PREVIOUSLY in LARCHFIELD: Wystan and Gregory take a trip down Loch Long to Coulport and finally get to be alone. In the present day, Dora decides to take action in the garden.
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EPISODE ELEVEN: In which Wystan takes the children to the cinema and enjoys a secret meeting with Gregory. Returning to Larchfield, Daphne has some bad news. In the present day, Dora has a disturbing encounter with social services.
Chapter twenty-seven
Wystan
It is just eighteen months since the Paisley cinema disaster took the lives of seventy children, causing a pall to fall over the whole area and the Prime Minister to offer his condolences and new regulations to be put in place for all cinemas. Children go to the cinema alone in the early 1930s, to the early-morning showings, for a penny or two, piling in and shuffling and giggling in the comparative warmth. The Paisley cinema held 500 children; when the gelatine in the film caught fire, most of them were trapped in the ensuing inferno.
Wystan’s idea for the boys to go to the cinema on a Saturday morning in the summer term is met with frowns and the shaking of heads. ‘They can’t go alone, you see,’ says Mr Perkins, with a sigh. ‘You’d have to take them. And, of course, then we should have to bill the parents for the cost, and they probably won’t settle up, like always, so it ends up being a tremendous danger and expense.’
‘I don’t mind taking them, sir. They are showing Dawn Patrol. Douglas Fairbanks. They will love it. And, if we go to the early showing, it is just tuppence.’
‘Hmm. They’ll be wanting all those lemonades and sweets as well.’ ‘It’s nearly the summer holiday, sir.’
Mr Perkins sighs. ‘I hope you are devoting as much energy to their lessons as you are to their entertainment.’ He rubs his rheumy eyes. Wystan takes this as a yes, and gives a small bow as he leaves the office.
He tells the boys at assembly the next morning that there will be a trip to Helensburgh’s cinema, La Scala, the following Saturday. Day boys are welcome to come, if their parents will allow. Mr Auden will be looking after the party and everyone should assemble at the Larchfield gates at 9.30 a.m. sharp. The film is Dawn Patrol.
There is excited murmuring and a couple of muted cheers. Wystan notices his standing in the classroom has increased with immediate effect. Uncle Wiz may be weird, but he has an appreciation of amusement.
Later that day, on his afternoon off, he meets Gregory at their usual place at the railway station. It’s a sultry afternoon and, as ever, there is nowhere for them to go, so they set off along the promenade, as they often do, a suitable distance between them. ‘How about the cinema on Saturday?’ Wystan asks.
Gregory glances down at his threadbare clothes. ‘Will they let me in?’ he says.
Gregory is very lean – leaner, Wystan thinks, than when they met – but still has the strong physique of the burgeoning working man. In particular, his legs are beautiful, pushing at the thin fabric of his clothes. He has an earthy sort of anger about him too, as if he wants to hit someone, but can’t really be bothered.
‘Wait in here.’ Wystan pushes open the door of Marcello’s ice-cream parlour and coffee shop. He puts a note in Gregory’s hand. ‘Have what you want and I will be back shortly. And make sure you keep the change.’
Mr Marcello looks doubtfully at the pair from behind the counter, until Wystan says, ‘This is my cousin. Give him whatever he wants.’ What Gregory wants, it turns out, is waffles with ice cream, syrup and sugar, followed by cocoa with cream and a long spoon. He is nearing the bottom of the glass when Wystan reappears, flushed and out of breath, carrying a small suitcase.
‘Take this into the men’s room.’
The owner wipes his hands on his apron. ‘What you doing with that case?’
‘My cousin’s been working and needs to change.’ Wystan turns
to face the baggy-eyed Italian and says, with icy politeness, ‘Is that all right?’
‘We’re not a changing room,’ mutters Mr Marcello. ‘This is family place.’
‘There’s no one here,’ Wystan points out. ‘Can I have a cup of coffee, please? While I’m waiting?’
The coffee machine whirs and spits, and Wystan settles himself into one of the booths. He has just taken his first gulp when the door opens and Gregory emerges, transformed. The clothes hang a little on his hungry frame, but he and Wystan are the same height and the brown wool suits Gregory. With a shirt, he looks like a professional of some kind. He has run water through his hair and slicked it back.
Wystan will have to send home for more clothes, but it doesn’t matter. Gregory smiles shyly and sits down, rather uncomfortably. He has clearly never worn a proper suit in all his life.
Sipping his coffee, acutely conscious of Mr Marcello, barely ten feet away and studying them intently, Wystan says, ‘I’m taking the boys to the 10 a.m. showing of Dawn Patrol on Saturday. Now you can come.’
Gregory runs his fingers over the wool jacket. He nods in agree- ment, and the two young men finish their drinks in awkward silence. As he walks home, Greg scans the busy street, in case there is someone he knows. They would wonder how he got such clothes. His parents will ask. He will say he was given them by a master at the school, in return for some labour about the garden. Gregory swings the suitcase a little, as though it held more of the same items and not his tattered rags.
On Saturday, Gregory presents himself at La Scala, pays his money and slips into the gloom. He is early, but he knows Wystan will be along very soon, as he too likes to be punctual. It is already quite full. Gregory seats himself in the middle of a swathe of empty seats, ready to move to wherever Wystan decides. As he does so, there is loud shushing. Here they come, the Larchfield boys, all done up in their uniforms and caps, their voices loud and entitled in the tiny space. Boys shove other boys; there is sniggering. Gregory searches for the towering figure of Wystan, willing his friend to see him.
‘Over that side, boys. Take up those rows.’ The boys fill the rows in front, not noticing the extra man sitting next to their master. Soon, there will be more piling in: local children, the unemployed, with just a few pence to spend. A young couple settle themselves beside Wystan and are soon completely absorbed in each other, waiting for the lights to go down so they can start necking. By the time the film starts, the little provincial theatre will be jammed.
Miss Greenhalgh is pounding the piano at the front. She plays for the theatre and the church in her spare time. At last, the boys jumping about like squirrels, the lights go down completely and Miss Greenhalgh slips away. The velvet curtains slide open and the newsreel commences.
At the interval, the boys clamber over each other to buy sweets from the lady with her tray, standing in the gloom at the front. Wystan buys a large packet of bonbons to share with Gregory.
Wystan tries to relax into the film; surely it should be easy with Douglas Fairbanks fifty times his normal size on the screen. Gregory sits rigidly beside him in Wystan’s suit and Wystan yearns to touch him, to abandon all thoughts of being in a public place and simply follow his feelings. It is strange to see his clothes inhabited by a body so much lovelier than his own. It is as if the clothes were made for Gregory, and Wystan has been occupying them, like some kind of invading force.
Heroic act upon heroic act unfolds on the screen. The hated flight commander tries desperately to stop the suicide missions. The hard- bitten pilots dull their fear with drink and attempt flight after flight. Finally, Douglas Fairbanks’ friend, Courtenay, takes his place on a flight to save him. When Courtenay is killed, the camera lingers on Fairbanks’ handsome face as it resists overwhelming grief. And, throughout, the planes roar in the skies – tiny, skittish things that can transport one into forbidden worlds as surely as words can.
Wystan is transfixed by the glamour, the bravery and the sheer dizzying freedom. From time to time, Gregory’s hand slides into the packet of bonbons between the seats. A sideways glance reveals that Gregory, too, is enraptured by the film. Wystan leans in a little against him. When the hands of the couple beside him slide towards each other, Wystan lets his own hand slide down beside Gregory’s thigh, where it cannot be seen, but can feel his warmth. Gregory does not move away. He chews and stares at the film, bovine in his absorption.
Wystan’s venture has gone perfectly; here is his friend, beauti- fully dressed and devastatingly handsome, right beside him. There are the boys, entertained as they rarely are. It is a memory to turn over forever.
However, a feeling has taken stronger hold over him lately: in comparison to these men in the film, he is a coward. He has saved no one and can imagine dying for no one. All he can do is this: feed bonbons, in the dark, to a boy dressed as himself.
It’s disgusting.
Then Gregory turns to him and smiles in the silvery darkness. Wystan is as close to him as the boy and girl on his other side are to each other. The couple are slurping and rustling, and he longs to put his hands over his ears.
Helensburgh has eyes everywhere. It is a policeman. It is full of spies.
Why should he be stuck in this prison of immaturity, of secret touches and meaningful glances?
Please help me, Uncle Harry, he asks of the darkness.
As the lights go up, he bids goodbye to Gregory as if they were strangers, and motions to the boys to form an orderly line. He does not look back at his friend, the lovely version of himself he has abandoned in the cinema.
It has been a thrilling experience for the boys. They chatter all the way up the hill. ‘Thank you, sir. Terrific, sir,’ they say as they stream in for lunch.
Back at the school, Olive delivers a message that Mrs Perkins would be extremely grateful if Mr Auden would go up to her room for a moment. When Wystan arrives, ready to tell her all about the film, he finds her waiting at the window, rather subdued.
She offers him a measure of gin and he sits in his usual spot. The daybed creaks and puffs dust into the air.
Daphne wastes no time. ‘Wystan, dear, I’ve got something to tell you. I’m getting to you first, as it were. There’s been a complaint.’
This is not what he was expecting. ‘Complaint?’
‘Yes. It has gone straight to Mr Perkins and he’s taking it very seriously. I’m hoping we – you and I – can come up with some sort of mitigation before he calls you in.’
‘Good Lord. What is it?’
‘It’s, ah . . . It’s about the young man you went on a trip with . . . Mr Perkins has received a letter from the minister of the church out near Coulport, complaining that the two of you were . . . behaving in a suspicious manner there.’ Daphne sips her drink. Her hand is trembling.
‘It was raining! We took shelter!’ Flushed, Wystan gabbles in a way he never normally does, being very considered in his speech. He takes a breath, endeavouring to slow down. ‘Gregory is a friend of mine from the town. He has been showing me round the area; he’s born and bred here, you know. It rained and we took shelter in the tin church. Delightful place. I don’t understand how that is in any way suspicious.’
‘Wystan, darling . . .’ Daphne reaches out and pats his knee. ‘We all know what people are like, especially those lot, out in the villages. But, the fact is, Mr Perkins has to take any allegation of impropriety very seriously. The rolls are falling, as you know. We can’t have even a whiff of scandal.’
‘I cannot help it if people are determined to make up a scandal.’
‘Indeed. Nevertheless, when we’re in charge of other people’s children, whose parents are paying – supposedly – there can be no impropriety, or even perception of it.’
‘It was raining,’ Wystan repeats dully.
‘Of course. Of course,’ says Daphne. ‘The reason I’ve asked you up here is to try and find a plan. A way out. I’m the last person who wants to see you go.’
‘Go?’
‘Well, yes. Any misconduct means immediate termination of employment, dear. Really, I’m very worried.’
Wystan lays down his glass on the table. ‘I am open to sugges- tions, of course,’ he says.
Daphne claps her hands and leans over, excitedly. ‘I already have a plan!’ she says. ‘We need a gardener here – the place is going to rack and ruin, and Hamish can’t keep on top of it. But, of course, we can’t pay much. I thought your friend could be an apprentice gardener, see how he likes it. If he’s on the staff – well, everything makes more sense, doesn’t it?’
‘Will Mr Perkins accept that?’
‘He already has. Jobs are so scarce that Mr Vance’s parents were immediately in favour and no one wants to see a local boy with nothing.’
‘That is a good plan. I think he will be very keen.’
‘I am so glad you think so. I thought you might suggest he comes to see me and I will make him the offer.’
‘So, he would be here every day?’ Wystan’s delight threatens to betray itself. To see Gregory every day; to look down from the window and see him in the garden. To share lunch with him.
‘Well, no; everything is short time, as you know. But I think we can have him here three days a week and he will learn such a lot from Hamish.’
There is a pause. Wystan says, quietly, ‘Thank you.’
Daphne leans forward, her dress rustling against her thin frame. ‘But Wystan, dear, it is I who should thank you. You’ve no idea how I have been left up here, for years and years. They all laugh at me, I know: “If she’s so ill, why hasn’t she died already?” and so on . . . But you have taken an interest in me from the start. You are alone too . . . solitary.’
‘You’ve been a very good friend to me, Daphne.’
‘Now, of course, you must be very good while Gregory is here. You know that, don’t you?’
‘There will be nothing to observe,’ says Wystan gravely. He hates himself for being so accepting, even while he is grateful to Daphne. To be scolded like a dirty child – it is unbearable.
‘Mr Perkins and I are very tired. It is difficult to run the school under these circumstances, as you can imagine.’ Daphne gives a rasping cough. Her eyes wander round the room as if she has for- gotten her train of thought. She brightens. ‘So, Wystan, we know what we’re doing?’
‘We do.’
‘Little puff on my inhaler?’
Daphne hands him the machine and he takes a deep breath. His anger vanishes in a flash of clarity, and he takes his leave from Daphne in a much better humour.
On the stairs, he passes Jessop, who says nothing but gives a little smile to himself. How much does he know?
Wystan gets past him as quickly as possible and locks himself in his room.
Chapter twenty-eight
Dora
Dora had made a wonderful discovery: the garden needed all the energy she had. It absorbed all her ideas, her creativity, her fears and more. She could exhaust herself in forcing order upon it. And, most importantly, her efforts made a difference.
The gap of light in the hedge had grown, as had the pile of branches on the lawn. For the last few days, the weather had cleared sufficiently for her to see where else she might tackle. There was a new hazard, something that the postman had spotted. He thrust out an arm in horror: ‘Knotweed!’
Knotweed? Dora knew the name. It cast dread into the hearts of homeowners and mortgage companies. It was the most successful invasive species in Britain. It was almost impossible to eradicate and could grow through concrete. Her own specimen had recently flowered, and trailed downy chains of white blossoms from – oh, God, now she realised the full enormity – eight feet high.
The postman shook his head in pity. ‘I don’t know how you’ll ever get rid of that,’ he said. ‘My parents couldn’t sell their house when they found knotweed in it.’
But Dora had secateurs and gloves and the most powerful domestic liquid weed killer available. It wasn’t going to get the better of her. She was on her knees, having hacked off the branches, and was now delicately pouring highly concentrated weed killer into the open necks of the stems. So, when the gate opened and a car slid unobtrusively along the drive, she was so absorbed, she barely noticed.
The car door slammed, making Dora jump. Out stepped two women – one, a chubby blonde in a beanie hat, the other with a trench coat that drifted from her shoulders as if from a coat hanger. They gazed around the garden and then rang the bell. The dog barked frenziedly and Dora downed her tools quickly, because she didn’t want him to wake Beatrice from her two-hour nap in the middle of the day.
‘Hello,’ she said, walking towards them, rubbing the worst of the mud from her hands. ‘Can I help you?’
The angular one had pink lipstick, which bled into the lines round her mouth. She seemed to be in charge. She said, ‘Mrs Fielding?’
‘Yes?’
‘Can we come in?’
‘And you are . . . ?’
The beanie-hatted woman pointed at the wisteria enthusiastically. ‘Oh, wisteria! I’ve tried to grow it round my door for years. But the wind . . . it just rips it off! You’ll have to tell me your secret!’
‘We’re from the child protection department of the local authority,’ said the older woman, over the dog’s frenzied barking. ‘I’m Naomi Haggith, and this is Lavender McCallum.’ As she said this, she winced, as if she was accustomed to the blast of incomprehension which followed.
‘Are you looking for Mrs Divine?’ Dora said. Mo had worked with children, so perhaps these people were friends of hers.
‘No, we’ve come to see you.’
‘Oh.’
As Dora opened the door, Virgil stopped barking and instead rushed out at the new guests, bouncing all over them.
‘He’s harmless,’ Dora said, for the millionth time. ‘But I’m sorry about the jumping.’
Lavender bent to pat him, which excited him even more.
‘Get down!’ Dora shouted. She was so used to screaming at the dog, she forgot that it was quite terrifying to the uninitiated. Even more terrifying was when Kit shouted at him. It hardly ever happened, but when it did, it felt like the world freezing. Except to Virgil, who mostly ignored it.
‘So, where is Beatrice today?’ asked Naomi Haggith, looking round the hallway.
It startled Dora that they even knew she had a baby, let alone her name, and, rather irritably, she said, ‘She’s having her nap.’
‘Alone with the dog? While you’re out in the garden?’
Dora tried to ignore her alarmed tone. ‘She’s in her nursery. In a cot,’ she said. She indicated the sofa for them to sit down. Lavender adjusted the cushions to make a sort of nest and curled her legs under her.
‘Shouldn’t we check on Beatrice?’ Naomi said, not sitting down. ‘Why? She’s asleep. She has about twenty minutes left.’
‘Mrs Fielding, we have had a report – well, an expression of concern – about your baby.’ Naomi rocked back on her neat little heels. She didn’t want to waste any time.
‘From Mrs Divine, I assume.’ Dora rolled her eyes up towards the ceiling. ‘She hates me.’ Dora’s heart leapt slightly – would this be the chance to show the truth about Mo? After all, an accu- sation like this levelled at them was ludicrous and any fool could see the motivation. They seemed like intelligent women. Dora said, ‘My neighbours are trying to drive me out. I think they want our house.’
Naomi said, ‘All concerns are passed on anonymously. That’s so we can act on them safely. Now, the concern has been expressed about neglect of your baby.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Can we go and check on Beatrice, please?’ Naomi moved towards the door. Lavender placed a plump hand on Dora’s shoulder. ‘Sorry about this,’ she said.
‘Did Mo ring you up? Do you know her?’ Dora followed them – followed them, in her own house! – towards the nursery. Naomi’s bony body moved authoritatively beneath her coat. Was this some- thing to do with that health visitor?
‘As I said, all calls are anonymous. I’m sure you understand why.’
‘No, I’m not sure I do understand why.’ Dora scurried after Naomi’s retreating figure and opened the nursery door.
Lavender, clearly in training and not entirely comfortable with this visit, said, ‘Mo goes to our church. Lovely woman. Works tirelessly for the Sunday school, you know?’
No one was going to reach Dora’s baby before she did. She overtook Naomi, who was approaching the cot. Just as Sorcha had done, Naomi leant possessively over the side, and then, without a word, reached in and lifted the sleeping baby from her blankets.
‘What are you doing?’ Dora fluttered round her uselessly.
Naomi was muttering soothing noises into Bea’s ear, which was waking her. Naturally enough, she began to cry.
‘Give me my baby,’ Dora said, forcing her fingers round Beatrice and taking her from the social worker.
Naomi’s lips parted in disbelief. ‘The report we received is that you leave her alone a lot with a dog wandering around – a dog which bites. And the baby cries a lot, seemingly in great distress, and you and your husband shout a lot.’
‘Is this about Sorcha? She upset the baby! In front of my husband – so there’s a witness!’
Naomi folded her arms and said nothing.
‘I’ve got a dog,’ Lavender said, to fill the frozen silence. ‘A Labrador.’
‘And my dog does not bite!’ Dora knew her face was red, her voice stretched. ‘He’s a stray and has no manners, but he has never bitten anyone in his life.’ Virgil had wandered in and was sitting next to Lavender, gazing up at her with his liquid, stray-dog eyes.
Naomi studied the nursery. Because Beatrice had come so early, Dora and Kit had had to prepare it in one day. It was bright and cheerful, but very badly painted. On a bookshelf were dozens of baby-care books. Naomi waved her arm in front of them. ‘You know everything in these books has been discredited? You know it’s cruel to leave a baby to cry? Our policy is on the GP’s wall – we support mothers with demand-led breastfeeding.’
‘But she’s premature! She couldn’t demand feed – or breastfeed!’ Dora couldn’t believe she was having this argument again. Was she – the thought whirled in her brain – was she not a mother, after all? Did Beatrice not actually belong to her, as her house did not seem to belong to her? Dora blinked heavily. Fear was making her dull.
‘Let me call my husband.’ Clasping the baby, she went out into the hall and rang Kit at work. The phone went to voicemail. Beatrice mumbled in her ear. Dora could smell her sleepy warmth. ‘He’s not answering!’
Naomi’s tone was very calm, as if she sensed victory over a frightened animal. ‘No matter. I’m only here to make my report, at this time. You know, you mustn’t leave a baby alone like this, especially with a dog. And your refusal to engage with the health visitor’s services is very concerning.’
‘Sorcha? I didn’t need her anymore. I’m fine – we are fine. Look at her – she’s in perfect health.’
‘She is a premature baby, extremely vulnerable. She needs these support services, people looking out for her.’ Naomi looked at her watch. ‘Now, I need to examine her.’ She held out her arms expectantly.
‘No,’ Dora said. ‘She’s half asleep and completely fine. I know what is happening here. I want you to leave.’
Naomi tilted her head and regarded Dora gravely, while Lavender absented herself back into the sitting room. ‘Am I to understand you have refused to allow me to examine the child?’
‘Absolutely. And I have asked you to leave.’
‘You realise all this goes into my report and feeds into my recommendations? You have to see, Mrs Fielding – it doesn’t inspire confidence that you are so aggressive and unwilling to engage. If there is nothing wrong, why won’t you let me examine Beatrice?’
‘It’s a malicious report! You know it is.’
‘I know no such thing. We try very hard to protect children, and we take all reports from concerned people very seriously. We are lucky to have many good people around here who take it upon themselves to look out for little children. And, I have to say, your attitude does worry me a great deal.’
There was a creak upstairs. Of course, they were in the hall, where everything could be heard by the neighbours. Beatrice reached out to Naomi with a fat hand and chattered gamely to her. Naomi stroked the child’s cheek, then returned to her point. ‘I think you are under great mental strain and this is impacting on your ability to care properly for your baby. I personally believe that your child does need protection.’
‘From who?’
‘I am going to recommend a care plan for your family. And you will need to go on the register.’
‘What register?’
‘The child protection register.’
Lavender shuffled into view. ‘Naomi,’ she said, ‘the baby does seem perfectly okay.’
Beatrice was jiggling in Dora’s arms now, wanting to get down and play with the new friends.
Dora clutched Beatrice, too tightly. The baby gurgled and mewed.
‘We are not going on any register. We are absolutely fine. Except for my neighbour trying to drive me out of my home! Ask my husband!’ It was as if she had not spoken. This was what happened every time she tried to protest about Mo, or indeed protest about anything. ‘We know, don’t we, Lavender, how children can hide their pain.
Many in our profession have learnt that to their cost.’ Naomi laid a hand on Beatrice’s head, and then strode out, her coat swaying like a cape.
Lavender tickled Beatrice under the chin. ‘Aren’t you a bonnie one?’ she cooed, and then they were climbing into the black car and grinding down the drive. Not knowing what she was doing, Dora ran out into the garden with Beatrice in her arms. The car had gone and she stood alone with her child in the centre of the lawn.
When she looked up, Mo was standing in the window, gazing down at her and smiling.
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