Grace Hardie (16 page)

It was natural that Andy should first of all reassure his parents; but with that accomplished, he would certainly write next to her. Grace sent off her own message of relief and happiness and waited for a reply, watching for the postman's arrival as eagerly as she had done six months earlier. Letters from France did indeed arrive, but they were from Frank or Philip, and were addressed to their mother.

Grace was glad to learn that all was well with her brothers, but disappointment was mixed with relief. When would there be a letter addressed to her?

The day came at last when a letter with the familiar markings of a Field Post Office bore Grace's name on the envelope; but it was delivered to The House of Hardie, not to Greystones.

‘For you,' said Mr Witney. He had set it aside from all the business correspondence on seeing that it was marked ‘Personal'.

‘Thank you.' Grace's first joyful reaction was that Andy must have chosen not to write to her at home lest her mother should disapprove. But her excitement faded as she studied the envelope, for the handwriting and the writer's name were unfamiliar to her. Who was Christopher Bailey? She was still struggling with her regret that the letter was not from Andy as she read the words with which Mr Bailey re-introduced himself.

Your most indebted and humble servant,
Christopher Bailey

Astonished by the letter, Grace read it through for a second time before pushing it into her pocket. That evening she showed it to her mother, who raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘You didn't tell me –'

‘There was nothing to tell,' Grace assured her. ‘He came into the shop to pay his bill. That was all we talked about. It was months ago – I'd forgotten all about it.' But even as she said this, she wondered whether it was true. During the course of the year there had been similar conversations with other undergraduates who were anxious to settle their affairs. Every time she repeated what Mr Witney had told her to say, she remembered the handsome young man to whom she had first spoken the words.

In earlier days Grace's mother would certainly have hesitated before encouraging a visit from a young man whose own family she did not know, and to whom none of the Hardies had been introduced. But the war had relaxed social conventions. It was generally felt that young men who were enduring so much in the trenches deserved to have their every wish – or nearly their every wish – fulfilled when they came on leave. Any mother in England
was prepared to treat a stranger in uniform exactly as she hoped other people would treat her own son if for some reason he could not reach his home. The fact that young Mr Bailey and his father had accounts with The House of Hardie was also a consideration. It offered some reassurance that his background was respectable.

‘Well, of course,' she said. ‘If your admirer arrives on the doorstep, he must certainly be made welcome.'

‘He's not an admirer.' Her mother's choice of words made Grace flush.

‘You don't think so? Well, your customer then, if that's how you prefer to think of him. But you'll have admirers now, you know, Grace. You must notice when a young man begins to find you interesting, and not be taken by surprise.'

Her tone of voice was encouraging, but it increased Grace's embarrassment. She did not want to find herself surrounded by admirers. All she wanted was Andy safe home again.

Her hunger for his presence, or at the very least for news, drove her to call again at the lodge on her way home from work the next day. The first thing she saw when she was invited in was a letter from Andy flattened out on the table. But his parents, instead of looking pleased to have heard from him, seemed gloomy and at first disinclined to talk. Only when Grace asked a direct question did Mrs Frith find her voice.

‘Yes, we had a letter today, and no pleasure in it, I can tell you. These Frenchies! Andy was always a good boy. He'd never have got into this sort of trouble if she'd been a decent sort of girl.'

‘Who?'

‘The maddymoselle or whatever she calls herself.'

‘She saved him from being taken prisoner,' Mr Frith reminded his wife, trying to calm her down without disagreeing.

‘And now she's making him pay for it. Imposing on his good nature, I call it. He should have stopped to think about us. He must have known that we couldn't be doing with a foreigner in the family.'

‘In the family? What's happened? What has he done?'

‘He's gone and married the Frenchy girl,' said Mr Frith. ‘Because he had to. It's done, and that's the end of it. No good getting ourselves into a stew about it now.'

‘What do you mean by saying that he
had
to marry her?'

There was an awkward silence. It was impossible for Grace to tell whether the subject was considered unfit for her ears or merely too discreditable to Andy.

‘Because she's going to have a baby,' Mrs Frith said at last. ‘Andy's baby. That's what. I know it's a terrible thing for an unmarried girl to have a baby, but she should have thought of that earlier, shouldn't she? She's had her mother and grandmother and the priest and the schoolteacher and heaven knows who else all telling her she's got to marry the father or else she'll go to hell. What else could Andy do? He's not happy about it – we can tell that from his letter. But he's made his bed and he'll have to lie on it.'

Grace was unable to speak. What else was there to be said? At any other time her silent departure might have led the Friths to suspect the truth, but on this occasion she could feel sure that they were too deeply upset on their own account. Forgetting the bicycle which she had leaned against the cottage wall, she ran across the meadow and into the wood, where nobody could see her cry.

But the wood was full of Andy. Here as a boy he had planted seeds to grow a miniature forest. Here he had held her hand to comfort her on the day when Pepper was killed. Here, beside the boulders, he had kissed her. Grace had been sure that he would love her for ever, as she would love him. And perhaps he did still love her – but what was
the use of that, if he was married to someone else? Angry and hurt and miserable, she paced up and down beside the stream until all her tears had been shed.

Only when at last she felt that she could behave normally did she walk stiffly up to Greystones, keeping her eyes away from the young oak tree which Andy had planted as an acorn to reach to her tower window. Was there nowhere she could go without being reminded of him?

Her mother came out into the hall to greet her.

‘There's a letter for you, Grace.'

It was the letter which she had been awaiting for months. Her mother would know who had written it because the writer's name could be read on the top of the envelope, under the censor's stamp.

Grace stared down at the silver tray on which it lay, but did not touch it. ‘I'll look at it later,' she said with an indifference which a few hours earlier would have been a pretence. There were questions to be asked, but she must wait for a moment when her mother would be receptive. Meanwhile, she rehearsed in her mind what she wanted to be told. Later that evening, not knowing how to lead up to it, she broached the subject abruptly.

‘I'd like to know about babies,' she said. ‘How do they come?' Her pale cheeks reddened with the embarrassment of a forbidden topic.

Her mother did not meet her eyes, but bent her head over the khaki sock she was knitting for Philip.

‘When you're ready to get married –' she began. But Grace, not usually irritable, was barely in control of her emotions and determined to be given an answer.

‘Why do you treat me like a child? I'm almost eighteen. I ought to know these things.'

Mrs Hardie raised her head and considered the question.

‘You're quite right,' she said at last. ‘When I married your father, I didn't know what to expect. That was my
own fault, of course, because I ran away from home before anyone had thought that it was time to talk to me. I remember, when our first baby was on the way …' She paused, and it was Grace who broke the silence.

‘Frank, you mean?'

‘No, before Frank. While we were still in China. I had a little girl. Rachel, we called her.'

‘You've never told any of us about that.'

‘She died,' Mrs Hardie said. ‘She gave one little cry, and died. She was born too soon: that was the reason. I'd had an accident, travelling through the mountains. I've never liked to talk about it. It upsets me. But if I'd been told more about babies, I might have been able to keep her alive. I didn't know then how long it took for a baby to come. I didn't know
anything
. So you're right. I ought to tell you. The trouble is that when it's put into words it sounds frightening. What makes it all right is when you love your husband.'

‘Does it have to be a husband?'

‘It
must
be a husband. You mustn't ever –'

‘But does it
have
to be?'

‘No,' said Mrs Hardie. ‘Any man and any woman can make a baby together.' She put down her knitting and told Grace how.

‘Thank you, Mother,' said Grace quietly when she had finished. ‘I'm going up to bed now. Goodnight.'

Mrs Hardie stood up to hold her back.

‘You mustn't think of it as disgusting,' she said. ‘It's an expression of love; if you feel the love, it will bring you joy. Now will you answer a question for me? Why should young Andy Frith be writing to you?'

Grace ran out of the room without replying. On her way to the tower she picked up the letter from the hall table. Andy had loved the French mademoiselle, she told herself as she rushed upstairs. He had forgotten all about the
kisses in the wood, forgotten all about Grace. If he had written merely to say that he had fallen in love with another girl, she might have waited for him to come back to her, but he had loved the girl in a different way. He had given her a baby and married her and there was no point in thinking about him ever again. No doubt his letter contained an apology, but what was the use of that?

Turning on her heel, she went back downstairs to the drawing room to answer the question she had been asked.

‘I've no idea why Andy should write,' she said. ‘I shan't even bother to read the letter.' She tore the unopened envelope into little pieces and threw them into the waste paper basket before kissing her mother goodnight.

When at last he was granted leave Christopher Bailey did not, as he had threatened, arrive at Greystones unannounced. Instead he earned Mrs Hardie's approval by writing to ask formally for permission to call, and she responded with an invitation to luncheon.

Only five days had passed since the news of Andy's marriage reached England. Grace's sense of betrayal displayed itself as indifference to the proposed visit. Mrs Hardie, not knowing the real reason for her daughter's unhappiness, ascribed it to anxiety caused by their late-night conversation.

‘I hope I didn't alarm you by what I said the other day, dearest. No gentleman, if he
is
a gentleman, will force his attentions on a young woman who makes it plain that she doesn't wish for them. That's why it's so important never to let a young man take liberties. Some gesture – a mere touch of the hand, or a kiss – which you might believe to be trivial, could be seen by the man as an invitation to go further. And what so many girls don't realize is that once a man – even a gentleman – feels himself encouraged to express his love, it's not easy for him to check himself. You have to look ahead and decide where you want to go before you take the first step, But Mr Bailey, I'm sure, will understand that. You needn't be afraid –'

‘Of course I'm not afraid,' Grace interrupted impatiently. ‘I've met Mr Bailey twice, altogether for about half an hour. I hardly imagine –' But her protest faltered as she remembered his letter. Her mother's remarks and her own reaction would both in normal circumstances have
been sensible. But circumstances were not normal. A young man who faced death daily might well have a different approach to life from the one which Lucy Hardie took for granted.

‘When I was a girl, of course –' Mrs Hardie was reading her daughter's thoughts – ‘the rules of chaperonage were very strict. How they fretted me! I remember how bold and independent I felt when I ran away with your father.' She sighed and laughed at the same time. ‘You know, Mr Witney promised me that you would never be left alone on the premises of The House of Hardie. But two years ago the idea that an unmarried man could be a suitable protector for an unmarried girl would have been thought ridiculous!'