Burnt Norton (4 page)

That day she had committed two sins; perhaps now the family was paying for them.

At Dorothy’s insistence, Miss Byrne brought a mirror to the bed. Dorothy’s face was swollen and her nose broken, the ache a constant reminder of all that she had lost.

When at last she was on her own, she struggled to the window. Drawing back the curtains she gasped, for it was as if a wand had been waved, and the last of the summer vanished. Gales battered the countryside and trees littered the ground like fallen giants.

That night, when the candles were snuffed, and the wind howled its continuous lament, she pulled the bedcovers over her head, but the terrors continued.

‘John’s frightened! Help him, Mama!’ she screamed, as the rain beat upon the casements.

‘He’s dead, my darling. John has gone to heaven.’ Her mother’s concerned face hovered above her.

‘Why? John loved us. He would never wish to leave us.’

‘I know, my darling, but God wanted him back,’ her mother said, gently pushing the damp hair from Dorothy’s forehead. ‘He was too precious for this world, and God chose your little brother to sit at his side.’

But it wasn’t true, for as the household slept, Dorothy crept downstairs. Surrounded by candles, the coffin rested on the table in the hall. She would always remember the sickly-sweet aroma of lilies, strewn and wilting upon the floor. Hesitating, she lifted her lantern and tiptoed towards the coffin. She closed her eyes and, squeezing them tightly, lifted the lid. When she opened her eyes, her brother was there, amongst the waxen flowers, his arms crossed upon his chest, his face as grey and immobile as her dolls’. When she put out her hand to touch him, he was cold like marble. Recoiling, she let the lid fall and ran from the room. She hid in the corner of her sister’s bedroom, her arms folded around her knees as she rocked to and fro.

‘They have all lied to me,’ she whispered.

The following day they buried John. To the villagers who lined the street they made a small sad procession: Lady Keyt, inconsolable in black lace; Miss Byrne, walking with a poker back and an unfathomable expression; Dorothy, who dragged Hastings along the ground, letting his coat trail in the mud; and Thomas, who held his sister’s hand within his own. Sir William refused their help and carried the coffin alone.

As the wind tugged at his coat and scattered the funeral flowers, Dorothy wondered why her father rebuffed them. They all suffered. Did he think that he had the exclusive right to unhappiness?

After a simple service her father lifted the coffin once more. They followed him along the nave and over the graves of their forefathers, but when they reached the chancel steps he turned.

‘Stay here,’ he commanded. ‘I wish to be on my own.’ When he finally emerged from the newly built vault Dorothy ran to his side.

‘Not now, Dorothy. Not now.’ If he saw her tears, he ignored them. He strode down the aisle, slamming the church door behind him.

The months aged Lady Keyt. Small lines formed around her mouth, and the clothes which once skimmed her body now hung in loose folds. When Dorothy tried to talk to her she would answer vaguely, ‘Not now, Dotty, later.’

Every day, Lady Keyt went to the nursery and selected John’s clothes.

‘You will launder them as usual,’ she instructed the maid, ‘and each morning you will lay the fire.’ The intention behind her words saddened Ruth, but she did as she was told.

‘What are doing, Ann? Why torture yourself?’ William said as he entered the room. ‘He is gone. John is never coming back.’

She nodded at her husband. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. They need to be aired, that is all.’

‘But you never did this before. Why are you doing it now? He’s dead, for God’s sake.’ He pushed the rocking horse, letting it swing to and fro. ‘Come out of here, Ann. It’s time you took care of the rest of your family!’

When he had gone, banging the door behind him, she sighed and lay on the child’s bed. The ceiling spun around her. It must be the medicine, she thought. How soft the bed was, how cosy for John. Her mind wandered.

‘I have seen three of those birds this week, Mama. What is it?’ John’s hand tugged at her dress.

‘It’s a kite, my darling,’ she had replied, shading her eyes to look up at the large bird that circled above them. ‘Do you see the forked tail? Once upon a time they were admired, now they are killed as vermin.’

‘We don’t kill them here, do we?’

‘Of course not. How could we, when our own name is Keyt? Listen to them, to their strange mewing call. Since the time of King Alfred the Great, we have been linked to this majestic bird by name and by legend.’

‘Tell me the story, Mama. Please tell me.’

‘Yes, my love. Lean against my shoulder and I’ll begin.’

When Ann opened her eyes it was dark; she hadn’t seen Lizzie and she hadn’t thought about her younger daughter at all.

It seemed to Dorothy that no one wanted her. Her mother’s universe had narrowed to the confines of Lizzie’s bedroom; and if she felt guilty at her own survival, with one son dead, and one daughter a cripple, she seemed to have forgotten that she had two other children who needed her. In this new world Dorothy grew up quickly.

Elizabeth never complained or berated anyone for her misfortune; she accepted her lot with a generosity of spirit that humbled even the most cynical. Sometimes when Dorothy heard Lizzie’s gentle voice, she would forget her sister’s disabilities, until the chair’s creaking on the floorboards reminded her. For Elizabeth’s sake, Dorothy tried to be cheerful in her company, but afterwards she would run to her room, pull the pillow over her head and cry. This was the monotony of their new lives, the tedium of days filled with sickness and grief.

In the years before the accident, Keyt had been a distinguished name. Sir William had every reason to be proud. His tenants respected him, the wider community valued him, and his family considered him a devoted and loving father. Though Sir William eschewed the idea of favourites, in moments of reflection it was usually his little John and Dorothy who occupied his mind. In those days a bond existed between him and his youngest daughter that seemed indestructible. It was not just their mutual love of horses; Dorothy had a bright, indefinable spark that amused and entertained him, and yet managed to trouble him. He sensed another side to her nature, and though her sense of adventure mirrored his own, he hoped it wouldn’t destroy her.

One morning, when the mist still lingered over the meadows, he summoned his daughter to his study. ‘It’s a perfect day for a ride. Why don’t you ask Lorenzo to saddle your pony, and we shall ride over the Hanging Meadow? If you hurry, you can be back in time for your lessons – your mother need never know.’

Before he could change his mind she ran from the room, along the corridor, out of the back door until she reached the coach house.

On this particular morning she ran so fast, she tripped on the stone steps. She looked up to find Lorenzo standing above her.

‘Are you hurt, Miss Dorothy?’

He put out his hand and Dorothy took it.

‘Thank you, Lorenzo.’ She brushed the dirt from her dress. ‘Papa wishes to ride with me. Can you saddle Peter?’

‘Of course, Miss Dorothy, but will you help me get the lazy
cavallino
out of bed? He will not move for me.’

‘I’ll show you how to do it,’ she said happily, her sore knee forgotten.

Father and daughter set off together. Sir William, who sat easily on the temperamental Apollo, and Dorothy who cantered behind, her legs kicking the fat grey pony at every stride. When they reached the brow of the hill Sir William turned Apollo’s head.

‘Look, Dotty – my favourite view of the estate. We can see Aston below us, and over there, just off our land, is Meon Hill.’ She followed the direction of his hand. On this day there was no distinction between the earth and the sky. As they stood quietly, the horses with their heads down, eating contentedly, she was glad that her father had shared this with her, and had called her by her pet name. As they rode home together through the dappled wood, he told her about the pony he had owned as a child.

‘She was thirty-two years old when she finally died. A very good age.’

‘I hope Peter will live for ever, Papa.’

‘Nothing lives for ever,’ he had said, looking at his daughter’s earnest face. ‘Indeed, one day you will have a bigger horse, and John will have Peter, but you must never forget him, for your first pony will always be special.’

‘But he’ll have John to love him.’

‘You are right, and fortunately your little brother is proving to have a good seat, just like his sister.’

The following week, Miss Byrne came to her bedroom. It was early in the morning.

‘Your father asked me to wake you. Be quick now.’

‘What is it?’

‘Nothing, child, you are wanted at the stables. Put on your green dress, the one with the collar. And put this shawl around your shoulders. It’s cold.’

She met her father at the coach house door. ‘Come with me.’ He put his finger to his lips. ‘Quietly now.’ She followed him to the foaling box. It was dark, and as her eyes adjusted, the straw moved. A tiny foal struggled to its feet.

‘Well, what do you think?’ For a moment she couldn’t speak, but when the little foal tottered towards them, completely unafraid, she found her tongue.

‘She’s beautiful Papa,’ she murmured, ‘quite beautiful.’

‘She was born two hours ago. Lorenzo and I stayed with the mare throughout the night. She is the first by the stallion Othello.’

‘The one you bought when I was born?’

Sir William nodded, putting his hand on her shoulder.

‘May I give her a name, Papa?’ she whispered.

‘If you can think of a suitable name, then yes.’

‘Ophelia,’ she replied. ‘Please may we call her Ophelia?’

Her father laughed, delighted. ‘A child who is familiar with Shakespeare deserves to name a foal. And when you can ride this Ophelia, when you can truly manage her, she shall be yours.’ Dorothy swelled with pride.

Six months later, with her father standing beside her in the appointed place at the head of the rose garden, a statue was unveiled.

‘Ophelia,’ he said, pulling off the canvas shroud. ‘The start of a new bloodline, may she thrive for her new owner, Dorothy Ann Keyt. May her progeny become champions of the future.’

Dorothy ran to the statue, unable to contain her excitement.

‘Thank you, Papa!’ she said, throwing her arms around the statue’s bronze neck. ‘Thank you so much.’ Her family applauded, but there was one voice missing. Dorothy’s face fell to realize that Thomas had not come out to join in the fun. But then he had always been different. And after the accident, things only got worse.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Sir William chided, walking into the winter sitting room to find Thomas and his sister reading on the floor by the fire. Both looked up from their books.

‘The estate is your future, the family’s future. Go and get your coat and come outside. I wish you would apply the same passion to your property as you do to your poetry.’

‘It’s all right, Thomas,’ Elizabeth said when he had gone. ‘Papa doesn’t mean to be unkind; it’s just that you like different things.’

Thomas tried to like those things beloved by his father – horses, shooting and hunting, the gentlemanly occupations that made a man – but it was hopeless.

One morning he knocked on the door to his father’s study. ‘I have something to show you Papa,’ he said nervously. ‘There is a piece in the
Gazette
that I think will interest you. Would you like to see it?’

He didn’t notice the glass of ruby wine or the papers spread upon his father’s desk until the newspaper dropped from his shaking hands, spreading the glass’s contents into a dark, destructive pool.

‘Get out of here, Thomas! Look what you’ve done! Take your bloody visions and get out.’

‘I didn’t mean to, Papa! Can’t you see it was an accident?’ His father refused to look at him. Exasperated, Thomas continued, ‘You never have time for me. You didn’t before, and you certainly don’t now. You shut yourself away, feeling sorry for yourself. If you had listened to me, none of this would have happened. I know you wish I had died instead of John, but let me make it easier for you – so do I.’ He ran from the room to find his younger sister.

‘Thomas, it’s all right,’ Dorothy said putting her arms around him. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

‘At times I wonder if it was my fault. Perhaps the accident happened because I believed it would. Sometimes I think my head will burst with all these strange thoughts. If it wasn’t for you and Lizzie I’d go truly mad.’ He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘I’ve written a poem for John. Shall I read it to you?’ He brushed his hair from his eyes, and with a faltering voice he read the sad rhyme.‘Do you like it?’ he said at last, handing Dorothy the crumpled paper.

She nodded, unable to speak.

‘Keep it. I would like you to have it.’ Dorothy folded it into the pocket of her pinafore, and much later, she took it out and read it again.

Miss Byrne came from County Cork. Perhaps it was the harsh winds of her native coastline that had fashioned her looks, but the stern façade belied a warm and generous heart.

‘I’m from the bogs of Ireland and that’s where I’ll be returned if you are a bad girl,’ she would say, her brown eyes playing behind her wire spectacles.

‘No, Miss Byrne, no!’ Dorothy would reply in mock horror, and Miss Byrne would scoop her into her arms and they would laugh. Dorothy would feel the prickles of Miss Byrne’s rough woollen dress against her face, and she would smell the lavender on the lace handkerchief pinned to her chest.

If she cried at night, the governess would enter her room and take her gently by the hand. ‘You had better be coming along to my little room. Up with the stars, so it is, and I’ll read to you if you can find my story book.’ Dorothy would follow her up the attic stairs, her misery forgotten. With small, skilled hands she would pull the large, leather-bound journal from its hiding place beneath the floorboards; she would leaf through the pages, hoping Miss Byrne had added a story in her neat handwriting. By the time Dorothy was old enough to read them herself, the book was half filled.