Death at the WI

by Oster, C. G.

  Dory Sparks Mysteries, Book 5

  By C.G. Oster

  Copyright ©2021 Camille Oster

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the work of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Beaconsfield, England, 1946

  DORY STOOD WAITING IN HER brown trousers with the legs tucked into her Wellingtons. Her hair was tied back neatly and she waited for Hesta Brown to call them all to attention. It had been a while now since she’d worn some of her work clothes, but the occasion called for it. Hesta still hadn’t arrived and the women chatted amiably amongst themselves.

  Most here seemed to have known each other for a long time, but Dory had only attended these meetings a few times before. It had been on the urging of one of her neighbors that Dory had joined the WI. It gave her an opportunity to get out of the house, and to help when there was still so much need. Anything to add to the rations was helpful, particularly for the children in the city.

  From her arm hung the reed basket and she sighed as she waited. It was a hot day and the Wellingtons would be uncomfortable before long. Still, they were the only boots she had fit for this job.

  “Alright, ladies,” Hesta said as she appeared. Dory had been too distracted watching the other women to see her coming. “Pick as much as you can. It should all be ripe. Obviously, leave anything with mold, or if the insects are making a meal of them. Do I need to remind everyone that blackberry bushes have thorns? I hope you dressed accordingly. Clearly you didn’t heed the warning, Sue. Careful or you’ll be ripped to shreds by the end of the day, but there’s nothing for it now. A scrape here and there isn’t the end of the world. Now, let’s march, ladies. We will start with the row at the south end of Long Field.”

  Hesta Brown was always neatly put together as far as Dory had seen, but she wasn’t what many would call a handsome woman. Still, she was very knowledgeable and seemed happy to teach what she knew. The cooking skills Dory was learning at the WI were particularly valuable to her, because she now charred things to a significantly lower degree. Poor Michael had to grin his way through a few of her less successful meals. Kitchen chores didn’t come naturally to her, and it amazed her that she was actually related to her Aunt Gladys, who cooked so finely at Wallisford Hall, but still Dory had inherited none of her knack for cookery.

  They walked. All the women were very nice, but she was new to the group. Dory had only lived in Beaconsfield for a few months, and most of these women in the WI were from families that had lived here as far as anyone remembered. Generations back. When Beaconsfield was a small farming community—before the housing developed that had moved so many townspeople, like her, into the borough.

  Her participation in the WRENS gave her a degree of respectability, but for the most part, the women here weren’t enthusiastic about the newcomers. Dory had learnt that there always had to be a period of adjustment when change occurred. It was advice she had given herself when she’d moved here, into the large and handsome house in a long row of similar houses. It was by far the most modern house she’d lived in. Entirely new when they’d bought it, and it was well designed. The plumbing was wonderful and heated water was available whenever she wanted it.

  However, cleaning the house, tending to the garden and grappling with cooking were very solitary tasks, and Dory was starting to feel the need for more company. Then this suggestion to join the local chapter of the WI had been made and it had been an inspired thing.

  They walked through a field where a couple of horses watched them but didn’t approach. Admittedly, Dory was a little afraid of horses. They were so big and some of them viciously enjoyed stepping on people’s feet, she’d heard. She’d always counted herself lucky that her canal boat had been a motorized one, or she would have had a horse to care for.

  Those days were gone, however. Her labor wasn’t needed anymore by any of the ministries, but as Hesta said, there was still much important work to do.

  An untidy row of blackberry bushes sat at the end of the field adjacent to a dry ditch. They spread out and started picking the plump black fruit. It took all of seconds before her fingers were stained purple. It took a further minute before one of the thorns found her.

  “So where are you from, Dory?” Sue Wallis asked. One of the younger women of the group, and still unmarried.

  “I come from Swanley, which is South East of London. It’s a small town.”

  “Oh. I thought you came from London.”

  “I was in London during the war. Then with my husband for a while. He had an apartment in Pimlico, but we bought one of the new development houses when they became available.” It had been Michael’s idea. Apartments were not for children, he’d said, and Dory had agreed. Raising children would be much nicer in a place like this where there was a garden and even two rooms for them. The apartment in Pimlico would have grown small quickly when children started coming along. As of yet, they hadn’t, but it was nothing to worry about, her mother had said. Such things could take time.

  “We had to farm during the war,” Sue said. “Turnips mostly. There’s good arable land around here, although a good chunk of it was taken by the new town.” Sue smiled to soften the slight she’d just made of the newcomers in the town. “But we must all embrace change now. So many things are changing. I think people see this as an opportunity to put the past behind them. Who doesn’t want to turn to brighter things?”

  “People keep saying that,” Mary said from where she stood on the other side of the row. “But I don’t really see what’s going to change that much. We’re still on rations and there’s no end in sight, and now there are all the men to feed too.”

  “We were feeding them before too,” Sue countered. “We didn’t send them over to France to fend for themselves. Now they’re fed as equally as they were, so it makes little difference.”

  “Well, it’s worse now than what it was during the war, isn’t it?” Mary said pointedly. “You can barely get anything in the stores these days. So all this fuss about change, I don’t see it.”

  “Dory is the change,” Sue said. “She wasn’t here before. London has come to Beaconsfield. Hopefully it will mean we get a cinema here too soon.”

  Mary grumbled.

  Purple splotches covered Dory’s hands. That wasn’t going to come off anytime soon. Still, it was worth it, and while the others seemed distracted, she put one of the plump berries in her mouth. Flavor took over her senses for a moment. They really were lovely, but they were doing this for the children in the city, who needed the nutrients come winter.

  Some of the ladies were still talking about the shocking state of some of the children that had come to the village during the war. As far as she understood, a few of them hadn’t left—had no house or family to go back to. Dory had, of course, experienced the devastation in East London herself, so she knew there were many who didn’t have homes yet. Saying that, building works had started everywhere one looked. The urge was to get people out of the cities as much as possible, and with the regular train services, it was perfectly possible to commute into the city. It was also quicker to build these new housing developments than to repair the destroyed houses in London.

  “So how are you finding Beaconsfield, Dory?”

  It was a surprisingly complex question, because she was now in a housing estate full of people who had just arrived. No one knew each other, or really the amenities around. They were like a colony that had just arrived, and they weren’t always welcome. “The village is beautiful, of course,”—which was entirely true—“and it’s lo
vely to have the countryside around.”

  “Less now,” said one of the women down the line.

  “It seems to be a marvelous place,” Dory concluded. And it was closer to Wallisford Hall than London was, which meant she could drop in to see Lady Pettifer on occasion, except she was in the South of France, and had been for a few months. Letters arrived from her, and her house in St. Tropez was mostly intact. From what she said, Dory got the feeling that Lady Pettifer needed to escape the constant reminders of the war—and her family.

  The war was still so much part of their lives. The constant rationing reminded them. Everything was hard to get hold of, but things were changing. Moving into a new house was a distinct demarcation of that chapter in her life. This was a new chapter, and it was exciting. The idea of not working was something she was getting used to. A state she hadn’t completely mastered yet.

  Chapter 2

  THE SMALL LAMB ROAST sat in the oven of the large and modern kitchen. It had been painted a nice blue and the cabinets were all spotless. It even had a bay window, which Dory still marveled at. The cabinets were all white, with the palest blue inside the cabinet. It was a lovely kitchen, and Dory was trying not to feel out of place in it.

  Tempting smells teased her, but she didn’t really know if it was ready or not. She kept opening the oven door to look at it, and it seemed ready. The cookbook she used had said to use rosemary to flavor, but she didn’t have any. Sneakily, she’d pilfered a couple of twigs from the neighbor.

  She heard Michael’s car pull into the gravel driveway and he come in through the front door. He searched for her and found her in the kitchen.

  “I think it’s ready soon. I’ll make the gravy as soon as it’s done. How was your day?” she asked as she stood up. They kissed and he sat down at the table, putting the paper down beside him.

  “It was good.”

  One of the things she’d learnt about him was that he did not talk about his work. “And yours?”

  “I picked blackberries with the ladies,” she said, holding up her fingers. That was how they referred to the WI, as the ladies. “There are a surprising number of blackberry bushes in the district. I’d love to pick a few for a pie, but I wouldn’t dare steal any of the village blackberries. We’re making jam tomorrow. Perhaps we’ll get a pot in appreciation for our work.”

  There were various degrees of militancy amongst the women, but then there had been in the WRENs too. Some people liked a very hard line. Not a single blackberry could be spared.

  “There are other things we will harvest too. The rosehips need to be picked just after the first frost.”

  “That’s probably a month or so away.”

  “They say that winter is much more noticeable out here in the country. All the seasons, really.”

  Getting up, Dory checked on the roast. She just didn’t know if it was ready. It looked ready. What if she took it out and it was completely raw inside? On the other hand, she could be over cooking it. The cookbook said about an hour—depending on the oven. Which was very helpful as she and this oven were still getting acquainted. Should she bite the bullet and take it out? “I think we should perhaps cut it and see. I’m still trying to learn this oven.” Wasn’t that the perfect excuse for her lacking skills in the kitchen?

  But Michael never complained, for which she was grateful. She couldn’t imagine having a husband that railed at her for mistakes. That had to be absolutely awful. Some people were awful.

  “Captain Genting has invited us to supper next week,” Michael said.

  “Oh, that’s marvelous.” A trip to London would be nice. She’d met Captain Genting and his wife once before, and they seemed like lovely people.

  “I think I’ll go and change before supper,” Michael said and rose from the table before walking out the swinging door of the kitchen. Dory turned her attention to the roast. Maybe if she cut it in half, she would see the state of it, and if it needed more time, she could put the two pieces back into the oven. Granted the roast was small. It was only for the two of them.

  Taking it out, she executed her plan and was surprised to find it wasn’t raw inside. Slightly pink. Dory put the fork and knife down and turned, wanting to tell someone she’d pulled off a good roast. This was worth celebrating. She put it on the wooden cutting board to rest, and then drained the potatoes and beans before making the gravy in the oven dish. The gravy, unfortunately, didn’t come together well. She’d put too much flour in, she decided, and then tried to water it down a little.

  Michael wasn’t overly enthusiastic about desserts, so Dory didn’t make them. He liked a bit of cheese after dinner, but it was so hard to get a hold of, and certainly not the fine, blue cheeses he preferred. It just wasn’t available in the local stores. Perhaps she could see if Selfridges had any. As of yet, no French cheeses were coming into the country. She didn’t know if the farmers were making finer cheeses. The emphasis was on making as much food as possible, so the slow and carefully made Stiltons may not even be allowed.

  Michael returned, wearing a softer pullover, and Dory wondered at how handsome he was. It was still astounding to her that he was her husband. And she wished she could cook better for him, but tonight was going to be more of a success. “The roast turned out well.” Maybe he wouldn’t notice the gravy.

  She plated the food, while he turned on the wireless, and they sat down at the small kitchen table with their respective plates. Too much salt in the gravy, Dory noted. Why couldn’t the gravy have turned out well? She was so close to making the perfect meal. The gravy failed her.

  “Shall we go for a drive this weekend?” she asked.

  “We can do. Where do you wish to go?”

  “Maybe Aylesbury. It’s fairly close and it has a nice square. Or we could go further afield.”

  “If you wish.”

  The radio spoke of reparations from Germany, and what was happening with the Nuremburg trials. Dory didn’t follow what happened there. It felt a little like vengeance. Not that she didn’t think the Nazi’s shouldn’t be trialed for the shocking thing they’d done, but intense interest in it, felt a little like hanging onto the past. If she’d lost family in the war, she might feel differently. She’d been inordinately lucky. Tragedy hadn’t struck them. They were unscathed.

  When supper was finished, Dory cleaned the dishes, while Michael moved to the salon to smoke. This house was so large, they could be in separate spaces, which was largely impossible in her mother’s house with the four of them. Even Wallisford Hall, as big as it was, was often full of people.

  Lady Pettifer came to mind, but it had been a while since Dory had heard from her. Mail was still slow, particularly across borders. With her away, there seemed to be an absence in Dory’s life, but that was to be expected. She was married now, and her life had changed irrevocably.

  And who would claim it wasn’t a good life? It was wonderful. Michael wa kind and considerate. Their house was lovely—better than she could ever have expected. There was nothing she could wish for. Well, she wasn’t with child yet, which everyone told her was nothing to worry about. Even Lady Pettifer. These things took time, and she was also advised that she should cherish this time when it was just the two of them, for when the child comes, these moments of tranquil togetherness would be few and far between—stolen really.

  It was still hard for Dory to imagine what motherhood would be like. Obviously, she saw children everywhere. This neighborhood was filled with newly minted mothers and their children. But other than walking with their prams, she wasn’t entirely sure what they did. Her youngest brother, Tom, had often been in her care when she’d lived at home, but mostly, it was the woman down the lane who cared for him while their mother had worked. They’d just collected him, fed him and then gotten him ready for bed, which her mother did exclusively. While Dory had just been relieved he would settle down and sleep, looking back, she felt that putting him to bed was time her mother had treasured.

  At times, she missed
her family, even more so now that she was about to start her own. It made her think more about how she’d been raised, and what the concept of family meant. Even so, a baby seemed a very foreign concept.

  And she had to admit that amongst the women of the WI, there were a few who felt motherhood was definitely something one could fail at. The things they said made Dory uneasy, and at times, she was grateful for this time when it was just her and Michael. It gave her more time to prepare for this, because she suspected she might not be the person that it all came to naturally. Heaven knew she didn’t know what to do when someone handed her their baby. It was a moment of sheer awkwardness that Dory hadn’t admitted to anyone, because she secretly wondered if that very awkwardness meant she wasn’t going to be a terribly good mother.

  Chapter 3

  A LONG TABLE WAS SET UP in the Beaconsfield Hall, where they usually had their chapter meetings. A burner ring boiled the sugar and water. Dory carefully stirred so it didn’t turn it all into caramel. The berries went in with a slopping noise and it looked bloody in the large pot for a moment. It brought back memories from London, where Dory had seen too much blood. Every morning after the night raids, there had been injured people staggering around. Always blood.

  Pushing the unpleasant thought away, Dory looked around at the gathered women. They hadn’t seen the consequences of the night raids. While a few bombs had fallen nearby, the raids hadn’t been severe enough that people had sought shelter. Most had just gone about their business. But this place had been important in the war effort. Although he didn’t tell her much about his time in the war, Dory knew that Michael had spent some time here, at Wiston House, which was a beautiful old manor house that had played a role in English wars even back to the civil war.

  “Keep stirring, Dory,” Ruth ordered and Dory brought her attention back to the task at hand. “Well, there was talk about the WI college and what an institution like that would mean to us. A place one could go for more substantive courses.”