The Hardie Inheritance (29 page)

Grace, who so rarely gave caresses, opened her arms in an embrace. No further words were needed to tell Trish that Mrs Hardie was dead.

‘Is it all over now?' asked Trish, coming late to breakfast. Germany had surrendered on the previous day and everyone at Greystones had listened to the radio all evening in the hope of hearing the official announcement of the end of hostilities. For some reason this had been continually postponed; but surely, with Hitler dead and Italy officially out of the war, there could not be any last-minute snags.

‘All over bar the shouting,' Gordon, on leave after three months of training with Bomber Command, had also treated himself to a morning lie-in. ‘Churchill's going to have lunch at Buckingham Palace. Due to make a broadcast at three o'clock. And then – when I say shouting, shouting is what I mean. What say you and I go up to London and join in?'

‘Yes, let's.' Often during the past few years Trish had wished, in a sort of way, that she lived in London. Obviously it would not have been nice to be bombed or to live in a house with all its windows blown out or to queue for rationed food and have nothing but that to eat at all. But for the past five and half years the capital had seemed to enjoy a very special atmosphere of romance and excitement. Compared with London, Oxford was dull.

No one she knew had died in battle. Jean-Paul had been wounded and taken prisoner; but his injuries were not serious. Not a single bomb had fallen on Oxford and she had never gone hungry, although there were times when she sighed for the taste of an orange or banana or swore that she never wanted to eat rabbit again. In a sense she hardly deserved to celebrate a victory to which she had contributed so little – but to join
the crowds might help her for the first time to feel part of the excitement she had missed. ‘I'll go and tell Grace,' she said.

On the way across the hall she passed Dan and Boxer sitting on the bottom stair.

‘Is the war over?' asked Dan.

‘Any minute now. You should be looking excited. Isn't there going to be a party at school?'

‘Yes, but –'

Trish stopped, sensitive to their anxiety. ‘But what?'

‘What's going to happen to us? All the other ‘vacuees have gone home already.'

It was a question which deserved serious consideration. Trish knew that the boys' only relatives, apart from Terry, were an uncle in Australia whose address no one could remember and an aunt who had lived next door and had lost both legs in the same raid which killed their mother.

‘I'll ask Grace,' she promised. She was sure she knew what the answer would be, but it was too important a matter to risk a guess.

Grace, who took no notice of public holidays, was working in the studio, rolling pieces of clay between her hands in the abstracted manner which was always the prelude to a new piece of work.

‘Preparing a victory piece?'

‘No. Unless – I suppose you might say, this is what the victory is over; why it was worth while fighting.' She pointed to a maquette on the work bench.

Trish could see that the small clay figure had only just been completed, and knew better than to touch. She stared, startled, at the emaciated man, little more than a skeleton. He represented, almost certainly, one of the victims of the camp at Belsen, which had been discovered and liberated a few days earlier.

‘It won't be a figure, of course, by the time I finish working on it,' Grace explained. ‘I shall use just the rib structure, probably, as the basis of a shape. A symbol. I see it in metal.
To give the impression of a cage. Do you think Gordon knows anything about metal-working? It's not something I've tried before.'

‘I expect so. Gordon knows something about most things.' But Trish's voice was abstracted. The tiny figure horrified her, yet she was unable to take her eyes off it. ‘Grace, no one will buy it! How could anyone possibly live with something like that?'

‘It will be a piece for a museum.'

Grace never discussed the commercial aspect of her work. Trish was aware that she was preparing for a large exhibition to be held as soon as the war was over; in addition, private buyers came to the house from time to time after seeing some earlier piece of work. And very often when Ellis came to Greystones he brought with him magazine articles which mentioned Grace Hardie in the same sentence as Barbara Hepworth.

Trish found it difficult to believe that someone so unpretentiously hard-working could apparently be acquiring a public reputation. But as well as the indications that the work was admired, there were more material signs of success. Money, which had been a major anxiety when she first arrived at Greystones, seemed no longer to present any problem. Ellis's contribution to the household and the Beverley money which had come to Mrs Hardie late in her life and passed to Grace after her death had each played a part, but could not by themselves explain Grace's frequent references to her new affluence.

The war made it difficult to find servants, either for the house or for the land; but when any became available, there was money to pay them. The still-modest nature of the household bills was caused by the shortage of anything to buy rather than lack of cash. Trish's own college fees were paid by her father, but it was Grace who, without being asked, had discussed her need for a personal allowance and fixed it at a generous figure.

So perhaps it was true that she was becoming important and producing the kind of sculpture which might be admired in museums. Trish studied the emaciated figure with a different eye – although it still made her uncomfortable to look at it.

With an effort she remembered why she had come, and passed on Dan's question.

‘What's going to happen about the boys?' she asked. ‘They're worried about whether they're going to be taken away.'

‘Of course they're not.' Grace slapped a new piece of clay on to the work bench and began to beat the air out of it. ‘They'll stay with us until Terry is demobbed and can tell us what he plans to do.'

‘Will you invite him to live here as well?'

‘He won't want that,' said Grace confidently. ‘An ambitious young man, in my opinion. Doing odd jobs around the house here was a nice way of paying for hospitality, but he'll want a place of his own, if I know anything about him. Anyway, as far as Boxer and Dan are concerned, this is their home until Terry tells them differently. Tell them that straightaway, will you, and I'll say it again this evening.' She laughed as though surprised at herself. ‘I never saw myself as a kind of foster-mother, but it's nice that people want to stay on. I've already had Max here in tears.'

‘Crying? What about?'

‘Because he'll have to go home soon. Mind you, it's not me that he doesn't want to leave; it's his ballet class. He doesn't believe that his father will let him keep on with it – and I should think he's quite right about that.'

‘Couldn't you invite him to stay on? I mean, since he and Uncle David get on so badly it might suit both of them, not just Max.'

Grace shook her head. ‘I ought not to split up someone else's family. And his mother will want him back, even if his father doesn't. It sounds as though she's living an invalid life these days, frightened of having another heart attack – and his brothers and sister have all left home by now. I shall suggest
to David that it's not a good idea to move him in the middle of term. That will give him until July, but after that … I feel sorry for him, but I can't interfere unless David asks me himself, and he's not likely to do that.'

‘I can see his point of view,' said Trish. ‘It's an awfully peculiar thing for a boy to want to do, isn't it, dancing? And a very un-Hardie-ish thing.'

‘I don't think it's peculiar at all. As for whether it's un-Hardie-ish –' She laughed, turning her clay-smeared hands outwards for inspection. ‘Look at Jay. And look at me. I wouldn't say that my life has been exactly what's expected of a young lady born into a good class of trade. You never knew my father, but he had the same kind of –' She searched for the right word.

‘Enthusiasm? Obsession?'

‘Something more than either of those. He had to earn his living as a wine merchant, but what he really
was
, in his heart, was an explorer. A sense of vocation, I think that's what it is. Something that I inherited, and so did Jay, and now Max. Each in a different field, but with the same kind of certainty and determination and dedication. So you might almost say that Max is more of a Hardie than his father, who merely earns a living.'

‘I'd forgotten about Jay. Yes, I suppose –'

‘I see great resemblances.' Grace picked up another piece of clay and began to mould it between her fingers. ‘The same kind of self-absorption. I suppose it's always rather selfish, this sense of vocation thing. You're so sure of what is right for yourself that you don't have much time for considering other people. It wasn't so obvious in Jay as a boy, because his vocation was always to be somebody else, and that was amusing. All Max's ambition is directed on himself. That's probably why you don't like him as much as Dan and Boxer, because they're ordinary boys with time to be friendly.'

‘I never said I didn't like him.'

‘I can tell. I expect he can as well, but it's a part of that
kind of selfishness not to care. I remember – She paused for a moment, perhaps to collect the memory accurately. ‘I remember very clearly something that Jay said when he first became aware of his own vocation. He'd have been a year or two older than Max is now. Happiness, he said, is when what you are is the same as what you do. He knew that he
was
an actor, but he didn't know at that point whether he'd be able to spend his life acting. I thought it was quite a good definition for a thirteen-year-old to produce. I was in my twenties before I proved it for myself. Max has got there young. He knows what he needs for his own happiness, and he's frightened that he may not be allowed to have it.'

‘If you think that, then oughtn't you to let him stay?'

‘I've been making a few enquiries. What I'm told is that it's very important for a girl who wants to be a ballet dancer to start young and keep up the training without a break. But for some reason it's easier for a boy to start later – to start right from scratch, if necessary. As long as he has a natural talent and is strong and fit he could leave it until the age of fourteen, or even longer. So all these lessons which Max has had already are a kind of bonus, but it won't ruin his life if he has to take a break.'

‘And later? When he
is
fourteen.'

‘We can jump that hurdle when we come to it.' But Grace's smile was mischievous. ‘I've never been afraid of quarrelling with David. Max's best chance is to keep his mother on his side. But if that fails, I've told him he can rely on my support when the crunch comes.'

‘For someone who hasn't got children of her own, you're very nice to other people's.' Trish was tempted to give Grace a hug, but knew that this would not be appreciated. ‘Right, then, I'll go and tell Dan and Boxer that they're not going to be turned out into the May snow. Gordon and I are going to London, Grace. To see the king. And mill about generally.'

‘What time will you be back?'

‘Do I have to say?' Of course I don't, she thought to herself:
I'm nearly nineteen. But old habits died hard. ‘There could be a sort of party atmosphere going on till late. I wouldn't like to be tied to catching the last train home. Gordon will look after me.'

She turned away, not anticipating any dispute; but was called to a halt.

‘Just a minute, Trish. Close the door, will you?'

What an ominous ring there was to that last phrase. When Trish was a little girl, it had often been the prelude to a lecture. Puzzled, she did as she was told. As she turned back towards the work bench, she was astonished to see that her stepmother's face, usually so pale, was flushed with embarrassment.

‘Trish, dear,' Grace said with an effort. ‘It's a long time since we talked about this sort of thing. I've never felt I needed … I mean, you've always been very sensible. But …'

‘But what?'

‘I want you to promise –' The words came out in a rush. ‘I want you to promise me that you won't do anything which could leave you with an illegitimate baby.'

Now it was Trish's turn to flush. ‘Why on earth should you think –'

Grace, having jumped the first hurdle, was able to ease the conversation by speaking in a more casual tone of voice.

‘I know that you're very fond of Gordon. And he is of you.'

‘Yes. But we've never –'

‘No, I'm sure. What I'm trying to say is this. You're grown up now. You feel yourself to be an adult. But anyone, of any age, can take themselves by surprise and find themselves being swept off their feet. I'd go further than that, in fact. It happens to everyone once. Sensible people learn from the experience and are careful the second time. But it's terribly hard to guard against the first time, when your feelings may be much stronger than you ever expected.'

‘Did it happen to you, getting swept away?' asked Trish curiously.

‘Everyone. And the reason why ‘I'm saying this now is that today will be dangerous. You'll be part of a huge crowd. There'll be a kind of atmosphere – well, that's why you're going, isn't it? And it won't seem the right kind of occasion to worry about train times. You'll find yourself there for the night and the crowds will drift away and one of you will begin to think “Why not?” It happens so easily, Trish, and once the idea starts it's so difficult to stop.'

Trish was silent because she was reluctant to put her thoughts into words. This was something which had got to happen sometime. Why shouldn't it be today, with Gordon? She found herself becoming angry with Grace for forcing her to consider her attitude in advance in a cold-blooded way instead of enjoying the emotions as they came. The older woman had no difficulty in guessing how she felt.