Broken Music by Marjorie Eccles Read Free Book Online

all have to call him now, I suppose – fancy!’
    â€˜I don’t imagine he’ll want us to call him anything of the sort, Florrie, if I know William.’ Mrs Villiers divested herself of her apron, hung it tidily behind the door and patted her hair. ‘It’s more likely he’ll want to forget the army as soon as possible.’
    â€˜Hmm. Well, major or not, it’ll be grand to see him again, and I’m sure Strudwick’ll be glad of someone to help bring in the coal, not to mention seeing to that pile of leaves blocking the gutters. He don’t fancy ladders nowadays, says he’s getting too old.’
    Eleanor Villiers smiled again, not envisaging immediately co-opting William into the role of handyman, though he’d always enjoyed energetic work, making himself useful, but thinking more of the warmth he would bring into the house, the vitality and sense of purpose. She for one would not be sorry at that. It was time to put the past behind them, and not only the war years but the unresolved mystery which the enormity of the war itself had overshadowed.
    Amy was delightedly imagining the excitements that were sure to follow William’s return.
    The last time she had seen him she’d been a little overawed at her giant of a brother, so much older, so dashing in his army uniform, his Sam Browne gleaming, his peaked cap at a jaunty angle. Second Lieutenant William Wentworth, all geared up and ready to fight the Hun, trying to look serious and responsible, the effect spoilt by his big, cheerful smile, the freckles on his nose and the fact that he was just twenty-one. Straight out of university, his studies abandoned. How brave, Amy thought, how daring to do that. No wonder Papa had been so – disappointed. But no wonder, either, that William had been a hero, mentioned in despatches. She hugged to herself the warm, comfortable feeling that they were all to be together again, the whole family…all except Marianne, of course. But Marianne had been gone for so long now, her image was already fading, and the sad feeling was hard to maintain, although the way she had died – and the guilt, and all the rest of it – still frightened Amy when she thought about it.
    But there was always Nella. Her two elder sisters had been so close in age, talking and laughing together about things Amy didn’t understand, that Amy used to feel excluded, but it was different now, had been ever since that night when Nella had cuddled Amy to sleep in her own bed, at the end of that awful day when Marianne had been found dead.
    Nella removed her apron and drew on the cardigan her grandmother had thoughtfully set to keep warm for her on the rail over the boiler, and snuggled into its comforting warmth. ‘Father’s seen the letter, of course? What did he say?’
    â€˜You know your father, Nella. He’s pleased – who wouldn’t be? – but of course he won’t show it.’
    â€˜No, I don’t suppose he would.’
    Another silence fell, this time of a different kind, an unease settling over the room like dust, a small cloud dimming, if only slightly, the joy of the moment. Francis Wentworth, who was against fighting for any reason whatsoever, had not been delighted when his only son had left Oxford before taking his degree. As a member of the Officers’ Training Corps, both at school and university, William had had no difficulty in obtaining a commission, determined not to be left behind in the jingoistic fervour (as his father saw it) to fight for king and country when all his friends were doing the same; but the habit of non-communication between father and son was too strong to be broken and typically, after voicing his initial protests, Francis had shrugged and retreated into his books.
    The big wooden clock on the wall gave its usual irritating whirr before bonging out a slow, unmusical five. Mrs Villiers said briskly, ‘Well, time we were