Memories of the Storm (9 page)

'Clio has returned to London,' Hester wrote to
Blaise on Sunday evening.

Her departure was rather horrid; just like going
back to school years ago. I can only imagine that
it's because she's been here for four weeks and
this has given her the opportunity to look clearly
at her situation both at the agency and with
Peter. If it hadn't been for Peter I think she
would have made a change a year ago, but falling
in love does rather cloud the judgement and,
now she's had the chance to think about things,
she gives the impression that she's rather fearful
that she made a mistake in staying at the agency.
That's what is horrid, Blaise, watching her going
back to London and knowing that she's lost her
confidence in what she's doing. Clio is usually
very positive, as you know, so it shows when she's
having a wobble. On the other hand, I should
be deeply relieved to hear that this affair with
Peter is over. Naturally I can't interfere but you
know how unhappy I have been at the thought of
Clio involved in a relationship that can have no
future. Having had my own similar experience all
those years ago I'm in no position to throw stones
at Clio but I worry that there are so many people
who could be hurt. Not least the children. Anyway,
I really have hopes that she is seeing clearly
now.

Your last letter was so very much in tune
with what was happening here that I've been
wondering how to reply to it. Michael's grandson
has been here, Blaise. Clio met him – I won't
bother you with how or where at the moment –
and brought him to Bridge House at his own
request. Something very odd happened. It was as
if at some emotional level he tapped into his
whole history, and he's coming again next week.
He wants to know about those war years. His
mother up until now has refused to talk about it –
and who can blame her? – although he's seen old
snapshots of us all. I remember sending photos
to Michael during the war, so as to keep him
in touch, and Jonah (that's his name) specially
remembers one of Lucy with Jack and Robin.
He's clearly a very intuitive boy – well, he seems
like a boy to me, probably thirty – and he had a
very strange experience on his arrival here.

She paused, wondering how to explain Jonah's
experience and her own reaction to it, and at that
moment the telephone rang and Hester put down
her pen and went to answer it.

It was odd, she reflected in the few seconds that
this took, that though she used the computer for
most of her correspondence she still wrote to Blaise
by hand, with her fountain pen and sitting at
the table in the breakfast-room. Before she could
come to any conclusions about this, she'd picked up
the receiver and said as she always did, 'Hester
Mallory.'

'Hester.' The familiar voice was warm, flexible
and very charming. 'How are you?'

'Robin.' She spoke his name on a little gasp of
surprise. 'I can hardly believe this! I've just this
minute written your name in my letter to Blaise.
How extraordinary.'

There was a tiny pause before he said: 'Oh?' A
chuckle. 'Nothing defamatory, I hope?'

'Of course not. I've been looking at some old
photos of you and Jack. How are you, Robin?'

'I'm very fit. No problems there.'

Hester took the telephone to the table and sat
down. The inflexion was slight but she knew Robin
of old and she grew alert.

'So where
do
you have a problem?'

'Oh, Hes. I never could fool you, could I?'

His voice was rueful now, self-deprecating –
almost the voice of the small boy caught taking
more than his fair share of the sweet ration, spoiled
by his mother and by Nanny. Their voices echoed
in her head.

'
Now, you mustn't be too cross with him, Hes. He's too
young to understand. You're sorry, aren't you, Robbie?
There, you see. Give Jack a hug and he shall have an
extra sweetie next time
.'

'
Come to Nanny, there's a good child. He's a bit
unsettled now that Lucy's arrived. It's only to be expected.
It's not his fault
.'

'I hope you wouldn't want to fool me, Robin,'
she answered, putting the memory of the small,
engaging boy out of her mind. 'So what is it?'

'Well, it's the usual thing but rather more serious.
I owe a bit of money, Hes, and things are a trifle
tricky.'

'My dear, I told you last time that I have no more
money to lend you. I'm living on my pension now
and it doesn't go far.'

She forbore to point out that he never repaid her
'loans' and tried to bear in mind that since his
wife had died Robin had lost the one person who
had been able to keep his impracticalities and
extravagancies under control.

'I know that.' Her nephew's voice shifted key;
became conspiratorial. 'It's a bit different this
time and I don't want a loan. I've had a different
idea. It's to do with the house. I need to sell
my share and I have the feeling that Amy might
be rather glad to sell hers. She could do with
some extra cash just now with her rapidly growing
family.'

Hester straightened in her chair, holding the
telephone tightly, but she did not speak.

'I was wondering,' he went on rather tentatively,
'if you'd begun to think about selling up.'

'Sell Bridge House?'

'It makes good sense if you think about it.' He
spoke rapidly, as if the idea were more palatable if
the words were said quickly. 'It's a big place for you
to keep going and, as you've said already, it must be
a bit of a struggle on your pension, especially as you
pay me and Amy rent.'

'I see you've thought it all out,' she said drily.
'You make it sound as if you'd be doing us all a
favour.'

'Well, don't you think I might be?' He sounded
almost jaunty, jollying her along. 'I'm quite sure
Amy could do with the money and wouldn't you
find a little cottage or a bungalow in Dulverton
much more convenient, especially now, after your
operation? Surely you must have thought about
moving, Hes? After all, at your age it's bound to
happen sooner or later, isn't it?'

It was as if he'd slapped her: she felt old and
shocked and humiliated.

'I know you've lived there since you retired, Hes,'
his voice continued sweet and persuasive in her ear,
'but the bottom line is that it's a family asset: it
belongs to the three of us. And it's not as if you'd be
homeless.'

'That's a relief.' Her own voice was as sharp as a
lemon. 'But how can you be so sure, after the
proceeds have been split three ways, that there will
be enough for my little bungalow. Or was it a
cottage?'

He laughed, reassured by her astringency. 'Well,
as to that, I asked a friend of mine who was down
on holiday to have a quick glance at the place. Only
from the road, of course, but he's a chartered
surveyor and he had a look at the local agents and
he said that we're sitting on a little goldmine down
there by the river.'

Hester tried to control a sense of revulsion: she'd
been spied upon by some stranger assessing Bridge
House, weighing it up, looking upon it as a
commodity to assist Robin out of his gambling
debts. Momentarily possessed by anger and fear she
was unable to speak.

'But if you're really against selling up then
why not think about a mortgage, Hester?' He was
wheedling now, as though he guessed that he'd
made her angry. 'Equity release is really worth
looking into. The mortgage company would take it
over and you wouldn't have to pay a thing. They
give you the cash, the interest rolls up and they sell
the house when you die. It means that Amy and I
could have our share now and you could continue
to live in the house.'

Suddenly she remembered Amy's unexpected
phone call; her solicitous enquiry after Hester's
health and her anxiety that the house and garden
would be too big for Hester after her operation.

'Have you spoken to Amy?'

'Well, to be honest I have. She's quite keen,
actually. Her oldest boy is off to school soon and it's
going to be a real squeeze for them.'

'She's always said that she's looked upon Bridge
House as a last resort: a kind of insurance policy
against her old age. That's what Jack intended
when he transferred his share to her. After all,
they're not badly off. You've always said the same,
Robin.'

'I know I have. But let's face it, Hes. I'm not that
far off old age and I'm in a real mess. It was OK for
Jack; he was lucky. He never needed financial help,
so he was able to pass on his share to Amy, but I
never had his flair with investments. To tell you the
truth I've overreached my luck this time and it will
be seriously embarrassing if I can't raise the funds
soon. I wouldn't ask it otherwise. You know how it
is.'

'
Now, you mustn't be too cross with him, Hes. He's too
young to understand. You're sorry, aren't you, Robbie?
There, you see. Give Jack a hug and he shall have an
extra sweetie next time
.'

'
Come to Nanny, there's a good child. He's a bit
unsettled now that Lucy's arrived. It's only to be expected.
It's not his fault
.'

'It doesn't sound as if I have too much choice if
you're both decided.'

'Oh, don't take it like that, Hes.' He wanted her
to be kind to him; forgiving his weaknesses and
making it easy for him. 'We'd hate you to be upset.
To be honest we both thought that this was the
right time, after your operation. It must be a hell of
a place to keep up, and Amy and I can't help much
when it comes to running repairs.' A little hesitation
here. 'My chap said that the roof is looking pretty
dodgy and I don't think any of us could afford a
new roof at present.' Casually said, it had the air of
a trump card though his voice invited complicity:
an agreement that property was a financial nightmare.

'You've made your point, Robin. I'll have to think
about it.'

'Of
course
you must.' He was generous in his
relief. 'All I need to be able to say is that I own this
asset, which will be turned into cash as soon as
possible. Look, take your time and I'll phone again
in a day or two. Think it through and don't forget
the mortgage option if you're set on staying. Bless
you, Hes.'

The line went dead.

Hester took a deep, deep breath. Presently she
went back to her letter. Picking it up, she read it
through; but somehow she hadn't the heart to
finish it.

When the telephone rang again she hesitated for
a moment before answering it. This time it was Clio
to say that she was safely back in London.

'It seems odd after being away for so long.' Her
voice was rather wistful. 'Are you OK?'

'Of course I am. Don't worry about me. I'm
getting ready for Jonah.'

'There can't be much to do.' Clio sounded almost
indignant. 'His bedroom's ready and the freezer's
full.'

'Oh, yes, of course. I'm not talking about those
kinds of things, Clio. You've been wonderfully
practical and done all the hard work for me. This is
to do with his history. I keep remembering odd
things about the past and making notes. I know it's
foolish to try to second-guess what he wants to
know, but I need to be prepared. I'm trying to put
it down on paper sensibly.'

Clio laughed, a genuinely amused sound. 'It
sounds to me as if you're writing a script for him,'
she said. 'Jonah's the last person you need to do
that for, Hes: he writes his own scripts.'

Hester chuckled too. 'I know that but I can't help
myself. I want to show him things too. To take him
to all the places Michael knew when he was young.
We used to have such fun. Of course, Lucy never
went too far afield. It was much more difficult
in wartime with the petrol rationing, but I'm so
looking forward to showing it all to Jonah.'

'He'll love it. I know he will. Just don't overdo
things.'

'I promise I won't. Good luck for tomorrow.'

A tiny pause, then: 'What do you mean?' Clio
asked rather defensively.

'Well, just starting back to work after a long
break. It can feel odd, that's all.'

'Oh, I see. Thanks. Well, I shall be thinking of
you and Jonah. I'll phone at the weekend to see
how it's going. Bye, Hes.'

Hester sat down again. Clio sounded like a child
that has been excluded from a party but is trying to
be brave about it, and Hester wondered how she
would have reacted if she'd told her about Robin's
plan for Bridge House. It had been impossible to
mention the subject lightly – apart from the fact
that she knew Clio would worry about it – but it also
seemed just as difficult to write the words to Blaise.

'
Robin's just telephoned with a not wholly unexpected
suggestion
. . .'

'
Do you think it's time to sell Bridge House and look for
something smaller . . . ?
'

'
I feel old and vulnerable, Blaise, and I need your
help
. . .'

None of these approaches was the right one and,
in the end, Hester decided that it should be left
until morning. There was unfinished business at
Bridge House and nothing could be decided until
after Jonah's visit. She went back to the study,
losing herself in her work preparing for his arrival.

Afterwards, Jonah remembered his stay with
Hester in a series of mental images that were
composed of light and air and water – and always
accompanied by the unforgettable sound of the
river. Everywhere they went, driving in Hester's
little car, there was the noise of water: rain
clattering down in soaking torrents, the roar of
fast-running rivers in broad, open pastureland and
the gurgling of brooks in narrow, wooded valleys.
He peered dizzily down into tree-clad, steep-sided
combes to see, far below, small secret streams
tumbling, white-tipped, over rocks, and watched
swift-flowing water sweeping knee-deep across
narrow stony fords. When the rain ceased, the
louring cloud-banks fell apart to show amazing
skyscapes: scraps of rainbow arching diaphanously
between soft, moisture-laden woolpacks; inkycoloured
rags scudding across patches of tender
blue; and, here and there, golden vapour trails
arrowing across the sky.

He stood on grassy cliffs whose precipitous sides
plunged down into restless grey water, and looked
across the Channel to where Wales huddled, half
hidden in pearl-soft fleece. Then, homewardbound
along a quiet road, he saw a gush of white
water issuing out of the very rocks, and crying,
'Stop!' he climbed out and stared up, head back, so
as to see the source of the waterfall that plunged
down the high bank. Just here, where the water
spouted and tumbled, the black, ridged rock was
worn smooth and shining while on either side
clustered hart's tongue and pennywort and bright
green ferns.

And each morning on waking and every night
before he slept, the constant, surging voice of the
river.

At Bridge House they spent most of their time
together between the breakfast-room and the bookroom.
Jonah especially liked the book-room. It was
cosy in the evening, with the fire lit and the curtains
drawn, the photograph albums open on the small
table and Hester gazing into the flames whilst she
talked.

As he listened, cameos of the day's journey
seemed to mingle with her words and add colour to
her stories. In his mind's eye, as Jonah watched
scenes unfolding, characters developing, he was
aware of tiny dramas weaving together, growing
like a tapestry into a larger picture. Sometimes
he wished he had a tape-recorder, despairing of
ever remembering each detail she described so
accurately, yet with another part of his mind he
knew that, mysteriously, the story was being
stitched by her precise words into the fabric of his
memory: a tiny piece of history being passed from
her to him.

Sometimes he would interrupt, asking for more
personal information: 'But what did Nanny look
like?' and, 'How did Patricia cope with her husband
away fighting?' or, 'Yes, but what do you think
Eleanor actually felt when she heard that Edward
was posted missing, believed killed?' and so on.
It dawned on him that, however accurate Hester
might be, however truthful in her recounting, she
was less sure when it came to people's emotions and
reactions. He guessed that her detachment, which
made her such a restful and fascinating companion,
had given her a blind spot here.

Nevertheless, each time she described Edward
and Michael, her animation contained all the
passion and admiration she'd once felt for these
two young men and, as she told of amusing
escapades and described their love of poetry and
the English language, Jonah knew that a real sense
of his grandfather was developing and he began to
identify strongly with him. In Hester's stories of
the past, the young Michael lived again: sensitive,
driven by the creative impulse, fearful for his small
child.

Jonah discovered too a great deal about Hester.
Some things she disclosed quite unconsciously in
her telling of the past; others he learned simply by
living with her. He liked the way that she didn't fuss
over him. Her whole concentration was focused on
a need to convey to him certain things that were
part of his heritage and she treated him exactly as if
he were a very old and valued friend. Her mind –
keen, tough, alert – distracted from her physical
frailty and her ready humour kept any kind of
self-pity at bay.

She talked to him of Michael's love of the
poetry of John Clare and of the way he and Edward
used the poet's words – 'haynish' for awkward,
'clumpsing' for numb with cold – and on one
occasion she picked up a book and read to him.
Her voice barely changed, continuing quick and
light, so that for a second he didn't realize that she
was
reading:

'Just by the wooden brig a bird flew up,

Frit by the cowboy as he scrambled down

To reach the misty dewberry – let us stoop

And seek its nest – the brook we need not dread,

'Tis scarcely deep enough a bee to drown . . .

. . . Five eggs, pen-scribbled o'er with ink
their shells . . .

. . . They are the yellowhammer's . . .

'Your grandfather loved the bird poems best,'
she told him – but she did not urge him to read
them for himself for that was not her way. He saw
that she made no effort to control any situation or
impose her own views; she simply related what she
knew and left him to make up his own mind. Nor
did she question him. She never asked him what
he was thinking about, though he often sat for
long periods, staring into the flames and building
scenes in his head. He couldn't help himself:
his imagination seized on anything that might
feed it and now it felt as if he had been waiting
for this ever since he'd seen the photograph,
all those years ago in the attic room, of his mother
with Jack and Robin in the garden at Bridge
House.

'Don't you think it's odd,' Jonah burst out
suddenly, 'that Mum never wants to talk about her
father? He sounds a really fascinating person, and
you all seem to have had such fun together.'

'Ah, but you mustn't forget that by the time
Lucy arrived here things were rather different.
Her mother had been killed and Michael was very
anxious about her.'

Hester fell silent and he glanced at her shrewdly.
'You haven't told me about that yet.'

'Not yet,' she agreed calmly. 'I thought that it was
best to continue chronologically. I have the feeling
that it's not only Michael's story that is interesting
you.'

'You're quite right,' he said thoughtfully. 'He
is a part of the whole. Obviously, to me, a very
important part but I need to see the overall scene,
including him, in context. I can imagine something
bigger happening here.' He looked at her quickly.
'Please don't think that I'm not treating it seriously,
though. I see it as a jigsaw puzzle that I'm piecing
together but I can't visualize the whole picture yet
by any means. For instance, that night I arrived. I
saw that man run out. I
saw
him, Hester. I had the
strongest sensation that this had happened before:
a man running out into the wind and rain crying
for help. It happened, didn't it?'

She nodded slowly. 'I'm not being deliberately
reticent,' she said at last. 'It's a very important part
of the story, which is why I want you to feel familiar
with the cast before I tell you about it. I hope that
you will be able to see it whole so that you don't
misjudge any of us.'

He smiled at her use of the word 'cast', but he
said: 'That sounds a little ominous.'

'It wasn't meant to be.' She stood up and touched
him lightly on the shoulder. 'I'm off to bed,' she
said. 'Goodnight, Jonah.'

He watched her go, liking the way she never gave
him instructions: 'Don't forget to make the fire safe'
or 'put the cat out' or 'switch off the lights'.

St Francis padded in through the half-open door,
jumped into Hester's vacated chair and turned
round and round on the cushion before settling to
sleep. Jonah watched him, thinking that the cat's
air of benign detachment reminded him of Hester.
He remembered her telling him how her mother
had liked this room and he glanced about, trying to
imagine how she'd sat here, by the fire, enduring
the pain of losing two sons whilst knowing that a
third, her favourite child, was a prisoner of war.

It was as if he was looking at her through the
lens of his mind's eye, her shade called up by
Hester's words, and briefly he was able to connect
with her agony. Round her other figures moved
and gesticulated; children cried and called to one
another. With his eyes closed he could see and hear
much more clearly and he settled back in his chair,
feet stretched to the fire whilst he watched.

Slowly the story took shape visually: scene following
upon scene, building to some shadowy climax
that he could not yet see. If he were directing such
a story he would want it to start before the war with
the boys coming home from Cambridge to the
family at Bridge House, their own small dramas
being played out in this peaceful corner of Exmoor
whilst, on the larger global stage, much darker and
more violent actions were escalating towards the
war in which they would all be entangled.

Between Hester's stories and his own imagination
it seemed that he moved amongst them. Soon it was
impossible to distinguish between the two worlds
and presently he slept.