The Hidden Years Read online

  Liz felt the mattress dip beneath her, was aware of firm hands removing her smock, of a quiet, firm voice speaking calmingly to her, as the pain raged and tore at her, only to retreat and then rage anew with jagged tearing force.

  She heard herself cry out and someone answer, she felt the force of the new life inside her demanding its own autonomy, she felt the fear of the peril of giving birth both for her child and for herself. She realised she must have cried out those fears, because someone answered them, reassuring her, calming her.

  Outside it grew dark, the winter's afternoon fading into dusk: Vic had seen more births than he could remember, but each one was something special, something magical… a moment out of time when a man might feel immortal to witness such a wonder… but never more so, never more intensely, or more humbly than this moment when he witnessed the birth of this boy child.

  Any embarrassment she might have imagined feeling in such circumstances had long ago faded. Liz felt nothing but gratitude and a rare, intense moment of bonding that went beyond any form of words as Vic handed her her child. She felt no awkwardness or self-consciousness when he placed the child against her breast, so matter-of-fact, so tender, so wholly instinctive were his movements. When he told her that he must lift the bed, she accepted it without question, not aware, as he was, of the heavy flow of blood caused by the child's birth.

  From somewhere he had produced a sheepskin in which to wrap the child, telling Liz that it would preserve his body heat.

  'I think I shall call him David…' she told Vic sleepily.

  'It's a good name,' he agreed quickly. 'A royal name…'

  She was tired, her body drained and exhausted, and yet the euphoria of having given birth made her cling determinedly to consciousness.

  Vic, not wanting to alarm her, sat with her, silently monitoring the dangerously weakening loss of blood. It had slowed, but not stopped. He suspected that she would need stitches where the birth had torn her. By rights he ought to leave her and summon help. Edward must be frantic with worry.

  He said as much, but she clung to his arm. 'No… Please stay with us… There's so much…' She stopped, frowning, shaking her head in negation of her own thoughts, her own needs. What was it she wanted to say to him, to share with him? He was a stranger to her, even more so than Edward, and yet they had shared something so special, so intimate that for the rest of their lives the three of them would be inextricably linked. She shivered suddenly. 'Talk to me…' she said. 'Tell me what you want out of life, Vic…'

  And so he did, watching her while he talked, not allowing her to see his relief when the bleeding slowly stopped and the colour started to seep back into her face.

  She would make a good mother, he saw approvingly, watching the easy, instinctive way she handled her child. He, at least, was healthy, well formed despite his early arrival, tugging eagerly at her breast.

  This was the look of a Madonna, he recognised, watching as she smiled down at her child and reached out to touch his cheek. A sharp stab of envy tore through him. Suddenly it was not enough that he had his hopes and his plans. Suddenly he wanted more—suddenly he wanted her, he recognised, trying to push the knowledge away from him, to deny it before it was born, but already it was too late and the knowledge that there could never be a time when she would lie in his bed nursing his child was like a sore place in his heart.

  'Go on,' Liz instructed him, lifting her gaze from her son. 'You were saying—about getting a new ram…'

  Edward was thrilled with his son. He even approved of the name she had chosen for him, but Liz suspected that he could not quite forgive her for allowing David to be born so intemperately, and in such a horrible place— with only a shepherd in attendance.

  He was a little short with Vic for several weeks after David's birth, which Liz felt guiltily was her fault, suspecting that it was really at her that his anger was directed, not realising that Edward was exhibiting an instinctive male awareness of another man's interest in his mate.

  Ian Holmes was full of praise for all that Vic had done, treating the circumstances of David's birth so matter-of-factly that Liz was intensely grateful to him.

  'You were lucky that Vic was on hand. You couldn't have asked for a better midwife. After all, he's had far more experience of birth than I…'

  Edward didn't like that comment, saying distastefully that sheep were a far different thing from ladies.

  'Not when they're giving birth,' Ian told him forthrightly, not adding that, but for Vic's prompt action, Liz might very well have bled far more seriously than she had.

  As it was she made a speedy recovery from the birth, and was now glowing with health and pride. Her child too was thriving…

  From somewhere someone had produced two goats, and these were now providing the rich milk that Liz was forcing herself to drink for David's sake. Ian had warned her that the poor diet they were all forced to endure might result in her milk not being sufficient to nourish her baby.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Around the time David was six months old three things happened which were to have, in varying degrees, a profound effect upon their lives.

  The first of them arrived in the form of a totally unexpected visitor who presented herself at Cottingdean's unused front door at precisely four o'clock on a warm early June afternoon, just when Liz had settled both David and Edward down for the nap which had become part of their daily ritual. If she was ever forced to count her blessings, foremost among them must be Edward's love for their son. It surprised her how easy it was for her to think of David as 'theirs'. From the very first moment he had set eyes on him Edward had loved the little boy, handling him with a tenderness and wonder that always made Liz herself marvel.

  Any doubts she had had about the wisdom of her marriage had faded the moment she'd looked into Edward's eyes and seen in them the pure shining love of a father for his child, and known that it was a love that would never tarnish.

  If it hurt her to remember the laughing, handsome man who had given David life, then she was determined that only she would know it.

  David was Edward's son. He fussed over the baby far more than she did. At first she had seen that he disliked the fact that she was feeding the baby herself. In his world ladies simply did not do that sort of thing, but Ian Holmes had some radical ideas and beliefs springing from his tough Northern upbringing and, as he ruthlessly pointed out to Edward, Liz's milk was a far more economical and, in his view, far more healthy way of feeding the child than any amount of shop-bought formulae.

  It was true that David had thrived marvellously, and now, at six months, he was a placid, plump baby, with a shock of dark hair, serious blue eyes that were slowly changing to grey, and sun-warmed skin from the long hours his mother spent working in her garden with David tucked into a basket at her side.

  The goats had done their work, and someone—she suspected it was probably either Ian Holmes or young Vic—had prevailed on Jack Lowndes to spare her two of his men early in the spring to do the heavy digging and clearing in the kitchen gardens.

  Conscious always of their lack of money, Liz had insisted on retaining what had once been the escaliered fruit trees around the walls, and these had been pruned back as hard as she dared, in the hope that they might with care and nourishment be persuaded to grow and fruit. Now, in June, when she walked in this garden that was her own special province, early in the morning, after she had fed the hens and checked that the goats hadn't escaped from their tethers, her heart swelled with achievement as she studied the neat rows of growing produce.

  With her aunt's thrifty training, she was already planning ahead to the autumn, when she would bottle, preserve and make jam with as much of the soft fruit as she could, looking to the winter ahead.

  Visitors of any kind were a rare enough occurrence. The village believed in keeping itself to itself, and Liz was too conscious of being neither fish nor fowl in the social pecking order to make overtures of her own. To have a visitor therefore on a
Monday afternoon, when any housewife of good sense must surely be engaged in thankfully completing the task of her Monday wash, was surprising enough; but one who presented herself at the front door, which was never used, caused Liz to frown as she wiped her hands on the overall she was quickly removing.

  The only downstairs room that was really habitable was the kitchen. Edward now seemed resigned to the fact that they were virtually living in it and had made no comment when Liz, with Vic's help, had dragged down from the attic two ancient armchairs, their covers worn and damp but their springs still intact.

  All through the spring evenings she had worked hard on her borrowed Singer making loose covers for them from an old pair of damask curtains she had found in the attic.

  The flagged floor now gleamed with cleaning and polishing, the pewter winked shiningly from the bare scrubbed floors, and the range always gave off a welcoming warmth.

  As she walked through the hall, Liz grimaced. She had fallen into the habit of using the back stairs, which were more convenient for the kitchen, and since David's birth she had not had any time to spend trying to restore any more of the house to some sort of order. Now, with the warmth of the summer sun and its strong light pouring into the hallway, she was freshly conscious of its state of dilapidation.

  Never mind, she told herself grimly as she struggled with the heavy bolt. If her unexpected visitor chose to arrive at the front door, then he or she would just have to face the consequences.

  As she pulled the door open, she blinked a little at the sunlight and then stared in astonishment at her visitor. A tall, bone-thin woman, with a shock of grey curly hair and skin as sunburned as a gypsy's, stood in front of her. She must be somewhere in her late sixties, Liz recognised, as she smiled uncertainly at her visitor and invited her in.

  'Harriet Fane,' the older woman announced, extending her hand and, to Liz's surprise, grasping her own and subjecting it to an almost mannish handshake. Her fingers were long and bony, the skin toughened by outdoor work. 'From Fane Place,' her visitor continued as she stepped into the hallway, barely giving its dilapidation a glance. 'Live there with m'brother, you know. At least, used to. Buried him last week. Best thing, really…shot to pieces at Dunkirk. Should have made an end of him then. That's why I'm here. Heard about your husband. Never met him, but I know the family…'

  Liz listened in amazed confusion. She had heard of Harriet Fane, or, more properly, Lady Harriet Fane, from Ian Holmes, who had mentioned during his last visit that her brother Lord George Fane had recently died. The Fanes were known in the village as an eccentric couple, whose home, Fane Place, was if anything in even more of a dilapidated state than Cottingdean. Neither of them had ever married. Lady Harriet, it was said, lived for her horses and her garden, a mannish woman who spoke plainly and was inclined to be unwittingly tactless. The vicar's wife had once told Liz that she felt vaguely sorry for her.

  'Beneath her brusque manner I think she's rather shy. They live a very isolated life in that huge empty house, and her brother is confined to bed, and very often in considerable pain. They've no family to speak of, and very few friends.'

  Remembering this, Liz explained a little uncomfortably to her visitor that they were virtually living in the kitchen, and led the way there. She was wishing that Edward weren't having his afternoon rest, feeling that she could have coped far better with her visitor with his support.

  'Smells good.'

  Liz gave the older woman a hesitant smile. Edward was a picky eater, and had to be tempted and coaxed to eat what she considered to be a good meal. On Monday washdays, in her aunt's household, cold meat, bread and pickle had been the only meal available, but this morning Liz had got up early to make a fresh batch of bread and in the range was a chicken which she was casseroling for Edward's dinner.

  As she invited her guest to sit down and offered her a cup of tea, Harriet Fane announced, 'Tell you why I'm here. It's about Chivers.'

  Liz waited uncertainly. She had no idea who or what Chivers might be, and wondered if perhaps it was one of Lady Harriet's horses who might have escaped.

  'Chivers?' she repeated politely.

  'Yes—George's batman. Been with him for years. Virtually kept him alive. Best nurse a man could ever have, George always said. Can turn his hand to anything. Got to find a place for him now that George is gone. Heard you were looking for a man…'

  Enlightenment dawned. Liz felt her heart sink. It was true that she had finally persuaded Edward to do something about employing someone to take over the burden of her heavier chores. Her housewifely mind hated the deterioration and sheer wastage she saw around the house and its grounds, especially when she knew that with a little effort, a little ingenuity and hard work, much could be done to put things right at a minimal cost. All it needed was a pair of willing, deft hands. She had hoped that they might find among the men returning home from war someone with small skill at carpentry and building work, who would not mind turning his hand to giving her some help in the garden when necessary, in addition to doing things such as keeping the range supplied with wood. But what she had had in mind was a young, strong man…not some aged retainer who would probably turn up his nose at being expected to help with such menial tasks. And besides, the wages they could pay would not be very generous. As she remembered this she gave a small sigh of relief. Quickly she explained the position to her visitor.

  'Oh, that's all right,' Harriet Fane told her, confounding her. 'Chivers don't want much. George never paid him in his life, I dare say. No, it's more a matter of finding a suitable billet for him. Got no one of his own. And one feels a sense of responsibility. Can't go on for ever. Chivers is a good sort.'

  This was, Liz began to recognise, a matter of noblesse oblige. She hunted wildly in her mind for a suitable excuse, but the only one she could come up with was a weak, 'Well, it's very good of you to think of us. But it would of course be Edward—'

  'Just what your husband needs, my dear. Chivers will do him the world of good.' Harriet stood up. 'Glad that's all sorted out. I'll send Chivers round in the morning.'

  'In the morning…' Liz stared at her, and grasped her last straw. 'But your—Chivers—he may not want to work for us.'

  'Nonsense!' Lady Harriet boomed. 'Just what he needs. He's been moping himself to death since George went. Must go now. Horses need feeding…'

  Totally floored, Liz escorted her back through the house and watched as she settled herself in an ancient Morris which started with a cough, its engine rattling the rusting bodywork. After she had gone she made herself a cup of tea and sat down. Edward would be furious, of course, and rightly so… but nothing she had been able to say had been able to deter her visitor.

  She waited until after dinner before informing Edward of what had happened. He was not as annoyed as she had expected, and she realised as she watched him that there were still many aspects of the social code which governed the class to which her husband belonged that she still did not understand. Unlike her, Edward did not seem to think it in the least odd that the late Lord George's batman should be passed from one household to another like a parcel. On the contrary, he almost seemed to be flattered that Lady Harriet should consider them a suitable household to receive him. Almost as if in doing so she had bestowed a favour on them. Which, she suspected, she most certainly had not, Liz reflected grimly.

  This opinion was reinforced in the morning when Lady Harriet arrived with Chivers. He was a small, rotund man, with baby-smooth skin and a bald head. He could have been any age from forty to sixty, Liz reflected as she greeted him a little stiffly. She had been up early trying to prepare a room for him, hoping all the time that he would take one look at the household and announce that it was impossible for him to stay.

  As she led him through the front door, she saw him studying the panelling she had been attempting to clean. The raw scrubbed wood was now badly in need of nourishment. Linseed oil would have been an ideal method of bringing it back to life, but who could obtain that o
r anything else in these times of shortages and rationing?

  She had told Edward that, if they were to retain Chivers, then it must be his decision, and so she led her unwanted companion through to the clean but bare library, where Edward was waiting for him. She had lit a fire in the grate but made no other concessions to comfort. Let him see the house the way it really was… let him see how they actually lived.

  Even so, despite her dislike of the situation she felt she had been forced into, her aunt's training held sway, and it was impossible for Liz not to return to the kitchen and prepare a tray of tea, complete with some of the plain, almost sugarless biscuits that were all she was able to make with the meagre supplies available to her.

  It took Liz just three days to change her mind about Chivers and to marvel that Harriet Fane had felt able to live without him.

  When the vicar's wife heard what had happened she came round to Cottingdean and exclaimed enviously to Liz, 'You've got Chivers, you lucky thing! How on earth did you manage it?'

  'I didn't,' Liz assured her, and proceeded to explain.

  It was left to Chivers himself to unravel the mystery of how he came to be at Cottingdean when Liz found him on his hands and knees, lovingly soaking the hall panelling with something that smelled suspiciously like linseed oil.

  When she said as much he told her calmly that it was, tapping his nose mysteriously as he added that he was unable to reveal his sources of supply for the amazing variety of things that had suddenly begun to appear at Cottingdean. The hole in the stable roof, which she had despaired of ever having repaired, had suddenly, magically almost, gone, the rotting sections of the bookshelves in the library were somehow magically exchanged for new ones…

  'Chivers, you're wasted here,' Liz told him admiringly. 'You ought to be running the country.'

  'Wouldn't thank you for it, madam,' he told her. He always addressed Liz as 'madam'; he had never once, as she had originally feared, indicated that he was aware that she had been born into a lower class than her husband's.