The Choice Page 9

  The man takes off his hat to the guard and bows. He thinks, Wait a sodding minute, this is the wrong way round. He should be saluting me for using his service.

  He orders his legs to make a leap for it. He manages to cling onto his battered, paint-spattered hold-almost-nothing suitcase, praying it won’t split at the seams. The very moment the train door has been slammed by the owner of the contemptuous thumb, the wheels hiss and churn. Hiss and churn. Hiss and churn.

  Felix Mitchell collapses onto the first seat he can find. He’s totally oblivious to an elderly gentleman whose newspaper he has flattened; of the elderly gentleman’s wife whose delicate nap he has disturbed; of the elderly gentleman’s parrot who had been preening herself the right way up in her new brass cage.

  Felix hears only the screech of his lungs. His feet sweat in their paint-spattered shoes. He has put on his old shoes by mistake. The new ones, specially bought at great expense for today’s unique occasion, are still waiting expectantly for his feet by his front door in St Ives, Cornwall. He leans forward over his knees and begins to sob. Great long lurching noisy slobbering sobs. On and on they go. He cannot hear them or stop them.

  The elderly gentleman’s outrage turns to curiosity. After five minutes of listening to and looking at this catastrophe on legs, he leans towards his wife. Pointing at the quivering lump, he raises an eyebrow.

  “Dear, do you think, dear, we ought to do something? Dear?”

  Before his devoted consort of thirty-eight years can say a word, the parrot begins to shriek. “Do it, do it, for Gawd’s sake, do it!”

  “I do rather agree with Penelope,” says the elderly gentleman’s wife. Taking command of the situation, she stands up and pulls the emergency cord.

  The train from Paddington to Oxford grinds to a screeching halt.

  Everybody groans. Then there’s a moment of petrified silence. It’s most unusual, so close to Paddington, for the train to stop.

  Then a man in uniform arrives. Navy with gold trim, the uniform makes him look a hundred times smarter than most of the people he’s guarding. He exudes an air of bossy confidence.

  Felix is escorted to his own private compartment and left there to make as much noise as he likes.

  It takes an hour for his sobs to subside.

  Gradually Felix gains consciousness.

  He mops his eyes.

  Then he opens them.

  Where am I?

  I want my Daddy. Alive and kicking, not six foot under. What use is he to me six foot under?

  Where is my Mummy?

  Where, where, where is my Mummy?

  The man in uniform quietly opens the door of Felix’s private compartment.

  “Feeling better are we, sir?”

  Felix splutters and nods. He dabs the wet handkerchief on his damp face.

  “That’s the way, sir… Very well done… Brought you a nice cup of tea.”

  Fishery Cottage

  Woodstock, 1936

  By Wednesday afternoon, Eleanor can’t bear being in the house a moment longer. She flings on the dyed black coat, which feels lightweight and peculiar, telling Vera she’ll be out for a couple of hours.

  She shuts the front door with relief, filling her lungs with the sharp, frost-filled air. She’s going to see her best friend, Kathleen Maisey: plump, down-to-earth, always cheerful, Kath will talk to her exactly as she always has, with sanity and discretion.

  Eleanor and Kathleen have been friends since childhood. They’d met at Woodstock’s elementary school where they became an immediate and inseparable pair in school activities. Their friendship widened and deepened into their home lives. Now both eighteen, they can talk to each other with freedom and confidence about anything.

  Kathleen lives in Fishery Cottage, next to Blenheim’s lake, where her father works as head gamekeeper. Kathleen’s older sister, Maud, is a lady’s maid for a wealthy family in London’s Mayfair. Maud feeds Kathleen the latest gossip about the people she laughingly calls “my high and mighty toffs”. It’s through her that Eleanor had learned about Edward’s obsessive affair with Wallis Simpson.

  When Eleanor went to Oxford’s High School for Girls to study for the Higher School Certificate, and an entrance examination for a possible place at an Oxford college, Kathleen stayed in Woodstock, leaving school to work as a senior kitchen maid in Blenheim Palace. Wednesday afternoons are her hard-earned time off.

  Eleanor skids over the frozen cobblestones, past the hairdresser, the butcher, the baker, the sweet shop, St Mary Magdalene’s – past the spot where Sprinter had attacked her father, which she dares not look at – and through the palace gates. She pauses for a moment to admire the spectacular spread of bridge, lake and cloudy sky. Then she turns right to follow the gravel path that dips to Fishery Cottage.

  There’s nobody about.

  A great spotted woodpecker, high in the conifers, hammers insistently, doing his best to hasten the arrival of spring. The flat branches of the cedars are heavy with snow. A pheasant croaks in the grass, making Eleanor jump. The marvellous colours of his plumage – scarlet, blue-green, orange-brown – shimmer against the whitened landscape. How her father would have admired the bird’s confident beauty!

  Eleanor remembers their walks together in Blenheim. Her father would suddenly tighten his grip, making her stop and look: a particular cluster of trees had taken his fancy, or the glimpse of a bluebell carpet, or the way sunlight was shooting a dazzling shaft through soft grey clouds. She clenches her fists in agony. The last time she’d walked here, Walter had been rinsing his brushes in turpentine, wiping oily fingers on his smock, gulping cold tea, puffing on his pipe, finishing that skyline.

  She remembers one particular summer afternoon as a child, running down this same path, holding Vera’s hand. Her father had been sitting beside the reeds at the lake’s edge, his easel propped, scribbling his charcoal over paper, the sun shining on his hair. He’d heard her calling him.

  “Daddy! Daddy! Here I am!”

  She’d raced across the grass towards him, the magical drone of bumble bees lulling in her ears. Her father’s eyes lit up at the sight of her. The memory is so vivid Eleanor feels she can reach out to touch him… “Daddy! My darling Daddy! Here I am!”

  Fishery Cottage looms through the mist. The waters of the lake lie frozen at the boundaries of its garden. The bare branches of the weeping willow dip and curtsey beside it. Smoke from its chimney rises in grey curls into the sky. Lights gleam at the windows.

  Kathleen meets her at the door with open arms. “My darlin’ Ellie! Sean told me what happened. What a time you’ve had! That Sprinter spelled trouble, from the moment he were born. Come in and warm yourself.”

  Eleanor buries her head in a swirl of fair curls. And as she feels Kathleen’s arms around her, the tears she has stemmed since that terrible Monday dawn finally burn her eyes and tumble down her cheeks.

  “It’s been an absolute nightmare.”

  Eleanor stuffs her wet handkerchief into her pocket. She watches Kathleen bustle around the living room, pouring tea, handing her a plate of homemade macaroons.

  “I woke up this morning and for a glorious moment I thought everything was normal. Then I remembered…” Eleanor’s voice catches in her throat. “Mummy has gone to pieces. She’s either furious and silent, or hysterical. I don’t know how to deal with her. Vera’s been marvellous, but all she can do is fuss about and try to make Mummy eat regular meals. I stand over her at night making sure she takes her sleeping pills. It’s the only time I stop worrying.”

  “And you should be at Somerville. Do they know—”

  “I sent my tutor a telegram. And I’ve made an appointment to see the principal on Saturday morning, the day after the funeral. I’m dreading it. Miss Darbishire’s a good head of college and a brilliant Wordsworth scholar – but I bar
ely know her.”

  “Will she be hard to talk to?”

  “I won’t know until I try… She wanted to see me with Mummy, but she’s in no fit state to do anything. Miss Darbishire’s not going to have much sympathy if I tell her I can’t leave my mother to fend for herself ten miles up the road. But I can’t just go back to Somerville and pretend nothing has happened.”

  “Didn’t Miss Darbishire’s father die when she were a child?”

  “Well remembered, Kath! But things were different for her. Miss Darbishire was only eleven and her father had been ill, so she had plenty of warning… Daddy’s death was so swift and brutal, like an axe felling a tree… I hope I don’t start blubbing.”

  “Well, my Sean burst into tears when he told me how he had to shoot Sprinter in a field to stop him doin’ any more damage. Now, he’s had the grooms check on every horse in the stables, and put a stop to any rider who hasn’t the proper experience. Lady Helena had only been ridin’ for a few months. Nobody warned her Sprinter could be real difficult. And she’s still in hospital.”

  “I’m sorry.” Eleanor grimaces. “The trouble is, shutting the stable door after Sprinter has bolted won’t bring my father back.”

  “May I change the subject?” Kathleen spoons sugar into her cup. “You might not want to leave your mother, but next week, on Monday, I’m goin’ to London to meet Maud. We want to see the late king’s lyin’-in-state. Will you come with me? It’ll do you good to get out of Woodstock for a few hours.”

  “I don’t know if I can leave Mummy.” Eleanor bites her lip. “Vera’s perfectly capable of looking after her for the day, but I’ll need to ask her whether she’ll mind… I’d love to come if I can.”

  “If you think you’ve got problems, spare a thought for the royal family. Maud says none of ’em think Edward wants to be king and he won’t stay the course.”

  Eleanor splutters, “Good God, Kath! Give the man a chance. He hasn’t even buried his father and he won’t be crowned until next year. You can’t write him off just yet.”

  “The problem’s that Wallis Simpson—”

  “But Edward’s had affairs with married women all his adult life, and they never last. Freda Dudley Ward, Lady Thelma Furness… Isn’t Mrs Simpson just another?”

  “Evidently not.” Kathleen looks across at Eleanor with thoughtful eyes. “Maud says Edward’s utterly besotted. If he and Wallis are separated, he writes to her every day. The day after the king died, he rang her every hour!”

  “But she’s married, Kath. Nothing serious can come of it while Ernest Simpson is her husband.”

  Kathleen stares into the fire. “If Mr Simpson doesn’t mind sharin’ his wife with the king, what else might he not mind doin’? That’s what I’d like to know.”

  A Fleeting Glimpse

  Woodstock, 1936

  On the morning of her father’s funeral, Eleanor wakes to the sound of tapping. When she sits up and calls, “Come in,” her mother pushes at the door.

  “I’ve been behaving like a monster. I owe you an apology.” Anne hovers by the window. “I’m terribly sorry, Eleanor. Forgive me?”

  Eleanor stares at her mother. Already dressed, her hair coiled into a smooth bun, she looks immaculate and stylish, in a white blouse and black suit with a tight-fitting jacket and a pencil-slim skirt that flows to within four inches of her ankles.

  “That’s all right, Mummy.” Eleanor breathes relief. In her worst nightmare, she’s had visions of her mother lying in bed all day while their funeral guests came and went. “I understand.”

  “I know you’ve been grieving too, but all I’ve managed to feel is the ferocious muddle in my own heart.” Anne brushes imaginary dust from her sleeves. “But today I’ll be a model widow. I won’t shed a single tear. I’ll be quiet and dignified, so proper that you and your father,” her voice shakes, “will be proud of me.”

  “And you look beautiful.” Eleanor holds out her arms. “Give me a hug.”

  Her mother stumbles towards her. “Mind you,” Anne gives a tremulous laugh, “when everyone has gone, I’ll cry like a baby.”

  “So shall I.” Her mother smells of Dior: the perfume she only wears on important occasions. “We’ll be big babies together.”

  Anne manages a shaky smile. “You’re a good girl, Eleanor. I’m lucky to have you.”

  Eleanor blushes, suddenly embarrassed. She slides out of bed. “Let’s have an enormous breakfast.” She flings her gown over her shoulders. “And I’m sure Vera needs help with those sandwiches.”

  The day has a surreal feel to it, as if it had been planned by someone else for a distant relative. The coffin arrives on the dot of eleven. Eleanor and Anne follow it on foot. Vera totters behind them, fluttering a handkerchief under her eyes. The rain stops, as if to let them pass. The air in the quiet, newly-washed street shines still and cold.

  Walter had been well-known in Woodstock; word of his death has spread fast. St Mary Magdalene is packed with mourners. The service, spattered with his favourite hymns, seems to race past, although Eleanor still can’t believe she’ll never hear her father’s voice again, singing in harmony with hers.

  Rosie Perkins, Walter’s favourite art-class pupil, had asked to say a few words. She trots to the front of the church, her navy coat trim and smooth over her curvaceous body, her blonde curls peeping out beneath her hat.

  She looks carefully at Anne before she speaks.

  “I make no secret of the fact I adored Walter.” Rosie’s voice trembles. Eleanor feels her mother stiffen, sees her clasping her gloved hands together. “He was the kindest, most generous-spirited man. Many of us own one of his paintings: those lovely landscapes that echo the glories of Oxfordshire with such calm radiance.

  “But Walter wasn’t only a good painter. He was a brilliant teacher: astute, kind and so encouraging to small talents. His classes grew every year. I’m not alone in sending his family our deepest sympathy. Walter will be sorely missed. Every time I pick up a paint brush, he’ll be in my thoughts.”

  As Rosie walks to her seat, Eleanor whispers, “Hold on tight, Mummy. We’re nearly there.”

  Her mother manages a brief smile through her veil.

  As the organist heaves a gentle requiem Eleanor stands up, her shoulders aching with strain. Something – she’s not sure what – calls to her: a mute, imperative summons to look behind her.

  She turns her head and stares towards the back of the church – straight into the glistening hazel eyes of a man she has never seen before. He has a thin, angular face, full, red lips and high cheekbones. He holds his hat in his hands. A swoop of straight, dark-gold hair falls untidily across his forehead. He pushes it out of his eyes, continuing to hold her gaze.

  Eleanor feels a blush rise to her cheeks. She turns away, tries to look busy: bending towards her mother, acknowledging a neighbour’s condolences, steeling herself for the ceremony at her father’s freshly-dug grave. When, almost against her will, she searches for those hazel eyes in the coldness of the graveyard, the stranger, after that fleeting glimpse, has disappeared.

  She shrugs away the memory and throws a handful of earth onto the coffin, murmuring, “Darling Daddy, I shall miss you so much. May you rest in peace.”

  By two o’clock that afternoon, Eleanor feels as if someone has locked her face into a permanent, meaningless smile. Her jaw aches, her eyes droop, her feet are sore. Anne and Vera are coping like clockwork dolls, handling coats and wraps, pouring alcohol, offering sandwiches, answering well-meaning questions with weary patience.

  But as the afternoon drags on, in some people’s eyes Eleanor thinks she can spot something more ominous than sympathy. She notices their bank manager, Robin Parker, and their family solicitor, Michael Humphreys, talking quietly together. She watches the looks of pity and concern they dart at her mother – and flickers of alarm rac
e down her spine.

  Walter’s last will and testament will be read to them on Saturday afternoon. It’s a subject Eleanor hasn’t had the courage to raise with her mother. She wonders what kind of provision, if any, Walter had made for his death, for his family’s comfortable survival.

  She decides to slip away from their remaining visitors. Her father’s studio huddles at the bottom of the garden. Since his death Eleanor has treated it as out-of-bounds. Now she needs to use it as a sanctuary, to feel her father’s spirit. His studio will be the closest she can get.

  Inside, the small, untidy wooden shack is icy cold. Eleanor switches on the two-bar electric fire, stands there shivering. Every small detail is exactly as Walter had left it. Landscapes of Blenheim in all its seasons hang lopsidedly on the walls. Piles of charcoal sketches flutter on the floor. Some lie on an ancient chaise longue, covered in faded green velvet, together with Walter’s battered felt hat, a silk paisley scarf and a pair of paint-stained gloves. Jumbles of shabby cushions heap in its corners.

  Paints, bottles, jars, brushes, pencils, oils and watercolours huddle before Eleanor’s eyes. Walter’s blue-linen painter’s smock, smeared with ink and paint, dangles from a hook. A cup of tea, its dark leaves dredging the bottom, sits in its saucer on a spattered wooden tray. Several pipes, their stems well-chewed, their tobacco smoked, lie on their sides, clinging to their fragrance. In a corner, Walter’s desk spews clutters of teaching notes, sketches, pens and bottles of ink.

  Eleanor flops miserably onto her father’s chair in front of his easel, staring at an unfinished landscape: a lake, glassy with ice, and Blenheim’s magnificent bridge sweeping over it, edged with snow. Gulls swoop low on the horizon. And, like some ghastly ironic prophecy, two horses with their riders trot into view from behind the cedars.