War Orphans

by Lizzie Lane

  ‘Of course I do,’ he said, snapping his head round to face her. ‘She’ll be evacuated for real.’

  ‘And if her stepmother gets her hands on the dog . . .’

  Seb’s face dropped. ‘I know that too, but I won’t let that happen!’

  Sally strode purposely up Redcatch Hill. In her mind she rehearsed what she was going to say to Lady Ambrose and surmised what her answers might be. One question loomed above all others.

  ‘My letters haven’t been getting through to Pierre. Why is that?’

  As for her answer to that particular question? She couldn’t begin to guess. What possible reason could she have? There was no animosity between them, in fact Pierre had told her his aunt liked her very much.

  It had to be some kind of mistake.

  She paused at the gates of Ambrose House, gazing up the drive towards the imposing entrance. Nobody was in sight. Presumably her ladyship was out back with the cats and dogs.

  She strained her ears for the sound of barking, but heard nothing. All was strangely quiet.

  Sally made her way up the drive. Rather than chance knocking on the front door, she went straight to the kennels.

  Lady Ambrose was leaning on the gate at the end of the stable block, staring at the enclosures ranged along either side in the adapted loose boxes.

  Disquiet tightened in Sally’s stomach. Were the dogs and cats still there or had they been taken away? Had the government’s advice caught up with all of them?

  ‘Lady Ambrose?’

  Amelia Ambrose glanced over her shoulder but maintained her position, her gaze returning to the stable block interior and the animals in her care. She held a piece of paper in one hand.

  ‘I thought I heard you.’ She sighed heavily. ‘I’ll be as cheerful as I can, but don’t expect too much. Today is not a good day.’

  Sally frowned and held back what she truly wished to ask. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Lady Ambrose passed her the piece of paper. ‘The house has been requisitioned by the War Office for use as a convalescent home or billeting for soldiers. I can either move out entirely or confine my living space to two rooms and a kitchen.’

  Sally quickly read the directive, which stated that many large houses were being requisitioned to provide troop accommodation and hospital services. Ambrose House was one of them. ‘The main residence plus outbuildings . . . But surely they’d let you keep the stables! The animals have to live somewhere.’

  Amelia slid her a sidelong look that said it all. The War Office didn’t care what happened to the animals. They were not a priority.

  ‘They’d probably use them for target practice,’ Amelia said grimly.

  ‘Don’t say that, please. Not even in jest.’

  Ill-informed as they were, she couldn’t believe any civilised government would do that.

  Amelia sighed. ‘Humans take priority.’

  Sally had to concede that she was right.

  Even so, it wasn’t like Lady Ambrose to give in so easily. Perhaps a little goading was needed?

  Sally chose her words carefully. ‘I understand your ancestors fought beside the first Duke of Marlborough.’

  Amelia nodded. ‘True. The first of the Churchills.’

  ‘Surely that must carry some weight.’

  A weak smile crossed Amelia’s face. ‘My dear girl, there is no way I can march up to number 10 Downing Street and demand old Winston retract the requisition and give my animals a chance.’ She grinned suddenly. ‘If I did I might ask him if he can give a home to an old bulldog. Owners resemble their dogs and a bulldog would suit him fine.’ Her smile diminished. ‘Take no notice of me. Pure fantasy, my dear. Pure fantasy. Still,’ she said, slapping the top bar as she pushed herself away from the gate. ‘You haven’t come here to hear about me and my problems. A good hostess should at least offer tea. Come on.’

  The purposeful stride Sally was used to was not quite so purposeful, but there was still an air of command in her ladyship’s voice.

  Sally followed her into the cave of a kitchen, warm thanks to the Aga and the range of saucepans bubbling away on top. She guessed most of the food being cooked was horsemeat and offal for the animals. Both came from the kennels of a fox hunt in South Gloucestershire.

  ‘The help’s off. But I can make tea. Now. To what do I owe this visit?’

  Sally had been about to say it was purely a social call, but Amelia’s tone inferred she guessed otherwise.

  Eight chairs were set around a scrubbed pine table. Sally dragged one of them out and sat down, her hands clasped in front of her, elbows resting on the table. ‘I’ve had a letter from Pierre.’

  ‘Oh. That’s nice for you.’ Although Amelia smiled, Sally noticed a guarded look in her eyes.

  ‘Apparently he hasn’t received any of my letters.’

  Amelia gave the appearance of concentrating on pouring the water into a blue-and-white Wedgewood teapot.

  Sally frowned. ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘Yes. I did. Milk? I worry about bone china cracking so I always pour milk in first.’ Her attention became fixed on pouring milk into two bone china teacups.

  Sally thought quickly. There was something very telling about Amelia’s manner. She didn’t sound terribly surprised that the letters hadn’t arrived. Could it be that she’d forgotten to send them? Surely she hadn’t held them back purposely?

  Sally reined in her suspicions, willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. She chose her words carefully. ‘Do you think they got there? I mean, you did remember to put them in with the things you sent him and your own letters . . .’

  ‘No! I did not.’

  Lady Amelia Ambrose had a very high forehead and the sort of skin that shone when caught in the light. It shone now, though it seemed more like perspiration, as though she were nervous or upset. Amelia was not the sort to be nervous and she was already upset about the house being requisitioned.

  ‘I didn’t send the letters because I wanted to split you two up.’

  Sally’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. I wanted to split you up and before you call me a mean old witch with a snobby attitude, there was a very good reason for wanting to split you up. I don’t want you being hurt, Sally.’

  Tea untouched, Sally sat across from the older woman feeling as though every last drop of blood had been bled from her body. Her throat felt as though she were swallowing thorns and her tongue seemed to be lying dead in her mouth.

  When she finally found it, her voice sounded small and faraway. ‘Why would I be hurt?’

  Amelia fiddled with her teacup, looking into the pale tan liquid like a fortune-teller looking for the future. Only there was no future to be found there and she was no prophetess making trite comments about what was and what might be.

  ‘Pierre is married.’

  She took a swift sip of tea, eyes averted, her mouth set in a tight line as though she’d just eaten something particularly unsavoury.

  It was as though icy fingers had traced frosty patterns throughout Sally’s body – like the ones on the inside of windowpanes in the depths of a very cold winter.

  Sally waited for Amelia to explain more. She was met with a silence she couldn’t bear.

  ‘Is she French?’

  Amelia nodded. ‘Yes.’

  It wasn’t enough. Sally’s shock was swiftly turning to anger. Would knowing more placate that anger? She didn’t know and didn’t care. She had to know more.

  ‘Tell me about her. About them. I want to know!’

  Amelia’s hooded eyelids lifted. Her pale blue eyes studied Sally with both pity and reluctance.

  ‘I promise not to rant and rave. Nor will I burst into tears.’

  Amelia shrugged. ‘If you insist. What do you want to know first?’

  ‘Her name would be a good start, as well as how they met and why they’re apart.’

  Amelia looked at her thoughtfully, pursing her lips before finally taking the plunge. ‘S
ince I’ve opened the gate, so to speak, I might as well let the horses gallop through. Adele and Pierre grew up together. Their parents regarded them as childhood sweethearts and in a way I think the pair of them moulded themselves to what other people wanted. Anyway, Adele was expecting when they got married.’

  Sally swallowed. Her throat felt as frozen as her body. ‘Go on,’ she managed to say at last, too shocked to say much else and certainly too far into this explanation to turn back. A child! This was the worst thing imaginable.

  ‘Adele had a baby girl. Stillborn, I’m afraid.’

  ‘They must have been devastated.’

  ‘I assume they were, though Pierre never refers to it. In fact, he rarely speaks of Adele. I’m not sure of his exact feelings because on the occasions when I’ve broached the subject I’ve met with a blank wall. He almost told me something once, about Adele’s political beliefs and her outlandish behaviour, but he clamed up almost as soon as he started talking. I have my own suspicions about that. Pierre refuses to speak of the baby and refuses to talk about Adele. And before you ask, I’ve no idea why. It grieves me that they haven’t made a go of it. They used to be so close and I liked Adele very much – as much as I like you. Things seemed to fall apart about three years ago, but even before that . . .’

  Sally stared down at her entwined fingers, tears stinging her eyes. Pierre meant everything to her and she’d truly believed they’d have a life together. All the dreams she’d built had turned to dust.

  ‘He should have told me,’ she said bitterly, digging her fingernails into her palms. The only folly on her part had been falling in love. As for Pierre, on his part there was only subterfuge. He’d lied to her by omission. She could never forgive him for that.

  ‘I urged him to tell you. He told me the time wasn’t right and that I was not to tell you either. He told me he wanted to see Adele before the German army invaded, before she . . . Well, how he’s going to do that now they have is likely to be very difficult indeed. As for letters – well – that isn’t going to be so easy from now on.’

  Pierre’s deceit had made Sally angry, but still she found herself wondering and worrying. Would she ever see him again now that the Germans were in France?

  ‘He told me he was going to France to help fight the invader when they came. And now France is totally overrun. Our troops had their backs against the sea at Dunkirk. Pierre didn’t get away back in May so God knows where he might be now. He might be waiting to kill himself some Germans. I don’t know for sure.’

  Amelia nodded in agreement. ‘That might well be true. Pierre loves France and I hope he still loves Adele, though I doubt it. They’ve grown apart.’ Amelia clasped her hands in front of her, her chin held aloft. ‘Sorry, my dear, but I believe that marriage should be for life.’

  There was little left to say. Amelia asked if Sally would like more tea. A biscuit perhaps?

  She declined.

  On the walk home she thought about the letter from Pierre she had lovingly folded between the pages of her diary, a letter waiting for a reply.

  The moment she got back she would throw it into the fire or tear it into pieces. Pierre did not deserve any kind of response. He’d lied to her by his failure to disclose the truth of his marriage.

  Back home she took the letter from inside the diary meaning to take it downstairs and throw it into the fire. She would very likely have done so if she hadn’t been tempted to read it one more time.

  Her gaze flew over the words, her heart fluttering in exactly the same way it had when she’d first read it.

  Her eyes cloudy with unshed tears, her chin firm with resolve, she folded the letter in three parts passing it from one hand to another as she confronted her fears and her thoughts.

  The bitter taste of his betrayal remained.

  Why hadn’t he told her the truth? Surely he must have realised that at some point his aunt would tell her?

  Anger and despair surfaced in equal measure along with the most beguiling of his features, the way his brandy-coloured hair curled around the nape of his neck, the way creases appeared around his eyes when he smiled, the way his mouth moved when he spoke, the words delivered in a slight accent that made her spine tingle.

  How could he have asked her to marry him when he was married already?

  Yet he’d been so adamant. There had to be a genuine reason he had not told her the truth. You’re deluding yourself, said a small voice in her head.

  Another small voice protested equally vehemently. No! I saw no deceit in him, no sign that he was lying. Now why would I do that?

  The truth exploded into her mind in letters three feet high. Because you love him.

  On hearing the back door open and close, she returned the letter to her diary and went downstairs. She would decide whether or not to reply to Pierre later. She needed time to think.

  Her father was sprawled on a kitchen chair, his legs straight out in front of him. He was still wearing the boots he wore when he was gardening. His head rested against the chair back as he did when he was dozing, but on this occasion his eyes were wide open and dark with concern.

  She knew he was thinking about Joanna and the dog.

  ‘Have they found her?’

  ‘No. Nobody knows where she’s gone. The police have checked if there are any relatives, but it seems not. Her father was an only child and her stepmother’s background is dubious to say the least. Not that she wants her found.’ He looked at his daughter. ‘I think the only reason she went to the police was because she’d made the mistake of coming in to see you first. She’d truly believed that Joanna had gone into school as usual. It must have come as quite a shock when you told her she hadn’t showed up.’

  ‘I told her to contact the police. You think that was a mistake?’

  He shook his head, his callused hands resting in his lap. ‘You did the right thing. My opinion is that she wouldn’t have got them involved if you hadn’t suggested it. She’d have been quite happy to live her life without Joanna around, no matter what had happened to her.’

  A heavy sadness washed over Sally as she sank onto a kitchen chair. Resting her elbows on the table, she cupped her face in her hands.

  Today had been memorable, though not for the right reasons. On the one hand a sadly neglected child had run away from home. On the other hand she had found out that the man she loved was already married. Pierre was in France and Joanna goodness knows where. A letter to Pierre might shed some light on the reasons why he had asked her to marry him without him being free to marry her. But what about Joanna? Who could possibly know where she might have gone?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The country bus was single decker and the man who was driving also took the money and gave out tickets.

  Joanna had eyed him nervously, Harry snuggling close to her legs, looking up at her imploringly.

  ‘Twopence for you. Same for the dog. Anyone meeting you the other end?’

  Joanna shook her head. ‘No. Not at the bus stop anyway,’ she said, instantly realising her mistake. The last thing she wanted was for the driver to question the fact that at the end of the journey she would get off the bus alone.

  The driver was still regarding her with a puzzled expression. ‘Where you off to, then?’

  Joanna swallowed her nervousness and proceeded to lie.

  ‘I’m going to stay with my grandmother. Her legs are bad so she can’t come to the bus,’ she added, a picture of Mrs Allen and her bad legs springing to mind.

  The driver looked from her to Harry who was wagging his tail happily, his big brown eyes fixed on the driver’s face.

  ‘Oh well. At least you’ve got a bit of jolly company,’ he said to her.

  At the end of the journey the bus stayed where it was. Joanna walked off past the small post office that Paul had mentioned in his stories.

  A woman came out from the village store and began cleaning the windows, stopping when she saw Joanna and her dog. ‘Afternoon, young lady. Out
for an afternoon walk?’

  ‘Yes. I’m going to visit my grandmother.’

  When it seemed as though the woman was about to ask more searching questions, Joanna quickened her pace.

  A man wearing a flat cap, his shirtsleeves rolled up, a waistcoat and trousers tied about with string at the knees, alighted from a farm wagon. He said nothing, but merely glanced in her direction before disappearing inside the post office.

  Joanna’s heart had raced when challenged by the bus driver and the woman. Thankfully the man had only glanced at her, too committed to entering the shop and buying something.

  The road was long and flat. The rank of terraced cottages, the post office and the village store were soon left behind. Just a few buildings, cottages and narrow lanes dissected the meadows where cows and sheep grazed. The day was fine enough but tonight the temperature would drop.

  Suppressing a shiver, Joanna knew she had to find somewhere to shelter. She had to find the place Paul had slept at night after fishing all day.

  Daylight was fading and it was getting cold by the time she came to the double gates Paul had described to her.

  Joanna shivered. It was far colder than she’d expected it to be and she wished she’d grabbed the hat and scarf Mrs Allen had knitted her.

  The double gates were made of corrugated iron, the pair of them held together with a rusty chain. He’d assured her it was never locked. All she had to do was walk over tumps of dried grass to get to them.

  Harry was off his lead. He sniffed around quite happily while she attempted to push open the gates, the chain hanging loosely, the gates making a squealing sound as she pushed them open.

  The grass field sloping down to the river was just as Paul had described it.

  ‘Me and Charlie caught some really big fish along there,’ he’d told her excitedly.

  Joanna looked around across the river to where the bare branches of trees seemed to be scratching the sky. Daylight was fading and a frosty moon shimmered in an indigo sky surrounded by ragged clouds that also seemed touched with silver.

  The old barn was exactly where Paul had told her, its old stonework and the bit of roof still remaining covered with ivy.