The Shifting Fog

  And with that, the Sweet Dulcie was no longer safe. Robbie, of course, had no idea, not until Hannah sent me with a letter: an explanation and a location where they could meet, one last time.

  He was taken aback to see me in Hannah’s stead, and none too pleased. He took the letter warily, scanned the embankment to check I was alone, then began to read. His hair was dishevelled and he hadn’t shaved. His cheeks were shadowed, as was the skin around his smooth lips, which were moving softly, speaking Hannah’s words. He smelled unwashed.

  I had never seen a man in such a natural state, didn’t quite know where to look. I concentrated instead on the river behind him. When he got to the end of the letter his eyes met mine and I saw how dark they were, and how desperate. I blinked, looked away, left as soon as he said he’d be there.

  They met for the final time that winter in the Egyptian room at the British Museum. It was a rainy morning in March 1924. I pretended to read articles about Howard Carter, while Hannah and Robbie sat at opposite ends of a bench before the Tutankhamen display, looking for all the world like strangers who shared nothing more than an interest in Egyptology.

  A few days later, at Hannah’s behest, I was helping Emmeline pack for her move to Fanny’s house. Emmeline had spread across two rooms while at number seventeen, and there was little doubt that without help she had no hope of being ready in time. Thus I was plucking Emmeline’s winter accessories from the shelves of soft toys given her by admirers when Hannah came to check our progress.

  ‘You’re supposed to be helping, Emmeline,’ said Hannah. ‘Not leaving Grace to do everything.’

  Hannah’s tone was strained, had been that way since the day in the British Museum, but Emmeline didn’t notice. She was too busy flicking through her journal. She’d been at it all afternoon, sitting cross-legged on the floor, poring over old ticket stubs and sketches, photographs and ebullient youthful scrawlings. ‘Listen to this,’ she said, ‘from Harry. Do come to Desmond’s else it’ll be just we three fellows: Dessy, yours truly and Clarissa. Isn’t he a scream? Poor Clarissa, she really shouldn’t have bobbed her hair.’

  Hannah sat on the end of the bed. ‘I’m going to miss you.’

  ‘I know,’ said Emmeline, smoothing a crinkled page of her journal. ‘But you do understand I can’t come to Riverton with you all. I’d simply die of boredom.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Not that it will be boring for you, darling,’ Emmeline said suddenly, realising she may have caused offence. ‘You know I don’t mean that.’ She smiled. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it, the way things turn out?’

  Hannah raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I mean, when we were girls, you were always the one who longed to get away. Remember you even talked about becoming an office girl?’ Emmeline laughed. ‘I forget, did you ever go so far as to ask Pa’s permission?’

  Hannah shook her head.

  ‘I wonder what he would have said,’ said Emmeline. ‘Poor old Pa. I seem to remember being awfully angry when you married Teddy and left me with him. I can’t quite remember why.’ She sighed happily. ‘Things have turned out, haven’t they?’

  Hannah pressed her lips together, searched for the right words. ‘You’re happy in London, aren’t you?’

  ‘Do you need to ask?’ said Emmeline. ‘It’s bliss.’

  ‘Good.’ Hannah stood to leave then hesitated, sat again.

  ‘And you know that if anything should happen to me—’ ‘Abduction by Martians from the red planet?’ said Emmeline.

  ‘I’m not fooling, Emme.’

  Emmeline cast her eyes skyward. ‘Don’t I know it. You’ve been a sourpuss all week.’

  ‘Lady Clementine and Fanny would always help. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Emmeline. ‘You’ve said it all before.’

  ‘I know. It’s just, leaving you alone in London—’ ‘You’re not leaving me,’ said Emmeline. ‘I’m staying. And I’m not going to be alone, I’ll be living with Fanny.’ She flourished her hand. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I know,’ said Hannah. Her eyes met mine, she pulled them away quickly. ‘I’ll leave you to it, shall I?’

  Hannah was almost at the door when Emmeline said, ‘I haven’t seen Robbie lately.’

  Hannah stiffened, but she didn’t look back. ‘No,’ she said, ‘now that you mention it, he hasn’t been around for days.’

  ‘I went to look for him but his little boat wasn’t there. Deborah said he’d gone away.’

  ‘Did she?’ said Hannah, back rigid. ‘Where did she say he’d gone?’

  ‘She didn’t.’ Emmeline frowned. ‘She said you might know.’

  ‘How should I know?’ said Hannah, turning. She avoided my eyes. ‘I shouldn’t worry. He’s probably off writing poetry somewhere.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have just left. He’d have told me.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Hannah. ‘He was like that, don’t you think? Unpredictable. Unreliable.’ She lifted her shoulders, dropped them again. ‘Anyway, what does it matter?’

  ‘It might not matter to you, but it does to me. I love him.’

  ‘Oh, Emme, no,’ said Hannah softly. ‘No you don’t.’

  ‘I do,’ said Emmeline. ‘I always have. Ever since he first came to Riverton and he bandaged my arm for me.’

  ‘You were eleven,’ said Hannah.

  ‘Of course, and it was just puppy love then,’ said Emmeline. ‘But it was the beginning. I’ve compared every man I’ve met since to Robbie.’

  Hannah pressed her lips together. ‘What about the filmmaker? What about Harry Bentley, or the half-dozen other young men you’ve been in love with this year alone? You’ve been engaged to at least two of them.’

  ‘Robbie’s different,’ said Emmeline.

  ‘And how does he feel?’ Hannah said, not daring to look at Emmeline. ‘Has he ever given you reason to believe he might feel the same way?’

  ‘I’m sure he does,’ Emmeline said. ‘He’s never once missed an opportunity to come out with me. I know it’s not because he likes my friends. He’s made no secret of the fact he thinks they’re a bunch of spoiled and idle kids.’ She nodded resolutely. ‘I’m sure he does. And I love him.’

  ‘No,’ said Hannah with a firmness that took Emmeline by surprise. ‘He’s not for you.’

  ‘How do you know?’ said Emmeline. ‘You barely know him.’

  ‘I know his type,’ said Hannah. ‘Blame the war. It took perfectly normal young men and returned them changed. Broken.’ I thought of Alfred, the night on the stairs at Riverton when his ghosts had come for him, then I forced him from my mind.

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Emmeline stubbornly. ‘I think it’s romantic. I should like to look after him. Fix him.’

  ‘Men like Robbie are dangerous,’ said Hannah. ‘They can’t be fixed. They are as they are.’ She exhaled, frustrated. ‘You have so many other suitors. Can’t you find it in your heart to love one of them?’

  Emmeline shook her head stubbornly.

  ‘I know you can. Promise you’ll try?’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘You must.’

  Emmeline looked away from Hannah then, and I saw something new in her expression: something harder, more immovable. ‘It’s really no concern of yours, Hannah,’ she said flatly. ‘I’m twenty. I don’t need you to help make my decisions. You were married at my age and Lord knows you didn’t consult anyone on that decision.’

  ‘It’s hardly the same thing—’ ‘I don’t need a big sister watching over everything I do. Not any more.’ Emmeline exhaled and turned again to face Hannah. Her voice was lighter. ‘Let’s agree, shall we, that from this point on we’ll let one another live the life she chooses? What do you say?’

  Hannah, it turned out, had little to say. She nodded agreement, and closed the door behind her.

  On the eve of our departure for Riverton, I packed the last of Hannah’s dresses. She was sitting by the windowsill, watching over
the park as the last of the day’s light faded. The streetlights were just coming on when she turned and said to me, ‘Have you ever been in love, Grace?’

  Her question startled me. Its timing. ‘I . . . I couldn’t say, ma’am.’ I laid her fox-tail coat along the base of the steamer trunk.

  ‘Oh, you’d know if you had,’ she said.

  I avoided her gaze. Tried to sound indifferent; hoped that it would cause her to change the subject. ‘In that case, I’d have to say no, ma’am.’

  ‘Probably a lucky thing.’ She turned back to the window. ‘True love, it’s like an illness.’

  ‘An illness, ma’am?’ I certainly felt sick enough then and there.

  ‘I never understood it before. In books and plays. Poems. I never understood what drove otherwise intelligent, right-thinking people to do such extravagant, irrational things.’

  ‘And now, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘Now I do. It’s an illness. You catch it when you least expect. There’s no known cure. And sometimes, in its most extreme, it’s fatal.’

  I let my eyes close briefly. My balance faltered. ‘Not fatal, ma’am, surely?’

  ‘No. You’re probably right, Grace. I exaggerate.’ She turned to me and smiled. ‘You see? I’m a case in point. I’m behaving like the heroine in some awful penny novelette.’ She was quiet then but must have continued to think along the same lines, for after a while she tilted her head quizzically and said, ‘You know, Grace, I always thought that you and Alfred . . . ?’

  ‘Oh no, ma’am,’ I said quickly. Too quickly. ‘Alfred and I were never more than friends.’ The hot sting of a thousand needles in my skin.

  ‘Really?’ She pondered this. ‘I wonder what made me think otherwise.’

  ‘I couldn’t say, ma’am.’

  She watched me, fumbling with her silks, and she smiled. ‘I’ve embarrassed you.’

  ‘Not at all, ma’am,’ I said. ‘It’s just that . . .’ I clutched at conversation. ‘I was just thinking of a recent letter I received. News from Riverton. It’s a coincidence you should ask after Alfred just now.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ I couldn’t seem to stop. ‘Do you remember Miss Starling that used to work for your father?’

  Hannah frowned. ‘That thin lady, with the mousy hair? Used to tiptoe about the house with a leather satchel?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, that’s her.’ I was outside myself then, watching and listening as somehow I gave every appearance of carelessness. ‘She and Alfred were married, ma’am. Just this last month past. They’re living in Ipswich now, running his electrical business.’ I closed her trunk and nodded, kept my gaze low. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I believe Mr Boyle needs me downstairs.’

  I closed the door behind me and I was alone. I clamped my hand to my mouth. Clenched my eyes shut. Felt my shoulders shaking, moist clicks in my throat.

  My skeleton seemed to lose some crucial integrity and I crumpled. Seeped, shoulder first, into the wall, longing to disappear into the floors, the wall, the air.

  There I remained. Immovable. I had vague visions of Teddy or Deborah finding me in the darkened hallway when time came for them to make their way to bed. Mr Boyle being called to arrange for my removal. And I felt nothing. No shame. No duty. For what did it matter? What did any of it matter any more?

  Then somewhere downstairs, a crash. Plates and cutlery.

  A breath caught in my throat. My eyes opened. The present rushed upon me, refilled me.

  Of course it mattered. Hannah mattered. Now more than ever she needed me. The move back to Riverton, being without Robbie.

  I exhaled shakily. Levelled my shoulders and swallowed. Forced my throat to relax.

  Little use would I be if I gave myself over to self-indulgence, became so weighed down with self-pity I was distracted from my duties.

  I pushed away from the wall, smoothed my skirt and straightened my cuffs. Wiped my eyes.

  I was a lady’s maid. Not a petty housemaid. I was relied upon. Could not be given to episodes of such imprudent abandon.

  I exhaled again. Deeply. Purposefully. Nodded to myself and walked large, definite steps down the hall.

  And as I climbed the stairs to my room, I forced closed the horrid door in my mind through which I’d briefly glimpsed the husband, the hearth, the children I might have had.

  RIVERTON REVISITED

  Ursula has come as promised. We are driving the winding lane toward the village of Saffron Green. Any moment now we’ll take a bend and there’ll be tourist signs welcoming us to Riverton. I glance at Ursula’s face while she drives; she smiles at me then returns her attention to the road. Any misgivings she might have had about the wisdom of our excursion, she has pushed aside. Sylvia wasn’t pleased, but she agreed not to tell Matron, to stall Ruth if needs be. I suspect I am giving off the stench of last opportunities. It is too late to worry about preserving me for the future.

  The metal gates are open. Ursula turns the car into the driveway and we weave our way toward the house. It is dark, the tunnel of trees is strangely still, strangely silent, as it always was, listening for something. We turn the last corner and the house is upon us. Just as it has been so many times before: my first day at Riverton, fourteen years old and green as a gardener’s thumb; the day of the recital, rushing from Mother’s, full of expectation; the evening of Alfred’s proposal; the morning in 1924 when we returned to Riverton from London. Today is a homecoming, of sorts.

  There is a concrete car-parking space nowadays, after the driveway and before the Eros and Psyche fountain. Ursula winds her window down as we approach the toll booth. She has a word with the guard who waves us through. On account of my obvious frailty, she is given special dispensation to drop me off before finding a parking space. She drives around the turning circle—bitumen now, rather than gravel—and stops the car at the entrance. There is a little iron garden seat by the portico, and Ursula leads me to it, settles me, then returns to the car park.

  I am sitting there, thinking of Mr Hamilton, wondering how many times he answered the Riverton front door before his heart attack in the spring of 1934, when it happens.

  ‘Good to see you back, young Grace.’

  I squint up into the watery sun (or is it my eyes that are watery?) and there he stands, on the top step.

  ‘Mr Hamilton,’ I say. I am hallucinating, of course, but it seems churlish to ignore an old comrade, no matter he’s been dead sixty years.

  ‘We’ve been wondering when we might see you again. Mrs Townsend and I.’

  ‘You have?’ Mrs Townsend passed soon after him: a stroke in her sleep.

  ‘Oh, aye. We always like it when the young ones return. We get a little lonely, just the two of us. No family to serve. Just a lot of hammering and knocking and dirty boots.’ He shook his head and cast his eyes upward to take in the arch of the portico. ‘Aye, the old place has seen a lot of changes. Just wait till you see what they’ve done with my pantry.’ He smiles at me, down his long burnished nose. ‘And tell me, Grace,’ he said gently. ‘How are things with you?’

  ‘I’m tired,’ I say. ‘I’m tired, Mr Hamilton.’

  ‘I know you are, lassie,’ he says. ‘Not long now.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Ursula is by my side, pushing her parking ticket into her purse. ‘Are you tired?’ Concern knots her brow. ‘I’ll see about hiring a wheelchair. They’ve put lifts in as part of the renovation.’

  I tell her perhaps that might be best, and then I sneak a glance back at Mr Hamilton. He is no longer there.

  Inside the entrance hall a sprightly woman dressed like the wife of a 1940s country squire welcomes us and announces that our entrance fee includes the tour she’s about to start. Before we can demur, we are herded into a group with six other unwitting visitors: a couple of daytrippers from London, a schoolboy researching a local history assignment, and a family of four American tourists—the adults and son in matching running shoes and T-shirts
that read I escaped the tower!, the teenage daughter, tall, pale and dour, dressed all in black. Our tour leader—Beryl, she says, tweaking her name badge to verify the fact—has lived in the village of Saffron Green all her life and we are to ask her anything we’d like to know.

  The tour starts downstairs. The hub of any English country house, says Beryl with a practised smile and a wink. Ursula and I take a lift installed where the coat cupboard used to be. By the time we reach the bottom, the group is already crowded around Mrs Townsend’s kitchen table, laughing as Beryl reads through a comic list of traditional English dishes of the nineteenth century.

  The servants’ hall looks much as it did, yet it is unaccountably different. It’s the lighting, I realise. Electricity has silenced the flickering, whispering spaces. We were without for a long time at Riverton. Even when Teddy had the place wired in the mid-twenties it was nothing like this. I miss the dimness, though I suppose it wouldn’t do to keep it lit as was, even for historical effect. There are laws about that sort of thing now. Health and safety. Public liability. No one wants to be sued because a daytripper accidentally misses his step on a poorly lit staircase.

  ‘Follow me,’ chirps Beryl. ‘We’ll take the servants’ exit to the back terrace, but don’t worry, I won’t make you put on uniforms!’

  We are on the lawn above Lady Ashbury’s rose garden. It looks, surprisingly, much as it always did, though ramps have been constructed between the tiers. They have a team of gardeners now, says Beryl, employed continuously on grounds maintenance. There’s a lot to look after: the gardens themselves, the lawns, the fountains, other various estate buildings. The summer house.

  The summer house was one of the first changes Teddy made when Riverton fell to him in 1923. It was a crime, he said, that such a beautiful lake, the jewel in the estate, had been allowed to fall to disuse. He envisaged boating parties in the summertime, planetary-observation parties in the evenings. He had plans drawn immediately and by the time we came from London in April 1924 it was almost complete, the only holdups a tardy shipment of Italian limestone and some spring rain.