The Choice Read online

  “I’m afraid it is.” Michael’s eyes are on her face, anticipating trouble. “The paintings in his studio and on these walls are yours. All his other worldly possessions belong to you. And the car. And he’s left Vera two hundred and fifty guineas.”

  “Good heavens!” Vera takes the envelope Michael gives her with shaking hands. “I’ve never had such an enormous sum of money in my life!”

  “But,” Michael continues, his voice a lawyer’s monotone, “the rest of Walter’s money, after the payment of death duties and funeral costs, goes to a man called Felix Mitchell.”

  Anne shrills, “Felix who?”

  “Felix Mitchell. I can only tell you his name. I can’t divulge anything else.”

  “But who on earth is he?”

  “I’m sorry, Anne, that’s all I can say.” Michael hurries on, determined to get to the end of the dreadful business. “There’s one last bequest. Walter owned a small cottage in St Ives, in Cornwall. He’s bequeathed it to you, Eleanor, to use as you think fit.”

  This takes Eleanor completely by surprise. Colour flushes her cheeks.

  “Cornwall?” Anne twists a handkerchief between her fingers. “A cottage? I’d no idea Walter owned any property. When we met, he had a shabby rented flat in London.” She looks across at Eleanor, her eyes blazing with disbelief. “And he hated the sea. When we went on holiday, it was always to the Lake District. Nothing would drag him to a beach anywhere in the world.”

  Michael drinks his tea in several long gulps. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad tidings, Anne. Believe me, if I could have done anything to change Walter’s mind, I would have done so. But it’s not my job to question or interfere, merely to implement my client’s wishes.”

  Anne bursts out, “You might have warned me. I’d have been able to discuss the matter with Walter… What kind of a friend do you think you are?”

  “One that can keep matters strictly confidential. In my professional opinion—”

  “Hang your profession! I need a brandy!” She adds reluctantly, “Will you join me? Vera, would you like one?”

  “Thank you.” Michael looks as if he needs one. “I don’t wish to hammer home the point, Anne, but you’ll need to see Robin Parker. Put your affairs in the best possible order. I don’t know any details of your own bank account, of course. But in Walter’s, there will be nothing.”

  “Christ Almighty!” Anne swirls the golden liquid around her glass. “I don’t have a separate account! I’d better enjoy this brandy while I can. It looks as if tomorrow we’ll be living on bread and gruel!”

  Vera takes her drink and tactfully leaves the room, holding the precious envelope. Michael sips his brandy. The colour returns to his cheeks. His eyes shine with relief: he’s done his legal duty. He looks at Eleanor.

  “If you’d like to meet me next week, I can give you the details of your inheritance. An estate agent in St Ives has been looking after it. When you go down there, he’ll give you the keys, show you the ropes.”

  Anne pours herself a second, larger brandy. “Would you believe it?” She shoots a venomous look at Eleanor. “My daughter’s now a woman of property while I’m penniless. There’s a turn-up for the god-awful books!” She stands up, swaying on her feet. “I think you’d better go, Michael. I’m this close to smashing my brandy glass over your professional head!”

  Eleanor slams the front door behind her. For the first time in her life she’s so angry with her father she scarcely knows what to do. She walks briskly to St Mary Magdalene, into the graveyard. An air of desolation hangs over the place. She stops at her father’s grave, stares down at the headstone.

  Walter Drummond 1886-1936

  Beloved Husband and Father

  We Shall Remember You

  “What on earth were you thinking, Daddy?” Eleanor spits out in a cold whisper. “Have you any idea what a state Mummy’s in? You’ve left us penniless. And what the hell’s teeth am I supposed to do with a cottage in Cornwall? It might as well be the other side of the world. All I can say is, I hope you’re looking down on us now and feeling our pain. Because I’ve never hurt quite so much as I do today.”

  Will there be anything else, sir?

  Woodstock, 1936

  Felix Mitchell sits quiet as a stone in the corner of the bar in The Bear Hotel. He sits so still for so long the barman comes over to him, concerned that his skin-and-bone customer might have died in his shabby boots without anyone noticing.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “What?” Felix rouses himself, glances at the barman under the rim of his hat.

  “We’re closing the bar, sir… I believe you have a room upstairs?… Is there anything—”

  “No, thank you.” Felix clambers to his icy feet. “Wait a minute… May I have a whisky? Make it a double.” He staggers towards the bar. “Had a bit of a shock.”

  The barman, who’s had a very long day, doesn’t want to hear any details. He hands over the drink, takes one himself and turns down the lamp.

  For his part, Felix would never want to talk about Walter to anyone in Woodstock. The only exception is Walter’s daughter, Eleanor Drummond.

  He’d been planning to meet her. To leave her a note telling her he’d be at the funeral. Could she spare him five minutes of her time, afterwards?

  But hearing those men… Their voices clang like church bells in his ears.

  Hearing those men has changed everything.

  Now all he wants is to go to the funeral, get the whole fucking thing over and done with. To catch the trains home, one after the other, as fast as they’ll let him.

  How on earth has the man he loves beyond all others acquired such a vile reputation? What on God’s earth had Walter done?

  Felix lies flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. It’s two in the morning but he can’t sleep. Those words he heard in the bar thunder through his head. The bastards must have been lying. Perhaps there’s a second funeral in Woodstock later in the day? Another group of mourners? More tears, but not shed for his own beloved Walter?

  He counts on his cold fingers underneath the crisp linen… In nine hours’ time, he’ll attend the service. Within the little space of nine hours the man he loves above all others will be covered in lumps of frozen mud.

  Those bastards he overheard downstairs… Where are they now? He longs to confront them, take them by their scrawny necks, drag them to a river, push them in and sit on their heads until they bubble their final obscenities to the dying crescent of watery moon. How he’d bay with laughter then. Oh, how he would laugh.

  At six o’clock, still frantic and wide awake, burning with anger but frozen with cold, he throws aside his bedclothes. He hears signs of life in the street. A horseman clatters up. His steed whinnies and stamps. A milk cart rattles; a street sweeper sings. A second horse flings himself down the road. His tired, bad-tempered rider swears at the groom, demanding ale and food, he’s famished, there was a roadside robbery, the times are rough as well as cold, he’s sick to death of the master who serves him ill.

  Felix hears them all.

  He climbs stiffly out of bed. He takes the flannel beside the bowl of water and douses himself. He starts to scrub and to scour every inch of his skin. Wet and naked, raw as a peeled radish, he stands by the window, looking out.

  He has got to face it: getting dressed in whatever clothes he has stuffed into his hold-almost-nothing bag. Chomping through breakfast. Pushing his way through the church-goers. Watching as Walter in his coffin comes trundling past his shoulder.

  God give me courage for I need it now.

  His stomach growls.

  Feed me, why don’t you? Warm milk with honey. Make me swallow it.

  Where is my Mummy?

  My Daddy will soon be under the cold earth.

  He’ll
shut his ears to everything people around him say, just in case it gets worse. He’ll stand and sing hymns at the ceremony, pretending they’re for a distant relative for whom he barely cared. He’ll saunter back to the hotel as if he were out for a daily stroll. He’ll tip the waiter and check out of The Bear.

  Then he’ll make a run for it. Dash through Woodstock to the main road. Hitch a ride on a cart. Maybe fling himself on top of one, if the driver isn’t looking. Reach Oxford station. Leap on the first suitable train. Keep everything tight so tight together until he reaches Driftwood.

  God, how he longs for his oak door, the silence as he closes it, the wooden stairs, his new shoes waiting for his old feet, his untidy bedroom with the sheets that smell of turpentine, his marvellous paint-spattered attic.

  Home sweetest home.

  Felix stares at his white face in the mirror on the wall.

  He makes himself a promise.

  He’ll speak to nobody. He’ll listen to nobody. He will become nobody.

  Until he reaches home.

  Finding a Key

  Woodstock, 1936

  After Michael Humphreys has left, Anne rages around the house, kicking the furniture, hurling cushions to the floor. At eight o’clock she takes to her bed.

  “I’m nursing my wounds,” she tells Eleanor, her voice icy. “Your father has slapped me in the face. After twenty years of marriage… I dedicated myself to him, gave him the best years of my life… He had the freedom of this house, my loyalty and devotion, an intelligent daughter, all the support for whatever artistic project he adopted, tea parties for his art groups.” She stares furiously across the room. “And this is how he repays me. I’ve never been so humiliated!”

  Huddled by the fire but still shivering, Eleanor asks, “Will you see Robin Parker?”

  “I suppose I’ll have to, before the bailiffs arrive.” Anne punches a pillow, flings her head against it. “We need to find money from somewhere. There are only so many meals you can skip before starvation sets in… I can’t get a job, I’m not trained to do anything but run this house.” Her voice tightens. “I’ll probably have to sell it. Imagine that! I’ve never lived anywhere else in my life.”

  “No,” Eleanor says firmly. “This house is our only asset. There must be another way. We’ll sell everything we can, but not the house.”

  Suddenly she realises how much she loves the place – and how fiercely she’s prepared to fight for it. It’s one of the prettiest and certainly the oldest house in Woodstock. Its central hall leads on either side to an elegant drawing room and a spacious dining room. Beyond them lie Vera’s kitchen and scullery, their small garden, and Walter’s studio. Upstairs are four bedrooms and a large, cool bathroom, and on the second floor some useful attic rooms used for storage: mostly Walter’s clutter, and space for live-in servants.

  When Walter had been alive, the house felt as if every inch was full. He only had to be in a room for five minutes and it would be deluged in strewn newspapers, smoked pipes, a clutter of friends or students and the sound of voices and laughter. Now, the three of them float in a pall of tidiness and silence.

  “Vera offered me her two hundred and fifty guineas.” Anne’s eyes spark with tears. “Isn’t she the kindest?… Of course I said no. But how can I pay her wages with nothing in the bank? And I couldn’t possibly manage without her. She does the work of three people and never complains.”

  “I have some jewellery.” Eleanor stands up, pushing her frozen hands into her woollen sleeves, trying to warm them. She peers out of the window to reassure herself. Normal life does still exist beyond her nightmare. People walk to the pubs and shops, talking, laughing, without a care. How she envies them.

  “Those pearls Daddy gave me last August on my eighteenth birthday. I can sell them to tide us over. I noticed a similar necklace in an Oxford jewellers. It was on sale for two hundred pounds. I can try to get the same.”

  “But you adore the pearls. They look enchanting on you.”

  “We must be practical. Anyway I’ve only worn them three times. Once on my birthday and twice last Christmas. I didn’t dare take them to College in case they were stolen.” Eleanor rushes on, to hide the choke in her voice. “And there must be six or seven paintings in Daddy’s studio that’ll fetch a decent price.” She turns to face her mother. “We’ll have to be strong and resourceful.”

  “I feel weak as a kitten.” Anne wrings her hands. “I expect at this very moment that Felix Mitchell fellow is drinking himself silly in a public house, celebrating his good fortune.”

  Keen to avoid discussing him, Eleanor says quickly, “I’m going to London on Monday with Kathleen, if you don’t mind my leaving you. She wants to see King George’s lying-in-state. I’ll take the pearls and sell them in Bond Street… And there’s The Topaz Gallery in St John’s Wood. Daddy sold lots of paintings there. Maybe they’ll buy some more.”

  “You’re being so sensible, Eleanor.” Anne dabs her eyes. “And you’re not going back to Somerville, are you? Promise me.”

  “I promise.” Eleanor opens the door. “I’ll write to Miss Darbishire. If I can’t even pay my fees, returning to College is out of the question.”

  “I’m so glad, darling. After the horrendous news this afternoon, I couldn’t stand any more. I’m sure it’s the right choice.”

  “The choice has been made for me,” Eleanor says bitterly. “I don’t really have one to make.”

  On Sunday, Eleanor wakes early. She lights the fire in her freezing room, takes a quick bath, pulls on her oldest clothes. She spends an hour unpacking her suitcases, filing her College papers, stacking her books. Then she writes two letters: one to Miss Darbishire, the other to Robert Clark. Before Vera or Anne have woken, she slips out to the post-box.

  Back in her room, she takes out the precious pearls. The single-stranded necklace glows lustrous and seductive in her palm. She tries to forget it had been her father’s special birthday gift. Tomorrow she’ll wear her best suit and smartest winter coat. Put on the bravest front she can muster. And sell the strand of pearls as if she doesn’t give a jot.

  In the kitchen she makes a pot of tea, takes a cup to her mother.

  “I’ll be in the studio all morning. I’m going to tidy the place up, sort out Daddy’s paintings. Decide what we can sell.”

  “Rather you than me, Eleanor. The place is a disgusting mess… I don’t suppose you want to sell the car?”

  “Definitely not.” Eleanor stares down at the thin figure huddled beneath the bedclothes. “I need it. I’ll have to get a job. It won’t come to me, I’ll have to go and find one. The car could be my lifeline.”

  “Oh, God!” Anne sits up, her face pale, her eyes anxious. “I just know you’re going to leave me all alone in this great big house!”

  “Don’t talk nonsense, Mummy.” Eleanor’s patience begins to wear thin. “You have Vera, and I haven’t even begun to make decisions… Now drink your tea, have a bath and eat a decent breakfast. And go to church, like you always do—”

  “As if nothing has happened?”

  “Life must go on, Mummy. Moping about won’t achieve anything.” Eleanor adds slyly, “And staying in bed all day is terribly bad for the complexion.”

  That seems to do the trick. Her mother’s hands fly to her face and hair.

  Walter’s studio is in such a mess Eleanor scarcely knows where to start. It’s hard to throw anything out. When she finds a scrap of paper that’s clearly bound for the bin, she feels as if she’s throwing out a part of her father. But she makes herself stick at it. The anger she feels at the terms of his will certainly help. Every time she begins to feel sentimental, her fury spurs her on.

  There are six paintings good enough to sell: all landscapes of Blenheim, done at different times of the year. The lake in summer, glittering with light. Autumn woodland, full of myster
ious golden shadows. In Walter’s desk Eleanor finds some invoices. They give her an idea how much he would have expected for them.

  And then, rummaging through the single desk drawer, Eleanor finds a battered red-leather purse. She hauls it out. The leather is stiff, its colour stained from a rich crimson through to dark brown. The purse is topped by a rusty brass clasp. Eleanor snaps it open.

  Inside lies a small brass key.

  Eleanor frowns. It’s a very odd find. She’d never seen her father using it. So why had he kept it? There’s nothing in the studio that even needs a key. Had the purse always belonged to her father – and which piece of furniture in their house might have a locked drawer?

  She slides the purse back into place. She has neither the time nor the patience to deal with it now. When she has sorted out their money problems, she’ll find the key’s proper home…

  The Strand of Pearls

  London, February 1936

  On the train to Paddington next morning, Eleanor and Kathleen have the carriage to themselves for an hour. As they lurch through the outskirts of Oxford and across the snow-bound fields, Eleanor tells her friend about Walter’s demand to find the mysterious Moira – how the very name of the woman is beginning to haunt her dreams. About the equally mysterious Felix Mitchell and his inheritance. About their sudden, devastating lack of money, Anne’s misery, Eleanor’s own enforced decision to leave Somerville – and her astonishment at owning a cottage in St Ives.

  Kathleen listens carefully, her eyes dark with concern.

  “Mummy went to church yesterday at my insistence. Then she invited her best friend to tea. I heard her telling Sylvia Dunkley about our predicament. It was such a mistake. Mrs Dunkley is one of Woodstock’s biggest gossips. The whole of Woodstock will have heard about us by now.”

  “But your mother needs a friend, Ellie. Better that than not havin’ anyone, now she has no husband.” Kathleen tries to make Eleanor smile. “You could always get a job at the Palace. His Grace adores competent chefs… Or how do you fancy trainin’ to be a lady’s maid in Kensington?”