Barbara Erskine - House of Echoes

‘Did you know the people who lived there?’ The intensity of the gaze she fixed on him disarmed him slightly.

‘I’m afraid not. It was empty when I came to the parish. It’s a shame. We need a family there.’

‘Is it for sale then?’ She was dismayed.

‘No. No, that’s the problem. It still belongs to the Duncan family. I believe Mrs Duncan lives in France now.’

Mrs Duncan. Laura Catherine. Her mother.

‘You don’t have her address, do you?’ Joss could hear her voice shaking slightly. ‘I’m a sort of relative. That’s why I came.’

‘I see.’ He gave her another quick glance as they reached the church. Taking out a key he unlocked the door in the porch and ushering her into the dim interior he reached for the light switches. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know where she is, but my predecessor might. He was in the parish for twenty-five years and I think he kept in touch with her when she left. I can give you his address at least.’

‘Thank you.’ Joss stared round. It was a beautiful small church, plain, with a whitewashed interior which showed off the carved stone of the thirteenth-century windows and the arched doorways and the brasses and plaques with which it was lined. On the south side there was a side aisle where the oak pews gave way to rows of rush seated chairs. The church had been decorated for Harvest Festival and every window sill and shelf and pew end was piled with fruit and vegetables and flowers. ‘It’s lovely.’

‘Isn’t it.’ He surveyed it with fond pride. ‘I’m lucky to have such a charming church. I have three others of course with three other parishes, but none is as nice as this.’

‘Is my –’ Joss was looking round. My father, she had been going to say. ‘Is Philip Duncan buried here?’

‘Indeed he is. Out by the oak tree. You’ll see his grave if you walk through to the Hall.’

‘Is it all right if I go and look at the house? Is there a caretaker or something?’ Joss called after him as he disappeared to collect his books.

‘No. I’m sure it will be all right if you go and wander round. There’s no one to mind any more, sadly. The gardens used to be beautiful, but they’re a wilderness now.’ He reappeared from the shadows and closed the vestry door behind him. ‘Here, I’ve scribbled down Edgar Gower’s address. I don’t know his phone number off hand, I’m afraid. He lives near Aldeburgh.’ He pushed a piece of paper into her hand.

She watched from the churchyard as he strode back to his bike, vaulted onto it and rode away, his pile of books heaped in the bicycle basket. Suddenly she felt very lonely.

The grave stone by the oak tree was simple and unadorned.

Philip Duncan Born 31st January 1920 Died 14th November 196 3

Nothing else. No mention of his grieving widow. Or his child. She looked down at it for several minutes. When at last she turned away pulling the collar of her coat up with a shiver against the strengthening wind she found there were tears in her eyes.

It was a long time before she could drag herself away from the old house and walk, thoughtfully, back to the car. Climbing in, savouring the familiar atmosphere of home, she leaned back in her seat and looked round. On the shelf lay one of Tom’s socks, pulled off as he sat in his car seat behind her, as a prelude to sucking his toes.

She stayed slumped for several minutes, lost in thought, then suddenly she sat upright and gripped the steering wheel.

In her pocket she had the address of someone who knew her mother; who remembered her; who would know where she was now.

Leaning across the seat she reached for the road atlas. Aldeburgh was not all that far away. She glanced up. The sky was a patchwork of scudding black clouds and brilliant sunshine. Evening was still a long way off.

Pulling into the long broad main street in Aldeburgh she sat still for a moment peering through the windscreen at the shops and houses. It was an attractive place, bright, neat and at the moment very quiet.

Clutching her piece of paper she climbed out of the car and approached a man who was standing staring into the window of an antique shop. At his feet a Jack Russell terrier strained at the leash anxious to get to the beach. He glanced at her piece of paper. ‘Crag Path? Through there. Overlooking the sea.’ He smiled. ‘A friend of Edgar Gower’s are you? Delightful man. Delightful.’ Unexpectedly he gave a shout of laughter as he strode away.

Joss found she was smiling herself as, intrigued, she followed the direction of his pointing finger and threaded her way down the side of a fisherman’s cottage, crossed a narrow road and found herself on a promenade. On one side stood a line of east-facing houses, on the other, beyond the sea wall, a shingle beach and then a grey, turbulent sea. The wind was very cold here and she shivered as she walked down the road looking for house numbers. Edgar Gower’s house was tall and narrow, white painted with a high balcony overlooking the sea. To her relief she could see lights on in the downstairs room and there was a stream of pale wood smoke coming from the chimney.

He opened the door to her himself, a tall, angular man with a ruddy complexion and a startling halo of white hair. His eyes were a brilliant blue.

‘Mr Gower?’

Under his piercing gaze Joss suddenly felt extraordinarily self conscious. He did not appear to be gentle or reassuring as his successor at Belheddon had been; this man of the cloth was a complete contrast.

‘Who wants me?’ The eyes did not appear to have blinked. Although his gaze was fierce his voice was comparatively soft, scarcely audible as behind her the waves, crashing successively onto the beach, rattled the shingle in a shifting deafening background roar.

‘I was given your address by the rector at Belheddon. I’m so sorry to come without telephoning –’

‘Why have you come?’ He cut short her floundering. He had made no move to ask her in and she realised suddenly that he had a coat on over a thick rough knit sweater. He had obviously been on the point of going out.

‘I’m sorry. This is obviously not a good time –’

‘Perhaps you will allow me to be the judge of that, my dear.’ He spoke with ill-concealed though mild irritation. ‘Once you have told me the purpose of your visit.’

‘I think you know my mother.’ She blurted it out without preamble, transfixed by the unblinking eyes.

‘Indeed?’

‘Laura Duncan.’

For a moment he stared at her in complete silence and she saw that at last she had succeeded in disconcerting him. She held her breath, returning his gaze with difficulty.

‘So,’ he said at last. ‘You are little Lydia.’

Suddenly Joss found it difficult to speak. ‘Jocelyn,’ she whispered. ‘Jocelyn Grant.’

‘Jocelyn Grant. I see.’ He nodded slowly. ‘You and I should walk, I think. Come.’ Stepping out onto the path he slammed his door behind him and turned right, striding purposefully along the road behind the sea wall without a backward glance to see if she were following.

‘How did you find out about your mother?’ He spoke loudly against the noise of the wind. His hair was streaming behind him, reminding Joss irresistibly of an Old Testament prophet in full cry.

‘I went to St Catherine’s House to find my birth certificate. My name is Jocelyn, not Lydia.’ She was growing short of breath, trying to keep up with him. ‘Jocelyn Mary.’

‘Mary was your great grandmother, Lydia your grandmother.’

‘Please, is my mother still alive?’ She had had to run a few steps to stay beside him.