The roses stretched to two vases, both shaped like a fan. Columbine trailed from the centre of one; from the other, sorrel. The first arrangement she placed on a table beneath the pulpit, the second on an ornate piece of wood that acted as a lid to protect the font when it wasn’t in use. Before she left she tied white ribbon round bunches of sweet peas and hung one on the end of each pew.
As she opened the front door Bess could hear Ena and Claire arguing.
‘You’ve swapped the gloves,’ Ena said.
‘Haven’t!’ Claire replied nonchalantly.
‘Yes, you have. Look, the tips of the fingers are grubby. Mine were clean,’ Ena said, picking up a pair of gloves on Claire’s side of the bedroom. ‘It’s not fair that you’ve dirtied them and I’ve got to wear them!’
‘It’s not fair that your flowers are prettier than mine, but--’
‘No they’re not! They’re exactly the same, stupid!’
‘Right. I’m not helping you do your hair for saying that!’
‘What? After all the time I spent on your mousey, pump-water--’
‘If you two don’t stop arguing I’ll come up there and bang your heads together,’ their father shouted from the bottom of the stairs.
‘It’s not my fault, Dad, it’s our Claire’s,’ Ena shouted.
‘No it’s not, Dad, Ena started it.’
‘And I’m going to finish it!’ Bess said. ‘Put your dresses on, now!’
Angry with Bess instead of each other, Claire and Ena dressed without saying another word and went downstairs to sit with their father.
Claire and Ena’s constant bickering had driven Margaret into her parents’ bedroom. Bess opened the door to find her sister lying on the bed with her eyes shut and her head hanging over a pillow that had been tied in the middle like a sausage, so it didn’t squash her hair.
Bess tiptoed over to the window and opened the curtains. When she turned round, Margaret was sitting up with her hands in front of her eyes, looking at Bess through splayed fingers, the way Bela Lugosi had done in the film, “Dracula”, which the Dudley sisters had seen earlier in the week at Lowarth Picture House. Feigning surprise at seeing Bess, Margaret whimpered, ‘I thought you’d forgotten me.’ Margaret brought a sense of the dramatic to every occasion, but today who could blame her? She was getting married in less than an hour and she was the only person in the house, apart from Bess, who wasn’t dressed.
Bess was not in the mood to play games, but there was only one way to coax Margaret out of her “poor me” mood and that was to give her the attention that, on this occasion, she deserved. ‘Forget you on your wedding day?’ Bess looked fittingly horrified at the idea. ‘This is the most important day in the Dudley family calendar and you, my lady, are the most important person.’
After spreading a clean sheet on the floor, Bess took Margaret’s wedding dress from its hanger, lifted it as high as she could and let it fall onto the sheet like a parachute. Then Bess helped the barefoot bride to step into the dress, making sure she cleared the small opening at the waist. Finally, in one fluid movement, Bess pulled up the bodice of the dress and Margaret slipped her arms into the sleeves.
While Margaret admired herself in the mirror, Bess fastened the buttons at the back of the dress. Each tiny round button – and there were dozens of them – had been covered in white satin to match the dress and had to be gently teased through buttonholes that were only fractionally bigger than the buttons.
‘Stand still, Margaret, I’m nearly done,’ Bess said, persevering until every button had been pushed through its corresponding buttonhole. She then placed a veil of fine net on her sister’s head, followed by a garland of tiny pink rosebuds – to keep the veil in place – and held her hand while she stepped into her new white shoes.
Moving away, but not taking her eyes off her sister, Bess shook her head and sighed. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bride look so radiant. You look beautiful, Margaret.’
‘Do I, Bess?’ Margaret said, her eyes sparkling with emotion.
‘Yes, but don’t you dare cry, you’ll spoil your make-up. Stay there and don’t move,’ Bess ordered. ‘I’m going down to get Dad.’
‘Bess is right, you do look beautiful, Margaret.’ Her father stood for a long minute, his eyes moist. ‘Come on then,’ he said, after clearing his throat. ‘Let’s get you to the church.’
It was the perfect day for a wedding. The sun was shining, the warm fruity scent of wild honeysuckle pinked the air and the lane leading from Woodcote to Mysterton Church, was lined with people waiting to see the bride.
Tom and his mother were first to arrive, followed by Claire and Ena. Margaret and her father were five minutes late, not because being five minutes late was the tradition, but because they had to wait for Bess, the chief bridesmaid, to get there before them.
‘Give us a whirl, Margaret,’ someone in the crowd shouted, and Margaret complied. Halfway along the path leading to the church she stopped and gave the onlookers a twirl. Everyone clapped and Margaret smiled like a film star. As the organ began to play “Here Comes the Bride” she turned to her father, rested her hand on his arm and allowed him to guide her into the church and down the aisle to her future husband.
The old church was full to the rafters. Margaret spoke clearly and although she had said many times during that week that she would be too nervous to sing, she sang beautifully and every bit as loud as she did at choir practice. Bess took the bouquet at the right time, and when Margaret and Bill said, ‘I do,’ there was a flourish of handkerchiefs and the customary dabbing of eyes and blowing of noses.
After the service the local chemist, the nearest thing Lowarth had to a photographer, took photographs of Margaret and Bill in traditional bride and groom poses, gradually adding other members of the wedding party. First the best man and the bridesmaids, followed by the bride and groom’s parents. Finally it was time for the group photograph, which took so long to set up some of the guests began to drift off, lured away by the promise of cold fruit punch and ham and cheese sandwiches in Woodcote Village Hall.
Guests that had driven to the church drove down to the reception. Those who lived in the village and had walked the half-mile to the church walked back, but the newly married Mr and Mrs Burrell travelled in style – transported from the church to the reception in the hansom cab that Bill’s mother and father had hired for the occasion.
*
The day Margaret and Bill returned from their honeymoon was the day Bess needed to write to the headmaster of Christchurch Secondary School in South London if she was not going to accept the job as English teacher. She was sitting at the living room table reading the letter when her father came in.
‘Decided what you’re going to do yet, Bess?’ her father asked, pulling out a chair and sitting next to her.
‘No!’
‘Do you want to talk it through? It might help.’
Bess laid her head on her father’s shoulder. She wished she could tell him how she felt about James. Instead she said, ‘I’m not sure I want to go to London.’
‘Then don’t. Stay here. Get a job in Lowarth or Rugby.’
‘If only it was that easy. The chances of finding full-time employment this near to the start of the autumn term are very slim.’
‘Why don’t you have a word with the headmistress at Woodcote Junior School? She might be able to suggest something.’
‘I already have. She was very nice, but the only work she can give me during the coming school year is on an ad-hoc basis, to fill in if any of her staff are off. She suggested I gave private lessons. She said there are often children who need extra tuition. Some fall behind through illness, especially in the winter. And some are grammar school hopefuls, children of local businessmen and wealthy farmers whose parents are prepared to pay to get them through the eleven plus.’
‘There you are then!’ When Bess didn’t answer, he said, ‘So what else is bothering you?’
Lifting her head and l
ooking seriously at her father, she said, ‘It’s time I contributed to the family financially. I won’t be able to do that if I stay here, but I will if I go to London to work.’
‘Is that what this is about?’
‘It’s not the only reason, but yes, I’m twenty-one, it’s time--’
‘Life isn’t just about money, Bess. You need to follow your heart too.’
‘I know,’ she said. If only she could tell her father what was in her heart - but she couldn’t. She looked into his kind, tired face and smiled. She knew he didn’t earn much working as second horseman, but she would rather die than say anything to embarrass him. ‘I just think that if I was earning I’d be able to help Ena and Claire. Girls of their age--’
‘But you have helped them-- do help them. Your sisters wouldn’t have done half as well at school if they hadn’t had you to look up to.’
‘But being at college all this time and not bringing in any money, when Tom contributes and Margaret’s been working in the factory and paying for her keep - it makes me think I should take the job in London. At least then I won’t be a drain--’
‘A drain? On who? You’ve always won scholarships, been awarded grants to pay for your education – you’ve never been a drain.
Forcing herself not to cry, Bess said, ‘But you work so hard and--’
‘I might not earn a big wage, but being a groom is what I chose to do, Bess. When I left school working with horses, exercising them and training them was all I wanted to do. It was my dream. If you want my advice do what you want to do, what’ll make you happy, not what you think you should do. There is one thing …’
‘Go on, what is it?’
‘If there’s a war--’
‘London will be a dangerous place!’
Her father’s eyes, a combination of worried and serious, grew moist. ‘Yes.’
‘I thought about that too, but London’s only a few hours away by train. I can always come home.’ Laughing, she said, ‘I’m more worried about what Mam will say if I go back to London than I am about the Germans attacking.’
Smiling, her father said, ‘Whatever you decide, your mother and I will be behind you all the way.’
Bess rolled her eyes and bit her lip, in an over-exaggerated way, making her father laugh.
Still laughing, he got up and kissed Bess on top of her head. ‘You leave your mother to me,’ he said, and left.
Living in London, earning decent money, would mean she could afford to go out, which she hadn’t been able to do while she was at college. On the other hand, living at home would mean she’d be with her family, be able to exercise Sable every day, and be here when James returned from training with the RAF. She ached to see him, to be close to him, to talk to him. She took his letter from her pocket, read it again, and decided to write to the headmaster of Christchurch School and say that it was with regret that she was unable to accept the post of English Mistress. If she wrote the letter now, she could take the short cut across the fields to Woodcote and catch the last post.
Holding the letter tightly, Bess skirted the woods on the south side of the lake, leapt over the three-step stile, and ran along the overgrown footpath that led to the main road on the far side of a small thicket south of the bend on Shaft Hill. As she ran into the road she felt the sharp stabbing pain of a stitch in her side. Instinctively she stopped, put her hands on her knees, and began to breathe deeply and slowly. She neither saw nor heard Lady Foxden’s car, which had turned the corner at exactly the same time. Luckily, Lady Foxden had seen her and had hit the brakes before she hit Bess.
Lady Foxden leapt out of the car and, for what seemed like an eternity, the two women stood and stared at each other in disbelief. ‘Are you alright, Elizabeth?’ her Ladyship asked across the highly polished black bonnet of her motorcar. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see you until I turned the bend.’
‘It’s not your fault, your Ladyship, it’s mine. I wasn’t looking,’ Bess said, trembling and out of breath. ‘I should have looked before I ran into the road. I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Well, as long as there’s no harm done. Are you going to Woodcote?’
‘Yes, to the post office.’ Bess waved the envelope in the air as if it was some sort of justification for almost getting herself killed.
‘You’d better hop in dear, there’s only five minutes until the last collection.’
Still trembling, Bess lowered herself onto the soft cream leather passenger seat of the Rover motorcar and closed the door. Lady Foxden, having regained her composure, got back into the car, put her foot on the accelerator, and cautiously drove down the hill.
‘Congratulations on passing your exams, Elizabeth,’ Lady Foxden said. ‘Your father tells me you’ve been offered a teaching post in London.’ But before Bess could reply her Ladyship had moved the conversation on to her son. ‘James was in London, you know, for several years. He isn’t there now, I’m pleased to say. I mean,’ she continued without pausing for breath, ‘if there is a war, London would be …’
Lady Foxden chattered on, and Bess knew the drill. She and her sisters had had it drummed into them from a very early age that they were not to speak unless they were spoken to, especially in the presence of Lord and Lady Foxden. Listen and learn, their father would say, listen and learn. And that was what Bess was doing now; she was listening and learning about James – the same James who, as a boy, had gone scrumping apples with her brother Tom. The same James who had saved her from drowning when she was a child and who, only a few months ago, Bess had beaten in a race across the Foxden Estate.
Bess was eager to hear anything and everything about James, whether it was his work in London or more recently his training with the RAF.
‘It's top secret, very hush-hush!’ Lady Foxden whispered, pausing just long enough for Bess to acknowledge the importance of her son’s work. ‘The poor boy,’ she went on, ‘has been working so terribly hard. I don’t know what he’d have done without the Hadleighs. I was so relieved when my friend Lady Eleanor wrote to tell me that James was a regular visitor at Hadleigh Hall.’
‘Hadleigh?’ Bess heard herself say.
‘Yes, James is training at an RAF camp in Kent. And according to Eleanor, James and her daughter Annabel have become inseparable. They’ve always been close, so it is no surprise ….’
Bess didn’t want to hear about James and Annabel becoming inseparable and tried to think of a way to change the subject without being rude. ‘Is it all right if I open the window, I’m feeling--?’
‘And,’ Lady Foxden whispered, leaning towards Bess as if she was sharing top secret information with her, ‘Eleanor hopes – well, we both do – that in the not too distant future James and Annabel will announce their engagement. And, if there is a wretched war, there could be wedding bells sooner rather than later.’
The car was unbearably hot and stuffy. Bess inhaled deeply, but the combined smell of petrol and warm leather made her feel sick. The sun was reflecting off the walnut dashboard, blinding her and stinging her eyes. Unable to see for the glare, Bess lowered her head. She felt a searing pain spread across her forehead, and the shiny dashboard turned black.
‘Elizabeth, are you all right, dear?’ Bess was aware that someone was speaking to her but she couldn’t make out who they were or what they were saying because they were so far away. Then the sharp repugnant smell of bitter chemicals powered its way into her consciousness and she opened her eyes.
She lifted her head to see Lady Foxden kneeling on the grass next to the open passenger door with a bottle of smelling salts in her hand. ‘You’re burning up, child,’ she said, pressing the back of her hand against Bess’s cheek. ‘It’s no wonder, running in this heat, it’s not good for you,’ she scolded.
‘Yes, it must be the heat. I’d better go home,’ Bess said, still in shock after hearing about James’s forthcoming engagement to Annabel Hadleigh.
‘But your letter? Would you like me to post it for you?’
&nbs
p; ‘No. Thank you.’
The following day Bess posted a letter to the headmaster of Christchurch Secondary School in Clapham, South London, accepting the job of English teacher.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Have you all got your gas masks?’
‘Yes, Miss Dudley,’ was the collective reply from the pupils of 1B as the home bell echoed through the freshly painted corridors of Christchurch School.
‘Off you go, then. See you on Monday,’ Bess shouted above the noise of desk lids slamming, chairs being scraped along the hard wooden floor and the chatter of twenty-five excited eleven year olds who, like Bess, had come to the end of their first week at a new school. ‘Walk in single file, please!’ she reminded them as each child pushed to be first in line to leave the classroom. ‘And go straight home!’
Life as a teacher in a London school was better than Bess had thought it would be. She got on with her fellow teachers and she had gained the respect of her pupils rather more quickly than expected when she calmly evicted a mouse from her desk. No doubt the boys responsible for putting the mouse in there had hoped to see Miss scream, and perhaps a different personality would have, but not Bess. Bess had lived in the country for most of her life and was not afraid of animals, large or small. Besides, this particular little rodent was tame.
Bess asked if anyone in the class was willing to give the mouse a home and immediately the hand of a young tearaway named Fredrick Jenkins shot up.
Foxden Acres (The Dudley Sisters Quartet Book 1) Page 9
