Уильям Николсон - Motherland

‘Nor I. We did all we could, but I shall always have it on my conscience. What’s done is done. All any of us can do is try to do better next time.’

At the bottom of the stairs an anxious group of staff members wait for him.

‘Oh, Lord,’ says Mountbatten. ‘Is it time already?’

He turns and shakes Larry’s hand.

‘Welcome aboard,’ he says. And with that he strides away, followed by his staff.

In the short period between his interview with Mountbatten and his departure for India, Larry sees no one. He writes his father a short letter to say he’s leaving, implying that his trip to India is a chance opportunity too good to be missed. He says nothing about his abandoned ambition to be an artist. His father’s support and generosity are now a reproach to him. He writes a second short letter, similarly reticent, to Ed and Kitty. He has heard nothing from Nell. He presumes that by now she’s been alerted by Tony Armitage, and is keeping out of his way. He makes no attempt to contact her.

‘It’s like being back in the bloody Oflag,’ says Ed, staring out at the falling snow. ‘This winter’s gone on longer than the bloody war.’

Kitty, still in bed, does not reply. She doesn’t want to get up because the bedroom is so cold. She doesn’t reply because she knows there’s no point. These days Ed is always in a foul mood until he’s got some breakfast inside him. Until he’s got a drink or two inside him, to be precise.

Pamela comes in and scampers across the cold floor to jump into bed beside her mother.

‘You’re frozen!’ exclaims Kitty, hugging her close.

‘Snowing again,’ says Pamela. ‘Let’s stay in bed.’

‘See you downstairs,’ says Ed, and off he goes.

Kitty lies in bed with her child in her arms, struggling with feelings of hurt and anger. At night in bed he can be so loving, but each day, when morning comes, it’s as if she loses him all over again. Why must life be so hard for him? Can’t he at least greet his own daughter? Why does he say it’s like being in the prisoner-of-war camp when he’s got her and Pammy with him? The winter has been endless, but it’s the same for all of them. He behaves as if he’s been specially singled out by fate.

By the time she and Pamela are downstairs he’s outside, fetching in firewood from the stack by the gun room. There’s no need for him to do this, old John Hunter is kept on for jobs like this, or one of the outside men can do it. But Ed needs reasons to be up and out. He needs reasons to be away.

This is what hurts Kitty most. Yes, this is a hard time, but it’s also a time when they’re together. This could be such a precious time. And the worst of it is, it feels like it must be her fault. She’s not making him happy.

‘What are we going to do today, Mummy?’ says Pamela.

‘I don’t know, darling. Shall we do some more reading?’

‘I hate reading.’

She’s not yet four years old, there’s no hurry. And you can’t really call it lessons. All Kitty has been doing is reading her The Tale of Tom Kitten , following the words on the page with her finger. And however much Pamela pretends not to like it, she has clearly been listening. The other day Kitty heard her say to Mrs Lott the cook, ‘I am affronted,’ just like Mrs Tabitha Twitchit in the book.

Pamela is an outdoors creature, like her father. But outdoors has become such hard work. So many clothes to put on, and just walking to the lake is such a labour in the snow, and the lake itself is frozen over and dangerous. Pamela wants to go on it because it looks just like the rest of the park now, all flat and smooth and white. She refuses to believe there’s ice under the snow, and water under the ice, and she might fall through and freeze and drown. Or maybe she does believe it but still wants to go on the ice, because she sees how it frightens and angers her mother. Why is she like that?

Louisa comes down, blinking and yawning.

‘Why is Ed doing the logs?’ she says. ‘That’s John Hunter’s job.’

‘I’ve no idea,’ says Kitty. ‘I suppose he just wants to keep busy.’

‘George has decided to rearrange all the books in the library,’ says Louisa. ‘Maybe Ed could help him with that.’

‘Daddy hates reading,’ says Pamela.

‘That’s nonsense, darling,’ says Kitty.

‘I wouldn’t say George exactly reads his books,’ says Louisa. ‘But he loves collecting them. And he loves rearranging them.’

Later Ed takes Pamela out into the park and they draw patterns in the snow with sticks, and the falling snow obliterates them, along with the prints of their footsteps.

At lunch Ed calls for beer.

‘A good bracing bitter,’ he says.

Mr Lott taps the barrel in the cellar. Ed drinks all of a pint tankard and calls for more, and then retreats to the billiard room.

‘I wish he wouldn’t drink so much,’ says Kitty. ‘Can’t you tell Lott not to serve him?’

‘Awkward,’ says George. ‘One doesn’t want to appear to be telling a fellow how to live his life.’

‘You have to do it, Kitty,’ says Louisa.

The problem is that Ed’s drinking is in its way quite controlled. He never becomes loud and abusive. He just becomes more remote. By the end of the evening, when he’s moved on to Scotch, it’s as if he isn’t there at all. He goes about slowly, and looks without seeing. At such times Kitty is possessed by a frightening rage that makes her want to hit him, and hurt him, so that he cries out in pain. Anything to make him see her.

Pamela has gone out with Betsy the scullery maid to search for eggs. The hens have taken to laying in odd places, in the storerooms and the workshop, which being close to the boilers share some of their heat. Pamela likes Betsy and always does whatever Betsy tells her, which puzzled Kitty until she asked about it.

‘Why are you so good with Betsy?’

‘Because I don’t have to be,’ said Pamela.

Sometimes she frightens Kitty, she seems so grown-up. How can a four-year-old be so self-possessed?

Kitty goes to the billiard room to talk to Ed. The room is unheated, with a handsome west-facing window opposite the great but empty fireplace, and dormer windows in the high beamed roof. Ed is leaning over the billiard table, his cue reached out to attempt a tricky shot. A half-empty glass of Scotch stands on the shelf beside the scoreboard.

‘You should have a fire if you’re going to be in here,’ Kitty says.

‘Waste of fuel,’ says Ed, not turning to look at her.

He takes his shot and misses.

‘Damn.’

She watches him shamble round the billiard table, eyes on the balls, and realises he’s already very drunk.

‘I wish you wouldn’t, Ed,’ she says softly.

‘Wouldn’t what?’

‘Drink so much.’

‘No harm in it,’ he says. ‘Keeps me quiet.’

‘I don’t want you to be quiet,’ she says. ‘Not like this.’

‘Well, I’m very sorry to hear that,’ he says, speaking slowly and heavily. ‘But there’s not much I can do about it.’

He lines up his next shot.

‘Of course there is.’ She can feel herself digging her fingernails into the palms of her hands. ‘You could if you tried.’

‘Ah, if I tried. Yes, I could do anything if I tried.’

This is what maddens her when he’s drunk. This slow hazy way he has of not taking anything in.

‘Please, Eddy.’ She’s aware her voice has risen. ‘For me.’

He takes his shot. The billiard balls crack sharply in the chill air.

‘Please will you do it for me,’ she says again.

He straightens himself up and turns to look at her.

‘I’d do anything for you,’ he says. ‘What is it I’m to do?’