The Children's Hour Read online

  ‘Oh, po-po-po . . .’ She leaned back in her chair, thinking about it. ‘I suppose I felt that it didn’t really matter in the circumstances. And Richard was kind and very good for my morale – and he had no parents to put a brake on it. He fell for me like a ton of bricks and his fellow officers were so excited about it. It was rather as though I were marrying all of them, not just Richard. The wedding and everything was entirely unreal, like some great stage production. Wild and romantic and crazy, typical war-time stuff. It was only then that I began to realize a little of what Tony had experienced when he was down in Cornwall. That sense of unreality allows one to behave quite out of character; a game that has nothing to do with real life.’

  ‘And then,’ Nest took the story up when Mina fell silent, ‘Richard was killed when the King David Hotel in Jerusalem was blown up. It always sounded so odd, it being a hotel. Of course I was only twelve but I overheard Mama talking on the telephone and I could see it quite clearly inside my head. A big white building with pillars and palm trees and camels. Although I never quite understood why Richard was staying in a hotel in Jerusalem.’

  ‘It was the British HQ,’ said Mina. ‘Jordan had been granted independence. The war was over. How cruel life is.’

  ‘And you came back to Ottercombe,’ said Nest, after an even longer silence, ‘and in the autumn I went away to school. But you seemed so calm about it all. Not like you were after Tony.’

  ‘I am ashamed to say that there was almost relief at Richard’s death.’ Mina set the mug back on the table. ‘Once he’d gone back to the Middle East I realized what a fool I’d been. He was a stranger, a nice, kind stranger, but a stranger, and the thought of spending the rest of my life with him was terrifying. By his death I was released and because of it I’ve felt guilty ever since. Stupid, isn’t it?’

  ‘Did you ever think of getting in contact with Tony again?’

  An almost humorous look smoothed away Mina’s expression of self-disgust. ‘The Sneerwells went out of their way to tell me that he was happily married,’ she said. ‘It was too late.’

  ‘Lord,’ said Nest at last, ‘what fools we mortals be.’

  ‘It’s late.’ Mina glanced at her watch and pushed back her chair. ‘Much too late on top of an exhausting day. Away you go to bed. I’ll clear up here while the dogs have their last run.’ She bent to kiss Nest, her eyes still shadowed with memories. ‘God bless.’

  So Nest had wheeled herself across the hall into her room and begun the long preparations for bed. At last, longing for sleep but still unable to concentrate on her book, she’d settled herself more comfortably, switching off the light, putting the book on the bedside table, closing her eyes against the pictures that still danced before them.

  Tony’s little sports car is parked on the drive and Mama sits in the drawing-room watching him with anguish as he paces to and fro before her, the fist of one hand twisting and twisting into the palm of the other, his face wretched. There is no sign of Mina. Outside in the hall, Nest can hear his voice.

  ‘Please let me see her, Mrs Shaw. I must try to explain to her. It was nothing, you see. Nothing that counted.’

  ‘My dear boy, I have tried to talk to Mina. I do understand, I promise you.’

  ‘Do you?’ In his eagerness he stops pacing and sits beside her, half-turned so that he can see her face. ‘Do you, really? Then can’t you explain it to Mina? We were all behaving rather foolishly, you see. The training was very intense and we began to get an inkling of what the real thing might be like. This woman had lost her husband at Dunkirk and she was lonely.’ He peers at her anxiously lest he should offend her, longing for her to understand him. ‘There were several of us all having a drink together and it got a bit out of hand. She started to get a bit weepy and then . . . well, the others were egging me on. You know how it is?’

  Mama covers his restless hands with her own. Her face is sad as she watches him, rather as she might look at one of her own children.

  ‘You see, Tony, the whole point is that Mina can’t understand it. She is a romantic and this is her first love. To her it was the most precious thing in the world—’

  ‘And to me!’ he cries passionately. ‘This was . . . outside all that. I must try to make her see it my way.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s capable of separating it.’ Mama holds his hands tightly. ‘Oh, not because she is cruel but because it is beyond her experience. Nothing she’s read or known could possibly have prepared her for it. I’ve talked to her. I’ve tried to explain how, in times of war, other energies and needs can take over and we break the usual rules that govern ordinary life, but she can’t get to grips with it. This love was something fragile and beautiful and it’s been smashed.’

  He bends over their joined hands, sobbing so bitterly that, outside the door, Nest is frightened. Tears come to her own eyes for Tony – and for poor Mina too. Something terrible must have happened for Mina to allow Tony to be so unhappy.

  ‘Why did you tell her?’ Mama’s voice is full of compassion. ‘My dear boy! Whatever made you do it?’

  Tony swallows, wiping his eyes on the backs of his hands, still clasping hers tightly so that she can feel the tears.

  ‘I was shy about seeing her again. I know it sounds silly but I was. I felt shy and nervous and uncertain of myself. There was something else too. I’d changed a bit, down in Cornwall on exercise. I’d begun to feel I was really part of the war and I was proud of it. I hadn’t done the other thing before, either, so that when I drove down here and saw Mina again there was an unreality about it that was almost frightening. There seemed to be two separate worlds – hers and mine – and for a moment I couldn’t mesh them together. It was important that she knew I’d changed, grown, and that I wasn’t just a kid any longer. I wanted her to know that I was a man now, and so, before we could adjust ourselves properly, these crass things were coming out of my mouth. It was only when I saw her expression that I suddenly realized what I was doing. Everything swung back into focus but it was too late.’

  ‘My poor boy. Can’t you see that Mina will not be able to believe that you could possibly love her if you can be like that with another woman? It would need a much more worldly woman than Mina is to be able to accept it. That woman in Cornwall has taken something vitally important, which Mina thought was hers, and you, apparently, gave it to this woman very willingly. Mina’s trust and pride is smashed to pieces.’

  ‘Oh God . . .’ he begins to sob again, whilst Mama comforts him, and Nest turns away to look for Mina.

  She is huddling in the corner of the morning-room sofa, weeping silently. Nest watches her through the crack in the half-opened door, wishing that time could roll back to those happier earlier years.

  This autumn, Timmie has been sent away to school and Nest misses him quite dreadfully; she creeps into his room to look at his Meccano constructions; staring up at his model aeroplanes suspended in continuous flight from the ceiling, touching with tender fingers his old knitted soldier propped against the pillow. During those weeks before Tony’s return, Mina has done everything she can to keep Nest occupied: letters are written to Timmie, plans made for the games to be played in the holidays; suggestions for his Christmas present to be discussed. Suddenly, however, Mina is no longer interested in these diversions. Her eyes are swollen with tears and she seems unable to concentrate.

  ‘Try not to worry her,’ says Mama. ‘She’s had some bad news. No, of course not about Timmie, you foolish child. It’s nobody you need to worry about.’

  Now, peeping through the crack in the door, Nest decides that at least she can try to comfort her big sister. Slipping into the room, she climbs up beside Mina and curls beside her, resting her head against her shoulder, saying nothing. Presently, Mina wriggles her arm free and draws her nearer so that they sit close together, silent but sharing.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘Is it your turn,’ asked Jack hopefully, his voice muffled by pillow, ‘to make the Sunday morning co
ffee?’

  A long, low groan issued from the further side of the bed and Jack rolled over on his back the better to listen to it.

  ‘I think,’ he said aloud, but as if to himself, ‘that that was a “yes”. Oh, good.’

  He settled himself more comfortably but, before Hannah struggled out of her cocoon of quilt to disabuse him of this assumption, a steady, rhythmic roaring could be heard, and, presently, a pattering of feet. Jack instinctively braced himself as the bedroom door was flung wide.

  ‘Flora’s awake,’ announced Toby, ‘and she pongs. It’s really yucky.’

  ‘Tobes is beginning to develop a real flair for the Obvious Remark,’ Jack murmured to his wife. ‘Have you noticed? Don’t let me keep you, though. Hurry away. Oh, and do switch the kettle on before you de-pong our child.’

  ‘It’s your turn.’ Hannah held on to the quilt. ‘You know it is, Jack. Go and do something, for Heaven’s sake, before she explodes.’

  ‘It is your turn, Daddy,’ Toby reassured him. ‘Mummy did last Sunday because I was sick in the night from Hamish’s birthday and nobody went to church because you didn’t want to take Flora on your own.’

  Jack struggled into a sitting position and stared at Toby indignantly.

  ‘So much for male solidarity,’ he said. ‘Thanks, mate. Oh, and don’t expect any support from me next time you embark on your “Oh, I wish we had a dog” stuff.’

  ‘Jack, just shut up and go and deal with her,’ moaned Hannah urgently, burrowing further into the feather quilt. ‘You can argue with Tobes in her bedroom. Go away.’

  Jack shrugged himself into a long towelling robe and followed his son across the landing. Flora, her face puce but tearless, stood clinging to her cot-rail, wailing loudly. At the sight of Jack she paused, drew a ragged breath and began to hiccup.

  ‘Uh-oh!’ said Toby with dreadful satisfaction. ‘She’ll have those for ages now. Sometimes they can make her sick.’

  Before Jack could think of a suitably quelling reply, he was overcome by the pungent odour emanating, along with the hiccups, from the cot. He closed his eyes, shuddering.

  ‘Dear God!’ he muttered. ‘How am I supposed to eat breakfast after this? Come on, Tobes, you know the routine. You can help me. Where’s the mattress thing? Oh, good man! That’s it, lay it right there. Now, up you come, princess.’

  Later, he made coffee whilst Flora sat contentedly in her high chair with a chocolate biscuit (‘Mummy never lets us have those before breakfast. She’ll be very cross.’ ‘Then don’t go telling her and upsetting her, OK?’), her hiccups quite abated, and Toby, having finished his biscuit, examined a new plastic dinosaur from the cornflakes box.

  ‘I’ve got three of these all the same,’ he said sadly, studying the back of the carton. ‘I’m collecting them but I only ever get these ones. Why don’t we get some of the others?’

  ‘It’s called Sod’s law, chum,’ said Jack, his good humour restored by hot, black coffee. ‘It’s the same law which says it’s my turn to get up this morning and it’s why you’ve got your knickers on back to front. No future in that, Tobes. Now be a good chap and watch over your sister while I take some coffee up to Mummy. OK? Shan’t be long.’

  He went out of the kitchen and there was a short silence.

  ‘You’ve got chocolate all over your face,’ Toby told Flora.

  She observed him placidly as she carefully licked the chocolate from the biscuit and dropped the soggy crumbs over the side of the chair onto the floor. Caligula sniffed at them fastidiously, then disappeared through the cat-flap into the garden. Toby watched for a moment, imagining his mother’s face when she saw the mess later.

  ‘Not very helpful, darling,’ he said aloud to himself, in Hannah’s voice, and set the dinosaurs to fighting on the table, making growling noises, and Flora chuckled as she watched, stretching sticky fingers towards them.

  Upstairs, Jack stood the coffee on the bedside table and looked down on the small piece of Hannah that he could see.

  ‘I’m not asleep,’ she said, muffled. ‘Are they OK?’

  ‘Quite OK. Coffee’s there if you want it.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She fought her way out of the quilt and reached for the mug.

  ‘Everything’s under control,’ he said. ‘Sleep a bit if you want to.’

  ‘I might,’ she said, drawing up her knees and pushing her hair back behind her ears. ‘Jack, I’ve been thinking about us getting a puppy. I didn’t want to say anything in the car coming back from Ottercombe yesterday because of Tobes but it was such fun seeing the kids with the dogs, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was.’ Jack was smiling. ‘I have no problem about having a dog, Han, but it’s you who’ll bear the brunt. Are you sure you haven’t got enough on your plate already? I shan’t be able to do much about puppy-training during term-time.’

  ‘I thought we might wait until the Christmas holidays,’ she told him. ‘Then we’ve got three weeks off to break it in ready for next term. I think it would be good for the boys too; help them settle in and take their minds off being homesick.’

  Jack bent to kiss the top of her head. ‘I think it’s a brilliant idea. Tobes will be out of his mind.’

  ‘We’ll have to decide what breed is best for a houseful of children,’ she mused, sipping her coffee thoughtfully.

  Jack beamed at her. ‘I’ve heard that Dobermanns are very partial to children,’ he said. ‘Or is it Rottweilers? You know the joke? What dog has four legs and an arm? But maybe they’ve just had a bad press.’

  ‘Go away,’ she said. ‘Go and watch over our young. I’ll be down in a minute. And don’t say anything about the puppy yet. I want to see Tobes’s face when we tell him.’

  Later that same morning, wheeling slowly, Nest progressed from the sunny courtyard along the mossy path that wound through the wild garden; crossing the small stone bridge, below which the stream flowed, and passing beneath the last of the tall, silky plumes of the pampas grass, spared as yet from Mina’s secateurs. In summer, here in the shelter of the cliff, the feathery cream and the pink foliage of aruncus and astilbe tangled with tall green ferns and purple loosestrife, whilst hypericum crept over their roots, carpeting the damp ground with its small round woolly leaves and yellow flowers. Early in the year, snowdrops and primroses grew amongst the roots of the tall beeches and, in late spring, lily of the valley and snake’s-head fritillary bloomed amongst the coarse grass that bordered the stream.

  Here, where the culvert carried the flow of water down into the valley, the umbrella plant spread its red and brown serrated leaves underfoot, thriving with the rheum and rodgersia amongst the ghostly, delicate boles of the silver birch, and, in a cranny of the cliff hidden by salix and wych-hazel, the pied wagtail built her nest. Pausing, turning her chair a little in the autumn sunshine, Nest watched a charm of goldfinches, dipping and fluttering with their dancing flight above a clump of thistles, and suddenly, further down the valley, a mallard broke into its hoarse, comical ‘rarb-rarb’ cry. As she wheeled herself onward, she recalled the games that she and Timmie had played in this enchanted garden with its secret places and wild, dramatic setting. Could there possibly have been a more wonderful place on earth for two imaginative children? Few books were beyond their scope for re-enactment, although, reasonably, there had been an occasional disappointment due to a lack of vision on the part of the adults.

  It is in the Christmas holidays of 1943 that Timmie is given his first Arthur Ransome, Swallows and Amazons, and, after the first reading, the beach is easily transformed into Wild Cat Island, although Mama refuses to let them have a sailing boat. In vain they plead: the currents on this north Somerset coast are much too dangerous to allow two small children to act out their fantasy stories to the limit and they must be content with the rock-pools, in which to swim, and the cliffs to climb. After Christmas, once Mina has gone away to London and Timmie and her sisters have returned to school, Nest is left with Mama. Now, alone for hours at a time, she enters almost
completely into the world of make-believe, her vivid imagination fuelled by the stories that Mama reads to her during the children’s hour. Preoccupied with her own loneliness and anxiety, Mama has begun to read other things than the beloved story-books. Curled beside her on the sofa, before the fire, Nest listens to Alison Uttley’s The Country Child, her heart beating fast as she passes, in spirit, with little Susan Garland coming home from school through the Dark Wood. She peeps fearfully at the Rackham illustrations as Mama reads Goblin Market – although she loves the picture of the children called to hear their mother’s tale – and always, in Nest’s mind, it is Mina she sees as the brave Lizzie who saves her sister from the wicked goblin men. She experiences a strange, yearning restlessness, a tingling of blood in her veins, when she hears for the first time the poetry of Thomas Edward Brown and O’Shaughnessy’s Music and Moonlight, and the lyrical prose of Richard Jefferies.

  All through that late winter and early spring she wanders like a small wraith, verses and phrases singing in her ears, images crowding in her mind, dazed by the glory of the English language, groping towards ideas she cannot, at nine, hope to understand. She misses Mina just as much as she misses Timmie; inexplicably touched by Mama’s gentle melancholy, yet her soul on fire with a mysterious fusion of nameless, poignant longings and wild excitement. When the snowdrops show their delicate, drooping heads beneath the naked beeches in the wild garden and the lemon flowers of the winter aconite are scattered amongst the grass, Mama moves on to Jane Eyre and Nest falls in love with Edward Rochester, whose tragic, romantic image becomes the receptacle for all of her unformed passion. As the March gales pile mountainous seas against the tall grey cliffs, and snowstorms sweep from the Bristol Channel across the moor, Nest stands at her bedroom window, listening to the restless surging of the waves as eagerly as though, at any moment, she might leap out to become part of all that elemental, untameable magic.

  The Easter holidays bring her companionship again in the form of Timmie and, once again, they play out their small dramas, though, this time, they are enacted against the background of a perpetual battle waged between Henrietta and Josie. The two girls are locked in a rivalry that drives their mother to despair and fascinates their two young siblings. Henrietta, barely twelve months her sister’s senior but as old as Eve, can generally run circles round the less complicated, more direct Josie. The two of them are invited to one or two parties and Henrietta is allowed to go to a tea-dance – with a school friend and her brother – which sends Josie into a sulk for several days. The brother, a sweet-tempered, naïve seventeen-year-old destined for the army in the autumn, is quite besotted by Henrietta’s wiles yet is far too well brought up to ignore Josie.