A Time for Courage (47 page)

‘It’s January,’ Joe drawled and laughed. ‘That’s one way of avoiding the Christmas festivities.’

She looked at his face, the blond-red hair, the wide grin, the few freckles on his nose. Joe never changed and she was so glad. She looked about the room, it was different now with two of them here. It seemed lighter somehow, warmer. Joe had brought his tools and there was a smell of wood-shavings which were swept into a pile near his camp bed. Above the sink hung the marigold picture and she moved her hand and held his.

‘Joe, how can I …’

‘No more talking now,’ he said, smoothing her hair off her face, and she wanted to sleep again.

They walked in the park the following week and she clung to his arm because it made her feel safer. They ate scones in a corner house but she could not tolerate the butter. He built up the fire each evening and they sat by it and talked.

Joe wanted to write to Frances and tell her what had happened but Hannah felt too ashamed. He asked if she would like Arthur to be told but she told him that he was in Switzerland and what was the point?

The police came for her the following week. She heard them climbing the stairs and she clung to Joe, just for a moment, before they knocked. He was so strong, so dear, and she did not want to be alone again and she was not sure that her mother would come back when the tubes were brought.

His arms were tight around her and he breathed in her hair. ‘Just serve your sentence, my Cornish girl, don’t go through all this again.’ He held her away and his eyes were as full of tears as hers were. There was the same fear in them that she knew was in her own and then his head came down towards her lips and she wanted to feel their softness and their warmth, to taste his breath, and then they knocked and she spun round. She did not want them in here, in the room which she and Joe had shared.

‘I must go,’ she said and knew that she must starve again because this was the only way she could leave the suffragettes. She must suffer as others had if she was to live with herself and her breach of loyalty.

It was March before she was released again and this time Joe took her home to Cornwall because they would not be re-arresting her. The prison doctor said she was too weak, too ill to withstand any further forcible feeding or starvation.

She did not remember anything of the journey but as she lay in the bed Eliza came and she and Joe nursed her. Sometimes she knew this but the pain was so great and the fever climbed so high that one night she could bear it no more. Joe sat by the bed and she felt his hand on hers and she left her mother for a moment in the garden and turned to him. Her head was heavy and she wanted to close her eyes again but her friend was here and she wanted to say goodbye.

‘Joe,’ she whispered. ‘I’m going now with my mother. I’m so tired.’

He did not stir, his head was on his chest, his eyes were asleep, his blond moustache was barely visible in the moonlight. She wanted to bring his hand to her lips and kiss it but she could not even lift her own and so she looked at him once more and then closed her eyes, looking for her mother again.

She was there, over by the tree where the rope was swinging in the breeze. Her mother looked young again, her hair shining and loose. She looked at Hannah and smiled, then began to walk away. Mother, Hannah called, wait for me. I’m coming and she ran, she could feel the air pumping in and out of her chest and the pain was leaving and the tiredness. She was closer now but her mother was still walking. Mother, she called, wait for me. Her hand was stretching out and now her mother turned. Go back, Hannah, go back. I love you but go back. She walked down into the fernery and Hannah was left and the pain came back and she groaned and wept. Joe woke and saw the tears running from her eyes on to the pillow and he called Eliza though it was only three in the morning. Together they sponged her down, held a hand and wondered if they dare hope that somehow she would live. She did.

Eliza went back to Penhallon in April and Joe took Hannah on a short walk across the moors. They read the letter that arrived the next day together and Hannah wondered how Frances had come to know the truth and Joe explained that Eliza had written. Hannah sat in the deck-chair and smiled as she read.

Dearest Hannah,

Forgive me, I should have known. It all seems to have been such a dark time of struggle and stress. Forgive me and come back.

Frances.

She passed it to Joe who read and nodded and then returned the letter to the envelope. They both sat back and let the sun wash over their faces. Joe looked tired, there was blue around his eyes and he slept as she slept all that day.

The families who were staying took the jingle to the sea the next day. It was too cold to bathe but one of the children had consumption and the fresh air would be good, Hannah had said.

‘Shall I write to Arthur now?’ Joe asked as they watched the wagon disappear. Hannah picked at the tartan blanket which covered her legs; her hand was still white and blue veins still stood out, but not so much. She did not want to think of Arthur, only of the myrtle which she was watching Edward planting out in the borders and the thyme which was growing well now. Arthur was London, not home. Arthur did not belong here, when she was ill and her hair was dull and her flesh hanging on her bones.

‘No, he thinks I have measles, let’s leave it at that. He doesn’t want to come out in spots. The club wouldn’t like it.’ She grinned.

She still hadn’t told Joe that the marriage would be at the end of the year for it was 1914 now but he had not asked of her future plans and she could not tell him.

Each day they walked further and picked early violets and Hannah breathed in the scent and Joe too. Soon there was colour in her cheeks and she could eat a little butter on her bread, and melt it on her scones. There was still no word from Harry though and she did not think of Esther. Joe would not talk of her either because it made his cheeks burn with anger.

As the sun warmed the earth and the birds nested and sat on eggs Hannah walked in the sea with the families, feeling the salt water stinging her legs as she lifted her skirts, laughing as Joe splashed her, throwing seaweed as he came closer. He rolled his trousers up above his knees and the children screamed as he swung them high and skimmed their toes in the cold water while the gulls screamed above them.

Eliza came with Sam and they had not heard from Harry either. ‘We would have heard if there was something wrong,’ Sam said and Hannah nodded. Yes, of course they would, and she wanted to push the shadow away because there had been so much darkness and now it was light and the sky was clear and the air was fresh. She could breathe; at last she could breathe. Sam and Hannah played jacks with the children and Eliza baked Chelsea buns and Hannah wound hers and showed the children how to make pastry rings on their fingers.

When they had gone Hannah and Joe walked to the hill and as she gulped in great breaths of air he laughed at her, but said that it was putting roses in her cheeks and they talked then of asking Edward to grow some ramblers up the stable wall, of replacing the conservatory glass, broken in the winter gales, of painting the outside of the house and it was good to talk of domestic things, of tomorrow.

Her legs felt strong as they walked round the lower slopes of the hill and Joe ran on, throwing up his yellow kite, feeding out the line until it was snatched by the wind and soared above them. The moss was damp with rain and everywhere was green and fresh. Hannah let her hair hang loose now and it swirled about her face. They walked down to the stream and sat there to eat their pasty. They shared just one and the crumbs fell on to her skirt and his trousers and Joe still held the string of the kite in his right hand, playing it, pulling it back and forwards.

‘I’d love to fly,’ he said, his mouth full.

‘Don’t be disgusting,’ Hannah said. ‘Wait until you’ve finished your mouthful, what would the children say?’

‘There aren’t any here,’ Joe said, his mouth still full. ‘You are the only one and you’re doing enough nagging for a regiment.’ He was grinning and Hannah laughed.

‘You’re thirty, old enough to know better, Joe.’

She picked at the moss, it came away in a bunch. ‘Your father said that there was an aerodrome nearby where you could start lessons.’

Mr and Mrs Arness had come over for lunch last week. They did so every month, Joe said, and his father taught painting to the visitors.

‘I know. Maybe I’ll try one day.’ He brushed himself down, throwing the crumbs into the stream which rushed over boulders and scythed into the bank, taking earth with it. ‘When there’s time to spare.’

‘No trout to tickle here,’ he said quietly and Hannah looked at him and nodded. She had remembered that day too. How old they both were now and somehow she could not believe that so much time had passed. She looked across the moor; the stunted trees, the fresh grass growing amongst the bright heather. A few ponies were grazing amongst the sheep. Across to the west there were clouds building up and a wind. She threw the moss into the air and it was caught and blown three feet away. The kite was jerking as though fighting to leave the string and race instead with the blackening clouds.

‘We’d better go,’ Hannah said, for she knew that though she was stronger she could not run if the rains came.

Joe rose and pulled her to her feet before hauling in the kite, his tongue between his lips as he wound the string around the wooden frame he had made. Once it was free of the wind it plummeted down, helpless without the force of air and was no longer graceful but clumsy as he carried it under his arm, the tail hanging limp.

‘You’re too old for a kite,’ she laughed and he nodded.

‘Oh I know,’ he agreed. ‘I just do it to amuse the children and I have to practise to keep my hand in.’

‘Liar,’ she murmured and they both laughed as he nodded.

He took her arm and they talked of London and of the arms race and the Kaiser who had threatened France and Morocco. Joe said that perhaps there would be a war and Hannah thought of Uncle Simon and was glad that she knew no soldiers. They talked of the vote and she told him that she would work with the suffragists now, constitutionally lobbying. It seemed that Labour were supportive now.

The clouds grew heavier and the rain began but they were back in the fields which were enclosed by dry-stone walls and were near a stone-built shelter which housed hay for the cattle in the winter. Joe dragged her in and she sat hunched on a hay bale and watched the rain as it lashed across the moor in great waves. It was not cold and she felt safe, as she did when she lay warm in bed and heard the rain beating on the panes.

There were no bars here on the moor with Joe, no sense of anyone pulling at her, there was just peace and they sat in silence watching the stunted trees bend before the rain and the wind and the cows turning their backs or laying down.

Her back ached now and Joe moved nearer. ‘Lean on me,’ he said and she did, feeling his warmth, smelling his skin. The rain sprayed into the entrance as the wind veered and the scent of wet hay reached her.

‘I never want to leave here,’ she murmured.

‘Stay then, Hannah,’ he whispered.

She wanted to, how she wanted to stay, and as they walked back when the rain had stopped and she felt her dress soak up the water from the grass she could hardly bear to look at all this around her. She loved it all so much. Neither could she look at the man who walked beside her, his arm on hers.

‘Stay with me, Hannah,’ Joe said as he held open the gate into the drive. The trees were dripping on to the sodden grass, and the sun was already heating the ground so that there was the sweet smell of warm soil.

She put her hand near his, the wood was soft with the wet and the grain stood sharp and she could feel it with her fingers. She looked not at him but at the land which ran to the sea and then at the grey stone house surrounded by daffodils and tissue-sheathed crocus and then at the drive, at her hand, his hand. So firm, so strong, so familiar.

And then at his face which was always ready to smile and laugh, which seemed to bring the sun and air into every room, at his eyes which were normally so blue but were now dark.

Why did she want to stay so much? Was it just for the peace of the place or was it…?

‘Hannah, Miss Hannah.’ It was Edward, running down the drive, his leggings flapping, water splashing from the puddles which he ran straight through.

‘A telegram, Miss Hannah.’ He was breathing hard. The yellow telegram was wet and limp in his hand.

‘It came two hours ago but we didn’t know where you were,’ Edward panted to Joe while Hannah tore open the envelope and read.

Hannah,

Your brother is back Stop He is very ill Stop I will allow you to return to house for purposes of nursing Stop

Father.

Hannah climbed the steps to her father’s house and rang the bell. She had no key now; she was merely a visitor and did not want to enter, but Harry was here and so she must. Was he very ill? But she must not think of that, she must push it away until he was with her.

It was not Polly who answered but Beaky, her nose still sniffing the air for bad odours. Well, this particular nasty smell has risen to haunt you, hasn’t it, thought Hannah, and smiled to think that her return would discomfort this woman, grateful too that she could focus on this old antagonism while she stepped in through the door of her father’s house.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Brennan,’ she said. ‘I’m expected.’

Peppermint still wafted on Beaky’s breath as she walked into the dark hall and it was as it had always been, but smaller somehow. Red still shafted in from the two side windows set in either side of the doors. The wire cage on the back of the door held no letters and there were no visiting cards in the bowl standing on the carved rug-chest but then there was no lady of the house any more, was there? She wanted to go straight up the stairs to Harry but the darkness dragged at her, slowing her.

She put down her valise. ‘My trunk will be arriving shortly. Perhaps you could make sure that it is sent up to my mother’s room.’ She was pulling off her gloves as she talked, and now she climbed the stairs. She could not run and it was not just that she did not feel strong enough. The banister was smooth and shining beneath her hand.