The Hidden Years Read online

  As they passed between the ranks of onlookers, Lizzie was suddenly conscious of the desolate, melancholy air of the whole place, the gravestones, bearing silent witness to the many, many generations that had come and gone, and now were no more. Kit had no gravestone—there was nothing to mark his passing. She shivered again and turned impulsively to Edward, begging huskily, 'Edward, could you…? Is there a church at Cottingdean? Could you…could you have something there for…for Kit…?'

  Edward patted her hand, pity warring with jealousy. She was so young still, so vulnerable, and yet at the same time, because of her youth, so hardy and protected that she still had no real idea of what Kit had been. He could almost read in her heart how she intended to cherish his cousin's image there. Even in death it seemed that his cousin still intended to dominate his life.

  He was not a cruel man—the blows life had dealt him had taught him great compassion for the weaknesses of others. Lizzie was young and malleable; more importantly, she was carrying the child who would one day inherit Cottingdean, and he had no wish to alienate her, to destroy her dream, to take away from her what might be a necessary crutch. But nor was he going to allow the child, his child, to be brought up to worship the fictitious image of his cousin.

  His child…Kit's son would be his child in all the ways that mattered. He looked at his new bride. There would be plenty of time later for him to acquaint Lizzie with his determination that no one other than themselves must ever know the child's true parentage… Plenty of time. He loved her, and one day maybe…

  There was no reception. There was rationing, and besides, the matron of the hospital was furious about the way she believed Lizzie had cunningly contrived not only to get herself out of the disgrace she had so wantonly fallen into, but also to elevate herself socially at the same time. Edward Danvers might be an invalid, he might not have more than two pennies to rub together, but he was still one of Them… the elite, mysterious hierarchy of the upper classes, even if his family's feet were only on its lowest rungs. The matron scorned Lizzie. She had no backbone; she was far too soft, too easy with the patients, and yet… and yet she had managed to go and get herself married to one of Them… scheming, conniving little hussy…

  They left the hospital with nothing more than a suitcase apiece, Edward's an old battered leather one, with his father's initials still on it, and Lizzie's much the same, only hers had not been handed down to her by her father, but had originally been the property of Lady Jeveson, just like the heavy tweed suit she was wearing as protection against the cold, squally weather.

  The village's one taxi deposited them at the station. The platform was already crowded, filled in the main with American servicemen from nearby. Most of them had girls with them: pretty girls, wearing bright red lipstick and shiny American nylons.

  The train was crowded, even in the first class carriage which Edward had insisted on. Lizzie had never travelled first class before. She had expected the other people in the carriage with them to be like the families her aunt had occasionally visited: stiff, arrogant dowagers, with their cowed daughters and daughters-in-law, their grandchildren, and their dogs, the latter normally being more indulged than any child of the house ever was, but the other occupants of their carriage were a group of American servicemen and their girls. One of the men in particular reminded her of Kit, not so much in his looks, but more in his manner, causing a sudden sharp feeling of despair and desolation to sweep over her.

  At her side Edward sat silently in his chair. Neither of them had spoken since getting on the train, and Lizzie was shamefully aware of how little she actually wanted to talk to Edward. All she wanted was to be alone with her memories of Kit, and all the time the one thing she had to hold on to was the knowledge that she was to have his child. She felt disorientated and confused. Too much had happened and too fast for her to take it all in.

  Opposite the Americans and their girls were all laughing and smoking. One of the men, the one who reminded her so sharply of Kit, reached towards his girl, clasping her waist while she giggled and protested. 'Aw, come on, babe, you weren't so reluctant last night,' Lizzie heard him saying, as he grinned at his companion, and then, in front of Lizzie's shocked eyes, openly slid his hand into the bosom of her dress.

  Inside her stomach something twisted sharply, something uncomfortable and painful, some hidden memory of her own that made her, just for one compelling second, see in the other couple not two strangers, but herself and Kit. And her body tensed with rejection of their sexuality.

  She shivered suddenly, and one of the other girls asked solicitously, 'You all right, ducks?' Lizzie nodded. 'Your dad doesn't look so good, though. He's fallen asleep now… best thing for him.'

  Lizzie stared at her. The other girl thought that Edward was her father. Lizzie knew how old he was… just thirty. It seemed old to her, but he had been only a few years older than Kit, she recognised dizzily… Of course, he did look much older: his hair was so grey, his body so twisted with pain. But her father...

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw that the soldier who reminded her of Kit was now kissing his girlfriend, pressing her back against the dusty seat with such explicit sexuality that Lizzie had to look away. She felt a surge of relief that she would never be subjected to male desire, would never again have to pretend… Her growing revulsion towards sex was something she accepted as a flaw in her own nature, never even considering laying it at Kit's door for his lack of sensitivity, his lack of love, or at her aunt's for bringing her up to regard intimacy between men and women as something to be endured rather than enjoyed. Too young to be able to form her own opinion and values, she took those of others as being implicitly and absolutely true.

  Something, some impetus she couldn't entirely understand made her focus on the girl who had addressed her and say quickly as she looked down at the worn wedding-ring Edward had given her, the one which had belonged to his mother and which was too big for her, 'Edward isn't my father… he's my husband.' Bravely, she looked straight at the other girl, defying her to offer pity or shock, and although she herself didn't recognise it she had taken her first step towards maturity.

  Edward was not asleep. He was in far too much pain to sleep. He had seen and heard everything, and he wondered bleakly just what the future was going to hold. Was he mad, crazy, to have married Lizzie? At the moment she was still in a state of shock, still too distressed by Kit's death to care what happened to her. A small part of her was grateful to him, because he had offered her a means of escape from her aunt, from poverty, from the stigma of bearing an illegitimate child. But once that shock had gone, once she had to face up to the reality of what marriage to him would mean, how would she feel then? Would she still be grateful to him, or would she grow to hate him, to look on him as a burden? She was just eighteen. Far, far too young to be tied to a man like him. But he loved her so much… needed her so much.

  In Bath they had to change trains and wait over three hours for the slow-moving local one, which would take them to Cottingdean. Lizzie could see that Edward was exhausted and, she guessed, in considerable pain. Dr Marshall had given her Edward's medication, and a letter to be given to Edward's own doctor. He had also warned her of the dangers to Edward's health, and how vulnerable he was. Her husband would always have to live as an invalid, he had reminded her, and Lizzie had accepted the knowledge without comment, without really being aware of what it meant.

  As the local train wound its way through a succession of small villages she could see that the only thing sustaining Edward was the knowledge that he was returning to somewhere where he had once been happy.

  She had tried to visualise Cottingdean from the mental pictures he had painted for her, but, despite his obvious love for it, all she had been able to see in her mind's eye was a formidable and unfriendly sprawl, the kind of house which she and her aunt had only ever entered via the back door. Now she was going to be Cottingdean's mistress. The knowledge made her shiver, and by the time the train actuall
y stopped at the small overgrown station she was both tired and nervous, the queasy feeling in her stomach intensifying once she and Edward were alone on the platform.

  Edward had telegraphed ahead to warn the elderly couple looking after the house that they were arriving, but there was no taxi waiting for them, and it was Lizzie who had to walk into the dusty booking office and find the clerk, an elderly, gnarled man, who frowned uncomprehendingly at her as she tried to make him understand what she wanted.

  'A taxi… There's none around here, missie…' he told her, shaking his head. 'Most folks use old John Davies's trap if they're wanting to go anywhere… Either that or their own legs,' he added. 'The only person who has a car round here is the doctor, and he's over at Miller's farm delivering Maisie Miller's fifth…'

  Lizzie went back to Edward to report what she had learned. Seeing him abruptly as she emerged from the booking office, she was struck by the greyness of his skin, the weary exhaustion that made her realise just why the girl on the train had assumed he was so much older.

  Seeing him away from the familiar surroundings of the hospital she noticed with a sudden start of disquiet just how frail he was. Somehow at the hospital she had taken it for granted… but now comparing him with other men, men like the Americans, and even the old clerk, with his leathery, weathered skin with its healthy, ruddy colour, she was sharply aware of just how ill Edward was.

  'How far is it to Cottingdean?' she asked him.

  'About two miles.'

  'Oh, well, that's nothing, we'll walk,' she told him, trying not to let him see how discouraged she felt, how frightened and alone, as it suddenly came home to her that it wasn't only Kit's baby who was now her responsibility, but Edward as well. Edward, her responsibility… But she was his wife, he was her husband… It should be the other way round. Suddenly she felt very frightened, very alone…

  Behind her Edward was protesting, but she could see how tired he was, how much he was longing for his home. Telling herself that it would probably take less time in the long run to walk than it would to find some means of transport, she reminded herself that she had pushed Edward's chair just as far on previous occasions… But then she had not been pregnant. Then she had not been alone, isolated from any means of help. Then she had not been Edward's wife.

  They had arrived at the station late in the afternoon— the village was deserted, its one street just as picturesque as she had visualised. It had a pretty, welcoming air about it, enhanced by the rich verdancy of the summer countryside. Edward directed her towards a track that ran at right angles to the main road. The land either side of the track was heavily cultivated, poppies providing brave patches of colour in the waving corn, dog roses flowering palely in the hedgerows. The track itself was overgrown with coarse grass, and plainly unused. It also ran uphill at a slight angle, and she was soon out of breath from pushing the heavy chair. Pushing it along this rutted track with its sharp stones hidden in the grass, its bumpy surface and deep ruts, was nothing like pushing it around the grounds of the hospital. She ached to stop, her legs felt weak and had started to tremble, her arm muscles straining with the effort of pushing the chair, but something inside her refused to allow her to stop.

  It was as though she was locked in some fierce inner battle… as though she must persevere… as though she must reach Cottingdean without giving in to her physical need to rest. It was as though something inside her was warning her that it was time for her to shed her vulnerabilities, her fears, both physically and emotionally, and that she must take hold of her life and control it for herself, no matter how hard she might find it.

  Lost in her own strange thoughts, she had stopped looking at her surroundings until Edward called out excitedly, 'Look, Lizzie, there it is. There's Cottingdean…'

  There was such pride and joy in his voice that at first Lizzie automatically looked beyond the low huddle of buildings with its tall, crooked chimneys, instinctively searching for something more imposing, more in keeping with the mental images Edward had drawn for her, only slowly realising that there was nothing else, that that huddle of steeply pitched roofs, those chimneys which looked as though they were in imminent danger of collapse, did actually belong to Edward's beloved Cottingdean.

  Later she was glad that Edward had not been able to see her face, that in addition to everything else he had to cope with he did not have to cope with the realisation of her shocked disbelief that anyone could possibly love such a forlorn, unkept, decaying collection of stone and slate.

  'There it is!' Edward called out triumphantly. 'Cottingdean.' And she could tell from the pride and excitement in his voice that he did not see it as she saw it; that he did not see the neglect, the desolation, the sagging roofs, and damp lichen-covered walls. The lane petered out and ahead of them lay open a pair of dilapidated wooden gates, to either side of which ran stone walls. The gates seemed to perplex Edward. He stared at them as Lizzie fought to control her own shock. This was Cottingdean… this ruin of a building with its sagging roofs and tell-tale damp marks on the walls, its blind yawning windows, many of them without glass, its tangles of weeds and poor, unproductive fields. This was the nirvana which Edward had described so lyrically to her. This was the Eden to which her child was heir.

  She could hardly believe what she was seeing. She looked at Edward, expecting to hear him mirror her own shock, but he seemed oblivious to the neglect. On his face was a blind, rapt look of joy. 'Cottingdean… at last. I suppose the gates went towards new tanks—a pity, but perhaps things will improve now after the war.' Lizzie was astonished that he could think of such things. What concerned her now were their immediate needs. Food, rest, somewhere to spend the night. Because she was sure they could not spend it here in this ruined and uninhabited place. Where were the couple Edward had told her were looking after the house?

  Lizzie had come prepared to be overwhelmed by the house, by its history, by its richness, its traditions, its staff, and yet it was plain to her from the moment she set eyes on the place that her new home was nothing more than a desolate shell. 'I wonder what's happened to the Johnsons?' Edward said, frowning, as Lizzie attempted to push the wheelchair down the overgrown drive. 'Kit told me that they'd agreed to stay on until he could sell the place. It was requisitioned at the beginning of the war, and then never used. No, none of the family has actually lived in it since my grandmother died.'

  Was he beginning to see, to realise the vast difference that lay between his memories and reality? Lizzie wondered. Suddenly she had almost a motherly urge to protect him, to allow him just a little longer to cling on to his dreams. She knew well enough what it was like to lose those dreams. The only thing she had left to cling to now was Kit's child… Kit's son.

  They were within sight of the front door now, and Lizzie's heart sank as she saw how it yawned open. No one lived here, no matter what Edward had been told. No one had lived here for a long time. As she stopped the wheelchair, she waited for Edward to suggest that they walk back to the village, that they find somewhere to spend the night, but he said nothing and as she went to look at him, she saw that his face was crumpled like a child's, shadowed with shock and grief.

  'I don't understand… Where are the Johnsons? Why isn't there anyone here? The house seems almost deserted…'

  In his voice she could almost hear his plea that she contradict him, but Lizzie couldn't. Neither, she found, could she tell him, as she knew she should, that they would have to go back, that it was pointless going inside to see what further desolation awaited them. Instead she heard herself saying brightly, 'Well, we'd better go in…'

  The front door was rotten in places, and festooned with cobwebs. Beyond it lay a dark, stone-floored hallway—so dark, so polluted with the rank scent of damp and disuse that she recoiled from it automatically. Her pregnancy had sharpened her sense of smell, and the odour now assaulting her nostrils made her body quiver with rejection. It was the smell of decay and death, the smell of darkness, of hidden underground places sh
ut off from light and warmth. But Edward was waiting for her to push him inside, and as she did so she realised that the lack of light was due to the blackout, covers crudely fastened to the windows.

  As her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness she saw the outline of a huge stone fireplace. On the opposite wall were the stairs, a gallery above them, behind which was obviously a large window. The walls of the hallway had obviously once been panelled, but now the panelling was rotting away, had been torn away in places, she recognised.

  Several doors led off the hallway, and as she stood in silence, surveying her surroundings, a large rat ran across the floor, squeaking angrily as it saw them, invaders in what was plainly its territory. 'Well, that's one thing we'll need to do,' she said briskly, sounding more like her aunt than she knew.

  'What's that?' Edward asked painfully. He looked as though he could not believe his eyes, and, while originally she had felt angry with him for his refusal to see the house as it really was, now she felt the opposite. She wanted to protect him, to tell him that things weren't as bad as they seemed.

  'Get ourselves a good farm cat to sort out those rats…'

  'I suppose Vic the shepherd will know where best to get one… That's if we still have a shepherd, or any sheep. What's happened to this place? I don't understand.'

  His shoulders sagged. He looked old…careworn, and yet almost childish at the same time, Lizzie recognised.

  Instinctively she went to comfort him, kneeling down beside his chair and taking one of his hands in hers. 'It won't be so bad, you'll see… It just needs a bit of a clean-up. It seems worse because there's no one here. When the Johnsons get back and we find out what's going on—'

  Edward laughed harshly. 'Use your head, Lizzie. The Johnsons aren't coming back. Look at the state of this place. No one could live here. No one has lived here. I just don't understand.'