A Step Back in Time

I awoke in my bedroom at Mitchell Road with sunlight streaming through the thin curtains, throwing myriads of sparkle onto the cream painted walls and laying in golden pools on the carpet. Sarah was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding tightly to both my hands. The salty taste of tears lay on my tongue and coated my teeth like a furry plaque. I felt tired and lackluster, and my head ached.

“Hey, here, Hannah, take these.”

Sarah handed me two tablets, and without even asking what they were I swallowed them down with the water that she’d given me. Plumping up the pillows, she helped me to lie back against them as if I were an invalid or somebody old and frail.

“Oh, Sarah,” I said, as memories came crashing into my mind. “Gregory is dead.”

“Hey, I know,” she soothed. “I know, Hannah. But you have Max. Max is Gregory, Gregory is Max. Do you understand?”

I put my hands to my face in despair and, shaking my head, said, “No, they are not the same people, Sarah. Gregory was a good man, not like Max. He’s only interested in Barbie dolls.”

Sarah looked faintly put out. “Hey, I’m sure there’s more to Max than that, Hannah.”

“There isn’t, Sarah. He ridicules me, and I saw him in that new cafe bar in Havant with another Barbie doll, who he tried to pass of as his sister!”

“Hey, well, it probably was his sister. I know he has one—she’s called Alison. Why would he lie?”

“What? A sister who looks just like my sister? Like a Barbie? He must think I was born yesterday!” Sarah shook her head in frustration and opened her mouth to speak, when another memory came to me and I said, “Henry Stafford murdered him.”

Sarah stood up and began pacing up and down the room. “Hey, I always suspected that. Was it poison or a knife?”

“A knife,” I told her quietly. “And in cold blood. Gregory showed him that he was unarmed, and asked if they could talk to reconcile their differences. There was no fight, no self-defense.”

Sarah shook her head regretfully. “Hey, there was no body found, you know, Hannah.”

“No body?” I said, pulling myself upright against the pillows. “But he died just outside his cottage in the woods. Surely he must have been found by somebody.”

“Hey, probably by his father and sister. They would almost certainly have buried him.”

Puzzled, I said, “But surely if they’d been inside the cottage the night that Henry murdered Gregory, they would have come out to see what was going on. They would have heard something.”

“Hey, you would have thought so,” she replied. “Maybe they weren’t there then but came home the following day and then found the body. We’ll never know, Hannah.”

Thoughts whirled around my head, senseless stupid thoughts that I would never have an answer to, but then the worse thing of all occurred to me. “Oh Sarah, Gregory died because of me. If he hadn’t been having an affair with me....” I let the words go. I couldn’t bear to say any more.

“Hey Hannah, Henry Stafford was an evil man. You mustn’t blame yourself.”

I nodded and, feeling even more worn out and tired, laid my head back down amongst the soft pillows.

Sarah smiled and said, “Hey, get some more sleep, Hannah. I’m going to work, so I’ll tell Max you’re not feeling good.”

“Work!” I’d forgotten all about work. Why couldn’t it be the weekend? “Oh God, Max is really busy at the moment. He needs me.” I flung back the covers and attempted to get out of bed, but Sarah pushed me down and hustled me back into bed, tucking me in and fussing around as if she was my mother.

“Hey no, Hannah, you’re in no fit state. I’ll help Max out. Luckily, Stuart is at the Denmead office today, so I’m relatively free. Don’t worry. Get some sleep.”

Giving in entirely, I said, “Thank you, Sarah, I owe you one.”

Giving the duvet one last pull into place, she left the room with a wiggly wave of her fingers, and I snuggled down deeper into the warmth of the covers and closed my eyes.

I awoke later, much later, to see that it was getting light, the sun rising in a vibrant red hue on the horizon. I gazed around, alarmed and disorientated, because I was not in my bedroom at Mitchell Road, nor in the bedchamber at Warblington Manor. But I knew for sure that I was Ursula Pole, so where was I?

From the bedchamber window I saw trees wearing the vibrant leaves of autumn, and could hear the faint rumble of carriage wheels from the busy turnpike. Then it came to me that of course, I was in London at Henry Stafford’s family home, where I was banished to after King Henry took Warblington Manor away from me. I gazed at my hands that for some strange reason were picking and plucking at the bedsheets, and with an awful sinking feeling I saw that they were old and wrinkled, and that I was barely a mound beneath the silk counterpane.

I closed my eyes, willing myself to be back in Mitchell Road as Hannah Palmer, and not here in a bedchamber, centuries in the past. For I knew now with a startling clarity that this would be the final time, my final time going back. For today Ursula Pole was dying.

***

It was only August, yet already the leaves on the trees were turning their colors and transforming magically from somber green to vibrant shades of magenta, gold, and scarlet, and even a type of blue and brown. When they were lit by the glow of the sun they were indeed one of the most beautiful sights to be seen. I watched them flutter as if touched by invisible fingers and etched as if they were a painting against the harsh blue of the summer sky.

I was thin and old, and created barely a mound beneath the sheets that were tucked tightly around me as I lay there on my bed—my death bed. I picked and plucked at the bedsheets with my fingers over and over again—the reason why I did not know, but I could not stop. Greensleeves played somewhere nearby, and I longed to play that tune again, running my fingers quickly, deftly over the strings of my harp. But my hands were useless now, and gnarled as if they were old twisted tree roots.

The door opened with a creak and my daughter Dorothy came in, a grown woman now with children of her own. She had the great honor of being mistress of the robes to Queen Elizabeth the First. She had made me proud. She was a good girl, my best girl, closest to my heart. She ran gentle fingers over my forehead and, leaning over, kissed my brow, a kiss so light that it felt like the touch of an angel. She brought the smell of sunshine and cut grass inside with her.

The arrogant face of King Henry loomed into my vision, and I thought of the day that he had turned me out of Warblington Manor so many years before. I felt again the harsh punches from Henry Stafford’s fists, and the overwhelming grief that broke my heart when my baby Henry died. I saw my mother, Margaret Pole, with her head on the block, and the axe glinting as it arced through the spring air.

I plucked faster and harder at the bedsheets, and noticed now that my breathing had become harsh and guttural. I did not like how it sounded, but I could not make it otherwise. My vision was disappearing, becoming cloudy, and the walls of my bedroom were wavering like the rippling sea at Langstone Shore. Oh, I wished I could go to Warblington Manor and walk the little lane to the old church of St. Thomas à Becket, and feel the sun warm upon my face.

“I think her time is near,” I heard Dorothy whisper. Black clad servants scurried into the room and began covering the windows with dark hangings, so that the spectacular view of the garden and the sky and the vibrant leaves that would disappear from the trees when I was gone could not be seen.

The servants covered the mirror that hung over the fireplace with a black cloth, the very thing that I remembered doing with a joyous heart on the day that my husband, Henry Stafford, died. What a day that had been, a good day to be sure, for the murder of Gregory Walsh had been a terrible secret that I had kept for so many years. I felt Gregory’s presence all around me today, and I wondered if he knew that soon we would be together again.

My children were gathering around the bed now, and as I opened my eyes for one last time I saw them all so clearly, each face held safe within me wherever I may go. Dorothy placed our old worn Bible tenderly in my hands, hands that had now ceased their picking and plucking at the bedsheets, and I felt comforted by her voice as she murmured from her own book, “Be strong and courageous, do not be discouraged, do not be afraid....”

I raised my eyes towards the sky and took one last deep breath, and in a heartbeat Ursula Pole was no more.

***

The sleek black car, purring like the sleek black cat that had curled on the hearth in Gregory Walsh’s cottage, pulled up outside St. Thomas à Becket Church and sat waiting in a pool of afternoon sunshine. It was July and a fine day, the sun hot and hazy amidst white fluffy clouds that matched my beautiful white dress, which cascaded over me and Dad and the long leather back seat like a glass of foaming milk. The driver, wearing a smart dark suit and peaked cap, sat quietly in the front seat, his hands, clad in black leather gloves, idly smoothing the steering wheel.

I gazed from the car window at the church and the graveyard, where I knew that beneath a heart shaped stone, Eliza Walsh, Gregory’s mother, lay, and my heart ached at Gregory’s awful sudden death, and Ursula’s too, and hoped that now they would be together forever. My eye was drawn to the cemetery’s old yew tree, and the overhanging branches that sprouted from the massive trunk and overshadowed all the old leaning tombstones, turning them black as the rotting teeth of Mrs. Dawes, the midwife.

With a rumble, another sleek black car pulled up behind, and my three bridesmaids—Claire, Laura, and Alison—clad in sumptuous sky blue gowns, unfurled from the back seat in a froth of lace. Dad, peering over his shoulder, cut into my thoughts. “Good God, Hannah, I didn’t think you’d really ask that Laura to be one of your bridesmaids!”

“She’s Claire’s partner, Dad,” I said as I watched Claire hold Laura’s arm, her hand pale as a ghost against Laura’s dark skin. Then Alison, her hair as blonde as Claire’s, joined them. All three of them made me think of the chocolate cookies that Claire used to sell in Smith & Vosper—white, milk, and triple chocolate.

The scent of Larkspur and Cornflowers wafted from their bouquets as they peered into the open window of the car and giggled at me, sitting there like a queen, resplendent in my wedding gown. A circle of wildflowers sat upon my hair that fell in waves, dark and shiny as a horse chestnut, to my shoulders. I was definitely no Barbie!

Mum didn’t come over to the car, but gave a little wave and ducked into the church with Ryan, who looked like a grown up in his smart dark suit. “She’s too choked up,” Dad had told me earlier as we waited at my childhood home in Cosham for the car to take us to the church. “She’s happy for you, but sad too. Plus…,” he pointed out quite seriously, it seemed, “She doesn’t want to cry and spoil her make-up.”

Dad pulled back the sleeve of his suit jacket to check his watch, and said, “Hannah, do you want to go in yet?”

“No,” I said. “I want to be fashionably late.”

The smell of the sea hung in the air, and if I listened carefully I could hear its gentle shushing as it rolled onto the stony shore. More people were arriving now, including Stuart and Sarah, who, going quickly into the church, glanced around as if they were going to be told off for being so last minute. And as Stuart was the best man, he really needed to get a move on. Out of habit I checked my Fitbit, but remembered that I’d left it behind, sitting on the dressing table in the spare room at Mum and Dad’s. Today of all days, though, I didn’t give a jot if the Fitbit police came after me. I was having time off!

My thoughts wandered back to Mum, who was disappointed that she hadn’t been able to find out any more about our family connection to Margaret Pole and Henry the Eighth. I told her that William Palmer, a musician at King Henry’s court, had been the lover of Ursula Pole’s husband, and maybe that was the only connection to find. A mincer of a man, I’d almost said out loud, thinking of Gregory’s words. They hadn’t all been gay, though, I thought wistfully. Certainly not Gregory. But I didn’t tell Mum about that, because such precious memories were only mine to keep.

“Come on,” said Dad, breaking into my thoughts. “It’s time. All the guests seem to have gone in.”

The ancient church clock slowly chimed the hour of three, and with my heart beating almost into my throat, I uncurled slowly from the car, putting out my hand to Dad, who pulled me close as I stepped out onto the pavement. “My beautiful daughter, Hannah,” he whispered into my ear. When I looked into his eyes, I would swear that there were tears hanging on for dear life to the very edge of his lashes.

My dress swung around me as I walked, my shaking hands holding tightly to Dad’s arm. My three beautiful bridesmaids followed behind like a mini retinue—like a watered down version of King Henry and his men—into the tiny nave of the church, where just for a moment I stopped and stood still and, gazing down the aisle, saw my handsome future husband waiting for me.