Chapter 8
After Sunday lunch, before they drove back to London in the early evening, Alfie took Clementine down to the village church to see Edwin’s memorial.
Foxwood lay in the tiny hamlet of Popplewell, just half a mile out of Breverton, and because the church was particularly picturesque, it was popular with those who found the large, square church in Breverton too austere.
They walked down, hand in hand, Clementine in a wide-brimmed straw hat Elizabeth had lent her, for today was even hotter than the day before.
‘I hope you don’t think it’s morbid,’ he said.
‘Of course not,’ she said.
‘It’s not a grave,’ he said. ‘Because they never recovered his body so we couldn’t have a proper funeral. And all we’ve got is a tree, to remember him by.’
The way he said it, so casually and matter-of-factly, made her wince. Even now, you heard about things people had gone through that you couldn’t fathom.
Clementine said nothing, just slipped her hand into his and squeezed it.
He led her through the graveyard, centuries of grey tombstones spattered with bright green lichen lying amidst the freshly mown grass.
The names of some of the deceased had almost completely eroded, ghostly letters only discernible if you really tried hard to make out who had died in 1822.
And then there were the more recent graves.
Even a village this small had lost men in the war.
There was a cluster of them, most with recent bunches of flowers.
Clementine’s heart ached for them all. Had they lived their dreams before they died? Found love?
Sometimes, she felt guilty that her own war had been uneventful.
The worst she could say about it was that it had been dull.
Salisbury had escaped unscathed, for it was said the spire of the cathedral was a useful landmark for enemy bombers, so it had never been a target.
Her father had been too old to be called up, and had carried on at the school. They had never been at any great risk.
Yet underlying everything was the reminder that her mother had lost her first husband, Ben’s father, in the first war. It had made Ruth very protective of Ben, who was old enough to be called up when war on Germany was declared for the second time, and Ruth had been limp with despair.
‘I know it’s selfish,’ she had wept to Clementine’s father, Jeffrey. ‘But I can’t lose him too.’
So although Clementine didn’t have any direct experience of losing someone, she had lived with her mother’s fear of history repeating itself, and her heightened anxiety as they listened to the wireless every night.
As she was the offspring of her mother’s second, later marriage, her school friends had much younger parents, who were almost blasé and seemed to carry on life with nothing but a few grumbles about rationing and blackouts.
They stood in the shadow of the church and she stared at the plaque nailed to the tree planted in Edwin’s honour. It was an Irish yew, much narrower than a normal yew, and it stood up straight and tall and slender.
IN LOVING MEMORY OF
EDWIN MICHAEL ARBUTUS
1919–1944
A BELOVED SON AND brOTHER
‘We all come down and talk to him, even though we know he’s not here,’ said Alfie. ‘My mother used to come here every day. Maybe not so often now.’
He fell silent for a moment. Clementine shivered. How, as a mother, did you decide to stop visiting your child’s grave so often? She put out a hand to touch the deep green foliage.
‘His poor fiancée,’ she said.
‘Yes.’ Edwin sighed. ‘Meg couldn’t come to the memorial service. Her family wouldn’t let her travel because of the war.’
‘She must have been heartbroken.’
‘Of course. But she’s married someone else now, so I guess …
’ He shrugged. ‘The family have always kept in touch. Her father was a Rhodes scholar – he met Dad at Oxford, and they stayed friends. He’s enormously wealthy.
I sometimes wonder …’ He paused for a moment.
‘I sometimes wonder if Edwin felt it was his duty to marry her. Not that my parents would have put him under any pressure. But the money …’ He gave a wry smile.
‘The factory was struggling before the war. Ironically, it was the war that turned it around.’
Clementine remembered him telling her, that first night, about everything they had done. Alfie cleared his throat. He suddenly seemed awkward; was looking down at the ground, tracing the toe of his shoe in the gravel of the path.
‘And things are getting tough again. The industry’s very competitive, everyone jumping on the bandwagon now everyone’s interested in their homes again. My father’s struggling to keep on top of everything because we’re having to expand …’
Clementine frowned. She had a feeling this was leading somewhere, but she wasn’t sure where.
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘My father asked me to come and work for him last night,’ he said suddenly. ‘Before dinner, while you and my mother were upstairs.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s always been understood that I’d take over from him at some point, when he retires. But he needs someone to work alongside him now, so he gave me first refusal.’
‘And do you want to?’
Alfie didn’t answer for a moment.
‘I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about it,’ he said eventually. ‘At first I thought I didn’t want to leave London. Not yet. I told you me and Freddie were hoping to open a shop. He’s got a couple of places lined up for us to look at.’
‘I’m sure your father would understand.’
‘He made it very clear that he wasn’t putting me under pressure.’ Alfie cleared his throat. ‘But I feel so torn. It’s wonderful here, and it’s where I belong. But I’d feel bad letting Freddie down, and I’m proud of Coupe and everything we’ve done …’
‘Of course you are. It’s been a huge success. And you’ve got such exciting plans.’
‘Yes. And part of me wants to prove I can do something on my own. But on the other hand, it’s my duty to step into Edwin’s shoes and help my father.’
‘You don’t have to be Edwin, Alfie. You don’t have to sacrifice yourself.’
Alfie sighed. ‘Coupe’s fun and exciting but it’s not for ever. It’s not a legacy, with hundreds of years of history. I’m proud of Arbutus Paints, and my future in it. I’m just not sure I’m ready yet. But –’ he paused for a moment, shutting his eyes – ‘I’m not sure how to say this.’
‘Go on.’ Clementine nodded her encouragement.
‘If you were with me, I wouldn’t think twice.’
‘What?’ Clementine was startled. This wasn’t what she was expecting.
‘Clementine,’ he said, ‘if Edwin’s death taught me anything, it’s to be bold, and grab what you want.
And to trust your instincts. Since I’ve met you, a light has come back into my life.
I wake up and the first thing I think of is you.
I can’t imagine my life without you in it.
Edwin always used to say when you know, you know – and I’ve never been more sure of anything.
And so I hoped, I wondered –’ He took both of her hands in his. ‘Would you marry me?’
Clementine gazed at him in shock, not sure she had heard correctly.
‘Alfie … Oh my goodness. I mean … I feel the same. And I can’t think of anything more lovely than marrying you.
But you need to know … I couldn’t just leave Ben and come and live in the country.
I’d have to carry on working. I’m not someone who’s going to be happy arranging flowers and having coffee mornings like Henrietta. I need more.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘And that’s why I love you. I don’t want you to change at all. We’d still have the flat. You could stay in town whenever you wanted.’
Clementine tried to take it all in. She was usually very good at making up her mind quickly, but this was momentous, and she didn’t want to make a promise she regretted.
For a moment she was distracted by a figure on the other side of the churchyard, a young woman slipping behind a gravestone, probably here to pay her respects to someone else lost in the war.
‘I’ll do whatever we need to do to make it work,’ Alfie said. ‘What do you think?’
Alfie was squeezing her fingers and she realised she had to put him out of his misery.
She wasn’t going to be seduced by the glamour of Foxwood, the status of the family, the gracious country living.
She was making up her mind based on the fact that she loved this dear, wonderful man with all her heart.
‘I think,’ she said carefully, ‘we could make the best of both worlds, you and I.’
‘In that case,’ said Alfie, putting his hand in his pocket and taking out the little silk pouch his mother had given him. ‘Let’s do this properly.’ He pulled out his grandmother’s ring and dropped to one knee. ‘Clementine, would you marry me?’
‘Yes!’ she said, laughing as he slipped the ring onto her finger. ‘Oh, yes!’
He jumped up with a roar of delight, taking her in his arms. She held up her hand to show him the ring. It caught the late-afternoon light, flashing with brilliance. And they held each other tightly as the sun slipped down behind the church spire, in the shadow of Edwin’s yew tree.