Authors: Wendy Perriam
‘E
TERNAL REST GRANT
unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her …’
Maria was unable to shift her gaze from that loathsome, hateful coffin. Despite its gleaming mahogany and the shower of white chrysanthemums extravagant on top, it seemed cruel in the extreme that her beloved mother should be cramped up, claustrophobic, in a box, when, apart from the last tragic decade, she had been always busy, active, upright.
‘Mum,
darling
,’ Amy whispered, seeing her distress.
Maria clutched her hand – a life-raft. She had been on tenterhooks all week, acutely worried that Amy and Hugo might not make it for the funeral, with such heavy snow blocking roads and disrupting all the trains. Her overwhelming relief at their last-minute arrival had made her realize just how hugely she had missed them during her long, lonely years of daughter-deprivation. Indeed, since Hanna’s death, they had become even more important, as her only remaining family.
‘Lord have mercy … Christ have mercy,’ Father Charles intoned,
resplendent
in a black-and-silver chasuble. ‘Absolve, we beseech thee …’
Words were flashing past, but it was impossible to grasp them. She was reliving the shock of Boxing Day, when she had dragged herself downstairs, pre-dawn, to take Hanna her usual tea and milky porridge, and found not a living, breathing mother but an already stiffening corpse.
‘O God, Your nature is ever-merciful …’
Mercy, mercy – the word was near unbearable. If God were truly merciful, He would have given her a chance to say goodbye; ensured she was there when Hanna actually died; allowed her time to hold her mother close, comfort her and pray with her, as she had always planned and promised.
‘… bid Your holy angels lead her home to Paradise …’
Could Hanna really be in Paradise, joyfully reunited with her husband after sixty-six years of widowhood? Or was she simply decomposing, soon
to be food for worms? The thought induced a wave of nausea, not helped by the overpowering scent of the lilies on the altar, or the choking fumes of incense that seemed to have lodged deep in her throat
She jumped as Hugo squeezed past her in the pew, having totally forgotten that he had agreed to give the first reading. The last ten days had passed in a sort of churning fog of desolation, disbelief and endless
busyness
– a whole tidal wave of arrangements and decisions, at a time when she could barely decide whether to offer people tea or coffee when they called to pay their respects.
She tried her best to concentrate by focusing on Hugo’s tall, athletic figure, standing by the altar; his blue-grey eyes and neatly cut blond hair. How extraordinary it always seemed that Amy should marry someone so
English
; someone from a good professional family, his father a retired
headmaster
, his mother a magistrate. If only she could run time back to Amy and
Hugo’s wedding, held in this same church; be singing celebratory hymns rather than mournful dirges. Hugo was now returning to the pew and she hadn’t taken in a single word he had read. And when the congregation stood for the Gospel, she was still lost in her own thoughts and had to be nudged to her feet. Her distraction was due partly to the fierce internal battle she was fighting: one part of her determined to remain courageous and controlled, as her mother would expect, while another, reprehensible part wanted simply to give way to her grief; startle these worthy villagers with wild shrieks of lamentation. And didn’t she have reason? Since the moment of her birth, she had been the centre of her mother’s life, the main point of Hanna’s existence, her overriding concern; and now mother and daughter were cut callously adrift. Yet, whatever the pain of losing such a bond, she knew she must restrain herself. Grief could be excessive; even a sort of greed – and greed was sinful and selfish, as Hanna had taught her early on.
‘Amen,’ she said, as much to her mother as to the Gospel, before settling wearily back in the pew for Father Charles’s homily.
He smiled around at the congregation, extending both hands in his usual declamatory manner. ‘Welcome to you all, dear people. We are gathered here to mourn the passing of our sister, Hanna, and I like that phrase, “the passing of Hanna”, rather than Hanna dying, because, as Catholics, we know that death is not the end. Our faith tells us that Hanna lives still …’
If only, Maria thought. If her mother could be granted just one more hour of life, with all her faculties intact, then she could apologize for her grouchiness on what had proved to be their final day together. How appallingly remiss it now seemed to have spent Christmas Day resenting her
captivity and longing to be with Amy in London, surrounded by cheerful people, instead of being cooped up with her silent, brooding mother, who had refused to swallow anything beyond a dab of mashed potato and a scant spoonful of custard.
‘It seems a paradox,’ Father Charles continued, against a background of muffled coughs, ‘that at baptism we celebrate dying to this world, whereas at funerals we celebrate rising to new life.’
Her shame mounted as she remembered Amy’s baptism – again, in this same church; Hanna her usual valiant self, but she a mutinous rebel, thinking less of her new baby than of her shattered hopes and dreams.
‘Hanna’s faith never wavered throughout her long, unselfish life, despite the crosses she had to bear, chief of which was the loss of her husband, Kenneth, a heroic sergeant, slaughtered in France, after the D-Day landings. And, only three years earlier, she’d had to endure the equally tragic death of her mother.’
Father Charles paused to clear his throat, then raised his voice above a wailing infant. ‘When she came up here as an evacuee, she was pregnant and alone, yet she didn’t waste time feeling sorry for herself. She thought only of the welfare of her baby, who was born here in the village, of course. So, when the other evacuees were sent back home, she decided to stay up here and make a new life for herself and her child. And we’re very glad she did stay, because she’s proved an extremely valuable member of our community. Right from the start, when she had very little to live on, she proved her
independence
and resilience. She took in sewing, found a job at Wood End Farm, helping with the paperwork and typing and, later, worked at Mrs Plowden’s, the draper’s, where many of us older folk remember her.’
Maria’s cheeks were burning at the contrast with her own behaviour, when she, too, had a baby, and no man around to help. She had cursed the Pope for banning contraception; cursed even her saintly mother for bringing her up a Catholic.
‘So today, dear people, we celebrate the life of Hanna and her many
sterling
qualities. But we mustn’t forget that there’s another, even greater celebration, taking place in Heaven, because not only has Hanna been reunited with her husband, at last, but one of God’s most faithful servants has come home to her eternal rest.’
Maria had to clench her fists and clamp her lips together to stop herself from breaking into sobs. And she could no longer cling to Amy, because she had arranged with Father Charles that, at the end of his sermon, her daughter should say a few concluding words about her beloved
grandmother
.
She watched as Amy went up to the lectern, amazed, as always, that she had produced a child who was all the things
she
wasn’t: slim, stylish, elegant, successful, clever, confident. In all those aspects, she resembled Hugo, yet in appearance they were strikingly different: Amy sultry-dark and exotic-looking; Hugo tamer in his colouring and dress.
‘I owe so much to Grandma,’ Amy began, in the refined accent she’d adopted at Cambridge; a marked contrast to her former Northumbrian burr. ‘She more or less brought me up, because Mum had to work, of course.’
Maria shifted in her seat. Did Amy even
know
that, far from working, she’d been plunged into depression, unable to change so much as a nappy, let alone earn the money to buy them? Hanna, always loyal, had never divulged to a single soul the sad truth of those first years.
‘We were three women in the house,’ Amy went on, showing no trace of nerves or hesitation, ‘but we all pulled together to make it work and I can honestly say that there’s no one I love more than Mum and Grandma – well, except for my husband, of course,’ she added, flashing Hugo an apologetic smile, which produced a ripple of laughter from her listeners. ‘Father Charles has already praised my grandmother, and all of us here know how special she was. But I want to praise my
mother
, because she deserves a tribute, too, for her unswervable devotion to Grandma during the last extremely difficult years. I know, because I’ve barely seen her. However tired she was, or desperate for a break, she refused to come and chill out with me in Dubai, or even London, because she knew how much her absence would upset Grandma.’
Maria’s flush had now changed to one of embarrassment. It seemed wrong to hear herself lauded, when, in point of fact, she had often been in tears of frustration at her mother’s increasing dependency, or racked with fear about how much longer she could cope with her at home. No one, not even Amy, realized quite what huge reserves of patience it required. And, even now, she felt burdened by the amount she had to do – not just the whole business of probate, but the total renovation of the cottage. Whilst devoting her time to Hanna, she had neglected the house and garden, and now the latter was overgrown and choked with brambles, and the former sorely in need of a face-lift.
She glanced up at Amy, svelte in her smart black suit; her dark hair swept up on top; a single strand of pearls – a gift from Hugo’s mother – gleaming in the light. ‘Stop!’ she wanted to shout, as her daughter continued singing her praises. ‘I don’t deserve this tribute.’
‘So I’d like to conclude by saying, “Well done, Mum!” I know everyone
here agrees with me that you’re every bit as unselfish and remarkable as Grandma was herself and, to me, you’re simply the best mother in the world.’
‘Hear, hear!’ Hugo whispered, edging a little closer in the pew and laying his arm across Maria’s back and shoulders. And, only then, did she sob, letting her tears fall unchecked. She was crying not for her mother, nor in response to Amy’s truly touching words, but because she had never had a husband to put his warm, supportive, loving arms around her.
‘I
DON’T KNOW
about you two, my loves, but
I’m
completely knackered.’ Maria collapsed into a chair, kicking off her tight black shoes. ‘Mind you, the wake went well, don’t you think? I mean, all those people turning up, even in this lousy weather. Thing is, it’s so hard to keep chatting and smiling when …’ Her voice tailed off.
‘Yes,
I
felt choked, too,’ Amy said, ‘especially when I got talking to that weird old Mrs Melrose. I hadn’t realized she’s the same age as Grandma. She said they’ve been friends for over sixty years, and she was telling me how hard it was when Grandma first came up here, not knowing a soul and being billeted on strangers. And even on VE Day, when everyone was dancing in the streets, Grandma must have felt more like howling, especially with her mother dead as well. I never even knew how that happened, but according to Mrs Melrose the house suffered a direct hit in the Blitz.’
‘Yes,’ Maria reflected, ‘in 1941. And Mama only escaped because she was working in a munitions factory and so not allowed home except at
weekends
. The bomb fell on a Tuesday and your great-grandma was killed outright. In fact, her life was pretty wretched altogether, as far as I can gather. Mama never said a lot about it but apparently Theresia was orphaned very early on and brought up by nuns in a convent in Ossiach. Eventually, she became a maid to Lady Stanley, who was a benefactress of the convent and living locally. And when her ladyship returned to London, she took Theresia with her, which is how she came to be in England.’
‘So how did she meet Great-Grandpa?’ Amy asked.
‘Oh, that’s quite a romantic saga. He fell head over heels in love with her when she was only sixteen, but, of course, the nuns weren’t having any of that! They brought her up incredibly strictly and refused to let her even
look
at boys. But, once she was in London, Franz-Josef simply followed her over and kept on pestering and pestering until, at last, she agreed to marry him.’
‘I know the feeling,’ Hugo laughed. ‘Amy took a fair bit of persuasion before she married
me
.’
Amy gave him a friendly punch. ‘Only because life was so hectic. There just wasn’t time to plan a wedding.’
‘Well, you didn’t do too badly,’ Maria said, smiling as she took a sip of her wine. ‘The whole village still talks about it – your fantastic dress and the amazing cake and everything.’
‘But what about Theresia?’ Hugo enquired. ‘Did things go well once she’d tied the knot?’
‘Not really. Lady Stanley dismissed her, for a start, and money was terribly short. So she had to take in sewing, and Franz-Josef was only a waiter, so he can’t have been earning much. But, despite the lack of cash, he remained a romantic at heart and had plans for a great big family – five boys and five girls was the general idea, I think. But those other nine were never to be, because, of course, he was interned and, after that, he became a broken man.’
Amy shuddered. ‘You know, when I first told Hugo that my own
great-grandpa
was sent to break stones in a prison camp, like a common criminal, he was gobsmacked, weren’t you, darling?’
Maria flushed, aware of the contrast between her own beleaguered ancestors and Hugo’s well-to-do family, rooted securely in Shropshire from generations back. ‘Well, you see, he was classed as an “enemy-alien” and so a danger to national security, because no one really understood that
Austro-Hungarians
were different from Germans. Which is why, all the time she lived here, Mama never breathed a word about her foreign origins. She didn’t even confide in the parish priest, which I suppose is understandable. I mean, she was miles from home, and pregnant, and recently bereaved, so better to play safe. The last thing she’d want was to be shunned as a “bloody German”.’
‘But, going back to Franz-Josef,’ Hugo said, draining the last of his wine, ‘what happened to him after his release?’
‘Well, for one thing, Mama was distinctly put out, when this haggard stranger showed up! She was only four at the time, you see, and had no idea who he was, because he’d been interned in 1915, just months after her birth. And, anyway, she tended to be excluded, as he became increasingly dependent on his wife and perhaps resented having to share her with a child. And he couldn’t get work, since people still suspected him of being on the enemy side. And, saddest of all, he died of pneumonia, when Mama was only sixteen, so she and Theresia were on their own in London, again, and had to get by as best they could. And being Austro-Hungarian must have
been even more of an issue then, what with Theresia’s foreign accent and her unpronounceable surname.’
‘Oh, Mum, it’s all so tragic!’
‘Well, I can’t speak for Theresia, but as far as Mama’s concerned, she
wasn’t
a tragic person, as you very well know. And life was easier for her than it ever was for her parents. I mean, she didn’t have an accent and no one knew her maiden name, Radványi. Hanna Brown sounded reassuringly English. She was actually christened Johanna – shortened to Hanna in the convent – and most people assumed it was the
English
Hannah, with an “H” at the end.’ Maria gave a sudden laugh. ‘It was the Brown that saved her bacon, though! In fact, I sometimes wonder if she married Papa just on account of his surname.’
‘Yes, and then her darling Mr Brown goes and gets blown to bits,’ Amy said, bitterly.
‘But, even when she was widowed, which was devastating, obviously, she always made the best of things. She told me once, much later on, that the night she heard the news, she happened to be knitting Papa a sweater, and she insisted on finishing it during the next few weeks, because she couldn’t believe he’d never actually wear it. And, apparently, he’d given her this bar of chocolate – part of his army rations, I suppose – which she said she kept for years and years, as a sort of precious memento, even when it had gone all grey with mould.’
‘
Don’t
, Mum – I’ll be in tears again.’
‘Yes, but in one way she was fortunate, because Papa was allowed one last leave before he was sent to Normandy, so they had some time together, a few months before he died. And, without that final visit, I’d never have been conceived. And, of course, she saw me as
part
of Papa, so, in a sense, she hadn’t lost him entirely. And you mustn’t forget that her faith was a tremendous support. I suspect it got her through more than anything.’
‘I wish mine did,’ Amy muttered, ruefully. ‘But, to tell the truth, it doesn’t mean much any more. And Hugo’s even worse, aren’t you, darling?’
Maria envied the pair their casual stance on religion. The one time she had left the Church, she had paid extremely dearly for it.
‘Well,’ said Hugo, with a yawn, ‘this poor degenerate Catholic is not only lapsed, he’s pretty dead beat, too! Isn’t it time we went to bed? I didn’t sleep much last night.’
‘No wonder – in that bed.’ Maria felt a twinge of embarrassment every time she thought of Hugo – a six-foot-one ex-rugby player – trying to cram himself and Amy into a small and saggy divan. His parents owned a substantial house, with a tastefully furnished guest bedroom, complete with
king-size bed. ‘You should have let me book a hotel. But I can get you in for tomorrow, if you like. At least the roads aren’t quite so bad now.’ She went to the window and lifted the curtain aside. The landscape was still
blanketed
in white, but the whirling, frantic flakes had stopped falling late last night, as if respecting Hanna’s funeral.
‘We wouldn’t dream of it, Mum. You need us here and here we’ll stay. I feel bad enough, in any case, turfing you out of your room.’
‘Don’t worry, Mama’s bed did me proud.’ Although Eddie had moved the bed back upstairs, she wouldn’t dream of allowing Amy and Hugo to sleep on a mattress stained with urine – and worse. In fact, she hadn’t actually slept on it herself, unable to face lying in the very spot where her mother’s corpse had lain. Instead, she had crept downstairs and curled up on the sofa, beneath a heap of rugs; spent the night counting the endless minutes until a grey and grudging dawn broke, reluctantly, half-heartedly.
‘Hugo, you go on up,’ Amy said, giving him a kiss. ‘But I’ll stay with you a bit longer, Mum. Hugo likes to read before he settles down, so he won’t mind, will you, honey?’
‘Not at all. See you later, darling.’
Having bid goodnight to her son-in-law, Maria listened to his heavy
footsteps
tramping up the stairs. He was really just too tall and broad for this squat, low-ceilinged cottage, although it was something of a luxury to have any man sleeping here at all. On all their previous visits, Amy and Hugo had stayed at the Rose and Crown, but it had closed down just last year.
‘More wine?’ she offered, once she had moved across to join Amy on the sofa. ‘Or how about a hot drink?’
‘Nothing, Mum – relax! And, listen, now it’s just the two of us, if you want to go ahead and have a good old cry, I’ll completely understand. In fact, I feel close to tears myself every time I think of Grandma all on her own in that grave, instead of being buried with Grandpa.’
‘Well, I’ll be joining her eventually.’ Maria forced a smile. ‘We bought two plots, ages ago, side by side, of course.’
‘Mum, you’re not even to
think
of dying. I need you to be around for years and years and years yet.’ She broke off, awkwardly. ‘Actually, I wasn’t going to tell you this until tomorrow, at the earliest. Hugo said you were shattered and best leave it for a while. But maybe it will cheer you up.’
‘What will? What d’you mean?’
‘Well, I hope you’re sitting tight, Mum, because this may come as a bit of a shock. Fact is – I’m pregnant. Eight weeks exactly. The doctor confirmed it just before we left.’
Maria stared at her, incredulous. Long ago, she had come to accept that
Amy and Hugo would never start a family. After the first five years of their marriage, she had begun to drop broad hints, or issue not-so-veiled
warnings
about biological clocks, but since Amy resented what she saw as interference, she now deliberately avoided the subject. Invariably, their careers came first. One or other of them was always working flat out for promotion, or Hugo was abroad on some construction project and, after that, they were both in Dubai and then—
‘Mum, what’s the matter? You haven’t said a word. I thought you’d be over the moon.’
‘I am, I am!’ Maria felt a colossal smile spreading from her face to the whole triumphant room. ‘I just couldn’t take it in, that’s all.’
‘No wonder. We’ve kept you waiting long enough.’
‘But the timing’s sort of … perfect.’ Maria enfolded her daughter in a jubilant hug. ‘It’s almost like it’s
meant
– you know, one life ending as another starts.’
‘Well, actually, if it’s a girl, we’ve decided to call her Hannah.’
‘Oh, Mama would be really chuffed.’ Maria had always seen her daughter as having broken the chain of suffering, which seemed to have dogged their family from generations back. And now, she dared to hope, this new trend of success and happiness might continue down the ages.
‘I’m afraid Hugo’s so conventional, he insists on an “H” at the end, but I’m sure Grandma won’t object to that.’
‘’Course not. Oh, darling I’m just so excited! When’s your actual due date?’
‘August 16th.’
‘Good – a summer baby.
I
was born in a snowstorm, remember.’
‘Yes, I was telling Hugo,’ Amy laughed, ‘how Grandma couldn’t get to the hospital, because all the roads were blocked, and a midwife couldn’t get out to her, so a kind but clueless neighbour did her best to deliver you at home. The poor darling looked quite terrified and said not to count on
him
as midwife!’
‘But he’s pleased about the news, I hope?’
‘Delighted. This wasn’t a mistake, Mum, in case you’re wondering. We planned it very carefully, to fit in with the house move and Hugo’s new job and everything.’
Maria hid a smile. Her ultra-efficient daughter would, of course, plan every last detail of a conception, and her confidence was such it would never even occur to her that she might encounter fertility problems and not conceive exactly when she chose. ‘And how about his parents? Are they excited, too?’
‘We haven’t told them yet. We wanted you to be the first to know.’
‘Oh, that’s lovely, Amy – I’m flattered. But shouldn’t you be resting, darling, taking things more slowly altogether?’
‘No way. I’m as fit as a fiddle! OK, thirty-eight is old for a first
pregnancy
, but three of my friends had their first children in their forties, so it’s all relative, you could say.’
‘But you’ll stop working once the baby’s born?’
‘Not for long – you know me! Anyway, we need two salaries to pay our whopping mortgage. It was totally my fault, of course, for choosing a house in SW1, rather than further out. But it’s wonderfully convenient being so close to the office, instead of having a long trek every day.’
‘So do you intend to get a nanny?’ Maria tried to keep any hint of
disapproval
from her voice. Who was
she
to disapprove?
‘No, you have to pay them a fortune, and buying the house has more or less cleaned us out. I read, the other day, that the cost of rearing a child till the age of twenty-one is somewhere in the region of a hundred thousand pounds – and that certainly doesn’t include a nanny or private education.’
Again, Maria had to hide a sense of wry amusement. How could anyone spend so prodigious a sum on raising one small child? Both she and Hanna had done it on a shoestring.
‘We might just about manage an au pair. Otherwise, we’ll use a local childminder.’
Maria said nothing. From what she knew of au pairs, they were usually more interested in learning English or finding a boyfriend than in looking after their charges. And a childminder might be worse. They tended to take in far too many children, which made it most unlikely that any individual would receive personal attention.
‘Actually, we did think about asking
you
, now that Grandma’s passed away. Hugo and I discussed it on the way up here, and I told him I was worried about you living on your own, especially when you get older. But we didn’t want you to feel we were simply using you, you know, as a way to solve our own problem: we can’t afford a nanny, so let’s call on Granny instead.’