Isobel's Story

by Jennie Walters

  I wasn’t quite sure how to reply to Eunice’s question. ‘Well, everything seemed very grand - and the food was delicious, everyone said so.’ Gran looked gratified. Yet the thing was (although I didn’t like to say this for fear of sounding snobby), as far as I could see, the guests didn’t quite live up to the dinner. The Dowager Duchess was a strange-looking old woman with droopy ringlets falling into her eyes who hardly said a word all evening and shovelled in her food as though she hadn’t eaten for days. Major Winstanley talked about nothing but hunting and sat much too close to the poor lady beside him, breathing all over her with his whisky breath. The businessman Gran had been so sniffy about, a Mr Palmer, had a red face with a fringe of sandy-coloured hair around it, and all he could talk about was golf, and the number of houses that had been built in southern England since the war. The only person who looked halfway fun or interesting was Hugo Pennington, Lord Vye’s artist friend, known to everyone as Pongo. He must have been the one Lady Vye wanted to impress, because she sat next to him and didn’t pay much attention to anyone else.

  I got the hang of waiting at table quickly enough, once Eunice had told me the rules. You had to approach with vegetable dishes from the left for the guests to help themselves, and clear away empty plates from the right. Mr Oakes was also meant to top up glasses from the right, but for some reason he seemed reluctant to do this - especially when it came to the ladies.

  ‘Mr Oakes was a liability,’ Eunice told Gran. ‘He kept standing about, getting in the way, and then he poured wine all over the tablecloth when it came to filling Her Ladyship’s glass. I got him outside and told him to look what he was doing, and do you know what he said? The ladies weren’t dressed decently and he wouldn’t set eyes on them in their nakedness. He didn’t go near Lady Vye all evening after that.’

  ‘She won’t be best pleased, then,’ Gran said. ‘Oh, hold on, I think the Winstanleys are off.’

  ‘At last.’ Eunice wiped her mouth on a napkin and stood up. ‘Nearly there, Isobel. Let’s clear away the odds and ends.’

  The dining room was full of cigar smoke and empty brandy glasses. Eunice and I loaded up our trays and were about to take them back to the kitchen when she paused for a moment by the folding double doors leading into the drawing room. One of them was open a crack and we could hear voices on the other side. I should probably have gone ahead by myself, but it was too tempting to find out what Lord and Lady Vye thought of the evening, so I stood next to Eunice and put my ear to the gap beside her.

  ‘…thought they’d never go,’ His Lordship was saying. ‘Every time we have them to dinner I swear it’ll be the last. Why do you keep on inviting the old bore, Stella?’

  ‘So he’ll get us into the Hunt Ball, of course,’ she replied. ‘Though whether we’ll see any of that lot again after this evening’s fiasco is anybody’s guess.’

  ‘I thought it went all right.’ Lord Vye yawned. ‘Jolly good grub, as always. Mrs S is a treasure. I hope poor Huggins is all right.’

  A snort of exasperation from Her Ladyship. ‘You’ll have to get rid of the man. He falls apart at the slightest excuse. I simply can’t imagine what Pongo thought about Oakes standing in for him, and as for that girl clip-clopping about like a carthorse…’ Eunice raised her eyebrows wryly at my gasp; Lady Vye might as well have slapped me across the face. What a mean thing to say, when I’d worked so hard all evening just to help out! ‘I tell you, Lionel,’ she continued, ‘I’m not carrying on like this. Tonight’s shambles was the final straw.’

  Lord Vye sighed heavily. ‘Not this again.’

  ‘We simply haven’t the money to run the Hall properly, it’s nothing but a millstone round our necks. If you’re so determined not to sell, we should simply lock the place up and move into the dower house. Then we could manage with a decent cook-housekeeper and a gardener, and it would be a good excuse for getting rid of the dead wood. Quite apart from Huggins, Mrs S is far too old and set in her ways. She’s like some fossil, stuck in the past - won’t touch a recipe if it’s not one of Mrs Beeton’s. And I swear the housemaid reads my letters.’

  Now Eunice was outraged, too. ‘I like that!’ she hissed in my ear. ‘So she’s been keeping tabs on me, has she? The cheek of it!’

  My blood was boiling. How dare Lady Vye call Gran a fossil? If I’d had the nerve, I’d have marched straight into the drawing room and told her what I thought about it.

  ‘It’s up to Mrs S to decide when she wants to leave.’ There was a stubborn note in Lord Vye’s voice. ‘And Swallowcliffe is my family home. I won’t let it fall to pieces like these houses always do when no one’s living in them. Tristan will inherit the estate in his turn when I’ve gone, and his children after that.’

  Lady Vye laughed bitterly. ‘At this rate, all he’ll have to inherit is a crumbling ruin and a mountain of debts.’

  ‘Say what you like, Stella. You can move out of the Hall if you hate it so much but I won’t be coming with you. Now good night.’ And we heard him push back the chair.

  I walked back to the kitchen in a daze, wishing I’d never been tempted to listen in the first place. Gran had spent most of her life looking after the Vyes. Where would she go if they told her to leave? How would she feel? Swallowcliffe was her home, too; I couldn’t imagine her anywhere else. And the thought of such a lovely old house being locked up and left to decay was too sad for words.

  Four

  Packed my little suitcase to spend a night with Yvonne last week. Couldn’t believe my eyes when she drifted in with an early cup of tea looking as neat as when I had wished her goodnight. ‘How do you do it?’ I queried. ‘Easy,’ was Yvonne’s lofty reply. ‘I always sleep in a Lady Jayne slumber helmet. Haven’t you seen their adjustable design, which ties at the back and under the chin as well?’

  From a shopping feature in Miss Modern magazine, July 1939

  The next morning, Lady Vye had an early breakfast alone and set off for London in her own sporty little Aston Martin. She told Mr Huggins she’d be staying for a while with His Lordship’s cousin, Phyllis Gordon-Smythe, who had a house in Russell Square.

  ‘So I shall have to talk to His Lordship about the accounts,’ Gran said, as we were putting the finishing touches to a bowl of kedgeree. ‘Not that I’ll get much joy out of him, especially when Mr Pennington’s here and all he can think about is painting.’

  ‘If there’s been some misunderstanding, I’m sure we can trust Lord Vye to sort it out.’ Mr Huggins had appeared in the kitchen, just as though nothing was out of the ordinary. He nodded at me distantly, picked up the chafing dish of sausages and carried it slowly out of the kitchen with great ceremony. As it was a Sunday, he wouldn’t be waiting at breakfast: the dishes would be kept warm on hotplates for Lord Vye and his guest to help themselves.

  Gran caught my eye. ‘We won’t mention anything about last night. Just forget it ever happened, for his sake. That’s what we usually do.’

  I hesitated, wanting to warn her about what I’d overheard but knowing what she’d say about me eavesdropping. ‘You don’t think the Vyes would ever give him notice to leave, do you?’

  ‘I should certainly hope not!’ Gran flushed with indignation. ‘Mr Huggins only got the way he is by doing his duty so they could carry on living the high life. Can you imagine what he must have gone through in the war? Shelled all day and night, stuck in some miserable flooded ditch with mud up to his knees and lice in his hair, seeing his pals picked off one after another. He and his sort have given everything for us, and the least we can do is look after them now. Lord Vye knows that very well.’

  Now I felt awful. ‘I didn’t mean -’

  ‘Oh, I mustn’t take it out on you,’ she said, sitting down at the table. ‘You weren’t even born then, so how can you possibly understand? The terrible waste of so many fine young men, day after day, month after month ...’ She blew her nose and then tucked the hanky back in her sleeve. I could tell she was thinking about her son, Tom, buried out in France. ‘
And for what? Now it looks like happening all over again, if you can believe such a thing. Well, thank goodness your brothers are too young to be caught up in the fighting, that’s the only blessing. And your poor father’s safe, God rest his soul. The war did for him, you know.’

  ‘I thought he died of pneumonia?’

  ‘That’s what it said on the death certificate, but I bet he’d have pulled through if he hadn’t been gassed in the trenches.’ She patted my hand. ‘My pa died when I was young, too. I know how it feels.’

  We hardly ever talk about Dad at home; I suppose it makes Mum too upset. I have to look at photographs to bring back my father’s face, although the boys have an old baccy tin which still smells like him. ‘Do you remember my dad, Gran?’ I asked her. ‘Could you tell me something about him?’

  ‘I will, dearie, but not just now,’ she said. ‘Come on, off you go for a walk before it starts raining and don’t mind me going on. We shall come through, I imagine, one way or another.’

  So off I went, wishing she would sometimes talk to me about the things that mattered instead of changing the subject as soon as anything important came up. I was worried for Gran but didn’t dare tell her why - and something else was on my mind. Mum’s latest letter lay in my coat pocket, marking the place in my book.

  10 February 1939

  Dear Isobel

  Thank you for such a lovely long letter, darling. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself and feeling better every day. I might not recognise you by the time you come home! Hope you’re managing to help Gran a little and not getting in the way. The first aid classes sound useful but don’t overtire yourself, will you? And don’t let that imagination of yours run away with you either.

  We’re all well here, chugging along much as usual. There’s been an outbreak of measles at school and Mrs Jones has a nasty cold. Mr Jones has volunteered as an auxiliary fireman but I shouldn’t think he’ll be much use - he can’t possibly get up a ladder with his knees the way they are. Oh, and they’re building an air raid shelter at the corner of Huntington Street. It gives me a funny feeling whenever I walk past, but better safe than sorry. I suppose that’s what they’re thinking.

  Stan and Alfie found a kitten in the back alley last week, you never saw such a funny scrap of a thing. They’ve named it Ginger (very original!) and feed it on bread and milk. I had to laugh when I heard about your cat. Mrs Jeakes was cook when I was working at the Hall, you know. Get Gran to tell you about her, she had a look that would turn your blood to water

  You’ll never guess who I ran into the other day - your old teacher, Mrs Vernon. She was ever so pleased to hear you’re getting better, and we had quite a chat about you going back to school. She’s happy to give you a few extra lessons if you need to catch up before School Certificate this summer. That’s good of her, isn’t it? We can talk some more about all that when you come home, but I wanted you to start thinking things over now.

  We’re all looking forward to seeing you soon, darling. The boys keep asking when you’ll be back. Let me know if there’s anything you want me to send, and give my love to Gran. Stan and Alfie send theirs, and Ginger says miaow to Mrs Jeakes.

  Lots of love, Mum

  Mrs Vernon was my English teacher, and English has always been my best subject. The trouble was, I’d missed so many lessons because of the TB that it was going to take ages to catch up in everything else, and I couldn’t bear the thought of cramming just yet. Mum obviously wanted me home but I wasn’t ready to leave. If only she and the boys could somehow come down to Swallowcliffe instead! London was just too dangerous.

  I walked past the vegetable beds where Mr Oakes was weeding cabbages in the wintry sunshine and out into the sculpture garden. It was disgracefully overgrown, according to Gran, but I loved the secret paths winding through tangled undergrowth and the golden-hearted ivy snaking up those crumbling stone figures. You could still make out their features, but in another fifty years the greenery would probably have swallowed them up completely. I wondered if anyone would be walking this way then, and whether they’d even realise the statues were there.

  Passing through an archway at the bottom of the garden, I took a track skirting the paddock which used to be a cricket pitch. A skein of geese flew over my head, honking to each other; they were probably heading for the lake, too. There was a boathouse at the far end which I hadn’t had time to explore. Gran had told me to keep away from the place because it had been shut up for years and probably wasn’t safe, but it looked pretty solid to me. I was going to sit there in the sun and lose myself in the Chalet School: Kaffe und Kuchen (coffee and cake, I’d worked out) in the snowy Austrian Tyrol. The boathouse even looked like a mountain chalet, I thought, climbing up the wooden steps. It was raised on posts with a balcony looking out over the water and a jetty underneath for boats to be moored, although its rusty rings lay empty. Only one dilapidated skiff was pulled up on the lake’s further shore, with gaping holes in the hull and the seats rotted through. No one would be going out on that in a hurry.

  After a couple of hearty shoves the boathouse door swung open and I found myself standing in an echoing, empty room. Tattered check curtains hung at the windows and a threadbare square of carpet covered some of the floorboards. An ancient armchair with its springs hanging out at the bottom and a metal folding chair sat opposite each other in front of me, as though they were holding a conversation. There was a sink in the far corner with a cracked china mug on the draining board - and a dead spider curled up underneath it, I discovered. Somebody must have trapped it there.

  I didn’t particularly like that place; it smelt damp and sad. The sunny balcony was a much more inviting prospect, so I dragged the folding chair outside and settled myself down, breathing in great lungfuls of healthy fresh air. Gran would be pleased. You could see the south face of the Hall across the lake, and I hoped she’d be sitting in her armchair by the kitchen window. Lord Vye and Mr Pennington were having a painting lunch of soup and sandwiches in the studio, so she ought to have had time for a rest.

  Swallowcliffe was so lovely, with its honey-coloured stone and that graceful sweep of garden running down to the water. How could Lady Vye bear to live anywhere else? London seemed drab and dirty in comparison. Streets of houses just the same as each other except for the colour of the front door or pattern of the net curtains, smog so thick you can taste it, and not a glimpse of anything green or beautiful anywhere.

  Laying down my book, I walked to the edge of the balcony and leaned out over the mildewed rail, trying to fix the view in my memory. Then a flicker of movement registered in the corner of my eye. Somebody else was looking out over the lake, too. It was the German boy, sitting on a tree stump among tussocks of grass with some kind of paper on his lap. What was he doing there? Not wanting him to see me watching, I stepped back hastily. Too hastily; my foot skidded on the damp wood and I lost my balance. Lurching against the balcony rail, to my horror I felt the rotten wood gave way beneath me with a sickening crack and found myself falling through the air, my coat flying out around me. It happened so quickly, I didn’t even have time to scream. As soon as I hit the water, the icy shock of it took my breath away. Gasping and spluttering, I floundered about like some ungainly sea monster beneath the weight of saturated Harris tweed. Drowned by her coat, I thought, struggling in vain to shrug it off. What a way to go.

  ‘Hold on! I help you.’ Suddenly I became aware of the boy splashing through the shallows towards me, half-wading, half-swimming, carving a path through the bobbing carpet of waterlilies. He reached me at the precise moment my feet touched the muddy bottom of the lake and I managed to stand. The water came to just above my waist. We stood there, staring at each other.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ I had to force out the words between chattering teeth. My hair was plastered to my head and foul-smelling pondweed dripped into my eyes; I couldn’t remember ever having felt so ridiculous in all my life.

 
; ‘Come! You must get out at once.’ He gave me his hand, but I was too embarrassed to take it. What must I have looked like? It was too awful to imagine.

  ‘Thanks, but I c-can manage.’ I started wading for the shore, leaving him to follow behind. It was hard work, leaning into that mass of water with sodden clothes weighing us down, but at last we made it on to dry land. The German boy took off his cap and ruffled his hair, sending a spray of droplets into the air, then wrung out the bottom of his woollen jersey.

  ‘You’re s-so wet! I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘The balcony just g-gave way and I didn’t know how d-d-deep the water was.’

  ‘That’s all right. I’m glad you are safe.’ He held out his hand again. ‘Hello. My name is Andreas Rosenfeld.’

  ‘Mine is Isobel, Isobel G-Green.’ I nearly laughed, in spite of everything; we might have been introducing ourselves at a tea party. Of course I couldn’t think of anything else to say but it didn’t matter, not with the state we were both in.

  ‘You must not stand in wet clothes, it is very bad,’ said Andreas Rosenfeld.

  By now I was shivering uncontrollably. ‘I know. N-n-nor should you. Just let me g-g-get my book and we can g-go back to the Hall and change.’

  ‘I will get it for you. That outside place - the balcon, you call it? - is dangerous.’ He set off up the boathouse steps while I jigged about from one foot to the other, rubbing my arms and legs to keep the circulation going. The sodden coat lay heavy on my shoulders and rivulets of muddy water trickled down my neck and wrists, dripping on to the ground. Whatever would Gran say when she saw me?