The Kirilov Star (22 page)

‘No, he isn’t, but that’s half my point. We rely on him too much. It makes me feel less of a man.’

‘Robert, I never heard such nonsense. You’re all man.’ She gave a cracked laugh. ‘I can testify to that.’

He managed a half-grin, though he was too concerned with making his point to laugh at her joke. ‘I want us to have a home of our own, you, me and the children. Can’t you understand that?’

‘In a way I can, but it’s just masculine pride. I can’t imagine what life would be like living anywhere but Upstone Hall. It’s my home, Robert, the only one I’ve ever known. Even when I was in Russia with Kolya, all I wanted to do was get back to it.’

‘Will you at least think about what I’ve said?’

‘Yes, I’ll think about it.’

She did, but it always came back to one thing: she could not bear to leave Upstone and her father. ‘It would seem like ingratitude,’ she told Robert when he brought the subject up again. And because he loved her, he gave up.

In September Bobby went to Gresham’s boarding school, Sir Edward’s old school, and Holt was near enough for him to be fetched home for weekends, though Papa didn’t think that was a good idea. ‘He should stay and take part in the weekend activities,’ he told Lydia. ‘There’s always something going on: sport, drama, music, cadets.’

Lydia missed him dreadfully but he settled down well
and wrote frequently about new friends he had made, what he had done and the things he intended to do. Left behind, Tatty informed her one day that she wanted to learn to ride. ‘My friend Chloe has a pony,’ she announced. ‘He’s called Tubby, ’cos he’s a roly-poly. I asked Grandpa and he says he doesn’t see why not.’

Lydia smiled at the way her daughter unashamedly used her grandfather to get her own way. ‘Did he? I rode a lot when I was young.’

‘So I can, can’t I?’

‘If you are good.’

‘I am good.’ It was said loudly and vehemently. So Tatty got her pony, took to riding like a duck to water and started competing in local gymkhanas. She always took the rosettes she won to show Grandpa before hanging them on her bedroom wall. The child idolised him, which was another reason in Lydia’s mind for not moving.

Another year passed, a year in which rationing finally ended after fourteen years; children were able to buy their lollipops, gobstoppers and chocolate without having to produce coupons; Roger Bannister became the first man to run a mile in under four minutes; rock and roll came to Britain from America with Bill Haley singing ‘Rock Around the Clock’, something the youth of the country took to their hearts, but which the older generation deplored.

Lydia fetched Bobby home from school for the following Christmas holidays in thick freezing fog. ‘We’ve been talking in class about what we want to do when we leave,’ he told her as she drove very slowly along the country
roads. The windscreen wipers were sticking to the ice on the glass and she had to stop every now and again to get out and scrape it off.

‘Goodness, that’s a long way off.’

‘I know, but we’ve been told to think about it because it’s important to know where you’re going in life and we have to decide what exams we want to take.’ At eleven years old he was tall for his age, a well-built lad with fair hair and blue eyes like his father. He had other traits of Robert’s too: thoughtfulness and consideration and a way of looking at her which made her want to hug him, but hugging was definitely out; he considered himself too old for that. ‘I think I’d like to be a diplomat like Grandpa.’

‘He’d like that,’ she said.

‘Perhaps they’ll send me to Russia.’

‘Would you like to go?’

‘I wouldn’t mind. After all, I’ve got roots there, haven’t I?’

‘Yes, but I doubt you’ll be able to find any connections now,’ she said, as she drew up outside the house. ‘It’s been too long and Russia has changed.’

Christmas Day was dull but overcast, but it did not dampen their spirits. They all went to church, including Claudia who was still with them, but would be going to spend the afternoon and evening with her fiancé after Christmas dinner. Poor Claudia, she was as undecided as ever.

‘Time for presents,’ Tatty said as soon as the meal came to an end and they all left the table and trooped into the drawing room, where a large tree stood in the corner glittering with lights and tinsel. Beneath it was a heap of colourfully wrapped parcels. Tatty acted as postman and
soon everyone was unwrapping presents, exclaiming and thanking the givers.

Lydia watched them all: her father, husband – home on Christmas leave – children and best friend and sent up a little prayer of thanks for her good fortune. Somewhere, thousands of miles away, she prayed another child, fourteen years old now, was also enjoying his Christmas, even if it wasn’t called Christmas anymore.

The fog lifted, but at the beginning of January it snowed and it continued to snow for a week, made worse by blizzards which piled it up against walls and hedges, and covered cars. More than seventy roads were blocked and hundreds of vehicles abandoned in drifts. Trains couldn’t run and everyone was struggling to get to work; schools were shut and livestock was dying and old people suffering. Lydia did what she could to help those old people in the village, trudging out in wellington boots, taking soup in thermos flasks and making sure they had heating.

Ice grew thicker and thicker on ponds and rivers, much to Tatty’s delight, who informed them that the ice on the lake was several inches thick.

‘You are not to go on it,’ Lydia said. ‘The water is deep, and if you go through, you’ll never get out. You heard the news, children drowning all over the place falling through the ice. I don’t want you to be one of them.’

‘No, but Mum, they’ve flooded the fen at Earith and that’s only a few inches deep. They’re going to hold the speed skating championships there. The snowploughs have cleared the roads; my friend, Chloe, told me so.’

And so they all went in Edward’s Bentley: Edward, Robert, Lydia, Bobby and Tatty. The large expanse of ice 
was crowded as everyone for miles around came to take advantage of the rare chance to skate and watch the speed trials. Those without skates walked on the ice, slid and fell over laughing. Tatty was soon whizzing about, followed by a less-sure Bob. Lydia and Robert went hand in hand more sedately, while Edward watched from the warmth of the car.

‘It’s like a Russian winter,’ Lydia said, cheeks glowing.

She was, Robert decided, looking especially beautiful. ‘You don’t remember Russian winters, do you?’

‘Not as a child, except that dreadful day when Andrei was killed, but it was pretty cold that first year of the war. You remember, you were there.’

‘So I was, but I didn’t have much time to notice the weather.’

‘No, you were too busy looking after me. You saved my life – not only my life, but my sanity, and I never thanked you enough, did I?’

‘Just being you, and loving me as you do, is all the thanks I need and want, sweetheart.’

It was an ambiguous statement which made her realise how he must feel about a marriage that was perfect except for one missing ingredient. His stoic acceptance of that made her feel guilty. She made a resolution to try even harder to love him as she ought.

He went back to duty at the end of the week, but the big freeze continued until March, when Tatty’s school reopened and Lydia took Bobby back to Gresham’s. The snow was still piled up on the sides of the roads, some of it higher than the car, making her nervous. Driving along between the walls of snow, with black overhanging trees making it dark, she was suddenly back in Russia in the droshky
with Ivan whipping up that great carthorse and Andrei laughing. He had not laughed for long and she shuddered at what had become a rare recollection. It was the snow, she supposed, and its menace.

Mentally trying to shake off the image, she drove faster than she ought to have done. As she turned into the drive, the car skidded when it encountered the ungritted surface and slid off the gravel into the shrubbery where it stalled in a heap of snow. Shaken, she leant forward over the steering wheel, thankful she was not hurt. ‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’ she said aloud. Then she picked up her bag, left the car where it was and trudged up the drive.

‘I’m back,’ she called to Edward, as she took off her coat and went into the drawing room.

He looked up from the newspaper he was reading. ‘I didn’t hear the car.’

She laughed. ‘No, I skidded turning into the drive and ran it into the bushes. It’s in a snowdrift. I’ll ring Andy at the garage to come and drag it out.’

‘Are you hurt?’

‘No, just feeling foolish. I should have known it was icy just inside the gate.’

‘I thought Percy had gritted the drive.’

‘So he did, but he ran out of grit before he got to the gate and the store didn’t have any more.’ She went back into the hall and telephoned the local garage.

‘Andy’s out with his recovery truck,’ she said when she returned. ‘There’s been a nasty accident on the Norwich road. Sue doesn’t know when he’ll be back.’

He stood up. ‘I’ll go and have a look at it. I might be able to back it out.’

‘No, leave it, Papa. It’s not doing any harm.’

‘If it’s in the way someone else might run into it and be injured.’ He went into the kitchen, donned coat and boots, picked up the car keys from the table where she had dropped them, and left the house. He fetched a shovel which was leaning against the stable wall where Percy had left it after clearing the paths after the last lot of snow, and went off down the drive. Lydia put her coat back on, found a spade in the shed and followed.

When she joined him, Edward was already tackling the snow behind the car, shovelling it to one side. She bent to do the same and by the time they had freed the car they were both exhausted. Edward, particularly, was finding it hard to breathe. ‘Get in the car, Papa,’ she said, putting the shovel and spade in the boot.

He did so and she drove carefully the four hundred yards to the house, when he got out, leaving her to take the car round to the garage. When she returned to the house, she found him collapsed in the rocking chair beside the kitchen hearth, one boot off and one on. His arms hung limply over the sides of the chair, his eyes were shut and his face all lopsided.

‘Papa!’ She flung herself on her knees beside him, and though she had no reply, she felt a flicker of a pulse when she picked up his hand. Thank God, he was alive. She rang for an ambulance and in no time he was on his way to hospital with her following in the Morris, praying with every breath she took that he would recover.

The doctors brought him round briefly and she was able to talk to him. She sat at his bedside holding his hand and told him how much she loved him, that she needed him to get well again, that the children needed him. He was not to give in, he had always been a fighter; now he had the
biggest battle of his life. Understanding, he smiled with one side of his mouth, but did not speak. If she could have given him some of her strength and vitality, she would willingly have done it.

At three o’clock he drifted off again and she became alarmed. The ward sister came quickly when summoned, but said he had simply gone to sleep. Relieved, Lydia stayed a little longer watching him, then left to be at home when Tatiana came home from school.

She broke the news to her daughter and saw the usual happy face crease in a worried frown. ‘But he will be all right, won’t he? He isn’t going to die, is he?’ She had been quite little when her mother had explained her true relationship to Sir Edward. She had been shocked at first, but then accepted it. He was still Grandpa Stoneleigh, white-haired, a little crotchety, but always loving and generous.

‘I don’t think so. I pray not.’

‘So do I. I can’t imagine this house without Grandpa. Have you told Bobby?’

‘I rang the headmaster and he is going to tell him, but I don’t think he need come home. He’s only just gone back.’

The next few days were critical and Lydia’s time was taken up with visiting the hospital and trying to keep Tatty and herself cheerful. Robert was informed but whether he could get home she did not know. In any case, there wasn’t much he could do. It was a question of waiting and hoping and praying.

Her prayers were answered in that Edward rallied, but he was left severely disabled. She brought him home and employed Jenny Graham, a qualified nurse who had experience with stroke victims, to help her look after him. Coming home seemed to revive him. He managed a crooked
smile for Tatty and Bobby, whom she had fetched home for the weekend, though his efforts to talk to them resulted in their confusion. ‘I can’t understand what he’s saying,’ Bobby said to his mother, after spending a few minutes at his grandfather’s bedside.

‘I know,’ she told him. ‘It’s his illness, but we will become used to his little ways and then it will be easier.’

She wondered if it would. It broke her heart to see the strong upright man he had been reduced to such helplessness, especially when it had been so unnecessary. The car would have been perfectly all right until Andy could come and deal with it. It did not help to be told the stroke could have happened at any time and she should not blame herself. Robert came home and was, as ever, a great comfort to her. She knew she could lean on him when she was overwhelmed with sadness and sheer tiredness. He seemed able to understand the invalid better than most and spent hours talking to him, stimulating him into a response. When he returned to duty, he left them all more cheerful and optimistic.

With the help of a physiotherapist and a speech therapist, Edward’s condition improved, though he was never the robust man he had been. He wandered about the house using a couple of elbow sticks, and he liked to watch the television, particularly the news and politics shows. Churchill stepped down as prime minister in April after fifty years in politics. He had inspired the nation with his stirring speeches during the war and his retirement was marked by radio, television and film producers with recollections of the dark days of the war. A film about Churchill’s life was the last thing Edward saw. He died in the early hours of the next morning after another stroke.