‘I’m not an idiot,’ Bess said under her breath as she watched the bruises on her arms turn from red to purple.
It was James Foxden who, several years later, picked Bess out of a thistle patch when the horse she was riding threw her because she’d hesitated before jumping a fence. There had been an obvious age difference then. James was studying at university and Bess was still a grammar school girl. There was no age difference now. Not now Bess was grown up and a qualified teacher.
Bess felt the colour rise in her cheeks and looked out of the window. To her surprise she could see the pylons of Rugby’s wireless station in the distance. The journey had gone quickly. As the suburbs came into view she felt the pull of the train’s breaks. Next stop Rugby.
She couldn’t wait to see Tom, because if James was home he and Tom were bound to go to the pub for a drink and James might tell Tom about the girl from his office. Bess wanted to know if James was still seeing her – and if so, if he was serious about her. The memory of the night she saw James in Fleet Street with the girl made Bess feel miserable. However, kissing another girl probably meant he was no longer walking out with Annabel Hadleigh, which made her feel happy. Unless …
Nodding to her fellow passengers, Bess left the compartment. She dragged her suitcase to the door, pulled down the window and hung out. ‘Tom?’ she shouted above the hiss of the train’s brakes. She could see her brother walking along the platform, chatting to the old ticket collector. ‘Tom?’ she shouted again and this time he heard her.
CHAPTER FIVE
Bess kicked off her shoes, picked them up by the straps at the ankle and ran barefoot across the peacock lawn to the lake. Sitting on the grassy bank at the water’s edge she watched a mother duck teaching her ducklings how to dive. The downy bundles did their best, but as soon as they dipped their heads under the water their buoyant little bodies forced them to bob back up again. Finally, wiggling their tail feathers and shaking their heads, they fell into formation behind their proud mother and paddled for all they were worth to the far side of the lake, leaving a V-shaped swell on what was otherwise still water.
With the sun warm on her face, Bess watched the raft of ducks circle a bed of water lilies before disappearing between clumps of bulrushes in the foreground of Mysterton Church. The church spire, like a shepherd’s dial, cast its long afternoon shadow across Foxden’s manicured lawn, reminding Bess it was time to go.
*
‘I feel as if I’ve never been away,’ she said, while her sister Ena tied a green ribbon round her hair before letting her unruly curls fall onto her shoulders.
‘Sit still!’ Ena said, flicking Bess with her comb when she leant sideways to look in the mirror. ‘If you look before I’ve finished you’ll spoil the surprise. I just have to…’ Ena, forcing the last of Bess’s pre-Raphaelite tresses round the fingers of her left hand, made an elegant bun and then anchored it with Kirby grips. ‘There! Now you can look,’ she said proudly, taking a couple of steps back to admire her handiwork.
‘It looks lovely, Ena. You are clever with hair,’ Bess said, admiring her young sister’s talent. Bess had always felt guilty because as an academic she had been given a scholarship to pursue her ambition of becoming a teacher, but there was no such help for Ena. To be a hairdresser you had to do a three-year apprenticeship and contribute substantially to the cost of the training, as well as pay for your equipment. ‘I’m sorry Mam and Dad can’t afford to let you do hairdressing,’ Bess said. ‘Perhaps when I’m working, when I’m earning…’
‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I was a real hairdresser?’ Ena said, strutting round the bedroom, comb in one hand and hairbrush in the other. ‘Do come this way, Modom. Pleeeeese take a seat, Miss Dudley will be with you in a moment,’ Ena announced before dropping on the bed and laughing. Her laughter was infectious and Bess laughed with her, until she realised Ena had become over-excited and was near to hysterics. Putting her arms around her sister, she held her until she calmed down. When she had recovered Ena said, ‘There’s no need for wave-grippers and setting lotions when you’re running round after two little children every day.’
‘Poor Ena, are the children very hard work?’ Bess asked, aware that Ena was little more than a child herself.
‘Yes they are, but it’s not the hard work that bothers me. I like the kids and I like being a nanny – well, compared to being a housemaid I do. It’s just that I never have any time to myself. I get Sunday afternoons off, but there’s nothing to do on a Sunday afternoon except go to the pictures. I take the children if it’s a suitable flick. I might as well, there’s no one of my own age to go with. The other thing that gets me down is not being able to come home. Leamington’s too far away. I can’t come home for a Sunday afternoon, can I? And even if it was possible, Mrs Asher would find a reason to make me stay. She hasn’t said I can come home for Margaret’s wedding yet.’
‘What? Is Margaret getting married?’ Bess shrieked with surprise.
‘Shush, keep your voice down,’ Ena whispered. ‘I’ve been sworn to secrecy. Margaret wants to tell you herself.’
‘Don’t worry, my lips are sealed,’ Bess said, stepping into the green satin dress that she’d bought in the sale at Mademoiselle Modes. ‘This was a model gown and even with my friend Miss Armstrong’s discount it cost me every penny I had left. So,’ Bess said, stepping back from the mirror, ‘what do you think?’
‘You look lovely,’ Ena said.
‘Thank you. So do you. Turn round and I’ll tie your bow.’
‘Do it tight, so I’ve got a waist like a film star,’ she said, sucking in her stomach and holding her breath.
‘Don’t be silly, Ena! Breathe normally or I won’t tie it at all. You can’t spend the whole evening holding your breath.’
Ena expelled a lungful of air, purposely forcing it to reverberate between her lips so it made a rude noise, and giggled.
Bess pulled and prettified the bow at her young sister’s waist and then put her arm round her shoulder. ‘If I were you, Ena Dudley, I would keep breathing or you might faint. Worse still, if your bow’s too tight you won’t be able to eat any of my birthday cake,’ Bess said, laughing.
Ena caught sight of herself in the mirror, puffed out her cheeks, hunched up her shoulders and, with her knees bent and her arms swinging at her side, lumbered out of the room like a monkey, chattering, ‘Ooh oohhh aaaah aaahhhh, I want cake.’ Still laughing, Bess slipped her feet into her shoes and followed her sister downstairs.
As she entered the living room the family stood and sang, “Happy Birthday to You” followed by “Twenty-one Today”. Tom led them in a chorus of three cheers and afterwards threatened to give Bess the bumps. Bess’s father called for hush and ordered everyone to the table.
Her mother had baked a ham, which she had sliced and placed round a large plate, each slice overlapping the one before. There were cheese and beetroot and tinned salmon and cucumber sandwiches, dishes of tomatoes, radishes, celery, pickled onions and piccalilli, as well as a large bowl of sherry trifle and an iced birthday cake.
‘What a wonderful spread. This table wouldn’t look out of place up at the Hall, Mam,’ Bess said.
‘Not every day your oldest daughter turns twenty-one. Got to mark the occasion!’ Lily Dudley didn’t take compliments well.
When they had finished eating, everyone helped to clear the table, except Bess. Bess followed her father into the living room and told him about her last term at college, and her hopes of getting a teaching post in London. In return her father brought her up to date with the Estate’s news, the farms, the horses – and, in particular, Sable.
When the washing up was done, Tom, Margaret, Claire and Ena joined Bess and her father, followed a little later by their mother, who was carrying two small packages and a dozen birthday cards that she had hidden from the inquisitive eyes of Ena and Claire beneath a pile of ironing in the scullery. Ironing! Scullery! Neither girl would dream of looking there.
The
first present was from her parents. It was in a square box covered in cream leather. Bess opened the box and caught her breath. Between the vertical pleats of cream satin in the lid of the box and the cushion in the bottom was a gold wristwatch.
‘Thank you,’ she said, kissing each of her parents in turn. She laid the watch across her wrist, lifted the small square link that dangled from one end of the bracelet to meet the equally small square clasp that dangled from the other, hooked the first through the second and pressed them together. Then she held the watch at arm’s length to admire its small oval face and delicately fashioned bracelet of gold leaves. ‘It is beautiful, really beautiful,’ she said.
‘Open ours now, Bess,’ Margaret said, pushing a gift of similar shape and size towards her. Eagerly she removed the shiny red wrapping paper to discover a red box. Nestling between folds of red satin was a gold locket on a chain.
‘It’s a good one,’ Margaret said. ‘Me and Tom chose it. We bought it from a jewellery shop in Coventry.’
‘It’s beautiful, thank you all,’ Bess said, concerned because she knew how much a necklace as lovely as this one would have cost.
‘Don’t worry, Bess,’ Ena said. ‘Our Tom paid for it.’
‘Shush, Ena. It doesn’t matter who paid for it,’ Tom said. ‘The important thing is we give Bess something for her birthday, as well as for passing her exams, that she can keep. We’re all very proud of you, Bess.’
‘I think that calls for a toast,’ their father said.
While Bess’s father poured the sherry, Bess opened her cards and read each one aloud before placing it on the mantelshelf. Most of the cards were from friends who lived locally and had been delivered by hand, but five had come by post during the week. Two cards were postmarked London. The first was from Mrs McAllister and Molly, and the second was from Miss Armstrong. The third card was from Birmingham, from Nora and Arthur, and the fourth was from Bess’s friend Henry Green, which made Ena and Claire giggle. Ignoring her sisters, Bess ran her finger along the flap of the remaining envelope. It was addressed to Miss Elizabeth Dudley, C/O The Post Office, Woodcote, but it didn’t have a postmark.
‘I wonder who this is from,’ she said, more to herself than to anyone else as she pulled the cream card with the number twenty-one embossed in gold from the envelope. The message was simple and read, “Many happy returns of the day, James”. Bess’s blushes went unnoticed as she placed the card alongside those of her friends and family. The letter, which only she had seen, she left in the envelope and dropped into her handbag.
That night, when everyone was asleep, Bess tiptoed from the bedroom she shared with her sisters and went downstairs. In the sitting room she lit a candle and by its pale glow read James’s letter. “Dear Bess, I hope this note finds you well. I’m sorry I missed you when you telephoned the office. I wasn’t given your message until the following morning when I went in to clear my desk. Because I believe it’s only a matter of time before England goes to war with Germany, I’ve left the practice and joined the RAF. I’m training at a secret location and have no idea when I’ll be home next. Think of me sometimes when you ride across the Acres. Best wishes, James.”
So James didn’t know she’d telephoned that afternoon. The girl hadn’t told him because she wanted him for herself. She got him too, Bess thought, for one night. Bess read the letter again. If James had joined the RAF the fling, or whatever it was with the girl in the office, was probably over. And, since he wouldn’t have been unfaithful to Annabel, if he’d been walking out with her- Bess’s heart leapt with joy. James was free.
Bess folded the letter, put it back in its envelope and returned to the bedroom. Ena was still asleep and didn’t stir as she crept into bed beside her. She put James’s letter under her pillow and lay thinking. Excitement and fear raced side by side. What would war mean to her family? Her father wouldn’t be called up - he was too old - but Tom would volunteer; he’d said as much at New Year. Margaret, with a bit of luck, would be married by then and escape the first draft, perhaps the entire war if it didn’t last long. Claire would join up as soon as she could. She had romantic notions about saving the world in a glamorous uniform. Ena, thank God, was too young.
Bess stared at the ceiling, unable to ignore the niggling thoughts that crept into her mind about her own future. If there was a war she would be called up. Her teaching career would be over before it began and all the hard work, the studying, would have been for nothing. Bess turned over and closed her eyes, but she couldn’t sleep. She thought about her friends Natalie and Anton Goldman, and wondered how a war with Germany would affect them. They were persecuted in Germany because they were Jewish. If England went to war with Germany, Bess feared they would be persecuted in England because they were German. She pulled the bedclothes up to her chin and closed her eyes again. It didn’t bear thinking about.
Bess finally slipped into a fretful sleep, only to be woken minutes later by the cawing of crows flying overhead. Leaving her sisters to sleep, she got up and went downstairs. She made a pot of tea and, armed with a large cup, sat at the living room table and wrote a letter to Natalie Goldman.
CHAPTER SIX
The BBC forecast glorious sunshine for July and predicted that the record-breaking hot weather would continue throughout the summer of 1939. July 1st, the day Bess’s sister Margaret was to marry her sweetheart Bill Burrell at Mysterton Church, was no exception.
After taking Sable for an early morning trot along the river – it was too hot to exercise her properly – Bess dismounted and walked her back through the park which, in contrast to the open fields and meadows, was dark and cool. Sheltered by giant oak trees with huge exposed roots, it was a playground for squirrels and other small creatures. A dry twig snapped beneath Bess’s boot, halting the tap, tap, tap of a woodpecker that had been pecking for grubs on the bark of a dead tree. Bess stood still and waited for the bird to resume its search for food.
If I moved to live in London I would miss all this, she thought. I would miss the peace and the privacy. For as long as she could remember, if she had something on her mind, she would come to the park and in no time the solution would come to her. The reason she had taken a detour today was not only to walk Sable in the shade, but because she wanted to be alone. And being alone in a house with six or more people was impossible, especially on the day of your sister’s wedding. But here, for a few minutes, she could enjoy the peace and quiet of the woods – and she could think.
She took the letter that she’d received earlier in the week from her pocket and read it again. Christchurch Secondary School, Clapham, South London was a good school with a good reputation. The position of English Mistress was what she had worked so hard for and, because it was her first job after finishing college, the salary was much more than she had expected. So why was she hesitating? Was it because London would be a dangerous place to live and work if there was a war, or was it because James was no longer there? At the end of the letter the headmaster stipulated that, if Bess declined his offer, she should let him know in writing before July 9th. That would give him time to offer the job to his second choice.
The woodpecker resumed its tapping and Bess put the letter back in her pocket. She could think of a dozen reasons to stay at Foxden but none came with a salary, let alone a salary to match the one she’d been offered in London.
Bess was determined to find a way to stay close to her beloved Acres. ‘You don’t want me to leave, do you, old girl?’ she said, walking Sable on. She didn’t know what to do for the best, but she had a week to make up her mind, so she decided to forget about the job until after Margaret’s wedding.
It was always hectic when the Dudley girls were home at the same time, but today it was like being in a very crowded nightmare. Everyone was rushing around with slices of toast and cups of tea in their hands: “breakfast on the hoof”, Tom called it. People were arriving every five minutes, or so it seemed. The woman in charge of the catering at Woodcote Village Hall came
to discuss the wedding cake, the florist from Lowarth arrived with the bouquets and two baskets of flowers, and several neighbours popped in for… who knew what!
Tom was first to arrive downstairs, dressed in his best suit, followed closely by his father. ‘I’m going outside for a smoke,’ Bess’s father said, dodging a three year old boy wielding a sticky bun.
‘Come here, Archie!’ demanded the child’s mother, who was the best dressmaker Lowarth had to offer, and who had called in case there were any last minute alterations to Margaret’s dress. ‘I thought I told you to sit still,’ she scolded, dragging the child from the kitchen to the living room by the scruff of his neck and leaving a trail of crumbs in his wake.
‘I’m taking the flowers to the church, Mam,’ Bess shouted, picking up the two baskets of flowers that should have been delivered hours ago. Her mother, busy making tea for the dressmaker, florist and neighbours, didn’t reply. ‘It’s a madhouse,’ she shouted to Tom as she left.
Walking to the church, Bess made mental notes of what she had to do before Margaret’s wedding. As chief bridesmaid, it was her job to make sure Ena and Claire were in their bridesmaid dresses, before helping Margaret into her wedding dress. Only when everyone else was dressed – and the bathroom was finally free – could she get ready. ‘Phew!’ she said, ‘it’s hot.’
In contrast to the heat and the humidity outside, the interior of the ancient Cotswold stone church felt pleasantly cool. The stained glass windows in the clerestory, high above in the aisle roof, let in shafts of soft pink and gold dust-speckled light, and the fragrance of lavender furniture polish and vanilla candles filled the building with a rich and calming fragrance.
Bess walked down the aisle carrying a bunch of pink and white roses as if it were a bridal bouquet, humming, “Here Comes The Bride”. It might have been me getting married today if I’d accepted my old sweetheart’s proposal - if I’d have cared for Frank Donnelly in the way he’d cared for me, Bess thought. She stood at the foot of the altar steps and tried to imagine herself in a bridal gown, but she couldn’t. Maybe one day, she thought, smiling. Her mother had said she was stupid passing up an opportunity to marry a nice chap like Frank. ‘Our Bess has always had ideas above her station. College indeed!’ she’d said when Bess told her why she’d turned Frank down, which made Bess even more determined to go.
Foxden Acres (The Dudley Sisters Quartet Book 1) Page 8
