Philippa Carr - Gossamer Cord

However, it did show people clearly which way the German dictator was going.

Richard said: “There is no end to his ambitions. I rather think this is the beginning.”

He was right. Hitler was turning his eyes to Czechoslovakia.

Then something happened which drove the troubles on the Continent completely from our minds.

My mother and I had been out shopping with Gretchen. We had had a busy morning and returned to the house for lunch.

We were about to sit down at the table when my father arrived.

We could not understand what had happened, and when we saw him we were immediately apprehensive, for he looked quite different from his normal, happy self. He was strained, bewildered, and clearly desperately unhappy.

My mother ran to him and put an arm round him.

“Robert, darling, what is it?” she said.

He opened his mouth to speak, but did not seem to be able to find the words. He was choked with emotion.

“Sit down,” said my mother gently. “Now…tell us what has happened.”

“I had to come…I couldn’t tell over the telephone…I came immediately. She went down to swim…her clothes were on the beach…and she had gone…gone…”

We were staring at him in horror. He turned from my mother to me and his eyes were full of misery.

He said: “Dorabella…she is dead.”

INCOHERENT WITH GRIEF, my father found it difficult to talk. It all seemed so unreal. Dorabella, so full of life, so young and beautiful…I could not believe that I should not see her again. She was part of my life, part of me. She could not be dead. It was some mistake. I could not believe it. I would not believe it.

It was like one of those ridiculous legends.

She went for a swim, they had told him. She had died in exactly the same way as her predecessor, Dermot’s first wife. It was too neat. There was a touch of unreality about it.

My father could not tell us very much. I really believe he had been too stunned to take in what was said. All he knew was that she was dead.

Gordon Lewyth had telephoned. He had said he had some terrible news and he did not know how best to break it. Then he said that Dorabella had gone for a swim. She had evidently made a habit of taking a swim in the early morning. The time of the year was hardly the best, but she had said she found the coldness invigorating.

It could not be true. She had never been enthusiastic about swimming. She had swum at school with the rest of us, but no physical exercise had ever greatly appealed to her.

There was something wrong somewhere.

Gordon had had to get into touch with Dermot, who had been away for a few days on one of the other estates. He was prostrate with grief. The entire household was in chaos.

My mother stood still, clenching her hands. Her face was ashen. She was looking at me with a blank expression of misery and disbelief.

Then she was clinging to me, sharing the misery, refusing to believe this terrible thing was true.

“It can’t be. It can’t be,” I insisted. “I don’t believe it.”

My mother said: “We’ll leave at once. We’ll go to Cornwall. I want to know what this is all about.”

“We’ve missed the ten o’clock train,” said my father. “We’ll find out what time the next one goes.”

It was late when we arrived in Cornwall. There was, of course, no one to meet us, but we were able to hire a car to take us to the house.

I believe they were not surprised to see us.

“We had to come,” said my mother simply to Gordon and Matilda, who were in the hall to greet us.

“This is terrible,” said Matilda. “I can’t believe it.”

“We want to hear exactly what happened,” said my father.

Matilda insisted on some food being prepared for us, although none of us felt in the least like eating.

We sat in the drawing room and talked.

Matilda seemed too shocked to say much, and it was Gordon who did most of the talking.

“It was so sudden, so unexpected,” he said. “She went down to bathe, presumably before the rest of the household was awake.”

“Did anyone see her?” I asked.

“No, but we knew she went. She had mentioned it. She said she had discovered the delights of early morning bathing. We said it was too early in the season because the water doesn’t warm up until mid-summer, but she insisted that she liked it as it was. When Dermot was away she did not come down to dinner always. He had gone to the Brenton estate and it was too far to go there and back in one day. She had swum the previous morning. I saw her coming into the house and she said the sea was wonderful first thing in the morning and it really was the best time for a swim. And then…the next morning…”

“What happened then?” demanded my mother. “Nobody saw her…?”

“No. We didn’t see her around much in the mornings. We thought she had breakfasted and gone off to Poldown to shop. When she did not come back for lunch, we grew anxious and then one of the gardeners came in and said her clothes were on the beach…her bathrobe and her shoes. There was no doubt that they were hers. So…there is only one explanation. We informed the police. Boats have been out looking for her. A plane flew over. There was no sign of her. She must have been carried right out to sea. Perhaps her body will be washed ashore.” He turned away, biting his lip.

“It is so unlike her to go swimming,” I said.

Gordon nodded. “Yes, we thought it strange. But she insisted that she liked it. The currents can be very strong there, and…”

“Didn’t anyone tell her?” I asked desperately. My grief was so bitter, so intense, that I wanted to blame someone for this devastating catastrophe.

“It could happen to anyone,” said Gordon. “People are bathing all the time…and now and then…”

“I can’t take it in…”

“Her clothes were there…and she was gone.”

I could only sit there, limp with misery, clinging to that persistent disbelief. It was the only way I could endure this.

“Poor Dermot,” went on Matilda. “He is heartbroken. He blames himself for not being here. He is suffering terribly…so soon after his marriage…and he is so proud of the little boy. I can’t bear to think of it.”

There was nothing anyone could say.

We sat back in blank and hopeless silence.

I went up to the nursery to see Tristan. He was sleeping.

Nanny Crabtree came and embraced me, holding me tightly against her. She kept saying: “This terrible thing …my Miss Dorabella.”

“Nanny, it’s not real. It can’t be true, can it?”

She shook her head and turned away. She had always been embarrassed about showing emotion.

Her eyes were red-rimmed and she sniffed. She had a habit of sniffing. It usually meant disgust or criticism.

She said: “And what about this motherless mite? I expect Lady Denver will take him.”

“Nothing has been arranged.”

“Well, it will be, and the sooner the better. We’ll get out of this place. I never liked it. There’s something creepy about it. All this talk about quarrels between families, and what’s going to happen to you if you do this and that. I never heard such nonsense. Yes, that’s the best thing. We’ll get my boy to Caddington and back to the old nurseries there.”

Her lips trembled momentarily and I knew she was thinking of Dorabella and me there as children.

She went on: “That’ll be best and it’s the only thing to do. Here?” She looked contemptuously and sniffed again. “That’ll be it, and the sooner the better.”

I went over and looked down on Tristan.

“He’s got a look of you, Miss Violetta,” she said. “Well, it’s natural like…he reminds me more of you than of his mother.”

Sleeping as he was, she lifted him up.

“Here, sit down,” she said. I did so and she put him on my lap.

A great tenderness swept over me. He looked so vulnerable. I felt a momentary easing of my desperate unhappiness. Here was something left to me of Dorabella.

When I left the nursery I went straight to my mother’s room. She was sitting at the window, staring blankly out. She turned to me and smiled wanly. I said: “I’ve been to the nursery.”

“Poor Nanny,” she said. “She’s heartbroken.”

“She thinks that we should take Tristan back to Caddington with us.”

“That is our intention…your father’s and mine. We’ve already talked about it. It’s the natural thing.”

“Nanny Crabtree doesn’t like this place.”

“I don’t think any of us will want to come here again.”

“What about Dermot? Tristan is his son, remember.”

“Dermot seems not to know what he wants.” Her voice was faintly critical. Like me, she wanted to blame someone. No doubt she was thinking that if he had not been away at the time it would not have happened. Why wasn’t he looking after his wife? Why didn’t he forbid her to go bathing on the very beach where his first wife had died? Forbid Dorabella? That would be like urging her on. Poor Dermot! He was as desolate as we were and could not bear to do anything but shut himself away with his misery.

My mother was now thinking, If only Dorabella had never met Dermot. If only we had never seen this place! If only she were safe at home with her children around her.

I understood. She wanted to get away from this house…as Nanny Crabtree did. We had to blame something, if it was only the place.

“I’d like to get away as soon as possible,” she was saying. “You don’t think that there has been some mistake? I can’t get out of my mind that she is not dead. I know it’s fanciful, but she and I…well, there were times when we were like one person. Often I knew what she was thinking…and I can’t get over this…well, almost certainty…that she is…somewhere…that she will come back.”