“So you’ve found somewhere then?” Christine looked at him with interest. “I was told that you were looking for a cottage to renovate…”
“Yes, that’s right. It’s what I do – restore buildings, preferably very old ones if possible.”
“Oh, I thought everyone wanted new houses these days?”
“They do…” Paul looked slightly awkward. “Sometimes I help to build new ones, too – but my real interest is in making old places look good again.”
“Matthew said you were clever. I should like to see your cottage one day, Mr. Crane.”
“I’ll take you to see it when it’s finished,” he promised. “We had better get off then.”
“Have a nice time.”
Christine watched as they drove off together.
With Matthew gone for a few days, Beth had taken the opportunity to work on a rather special design all that week. It had been difficult and had taken all her time and energy. She stretched, feeling the ache in her back and glanced out of the window.
Henry and Christine were walking across the lawn together, the man leaning heavily on the girl’s arm. It was not an unusual sight, for Henry had always adored his granddaughter.
It was good that they were fond of each other, but Alexander wouldn’t have approved of Christine having so much time on her hands, which was a part of the girl’s restlessness. He would have found a solution to the problem by now, Beth was sure. Her husband had been such an energetic man, such a help and comfort – and she missed him so terribly.
With a sigh, Beth got to her feet, opened the French windows and went out to meet her daughter and father. She really must find the time to do something about Christine…
“Have you been working all afternoon?” Christine asked as she saw how tired her mother looked. “It’s too nice to be indoors, Mummy. You should have come for a walk with us.”
“Yes, it is rather nice today. I have been meaning to have a talk with you, darling. We must make a little time for each other. It’s just that I’ve been so busy, and that wretched man from the council was on the telephone earlier. They really need that piece of land so I suppose I shall have to let them have it – but I’ve stipulated that they must find room somewhere for a village hall, and I think we shall get one in the end.”
“That’s good news, Mummy. Have they definitely decided to build that new estate then?”
“Yes, it appears so. It’s a nuisance really, but I suppose there’s nothing we can do but put up with it.”
“It won’t make any difference to us here, will it?”
“At Penhallows, no,” Beth said. “But it will make the village larger and bring more people. Still, I expect that is a good thing. We tend to get rather set in our ways.” She smiled at herself. “That reminds me, Matthew will be back this evening. At least he brings a breath of sanity to this place.”
“I’m not sure I'd call it sanity,” Henry muttered. “Shall we have tea, Beth? The walk has made me hungry.”
It was very warm the following afternoon as Christine walked to the village with her mother’s library books in the basket she carried over her arm. She had seen Helene getting into the driving seat of Beth’s car as she was leaving the house, and felt the hurt strike at her once more.
Simon spent most of his time with Helene; they played cards or billiards in the evenings, took trips to Cirencester, and once to Weston Super Mare. On that occasion they had asked Christine if she wanted to accompany them, but she’d refused.
The look in Helene’s eyes warned her that she would be in the way. Helene seemed to think she owned Simon, and spent hours curled up on one of the large, comfortable sofas in the parlour talking to him. Sometimes, when she was busy elsewhere, he would spend a few minutes talking to Christine but once Helene came into the room he had eyes for no one else.
It was obvious to Christine that he was in love with the French woman, and she was in a permanent haze of misery because of it. There were times when she came close to hating Helene, but she was determined not to let anyone guess what she was going through, and deliberately filled every hour of her day.
It had been easy to do that recently, what with the jumble sale, visits to friends, helping her mother with the Flower Festival at the church in aid of the War Widows and Orphans Fund, and walking her dogs, she was seldom in the house. Yet she was still conscious of a feeling of restlessness, of dissatisfaction that wasn’t entirely to do with Simon’s defection.
Perhaps Henry had been right. Perhaps she did need to do something more with her life – but what?
When she had been to the library, she took a detour to the Timpsons’ house. They were both at home and greeted her warmly, though Christine noticed that the cottage was very cold, and that the fire in the parlour grate had been allowed to burn low.
“We didn’t expect you today,” Miss Timpson said, seeming flustered as she rushed to make up the fire. She tucked the blanket more firmly around her mother’s knees, as if to emphasise that she was warm enough even if the cottage wasn’t. “But it is always lovely to see you – isn’t it, Mother?”
“Yes, of course it is,” Mrs. Timpson said as her daughter went away to put the kettle on. “I hope you’re not cold, Christine dear? Anne will let the fire get low sometimes, and I’m sure I don’t know why.”
Noticing that the supply of wood in the basket by the hearth was woefully short, Christine thought she understood. It was obviously even harder for Miss Timpson to manage than she had imagined. She made up her mind to speak to her grandfather when she got home. They had plenty of wood, and she was certain that he would arrange for some to be given to the Timpsons in a manner that did not cause offence or make them feel they were receiving charity.
Her eyes travelled round the room, taking in the threadbare rugs and faded curtains, aware of the shabbiness of the cottage in a way she really hadn’t been until now. Miss Timpson was so adept at managing that no one truly understood how hard it was for her. The Timpsons lived in genteel poverty, holding their heads high and asking for nothing, but Christine hadn’t realized it was so bad that they had to go without fuel for their fire.
She stopped for almost half an hour, then left them. She certainly couldn’t give up her piano lessons now! She would have to see if she could come up with any more ways of helping them, though she knew she would have to be careful. Miss Timpson was fiercely proud despite her poverty.
Leaving the house, Christine saw a car she recognised parked in the village street outside the shop. It seemed that Paul Crane was in the village again.
Seeing him coming from the village shop, she hesitated and then walked up to him, calling a greeting, as he was about to get into his car.
“Matthew enjoyed his little holiday.”
“It was meant as more of a holiday for Mrs. Kavanagh,” Paul told her with a smile. “But I think he had a good time. It will be a while before I can take him out again.”
“Oh, are you starting work on your cottage?”
“Only in my own time.” He hesitated, then, “I suppose I can’t keep it a secret much longer. I’m in charge of this estate for the council.”
“You’re building the new council estate?” Christine stared at him.
“It’s not my firm, but I’ve been given the job of overseeing it for the council. They like my work – I was recommended by someone I worked for before the war.” He looked at her oddly. “I know your family isn’t too keen on the idea.”
“Henry isn’t,” Christine agreed. “But Mummy doesn’t mind too much. She didn’t want to sell her land but she agreed in the end – as long as we get the hall.”
“Yes, I’ve been told that we have to find a space for a hall somewhere. I’ve an idea about that – but we’ll have to see how things go.”
“Mummy will be interested. Would you like to come to tea one afternoon and tell her about it?”
“I’ll certainly call, though perhaps not for tea.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “
Are you still running errands?”
“Yes.” She flushed. “It’s awful isn’t it? But I just don’t know what to do.”
“You’ll think of something,” he said. “I’ll telephone your mother soon. Goodbye now.”
“Goodbye.”
Christine watched as he drove off.
On her return home, Christine wandered into the study where Beth was working, to find her busy sketching something. Beth laid down her pencil and glanced up.
“Don’t you know what to do with yourself, darling?”
“I’ve been to the library to change your books, and I called in to see Mrs. Timpson. She really is getting a poor old thing, Mummy. I think they are finding it difficult to manage, but I’m going to talk to Henry about that.” Christine sighed. “I suppose I could practice my music, but I don’t feel much like it.” She hovered by the desk, picking up some of the designs that lay scattered on its surface. “May I see what you’ve been working on?”
“Of course. It’s just a pearl choker – a special order for an eighteenth birthday gift. The clasp is to be made from a family jewel and the necklace has been designed around it.”
“It looks beautiful the way you’ve designed it – so that the necklace can be worn with or without the pendent drop. I wish I had your talent, Mummy.”
“I didn’t think I had talent until I was older than you,” Beth said, her eyes shadowed with memories.
Christine picked up the silver-framed photograph of her father that always stood on the desk and looked at it, a smile on her lips.
“Do you remember the donkey race, Mummy – that year at Weston Super Mare? I was only six and it was Daddy and me against Harry and Jack, and we won because Jack couldn’t get his donkey to run. He kept pulling and pulling at the reins, but the stubborn beast just wouldn’t move.”
“Yes, I remember. Jack sulked until he won the prize for the best sandcastle on the beach. We had a good holiday that year, didn’t we?”
They smiled at the memory together. Christine felt a prickling sensation at the nape of her neck and glanced towards the door. Helene was standing there, obviously listening to their laughter. For a moment she caught a glimpse of something in the other girls’ eyes – wistfulness or envy perhaps? Then Helene became aware that Christine had seen her and turned away.
“I think your father let Jack win to keep the peace,” Beth said. She sighed as she looked at the designs on her desk. “I always valued Alex’s opinion of my designs.”
“Yes, I know,” Christine forgot about Helene as she wished she could banish the sadness from her mother’s voice. “Daddy had an eye for quality, didn’t he?”
“It was he who commissioned my first important piece for his wife –” Beth paused. “That was just before Helen left him and the start of us getting to know one another.” She sighed again. “Are you bored here, Christine? Caro would have you in town with her, you know that.”
“I love Penhallows. But sometimes I wish I had more to do.”
“You’ve been a big help to me since you came home, but I do understand that life here is a bit slow for you. Perhaps it’s time you had a season in town? Caro would be delighted to take you under her wing – though it wouldn’t be the same as it was before the war, of course. It’s a shame that you missed all that. The dances and the lavish hospitality of the 1939 season were something special, with all the rich hostesses trying to outdo one another. I’m not sure that things will ever be the same again – somehow all that ostentation and opulence would seem wrong after what we’ve all been through.”
“I might go up for a visit. But I don’t want a season, Mummy. I’m not really interested in all that fuss and bother. I would rather stay here – perhaps I could do more to help with your charity work?”
Beth looked thoughtful. “Do you think you could use a typewriter? My latest secretary is having a family and has decided to give up work for a while.”
“Oh, poor Mummy. You get used to someone and then they go off and leave you.”
“It’s the fault of the war. So many of the young women are either in the services or the factories, there just aren’t enough trained girls to go around, and those that do have the qualifications prefer to work in London.”
“Actually, I’m quite good at typing, though probably not as fast as Mrs. Brockhurst was. They taught us at school, you know, Mummy. Some of my friends were planning to become secretaries, because they didn’t want to stay at home.”
“If you told me I wasn’t listening properly. There is a letter on the desk by the window. I need twenty copies - if you are sure?”
“I should like to do it,” Christine assured her.
“It will give me more time to work on my design. The letters are for a hospital fund – they need a new building for their special unit for children and we’re trying to raise the funds, which isn’t easy at the moment. If you are really interested I could take you to my meeting next week. We could stay in town overnight and perhaps go to a concert.”
“That sounds lovely. I’ll type those letters now.
There was a new spring in Christine’s step as she crossed the floor and sat down at the desk. At last she was doing something useful.
Chapter Seven
France 1937
Grandmere was so ill. It wrenched at Clothilde’s heart to hear the harsh, rasping sound of her breathing, and she knew the end was coming when she saw the expression in Father Caillebotte’s eyes.
“Are you going to give her the last rites?”
“Only if she wakes and asks for them. You know that it must be that way, Clothilde. She has refused confession for years. I cannot force her to accept God now.”
Clothilde’s throat was tight with emotion. “She has been a good Catholic all her life. She would not want to die in sin.”
“The doctor says that she may wake again. Be patient, my child. I shall sit here with her and if there is a sign…”
Clothilde nodded, choking back her tears. Grandmere would not want her to weep, especially as she was so weary of living. She had been patiently waiting for death for a long time now.
“I am going downstairs. You will call me if…”
“Of a certainty I shall call you when it is time.”
Clothilde nodded and went out. It was cold in the bedchamber but Bertrand had not brought more wood for the fire. He had become worse and worse these past months since Blanche died, and many times Clothilde had considered sending him away. He was lazy and sullen, and hid himself away whenever she needed him, but he no longer stared at her mockingly and he did not hit her as Blanche had.
It had surprised everyone when Blanche died suddenly, dropping down when she was preparing a stew for their supper. They hadn’t even had time to summon a doctor, though when he was sent for, he had said it was her heart.
Clothilde was not certain what she would do when Grandmere died. The priest had talked vaguely of giving her a reference so that she could find work, but she was not sure what she could do, except cook and clean. She had learned to do that of necessity as her grandmother’s health failed and the servants became more and more unreliable. She could probably find work for herself as a maid, but Grandmere’s stories had filled her head with ideas of a very different life.
On her way to the kitchens, where she had expected to find Betrand asleep by the fire, she heard a noise and turned towards the small salon, which was the only one left in the house that was in good enough repair to use. They had gradually moved all the treasures that were left into this one room, and had sat there every evening until Grandmere’s latest illness.
“What is going on here?” Clothilde demanded as she saw Betrand in the room. He had no right here! He had been told to stay away. “Leave that alone, it belongs to Grandmere.”
Betrand had been in the act of stuffing a small picture into a sack. Clothilde knew it was the Cézanne her grandmother had treasured because the artist had given it to her when she was staying in Paris as a young wo
man.
Betrand turned to look at her, guilt and fear in his face.
“She has no more need of it,” he muttered in a harsh tone. “The old witch will be dead within hours – and I haven’t been paid in months.”
“You’ve had food and a place to sleep,” Clothilde replied, her tone as harsh as his. “Think yourself lucky I didn’t dismiss you when Blanche died. You’ve done little enough to earn your keep since then.”
She walked towards him, seizing the sack to see what else he had stuffed inside, and finding a silver snuffbox and a pair of sugar tongs besides some books.
“You were going to take everything this time, weren’t you? Another few minutes and you would have been gone.”
“I’m as entitled to them as anyone else,” he muttered resentfully.
“Grandmere’s things belong to me. You were stealing them from me.” Clothilde itched to strike him, but had learned that he responded best to a haughty manner. “Get out now, and don’t come back here. If you do I shall report you as a thief. I know you have been stealing from Grandmere for years. I know what you did with the things you took, and I have a list of them all.”
Betrand’s face went white. Clothilde could prove nothing, of course, but she knew that he was a coward and a fool. Blanche had been the strong one, and he was helpless without her.
“Little cat! You’ve no more right to them than I have. You call her Grandmere, but only God knows where she got you.”
“What do you mean?” Clothilde stared at him. “Everyone knows Grandmere had me fetched from the hospital after my mother died giving birth.”
“That’s what she told the priest when he came asking, but no one knows the truth. Her daughter was murdered here in this place – how could she have given birth to you years afterwards?”
“She had two daughters, of course.”
“That’s her tale. It’s not what I’ve been told…”
“Why have you never mentioned this before?”
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