‘Of course not.’ Meggie smiled at her friend and gave her a quick hug. ‘Sorry. Tactless old me – and here.’
Judy turned back from the door to see Meggie holding out a square cardboard box.
‘Don’t forget your gas mask.’
As she headed south to Sussex and Bexham and Walter’s family home, it seemed to Judy that Chummy, as she called her little motor car, must be feeling as nervous as she was – judging from the way the little Austin 7 pinked and spluttered up the hills approaching the South Downs.
‘Anyone would think you were a horse,’ she muttered to her car as it gave a particularly dramatic start before suddenly speeding ahead. ‘And I had bad hands and was hurting your mouth. Come on – don’t break down on me now. Please, Chummy, don’t break down on me now!’
‘Probably something in the petrol,’ Peter Sykes, the young local garage attendant said to her when she stopped for help on the outskirts of Bexham. ‘Bit of dirt, I should say.’
‘She normally never misses a beat. Must be feeling tense. Like us all, eh, Peter?’
Peter nodded, his expression sober. ‘They say we’ll be at war by the end of the month.’
‘Then there will be petrol rationing, I suppose. And after that, heaven knows what.’
‘Well, there’s definitely going to be a war all right. I just got my call-up papers.’
Judy looked up suddenly as Peter carefully replaced the nozzle of the pump back in its holder, before wiping his hands down his overalls.
‘I say – have you really, Peter?’
‘Yes. Got ’em yesterday, matter of fact, Miss Judy. Aiming to be a mechanic in the RE. The Royal Engineers, although Dad thinks I’m destined for greater things.’
‘That’s fathers.’
Peter smiled at the pretty, dark-haired slim girl in her perky hat. Bexham being Bexham they had known each other by sight for as long as they could remember, although their paths had never really crossed until Judy’s father had bought her a car for her eighteenth birthday. Since then Peter had seen a great deal more of Miss Melton, since she dropped in to his father’s garage to fill up her Austin 7 every time she left Sussex to return to London; although up until today he had hardly dared exchange more than a few words with her, holding only brief conversations that usually centred around Judy’s little car. Now, with the prospect of joining up, Peter’s shyness seemed to have vanished.
‘I hear young Mr Tate’s already in uniform, Mr Walter Tate that is.’
‘That’s right. He’s joined the Navy, quite a few months ago, actually.’
Peter took Judy’s ten-shilling note in payment. ‘The Senior Service. Bexham likes the Navy, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes. Must be something to do with being on the sea.’ They both laughed, and Judy looked away suddenly, at the day that was already in its country uniform, at the soft Sussex colours, at everything that was familiar to her, and so dear.
‘Someone’s got to fight the wars the older ones get us into, haven’t they?’ Peter went on as Judy followed him into his tiny office. ‘And we can hardly let you girls go doing it, eh? Fighting our battles for us. We can’t have that, now, can we?’
‘I don’t see why not. As a matter of fact I’ve been thinking about joining up. Maybe going into the Wrens. One of my cousins is absolutely determined on it. And a friend of mine in London – she says she’s going to join the fire service. We girls must do something. Do our bit. Can’t just stay at home and knit, I mean can we?’
Judy looked round the immaculately kept garage, and found herself smiling at its familiar neatness, its meticulous sense of order, its reassuring smell of oils and petrols, of machines and dirty overalls.
For his part Peter looked up at her as he sorted out her change.
‘Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that, Miss Judy. They was saying in the Three Tuns the other night that even if it does come to war, it’ll all be over by Christmas.’
‘They said the same thing the last time, apparently, Peter. You know, the Great War? they said that then, that it would all be over by Christmas. I think they say that to get people to join up, so they’ll think it’s only going to be just for a bit, don’t you think?’
‘Maybe, but this time we really will see to them, Miss Melton. Good ’n’ proper. You wait. We’ll kick the little Nazi in his behind, if you’ll forgive me saying so, Miss Melton.’ He gave her a wink as he handed her the change.
‘I hope you’re right, Peter. It just all seems so . . . unimaginable . . . war, on a perfect summer day like this.’
‘Doesn’t bear thinking about, I agree.’ Peter followed her to the car, holding the door open for her while she carefully tucked her long skirts under her as she sat behind the steering wheel. ‘So let’s just not, shall we? Let’s not think about it.’
‘Good idea, Peter. Far too nice a day altogether.’
As he watched Judy’s ruby-red Austin 7 disappearing in the direction of the village Peter was filled with the particular emotion that is inevitable when for a few seconds a young man tries to contemplate his whole world ending.
‘Come on, Weasel,’ he said finally to his lurcher dog who was lying stretched out in the summer sun, happily enjoying an untroubled sleep. ‘Time to shut up shop and go for a walk.’
Rather than head straight for her destination, Judy took a brief detour to one of her favourite spots on the outskirts of the village, a woodland laced with silver birch and dominated by the great elm trees that had stood for centuries guarding the long walks which time and man had cut through the swathe of trees. In spring the woods were always covered in primroses and bluebells. Now in summer they were filled with the pure scents of every kind of wild flower, some of whose names, like the scents of the flowers themselves, came drifting back to Judy. But as she sat looking at the flowers instead of beauty all she could see were the grim images recalled from paintings that she had seen of the last war, young men with bandaged eyes, dead, limbless; and instead of birdsong all she could hear was the sound of the siren ringing out over Sloane Square and Meggie’s voice joking with Miss Dobbs.
Finally, realising it didn’t really bear thinking about, she stood up, and hurried out of the woodland back to where her car was parked. Without looking back, she fired Chummy’s engine and set off as quickly as she could for the village that lay at the bottom of the hill.
Shelborne, the Tates’ seaside house, had been built in 1922 by Hugh Tate as a birthday present for Loopy, his American wife, and named by him after her parents’ house in Virginia. Together they had planned and planted what was now the beautifully cultivated garden which surrounded the small family house built in the Tudor style. The large and charming grounds led down to a private beach, and what with all the main living rooms and bedrooms overlooking the sea and its air of informality, Shelborne was every inch a family home.
Hugh had met his wife on a visit to America some six years before the outbreak of the Great War when J. Walter Dauncy, the American company for which he worked as European representative, had invited him over in order to promote him. Asked out to the company chairman’s holiday home on Long Island shortly after his arrival Hugh had met and fallen instantly in love with the chairman’s beautiful, high-spirited and athletic daughter Loretta, known to all in her circle as Loopy.
After a brief and passionate courtship, they married, and Hugh had brought Loopy to live in England, where in keeping with the pace of their relationship they quickly produced three boys, all named after their maternal grandfather’s company: John, Walter, and Dauncy.
Hugh had served the full term of the Great War in the Royal Navy, and had managed, miraculously, to survive, in spite of being injured three times. Nothing seemed to impair his unquenchable high spirits and on his safe return to England he had re-entered the domestic and professional frays with the same abundant good humour and energy that he had displayed both before and during the conflict.
All three of Hugh and Loopy’s boys had inherited thei
r father’s good looks and high spirits, most of all Walter, ‘the meat in the filial sandwich’ as he always called himself. Effortlessly charming, Walter was the delight of every eligible girl in his circle, yet he entertained no notions of getting married and settling down until, on leave from the Navy, he had been asked to make up the fourth man in a mixed party.
As soon as Walter danced with Judy Melton he knew he had met the love of his life. It was one of those moments that people are inclined to ascribe to fate, but which Walter described as It – since he knew that from the moment he had taken this quiet girl with the dark hair and eyes into his arms the meaning of his particular existence had all at once become perfectly obvious.
Walter stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. Unbelievably, that first dinner with Judy and their friends was still less than one month ago. He sighed suddenly and hugely, holding on not just to the thought, but to the moment. Downstairs he could hear his father playing the piano in his usual vivacious style. He was just coming to the end of his, and Walter’s, favourite selections from HMS Pinafore.
Walter smiled as he listened. He could hardly ever remember his father playing anything except Gilbert and Sullivan on his beloved Blüthner baby grand. Whenever the family had driven down to Shelborne from London for the weekend, it was always, always Gilbert and Sullivan, because Hugh Tate loved what he called ‘a jolly good tune’. Something that they could all sing together.
‘You seem a little on edge, my love,’ Hugh said, once he had finished sailing with great satisfaction through the Captain’s Song. ‘Not like you to clock-watch.’
He put a fresh piece of music up in front of him, and prepared to play and sing once more, this time something from Trial by Jury, as Loopy glanced at the clock yet again.
‘Has to be because this is the first time any of the boys has brought a girl home instead of taking them out, Hugh,’ Loopy replied, lighting one of her favoured Turkish cigarettes. ‘I have a real feeling that this might be the Real Thing, for Walter, I really do. Imagine.’
‘Knowing Walt he’s probably bringing her home because he’s stony broke and can’t afford to take her out dancing. Let’s hope she’s not stuffy like her parents.’ Hugh pulled a face.
‘I don’t think so, somehow. Besides, you’re forgetting. Walter is now in uniform. Uniforms have a habit of hurrying things along, Hugh, remember, the last time?’
‘Walter’s not the sort of chap to go getting hitched just because there’s going to be a bit of a dust-up, darling. And as I said, they’ve only just met.’
‘I seem to remember a certain young Englishman who proposed to a certain young American the day after he met her.’
‘I’ve told you over and over, Loopy darling, I only proposed to you because I couldn’t think of what else to say.’ Hugh deserted his beloved piano and strolled across the sitting room to the drinks table. ‘Your usual?’ He held up the cut glass cocktail jug. ‘Do you know, I think whoever invented the dry martini should be made a Knight of the Garter.’
‘A Knight of the Shaker would be a little more appropriate, and you don’t have to laugh at such a poor jest.’ Loopy tapped the side of an ashtray nervously with her cigarette, before glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I just hope Miss Melton is going to be on time. You know how tetchy Cook gets when people are even five minutes late.’
‘Well, she would. Daughter of a ship’s cook.’
‘Naval time is five minutes before time!’ they chorused together, and Loopy smiled affectionately across at her husband.
‘Naval time is five minutes before time!’ Loopy repeated to herself, and shook her head before going on, ‘That is engraved on my heart, for heaven’s sakes.’
‘Then there’s the staff.’
‘Must get home to their families,’ they chorused again, before raising their glasses to each other.
Since the Tates generally only came down to Bexham at weekends and for their summer holidays their domestic staff – comprising two maids and a cook – lived out in the village itself. Although it was an old joke of theirs, quoting Hugh’s father, whose favourite sayings as regards domestic staff these had been, nevertheless the Tates had always been particularly conscious of their employees’ need to get back to look after their own families; and now they realised they had an even greater responsibility to make sure that whatever happened they did not keep them too late.
Once the staff had left Shelborne of an evening the Tates knew that they would be hurrying off to evening class, learning how to cope with gas attacks, to dress wounds, equip shelters, make sandbag barricades. In fact they would spend the rest of the evening finding out about all kinds of things they would have to be prepared to do if and when war broke out, for the whole of Bexham was getting ready for that eventuality. Young and old, parents, grandparents, and children, were rehearsing their gas attack drill, helping to put up blackout blinds at their bedroom windows, constructing sandbag defences – more than essential in seaside Bexham – as well as digging bomb shelters in their gardens, not to mention the work that was being put into preparing arms in readiness for defence against the expected Nazi invasion.
Since Walter had built Shelborne for her, Loopy had come to understand that the little harbour village worked and thought as one. To be part of Bexham was to belong to something they all knew was very special. Most of the working womenfolk were only part-timers, like Loopy’s own staff; other than that their lives were entirely domestic. Cook, for instance, was a married woman with three grown children, and the two girls who helped clean and serve still lived at home with their families, preparing to become nothing more exciting than good housewives and mothers.
The growing popularity of Bexham as a small sailing resort had meant that there had been a slow but steady growth of new houses built specifically for part-time occupation by the affluent, something which suited the women of Bexham admirably since it meant that, as a consequence, there was a steady demand for part-time cooks, daily cleaners and housemaids. The wages were fair and the hours mostly weekend and holiday only. Thanks to a sequence of what had seemed to be endlessly fine summers, since the Great War life in Bexham had been as close to ideal as possible, marred only by the growing anxiety about what was happening across the waters that lay beyond the mouth of the pretty estuary.
The village itself was made up of an array of thatched white-painted cottages – some of them dating back as far as Tudor times. For the most part the village was made up of small Queen Anne and Georgian houses with perfectly manicured gardens, and a couple of historic and architecturally fine public houses. The new homes, those built for the yachting fraternity, lay to the west of the village itself, along a winding road that followed the contours of the coastline. Most of them had been put up in the nineteen twenties on sites with uninterrupted views of the estuary and the tiny, busy harbour, now separated from them by long, lush green lawns and burgeoning herbaceous borders.
This ever-growing row of houses was perfectly situated for the yachting families who owned them, the direct access to the estuary meaning they all had private moorings, thereby keeping the small harbour free for the use of local fishermen and boatmen.
Not that the seafaring fraternity divided itself into amateurs and professionals. The path that ran along the shoreline all the way from the mouth of the estuary back to the harbour ensured that all returning sailors, a class well known for its thirst, inevitably made their way back to the Three Tuns, the ancient brick and flint public house that dominated the quays.
It was a harder walk in winter, of course, with the flood tides and the heavy rains which swept in from the Channel. Sometimes in the worst of weathers the pub was cut off from any frontal approach, the estuary waters whipping themselves against the ancient masonry, cascading up the front steps, sometimes even battering the ground-floor windows, which at these times were usually lined with villagers intent on watching the storm rage outside, while drinking their way slowly through their pints of beer and cide
r in the warmth and safety of the snug.
‘I was talking to Mrs Marsh this morning, down by the war memorial,’ Loopy said now, as Hugh searched for another sheet of music. ‘You know who I mean by Mrs Marsh? Her brother used to do some gardening here. She lost both her sons and her husband in the Great War. We were saying – we were remarking on the fact that they’ve hardly finished carving the names on the memorial from the Great War. And now – now here we go again, or so it seems.’
‘Oh, Mrs Marsh. Bless her, but she is such a gloom pot.’ Hugh stared at the music in front of him, his reading glasses on the end of his nose. ‘Time for another song. And shouldn’t Walter be down by now?’
‘You know Walter, Hugh. He’s so relaxed he’s probably fallen fast asleep getting dressed.’
Hugh smiled at that and began to play. Loopy lit another cigarette and she too smiled as she heard what her husband had selected.
Upstairs, far from being fast asleep, Walter was wide awake putting the final touches to his bow tie while lending half an ear to the strains of G&S that were floating up from down below as his father resumed his piano recital. Satisfied that his tie was now perfect, Walter checked his wristwatch and glanced yet again out of his bedroom window in the hope of seeing Judy’s little plum-coloured Austin turning into the drive.
Downstairs, probably by popular request from himself, his father had abandoned Trial by Jury and returned once more to HMS Pinafore.
‘Oh, pity, pity me – our Captain’s daughter she!’
The words floated up to Walter, more than ever filled with poignancy.
Except Judy was not a captain’s daughter but the daughter of an admiral. This, among many, was one of the reasons why their two families had never socialised, even though they had both had houses in the same small village for what now seemed to Walter to be for ever and ever.
The problem was that Judy’s family, the Meltons, were Old Bexham, a distinguished family who had lived in the fine manor house two miles west of the village for centuries, apparently, while the Tates were considered at the very least nouveau – certainly by the Meltons. The fact that Hugh’s father had served in the Royal Navy was simply not a good enough reason to bring the two families together socially, since Judy’s father, Sir Arthur, had not only retired as an admiral but had also been awarded a rare naval VC for his heroism during the Great War.
The Chestnut Tree Page 2
