by Erica James
‘And there was me thinking your default setting was bitch-queen,’ he’d said lightly, ‘I’m almost disappointed: I was getting to quite like that side of you.’
She’d asked him again if he ever took anything seriously. ‘Seriously enough,’ he’d said. ‘Tell me some more about the job you lost.’
Once she had relaxed and lowered her guard, she had found it surprisingly easy to talk to him. He was like her brother in that respect: a good listener. He had an open face with blue eyes that held her gaze while she spoke and she could tell he was listening properly to her, not just feigning interest.
They’d just finished their second drink when his mobile had rung. ‘Sorry,’ he’d said, after speaking no more than a few words to whoever had rung him, ‘but I’m going to have to go.’ They’d parted in the pub car park, he’d turned left and she right in the direction of Great Magnus.
Home now, she put her bicycle in the garage, shut the door and went round to the back door. Mum and Dad were in the kitchen. They had that look on their faces, the one that said they had something to say, but didn’t know how to go about it.
‘But why?’ asked Lizzie. ‘What on earth possessed Simon to come and see you?’
‘He was on his way to see his parents for a couple of days and called in here first to apologise.’
Lizzie looked at her father in disbelief. ‘Why, what has he done?’
‘He hasn’t done anything; in fact, he couldn’t have been nicer.’
‘He’s embarrassed by the way his mother’s carrying on,’ Mum said hotly. ‘And rightly so. She’s behaving like a very spiteful child.’
‘You didn’t say that, did you?’
‘Of course not,’ her mother said indignantly. ‘Unlike other people, I know how to behave.’
‘It was good of him to care about our feelings,’ Dad said, ‘but I can’t help thinking he came here hoping to see you as well.’
‘I doubt that very much. Unless he came to gloat.’
Lizzie’s father shook his head. ‘I think you’re doing Simon a grave injustice. There was nothing in his manner to suggest he wished you ill. Quite the opposite, he was most solicitous in asking after you.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘We told him the truth,’ her mother said, ‘that Curt was now out of the picture.’
Inwardly groaning, Lizzie sank into the nearest chair. Anything but the truth, she thought miserably, as the last remnants of her tattered pride disintegrated.
Chapter Thirty
The next day after lunch, when Lizzie had set off to Woodside on her bike, Tom took Freddie to feed the ducks. He was glad to be out of the house. Today was one of those days when he had to step away from Tess and give her some space; she wasn’t easy to be around right now. It was an admission, even if it was just to himself, that didn’t sit well with him. He and Tess rarely disagreed; neither of them liked confrontation, which meant at times they weren’t entirely honest with each other.
Tom certainly hadn’t been honest yesterday with Tess about Simon. In his opinion, her blurting out to Simon that Curt was not leaving his wife for Lizzie, and had probably never intended to do so, had not been fair to Lizzie. He suspected Tess had said what she had because she would like nothing better than to have things as they once were – life pre-Curt Flynn. If Tom were honest he’d like the same, but he doubted Lizzie would see it that way. And how could life return to how it had once been? Too much trust had been destroyed in the last few weeks for that to be possible, not just on the part of Lizzie and Simon, but between Lorna and Tess. Could their friendship ever be repaired? Tom doubted it. In contrast, he and Keith would most likely be able to smooth things out between themselves, if only because they would deliberately never speak of the matter, but Tess and Lorna were a different kettle of fish.
It wasn’t often Tom was lost for words, but when he’d opened the door yesterday and seen Simon on the doorstep, he’d been at a loss to know what to say. There had been a split second when the sight of Simon had been so wholly familiar, he had very nearly welcomed him inside just as he always used to when the lad had practically been family. It was, he’d realised after checking himself, the first time they had seen each other since Lizzie had turned the world upside down. It had been a close-run thing as to who had looked the more awkward of the pair of them, but with nothing else for it, Tom had ushered Simon inside and taken him through to the sitting room where Tess had been reading to Freddie before taking him upstairs to bed. It had been Freddie who had saved the day for them all by taking the book from Tess’s hands and showing it to Simon, excitedly pointing to the picture of a monkey and throwing in a few monkey noises for good measure. To Simon’s credit he had responded perfectly and pointed to a lion and asked Freddie what noise it made. There had then followed all manner of animal noises with Freddie jumping off the sofa to bounce around the room like an over-excited kangaroo. There was nothing like a small child to act as an icebreaker, and with the mood slightly eased, Simon had come right out with the purpose of his visit: to apologise for the way his mother was behaving. ‘I don’t know what’s got into her,’ he’d said, ‘but there’s no need for her to be taking things out on you two. The four of you were friends before Lizzie and I got together; there’s no reason you shouldn’t remain so.’
Tom had tried graciously to accept the apology, at the same time shrugging it off by resorting to clichés and saying it was all a storm in a teacup and time would heal once the dust had settled, but Tess had leapt in and accused Lorna of not having any idea how badly they felt and how upset they were since she had all but blamed and vilified them. Tom had tried discreetly to signal to his wife to stop speaking, but unusually for her she was giving vent to her feelings and saying it wasn’t for Simon to apologise, that it was Lorna who should be expressing regret. Worried that Tess was about to undo the good Simon had come to do, Tom had offered him a drink and after politely refusing, Simon had asked how Lizzie was. That was when, once again, Tess had said more than was appropriate.
A short while later, when they’d got Freddie to bed and Lizzie arrived home, the truth of his concern was made all too apparent.
‘Why, Mum?’ she’d groaned. ‘Why did you have to tell Simon about Curt?’
‘Why not?’ Tess had answered back, her tone defensive, ‘it’s true, isn’t it?’
‘True or not, I’d rather you didn’t feel the need to share with Simon my every failure.’
Tom hated knowing that Lizzie saw her life so bleakly. He wished he could do something to cheer her up, but what could he do? What she needed was a massive boost to her self-esteem, and he was damned if he knew how to provide that.
At the duck pond now, Tom unstrapped Freddie from the pushchair and took him to the edge of the pond. With eager hands Freddie took the bag of breadcrumbs Tom gave him.
‘Now remember to throw just a little bit each time,’ Tom said, knowing full well the instruction would be ignored. Sure enough, Freddie began flinging handfuls of bread in all directions. At once a squadron of ducks swam over to where they were standing inciting squeals of delight. The nearer they got, the more animated Freddie became – he was now at the stage of stamping his feet he was so excited.
How easy children are at this stage, Tom thought nostalgically, remembering Lizzie and Luke at a similar age. He remembered also how Lizzie just naturally demanded more of their care and attention than Luke ever did. Luke was born lucky, Tess used to say; everything just fell into his lap. The fact that they never had to worry about him was just as well: worrying about Lizzie was quite enough to contend with.
A splash followed by a shrill cry and a squally chorus of quacking jolted him out of his thoughts. To his horror, Freddie must have taken a step too far towards the water’s edge and tumbled in.
If Tom had been able to smuggle Freddie in and change him into some dry clothes without Tess kno
wing, he would have gladly done so. But as it was, the whole of the village probably heard Freddie’s cries as Tom hurried home with him, his socks and shoes squelching with pond water with every step. He blamed himself, of course; if he hadn’t been so distracted, he would have kept his eye on his grandson.
Before he’d even got round to the back of the house, Tess came running towards him. ‘What’s happened?’ she cried, her hands outstretched to take Freddie from the pushchair.
‘Don’t fuss, it’s nothing!’ Tom snapped back at her, unstrapping Freddie and carrying him inside the house, but not before seeing the stricken expression on his wife’s face.
‘It doesn’t sound like nothing,’ replied Tess, following behind him. ‘Tell me you didn’t let him fall in the pond!’ Her voice was raised – it had to be above the awful din Freddie was making – and Tom balked at the stinging accusation contained within her words.
‘He just got a bit wet, that’s all.’
‘A bit wet?’ she remonstrated. ‘He’s soaked to the skin from top to toe! Here, give him to me. I’ll calm him down, then you can tell me what on earth you’ve done. Heaven only knows what Ingrid will say!’
In that precise moment, nothing would have made Tom relinquish his grandson to Tess. He rounded on his wife. ‘Why do you always have to make such a big drama out of everything? And why is it that you can have an accident with Freddie and I can support you, but when it’s me, you do nothing but make out I’m some kind of blithering fool?’
She stared back at him, stunned. ‘I don’t make a drama out of everything. And I’m not blaming you.’
‘You are!’
Their angry exchange had the effect of silencing Freddie and, looking first at Tom, then at Tess, he gave a long juddering sniff and stuck out his lower lip. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured. ‘Freddie very sorry.’
In the sudden silence, Tom blinked and swallowed hard. Unable to speak, he handed his grandson over to Tess and bolted back outside to the garden, his body shaking with a spasm of impotent regret. How had it happened? How could he have been so furiously sharp with Tess? What had got into him?
Thinking of his little grandson apologising, he could not have felt more ashamed of himself.
Chapter Thirty-One
Enjoying the peace and quiet of her usual spot in the rose arbour, Clarissa watched Lizzie on the terrace helping Mr Sheridan – or Gordon, as he insisted she call him. From what Clarissa could see he was asking Lizzie to reposition his chair so he could sit directly in the sun – Pah, skin cancer at my time of life be damned! was his battle cry when advised to sit in the shade, as they all were. What a silly old goose he was. But, of course, she understood all too well that his flouting of the advice was his way of maintaining a sense of autonomy. They all did it to a degree, a digging in of heels here, a refusal there. Clarissa’s small act of defiance was to feed the birds outside her room – they were told not to in case it encouraged rats.
Observing how attentive Lizzie was being, Clarissa very much hoped that Jed had been astute enough not to let on to Lizzie that it had been her idea for him to ask the girl out for a drink. She also hoped that Lizzie had been gracious enough to accept the invitation. Her world seemed so very gloomy for her at the moment, and a little lightness, even if it was fleeting and no more than a distraction in the form of a young man who had got off on the wrong foot with her, would be no bad thing in Clarissa’s opinion. It was what everybody needed, something a little unexpected to provide a respite from an excess of disappointment and the grinding monotony of a dull routine.
Clarissa had had many highs and lows in her life, but she could never lay claim to a dull life. Was that a state of mind, she wondered, or a highly selective memory at work? Even as a child she couldn’t recall being bored, she could always find something to do, but perhaps that was down to her being comfortably, though not exclusively, self-contained. She enjoyed the company of others, but was quite happy to be alone.
Not being allowed to be alone was one of the things she had feared most about her intention to end her days here at Woodside. Cutting that final tie and selling her house had represented, not just the throwing in of the towel, but an acceptance that she would have to face the inevitable loss of her individuality, maybe even her personality, and more importantly, the right to enjoy her own company. However, her worst fears had not materialised and she was enormously relieved and grateful for that.
Funny really how she had ended up here when there were dozens of homes to pick from in Suffolk. Unlike some of the other residents here, she had had no previous connection with this particular village, or immediate surrounding area, it really had been a matter of chance. But then, so much in life was. There had also been an element of choosing somewhere new to live, her last hurrah, you could say, her swansong.
Still watching Lizzie as she tried to persuade Mr Sheridan to wear his sun hat, Clarissa thought how much she enjoyed talking to the girl. There had been no opportunity yesterday to chat with her and initially that had annoyed Clarissa. Then she had chided herself for turning into what she had always vowed she never would, a selfish and demanding old woman. There were other people here with whom Lizzie could spend time, not just her.
But there was no getting away from it, the girl intrigued Clarissa; she so blatantly wore her heart on her sleeve, yet probably believed she did the complete opposite. Just as Clarissa had thought she had done as a young girl.
She was touched how genuine Lizzie’s interest in her life was; she didn’t feign interest because that was what was expected of her – the occasional question asked purely for the sake of appearing as though she cared. Admittedly it was self-centred of Clarissa to enjoy Lizzie as a sole audience, but she liked reliving the past: going into things in such detail brought it all vividly alive for her. It also brought back memories she hadn’t thought of in a very long time. Strange how it was all there, it just needed the right prompt for it all to come flooding back and in the smallest and seemingly insignificant detail. The more she told Lizzie, the more she wanted to share with her, perhaps because she knew this chance to relive the past would never come her way again.
Up on the terrace, Lizzie waved to her. Mr Sheridan – Gordon – was now absorbed in his newspaper and very likely harrumphing at most of what he read, denouncing it as nothing but governmental whitewash or media manipulation. With Lizzie miming the actions of drinking a cup of tea, Clarissa nodded, happily.
Ten minutes later and with her captive audience now making her way across the lawn to her, Clarissa readied herself for telling the next part of her story.
Chapter Thirty-Two
May 1939, Shillingbury Grange, Suffolk
With what felt like alarming speed, the children arrived less than a fortnight after Clarissa had convinced Lavinia that she should offer her home to two children desperately in need. Charles had said little on the matter to her, other than to abnegate all responsibility and involvement.
‘Not my bailiwick,’ he said gruffly over dinner the evening before the children’s arrival, as though to reinforce what he’d said before. ‘I’ll have nothing to do with the blighters, and if they annoy me they’ll be sent packing.’
‘I don’t think it works quite like that,’ Lavinia had said quietly. ‘They can’t be sent back because they’re a bit of a nuisance.’
Lavinia might have resisted Clarissa’s initial request to host a couple of children, but she had come round to the idea, and while she wasn’t as willing a champion of the cause that Polly, and now Clarissa believed in, that as many children as possible had to be rescued and found homes as soon as possible, she was doing her best to do what she clearly saw as ‘the right thing’.
The stories coming out from not just Nazi Germany, but Nazi Europe, were terrifying. Artie kept Clarissa regularly updated by letter, as did Polly, both of them adamant that Europe was sleepwalking into a vision of hell. Clarissa’s bigg
est regret was that she couldn’t persuade Lavinia to take in more children – after all, the house was plenty big enough. But it wasn’t Clarissa’s house to throw open the doors of, and she had to content herself with what she had achieved so far. She had also to bear in mind that, strictly speaking, she was a guest in her grandparents’ home, and should therefore abide by the protocol expected of her. But whenever she thought she might be overstepping the mark, she reminded herself that these people had a debt to pay, and she had no qualms in extracting every last ounce of it.
Grandma Ethel in America was furious that Clarissa had refused to return home. ‘It isn’t safe to be in Europe right now,’ she telegraphed. ‘I NEED you here.’
Clarissa could think of no real reason why Grandma Ethel would need her – she had a platoon of servants at her beck and call and any number of friends – and so she wrote once again to cajole the old lady into accepting that, for now, her home was in England. ‘I have work here to do,’ she informed Grandma Ethel, somewhat grandly, ‘please let me stay.’ Acceptance was reluctant, but it came, as did a generous increase in the allowance her grandmother gave her, which Clarissa put to good use.
After what must have been a bewildering journey from Berlin, the children arrived at Harwich and were then put on a train to Liverpool Street station where Artie, since he was in London, met the boys and accompanied them on the train to Shillingbury.
They spoke no more than a handful of words in English – hello, please and thank you, which the eldest, a boy of eight years of age, blurted out in a confused rush on meeting Clarissa when she went to fetch them at Shillingbury station. His name was Thomas and his younger brother, Walter, not yet six, refused to let go of his hand. ‘He’s done that all the way,’ Artie told Clarissa quietly.
