Touch the Silence Read online

  ‘It’s no good, Ben! Let her go. Let her come to me, I’ll lead her inside.’

  He obeyed. It took their combined strength to hoist Lottie to her feet. ‘Lottie, it’s Em. Come inside with me and Ben and get warm by the fire. You’d like that, eh?’

  Registering Emilia’s voice, Lottie became calmer, allowing her waist to be held and her hand taken, then to be moved, her steps faltering, towards the house. Rubbing at the searing pain in his eyes, Ben got up, shaking his leg to unlock the hurt in his knee.

  The door had slammed shut. Bending her head against the opposing might of the wind, Emilia strove to get Lottie inside and finally safe and secure. She prayed Lottie hadn’t been outside long enough to have got chilled through with the risk of succumbing to pneumonia. Ben stumbled on ahead and groped for the door handle.

  As she was coaxing Lottie over the doorstep, the fuming skies released an even heavier deluge of bitter rain. Emilia led Lottie down the passage, unaware of her own discomfort but horribly conscious of Lottie’s wet spongy arms, the folds of her torn dress sticking to her wobbly legs, her feet in ripped stockings only able to shuffle while leaving a mucky-dishwater trail. Her pearls were tangled in her cameo brooch, her skin grazed, nose running, mouth dribbling. She was reduced to a dirty, aged urchin, her flesh shrunk by more than age.

  In the sitting room Emilia ordered Ben to push a sofa, a buttoned-back piece, up close to the hearth. Panting, drops of water stinging her eyes, Emilia eased Lottie down on it, sat beside her and cradled her against her body. Lottie flopped her head on to her shoulder. She was stunned and shocked, breathing raggedly and shuddering violently from the effects of the cold, the wet and her ordeal.

  ‘What now?’ Ben gasped, still blinking and trying to rid his eyes of grit with one of Lottie’s handkerchiefs. With his back to the moulded mantelpiece, he stared amazed at the dishevelled spectacle of his grandmother – an unknown sight that horrified him. Coming from upper-middle-class stock, as Harvey wives had for the last century, she had never suffered this much discomfort and distress before. This should never have happened.

  Emilia motioned for him to pick up the shawl and the blanket and pass them to her. She wrapped the shawl round Lottie’s shoulders, wiping her face with an edge of soft lace, and covered the rest of her with the blanket. Lottie whimpered. Emilia used tender words until she fell quiet with only the occasional nervous gulp. Ben sat close on Lottie’s other side, spreading his arm across her back, resting his hand on Emilia’s shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Grandma. Em will look after you.’

  Emilia felt Lottie’s trembling fingers seizing her shirt. ‘I’m afraid she’s not going to let me leave her, Ben. Can you fetch me the things I’ll need to give her a wash, and her nightclothes and slippers? Her shoes must be out there somewhere. I might as well get her ready for bed now.’ Emilia recognized a certain smell. ‘Oh, and some clean underwear. I’ll take your gran through to the kitchen and watch her to see if she needs the doctor. You get changed as quickly as you can, Ben, and wash out your eyes before you join Dad.’

  ‘What about you, Em?’ He gave her dripping plait a gentle tug before making for the door. ‘Grandma’s covered you in mud.’

  ‘Oh, fetch an extra towel and find me something to wear, anything will do. Ben, why was the front door unlocked? No one’s come or gone by it for ages.’

  He let out a deep sigh. ‘It could only have been my absent-minded brother. As if life isn’t already difficult enough. Alec’s taking his time about this business in town. I’ll have something to say to him when he finally gets back.’

  Chapter Two

  Emilia was helping Lottie to sip hot milk laced with ram when Alec Harvey sprinted into the kitchen. Soaked from the journey home, his hat hanging from one hand and Lottie’s mud-caked shoes dangling from the other, he was making puddles on the tiles. ‘Emilia! How is she? Ben’s just told me what happened. Do you think I should send for the doctor?’

  ‘I’m sure Mrs Harvey’s going to be fine,’ Emilia replied, smoothing at Lottie’s long white hair, now washed, combed and drying over a towel round her shoulders. ‘She’s only had a bad fright really, and you know how she hates Dr Holloway fussing over her. I’m so sorry about this. It was all my fault.’ He nodded at his grandmother’s shoes. ‘What shall I do with these?’

  ‘Just drop them down. I’ll see to them in a while.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s nice,’ Lottie muttered, taking a last noisy sip of the flavoured milk and puckering her lips in Emilia’s direction. Emilia brought her face close so Lottie could kiss her. Then she kissed and stroked Lottie’s soft, wrinkled cheek; so thankful she had not been hurt or lost. Emilia couldn’t move away yet for Lottie was seeking the comfort of her hand.

  Alec responded to the rapport between Emilia and his grandmother by shrugging off the tension. Without due thought he placed the shoes on the end of the table and threw his outdoor things over the back of the settle, wetting the pile of dry laundry. His undisciplined ways, a deliberate development since he had inherited the farm, had often brought quick and bitter complaints from his late wife. Emilia, however, never gave him as much as a chiding look. She had no idea how much this meant to him: to be able to feel at ease in his home, where every day of his childhood he had been subjected to ridicule and shame and rejection over an incomprehensible disorder that made him barely able to read or write. His father, a hard, unfeeling man, had agreed with his schoolmasters’ accusations, that he was being lazy and was a liar.

  He crouched at the other side of his grandmother’s armchair. ‘What were you thinking of, Grandma, eh? Giving our dear Emilia a fright like that. We’re going to have to keep a closer eye on you, aren’t we?’ He tucked her shawl in snugly round her stout waist, but Lottie kept her gaze on Emilia.

  ‘You’re so good for Grandma, Emilia. I don’t want you blaming yourself for her wandering off.’ Alec reached across in front of Lottie and pressed a light hand on Emilia’s shoulder. ‘I don’t sleep well, you see, and have a habit of wandering about at night. Last night I got a bad feeling about Tristan. I was afraid for him. I opened the door to send out the protection I’d prayed to be all around him, and I forgot to lock it again.’ Tristan was his and Ben’s surviving brother. Henry, the second eldest, a university graduate with a promising career in science, had perished at Neuve Chapelle, in 1915.

  ‘I understand, but I don’t think we can go on like this.’

  Lottie prattled, ‘Pigs at a wedding. Two at a time. Can’t you see them? Never, never mind.’ Then she slipped into a little world of her own, humming a low indefinable tune, and Emilia was able to get up. She made a start on the supper, a meatless dish to be cooked in yesterday’s beef gravy, already heating on the range. She would be leaving for her home, one of the many small cottages Alec owned in Hennaford, even later than usual this evening.

  ‘I agree, and we won’t be.’

  He rose and lit a cigarette, and Emilia followed his solid figure, clad in good cloth and riding boots. He was a gentleman farmer, who rode an ageing mare now nearly all the country’s horses had been commandeered for war service. His hair, which habitually strayed into untidiness, was coal-black like Ben’s, and he held a similar soft grey gaze, but while Ben shone with openness and energy, Alec, although equal in strength and diligence, often seemed withdrawn, and he could be vague and evasive. Occasionally he was sharp with Ben, and Emilia had narrowed this down to impatience with business matters. Would they exchange hard words over his excursion to Truro today?

  Emilia had noticed he was always civil, kind even to women. She had marvelled at his patience with the highly-strung Lucy, whom she had never liked and who had given her a tough time, and who, so devout to her own class observances, had often treated Alec with disrespect because, Emilia had assumed, he disregarded them. He shunned many things of the usual order, insisting most people call him by his first name, as if he wanted to be seen as unique, a rebel perhaps. Emilia, so new to the wonders of love, had formed
the habit of comparing every man to Ben, and it struck her then how Alec had often seemed lonely, although he was a little more open without Lucy’s overbearing presence. Perhaps his patience with Lucy had been more of an indifference. Perhaps—

  With a jolt she realized she was staring at him and he was steadily regarding her. She bent her head over the cutting board. ‘You’ve managed to get more help then, Alec?’

  ‘I have, and not before time according to Ben. I’ve just had him ranting at me about you doing too much – as if I didn’t agree with him.’ The hint of rancour made her glance at Alec. ‘I’ve engaged someone to live in and take over the housework, as from tomorrow.’

  ‘Good,’ Emilia said, with a frankness that would have made Ben laugh if he had heard it.

  Alec’s sternness vanished in a slow smile. ‘I’m glad you’re pleased. A Miss Tilda Lawry will be arriving in the morning. I approached her at the suggestion of one of the persons I had lunch with at the Red Lion. Miss Lawry was his parlour maid – she can turn her hand to anything, apparently. You know how things are with the government continually urging the well-off to release their servants for work more suited to the war effort – people don’t want to appear unpatriotic,’ he added with typical cynicism.

  ‘She sounds perfect.’ Emilia dabbed her eyes, watering from chopping onions. ‘I’ll be pleased to have more time to get on with my usual work. Did Ben tell you about the man who turned up asking for work this afternoon?’

  ‘He did, and if this man reappears I’ll consider him.’ Tapping ash into the brass fender, Alec came up close to her. ‘Ben’s pleased you’re going to be living here from now on.’

  ‘What?’ Emilia dropped the chopping knife. Even living in the same house as Ben would not compensate for the loss of her little bit of freedom, to rarely see her mother or Honor Burrows, her closest friend.

  ‘You do see it’s the obvious answer, Emilia? Grandma needs you. You’re the only one she really responds to.’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t live here, my father wouldn’t allow it.’ ‘Edwin’s already agreed, even to you staying tonight so you can watch over Grandma, seeing what she’s just been through. You can sleep in Grandma’s room, then move into one of the bedrooms tomorrow. Tilda Lawry’s a committed Anglican and she’s in her forties, so there’ll be no raising of moral eyebrows.’ Emilia vented her indignation – how dare he take her for granted. ‘Alec, I don’t want to live here.’

  ‘Is that so, Emilia?’ A play of ironic amusement chased away the weariness scoring his strong brow, making him seem a more youthful twenty-eight years. ‘I’ve noticed how you’ve always liked the farm, how you’ve made the dairy your own. I’m not going to keep you here a prisoner twenty-four hours a day, my dear. Tilda Lawry can help to attend to Grandma. Your mother and your quiet little friend can come here at any time. Sound better?’

  ‘I should have liked to have been asked about these arrangements before they were made.’ She wiped her hands and banged a pan of dripping down on the hob. ‘I suppose I’ll just have to get on with it.’

  ‘I’d be pleased if you would, Emilia. I apologize for taking the liberty, but as you’ve said yourself, we couldn’t go on as we have been. I forgot to ask Ben just now: did he call on Ursula today?’

  ‘He did. I’m afraid she and Jonny weren’t there.’ As she set the onions sizzling, Emilia heard Alec’s sigh of discontent. Ursula was Tristan’s wife. Alec was concerned for his five-year-old nephew, Jonathan. It was common knowledge that Ursula had taken a lover shortly after Tristan’s last leave. ‘I’ll go to Ford House myself tomorrow.’

  When Emilia turned back, Alec was staring at the cardigan she was wearing. Fetched for her by Ben, it was of fine wool, a delicate design, softer against her skin than the flannel things she normally wore. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘It was Lucy’s. I thought her people had taken all her things away after the funeral.’

  Reminded of his bereavement, Emilia reddened in shame. She shouldn’t have shown her ire just now. All Alec had done was to make a reasonable arrangement, and this was a time when sacrifices should be made eagerly. ‘I’m sorry. Ben said these clothes belonged to your mother.’

  ‘The dress does. You wear it well.’

  ‘Do you want me to take this off?’ She fingered the pretty mother-of-pearl buttons on the cardigan.

  He nodded. ‘Some of my mother’s things are stored in the metal trunk in the boxroom. Help yourself to anything you’d like and keep it. You should find something for tonight. Edwin will bring your own things over tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you. Alec, don’t you think, I mean, would you like me to pass on anything I don’t want to a charity, for the war effort?’

  ‘Do whatever you think’s best. This house needs a woman for that sort of thing.’ He stared down at the paving beneath his feet for some moments, seemingly grim and sorrowful, and lonely again. Before heading outside, he said, ‘I really need you to be here, Emilia.’

  * * *

  Lottie lay under her coral-pink quilt, lulled to sleep by unhurried hugs and gentle songs. She was snoring, although not obtrusively. In case her breathing turned harsh, indicating infection, Emilia remained alert, stretched out on a couch in the spacious room at the front of the farmhouse, which had seen a lot of fine upgrading throughout the reign of Queen Victoria.

  Although she was only moving a mile away from home, Emilia was experiencing the sort of thrill as if actually breaking out into the world. She was excited now at the additional nearness to Ben – his room overlooked the yards, next to Alec’s, who had moved out of the principal bedroom on Lucy’s death.

  It was comfortable here, surrounded by softly falling drapes, thick carpet and delicately shaped walnut furniture. Her own tiny bedroom had bare floorboards, rag rugs and a steeply sloping ceiling. Now she had access to a porcelain-furnished bathroom. There was the wonder of radiators in addition to fireplaces in every room, although the necessary economies meant only the sitting room, Lottie’s bedroom and the kitchen range were regularly lit.

  She was wearing an ivory-coloured satin nightgown and negligée of Dorothea Harvey’s, the bodice of both a luxury of pleated lace. It made her feel – she searched her mind for the right word – sensual. Dorothea Harvey had been stylish and poised, and like Emilia herself, tall and slender and femininely shaped. Knowing she had little chance of sleep, Emilia looked over the clothes she had set aside for herself. She had chosen something for all likely occasions. Fashion was plainer and hems were higher than in Edwardian times, but the service of a sewing needle and removal of fripperies would turn them into acceptable wear.

  She drifted off to sleep. And dreamt of years gone by. Of Ben and Billy and Honor and herself. Playing in the meadows, the streams and the woods. Ben’s games. Ben had a wild and vivid imagination. The mind of a hero. He, the natural leader as Ivanhoe, King Arthur, Robin Hood. Billy, although five years older, his faithful liegeman. She and Honor, helpless maidens, running or hiding from witches, dragons, or Prince John’s men. Rescued again and again.

  Then she was rescuing Ben from a furnace, a bottomless pit. Billy had already fallen in.

  She was wakened by her own cries. Sitting up, she pushed back her heavy hair, which was making her scalp burn. She prayed feverishly for Billy’s safety, then whispered, ‘Please God, I know it’s selfish, but don’t let Ben join the fighting.’ Heaven already had Henry Harvey and five other young men and a V.A.D. nurse from Hennaford.

  She didn’t want to have to wonder several times a day, as she did about Billy, if Ben was still alive. If he was frightened or suffering. Billy was certainly enduring terrible deprivations at the Western Front. For three years the war had been raging on land, sea and in the air, and Ben was eager to get through his officer’s training with the Sussex regiment that had accepted him, and then past his next birthday to join the thick of the fighting, and not be, as he termed it, stuck at home worrying and waiting with the women. During the times the conflict seem
ed to be heading in the allied powers’ favour, instead of being heartened, Ben had expressed concern he would miss out.

  Ben’s outlook on war was like most young men’s: that to fight and maybe die for his country – probably die, so tragically high were the casualty lists – was ennobling, proof of his loyalty, his courage, his manhood. ‘It’s what I was born for,’ he would declare. ‘No, it isn’t,’ she wanted to plead. ‘You were placed on earth to love me, to marry me and give me babies, and to farm this quiet acreage of countryside.’ She kept it to the back of her mind that Ben’s ambition was not to stay working at the farm on a generous allowance from Alec, but to become a professional soldier.

  She checked Lottie was as peaceful as she appeared. Then to while away the remaining hours till first light, she planned the next day. Lottie tended to be a late riser, so she should be able to slip away to prepare the lamps, build up the fires, fetch in the logs and join the men for the milking. The separating, the first stage of the butter and cream making, a long process, was her specific job. Then she would cook the men’s breakfasts before Lottie demanded attention. She hoped to get some tidying done before Tilda Lawry’s arrival. Perhaps she ought to creep about now with a duster.

  The door opened in a whisper and she held her breath. Ben came in, a dressing gown over his pyjamas.

  He held up his hands to forestall her protest. ‘It’s not what you think, Em. It’s my eyes, they’re hurting so much. Will you bathe them for me?’

  His pain and discomfort made her dash to him. ‘Oh, Ben, with everything else going on, I forgot all about your poor eyes. We’ll have to creep down to the kitchen.’

  There were two flights of stairs in the house, and they crept down those at the front to avoid Alec’s room. The water in the kettle was still warm. She fetched a glass bowl and cotton wool from the floor-to-ceiling cupboard next to the range. When he was sitting at the table, she placed a towel over his shoulders. Bringing the lamp close, she could see his eyes were enflamed and swollen, the left eye bloodshot and weeping. Holding the bowl up to his right cheek, she trickled water from the inner comer of his eye to wash it out. She didn’t stop until Ben said it felt soothed.