Memories of the Storm by Marcia Willett

told her. 'And Mike too. Not that
I can call myself a poet. Not yet. But just you wait.'
    Their mother had encouraged them. John Clare
was a link between Edward and his late father,
who had been working on a biography of the poet
when he died, and she strengthened the bond as
much as she could. It was she who wrote to him
at Cambridge, inspiring him to go on weekend
pilgrimages to Helpstone to see Clare's cottage,
and to seek out such places as Emmonsales Heath,
where Clare had wandered as a child, hoping to
find the end of the world, and the remains of the
old Roman quarry at Swordy Well. Edward had
infected Michael with his enthusiasm, dragging
him along on these excursions, and soon they'd
begun to incorporate Clare's language into their
speech: 'proggling' for poking, 'soodling' for idly
sauntering, 'blea' for exposed and 'haynish' for
awkward.
    'Rather blea,' Edward might say on a winter's
afternoon up on Dunkery Beacon. 'Shall we soodle
on down to Porlock for tea?'
    Hester had picked up this language with delight
and they had drawn her into their company, young
though she was. She loved the bird poems – read to
her by her father – and knew many of them by
heart, rejoicing in the wonder, even amazement,
that Clare showed over the tiny miracles of nature
and his intimate manner of writing that seemed to
involve her personally in his own delight.
    Well, in my many walks I rarely found
    A place less likely for a bird to form
    Its nest . . .
    . . . and you and I
    Had surely passed it in our walk today
    Had chance not led us by it . . .
    . . . Stop, here's the bird – that woodman at
the gap
    Hath frit it from the hedge – 'tis olive green –
    Well, I declare, it is the pettichap!
    Not bigger than the wren and seldom seen . . .
    Edward had brought Michael home to meet them
all and soon he'd become as dear to their mother as
her own children and Blaise, their cousin. What
plans they'd made – oh, the glories to which they'd
aspired. Then the war had come – and Eleanor with
it.
    A sudden scuffle of dead leaves beside the path
and a robin flew up in a scatter of leaf-mould to
preen himself in a holly tree where berries glowed
a rich, bright crimson. Hester watched him for a
moment, listening to the delicate sweetness of his
song, and then turned to retrace her path through
the wood.
    There was no sign of Clio – perhaps she'd already
left to fetch Peter from the train – but Hester was
still thinking about the past and had temporarily
put them both from her mind. With the true
scholar's detachment she'd decided that if she were
to be able to tell Jonah the story accurately then she
needed to make notes; to try for some chronological
order and to see if there were any old snapshots
or letters that might bear out her memories.
    She kicked off her boots in the scullery, passed
through the kitchen and went into the dining-room
which, since the recent building of the breakfastroom,
had become a study. A specially designed
table, built against one wall of the room, held a
computer, a printer and a filing tray. Clio's laptop
lived on a smaller desk that stood at right angles
underneath the window. Each desk had its own
padded swivel chair and Anglepoise lamp.
    'It's only fair,' Hester had said to Clio, 'that if
you're going to be looking after me, you have the
space to work.'
    Her own work – reviewing, writing articles, assisting
her ex-pupils in their research – was still a very
important part of her life.
    Now, as she waited for her computer to boot up,
she took a notebook from a drawer and a pencil
from a black ceramic jar that had once held cheese.
She began to make headings, to jot down names
and dates, and was absorbed with her work when
the study door opened.
    'Oh, Clio.' She turned quickly, glancing at the
clock. 'Are you back already?'
    Clio stood in the doorway: her lips were pressed
together, her chin tilted, and Hester got up at once.
    'What is it?' she asked. 'Not an accident?'
    'No, not an accident.' Clio's