Burnt Norton (29 page)

‘If you will forgive me for a moment, there is someone I must see.’

Shivering, she pulled on her gloves and walked outside. Skirting the gravestones, Molly Johnson approached her; there was a new assurance in her bearing.

‘So is it finished? Have you ruined enough lives?’

‘Miss Johnson,’ she replied, for there was nothing she could say.

‘Are you satisfied? You are a wicked, manipulative woman, with your misguided principles and self-righteousness. Your father may have been weak, but you, Dorothy, are evil.’

If she had struck her, Dorothy would have welcomed it.

‘You shall live and die with your conscience,’ Molly declared. ‘And I hope you rot in hell.’ She turned to leave, then she turned back. ‘And you think we didn’t know about the Italian?’ she said. ‘You broke his heart and discarded him, but there’s an irony, for I believe you loved him. But it wouldn’t do, would it? It just wouldn’t do.’

The stark accusations threw Dorothy, even as she accepted that every one of them was true. Though she would not see her again, Molly Johnson would haunt Dorothy’s conscience for the rest of her days.

That evening she took up her pen and wrote the final chapter of their family history. She wrote quickly, and she wrote honestly, sparing no detail. When it was done and the light was fading, she closed the cover.

Looking through the window towards the Vale of Evesham, over the stark fields, she remembered galloping through the lanes; she remembered the acrid smell of burning, and riding with Thomas to the fire.

Thomas, the flames! I’m frightened.

It’s all right, Dotty, I’m at your side.

She had returned his loyalty with deceit.

The next morning she took the cart and drove to Norton. She visited the pools, the woods, the gardens of her childhood. In the grounds she could see her handsome father astride Apollo, her brothers and sisters running through the long grass, and Lorenzo, her dear Lorenzo.

She found the caretaker in the room above the archway, the room that had been his.

‘Excuse me. I lived here once. May I see inside?’

‘There’s naught inside the big house, save for a few sticks of furniture and plenty of dust. They don’t come here, the Ryders – too busy in the City. Sir Dudley is dead, poor sod, passed away on his way to receive his peerage. His son Nathaniel will have to earn it for himself.’ He took his coat off the peg, the same peg that Lorenzo had used, and walked into the courtyard. Dorothy followed him. He spat superstitiously into the ground.

‘I’ll not be going upstairs. ’Tis dark and full of spirits.’

Had he seen her family? Did they remain in the shadows?

She went first to the shared nursery, later her bedroom, two beds side by side.

Thomas? Would you read to me?

Go to sleep, I’m tired.

She retrieved Hastings from the bed, where he had remained untouched for years, and held him to her breast. ‘We are going on a journey,’ she murmured, ‘and this time, old friend, you will come with me.’ She walked through the house, up the stairs to the very top. She lifted the iron latch, opened the small oak door, and entered Miss Byrne’s room. Leaning back on the old iron bed she could hear her parting words:
Now always remember, my child, how exceptional you are.

She lifted the boards, placed the book inside, and her sister’s shawl. She could just see the side of her sister’s sketchbook. When it was done and the boards were closed, she stood beneath the crucifix. She prayed for forgiveness, not in this world but the next. She prayed for Charles Coram, for Lorenzo, for Miss Byrne and her family.

The following week her luggage was packed once more.

‘Come with me, Mama, I can’t bear to be without you,’ she begged Lady Keyt, knowing it would be the last time she saw her.

‘How can I leave?’ she replied. ‘What is left of my life is here. Your life is with your own family. Hold onto them, for they are everything. Teach the children what is right, but don’t judge them harshly. We can’t play God, my child.’

The carriage moved onwards, and Dorothy watched her mother’s fragile form become fainter until it finally disappeared.

They reached the farmhouse; she walked along the flagged pathway, knocked upon the door. ‘I would like to see my brother’s room. Would that be convenient?’

‘Miss Johnson hasn’t moved in yet, madam, but under the circumstances I am sure she wouldn’t mind. Do come in.’

‘Miss Johnson?’ she queried, her hand trembling.

‘Sorry, madam, didn’t you know?’ the housekeeper said gently. ‘He left her everything. Poor lass, she is inconsolable.’

Dorothy climbed the twisting stairs and opened the bedroom door. The room, though small, was light and cheerful. Elizabeth’s drawings decorated the whitewashed walls. There were sketches of flowers and trees, of Letitia and of John, but she was drawn to one sketch in particular: a drawing of Molly, with laughing eyes and soft face. Her mother’s words echoed in her ears.
We can’t play God, my child.

She was about to leave when she saw the letter. It had her name on the envelope.

Dorothy,

I have little to say to you, for throughout my life you have had my love and my trust, and yet you have deceived me in every conceivable way.

Did you think I was your puppet? Was I not capable of living my own life in my own way? Your actions have proved fatal in the case of a young man, your nephew. They have proved fatal in the case of your brother. I am dying because you stole my reasons for living.

I hope that you will live and die knowing that I never forgave you.

Thomas

PS I bequeath you my prayer book. Let it enlighten you, and let it heal your troubled spirit.

As she picked it up, opening the delicate pages, the brittle remains of the violets she had given him so many years before turned to dust in her hand.

‘Seventeen fifty-six,’ Molly would later say, ‘was the year the ponds froze over, and icicles like sharpened swords hung from the lintels.’

They were challenging times. Food was limited and wood was hard to come by, but Molly welcomed the hardship. Work remained her only distraction. Through Thomas’s legacy, she no longer relied on work for money; rather, the hours bent over her stitching numbed her pain. At her lowest ebb she thought of ending her life. William had taken his destiny into his hands; it was tempting, but Thomas’s final words prevented her.

‘I love you, I’ve always loved you. You will go on for me and for the memory of our son. Everything you strive for will be a memorial to us both. Marry someone, Molly. Be happy. We have taken so much from you; if I have one last wish it is that you shall have a new life, a good life. Please do this, if not for me then for him.’

And so she had struggled on, day after endless day. At some point in those bleak, desperate months she started to look for her son. She could not stop herself. Any child was subject to her scrutiny, regardless of their age – a boy with curly hair, a boy in the village choir. Any mother would do the same, she told herself, but later she would chide herself for her stupidity. Had he lived, her son would have now been fifteen, no longer a child. But the search continued, and until she had proof of his death she would go on looking. In March of the next year she made arrangements to travel to the Foundling Hospital. They had been responsible for his welfare – surely they would know the details of his death. The journey was long and arduous, how well she remembered it, but on the fourth day the coach arrived in London. As she walked through the streets and avenues, avoiding the alleys, she remembered walking through these same streets heavy with child.

The Foundling Hospital had moved; the temporary home in Hatton Garden had long since closed. The new buildings were large and spacious, the result of Thomas Coram’s dreams. She could see him showing her the architectural plans as if it were yesterday, and now his vision was before her, the new chapel, where her son would have sung, and the refectory, where he would have eaten. She smiled softly, remembering the kind old gentleman. If only she could turn back the clock, how different it would be. She steeled herself once more. She would not give up on her son. Reaching the end of the carriage way, she climbed the steps to the front door. No longer would she use the tradesman’s entrance. Her courage faltered when she was ushered inside. ‘I wish to learn the details of my son’s death,’ she requested.

‘Come this way.’

The hospital secretary was solicitous. ‘Forgive me, madam, only his death is recorded, but let me reassure you, mistakes in His Majesty’s Navy are most unusual.’

Defeated, she had one last request. ‘I wish to enter the chapel.’ Inside the lofty chapel she imagined her son amongst the choristers who even now were rehearsing evensong, and she thought her heart would break for all the emotion crowding it. She dabbed at her eyes with her embroidered handkerchief, the same handkerchief she carried always, and paid her last respects to Thomas Coram, buried beneath the altar. As she stood and turned to go, a young man passed her in the aisle. He wore a naval uniform, the white ruffles on his shirt glowing against his black skin. He touched his hat in deference. She smiled at him, and he returned her goodwill with a broad smile that lit up his face. I wonder if he knew my son, she thought as she walked away, lacing the handkerchief between her fingers. She turned and looked back at the boy, but his broad smile had gone, and he stared at her with a puzzled expression. He made as if to speak, then thought better of it and returned to his prayers. Molly sighed and closed the heavy door behind her.

She returned to Gloucestershire immediately, and though the secretary’s words should have reassured her, they did not.

Late March

She was pinning a dress on the dummy when she heard the noise. She smoothed the folds of the unfinished skirt until the damask hung softly and, rubbing her raw fingers, blew out the workroom lamp. It was only a short distance to the parlour. She stopped and listened; there it was again, a tapping, rhythmic and constant in the street outside. Hurrying to the door, she opened it and peered into the dark. There was no one there. Returning to the fire, she threw her last remaining log onto the embers and lay down on the sofa. She pulled the blanket up to her chin and tried to sleep.

That night, lying on the cramped sofa, once again she dreamt of her son; she could hear his voice, see his eyes, blue as Thomas’s, but as the day broke she woke to the reality of a cold, empty room and tears of despair.

Weeks later, when the town was shrouded in fog, she heard the tapping again. She was delivering a dress to a client, and as she hurried along with purposeful steps, the haunting sound stopped her in her stride. Her eyes darted around the gloom but could see nothing. She waited, her heart beating fast. Finally, the shape of two men emerged from an alley, one with a stick, which tapped against the cobbles, the other with a dark face. It was like seeing ghosts, the wraithlike creatures bundled in their coats, coming in and out of the vapour. She made to follow the men, find out who they were, but before she could the fog enfolded them, leaving Molly on the cobbles with a bemused expression and the new gown limp across her arm.

As the nights lengthened she made plans to move into the farmhouse. She visited the property occasionally and was surprised to see the vegetables sown and the garden tidy.

‘A young lad tends to it,’ the housekeeper told her. ‘He says little, and won’t take payment. He says he’s a friend of the master and it’s his way of thanking him.’

Molly smiled sadly; Thomas’s kindness had touched many hearts.

When July came, Molly decided to take up residence in her new home. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and putting her cat in the basket, set off down the high street towards the Norton woods. She remembered the last time she had taken this route on the night of the concert, and her more recent visit to the ruins with Ruth. ‘You can make it up to your lad; you gave him away with the best intentions. Now you can get him back.’ Even after the fire there had been room for optimism and hope. Now all that was left was a legacy from the man she had loved.

Molly walked on. She was luckier than most; she had a good house, Thomas’s house. She skirted the gardens, refusing to look back at Norton, and continued down the track. Standing in the park she could see it below her, resting in the hollow, just as she had seen it on her first journey all those years before. The farmhouse was her future, and with the trees in leaf and life bursting through the ground she felt a glimmer of hope. Thomas had wanted her to be happy in his house, and as much as she could, she would be. Opening the small garden gate she walked up the path.

‘Welcome, Miss Johnson,’ the housekeeper said, coming to greet her. ‘The young lad’s working in the vegetable garden. I told him you’d be arriving today, and he’s very eager to meet you.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Parker,’ Molly replied.

She walked around the house to the plot at the back, interested to see the young man who had valued Thomas so highly. He didn’t see her at first, and as he dug the spade into the ground she watched him. His white linen shirt was open and there was something vaguely familiar about the line of the young man’s neck as he leant over, tending the seedlings that pushed through the toiled ground. Something stirred in her memory – the way his shoulders sloped a little, and his hair, visible beneath his cap, curled at the ends. What was it about this stranger that seemed so intimate?

Her chest tightened. An extraordinary thought started to grow in her mind, but no, it was impossible. It was then that she recognized the walking stick propped against the wall. She stopped, unable to move.

The young man looked up and straightened. He stared at her and neither of them spoke. Around his neck hung a small medal; on it the number 171 was just discernable.

‘Who are you?’ she said, her eyes moved from the medal to his face. He took off his cap and held it in his hands.