Page 37 of Last Letter Home
‘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.
