The Lost Ones. Anita Frank
lay beyond the staircase and I wanted to understand her reason.
‘Nothing of importance.’
‘Just an entrance to the servants’ quarters.’ Annie’s interjection startled us both. ‘And, of course, the old school room – and nursery.’ Her lowered lashes fluttered up as she spoke. ‘Or so I believe, miss.’
Madeleine glared at her. ‘That’s right,’ she said, her voice discordant, like an overstrung instrument. ‘But I do not like them. I have chosen a room on this floor for a nursery. And that’s that.’
‘Well, that’s your prerogative I would have thought,’ I replied.
‘Yes, yes, it is. Now really, we should get ready for dinner. Lady Brightwell does hate to be kept waiting. I must ring for Maisie.’
And before I could say anything more, she disappeared into her room, closing the door firmly behind her, leaving me to examine the pregnant pauses left in her wake.
The next morning the heavens opened, and the winds whipped up a fury, dashing rain against the windows and rattling the sashes, as if furious to be denied entry. Madeleine and I settled ourselves in the library to write letters, as there was no chance of us escaping the confines of the house in the face of such onslaught.
Like the rest of Greyswick, the library was a room designed to impress. Its enormous windows were draped in excessive quantities of gaudy material, quite inappropriate given the nature of the room, and the bookcases which lined every square inch of wall had been specially commissioned, as had the large oak reading tables at which Madeleine and I now sat.
After finishing my first letter – one to Mother – I drifted around the room, my fingers running across the ornate bindings of books that ranged in subject from theological texts to fashionable scientific theories. Having drawn out a few to investigate further, however, I noticed that none of the pages had been slit: the books were unread. Like so much else in Greyswick, it appeared they were merely for show.
I was next attracted to a large glass case containing a display of stuffed birds, arranged against a backdrop of dried grasses, gorse and fern. I was not generally a great admirer of taxidermy, but the exhibit was striking, and demanded my scrutiny. A large coot took centre stage, overshadowing a white-throated dipper, whilst behind it, a small falcon had swooped down upon a chaffinch, whose beak was open in distress, its wings raised in fruitless defence. The magpie and mistle-thrush positioned on an angled branch at the back of the case showed no interest in the poor creature’s predicament – instead their black eyes appeared focused on me. But it was the beautiful bird clinging to the furthest fork of the branch that evoked my sharp intake of breath.
A kingfisher gazed out through the glass side of the cabinet, his dagger-like bill elevated, his golden chest puffed with pride as he turned his stunning blue back on the display’s other subjects. I pressed my fingertips to the glass.
‘Halcyon days …’ My brow creased as a bittersweet memory flooded my mind. I closed my eyes, fighting against the pain, to savour it.
It was the summer of 1913 and a letter had arrived from my godmother, asking whether I remembered Gerald Fitzwilliam at all. I did, of course, though I hadn’t seen him for years. His family had moved to Australia not long after Lydia died, and though Aunt Irene referred to him in passing every now and then, he had rather slipped from my mind.
I still had his letter, though, the one he sent me just after Lydia’s death. It was the sweetest thing. He wrote to say how sorry he was, and how he hoped I was bearing up, though he realised I must be hurting terribly. He had gone on to say how Lydia had been one of only two girls in his acquaintance whose company he had always enjoyed (in brackets he had assured me that I was the other one. He had made no mention of Madeleine).
It was such a rarity for me, as a child of ten, to receive a proper letter in the post. The only correspondence I tended to get came on my birthday and at Christmas, when aunts and uncles might send a brief note with a small cheque enclosed, in lieu of a more exciting present. That he had taken the time to do such a grown-up thing had made me feel very special indeed, and the simple kindness expressed in those few lines stayed with me for years.
Aunt Irene went on to inform me that the Fitzwilliam family had returned to England the previous autumn, and that Gerald was just finishing his first year at Cambridge. She intended to visit him that weekend and, recalling how famously we had got on as children, she asked whether I might like to accompany her on the trip – ‘for old time’s sake’. Having little else to occupy me, I happily agreed.
She called for me early that Saturday morning, and we had motored off to the Fens. I had never been to Cambridge before, and it was exciting to be somewhere so steeped in history, and see the students walking through the town’s hallowed streets, striking in their black gowns.
We had arranged to meet Gerald at his college, and for some strange reason I felt a flutter of nerves as the car drew to a stop. He appeared as soon as the car door opened and before I was even out, he was being heartily embraced by our godmother. Any view of him was blocked by the huge flowered hat she had donned for the occasion. Finally, after much kissing and hugging, Aunt Irene released him and stepped away, enabling me to see my childhood friend for the first time in seven years.
It would perhaps be trite to say he had grown, but goodness – how he had grown! He was tall, broad-shouldered, and quite breathtakingly handsome. There was still evidence of the boy I had known, though: his thick hair the colour of rich brandy, those eyes that twinkled with mischief, and the lightning-flash grin.
He escorted us first on a tour of his college and later the town. He was attentive, intelligent, his manners were impeccable, his charm was undeniable, and his humour most refreshing.
It was a glorious summer’s day, and Aunt Irene had packed a picnic for us to enjoy. Rescuing the large hamper from its strapping on the rear of the car, Gerald suggested he take us punting down the river, so that we could feast in a quiet spot on the meadow. The punt dipped and wobbled as Gerald helped Aunt Irene and myself in, and I was most relieved when I was at last safely planted on the bench seat and no longer in danger of toppling us all overboard.
It was idyllic, gliding up the wide river, shadows falling on our faces as we passed under the arches of historic stone bridges. Gerald proved a most able punter, manoeuvring us around other boats and easing us on our way.
When we reached the meadows, he found a spot on the bank suitable for us to disembark. He leapt off first to secure the punt with a rope, then handed Aunt Irene and me back up onto terra firma, before retrieving the picnic basket.
We found a lovely spot where willow trees wept into the river, their tendril branches tentatively dipping beneath the murky surface. The tartan rug billowed on the breeze as Gerald shook it out before laying it down amongst the buttercups, daisies and purple fritillaries.
Aunt Irene and I knelt in our light summer dresses and began to unpack, setting out the plates, wine glasses and cutlery before arranging a veritable feast of delights, all lovingly prepared by Aunt Irene’s cook. There was jellied chicken, cold salmon, potted shrimp, boiled eggs, tiny tomatoes, pickles, bread, melting butter and wedges of hard cheese that were beginning to soften in the heat. Gerald threw himself down and pulled off his boater, a red line across his forehead where the rim had cut in. Laughing, he ruffled some life back into his flattened hair and proceeded to uncork the wine. Reminiscing about the past, and filling in the missing years, the three of us ate and drank and talked until we could manage no more.
Fully sated, Aunt Irene declared herself quite exhausted, and using Gerald’s folded blazer as a cushion, she lay back on the blanket and closed her eyes. We smothered our laughter as she began to snore peacefully.
I decided to stretch my cramped legs, so I stood up, brushing the crumbs from my skirt.
‘Shall we wander over to the river?’ Gerald suggested, scrabbling to his feet.
‘Yes,