There was a letter from Lewis Maddox, written in a strong, upright hand, but nothing, apparently, from Georgina for several months. She had, it seemed, been devastated by her father’s death.
With personal experience to draw on, Stephen could imagine only too well the effects of that second blow, releasing all the shock and grief she had probably been unable to express after Liam’s death.
Zoe’s understanding was more detached, but even so she could imagine Georgina’s situation.
‘Nursing, in the midst of war, surrounded by the dying – grieving would be impossible, wouldn’t it? It was the era of the stiff upper lip,’ she remarked sardonically, ‘when they all pretended they were just fine, and carried on regardless.’ On an exasperated sigh she shook her head, then said: ‘But yes, I can see she would go to pieces when Robert died. She thought the world of him, didn’t she? I think, too, that it would be like letting go on all the other deaths, all that stress and anguish she’d suffered – not to mention losing Liam.’
‘Poor girl,’ Stephen murmured, drawing Zoe close into the crook of his arm.
‘Yes. Thank God she wasn’t alone. He sounds to have been a pretty decent sort, that guy she married.’
‘And a decent family, from all accounts.’ Turning over the Australian correspondence, Stephen recalled something his aunt had said, months ago, about Louisa receiving letters from Australia. ‘Do you remember? Joan said something about her keeping in touch with the people Liam had worked for, before the war. It never struck me before.’
‘No, because we didn’t know about Georgina!’ Zoe interjected. ‘But then she said – ’
‘That Sarah hadn’t bothered after Louisa died, because she was never much of a letter-writer!’
Zoe laughed. ‘Sarah wouldn’t have known Georgina. I mean, if she met her once or twice, it wouldn’t have been more than that, would it?’
‘And I doubt whether Sarah would have known about the relationship between Georgina and Liam – Louisa wouldn’t have advertised that, would she?’
‘No.’ After a moment’s thought, Zoe said: ‘Whatever Robin felt, I don’t think Sarah wanted to know about the Duncannons. I can imagine Robert’s death must have been, for her, anyway, the end of an embarrassment. No wonder she kept quiet about that half of the family!’
‘And it wouldn’t be the sort of complication that Louisa could explain to my father and Joan,’ Stephen added. ‘Not when they were young, anyway.’
They were both struck by the roundabout route they had pursued to reach that conclusion, and by the years which had elapsed between those final letters from Georgina, written mostly before 1939, and interrupted by the war.
It was hardly likely that she was still alive, but Zoe felt that Georgina Duncannon would still be remembered by someone in Australia.
‘Strange, isn’t it? She lived here for no more than a couple of years, and yet for me she left a lasting impression. She welcomed me when I first came here, I know she did.’
At her dreamy, slightly speculating expression, Stephen could not restrain a smile. ‘You’ve got something on your mind. What is it?’
‘Oh, nothing, really,’ she said vaguely; but a moment later, watching him return those letters to their envelopes, she said: ‘You know, I think I might try writing to them...’
‘Who?’
‘The Maddox family. There sounds to have been enough of them, and I bet somebody’s still running that farm...’
He was unconvinced. ‘Listen, the last time I was in Melbourne was twenty years ago, and it was growing fast. Whoever owned the Maddox farm probably sold out and made a fortune.’
‘Oh, don’t be so defeatist – Dandenong’s miles from Melbourne. And anyway,’ she continued, silencing him with a kiss, ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained. Look what I got when I wrote to all fifty-two Elliotts in the York phone book...’ She kissed him again, passionately.
‘In that case,’ Stephen murmured, minutes later, ‘I think I should forbid you even to try. Lord knows what you might come up with next time.’
‘A handsome hunk of an Australian?’ she enquired wickedly.
‘Guzzling Fosters and grunting G’Day,’ he retorted, laughing.
For a while the teasing continued, but a couple of days later, determined to prove a point to Stephen, Zoe put together a letter, enquiring about Georgina Maddox, nee Duncannon. Feeling positive, she posted it to that old address. Even the longest shots, in her opinion, were worth attempting. As she remarked to Stephen, there had been so many beneficial results already, perhaps the letter would produce one more.
With that he could not disagree.
They were invited by Zoe’s father to a lunch which lasted most of the afternoon, and on another evening to dinner with Zoe’s mother at her cottage in Sussex. Although the former meeting had initially caused him much apprehension, Stephen found James Clifford much as Zoe had described him. As affable as he was sharp-witted, his smiles and good humour helped to disguise, along with much conversational padding, the most pertinent questions. Although Stephen was familiar with interview techniques, he had to admire Zoe’s father for his expertise, while being thankful that he had nothing to hide. Afterwards, he was able to smile because he knew he had passed the test: James Clifford had given them both his blessing before they left.
‘Not that it would have mattered a jot,’ Zoe assured him. ‘I’d have married you, my darling, whether my father approved or not. But still,’ she grinned, ‘it’s nice that he likes you.’
‘I like him,’ Stephen said frankly. ‘And yes, it is a relief to know he thinks me capable of taking care of you.’ And flattering, he thought but did not say, to think he had the older man’s respect.
His reaction to Zoe’s mother, however, was less clear-cut. Marian was an elegant woman whose looks belied her age. Stephen found it disconcerting to realize that just as he was ten years older than Zoe, her mother was a mere ten years older than him. He remembered then that he and Marian were second cousins, and technically of the same generation; to quell the feeling that he was cradle-snatching, he had to remind himself that at twenty-seven, Zoe was no child.
Everything about Zoe’s mother had the high gloss of perfection. The thatched cottage was picture-perfect, its interior such a showplace of antique furniture and objets d’art, he was almost afraid to sit down.
While her mother poured sherry from a crystal decanter, Zoe went in search of an ashtray, pushing it ostentatiously towards him as she flopped down on luxurious cushions.
‘Stephen smokes, Mummy. You don’t mind, do you?’
The challenge with which this was said would have credited a far braver man than Stephen; but by the answering glance he knew that Mummy would mind, and very much. Despite her gracious acquiescence and several nudges from Zoe, he managed to hold out until after dinner, when his nerve had relaxed sufficiently to persuade him that just one might be forgiven. Even so, he took his cigarette outside.
On the drive home, he chain-smoked while Zoe giggled.
‘After we’re married,’ he said heavily, ‘I shall do my best not to offend her – but if she visits us in our own home, I’m afraid she’ll have to put up with my obnoxious habits.’
‘Have you noticed something? People keep asking us when we’re going to get married, and where we’re going to live – and giving us some very odd looks when we say we haven’t discussed it yet!’
‘Well, they’re two very good questions,’ he replied. ‘When and where?’
He glanced at her while she was considering that, not exactly dreading her reply, but hoping that she would want to marry soon. Marian’s references to bridesmaids and guest lists had given him a sinking feeling. Big weddings took time to arrange, as he knew from past experience, and in his job, dates were practically impossible to guarantee. And there was, of course, the major problem of his divorce: not a point that could be overlooked by the average man of the cloth.
The maturity of her reply took him by surprise.
‘Well, my darling, I would have liked to be married in church – but I don’t think it’s going to be possible, is it? At least not without an unseemly touting round for somebody willing to perform the ceremony. Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, it’s the rest of our lives that matter, not just the place and the number of bridesmaids, and a guest list as long as your arm. Which is what Mummy’s envisaging.’ The sigh that followed, was, he realized, inspired by thoughts of Marian. ‘She’ll hate it, of course. Me being an only daughter, and all that. But quite honestly, I can’t think of more than half a dozen people I’d like to be there, so what does it matter?’
Stephen said nothing, but gently squeezed her knee.
‘It’s you and me that matter, isn’t it? Our promises to each other? I’m sure God will hear us, whether it’s in church, in the middle of a field, or in the local registry office...’
‘I’m sure He will,’ Stephen said quietly, thinking of nights far out at sea, the vastness of the ocean and the endless stars. Amidst all that mystical beauty, it was possible to feel closer to God than in the most fanciful or familiar church. One day, he wanted Zoe to experience that, to understand that naked sense of solitude and humility, in which the slender division between flesh and the spirit seemed so very fragile.
But, perhaps, he thought, she understood something of that already.