Lydia conducted herself with quiet dignity. She was calm, almost numb, as she went through the ritual of the service and the interment. The last time something like it had happened was for her father’s funeral and there had been a ghost present. She glanced towards the yew. There was no one there. Turning back to the grave, she laid a single white rose from the Upstone Hall gardens on the coffin as it was lowered. ‘Goodbye, Robert,’ she murmured. ‘You were the best of husbands. Rest in peace and love.’ It was what she had written on the card on her wreath.
She stood as others filed past, several of them stooping to pick up a handful of soil and sprinkle it on the coffin, and then, half supporting, half being supported by Tatty, she walked back to the car.
Alex had decided it was best to stay away, although, as a friend of Robert’s, it would not have been out of place for him to go. He feared upsetting Lydia even more than she must be upset already. He had read the gossip and his heart went out to her. He would have liked nothing better than to go and help her endure it, but knew it would be inappropriate and the media would have a field day. He threw himself into a frenzy of work, cleaning out the pig pens until they were almost as pristine as the bathroom in the house. He built two new hen coops and hoed the rows between the vegetables. The Brussels sprouts were ready for picking and he would have to get in some casual labour to help with that.
When he could not find anything more to do, he set off across the heath with his dog at his heels and sat for an hour or two in the pub. He had brought Lydia here on that last weekend. They had been happy in their way, though speaking of the future had been taboo. How long before he saw her again? Could he go to her at some time when everything had settled down, or must he wait until she came to him? Waiting would be almost unbearable, but going to Upstone only to be turned away would be worse.
The landlord called time. He got up and went home, followed by the faithful Patch.
Chapter Fourteen
Lydia was helping the staff at Upstone Infant School to decorate the Christmas tree. Missing her children more than she could say, she had volunteered to help in any capacity the headmaster might choose to use her. With children around her, she always felt more cheerful. Life did go on, after all.
The tree had been donated by the local nursery and it had taken two strong men to bring it in and erect it in the corner of the assembly hall. It almost reached the ceiling and there was only enough space for the traditional fairy on the top. A box of coloured baubles and a string of lights had been brought out of their hiding place from last year. ‘We’ll have to buy new ones soon,’ the headmaster said. ‘These are beginning to look rather shabby. Still, with the lights shining on them they won’t look too bad.’
Rosie Jarvis, who was a dinner lady and whose main job was serving meals and washing up, was hauling a bundle of tangled red, green and gold streamers out of another box. ‘Shall I put these up, Mr Groves?’
‘Yes, if you like, but you’ll need the steps and Mrs Conway is using them. Wait until she’s finished.’
It was raining, cold sleety rain, and there was no playtime outside today, so they were working surrounded by children, some of whom were offering gratuitous advice, others dancing round in excitement. When the tree had been decorated to everyone’s satisfaction, including fake parcels about its base, the lights were switched on amid cheers. Mr Groves blew his whistle and the children, ranging in age from five to eleven, were immediately silent. He ordered them to set out the chairs for the parents who would be coming for the carol concert and then find their places. For a few minutes it seemed chaotic, but chairs miraculously appeared in neat rows facing the stage. A little more scrambling and all the children were up on the stage, standing in three rows, tallest at the back, the little ones at the front.
Lydia took her seat on the side of the first row as the parents filed in and the concert began. Even the boys looked angelic, though one of them had his socks about his ankles and his school tie awry. He was about eight, she supposed, blond and rosy-cheeked. Seeing her watching him, he gave her a cheeky grin. She smiled back and from then it seemed he was singing Away in a Manger especially for her.
The carol telling of the baby born in a cattle shed reminded her of Yuri, though it had not been a cattle shed but a room in an attic. Had he been born in England, he would have had a proper crib and everything an infant might need: the finest baby clothes, pram, toys, medical attention whenever it became necessary. And she would have been well-nourished enough to feed him properly. He had had nothing like that at Kirilhor, where hunger and the search for food had dominated their lives to the exclusion of almost everything else.
When the singing was over, the children helped to serve their mothers with tea and cakes which the mothers themselves had contributed. They had also been instructed to smile and answer the grown-ups’ questions politely. The little boy came to Lydia holding out a plate of cakes which looked as if they might slide off onto the floor at any minute. Lydia straightened it up for him and helped herself to a pink-iced fairy cake. ‘Thank you, young man. I enjoyed the singing.’
‘We’ve been practising for ages and ages.’
‘And you would rather have been out playing, I’ve no doubt.’
‘Yes. I’m going to be a famous footballer when I grow up.’
‘I hope you are.’ She smiled. ‘You are quite a big boy already. How old are you?’
‘Eight and three-quarters.’
‘We mustn’t forget the quarters,’ she said. ‘What do you want for Christmas?’
‘A new bike. And some football boots.’
‘You’ll have to be good to get those.’
‘I know.’ It was said with a heavy sigh. ‘I’ve got to go now.’ He moved off to offer the cakes to someone else.
Lydia watched him go. Another Christmas, another year passing, and she still longed for the child she had lost. She had Tatty and Bob, and she loved them dearly, but that did not stop her wondering what had become of her firstborn. Twenty-four years it had been, and the only memory she had of him was of a toothless baby who was not as heavy as he should have been.
This would be the first Christmas without Robert, and Lydia didn’t know how she was going to cope. Bobby and Tatty would be home and she had to make it good for them. And she had to stop thinking about Alex. It was easier decided than done. She imagined him at his smallholding, going about his daily tasks, taking the dog across the heath. Did he still think of her, or had he given her up as a lost cause? She couldn’t go to him. It was too soon, much too soon. How could she tell Bobby and Tatty there was another man in her life, a man who had been there from the beginning and had never truly gone away? She had stayed away from Northacre Green, though the temptation to go to him was at times so overpowering she had to find something to do to keep her away: a meeting to attend, or someone ill in the village who needed a visit, a carol concert in the village school.
In all the noise and jollity going on around her, she felt her misery again and tears pricking her eyelids. Was anywhere proof against her melancholy?
Making her excuses, she left the school to walk home. She would make a cup of tea and do the jigsaw she had started on the day before. It was a big one, a thousand pieces it said on the box. It depicted a farmyard with a tractor, chickens and a dog lying outside its kennel. There were trees in the background and cobbles in the foreground and the sun was casting a dappled shade over all. It was going to be difficult, but that was the whole point of it. It would keep her occupied and keep her mind off Alex. Perhaps she should do as Tatty had often suggested and write her life story, not for publication, but simply to channel her thoughts into a more positive direction. But doing that involved Alex. Everything involved Alex.