Echoes of Innocence

By Patrick Hopton

(The first book of Patrick Hopton’s ‘Echoes’ Trilogy)

The diary of a young woman, written in the period before and during the First World War, reaches out to touch and transform the empty life of Stephen Cantrell three quarters of a century later.

Bernice Lamb, a spirited sixteen year old when she took up her pen, has chronicled the daily events of her own life and loves set against the backdrop of an era of innocence - an innocence that is about to be destroyed for ever.

Someone has taken great pains to ensure that Bernie’s diary comes into Stephen’s possession.
But who? . . . And why?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291853018

Book preview

Echoes of Innocence

Echoes of Innocence

Copyright

First Edition

Copyright ©2014 Patrick Hopton

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-291-85301-8

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution Share Alike 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by.nc/2.5/

Or send a letter to:

Creative Commons

171 Second Street, Suite 300

San Francisco, California 94105

USA

http://www.lulu.com

Synopsis

Echoes of Innocence

(The first book of Patrick Hopton’s ‘Echoes’ Trilogy)

The diary of a young woman, written in the period before and during the First World War, reaches out to touch and transform the empty life of Stephen Cantrell three quarters of a century later.

Bernice Lamb, a spirited sixteen year old when she took up her pen, has chronicled the daily events of her own life and loves set against the backdrop of an era of innocence - an innocence that is about to be destroyed for ever.

Someone has taken great pains to ensure that Bernie’s diary comes into Stephen’s possession.

But who? . . . And why?

This book is dedicated to my loving wife

and our wonderful family.

The Diary

The letter stood on the table propped up by a milk bottle. Had Rachel been there she would certainly have voiced her disapproval, not of the contents of the letter necessarily, but of the presence of the object now supporting it. Milk bottles had no place on the breakfast table in her book; nor did jars of marmalade or boxes of corn flakes. All were present there now.

His appearance as he lingered over a second slice of toast would have incurred more censure - unshowered, unshaven, and still in his night attire of boxer shorts and T shirt; Rachel would consider such a state of affairs utter depravity.

He was aware of the danger of letting his life degenerate into that of some kind of slob; it was a state he was bordering on now. Not for the first time he made an inner promise to take himself in hand. At least he was making himself prepare and eat breakfast when it was tempting not to bother. There was little pleasure in it these days. 

A few long months ago this would have been his favourite meal of the day. It was his one chance in a weekday to have time with his daughters. Preparing the meal had been no hardship then, and the breakfast table had resounded with chatter and laughter, while Rachel was still upstairs completing her preparations to face the day. She seldom descended before it was time for him to leave for the lab.

Now they had all gone, Rachel, the girls, the laughter and the job.

Sally had clung to him when it was time for them to leave for their new home. Vicky, on the other hand, two years her senior, had handled the situation with the dignity that she believed was expected of a nine year old. Stephen had seen, however, the tears she was fighting back and these had hurt him most of all.  Rachel herself had been self-possessed and not unfriendly. She could well afford to be so, with a rich new lover and a luxury home in the Cotswolds awaiting her.

Things might have been different had his attitude to life been rather more positive, but somehow he doubted it. For some years past his wife had been becoming increasingly disenchanted by the growing awareness that his career, and consequently her life with him, was not going in the direction she had mapped out for it. With his public school background and upper class family connections Rachel, when she married him, had probably imagined that she was on to a good thing. After sharing twelve years of his easy going attitude to life, however, she had long since come to realise that he was not the passport to the lifestyle to which she felt entitled.

When Gerry Alsop had harmlessly (as he thought) propositioned her, he was certainly surprised to find that his passion had acquired him, not a quick lay, but a wife: moreover one with a readymade family. This had not been part of his plan at all.

Stephen could almost have felt sorry for Gerry had it not been for the loss of Vicky and Sally. True he had been granted the right to see his daughters once a week; but, although during his visits they were as affectionate as ever towards him, the long drive from London, the difficult parting at the end of the day, and then the tedious return journey to his lonely flat made these occasions a sad mockery of the family life he had once enjoyed.

In any event, mid-winter in a Cotswold village does not exactly offer a plethora of exciting opportunities for outings for young ladies. The cinemas in neighbouring towns were a boon during the school holidays, but at other times the fare they offered was hardly suitable for family entertainment. Even a trip to the local swimming pool had little appeal to his daughters when they could enjoy a covered, heated pool in their new home. Stephen had taken them to wild life parks, bird sanctuaries and funfairs, all had been enjoyable at the time, but the sense of loss afterwards was hard to bear. Now he was running out of ideas on how to entertain them. He had planned a long day trip to Alton Towers, but this would not cut much ice now, since Gerry had recently whisked them off to Florida and Disneyworld.

In the summer ahead things might be better. He had hopes that Rachel would allow him a week or so with the girls. Perhaps they could spend the time by the sea. Yet even this plan, he feared, would probably be capped by their new stepfather. Of course a holiday in London would go down well with his daughters; but where to stay? Certainly his tiny bachelor flat offered no suitable accommodation.

Stephen decided that he had wallowed in self-pity at the breakfast table for long enough and set his mind to the letter once more. It was now adorned with buttery fingerprints in each margin, but otherwise the contents were as before. To focus his concentration he recited the date aloud, ‘24th February 1992’. Yesterday.

He got little further. Even the sound of his own voice failed to make the words on the page penetrate the darkness of his wandering thoughts. He deliberately talked aloud to himself these days when alone, lest he should lose totally the ability to communicate with the rest of mankind when the opportunity arose.

He recognised another wallow fast approaching and headed it off by snatching up the letter and walking to the window, as though the mid-morning sun might help dissipate his melancholy.

The letter was short and to the point, a rare quality in his experience of missives from solicitors: one considerably widened in the weeks leading up to his recent divorce. This letter, however, had no connection with his failed marriage.

‘Dear Mr Cantrell,’ he read aloud, ‘In settling the affairs of a client we are seeking to establish the present whereabouts of Stephen Anthony Cantrell, the son of the late Simon Cantrell formerly of Cantrell Court, Cantrell Magna, Worcestershire. Would you be kind enough to inform me if you are the gentleman in question, or if you have knowledge of him. I would be grateful if you could contact me at our Lincoln's Inn office above. Your co-operation in this matter is greatly appreciated.’ The letter was signed, Margaret Sanderson (Ms.) pp Bickerstaffe Highmoor and Co.

Of course he would contact her; he was intrigued to know what the letter was all about. Nonetheless he was irritated that Ms Sanderson counted on his curiosity and took his co-operation for granted.

Why was she seeking him? Might he have inherited a fortune? This pleasing possibility he instantly discounted. Who was there to leave him money? His parents were long dead. The memory prompted a sick lurch in his stomach, a distant lingering tremor of the almost physical blow he had received in the study of his kindly headmaster, who could not meet Stephen’s eye as he had stammered out the news of the fatal car crash.

Both parents had been an only child of an impoverished family so he could see little prospect of inheriting wealth from either side. True the styles of their respective poverty had differed considerably. His mother had come from a long line of hard working employees of the Great Western Railway Company, while his father had descended from an even longer line of, largely dissolute, minor aristocracy.

His father's family had once known wealth, but this had largely been frittered away even before Stephen's grandfather, Marcus Cantrell, and an older brother had perished at the time of the First World War.

The death of her husband had been too much for Stephen’s grandmother, Natalia, to bear. She had fled Cantrell Court - the family home she had shared with him and his parents - entrusting her baby son, Simon, to the care of her parents in law. Whither she had gone no one knew for certain, but it was believed she had risked returning to her surviving family in her native Russia, a country still heaving at that time from the turmoil of revolution.

William, the youngest of the Cantrell brothers was the only one to survive the war. Unfeelingly (or so it seemed to Stephen) he had forsaken his grieving parents and emigrated to Canada.

That the house and estate had been kept going long enough to provide a home first for Simon and later for his son was entirely due to the indomitable spirit of Stephen's great-grandmother, Sarah Cantrell. Though devastated by the deaths of two sons and the defection of the other (or perhaps steeled by these losses) she had fought to raise her grandson in the manner of a gentleman. The third family tragedy, the death of that grandson, Stephen's father, had finally crushed her. She had died within days.

Deprived of its feisty champion the estate had been sold off to satisfy the family's creditors, and Stephen had only managed to complete his education with the help of a trust fund set up in his great-grandmother's time. No, he concluded, there was little likelihood of any money coming from that quarter. He reached for the telephone.

The voice at the other end of the line was friendly, which surprised him a little. Calling to mind his own recent legal encounters he had conjured up a mental picture of Ms Sanderson as a sister spirit of Rachel’s divorce lawyer - a thin lipped, skinny-framed, feminist with ice in her veins. Yet he was wary of the solicitor’s affable tones: mere professional politeness in all probability.

‘Thank you so much for phoning, Mr Cantrell. It is so much nicer to discuss these matters person to person rather than by exchanging letters, don't you think?’

‘Yes, you can get some straight answers from a solicitor for a change,’ he said ungraciously.

The woman seemed unruffled by his response and soon came to the point of her enquiry. ‘I hope our letter didn’t excite you unreasonably with the thought of a large inheritance.’ She laughed. ‘If so, I’m afraid I have to disappoint you. It’s just that there are some family papers - letters mostly I think - that a client was anxious for you to have.’

Of course the thought of possible riches had crossed his mind. In the same circumstances Ms Sanderson would obviously have thought the same way or she wouldn't be mentioning it now. He stifled his disappointment at the dashing of the hopes that, in spite of himself, he had allowed to take root. There was further irritation when she explained (perfectly reasonably given the circumstances) that he would need to provide proof of his identity in the form of a birth certificate - a document that Stephen had long since lost.

Ms Sanderson assured him brightly that a duplicate certificate could be obtained from the Public Record Office, which was handily placed for her own. Once he had collected it why not then bring the replacement document to her office in person?

It was all very well for the woman to suggest such a course; but these things cost money - at this time in his life a commodity in short supply. Nor could his outlay be viewed as any kind of investment.

It was as if the infuriating Ms Sanderson could read his thoughts. ‘Of course,’ she continued, ‘we will be happy to reimburse you for any reasonable expenses you might incur.’

After he had hung up, Stephen was rather ashamed of his boorish attitude. After all it was hardly the fault of Margaret Sanderson that he was not a rich beneficiary. He resolved to be charming to her when they met.

Almost a fortnight later Stephen sat in a train as it rattled through the grey suburbs of North London. He had started out on his excursion that morning quite content with this break in his dull routine. As the train headed south, however, his mood became as sombre as the weather outside. His depression focused on one particular set of buildings - a cluttered little island hemmed in by the railway, the Grand Union Canal and the North Circular Road. He managed only a glimpse as the train sped past, but smiled grimly at the sight of the flag of International Pharmaceutical Industries fluttering boldly over the buildings. Tucked away behind, hidden as though their new owner was ashamed of them, were two shabby vans that still bore the name of their predecessor: ALSOP LABORATORIES LIMITED.

From the train the laboratory complex that had been so important in his life looked insignificant. Throughout his years there he had believed his place of work to be a focal point of attention for every passing rail passenger. And yet, without causing his fellow passengers to raise their eyes from their newspapers, in little more than a few seconds the buildings were already out of sight - dismissed like that entire period of his life.

For nearly twenty years Stephen had worked in those laboratories. He had joined them fresh from Cambridge, possessing a first in Chemistry and a lot of zeal. It was not long before he was heading a team researching the carcinogenic effect of additives in foods. It was an important project which under his leadership had advanced steadily, exciting even world-wide interest. Sadly this success was not reflected in his career, and his promised advancement within the company never materialised. Worse still, several high fliers from University, who had joined long after Stephen, soon left him far behind.

Engrossed in his work, he had not been too dismayed by his somewhat stagnant career. Relentlessly goaded by Rachel, however, he had eventually tackled old Henry Alsop on the subject. Henry, the founding father of the company, was sympathetic enough, stressing Stephen's importance to him as one of the laboratory’s top scientists. He pointed out that the high flyers, whose rapid advancement had so upset Mrs Cantrell, were mere administrators. A modest increase in salary was the result of the conversation, an outcome that well satisfied Stephen but which infuriated Rachel.

In response she decided to take a hand in his career herself. Thereafter she had grabbed every opportunity to befriend first Henry Alsop, then later Gerry his son and successor. Every company party would find her dancing with the managing director and every company dinner would find her sitting at his table - with or without her husband.

Stephen was regularly summoned to discuss the progress of his project with the company's managers, and so had been neither particularly alarmed nor surprised when Gerry Alsop's secretary had telephoned to say that the managing director wished to see him. He was both when he entered the office to find Rachel standing beside Gerry's desk. For one sickening moment Stephen was transported back to the headmaster's office at the time of his parents' death.

‘Oh God, not one of the children!’ he burst out.

‘No, no Stephen old man, nothing like that. Please sit down.’

At Gerry's bidding he did so, still puzzled by Rachel's presence. He feared that it was yet another embarrassing episode in her crusade to further his career. Yet why was she still standing by the desk and facing him, looking so self-possessed? And why was Gerry Alsop so transparently ill at ease?

‘Well Stephen we have something to say to you,’ the wretched man stammered. ‘Well you see the position is . . .’ He tailed off into silence looking at Rachel for assistance.

She said nothing, but with callous deliberation, not taking her eyes from her husband’s, she slid her hand slowly along the desk and grasped the hand of Gerry. There had been little left to explain after that. With this one gesture she had said everything that needed to be said. Somewhere back along the line Rachel had switched track from furthering the career of her husband to guiding that of his employer instead.

Minutes later a distraught Stephen had stumbled out of the office having lost not only his wife, but his job also. His one small moment of satisfaction had been when he had told Gerry just what he could do with that.

For hours after this encounter Stephen had just walked away from the scene of his torment, his mind torn by anguish and confusion, heeding neither the cold nor the rain. He had not noticed the direction in which he was heading; but subconsciously he made for home.

It was several hours later and long after dark when he had arrived there. He had been only just in time. Rachel was standing in the hall flanked by two sleepy daughters hastily summoned from their beds, Beside them stood their packed suitcases. They were waiting for Gerry to whisk them away to Gloucestershire.

With Vicky and Sally looking imploringly at him it was not a time for recriminations. For the moment it was all he could do to try and to explain to his daughters just why Daddy would not be going on holiday with them. The accusations had come later in a series of icy telephone conversations with Rachel over the following days.

To do Gerry justice, he had tried at least to leave Stephen with a job. Prompted either by his conscience or by Rachel (more probably by the former) he had chosen to disregard Stephen's rash act of resignation, endeavouring to persuade him to take sick leave for a few weeks instead then to return when the dust had settled. He had assured him that there would be no necessity for the two ever to meet.

After a few days alone in his empty house Stephen had grudgingly decided that he needed the therapy that his work would provide, and so, swallowing his pride, had returned to the laboratory. There he had been received sympathetically by his colleagues. Long aware of his wife’s manoeuvrings, they were placated to learn that she had being screwing the boss on her own behalf and not on Stephen's.

His return had been fruitless. Several weeks later had come the bombshell. Without warning the multinational giant International Pharmaceutical Industries had pounced on Alsop Laboratories, their tiny competitor, devouring them in a successful take-over bid. At first they had made encouraging noises about continuing projects and absorbing staff, but it soon had become clear that their intention had been to crush finally some irritating competition.

Stephen still wondered if the guiding hand of Rachel was behind Gerry Alsop's speedy capitulation. Certainly the golden handshake Gerry had received from the new owners would make him a very rich man.

The fortunes of the former managing director contrasted starkly with those of Stephen and his colleagues, who had found themselves in the dole queue. As if he had not been cursed with sufficient misfortunes already he had been condemned to spend the following months searching in vain for a new laboratory post.

Remembering his promise to himself that he would be charming to Ms Sanderson he deliberately drove these gloomy thoughts from his mind as the train pulled into Euston. Two hours later his mood was relatively buoyant as, armed with his crisp new birth certificate, he presented himself at the offices of Messrs. Bickerstaffe and Highmoor, where a polite receptionist ushered him into an office with the inscription emblazoned on the frosted glass of the door Margaret Sanderson LLB.

It was not difficult for Stephen to honour his promise to be charming to Margaret Sanderson. All his preconceived notions of her immediately flew out of the window. Instead of the emaciated bluestocking he was expecting he was welcomed by a smiling lady exuding a charm that disarmed him instantly. True her face expressed more animation and her form was rather more generously proportioned than was considered fashionable. But there was something particularly appealing about the way her dark brown hair was piled untidily on her head (apart from two endearing little wisps that had managed to escape her tortoiseshell comb), two enormous black hoops dangled from her ear lobes, and a navy blue jacket was tossed carelessly around her shoulders that suggested she cared little for fashion. ‘This is me,’ she seemed to be saying: ‘take me or leave me.’

Her big brown eyes seemed to radiate sympathetic happiness as they fixed their attention on Stephen; he felt that she could see deep into his soul. She smiled at him, and her whole body seemed to smile with her.

‘Would you like coffee?’ she asked pleasantly. Anticipating his acquiescence she filled two large mugs from a pot sitting on top of a filing cabinet, then reached into a drawer in her desk and produced a tin of biscuits. ‘My secret vice,’ she confessed cheerfully.

They sat chatting amicably about nothing in particular for some minutes before focusing on the purpose of his visit. Excusing herself finally she left her office, to return after a few minutes with a large cardboard box. From this she extracted a bundle of papers tied with pink ribbon and placed them on the desk in front of him.

‘Now, before you examine these,’ she explained, ‘I have to tell you that this is the first time I’ve looked at them myself. So I have no more idea of their content than you do. I’ll happily go through them with you, but you may prefer to look at them in the privacy of your own home.’

He assured her that her assistance would be welcome and they untied the bundle strewing the papers over the desk. It took them several minutes to sort them into some sort of order, enabling them to assess exactly what they were looking at. They appeared to be a mixture of letters and loose diary entries written during the years 1913 and 1914. The letters had been exchanged between a young girl named Bernice (later more familiarly referred to as 'Bernie') and her young man, Ted. The diary entries were obviously written by Bernie, and were made on writing paper or on loose leaves torn neatly from writing pads or exercise books. Being unbound they were easily interleaved with the letters to create a narrative in chronological order.

It was soon apparent that they were looking at the record of a romance between these two young people.

‘Do the names Bernice and Ted mean anything to you?’

‘Not a thing,’ Stephen admitted. ‘Don’t your own records give us a clue? If I knew who deposited them with you it might trigger something in my memory.’

Ms Sanderson could not help. ‘Mr. Highmoor, our senior partner, has been keeping them in his own safe,’ she explained. ‘All I know at the moment is that he was requested by a firm of solicitors in Bristol to locate you and pass you these papers. Hopefully, now your identity and thus your entitlement to them has been established, we shall be able to solicit more information. Leave it with me will you? I’ll work on it and see what else I can come up with.’

She glanced at her watch. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I have another client to see at two thirty and I was hoping to snatch a bite of lunch before that. Do you mind if we leave the matter there for the moment?’ It was almost as an afterthought that she added, ‘Do you have to rush off for anything?’

One commodity he was not short of at this period in his life was time. He assured her that he was in no hurry to go anywhere.

‘Why don't you join me then?’ she invited. ‘There’s a handy little pub just around the corner.’

Several minutes later they were lunching together in the Three Tuns public house. Luxuriating in the unaccustomed pleasure of sharing a meal with a woman - indeed of sharing a meal with anyone – Stephen was surprised by the ease with which he chatted to her, largely about himself in response to some gentle prodding.

Meg - for that was the name she asked him to call her - seemed content to listen to his story. She studied him as he talked. She saw a man in his early forties, of medium height and build, with light brown hair cut short and receding slightly, regular features and eyes of smoky blue. Though quietly handsome he possessed the air and appearance of one who had been bruised by life so she decided.

Stephen was a private man and the information he divulged about himself was sketchy, yet he told her enough for her to realise that her instant assessment of him was indeed correct.

‘Listen, Stephen,’ Meg said at length, ‘I’ve got to dash. I have a client to see. Promise me you’ll let me know how you get on with the letters. I’m anxious to know all about the romance of Ted and Bernie. Meanwhile I shall make enquiries at this end to see what I can find out for you.’

Then she was gone, and the crowded bar suddenly seemed empty without her.

He was impatient to get into the letters when he got home, but he knew that he was tired. Anxious to savour them he disciplined himself by postponing their perusal until the following morning.

He faced the next day with an enthusiasm he had not felt for many months. Scoffing his breakfast impatiently, he piled up the used dishes in the kitchen sink unwashed before settling himself at the table with the beribboned papers in front of him.

Before he could untie them the telephone rang. ‘Wouldn't you just know it!’ he protested aloud.

It was Rachel. ‘Stephen dear,’ she started.

He knew that tone only too well. She wanted something.

‘I know how anxious you are to have some time with Victoria and Sarah. I think it would be nice if they could stay with you for a while during their Easter holidays.’

His ex-wife had always been reluctant to let their daughters stay with him. Why the change now? The reason for the unexpected attack of thoughtfulness was soon apparent

‘Gerald and I will probably take the opportunity to slip away for a while . . . you know, alone together.’

He was overjoyed at the prospect of spending time with his daughters and there was no way that he was going to pass up this opportunity; yet he realised that Rachel was merely making use of him. Feeling in devilish mood that morning he decided to make her sweat a little.

‘How am I expected to do that in a one bedroom flat? God knows, you’ve used that argument yourself many times against me every time I suggest them coming here.’

‘I know Stephen dear, but on reflection perhaps I was being a little harsh. Didn’t you say that you have a sofa bed in your sitting room that they can share?’

‘That would be okay for a night or so I suppose,’ he said, pretending to concede grudgingly, well aware that Rachel had a much longer visit in mind. He spun out the charade for a little longer, winning in doing so a concession he had not even considered.

‘Well perhaps Gerald could see his way to paying for you to take them to a hotel somewhere for a couple of weeks.’

The honourable thing would have been to decline the offer indignantly, but Stephen had intended to take the girls away in any event. Why not let his ex-wife’s wealthy new husband pay for it?

Shortly afterwards he hung up, feeling well pleased with himself, and settled himself down to the letters once more - this time without interruption.

He studied the first diary entry:

This is the private journal of  Bernice Lamb

73 High Street

Somersbury

Somerset.

5th May 1913

Today is my sixteenth birthday, and I am approaching the threshold of womanhood. (Well that is the way Miss Sharman at school puts it!) Anyway it seems a good day to start a diary. I am employing the writing set that Daisy gave me for my birthday, as I want room to express myself at length and I shall need more than a few lines, or even a page a day. Dear Days, she has the happy knack of being able to give precisely the right present. I am hopeless at it myself. Not as bad as Ida though. She gave me an embroidery set. (Me of all people!) You would think an older sister ought to know better. Still, Dido has always been like that. She meant well though (I think!) so I tried to look grateful. It seems funny though that Days, who is the youngest of us, always manages to get it right.

I shall be leaving school at the end of this year. (Hooray!) When I leave I would like to work with my dearest friend Belle at the Castle Hotel which her family runs. But I know I shall be expected to work in our own teashop here instead, like Dido. I don’t intend to wait at tables for the rest of my life though. My dream is that one day I shall have a hotel of my own (or perhaps with Belle). Till then it is the teashop for me I fear. Mother wants to concentrate on the serious side of the business (accounts and all that sort of thing) and leave the serving side to us her poor daughters. Dear Dad will just soldier on as usual with his long hours in the fearful heat of the bakery. At least he has his evenings in the Queens Arms though, where he can smoke his pipe in peace and enjoy a quiet pint of beer ‘and get out of a house full of babbling women’. (That is the way that he likes to put it!)

Dido has an admirer called Matthew Gibbons. He comes calling with flowers and things, but I do not think she is very keen on him. He works in the paper mill at Rooksleigh. I feel sorry for him but do not know what he sees in Dido anyway. I suppose she is reasonably good looking, in a dark, thin sort of way. (She has Mother’s looks.) It is just that she is so grumpy. I would like an admirer of my own and I am wondering how I can meet him. Days is too young to bother about boys although she is quite pretty and I know that quite a few of them are interested in her. Days and I share this bedroom where I am writing now. We get on very well but I will keep this diary locked away from her as I want to be able to record my most secret thoughts in it. So far she thinks that I am writing a letter, as I am using the writing paper she gave me for my birthday. I shall certainly not let Dido know about the diary.

I am the tallest in the family and have long