Memories of the Storm (7 page)

Hester was enjoying herself. Accustomed to a
scholarly approach to work, she'd begun her little
history for Jonah with a properly set out table of
names and dates: her own family tree to begin with,
just to give him something to work from, followed
by the stark facts. She'd put in too much information
to begin with, distracting herself with odd
memories that could be of no interest to Jonah. For
instance, stories of the two younger boys could
have no relevance here. Killed so early in the war,
they were simply two more names to confuse him.
They were there on the family tree, of course,
but nothing else relating to their lives would be
recorded. Only those people who related in some
way to Jonah's family would be mentioned. Some
of her notes were made from memory, others
from the diaries their mother had kept until her
death in the autumn of 1942. She transferred the
cryptic entries, making her own observations alongside.

1939

July 27th. All the boys home for the holidays and
Michael with them. Made a summer pudding.
(M's D)

September 1st. War has been declared. (M's D)

I remember that we all listened to the wireless
and I still recall the feeling of fear. I could see
that Mother felt the same way. Only the younger
boys were excited. Blaise and Edward were very
quiet.

1940

January 15th. A letter from Michael to tell us
that he is married. A small registry office affair.
Her name is Susan. Just like Michael's parents,
her father was killed in the Great War and her
mother died whilst she was still at school. So they
are both orphans. I can hardly take it in that
Michael is married and a soldier. (M's D)

I can remember her saying, 'Oh, how different
it is from everything we imagined for them,' and
she was very low for the rest of the day. Michael
sent a wedding photograph with a very sweet
note from Susan saying how much she was
looking forward to meeting Michael's 'family'. It
cheered Mother up no end. She was a musician –
the violin, I think – but she never managed the
journey to Bridge House.

1941

March 16th. Patricia and the children arriving
with Nanny for the duration. (M's D)

Her husband, Rob, was at sea and Plymouth
was being bombed. Mother was very relieved
because it meant that the house would now be too
full for us to take in evacuees.

March 21st. The first day of spring. Edward
bringing Eleanor to meet us. (M's D)

We were all nervous, I remember. Patricia was
afraid that Jack and Robin would be noisy and
play up.

April 18th. Edward and Eleanor are married. A
registry office wedding just like Michael's. Oh,
this war! (M's D)

Edward telephoned from Ludlow where he was
stationed and Mother spoke to them both. She
pretended to be thrilled, though disappointed
that it had happened so suddenly, but agreed
with them that the war changed everything.
Afterwards she was very quiet and we all felt
rather low. Michael, and now Edward, married
and with none of the fun and excitement that
we'd once visualized.

November 12th. Edward sent out to the Far East.
(M's D)

They'd been living in a hiring near Ludlow and
Mother offered Eleanor a home with us. She
replied that she would stay on for a little longer
with friends. I can remember how relieved we all
were!

December 17th. Eleanor arriving for Christmas.
(M's D)

I never knew quite why she came to us. Perhaps
she had nowhere else to go.

1942

February 15th. Singapore has surrendered to
the Japanese. (M's D)

Here her diaries end.

It seemed to Hester, as she worked, that her
mother's diaries were unlocking the past for her.
Other memories were triggered by these brief
entries and though she continued to document
them, her thoughts returned again and again to
one particular event: Eleanor's first visit to Bridge
House. Presently, she stopped writing and gave
herself up to remembering.

On this wild spring day in 1941, the wind is so
strong and gusts so fitfully that it seems to the
assembled family in the big square hall that Eleanor
is whirled in upon it, laughing helplessly, her hands
to her hair. Edward, tall and elegant at her side,
is clearly besotted by his companion and cannot
imagine even for a second that his family won't
adore her as he does. He takes her foolish little hat
from her hands and leads her forward to introduce
her. His face blazes with pride and he can barely
take his eyes from her.

In the first moment when Hester sees that look
on her eldest brother's face her heart sinks. From
her position on the fender beside the fire she
notes the confident look in Eleanor's eyes, the wide
smile on her vividly painted lips and the pretty
gestures with which she greets Edward's mother
and Patricia, the eldest of all the siblings. Both of
Edward's younger brothers are at sea but Patricia's
two small boys are at hand, waiting to be introduced.

The eldest, three-year-old Jack, shakes Eleanor's
hand, staring up at her curiously, but small Robin is
overwhelmed by this tall dark woman who bends
over him. He begins to cry. Patricia gathers him to
her, comforting but mildly reproving, as though
she fears that their guest might in some way be
offended. Eleanor simply laughs, takes a sweet from
her bag and pops it into his mouth.

As if he is a dog, thinks Hester, to be silenced
with a biscuit. Quickly she catches herself up: she
must make an effort to be friends with Eleanor,
though some deep instinct warns her against this
elegant, self-possessed woman.

'And this is Hester.' Edward's thin sensitive
face is alight with pleasure at the prospect of his
favourite sister meeting his bride-to-be.

Eleanor's hand is warm; her look manages to be
both critical and amused.

'Hello, Hester,' she says – and each is immediately
aware of the other's antagonism. Eleanor
makes some casual, laughing remark about Hester's
letters to Edward – 'How do you manage to think of
so much to say? Pages of them! I'm always
so
impressed, but then I can hardly think of enough to
cover a single sheet, especially to a brother.' Within
the compliment there is a little barb, something
that implies that it's all rather pathetic – surely
Hester has better things to do with her time than
write screeds to her big brother? Hester refuses
both the compliment and the jibe, simply smiling
politely and saying nothing. Eleanor stares at her
for a moment; then, with a tiny shrug and a little
moue of the lips, which says that if Hester chooses
to be unfriendly that's her problem, she turns
away to join Edward who is now speaking to his
mother.

Nevertheless, Hester is suddenly conscious of her
old flannel skirt and unflattering jersey, and she is
relieved when Robin comes to her on unsteady feet
so that she can resume her seat on the fender and
take him onto her lap.

And then Edward is perching beside her, still
with that excited expression, saying, 'What do you
think of her, Hes? Isn't she sensational?'

'Oh, yes,' she says obediently, staring at his
flushed cheeks and the over-bright eyes that are
still fixed on Eleanor as if he cannot bear to lose a
minute of her. 'Yes, she's very beautiful.'

'It's like he has a fever,' she says to Patricia later.
They are sharing a bedroom, just as they did when
they were children, because Eleanor has been given
Patricia's bigger room. Patricia is using the other
single bed that is usually covered with piles of
books. Hester has put them back into the bookcase,
and she has allotted part of a drawer in the old
painted chest for Patricia's needs. The wind rattles
the windows and the river roars tumultuously.

'He has,' says Patricia, bending to peer into the
spotted looking-glass, turning away rather despairingly
from her pretty but rather indeterminate
reflection. She too feels inadequate beside
Eleanor's dark, highly polished brilliance. 'He's in
love. That's how it takes you if you're lucky.'

'Lucky?' Hester makes a face. 'I wouldn't want to
be like that, burning up with something that makes
you different and . . . silly.'

She sits up straight against her pillow – arms
folded, legs stuck straight down beneath the
blankets – hating Edward's new silliness and resenting
Eleanor for making her beloved brother look
foolish; lovesick.

'It's not his fault,' says Patricia wisely, folding her
clothes on the small chair and climbing into the
narrow bed. 'You'll see one day.'

'I knew you were going to say that,' says Hester
furiously. 'Honestly, you're so predictable, Pat.
It's always the same thing: I don't know anything
because I'm too young. I'm not that young. I'm
thirteen, remember. I know how to feel things,' she
adds rather grandly.

'But not being in love,' says Patricia. 'Not yet. It's
like a kind of madness, really. A fever, like you said
just now.'

'Rob isn't like that with you,' protests Hester. 'He
doesn't follow you about like a sick spaniel.'

'No,' says Patricia rather sadly, switching out the
light and settling down to sleep. 'No, Rob's rather
down-to-earth, I'm afraid.'

'I like Rob,' says Hester. She's rather shocked by
Patricia's reaction. How could she respect someone
who behaved so pathetically? 'He's . . . sensible.'

'Oh, yes,' agrees Patricia with a little sigh. 'Rob's
sensible.'

And now Hester can remember that, three or
four years ago when she was first married, Patricia
used to have that same expression when she looked
at Rob; that blind, worshipping look of adoration.

She stares into the darkness, listening to the
river's voice. How frightening it must be to feel so
strongly and lose all sense of self; how dangerous to
expose one's vulnerability.

'I shall never fall in love,' she exclaims vehemently.

'Oh, shut up, Hes, and go to sleep,' mutters
Patricia. 'You know how early the boys wake up,
and Nanny has so much to do. I need some sleep
even if you don't.'

Hester wriggles down, pulling up the blankets to
keep out the draughts. The river's voice can still be
heard, singing its endless murmuring song, and she
lies still, reciting Clare's poetry to herself:

Here the steep bank, as dropping headlong
down,

While glides the stream, a silver streak between

As glide the shaded clouds along the sky . . .

And at last the words and the river's music blend
together into a dreamless sleep.

She could still hear the river, louder again now, and
with it the sounds of activity somewhere. Hester
realized that Clio must have returned from her
walk and was probably making some tea. She tidied
her notes, saved her computer work and went out
to find her.

'I've been thinking, Hes.' Clio took down the
battered red Jackson's of Piccadilly tea caddy and
peered inside. 'You can have Lemon Burst,
Raspberry and Echinacea or Camomile. I really
ought to go back to London on Sunday.'

'Raspberry, please. Well, why not? I'm perfectly
fit now and I'm sure they must be missing you at the
agency.'

Clio poured boiling water into two mugs. 'I
think that there's a bit of a panic on. Peter never
actually insisted on a cut-off date, only that you
must be able to manage on your own again after
the operation, but I feel I'm needed more there
now.'

'It was very kind of him and I've loved having you
here but, apart from anything else, I expect you're
rather looking forward to getting back to your work
and your friends.'

Clio put a spoonful of honey into her mug of
Lemon Burst and threw the teabag into the bin.
Hester took her own mug and went to sit at the
table. Clio's expression was a familiar one, though
she hadn't seen it for many years. It was her 'going
back to school' face: a rather touching mixture of
hopefulness and trepidation.

'Peter will be glad to have you back again.'
Hester continued to be positive. 'I know you
arranged a very reliable replacement but when
you've worked so closely with someone, as Peter has
with you – how long is it now? Nearly a year? – it
must be difficult to adapt to someone new.'

Clio sat down opposite and St Francis leaped up
to sit at the end of the table as if presiding at a
meeting.

'I shall miss you,' said Clio. She looked faintly
puzzled, almost irritated, at this discovery. 'I
haven't spent so long here since school holidays
when Mum and Dad were off on some expedition
or research trip or whatever. It's been rather like a
holiday, this last few weeks.'

'We've had some fun, haven't we? And then, of
course, there was Lizzie. You've been quite busy at
Michaelgarth, helping her with ideas and fetching
and carrying people.'

'I think that's part of it,' said Clio. 'I love my job,
really I do, but it's a bit deskbound. I've enjoyed
dashing about meeting Lizzie's theatre and film
friends and doing my own thing.'

And Peter's knocked your confidence, added
Hester silently, and you've had the opportunity to
stand back and evaluate your relationship.

'Well, you could stay,' she said aloud. 'We could
turn the clock back fifty years and you could be my
companion and do the flowers.'

She smiled across the table at her god-daughter,
who grinned back at her.

'I'm almost tempted,' Clio said.

Hester laughed derisively. 'You'd die of boredom
in a week. If Lizzie hadn't wanted help you'd have
been biting the carpet long since. You need someone
to organize.'

Clio made a face. 'I could organize you.'

'No you couldn't,' replied Hester calmly. 'Not
now that I can walk and drive again. You know how
irritating I am to live with.'

'Well, of course I know that. I can't imagine
how Frank copes with you. I suppose it's because
you're both so detached and self-contained—' She
broke off, thinking of Jonah, and Hester raised her
eyebrows interrogatively. 'Jonah said that about
you. That you were as detached and serene as a
nun.' Clio hesitated. 'I said you'd nearly been one.
What happened, Hes? Why didn't you take the veil
or whatever you call it?'

There was a short silence.

'I couldn't deal with community life,' said Hester
at last. 'I was too arrogant: too self-willed. I had
wonderful ideas for reform and the sisters seemed
so obdurate and unwilling to contemplate change.'
She smiled briefly at a memory. Blaise had once
sent her a picture postcard of a flock of sheep,
standing immovably in the middle of a moorland
road, staring rather balefully towards the camera.
On the back he'd written: 'Community life?' He'd
understood her difficulties though he'd been sad
that she hadn't persisted. 'It's not easy, you know,
to surrender yourself wholeheartedly and generously.
Whether the relationship is with God or with
another person, there's a great deal of giving-up of
self involved in it. I couldn't do it.'

'Not for anybody?'

Hester glanced at her, a sharp bright look: 'Are
we playing "Truth"?' she asked lightly. 'You didn't
warn me first, you know.'

Clio flushed. 'Sorry. It's just interesting to me,
especially at the moment, when you talked about
surrendering yourself.'

Hester's gaze softened. 'I might have managed it
once. But in the end it wasn't required of me. Now
let me ask you a question. If Peter were to leave the
agency would you be content to continue to work
there?'

Clio stared at her, the colour in her cheeks fading
as she contemplated her answer. 'No,' she said
slowly. 'I don't think so. I'd almost decided to leave
when Peter arrived. I felt I'd done it all, if you know
what I mean. I wanted something fresh. But then
Peter needed help to settle in and it was exciting
somehow, showing him the ropes, and then . . .
well, so then I stayed,' she finished rather lamely.

'So if he were to go?'

'But why should he go? Or are you asking if I'd
go with him?'

She looked confused, as if Hester were posing a
difficult question – or even setting some kind of
trap – and Hester shook her head.

'There's no hidden agenda here. I simply ask
whether you stay for Peter or for the job itself, that's
all.'

The telephone bell saved Clio from finding an
answer and she jumped up quickly.

'Hello. Oh, hi. How are you? We're fine. Yes,
honestly, she's doing really well. Hang on a minute.
Hester's right here. It's Amy,' she said, and saw
Hester's look of surprise as she took the phone to
speak to Patricia's granddaughter.

Carrying her mug to the window, half listening
to Hester, Clio stared out into the garden. Away
from London, at a distance from her job and from
Peter, she was beginning to see just how precarious
their relationship was and she was dismayed. No
longer mesmerized by the radar-like beam of his
personality, she was able to question her feelings
for him – or was she simply overreacting because
she was hurt by his rather curt cancellation of the
trip to Bridge House?

Sipping at her drink, listening to Hester's side of
the conversation, Clio was unexpectedly subject to a
violent stab of envy for Amy. This was foolish, she
told herself. After all, she had no desire to be
married to a naval officer, who spent a great deal of
time at sea, or to be left at regular intervals with the
care of three boisterous children.

Yet Clio knew very well that Amy wouldn't have
changed a single thing in her life. She didn't even
mind Alan's absences. She'd inherited the family
trait of detachment and admitted to being grateful
for some space to herself. Amy and Alan had a kind
of knockabout, laidback attitude to themselves and
their children, supported as they were by a sprawling
network of relations.

Clio doubted that she would cope so well in
Amy's position – and had said so.

'I'm just doing what I like best,' Amy had responded.
'I couldn't do what you do. Good grief! I
wouldn't last five minutes. I know I don't have any
brothers or sisters but our house was always full
of children. I can't count my cousins, there's so
many of them. I was brainwashed from an early age.
Not like you, Clio. You're so clear-sighted and
focused.'

It was true that her own experience had been
very different. Hester's company and influence
had given Clio, an only child of peripatetic parents,
a sense of self-worth that derived from being
independent. Hester had shown her god-daughter
that self-esteem was grounded in confidence and
encouraged Clio's capabilities in the hope that
she would not have to depend on other people's
approval to make her feel valuable.

So far Hester's influence had borne good fruit
but now Clio wondered if she had become too
dependent on Peter, despite the fact that she knew
just how peripheral she was to his life. She remembered
her disappointment when he'd misread her
invitation to Bridge House – and the short, sharp
words with which he'd cancelled the visit. Yet his
letter had been so full of need and love. Clio
was filled with confusion and longing: she must see
him again before she could come to any sensible
conclusions. She would text him to confirm that she
was coming back and await his reaction.

Putting her mug down on the table, leaving
Hester to her conversation with Amy, Clio went to
find her mobile phone.

Later that evening, after supper, the telephone
rang again. This time it was Jonah.

'Just to say thanks again,' he said, 'and wondering
if Hester has a few days free any time this
month. How are you? Shall I see you too if I come
down?'

'I'm going back to London this weekend,' she
told him brightly, hoping perversely that he would
be disappointed.

'Great,' he said cheerfully. 'Then I'll take you up
on that suggestion you made. Is Hester there or are
you her social secretary at the moment?'

Clio laughed. 'I can hear it in your voice,' she
told him. 'You're convinced that there's a story
here, aren't you?'

'Something like that,' he admitted, 'but it's a bit
more personal this time.'

'Hang on,' said Clio. 'I'll get Hes and check her
diary.'

There was a brief consultation and then Hester
took the telephone.

'Hello, Jonah. Have you spoken to Lucy?'

'I have. She says OK.'

'Are you both quite sure?'

'She was a bit shocked at first but she has agreed.
I think it's time; she does too. I asked if she'd like to
phone you but she says, "Not yet".'

'Very well. This weekend might be difficult. Perhaps
the next one?'

'That would be terrific. I could come down on
Friday and stay until Tuesday if that's not too long?
The thing is, I'm not driving just at present. Will
that make difficulties? I can get a taxi out to you,
can't I?'

'I shall be able to pick you up from the station,'
Hester said. 'I can drive quite well again now.'

'That would be very kind. I'll check train times
and phone again. I can't tell you how much I'm
looking forward to it.'

'So am I,' said Hester. 'Goodbye, Jonah.'

'What was that about driving?' asked Clio suspiciously.

'He isn't, at present.'

'Why not?'

'I didn't ask,' replied Hester serenely. 'It didn't
seem relevant.'

Clio snorted. 'Drinking or speeding,' she pronounced.
'Will you be OK?'

'I doubt that I shall be in any danger with Jonah,
especially when it comes to speeding or drinking.
I'm sure I shall be quite safe.'

'You know what I mean,' said Clio crossly – and
went to stack the dishwasher. She was surprised to
find that she felt rather put out, as if she were being
excluded from something rather special.