Jubilee (21 page)

‘Don’t brood,’ I heard Evie tell me. ‘What about your work, dear? You should get back to London and get busy.’ She’d always encouraged my career. And the
voice in my head was right: I had work to do. My clients would be wanting their finished copy. I had a VAT return to complete. At the very least I could answer some emails today and preserve the
fine thread still binding me to my job, my security, my life. And Luke. I wanted to speak to Luke, hear his voice, get his maddeningly logical response to all that was going on here. Tomorrow
I’d be on my way, with a large dog spilling out of the back seat of my convertible, to return just once more to Craven for the funeral and the light lunch afterwards I’d organized back
at Winter’s Copse for Evie’s friends and neighbours. And then perhaps not again for some time. ‘Perhaps it’s as well,’ I told myself.

But now I could almost feel the past spilling out of the old farmhouse walls. I could almost hear the conversations of fifty years ago; whispered endearments and warnings; the voice of the
long-lost Jessamy explaining how she left the Jubilee party. And there were other voices, too, whispering of jealousy and regret. It was impossible for me to wrench myself away from this house and
back into the world of work and logic and emails. The stone walls and fields and trees and the lives of those who’d lived here had bound themselves to me.

The photo albums I’d placed on the kitchen table drew me back to them. I’d just have a quick look before I logged on to email. I felt the addict’s rush of adrenalin as I
flicked through the pages: 1951 – Evie as a bride on Matthew’s arm. He wore an expression of pride on his face. She looked calm and serene. How long had she been in love with Matthew
before she married him? Surely at first he must have regarded her as his little sister, or even a daughter, not a potential lover. ‘It took a while,’ Evie said once. ‘At first we
were like polite strangers: Charlie, Matthew and I. We hardly knew Matthew, after all, we’d been children when he returned to the farm on that one occasion. When he came home from the
hospital we thought he might want to send us away. Why would he want a pair of youngsters hanging around? But old Mrs Winter had grown fond of us, you see, even though she was hardly talking by
that stage. She was in and out of the cottage hospital but when she was at Winter’s Copse she liked me to read the newspaper to her. And I’d go down to the shop and pick up all the
village gossip and come up to her room and tell her. I think Matthew must have realized this.’

‘Was Matthew disturbed in the same way as Robert?’ She shook her head. ‘He’d seen bad things in the East but I don’t think he’d been through what his brother
had. Matthew just slipped back into civilian life, although his foot injury must have caused him some problems. He didn’t say strange things like Robert did or see people in the house who
weren’t there.’ A smile lit her face. ‘I can remember the afternoon he came home as though it was yesterday.’

Evie

December 1945

Mrs Winter had made it clear that she wanted to be downstairs when her older son came home. The district nurse and Evie helped her out of bed and into the woollen dress she
hadn’t worn for years. Evie had brushed her hair and found a pot of powder and an ancient lipstick in the dressing-table drawer. The old lady smiled at her reflection in the mirror, her face
serene. Hard to know if she even remembered that her younger son had died in the barn two months earlier.

When she’d returned to Winter’s Copse a week after the fire for the funeral Mrs Winter had sat silently through the service. Only when they were wheeling her out of the church had
she spoken. ‘Robert was always careful with his cigarettes,’ she said, quite clearly. Martha, walking just ahead of her in the aisle, had made a choking sound. After that Mrs Winter had
retreated into speechlessness again.

Martha had stayed away from the farmhouse, working outdoors without coming in for the usual cups of tea or to eat her sandwiches by the warmth of the range. Evie had cooked for herself and
Charlie and tried to keep the house clean. The nurse had come in twice a day to tend to Mrs Winter. Two more POWs, Austrians this time, had been sent to help Martha, directed by a friendly
neighbouring farmer as a temporary measure until Matthew was fit to come home.

Charlie and one of the Austrians carried her down in her chair. ‘Good thing these stairs are so wide and you are so light as a bird, Mrs Winter,’ the Austrian joked. They were going
to carry her into the parlour but the old woman made an exclamation of distress and put out a wrinkled hand. They set her down. ‘What’s the matter?’ Charlie asked Mrs Winter.

‘The kitchen,’ Evie said. ‘She wants to be in the kitchen when he comes back.’ Perhaps she wanted to link herself with the woman she’d been in the past: the
nurturer of growing boys, the provider of food.

‘No.’ Martha put out an arm to prevent them from turning round and making for the kitchen. ‘The parlour is where the Winters always receive their guests.’

‘I’m not a guest.’

The voice was deep and quiet but it made them all jump. A man stood in the passageway, duffel bag over his shoulder, crutches under each arm. His eyes seemed to stare at them across a wide, wide
space. ‘Matthew,’ Evie breathed, suddenly shy. She’d only seen him once before, briefly, in 1941.

Mrs Winter struggled in her chair. ‘Hold on, Mother.’ He walked round so that she could see him. For seconds they gazed at one another. Then he slipped to his knees and buried his
head in her lap. ‘Oh Mum,’ Evie heard him whisper. One of her gnarled old hands stroked his hair.

Evie looked at Charlie. They tiptoed away into the kitchen. ‘When did you get to the station, Matthew?’ Martha was saying. ‘Did you have a good trip? What would you like to
eat?’

‘Why doesn’t she just leave them alone?’ Charlie snapped.

‘She’s part of the family, really.’ Evie filled the earthenware teapot from the kettle. ‘I suppose she’s like a sister to Matthew.’

‘Sister my foot.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She couldn’t get Robert so she’s set her cap at his brother now.’

‘Charlie!’ But then she remembered the night she’d caught Robert and Martha in the parlour and let in the dog to disturb them. Was this what Martha wanted from Robert’s
brother too? The thought made something tighten inside her chest.

He sniffed. ‘Didn’t you notice how she’s stayed away until now? None of the Winter men to chase.’ He glowered. ‘Now Matthew’s back things will change round
here, Evie.’ He straightened a teaspoon on a saucer. ‘He may not want us to stay on.’

‘I know.’ Where would they go? So much had hung on Robert, she realized. He’d been the one to choose them and bring them to live here. There was no reason for his brother to
feel bound by the same obligations.

Matthew was coming into the kitchen. ‘I wanted to thank you,’ he said, putting his duffel bag down on the chair.

‘Thank us?’ Evie’s eyes widened.

‘For keeping things going through the war. And while Robert was so . . . ill. It must have been hard.’

Evie felt her eyes prickle. ‘We couldn’t save him,’ she whispered. ‘I think we made it worse for him. I think we – I – reminded him of something
bad.’

He took a step towards her. ‘That wasn’t your fault,’ he said sternly. ‘They tortured him. His mind was gone by the time he came back here. He could never have settled to
normal life again. While I was in hospital I talked to some men who’d come across him in the last months of the war. They were wrecks, too. We don’t know what happened to Robert, but it
must have been bad.’

‘Matthew?’ Martha stood behind him. ‘Shall we have tea in the parlour now? Your mother’s waiting.’

‘We’ll bring her in here.’ Matthew grinned at Charlie. ‘Let’s ask that young Austrian fellow to help you move her again.’ He waved a crutch. ‘As you can
see, I’m not much good at lifting at the moment.’

Martha stayed in the kitchen, watching Evie as she cut the fruit cake she’d made with precious sugar, dried fruit and butter. ‘I expect you’ll be moving on soon, won’t
you, Evie?’

Evie stopped and looked up. ‘I haven’t finished school yet.’

‘You won’t want to intrude now Matthew’s back.’

The arrival of Mrs Winter in her chair stopped Evie from needing to reply.

‘Here we are.’ Matthew smiled at Evie. ‘You’d better be mother, Evie.’ He laid down his crutches and pulled out the chair at the head of the table for her.

She glanced at the older girl. Martha bit her lip.

‘I expect Martha’s got time for a quick cup of tea before she needs to go off to do the milking, haven’t you, Martha?’

Martha nodded, reaching across the table for the teapot.

‘Probably easier for Evie to do the pouring, isn’t it?’ Matthew said.

Martha’s hand scuttled back like a startled crab. Her eyes showed no emotion but Evie shivered.

Rachel

2003

The sun had made its last attempt to come out. I lifted my head from time to time to watch how the light altered the outline of the Downs above the village and tinted the
fields and trees with a watery silver.

A window rattled and it was as though my conscience was reminding me that I still hadn’t done any work, still hadn’t even thought about my work or my clients, hadn’t checked my
email. The photographs and press cuttings could wait until later. The breeze coming into the kitchen was colder now and the rain was falling. The view over the garden was of scowling skies, and the
dog towel I had pegged to Evie’s washing line waved like a warning flag. I remembered the hints of storms. Well, I’d be cosy enough in this kitchen with its Aga and the warm mass of the
dog lying on the floor at my feet. ‘We’ll be fine,’ I told Pilot. ‘I’ll just get on with these emails now.’ He pricked his ears and whined gently as though
expressing polite uncertainty.

I flipped open the laptop and switched it on. The screen flickered into life for a second before dying. The battery needed charging. I dug around in the laptop bag and found the mains cable,
which I plugged into a socket underneath the kitchen table. Nothing. ‘A power cut,’ I told Pilot. ‘A little inconvenient, but never mind.’ I seemed to have fallen into a
state of catatonia. All I wanted to do was sit in the dark and look at the old photographs. But I could hardly see them now.

How black the countryside was when there was no sun and no electricity. It must have been like this for generations until fairly recently. They’d all have to come indoors when the weather
turned bad. Oil lamps wouldn’t have been much use outdoors in winds like this. Perhaps there were candles somewhere in this kitchen; almost bound to be, knowing my efficient aunt. In a
moment, before it was completely dark, I’d get up from this chair and look for them. I felt as though the chair had grown straps and bound me to itself. The thought of moving seemed too much
of an effort to contemplate.

There must be something useful I could do, something which would . . .

I thought I heard a noise above my head, but before I could be sure the wind crashed against the windows again. This was going to be quite a storm. I was still staring at Matthew’s
photograph, the one showing him examining his tractor. For all his apparently easeful appearance in the photographs I wondered whether the stress of his captivity had taken a physical toll on him.
He’d died of lung cancer though, having, like most men, smoked in those days. So perhaps his captivity hadn’t made any difference to his longevity.

My subconscious was wittering on, trying to distract me from something that was happening above me, something I could no longer ignore.

Upstairs something was still creaking. The wind was shaking this old house, releasing all the old memories, the old joys and sorrows. I could hear the movement even above the howling of the wind
and dashing of rain against brick and shingles. Pilot whined gently. I stooped to pat him. ‘If you weren’t here, I might feel just a bit nervous now.’ Nervous didn’t begin
to express it. I was almost starting to worry that all my rummaging around in old scrapbooks and photo albums had somehow conjured up ghosts. Or unhinged me so that I could even believe in
them.

No more creaks from upstairs but the rain whipped the walls and windows as though it were trying to wash all the old sins out of the village. ‘Leave us clean and bright again,’ I
muttered to myself. Where had that thought come from? This place was starting to prey on my nerves. It had a seductive power to pull you back into the past and make you brood. To snap myself out of
this, I forced myself to think. I might not have a laptop or electricity but I still had my mobile. I could ring people. Check text messages. Explain about my lack of internet connectivity. Enquire
about my projects, make it seem as though I were still thinking about work, still keen to return, still the busy, successful marketing consultant they’d all wanted writing their adverts and
brochure copy. This would take my mind off the groaning of the old house and the lashing of the rain against the windows. And the rest of it.

I reached for my jeans pocket and again felt the rectangular-shaped absence. Damn. If any of my clients had tried to call me this morning my name would be mud. No point in trying to retrieve the
mobile now; I’d be soaked before I even reached the lane. Luke would assume I just didn’t want to talk to him. And I did. Suddenly I wanted him badly.

‘I’ll just have to find those candles,’ I told Pilot, trying to shake myself out of my longing. ‘Where do you think your mistress kept them? In a drawer? Or out in the
utility room?’ He let out a sigh and dropped his head so that it rested on my foot, a welcome warmth. In a moment I’d make myself go upstairs and shut the window I must have failed to
close properly this morning so that the wind couldn’t keep blowing it back and forth, each movement resulting in a deep creak. Curious how reluctant I felt to leave the kitchen with its stove
and friendly dog. Perhaps I could persuade Pilot to come upstairs with me, but it wasn’t really fair if I was trying to train him not to come up at night with me. Consistency was important
where dogs were concerned . . . I was wittering again. I could ring Luke on the landline.