Burnt Norton Read online

  Dorothy was drawn to the small scar on her sister’s cheek – she was unable to check her dreadful memories. ‘Of course I remember the race. I coveted your prize so much that you gave it to me, as I knew you would.’

  Elizabeth closed her eyes for a moment, remembering her small triumph, and the beautiful cherry-wood box. The estate carpenter had made it, Donald with the shortest legs and the widest smile. ‘Miss Elizabeth,’ Donald told her, ‘I know that sister of yours has taken it, so she has. I’ll make you another one, and it will be a better one, miss, much better.’

  When Donald completed the specially adapted chair with large wooden wheels, there were tears in his eyes. ‘I never thought to make you this,’ he said, ‘but I’ve made it with my heart.’ She now ran her hands along a polished arm, remembering his kindness.

  She was distracted when she looked outside. The two rose beds each were split into four quarters, separated by a central gravel path. It’s curious, she thought, I’m sure the layout of the rose garden has changed.

  She looked away and took her sister’s hand. ‘I know you are angry with Papa, but don’t be. He hasn’t abandoned you, he is just suffering. He will come back to you, just give him time.’

  Dorothy looked at her sister. ‘Am I that easy to understand?’

  ‘To someone who loves you very much, it is not that difficult.’

  ‘I will try to forgive him, but he is not the same.’

  ‘None of us are, my darling. None of us.’ She ran her hands through her hair, letting them rest at the back of her neck.

  When Elizabeth looked out of the window again, the gravel path had disappeared. The four single rose beds were set in a tidy line.

  7

  Dorothy relied on Miss Byrne for a sense of normality. When she refused to eat, Miss Byrne coaxed her, and when she screamed Ophelia’s name, she wrapped her in her bony arms. ‘Hush there, child. She’s up with the unicorns, can you not see her?’

  But Dorothy could not.

  Her early morning visits to the stables had stopped. Peter, the little grey pony, was neglected. Sometimes Dorothy watched him from her window as he paced along the fence line, his coat long and his mane untrimmed. Occasionally he would stop at the gate, his small head tilted as if listening for a familiar voice, but then he would lower his head and his pacing would continue, as he waited patiently for John’s return.

  Each day was a merry-go-round of misery. They would sit at the family dinner, waiting for Sir William. He was always late. To pass the time, Dorothy would watch the clock, and as the hands slowly turned, she would remember fragments of happier times, a moment in a dinner full of laughter, or a particular instant in the entertainment afterwards. In those days there had been plays after supper performed by the children. Elizabeth dressed as Titania would play the Fairy Queen with more beauty than skill, and Thomas as Oberon, would play his part with a solemnity that made the adults smile, while she, Dorothy would dance, with Miss Byrne accompanying. Sometimes John would dance with her. Now, only a year later, the harpsichord was silent, the laughter gone. As Dorothy sat at the long oak table, amongst the panelling and the tapestries, she longed for the forgotten evenings, and for the current one to end.

  One night, in an unusual display of frustration, her elegant mother banged her fist on the table. Everyone turned to look at her.

  ‘Is everything all right, my lady?’ Thomas Whitstone sprang to her side.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It is not all right, but I would be grateful if you would serve us. We can wait for Sir William no longer.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ How Dorothy resented the sympathy in Whitstone’s eyes.

  An hour later her father arrived, agitated and confrontational. He ate quickly.

  ‘Is it too much to expect my family to wait for me?’ He drained a glass of wine and reached for the decanter, the sleeve of his velvet coat trailing across his plate.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’ The footman deftly removed his plate, but not before Sir William had shouted at him.

  ‘Leave it, can’t you see I haven’t finished?’

  But he had finished, and when Dorothy looked at her father she was disgusted. His face was bloated and his eyes bloodshot. His once immaculate clothes were soiled and his jewellery had gone. Only the small snake ring with the ruby eye now bit into his puffy flesh.

  Later she could hear his shouts and her mother’s sobs. When the front door slammed behind him she rushed to the window. He banged on Lorenzo’s door.

  ‘Get me Apollo,’ he ordered.

  ‘It’s late, sir, he is sleeping.’

  ‘I don’t care if he’s bloody sleeping! Get me a horse, any one will do.’ Not long afterwards they were gone, horse and rider galloping into the blackness, their silhouette outlined against the night sky. Dorothy burst into tears and Lady Keyt drew her daughter onto her lap as she did when she was little.

  ‘I hate him, Mama. He’s always angry.’

  ‘You mustn’t, darling. You should never hate anyone, let alone your father.’

  ‘He used to be kind; now he only drinks and shouts.’

  ‘Underneath he is still kind. Do you not remember, he was loving and generous? Look at the time he spent with you. Look how he spoilt you.’ She spent the rest of the evening talking of the past with Dorothy. Sir William was Lady Keyt’s first dancing partner and her first love. Dorothy envisioned her mother as a young girl, guiding her father through the storm when, at only thirteen, he lost both his father and beloved grandfather. She imagined their wedding at Toddington church, her father waiting for the beautiful bride who would comfort and support him throughout the years.

  When her mother spoke again, her voice faltered. ‘I will always love your father, just as I will always love all of you. But for now, Lizzie is my priority. She needs me most. Do you understand that, little one?’ She held Dorothy tightly.

  ‘Perhaps God has punished me for too much happiness,’ she said at last, kissing the top of Dorothy’s head. ‘So much tragedy: John, Lizzie, Ophelia. But don’t make it your own life story, and don’t judge your father too harshly. Don’t hate him for all our sakes. You can still realize your dreams.’

  Dorothy tried to believe her, but she didn’t see her father again for five days.

  The months passed slowly, and Sir William’s absences grew longer. Elizabeth became quiet, immersing herself in painting. Her horizons might have shrunk, but she observed her world with clarity and simplicity. The bust of an ancestor, an embroidered cushion – each took on a new life. The ancestor had thought, breathed and lived; likewise, someone had worked that cushion, pricked her finger, and strained her eyes.

  She thought of her own life. ‘Do you know what makes me very sad?’ she told her sister. ‘I always imagined having children, and now I shall have none. I shall simply be a burden to you all.’

  ‘You will never be a burden,’ protested Dorothy. ‘I will always look after you, so please don’t talk like that.’

  ‘I’m sorry, that was thoughtless. I just can’t bear the thought of becoming an encumbrance.’ Though Dorothy loved her sister, she couldn’t help her frustration. How was Elizabeth always so serene when she, Dorothy, was always angry? Elizabeth never judged, she never criticized and she rarely complained. Amongst her family she became the confidante, always ready to listen to their miseries. But Dorothy could not see inside Elizabeth’s heart. In private she wept, mourning the loss of her freedom. She grieved for her family, but she also grieved for herself.

  8

  Dorothy found Norton stifling. Thomas, who had been her constant companion, increasingly retreated to the library to read or write poetry. The tree house, once a symbol of their freedom and solidarity, remained empty. At times she was tempted to read more of her father’s diary, but her lingering guilt discouraged her. Instead she escaped into the fantasy world of novels, romances that she could barely understand. She longed to be one of the heroines, enjoying a never-ending quest for love and adventure.

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nbsp; Had she stayed in her room on that stuffy summer’s day she would not have known the truth about Miss Byrne’s departure. She was lying on her bed, trying to focus on her reading, with little success. Everything annoyed her: the heat, the flies, her restricting clothes. She dropped her book to the floor and looked in the mirror; her faced was flushed and small beads of perspiration stood out on her upper lip. She grimaced at a patch of sweat spreading beneath her armpits and pulled open the drawer to her tallboy. She found a clean blouse and was about to change when she noticed the diary her father had given her, hidden beneath her petticoats. It was a smaller version of his own. Inside was a card.

  To my darling Dotty, within this small book you can record your successes and your failures; your passion for horses and your passion for dancing. May it be your confidante and your friend.

  She was touched by the words and remembered the intimacy they had once shared. She picked it up and went outside, heading towards the pool garden. She reached the alcove in the wall and sat down on the stone bench. It was cooler there, the perfect place to write. Her pencil lay sharpened in the pocket of her dress. She took it out.

  She had just started upon the first line when she heard her father’s angry voice in the garden; she peered round the wall to see Miss Byrne before him, her head lifted in defiance.

  ‘That’s it, Miss Byrne, you will pack your bags and get out. You are of no further use here. You can go to hell or back to your father. It is of no concern to me.’

  Dorothy watched them, unobserved, her body rigid in disbelief.

  ‘Sir William, your blindness will have its own punishment. Your neglect and self-pity is pathetic.’

  ‘Enough, I said!’ he shouted. ‘Get out! Get out, you meddlesome old woman.’

  ‘And what shall I tell the children?’

  ‘Tell them what you bloody well like. Anything, I really don’t care.’

  Dorothy slumped as if she had been hit. She didn’t know or care what Miss Byrne had done, she only knew that she loathed her father. He had always viewed Miss Byrne with suspicion, but to deny his daughter her only comfort was unbearable.

  ‘Damn you, bloody woman,’ he yelled at Miss Byrne’s retreating back.

  Miss Byrne turned and looked at him. ‘I will pray for you,’ she said. ‘I can see you are suffering, but believe me, you will suffer more.’

  Miss Byrne came to Dorothy’s room later that night; she sat down on her bed, and for the last time she tucked in the sheets and plumped up the pillows. There were tears in her eyes. ‘I have to leave you,’ she said in her soft Irish voice. ‘But I will always be with you.’ She tapped Dorothy’s forehead. ‘If you need me, shut your eyes and I will pop up right here.’

  Dorothy sat up and clung to her skinny frame. ‘Please take me with you. Please don’t leave me.’

  Miss Byrne looked into her eyes. ‘It’s not of my will, little one, so please don’t be crying. You must be brave and you must look after your sister, and take care of that brother of yours. They both need your strength, I have all the faith in you, all the faith in the world.’

  She sat with her arms around the bereft child and stroked her hair, but to Dorothy it was over. ‘What will I do?’ she wailed. ‘Who will read to me now?’

  Miss Byrne gently prised her fingers from her clothes. ‘You will read to your sister instead, and you will continue to dance and play the harpsichord, for you have a real talent. You will do it for your brother, your sister and for yourself, and when you have tired of Lotti and Bach, remember the Celtic ballads that I have taught you. And I will leave you my story book. Be sure to look after it. When you open it, you will know that I am with you.’ She knelt down in front of her. ‘Now always remember, my child, how exceptional you are, and that there is a big world out there, with a future that one day will be yours.’

  Dorothy followed Miss Byrne to Thomas’s room. They sat upon his bed as the light faded from the sky. ‘Look now,’ she said. ‘You are white as the sheets that you are lying on.’ She put her arms around him. ‘Remember, young man, you did not cause the accident. You have the gift, but you do not have the power to change events, only to see them. You could not have prevented the inevitable. It was written in the stars.’ She kissed him on his forehead and walked to the door. At the last moment she turned.

  ‘Don’t judge your father too harshly, children. When you are older you will understand the difference between weakness and evil.’

  For days Dorothy shut herself away, refusing to eat or talk. She didn’t know how to survive without Miss Byrne.

  Finally Thomas came into her room. ‘Dotty, please come down. I am worried about Lizzie; she has taken to her bed.’

  Dorothy was ashamed. In her need to be alone, she had forgotten her sister. She washed her face and went to her. ‘Lizzie, will you forgive me?’ she asked. ‘In my selfishness I put my own misery first. I don’t deserve your love.’

  ‘Darling, of course you do. We all miss her. I don’t understand any of it, but we can only get through this together.’

  Later that evening, when Elizabeth was asleep, Dorothy returned to the room at the top of the house. Opening the door, she stepped inside. The last of the day’s sun filtered through the leaded windows, making patterns on the wooden floor. The crucifix remained, and though the wardrobe was empty of her clothes, the faint smell of lavender lingered. She sat down on the floor beside the bed and pushed the small cotton rug to the side. Lifting the floorboard, she removed the book, Miss Byrne’s gift to her, and cradled it to her chest. Before long she entered a world of fairies and unicorns. When the writing blurred on the page and the drawings danced in the shadows, she returned the book to its hiding place and went downstairs to bed.

  9

  Molly Johnson sat on the platform at the top of the granary steps. From this position she could see the world – which, to her mind, consisted of her back garden. It was her favourite place. With the hens pecking beneath her, she swung her stubby legs, absorbing every detail with a capacity far beyond her seven years.

  From here the black timbers and tall chimneys of the Charter House, a coaching inn in the county town of Warwick, looked large and important. The courtyard on the other side of a low wall stabled at least thirty-six horses. The grooms worked there, and her friend Seth, the stable boy, ran from stall to stall doing the chores. When she saw him now she waved; unfortunately for Seth, whose enthusiasm proved greater than his coordination, he dropped the buckets he was carrying and they clattered to the ground. The horses snorted indignantly, Seth’s clothes were soaked, and Molly couldn’t help laughing. It was an infectious laugh, and her reddish curls bounced around her pretty face, her tawny eyes shone with vitality.

  She was disturbed by her mother. ‘Molly Agnes Johnson, you get down here this minute before I tan your backside! If the fall doesn’t kill you, I will.’

  ‘Coming, Ma,’ she said. ‘Sorry, I was feeding the hens.’

  ‘You were feeding nothing, and no more fibs. God will strike you down, so he will.’ Mrs Johnson tried to look fierce but failed miserably. Somehow her eldest daughter always managed to make the world a brighter place.

  Molly grew into a taller version of the same agreeable child. The future promised adventure, and she found plenty to fuel her dreams. Everything was as it should be, except for one small injustice. ‘No, you won’t go to school. There is no need for books when you’re clearing tables in a Warwick hostelry; you need different skills, woman’s skills.’

  ‘But Will goes to school, Da. It isn’t fair.’

  ‘Life isn’t fair, Molly. Now be off with you, and up the hill with your brother.’

  She walked Will to school, climbing the steep cobbled streets towards the castle, and left him at the classroom door. ‘One day,’ she swore to herself, listening to the hum of children’s voices. ‘One day, I’ll read and write with the best of them.’

  Life was eventful at the Charter House. There were horses to be fed and watered, stables to be
cleaned. It never stopped. When the stage arrived at noon, her mother would pull her from the window. ‘It’s nigh on midday. You’ve had your lunch, now get on with your work. Dreaming won’t clean the rooms, and we can’t give a lady dirty sheets. Go and help the housemaids with the beds, otherwise it’s the chamber pots for you.’

  Molly would run away laughing, but when the next coach arrived, and the passengers spilt down the steps, she was back at the window. The women’s dresses caught her eye, so tight she wondered how they breathed. She wanted to make beautiful dresses like that and sell them in a shop with a sign outside: Molly Johnson, Seamstress, in blue with gold letters.

  When she wasn’t serving she washed, and when she wasn’t washing she mended. There was plenty to mend: her mother’s stays, stiffened with glue; her sister’s stockings; the sheets and pillowcases – enough to keep her sewing for ever.

  ‘I’ll be fifty when I have finished, Ma.’

  ‘You’re a good girl, Molly. God will favour you, so he will.’

  And God did favour her, for there were few beatings in the Johnson house. Shouting was another matter; Mrs Johnson yelled at her husband, and he yelled at everyone.

  When Mrs Johnson wasn’t stretching her lungs, she grew flowers, which Molly tended with love. There were flowers for scent, and flowers for colour, but the herbs grown in terracotta pots most captured her imagination.

  ‘For affairs of the heart there’s naught better than a pinch of rue,’ her mother taught her, ‘and for loosening the stool it’s camomile and liquorice.’ Their plants could cure any ailment.

  As the landlord’s daughter, Molly amused the customers and became skilled at avoiding unwanted advances. ‘She has a tongue like a greyhound, but the face of an angel,’ her father admired.

  The first sign of trouble was Dan Leggat from the butcher’s shop. ‘Hello, Molly.’ He put his thick fingers over her hand as she tried to lift his mug. ‘Come and sit with me.’ He patted the bench beside him.