Apple Blossom Time (14 page)

‘Sssh. Never mind. Better luck next time,’ I’d said and kissed him.

‘I love you, Laura,’ he’d said. He’d just touched my cheek and then he was gone. I heard his boots clattering down the stairs, heard the car door slam. I looked out of the window, but the driver had accelerated away too quickly for me.

*   *   *

I love you, Laura.

I lay down on the narrow bed and buried my face in the pillow. My throat contracted, my chest hurt too much to cry. All I could do was make a hard, gasping noise that gave me no relief.

James, oh, James, I wish I could have loved you enough.

*   *   *

So many letters – from Major Prosser, from Miss Carstairs, from Grace’s cousin George, even from DDATS – that string of initials that meant a very high-up Queen Bee – in Egypt. Some were from people I didn’t even know – friends of James’s family – some from complete strangers, but all of them saying, in their own way, the same thing: James had been a hero and I must be very proud of him. I wasn’t certain where the scared boy had ended and the hero had taken over, but it had happened, some time.

At home, people would stop me in the churchyard, or as I walked down to Abbie’s shop, and say the same thing. So it must have been true. Everyone was so kind. It was a sort of benevolent persecution. I felt that if just one more person said the word ‘proud’, I might be driven to serious violence. The kindest ones just patted my hand and smiled and walked on.

‘You must be sure and remember every detail, Laura,’ Mrs Buckland insisted. ‘I shall want to know all about the red carpets and the flunkies and the throne. What the Queen was wearing – bless her – and if the little princesses – not so little now, of course – were there and whether all the windows in the Palace are taped for bomb blast. Wherever would they get enough material for blackout for all those windows? But I expect they have shutters or maybe they don’t use all the rooms at night. Such an honour, dear, to go to the Palace and such a shame it has to be … well, you know … such a shame you have to lose your husband before you get invited…’

She didn’t mean it like that, I know.

‘And the VC, too … a hero … you must be very proud. Such an honour for the family. A sort of justice, don’t you think? Not that it could actually make up, of course, but maybe just a little bit…’

‘I’m not sure that I quite follow you, Mrs Buckland. Make up for what, exactly?’

‘Well, for what happened to your father, of course, Laura. All that unpleasantness, all that unfortunate talk, not that we ever really knew, no-one did, but there it is, you can’t stop people talking. It’s only human nature, after all.’

‘What about my father?’

My voice was tight and strained. Mrs Buckland looked at my face and turned guiltily away, natural colour staining the skin around the neat little circles of rouge on her cheeks.

‘Oh dear … you didn’t … oh dear … I must fly, Laura, I’ve left some chutney simmering and the pan will catch and be quite ruined…’

*   *   *

‘Mother – did you love my father?’

‘I … why, Laura … what an extraordinary question.’

‘Did you?’

Her hands fluttered vaguely, hands that I remembered as being calm and lovely, as graceful as butterflies. Long-fingered still, now they were red and chapped, swollen at the knuckles, a worker’s hands.

‘It’s all so long ago, darling.’

‘Not all that long ago,’ I persisted, cruelly. It was like breaking the butterfly. ‘You should be able to remember whether or not you loved your husband. Did you or didn’t you? I have a right to know. He was my father.’

She looked straight at me. I was ashamed by the directness of her gaze. I couldn’t look at her.

‘Yes, yes, of course. You have a right. Well, then – yes, I loved him when we were married. Does that satisfy you?’

‘And afterwards.’

‘And afterwards, too, but for a different reason. That’s all.’

‘But…’

‘Laura, that’s all. I don’t want to talk any more. What happens within a marriage is private. You should know that.’

Oh, yes, I, of all people, ought to know that.

*   *   *

‘Tom, did you know my father very well?’

Tom was grafting fruit bushes, a fiddly job, so, of course, he couldn’t look up.

‘We were friends,’ he said, his voice muffled by the twist of raffia held between his lips.

‘Good friends?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long did you know him?’

Deftly, he wound the raffia around the splice: two varieties bound as one, because Tom had decided that they would be good for each other.

‘Oh, donkey’s years. School, OTC, joined up together – you know – like you and Pansy.’

‘So what was he like?’

‘Look here,’ Tom said, straightening. Frosted sunlight struck off the blade of the grafting knife. ‘What’s all this about?’

‘I just want to know.’

‘Cut along, there’s a good girl. I haven’t got time to chat just now. If you must stay, you can make yourself useful and pass me a few more lengths of this stuff. That’s the ticket.’ He concentrated on the splice for a moment longer, then raised his head and looked at me. ‘I don’t want you bothering your mother with all this nonsense, Laura.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t ask stupid questions. Because you’ll just upset her, that’s why, and I won’t have Diana upset. So let that be an end of it.’

*   *   *

‘Grandmother, do you have a picture of my father?’

‘I’m sure I must have.’

‘I’ve never seen one.’

‘Really? That can’t be true. I expect you’ve just forgotten.’ She poked her elegant fingers into the chicken’s vent and pulled out its guts, neat as you like. They spilled on to the sheet of newspaper. ‘This poor old dear’s so ancient,’ she remarked, ‘she’ll have to be casseroled from now to next week before she’s fit to eat. I wonder if it’s really worth the fuel.’

‘No. How could I possibly forget?’ I queried. ‘For all I know, he might have been a Hottentot.’

‘Now, don’t be so silly, Laura. Really, for a woman of your age, you have the most absurd ideas.’

Grandmother picked over the guts, sorting them into a useful pile and a not-useful pile, carefully separating the liver from the greenish gall bladder. I watched fascinated, horrified. Yet the thought of chicken casserole, tough or not, made my mouth water. Neck, gizzard, heart and liver went into the stock pot. Lungs, intestines, crop and gall bladder were rolled into the paper, out of sight, out of mind, quick as a wink.

‘Isn’t it amazing,’ she said, ‘how much a chicken can pack into such a small space? You’d never think it’d all fit. Still, I suppose we’re much the same.’

She washed and dried her hands, scooped up a big blob of Glymiel jelly from the jar on the windowsill, creamed her fingers meticulously and slipped her rings back on again. I wondered why Mother’s hands looked so different.

I leaned against the door frame, preventing her from leaving the scullery.

‘What was he like?’ I demanded. ‘I want to know.’

‘Laura – dear – what is the matter with you? Are you feeling quite well? Now, don’t hold me back. I have a WVS committee meeting. I have to change into uniform.’

‘I want to know,’ I said again, stubbornly. ‘I have to know.’

‘I’ll look out some things for you,’ she said, sidestepping me neatly. ‘One day. When I have a spare moment. Remind me.’

*   *   *

There were so many letters that I didn’t think anything when I opened another amongst a batch of three delivered that morning. It wasn’t a letter, just a single word.

DISGRACE

I stared at it, baffled. The meaning was sinister, the intent was malevolent, yet I didn’t understand it. Then I shivered, screwed the paper and its envelope into a ball and tossed them into the fire. I felt better once they were gone.

*   *   *

‘Mr Millport, did you ever know my father?’

‘Your father, Laura? Oh, bless you, yes. I knew Edwin very well.’

‘How well?’

‘I knew him all his life. Did I baptize him? Let me think. Perhaps. No, no. I don’t think so. I think that was my predecessor. I certainly prepared him for confirmation, however. I do remember that. That must have been 1910, I think. Probably. Or 1911. Perhaps. No, no. I’m wrong. It was definitely coronation year. Which year did it rain so terribly? I remember it well.’

Pansy rearranged the few nuts of coal on the fire, as though, by catching them by surprise, she might coax a bit more heat out of them, but they were stubborn.

Jonathan was playing on the rug in front of the fire, building something unrecognizable from bricks. He wasn’t a baby any longer, but a beautiful little boy just beginning to walk, with frank, blue eyes in a rosy face. A piece of coal flared briefly. Before it died away, it highlighted Jonathan’s hair as he bent in concentration over the bricks. It was a warm, toffee brown, fading to gold at the ends. Something I couldn’t quite grasp, some memory, some echo, made me stare. And once I had started, I couldn’t stop staring.

Pansy must have noticed. She twitched the rug closer around her father’s knees in an over-busy gesture. She frowned and shook her head at me across him, as if to say, ‘Don’t tire him’, but I was ruthless.

‘Tell me about my father,’ I demanded.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Everything.’

He looked at me with milky eyes. Wisps of hair straggling below a woolly cap gave him a fey, pixie look. Puck might have looked like that if time had ever caught up with him. His unlined, innocent face was reproachful. ‘What sort of everything is there to tell about a boy who died when he was twenty years old? He was a nice boy. They were all nice boys.’

*   *   *

‘I don’t want to go.’

‘You don’t have any option, my dear,’ said Grandmother briskly.

I trundled after Grandmother with the wheelbarrow, patiently following as she moved around the gooseberries and redcurrants. In one corner, a sulky bonfire smouldered, sending up a column of smoke the same colour as the sky. The few vegetables left standing looked frost-bleached and sorry for themselves, even the brussels sprouts, although everyone knows they’re no good at all until they’ve stood through a couple of frosts. Pigeons had stripped the cabbages to purplish ribs.

‘I used to love this time of year,’ she said, straightening with a sigh. ‘Curtains drawn early. A roaring fire. Crumpets for tea, butter and honey dripping through all those delicious holes. Then upstairs for a long, hot bath before dinner – gallons and gallons of hot water, I can scarcely believe how much. And now – now I spend more time taking coal off the fire than putting it on and I wouldn’t recognize a crumpet if it jumped up and bit me on the nose! Come along, Laura. Pick up that pile there. You’re slacking. This should have been done weeks ago. I certainly don’t remember being so uncomfortable during the Great War. We seemed to manage things better then. Of course, I was younger. That probably makes a difference.’

She was trying to divert me, but I wouldn’t be put off.

‘I can’t face it.’

‘The women of this family have always “faced it”, Laura, as you put it. You
shall
go to Buckingham Palace. You
shall
receive your husband’s medal and you shall
not
whine. And no
can’t
or
won’t
from you, please.’

Snip, snip, snip went her secateurs among the gooseberries, trimming away weak or crossing shoots, shortening the fruiting branches to half their summer length. She enjoyed pruning. She never could abide anything superfluous. I picked up a twig and began peeling back the bark, dead and brown on the outside, living green on the inside, revealing the pale wood beneath.

‘But James’s parents will be there and I’ve never met them.’

‘That is to their shame, not yours. Just be perfectly polite. In the circumstances, I think, perhaps, a little kiss on the cheek may be due, but certainly nothing more. Nothing emotional, please. That would be too distasteful. They’ll want the medal, you know,’ Grandmother added, with a sharp, little tilt of her head that said, as clearly as words – just let them try.

‘Surely not.’

‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised. It’s yours by right and don’t let them tell you otherwise.’

*   *   *

It was better and worse than I’d feared. So many widows, some with small children in tow. Parents with tears in their eyes. Servicemen on crutches or in wheelchairs. A Guards band playing solemn tunes before and jaunty tunes afterwards. Photographers’ flashes. An atmosphere of emotion well tamped down, of pride, of love.

His Majesty looked ill. His eyes were shadowed and his cheeks too thin. His Sam Browne belt sagged very slightly over a hollow chest. Yet he spoke kindly to everyone in a careful voice, avoiding words that began with consonants that might cause him difficulty, thinking before he spoke and, because of that, making intelligent and thoughtful remarks.

The Queen was – just herself: round and rosy, smiling as always, in a squirrel-trimmed hat that matched the sleeve trimmings of her delphinium blue edge-to-edge coat. She was so natural. No wonder people loved her. She helped to make an emotional occasion into a bearable one.

When my turn came, I went forward, saluted and the King put James’s medal into my hands. I looked down at the bronze cross with its dark crimson ribbon. The lion standing on the crown looked pugnacious. The words
FOR VALOUR
blurred before my eyes.

I will not cry, I will not cry. I could almost hear Grandmother’s voice.
Nothing emotional, please.

‘You must be very proud,’ I heard His Majesty say, his voice inexplicably distant, as though I were hearing him down a telephone, ‘of your husband’s brave deed.’

I couldn’t answer, just nodded, saluted again and it was over.

Outside, there were photographers, wanting to record the moment. ‘Just hold the medal out – both hands – that’s right, love. Look at it. Good. Good. Now look up. Again. Can you manage a little smile? Just a little one? No? Never mind. Good.’

And James’s parents. I had expected not to like them. I don’t know why. Perhaps because they had made no effort to get in touch with me. I was their only son’s widow and we were strangers. But then, perhaps they’d thought the same about me. I was the outsider who’d become their son’s next-of-kin. I was the one who’d been informed first of his death. The army’s responsibility had been to me, the woman he’d known for only a few months, not to the parents who’d raised him. They’d had to hear of his death from me – the most difficult letter I’d ever written and I had done it badly.