Table of Contents

Recent Titles by Elizabeth Jeffrey from Severn House

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Recent Titles by Elizabeth Jeffrey from Severn House

ROOKHURST HALL

THE THIRTEENTH CHILD

FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE

Elizabeth Jeffrey

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

First published in Great Britain and the USA 2013 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

ebook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 2013 by Elizabeth Jeffrey

The right of Elizabeth Jeffrey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Jeffrey, Elizabeth.

For better, for worse.

1. Love stories.

I. Title

823.9'14-dc23

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8301-8 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-425-6 (epub)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

One

Stella Nolan got stiffly down from the train and stood on the platform, her valise in her hand, her body rigid with uncertainty. The other passengers who had alighted at the same time milled round her, ignoring her, too anxious to get out of the biting late-afternoon wind and home to their families to pay any attention to the lonely figure waiting there.

It had been a long, exhausting journey; the trains had been dirty and crowded with all aspects of humanity, from weary and wounded soldiers relieved to be back from the horror of the trenches to excited shoppers laden with parcels, eager to celebrate Christmas. It was the first peaceful Christmas for four years, but the aftermath of war still hung over everything. In the towns that the train had passed through it was apparent that many of the shops and houses needed a coat of paint, and even the excitement of Christmas couldn’t mask the air of shabby weariness that prevailed in most of the people. Few families hadn’t lost a son, husband or brother in the trenches and the predominance of black mourning, or at the very least black armbands, in the jostling crowd added to the gloom of the winter afternoon.

Stella waited, scanning the platform as the crowd thinned, a tall, rather pale, anxious-looking figure. While she could never have been called pretty in the accepted sense, with her large, dark-lashed hazel eyes and regular features she was, nevertheless, strikingly attractive and she carried herself well. She was wearing a dark-blue ankle-length coat with a fur collar, and a matching fur hat perched on her auburn hair. Like most others, she wore a black mourning band on her sleeve.

She chewed her lip uneasily. She hoped they hadn’t forgotten she was coming, she had been told she would be met at the station. Then she relaxed slightly and gave a sigh of relief as she saw a tall young man in gaiters and a flat cap emerging through the smoke from the engine; he was obviously looking for her.

He quickened his step when he saw her. ‘Mrs Nolan?’ he asked with a slightly nervous smile, snatching off the cap to reveal a shock of black curly hair.

‘That’s right.’ She smiled at him with relief. ‘I take it you’re Mr Hogg?’

‘That’s me. Henry Hogg, Major Anderson’s man and general handyman at Warren’s End.’

‘Ah, yes, my … Mrs Nolan senior wrote that you would be meeting me.’

‘Can I take your bag, Ma’am? The trap’s just outside. I’m afraid it’ll be a bit of a chilly journey, although I’ve put out a blanket for you to put round your knees.’

Stella gathered her coat more closely round her against the cold north wind as she handed him her valise. She noticed that he took it in his left hand and that he held his right hand and arm at a slightly odd angle. Since he was young and otherwise the picture of good health she assumed that he was yet another victim of the war that had just ended, but she didn’t like to ask.

But as he turned away to lead her to where the pony and trap were waiting she noticed that there was a deformity in his right shoulder.

‘No, Ma’am, as you can see, it’s not a war wound, I was born with it,’ he said without embarrassment. ‘It kept me out of the army; they said a hunchback wouldn’t be any use in the fighting.’ He gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘But I tried to do my bit. I went to work in a munitions factory. And that was a hell hole if ever there was one.’

‘Well, it’s all over now,’ Stella said, hugging herself and shivering. ‘Bombs and shells won’t be needed any more, thank God.’

‘Aye, thank God. And with any luck them munitions factories’ll be shut down for good. Death traps, they were, I can tell you,’ he said savagely as he helped her into the back of the trap and tucked the blanket round her. She noticed that despite his deformity he had no difficulty in using his right hand and arm. He lowered his voice. ‘I was real sorry to hear about Master, er, Mr John,’ he said quietly. ‘To be killed like that, almost on the last day of the war …’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a damned wicked, cruel thing, war is – begging your pardon at the language, Ma’am.’ Touching his cap, red with embarrassment at his slip of the tongue, he hastily climbed up on to his seat then flicked the reins and the pony set off. ‘Make yourself as comfortable as you can. It won’t be long before we’re there, Ma’am,’ he said over his shoulder as they rattled across the river bridge and began the climb up the hill to the town.

Stella didn’t reply. In fact, she was in no particular hurry to arrive at her destination, to meet the family of the wonderful man who in the course of less than three months had swept her off her feet, married her and left her a widow.

They had had so little time together. She caught her breath against the tears that still threatened as she remembered …

It had been love at first sight, which Stella had always regarded as a figment of cheap romances – until it happened to her. She was a VAD at Hill House, the convalescent home on the south coast where Captain John Nolan had been sent to recuperate after a nasty shoulder wound and battle exhaustion. John was there for eight weeks before he was declared fit for duty again. But those eight weeks had been long enough for them to meet, fall instantly in love and realize without any doubt that when the wretched war was over, which from all the signs wouldn’t be long now, they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together.

‘But why wait, darling? Why don’t we get married before I go back?’ he had asked impulsively as they lazed by the river bank, simply delighting in each other’s company, on a hot late-August day.

‘Oh, yes, please, John!’ she had replied without hesitation. Then, some time later, she’d pulled away from him and asked, ‘But what about your family? Won’t they object?’ Her own parents had been killed in a Zeppelin raid two years earlier and she had no other family.

He’d frowned. ‘Why on earth should they object? They’ll love you, just as I do. Well, not quite as I do …’ he’d grinned, and pulled her to him again.

‘But shouldn’t we invite them to our wedding, John?’

‘Darling, there simply isn’t time,’ he’d replied airily, uncaringly, since all his thoughts were for this lovely girl who had just consented to be his wife. ‘We’ll go and see them afterwards. You’ll get on well with my sister, she’s good fun.’

She pulled away from him. ‘I didn’t know you’d got a sister, John.’

‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? Yes, Rosalie. Her husband’s in the army. At least he was until …’ he stopped and gathered her to him again. ‘But we don’t want to talk about them now, you’ll see them in a week or two. At the moment I’ve got more important things on my mind.’

So they were married by special licence at eight o’clock one misty morning, on the last day of September, at a little church overlooking the Solent; he in uniform and she in borrowed pale-blue shantung and a floppy hat. They spent a memorable week at a tiny hotel in a nearby village, and had planned a further week dutifully visiting his home so he could introduce her to his family. But before they could do that, he was suddenly recalled to his unit in France and had to go back, carrying a slightly out-of-focus photograph of the two of them outside the church in his breast pocket.

‘It won’t be for long, darling, I promise you,’ he had said as she kissed him a tearful goodbye at the train. ‘This wretched war will soon be over and then I’ll be back with you. For good.’

But he was wrong. By the time the armistice was signed, five weeks later, he was dead; killed by a sniper’s bullet. And Stella was a widow.

His parents wrote to the daughter-in-law they had never met and kindly invited her to stay with them for Christmas, an invitation she had been glad to accept since the other alternative was Christmas alone in her dreary bedsit or offering to do extra shifts at the convalescent home.

‘Nearly there, ma’am,’ Henry Hogg called over his shoulder.

She looked up, startled. She had been so busy with her thoughts that she had hardly registered that they had driven through the town and were now in a residential area on the outskirts. The houses here were mostly large, detached and standing in their own grounds.

‘Ah, here we are, Warren’s End.’ Even as he spoke Henry turned into a short gravelled driveway and Stella saw the house, looking exactly as John had described it to her, square ivy-covered red brick, double-fronted, with four steps up to a front door with an elaborate fanlight. But what John hadn’t told her was that it was an old house, a family house, a house that had nurtured the joys and sorrows of generations; a house whose long windows seemed to wink in welcome in the late-afternoon sunlight. A house with a character all its own.

The front door opened even before the trap had pulled up, and a rather austere-looking maid came forward. She was wearing a black afternoon dress and white frilly apron and a cap with long streamers hanging down behind.

She bobbed a sketchy curtsey.

‘Good afternoon, Ma’am. Madam says I’m to take you through to the drawing room straight away – that is, if you’re not too tired?’ She looked questioningly at Stella. ‘The family have waited afternoon tea.’

Stella smiled at her, but the girl’s expression remained wooden and faintly disapproving. ‘Then I wouldn’t want to keep them waiting any longer,’ she replied, pulling off her gloves. ‘I must say a cup of tea would be very welcome.’

‘If you’d like to take off your hat and coat, Ma’am, I’ll take them up to your room with your bag when I’ve shown you to the drawing room.’

‘Thank you … er?’

‘Maisie, Ma’am.’

Swiftly patting her hair into place as she passed the hall mirror, Stella followed the girl – who she judged to be in her early twenties, about her own age – across a large black-and-white-tiled hall cluttered with small tables, hat stands, a large elephant’s foot holding umbrellas, and an array of greenery in pots which were dominated by the aspidistra standing by the foot of the stairs in a large green jardinière on a tall stand. She noticed that the wide staircase, where a grandfather clock stood at the angle of the stair, was expensively carpeted in thick red turkey carpet. A telephone had pride of place on a small table opposite the front door, with a chair beside it.

Maisie knocked and pushed open a door opposite the staircase into a large, equally overfurnished room with a predominance of red plush. She bobbed a curtsey and stood aside.

‘Thank you, Maisie. You can bring in the tea things now that young Mrs Nolan has arrived.’ A rather plump late-middle-aged lady in black lace sitting beside the roaring fire waved the maid away and turned to look at Stella.

‘Stella, my dear. At last you’ve come. We’ve so longed to meet this wonderful girl our son married in such a hurry,’ she said. Her words were welcoming but her tone was cool and her smile didn’t reach her eyes, which were a quite startling blue. ‘Of course, he wrote and told us all about you, before …’ She broke off and fished for a black-edged handkerchief.

A man, clearly her husband, who had been sitting in an armchair on the other side of the fire, had got to his feet as Stella entered the room. He was of medium height, with the suspicion of a paunch, grey thinning hair and a thick, well-trimmed moustache. ‘Come now, Doreen,’ he said briskly. ‘Let the young lady get inside the door … She must be half-frozen after her journey.’ He smiled, a genuinely welcoming smile, at Stella.

‘Yes, yes, of course. What am I thinking of ? Do come and sit by the fire, Stella.’ But her tone was lukewarm.

As Stella approached the fire, she was shocked to see the dark-haired young man who had been sitting on the settee attempting to drag himself to his feet with the aid of two sticks. Had he been able to hold himself upright it was clear he would have been some six feet tall, but once on his feet he stood hunched over his sticks, his handsome, clean-shaven face lined with pain.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Phil, don’t try to stand up,’ the young woman, obviously his wife, sitting beside him, said impatiently. ‘You’ll only draw attention to yourself.’ She turned to Stella and looked her up and down, frowning slightly at her long dark-blue skirt and loose white blouse with a floppy blue bow at the neck.

‘Our daughter, Rosalie,’ Roger Nolan explained, since Rosalie seemed in no hurry to effect introductions. ‘And Major Philip Anderson, her husband.’

Philip, propping himself on his sticks, so unable to shake her hand, smiled, gave Stella a friendly nod and murmured a few words of welcome before sinking back into his seat. Rosalie was a sharp-featured woman in her late twenties, her dark hair severely parted in the middle and plaited into two earphones. She was dressed completely in black, although her skirt revealed enough of her legs to announce that she was a ‘modern’ woman. Her blouse was plain to the point of austerity. Her only concession to femininity was the floppy bow at its neck. She hadn’t bothered to stand up, and she frowned as she shook Stella’s proffered hand.

‘Why aren’t you in proper mourning?’ she asked rudely. ‘John’s only been dead a couple of months.’

‘Nine weeks and three days, to be exact,’ Stella said quietly, slightly taken aback by Rosalie’s tone. Then, her voice firm, she added, ‘But he insisted that if the worst happened I was not on any account to wear black. He said he didn’t like it, and anyway it wouldn’t suit me.’ She gave a twisted little smile at the memory of his words and at how she had distracted him from speaking further about such a disagreeable subject. A faint flush rose to her cheeks as she recalled that it hadn’t been difficult.

She glanced round the room, at the numerous pictures and mirrors all draped in black crêpe, the black ties of the men and the two jet-encrusted black-clad women, and knew how much John would have hated such an ostentatious display of grief. Her own loss was no less keenly felt because she kept it privately in her heart.

‘I’m sure Rosalie meant no criticism, Stella. She speaks before she thinks,’ Doreen said. ‘Although of course it is a little unorthodox for a wife not to go into full mourning for her husband.’ Her voice rose a little. ‘But I’m sure it’s of no consequence.’ Her tone implied the complete opposite. She managed to force a smile. ‘Well, now, come and sit beside me.’ She patted the chair next to her. ‘Naturally, we’re all delighted that you’ve been able to come and visit us, my dear. Of course, you understand we shall spend a very quiet Christmas, under the circumstances.’ She gave a sad smile, her eyes once again moist with unshed tears.

Rosalie gave a barking laugh. ‘Under the circumstances? What on earth do you mean, Ma?’ she remarked acidly. ‘Our Christmases are never anything other than quiet!’

Her mother looked at her reproachfully. ‘That’s probably because there are no children here. If we had grandchildren …’

‘Oh, Mother, for goodness’ sake, not that again!’ Rosalie raised her eyes to the ceiling.

‘You really shouldn’t speak to your mother in that tone, Rosalie,’ Roger Nolan said mildly, from the depths of his armchair. It was clear he was not used to remonstrating with his daughter.

‘No, old girl. Let it rest,’ Philip said softly and took his wife’s hand. She pulled it away sharply, but said no more because at that moment Maisie came in with the laden tea tray and conversation ceased until she had settled it in front of Mrs Nolan, who busied herself with teacups and making sure everyone had a plate and napkin and a crumpet.

During tea the slightly stilted conversation was inevitably centred on John, what sort of a child he had been, the mad, impetuous escapades of his youth, his ambition to do his bit for England by joining the army. As Stella listened she realized that there was a great deal about John she hadn’t known and now would never know, and the enormity of her loss struck her yet again. Surreptitiously, she dabbed the tears from her eyes under pretext of blowing her nose.

‘You’re looking tired, Stella,’ Doreen remarked, choosing to misinterpret the action. ‘Was it a very arduous journey?’

‘Yes, it was, rather.’ Stella nodded and put away her handkerchief so that she could finish the last of the crumpet she had taken only out of politeness and eaten with difficulty. ‘I had to change trains several times and they were all very crowded and dirty. Smuts from the engine seem to get everywhere.’

‘Then perhaps, when you’ve finished your tea, you might like to go up to your room and rest until dinner?’

‘Thank you. You’re very kind. Yes, I think I should like that very much,’ Stella said, relieved, even though at the same time she recognized that she was being dismissed. She drained her cup and placed it back on the tray.

‘Rosalie, will you ring for Maisie to show Stella to her room?’ Doreen said.

‘No, it’s all right, Ma. I’ll take her up myself.’ Rosalie got to her feet. ‘It’s the green room, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. Make sure she has everything she needs.’ Doreen turned to Stella. ‘Dinner will be at eight, but Maisie will bring hot water for you to freshen up in plenty of time.’

‘Thank you,’ Stella said again. Suddenly, she felt drained, both physically and emotionally and she realized what an ordeal it had been, coming face to face with John’s family without his comforting presence by her side. She got to her feet, but as she did so she suddenly felt the room start to spin in a most alarming manner. She remembered putting out a hand to steady herself, and then everything went black as she lost consciousness.

The next thing she knew was that she was lying on the settee and Rosalie was holding a smelling bottle under her nose.

‘No, lie still, don’t try to move.’ She recognized Philip’s quiet, gentle voice as, embarrassed, she struggled to sit up and she saw that he had somehow managed to move to the end of the settee to make room for her.

‘I’m dreadfully sorry,’ she said weakly. ‘I really don’t know what came over me.’

‘No doubt it was the strain of having to confront John’s entire family at one go,’ Rosalie said in a tone of either sympathy or sarcasm, Stella couldn’t quite decide which.

‘Oh, I’m sure …’ Stella swallowed. She hoped she wasn’t going to be sick. ‘Could I have a drink of water, please?’

‘I should think a drop of brandy would be more useful.’ Roger had been watching the proceedings and now he produced a small flask and handed it over.

The fiery liquid revived her and after a minute she sat up. ‘Thank you, I feel much better now.’

‘Are you sure, Stella?’ Doreen said, peering at her anxiously.

‘You don’t think you’re sickening for this awful Spanish flu that’s going about, do you?’ Rosalie asked bluntly.

‘No, I don’t think so.’ She managed a wan smile. ‘I hope not, at any rate.’

‘Well, there’s a lot of it about, you know,’ Rosalie said. She gave a sniff. ‘Still, you’re getting a bit of colour in your cheeks again. So, when you’re ready I’ll take you up to your room.’

Stella waited a few minutes and then got gingerly to her feet, relieved to find the room was no longer spinning, although she still felt strangely light-headed.

‘Are you sure you’re all right, Stella?’ Philip asked, frowning.

‘Yes, really. I’m feeling much better now, thank you.’ Slowly she followed Rosalie to the door.

‘If you don’t feel up to coming down for dinner, I’ll have something sent to your room,’ Doreen called after her.

But Stella was too busy trying to keep herself upright and to put one foot in front of the other to answer. She struggled up the stairs behind Rosalie, and once inside her room she sank down on to the nearest chair.

Rosalie stood over her. ‘How long do you intend to stay?’ she asked abruptly.

Stella looked up at her in surprise. ‘I’m due back at work on the second of January, but I expect to go back before that.’

‘Good.’ Rosalie turned away. ‘Because you’re not wanted here, you know. Ma only invited you to spend Christmas here out of a sense of duty to John, so the sooner you pack your bags and go back to where you’ve come from the better.’

She didn’t wait for Stella’s reply, but left the room, closing the door behind her.

Stella sat for several minutes, Rosalie’s words spinning round in her head. She couldn’t believe what she had just heard. True, Doreen Nolan’s welcome had been less than effusive, although both Roger and Philip had been polite and friendly. But if they didn’t want her here, why had they invited her? And why for Christmas? A weekend would have been quite sufficient for a ‘duty’ visit if they felt it was necessary.

She got to her feet with a sigh. Perhaps it would be better if she simply picked up her bag and left. She had no wish to stay if what Rosalie had said was true and she was really not welcome. It probably was true: the atmosphere in the drawing room had been bordering on hostile, to put it mildly. She clutched the back of the chair as a wave of nausea and faintness suddenly swept over her, and she looked longingly at the bed. With its thick green eiderdown and plump pillows, it looked very inviting. Perhaps a half hour’s rest would refresh her, clear her mind and give her the strength to decide where to go and what to do, not that there would be many options on Christmas Eve in a strange town. Her mind made up, she went over and slid gratefully under the covers, closing her eyes against the tears of shame that stung them – to think that on top of everything else she had made such an exhibition of herself by fainting.

‘Oh, John,’ she whispered into the dimly lit room, ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve tried to be polite and pleasant, but I can’t stay here. It’s plain they don’t want me.’

She almost imagined she felt his hand on her hair as she fell asleep.

Two

‘Would you believe it! She’s curled up under the eiderdown on the bed in the green room, fast asleep,’ Maisie announced as she walked into the kitchen with the tea tray.

‘Who is?’ Emma asked, as she finished filling the kettle and put it back on the stove.

‘Why, that young lady. Mr John’s wife.’

‘Widder,’ Emma corrected. ‘How do you know?’

Maisie gave an exasperated sigh. ‘How d’you think? Because the missus asked me to slip up and see if she was all right before I cleared the tea things.’ She put down the tray and picked up the brown kitchen teapot, frowning. ‘She don’t look very well, I must say. I hope she’s not sickening for something.’ She lowered her voice. ‘From what they were saying when I went in to fetch the tea things, she fainted; so now they’re worried she might have that awful Spanish flu that’s going about. But I don’t reckon it’s that; she don’t look to me as if she’s got a temperature. Not that I know anything about it, of course.’ She lifted her eyebrows. ‘More tea, either of you?’

‘Yes, please, Maise.’ Henry Hogg pushed his cup over for a refill. ‘Come to think of it, I thought she looked a bit peaky when I collected her from the station,’ he said, ‘but I thought she was just tired and perished with cold. It was freezing on that station, that north wind was enough to cut you in half. But I didn’t reckon it was my place to say anything.’

‘Well, she’d had a long train journey, coming all that way from the south coast. I expect she would be cold. And tired.’ The south coast could have been the moon as far as Emma Blatch, the daily help, was concerned; she’d never been on a train. She glanced at the clock on the wall, with its shining brass weights and swinging pendulum. ‘I really ought to be going,’ she said uncertainly. ‘But, yes, I could do with another cup, Maise.’ She handed Maisie her cup.

The three of them sat round the scrubbed kitchen table, drinking tea and eating Maisie’s home-made biscuits. Emma, at thirty-two, was small and would have been inclined to plumpness if she’d had enough to eat and nothing to worry about. As it was, she bordered on scrawny, with sharp blue eyes that missed nothing, in a face that was lined beyond her years, and hair that was really too frizzy to tame into a bun and kept escaping. In contrast Maisie, who lived in, and therefore considered herself superior to the other two, was a tall, slim woman of twenty-five, pale, with sharp, discontented features, black hair that stayed neatly coiled under her cap and large grey eyes. Even with his crooked back, Henry, at thirty-five, was tall. He was a handsome man, too, with pleasant, open features, a shock of black curly hair, dark twinkling eyes and a rugged complexion. His back often gave him pain, but he never complained and neither asked nor received any consideration on its account.

‘So, you’ve both seen her. What’s she like, Mr John’s wife – um, widder?’ Emma asked eagerly, leaning forward, her elbows on the table.

Henry took a slurp of tea. ‘Seemed a pleasant enough young woman to me.’ He grinned. ‘Pretty girl, too. Easy enough to see why Mr John married her.’

‘Henry! You shouldn’t say things like that. Looks aren’t everything,’ Emma admonished him, but she was smiling too.

‘She’s got lovely hair,’ Maisie said thoughtfully. ‘Beautiful auburn colour, and all thick and wavy. It had come out of its pins and was spread over the pillow.’ She sighed. ‘Wish I’d got hair like that.’ She picked up her cup and saucer, crooking her little finger daintily, and took a sip of tea before she went on, ‘I feel quite sorry for the girl in a way, being pitch-forked in with that lot.’ She jerked her head in the direction of the drawing room. ‘I don’t reckon she’ll be made very welcome, even though she is Master John’s widow. You mark my words, she’ll be sent packing as soon as Christmas is over and they feel they’ve done their duty; and that’ll be the last we shall see of her.’ There was the merest hint of satisfaction in her voice. ‘Don’t you remember,’ she went on, ‘how furious the missus was when she found out her lovely boy had gone and got himself married without even telling the family? And to somebody they hadn’t even met!’

‘Well, that’s what happens when there’s a war on,’ Henry said. ‘People had to grab what they could while they could, because they never knew what might happen next.’

‘Good thing they did get married, with him goin’ an’ gettin’ himself killed like that,’ Emma went on sadly. ‘On almost the last day of the war, as well. At least they had a bit of happiness together.’

‘He didn’t get himself killed, Emma, he was shot by a sniper,’ Henry corrected her. ‘But you’re right, you couldn’t blame them for grabbing their happiness when they could.’

Emma nodded. ‘He was such a nice boy, too, Master John. I always liked him, even though he was a bit of a tearaway. Not like his sister, stuck up little …’ She glanced at the clock again, then drained her tea and got to her feet in one movement. ‘But I mustn’t sit here gassing. If I’m quick, I’ve just got time to nip home and look to Ivy before I start on the vegetables for dinner.’ She was already shrugging on her coat and tying a scarf round her head as she spoke.

‘Well, just you make sure you’re not gone long, then,’ Maisie said sharply. ‘Remember there’ll be one extra for dinner tonight.’

‘Your little one no better, Emma?’ Henry asked, ignoring Maisie.

Emma shook her head, her face creased with worry. ‘No, Henry, she’s not. That cough hacks her to pieces, but the doctor says there’s nothing to be done unless we can send her to a sanatorium. He talked about Switzerland. I ask you! With Arthur still out of work and two other children to feed, there’s fat chance of that. It was as much as I could do to rake up the money for the doctor’s bill – and that was a waste, if that was all he’d got to say.’

Henry pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Do you want a lift, Emma? I can soon harness the trap again.’

‘No, thanks all the same, Henry. I’ve got my bike.’ She smiled at him. ‘But you could fetch a bottle of them plums we bottled in the summer down off the shelf for me. Then I can make a plum tart for tonight, if that’s all right with you, Maisie.’

‘That’s what I was going to suggest,’ Maisie said. ‘So you’d better not be long or you won’t have time to make the pastry.’

Emma left and Henry sat down again to finish his tea and another biscuit, which he’d filched off the tray while Maisie wasn’t looking. He liked Emma, she was the salt of the earth, and she didn’t deserve that pig of a husband. True, it wasn’t Arthur’s fault he couldn’t find permanent work, but he was no different to hundreds of other ex-servicemen and the master was always happy for him to do a spot of gardening to help Jack Govan when he felt up to it – which wasn’t often, it seemed. And it would be more to his credit if he didn’t tip half Emma’s wages down his throat to drown his disappointment.

Half a mile from Warren’s End down an unmade side road, Emma leaned her bike against the wall of the little two-up-two-down cottage where she lived and went inside. Arthur was sitting hunched over a meagre fire. The room was sparsely furnished but spotlessly clean, and there was half a loaf of bread and a lump of hard cheese on the table.

‘Did you chop them logs Henry dropped off for us?’ she asked sharply.

‘No, I told Charlie to do it.’

‘But he’s only eleven, Arthur! You can’t expect him …’

‘Why not? He’s a growin’ lad. Time he did a bit o’ work for ’is keep.’

Emma bit her lip. ‘Have you bin to sign on today?’

‘Yes. There’s nothin’.’ Arthur stared into the fire. ‘A land fit for heroes, they said we were comin’ back to.’ He picked up the poker and gave the fire a vindictive poke. ‘A land fit for bloody heroes, my arse.’

‘Watch your language, Arthur Blatch. Remember, Ivy’s just upstairs.’ She peered at him. ‘Is your head bad again?’

He sniffed and gave a shrug.

She glanced at him again and went upstairs to where seven-year-old Ivy was lying in a little bed by the window in the smaller of the two bedrooms, her face hardly less white than the spotless pillow that was propping her up so that she could see out of the window.

‘Look, lovie, I’ve brought you a drop a milk from the House. It’ll help make you strong again. You like milk, don’t you, sweetheart?’ Emma put her arm round her little daughter’s thin shoulders and held the mug to her lips while she took a few sips. ‘There, I’ll leave the rest of it on the chair here so you can reach it. Is there anything else you want?’

Ivy shook her head. ‘No, thanks. Are you stayin’ home now, mum?’

‘No, lovie, you know I have to go back to the House and cook the dinner. But it won’t be long before Mary gets home from school, and I’ll be home soon after seven because Maisie likes to dish it up and serve it herself.’ She smoothed Ivy’s fair hair back from her forehead. ‘I might be able to bring you a bit of plum tart. Would you like that?’

Ivy nodded listlessly.

‘Well, mind and drink that milk up. I want to see it’s all gone when I get home.’ Emma dropped a kiss on her forehead and went back downstairs. Arthur was still sitting in the chair with his head back and his eyes closed. She took a rag outside and wetted it under the tap, then she went back and laid it across her husband’s forehead.

‘There. Is that better?’

‘Yes.’ With his eyes still closed, Arthur reached for her hand. ‘You’re a good girl, Emma.’

She stood looking down at him for a minute. She could never tell whether his headaches were from his experiences in the war – which he never, ever talked about – or the previous night’s drinking. But she always gave him the benefit of the doubt, even though most of the time all he gave her in return was a black eye.

She got on her bike and pedalled back to Warren’s End.

When Stella woke, she realized with a start that she had been asleep for a full two hours. She hadn’t heard anyone come in, but she saw there was a jug of hot water on the washstand and fresh towels hanging beside it. She quickly got off the bed, washed her face, changed into a fresh blouse, pale-blue this time, and put her skirt back on. Then she brushed her hair and twisted it back into its soft, thick bun on top of her head. She didn’t quite know what to do next, so she sat down in the chair by the fire. Had it been alight when she first came into the room? She’d felt so ill she hadn’t even noticed. But she felt much better now after her sleep; so, savouring the quiet warmth, she considered her options. Not that she had many. Having slept for so long, there was now no question of leaving tonight; and tomorrow was Christmas Day, so there would probably be no trains running. That meant she would have to make the best of things and stay until Boxing Day at least. She sighed. Knowing she was an unwelcome guest, it was going to be a difficult few days.

She studied her surroundings, partly out of curiosity and partly to put off having to go and be polite to the people downstairs. The green room she had been given was aptly named, with green flock wallpaper, green curtains, green-velvet chair coverings and light bamboo furniture. It was a very nice, light room, but just as cluttered as the drawing room downstairs, with ornaments and pictures on every available surface, intricately carved ivory palaces and castles, and elephants in various sizes and colours. A brightly coloured silk shawl was draped over the green-velvet chaise longue at the foot of the bed. She frowned, searching her memory, and recalled John telling her that his parents had spent a long time in India, where his father had been a colonel in the army and had then become a tea planter or some such. That would account for the ivory and the elephants. According to John, his father had retired from the army quite young and after making his fortune had returned to England, where he’d bought Warren’s End, one of the larger houses at the more affluent end of the town. Her reverie was suddenly interrupted by a knock at the door, and Maisie stepped inside.

‘Dinner is served, Mrs Nolan, but Madam thought you might like a tray brought up if you’re not feeling well.’

Stella got to her feet. ‘No, it’s perfectly all right, Maisie. I’m feeling much better now I’ve had a rest, thank you. I don’t want to put you to extra trouble, so I’ll come down.’ She smiled at the maid.

The smile wasn’t returned. ‘It’s no trouble, Mrs Nolan. I have the tray on the table just outside the door, but I just wanted to make sure you were awake before I brought it in.’ She whisked out of the door and came back with a tray on which was a plate under a silver cover, salt and pepper, and a crisp white napkin in a silver ring.

‘Oh …’ Stella had no choice but to sit down again.

Deftly, Maisie shook open the napkin and spread it on Stella’s lap, then took the cover off the plate to reveal two lamb cutlets with rosemary and mint and a selection of vegetables.

‘It looks and smells delicious, Maisie, thank you,’ Stella said. She felt vaguely disappointed, uncertain whether to feel ostracized by the family or grateful at not having to face them.

‘Would you like plum tart and custard to follow, Ma’am?’

‘Thank you, yes, that would be very nice.’ Stella suddenly realized she was very hungry.

‘Madam said to inform you that she’s asked Dr Eaves to call and see you later on this evening. He’ll be round after surgery.’

‘Oh, I’m sure there’s no need …’

‘Madam said “Better safe than sorry!”, Ma’am.’

Stella frowned. ‘But I feel perfectly well now that I’ve had a good sleep. I think I was just tired. Is she still worried I might have Spanish flu?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know, Ma’am,’ Maisie said primly. ‘If there’s nothing else you want, I’ll leave you to eat your dinner before it gets cold. I’ll be back with your pudding soon.’

Stella picked up her knife and fork, feeling rather like a child banished to the nursery for disobedience. ‘Thank you, Maisie.’

Slowly, she ate the lamb cutlets. They were delicious and she did them full justice, quite relieved that she could savour them without having to make polite conversation with John’s family. The plum tart was equally tasty, with pastry that melted in the mouth and rich, creamy custard.

Stella complimented Maisie on the meal when she came back with a cup of coffee for her. ‘So I suppose I’ve just got to stay here until the doctor comes,’ she said with a sigh as she accepted it.

Maisie put her head on one side. As far as she could see, the girl looked the picture of health now. ‘Yes, Mrs Nolan. Um … Mrs Nolan thought it would be best.’

Stella smiled, a smile that transformed her face. ‘Why don’t you call me Mrs Stella, Maisie. I think that would be less confusing than two Mrs Nolans, don’t you?’

Maisie almost returned her smile. ‘Yes, it would. Thank you, Mrs Stella.’ She cocked her ear. ‘Ah, that was the doorbell. It’ll be the doctor. I’ll bring him straight up.’

‘Thank goodness for that,’ Stella breathed a sigh of relief as Maisie hurried away.

Dr Eaves was an elderly man, with white hair – at least, what there was of it – and a thick white moustache. His nose showed a marked proclivity towards the whisky bottle.

A little behind him, and looking decidedly reluctant, hovered her mother-in-law.

Stella submitted a little impatiently as the doctor took her temperature and pulse, then looked down her throat and into her eyes.

‘No, your fears are quite ungrounded, Mrs Nolan. The young lady shows no sign of Spanish flu,’ he said, straightening up and speaking directly to Doreen, which annoyed Stella even further.

‘I could have told you that,’ Stella said sharply. ‘In fact, I don’t feel in the least ill now, so I’m sure there was really no need to trouble you. I simply fainted, probably because I was very tired and the room was warm. But I’m feeling perfectly well now that I’ve had a rest. Thank you, Doctor,’ she added belatedly, as she realized her words might have sounded a little rude.

He turned back and looked at her, smiling, his head on one side. He didn’t seem to have taken offence at her outburst and she might have liked him if she hadn’t been so cross. ‘Nevertheless, I would just like to do a further examination, my dear, if you don’t mind,’ he said mildly. ‘Just hop up on the bed and loosen your stays a little, if you please.’

Stella did mind, she minded very much, but Doreen, still hovering near the door, looked so fierce that she submitted with as good a grace as she could muster.

When he had finished poking and prodding her and asking her intimate questions, which were none of his business and made her more and more angry, he nodded and straightened up.

‘As I rather suspected, young lady. You’re as fit as a flea. Nothing wrong with you at all. Probably the reason you fainted was that you’re pregnant. As far as I can tell, you’re getting on for three months.’ He chuckled and beamed down at her. ‘But of course, you must have known that.’

She stared up at him, her eyes wide. Then as the news sank in, she sat up and put her hands to her face, tears of joy running down her cheeks.

‘No,’ she said, shaking her head in bewilderment. ‘I didn’t know … I’d no idea … I thought it was the shock of losing John that had upset … that had stopped … that was why I hadn’t …’ Even in front of the doctor, who had already asked the question, she couldn’t bring herself to speak of her monthly cycle. ‘But this must be why I’ve felt so tired and drained lately. I thought it was the effort of facing life without John.’ She put her hand on her stomach and said softly, ‘But now I’ll have his baby, so I won’t feel I’ve quite lost him after all.’

She looked up at the old doctor, smiling through her tears. ‘Oh, thank you, thank you, Dr Eaves. Thank you so much.’ Now, instead of being angry with him, she had difficulty in restraining herself from flinging her arms round his neck and kissing him.

Three

Stella was thankful when Doreen left the room with Dr Eaves. She just wanted to be left alone to savour the wonderful and totally unexpected news she had been given. Her mind in a whirl, she tried to think back over the past months; she remembered vaguely realizing that her monthly ‘curse’ was a bit late, but the shattering news that John had been killed had put all thoughts of such mundane things out of her mind. Her world had been ripped apart; she had hardly been able to think what she had to do from one day to the next, and hadn’t much cared. She had felt so sick and ill with grief that she’d hardly had the strength to drag herself to work every morning.

At least she had thought it was grief.

It had never occurred to her that she might be pregnant, although on reflection – she gave a little secret smile at the thought – there was every reason to suppose that she might be.

She laid her hand on her stomach. With her corset still unlaced after the doctor’s probing, could she detect a slight rounding? She smiled to herself again, comforted by the knowledge that with his child to care for she would always have a part of John to love. Her only regret was that he had never known the legacy he had left her. She closed her eyes against the tears that were threatening to spill, but the smile was still there.

After another minute she got up from the bed and straightened her clothing, then sat down by the dying fire, still a little bemused.

‘There, now! John’s baby! Isn’t that the most wonderful news?’

She turned quickly, frowning. She hadn’t heard the door open, and for a second she resented the intrusion into her moment of privacy. But she managed to force a smile as her mother-in-law came over to her, beaming widely and enfolding her in an embrace of black lace and jet beads.

‘I’m so sorry for banishing you up here like this, my dear,’ Doreen said; and there seemed to be genuine regret in her voice. ‘What must you think of us! But with this dreadful influenza killing so many people, one really can’t be too careful, can one? After all, one never knows, does one?’

Stella shook her head, amazed at this sudden transformation in her mother-in-law. ‘To tell you the truth, I really hadn’t thought about that before you mentioned it. I was simply too embarrassed at fainting like that. It’s not anything I’ve ever done before.’

Doreen went over and sat down in the chair opposite her. ‘So you really had no idea you might be expecting a child, my dear?’ she asked happily.

‘No, you probably think I’m naïve, but I had no idea at all. I thought it was because I was so upset over John being killed that I was feeling so ill and …’ she bit her lip, tears still not very far from the surface.

‘Of course you were. I quite understand.’ Doreen put her head on one side. ‘But you are pleased, dear, aren’t you?’ she asked doubtfully.

‘Oh, yes,’ she replied softly. ‘I’m absolutely delighted.’

‘And so am I.’ Doreen got to her feet and came over and kissed her again. ‘Well now, why don’t you come downstairs and sit with us for a while? Rosalie and Philip have gone back to their flat across the yard. Well, at least, Philip has; his legs often pain him. He was quite badly injured at Ypres – at least I think that was where it was – as you probably know.’

‘No, John didn’t …’

Doreen ignored the interruption. ‘But if I know my daughter, she’s probably taken herself off to some meeting or other; so there’ll only be the three of us. Do you feel like it, dear, or would you rather rest?’

‘No, I feel perfectly well now, thank you.’ Stella hesitated. ‘But I’ll be quite content to stay here in my room if you would prefer it. And then, tomorrow …’

Doreen looked at her with a puzzled frown. ‘No, no, no. Why on earth would I prefer you to stay in your room, dear? We want to get to know you a little, not to imprison you. Ah …’ Her face cleared. ‘You’re offended that I sent your dinner up to you. I’m sorry about that. But as I told you, one can’t be too careful. With this awful influenza …’

‘No, it’s not that at all,’ she lied. ‘I had a very nice dinner, thank you.’

‘Good. Yes, Emma is a very good cook.’ She dropped her voice. ‘Although between you and me, Maisie likes to take most of the credit.’ She held out her hand. ‘Now, come along downstairs with me.’

At the door to the drawing room Doreen paused and whispered, ‘I won’t embarrass you by speaking of your condition to Roger, I’ll tell him in private later. I know he’ll be very pleased.’

The evening passed very pleasantly, much to Stella’s surprise. Neither the Colonel nor his wife gave the slightest indication that she wasn’t a very welcome guest. They told her of John’s escapades as a child, laughing indulgently at the more outrageous ones, Doreen surreptitiously wiping her eyes now and then. In return, Stella shared her memories with them, smiling a little as she told them of his sudden determination to marry her before he went back to the Front.

‘I wanted to wait and invite you all to our wedding, but he said there wasn’t time,’ she explained. ‘And as it happened, there wouldn’t have been. If we’d waited we would never have married at all and …’ She broke off, her hand stealing possessively to her abdomen.

‘Oh, that’s typical of John. He was always impetuous,’ Doreen said, smiling a little at her memories. ‘Wasn’t he, Roger?’

‘Yes, indeed. I remember the time he …’ And he was off again, reminiscing about the son he had obviously idolized.

When Stella finally retired for the night, it was with a deeper knowledge of the man she had married and conflicting thoughts about his family. Doreen had been so cool and unwelcoming when she first arrived, yet this evening she had gone out of her way to be pleasant and to make her feel included in the family. It was odd.

Then there was Rosalie. She had been quite vindictive, telling her she wasn’t welcome at Warren’s End, that she had only been invited so that they could see the sort of woman John had married. Was that true, or could it simply be that Rosalie was jealous and she had spoken out of spite? But jealous of what? The more Stella tried to make sense of Rosalie’s outburst and Doreen’s change of heart, the more perplexed she became; she could make no sense of any of it.

Not that it mattered; she would be gone from Warren’s End in a few days and would probably never see any of them again. On that comforting note, she fell asleep.

Christmas Day was spent quietly as befitted a family in mourning.

They all went to church, Henry pushing Philip in a bath chair as far as the church door, although he insisted on walking into the church – a slow and laborious business with two sticks that left him with a sheen of perspiration on his forehead by the time he reached the family pew. Stella was amazed to see an expression of impatient irritation on Rosalie’s face in an unguarded moment as she watched her husband’s progress up the aisle. Why wasn’t she simply thankful that he was alive? If only John … She pressed her lips together, determined not to let tears spill over.

But as the service went on, with joyous hymns and carols to celebrate the birth of Jesus, she thought of the baby she was carrying under her heart – John’s baby – and she rejoiced and sang to celebrate her own coming child.

Back at Warren’s End, Emma and Maisie were putting the finishing touches to Christmas dinner, which was to be eaten in the middle of the day so Emma could spend the rest of the day with her family and Maisie could visit her sister in the next village. Emma had brought thirteen-year-old Mary with her to help with washing the dishes and she was already at the sink, swathed in a voluminous white apron covered with an equally large one made of coarse sacking, washing the pans and basins that had been used in making the sauces and custards.

Henry came in, looking hot from the exertion of pushing Philip home, and took off his coat and hat. ‘He never complains, that man,’ he said admiringly, ‘although I know he’s always in pain.’

‘Well, here’s a little something to keep the cold out,’ Maisie said, handing Henry a hot toddy. She gave him a smile that bordered on being arch. ‘I always like to keep a drop of whisky in my pantry, in case of emergencies.’

‘Very sensible, too,’ Henry said, taking several sips. ‘Ah, that’s a drop o’ good. But what about Emma? I reckon she could do with a little drink, too, seein’ as it’s Christmas.’

With obvious reluctance, Maisie poured a small drink for Emma. ‘I thought she was like me and didn’t imbibe,’ she said disapprovingly.

‘I don’t as a rule, but seein’ as it’s Christmas …’

‘Oh, well, if you put it like that …’ Maisie poured herself a generous measure.

Henry held up his glass. ‘Here’s to a merry Christmas for us all.’

‘A merry Christmas!’ they all replied.

‘You’ll be coming to us later on, won’t you, Henry?’ Emma said as she sipped her drink. ‘Arthur’s expecting you.’ Henry lived in the cottage adjoining Emma’s and, as well as being neighbours, he frequently helped Arthur home from the Nag’s Head on a Friday night.

Mary turned round from the sink. ‘Oh, yes, Uncle Henry, please come!’ she said eagerly. ‘We can play games round the fire after tea and roast chestnuts. We’ve saved the ones Charlie collected from the woods.’

‘You get on with your work, my girl and don’t interrupt when your elders are talking,’ Emma reprimanded her automatically.

‘Let the girl be, Emma. It’s Christmas,’ Henry said with a smile. ‘And thank you kindly, I’ll be pleased to come and sit by your fire and roast chestnuts.’

‘You can take what’s left over from the Family’s dinner. My sister always keeps a good table, so there’s no call for me to take anything to her,’ Maisie said, with a faintly supercilious air.

‘Oh, goody! I hope there’ll be some plum pudding left,’ Mary said into the washing-up suds.

Although she had thought to put it out of her mind, Stella found herself watching carefully throughout the day for any sign that she was not welcome at Warren’s End. But she saw nothing. Even Rosalie seemed to have forgotten her outburst of the previous day and was at least polite, if not exactly friendly, towards her. Stella put this down to Rosalie’s preoccupation with the unfairness of the voting system. There was to be a general election later in the week at which women would be allowed to vote, but only if they were over thirty.

‘It’s so unfair! So infuriating that I’m not quite old enough to vote!’ she said, thumping the arm of her chair.

‘I’ve never known you to wish yourself older before, darling,’ Philip said mildly. ‘Women are usually at pains to be thought younger.’

She looked at him scathingly. ‘And what would you know about how I feel?’

He gave her a lopsided smile. ‘Not a lot, these days, I must admit,’ he said, ‘but I’m not entirely stupid.’

‘You’re stupid enough to imagine I wish myself older. What I wish is that they’d allowed us to vote at twenty five!’

‘Philip, as it’s Christmas, would you sing for us?’ Doreen broke in. She hated these spats between Rosalie and Philip, because she knew that it was Rosalie who invariably started them.

‘Of course, Doreen. If Rosalie will accompany me,’ he replied, anticipating her refusal. ‘As it’s Christmas.’ He repeated Doreen’s words deliberately.

‘No, I don’t think so. I don’t feel like it,’ Rosalie said, picking up her book and starting to read.

Philip turned to his mother-in-law. ‘That’s it, then. I’m sorry, Doreen, I’m afraid I’m rather rusty, so I need a bit of accompaniment.’

‘Well, never mind,’ Doreen said, clearly disappointed. ‘But you have such a nice voice, I do enjoy hearing you sing.’

Stella cleared her throat. ‘Perhaps I could accompany you?’ she said tentatively. ‘I sometimes play for the men at Hill House, where I work. They like to sing and some of them have very good solo voices.’

‘Oh, would you?’ Doreen said, clearly pleased. ‘That means you’ll be able to sing for us after all, Philip.’

Rosalie threw down her book. ‘Oh, very well, I’ll play for you,’ she said quickly. Plainly she was not going to allow Stella to accompany her husband. She went over to the piano and lifted the lid. ‘What do you want, then?’ She began to riffle through the music in the canterbury.

He struggled over to her. ‘These two,’ he said, making his choice.

‘OK,’ she said with a shrug.

Roger caught his breath. He hated to hear Rosalie use slang but realized that now was not the moment to remark on it.

Philip had a very pleasant tenor voice, and he sang well and without self-consciousness. Rosalie’s piano playing was competent, although it lacked feeling.

‘Oh, that was lovely,’ Doreen said when the last strains of ‘I Passed by Your Window’ had died down. ‘You have such a beautiful voice, Philip. And you play very well, Rosalie.’

‘So she should, the amount of money I lavished on piano lessons for her,’ Roger mumbled quietly into his pipe.

Philip sang two more pieces and then Rosalie got to her feet. ‘That’s enough,’ she said briefly, ‘you’ll tire yourself if you sing any more.’

It was obvious Rosalie had got tired of accompanying him.

‘Then perhaps you’d like to play something for us, dear?’ Doreen said, smiling at her daughter.

Rosalie gave a shrug, but sat down at the piano again and rattled impatiently through a Schubert impromptu.

‘Thank you, dear,’ Doreen said when she had finished and slammed down the lid.

The rest of the day passed pleasantly enough. After supper, which Maisie had left prepared on the trolley and Stella helped Doreen to wheel in, Rosalie fetched the new gramophone that Philip had given her as a Christmas present. She wound it up and as the record revolved she placed the needle carefully in the groove so that they could listen as songs of the day – ‘Swanee,’ ‘Home Sweet Home,’ ‘I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls’ and several more – sounded tinnily out through the large pink horn that sat on the top.

‘Marvellous invention, marvellous invention,’ Roger remarked, shaking his head. ‘Whatever will they think of next!’

‘Wireless. That’ll be the next thing, sir,’ Philip said. ‘I believe an Italian chap called Marconi is already beginning to experiment with sending the human voice over air waves.’

‘Why on earth would anyone want to do that?’ Doreen asked, raising her eyebrows. ‘I never heard such nonsense. Nobody could shout that loud.’

‘They wouldn’t have to shout, their voices would be carried over the airwaves in some manner that I confess I don’t fully understand.’ Philip smiled at her as he spoke. ‘And as to why. To see if it can be done. It’s called progress. And, make no mistake, Doreen, when you hear music that’s being played in London coming out of a box in the corner of this room you’ll think what a marvellous invention it is.’

She shuddered. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. It’s not natural. In fact, I find the whole idea quite spooky.’

‘Well, if you think that’s spooky, what about if there was a machine that could show us, here in this room, what is going on hundreds of miles away? I’ve been reading about that, too.’ He shook his head. ‘It all sounds incredible, but I don’t think it’s that far into the future, either.’

‘You’ve been reading too much Jules Verne, my boy,’ Roger said with a laugh. ‘I don’t think any of these things will come to pass in my lifetime.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Pa,’ Rosalie said, in one of her rare moments of agreement with her husband. ‘These things will happen, I’m sure of it.’

‘But this machine thing you’re talking about – if we can see them, will they be able to see us?’ Doreen asked anxiously. ‘I shouldn’t like to think of strangers watching what we’re doing.’

‘No, of course they won’t, Ma,’ Rosalie laughed.

‘No, I don’t think you need to worry on that score, Doreen,’ Philip said, joining in the laughter. ‘And it’ll be several years before it happens, I dare say, so you can sleep easily in your bed.’

‘Oh, thank goodness for that.’ Doreen relaxed visibly.

Later, as Stella climbed the stairs to bed she decided that, all things considered, and in spite of Rosalie’s harsh warning, which was always at the back of her mind, it had been a very pleasant day.

The next morning when she went down to breakfast Stella found Doreen, in a pale-mauve negligée, sipping coffee and eating toast.

‘Ah, good. Come and sit down, my dear,’ she said, indicating a chair nearby. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Yes, thank you, but where is everyone?’ Stella looked round the empty table as she took her seat and helped herself to coffee. ‘Maisie didn’t bring my tea until eight o’clock, but I didn’t think I was late.’

‘No, you’re not late, dear, it’s only half past eight. I told her not to disturb you before eight. Oh, yes, please, pour me another cup.’ Doreen pushed her cup across. ‘Thank you. Where is everyone, you ask? Well, Roger always gets up early and takes the dogs out. And Rosalie and Philip take breakfast in their flat – Roger had part of the outhouses overlooking the garden converted for them – but we always eat en famille in the evening. You say you slept well?’

‘Yes, thank you. I slept very well.’ Bemused at being asked a second time, Stella added, as she buttered herself some toast, ‘It’s a very comfortable bed.’

‘Ah, I’m glad you said that,’ Doreen gave a satisfied nod.

Stella looked up at her in surprise. ‘Why …?’

‘Well, it’s like this,’ Doreen leaned her arms on the table, at the same time making a great play of arranging the frills on her negligée. ‘I … That is we, Roger and I, have a proposition to put to you.’

Stella paused, her toast halfway to her mouth. ‘A proposition?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘More of an invitation, really. And you needn’t make up your mind right away. Well, not for a day or two, anyway. Oh dear, I’m not making much sense, am I?’

Stella shook her head, frowning. ‘Not really.’

‘Roger and I would like you to stay here. To come and live with us.’ The words were tumbling out in her eagerness. ‘There’s plenty of room and you could have your own quarters, just like Rosalie and Philip. I don’t know what your plans are with regard to the baby …’

‘I haven’t made any plans yet,’ Stella said warily. ‘I’ve hardly had time. In fact, my head’s still reeling with the news …’

‘And you really, honestly, had no idea?’ Doreen’s eyebrows shot up nearly to her hairline. ‘Then it must have come as quite a shock, because you were only married – how long? – before John had to go back to France?’

‘Ten days.’ Stella flushed and said with a smile, ‘It was obviously long enough, though. And it wasn’t a shock, Doreen, it was a wonderful surprise; John couldn’t have left me a nicer present. But as to plans, I haven’t really had time to make any yet.’ She frowned thoughtfully. ‘I’ve got a little money invested that my parents left when they were killed, so I’m not quite destitute. And I can still work, I’ve still got my job …’ Her voice tailed off as she realized that she wouldn’t have that for long, not once they discovered she was pregnant. And a small bedsit – which was probably all she would be able to afford – was hardly the ideal place to bring up a child. But she would cross that bridge when she came to it; looking after John’s baby was the important thing.

‘Well, perhaps you’d like to give our suggestion some thought, dear.’ Doreen took several sips of her coffee, then went on, ‘As soon as I told Roger …’ She laid a hand on Stella’s arm. ‘And I must tell you, he’s as delighted as I am that you’re to have John’s baby. And equally anxious that we should do all we can for you.’ She put her head on one side. ‘Of course, the decision is yours, but I do hope you’ll agree to our suggestion. It would make us very happy.’

‘Thank you. It’s very kind of you. I don’t know what to say …’ Stella found she had crumbled the remains of her toast into a buttery mess on her plate. She wiped her fingers on her napkin and smiled at Doreen.

‘Oh, don’t say anything yet, dear. Think about it while you’re here. You’re not planning to go back yet, are you?’

‘Well, I had thought I should go back tomorrow …,’ Stella said doubtfully.

‘Tomorrow! But, my dear, you’ve only just got here!’ Her eyebrows shot up again.

‘Well,’ Stella moved uncomfortably in her seat. ‘I was rather under the impression that you hadn’t really wanted me here in the first place.’

Doreen frowned. ‘Whatever gave you that idea? Of course we wanted to meet the girl John married. Although, naturally,’ she hesitated and smiled a little, ‘we were a little apprehensive, knowing how impetuous John is … was. I’m not quite sure how we would have received a chorus girl in fishnet tights and a feather boa,’ she finished dryly.

‘Was that likely?’ Stella asked, surprised.

‘With John one never knew,’ Doreen replied vaguely. She leaned over and squeezed Stella’s arm. ‘But having met you, I don’t think he could have chosen better if I’d picked you myself.’ She got up from her chair and said briskly, ‘Now, do think about what I’ve said, dear. We really would like you to come to live with us. It would be so fitting for our son’s child to be brought up here, wouldn’t it?’ She dropped a kiss on Stella’s forehead and left the room.

Four

That night, after a day in which Doreen’s words were never far from her mind, Stella lay in the soft feather bed in her bedroom at Warren’s End, the thick velvet curtains drawn to shut out the wild winter night, a hot-water bottle at her feet, and the last glimmering embers of the fire still burning in the grate. She wiggled her toes luxuriously and basked in the contrast between this life and her chilly little room on the top floor of the convalescent home, where a hard single bed, an armchair and a shelf of books were her usual companions when she finished work for the day. Not that she was ever lonely. Nursing at Hill House brought her into contact with people from all walks of life and she could always spend her off-duty hours in the comfortable communal recreation room, playing cards – which she didn’t much like – or playing songs on the piano for the convalescing officers to sing, which she enjoyed. Best of all she liked simply talking to them, hearing about their hopes and aspirations and listening to their worries, the uppermost of which was always that their wives or sweethearts would not want them now that they were crippled or maimed. Or worse, would only stay with them out of pity. She tried to reassure them, knowing she would still love John even if he came back maimed (she always crossed her fingers as she said the words, not that it would do any good) and they often said it had been a help to have someone to talk to, someone who listened.

But she wouldn’t be able to stay there. Not now. It was against the rules. Matron would never countenance a pregnant nurse; with all those men around, it wouldn’t be right. And it wouldn’t be many weeks before she could no longer keep it a secret. So although she enjoyed her job very much and would be sad to leave – not least because it was there she had met John – she knew her time at the convalescent home was limited.

So where would she go? What could she do if she didn’t accept Doreen’s offer? She turned over and thumped her pillow as she tried to think. She had her parents’ legacy. But, though carefully invested, it wasn’t bringing in enough to live on even now, let alone with a child to care for. Then there was the problem of finding somewhere to live, and work of some sort to support herself and the coming child. That wouldn’t be easy. Now the men were coming back from the war they would take priority in the workplace; and women, let alone pregnant women and women with babies, would no longer be wanted. So that would mean working at home. But at what? Sewing? Addressing envelopes? She’d heard about women trying to make a living like that, exploited and having to work far into the night just to make enough to pay the rent. She shuddered. The middle-class background she came from hadn’t fitted her for such a life.

She stared up into the darkness. Doreen’s offer was generous and she seemed genuinely anxious that Stella should make her home at Warren’s End. So why was she hesitating? Why did this feeling of unease persist? Was it because of Rosalie’s words? You’re not wanted here. You were only invited out of a sense of duty to John. It was puzzling.

It was another two days before Stella finally plucked up the courage to speak to Doreen. By that time, having thought about it endlessly, she had managed to convince herself that Rosalie had spoken out of either spite or jealousy, so her words could be disregarded. In any case, if she didn’t stay here, where would she go? It wasn’t so much a choice as a lifeline.

She found Doreen sitting in the morning room, a room that would have been sunny on a less grey day, with bright-yellow walls and gold curtains and a green-and-gold-patterned carpet on the floor. She was writing letters at her desk, dressed in a dark-grey morning dress liberally trimmed with black, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles perched halfway down her nose. She looked up over the top of them as Stella entered the room.

‘Ah, come in, my dear. I was just finishing.’ She laid down her pen and blotted the sheet she had just written, then took off her spectacles and turned to Stella with a smile. ‘Sit down, dear.’

Stella sat down on the edge of the small ladies’ chair Doreen had indicated. ‘It’s about what you said the other day,’ she began uncomfortably, making a conscious effort not to twist her hands in her lap. ‘Your invitation … Asking me if I would like to come and live here at Warren’s End …’

‘And …?’ Doreen raised her eyebrows, smiling hopefully.

Stella tried to smile back but her face felt stiff. ‘It was very kind of you. I’ve thought about it a lot, and I think I should like to do that if you’re still willing to have me.’ She knew she sounded stilted and formal, but she didn’t want to have to admit that she had nowhere else to go and nobody else to turn to. ‘Please,’ she added quickly.

‘Oh, my dear, I’m so glad.’ Beaming, Doreen got up from her chair and came over and embraced her daughter-in-law. ‘Roger will be delighted, too. He keeps asking me if you’ve made up your mind.’ She sat down again and it soon became apparent that they had never even considered that Stella might refuse their offer. ‘Now, there are four rooms in the annexe at the back, which we’ve decided will be just right for you,’ she said, her voice immediately businesslike. ‘I think they were all part of the dairy when Warren’s End was a farm, but as the family grew they were incorporated into the main house.’ She waved her hand. ‘All that, of course, happened before we came here. We didn’t need the extra space, so we’ve never really used them. They weren’t convenient for Rosalie and Philip because of the steps down into the garden, which was why Roger had the outhouses converted for them. But they’ll be perfect for you; it won’t be difficult to have them adapted, with a little kitchen and bathroom added. The sitting room will overlook the garden, and there are two bedrooms, one of which is quite small but eminently suitable for a nursery for our grandson …’

‘It might be a girl,’ Stella said with a smile.

Doreen waved her hand dismissively. ‘The kitchen will be small, but big enough to make yourself a cup of tea or the odd snack when you’re not with us,’ she continued as if Stella hadn’t spoken. ‘Roger saw the builder yesterday and he’s going to start work tomorrow.’ She beamed at her daughter-in-law.

Stella didn’t smile back. Her head was spinning at the rate things seemed to have moved already. ‘But what if I’d said no?’ she asked.

Doreen looked at her in surprise. ‘Why on earth would you have done that? After all, you’ll be among family here – and you yourself said you have no close relatives. No, no, you’re a sensible girl; of course we knew you would agree.’ She leaned over and patted Stella’s knee. ‘Now, about your things. Have you any particular furniture you would like to bring to put into your rooms? Something from your old home, perhaps?’

Stella shook her head. ‘No, my old home was destroyed by the Zeppelin that killed my parents. I’ll just have to go back and clear my room at the convalescent home …’

‘Oh, my dear, do you think you’re up to it? All that long journey there and back? Think of the baby …’

‘I’ll be fine, don’t worry.’

‘But what about this dreadful Spanish flu? Travelling on the train … Going back to the hospital where soldiers are coming back from the Front … It’s rife there, you know.’

‘Yes, I do know. That’s where I’ve been working for the past two years,’ Stella said, trying not to sound sarcastic. ‘But I haven’t caught it.’

Doreen wagged a finger. ‘Ah, but you didn’t know about the baby then, did you?’

Stella couldn’t see that knowing or not knowing that she was pregnant would make any difference to whether or not she caught flu, but knew there was no point in arguing. In any case, if she was honest she really didn’t relish the thought of more long journeys in the depth of winter in cold, uncomfortable trains. The journey to Warren’s End had been bad enough.

‘We’ll have your things sent on to you,’ Doreen said firmly. ‘I’m sure that’s the best thing.’

Stella got to her feet. ‘Yes. I must admit the long, cold train journey doesn’t have much appeal,’ she said; adding, with emphasis on the first word, ‘I shall have to write to Matron and hand in my notice, and tell her why I’m leaving. I’ll also write to Cathy, one of the other nurses; she won’t mind packing up my things and sending them on.’

‘Sensible girl,’ Doreen said approvingly.

‘Well, there’s a turn up for the book,’ Maisie said as she made the cocoa for elevenses. ‘Did you hear what Henry just said, Emma?’ She nodded towards Henry, sitting at the kitchen table.

‘No. What did he say?’ Emma had just come in from the garden, where she had been gathering herbs. She put the basket on the table and stood rubbing warmth into her hands and looking from one to the other as she waited to hear.

‘He says the young Mrs Nolan – or Mrs Stella, as we’re to call her – is …’ She nodded. ‘You know …’ She nodded again.

Emma frowned and looked at Henry, then back at Maisie. She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t know,’ she said, still looking mystified.

‘Mrs Stella is going to have a baby,’ Henry said, avoiding her eyes in embarrassment. ‘Mr Philip told me this morning.’

‘Oh, a grandchild for the master and missus. That’ll be nice for them,’ Emma said, sitting down and smiling.

‘Yes, and they’ve invited her to come and live here,’ Maisie said importantly.

‘How long for?’

‘Pernamently.’ Maisie didn’t always get the long words she was fond of using quite right.

‘And has she agreed?’

‘Be daft not to, wouldn’t she?’ She dispensed the cocoa and took her own seat.

‘She’s to have the annexe made ready for her, Mr Philip said. There, Emma, now you know as much as I do.’ Henry picked up his cocoa and took a slurp.

‘What does Mrs Rosalie have to say about it?’ Emma asked.

‘Mr Philip didn’t say,’ Henry answered. He wasn’t going to tell the two women what he had overheard when he was tidying Philip’s room after his bath that morning.

He had heard Rosalie shout furiously, ‘So she’s staying! Scheming bitch!’

‘That’s not fair, dear. Your parents have invited her to stay. I expect it’s partly because of the baby.’

‘And that’s about the last thing we need, a bloody squalling brat about the place.’

‘I don’t suppose it will affect us much, Rosie,’ Philip had spoken in his usual placating manner.

‘Don’t call me Rosie! My name’s Rosalie.’

He’d ignored that, saying thoughtfully, ‘It might be nice to have a little one around the place.’

‘Oh, don’t start that again! You’re always …’

At that point Henry had slipped away, not wanting to listen to yet another of Rosalie’s tirades, although the sound of her expletives had followed him across the yard.

‘Well, it’s got nothing to do with Mrs Rosalie, anyway,’ Maisie said, bringing him back to the present.

‘Might make her jealous,’ Emma said thoughtfully.

‘Mrs Rosalie? You must be joking. Can you imagine her with a baby? It’d cramp her style too much,’ Maisie said with a mirthless laugh.

Henry drained the last of his cocoa and got to his feet. ‘Well, I can’t sit here talking all day, the Colonel’s asked me if I’d mind doing a bit of distempering in the annexe. A nice duck-egg blue is what the missus has chosen. That’ll be a nice cosy little place for Mrs Stella when it’s all finished. She’ll be all right there, I reckon.’ He shrugged on his coat. ‘I’ll just go and have a word with your Arthur, Emma. Jack Govan told me he’d be coming today to help dig the ground, ready to plant the spuds when it gets a bit warmer.’

‘He hasn’t come,’ Emma said quickly. ‘His back’s bad today.’

‘Ah, I see.’ Henry nodded. He smiled sympathetically at Emma. ‘Well, let’s hope it’ll be better tomorrow.’ He knew as well as she did that, although Arthur continually complained about not having a job and the Colonel was always willing to employ him in the garden, as soon as there was any work to be done either his back was bad or his head ached. He reflected sadly that the war just ended had more to answer for than broken families and missing limbs.

Any misgiving Stella might have had about coming to live at Warren’s End vanished when she saw how the annexe had been transformed for her. In not much more than a week the light, airy room overlooking the garden had been decorated and furnished as a very comfortable sitting room. True the furniture was elderly: a rather old-fashioned Pembroke table and four spindly early-Victorian chairs rescued from the attic and cleaned up, which she immediately fell in love with, and a comfortably saggy sofa upholstered in blue brocade and a matching armchair.

‘There’ll be a sideboard thing, too, when it comes back from being repaired,’ Doreen said, as she and Roger excitedly showed her round.

‘It’s known as a credenza,’ Roger said mildly. ‘And the wardrobe from the bedroom has had to go to the cabinet-maker in the village for a bit of attention, too.’ He chuckled. ‘The thing is, all this stuff has been in the attic for a long time; in fact most of it had been left here when we bought the house.’

‘I hope you don’t mind, dear,’ Doreen said anxiously. ‘I wouldn’t like you to think we were palming you off with any old rubbish.’

‘Nonsense, Doreen,’ Roger said. ‘All this old rubbish as you call it will be worth quite a lot of money in a few years’ time.’

‘In any case, I love it,’ Stella said, her eyes shining. ‘I love it all. Thank you. Thank you both very much.’

‘That’s good. Glad you like it. And we’re having the bed from the green room brought down for you because you said how comfortable it is.’ Doreen said with a pleased smile. She looked round, pinching her lip. ‘It still looks a bit bare, doesn’t it?’ She brightened up. ‘But when you get your own things unpacked it will look better, won’t it?’

Stella thought of the two tea chests delivered that morning, which were sitting in the little second bedroom waiting to be unpacked. Her whole life was there. It didn’t amount to much.

Nevertheless, by the time she’d lit the fire and unpacked her books and placed her favourite ornaments around the sitting room the flat suddenly seemed like home; a real home. And when the sepia photograph of John stood in pride of place on the mantelpiece, the feeling was complete.

She sat down in the armchair and looked up at the photograph.

‘You don’t need to worry, darling, your parents are looking after me.’ She put her hand on her abdomen. ‘And our baby,’ she said softly.

A few minutes later the door burst open and Rosalie came in.

‘All settled in?’ she asked, flinging herself down on the settee. She looked around. ‘They certainly didn’t waste any time in getting the place ready so they could banish you to your own quarters, did they?’

Stella frowned at her. ‘I must say I hadn’t thought of it like that at all,’ she said. ‘In fact I was just thinking how lucky I am to have this little flat and how kind your parents have been to me.’

Rosalie shrugged. ‘Hm. Maybe. But it’s all for the sake of the child, of course. They’re desperate for grandchildren.’

‘I’m surprised you haven’t seen fit to oblige them, then.’ Stella found she was having difficulty being civil.

‘No chance of that,’ Rosalie said with a yawn.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Rosalie.’ She was immediately contrite.

‘You needn’t be, I’m not. I’m glad.’ She twisted the bangles jangling on her wrist. ‘By the way,’ she said thoughtfully, without looking up, ‘the brat is John’s, I suppose?’

Stella stared at her, her jaw dropping, completely lost for words.

‘It’s all right, Stella. I won’t say anything. In fact, I think it would be quite a hoot, Ma and Pa making all these elaborate preparations for a child that is nothing to do with them.’ She giggled, then looked up and saw Stella’s horrified expression and shrugged. ‘Just a thought,’ she remarked, a trifle uncomfortably.

‘Not a very charitable one, if I may say so,’ Stella said coldly.

‘Maybe not. But you still haven’t answered my question,’ Rosalie said lightly.

‘I don’t need to. You should be ashamed of yourself for asking it.’ Stella got to her feet. ‘I don’t know why you feel the need to be so unpleasant to me, Rosalie. First you impress on me that I’m not wanted here – which upset me very much, but is patently not true since your parents have gone out of their way to give me a home. And now you try to imply that your brother may not be the father of my child, which is quite outrageous! What John would say if he could hear you talk I can’t begin to imagine.’

Rosalie looked at her fingernails. ‘He’d probably laugh. We used to have some great laughs together, John and me.’

‘Well, I’m not laughing.’ Stella sat down again since Rosalie showed no inclination to go. ‘Rosalie, I don’t want to quarrel with you.’

‘Then don’t.’

‘I would like to be friends with you, but you make it very difficult.’

Rosalie nodded. ‘Yes. I’m pretty choosy about my friends.’ She looked up brightly. ‘Aren’t you going to offer me a cup of tea?’

Stella got up and went to the door.

‘Two sugars,’ Rosalie said, over her shoulder.

But Stella was holding the door open. ‘I believe tea is being served in the drawing room at the moment,’ she said quietly. ‘I should like to go and join my parents-in-law there, but I’m rather choosy about who I leave in my flat when I’m not here.’

Rosalie got lazily to her feet. ‘OK. Point taken. I’m going. I’ll see you in the drawing room.’

Stella closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her heart beating uncomfortably. She felt quite unsettled by Rosalie’s outburst and could only think there must be some deep-seated reason for the woman’s animosity towards her. She wondered what it could be.

Five

It wasn’t long before Stella developed a routine that fitted in with the family’s. It was a relief that Rosalie and Philip always ate breakfast in their own flat; Rosalie’s snide remarks about ‘eating for two’ would be more than she could stand first thing in the morning. Especially as now she no longer felt sick and was becoming ravenous at breakfast, ready to do full justice to the bacon and eggs and lashings of toast laid out in the dining room.

Doreen rarely came down until a good deal later, but the Colonel was always sitting at the table when Stella arrived. As soon as he saw her, he would smile and put down his newspaper so that he could talk to her, asking after her health and if she had everything she needed and then remarking on the political situation of the day. Stella soon came to realize that he was not comfortable with small talk; he was more of a ‘man’s man’, finding conversation less easy in the company of women. But he seemed genuinely kind and concerned for her welfare; and as time went on, he became more relaxed.

‘I’ve noticed you walking in the garden once or twice lately,’ he said one morning in late February. ‘It’s not at its best, of course, at this time of the year. And the weather hasn’t helped, with all the wind and rain we’ve had. It’s played absolute havoc with some of the larger shrubs.’

‘No, unfortunately I wasn’t able to go out very much because of the weather. But I could see from my window that you’ve got a beautiful garden, so it’s been nice to explore it a little,’ Stella said. ‘It looks as if there are lots of shady places to sit in summer, too, which will be really nice.’

‘Oh, yes, I made sure of that when I designed the garden,’ he said, obviously pleased. ‘We grow most of our own vegetables, too. Jack Govan does a wonderful job looking after things; he’s very knowledgeable, you know. And Mrs Blatch’s husband comes when he can.’ He dabbed his moustache with his napkin and leaned towards her, dropping his voice a little. ‘I try to give him the benefit of the doubt, since he’s obviously been badly affected by his experiences in the trenches, but I must say I do sometimes wonder if Arthur Blatch isn’t a little work-shy. So many times when there’s a job here for him to do there’s some reason why he can’t come. It’s either his back’s bad or his chest is bothering him, or his head aches or some such.’ He shook his head. ‘I guess I shouldn’t complain, not after all he’s been through – he was on the Somme, you know – but I really don’t understand the man. I’m told he’s a skilled tradesman: a bricklayer or plasterer, something like that. But if there’s no work for him in that line, I’d have thought he’d be only too thankful to find work where he could. It must have been very demoralizing for a good tradesman like him to come back from fighting for his country and find there’s no job for him to go to. And the terrible thing is, there are thousands like him. It’s happening all over the country.’ He sighed and shook his head again. Then, after a pause, he went on, more cheerfully, ‘Mind you, when Blatch does manage to turn up he works hard. None better, I’ll give him that. I just wish we could rely on him a bit more.’

‘Yes, I can imagine there’s always plenty of work to be done in a garden the size of this one,’ Stella said.

‘Indeed, there is.’ Roger nodded. He was silent for several minutes, finishing the last of his coffee, then he said, ‘It’s a great pity the man is not a bit more like his wife. Emma Blatch is totally dependable, a really hard-working woman. She’s here every day in spite of the fact that she’s got that little consumptive daughter to care for, as well as two older children.’

‘Oh, I didn’t realize that!’ Stella said, surprised.

He dabbed his moustache. ‘Yes. From what I remember, Ivy – I think that’s her name – is a pretty little thing. In the summer Emma sometimes used to bring her along when she came to work. That was before she got too ill, of course; we haven’t seen her for some time now. But even when she did come, she was always pale and delicate-looking; just like a little fairy. But now it seems there’s nothing can be done for her. It’s all very, very sad.’ He was quiet for a moment, obviously moved by the thought, then he pulled himself together and pushed his chair back, smiling at Stella as he got to his feet. ‘But I mustn’t sit here chatting all day, pleasant though it is to talk to you. If you’ll excuse me, my dear, I’ve got some telephone calls to make.’ He went to the door, then turned back. ‘It looks as if it’s going to be a nice day today, so if you go out in the garden do go and look for the winter honeysuckle. It’s at the bottom of the garden in the shrubbery, not far from the gate into the wood. Not much to look at but the scent is wonderful.’

‘Thank you, I’ll do that,’ she said, returning his smile. She poured herself another cup of coffee and thought what a nice man her father-in-law was. And not for the first time she wondered how such a nice man could have a daughter as rude and unpleasant as Rosalie.

A few days later, the kitchen was warm when Emma arrived, and there was a pile of washing-up in the sink.

‘Sorry I’m late, Maisie, but I was up all night with Ivy,’ she said breathlessly, hanging her coat on the back of the door.

‘Oh dear, she’s not bad again?’ Maisie asked sympathetically, with the teapot in her hand. She always made a pot of tea as soon as Emma arrived.

Emma nodded. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll do what I’ve got to do here then I’ll go back to her.’ Her lip trembled and she bit it hard. ‘My little girl’s not much longer for this life, Maisie.’ She took several sips of tea and closed her eyes. ‘Oh, this is lovely. Just what I needed.’

‘If Ivy’s really bad, I think you should go home as soon as you’ve drunk your tea, Emma,’ Maisie said, her voice unusually gentle. ‘Stay with her. Poor mite. She’ll be needing her mum.’

Emma gave a worried sigh as she looked round. ‘I’d like to, but what about …?’ She nodded towards the dishes in the sink.

‘Don’t worry about that, I’ll get Elsie to see to them.’ Elsie Green was the ‘scrubbing woman’ who came in twice a week to do the heavier cleaning. ‘And as for the rest, what don’t get done’ll get left,’ Maisie said firmly. She lowered her voice. ‘Mrs Stella has already told me she don’t want us to clean her rooms.’

‘Why not?’ Emma’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Don’t she trust us?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing like that,’ Maisie said with a laugh. ‘She just said she’s never been used to it so she’s quite happy to manage for herself. She seems quite anxious not to make extra work for us,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘But I told her the laundry is always done by two women from the village who come every Monday, so she’s quite happy to put her laundry out.’ Then her voice hardened. ‘She’s not a bit like that one over there – her place is always in a mess and she don’t care how much work she makes for other people.’ She nodded in the direction of Rosalie and Philip’s flat.

‘Don’t I know it! I’d better just nip over and clean it up before I go.’ Emma hurriedly drained her tea and got to her feet.

‘No, you won’t. You get off home right now,’ Maisie said firmly. ‘Go and see to your little one.’ She laid a hand on Emma’s arm. ‘And don’t worry, Em, your jobs will all get done and I’ll see to it that you won’t lose your wages.’

Emma’s eyes filled with unshed tears. ‘Thanks, Maise. I would be glad …’ She left the sentence unfinished as she shrugged her coat on and went to open the door, bumping into Henry as he was coming in.

‘Where are you off to, then?’ he asked in surprise.

‘Home. I’ve got to go back to Ivy,’ she said, hurrying off before the tears spilled over.

Henry came in and closed the door. ‘I’m not surprised. I knew the little one was bad,’ he said as he sat down and laid his cap on the table in front of him. He accepted the mug of tea Maisie had poured for him. ‘Thanks, Maise,’ he said absently, then went on, ‘I could hear her coughing in the night, poor little mite. That cough racks her to pieces. I know Emma was up most of the night with her. The walls between their cottage and mine are paper thin, so you can’t help hearing what goes on.’ He took a gulp of tea. ‘Sometimes you hear more than you want,’ he added enigmatically. He drained his mug and put it down. ‘Is Arthur here today?’

‘How would I know?’

‘I didn’t know if Emma had said. I heard him come home from the pub last night. He was banging about enough to wake the dead, so I reckon he’d had a skinful. I didn’t go to the Nag’s Head last night, I was too tired. I try and keep him a bit quiet when I do go, because I usually help him home. Do you know, sometimes he’s that far gone he’d never find his way back on his own.’ He began to laugh. ‘One of these days he’ll end up in the river, if he’s not careful. That’ll sober him up.’

‘You shouldn’t say such things, Henry,’ she admonished him. ‘Many a true word …’ She frowned. ‘Mind you, it beats me where he gets the money from. According to Emma, he doesn’t get a pension because they say he’s fit enough to work. They don’t take into account the fact that there is no work. And if there was, he wouldn’t be able to manage it for more than two days at a stretch.’ She filled the kettle and banged it down on the hob. ‘It’s a scandal the way these men who’ve fought for their country are treated. Standing on street corners because there’s no jobs, or going round selling matches to try and make a few coppers. It’s not right in this day and age.’

‘No, it’s not,’ he agreed. Then, more forcefully, ‘He gets the money from Emma, of course. He bloody well ought to be shot, taking the money she’s earned and tipping it down his throat, the way he does.’

‘Henry, you know I won’t have such language in my kitchen,’ Maisie said sharply. She sat down, her elbows on the table, hands cupped round her second cup of tea. ‘You’re fond of Emma, aren’t you?’ she said quietly.

He looked out of the window, a dull flush spreading over his handsome face. ‘Aye. She’s a good sort,’ he said. ‘That man doesn’t appreciate her. She deserves better.’ He got to his feet. ‘I must go. I’ve got work to do.’

After he’d gone, Maisie remained sitting at the table, hardly noticing the winter sunlight slanting through the long window on to the shining copper pans lined up on the dresser shelf. Life wasn’t fair, she decided. Emma was married, she had a husband, even if he was a bit too fond of drink and not fond enough of work. But at least she did have a husband, while she, Maisie, had never had a man in her life, never felt the warmth of a man’s arms round her, his face close to hers, like they described in the penny romances she was fond of reading. And with all the carnage in the war, the thousands of young men lost, she probably never would have, she thought bitterly. Unless Henry … Her expression softened. Henry with his dark curly hair and twinkling eyes would be a catch for any girl, even with his deformed back. He’d been married once, before he came to work at Warren’s End, she knew that much, but he never, ever talked about his wife. Although she assumed she’d died, Maisie didn’t really know, so it was possible she was still alive and they were living apart. It wasn’t something he talked about and you couldn’t ask … She didn’t think even Emma knew, and he’d have told her if he’d told anybody.

Henry was very fond of Emma. Maisie could see that, in a hundred little ways; though oddly enough neither of them seemed aware of it. Perhaps it was as well under the circumstances.

She got up from her chair and took the dirty crockery over to add to the pile in the sink. Then she stood and stared at her reflection in the mirror that hung there. Regular features, neat black hair … She sighed. There was no justice. If only Henry would take his eyes off Emma for a moment he might see that here was a woman, still young, not bad-looking, with good teeth, ready and only too willing … Even if he had still got a wife somewhere.

Flushing to the roots of her hair, she fetched the kettle from the stove and began the washing-up.

After breakfast, Stella went back to her flat and put on her coat and hat to go and find the winter honeysuckle Roger had told her about. She had hardly got down the steps outside her door when an upstairs window opened and Doreen, still in her diaphanous pale-mauve negligée, called to her.

‘It’s very cold today, dear. Are you sure you’re wrapped up warmly enough? I’ve got a shawl you can borrow if you want it.’

‘I’m quite warm enough, thank you, Doreen.’ The name still didn’t trip lightly off her tongue, in spite of the fact that Doreen had insisted that ‘in this day and age there was no need for old-fashioned mother-in-law, father-in-law formality’.

‘Well, if you’re quite sure … And keep to the paths, dear. The grass will be very wet and we don’t want you catching cold and risking our precious bundle, do we?’

Stella turned away without answering. She was becoming just a little irritated that Doreen felt the need to keep reminding her to look after John’s baby in such a coy manner. As if she needed reminding! But Roger and Doreen had been kind enough to give her a home and to welcome her into their family, so such a minor irritation was a small price to pay. It was only natural for Doreen to be concerned over the only grandchild she was ever likely to have.

She continued on her way across the paved yard between the house and the stable block, most of which was now Rosalie and Philip’s flat, although Roger’s hunter and Rosalie’s horse, Magpie, were still stabled at the far end along with the pony and trap.

Henry appeared round the corner from the kitchen, whistling cheerfully.

When she had greeted him, she asked, ‘It’s a lovely day, isn’t it, Henry? I thought I might go into the town a bit later on. Is it too far to walk? Or is there a bus?’

He grinned. ‘No buses, but the trams run every hour, on the hour, Mrs Stella, and I reckon you’ve just missed one.’ He hesitated, then said diplomatically, ‘It’s a bit over a mile to the shops, so a bit too far for a lady to walk, I’d say.’

‘Oh, I’m quite used to walking. But you’re probably right. At the moment, anyway.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, that’s that, then; if I wait for the next tram, I’ll be late back for lunch. It’s the first really nice day, too.’ She turned away.

‘Hang on a minute, Mrs Stella. I’ll have a word with Mr Philip,’ he said, his grin broadening. ‘It just so happens I’ll be taking him into the town myself …’

Stella’s face lit up. ‘So you’ll be able to give me a lift in the trap?’

‘Better than that, Ma’am. If Mr Philip agrees, we’ll take you in his car. He calls her his Tin Lizzie. That’s a Model T Ford, in case you didn’t know,’ he added.

‘I did know that.’ She smiled broadly when she saw his surprise. ‘I wasn’t exactly brought up in the ark, Henry. In fact, I often used to drive an ambulance to ferry the patients about when I worked at the convalescent home.’

‘Well, I never. A little thing like you, no bigger than a minute, driving an ambulance,’ he said admiringly. Then remembered himself, blushed, and added, ‘Begging your pardon, Mrs Stella. I shouldn’t have said that.’

She laughed. ‘It’s all right, Henry. I used to get a lot of comments like that when I was at work.’ Suddenly, and for a fleeting moment, she missed the camaraderie of the home.

‘If you don’t mind waiting a minute, I’ll just go and have a word with Mr Philip, although I’m sure he won’t mind you coming with us; then I’ll fetch the car round to the door.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a great shame, you know. That car is his pride and joy but now, because of his legs, he can’t drive it, so I have to do it for him.’ He grinned again. ‘Not that I mind, of course.’

‘No, I’m sure you don’t.’ Stella watched him go as she waited in the sunshine and thought what a pleasant, cheery man he was in spite of his crooked back, which she knew often gave him pain.

A moment later, Henry came out and put his thumbs up as he went to fetch the car. She went back to her flat on the pretext of having forgotten something, because she knew from her nursing experience how embarrassed Philip would be if she stood watching while he struggled into the car. When he was settled in the seat beside the driver, she went out again. Tin Lizzie, as Henry had called her, was a smart little car, with a dark-red body and a black hood. She was obviously lovingly cared for, with gleaming bodywork and sparkling brass.

‘It’s very kind of you to let me come with you today, Philip,’ she said carefully getting into the back seat.

‘Believe me, the pleasure’s all mine,’ Philip said gallantly. ‘It’s not often I get the opportunity to take a lady out, so we’re glad to be able to help, aren’t we, Henry? We usually go into the town once or twice a week, even if there’s no shopping to do, but I need to go to the art shop today for some new paints and I’m running out of paper.’

‘So what do you do if there’s nothing you need to buy?’ Stella asked.

‘Oh, we just nip into the town, look in at the gallery, and then go and have a drink at the Goat and Boot. When Henry can spare the time, that is.’

She laughed. ‘And is that where I’ll find you when I’ve finished my shopping? In the Goat and Boot?’

‘No, Mrs Stella. We’ll still be either in the art shop or the gallery, probably the art shop, if I know Mr Philip,’ Henry said, laughing with her. ‘He takes longer to buy a few sheets of paper than it takes the average woman to buy a new hat. And that’s saying something.’

‘Well, it’s a tricky business, buying paper,’ Philip said good-humouredly. ‘Water-colour, oils, pastel, pen-and-ink, they all need different kinds. And then there’s colour to consider, so you see, it’s not like going into the shop and buying a writing pad.’

‘And to think I’ve lived here for the past two months and didn’t even know you were an artist,’ Stella said in surprise.

‘Well, it gives me something to do,’ he replied briefly.

Henry stopped the car outside the art shop and Stella left the two men, promising to be back in an hour, and went to explore the little market town. The shops were set around a cobbled market square that had several small streets leading off it and a market cross in the middle. The Goat and Boot pub stood next to the art shop, and there was a small art gallery beside it with a water-colour painting displayed in each window. As she made her leisurely way round the square, she counted two banks, an ironmonger’s, a second-hand furniture store, a haberdasher’s, a milliner’s, a teashop, two dress shops and a men’s outfitters as well as a butcher’s, a greengrocer’s, three grocery stores and a small department store with five windows, each displaying objects from different departments. It was a busy little town, even though it was not market day, with crowds of people hurrying about their business or clogging up the pavement to exchange the latest gossip, and there was a constant clip-clop from the hooves of horses pulling delivery carts and coal wagons, blinkered against the sight of the motor cars and trams rushing noisily past them.

Stella wandered round the square, then went into the dress section of the department store and bought two skirts designed to expand and accommodate her growing figure and three pretty smock-like blouses that would go some way to concealing it.

‘I wouldn’t want you to think I’m ashamed to be pregnant,’ she assured the assistant in the dress shop as she paid for her purchases.

‘Indeed, no, Madam, but one prefers not to flaunt one’s condition, particularly where there are gentlemen,’ the assistant said primly. ‘And these skirts and smocks are the very latest designs for what you might call … concealment.’ She leaned forward. ‘We have some very nice perambulators in the children’s section, just over there,’ she said, nodding towards it.

‘Thank you.’ Stella went over and found everything that she could possibly need for her coming baby, but she contented herself with buying wool and knitting needles and patterns for baby clothes. She couldn’t resist just looking at the perambulators, though, and there was one that she particularly liked, but the price was rather high. She decided she would have to go home and do some careful calculations before she could think of putting down a deposit on it. She glanced at her watch. Philip and Henry would be waiting for her. She hurried across the square and back to the car, but there was no sight of the two men. She wondered where they could be.

Six

Stella looked in at the art shop, but neither Philip nor Henry were inside. Puzzled, she glanced up and down the road but there was no sign of either of them, although the car was still there, parked beside the kerb. Then she remembered Philip speaking about the art gallery, so she went along to the double-fronted Georgian house where the sign HUNTER’S MOON GALLERIES, written in gold on a dark-green background, hung.

To her relief she could see Philip inside, deep in conversation with a man with iron-grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard. From his slightly flamboyant manner and style of dress – including a brightly coloured rather floppy cravat – Stella assumed this to be Benedict Gerard, the proprietor. Diplomatically, Henry was waiting at a discreet distance, ostensibly examining the pictures hanging on the walls.

She was undecided what to do. There was a cold wind blowing, chilling her, but she felt it would be intrusive to walk into the gallery and interrupt Philip’s discussion. While she hesitated, the window display caught her eye. It was a single picture on an easel of a beach scene at low tide. A small boat was lying half on its side on the beach and a man a little distance away was stooping to gather something – cockles perhaps – at the edge of the sea. The sun was setting in a sky streaked with yellow, orange and purple, throwing ripples of light over the water and long shadows on the land. The overall impression was of complete peace. She stared at it for some time, appreciating the tastefully draped black material used as a backdrop, which threw up the muted colours. She leaned forward to see the signature in the corner of the painting. It was Philip Anderson.

As she straightened up, the two men emerged from the gallery.

‘I was just …’ she began, but Philip cut across her words.

‘I hope we haven’t kept you waiting too long,’ he said briskly. ‘I expect you’re dying for a drink.’

‘Yes, but please don’t let the fact that I’m here interfere with your usual habits,’ she said with a smile. ‘I won’t scandalize the natives by asking if I might come with you to the Goat and Boot, but there’s a little teashop over there on the corner. I’ll go and have a cup of tea and wait for you there.’

‘Oh, it’s quite ridiculous!’ Philip said impatiently. ‘To think that in this day and age a respectable woman can’t go into a pub for a drink without getting a bad name.’ Then his face cleared and he grinned. ‘But as far as I know, there’s no reason why men can’t go into a teashop without getting themselves talked about. How about it, Henry? We might even manage to persuade them to make us a sandwich, then we could go for a spin in the countryside before we go home. What do you think, Stella?’

‘I think it’s a wonderful idea,’ Stella answered enthusiastically.

Henry nodded, but with less enthusiasm. ‘I’ll drive you over and then stay with the car while you’re in there, sir,’

‘Why, for heaven’s sake?’ Philip asked, frowning. ‘The car will be perfectly safe. We’ll be able to see if anyone tries to steal it. Not that that’s likely.’

‘It’s not that, sir. It’s just that it wouldn’t be right for me to come in with you and Mrs Stella, would it? Me being what you might call working-class …’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Philip exploded. ‘All these damn silly class things. People should have better things to concern themselves with. You’re a friend helping me, if anyone asks.’

‘All the same, sir, I think it’d be best if I didn’t.’ Henry looked down at his cheap suit. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I had a quiet pint in the Goat and Boot while I wait for you?’

‘Yes, I damn well would,’ Philip was clearly beginning to get annoyed and Stella was wishing she had never come in the first place. ‘In any case, don’t you think tongues would wag even more if Mrs Stella and I went in without you? We’d be the talk of this mean-minded little town in no time.’ He started towards the car, saying over his shoulder, ‘You go on ahead and order the tea, Stella. And ask if there’s a chance of a sandwich. And cream cakes. A place like that must serve delicious cream cakes. For three,’ he added firmly.

Stella walked across the square to the teashop, feeling decidedly guilty at having upset the two men’s usual habits. She could understand and respect Henry’s reluctance to come with them – clearly he would much rather have had a pint in the bar of the Goat and Boot. But it was equally obvious that despite his mild exterior Philip was not a man to be crossed when his mind was made up.

At the same time, she could well imagine the raised eyebrows if she were to be seen out alone with Philip, even though he was her brother-in-law. She glanced around a little impatiently at the people in the square going about their business, women with shopping baskets, tradesmen in striped aprons, mothers pushing prams. After all she’d seen and done working at Hill House, the prejudices of a small country town seemed petty and insignificant. Anyway, she liked Henry and she agreed with Philip. There was no reason at all why he shouldn’t join them for a cup of tea and a sandwich.

The teashop was not very big and the interior slightly dim, with dark-oak tables and chairs and mock-Tudor panelling. But the blue-checked tablecloths and curtains and the pretty blue-and-white china brightened the atmosphere, and the place was obviously very popular because there was only one empty table. Fortunately it was in the bay window, where they could easily see her. She sat down to wait for the two men. The waitress, a young girl of not more than about fifteen in a black dress and frilly white apron, with a matching frilly cap on her curls, was at first doubtful when Stella asked for sandwiches and cakes for herself and the two friends who would soon be arriving, nodding briefly towards the car, where Henry was helping Philip to alight. But she agreed to go and ask the plump, motherly lady, clearly the owner, who was sitting behind the till, and before long a large plate of ham sandwiches and a pot of tea appeared on the table. And by the time Henry had manoeuvred Philip into his chair, there were three bowls of steaming soup as well.

‘This looks good,’ Philip said, appreciatively rubbing his hands together. ‘Clever of you to think of ordering soup, Stella.’

‘I didn’t. It just appeared,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I’m as surprised as you are.’

While they were talking, Henry took Philip’s hat and coat and hung them on the hat stand and hung his own cap beside them, then thought better of it and screwed it up and put it in his pocket.

‘Where shall I sit, sir?’ Henry asked in a whisper when he came back to the table. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anywhere where I …’

Philip looked up in surprise. ‘Don’t be a damn fool, man. You’ll sit here with us, of course.’ He didn’t raise his voice, but there was no doubt he was issuing a command.

Rather uncomfortably Henry did as he was bidden, keeping his eyes fixed on his plate and saying nothing but watching carefully out of the corner of his eye what the others did, anxious not to do the wrong thing by dipping his bread in his soup or tipping the bowl the wrong way. But by the time the soup and half the sandwiches were gone, he had relaxed and was even beginning to join in the conversation. Talking comfortably with these two men, Stella realized she hadn’t enjoyed herself so much since she left the convalescent home over two months ago.

Quite a long time later, when everything, including a second pot of tea and a plate of delicious home-made cream cakes, had been consumed, Philip called for the bill.

‘That was all absolutely delicious,’ he said appreciatively.

The waitress beamed. She leaned down and said quietly, ‘Madam says there’s no charge. She says she won’t make any charge for men what was wounded fighting for their country. Nor for their nurse and driver.’

Philip blew out his cheeks in surprise. ‘Well, that’s extremely kind of her but I really couldn’t …’

By this time the plump lady had left her post and come over. ‘I’m only too pleased to have had the privilege of serving you, young man,’ she said firmly. ‘I feel it’s the least I can do after what I know you must have been through. The Somme, was it?’

‘Ypres,’ he said briefly, then returned to his subject. ‘It’s extremely kind of you to make the offer,’ he repeated. ‘But I really couldn’t accept. We must have eaten all the day’s profit …’

‘Don’t you worry about that, dear.’ She leaned over and whispered in his ear. ‘I make plenty enough out of ladies, like those over there, who’ve got nothing better to do than drink tea and gossip all the livelong day.’ She smiled, but the smile quickly faded. ‘I lost my husband at Passchendaele and I started up this little teashop to try and fill the gap in my life that his death left. It doesn’t, of course,’ she added sadly, ‘but at least it gives me something to get up for every morning.’ She brightened again. ‘And I hear all the gossip!’

They all laughed. Then Philip said, ‘Then we thank you for your kindness and I won’t insult you by insisting on paying for what we’ve had today. On one condition.’

‘And what’s that, dear?’

‘That we’re allowed to pay for whatever we have in future when we come here. Because we’ll be back, I can assure you of that.’

She smiled and nodded. ‘That’s fair enough. I’ll look forward to seeing you all again before too long.’

When she had gone back to her place behind the counter, Henry got to his feet and helped Philip to his. ‘I’ll get your coat and go and open up the car, sir.’

‘Good man.’

When he had gone, Philip leaned towards Stella, grinning. ‘How do you like being called my nurse?’

‘I’ve been called worse things,’ she said dryly. ‘But come on, let me fulfil the role and help you to the car. Here are your sticks. No, if you hold that one like this you’ll find it much easier,’ she said demonstrating.

Expertly, Stella helped Philip out of the café and into the car.

‘Ah, yes, of course, you used to be a nurse, didn’t you?’ he said as without embarrassment he allowed her to make him comfortable. ‘I’d forgotten that. I must say you’ve still got the Florence Nightingale touch.’

She laughed and went to open the other door. Then stopped. ‘Oh dear, I was so busy being a good nurse that I forgot to pick up my bags. I’ll have to go back and fetch them.’

They were just where she had left them, but before she left she went over to the counter and said quietly, ‘Thank you, Mrs …’

‘Greenleaf,’ the plump lady said, looking puzzled. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No, not at all,’ Stella said with a smile. ‘But I just wanted to get things straight. Major Anderson is actually my brother-in-law, I’m not his nurse. It’s Henry who looks after him.’

‘Ah, I see. Thank you for telling me. Now I’ll know when you come again.’

‘That’s why I’ve told you.’ Stella smiled again and hurried back to the car.

Henry gave her a blanket to put round her knees and drove home the long way, out into wintry countryside, where the trees and hedges were still frost-rimed and the fields were striped in straight brown furrows after the autumn ploughing. Here and there the few red berries left by the birds brightened the hedgerows, and there were one or two brave branches of lamb’s-tail catkins beginning to show.

‘Won’t be long now till spring,’ Henry observed as he turned the car into the drive. ‘You can already see a faint fuzz of green where the leaves are beginning to bud in the trees.’

‘You must come with us again, Stella,’ Philip said. ‘We’ll take you for another drive in the country when spring has properly arrived.’

‘I’d like that very much,’ Stella said warmly. ‘And thank you both for a lovely time.’ She got out of the car. ‘I’ve really enjoyed …’

Her words were cut off as Doreen came hurrying across the yard, calling out as she came. ‘Where on earth have you been, Stella? I’ve been worried out of my mind as to what might have happened to you!’ She began wagging her finger as she got closer. ‘I thought you said you were only going for a walk in the garden.’

‘Yes, that’s what I’d intended to do, but Philip and Henry were going into the town and they offered me a lift, so I changed my mind and went with them,’ Stella explained coolly.

‘But you didn’t tell me you were going,’ Doreen said accusingly.

‘I didn’t know I had to.’ Stella turned her back and reached inside the car for her parcels.

‘Well, I like to …’ She broke off as Stella emerged with three large bags. ‘Oh, you’ve been shopping. Oh, do come and show me what you’ve bought!’ Doreen eyed the bags greedily.

‘Not now, Doreen, if you don’t mind. I’m a bit tired, so I’m going to put my feet up and have a rest.’

‘Oh, very well. Later, perhaps.’ Huffily, Doreen went back into the house. She hadn’t even acknowledged her son-in-law.

‘Good for you, Stella.’ Philip whispered. He caught her hand and surreptitiously squeezed it. ‘You have to stand up to her or she’ll try to rule you. I know. I’ve had some.’

Stella smiled at him and carried her bags into her flat, humming happily to herself because she knew she had found a friend and ally in her brother-in-law.

It didn’t occur to her to wonder why she should think she might need an ally.

When Henry finished work for the day he called at the Blatches’ cottage, ostensibly with a cabbage from the garden at Warren’s End.

‘Oh, you are kind, Henry. Thanks.’ Emma tried to smile at him, but she looked so pale and anxious that Henry had difficulty in restraining himself from taking her in his arms to comfort her. ‘Will you tell Maisie I’ll be back as soon as … Well, it won’t be long before I’m back, I know that,’ she said, biting her lip and making it bleed.

‘Is there anything I can do, Em?’ he asked gently. ‘Anything at all?’ He looked round the little room. It was spotlessly clean and there was a good fire in the grate, thanks, he knew, to the logs he had provided. There was also the remains of a meal on the table.

She shook her head. ‘There’s nothing anybody can do, Henry,’ she said with a catch in her voice. ‘I got the doctor to come and see her again, but all he could say was to keep her comfortable and give her warm drinks, and I already knew that.’

‘Well, just knock on the wall if you need me and I’ll come.’

‘Thanks, Henry.’ She put out a hand to him, then took it away quickly, flushing slightly. ‘It’s always a comfort to know you’re there.’

‘I’ll always be there for you, Em, you know that,’ he said quietly. He glanced over to where Arthur was sitting hunched by the fire, tears running down his face. ‘Doesn’t look as if he’s much help,’ he remarked.

‘He’s taking it hard,’ Emma said loyally, following his gaze. ‘He knows we’re going to lose our baby.’ Her voice broke. ‘Our Ivy’s only seven, Henry. This shouldn’t happen to a little mite who’s only seven years old. She should be going to school and playing with her friends and looking forward to the future, to getting married and having a family of her own. Not lying there coughing up her life’s blood. It’s not right, is it? It’s not how things should be.’

‘No, Emma, it isn’t how things should be.’ He touched her shoulder and turned to leave.

‘Henry …’

He turned back quickly. ‘Yes, Em?’

She lowered her voice. ‘You could make sure Arthur doesn’t drink too much down at the pub tonight. I don’t want him coming home drunk, I’ve got enough to cope with.’

‘But surely he won’t …’

‘Yes, he will. He’ll try and drown his sorrows. He can’t cope with sickness, he says it’s women’s work. And Ivy’s always been his favourite, so he’s taking it hard.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘To tell the truth, Henry, I’d rather he was in the pub out of the way. I can’t be doing with him …’ She sniffed and gave him a ghost of a smile. ‘Well, you know what I mean … But my Mary’s a good girl, she’ll help me do what’s needed when the time comes.’ She put her hand on his arm and this time she left it there. ‘It’s better this way, Henry, really it is.’

He put his hand briefly over hers. ‘Whatever you say, Em. And I’ll keep an eye on Arthur, don’t worry.’

Two days later, Doreen was down unusually early to breakfast. She came in with a face like thunder just as Stella was pouring a second cup of coffee for herself and Roger.

‘Pour one for me as well, will you?’ she asked coldly, sitting down and rearranging the frills on her new peach-coloured negligée.

‘Please, Stella,’ Roger added as a gentle reprimand, folding his newspaper and putting it on the table beside him.

‘Yes, of course.’ She looked up and gave Stella a rather frosty smile as she accepted her coffee. ‘Thank you, dear.’

‘So, to what do we owe the honour of this early morning visit, my dear?’ Roger asked. Despite his quizzical tone, Stella got the distinct impression that he resented his wife’s intrusion into the quiet breakfast conversation that had become something of a habit between her and her father-in-law.

Doreen glanced up at the carved-ivory clock on the mantelpiece. ‘It’s not that early, Roger. It’s gone half past eight.’

Stella allowed herself a small smile to hear those words from a woman who was rarely seen downstairs before nine thirty in the morning. She covered it by offering Doreen the marmalade for her toast.

‘Thank you.’ Doreen looked at her closely. ‘You’re looking rather pale, Stella.’ She nodded sagely. ‘Ah, yes. As I suspected, you’re suffering from the effects of your day out. It takes a couple of days for the effect to show.’

‘No, I’m not suffering from anything at all. I’m perfectly well, thank you,’ Stella said, trying not to sound cross. ‘And I was not out all day on Tuesday, we were only gone for a few hours.’

‘Well, it seemed a great deal longer than that to me. And over lunch, as well.’ Doreen nodded to herself. ‘But of course, I was forgetting, you had quite a substantial meal at Daisy’s Tearooms, didn’t you? With Philip.’ She paused. ‘And I understand Henry came too, which I find most inappropriate, I must say.’

Stella frowned. She felt as if she’d been spied on.

‘I expect you’re wondering how I know.’ Doreen smiled her frosty smile again. ‘I was at the Ladies’ Circle yesterday afternoon and Mrs Cole and Mrs Arbuthnot said they’d seen you at Daisy’s Tearooms when they went in for a cup of tea. I could tell they were quite shocked to see you there with two men – one of them a servant, no less, and I really can’t say I blame them.’ She nibbled daintily at her toast. ‘I was so embarrassed when they told me that I didn’t know what to say in your defence. Well, in truth there was nothing I could say. I was as shocked as they were.’ She looked across at her husband for support.

She didn’t get it.

‘I can’t see why you should be,’ he said, reaching for the coffee pot. ‘After all, Philip is Stella’s brother-in-law.’

She turned on him. ‘Yes, I know that. But didn’t you listen to what I was saying? Henry was with them! They should never have allowed him to sit at the same table! He should have waited for them in the car.’

‘That’s exactly what he wanted to do, Doreen, but Philip quite rightly wouldn’t hear of it. And I agreed with him. After all, Henry needed his lunch as much as we did,’ Stella said, keeping her temper with difficulty.

‘Nevertheless he should have …’ Doreen began, but Stella held her ground.

‘Well, what do you think your friends would have said if I had gone there alone with Philip?’ she asked, innocently adding, ‘I suppose they would have thought we were having an affair, which would have shocked them even more.’ She took several sips of coffee to let her words sink in, while Doreen turned a delicate shade of pink. But before she could speak Stella went on, ‘As it was, the very kind lady who owned the shop thought that I was Philip’s nurse and Henry his driver, and she was perfectly happy with the situation. In fact, she said she hoped we would go back another day.’

‘Well said, Stella,’ Roger said, nodding approvingly and dabbing his moustache.

‘Well, I most certainly hope you will not!’ Doreen said firmly. She lifted her chin. ‘I shall speak to Rosalie and tell her to put a stop to it.’

‘You’ll do nothing of the kind, Doreen,’ Roger said in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘If Philip offers to take Stella out for the afternoon and stop for a cup of tea at the tearooms, then I hope your so-called friends will mind their own business and not come tittle-tattling to you about it. And if Henry goes with them, then all to the good. But either way, it’s no concern of anybody else.’

‘It’s of concern to us, Roger,’ Doreen said more quietly. ‘Remember, we are responsible for Stella’s well-being and I really don’t think it’s wise for her to go out in Philip’s car, never mind being seen in teashops, with or without Henry.’

‘Good heavens, woman, why ever not?’ In spite of his efforts to smooth it, his moustache began to bristle.

‘Well, it is rather small and I’m worried that it might be bad for the precious bundle to be shaken about in a vehicle like that.’ She folded up her napkin and said, without looking at him, ‘Henry could always take Stella in the Daimler if she wants to go anywhere, couldn’t he, Roger?’

Roger cleared his throat noisily. ‘I don’t allow Henry to drive the Daimler, you know that, Doreen.’

‘Then it’s time you did, because you rarely drive it yourself.’ Her voice was sharp. ‘In any event, if it’s a case of protecting your grandson then I would have thought you might stretch a point. I really don’t know why you bought that enormous car in the first place. It hardly ever sees the light of day except when you ask Henry to polish it. You won’t even allow me to be driven to my Ladies’ Circle in it.’ Obviously, this was a continual bone of contention between husband and wife.

‘I was very comfortable in Philip’s car,’ Stella interrupted firmly, ‘It’s a very nice little car and immaculately kept, thanks to Henry. And I have no wish to be taken in the Daimler for a simple trip into the town.’ She got up from the table. ‘If Philip offers me a lift again, I shall be quite happy to accept. Otherwise I shall go on the tram.’

‘And if I forbid you to risk the life of my grandson?’

Stella sat down again and took several deep breaths before she spoke, determined not to cross swords any further with her mother-in-law. ‘I would have thought you would know, Doreen that I would never do anything that might harm my baby,’ she said quietly but with unmistakeable emphasis on ‘my’. ‘But things are not like they were in your day, when women in my condition were hidden away out of sight and treated as semi-invalids. I am a normal healthy woman and I intend to lead a normal, healthy life, going for walks and doing what I have always done. And if I get invited to go for a drive with my brother-in-law, I see no reason to refuse. I’m sure it will do me no harm to get away from the house now and again!’

‘Well, I’m only thinking of your own good and the good of the child,’ Doreen said, with a huffy shrug. ‘And,’ she added, ‘I wouldn’t want you to get yourself talked about.’

‘I think Stella is perfectly capable of looking after herself and knowing what’s best for the child, Doreen,’ Roger said quickly, trying to put an end to the conversation. ‘Remember, she was a nurse before she came here.’

‘Working in a military convalescent home is hardly the same thing,’ Doreen replied icily, determined not to be put in the wrong.

Stella bit her lip and poured herself more coffee. She was finding her mother-in-law increasingly infuriating. And it was still another four months or so before the baby was due to be born.

Seven

Doreen sipped her coffee and made a face because it was cold, but said nothing more. She was obviously torn between chastising her daughter-in-law further and annoying her husband by doing so. Stella drank her coffee quickly, anxious to leave the breakfast table before Doreen could get her second wind and complain further about her behaviour. The Colonel alone seemed at ease, engrossed in the financial columns of The Times.

But before Stella could escape, the door opened and Maisie came in looking anxious and slightly flustered. She went over and quietly whispered something in Doreen’s ear.

‘Thank you, Maisie. Oh dear, that’s very sad.’ Doreen glanced up at the maid, frowning. ‘I take it you’ll be able to manage without her for a few days?’

‘I think so, Ma’am,’ Maisie doubtfully.

‘Perhaps one of the scrubbing women will come in for an extra hour now and then, and I’ll warn Mrs Anderson that her flat won’t be cleaned quite as much for a few days. That should help.’ She pinched her lip. ‘And perhaps Mrs Stella could do a little light dusting in her flat, too.’

Maisie looked surprised. ‘Oh, but Mrs Stella always …’ she began.

‘I’ll be very happy to do that, Maisie,’ Stella interrupted quickly, giving Maisie a conspiratorial wink.

Doreen glanced up at Maisie and gave a slight shrug. ‘I’m not sure there’s much else we can do to help you, Maisie. I’m afraid you’ll just have to manage as best you can.’ It was plain that she was quite prepared to inflict sacrifices on other people but not to be inconvenienced herself. ‘Please send the Blatches our condolences,’ she said almost as an afterthought. ‘Oh, and one more thing,’ as Maisie prepared to leave the room, ‘could you bring in more toast and coffee?’

‘The little Blatch child has died,’ she informed them flatly when Maisie had left the room. ‘It was not unexpected, of course.’

‘No, but it’s very, very sad,’ Roger said, shaking his head. ‘Ivy. That’s it, that was her name,’ he ruminated thoughtfully. ‘She was a pretty little thing, too, from what I remember, although of course I never had very much to do with her. She always seemed a bit afraid of me, I don’t know why.’ Once again he dabbed his moustache with his napkin.

‘I’m not surprised. You probably frightened the wits out of the child, strutting about the place the way you do, shouting orders. You’ve got a voice like a foghorn at times.’ Doreen was exaggerating but was obviously still annoyed that he hadn’t supported her in her argument with Stella.

He ignored her. ‘I must see Radford, the undertaker. Make sure the poor mite has a decent funeral.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Ah, it’s a bad business, burying a child. Not the proper order of things. Not the proper order at all.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Why should you have anything to do with arranging the funeral, Roger? What’s it got to do with us? Emma Blatch is only our cook and general help, when all’s said and done,’ Doreen said irritably.

‘Emma is in my employ and so is her husband – when he chooses to turn up. Therefore, Doreen, it’s my duty to ensure that their daughter has something better than a pauper’s funeral. Surely, even you wouldn’t disagree with that?’ He fixed his eye on his wife. She had caused him quite enough trouble for one day.

‘No, I suppose not,’ she murmured, wilting slightly under his gaze. After nearly thirty years of marriage Doreen knew when she was beaten.

Rosalie came in from her morning ride and threw her hat and riding crop down on the settee. Then she sat down and pulled off her boots and left them where they fell.

Philip was just finishing his breakfast at the table by the window. ‘Did you have a good ride?’ he asked. ‘It’s a beautiful morning for it.’

‘Yes, it was exhilarating. Magpie went well, too. He’ll be in good condition for the hunt tomorrow.’ She pushed a pile of papers off the chair and sat down opposite Philip, then lifted the lid of the small food warmer. ‘Ugh. Only scrambled eggs and bacon. Aren’t there any sausages and tomatoes? Or have you eaten them all, greedy pig?’ She grinned at him, good-humoured after her gallop across the fields.

He didn’t smile back. ‘No, there are no sausage or tomatoes because Maisie is a bit overworked. Mrs Blatch isn’t in today. Her little daughter has just died. And I’m afraid we’ll have to make our own toast, too.’

‘Oh, I expect we can manage that.’ Rosalie helped herself, then paused, with the lid of the warmer still in her hand. ‘Oh dear, poor little Ivy,’ she said quietly. ‘She used to love to come with me to give Magpie bits of apple or carrot, and she always insisted on letting him take them from her hand even though she was more than half afraid of him – not that he would ever have hurt her, of course. But he must have seemed enormous to her, she was such a little thing. She always looked as if a puff of wind would blow her away.’ She sat down and began to eat her breakfast thoughtfully. ‘I’ll look and see if I’ve got a black coat I can give Emma. She won’t be able to afford to buy mourning clothes, not on her wages. I might have a hat for her, too. I’ll have a look after breakfast.’

‘That’s a nice thought, Rosie, and I’m sure Emma will appreciate it. But first of all,’ Philip reminded her, ‘we need to do the washing-up and tidy the flat.’

‘Oh Lord, yes, I suppose we can’t expect Maisie …’

‘No, we can’t,’ he said firmly. ‘Maisie will have more than enough to do.’

‘Not that you’ll be much help,’ she said, glancing at him.

‘Since most of the mess in here is yours, I don’t think I need to feel any guilt over that,’ he replied without rancour, gazing round the room, at the magazines strewn on the floor, where she’d pushed them off the chair, and the empty whisky glass making a ring on the little table beside her armchair. There was also a pile of ironed clothes that had been brought over from the house, which she hadn’t yet put away. He had no idea where she had been last night – these days he didn’t even bother to ask – but the coat she’d been wearing when she came in late was flung carelessly down on the other end of the settee, her handbag beside it, her shoes lying where she had kicked them off.

‘I expect your room is quite pristine,’ she said, with her mouth full.

‘I wouldn’t say that, but I try not to make more work for Henry than I have to.’

She looked round, noticing the clutter almost for the first time. ‘Do you think Henry might …?’

‘No, I do not. He’s a man’s man not a lady’s maid.’ Philip’s tone brooked no argument.

‘All right, don’t get your dander up. I only asked.’

‘It won’t hurt you to do it yourself, Rosie. You’ve only got to make your bed and tidy up a bit, for goodness’ sake. It won’t kill you.’

She looked at her watch, frowning. ‘I’m meeting the gang down at the club at eleven.’

He began to struggle to his feet. ‘Then you’d better get your skates on, hadn’t you? Especially if you’re going to look out the things for Emma.’ He hooked one of his sticks round the leg of a chair and half-dragged, half-pushed it across to the sink. ‘If you wash up, I can sit here and dry the things.’ He looked up and saw her thunderous expression. ‘Oh, come on, Rosie, it won’t hurt you for once.’

She got up irritably from her chair. ‘And don’t call me Rosie!’ was all she said as she poured water from the kettle into the washing-up bowl.

Stella hummed to herself as she flicked a duster round her flat, in the annexe. There was very little to do, in fact, because she took great pride in keeping her rooms clean and tidy, never having had such a pleasant little flat before. And all to herself, too. Sometimes she had to pinch herself to make sure she was not dreaming.

She sat down in her armchair and gazed thoughtfully out at the uninterrupted view of the garden through the French windows. She hoped she hadn’t been too short with Doreen, she really didn’t want to antagonize her mother-in-law. She appreciated this flat, knowing how lucky she was to have it, especially since she would never have been able to afford anything remotely like it. And it was a privilege to have the opportunity to live in the house where John had been brought up, to walk where he had walked and to see the things he had grown up with. Nevertheless, she was realistic enough to realize that it had only been provided because she was carrying John’s baby – the ‘precious bundle’, as Doreen so irritatingly and possessively called it. Indeed, if she hadn’t been found to be pregnant at such an opportune time she would have been back at the convalescent home by now, at her wits end to know which way to turn, and would probably never have visited Warren’s End again. But fate had intervened, and here she was in this comfortable little flat. And for that she was grateful, and prepared to put up with a few minor inconveniences.

Not that ‘minor’ was a word that could ever be associated with Doreen.

And the rather callous way she had received news of the little girl’s death gave Stella pause for thought. The death of any child was sad, and even though she herself had never known the little girl she could well imagine the agony Emma was suffering. But it hadn’t appeared to affect Doreen; her only thought had been how far she might be inconvenienced. Stella found it difficult to comprehend how anybody could be so unfeeling. And it didn’t end there.

It was just over a week later that Roger said at dinner, ‘It was a sad little funeral today.’ He gave his moustache its ritual dab with his napkin.

‘I can’t think why you went to it,’ Doreen said petulantly. ‘After all, you’ll pay the bill. What more do they expect?’

‘It wasn’t a matter of what they expected, I felt it my duty to go,’ he replied shortly.

‘I would have thought that was well above and beyond the call of duty,’ Doreen persisted. ‘After all …’

‘And it was very well done.’ He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Radford followed my instructions to the letter and did a good job.’ He shook his head. ‘Pathetic, though, that little white coffin …’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake …’ Doreen said with a shudder.

‘Did Emma attend? Or was it a men only funeral?’ Rosalie asked, picking at a lamb chop.

‘Oh, yes, Emma was there. Wild horses wouldn’t have kept her away. I must say she looked very smart in that black coat and hat you gave her, Rosalie. Very dignified, she was, too, although she was obviously broken-hearted and at one point I thought that she was going to faint. But she didn’t. She held her head high and never shed a tear.’

‘I don’t suppose the poor woman had any tears left,’ Stella said, thinking of her own grieving.

‘It was more than could be said of Arthur, poor devil.’ Roger shook his head sadly. ‘He looked a bit of a wreck and was shaking like a leaf. Fortunately, Henry was there to keep an eye on him.’

‘He is a bit of a wreck,’ Philip said savagely. ‘The damned war wrecked him just as much as if he’d had his legs blown off. And now the poor sod – excuse my language, ladies – not only can’t get back the job he was trained for, he can’t get a proper job at all. It’s not right. He’s like hundreds of others who fought for their country and now get no help to get back on their feet. Worse than that, they’re virtual outcasts. Standing on street corners, propped on crutches trying to sell matches to get enough money to feed their wives and children. It’s an absolute disgrace!’ He lowered his head, embarrassed at his outburst. ‘Sorry. Pass the potatoes, will you please, Rosie.’

‘I don’t think that’s altogether fair in Arthur’s case, Philip,’ Roger reproved him mildly. ‘He knows there’s always work here in the garden for him when he chooses to come – which isn’t that often, I’m afraid.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘Mind you, when he does come he works like a dervish. I’ve never seen anyone dig so hard for such a long time. But then, of course, his back plays up and he can’t come for weeks on end, which isn’t very satisfactory from my point of view.’

‘But that’s all part of his problem. Don’t you see …’ Philip began, but Rosalie cut him short.

‘Anyway, I’m glad the coat and hat fitted,’ she said brightly, passing Philip the vegetable dish and putting an end to what she considered a disagreeable topic. ‘I thought they would. Emma’s much about my size.’

‘It was good of you to give them to her, dear,’ Doreen said, smiling approvingly at her daughter’s largesse. ‘She’d only got that old tweed coat she always wears, so she probably wouldn’t have been able to go to the funeral if you hadn’t provided her with proper mourning.’

Rosalie shrugged. ‘Well, it’s a long time since I wore them, so they were a bit out of date.’ She turned to Stella. ‘And talking of clothes, that’s a very smart blouse you’re wearing, although I’m surprised to see you in something quite so flowery. Shouldn’t you be sticking to something a bit more subdued? After all, it’s not yet six months since John was killed. Mummy and I haven’t even gone into half-mourning yet.’

‘John didn’t approve of mourning,’ Stella said quietly. Rosalie never missed an opportunity for a sly dig, but Stella was getting used to it and refused to rise to the bait. ‘He told me so. He hated black. He liked me in bright colours. And the girl in the shop where I bought this blouse said these colours suited me,’ she couldn’t resist adding with a lift of her chin.

‘And so they do, my dear,’ Roger said gallantly. ‘You’re looking very well, if I may say so.’

‘They make things very … um … very suitable these days, don’t they?’ Doreen mused, half to herself. ‘Very concealing.’

‘Doesn’t look as if she’s got all that much to conceal, yet,’ Rosalie said with her customary rudeness. She put her head on one side. ‘You’re sure …?’

‘Rosalie!’ Her mother’s voice was like a whiplash.

‘Sorry.’ She had the grace to blush.

‘I should think so.’ Doreen turned to Stella. ‘More vegetables, dear? Another chop? Remember, you’re eating for two,’ she added with a touch of coyness. ‘No?’ Her voice hardened as she turned her attention to her daughter. ‘Then would you like to clear the plates, Rosalie? I’ve given Emma the rest of the week off, so it will help Maisie if you put them on the tray ready for her to take back to the kitchen when she brings in the pudding.’

Rosalie got up with an elaborate sigh and began to collect up the plates and dishes and to pile them on the tray in a rather dangerous-looking heap. ‘I must say I’ll be glad when Emma’s back. I’m beginning to feel like a skivvy, myself,’ she remarked.

Stella got to her feet. ‘I’ll help. I’m quite used to …’

Doreen put out her hand. ‘No, dear, sit down and don’t exert yourself. Rosalie is quite capable of managing.’

Reluctantly, Stella sat down again. She wished Doreen wouldn’t treat her like delicate porcelain all the time. But things would be different once the baby was born, she was quite determined about that.

The following morning was bright and blustery, typical of early March. After breakfast Stella put on the grey cape her parents had bought her when she began her VAD training. It had been a waste of their money, because she had been provided with the regulation uniform and a cape had been part of it, but she was glad of it now because her blue coat was becoming a little tight round the waist. She studied herself in the long mirror in her bedroom. It was a good-quality cape, her mother had seen to that; and in a funny, almost superstitious way she felt that when she wore it she and the baby were protected, as if enfolded in her mother’s arms. She smiled. It was a silly thought, but comforting, since sadly her parents would never see their grandchild.

She put on her hat, picked up her handbag and the letter she was taking to post, and went through the house and out through the front door.

‘Where are you going, dear?’ Doreen’s tinkly voice reached her from the morning room.

‘I’m just going to post a letter to one of my nursing friends,’ she replied, trying very hard to sound cheerful and friendly.

‘Oh, then perhaps you’d put this in the post for me?’ Doreen came to the door, still licking the envelope. ‘It’s a request for Gamages’ catalogue. You know, Gamages? The big London firm?’ She raised her eyebrows questioningly.

‘No, I’ve never shopped there,’ Stella said.

‘Oh, goodness me. Well, they sell practically everything you can think of. I’ll let you see the catalogue when it arrives.’ She smiled. ‘Have a good walk, dear. It’s a nice bright morning.’

‘Thank you. I will.’

Doreen could be quite charming when she chose. Stella went off, her mind made up to always try and think the best of her mother-in-law.

She turned left at the end of the drive, in the direction of the town, past the field that separated Warren’s End from the lane where Emma lived. On impulse she took the lane, it was quite a bit further to walk to the postbox, but she was glad to be out of the house and in the fresh air. She passed the pair of cottages where Emma and Henry lived. There was no sign of life anywhere, but it was quite obvious which one was Henry’s: it was neatly dug and planted, mostly with vegetables, although there was a border of violets and primroses and a rose rambled round the door. In contrast, Emma’s garden was little more than a dirt patch, although a half-hearted attempt at digging it had been begun and left. The spade was still stuck in the ground.

She walked on until she reached the postbox, then walked home slowly, guiltily glad to be away from Doreen’s eagle eye. As she walked she tried to imagine that John was by her side, pointing out the places he’d known and the things he’d done. But it was all in her imagination, and she realized with something of a shock just how little she had known about her husband.

Eight

Emma put the finishing touches to the apple pie and looked round the kitchen. The vegetables were all prepared and the soup was on the stove. There were a few bits of ironing still waiting to be done, but they could wait till the morning.

‘I’ll be off now, Maisie,’ she said, rousing Maisie, who was having a quiet five minutes in the chair by the stove before preparing afternoon tea. ‘The pie’s ready to put in the oven and I’ve done all the veg.’ She took her coat and hat off the hook behind the door and put them on.

Maisie yawned. ‘Oh, I must have dropped off,’ she said, blinking in surprise – as if she didn’t ‘drop off’ every afternoon at about this time. She watched Emma straighten her hat in the mirror over the sink. ‘I’m surprised you wear that nice coat and hat Miss Rosalie gave you every day, Emma,’ she remarked with only the merest hint of envy. ‘I’d have thought you’d keep them for best.’

Her hat skewered satisfactorily with its jet-tipped hatpin, Emma turned with a worried frown. ‘Tell you the truth, I did wonder if it was the right thing to do, Maisie,’ she said seriously. ‘I thought p’raps I oughta wear my old tweed for everyday, but that seemed somehow disrespectful to my little Ivy, because mournin’s mournin’ when all’s said an’ done; it’s all the time, not just for special occasions. Not that there ever is any special occasion in our house,’ she added. She picked an imaginary speck off the lapel of the coat. She had never had such a nice coat before; the material was lovely and soft and it was quite stylish. She really enjoyed wearing it, it cheered her up; and, goodness knows, she could do with cheering up now Ivy was gone.

‘Are you going to the grave again today?’ Maisie got up from her chair and pulled the kettle forward on the hob.

‘Yes.’ Maisie knew she always took a detour on the way home to visit Ivy’s grave. Emma couldn’t understand why she always had to ask.

‘If you see Henry on your way out, tell him I’ve got the kettle on so there’ll be a cup of tea in five minutes if he wants one.’ She said it casually, but Emma knew she would be disappointed if he didn’t turn up.

‘I’ll tell him.’

She went round the side of the house to pick up her bike. Henry was there, he’d just finished pumping up her back tyre.

‘Did you know it was flat?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘I asked Arthur to look and see if there was a puncture. I expect he forgot.’ She always made excuses for her husband.

‘I’ll have a look at it for you tonight when I get home,’ he said straightening up. ‘Are you going …?’

‘Yes,’ she said quickly, before he could finish. ‘I go every day. You know that.’

‘Well, I found a few primroses under the hedge at the bottom of the garden so I picked them for you to take. Look, they’re in your bike basket.’

‘Oh, and you’ve put them in a little fish-paste jar, too.’ Her face lit up with pleasure and she smiled at him. ‘Thanks, Henry.’

‘You’ll just need to put the water in when you get there,’ he said, glad to see her smile – a rare occurrence these days – and even more glad that the smile had been for him.

She began to wheel her bike down the drive.

‘Oh, Maisie says she’s got the kettle on for a cuppa tea, if you want one,’ she called over her shoulder.

‘Why don’t you stop and have one, too?’ he called back.

She shook her head. ‘No, I’d best get on or I’ll be late home,’ she said, feeling for the pedal with her foot and hitching herself up on to the saddle.

Emma rode off down the drive. She knew only too well that Maisie wouldn’t welcome her return or she would have asked her to stay for a cup of tea in the first place. It was easy to see which way the wind was blowing as far as Maisie was concerned: the poor girl was desperate to be married and have a home of her own. And Henry was a lovely man. It would be a lucky girl he chose to marry, if he ever did marry again. She wondered what his wife had been like. He’d only ever spoken of her once, when Emma had broached the subject, and that was to say briefly that, yes, she was dead. He’d made it quite clear that she’d overstepped the mark in asking. That was before she’d known him very well, but she’d never risked speaking of it again, even when she knew him better.

She reached the churchyard and propped her bike against the wall. She took the primroses carefully out of the basket and went along the path, past the church, past moss-covered gravestones that had been there for a hundred years or more, to the part where the stones were white and the names were newer and still clearly readable. In the far corner, shaded by a big old yew tree, was the pathetically small mound under which her little daughter was buried. As she reached it she pressed her lips together, determined not to cry. She put water in the fish-paste jar and knelt down and scraped a little hole in the mound to place the jar in, careful to keep it upright so the water didn’t spill out. Then she rearranged the primroses a little and sat back on her heels, quietly wiping a tear away. It was six weeks now since Ivy died, but she missed her as much as ever.

Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder, and looked up to see Henry standing there.

‘Henry!’ she said in surprise. ‘I thought you’d gone in for a cuppa with Maisie.’

He shook his head. ‘I’d just made one for Mr Philip, so I had one with him.’ He squatted down beside her and looked into her face. ‘Are you all right, Emma?’ he asked quietly.

She nodded. ‘Yes, I’m all right, thanks, Henry. Well, as all right as I’ll ever be. Coming here helps me feel she isn’t too far away.’ She gave an apologetic attempt at a smile. ‘I talk to her, tell her what’s been happening … What mischief Charlie’s been up to, how Mary’s been getting on at school … I expect you think I’m daft …’

‘No, ’course I don’t.’ He was quiet for a minute.

‘Of course you don’t. I’m sorry, Henry, I was forgetting, you know what it’s like. You’ve lost somebody, too.’

They were both quiet for several minutes, then he said, ‘It must be nice to have somewhere to come. Somewhere you can at least lay a few flowers.’

She looked at him sharply, surprised at the note of bitterness in his tone. ‘Haven’t you got anywhere? Did your wife die a long way from here?’ she asked, risking the question because his expression was so bleak.

‘Yes,’ he said briefly. ‘A very long way.’

‘Too far to ever visit her grave?’

He didn’t answer for a minute. Then he said, ‘My Florrie doesn’t have a grave. Not as such.’

She frowned, her own tears forgotten for the moment. ‘What do you mean, doesn’t have a grave? Everybody has to be buried somewhere when they die.’ Her voice dropped and she said gently, ‘You never talk about her, Henry. Why is that? I talk about my Ivy all the time. I find it helps. It keeps her close in a funny sort of way.’

‘Do you? Well, I don’t find it helpful at all.’ His tone was clipped and his face stony. Ever since it happened he had managed to keep his feelings tightly in check by never mentioning Florrie and the way she died.

‘I’m sorry, Henry. I didn’t mean to pry. I shouldn’t have asked,’ she said quietly and busied herself rearranging the primroses on the little grave, simply to give her hands something to do.

He didn’t answer but stayed where he was, crouched beside her, watching thoughtfully. Listening to what Emma had been saying made him wonder if bottling it up inside had been the best way to deal with his grief. Maybe he had made things worse by hanging on to it, letting it fester and fill him with bitterness, instead of letting it slide gently into happy memories of the good times they’d enjoyed.

Suddenly, he got to his feet and pulled Emma to hers a little roughly. ‘Maybe you’re right, Emma, and I’ve been wrong. Perhaps I should talk about Florrie and the dreadful thing that happened. Come over to that seat in the sun and I’ll tell you,’ he said.

She shook her head, pulling away from him. ‘No, not if you don’t want to, Henry. It’s none of my business. I don’t want you to think …’

‘No. It’s time. I want to tell you, Em,’ he said savagely. ‘I want to tell you all about it. It’s time I got it out of my system.’

Puzzled at his mood, so unlike the Henry she was used to, Emma followed him over to the seat he had indicated; it was in a sunny, sheltered spot looking towards the old church with its round flint-stone tower.

A little reluctantly, she sat down beside him, not liking to speak in case she said the wrong thing. It was peaceful, sitting there in the spring sunshine, the only sound coming from the cawing rooks busy about the rookery at the top of the tall trees in the corner. She was content to wait till he had lit a cigarette and was ready to speak.

‘We hadn’t been married long,’ he began at last, speaking quietly, leaning forward and putting his elbows on his knees so he didn’t have to look at her. ‘We were living in a little village a few miles from Leeds. We didn’t have much money, but we had great plans for the future when the war ended and things got better. Or at least, Florrie had; I was never the ambitious type. Then one day she came home all excited and said she’d heard there was really good money to be earned at the big munitions factory that had just been built on the outskirts of the city. They were asking for workers, and all the girls from the grocer’s shop where she worked had applied for jobs there. I suppose it was only natural that she wanted to do the same.’ He traced a pattern in the dirt with his toe. ‘I wasn’t keen on her going, but I couldn’t really object because the job I was in didn’t pay very well – it’s never been easy to get work with a back like mine. But Florrie had ideas of us having a little shop of our own one day; she’d been talking about it for ages. I thought it was just a pipe dream we’d never be able to afford, so I’d gone along with it; but she reckoned if she took this job it would give us our big chance to save up for it.’ He took a last drag on his cigarette and ground it under his foot. ‘As I said, I wasn’t happy about it. But she was so set on going and so excited about it that I agreed that she should give it a go, on the understanding that if she didn’t like it she would give it up right away.’ He gave a heavy sigh and shook his head. ‘I’d no idea what I was agreeing to.’

‘No, them munitions factories weren’t very nice places to work in, I’ve heard,’ Emma said, frowning.

He straightened up. ‘You can say that again! This one was a hell-hole, just like all the others.’ He shook his head. ‘Yet Florrie just loved it there. Mind you, so did about sixteen thousand other girls.’

‘Sixteen thousand!’ Emma’s eyes widened. ‘It must have been a huge place.’

‘Yes, it was big, all right. I suppose it was the friendship, the sense of them all being in it together, that the girls all liked. And, of course, they loved the money they earned. Florrie was on a bonus scheme and she could bring home nearly ten pounds on a good week. Ten pounds! We’d never seen so much money.’

‘Goodness, nor have I!’ Emma said admiringly. ‘I wish I’d been there …’

‘You don’t know what you’re saying, Emma.’ He turned and looked at her, his face bleak. ‘The place was enormous, more like a small town. Where Florrie worked there were a hundred and fifty girls working in one huge room where they filled the shells with high explosives, cordite mostly, ammunition for the soldiers fighting at the Front. Florrie said there were ten of these rooms – that was fifteen hundred girls! It was dangerous work, they all knew that. It made their skin turn yellow, some of them had their teeth fall out. People got to know which girls worked there because of their yellow complexions; they used to be called ‘canary girls’ or ‘Barnbow Lasses’. Florrie told me how they’d faint at the bench because of the stuff they were working with and have to be dragged outside till they revived. But if they stayed outside for too long they’d get their pay cut. So they’d go back and carry on filling till the next one fainted or they fainted again.’

‘Oh, my Lord!’ Emma put her hand to her mouth. ‘I never knew …’

‘No, ’course you didn’t. Nobody knew, except the ones who worked there. My Florrie didn’t tell me what it was like at first, but gradually it all came out and she admitted she had to strip down to her underwear when she got to work and put on the special smock and cap they all wore so there was nothing to catch fire. And they all had to have rubber soled shoes so there was no chance of a spark; no cigarettes or matches, of course. I hated her being there and begged her to leave, but she wouldn’t. She said it was all right as long as you were careful.’

‘Surely, that should have been men’s work, not women’s!’ Emma said, aghast.

‘All the able-bodied men were at the Front, weren’t they, firing the shells these girls were filling with explosives. I went to work there myself. I thought if Florrie could do it, so could I. I used to have to cart the shells away on great trolleys once they’d been filled, but I didn’t last long doing that. My back, again, of course,’ he said bitterly.

He was quiet for some time and Emma, horrified at what he was telling her, didn’t speak but waited for him to continue.

‘There were compensations, of course,’ he said at last. ‘Of a sort. The girls were encouraged to drink plenty of milk and barley water because they thought it helped counteract the effects of the stuff they were working with. The place even had its own farm to produce the milk for the girls to drink. I was sent there, eventually, to help look after the herd; there were over a hundred cows. That was a cushy little number compared with what my Florrie and the other girls were doing; and as you can imagine, that made me feel worse.’ He lit another cigarette and drew on it several times, staring into the distance.

‘So what happened?’ Emma’s voice was barely above a whisper.

‘What?’ He half turned towards her, clearly dragging his mind back from the past. ‘Sorry. Where was I? Oh, yes, well, you have to understand the place never stopped working. The girls all worked eight-hour shifts, day and night. There were special trains to bring the workers right into the place; it even had its own railway station to take stuff in and out. Well, this particular night my Florrie was on the night shift. It was in December 1916 and she was all excited because being on the night shift she reckoned she might earn nearly twelve pounds that week – that was over six times what I was earning.’

He looked up at Emma and said sharply, ‘I wouldn’t want you to think I was jealous because she was earning so much more than me. I didn’t care about that; I just wanted her out of that place. But she wouldn’t leave. She loved the crowd of girls she worked with. Called them her mates, said they were a good bunch of lasses and they had some good laughs together as they worked. And of course she liked the money. She told me before she left that night that she was going to buy herself some silk stockings and a new hat and she’d got a surprise lined up for my Christmas present. I said the best Christmas present I could have was for her to get out of that place.’

He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out, then went on, ‘Oh, she was in no doubt how much I hated her working there. I hated her working with stuff that turned her skin yellow although I’d got used to it by this time. It wasn’t so bad if she drank enough milk, but she didn’t like doing that because she said it made her fat.’

He paused and was quiet for a long time. Then Emma moved and pulled her collar up a bit higher against the wind that had sprung up.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Em, you’re getting cold,’ he said immediately.

‘No, I’m all right, Henry. Go on. Please, go on.’

He shrugged. ‘Not much more to tell. Well, there is. Everything, really. That night there was an explosion,’ he said simply. ‘Of all the places where it could have been in that vast place, it had to be in the room where Florrie worked. Thirty-five girls died that night and there were terrible injuries among the others. I wasn’t there at the time, of course; I didn’t have to be there till milking time at five in the morning, and by that time the dead and injured had all been got out and the place was back at work.’

He looked at Emma, shaking his head. ‘Can you imagine? An accident like that, with all those women killed or injured, and the whole site full of explosive material, yet everyone else was back at work; they said production had only been halted long enough for the site to be cleared and made safe. Well, as safe as it ever could be.’

‘And Florrie?’ Emma said gently.

He hesitated, then said briefly. ‘She was one of the dead. They found her identity disc, but not much else.’ He leaned forward and put his head in his hands. ‘I should never have let her go to work there,’ he said, his voice muffled.

Emma put her hand on his back; his deformity was very evident. ‘Could you have stopped her?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘No, although God knows I tried. But she was a headstrong girl and dead set on “doing her bit”, as she called it.’

‘It sounds as if she went off to work happy enough that night,’ Emma said, trying to find a crumb of comfort to offer.

‘Aye. She did.’ He straightened up. ‘I suppose you might say she died happy. But that’s about all you could say,’ he added bitterly.

‘At least she had a life. She was lucky enough to have you to fall in love with and marry.’ She was quiet for a moment, then realizing how her words might sound, added quickly, ‘My little Ivy died before her time. She never knew what it was like to fall in love.’ She glanced at him. ‘But thank you for telling me, Henry. I won’t speak about it again.’

‘Maybe I won’t mind now,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I came to live down here to get away from the memory of it all; but what I hadn’t realized is that you don’t get away from memories, you take them with you wherever you go.’

They were both silent for a while, watching a blackbird pecking about among the gravestones, then she asked, ‘Do you like it here in these parts, Henry?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, I do. The air is fresh and clean and there’s plenty of space. I wouldn’t ever want to go back up north.’ He paused, then said again, ‘Yes. I’m happy here now. Mr Philip is a good man to work for and I know I’m useful to him. I’ve got a decent little cottage,’ he flashed her a brief smile. ‘And good neighbours. What more can a man ask? Under the circumstances, that is.’

‘Of course.’ She smiled at him. ‘That’s good. And thank you again for telling me about Florrie, I hope it’s helped.’

‘Yes, it has.’ He touched her hand briefly. ‘You’re a good friend, Emma.’

‘You’re a good friend to me, Henry. I don’t know how I’d manage without you, especially when Arthur …’ She put her hand up to her mouth in horror. ‘Oh Lord, Arthur’ll be shouting for his tea …’ She looked at him apologetically, reluctant to have been the one to break the tenuous link between them. ‘If it’s not ready when he thinks it should be … I’m sorry, Henry, I’ll have to go.’ She stood up but made no move to go.

He smiled up at her and took her hand, giving it a little shake. ‘It’s all right, Emma, lass. I understand,’ he said quietly. ‘You don’t want to risk the rough edge of his tongue.’ Or worse, he thought, as he watched her hurry out of the graveyard. Not until she had disappeared from view did he light another cigarette, thinking, not for the first time that Arthur Blatch didn’t appreciate what a lovely woman he was married to.

Nine

For some time after Emma had gone, Henry sat there quietly smoking. He was experiencing the strangest sensation: it was as if something inside him that had been held in a tight grip for a long time had been loosened or absorbed, leaving him feeling quietly contented and relaxed. He knew what it was, of course. For years he had held the details of Florrie’s death close to his heart, consumed with bitterness and unable to talk about it or to share his thoughts or feelings with anyone else. He had been so obsessed with the unfairness of her dying so young and violently that he had never thought to look back with gratitude on the happy times they had spent together. But this afternoon, as she talked about her own little daughter’s tragically short life, Emma had shown him his mistake and helped him understand that the best way to keep Florrie alive in his heart was to talk about her, to tell other people what a lively lass, full of life and hope, she had been. Her life had been short, too short, but they had been happy in the few years they had spent together. Florrie had been ambitious, with her plans for their own little shop; plans that he had never really shared, although he had never spoiled her dreams by telling her this. Instead, he had been happy to bask in her excitement, watching her blue eyes shine as she outlined ever more ambitious and hare-brained schemes that he knew could never come to fruition; knowing, too, that some day he would have to bring her down to earth and tell her so.

But with her untimely death, that day had never come and she had died still dreaming her dreams. That, at least, was something to be thankful for.

He took out his pocket watch and looked at it, dragging himself back to the present. Then, as the hour registered, he quickly got to his feet and ground the remains of his cigarette under his heel. He had been away longer than he’d intended; Mr Philip would be wondering where he’d got to. Pulling back his shoulders as far as the pain would allow, he started off back to Warren’s End, whistling cheerfully as he went.

Mrs Stella was just crossing the yard as he arrived. She looked the picture of health in a loose, flowery garment in shades of green and gold that set off her brown eyes and auburn hair. With that smock thing on, you’d never know she’d be having a baby in less than three months, he thought admiringly. She wasn’t wearing a hat – obviously the missus hadn’t seen her go out or she’d have made her put one on – and was carrying a wicker trug with daffodils in it.

She smiled and waved as soon as she saw him.

‘Look, Henry,’ she said as soon as she got near. ‘I saw these in the border at the end of the garden and Mr Govan …’ She looked enquiringly at him to make sure she’d got the name right, and when he nodded she went on, ‘Mr Govan, who was weeding the borders, said why didn’t I pick a bunch to take indoors. So I did.’ She held them up for his inspection.

‘Very nice they are, too, Mrs Stella,’ he said, smiling back at her and thinking what an attractive young lady she was. ‘They were my Florrie’s favourite flowers. She always said they came just when they were needed most, a bit of brightness after the long winter days.’ It was good to be able to talk about Florrie; Emma was right, it helped.

‘That’s why I love them, too,’ Stella said. She frowned a little. ‘The only thing is, I seem to have picked rather more than I need. Do you think Mrs Rosalie might like some? There were so many I just kept picking … You see, I’ve never had a garden where I was allowed to pick the flowers, so I rather got carried away and didn’t realize how many I’d taken. There are still hundreds left,’ she added quickly in case he should think she’d stripped them all.

‘Yes, I’m sure there are. That end of the garden is always a picture in the spring. I was just going in to Mr Philip, so why don’t you come in with me and ask her if she’d like some?’

He pushed open the door of the flat and she followed him into the small square hallway with doors to left and right. He tapped on the one to the left.

‘Anyone home?’ he called, opening the door a crack.

‘No, she’s gone out.’ Philip’s voice came from somewhere on the other side of the hallway.

Henry put his head round the door opposite. ‘I’ve got Mrs Stella with me, sir. She’s come to see Mrs Rosalie.’

‘Well, since Rosie’s not here she can come and brighten my day. Bring her in, man, don’t leave her standing on the doorstep.’

Henry stood to one side and Stella stepped into what was clearly Philip’s studio. It was a large room, light and airy, with windows all along the length of the wall looking out on to the garden and a skylight in the roof. The far end of the room was curtained off from floor to ceiling by a blue-velvet curtain. Philip was sitting on a swivel chair at his easel with his back to the windows so that the light fell on his work, and there was a table to his right covered in paints, brushes, palettes, bottles and jars of fixer and brush cleaner, bits of rag, and pencils spilling out of a pencil case. A large box of pastels stood open at the end of the table, and a few canvases were propped against the nearby wall.

He looked up and gave a wide smile as she walked in. ‘Ah, a beautiful young lady has come to brighten my day.’ He waved his hand. ‘Sorry about the mess, Stella. I’d have got Henry to tidy up a bit if I’d known you were coming. But you’re very welcome. Can you find a chair? Sorry I can’t do the polite thing and get up and fetch it for you. Ah, good man, Henry.’

Stella sat down on the chair Henry had brought forward for her. ‘I only came in to offer Rosalie a few of these daffodils. I seem to have picked rather a lot.’ She held the basket up. ‘They are rather lovely, aren’t they?’

‘Mm, indeed they are.’ He put his head on one side and looked from the daffodils to a small table in front of the blue curtains. ‘Would you mind putting them down on that little table over there? That’s it, just there where I can see them.’ He smiled at her again. ‘I’m assuming you’ve got time for a cuppa while you wait for Rosie? I expect she’ll be home before long, although goodness knows where she’s gone.’

‘I’ll put the kettle on, sir,’ Henry said vanishing through a door next to the one they had come in by.

‘Good man.’ Philip spoke absent-mindedly. He had put another sheet of paper on the easel and was busy sketching the basket of daffodils.

Stella felt a bit uncomfortable, not knowing whether to make conversation or whether it would disturb him. She was just beginning to think it would have been better if she hadn’t come when he whisked the paper off the easel and handed it to her. It was a quick pencil sketch but the daffodils were all there, even the one with the broken stem that was hanging over the edge of the basket as it stood on the table with the folds of the curtain behind.

‘My goodness, that was quick!’ she said, astonished.

‘It’s just a rough sketch to remind me,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I’ll do a proper painting of them later for you, if you like.’

‘I’d like that very much,’ she answered, her voice warm. ‘I was looking at one of your paintings while I waited for you outside the gallery the other day. A beach scene at low tide. It was in the window.’ She hesitated. ‘I liked it very much. It looked so peaceful with the sun setting over the water and the solitary man gathering …’

He grinned. ‘Probably digging for bait to go fishing with.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, Ben liked it and thought it would sell. He only took it last week, so I guess he’s waiting to take it up to London. An associate of his has a gallery there, and Ben looks out for stuff for him. Ah, here’s the tea. And biscuits, too. Good chap, Henry, you’re a man after my own heart. Brought a cup for yourself ?’

‘No, sir. I’ve left mine in the kitchen, thanks all the same. There’s a bit of clearing up to do in there.’

Philip gave an exasperated sigh. ‘I’ll bet there is. My wife must be the messiest woman in Christendom, but I don’t see why you should clear up after her, Henry. I thought that was Mrs Blatch’s job.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind giving a hand, sir.’ Especially if it lightens Emma’s load a bit, Henry thought to himself as he went back into the little kitchen.

‘Of course I knew you painted, but I’d never seen any of your work before,’ Stella continued, sipping her tea gratefully.

He offered her a biscuit and took one himself. After a few minutes he said, ‘If you’re interested there are some watercolours over there, waiting to be taken to be mounted and framed.’ He nodded towards two boards leaning against the wall.

She got up and turned them over and put them side by side. Two of them were the same size, about eighteen inches by twelve, but the subjects were very different. One was an early spring scene depicting an avenue of elms either side of a rutted lane, the leaves, just breaking into bud in the foreground, gradually blurring into a green fuzz as the lane faded into the distance. A single figure, bent under the weight of the bundle of faggots he was carrying, was making his way home after a long day’s work. The figure wasn’t clearly defined, yet there was no doubt about the weariness in his step and the weight of the faggots on his back.

The other was a picture of a sailing barge stacked with bales of straw, its red sails set, drifting down river on the ebb tide towards a distant misty estuary. Again, there was a single figure, this time standing at the tiller. A faint wisp of smoke drifted on the evening air from the clay pipe clamped between his jaws.

The only things the two paintings had in common were that they were both evening scenes and both included a solitary figure.

The third picture was bigger, a hunting scene bright with red-coated riders galloping across a field, the hooves of the horses kicking up clods of earth as they thundered towards a low hedge, the riders bent over their necks, urging them on. The whole picture was of speed and excitement. Stella turned away.

‘Did they catch the fox?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘Probably. We usually did.’

‘Oh, you used to hunt, too?’ She didn’t know why she should have been surprised.

‘Yes. In another life.’ His tone was neutral.

Slightly embarrassed, she turned back to the smaller pictures. ‘I like these,’ she said. ‘I like these very much. Better than the one of the horses.’ She glanced at him, embarrassed again. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘It’s all right. You don’t have to apologize,’ Philip said. ‘I agree with you.’

‘I don’t. I love horsy pictures.’

Stella turned quickly. She hadn’t heard Rosalie come into the room.

‘Well, of course, you would.’ There was an unmistakable edge to Philip’s words. ‘You love horses.’

‘So did you. Once upon a time,’ Rosalie said bitterly. ‘Not any more, of course.’ She threw down her bag and turned to Stella with a smirk. ‘I’ll bet he hasn’t shown you his special collection, has he? The ones he keeps hidden away.’

Stella shook her head. ‘No. I was just looking at these. They’re very good, aren’t they?’

‘Oh, you should see the other ones. You really should.’ She walked over to the end of the room where the curtains hung.

‘No, Rosalie! No!’ Philip shouted. ‘You know I don’t let …’ Agitated, he tried to get to his feet, knocking his walking sticks on to the floor as he tried to grab them and spilling the tea he had only half finished, so that it ran among the tubes and pots of paint on the table beside him. Defeated, he sank back on to his chair with a sigh and put his head in his hands while Rosalie pulled back the curtain to reveal a number of canvases stacked several deep against the wall. She obviously knew exactly what she was looking for as she chose painting after painting.

Puzzled, Stella watched, frowning, as Rosalie lined them up, obviously relishing the moment, not with any sense of pride in her husband’s achievements, but rather with an expression of cruel triumph at what she was exposing.

The paintings were not big, each one about twenty-four inches by eighteen, and at first sight they all appeared uniformly drab, simply bold streaks of black and all shades of grey, apparently daubed at random, making no sense at all. But then as Stella studied them, the nightmares emerged; scene after scene of carnage, of twisted barbed wire, of mangled and partly dismembered bodies, some flung together in mud-filled holes, some half in, half out of ditches, some lying mutilated in fields; of faces stark with horror or pain, of crippled horses, of broken tanks and guns, of chilling, empty desolation.

Shocked beyond words at the horror, Stella sat down on the nearest chair, her hand over her mouth. The paintings showed a rare, brutal but intensely private talent, and at that moment she hated Rosalie for her insensitivity in so cruelly exposing her husband’s deepest feelings. Yet she couldn’t take her eyes off them.

There was silence in the room. Then Philip heaved a deep sigh.

‘All right, Rosalie, you’ve had your fun. Now, please, put them back where they were.’ He spoke quietly, but his face was ashen and as Stella looked up she saw his hand tremble as he passed it across his forehead.

‘You should sell them. As a set.’ Rosalie said lightly, either oblivious to or wilfully ignoring the effect they were having on him. She put her head on one side. ‘War hero’s reminiscences. They’d probably make your fortune, darling. Like that other chap, what’s his name? Picasso.’

‘Don’t talk such bloody rubbish!’ he snapped. ‘Just put them back where you found them. Please!’ He turned his head and looked out of the window while she put the paintings back in their hiding place. ‘I’m sorry, Stella,’ he said distantly. ‘Rosalie shouldn’t have done that. It was unforgivable of her.’

‘Oh, I’m always doing things I shouldn’t,’ Rosalie said cheerfully, seemingly unaware of the atmosphere in the room, ‘so it’s nothing new. Oh, those daffodils are nice. Can I have some?’

‘What? Oh, yes, I came to see if you’d like some. Take what you want.’ Stella waved her hand, still reeling from the shock of what she had just witnessed.

‘Thanks. I’ll go and find a vase to put them in.’ Having helped herself to more than half the daffodils, Rosalie picked up her bag and left.

‘I’m really sorry about that, Stella,’ Philip said quietly, turning to look at her. ‘I’m embarrassed, too. Those paintings are not meant to be seen. They were done when I was … Well, at a difficult time.’ He peered at her. ‘Stella, are you all right?’

With an effort, Stella pulled herself together and smiled at him through unexpected tears. ‘Yes, I’ll be fine. It was just …’

‘I understand.’ His voice was gentle. ‘I can’t think what came over Rosalie. She should never have done that to you, especially in …’ He hesitated. ‘In your condition.’

She blew her nose. ‘I knew these things happened, of course I did. But those pictures made it all so … so real,’ she whispered.

‘Oh, it was real, all right,’ he said grimly. His voice dropped. ‘And so were the nightmares. It was only by painting them out of my head that they gave me any peace and I could sleep at night.’

‘You showed the things that really went on, the things nobody ever talked about,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘They were horrible, but at the same time they were wonderful in the way you …’

‘You mustn’t dwell on them,’ he interrupted harshly. ‘Just don’t think about them. Forget you ever saw them. They weren’t meant to be viewed. Rosalie was an insensitive bloody fool to drag them out like that.’

She shook her head again. ‘No, I shan’t ever forget them, Philip. It was a privilege to have seen them, even though they were so disturbing.’

They sat in silence for several minutes. In the quietness Stella could feel the baby moving inside her, and she laid her hand protectively on her stomach.

Philip noticed and half smiled. ‘You’ll have John’s baby before long, Stella. That’s where the future lies, not in the horrors of the past. That’s what’s important and that’s what you must cling on to.’ He held out his hand to her and she got to her feet and placed hers in it. He held it for a fraction longer than necessary, and put it to his lips before he released it.

As she crossed the yard to her flat, she realized that in some indefinable way their relationship had altered and would never be quite the same again.

Ten

Back in her own flat Stella arranged the remaining daffodils in a vase and put them on the table, but her thoughts were still with the scenes she had witnessed over at Philip and Rosalie’s flat. She found it hard to believe that Rosalie could have been so cruel as to expose those intensely private paintings of Philip’s, executed when he was so traumatized and vulnerable. Yet she was glad to have seen them; she felt privileged to have been shown a side of him that few others were aware of. And when he had taken her hand and kissed it as she left, she knew that he understood this and was neither angry nor embarrassed.

Suddenly weary, she picked up a magazine and sat down and put her feet up on a stool. But the disturbing images Philip had painted were still fresh in her mind. John must have witnessed things like that, as had thousands of others on the battlefield. She tried to imagine what their effect would have been on the carefree, impetuous husband she had known. There had been no hint in his letters and he had rarely spoken about such things in their brief time together. Now she would never know how he had felt.

Sometimes she felt she had hardly known him at all.

She tried to turn her attention to an article on making patchwork cushions but couldn’t concentrate, so she was almost relieved when there was a tap at the door – even though she knew it would be Doreen, come to make sure she was having her afternoon rest (or to spy on her, as she regarded it in her less charitable moments).

‘Come in,’ she called resignedly and was surprised when it was Rosalie, not Doreen who appeared.

‘Phil nagged at me to come over to apologize and make sure you’re OK,’ she said, flopping down in the other armchair. ‘So. I’m sorry and are you OK?’ She sounded neither sorry nor particularly concerned.

Stella nodded. ‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks.’ She shifted in her chair. ‘Although I must admit it was a bit of a shock, being confronted …’

‘Yes, I didn’t think. I suppose I should have done.’ She shrugged. ‘But that’s me, all over.’ She got out her cigarette holder and put a cigarette into it and lit it before she spoke again, more pensively. ‘I suppose it’s because I’ve got used to it. Because I was the one who had to be there to comfort him in the way only a wife can when he woke up screaming in terror night after night when they first let him home. Not that I was much help at first; I was as terrified as he was, I couldn’t understand what was happening. As you can imagine, I was relieved – and that’s an understatement – when he began to paint the nightmares out of his system. I could see they were a form of release. I just thanked God he’d got the talent to paint.’

‘Does he still have nightmares?’

She hunched her shoulders briefly. ‘No, I don’t think so. But he mostly sleeps in his own room now, so he won’t disturb me if his legs trouble him. Didn’t you notice his bed behind the curtain?’

Stella frowned and shook her head. ‘I only saw the paintings.’

‘Yes, I daresay.’ She flicked ash into an ashtray. ‘Anyway, it’s better that we have separate rooms,’ she added with a shrug. ‘At least, that’s the way I prefer it.’ She stood up and took the photograph of John down from the mantelpiece and studied it. ‘Do you miss him much?’ she asked bluntly, looking down at Stella.

‘Of course I do. I’m having his baby, for God’s sake, and he’s not here to share it with me,’ she replied, her voice sharp.

‘But at least you’ve got unspoilt memories.’ She put the photograph back where it belonged.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ve got unspoilt memories of the man you married.’ She sat down in the armchair again and drew several times on her cigarette before stubbing it out. ‘The man I felt so lucky to marry was six feet tall, the most handsome man in the county and one of the most athletic. He ran and rowed, and his horsemanship was second to none. He rode to hounds and was always in at the kill, was in all the point-to-points, and loved a good gallop over the countryside. He was always in demand at the hunt ball because he danced like a dream and made every woman feel she was gossamer in his arms. He was charming, funny, always on the go, always the first to try something new.’ She paused. ‘Like joining the army.’ She closed her eyes. ‘God, and to think I was so proud that he was one of the first to join up.’ Her eyes flew open. ‘That was the man I married. But look at him now, an old man with a face lined with pain and hair turning prematurely grey, dragging himself around on crutches or sitting and daubing paint on canvas. You can’t imagine how I hate the smell of paint and turpentine,’ she said savagely. She looked out of the window. ‘Maybe you should think yourself lucky that John died. At least your memories of him will always be of the man you married, not the constant presence like a millstone round your neck of some wreck who came back from the bloody war.’

‘Rosalie! That’s a truly dreadful thing to say,’ Stella said in a low voice.

‘Yes, I know. I’ve never actually put it into words before, but I can’t help it if it’s the way I feel, can I?’

‘What about Philip? It can’t be much of a picnic for him, either. How do you think he feels, not being able to do all the things he used to enjoy?’ Stella spoke sharply, shocked and furious at Rosalie’s callous words.

She shrugged. ‘Dunno. He doesn’t talk about it and I don’t ask. He seems to have developed a kind of stoic patience, and even that drives me mad at times. I just wish that now and again he would rant and roar at the injustice of it all.’ She got up restlessly and went over to study her reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. Then she put her hands over her hair, coiled in earphones over her ears, and twisted her head this way and that.

‘I think I’ll get all this cut off,’ she said, changing the subject and talking as much to herself as to Stella. ‘When it’s loose, it reaches halfway down my back.’ She turned. ‘Do you think a bob would suit me, Stella? Or a semi-shingle? They’re all the rage, you know.’

‘What?’ Stella dragged her mind back to what Rosalie was saying. ‘Oh, yes, so I believe.’ She put her head on one side and tried to concentrate. ‘I don’t know. It would make you look very different. What does Philip say? Would he mind?’

‘Phil?’ She raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Why should he mind? What’s it got to do with him? It’s my hair.’ She turned back to the mirror and studied her image again. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’

She sat down again and put another cigarette into the tortoiseshell holder.

‘Let’s see …’ she said when she had lit it and blown out a long column of smoke. ‘We were talking about horses back there, weren’t we? Which is much more interesting. Do you ride? I could find you a hack …’ She made a face. ‘Ah, no, of course not. Mustn’t risk the precious bundle, must we?’

‘Don’t you start!’ Stella said quickly. ‘It’s bad enough …’ She flushed. ‘Oh, sorry.’

Rosalie laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I quite sympathize. Ma can be a bit of a pain. But you see, John was her golden boy – couldn’t do any wrong in her eyes – and the thought of having his child …’

‘She’s not having his child, I am!’ Stella said hotly.

‘Make the most of it, then,’ Rosalie said dryly, ‘because once it’s born you won’t get a look in if Ma has her way. She’s desperate for grandchildren, you know.’

‘Well, she’s only getting one. Unless you decide to oblige her,’ Stella said. She wished Rosalie would go. She was becoming tired of the way she hopped up and down and skipped from one topic to another. And her cigarette was making her feel slightly sick.

‘No chance of that.’ Rosalie got to her feet again. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to rest and look after the precious bundle. Cheerio.’

After she had gone, Stella thought over her sister-in-law’s words. Once it’s born you won’t get a look in if Ma has her way.

She closed her eyes and put her arms protectively round her stomach. Things never turned out the way you imagined, she thought philosophically. She had never imagined that she would one day be living in the house of her husband’s parents, without John but soon to have his baby and uncertain what the future was likely to hold. She had soon come to realize that she had only been made welcome at Warren’s End because of John’s child growing inside her. The big question was, would she be as welcome once it was born? Or would Doreen try to take him from her? To give him a better life than she, Stella, could offer? Or would she take a more subtle approach?

Subtle? Stella’s mouth set. What had happened over the business of the perambulator – or ‘baby carriage’, as her mother-in-law insisted on calling it – could hardly have been called subtle.

It had happened, as most things seemed to, over dinner one night.

‘The Gamages’ catalogue has arrived,’ Doreen had said brightly. ‘You remember you posted off the application for me, Stella? Well, it came this morning and I’ve chosen the perambulator I think we should have for the precious bundle.’ She had beamed round at everybody for approval. ‘I’ll show it to you after dinner, Stella, then we can send for it. It will come by rail but don’t worry, it will be very carefully packed so there’s no danger of it being damaged.’

Stella had licked her lips, her mouth dry, although she despised herself for being so nervous about standing up to her mother-in-law. ‘But, Doreen, I’ve already seen a perambulator that I like in the window of Luckings in the town,’ she’d said. ‘In fact I’ve put down a small deposit on it.’

Doreen had frowned, annoyed. ‘You never told me,’ she’d said accusingly. Then her face had cleared and she’d waved her hand. ‘But never mind, we can easily get that back,’ she’d said, as if it was of no importance. ‘How much was this perambulator?’

‘Three guineas.’ Stella hadn’t added that it was the most she could afford.

Doreen had pursed her lips. Then she’d given what was meant to be a disarming smile, though it looked more like a patronizing one. ‘Oh, I think we can do better than that, dear. The one I’ve chosen is a little more expensive but it has ball-bearing wheels and is very well sprung, so it will be very comfortable for Baby.’

‘How much more expensive, Doreen?’ Roger had asked wryly, dabbing his moustache with his napkin.

She’d given a little shrug. ‘It will cost nine guineas, to be exact. But I know you won’t begrudge paying a little extra for your son’s child, will you, dear?’ It was a statement, not a question, and accompanied by a somewhat steely look that brooked no argument.

A steely look that had cut no ice with Roger. ‘No,’ he’d said thoughtfully, ignoring it. ‘Provided it meets with Stella’s approval, that is. Obviously, the choice must be hers and if she has already chosen one she likes … After all, it will be for her baby.’ There was a tiny but unmistakable emphasis on ‘her’.

‘And our grandchild, Roger.’ This time the emphasis was quite emphatic.

Of course, when Doreen had shown her the catalogue after dinner Stella knew she was defeated. The luxury baby carriage that Doreen had chosen was far superior in every way to the one she had chosen in Luckings. But it was with not much more than a flat nod that she acknowledged this as she agreed to Doreen’s choice, remembering how excited she had been to hand over the ten-shilling deposit in Luckings.

She’d derived some small comfort from the fact that the more expensive perambulator would be better for the baby. But she couldn’t help the feeling, a feeling that had stayed with her, that she was being manipulated by a kind of kid-gloved domination – a bit like being smothered in a thick eiderdown that had a layer of steel in the middle.

She lifted her head and looked up at the photograph of her husband, smiling down at her as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and a moment of rage boiled inside her at the unfairness of a fate that had taken him from her at the time when she was going to need him most.

How would he have coped with his domineering mother? Would he have stood up to her or gone along with her wishes? The truth was, she really had not much idea of what John’s relationship with his parents had been. In fact, she hadn’t really known all that much about him when they married; she had simply fallen head over heels in love with this handsome officer who had swept her off her feet. Oh, she knew a bit about his family: where they lived, the fact that he had a sister, superficial bits of information that in retrospect didn’t amount to all that much. But she knew very little about the man himself, what made him tick, what he thought about things, other than that he loved and wanted her. He had left her in no doubt about that. She frowned, trying to recall their time together, what they had done, where they had gone. They had been married in church, but it was she who had insisted on that and he’d gone along with it because it was what she wanted. She wasn’t even sure what his beliefs were; if indeed he had any. And now she would never find out, unless it was from his sister, who seemed very keen to point out that she knew him much better than Stella did. Or ever would.

She got to her feet and picked up the photograph.

‘You’re not here to help me fight my battles, my darling, so I shall have to fight them alone,’ she whispered. ‘And I shall. Nobody is going to take our baby from me, I promise you that.’

She replaced the photograph and sat down again. They were brave words, but hollow, because where would she go, what would she do, and how would she bring up a child alone in the world, with nowhere to live and little money, if she were to be forced to leave Warren’s End?

It was a sobering thought.

Eleven

There were still plenty of daffodils in the garden at Easter, which came late that year, and Mr Govan was instructed to take a large basketful to help decorate the church. Stella had already discovered that the family were not regular churchgoers, but Christmas, Easter and Harvest Thanksgiving were the three occasions on which the entire family was expected to attend. This puzzled her. To her mind either you went to church regularly or you didn’t go at all, and most Sundays she went to either the morning or the evening service. As a result, the others – especially Rosalie – thought she was a little odd.

‘Surely you don’t believe all that stuff ?’ she said scornfully, meeting Stella on her way to church one Sunday, as she rode back, exhilarated, from her morning ride on Magpie.

‘It’s peaceful and I enjoy singing the hymns and psalms,’ Stella replied, looking up at her and resolutely smiling. This was hardly the time to embark on a discussion about such a deep and complex subject.

‘Well, each to his own, I suppose. Me, I’d rather be out in the open air than cooped up in a musty old church. Walk on, Magpie.’

But on Easter Sunday Rosalie was given no choice, and for once she put up no resistance.

It turned out to be quite an occasion. Doreen had decided that as John had now been dead for six months the family could finally come out of mourning, much to Rosalie’s relief. To mark the occasion Doreen had chosen a pale-blue-silk ankle-length dress, over which she wore a three-quarter-length coat in darker blue and a matching straw hat with a wide brim, decorated lavishly with pale-blue ribbons and feathers. Rosalie was wearing a rust-coloured costume with a long military-style jacket and a skirt with a hemline raised to match her father’s eyebrows when he saw it, although he wisely made no comment. Her close-fitting cloche hat was trimmed to match her cream blouse.

At seven months pregnant, Stella had little choice but to wear what she always wore now that the weather was becoming less cold: a green cloak in a light serge, which she had made herself from the pattern of the heavy winter one her mother had bought for her when she began nursing, and a darker green hat with a small turned-up brim.

Before they all set off, Doreen looked her up and down. ‘Yes, I think that’s suitably concealing,’ she said uncertainly.

‘It’s what I wear to church every Sunday,’ Stella replied cheerfully. ‘In fact, it’s what I wear every time I go out. Not that I’m ashamed of my condition,’ she added quickly.

‘No, no, of course not,’ Doreen said hurriedly, adding in a low voice, ‘But one doesn’t wish to flaunt it, especially in front of the men.’ She turned away and called loudly, ‘Aren’t you ready yet, Rosalie? And where’s Philip? Your father is just bringing the Daimler round.’ She said this with pride: the appearance of the Daimler was almost as rare as the appearance of the family at church.

‘He’s gone on ahead,’ Rosalie said as she sauntered along to join them. ‘Henry’s driving him in Tin Lizzie. He said there wouldn’t be room for all of us in Pa’s jalopy.’

‘Jalopy, indeed! How disrespectful. And that’s nonsense. There would have been plenty of room for all of us. Ah, here’s your father now. Come along, both of you.’

Stella couldn’t help smiling to herself at the way Doreen was marshalling her and Rosalie as if they were children, and the thought crossed her mind that there would be no need for all this fuss if they all made a habit of going every week. But she wisely kept her own counsel and obediently got into the car, though given the choice she would have preferred to walk, as she did most Sundays.

The church was a riot of colour, with spring flowers and catkins decorating every ledge and huge arrangements of daffodils and narcissi on pedestals, displaying the skill and artistry of some of the more talented ladies.

‘Our daffodils look splendid, don’t they?’ Doreen whispered to Stella, although how she could have been so sure which ones came from Warren’s End was a mystery.

After the service and the ritual shaking of the vicar’s hand and comments on his sermon, they strolled through the churchyard, matching their speed to Philip’s uneasy progress.

Henry was waiting at the gate for him with Tin Lizzie.

‘I’m going for a spin before lunch. Anyone want to come?’ Philip asked.

‘Not me, thanks,’ Rosalie said. ‘I prefer the comfort of Pa’s jal … Of the Daimler.’

‘What about you, Stella?’

Stella smiled. ‘Yes. I’d like …’

‘Stella will come with us,’ Doreen interrupted quickly. She smiled conspiratorially at her daughter-in-law. ‘We mustn’t risk harming the precious bundle, must we, dear? Come along, Roger’s waiting.’ She almost pushed Stella into the Daimler beside Rosalie.

‘So there’s telling you,’ Rosalie said under her breath, grinning.

Stella said nothing, but she was seething inside at being treated like a child.

‘I really can’t think what’s got into Philip, wanting to go for a drive before lunch,’ Doreen complained over the purr of the engine. ‘He knows very well I like the meal to be punctual. I do hope he won’t be late, so the roast lamb isn’t spoiled.’

But when they arrived back at the house and Rosalie removed her hat, Stella at once understood why Philip had decided to keep out of the way for a bit; and she had to bite her lip to prevent herself from breaking into a grin at the horrified expression on Doreen’s face.

‘Rosalie! What have you done! What have you done? Oh, my heavens, look at you! Your beautiful hair, all gone!’ Doreen said, holding her hands up in horror as she stared at her.

‘Mm.’ Rosalie preened in front of the mirror, trying to look at her short, sleek bob from all angles, thoroughly enjoying the knowledge that she had shocked her mother. ‘Don’t you like it? Bobbed hair is all the rage, you know, Ma.’

‘Like it? Of course I don’t like it. I think it looks terrible. It’s as straight as a pound of candles and makes you look like … like … some boy!’ It was the worst thing she could think of to say. ‘And it will take ages to grow again. Have you thought about that?’

‘But I’m not going to let it grow again, Ma. I like it this way.’ She patted it lovingly, still gazing at herself in the mirror. ‘But you’re right, it is a bit straight. I think I might have a Marcel wave later on.’

‘A Marcel wave …! Rosalie, how could you!’ Doreen looked as if she was about to faint with shock.

‘I might not. I’ll have to think about it.’ She put her head on one side, still studying herself in the mirror.

Roger cleared his throat. ‘Do you think we might move into the morning room so that Stella can sit down and I can have a Scotch before you continue this argument, ladies?’ he said mildly.

‘But, Roger, it’s dreadful. Can’t you see? Rosalie’s had all her beautiful hair cut off !’ Doreen said in desperation.

‘Of course I can see, my dear. I’m not blind,’ he replied. ‘I think Rosalie always looks very nice,’ He smiled at his daughter as he endeavoured to shepherd them all into the morning room. In truth he had never liked Rosalie’s hair coiled over her ears in what they called ‘earphones’ or some such, although he would never have dreamt of saying so. He went over to the sideboard. ‘Would you like a sherry, Stella?’ he asked, smiling at her over his shoulder.

‘No, of course she wouldn’t! Remember her condition,’ Doreen snapped.

He ignored this and raised his eyebrows questioningly at Stella.

She smiled. ‘Yes, I think I should enjoy a sherry, Roger, thank you,’ she replied. Not that she cared much for sherry but, still smarting over the way she had been hustled into the Daimler after church, she would have agreed to almost anything at that moment to defy Doreen.

Thwarted, Doreen returned to the attack on Rosalie. ‘What does Philip say about your outrageous hairstyle?’ she asked. ‘I imagine he’s furious.’

‘Actually, he says he thinks it suits me,’ Rosalie said, adding, over her shoulder, ‘And if you’re pouring drinks, Pa, I’ll have a Scotch.’

Doreen glared at her. ‘Scotch! Whatever next! I think you must have got in with a very fast set down at the country club,’ she said primly. ‘You never used to drink whisky. Nor smoke,’ she added as Rosalie scrabbled in her bag for her cigarette lighter.

‘Well, I do now.’ Rosalie blew a smoke ring. ‘It’s all the rage.’

‘I don’t know what this “rage” thing is, but what with hemlines going up to goodness knows where, heads practically shorn and women smoking like chimneys, I do begin to wonder what the world is coming to.’ She gave a shudder, then looked up as Philip struggled into the room. ‘Can’t you control your wife, Philip?’ she asked sharply.

He gave a snort. ‘Control? I’d like to try! Men don’t control their wives these days, Doreen, I thought you of all people would have known that.’ His reply was tinged with sarcasm, which was quite lost on Doreen. He reached the settee and lowered himself carefully into it, placing his sticks within easy reach, then patted his pockets. ‘Oh, give me one of your fags, Rosie, will you? I must have left mine in the car.’

She passed him the packet of Gold Flake and her lighter.

‘But what about her hair, Philip! Why did you allow her to have it all cut off ?’ Doreen persisted.

‘It was her choice,’ Philip replied, unperturbed. ‘She doesn’t ask me what she should or shouldn’t do. She’s a modern woman, Doreen.’

‘I’m also here, in the room, and don’t care to be discussed in the third person,’ Rosalie remarked pettishly.

‘So you are, darling. And looking quite charming and boyish with your shorn locks.’ Philip smiled at her.

But all he got in return was a vitriolic ‘Don’t patronize me!’

Just then, Maisie appeared in the doorway.

Roger looked up with a sigh of relief. ‘Ah, Maisie. Lunch served? Good. We’ll be right there.’ He got to his feet. ‘Come along, everybody. Mustn’t keep the roast lamb waiting.’

Maisie went back to the kitchen, where Henry had just come in with the log basket.

‘Mrs Rosalie has had all her hair cut off ! Did you know?’ she said, her eyes sparkling with the news.

‘What all of it?’ Emma asked, aghast. She was just taking off her pinafore ready to go home.

‘No, silly. Of course not all of it,’ Maisie said impatiently. ‘But she’s had it cut short. You know, bobbed, almost like a boy. You should’ve seen Madam’s face! Her look would’ve curdled milk! Did you know about it, Henry?’

‘Yes. Mr Philip told me she’d had it cut.’ He grinned. ‘That’s why he wanted to go for a spin in the car before lunch. He thought he’d stay out of the way till the dust settled.’

‘I don’t blame him! Does he like it?’

Henry shrugged. ‘Don’t think he cares much one way or the other, to tell you the truth. Not that she’d ask his opinion.’

‘Funny way of going on, in’t it?’ Emma said thoughtfully. ‘I can just imagine what Arthur would say if I went and had my hair chopped off without asking him first. I’d be black and blue for a week.’

Henry was stacking the logs beside the stove, and nobody noticed the look of pain that crossed his face. He turned. ‘You’re not thinking of having your hair cut off, Emma, are you?’

She shook her head. ‘No, ’course not. It’d be too expensive, for a start.’

‘Anyway, it’s nice as it is.’ He smiled at her.

Maisie went over to the mirror. ‘Do you think it would suit me to have short hair?’ she asked, putting her head on one side.

‘You wouldn’t be able to keep your cap on if your hair was short,’ Emma said practically.

‘What do you think, Henry?’

He shrugged. ‘I dunno much about women’s hair.’ He turned to Emma. ‘Are you ready to go, Emma? I’ve finished here for a few hours, so I’ll walk back with you.’

‘You can have a bit of dinner with us if you like. I left it in the oven and Mary’s keeping an eye on it and seeing to the vegetables. There’ll be plenty. I don’t know that Arthur’ll want much, not after the skinful he had at the pub last night. By the way, thank you for getting him home, Henry.’

‘Drunk again, was he? I don’t know how you put up with it, Emma, I really don’t,’ Maisie said, pursing her lips.

‘I put up with it because he’s my husband, that’s why,’ Emma replied quietly. ‘He wasn’t like he is now before he went to the war; he was a good, steady man and a loving father. It’s the war that changed him. He drinks to help him forget.’

‘Forget what?’

‘Oh, use your loaf, Maisie! What do you think?’ Henry said with a trace of impatience.

‘The things he saw and the things he had to do, of course,’ Emma explained. She gave a little shudder. ‘When he first came home, he used to have the most terrible choking fits. I used to think he’d choke himself to death. It was the gas, it messed up his lungs. He got gassed at least twice in France. He had nightmares, too, at first. He doesn’t often get them now, but when there’s a thunderstorm it’s nothing unusual to find him hiding under the bed, shaking. That’s what war did to him, Maisie, and that’s why I don’t complain when he comes home drunk. The least I can do is to stick by him, poor devil.’

Henry had been watching her as she spoke, his eyes soft. ‘You’re a good woman, Emma,’ he said. He reached down her coat from its hook on the back of the door and held it for her. ‘Come on, let’s be going or I’ll be due back here for Mr Philip before I’ve had time to eat that dinner you’ve promised me.’

Maisie sat down at the kitchen table after they’d gone. Maybe, she thought sadly, remembering Emma’s words, there were worse things in the world than being single. But there were times, particularly at night when she couldn’t sleep and longed to have a man to cuddle up to, when she couldn’t think of many.

Back in her room after a delicious lunch eaten in a decidedly frosty atmosphere, Stella sat in front of her dressing table and unpinned her auburn hair, letting it fall round her shoulders in waves. It would be much more manageable if she had it cut short, she decided thoughtfully, putting her head on one side, although it was too curly to wear in a sleek helmet like Rosalie’s. There wouldn’t be much time for complicated hairstyles when the baby arrived. Not that her hairstyle was complicated, a quick twist into a loose bun on top of her head didn’t take two minutes.

She smiled a little, remembering how John had loved to take the pins out and watch it fall to her shoulders; how he would run it through his fingers or brush it until it hung like a silky auburn curtain. Sometimes he would bury his head in it and muss it all up, and have to start brushing it again. She rested her elbows on the dressing table and cupped her chin in her hands. John had loved her hair; he even loved to spread it all round her on the pillow, not caring that it would be a mass of tangles when they woke in the morning. For that reason, if no other, she could never have it cut off.

She sighed. All that seemed so long ago it was like another life. In truth, it had been another life; yet, unbelievably, it had all happened less than a year ago. Last Easter she hadn’t even known John. It was not until the summer that he had arrived at the convalescent home to recover from his injuries sustained in battle. In their all too brief time together they had lived in and for the minute; but in such terrible and uncertain times, how could it have been any different? She smiled to herself. They had been so happy and carefree in those few weeks they were together, making extravagant and unlikely plans. Plans, she now realized, that had been born of a kind of desperation, a determination to believe that the nightmare times they were living in would pass and that things would eventually return to normal.

But it was not a normality either of them could ever have envisaged. John was dead and now she was living with his family, awaiting the birth of his child. And wondering, with not a little trepidation, what the future would hold for both of them.

Twelve

Stella loved the garden and walked there every day as the weather became warmer. And as the warmth turned to heat she would go through the little wicket gate in the fence at the end of the garden and into the cool wood beyond, relieved to escape from the hot sun and wander in the shade among the trees, watching the squirrels and listening to the birds. One particularly hot day she caught a glimpse of Philip sitting at his easel in a clearing and altered her direction, not wanting to disturb him; but not before she had seen that he was wearing a pair of shorts that exposed his disfigured legs. She felt a stab of pity, at the same time marvelling that he managed to walk at all with such mangled limbs.

But she was too late, he had obviously seen her. ‘You don’t need to keep out of my way, I won’t eat you. I’ve had my breakfast,’ he called.

She turned back and stepped into the clearing. ‘I saw you were engrossed in your painting and didn’t want to disturb you,’ she answered, noticing that he had quickly pulled a rug over his legs to hide them.

‘But you always disturb me. Why should today be any different?’ he said without looking up. ‘You’re looking worried. Want to tell me about it?’ He glanced up and saw her suddenly guarded expression. ‘It’s all right, Stella, I don’t want to pry. You don’t have to tell me anything; you can just come and sit on a log and discuss the weather if you’d rather. Or, of course, continue with your walk.’

She went over and sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree nearby and began to fan herself with her hat. He continued to concentrate on his painting without speaking again. And it occurred to her that she could sit here for an hour with him in silence without feeling in the least embarrassed or uncomfortable. At the same time she knew she could talk to him and he would listen.

‘Do you like living here, at Warren’s End, Philip?’ she asked after a while.

He leaned back in his seat and blew out his cheeks.

‘Well, as you can imagine it was not quite where I had envisaged spending my life,’ he replied candidly. ‘But then, I hadn’t exactly anticipated being trampled by a pair of runaway mules dragging a gun carriage behind them on the battle front. But these things happened and had to be dealt with in the best – or the least worst – way for all concerned.’

She nodded. ‘Of course. I can see that. It was a stupid question.’

He went on as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘Obviously, my first consideration had to be my wife. Suddenly to be saddled with something less than the man she married can’t have been easy for her.’

‘For better, for worse; in sickness and in health …’ she murmured.

He snorted. ‘Ah, yes, that’s an easy enough promise to make in a fairy-tale wedding when you are both young and fit and a golden life lies ahead. Not quite so easy when reality kicks in.’

‘No, of course not. I’m sorry …’

He took a deep breath. ‘However, in answer to your question, when the Colonel very kindly suggested making those outhouses into a flat for us it seemed the right thing to do, particularly as Rosalie was enthusiastic.’ He paused, then went on, ‘He’s a good chap, the Colonel. I get on very well with him. He has never made me feel in any way beholden to him in spite of all the money he’s lavished on us; and now my paintings are beginning to sell and I’m able to pay my way a bit, he accepts my need to be at least partially independent.’ He looked at her. ‘Does that answer your question?’

‘What about Doreen? Where does she fit in?’ Stella answered his question with two of her own.

‘Ah, Doreen. She’s something else entirely.’ He gave a small shrug. ‘In truth, I don’t have to see all that much of her. Apart from the nightly family dinner, our paths don’t cross all that much. We manage to remain polite, since she’s learned not to interfere too much with my … our lives.’

She began to pick at the daisies on her hat as it lay in her lap. ‘I wish I could say the same,’ she said without looking up.

He took a piece of rag and began to clean his paintbrush. ‘You’re thinking of the business with the perambulator – or should I say “baby carriage” – that was discussed over dinner the other night, of course.’ He put the brush and the rag down carefully. ‘I know I shouldn’t stir things up between you, which, of course, is a preamble to doing exactly that, but in my opinion she behaved very badly towards you, Stella. It was nothing short of blackmail in a velvet glove.’

She looked up, her face anguished. ‘But what could I do? She was absolutely right. The pram she had chosen was much nicer, and it will be better for the baby. Of course, it was much more expensive than the one I was going to buy, but I had picked the best I could afford and I was so excited about it …’ Her voice trailed off and she looked away so he wouldn’t see that her eyes had filled with tears. ‘What else could I have done, Philip?’

‘Nothing. That’s why I said it was blackmail. Moral blackmail.’

‘She’s so good to me in so many ways. I feel I’m being ungrateful … I mean, what would I have done if John’s parents hadn’t offered me a home here when I found I was pregnant? Where would I have gone? They wouldn’t have had me back at my old job, and a pregnant widow would hardly be first in the queue to find a new one.’ She paused, then added, ‘But …’

‘But what?’ he was watching her intently.

She kicked at a loose stone. ‘What’s going to happen when my baby’s born?’

‘Meaning?’

‘Philip, you know as well as I do that I’m only here on sufferance,’ she said impatiently. ‘I’m simply the vessel carrying Doreen’s grandchild. That’s been made plain to me in a hundred ways.’

He leaned back in his chair. ‘That may be true as far as Doreen is concerned,’ he replied, ‘but Roger has grown very fond of you. You must realize that.’

‘Yes, he’s always very kind to me.’

‘It’s more than that, and you know it. He is genuinely fond of you, Stella. You are the kind of daughter he would have loved to have had.’ He gave her a quirky smile. ‘I know that because he’s told me so.’

‘But he already has a daughter. Rosalie …’

His expression hardened. ‘Rosalie is too much like her mother. Roger has learnt to control Doreen, she knows just how far she can go. You see, he holds the purse strings and Doreen loves money and the status she feels it gives her. It’s that simple.’

She digested this and realized it was true; Doreen was a snob of the first order. ‘And Rosalie?’ she asked.

‘Rosalie’s no longer his responsibility, for which I think he’s profoundly glad.’ He sighed. ‘He thinks she’s far too modern and self-opinionated. Haven’t you noticed how he looks at her sometimes now she’s had her hair cut off ? But, unlike her mother, who still goes on about it, he’s wise enough not to complain.’

Stella smiled and nodded. She had noticed.

‘I know he thinks she’s heartless in her manner towards me, too, which is rather hard on her under the circumstances. After all, what have I got to offer her, a crippled shell of a man? How can I complain if she goes her own way and lives her life in the way she enjoys?’

‘I think you’re being very hard on yourself, Philip,’ Stella said quickly. ‘Just because you can’t walk very well doesn’t mean you’re no longer a real man. Do you still love her? No, don’t answer that,’ she added quickly, blushing. ‘I should never have asked, it was very rude of me.’

‘Nevertheless, I’ll answer with another question. Do you still love John?’

She was silent for several minutes. ‘I think I may be in love with the memory of a man I hardly knew,’ she said slowly. ‘Six magic weeks … Hardly the stuff of everyday life. And now, being here where he grew up, hearing what other people say about him, I sometimes wonder if I knew him at all …’ She shrugged. ‘Who can tell?’

‘You’ll have his baby in a couple of months.’

She laid her hand on the mound of her stomach. ‘Yes.’ She heaved a deep sigh. ‘I just hope I don’t have too many fights with Doreen.’ Her face broke into a grin. ‘I can’t see her walking up and down all night with a baby that won’t stop crying, though, can you?’

‘No, indeed I can’t!’ He laughed with her, then became serious. ‘It’ll work out all right, Stella. You’ll see,’ he said.

She sighed again. ‘Yes, I expect you’re right.’ She stood up to resume her walk, and as she did so her hat slipped off her lap. Before she could stoop to retrieve it Philip bent over and picked it up, wincing a little as he did so.

She thanked him and started to walk away. Then she came back.

‘Philip, I know you don’t like to talk about it, but I can see your legs pain you. Can nothing be done?’ she asked gently.

His mouth closed in a hard line. ‘It’s too late.’ he said. ‘From what I’ve been told, they had neither the time nor the facilities to deal with them properly at the field hospital, and were too busy preventing me from bleeding to death.’ He shrugged. ‘Not that I remember much about it, of course.’

‘Let me see.’ She saw the look of alarm that crossed his face and smiled a little. ‘Philip, I worked in a convalescent home. Do you imagine I haven’t seen mangled limbs before?’

Reluctantly, he moved the rug from his legs and looked away.

She knelt down and studied them briefly, then gently drew the rug back over them. She had seen enough of the purple, scarred, misshapen limbs to realize that he was fortunate not to have lost them altogether.

‘At least you’ve still got them,’ she said as she got to her feet. ‘And you can still walk …’

‘After a fashion. Not much strength there, though. I did have somebody who came to work on the muscles after I got home. But he moved away and I didn’t try to find anyone else because I felt I’d imposed quite enough on the Colonel’s generosity.’

‘Did it help?’

‘I think it was beginning to.’

‘There was a masseur at the convalescent home. As well as massage, she used a system of exercises to strengthen muscles. It was very effective and she was kept so busy that she sometimes got me to help her with the more routine bits. I found it very interesting, learning what to do and why. She said I was a “natural”, whatever that meant, and suggested I might think about training to become a qualified masseur. But of course I left …’ She hesitated. ‘I wouldn’t presume … But Henry could probably do it if I showed him what I’d learned. It might help to get a bit more strength back in your legs. The exercises were quite simple, just a matter of stretching your legs and lifting your feet off the floor to begin with and then lifting increasing weight as the legs get stronger. I’m sure Henry …’ She paused, waiting for some response from him.

‘We could give it a try, I suppose,’ he said at last. He spoke without looking at her and she could see that he was uncomfortable with the idea. ‘I suspect it’s too late to do much good, though.’

‘But if it helped to get even a little strength back into your limbs it would be worth it, wouldn’t it?’

‘I guess so.’ He still sounded doubtful.

She put her hat on and tucked a strand of hair up under the brim. ‘It was just an idea that I thought might help, Philip. If you’re not happy with it, let’s say no more about it.’ She smiled at him to show there were no hard feelings. ‘Now, I’d better continue with my walk or I’ll be late for lunch and Doreen will have a search party out looking for me.’

As she walked away, he watched until she was no longer in sight. Then turned to the half-finished painting on the easel, but made no attempt to pick up his brushes.

As she got off her bike and wheeled it up the path, Emma could see Arthur sitting on the rickety old bench under the window, smoking a cigarette.

‘How are you feeling today, love?’ she asked. He had still been in bed when she left for work.

‘So-so. Head’s bad.’

There was always something. ‘Is Mary home from school?’ She tried to sound cheerful as she took out her handkerchief and mopped the perspiration off her face.

‘Yes, she’s peeling the spuds.’ He looked at her for the first time. ‘Did you get chops for tea?’

‘Don’t be daft. You know I’ve no money for chops till I’m paid at the end of the week, Arthur. Maisie gave me some stew left over from last night.’ She propped up her bike and sat down beside him.

‘We’d be able to have something better than left-over stew if Mary was to leave school and earn a bit,’ he said, getting the last puff out of his cigarette before throwing it on to the patch of garden, where even the weeds struggled to grow.

‘And if you were to stop using the garden as an ash tray and start growing a few vegetables, we wouldn’t have to rely on other people to feed us.’ Emma didn’t often retaliate, it wasn’t worth it. But she was tired and hot and she’d been at work since seven. ‘Look at Henry’s garden next door, he’s got peas and beans and potatoes …’

‘Oh, shut up about Henry. To hear you talk, the sun shines out of his …’

‘That’s enough of that talk, Arthur Blatch. Henry works hard, which is more than …’ She turned her head away and bit her lip. She mustn’t quarrel with Arthur, he always turned nasty if he couldn’t get the better of an argument.

But he wasn’t even listening. He’d pulled his cigarette packet out of his pocket and found it empty. ‘Bugger! That’s the last of me fags gone.’ He raised his voice. ‘Charlie, nip down the shop and get me a packet of Woodbines. Charlie! Where are you, you lazy little sod?’

Charlie wandered round the corner of the house, hands in pockets. He looked just like his father, Emma mused. She hoped he hadn’t inherited his father’s temper. No, that wasn’t fair, Arthur wasn’t like this before the war …

‘Didn’t you hear me? I want you to nip down the shop …’

Charlie took one hand out of his pocket and held it out. ‘Gimme the money, then.’

Arthur waved it away. ‘Put it on the slate. Tell Mrs Pike she’ll get it when your mother gets paid.’

‘Mrs Pike said no more slate for cigarettes,’ Charlie was still holding out his hand.

Arthur’s face grew red. ‘You tell Mrs bloody Pike …’

Emma fished in her purse. ‘Here, Charlie. Here’s twopence. For goodness’ sake go and get his fags,’ she said wearily.

After Charlie had run off and Arthur had slumped down in a sulk, she turned her face to the sun, savouring a few minutes’ peace and quiet. Arthur hadn’t always been like this, she reminded herself for the hundredth time, it was the war that had changed him. She turned her mind back to their courting days. He had been a handsome boy, with his curly black hair and brown eyes. He was full of fun, too, always teasing the local girls and trying to steal kisses from them. She’d been so proud when he’d chosen her to be his special girl. They used to go in a crowd to the ‘tuppenny hops’, as they called the dances at the local church hall, but he always chose her for the last waltz and walked her home afterwards. He had ambitions, too. He was a bricklayer and dreamed of having his own building business, talking for hours about what he would do when he’d saved enough money. But then they found Mary was on the way, so they had to get married in a bit of a hurry and the money he’d saved had to go towards furnishing the cottage they’d found to rent. When she arrived, he loved his baby daughter. He was just as proud of the other two when they came along, and he never complained that things hadn’t turned out the way he’d planned. She closed her eyes, remembering what a good husband and father he’d been. Even though they never had a lot of money, in those days they’d been happy.

Then the war came.

Like most of his mates, he reckoned it was his duty to join up and do his bit for King and Country. And she, God help her, had encouraged him.

As far as he was concerned, it had seemed a brave and glamorous thing to do, with a smart uniform to wear and a chance to see a bit of the world. There might even be a bit of ooh-la-la if they were lucky enough to be sent to France, some of them said; although not Arthur, of course, being a family man.

But it hadn’t been like that. She didn’t know what it had been like, because Arthur never said, but she knew only too well what it had done to him. How it had turned the eager, fresh-faced young man she’d seen off on the train into the grey-faced, hollow-eyed, trembling shell of a man that had come back.

‘Where’s that bloody boy? He’s taking long enough to fetch my fags.’ Emma was pulled back to the present by Arthur’s grumbling voice. ‘Get a move on, boy!’ he called as he caught sight of Charlie sauntering along the road. ‘Can’t you see I’m gasping for a ciggie?’

Charlie gave him the packet and Arthur took out a cigarette and put it between his lips, then patted his pockets. ‘Blast, now I haven’t got a lucifer. Go indoors and get me a box of matches, boy. Quick, now.’

Charlie fetched the matches and Arthur lit the cigarette. Two draws on it and he began to cough, a horrible rattling, bubbling cough that went on and on. ‘Lifesavers … fags …’ he panted between spasms. ‘Help to clear the tubes.’

Emma sniffed. ‘Be the death of you, more like,’ she remarked, patting him on the back, in a useless effort to help him get his breath, and encountering the bones barely covered with skin.

Thirteen

The weather was still hot and humid when Stella went for her walk in the woods the following afternoon. She had been lucky that so far her pregnancy had been largely trouble-free, although Doreen was continually trying to turn her into an invalid to protect the ‘precious bundle’. However, she had to admit that she was very glad to rest on her bed for an hour every afternoon on these hot summer days before taking a gentle walk.

Now, as she wandered beneath the cool canopy of the trees she could see that Philip was once again at his easel in the clearing but, embarrassed by the memory of what she had suggested to him the previous day, she tried to give him a wide berth. She was very much afraid that she might have overstepped the mark and jeopardized their friendship by even referring to his disability, which she should have known he hated; let alone presuming she might be able to help.

‘Look, Henry’s brought a garden chair for you. We thought it would be more comfortable for you than sitting on that log like you did yesterday,’ she heard him call, although he hadn’t even looked up from his painting. ‘Henry will be along later with a cup of tea for us.’

Surprised, she changed direction and went over to him. ‘I didn’t think you’d seen me.’

‘I’ve got good ears. I heard you coming. But anyway I was watching out for you,’ he said, smiling up at her.

‘I nearly didn’t come,’ she admitted.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Why ever not? This is the coolest spot in the garden. That’s why I always choose it.’

‘It’s not that.’ She sat down and made herself comfortable in the chair Henry had brought for her. ‘I was afraid I might have offended you yesterday by suggesting …’

He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Don’t be silly. It was a good idea and Henry’s all for giving it a try if you’re willing to show him how.’ He didn’t look up from his painting.

‘But how do you feel about it?’ she insisted.

He shrugged. ‘Can’t do any harm, I guess. And if the sight of my misshapen limbs doesn’t sicken you …’

‘Now it’s your turn not to be silly,’ she said impatiently. She frowned. ‘But you don’t sound very keen, so if you’d rather not …’

He sighed. ‘No, we’ll give it a go,’ he said, but without much enthusiasm. He looked up. ‘Ah, here comes Henry with the tea. I hope you brought a cup for yourself, Henry.’

‘Yes, I did take that liberty, sir.’

‘Good. Now, sit down, drink your tea and listen carefully while Nurse Nolan tells you what to do.’

Stella took no notice of the sarcasm. She realized that it was born of embarrassment, so ignoring Philip she began to talk to Henry about the methods of exercising and massage which she had been taught to help strengthen damaged limbs.

Henry nodded eagerly as she talked. ‘Yes, I’m sure I can help him with that,’ he said several times. ‘And as the muscles strengthen with exercise, I can make little weights to hang on his feet to give a bit of extra weight as he lifts them. But I’m not so sure about the massage bit. How would I …?’

Carried away by both Henry’s enthusiasm and her own, without thinking, she slid off her chair on to her knees and began to show him how to massage some life into the crippled legs. Then, suddenly, realizing what she was doing, she stopped, reddening.

‘Oh, I’m sorry … I shouldn’t have …’ She sat back on her heels, looking anywhere but at Philip. ‘But you can see the idea, Henry, can’t you?’ She attempted to get to her feet, but her extra bulk made her awkward and she glanced round for something to hold on to. The chair she’d been sitting in was too far away for her to reach; and short of crawling over to it on her hands and knees or hanging on to Philip, there was nothing. ‘Oh dear! I’m awfully sorry.’ She reddened even further. ‘I’m afraid I’m a bit stuck down here. Could somebody help me up, please?’

At this, Philip burst out laughing, releasing the tension. ‘Oh, Stella, if only Doreen could see you now!’ he said, still chuckling. ‘She’d throw a fit at what harm you might be doing to the precious bundle. Perhaps we should call her?’ He began to roar with laughter again.

‘Please, don’t make fun of me, Philip,’ she begged, ‘Can’t you see? I’m completely stuck. I can’t get up.’ But she couldn’t help seeing the funny side of the situation too and began to laugh with him – which made him laugh even more, and getting up even more impossible for her.

Henry soon came to her aid.

‘Oh, thank you, Henry,’ she said breathlessly as he managed to heave her to her feet and help her back on to her chair. She leaned back, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes. ‘Oh dear, I don’t know when I’ve laughed so much,’ she said.

‘I think you’d better have another cup of tea to recover,’ Philip said, still chuckling. ‘In fact I think we all need one, don’t we, Henry?’

Stella took the cup Henry handed her and drank a little. ‘My trouble is I keep forgetting I’m not as agile as I used to be,’ she said ruefully, but she was still smiling. ‘But it won’t be long now. Only a couple of weeks or so.’ She became serious and gave a sigh. ‘Then we shall see what will happen.’

‘I don’t think you need worry, Stella. The Colonel will see that you’re looked after,’ Philip said, reading her thoughts.

She nodded. ‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right,’ she said. ‘The trouble is, I’m not sure that I want to be looked after. I want to look after myself.’

‘That won’t be easy for a while,’ Philip pointed out. ‘I think you’ll need to exercise a little patience over that, Stella. After all, you won’t have only yourself to consider.’

She nodded and automatically laid her hand on her swollen stomach. ‘You’re right, of course. And I wouldn’t like you to think I’m not grateful for what’s being done for me. I truly am. Heaven knows where I’d be if it hadn’t been for Roger and Doreen. In some hostel for war widows, if there is such a thing, or …’

‘Don’t even think about it. Just count your blessings, like I do. Every day.’ Philip smiled at her, a warm smile that immediately made her feel better.

That evening, over dinner Roger and Philip discussed the reluctance of the Germans to sign the Treaty of Versailles. It had been their favourite topic for weeks now.

‘They’ll never sign it. They’re being asked to give up too much,’ Philip said.

‘I don’t see they’ve any choice,’ Roger said. ‘Look how long it’s taken to draw up the treaty. Although I agree with you it was an unsatisfactory armistice.’

‘My fear is that if they’re forced to sign it as it stands, it won’t be the last we shall hear of it,’ Philip said, shaking his head.

‘Oh, I don’t know. I think the terms are reasonable enough.’

‘Do you really, sir? Even Lloyd George, who advocated “squeezing the Germans till the pips squeak”, thinks the terms the French are demanding too harsh.’

‘Hm. Maybe you’re right. We shall see. The whole business needs wrapping up, that’s for sure. It’s well over seven months now since the war ended.’

Philip nodded. ‘That’s true. But my fear is if they don’t get it right this time, it’ll take another war to “wrap it up”, as you put it.’

‘Oh, Phil, for goodness’ sake stop scaremongering,’ Rosalie said impatiently. ‘It’s ridiculous to talk of another war. We haven’t got over the last one yet.’ She turned to Doreen. ‘You need to talk to Maisie, Ma. These potatoes are overcooked.’

‘I thought they were very tasty,’ Stella said. ‘I like them roasted like this.’ Rosalie always found something to complain about.

‘That’s good. I’m glad you’ve still got a healthy appetite, dear. Did you go for your walk today?’ Doreen asked with a patronizing smile. ‘It wasn’t too hot for you? I hope you didn’t venture too far and tire yourself. You did stay in the grounds, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I did go for a walk. No, it wasn’t too hot. And no, I didn’t tire myself.’

The veiled sarcasm was lost on Doreen. She repeated, ‘You did stay in the grounds, dear, didn’t you? It wouldn’t be right to be seen in public, not at this stage. After all …’

‘I can vouch for the fact that Stella didn’t stray anywhere near the public highway,’ Roger said, his sarcasm not veiled at all. ‘I heard her laughing with Philip when I was talking to Govan in the garden.’

‘Laughing!’ Doreen looked shocked. She gave Stella a look that bordered on panic-stricken. ‘I hope you didn’t …’

‘Didn’t what, Doreen?’ Philip asked with feigned innocence. ‘Stella saw me painting in the wood when she took her afternoon stroll. There was a squirrel playing under the beech tree and we couldn’t help laughing at its antics, isn’t that so, Stella?’ He gave her a conspiratorial wink as he spoke.

Stella nodded, keeping a straight face with difficulty. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘But was it wise, my dear?’ Doreen was still full of concern. ‘You really shouldn’t be walking too far at this stage, you need to conserve your strength. And it’s important that you shouldn’t get yourself too emotional or excited. That would be very bad for Baby. Especially in this heat.’

‘So now you know, Stella. The oracle has spoken!’ Rosalie said with a smirk, helping herself to a plum. ‘She’ll be wrapping you in cotton wool next.’

‘Don’t be silly, dear,’ Doreen said absently. She warmed to her theme. ‘It’s a good thing I’ve engaged Nurse Bennett. She’s coming next week to live in until after Baby’s born. She’ll keep a watchful eye on you.’

Stella’s jaw dropped and she frowned. ‘Who’s Nurse Bennett? Why do I need her?’ she asked crossly. ‘You know I’ve been seeing Dr Eaves regularly, Doreen, and he says I’m perfectly fit. Why do I need somebody I’ve never even met to look after me? And why does she need to come next week? The baby’s not due for another fortnight.’

Doreen cleared her throat, clearly embarrassed. ‘This is hardly a subject for discussion over the dinner table, Stella,’ she warned. ‘Let’s just say Nurse Bennett is happy with the arrangements. She’s seen the little bedroom in your flat, and she says it will be quite suitable for her needs and quite convenient in case you need anything.’ She smiled at Stella’s astonished expression and leaned over and patted her hand. ‘It’s all right, you don’t have to worry, dear, it’s all arranged.’ She looked round. ‘Now, has everybody finished? Good. I’ll ring for Maisie to collect the dishes and bring in the pudding.’

Suddenly, Stella pushed back her chair and got to her feet. ‘I don’t think I want any pudding, thank you. I’ve got rather a headache, so if you’ll excuse me …’

‘Of course, my dear.’ Roger got to his feet, full of concern. ‘Is there anything you need?’

‘No, thank you.’ She managed to smile at him, although she was inwardly seething.

‘I hope you’re not in a paddy because I’ve engaged Nurse Bennett?’ Doreen said sternly as she left the room. ‘It’s for your own good, you know.’

‘No, she probably just needs a bit of peace and quiet. And who can blame her,’ Stella heard Rosalie remark as she closed the door firmly behind her. For once, she was in complete agreement with her sister-in-law.

Crossing the hall on her way back to her flat, Stella met Maisie hurrying in response to Doreen’s ring.

‘Oh, Maisie, would it be too much trouble to bring me a cup of tea, when you’ve got a minute?’ she asked. ‘I’m not feeling very well, so I’m going to lie down.’

‘Of course, Mrs Stella. I’ll bring it as soon as I’ve taken the pudding in. Or better still, I’ll get Emma to bring it, she hasn’t gone home yet.’

‘Thank you. I’d be very grateful.’

She carried on to her flat, where she kicked off her shoes and lay down on her bed. Her head ached, her back ached, and she felt generally out of sorts – and angry with Doreen for having arranged for this nurse to come without even telling her. Even showing the woman the flat when she wasn’t there! It was as if she, Stella, was of no account at all. It was absolutely infuriating the way Doreen took it upon herself to take control of everything. Once the baby was born, maybe she would have more energy to stand up for herself; but unfortunately that wouldn’t be for another two weeks or so.

Maisie pushed open the kitchen door with her elbow and sidled through with the loaded tray of dirty dishes. Emma had a second tray, already laden with clean dishes and a large treacle sponge and custard, ready to replace it.

‘I’ll just wash the dirties up before I go,’ she said with a grin. ‘You never know, there might be a bit of that treacle sponge left for me to take home. I made a nice big one.’

‘Yes, there might, if you’re lucky,’ Maisie answered. ‘But before you start the washing-up, will you take Mrs Stella a pot of tea? She says she’s got a headache and I must say she looks a bit peaky.’ She frowned. ‘Better get a move on, Em. She must be feeling poorly, she usually makes her own tea.’

Emma didn’t need telling twice, she was already warming the teapot. Five minutes later she was knocking on Stella’s door.

‘Oh, Emma, I’ve got a headache and an awful backache, too,’ Stella confided, not admitting that she was afraid she might have done herself some damage attempting to get up off her knees that afternoon.

Emma poured the tea. ‘Is it just your back that aches?’ she asked, regarding her closely.

Stella hitched herself up on the bed and winced a little. ‘Well, no. To tell you the truth, I’m a bit worried really: I get a sort of stabbing pain in my side now and again. I’m afraid I might have done some damage to myself when I tried to get up off my knees this afternoon.’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake don’t tell my mother-in-law I said that, Emma.’

Emma grinned. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. I won’t even ask what you were doing down on your knees.’ She laid a hand on Stella’s forehead, then stood looking down at her. ‘How often do these stabbing pains come? Regularly?’

‘I don’t really know.’ Stella frowned, then winced again. ‘They do seem to be getting worse, though. Oh, Emma you don’t think I could have harmed my baby, do you?’

‘I shouldn’t think so, not for a minute.’ Emma gave her a wide smile. ‘But unless I’m much mistaken, you’ll soon find out. I think your baby’s on its way, Mrs Stella.’

Stella’s eyes widened in fear. ‘But it can’t be! Oh, Emma, what shall I do? It’s not due for another fortnight.’

‘I wouldn’t worry too much about that, dear. Babies often don’t have a very good sense of time and doctors don’t always get it right,’ Emma said calmly. ‘I’ve thought for several days when I’ve seen you around that it wouldn’t be much longer. I’ve seen enough births to know the signs. Just tell me where you’ve put everything you’ll need, and I’ll go and tell Maisie to get hot water ready.’

‘Emma? I’m a bit frightened.’ She put out her hand. ‘Will you stay with me?’

‘Of course I will, if you want me to, dearie.’ The endearment came quite naturally. ‘I’ll just have to get a message to Arthur and the children, so they know why I’m not home at the usual time.’

‘Emma?’ she winced again. ‘Do we need to tell …’ she caught her breath, biting her lip. ‘I don’t want Doreen …’

‘I don’t think you need worry on that score, dearie. If I know the missus, she won’t want to be anywhere near. She’s not a great one for the sick room.’ Emma was already bustling about preparing the room. She paused and stood pinching her lip. ‘Now, I think I’d better just go and ask Maisie to let Dr Eaves know what’s happening, just in case he’s needed, and they can drop a message in to Arthur on the way.’ She disappeared for a few minutes and came back with a cool cloth, which she laid on Stella’s forehead. ‘There, now, don’t you worry about a thing, lovie. Everything’s going to be fine. Just relax and let the pain wash over you. That’s it. You can cling on to me …’

Stella had no idea of time; the pain came and went, then came and stayed, getting worse and worse till she thought she couldn’t bear any more. But through it all she could hear Emma’s voice, talking to her, soothing and calming. Telling her everything was going to be all right. Once she thought she saw John and called to him to help her; but before he could reach her he changed into Dr Eaves, and she cried out to him to come back to her and tried to take his hand. Then quite clearly, through a sea of pain, she was sure she heard Doreen’s voice from a long way away: ‘Save the child. If there has to be a choice, save the child.’ And she knew she was dying.

Then something was clamped over her face and she smelled something sickly sweet but antiseptic.

That was the last she knew.

Minutes later, or so it seemed, she opened her eyes and was surprised to find she was still in her own bed, in her own room. The dreadful racking pain had gone and she felt comfortably drowsy. She thought she might be dead; if so, it was a very pleasant place to be. She closed her eyes again.

‘Ah, you’re awake. Would you like a cup of tea, dear? You deserve it, after all that hard work.’

She opened her eyes again and was surprised to see Emma, looking haggard with fatigue but smiling broadly. So she wasn’t dead, after all. She licked her parched lips. ‘Yes, please, I’m very thirsty.’ She managed a weary little smile; then suddenly the memory flooded back and she put her hand on her stomach. It was flabby and sore: and flat. A look of alarm crossed her face. ‘My baby! Where’s my baby? Is it born? Where is it? Have they taken it away?’

‘Of course not, dearie. He’s right here, look.’ Emma lifted the little shawl-wrapped figure out of the cradle and laid him in the crook of Stella’s arm. ‘A lovely little boy, and the image of his Pa, if I might say so.’

‘Oh, he’s gorgeous,’ Stella breathed, looking down at the tiny form nestled beside her. ‘My little son.’

Emma sniffed, her eyes misty; she wasn’t usually given to showing her emotions. ‘I’ll go and fetch you some tea,’ she said briskly. ‘And do you want some breakfast?’

‘Breakfast?’ Stella frowned. ‘Why? What’s the time? Is it morning?’

‘Morning?’ Emma laughed. ‘It’s nearly ten o’clock. You’ve had a busy night, although you didn’t know too much about it.’

Stella looked bemused. ‘No wonder I’m starving.’

‘I’ll fetch your breakfast.’ Emma went off, smiling. It had been a good night’s work.

The baby was back in his cradle and Stella was tucking in to two boiled eggs and several slices of toast when there was a brief knock at the door and Doreen came in.

Stella noticed with private amusement that she glanced carefully round the room to make sure all the unpleasant signs of recent birth had been removed before she sat down rather gingerly on the chair at the foot of the bed. She appeared quite nervous.

‘Well, my dear, you surprised us all,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘But Dr Eaves assures me that everything was normal and straightforward, considering Baby weighed nearly eight pounds.’

‘Oh, nobody told me that. He seemed really tiny when Emma put him in my arms. But he’s beautiful. Just perfect.’ Stella attacked her second egg, trying not to resent the fact that her mother-in-law already appeared to know more about the baby than she did herself.

‘Well, a least there’s no question about what to call him. Naturally, he’ll be John, after his father,’ Doreen said, with more than a trace of smugness.

Stella looked up from her egg and smiled. ‘Well, no. I’ve thought about it a lot and I’ve decided I’m going to call him Jonathan, not John. I feel it’s important that he should be his own person and not continually compared with his father, wonderful though John was. Jonathan Roger Nolan. It has a nice ring, and no doubt it will be shortened to Jonny, which will be nice, don’t you think? Especially as he’ll have his father’s middle name and also be named after his grandfather. Roger will like that, I’m sure.’

‘I think you’re wrong. Roger will expect him to be named John, after his son and the baby’s father.’ The atmosphere in the room had grown noticeably cooler.

‘Well, I’m sure Roger will understand and like the name I’ve chosen.’ Stella finished her egg and wiped her fingers on her napkin, smiling again. ‘Aren’t you going to take a look at your new grandson? He’s asleep in his cradle, there. Emma says he’s just like John. What do you think?’

Doreen got up and leaned over the cradle. For a moment her expression softened as she gazed at her little grandson. ‘You’re right. He does look very tiny,’ she said. Then she straightened up. ‘He’s got a great deal more hair than John had when he was born. No wonder you suffered from heartburn while you were pregnant.’

And with that, she left.

Fourteen

‘Another whisky, Gilbert?’ Roger asked, holding up the decanter as they sat together in the morning room. Dr Eaves gave a yawn; he looked weary.

‘No thanks, Roger. Remember I’ve got my rounds to do, even if I have been up half the night,’ he said with a smile. He got to his feet and picked up his bag. ‘So I’ll just congratulate you again on a fine little grandson and be on my way.’

‘Well, thanks again for attending our daughter-in-law, Gilbert. We appreciate it.’

Gilbert Eaves waved the thanks away. ‘I really didn’t have to do a lot. Emma Blatch had everything under control.’

‘I’m sorry to have disturbed your night’s rest. But Doreen insisted on calling you. Just in case …’

‘She needn’t have worried. Emma’s a good woman to have at a birth. I’ve come across her before. She never panics and knows just what to do. She told me once she would like to have trained as a midwife, but of course her family couldn’t afford it.’ He shook his head. ‘Shame about her husband, too. He was a fine, hard-working man before the war and look at him now, a wreck of a man.’ He sighed. ‘But he’s only one of hundreds – thousands, in fact – ruined by it.’ He sighed again. ‘So many young lives wasted.’

‘At least he came back,’ Roger said thoughtfully.

Dr Eaves nodded. ‘Yes, for what it’s worth, at least he came back. Your John didn’t, I know that and I’m sorry, Roger.’

Roger nodded, acknowledging the doctor’s words. ‘It leaves a great gap,’ he said briefly.

‘It also means your plucky little daughter-in-law will have to bring up her son without a father.’

‘She’ll be all right. She’s got us,’ Roger said. ‘We’ll look after her and the boy.’

‘I’m sure you will.’

The door suddenly crashed open and Doreen marched in, her face a mask of fury.

‘She says she’s going to call the baby Jonathan, Roger,’ she said angrily, ignoring the doctor. ‘You must put a stop to it and insist she calls him John, after his father.’

‘I shall do nothing of the kind, Doreen, and I’ll thank you not to burst in like that when I’m having a drink with Gilbert to “wet the baby’s head”, as the tradition goes.’ Roger didn’t raise his voice, but his displeasure was plain.

‘I’m sorry, Gilbert,’ she muttered ungraciously, barely glancing at him. ‘But I feel very strongly that my son’s child should bear his name.’

‘What a good thing it wasn’t a girl, then,’ Roger remarked with the ghost of a smile.

‘Don’t be facetious, Roger. Can’t you see how upset I am?’ She took out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.

‘I’ll see myself out,’ Dr Eaves said, picking up his bag. He wanted no part of this dispute, but hoped privately that the young mother would have the strength of will to withstand her mother-in-law’s domination. He didn’t envy her; he’d known Doreen for a long time.

‘Sit down, Doreen, and calm yourself,’ Roger said sternly after the doctor had closed the door. ‘That was disgraceful behaviour in front of Gilbert.’

‘But I’m upset, Roger. Can’t you see?’ She began to cry in earnest.

‘Oh, yes, I can see.’ He gave a sigh, knowing his wife could turn the tap on at will. ‘But you’ve no reason to be upset. You’ve got a beautiful grandson – at least, so I’m told, I haven’t been given the chance to see him yet – so you should be thankful, not come to me complaining you haven’t been asked to choose his name. And why should you be? He’s not your baby.’ He laid deliberate emphasis on the word. ‘Anyway, I think Jonathan is a very nice name – very like John but not exactly the same. Which I consider extremely sensible. Just be thankful Stella didn’t choose a name like Horace. Or Algernon.’

Doreen gave a watery smile. ‘Now you’re laughing at me.’

‘I am indeed.’ He smiled back at her. He was fond of his wife, despite some of her irritating ways.

‘He’s to be called Jonathan Roger,’ she said grudgingly. Then added, ‘He’s got very much the look that John had when he was first born.’

Roger’s smile widened. ‘How gratifying!’ he said, but whether because the boy was to bear his name or resembled his son was not clear.

Doreen had deliberately arranged that Nurse Bennett should be in attendance for at least a week before the birth, in case – as she delicately put it – of unforeseen circumstances. In the event, young Jonathan was over a week old by the date she had been booked to come.

By the time she arrived, full of apologies to Doreen at not having been able to leave her previous case any sooner, she was surprised to find that Emma had established a perfectly adequate routine looking after mother and baby, with the help of Mary, her daughter, who was on the point of leaving school anyway.

‘I really don’t think I’m needed, Mrs Nolan,’ Nurse Bennett told Doreen once she had assessed the situation. ‘Everything seems to be running like clockwork. Mother and baby are thriving; Emma clearly knows what she’s doing, and her daughter is a delightful girl, very willing and able. Under the circumstances, I think I should quietly leave. Of course, there will be no fee.’

This was not at all what Doreen wanted to hear. She pursed her lips, determined to have her own way ‘in case things go wrong,’ as she put it.

There was no earthly reason why anything should go wrong, Ada Bennett pointed out, but since Mrs Nolan insisted, she agreed to stay for two weeks; she’d been booked for longer, but this seemed a reasonable compromise.

In the event, it was a very happy two weeks for all concerned. Ada was a jolly soul and kept Maisie, Emma and whoever else might be in the kitchen in fits of laughter with anecdotes of her life as midwife and nursery nurse. She was impressed with Emma’s skills and congratulated her on the professional way she was caring for Stella and the baby; and at the same time she took Mary under her wing, giving her helpful tips and advice. She managed all this with tact and no hint of interference.

‘My word, I’ve never been in a situation where I’ve had less to do. This has been quite a holiday for me,’ she said when the fortnight was up and her bag was packed ready to leave. ‘I’ve really enjoyed meself these past two weeks and I’ve never had so much time to put me feet up!’

‘And as for you, young lady,’ she turned to Mary, who was standing by the table with the suspicion of a tear in her eye at the thought of the elderly midwife, who she had come to regard as a friend, leaving. ‘You’re a born nursemaid, and don’t let anyone tell you anything different. If I hear of a place going, I’ll put your name forward.’ She turned to Emma. ‘With your mam’s permission, of course.’

‘Ooh, I’d like that,’ Mary said, her eyes shining.

‘It’s nice of you to say that, Ada, but I reckon she’s going to be needed here for another week or two,’ Emma warned. ‘My Arthur’s beginning to feel a bit neglected because I’ve spent so much time away from home lately, although I’ve made sure he’s had everything he needed, taken him his meals and all that. But after what you’ve said and all you’ve taught Mary, I shan’t have any worries about leaving her here to look after things. She gets on well with Mrs Stella, too. Mind you, Mrs Stella likes to do quite a lot for herself. And she’s getting stronger every day.’

‘Yes, she seems a very capable young lady,’ Ada said, nodding. ‘These modern mothers like to look after their babies themselves; not like in the old days, when the children lived in the nursery and only saw their parents for half an hour a day. I think it’s much better. But do make sure she has a rest every afternoon, won’t you? Now, I’ve left you my address, in case you want to get in touch with me for any reason.’ She tapped the side of her nose conspiratorially. ‘Strictly on the quiet, of course.’

Henry came in and announced that the trap was ready, so she kissed them all warmly and went off to her next job, leaving them feeling they had found a new friend.

For her part, Stella had spent quite a lot of time in between feeding and tending Jonathan, which she loved to do, doing careful calculations to decide whether she could possibly afford to employ Mary as nursemaid on a permanent basis. The money she received each month from the interest on her inheritance was not much, but she decided that if she was very careful and didn’t spend any money on herself she could just about manage to pay Mary a small wage. Looking to the future, she recognized that if she was ever going to be self-sufficient and able to leave Warren’s End she would need to find some kind of employment so she could support herself and her baby. A nursemaid would be a necessary expense if she was ever going to be able to do that.

One afternoon she was sitting in the garden on a wickerwork chaise longue under the shade of a large old beech tree, her usual choice for her afternoon rest when the weather was warm enough. Jonathan was asleep in his pram beside her, and she was making yet more calculations on her notepad to make absolutely sure she had got her sums right before formally offering Mary work when Roger came along.

‘I’ll swear this child grows by the minute,’ he said, chuckling as he gazed into the pram. ‘He looks bigger every time I see him.’ He sat down on a bench beside Stella. ‘And how are you today, my dear? I must say you look a picture of health.’

‘Yes, I’m well, thank you, Roger.’ She smiled at him and flipped over the cover of her notepad, but not before Roger had seen the page covered with calculations.

He frowned. ‘Forgive me, Stella, but I couldn’t help seeing … You’re not in financial difficulties, are you?’ Concerned, he looked into her face.

‘No, not exactly,’ she answered slowly. She hesitated. ‘It’s just that, well, Mary is such a lovely girl and such a help to me that I would like to ask her to stay permanently, and I was just making a few calculations to see if I could afford to pay her enough to encourage her to stay on.’

He slapped his knee. ‘What a capital idea! Of course you must ask her, my dear.’ He beamed at her. ‘I don’t know why nobody’s thought of it before.’

‘But I’m not sure …’

‘What it would cost? Don’t you worry your pretty little head over that, Stella. It’ll come under staff expenses and be paid with the rest. It’s not something for you to concern yourself over.’

She frowned. ‘It’s very generous of you, Roger,’ she said doubtfully, ‘but …’

‘Think no more about it.’ He grinned and nodded toward the pram. ‘Just consider it a little something for my grandson.’ He got up and began to walk away. Then he turned back. ‘Put the idea to the young gel today. See what she says. Of course, there’ll be back wages to be paid as well, tell her, if she takes the job on.’ He winked and went off, humming happily to himself.

Stella watched him go, smiling to herself and thinking what a nice man her father-in-law was. She turned her face to the sun. It was a very pleasant garden to sit in, with several shady corners or sunny spots to take advantage of according to the weather. With something of a shock, she realized that she would miss it if – when – she left. Her thoughts turned to the family. She would miss Roger and his kind wisdom, but not his wife. She had come more and more to understand that Doreen wanted control of her grandson and realized that it would have been quite convenient as far as she was concerned if Stella had died in childbirth. She pursed her lips. But she had not died and had no intention of relinquishing control of her baby to his grandmother.

‘Enjoying your afternoon rest? Well, I’ve come to spoil it.’

Stella hadn’t heard Rosalie approach over the lawn and she looked up to see her sister-in-law peering into the pram. ‘Does he sleep all the time?’ she asked without much curiosity.

‘Of course not. But he’s a good baby, only cries when he’s hungry.’

Rosalie flung herself down on the bench Roger had vacated. She was wearing a diaphanous creation in shades of pale orange and yellow that finished well above her ankles, and a matching bandanna round her head. Her bobbed hair was shining and immaculate and her lipstick was a brilliant slash of bright red. It was evident that she had just come back from a long lunch with friends. She began to rummage in her bag for her cigarettes.

Stella put a hand on her arm. ‘I’d rather you didn’t smoke near Jonathan, Rosalie,’ she said. ‘It can’t be good for him.’

‘Oh, give me strength!’ Rosalie said impatiently, but she stopped rummaging and closed her bag up. ‘Everything revolves round the bloody baby these days.’

‘I don’t think it affects you all that much,’ Stella said coolly. ‘I haven’t noticed you showing any particular interest in him.’ She stopped and turned to look at Rosalie. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me.’

‘Why?’ Rosalie raised her eyebrows. She looked genuinely surprised.

‘Well,’ Stella was embarrassed at having to spell it out. ‘You don’t have children, and from what I can gather there’s not much likelihood …’

‘So?’

She ploughed on, wishing she’d never raised the subject. ‘Well, with Philip’s disabilities …’

‘Ah, so that’s it.’ Rosalie’s face cleared and she held up her hand. ‘Now, before you go any further, let’s get things straight. I’ve never been the motherly type and I’ve never particularly wanted children, much to my mother’s disappointment. But the fact that I’m childless has got nothing to do with Philip’s ability to father a child. As far as I know, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with him in that direction.’

‘Oh.’ Conflicting thoughts coursed through Stella’s mind.

‘I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong again.’ Rosalie rummaged for her cigarettes again, then remembered Stella’s request and closed her bag with a snap. ‘It’s my fault, not Philip’s. I know without any shadow of a doubt that I shall never have a child.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. But how can you be so sure?’

Now Rosalie succumbed to her need for a cigarette, and Stella bit her lip against protesting. When she had taken the first satisfying drag, she looked appraisingly at her sister-in-law. ‘Will you be shocked if I tell you?’

‘I don’t know what you’re going to say, so how can I tell?’ Stella said with a trace of impatience.

‘True.’ She nodded and after another long drag on her cigar-ette stubbed it out. ‘Well, to put it in a nutshell, while Philip was at the Front fighting for King and Country I had a fling with an officer I met in the town and became pregnant. He was furious, of course, because he’d already got a wife; and obviously I didn’t want a bloody baby, so he paid for me to go to some posh clinic where they didn’t ask questions.’ She shrugged. ‘Posh clinic or not, they messed up the operation. Nearly killed me and left me incapable of ever conceiving, let alone bearing a living child.’ She turned to Stella with a bright smile. ‘Did me a good turn really, didn’t they, because it’s something I no longer have to worry about. I can …’ She waved an arm. ‘Well, whatever.’

She left Stella in no doubt what she meant.

‘What on earth did your parents say?’ she asked, shocked.

‘They never knew. They thought I’d gone to stay with friends because I was missing Philip.’ Rosalie laughed. ‘Funny really, wasn’t it? They thought I was pining for my husband when in reality I was aborting another man’s child.’

Stella digested this. It didn’t seem in the least bit funny to her. ‘But what about your husband?’ she asked at last. ‘What was his reaction?’

‘Oh, grow up, Stella,’ Rosalie said scathingly. ‘It was hardly likely I’d tell him, was it? He never knew anything about it.’ She turned to look at Stella. ‘Good grief, woman, you’re not naïve enough to imagine Phil lived like a monk while he was away, do you? There was a war on, for God’s sake. None of those men knew whether they would live or die, so they took their pleasures while they could. And who could blame them?’ She shrugged, and paused.

‘And don’t for a minute imagine that John didn’t behave in exactly the same way,’ she went on, with more than a hint of malice. ‘Even before he joined up, he used to boast of his conquests. He told me once he’d had pretty well all the girls at the country club, so he’d have to start looking farther afield.’ She shook her head at the look of horror on Stella’s face. ‘Just how well did you know the man you married, my innocent little sister-in-law?’ She looked her up and down. ‘Not as well as you thought, I guess. And now it’s too late. Just as well, perhaps.’

Without waiting for a reply, she got lazily to her feet and walked away.

Stella watched her go with something very close to hatred in her heart. How dare John’s sister try to tarnish the memory of the man she had loved so much.

Full of excitement, Mary ran home to tell her mother and father she was to be the baby’s nursemaid.

‘And I’m to live in the flat with Mrs Stella and …’

‘Just you hold on, my girl,’ Arthur said, frowning. ‘Are you bein’ paid the goin’ rate? And what about all these weeks you’ve been there, workin’ for nuthin’?’

‘Yes, I’m to be paid the proper rate and I’ve been paid for the time I’ve already been there.’ Mary was hopping from one foot to the other in her excitement.

‘Goodness me, that’s generous of Mrs Stella,’ Emma said admiringly as she washed the dishes in a bowl on the kitchen table. ‘But instead of hoppin’ about like that, you could use your energy in dryin’ these dishes while you talk. I’m due back at the House in half an hour.’

Mary grabbed a tea towel off the line stretched across the kitchen. ‘No,’ she said, ‘Mrs Stella said it was the Colonel who would be paying me. I’ll be staff, like you, Mum.’

Arthur lit a cigarette, coughed long and hard, then held his hand out. ‘Well, where is it, then?’

‘What?’

‘The wages you’ve already been paid.’

Mary, alarmed, looked at her mother, who said nothing but jerked her head resignedly in the direction of her husband.

Reluctantly, Mary pulled a shilling out of her pocket and handed it to him.

‘Is that all?’

‘All! She’s a lucky girl to get that much. It’s very generous,’ Emma said hotly.

‘I shall get my keep and a uniform. That was supposed to be money for the extra work when the baby was born,’ Mary said sullenly, nodding towards her father’s hand, still closed possessively over the precious shilling. ‘I shan’t always be paid that much.’

‘Well, whatever you get you can hand over to your mother to help with the family’s keep. I said it was time you earned a livin’ to help things along.’

‘You’d better give it to her then, hadn’t you? Instead of putting it your pocket,’ Mary flashed, furious at the injustice.

‘Mary …’ Emma began, shocked at her daughter’s outburst.

‘You speak to me like that, my girl, and you’ll get a clip round the ear,’ Arthur shouted before she could say more. He began to cough again, the cough racking his thin frame.

‘Now see what you’ve done!’ Emma said, rubbing his back. ‘You know this always happens when he gets upset.’

Mary flung down the tea towel. ‘I’m not staying here, I’m going back to the House,’ she said defiantly. ‘That’s where I’ll be living now.’

Fifteen

Ever since the birth of Jonathan, nearly two months ago, Stella had been taking her meals in her own room. For some reason that she couldn’t explain, she was more than happy to live in her own little cocoon with her new baby, feeding and tending him, with only Emma and Mary for help and advice.

Of course, Doreen came to visit her grandson. She arrived every morning in time to see him bathed, making everyone nervous with her anxiety over whether he was being held safely or likely to slip off a lap. She was particularly critical when Mary bathed him – which the girl loved to do – refusing to agree that she was perfectly competent.

‘Would you like to bath him, then?’ Stella asked one day when Doreen was being particularly annoying.

‘No, thank you. I have my best morning dress on. I don’t want to get it splashed.’

But when he was all clean and sweet-smelling she always liked to hold him, cooing and clucking over him in what Stella regarded as a ridiculous and childish manner. Provided he was quiet, she would sometimes stay for nearly half an hour, which disrupted the day’s routine; but she had little to say to Stella, unless it was to criticize, and never once asked after her health and well-being. It was only when the baby became hungry and began to cry that she would relinquish him for Stella to feed, offering useless advice on what she should or shouldn’t eat that might affect the baby’s welfare.

Stella found all this more than a little annoying. After all, what did Doreen know about bringing up children? From what she could gather, she hadn’t even had much to do with bringing up her own, living in India with an ayah to look after them all the time. And surely, a polite ‘How are you today, Stella?’ wouldn’t hurt occasionally. Or was she just being oversensitive and imagining she was being slighted? She tried not to dwell on it. But she hadn’t been able to ignore – or forget – the malice behind Rosalie’s conversation with her in the garden the other day. It had left her feeling vulnerable and wounded, and made her even more reluctant to join the family at mealtimes.

What did they know about John that she didn’t? Were they all laughing at her naïve innocence at having been taken in by the man Rosalie had described – a man she, Stella, would never have recognized? It seemed unlikely: John could never have done wrong in Doreen’s eyes, and Roger was far too kind. All the same it was unsettling.

In the end, it was Roger who persuaded her to take breakfast with him as she used to, saying in his genial but forthright manner, ‘I’ve missed our little chats over toast and marmalade, my dear.’ And then at breakfast a few days later, ‘It would be nice if you joined us for dinner again, Stella. We all miss you.’ She knew he meant it and she was flattered. In any case, with Mary now living in and able to keep an eye on the baby she really had no excuse to stay in her own rooms.

And she missed seeing Philip. This was not something she would ever have put into words, even to herself, but she couldn’t deny it was there, under the surface. She had been surprised – and not a little disappointed, if she was honest with herself – that she’d seen so little of him since the baby’s birth. He’d paid the usual duty visit of the new uncle when Jonathan was not much more than two weeks old, bringing with him a present of a colourful picture of a woodland scene full of little animals and birds that he had painted. He’d said all the right things and complimented her on looking well, but she’d sensed a discomfort in him. Since then, she’d hardly set eyes on him. She couldn’t understand it; she had always valued their conversations together and she had thought, wrongly, it seemed, that he had felt the same. Two or three times while Jonathan was asleep she had been to the place in the wood where he was usually to be found painting, but there was no sign of him, which in view of the lovely summer weather she found strange. Yet she was reluctant to knock on the door of his studio, in case he was using the birth of Jonathan as a good excuse to distance himself from a friendship he was afraid was becoming a little too close. Or perhaps he was tired of listening to her fears and worries. Or simply tired of her.

She resolved to keep her distance in future, realizing that she had perhaps used him too much, if not as a shoulder to cry on, then as someone to burden with her problems.

Nevertheless, she remained puzzled and not a little concerned about him until, by casual questioning, she learned from Emma, who had got it from Henry, that Philip was spending long hours in his studio working on a series of paintings that Benedict Gerard, the proprietor of Hunter’s Moon Galleries, had commissioned from him with a view to an exhibition in London.

‘Henry says he’s workin’ much too hard, but it’s cheered him up no end.’ Emma’s voice dropped. ‘Well, I reckon he’ll stand to earn quite a lot o’ money if he has an exhibition.’ She nodded her head in satisfaction. ‘That’ll be one in the eye for milady, won’t it! She’s never rated Mr Philip’s pictures, but I think they’re nice.’ She always referred to Rosalie as ‘milady’; there was little love lost there. Her expression changed to a frown. ‘Except for those awful grey-and-black ones he keeps hidden away. I can’t make head nor tail of them.’ She lowered her voice to just above a whisper. ‘I don’t think anybody was supposed to see them. I only come on them by accident when I was cleaning his room, so I couldn’t ask what they were.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘Funny, they made me think of the nightmares Arthur used to have when he first came home from the war, when he used to scream and call out … Don’t know why.’

Stella didn’t answer, but having seen them herself she could quite understand why they should.

She dressed carefully for her first dinner with the family since Jonathan’s birth. For the first time since John’s death she wore the pale-green dress, with diaphanous sleeves and a skirt shot with all shades of green, through to a creamy yellow, that he had bought her on their honeymoon. She wasn’t sure whether she had put it on to give her the feeling that he wasn’t far away after all, to boost her own confidence, or because he had said she looked beautiful in it. Whatever the reason, she knew that for her own sake she needed to look her best to boost her confidence; and after she had fed Jonathan and given Mary strict instructions to call her if he cried, she tucked a cream rosebud into her hair from the bowl of roses on the table.

‘Don’t you worry, Mrs Stella, Jonny will be all right with me,’ Mary said, her eyes shining at being left in complete charge, even though it was only at the other end of the house. ‘And if I may say so, you look a right bobby-dazzler.’

Stella smiled. ‘Thank you for that, Mary, it’s made me feel a lot better.’ She took a last look in the mirror. ‘I know it’s only for dinner with the family,’ she said, putting her head on one side, ‘but it seems such a long time since I could wear anything decent I thought it wouldn’t hurt to dress up a bit.’

Unaccountably, she felt quite nervous as she opened the drawing-room door.

‘My dear, what a pleasure it is to have you with us again. And how charming you look!’ Roger said gallantly, getting to his feet and smiling broadly as she entered the room, which immediately put her at her ease.

‘Yes, you’re looking very well, Stella,’ Doreen said with less enthusiasm, from the depths of her armchair. She glanced up at the clock. ‘We’re just waiting for Rosalie and Philip. They’re late again. As usual.’

Even as she spoke, the door opened and Rosalie came in. Philip was behind her and Stella noticed that, although he still used two sticks, he was walking slightly more easily; struggling a little less to drag one foot in front of the other. She didn’t remark on this and the others didn’t appear to notice, but she made a mental note to ask Emma if the improvement might be due to Henry’s ministrations. She was sure Emma would know.

After the usual greetings – coolly appraising on Rosalie’s part, warm and with (did she imagine it?) more than a tinge of admiration on Philip’s – they sat down to dinner. The evening was warm and humid; even with the French windows flung wide, there was not a breath of air.

‘There’ll be a storm, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Roger said, finishing the last of his cold cucumber soup. ‘Will clear the air. It’s what’s needed.’

Stella stole a glance at Philip and saw his jaw tighten. ‘Yes, we can do with the rain,’ was all he said.

‘Phil doesn’t like storms, do you, darling?’ Rosalie said, with malicious sweetness.

‘I’m not keen on them,’ he said briefly. He nodded towards his father-in-law, who was carving a ham joint. ‘Thanks, Roger, just two slices.’

‘I hope the thunder and lightning won’t upset Baby,’ Doreen said anxiously, pausing in the act of piling salad on to her plate.

‘Don’t be daft, Ma. It’s not old enough to be scared of storms,’ Rosalie said.

‘Don’t call John – Jonathan “it”, Rosalie,’ Doreen pleaded. ‘He’s a little boy.’

Rosalie yawned. ‘Ah, yes, so he is. I forgot.’

‘How are the paintings going, Philip?’ Roger cut across the conversation, irritated at the way Rosalie was behaving. He turned to Stella before Philip could answer. ‘Did you know Philip was likely to have an exhibition of his paintings, Stella?’

‘Oh, that would be exciting,’ she said enthusiastically, careful not to answer his question directly. ‘How many paintings will you be putting in, Philip?’

He smiled, meeting her eyes for the first time. ‘I’m afraid Benedict is asking for rather more than I’ve got,’ he said.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Rosalie said impatiently. ‘You’ve got hundreds. Literally hundreds.’

‘Obviously, they have to be good enough to put on show.’ He spoke to Stella, ignoring his wife. ‘I’m working on a new set now that I hope to include.’

‘So that’s why I haven’t seen you in the garden,’ Stella smiled back at him. ‘You’ve been too busy.’

‘’Fraid so. You can come and see what I’ve been doing, if you like.’

‘Thank you. I’d like that. When shall I come?’

‘Whenever you can spare the time from young Jonathan. I’d …’

What he was saying was cut short by a sudden flash of lightning, followed almost immediately by a deafening crack of thunder, and Stella saw the colour drain from his face. He didn’t speak again, but his knuckles showed white as he clutched his knife and fork, trying to act normally, pushing his food round the plate without actually picking it up.

Roger noticed. ‘I’ll just close the doors and curtains. It’s beginning to rain,’ he said, standing up.

‘Oh, don’t do that, Pa, we’ll all stifle,’ Rosalie protested.

‘Don’t be silly, dear. This is quite a big room.’ Roger closed the doors firmly and pulled the curtains across. ‘There, that’s better.’

‘If you’ll excuse me, I think perhaps I should go home.’ Philip got awkwardly to his feet and tried to pick up his sticks, but his hands were shaking too violently to hold them.

‘No, no, you can’t do that, it’s already raining too hard. Come and sit over here, old chap.’ Roger went over to him and helped him to a chair that faced away from the window, although with the curtains drawn the lightning was less visible. ‘What about a little piano music, Rosalie?’

‘No, I don’t think so, I’m not in the mood,’ she replied over her shoulder. ‘I’ll have a bit more of that lemon meringue, Ma. I’m very partial to lemon meringue.’

There was another terrific crash of thunder and Philip visibly cowered in his chair.

‘Goodness, that was close,’ Roger said, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

‘Would you like me to play something?’ Stella said quickly, completely understanding Roger’s motive.

Doreen frowned and began to shake her head but he said quickly, ‘That would be very nice, Stella.’

She got up and quickly riffled through the music in the canterbury until she found a Chopin polonaise that was suitably loud and martial. It didn’t quite drown the sound of the thunder but it helped; and then as the storm receded into the distance she chose a quieter waltz, and then a nocturne. As the last notes died away, she glanced over to where Philip was sitting. He was still very pale, but he was no longer trembling and it looked as if he was asleep.

She stood up and moved away from the piano.

‘Thank you,’ he murmured without opening his eyes, ‘that was beautiful.’

‘I must say you play surprisingly well, Stella,’ Rosalie remarked patronizingly. ‘Where did you learn?’

‘I had a very good teacher. He wanted me to take it up professionally, but then the war came and I thought I could be more use as a VAD.’

‘How very noble of you.’

Stella wasn’t sure whether Rosalie was being sincere or sarcastic. Not that it mattered.

‘If you’ll excuse me, I think I should go back to Jonathan now,’ she said to nobody in particular. ‘In case the storm frightened him.’

‘Oh dear, must you?’ Roger said, smiling at her. ‘It’s been so nice having you with us again.’

‘And thank you for the recital, Stella,’ Philip said without opening his eyes. He looked much calmer now and was sitting quite comfortably relaxed in his chair. ‘It was better than any doctor’s medicine.’

She said goodnight and slipped away back to the nursery, feeling a warm glow from Philip’s words. It was all very peaceful; Jonathan was sound asleep and Mary was sitting quietly darning her stockings.

In the kitchen, Emma looked up from washing the dishes in alarm at the first clap of thunder. ‘I think I shall have to go home, Maise,’ she said. ‘Arthur always gets into a state when there’s a storm and he’s only got young Charlie there. I think the thunder sounds like the gunfire in the trenches to him. I’m afraid it’ll scare Charlie if he sees his father under the bed crying, especially being there on his own with him. I mean, it’s not the sort of state for a young boy to see his father in.’

Maisie looked out of the window. ‘I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere yet, Emma. Look at that rain lashing the windows.’

‘Oh dear. You’re right. I can’t go till it eases up.’ She took off her pinafore and hung it on the back of the door, then went back to look out of the window. ‘I’ll just go and make sure Mary’s all right with the baby before I go,’ she said, for something to do.

‘Won’t Henry keep an eye on Charlie?’ Maisie said when she came back.

‘He would, but he said his back was playin’ up so he was going home to bed.’

‘That’s not like Henry.’ Maisie was annoyed that she hadn’t known.

‘No, it’s not. He never complains as a rule. I told him to rub it with wintergreen. I’d offer to do it for him, but it wouldn’t be right. And it’s no good asking Arthur.’

Maisie pursed her lips. ‘No, it most certainly wouldn’t be right for you to do it.’

Emma peered out of the window. It was still quite dark after the storm but the rain had eased a little. ‘It’s not raining as hard now, so I think I can go.’

‘You’ll get soaked.’

‘No, I won’t. I’ve got me bike, so I’ll be home in two minutes.’ She took her pinafore down off the hook again. ‘I’ll put this over my head.’

‘Fat lot of good that’ll do,’ Maisie said with a laugh.

Emma pedalled off down the drive, her pinafore draped over her head like a shawl. The rain hadn’t lasted long, but it had been torrential and her stockings and skirt were soon soaked from the spray as she rode through the puddles that had formed; and the pinafore was no help at all.

She propped her bike against the wall of the house and hurried inside. Charlie was there, pretending to read a dog-eared comic. He looked up when he heard the door open.

‘Oh, it’s you, Mum. Is it still rainin’?’ he said without much interest, taking another bite of bread and jam.

‘Not so much.’ She took off the wet pinafore and shook her skirt. ‘I’ll have to change this, it’s soaked.’ She looked up. ‘Where’s Dad? Is he upstairs?’ She tried to sound casual, she didn’t want to frighten Charlie.

‘No, he went out.’ Charlie didn’t look up from his comic.

‘Went out! When?’

‘I dunno.’ He shrugged.

‘Was it before the storm?’

‘What? I dunno. It might have been.’ He looked up, frowning. ‘Does it matter?’

‘No, no, ’course not. I’ll just go and change this skirt.’ She hurried up the stairs and looked under the beds in both rooms, expecting to find Arthur cowering there; but there was no sign of him, nor in the cupboard in the corner. She put on a dry skirt then went downstairs again and looked in the cupboard under the stairs.

‘What you lookin’ for, Mum?’

She sat down at the table. ‘Well, you know your dad gets in a bit of a state when there’s thunder about and I thought he might have – might have hid himself somewhere, that’s all.’ She drummed her fingers on the table.

‘Have you looked under the beds? That’s where he usually goes.’

She nodded. Of course, it was stupid of her to think Charlie hadn’t realized what his father was like. The sad thing was he didn’t remember him any other way.

She bit her lip. ‘I wonder where he’s got to.’

‘If he’s not here, he must be down the pub.’ Charlie wiped the jam off his mouth with the back of his hand and folded the comic. ‘Do you want me to go and dig him out?’

‘No, he wouldn’t like that.’ Emma shook her head. She smiled at her son. ‘Thanks all the same, love.’

She got up and went over to the window. ‘It’s stopped raining now. P’raps I’ll just nip down and see if he’s there. I needn’t go in.’

‘I’ll come with you, if you like, Mum.’

She shook her head. ‘I’ll go on me bike.’ It would help prop him up to get him home if he was the worse for wear. ‘If !’, she thought to herself grimly. When did he ever leave the pub in any other way? And he still had the shilling he’d taken from Mary, poor little lass. She got on her bike and pedalled off to the Nag’s Head.

He wasn’t there. The landlord admitted that he’d been banned until he made an effort to clear the slate, and suggested trying the Rose and Crown.

She had more luck there. They remembered that he’d been there during the storm, through which he had been drinking steadily – or rather, pretty unsteadily. But nobody seemed to know when he’d left, nor where he was going.

It was the same with all the other pubs she enquired at. He’d been seen, but nobody had much idea of the time he arrived nor how long he stayed. They all remembered he’d been ‘the worse for wear’.

Wearily, in the gathering dusk Emma pedalled home, hoping against hope that Arthur had got there before her.

He hadn’t.

She made a hot drink for Charlie and herself. And because there was nothing else to be done they went to bed, leaving the door unbolted so that Arthur could get in if he found his way home in the small hours.

She spent a sleepless night imagining him out cold under a hedge somewhere, soaked through to the skin. At the crack of dawn she got up and looked all round outside the house, but there was still no sign of him. She knocked on Henry’s door as soon as she heard him moving about and asked him to let Maisie know she would be late.

‘Tell her I’ll come as soon as I’ve found Arthur.’

‘Anything I can do, Emma?’ he asked gently, full of concern for her.

‘I don’t know, Henry. Tell you the truth I’m all at sixes and sevens. I can’t think what to do,’ she said, running her hands distractedly through her hair.

He finished buttoning his shirt and pulled up his braces. ‘Tell you what, I’ll let them know at the House what’s happening, then I’ll nip down the police station, see if they’ve got any news,’ he said.

‘Oh, yes, of course. I hadn’t thought of going to the police.’ She gave him a tired smile. ‘Thanks, Henry. I’d be glad.’

He gave her arm a squeeze. ‘You go and make yourself a cuppa, Emma. I’ll let you know what I find out.’ He smiled at her. ‘But I reckon by the time I get back the old rascal will be sitting at your kitchen table nursing a sore head.’

‘And I shan’t know whether to kiss him or kill him for all the worry he’s caused,’ she replied with a sigh.

Sixteen

It was nearly ten o’clock before Henry came back. He looked haggard and anxious. Emma’s heart lurched. But at first she said nothing, simply nodding towards a chair at the table and pouring him a mug of tea from the freshly made pot.

‘I’ve done nothing but drink tea ever since you left,’ she said as she pushed it across the table to him, talking quickly to prevent him telling her the news she could see in his face. ‘I’ve had to send Charlie to the dairy for more milk. Will you have a slice of my cake? It’s here in the tin. It was fresh baked yesterday …’

‘Emma. Sit down.’ he broke in gently.

She sank on to a chair opposite to him, nodding. ‘I know what you’re going to say. It’s bad news, isn’t it? I can tell by your face. What was it, a pub brawl? He can get very aggressive when the drink’s in him.’ She looked across at him. ‘He never used to be like that, you know, Henry. He was a cheerful, happy-go-lucky boy when I first knew him … It was the war changed him.’ She gave an exasperated sigh. ‘All right. You can tell me where he is, although I reckon I can guess. At the police station? Have they locked him up? Oh Lord, he won’t like that. It’ll make him even worse.’

‘Emma.’ He leaned across and took her hand, such an unusual gesture from him that she looked at him in surprise. ‘Emma, it’s worse than that. Arthur’s dead. He drowned in the river.’

She pulled her hand away as if to distance herself from his words and stared at him, shocked. ‘Drowned? My Arthur? In the river?’ She shook her head. ‘No, no, there must be some mistake. What would he be doing anywhere near the river, for goodness’ sake? It’s over a mile away.’

‘There’s no mistake, Emma. They’ve got his body at the police station,’ he said quietly. ‘I saw him.’ He closed his eyes briefly to blot out the memory, then went on, ‘They let me identify him, but you’ll have to do it officially, I’m afraid.’ He took her hand again. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll come with you, Em. From what they said, he must have fallen in off the quay opposite the Anchor. Apparently, it was a very high tide.’

A puzzled look crossed her face. ‘But what was he doing there? As far as I know, he never drank at the Anchor …’ Her voice tailed off. ‘Unless he couldn’t get them to put it on the slate anywhere else, of course. I didn’t think to go that far to look for him …’ She frowned. ‘What happened? Did he fall in? He wouldn’t stand a chance if he did, he can’t swim.’

‘They didn’t tell me much at the police station, so I went along to the Anchor to see what the landlord’d got to say.’

‘And …?’ She looked at him intently.

‘Apparently Arthur turned up there in the middle of the storm, soaking wet, white as a sheet and shaking like a leaf. He didn’t seem to know where he was or what he was doing there. Anyway, he asked for whisky but just as the landlord handed it to him there was a flash of lightning and an almighty clap of thunder, worse than anything that had gone before – they discovered this morning it had been caused by a thunderbolt that struck a warehouse just along the quay.’

She closed her eyes. ‘Oh, my poor Arthur. That would have been the last straw. He’d have been out of his mind. He couldn’t bear …’ She opened them. ‘Go on, Henry.’

‘You’re right. To use the landlord’s words, “The poor b … looked half-crazed and didn’t seem to know where he was or what he was doing.” Apparently he put his arms up over his head and looked for somewhere to hide, but the pub was full and that made him worse. Next thing was, he rushed outside but before anyone could follow him a bloke who’d been taking a leak up against the wall – begging your pardon, Emma, but they were the landlord’s words – burst in and said he’d just seen a bloke fall over the quay into the water.’

‘Oh, my dear Lord!’ Emma breathed. ‘Couldn’t anyone have saved him?’

‘They tried, from all accounts. But bearing in mind it was pitch black down there in the water and the blokes who tried weren’t exactly sober themselves, it probably took a lot longer to fish him out than it might have done in daylight.’

‘And with his chest being bad from being gassed …’ Emma shook her head and said bitterly, ‘He went off to fight for his country an upright young man, scared of nothing, and he came back an old man, terrified if so much as a log crackled on the fire.’ She sniffed. ‘He may have drowned in the river, but it was the war killed him as sure as if he’d been blown up by a shell. Oh, my poor Arthur.’ Suddenly, her face crumpled and she looked up hopelessly. ‘What will I do now, Henry? How much more will I have to bear? That’s two of my family gone in less than a year, first my little Ivy and now my husband. I must be very wicked to have all this suffering heaped on me.’ She began to cry, huge racking sobs.

Henry stood up and pulled her to her feet, putting his arms round her and gathering her to him in the way he’d often longed to do but never thought could ever happen.

‘Of course you’re not wicked, Em. You mustn’t think like that,’ he whispered, holding her close and smoothing her hair, guiltily savouring the moment. ‘Although I admit I felt the same when my Florrie was killed, so I know just how you feel. But you were always a good wife to Arthur and a good mother to little Ivy. It’s not your fault they’ve been taken from you any more than it was my fault Florrie died. It’s just something we have to accept and bear as best we can.’ He went on talking, soothing and comforting her while she wept, clinging to him, grateful for the warmth and comfort of his strong arms.

The following days were chaotic at Warren’s End. On hearing the dreadful news, Roger had immediately been to see Emma and given both her and Mary as much time off as they needed to come to terms with Arthur’s death. He himself accompanied Emma to the inquest, at which a verdict of accidental death was recorded, and quietly supported her in other ways, both arranging and attending the funeral and making sure she had no financial worries.

Doreen’s reaction was very different. It didn’t take long for her sympathy to wear thin.

‘You’ve been very good to Emma, Roger, and I’m sure it’s right to give her all the time off she needs. It was a truly dreadful thing that’s happened, and of course I sympathize with her in her sad loss, we all do. But I do feel that sometimes it’s much better to keep working when one is grieving,’ she suggested one night over a dinner in which the dumplings were heavy and the custard was lumpy. ‘Apart from anything else it really is expecting too much of Maisie. She’s now having to do all the cooking as well as her other work. I could have written my name in the dust on the credenza in the drawing room yesterday. And poor Stella looks tired out with Mary not here to help her with Baby.’

‘I’m perfectly happy looking after Jonathan myself,’ Stella assured her quickly. ‘He’s really no trouble. It’s just that he’s been a bit fractious at night lately, so I’ve had several disturbed nights. Of course Mary needs time at home with her mother, and also with her brother. It must be a very hard thing for a young boy to come to terms with losing his father, especially in such a tragic way. After all, Charlie’s not very old, is he?’

Roger frowned thoughtfully. ‘I think he’s probably twelve, maybe coming up to thirteen. But I’m not sure.’

‘Well, surely that’s old enough to start making himself useful?’ Rosalie said. ‘I can put in a word for him down at the club if you think that might be helpful, Pa. He might be able to help out in the stables, mucking out and so forth. It would take his mind off things a bit and earn him a few coppers at the same time.’

Roger nodded. ‘That’s a good idea. Yes, he might enjoy working with the horses. See what you can do, Rosalie.’

‘I’m sure that’s very noble of you both, but it doesn’t help the situation here, does it?’ Doreen interrupted, her tone frosty. ‘The fact remains we are short-staffed. There is simply too much for Maisie to manage single-handed.’

‘Maybe I could help out a bit?’ Stella said uncertainly. For some inexplicable reason she felt that Doreen’s words had been directed at her.

‘Oh, what a good idea, Stella.’ Doreen turned to her with a patronizing smile. ‘Thank you for offering. I’d quite forgotten you used to be a working girl.’

Her tone prompted a quick and furious response from Rosalie. ‘Oh, Ma, for goodness’ sake, don’t say “working girl” in such a condescending manner, you make it sound as if Stella had come from heaving coal down a coal mine,’ she said with disgust. ‘Not that it would be anything to be ashamed of if she had.’

‘Now you’re being ridiculous, Rosalie,’ Doreen said, offended. ‘I only said that Stella used to work for her living, which, of course she did.’ She turned to Stella again. ‘Perhaps you would like to have a word with Maisie, Stella? I’m sure she would be glad of a little assistance in the kitchen.’ She dabbed her mouth delicately with her napkin.

Philip was as furious as Rosalie at the way in which Doreen was treating Stella, but he was anxious to avoid a full-scale quarrel between mother and daughter so he cut in before Rosalie could speak again. ‘But weren’t you just saying Stella looked a little tired, Doreen? Now you’re suggesting piling even more work on to her. That’s hardly fair.’

Doreen shot him a venomous look and waved her arm, dismissing his words. ‘I was mistaken. It must have been a trick of the light. I was thinking only the other day how well Stella was looking. Motherhood obviously suits her.’ She turned her attention once more to her daughter-in-law, smiling sweetly. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind clearing the table, dear, and taking the tray to the kitchen? That will save Maisie a few steps. You can have a word with her while you’re there, can’t you?’ She sat back complacently, her aim to reduce Stella’s status achieved.

Although he had said nothing, Roger had been watching and listening carefully to the conversation. He always tried to think the best of his wife, which was sometimes not easy, but he didn’t like the manner in which she was treating Stella, belittling her in front of the whole family. But why she should wish to behave in such an unkind way to the wife of her dead son was completely beyond his comprehension.

Trying to mitigate his wife’s rudeness, he smiled at Stella. ‘Just make sure you don’t offer to take on too much, Stella, my dear,’ he warned. ‘Remember, you are short-staffed, too. Your little nursemaid isn’t here, either, to help you with your baby.’

‘Oh, I’ll be quite happy to mind my grandson while Stella helps out,’ Doreen said quickly.

Suddenly, Roger saw exactly what was in his wife’s mind and he didn’t like it.

For her part, resenting being discussed as if she was deaf, or not there at all, Stella got to her feet and began to gather up the dirty dishes and pile them on to the tray, making an unnecessary clatter as she did so while not missing a word of what was being said. Carrying the tray to the kitchen she, like Roger, also reflected on Doreen’s words. Was she being oversensitive, or was Doreen trying to reduce her to the status of a servant? Was it the beginning of a subtle campaign to take over control of Jonathan? Or was she imagining things because she was so tired? After all, with both Emma and Mary away, things were not normal in the house; it was therefore quite reasonable for Doreen to accept any help she was offered, so maybe she was being oversensitive.

She reached the kitchen and pushed open the door. And stopped short. Instead of the usual order and neatness and the scrubbed table tops and gleaming saucepans, the place was in chaos. The sink was full of pans waiting to be washed and the table was littered with dirty crockery; something had boiled over on the gas stove and the floor badly needed a sweep. In the middle of all the mess and muddle, Stella was amazed to see Maisie sitting in the rocking chair, her hair escaping untidily from her cap, holding Jonathan on her lap, singing to him.

She started up guiltily out of the chair, but relaxed back into it when she saw it was Stella who had come in.

‘Oh, you gave me a fright, Mrs Stella. I thought for a minute it was the missus. She’d kill me if she saw the kitchen in this state, but there’s only so much I can do.’ She looked down at the baby on her lap. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Mrs Stella, but the little lad was crying his eyes out and I couldn’t bear to leave him there all alone so I brought him in here for a cuddle. I don’t get much chance to nurse little ones and I do so love to.’ She dropped a kiss on his head, then her jaw dropped as she looked up and saw what Stella was carrying. ‘Oh, Mrs Stella, whatever are you doing with that tray? You shouldn’t be carrying that. Put it down on the dresser if you can find a space. I’ll see to it later. I didn’t realize you’d all finished eating. Oh dear! I was so taken up with the little one …’

‘Thank you, Maisie. Of course I don’t mind you picking him up because he was crying. And since you ask, I’ve brought the tray back because Mrs Nolan is afraid you’re being overworked with Emma being away, so she thinks it might be a good idea for me to give you a hand.’ She grinned at the other girl. ‘I must say it rather looks as if she could be right.’ She put the tray down on the dresser, then took the baby from Maisie and began to rock him on her shoulder. He nuzzled into her neck and before long he was asleep.

When she came back from settling him in his cot, Maisie was already at the sink, tackling the washing-up. ‘Oh, I don’t think it would be a good idea at all for you to be working here in the kitchen, Mrs Stella,’ Maisie said, continuing the conversation, a worried frown creasing her brow. ‘It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be right at all. In any case, you’ve got more than enough to do looking after the little one. It’s all very well for the missus to throw her orders about, but has she forgotten Mary’s not here, either?’

‘Mrs Nolan says she’ll be happy to look after him sometimes,’ Stella said, deliberately keeping her voice level.

Maisie gave a sarcastic burst of laughter, then guiltily covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs Stella. I know I shouldn’t laugh, but I just can’t see Mrs Nolan doing that! I’ll bet she never looked after her own babies, let alone someone else’s.’

‘Well, we shall see, shan’t we?’ Stella said carefully. She picked up a tea towel and began drying up, wondering if Maisie realized how much of her true feelings towards her employer she had just revealed.

Suddenly, the bell rang from the dining room, making them both start.

‘Oh Lord, I quite forgot, they’ll be wanting their coffee,’ Maisie said, quickly drying her hands. She began to busy herself with cups and coffee pot.

‘I’ll carry on with the washing-up,’ Stella said.

‘You’ll do nothing of the kind, Mrs Stella,’ Maisie said over her shoulder as she went to the door, the heavy tray in her hand. ‘You’ll come up to the dining room and take coffee with the family. I’m not having them treat you as a servant.’

‘All right, Maisie. You can tell them I’ll be there in a minute.’ She carried on washing up, mulling over Maisie’s last words. A servant. Was that really how Doreen would like to see her?

A few minutes later Maisie came back, trying desperately not to smirk. ‘It seems Mrs Rosalie didn’t want coffee, she’s gone off to the club; Mr Philip went home to work on his painting; and the Colonel’s gone to his study for a whisky. So it’s just Madam and you for coffee, Mrs Stella. She says she’ll wait for you to join her.’

‘What do you usually have at this time, Maisie?’ Stella was still up to her elbows in suds.

‘I usually have a cup of tea when I’ve finished clearing up. Why?’

‘Well, I think perhaps I’ll stay down here and have a cup with you. But let’s get this kitchen cleaned up first. I’m sure Emma would have a fit if she could see it now.’

‘But the missus said she’d wait for you, Mrs Stella,’ Maisie said anxiously.

‘Well, she’ll have a long wait, won’t she?’

Later, sitting in the pristine kitchen drinking tea with Maisie, Stella allowed herself a secret smile at the thought of Doreen sitting alone in the drawing room waiting to be joined for coffee. It was a small triumph.

Seventeen

After another week, which seemed interminable to Stella and Maisie, both Emma and Mary were back at work. Mary was pale but Emma was positively ashen, her eyes sunken and her face lined far beyond her years. The shock of Arthur’s death, particularly the manner of it, had taken its toll on her. With the resilience of youth, Mary spoke little about it; she was just glad to be back to the normality of caring for Jonathan.

But Emma seemed to find comfort in talking, usually over the mid-morning cocoa with Maisie, which Henry usually came in to share.

‘It’s strange,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘When I think about Arthur – and naturally enough I do, all the time – I don’t see the skeleton of a man you both knew, who drank too much and didn’t work, the man who was frightened of his own shadow and had dreadful headaches and a terrible cough.’ She shook her head. ‘No, I see the young man I married.’ She smiled a little and went on, speaking softly, ‘He was a lovely young man, my Arthur. With his curly hair and dark eyes, he was so handsome; all the girls liked him. Oh, I was over the moon when he chose me. He worked hard, too, full of energy he was. And when the babies came along, he was a real family man. He loved his children – and me – so much.’ She wiped away a tear and looked up at them. ‘And that’s the man I’m grieving for, the young man who joined up to do his duty and then had his life and his future taken away from him in the trenches, even though the shell of him came back. It was a wicked, wicked shame. And the tragedy of it is there were thousands more like him.’ She paused and stared down unseeingly at a mark on the table.

Maisie and Henry exchanged glances, both unwilling to trot out platitudes in the face of Emma’s grief. But before either of them could find words of comfort, Emma pulled herself together and blew her nose and gave them both a wintry smile.

‘But that’s enough of my troubles for now. Thank you both for listening.’ She put out her hand to Henry. ‘And thank you, Henry. You’ve been such a help, always there when I needed you. I don’t know how I’d have managed without you.’

He took her hand and squeezed it. ‘You know I’ll always be there for you, Em,’ he said, his voice a little thick.

She nodded, took another drink of cocoa, and said with a rather false brightness, ‘So, how have you been managing here?’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Everywhere looks spick and span, so I guess I needn’t have worried that you were missing me.’

‘That’s because I had help,’ Maisie said. Her voice was brittle because she was jealous at the exchange she had just witnessed between Emma and Henry. ‘Mrs Stella came whenever she could spare time from looking after the baby. She’s been a real brick.’

Emma raised her eyebrows. ‘Didn’t the missus object?’

Maisie shook her head. ‘No, in fact it was her idea in the first place.’ Her voice dropped. ‘Seems to me for some reason she quite liked the idea of treating Mrs Stella as a servant, though it didn’t appear to worry Mrs Stella overmuch.’ She shrugged. ‘Mind you, the missus was willing to help when it suited her; if you could call it help. She’d come down all businesslike and bossy and pick the baby up out of his pram, even if he was asleep, and say she’d take him and look after him for an hour. But as soon as he cried, she’d bring him back and then it would take ages to settle him again. It made Mrs Stella furious, and in the end she had to tell her not to disturb him. She didn’t like that.’ A smile spread across her face. ‘I didn’t mind, it meant I got lots of cuddles. I don’t often get the chance to nurse babies,’ she added sadly.

‘How does Charlie like working at the country club?’ Henry asked, changing the subject before Maisie could get maudlin.

Emma brightened up immediately. ‘He really loves working with the horses, can’t talk about anything else. It was good of Mrs Rosalie to put a word in for him; it’s the best thing could have happened.’

‘Yes, she’s not a bad sort underneath,’ Maisie said. ‘Not like her mother.’

‘You’ve really got your knife into the missus, haven’t you, Maise?’ Henry said with a frown.

‘Well, I don’t like the way she’s been treating Mrs Stella,’ Maisie admitted. ‘She’d do things like ringing down and saying the drawing room hadn’t been dusted for two days, so perhaps Mrs Stella would see to that when she had time because she knew I was too busy. It made Mrs Stella look like some sort of skivvy, and I thought it was all wrong.’

‘But you just said Mrs Stella didn’t seem to mind,’ Emma reminded her.

Maisie shrugged. ‘She didn’t most of the time. But sometimes I noticed her jaw tighten a bit, though she never actually said anything.’

‘Did she have her meals down here with you?’

‘Oh, no. But I believe it was the Colonel who insisted that she ate with the family, which was only right, when all’s said and done. I don’t think he was at all happy with the arrangement. But I reckon he didn’t make a fuss because he knew it wasn’t pernament.’ She didn’t notice she hadn’t got the word quite right.

‘So the missus didn’t manage to get her hands on the baby very much?’ Emma asked. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised if that was what she was angling after all the time, making Mrs Stella work down here so she could get her precious grandson to herself.’

‘You could be right. But he always started to cry when she took him, specially if it was near his feeding time. That annoyed her. She’d bring him back and say she hoped he wasn’t going to be a fractious child – which of course he wasn’t, except when she barged in and disturbed his routine. She hasn’t got the first idea how to treat a baby. How she ever brought her own children up I’ll never know.’

‘Well, they were in India, I believe, so she probably had one of those Indian nursemaids …’

‘An ayah,’ Henry put in.

‘Oh, is that what they’re called? Yes, one of them, so she never had to do anything.’ Emma stood up and took the mugs over to the sink. ‘Still, Mary’s back now and so am I, so things should get back to normal.’

‘I hope so,’ Maisie said primly. ‘I didn’t like to see Mrs Stella treated the way she was. It’s not right. She is Mr John’s widow, when all’s said and done, so she’s a rightful member of the family and should be treated as such. And she’s ever so nice.’

Emma and Henry both nodded in agreement. ‘Yes,’ Emma said, ‘she’s ever so nice.’

Stella too was thankful when Emma and Mary came back to work. She had never admitted to anyone how deathly tired she had been helping Maisie on top of looking after the baby. She remained resolutely cheerful and made sure to get to her feet to clear the dishes after each course at dinner before Doreen had the chance to say ‘You can clear now, Stella, and bring in the pudding’, or the coffee, in the patronizing manner that was become habitual with her.

Often she could see Philip’s jaw set or his fists clench when Doreen was being more outrageously rude than usual and she knew she had an ally there, although in practice there was little he could do about it. Unlike Roger, who would get to his feet and awkwardly begin to collect up the dirty plates, only to be told by Doreen to ‘Sit down, Roger. You’re being more of a hindrance than a help.’

But Stella always made a point of smiling at him and thanking him for his help.

Nevertheless, this subtle shift in her position was worrying. She had always known that as far as Doreen was concerned she had been given a home at Warren’s End while she was pregnant because she was the vessel carrying her grandson; but she had the uncomfortable feeling that now he was born she was becoming expendable. More than that, she was something of a nuisance, standing between Doreen and the child, because as his mother she would always have first claim on him.

On the other hand, when she wasn’t seething from some disparaging remark Doreen had made, Stella realized that she really had no grounds for complaint. After all, she had nowhere else to go and no means of supporting herself and her child beyond the interest from her small inheritance, which would barely pay the rent, let alone feed and clothe them both. So putting up with Doreen’s jibes and helping with a few domestic chores, she told herself firmly when she was feeling particularly irritated, was a small price to pay for a roof over her head.

Things improved considerably once Mary and Emma were back, because there was no longer any reason for Doreen to continually call on her for menial tasks; and Mary was a great help in looking after the baby, taking over all the considerable washing and ironing entailed and a hundred and one other things.

At the first opportunity, she slipped over to the flat to see Philip. He was busy in his studio putting the finishing touches to his latest painting. His face lit up when he saw her.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘it’s good to see you, Stella. But where’s the little fellah?’

‘Asleep. Mary’s keeping an eye on him while she does the ironing.’

‘Well, do come and sit down. Yes, that’s right, move those frames so you can sit where I can see you.’

‘I’m hoping you’ll show me the paintings you’re getting ready for the exhibition, now I’ve managed to get over to see them at last.’ She smiled as she sat down. ‘I haven’t had a lot of time to spare lately, I’m afraid.’

‘No, I realize that,’ he said without returning her smile. ‘But you can relax now, Stella. Henry will be here in a few minutes and he’ll make us a cup of tea.’

She started to get up. ‘Oh, I’ll do it …’

‘You will not.’ His voice was sharp. ‘Sit down, Stella. You’ve played the maid for quite long enough and I can see you’re tired out. For what it’s worth and at the risk of putting the cat among the pigeons, I think Doreen has been treating you atrociously.’

‘Do you really, Philip?’ she asked, surprised at his outburst. She frowned. ‘You see, I’m not sure. Obviously, I don’t like it when she orders me about, but at the same time I’ve tried to look at it from Doreen’s point of view. What I mean is, I’m living here rent-free and have a very nice little flat, so I suppose it doesn’t hurt if I help out a bit …’ Her voice trailed off.

‘That’s as maybe. And I’m sure you don’t mind giving a hand here and there when needed, but that doesn’t give her the right to treat you like a skivvy, the way she’s been doing. I think she’s been behaving very badly towards you, and I know Roger has been very cross with her.’

‘She doesn’t like me much.’ The words came out involuntarily.

‘I know. It’s because she’s jealous of you.’ He leaned forward over his painting. ‘I wouldn’t let it worry you too much, Stella. The rest of us are very fond of you.’

She glanced at him, wanting to ask who exactly he meant by ‘the rest of us’, but he had flushed a dull red and appeared engrossed in his picture.

‘I’d better go. I can see you’re busy,’ she said when he volunteered nothing more. She felt flat. She’d thought at first he’d been pleased to see her, but she could see now that he was anxious to continue with his painting and she was in the way.

He looked up and smiled apologetically. ‘I’m sorry. No, please don’t go, you’ve only just come.’ He laid down his brushes. ‘It’s such a long time since we had a proper conversation. I’ve missed that, you know.’

She nodded. ‘So have I. And there’s one thing I’ve been wanting to ask you, but it didn’t seem appropriate over the dinner table. Is Henry keeping up the good work on your legs? It seems to me you’re walking a little better, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘Mm. Maybe I am, a bit. But poor old Henry couldn’t help for long because it played his back up. He gets a lot of pain from that back of his, although he never complains.’

‘Oh, so it had to stop. That’s a pity.’

‘Yes. But I was finding it beneficial, so I made enquiries and found a man. I’m not sure whether he calls himself a masseur or physiotherapist, bit of both, perhaps. And he’s medically qualified. Anyway, I go to him, or rather Henry takes me, and he massages my legs and gives me exercises twice a week. Now my paintings are selling a bit, I can afford to pay him myself and not sponge off Roger, which is much better.’ He smiled at her. ‘So I’ve got you to thank for starting it all off. Thank you, Stella, for galvanizing me into finding Dr Marshall. I think he’s very good, although he’s warned me I’ll never be able to walk normally.’

‘But if he can alleviate the pain … Dr Marshall, did you say? There was a Dr Marshall back at the convalescent home. I used to know him well. He was very good, helped a lot of crippled servicemen.’

‘Maybe it’s the same man. I’ll ask him if he knows you.’

‘No, I’m sure it won’t be,’ she said quickly. ‘He wouldn’t have left Hill House. But I’m glad this man’s helping you.’

‘He’s not doing me any harm, anyway.’ He gave her an odd look, but said no more about it. After a minute he glanced out of the window, rubbing his hands. ‘Ah, here’s Henry. And I see he’s bringing some of Emma’s biscuits to have with our tea. That’s good.’

While Henry busied himself with the tea things, then excused himself, saying he would be back later, Philip told her a little more about the forthcoming exhibition.

‘It’s to be at Oscar Hillyard’s gallery in London,’ he said, adding, ‘I believe I told you about Oscar, didn’t I? He’s Benedict Gerard’s associate. Well, the other way round, actually; Ben’s very much the junior. But it’s a start, and at least it’s in the right place.’ He smiled at her. ‘I do hope you’ll be able to come to the opening, Stella. I’ll be very disappointed if you can’t.’

‘Oh, I’d love to come, Philip,’ she said warmly. ‘That is, provided I can make arrangements for leaving Jonathan.’ She bit her lip thoughtfully. ‘I wonder, maybe Emma would stay and help Mary with him. I wouldn’t like to leave Mary to manage on her own for too long, after all she’s still not quite fifteen. And I couldn’t possibly ask Doreen. But I expect she’ll be at the opening, anyway.’

‘Oh, yes, Doreen’ll be there, all right,’ he said. ‘Just try and keep her away! Not that she’s in the least interested in paintings, mine or anyone else’s for that matter. She’ll only be there in the hope of meeting somebody “important”, though I’ve already told her that’s not very likely.’

‘How many paintings are you exhibiting?’ She poured the tea and handed him a cup and one of Emma’s biscuits.

‘Thanks. Mm, these biscuits are good,’ he said, biting into one. ‘As many as I can. It’s fifteen at the moment. The ones hanging on the walls over there are ready to go, but the rest are still being framed. Then there are a couple I’ve yet to finish.’ He closed one eye to study the perspective of the painting on the easel in front of him. ‘But knowing Ben, he’ll be round here foraging among the rest of my rubbish to see what else he can find.’

She walked round, looking at the pictures on the wall. One or two she had seen before, but most were new. There were both landscapes – broad, open stretches of poppy fields – and seascapes. One she particularly liked was an evening scene at low tide, with the sun setting over the water and a lone man in the foreground gathering cockles on the shore.

‘Oh, I love this one, I saw it when I came over before,’ she said enthusiastically. Then, moving on, ‘Oh, and here’s that basket of daffodils I picked in the spring! Last time I saw this, it was just a quick pencil sketch. Now they look so real you could almost pick one out of the basket – a real breath of springtime.’

‘Mm. It’ll go into the exhibition, but it won’t be for sale.’

She put her head on one side. ‘Oh, that’s a pity. I might have bought it, if it wasn’t too expensive. Now I won’t be able to.’

‘You won’t need to. I’m going to give it to you. Unless you’d rather have that one.’ He pointed to the one next to it.

She looked. ‘Oh, it’s the scene you painted for Jonathan when he was born, only much bigger. I can see now, it’s the place where I used to find you painting in the little wood.’ She turned and beamed at him, then turned back. ‘And you’ve even put in the tree trunk I sat on.’

He smiled. ‘Well, it was there, wasn’t it? Couldn’t leave it out. We had some enjoyable conversations while you sat on that log.’

She smiled. ‘That’s true. It seems a long time ago now, although it’s only just over three months.’

‘Three months.’ He gave a sigh. ‘A lot has happened in that time. Your young shaver has been born, poor old Arthur Blatch has gone …’ He sighed again and shook his head. ‘He was a sad case, Arthur.’ He was quiet for several minutes, then he said, ‘You know sometimes I think there are worse things in life than dying.’ He looked up and gave her a crooked smile. ‘I’m sorry, that was tactless of me. I guess you’re the last person I should say that to, Stella.’

‘No, I think you’re right, Philip,’ she said slowly. ‘I’ve never said this to anyone before, but I have wondered what would have happened if John hadn’t been killed in the war.’

He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it’s just that the John I married, the man I thought I knew, seems to have borne very little resemblance to the John people talk about here. And to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I would even have liked that person.’ She put her hand up to her mouth, a look of horror on her face. ‘Oh, I’ve never admitted that before, even to myself.’ She went on slowly, forming the thoughts as she spoke, ‘But Heaven help me, I think it’s true. And I guess, if I’m honest, he wouldn’t have liked me much, either.’

He studied her closely. ‘Rosalie’s been talking to you,’ he said at last.

She nodded.

‘Oh, why couldn’t that woman keep her mouth shut!’ he said, exasperated.

‘It’s all true, then, what she said? She wasn’t just being bitchy?’

‘Of course she was being bitchy. And it would have been kinder if she hadn’t said anything at all. But Rosalie doesn’t lie, that I will say for her, at least not often; so I’m sure what she said was true. John was a good-looking young man with a somewhat devil-may-care attitude that appealed to the ladies and he capitalized on it. That’s all I’m saying.’

‘Funny, he didn’t give me that impression at all. But of course he was still convalescing, so probably not quite himself.’

‘And people do change, Stella. Maybe meeting you changed him. You’re enough to make any man …’ he broke off. ‘Well, I guess he thought he’d met the love of his life in you.’

‘He only knew me for six weeks.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘We really didn’t know each other at all, did we?’ She looked at him. ‘Would he have enjoyed being a father, Philip?’

He laughed out loud. ‘The John I knew wouldn’t, I’m sure. He’d have loathed anything that cramped his style.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘John and Rosalie were very alike in temperament,’ he said after a bit. ‘But as I’ve said, people change. Maybe the John you knew would have revelled in it. But it’s something we shall never be able to prove, one way or the other; so my advice to you is to remember the man you married and discount the rest.’

‘Thank you, Philip, for being honest with me.’ She didn’t tell him that the words that would stick in her mind were ‘John and Rosalie were very alike in temperament’. She knew it was true. She had seen – but been too much in love to heed – signs of it in the man she’d married.

Eighteen

Philip’s forthcoming exhibition was the main – indeed, almost the only – topic discussed round the dinner table in the days leading up to it. Predictably, Doreen and Rosalie’s abiding concern was with what they should wear. Rosalie had seen a very fetching yellow-and-white striped dress with a matching yellow coat in one of the latest fashion magazines and was very tempted by it. But there was also a similar outfit in burnt orange that she liked, and she couldn’t decide which would suit her best. At the same time, Doreen was very taken with a pearl-grey costume which, teamed with royal blue, might look just right for the occasion. Then there was the question of hats and shoes and handbags. The discussion was endless.

At the other end of the table, Roger, after congratulating Philip and telling him how delighted he was with his success, was much more concerned with his son-in-law’s well-being. How was he going to cope with stairs? And standing for long periods? And the general strain of it all?

‘Ben tells me it’s all on the ground floor, so I won’t have to worry about stairs, and he assures me there will be a place for me to sit if necessary. As a last resort there’s always the bath chair, I suppose, but I’d hate to have to use it. If people buy my pictures, I want it to be because they like them and see some value in them, not because they’ve been painted by “a poor crippled ex-serviceman”. I should loathe that.’ He shuddered.

Roger nodded. ‘That I can quite understand.’ He went on, ‘The exhibition is to last how long? Three days? You’ll be staying in London, of course. And obviously you’ll take Henry with you to look after the nuts and bolts, so to speak.’

‘Oh, yes, Henry will be with me, I couldn’t manage without him.’ He paused, frowning. ‘But I hadn’t exactly thought of staying for the full three days …’

‘Nonsense, my boy. Potential buyers always like to see the artist,’ Roger said. ‘You can stay at my club.’ He held up his hand as Philip began to protest. ‘No, I insist. And I’m sure Henry can be found a room nearby. I’ll get in touch with the steward; he’ll arrange everything.’

‘What about me, Pa?’ Rosalie had caught the tail end of the conversation and pricked up her ears. ‘Where am I going to stay? I can’t stay at your club; it’s men only.’

Roger regarded her over the rim of the spectacles he had taken to wearing sometimes. ‘I’m sure you can find yourself a hotel to stay at if you want to remain in London, Rosalie, although surely that won’t be necessary? Unlike Philip, it wouldn’t be a problem for you to travel up daily if you want to be there all the time. But this is Philip’s show, not yours, remember.’

‘Yes, but I am his wife. He’ll want me by his side.’ She turned to Philip and smiled sweetly. ‘Won’t you, darling?’

He didn’t smile back. ‘You’ll do as you wish, Rosalie,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘As you usually do.’

‘And what about you, Stella?’ Roger turned to her, noticing she hadn’t taken any part in the discussion. ‘You’ll be coming to the opening, won’t you?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Roger.’ Doreen’s voice from the other end of the table was sharp. ‘Of course Stella can’t come. She can’t leave Baby.’

‘I don’t see why not. It’s only for a few hours. I wasn’t suggesting she should stay away for a week,’ Roger said mildly.

‘You’re only a man. What would you know about it?’ she said huffily. ‘Of course she won’t be able to come. There’s the question of his feeds …’ She waved her hand vaguely.

Roger raised his eyebrows questioningly at Stella, since she hadn’t had a chance to answer for herself.

‘Yes, I should very much like to come, Roger,’ she said quietly. ‘Philip told me he was going to invite me, and I’ve already had a word with Emma. She’s very happy to stay on a little later so that Mary doesn’t have to manage Jonathan on her own, although she is becoming extremely competent and Jonathan loves her. He smiles and gets quite excited when he sees her. I’ll be quite happy to leave him with the two of them, I know he’ll be well looked after. And we’ve already worked out how his feeds can be managed without …’

‘We don’t need to go into that.’ Doreen cut her off. She pursed her lips. ‘All I would say is I’m appalled that you could contemplate gallivanting off to London, leaving Baby in the care of servants. You must be a very bad mother to even consider such a thing.’

Roger slapped his hand down on the table furiously. ‘Doreen, what are you saying? That’s a terrible accusation to make,’ he snapped, ‘and blatantly not true! I think you should apologize to Stella at once.’

Doreen glared at him. ‘I was only thinking of our grandson,’ she said coldly, ‘since nobody else seems to be giving him any consideration.’ In order to put an end to the conversation, she rang the bell with unnecessary vigour for Maisie to come and clear.

But Rosalie had the last word. ‘It never worried you if you left us to be looked after by servants when we were children, Ma,’ she remarked. ‘As I recall, John and I were practically brought up by our ayah. We hardly saw you from one day’s end to the next.’

Doreen’s only recourse after that was to turn her glare on to Rosalie then vent her spleen on poor Maisie, who had just come through the door. Which she did, with a vengeance, causing Maisie to remark to Emma on her return to the kitchen, ‘I don’t know what’s got into the missus tonight, but if she carries on at me like that again I’ll spit in her custard!’

Having listened to Doreen and Rosalie discussing clothes, Stella realized she would have to look to her own wardrobe if she was to accompany the family to London. Finding it definitely wanting, she wheeled Jonathan down into the town a few afternoons later to find something suitable to wear that was not too expensive. She had a pleasant afternoon, which included a visit to Mrs Greenleaf at the teashop, and returned home with a daisy-patterned dress and a three-quarter-length coat in green, a colour that she knew suited her. She also splashed out on green shoes – a real extravagance – and a little green-and-white cloche hat. Her black handbag would have to do; her budget wouldn’t stretch any further, except to buy small gifts to give Mary and her mother when she returned home.

Stella travelled up on the train with Doreen – who practically ignored her – and Roger, plus a rather disgruntled Rosalie, who was of the opinion that she should have accompanied Philip when he went up with Henry the previous day.

The Oscar Hillyard Gallery was at the end of a small arcade in a side street off Oxford Street. From the outside it was unprepossessing: small double doors painted in dark blue, with a thin line painted in gold round each of the door panels, and one window with an easel holding Philip’s painting of a basket of daffodils against a backdrop of draped black satin. Inside, the three rooms were tastefully appointed and quietly elegant, with thick carpets and a few small chairs painted gold and upholstered in dark-blue velvet strategically placed for potential buyers to rest before they reached for their cheque books. The owner of the gallery, Benedict Gerard’s colleague Oscar Hillyard, was a small, dapper man of about forty, clean-shaven and with sleeked black hair. He was wearing an immaculate suit and starched white shirt, looking more like a common or garden London businessman than a dealer in fine art. By contrast, Benedict was all crimson trousers, flowing scarves and large hats, although his beard was neatly trimmed for the occasion. But Oscar Hillyard obviously knew what he was doing: Philip’s paintings were carefully hung to show them in the best possible light and to the best possible advantage.

Philip, in his best suit and a new cream shirt and spotted bow tie, was sitting on a chair behind a small table and looking extremely nervous when Stella and the family arrived. There were a number of people drifting from room to room, and after a perfunctory greeting Doreen and Rosalie went off to see if they could find somebody important to impress with their relationship to Philip.

Roger stayed for a few words with Philip, anxious to make sure he had everything he needed and that he was comfortably settled at his club.

‘Yes. Everything’s absolutely fine, thank you, sir. And Henry has a comfortable room, he tells me. He’s gone off to do a bit of sightseeing, but he’ll be back before long.’ Philip struggled to his feet and tugged at his bow tie to make sure it was straight. ‘Oh, it looks as if you got here just in time. Oscar’s about to make his speech and then that man beside him – he’s quite a famous art collector – has been invited to open the exhibition.’ Roger moved away and Philip beckoned to Stella, who was standing a little to one side. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come,’ he whispered, smiling at her. ‘I feel in need of a little moral support.’

She smiled back. ‘From what I can see, there are already red stickers on one or two paintings. Does that mean they’re sold?’ she whispered back.

He nodded. ‘At the preview, last night. But they can’t be taken until the exhibition ends.’

They couldn’t talk any more because Oscar was speaking about the fresh new talent of Philip Anderson, eulogizing over colours, techniques, brush strokes, subject matter and depth.

‘Don’t take too much notice of what he’s saying,’ Philip whispered. ‘It’s standard waffle and exactly the same as he said last night. He’s got his eye on his commission.’

‘That’s a bit cynical,’ Stella whispered back, trying not to giggle.

Oscar finished speaking and introduced the art collector, Sir William Edgecombe, who spoke at length about his love of art and all things beautiful, after which everybody clapped, mainly with relief, drank a toast to the artist in wine provided by Roger, and carried on looking round the gallery at the paintings. Two or three people came over to talk to Philip, so Stella slipped away. She noticed with amusement that Doreen had already buttonholed Sir William, and in the next room the orange-clad figure of Rosalie – she’d chosen the burnt orange, rather than the yellow, as more eye-catching – was in the middle of a small group holding forth on her husband’s method of working and how she had so far resisted his desire to paint her … At which, Stella moved out of earshot.

‘Well, I never! If it isn’t the elusive Stella Bantock catapulted back into my life!’

Stella swung round and saw what had once been a familiar figure, a tall man with dark curly hair greying at the temples and a neat moustache. As ever, he was immaculately dressed; today in a well-cut pinstripe suit, a brilliantly white shirt and neatly knotted tie. She felt an odd sense of being confronted with a person from another life, a life from long ago, although it was not yet a year since she had left the convalescent home.

‘Dr Marshall! How nice to see you,’ she said, with a small, tight smile.

He put his head on one side. ‘You don’t sound very welcoming. And why the formality? Aren’t you pleased to see me, Stella?’

‘Surprised, that’s all, Ian.’ She was also surprised how difficult it was to utter his Christian name after all these months. ‘But what are you doing here? Have you added pictures to your mania for collecting things?’ Like women, she was tempted to add, but didn’t.

‘I’m here at the invitation of Major Anderson. He’s been visiting my surgery for treatment.’

She frowned, puzzled. ‘Your surgery? You’ve got a surgery? Philip told me he was seeing a Dr Marshall, but I never dreamed it would be you. I thought you were still at Hill House.’

‘No, I decided to move on and seek pastures new. I felt I’d spent quite enough time ministering to the war-wounded, so thought I would return to the place where I’d spent much of my youth and set up in private practice. I’m glad I did; it’s doing well.’ Now it was his turn to frown. ‘Philip? How is it that you are on first-name terms with Major Anderson? Have you known him long?’

‘Major Anderson is my brother-in-law,’ she said coolly. ‘He is married to my late husband’s sister.’

‘Oh, I see.’ He nodded, then became serious. ‘I was sorry when I heard your husband had been killed, Stella. Is that why you left Hill House in such a hurry last Christmas?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I left because my parents-in-law offered me a home with them.’

‘That was very kind of them. But was that wise? Giving up your career like that?’

‘I thought so. I was very grateful for their offer.’ She didn’t elaborate further, but looked up at the clock on the wall. ‘Now, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, Ian. I’d like to look round the gallery before I have to go and catch my train.’

‘Oh, don’t go, Stella. We’ve got a lot of ground to make up,’ he said, obviously disappointed. Then, with sudden inspir-ation, ‘Let me take you out to dinner, and then we can travel back together.’ He smiled disarmingly. ‘We’re old friends, so it could hardly be considered improper.’

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t do that, thank you all the same. I must get back to my son. He’s only four months old and I’ve never left him for as long as this before, although I know he’s in good hands and being well looked after.’

‘You have a son?’ His eyebrows shot up in surprise.

‘That’s right. His name is Jonathan.’ She smiled at his obvious astonishment.

‘Ah, then that would explain …’

‘Yes, that would explain,’ she agreed quickly.

‘Then of course I mustn’t keep you.’ He fell into step beside her. ‘But I’m not going to let you go before you agree to meet me on another day – when it’s convenient for you, of course. Maybe one afternoon for tea? Tuesday week, perhaps? How would that suit?’

She laughed. ‘Oh, Ian, you haven’t changed. You don’t waste any time, do you?’

‘Not if I can avoid it. But does that mean yes?’

She laughed again. ‘Yes, I guess it does.’

‘Then I’ll look forward to seeing you Tuesday week.’

‘I’ll say this for you, Ian, you don’t believe in letting the grass grow under your feet, do you?’ she said, still smiling.

He didn’t return her smile. ‘Shall we just say I don’t intend to let you slip through my fingers a second time,’ he replied.

At his words her smile died, and she walked away.

Over tea and cakes in the dining car of the train, after the exhibition had closed for the day, Roger said, ‘I’m glad I suggested Philip should stay at my club. He looked absolutely exhausted, poor chap. The excitement of the whole thing has put him under quite a strain, and he’s still got two more days to go.’

‘Henry will look after him, he knows what to do,’ Rosalie said without much interest. She examined her nail varnish, a bright scarlet.

‘There weren’t as many people there as I’d expected, considering it was the opening day,’ Doreen remarked. ‘And I would have expected to see a Member of Parliament at the very least. But there was nobody I could recognize, nobody at all. It was hardly worth the trouble I took to attend. It was on the afternoon of my Ladies’ Circle, too.’ She was obviously quite put out.

Rosalie found this highly amusing. ‘Oh, Ma, what did you expect! Phil isn’t exactly Sir Joshua Reynolds. It was only a little tinpot show, when all’s said and done.’

‘I hope you won’t say that to Philip, Rosalie,’ Roger rebuked her. ‘Everyone has to start somewhere, and I think he’s done very well to get an exhibition in a West End gallery, even if it is only a small one. You should be proud of your husband, instead of making disparaging remarks.’

Rosalie’s only reply was a bored shrug as she fished in her bag for a cigarette.

‘I noticed that there were several paintings with red stickers,’ Stella said, making an effort to join in the conversation. ‘So he’s obviously made some sales. And Dr Marshall was very interested in Philip’s work. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he buys one.’

Rosalie’s interest perked up and she regarded Stella through a haze of cigarette smoke. ‘Yes, I saw you talking to him as if you were old friends. That was quick work on your part, but don’t you think he’s a bit old for you? He must be thirty-five if he’s a day.’

‘He’s not that old, and I wouldn’t say we were old friends. I knew him when we were both working at the convalescent home. He recognized me and came over to talk to me, that’s all.’ Stella refused to fuel Rosalie’s speculations by telling her just how well she had known Ian Marshall at Hill House; nor that he had wanted to buy her dinner, or that she had arranged to meet him in less than a fortnight.

‘He’s quite handsome,’ Rosalie said thoughtfully. ‘And he looks as if he’s quite rich. Has he got a wife?’ She directed the question at Stella.

‘No, not that I know of,’ Stella replied.

‘Well, didn’t you ask him?’

‘Of course I didn’t! Why would I?’

‘Quite right, too, Stella,’ Roger said, nodding approvingly.

Doreen was following the conversation and looking slightly annoyed. ‘Who is this Dr Marshall? Is he somebody important? Should I have been introduced to him?’

‘He’s Philip’s masseur, Ma, that’s all.’ Rosalie waved her cigarette holder dismissively.

‘Oh, nobody important. That’s all right then.’ Doreen relaxed. ‘Pour me another cup of tea, Rosalie, please. Train journeys tend to have a drying effect on the palate.’

Nineteen

Henry was away with Philip for four days, and Emma missed him more than she cared to admit. She missed his cheery whistle as he left early each morning to go to Warren’s End to help Philip bathe and dress, and missed him popping into the kitchen at odd times during the day for a cup of tea or cocoa with her and Maisie. She also missed the sound of him in the house next door during the evening and, the walls between the cottages being thin, even missed hearing him go up the stairs to bed just after ten o’clock every night.

But most of all she missed his knock on the door, and his concern. ‘Is everything all right, Emma? Is there anything you want?’ he would say. Or ‘I’ve brought you a few carrots’, or strawberries or apples. And she would make him an apple pie or a bacon dumpling in return.

Because that was what being a good neighbour was all about.

Nevertheless, she washed her face and put on a clean dress when she got in from work on the evening she knew he would be coming home from London, and sat by the window with her knitting watching for his return – but only because the light was better there and so she could tell him she had a meat pie in the oven that he was welcome to share.

Henry was weary. It had been a hard few days. In the unfamiliar surroundings and in his anxiety that his paintings should at least be well received, even if nobody bought them, Mr Philip had been on edge and sharp-tempered instead of his usual easy-going self. Even worse, he had hated the enforced journey in the bath chair from the Colonel’s club to the gallery, which was unfortunately too far for him to walk but hardly worth calling a taxi for; and he had cursed Henry at every bump or obstruction along the way, even though he’d apologized afterwards.

Henry swapped his bag into his other hand. God, he’d be glad to get home, even though he knew he’d left the place in a bit of a mess because he’d been too busy with Mr Philip’s preparations to worry about the state of it. And he hadn’t even thought about something to eat. Not that he was hungry: he was too tired and his back ached. He pushed open the gate that served the two houses and walked up the path, with just a brief glance to see if Emma was anywhere around. Disappointed that he couldn’t see her, he opened his door – nobody in the neighbourhood ever locked doors – and went in.

To his surprise, the room was immaculate. Everything had been tidied away, the dirty crockery washed, the floor swept, and there was a fire burning in the grate. He smiled to himself; that must have been Emma’s work, bless her. He put down his bag and, glad of the excuse, went next door to thank her.

The door opened before he could even knock and she stood there, smiling. ‘Ah, you’re back. That’s good,’ she said by way of greeting, as if she hadn’t been watching for him for the past half hour.

‘Yes. Just got in. Popped round to thank you for tidying up for me. Didn’t have time to do it before I left. It was kind of you, Emma.’ He turned to go, for some reason feeling a little awkward in her presence. After all, he’d only been away for four days.

‘It wasn’t any trouble.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I’ve got a meat pie in the oven, Henry. You’re welcome to come and share it if you haven’t already eaten. Goodness knows what time young Charlie will be home. He’s up at the stables, spends all his time up there. He’d sleep there if he got the chance.’ She knew she was prattling, but couldn’t help herself. The man standing on the doorstep looked so tall and handsome in his best suit, even with his deformed back, that it took her breath away.

He gave a sigh of relief. ‘Oh, that sounds lovely. And there’s me been thinking I’d have to go and get fish and chips. Thanks, Emma, I’d be glad to come and share it with you.’

‘Well, don’t stand there on the step then. Come on in and sit down.’ She looked him in the eye for the first time. ‘You look right worn out, Henry,’ she said gently. ‘Has it been very hard?’

He nodded. ‘It has. A bit. I’m glad to be home. I don’t much like being away.’

‘I’m glad you’re back, it’s been funny without you here. I’ve missed you clattering about next door.’

‘I don’t clatter about.’ He pretended to be affronted but he savoured her words.

‘No, but I always know when you’re there.’ She busied herself with plates and when they were both served she sat down opposite him.

‘Oh, this is good, Emma,’ he said as he took a mouthful. ‘I never had anything as tasty as this in London.’

‘What’s London like, Henry?’ she asked, putting her head on one side. ‘They say it’s a big place, but I can’t imagine it. I’ve never been further than Colchester. Is it much bigger than that?’

He laughed as he speared a piece of meat. ‘About a hundred times bigger, I should think.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t reckon you’d like it much, Em. You’re a quiet, peaceful person and London’s so noisy you wouldn’t believe it. Men with barrel organs, hawkers all over the place yelling out what they’ve got to sell; you can buy everything from sheet music to hot pies on the street, and they all try to shout louder than each other to make people buy. Then there’s motor cars honking – I’ve never seen so many motor cars, Em – all mixed up with horses and carts and hansom cabs, I wonder the horses don’t bolt with fright. I tell you, Em, the streets were so full of traffic of one sort or another, you took your life in your hands just to cross to the other side. And you had to be careful where you put your feet or you’d be up to your ankles in horse … Well, you know.’ He shook his head again and continued eating. After a bit he looked up. ‘And the people! Posh people all dressed up to the nines getting out of taxis at all hours, people in working clothes rushing about like they hadn’t got a minute to live. Everybody seemed to be in a hurry to be somewhere else. I’ve never seen anything like it! At times it was more than hard work trying to push Mr Philip along in his bath chair because people didn’t step aside to let us through, they were in too much of a hurry to get where they were going, pushing and shoving each other out of the way, even though some of the pavements were as wide as our roads.’

‘Gracious me, how rude! No, you’re right, Henry. If it’s like you say, I reckon I’d hate it. Sounds more like Bedlam to me,’ Emma said, her eyes wide. ‘I can’t even imagine it.’

‘No, I don’t reckon you can.’ His voice dropped and he went on sadly, ‘And I’d never imagined I’d see quite so many beggars in the streets, either. You certainly wouldn’t have liked that, Emma; you wouldn’t have liked seeing children of not much more than seven or eight, filthy dirty, with hardly a rag on their backs, fighting over which one would hold someone’s horse for a penny, or scavenging in the rubbish in the market for a few scraps of food.’ He pushed his empty plate away and rubbed the back of his neck tiredly. ‘The streets of London aren’t all paved with gold, Em. Some parts are stinking awful.’

‘Well, you’re home now, Henry,’ she said gently. ‘Come and sit in the armchair and I’ll make us a cup of tea, then you can go home to bed.’

He moved over to the Windsor chair that was padded with patchwork cushions that Emma had made when she was first married. ‘Ah, this is lovely,’ he said, closing his eyes. ‘Fits my poor old back a treat.’

‘It was Arthur’s chair,’ she said. ‘He always reckoned it was comfortable.’

She poured the tea and sat down on a low stool opposite, savouring the sight of him sitting on the other side of the hearth, looking so comfortable and relaxed. So at home. ‘It’s nice to see you sitting there,’ she added quietly.

She said no more for several moments, happy just to sit there, watching him and just being there with him in the warmth and intimacy of her living room. Then, realizing her thoughts were straying along dangerous paths, she said, ‘Tell me some more about London, Henry, if you’re not too tired.’

He opened his eyes and smiled at her. ‘No, I’m not too tired to sit and talk, Em.’ He thought for a minute, then frowned. ‘I think the thing that affected me most was seeing ex-servicemen, proud men who’d had decent jobs before the war, standing on street corners trying to sell matches, or bootlaces, or packets of pins, some of them on crutches, some with only one arm or with a leg missing. Decent men should never be humiliated like that,’ he said savagely. He shook his head. ‘But I think the worst thing I saw was a young girl – she couldn’t have been more than ten years old – in a thin summer frock, although the wind was quite chill, pulling her father along on a home-made trolley because he’d got no legs. He was doing what he could to help her, trying to push himself along with his hands, and there was a bowl between his stumps for people to put pennies in. I’ll never forget the shame and despair on that man’s face. He’d lost his legs fighting for his country and that was all the thanks he’d got, thrown on the scrap heap and having to beg to buy bread for his family. I gave him a shilling, which was all the money I’d got on me at the time. When I’d got more, I went back. I’d have willingly given the poor bloke my last ha’penny, but I couldn’t find him again. It’s a sin and a shame that good men should be treated like that after what they’d been through,’ he finished savagely.

‘Oh, Henry.’ Emma’s eyes were full of tears. ‘And I thought we had troubles. But at least we were never going to starve, the children had decent clothes on their backs, and Arthur was …’ She sniffed. ‘Well, it could have been a lot worse.’

‘Oh, look, now I’ve upset you.’ He got to his feet and stood looking down at her, shaking his head. ‘I shouldn’t have told you all that, Emma. I’m sorry. But I just can’t get the picture of that man and his little girl out of my mind.’

She looked up at him, tears still glistening in her eyes. ‘No, it’s all right. I’m glad you did, Henry. I’m glad you felt you could share it with me.’ She smiled at him as he helped her to her feet. ‘You’re an old softie, Henry Hogg, you know that?’

‘I’m soft over you, Emma Blatch,’ he said quietly, still holding her hands. ‘But you know that, don’t you?’

She nodded and squeezed his hands. ‘Yes, I do, and it’s a great comfort to me, Henry.’ She shook her head. ‘But it’s too soon …’ She bit her lip. ‘Arthur’s only been gone …’

‘I know. I’m sorry, Emma, I shouldn’t have spoken like that, but the truth is I missed you while I was away. And then coming back and being here with you, well, it just sort of came out, I couldn’t help myself. But I promise I won’t forget myself like that again, so you needn’t worry.’

‘I’m not worried, Henry,’ she said, quietly. ‘I’m honoured. And in a little while …’ She looked up at him, hoping he would understand.

He smiled reassuringly and bent his head to brush her cheek with his lips. ‘I can wait, Emma,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve waited all this time, so I’ll just say this. When you’re ready, I’ll be here.’

The following evening, over dinner of roast pork and apple sauce followed by jam roly-poly, Roger took the opportunity to ask Philip whether the exhibition had gone well.

‘He didn’t sell all that many, judging from the number that arrived back today,’ Rosalie put in before Philip could answer. ‘Hardly worth all that effort, I’d say.’

Philip waited until she’d finished speaking, then turned towards Roger, ignoring her. ‘I think it was quite a useful exercise even though, as my wife was so keen to point out, there weren’t all that many sales. I don’t know what Rosalie expected, but Ben Gerard assured me that Oscar Hillyard was more than satisfied, which is the important thing. Apparently his commission more than covered his costs in putting on the exhibition, so there must have been enough sold to make it worthwhile.’

‘Indeed, and that must mean you made a few pounds too. That’s encouraging for you. No doubt it also means he’ll be happy to put on another exhibition, so your name will get known in the right circles. All things considered, I’d regard that as a resounding success. Congratulations, my boy.’ Roger gave a satisfied nod and helped himself to more duchesse potatoes.

‘Does that mean you’ll be famous, Philip?’ Doreen asked, her interest aroused. ‘I can’t say I saw any particularly well-known people at your exhibition, but no doubt when you get more widely known they’ll flock to see you.’ She smiled happily at the prospect as she dabbed her mouth delicately with her napkin.

‘I shouldn’t think it’s very likely, Doreen,’ Philip said dryly. ‘I’m not expecting to be invited to exhibit at the Royal Academy.’

‘Well, as long as you can amuse yourself, that’s all that matters.’ Completely oblivious that she had insulted her son-in-law, Doreen turned to Stella to discuss more important matters.

‘I saw my grandson in his baby carriage in the garden this morning. I thought he looked a little pale, my dear. I think perhaps we should ask Dr Eaves to examine him to make sure he didn’t take any harm when you left him in the care of the servants,’ she said, with an expression that was supposed to convey friendly anxiety but didn’t hide her disapproval. ‘It’s important not to take any chances with him.’

Stella found she was clenching her fists under the table, but managed to keep her voice level as she answered her mother-in-law. ‘Jonathan is perfectly healthy, thank you, Doreen. This morning he was laughing and splashing in his bath so much that Mary had to go and change her pinafore. And as for not leaving him for a few hours with servants, as you put it, I’m quite sure Emma has had more experience with babies and children than any of us, and she’s already taught Mary – and me, for that matter – a great deal. I would never hesitate to leave Jonathan with either of them, especially since Mary is now employed as his nursemaid and expects to have care of him. What’s more, Jonathan loves both Mary and Emma. His little face lights up when he sees them.’ Which is more than it does when he sees you, she thought; but bit her tongue against adding.

‘He wasn’t smiling this morning. When I looked into the baby carriage and talked to him, he began to cry. I think perhaps he’s suffering from colic.’

‘No, he isn’t suffering from colic. You probably woke him up,’ Stella suggested, gritting her teeth. ‘He does get cross if he’s woken from his nap.’

‘Nevertheless, I shall call Dr Eaves,’ Doreen insisted. ‘One can’t be too careful.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t, Doreen.’ Stella was equally insistent. ‘If the doctor is called too many times unnecessarily, he’ll be reluctant to come in a real emergency. As I said, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with Jonathan. And I should know,’ she added. ‘After all, I am his mother.’

‘Has everybody finished?’ Tight-lipped, Doreen looked round the table, ignoring Stella’s words. ‘Then perhaps you would clear the plates, Stella, and I’ll ring for Maisie to collect them and bring in the pudding. I do feel it’s important not to put too much pressure on the domestic staff, they have quite enough to do without burdening them with extra work.’

‘That’s not extra work, Ma,’ Rosalie remarked, examining her fingernails. ‘Clearing the table is part of the job.’

‘Rosalie is quite right, Doreen. It’s one thing to help out in an emergency, but quite another to expect members of the family to do the work for which the domestic staff are adequately, I might even say generously, paid,’ Roger said with a steely look at his wife. He turned to Stella and said more gently, ‘Please sit down, Stella. You’re our daughter-in-law, I won’t have you treated like an unpaid skivvy.’

‘Unpaid skivvy, indeed!’ Doreen was flushed with fury at being bested yet again. ‘She’s very well paid, if you ask me. She lives here rent-free, with all found …’

‘That’s enough, Doreen!’ Roger banged his fist on the table. ‘I’ll hear no more of this. Please ring for Maisie and let us have the rest of the meal in peace. After you’ve apologized to Stella for your quite uncalled-for remarks, that is.’

Defeated, Doreen put her hand to her head. ‘Oh, Roger, you know I can’t stand you shouting at me. It always brings on one of my heads. Now I shall have to go and lie down. Perhaps you could ask Maisie to bring me a headache powder?’ She got to her feet. As she passed Stella, she laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘You may be right about Jonathan, my dear. We’ll wait and see how he is in the morning before we send for Dr Eaves.’ With that, she groped her way theatrically to the door and went up to her room, and Stella realized that it was the nearest thing to an apology she was likely to get.

‘You mustn’t mind Doreen, Stella, she gets a little overwrought at times,’ Roger said later, pouring oil on troubled waters and custard over his jam roly-poly. ‘I’m afraid she tends to worry unnecessarily over the little boy.’

‘Hmph. She doesn’t like being crossed, either. You did well there, Stella,’ Rosalie remarked, winking at her in an unusual show of solidarity. She turned to her husband. ‘Did Dr Marshall turn up this afternoon, Phil? You said you were expecting him to come here instead of you going to him.’

‘Yes. He apologized for being late, he’d been held up. He’s coming again tomorrow.’

‘What, two days in a row?’

‘Yes. He’ll be coming every day for at least the next week or so. Says I need “loosening up”, whatever that means, and it’ll be easier for me if he comes here to do it.’

‘That’s probably because you’ll have been under quite a lot of nervous tension while the exhibition was on,’ Stella said thoughtfully. She looked up. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I spoke without thinking.’

‘That’s all right. In fact it’s exactly what Dr Marshall said,’ Philip said with a smile.

‘Are you sure it’s just you he’s coming to see, Phil?’ Rosalie asked, her face a picture of innocence.

Philip frowned. ‘What do you mean? Of course it is. Who else would it be?’

‘Well, maybe he intends to kill two birds with one stone and call on Stella while he’s here. They were having quite a conversation at the opening of your exhibition. Apparently they worked together at the convalescent home, so perhaps he thinks it will be a good opportunity to renew their acquaintance.’ She shrugged, shamefaced, as she saw her husband’s expression. ‘Just a thought.’

Before Philip could speak, Stella said quietly, ‘I never actually worked with Dr Marshall, although I did know him quite well at Hill House.’ She smiled. ‘But to tell you the truth, once I met John, the King could have turned up and I wouldn’t have noticed.’

‘But Dr Marshall obviously noticed you.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Rosie, leave it alone,’ Philip said irritably.

‘He remembered me, anyway,’ Stella answered Rosalie, ‘and he’s asked me to have tea with him Tuesday week. No doubt he’ll want to talk about Hill House, which might be a bit difficult for me since that’s where John and I …’ She bit her lip and took a deep breath. ‘But I expect I’ll manage.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ Philip said shortly. He dragged himself to his feet. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go back to the flat. I’ve still got some work to do.’

‘My, my, I wonder what’s ruffled his feathers?’ Rosalie remarked under her breath, watching him struggle out through the door.

Twenty

Maisie carried the coffee up to the dining room and returned with the rest of the dirty dishes. She was always tired at the end of the day and clearing up after the family dinner was the last straw as far as she was concerned. Emma knew this and nearly always stayed behind to help with the washing-up. As she pointed out, it hadn’t been so easy in the past, never knowing whether Arthur would be getting drunk at the pub or watching the clock and shouting the odds because she was late; but now he wasn’t there it didn’t really matter what time she got home. Especially with Mary living in at Warren’s End. It often meant she could see her daughter for a few minutes in the evening.

Also, although Emma didn’t say this to Maisie, if she timed it right Henry would have finished his work with Mr Philip for the day and they could walk home together, talking over what they had been doing, or just being companionable. It worked out very well, because Henry had told her that Mr Philip preferred to put himself to bed as long as Henry left everything to hand. That way he could stay up till the small hours if he wanted to, which he often did, without inconveniencing anybody. The walk home with Henry in the dark was the best part of the day as far as Emma was concerned – although she never admitted this to anyone, least of all to Henry.

She was thinking along these lines when Maisie came back into the kitchen, balancing the laden tray carefully as she pushed the door closed with her foot.

‘You wouldn’t think a meal for five people would make so much washing-up, would you?’ she said, blowing a wisp of hair out of her eyes.

‘Well, there’s only them bits to do now. I’ve done everything else, including all the pots and pans,’ Emma said cheerfully.

‘Thanks, Em. I’m nearly dead on my feet.’ She put the tray on the draining board. ‘Don’t know what’s been going on up there,’ she jerked her head in the direction of the dining room, ‘but you could cut the air with a knife. I shouldn’t be surprised if the missus has been having a go at Mrs Stella again. She’s really got her knife into that poor girl.’

Emma nodded, swirling fresh suds into the bowl. Then she paused and leaned her elbows on the sink. ‘Do you know what I reckon?’

‘No. What do you reckon?’

‘I reckon the missus had the idea that once the baby was born Mrs Stella would be glad to hand him over and go off and forget about him. Although where she got that idea from, goodness knows.’

‘She must have a screw loose,’ Maisie said. ‘Anyone could see with half an eye that was never gonna happen, all the little bits the girl knitted and sewed for him while she was expecting.’

‘All the same, I reckon the missus thought she’d have first claim because it was her son that was the baby’s father. Not that I could ever see her changing dirty nappies!’ she added with a laugh as she tackled the rest of the dirty dishes.

Maisie nodded. ‘And now she’s riled because Mrs Stella’s having none of it, so she can’t get her own way. Yes, I reckon you’re about right, Em.’

‘Of course I am. That girl’s never going to hand her baby over; she’d live in a field before she’d let go of Master Jonny, any fool can see that. She’s got her own ideas about the way he’s to be brought up, too, and I don’t blame her for that, either.’ Emma dried her hands vigorously to prove her point.

‘No more do I,’ Maisie agreed. ‘From what I can see, the missus hasn’t got any idea how to treat babies, even though she’s had two of her own. Not that I’d know anything about it, of course,’ she added hurriedly. ‘But it can’t be right to go and pick the poor lamb up when he’s lying there asleep in his pram, or “baby carriage” as she likes to call it. No wonder he cries when he sees her.’

‘Of course, the real trouble will come when Granny and Grandpa – well, Granny, anyway – want to provide him with things his mother would never be able to afford,’ Emma said thoughtfully.

‘Like what? The “baby carriage”?’ Maisie made a good imitation of Doreen’s voice. Like most things that went on upstairs, it had been well discussed at the time in the kitchen.

‘No, more important than that, although that was bad enough.’

‘What then?’

‘Well, expensive schooling, for one thing. Mrs Stella’s never going to be able to afford to send him to a posh school, is she? But they could. And if Mrs Stella wants what’s best for her boy …’ She paused and looked up at the clock: Henry should be finished at Mr Philip’s by now and she didn’t want to keep him waiting. Though he would wait for her, she knew that; and the knowledge gave her a warm glow. She gave a quick shrug and went on briskly, ‘However, that’s well into the future. A lot can happen between now and then, the poor lamb’s not a year old yet.’ She looked round the kitchen. ‘Well, that’s all the clearing up done, so I’ll be getting along home. I’ve got some ironing to do before I go to bed tonight.’ She reached her coat down from behind the door. ‘Goodnight, Maise.’

‘Goodnight, Emma. And thanks for staying on.’ After she’d gone Maisie glanced round the now immaculate kitchen, then sat down in the armchair by the fire to enjoy an hour with her new book, The Keeper of the Door, by her favourite author, Ethel M. Dell.

Back in her flat, Stella’s thoughts were running along much the same lines as those that had been discussed in the kitchen. Things had rather come to a head tonight, with Doreen showing her true colours, and it had been quite devastating to hear spelt out in such a vitriolic fashion exactly what her mother-in-law thought of her. She gazed up at the photograph of John on the mantelpiece.

‘I had a wonderful six weeks with you, my love, and I don’t regret a minute of it, but look at the pickle it’s landed me in,’ she said to the figure smiling down at her as if he hadn’t a care in the world. ‘True, I’ve got our precious baby, and a pleasant little rent-free flat, which is not to be sneezed at, but I’ve also got a mother-in-law who hates me and wishes me out of the way. How do I cope with that all by myself, John Nolan, since you’re no longer here to help me?’ Voicing those words, an emotion, something akin to rage, washed over her, surprising her with its intensity, because she knew she was trapped and she could see no way out.

On the other hand, Roger was kindness itself. It was obvious he was trying to compensate for his wife’s behaviour without actually being disloyal to her.

‘You know that there will always be a home for you and Jonathan here, don’t you, my dear?’ he said, seeking her out the next day in the garden. ‘Always. For as long as you want it.’ He put his hand on her arm. ‘I do understand that it’s not always easy for you, Stella,’ he continued, ‘but I wouldn’t want you to rush into anything you might later regret because of hasty words spoken in the heat of the moment.’

Stella knew he was referring to her planned meeting with Ian Marshall, and appreciated his concern. Though talking over shared acquaintances at Hill House with a man she had once been close to but had then rejected was hardly likely to result in her being tempted to rush into anything at all, apart from getting back to her beloved son. But before she could speak, he cleared his throat and continued gruffly, ‘You realize, don’t you, Stella, that having you and your little boy living here is making an old man very happy?’ With that, he walked away before she could answer.

She soon realized that Roger must have had words with Doreen, too, because she noticed with relief that her mother-in-law no longer demeaned her in front of the family by treating her as a servant. Nevertheless, Doreen still managed to wage her own subtle war by criticizing practically everything Stella did, under the guise of ‘having a quiet word’ with her ‘in private’. This was wearing and annoying, particularly as most of the criticisms were petty and totally unjustified.

At times Stella felt ready to scream with frustration, but the one thing that made it all bearable was that there was someone she knew she could tell her troubles to and who would understand. Philip was always ready to listen. If things got too difficult, she would go over to his studio for a cup of tea and a chat while Jonathan was having his afternoon nap, although ostensibly it was to see how the latest work in progress was coming along. And indeed she did enjoy watching the paintings emerge from a few lines on the paper to a fully fledged landscape or still life, and she marvelled at the intricacy of some of the work he did.

‘You don’t paint portraits, do you, Philip?’ she asked one afternoon.

‘Not so far, but I’m always ready to give anything a go.’ He leaned forward, concentrating on what he was doing. ‘Why? Would you like me to paint your portrait?’ He glanced up at her with raised eyebrows. ‘Do you think Dr Marshall might like it?’

She frowned. ‘Good grief, no. Not that I’d ask him.’

He shrugged and said nothing.

‘Philip, I’ve agreed to meet him for tea tomorrow afternoon. As far as I’m concerned, it’s to talk over old times at Hill House,’ she explained, as if talking to a child. ‘Not that we’ve got much in common to talk about these days,’ she added thoughtfully. She shook her head in exasperation. ‘In truth, I’m only going out of politeness. I don’t know why people seem to think it’s such a big thing.’

‘Well, isn’t it?’ He didn’t look up from his painting.

‘It may have been once, although more on his side than mine. But definitely not any longer.’ She watched him for a few moments. ‘You ought to know me better than that, Phil,’ she said quietly.

He looked up and their eyes met. He smiled in understanding, and the tension between them relaxed. ‘So whose portrait would you like me to paint, then?’ he asked, his voice gentle now.

‘Well, I wondered … Could you paint Jonathan?’ she asked a little shyly. ‘I want to give Roger a picture of his grandson. I know he’d like that.’

He leaned back in his chair and nodded, and she could see he was pleased at the idea. ‘Yes, I don’t see why not. Bring him over and I’ll make some sketches.’ He smiled at her again, and the unspoken thought went between them that it would be an added excuse for visits. The moment passed and he said, his eyes twinkling, ‘Is this your way of getting back at the Old Trout, trying to make her jealous?’ The ‘Old Trout’ was their private nickname for Doreen.

Stella smiled back. It was such a relief to have someone she could talk to openly about the way Doreen treated her ‘That wasn’t the original intention, I’m sure Roger would like it. But what do you think?’

‘I think I wouldn’t blame you if that was your intention. What’s her latest barb?’

Stella sighed. ‘Her latest? I’m not sure where to begin!’

She was quiet for a moment, then frowned. ‘I’ve an idea she’s working on Mary now, which is very unfair. After all, the girl is only fifteen and this is her first job. If Doreen tries to contradict or even countermand everything I ask Mary to do, the poor girl won’t know who’s right nor who to take her orders from. For instance, she says things like “Oh, Mary, I’m surprised Mrs Stella has told you to leave my grandson outside in this cold wind. He should be indoors, where it’s nice and warm. I’ll take him in to my room.” It’s ridiculous. Everybody knows babies need a certain amount of fresh air every day, and he’s always well wrapped up. Of course, Mary daren’t disobey Doreen, but she knows it’s not what I want. On the other hand, she doesn’t want to be accused of telling tales, so she really doesn’t know which way to turn.’

She sighed again and looked so worried that Philip said with a laugh, ‘I must say you do a very good impression of our mother-in-law, Stella.’

‘It’s not really funny, Philip,’ she replied seriously. ‘The thing is, what can I do about it without involving the poor girl too much in my problems?’

‘No, of course it isn’t funny, Stella, and I shouldn’t have laughed.’ Then he chuckled again. ‘I’ll bet you wouldn’t dare do that to her face.’

Her face broke into a grin. ‘No, I wouldn’t. Not that she’d recognize herself if I did, she’s got no idea what she sounds like.’

He nodded. ‘That’s better. At least you haven’t lost your sense of humour. But in answer to the serious question …’ He paused and thought for a minute, then looked up. ‘Have you thought of speaking to Emma? She’s probably the best person.’

Stella’s face cleared. ‘Of course! She’s the obvious one. Why didn’t I think of that?’

‘Because you’re too close to the problem, that’s why.’ There was a brief knock on the door and Henry came in. ‘Ah, good man, Henry, you’ve come to make the tea. Did you know Mrs Stella was here?’

‘Yes, Mary told me. But I guessed she might be.’ He turned to Stella. ‘Mary says can she take Jonathan with her to the post office, Mrs Stella?’

‘Yes, of course she can,’ Stella answered.

‘Good. I’ll tell her when I go back.’ Henry busied himself in the kitchen. After he brought in the tea tray, he left.

‘Looks as if Mary might be solving the problem in her own way,’ Philip said thoughtfully as he watched Stella pour the tea.

‘Yes, she’s a bright girl. Perhaps she understands more than I give her credit for.’ She handed him his tea and then sipped her own. ‘Oh, I wish I could find some way of becoming independent,’ she said after a while. ‘If only I could earn some money so that I didn’t have to depend on Roger’s charity.’

‘I’m sure he doesn’t see it like that,’ Philip said. He looked at her over the rim of his cup. ‘Roger is very fond of you, Stella.’

She nodded. ‘And I’m very fond of Roger,’ she replied quietly, returning his gaze.

Suddenly, the door burst open and Rosalie nearly fell in, her cheeks rosy with cold, and her head, surmounted by a little cloche hat, looking too small for her body, which was wrapped in a thick fur coat reaching nearly to her ankles.

‘Now, here’s somebody who’s never likely to worry about finding work,’ he said, under his breath.

But Rosalie was too full of her news to even notice his remark. ‘What do you think?’ she said excitedly. ‘It’s on all the placards! Oh, is there a cup of tea for me?’

‘I expect there’s still one in the pot. Get yourself a cup.’ Philip was used to these outbursts. ‘Then you can tell us what it is on all the placards that’s making you so animated.’

‘It’s Nancy Astor! She’s won the Plymouth by-election! She stood for election because her husband’s been elevated to the peerage. And she won! She’ll be the first woman to sit in Parliament.’ She began to dance round the room. ‘You’ll see, eventually we’ll have a woman Prime Minister.’

‘Oh, I don’t think insanity will prevail that far,’ Philip said dryly. ‘Now, are you going to get a cup, or are you going to wait till the tea’s cold? And for heaven’s sake, stop prancing about.’ He raised his eyebrows towards Stella as Rosalie went off to the kitchen. She came back with a cup and saucer and put them on the tray in front of Stella.

‘Don’t you see? It’s history in the making. All the work of the suffragettes is paying off.’

‘Oh, were you one of the suffragettes?’ Stella asked, looking up, the teapot in her hand.

Rosalie shuddered. ‘Me? Oh, no. I didn’t fancy being sent to prison and being force-fed. But I very much admired them, and I think it’s marvellous what they’ve achieved for us women, don’t you?’ She waited for Stella to pour her tea, then picked it up.

‘I think it had to come,’ Stella said thoughtfully. ‘The suffragettes were very brave and of course they paved the way, but I think a lot of the jobs women did during the war influenced things a great deal. Working on the land, as bus conductresses, driving ambulances (incidentally, I did that), working in the munitions factories and in offices … Doing so many jobs that had previously been done only by men, and enjoying the freedom it gave. It’s small wonder women have decided they want a say in how the country should be run. So, yes, I do think it’s wonderful. And it’ll be even better when we don’t have to wait quite so long before we can vote.’ She paused. ‘But I think there’s a long way to go before there are equal rights for women. It’s still very much a man’s world.’

Rosalie sat down and began to drink her tea. After a minute she put her cup down and said thoughtfully, ‘You know, you’re not a bad egg, Stella. There’s more to you than meets the eye.’

‘Thank you very much!’ Stella said with more than a hint of sarcasm.

‘And you used to drive an ambulance?’

‘Only to ferry the wounded from hospital to the convalescent home. I wasn’t in France like some of the nurses I knew.’

‘All the same …’ Rosalie viewed her sister-in-law with a new respect. ‘I’m quite ashamed to admit I can’t drive at all.’

Philip picked up a brush and examined the tip. ‘When I buy a new car I’ll pass Tin Lizzie on to you, Rosie, and Henry can teach you.’

She turned to him, her eyes shining. ‘Do you really mean that, Phil?’

‘Yes, but don’t get too excited. I said when I buy a new car. It won’t be yet, I can’t afford one at the moment.’

‘But your pictures are selling.’

‘Yes. They’re beginning to. Slowly and fairly inexpensively.’

‘Don’t be so modest. You’ve always sold the odd one, but after your exhibition …’

‘I seem to remember you called it a “little tinpot affair”, so surely you’re not now expecting it to suddenly make a fortune, are you?’

‘Oh, you are an insufferable man! One minute you promise to buy me a car and the next you say you can’t afford it. I wish you’d make up your mind.’ She banged her cup and saucer down on the table. ‘I’m going down to the club. I probably won’t be back in time for dinner.’ With that she flounced out of the room, and the door banged as she left the flat.

‘Sorry about that,’ Philip said, not sounding sorry at all. ‘My wife has got flouncing down to a fine art when things don’t go her way.’

Stella stood up. ‘I’ll put the tea things in the kitchen and then I’d better flounce off, too.’

‘You never flounce, Stella. You’re the most restful person I know,’ he said, smiling at her.

‘That’s because you’ve never seen me in a rage.’ She smiled back at him.

‘Ah, now, that would be something,’ he remarked enigmatically. ‘And what would be likely to prompt it?’

She went to the door. ‘If Doreen’s been upsetting Mary again, I might come close to it. And also,’ she added after a moment’s hesitation, ‘if people insist on reading too much into my meeting with Ian Marshall. That would really make me see red.’

She closed the door before he could answer.

Twenty-One

Stella dressed carefully for her meeting with Ian Marshall, not because she wanted to impress him; it was rather the reverse, she was anxious that he shouldn’t feel she was attaching any particular importance to it. Not that she had a great deal of choice in what she wore, since her wardrobe was limited.

In the end, she chose a plain grey ankle-length skirt and a pink blouse with a beaded collar. Her dark-blue winter coat was still fairly new. She had bought it for her visit to John’s parents, never dreaming she would still be with them nearly a year later, and hadn’t worn it a great deal because of her pregnancy. But she was only meeting Ian Marshall out of politeness, because they had both worked at Hill House, not to rejuvenate a relationship that, as far as she was concerned, had never really blossomed. She put on her little fur hat and surveyed herself in the mirror. Then, satisfied that she looked reasonably smart without having made too much of an effort, she picked up Jonathan, who was gurgling in his pram, gave him a prolonged hug, and smothered him in kisses.

‘Now, be a good boy for Mary while Mummy is out, won’t you, my darling,’ she said, giving him a final hug before hurrying off to catch the tram.

Ian Marshall was waiting for her in the square. He was a distinguished-looking man, tall and slim, and was wearing a well-cut tweed suit. His first words to her as he doffed his hat were, ‘You’re looking quite charming today, Stella, my dear.’

She managed a small smile, although she objected to him calling her ‘my dear’. But before she could say so he went on, ‘I’ve reserved a table at the little teashop on the corner. It seemed prudent to do that because as far as I could see there aren’t any others, and it looks a busy little place. Do you know it?’ And as he spoke, he guided her towards Daisy’s Tearooms.

‘Oh, yes, I know it very well,’ she answered briefly, as he stood aside for her to precede him into the familiar dim interior, with its dark-oak linenfold panelling and matching dark-oak tables and chairs, the dimness lightened by crisp blue-checked tablecloths with matching napkins and pretty blue-and-white china.

Mrs Greenleaf herself showed them to their table, staying to chat with Stella and to ask after Jonathan and Major Anderson while waiting for the little waitress to bring their cream tea and cakes.

‘You seem to be on very good terms with the proprietor,’ Ian Marshall remarked in a faintly disapproving tone when Mrs Greenleaf had gone off to attend to other customers. ‘Or is she just as garrulous with all the people who come in?’ As he spoke, he helped himself to jam and cream for his scone.

‘She’s a very friendly person. That’s why her teashop is so popular,’ Stella said, defending the woman she had come to regard as a friend. ‘And yes, I often come here when I’m shopping in the town.’ She smiled at him. ‘Philip sometimes comes too, so we know Mrs Greenleaf quite well. She makes the most delicious scones and cakes in the town.’

‘These scones certainly melt in the mouth.’ He took another one from the dish. When he had smothered it liberally in jam and cream, he leaned forward and whispered, ‘This may not have been such a happy choice of venue, after all. I didn’t realize it would be full of old biddies with nothing better to do with their time.’

‘Maybe you should have checked it out more carefully then.’ She watched with something not far from disgust as the whole scone disappeared into his mouth and he reached for a third.

She turned her head and saw two of Doreen’s Ladies’ Circle friends trying not to appear to be watching them.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Arbuthnot, Mrs Beales,’ she said brightly, smiling at them.

They both murmured a reply and turned away, annoyed at having been spotted watching her.

‘Do you know everybody in this place, Stella?’ he asked, trying unsuccessfully to sound jocular.

‘No, I wouldn’t say I know them, but I am acquainted with several people who come here quite often, like I do. The ladies I just spoke to are my mother-in-law’s friends, not mine. I think they come here most days.’

‘Then it’s a pity they can’t find something more useful to do with their time. I can see I should have taken you somewhere where you are less well-known.’

She turned a clear gaze on him. ‘Why?’

He spread his hands, slightly embarrassed. ‘Well …’

‘We’re only having afternoon tea, Ian. That’s not a crime, as far as I’m aware.’ She picked up the teapot. ‘More tea?’

‘Thank you.’ He handed her his cup and watched as she refilled it, her movements competent and unhurried. He felt at a sudden disadvantage, as if he’d planned a seedy little assignation and she was rebuffing him, which was quite ridiculous.

‘Was Nurse Ives still at Hill House when you left?’ she asked. ‘I was often on duty with her, so I got to know her quite well.’

He frowned. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t think I know which one you mean.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘The nurses all looked the same to me.’

‘Really? You always seemed to know which one was me.’ Her tone was cool.

‘Are you fishing for compliments, Stella? Because if you are …’ He leaned over and took her hand.

She snatched it away. ‘Nothing has changed, Ian. I’ve come here today to talk over old times, not to rekindle a romance that never was.’

‘That was not my fault, Stella, you didn’t give me a chance.’

‘You never had a chance, Ian, even before I met John. And once he came along …’ she added more gently.

‘John’s dead,’ he interrupted bluntly. ‘And since Fate has been kind enough to throw us together again, you can hardly blame me for trying to take advantage of the fact.’

She stared at him, amazed at his insensitivity. ‘Well, all I can say is you’re wasting your time. You were last time, and you are now,’ she replied, equally bluntly. So,’ she smiled at him brightly, ‘shall we change the subject? Why did you decide to leave Hill House? You were doing such good work there.’ She regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Didn’t you enjoy your work?’

He helped himself to a cream horn before replying, obviously still smarting under her rebuff. ‘You of all people should know that “enjoy” is not quite the right word for what I did,’ he said stiffly. ‘As you know, my job was to try – and it was mostly unsuccessful, I must admit – to patch up broken young lives. You’ll remember what we were up against. You saw some of those men: I don’t need to describe to you how their lives had been ruined in the trenches. And even worse, there were those that looked perfectly normal but were badly scarred mentally. Most people didn’t appreciate what those poor blighters were going through, because they couldn’t see the damage.’ He pushed his cup over for more tea. ‘I really don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Why not? You’re still doing the same work, you’re helping Philip – Major Anderson,’ she said, picking up the teapot for the third time. ‘Privately, of course,’ she added with barely concealed sarcasm.

He shrugged, ignoring her tone. ‘I took him on as a favour. Not that I can do much for him, he’ll never walk properly again.’

‘Then you’re wasting both your time and his money,’ she said, with some asperity. ‘Why don’t you tell him so and go back to Hill House where you could be doing some good?’

He looked at her in surprise. ‘Are you lecturing me, Stella?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, I think perhaps I am, Ian.’ She finished the last of her chocolate éclair and wiped the corners of her mouth on her napkin. ‘For what it’s worth, I think it’s a pity you’re in private practice, for the most part pandering to people with imaginary problems and more money than sense, when you could be doing so much good elsewhere. I believe you were very much valued at Hill House.’

‘Well, that’s straight from the shoulder,’ he said, somewhat taken aback. He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘So what would you suggest?’

‘I’ve already told you what I think,’ she said with a shrug. ‘But you’ve obviously made your decision and no doubt you had your reasons. I just think it’s a pity to waste your talents on people who have comparatively little need of them when there are so many you could really help. That’s all.’

‘Obviously that didn’t apply to you,’ he remarked dryly.

She looked surprised. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, clearly you felt no guilt about leaving Hill House.’

‘I felt no guilt because I had no choice. I was expecting a child, so I couldn’t possibly have stayed.’

He inclined his head. ‘No, of course not. I’m sorry, I’d forgotten.’ He gave her a somewhat rueful smile. ‘And to think I came here today hoping it might be the beginning of …’ He hesitated. ‘Well, hoping we might become good friends, shall we say. Instead of which, you’re urging me to give up a lucrative practice where I can work or not as I choose, and go back to hospital work where I could be called on at any time day or night and hardly call my soul my own.’

‘True,’ she agreed. ‘But you’d know you were doing useful, necessary work.’

‘That’s blackmail. Moral blackmail.’ He put his head on one side. ‘Would you ever consider going back into nursing, Stella?’

‘No. How could I? I have my son to consider.’

‘I’m sure there are ways round that,’ he said enigmatically.

‘And speaking of Jonathan, I should be getting back,’ she said as if he hadn’t spoken, picking up her handbag and getting to her feet.

As they left the tearooms, Stella couldn’t help noticing that Doreen’s friends were still sitting there and quite openly looking Ian up and down.

That’ll give you something to embroider for Doreen, she thought with some satisfaction as he held open the door for her, knowing that their account of the afternoon would lose nothing in the telling.

She was right. Two afternoons later, Jonathan was lying on a blanket on the hearthrug, kicking his legs and gurgling with happiness, while Stella sat at the table busily stitching a blouse for herself on her sewing machine, at the same time keeping a watchful eye on him. Suddenly, the door opened and Doreen came into the room without knocking.

‘Where is Mary?’ she demanded.

Stella looked up in surprise. ‘Mary? She’s in the kitchen, ironing. Did you want her?’

Doreen shook her head. ‘No, I don’t want her. It’s you I wish to speak to. I just wanted to make sure she was out of the way.’ She glanced irritably at the baby. ‘I don’t think it’s at all appropriate that you should allow the child to lie on the floor like that, Stella. And with his limbs uncovered, too. He’ll catch his death of cold.’

‘I don’t think there’s any danger of that, it’s very warm in here.’ Stella bit off a length of cotton and sat back on her chair. ‘I like to let him exercise his legs every day. It will help strengthen them ready for when he begins to walk. Anyway, I don’t believe in stifling babies with too many clothes. I think it’s bad for them.’ She pushed back her chair and got up. ‘Please sit down, Doreen. If you’ve got something you want to discuss privately with me I’ll make us both a cup of tea first. I was just thinking I could do with a cup.’ She smiled at her mother-in-law.

Doreen sat down, perching on the edge of the sofa, her back ramrod straight. ‘No, thank you, Stella, I don’t wish for tea. But if I did, the correct thing to do would be to ring for Maisie to bring it. That’s what she’s paid for. I think it’s time you learned proper etiquette.’

‘But I’m sure she’s busy. And as I have my own little kitchen, which you were kind enough to provide …’ Stella made sure to add this. ‘I could very quickly put the kettle on.’

‘As I said, I don’t wish for tea.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I have come because I have something disagreeable and painful to speak to you about.’

Stella sat down in the armchair. ‘Oh dear, Doreen. I’m so sorry. Are you ill? Is there anything I can do for you?’ she asked, feigning concern. She knew exactly why Doreen had come and was determined not to make it easy for her.

‘No, I am not ill, but thank you for your concern regarding my health, misplaced though it is.’ She shifted a little in her seat. ‘What I have come to say, and I’ll get straight to the point, is that I am appalled that you have shown so little respect for my son’s memory, not to mention my personal feelings, by taking your men friends to the places that ladies of my acquaintance frequent.’ She glared at Stella. ‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself ?’

Stella gazed at her levelly, although she was seething inside. ‘I haven’t anything to say if you’re expecting excuses,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t have “men friends” in the sense you quite obviously mean, which I find extremely insulting. I was simply having tea with someone I used to know at Hill House. Nothing more than that.’

‘But you were holding hands!’

‘We were not holding hands. It’s true Dr Marshall took my hand but I immediately removed it – if you want the whole truth, which you clearly didn’t get from your spies.’ She leaned down and picked up the baby and cradled him in her lap. He immediately fell asleep.

Doreen was watching. She would have liked to snatch the baby from his mother, but was afraid he might crease her new silk dress. ‘Spies? I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she snapped.

‘I think you do, Doreen. Because you wouldn’t even have known I’d met Dr Marshall if Mrs Beales and Mrs Arbuthnot hadn’t been in Daisy’s Tearooms at the same time and watched every move we made,’ Stella said reasonably. ‘And even some we didn’t,’ she added.

‘They were not spying, they simply happened to be there that afternoon and couldn’t help seeing what was going on,’ Doreen said. ‘Occasionally, I join them there, though not, thank heaven, on that particular afternoon.’ She laid her hand on her heart. ‘I think I would have fainted with shame, had I been there and witnessed some of the things they saw.’

Stella frowned and said through gritted teeth, ‘I can’t imagine what they must have told you, but I can assure you that they did not witness anything except two people who had worked at the same place having tea together. And in case they missed anything, Ian had three scones, three cups of tea and a cream horn, and I had two scones, two cups of tea and a chocolate éclair. And Ian paid the bill. Then I caught the tram home and he went on his way.’

‘Don’t be rude.’

‘I am not being rude, I am simply telling you exactly what happened.’

‘It’s not what I heard,’ Doreen said, determined not to be bested.

‘Then maybe you shouldn’t listen to gossip,’ Stella said. She had managed to keep her temper up till now but was rapidly losing patience. ‘Especially when it’s not true.’

‘Are you suggesting my friends are gossips?’

‘Well, aren’t they? They obviously couldn’t wait to tell you they’d seen me in Daisy’s Tearooms with a man and to report what they imagined they’d seen. What they didn’t stop to think of was that if there had been anything in the least bit suspect in our meeting, Daisy’s would have been the last place we’d have chosen, knowing it was highly likely that they would be there.’ She shrugged. ‘But if you don’t choose to believe me, why don’t you visit the place yourself and ask Mrs Greenleaf, the proprietor, what kind of shady activities she allows to go on at her premises? I’m sure she’ll be only too pleased to tell you that she runs a totally respectable establishment.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I would never demean myself by conversing in that way with such a person.’

‘Then that’s your loss, because Mrs Greenleaf is a delightful lady.’

‘I hardly think she can be called a lady if she’s in Trade,’ Doreen said with a sneer.

‘At least she’s always polite and well-mannered.’ Stella’s voice was ominously quiet but the implication was unmistakable. ‘And she doesn’t gossip.’

Doreen sat up even straighter in her seat and lifted her chin, her face white with rage. ‘You’ve gone too far now, my girl. Just remember where you are. Just remember that my husband and I offered you a home here out of the goodness of our hearts because you were expecting our son’s child. We have always treated you as one of the family, but I am beginning to wonder if we were wise to allow you to stay once the child was born.’

Stella frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean you have taken advantage of your position and my husband’s generosity and given back nothing in return except a somewhat doubtful reputation, even meeting your men friends in public places.’

Stella’s face paled. ‘That’s an outrageous accusation, Doreen, and you know it. I really don’t know what’s come over you. You’re being quite ridiculous to even think such things, let alone say them. I think you owe me an apology.’

‘Never. I blame myself, of course. I realize now that we were remiss in not finding out more about you before offering you a home here out of the generosity of our hearts. John was our only son and naturally he sowed his share of wild oats, like all young men do. But we never imagined he would marry anybody who wasn’t completely respectable.’ She looked Stella up and down, her rage now turning her face from white to purple and her eyes bulging. ‘We never thought he would marry a trollop.’

Stella got to her feet. She was afraid Doreen was about to have some kind of seizure or apoplectic fit, so she said, keeping her voice quiet, ‘You’ve gone too far now, Doreen. I think you must be ill, making all these dreadful accusations that you know perfectly well have no foundation. I really don’t know what’s come over you. Maybe you should go and lie down and we’ll talk again tomorrow, when you are in a more reasonable frame of mind.’

Doreen stood up, too. ‘There is nothing wrong with my frame of mind,’ she shouted shrilly. ‘I know exactly what I’m saying. I’ve never liked you but I’ve put up with you for the sake of the child, and if you wish to leave my house and pursue your wicked ways I shall not be sorry to see you go.’ She thumped her fist on the table, making the baby cry at the sudden noise. ‘But if you think you can take the child with you, you’re very much mistaken. He will remain here, with us, his grandparents, and be brought up as befits my son’s child. It’s all arranged. Mary is perfectly competent to care for him for now, and when he reaches his first birthday his name will be put down to attend the boarding school that his father attended from the age of seven. My husband and I have already discussed this at length.’ She glared triumphantly at Stella, not adding that Roger had been adamant that nothing would be done without Stella’s consent.

Stella was shocked beyond words. She stared back in horror at Doreen, while the child, sensing that something was wrong in his ordered and loving little life, screamed with fear. Then slowly, deliberately, her eyes still on Doreen, Stella sat down and unbuttoned her blouse and put him to her breast. Immediately, he was quiet.

Doreen stared, a look of disgust on her face. Then, knowing she was defeated, she turned and left the room.

Twenty-Two

After her mother-in-law had gone, Stella sat nursing Jonathan and trying to calm her thumping heart and shaking limbs. Angry tears streamed down her face at Doreen’s outrageous and totally unjustified accusations. Why had her mother-in-law’s so-called friends found it necessary to embroider the totally innocent facts and pass on such spiteful gossip? And how could Doreen ever have believed them?

She buttoned her blouse and stroked her little son’s dark head lovingly. She knew very well that Doreen was jealous because Stella wouldn’t allow her to control how the baby was being brought up, but for her to come into the room and spill out such vitriolic, venomous lies was bordering on insanity. It was the only explanation Stella could think of for her behaviour.

She started and looked round fearfully as she heard the door open, clutching Jonathan closely to her, afraid that Doreen had returned with more trumped-up accusations. But it was only Mary, cheerful and fresh-faced as ever, carrying a basket of freshly ironed linen. A look of consternation crossed her face when she saw Stella, and she immediately put the basket down and went over and took the baby from her.

‘Goodness me, Mrs Stella, whatever’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!’ she said, jiggling him in her arms. ‘Look at you! You haven’t got a scrap of colour in your face and you’re shaking like a leaf. Are you ill? Wait a minute, I’ll fetch some smelling salts. That’s what you need.’

Stella passed her hand across her forehead. ‘No, Mary, what I need more than anything is a nice cup of tea. Be a dear and make one for me, will you?’ She looked up and managed a weak smile.

‘I’ll do better than that. I’ve just had a cup with Mum and Maisie and I’m sure there’s still one left in the pot. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’ With an anxious glance at Stella, she went off with the baby still on her arm.

A minute later it was Emma who appeared with a cup of strong, sweet tea.

Stella took the tea, her hand shaking so much the cup rattled in its saucer.

‘Good heavens, Mrs Stella, Mary said you looked as if you were about ready to faint and she wasn’t far wrong. Whatever’s the matter? Are you ill?’ Emma’s face was a mask of concern.

Stella shook her head. ‘No, I’m not ill, Emma. But I have had … Oh, Emma, it was awful. How could she say such dreadful things?’ The tears began to flow again.

Emma frowned. She couldn’t imagine what the girl was talking about but something had clearly upset her badly, so she said gently, ‘Come on, now, drink your tea, it’ll make you feel better. Then if you want to talk about it you can.’

Stella gulped the tea gratefully. ‘Thank you, Emma, that was lovely; just what I needed.’ She handed the cup and saucer back and put her head in her hands. ‘Oh, it was dreadful!’ she said again. ‘How could she …? Oh, it was just awful!’

‘What was just awful, dearie? I don’t want to pry but sometimes it helps to talk,’ Emma said quietly, looking down at her. ‘I can see how upset you are, but bottling it all up inside won’t do you any good at all.’ She laid a hand on Stella’s shoulder. ‘You need to talk to somebody, dearie. If you tell me what’s troubling you it won’t go any further, if that’s what you’re concerned about.’

Stella shook her head. ‘I know that. Not that I care …’ She looked up, her eyes still brimming with tears. ‘Sit down, Emma. You’re quite right. I do need to tell somebody, if only to try and understand why she should …’ She waited until the older woman was seated on a hard chair by the table before blurting out, ‘Oh, Emma, Mrs Nolan has just been here and made the most terrible accusations …’

Emma listened, her jaw tightening, as Stella recounted almost word for word, between hiccupping tears, the altercation she had just had with her mother-in-law. ‘So now I know exactly what Doreen thinks of me,’ she said finally, wiping the tears from her face with the heel of her hand. ‘I know she’s never really liked me, but to call me such names!’ She looked up. ‘I’m not like that, Emma, really I’m not.’

‘Of course you’re not, dearie. Anyone can see that with half an eye.’ Emma smiled reassuringly.

Stella smiled gratefully back. Then she frowned. ‘But what I really don’t understand is why her friends felt the need to pass on such scurrilous tales about what happened in the tearooms. It wasn’t even as if I was having a cosy conversation with Ian Marshall. Heavens, we were almost quarrelling by the time we left. Yet they made out …’ She shook her head again. ‘Why did they make up such dreadful lies, Emma? And how could Doreen have believed them?’

‘I suspect it was six of one and half a dozen of the other,’ Emma said flatly.

Stella stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I reckon they exaggerated what really happened because they always enjoy a bit of gossip and knew that was what Mrs Nolan would want to hear. Then she embroidered it a bit more to suit her own purposes.’

‘But there wasn’t anything …’ Stella began.

‘Well, put it like this. You said Dr Marshall took your hand but you quickly snatched it away. Maybe they didn’t see you do that or forgot to say …’

‘Or deliberately didn’t tell her, more likely.’

‘I was trying to be charitable, but you’re probably right,’ Emma said with a sigh. ‘Anyway, whatever it was they told her, Mrs Nolan decided you must have been holding hands and whispering sweet nothings the whole time.’

‘Ah, yes. I see what you mean,’ Stella nodded thoughtfully. ‘And that’s the way false rumours are spread.’

‘Exactly. Although how Mrs Nolan imagined you could manage to hold hands and gaze into each other’s eyes and at the same time eat cream cakes and drink tea is another matter!’ Emma said.

Stella suddenly burst out laughing.

‘What?’ Emma asked. She wondered if the girl was becoming hysterical.

‘I just had a vision of two people gazing into each other’s eyes, with cream cake all over their faces and tea spilling all over the place,’ Stella said, her giggles subsiding.

Emma laughed, too. ‘Doesn’t make sense, does it?’ She became serious again. ‘Stupid woman!’ There was a wealth of feeling behind those last two words.

‘She’s not stupid, she’s wicked.’ Stella said, equally serious. ‘What she wants is to take my baby away from me, I’ve always known that. She’d like to find some reason to send me away because I’m not a fit mother and leave Jonny here. But to say that she and Roger have decided to put his name down for John’s old school …’ She looked up at Emma anxiously. ‘Roger wouldn’t do that, would he? Not without consulting me?’

‘Of course not, dearie. You ought to know the Colonel better than that.’

Stella shook her head. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t know anything any more. Not after the things she said this afternoon.’ She pressed her lips together in a straight line. ‘Except for one thing, that is. I can’t stay here at Warren’s End any longer. I’ll take my baby and go away, tonight. I’m not going to stay here and risk her trying to poison my son against me, as I know she will as he gets older.’

Emma nodded sagely. ‘And where will you go?’ she asked.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Anywhere. It doesn’t matter, as long as I’m away from this place.’

‘Just you hang on a minute, dearie.’ Emma held up her hand. ‘I reckon you need to give it a bit more thought. You can’t just walk out of here with nowhere to go and no idea how you’ll manage, now, can you? You’ve had a dreadful upset, nobody’s denying that, so you need to calm down a bit, then you’ll be in a better frame of mind to make a sensible decision.’ She was not surprised at the girl’s words, but she was anxious she shouldn’t rush into things in the heat of the moment.

‘Well, I can’t stay here, that’s certain.’ Stella was adamant. ‘I never want to see that woman again as long as I live after the dreadful things she said to me.’

‘I can understand that.’ Emma pinched her lip as she tried to think of a way to prevent Stella rushing into something she might later regret. ‘Have you spoken to the Colonel?’

Stella shook her head. ‘I haven’t spoken to anybody except you, Emma. But how could I tell Roger the awful things his wife called me? He’d think I was making it up.’ She shuddered. ‘In any case …’ she shuddered again. ‘No, I couldn’t possibly speak to him. I couldn’t tell anybody else. I simply couldn’t. I just want to go away and … I just want to get away from that woman.’

‘I know, dear,’ Emma said. ‘But if you’ll take my advice, I think you need to sleep on it before you come to any decision. It’s not just your life, it’s your son’s you have to think about, remember.’

‘I’m not leaving him here!’ Stella said hotly.

‘I’m not suggesting you should,’ Emma said with a smile. ‘I’m only saying you need to wait until you’ve calmed down a little and given yourself time to work out some kind of a plan, that’s all.’ She paused. ‘And another thing. I know it will take courage, but I think you should go in to dinner tonight just as you always do. See how Doreen behaves. Show her she hasn’t intimidated you.’ Her mouth twisted wryly. ‘She might even apologize.’

‘That’s not likely. She’s more likely to continue to rant at me.’

‘That would be good. At least the others would see how despicably she’s behaving towards you.’ She got to her feet. ‘I promise you, things probably won’t look quite so bad in the morning,’ she said, patting Stella’s shoulder.

Stella shook her head. ‘I still don’t think I can stay here,’ she said sadly.

‘No, but tonight you’ll wash your face, put on a pretty blouse, and go in to dinner and be your usual sweet self to everyone,’ Emma said firmly.

‘Even Doreen?’ Stella made a face.

‘Even Doreen.’ Emma smiled encouragingly. ‘You never know, she might be regretting what she did and be all sweetness and light.’

‘I can’t see that happening,’ Stella made a face. She got up and gave Emma a quick hug. ‘But thank you for listening to me. I feel much better for having told you all about it. And you’re quite right, I mustn’t let her intimidate me. I’ll go in to dinner and try and behave as if nothing happened this afternoon.’

‘Good girl! Anyway, it might all blow over.’

That was not very likely, Stella decided when she presented herself with a thumping heart for the usual sherry before the meal and saw Doreen’s face. It was a mask of horrified surprise, hurriedly changed to a tight little smile that didn’t reach anywhere near her cold eyes. Obviously, she hadn’t expected to see her daughter-in-law.

Stella hoped desperately that she wouldn’t make a scene at the table.

In fact, the meal passed as it usually did, with Roger and Philip gently disagreeing over the political situation, while Rosalie interrupted at frequent intervals to badger Philip into spending money on her – this time on a ‘simply divine’ silver-fox coat she had seen at Bakers, the most exclusive dress shop in the town. Doreen spoke little, played with her food and left, pleading a headache, after demanding coffee in her room.

In spite of Doreen’s stony stares in her direction, Stella managed to eat most of her meal, although it nearly choked her. She also managed to smile brightly and answer any remarks directed at her. But it was not until her mother-in-law had left, that she felt she could relax a little over her coffee.

‘No, I won’t have any, thanks.’ Rosalie waved Maisie away as she advanced with the coffee pot. She yawned and got up from the table. ‘I think I’ll go down to the club for a couple of hours.’

Roger turned to Stella after Rosalie had gone. ‘You’ve been very quiet over dinner tonight, my dear,’ he said. ‘Are you feeling a little unwell?’

‘No, I’m perfectly well, thank you, Roger,’ she answered, smiling at him and at the same time wondering what he would have to say if he knew the accusations his wife had thrown at her that afternoon. But perhaps he did know and had chosen not to speak about it, yet. Her face burned at the thought and she looked for a way of escape before he could say anything.

Then her eyes lit on the piano. ‘Since Doreen and Rosalie have both left, would you like some music to accompany your political discussions?’ she asked with a little smile.

‘That would be extremely pleasant,’ both men agreed.

She got up from her chair, and as she passed Philip’s chair on her way to the piano he caught her hand. ‘Are you all right, Stella?’ he asked quietly. ‘You’re very pale tonight. If there’s anything troubling you …’

‘I’m just a little tired, that’s all.’ She freed her hand and moved on quickly so that he wouldn’t see the quick tears that had sprung into her eyes at the concern in his voice.

As her fingers moved over the keys, her mind seemed to clear. She would have to leave Warren’s End, she had already made up her mind to that. But now, in this moment of clarity, she admitted what she had known in her heart for a long time now. It was Philip she would miss: Philip who she could laugh with and tell her troubles to. Well, most of them, anyway; she didn’t think she could confide this last episode even to him. It was Philip she had fallen in love with. She had never before allowed herself even to formulate those last words in her mind, but now she admitted to herself that they were true. Which was another reason she had to go; and soon, before he found out. Because Philip already had a wife.

She riffled through the music until she came to Liszt’s Liebestraum – his ‘Dream of Love’ – and in an act of total self-indulgence picked it up and played it, putting all her pent-up feelings and emotions into it. Though Philip would never know it was her farewell gift to him, because she was determined that after tonight she must never see him again.

The next afternoon, Stella wheeled her baby down the drive, saying she was going to the shops. She didn’t come back.

Twenty-Three

It was Mary’s day off, so nobody in the family realized that Stella hadn’t come back from the shops until she failed to arrive for dinner that night. Even then no one was concerned; it was assumed that she was eating in her room so as to be near in case Jonathan needed attention. Maisie wasn’t even asked; and although she knew very well this was not the case, she had assumed the family knew where Stella was. Emma wasn’t there; she usually left early to spend the evening with Mary on her day off.

In fact, alarm bells only began to ring when Mary returned at eight o’clock the following day and announced in a state of near-hysteria that something dreadful must have happened because neither Master Jonathan’s crib nor Mrs Stella’s bed had been slept in.

Roger was distraught and immediately summoned the family to the morning room to see if anyone could shed light on Stella’s disappearance.

‘She’s probably gone to stay with friends,’ Rosalie said with a yawn. She’d had a late night at the club and was slightly hung over. Anyway, she couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Nobody ordered a family conclave if she spent the night away from home, which, in all honesty, she frequently did, so perhaps it was not surprising.

‘I don’t think she’s made any particular friends here,’ Philip snapped. ‘She prefers to spend her time with Jonathan.’

‘Well, wherever she came from, then.’ Rosalie waved a languid arm.

‘She’s hardly likely to take a baby to a convalescent home full of war-damaged soldiers and ask for shelter.’ Philip’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.

‘All right, don’t get your dander up.’ Rosalie fished in her bag for her cigarettes.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, I don’t know what you’re all so concerned about,’ Doreen said impatiently. She was annoyed at having to get dressed this early in the morning. She preferred to begin her day in a much more leisurely fashion. ‘It’s perfectly obvious to me where she’s gone.’

Roger frowned. ‘If you know where she’s gone, why didn’t you say so in the first place, Doreen?’

Doreen glared at him. ‘Well, of course I don’t know exactly where she’s gone, but I can make an educated guess.’

‘Well, then, where, for heaven’s sake?’ There was something in his wife’s manner that he didn’t much like and he was becoming irritated.

‘Why, she’s gone off with her fancy man.’ Doreen shrugged smugly.

Philip’s jaw tightened, but before he could trust himself to speak Rosalie said incredulously, ‘Fancy man! What fancy man?’

‘Why, that man she met in Daisy’s Tearooms the other afternoon, of course. She’s probably gone off with him. I expect they were planning it all as they sat there holding hands.’

‘And where did you get all this information from, Doreen?’ Roger asked, his voice steely.

She gave another shrug, but of discomfort this time. ‘One or two of my friends were there and they told me about it,’ she muttered.

‘I’ll bet they did!’ Rosalie said with a snort. ‘With bells on!’

‘There’s no need to be rude about my friends,’ Doreen said haughtily. ‘They simply told me what they’d seen, which was that my daughter-in-law was in Daisy’s Tearooms with a man. Holding hands. Of course Stella denied it, but then, she would, wouldn’t she?’

‘What, she denied she was there?’ Roger asked.

‘No, of course not. She could hardly deny that. But she denied they were holding hands. In fact, she practically accused my friends of telling lies. She was really quite rude. But then I shouldn’t have been surprised, should I? After all, we’ve no idea where she came from or what her background was.’ She sniffed. ‘Personally, I don’t care if I never see her again. If you ask me, she’s no better than she should be, the troll …’ She stopped, realizing she had gone too far. ‘All I care about is getting my grandson back where he belongs. Which is here. Because in my opinion she’s not a fit person to have charge of him.’ She thumped her fist on the arm of her chair.

Rosalie scrabbled in her bag for another cigarette. ‘Hang on a minute, Ma. Let me get this straight. If you are so sure that Stella is, as you say, “no better than she should be”, which I take to mean some kind of loose woman, to put it politely, how can you be so sure that Jonathan is your grandson?’ She looked up, smiling innocently. ‘From what you’re implying, he could be any Tom, Dick or Harry’s child and nothing whatever to do with John. In which case he isn’t your grandson at all, so it doesn’t matter where she’s taken him. You can’t have it both ways, Ma.’ She lit her cigarette and blew a smoke ring while she waited for the bombshell to explode.

‘That’s enough, Rosalie!’ Roger exploded. ‘I’ve never heard such rubbish.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I think your mother is overwrought and not quite herself,’ he went on, more quietly, holding his temper in check with difficulty. ‘I’m quite sure she didn’t mean to make such outrageous and blatantly false accusations regarding our son’s wife.’ He turned to Doreen with a steely look. ‘Did you, my dear!’

Doreen shook her head slightly and muttered, her face flushed with shame. ‘No, of course not. You must have misunderstood me. What I meant was …’

‘Thank you.’ Roger cut her off before she could say any more. ‘Now, after that little outburst I think we should get back to the matter in hand. This gentleman your friends saw having tea with Stella. Did they recognize him?’

‘From their description I think it must have been that doctor person Stella was talking to at Philip’s exhibition.’ Doreen didn’t raise her eyes as she spoke. She realized she had let her feelings get the better of her. She got to her feet, her hand dramatically to her head. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you anything more. I must go to my room now, I’m not feeling at all well.’ She staggered out of the room. Nobody took much notice, they were all used to her theatricals and glad to see her go.

‘Dr Marshall,’ Philip said. It was what he had expected.

‘Then obviously the first thing we must do is to contact the good doctor and see if Stella is there,’ Roger said, relieved that there was something practical that could be done to find the daughter-in-law of whom he had become very fond.

‘I’ll do that,’ Philip said quickly. ‘Henry’s due to take me into the town …’ He pulled out his pocket watch and looked at it. ‘Very soon, actually, to see Ben Gerard about some of my pictures, so we can call at his consulting rooms.’ He struggled to his feet. ‘And if Ian Marshall doesn’t know anything, I’ll call on Mrs Greenleaf at Daisy’s. She might know where Stella’s gone.’

‘That’s good.’ Roger got to his feet with less difficulty than his son-in-law. ‘Well, there’s nothing more we can do at the moment, so we’ll wait to hear what you find out, my boy.’ He pinched his lip. ‘Although what we have to remember is that nobody’s seen her since she left yesterday afternoon. She could have caught a train and be miles away by now.’

‘We’ll worry about that when we’ve combed the local area,’ Philip said as he went out.

Henry was already waiting with Tin Lizzie at the front door. He helped Philip into the passenger seat and Philip outlined his plan of action.

‘That is, unless you’ve got any better suggestions, Henry,’ he said when he’d finished.

‘No, sir, can’t say I have,’ Henry replied.

‘Well, she can’t just have vanished into thin air. She must be somewhere. I’ve got to find her, Henry,’ he finished desperately.

They pulled up outside the Hunter’s Moon Galleries, and Philip was inside just long enough to collect a substantial cheque for three pictures Oscar Hillyard had sold in London.

‘He’s desperate for your war drawings, you know,’ Ben Gerard reminded him. ‘He says they’d fetch a really good price. He even talked about putting them into one of the big art auctions. Just let me know when you’re ready to sell.’

‘Yes, all right, tell him he can have them,’ Philip said without very much interest. ‘It’s probably time I got rid of them: they’ve served their purpose, helped me get it all out of my system. I don’t need reminding what it was like over there in the trenches. You can come and collect them as soon as you like.’ He turned to the subject at the front of his mind. ‘I suppose you haven’t seen my sister-in-law, Stella, and her baby, have you, Ben?’

He looked surprised. ‘Me? No. Should I have?’

Philip shook his head. ‘No, of course not. Sorry. It’s just that … Well, never mind. Collect the paintings whenever you like.’

‘Later on today?’

‘Yes, that’ll be fine. Help yourself if I’m not there, you know where they are.’

Henry helped him back into the car and they went on to Dr Marshall’s consulting rooms. They were shown into his study by a puzzled housekeeper, in spite of her insistence that Dr Marshall was extremely busy. They found him somewhat distractedly sorting out books, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Several boxes were already filled and there were piles of papers on the chairs.

‘Sorry, old chap, didn’t my housekeeper tell you?’ Ian Marshall said, looking up in surprise. ‘I’m not doing any more consultations.’ He frowned. ‘You hadn’t got one booked, had you? I thought I’d notified all my patients.’

‘No, I hadn’t got one booked.’

Ian Marshal didn’t appear to notice Philip’s clipped tone but went on, ‘You see, I’m giving up my practice here and moving back to Hill House.’ He was wearing flannel trousers that had seen better days and a plaid shirt, open at the neck. He hadn’t shaved and his hair looked as if he’d run his fingers through it any number of times.

‘And I assume you think you’ll be taking my sister-in-law with you?’ Philip said coldly.

Ian Marshall looked at him in amazement, then gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Fat chance of that!’

‘What do you mean? Isn’t she here?’ Philip looked round as if he expected to see her lurking in a corner.

‘No, she isn’t,’ he said, drawing on his cigarette and tapping the ash on to the floor. ‘And she never has been. You’ve got a bloody nerve barging in here like this!’

‘Then where is she?’ Philip retorted, a bewildered expression on his face.

‘How the hell should I know!’ Ian pushed a pile of papers off a chair and slumped down. ‘I don’t know what all this is about and I don’t much care. I’ve got more important things on my mind. But if it helps, I can tell you this, I’ve absolutely no idea of Stella’s whereabouts and I can’t imagine why you should think I might have. We didn’t exactly part the best of friends last time I saw her, which was in that little teashop in the square.’ He pulled out his cigarette case and lit a cigarette from the one he’d just finished, but didn’t offer Philip one. He went on, ‘To tell you the truth, I’d hoped we might renew an old friendship. Well, I’d always had a thing for Stella and thought it might have been a bit more than that … But all I got was a lecture telling me I had no chance with her and was wasting my time in private practice and should go back to Hill House. Predictably, I suppose, she refused even to consider going back there with me. However, I realized she was right, so as you see …’ He waved his hand to indicate the piles of books. ‘I’m getting ready to do just that, especially as when I contacted Hill House they were only too anxious to persuade me to return. In fact, they want me back as soon as I can get there.’

‘She hasn’t gone on ahead of you?’ Philip asked suspiciously.

‘No, she bloody well hasn’t. I told you, she refused to even consider it.’ He stood up. ‘Now, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got a lot of sorting out and packing to do. I’m hoping to leave in a couple of weeks.’

‘Yes, of course. Thank you for your time.’

‘Goodbye.’ He held open the door. ‘I just hope you have more luck with her than I did!’ was his parting shot.

‘I don’t know what he meant by that,’ Philip said as Henry helped him back into the car.

‘Don’t you, sir?’ Henry said enigmatically. He climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘Where to now, sir?’

‘Daisy’s. When you come to think of it, it’s the obvious place, isn’t it? She often goes to see Mrs Greenleaf. We were stupid, we should have gone there first.’ He drummed his fingers on the dashboard. ‘Well, come on, man, put your foot down.’

Mrs Greenleaf was very concerned, but couldn’t help. She hadn’t seen Stella since the day she had tea with that other man. Mrs Greenleaf hadn’t liked him much, he was too fond of himself. But, she was pleased to say, and smiled at the memory, Mrs Nolan gave him short shrift when he tried to hold her hand. She didn’t think they’d parted on very good terms, she said with a satisfied nod.

‘But do you know where she could be?’ Philip broke in impatiently. ‘You see, she’s gone from Warren’s End. Vanished. Run away.’

‘Oh, goodness me, I didn’t realize it was that bad!’ Mrs Greenleaf put her hand up to her mouth. ‘And that poor baby! I never thought she’d leave him.’

‘She hasn’t left him. She’s taken him with her. So you haven’t seen her?’ He shook his head in some irritation. ‘No, of course you haven’t, or you’d have known he was with her.’

Back in the car, Philip put his head in his hands and said dejectedly, ‘I don’t know where to go or what to do now, Henry. I was so sure I’d be able to find her, that I knew where she would be.’ He brushed his hand across his eyes. ‘There’s an old saying, “You never miss the water till the well runs dry.” All I can say is, it’s bloody true.’ He turned to look at Henry. ‘I would never say this to anyone else, Henry, and I’ll bloody kill you if you repeat it, but I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t find her. I’ve never felt about anybody the way I feel about Stella; she really is the love of my life, although of course I can never tell her that.’

‘I know how you feel, sir. That’s the way I feel about Emma, too. I loved my Florrie, of course I did, but that was a young love, if you take my meaning. What I feel for Emma is deeper, more mature. And when her year of mourning for Arthur is up I’m going to ask her to marry me, and I know she’s going to say yes.’ He turned and smiled at Philip.

‘You’re a lucky bastard.’

‘I know, sir.’ They drove on in silence.

Then Philip said, ‘We were a bit daft not to have a cup of coffee at Daisy’s when we were with Mrs Greenleaf, weren’t we? I’ve just realized I didn’t even have time for a cup of tea before Roger called us all together this morning. Now I’m absolutely parched. And when we get back to Warren’s End, we’ll have to face a barrage of questions and …’ He gave a sigh. ‘Oh, turn the car round, Henry, let’s go and have a quiet cup of Mrs Greenleaf’s coffee, then we’ll decide what to do next before we go back and face the music.’

Henry glanced at him. ‘If you wouldn’t think it presumptuous, sir, I could take you to my place and make you some coffee,’ he said tentatively. ‘We’re not far away. It would save us driving back into the town, and would give you a few minutes’ peace and quiet. Time to think what to do next, so to speak.’

Philip nodded. ‘I believe I might like that, Henry. I don’t think I’ve ever seen where you live.’

Henry laughed. ‘Well, it’s not all that far from Warren’s End, but a bit off the beaten track. Me and Emma live next door to each other, which is nice. Here we are, it’s down this little road, so hold on to your seat, sir, it’s a bit of a rough ride.’ As he spoke, he swung the car off the main road and down what was little more than a cart track.

‘No wonder I’ve never been down here before,’ Philip laughed as the car bumped along. ‘And I doubt if I ever will again. I don’t think the springs of the car will stand it.’

‘Well, we’re here now.’ Henry pulled up and went round to help him out of the car. ‘Mind how you go, now. My cottage is the one on the left.’ He handed Philip his sticks.

‘Don’t you ever lock your door?’ Philip asked as Henry pushed open the door.

‘No, no need. Hardly anybody ever comes down this lane.’ He pulled the kettle forward on the stove. ‘You sit in that chair, sir. It’s nice and comfortable. Fits my poor old back a treat when I’m tired.’ He went to the pantry and picked up the milk jug. ‘Oh, drat! I forgot I was out of milk. Never mind, I’ll just pop next door. Emma’s sure to have some. She won’t mind me helping myself, even though she won’t be there.’

‘You two might as well be married, the way you carry on,’ Philip said, smiling.

‘Not quite, sir,’ Henry replied seriously. ‘But I’m a patient man, I can wait. Won’t be a minute, sir.’

He went off and Philip closed his eyes, savouring the peace and quietness. Then he opened them and looked round the little room. It was sparsely furnished, but spotlessly clean and there was an array of blue-and-white china on the dresser and slightly battered copper saucepans on the shelf beside the fireplace. On the mantelpiece Staffordshire dogs stood sentinel at each end, with a few cheap ornaments in between. A slightly faded wedding snapshot of a young man and girl, obviously Henry and his young wife, had pride of place in the centre. On the floor a rag rug covered the tiles, and a scrubbed table stood in the middle with a blue-checked cloth covering it.

Philip closed his eyes. ‘Homely,’ he thought to himself. ‘I like it.’

He heard the door latch, but didn’t bother to open his eyes at first because he didn’t want to break the spell of where his thoughts were leading. ‘Did you get the milk, Henry?’ he said eventually, looking up.

But it wasn’t Henry who stood by the table, holding a pretty flowered jug with a beaded muslin cover on it to protect it from flies. It was Stella.

‘Henry said you’ve been looking for me,’ she said, smiling down at him.

‘Stella!’ He stared at her as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘Indeed I have.’ He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘But this is the last place I expected to find you. What on earth are you doing here?’ He held out his hand to her.

Twenty-Four

Stella put the jug down on the table and almost shyly went to him. He looked at her for a long moment as if he couldn’t believe she was really there, then took her hand and pulled her down on to the footstool beside his chair.

‘Oh, Stella, why did you leave like that without telling me?’ he whispered, ‘Didn’t you realize I’d be crazy with worry, not knowing where you’d gone?’

She laid her cheek against his hand. ‘I’m sorry, Phil. But it was the only way. I knew I couldn’t stay under the same roof as Doreen any longer. I wanted to tell you I was going, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to you …’ She paused, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘Well, it would have been difficult.’

‘So you played me Liebestraum – ‘Dream of Love’ – instead!’ He took her chin and tilted it so he could look into her face. ‘Is that what …?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I knew a dream of love was all I could ever have.’

‘No!’ he said fiercely. ‘Don’t you realize the hell I went through when I couldn’t find you? When I thought I’d lost you?’ He stroked her hair. ‘It’s no good, I can’t let you go, Stella,’ he whispered. ‘We belong together, you and me.’ He bent his head and kissed her, tenderly at first and then with increasing passion.

She clung to him, returning his kisses, then pulled away. ‘It’s no use, Phil,’ she whispered sadly. ‘It can’t be. What about Rosalie?’

He lifted his head and looked away. ‘I’ll ask her to divorce me,’ he said impatiently. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for some time. It’s not as if she’ll care. In fact, she’ll be glad to be rid of me. She hasn’t really had any feelings for me since I came back from the war crippled.’ He said the word in disgust as he turned to face her again. ‘I can’t blame her, Stella, because it’s perfectly true. I’m not the man she married and it’s never going to be any different. I’m never going to be able to walk without sticks or climb into a bath without help. I’m always going to be just that. Crippled.’ His voice was bitter. Then he shook his head and gave a great sigh. ‘No, I can’t ask you to face that, either, Stella. I should have let you go. It was completely selfish of me to come looking for you. I’m sorry.’

She put a finger over his lips. ‘Don’t be sorry and don’t be silly, Phil. To me, that’s just how you are. I’ve never known you any other way except as a brave man who can’t walk very well, accepting a life of pain and difficulty without complaint.’ She smiled at him. ‘Maybe that’s what’s made you the man you are and why I fell in love with you in the first place.’ She kissed him. ‘It’s only your legs, Phil. Nothing else. What you’ve had to suffer has made you more of a man, not less.’

He frowned. ‘Do you really think that?’

‘Yes, I really do.’

‘Thank you, my darling.’ He squeezed her hand and looked at her long and hard. Then he said quietly, ‘There is another thing. I’ll be a divorced man – tainted by the scandal of being dragged through the divorce court. It won’t be pretty, what I’ll have to do in order to get Rosalie to divorce me, although I promise to keep you well away from it all.’

‘I realize all that, Phil,’ she said quietly.

‘Then, although I’m afraid I can’t get down on one knee in the time-honoured way, Stella, my dearest girl, when I’m free, will you marry me?’

‘There’s Jonathan. I couldn’t …’

‘Oh, Stella, you didn’t imagine I’d want to part you from your son, did you? What sort of a monster do you think I am? I’ll be proud to be a father to him.’

She smiled through tears of happiness. ‘Then the answer’s a most emphatic yes. As soon as you’re free, I’ll be honoured to marry you, Phil.’

He bent his head to kiss her again. Some time later, he raised his head a little. ‘Speaking of Jonny, where is the young rascal? Surely, he can’t have been asleep all this time?’

‘No, he’s next door, with Mary. Shall I knock on the wall and tell her to bring him over?’

‘Yes, do that.’

‘Henry must be wondering what’s been going on here,’ she said as she resumed her place at his feet.

‘He’s probably guessed,’ Philip said, chuckling, as Mary walked in carrying Jonathan, followed by Emma with a welcome pot of tea and by Henry carrying a plate of Emma’s home-made scones. They were all wreathed in smiles.

‘But I’m afraid it won’t be yet,’ Philip warned them when they had been given the not unexpected news and offered delighted congratulations. ‘There’ll be a squalid divorce to go through first, which won’t be pleasant.’

‘Will Mrs Rosalie agree to a divorce?’ Emma asked anxiously. She called it divorce. As far as she was concerned, to talk of divorce was as alien as speaking of going to the moon.

Philip laughed grimly. ‘If I know Rosalie, she’ll be glad to be rid of me. But what I want to know, is why on earth did Stella end up here? Well, next door, in your cottage, Emma? And what are you and Mary doing here? Why aren’t you up at Warren’s End as you usually are at this time of day?’

‘First things first,’ Emma said, pouring the tea and handing it round, while Mary followed with the scones. ‘Mrs Stella is here because she really had nowhere else to go. We knew she couldn’t stay at Warren’s End, not after all those dreadful things Mrs Nolan had accused her of.’

‘I did think of throwing myself on Mrs Greenleaf’s mercy,’ Stella added. She was sitting at Philip’s feet, her head on his knee. ‘But as Emma pointed out, it wouldn’t have taken long for Doreen’s friends to spy out the pram or hear Jonny crying and they’d soon have reported back, so I wouldn’t have been able to stay there very long.’

‘So I suggested she should come here. Just temporary, you understand, it not being quite the way of life she’s used to …’ Emma looked faintly embarrassed.

‘You seem to forget I spent several years in a bare little room at Hill House when I was nursing,’ Stella reminded her with a smile. ‘Your cottage is luxurious compared with that. In fact it’s a dear little cottage: very cosy and homely. I love it.’

‘Yes, well.’ Emma shrugged, but flushed with pleasure at the compliment. ‘Anyway, this seemed a good place for them both to come. It’s a bit off the beaten track, and who would think to look for them right under their noses, only half a mile away? At the same time, staying here for a while would give Mrs Stella time to think and decide what to do next.’ Emma shook her head in Stella’s direction. ‘She was so upset yesterday I was worried she’d go and do something she might regret later.’

‘Like what?’ Philip asked, a scone halfway to his mouth.

Emma shrugged again. ‘I dunno. Like going off with that doctor chap, I suppose.’

‘Oh, no!’ Stella gave a shudder. ‘That would have been the very last resort.’

‘Good.’ Philip gave her shoulder a squeeze. ‘I’m glad to hear that.’ He turned to Emma again. ‘But, Emma, I still don’t understand how you managed it without anybody knowing? Mary, for instance. She lives here, but she didn’t know. She was nearly hysterical this morning when she found they’d gone.’

‘Yes,’ Emma said dryly. ‘I must say she did that well. I think it fooled everyone. Mind you, she practised for ages how she had to behave when she found the beds hadn’t been slept in, didn’t you, love?’ She laughed ruefully. ‘She got so good at it I was afraid she might want to go on the stage one of these days.’

‘Yes, she was very convincing,’ Stella agreed.

Mary shrugged. ‘I just imagined they’d been kidnapped. That was such an awful thought that it wasn’t hard to fake a scream. Although I was afraid I might have overdone it a bit,’ she admitted. ‘Maisie even made me drink some of that horrible sal volatile stuff that the missus swears by to calm me down. It nearly made me sick. I was glad when the missus sent me home. She said I might as well go because there was no point in keeping me if the baby wasn’t there. I thought that was a bit unkind. Not that I cared!’ She gave a little giggle. ‘I knew where Jonny was and I couldn’t wait to get back to him. Can I have another scone, Mum?’

‘Yes, help yourself and hand them round again.’

‘That’s typical of Doreen, though,’ Stella said, sipping her tea. ‘I sometimes wonder if that woman has any real feelings at all.’

‘I think she’s a bit …’ Emma touched her forehead. ‘But of course, it wouldn’t do to say so, would it. And the way she goes on and on about “my grandson”, as if nobody else had anything to do with him. It makes me sick.’

Nobody disagreed with her.

Philip’s mind was on other things. He was looking at Henry with a puzzled frown. ‘How on earth could all this be going on without your knowledge, Henry? These walls aren’t that thick. Didn’t you hear the baby cry?’

‘Oh, yes, I knew all about it.’ Henry said. ‘I heard the baby cry. And I heard Mary practising her screaming. In fact I fetched some of the things they’d forgotten to bring with them.’

‘Then why didn’t you say? Why didn’t you tell me? You let me go on that frantic wild-goose chase …’

‘I did feel a bit bad about that, sir, and I wasn’t sure, at first, what I ought to do,’ Henry admitted. ‘But you’d got it all planned out, where you were going and everything; and you were so determined to find her I was afraid your idea was to drag her back to the house, which I knew was the last thing she wanted. So I kept quiet. Then when I realized how you felt about her and what a state you were in because she’d gone and how desperate you were to find her, I knew you’d never do anything against her wishes.’ He spread his hands, smiling. ‘So I brought you to her, and here we are.’

‘I see. So what now? Shall I find you somewhere to stay in the town, darling? It’s going to take some time – years, maybe – before the divorce will be finalized.’

‘What I would really like is to stay here, with Emma, at least for the time being, if she’ll have me,’ Stella said, looking at Emma uncertainly. ‘I know she’s finding it a bit cramped, with the baby …’

‘Nonsense,’ Emma said briskly. ‘My cottage was home to me and Arthur and three children.’ Her voice dropped. ‘Before him and my little Ivy was taken, that is.’ She perked up and smiled at Stella. ‘Don’t you worry, we’ll find room for you and the baby, even with Mary at home, because it doesn’t look as if she’s going to be wanted back there.’ She jerked her thumb in the direction of Warren’s End. ‘And when Charlie comes home, which he doesn’t very often, these days, I know Henry will give him a bed, won’t you, Henry?’

‘Of course I will, Em.’ He smiled at her, the love in his eyes plain.

‘That’s settled, then.’

‘Now, all I have to do is offer my wife a divorce,’ Philip said with a smile. ‘So the sooner I go back and set the wheels in motion, the sooner I can start a new life with the woman I really love.’ He bent his head and kissed the top of Stella’s head.

She looked up at him. ‘Do you think Rosalie will be difficult, Phil?’ she asked anxiously.

‘No. Why should she be?’ he said with a laugh. ‘She’s got no feelings for me. She’ll probably be glad to see the back of me. It’ll be mutual,’ he added with great feeling. He struggled to his feet. ‘Well, come on, Henry, let’s get going. The sooner I get this over, the better.’

When they arrived back at Warren’s End Rosalie wasn’t at home, which was no surprise. She still hadn’t arrived back in time for the evening meal, which again was not unusual, so Philip went over to the house alone. This annoyed him: he would have preferred to get the confrontation with his wife over and done with, instead of which it was going to have to smoulder in his mind until she chose to put in an appearance.

It was an uncomfortable meal, during which Doreen dominated the conversation, alternating between complaining about Stella’s ingratitude in running off without telling anybody, anxiety over where her beloved grandson had been taken to, and determination that when Stella returned nothing in this world would persuade her, Doreen, to give the ungrateful hussy houseroom again.

‘And I don’t care what you say, Roger,’ though up to this point Roger hadn’t managed to say anything, ‘I shall never have that woman under my roof again. But we must find my grandson. Goodness knows what she’s doing with him.’

‘I’ve no doubt he’s her first concern. He always is,’ Roger managed to remark.

‘Well then, why doesn’t she bring him back here where he belongs?’

‘You just said you wouldn’t have her back under your roof. My roof, I might add …’

‘Oh, you’re insufferable. Your roof, then. And I don’t want her back, it’s my grandson I’m thinking of.’

‘He’s my grandson, too,’ Roger remarked mildly, knowing it would only fan the flames.

‘Well, then, why don’t you go and find him, instead of sitting there making stupid remarks?’ She flung her napkin on to the table and got to her feet. ‘I’m going to my room. When you have news, please let me know.’

As soon as she was out of the door, Roger turned to Philip. ‘Whew! Sometimes I wonder how I stay sane.’ He got up and went over to the sideboard. ‘I think a large whisky is in order after all that.’ He poured two drinks and took them back to the table. ‘You’ve been very quiet all evening, my boy, but your manner makes me think of the cat that stole the cream. So, unless I’ve read the signs wrongly, you know where Stella and the baby are.’

Philip nodded. He couldn’t help smiling. ‘Yes, I do, sir.’

‘Then we’ll drink to that.’ They clinked glasses and savoured Roger’s best single malt.

‘There’s something else, sir. Something that might upset you.’

‘They’re not coming back.’ Roger took a deep breath. ‘It doesn’t surprise me. In truth, I never thought they would, not after Doreen’s disgraceful outburst, and I can’t blame them. Where are they?’

‘Strictly between you and me, they’re staying with Emma.’

‘Well, I’m damned. Right under our noses.’ He shook his head. ‘But no, it doesn’t upset me. It doesn’t upset me at all. I’m just glad to know they’re somewhere safe.’

‘I knew you would be.’ Philip hesitated. ‘But the thing that might upset you …’ He carefully lined up an unused fork with a place mat, then looked up. ‘I really don’t know how you’ll take this, sir, but feel you should be the first to know. I’m going to ask Rosalie for a divorce. I want to marry Stella.’

Roger blew out his cheeks. Then he took out his pipe, slowly filled it from his tobacco pouch, and tamped down the tobacco. When he had got it going to his satisfaction, he looked at Philip through a haze of smoke and nodded.

‘I’m not really surprised. I could see how the land lay between you and Stella quite a while ago.’ He sniffed. ‘Probably before you realized it yourselves.’

‘But there’s never been anything improper …’

‘I’m not suggesting there was. I never thought there would be.’ He drew on his pipe and went on, ‘I should, of course, curse you for a scoundrel.’ He looked up and a smile spread across his face. ‘But all I can say is, I wish you well, my boy. My daughter has behaved very badly towards you since you came back from the war. I’ve told her so repeatedly, but it’s made no difference. And Stella is a lovely girl …’ He chuckled. ‘If I was thirty years younger, I might even be tempted to give you a run for your money.’ He became serious again. ‘It’s not going to be easy having our name dragged through the courts. And it’ll be in all the papers.’ He sighed. ‘However, I expect we can survive that. On what grounds do you intend to divorce her? I guess there are plenty to choose from.’

‘Oh, I won’t divorce her, I’m not such a cad. No, I’ll give her grounds to divorce me. Not with Stella, though,’ he added quickly. ‘I don’t want Stella to be involved with it at all. No, it’ll have to be a seedy hotel and money changing hands with a photographer, and some woman who’s happy to be photographed caught in flagrante in bed with a strange man …’ He shuddered distastefully. ‘You probably know the form.’

Roger nodded. ‘I’ve heard that’s how it happens. It’s time the law was changed, if you ask me.’ He regarded Philip thoughtfully. ‘You’re a decent chap, Philip, to be willing to go through all that to spare my daughter’s name. I appreciate it.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And of course, although it’s looking well into the future, you know you won’t be able to marry Stella in church. The Church of England will never countenance remarrying divorcees.’

‘No, I know it will have to be in a registry office. Unfortunately, Stella in particular will find that hard.’ He paused. ‘One day the Church will relent, but not soon enough for Stella and me.’

‘I’m not sure you’re right about that. It certainly won’t be in my lifetime.’ He puffed on his pipe for a few minutes, then said, ‘I’d really like to see Stella and the little chap. Would it be very wrong of me to call on them, Philip? Obviously, without my wife’s knowledge.’

Philip nodded. ‘I’m sure Stella would be pleased to see you. She’s very fond of you, you know.’

Roger gave a pleased smile. ‘I’ll pop along sometime. I guess there’s no immediate hurry. I’d like to set up some kind of a trust for my grandson, with her agreement of course. And I’d like to think we’ll be able to keep in touch. But that’s all well into the future.’ He stood up and shook Philip’s hand. ‘I wish you well, my boy, especially when you confront my daughter. She can be as bad as her mother when things don’t go her way.’

‘Oh, I don’t think she’ll object, sir. In fact, she’ll probably be overjoyed to be rid of me.’

But in that he was quite mistaken.

Twenty-Five

They were sitting at the breakfast table the next morning; it was the first opportunity Philip had had to speak to Rosalie as the previous evening she hadn’t returned home until late. He regarded her thoughtfully. She was wearing an orange-and-purple housecoat with frills at the neck and cuffs that might have looked attractive on a very young girl but certainly did nothing for a woman approaching thirty. Her hair, still cut in a boyish bob, hadn’t seen a brush and stood up in spikes, just as she’d rolled out of bed, and her face still bore liberal traces of last night’s make-up. Philip felt a fleeting sense of relief that he was no longer forced to wake up beside her; it was bad enough facing her over the breakfast table.

‘God, I feel awful!’ she said, propping her head on her hand.

‘Yes, you look it.’ He pushed the coffee pot over to her.

‘There’s no need to rub it in.’ She shook her head at the coffee pot. ‘I’ve already had two.’

‘Well, have another. And make sure it’s good and black because I’ve got something important to say to you.’ He paused. ‘I’m thinking of buying myself a new car.’

‘Oh, yes?’ She yawned. ‘What am I supposed to do, put the flags out?’ Suddenly the implication of his words sank in and she perked up. ‘Ooh, goody! Does that mean I can have Tin Lizzie?’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘My own car! That’ll make the girls at the club jealous. When can I have it?’

‘As soon as you agree to a divorce.’

‘What?’ She nearly dropped her coffee cup.

‘You heard perfectly well what I said, but I’ll say it again. I want you to divorce me. More coffee?’

‘No, I don’t want more bloody coffee. And you’re not going to bribe a divorce out of me with Tin Lizzie, either.’

‘Please don’t swear, Rosalie. Let’s at least talk about this in a civilized manner.’

‘I’ll swear if I bloody well like. And if you think I’m going to give you a divorce just as you’re getting a name for yourself and earning big bucks, you’ve got another think coming. I’m quite looking forward to swanning around, the long-suffering wife of the eminent artist who was crippled in the war. And don’t think I don’t know you’re selling your horrible war pictures. I was here when that Gerald, or whatever his name is, came yesterday and took them. He told me they were worth a fortune. He took some others, too; said he could sell as many as you could paint. Quite excited, he was.’ She laughed, but it held no humour. ‘If you think I’m going to miss out on that, you’re out of your mind.’ She fished in her bag for a cigarette. ‘So we’ll just forget about divorce, shall we, and continue with our lives of private domestic discord?’ She blew smoke across the table into his face.

‘I was asking you to divorce me,’ he said quietly, fanning it away with his hand. ‘But, God knows, Rosalie, I’ve got more than enough evidence to divorce you.’

‘You’ve got no proof of any indiscretion on my part,’ she said haughtily.

‘No? Well, apart from what’s going on now with God knows which Tom, Dick or Harry, what about your exploits when I was away fighting for my country? What about your affair with Captain Fox? And what about the abortion he paid for so his wife – never mind your husband – should never know?’ He was white with rage and frustration.

She paled, staring at him with her cigarette halfway to her lips. ‘How did you know about that? You never told me you knew.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper.

‘I was waiting for you to tell me, but you never did,’ he said with a shrug. ‘After a while I ceased to care. In fact, I only found out by the merest chance. Fox was in my platoon. He was badly injured and he told me there was something he needed to ask me. I thought he was dying, so I listened as he told me he’d had a “bit of a fling”, as he called it, with a girl he’d met at a dance. And when she told him she was pregnant, he’d paid for her to have an abortion because he was already married. He’d never seen the girl since, didn’t even know if the abortion was successful. But he’d been riddled with guilt ever since and asked me if I thought he should confess his infidelity to his wife. He said he only embarked on the affair because he was missing her so much. So I told him to go home and stay faithful to his wife if he loved her and to forget about the girl. He said he did love her, very much. Then he took a snapshot out of his pocket, looked at it for a minute, showed it to me, and then tore it up, saying it had really been nothing more than a stupid fling and he didn’t know why he’d bothered to keep the photo.’ He spread his hands and went on, with more than a trace of bitterness, ‘Of course I never told him he’d torn up a snapshot of my wife. That would have been too cruel. And then he died, just two days later. Understandably, I never forgot it.’

‘Well, whether it’s true or not – and I’m admitting nothing – the man’s dead now, so you can’t prove anything,’ she said, jabbing her half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray on the table.

He gave another shrug. ‘No matter. It’s all in the past and not relevant. As I’ve already said, I’m prepared to let you divorce me, a sordid business though it will have to be.’

‘And I’ve already told you that I won’t do that,’ she said smugly. ‘So we’re stuck where we’ve always been, aren’t we, darling?’ She wriggled her shoulders and blew him a kiss across the table. ‘I’m quite looking forward to being the wife of a famous artist.’ Then a sudden thought occurred to her and she frowned. ‘But why this sudden urge for a divorce?’

‘Because I want to marry Stella,’ he replied bluntly.

Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Oh, I see. You’ve obviously run her to ground, then. But does she want to marry you? And does she realize what she’d be taking on if she did?’

‘Yes, to both those questions, not that it’s any of your business.’

‘Well, I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of basking in your reflected glory. That’s my privilege, and I’m hanging on to it.’

‘I’ll sue you for divorce, Rosalie, if you won’t sue me,’ he warned.

‘You wouldn’t be such a cad. You’re too much of a gentleman,’ she said confidently, lighting another cigarette. ‘In any case, you’ve no grounds. As I pointed out a minute ago, the only person who could corroborate your story is dead.’

‘I’m sure there are men at your club. That’s a den of iniquity, if ever there was one.’

‘That’s only what you think. You’d never be able to prove anything.’ She lit another cigarette.

He sighed heavily. ‘You’re right, I probably couldn’t. They’d all clam up like oysters. But I ask you again, Rosalie. I’m pleading with you to divorce me.’

She shook her head, smug in the knowledge that she had the upper hand. ‘You’re my husband, Phil. For better, for worse; for richer, for poorer. If I remember aright that’s what the marriage service says. Well, I’ve had the worse bit, and I’m damned if I’m going to miss out on the richer.’

‘I’ll make you an allowance,’ he offered. ‘A generous one.’

‘Nope. I want to be by your side when you’re fêted and cosseted. I want to be known as the wife of the famous artist.’

He got up from his chair and reached for his sticks. ‘I can see it’s no good arguing with you. We’ll talk later.’

‘Talk as much as you like. I shan’t change my mind!’ was her parting shot.

Twenty-Six

Henry brought the car round and they drove in silence the short distance to Emma’s house. He could see Philip was in a black mood, but he knew better than to ask questions. Instead, he left him at the door, saying he had things to do and would call back in a couple of hours if that suited.

Philip gave him a curt nod and went inside the cottage.

Stella had just finished bathing and feeding Jonathan, and the whole place smelled deliciously of Pears soap and talcum powder. Her face lit up when she saw Philip and she relinquished the baby to Mary, who was waiting to take him for a walk, and got to her feet so that Philip could take her in his arms.

‘What’s the matter, darling?’ she asked, when she had been thoroughly kissed. ‘I can tell there’s something wrong. What is it? Did you tell Roger about us and did he object?’

‘No, Roger’s not the problem, in fact he’s quite delighted.’ He moved away and sat down in Arthur’s armchair. ‘No, it’s Rosalie. She refuses point blank to divorce me.’ He looked up. ‘I know what you’re going to say, Stella, I’ve got plenty of grounds to divorce her; but I couldn’t do it. Anyway, I’ve got no real proof, nothing that would stand up in court. Nothing that wouldn’t be denied by all her so-called friends.’ He shook his head. ‘She’s got me over a barrel. She won’t sue me for divorce and I can’t sue her. So, I’m sorry – no, that’s not strong enough – I’m absolutely devastated, Stella, my darling, I can’t marry you.’ When he looked at her his eyes were bleak.

She sat down opposite him. Today she hadn’t coiled her hair up into its knot on top of her head but had let it hang down to her shoulders, making her look young and vulnerable. The sight of it twisted his heart.

‘Maybe I could talk to her,’ Stella said thoughtfully. ‘She told me something once …’

‘If it’s about the abortion she had, I tried that,’ he cut in.

Her eyebrows shot up. ‘You knew?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, I knew. But the man’s dead, so there’s no proof, and naturally Rosalie will deny it.’

They were both silent for a long time, then Stella said quietly, ‘I talked to Emma for a long time last night about her plans. She told me that she and Henry often talk things over, and when her year of mourning for Arthur is up they’ll be married. She told me Henry has managed to save quite a bit, and they hope to move to the south coast and have a little private hotel or boarding house that they can run together. She said that of course they can’t do anything until they’re married, and that won’t be for another six months, maybe longer. And I thought, what a waste of time. Two people who have obviously been in love for years have to wait before they can be married because convention dictates she must have a year of mourning for a husband who ill-treated her. Why? Why should they have to waste precious time they could be spending together because of convention? It seems crazy to me. I think they should marry and to hell with convention.’

‘I had plans, too.’ Philip said, who had been only half listening. ‘I was going to ask Ben Gerard if he or Oscar Hillyard knew of any places we could rent or buy down in the west country. They’ve got their ear to the ground regarding these things because the light’s supposed to be particularly good for painting in Cornwall and painters sometimes go and stay there for a while. There are always empty properties in one or other of the villages; in fact, I believe Oscar owns a place down there. In St Ives, I think.’

‘If there’s nothing in the west country, what about France? Painters often go to live in France, don’t they?’ she asked. She slid down to the floor so that she could sit at his feet.

He was quiet for a long time. Then he said, ‘Yes, maybe that’s what I should do, go away and live in France. Make a new life for myself, since I can’t have the one I want.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Stella. I don’t know whether I could do it.’ He stroked her hair. ‘I had such plans for us, darling. How can I just go away and never see you again?’

She caught his hand and kissed the palm. ‘I wasn’t suggesting you should, Phil,’ she said, smiling. ‘In fact, if you go without me I shall follow you.’

He turned her face up so that he could look at her. ‘But I can’t marry you, Stella,’ he said urgently. ‘I’ve already told you that.’

‘I know.’ She giggled. ‘I’ll have to be your …’

‘No.’ Shocked, he put his hand over her mouth before she could say the word. ‘Do you know what you’re suggesting, Stella? I’ve just told you Rosalie refuses to divorce me.’

‘Mm, I know. Shocking, isn’t it?’ She giggled again.

He frowned. ‘You’re saying you’re prepared to risk your name …’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think you realize what you’re saying, Stella. I don’t think I can let you do that.’

‘If we don’t want to be parted, we don’t have a choice, do we, Phil?’ she said, becoming serious. ‘Look, we can go and live in Cornwall or France, or wherever we choose, as Mr and Mrs Brown, or Smith, or Jones – or whatever we like to call ourselves – with our son, Jonathan. And when Major Philip Anderson needs to be in London or somewhere for an exhibition of his paintings, I’ll smarten myself up and come with you as your nurse.’

‘People will soon see through that.’

‘That’s their problem, not ours.’

‘What about Rosalie? She’s quite determined to play the part of dutiful wife at exhibitions, you know. You might come face to face with her.’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, my love, I don’t think I could put you through all that.’

‘Then would you rather I simply went away and never saw you again?’ Seeing the stricken look that crossed his face, she got to her feet and handed him his sticks, smiling happily. ‘I thought not. And don’t worry, I know it won’t be easy, but we’ll deal with Rosalie when the time comes, which is not yet. So, come on, let’s go and see Ben Gerard. Together.’ She looked out of the window. ‘I can see the car’s still there, but if Henry’s busy I’ll drive.’ She giggled. ‘That’s something else I can do: I can be your chauffeur.’

‘You’d do all this? For me?’ he asked as he struggled to his feet, as if he still couldn’t believe it.

‘And more,’ she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. ‘And it’s not just for you, it’s for me, too, Phil. I want to have a hand in choosing where we’re going to live and bring up our children.’ She paused. ‘At least, now we don’t have to wait for a divorce to come through before we begin our lives together, do we? So you could say Rosalie’s doing us a good turn.’ She pinched her lip. ‘I wonder if we can persuade Mary to come and live with us, once we’re settled. We’ll need a nursemaid …’

‘Stella Brown, or Jones, or whatever, you’re incorrigible!’ he said, giving her a hug. ‘But first things first, my darling. Let’s go and see Ben.’