Memories of the Storm (8 page)

In the little cottage in Litten Terrace, Jerry was
preparing to walk into the town to fetch the
newspaper. This period of the morning was the best
time of the day for him, when he might manage
some gardening or letter-writing and, if he were
lucky, enjoy a brief respite from pain and the
self-defeating weariness that dogged him, sapping
his courage. The familiar route to the newsagents –
crossing the recreation ground, passing through
the park that lay beneath the city walls – generally
raised his spirits. This morning he hesitated,
watching Lucy who was sitting at the table jotting
down an address.

Ever since Jonah's telephone call she'd been
slightly distracted and he feared that she might be
concealing something. He struggled with a growing
anxiety that she was beginning to feel the need to
shield him. Jerry stiffened at the thought of it:
every instinct fought against such a humiliating
prospect. He who had always been the strong one,
the protector, was now in a position of weakness
and he was finding the process of coming to terms
with it very difficult.

He pulled on his jacket, picked up his stick with a
hand that was beginning to claw because of the pain
in its joints, watching her preoccupied face out of
the corner of his eye.

'You've been a bit quiet since Jonah phoned,
Luce,' he said at last. 'Are you sure he's OK?'

'He's fine.' She put down her pen, turning to him
quickly, reassuringly. 'Honestly. It's just that whilst
he was down on Exmoor with Lizzie Blake he came
across someone I knew in the war. Hester Mallory.
I stayed with her family after Mummy died and
before I came here to live with Aunt Mary. I was just
amazed at the coincidence and I can't quite get it
out of my mind, that's all. And just then I was
thinking about Aunt Mary.' This wasn't strictly true
but she had no wish to tell him about Jonah's
proposed visit to Bridge House – not yet. 'Do you
remember when you first met her, Jerry?'

'Of course I do.' He put his keys in his pocket
and came back into the room. 'She was very kind to
me.'

'And to me. I don't know what would have
happened to me without Aunt Mary. You don't
regret that we stayed with her? Lots of young men
wouldn't have been able to cope with a crotchety,
sick old woman in the first months of their
marriage.'

'I think we all managed very well and, anyway, it
would have been a pretty poor show to leave her
alone after all those years she'd looked after you.'

Lucy smiled at him: Aunt Mary had approved of
Jerry.

'He's tough,' she'd said. 'Don't underestimate
him, Lucy, or mistake his kindness for weakness.
He's a good man.'

'What are you smiling at?' Jerry asked.

'I was thinking about the Lambert Barnard paintings
in the cathedral,' she said, lying to him for the
second time. 'And the way we met.'

He laughed, forgetting his anxieties. 'Ah yes.
Good old Barnard. All those Bishops of Chichester
looking exactly alike.'

She got up suddenly and went to him, putting
her arms around him and holding him tightly.

'I've had an idea,' she said, looking up at him.
'Why don't we go out this morning? In the car, I
mean. We could go to Stansted House and give
Tess a walk and then have coffee and one of those
delicious caramel slices in the tearoom. Shall we?
You always say that all your beastly drugs and
tablets ruin your breakfast coffee. It's such a lovely
morning and this weather can't last much longer.'

She spoke so pleadingly that he was touched. It
didn't always occur to him to acknowledge the ways
in which this wretched disease had closed down
on their lives. Most of the time he was too busy
struggling with his physical deterioration, the aftereffects
of the drugs and the bouts of depression,
which were so contrary to his natural disposition.

'Why not?' he said. 'I'll drive. I feel up to it this
morning. We'll pick up a newspaper on the way.'

She didn't make a fuss or argue with him: asking
him if he were sure it wouldn't tire him too much.
She simply nodded, gave him a quick kiss and went
away to call Tess in from the garden. Jerry took a
deep breath, his spirits rising. All was well.

Sitting beside him as they drove out through
Chichester, heading west, Lucy was still thinking
about the Barnard paintings. She'd seized on them
by chance, seeking to distract him from questions
about Hester, and then found that the memory
had been so fresh, so strong, that she'd been overwhelmed
by her feelings. Suddenly it seemed to her
that to spend the morning apart would be a terrible
waste; that there might not be so many sunny
mornings left to share. This was not a new idea.
Ever since systemic lupus erythematosus and
Hughes syndrome had been diagnosed, and they'd
been made aware of the implications of the disease,
they'd both bravely resolved to try to maintain a
positive attitude.

This morning, looking at Jerry, she'd remembered
the young, strong fellow she'd met in the
cathedral quite by chance nearly forty years before.
The memory, rather than saddening her, had filled
her with an odd sense of revitalization: a strong
feeling that nothing – not even this terrible disease
– could destroy the true essence of those two people
who had once gazed at the paintings together. As
she looked sideways at him, at the tweed sleeve of
his jacket, she recalled that this was the first thing
she'd noticed about him: his tweed-covered arm
holding the guidebook.

She sees him out of the corner of her eye, standing
to one side and very slightly behind her. This
morning she's come into the cathedral on a whim,
seeking some kind of inner strength from that
deep-down peacefulness that is the natural result of
nine hundred years of prayer. It's not that caring
for her frail aunt is particularly demanding, it's just
that sometimes she feels very lonely in the little
cottage in Litten Terrace and then she is overwhelmed
by a need to be a part of the bustle and
activity in the town. Once she's settled Aunt Mary
with a book and a cup of coffee she has a little time
to herself: to potter in the town, do some shopping
and go to the library. Today she is drawn into the
cathedral, wandering in the quiet aisles, pausing in
the north transept to look at the sixteenth-century
paintings of the Bishops of Chichester by Lambert
Barnard. After a moment she becomes aware of
someone nearby, holding a guidebook.

Glancing round she is struck by the expression
on the young man's face. It is one of an almost
comical dismay. He looks at her, ready to share his
surprise.

'It's a bit odd, isn't it?' He's lowered his voice to a
kind of respectful whisper. 'Have you noticed? All
the faces are exactly the same!'

He nods towards the paintings, clearly baffled,
and she can't help chuckling at his astonishment.
He looks at her more closely, rather as if he has
discovered something else of interest apart from
the paintings.

'I'm new to all this,' he says, slightly on the
defensive, brandishing his guidebook. 'I've just
moved from Surrey. I work at the new college over
in Westgate Fields, in the science department, and
I'm finding my way around before term starts
officially. Gerald Faringdon.' He holds out his
hand, as if to show that he isn't trying to pick her
up but is anxious to put this meeting on to a
respectable level at once, and she takes it, liking his
open, good-humoured face and broad shoulders.

'I'm Lucy Scott,' she says. 'I live with my aunt
over the other side in Litten Terrace. How do you
like Chichester?'

She's glad now that she decided to change into
her new apple-green linen shift dress and the pretty
sling-back shoes before she came out, her long
thick brown hair brushed so that the ends flick up à
la Jackie Kennedy. She'd been rather pleased with
the overall effect and now, looking at him a little
shyly, it is clear to her that he appreciates it too.

They stroll away together, talking casually,
neither of them quite knowing how to make the
next move. As they come out into the bright sunshine
they each covertly take stock of the other. She
likes the look of his crinkly reddish fair hair and
bright blue eyes. He has a reassuringly kind smile
but he is stocky and well-built – and there is a
natural confidence in his straightforward gaze and
the set of his shoulders that appeals to her.

He glances down West Street, towards Market
Cross, jingling the coins in his pocket.

'I was planning to have some coffee,' he says. 'Do
you fancy a cup? I saw a rather jolly place on my
way here. Just across the road down there. Very old,
I gather. It's in my guidebook but I expect you
could tell me all about it.'

So it is that they find themselves having coffee in
the Dolphin and Anchor Hotel: the first of many
meetings.

Now, she would have liked to touch his arm, cover
his poor clawed hand on the wheel, but she restrained
the impulse. Jerry had never been able to
respond easily to impulsive, loving gestures; kind,
yes, and always thoughtful for her security, he
wasn't an emotional man. Affection, in his experience,
was shown in deeds, not in flowery speeches
and romantic gestures. Love was demonstrated by
keeping the car properly serviced, bills being paid
on time and sensible precautions taken for the
future. In these ways he cared for her and protected
her. There were moments of tenderness – generally
after he'd had a pint or a gin and tonic when his
self-control was relaxed a little – and he had an
oddball sense of humour and a passion for modern
jazz that had sustained a youthful liveliness. Lately,
however, he'd begun to suspect unpremeditated
acts of affection as manifestations of her pity and, as
a result of the terrible thrice-daily cocktail of medication,
he could be irritable and moody.

She wanted to say to him: 'We haven't really
changed, not deep down inside, have we? We still
carry with us those two people, the Jerry and Lucy
who stood together in front of Barnard's paintings,'
but she knew that he would not be able to confirm
her instinct that the true essence of the human
spirit is unchanged by age or suffering. He might
remember the occasion with affection but he would
feel uncomfortable if she were to press the subject
further.

Instead she sat back in her seat, thinking now
about Jonah.

'It was so strange,' he'd said. 'First, you mentioning
Hester's name, then finding that Piers has
known the family for ever, and then this girl Clio
telling me that she's her god-daughter. It was just
so bizarre that I felt that it was meant, if you know
what I mean?'

His voice had been almost pleading, willing her
to understand and not be cross, but she'd been
surprised by an oddly peaceful sense of inevitability.

'It's OK,' she'd said. 'Really it is. How is Hester?'

'She's great. Fantastic. But I had such a strange
feeling while I was there, and she . . . told me
things, Mum. About Grandfather being a friend of
the family. She's said I can go and stay and I'd
really like to do that, if you don't mind. She was
very clear about that – you knowing about it and
agreeing to it, I mean. Would you like to telephone
her, you know, just to check things out?'

'No,' she'd answered quickly. 'No, not yet, but
you go if you want to, Jonah. Honestly, I think
you're right about it being meant, and if Hester
really wants to talk . . .'

He'd been so relieved, so grateful, that she'd felt
the usual guilt and fear twist her gut. She'd kept
silent for so long, despite Jonah's longing to know
about the past.

Well, it was out of her control now. Staring out
at the passing countryside, Lucy wondered what
Hester would tell him, what questions might arise
from their meeting, and her gut flipped again at
the prospect. Yet, beyond the guilt and fear, a calm
certainty took possession of her: it was time.

The letter was lying beside Hester's place at the
breakfast table. The sight of the spiky writing on
the recycled envelope, along with its second-class
stamp, caused her heart to beat with pleasurable
anticipation but it wasn't until Clio had finished her
toast and set off to see Lizzie at Michaelgarth that
Hester opened her letter.

St Bede's Convent

All Souls' Day

Darling Hes,

I've been thinking about you particularly
during these last few days and not only because
we've been holding you closely in prayer since
your operation. It's the time of year, isn't it, when
we think of all those people we've loved but who
'now worship in a greater light and on a farther
shore' and I've been remembering our family
especially. Little cameos from the past, recalling
happy holidays at Bridge House, student days at
Cambridge and more sombre thoughts about the
boys, killed so early in the war, and then, later,
dear old Edward and Michael. What a terrible
time it was. And, before that, your parents, Hes:
Aunt Emily and Uncle Nicholas.

Just lately I've been thinking a great deal about
Uncle Nicholas and what a terrible blow it must
have been to you especially, Hes, when he died.
There are certain people – just one or two if we're
lucky – that seem to be vouchsafed us on our
journey: people who truly know us and not only
love us but
enjoy
us, if you know what I mean.
Your father felt like that about you, Hes. He
understood you, and enjoyed your imperiousness
and curiosity and passion for truth; and your
oblique take on life which was immensely endearing
and made you a difficult but fascinating
child and, later, characterized your books about
John Clare and Christopher Smart. I think it
was clever of you to draw the parallels between
the two, showing how their 'madness' was
grounded in their passionate response to the
physical world. How proud your father would
have been, Hes, to read your work.

I can see why, when he died, you transferred
your love to Edward. He was so like him, wasn't
he? Not only physically but he had that same
intuitive understanding for looking beyond the
surface of people and an appreciation for
the finer points of character. I always felt that
your mother's love was too concentrated on her
sons (and I was included in that love, for which
I thank God!) to appreciate her daughters
properly – and that is why she gave up, poor soul,
when the boys were killed and Edward taken
prisoner.

It was a blessing, I suppose. Seeing Edward,
best beloved of all her sons, so broken and
destroyed when he finally came home, would
have been terrible for her. I'm only just
beginning truly to understand how appalling it
must have been for you, Hes. Edward valued you
in the same way that your father valued you and
oh! how we need that real true kind of loving to
grow up properly. Without that particular kind of
valuing, which has nothing to do with spoiling
and smothering the child with possessive affection,
it is difficult to develop with confidence
and self-esteem. Most of us have to do our best
without it.

You are so much in my mind, Hes, you and
all the others, and I'm so glad that you are
recovering well – but how do you feel about the
long journey up here for Christmas? It wouldn't
be the same without you – and I know the sisters
feel the same – but I'm rather worried about you
driving so far, especially at that time of the year.
Would it be wise this year to come by train? Is
Clio still at Bridge House? How sweet of her to
take her holiday time to be with you, although I
expect that she's glad to have the opportunity to
show her gratitude for all the things you've done
for her. You valued Clio in the way that I wrote
about just now and it shows in her. Give her my
love.

On a different note, we have a new convent
cat. He has appeared from nowhere and the
sisters have taken him in joyfully, having been in
mourning for weeks for dear old Mouser. On
being applied to for a name – and having in my
thoughts your book on Christopher Smart, which
I was rereading – I said he should be called
Jeoffrey. Remember Smart's lines 'on his cat
Jeoffrey' from the
Jubilate Agno
?

For I will consider my Cat Jeoffrey

For he is the servant of the Living God duly
and daily serving him.

Anyway, I'm hoping that the name will inspire
our newcomer and that he will remember that,
according to Smart, 'the mouse is a creature of
great personal valour'. I wish I could introduce
Jeoffrey to St Francis.

Let me know how you are, Hes,
Love as always,
Blaise

Hester put the letter down, folding it automatically,
smiling at Blaise's choice of name for the cat whilst,
at the same time, rather shaken that the letter had
been written on the day when Jonah had first
arrived at Bridge House. She was moved by Blaise's
references to her father's feelings for her, and to
her work.

Thoughtfully she put the letter back into its
envelope, thinking now about Christmas. Ever since
Blaise had retired from his parish duties to take up
the position of chaplain to the sisters at St Bede's
she had driven up to Northumberland each year to
spend Christmas at the convent. Usually she took
the journey in stages, stopping off at Cambridge
and Lincoln to see friends and colleagues. Just at
present, however, the thought of the long drive
north filled her with trepidation. Yet the prospect
of Christmas alone, without seeing Blaise or the
nuns of whom she had become so fond, was a bleak
one.

St Francis leaped onto the table. He gazed hopefully
at the butter dish, which Hester immediately
picked up. She got to her feet and began to clear
the table, ignoring his look of reproach.

'There is a new cat at the convent,' she told him.
'His name is Jeoffrey and we must hope that he is a
more efficient rodent controller than you are, old
friend. Or they might be saying, "Poor Jeoffrey!
The rat has bit thy throat."' She smiled again as
she remembered Blaise's words, already forming a
reply in her head; framing phrases and sentences
and quotations that would make him laugh. She
shared with Blaise the passion for words that she'd
once shared with Edward.

'
I'm only just beginning truly to understand how
appalling it must have been for you, Hes
.' Was that what
was puzzling her: that Blaise should be thinking so
much about the past again and especially that
particular period of time that she was beginning
deliberately to call up so as to communicate it to
Jonah?

Hester was surprised by the quick uprush of joy at
the mere idea of seeing Jonah again, of talking to
him and sharing with him. She saw suddenly that it
was a great privilege to find someone to whom she
might pass her history and the history of her family
– someone who was passionately interested and
deeply involved. The story must be accurate, the
details clear and without confusion or muddle.

Distracted by this thought, Hester abruptly abandoned
the clearing up and went to her study. There
was work to be done before she was ready for
Jonah.

Alert and hopeful, St Francis watched her well
out of sight before he jumped up onto the drainingboard
and began to eat the butter.