Kate Morton - The House at Riverton aka The Shifting Fog

I can’t remember the details, for my mind was wandering. I was still trying to remember Mother from when I was a girl. Funny. Now that I am old the memories come unbidden: Mother showing me how to clean the windows so they didn’t smear; Mother boiling Christmas ham, hair lank with steam; Mother grimacing at something Mrs Rodgers had told her about Mr Rodgers. But not then. I could see only the grey sunken face of the night before.

An icy wind rushed toward me and whipped my skirts against my stockinged legs. I looked up to the darkening skies and noticed the figure on the hill, by the old oak tree. It was a man, a gentleman; I could tell that well enough. He was dressed in a long black coat and a stiff shiny hat. He carried a cane, or perhaps it was an umbrella, wrapped tightly. I didn’t think much of it at first; I presumed he was a mourner visiting another grave. If it seemed strange that a gentleman, who must surely have his own estate, his own family cemetery, should be mourning amongst the town’s graves, I didn’t think it then.

As the vicar sprinkled the first handful of dirt on Mother’s coffin, I glanced up to the tree again. The gentleman was still there. Watching us, I realised. The snow started to fall then and the man looked upwards so that his face was in the light.

It was Mr Frederick. But he was changed. Like the victim of a fairytale curse, he was suddenly old.

The vicar drew to a hurried close, and the undertaker gave orders that the grave was to be filled quickly on account of the weather.

My aunt was by my side. ‘He’s got a nerve,’ she said, and at first I thought she meant the undertaker, or else the vicar. But when I followed her gaze, she was looking at Mr Frederick. I wondered how she knew who he was. I supposed Mother had pointed him out at one time or another when Aunt was visiting. ‘What a nerve. Showing his face here.’ She shook her head, tightened her lips.

Her words made no sense but when I turned to ask what she meant she had already moved away, was smiling at the vicar, thanking him for his thoughtful service. I supposed she blamed the Hartford family for Mother’s back problems, but the accusation was unfair. For while it was true that years of service had weakened Mother’s back, it was her arthritis and pregnancy that finished the job.

Suddenly, all thought of my aunt evaporated. Standing by the vicar, black hat in hands, was Alfred.

From across the grave, his eyes met mine and he raised his hand.

I hesitated, nodded jerkily so that my teeth chattered.

He started walking. Came toward me. I watched, as if to look away could cause him to disappear. Then he was at my side. ‘How are you holding up?’

I nodded again. It was all I could seem to do. In my mind, whirlpools of words spun too quickly for me to grasp. Weeks of waiting for his letter; of hurt, confusion, sadness; of lying awake composing imaginary scripts of explanation and reunion. And now, finally…

‘Are you all right?’ he said stiffly, bringing a tentative hand toward mine then thinking better of it. Returning it to the brim of his hat.

‘Yes,’ I managed to say, hand heavy where he hadn’t touched it. ‘Thank you for coming.’

‘Course I came.’

‘You didn’t have to go to any trouble.’

‘No trouble, Grace,’ he said, feeding his hat brim through his fingers.

These last words floated lonely between us. My name, familiar and brittle on his lips. I let my attention drift to Mother’s grave; watched the undertaker hastily working. Alfred followed my gaze.

‘I’m sorry about your ma,’ he said.

‘I know,’ I said quickly. ‘I know you are.’

‘She was a hard worker.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘I saw her only last week-’

I glanced at him. ‘Did you?’

‘Brought her some coal Mr Hamilton said could be spared.’

‘Did you, Alfred?’ I said appreciatively.

‘Been cold of a night, it has. Didn’t like to think of your ma going cold.’

I was filled with gratitude; it had been my guilty fear that Mother’s passing had been brought about through lack of warmth.

A hand clamped firmly on my wrist. My aunt was beside me. ‘That’s over and done then,’ she said. ‘And a fine service too. Can’t see she’d have anything to complain about.’ Defensive, though I hadn’t disagreed. ‘Nothing more I could have done, I’m sure.’

Alfred was watching us.

‘Alfred,’ I said, ‘this is my Aunt Dee, Mother’s sister.’

My aunt narrowed her eyes as she stared at Alfred; a groundless suspicion that was native to her. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ She turned back to me. ‘Come on then, miss,’ she said, affixing her hat and tightening her scarf. ‘Landlord’s coming first thing tomorrow and that house needs be spotless.’

I glanced at Alfred, cursed the wall of uncertainty still stretched between us. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I suppose I’d best be-’

‘Actually,’ said Alfred quickly, ‘I was hoping… that is, Mrs Townsend thought you might like to come back up to the house for tea?’

He glanced at my aunt who scowled in return. ‘What would she be wanting with all that?’

Alfred shrugged, rocked back and forth on his heels. His eyes were on me. ‘Have a visit with the other staff. A bit of a natter. For old time’s sake?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said my aunt.

‘Yes,’ I said firmly, finding my tongue. ‘I’d like that.’

‘Good,’ said Alfred, relief in his voice.

‘Well,’ said my aunt. ‘Have it your way. I’m sure I don’t mind.’ She sniffed. ‘Just don’t be long. You needn’t think I’m doing all the scrubbing myself.’

Alfred and I walked through the village, side by side; soft flakes of snow, too light to fall, suspended on the breeze like flecks in pond water. For a time we travelled without speaking. Footsteps muffled by the damp dirt road. Bells ringing as shoppers went in and out of doors. Occasional motor cars whirring down the lane.

As we neared Bridge Road, we began to speak of Mother: I recounted the day of the button in the string bag; the long-ago Punch and Judy visit; told him of my narrow escape from the Foundling Hospital.

Alfred nodded. ‘Brave of your ma, if you ask me. Can’t have been easy, her all on her own.’

‘She never tired of telling me so,’ I said, with more bitterness than I intended.

‘Shame about your da,’ he said as we passed Mother’s street and the village turned abruptly to countryside. ‘Having to leave her like that.’

At first I thought I had misheard. ‘My what?’

‘Your da. Shame things didn’t work out for the two of them.’

My voice trembled against my best attempts to still it. ‘What do you know about my father?’

He shrugged ingenuously. ‘Only what your ma told me. Said she was young and she loved him, but in the end it was impossible. Something to do with his family, his commitments. She wasn’t real clear.’

My voice, thin as the floating snow: ‘When did she tell you that?’

‘What?’

‘About him. My father.’ I shivered into my shawl, pulled it tight around my shoulders.

‘I took to visiting recently,’ he said. ‘She was all alone, what with you in London. Didn’t seem much trouble on my part to keep her company once in a while. Have a natter about this and that.’

‘Did she tell you anything else?’ Was it possible, after a lifetime of keeping secrets from me, Mother had opened up so easily at the end?

‘No,’ said Alfred. ‘Not much. Nothing more about your da. To be honest, I did most of the talking; she was more a listener, don’t you think?’

I was unsure what I thought. The whole day was deeply unsettling. Burying Mother, Alfred’s unexpected arrival, learning he and Mother had met regularly, had discussed my father. A topic closed to me from before I’d even thought to ask. I walked faster as we entered the Riverton gates, as if to walk free of the day. I welcomed the clinging damp of the long dark driveway. Surrendered myself to a force that seemed to be pulling me inexorably on.