Soon he was back in the saddle in buckskin and black sombrero, taking elocution lessons from an ageing English actress to soften his Scots vowels.
They lived apart now. Selma stayed on at Casa Pinto as concierge. Pearl had picked up another rich lover and they seemed to drift around Europe in search of fun and culture, glad to have her villa occupied all year round.
Jamie tried to muscle in when he was broke but Selma insisted Shari was not to be disturbed in her studies. He must find his own rooms. He’d slammed the phone down in temper. Sometimes he was like a truculent child, other times full of impossible schemes. How had she ever thought she’d loved him? That was a lifetime ago and now she was used to fending for them both. Shari was growing up fast and needed new dresses and shoes, which took every penny.
Selma was busy dusting the empty rooms when the doorbell rang. Habit made her open it, expecting it to be Pearl home unexpectedly, barking her orders in that screechy drawl, but it was a boy with a telegram.
‘Mrs Barr?’
She nodded and snatched it from his hands. What was wrong? Had Jamie had an accident? She tore it open. The message was stark: ‘COME HOME. MOTHER VERY ILL. CANTRELL.’
This was news to Selma. Mam’s letters of late had been very cheery, full of village gossip and the WI. Why hadn’t she told her? She knew the answer already. Because she’d not want to worry her, being so far away.
It would take weeks to get there, she sighed, but some instinct knew this was not sent lightly. What was she to do?
That was when the panic set in. How could she make such an enormous journey? What about Shari? How could she afford it? There was a little set by for her daughter’s education but this was an emergency. Only Lisa would know how to go about it.
Lisa took over all the arrangements, offering to stay with Shari or sneak her into her college. She paid for a flight from San Francisco to New York via Chicago. Then Selma could get the passage back to Southampton and a train back to Yorkshire.
‘Don’t worry, things have changed since we came out. You’ll get back to England in over a week, all being well. Don’t worry about anything here. You stay and see to what you must…’
Perhaps she ought to damn the expense and take Shari, but Shari was far too excited to be rooming with her idol, Lisa, to worry about missing the journey of a lifetime. She hadn’t met her grandmother. She was just a picture in a frame. She’d be fine, but for Selma the thought of leaving her daughter was terrifying, and to be trusting herself to a lump of flying metal even worse. She prayed to every saint under the sun for a safe return. Some of Jamie’s popish habits had rubbed off on her after all.
The suddenness of her departure, the rush to get her papers in order and tickets and a suitcase of winter clothes together overrode all her terror of flying.
In the end it all went smoothly, and to watch the land change from desert to mountain, to plains, to lakes and to sea was a wondrous experience for her. The ship home was enormous and she was in the cheapest berth. The sea was rough but bearable, and then she was stood on Southampton Dock, watching soldiers lined up to embark.
It was like old times. She telegraphed ahead to Waterloo to let them know she was on her way.
Only as the train chugged north did she realise that she’d be staying in Waterloo House; the very place where everything had begun with Guy and Frank. A vision of the fierce Lady Cantrell rose up but no longer terrified her. You’ve been across the world, forged your life. You’re as good as her any day. The old order is gone now, she mused, trying to bolster her fears.
How would she find her mother? She must be very ill to call for her like this. In her heart she sensed it was very serious. Oh, why did the train take such an age? She changed at Leeds for the local train and stepped out onto Sowerthwaite station. A flood of memories hit her like a wave, all those farewells made here. Nothing had changed. It still smelled of soot and coal fires, damp leaves, farmyard manure and home. The ten past four bus still ran from the Market Square, and she walked up the hill from West Sharland with trembling legs.
After many time zones and an ocean voyage, she was utterly exhausted. It felt like a dream to be back in England. If only Shari could have come too. She walked up to the main entrance, deliberately making a gesture to her own independence. I’m nobody’s servant here, she thought, pulling the bell rope. Then a gaunt figure in black stood assessing her.
‘Mrs Barr, at last, you’ve made it!’
There were no maids hovering. Selma was ushered into the drawing room.
‘You’re only just in time. Sit down.Your mother is upstairs in bed. Of course, I’d better warn you she’s not as you will remember her. I think she’s been waiting for your coming.
Dr Mackenzie says she’s clung on. We’re so pleased to see you’ve made the journey.’
Was this the same dragon she recalled as a child? She was softer, older and almost gentle. What had happened?
‘What’s wrong with my mother?’ she asked.
‘She has a growth in her stomach and it’s spread. It’s painful so she has to be given painkillers to ease her suffering. She’s a very brave woman and took to her bed when I insisted. We have a nurse for her at night. I thought it best to tell you the truth. She pretends it’s going to get better but it’s just a game we play. It won’t be long now. I’m sorry to drag you so far, but I knew you’d want to see her one last time.’
‘I’ll go up now, if you’ll show me.’ Selma wanted to face the worst straight away.
‘Maggie will put your case in the guest room. You must be exhausted. She will run you a bath, if you wish. Your mother is on the top floor. I wanted to bring her down but she insisted she stayed put. She can be very stubborn. I shall miss her terribly.’
Selma raced up to the attic floor. A fire burned in the bedroom grate and in the middle of a brass-railed bed a little creature peered out with cloudy eyes.
Selma recoiled in shock. Where was her mother? How could this stranger be her? This old lady was all bones and yellowy skin scraped over her sunken cheeks like tissue paper. How could she be her mam?
‘Is that you, Selma? You’ve come…I knew you would!’
She rushed to the bed in tears. ‘Oh, why didn’t you tell me how sick you were? I’d have come sooner.’
‘You’re here now and that’s all that matters…still my bonny lass with a face the colour of walnut oil. Let me look at you.’
They sat holding hands, not speaking. Mam had said her piece and lay back exhausted. Lady Hester sent Maggie up with tea and fresh scones. She hadn’t tasted real English tea and home baking for years. Mam didn’t eat but had a sip of her sleeping juice.
‘This will see me into kingdom come and I’ll be glad of it. You can have enough of bellyache,’ she whispered.
What Selma witnessed next was no mere bellyache. It was a gut-wrenching twisting pain that had Essie curled up thrashing about until it subsided. For all she looked so tiny, her belly was blown up as if there was a huge feather cushion inside.
‘Come closer, tell me all your doings. What is my granddaughter up to now?’
Selma brought out the photographs, and some of her in costume, ones taken on the beach and the family posing outside Casa Pinto. ‘What a fancy spread…How’s that husband of yours?’
‘Busy as ever, on his horse in the desert. He loves his little girl,’ she lied.
You didn’t tell your dying mother that you were living apart and that it had never been much of a marriage from the start. Better to keep such things unsaid.
Her mother kept reaching out for her with a hand that was like a bird’s claw in Selma’s palm and she wanted to weep. ‘You’ve been treated well, then?’ she asked.
‘Lady Hester’s been a good friend to me. It’s been a privilege to work here. Sorrow has softened her. She’s made her mistakes, had her hopes dashed. We’ve rubbed along nicely…chalk and cheese like Ruth and me. You will go and stay with her when I’m gone?’
‘When you’re better we’ll both go,’ Selma said.
‘None of that nonsense! Hester likes to play that game. I’m done for. You can’t fight this ugly thing. It’ll see me out, and when I’m gone take what you want…There’s a bit of money put by. I was saving to come and visit you but I didn’t quite make it, did I?’
‘You rest now. I’ll have a nap. My head’s all over the show…It’s a different time over there. I’m still on Los Angeles time. I feel I’ve not slept for days.’
‘It’s grand to have you home. Go and see your dad. I’ll be joining him soon enough.’
‘Oh, Mam!’
‘My body might be rotting but I’ve still got all my chairs under the table. I know the score and I can go more peaceful knowing you’ll be laying me out. It’s all ready in the top drawer: a clean nightie, the pennies for my eyes and the chin bandage, towels. You know what to do and in what order—I’ve shown you enough times. Now go and get your shuteye. Hester will bring supper. She wants to know about your new life. Her son never writes. I fear he’s dead. He did have those terrible fits.’
‘I’d forgotten about that.’ She’d not thought about Angus Cantrell for years.
‘Hester knows all the arrangements when I pass over. Under all that stiff and starch, she’s a good egg. If you’ve got any questions she’ll answer them.’
‘Questions about what?’
‘Just questions. Now go and get some rest.’
‘I didn’t come here to rest. I came to see you,’ Selma protested.
‘I know you did, but I need my beauty sleep too and once the juice fades, you’ll be wishing you weren’t in the same room as me.’
‘Not before I thank you for letting me leave when you did all those years ago.’
‘I don’t need thanking. You’ve been the best of girls to me. That saying is right, you know. “A man’s a son till he gets a wife, a daughter’s your daughter all her life.” You’re a good lass, and if Shari is a chip off the old block, she’ll not go wrong in life. Oh, and I must tell you before I ramble off, if you walk up the High Road, look out for our Frank. I’ve seen him a time or two walking up the lane. He doesn’t speak but I think he knows I’m there. His spirit has kept me going, just knowing he’s back home where he belongs, but he needs putting to rest, poor lad.’
Poor Mam was rambling in her sleep, Selma mused. Frank on the road to Sowerthwaite? Whatever next? Dad in the forge? Newton at the Foss? They were all dead. Why should Frank be roaming around?
Selma smiled and nodded and tiptoed out of the room. Lady Hester was hovering at the bottom of the stairs, looking anxious. ‘How is she?’
‘Sleeping, rambling on about Frank on the High Road. I’m so glad you contacted me. How long will she suffer like this? Is there anything the doctor can do?’
‘He’s doing all he can to ease her pain. That will shorten things, I’m sure. Now go and get some rest while you can.’
Essie tossed and turned to find a comfortable spot, unable to duck the hurricane of pain that swept through her body, curling her into a ball, holding her breath for it to pass. Tonight the sleeping juice couldn’t dull the agony. These were not birth pangs thrusting out the new but death throes, cutting the ropes of life, casting her adrift onto a lake of dreams.
They were all there on the bank across the silver ripples. She could see them playing cricket: Asa bowling overarm, Newton keeping wicket as usual, and Frank with his bat, arguing the toss in the stubby field. She wanted to wave and shout, ‘I’m coming…wait for me, I’ll field.’
They looked up and smiled, beckoning her over. She was never one for water but a bit more thrashing and paddling would see her safe to the other side…
The funeral was a quiet affair, just a burial in the churchyard. Essie had wanted no religious service. So there was just Ruth and Sam Broadbent, Selma and Hester, Maggie and Mr Hulbert, the coachman, but the vicar hovered in attendance down the path. It seemed a meagre turnout for such a stout-hearted woman, but her sufferings were over, and Hester envied her being at peace.
She invited them all back to Waterloo for a funeral tea. Ruth and Sam wanted to take Selma back to Bradford straight away but she wanted to stay on and sort out her mother’s effects.
‘I’ll come on the train in a few days,’ she promised them.
The more Hester saw of Selma, the more she realised what a great mistake she’d made all those years ago. Life in America had given her confidence, and her love for her daughter was obvious. She was curious about the girl’s name.
‘You called her after this village—how generous after all that happened,’ she commented when the visitors had gone. ‘Under the circumstances.’
‘What do you mean?’ Selma replied. ‘I have only happy memories of my childhood growing up here. The war changed our lives but the place is still beautiful, and it gives Shari a sense of where she comes from.’
It was then, with a flash of alarm, that Hester realised Selma had no idea what had happened to her brother. Her parents had shielded her from the knowledge as she had tried to shield Guy. Perhaps it was for the best. What she didn’t know couldn’t hurt—or could it? But how could she fight for the Bartley name on the memorial without some family support? How could this wrong ever be righted? It wasn’t her place to open up the terrible secret. Should she interfere and break the news to her. How would Selma take this shock, on top of everything else?
There were the letters, of course, especially the one that Essie had shown her all those years ago. Had she written more to her daughter? Should she warn the girl that there were secrets hidden in those drawers, soften the blow by dropping hints?
Whatever I do will be wrong, she thought. Better to say nothing and let things unfold in the fullness of time. Perhaps Essie had destroyed all the evidence. It would be just like her to take this secret to her grave. Her own wishes must be respected so no more interference. It had cost her both her sons’ love and that was a bitter lesson to endure. Leave well alone, you’re not family she told herself firmly. You must hang back and trust in Providence to know what is best.
Martha Holbeck’s warnings still haunted her but she’d found some peace in befriending Essie. In many ways Essie had given her far more than she deserved in service and loyalty. She sat by the hearth searching the flames for comfort.