“Oh, Constance.” Delia looked up beseechingly, tears pouring down her cheeks once more and dropping onto their gripped hands. Her eyes widened in horror. “Don’t … oh, no, please … please, Constance … don’t tell me I’ve killed my Granny!”
CHAPTER 10 YORKSHIRE – JUNE 1964
Delia refused to speak for days. She remained in the enormous four poster bed in her bedroom at Tangles, either dozing fitfully at night, or sitting propped up by feather filled pillows by day, staring into space. According to Dr. Arnold, Delia had suffered a nervous breakdown. He patted her hand on one of his visits and told her so and that with rest and time she would feel better but for the time being, she should remain where she was and not worry about anything.
Delia doubted his words and didn’t think she would ever feel any different. She lay staring at the Jacobean plasterwork ceiling, desperately guilty and wanting to die of shame. Her reckless actions had caused Granny’s death. Darling, darling Granny, who was her rock. While Delia had been sitting beside the lake, Granny had been dying up at the Hall and Delia would never, never forgive herself for what had occurred. She was convinced the screaming between herself and her mother, which must have been heard all over the Hall, was the catalyst but it was that dreadful outburst of temper on her part which had probably dealt the fatal blow. Delia knew Granny had already been unwell and fragile so there was absolutely no excuse for her behaviour which must have upset Granny so badly. It had hardly been dignified and ladylike and Granny would have been appalled. Delia had let her down incredibly badly.
Although, strangely, no-one seemed to blame her or admonish her for her actions, if the cards, flowers and kind messages she received daily were anything to go by.
“Reverend Saunders is asking the congregation to pray for your recovery at his Sunday services. He also expressed a wish to come and see you,” said Constance when she returned from church one Sunday morning.
Delia shook her head determinedly so Constance told the Reverend that Delia still wasn’t well enough for visitors outside of the family. He sent a lovely card instead, indicating God would always look after her and she should put her trust in him.
Susan Armitage asked one of the Canleigh Hall gardeners to cut Delia a beautiful bunch of flowers and whisked in one day, bearing a highly perfumed mixed bunch of gaily coloured blooms, along with a book on show jumping technique she had discovered in a Leeds bookshop and knew Delia would like. Hardy, missing the twice daily chats on the school run, brought one of Betty’s fruitcakes he knew Delia loved so much and left it with Constance to give to her, his sadness for the family he served apparent in his demeanour. Perkins sent a basket of fruit and a card displaying four gorgeous horses galloping over a field with a message to say Star was missing her. Richard and Vicky wrote long letters from school with cheery messages. They had visited her briefly when they came home for Granny’s funeral, a week after her demise, but Delia had been unresponsive due to the sedation given her by Dr. Arnold and they didn’t stay long. Delia had been unable to attend due to her state of health and at the time was only vaguely aware that it had actually occurred, and when a few days afterwards she realised she had missed it, her misery and regret increased tenfold.
Philip tried really hard to get through to her, spending as much time as he could by her bedside in the evenings, telling her all about his day; the ponies, the dogs, in fact, anything that would take her mind off what had happened and stir her interest in what she loved. Occasionally he might get a faint smile but no chatter which depressed him greatly. He missed the old Delly very much and felt lonely without her.
As busy as he was with arranging his mother’s funeral and her affairs, Charles visited every day, sore and bruised by his wife’s public rejection of all he stood for, shattered by the loss of his mother and deeply worried about Delia. Now, a fortnight after the funeral, he was finally getting into something of a routine, rushing through his correspondence with Susan early in the mornings, holding brief meetings with Dick Joyce about various estate matters and then driving down to Tangles to spend an hour or two with Delia, hoping every day that she would start to be more like her old self; the defiant, energetic and enthusiastic young girl who had everything to look forward to. She could drive him almost insane sometimes but he, like Philip, missed her effervescent personality. The quiet, pale young girl almost lost in the enormous bed hardly resembled his daughter and Charles would do anything to help her recover.
Constance had been so very kind and Charles had no idea how he would have coped without the Kershaws. After his visits with Delia, Constance would insist he stay for lunch.
“This is causing you so much extra work,” Charles commented, sitting in the rocking chair in the kitchen, watching Constance preparing an enormous omelette made with goose eggs into which was whisked a huge pile of grated cheddar cheese and sliced onions. A salad straight from Tangles garden was already washed and on the table, along with Constance’s homemade bread, the tantalising aroma from which was making Charles very hungry indeed. He hoped his daughter would feel the same. Although Constance prepared lovely meals for her, she only picked at them and was losing weight.
“It doesn’t matter one bit,” replied Constance, turning to the table to cut the bread, remembering how when
