Penmarric (102 page)

I found myself serving in the forces commanded by General Wavell, and almost before I knew what was happening I was helping to push the Italians west to Benghazi. The campaign was a success; we took about a hundred and thirty thousand prisoners before withdrawing to Egypt. I almost allowed myself to feel cheerful about the war’s outcome and would have been appalled if I could have seen ahead to the dark months of 1941 when we were expelled from Greece and Crete and the Axis powers occupied the whole of the Balkan plains.

While I was waiting in Egypt for the next offensive to begin, my principal source of interest lay in the letters I received from home.

“Poor Isabella is quite lost without you,” my mother wrote. “I have really become very fond of her. I hardly thought she would settle down at Penmarric nearly so well as she has done, but in retrospect I don’t think you could have chosen a better wife. I’m sure you miss her as much as she misses you.”

“Your mother is very down at the moment,” wrote Isabella gaily. “Poor old dear, she misses you terribly. We have tea together every week and I try to cheer her up. Lizzie wrote from Cambridge and said she’d like to come down for a visit but didn’t see how she could get here since the chauffeur had been called up and petrol’s so tricky and awkward these days. I explained to her that there was a wonderful invention nowadays called a train which catered for all people not rich enough to have a car, and had she heard of it? I shall never cease to be amazed at how the other half lives even though I suppose I’m now part of the other half …”

“My dearest Jan,” wrote Lizzie. “I have had rather an extraordinary letter from Isabella, really quite radical. Is she perhaps a secret Socialist? If so, do tell her that I’ve been one for years. I’ve been toying with the idea of spending a few months in Cornwall to take the girls away from any risk of bombing (although I hear even Penzance is far from safe from bombing these days) but Eddy doesn’t want to leave Cambridge, and anyway I don’t
really
think that Isabella and I would get on very well together if I stayed for longer than a few days. Don’t take offense, my dear, but as you must know Isabella and I never quite hit it off. However, I feel sorry for her now with you away, so perhaps I will go down to Penmarric eventually to offer some sympathy … I hope she isn’t too lonely all by herself in that ghastly house. Still, she’s fond of William, isn’t she—what a good thing he left the Carnforth Hall estate and came back to look after Penmarric for you during your absence. It’s a pity he and Charity don’t live at Penmarric, but I remember you told me how Charity insisted on staying in Penzance, where she’s become so respectable, and refused to go back to live in St. Just where people have such unfortunately long memories …”

“My dear Jan,” wrote William laboriously. “As you know, the days are long past when I could write long letters, so don’t expect marvels every time you see my handwriting on an envelope! Hope all’s well with you. Everything’s more or less all right here except that little Isabella’s a bit depressed and I lent her my shoulder to cry on the other night. I thought you’d rather she cried on my shoulder than someone else’s! Only joking, of course. Just thought I’d mention it in case she wrote you a depressed letter and I thought it would reassure you to know I cheered her up a bit and that she’s feeling better now …”

“My darling Jan,” wrote Isabella. “William is such a poppet—how lucky you are to have such a nice brother. I can’t think how he can stand to be married to that horrid blowsy old ex-barmaid! She doesn’t like me at all—I can’t think why. Fortunately your mother doesn’t like her either and we have a moan about all the Roslyns from time to time. Jonas is now staying at Morvah with his Roslyn spinster aunts—no, cousins, isn’t it—and Deborah (take a deep breath!) has just entered a convent!!! Can you believe it! She and I were hardly bosom friends, but she did call at Penmarric to say goodbye before she left for Padstow …”

“… so I decided to enter the convent,” wrote my niece Deborah to me a little later. “I know Mummy wouldn’t have wanted it, but she was a person who enjoyed all the worldly pleasures of this life, and so perhaps it would have been hard for her to understand that I have never been happy in the World, where there is so much sin and suffering and evil. I shall be much happier here and already am aware of the most perfect spiritual satisfaction. After this letter I shall never again refer to any past sins, but I would like you to know that I forgive you for all the suffering you caused my mother and for leading her into the sinful path which eventually resulted in her death. I have repeatedly besought Jonas to forgive you also but regret that I have not yet had any success in persuading him; however, I hope that by the Grace of God he may be enlightened and may also find it in his heart to forgive you, as I have. I shall remember you every day in my prayers and hope that perhaps when you come home from the war you will come and see me…”

“Sir,” wrote a rude hand with bold thick strokes of a cheap pen. “As you may or may not know, Deborah has gone into a convent and can’t earn any money any more, so I’m reduced to begging from my Roslyn relations who haven’t the money to spare anyway except for Cousin Sim and his mean streak is so mean it’s a joke. None of you Castallacks have done anything for me except push me and my mother around to suit your convenience and I think it’s time I got my fair share of Grandfather Castallack’s money which you cheated me out of when you sucked up to Uncle Philip like you did when I was a kid and spread that lie about him being a homo so that my mother took fright. Could you send me fifty pounds? I’ve grown out of all my clothes and I don’t want to be the laughing-stock of the school. And in case you think I just sit on my arse begging from my relations all the time, let me tell you that I get a job every holiday
and
do a paper-round in the term-time and I don’t think Grandfather Castallack would have liked it to know that his grandson was just a common paper-boy at a bloody grammar school. Send the money to me care of Miss Hope Roslyn at Morvah where I’m living at the moment. And if you don’t send the money I’ll bloody well go over to Granny and make
her
give it to me, so if you want to make sure your mother isn’t bothered you’d better pay up. I’ll give you till the end of the month. Jonas.”

“… so there he was,” wrote my mother, “on my doorstep. He’s fifteen now, and except for Hugh’s eyes he’s the living image of his grandfather Joss Roslyn, whom I knew as a boy. Of course, thanks to your warning letter I knew what to expect. I was kind to him but firm. I said he had set about getting the money in quite the wrong way, and that if he had written to you respectfully you would have been pleased to help him, but as it was the tone of his letter didn’t encourage you to offer him any assistance whatsoever. He immediately flew into a rage. He shouted at me—in extremely vulgar language—that he had a moral right to the money, and when I told him that was nonsense he called me an old — and said I had always been against him and his mother ever since he could remember. ‘Absolute nonsense,’ I said to him. ‘You and your mother went through life ruining your own chances.’ ‘
He
ruined them!’ shouted Jonas (meaning
you
).
He
killed my mother!
He
stole my inheritance! He’s a murderer and a robber!’ ‘Kindly leave my house this instant,’ I said, ‘or I shall telephone Mr. Parrish and ask him to come over at once to remove you by force.’ He went, still cursing, and I haven’t seen him since. What was all this nonsense about you killing Rebecca? As far as I can remember you told me that she got into trouble with one of her lodgers and then, poor foolish woman, got into worse trouble trying to extricate herself from the situation. Wasn’t this true? Incidentally, talking of women in trouble I had a most distressing letter from Mariana today …”

“My dear Uncle Jan,” wrote Esmond from India. “I hate to bother you when I’m sure you have so much on your mind these days, but I’m extremely worried about my mother. As you can see, I’m a long way from home and as I see no prospect of getting back to England in the foreseeable future I don’t know what I should do. Perhaps you would be kind enough to advise me. To cut a long story short, it appears that for some time now my mother has been in and out of homes seeking a cure for alcoholism. I didn’t know she was an alcoholic, although I did sometimes wonder how she managed to spend the money I sent her so rapidly. My father always refused to pay her a penny more than he was legally bound to pay, but I financed her in secret even before he died and have been financing her ever since. Before I went overseas she managed to get to Edinburgh to see me and it was then that I realized what was wrong. I had her put in an excellent nursing home there before I left, but now she has voluntarily discharged herself, and to be frank I have to admit she is now being a considerable source of embarrassment to the servants in my house there. Unfortunately she seems to have formed an association with an undesirable man who has been treating my house as if it were his own, so much so that in the end my butler felt compelled to sit down and write me a letter in which he said that all the servants were on the point of giving notice. I was then, as you can imagine, placed in a very difficult position. I did not want to disclose my source of information to my mother, but at the same time I had to suggest that it would be best if she left my house for a while and went somewhere else. In the end I told her that I had heard Edinburgh was not considered safe these days and I strongly advised her to go down to Cornwall for the summer out of range of all possible bombing. I did
not
suggest she went to Penmarric, as I hardly felt it was right to suggest she impose herself on your wife’s hospitality, and told her that it would be best if she stayed at the Metropole where she could stay as long as she liked without any embarrassment, and I naturally would pay the bill. In spite of all this I have had a letter from her today to say she has decided to go to Penmarric. I deeply apologize for any embarrassment this is going to cause you and your wife, but I don’t think I can stop her now. What shall I do? I didn’t want to write to Granny because I didn’t want her to know about my mother’s condition. If only I could get home I could probably make the necessary arrangements for her, but I don’t see how I can. Do you think I could get compassionate leave? I doubt it very much. Please forgive me for burdening you like this, but I’m simply at my wits’ end with this problem and I have no one else I can turn to. Your affectionate nephew, Esmond.”

“My dearest Jan,” wrote my mother. “I’m glad you were sensible enough to tell me the truth and not to worry about ‘sparing my feelings.’ Of course it was shocking to see Mariana in such a state, but at least, thanks to you, I was prepared for the worst. Her own letter, which preceded her arrival, gave me more than a hint that all was not well, so I was in a way prepared for your letter which arrived soon afterward. Poor Esmond, what a wretched burden for a boy of twenty-one! How mature and sensible and grownup he sounds. Such a contrast to Jonas. I told Mariana she must stay with me and not at Penmarric since Isabella had not been well (a lie) and was not up to entertaining guests, but as you know, Mariana has always despised the farm and refused to stay there. William, thank God, came to the rescue and took her to stay at Carnforth Hall after telling Felicity the whole story, so Felicity and Alice together are now keeping an eye on her. It really is most distressing. I can’t tell you how it upsets me to see Mariana, who was always such a beautiful, fastidious girl—too fastidious, I often thought!—now taking so little trouble with her appearance and wearing clothes that are not as clean as they should be. I asked her why she drank so much and she said nothing had ever gone right for her, which I thought was a strange remark seeing she made two brilliant marriages, had all the money she wanted, a series of beautiful homes and such a handsome charming son. But I believe people who drink too much are inclined to self-pity. ‘Nothing ever went right for me,’ she said. ‘Nobody ever loved me,’—which I thought was a very maudlin and untruthful thing to say. However, one cannot argue with a person like that, so I said nothing and let it pass… What a nice man William Parrish is. Both those Parrish boys turned out so well. I hear Adrian had lunch with the Archbishop of Canterbury the other day…”

“… so in spite of the war, the future seems to be full of promise for me,” wrote Adrian. “It certainly seems almost indecent that in the midst of so much appalling misery I should feel so happy and fortunate, but I’m afraid—or rather, I’m glad to say—that’s exactly how I feel … I have left it rather late in life to be married, since I’m now nearer fifty than forty, but I think I have spent a lot of time hoping to find ‘True Love’ and ‘The Ideal Woman’ and judging every woman I met by a set of false and utterly unrealistic standards. However, since meeting Anne I realized I had no desire at all to be married to an impossibly virtuous paragon and would much prefer someone human who shared at least some of my human failings! Besides, Anne is perfect for me in every way, and that’s all that matters, isn’t it? She is the widow of a dean, so is well acquainted with the clerical existence and has two grownup children by her first marriage. In a strange way she reminds me a little of my mother—although since it’s nowadays so highly suspect to write such a thing I almost hesitate to commit it to paper!—but then I’m forgetting that you never met my mother and so will be unable to see any resemblance when you meet Anne…”

“Adrian is marrying a saint,” scrawled William in his large untidy handwriting. “A nice woman, but a bit too ‘good,’ if you know what I mean. One feels she instinctively rates you as a good/bad/indifferent parishioner and allots you an appropriately suitable task to perform for the next church fete. I found her very charming and kind, but I couldn’t help feeling I’d been weighed in the ecclesiastical balance and found wanting! Curious, isn’t it, that I married a sinner and now Adrian’s marrying a saint, but I’m sure he’ll be happy. He and I have always been on slightly different planes…”

“… she didn’t approve of
me
,” wrote Isabella. “I think I rated as a ‘lost girl’ with promiscuous tendencies! I could see she was itching to practice some social welfare on me. William and I discussed her for hours when they had gone and Charity got annoyed and tried to turn me out … There’s no other news. My parents keep asking me to go home for a visit, so I suppose I shall have to summon the energy to go before long. Your mother is well, except I think that horrid Jonas has been bothering her again …”