Read Online Memories of the Storm by Marcia Willett - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marcia Willett
Ads: Link
it
weren't for her we could get away. You're a fool,
Michael. Something terrible is going to happen and
it will be because of Lucy . . .'
The second, Jack showing her the Midsummer
Cushion: 'But you must never, never touch it, Lucy.
It's very old and precious and Nanny says if we
touch it something really bad will happen.'
Her first reaction is disappointment. It is not a
cushion at all but a tapestry, framed and hanging
on the wall in Hester's bedroom. Her initial surprise,
however, is swiftly replaced with delight.
The Midsummer Cushion – oh, how beautiful;
how magical to the eyes of a small child. A tapestry
of every imaginable wild flower – ox-eye daisies,
scarlet field poppies, yellow rattle and golden
buttercups, eyebright and purple self-heal, all
threaded through with long green grasses –
lovingly traced in silk. Beneath the protecting glass,
dried flowers have been gently placed beside
the silken ones so that the whole effect is of a
hayfield in June. She is drawn back to it again
and again, creeping into Hester's bedroom to gaze
enraptured at the pretty thing in its golden frame.
One wild autumn evening she climbs onto the little
stool and, on tiptoe, leans to look more closely at
the tapestry. Losing her balance, she puts out a
hand to save herself, catching at the edge of the
frame. It comes crashing down, glass splinters
all over the rug and the polished floorboards, the
dried flowers crumbling instantly to dust. She has
broken the Midsummer Cushion and retribution
will surely follow swiftly. When the third thing
happens, guilt and fear fuse into a single terrified
reaction.
' Something terrible is going to happen and it will be
because of Lucy .'
' If we touch it something really bad will happen .'
The voices have prophesied truly: murder
happens and, in its wake, betrayal and loss of trust.
Lucy stood watching a flock of seagulls wheeling
above the new-ploughed field. Against the soft grey
sky the white under-feathers shone with a startling
purity. Then, all in a moment as they dipped and
turned, they were invisible, grey on grey. The
voices had ceased to haunt her, though she could
still recall the tense atmosphere and the little
tingle of terror that had accompanied them. She'd
long since realized that the first was the voice of
a manipulating and determined woman, pleading
with her reluctant lover, and the second was simply
the repetition, by a little boy, of something he'd
been told many times. Yet they'd had their effect
on her, reinforcing the superstitious tendencies
inherited from her mother. Even after all these
years she felt the twist of guilt, the clutch of fear,
when things went wrong or people weren't happy.
It was an instinctive response, due to an odd kind
of early conditioning involving both nurture and
nature: because of her, or something she'd done,
someone had died and lives had been wrecked.
Yet much worse even than the breaking of the
Midsummer Cushion had been the loss of faith in
the two people she'd loved and trusted most: her
father and Hester.
Lucy reached up to pick a late-flowering crown of
pale honeysuckle and a spray of rosehips. Added to
a twig of golden birch leaves they looked charming.
She'd put them into a vase for Jerry and tell him
about the gulls whilst she made their lunch.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hester was enjoying herself. Accustomed to a
scholarly approach to work, she'd begun her little
history for Jonah with a properly set out table of
names and dates: her own family tree to begin with,
just to give him something to work from, followed
by the stark facts. She'd put in too much information
to begin with, distracting herself with odd
memories that could be of no interest to Jonah. For
instance, stories of the two younger boys could
have no relevance here. Killed so early in the war,
they were simply two more names to confuse him.
They were there on the family tree, of course,
but nothing else relating to their lives would be
recorded. Only those people who
weren't for her we could get away. You're a fool,
Michael. Something terrible is going to happen and
it will be because of Lucy . . .'
The second, Jack showing her the Midsummer
Cushion: 'But you must never, never touch it, Lucy.
It's very old and precious and Nanny says if we
touch it something really bad will happen.'
Her first reaction is disappointment. It is not a
cushion at all but a tapestry, framed and hanging
on the wall in Hester's bedroom. Her initial surprise,
however, is swiftly replaced with delight.
The Midsummer Cushion – oh, how beautiful;
how magical to the eyes of a small child. A tapestry
of every imaginable wild flower – ox-eye daisies,
scarlet field poppies, yellow rattle and golden
buttercups, eyebright and purple self-heal, all
threaded through with long green grasses –
lovingly traced in silk. Beneath the protecting glass,
dried flowers have been gently placed beside
the silken ones so that the whole effect is of a
hayfield in June. She is drawn back to it again
and again, creeping into Hester's bedroom to gaze
enraptured at the pretty thing in its golden frame.
One wild autumn evening she climbs onto the little
stool and, on tiptoe, leans to look more closely at
the tapestry. Losing her balance, she puts out a
hand to save herself, catching at the edge of the
frame. It comes crashing down, glass splinters
all over the rug and the polished floorboards, the
dried flowers crumbling instantly to dust. She has
broken the Midsummer Cushion and retribution
will surely follow swiftly. When the third thing
happens, guilt and fear fuse into a single terrified
reaction.
' Something terrible is going to happen and it will be
because of Lucy .'
' If we touch it something really bad will happen .'
The voices have prophesied truly: murder
happens and, in its wake, betrayal and loss of trust.
Lucy stood watching a flock of seagulls wheeling
above the new-ploughed field. Against the soft grey
sky the white under-feathers shone with a startling
purity. Then, all in a moment as they dipped and
turned, they were invisible, grey on grey. The
voices had ceased to haunt her, though she could
still recall the tense atmosphere and the little
tingle of terror that had accompanied them. She'd
long since realized that the first was the voice of
a manipulating and determined woman, pleading
with her reluctant lover, and the second was simply
the repetition, by a little boy, of something he'd
been told many times. Yet they'd had their effect
on her, reinforcing the superstitious tendencies
inherited from her mother. Even after all these
years she felt the twist of guilt, the clutch of fear,
when things went wrong or people weren't happy.
It was an instinctive response, due to an odd kind
of early conditioning involving both nurture and
nature: because of her, or something she'd done,
someone had died and lives had been wrecked.
Yet much worse even than the breaking of the
Midsummer Cushion had been the loss of faith in
the two people she'd loved and trusted most: her
father and Hester.
Lucy reached up to pick a late-flowering crown of
pale honeysuckle and a spray of rosehips. Added to
a twig of golden birch leaves they looked charming.
She'd put them into a vase for Jerry and tell him
about the gulls whilst she made their lunch.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hester was enjoying herself. Accustomed to a
scholarly approach to work, she'd begun her little
history for Jonah with a properly set out table of
names and dates: her own family tree to begin with,
just to give him something to work from, followed
by the stark facts. She'd put in too much information
to begin with, distracting herself with odd
memories that could be of no interest to Jonah. For
instance, stories of the two younger boys could
have no relevance here. Killed so early in the war,
they were simply two more names to confuse him.
They were there on the family tree, of course,
but nothing else relating to their lives would be
recorded. Only those people who
Similar Books
