The Kew Gardens Girls

by Posy Lovell

  The back door opened and Lettie and Roddy both shouted: “Bernie! Bernie!”

  Louisa looked round and there, looking sturdier, healthier and ruddier than she’d ever seen him before, was Bernie.

  She rushed over to him and gave him a hug. “Bernie, you look wonderful.”

  He beamed at her. “So do you,” he said, holding her at arm’s length and examining her face. “Something’s agreeing with you.”

  He glanced at Teddy and gave Louisa a knowing smile. She made a face at him, urging him not to say anything because she was, after all, still a married woman. He understood.

  “And, Teddy,” he said. “Good to see you.”

  The men shook hands and Jenny fussed round Bernie, pouring him tea and serving him an enormous slice of cherry cake.

  “All good in the top field,” he told Matthew. “That’s ready for planting. And I’ve swept up all the leaves in the orchard.”

  “Great.”

  Louisa smiled at the conversation. “You sound like you’ve settled in.”

  “I love it,” Bernie said. He sounded a bit surprised about it. “It’s all the things I loved about Kew—feeling the connection to the earth, seeing time passing—but added to that is the feeling that I’m doing my bit, you know? Not just hiding out.”

  “You’re definitely doing your bit,” Matthew said. “We couldn’t have expanded the vegetable patches as we have without Bernie.”

  “Would you like me to show you round?”

  “I’d love it.”

  So Louisa, Teddy and Bernie all pulled on their coats and boots and headed outside.

  “Shall we start at the top and work our way down?” Bernie said. The farm was on a slope, so they’d always called the different areas the top and the bottom.

  “Let’s go.”

  They wandered up along the footpath to the top field, while Bernie explained what they were planning to plant.

  “Cabbages, obviously,” he said. “More potatoes, and maybe some cauliflowers for now. But there’s scope for more.”

  They admired the fields, the hops poles, and the orchards—bare now, but Bernie assured them the harvest had been a good one—and listened to Bernie’s idea to experiment with growing mushrooms.

  “Listen to me, banging on,” he said eventually, as they skirted the duck pond and the new henhouses.

  “How’s Ivy? She sends me drawings, bless her.”

  Louisa paused. “Can we sit down?”

  Bernie gestured to a hay bale on its side by the henhouses and they all sat on it.

  “What’s happened?”

  Louisa grimaced. “Ivy’s in a bad way. Jim’s stopped writing.”

  “No,” Bernie said, his face paling.

  “I’m afraid so. So obviously poor Ivy is convinced he’s dead, but poor Win lost her Archie recently and she’s adamant Ivy would have heard, officially, if Jim had been killed.”

  “Gosh, what an awful thing,” Bernie said. He looked stricken. “What an awfully horrible thing to happen.”

  “That’s not even all of it.”

  “It’s not?” Bernie looked alarmed.

  Louisa glanced round to check there were no small children lurking nearby who could overhear, and then said: “She’s expecting. Ivy’s expecting a baby.”

  “Oh heavens.”

  Louisa nodded grimly. “I know.”

  “What’s she going to do?”

  “She’s going to have a baby,” Louisa said with a small smile. “And then Win and I are going to help her.”

  “What about Jim?”

  She shrugged. “I suppose we’ll just hear when we hear. Ivy and I are planning to visit his mum and see if she’s heard anything.”

  “He could still be alive,” Teddy put in. “Men often end up in hospital without anyone knowing who they are, so their families don’t know for months.”

  “Exactly,” Louisa agreed. “He could be injured. Or there could be another reason for his letters stopping. It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s dead.” She swallowed a sob.

  “He could still be alive,” she echoed.

  Bernie nodded.

  “I might know a way to find out for sure,” he said. “Don’t say anything to Ivy yet, but I might have something up my sleeve.”

  “Really and truly?” said Louisa, grateful for any help they could get. “Thank you.”

  Chapter 26

  Bernie had been bursting with pride as he showed Louisa and Teddy round the farm. He’d felt a bit awkward at first, given it was Louisa’s childhood home, but she asked so many questions and was so interested that he was soon enjoying showing off his hard work.

  But the news about Ivy and Jim had stopped him in his tracks. He knew Jim had been sending Ivy seeds to plant, and had thought it a wonderful idea. And he knew that something had to have happened for Jim to stop writing. Fortunately, as he’d said to Louisa, he had an idea about finding out what that was.

  The rest of the afternoon passed in a happy blur. Bernie was very pleased to see Louisa and Teddy were close. He wondered if there was any way they could become a proper couple. Could Louisa divorce Reg? He’d heard about couples divorcing but never met anyone who’d been through it. It seemed unfair, though, that Louisa couldn’t move on with her life while Reg was doing whatever he wanted down in Folkestone.

  “How are the locals being with you?” Louisa asked as they waited for Matthew to bring round the horse and cart for their journey home. She and Teddy could have stayed but Louisa had said she wasn’t sure how things would be with her parents so she’d decided to just come for one day—for now. She was sure she’d be back soon.

  Bernie considered her question. There was Mrs. Lannister in the post office, who was always terribly nice, and the men in the pub had been standoffish at first but were now pleasingly accepting.

  He smiled. “They’re very nice.”

  But Louisa fixed him with her sternest glare.

  “Are they, Bernie?”

  He caved at once. “They are nice, that’s the truth. But . . .”

  “But?”

  “They don’t know I’m a conchie.”

  Teddy winced at the term, which had become an insult. Bernie had even heard some of the village children using it as a way to annoy one another.

  “Don’t say that.”

  Bernie shrugged. “It’s the truth.”

  “Will you tell them?”

  “Matthew says no one need know, and I’m inclined to agree.”

  Louisa and Teddy looked at each other. Bernie knew they would be worried about his keeping more secrets.

  “I’m not lying. If anyone asks outright, then I’ll tell them,” he assured them. “I’m just not going to announce it to anyone and everyone.”

  “If you’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Matthew pulled the cart round to the front of the house and Louisa picked up her bag.

  “Just be careful, Bernie,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.

  Bernie had a few more jobs to do in the evening. Then, as soon as he’d eaten, he hurried into his room to start putting his plan into action.

  He was very happy at the farm, and having a proper bedroom had simply made him feel more at home. It wasn’t fancy—just distempered brick walls and an iron-framed bed. But he and Matthew had made bookshelves from more bricks and planks of wood and a desk from an old door he’d found in the barn, sanded down and varnished, and those things had made the room his own.

  Now, he sat down at his desk and pulled a notepad toward him. Teaching at the same minor public school he’d attended as a boy may not have turned out to be the best decision he’d made, but it had certainly come with some positives and he intended to use the old boys’ network to his advantage.

  Thinking, he tapped his lip
with his pencil. Who might be able to help? He’d start with his old school friend Wally. He was at the War Office now, Bernie believed. And Wally owed him a favor because Bernie had pulled some strings to get his son into St. Richard’s when Wally had forgotten to put him on the waiting list.

  He wrote down “Wally” on his pad.

  Then there was Tobias Jackson’s father. Tobias was at Oxford now, and doing rather well by all accounts, thanks in no small part to the reference Bernie had given him. Wasn’t his father a field marshal? Or possibly he’d been promoted since Bernie last heard news of him. Yes, he’d most certainly be useful. Now, what was his name? He paused, drumming the end of his pencil on the desk. Jackson. Jackson . . .

  “David,” he said out loud. He scribbled it down. Who else? What about that irritating lad who’d been grumpy as anything in class, surly and silent, and then sang like an angel in choir? Sylvester, someone? Wasn’t his father an MP? In fact, wasn’t he now a minister? Bernie had seen his name somewhere recently.

  With a flash of memory he dashed into the kitchen and found yesterday’s newspaper under the sleeping cat. He picked her up to retrieve it and she mewed in irritation.

  “Hush,” he said, scratching her under her chin as he put her back down on the chair. She curled up and went back to sleep, and Bernie went back to his room.

  He turned the pages of the paper quickly, scanning for the photograph he remembered seeing.

  Yes, there it was. Marcus Francis-Evans. Goodness, he was in the wartime cabinet. He wondered if he would be able to help. Bernie hadn’t had a lot to do with Sylvester at St. Richard’s—the boy wasn’t much interested in the classics, preferring to spend his time playing piano and singing. Could he ask for his father’s help now? Why would he help him? He probably wouldn’t even remember Bernie Yorke, a former teacher at his son’s school.

  He’d remember Vivienne, though. Beautiful, talented music teacher Vivienne.

  Thinking about Vivi made his stomach lurch. He couldn’t possibly contact her now and ask for a favor. Could he?

  He thought about Ivy, pregnant and alone, worrying about what had happened to Jim. And he thought about how she and Jim had looked out for him, hidden him at St. Anne’s, brought him food when he was hungry. And he thought that however difficult it would be to get in touch with Vivienne, he would do it. For Ivy.

  * * *

  The next day, Bernie had a stack of letters on his desk, each addressed to an old friend or a former pupil’s father. In each one he’d explained briefly that a good friend of his had lost contact with her fiancé—he thought that sounded stronger than “sweetheart”—and was desperate to hear word of him.

  This young woman has an astonishing character, he wrote. She is kind and always puts everyone else’s feelings above her own. She looked out for me when I was at my lowest and I believe she saved my life. I hope you can help me now, when she is in her hour of need.

  Then he’d carefully reminded the recipient of the favors he’d done for them over the years.

  I hear Tobias is making a mark for himself at Oxford, and is tipped to be a future prime minister, he wrote. Or, I trust Lawrence is enjoying his time at St. Richard’s and making good friends, as we did.

  When it came to the letter for Marcus Francis-Evans, he simply wrote about Ivy and how much she meant to him and what she’d done for him. Then he sealed the envelope and put it inside another with a note for Vivienne. It had taken four attempts before he managed to get the right balance between the airy tone of catching up with an old friend and reminding her that her cruelty and disregard for his feelings had cost him his job and almost his sanity.

  I wondered if I may ask you a favor, as a former colleague and friend, he wrote. I know you were close to the Francis-Evans family, and nurtured young Sylvester’s considerable talent. May I ask you to pass on the enclosed letter to his father, and perhaps let him know it’s of vital importance? I trust you are well and happy. I’m sure you would want to know that I have put the miserable business at St. Richard’s behind me and hold no ill will toward anyone from that time.

  He tucked the stack of letters into his pocket and went to check with Matthew that it was all right for him to pop to the post office.

  Matthew agreed, and Jenny asked him to pick up a few things from the shops. So Bernie wrapped up in his coat and hat—it was another blustery day—and headed off down the lane to the village.

  Mrs. Lannister greeted him like an old friend, chattering away as he stuck the stamps on his letters.

  “And you’ll never guess who my husband thought he saw this morning,” she said. Bernie made a noncommittal noise that could have meant anything from “Oh my gosh, who was it?” to “Honestly, I could not care less.” Mrs. Lannister was always telling him stories about people he didn’t know; he took it as a compliment that she forgot he was a newcomer to Cassingham.

  “Reg Taylor,” she said in triumph. Bernie winced. He paused in the licking of his stamps and looked at her.

  “Reg Taylor?”

  “Like a bloody bad penny. He always turns up sooner or later. My Stevie, he said he was down at the coast, Dover, I think.”

  “Folkestone,” Bernie said.

  “Folkestone, that’s it. Staying with that sour-faced sister of his. No wonder he’s slunk back up here with his tail between his legs—can’t be much fun down there with her.”

  “What’s he like?” Bernie was curious about Louisa’s husband, and he didn’t feel like he could quiz Matthew about him.

  Mrs. Lannister looked at him, brow furrowed. “Don’t you know him?”

  “He’d gone before I arrived.”

  “Of course.” She let out a peal of laughter. “I always forget you’re not a Hamilton by birth. You’re part of that farm now.”

  Bernie was pleased but still eager to hear about Reg.

  “What’s he like?” he asked again.

  Mrs. Lannister leaned over the counter and cupped her chin in her hand, thinking.

  “He’s one of those that goes round thinking the world owes him a living.”

  Bernie nodded. He’d met plenty of those men in his time.

  “And he’s a drinker. And when he drinks, there’s no telling what he’ll do. He’s handy with his fists, he’s rude. But when he’s sober, he’s a nice chap. Good company. Popular among the lads in the village.”

  “Poor Louisa,” Bernie muttered under his breath, but Mrs. Lannister had ears like a bat and heard him.

  “She’s well rid, if you ask me. I always admired her, going off like that. Very bold.”

  “She is.”

  Mrs. Lannister stood upright, signaling their conversation was over.

  “I imagine you’ll meet Reg soon enough if he’s back,” she said. “He’ll show up somewhere before too long. Wanting something, no doubt.”

  * * *

  Matthew said the same when Bernie told him the news.

  “He’ll turn up here, I imagine,” he said. He was under the cart, flat on his back, mending one of the wheels so Bernie couldn’t see his face. But he could hear the tone of his voice, which sounded less than impressed. “He always comes here when he wants something. He was so put out when Louisa left him that he thinks we owe him. He can’t see that she left because of the baby.”

  Bernie liked how Matthew was solidly, quietly supportive of Louisa. “Will you help him?”

  Matthew was quiet for a moment.

  “I’ll let him sleep in the barn over winter, I suppose. I wouldn’t want any man outside with the weather so wild. But no. I don’t think we’ll help him. I think it’s time he found his own way.”

  “That’s a nice thing to do.” Bernie admired Matthew’s sense of right and wrong, which to him seemed in keeping with his own Quaker belief in tolerance. “He might enlist. Married men are being called up now. And he’s not working.”
r />   “I don’t imagine they can find him,” Matthew said. “But he’s too old anyway, which is lucky for him; but luckier for the army, in my opinion. I’d not want to be in a trench with him.”

  Matthew slid out from underneath the cart and looked up at Bernie.

  “If he’s going to show up anywhere, it’ll be in the pub. I’m going for a drink later if you fancy it?”

  Bernie didn’t drink, not really. He occasionally had a brandy if he’d had a shock—he’d had quite a lot of brandy when the whole Vivienne thing happened—but he rarely joined the men in the village pub. He was tempted, though. Intrigued by the prospect of meeting the man Louisa had run from.

  “I might do that,” he said to Matthew. “Thanks.”

  Chapter 27

  And so, later that evening, Bernie and Matthew headed down to the pub. Because the village had a lot of farms, there were still a few men around, so the pub was normally busy enough. Bernie hadn’t been in it before, but he knew Matthew’s friends, and he knew the farmhands and most of the villagers. They all greeted him like an old pal and offered to buy him a drink—he asked for a small beer—and after a while, Bernie relaxed, enjoying the company and the laughter. It was nice to be out with other people, rather than reading alone in his room—which he also enjoyed, but perhaps not every night.

  After about an hour, Matthew nudged him.

  “Told you,” he said, nodding his head toward the door. “Reg.”

  The man who’d entered had a ruddy complexion and thinning hair. Bernie knew he was only in his early forties, but he looked older. He was slightly unsteady on his feet as he came through the door like a returning hero.

  “Look who’s back, lads,” he said.

  The men all looked up and Bernie was sure he saw more than one of them wince. But some of the older farmhands smiled and patted Reg on the back, and someone bought him a drink.

  He stayed at the bar for a while, getting through his first beer in the blink of an eye and telling tales—to everyone and no one—of what he’d been getting up to in Folkestone. Bernie began to see what Mrs. Lannister had meant when she said he thought the world owed him a living.