Just for a second Freddie felt quite sick, imagining trying to keep the dogs quiet, stop them yapping; but then she went to the window, sat down on the window seat, and to steady her nerves she stared out at the distant view of fields and trees. It settled her, and finally it was bracing. Whatever happened she would fight for their land, and for their right to lead their lives the way they wished, for everything that they all held dear. She’d fight for the gentle ways of Twistleton, all of which had been arrived at slowly through the centuries, so that not even the proud red letter-box outside the general store in the village was allowed to be disturbed until after the young robins, who hatched there annually, had flown the nest.
Twistleton had ducks on its pond, cows that stared over the five-bar gates as you walked into the village. It had birdsong at dawn, it had night skies of such beauty that it was impossible to go to bed without believing in a greater good. It held everything that was dear about life and the countryside, and despite its sometimes irritating vagaries, Freddie loved it with all her heart.
She returned to the table where she had been unpacking the gas masks with renewed determination. Gas them, bomb them, let Hitler do what he could, they would never give in. She pulled out a child’s gas mask. There would be another generation. The idea that there would not be was appalling. She clicked her fingers by her head once more, in yet another attempt to drive away thoughts of gloom.
Blossom, as always nowadays, with the two dachshunds firmly attached to her waist with string, came in to help with the unpacking and the checking. Freddie could see from her expression that she had heard something on the wireless.
‘It seems we may expect to have Christmas on our own. No evacuations from the cities yet, but we can’t count on it. And there’s rumours about it becoming illegal to store tins and suchlike.’ She looked baleful. ‘Since when is the government going to hold sway over our larders, may I ask?’ She sighed. ‘Since when are they going to tell us what to do at every turn? It’ll be identity cards soon, mark my words. Do this, do that. Anyone would think the high-ups were better than us, instead of just people, the same as us. And people with a great deal less sense than a lot of us low-downs, I sometimes think.’ She sniffed, and then sighed. ‘I found myself just wishing the blessed war would get on with it. Here we all are, making plans for this, plans for that, gas masks and I know not what, and yet, blow me, not a word from Hitler now he’s disporting himself in Czechoslovakia. Not a word, not a funeral note, only rumour, rumour, rumour.’ She took out a handkerchief suddenly, and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I sometimes think I can’t stand any more of this waiting, Freddie, truly I can’t. I just want to get on with it. Gas mask or no gas mask, I just want to stop the waiting, it’s worse than anything, truly it is. I just want something to fight, not nothing, day after day of nothing.’
Freddie went to where the old darling was seated, but instead of trying to comfort her, which she knew Blossom would hate, she knelt down and stroked the dogs, giving Blossom time to calm herself.
‘What are you going to do once it starts, Blossom?’ she asked her, eventually.
Blossom sniffed and then cleared her throat, before rearranging the combs on either side of her great bun of white hair.
‘I think I must get into something. No point in hanging around Jessica here, getting on her nerves. I mean, she’s been very kind, and given me a roof and a job all these years, but she won’t want me around once the balloon goes up, will she? Stands to reason. I know I wouldn’t want me hanging around. I’m not good for much here anyway, really, just a bit of this and a bit of that, and all that is to come to an end.’
Freddie straightened up. This piece of news was not at all welcome. Freddie was the one who planned to leave Twistleton Court, in the certain knowledge that Blossom would always be there to help Aunt Jessica. If Blossom left, then Freddie might be forced to stay. It was not that she didn’t love Twistleton, as she kept saying to herself, nor that she would not fight for it, as she had previously assured herself while she was seated in the window, but neither did she want to stay. She passionately wanted to leave, to fight for what was right.
‘But what if we have to take in evacuees? You will surely be needed by Aunt Jessica then?’
Blossom shook her head.
‘I never was any good with city folk, or children, for that matter. One of the reasons why I could never, would never, marry. No, I must go and find some sort of work – on the land, preferably. I am still strong, and as long as they don’t mind dogs, I’ll find myself a place all right. I know, it won’t be popular in some quarters, but I can’t stay here, part-relative, part-servant. It won’t do, dear, truly it won’t. Neither fish nor flesh, and certainly not good red herring.’
Freddie stared at Blossom.
She had always imagined that Blossom was so happy at the Court, never really thought, she suddenly realised with a rush of beastly guilt, of Blossom as anything except, well – Blossom. Hadn’t really thought of her as a human being, as a whole person with feelings and with any kind of independence. Good old Blossom, good old Jessica’s impoverished cousin, given a cottage to live in, allowed her dogs, helping out every hour of the day, and sometimes the night, too; expected to be grateful, to be courteous, to be there, all the time. No actual feelings, though, nothing on display. The rest of them, even Branscombe, could have feelings, but not Blossom – except about the dogs, of course. She was allowed those, but even that was a kind of unspoken joke. Blossom and her dogs! Tied to her waist! Eternally frightened that they would attract anti-German feelings, people trying to kick them, as if anyone in Twistleton would do that . . . ha, ha, ha.
‘Have you told Aunt Jessica of your plans to leave the Court, Blossom?’
‘Of course.’ Blossom stood up. ‘But don’t you discuss them with her, will you?’
‘No, no, of course not.’
‘I don’t think she imagines for a second that anything will come of them—’
‘But Aunt Jessica is the one who has always been convinced that war is on the cards. It’s Miss Maude who is the one who won’t even discuss it.’
Freddie knew that if there was one thing that was never spoken about in Twistleton, it was the continuing silence between the Court and the Hall, and all of a sudden she also knew she had to join up, and a great deal sooner than she had imagined. The only trouble was that she wanted to be a Wren – and they had been disbanded after the Great War.
Chapter Four
Daisy had never known any of her parents’ circle, friends who might have been able to tell her a little of what the people who had given her life had been like. In fact, besides Aunt Maude, she had no connections outside Twistleton Hall, with the single exception of her godfather, Gervaise Fanshawe.
For Daisy, growing up a lone child among adults at the Hall, Gervaise was an adored figure. Adored because he was tall and handsome, funny and fun, and always and for ever – unexpected. For the simple reason that he never gave Aunt Maude or Daisy any warning when he came to visit.
Only Gervaise could get away with turning up in his elegant motor car, and hooting the horn outside the house, before running in, calling for Daisy, calling for Maude, ‘Where are the women in my life?’ And demanding luncheon, tea or dinner, as appropriate, or not.
Unbelievably, too, Gervaise could make Aunt Maude laugh, which was only a little more difficult than making the cow jump over the moon. Not only could he make Aunt Maude laugh, but he could show her the latest dance steps, and exhort her to try them, which of course she never did, but nevertheless it brought colour to their lives even to hear about them, and all this before Gervaise sat down at the piano and played and sang the latest hits.
Sometimes, when she was younger, after a long abstinence from any form of gaiety, Daisy would find herself falling asleep, praying to the Lord to send her godfather to see them, if only to break the civilised monotony which was the norm at the Hall. The unbroken tenor of her life acting, as it so often did, as a burden of
crushing silence, despite all the wildlife, despite all the animals around the place, despite the maids – despite, when it eventually arrived, courtesy of Gervaise, of course, the wireless – she still longed with all her heart for the kind of unexpected excitement that Gervaise brought to their lives.
But, quite unlike Aunt Maude, Gervaise had become caught up in the idea of a coming war, and had been instrumental in trying to convince the powers that be that they needed to build new and faster aeroplanes, planes that could dive out of the sky and drive away the enemy. Needless to say, the politicians could not see beyond the army and the navy, but Gervaise had persisted, and more than that, he had become convinced that with all the men fighting, the need for women to be trained as pilots would be as great as the need for women to be trained in the navy and the army. But, as he had written to Daisy a few months before, ‘I sometimes think it would be easier to be the first man to fly without a plane, than to convince our dear government and all the top brass of what is so badly needed.’
Daisy herself needed no convincing. It seemed only logical, when all was said and done, that, just as there had been a dire need for women in the factories during the Great War, now there was a dire need for women not just to work in the factories, but to join up.
The subject of joining the services had often come up while they were all meant to be learning how to be beautifully brought-up young ladies at the Court. Not that Laura wanted to do any such thing, nor Relia, nor any of the other girls, except Freddie, of course. Freddie had always set her heart on something to do with the sea, which was hardly surprising, since so many of the outlying cottages and houses of Twistleton were in sight and sound of the sea. She had always had her own sailing boat, no landlubber she. But despite seeing the distant blue, or more often grey, of the sea beyond the cliffs, Daisy wanted only to fly, and the one person who could help her to do just that was Gervaise.
With the acceleration of war rumours, Daisy had started to bombard him with letters asking for information about flying lessons. Naturally, Gervaise being Gervaise, the letters remained gaily unanswered, until one day she had a brief note from him, his usual signature embellished by a caricature of himself, but also with a cheque attached behind the letter.
Have spoken to the chaps at Bramsfield about you, you minx. Cheque attached. Best of British, but do make sure to get the hours in. At least two hundred and fifty hours logged will be necessary, so go to, dear godchild . . .
Your wicked godfather, Gervaise
It was not in Daisy’s nature to deceive anyone, let alone her beloved aunt, nevertheless, in between taking Aunt Maude for her now almost daily ‘spin’ in the new motor car, she also made sure to book up flying lessons as early as possible, taking off daily for Bramsfield aerodrome early in the morning, before Aunt Maude was about, determined on logging up the necessary hours.
It was not, she told herself, that she was actually deceiving Aunt Maude, she was just not telling her until the right moment presented itself, which it suddenly seemed to do just as she neared the necessary logged hours, only a few being left.
There was a long silence as Maude stared at Daisy, and it seemed to both of them that Daisy might be losing colour, as Maude’s mouth tightened into a thin strip of suppressed fury, while at the same time the sound of the library clock ticking was a welcome distraction in the ensuing pause.
‘Been going for flying lessons, did you say?’
‘Yes, I have, Aunt Maude. Do love flying so much.’
Maude walked to the library window.
‘You would, it is in the blood. And I suppose that bad man, your godfather Gervaise, encouraged you in this?’
‘Not entirely, no. The idea actually came from me. I can’t blame him, really I can’t,’ Daisy confessed.
Aunt Maude stared ahead of her, silent for a minute.
‘I forbid you to go on with this nonsense, Daisy dear,’ she finally announced.
Daisy dearly hoped that she hadn’t heard her only living relative correctly.
‘Why are you not keen on me flying, Aunt Maude?’ Daisy finally asked. ‘You don’t mind me driving a motor car, and from what I have found, flying is, if anything, even a little easier than driving, once you start to get the hang of it, that is. I had hoped that you would be proud of me.’
Maude turned back to look at her.
‘No flying, Daisy, do you hear? Just no flying, and that is an end to it.’
Daisy knew all too well that the Beresford manner of clamping down on any activity of which they found they could not approve was unrivalled. There was never any room for discussion. This had always been true of Aunt Maude. Once she had pronounced, as far as she was concerned, that was – always and ever would be – that.
Daisy gazed around her in silence. Aunt Maude was in front of her, her expression grim. Daisy’s, by contrast, alternated between despair and determination.
It might be an incontrovertible fact that when a Beresford put one of their elegant feet down, it stayed down. But what Aunt Maude did not perhaps realise was that Daisy was also a Beresford, and it seemed that quite soon there would be the sound of one of Daisy’s feet coming down, too – if not both. Fly she would, fly she must, whatever Aunt Maude said or did.
Joe only realised what a mistake it was to take Jean to tea with his mother when it was too late. Somehow, after their joyous bus rides to and from Wychford, and their delicious lunch at The Pantry, it had seemed just the right thing to do. Perhaps he had seen too many American films, or just too many films, full stop, but taking a girl to tea with mother was what he thought a nice boy did. And, of course, it was quite possible that nice boys everywhere in the county were taking their girls to tea with their mothers before kissing those same girls goodbye, and going off to join the army and fight the future war. But, unfortunately for him, and Jean, his mother lived in Holly House, a Georgian gem with Georgian furniture and exquisite china in cabinets, and Jean was from The Cottages, and cottagers’ children, and children from such places as Holly House, might go to the village school together, they might play in the village stream, and go bird-nesting, and heaven only knew what together, but once they grew up, things became very different, as the expression on Mrs Huggett’s face, as she sat behind her silver tea service, was now making quite clear.
To give Mrs Huggett her due, once in the drawing room of Holly House, even Joe quickly realised that to an outside eye, Jean did look just a little wild, definitely beautiful, but – wild. Her dark curly hair and green eyes might be arresting, but they had about them something challenging and, worse, untamed. Besides which, her clothes, which had looked at lunch at The Pantry no more than pleasantly bohemian, now looked almost purposefully rural, which Joe happened to like, but which, next to his mother’s excellently tailored light-tweed suit, pearl earrings and matching lapel brooch, made their guest look just a little like something from a country holiday poster – ‘Come to Twistleton for Country Air!’
‘I gather you have taken up farming, Miss Shaw?’
Jean nodded.
‘Yes, Mrs Huggett, I am renting eighty acres from Miss Maude Beresford, at the Hall, because with war coming I realised that we were not growing enough food to eat, and we were going to need to, to feed everyone.’
‘And what sort of food do you have in mind?’
‘Potatoes and cabbages, turnips, root vegetables in particular, since they are warming, and go a long way, and are inexpensive.’
‘I see . . . turnips and, er, cabbages, you say? Gracious, how very . . . hearty.’
Mrs Huggett carefully and quietly offered Jean lump sugar from a silver sugar bowl with attached tongs. Jean gaily ignored the proffered tongs, and popped the sugar into her cup with her fingers, after which she gave everything a vigorous stir. Seeing this, Joe had to pinch himself hard under the table to stop himself from laughing, the way he used to when he was a boy, and something went awry in church. The whole Huggett family were all too aware that Joe’s laugh was so infect
ious it could set the whole church off. Rows and rows of shaking shoulders was not what the Reverend Johnson wanted to see when he faced his congregation.
‘I don’t think your mother liked me very much, Joe,’ Jean told him in a non-committal tone, as he walked her back to her cottage, down the hill from Holly House.
‘Mother’s very shy,’ Joe stated in a determinedly detached voice. ‘She’s like that with everyone she doesn’t know.’
‘But she does know me, she’s known me since I was knee-high to that grasshopper there, but now I’m a grown woman it’s all different, isn’t it? It’s Miss Shaw this, and Miss Shaw that, and while she might have let me join your picnics when I was a child, now it seems I’m just not good enough to go to tea with her.’
Joe stopped walking, and taking both Jean’s hands he forced her to face him.
‘Listen, kid,’ he said, putting on what he imagined was a passable American film-star voice. ‘We don’t have time for class warfare no more. There’s going to be gas attacks, and bombs dropping, and whether or not you take the sugar with the tongs won’t matter one hoot, or even two hoots, because there won’t be no tongs, and there won’t be no sugar.’
Jean snatched her hands away from him and started to walk quickly towards her cottage door.
‘So you noticed. I thought you did!’ she said, flinging her words over her shoulder. ‘You noticed that I didn’t take the tongs!’
Joe followed her to her door. Fleetingly, as Jean turned the heavy iron handle of the studded old oak door, he wondered if it would be hanging off its hinges in another few months.
‘I thought it was marvellous, I thought you were marvellous. I never have had much time for all that silver tea service and get-out-the-best china malarkey, and never less than now. What will it all mean, what will it all matter when the jackboots are marching up the village street?’
The Daisy Club Page 8
