Authors: Laura Wilson
An Empty Death (53 page)
‘I don’t think they will,’ said Mrs Chetwynd, ‘but I think you should wait until they’re older before you try to explain all that to them. I doubt if even a mental specialist would understand the woman’s condition.’
‘I’m sorry that you had to be the one to break the news to them,’ said Stratton, recalling how it had been when he’d arrived, a week later, to see them: Monica weeping, Pete, white-faced and silent. ‘I did wonder if I should have taken them back with me, for the funeral, but . . .’
‘It was probably for the best, Mr Stratton. Having to return here afterwards - away from your family - that would have been very hard for them. Monica has started to talk about her mother in the last couple of months, but not in front of Peter. I think . . . being rather younger, I suppose . . . he isn’t ready to talk about her yet. Monica was very worried about you, you know. She kept saying that they ought to go home because you’d be lonely by yourself.’
‘That’s so like Jenny,’ said Stratton, touched by this in an enormous, but entirely inexpressible, way. ‘Thinking of other people. She’s a good girl.’
‘They both are. You should be very proud of them, Mr Stratton. It always seemed to me - if you don’t mind my saying so - that you had a very happy marriage, and I’m sure that Monica and Peter are aware of that . . . of your love for their mother.’
‘I’d have given anything to save her.’
‘I think the children will understand that. Now, as there won’t be much time tomorrow morning, there is something I’d like to say: I shall miss Monica and Peter, very much. If they wish to visit me - to stay, in the school holidays - I should be delighted to see them.’
‘That’s very generous—’ began Stratton, but Mrs Chetwynd raised a hand to cut him off.
‘Nothing generous about it. Pure selfishness on my part. I like their company. Besides,’ she twinkled at him, ‘if they come in the summer, they can help with the harvest. And you are very welcome too, of course, if you can spare the time from your work. If you can’t, the children are quite old enough now to travel on their own.’
‘Thank you,’ said Stratton. ‘And thank you for . . . for listening to all that,’ he finished, lamely, feeling that it wasn’t quite what he’d wanted to say, but he couldn’t think of a better way to put it.
‘Not at all.’ Mrs Chetwynd rose from her armchair and picked up the tray. ‘Goodnight, Mr Stratton.’
Sixty-Seven
T
he children were subdued on the train home, staring out of the window and saying little. Stratton watched them, covertly, from behind his newspaper. Monica, now she was older, looked heartbreakingly like Jenny, except for her black hair, inherited from him. Pete had Jenny’s colouring - green eyes and chestnut hair - but the face and build were more like his own. What would the new one have been? Boy or girl? And how was he going to look after Monica and Pete? It wasn’t the practical things that bothered him - Doris and Lilian would see that they were fed and clothed - but getting to know them again. When they’d returned in forty-two, it was Jenny who had smoothed their transition back to life at home, not him. They’d had their own war, up in Norfolk, experiences that he did not know about, other than the things they’d put in their letters, and, in the eighteen months since they’d been re-evacuated, they’d changed again, grown up . . .
he children were subdued on the train home, staring out of the window and saying little. Stratton watched them, covertly, from behind his newspaper. Monica, now she was older, looked heartbreakingly like Jenny, except for her black hair, inherited from him. Pete had Jenny’s colouring - green eyes and chestnut hair - but the face and build were more like his own. What would the new one have been? Boy or girl? And how was he going to look after Monica and Pete? It wasn’t the practical things that bothered him - Doris and Lilian would see that they were fed and clothed - but getting to know them again. When they’d returned in forty-two, it was Jenny who had smoothed their transition back to life at home, not him. They’d had their own war, up in Norfolk, experiences that he did not know about, other than the things they’d put in their letters, and, in the eighteen months since they’d been re-evacuated, they’d changed again, grown up . . .
Jenny would have known what to do, how to behave with them. His thoughts moved into the futile repeating loop of asking himself why she hadn’t told him about how bad Mrs Ingram was - the suicide attempt and the other erratic behaviour - and answering himself, as he always did, that it was because of his job. She’d seen him then as a policeman, not a husband: no wonder, when he hadn’t been behaving like one - distant, not listening to her, belittling her fears, not asking her what was wrong . . . If he’d been able to report the suicide attempt, Jenny would still be alive.
But being a policeman had nothing to do with why she hadn’t told him she was pregnant - he couldn’t kid himself about that. It was possible that she was waiting until she was certain - they’d said it was very early - but he knew, in his heart, the real reason was that she thought he’d blame her. That, he supposed, was true, but now - Oh, Jenny, he thought, I wouldn’t care if we had ten more children, if you were only here.
As the train drew nearer to Liverpool Street, Stratton watched his children stare at the ruins of the City, the massive craters left by the V2 rockets, the gaping cellars and rubble where whole streets had been razed to the ground, punctuated here and there by the burnt-out shells of churches. It was far worse than it had been the last time they were in London. Staring out at the devastation, he thought of the reports he’d heard on the wireless from Buchenwald and Belsen, of the open mass graves and socket-eyed, barely-living skeletons. It was as if God were saying, ‘If you think that’s bad, chum - war, deprivation, bombing, losing your wife - just you wait and see what I’m really capable of.’
So much grief . . . How can we ever recover? Things can never be the same again for anyone, thought Stratton. He’d seen a fair bit in his time, but if someone had told him, five and a half years ago, that human beings could do such things to one another, he would not have believed them. Now, he felt, he could believe anything of human beings, however brutal, degraded or senseless it might be. How can we build a better world from this, for our children? Where do we start? At that moment, grieving for Jenny, for the family life they would not now share, and, by extension, for the human race itself - he could not imagine.
Sixty-Eight
D
oris was waiting for them at home, with tea ready on the kitchen table. She’d even managed to scrape together the ingredients for a sponge cake. Monica and Pete seemed pleased to see her, but they behaved like visitors, quiet, minding their manners and careful not to eat too much. The house, which Doris and Lilian had cleaned and polished, seemed on its best behaviour, too, as if, Stratton thought, it was holding its breath.
oris was waiting for them at home, with tea ready on the kitchen table. She’d even managed to scrape together the ingredients for a sponge cake. Monica and Pete seemed pleased to see her, but they behaved like visitors, quiet, minding their manners and careful not to eat too much. The house, which Doris and Lilian had cleaned and polished, seemed on its best behaviour, too, as if, Stratton thought, it was holding its breath.
After they’d eaten, he asked Monica and Pete if they’d like to see the allotment. Pete refused, claiming that he was tired, but Monica said yes. On the way, she talked about Mr Roosevelt and what a shame it was that he’d died before victory was announced. ‘We said prayers for him at school,’ she added.
‘Do you say prayers for Mum?’ asked Stratton.
Monica looked at him, surprised. ‘Of course I do.’
Stratton showed her the rows of leeks and spring cabbages. ‘Not as good as the ones at the farm, I’ll bet,’ he said.
‘It’s different there,’ said Monica. ‘They have manure, and it makes things bigger. But these are good.’ This was so kindly meant - and so like Jenny - that Stratton felt a lump rise in his throat.
‘Have to plant the potatoes soon,’ he said, gruffly. ‘They’re sprouting.’
‘I can help you,’ said Monica, looking up at him. ‘If you like, I mean. I know what to do because I helped Mrs Chetwynd.’
‘Did she grow the vegetables herself?’ asked Stratton, surprised.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Monica. ‘When the gardener left. She asked him to teach her how to plant the seeds and things. I don’t think he thought she’d be able to do it by herself, but she did. Not as good as you, though,’ she added, loyally. ‘Can I see if the radishes are ready?’
‘It’s a bit soon,’ said Stratton. ‘I only put them in a month ago.’
‘That one looks ready,’ said Monica, pointing at a clump of leaves larger than the rest of the row.
‘Go on, then.’
Monica pulled it up, carefully, by the base of the stalks, dusted the earth off the root with her handkerchief and held it up. ‘See?’
‘Oh, yes. Not bad.’
‘Would you like it, Dad?’
Stratton shook his head. ‘You have it.’
‘All right.’ Monica tugged off the leaves and bit. ‘Hot,’ she said, spluttering.
‘It’s all right,’ said Stratton. ‘You don’t have to finish it.’
Monica chewed and swallowed. ‘No, I want to.’ She popped the rest of the radish into her mouth.
‘Here,’ said Stratton, pulling a bar of chocolate out of his pocket, saved specially for the occasion and, until that moment, forgotten. ‘Wash it down with this.’
Monica took the chocolate, and broke off two squares. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘Keep it,’ said Stratton.
Monica, her face serious, almost scandalised, shook her head. ‘It’s for you and Pete.’
‘All right, then.’ Stratton pocketed the chocolate. ‘Bossyboots.’
‘I’m not!’
This was the nearest she’d come to the Monica he remembered. ‘Of course you’re not. Not really.’ I’d do anything for you, he thought, ruffling her hair.
‘Da-ad ! Get off !’
‘Sorry.’
‘Now it’s all messy.’ Monica smoothed her long black waves.
‘No, it’s not.’ Stratton walked round the edge of the bed towards the rhubarb. ‘This really could have done with some manure,’ he said. ‘It should have been ready in March.’
Monica, joining him, eyed the clump critically. ‘It’s not pink enough,’ she said.
‘Not yet . . . You’ll miss Mrs Chetwynd, won’t you, love?’
Monica hesitated. ‘Well . . .’
‘It’s all right,’ said Stratton, deliberately not looking at her. ‘It would be odd if you didn’t.’
‘Yes. But we can write to her, can’t we?’
‘Course you can. And she’s invited you to stay in the holidays . . . It’s bound to be a bit strange at first, without your mum, but we’ll muddle along somehow, won’t we?’ When he’d prepared this in his mind, Stratton had thought he’d be able to say it naturally, but now he was aware of a note of entreaty in his tone that he hadn’t intended. For all the sensible grown-upness, Monica was still a child who had lost her mother, and he mustn’t burden her with responsibility for their fragile future happiness.
Still staring hard at the rhubarb, Monica said, ‘Yes, Dad.’
Stratton decided it was too soon to talk about Jenny - there was still too much rawness between them all. And God forbid that he should cry in front of them . . . For the time being, it was best left alone. And as for the brother or sister who’d died with Jenny, that, he thought, would be best not mentioned at all. Aside from Mrs Chetwynd, he’d told nobody about the baby. It was too much, somehow. He needed to contain it within himself. He looked down at Monica. I mustn’t burden her, he thought, and I shan’t. Not now, not ever.
Sixty-Nine
O
n the way to work the following morning, Stratton found himself noticing a girl’s legs for the first time in months. It was entirely instinctive - a reflex - but, catching himself doing it, he felt uncomfortable and slightly guilty. Not because it was a sign that he was forgetting Jenny - after all, he’d done it often enough while she was there and thought nothing of it - but because it was a sign of his being alive when she wasn’t. And - the realisation brought Stratton to a halt - it was the first time he could remember in months that the underlying feeling, now always with him, of anger and bitterness, had seemed to abate. He’d worked hard to keep it at bay, and yet, at the same time, he cherished it, knowing that it was that hard core inside him, even more than the children, that was keeping him going. At times, when he woke up in the night and lay rigid, staring into the dark, the rage seemed to fill his mind so completely, and with such ferocity, that there was no room for conscious thought. Sometimes it happened during the day, as well. He knew he must keep it in check, yet, standing in the street, he clutched it back to him in a physical movement, clenching his fists, knowing that he could not manage without it.
n the way to work the following morning, Stratton found himself noticing a girl’s legs for the first time in months. It was entirely instinctive - a reflex - but, catching himself doing it, he felt uncomfortable and slightly guilty. Not because it was a sign that he was forgetting Jenny - after all, he’d done it often enough while she was there and thought nothing of it - but because it was a sign of his being alive when she wasn’t. And - the realisation brought Stratton to a halt - it was the first time he could remember in months that the underlying feeling, now always with him, of anger and bitterness, had seemed to abate. He’d worked hard to keep it at bay, and yet, at the same time, he cherished it, knowing that it was that hard core inside him, even more than the children, that was keeping him going. At times, when he woke up in the night and lay rigid, staring into the dark, the rage seemed to fill his mind so completely, and with such ferocity, that there was no room for conscious thought. Sometimes it happened during the day, as well. He knew he must keep it in check, yet, standing in the street, he clutched it back to him in a physical movement, clenching his fists, knowing that he could not manage without it.
Mrs Ingram had been judged unfit to plead and incarcerated in Broadmoor. Doug Watson, the DI from Tottenham, had been apologetic about this, but Stratton had decided that it was probably for the best. Despite his feelings, simple humanity told him that it would be both senseless and barbaric to hang a woman so obviously deranged, and besides, it wouldn’t bring Jenny back . . .
It was bad enough that Reg, despite repeated warnings from Donald, had persisted, for several months afterwards, in reminding them all of how he’d said that Mrs Ingram might be dangerous. Eventually, he seemed to understand how close he was coming to losing his teeth, and shut up about it . . . And it was hard for Doris, too, because she’d lost not only her sister but her best friend. How many times, when Jenny was alive, had he walked into a room and found the pair of them in peals of laughter, wiping their eyes?
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