Kate Morton - The Distant Hours

‘I’m sure no one expects you to offer your best crystal.’

‘No, I mean the whole thing. The proposition itself. All those frightened children, their poor mothers back in London having to smile and wave as they watch their babies disappear into the great unknown. And for what? All to clear the stage for war. So young men can be forced to kill other young men in far-off places.’

Lucy turned to look at Saffy, surprise in her eyes, some concern mixed in. ‘You mustn’t go getting yourself all upset now.’

‘I know, I know. I won’t.’

‘It’s up to us to keep morale high.’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s lucky there are people like you willing to take the poor little wretches in. What time are you expecting the child?’

Saffy set down her empty teacup and took up the scissors again. ‘Percy says the buses arrive sometime between three and six; she couldn’t be any more specific than that.’

‘She’s making the selection then?’ Lucy’s voice had caught a little, and Saffy knew what she was thinking: Percy was hardly the obvious choice when it came to maternal matters.

As Lucy shifted the chair to the next window, Saffy scampered along the floor to keep up. ‘It was the only way I could get her to agree – you know how she is about the castle; she has images of some unholy terror snapping curlicues off the banisters, scribbling on the wallpaper, setting the curtains on fire. I have to keep reminding her that these walls have stood for hundreds of years, that they’ve survived invasions by the Normans, the Celts, and Juniper. One poor child from London isn’t going to make any difference.’

Lucy laughed. ‘Speaking of Miss Juniper, will she be in for lunch? Only I thought I saw her leaving in your father’s car earlier?’

Saffy waved the scissors in the air. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. The last time I knew Juniper’s mind was…’ She thought for a moment, chin on her knuckles, then released her arms theatrically. ‘You know, I can’t remember a single time.’

‘Miss Juniper has talents other than predictability.’

‘Yes,’ said Saffy with a fond smile. ‘She certainly has.’

Lucy hesitated then, climbed back down to the ground and drew slim fingers across her forehead. A funny, old-fashioned motion, a little like a damsel contemplating a fainting spell; it amused Saffy and she wondered whether she could incorporate the endearing habit into her novel – it seemed just the sort of thing that Adele might do when made nervous by a man…

‘Miss Saffy?’

‘Mmm?’

‘There is something rather serious I wanted to talk to you about.’

Lucy exhaled but didn’t continue and Saffy wondered for a terrible, hot instant whether she might be ill. Whether there’d been bad news from the doctor: it would explain Lucy’s reticence and, come to think of it, her recent habit of distraction. Why, just the other morning, Saffy had come into the kitchen to see Lucy watching unseeingly from the back door, across the kitchen garden and beyond, whilst Daddy’s eggs continued to boil far beyond his usual soft preference.

‘What is it, Lucy?’ Saffy stood up, gesturing that Lucy should join her in the sitting area. ‘Is everything all right? You’re peaky. Shall I fetch you a glass of water?’

Lucy shook her head but glanced about for something to lean on, choosing the back of the nearest armchair.

Saffy sat on the chaise longue and waited; and in the end, when Lucy’s news finally burst forth, she was glad that she was seated.

‘I’m going to be married,’ said Lucy. ‘That is, someone has asked me to marry him and I’ve said yes.’

For a moment Saffy wondered if the housekeeper was delusional, or at least playing a trick. Quite simply, it made no sense: Lucy, dear reliable Lucy, who had never once in all the years she’d worked at Milderhurst so much as mentioned a male companion, let alone stepped out with a fellow, was to be married? Now, out of the blue like this, and at her age? Why, she was a few years older than Saffy, surely nearing forty years old.

Lucy shifted where she stood and Saffy realized that silence had fallen rather heavily between them and it was her turn to speak. Her tongue moved around some words, but she couldn’t seem to utter them.

‘I’m getting married,’ said Lucy again, more slowly this time, and with the sort of caution that suggested she was still getting used to the notion herself.

‘But Lucy, that’s wonderful news,’ said Saffy, all in a rush. ‘And who is the lucky fellow? Where did you meet him?’

‘Actually,’ Lucy flushed. ‘We met here, at Milderhurst.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s Harry Rogers. I’m marrying Harry Rogers. He’s asked me and I’ve said yes.’

Harry Rogers. The name was familiar, vaguely; Saffy felt sure she should know the gentleman, but she couldn’t find a face to match the name. But how embarrassing! Saffy could feel her cheeks reddening and she covered her dilemma by planting a broad smile on her face, hoped it was sufficient to convince Lucy of her delight.

‘We’d known one another for years, of course, what with him visiting so regularly at the castle, but we only started walking out together a couple of months ago. It was right after the grandfather clock began playing up, back in spring.’

Harry Rogers. But not, surely, the hirsute little clock man? Why, he was neither handsome nor gallant nor, from what Saffy had observed, remotely witty. He was a common man, interested only in chatting with Percy about the state of the castle and the inside workings of clocks. Obliging enough, as far as Saffy could tell, and Percy had always spoken kindly of him (until Saffy chided that he’d be sweet on her if she weren’t careful); nonetheless, he wasn’t at all the right man for Lucy with her pretty face and easy laugh. ‘But how did this happen?’ The question had risen and bubbled out before Saffy could even think to stem it. Lucy didn’t appear to take offence, answering directly, almost too quickly, Saffy thought; as if she herself needed to hear the words spoken in order to understand how such a thing could have occurred.

‘He’d been up to see about the clock and I was leaving early on account of Mother being poorly, and it just so happened that we bumped into one another on our way out of the door. He offered me a lift home and I took it. We struck up a friendship and then, when Mother passed away… Well, he was very kind. Quite a gentleman.’

There fell then a pall of silence in which the scenario played out variously in each of their minds. Saffy, though surprised, was also curious. It was the writer in her, she supposed: wondering at the type of conversation the two might have had in Mr Rogers’s little motorcar; how, exactly, one thoughtful lift home had blossomed into a love affair. ‘And you’re happy?’

‘Oh yes.’ Lucy smiled. ‘Yes, I’m happy.’

‘Well.’ Saffy forced strength into her own smile, ‘Then I’m enormously happy for you. And you must bring him up for tea. A little celebration!’

‘Oh no.’ Lucy shook her head. ‘No. It’s kind of you, Miss Saffy, but I don’t think that would be wise.’

‘Why ever not?’ said Saffy, though as she said it she knew perfectly well why not, and suffered a wave of embarrassment for not having found a smarter way to extend the invitation. Lucy was far too proper to entertain the notion of dining with her employers. With Percy, especially.

‘We’d rather not make a fuss,’ she said. ‘We’re neither of us young. There won’t be a long engagement; there’s no point in waiting, what with the war.’

‘But surely at his age Harry won’t be going-?’

‘Oh no, nothing like that. He’ll be doing his bit though, with Mr Potts’s mob. He was in the first war, you know; at Passchendaele. Alongside my brother – alongside Michael.’