The Distant Hours (29 page)

He pouted unbecomingly. ‘Reading makes my head ache.’

A silence settled between us, tending towards uncomfortable as he waited for me to concede and I – of course, for what choice did I have? – refused. Finally, he gave a forlorn sort of sigh. ‘Never mind,’ he said, waving his fingers disconsolately. ‘I suppose it doesn’t matter.’

But he looked so glum, and the memory came upon me so intensely of how I’d fallen into the world of the Mud Man when I was laid up with mumps or whatever it was, that I couldn’t help saying, ‘If you really want to know, I suppose I could read it
to
you.’

The
Mud Man
became our habit; something I looked forward to every day. As soon as dinner was over, I helped Mum with the kitchen, cleared Dad’s tray, then he and I would pick up wherever we’d left off. He couldn’t fathom that a made-up story could interest him so avidly. ‘But it must be based on true events,’ he said repeatedly, ‘an old kidnapping case. Like that Lindbergh fellow, the child taken from his bedroom window?’

‘No, Dad, Raymond Blythe just invented it.’

‘But it’s so vivid, Edie; I can see it in my head when you’re reading, as if I were watching it happen; as if I knew the story already.’ And he would shake his head with a wonder that made me warm to the tips of my toes with pride, even though I’d taken no part, myself, in the Mud Man’s creation. On days when I stayed late at work he became fidgety, grouching at Mum all evening, listening for my key in the door, then ringing his little bell and feigning surprise when I answered: ‘Is that you, Edie?’ he’d say, lifting his brows as if confused. ‘I was just going to ask your mother to plump my pillows. I say – seeing as you’re here, we might as well take a look at what’s happening at the castle.’

And perhaps it was the castle, even more than the story, that had really won him over. His jealous respect for grand family estates was as close as Dad came to having a general interest and once I let slip that Bealehurst was based heavily on Raymond Blythe’s real ancestral home, his interest was assured. He asked copious questions, some of which I could answer from memory or existing knowledge, others that were so specific I had no choice but to produce my copy of
Raymond Blythe’s Milderhurst
for him to pore over; sometimes even reference books I’d borrowed from Herbert’s enormous collection and brought home from work. Thus it was that Dad and I fanned each other’s infatuation and, for the first time ever, the pair of us found ourselves with something in common.

There was only one sticking point in our happy formation of the Burchill family Mud Man fan club, and that was Mum. No matter that our Milderhurst habit had arisen quite innocently, the fact that Dad and I were sitting together behind closed doors, bringing to life a world Mum resolutely refused to speak about, and over which she had greater claim than either of us, felt sneaky. I knew I was going to have to talk to her about it; I also knew the conversation was going to be prickly.

Since I’d moved back home, things between Mum and me had continued as they always had. Somewhat naively, I think I’d half expected that the two of us might undergo a miraculous renaissance of affection; that we might slip into a routine together, fall easily and often into conversation; that Mum might even bare her soul and divulge her secrets to me. I suppose that’s what I’d hoped might happen. Needless to say, it didn’t. In fact, although I think Mum was pleased to have me there, grateful that I was helping out with Dad and far more tolerant of our differences than she had been in the past, in other respects she seemed more distant than ever, distracted and vague and very, very quiet. I’d assumed, at first, that it was a result of Dad’s heart attack, that the worry followed hotly by relief had thrown her into a tumble of re-evaluation; but as the weeks went by and things didn’t improve, I began to wonder. I found her sometimes paused in the middle of an activity, standing with her hands in the sudsy kitchen sink, staring blankly through the window. And the expression on her face was so faraway, so knotted and confused, it was as if she’d forgotten where and who she was.

It was in just such inclination that I found her on the evening I came to fess up about the reading.

‘Mum?’ I said. She didn’t seem to hear and I went a little closer, stopping by the corner of the table. ‘Mum?’

She turned from the glass. ‘Oh, hello, Edie. It’s pretty this time of year, isn’t it. The long, late sunsets.’

I joined her by the window, watching the last glaze of peach darken from the sky. It
was
pretty, though perhaps not sufficiently to warrant the ardent attention she was paying it.

After a time, in which Mum said nothing further, I cleared my throat. I told her I’d been reading the
Mud Man
to Dad, then I very carefully explained the circumstances that had led to such a thing, in particular that it hadn’t been planned. She barely seemed to hear me, a slight nod when I mentioned Dad’s fascination with the castle the only sign that she was listening. When I’d reported everything I considered of consequence, I stopped and waited, steeled myself a little for whatever might be coming.

‘It’s kind of you to read to your dad, Edie. He’s enjoying it.’ It was not exactly the response I’d expected. ‘That book is becoming something of a tradition in our family.’ The flicker of a smile. ‘A companion in times of ill health. You probably don’t remember. I gave it to you when you were home with mumps. You were so miserable, it was all I could think to do.’

So. It had been Mum all along. She, and not Miss Perry, had chosen the
Mud Man
. The perfect book, the perfect time. I found my voice. ‘I remember.’

‘It’s good that your father has something to think about while he’s lying in bed. Better still that he has you to share it with. He hasn’t had many visitors, you know. Other people lead busy lives, the fellows from his work. Most of them sent cards, and I suppose since he retired . . . well, time marches on, doesn’t it? It just . . . it isn’t easy for a person to feel they’ve been forgotten.’

She turned her face away then, but not before I’d noticed her lips pressed hard together. I had a feeling we were no longer speaking only of my dad, and because all roads of thought led me at that time to Milderhurst, to Juniper Blythe and Thomas Cavill, I couldn’t help wondering whether Mum was mourning an old love affair; a relationship from long before she met my dad, when she was young and impressionable and easily wounded. The more I pondered it, the longer I stood there stealing glances at her pensive profile, the angrier I felt. Who was this Thomas Cavill who had skipped off during the war, leaving a spill of broken hearts behind him. Poor Juniper, wasting away in her family’s crumbly castle, and my own mother, nursing her private sorrow decades after the fact.

‘There’s one thing, Edie – ’ Mum was back to facing me now, her sad eyes searching mine – ‘I’d rather your father didn’t know about my evacuation.’

‘Dad doesn’t know you were evacuated?’

‘He knows that it happened, but not where I went. He doesn’t know about Milderhurst.’

She suddenly paid great attention to the back of her hands, lifting each finger in turn, adjusting her fine gold wedding band.

‘You do realize,’ I said gently, ‘that he’d think you a person of inestimable fabulousness if he knew you’d lived there once?’

A slight smile ruffled her composure, but her attention didn’t leave her hands.

‘I’m serious. He’s smitten with the place.’

‘Nevertheless,’ she said, ‘I’d prefer it this way.’

‘OK. I understand.’ I didn’t, but I think we’ve established that already, and the way the streetlight was now caressing her cheekbones made her look vulnerable, like a different kind of woman, younger and more breakable somehow, so I didn’t press further. I continued to watch her, though; her attitude was one of such keen contemplation that I couldn’t look away.

‘You know, Edie,’ she said softly, ‘when I was a girl my mother used to send me out around this time of night to fetch your grandfather back from the pub.’

‘Really? By yourself?’

‘It wasn’t uncommon back then, before the war. I’d go and wait by the door of the local and he’d see me and wave and finish his drink and then we’d walk home together.’

‘The two of you were close?’

She tilted her head a little. ‘I perplexed him, I think. Your grandmother, too. Did I ever tell you that she wanted me to become a hairdresser when I left school?’

‘Like Rita.’

She blinked at the night-black street outside. ‘I don’t think I’d have been much good at it.’

‘I don’t know. You’re pretty handy with the secateurs.’

There was a pause and she smiled sideways at me, but not completely naturally, and I had the feeling there was something more she wanted to say. I waited, but whatever it was, she decided against it, soon turning back to stare at the glass pane.

I made a half-hearted attempt to engage her in further conversation about her school days, hoping, I suppose, that it might lead to mention of Thomas Cavill, but she didn’t take the bait. She said only that she’d enjoyed school well enough and asked me whether I’d like a cup of tea.

The single virtue of Mum’s abstraction at that time, was that I was spared having to discuss my break-up with Jamie. Repression being something of a family hobby, Mum didn’t ask for details; neither did she drown me in platitudes. She kindly let us both cling to the myth that I’d made a purely selfless decision to come home and help her with Dad and the house.

The same, I’m afraid, could not be said of Rita. Bad news travels swiftly and my aunt is nothing if not a foul-weather friend, so I expect I shouldn’t have been surprised when I arrived at the Roxy Club for Sam’s hen night only to be accosted at the door. Rita tucked her arm through mine and said, ‘Darling, I’ve heard. Now don’t you worry; you’re not to think it means you’re old and unattractive and destined to be alone for the rest of your life.’

I waved to let the waiter know I was ready to place a rather stiff drink order and realized, with a vague sinking sensation, that I was actually envying my mother her evening at home with Dad and his bell.

‘Lots of people meet “the one” in their later years,’ she continued, ‘and they’re made very happy indeed. Just look at your cousin over there.’ Rita pointed at Sam, who was grinning at me past the G-string of a bronzed stranger. ‘Your turn will come.’

‘Thanks, Auntie Rita.’

‘Good girl.’ She nodded in approval. ‘You have a good time now and put it all behind you.’ And she was about to move on to spread her cheer elsewhere when she grabbed my arm. ‘Almost forgot,’ she said, ‘I’ve brought something for you.’ She dug inside her tote and pulled out a shoebox. The picture on the side was of an embroidered pump slipper, the sort my gran would have cherished, and although it seemed rather an unlikely gift, I had to admit they looked comfy. And not impractical: I was, after all, spending a lot of nights in these days.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘How kind.’ And then I lifted the lid and saw that the box didn’t contain slippers at all, but was half-filled with letters.

‘Your mum’s,’ said Auntie Rita with a devilish smile. ‘Just like I promised. You have a good old read of those, won’t you? Cheer yourself up.’

And although I was thrilled by the letters, I felt a curl of dislike for my Auntie Rita then, on behalf of the small girl whose handwriting swirled and looped in earnest lines across the fronts of the envelopes. The young girl whose older sister had deserted her during the evacuation, slinking off to be housed with a friend, leaving little Meredith to fend for herself.

I put the lid back on, anxious suddenly to get the letters out of that club. They didn’t belong there amidst the bump and grind; the unedited thoughts and dreams of a little girl from long ago; the same young girl who’d walked beside me in the corridors of Milderhurst; whom I hoped to know better one day. When the novelty straws appeared, I made my excuses and took the letters home to bed.

All was black as pitch when I arrived and I tiptoed carefully up the stairs, fearful of waking the sleeping bell-ringer. My desk lamp imparted a dusky glow, the house made queer nocturnal noises and I sat on the edge of the bed, shoebox on my lap. This was the moment, I suppose, when I might have done things differently. Two roads forked away from me and I could have followed either. After the merest hesitation, I lifted the lid and pulled the envelopes from within, noticing as I leafed through that they were arranged carefully by date. A photograph dropped loose onto my knees, two girls grinning at the camera. The smaller, darker one I recognized as my mother – earnest brown eyes, bony elbows, hair cut in the short, sensible style my gran favoured – the other, an older girl with long blonde hair. Juniper Blythe, of course. I remembered her from the book I’d bought in Milderhurst village; this was the child with the luminous eyes, all grown up. With a surge of determination, I put the photograph and letters safely back into the box, all except the first, which I unfolded. The letter was dated September 6th, 1939; neat printing in the top right-hand corner.