunday-best costume, six years old and too good to retire, serviceable pigeon-grey, with a useful box-pleated skirt and a just-not-quite-fitted-enough jacket.

*   *   *

‘Not on your nelly,’ Vee had warned her.

‘But it’s all I’ve got. I could smarten it up with a frilly blouse or something.’

Vee shuddered. ‘You’d look like the WI speaker, who’d blundered through the wrong door.’

‘Well, I’m certainly not going to wear cascades of white. That wouldn’t be at all decent – considering…’

I lay on my tummy across Pansy’s bed, swinging my heels over the edge, one shoe off and the other shoe on. ‘Things were a lot easier when we all wore uniform. No worrying what to wear, no worrying if we grew out of something or it wore out, no worrying that your shoes or bag didn’t match.’

‘Oh, those were the days,’ mocked Vee. ‘Pansy’d look gorgeous waltzing up the aisle in her cook’s overall and turban!’

Pansy was beginning to look alarmed. ‘Really, it doesn’t matter. Do let’s get on. It’s going to be a very quiet wedding, anyway.’

‘But it’s also the only one you’ll have – I hope – so make it a good one. Now…’ Vee opened the suitcase she’d brought with her and displayed the treasures she’d managed to bring back from America. ‘What about this? No? You’re probably right – a bit flash. Even I wouldn’t get married in magenta. Well, then, this … oh, yes…’

The ice blue costume was just right. Modest, maidenly, but charming – most unlike Vee! Peter would be knocked out by it. But it made Pansy look like a child who’d been raiding her mother’s wardrobe.

‘It’s no good, Vee,’ she’d wailed. ‘I haven’t got your … your…’

‘Bosoms,’ I’d finished for her.

‘Bust, I was going to say. Well, I haven’t, have I? And don’t you
dare
suggest stuffing me like a goose! Please don’t think I’m not grateful – I am and it’s lovely – but it doesn’t fit and that’s that.’

Vee’s mouth was already full of pins. ‘It will,’ she’d muttered. ‘It will.’

*   *   *

And it did. Nobody would have guessed that Vee had had to take the suit apart and put it back together again, three sizes smaller. She’d only finished at midnight. Pansy looked like an ice maiden. Her usually pink cheeks were drained of blood, but she must have bitten her lips in her nervousness, because they were a startling slash in her pale, un-made-up face. She carried a tiny posy of sweet white narcissi that Tom had forced especially for her.

She walked towards the altar with her hand tucked, like a trusting child’s, into the crook of Tom’s arm. And when Tom had given her away and returned to his seat, he left her looking even smaller beside her muscular Peter.

Vee nudged me. She’d not put on any mascara that morning, because, as she’d said, it would be all down her cheeks before the first hymn, so her eyes looked like peeled boiled eggs. Just as well. The tears were already streaming down her face.

‘Bless her,’ she whispered. ‘I just hope she makes a better job of it than you and me.’

And when Pansy said, ‘I, Pansy Aurora, take thee, Peter John, to my wedded husband…’ in a voice that startled us all with its clarity, she looked at her new husband and the colour flooded back into her cheeks. He gave her hand a little pat. I was suddenly certain that it was going to be all right.

A quiet wedding, Pansy had said, but when we left the church we found the back pews were full of women who’d come to wish the vicar and his new bride well. Abbie was there, and old Mrs Pocknell and Josie and Mrs Attwood with her brass-polishing duster hanging out of her pocket, both Colebecks because the pub was closed, Mrs Treadwell in WVS uniform … they were all there. Pansy had been forgiven.

‘Sanctimonious old cows,’ Vee hissed in my ear, but loudly enough to be heard as she passed Mrs Treadwell. ‘They don’t deserve her.’

*   *   *

There was a splendid lunch that lasted all afternoon at Ansty House – smoked salmon (Grandmother must have worked extremely hard on her black market connections), roast pheasant (several, shot by Tom) with braised celery, watercress and those wonderful, traditional breadcrumbs fried in butter (more black market activity). And Pansy and Peter sat amongst their friends and saw only each other.

Then Tom, who’d carefully reserved his drinking for the toasts, drove them to Salisbury station in the doctor’s car to catch the Exeter train. Their honeymoon was to be a few days in Dawlish. We watched the car disappear down the drive. I’m as bad as Vee, I thought, as the rear lights seemed to waver and blur. I blinked hard, but by the time my sight had cleared, they were out of sight.

‘Perfect,’ I heard Vee sigh. ‘Come on, Jonathan. Time for your bath. You can share with Jennifer tonight, if you like. Let’s see if you can sink her ducks.’

*   *   *

Tom was very late back. Mother looked exhausted, so I’d sent her to bed and waited up for Tom. He was still in the morning dress he’d worn for the wedding, exaggeratedly upright, ostentatiously steady, with his back collar stud adrift, revealing an endearing gape of skin at the nape of his neck. I’d already decided that it would be better not to say anything, but Tom must have read my disapproving expression.

‘Now, don’t be cross,’ he wheedled. ‘I just met a few old chums in Salisbury. We had a glass or two in the Chough. Just one or two. You surely don’t grudge me that, do you?’

‘Of course not,’ I lied.

‘I don’t get out much these days, don’t see my chums as often as I’d like.’

‘It’s all right, Tom. Really. Anyway, it’s been a long day and I’m off. Goodnight.’

‘Yes. It’s been a splendid day, hasn’t it? Splendid.’

‘Lovely. Goodnight.’

‘Splendid. Nice to see little Pansy looking so happy.’

‘Yes, isn’t it.’

‘I’d like to see you happy and settled, Laura. I’d like to see you with a good man.’

‘Thank you.’

‘No chance of Martin, I suppose?’ he asked, coyly. It didn’t suit him.

‘I don’t think so.’ And saying it, aloud, in front of a witness, made me realize how true that was.

‘Pity. Pity. I like Martin. He’d be good for you.’

‘Goodnight, Tom, sleep well.’

‘Don’t go. Not yet.’ He was in front of the door and he pushed it shut. ‘It’s early yet.’

‘Not any more. It’s nearly midnight.’

‘Really? Are you sure? Well, anyway, it’s early yet. Special occasion. Not every day we have a wedding in the family – well, as good as … Lovely girl, Pansy. We should drink her health.’

‘We have already.’

‘Nonsense. We should drink the health of the happy couple. Come on, Laura, don’t be stuck-up. It’s not asking too much, is it – to drink the health of your best friend?’

I could see that Tom was swinging between the truculent friendliness and the friendly truculence that distinguishes the true drinker from the amateur. In a moment, he’d be weeping or shouting at me. So I stayed. Tom poured a couple of stiff brandies.

‘To Pansy and her new husband…’

‘To Pansy and Peter…’ I held up my glass. I shuddered as I sipped. I really didn’t want it. I’d had enough already. At that time of night, I’d rather have had a mug of cocoa. ‘I hope they’ll be very happy.’

‘It’s a happy state, marriage,’ Tom declared. ‘I’ve been so blessed in mine. Diana is a wonderful woman. Wonderful. You ought to try it … marriage…’

‘Tom…’ I smiled and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’m going to bed. Sleep well.’

‘I’d like to see you settled, before your mother and I go.’

‘Silly. You’ve both got years yet.’

‘You never know. You never know. Things happen. I wish you’d make up your mind about Martin.’

‘He’s made his mind up about me, I’m afraid.’

‘What? Jilted you?’

‘No, no. Nothing like that.’ What an old-fashioned term. I hadn’t realized anyone might still use it. ‘Just … moved on … we’ve both – both…’

‘Oh, my dear – tell Tom.’ He put an arm round my shoulder and I wasn’t certain who was supporting whom. ‘You’re too good for him, of course. There’s something rather low about him, I’ve always thought. You’ve made the right choice. I’m so glad … You know I’ve always loved you, don’t you, Laura? You’ve always been my little girl … Always.’

Embarrassed by his emotion, I gave a little, awkward laugh. He made me feel in the wrong, obscurely guilty, and I wasn’t even sure why.

‘Do you love your old Tom?’ he queried, pressing me, physically and emotionally. ‘Say I’ve been good to you.’

‘No-one could have been nicer,’ I answered and meant it. ‘You’ve really been my father.’

‘You were Edwin’s child and I’ve always loved you.’

‘You never talked about him, Tom.’

‘Didn’t I?’

‘No-one did.’

‘No … well … well, what could we say?’

‘You could have been honest with me.’

‘You look so like him, you know. So like. Well, I dare say you’re right, old girl. It’s been a long day.’ He took his arm from my shoulder. ‘Off you go. I’ll just bank up the fire for the night. Don’t wake your mother.’

The temptation was terrible. I could simply say – Tom, I’ve seen him. And wait and watch. But I couldn’t do it to him.

Tom was riddling the fire in an enthusiastic way that meant it would probably be dead by morning. He heaped a few shovels of damp slack over it. The smoke twirled up, grey and dense, finding a tortuous escape route around the mean little beans of coal.

He didn’t notice that I hadn’t gone. He pottered around a bit, locking the door, turning down the lights. Their wicks glowed for a while in the dark. Then he sat down before the fire, unlaced his shoes, and, in the sudden way that people who drink do everything, fell asleep. He looked quite safe.

*   *   *

I look and look, but the pile of petals is so deep and more are falling all the time. James is there, Grace is there, but Edwin’s name is not there and now I know that I’ll never find him.

It should have been Martin who took my hand and said, ‘He isn’t there, you’re looking in the wrong place.’

Of course …

The dream came more and more often, getting in the way of my sleep, disturbing my peace. I always knew when it was coming. I don’t want to dream this, I’d think, twisting my head right and left, I don’t want to dream this, but it paid no attention …

Only this time, it wasn’t Martin who led me away from the bleeding heap of petals, but Tom …

*   *   *

I was coming back out of the dream, not deeply asleep, but still fuddled, halfway between sleep and reality. It was the sound of the bolts being drawn roughly back that woke me. Then the front door was opened so quickly that it banged off the wall.

Sleepy and bemused, I jumped out of bed so suddenly that I staggered on my way to the window, bounced off the chest of drawers and rocked the swinging glass that stood on it. It fell and cracked across. Seven years’ bad luck …

When I looked out of the window, Tom was striding off down the path towards the walled garden. If it hadn’t sounded too fanciful, I’d have said he was marching.

‘Tom? Laura?’ My mother’s voice was plaintive. ‘Where are you? What was that noise?’

‘It’s all right, Mother. Tom’s just gone for rather a late walk. Don’t worry.’

‘At this time of night…?’

And I was worried. Tom had seemed so purposeful. He hadn’t looked like a man going for a stroll to clear his head. I pulled on an old mackintosh over my pyjamas and gumboots over my bare feet. There was an icy puddle at the bottom of the left one.

Perhaps I ought to have run after him. I ought to have caught up with him and put my arm round his shoulders and turned him round and said, come on, Tom, time for bed.

I wish I had.

Instead, I followed, closely, but not too closely. Curiosity, I suppose. Where would anyone be going, at that speed, at that time of night, in Ansty Parva, of all places? Hardly a hotbed of vice, Ansty Parva.

Purposefully, Tom headed towards his potting shed, his sanctuary. Out of sight and out of earshot, intrigued by his determination, I hung back. I watched him shut the door, light the lamp, pull the sacking over the window. He left a narrow gleam of light down the right-hand edge. I perched on a fallen trunk and waited for him to come out again. It was a raw, damp, misty night. I blew puffs of breath, like a horse in a field. The cold made my nose run and crept up through the soles of my feet and invaded the network of my veins. It was so still that I thought I could hear the ice growing across the surface of the puddles.

I began to think about blankets and hot-water bottles and hot milk with nutmeg grated over it. Good grief. What on earth did I think I was doing, lurking in the shadows, spying on my stepfather, on a night cold enough to splinter glass?

But I knew that Mother would worry about Tom. She’d fret and get up herself and not bother to put on her dressing gown and catch a chill that would turn to pneumonia and then she’d die and it’d all be my fault, because I didn’t have the courage to haul Tom, drunk or sober, back to bed.