Kate Morton - The Distant Hours

I got the feeling Juniper was the sort of girl people liked to talk about: her family were important, she was beautiful and talented – in Mum’s words, enchanting – but still: Juniper the Teenage Man-Beater? It seemed unlikely, to say the very least.

‘Look, it’s probably just groundless old talk.’ Adam’s tone was breezy again as he echoed my thoughts. ‘Nothing at all to do with why her sisters vetoed our interview.’

I nodded slowly.

‘More likely, they just wanted to spare her the stress. She’s not well, she’s certainly not good with strangers, she wasn’t even born when the Mud Man was written.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I said. ‘I’m sure that’s all it was.’

But I wasn’t. I didn’t really imagine that the twins were fretting over a long-forgotten incident with the gardener’s son, but I couldn’t rid myself of the certainty that there was something else behind it. I put down the phone and I was back in that ghostly passage, looking between Juniper and Saffy and Percy, feeling like a child who is old enough to recognize nuance at play, but hopelessly ill-equipped to read it.

The day that I was due to leave for Milderhurst, Mum came early to my bedroom. The sun was still hiding behind the wall of Singer & Sons, but I’d been awake for an hour or so already, as excited as a kid on her first day of school.

‘There’s something I wanted to give you,’ she said. ‘To lend you, at any rate. It’s rather precious to me.’

I waited, wondering what it might be. She reached inside her dressing-gown pocket and took an object out. Her eyes searched mine for a moment, then she handed it over. A little book with a brown leather cover.

‘You said you wanted to know me better.’ She was trying hard to be brave, to keep her voice from shaking. ‘It’s all in there. She’s in there. The person that I used to be.’

I took the journal, as nervy as a novice mother with a brand-new baby. Awed by its preciousness, terrified of doing it damage, amazed and touched and gratified that Mum would trust me with such a treasure. I couldn’t think what to say; that is, I could think of lots of things I wanted to say, but there was a lump in my throat, years in the making, and it wasn’t about to budge. ‘Thank you,’ I managed, before I began to cry.

Mum’s eyes misted in instant response and at the very same moment each of us reached for the other and held on tight.

Milderhurst, April 20th, 1940

It was typical. After a terribly cold winter, spring had arrived with a great big smile and the day itself was perfect; a fact Percy couldn’t help but take as a direct slight from God. Then and there she became a non-believer, standing in the village church, at the far end of the family pew her grandmother had designed and William Morris had carved, watching as Mr Gordon, the vicar, pronounced Harry Rogers and Lucy Middleton man and wife. The entire experience had the vaguely spongy feeling of a nightmare, though it was possible the quantity of bolstering whisky she’d consumed beforehand was playing its part.

Harry smiled at his new bride and Percy was struck again by how handsome he was. Not in the conventional sense, neither devilish nor suave nor clean-cut, rather he was handsome because he was good. She had always thought so, even when she was a little girl and he a young fellow who came to the house to attend the clocks for Daddy. There was something about the way he carried himself, the unassuming set of his shoulders, that marked him as a man whose self-opinion was not unduly inflated. Moreover he was possessed of a slow, steady nature, which might not have been dynamic, but spoke of care and tenderness. She used to watch him from between the banisters, coaxing life back into the oldest and crossest of the castle’s clocks, but if he’d noticed he’d never let on. He didn’t see her now, either. He only had eyes for Lucy.

For her part, Lucy was smiling, giving an excellent performance of one who was pleased to be marrying the man she loved above all others. Percy had known Lucy for a long time, but had never thought her such a very good actress. An ill feeling shifted in the pit of her stomach and she longed again for the whole ordeal to be ended.

She could have stayed away, of course – feigned illness or pleaded essential war work – but there’d have been talk. They’d employed Lucy at the castle for over twenty years: it was unthinkable that she might be married without a Blythe standing witness in the congregation. Daddy, for obvious reasons, made a poor choice, Saffy was preparing the castle for Meredith’s mother and father, and Juniper – never an ideal candidate – had retreated to the attic with her pen in a frenzy of inspiration; thus the duty had fallen to Percy. To shirk the responsibility wasn’t an option, not least because Percy would’ve had to explain her absence to her twin. Crushed to be missing the wedding herself, Saffy had demanded a report of every last detail.

‘The dress, the flowers, the way they look at one another,’ she’d said, listing them on her fingers as Percy tried to leave the castle. ‘I want to hear it all.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Percy had said, wondering whether her whisky flask would fit inside the fancy little handbag Saffy had insisted she carry. ‘Don’t forget Daddy’s medicine, will you? I’ve left it out on the table in the entrance hall.’

‘The hall table. Right.’

‘It’s important he has it on the hour. We don’t want a repeat of last time.’

‘No,’ Saffy agreed, ‘we certainly do not. Poor Meredith thought she was seeing a ghost, poor lamb. A very rambunctious ghost.’

Percy had almost been at the bottom of the front stairs when she’d turned back. ‘And Saffy?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Let me know if anyone comes to call.’

Ghastly death merchants preying on an old man’s confusion. Whispering in his ear, playing up to his fears, his ancient guilt. Rattling their Catholic crucifixes and muttering their Latin into the castle corners; convincing Daddy that the spectres of his imagination were bona fide demons. All, she was sure, so they could get their hands on the castle when he died.

Percy picked at the skin around her fingernails, wondered how much longer it would be before she could get outside for a cigarette; whether it was possible for her to slip out unnoticed if she affected the perfect attitude of authority. The vicar said something then and everybody stood; Harry took Lucy’s hand in his to walk her back down the aisle, holding it with such tenderness that Percy realized she couldn’t hate him, even now.

Joy animated the married couple’s features and Percy did her best to match it. She even managed to join in the applause as they made their way along the narrow aisle and out into the sunshine. She was aware of her limbs, the unnatural claw she’d made with her hand on the back of the pew, the lines of her face sitting in forced merriment that made her feel like a clockwork puppet. Someone hidden high above in the raked church ceiling jerked an invisible wire and she seized her handbag from beside her. Laughed a little and pretended to be a living, feeling thing.

The magnolias were out, just as Saffy had hoped and prayed and crossed her fingers for, and it was one of those rare but precious days in April when summer begins to advertise itself. Saffy smiled just because she couldn’t help it.

‘Come on, slow coach,’ she called, turning to hurry Meredith along. ‘It’s Saturday, the sun is shining, your mother and father are on their way to visit; there’s no excuse for dragging your feet.’ Really, the child was in a most cheerless mood. One would’ve thought she’d be delighted at the prospect of seeing her parents, yet she’d been moping all morning. Saffy could guess why, of course.