job?’
‘He’s a miner... or he was till this damned strike began and
his pit closed down.’
‘I see... and your work, Evie – what is it that you really
do?’
‘Can’t you guess? Francis did.’
*
In his fever, McCall wandered through time and space. Garth
had thirty rooms, attics and cellars and poky places where maids once curled up
after each long day.
Some were shut off like graves from where the dead had
risen. Aunt Lavinia’s was one such room, a little bed-sit mured at the end of a
passageway, chilly and unlit and frightening for a child.
He remembered her dressing table-cum-desk and red plush
armchair set by a tiny hob grate. Lavinia was Francis’s aunt, a widow from the
Great War who could go from happy to sad in a second.
McCall could still see her damp old eyes. But she
disappeared from his life one day and they would never tell him why.
The rug by her single bed was worn through to the threads.
Behind the curtains, bleached by the sun till their pattern was almost gone,
the husks of emptied flies spun slowly from broken webs of gossamer.
Her sensible skirts and dresses still lay in the chest of
drawers where she left them, smelling of talc and mothballs. And in the oval
photograph on the wall, she stood in front of Garth Hall, forever twenty years
old and in a pale cotton shift and so bashfully happy shortly before her
marriage. Not long after, a telegram boy would bring the worst of news from
France.
In McCall’s early, bewildered times, he thought Lavinia a
magician – an inventor of games, a teller of stories, the keeper of all the
secrets of Garth Woods.
‘Am I staying here forever?’
‘Would you like to?’
‘Can I?’
‘Of course you can. This is your home now. We’re your new
family.’
‘Are you my Mummy?’
‘No, not quite.’
‘So is Bea my Mummy?’
‘More than me, yes. But you’re very lucky – you’ve got both
of us.’
‘Who is my Daddy, now?’
‘Well, that’s Francis, isn’t it ? He’s your special new
Daddy.’
‘And where’s my other Mummy, the one I used to have?’
‘She’s gone away, my lovely.’
‘Is she coming back one day?’
‘I don’t think she is, no.’
‘Where is she, then?’
‘A long way away so it’s best you forget her. You’re Bea and
Francis’s, now.’
So he does... and he is. They possess him, body and soul and
mould the surrogate son they wanted. But McCall lacks their warrior streak. He
is made of a much lesser clay – easily broken, hard to mend. Why didn’t Helen
realise that?
‘I need to get away from all of this, Mac.’
‘All what? What do you mean?’
‘From London, all these wedding plans. It’s getting too much
for me.’
‘Why don’t we go up to Garth for a long weekend?’
‘No, I want some time for me. A bit of peace and quiet on my
own.’
‘Something’s wrong. What is it?’
‘Nothing’s wrong, honestly.’
‘So where will you go?’
‘I haven’t decided yet... somewhere wild, somewhere by the
sea.’
‘On your own?’
‘Of course on my own. Silly.’
She holds his gaze for a moment longer than needed. Does he
know then? Is this the moment he realises? She touches his cheek and smiles so
he cannot see behind her soft green eyes. A taxi arrives. Her bag is already
packed. Everything is planned. No words are spoken. So what remains fixed in
amber from that day? Her marmalade hair, back-lit by the sun, new jeans,
stone-washed, long legs wherein he would never lie again. Then she is gone with
the life growing inside her.
He would sit in St Mary and All Angels. Here, they would
have wed, have had their children baptised. McCall imagined all the revenant
faces of those whose imbricated lives of farce and tragedy had played out in
Garth, staring down the centuries at him, waiting for the next act... or the
last call. After McCall, there might be nothing. Then he would have failed
everyone.
*
Wintry farmland blurred by the carriage window as Evie made
herself small
‘He’s a miner... or he was till this damned strike began and
his pit closed down.’
‘I see... and your work, Evie – what is it that you really
do?’
‘Can’t you guess? Francis did.’
*
In his fever, McCall wandered through time and space. Garth
had thirty rooms, attics and cellars and poky places where maids once curled up
after each long day.
Some were shut off like graves from where the dead had
risen. Aunt Lavinia’s was one such room, a little bed-sit mured at the end of a
passageway, chilly and unlit and frightening for a child.
He remembered her dressing table-cum-desk and red plush
armchair set by a tiny hob grate. Lavinia was Francis’s aunt, a widow from the
Great War who could go from happy to sad in a second.
McCall could still see her damp old eyes. But she
disappeared from his life one day and they would never tell him why.
The rug by her single bed was worn through to the threads.
Behind the curtains, bleached by the sun till their pattern was almost gone,
the husks of emptied flies spun slowly from broken webs of gossamer.
Her sensible skirts and dresses still lay in the chest of
drawers where she left them, smelling of talc and mothballs. And in the oval
photograph on the wall, she stood in front of Garth Hall, forever twenty years
old and in a pale cotton shift and so bashfully happy shortly before her
marriage. Not long after, a telegram boy would bring the worst of news from
France.
In McCall’s early, bewildered times, he thought Lavinia a
magician – an inventor of games, a teller of stories, the keeper of all the
secrets of Garth Woods.
‘Am I staying here forever?’
‘Would you like to?’
‘Can I?’
‘Of course you can. This is your home now. We’re your new
family.’
‘Are you my Mummy?’
‘No, not quite.’
‘So is Bea my Mummy?’
‘More than me, yes. But you’re very lucky – you’ve got both
of us.’
‘Who is my Daddy, now?’
‘Well, that’s Francis, isn’t it ? He’s your special new
Daddy.’
‘And where’s my other Mummy, the one I used to have?’
‘She’s gone away, my lovely.’
‘Is she coming back one day?’
‘I don’t think she is, no.’
‘Where is she, then?’
‘A long way away so it’s best you forget her. You’re Bea and
Francis’s, now.’
So he does... and he is. They possess him, body and soul and
mould the surrogate son they wanted. But McCall lacks their warrior streak. He
is made of a much lesser clay – easily broken, hard to mend. Why didn’t Helen
realise that?
‘I need to get away from all of this, Mac.’
‘All what? What do you mean?’
‘From London, all these wedding plans. It’s getting too much
for me.’
‘Why don’t we go up to Garth for a long weekend?’
‘No, I want some time for me. A bit of peace and quiet on my
own.’
‘Something’s wrong. What is it?’
‘Nothing’s wrong, honestly.’
‘So where will you go?’
‘I haven’t decided yet... somewhere wild, somewhere by the
sea.’
‘On your own?’
‘Of course on my own. Silly.’
She holds his gaze for a moment longer than needed. Does he
know then? Is this the moment he realises? She touches his cheek and smiles so
he cannot see behind her soft green eyes. A taxi arrives. Her bag is already
packed. Everything is planned. No words are spoken. So what remains fixed in
amber from that day? Her marmalade hair, back-lit by the sun, new jeans,
stone-washed, long legs wherein he would never lie again. Then she is gone with
the life growing inside her.
He would sit in St Mary and All Angels. Here, they would
have wed, have had their children baptised. McCall imagined all the revenant
faces of those whose imbricated lives of farce and tragedy had played out in
Garth, staring down the centuries at him, waiting for the next act... or the
last call. After McCall, there might be nothing. Then he would have failed
everyone.
*
Wintry farmland blurred by the carriage window as Evie made
herself small
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