Honesty
Mother has been deemed fit to return and orders tea served in the shade of the oak tree. They sit, the four of them, around a small metal table. There is fragrant tea, crust-less sandwiches and small iced cakes. Charles talks of the war as if it were already won while Captain Foyle sits silently, his eyes on the table. Mother, the perfect society hostess, asks about his family.
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"Foyle," she says, "I don't recognise the name, Captain. Where are your people from?"
The grey- blue eyes take on a steely glint. "My family is from Hastings," he says and Rosalind looks up from her sandwich.
Mother persists. "And your father? Who is he?"
"He is a police sergeant," Captain Foyle states clearly. At Mother's expression Charles snorts loudly into his teacup and Rosalind's chest is full of bubbles of laughter. She quenches them with a mouthful of sponge cake.
"Captain Foyle is a temporary officer and gentleman," Charles explains. "Mother, do close your mouth before you catch a fly."
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Captain Foyle's eye catches her own and Rosalind sees a flicker of a smile, gone in a second. She smiles back, hers remaining until Charles speaks again. His humorous tone has disappeared.
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"The Captain has risen through the ranks, Mother. Someone has to step up, so very many have been lost." He looks at Captain Foyle. "And life will be different after this; social distinctions will be blurred."
Mother gathers her composure like strands of hair into a ribbon. "So the war has been good to you, Captain?" she says.
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There is silence. Captain Foyle studies the teapot and Charles colours, with embarrassment or anger, Rosalind cannot tell. The air is stifling; heavy enough to quash all conversation. Mother looks at them each in turn and her face creases in confusion. Rosalind picks up her sketch book.
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"I love to sketch the gardens," she says and sees a flicker of acknowledgement in his face. Despite Charles' warning, she is shocked at Captain Foyle' demeanour and the lack of spark in his eyes. She risks her brother's displeasure and attempts to rekindle the previous visit's warmth.
Do you know anything about the silver birch, Captain?" she asks and he looks at her as a thirsty man looks at water.
"Betula pendula," he says unexpectedly, "gardeners use the twigs to make besoms to purify the ground."
His eyes twinkle at her. "My grandfather was a gardener," he says with a ring of pride and Rosalind wonders if Mother will faint.
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Father is home for dinner but the atmosphere is strained. Charles looks pinched and speaks little; Mother tries to engage Father in fatuous conversation other than the war but Father questions Captain Foyle until Rosalind can stand it no longer. The captain answers politely and knowledgeably but Rosalind detects something in his expression, a tightening at the corners of his mouth. She searches for a distraction.
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"What will you do after the war, Captain?" she asks.
"Well," he hesitates. "Depends who wins, I suppose. And whether there is an 'after' for me."
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Rosalind sees his body stretched lifeless over barbed wire; lying trampled underfoot in a muddy trench; face up in a ditch, his open eyes reflecting only sky. She thinks of never seeing his eyes again; never feeling the heat of his touch; never being able to feel his curls under her fingers. Her chin trembles and her throat closes. Eyes stinging, she pushes back her chair and stands abruptly.
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"Excuse me," she says to no-one in particular and runs to her room.
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It is very late when a soft tapping at the door rouses her from her doze. Charles enters and sits on the side of her bed.
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"You all right, Rosy?" he asks.
She nods. "It's all pretend, isn't it, Charles?" she says. "It's Mother thinking that being promoted is to one's advantage and Father asking the questions that show the British in a good light. It's all 'Pack Up Your Troubles' and 'Keep the Home Fires Burning' and Captain Foyle cuts through it all and says 'if there is an after'." Her voice cracks and she fights for the composure Mother would expect.
"He's an honest chap," Charles says. "I took to him straight away. You like him a lot, don't you, Rosy?"
Rosalind reflects on his words. Captain Foyle has neither said nor done anything untoward, yet she feels guilty about her thoughts of him. "Yes," she whispers.
"He's worried about you," Charles tells her. "He persuaded me to come and talk to you, to ask your forgiveness if his candid speech upset you."
Rosalind sits up straighter. "Tell him that I appreciate his candour; that the world would be an easier place if everyone said what they mean."
Charles grins and looks like her brother again. "You may want to think about that a bit more, Rosy, but I know what you mean. I'll put his mind at rest."
Rosalind exhales the breath she didn't know she was holding. "Thank you," she says.
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The dining room is empty when Rosalind comes down for breakfast; the covered dishes suggest that everyone else has already eaten. She has no idea how long Captain Foyle will be staying and her heart flutters at the thought that he may already be gone. She bolts down her food and goes in search of anyone. She discovers that Mother and Father have gone into town, and Ford, the butler, tells her that 'young Master Charles' and the Captain are in the garden. She hears them before she sees them, talking in the summerhouse. The chairs are out on the wildflower meadow that surrounds it, but they sit side by side on the wooden steps, heads down.
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"…that the child is yours?" asks Charles.
"She was convinced. But her husband," there is a long pause before Captain Foyle's voice continues. "She broke off all contact - refused to see me again."
Rosalind hears the compassion as Charles says, "Bad luck, old man. Did you love her very much?"
Again a pause. "At the time, yes. She was there when I needed someone – she was something clean and wholesome after the, the – " He takes a breath and continues. "But now I am not sure. If only…"
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The wretchedness of his voice is a physical miasma around the summerhouse. Rosalind shivers at the adultness of what she has heard. She is a child, a silly, selfish, covetous child whilst he is so far removed from her experience that he seems like a stranger. She turns blindly and trips on a chair. Their heads lift and they peer round the side of the building.
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"Rosy! I was just telling Christopher about the Guy Fawkes witch," Charles says and the sudden smile on Captain Foyle's face makes her forgive Charles' use of her childish nickname and the obvious deception he employs at her appearance.
"I didn't scream, did I?" she swallows and forces a laugh. "You have yet to make me."
"Oh, a challenge if I ever heard one," Charles grins. "You see, Christopher, I told you."
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She looks at Captain Foyle. He is in full Khaki Drill uniform but his jacket hangs open and he has loosened his tie and undone the top of his shirt. He holds a glass of lemonade and takes a sip. She watches, fascinated as his Adam's apple moves; her eyes lower to the hollow of his throat and her stomach contracts. She blushes. Captain Foyle smiles at her and she appreciates the truth of the formerly unbelievable weakness of the knees. She sits on the grass and hugs the offending joints. Captain Foyle's eyes follow her every move.
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Charles watches them. "Damn!" he says suddenly. "I promised Father I'd telephone about that problem with…" His voice peters out as he realises that no one is listening. He stands and brushes down his jacket.
"If you'll excuse me," he says and steps between them.
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Captain Foyle nods at him but doesn't speak. Rosalind looks right through him. He leaves, cutting across the meadow to the house.
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"Miss Howard, I must apologise for last evening," Captain Foyle's voice comes out low and staccato. "Didn't mean to – "
Rosalind looks up at him. "You don't need to apologise," she says. "You were saying what you felt and I understand. There are thousands who have no 'after'." She lowers her voice and dips her head. "I do so hope there will be one for you, Captain."
"I hope so too, Miss Howard, if only to please you."
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He smiles at her again and a strange sensation pulls at her insides. She feels an urge to run her fingers across his shoulders, to smell his skin and… She blushes and concentrates on pulling at the grass stalks, not trusting her own resolve.
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She has a sudden thought. "I could write to you, when you go back."
A cloud passes over his face.
"If you would like me to," she finishes anxiously.
"I would like that very much, Miss Howard," he says with no trace of the upturned lips, "but I don't think it a good idea."
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Rosalind watches the sadness gather in his eyes and understands that he does this for her. The pain is double-edged.
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"How long will you be here?" she asks.
He looks at his watch. "Another hour, then I shall catch the train home for all of one day before…"
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An hour! Sixty short minutes; a mere three thousand, six hundred seconds – no time at all! Rosalind cannot bear the thought of him leaving. She takes a deep breath and her words emerge in a rush.
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"What shall we do?" she asks brazenly. "How shall we spend that time?"
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He raises his eyebrows at her and her stomach flips over. His lips turn downward but he shows no sign of sadness, but surprised pleasure. She reaches toward him and covers his hand with her own.
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He studies her hand and clears his throat. "I, um, I, that is, Charles and I were going to –"
She raises her own eyebrows in what she hopes is an appealing manner. "Charles?" she says, "Charles who is not here? Charles who is busy doing other things?"
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She tosses her hair as she's seen older women do, flicks it back over her shoulders.
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"I have no idea what we can do," he says quietly. "I don't know the house or the garden - except here – and the silver birch, of course."
"The symbol of love," Rosalind breathes. "Then I shall show you the garden," she says firmly. "Well, the best bits."
He studies her face carefully and there is an adjustment in his manner, a shifting of reluctance to something else. He laughs. "It's a very large garden," he says, "better get started."
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He comes down the steps and holds out his hand to help her up; she takes it without hesitation and the world contracts, tumbles in on her until the only thing left is his hand holding hers, his skin touching her skin. He seems not to notice that everything is condensed.
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"I have one condition to this guided tour" she says after a moment,and his eyes flicker over her face.
"You must call me Rosalind," she says, "Miss Howard sounds so stuffy."
His lip curve up slightly. "In that case," he smiles, "you must no longer address me as Captain. My name is -."
"Christopher," she breathes and the rightness of it is like a blow to her chest. She tightens her hold on his hand. "Christopher."
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Her mind races; memories of the garden, games played with her brothers and stolen moments of solitude fill her thoughts.
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"This way," she instructs him. She leads him through the long grass, the patchwork of colours under their feet as confused as her thoughts, and through the gap in the hedge emerging in the South garden. The table where tea was served stands abandoned.
Rosalind feels the need to explain. "Mother has not been well," she begins and he interrupts.
"Charles told me," he murmurs, "I am sorry."
They exchange a glance as they pass the silver birch and he pats a pocket. "I still have your painting."
"I asked you to return it," she says, "but there is no time today. So you will have to visit again."
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He grins but remains silent. She leads him to the West Garden. Here the flower beds are formal, symmetrical, arranged around a fountain where sea creatures spew foam into the basin.
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"When I was young," she says, "I once tried to swim in here."
His eyes crinkle at the corners. "When you were young?" he repeats and she wishes she had thought more about her dress this morning; chosen something other than the blue and white stripe that makes her look twelve.
"Did you succeed?" he asks.
She steps up onto the stone rim of the basin; their hands are still joined.
"No," she tells him, "and I badly grazed my knees trying."
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She lets go of his hand and dances along the narrow ledge, arms flung wide and hair swinging in the sunlight. He tenses as he watches and the heat of the morning is suddenly too much for her. She sways, her body no longer the feather it was. Suddenly his hands are on her waist, warm and firm, and she steps down onto the gravel. She looks up at him and he releases her as if she has burned him and turns away. Her voice is too loud.
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"The Glasshouse," she says. "There may be grapes."
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She runs across the gravel, through the archway and into the yew corridor. He follows, moving quietly despite his heavy boots. The narrow high-sided corridor stretches away from them. Her feet are unable to slow and she lifts her skirt and dashes between the cool dark walls, past the turning to the Glasshouse and on, their footsteps and his breathing behind her the only sounds. They burst into the sunlight at the end and he gasps for here is the large pond, hidden from view until the last second. The water is still, other than where pond skaters skitter across it; water lily pads, forced upright by lack of space, raise their glossy faces to the sky. The brown spikes of bulrushes pierce the mass of green matted foliage and yellow St John's Wort flowers reflect the sun. She waits for his reaction.
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"Beautiful," he says, looking at her.
He looks at his watch and then around the garden. "The Glasshouse will have to wait," he mutters, "the train will not."
Rosalind's bubble bursts and the day becomes ordinary. "After, Christopher, I shall show it you then," she says and hears his intake of breath and the ragged exhale.
"No," he says. His hand sweeps around the space. "This house, your family, I have no place here. Your father is a Lord, mine a policeman. Your brother is very kind, and you, Rosalind, are," he stops. "But, no."
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A cloud covers the sun. The sparkle of the water disappears and the yellow reflection dulls.
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"But you will visit again, won't you?" she whispers. "You must, if only to return the watercolour."
He scrutinises her face. "Perhaps," he says slowly.
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The cloud passes and ripples from a rising fish break the mirror of the pond.