Antonia looked panic-stricken, “I … I’ve forgotten something.”
“What have you forgotten?”
“I … a … handkerchief. I haven’t got a handkerchief. I must have one … I won’t be a moment. Don’t wait. You go on … I’ll catch you up…”
And she bolted back into the house.
Nancy said, “How extraordinary. Is she all right?”
“I think so. She’s upset. Perhaps I should wait for her…”
“You can’t wait,” George told her firmly. “There’s no time to wait. We’ll be late. Antonia will be all right. We’ll keep a seat for her. Now, come along, Olivia.…”
But even as they stood there, hesitating, there occurred yet another interruption: the sound of a car being driven far too fast down the road that ran through the village. It appeared around the corner by the pub, slowed down, and drew up only a few feet away, by the open gate of Podmore’s Thatch. A dark green Ford Escort, and unfamiliar. Silenced by surprise, they watched while its driver got out from behind the wheel and slammed the door shut behind him. A young man, unrecognized as his car. A man whom Olivia had never before seen in her life.
He stood there. They all stared, and nobody said a word, and in the end it was he who broke the silence. He said, “I’m sorry. For arriving so precipitously and so late. I had rather a long way to drive.” He looked at Olivia and saw the total bewilderment written all over her face. He smiled. “I don’t think we’ve ever met. You must be Olivia. I’m Danus Muirfield.”
But of course. Tall as Noel, but heavier in build, with wide shoulders and a deeply sun-tanned face. A most personable young man, and Olivia found an instant to realize exactly why Mumma had become so fond of him. Danus Muirfield. Who else?
“I thought you were in Scotland” was all she could think of to say.
“I was. Yesterday. It wasn’t until yesterday that I heard about Mrs. Keeling. I am most dreadfully sorry.…”
“We’re just going to the church now. If you…”
He interrupted her. “Where’s Antonia?”
“She went back into the house. Something she’d forgotten. I don’t think she’ll be long. If you want to wait, Mr. Plackett’s in the kitchen.…”
George, by now at the end of his patience, could bear to listen no longer. “Olivia, we have no time to stand and chat. And there can be no question of waiting. We must go. Now. And this young man can hurry Antonia along and make certain that she isn’t late. Now, let’s stand here no longer.…” He began to herd them all forward, as though they were sheep.
“Where will I find Antonia?” Danus asked.
“In her room, I expect,” Olivia called back over her shoulder. “We’ll keep seats for you both.”
* * *
He found Mr. Plackett sitting at the kitchen table peacefully reading his Racing News.
“Where’s Antonia, Mr. Plackett?”
“Went upstairs. Looked in tears to me.”
“Do you mind if I go and find her?”
“No skin off my nose,” said Mr. Plackett.
Danus left him and ran, two at a time, up the narrow stairway. “Antonia!” Unfamiliar with the upstairs geography of the house, he opened doors, found a bathroom and a broom cupboard. “Antonia!” Down the small landing and a third door opened into a bedroom, obviously occupied but at the moment empty. At the other side of this stood yet another door, leading into the far end of the house. Without knocking, he burst through it and there found her at last, sitting forlornly on the edge of her bed, and in floods of tears.
Relief made him feel quite light-headed. “Antonia.” He was beside her in two strides, sitting, taking her into his arms, pressing her head onto his shoulder, kissing the top of her head, her forehead, her streaming, swollen eyes. Her tears tasted salty, and her cheeks were wet, but nothing mattered except that he had found her, and was holding her, and loved her more than any human being on earth, and was never, never going to be separated from her again.
At last, “Didn’t you hear me call?” he asked.
“Yes, but I didn’t think it was true. I couldn’t really hear anything except that terrible bell. I was all right until the bell started and then … all at once I knew I was going to fall to bits. I couldn’t go on with the others. I miss her so much. Everything’s dreadful without her. Oh, Danus, she’s dead, and I loved her so much. And I want her. I want her all the time.…”
“I know,” he told her. “I know.”
She continued to sob onto his shoulder. “Everything’s been so awful. Since you went. So awful. There wasn’t anybody.…”
“I’m sorry.…”
“And I’ve been thinking about you so much. All the time. I did hear you calling but I couldn’t believe it … it was really you. It was just that awful bell, and me, making it up. I wanted you to be here so much.”
He said nothing. She continued to weep, but the sobs were subsiding, the worst of her storm of grief just about over. After a little, he loosened his grip of her and she drew away, turning her face up to his. A lock of hair fell across her forehead, and he smoothed this back, and then reached for his clean handkerchief and gave it to her. He watched tenderly while she wiped her eyes, and lustily, like a child, blew her nose.
“But, Danus, where have you been? What happened? Why didn’t you telephone?”
“We didn’t get back to Edinburgh until yesterday at noon. The fishing was too good to leave, and I hadn’t the heart to deny Roddy his fun. When I got home, my mother gave me your message. But every time I tried to call, the telephone here was engaged.”
“It never stops ringing.”
“In the end, I just said, to hell with it, and got into my mother’s car and drove.”
“You drove,” she repeated. The significance of this took a second or two to sink in. “You drove? Yourself?”
“Yes. I can drive again. And I can drink myself silly if I so choose. Everything’s all right. I’m not an epileptic and I never was one. It all started with a mistaken diagnosis by that doctor in Arkansas. I was ill. For a time I was very ill. But it was never epilepsy.”
For a terrible moment, he thought she was about to burst into tears again. But all she did was to fling her arms about his neck and hug him so tightly that he wondered if he was about to choke to death. “Oh, Danus, my darling, it’s a miracle.”
Gently he disentangled himself, but kept a hold of both her hands. “But that’s not the end of it. It’s just the beginning. A whole new start. For both of us. Because, whatever I do, I want us to do it together. I don’t know what the hell it will be, and I still have nothing to offer you, but please, if you love me, don’t let’s ever be apart again.”
“Oh, no. Don’t let’s. Ever.” She had stopped crying, tears were forgotten, she was his own dear Antonia again. “We’ll get that market garden. Somehow. Someday. And we’ll find the money somewhere.…”
“I really don’t want you to go to London and be a model.”
“I wouldn’t if you made me. There must be other ways.” All at once, she was struck by a brilliant idea. “I know. I can sell the earrings. Aunt Ethel’s earrings. They’re worth at least four thousand pounds … I know it’s not very much, but it would be a beginning, wouldn’t it? It would give us something to start with. And Penelope wouldn’t mind. When she gave them to me, she said I could sell them if I wanted.”
“Don’t you want to keep them? To remember her by?”
“Oh, Danus, I don’t need the earrings for remembrance. I have a thousand things to remember her by.”
All the time they had been talking, the bell from the church tower had continued its tolling. Bong, Bong Bong, out across the countryside. Now, abruptly, it stopped.
They looked at each other. He said, “We must go. We have to be there. We mustn’t be late.”
“Yes, of course.”
They stood up. Swiftly, composedly, she tidied her hair, smoothed her fingers across her cheeks. “Does it show that I’ve been c
rying?”
“Only a little. No one will remark upon it.”
She turned away from the mirror. “I’m ready,” she told him, and he took her hand, and together they went from the room.
* * *
As the family walked to church, the toll of the bell grew louder, clanging above them, silencing all other sounds from the village. Olivia saw the cars parked along the pavement’s edge, the little stream of mourners making their way beneath the lychgate and up the path that wound between the ancient, leaning gravestones.
Bong. Bong. Bong.
She paused for a moment to exchange a word with Mr. Bedway, and then followed the others into the church. After the warm sunshine out of doors, the cold struck chill, from flagged floors and unheated stone. It was a little like walking into a cave, and there was a strong musty smell, suggestive of death-watch beetle and organ mould. But all was not gloom, for the girl from Pudley had done her work, and everywhere one looked stood profusions of spring flowers. As well, the church, being so small, was filled. This comforted Olivia, who had always found the sight of empty pews intensely depressing.
As they made their way down the aisle, the tolling abruptly stopped. In the ensuing silence, their footsteps clattered on the bare flags. The two front pews stood empty, and they took their places, filing in. Olivia, Nancy, George, and then Noel. This was the moment that Olivia had dreaded, for, at the altar steps, the coffin waited. In cowardly fashion, she averted her eyes and looked about her. Dotted amongst the sea of unfamiliar country faces … the inhabitants, she supposed, of Temple Pudley, come to pay their last respects … she found others, known for years, and converged from far afield. The Atkinsons from Devon; Mr. Enderby of Enderby, Looseby & Thring; Roger Wimbush, the portraitist, who years ago, when he was an art student, had made his home in Lawrence Stern’s old studio in the garden of Oakley Street. She saw Lalla and Willi Friedmann, distinguished as ever, with their pale, cultured refugee faces. She saw Louise Duchamp, immensely chic in inky black; Louise, the daughter of Charles and Chantal Rainier, and one of Penelope’s oldest friends, who had made the long journey from Paris to England in order to be here. Louise looked up and caught Olivia’s eye, and smiled. Olivia smiled back, touched that she had felt impelled to come so far, and grateful for her presence.
With the bells stilled, music now began, seeping into the dusty silence of the church. Mrs. Tillingham, as promised, was playing the organ. The Temple Pudley organ was not a fine instrument, being both breathless and aged, like an old man, but even these defects could not mar the cool perfection of the Eine Kleine Nacht Musik. Mozart. Mumma’s favourite. Had Mrs. Tillingham known, or had she simply made an inspired guess?
She saw old Rose Pilkington, nearing ninety but gallant as ever, wearing a black velvet cape and a violet straw hat so battered that it looked as though it had travelled around the world twice. Which it probably had. Rose’s wrinkled nut of a face was tranquil; from it her faded eyes gazed out in peaceful acceptance of what had happened and what was about to happen. Simply to look at Rose made Olivia feel ashamed of her own cowardice. She faced forward, listened to the music, looked at last at Mumma’s coffin. But could scarcely see it, because it was awash with flowers.
From the back of the church, from the open doorway, came the sounds of a small disturbance, and hushed voices. Then footsteps made their way swiftly down the aisle, and Olivia turned to see Antonia and Danus slip into the empty pew behind them.
“You made it.”
Antonia leaned forward. She was, apparently, recovered, with colour back in her cheeks. “I’m sorry we’re so late,” she whispered.
“Just in time.”
“Olivia … this is Danus.”
Olivia smiled. “I know,” she said.
Overhead, far above, the tower clock struck three.
* * *
With the service almost over, and a short tribute spoken, Mr. Tillingham announced the hymn. Mrs. Tillingham played the first few bars, and the congregation, with hymn-books at the ready, rose to their feet.
For all the Saints who from their labours rest
Who thee by faith before the world confessed
Their name, O Jesu, be forever blest
Alleluia
The villagers of Temple Pudley were familiar with the tune, and their voices, raised, caused the old worm-eaten rafters to ring. It wasn’t perhaps the most suitable hymn for a funeral, but Olivia had chosen it because it was the only one she knew that Mumma really liked. She mustn’t forget any of the things that Mumma really liked; not just lovely music, and having people to stay, and growing flowers, and ringing up for long chats just when you most hoped she would. But other things—like laughter, and fortitude and tolerance, and love. Olivia knew she must not let these qualities go from her life, just because Mumma had gone. Because, if she did, then the nicer side of her complex personality would shrivel and die, and she would be left with nothing but her inborn intelligence, and her relentless, driving ambition. She had never contemplated the security of marriage, but she needed men—if not as lovers, then as friends. To receive love, she must remain a woman prepared to give it, otherwise she would end up as a bitter and lonely old lady, with a cutting tongue and probably not a friend in the world.
But the next few months would not be easy. As long as Mumma was alive, she knew that some small part of herself had remained a child, cherished and adored. Perhaps you never completely grew up until your mother died.
Thou was their Rock, their Fortress and their Might,
Thou, Lord, their Captain in the well-fought fight.
She sang. Loudly. Not because she had a particularly strong voice, but because, like that child whistling in the dark, it helped to boost her courage.
Thou, in the darkness drear, their one true Light,
Alleluia
Nancy had succumbed to tears. All the way through the service she had kept them resolutely at bay, but all at once she was beyond caring, and let them flow. Her sobs were noisy, and doubtless embarrassing to others, but there was nothing she could do about them except, from time to time, noisily blow her nose. Soon she would have used up all the Kleenex she had stuffed, with some forethought, into her bag.
She wished, beyond all else, that she could have seen Mother again … or even just spoken to her … after that last, dreadful telephone conversation when Mother had called from Cornwall, to wish them all a happy Easter. But Mother had behaved in the most extraordinary fashion, and some things, there was no doubt, were better said, aired and out in the open. But finally, Mother had hung up on Nancy, and before Nancy had either the time or the opportunity to put things straight between them, Mother had died.
Nancy did not blame herself. But lately, waking in the middle of the night, she had found herself strangely alone in the darkness, and weeping. She wept now, not minding if people saw, not caring if they listened to her grief. That grief was evident, and she was not ashamed. The tears flowed and she made no effort to stop them, and they flowed like water, damping down the hard, hot embers of her own unacknowledged guilt.
O may Thy soldiers, faithful, true and bold
Fight as the Saints who nobly fought of old
And win, with them, the victor’s crown of gold
Alleluia
Noel did not join in the singing, did not even go through the motions of holding an open hymnal. He stood, at the end of the pew, motionless, with one hand in his jacket pocket and the other resting on the wooden rail in front of him. His handsome face showed no expression, and it was impossible for any person to imagine what he was thinking.
Oh, blest communion! Fellowship Divine!
We feebly struggle, they in glory shine.
Mrs. Plackett, near the back of the church, raised her voice in joyful praise. Her hymnal was held high, her considerable chest outflung. It was a lovely service. Music, flowers, and now a rousing hymn … just what Mrs. Keeling would have enjoyed. And a good turn-out too. All the village had come. The Sawcomb
es, and Mr. and Mrs. Hodgkins from the Sudeley Arms. Mr. Kitson, the Bank Manager from Pudley, and Tom Hadley, who ran the newsagents, and a dozen or so others. And the family were holding up well, all except for that Mrs. Chamberlain, sobbing away for all the world to hear. Mrs. Plackett did not believe in letting emotion show. Keep yourself to yourself had always been her motto. Which was one of the reasons she and Mrs. Keeling had always been such friends. A true friend, Mrs. Keeling had been. She was going to leave a real hole in Mrs. Plackett’s life. Now she glanced around the crowded church, made a few mental calculations. How many of them would be coming back to the house for tea? Forty? Forty-five, perhaps. With a bit of luck, Mr. Plackett would have remembered to put the kettles on to boil.
Yet all are one in Thee, for all are Thine.
Alleluia.
She hoped there would be enough fruit-cake.
15
MR. ENDERBY
By a quarter past five the funeral tea was over, the rearguard of the stragglers had said goodbye and taken themselves home. Olivia, seeing them off, watched the last car turn the corner by the gate and then, in some relief, turned and went back into the house. The kitchen hummed with activity. Mr. Plackett and Danus, who had spent the last half-hour directing traffic and endeavouring to untangle a number of ineptly parked cars, had now moved indoors and were helping Mrs. Plackett and Antonia collect and wash up all the tea-things. Mrs. Plackett was at the sink, elbow-deep in suds. Mr. Plackett, obliging as ever, stood at her side and dried the silver teapot. The dishwasher whirred, Danus came through the door with another trayful of cups and saucers, and Antonia was getting the vacuum cleaner out of its cupboard.
Olivia felt unnecessary and at a loss. “What am I supposed to do?” she asked Mrs. Plackett.
“Not a thing.” Mrs. Plackett did not turn from the sink; her reddened hands set saucers in the rack with the speed and accuracy of a conveyor belt. “Many hands make light work, I always say.”
“It was a fantastic tea. And not a crumb of your fruit-cake left.”
But Mrs. Plackett had neither the time nor the inclination to chat. “Why don’t you go into the sitting room and take the weight off your feet? Mrs. Chamberlain and your brother and the other gentleman are there now. Another ten minutes and the dining room will be straight, and ready for your little meeting.”