‘Your boy?’ Izzie muttered after they had left George Glover to his labours. She had arrived in time for Roland’s funeral, in stylish black mourning, and wept, ‘My boy, my boy,’ over Roland’s small coffin.
‘He was my boy,’ Sylvie said vehemently, ‘don’t you dare say he was yours,’ although she knew, guiltily, that she mourned less for Roland than she would have done for one of her own. But that was natural, surely? Everyone seemed to want ownership of him now he was gone. (Mrs Glover and Bridget, too, would have staked a small claim to him as well if anyone had listened.)
Hugh was very affected by the loss of ‘the little chap’ but knew that for the sake of his family he must carry on as usual.
Izzie had lingered on, to Sylvie’s annoyance. She was twenty years old, ‘stuck’ at home, waiting for an unknown-as-yet husband to free her from Adelaide’s ‘claws’. Roland’s name had been forbidden in Hampstead and now Adelaide declared his death a ‘blessing’. Hugh felt sorry for his sister, while Sylvie spent her time casting around the countryside for an eligible landowner with enough mutton-headed patience to withstand Izzie.
In an oppressive heat they had trudged across fields, clambered over stiles, splashed through streams. Sylvie had strapped the baby to her body with a shawl. The baby was a heavy burden, although perhaps not as heavy a burden as the picnic basket that Bridget was lugging. Bosun walked dutifully by their side, he was not a dog that ran ahead, tending more to bring up the rear. He was still puzzled by Roland’s disappearance and was keen not to lose anyone else. Izzie lagged behind, any original enthusiasm for the pastoral outing long since having waned. Bosun did his best to chivvy her along.
It was a bad-tempered trek, the picnic at the end of it not much better as it turned out that Bridget had forgotten to pack the sandwiches. ‘How on earth did you manage that?’ Sylvie said crossly and as a consequence they had to eat the pork pie that Mrs Glover had intended for George. (‘For God’s sake, don’t tell her,’ Sylvie said.) Pamela had scratched herself on a bramble bush, Ursula had tumbled into a nettle patch. Even the usually happy Teddy was overheated and fretful.
George brought two tiny baby rabbits for them to look at and said, ‘Would you like to take them home with you?’ and Sylvie snapped, ‘No thank you, George. They will either die or multiply, neither of which would be a happy outcome.’ Pamela was distraught and had to be promised a kitten. (To Pamela’s surprise, this promise was kept and a kitten duly acquired from the Hall farm. A week later it took a fit and died. A full funeral was held. ‘I am cursed,’ Pamela declared, with uncharacteristic melodrama.)
‘He’s very handsome, that ploughman, isn’t he?’ Izzie said and Sylvie said, ‘Don’t. Not under any circumstances. Don’t,’ and Izzie said, ‘I have no idea what you mean.’
The afternoon grew no cooler and eventually they had no choice but to wend their way home in the same heat that they had journeyed there in. Pamela, already miserable from the rabbits, stepped on a thorn, Ursula was whacked in the face by a branch. Teddy cried, Izzie swore, Sylvie breathed fire and Bridget said if it weren’t a mortal sin she would drown herself in the next stream.
‘Look at you,’ Hugh smiled in greeting when they staggered home. ‘All golden from the sun.’
‘Oh, please,’ Sylvie said, pushing past him. ‘I’m going to lie down upstairs.’
‘I think we’ll have thunder tonight,’ Hugh said. And they did. Ursula, a light sleeper, was woken. She slipped out of bed and pattered over to the attic window, standing on a chair so that she could see out.
Thunder rolled like gunfire in the distance. The sky, purple and swollen with portent, was suddenly split open by a fork of lightning. A fox, skulking over some small prey on the lawn, was briefly illuminated, caught as though in a photographer’s flash.
Ursula forgot to count and an explosive thunderclap, almost overhead, took her by surprise.
This was how war sounded, she thought.
Ursula cut straight to the chase. Bridget, chopping onions at the kitchen table, was already primed for tears. Ursula sat next to her and said, ‘I’ve been in the village.’
‘Oh,’ Bridget said, not in the least interested in this information.
‘I was buying sweets,’ Ursula said. ‘In the sweet shop.’
‘Really?’ Bridget said. ‘Sweets in a sweet shop? Who would have thought it.’ The shop sold many things other than sweets but none of those other things were of any interest to the children at Fox Corner.
‘Clarence was there.’
‘Clarence?’ Bridget said. She stopped the chopping at the mention of her beloved.
‘Buying sweets,’ Ursula said. ‘Mint humbugs,’ she added, for authenticity, and then, ‘You know Molly Lester?’
‘I do,’ Bridget said cautiously, ‘she works in the shop.’
‘Well, Clarence was kissing her.’
Bridget rose from her chair, knife still in hand. ‘Kissing? Why would Clarence kiss Molly Lester?’
‘That’s what Molly Lester said! She said, “Why are you kissing me, Clarence Dodds, when everyone knows you’re engaged to be married to that maid that works at Fox Corner?”’
Bridget was used to melodramas and penny dreadfuls. She waited for the revelation that she knew must follow.
Ursula supplied it. ‘And Clarence said, “Oh, you mean Bridget. She’s nothing to me. She’s a very ugly girl. I am just stringing her along.”’ Ursula, a precocious reader by now, had also read Bridget’s novels and had learned the discourse of romance.
The knife was dropped to the floor with a banshee shriek. Irish curses were thrown liberally. ‘The bugger,’ Bridget said.
‘A dastardly villain,’ Ursula agreed.
The engagement ring, the little gypsy ring (‘a trinket’), was returned by Bridget to Sylvie. Clarence’s protestations of innocence went unheeded.
‘You might go up to London with Mrs Glover,’ Sylvie said to Bridget. ‘For the Armistice celebrations, you know. I believe there are late trains running.’
Mrs Glover said she wouldn’t go near the capital on account of the influenza and Bridget said that she hoped very much that Clarence would go, preferably with Molly Lester, and that the pair of them would catch the Spanish flu and die.
Molly Lester, who had never spoken so much as a word to Clarence beyond a guiltless ‘Morning, sir, what can I get you?’, attended a small street party in the village but Clarence did indeed go up to London with a couple of pals and did indeed die.
‘But at least no one was pushed down the stairs,’ Ursula said.
‘Whatever do you mean?’ Sylvie said.
‘I don’t know,’ Ursula said. She really didn’t.
She was disturbed by herself. She dreamed of flying and falling all the time. Sometimes when she stood on a chair to look out of the bedroom window she felt the urge to clamber out and throw herself down. She would not fall to the ground with a thud and a smash like an over-ripe apple, instead she was sure she would be caught. (By what, though, she wondered?) She refrained from testing this theory, unlike Pamela’s poor little crinoline lady, who had been tossed from the very same bedroom window by a malignly bored Maurice one winter teatime.
On hearing his approach along the passageway – loudly signalled by Indian war whoops – Ursula had hastily placed her own favourite, Queen Solange, the knitting doll, beneath her pillow where she remained safe in her refuge while the unfortunate crinoline lady was defenestrated and smashed to pieces on the slates. ‘I only wanted to see what would happen,’ Maurice whined to Sylvie afterwards. ‘Well, now you know,’ she said. She was finding Pamela’s hysterical reaction to this incident more than a little trying. ‘We are in the middle of a war,’ she said to her. ‘There are worse things happening than a broken ornament.’ Not for Pamela there weren’t.