The Legacy (21 page)

We’d see Sergeant Hoxteth standing in the hallway, waiting uncomfortably for Meredith to appear with her Gorgon glare. The time she made one of the farmers park a massive baler across the top of the track to keep the travelers out. The time she learnt that not all those at the camp were Dinsdales and wanted the
hangers-on
evicted. The time she saw someone drawing water from one of the estate troughs and wanted to press charges. The time food kept vanishing from the larder, and small articles from around the house, and Meredith insisted that it was the Dinsdales until it turned out that the housekeeper had an elderly mother to support. The time one of the travellers’ dogs got into the garden and she
put the wind up it
with a twelve-bore shotgun. People in the village thought that they were under attack.
They will spread diseases to my animals
, was Meredith’s clipped explanation.

We used to come up here to the attic sometimes, to root around in the junk. It always looked like there should be something exciting to discover, but it didn’t take long for us to tire of the packing crates, broken lamps, offcuts of carpet. The hot-water tank, gurgling and hissing like a sleeping dragon. On such a wet day it is dark up here, the far reaches of the space hung in shadow. The tiny dormer windows are few and far between and they are crusted up with water marks and algae. It is so quiet I can hear the soft breathing sounds of the house, the rain making a musical chuckle as it filters through the choked guttering. Unconsciously, I tiptoe.

The leather of the old red trunk is so dry and brittle that it feels sandy when I touch it, comes away as grit between my fingers. I strain my eyes to see inside, dragging it around to face the nearest window. It leaves the ghost of itself in the dust on the floor and I wonder when it was last moved. Inside are wads of papers; boxes; a small, dilapidated valise of some kind; a few mystery objects wrapped in yellowed newspaper pages; a leather writing case. It doesn’t look much, if this is all of Caroline’s personal things. Not much for a hundred years of life. But then, old houses like this come ready-made, I suppose. The lives within come and go, but most of the contents stay the same.

I search avidly through the papers. Invitations to various functions; a government leaflet about what to do in an air raid; Caroline’s telegram from the queen on the occasion of her one hundredth birthday; some prescriptions written out in a doctor’s hand so typically wild that I can’t make out the words. I unwrap a few of the paper parcels. There’s a gold face-powder compact and matching lipstick; an exquisite tortoiseshell fan, so fragile I hardly dare touch it; a silver dressing table set, inlaid with mother of pearl, the brushes silky soft, the mirror cracked across its face; a curious bone ring, satin smooth, with a silver bell hanging from it that tinkles, startling me in the stillness. I wonder what sets these objects apart, what made them wholly Caroline’s, what stopped Meredith selling them off like she did with so many of the other precious things. After a while, I notice it. They are all engraved, marked as hers.
CC
, drawn with a flourish into the metal. I turn the bone ring over in my fingers, looking for the same mark. The script, when I find it on the rim of the tarnished silver bell, is small and almost worn away, and it makes me pause.
To a Fine Son
, it reads.

I re-wrap these treasures and put them back in the trunk. I am not sure what will become of them. Technically, they belong to Beth and me now, but they don’t really, of course. Any more than they belonged to Meredith, which was why she stowed them away up here. The valise, which has a wide, hinged-opening top, is empty. It once had a pink silk lining, now just in tatters. I take out the writing case instead, which is so full that the laces struggle to tie around the bulge of it. Inside are her letters, many of them still in their envelopes. Compact, white envelopes, much smaller than are commonly used these days. I flick through, realize that most of them have been addressed in the same hand—a small, slanting script in black ink. Just slightly too cramped to be called elegant. I open one carefully and skip straight to the end. Most of these letters are from Meredith and have a Surrey postmark.

My heart gives a strange little twist. I turn back to the first page of the one I am holding, and read.

April 28th 1931.

Dear Mother,

I hope this letter finds you well, and less troubled by your rheumatism than of late? You will be pleased to hear that I am settling in well here, and am gradually becoming accustomed to running my own household—even though I do of course miss you, and Storton. Charles is rather relaxed about the arrangements—his only stipulation is that breakfast be served at eight and dinner at nine! An easy man to please, and I have had the freedom to find my own way of doing things. The house is so much smaller than Storton, you would doubtless be amused by how many and varied the instructions have been that I’ve needed to give the staff in order to bring things along! I fear they have grown rather too used to having a gentleman alone in the house, and one unlikely to pay much mind to the rotation of linen, the freshening of flowers or the airing of guest bedrooms.

It does seem rather unusual to be alone in the house all day whilst Charles is at his offices. There is a singular quiet in the afternoons here—I often look to my left to remark upon something to you, only to find the room empty! I suppose I ought to make the most of the peace and quiet before it is carried away by the patter of little feet . . . I find myself entirely pulled between two emotions: the thrill of anticipating the birth of your first grandchild, and utter dread of the same event! I remind myself daily that women have been giving birth successfully for a great many years, and that I am certain there can be nothing another woman might do that I might not. Were you afraid, when you were first expecting? I do hope you will come and visit, Mother—I should dearly love to have your advice. The house is smaller than you are used to, as I have said, but it is nevertheless quite comfortable. I have fitted out the largest guest bedroom with new drapes and bed linen—the existing ones were quite worn out—so it is every bit ready for your arrival. The garden is a riot of daffodils, which I know you like, and the countryside hereabouts is really very charming for a gentle walk. Write and let me know if you will come, and when you might like to. In anticipation of our happy event, Charles has sworn me off driving the motorcar, but I can arrange for our man Hepworth to collect you from the station at any time—it is a short drive, not at all arduous. Do come.

With much affection,

Meredith.

In 1931 Meredith would have been just twenty years old. Twenty years old, married and expecting a baby that she must have lost, because my mother was not born for some time after that. I read the letter again, try to re-imagine Caroline as a mother somebody loved, as somebody Meredith clearly missed. The letter makes me sad, and I have to read it again to work out why. It is such a
lonely
letter. From far below, I hear Beth calling me for lunch. I slip the letter back into the case and tuck it beneath my arm before going down to her.

T
he rain doesn’t stop until Tuesday afternoon, and I am itching to get outside. I envy Eddie, who comes back as it gets dark, hair in damp curls and mud up to the knees of his jeans. At what age do you start to notice the cold and the wet and the mud? About the same time you stop moving everywhere at a run, I suppose. In the nursery the gap where the linen press stood yawns at me from the wall. An imprint of dust and cobwebs and unfaded paint. I cross to the piles of cloth I evicted from it, start to go through them, putting cot sheets, lacy sleeping bags, tiny pillowcases and an exuberant christening gown to one side. A pile of muslin squares that I find tucked away, and a small feather eiderdown as well. I have no idea if any of it will be any use to Honey and her baby, when it comes. Will she even have a cot? But it is good, heavy linen, smooth to the touch. Luxurious. She might like that idea, perhaps: swathing the child in expensive bedding, even if the ambulance will be a more basic nursery. I catch sight of those pillowcases again, with the yellow stitched flowers. I make a mental note to look the flowers up, identify them, in case that will tell me why they tug at my subconscious so.

“Where are you going with that lot?” Beth asks, as I lug it down the stairs.

“I’m taking it over to Honey. It’s all baby stuff—I thought she could use it.” Beth frowns. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Erica, why are you trying to . . .”

“What?”

“You know. I don’t think you should be trying so hard to be friends with them again, that’s all.”

“Why not? Anyway, I’m not trying that hard. They are our neighbors, though. You seemed happy enough to chat to Dinny at the party the other night.”

“Well, you made me go, you and Eddie. It would have been rude not to talk to him. But I . . . I don’t think we have much in common any more. In fact I’m not sure we ever knew him as well as we thought we did. And I don’t see what purpose it serves, trying to pretend everything is how it was before.”

“Of course we knew him! What’s that supposed to mean? And why shouldn’t things be how they were before, Beth?” I ask. She seals her lips, looks away from me. “If something happened between the two of you that I don’t know about . . .”

“Nothing happened that you don’t know about!”

“Well, I’m not so sure,” I say. “Besides, just because you don’t want to be friends with him any more, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be,” I mutter, dragging the bag to the door and pulling on my coat.

“Erica, wait!” Beth comes across the hall to me. I turn, search her face for clues. Troubled blue eyes, closely guarded. “We
can’t
go back to the way things were. Too much has happened. Too much time has passed! It’s far better to just . . . move on. Leave the past alone,” she says, her eyes sliding away from mine. I think of Dinny’s hand, its gentle, proprietorial grip on her elbow.

“It sounds to me,” I say, steadily, “that you don’t want him any more, but you don’t want me to have him either.”

“
Have
him? What is that supposed to mean?” she says sharply. I feel color flare in my cheeks and I say nothing. Beth draws in a deep, uneven breath. “It’s hard enough being back here as it is, Erica, without you acting like an eight-year-old again. Can’t you just stay away, for once? We’re supposed to be spending time here
together
. Now Eddie is off with that Harry all day long, and you’d rather chase after Dinny than . . . I don’t have to stay, you know. I could take Eddie and go back to Esher for Christmas . . .”

“Well, that’s a great idea, Beth. Just the kind of unpredictable behavior that Maxwell is always looking out for!” I regret this as soon as I say it. Beth recoils from me. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly.

“How can you say things like that to me?” she asks softly, her eyes growing bright, blurred. She turns and walks away.

Outside, I take a deep breath, listen to the muted calls of the rooks, the gentle dripping and unfurling of soaked foliage. A living sound, a living smell in the middle of winter. I’ve never really noticed it before. I drop the bag of linens, suddenly unsure of myself, and sit down on a rusting metal bench at the edge of the lawn; feel the dead cold of it bite through my jeans. Perhaps I will take it down later. I can hear voices coming from the stream beyond the eastern edge of the garden. I make my way over, through the little gate at the side of the lawn and down across the scrubby slope. After the rain the ground is heavy with water. It squeezes up around my feet as I walk.

Eddie and Harry are in the stream, the water swirling perilously close to the tops of their wellies. All the rain of late has made the water fast, and even faster in the center, channelled deep because Eddie and Harry have built a dam of flints and sticks reaching out from each bank. Harry’s trousers are wet all the way up to his hips, and I know how cold the water must be.

“Rick! Check it out! We almost got it right the way across a moment ago, but then part of it collapsed,” Eddie calls, excited, as I reach them. “But before it did the water got really high! That’s when we got soaked, actually . . .”

“I can see that. Boys, you must be freezing!” I smile at Harry, who smiles back and points at a rock by my feet. I bend down and pass it to him gingerly, slipping on the muddy bank, and he adds it to the dam.

“Thanks,” Eddie says absently, unconsciously speaking for his friend. “It’s not that cold once you get used to it,” he shrugs.

“Really?”

“No, not really—my feet are bloody freezing!” he grins.

“Language,” I say, automatically and without conviction. “It’s a good dam, I have to admit,” I continue, standing in the mud with hands on hips. “What are you going to do if you manage to finish it? It’ll make a huge lake.”

“That’s the idea!”

“I see. God, Eddie, you are
covered
in mud!” It’s all up the sleeves of his sweater, where he has pushed them up with muddy hands; all up the legs of his cords where he’s wiped his hands. There’s a smear across his forehead, sticking his hair into clumps. “How have you managed to get so filthy? Look—Harry’s managed to stay clean!”