Tom had stayed on; in any case, the return journey was by now impossible. He grieved and fretted that Laura could not be with him, or indeed even know what was happening – he’d thought of telephoning the school but the telephone lines were all down; he was truly marooned.
The funeral was bleak and dreadful, although the church was almost full which helped a little; Jack had been popular in the village and many came to bid him farewell. The vicar preached a good sermon, saying how Jack had enriched many lives, both in his work ‘so vital to the life of the community’ and his other occupations: ‘his work for the trades union movement, his lifelong membership of his beloved Labour Party; and perhaps most important of all, his devotion to his wife and family’. Mary sat ramrod straight, silent and dry-eyed, right to the very end, when the organist played ‘The Day Thou Gavest, Lord, is Ended’ and then she dropped her face into her hands and wept for a long time.
The coffin was left to rest alongside several others under a hastily erected wooden cover, for it was impossible to dig graves in the frozen ground. Tom stayed behind as the others left, Jess and Colin helping the exhausted Mary back to the cottage. He stood staring at the coffin, remembering his father and their difficult relationship.
It had been a real grief in Tom’s life, his father’s awkward love for him; the clear joy of his welcome as Tom arrived in the cottage at his sickbed was perhaps the clearest manifestation of that love Tom had ever known. That night, when Tom settled for what seemed like the hundredth time under a thin blanket on the couch, he thought he had never been so utterly wretched, not even in the field hospital in the desert; and never had he felt so robbed of anything that might feel hopeful and good to him.
Two days after the funeral, he went for a walk; he was desperate to be out of the sad, shocked house, and so bored, devoid as he was of any books or proper conversation. He took the East Hilton road. Alternately finding himself slipping and sliding along the compacted snow, and plunged into drifts, he suddenly fell hard and found it almost impossible to get up again; but he found a post to cling to and hauled himself upright, and then realised two things: that his weak ankle was excruciatingly painful, and that the post was part of the Manor House fence. As he stood there, shocked and close to tears, so dreadful did everything seem to him, he heard a shout from the house.
‘You all right?’ Sir Gerald, standing in the open doorway.
‘Yes – yes, I think so, thanks. I just fell—’
‘I saw. Stay there, I’ll come and help you, dug out the drive this morning myself.’
‘No, no, I’m all right,’ said Tom but his entire demeanour was so exhausted and broken that Sir Gerald, having reached him, said, ‘You look all in. Tom, isn’t it, Tom Knelston? Sorry to hear about your father. Look, you come inside, have a rest and something to drink. Lean on my arm . . .’
So surprised was Tom to find the bluff Sir Gerald capable of sympathy and generosity, and so exhausted and filled with pain, that he said only, ‘That would be very kind, thank you.’ He took the proffered arm and somehow, every step on his right leg an agony, managed to get to the house.
The first thing he noticed, as he limped into the hall, was that it was warm: that seemed to him so extraordinary that he thought he must be imagining it; the second that in the doorway to one of the rooms, a roaring fire behind her, and walls literally lined with books, stood Diana Southcott, rather pale to be sure, and perhaps rather less slender, but still immensely beautiful, and smiling at him with nothing but welcome and concern.
‘Tom,’ she said. ‘What have you done? Here, come and sit down by the fire, you look terrible.’
She held out her hand. Simultaneously Sir Gerald released his hold on Tom’s arm, and standing became completely impossible. He crumpled and fell onto the hard, stone floor of the hall, a howl of pain escaping him.
‘Oh, God,’ said Sir Gerald. ‘Poor fellow. Caroline, Caroline! Call Rawlings in, he’s chopping wood, I think. Diana, don’t you try and do anything, for God’s sake. Ah, Rawlings, help me get Mr Knelston up, and Caroline, you might ring Dr Parker – oh, no, I suppose the bloody telephone’s still out of order. Rawlings, get down to Dr Parker’s house in a minute and ask him to come as soon as he can.’
Rawlings and Sir Gerald half carried him into the room where Diana stood and they lowered him into a chair by the fire; he apologised repeatedly about his boots and the state of his trousers, while wincing as he struggled to find a remotely comfortable position and gazing hungrily, almost desperately, at the books, having had nothing to read, he felt, for weeks.
‘Here – drink this –’ Sir Gerald held out a glass which was half filled with what Tom could smell was brandy; he drank it slowly, the warm seeping into him, easing what seemed to be almost terminal cold, as well as his pain.
‘Your poor thing,’ Diana said, surveying him from the other side of the fire where she settled herself, sympathy in her dark eyes. ‘It obviously hurts like hell. Never mind, hopefully Rawlings can get Dr Parker to come soon. And – and we were sorry about your father, he was such a –’ she paused, clearly struggling to find an appropriate phrase – ‘such a kind man. He was always so nice to me and my brothers when we were little and it was our birthdays or something, and he had lots of cards and parcels – always said he hoped we’d have a nice day.’
This was a shock to Tom, who would have expected his father to take exception to a surfeit of gifts and goodies arriving at the Manor House. It clearly showed in his face.
‘You look surprised,’ said Diana.
‘Well – I am a bit.’
‘That’s fathers for you. Daddy was so strict with us, wasn’t he, Mummy?’ She looked up at her mother who had come into the room, carrying a baby.
‘Yes, he was. But he never could refuse you anything, really. Specially you. Now Diana, Jamie needs feeding – shall I take the bottle upstairs? Or will you feed him in the kitchen?”
‘No,’ said Diana firmly with an expression that was more of the kind that Tom remembered. ‘No, bring it in here, please. I’m sure Mr Knelston won’t mind. That’s all right, isn’t it, Tom, if I give the baby his bottle here?’
‘Yes – yes, of course,’ said Tom, and then, seeing that Lady Southcott was not entirely happy with this idea, added, ‘but if you’d rather I – I left . . .’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t leave,’ said Diana. ‘You can’t move. No, I’ll feed the baby here. Thank you, Mummy, so much.’
Lady Southcott handed her the baby and Diana took Jamie and settled him with his bottle with a skill that for some reason surprised Tom; Lady Southcott left again, clearly not entirely happy with the situation.
‘So sweet isn’t he?’ Diana said. ‘I can’t believe he’s mine.’