by Angela Arney
Bertha sniffed. She knew only too well what hard work was, unlike Lady Lavinia who had never done anything manual in her life. ‘Needs must,’ she told Lavinia. ‘She can’t afford to employ anyone else. Even the men on the farm have to work harder these days. I don’t know what we’d do without those two German boys. Thank God they came our way.’
Hans and Werner were still at East End Farm, and both had applied to stay in England and not be repatriated to Germany. Werner was hoping to be accepted into a medical school, provided he could find someone to sponsor him. Megan would have liked to, but couldn’t afford it.
But Lavinia worried. ‘I only hope all this will work out the way Megan thinks it will. She has no experience of running a real business.’
Bertha stopped slicing potatoes on top of the large Lancashire hotpot she was preparing, and put her hands on her hips. She looked at Lavinia sternly. ‘How can you say that?’ she demanded. ‘Ever since the troubles with Mr Henry’s money she’s been in charge. He couldn’t do it, God bless him, so she took it on. She’s been running the business for some years now and it hasn’t been easy, and now it’s even worse. All this rationing, although why we should have to put up with it now the war has ended I don’t know. And now, to cap it all, we have the perpetual threat of electricity cuts.’ She went back to her task of slicing potatoes with renewed vigour, and added, ‘If we didn’t have wood for the kitchen range you’d never get any hot dishes some days.’
Lavinia sat still, thinking of Megan. ‘I wonder sometimes whether she keeps herself busy so that she doesn’t have time to think.’
Bertha paused again. ‘Yes,’ she said reflectively, for once being in tune with Lavinia, ‘it’s a hard life being a widow so young, but there are plenty of them about these days.’
Both women sighed, then Lavinia said. ‘So many men didn’t come back. Sometimes I wonder what happened to Jim Byrne.’ Bertha nodded her head, and Lavinia continued softly, ‘He was like one of the family, we all loved him. But I suppose he is dead, like so many others.’
Bertha nodded again. She had her own ideas about Jim Byrne and often thought she could see a likeness in baby Peter. But she kept these thoughts to herself, not even mentioning them to George. Live and let live had always been her motto, and if Megan had taken a brief chance at happiness who could blame her?
Megan struggled on, falling into bed at night exhausted. No time for make-up or to have her hair done, she just scrubbed her face and twisted her long dark hair up in an untidy bun, which, although she did not know it because she rarely looked in the mirror, was very attractive. Sometimes she worked in the garden until the first stars of evening appeared, only then would she stop, but often wished she didn’t have to. For then, when alone in the garden as dusk began to fall, and lights from the houses on the Isle of Wight twinkled across the waters of the Solent, she thought of Jim and Henry. They had become intertwined in her mind. Henry was the young man she’d thought she’d loved in the years before the war, when it seemed that nothing could possibly go wrong, and Jim was the passion of her life in later years.
Jim! She ached for him. The mere thought brought hot tears to her eyes. Alone in the garden she gazed at the sky; was he somewhere on the other side of the world looking at the same moon? If he was alive did he remember her? Or had he forgotten the English girl he’d met during the war?
For the sake of the children she kept cheerful, always making time for them before bedtime. Occasionally she sat down and read the newspapers, but not often, the news was so depressing. The wars in Europe and Japan might have finished but there seemed to be fighting everywhere else. China, Palestine, Indonesia, Vietnam, and even the Russians, once British allies, were now the enemy. Sometimes she wondered why anyone had bothered to fight the war, because it seemed that one set of problems had been replaced by another, and there was no limit to man’s inhumanity to man.
In Britain new draconian rationing laws were being implemented, and many private industries were being nationalized by the Labour Government, setting neighbour against neighbour as everyone seemed to think differently when it came to politics.
But most of this passed by Folly House; life continued much as it had always done. She struggled on through the cold, dark days of a bitter December and by the time Christmas 1946 arrived Megan had virtually finished the garden. New bushes were planted, winding pathways created and by the foreshore a secluded bower had been created. Megan could see it in her mind’s eye, a mass of fragrant yellow and pink blossoms in the summer.
At Christmas Rosie got the part of the Virgin Mary in the school nativity play and was very cross about it.
‘But darling,’ said Megan when Rosie was stamping about being bad-tempered. ‘The Virgin Mary is the most important part, except for Jesus.’
‘No it’s not. I just sit there wrapped in a blue curtain holding a doll. They only gave me the part because I’ve got a club foot and limp.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Lavinia. ‘They gave you the part because you are the prettiest girl in the class.’
Only Dottie cheered her when she told her she was the star of the play.
Megan allowed Peter and Rosie to do all the decorations in the house, and Dottie helped, willingly taking directions from Rosie, clambering up and down the stepladder festooning the rooms with paper chains, and sticking holly and ivy behind the paintings and mirrors.
‘All those berries will dry and fall off on to the floor,’ was Bertha’s caustic comment watching Dottie giggling on the top of the stepladder, ‘and Dottie’s nothing but a big baby.’
‘That’s exactly what she is,’ said Megan gently. ‘She can’t help it, and it’s lovely that she can get pleasure from such small things.’
‘That’s what George always says.’ Unconvinced, Bertha stomped back to the kitchen, watched by Megan, who wished that somehow Bertha could accept Dottie and enjoy her the way she was.
Arthur and Violet arrived on Christmas Eve in time to go to church for the blessing of the crib. Arthur was badly missed at the organ, which was now played by Miss Jennings, an elderly lady who’d recently moved to the village. She was very willing and enthusiastic, but singularly lacking in technique. Her enthusiasm regularly caused her to slip off the seat whilst pushing hard at the organ pedals.
But as Lavinia remarked with a heavy sigh, after one such episode, ‘beggars can’t be choosers.’
The two children from Folly House, along with other village children, took their gifts to be blessed by the Christ Child. Watching their shining faces lit by the candlelight around the crib, Megan felt a momentary shaft of joy. But most of the time it brought back bitter-sweet memories of previous Christmases, when Marcus was alive, and when Jim had played the organ. Those Christmases seemed a lifetime away.
The new vicar of East End, Alistair MacKinnon, was a young ex-army officer who had recently been discharged from active service. He was invited to Folly House for Christmas lunch by Lavinia. He was unmarried and Megan could see the gleam in Lavinia’s eye. There was no way Meagn was going to let her start matchmaking and told her so the moment they were alone.
‘Lavinia, I shall never remarry. So you can forget any ideas you might have about Alistair.’
‘But he’s such a nice young man,’ protested Lavinia.
‘I had enough religion to last a lifetime when I was a vicar’s daughter. I don’t want any more.’
Lavinia retired defeated, but the idea disturbed Megan more than she’d thought possible. It had nothing to with the vicar or religion, but everything to do with loneliness. Twenty-six years old, with many years stretching ahead; the thought was daunting. Peter and Rosie were company now, but they would grow up and go their own ways and then she would be alone again. She thought again of Jim and felt sad and guilty at the same time. The guilt was because she knew she would never be able to tell Peter who his true father was.
Glad when Christmas was over, she threw her energies into reorganizing the house ready for the summer v
isitors she hoped to attract. Gardening books were replaced with books lavishly illustrated with pictures of grand rooms in stately homes the length and breadth of England. The classical schemes gave her ideas. The gold room was repainted in a cool green with the moulded coving and ceiling roses picked out in white and gold leaf. A woman from the village helped Megan recover all the chairs and sofas with a delicately muted gold material, and new curtains were made for the tall windows from the same material. The overall effect was to make the room seem larger and give it an air of tranquillity and grandeur.
Lavinia and Bertha were the first to see the final result. ‘Well, I never did,’ said Bertha solemnly. ‘If anyone had told me that a change of colour could change a room like this I would never have believed them.’
‘It’s absolutely beautiful,’ said Lavinia breathlessly.
‘It cost more than I thought,’ Megan admitted, ‘and that means that I won’t be able to do the same with the rose dining room for this year. But in the meantime I’ll get the guest bedrooms done in a simple English country style. That won’t cost too much.’
‘It would be lovely, though, if the rose room could be decorated in the same manner,’ said Lavinia. ‘I think you should go ahead and do it.’
‘I told you. I haven’t got the money.’
‘But I have.’
Megan was about to interrupt and remind Lavinia that Mr Green was managing her financial affairs, and that she was not as well off as she thought she was, when Lavinia said serenely. ‘I shall pay for the rest of the repairs and decorations to Folly House. It’s the least I can do.’
‘But …’ began Megan.
‘Don’t tell me I haven’t any money because I know that, but I do have diamonds, and diamonds can be sold.’
Without waiting for a reply from Megan she rushed from the room and returned five minutes later with two boxes. In one, lying on black velvet, was a pair of exquisite diamond and emerald drop earrings, and in the other a large pendant set with matching diamonds and emeralds.
Both Megan and Bertha gasped. ‘I can sell these,’ said Lavinia triumphantly. ‘I haven’t worn either the earrings or the pendant since Richard died, and I never really liked them. Too flashy for me.’
No time was wasted. The jewellery was sold at auction in London in the beginning of January 1947, and once the money was deposited in the bank Megan lost no time in designing and ordering the materials for the renovation of the rose room and the rest of the house.
‘I’ll be able to employ men to do the actual work, thanks to you,’ Megan told Lavinia, showing her the plans she had sketched out in readiness. ‘Albert Noakes has got together a team of men and they are reporting for duty next Monday, the twenty-seventh of January.’
But on Thursday 23 January the inhabitants of the New Forest woke up to a deathly hush. At first Megan couldn’t think what it was. The light in the bedroom was unnaturally bright for a winter’s morning and the silence was uncanny. But she knew as soon as Rosie burst into her room shrieking with excitement. ‘There’s snow everywhere, tons and tons of it.’
Throwing back the bedroom curtains Megan saw an unfamiliar sight. The snow was deep, up to the downstairs windowsills; a smooth blanket of white stretching down to the shore. Rosie and Peter had to be persuaded to have breakfast before going out, and during breakfast they listened to the wireless. It was reported that snow had fallen heavily during the night over south and south-west England. Many villages were cut off because of the depth of the snow.
Folly House was no exception and was well and truly cut off, even from East End Farm. Hans and Werner cleared a narrow path from Folly House to the farm at East End so that they could collect some fresh milk.
‘Thank goodness we put all the cows inside at the first cold snap. At least we’ll be able to feed and milk them, although goodness knows what we’ll do with the milk; the lorries will never get through today to pick it up.’
‘We’ll cope like we’ve done before,’ said Bertha firmly. ‘Ivy Moon and I will try to use as much as possible, and the rest will be tipped down the drain once the new calves have had an extra treat.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Rosie. ‘An extra treat.’
‘Well, they’ll get to drink their mother’s milk instead of watered-down stuff.’
‘Oh.’ Rosie digested this bit of information and went back to the rose room to tell Peter.
Because of the weather the renovation of Folly House was put on hold. There was no school, as there was no coal to heat the big pot-bellied stoves that warmed the schoolrooms. The roads were impassable even after they’d managed to clear footpaths to the village, and the temperature regularly dropped to minus four degrees Farenheit night after night. Snow spread all over the country and because there was virtually no transport, as everywhere was affected by the snow and sub-zero temperatures, there was a coal shortage and electricity was cut off most days from 9.00 a.m. in the morning to 12 noon, and then again from 2.00 p.m. until 4.00 p.m.
At least Folly House was able to provide hot meals, as Bertha used the big wood-fired stove in the kitchen, but even then Megan had to ration their wood as the wood-pile in the field was frozen into a solid block which, despite the best efforts of Hans and Werner, could not be broken. The wood store at the back of the old stables was still accessible and Megan knew it would have to last until a thaw began. Like everyone else Folly House ran out of coal, so the house was cold and extra layers of clothing were needed.
Day after day the bitter cold persisted and the frozen snow remained, making normal life impossible. One morning Benjamin Moon arrived with an armful of post; amongst it was a letter from Arthur. Megan sent Benjamin on his way with half a dozen eggs and a small loaf which Bertha had baked the day before. Eggs and bread were still on ration and he was grateful for the extra food. ‘I heard on the radio yesterday that a farm in Essex was digging parsnips with a pneumatic drill,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘Don’t know what the world is coming to. It’s nearly the end of February and there’s no sign of a thaw.’
After Benjamin had gone Megan sat down in her office with Arthur’s letter, pulling an old woollen shawl around her and keeping her mittens on, but even so her hands were still permanently blue. Arthur’s letters were always full of news about his studies, and the concerts he’d been to and now was even being asked to play at. It was news of another world, and sometimes Megan wished she could escape from Folly House, just for a little while, and join him.
Slitting open the envelope she began to read.
I was booked to play at St Martin’s in the Fields for an evening concert, and I had to play by candlelight as there was a power cut. Luckily I knew the pieces well, some Chopin and Schubert, and didn’t need to read the music. How I wished you could have been there, Megan. The church looked magnificent when it was totally lit by candles and had a wonderful feeling of mystery and beauty.
Violet and I often think of you down in the New Forest and hope you are not suffering from the cold too much. But I know you, and I expect you’ve organized everything very well and that you have plenty to eat and drink.
By the way, we tried the new whale meat the government has imported to help with the meat ration. We had Moby Dick, that’s what they call whale meat and chips, in a restaurant. It’s supposed to be like steak, but Violet and I thought it tasted very fishy and didn’t like it. We shall stick with vegetables if there’s no meat, but even those are difficult to come by in London at the moment as everything is frozen.
By the way, we did eat out at the Savoy Hotel the other evening, a special treat. Who do you think we saw? It was Jim Byrne. At least I think it was Jim Byrne. He looked extremely smart and the woman he was with was very glamorous. But he was right over the other side of the room and I didn’t get to speak to him or even get closer as there was another sudden power cut. By the time the hotel staff had lit all the candles Jim and his companion had vanished, so I’m not sure if it was him or not.
Megan
let the letter fall into her lap. It was impossible to read more, she was blinded by tears. Jim in London! Why no letter? Why no phone call, or visit to Folly House? The answer was, of course, he had forgotten her.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Winter 1947
Arthur regretted having mentioned the sighting of Jim, not least because Violet was furious with him. ‘Surely you must know how much it would upset her. To think that Jim is in England and hasn’t bothered to get in touch. It must be devastating.’
‘Of course, we’re not really sure it was Jim,’ said Arthur defensively. ‘I did say we were not sure.’
‘You shouldn’t have said anything,’ replied Violet grimly. ‘When we see Megan again for heaven’s sake do be careful what you say.’
‘God knows when that will be,’ said Arthur, feeling guilty as well as gloomy. ‘Unless it stops snowing we’ll be marooned here in London for ever.’
Down in Hampshire life became increasingly difficult after another heavy snowfall blocked all the roads on 27 February. More snow and a dramatic fall in temperature, just when everyone was thinking that a thaw must be just around the corner, caused Megan to lose patience. Idleness was not good for her peace of mind and she decided that at least she could strip the paintwork in the bedrooms. She reasoned that if an ill-educated workman could master the art of stripping paint then so could she.
George had two old blowtorches in the garden shed and filled them paraffin for her. ‘This is dangerous work,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘Things can be set on fire.’
‘Have you used them?’ asked Megan, ‘And did you set anything on fire?’
