A Time for Courage Read online

  ‘How is mother now?’ She didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know in case, this time, she was not going to get better.

  Mrs Brennan turned; she was breathless now and her face was shiny. She was too fat, Hannah thought, and walked like the ships that wallowed in the harbour near her aunt’s home in Cornwall. Her grey hair was immaculately tidy, though, and Hannah tucked back the brown strands of her own hair that had shaken free from her pleat again.

  ‘Your mother is over the worst,’ Mrs Brennan said, her hands smoothing down the drapes, ‘and it’s a shame I shall have to tell her of your behaviour. It doesn’t encourage her recovery, you know.’

  ‘But perhaps if I just sewed for an hour when I have seen her there would be no need to say anything.’ She looked at the lavender in her hand, at her dress, crumpled where she had clutched it as she walked up the steps, into Beaky Brennan’s face and thought again how like an owl’s it really was. Did Harry still think so too?

  Why was he always away when this happened with their mother? It was so much worse to be here, to see her and hear the comings and goings of the nurse, to try and shut out the noise from the bedroom. But Beaky was talking again.

  ‘That’s not the height of it, though, is it, Miss Hannah? Out in the sun without a parasol and you knowing how much your mother is trying to do her best for you. A pale skin is important, you know.’

  Hannah nodded, feeling the sun still hot on her cheeks. ‘I’ll go up then, Mrs Brennan.’ Her voice sounded dead now, the sun far away through the narrowed gap. How far would the fronds have gone, she wondered. It was better to think of that than her mother’s disappointment, which was made worse as there was no defence. She had known at the time what the end result would be and wished, as she so often did, that there was not this urge within her to push against rules which seemed too tight and petty to be endured but were deeply ingrained in society and, therefore, in her family.

  She stepped back as Beaky waited to be allowed to pass before her through the door, and walk heavily up the stairs, clutching the banisters as she always did; the only servant allowed to use the front stairs.

  Hannah stood with her back against the door jamb watching the housekeeper pause for breath on the half-landing before hauling herself up the remainder and then into the bedroom with her mouth full of words which would bring that creasing of her mother’s forehead, that tightening of her lips.

  She ran her finger round the high collar, now damp from the hot afternoon. The hall was dark with just two shafts of light, stained red by the coloured segments set into the small side windows either side of the door.

  There were no visiting cards in the bowl set on top of the carved rug-chest for there would be no ‘At Home’ today or for some time to come. There were two letters, though, in the wire cage which jutted out on this side of the letter-box. She moved across and lifted the lid. One was from Harry to her parents, the other for her father, and she placed them on the silver tray, neatly butting up the edges so that they were exactly in line; but Harry’s was too long. She bent over, her breath clouding the silver; an inch either side and … there, they were exact. Still Beaky had not called. Hannah moved over to the foot of the stairs. The nurse would be there too. She would hear about the daughter who had …

  ‘Miss Hannah, your mother would like to see you now.’ Hannah heard the voice before the closing of the door and the sound of Beaky’s bulk on the stairs. As she came down the last flight Hannah looked up at her.

  ‘What did you mean about men dying so that I could sew antimacassars, Mrs Brennan?’ The banister was cool under her hand.

  She could hear the loud breath of the housekeeper as she reached the bottom and, standing next to her, could smell the peppermint that she sucked so much of the time.

  ‘It’s those young men, Miss Hannah. The needle grinders of the Midlands. They sharpen the points, see, and the metal sticks in their lungs and they never see more than twenty-five years in all.’

  Beaky Brennan moved past Hannah, dabbing her face with her handkerchief.

  ‘But why do they do it?’ Hannah asked, swallowing as she wondered whether the filings cut the throat too.

  ‘Because it’s a job, and at least it gives the families enough for a while after they’ve gone.’

  ‘But that’s dreadful, Mrs Brennan, it’s so wrong, so unfair. It would be better if everything was plain, surely, nothing was embroidered.’

  Mrs Brennan stopped and looked. ‘We all know what you would like, Miss Hannah, less work for you.’ She smiled coldly and Hannah felt the heat rush to her face.

  ‘No I didn’t mean that, not that,’ she protested.

  ‘Go and see your mother now,’ Mrs Brennan was already at the end of the hall, opening the door on to the servants’ quarters.

  Hannah grasped her skirt in her hands but the lavender caught and snagged a thread; gently she released it, pulling the material until it was no longer noticeable, and mounted the stairs. The nurse was outside the closed door, her white apron starched and clean.

  ‘Not too long now,’ she instructed. ‘Your mother is very weak.’

  It was the smell Hannah hated. Hot darkness that smelt of illness. Would it be the same this year? She turned to the nurse as she opened the door.

  ‘Couldn’t we open the windows? I’m sure it would be more pleasant for Mother.’

  ‘Just go in please, Miss.’ The nurse’s face had closed against Hannah.

  And it was dark and it did smell; that same smell but she wouldn’t think of it; she would breathe through her mouth, walk over to the bed, avoiding the small easy chair, she told herself; the one which was pulled out of place to make room for the empty white-draped cradle. Why did they leave it here to upset her mother? Why did she go on having babies and where did they come from anyway? No one would explain. Her mother had just told her that she must wait until her wedding night. But why did she keep having them?

  Hannah dug her nails into the hard stem of the lavender. Had she spoken the words? She couldn’t tell but her anger had returned. Why did she keep having them? They only died. Wasn’t she enough, and Harry? After all, one day her mother might die too and that would leave her all alone with Father. Fear filled her chest but did not remove the rage which she was afraid would spill out all over that small figure when she opened her mouth to speak.

  ‘Hallo, Mother.’ And so it had not.

  There was enough light filtering through the curtains where they did not quite meet for her to see her mother’s face, and it was not beautiful as it usually was, with calm grey eyes and pale smooth skin, but drawn and sunken and sallow and the mouth was tight, the forehead creased.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mother.’ I will improve, she thought, knowing that to say so would irritate. And now guilt had taken the place of anger, though fear remained. Her mother turned towards her, her voice slow and tired.

  ‘It won’t do, Hannah. It really won’t do. You have wasted an afternoon, neglected your duty. Now that you have reached fifteen, you must learn to drive from your thoughts all but those designed to please others. There can be no room for selfishness in a woman’s life. Your priorities will soon be the care of a husband and children; it is wrong to think in any other way. You must develop the skills which will bring happiness and contentment to those about you; attract the right sort of husband.’

  ‘But I don’t think it makes men happy to have embroidered antimacassars. After all, Father never smiles, does he? And it kills the grinders, did you know that? Isn’t it a greater selfishness to continue to sew once we realise the real cost?’ She watched as her mother lifted her hand for silence. It was white and the veins stood out and it looked so small. Hannah moved her own hand towards it but stopped, for her mother did not like to touch, or be touched.

  ‘Hannah, can it be that Miss Fletcher is not teaching the right attitude? Should we take you away? This storm of words, this preoccupation with things that are nothing whatsoever to do with you. How can you expect your fa
ther to look happy when there is this attitude in his home? How can we hope for a good marriage if you allow your tongue to run away with you? And how do you expect Harry to cope with a sister who refuses to obey the rules of society, especially when he enters the Household Cavalry as your father intends? You simply have to remember who you are and your obligations. Your duties may seem trivial to you but they are essential to developing a respectable attitude, to becoming a lady.’ Her breathing was rapid now but she raised her head, holding up her hand to still Hannah’s protests.

  ‘Father so wishes that you should raise yourself to the level of his cousins, and the only way to do that is through a good marriage and for that you must be brought to a peak of suitability.’ She paused. ‘Should we be thinking in terms of a governess, Hannah?’ Her eyes were half shut and her voice was still gentle but there was a real question in it.

  Hannah felt her cheeks stiffen with the stirrings of panic. ‘Oh no, it’s not the school, I promise you it’s not the school.’ She sought for words that would push away the threat of separation from Miss Fletcher and her knowledge and understanding, the threat of separation from Esther. ‘It’s just that I forget sometimes what I should be aiming for and I don’t find sewing easy, Mother. I’m better at my work and … I would like to teach, you see. And many women do, ladies I mean. Look at Miss Fletcher.’

  Hannah interlaced her fingers, squeezing them tightly together. ‘But I will try,’ she continued. ‘I promise I’ll try, with my sewing and my attitude.’ She must stay there at all costs and so her obedience must improve, her thoughts must stay deep down, hidden from sight, though surely deceit was a sin. She shook her head. Why did her head fill with endless questions when it should all be so simple; just needles and threads, rules and antimacassars. She smiled now at her mother. ‘I’ll try so hard, Mother,’ she said.

  She saw the crease in her mother’s forehead fade and her mouth soften.

  ‘Yes, you must try, and as for teaching, we’ll see, Hannah, dear, but you must remember that there is no virtue in being clever. In fact, in the eyes of the society that your father adheres to it is almost a sin. Cleverness is reserved for the men of the family, for your father and Harry. I know that there are some very strange ideas coming in now with King Edward but those are not for people in our position.’ She paused. ‘Women have no position other than that within the family, Hannah. It is our pleasure, our duty to serve, nurture and to care, and you must at all times take your lead from your father who, quite rightly, dictates our standards. There is no room in our home for the attitudes which some say should sweep aside the old rules along with the old Queen; that is tantamount to sacrilege, my dear. As your father says, there is security and dignity in tradition but none in new ideas. Women do have a role and it is your duty to aspire to that role; you must always remember that.’ She paused, drawing in a deep breath gathering strength to finish. ‘I was wondering if a finishing school would help you to achieve the degree of sensibility that your father requires. It would after all groom you in all the graces, help you to meet the brothers of nice girls and you might enjoy seeing a foreign land. I do believe Esther will be going to one when she leaves Miss Fletcher.’

  Hannah dug her nails into the leaves of the lavender and tried to smile. Not a finishing school, not even with Esther. It had to be a university; somewhere which would educate and broaden her mind, make some sense of the confusion which was churning inside her head. ‘But they’re so expensive, Mother. Miss Fletcher feels there might be a chance of a University Scholarship to ease the financial burden. After all, Lady St John’s daughter left Miss Fletcher’s last year and is now at Newnham in Cambridge and already engaged to Lord Scarsdale’s son.’

  She had no desire to marry a Lord but her father would approve. She watched her mother’s face.

  ‘Well, the money would certainly have to be considered in whatever decision your father chooses to make and I agree with you that it does not appear to have spoilt dear Harriet’s chances in any way. We’ll say no more about it at the moment.’ Her mother’s lips were dry and her voice seemed faint; she was looking at the lavender so Hannah held it up, glad to move away from the discussion which was tiring this fragile woman.

  ‘I’ve brought some of the flowers to burn. I thought it might make you feel more comfortable.’ Her shoulders relaxed as her mother smiled; there were deep lines round her mouth as she did so which hadn’t been there before today. I love you so much, Mother, Hannah thought, and I want you to love me too. I can’t bear it when you’re like this so I’ll push this restlessness as far from me as I can and maybe it’ll stay away and I’ll forget it was ever there. Hannah traced her finger along the back of the pale hand, across the raised veins, and her mother did not pull her hand away but lifted it and held Hannah’s for just a moment, then turned her face as tears seeped on to the pillow.

  ‘I’m so sorry about the baby, Mother,’ said Hannah, her own voice thick. ‘But why do you keep having them when they make you so ill?’ And this time she had spoken it because she couldn’t bear to see her mother cry. Mothers shouldn’t cry, because everything became so unsafe.

  ‘Just go and burn the lavender, Hannah.’ Her mother’s voice did not sound like her own.

  The silk-quilted dressing-table held a candlestick and matches, and the smell of sulphur was sharp as the new wick took a while to light, but then Hannah held the lavender in its flame and slowly its smell took the place of the acrid atmosphere of the room. She would not look back at her mother’s tears but at things which were the same yesterday and would be tomorrow. She would look at her mother’s hairpin boxes, the china ring-stand with her betrothal ring glowing in the light from the candle. Her hat-pins which caught the light in their holders and the pincushions which were stabbed with bead-topped pins.

  In the mirror Hannah could see that her hair had come away from the bun again, that her cheekbones were sharp in the flickering light and that her mouth was still too big; and she could also see that the reflection of her mother showed her resting quietly now with no glint on her cheeks and no destroyed composure. Only then did she feel better and able to love this room as she usually did, for it was the only one that was comfortable and seemed like her mother. But most of all she loved the mirror. She was only allowed one that would fit into a handbag in her own room since vanity was a sin. Bodily flesh might be explored, Mrs Brennan had explained, since her mother did not discuss these things with her.

  She turned again to the bed. ‘Shall I open a window, Mother? It is so lovely outside.’ But there was no reply so she laid the lavender on the plate next to the candle, snuffed out the flame, and walked quietly to the window. She pulled the top sash window down, just an inch so that it would not be obvious. She wanted her mother to breathe in some of the early summer.

  Edith Watson watched through heavy-lidded eyes as her daughter left the room. Her body ached and where the baby had been was yet another wrenching emptiness. The Vicar had leant from the pulpit, his eyes boring into those of his congregation, and warned of this; of warped babies born to those who lusted. Was that why John would not lay straw in the street? Did he not want the world to know that again his wife had failed in her ordained task? Or was it a punishment for the sin she had committed? She knew that it was a sin because the Vicar had called it such, though he had not known that he was talking just to her.

  She picked at the sheet, wishing that she could throw off the blanket. It was too heavy, too hot, but a mere sheet was not decent. She felt the slight breeze and was grateful to Hannah and remembered the feel of her daughter’s hand in hers, warm and strong. It was good to have had someone’s strength, even if it was only for a moment. The room was dark now that the candle had been snuffed but the scent of lavender still lingered.

  Would Hannah cry when John told her she would never go to university? Because that is what he intended to do of course when he was ready. It was as though he enjoyed playing these cruel games but that could not be the case; s
he could not let herself believe that this was the case for that would be a further disloyalty, a further fall from grace. She brushed her hair from her face.

  It would seem hard for the child but perhaps John was right when he said that suffering cleansed the soul; that is what so many seemed to think and who was she to argue? It was certainly correct that Hannah worked better feeling that there might be a chance of her dream and he did so want her to compete with Esther and triumph over her and therefore Thomas. And that was his dream; but did he really think it would make him appear the equal of that side of the family? How sad for him, for Hannah.

  She stirred. Could it be cruelty? But no, it was John’s attempt to save his daughter. Yes, that was what it was. To save her from the sin of selfishness, but I do hope she doesn’t cry, Edith thought, and the words seemed to have a rhythm of their own as she mouthed them through dry, parched lips. The sheet was starched and rubbed her neck where it was folded over so she pushed it down, and the breeze which swept across her shoulders soothed the panic which was gathering in her body and calmed her, although she thought of the spirit she could see growing in Hannah and which John might also see. A spirit which would cause the child pain, as it had done with her, unless it was suppressed.

  There was a wilfulness which had all too clearly passed from mother to daughter and she wanted to weep with the pain of guilt. My beloved Hannah has too much of me in her. She must be led down the proper path so that John does not realise that in his daughter is the likeness of her mother. For then there would be no redemption. Not for Hannah in the future or for herself, because now her own survival was at stake. Would he cast her out without her children, without his name? Without her money, because he had it all?

  She must instruct Mrs Brennan not to divulge Hannah’s lack of endeavour, her selfishness of today which was so reminiscent of her own and might renew his shock and repugnance at the lapse in her morality seven months ago which had never again been mentioned in words, only in looks full of distaste and hatred. Deservedly so because she had broken the rules by which they lived.