The Last Secret of the Deverills

by Santa Montefiore

  Without Goodwin Martha was bereft. Mrs Goodwin had always been there and in many ways Martha had been closer to her than to Pam, but now she was gone the house resonated gloomily with her absence. Martha’s misery was compounded. She felt she had nothing left to live for. However much her parents tried to make up for having kept her history secret Martha’s sense of betrayal was profound. Half of her wished she could turn back the clock because before her discovery she had been happy. The other half was grateful for her experience because she had known love and it had been beautiful. She would never know it again; she had no desire to.

  Martha felt alienated from Edith. Her little sister had been part of the betrayal and Martha didn’t think she could ever forgive her for that. The girl who had only seen the good in Edith now saw her for what she was: jealous, spoilt and vindictive. Martha’s disappointment in life had turned her sour and her once open, generous heart was now slowly contracting. The old Martha had absolved Edith from all responsibility; the new Martha was less benevolent.

  Larry had noticed the change in his daughter the moment he had found her in Ballinakelly. After their emotional reunion she had withdrawn, giving nothing away. When he’d asked whether she’d found her birth parents she had merely shrugged and mumbled something about it all being a huge disappointment. He had taken her home on the boat and they had talked about other things and occasionally the old Martha had shone through. He had glimpsed her in the rare moments she had laughed, or in her smile, when he had manged to coax one out of her, but mostly she had retreated somewhere far away where he was unable to reach her. He didn’t know what had happened in Ireland, and Mrs Goodwin was not there to ask, but he knew that, whatever it was, it had changed Martha irrevocably.

  Pam made sure that she spent time with her eldest daughter. She went through the photo albums of Martha’s childhood, recalling the funny things she had done and said as a small girl and the pleasure she had given them. Although Martha seemed outwardly to enjoy Pam’s stories, Pam sensed her heaviness of heart and she was at a loss as to how to lighten it.

  As much as Martha wanted to stop thinking about JP she was unable to. He dominated her thoughts day and night. Oh, that she could cut the cord that tied her heart to his! But as he pined for her at the flying school in Leicestershire so she pined for him and the pull on their hearts was constant and painful. Of all the men in the world, she should fall in love with her brother! But perhaps it wasn’t so strange after all, she concluded finally. They were two halves of the same whole – wasn’t that what lovers believed themselves to be, too?

  Diana Wallace tried to prise some information out of her, but in spite of their closeness Martha could not begin to articulate how she felt. She was afraid to say the words out loud in case she opened a door onto her grief which she could never close. If she started to cry she might never stop. So, she remained silent and her family, both the Wallaces and the Tobins, worried about her deeply.

  There was, however, one person Martha could always talk to; one person who didn’t judge her or think less of her. One person who would always love her no matter what; and that was Adeline. Martha knew her Irish grandmother was with her in spirit. Although she couldn’t see her as she had done as a child, the memory had been released and she remembered. She sensed her often. She felt enveloped in affection and tenderness and the feeling was as soft as down. Adeline understood because she had witnessed everything. She had watched Martha love and she had watched that love thwarted. Martha got into the habit of going to bed at night, switching off the light and handing herself over to Adeline. She let her grandmother take her – as if she were literally lifting her out of bed and carrying her somewhere quiet and peaceful, somewhere far away from her suffering; somewhere closer to God.

  Martha prayed. She prayed for JP and she prayed for her dead mother, and as she grappled in the darkness of her soul for some light, she seized upon the radiant presence of God.

  JP was content to be far away from Ireland and the memories of Martha, which hung over the place like a beautiful but elusive fog. At the Royal Air Force base in Desford in Leicestershire he could concentrate on his training and throw all his energy into this new skill rather than lounging about in Dublin’s pubs, pining for his lost love. Here no one knew who he was; he could be somebody new, somebody whole. Most of the other trainees were Canadian, South African, Kiwi and Australian. Not all would pass. JP was confident that he would. The moment he had laid eyes on the dozens of Tiger Moths lined up on the tarmac he knew he had made the right choice and his deadened heart pulsated once again with life. He breathed in the smell of doped canvas, petrol and oil and felt a strange sense of purpose.

  JP was not yet officially in the RAF. As a civilian pupil pilot he had to pass the flying course by completing fifty hours’ flying time with an instructor. His first flight made a deep and lasting impression on him. With his instructor in the front seat and JP behind in his helmet and goggles, the parachute strapped to his back, the propeller was swung and the engine started. The plane moved swiftly over the grass, rattling like a toolbox and gaining speed until the noise stopped suddenly and a floating sensation took over. JP watched with wonder as the ground below him receded. The sight was beautiful and its beauty filled him with a warm and buoyant sense of awe. Up there he forgot about Martha. England’s wintry landscape spread out beneath him with its toy-like villages and hamlets, farms and forests and fields. So small and insignificant to his distant eye – was this perhaps how God viewed the world? Were human beings as ants to a giant? Up there he felt as if he had left all his problems on the ground. Was this what it felt like to die and leave the world? he wondered. The thrill of flying thrust him into the present, and the past and future dissolved like mist in sunshine.

  JP was quick to make friends with the other trainee pilots. Like his father he was genial and charming and people were drawn to the light he exuded that promised warmth and fun like a blazing pub window on a cold winter’s night. He hid his torment behind jokes and laughter, cigarettes and beer, and told no one about Martha. But when he slept he lost control of his thoughts and she surfaced time and again in dreams to remind him of his pain.

  JP hadn’t really thought much about his biological mother, but recalling Martha’s dark hair and dark eyes, which were nothing like his red hair and pale grey eyes, he wondered whether their mother had looked like her. For the first time in his life he wanted to know. He awoke from his dreams about Martha with the same questions pulling on his mind: What was my mother like? Who was she? What were the circumstances of our births and of her death? For the first time in his life he wished he knew. He didn’t want to die in ignorance.

  Flying was not as easy as JP had imagined. Taking off was difficult. The plane swerved all over the place and he simply couldn’t steady it. Landing was even trickier and more often than not the instructor had to take over the controls in order to land the plane safely. JP suffered doubts. Perhaps he wasn’t meant to be a pilot. Being adept on a horse did not necessarily mean he was going to be adept in a plane! After a few weeks of flying dual it didn’t seem to be getting much better, and the thought of flying solo was a daunting one.

  It didn’t help that he failed to warm to his instructor, Brian McCarthy, who was a dour, straight-talking Scot with no apparent sense of humour. JP hadn’t ever met anyone he couldn’t win over with his infectious smile and easy charm. Brian was the first, and no amount of wit or self-deprecating humour could even put a crack in the man’s impenetrable veneer. As the fifty-hour hurdle got closer, after which JP would be expected to fly solo, he began to get more anxious. It was no good being able to keep the plane steady in flight if he couldn’t land or take off properly. Would they kick him out? If they did, what would he do? He had his heart set on being a pilot now. If he was going to fight in this war he was going to do it in the cockpit of a plane, come what may.

  One night in the local pub, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer with two men he had grown close to over
the few weeks they had been training, he voiced his concerns. ‘You have to relax,’ said Stanley Bradshaw, a brown-haired, cheeky-faced Yorkshireman of twenty-three. ‘Don’t try too hard.’

  ‘The more you worry about it the more you seize up,’ said Jimmy Robinson, a jaunty Australian who kept a photograph of his mother in his wallet. ‘It’s all about confidence.’

  ‘You Irish like your horses, JP. Just pretend she’s a horse.’ They all laughed and Stanley drained his pint, leaving a line of white foam on his upper lip.

  ‘The truth is,’ said JP, ‘I’ve never doubted myself before. This is a first and I don’t like it.’

  ‘We all have doubts. Jesus knows I have mine,’ said Jimmy. ‘My take-off is like a kangaroo with a rocket up his arse.’

  ‘Sounds much like mine,’ said JP with a chuckle. There was nothing like the company of friends to make him feel better.

  Stanley wiped away the foam with the back of his hand. ‘You know, it won’t be long before we’re up there with more than just pigeons for company,’ he said gravely. ‘We’ll be facing the bloody Germans.’

  ‘Too right,’ said Jimmy. They fell silent for a moment, each man uncomfortable with his fear.

  Stanley glanced warily at JP. ‘You’re very young,’ he said.

  ‘Nearly eighteen,’ JP replied.

  ‘Green around the gills. A sprog,’ Jimmy added and they all knew what he was thinking, that eighteen was too young to die in a war.

  ‘I got a girl back home,’ said Stanley wistfully.

  Jimmy nodded. ‘What’s she called?’

  ‘Phyllis.’

  ‘Same name as my mother,’ said Jimmy. Silence again.

  JP thought of Martha. ‘Well, I’ve got nothing to lose,’ he said after a while, staring into the bottom of his glass.

  ‘Or do you mean no one?’ said Jimmy, and JP’s eyes misted.

  After that JP regained his confidence. He stopped trying so hard and he stopped trying to win over his instructor. His take-offs and landings became smoother and he managed to keep the plane steady during their circuits. Then one day, after a particularly deft landing, McCarthy levered himself out of the cockpit and stood at the side of the fuselage, close to JP, and shouted over the sound of the idling engine, ‘Right, Deverill, try a circuit on your own.’ And JP realized, to his amazement, that he was being given permission to fly solo.

  JP would never forget his first solo flight. With a mixture of nervousness and excitement, JP took his little Tiger Moth into the sky, towards the feathery clouds and the great beyond. With the vibration of the bracing wires and the buffeting of the slipstream, he was suspended in the air with the wind in his face and the sunshine radiating all around him. It was more poignant because he was experiencing it alone. He thought of Martha then. He envisaged her sweet smile and the tender way she had looked at him that day on the bridge in Dublin. He remembered the feeling of her hand in his and the way he had held it all the way back to her hotel. He recalled their final meeting. He could almost feel her in his embrace, pressed against his chest, while he had fought the desire to kiss her. As he indulged in memories he had tried so hard to forget, his eyes stung with tears, but his heart inflated with the glory of the heavens, and the sorrow he felt in his heart was somehow exquisite.

  When he landed and taxied to the apron, he felt lighter of spirit than he had in a long time. He loved Martha – he knew he would never not love Martha, but he had found an intense joy in flying that would sustain him while he learned to live without her.

  JP passed the RAF flying tests and final examinations. Having never had to work very hard at home being tutored by Robert, he had relished knuckling down and studying for something he really wanted, and he found, to his satisfaction, that he was good at it. He was sent to Hastings with Stanley and Jimmy to go through the transition from civilian to officer of the Royal Air Force. Their uniforms arrived from the tailor’s in London: blue tunic and trousers with a thin stripe, but they lacked gravitas without the gold RAF wings on the breast. JP looked forward to the moment he earned his wings. He hoped it wouldn’t be long. The war was on and he was eager to play his part.

  After a few weeks of drilling, marching and lectures, JP was selected for ‘C’ Flight, which was responsible for training pilots to fly single-engine planes, namely the North American Harvard. He was pleased to see that Jimmy and Stanley had been selected too. They were all aware that training to fly the Harvard meant that they were on the road to eventually flying single-engine fighter planes. They were going to be up there facing the Hun, after all. JP had no doubt that flying fighter planes was what he was destined to do.

  The three men arrived at the Flight Training School in Little Rissington in the Cotswolds in February 1940. It was wet and cold and a damp fog lingered in the air. The symmetrical, somewhat austere building looked gloomy and forbidding. They collected their kit: a helmet which included a face mask and microphone, leather gloves, overalls, a suit and flying boots, then reported to ‘C’ Flight in the No 2 Hangar where the Flight Commander gave them a brusque introductory talk. Afterwards, JP’s flight instructor presented himself. Flight Sergeant Dawson was a small, wiry man with the steady gaze of someone who has scanned the skies from many different cockpits all over the world. Although he didn’t smile there was a gentle wisdom in his eyes that immediately won JP’s respect. He led him to an enormous hangar and JP forgot all about the fog and the unfriendly place as he laid eyes for the first time on the formidable Harvard.

  Flight Sergeant Dawson explained that the Harvard was the most advanced aeroplane in service. Bigger than a Tiger Moth it was a low-wing monoplane with a retractable undercarriage and flaps and a constant-speed airscrew. JP wasn’t sure what a ‘constant-speed airscrew’ was but kept his mouth shut and hoped it would all make sense when he was in the plane. He was already aware of the Harvard’s bad reputation – a few experienced pilots had been killed in it – but he wasn’t put off. Quite the opposite: he felt the determination rise in him the way it did out hunting when he was faced with a high hedge, and the challenge thrilled him.

  The first weekend of the course they were given a couple of days’ leave. JP took the train from Kingham to London Paddington to stay with his half-brother Harry in Belgravia. London was now a city on high alert. Children had been evacuated to the countryside, army uniforms were apparent everywhere, windows and doors were blacked out at sunset and men were encouraged to leave their shirt tails exposed when walking the streets at night so that they could be seen by cars whose lights had been deflected to the ground. Sandbags had been piled up in the doorways of shops and public buildings and bombs were expected to drop at any time. Everyone carried a gas mask and a certain wariness.

  Harry was pleased to see JP and embraced him fiercely. The war had injected Harry with a sharp sense of urgency and a wistful longing for those peaceful days of his childhood at Castle Deverill. Days picnicking on the beach, riding out over the hills, sitting in front of the warm fire playing cards; croquet, tennis and badminton on the lawn in the golden glow of the late summer sun. He remembered the last war, indeed the shot wound to his shoulder still ached sometimes, and the memory of loss had surfaced to remind him of the fragility of life. He had lost his uncle Rupert, his cousin George and many friends. The anticipation of losing all over again was almost unbearable. Every moment was precious. Every dawn to be celebrated.

  Charlotte and the children were at Broadmere, Victoria’s estate in Kent, so the house was empty. Their few servants had joined the war effort leaving Harry on his own, forced to make his dinners himself, which consisted mostly of toast and boiled eggs, which Charlotte sent up from the estate farm where Victoria kept a large selection of exotic hens. Harry had been given a desk job in Whitehall, which was only marginally more interesting than working in a bank, while Boysie had been sent to work at a secret location in Buckinghamshire after having won a crossword competition in the newspaper. Both men were thriving because for the first time
in their lives they could be together without considering their wives. They managed to see each other most weekends and had settled into a comfortable routine of lunches at White’s, strolls around the Serpentine and quiet dinners and nights at the hotel in Soho – Harry wasn’t going to risk Charlotte discovering them again by being careless at home.

  JP’s weekend leave did not put Harry out. It just so happened that Boysie had to work so Harry welcomed the company and treated his half-brother to a hearty lunch at his club. Harry said that he found London in good spirits. He even questioned whether the war was ever really going to happen. The bombs that had been expected never fell and the sirens that went off were false alarms. People were even beginning to leave their gas masks behind, he told JP. JP was secretly disappointed. He now harboured ambitions of taking to the skies in fighter planes – if the Germans didn’t invade England he’d never get his chance.

  But by April the climate had changed. Germany invaded Denmark and Norway and the war started in earnest. In May Germany invaded Holland, Belgium and Luxembourg and King George appointed Winston Churchill as Prime Minister, which delighted Maud because the Spencer-Churchills were close family friends. In May the Allied army was pushed back to Dunkirk where they were rescued from the beaches and harbour in a miraculous evacuation – with no help from Eric, Victoria’s husband, who had set off from the coast of Kent in his fishing boat only to sink half a mile out due to a leak in the hull. But it was no victory and in June the French surrendered to Germany.

  JP and his friends Stanley and Jimmy finally earned their wings and were sent to Warmwell for advanced training. However, they had been there but a week when the Flight Commander informed them that their training had been cut short. They were to join a squadron at Biggin Hill where they were going to fly Spitfires. It looked like the German invasion of Britain would happen after all, and they would have to stop it.