Leaving Shades Read online

  ‘He never stopped taunting me. I tried my best with you but he mocked everything I did. He’d soon crushed me and I couldn’t cope. I want you to know all this, Beth, so you have things clear in your mind. I started to take a drink to help me cope. It worked at first and I’d stand up to Phil, and that was when the screaming matches between us started. But soon I couldn’t cope again and I’d drink more and more. I’d break things in sheer frustration and temper. I was out of control. I knew what I was doing to you, Beth, to Elizabeth my little girl, but I couldn’t stop myself repeating it again and again. I was so ashamed, so frightened for you. But I did love you. I tried to look after you. It was my idea that you take lessons with Muriel Oakley. I knew her to be a kind woman and I was certain I could trust her not to talk about what went on here. Of course, it couldn’t be kept a total secret. When you were taken away from me I was heartbroken but I thought it was the best thing for you. I never got on with my mother but she doted on you. I was sure she wouldn’t let you down. Like I had so many times. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I accept that you’re really sorry, Mother.’ Beth found it so easy to call Christina her mother. ‘I really do. You don’t have to keep saying it. I understand some of what you went through. You see, I want you to know this, something only Kitty knows.’ Now it was Beth’s voice that had a tremor.

  * * *

  Her hand on the hot kerbing of Philip’s grave, Beth said softly and throatily to her twin, ‘I told Mother about my baby, her grandchild, your niece or nephew. She was so good and comforting about it. It was such a relief. Now I come to think about it, our Grandma Frobisher might have been disappointed in me conceiving a baby. She would have considered that it would ruin my life and expectations. She probably would have pressed me to go away and give the baby up for adoption. I couldn’t have done that. It might have marred my closeness with Grandma but I would have risked that. She was always awful about Mother. Our brother Joe had something to say like that about her. She wasn’t the saint I thought she was.’

  Hearing footfalls heading her way, Beth blotted away her tears and got to her feet. It was Mark Reseigh. So far she had only got a glimpse and a respectful nod from him in the gardens of Owles House. He was carrying shears and other tools.

  On seeing her, Mark halted. He dipped his head in salute. ‘Morning, Miss Tresaile. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll come back later.’ He was already turning to go.

  ‘No, you don’t have to go, Mr Reseigh. I was about to leave myself. It’s peaceful here, isn’t it?’ Beth had the impression that if she had not asked him a question he would have just walked off. She stayed put, waiting for him to reach her.

  ‘It is peaceful,’ he said in his full low voice, stopping close up and resting his weight on one foot. Beth immediately got the impression he was neither stand-offish nor shy, rather he was simply not nosy, intrusive or impatient. She could tell he was a steady sort of fellow. ‘Except for the times the vicar is flapping about, but he doesn’t do it so often now. He’s running out of steam these days, I’d say.’

  ‘He must be getting on a bit. He used to bewilder me when I took my lessons at the vicarage but I was never scared of him. Mrs Reseigh, as a proud grandmother, showed me a photo of your little girl. She looked adorable.’

  It was as if the sun itself had lit up Mark. His whole being became animated. He had the typical build of a workman, strong bodied and a little rough and tough round the edges, but he also had a kind consistency to his firm features. His dark brown hair needed a cut and was inclined to curl. ‘Rowella’s running about all over the place now. Daren’t keep a cupboard not tied up or she’s pulling everything out of it. She’s interested in everything, every sound and movement. She loves animals and the boats and the sea. Course my mother and her other gran Mrs Praed spoil her.’ For a man often wordless and of half-expressions he quickly opened up and rambled on happily about his fifteen-month-old daughter. Beth felt the hurt in her heart again at having been rejected from birth by her own father, at having been of no value to him at all. Rowella Reseigh was one blessed little girl.

  Beth knew from a dreamy and sorrowful Mrs Reseigh about Mark’s romantic history. ‘He was sweet on pretty raven-haired Juliet Praed from a young ’un. Courted her from when she was fourteen. Lofty Praed made them keep either side of his garden gate for a couple of years. They got married four years later. They were both young but Lofty and Posy Praed and I weren’t against it. Mark and Juliet were right for each other. And when you come down to it, boys younger than Mark was then went off to the Great War and were killed for king and country.

  ‘Mark got them a little place to live up top of the cove. Young Rowella was a long time coming, then we nearly had a tragedy. Juliet fell down the stairs at eight months along and went into labour. There were complications, it was touch and go, we thought we were going to lose both of them. They came through but sadly poor Juliet got an infection and died a week later. It was such a cruel fate for Juliet and Mark. Our one comfort was that she got to see and hold the baby. Mark came back to live with me, him and the baby. Me and Posy Praed take turns helping him with Rowella. That dear little maid means everything to Mark and me. She’ll be my only grandchild. Mark says he’ll never get married again.’ Beth had concluded, in sadness and envy, that her own child, as little Rowella Praed was to Mrs Reseigh, would have been the most precious child on the planet.

  ‘I hope I get the chance to meet Rowella,’ Beth said.

  ‘That could be likely,’ Mark replied. ‘Mrs Vyvyan has us, and my mother, up to the house every now and then. She has us all for a picnic in summer and for a meal at Christmas.’ He looked down shyly. ‘If you’ll permit me to say so, Miss Tresaile, your mother is a wonderful woman. I’m… um, glad you’ve seen that for yourself.’

  ‘I shall never doubt it,’ Beth said, not offended by his unexpected forthrightness. She was pleased her mother had good and honest people who respected her and sought to protect her. She took her leave.

  On the way out of the churchyard she came to Francis Vyvyan’s grave. She had stood beside it yesterday with Christina. Fresh flowers had just been arranged there and she guessed Mark had placed them for her mother. She took a moment now to pay solitary homage to the man of whom she felt she knew something from the accounts of him she had heard. It was so tragic that a vital young man of thirty-eight should meet an untimely death.

  Beth heard footsteps again, light, slow footsteps. She looked all round. No one was there. Had she imagined them? She heard a sound and rustle coming, she construed, from behind an overgrowth of speckled laurel. She didn’t feel it was an animal. Mark was not the type to play stalking games and if it was the Reverend Oakley who was drifting about he’d always done so loudly, oblivious of causing a disturbance.

  From behind her came a throaty ‘Ahem.’

  ‘Oh!’ Beth swung round.

  ‘Oh, my dear Miss Elizabeth, Miss Tresaile, I mean. I beg your forgiveness for alarming you. It’s me, Muriel Oakley. I was creeping about to make sure it was actually you before I spoke up. Once I got a glimpse of your face I recognized you at once. It’s a joy to see you after all these years. Um, you do remember me?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course I remember you, Miss Oakley. It’s good to meet you again too,’ Beth said enthusiastically. She could not help staring at her former tutor, who looked entirely different now. Flesh had fled from the genteel woman’s frame leaving her wasted, almost cadaverous, in appearance. Her skin was wafer thin, her cheeks and chest sunken. Her washed-out Edwardian blouse and ankle-length faded black skirt had been gathered in for a better fit under a wide buckled belt of black cloth. Her black, heeled shoes were much patched and mended. Her hair, once pinned up in a cottage-loaf style, had gone a dull grey; cut at chin length from a side parting, it hung as listlessly as the rest of her. She still wore the same wire-rimmed glasses and from the way she strained to focus, Beth could tell they were no longer up to their job. The only other remnant of the younger Miss
Oakley was the pleasant smell of rose scent on her. You poor woman, Beth thought. Vicarage life had been relentlessly pitiable for her. Beth figured her age to be about forty-two, but she looked so much older – a sorry character. ‘I was sorry to learn that Mrs Oakley had passed away,’ she said.

  ‘I thank you for your sympathy, Miss Tresaile. My dear mama went on to glory some four and a half years ago. It was a merciful release actually. She went through such suffering.’ Miss Oakley floundered apologetically and glanced guiltily towards the church. ‘But I shouldn’t dwell on that. She’s sleeping in peace now until the Last Day. If I may be so bold, you were looking down at Mr Vyvyan’s grave. He was very highly respected, you know.’

  ‘So I’ve gathered. I wish I’d known him.’

  ‘Oh, you would have been, um, well, I mean to say… M-Mr Vyvyan was a fine example to us all.’ Miss Oakley’s pallid complexion burned a sickly dusky red and she twisted her hands in front of her in the manner of an embarrassed child.

  Beth was filled with compassion for the kind-natured spinster, who had been overlooked indifferently by life and had never gained personal happiness. Muriel Oakley had made it obvious that her admiration for the late handsome Francis Vyvyan had included infatuation. Beth was sure she must be excruciatingly lonely. Muriel Oakley could not have had any life of her own, probably all her hopes had been dashed and she had never had anything to look forward to. ‘I’m sure he was. I thought I’d take a look at Mr Jewell’s grave. I understand he had reserved his plot beside his parents, quite close to the war memorial. Would you care to walk with me, Miss Oakley?’

  ‘Oooh.’ Miss Oakley smiled as if to the highest heavens. ‘I’d be honoured to, Miss Tresaile. I get very few invitations anywhere nowadays.’

  If any at all, Beth thought, sad for her.

  ‘People are so busy,’ Miss Oakley said quickly, as they started off. Beth remembered Miss Oakley as always being eager not to be seen criticizing others. ‘I’ve never forgotten the lessons I had with you. No one has taught me history like you did. It’s given me a lifelong interest in the ancient Greeks, the Roman Empire, and their respective mythologies.’

  ‘Really? That is very gratifying to hear. I’ve never forgotten you. I taught a few other children after you went away but none of them showed the same aptitude as your good self for learning. None singled out a favourite subject.’

  ‘Do you have a pupil at the moment, Miss Oakley?’

  ‘There’s been no one for ages. The vicarage is quite run down, I’m afraid to say. It’s a rather uninviting place really. My father and I have no servants now. I’m resigned to keeping the house for him. I’m not a very good cook, I’m afraid, but no matter, neither of us has much of an appetite.’

  They had reached the war memorial, a tall Calvary cross. A granite beauty befitting the glorious dead from the parish of St Irwyn who had sacrificed their young lives on the seas and Flanders fields, their ranks and names lettered in black on the plinths. Apart from the graves of Beth’s twin brother, Francis Vyvyan and a few others, the memorial was the only thing in the churchyard kept in lovingly reverent order. Beth ran her eyes down the names. There were a lot of Vyvyans and Praeds. Perhaps, if he had not abandoned his young family, the name of Cpl P. A. Tresaile might also have been there. Beth felt a yearning sadness, wishing, despite her father’s apathy towards her, that she had known him properly, rather than having only unhelpful, poor impressions of him.

  ‘They were all heroes,’ Miss Oakley said in hushed tones.

  ‘It’s strange to think of my own father dying a war hero. My grandmother told me about his bravery. How he saved a comrade at the expense of his own life. My father had cut himself off from my mother and so I don’t know how my grandmother came to learn about it.’ It was a matter Beth had not dwelt on, but now she wanted to know all about the mystery.

  Beth sensed Miss Oakley stiffen and step back. She had been pale before but now her dry skin was totally bloodless. ‘Miss Oakley, are you well? I’m afraid you don’t look it. Shall I walk you home?’

  ‘No, no, I – I’ve just remembered something I must attend to. Excuse me, Miss Tresaile, I must go.’ Trembling and twitchy, Miss Oakley took herself quickly off.

  When she was out of sight moments later, Beth could hear her running.

  Fourteen

  Kitty was striding down to the cove. She felt on top of the world. The air was warm and summer-fresh in her lungs. Her long shapely limbs were relaxed yet full of vigour. She was bursting with health and contentment. Behind her was Owles House, where she loved staying with its little reunited family, and she had an adorable faithful puppy to rear. Beth had gone alone to the churchyard, where she needed to be as she made careful progress sifting through all her emotions and setting her old troubles to rest. Beth had no plans to return home for some time. Catching up on her past, Kitty had become aware, Beth had unconsciously fallen into a state of drift. She slowly pondered one revelation after another in her mind, while, partly due to Christina’s infirmity, her physical movements had become slower too. Christina was currently resting; a picture of undisturbed poise now so many things with Beth had been resolved. She and Beth were to share a quiet lunch. Joe, joined by his noisy, cheeky pal, Richard Opie, had taken food and drink, and some sort of secret supplies, off to Joe’s tree house in the grounds. Everyone, including Mrs Reseigh, was taking turns to watch Grace until Kitty’s return.

  Swinging a large cloth bag of Christina’s, Kitty made a mental shopping list of the items she wanted to get for Grace. The puppy would not need a collar and leash for a while yet, but Kitty was going to buy her heaps of toys, even though a bossy Joe had insisted the little tug rope Kitty had made from plaited rags was enough. Mrs Reseigh had given Kitty an address in one of the little side streets where an old man carved teething toys and made other items for babies and animals, selling them to holidaymakers from his doorstep. Kitty couldn’t wait to take Grace for her first proper walk.

  Kitty and Beth had discussed with Christina how highly they both thought of Joe for letting Beth become part of Christina’s life, and allowing them both to stay in his home. ‘He’s everything I could wish for in a son,’ Christina had said proudly. ‘And Beth is everything I could wish for in a daughter. I’m a lucky, lucky woman and I’ll be eternally grateful for it.’

  Joe still watched Beth avidly for signs that she might yet turn against Christina, but he was astute enough to allow them lots of time together, and he was getting on with the pleasures of revelling in the long summer holiday. One of his main activities was to challenge Richard to race him sprints, pounding up and down the lawn or taking marathon laps around the grounds and through the woods. With Chaplin tearing along beside them they made a happy, noisy troupe. The boys also made high jumps and long jumps, though Christina had drawn the line when they wanted to fashion a pole vault. Kitty was often roped in as timekeeper and she had been willingly cajoled to take part in some of the races. Beth and Christina had sat and watched, cheering and clapping the winner, who was invariably Joe. So far, however, Beth and Joe had advanced little towards bonding as sister and brother.

  Kitty reached Wildflower Cottage. Beth was planning to come here next to meet the Praed family, keen to thank them for giving her a safe refuge all those years ago. Kitty glanced over the natural hedging of hawthorn, ash, hazel and elder that divided the cottage grounds from the narrow lane. The hedging was covered with a tangle of honeysuckle and dog roses; so pretty and delightfully old-fashioned. Over the rustic wooden gate Kitty could see bursts of foxgloves, ox-eye daises, clover, and more. The front of the whitewashed cottage faced the road at a slight angle. The gently winding path up to the scuffed stable door was stony, and would likely be muddy during the winter and on rainy days. Swathes of perennial honeysuckle swarmed over the trellis-sided porch. Kitty took it for granted that the members of the Praed family – eight of them so Mrs Reseigh had said – who squeezed into the modest dwelling, went round the side like many workin
g folk and entered their home at the back.

  Approaching a few feet nearer, Kitty got as close to the hedge as she could and took a swift angled look, which soon hurt her neck, at the back garden. A sturdy lean-to was built on to the full width of the cottage’s back wall and plants pressed against the glass. Strings of washing formed a rectangle at the edges of a rough long lawn and laundry belonging to family members of both sexes and all ages wafted in the breeze. There were a few tiny girls’ clothes and Kitty mused that they probably belonged to the Praed-Reseigh granddaughter, of whom Mrs Reseigh talked incessantly. Attached to the cottage was a large expanse of ground and there were outhouses, a large shed, a good-sized lavatory and a scrap heap of rusty metal parts, bits of wood and redundant household items. Fishing boat accessories were neatly gathered against the sides of the shed. It appeared that a bicycle was being made from scrap items. Kitty would have liked to get a close-up view of it all. She loved studying other people’s treasures. Her brother Stuart laughingly called it her Aladdin’s Cave syndrome. ‘You might not always discover good things,’ he had teasingly warned her.

  The long garden patch boasted rows of onions, turnips, banked-up potatoes, and peas, broad beans and runner beans on sticks. On the other side of a narrow path grew salad vegetables, rows of raspberries and strawberries and bushes of currants and gooseberries. There were three beehives, while a large chicken coop and a rabbit hutch and run both held a number of animals. An arrogant cockerel strutted about like a prince. The fishing family appeared both self-contained and enterprising. Kitty had gleaned numerous facts about some of Portcowl’s inhabitants, and she knew the Praeds had family living on the quayside where they had their work lofts.