Chapter Text
Siegfried Farnon sat at his desk trying to work. He’d got off to a good start and made serious inroads in the pile; but when Mrs Hall had left for her WI meeting and bandage rolling, he had gradually slowed down, at last leaning back in his chair and simply gazing at the photographs scattered round the room.
Most of them were of Evelyn on her own or with him and there was one of the two of them with Tristan. Also on display was the picture of himself and Maurice with the magnificent horse Vonolel. Mrs Hall appeared in two photos: the Skeldale House family as he thought of his brother, Audrey, the Herriots, and his good self along with the household pets, and one that Helen, the clever lass, had snapped the previous fall of Mrs Hall and him out in the garden in the area they referred to as ‘the orchard’. That’s where the apple, wild pear, and plum trees grew. His back was to the camera, one foot on the ladder, ready to climb up in order to reach the highest branches of the apple tree. Mrs Hall had stayed his ascent, a hand resting on his left arm. She had been cautioning him against climbing too high or trying to reach too far or going out on a limb, probably. He was grinning at her with obvious delight, touched that she cared whether or not he fell to the ground and broke his neck.
Did his welfare still matter to her, he wondered. Oh yes, she had cancelled a visit to Hull last winter to remain by his side when he’d been ill with that terrible cold, feeding him her witch’s brew as well as far tastier boiled eggs with toast soldiers, broth, jelly, and tea and even rubbing his chest with some god awful concoction of her own making. He hadn’t minded that bit. Miserable as he was, Mrs Hall’s firm yet gentle hand moving over his skin had felt like heaven. Her rosy cheeks had given him hope that his ministering angel was enjoying it too. When he had emitted a great sigh of pleasure that had turned into a little contented groan, she’d tugged gently at the hair on his chest and teasingly accused him of being lazy and spoilt, like a big ginger Tom cat. He had been grateful for the bedclothes mounded strategically over that most unruly member of the male anatomy. Not that he felt guilty for desiring her, his physical need of her, rooted in his deep love and regard for the woman who had transformed his life so unexpectedly after Evelyn had died.
What he did feel a bit of a cad about was having discouraged her from going to Hull in the first place; although that had only been drawing a line under her own doubts about the propriety of a respectable married woman traipsing off to visit a gentleman friend, war time or not. He had merely agreed with her that she was right to be protective of her reputation. In any case, ‘All’s fair in love and war’ and all that. Diana had taken him to task right out there in the market square when she’d got to know about it.
“You’re a hypocrite, Siegfried Farnon. If you had been the one she’d kissed under the mistletoe you’d have hustled her home from church and taken her to bed that very night if she’d been willing. I’d feel sorry for you if you weren’t already as sleek and coddled as that rat of yours in your cosy nest. You enjoy all the benefits of marriage to a devoted wife save one. No!” She held up her hand when he’d tried to defend himself. “I don’t want to hear it.” But she had kissed his cheek in parting, to show there were no hard feelings.
Unfortunately, Audrey had seen the affectionate parting and got hold of the wrong end of the stick. She’d claimed to be glad for him, thinking he and Diana were back on again, despite he’d denied it.
He had enjoyed his unexpected affair with Diana. She’d been the first woman he’d slept with since Evelyn. They hadn’t been in love with one another. It had been an easy, fond friendship. He’d had no expectation of going to bed with her the night of the Daffodil Ball when he’d invited her to The Renniston, naturally assuming that such intimacy would be off the table, certainly so early in their acquaintance. The evening had been great fun. They’d had a lovely meal with wine, laughed and danced. He had anticipated a goodnight kiss. Their first osculation had actually taken place in the car park of the hotel, the second even more passionate one in the Rover parked in front of her house. He had enjoyed both of them very much. Their third kiss at the door of her home had been rather more sedate, a winding down the evening sort of thing and he’d been a bit surprised when she’d invited him in for a nightcap. Why not, he’d thought, expecting nothing more than a bit more sweet-hearting, or canoodling, as the Americans would have it, before being sent home to finish things on his own. If he was honest, he hadn’t been quite sure if he was emotionally ready for more. It had been a big step, kissing Dorothy. Indeed, he had been so nervous and bungling that it almost hadn’t happened. But Dorothy would have wanted more from him eventually, a greater opening of his heart and soul to her, and a true commitment, perhaps even marriage, before welcoming him into her bed. At the time, that had seemed overwhelming and it had been a relief when she’d gone to Majorca and remained there. It had been a turn up for the books when Diana had straight forwardly offered him the comfort of her bed and body for the night, no strings attached. He had readily, gratefully accepted. He had pleased her and received pleasure in return, which had merited him a return engagement. It had been enough for a while.
His marriage had been blissful, in and out of bed. Evelyn had been a virgin on their wedding day but not ignorant. He had been a bit more experienced, though no Cassanova by any stretch of the imagination. They had been in love, both of them a little nervous as well as eager, his bride trusting and unafraid. He had taken his time for both their sakes and wooed her with words both romantic and slightly naughty, artful kisses and well-judged caresses, paying heed to her responses. To his delight she had not been content merely to receive but had explored the mysteries of his body with as much frank interest as he had hers. Their wedding night had been good for both of them and the memory of it, of her had buoyed his spirits in the following terrible months.
A few months before he’d been demobbed, Married Love by Marie Stopes had been published in England and Evelyn had bought a copy. Whilst they could both see how the book filled a need and might be beneficial to some, a lot of it was rubbish; but it had reminded them, especially him, that they were two individuals who, though ‘one flesh’, retained personal agency. It was important that each felt safe to be honest with the other about what they needed and wanted, not only in the marriage bed but in all aspects of their lives. He had taken to heart the importance of continuing to court his wife as ardently as he had in those halcyon days of first love. The book had encouraged them to experiment and play. In the early years of their marriage, the government might not have recognised his wife as a whole person with rights, particularly suffrage, but in their household, she had always been an equal partner. He chuckled. Indeed, she had been the Managing Director. Those years with Evelyn had set a high standard and a loving, faithful, sexually happy marriage was his ideal relationship.
He hadn’t expected to fall in love again when he’d lost his darling wife, hadn’t thought it possible. But he hadn’t reckoned with the strong, take charge woman who had walked into his home that summer into autumn of 1934 and set his world to rights whilst somehow managing to send him reeling. As he’d only acknowledged fully with the arrival of Dash, he was deeply in love with Audrey. Their life together was already wonderful – or had been until Hammond had turned up, damn him. If he had only admitted to himself sooner how much he loved her and had begun to court and woo her, perhaps the clock man wouldn’t have stood a chance of turning her head. Oh, he would have made her so happy, in every way. There might even have been a child, or children. His only regret in his marriage to Evelyn, and it was a momentous one, was that his reluctance to become a father because of self-doubt had deprived his beloved wife of the joys of motherhood. What wouldn’t he give to know that a child of their bodies was out there in the world, forging his or her own path. Or would he have made a hash of things with that may be child or children as he very nearly had with his brother? Would he have been a better guardian to Tristan had he had children of his own to bring up, too?
Siegfried got up and went over to the piano. He hadn’t played in months. He’d had lessons as a boy, his music loving parents had seen to that. Evelyn, a talented musician, had made him better. He’d wanted to please and impress her, of course. He looked through a stack of sheet music until he came to the one he wanted, positioning it on the rack and playing the introduction, unaware that Audrey had arrived home, letting herself in the back door because she’d wanted to check the cat and her kittens were all right. She’d never liked a cat so well as Dinah. The kittens all had homes waiting for them, but she intended that Dinah should stay with them. She was already getting Mr Farnon used to the idea. As she came round the corner towards the front of the house, she heard the piano. The housekeeper paused by the staircase and removed her coat, hanging it over the banister, and sat down on a step so that the musician wouldn’t realise she were there and stop.
"What'll I do
With just a photograph
To tell my troubles to?
When I’m alone
With only dreams of you
That won't come true
What'll I do?"
After he had sung the stanzas through a second time, there was a great crash of chords and Audrey barely had time to scoot up a step and rise as though she were only just coming downstairs as Farnon tore out of the office. Instead of charging past the staircase, his familiar quick footsteps echoed in the front hallway and then the door opened and slammed shut. The housekeeper rushed into the entry after him, but by the time she reached the pavement, Siegfried was halfway to The Drovers. Far be it from her to run after him in the street, Audrey thought, going back into the house and checking St Nick were all right. He’d be home soon enough wanting his dinner and she’d coax his worries out of him over fried herring, prepped and waiting in the larder, and mash with onion gravy. She sighed. She’d better get changed and cover her hair and then get the windows and the back door open against the fish odor and they’d eat in the dining room. Helen had got to where she couldn’t stomach herring, but she wouldn’t be at home tonight. When James had been called up she’d taken to spending most of the week at Heston Grange. It made sense, but Audrey missed ‘er and thought that Siegfried did, too. How she longed to push the boat out and give them roast beef and Yorkshire pud.
Mr Farnon worked so hard, he deserved a treat. She’d been hoarding sugar to bake a batch of shortbread for his birthday. Today had been fairly quiet, for a mercy. Pray God that weren’t an omen that he’d be called out at 2 o’clock in the morning. Fortunately the spring lambing season were slowing down to a trickle as May drew to a close. As she was closing the door, a familiar car passed the house. Audrey stopped herself stepping outside to see if Diana would hail her employer. She’d thought they were seeing each other again, but Diana had put paid to that at their meeting this afternoon.
“His heart’s engaged elsewhere, Audrey, and it’s driving him mad. Why don’t you ask him about it? And don’t take ‘no’ for an answer. It’ll do him good to get it out. You’re the only one who can lance that boil, as it were, you really are.”