There was the sound of a door opening, a voice and a dog barking. Mavis, levering her bulk up from the low chair, said, ‘That’ll be my Dave with our Benji. Come into the kitchen and meet them.’
Without waiting for a reply, Mavis went through to greet her husband with a rapturous hug as if he had been gone for a week rather than just to walk the dog. More slowly, Ella followed, fishing in her bag for her handkerchief in readiness.
‘Ella’s come to see us. This is Dave. We met in the war, too. He was in charge of the control room where I was an R/T operator.’
A grey-haired man with a warm smile was holding out his hand to her and the dog, a long-haired Old English Sheepdog, shook itself and peered up at her through woolly-covered eyes.
Ella pressed her handkerchief to her nose and, between sneezes, managed to gasp. ‘Hello – so pleased – to meet you. I’m so – sorry. I’m allergic to dogs.’
Mavis was standing quite still, staring, open-mouthed, at Ella. ‘Well, that settles it, then!’
Ella blinked and dabbed at her streaming eyes.
‘You’re Philip Trent’s daughter all right, Ella, and no mistake. He had an allergy to dogs and horses too!’
‘Do you think I should phone or write?’
Back in the terraced house in Lincoln after her trip to Grantham to see Mavis, Ella stood in the middle of the living room biting the side of her thumb in indecision.
‘Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t phone,’ Peggy said, placing a steaming plate of tripe and onions on the table. ‘Come and eat and we’ll talk about it.’ Sitting down, Peggy went on, ‘I should write, or you could go to see him. It’s half-term next week, isn’t it?’
Ella nodded, suddenly nervous. ‘He might not be at that address any more. I mean, it is about six years ago . . .’
‘But it would be a starting point. You’ve nothing else to go on, have you? You could stay in a small hotel or a guest house.’
‘I haven’t any money, Aunty Peg.’
Peggy flapped her hand. ‘Don’t worry about that.’
‘I can’t let you do any more,’ Ella protested. ‘I’m living here free as it is and I feel guilty enough about that already.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t. I’ve worked all my life and had no one else to spend it on except myself. Besides,’ she smiled to assuage Ella’s prickly pride, ‘when you get this marvellous job as somebody’s secretary, I’ll know where to come if I’m short.’
Ella laughed, but touched Peggy’s hand as it lay on the table. ‘Oh, Aunty Peggy, you are good.’
The older woman blushed, patted Ella’s hand and said, ‘There’s a letter for you behind the clock.’
Ella jumped up and covered the space between the table and the hearth and fished out the letter. ‘Is it from . . .?’ she began, but her face fell when she recognized Janice Souter’s girlish scribble.
She returned to the table more slowly. ‘I thought perhaps Grandpa might have written.’
‘He will,’ Peggy said confidently. ‘Don’t let your tea go cold.’
Janice’s letter covered three pages, the first of which was full of grumbles at Ella:
Fancy going off without me and to live in Lincoln as well. Don’t you remember? I said to you if you ever left home, I’d go with you. We could take a flat together and have some great fun. What do you say? Have you got a job yet? I expect your Aunty Peg could get you fixed up in that posh store where she works. Do you think she could find me a job too?
Ella smiled and shook her head. Same old Janice!
She’d write back and explain why she left and tell her that she wasn’t working but was still a student. She’d have to be careful how she worded her letter though: she had visions of Janice turning up on Aunty Peggy’s doorstep ready to move in too.
*
‘Now have you got everything?’
‘I think so.’
‘Don’t forget. Book into a nice small hotel and mind it’s clean.’
Ella grinned. ‘Yes, Aunty Peg.’
‘And ring Rita next door when you get there. You’ve got their number, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, Aunty Peg.’ Far from being irritated by the older woman’s fussing, Ella found it very comforting to feel someone cared enough to worry over her.
‘I hope everything goes all right.’
And then the train was pulling out of the station, and in a flurry of ‘goodbye’ and ‘take care’, she was on her way to York.
She found a guest house on the long road overlooking the racecourse. The view from her window stretched out over a field dotted with trees to the course itself, the oval white-painted fence of the track and, beyond it, the grandstand in the far distance. To her left as she leant out of the window were the square towers of the Minster, rising proudly above the clustering city.
Ella smiled to herself. It’s like having the best of both worlds here, she thought, an open stretch of green before me and, close by, a city.
The food was excellent, the bed comfortable and the room clean, but Ella could not sleep for excitement. What if he’d changed his mind after all this time? What if he didn’t believe she was his daughter? A million anxieties crowded her restless mind until she slept uneasily at last, but only to dream of a man standing beneath the trees and weeping over a grave; only the man looked more like Uncle Danny than the face in the wartime snapshot.
After lunch, dressed in an open-necked check shirt, trousers and with a sweater round her shoulders, Ella set off, the precious scrap of paper in her pocket. Armed with a street map she soon found the tree-lined avenue, with detached houses set back a little from the road. She pulled a comical face to herself; just the sort of exclusive houses she would imagine a group captain inhabiting.
She found the number given on the paper and stood staring up at the house for a long time: a double-fronted, white-painted red-brick house with a polished mahogany door and a gleaming brass knocker.
‘Oh, heck!’ she muttered to herself. ‘Now what do I do?’
Her heart was thudding in her chest and her palms were sweaty with excitement. Should she just walk boldly up to the door and knock? But what if his wife answered? How could she ask for Mr Trent? And should she say ‘Mister’? Was he still in the RAF or what? Oh dear, this wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d thought. She turned and walked a little way down the road and leant against a low wall, watching the house.
She’d better move again, she thought, else someone in this select neighbourhood would begin to think she was ‘loitering with intent’.
She was about to wander further down the road again when she had an idea. Could she pretend she was a student from a local college doing research about the last war? About the RAF perhaps? It was worth a try.
She walked back towards the house and hesitated once again at the gate. Then, taking a deep breath, she walked up the driveway and, before her courage could flee, knocked at the door. She waited, balancing on the balls of her feet, ready for flight.
The door opened and an elderly woman stood there. She was at least seventy. Ella’s heart sank. She was far too old to be the wife of Philip Trent.
‘Not today, thank you,’ the woman said crisply, though not unpleasantly. The door was already beginning to close.
‘I – I’m not selling anything,’ Ella blurted out. ‘I’m looking for someone.’
The woman was intimidating. White hair, beautifully set, with every curl in immaculate place, and she wore make-up, though it was skilfully applied and did not look out of place on the wrinkled skin. Her dress was plain but well cut and her nails were long and pointed and painted a delicate pink.
‘I don’t think there’s anyone in this house . . .’
‘Please.’ Ella started forward, eagerness making her forget her rehearsed speech. ‘Philip Trent. He used to live here. Do you know where he went? Where he is now?’
For a brief moment, the woman looked startled. ‘What do you want him for?’
‘I – do you know him?
’
‘I might,’ the woman said guardedly.
Ella swallowed, the excitement rising in her. Deliberately she tried to keep calm. ‘I’m looking for him because – because—’ She licked her lips and decided to try to stick to her original story. The woman already looked wary. If she blurted out the truth she had the feeling the door would be slammed in her face.
Ella drew in a deep, steadying breath. ‘I understand Mr Trent was a group captain in the RAF in the war. I’m – I’m . . .’ The lie did not come easily. ‘I’m a student and I’m doing some research for – for a project, and I just wondered if he might be able to help me.’
The woman frowned. ‘Who gave you his address?’
‘He did.’ The words slipped out before she could stop them. ‘I mean, he – he gave it to my – my aunt.’
‘He knows your family?’ The woman’s expression lightened.
‘Oh, yes.’ She almost laughed. This, at least, was true. She could not resist the irony of the moment and added, ‘Very well.’
‘Oh, well, in that case . . .’ She seemed to be mellowing a little but still did not offer to invite Ella inside. ‘I’m afraid he’s not in at the moment, but I’ll tell him you’ve called. What name did you say? Perhaps you could come back again another time?’
Evading giving her name, Ella said swiftly, ‘Yes, of course, I’ll call back. This evening, perhaps?’
Now the woman smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, about seven thirty, after we’ve eaten.’
‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’ Ella turned and began to walk away quickly before the woman could insist on knowing her name. ‘I’ll see you later.’
As she came to the gate a large green Rover swept in and though the car did not touch her, its sudden appearance startled her so that she stepped backwards, treading heavily half on, half off the edge of the driveway. Her heel sank into the soft earth of a flower border. She lost her balance and felt herself falling backwards. She gave a little scream as her hand caught on a rose-bush and a thorn gouged a deep scratch on the back of her hand.
The car braked, the broad tyres digging deep into the gravel of the drive with a scrunching noise. The driver leapt from his seat and came running towards her, not even bothering to switch off his engine or close the car door behind him.
‘I’m so sorry. Are you hurt? Did the car hit you?’
He was kneeling down in front of her, without thought for his light grey trousers and Ella found herself looking up into the bluest pair of eyes she had ever seen, except when she looked in the mirror.
He was helping her to her feet, gently brushing away the earth and examining her hand, the blood now oozing out down the length of the scratch.
‘Please come into the house and bathe that. It’s quite deep.’
‘Well . . .’ She made herself sound deliberately hesitant, as if not wanting to intrude, though she could hardly have planned it better.
The woman was still hovering near the front door. ‘Mother,’ the man said, ‘please show this young lady to the cloakroom and see she has everything she needs while I put the car away.’ He turned back to Ella. ‘I won’t be a moment.’
He was smiling down at her, his blue eyes warm and friendly. He put his hand out to her, not quite touching her, to usher her towards the door into the house.
The woman led the way into a cool hall with a polished parquet floor, a huge circular Chinese rug covering the centre. An enormous arrangement of flowers in a basket on the small side table scented the air as the woman waved a beringed hand and said, ‘He will drive in at such a speed. I keep telling him he’s not flying a plane now. This way, my dear.’
She opened a door to the left-hand side of the hall and ushered Ella into a cloakroom with a wash basin, toilet and pegs for coats. ‘I’ll fetch the first-aid box from the bathroom. Just run the cold water over your hand.’
As she bustled away, Ella turned on the tap and let the water run over her hand, washing away the blood and any dirt from the wound.
A knock came at the door and the man popped his head round it. ‘Okay?’
She turned, smiled at him and nodded, knowing she was staring at him but unable to tear away her gaze. He squeezed his tall frame into the small room and as his mother came back with a box of first-aid materials he took it from her, set it on a ledge near the basin and said, ‘Now then, let’s see if I can remember all my first-aid training from my RAF days.’
‘That’s why this young lady’s here,’ said the woman from the other side of the half-open door. ‘She’s a student doing research about the RAF. She says you know her family.’
The head bent over her hand, which its owner was dabbing with antiseptic ointment, slowly came up again and the blue eyes, so close now, were gazing into hers very intently. ‘Really?’ he said softly. ‘And what . . .’ he paused and suddenly in the tiny room, the air was vibrant ‘. . . is your name?’
Ella gazed back at him. Huskily she said, ‘I’m called Ella but – but my full name is Danielle Hilton.’
The strong warm hands holding hers trembled, and the breath he released suddenly wafted into her face. ‘Oh, my dear girl!’ he whispered hoarsely. In the most incongruous place they could have imagined for such a momentous meeting, they stood just staring at each other. ‘Do you know who I am?’ he said.
‘I think so. I think you’re . . .’ her voice dropped to an almost inaudible whisper that only he would hear ‘. . . my father.’
He seemed to pull his reeling senses back to reality and dressed her hand, sticking plaster across a wad of lint. ‘There. Is that comfortable?’
‘Thank you, yes.’
‘Come.’ He pressed himself to the wall and opened the door for her. ‘We have a lot to talk about.’
As she emerged from the cloakroom, she almost giggled nervously at his understatement.
The woman was still hovering in the hall. ‘Are you all right?’ Ella nodded and then the woman’s glance went to her son. ‘Do you know her family, Philip?’
‘Oh, yes, Mother. I know her family very well indeed.’ As he put his arm about Ella’s shoulders, the girl saw the surprise on his mother’s face and her glance go swiftly from one to the other and back again.
‘We’re going to my study and, er, if it won’t cause you any trouble, Mother, Ella will be staying for dinner.’ He looked down at Ella and smiled, and now there was something else in his eyes, a strange mixture of joy and sadness too. ‘Okay?’ he asked gently.
She nodded and murmured, ‘Okay.’
Was she dreaming? she thought, as he steered her towards a door to the right of the hall and into a book-lined study – a real man’s room – and settled her in a leather armchair near a long window looking out over a smooth well-kept lawn.
‘I think I need a drink.’ He smiled down at her. ‘Would you like something?’
She licked her dry lips. ‘I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea, but if it’s any trouble . . .’
‘Of course it isn’t,’ he said, and disappeared from the room briefly, returning a few moments later to sit, drink in hand, in the chair opposite her.
‘Is this really happening?’ he said, with the same bemused air that she was feeling.
Ella laughed nervously. ‘That’s just what I was thinking. I used to dream about you, standing under the trees on the day of Mum’s funeral . . .’ The pain was naked in his eyes and, swiftly, she said, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, that was thoughtless of me.’
‘No, no,’ he reassured her quickly. ‘It’s just that all these years I’ve had no one to talk to about Kate. There’s been no one to help me bear the grief, the intolerable loss.’ He cleared his throat and, more strongly now, said, ‘You saw me there?’
She nodded. ‘As we all moved away, I saw you walk across to the grave and just stand there.’
‘I was devastated. I’d only just found her again after all that time only to lose her so cruelly.’
Ella leaned forward. ‘She met you that day? It was you she came to
meet, wasn’t it?’
He nodded and said huskily, ‘When she was travelling back the floods came. I was on my way home to York when I heard about the flooding. I turned round and went straight back, but I couldn’t get through.’ His face was pale, reliving that dreadful night. ‘I hounded the authorities, but the poor devils were working day and night . . . I couldn’t find out anything.’ He shook his head. ‘At last when I could get through to Lynthorpe and went to the police station . . .’ He didn’t need to say any more: she knew what he had learned.
Instead, she asked, ‘Why didn’t she tell you about me?’
A small sad smile appeared as he shook his head. ‘We made arrangements that I should come to Lincoln the following week. She – she said she would have something very exciting to tell me, something that would make me very happy, but that first there was something she had to do . . .’ He was gazing at her now, drinking in the sight of his daughter.
Ella frowned, puzzled.
‘I’m guessing,’ he said slowly, ‘that she wanted to tell you about me first. You know, to be sure that you understood all that had happened, that you were prepared to meet me.’
‘Prepared to meet you?’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve never wanted anything more in my life!’
‘Oh, my dear,’ he whispered, deeply moved.
‘You went to Lincoln to see Aunty Peggy, didn’t you, after you saw my picture in the paper that time?’
He nodded. ‘She told me all about you. About everything that had happened.’
She studied his face as he talked. He was still a fine-looking man: the fair curly hair she had seen in the photographs was still thick, though grey now, but his kind face was etched with deep lines of sadness.
‘You’ve lived with your grandmother at Fleethaven Point, haven’t you? I mean, you’ve been loved and cared for?’
The Fleethaven Trilogy Page 108
