The Tailor's Girl (19 page)

‘You always liked it here.’

His brother nodded. ‘I used to get bellyache from all the plums I plucked.’ He sounded melancholy and Alex understood that although his middle brother was opposite to him in so many ways, he had never forgotten their closeness during childhood. By their late teens Doug had discovered a streak of bitterness towards Alex’s luck, often remarking that he’d rather have been born last than in the middle. Alex could hear in his brother’s wistfulness a yearning for the simplicity of childhood days.

‘You know Dougie, I didn’t plan for this. I wouldn’t deliberately hurt you, ever.’

He nodded. ‘I know. It’s a shock, that’s all. We’d all come to terms with the notion – that you’d been lost – and I did grieve for you, don’t doubt that. But I’d got used to the idea that I would be the head of the Wynter empire and . . .’ He gave a sad gust of laughter. ‘Fern had made meticulous plans for the redecorating of Larksfell.’

Alex cut him a bewildered glance.

‘Don’t blame me, old boy,’ Dougie continued. ‘I would leave it just as it is. I’m as sentimental as any of you three, but Fern has always felt no one in the family truly likes her.’

‘So she hoped to sweep us all away with her new broom?’

Dougie shrugged. ‘Something like that. I do love my wife, Lex, despite her sharp edges. You know, after you’d gone, it was our father who suggested I hold off volunteering.’ He shook his head. ‘You even got to be the hero. Father allowed Rupe to join up, too – said it was definitely his role and yours. Mine was to stay back and help him run things here, especially on the farms. “Essential food for the boys in uniform.” I bought into it, Lex; really felt I had a role to finally play.’

Alex sighed, only now fully tapping into what must be a lifetime of pain for his middle brother.

‘Anyway, one day I had to go into Eastbourne to run some business errands for Father and there was a parade on. Another jolly bunch of men off to war being cheered on wildly by their adoring wives and girlfriends. I paused to clap them on – I felt proud of them and in that moment I wished with all of my heart that I could be one of them. I was so distracted that I had no idea some woman had come up and tucked a white feather into my breast pocket; I only realised after she left my side with a sneer. I learned later it was part of a revolt called the Women of England’s Active Service League. Its sole objective was to urge their men, even shame them, into joining up. If that meant publicly labelling them cowards, so be it.’

Alex heard his brother’s voice crack and his heart went out to him. ‘I had no idea, Dougie.’

‘It wasn’t my last. I’ve kept the three feathers I earned for my cowardice and it was only after a frightful argument with Mother and Father that I was finally allowed to join up.’ He gave a mirthless gust of breath. ‘I’m not even that sure if either of our parents didn’t rig the test – you know, pull some strings so I wasn’t permitted to head to the front.’

Lex nodded. ‘You were talking about Fern,’ he said gently, needing to get his brother away from talk of war.

‘Yes . . . I was. She was the only woman I met who didn’t raise her eyebrows that I wasn’t seen to be part of the fighting effort. She understood that some men had to remain behind to run the country, the factories, the farms —’

‘You don’t have to convince me.’

His brother swallowed back another tirade. ‘Anyway, I’m not a dullard, old chap. Fern can be avaricious but she’s never had much and her parents used to put on a good show of pretending they did, trading off the family name. There are no assets, though. It couldn’t have been easy for her growing up. I put it down to her shock at suddenly being able to afford just about anything she wants; I keep hoping she might run out of energy for acquiring stuff. All her sisters have had to make strategic marriages. None of us know what that feels like. But she and I are lucky because I know in our quiet times that Fern loves me for the right reasons . . . as well as for the wise reasons.’

‘I’m not judging you, Dougie. I do understand. If I’d come home on time or even if I’d genuinely died in action . . .’ He sighed. ‘After seeing Mother, all night long I thought about just walking out and forgetting about Larksfell and the inheritance and —’

‘Don’t be bonkers. It was always your rightful place. I knew that. It’s just a drag that it was so very nearly mine . . .’

Alex gave him a soft look of pain. ‘I’ve forgotten so much. All I have is family as my life raft now. It’s a hollow feeling not knowing where I’ve been since the end of 1917.’

‘How bad was it?’

‘I don’t believe I have enough words or even the right ones to describe life in the trenches. Words . . . well, they’re just not adequate. The physical pain of wounds are the least of it.’ Alex tapped his head. ‘The nightmare is in here. It’s the emotional agony that is the worst. Fear of what’s coming. Fear for one’s families – so many of the brave Tommies I was responsible for were family men, their hearts breaking just a little more each day for the children they knew they’d not hold, or the wife they’d not sleep next to again, the parents they’d never got around to telling how much they loved. And it was all so pointless, Dougie! Our generals have a lot to answer for. An inestimable number of dead and wounded on both sides – in the hundreds of thousands – and for what, I ask you? An obscure village in Flanders on the tip of the Ypres salient! An emotionally disconnected decision-maker at a desk somewhere clearly thought it was a mile or two worth claiming . . .’ He didn’t finish, but gave a sound of growling disgust instead.

Dougie watched him closely. ‘I saw no action, did Mother mention?’

Alex lied, shook his head. ‘I’m glad. You don’t need to share the sort of nightmares I have.’

‘No, Lex. I genuinely wish I could. Finding out my health wasn’t up to it was like being publicly emasculated. Everyone from King’s in my year saw action. It’s actually more traumatising to admit you’re a pen-pusher than to be one of the cheering, rosy-cheeked mob rushing off to be killed.’

‘But that’s the point. It was like a bloody game. My blokes used to toss biscuits and fruit cake across to the German trenches. They’d fling back their goodies in similar spirit. And then some wit was sent a tennis ball and a new sport was invented called “Beat the Boche” and that ball was thrown around across no-man’s-land during the rare quiet times. There was cheering and even bloody scoring! I also heard somewhere that one captain decided he’d lead his men over the top by kicking a rugger ball as far as he could. Hell of a kick, apparently, and he took a riddle of bullets while his men were cheering it into Touch.’ He leaned forward for emphasis. ‘Don’t you see, Dougie? None of us had a clue what we were letting ourselves in for. It was just our duty to defend King and Country, we thought. None of us were trained. I heard a fellow officer quip that the only qualification for officer status was that we could conjugate our Latin verbs and bowl a good off spin.’

Dougie looked back at him, perplexed.

Alex pressed his point. ‘It was nothing to do with ability or even suitability; the army preferred “gentlemen” to professionals: which club you belonged to, how decent your bank account, whether you could quote bloody Keats. Leadership is not an acquired skill – people like us are apparently born with it,’ Alex said, giving a disdainful sigh. ‘Just like we inherently know which knife to use!’

‘You had leadership in spades, Lex.’

‘That’s not the point! I would have been made captain without it and I could have got a cushier job away from the front line. We were young, wide-eyed boys, fresh from punting on university lakes, who were leading butchers and bakers, miners and postmen to certain death, with absolutely no idea what it was all about. No one was checking on us for our leadership in the field, no one tested our abilities or even reviewed our decisions or professionalism. We were
gentlemen
, therefore we would surely conduct ourselves accordingly. Except war is not fair or gentlemanly, Dougie; it’s not even vaguely sporting.’

Alex stopped speaking to give a harsh laugh. ‘It was damned unsporting for the Germans to keep our tennis ball overnight and send it back with a small rock hidden inside, which killed one of our Tommies.’ He stood and paced. ‘As for the rank and file, they were ordinary chaps dying in the hundreds daily in front of me. I refused to let myself get close to anyone because I knew most of us wouldn’t survive more than a few days.’

‘But you did. You came home.’

‘Yes, I did and I don’t know why. The guilt is overwhelming. I tried damn hard to die, or so it felt at the time. Don’t hold it against me, Dougie. I have nowhere else to go. And after what I’ve seen and experienced, I don’t want to be anywhere else but Larksfell, or believe me I’d leave you and Fern to your title and parties and your enormous bank account, and disappear again. I’ve never had time for any of it – you know that. I’d give it to you but Mother would revolt and I know, and so do you, that Father wanted it this way.’

Dougie nodded, and looked back at his brother with pain in his face. ‘That’s it, though. I hate that you don’t care and still you get it all.’

‘Not all, Dougie. And I was groomed to run the Wynter interests, to take over where Father left off. The family can be sure I have the skills to broaden an already strong empire. You and Fern should get on with that family I hear she wants so much. You will want for nothing.’

‘Nothing except everything that you have, brother. But then what’s new, eh?’ he replied. Dougie shook his head. ‘I wish you no ill. I also wish you hadn’t come home. For the first time in my life I felt I was a man in control of my destiny.’

‘Sorry, old chap.’

Dougie nodded, looking resigned. He stood and shook his brother’s hand. ‘Bye, Lex. I suppose we shall see you for Christmas.’

‘No doubt.’ Alex sighed and watched Dougie walk away, squelching on a plum that hadn’t made it through to maturity. And as Alex regretted the pain his survival brought to his brother, he smelled the sweetish fragrance of the squashed fruit with that familiar muskiness he recalled from his happy childhood, and wished with all of his heart he could go back to those days.

OCTOBER 1920

Edie sat on the double bed she’d shared with Tom and stroked the soft fabric of the padded chintz eiderdown. It had been one of their wedding gifts from the Levis. Ben’s mother knew the colours that Edie loved; no pinks or lilacs or fairytale hues. No, Dena Levi knew that Edie loved greens and charcoal greys, hints of scarlet or a burst of yellow. Dena had chosen well with this bedspread – a floral design, predominantly sage green with accents of fuchsia and white. She’d loved it immediately but even now she had not lost the notion that with this gift the Levi family were delivering a message. It was likely a paranoid notion but Edie knew they wanted her to always appreciate their sentiment that she was sharing her bed with the wrong man. And the Levi presence would always hover above her marital bed and remind her of this. Although Tom had scoffed at the idea, Edie knew Dena, and maybe Ben’s mother had somehow cursed her marriage. Is that why Tom had disappeared? Was this her punishment for following desire rather than duty?

He will break your heart
, her father had warned.

Yes . . . Tom was breaking her heart.

‘Where are you, my darling?’ she whispered as she laid her head down on his pillow and pressed her face to where his had once been, smiling back at her.

She’d remained in hospital for six weeks but had been moving in a stupor, learning to cope with the loss of both her beloved father and husband while fortunately her son strengthened, surprising everyone but Edie.

She didn’t know when she’d agreed for Madeleine to move in with her but Edie accepted now that the Frenchwoman was a divine gift like her son, both of them delivered into her life to keep her sane.

‘Look at this dear little mite,’ Madeleine said, gliding into the bedroom. ‘Getting stronger every day,’ she said, holding out a tiny bundle of blankets to Edie. ‘I took him for a walk around the cottage, but he’s hungry and desperate for his
maman
,’ she said, her voice surprisingly tender as she gazed at Edie’s son.

Edie made herself comfy against the pillows. ‘Come here, darling,’ she said, taking her son and putting him to her breast. ‘I’m sorry, I was drifting off,’ she admitted, trying not to weep again.

‘Eden, you’re grieving. I understand, but there’s too much pain at once. You need to get away from here – from its memories – so you can look at it all from a distance for a while.’

Dear Madeleine, practical as ever.

Edie gazed at her son’s tiny head with his thatch of dark hair. He was perfect. Strong of heart, like his father, she thought, determined to win through and beat the odds that said he wouldn’t make it, presumably as Tom had in the battlefields of Flanders.

‘Why haven’t you given this child a name yet?’

Edie shrugged to mask her guilt. ‘The hospital gave him such little chance of survival.’

‘But Matron never gave up on him,’ Madeleine reminded.

Edie recalled the stout woman’s determination. ‘We’ve lost a generation of sons to war. I refuse to lose another child without throwing my own war at the enemy,’ she said as she’d helped another nurse drag a special box she called an incubator into Edie’s ward. ‘Think mother hen sitting on her clutch of eggs,’ she explained to Edie. ‘It’s going to keep him constantly warm and protected. And you, my girl, are going to stare through this little glass window and pray for your son to hold on and live. You’ll hardly touch him but he’ll know you’re there and he’ll feel your love.’

And that’s how it had been; day after quiet day in hospital, she’d wept for her father, despaired over Tom and had watched the rapid rise and fall of her son’s sparrow-like chest as he rallied and somehow defied the doctor’s prognosis. Days had stretched to weeks until Edie noticed a season change as the soft and golden afternoons of summer surrendered to the crispy sounds and sharper, whiter light of autumn. Edie had walked her infant around the hospital gardens, smothered in layers, ever fearful of the danger of winter’s onset but equally determined that he inhale the fresh, bright air into his tiny lungs.

His early arrival gave him a somewhat ghostlike presence. Madeleine had summed it up one afternoon as they walked together near the small duck pond.

‘He’s so quiet. I thought babies cried for everything.’

While Edie had never wanted to say it aloud, she had been thinking identically that her son was near silent. She often wondered if he sensed her grief.

Matron had reassured her. ‘Be grateful, dear. Soon enough you’ll be begging him to stop asking you every question, from why the moon rises to whether an ant thinks.’ She’d patted Edie’s arm. ‘You’re both doing so well. Look at how he thrives. You’d know if anything was wrong.’ She tapped her heart. ‘I have a huge respect for a mother’s instinct. He’s a baby who was only meant to be born later this week. He’s doing a great job after four weeks to be here, getting stronger. He needs time and understanding. He’ll let you know when he’s beginning to catch up to his peers. He deserves a name,’ she’d added with a firm look.

‘I love you, Matron.’

‘Well, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I have a special place in my heart for the Valentines. I do hope you’ll visit and let me watch this little fellow continue to thrive.’

They shared a smile. ‘Our family is now non-existent. Perhaps we might make you an honorary aunt.’

‘Aunt Tilda it is,’ Matron had beamed. ‘He’ll be small for a long time,’ she had warned. ‘I’ve seen it before. Most don’t make it but your family is blessed and that boy is a survivor, so cheer for him always . . . even when he walks late or toilet trains long after your friends’ children. And when he’s not winning the races at school or learning his times tables as fast, be sympathetic and remember this moment. He’ll need time and understanding to catch up.’

And now here was Tom’s son in her arms, sucking greedily at her breast, and she could feel the weight he’d put on; Matron was right. Her boy was beginning to thrive. If only Tom could see him now.

Her mind drifted to that morning, that last kiss, how she’d lost sight of him when he’d turned the corner and left her life.

‘Can I get you anything?’ Madeleine interrupted her thoughts.

Edie shook her head, gave her friend the pluckiest smile she could muster, but knew it was a sad one. ‘I was trying to pick through our last morning together. But I’ve been over it repeatedly in my mind for signs. There was nothing, Mads. Nothing at all to suggest anything was amiss.’

‘I know,
cherie
.’

Edie gave her a soft look of apology.

‘Listen, Eden. I’ve had an idea. Let us go to Paris.’

‘What?’ Edie looked at her friend, perplexed, searching for a vague hint of amusement that her remark was a joke.

‘Paris will help heal you, darling,’ Madeleine said. ‘I have a plan. I know you won’t take a grand tour or anything like that, but I’m talking about just a few days. I’ve heard you English say that a change is as good as a rest and I believe it. I think if we change the scenery for a short time, you’ll come to terms with what you need to.’

‘Mads, you don’t just get over this with a snap of the fingers or a trip across the Channel. I’m hurting . . . so deeply. I have moments where I just don’t want to wake up and face another day. If not for him . . .’ She gave her baby an affectionate glance, stroking his downy dark hair.

Her friend gave her a look of warning. ‘But what good does all this moping do you, Eden? Will anything you do bring back the men you’ve lost?’

Edie gasped. ‘Don’t.’

‘Answer me.’

‘You know it won’t.’

‘But do you know that? You can grieve for the rest of your life but it doesn’t mean you don’t have to get on with a life. Let it be about you and the child now.’

‘Mads —’

‘Grieve, by all means, but do it in here,’ she said, pointing at Edie’s heart. ‘Don’t make your son pay the price for your heartbreak in the same way you’ve hinted that your father made you bear the burden for his sorrows.’

Edie felt the truth of Madeleine’s words stir her courage. Just for a beat of her heart it felt like she’d stepped out of the shadow of despair and into some sunlight of rationality. For a moment, even though her unhappy world made no sense, Madeleine did, pushing her to grasp that she alone could shape her future. Madeleine was still talking: ‘. . . as for Tom, the fact that you’ve had no news could be taken optimistically.’

Edie shook her head. ‘Tell me how, Mads?’

Her friend lifted a single, angular shoulder. ‘No reported injuries or deaths. That means your husband is out there somewhere. He’s going to turn up. Now, you could kill yourself searching in vain, or you can trust Tom’s love for you is stronger than whatever it is that is keeping him from you. So, pick yourself up, Eden Valentine, and start your life again for this little boy’s sake. Get strong now. Everyone’s parents die. Your father lived a long life.’

‘But he died thinking his grandson would not make it!’ she replied in a surge of bitterness.

‘Well, nothing’s going to change that now,’ her friend said. It was brutal but Edie was used to Madeleine’s candour.

The Frenchwoman bent down before her, earnest grey-green eyes regarding Edie with such intensity that she dared not look away.

‘I didn’t say this would be easy, but let’s plan to go to Paris sometime soon – just for a few days . . . bring your son, of course. There you’ll be able to contend with the decision about your father’s shop and home that you’re avoiding; you’ll be able to actually talk about what to do with the cottage here in Epping too. I know the thought of living in London again is frightening. I’ll help you every step of the way, Eden. I’ll babysit, I’ll change nappies – we’ll do it together. Don’t give up the dream of the salon. Be true to Tom – be a good mother to his son and be a good wife who follows through on her promise to be the most exciting young designer London has seen in a long time.’

Edie smiled softly as she lifted her baby’s tiny frame gently to help him burp. ‘I thought you said you’d never go back to Paris?’

Madeleine could see that a sparkle had entered Edie’s gaze. ‘Never say never, Eden.’

Edie frowned and it was obvious she was seriously considering the offer. ‘I would feel as though I’m running away from my problems . . .’

‘And what harm is there in that? Stand back from it all and your problems lose their size; you get a sense of everything else around them.’

Edie nodded. ‘I have the money from the sale of the cloth,’ she agreed. Tom had set up an account for Edie, specifically for her new salon.

‘You could sell your father’s shop too.’

At Edie’s wounded gaze, her friend hugged her. ‘Be realistic, Eden. No man wants his suits made by a woman. Not yet anyway, but a man who knows your father’s reputation may well urge his wife to come to your salon.’

Edie audibly gulped. ‘You make it sound so easy. What about him?’ she said, looking down at her sleepy child, warm and snuggled against her breast.

‘Don’t make it too difficult in your mind. You have help. We can hire more if you need. He’s portable right now and such an easy boy . . . and Tom has provided for you both. You won’t have to sell the cottage either. I know you won’t want to do that but you can move into the city and with the proceeds of your London home and father’s shop, you really can set up in town.’ She hugged Edie. ‘What do you say?’

Edie remembered the money in the leather satchel and how Tom was determined she realise her dream, but family was also part of his dream. ‘We’ll go next spring. He’ll be stronger – strong enough to make that journey. I’ll come with you to Paris next April,’ she answered, visibly trembling with her excited decision.

Madeleine nodded as though she’d won a victory but had no intention of gloating.

Edie looked into the yawning expression of her child and she saw his father reflected in the gesture. ‘I’m calling him Tommy. Thomas Daniel Valentine.’

‘
Bravo, ma cherie
,’ Madeleine replied, leaning in to kiss the baby. ‘
Bonjour, Tommy, tu es si beau, mon petit
.’