The Fall and Rise of Lucy Charlton (6 page)

When her mother had gone back to the kitchen her father held Lucy in a close embrace and said, ‘I will miss my little lawyer.’

‘I’m not going far and I will be back when the terms end – and I will come to the office just as I’ve always done and one day maybe you’ll let me be your partner.’

He laughed, but not in scorn: in admiration, she thought. He had taught her so much already and now she would have other teachers. She would come home and they would stay late in his office which looked out over the river and talk about what she had learned and discuss what more there was to know. She was so happy she thought she would burst.

*

Lucy had a tiny room to herself when she reached university. She had thought she might share and make friends and that it would be like she and Gemma had been when they were children, talking late at night, gazing up at the stars which twinkled beyond the windows, making plans about who and what they would be when they were older.

The tiny room had a single bed and past the window there was nothing but a wall which shut out most of the natural daylight. It was rather as she had imagined prison cells to be.

The women students lived together in a big building on Palace Green. The sight of the castle and the cathedral and the green, as well as the various university departments close by, excited Lucy.

Her first meal in the big hall where they sat with their eyes lowered, whispering to their immediate neighbours, didn’t boost Lucy’s spirits. The food was grey, the vegetables were unrecognizable, the custard had lumps and whatever fruit there was with it had been dried long since and was tough.

There was nothing to drink but water, or tea so bad that her mother would have called it ‘sweepings up’. She tried to talk to the girls at either side of her, but they seemed entranced with their neighbours and ignored Lucy’s remarks.

It was rumoured that one young woman had been sent down because she spoke to a young man on the green, although he was her brother. The lecturers might have been interesting – and she wanted to enjoy them – but they were all men and ignored their female students. One of them, finding no male student at his lecture, turned and walked back out, saying, ‘There is no one here.’

Lucy made herself not go home that term. She had escaped. She could not now go back and admit that she had been wrong, but she began to wish that it was Christmas, to long for Mrs Moon’s cooking, despite her previous opinion of it, and most especially for Gemma’s company.

When it finally approached, she thought Christmas in Durham so pretty, but that was because she was leaving the place. Students sang carols in the cathedral and in groups in the busy streets. It snowed and she watched how the big fat flakes fell into the grey river and she longed for the Tyne, ‘an honest river’, as her mother called it. She could not keep warm; her room was so bitter with frost that she could not sleep. She would have given a great deal for a fire. She counted down the days.

Nobody came to meet her at the station. Her father was busy at work and her mother getting the house ready for the festivities.

When she reached home Mrs Moon made tea and Lucy told her mother all about her new life. ‘I thought you might have got over it by now,’ her mother said, as though it were a bad cold. ‘Gemma has new friends and among them a very nice man called Guy Brown.’

Barrington’s Bank had looked after Joe’s family since the bank had begun and Joe had known the head of it, Reginald, all his life. He knew that Mr Barrington was proud to be the family banker and that when other landowners scorned such people because they were in business his father reckoned some of his best friends among business people. Joe had always been very pleased at that.

Mr Barrington saw him at Joe’s convenience and when Joe walked into the huge office, all marble and mahogany, he felt almost at home.

‘My dear Joe,’ Mr Barrington said, coming forward and taking Joe’s hand between both of his, ‘I am so very sorry to hear about your father. What a homecoming for you. I tried to contact you but I didn’t know where you were; I knew that nothing would reach you but that you would come here. Anything I can do …’ He stopped there.

Joe shook his head. ‘I know things are really bad. I just want to know if there is anything at all left.’

‘Of course you do. Sit down.’

He pointed Joe to a deep leather chair then sat down himself across the desk. ‘I did my best to stop this. I wouldn’t like you to think that I didn’t try.’

‘I don’t think anyone could have stopped it.’ Joe was relieved he could talk about it as though he were still a rational human being. He felt nothing of the kind, amazed to hear himself being polite. My God, he had had a decent upbringing. Manners maketh the man. They certainly bloody did, he thought, smiling as though his very existence depended upon it.

‘My father would not have accepted help, I imagine.’

Mr Barrington looked down and shook his head. ‘I did what I could, but—’

‘I understand.’ Joe didn’t understand, but there was no point in saying such things. ‘Are there still debts?’

Mr Barrington paused, but only from sympathy, Joe could see.

‘I’m afraid so. If everything is sold they will be discharged,’ Mr Barrington said neatly.

‘I should have done something well before now,’ Joe said, but he was very glad when Mr Barrington looked shocked and surprised.

‘What on earth could you have done?’ he replied.

‘I tried not to think about it. Quite wrong.’

‘And the war?’ Mr Barrington said, practically. Joe realized that this was what he had always liked best about the man. He said what you wanted to hear and Joe needed to hear that he was not to blame. ‘The war was another tragedy; the men who should have known better did not as they never do and you did your duty. That is as much as any young man can
manage. You couldn’t have been here, so disabuse yourself of any such idea.’

Mr Barrington let this sink in and then he continued, ‘You know if it hadn’t been for your great-grandfather, Barrington’s would not have survived.’

Joe looked at him. He hadn’t heard about this. Anything new which might distract him from his problems was a relief.

‘There was a run on the bank when times were desperate and your great-grandfather announced to everyone he knew that he would back the bank, that he would put everything he had into it – and so he did.’

‘He was the last sensible one of us,’ Joe said, finding a little humour.

‘He was a great man. You know, I’d be glad to make you a loan until the houses are sold—’

‘No, no.’ Joe put up both hands. ‘I don’t believe I could ever pay it back and I would hate to think I had put you into such a position when I know, though you don’t say it, that you were good to my father beyond anything. The house is not entailed and must of course be sold, I understand that. What about the Northumberland estate?’

He loved that best, he thought now, the getting away, the lovely wild winds up there, the unrelenting snow and the way the puddles were frosted sometimes even in April. He liked it best in June when the sky was barely dark and everything looked so friendly when you went to bed in the almost-light. Other people went there only when the weather should have been soft but never was, and Joe loved that and so did his father. He was sorry indeed when Mr Barrington shook his head.

‘That too. I have already had some interest on both houses and will put the business into operation.’

Joe could not believe he would not take Angela there again. She had loved the long wide beaches and the old ruined castles and how you could walk for miles and miles and watch the tide crashing hard against the wet sand. She had loved the farms and the people and the burr in the accents and she had said to him, ‘When we’re married let’s go there a lot – I feel it’s where we should be.’

‘The Yorkshire estate is of course long gone,’ Mr Barrington said. ‘Your father dealt with that.’

‘Will there be anything left?’

‘A little, I think, depending on the sales of course. I will do my best to make a profit for you.’

‘You always do,’ Joe said.

Mr Barrington cleared his throat and shook his head. ‘I did manage to secure your belongings, your clothes and books and your guns. I didn’t like to leave anything valuable in the house; I was afraid someone might try to break in. I will have these sent to you – though I do think you should come and stay with us for the time being.’

Joe could think of nothing worse than Mr Barrington’s house, full with half a dozen children and his still-young second wife, so he thanked him and refused.

*

The first thing that Joe did was to travel to Yorkshire. He wasn’t sure there was any sense in it, but Angela had loved both the country properties and Joe thought he must go everywhere. In time he would travel to Northumberland also. It must have been three years since he was briefly in
Yorkshire on some business for his father; then it had still been a fairly prosperous place.

It was neglected now, and Joe understood that. His father had never liked the estate, said it was a continual drain on his pockets. The house itself was eighteenth-century, but it was the enormous water gardens which cost so much. His father called it ‘prissy’ and it was indeed very formal except that the gardens were now very much overgrown and the water features full of pondweed. As Joe approached the house too seemed to have a vacant air as though nobody lived there. He didn’t know who had bought it, it didn’t seem to matter, though Mr Barrington undoubtedly did. It was almost derelict. Someone had bought it and had either left it uncared for, which seemed unlikely, or they had not had the money to keep the house going. You could fall in love with such a house, Joe thought, and only then discover how it ate at your resources.

There had been a manor house on the site at one time, belonging to Joe’s ancestors, so he was told. The main house which had been built and rebuilt was vast, mostly Georgian, and covered a huge amount of land. Joe had liked the place when he was little, partly because his father had taken friends there and they’d had parties in the summer. His father never went in the winter.

As Joe got nearer he realized that the problem with the house was worse than he had anticipated. The windows were blackened and the outside stone was dark. When he got closer he could see that there had been some kind of fire. The windows were all gone. He pushed open the front door and saw the ceilings had come down on that level and on
the floor above. He could see as high as the outside, beyond the roof. The place was all but ruined.

He heard footsteps behind him and glanced around. An old man stood there.

‘Why, Mr Joe,’ he said, ‘it’s you.’

Joe remembered him instantly. ‘Ben.’

Ben Harrison had taught him to ride a horse shortly after he could walk. Ben had taught him how to shoot. As soon as he could hold a shotgun Ben had put only one cartridge into the gun, knelt in front of him with the barrel across his shoulder and Joe pulled the trigger, squeezed it carefully, as Ben had told him. The gun went off, though God knows what it had done to Ben’s ears. The recoil sent Joe clean back over and Ben had to rescue both the gun and the boy.

Joe had gone and stayed with Ben and his wife when he was small. They had no children of their own and idolized him. Ben had been a huge part of Joe’s childhood. He had been proud to introduce Angela to the old man and see that he approved.

‘Didn’t know you were back,’ the old man said, ‘and what a sorrowful time for you to come home. Your father …’

He stopped there. Joe nodded.

‘And for you to see this place in such a way.’

‘What happened?’

Your father sold it to a man who had made a lot of money in some industry or other. It was to be for his son.’ Ben looked down. ‘The poor boy, like so many others, didn’t come back from France and his father was so grief-stricken that he set the place on fire, as though it was responsible for everything. How could he do such a thing when millions of other people lost their sons
and had to learn to get on with it? How could he take it out on such a beautiful place as this? Nature is never the cause of the problem and yet it gets blamed for so many things.’

Joe shook his head. ‘Do you hear anything of Miss Toddington?’ he asked. ‘You do know what happened?’

‘We heard and I’m sorry. I just wish she had come to me; I would have helped her, done anything for her. This war has ruined people’s lives without killing them – you and Miss Toddington and your father. Nobody around here knows anything or I would have made it my business to help her and you. If I learn of anything I will be sure to let you know.’

Joe left him Mr Barrington’s bank address and went home, explaining that he would not be living at the house in London for much longer.

*

Joe awoke when it was dark. For no reason at all he suddenly knew that Toddy had told him a pack of lies. Angela had not gone off anywhere. It was a stupid idea. He didn’t know why he had believed it. He sat up in the chair. Angela had done nothing of the sort. She would never have done so.

He couldn’t sleep after that. He lay there for as long as he could make himself do so and then he got up and prowled the house.

Later in the morning he turned up at Toddy’s. He knocked on the door and was admitted by the same man. He acknowledged him without a smile. Joe waited in the hall for quite some time before the man came back and told him that Mr and Mrs Toddington were not at home.

Joe pushed past him and walked into the second room on the right from which the man had come.

There Sarah sat, her eyes wide in horror at his intrusion.

‘You can’t do this,’ she said.

The man had followed him. He was fifty, Joe reckoned, short and fat; he had not just fought in a war. Joe glared at him while Sarah said in wavering tones, ‘It’s all right, Trevors, you can go.’

Joe could see the panic in her eyes. She glanced at the door, hoping no doubt that Toddy would walk, as he did, seconds later. This time his face was set and angry.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’