by Mary Nichols
‘I think it will be up to Lucy and her mother to decide, but let’s wait and see, shall we? It might never come to that.’
Seen from the windows of the train, the countryside was flat as a pancake. The sky was riven with clouds, pink on the edges, a deeper mauve in the centre. The farms and their buildings sat in isolation as if some giant hand had picked them up and dumped them where they stood. The surrounding fields, all but a few meadows where cattle grazed, had been ploughed up for arable crops. The rape, which had carpeted acres and acres of land in the early summer, had been harvested, but some of the seeds had drifted into the hedgerows and along the railway track making patches of golden yellow amidst the white of the all-pervading cow parsley. The barley had been harvested and soon it would be the turn of the wheat and potatoes. East Anglia was doing its bit to feed the nation.
Amy left the train at Waterbury station, which was almost a mirror image of the one at Nayton, and made her way the stationmaster’s office, hoping someone might remember Bert Storey working there, but the only employee was past normal retirement age and had been brought in to replace the previous man who had left to join the army. He had only been there a few months and could tell her nothing.
She thanked him and went out onto the dusty road, wondering where to go first. Waterbury was a small village with nothing in particular to commend it to a tourist. There was a post office across the green with a letter box and a telephone box outside and a rusting sign advertising Lyons ice cream, though she doubted if there was any ice cream to be had. There was a butcher and a grocer on either side of it and, a little further along the village street, a blacksmith and a cobbler. There were two public houses, the Green Man, which stood at the crossroads, and a thatched one called the Lord Protector, which had a picture of Oliver Cromwell on its creaking sign. Dotted around the green and up and down the main village road were houses, some small and old and typically on the tilt due to the peat and clay subsoils doing battle with each other. Others had been built after the last war when there was a boom in house building. The rectory was a sturdy Victorian building of grey bricks. The church looked interesting, so she went inside.
It was a typical country church with wooden pews and whitewashed walls on which some plaques commemorated noteworthy parishioners. ‘To the memory of Sir Robert Manning, Bart, 27th January 1873–21st November 1920,’ she read on one which had an ornately carved heraldic shield at the top. Underneath that was ‘Alicia Geraldine Manning, his wife, born 10th May 1878, died 6th January 1921.’ She did not long outlive her husband, Amy noted. But there was more. On another, smaller memorial beside it, was the inscription: ‘To the memory of Lieutenant Graham Manning MC, only son and heir of Sir Robert Manning, who left this life for eternal glory on 10th May 1920, aged twenty-two, as a result of being gassed in the War to end all Wars. May he rest in peace’.
Amy moved on, feeling as if she had intruded on another family’s grief. Who had been left, she wondered? Had Sir Robert had daughters? Had Lieutenant Manning been married? Other plaques commemorated more of the Manning family but they were all older. On the opposite wall was a list of the villagers who had died serving their country, headed by the lieutenant. She went outside and wandered among the gravestones, reading the inscriptions, but some were so worn they were indecipherable. The Manning family, as befitted their station, had an enormous vault surrounded by posts and chains. She moved on, looking for the name of Storey, but couldn’t find it. She wished she knew Lucy’s mother’s maiden name, but Lucy hadn’t known it.
A middle-aged man in clerical garb came up the path from the vicarage. She noticed he had a pronounced limp. ‘Good afternoon, Rector,’ she greeted him. ‘I’ve been looking round the church.’
‘You are very welcome, miss.’ He was thin, his dog collar seemed too big for his neck. He had light sandy hair and a friendly smile. ‘Any particular reason?’
Amy introduced herself and repeated the reason she had given everyone else and why she thought Waterbury was the place to start.
‘I don’t know the name,’ he said. ‘There’s certainly no one called Storey living in the village now. Do you know the lady’s maiden name?’
‘No, I wish I did. I think Mr and Mrs Storey would have been married between 1918 and 1919, perhaps earlier.’
‘I wasn’t here then. Would you like to look at the marriage register?’
‘Yes, please. That might help.’
He led the way into the church and through to the vestry, where he unlocked a cupboard and brought out the register. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said, putting it on a table. ‘Come and find me when you’ve finished. I shan’t be far away.’ He left with a faint swish of his black skirt.
Amy pulled up a chair and opened the book, turning the pages until she came to 1918. It was a year for weddings, she discovered, and supposed that those soldiers and sailors who had survived the war had wanted to settle down with their sweethearts. Her fingers followed the names down the page. There was no Storey in 1918. She began on 1919, page after page. She was almost giving up when she spotted what she was looking for. She read it again, just to make sure. Albert John Storey had married Margaret Lucilla Falconer in July 1920. Lucy had been born in November, so Margaret must have been pregnant when she married. In a small village like Waterbury that would have caused a stir.
She shut the book and went to find the incumbent. He was talking to a lady who was arranging flowers on the altar. She waited until he had finished before approaching him. ‘Any luck?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Lucy’s mother’s name was Falconer and her father was James Falconer.’
‘Falconer?’ He sounded surprised. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Do you know the family?’
‘The Reverend James Falconer was my predecessor. He died in 1937. I didn’t realise he had had children. None came to the funeral which I conducted.’
It didn’t sound as if Lucy’s mother had returned home, after all. ‘I’m sure Lucy didn’t know about it. Her mother told her she had no living relatives. I believe they may have been estranged.’
‘Mrs Falconer still lives in the village.’
‘Does she?’ Amy’s hopes, which had plummeted, rose again. ‘Do you think she would see me?’
‘I don’t see why not, but if you are doubtful, I’ll ask her first. Are you staying in the village?’
‘I hadn’t planned to, I’m on leave, you see, but I could stay one night if she can’t see me today.’
‘Let’s go now, then. It’s only across the green.’
He led the way, talking as he went. ‘This is a close-knit community,’ he said. ‘Until the war, most of the inhabitants depended on the estate for a living.’
‘You mean Sir Robert Manning?’
‘Yes. Both he and his wife died soon after the war, from influenza, I was told, though the epidemic was really over by then. They were unlucky to catch the tail end of it. Their only son, who came home from the war suffering from the effects of gas, predeceased them. A cousin inherited but he sold up a year or two later. The upkeep was crippling. The land was sold piecemeal to local farmers and the house is now a convalescent home for servicemen. Some of them come to the services and I go up there and visit those that can’t make it.’
He stopped outside the gate of a thatched cottage. The small front garden was a riot of colour; roses, clematis and poppies vied with delphiniums, lupins, hollyhocks and tall regal lilies. Standing on the path, clippers in one hand and a trug on the other arm, was a woman in her early sixties. She was neatly dressed in a dark-grey skirt and white blouse. ‘Good morning, Daniel,’ she called. ‘Isn’t it a glorious day? Too nice to be indoors.’
‘It certainly is. I’ve brought you a visitor.’ He turned to Amy. ‘Wait here a minute, will you? I’ll talk to her first.’
Amy watched as he opened the gate and went up the path and spoke to Mrs Falconer. She saw her brush a wisp of grey hair away from her face and look up at the young man as he t
alked. Suddenly she started back and put a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide in shock. He put a hand on her shoulder to reassure her, and went on talking. She nodded and then they went indoors. It looked as though there would be no interview, after all. Amy was unsure whether to stay or leave, but out of courtesy, decided to stay and hear what the rector had to say. He rejoined her after a few minutes.
‘I told her what you told me,’ he said. ‘She was so shocked I had to take her indoors and settle her in a chair with a glass of water.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset her.’
‘I am sure you didn’t, but she has recovered sufficiently to speak to you. She wants to know more.’
Amy thanked him, walked up to the door, knocked gently and went in.
She found herself in a comfortable sitting room. Flowers filled a bowl in the empty hearth and their scent filled the room. There were ornaments and framed photographs dotted about. Mrs Falconer was sitting in an armchair with a glass of water on a small table by her side, which also held a folded newspaper, a book and a pair of spectacles. She looked up as Amy entered. Her blue eyes were bright but wary. ‘I understand you are Lord de Lacey’s daughter.’
‘Yes. My name is Amy.’
‘Sit down, please.’
Amy sat facing her. ‘I’m sorry if my coming has shocked you. The reverend explained why I am here, did he?’
‘You have news of my daughter?’
‘No, I’m sorry. I was hoping to trace her myself. You see, she left the marital home around 1928 without saying a word to Lucy. Lucy is her daughter.’
‘Lucilla, after me? My name is Lucilla.’
‘Possibly, but she has always been known as Lucy to us. She told us her mother had always been loving and caring and she couldn’t understand why she just walked out. I suspect the marriage wasn’t a happy one and she couldn’t bear it any longer, but Lucy has always wondered why she didn’t take her with her. She was only eight years old at the time.’
Mrs Falconer was silent for a long time, then she took a sip of water and spoke again, so softly Amy had to listen carefully to hear her. ‘We should never have made her marry him. I said all along it was wrong. I pleaded with them not to do it, but I was overruled.’
‘By whom?’
‘Everyone. My husband, Sir Robert and Lady Manning.’
‘Sir Robert?’
‘Everyone obeyed Sir Robert in those days, even my husband – especially my husband. And Margaret would never have dared defy her father.’
‘Why Albert Storey? He wasn’t Lucy’s real father, was he?’
‘No. He worked on the estate. He had been wounded and, according to Sir Robert, wasn’t up to the heavy work. He was a bit of a rebel too, making the others discontented. I never liked him …’
‘Couldn’t you have defied your husband?’
‘I had sworn to love, honour and obey. It is not a vow to be taken lightly.’
Amy let that pass. ‘Lucy had a rough time with Mr Storey after her mother left until he threw her out just before the war. He told her she wasn’t his daughter and he wanted to marry again.’
‘Margaret’s dead? But you said—’
‘We don’t know, Mrs Falconer. That’s what I’m trying to find out.’
‘I haven’t seen her since the day she married. Sir Robert paid for her to go into a nursing home to have her child and found a job for Albert Storey on the railways. They never came back here. My husband washed his hands of her, you see. He said he had no daughter. He was as hard and unforgiving as Sir Robert and him a clergyman! Whenever anyone asked me how Margaret was getting on, I pretended I had heard from her and she was well.’
‘Didn’t she write?’
‘Yes, but I didn’t know it at the time. I found the letters after my husband died two years back. He had kept them from me unopened, but for some reason hadn’t seen fit to destroy them. I have often wondered if he meant me to find them after he’d gone. She must have thought I didn’t care.’
‘How did you persuade Bert Storey to marry her? He knew the child was not his.’
‘With money. Sir Robert paid him a lump sum to get them started and my husband settled a generous monthly allowance on him which was to end when the child turned sixteen. It was all done through the bank, he said. He didn’t want to know where they were living, so I never knew. After he died, I thought of trying to find her, but …’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘The letters stopped when they left Eccles Road. I hadn’t replied to any of them and she must have given up. The trail had gone cold. I told myself it was meant to be. But I grieved, I really did, and I felt ashamed that I had done nothing to help my own child. I doubted I would be forgiven.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true.’ The mystery was clearer now, but there were still unanswered questions; where did Mrs Storey go when she left Nayton, if not home to her mother? ‘Did Mrs Storey have other relatives or friends she could have gone to stay with?’
‘I have a sister who lives in Lancashire, but I’m sure if Margaret went there, Barbara would have told me. As for friends, I don’t know. Only people in the village and old school friends. Goodness knows where they are now.’ She picked up her glass, saw it was empty and put it down again. ‘This has been such a shock after all these years. I can’t get over it.’
‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?’
‘Do you mind? I’m feeling decidedly wobbly. The kitchen is through there.’ She nodded towards a door. ‘You’ll find the tea caddy in a cupboard beside the gas stove and the milk on the floor of the larder. Cups and saucers on the dresser. I don’t take sugar but it you want some there’s a bowl on the shelf in the larder.’
Amy easily found everything and was soon back in the sitting room with two cups of tea on a tray which she put on the dining table. ‘I hope it’s to your liking,’ she said, handing one to Mrs Falconer.
She took a sip. ‘Just right, thank you. Sit down and drink yours and tell me all about Lucy. Is she like her mother?’
‘I was only a child when Mrs Storey disappeared, so I don’t remember her very well, but everyone says Lucy has the same gentle personality. She is beautiful in a serene kind of way, with dark honey-coloured hair and lovely expressive eyes. We always said she was a cut above Bert Storey, which must have been down to her mother’s influence.’
‘If my maths serves me, Lucy was sixteen in 1936,’ Mrs Falconer said thoughtfully. ‘But you say Bert Storey didn’t throw her out until 1939. I wonder why?’
‘I suppose it was because she worked hard for her keep, looking after him and manning the crossing gates,’ Amy said. ‘Then when he met his new lady friend, he didn’t need her anymore. Or maybe the lady objected to having her around.’
‘Poor child. If only I’d known …’
‘She is going to marry my half-brother, Jack. He adores her, we all do, they have a little son.’
‘Oh, not again!’
‘The difference is, Mrs Falconer, that my brother has not abrogated his responsibilities; he is going to marry her as soon as he has leave.’
‘Graham would have married Margaret.’
‘Graham?’
‘Graham Manning, Sir Robert’s son. He was Lucy’s real father, but he died that summer. He was gassed, you see, and never properly recovered. It didn’t make any difference to Margaret. She had loved him ever since they were children and played together with his cousins and she was convinced he would get better, if only they could get away from his father’s dominance. She told me they had been planning how to do it …’ She stopped to take several gulps of tea. ‘Sir Robert said that at least with his son’s death, he was saved the disgrace of a bastard in the family. Hard-hearted man, all he could think of was the good name of the family. And look what happened to it – he died and so did his wife and there were no other offspring. We are all turned to dust in the end, both high and low.’
‘Yes. I am thankful my father isn’t a bit like that.’
‘I
t’s funny how things turn out, isn’t it? Margaret wasn’t considered good enough to be a Manning and now her daughter is going to be a de Lacey and that’s far more exalted.’
Amy smiled. ‘My mother is going to arrange the wedding. If we can’t find Lucy’s mother, then I’m sure she would love to have her grandmother there. Would you come?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not sure. It’s been so long since Margaret left and …’ Her voice trailed off.
‘I understand. Would you like Lucy to come and visit you first, to make your acquaintance? You must have a lot to talk about.’
Mrs Falconer took a long time considering this, while Amy waited. ‘Would she come?’ she asked at last.
‘I’m sure she would.’
‘Then, yes, bring her.’
Amy set off back to Nayton elated. She hadn’t found the long-lost Margaret, but she had found a grandmother for Lucy.
Frank pulled the switch to set the signals at go and looked out of the box for the approaching train. He was disgruntled and had half a mind to enlist. He didn’t have to, being in a reserved occupation, but life in Nayton was boring, especially since his ma had died the year before. He missed her more than he would have expected. He missed her constant complaining and her nagging him to find a wife. ‘I’ll need someone to look after me soon,’ she had said over and over again. ‘I can’t see you bathing and feeding your old mother.’
He couldn’t see it either, but in the end, it hadn’t been necessary. She had had a stroke from which she never recovered. He was left to fend for himself. Molly was still married to Bert Storey and hadn’t done a thing about leaving him. She wasn’t half as much fun as she had been in the beginning. She only used him to satisfy her lust, which had been great at first, but was beginning to pall. And she was forever grumbling about her husband and the things he said and did. It was as if grumbling was her lifeblood and she couldn’t do without it; recently she had started grumbling at him, nearly as bad as his mother, she was. And seeing the delectable Lucy about the village again inflamed him. She was no better than she should be, what with wheeling that sprog about in that posh pushchair just as if she owned the place. She had fallen on her feet and no mistake. One day, if and when Jack succeeded his father, she might become Lady de Lacey and look down her nose at him. It made him see red. Yes, he’d join up. He might find a wife to his liking somewhere else. He might become a hero. He liked the idea of that.
