The Pool of St. Branok (15 page)

Aunt Amaryllis wrote constantly. She said that Helena was taking Jonnie’s departure sadly. She was like a wraith; she thought of little but the danger Jonnie was in.

“I wish,” wrote Aunt Amaryllis, “that that man Russell would stop writing such terrible things and sending them home. It makes us fret so. Poor Helena is beside herself with grief, and I think all the time of our dear Jonnie out there in that terrible place … and that nice Grace, too. Although, of course, she is not in the battle. I do wish it would all be over. It is so far away. What has it to do with us? But that’s wrong of me. Peter says the war is right and we have to preserve our influence all over the world. It is so necessary for everyone …”

“Poor Aunt Amaryllis,” said my mother. “Usually she can let ill fortune sail over her … but this is a little too close … with Jonnie at the front.”

The siege of Sebastopol continued. Once that fell into allied hands, it was said that the war would be all but over, but the Russians were a stubborn people; they would not give in; and our men on the outskirts of Sebastopol suffered more through the terrible winter than those who were within the city … many dying of the cold, so said Russell. Miss Nightingale and her nurses were doing a wonderful job but what could the most efficient nursing do without supplies? And conditions were still terrible.

It seemed to go on and on. The winter was over; spring came. Each day we waited for news, but all through that year there was nothing that was good.

Then came the sad letter from Aunt Amaryllis:

I don’t know how to tell you. We are all devastated. Jonnie has been killed. He was so brave, they say. He was a wonderful soldier. But I am afraid that is no consolation to poor Helena. She is prostrate with grief; and we are all very, very sorrowful. Peter is most affected. He saw that there was a fine piece in the papers about Jonnie’s bravery and how he gave his life for his country. He says that, sad as this event is, it will increase public appreciation of Matthew. That does not console poor Matthew. He loved him. We know Jonnie was not his son but he had always been brought up as such and the fact that John Milward was his real father makes no difference to Matthew’s affection for him. It is such a sad time for us all. I wonder if you could come up. It would be such a help if you could. Helena is so fond of you. She talks quite a lot now of how wonderful you were to her in her trouble …

My mother stopped reading. She stared ahead of her and I knew she was too emotional to go on.

She said: “It is terrible, Angel. You know the story now. We were on the ship together going to Australia when I heard she was going to have Jonnie. She was so distressed. She was going to throw herself overboard, but Matthew saved her. He is a very good man. But he has allowed his father-in-law to lead him in every way. But what can he do? Peter made him. He would never have got far without him. He cared about people. Those books of his show that. But no one would have taken any notice of them if Peter hadn’t thrust them forward. Matthew knows that and he’s ashamed in a way … and yet he is bound to Peter. He couldn’t do a thing without him …”

She was talking as though to herself. Then suddenly she remembered my youth as people often did. I had developed a way of lapsing into silence when people talked like that so they forgot how young I was and said more than they would if they remembered it. I had learned a good deal that way.

She stopped abruptly.

“I think,” she said, “that we ought to go up. We might be able to help. I’m afraid it won’t be a very happy visit. Poor Helena. She is like Amaryllis. She needs to be cared for. And all that business of John Milward’s being brought up again must have been very upsetting for her.”

“I think Jonnie must have been a little pleased. His real father remembered him and he had such plans for his diggings. The money would have been a great help in that and now …”

The knowledge that I should never see him again enveloped me and I felt the tears in my eyes.

My mother put her arms round me and we wept together.

“Yes,” she said at length. “We must go up. We must be able to comfort them a little.”

My father said that, although he would be unable to accompany us to London, my mother and I must go.

There were high hopes now that Sebastopol would fall. Surely they could not hold out much longer? People were full of hope and then these hopes would be dashed and we would seem no nearer to the end.

When the Emperor of Russia died there had seemed to be a chance of peace, but like all hopes this evaporated. That had been early in the year.

We had had the news of Jonnie’s death late in August and just as we were ready to leave the Russians evacuated Sebastopol.

There was great rejoicing in the Poldoreys for this could only mean that the war was virtually over.

It was too late for us, my mother said. Jonnie had already died.

That was an unhappy visit. My mother went to stay with Helena at their house in Westminster. I remained with Aunt Amaryllis and Uncle Peter. When Frances and Peter came they talked to me of their houses of refuge in the East End of London. They now had several of these.

“We have always been greatly helped by my father-in-law,” Frances said. “He always likes it to be announced when he gives a donation and we all know it is for the glorification of Peter Lansdon. He would have had a title by now, I am sure, if his business was not so disreputable; but I think he hopes to override this difficulty in time.”

Peterkin said: “My father is a man who always overrides
all
difficulties.”

“Of course we receive the money most gratefully,” went on Frances. “To me it seems unimportant where it comes from as long as it is put to good use. I have had three more soup kitchens this year through his bounty. So who am I to complain?”

“The money comes from the pockets of the rich who squander it at my father’s clubs,” said Peterkin. “It is fitting that it should be used for the benefit of the poor—some of it anyway.”

“It is good of Uncle Peter to give it,” I said.

“It is very good for us … and Uncle Peter,” added Frances.

“It seems to me,” I replied reflectively, “that it is not always easy to tell what is good or bad.”

“I can see young Angelet is going to be a wise woman,” said Frances.

When I visited the Mission she put me to work. I ladled soup out of the great tureens for the people who lined up for it in the kitchens. I was deeply touched by the experience and very sorry for the people who came to be fed … particularly the children.

During that time I met poor women who had been ill-treated by husbands or male acquaintances; I saw women about to give birth and having no place to go. I watched Frances deal with them; she was brisk and without sentimentality; she rarely expressed pity; but she always solved their problems.

Peterkin was with her in everything she did, but she was the leading spirit. He adored her; but he was more easily affected than she was; and somehow this made him less effective.

I thought how strange it was that Uncle Peter should have a son like Peterkin. I think he must have had a great respect for Frances, although he always spoke of her with a hint of cynicism. She saw right through him and Uncle Peter was the sort of man who would respect her for that.

That was necessarily a melancholy visit and I was relieved when we returned home. There was nothing we could do to disperse the gloom.

Time, I hoped, would help to do that.

People were right about the fall of Sebastopol. It did virtually put an end to the war although it dragged on in a desultory way until the end of the year, when peace negotiations were started. These seemed to go on and on. The winter passed. March was with us before the Peace of Paris was signed and the forces started to leave the Crimea.

Aunt Amaryllis wrote again:

Helena seems to have recovered a little. Matthew is so good and kind to her. He has been a wonderful husband. Of course he has no post in Palmerston’s government, but Peter says Palmerston won’t stay. He was popular during the war but people do get tired of war and he expects Derby to be back in the not too distant future and then Matthew’s chances will be high …

There was a great deal of celebration and rejoicing when the treaty was signed. Now we are awaiting the return of the soldiers … only Jonnie won’t be among them. Some of them are already home. Poor souls, how they have suffered. I don’t think people will be shouting in the streets for war for a long time. They are saying that we lost twenty-four thousand and the Russians five hundred thousand and the French sixty-three … So we came off best. And poor Jonnie was one of that twenty-four thousand. How dreadfully sad it all is! I wish they would settle their differences in some way other than killing people who have really nothing to do with it and perhaps do not even know what it is all about.

They say that some of the nurses are remaining in Scutari till the last of the soldiers have left. Then they will come home. Some of them have come back. There are some terrible cases and the nurses came with them … to nurse them on the way. I wonder what happened to that nice girl, Grace. What a wonderful job she has done!

We are all hoping that we shall see you soon. You know how we love to have you. There are special times when families should be together. Now that I am getting older I find these times very frequent. So do come soon.

“We must go again,” said my mother. “I always used to enjoy those visits to London so much. Last time, of course, it was very sad … but even Helena must grow away from her grief.”

So once again we found ourselves in London.

This was the year of peace and I was fourteen years of age and rather grown-up for my years. I think events of the last few years had bought me right out of my childhood—although perhaps I had emerged from that after my terrifying encounter at the pool.

Strangely enough because of all that had been happening that event now seemed remote; there were occasions when I did not think of it for weeks. So there was some good in everything.

It was September, a lovely time of the year, unexpectedly warm during the days with a tang of autumn in the early evenings and the leaves in the square and the parks turning golden brown.

Opposite the house in the square was a garden which was for the use of residents. There was a key which hung in the hall; I could at any time take this key and go over there and sit among the flowering shrubs and trees. Although there would have been an outcry if I had gone into the Park alone I was permitted to go into this garden.

I loved to be independent of everyone and it was a favorite spot for me during my stay in the house in the square. In fact they had begun to call it Angelet’s garden.

I used to sit there and listen to the clop-clop of horses’ hooves as the carriages passed through the square and occasionally scraps of conversation floated to me as people passed by, which I found intriguing. I would imagine how those conversations went on after they had passed out of earshot and what the lives of the people who were making it were like.

It was what my mother would call exercising that over-worked imagination of mine.

One day when I was seated near the bed of asters and chrysanthemums, I saw someone standing outside the railings which enclosed the square.

It was a woman. I could not see her face for she was in shadow. I did not look intently—people often gazed in at the gardens as they passed—and when I looked again she was gone. I wondered why I had noticed her. Perhaps it was because she seemed to linger. It was as though there was something purposeful about her.

The next day I saw her again. She came to the railings and looked in then. I was sure at that moment that she had some special interest in the place.

“Hello,” I cried and went to the railings.

I stared in amazement. It was Grace.

“Grace!” I cried.

“Oh, Angelet, I’ve seen you once or twice in these gardens.”

“Why didn’t you speak? Why didn’t you come to the house?”

“I … I didn’t know … till I saw you … that you would be in London.”

“What are you doing here? When did you come home? Oh, Grace, you must have had some strange adventures.”

“Yes, I have. I want to talk to you.”

“Come to the house. Wait a minute. I’ll come out.”

“No …” she said. “Can I come into this garden? I’d like to talk to you alone … first.”

“Of course. Wait a moment.”

I unlocked the door and she came into the garden.

“Oh, Grace,” I cried. “It’s good to see you. We’ve talked about you so much. You’ve heard … about Jonnie?”

“Yes,” she said faintly. “I know.”

“It was terrible. We are getting over it a little now … but we don’t forget. How could we forget Jonnie?”

“No … we could never forget him.”

“It is so awful to think we shall never see him again.”

“Yes … I feel that too. There is a lot I have to tell you, Angelet. I wanted to talk to you … or your mother … first … before I did to anyone else. I am not sure what I should do. I want you to let me know what you think.”

“I? What can I tell you?”

“You’re there.” She waved her hands towards the house. “You’d know how things are. You’d know how they feel about …”

“About what?”

“I think I had better tell you from the beginning. You know we left London Bridge on that day …”

“Yes, yes.”

“We went to Boulogne and then to Paris. They made much of us in Paris. It was their war as well as ours. Then we went down to Marseilles where we stayed a while to collect stores. After that we set sail on the
Vectis
for Scutari. It was a fearful journey. I thought we were all going to be drowned.”

She paused. I watched her face. I was wondering why she had to tell me all this before she told the rest of the family.

“What was Scutari like?” I prompted.

“Unbelievable. It was dusk when we arrived, and looked so romantic … the hospital was like a Moorish palace. That was at dusk. In the light of day we saw it for what it was. The wards were very, very dirty. We had to clean up the place before we did anything else. Miss Nightingale insisted on that. The state of the patients … the lack of materials …”