Against the Tide (40 page)

She pulled the duster from my hand. ‘Of course he understood. He knows how farms work, what a fine line it is, but he was driven by these socialist beliefs. The redistribution of wealth, I think he calls it.'

‘Did they strike?'

‘For a few days but their union decided not to support them and refused strike pay. They were quickly back to work and your uncle was forced to resign from the union he had borrowed from us to set up.' She held the rim in one hand and swept the duster over the surface with the other. ‘Your father thought it was no more than he deserved.'

‘Hasn't Uncle Fred paid you back?'

‘Oh, he tried. After Spain, he came back with quite a bit of money. Wanted to give us double what we'd lent him. He didn't seem to understand that we'd paid nearly three times the amount we'd borrowed in interest alone. At one stage we had to pawn nearly everything. I'm sure my mother, bless her soul, noticed but she didn't say anything. Granny Renouf, poor thing, had stopped noticing anything by that time.'

‘But we're not poor now, are we?'

‘No, we've worked very hard and been fortunate with the crops but your father has never forgiven him for the pain he caused. He's very stubborn, as you know. He asked Fred where he'd got the money. He wouldn't tell him so Aubin refused to accept it. He seemed to get some pleasure in cutting off his nose to spite his face.' Her polishing hand speeded up.

‘So he still hates him because he used you. And because he's a Communist as well.'

‘He doesn't hate him, that wouldn't be very Christian, but he's been a big embarrassment to your father.'

She spun the pot then looked at me over its rim. ‘He's also upset that you seem to be closer to Fred than to him.'

The reflection in the polished surface stared back at me accusingly.

‘It's alright, love, I understand. I think he does really. He'll come round.'

The way she'd told it made sense but I still felt there was something missing. Dare I ask? ‘Thanks for telling me, Mum, and there was I thinking it was just about a woman.'

She looked shocked; a deep red colour seeped from her neck into her face. I'd embarrassed her. Big mouth, both feet – again.

‘Jack Renouf, whatever do you mean?'

‘Sorry, I must be confusing him with me. I meant… I heard that Phillips, Father, and Uncle had a fight over a woman. I just wondered –'

‘Wondered what?'

‘Whether that woman was you?'

She pushed the pot away as her flush faded.

I daren't speak.

Suddenly she got up and left the kitchen. I heard her moving about upstairs in her bedroom. The pot glared at me.

Eventually she returned clutching a worn leather album. She sat next to me and placed it between us.

‘Will you tell me where you're going tonight that you need the car?'

I reached into my pocket, unfolded the telegram and held it out to her.

She scanned it quickly. ‘Will you do as she demands?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Have you thought of saying “no” to her – for once?'

She knew I was seeing her. She'd met her once. Must have known about our exchange of letters. I'd never thought of discussing it with her. How could she understand how I was feeling?

‘Yes, I've thought about it… I haven't decided yet. Where are you and the Cabots going?'

‘Not to the Palace, I'm sure. But really, I don't know. It's Marjorie's birthday and Edgar has planned a surprise treat. It's a bit difficult as I don't know what to wear and your father's no help…' she leant closer to me. ‘Listen love, we've noticed that you haven't been sleeping well. You're not eating much. You're out at all hours, secretive, impatient. We don't want to interfere in your life but we're worried about you.'

She touched the back of my hand with her slender fingers. ‘I think I know something of what is happening in there.' She tapped my chest and smiled. ‘Not everything though – I'm only a woman, after all.'

She fingered the book then eased it open. Inside were clippings of newspaper reports on swimming, diving, and water polo from before the war. Most were from the Havre des Pas pool but there were images from La Rocque's and St Aubin's harbours as well.

She turned the pages without comment until she reached a large glossy photograph. According to the caption, it was taken at a water gymkhana in August 1911. The background was clearly the start of the 110 yard course and there was a large crowd watching a group of girls in fancy dress preparing to dive into the water.

I spotted Mum immediately. She was laughing and looking at the camera self-consciously. I recognised Yvonne, Joan's mother. I had no idea about the rest. One, who wasn't smiling, seemed to be staring directly at my mother.

She stabbed her finger at the diving stage. ‘Sometimes, you can see almost everything in a photograph.'

The boards were empty but underneath, dressed in the old-fashioned strapped water polo costumes, was a group of seven men. They were watching the girls. My father was standing next to Uncle Fred. I was sure two of the others were my father's younger brother, Raoul, and Fred's brother, Arthur, both of whom had fallen in Flanders. One was definitely Phillips, the rest were strangers. I looked quizzically at my mother.

She traced her finger back to the girls and rested it above the one who was looking at her. ‘Isobelle.'

‘Should I know her?'

‘Everyone wanted to that summer – especially your father, and my brother.'

So that was the mystery woman that Nutty had mentioned. But there was something wrong here. ‘So Phillips and Father fought over her?'

‘No. She showed no interest in George Phillips. I was the apple of his eye.'

‘I'm getting confused, Mum.'

‘It was all very silly, really. George wanted to walk out with me but I wasn't interested in him. He thought your father was… oh this is so complicated.'

Complicated? Compared to my relationships?
‘Go on, Mum, you can't stop now.'

She tapped the photograph again. ‘It was all her fault. She was only here for the summer. Her father was in the army, on secondment to the militia. She was a good swimmer and joined the club but she wanted to win more than races. She set all the men against each other. It was so obvious to the rest of us girls. Fred thought your father was sweet on me and was angry that he should pay attention to her. She flirted with both of them. All very demure, but unmistakable to those with eyes to see. Unfortunately both of them seemed temporarily blinded. Fred warned him off and I heard that there was a fight over it. George thought your father wasn't being fair to me and called him something rude. That was a more public fight – in a water polo match I believe, though I didn't see it. I suppose it must seem all very trivial now but it hurt a lot then.'

‘Is that why neither of you go to the club anymore?'

‘Of course, the war changed everything. Somehow, swimming and socialising didn't seem so important afterwards. We did go for a while then… we had so much to do here. Too many sad memories.'

I touched the photo again. ‘What happened to this Isobelle?'

‘She left. Some thought she was probably unaware of the ructions she caused. I didn't think so. She knew exactly what she was doing.'

‘Have you seen her since?'

My mother's face was a mask. ‘Oh, yes. She came back in 1919, just after your father married me.' She shut her eyes. ‘If I tell you, you must promise never to tell your father.' She opened her eyes and I saw in their depths a pain which unnerved me.

Dumbly, I nodded.

Her voice was faint. ‘I'd rather tell you than let you find out from the gossips.'

She looked at the photo as though it was alive. ‘She had an affair with your father. It broke my heart.'

Stupefied, I stared at her. She seemed calm but her eyes were misty. I felt shame for her, anger with him. ‘But you're still together –'

‘Yes, love. We're still together. We survived. Thanks to my brother.'

‘How?'

‘He confronted them. Forced your father to tell me the truth. She never forgave him but he'd seen right through her.'

‘She gave up then?'

‘She's not the sort to give up. She bounced off and grabbed another man.' She pointed to the photograph again. ‘Him.'

I scrutinised the picture but the man's face was in shade. He was wearing an army officer's uniform, standing apart from the others, half turned towards another, older man, also in uniform. There was something familiar about his bearing. ‘Who is he? Do I know him?'

She closed the album with a snap, and fiddled with her wedding ring then refolded the telegram and pressed it into my hands.

‘I love your father, always have. I've forgiven him but he knows I'll never forget.'

She took in a deep breath. ‘He's a good man only, where women are concerned,' her eyes bored into mine, ‘somewhat bewildered.' She tapped the album. ‘Her name is Isobelle Hayden. He is Wilbur Brown. Your Caroline is their daughter.'

‘What's for tea?' Alan blundered into the kitchen, propped his rifle against the cupboard and marched to the range.

Mum covered the album with a tea towel and carried it over to the dresser. Alan didn't seem to notice.

‘I've left you a tasty salad. Dad and I are going out.'

‘Good, that's two portions for me then. Jack's out for some posh nosh – aren't you big brother?'

‘That reminds me. Do either of you know anything about two tins of golden syrup which have disappeared from the larder?'

An innocent look was one acting expression I had yet to master.

‘If you're hungry, Jack, just ask. I know you love it but I'd rather you ate proper food.'

Alan chirped in. ‘Well it's not me. I hate the stuff. Try Dad, he's probably used them in some Masonic ritual.'

Mum fought to keep a straight face. ‘You two will be death of me.'

Completely oblivious to any atmosphere he might have disrupted, Alan clattered about the kitchen and cleared a space for himself on the table. In the process, he knocked his satchel onto the floor. An assortment of exercise books fell out. Tonto sniffed at them before I shooed him away.

I picked them up and placed them on the table. A white envelope dropped from his English composition book, which seemed to be the thinnest on the pile.

‘What's this?' I held it up. It had my name on it.

‘Oh shit. Sorry, Mum, forgot. It was in our pigeon hole.'

‘When? Today? Yesterday?'

‘Bugger. Sorry, Mum. Can't remember. Think it was Monday, or it might have been Tuesday.'

I eyed the rifle. If only it had a bayonet attached. ‘What's in it?'

‘How do I know? I'm not a bloody magician. Sorry, Mum.'

I examined it. My name was typed. There only seemed to be a single sheet inside. It was probably a reprimand for my non-attendance. I unfolded the sheet. It was Grumpy's handwriting. I'd seen it enough times on my essays.

Renouf
,
An excellent swim and well-deserved record
.
Well played. On another matter, you might find this helpful: Venus and Adonis 799-804

Best wishes.

J.B.G.

This had been in Alan's bag for over a week. So I'd been right. Grumpy believed I had listened to his advice and lost the race deliberately. If only he knew half the truth, he'd be sending me a rude summons instead of a Shakespearian reference. Saul would probably know it without looking it up but I needed my
Complete Shakespeare
which was in my bedroom.

‘It's a note from the headmaster. I've got to check a reference. Excuse me.' I ignored their curious stares and made for the stairs.

In my room I pulled the book from the shelf and thumbed through until I found the lines:

Love comforteth like sunshine after rain,

But Lust's effect is tempest after sun;

Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain,

Lust's winter comes ere summer half be done;

Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies;

Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.

My eyes burned. “
Lust full of forged lies.
” How could Shakespeare, writing three centuries before, know so much about my frailty?

Tears trickled down my cheeks, some for my mother and the hurt and shame Isobelle had inflicted on her, but most were for Rachel and the pain she had suffered through my own crass stupidity.

Alan was right. I was going out tonight but not meekly in answer to Caroline's call. Like Shylock, I now wanted my pound of flesh. From somewhere closest to her heart would be best.

38

Fortunately, the showers had passed to reveal a fine, crisp evening. I rode
Bessy
off Mont Millais, along the road separating the two large fields belonging to the Palace's farm and positioned her out of sight under the trees in the corner of the large gravelled car park. I checked my watch. I was early but I wanted to examine the lie of the land. I marched up the lane and into the impressive hotel courtyard.

Skirting the entrance, I took a shortcut through the garage area and emerged on the eastern end of the veranda. The dining room was full of hotel guests and I spotted Miko serving them – our meal wouldn't be in there so I wandered through the ballroom and billiard room down to the Golden Restaurant and peeked in.

Apart from a few white-coated waiters, the room was empty. The tables were laid with crisp linen cloths and intricately folded starched napkins. Some diners were outside enjoying the unexpected clear evening, while more waiters fussed around them bearing trays of exotic drinks. The surging swell of their chatter and laughter overwhelmed even the frenzied crickets.