Foxden Acres (The Dudley Sisters Quartet Book 1)

by Madalyn Morgan

  ‘Good. Do you think Mrs H will take pity on me and give me some breakfast?’ James said.

  Bess laughed. ‘You know she will.’

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Mr James,’ Mrs Hartley said, as Bess and James entered the kitchen. ‘What a pleasure it is to see you, sir.’ Mrs Hartley pulled out the chair at the head of the table next to the place she’d laid for Bess. ‘Now, you sit yourself down there. How would you like a couple of fried eggs and some of my best short-back bacon? And because it’s Christmas, what would you say to a hot mince pie for afters?’

  ‘Mrs H, you spoil me,’ James said as Mrs Hartley manoeuvred her ample body to the pantry quicker than Bess had thought was physically possible.

  James sat down at the kitchen table as Mr Porter entered from the scullery. ‘Excuse me,’ Bess said, walking towards the door that Mr Porter had come through. ‘I’ll go and wash my hands. Shan’t be a minute.’

  ‘Use my washroom, Bess. There’s some soap and a clean towel in there,’ Mrs Hartley said, miming washing her face and patting her thick grey hair. ‘Take your time, breakfast won’t be ready afore you’ve tidied yourself up,’ she added, jerking her head to the right and rolling her eyes in the direction of the washroom.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Hartley,’ Bess said, bemused by her old friend’s performance. Looking at herself in the small mirror above the sink, Bess knew immediately why Mrs Hartley had suggested she use her washroom instead of the scullery sink. From the bottom of her left ear to the tip of her nose there was a streak of mud. She felt foolish but there was nothing she could do except wash her face, which she did using Mrs Hartley’s lavender-scented soap before tying her hair back with her scarf.

  Mr Porter wasn’t comfortable eating at the same table as James and only spoke when he was spoken to. James, however, tucked into his breakfast and talked about the Acres and the Estate farms with enthusiasm.

  When they had finished eating, Mr Porter nodded his thanks to Mrs Hartley, and stood up. ‘If you’ll excuse me sir, I’ll be getting on. Bess, if you need me I’ll be in the stables,’ he said, and left.

  ‘I must go too,’ James said. ‘I want to see Mother before I head back to the aerodrome. I volunteered for duty over Christmas – give some of the married chaps a chance to get home to their wives and families – and I haven’t told her yet.’

  How strange, Bess thought, that James had volunteered for duty when he had Annabel, his fiancée, to consider. I wonder if he’s told her yet?

  ‘You work too hard, Mr James,’ Mrs Hartley said, clearing the table. ‘I keep telling Bess; it’s not good for you young people to work all the time and never go anywhere, never have any fun. All work and no play…’

  ‘How right you are, Mrs Hartley. There’s a dance at the aerodrome tonight and as long as my sergeant knows where I am, in case there’s an emergency, I don’t see why I shouldn’t go along and have some fun. The problem is I don’t have a dance partner. I don’t suppose you’d accompany me to the RAF’s Christmas dance tonight, would you, Bess?

  Bess hadn’t been listening to what James was saying; she was thinking about Annabel. ‘Sorry…?’

  ‘The RAF’s Christmas dance tonight. Would you come with me?’

  ‘To… tonight?’ she stuttered. ‘Sorry, yes, I’d love to come. Thank you.’ She could hardly say, ‘What about Annabel?’ though she wondered what she’d think.

  ‘Good. I’m afraid I can’t leave the aerodrome. But I’ll send my driver--’

  ‘No! No, there’s no need to send anyone. I’ll come with Ena and her friend, in Crane’s taxi.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure? I’ll pick you up at the main gate. Shall we say seven-thirty?’

  ‘Seven-thirty’s perfect,’ Bess said, smiling.

  Crane’s was the only taxi in Woodcote and Ena’s friend Beryl, the taxi owner’s daughter, offered to work in her father’s place on Christmas Eve on condition he let her stay at the dance with Ena when she’d taken all the fares there. That way, she argued, she’d already be there to take the customers home. Mr Crane agreed, so Bess was able to hitch a lift as far as the aerodrome’s gatehouse, where James and his driver were waiting.

  The dance was in full swing by the time they arrived. Ray Walker’s Band was playing “Ain’t Misbehavin’” and the dance floor was heaving with bodies. Bess took off her coat and hung it up in the cloakroom. After adding a little lipstick and powder she joined James, who was standing beside a small table on the edge of the dance floor holding two glasses of fruit punch.

  ‘You look lovely, Bess.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, blushing. ‘Oh, thank you,’ she said again, accepting the glass of punch that James was offering her.

  They chinked glasses. ‘Cheers,’ James said.

  ‘Cheers.’ As soon as she had taken a sip, James took her glass and put it on the table next to his. ‘Dance?’

  Bess felt a tingling sensation in the pit of her stomach as she took James’s hand, and her cheeks flushed as she moved towards him, ‘I’d love to,’ she said. But no sooner had she turned to lead the way to the dance floor than Franek and the other Polish airmen she had helped out of the burning aeroplane stepped between them.

  Saluting James, the first one said, ‘Excuse please, sir,’ took Bess’s hand and kissed it. Franek and two other Polish flyers did the same, saluting and thanking Bess for getting them out of the crashed plane before singing a song in their native language, which Bess thought was probably the Polish version of “For She’s A Jolly Good Fellow”. When they stopped singing, and the band began to play, the first airman took Bess’s hand again and said to James, ‘I would dance with your beautiful partner, sir, with your permission?’

  Bess looked into James’s eyes, willing him to say no. Instead he raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders good-heartedly, as if to say, ‘What can I do?’ and the young airman waltzed her onto the dance floor.

  Bess danced with each of the Polish flyers in turn, looking over their shoulders constantly to where she’d left James, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but the dance floor was too crowded. When Franek escorted her back to her seat at the interval James had gone.

  ‘Excuse me, miss,’ said the young sergeant Bess recognised as the driver who had brought James to meet her at the gate earlier. ‘Flying Officer Foxden has been called away. He sends his apologies and said I was to tell you that he’ll be at Foxden for the New Year. When you’re ready to leave, miss, I’ll be outside in the Flying Officer’s car.’

  ‘Thank you, but there’s no need for you to drive me home, I’ll catch a lift with my sister and her friend.’

  ‘It’s no trouble, miss.’

  ‘You’re very kind, sergeant, but I’m sure you have better things to do on Christmas Eve than hang around waiting for me.’

  ‘But Flying Officer Foxden said--’

  ‘But I don’t want you to drive me home! Thank you!’

  ‘I’m sorry, miss. I was only following orders. Good night.’ The young airman turned on his heels and walked briskly out of the dance hall.

  ‘Good night,’ Bess called after him, but he’d gone. She hadn’t meant to be rude to James’s driver, but she wasn’t ready to be alone with a man she didn’t know, even if he was answerable to James. Just thinking about it opened floodgates of fear, and she began to drown in the memories of Dave, and the disgusting alley in London.

  Tears threatened, but Bess clenched her fists and refused to cry. She hated Dave for what he did to her that night, but she hated him more for what he was still doing to her. He had taken her confidence and made her fearful of everyone and everything. He had cast a dark shadow over her life. She wondered if she would ever be free of him.

  People began to leave before the end of the dance. It was snowing heavily and they were eager to get home while the roads were still clear. At eleven forty-five Beryl returned after taking her last fare home to Lowarth. ‘Time to get to St Mary’s,’ she called. ‘Shake a leg, you two.’

 
Normally Bess would have enjoyed Midnight Mass, but suddenly she wanted to go home. Besides, she had arranged to meet Mr Porter at seven to exercise the horses. ‘Christmas or not, I’m working in the morning. Any chance of dropping me off at Foxden first?’ She might as well have saved her breath because neither Ena nor Beryl would hear of her going home and frog-marched her out of the hall to the car.

  So much snow had fallen during the evening that it was impossible to see where the fields ended and the road began. The car bumped the grass kerb several times while they were driving along the narrow strip of road leading to the gate.

  ‘Stop!’ Bess shouted as they approached the security gate on the main Coventry Road.

  Beryl hit the brake pedal and the car skidded to a halt a few inches from a small vixen that was standing in the middle of the road. ‘Why doesn’t she move out of the way?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Bess said. The vixen flicked her ears and angled herself threateningly in front of the car. Then her back legs folded under her and she dropped her head until she was sitting with her muzzle in the snow.

  ‘Do you think we should get out of the car and see if it’s all right?’

  ‘No!’ Bess said. ‘She could bite if she’s injured. She’ll move when she’s ready when she realises we’re not going to hurt her.’

  But the vixen didn’t move. She sat and stared at the car through glazed eyes.

  ‘Poor thing, it’s so cold tonight,’ Ena said.

  ‘She won’t be cold. She’s wearing a fur coat,’ Bess joked.

  Eventually the vixen lost interest in the car and its occupants and limped through the gate. They watched her as she walked feebly along the side of a boundary hedge until she found a gap in the leafless branches – and suddenly she was gone.

  The church was full by the time Bess, Ena and Beryl arrived. Because of the blackout there had been no welcoming candles in the porch, nor warm light emanating from the stained glass windows, as there had been in previous years. Nor was there a choir to keep the residents of Church Street awake.

  The congregation was made up of mostly young people, many of them couples. Sweethearts who would soon be parted when one, or maybe both of them, went off to war. Bess prayed for the young servicemen and women who would probably see more death than life in the coming months. She prayed for Molly and wondered how she would cope bringing up a baby without a husband, and for Mrs Mac, who would have her work cut out looking after them both. And she prayed for Miss Armstrong who, Mrs Mac had said in her last letter, was in good health now, but had suffered a breakdown after losing her job. Poor Miss Armstrong. She had missed out on marriage and motherhood to concentrate on her career. Now she had neither. Bess hoped that wasn’t going to be her fate.

  Her mind wandered to earlier in the evening, and James. She wondered when she’d see him again. In the New Year, his sergeant had said. Annabel would probably be at Foxden then. Feeling sad and guilty in equal parts, she cuffed a tear and shook her head. Nothing mattered as long as he was safe.

  ‘Are you all right, Bess?’ Ena whispered.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘You don’t look it.’

  ‘I’m fine. It’s Midnight Mass. Always makes me feel a bit emotional.’

  Nodding, Ena held Bess’s hand.

  Bess gave Ena’s hand a squeeze and reflected on her own family. Her father put on a brave face when he talked of the work he did in the foundry, although he hated it, and her mother made light of Margaret living in London and Claire going up north to join the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, but Bess knew she worried for both of them. And Tom! Bess prayed for her brother’s safe return – from wherever he was.

  Tom had said in his last letter that his regiment would soon be on the move, so Bess’s mam insisted they post Tom’s Christmas box early. She had been saving her chocolate coupons and had bought two bars of Cadbury’s, which she wrapped in a pair of thick woollen socks. Claire added a quarter of Mackintosh’s toffees and Ena put in a small jar of Brylcreem that she’d bought from the barber in Lowarth. She didn’t have enough money for a regular size jar, so she’d persuaded him to sell her the small jar from the display in the window for half the price. The Brylcreem made the parcel heavy, but Ena insisted it went in the box. Bess wrote a long letter, adding the two shiny new shillings that the bus conductor had given her in London in the New Year of 1939. She wrote a P.S. that read: “Lucky 2/- Keep them until you can let us know you’re safe. Love Bess x.”

  Christmas morning was unusually quiet. Tom was somewhere in France, Margaret had stayed in London to be with Bill, who was working over the Christmas holiday and Claire, although she was home on leave, was up in her bedroom learning French. Franek had taught her the rudiments of the Polish language, which she had picked up quickly, as well as a smattering of German, so she had volunteered for some sort of special assignment, which meant she needed to learn several languages. She was swotting like mad because she had an exam when she returned to the base.

  Ena and Bess put on their hats and coats and went out for a walk. For as far as the eye could see the world was white. Fields, tree, houses, even the roads were carpeted in snow. The two sisters walked arm in arm through Foxden’s park and along Buffton to Woodcote. By the time they returned home dinner was ready.

  Staring at the roast chicken, Ena said, ‘That’s not Daisy or Dotty, is it, Mam?’

  ‘No, it’s a gift from his Lordship,’ Thomas Dudley said, shaking his head as he sliced into the large bird.

  ‘That’s all right then! I couldn’t eat one of ours, it would be like eating our Claire, but more tender,’ she said, pinching the small roll of flesh that showed above the waistband of Claire’s skirt.

  ‘Ouch! That hurt,’ Claire said.

  ‘Course it didn’t, you--’

  ‘Is it too much to ask that just once a year we sit down and eat a family meal without you two ragging each other?’ their father asked. ‘Ena, sit down next to me. Claire, over there next to your mother.’

  ‘Sorry, Dad,’ the two sisters said in unison, looking at each other and trying not to giggle.

  The food was delicious, but the atmosphere was subdued. After dinner Ena and Claire – the pinching episode forgotten – took a plate of cold chicken, a slab of fruit cake, a few nuts and sweets for the children, to their neighbour’s house. The Dudley family didn’t have much but their neighbour, Mrs Barnett, with a sick husband and seven small children, had next to nothing.

  Bess left her mam and dad sitting by the fire listening to the wireless, went upstairs to her old bedroom and lay on the bed. She wished she’d danced with James on Christmas Eve and wondered if he would ask her out again. Third time lucky. She closed her eyes. She dreamed she was riding across Foxden Acres with James at her side. She was free and happy. She no longer cared about the past, because she had the future with James. She looked up at the sky. It was clear and blue. There wasn’t a cloud in sight. Then she looked down. She felt herself falling, spiralling towards the earth. Before she hit the ground, she woke up.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  On the morning of December 30th, while Bess was talking to Mrs Hartley in the kitchen at Foxden, her Ladyship arrived. ‘Good morning, Bess,’ she said, before turning her full attention to Mrs Hartley. ‘As you know, Lord Foxden was needed at the war office in London over Christmas. He has just telephoned to say he’ll be coming home later today.’ Without waiting for a reply she turned to leave, then paused. ‘Oh,’ she said, turning back, ‘and he’s bringing Lady Hadleigh and her daughter Annabel with him.’

  ‘But the guest rooms aren’t aired, your Ladyship,’ Mrs Hartley protested. ‘And I don’t know if there’s enough meat. How long will they be staying?’

  ‘Get Porter to light a fire in two of the guest rooms. And as far as food is concerned, we’ll make do with whatever you have in your larder tonight. We’ll worry about tomorrow’s menu tomorrow. There’s a war on here too. It’s not confined to London!’ she said, leaving the k
itchen and closing the door to the main Hall firmly behind her.

  ‘Well I never!’ Mrs Hartley said, sitting down with a bump, as if the stuffing had been knocked out of her. ‘His Lordship, bringing two guests at this short notice? Well I never!’ she said again.

  ‘I’ll go and find Mr Porter and ask him to light the fires,’ Bess said. She sympathised with Mrs Hartley. She wasn’t happy about the imminent arrival of the Hadleighs either.

  The following morning, while Mr Porter saddled Sultan, Bess tacked up Sable. It was seven o’clock and Bess wondered if history would repeat itself. Last New Year’s Day she expected Tom, but James took his place. This year there was no possibility of Tom joining her. But she dared to hope James might.

  ‘If Mr James doesn’t come down this morning, Bess, I’ll take Sultan out,’ Mr Porter said, tightening Sultan’s girth straps.

  Mr Porter needn’t have worried. James did come to the stables, but he wasn’t alone. Annabel Hadleigh was with him. She looked radiant in a ruby-red riding habit and black fitted jacket, her dark hair held neatly in place by a black net.

  James explained that because he was only at the Hall for the day, he needed to spend some time with his father. ‘Perhaps Annabel could take my place and ride with you this morning, Bess?’

  Never in a million years was what Bess thought, but ‘Yes, of course,’ was what she said.

  ‘I’d love to see what you’ve done with the Acres, Bess,’ Annabel said. ‘James is always singing your praises, telling me how hard you’ve worked. You’re a modern day miracle worker, according to him,’ she laughed.

  Bess smiled politely before leading the way out of the stables and across the cobbled courtyard to the park. After skirting the woods she led Annabel along tractor paths that bordered ploughed fields – fields that Annabel would have remembered as meadows.