Song of the Skylark

by Erica James

  Despite her excitement and the desire to absorb every minute of the train journey, lack of sleep from the previous night when she hadn’t got to bed until nearly three in the morning inevitably got the better of her and she slept heavily until she was woken by the woman in the seat opposite tapping her gently on the arm.

  ‘We’re in London now, honey,’ the woman said.

  Momentarily disorientated, Clarissa blinked hard and peered out of the window. Sure enough, there was a large sign with Paddington written across it. The platform was busy with people milling around, and she pressed her face to the window hoping to spot the woman who had been her mother’s oldest friend. With no luck, she gathered up her things and followed behind the couple with whom she’d shared the carriage.

  It was some time before she was reunited with her luggage and while a cheery porter took care of it, she straightened her hat and looked up and down the platform for her godmother. No, she wasn’t there.

  ‘Where to then, miss?’ asked the porter.

  She hesitated. Should she find some sort of tearoom and wait, or maybe find a taxi? After all, she had her godmother’s address.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said at length, ‘somebody is supposed to be—’ She broke off at the sound of a silvery voice ringing out clearly above the melee of activity on the platform.

  ‘Yoo-hoo! A thousand apologies! What must you think of me turning up late like this? You’ve crossed the Atlantic and all I’ve had to do is cross London!’

  The woman striding towards her was tall and strikingly dressed in a pair of grey flannel trousers and a silk blouse with a close-fitting jacket. Perched on her head was pale grey hat that was tipping precariously to one side – the large dent to it at the front suggested it might well have recently fallen off and been trodden on.

  Before Clarissa had a chance to say anything, the woman looked at her hard. ‘How perfectly extraordinary,’ she said, ‘you really are the absolute spit of your mother, I’d know you anywhere! Which is just as well, as otherwise I could have made a frightful ass of myself!’

  Wondering if she would ever get a word in edgeways, but remembering the promise she had made to reinvent herself when she made it to England, at the same time recalling how effortlessly Effie could slip into character, Clarissa stuck out her hand confidently. ‘And you must be Polly Sinclair,’ she said. ‘You look just like you do in the photograph you sent me. I’m so very pleased to meet you at last, I hope it wasn’t too much trouble for you to come for me.’

  ‘Nonsense, it’s the least I can do. Have you had a dreadfully tedious journey?’

  ‘Quite the contrary, it’s been fun and very enlightening.’

  ‘Excellent! I do so hate a poor traveller, especially Americans who complain of simply everything. And before you take offence, I don’t regard you as American. You’re Frannie’s daughter and that makes you as English as me. Now come along, I have my car parked outside.’ She paused to look at the trolley of Clarissa’s luggage and the porter who was patiently waiting for his instructions. ‘Hmm … this little lot will have to be sent on separately.’ She delved into her handbag, pulled out some money and gave the man her address.

  Doubtful that she would ever see her luggage again, Clarissa matched her stride with that of Polly’s and hurried out of the station. The car that awaited them was the smallest she had ever seen and, once installed inside, Polly drove it as though she were being chased by the devil himself.

  ‘Don’t be nervous,’ she said above the roar of the engine, and presumably noting Clarissa’s hands gripping the sides of her seat, ‘I’m a perfectly safe driver, never once had an accident. Although there’s always a first time,’ she added with a gay laugh.

  After much honking of horns and looks of angry disbelief from other drivers, they drew to a breathtakingly abrupt halt outside a row of white-painted houses. On the other side of the road was what looked to be a gated garden. Clarissa was still taking in her surroundings when Polly sprang out of the car and came round to open the door for her.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re used to in Boston,’ she said, ‘but I guarantee you’re going to find things very different here, chez moi. Probably a lot smaller. All the Americans I meet are always saying how everything in the States is so much bigger and better. To which I say, if that’s the case, then why bother coming here at all?’ She laughed, and slipping her arm through Clarissa’s, guided her towards the house nearest to where they were parked, a house that seemed identical to all the others. From her handbag she withdrew a bunch of keys and let them in. From there they went up two flights of stairs to a spacious landing where a cat could be heard meowing from the other side of a door with a small brass plaque declaring it to be 16b.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind sharing my humble little abode with Valentino,’ Polly said, inserting the key into the lock. ‘In the absence of a husband or any children, I’m afraid I rather spoil him and treat him as my baby.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll be the best of friends,’ Clarissa said equably.

  There was nothing remotely humble about Polly’s ‘little abode’, and at once Clarissa felt how very English it was. Panelled walls were home to large oil paintings, mostly portraits of rather severe-looking men and women interspersed with a number of landscapes. Scattered atop a marble fireplace were framed photographs and a number of cards, which Clarissa guessed were invitations. To the right of a tall sash window was a grand piano, its polished surface so flawless the vase of roses sitting on it was reflected in the light coming through the window. A stately grandfather clock struck the hour, informing Clarissa that not only was it six o’clock, but that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast and she was suddenly aware how ravenous she was.

  ‘Now you’re to make yourself at home,’ Polly instructed her from behind one of the two chintz-covered sofas where she appeared to be selecting something to drink from a row of bottles and decanters on a console table. ‘How about a Manhattan,’ she asked, holding up a glass, ‘in case you’re feeling homesick?’

  ‘I’m not feeling in the slightest bit homesick,’ Clarissa said, bending down to Valentino, a large fluffy white Persian cat who was wrapping himself around her ankles. ‘And I rather overdid it last night and have taken a vow of abstinence for a few days.’ She was quite pleased with the nonchalance of her remark. Maybe this reinventing business was going to be easier than she’d thought.

  ‘Good for you! In that case, I’ll have a straightforward G&T and then see what Mrs Haines has left us for supper. I’ll hazard a guess that it’s shepherd’s pie. Which brings me to the house rules, of which there are only two. Firstly, Mrs H runs my household like clockwork and is to be obeyed at all times; she’s a genuine find and I wouldn’t be without her, so no upsetting her.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Clarissa. ‘And the second house rule?’

  ‘No grumbling about the plumbing, just accept that, like me, it’s wildly unpredictable and you’ll get along fine with it. Now, let me show you to your quarters, which I do hope won’t fall too short of the high standard you’re probably more used to with your grandmother. I’ve put you in the room overlooking the garden in the square, that way you get a lovely view of all the comings and goings. I’ll give you a key tomorrow so you can sit in the garden, if you like. Take your time having a wash and brush-up and I’ll see what’s what in the kitchen. How does that sound?’

  ‘It sounds more than I deserve.’

  ‘The daughter of my oldest friend deserves all I can give her. Not to say you’re my god-daughter whom I now have the chance to spoil. Such a pity it’s only now that we’ve met. I blame that rotten family of Frannie’s – talking of whom, there’s a letter for you from them.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, I have a confession to make. I wrote a stinker of a letter to them to say you were coming to stay with me and that if they had a shred of decency they
would do the right thing.’

  ‘You said that?’

  ‘I could have said an awful lot more, but let’s just say I was feeling generous. Ah, there’s the doorbell, that must be your luggage.’

  Left on her own in her ‘quarters’, Clarissa sat on the bed and mentally caught her breath. She could see that staying with Polly was going to be enormous fun, but it was also going to be exhausting. The woman was an absolute whirlwind of energy.

  She had just removed her hat and was looking in the mirror, trying to do something with her hair, when she noticed the letter on the dressing table. Curious to know how her mother’s parents had reacted to Polly’s missive, she wasted no time in tearing open the envelope.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Shillingbury Grange,

  Shillingbury,

  Suffolk.

  12th April 1939

  Dear Clarissa,

  It has been brought to my notice that you will shortly be in London staying with a friend of your mother’s. In the circumstances I feel it incumbent upon me to make your acquaintance and therefore suggest you visit Shillingbury Grange at your earliest convenience.

  Regards,

  There was a signature at the bottom of the page, but it was so illegible that Clarissa had no idea who had written the letter. Man or woman, it was impossible to tell. After repeated readings she concluded that the formality of the language was that of a man. So now, four days after Clarissa’s arrival in London, during which time Polly had taken her on a whirlwind of non-stop activity to see the sights, spend evenings at the theatre and shop till her feet cried out to rest, she sat down to reply to the invitation to meet her English grandparents. There was a rebellious streak fighting within her to refuse the invitation, to pay them back for what they had done to her mother, but she knew Fran would not have wanted her to do that, and in truth it was not what she wanted; after all, her main objective for coming to England was to see if she could put right a great wrong.

  Two days later, and while Polly was at work, Clarissa received a reply to her letter; again the signature was illegible. Nonetheless, the matter was settled: the following morning she would take the train from Liverpool Street and be met at the station in Shillingbury.

  It was a sparklingly bright morning when Polly waved Clarissa goodbye, and it was not without a degree of trepidation that she sank into her seat and watched London disappear from view in a cloud of steam. This time during the train journey she did not sleep, nor did she look at the Picture Post magazine Polly had given her to keep her amused. Rather she kept her gaze on the passing countryside, marvelling at the prettiness of everything she saw. Fran had always described herself as a country girl at heart and Clarissa was beginning to think she was the same. She supposed those childhood years in France had left their mark without her really knowing it. Some of her earliest memories were of her mother digging in a garden and of showing Clarissa how to plant lettuce seeds. One day, if she ever had children of her own, she would teach them the same simple pleasures.

  Or maybe, like Polly she would never marry and have children, but instead she would have a job and do something worthwhile just as Polly did. And hadn’t she told Ellis that that was what she would do in London, find something useful to do with her life? Perhaps she could do something worthwhile at the agency where Polly worked, an agency that sought sponsorship and homes for Jewish children fleeing those parts of Europe where it was feared they were no longer safe. Before leaving America, Clarissa had had no idea such things were going on, that all the talk of war was just that, talk. First Artie had opened her eyes to what was really going on, and now so had her godmother.

  The door of her compartment slid back and a ticket collector asked to see her ticket. ‘Another twenty minutes and we’ll be at Shillingbury,’ he said, tipping his cap to her. ‘Pretty place, that. Stopping there long, are you, miss?’

  ‘Just the one night,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I hope you enjoy your brief stay.’

  Time will tell on that score, she thought when the man had left her.

  True to his word, they arrived at Shillingbury twenty minutes later and with only the one bag and her handbag to carry, Clarissa stepped onto the platform and followed behind a handful of other passengers. Once outside the station, and after giving her a long hard look with a pair of steely grey eyes, a man in a cap and rough workman’s trousers, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, approached. ‘Yow be far Shillingbury Grange?’ he asked, his thick accent unlike anything she’d heard before.

  ‘I am,’ she replied politely.

  ‘Thought yow moight be. Oi be Jimmy and I bin sent ter fetch yow.’

  She looked around for a car, but all she could see was a horse and trap next to a wooden post.

  ‘The motorcar ain’t warking too well,’ the man said by way of explanation. ‘But Apollo ’ere, even though he can be a bit of a rascal when provoked, will sartinly get yow where yow nid to be jest as well.’ With a strong, callused hand, he helped her up into the trap. Once they were both settled, he gave the reins a sharp snap and muttered something to the horse that was incomprehensible to Clarissa. After a few yards he said, ‘Truth to tell, miss, ain’t much warking too well these days at the Grange. Nothing’s what it used to be.’

  His voice held all the lightness and warmth of an Old Testament prophet predicting the end of time, and filled her with foreboding. Was this really such a good idea? Could anything positive come of such a visit?

  With no ready answer at her disposal, she could do nothing but hang onto the hope that she would do all she could within her power to undo the harm caused by years of stubborn pride. To do that she was going to have to rely heavily on her new self – the new, confident Clarissa who had stepped off the Belle Etoile would rise to the occasion and take the encounter in her stride, just as Effie would.

  To her delight, Clarissa had received a letter from Effie in yesterday’s post. She was in Paris with her father and stepmother and claimed to hate the city, saying she couldn’t wait to leave because Ellis and Artie weren’t there with her; selfishly they’d gone on to Biarritz without her. ‘If only they, or you, were here with me, then I’m sure I would love Paris,’ she’d written. ‘I miss you so much, my dearest new friend.’

  The sound of a vehicle approaching from behind had Clarissa turning round. A red, open-topped sports car bearing down on them coincided with a blare of car horn, which startled the horse and made it speed up at an alarming rate. Beside her Jimmy cursed and tightened his hold on the reins, ‘Whoa there!’ he shouted. ‘Whoa there!’ But the horse paid him no heed and galloped on, its tail swishing, its hooves clattering noisily. To Clarissa’s consternation, the driver of the car revved its engine and overtook with a loud honk of its horn, missing them by inches and causing Clarissa to let out a cry of fright.

  But worse was to come. As the car shot by, Apollo’s head went down and, with his ears back, he galloped faster and faster, dragging the trap behind him, making it sway perilously from side to side. Ahead of them, Clarissa saw a tractor emerge through a gap in the trees and turn to join the road, just where it narrowed into what appeared to be a small stone bridge. ‘Whoa there!’ the man beside her shouted; he was on his feet now, pulling on the reins, the muscles of his forearms straining hard. Fearing for her life, Clarissa gripped the rail in front of her and prayed with all her might that the horse would slow down. Just as Jimmy’s efforts went unheeded, so did her prayer and disaster was unavoidable. The violent collision of horse and tractor catapulted her through the air, and the last thing she was conscious of was a feeling of dreamlike weightlessness before landing with a heavy thud with the sound of a hundred banshees screaming nightmarishly in her ears. On and on went the terrible noise, until suddenly it ceased and in the blessed silence she succumbed to the sensation of weightlessness again, and felt herself drifting away from the body that had once been her
s.

  The next thing she knew she was staring into a whiteness, a whiteness that was so bright it hurt. She closed her eyes, wanting to slip back into the dream she’d been having, of floating on the silky softness of a vast cloud.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ asked a voice. It was a voice she didn’t recognise. A man’s voice. ‘Open your eyes if you can hear me.’

  Go away, she thought drowsily. Whoever you are, leave me alone. She pictured herself trying to hide from the man, her mind conjuring up the image of a child slipping behind a heavy velvet curtain and holding her breath till he was gone.

  But the man wasn’t playing fairly, he was calling to her, insisting she show herself. She didn’t like him very much. He was the bossy type who would be determined to spoil her fun. Just like Marjorie.

  Marjorie.

  Where did that name come from, she wondered? Who was Marjorie? And for that matter, where was she and why did her head hurt so much? Stepping out from behind the curtain, wanting to have her curiosity satisfied, she opened her eyes. Above her a circle of faces stared down at her with concerned expressions. ‘Who are you?’ she asked, shrinking back from them – a woman and two men.

  ‘I’m Dr Rutherford,’ one of the men said. He had thick bushy eyebrows the colour of ash and a large nose that was home to two extraordinarily cavernous nostrils. In his hand was a black object, which he suddenly pointed at her face; once more she was blinded by a white light shining directly into her eyes. She turned her head away sharply, but then gasped at the pain the movement brought with it. ‘I’d advise you to keep still, young lady,’ said the man with the bushy eyebrows.