Always In My Heart

by Freda Lightfoot

  Bearing in mind the state of austerity the country was in, it was astonishing they were also facing a huge inheritance tax payment, following his father’s death. Sir Randolph should have thought things through more carefully and prepared for this possibility. Sadly, he’d been entirely selfish, spending money on gambling, horse racing and grand cars, as if there was no tomorrow. An obsessive, and utterly controlling aristocrat.

  How would they even survive as a consequence not only of war issues, but this huge amount of death duty?

  And having lost everyone who mattered to him, Hugh’s appetite to acquire the necessary interest and energy to run the family estate and business had entirely disappeared, let alone the driving ambition he’d once possessed. He’d once been bursting with ideas and the desire to expand. But even increasing the low flour quota allowed due to rationing, could only happen if they acquired further outlets, which he really had no interest in doing, his mind now obsessed with debts.

  Admittedly, they were probably much better off than this girl, but she really had no right to pretend to be his brother’s widow, simply to get her hands on family money. She was just a greedy little madam. Jack would surely have told him if he had married her? Yet he did probably love her.

  He rang the bell for Carter. The butler quickly entered, again giving a slight bow. ‘Are you requiring a glass of whisky, sir, before you retire?’

  ‘That would be excellent. Oh, and tell that young girl she can stay for a few days, until she has made the necessary arrangements for her new future back in Manchester, although she’ll need to make herself useful in return for the free accommodation offered.’

  Carter’s face tightened a little as he politely responded. ‘Very good, sir, I will inform her of that fact. I’m sure she will be most helpful, as she always was.’

  *

  Desolation still threatened to overwhelm her. But maintaining her courage, a skill she’d acquired over the years of war, Brenda savoured with gratitude a simple but delicious dish of home-made soup and a bread roll for supper, before climbing up to the attic room where she’d resided years ago.

  It appeared that Hugh was in charge now. Not an encouraging prospect. But why had the conversation between them been so angry and difficult, his tone sharp with prejudice against her, not least because she was illegitimate? He was arrogantly treating her as if she was a greedy little scullery maid. The advice she’d received from her late mother-in-law had been to take care not to inflame her husband’s temper. His son appeared to be very much a chip off the old block, and vehemently defending herself wasn’t proving to be easy. Brenda did not want a penny off him, but she had to consider her own son’s future, once she’d found him safe and well and brought him home.

  But it seemed that yet again all her efforts had been to no avail.

  One moment she’d felt she had all the riches in the world: the love of her life and a child on the way. Now all of that happiness had gone and the pain in her heart made her feel weak with agony. Dropping into bed with exhaustion, she fell asleep within minutes. It was then that the nightmares once again surfaced.

  Four

  France, 1941

  In theory, as an enemy alien, Brenda was required to go to the Mairie every day to sign in. But the thought of presenting her British passport to the German officers now in control of the city hall filled her with fear. She really had no wish to reveal her identity, or to be searched by anybody. Thanks to Jack, her French was now reasonably proficient, and Brenda did her utmost to give the impression she was of native origin, even making sure she never wore any of the clothes she’d brought with her from England.

  However, she was all too aware that as an English woman she presented something of a danger to Camille and her cousin. Anyone found harbouring British nationals would be liable to arrest, or worse.

  ‘I wish I could find some form of employment to justify being stuck here,’ she said to her mother-in-law one evening. It was over a month now since baby Tommy had been born and she felt quite fit and capable of working. Being January, winter was upon them and the cost of food and fuel was increasing daily, assuming they were able to find any.

  ‘Your job is to care for your child,’ Camille smilingly told her as she rocked her grandchild in her arms before handing him over for his nightly bath.

  Determined to at least pay her way, Brenda looked for work day after day, enquiring about jobs in hospitals, canteens and various factories. Unfortunately, none seemed impressed by her lack of skills. ‘I may not be a nurse but I can cook and clean,’ she insisted after yet another refusal.

  ‘We’ll let you know,’ the stern-faced manager told her, holding open the door to show her out. As always, there were several people milling around, or sitting in the waiting room, probably equally desperate for employment. Reaching the street outside the hospital, she suddenly found a man at her elbow.

  ‘Are you looking for a job?’ he asked, speaking in fairly rapid French.

  ‘I am, yes.’

  He nodded. ‘I might be able to help.’

  ‘Really? That would be wonderful.’

  His full lips widened into an appealing smile. ‘You can call me Étienne, or Monsieur Bresson if you prefer. I can offer you good money and accommodation too, if necessary.’

  ‘What kind of work do you have to offer, and what skills would I need?’ Brenda prepared herself for the usual string of questions, but his response stunned her. ‘You speak French quite well for an English girl.’

  ‘What makes you think that I am?’ she asked, keeping her tone light, even as her voice trembled and a chill settled within her.

  ‘I heard you speaking to the manager, and your accent does have a slight British twang to it,’ he said, his dark eyes sparkling with humour.

  So despite her best efforts, she was still obviously British, which was no doubt the real reason she couldn’t find employment. Making no comment, Brenda gave a little shrug and began to walk away, only to find him again at her side.

  ‘I’m aware that finding a job if you are British is not easy, but I can help. I provide work for many ladies with foreign passports. Come, I’ll introduce you to them. Very few skills are needed, as they will teach you everything you need to know.’

  Unable to resist the offer since he seemed so helpful, and obviously held no prejudice against her nationality, Brenda dutifully followed. He led her along the street then down an alley to a tall, four-storey building tucked into a courtyard.

  ‘Ah, is this a hotel?’ she asked, mentally preparing herself for yet another interview. ‘If so, then it would indeed suit my skills, as I can certainly cook and clean.’

  Giving a little chuckle, he opened the door to show her into a shabby hall. ‘It could be considered as such, yes, although those are not necessarily the skills I am seeking.’

  Glancing around at the wallpaper peeling from the walls and an array of scruffy doors in bad need of a lick of paint, Brenda politely smiled. ‘Well, I could start with this entrance hall, and give it a good scrub and polish.’ Alarm bells suddenly began to ring in her head as she saw a German officer in uniform standing by one of the inner doors. Was she about to be arrested? Reminding herself this was a hotel and not the city hall or a military head quarters, she gave a little nod in his direction. ‘I take it you accept Germans as guests?’

  ‘Of course, they are regular clients. This man is a member of the Wehrmacht, the German defence force, and acts as a protector for the women who work here. Come with me,’ he said, ushering her through the door the man was guarding into a small parlour. It was lined with chairs and sofas, occupied by young girls dressed in floaty gowns or bathrobes, giggling and chatting happily to each other as they smoked cigarettes or sipped wine.

  ‘What is this place?’ Brenda asked, suspicion beginning to form somewhere in the pit of her stomach. Young she may be, but not stupid. Why would these women be sitting around half-dressed on this chilly winter’s day, even if there was a blazing fire in the
grate? As her fears began to escalate, another German soldier appeared out of nowhere. Seeing her standing by the fireplace, he came quickly over, an expression of curiosity lighting his face as his gaze roamed over her from head to toe.

  ‘You must be new. Take off your coat, then I can see you better.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Do as the gentleman asks,’ her escort instructed.

  ‘Why would I do that?’ she snapped, giving a little frown.

  ‘Because he is an important client, and has the right to inspect a possible candidate.’

  ‘Candidate for what? You haven’t yet informed me what kind of work you are offering, Monsieur Bresson.’

  ‘I assume that, in view of your nationality, you’d be agreeable to do anything in order to avoid arrest. You’re a very pretty lady, and I know of many young soldiers who would be only too glad to pay for the pleasure of your company. I can also offer you safe accommodation. The Germans visit this brothel regularly and don’t care about a girl’s nationality, so long as she is good-looking and amenable. Weekly visits are considered mandatory for all young soldiers to prevent them indulging in sexual excesses with all and sundry, thereby spreading venereal diseases. The girls employed here make good money and are given regular scheduled medical check-ups to keep them safe from such problems, so there’s nothing for you to worry about on that score.’

  Brenda stared at him in stunned horror. ‘What on earth are you suggesting? How dare you! I’m a widow, not a prostitute.’

  Glowering at her, he turned to speak in rapid German to the client who, laughing loudly, tugged open Brenda’s coat and began to grope her breasts with his large hands. ‘Hm, quite full and promising,’ the officer said, in perfect English. ‘Yes, she’s ideal, I’ll take this one.’

  Gasping with a mix of fury and terror, Brenda slapped his hands away, spun on her heels and stalked off at a rapid pace across the hall and through the outer door, holding her head high. The moment she reached the courtyard, she took to her heels and ran as if the devil was on her tail, because in a way he was.

  Respectable jobs, it seemed, were as hard to come by now as transport.

  *

  Her heart was pounding with fear and exhaustion by the time Brenda reached Camille’s apartment. She’d taken great care that she wasn’t being followed, and felt hardly able to breathe as alarm reverberated through her. How stupid to trust an absolute stranger and follow him, without even knowing what he had to offer. She’d put herself in serious danger as a consequence of such naivety, and must never do such a thing again. She dreaded to think what he might have done to her.

  ‘What is wrong, dear girl?’ Camille asked, watching in dismay as Brenda collapsed on to the velvet sofa in tears.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe what’s just happened.’ The two ladies came to sit beside her, Camille dabbing at the tears dripping down her cheeks with a lace handkerchief.

  ‘Do tell us what has upset you. Are you all right, dear?’

  ‘Fortunately, yes. I thought I’d at last found employment.’ Quickly explaining her terrifying story, tears again filled her eyes at the sight of their shocked expressions. ‘Once I realised that it was a brothel and not a hotel, I ran hell for leather, as we say in England. How dare that German officer grope me, the bastard! Nothing on earth would persuade me to give myself to any man.’

  ‘What a dreadful world we are living in now,’ Adèle said with a sad sigh as she wrapped her arms about Brenda to give her a comforting hug. ‘I’ve heard that Polish and other foreign girls, some as young as fifteen, have found themselves kidnapped and taken to a brothel to be sexually exploited. Thank goodness you managed to escape, darling.’

  ‘You are perfectly safe here with us, but I think you should stay indoors for a while, just in case they come looking for you, dear,’ Camille suggested.

  Brenda nodded in agreement, feeling bleak and even more trapped. Perhaps it was not a good idea for a British girl to seek work in this occupied city. She really had no wish to ever again be approached by such rogues. Picking up her child, together with his little toy monkey, Brenda gave him a kiss and a cuddle. How she adored him. Bathing, nursing and feeding him in the days following helped to ease her anxiety as the sweet baby scent of her son brought joy to her heart.

  Five

  1944

  Puffs of white cloud danced over humps of hills the next morning as Brenda stared bleakly out of the window, having suffered another fairly sleepless night. Could all these traumas be the reason her confidence was leaking rapidly away? She felt filled with anguish, as if she was falling into that dark pit yet again, quite unable to block out the pain. Yet she’d learned over the years to fight these feelings of extreme anxiety by rebuilding her strength, something she really must work upon.

  Mrs Harding, even plumper than she’d been when Brenda had first come to work with her, was still a jolly and cheerful woman and most welcoming as Brenda settled herself at the table in the kitchen for breakfast. For a moment it felt almost as if she’d never been away. Brenda remembered how she used to scrub this big pine table and the slate floors, black-lead the stove and spend hours peeling and chopping vegetables, washing and ironing. Long hard days full of endless tasks.

  The housekeeper gently patted her hand. ‘Tha looks like tha’s been through hell, chuck.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘As have many others in this dratted war, but you’re safe home now.’

  ‘It will surely end soon. Even France is on the road to freedom.’

  ‘Aye, as we all will be before too long. And don’t fret about Master Hugh being a bit sniffy. It’s no fault of yours. As well as losing his parents, his fiancée was recently killed in an air raid. He attended her funeral in London only a week or two ago.’

  ‘Oh, that’s dreadful! He never said a word about that.’ Was this the reason for his foul temper? ‘I was so upset to hear that Lady Stuart had died. She was such a lovely lady, and so kind to me. Do you know where she was living at the time, or where her cousin Adèle Rouanet, with whom she was sharing a home, lives?’

  With a puzzled frown Mrs Harding shook her head. ‘I only know what Miss Melissa told us, that her beloved Mama died of cancer. Nowt more was said on the subject. We all knew she’d left her husband, but ‘twas none of our business why or where she’d gone.’

  Brenda let out a heavy sigh, finding herself sinking into silent depression once more.

  ‘So how are you, chuck?’ the housekeeper asked, propping her legs up on a stool to give them a rest, since she was generally on her feet all day long.

  ‘I’m in a bit of a quandary right now, Mrs Harding. The fact is…’ Brenda paused, finding herself unable to speak of the anguish she was suffering at having lost her son. She’d lived in hope that those two dear ladies who had cared for them both so well, would have returned to England at some point, bringing Tommy with them. No doubt because of Camille’s tragic death, that hadn’t happened. At worst she’d expected a member of the family to at least have Adèle’s address, but Hugh claimed he didn’t even know her. ‘I’m fine,’ she said at last, giving a brave smile.

  In truth, Brenda felt as if her entire life lay in ruins, and could not decide how best to deal with this dilemma. The memory of dear Tommy brought to mind that his birthday would be coming up soon when he would turn four, and she hadn’t seen him since he was but a few weeks old. She had nothing left: no husband, no son, not even a job or any income, although she fully intended to find one. She could well need money to help search for him. Once this war was finally over, and she’d retrieved him from wherever Adèle was keeping him safe, Brenda fully intended to build a new life for them both.

  Putting on a brave face as she nibbled her toast, Brenda praised Mrs Harding for her delicious home-made jam. ‘I used to make this for Camille, exactly as you taught me,’ she told her. She’d learned a great deal working with the housekeeper all those years ago, and had enjoyed every moment
of it, despite the hard work.

  ‘Thee allus were a good little worker, chuck.’

  ‘Hugh agreed to let me stay for only one night, so I’ll be leaving later today. But that’s fine by me. I need to find a job, and the best place to do that is in my home town of Castlefield, so the sooner I go the better.’

  Mrs Harding scowled. ‘Nay, tha doesn’t have to go yet, lass. I know he created a bit of a rumpus for thee, but Carter says Master Hugh has changed his mind and agreed you can stay for a few days until you get theeself sorted. No doubt he realises you’re in sore need of a rest, or else feels a bit guilty over the way he spoke to thee. Mind, he expects you to help wi’ the chores,’ she said, giving a droll little smile.

  ‘Oh, I’ve no problem with that. That would be wonderful. I’m so grateful.’ Perhaps he was not quite so unfeeling as he’d sounded?

  ‘It’s not been an easy time for any of the family, particularly Master Hugh, despite him being in a reserved occupation as a farmer and businessman. I suspect bankruptcy is also threatening. Finding the necessary ingredients to bake enough biscuits and make a decent profit has not been easy. The company used to produce such a good selection of biscuits, including bourbons, rich tea, homewheat, chocolate, fruit shortcake, ginger nuts and many more. Not possible now, with shortages being what they are.

  ‘Nor did Sir Randolph approve of his son being involved in the everyday work of the factory, instructing him to concentrate upon running the estate. Such a decision did not help Master Hugh to acquire much knowledge on how to run the factory. But then, he and his pernickety father never did get on too well. Now Sir Randolph has departed this life, bless his soul, leaving his son in charge. We can but hope things will improve.’