After the Funeral Page 20

  ‘It’s what you said earlier about providence. I never believed in providence before today. Perhaps I might call it fate. But I seem somehow to have been led here, if that makes sense.’

  Again the priest nodded without speaking. And again Julia found herself unnerved by his piercing gaze. But having begun her story, she didn’t falter.

  ‘The woman at the gallery told me Linda set fire to this house when she was in here with her baby. She was ill, suffering from post-partum psychosis, which wasn’t understood very well at the time, thirty-three years ago. She was taken into psychiatric care, and her husband and daughter moved away and changed their names. Linda has never seen her daughter since. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the priest quietly. ‘That’s right.’ His blue eyes remained fixed on Julia’s. ‘Is that all you know?’

  ‘No.’ Julia paused. ‘I think – I’m certain – I know Linda’s daughter. She’s one of my clients.’

  The priest half-stumbled across the kitchen to his chair and sank down into it. ‘Thank God,’ he whispered. He covered his eyes with his hands. ‘Thank God.’

  Julia was surprised by the intensity of his reaction, even though she appreciated that priests could become involved in the lives of the people they encountered. They weren’t required, as counsellors were, to retain the same degree of detachment. Not that she had been detached from Grace. She swallowed. She had become too involved with the postgraduate student, overstepping the boundaries. But here was a chance for her to make up for some of her mistakes.

  ‘Do you think it would help Linda to meet her, if her daughter is agreeable? I’m sure she would, but of course I will need to speak to her, after I’ve checked with my supervisor.’

  The priest raised his head. Julia saw there were tears in his eyes. His voice was hoarse. ‘It would most definitely help.’ He dashed away the tears. ‘You must excuse me. The foolishness of a sentimental old man.’ For the first time since they had met, he half-smiled.

  Julia smiled back, though she realised she was close to tears herself. It was astonishing, little short of a miracle, that she had dreamed of this house, that Grace had come to her for counselling just around the time she had first met Linda at her mother’s funeral, that now there was the possibility of reuniting a sick woman with the child she hadn’t seen since for over thirty years.

  ‘I’ll ring my supervisor as soon as I get back to the inn where I’m staying,’ she said. ‘Shall I come again tomorrow? Perhaps I could see Linda if she’s up to it?’

  He didn’t answer immediately, reaching across the table for a large bulky brown envelope. He picked it up and held it to his chest for a moment. He swallowed, and Julia realised he was in the grip of some strong emotion.

  ‘This is for you.’ He slid the envelope towards her, resting a trembling hand on one end as she placed her hand on the other. He seemed reluctant to let it go. ‘Read it this evening. When you get back to where you’re staying. You will find out the rest of what Linda wants to tell you in there.’ He extended his long fingers so that they covered Julia’s briefly. ‘I hope that you will be able to come back tomorrow.’ His eyes contained a plea which Julia didn’t understand.

  There was something else she didn’t understand too, she realised, as she made her way out to the hall. He took her waterproof from the coat stand and held it open for her to step into.

  ‘How did you know who I was in the gallery?’ she asked as he opened the door. The rain had stopped. All was quiet save for the water dripping from the trees. Looking up, she saw a cloud pass across the pale crescent moon, the moving red light of an aeroplane.

  On the doorstep she turned back to him, about to repeat her question, thinking he hadn’t heard. He leaned forward and placed his hand gently on her cheek. ‘You have the same heart-shaped face,’ he said in a choked voice.

  Julia remembered the photographer’s comment at Linda’s exhibition: Hey, there is a family likeness you know, both the same heart-shaped faces, similar upturned noses too.

  ‘As Linda?’ she asked. But the priest had already closed the door behind her.

  –  CHAPTER 21  –

  Julia’s mind was spinning with the afternoon’s revelations as she drove back to the pub. She showered and changed before ordering poached egg on toast in the bar. Restored by the food and the warmth of the log fire, by the reassuring normality of the busy pub after the strange events of the day, she returned to her room with a large glass of red wine. She’d only recently acquired a mobile phone but was glad of it as she set about making three calls.

  Her supervisor confirmed Julia should notify Grace as soon as possible that she had found her mother in view of Linda’s fragile health. Louise insisted, though, that any reunion must be proposed by her client without any pressure from Julia. She reminded Julia again that she couldn’t continue to counsel Grace. Her connection with Linda created a further conflict of interest in addition to the likely relationship between Grace and James. However distantly, Julia’s connection with Linda meant that she and her client were also now related. The knowledge warmed Julia as she rang Grace.

  The young woman was naturally overwhelmed at the news that Julia had found her mother. ‘It’s a miracle!’ she sobbed.

  Her counsellor had to agree. ‘It does seem that way. But Grace, like I said, she is very seriously ill. She might not recover. You’re certain you want to come? If you do, I can ask a friend to drive you if you prefer not to drive yourself.’

  Louise had suggested that it would be advisable for someone to drive Grace to Norfolk if she wanted to meet her mother, given the charged emotional situation. This was something which Julia had already considered. Asking either James or Clare was out of the question in view of her half-brother’s brief affair with Grace. The only other person she could think of was Pete. It would give her a pretext to speak to him after that awkward moment in his car following Ada’s party when she had pulled away from his kiss. And she could mention she had decided to share business premises with him too when their tenancy at the old school expired.

  Assured by Grace that she desperately wanted to meet her mother and would appreciate a lift to Norfolk, Julia took a large gulp of the indifferent house red and located Pete in the short list of contacts in her phone.

  He answered on the second ring. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Pete. It’s me, Julia.’

  ‘Julia. Where are you?’

  She wished he didn’t sound so cautious, wished that he’d called her ‘Jules.’ But her personal feelings weren’t important at the moment, she reminded herself. She took another swig of wine.

  ‘Near Walsingham. I wondered if you could help me with something.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You remember the woman who gate-crashed Aunt Ada’s party?’

  ‘Impossible to forget.’

  ‘She lives round here. She’s seriously ill. Cancer.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry. How come you’ve found her there?’

  ‘A long story. The thing is, she and her daughter were separated years ago in tragic circumstances. By a strange coincidence…’ She paused. Coincidence hardly covered it, but the priest’s word, ‘providence,’ didn’t come naturally to her sceptical mind.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I know her daughter too. She’s in Lincoln and she’d like to meet her mother. It’s urgent, with her mother being so ill. It’s probably not a good idea for her to drive, as it’s such an emotional situation. So I wondered…’

  ‘No probs.’ Pete jumped in. ‘I’ll bring her. Tomorrow morning, first thing?’

  She sighed with relief. ‘Thanks, Pete. I really appreciate that. I’ll give you her number so you can confirm with her. She’s got the address.’ Julia read out Grace’s number.

  ‘OK.’

  There was a pause. Julia took another gulp of wine.

  ‘And Pete?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’ll be good to see you. Bye.’

  Julia pressed the bu
tton to end the call without giving Pete chance to reply. Her heart was beating like some silly schoolgirl’s, and she hadn’t even approached the subject of sharing business premises as she had intended. But she was smiling as she replaced her phone on the mahogany chest of drawers. Alongside it lay the brown envelope the priest had given her. She picked it up and turned it over thoughtfully, remembering how the priest had seemed reluctant to hand it over.

  Her hands hovered over the seal as she remembered what he had said: ‘You will find out the rest of what Linda wants to tell you in there. I hope that you will be able to come back tomorrow.’ She’d been so preoccupied with her plan of reuniting Linda and Grace that she hadn’t realised the significance of his words. What Linda had to tell her extended beyond the fire and her separation from her daughter. Was the priest hinting that it might disturb Julia so much she might not want to see Linda again?

  With trembling fingers she broke the seal on the envelope and drew out a black leather book. Her heart banged against her ribs as she opened it and recognised her mother’s flowing script. It was the missing 1943 diary.

  13 May 1943

  My life has started today. That is how I feel, even if the words on the page seem dramatic.

  It began just like any other day, except that summer has finally come. Early May has been cold and grey. Today the sun was shining. When I flung open the window in my bedroom at half past seven the air was already warm. I put on my blue dress with the white roses. It will be its fourth summer, and it has faded from washing, but it is one of my favourites. Mother glanced askance at it when I sat down to breakfast and Ada cast a critical eye. As always she looked very neat and sensible in her white blouse and green skirt.

  Father was already in his study. The scent of lilac wafted in through the open window. He greeted me with his affectionate smile and continued to make notes for Sunday’s sermon. I resumed sorting through the local history books which old Mr Smithson has passed on to him since his eyesight failed. No one else in the village is likely to appreciate his collection like Father. I’m sure he would have been a History teacher if he hadn’t gone into the Church.

  We worked in our usual companionable silence, broken only by Father sounding out an unfamiliar Greek word as he worked through his text. He told us at supper last night that it’s the story of the woman caught in adultery in John’s gospel. He said he finds it a very difficult passage.

  Mother raised an eyebrow, saying she thought it was very straightforward. Ada said, glancing at Mother, ‘From what one hears about the goings on at the air base, it sounds like a very relevant text, Father.’

  Father replied sharply. ‘The Lord was warning against judging, Ada. No one was able to cast a stone at the woman, because none was without sin. We would all do well to remember that.’

  I would have liked to ask Father more about the difficulties of the text from John’s gospel this morning but very soon Mother came in to announce a visitor. Evidently Father had met a Canadian Air Force officer at evening service and to Mother’s obvious irritation he had come to continue their conversation.

  The airman entered the room and shook hands with Father. Father is not small, but our broad-shouldered visitor towered above him. Then he turned and noticed me and my heart raced. He truly dazzled, his blonde hair golden, his face shining, his blue grey uniform immaculate. He has the clearest blue eyes I have ever seen. Dust motes danced between us.

  I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him until recalled by Father, who bade me make some tea for our guest. The airman raised an eyebrow quizzically.

  ‘My apologies.’ Father smiled, pushing his half-moon spectacles higher up his nose. ‘This is my daughter, Emily. Emily, this is Wing Commander Brooke.’

  Wing Commander Brooke nodded his head towards me. He smiled, his teeth white against his tanned skin. Laughter lines are already forming around his mouth, although I suspect he is only in his mid-twenties.

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Miss Goulceby.’ He spoke slowly. His smile faded, but he continued to look at me. Under his scrutiny I experienced an unfamiliar sliding in the pit of my stomach. A blush rose to my cheeks, but I held his gaze, unable to look away.

  ‘And you too, Wing Commander Brooke,’ I replied.

  I left to make the tea as Father and Wing Commander Brooke began to talk about mediaeval churches in the area.

  Ada was in the kitchen, angrily rolling pastry. I brewed the tea and watched her. She pounded the pin over the pastry, her back stiff beneath her white blouse, a damp patch visible between her narrow shoulder blades. Our relationship has always been prickly, but since Christmas there has been a new coldness in her attitude towards me. She criticises me more than ever for my unsuitable clothes, my clumsiness, my preference for spending time with Father and his books rather than helping with domestic chores – and resents me for the attention I received from Leonard Wheeldon at the Christmas Fayre.

  I placed cups and saucers on the tray with the milk jug and sugar basin. The pastel flowers on the tea set faded long ago, but it is the best we have. And I was determined Wing Commander Brooke should have the best.

  Praying that I wouldn’t drop the laden tray, I returned to the study, thankful to leave Ada behind. So often I find Father’s study a haven within our troubled household. I’m sure that accounts for the amount of time he spends there when not at church or on pastoral visits. He is meticulous in his sermon preparation, but some of my happiest hours are when we browse his collection of local history books together, and I like to think he feels the same.

  I set the tray down on the bureau in the hall to open the study door. Hearing the murmur of voices inside, I experienced again the slippery sensation in the pit of my stomach. Somehow the study did not seem so safe to me with Wing Commander Brooke within it. There was something about his steady gaze which unsettled me.

  But I was as powerless to leave the room when I returned as a fly caught in a spider’s web. The airman looked towards me as I walked in. I had the strangest feeling that with that one glance he knew everything there was to know about me, as though my thoughts and feelings – my soul, Father might say – was laid bare. I flushed again.

  The airman stepped forward, his hand brushing mine as he took the tray. My hand twitched involuntarily at the touch. I moved sideways, catching my hip on Father’s desk. I drew in my breath at the stab of pain, and was grateful neither man seemed to notice. Wing Commander Brooke set the tray down amidst the books and papers which always clutter Father’s desk. He withdrew to his former position by the window. The scent of lilac wafted in on the breeze, stronger than ever.

  I busied myself pouring the milk and tea into the cups, my head bowed so that my hair framed my rosy face. The room was silent apart from the steady ticking of the grandmother clock and the low hum of the bees in the lavender outside.

  I spooned a teaspoon of sugar into Father’s cup and passed the tea across the desk to him. He smiled in acknowledgement and took a few sips.

  I turned towards Wing Commander Brooke. He was surveying me with the same intent gaze. I was suddenly aware of my too tight dress, my uneven fingernails, the damp patches under my arms, the strands of hair moist against my flushed forehead. For the first time I wished I had taken an interest in the magazines my old school friends enjoy reading, with their photographs and advice on fashion and hairstyles.

  A bead of perspiration rolled down my back as I took the tea over, fixing my eye on the cup, fearful I might spill it as my hands continued to tremble. I passed it to him, careful to avoid his hand brushing against mine again. Yet at the same time I longed for the touch, wanting to find out if it were possible that there was some invisible current between us.

  One glance up at him as I handed over the tea told me there was. His eyes seemed to darken as they held mine. I found it impossible to break the contact. I was rooted to the spot, my hand on one side of the saucer, his on the other, our gazes locked.

  At his desk Father replaced his cup on his s
aucer. The clink of china broke the spell which seemed to bind me to Wing Commander Brooke. I crossed the room and seated myself in the armchair across the desk from Father.

  Father was speaking and I tried to compose myself and concentrate. He was explaining that the tiny church at Coates by Stow has a rare mediaeval rood loft and screen which he was sure the airman would like to see. Before I knew what was happening Wing Commander Brooke spoke to me, locking his eyes on mine again, asking me to join them for the visit!

  Father looked between us, as if considering something, a question hovering as he cleared his throat. After a pause he suggested we all go a week tomorrow. It seems Wing Commander Brooke has a day’s leave before six days of flying, but Father and I are committed to the Church Bazaar tomorrow. As Father spoke a shadow crossed Wing Commander Brooke’s face.

  My heart skipped a beat. News of deaths of the airmen at the base always saddens me, but I have never had a personal interest in them before. I realised, sitting there sipping tea in the sanctuary of Father’s study, that I won’t experience a moment’s peace during future campaigns.

  Not until I know that Wing Commander Brooke is safe.

  14 May 1943

  I was awake early this morning. Raising the blackout blinds, I lay some time in bed, like a cat in the sun, thinking about Wing Commander Brooke. Sleep came late last night as I thought of him, his eyes holding mine, his hand touching mine on the tea tray. Ada would frown at my foolishness, day-dreaming about a man with whom I have spent barely half an hour. She was more sour than ever yesterday afternoon when we went to the Village Hall to set up for the bazaar. Nothing I did was right. Mrs Renshaw declared herself delighted with my arrangement of the knitted infant clothes, but then along came Ada complaining that I should have arranged them according to colour instead of size. Mother agreed of course, but I couldn’t help smiling to myself when Mrs Booth complained today that she didn’t have time to check sizes in the jumble of colour co-ordinated clothes. I stole a glance at Ada, who pretended not to hear. She was looking towards the door as soon as the bazaar opened and I knew she was watching for Leonard Wheeldon. His mother swept into the hall soon after two o’clock, eye-catching in a dress with large pink roses against a black background. Mother, running her hands over her best dress of the last two summers, commented later that Mrs Wheeldon must have used most of her clothing coupons on the purchase.