Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis Page 24

  When Emily came on her weekly visits, the first flood of joy at her approach gradually ebbed away in the face of these secret fears. Outwardly, Edgar seemed calm, but Emily sensed that all was not well with him. There was a barrier now across the easy passage of their affection. She put it down to general physical weakness, and to the horrors which a sensitive spirit like Edgar's would find hard to overcome. She never doubted that all would be well in time.

  Remembering that steadfast trust, old Edgar groaned aloud, and buried his face in his hands. He should have waited! He should have waited! All would have come right for them both if he had been patient—as patient as poor Emily was!

  He rocked himself to and fro. To think that something which happened nigh on sixty years ago could still give such pain!

  He remembered his terrible tears when Emily had gone each week to catch the last possible train back to Beech Green. It was not her going which upset him so dreadfully, but the knowledge that he would never be able to face life with her. For in his present state he never wanted to see Beech Green again, or those who lived there.

  He wanted to run away from all that had happened, to start afresh, where no one knew him, where he could make a new beginning, leaving the pain and heartbreak behind.

  The Irish nurse, Eileen, had comforted him during these outbursts. She was kind and motherly, it seemed to Edgar, ready to hold his hot head against the starched bib of her apron. Later, he realised, she never spoke of Emily or his return to her.

  In his weakness, he clung to her for support and advice. She gave both freely, never displaying the quick temper and sharp tongue which made her so heartily disliked by the other nurses.

  In truth, Eileen Kennedy was looking for a husband, and in Edgar she thought she had found one who would suit her very well. She liked the idea of being a farmer's wife. She knew that Edgar would follow his father one day, and she enjoyed country life. Also, she was tired of nursing. She was twenty five and was determined to marry. The fact that Edgar was already engaged weighed with her not at all. Emily she considered a poor thing. Victory should be easy.

  She conducted her side of the campaign with ruthless subtlety. Circumstances were on her side. She was with him constantly, and he was dependent on her for all his comforts. She was careful to keep out of Emily's way, when she paid her visits, so that her rival's suspicions were not aroused.

  Edgar, weak in body and torn in spirit, gave way with little resistance. Eileen, as a young woman, had physical charms which faded after a few years of marriage, but in her nursing days she was trim and comely, with fair hair neatly waving under her flighty starched cap.

  By the time Edgar's convalescence came, and he was moved a few miles away, there was a firm understanding between them. Now there was a dream-like quality, for Edgar, when Emily visited him. It was if she were a ghost from the past—that past he wanted so desperately to forget.

  He was too weak to tell her about his plans. This cowardice was to colour his whole life. It haunted him whenever he was unable to sleep, in the long years which lay ahead. He never forgave himself.

  Eileen encouraged him to keep silence.

  'You aren't up to a scene,' she persuaded him. 'Write her a letter. You can put it all so much better in a letter.'

  The little she had seen of Emily made her realise that she would accept the situation more readily with a letter before her. She recognised Emily's pride, and suspected rightly that she cared enough for Edgar to abide by his decision, no matter how cruel it might seem.

  The scheme worked. Edgar was freed from his engagement, and he turned to a triumphant Eileen. Emily continued as best she could. No other man came into her life. For Emily, Edgar was her only love, both then and forever.

  It was a week or two after his engagement to the nurse, that Edgar first had an inkling of her true nature.

  He broached the subject of where they should live when he had quite recovered.

  'Why, Beech Green, surely? You say there's a house there for you,' said Eileen briskly.

  Edgar gazed at her in dismay.

  'But you know how I feel about going back. I want to start somewhere quite new.'

  'Who'd have you, except your father?' asked Eileen flatly.

  'I expect I could get a job with another farmer,' began Edgar, much shaken.

  'Another farmer would want a full day's work from you,' said Eileen. 'Your dad will let you go your own pace for a bit. And there's the house. It sounds just right for us.'

  Edgar roused himself.

  'But surely, you wouldn't want to go back there, where everyone knows about me and Emily. You'd feel uncomfortable.'

  Eileen gave a hard laugh.

  'It'd take more than Emily Davis and a parcel of gossipers to make me uncomfortable. She had her chance, and lost it. It's our life now, and we'd be fools to throw away a house and a job ready-made for you.'

  'But, Eileen—' protested Edgar, tears of weakness filling his eyes.

  'No buts about it,' said Eileen ruthlessly. 'It's Beech Green for us, so get used to the idea.'

  She whisked out of the room, leaving Edgar to his melancholy thoughts. For the first time, he began to realise that he had made a mistake, and one which was to cost him dear.

  Old Edgar sighed, and reached for the last potato.

  Humiliation, self-reproach, gnawing remorse and a lifetime of bitterness had been the result of a few vital months of sheer cowardice. God knows he had paid heavily for his mistake! Worse still, he had made innocent, loving Emily suffer too. The encounter by the wood had told him clearly all that he had suspected—that Emily's love remained constant, and that his did too. It had been his lot to see the finest woman he had ever known tortured, year after year, on his account. And now she had gone.

  He bent his grizzled head over the last of his task, and a tear rolled down his cheek.

  'What's up?' snapped his wife, appearing suddenly, throwing a shadow between him and the sunshine.

  'Sun in my eyes,' lied Edgar.

  But he knew that, for him, the sun would never be as dazzling again.

  7. Ada Makes Plans

  THE news of Emily's death spread rapidly when The Caxley Chronicle made its weekly appearance. Most readers turned fairly quickly, after reading the headlines, to the column headed 'Births, Marriages and Deaths', choosing the one of the three divisions most appealing to them, according to the age of the reader.

  Ada Roper, widow of the prosperous greengrocer Harry, and sister of Dolly Clare, naturally looked first at the 'Deaths'. When one is in one's eighties there is a certain macabre pleasure in reading about those whom one has outlived.

  She sat in her sunny drawing room on this shimmering September morning, a cup of coffee beside her, and a magnifying glass in her hand the better to read the small print.

  The house, 'Harada', which Harry had built in the 'twenties, weathered the years well, and though her son John had once tried to persuade her to move to something smaller, Ada was resolute in her refusal.

  'Why should I?'

  'Because it's so expensive, for one thing. Fuel, rates, furnishings—and so much housework. I could easily find you a nice little flat—'

  'I don't want a nice little flat. And anyway, I shan't need to buy any more furniture, and if I did move into a poky little place somewhere, what should I do with all these nice pieces your Dad and I collected over the years?'

  'You could sell them,' suggested John.

  'Never!' cried his mother. 'No, John. This is my home and I'm stopping here. I've quite enough money to see me out, thanks to the business, and with Alice to help me the work is very light.'

  Alice was the companion who had come to live with Ada soon after Harry's death. She was a gentle soul, herself a widow, but a penniless one, and glad to have a comfortable home and pocket money in return for an amount of work which would have daunted many a younger woman.

  John, seeing the position pretty clearly, was sensible enough to insist on plenty of reliable
daily help. Alice, he knew, was worth her weight in gold as a companion. She was genuinely devoted to his mother and took her somewhat over-bearing ways with cheerful docility.

  If she left, it would be impossible to find another person so amenable. John had no desire to have his mother living at his own house. His wife and children were positively opposed to the idea when he had once broached the subject tentatively.

  'No fear!' said his wife flatly.

  'Grandma? Live here? Oh no!' cried his children. And though he had upbraided them with their selfishness, secretly he was very relieved. If his mother was happy to squander her money on that great house, then he would see that things were arranged to keep her there in contentment. But, now and again, a little secret resentment clouded John's thoughts. What would there be left, when the old lady died, if she continued to live in this way?

  John's good business head always ruled his heart, which is why his parents' shop continued to thrive under his management.

  At the time of Emily Davis's death he was a man in his late fifties with the dark florid good looks of his father.

  A fine moustache and an expensive dental plate improved his looks as he grew older. As a young man, the slightly protruding top teeth had given him a rabbity look. Whether the comforter, abhorred by Emily, and the subsequent thumbsucking had anything to do with it, one could not be sure. His mother, rather naturally, thought not. But Emily's words rankled for many years, nevertheless.

  John took infinite pains with his clothes, going to London for his suits, which did not endear him to the local tailors. He presided over the shop in well-cut tweeds or worsteds, his dark hair carefully brushed, his expensive shoes as glossy as horse chestnuts.

  His wife looked across the breakfast table, on this September morning, and thought how remarkably young he looked as he read The Caxley Chronicle.

  'I see Aunt Dolly's Emily has gone,' he said, eyes fixed upon the paper.

  'Poor old thing,' said his wife perfunctorily. 'But she must have been terribly old.'

  'About the same age as mother, I should guess. They were at school together, I know.'

  'What will happen to Aunt Dolly?'

  John lowered the paper thoughtfully.

  'I don't know. I really don't know.'

  He rose, tugging at his jacket and smoothing his hair.

  'She really shouldn't be alone there,' said his wife solicitously. 'Anything might happen.'

  'I might drive over and see her,' said John, kissing her swiftly. 'It's rotten getting old. This'll cut up Aunt Dolly badly.'

  During the day he turned over in his mind the possibilities for Dolly Clare.

  Could she be persuaded, he wondered, to leave the Beech Green cottage and make her home at 'Harada'? There were points in favour of such a move.

  For one thing, it would be further company for his mother, and if anything happened to Alice then Dolly, presumably, would still be there. It was another hedge against the possibility of his mother having to live in his own house some day.

  Again, Dolly's little cottage, humble though it was, was exceedingly pretty, and just the sort of place which was being snapped up by Londoners looking for a weekend cottage. A similar one at Fairacre, John remembered with a glow of pleasure, fetched five thousand pounds last month. The money could be invested and add to Aunt Dolly's tiny pension, thought John solicitously.

  Besides, it would be keeping the money in the family.

  He spent much of the day working out little sums—the possible interest that Dolly Clare would get on her problematical gains, if invested wisely—and it was almost time to leave the shop before he faced the cold fact that Dolly might not wish to sell, and that his mother might prefer to have 'Harada' to herself.

  He determined to go and see his mother that evening and to make a few delicate enquiries.

  Meanwhile, Ada too had been thinking. This death of Emily created some problems. She was honest enough to admit to herself that she did not feel any grief on Emily's behalf. There had never been any love lost between the two.

  Even now, Ada felt resentment at the way Emily had usurped her own place in young Dolly's affections. As little children in Caxley, Dolly had always followed Ada's lead. She adored her elder sister, and had been content to do her bidding without question.

  But things had changed under the influence of the Davis family, and particularly with the growth of the friendship between Emily and Dolly. Now Ada was not always right. Dolly began to question some of her decisions, and to ask Emily's opinion before her sister's. Ada considered Emily a subversive influence, and, as she grew older, she found no reason to change her views.

  Then there was the affair of Manny's marrow which had made young Emily a minor heroine. The boys' attention had been diverted from Ada, the queen of the playground at Beech Green School, and although it was only a temporary defection, it gave Ada further cause to dislike Emily.

  Later still, when Ada was a young mother, and not long after the little contretemps of the baby's dummy, Emily played a more important part in Ada's life. It was an episode which she remembered with shame for the rest of her life, and Emily's attitude at the time did little to assuage Ada's guilt.

  Even now, over half a century later, she shied away from the remembrance, although she knew from experience that it would return before long to haunt her. Did Emily ever tell? Did Dolly ever know?

  The anxiety pricked her as keenly now as it had so many years ago. And she would never know the answers! Sometimes the old Jewish God of Retribution seemed very real to Ada.

  The thought of Dolly brought more practical problems to her mind. She would be left alone in the little house at Beech Green, and would be worse off without Emily's financial help in the partnership they had so much enjoyed.

  It was all very tiresome, thought Ada with exasperation. She supposed she ought to invite her to 'Harada'. It would be expected of her, by her local friends, she had no doubt, and when one was so well respected in the church, and particularly in the Mothers' Union, it behoved one to act correctly.

  But why should she alter her comfortable way of life to accommodate a sister who really meant very little to her? They had gone their own ways for so long, that, despite a proper sisterly warmth when they met, they had little in common.

  Would Dolly mix comfortably with the prosperous widows who still came occasionally to play bridge in Ada's drawing room? She was far more likely, thought Ada, to sit in a corner, like a death's head at a feast, while the chatter went on, making everyone self-conscious.

  And how would Alice like it? After all, she must consider Alice's feelings. She might very well feel hurt at another person coming to live at the house, on intimate terms. And, of course, it would make more work. There would be another bed to cope with, more laundry, more heating in the bedroom, more vegetables to peel, more meat to buy. Really, the more one thought of it, the greater the problem became.

  She was restless and irritable throughout the day, wondering what to do. She wanted to appear generous in the sight of the little world of Caxley, but she very much resented the discomfort and expense it might put her to.

  So like Emily, she thought distractedly, to go first, and leave such a muddle for others to tidy up!

  Perhaps John might be of help. She determined to telephone him, as soon as he returned from the shop. After all, Dolly was his godmother, as well as his aunt. He should give her some attention at this difficult time. It was all too much for Ada alone.

  Really, she felt quite faint with worry about it. She went to the drawing room door and called Alice.

  'Could we have tea early, dear? My poor head's throbbing. Jam and cream with the scones, Alice dear.'

  But there was no need to make a telephone call, for John appeared very soon after the meal had been dispatched, and broached the painful subject with masculine frankness.

  'Bad news about Emily Davis. You saw it, I expect, in the paper?'

  'I don't know what's bad about dying in your
eighties,' said Ada tartly. 'Surely it's only to be expected. I know I feel very near my end often enough.'

  John sensed from this reply that his mother was in one of her difficult moods. The dash of self-pity in her last sentence was always a danger sign.

  He patted her hand kindly.

  'You're a wonderful old lady,' he assured her. 'Lots of happy years ahead for you.'

  She allowed herself to be slightly mollified.

  'Yes, well—I suppose I do keep pretty bright, considering. But it's always a shock when one of your own generation goes.'

  'Aunt Dolly will miss her,' said John, approaching the subject of his schemes warily.

  'Bound to,' agreed Ada. She brushed a scone crumb from her lap and considered how best to put her difficulties to John.

  'She shouldn't be alone,' said John. 'Not at her age.'

  'No,' said Ada. 'Not at her age. And she's never been really robust. She was always the weakling of the two of us.'

  'It's a problem.'

  'It certainly is.'

  'I take it she'll be pretty hard up?'

  'No doubt about it. They shared expenses, of course, which helped them both.'

  John stood up and balanced himself first on his toes and then on his heels. It was a habit he had had since childhood, and indicative of mental unrest. Ada found it irritating.

  'Don't keep rocking, John.'

  'Sorry, mother,' he said, standing stock still. 'It's just that I'm a bit worried about poor Aunt Dolly. She is my godmother, you know.'

  'I know well enough,' snapped his mother, resenting the reproachful note in John's voice. 'And you're not the only one to be worried. I've been almost distracted, wondering what to do for the best, all day today.'