Chapter 6
The nearest mainline station to Barnstead Oak is at Oxenholme, near Kendal, and after a long train ride from Cardiff Danny gets the bus for the last 30 minutes. After just four years away the bus ride is still familiar and Danny recognises the hills and trees and turns in the road as the bus chugs up the valley. In the afternoon sunlight the fells are at their most glorious, the shifting colours and textures of the grasses and bracken bringing a smile to his face.
The town looks just the same as it did four years before. Danny drops his bag off at the Market Hotel and walks up through the square. He is surprised that it hasn’t changed; the world has changed beyond imagination. He has changed, is older, leaner, harder. How can anything be the same? The same shops in the square, the same trees in the park. But the victory bunting has long gone. A couple of people glance at him as he walks past, but they are looking at the cello case he has slung over his back. No one recognises him, and no one is interested now in another returning soldier. He wears civilian clothes, but unmistakably has returned from the front.
He stops for something to eat and to buy some cigarettes. He has come all this way, but is now not in a rush to finish the journey. What if she isn’t here? What if she has forgotten him, or if he is not welcome? He opens the new pack and lights a cigarette, pushing the dead match back into the matchbox; and continues up through the town. The roads are familiar, but he doesn’t belong. No longer bound by school rules, but unable to enjoy the freedom this gives. The ability to go where he likes and wear the clothes that he wants makes him feel self-conscious. He would like to stop in a pub for a drink, but is wary about being seen by one of the school masters. He doesn’t want to be spoken to. Although he looks fit and strong, no one came back from the War without scars.
He stops when he reaches the school. It is term time and although few people are about there are signs of activity. A delivery van, some builders at work, groundsmen. All looks normal. And he carries on towards the Headmaster’s House.
He should have written to say that he was coming. While he was in France her letters, coming every few weeks, helped him through some of the darkest times; and writing back had been the easiest thing in the world. He couldn’t say where he was or what he was doing, but he could write about music and nature and love and all the things he couldn’t say to his mother. But when he came back his pen was dry. Nothing in his training prepared him for coming home. Not for the early euphoria, the crowds, the family loving him, grateful for him to be at home. And not for the later let-down, the boredom, the nightmares, when the alcohol and the adulation wore off. He had a job to go to, but nothing about it engaged him. Lizzie kept writing to him, but he stopped replying, and then stopped reading the letters; and then they too stopped.
And then after a gap of some months another letter from Barnstead Oak, but in a different hand. From her father, short. Lizzie had been unwell, and she wanted Danny to know. With it a very short note from Lizzie, hoping he would visit if he was able. Without his thinking about it his hand pats the pocket the letter is in. The fact that her father had written to him suggests the illness was serious. She might not still be alive. He had tried to reply, but no words came. So he came back.
The drive curves up from the road to the front of the house and he knocks at the front door. A solid brass knocker, designed to be heard through the house. He lights another cigarette while he waits. After a few minutes he knocks again, and looks through a narrow window at the side of the door; but there is no sign of anyone inside. Perhaps they are down at the school?
He walks round the side of the house to the conservatory. Perhaps she is teaching. But where the conservatory was there are now the charred remains of a structure, almost destroyed by fire. the roof has fallen in, the wood all burned, black marks on the stone wall of the house that look fresh, the smell of rain on burnt wood still in the air. The house has escaped the damage but the conservatory is a ruin. Most of the glass and debris has been swept away, and Danny picks his way through what is left. The door through to the house is scorched, but it is intact and he knocks hard on the wood. Again no answer.
He walks back to the front of the house, puts down the cello case, and sits for a few minutes smoking and looking over the view. He is uncertain about going into the school; wary about who he will meet, what he will say. And then he picks up the cello and continues back up through the garden, across the playing fields and up to the chapel. The grass in the graveyard is high and uncut, and the door is open. Inside the school chaplain is sorting out hymn books and he looks up as Danny walks in.
“Hello,” he pauses. “It’s Williams isn’t it?”
“Hello sir.”
The chaplain walks up and looks closely at the young man, and shakes his hand warmly. “It’s very good to see you, and looking so well. I can’t imagine what you have been through. And you’ve come back to see us. How can I help you?”
Danny is quiet for a moment, feeling uncomfortable. He looks round at the hard familiar pews, the stained glass, gloomy even though the sun is shining; the pulpit, the lectern carved as an eagle with spread wings.
He indicates his cello. “I was hoping to find Lizzie… Miss Price. She wasn’t at the house.”
“No; you haven’t heard then.” He pauses, and looks straight into Danny’s eyes. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Miss Price died.”
It doesn’t come as a shock, perhaps Danny was expecting it. His heart quickens and he blushes, but it is as if he knows already. And then his legs are suddenly weak. He puts down his hand to hold onto the end of the pew next to him, and takes the cello case off his back, putting it down before sitting down suddenly, his face in his hands.
He looks up. “I had heard that she was ill.”
“No, it wasn’t that. She caught the flu that’s going round, but she pulled through. No, she was killed in a fire. I don’t know whether you passed it on your way up here, but there was a fire at the house. In the conservatory. No one is sure how it started, or why she didn’t manage to get out, she was trapped somehow, but they think that she was killed when the roof came down. It was awful. I’m sorry. We had a quiet funeral for her here last week. Her grave is in the churchyard. I can show you if you like.”
“No, it’s OK sir, thank you.”
“Well if you want to say goodbye it is just off the main path half way down on the right hand side. Her father will be down at the school if you want to see him. I am sure he would be happy to see you.”
Danny sits, not saying anything. He looks around again. The colours in the room have gone flat, the light has lost all of its richness.
“No, I don’t think I need to see him. Not now. Can I just sit here for a bit?”
“Of course, as long as you like. Where are you staying?”
“At the Market Hotel. I’ve left my bag there.” He looks at the cello case, and as he speaks his breath catches. “I just brought this.” His head drops and he rests his hands on his thighs as if unsure where to put them.
“You are welcome to use the chapel.” The Chaplain puts his hand on Danny’s shoulder, and looks at his watch. “I need to go down to the school now I’m afraid, I’m teaching. But I’ll be back in an hour or so if you want to talk. There’s a choir practice here later this evening but otherwise the chapel isn’t being used today.” He pauses. “Are you OK, is there anything you need?”
Danny pushes himself up, and forces a smile. “No, I’m fine, thank you sir. I’ll sit here for a bit, but I’ll probably be gone by the time you get back.”
The chaplain picks up a small briefcase and heads out, leaving Danny in the chapel. Danny walks slowly round, looking at some of the plaques on the wall. There are memorials to some of the original school founders, and a couple of local families who donated money. A shaft of sunlight through the window on one side creates a red and blue stripe across the floor, and then is gone.
He walks out into the graveyard. Her grave is easy to find, freshly turned earth, a new tombstone marking the spot. There’s a large bunch of roses on the grave, but they were picked too long ago and are brown and shrivelled, the petals falling off. He kneels next to them, removes the dead flowers, closes his eyes and remembers a few words from a song. In the silence he tells her that he loves her. He opens his eyes and looks at the gravestone; and he sobs quietly, rocking back and forward, his arms hugged tightly to his chest.
After a few minutes he leans forward and traces her name on the tombstone with his thumb. There is a warm buzz in the air and he is lightheaded. He takes an envelope out of his pocket and removes two small sheets of writing paper from it, crumpling the envelope in his fist. He doesn’t read the words, he knows what they say. He lights a cigarette, and uses the match to set light to the corners of the pages, letting the flame flare up and then dropping the pages just too late on the grave, burning his fingers as he drops them.