On that cold February morning, the day she denounced her family forever, Ivy headed to Bournemouth for no other reason than it was advertised on a poster that she’d spotted on the bus depot wall. She took a pleasant enough room in a boarding house on the seafront and then set about pawning or selling her stolen goods. Not in the same shop, but scattered here and there so as not to arouse suspicion. Ivy had amassed quite a nest egg so next, set about changing her identity. After a morning at the salon and despite the protestations of the hairdresser who would’ve died for a head of lustrous auburn hair, Sandy had it dyed the darkest brown and then kept her appointment with a solicitor. There, without too much fuss she changed her name by deed poll.
Once Ivy Emsworth became Sandy Taylor, her new name inspired by the wholesome teenage actress Sandra Dee, she went in search of a job. Sandy was taken on as a live-in chambermaid at The Northumberland Hotel, one of the most prestigious in Bournemouth with its art deco styling and East Cliff position, looking out across sandy beaches and the English Channel beyond.
On the whole, she found the work easy but the people, both staff and guests, irritating and tiresome and for one reason or another soon began to despise most of them. Her colleagues were common and shallow who focused on skiving and pay day, then how to spend their wages in the most frivolous manner possible. Sandy had nothing in common with any of them and preferred her own company, that and a bottle of gin. The drinking was purely medicinal and aided a good night’s sleep because it was imperative she kept the nightmares at bay, replaying every bad memory, haunting her. The doctor had given her pills but they made her lethargic and unable to do her job properly so after too many sleepless nights, Sandy had turned to alcohol. It worked, helped her to relax and forget for a while. It didn’t cure the pain in her heart though, that never went away.
For the most part, Sandy tolerated the ungrateful snobbish guests and avenged their rude indifference and slovenly ways by stealing from them. She took items that wouldn’t be noticed immediately and could have been lost anywhere in Bournemouth, like coins from a discarded trouser pocket, lighters, a silver compact, or an item of clothing that would go unnoticed and flung into her laundry cart then sold at the dress agency in Poole. Cutlery and porcelain were particularly easy because nobody noticed when a room service tray came back lighter than it went out. The cups and saucers, teapots and sugar bowls were easily passed off as her dead granny’s bits and bobs. It was easy and the only thing that made Sandy feel fulfilled because in all aspects of her life, Sandy was hollow.
Nothing, not one single thing could fill the void her baby had left. Sometimes Sandy thought this and the memory of her baby girl being taken from her arms would finally kill her. It would have been so easy to die. The one and only thing that had prevented Sandy from flinging herself off the cliffs was the tiniest glimmer of hope that the fervent wish, one she made frequently, would come true; to be reunited with her daughter. Sandy was prepared to wait a lifetime and had she known where to look would have set off in search without delay, but there was no way of tracking her baby down so instead she marked time, it was all she could do.
And so life went on, endless toil that consisted of soiled sheets, cleaning away the detritus of others, and solitary hours in her tiny room at the top of the hotel while below, those more fortunate laughed and dined and fornicated. While Sandy took most of it on the chin, sometimes the unfairness of it all gnawed away, scratching, irritating, making her bitter.
In need of some release from constant angst, an outlet, a way to redress the balance, Sandy set her mind on punishment. If God didn’t care who did what and with whom, then she would take matters into her own hands. This was why Mrs Gilmore received an anonymous telephone call one sunny afternoon, advising her that Mr Gilmore was currently spending the afternoon in Room 261 with a blonde lady called Cheryl. And why the very rude woman in Room 280 came out in an angry rash after spraying what she thought was Chanel No5 all over her scrawny neck. Urine can be quite astringent.
But on the day Sandy saw the mother slapping her little girl’s hand in temper and afterwards, hearing the child sob when she was left with the nanny, the word punishment took on a new meaning. Some people didn’t deserve children, like those who stayed out for hours while the listening service took over, and Sandy couldn’t even contemplate those women who she spotted in town, who bred like rabbits yet were unable to feed and clothe their offspring. It was so unfair because they would be better off with her, she would love them properly and in return they would fill that big gaping hole in her heart.
That evening, Sandy was almost fevered in her excitement, fuelled mainly by drink but encouraged by the images in her head as she made wild plans. During her annual leave she had taken two short breaks to France after obtaining an excursion document from the post office. It was all incredibly simple, one had only to give proof of identity and hey presto, you could board a ferry to Le Touquet. What was stopping her doing it again but this time with a baby? They could be across the channel and on their way to a new life before anybody could raise the alarm. But she would have to be prepared and as soon as she spotted an opportunity, take it. All she would need were documents for the child and although the idea at first seemed unfeasible, Sandy couldn’t let it go, she wouldn’t.
Much to Sandy’s annoyance the maids at the hotel gossiped about everyone and everything and that morning as she stripped a bed with her colleague, a simple and very irritating girl named Tracey was no exception. She was telling Sandy all about the latest family of ten-pound Poms who were staying in the next room on their list. Apparently they were staying over in Bournemouth, visiting family before heading for Tilbury Docks where they would sail to the other side of the world and begin a new life in Australia.
Sandy listened with interest. She’d spotted the family of five as they headed down for breakfast. The parents were accompanied by two little girls; the mother carried a babe in arms. Sandy’s mind raced, her thoughts on what treasures their room would hold: vital papers needed for travel, passports and visas and no doubt, birth certificates. All she had to do was get her hands on them. As usual, Tracey felt the desperate need for a cigarette part way through their shift which was why Sandy less begrudgingly than usual said she’d carry on alone while her counterpart nipped outside.
Sure that Tracey was racing down the service stairs, Sandy opened the door abandoning any notion of methodically cleaning the ten-pound Poms’ room. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead as her heart pumped, the search of all the obvious places had proved fruitless and then she saw the suitcases. Time was running out.
Dragging the chair over to the large double wardrobe, Sandy stood on top and reached above, pulling the first one down and then flinging it onto the bed before clicking open the catches. Nothing, it was empty so she ran back and dragged down the larger heavier one which she placed on the floor and with no time to waste, cursing under her breath, grappled with the buckles then flicked open the catches only to find this too was empty. Tears pricked her eyes as fury coursed through her veins, her breathing heavy as she pushed her dreams aside and snapped back to the present, swiftly fastening the locks then replacing both cases.
With seconds to spare, Tracey returned, stinking of cigarettes but ready to get on with work. Sandy, however, had no intention of cleaning the room and as she shoved past her colleague, glaring as she did so, left her cleaning cart at the door and marched off towards the stairs, in search of the head housekeeper.
An hour later, locked in her room and feigning illness, from her small grimy window, Sandy watched the holidaymakers below. She hated them all – every single one of them. Not the children though. It wasn’t their fault that they had been lumbered with inferior parents. But it was the thought that one of them might need her, and that her baby was out there somewhere and might need her too, was like a crippling disease that festered in her blood and bones. It was killing her, Sandy could feel it.
Taking the gin bottle from the drawe
r, Sandy unscrewed the top and gulped a mouthful of the bitter liquid, bitter just like her. Tears rolled down her face which she defiantly swiped away, furious with herself for showing weakness. But Sandy was tired of it all – the loneliness, the anger, the loss. It was breaking her down bit by bit and she truly didn’t think she had the energy or the willpower to go on. She also feared the tinge of madness because after all, she had pushed the boundaries and had she succeeded and continued with her plan she could so easily have been caught and arrested and then what? Spend her life in a prison worse than this, or the empty cell of her own mind, incarcerated and going quietly crazy.
Sandy opened the drawer and took out the bottle of sleeping tablets and by its side she saw the aspirin. Would that be enough to finish her off, along with the gin? Tipping them all into her hand, Sandy reached for the bottle of gin, staring at the pills in her palm, blurring quickly as tears spilled from her eyes. When a mixture of gin and fatigue caused a momentary lapse in hand to eye coordination, Sandy misjudged and sent the bottle toppling off the side of the cabinet and in her haste to prevent spillage, she also dropped the tablets which scattered and soon softened in a pool of alcohol, seeping into the swirling red and yellow patterns, sucking her chance of escape deep into the woollen fibres below.
It was then that she prayed. Sandy was overcome, so she begged and beseeched God to show her mercy, light the way, take her in his arms and right the wrong, prove his love for her when she needed it the most. Her wretchedness at the moment was akin to losing her baby and it was all she could do to heave herself onto the bed and cover her trembling body with the blanket. In the last pathetic moments before she collapsed in a heap, she drained the remnants of her glass and bottle, just a few drops and recognised in herself a pitiful sight. She was gripped by the demon drink, unable to escape its clutches.
Six days later during her afternoon off, physically recovered yet still mentally shaken by her dalliance with death and subsequent prostration before the Lord, Sandy had ventured outside. Hell bent on averting her eyes from babies in prams and doing her damnedest to resist the lure of the off-licence, she had sought the mindless distraction of having her roots done. Her usual salon had been fully booked so Sandy sought out another, much pricier and frequented by a higher class than she but following an earlier trip to the pawnshop she could afford it.
Sandy had no idea that the Lord frequented salons but that day he had walked by her side. He steered her in the right direction then made sure a copy of The Lady lay on top of the pile that the junior placed on Sandy’s knee. While she waited for her cup of tea and flicked through the dog-eared pages of the magazine, her eyes settled on an article about some toffs and their wonderful day out at a county polo match. Sandy was about to turn the page when something caught her eye and her heart stopped, then beat rapidly as her cheeks burned hot, the same way her eyes burned into the image of a car and the two people sitting just to the side of it. That photo of the mind, the one she’d taken five years earlier of a car that sped into the distance taking her baby, its registration plate, KT 129 etched into her brain, flashed before her.
Her eyes looked upon the smiling man, his arm casually resting on his knee and then the woman, holding a little girl with dark curly hair. In that explosive second of realisation, Sandy’s world flipped and the pages of the magazine blurred. Feeling faint, Sandy sucked in a lungful of air through pursed lips, willing herself to stay conscious as her trembling hands held on tight to the magazine. Feeling the panic ebb and her heart rate return to normal, she allowed her brain to regain order and sort through the jumbled messages that swam inside her head. Casting her eyes from one side to the other, seeing that she was unobserved, Sandy quickly folded the magazine and stuffed it inside her handbag. The photograph was precious, as was the information contained within the article. This was what she had been waiting for, the miracle she had so desperately prayed for. He had listened, she was not forsaken.
One month later, after buying herself a solid gold crucifix and serving her notice, obtaining in return a spotless and glowing reference, Sandy left Bournemouth and headed north, direction Frosham in Hampshire. The home of her baby girl.
Sandy was seated right at the back of the congregation, alone in her contemplation, soaking up the vicar’s words and energy but most of all, God’s love. Even though she was a regular, for the most part Sandy kept herself to herself, still friendly and affable, neither drawing attention nor standing out as being weird or a loner. She steadfastly refused offers to join the church committee, fearful it might encourage interactions and curiosity about her personal life although she did help out at church events as it was a means to an end. The tentacles of the good Christian community spread wide and it was useful to remain in the loop, privy to rumours and gossip camouflaged as chit-chat and concern. Preferring her communion with God to remain the focus of her devotion, Sandy resolutely resisted any offers of friendship and continued on her mission. The reason she had come to Frosham.
After her arrival in 1969, Sandy had been prepared to play the long game, taking employment when and where she could, watching and waiting. The unfortunate incident at the swimming pool had rocked her to the core but once the fuss died down and the gossip mill turned to other matters, she relaxed. Sandy also curbed her desire to get up close to her daughter and refrained from walking along the public footpaths close to the house. It wasn’t worth the risk and anyway, there was no point. She’d heard via the gardener’s wife who visited her old mum at the home, that the pool had been closed off since Mrs Tenley’s sad death and that the little girl, Vanessa, was terrified of water and refused to go anywhere near.
Instead, Sandy focused on her child’s school, a lovely private establishment in its own grounds, quite impenetrable and sadly not requiring any staff but still, she kept an eye on situations vacant in the newspaper. She also attended the Christmas and summer fairs, lingering by the stalls, hoping for a glimpse. It was like torture, knowing that her precious child walked the corridors and attended assembly in the polished halls. Sandy felt her imprint, her presence, everywhere. But despite such vigilance, Vanessa never appeared at the fetes with her father or one of the nannies employed to care for her. It was as though they were purposely keeping her out of sight, taunting Sandy.
Instead of giving up, she placed all her faith in prayers, and lo and behold, after hours on bended knee he had finally responded, just as she knew he would. Of this, Sandy was accepting but not grateful, why should she be? The Lord had chosen this path for her after he had made mistakes, taking away her father, placing her in the care of an unloving mother, in sight of a rapist and then given away her baby. No, the Lord owed her this, which was why when she asked, eventually, her prayers were answered.
Sandy made her way to the door of the church where she exchanged pleasantries with the vicar before heading towards her car, feeling cleansed and joyous, hopeful even. The next day was to be very important, and everything had to go just as she planned.
From the moment Sandy had clapped eyes on the photograph in the Parish magazine, she knew it was God’s will. Everything that had happened from the moment she accepted him into her life was his way of making things right. There on the front cover was a photograph of the new Lady Tenley, and Sandy recognised her instantly. They had met twice before: once on the platform of Paddington Station then years later, again by chance, during Sandy’s very lonely holiday in the capital.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time to broaden her horizons and visit London’s landmarks but she had hated every moment. Even the B&B in Bayswater was smelly and shabby so along with the noise and the crowds, it helped Sandy decide to cut short her stay and head back to Bournemouth. The only positive experience was her visit to Whitley’s department store where she purchased some undergarments and a new blouse for church, and it was there that she had a brief encounter with the floozy from the station.
Of course she didn’t recognise Sandy, why would she? But there was no
mistaking the blonde bombshell who laughed and joked with the lady before her in the queue. Whilst she folded and packed Sandy’s garments with the same care and degree of politeness, there was not a flicker of recognition as the floozy handed over her change. This only served to depress Sandy more and left her feeling insignificant and strangely hurt as she battled her way through the crowds, holding on tightly to her suitcase and carrier bag, and her dignity, as she held in tears.
At the time, Sandy had put the meeting down to pure coincidence and forgot all about it but now, she knew it was a sign. God was throwing them together.
During visits to the nursing home to see her unresponsive mum, the gardener’s wife was easily bored and seemed grateful when Sandy popped by with fresh towels, and spent a few minutes chatting about this and that. It was here that Sandy learned as much as she could about the new Mrs Tenley who by all accounts was the complete opposite of the previous lady of the manor. She had brought the house alive and everyone adored her, especially little Miss Tenley who was a changed child since the arrival of her stepmother. Somehow managing not to bristle at this news, instead Sandy extracted every single scrap of information on offer, and more besides. The latest nanny had been dispensed with, however, Mrs Tenley was finding step-motherhood a strain and with the imminent departure of Cookie the housekeeper, her job was about to get even harder.
It was common knowledge that Lady Tenley sought to ingratiate herself with the villagers and even insisted on ordering the meat in person and every other Saturday would take her place in the queue where, by coincidence, she would chat to a lovely lady named Sandy. This very same woman would also be helping out at the charity fair in the village hall where Lady Tenley was due to cut the ribbon and judge the Victoria sponge competition. At some point during the day and, quite by chance, the acquaintances would bump into each other. If everything went according to plan and the rumours were true, when Sandy offered her services as the next housekeeper and part-time nanny to Vanessa, Lady Tenley would at least give her an interview, or fall at her feet in gratitude. If it were God’s will, then so be it.
The Secrets of Tenley House Page 12
