Daughters Of Eden: The Eden Series Book 1

by Bingham, Charlotte

‘Yeah. Well – maybe. But you got to promise not to say. The Black Spot mob’s pretty rough.’

  ‘Mum’s the word.’

  ‘Anyway – I was going to tell you something else, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘Yeah. I was thinking about Aunt Hester. About the accident. Her accident. Because I mean, just suppose it wasn’t an accident? Suppose someone run her off the road deliberate like?’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, we owe it to her to find out what happened, like, and then go and give whoever it was that did it what for.’

  ‘I don’t know what else they’re teaching you at that school, Billy,’ Marjorie sighed. ‘But it certainly isn’t the King’s English.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Billy muttered. ‘But I certainly learned how to look after meself.’

  ‘Yes,’ Marjorie agreed, remembering the black eyes and bloody noses with which the younger Billy had returned home. ‘I’m glad you have too. I was getting fed up with being your nursemaid.’

  ‘You on or in’t you?’ Billy demanded, walking along backwards in front of Marjorie. ‘’Cos if you don’t want to find out what ‘appened, I shall.’

  ‘I’m on,’ Marjorie replied. ‘But I don’t see us getting very far.’

  ‘Girls,’ Billy sighed with a despairing shake of his head. ‘Bloomin’ girls.’

  Chapter Seven

  Poppy had also carefully memorised Jack Ward’s number but had never yet had real reason to use it. Lonely and frightened, she had been tempted several times. Once she had even gone so far as to dial the entire number before suddenly being overcome with panic, and quickly dropping the telephone back on its base as she sensed what might happen to her if Basil found out. She was alone in his vast house. She was alone in a vast county. She had to get out, somehow, but using the telephone, when she knew Craddock was bound to be hovering, was surely not the way?

  Besides, what would she have said to Mr Ward? That Basil was cold and unloving? That she wished that she hadn’t married him? That Basil was having her watched by Craddock at every moment of the day? He would surely think her not just strange, but mad.

  So Jack Ward’s number, while not forgotten, remained uncalled. None the less as her misery deepened Poppy took some comfort from the fact that he must have recognised her unhappiness. But then again, perhaps he knew more about Basil and his strange entourage than Poppy. And because of what he knew, might wish her to know that she needed protection? This was an increasingly discomforting thought, but Poppy, as happens with those who are being haunted, was only slowly coming to realise the impossibility of her position.

  The more she had considered her plight the more Poppy realised that she had very little choice except to bolt from Mellerfont. The problem was how? Being as yet unable to drive she could hardly steal one of the estate cars and drive to London. Certainly it would be impossible to ask anyone to drive her to the station since everyone on the estate or in the village was, in one way or another, in Basil’s pay, and the station was over fifty miles away. Besides the large amount settled on her as a dowry by her father when she married, Basil, as was the English custom, had taken over the rest of Poppy’s finances, persuading her, before their marriage, to share her private income with him for what he called ‘ease of management and housekeeping’. She had very little idea of the sums at her disposal, so whatever money she withdrew would have to be drawn immediately after the arrival of their bank statement, which was not due for some weeks. She considered selling her jewellery, but realised that this too might raise an eyebrow in a village that was not only owned by Basil, but boasted nothing more than bakeries and haberdasheries, greengrocers’ and ironmongers’ shops. It would be hard to get very far on how much they would give her for her gold watch or diamond pin.

  Occasionally, but foolishly, her hopes were unaccountably raised; most particularly when Basil told her he was going to Italy for a few days. Of course as soon as he had finished his short announcement Poppy’s imagination ran riot, seeing herself ordering a station taxi, her bags piled high, the ever-watchful servants somehow absent, either drunk or on holiday. For the truth was that the servants, particularly Craddock, were as much her prison wardens as was Basil.

  ‘I shall be staying in Venice with Gloria d’Albioni,’ Basil informed her. ‘I shall not leave you a number because there will be no need for you to telephone me. If there is any great emergency either Liddle or Craddock knows how to get in touch with me.’

  He looked across at her with his usual air of detachment as if, despite Poppy’s being ever present in his house, he could never really believe that she actually was there.

  ‘What is the purpose of your trip, Basil?’ Poppy asked, knowing that the answer was bound to be only a very slight variation on its being none of her business. ‘Italy? Is it pleasure? Or is it something to do with your fine arts dealings?’

  ‘If you must know,’ Basil said, admiring himself in the looking glass hanging over his study fireplace, ‘it is a little of both. But then it would be impossible to go to Italy just to do business. In Italy there is always pleasure to be had – particularly in Venice.’

  Poppy turned away. She knew she had to run away from Basil as soon as possible, divorce him, start a new life, no matter the scandal, no matter the fact that it would horrify her parents. She could no longer put up with anything to do with Basil, Yorkshire, or Mellerfont and its cold, its draughts, and its surly servants. With her father and mother still in America, fund-raising on the west coast for one of their myriad causes, and knowing how little they would want to hear of her troubles, Poppy felt more isolated and helpless than ever, so much so that she finally found herself ringing Jack Ward’s number on the Victoria exchange.

  Expecting to hear his memorable tones on the other end of the line Poppy was disconcerted to be greeted by a cold female voice.

  ‘Hallo?’ was all the voice said, not even repeating the number that had been called. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Poppy found herself mumbling. ‘I was wondering whether it might be possible to speak to Mr Ward, please.’

  ‘I’m very much afraid not,’ the voice replied, as if such a thing was not only out of the question now but always would be. ‘Do you wish to leave a message?’

  ‘No. No, it’s nothing important.’

  ‘Who shall I say called, please?’

  ‘Nobody,’ Poppy said quietly, the receiver already on its way back to its rest. ‘It really isn’t important.’

  To her shame Kate found herself longing for war to break out. Not only would it ease the undoubted tension that everyone was feeling, it would place her in a better position to conduct her future. Not satisfied by the fact that it was coming, she wanted it to be there, so that she could become involved, so that she could pitch in, so that she could escape. It would give her the chance to do something adventurous and possibly important, rather than having to pursue some boring occupation for which her typing and shorthand course was all too quickly qualifying her.

  On this particular morning her father sat down for his breakfast looking even grimmer than usual, studying the news in the paper slowly, and with ever increasing gloom.

  ‘You should eat your bacon, Harold,’ his wife Helen advised him. ‘There may be none next month.’

  ‘Kindly shut up, Helen,’ her husband replied. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about – as usual.’

  After years of insults Helen was impervious to her husband’s petty cruelty. Instead of responding she cleared her throat, trying to summon up the courage to address her husband on the topic arising from the correspondence she had just read.

  ‘There’s a letter that’s just come in the post, Harold,’ she stated, holding it out.

  ‘I see nothing unusual in that. Perhaps you do?’ Harold replied, taking the letter without looking up from his newspaper.

  ‘It’s from the secretarial school. Where Kate is.’

  ‘It would hardly be from a secretarial school wher
e Kate wasn’t, Helen. Unless you are in the habit of conducting a correspondence with such places.’

  ‘They are very impressed with Kate’s abilities—’

  ‘So we have already gathered. However, I myself would hardly call tapping at a typewriter and learning to scratch out a set of hieroglyphics an ability. A capacity perhaps. A competence or indeed an aptitude. But hardly an ability.’

  ‘They want to recommend Kate for this place. This place wherever it is that is advertising for girls of singular – singular aptitude. In typing and shorthand. And related skills.’

  ‘What other skills relate to typewriting or shorthand, I wonder? Scribbling and scratching perhaps? Lifting a telephone receiver? Answering to a summons from the boss.’

  It was at this point that Kate felt a familiar feeling of panic. It was as if she was being personally stifled by her father’s sarcasm, a pillow of facetiousness weighing down on her to the point that, had she not felt so protective of her mother, she could have screamed.

  ‘I thought, since you were so keen for Kate here to start working, you’d be pleased to hear about this, Harold.’ Helen’s voice was becoming more not less firm, despite the verbal onslaught. ‘They’re so impressed with Kate that they have given her a three star recommendation. To this place I’ve just mentioned.’

  ‘And what’s the top rating?’ Harold wondered mock idly, pointedly keeping his place in the paper with one fingertip while he bestowed a fleeting glance on his wife. ‘Fifty stars perhaps?’ He returned to his reading.

  ‘It will mean Kate having to live away from here of course,’ Helen continued. ‘But since you have been so anxious about towns like ours that might be bombed, it may be a good idea.’

  Now her husband looked up at her altogether differently.

  ‘How far away?’ he asked. ‘What is this place anyway?’

  ‘It’s somewhere called Eden Park,’ Helen replied. ‘I thought you might have heard of it. It’s been taken over by some government department or other. And they’re very short staffed – short of the right sort of staff I should say. They want girls of exceptional ability. I mean aptitude.’

  Harold, teacup still in hand, looked slowly from wife to daughter then back again to his wife, for once interested in something one of them had said to him.

  ‘Where is this place?’

  ‘Eden Park, but the location is secret.’

  ‘Eden Park.’ Harold frowned momentarily. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells. Eden Park, you say?’

  ‘All the details are there – in the letter.’

  ‘I’ll read it in a minute. But it sounds like a very good idea. If they want girls like Kate, let ’em have them, I say. And the sooner the better. No, really’ – Helen stared at him – ‘let her go. A nice dull job, countryside and so on, sounds just the thing for her.’

  He once more returned to his reading, while Kate looked across the room questioningly at her mother, who indicated with a tilt of her head that Kate should follow her out of the room.

  ‘What’s all this about, Mum?’ Kate whispered, joining her in the hall with some of the dirty crockery.

  ‘You want to go away, don’t you? So here’s your opportunity.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But I don’t want to leave you all alone. If I go away, now that Robert’s left for the Navy, you’ll be on your own.’

  ‘You should have thought of that when you decided to be so clever.’ Her mother smiled at her, opening the kitchen door with her back and reversing in with her tray full of crocks. ‘I’ll be fine. And from what I gather the work they do at this place, at Eden Park, is pretty important stuff. It’s quite near the coast, I think. So it could be interesting.’

  ‘You sure you’ll be all right?’

  Helen faced her daughter with a bright, brave look.

  ‘I’ll be better knowing that you’re all right. You can’t stay here. Your father will have you working for some crummy solicitor. He thinks education is wasted on women – and this from a man as well educated as he is meant to be.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what education does for men, Mother, educates them to despise women,’ Kate joked, with a nod towards the dining room.

  Helen smiled, and began to offload the dirty crockery into the sink. Kate automatically rolled up her sleeves ready to wash up, but this morning her mother was having none of it.

  ‘No, off you go and get yourself sorted out,’ she said. ‘They want you to start immediately. Now your dad’s more or less said yes.’

  ‘Immediately?’

  ‘They suggest you take the train there as soon as possible. So off you go and pack. There’s nothing more to be said.’

  ‘Can I see the letter?’ Kate wondered, seeing that her mother had rescued it from her father and brought it out to the kitchen with her on the tray.

  ‘No!’ Helen said quickly, trying to snatch the letter back.

  It was too late. Kate was already reading it. When she had finished she handed it to her mother with a look of amazement.

  ‘Supposing Father had read it?’ she asked.

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ her mother replied quietly. ‘He never takes any notice of anything I say, let alone do. So I thought it was almost a certainty that he would never actually read the letter through. He might have opened it – and if he had he would have seen it was from the secretarial school and left it at that.’

  ‘But you don’t think he would have seen it was about something altogether different?’ Kate continued to wonder in amazement. ‘About the fact they might have to relocate because of the threat of war? Nothing to do with Eden or any other park!’

  ‘It’s worth the risk, Kate dear. I’d do anything for you. To let you have your wings.’

  Kate shook her head and, after a second or two, hugged her.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ she said, holding Helen back at arm’s length. ‘Where did you get all that about this government place? Wanting especially able secretaries et cetera? You didn’t make that up, did you?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, no. That’s what started the whole thing off. Someone I know – an old friend, that’s all I can tell you – told me about Eden Park, and how they were staffing it up. How they were particularly looking for a certain type of young woman who would be the right sort for the work that goes on there. I can’t tell you any more than that. He knows quite a lot about you, although you don’t know him at all. But he’s someone who can be absolutely trusted, I promise you.’

  She stopped and looked at the door as though they might be being spied on. Wiping her hands on the front of her apron, she went silently over to check. There was no one there.

  ‘You’re never to tell,’ she warned her daughter. ‘You’re never to say a word to anyone.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts either. Now off you go. I said – off you go. In case you didn’t hear the first time.’

  Kate shook her head and hurried away to start packing. The rest of the world was going to war, she thought as she ran up the stairs two at a time, and now, at last, so was she.

  Downstairs Helen Maddox opened the kitchen door once more and went back into the dining room. Harold was still reading the newspaper with all the assiduous attention of a man who was going to be needed by the government at any minute.

  She looked across at him with a sinking heart. No longer would she have Kate and Robert as fellow refugees from his sarcasm. There would be no one now with whom she could put her feet up and listen to some comedy show on the radio while Harold was off on one of his lecture tours. She glanced down at the newspaper. She might not be able to bring herself to leave Harold, but she could at least help to give Adolf Hitler a bloody nose.

  ‘Harold.’

  ‘What now, Helen?’

  The weary glance, the tired, bored look to the eyes, worst of all the vast superiority of manner was once more focused on Helen.

  ‘Nothing, Harold.’

  At that point the telephone in the hall started to ring.

  ‘An
swer the damn thing, would you, Helen? It’s sure to be some nonsense for you.’

  Helen left the dining room, quietly shutting the door behind her.

  ‘Hallo,’ said a cold female voice. ‘Is that Miss Appleby?’

  Helen’s heart missed a beat.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have a call for you.’

  There was a pause, and then a man’s voice spoke.

  ‘Be outside the cinema at eight o’clock tonight. I will be waiting for you.’

  At seven thirty Helen, wearing a stylish coat and skirt, her hair brushed up into a pre-war fashionable hat, walked down the road to meet the owner of the voice.

  Chapter Eight

  Everything had at last been arranged. Marjorie looked at Billy critically, finally leaning forward to straighten his cap despite the fact that it did not need it.

  ‘There’s no need to look so down in the mouth, Billy,’ she scolded him. ‘The place we’re going to—’

  ‘I know,’ Billy sighed, with an impatient click of his tongue. ‘You told me. It’s this place where this friend of Aunt Hester’s has people who will look after us, this Mr Ward.’

  ‘That’s right. And it’s lovely. You’ll really like it. It’s called—’

  ‘I know. Paradise Park. You told me.’

  ‘Eden Park,’ Marjorie corrected him. ‘The house is pretty big – huge in fact – and old as well. It’s set in this great big park, miles from anywhere.’

  ‘I still don’t really understand why we’re goin’ there, Marge,’ Billy complained, moving himself out of range of Marjorie’s fussing hands. ‘Other than because we can’t go on livin’ ‘ere.’

  ‘Course we can’t – not now it’s been sold,’ Marjorie chided him. ‘So I’d be a bit grateful, if I were you, that we’ve got somewhere to live at all. Somewhere nice, particularly. I told you – the man who came to Aunt Hester’s funeral tea – he asked me to see it, and I have, and it’s really, really nice. Gardens and water, and statues and things, and a nice cottage for you and me.’

  ‘I know,’ Billy sighed. ‘It was this mysterious bloke. The one who said he’d ‘elp you – as if you needed ’elping, bossy-boots.’