Journey to Warudhar

Prologue

Where to begin, or even if to, for to write a history of such events, with no notion of the impact it might have, might be foolhardy. It might remain unread forever, or be read by those who will think it of no importance and cast it aside. Or it might cause pain and grief where none was intended, for although I am not writing about these events out of any sense of bitterness, there are some, no doubt, who will have wished them kept secret.

But I have no choice. I cannot trust happenstance to give an honest account, for, if someone else were to tell the story, it would be told without the depth of knowledge and understanding that I can bring to it. So, although I am not a perfect story teller by any means, I will relate the truth as I know it, of what happened at Apsley Hall, my first home, and afterwards at Warudhar, that far-flung western property where I spent these last years, because it must be told and, in the end, I am the only one to tell it.

Jessica Watkins

14th May 1932

1

So much of our lives is spent on dreams of what we hope will be, and on plans towards the fulfilment of those dreams. We plot our futures the way we plot a journey, imagining the road ahead, even though we have never seen it; sharing with our loved ones the excitement of anticipation.

But the road isn’t always what we imagine. At times, it begins with promise and peters out before that promise is fulfilled. At other times, it presents us with unexpected challenges – disappointments – dangers even – too great for us to overcome. Nevertheless, we continue to pursue our dreams, hoping that around the next corner, the joy that we’d anticipated will be waiting.

In the end, though, it is neither our dreams nor our plans that determine our futures. They are determined by the sometimes-tiny decisions we and others make, often without a thought as to their consequences. We pass through a threshold that we have passed through time and time again, and turn left instead of right; we tarry for a moment longer than we’d intended, and catch the 4.30 tram instead of the 4.15 and, in that tiny fragment of time, our destinies are irrevocably determined.

So it was for me, and for those around me, with consequences even greater than for most, for although a momentary flight of fancy might lead any of us along an unintended pathway, there is no guarantee that it will have as dramatic an impact as it did on me and mine. I sit here now, in my room at Apsley Hall, the house in which I was born in 1906, and in which I grew up with my parents, Ted and Beatrice Brooking and my older sister, Vera.

I cast my mind back to what it was like all those years ago. It seemed much larger then; a great, rambling inner-city Victorian terrace, with rooms and hidden spaces enough to get lost in and never be found again, if that is what you intended.

I search my mind for memories of the events of those very early years, but now, only fragments remain – incomplete snatches that nevertheless indicate a happy, noisy, laughter-filled childhood, crammed with games of chasings and hopscotch and hide and seek that Vera and I played for hour upon hour.

Vera and I were the greatest of companions in those days, even though we were different in so many ways. Our personalities were reflected in our appearance. My dark, curly hair was as uncontrollable as Vera’s was neat and straight, and my eyes, which Father called gypsy eyes, were as cheeky and mischievous as Vera’s were reserved and demure. And it was I who rode on our father’s back while he jogged from room to room, ducking expertly under doorways, and romping between furniture, with me laughing uncontrollably and begging him to go faster, while Vera looked on from a distance.

Outside our house there was a child’s paradise of gardens; a maze of paths that led beneath shady, moss-green trellises and wound through haphazard, flower-filled garden beds to a picket fence, beyond which was a vegetable garden that supplied much of what we ate, and a chicken coop whose daily bounty of eggs we delighted in taking turns to discover.

Father, who, I would later discover, was an author of some repute, would work in his den from after breakfast until late in the afternoon. It was the one place we were denied access, though that, and the mechanical clatter that came from it, only served to make us more curious about what he did there all day, and plead to be allowed entry.

When we were finally admitted, it was not the Aladdin’s cave of our imaginations. It was filled with a clutter of files and paper-filled folders that covered every horizontal surface. Under the window that overlooked the garden was an ancient desk that held the only item of interest – a typewriter that, we at last discovered, was the source of the clatter, and which, on that one occasion, we were permitted to use under strict supervision.

Vera and I took turns to experience the magic that created lines of letters on a clean white page with the pressing of random keys. And, when we’d done that for as long as we were allowed, Father fetched two chairs from the dining room and allowed us to sit and watch him as he worked.

If the tedium of this, and the silence to which we were sworn while there, were designed to dispel the intrigue that forbidden entry had produced, the ploy certainly worked, because within minutes we were unable to contain ourselves. When even Father’s fiercest scowls failed to still our squirming bodies and silence our girlish giggles, we were dismissed forthwith, bursting from the room in relief, and tearing up the stairs to our bedroom where we threw ourselves on our iron-framed beds and laughed uncontrollably.

In the evening, when Father finished work, he would emerge from his den, close and lock the door and, from that moment on, the house was a riot of fun-filled games. He was a child among children, who rejoiced in our infant fantasies. Every line and crease on his face was a vessel of love and joy, and his eyes – eyes that twinkled and shone, and illuminated every room he entered – looked up at us as we were thrown high into the air and caught unerringly, or down at us as he tickled us unmercifully.

Together, we three would build great towering forts with whatever pillows and cushions we could gather – forts we would defend to the death with cannon balls of rolled socks hurled at deadly enemies.

Or we would take the great map of the world that hung on the living room wall, and spread it on the floor and take turns to flick a threepenny coin over our shoulders so that it landed on the map at random. Then, after we’d pounced upon it in great excitement to determine what our destination was to be, we would make a pact to stick together whatever the consequences, and embark upon our voyage.

We would sail to sea and battle our way through terrifying storms, in ships constructed from whatever bits and pieces we could find, until hunger, or threats by Mother to feed our dinner to the cats, drew us at last to the kitchen. There, we would sit around the table, talking nineteen to the dozen, competing to relate the events of the day, until Father cried, Enough! and demanded that we take turns.

After dinner, when the dishes were washed and the kitchen cleaned, we would gather around the pianola and Father would pedal furiously, and sing with such gusto that it was impossible not to join in the rollicking tunes he played. We would sing and sing until we were hoarse and, when we had exhausted both ourselves and Father’s vast repertoire of songs, we would bath and change for bed, and Father and Mother would take it in turns to read to us.

Early on, they read us fairy stories, made all the more gruesome by their expert telling, for both our parents had a great flair for the dramatic in those days. When we grew older it was The Water Babies, The Magic Pudding, or stories by Stevenson and Dickens which we hardly understood but loved, because the characters were brought so vividly to life.

Every Saturday, unless the weather was against it, would be an occasion for a great outing. All through the week it would be planned, and, when the morning arrived, a basket of food would be prepared to sustain us on the journey, and we would set out. We had no car – in those days only the richest could afford anything more expensive than a bicycle – so we would catch trams or trains, or combinations of them.

On one day, our destination might be a distant beach, on another, the zoo, or the mountains. Even locations that were close by seemed distant because of the time taken to reach them. But, when we finally arrived we would spend the remainder of the day exploring every nook and cranny, and walking until our legs ached and the sun began to sink in the western sky.

And then, we would undertake the return journey – a journey made more tedious because there was none of the excitement that had buoyed us on the outward trip. Vera and I would fall asleep, our heads on one or other of our parents’ shoulders, only to be woken on our arrival home and stumble, exhausted, to our beds where we would go back to sleep without another word. And in the morning, we would wake with no memory of how we had come to be there.

Sunday was for us, as for most in our neighbourhood, a day of worship. In the morning, Mother and Father would attend communion at our local church, St. Aiden’s, while Vera and I went to Sunday school, clad in Sunday-best-frocks, shiny, patent leather shoes and matching handbags. There we were divided into classes according to our ages and perched on tiny, painted wooden chairs, clustered around trestles that supported vast felt boards. We sat, spellbound, as teachers who seemed much older than they probably were, told us bible stories illustrated with felt characters that somehow adhered magically to the boards. If we were good, and sometimes even if we weren’t, we were rewarded with little text cards on which were printed illustrated verses from the bible. These we treasured as much as any rare gem, and took home to put with the others in the treasure boxes that sat on the mantelpiece in our bedroom.

On Sunday evenings, we would all return to church for the evening service, over which the Reverend Sanders, a kindly, avuncular minister, presided. We would stand and sing the hymns with enormous enthusiasm and then listen to sermons that were more like folksy stories, and never went on for longer than we, children or adults, could endure. After the service, we would walk home, Vera and me skipping, hand in hand, and Mother and Father following, arm in arm. They were the happiest of days, and it was the happiest of houses, and, if unpleasant things happened there, we were unaware of them. They dwelt, if they dwelt at all, in its deepest recesses and darkest corners, beyond our vision and hearing.

2

Of course, as Vera and I grew older, there were changes. We were enrolled in a nearby state school – first Vera, whose absence left the house seeming large and lonely, and then, two years later, it was my turn. We both did well, for we enjoyed learning. Each night, Father would question us about the events of the day, and we delighted in showing off what we’d learned, and life might have gone on in much the same positive manner had not two things happened that changed our lives irrevocably.

The first was the outbreak of World War I. Vera and I were too young to understand the reasons for that dreadful conflict, or the impact it was to have, but suddenly there were men in uniform everywhere, and all the talk at school and church was about fathers and brothers and sons who were signing up, and the distant battlefields they were leaving for.

Father had a permanent limp – the result of a childhood accident – so was not able to serve as a soldier. But that didn’t stop the other children from making snide and unkind comments. No doubt they were just repeating the things they heard their parents say, but no matter how Vera and I tried to explain why Father couldn’t become a soldier, the insinuations of cowardice persisted. I even began to feel a little ashamed that I couldn’t show the others a photo of Father in uniform, or boast, as they did, about what he would do to the Hun. What neither Vera nor I realised at the time was that Father contributed in other ways – using his skills as a writer to support the war effort.

As tumultuous as the outbreak of war was, its impact on our family was compounded by another event which was, in a sense, also the result of the war. Reverend Sanders announced one evening that he, too, had volunteered, and would soon be appointed as a chaplain to the troops serving overseas. Our whole congregation was devastated at the prospect of losing our beloved minister, but he explained that the needs of the soldiers were greater than ours. He encouraged us to look upon it as an opportunity to experience a different journey – a journey that might lead us to spiritual renewal, whatever that might mean.

None of us, however, could have predicted the impact that decision was to have on our lives. From the moment Reverend Montague, Reverend Sanders’ replacement, set foot in St. Aiden’s, it seemed that a line was drawn. Stepping across that line was like stepping into a different world – a dark and threatening one – from which, try though we might to retrace our steps, we could never find a way to return and reclaim the lives we’d lost.

Reverend Montague brought with him a thundercloud that descended on the church and remained as long as he did, and beyond. Where Reverend Sanders’ sermons had been heart-warming, positive affairs, Reverend Montague’s were full of invective and threats of damnation for all who strayed from the paths of righteousness – something we were made to feel we had either done already or were in danger of doing.

It might not have wrought such a dramatic impact on our household had we all responded in the same way. But our parents’ reaction was as different as one could possibly imagine. Father was immediately disturbed – furious even. He sat there, staring in disbelief at the source of the haranguing, clenching and unclenching his fists in response. His breathing, too, became laboured and I remember staring at him, amazed at the transformation. It was the first time I’d seen him genuinely angry.

Mother’s response was in sharp contrast. Reverend Montague’s words, and the stridency with which they were delivered, seemed to ignite something entirely different within her. She shifted forward on her pew, nodding meaningfully as each bitter phrase rang out and, to all intents and purposes, hanging on his every bitter word. As we left the church, she took the Reverend’s hand in both of hers and shook it warmly while she looked him in the eye with what I can only now describe as great intensity.

A most enlightening sermon, Reverend, she said. Most enlightening.

When we walked home that evening the atmosphere was pregnant with tension, and as sombre as it was normally cheerful. Mother and Father walked separately, each dwelling on what they had witnessed, but in vastly different ways. As for Vera and me, even though we had understood very little of Reverend Montague’s sermon, we sensed that we were all included in his damning words, and that any display of joy or frivolity would be inappropriate. We were about halfway home when Mother broke the silence.

Well, she said, At last we have someone who is prepared to speak the truth; someone who doesn’t hide behind shallow and meaningless clichés. Perhaps now we will be stirred from our complacency and made to face the reality of our sinful and wicked ways.

I remember Father looking at her in astonishment. In fact, I think we all did.

Speak the truth? he said. Wicked ways? I don’t believe my ears. You can’t have been taken in by that appalling diatribe. That man doesn’t have a Christian bone in his body. If there’s a God at all, he said, it must be that He is the New Testament God of love, not some bitter Old Testament force, wreaking revenge on His creation.

Mother’s reaction was one of horror. She turned on Father as if he had uttered the worst of obscenities.

"What do you mean, ‘If there is a God?’ she demanded. How dare you question His existence, and in front of the children? It’s that sort of decadent, heathen language that Reverend Montague was referring to. I’m only grateful that no one else is present to witness the depths to which your thinking has sunk."

Come now, Beatrice, said Father. I think you’re over-reacting. You’re placing too much store by –

Oh, no you don’t, said Mother before he could finish, You can’t weasel your way out that easily. I’ve thought for some time that you were questioning your faith. Now I’m sure of it. I can only hope that you’re not beyond redemption.

It was the first time I’d heard Mother and Father argue. To my knowledge, they had never even exchanged cross words. But, if it was the first time, it was certainly not to be the last. I think we all knew at that moment that life was never going to be the same again, though the manner and degree of the change, we could not have predicted. After the arrival of Reverend Montague, the joy with which our house had once been filled, simply vanished.

First, Vera stopped joining in our games or, if she did, it was only to argue and flounce away and eventually stop joining in altogether. Father said it was just a stage she was going through and would grow out of in time.

Does that mean that I’ll become like Vera when I grow older? I remember asking him. But he just laughed and said: What will be, will be.

After a while, I noticed that our games came to a halt whenever Mother entered the room, and Father would say something like: Oh, is that the time already? and insist that we pack away our things and leave the room as if we had never played there at all.

From that time also, the pianola that had been such a source of merriment, was played only occasionally and then without enthusiasm. And when I begged for a song, or a game or a story, there always seemed something more important to do. Eventually I stopped asking, and instead, contented myself with curling up in some corner beyond discovery, where I read my books or played alone with my dolls and toys. Soon, those happy days became a distant memory. It was as if they had never existed.

It was then, I think, that the conflict that had begun on that first Sunday night became a constant resident in our household. It wasn’t loud or violent, but to a child who had never known her parents to be at odds, it was dreadfully disturbing. I would catch phrases such as: I don’t know why you stay if you’re so unhappy, from Mother, and, You’d all be better off without me, from Father, and that frightened me because, even though he had changed from the fun-loving father he once was, a house without him was unthinkable.

I suppose it was inevitable that it would come to a head – it couldn’t simmer forever – but when it did, it came as quite a shock. Until that time, although Father loathed the atmosphere that now prevailed in church, and made it plain that he did so at every opportunity, he had continued to attend for the sake of the family. Eventually, however, it seemed that he could bear it no longer and, one Sunday evening, he announced to Mother that he would no longer be attending church.

Vera and I were in our rooms, dressing, when we heard harsh words coming from the parlour downstairs. We arrived at the top of the stairs simultaneously, for once sharing a moment of concern.

What do you mean, you’re not going to church? we heard Mother say.

I mean exactly what I say, Father replied. I am sick of being preached at as if I were an agent of the devil. You and the girls may continue to go if you wish, but I’ll stay at home and write or listen to the gramophone. If I’m going to be damned, I may as well do something to deserve it.

I remember the long pause before Mother responded.

But – but people will talk, she spluttered. It won’t go unnoticed you know. What on earth shall I tell them? What on earth shall I tell Reverend Montague?

You can tell them and him what you bloody well like, he said. Say I’m in league with Satan for all I care. Tell them I’ve made a pact with Beelzebub. I’ve made up my mind and there’s an end to it.

I will never forget the look on Mother’s face as she came out of the parlour and closed the door behind her. She paused there, leaning against the door, ashen-faced and trembling. Then she noticed Vera and me standing open-mouthed at the top of the stairs, and she was suddenly seized with resolve.

Hurry up girls, she barked, Or we’ll be late. Your father won’t be joining us this evening – apparently.

We looked at each other in mutual disbelief, before scurrying back to our rooms to finish dressing and joining Mother at the front door. Neither of us said anything as she examined us for signs of laxness in our presentation. She moistened the corner of a handkerchief with her tongue and used it to wipe some smudge from my chin. Then she took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, as if preparing for the onslaught of public opinion, and said, Come girls, or we’ll be late.

I remember hanging back and letting Mother and Vera go ahead. I opened the parlour door where Father sat, seemingly unruffled by the upheaval he had caused.

Father? I said as he looked up from his book.

He simply smiled and gave me a reassuring wink.

Don’t you worry about me, Sweetheart, he said. There’ll still be a place for me in heaven.

Mother called me from outside.

Go on lass, Father said, No use both of us being in strife, and I nodded and pulled the door closed and joined Mother and Vera outside.

After that night, our house was a house divided. Perhaps it was inevitable that Vera and I would take opposite sides, and maybe it was something that none of would have chosen had we but known where it was leading. But it happened nevertheless. From that time on, our house was split into two camps: on one side Father and me and, on the other, Mother and Vera. It was a division that was to affect every aspect of our lives. The conflict between Mother and Father escalated to such an extent that they could barely speak to one another.

As for Vera and me, it wasn’t just that we grew apart. There was something more sinister in our separation. Sometimes, as we sat in the parlour in front of the fireplace, reading our books or embroidering some little pattern on a linen square, I would catch Vera looking at me with what I could only interpret as criticism.

What is it? I would ask, thinking that I must have been doing something to irritate her. But she would just shake her head and resume whatever activity she was engaged in.

On one occasion, I discovered her in my bedroom examining a piece of work that I’d laboured over – I can’t recall now what it was – and when I asked what she was doing, she just sniffed derisively and cast the piece aside and said, You’ll never achieve anything worthwhile. You have neither the patience not the ability.

Sometimes, in an effort to make things as they had been, I would suggest that we put on a performance of some kind, as we used to do. But Vera would merely raise one eyebrow and dismiss the idea with a wave of her hand.

Really, Jessica, she’d say. You must grow up. The Lord has greater works for us to do than your childish little plays.

And I was hurt – quite deeply – because I’d always valued Vera’s approval, and I was devastated when it was no longer forthcoming.

3

When Vera turned thirteen, she announced that she wanted to leave school and take a position in an office. Father was bitterly disappointed. He had always expressed his hope that both Vera and I would continue our schooling beyond primary. But Vera was determined, and Mother took her part, though whether it was because she agreed with her or because she wanted to spite Father was difficult to determine. He tried to persuade Vera to reconsider but, without Mother’s support, it was a lost cause from the outset.

Do what you like then, he eventually said. I wash my hands of the whole business, and he left the house and slammed the door behind him. I remember seeing Mother smile to herself as if it were all about winning, and Vera and her future had been grist to that opportunistic mill.

After that, Father barely spoke. He would emerge from his daily work, eat dinner, and then sit in the parlour and read the paper or listen to the gramophone and smoke his pipe. From time to time I would sit beside him on the arm of the chair, and listen with him or read the paper over his shoulder. He would smile up at me and pat me on the knee, but there was a dreadful sadness in that smile and, for the first time, I thought he was beginning to look old – old and defeated. His hair was suddenly thinner and greying and his eyes seemed to have lost their twinkle.

I think I must have eventually become accustomed to the situation, although we were never again the family we had once been. We were more like four separate people who existed within the same walls, working around, but never with, each other.

I continued to excel at my schoolwork. I enjoyed everything about it, and my reports were always positive. I think Father was proud of my achievements too. He would look over my shoulder where I was working at the dining room table, and there would be a hint of the old father in his eyes; not a twinkling exactly, but something positive shared. But when I approached thirteen and the completion of my primary school years, and the question of my continuing arose, it immediately became the source of conflict between Mother and Father just as it had been with Vera. There were heated discussions that echoed through the house, though I was never included in them; they were carried out in the parlour or upstairs in their bedroom, and always behind closed doors.

She’s a bright lass, I would hear Father say. Why shouldn’t she go on with her schooling and become a teacher or a nurse if that’s what she wants?

But Mother was adamant.

If it was good enough for Vera, it’s good enough for her. What’s a couple more years of school going to achieve except to give her high-flown ideas and waste time that she might devote to praising God and earning a living?

So, the dispute went on and on, backwards and forwards until eventually Father capitulated. He clamped his teeth tightly on his pipe, jammed his hat on his head and marched out of the house.

There was no question that I would dearly love to have extended my education, but I had no wish to be the source of further friction and ill-feeling in a house that was already full of it, so I agreed to leave when I passed my exams, and took up a clerical position in the offices of Forsythe and Grimble, a garment manufacturer.

As it turned out, it wasn’t such a bad life. They were a good crowd in the office. There was always lots of laughter, although Mr. Humphreys, the office manager, frowned upon it, and urged us to ‘get our heads down.’ But it was a change from the atmosphere at home, at least, and there were times when I wished I didn’t have to go home at all.

I have often wondered how life might have been different if I’d gone on with my schooling. I studied typing and shorthand and basic bookkeeping at the local secretarial college, as Vera had done, and I did well at it. But it wasn’t the same as learning about the far-away places that I’d read about in my school books, and longed to visit. I realised then how hopeless a dream that had become. My life was set on a path from which there was little chance of divergence.

The next few years passed uneventfully enough. At work, I progressed from basic filing to more challenging duties. From time to time Mr. Humphreys would stand behind me and look over my shoulder at the work I was doing and say something positive like, Well done Lass, keep it up, and I would redouble my efforts.

And then I met Harry Watkins.

4

My meeting Harry came about quite unexpectedly. Shirley Tapping, an older friend from work who had sort of taken me under her wing, suggested going to a dance at the local town hall. I knew Mother would never allow such a thing, and told Shirley as much, but she persisted.

Come on, Ducks, she’d said. You’re only young once and it’d do you the world of good to get out and about. Why don’t you just tell your mum you’re goin’ to the flicks or something? She can’t object to that, surely?

I don’t know, Shirl, I replied. I’m not one for telling lies, and, even if I did, Mother would know, I’m sure. She’s got a sixth sense about that sort of thing.

But Shirley had planted the idea in my head, and although I wasn’t a headstrong girl, at seventeen, I was beginning to wonder when I’d ever be able to meet people other than those at work or church. Vera didn’t seem concerned with such things. She’d given herself entirely over to the church. But I think I saw things differently. I often looked at the couples that lived nearby, or that travelled together on the tram I caught to work each day, and wondered when I would meet the man with whom I would share my life.

Of course, there was always the swag of pimply-faced youths who went to St. Aiden’s. Although I found none of them in any way appealing, one, a gangly, self-conscious boy named Bernard Strongbow, was definitely showing interest in me. He was learning to play the church organ, and occasionally played at some of the minor services, or when the regular organist was unwell.

Although he made no secret of the fact that he was keen on me, there was much about him that I found off-putting. It wasn’t just his physical appearance – the black hair that was plastered to his scalp; the thick tortoise-shell spectacles that he constantly pushed up on his nose, or the shirts he wore with collars that were too small, and over which his Adam’s apple protruded. There was something in his apologetic manner and his over-politeness that gave me the shivers. So, even though others, including Mother, conspired to bring us together at every available opportunity, I gave him no encouragement.

I thought about the dance for the next few days. In my mind, I practised different ways of approaching the subject with Mother, but it was an exercise in fantasy. I knew I would never use any of them. She wasn’t just opposed to dancing. Since embracing her religious zealotry, she had developed an aversion to everything modern – including music in all its recent forms, and referred to them as ‘works of the devil’.

However, as it turned out, I was presented with an ideal opportunity to broach the issue when, the following Sunday, Bernard Strongbow summoned up the courage to ask if I’d accompany him to the dance. I was completely taken aback. Bernard had never seemed the type to attend such functions, and my first reaction was to politely decline. But then I realised that, although going to the dance with Bernard was the last thing I wanted, it would be difficult for Mother to refuse, given that she had encouraged him as much as everyone else. So, I didn’t refuse his request immediately.

Thank you, Bernard, I said. It’s very nice of you to ask, but I’ll have to ask Mother’s permission. She doesn’t agree with dancing you know.

I asked Mother that night while we were in the kitchen preparing dinner, stressing the fact that Bernard had asked me.

Absolutely not! was Mother’s immediate response. You know how I feel about dancing and dances. The music is appalling – quite obscene in fact – and the people who attend them are not the sort with whom we mix. I’m surprised that Bernard is allowed to go. But his mother is a weak woman who probably couldn’t find the courage to refuse him. She does dote on him somewhat.

Vera, who was standing behind Mother and slightly to one side of her, gave me a look of smug satisfaction. It didn’t surprise me that she sided with Mother, but I was infuriated by the way she showed it.

There was no further discussion about the matter that day, nor the next, but two days later, Mother went to the monthly meeting of the St. Aiden’s Ladies’ Auxiliary, a group to which Bernard Strongbow’s mother, Wilma, also belonged. It must have provided her with the opportunity to broach the issue of Bernard’s invitation, although I’ll never know exactly what transpired. All I know is that that evening at the dinner table Mother raised the matter again, herself – much to everyone’s surprise.

I have been giving a good deal of consideration to your request regarding the dance Jessica, she said. I have made enquiries and spoken to Bernard’s mother, and it seems that my concerns might have been misplaced. In any event, Bernard will be there to act as something of a chaperone so, if you still wish to attend, you may do so, provided that you are home by ten and not a moment later. I imagine Bernard will see to that.

There was a second or two of stunned silence before Vera exploded.

Mother! she exclaimed, You can’t possibly allow Jessica to attend the dance. You know how Reverend Montague feels about such things. He will be shocked, I’m sure.

That may be so, said Mother, but I have made my decision and it’s final. I shall deal with any of Reverend Montague’s misgivings, personally.

Vera stood abruptly, pushing the chair violently with the backs of her legs. She threw her napkin on the table, and stormed out of the dining room in disgust.

5

Although the stipulation to be home by ten seemed absurd, I was prepared to accept both it and Bernard’s company in exchange for such a rare opportunity. But I was also worried that if Bernard and I arrived at the dance together, people might read too much into it. So, when he asked what time he should pick me up, I told him that Father would take me and collect me afterwards as well. He was clearly disappointed, but he didn’t protest. I remember Father looking at me quizzically when I asked him to walk with me to the dance hall.

I thought you were going with Bernard, he said.

I am, I said. I just don’t want him to think that it’s the start of anything, that’s all.

Father grinned at me knowingly – the first time for a long while that he’d done so, and it felt nice in a conspiratorial way.

When the night of the dance came around, I agonized over which dress to wear. I had nothing in my wardrobe that was remotely suitable. Somehow, they all made me look as if I was going to Sunday school – prissy little frocks that made me look even younger than I was. Eventually I settled on the best of a bad lot: a white dress with navy polka dots that matched my patent leather hand bag and shoes. At least it didn’t make me look like a school girl.

You look smashing, said Father as I came down the stairs.

Mother came out from the kitchen at that moment and asked what time Bernard was picking me up and I realised that I hadn’t mentioned the change in plans to her. I felt the blood rising in my face and I didn’t know which way to look. Fortunately, Father intervened.

She’s meeting him at the dance hall, Bea, he said. I’m walking her there and picking her up afterwards.

Mother looked at me suspiciously.

That seems a strange arrangement, she said.

But Father was firm.

Now Beatrice, he said, There’s nothing suspicious. We’ve talked about it, and Jessica doesn’t want to inconvenience Bernard, that’s all, and I must say I agree. He lives on the other side of town so it doesn’t make sense for him to walk all the way over here just to walk back again. Besides, it’ll give me the chance to make sure everything’s on the up and up, and that there aren’t any no hopers hanging about.

Mother just sniffed and reminded me that I was to be home by ten, and marched back to the kitchen.

Thanks Dad, I whispered as we pulled the front door closed behind us. I forgot to tell Mother that you were taking me.

He winked at me.

Up here for thinking Jess, he said, and tapped his head.

When we arrived at the Town Hall, there was an air of anticipation. People were milling around, chattering and laughing. I looked up the steps to the entrance with its massive front doors and the sandstone columns that framed them. It seemed such a grand place to hold a local dance. Although I’d walked past it more times than I could remember, I’d never actually been inside and I wondered what it was like.

Bernard was waiting, dressed in a sports jacket that was somewhat too big, and a pair of trousers that were somewhat too short. He approached enthusiastically, blinking and pushing his glasses up on his nose as he did, and I hoped my smile of acknowledgement didn’t appear as forced as it felt.

Good evening Jessica. Good evening Mr. Brooking, he said, holding out a limp hand in Father’s direction.

Good evening to you Bernard, Father replied, smiling and shaking his hand more firmly than I think Bernard expected.

Well Jess, I’ll leave you now, seeing that Bernard’s here to look after you. I’ll be back in time to get you home by ten.

He winked at me, kissed me on the cheek and sauntered off, hands in pockets and whistling to himself. I watched his departing figure and wished he’d stayed for longer. It felt awkward being left alone with Bernard although he did his best to make small talk.

That’s a lovely dress you have on Jessica, he