It was July, the House of Lords was in recess for the summer and the Kellings had come home to Westbury. In church the Baileys sat two rows behind the Kelling family pew. They were tall and thin, all three Kellings, Sir Henry with his clever, grave face and salt-and-pepper hair, elegantly dressed Lady Kelling with her striking hawkish looks, and between them their daughter, The Hon. Robyn, a girl of Diane and Jennifer’s age, her still, pale face and colourless hair almost ghostly in the grey light. They left smartly after the service, stopping merely to address a few words to the Reverend Tomms and no more than nodding to the Bulldocks, who had gathered eagerly to speak to them outside. Robyn trailed obediently after her parents, trained to do so no doubt by her stern mama.
Watching their car drive away, Mrs Bulldock did her best to make excuses for them, which Sarah saw from the disappointment in her broad face were really to disguise her hurt feelings. ‘The poor man really does appear exhausted,’ she said to the Baileys. ‘Lady Kelling is very worried about him from what I hear. All those late nights discussing the international situation. It’s too bad of the Germans. And Robyn, well, you’ve seen the girl yourself, very plain, don’t you think. It’s her second season, poor thing, and there is still no sign of an engagement. Such a pity after all that money and effort. I’m so glad we didn’t go down that route for Jennifer.’
Mrs Bulldock appeared completely unaware that a similar comment might be made about Jennifer’s single status, or that it was tactless to say these things in front of Mrs Bailey, who had two unmarried daughters, but then the Baileys were getting used to Mrs Bulldock’s frequent faux pas.
‘Now are you sure, Mrs Bailey, that we can’t interest you in our whist drive next Tuesday? It’s to raise money for the mission school in Nigeria, well, you heard all about it from Mr Tomms just now. The Stevensons are doing such a marvellous job out there with the heathen, we must do our best to support them.’
‘I’m afraid I have a previous engagement on Tuesday,’ Sarah’s mother lied smoothly as she’d done on so many occasions before, ‘but I’ll send you a donation.’ She’d do as she promised, Sarah knew, smiling to herself, but nothing on God’s earth would get Belinda Bailey playing whist with a lot of Westbury matrons.
Given her aloof behaviour at church, the Baileys were surprised to receive an invitation from Lady Kelling for tea at the Hall the following Saturday afternoon. They went, of course, out of courtesy, but also curiosity. Who else would be there? Quite a crowd, it turned out, and the three women were directed through a dark-panelled hall into a sunny drawing room filled with vases of blue and pink sweet peas and out onto the back lawn where tea was arranged on tables under the shade of a marquee.
The Bulldocks were there in force – Sarah heard Jennifer’s infectious laugh before she saw her – as were all three of the Richards, as well as members of two or three other local families whom the Baileys hadn’t met before. Ivor Richards was absorbed in a game of croquet with Robyn Kelling, Jennifer and Jennifer’s elder brother Bob. Harry Andrews was there, the cheerful dark-haired lad Sarah had first met at the Bulldocks’ New Year party. She and Diane both liked Harry, who was always part of any Bulldock social occasion. With his open, wide-eyed expression and his friendly air, it was impossible not to warm to him. Sarah noticed that today the presence of Harry’s father, a dour thuggish-looking man, seemed to affect his normally good spirits.
‘Delighted to meet you at last, Mrs Bailey. And these lovely girls are your daughters? Charmed. You’ve met my wife, have you?’ Sarah liked Sir Henry with his serious, intelligent eyes. ‘I gather you were out in India. Very sorry indeed to hear about Colonel Bailey. I knew him only by reputation, of course, but he’s spoken of as a heavy loss.’
‘Thank you, Sir Henry,’ Mrs Bailey murmured.
‘I stayed in Bombay for a while when my uncle was out there,’ he went on. ‘Many years ago now, but I’ve never forgotten the experience. Tell me, Mrs Bailey, did you and your husband ever come across my cousin . . . ?’ He linked arms with Mrs Bailey and led her away to the tea table, leaving Sarah and Diane at the mercy of his wife Evelyn, Lady Kelling, who from the moment she opened her mouth revealed herself to be a snob of the first order.
‘I hope that you’re happy in Flint Cottage? I must say we were glad to hear that you were moving in. The Watson family were very amusing, but not quite the right tone for the village.’
‘They left the house in the most frightful mess,’ Diane put in shyly, keen to make an impression.
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me at all?’
‘We’re very happy there, though,’ Sarah insisted, feeling a sudden warmth towards the poor Watsons whom she’d never met but whose memory was being smeared for all the wrong reasons. ‘And everyone in Westbury has been so helpful. Mr and Mrs Richards, particularly, and your gardener, Mr Hartmann.’
‘Yes, it might have been he who told me you’re something of a gardener yourself. You planted some lettuces for us, so sweet of you.’
‘Not at all. I enjoy it, but I can’t claim to have much skill. I don’t know all about the different plants like Mr Hartmann. I gather that he and his mother are relatives of yours. Are they coming this afternoon?’
‘No.’ Lady Kelling’s voice was chilly. ‘One doesn’t usually invite one’s gardener to tea, it would appear odd. And the family connection is extremely distant. Of course, Sir Henry was correct to insist that we help them, given that the lodge was vacant. It came at a most convenient time, what with our previous man retiring. I’m so hoping that there isn’t to be a war. It really is a most inconvenient time to have German relatives.’
Sarah could hardly believe her ears. The woman was obsessed with appearances and betrayed little sign of kindness. She remembered what Margo Richards had said, that Lady Kelling had once been plain Evelyn Brown when she’d met the Hon. Henry, as he’d been then, during the first London season after the war. She must have been very beautiful; Sarah could see that beauty still in her fine dark eyes, arched nose and high cheekbones, but Sir Henry, it was said, had long fallen out of love with her. They’d lost a child, apparently, and years of unhappiness and resentment must have killed all the good in her.
She sighed with relief when Lady Kelling swept on to skewer some other victim.
‘Come on, let’s find some tea,’ she said to Diane. Out on the lawn the game of croquet was coming to a noisy conclusion and soon Ivor and Jennifer dashed up the steps laughing to greet them.
‘Play with us after tea, girls,’ Jennifer begged as they all loaded their plates with sandwiches and cake. ‘Ivor’s being horrid and won’t.’
‘I’ve had enough of you beating me,’ Ivor said, selecting a giant piece of Victoria sponge. ‘I want to talk to Sarah.’
‘Diane, you’ll come and play, won’t you? Bob’s useless, you’ll beat him easily.’
‘All right,’ Diane said, her face lighting up, ‘but I’m not much good either, I’m afraid.’ Sarah inwardly blessed Jennifer who had that rare gift of making people feel wanted.
After tea, Sarah and Ivor watched the game from the terrace for a while, amused by Bob’s showing off and Jennifer’s mock anger. Diane hit a clever ball and her eyes rounded with satisfaction as she watched it shoot through a hoop, knocking Jennifer’s off course.
‘Well done, Diane!’ Sarah called out, delighted. Lady Kelling’s comments aside, it was a perfect afternoon in this fresh July garden. The lemon cake sprinkled with loaf sugar was delicious, the sun shining through the gushing fountain was beautiful and so was the lovely old house, basking in the sun. Diane looked happy and her mother was enjoying the bright chat of a laughing group of men that included Sir Henry. And Ivor – Sarah glanced at him sitting next to her at the table, smoking and smiling at the croquet game and saw again how good-looking he was, confident today, at ease. She noticed the pleasing line of his jaw, the strength and sensitivity of the hand that held the cigarette, and a warmth stirred deep within her. As though in response he turned his head and met her gaze, and as if it was the most natural thing in the world, his hand found hers and squeezed it gently.
Sarah sat very still, knowing that some understanding had shifted between them without her meaning it to. She wasn’t sure what to do now, whether she wanted it. She stared down at her hand lying in his and very gently withdrew it.
As the warmth of the day faded, the tea was cleared away and the tablecloths lifted in a sudden chill breeze. As though at an unseen signal the guests began to depart. ‘Goodbye, goodbye.’ Lady Kelling seemed delighted to see them go, though Sir Henry was warmer, shaking hands with everyone and wishing them well. The Bailey women and the Richards left together, but Ivor hung back to walk with Sarah. He pointed out to her a narrow lane she hadn’t noticed before. It skulked away in the shadow cast by the high wall of the kitchen garden.
‘Let’s go down this way. There’s something I want to show you.’
‘Do you think we should?’ Sarah looked back at the house, but the front door was closed now and no one seemed to be watching.
‘Yes, of course, why not.’ She signalled her intentions to her mother, then followed Ivor down the secret lane, along where the wall was green with moss and ferns. Soon they crossed the parkland into an untidy thicket where Sarah needed to step across muddy patches on the footpath. Trees grew up all around and the gloom intensified. Suddenly Ivor stopped. The way ahead was blocked by a snarl of barbed wire. Beyond was an expanse of water overhung by great trees that sheltered it from the wind. Flies played in the air above. Mysterious rays of light danced off its obsidian surface or made rainbows out of rising bubbles.
‘This is what you wanted me to see?’
‘Yes, it’s the old manor stew pond. It’s a special place I used to come to when I was younger. Rather atmospheric, I always thought. There are still fish – you’ll see one in a moment.’ As they watched, a flicker of movement in the middle of the pond rippled its mirror stillness. ‘No one else ever comes here. Not even the village boys as far as I know. It’s because of the ghost, they say.’
‘A haunted pond? Oh really, Ivor.’ But her laugh sounded wrong in this place, as though she’d broken some unspoken rule.
‘I’ve never seen anything, but I’m showing you this because it’ll help you understand the Kellings. This is where it happened, you see. They had a son, little Henry, their firstborn. He drowned here when he was four or five. Ran away from his nanny, so the story goes. He liked to come and watch the fish. I suppose he leaned too far trying to catch one. Anyway, they were devastated, as you may imagine. The son and heir. So now there’s no boy to inherit the title or the estate and it’s said they blame each other. Sad, isn’t it?’
‘Dreadful,’ Sarah breathed. ‘Simply dreadful.’ Up from the depths of her mind a memory came unbidden. A curtain of white toile rising and falling in a draught, and the sound of a woman sobbing and wailing. And suddenly the pressing weight of sadness felt so great that it was hard to keep back tears. She swung away from the pond and Ivor, the panic rising inside. Why was he doing this? How could he be so cruel?
‘Sarah? Sarah, are you all right?’ His hands gripped her shoulders. She pushed them off and, stumbling back to the path, began to hurry away. His voice came from behind, panicky, pleading. ‘Sarah, what’s wrong?’
She snapped, ‘Nothing, Ivor. Nothing. I’ll be all right if you let me be.’ Her pace quickened into a run.
‘But what have I said?’ He hurried in her wake.
She spun round to confront his puzzled face. ‘Don’t you remember?’ she hissed. For a moment she wondered with puzzlement if anyone had ever told him, but surely they had. ‘Peter. You must know about Peter.’
She saw the horror dawn on Ivor’s face. ‘Oh God yes, yes. Sarah, I’m sorry, I’d completely forgotten. I shouldn’t have . . . I didn’t mean to . . . Sarah!’
Walking faster, fists clenched in anguish, she reached the shadow of the garden wall, turned its corner towards the road and bumped into the all too solid figure of Paul, who was emerging from the kitchen garden, a hoe across one shoulder.
‘Whoa! Sarah!’ He held her steady. She stood panting, confused, just as Ivor barrelled round the corner. Seeing Sarah with Paul, he pulled up short, his expression of distress darkening to anger.
‘Let her go, Hartmann. The situation is perfectly under control.’
‘If you say so.’ Paul withdrew his hand from Sarah’s arm, giving Ivor a shrewd look that belied the mildness of his words. ‘Are you all right, Sarah? I’m sorry, I didn’t see you coming.’
‘I’m completely fine, thank you. Thank you, both of you,’ Sarah managed to say with a catch in her voice. ‘I really ought to go home now. Ivor, it’s been a splendid afternoon, but we’ll say goodbye here.’
‘Let me walk with you down to the gate.’
‘No, I’ll find my own way. Really.’ All she knew was that she wanted to be by herself. As she set off down the hill, she was aware of the two men staring after her.
Her feet took her home automatically. She certainly didn’t notice her surroundings, for her thoughts were too agitated. The fluttering curtain and the woman crying were all she could remember now of the day her little brother died, but the sorrow the memory evoked was deep. She’d managed not to think about it for years and years, but the silent pond, the host of midges hovering over its surface and Ivor’s tragic tale had brought back the sadness and bewilderment, of waking in bed and watching the toile curtain billow and sway and hearing the commotion beyond her bedroom door. The baby had simply not woken up that morning. The ayah’s wailing had filled the bungalow.
All those years and she did not remember Peter’s name being spoken. She did not remember the funeral, and thought perhaps that she didn’t attend. Their father had sat her down and, with Diane on his knee, had told them Peter had gone to heaven to be with the angels. For a long while she’d carried the happy image in her mind of her little brother with his dreaming eyes lying smiling in the grass surrounded by tumbling winged cherubs. Perhaps her mother had spoken to her when it happened, but if so she had no memory of it. Once, at school in England she had read Peter Pan and to the puzzlement of the other girls had sobbed uncontrollably when she’d reached the scene where Peter returns to the house but finds himself shut out by his mother, who had forgotten him.
How her mother had borne this sadness she did not know. Mrs Bailey’s response to life’s troubles was essentially a practical one, to lose herself in daily tasks. Admirable, some people thought. Hence she had declined to be an Indian widow, waiting in seclusion in hope of another husband in India – and there was no doubt in Sarah’s mind that she’d have found one; she was much admired. Instead, she’d sized up the dangers of the international situation and taken the sensible decision to return with the girls at once to England.
When Sarah reached Flint Cottage it was to find welcome tranquillity, her mother and sister sitting lazily in the garden with Ruby setting the dining room table for supper.
‘Where did you disappear to?’ Mrs Bailey asked, stubbing out her cigarette.
Sarah dropped her hat onto the table and sank down in an empty chair. ‘Oh, just for a walk with Ivor,’ she said, suspicious of the glint of interest in her mother’s eye.
‘My godson has turned out well, I think, and his prospects are good. I daresay many young women would regard him as quite a catch.’
Sarah glanced at her mother with annoyance. ‘I expect you’re right,’ was all she said. She had never confided in her mother on such matters and wasn’t going to start now. Beside her, Diane cast her magazine aside with a deep sigh and went indoors.
Ivor Richards. Was she interested in him or was she not, Briony asked herself as she weeded the rose bed after supper. She breathed in the sweet fragrance of the huge white blooms and considered the matter. He was attractive and she was drawn to him because of that, but aspects of him irritated her. She did not like the way he treated Paul Hartmann – as though the German man were inferior – and she feared that something, his disappointed father’s expectations maybe, had wounded his sense of himself.
She wondered sometimes at her cold response to most men. She had had several suitors in India – of course she had, the place was full of red-blooded bachelors desperate for an English bride – but the only man she’d fallen in love with, ten years older than her, a fascinating but cynical type, had not felt as strongly about her. She’d let him make love to her, then bravely brooded over her hurt feelings in secret. Perhaps he’d spoiled her for good.
In the garden, the light was beginning to fade. She batted at a cloud of gnats and looked up to see Diane close by, watching her, a woollen shawl drawn tightly over her slender shoulders.
‘Do come in and play bezique, Saire.’ Diane loved playing cards and board games.
‘In a moment. Why don’t you set up the card table?’
‘All right. I say, aren’t they beautiful, so pure.’ Diane reached out a hand and touched a full-blown rose. ‘Oh,’ she cried, as its petals floated to the earth. ‘Did I do that?’
Her voice was so anguished it tore at her sister’s heart. ‘Don’t worry, Diane. It was ready to go, that’s all.’
Her sister’s sensitivity as usual alarmed Sarah. What would happen when she went away to college? How would Diane survive? A common-sense part of her asserted itself. Of course she’d be all right. Diane had friends – Jennifer and Bob Bulldock and their circle. Still, there was something very childlike about Diane. Her pale, delicate beauty had attracted one or two of the wrong sort in India, bullies or effetes. Her father, as ever her defender, had caused one to be posted a thousand miles away, simply to rid Diane of the man’s boorish attentions. Diane was another reason for Mrs Bailey’s decision to return to England. At least one knew the kind of families who lived in Norfolk.
‘Where did you go with Ivor today?’ Diane said. She was looking down at a petal on her palm and running her thumb lightly over its soft hollow.
‘He showed me an old path that led to a rather desolate spot, Westbury’s old stew pond, you know, where the lords of the manor kept their fish stocks, though they don’t use it any more. Don’t ever go there, dear. I found it rather creepy.’ She decided against telling the story of the drowned Kelling boy. Instead she asked suddenly, ‘Di, do you remember anything much about Peter?’
Diane looked up, her eyes troubled, then a serenity came into them. ‘Our brother? Not really, no; I was only three, wasn’t I? There was something wrong with him. That’s why he died, wasn’t it?’
‘I think he wasn’t . . . like other babies.’
‘He didn’t sit up or crawl, did he?’
‘No. Poor little chap.’ She recalled touching his silky brown hair, the way he stared up at her from his pram as if in silent wonder, and grief twisted deep inside her.
‘So I expect it was a good thing that he died really.’
‘Oh, Diane! You are . . . surprising.’ Perhaps Diane was right. That might have been why their parents had appeared to accept his death. She tried to imagine her mother with an older Peter. Adult even. And couldn’t. Of course, there were institutions that would have had him. In England, anyway. She didn’t know what would have happened in India, didn’t like to think about it. There were so many appalling things the people there had to endure.
Diane let the petal fall. ‘I’ll go and lay out the cards,’ she said. ‘Don’t be long, Saire, will you?’ and Sarah watched her walk lightly away through the evening light, puzzled as ever by the changing surfaces of her sister’s moods.
‘It’s only a matter of time.’ Early August and once again Ivor was visiting. It was a Saturday afternoon, and he and Sarah were lounging on chairs in the shade, drinking Mrs Allman’s excellent lemonade. Diane was over at the Bulldocks’ and Mrs Bailey was upstairs helping Ruby deal with a moth infestation in a clothes chest. Ivor had found Sarah picking blackcurrants and assisted until she scolded him for eating too many and it had grown too hot anyway so she decided they had enough for supper and packed it in.
Ivor had been away for nearly a month and as he wasn’t much of a letter writer this was the first time they’d really exchanged news for a while.
‘Anyone who thinks war can be avoided is deluding themselves. Look at the overtures Hitler’s making to Russia. It’s obvious that they’ll make their move on Poland and then we’ll be obliged to honour our promises. Believe me, these rehearsals with blackout curtains and whatnot are only the start of it. It’ll be the real thing soon.’
‘Jennifer’s father is still adamant it won’t happen. He thinks Hitler doesn’t want to go to war with us at all, that he doesn’t view us as an enemy.’
‘In which case the Führer’s putting up the wrong signals. What was his Graf Zeppelin doing off the coast at Lowestoft? Visiting the beach for the day?’
Sarah laughed, then was sober again. If there were to be war . . . she knew she shouldn’t think selfishly of her own life, but she wouldn’t go away to college. She’d be a land girl, she thought suddenly. That would suit her best. Somewhere near home it would have to be.
When she surfaced from her thoughts it was to see Ivor studying her, a round-eyed expression on his face as though he was working himself up to something.
‘What is it, Ivor?’ She wondered whether she’d offended him. It was difficult to be natural with him sometimes. She couldn’t simply say what came into her head as she had been able to do with her father. Was that the kind of girl she was, the type who would never marry because she was in love with her father? She smiled privately at her own nonsense.
Ivor started to speak, checked himself, then as she watched, fascinated, he blew out his cheeks and resolution came into his face. ‘I was thinking, Sarah, simply this. That if there is a war and I have to go away then, well, I’d like to think that I had a girl at home who was waiting for me. And if that girl were you then, well, I don’t know, but I’d be the happiest man alive.’ The resolution had quite gone and Sarah was struck instead by the naked vulnerability of his expression. His eyes were bright with emotion and his brow crumpled with tension. She didn’t want to hurt him, but nor, she realized, did she want what he offered.
‘Ivor,’ she said, trying to be gentle, ‘we’re not at war yet and there’s no need for any rush. We haven’t known each other very long and . . . I don’t know that it feels right yet.’
‘You haven’t been long here in Westbury, no, but we’ve known of each other all our lives. Our families being so close . . . And my parents approve. In fact they would like it very much.’
‘My mother would too,’ Sarah conceded with a sigh, ‘but we can’t always do what our parents want.’ Impatience was constricting her chest and shortening her breath.
‘Sarah, please, just listen . . .’
‘No, Ivor, don’t.’ She rose with a flounce of her skirt and began to pace the terrace, trying to control the feelings of frustration. Just as she’d been planning to govern her own destiny, duty to family always closed in again, smothering her attempts at independence.
She tired of pacing and returned to her seat, where she drew up her knees and clasped her arms around them. ‘I need time,’ she said to put him off, but she could hardly bear to look at him, knowing there would be disappointment in his eyes.
War came despite what anyone said. Each day in August the people of Westbury felt it grow inexorably closer. One morning stacks of sandbags appeared outside the village hall. The Bailey household’s gas masks hung in the hall like harbingers of doom. Strangers with brisk voices came knocking at all hours of the day, asking impertinent questions about their circumstances, ticking off items on lists. In shops and in bus queues the air was thick with rumour of air raids and spies.
Then came a Sunday in early September when the church was full of grave country faces. Mr Tomms prayed for peace, but when they went home in the beautiful sunshine it was to hear on their wirelesses that Britain was at war with Germany.