With his loose change stowed, handkerchief in pocket, wrist-watch checked – his father had wanted him to have Grandad’s Albert but it looked too old-fashioned for his taste – he was finally ready. And, as he wasn’t coming back that night, he had packed his little brown overnight case.
There came a creaking of floorboards above his head. Tom finished his tea just as his mother came in, wrapped in her thick woollen dressing-gown.
‘Darling, are you sure I can’t get you a hot breakfast?’
He flung his arms around her, then regretted it as his ribs ached.
‘Mum, I’m going to have breakfast on the company.’ He gave her a big kiss. ‘Go back to bed, the room will be warm in another half-hour. See you tomorrow – home about six.’
At the bottom of the garden he got his bike out of the shed, swung his leg over the saddle, and pushed off. It was all downhill, thank God.
Later, after a mountainous fry-up, he began to feel better.
CHAPTER TWO
The maid paused at the door, shifted the tray to one hand and tapped the door with the other. She opened it a fraction, then entered the darkened room, setting the tray down on the bedside cabinet.
‘Good morning, miss. It’s ten o’clock.’
She went to the heavily curtained windows and allowed some light in. All that could be seen of the occupant of the bed was dark hair spread on the pillow; when she turned she heard a groan.
‘Thank you, Brenda.’
The maid knelt at the small, black grate, and used some rolled up newspaper balls and kindling to start a fire. It was soon crackling and smoking.
‘There you are, miss. Fire’s going. I’ll draw your bath in ten minutes, all right?’
A muffled sound that she took to be ‘yes’ came from the bed. Just to be on the safe side, using her apron to protect the cord from her slightly dirty hands, she drew the curtains back a further few inches.
Another groan came from the bed.
Grinning, she said as she left, ‘It’s your aunty’s wish that breakfast be finished by eleven o’clock today.’
When she’d gone the figure stirred, and slowly pulled herself up into a sitting position. With the bloom that only youth gives, Fay Rossiter was stunningly beautiful even in disarray. Her black hair was awry, one strap of her silk night-dress down over her shoulder and eyes full of sleep, but still large and clear and unpuffy.
She sipped her tea, watching the flames spread up the wood to the lumps of coal.
The fire was taking root but still no warmth came from it as she slid her feet into her slippers and drew on her silk dressing-gown with its Chinese pattern – a gift from an aunty in Singapore.
After she’d used the lavatory down the hall she made her way to the bathroom, with the big claw-footed bath in the centre of the black and white marbled floor, and a large aspidistra in its brass pot near the window. She tested the water, and turned on the hot tap for more as she slipped out of her dressing-gown and night-dress.
With the water temperature just right she stepped in and sank down. She began to soap her flannel, thinking about yesterday. She’d had another miserable night because Daddy had rung to wish them all a Happy New Year and Aunty Cynthia had told him about the fuss at the hotel.
She winced. When she’d gone downstairs to the elegant hall of the Regency house and had taken the receiver he’d given her an awful wigging. ‘Why hadn’t she stayed in Cirencester? Gone to one of the many house parties like previous years? It had been a dreadful idea to go to a public do, she had to think of her reputation.’
She’d rolled her eyes at the grandfather clock.
It was useless explaining that they had all wanted something livelier this year – it wasn’t just her idea, everybody in her set had wanted it, including that idiot Jeremy who had started the whole thing.
Her aunty only knew because her friends had come home all excited about it, laughing and talking. Jeremy had had to be helped in, still groaning and holding his jaw; he’d lost a side tooth. As she dressed, choosing a dark tailored frock after turning side to side, trying it up against her petticoat, she remembered the incident the previous evening and the man who had been involved, the one she had caught staring at her in the ballroom.
Fay felt the same unsettling shiver run up her back as she did at the time. He had been so obvious in his approval of her that she had been quite taken aback, then frankly a little frightened.
Those intense blue eyes beneath black hair were quite something.
Then she remembered the appalling violence, ending when the other men had set on him like that. She had tried to go to his aid, but had been restrained and ushered away. She wanted, somehow, to meet him. Maybe she could find out more through the band – the hotel would have a contact number. As she packed, she thought about it further, resolving to make enquiries on Monday. She was always organizing events – that would be her excuse.
Later, she pulled the draw rope beside the fireplace to call for her aunty’s chauffeur to collect her cases. They were all getting the same train back to Cirencester so he was using the old Rolls Royce for the luggage, in addition to the two taxis that had been ordered.
While she waited, she ran a hand over her tummy, it felt like lead and ached abominably. The Curse had started that morning, which explained why she had been so tense and edgy before.
When Jeremy had kept on pestering her for a silly kiss, she had said no, and dug her heels in, even though she had let him do it before. It was the fact that he was tipsy and completely different from normal, all bullying and overbearing.
Fay really couldn’t understand men. At nineteen she had a general idea about life, but decidedly no experience of it. At Cheltenham Ladies College, where she had boarded, there had been smutty stories and, as a horsewoman, she obviously knew how animals came into the world, but men – they were exasperating at one moment, mysterious and exciting the next.
There was a knock on the door. When she opened it the chauffeur stood there.
‘Come for the bags, miss.’
Fay stepped aside. ‘There we are, thank you.’
She drew on her long cream coat with its high collar, pulling the belt tight. She already had her small hat on, the top adorned with feathers, a small net covering her face to below the eyes.
They were all waiting in the drawing-room so she sat on the arm of the sofa, one leg swinging.
Aunt Cynthia beamed. ‘Haven’t forgotten anything have you, my dear?’
‘No, it’s all packed.’
‘Give my love to your mother.’
A maid came from the hall.
‘The taxis are here, madam.’
With much taking of farewells and ‘thank yous’, they crowded out into the hall, Aunt Cynthia calling out, ‘See you all for Gold Cup week.’
The taxis were two large black Austins. Fay ducked into the leather and wood-smelling interior and sank back into the deep seat by the far window. To her irritation Jeremy’s large frame thumped down alongside her, his weight making her fall against him.
‘For heaven’s sake, Jeremy.’
‘Sorry.’
Fay straightened herself up as the taxi driver slammed the door. It was a short ride to St James’s station but the streets were becoming increasingly crowded with cars. There were Humbers, Jaguars, Morrises and, of course, buses and bicycles. Quite a few horse and carts were moving among the other traffic, some with pneumatic tyres, as they clip-clopped their way along, occasionally leaving little piles of dung.
The new Regal cinema had been built on the end of Imperial Terrace, behind the Neptune fountain, which looked very sad today with icicles hanging like bogies from the sea god’s nostrils.
A ‘coming this year’ poster for a new film called, Gone with the Wind showed a determined looking Clark Gable lifting Vivien Leigh in his strong arms and bending her backwards about to kiss her. The boy who had caused all the trouble last night looked vaguely like him, at least around the eyes, but he di
dn’t have a moustache. God, what was the matter with her? Was she going to have these ridiculous fantasies all the time? But as Vivien Leigh disappeared from view, Fay put her head back, ostensibly looking at the roof but, in reality, copying the star’s position – with that boy bending over her in her imagination.
At Cheltenham’s main railway station he entered the modest, stone-flagged concourse and proceeded down one red-bricked side and under the glass canopy with its filigree woodwork that ended at the platform edge.
The office he was making for was at the far end of the station. When he entered it, his nose was assailed by a smell of old coal gas from the now redundant wall lights mixed with years of smoke and steam. A single electric light under a dirty celluloid cover still glowed in the high roof. Facing him was the large, white-faced clock inscribed, ‘GWR’ that clonked out the time. The railway time that had brought unity to the whole country. He was a few minutes early.
He was proud of being a detective constable, albeit a temporary one, and knew that at his age having this position was due to a combination of events. Firstly, the Great War; then the influenza epidemic in the twenties; and more recently, the retirement of those who had survived those catastrophes.
Tom Roxham had only just finished checking himself and gone back to the outer room when Sergeant Whelan came in. His hair was parted neatly down the middle of his head, swept equally and exactly away from it just like draped music hall curtains. He had a moustache, waxed and turned up at the ends, steel-blue eyes above pock-marked cheeks and a nose that had seen more action than Tom’s which, in comparison, seemed quite normal.
He towered over Tom, all six feet four inches of him; his uniform immaculate, with a chrome whistle chain neatly showing, black leather belt exactly horizontal, all befitting a man who had been an Irish Guardsman in the war. Some said he had been with Rudyard Kipling’s son, who had been posted missing, presumed killed in action. They had never found his body.
‘Well, so there ye are. What time do you call this?’
Tom glanced at his watch. ‘Five minutes to eight o’clock, Sergeant.’
‘What’s that funny thing you’re using, boy?’
‘It’s my wrist-watch, Sergeant.’
‘Don’t be cheeky with me, son!’
The booming voice made Tom flinch involuntarily, even though he knew something like that was coming. It was always the way with Sergeant Whelan. He seemed to expect that the world, his little world at any rate, always needed a shake up in the morning, even if there was nothing wrong.
‘That’s a timepiece.’
Tom found a large Victorian pocket watch with its lid open in front of his eyes. He said nothing. Whelan looked at it, then snapped it shut and put it away. The fact no more was said meant that Tom was correct, he had been asked to muster at eight, and eight it was.
Whelan went smoothly into routine.
‘Present your appointments.’
Tom offered his warrant card and then displayed his short truncheon and his handcuffs.
Whelan nodded, took a stroll around his constable, checking. In fact he was pleased with the lad, but sniffed. ‘Your shoes could be polished better – see to it next time. And what happened to your eye, boy?’
‘Fell over, Sergeant.’
‘Hmmm.’ Whelan didn’t believe him for a moment, but it had been New Year and boys would be boys. Whelan turned to the office desk, not seeing the sigh of relief as Tom returned his appointments to their rightful place. Although it was not wise to get on the sergeant’s wrong side, he was well known to have a heart of gold where his men were concerned. He would back and protect them with a fierce loyalty that had no doubt been in his heart at birth in Carlow in Ireland, but had been seriously tempered in the flames and blood and mud of the Western Front.
‘Now then, you are going to Cirencester Watermoor today, staying overnight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tomorrow, I want you to get off at Leckhampton on the way back.’
Surprised, Tom asked, ‘Why’s that, Sergeant?’
Whelan picked up a folder from his desk. ‘The station master telephoned me. Said there had been an unpleasant incident – a passenger assaulted on the platform.’
Sergeant Whelan ran the back of his finger along his moustache, first one side, then the other.
‘It’s a nice day to have a leisurely journey through the Cotswolds – you’re lucky.’
Tom didn’t disagree.
Impatiently Whelan gestured towards the door. It was clear that the orders had been issued and the troops were dismissed.
The station was busier now, with cars and taxis swinging into the cobbled forecourt to unload hurrying passengers.
They flooded on to the platform, where the chocolate and cream-coloured coaches of a Great Western Railway Express stood waiting; wisps of steam rising from the couplings and vacuum brakes, and drifting over the platform. In the dining-car white-coated staff were moving down the aisle laying cutlery on the white tablecloths complete with little lamps next to the window.
Out of sight around the curve of the platform, smoke drifted almost straight up from an engine. But he made for a side platform and a local train.
The taxi turned in under the glass canopied entrance and rolled to a stop on the cobblestoned forecourt of the red-brick station. St James’s was a small terminus, the starting place for the famous ‘Cheltenham Flyer’ that went via Gloucester and then non-stop to London, the fastest scheduled train service in the world as the GWR posters proudly announced.
Porters with their barrows appeared and gathered around the cars.
‘Which train, sir?’ asked one of them. Jeremy said, ‘The one for Cirencester.’
They moved on to the small concourse with the buffers, where the lines ended.
A newly arrived engine was standing hissing gently, the air above its squat copper chimney shimmering with heat. The driver, a grizzled older man in a blue tunic and a black oily looking peaked cap was leaning out of the cab looking down, eyeing them all up as they went past.
She noticed with pleasure the engine’s name – Codrington Hall. Daddy had been pleased when they had been invited to include their house name in the Railway Company’s new class several years ago.
To reach their train they had to walk to a short side platform, where there were several coaches and two horse boxes as well as the guard’s van.
They were walking along looking for the first-class compartments when, for a split second, she thought she was seeing things; her mind flew back to her reverie about the cinema poster.
It was Jeremy who made her realize she wasn’t dreaming.
‘Good God, look who’s coming towards us. If it isn’t the little bugger from last night.’
Tom Roxham was equally stunned. He’d been up to see the engine out of interest and was walking back to the guard’s van.
CHAPTER THREE
He took a deep breath, guessing that, dressed as he was they would not realize he was on company business. But he was in no mood for niceties, not with this bloke. But frustratingly he couldn’t stop himself shooting a glance at her. She was wearing a cream coat with a high collar that framed her head, her eyes and lips made even more alluring by the net veil of the hat. The madness this woman seemed to engender in him had to come to an end. With a supremely professional effort he managed, ‘Good afternoon, sir.’ He looked at her and touched his cap acknowledged her with, ‘miss’ and kept walking.
‘Well, I’ll be damned.’
Jeremy watched his retreating back.
‘Must have had enough.’
A still stunned Fay finally pulled a face. ‘Don’t be silly, Jeremy, he’s not afraid of you.’
That seemed to annoy him. He gave her a funny look. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
Fay carried on walking, relieved to see Tom was all right – apart from the shiner. She hoped he was looking at her as she found the first-class carriage and started to board. She gave a quick glan
ce in his direction, and was disappointed to see he was talking to the guard. Inside she walked down the side corridor, following the sound of laughter to find their compartment. She settled into a cut moquette seat with a generous arm rest and a white antimacassar, resolving to find out about him somehow.
It wasn’t long before the guard’s whistle gave three shrill blasts and with a jerk the coach started to move. The sound of the engine’s laboured puffs increased then died back, to repeat again as they picked up to walking speed, and lurched over the points.
Jeremy drew the sliding door shut, closing off the racketing echo of the wheels in the long corridor.
‘Soon be home, eh, I fancy a drink already.’
He brought out a hip flask and offered it to her.
Fay shook her head. ‘Not for me,’ but there were plenty of takers. When he’d had another swig he screwed the top back on.
‘You taken a liking to Mellors?’
Fay frowned. ‘Mellors?’
Jeremy lounged back with a dark grin on his face as the other men shared in his mirth.
‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover – he’s the gardener.’
‘Jeremy, what are you talking about?’
‘Don’t you know the book? I read it in Paris – unexpurgated.’
She began to lose patience and turned to look out of the window.
He said, ‘It’s all right by me, my darling. I’m a man of the world. Every girl should be allowed to have her day – as long as what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the….’ His voice tailed off.
Fay vaguely began to perceive what he was hinting at.
‘Jeremy – that’s disgusting.’
The others laughed and to her extreme annoyance she felt her cheeks reddening.
She stared fixedly ahead, looking at a sepia-tinted view of Weston-Super-Mare. All the other scenes on the carriage wall above the white antimacassars were views of seaside resorts served by the GWR – she could not have cared less.
Enduring Passions Page 3
