The Secrets of Tenley House

by Patricia Dixon

  In the desperate hours since she’d learned of the baby growing inside her, Ivy had toyed with the idea of telling her mum who was responsible. In Ivy’s mind the weight she had carried on her shoulders for so long would be lifted, her mum would know what to do, she’d sort it all out, banish the rapist, have him locked up, and then they could care for the baby together. Now she knew for sure that Betty would never believe her, she would side with Geoffrey, the shame of the truth was better buried than faced up to.

  Wiping away the tears from her eyes and cheeks before smoothing down her crumpled dress that hung loose on her bony frame, Ivy took a breath and found the courage to reply to her mother.

  “I don’t care what he says, or thinks. I hate him. I always have and always will. The sight of him repulses me, the stench of him makes me sick, and my skin crawls at the mere mention of his name, which for your information will never again include the word father. My dad is dead and that thing you are married to is an abomination, a fake and a hypocrite. And now you and I have made our feelings clear, I will leave this house as soon as possible and seek shelter elsewhere. I hope that is acceptable. I’ll go to my room now. Goodnight.”

  Ivy didn’t wait for a response. Instead she walked across the room, out of the door and then wearily made her way upstairs, leaving the screeching voice of her mother demanding that Ivy return, apologise and explain her comments, behind her.

  The night had gone on forever. While Ivy hid upstairs, downstairs her shame was laid bare when Geoffrey returned from a governors meeting. Betty wailed and remonstrated but for once found solace in the strong arms of her dumbstruck husband who in the days that followed, found a hasty solution to their problem, thanks to the discreet intervention of the doctor.

  In the meantime, Ivy had come to realise that despite her bold statement, she had nowhere to run to, nobody to turn to and no clue what to do next. So when Betty explained all about the mother and baby nursing home in the north of England, Ivy saw it as a lifeline and packed her case, trusting in the advice of her mother and the integrity of the village doctor.

  “I will drive you up there tomorrow. We will tell everyone you are going to stay with Geoffrey’s aunt who is sickly and in need of care. Make sure you tell your college friends the same. Now pack a case and I will bring you your supper. I think it is best all round you remain in your room until we set off.” Betty turned to leave but was delayed by a question from Ivy.

  “But what will I do when the baby is born? Where will we go… will the nursing home help me find somewhere because you said I can’t come back here, not that I’d want to?” Ivy may have been unsure of many things but on this she was adamant.

  “Yes, the home will arrange everything but for now the most important thing is that we get you away from here and let’s not forget, you still have to give birth, and that, my girl, will be your punishment and just desserts. So you just concentrate on packing your things and leave the rest of the arrangements to the home. Now I need to get on.” With that, Betty closed the door, betraying not a hint of what she already knew to be Ivy’s fate.

  Privately, the shock of such deceit coupled with Ivy’s refusal to name the father was hard for Betty to associate with their good girl. Even worse, that she had given herself freely without thought for the consequences was both nauseating and incredibly stupid. Not only that, when Betty had sought the counsel of her husband, hoping to diffuse the confusion and hurt, each question was left unanswered and only sent him further into retreat. Left alone to agonise, she saw his actions as both selfish yet understandable. In truth, he simply mimicked her own repulsion at Ivy’s falling from grace and given the opportunity, Betty too would have hidden from it all.

  Ivy shivered, or was it a shudder? Edging further up the bench to avoid contact or discussion with the chap who’d joined her, she also ignored the mother who paraded past with her Silver Cross pram. It was unbearable, as was the ache Ivy still felt inside but then again it had only been three days since she’d given her baby away – no that was wrong, she’d had it stolen.

  Six months after she’d arrived in Yorkshire, on a chilly February morning in 1964, Ivy had walked the mile or so into town from where she caught a bus to the train station. Arriving at the home of Betty and Geoffrey just after 6pm, Ivy had eaten dinner in silence. Each mouthful was chewed long enough to ensure that it didn’t lodge in her throat and was washed down with just a sip of water. During the meal, Ivy had to fight the urge to spit every single drop in the face of one that couldn’t or wouldn’t meet her eyes, before smashing the bone china plate over the bent yet unrepentant head of the other.

  Such control was hard won but necessary because to survive just a few days in that house was all she’d required. Dining with the devil and his demon was shortened by declining dessert and Ivy’s need for an early night, her absence at the table no doubt coming as a blessed relief for the remaining shamefaced diners.

  Forty-eight hours later, Ivy had risen early and stepped out into a marginally warmer morning, carrying two cases containing her clothes and personal effects, along with as many items of value that she could squash inside, all of which belonged to others. Within a large Manila envelope was her building society savings book, her birth certificate and premium bonds, all removed from the bureau in the lounge that very morning. Two of Geoffrey’s most prized possessions, the first edition Thomas Hardy and miniature watercolour, were afterthoughts that she’d grabbed in haste. The contents of a blue velvet jewellery box, hidden at the back of Betty’s wardrobe, along with his father’s pocket watch were taken whilst they both ate peaches and cream downstairs. For good measure, Ivy had also liberated every last bit of money from the kitchen jar then wallet and purse, both of which were left unguarded on the hall stand.

  Between them, they had taken everything of value from her. He took her innocence and she her baby. Ivy accepted that there would be no return to her inviolate state and despite what the good Lord said, forgiveness was impossible, especially since her incarceration. Within the walls of the mother and baby home, she’d been damaged by actions that went even deeper than his, generous helpings of cruelty and betrayal. But that was by the by because in the last two days she had done much to redress the balance, mostly in material form, and all that had remained was to repay their unkindness in the best way she knew how.

  Without a backward glance, Ivy had made her previous journey in reverse, walking the mile or so into her hometown from where she caught a bus to the train station. She had a firm idea of where she was headed – Bournemouth by the sea. Somewhere she could gain employment, perhaps in a hotel or restaurant that was busy and full of strangers who would never know her face or past. All she cared was that it was far, far away from them.

  At the entrance to the station the newspaper headline boards were emblazoned with the sensational news of the Great Train Robbers who were standing trial, the thick black words had caused Ivy to smirk. Soon there would be a scandal on the lips of the residents of sleepy Tabberton, one far more close to home and just as shocking. Stopping at the postbox by the news-stand, Ivy had removed three envelopes from her handbag. One was addressed to the vicar of the parish, the second to the Board of Governors at her former school, and the third to her mother, all written in the early hours and specifically worded, detailed and graphic, shame laid bare.

  Thrusting all three inside the letter box, Ivy inhaled then muttered a well-used phrase; her Bible classes not such a waste after all. ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord’. And soon it would be delivered, their propriety erased, and in Betty’s case, replaced with enough images of debauchery to last her ruined lifetime. Objects that had once given them pleasure or attempted to brighten their cold, miserable house, either precious or held dear, had already been taken away, just as they had taken from her.

  Her train was imminent and as she looked along the tracks, Ivy’s mind wandered, pondering the scene in her old home. At first they might have been relieved, to realise she had gone a
nd would most likely collude to repeat their previous lie and announce that Ivy had returned to her aunt’s in Cornwall. But once her thievery was discovered, oh how she hoped they were distressed. They wouldn’t call the police. Of that she was certain.

  Next, Ivy imagined Betty receiving her letter and as her pathetic world crumbled with each word, just across town, the school secretary would be opening the one addressed to the board while over breakfast, the vicar’s eggs might curdle in his grease-laden stomach. Geoffrey would be brought before the school board and eventually the vicar would come to call and then the implosion of their lives could begin, both suffering their penance. This made Ivy smile.

  Abruptly interrupted from her enjoyment of their misery by an exasperated cry, Ivy’s eyes were torn away from the imaginary tableau of wretchedness by one of real life – the predicament of another young woman whose suitcase had come unfastened, the contents of which spilled out onto the platform. Ivy watched impassively as the golden-haired floozy bad-temperedly scooped her undergarments inside, their eyes meeting for just a moment. When Ivy noticed a pair of red knickers lying across her shoe she felt nothing but disdain for anyone who wore such items, picking them up before holding them out, her distaste made clear. The woman silently plucked them from Ivy’s fingers and after closing her case, stood, smiling flirtatiously at the gentleman seated at the other end of the bench before setting off, hips swaying, confidently striding forth.

  Ivy quelled a brief yet surprising moment of envy for someone who appeared carefree and so determined, endowed by beauty and a well-cut dress until she remembered her own uncharacteristic rebellion and liberation. It provided a welcome sedative for any hint of apprehension or low esteem.

  Minutes later, from her window seat as the train pulled out of the station, Ivy felt no flicker of excitement, nothing good, her life was a flat line like the track ahead. The only emotions that remained were sour. Sweetness had been permanently expunged from her life. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. But the next day she would begin again, forgetting the past, as much as her aching heart and empty body would allow. Yet amidst such future uncertainty there was one thing of which Ivy was sure. While she had breath in her body and no matter what fate had in store, she would never go back home. Ever.

  Kenneth and Daphne

  Kenneth was hiding in his study. There had been a god-awful row with his mother who was holed up in her sitting room after venting her disgust at his announcement. All he could do now was hope Phyllis would calm down before Daphne returned from her shopping trip.

  When Kenneth thought of his wife’s pale and nervous face as she’d left him to break their news, the anger he’d felt towards his mother bubbled inside. They both knew she wouldn’t take it well and he was glad poor Daphne wasn’t there to hear his mother’s cruel words. Placing his head in his hands, Kenneth closed his eyes. Had he once ounce of faith, he would’ve asked God to get his bloody finger out and claim Phyllis for a moonbeam, or whatever he felt inclined because down here on earth she was of no use whatsoever. The proverbial thorn in everyone’s side, always had been, always would be.

  He needed a drink and didn’t care a jot that it was only 11am so he poured himself a large one. It was a glorious summer day and as Kenneth looked across the beautifully tended lawns and flowerbeds, he felt not a shred of joy at his surroundings. Tenley House was his prison, not a home or sanctuary. Even as a child, it had represented nothing more than a place one had to return to, merely an extension of his harsh and frugal boarding school. Turning from the window, Kenneth cast his eyes over the photographs that adorned the walnut surface of his desk. After pausing over the faces of his brother and father where neither elicited even a flicker of emotion, Kenneth’s gaze rested on the one of him and Daphne on their wedding day. Picking it up, he spoke to his lovely wife, whose smile lit up the frame, her eyes so full of love, focused on her new husband. A fickle, deceitful man.

  “I’m so sorry, my love. I truly am. I didn’t mean for things to turn out this way and if I had one wish it would be for you, that you had met a man more worthy, a decent chap who could love and cherish you the way you desire, they way you deserve. But instead you ended up with me, didn’t you. If you ever discover the truth I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me. I have let you down so badly but promise from this moment on I will do my utmost best to protect you from Mother and her cruel ways and together we will find a way to be happy. I do love you, Daphne, in my own way I really do.” Kenneth wasn’t prone to crying. It had been beaten out of him at school and home but nevertheless he felt a stray tear leak from the corner of his eye which he flicked away quickly.

  Kenneth longed to escape not only Tenley but his life and had long since accepted that neither was going to happen, this was it so he’d better get used to it. Shaking his head and slurping the last of his whisky, Kenneth poured another and after slumping into his armchair, sought to make sense of the past and work out how the hell it had all come to this.

  Kenneth Horatio Appleton-Tenley, unfortunately for him, was the only living child of Phyllis Appleton and Captain Henry Tenley. The latter was the son of Edgar, a shrewd city banker who, at the end of the First World War when the landed gentry fell to their knees, not in surrender but under the weight of crippling debts, made many wise and profitable investments. Struggling to make ends meet, the upper classes had been further beleaguered by the sudden lack of able men and the gradual emancipation of womenfolk who were less inclined to a life of service. Maintaining and staffing their stately homes became something of a nightmare. Summarily, the Lords of the Realm sold off chunks of land and property, hoping to cling on awhile longer. Consequently, Edgar Tenley had wasted no time in purchasing the Dower House and a swathe of farmland and property from one of his chums at the gentlemen’s club, swiftly renaming his new family home, Tenley House.

  Built in 1705, the Hanoverian manor and grounds were set upon five acres of prime Hampshire countryside and across the boundary lines, tenanted cottages and managed farms dot the rolling hills. Made from local brick, the grand exterior of Tenley House was encompassed on three sides by a slate terrace, the cast stone balustrades separating it from the expanse of tended lawns below. These were divided down the centre by a sweeping driveway coming straight off the narrow private lane where, after alighting from your vehicle onto crunching gravel, stone steps led upwards to the marble pillars and imposing studded oak door, solid and ecclesiastical in style.

  Once inside the wide half-panelled hallway, the eye was drawn to a central oak stairway, lined on each side by heavy oak doors to reception rooms, the family lounge, a library cum study and an austere dining room. As the sun orbited the house during the day, vaulted ceilings allowed in welcome light while the leaded windows cast eerie shadows onto corners of empty rooms. At night, unless lit from inside, they became black soulless eyes, peering out into the darkness beyond, sinister and watchful.

  There were eight bedrooms, almost identical in size and decoration, jaded and lacking in imagination and as with downstairs, each room had an open fireplace to stave off the winter chill and compensate for an inadequate central heating system. The kitchens and utility areas were housed in the rear right-hand corner of the building and opposite, on the left, stretching out onto the bordered lawn was the orangery which housed the swimming pool, a recent addition. This could only be accessed from inside the house and was afforded privacy on one side by the dense woodland that surrounded the entire property.

  The south facing area in between the pool and kitchen wing was terraced on three levels, designed as an extension to the dining room for summer entertaining and al fresco meals but rarely used. During the warmer months, light flooded onto the terrace, gently heating the slate floor and stone walls of the house whereas in winter, the sun rarely peeped above the tips of the highest trees or from behind sullen grey clouds, casting the rooms into gloomy darkness.

  The house was maintained by a meagre staff of four. There was Cooki
e also referred to as Mrs Kinsley, Mrs Coombs who came from the village to clean, aided by her daughter, Shirley, and Ernest the gardener and handyman. The other inhabitants, apart from Kenneth were his wife, Daphne, and his mother Phyllis, and it was to the latter that the less than convivial atmosphere, one that sometimes prevented the house from feeling like a home, could be attributed.

  During the early fifties, Kenneth had been rather disconcerted to find himself the owner-by-default of Tenley. He’d been exceedingly happy to remain in London, ensconced in his house just off Kensington High Street, the family bolthole that had allowed him to live life quietly and just the way he pleased. Dabbling in the stock market provided a comfortable living and when he wasn’t at his desk in the city, he was either at the club, the toilets at Liverpool Street Station or in his study, collating his stamp collection. When Gus, Kenneth’s older brother was killed in a gruesome hunting accident in which his torso became separated from his head, the role of looking after the estate fell immediately to the spare son. Once the funeral was over it became necessary for Kenneth to return to Tenley and his grieving mother, leaving London and his secret life behind.

  Having to live with his domineering mother had done nothing whatsoever to sweeten the bitter pill he’d been forced to swallow, however, in erudite moments Kenneth did accept that his predicament might also have saved him from himself. He’d been sailing far too close to the wind of late and was fearful, no, terrified of being exposed and, God forbid, arrested for a crime he’d tried so hard not to commit, time and time again. Therefore enforced celibacy was perhaps a good thing because country life gave him no place to hide, or for that matter, an opportunity to indulge in his private fantasies every now and then.