The Choice Page 7

  As Walter clutches the banisters and hauls himself upstairs, Anne turns to Eleanor. “Run round to Dr Fagg. Say you’re sorry to disturb him on a Sunday, but this is an emergency.”

  Eleanor summons the doctor, but when he arrives, Walter flaps him away.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Doc, on a Sunday and all,” he murmurs. “I’m fine. Just got a bit of a headache. No need to examine me. My wife has done a great job, patching me up. She’ll give you a bell in the morning.”

  They sit with Walter in turns, reluctant to leave him, half expecting him to leap to his feet, declare that he’s quite better and will go to his studio. Eleanor remembers a morning several years ago when she’d found him working on a canvas, feverish and dripping with sweat.

  “Nothing like hard work to get rid of a touch of ’flu,” he told her. “Never been one to lie around like an invalid.”

  They eat Anne’s birthday luncheon in reluctant relays, the roast lamb and golden potatoes growing cold on their plates. Hastily, Eleanor wraps her mother’s present. She puts it under several others in the drawing room, pretending it’s been there all day. Nobody cuts Vera’s homemade birthday cake with its crisp white icing and luscious fruity heart.

  Walter dozes. He wakes with a start, saying he has a raging thirst and a thumping headache. Then he falls once again into a fretful sleep.

  Eleanor stands at the drawing-room window of the silent house. The wind drops; the snow dies in mid-air. The freezing afternoon darkens into dusk. By four o’clock, the streets lie deserted. Lights shine out onto the snow. Curtains flick across windows. Sunday is not just quiet, it’s dead.

  “I’m exhausted.” Anne rustles into the room and flops into a chair by the fire. “Vera’s keeping watch… Be a dear girl and pour me a brandy.” She swirls the liquid around the glass. “Cheers! God Almighty, Eleanor… This is no way to turn forty.”

  “You haven’t opened your birthday presents.”

  “No.” Anne gulps and frowns. “I’m not doing that without your father. We always open them together after luncheon. They can wait until tomorrow. He’s sure to be better by then.”

  At six o’clock Eleanor realises she can’t leave her mother and Vera to manage the night watch on their own. She’ll send a telegram in the morning to Miss Lascelles, her tutor at Somerville. There’s only one College telephone and nobody answers it after five in the afternoon.

  In her cold room, her hand shaking, Eleanor writes a message:

  Unable to return to college stop father injured in accident stop apologies stop hope to return to somerville tomorrow stop eleanor drummond

  She leaves the note on her desk and goes into her parents’ bedroom. Quietly, she moves across the floor to sit beside the bed.

  “Ellie…” Walter’s eyes flicker at her. “I’m glad you’re on your own.” The hand he reaches out to her feels burning hot. “I need to tell you something.”

  “Hush, Daddy. Go to sleep and tell me in the morning.”

  “No.” A spasm of pain crosses his face. “I must do it now. I always meant to explain to you and your mother.”

  “Shall I fetch her?”

  “No, it’s you I need to talk to.” He swallows. “I love you very much.”

  A helpless laugh of relief chokes Eleanor’s throat. “That goes without saying—”

  “You don’t understand. I’ve let far too much go without saying, for far too long.” Walter raises his head, his eyes fierce, his grip tightening. “Promise me one thing.”

  “Anything. Name it.” A tide of alarm swamps Eleanor’s relief.

  “Find Moira for me.” Walter’s grip slackens; his head falls onto the crumpled pillow. “Just find her for me. Tell her I’m sorry.”

  “Moira?” Eleanor frowns. “Moira who? I’ve never heard of her. I don’t know anyone called Moira.”

  “You’ll know her when you see her.” Walter’s eyes close, his hands lie limply by his side. “She’s much too beautiful for you to miss.”

  “I don’t understand, Daddy.” Eleanor bends towards him. The wound on Walter’s forehead is bleeding again. The smell of the bandage makes her feel nauseous. “Where should I look? When did you last see her?”

  “I have a terrible pain in my stomach,” Walter murmurs. “Moira will know how to stop it. She’ll tell me with her marvellous deep voice.”

  “I promise to find her for you, Daddy. Don’t fret, now.” Eleanor stands up, feeling faint. The floor seems to tip away in a lopsided fashion. “Your bandage needs changing. I’ll ask Vera to bring you a fresh one.” Heat from her father’s body pulses towards her. The fever has come on so fast; its ferocity takes her by surprise. “Lie quietly. I won’t be long.”

  On the landing, Eleanor hesitates. She longs for the privacy and silence of her bedroom, but she knows her father should not be left alone. If he has a high fever, maybe she should call on Dr Fagg again? At the very least, she must warn her mother.

  Dragging her feet, she walks downstairs.

  As she and her mother go back to Walter’s room, Eleanor sees with a shock that the bed is empty. One of the pillows is stained with blood. Walter is standing by the window. He has pulled the curtain aside and stares into the night, tapping his fingers on the sill. Eleanor flings an arm around his shoulders.

  “She’s out there somewhere, Ellie,” Walter murmurs. “How many times have I stood at this window, longing to see her?”

  “I’m over here, darling!” Anne’s voice, sharp with anxiety, rings across the room. She rips off the stained pillow-case, replaces it with a fresh one. “Come back to bed. Give that wound a chance to heal.”

  Walter turns to face Eleanor, desperation in his eyes. He looks hunted and guilty, as if he’s a fox who has killed a dozen chickens, and he’s caught in the farmer’s torchlight beam.

  He mutters, “Your mother couldn’t possibly understand.” He clutches Eleanor’s arm. “Don’t breathe a word.”

  “Please, Walter, be sensible.” Anne tucks him in. “Lie quietly and get some sleep. I’ll sit with you for the rest of the night.” She signals to Eleanor. “Let’s have some lemon tea… You’ll be right as rain in the morning.”

  Anne and Walter, meeting each other’s eyes, clasp hands.

  Eleanor sees the look that passes between them.

  She closes the door and leans against it, her heart filled with foreboding.

  Omens

  Blenheim Palace Stables,

  That Same Sunday

  Sean wakes that morning with heavy eyelids and dread rolling around in his stomach. Something is wrong… Or something is about to go wrong.

  He’ll have to go down to the stables.

  And on a Sunday, too.

  It should have been his day off to spend with his beloved girl…

  But Kathleen will understand. She always does. It’s one of the many things Sean adores about her. If he needs to work, he needs to work. It’s not about the money, nothing like that. It’s about having to be there. To serve His Grace, the Duke of Marlborough. To be the best he can possibly be at the job he’s been given, in the place he loves with all his heart.

  He flings his heavy blanket aside. His chimney-smoke breath swirls in the freezing air.

  From his cottage within the grounds of Blenheim Palace, Sean can hear the bells of St Mary Magdalene’s tower start to chime.

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Outside it’s still pitch black.

  Luckily, he knows his way in the dark.

  By nine o’clock that morning, Sean is beginning to relax. The stables are immaculate. The horses are groomed and quiet; some are even sleeping. He hums to himself. Although it’s still bitterly cold, shreds of frosty sunlight paint the stable doors with dappled lig
ht.

  Sean’s stomach rumbles with hunger. He must eat something or he’ll faint. He sits on some clean straw in a scrap of cold sunlight and unwraps his bread and cheese. Oat bread, heavy and filling. His Kath makes it in the hot, crowded, often bad-tempered palace kitchen. Cheese, churned and spicy, fresh from his friend, Dan the Dairyman. Best of all: hot, sweet tea.

  Sean eats and drinks. It’s heavenly.

  He must have nodded off, he can’t remember, but suddenly once again he’s wide awake, jolted into life, his eyes dry and burning. He’s holding the flask of tea but now it’s empty. It’s pointing directly at his face, like a gun.

  There are sounds.

  Pounding, grinding, shouting.

  Sean leaps to his feet, his body tense with dread.

  He manages to make out the words.

  “It’s that bloody Sprinter—”

  Sean opens his mouth. “What—”

  “He’s only gone and thrown Lady Helena.”

  “Christ Almighty!”

  He races for his truck.

  “They think she might have broken her neck.”

  Sean hauls himself into his vehicle. “Where—”

  “And there’s worse.”

  He clamps his freezing hands over the wheel. “Tell me.”

  “Before Sprinter started on his way to Combe, or God alone only knows where, he kicked Walter Bloody Drummond through his bloody little head.”

  Sean belches the truck into noisy, sputtering life.

  He swallows his bile and then his mirth. But it escapes. He throws back his head and laughs. Then he bends double with the joy of laughter, the marvellous irony of it. The blackness of the morning shimmers into duck-egg yellow.

  His uncle Robert, a chunky, stalwart policeman, once told Sean over their Christmas figgy pudding that the only way to deal with dead bodies is to laugh.

  Sean knows it’s going to be terrible.

  He’ll drive like a lunatic out of the Triumphal Arch and into Woodstock, screeching his brakes and ruining his tyres. At the bottom of Market Street he’ll slither left – “Mind out of my bloody way, can’t you? This is an emergency, you stupid old crone!” – towards Combe, trying, oh trying, to see the horse, craning his neck. Please God, let him spot Sprinter in a field. Any old field will do, just soon, please make it soon, before the mad creature kicks anyone else, maybe kills a child. His Grace would never forgive any of the stable boys if that happened. They could all lose their jobs. His Kath would marry him if he were living down a rabbit hole, but the two of them have so many good plans for their future…

  Sean tries to think straight. He’ll stretch out his hand for his gun while he’s driving. The minute he spots the wild creature, it’ll be screech the brakes, stop and run, stop and breathe, calmly now, steady does it, aim and shoot, before Sprinter can get him first.

  The horse is young but once he’s a dead lump of meat, he’ll be much too heavy to lift. Sean will have to go back to the Blenheim stables and shriek for help.

  By that time, word will have got around. The palace will be buzzing with the ghastly news, and on a Sunday too. Their one day of blissful Woodstock quiet will explode into smithereens There’ll be an ambulance waiting for Lady Helena, and everyone fluttering around it like gaggles of frightened chickens.

  Cock a doodle doo… Cock a doodle doo… For Christ’s sake shut up, can’t you, cock a doodle doo…

  Once Sean has found Sprinter and shot him between the eyes, he will get two of the best stable boys to help. They’ll go back to the field in Combe and winch the horse into the truck, all of them sweating like pigs on a midsummer’s day.

  And then for the worst part. Telling Sprinter’s mother that her magnificent offspring is dead. Talking to her, explaining, soothing, stroking her nose, trying not to sob with her, explaining again. Releasing Sprinter’s body to the butcher who, ruthlessly, stony-faced, will cut the marvellous horse into pieces. Chop, wham, blood spurting, the smell of blood, the colour of wine but the stench of blood.

  Then the whole of Woodstock will be able to share in a glorious thick, rich, meaty casserole. It will probably feed some families until Friday, if they hold back.

  Sean can smell it now.

  The meaty stews smouldering in Woodstock kitchens.

  Chimneys beckoning plumes of navy smoke into the night sky.

  Woodstock mouths chewing.

  Everyone feeling fed and full and finally rejoicing.

  Sean bursts into hot tears of relief. They spill their way down his cheeks.

  Bashfully he wipes them away with the back of his hands.

  He’d never want his Kath to see him crying like a baby…

  Dark and Chill

  Woodstock, That Same Sunday

  Eleanor and Vera eat supper in the kitchen, forcing themselves to swallow tomato soup and cheddar cheese on toast. Eleanor takes a tray to Anne, making sure she has some of it. Together they sit at Walter’s bedside until midnight.

  Anne hears the clock chime in the hall. She orders Eleanor to bed.

  “One of us must get some sleep. I’ll call you if I need any help.”

  Eleanor’s room is dark and chill.

  She flings herself onto her bed, too exhausted to undress, knowing she should be back in West by now, with her books, her friends, and the dying embers of her fire. Yet now Somerville seems hundreds of miles away, floating in some faraway make-believe world that dances before her eyes.

  She remembers seeing the lights shining in the window of the Principal’s room on dark nights as she walked across the lawns into the main building for her evening meal, the feeling of reassurance and security they gave her; the College’s plain but substantial meals in the long, wood-panelled dining hall with its scent of rich gravy; the din of voices grumbling about the price of theatre tickets and Fuller’s walnut cake.

  It’s a world whose rules and regulations assume massive importance. Don’t entertain men for tea in your room without permission; always wear your gown when out and about after dark; be back in College before eleven at night. The girls take the rules seriously. If they break them, they have to pay strict fines. Last term Eleanor had mistakenly stayed out after nine o’clock without putting her initials in the book. It had cost her two shillings…

  Eleanor remembers her very first morning at Somerville College…

  There are girls everywhere, mulling and crushing, their faces clean and shining, their coats brushed. Some are more confident than others. They have voices that bray like trumpets, leather-gloved hands that have never washed dishes, eyes that flirt at the raising of a man’s hat. Others hang back with a single shabby suitcase by their side, their hats perched at an awkward angle. Their new brogues have been polished for the winter term. “These will have to last you until Christmas and beyond.”

  Eleanor, Walter and Anne climb out of Walter’s car. Eleanor’s heart throbs with excitement. The morning she has been waiting for all summer has finally arrived.

  Anne says, “Goodness gracious, what a ghastly crowd! I’ve never seen so many girls in one fell swoop… I need to powder my nose.”

  Eleanor takes her arm. “Come with me. I’ll find out where the lavatories are.” She looks back at her father. “Will you wait here for us, Daddy? Will you be all right?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Walter’s eyes glisten with joy. He looks around at the girls: all those sumptuous faces, clean and shining and young. “I’ll deal with your suitcases, Ellie. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

  But when Eleanor and Anne return, Walter is nowhere to be seen.

  Then Eleanor spots a ring of girls, surrounding somebody. The girls are laughing. The somebody they are surrounding is Daddy. He’s talking and smiling. He’s sitting on a pile of suitcases, sketching the face of the most beautiful girl in the milling
throng. Tall, thick-set, wearing a soft blue-green tweed coat, she has flawless skin, a cascade of coppery curls and eyes as yellow as a cat’s.

  Walter glances up at Eleanor and Anne.

  “Darlings!” he says. “Look who we have here… Eleanor, meet Perdita Willoughby-Jones. Perdita, this is my daughter, Eleanor.”

  Perdita reaches out to shake Eleanor’s hand. “How do you do?” she says. “I hope we shall be friends.”

  Walter puts the finishing touch to his sketch. “Friends?” He gives the sketch to Perdita, bowing slightly over her gloved hand. “Of course you’re going to be friends. The very best of friends, to be sure.”

  Perdita looks at the sketch. “But that’s me!” she gasps. She looks up at Walter. “That really is exactly me, isn’t it?”

  “It absolutely is.” Walter’s eyes mist over. “I’ll have to do you in colour.”

  “Oh, colour would be amazing, Mr Drummond. Just let me know when—”

  Anne takes her husband firmly by the arm. “Some other time, Walter dear. Some other time.”

  Eleanor stands to pull off her clothes, shivering until her nightdress covers her limbs and her head hits the pillow. She falls into a restless sleep, half-hearing her mother talking to Vera, doors opening and closing, a tap running, footsteps on the stairs.

  Towards dawn, as snow falls silently against the window pane, covering it in diamonds of hard frost, she hears a stifled cry. She springs from her bed, dashes across the landing. Her father’s door stands open. Her mother sits by the bed, clutching his hand. She raises grief-stricken eyes.

  “He wanted to say goodbye, Eleanor… He wanted me to wake you… It happened so fast… I’m so sorry… Now all I can do is say it for him.”