A Time for Courage (48 page)

‘Your room, you mean, Miss Hannah, on the top floor,’ Beaky said, standing at the foot of the stairs, clothed in black with her white apron stiffly starched.

‘My mother’s room,’ Hannah insisted without stopping, for that room was the only place in the house that held the warmth of past memories.

‘Harry is in his old room next to Mother’s?’ she asked turning as she reached the half-landing. She watched for Beaky’s nod but did not falter in her stride. Up past the half-landing on to the dark red patterned carpet which ran down the length of the landing. The dark varnished floorboards either side were dusty and the glass fronting the prints which hung on the walls was cloudy. It was so quiet, Hannah thought, and did not pause outside her mother’s room but in time with each step she took ran the words. ‘He’s not here. Thank God Father’s not here.’ His hat and stick had not been in the hall.

She was nearly there now, nearly at Harry’s door. She opened it and there was the thick smell of fetid air and the darkness of drawn curtains. She left the door open and moved, not to the bed but to the curtains and drew them back letting the sun flood in, and then she heaved at the sash windows, pulling the bottom one up and the top one down. She felt the air on her face and knew that soon the draught would have cleansed the room and only now did she turn to the bed. Harry was there; his eyes were open and he smiled as she came towards him, lifting his hand, which she took. It was trembling and thin but brown from his years in the sun.

She bent and kissed his forehead. ‘So, you’ve come home, Harry,’ she said quietly moving her hand to his wrist. His pulse was weak. She kissed him again and sat down on the upright chair by the bed. Thank God he was home. She had missed him so much. His face was too thin, the lines ran deep and there were so many. She lifted his hand and kissed his palm and Harry knew that he was safe. His voice was dry as he said, ‘Oh Hannah.’

She poured water from the muslin-covered jug into the glass but could tell it was not fresh; there were bubbles clinging to the sides. She gave him a sip and another and listened as he told her of Baralong, Frank and the diamonds, the Rand and how they had floated through the night, rested in the day and then had found a cart which took them to the station. There they had taken a train to Cape Town with the money which Harry had on him.

‘I left him there,’ Harry said. ‘He wouldn’t come, it is his home, you see. That hot land where he is less than the dirt is his home and I did nothing to alter the system. I left him there.’

His voice faltered and Hannah hushed him, checking his wound which had now been cleaned but was still infected; his body was hot with the fever of it.

‘I sent him money, half the money from Amsterdam. He says he will use it to fight, but there’s been so much brutality, Hannah. Too much.’ His voice was fading and Hannah poured water on to her handkerchief and laid it on his forehead.

‘Sleep now,’ she said but he opened his eyes.

‘I’m rich, Hannah, very rich so I can have her now, can’t I?’

Hannah took his hand again and nodded. ‘Yes, my dear, you can have her now.’

His eyes closed and he looked so ill and so very tired. Hannah sat until his breathing was deeper, steadier, and then looked around at the dark mahogany furniture, the chest of drawers, the shoe-stand, the wardrobe which stood against the wall. There was a layer of dust on all of them and a mustiness to the room which had nothing to do with illness. The framed prints of Hastings and Dover were also filmed with dust.

She checked Harry again and then walked down to the kitchen where Beaky was drinking tea with the cook and the maid.

Hannah told them that if there was not fresh drinking water in Harry’s room every two hours they would no longer be employed in this establishment. She leant on the scrubbed wooden table and told them that every room in the house was to be cleaned by the end of tomorrow but that she would do Master Harry’s room because absolute quiet must be maintained. She stared at Beaky as she said that Master Harry was not to have his windows closed, was not to have his curtains drawn.

She addressed them all when she repeated that there was to be cool water brought in a washing jug every two hours night and day for the next three days. There were to be clean strips of sheeting supplied also torn from the best linen in the laundry cupboard if necessary. The sheeting was to be ironed so that it was sterile; it was to be picked up only by the edges with washed hands and placed on the steel tray which must be heated in the oven and untouched except at the handles.

She then told Beaky to send for the doctor and would expect him to arrive within the hour. She ignored the heavy frown, the crossed arms which clenched heavy breasts.

The doctor arrived within half an hour and checked the wound again and explained that the bullet had been left in the body too long. It had apparently not been removed until Harry had arrived in Amsterdam and he had then wanted only to get home so that there had been no time for recovery.

‘Will he recover now?’ Hannah asked as the doctor packed away his stethoscope. His hat was on the dark side table next to the oil lamp which Hannah would need throughout the night. The lavender she had picked after speaking to the staff was in the vase on the dresser, next to Harry’s hairbrush and comb and the scent soothed her.

The man looked up; he was dressed in a dark frock coat and his side whiskers were as grey as his hair.

‘Yes, in time he will be restored to health. Whether it is full health remains to be seen.’

Hannah nodded and looked again at her brother who was sleeping now, his face flushed from the pain of the examination and the fever.

‘I wonder if it was worth it?’ she murmured, and shook her head as the doctor looked up at her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m just thinking aloud.’

She arranged that he would come every day and that no nurse would be necessary because she was back in her father’s house again. It was not until seven-thirty that her father came home. She heard the dinner gong and left Harry who was sleeping. She drew her hand from his but for a moment he tightened his hold and groaned, then relaxed and slept again. She was not hungry, for he was there, downstairs, waiting for her but he must be faced. There was no choice.

The dining-room door was open and she made herself breathe slowly as she entered. The table was laid with a white cloth and her father was sitting in his mahogany carver chair at the end of the table as he had always done. Beaky had laid her place halfway down the table as though no time had elapsed since her mother had died.

Hannah moved to her chair aware that her father continued to read from the book which rested on the bookrest at his left side as though she did not exist. He was older, his black hair had streaks of grey and his moustache too; his skin was sallow and dry and hung loose around his neck.

The room was dark, though behind the drawn curtains Hannah knew the evening was still light. The gas lamps hissed as they lit the moulded sideboard and the picture of the stag at bay. It did not seem as large as memory had made it. The tantalus still held whisky and brandy, the same amount as always. Did he ever drink any?

The silence between them was heavy and Hannah wanted to leave now, go up to Harry and stay where she felt needed, but no, that would mean this man had won and she could not allow him that victory.

‘Good evening, Father,’ she said, her voice loud in the stillness.

He turned from his book now, his eyes still dark beneath his brows, still empty and cold.

‘Good evening, Hannah. How is my son tonight?’

Before she could answer Beaky brought in the haddock. It was Friday, Hannah remembered, and looked at the small white fish on the gold-rimmed plate. Would he still have salmon?

‘Harry is stable,’ she replied, watching as salmon was brought to her father. ‘How is the Vicar?’ she asked as the salmon was placed before her father.

He did not answer. As Beaky walked from the room she turned and called her back.

‘I would like salmon too, please, Mrs Brennan.’ Hannah picked up her plate and handed it to the woman who flushed and looked beyond Hannah to her father.

Hannah turned to him. ‘If I am to nurse your son, I will need an adequate diet.’ She pointed to her plate. ‘This is not adequate, as you obviously realise since you prefer salmon.’

She looked at him, at his face, his eyes, and hers were steady for she realised that the fear was gone, and the anger also, both washed away by the years which had passed and the life she had led. What was left was a knowledge that this man could no longer hurt her. Her mother was dead, what could he do?

That night sitting beside Harry’s window she wrote to Esther asking her to call; telling her that Harry was home and longed to see her. She wrote that she hoped they could be friends again and as she gave it to the maid to post she knew that, for Harry’s sake, she had had to write those words.

She also wrote to Joe telling him that his furniture was beautiful, because the heavy darkness of her father’s house had made all that her friend created seem even more a meeting of simplicity and style. Was it any wonder his work was in such demand? She told him that she would be seeing Frances on Sunday when she would leave Harry with Esther and begin her school again. She told him too that she would be working as a suffragist beside Frances. Hannah paused now, her pen drying in her hand as she looked out across the garden which was colourless in the moonlight. She still could not find the words to tell him of her engagement to Arthur because marriage seemed so far away, and when she did think of it the bars closed round her and the air grew thin. But tomorrow Arthur would be here and now she signed off her letter to Joe and moved to sit by Harry, to hold his hand and nurse him throughout the night, and as the moon rose high and Harry stirred she smiled and nodded. Arthur must be made to understand that there could be no marriage until her brother was completely better.

April turned to May and May to June and the summer of 1914 was warm and glorious and the shadows were sharp and Esther wore a large diamond ring and kissed and stroked Harry and he laughed and smiled and grew stronger.

Hannah brought him down to the garden in July and they set up the wicker chairs on the terrace and Arthur and Esther ate cucumber sandwiches and drank tea with them and played charades as Harry could now stand and move, but carefully.

Arthur’s hair bleached in the sun and became lighter than the colour of hay. He seemed to have matured since his stay in Switzerland and he understood that Hannah wanted to wait, and so he enjoyed the garden and the soft summer air and Harry’s return to health.

When Arthur and Esther could not come Hannah walked with Harry in the garden and one day they strolled to their old play area and pulled at the long grass, clearing the weeds, feeling the heat on their backs. Hannah wore a broad straw hat and Harry his old school boater. They stacked up the old guinea-pig hutches, one on top of the other, talking of something and nothing. Harry hammered in nails so that the frames were once again firm and strong and said that she should give them to her Sunday ladies, the ones with children.

They walked on then to the swing and Hannah held the rope while Harry tied a loop and she saw that his hands were broader now, not so thin, and though his fingers worked slowly they were stronger. She put her foot in the loop and hauled herself up feeling the rope as it gripped tightly round her shoe and she hung on as Harry pulled her back and let her go. She leant back, dropping her head and seeing red through her closed lids as the air rushed through her body, and she could hardly breathe for laughing. Again and again he pushed her until she begged for him to stop and as she jumped down he chased her slowly across the lawn and round and round they ran until they sank to the ground and her face was amongst the fresh green grass. She could see the ants as they wove in and out and smell the earth and the sweet scent of fleshy stems and feel his arm across her back.

I never want this moment to stop, she thought, because she was back in her childhood with her brother.

That afternoon he spoke of his plans, his money. How he would buy a grand house in the country and another in London. How he would use his money to buy shares and live off the interest. He would take Esther around the world, dress her in the finest clothes, adore her. Hannah smiled. Yes, Esther would make him happy if he could give her this.

She and Esther had not spoken of the petrol cans or the prison sentence but her blonde cousin was kind to her brother and made him flourish and for this Hannah was grateful and so she laughed and talked as though there was no shadow on their friendship. Each day Harry grew stronger and the weather hotter. They would be harvesting in the fields which ran beside the railway line down to Cornwall. The corn would be golden, the carts stacked high with bales on the roads and Hannah looked at how the grass in the garden was browning and the roses growing limp almost before they burst from bud. The air seemed to hang motionless, heavy with sun and scent.

Harry could bear the heat more easily than Hannah and they all sat on the terrace when he did but sheltered beneath the large parasols. In mid-July they watched the gardener trim the low neat box hedges and cut back the neat aubretia. Would the stocks be sprawling across the garden in Penbrin? Would the delphiniums still be staked or would they have become limp with each passing day, Hannah wondered.

Esther sat back and sighed. ‘To think, my darling,’ she said, ‘we can spend our winters abroad from now on. We need never feel the cold again. I’m so glad we’re marrying before Christmas. Let’s go to France, the south, and spend Christmas there and New Year.’

Hannah watched as Harry touched her hand.

‘Of course we’ll go,’ he replied and Hannah hoped that his health would continue to improve and that he would be well enough. But if he was, then she would also have to marry. The heat was too much suddenly and she fanned herself with the newspaper, seeing the large black letters and feeling anger coming from nowhere. She shook out the paper, wanting to think of something beyond their own small lives, wanting to read about something which did not affect them.