The Children's Hour Page 13

  ‘If only we had some cats,’ grieves Nest, ‘for Nibbins and Blackmalkin and Greymalkin. Jenna says Tiddles has had kittens but Mama says “No” because of her asthma.’

  The party distracts them a little. Timmie wants to know all about the SLI and Nest is enchanted by the pretty frock that is being made up for Mina – ‘Shoulders are square,’ Georgie tells them firmly. ‘I’ll send some shoulder-pads down and a pattern’ – and Mina takes time to sew a short, flaring skirt out of the spare pieces of shantung for her small sister. Nest takes off the inevitable gingham, passed down from her older sisters, and swirls happily before Mama’s long looking-glass.

  Two weeks later, squashed into Claude’s roomy, dark green Rover 16, Mina feels almost sick with excitement. Her long, shining black hair is swept upwards, held in place with tortoiseshell pins, although feathery strands escape to slide around her throat, and the soft silky shantung feels deliciously sensuous against her cool white skin. Happiness and expectation lift her above the wrangling of her younger sisters, who are still arguing over which of them should have been allowed to wear the most respectable pair of party shoes. They are only silenced when the car stops at the eleventh-century church at Martinhoe to pick up another two members of the party, and they travel on in an amicable, rather shy silence until they arrive at the Goodenoughs’ house, high above the little town of Lynton.

  As they put their wraps in the guest bedroom, and Henrietta and Josie barge each other in an attempt to stand before the glass, Mina catches a glimpse of herself between their elbows. The minimal amount of make-up Mama has allowed lends a glow to her cheeks and emphasizes her eyes, which stare back at her, huge in her small, oval face; the high-piled hair gives height and sophistication, and the softly falling folds of silk accentuate her slenderness. Her sisters turn away, sweeping her with them, and they hurry down into the wide, brightly lit hall – ‘I wish we had electric light,’ says Henrietta discontentedly – and into the drawing-room, where some of the other guests are already assembled.

  ‘Ah, here they are at last,’ cries Enid Goodenough, with a show of affection that surprises all three girls. ‘Now, come along and meet these young men who have all been waiting for you.’

  Dazed by so many strange faces and names, Mina smiles, shaking hands again and again, until the young officer who has been part of a small circle of people in the corner turns to meet her. His blue eyes light up, as if she is, indeed, the one for whom he has been waiting, and he takes her hand in his warm fingers.

  ‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Isn’t this fun? I’m Tony Luttrell and you must be one of the beautiful Miss Shaws.’

  For all of that April, and for part of May, the cleave and the beach, and the down high above the channel, become their private sanctuary. Here they walk, arms entwined, amongst the uncurling bracken, looking down upon the waves rolling in, driven by a westerly gale, to beat against the tall, grey cliffs; or, on hot afternoons, they sit close together on one of the flat boulders that edge the beach, watching the sleek otters chasing and rolling in the surf, water droplets flying and flashing in the sunshine; or, on still, quiet evenings, they stand beneath the trees, the scent of blue-bells all about them, locked in long, dizzying embraces that shake them both and make them long for more. The frenzied, urgent needs of wartime lovers, and the changing world beyond this small corner of Exmoor, have left Mina untouched, and Tony, only twenty-one and yet to be in any real danger, is no more experienced than she, so it seems the natural course for him to approach Lydia so as to ask formally for Mina’s hand in marriage.

  The interview takes place one May evening in the lamp-lit drawing-room. The french windows stand open to the soft, warm air and a thrush is singing in the wild garden.

  Lydia listens gravely to Tony’s stammered declaration of love, careful not to smile at his earnestness. During these last four weeks she has grown deeply fond of him, her maternal instinct, reaching out to his youth, warmed by the sweetness he shows to her beloved daughter. He brings the Tinies little gifts, enters into their games, and the affection with which he treats Lydia goes some way to healing her own unhappy, grieving heart.

  ‘I shall have to speak to my husband,’ she tells him, ‘but as for me, my dear boy, I think you know how delighted I am.’

  ‘The unit will be going away soon,’ he tells her anxiously, ‘and we should like to be engaged before I go. Is it possible that you might speak to Mr Shaw soon?’

  ‘Very soon,’ she promises him, ‘but he will want to meet you, Tony, and it is difficult for him to get away from London. The formal engagement might have to wait a little longer.’

  ‘But we have your blessing?’

  Lydia gets up from her chair, casting aside her needle-work, and goes to him, embracing him as if he were one of her own children. ‘You have my blessing,’ she tells him. ‘As long as you continue to love her as you do now.’

  She leaves them in peace, sitting together by the fire, weaving their dreams of future bliss, until Tony drags himself away, his few hours of leave over. Mina goes out with him, as usual, to see him off, listening to the little sports car roaring away up the drive and out onto the high road over the moor.

  Now, fifty-five years later, down on the beach, Mina sat on a rock watching the dogs playing at the water’s edge, thinking of that love and remembering how it transformed her quiet, placid life. Shaken and moved beyond even her imagination, his love had been everything that she’d ever dreamed of: the culmination of every romance that she’d read. She’d adored him, investing in his youthful, charming chivalry every last ounce of her love and trust. Only much later could she imagine the irresistible atmosphere that possessed the young men of the newly raised 9th Battalion; the excitement and the urgency as they trained for the invasion of Normandy. The young must boast their way to maturity and, now, she was able to understand how his fall from grace had been simply a part of the whole ‘live now, for tomorrow we die’ war mentality that she’d experienced for herself only when, finally, she went to London to stay with Georgie.

  Mina sat on in the fading light, tears on her wrinkled cheeks, her heart heavy with regret and pain. How could he have lived up to such adoration, such worship? And why, oh, why, when the unit returned in November, on its way to coastal defence in Berwick-upon-Tweed, had he been foolish enough to tell her of his brief affair with an older newly widowed woman in Cornwall?

  ‘It was nothing,’ he’d cried, his voice breaking now that he saw her shocked, hurt face. ‘Nothing at all. I missed you so much and she’d lost her husband . . . Oh God! Can’t you see that I’m telling you because I can’t bear for anything to be between us. It was nothing. It’s over. Please, Mina . . .’

  Unable to understand, with their love debased, ruined, lying in tatters between them, she’d sent him away with a cold, proud face that only just managed to hide her anguish.

  As she walked home in the twilight, hardly aware of the moths dancing, ghost-like, beneath the branches, and bats darting above her head, Mina recalled that last meeting: their shyness after six months’ separation, the expectation and the terror. Nervous as she was, his foolish young-man bragging might have been forgiven had she been more experienced, more generous, but the thought of the widow in Cornwall stood mockingly, triumphantly, between them, destroying confidence and trust.

  Mina thought: How strange that it should still hurt.

  Suddenly, through the deepening dusk, a deep-pitched booming reverberated fitfully, an unearthly insatiate moan, the stuff of myth and legend. It was the disquieting ‘belling’ of the red stag, whose stentorian roar was challenged by another bellowing call a short way off. As she opened the gate into the garden Mina listened for the clash of antlers, strangely disturbed by the eerie, throbbing roaring, but the only sound was the trembling hoot of the owl echoing in the shadowy cleave. She paused for a moment, her hand still on the latch, and then followed the dogs, who ran ahead, looking forward to the warmth and comfort of the kitchen and their supper.


  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Lyddie parked the car in the only space left in the narrow road, coaxed the weary Bosun out onto the pavement and went into the house to change. Saturday nights at The Place were rather special: tables had to be reserved and a certain formality of dress was observed, although there was no specific rule. It seemed that there was a kind of implicit understanding amongst the clientele that Saturday nights were different and they took a certain pleasure in making an effort. Lyddie enjoyed the opportunity of dressing up and, this evening, chose a soft, velvet, figure-hugging dress in such a dark navy blue that it was almost black. The hemline flared around her slender calves and the scalloped edge of the boat-shaped neckline was bound with navy satin ribbon. She showered quickly, brushed her black hair until it flew about her face and then chose some pretty silver bangles, which the three-quarter-length sleeves showed to advantage. Grey stockings and navy suede pumps completed the outfit, and she paused to look at herself in the glass, gaining confidence from the reflection that smiled back at her. She picked up her long, well-worn, wool and cashmere coat – her London coat – and ran quickly down the stairs.

  The Bosun, who had fallen asleep again in the hall, lifted his head and stared at her in disbelief as she urged him up. He’d spent the day fending off three small dogs and two children, been hauled from pillar to post, encouraged to swim in blood-chilling water and now, after another long journey in the car, he was being dragged out yet again. Good grief, he hadn’t even had his supper! Struggling into a sitting position he sat for a moment, swamped with self-pity, until he heard the familiar sounds of biscuits being poured into a bowl and the grind of a tin-opener. Brightening a little he stood up and pottered into the kitchen. Ah, yes! His supper was being prepared. His tail waved very slightly and his tongue came out and polished up his chops a little. He felt that after all the demands that had been placed upon him in the last few hours he deserved some kind of nourishment. He ate heartily whilst his water bowl was being filled, and then drank some of the cold fresh water, looking forward to resuming a good, long sleep. However, before he could take up his favourite position, stretched out in the hall, the lead was being clipped about his neck and he was being hurried through the windy streets.

  ‘You know you’ll like it when you get there,’ Lyddie told him encouragingly as he padded wearily at her side. ‘You love it when people tell you how wonderful you are. You’re getting to be a sort of mascot.’

  This was perfectly true. The regulars greeted him cheerily as the Bosun and Lyddie went in together, delighted to show the few new punters that they were ‘locals’, an impression they hoped to build on later when Liam made his round of the tables to chat. In the summer, The Place had been written up with enthusiasm in the Independent, and now a rumour was circulating that Jonathan Meades might be paying a visit: the locals were thrilled and everyone wanted to be in on that particular act.

  Lyddie made her way between the tables to the snug, surprised at how nervous she felt at the thought of seeing Liam again. Despite the reconciliation she felt a fluttering anticipation that was not wholly joyful: there was some almost imperceptible change. Joe was behind the bar and he smiled at her as he pulled a pint, although his greeting was lost in the babble of voices and background music. She took the Bosun with her to the snug, pausing briefly at one or two tables so that he could be patted and admired but not allowing him to be a nuisance, and made him sit out of the way of the path from the kitchen and the bar. He was very glad to slump down, nose on paws, raising his head politely to acknowledge his most ardent admirers, but ready for a nap. Lyddie shrugged herself out of her coat. She knew that Joe would bring her a glass of wine when he had a moment; meanwhile she sat on the outer edge of the bench where she could see the bar and a few of the tables.

  Linda was on duty tonight, helping Joe behind the bar, and Mickey came swinging through the kitchen door, two plates held shoulder high, and winked at her as he passed. Lyddie wondered where Liam was but she didn’t have the courage to go upstairs to the office, or into the kitchen to see if he were discussing the menu with Angelo, the chef, and she wondered if she would ever see herself as anything more than a privileged guest. During a brief lull, leaving Linda in charge of the bar, Joe brought her a drink and leaned beside her, looking out over the rapidly filling tables.

  ‘Thanks.’ She raised the glass to him. ‘Is everything OK? You look a bit fraught.’

  ‘Oh, I’m OK.’ He didn’t return her smile. ‘Liam’ll be down in a minute. He’s just finishing off in the office.’

  She sipped her wine, feeling oddly uneasy. ‘It’s busy tonight, isn’t it? Is Rosie in? I don’t see her anywhere.’

  ‘No, she’s not in.’ A pause. ‘She’s not working here any more. Didn’t Liam tell you?’

  ‘No.’ She stared up at him, shocked. ‘But why? Has she got a better place somewhere?’

  ‘I don’t really know. We’ve split up. I don’t know her plans. She’s staying with a friend for a while.’

  ‘But that’s awful. I’m so sorry, Joe.’ Lyddie remembered the low, furious voices, Rosie’s look as she came out of the snug with Joe behind her, and reached out to touch his crossed arms, not knowing what else to say.

  ‘It’s been coming for a while but I have to say that it’s still a bit of a whammy.’ He remained standing above her, remote, unapproachable. ‘Here’s Liam.’

  Before she could speak to him again Joe moved back behind the bar as Liam crossed between the tables, raising a hand to this one, nodding to another, but not pausing until he reached the snug.

  ‘So here you are. Safely back again. And how are the Aunts? And Jack?’ He bent to kiss her, then leaned back again to study her. ‘Your eyes are blue tonight, do you know that? I’ve never known a woman whose eyes change with the colour of her clothes.’

  She was foolishly pleased with such an uncharacteristically public display of affection, aware of the glances of several of the women diners, and tried to think of something sensible to say.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about Rosie,’ was all she could think of. ‘It’s such a shock. Poor old Joe.’

  ‘Well, that’s just life, isn’t it? Some you win, some you lose.’

  He sounded philosophical, indifferent even, in the face of Joe’s misfortune, and she looked surprised. He read disapproval in her face and leaned to kiss her again.

  ‘If you ask me,’ he murmured against her ear, ‘he’s well out of it. Joe can do better than that, I’ve always thought so.’

  ‘Well, probably.’ Lyddie, who believed this herself, could hardly argue with him. ‘But it doesn’t mean that he’s not cut up about it.’

  ‘Sure.’ Liam nodded, straightening up and looking about as if he’d had enough of the topic, assessing the atmosphere of the bar, his eyes missing nothing. He glanced back at her. ‘Could you manage some supper, do you think?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I could.’ Lyddie was faintly annoyed by his indifference to Joe’s plight. ‘Unless, of course, it’s time for the royal walkabout.’

  His eyes narrowed a little, amused, acknowledging her thrust. ‘Let ’em wait,’ he said, and sat down opposite. ‘Tell me about your day while we decide what to eat.’

  Later that evening, Nest sat in bed, propped about by pillows, her book lying face downwards on her knees. She’d been unable to concentrate on the book, seeing Mina’s face on its pages, hearing her voice.

  ‘We were so cut off here, you see,’ she’d said, sitting at the kitchen table, holding her mug of hot tea. ‘Isolated as we were, the war was simply a dreary, boring time of endless shortages. We were often cold and hungry but we were never truly scared. Mama was so reclusive, she hardly ever listened to the wireless and was always careful not to let the little ones be made frightened. Ottercombe was another world. It wasn’t until I went up to London, in nineteen forty-four, that I first experienced the greediness for life: the frenzy for extracting the most out of every single minute. Georgie and I talked about Tony. Actually, s
he was very sweet to me. She was in her element: the town mouse dispensing wisdom and guidance to the newly arrived country mouse.’

  ‘Did she think that you should have forgiven him?’

  ‘Part of her did.’ Mina was trying to remember. ‘She could sympathize with how it might have been for him. The other chaps egging him on, the pressure and that genetic imperative which we interpret as “I don’t want to die before I’ve had sex” feeling which is so prevalent in times of real danger. But part of her didn’t want me to be the first to be married – Georgie always needed to be the first – but, to be fair, she also wanted me to have a good time. She thought that I’d been buried alive down at Ottercombe and she genuinely wanted me to enjoy myself. She felt that I deserved it.’

  ‘War-time London, just before the invasion, must have come as a fearful shock.’

  ‘Oh, it did. But it was a relief too not to have any time to think. And I used it to take my mind off Tony. He’d started to turn up at Ottercombe whenever he could get any kind of pass or leave, and the strain was frightful. I had to get away.’

  ‘That’s the bit I could remember,’ agreed Nest. ‘His pleading with Mama.’

  ‘I didn’t understand, you see. I was still living in the thirties. The war made a huge chasm in the world we knew but I discovered it too late. And, anyway, I was barely nineteen. The only men I knew were in books, cardboard and paste; a real flesh-and-blood one was beyond my ken. I knew nothing, then, about the complexities of human nature. How priggish I must have been!’

  ‘You were never priggish,’ protested Nest. ‘Of course it was a shock. It was just a pity that you reacted to it so drastically.’

  ‘Ah, yes. You mean Richard?’ Mina shook her head, swirling the remains of the tea around in her mug. ‘Yes, I was a fool. You were much wiser when it was your turn.’

  ‘We were both fools. But Richard Bryce, Mina. Did you really think you were in love with him?’