The Wind Off the Sea Read online

  Mattie didn’t even bother to look up from her copy of The Tatler, flicking her ash inaccurately into the fireplace as she stared at a particularly foolish-looking set of young people enjoying a joke on the stairs at a dance in some particularly gloomy-looking country house.

  ‘You’ll find furniture gets much cleaner, Ellen, if you move the articles on top of it while you’re dusting, rather than threatening them with your duster,’ she countered, throwing Ellen a look, which was promptly greeted with a sniff and a shrug. ‘Or counting how many cigarettes I might or might not have had for that matter,’ she finally decided, as she closed her magazine. ‘Anyway, I’m only doing my duty. In case you may have forgotten, smoking is a government directive. Everyone in London’s smoking like chimneys. The Prime Minister, Mr Attlee—’

  ‘I know who the Prime Minister is well enough, thank you, Miss Mattie,’ Ellen interrupted. ‘Having helped to have him voted in.’

  ‘Mr Attlee wants us all to smoke as much as we can. Be patriotic, smoke your way through the day, that’s the maxim.’ Mattie picked up a fresh magazine. ‘By lighting up a ciggie every twenty minutes I happen to be doing my duty for God and the King.’

  ‘I can’t see the point of it, really I can’t, can’t see the point of smoking, Miss Mattie.’

  ‘I suppose the point behind their thinking, Ellen, is that the more we smoke the less we will feel the hunger pangs, that’s the point. They want us to smoke to make up for the fact that there’s no tea, no butter, no bread, no eggs, no nothing really.’

  Momentarily distracted from the magazine, Mattie breathed out a beautifully shaped smoke ring and watched it drifting across the sitting room before it disappeared against the Japanese-style pre-war wallpaper.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t know about that,’ Ellen muttered. ‘Not being a smoker meself. And isn’t that young Max just waking up and calling for you?’ Once more she stooped, pretending to dust a chair leg, at the same time cocking her head to the ceiling above. ‘He’s a healthy pair of lungs on him, and that’s certain.’

  ‘Even if I haven’t,’ you mean?’ Mattie returned, throwing her now finished cigarette on the fire. ‘Coming, Max!’ she called. ‘Mummy’s coming!’

  ‘We’ll go out to the village green and make a snowman,’ she promised Max a little later, as he jumped down the stairs in such a state of excitement over the snow that he could barely stand still long enough for his mother to dress him in a thick home-knitted hat, gloves and socks. Having put on her own overcoat, the much darned lining of which was a tribute to the needlewoman in her, Mattie stepped outside into the front garden and straight on to the green.

  After the loss of her mother in a wartime fire, she and her father had moved from Magnolias to the Place, a light and roomy house directly overlooking Bexham village green. To their mutual surprise they found they had both settled into the new house without any sense of regret for their previous home, perhaps because, among many other advantages, the new house was considerably nearer to the Three Tuns where Lionel Eastcott liked to go for a regular drink at certain equally regular times of the day.

  Out on the green Mattie and Max found that they hardly noticed the cold, so engrossed did they become in building their enormous snowman. They weren’t alone, because the green was already dotted with groups of other children similarly employed, under the vigilant eyes of their mothers.

  ‘Now that really is a snowman. That is going to be the best snowman of them all, Max,’ Mattie said. ‘If there was a prize for best snowman, undoubtedly you would be the winner, sweetie pie.’

  Having carefully inserted the two old black coat buttons for the eyes that she’d brought out especially for the task, Mattie stood back to admire their handiwork. As she did so she noticed a figure walking nearby, a young woman carrying a large pink-blanketed bundle in her arms. As soon as she realised who the woman was, Mattie caught her breath. The last thing she’d heard about Rusty Sykes had not been good – and yet here she was out walking with a baby cradled in her arms.

  For a moment Mattie stood motionless, not knowing what to do, hoping against hope that Rusty might not have seen her, or that if she had she might be just as anxious as Mattie to avoid contact. As she stood watching Rusty seemed about to pass on by, so Mattie thought her wish had been granted, until Max suddenly pointed.

  ‘We forgot the carrot for snowman’s nose, Mummy!’ he called back to her, already on the move. ‘We’d better go back home and get it!’

  ‘No! No. In a minute, Max!’ Mattie called hastily, running after the fleet little boy. ‘Let’s just finish off his chin first!’

  By the time she had caught Max up and had him safely back in hand, she found herself directly in Rusty’s path. Rusty stopped when she saw Mattie, looking at her with uncertainty, before bowing her head and looking away at the ground beyond them both.

  ‘Hello, Rusty,’ Mattie said sparely. ‘I thought it was you.’

  ‘I didn’t see you,’ Rusty muttered. ‘I didn’t see you at all.’

  ‘We’ve been building a snowman, Max and I,’ Mattie said, not knowing what else to say. ‘Snow’s perfect for it, isn’t it, Max?’

  ‘Want to come and see our snowman?’ Max asked Rusty hopefully, before standing up on tiptoe. ‘Can I see your baby please?’

  ‘It’s all right, Max,’ Mattie said, trying tactfully to pull her son away. ‘Why don’t we go and get that carrot you were talking about?’

  ‘I want to see the baby, Mummy. Please can I see the baby?’

  ‘Max—’

  ‘Is it a little boy or a little girl baby?’

  Max was pulling hard at his mother’s hand, straining to get a sight of the baby wrapped in the pink shawl.

  ‘It’s a little girl,’ Rusty said suddenly. ‘You probably wouldn’t like that. Not everyone likes little girl babies, unfortunately.’ She turned her face to Mattie and stared at her almost accusingly.

  ‘Not me, Rusty,’ Mattie replied, trying to smile. ‘That’s what I’m hoping for next – a little girl to make the pigeon pair.’

  ‘Well if you don’t get one, don’t worry, Mattie. You can always have another one.’

  ‘Can I see your baby, please?’ Max persisted, jumping up and down on the spot. ‘Please?’

  ‘My mother didn’t want a little girl, so it didn’t matter in the end,’ Rusty said, looking down at the bundle in her arms. ‘I did. I wanted a girl. Just like you, Mattie. But my mother said it didn’t matter because no-one can take the place of Tam. You can always have another one, she said. These things happen. Lose one and you can always have another. Provided it isn’t a little boy.’

  Rusty leaned forward and tucked the pink blanket round the bundle in her arms.

  ‘Truth to tell,’ she continued. ‘I don’t think Mother can even remember what she had me christened. I think she still imagines she had me baptised Rusty to go with my hair, rather than Katherine with a K.’

  ‘Please can I see your baby?’ Max, like most children his age, was refusing to concede defeat. ‘Please?’

  ‘Later, Max,’ Mattie suggested, tightening her grip on his arm to prevent any more jumping.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Rusty assured her. ‘If he wants to have a look, that’s perfectly all right. Here you are – say hello to Jeannie.’

  She stooped down over the little boy, turning the bundle in her arms to him so that he could see it better, holding it at the height of his own face. Max looked, then looked again, staring at the bundle then up at his mother.

  ‘It’s a doll,’ he said to her. ‘It’s a doll, Mummy.’

  ‘I know, dear,’ Mattie whispered back to him. ‘A little girl doll.’

  ‘A pretty little girl doll,’ Rusty said, standing back up and rocking the doll in her arms. ‘My pretty little Jeannie Katherine with a K.’

  ‘It’s a doll, Mummy,’ Max hissed urgently up at his mother again. ‘This lady’s carrying round her dolly.’

  ‘My pretty little Jeannie Katherine,�
� Rusty repeated, cooingly. ‘Time to take little Jeannie home.’

  ‘I want to go home too, Mummy Please can we go home please?’ Max pleaded.

  ‘What about your snowman? We haven’t finished our snowman. We’ve got to get a carrot for his nose, remember?’

  ‘I want to go home now, Mummy. Now.’

  Max tugged free from the hand that was holding him and began to run in the direction of his house, straight towards a gang of local lads who were busy making an arsenal of snowballs.

  ‘Max?’ Mattie called after him anxiously. ‘Max, wait for me! Max? Sorry, Rusty – but I can’t have him rushing off like this. Sorry.’

  ‘Little boys, Mattie,’ Rusty smiled, rocking the doll in her arms. ‘Little girls are so much easier.’

  But Mattie was now out of earshot, running as best as she could through the snow after Max who was skipping along, unaware of the danger that lay ahead. The lads had seen him coming, but had pretended not to notice him, laughing and throwing snowballs at each other over the top of his head as he ran between them. Mattie knew exactly what they were up to, because she knew this gang. She’d run across them before with Max. They’d been trouble then. With one last shout to her son to wait for her, she tried to make up lost ground, but the snow was deep and inevitably she fell flat on her face in a drift. By the time she was back on her feet it was too late. One of the bigger boys had taken careful aim with a huge snowball and thrown it straight at Max. The force of it sent him flying onto his back, and he was howling in angry fright long before Mattie could reach him.

  ‘Little bastard! That’ll teach you to look where you’re going, won’t it! Cry baby bastard!’

  The boys ran off laughing, leaving Mattie to comfort Max while behind her she heard Rusty yelling out furiously after them as she hurried to Mattie’s side. Max was still howling when she arrived although happily his pride appeared to be the only thing that was really hurt.

  ‘See what I mean about boys?’ Rusty said, looking after the gang that was disappearing into a new flurry of falling snow. ‘Little roughnecks.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Rusty,’ Mattie sighed. ‘We’re quite used to it.’

  ‘You never get used to it, not to that taunt. Tam comes home practically every day saying he’s been insulted like that at school, even though his dad and I are married now. You know who’s worst of all? The other mothers. Nice, isn’t it? Think they’d be a bit sympathetic, but not a bit of it. Can’t wait to point a finger, they can’t – even them who’ve got a little bastard of their own in tow – they’re even worse sometimes. As if by calling out loudest of all no-one’ll guess their secret.’

  ‘And it’s hardly the child’s fault, is it, Rusty?’ Mattie said, dusting the snow off Max’s coat. ‘It’s not as if they’ve been party to it. Come on, Maxie – let’s dry those eyes of yours and go and get that carrot we forgot for Mr Snowman’s nose.’

  ‘Don’t want to,’ Max grizzled. ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘It would be a shame not to finish Mr Snowman off, dear.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’ Max gave another worried glance up at Rusty, who was too busy looking at the bundle in her arms to notice. ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘I must go home as well,’ Rusty said, swaddling her doll even more tightly. ‘Getting too cold for Jeannie to be out – and anyway’s it’s time for her feed.’

  Her eyes drifted back towards the place from where she had come, her mind seesawing with difficulty between the past and the present before settling for its present nightmare state.

  The two women said their goodbyes before making their separate ways home. Mattie had only a matter of a few yards to go until she and Max reached the front door of the Place, but the short journey seemed to take for ever, time hanging the way it always does when you are anxious to close the book on an unhappy chapter, such as this short episode with the bully boys and poor half-demented Rusty and her wrapped up china doll. At last they reached the gate and then the door, which Mattie shut thankfully behind her, putting a barricade between herself and her son and the harsh reality of Rusty’s mistery.

  Ellen was in the kitchen when Mattie entered in search of something hot to eat and drink for herself and Max, whom she had left with his grandfather by the fireside to get himself warm. Mattie went to fill the kettle, only to find it taken out of her hands by the housekeeper.

  ‘That cold out there is it?’ Ellen enquired. ‘You look half frozen to death.’

  ‘And half startled, too, Ellen. I just bumped into poor Rusty Sykes.’

  ‘Poor Rusty Sykes, yes, I know.’ Ellen sighed. ‘Still, at least she’s up and about now. Which is something.’

  ‘She’s up and about, Ellen, carrying round a china doll in her arms.’

  The housekeeper stared at her frowning as if she could not possibly have heard aright.

  ‘A china doll, you say? What sort of china doll would that be, Miss Mattie?’

  ‘What do you think, Ellen?’ Mattie replied in exasperation. ‘A china doll. A child’s china doll. All dressed in pink and wrapped up in a pink shawl. She’s carrying it round like a baby.’

  ‘Like her baby?’

  ‘Like her baby, if you prefer. Frightened the life out of poor Max.’

  ‘Poor Rusty. She’s carrying round a china doll for a baby, now? Oh, the poor child. The poor unhappy thing. I had no idea she’d taken it that hard.’

  ‘How long since she lost the baby, Ellen? It’s not long, is it?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly, Miss Mattie. All I knows is when you were up in London they had the funeral for her – while you were away up in London. So it must be near two week now, I suppose. Course they couldn’t bury the poor little mite, could they – spite of having the funeral service for her. They couldn’t bury the poor little mite on account of the frozen ground. Couldn’t even dig deep enough for a grave that size. Maybe that’s what gone and turned poor Rusty’s mind a bit.’

  ‘It frightened the life out of Max. I have to say it spooked me a bit, too.’

  ‘Mind you, some is saying it were Rusty’s own fault losing her baby. You know what a tomboy Rusty’s always been. What an independent-minded lass. Mrs Minton what lives opposite said she never stopped for a moment during her time. Hardly sat down to draw breath. Always busy about the place, running here there and everywhere – doing what she shouldn’t, at any rate. So she brought it on herself, that’s what a lot of folks is saying. Might even be down to eating green potatoes. That’s what my mother always warned us against. Eating green potatoes when you’re not expectin’s bad enough, goodness knows, but if you is—’

  Ellen stopped for a moment to shake her head disparagingly before continuing.

  ‘It’s not just Mrs Minton who’s saying she done too much. So does her mother – Rusty’s mother not Mrs Minton’s that is – she’s sure as eggs is eggs that the girl went and brought it on herself, doing too much of what she’d been told not to do. Doesn’t feel sorry for her at all, not at all, her mother doesn’t. That’s according to Mrs Minton, mind. Don’t take my word on it. But that’s what Mrs Minton is saying, and what some other folks think and all.’

  For a moment Mattie thought of defending Rusty whom she had always liked and whom she now felt desperately sorry for, convinced it couldn’t be her fault, only just pure circumstance, but thought better of arguing with Ellen, since in common with most of the village Ellen always did suspect that people brought bad things on themselves, even Hitler and the war.

  Even so, as she settled herself into her bed later that night, tucked up warm and cosily with two hot water bottles wrapped in sweaters against her back and feet, and her own child safely tucked up in bed in the next-door room, she found she could not get rid of the strange image of the china-faced doll, and Rusty carefully pulling the pink blanket round its head to keep out the cold. It was the saddest of sights, and it worried her no end to think that a friend’s mind might have been turned by a tragedy which was none of her fault; that it
might have affected her so badly that she had become quite unable to cope with her loss. Try as she would she could not get the memory of the events of that afternoon out of her mind. It was a long, long time before Mattie finally drifted off to sleep and into a series of fitful and unhappy dreams which, when she woke from them, made her feel as though she had spent the night on the opposite side of the looking glass.

  Early the following day Meggie caught sight of Judy passing her house, with Hamish trotting by her side as best he could, given the depth of the snow. As she watched, an unaccustomed wave of jealousy hit her. Judy was probably on her way back to her cottage to get ready for her husband’s return from London, while all Meggie had to look forward to was being entertained by yet another of Richards’s dreadful hungover litanies of how his life was never going to be the same again with Madame Gran gone and the blessed war over.

  Unable to bear any further thought of Judy’s domestic bliss, Meggie found an old apron in the kitchen to protect her still stylish pre-war black and white coat and skirt and set about trying to light herself some sort of fire from the last of the wood Richards had managed to chop and bring into the drawing room before succumbing once again to his ever ready friend – the bottle.

  As she searched on the top of the fireplace for the box of Swan Vestas she thought she had put there she found herself stopping and staring at the photograph of herself and Davey aboard the Light Heart, a snapshot taken one weekend before the war when all had still seemed safe and they had sailed down the coast as far as Lyme Regis to spend the night together making love on deck underneath a blanket of stars.

  She frowned at the image of herself with both her arms tightly wrapped around one of Davey’s, imagining for a few seconds that he wasn’t really dead, that one of these days he would, like Judy’s husband, Walter Tate, turn up as if from nowhere, swinging through the front door of Cucklington House, suntanned and full of life, not to mention merry as a cricket from the hospitality at the Three Tuns. He would swing her round as he had used to do, sweeping her off her feet, and Madame Gran and Richards would be there, and they too would be waiting for him to wrap them round his little finger with his charm and his gaiety.