Isobel's Story

by Jennie Walters

  She was wrong about this, though, as we were soon to find out. The next Thursday, I was showing a couple round the Hall who’d turned up out of the blue. It was the very day Lady Vye was due back and she hated coming across visitors so this was a risky business, but they’d made a special trip from London to see the house and I couldn’t bear to turn them away. A Mr and Mrs Chadwick, they were, and Mr Chadwick was one of those old soldiers who’d stayed at Swallowcliffe when it was a convalescent home during the war. He wasn’t that old, really - coming up for fifty, perhaps, with curly brown hair going grey at the sides and very blue eyes.

  ‘Wonderful place,’ he said, turning round on his heels as he gazed up at the marble staircase. ‘I’ve never forgotten it.’

  ‘We live in Scotland,’ said his wife, ‘but we’re treating ourselves to a holiday and Ralph was so keen to take me on a trip down memory lane. He used to live not far away, you know. His father was the vicar in a village near by.’ She was nice, but she wouldn’t stop talking.

  ‘It’s a pity my grandmother’s having a rest at the moment,’ I told them. ‘She was housekeeper then and remembers all about the Hall being turned into a hospital. Maybe you could come back another day and see her?’

  ‘Oh, not to worry,’ said Mr Chadwick. ‘We’re heading home on the night train tomorrow.’

  ‘We’ve been staying at the Ritz,’ Mrs Chadwick put in. ‘Ralph’s just retired from teaching and his uncle’s died and left us a nice little windfall so - ’

  ‘Now then, Dottie.’ Mr Chadwick was obviously used to reining her in. ‘I’m sure this young lady doesn’t want to hear every detail of our lives. May we take a look at the portraits on the stairs? All the paintings were put away when the house was full of us rowdy soldiers. Do you know, I’d just arrived here when the news came that Lord Vye had been drowned on the Lusitania. Terrible thing.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve often wondered what became of his wife. American woman, she was - absolutely charming.’

  ‘She died too, unfortunately,’ I told him, leading the way upstairs. ‘In the ’flu epidemic after the war. Her husband’s brother, Colonel Vye, came to live in the house for a while to look after the boys but he went off to Kenya when the Vyes’ older son, Charles, came of age. And then Charles was killed in a motoring accident so his younger brother Lionel inherited the Hall. He’s the present Lord Vye.’

  ‘My goodness, the family’s had a sad time,’ Mrs Chadwick murmured, looking at the portrait of His Lordship’s parents. ‘And what a handsome couple they were! You’d have thought they had everything.’

  ‘What about Lord Vye’s sister?’ Mr Chadwick asked. ‘She really ran the hospital, you know. Her son helped out, too. Can’t remember their name exactly - something beginning with H, I think.’

  ‘Hathaway,’ I said. (Gran had taught me well.) ‘Yes, Mrs Hathaway lives close by in Edenvale and so does her son. He’s the local doctor.’ I hadn’t met either of them so far. Eunice had told me that Mrs Hathaway wasn’t so keen on Lady Vye and wouldn’t visit the Hall when she was at home, but Gran said that was rubbish.

  ‘Nice young chap,’ said Mr Chadwick, walking up to the top of the stairs. ‘I’m glad he made it through.’

  ‘Let’s hope he makes it through the next one.’ Mrs Chadwick shivered as she followed him. ‘Isn’t it terrible about Czechoslovakia?’

  I would have asked her what she meant, if I hadn’t happened to look through the landing window and seen a dreadful sight: Lady Vye’s Aston Martin, tearing down the drive. If she ran into the Chadwicks, they’d soon discover this mistress of the house wasn’t half as charming as the one before.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I asked Mrs Chadwick, turning smartly downstairs. ‘There are some interesting copper jelly moulds in the kitchen.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Mr Chadwick, taking his wife’s arm. ‘Come on, Dottie, I’m parched.’ He winked at me and I realised he must have seen the car too, and understood we had to hurry. That was good of him. And when he tipped me half a crown at the end of their visit (which stayed a secret from Lady Vye, thank goodness), I liked him even more.

  I was just going to tell Gran about the Chadwicks when she switched on the wireless at four o’clock and we heard the news that German troops had marched into Prague. Awful, awful news, it was, because it meant that Mr Chamberlain hadn’t sorted out anything at all. Hitler had promised back in September he would leave Czechoslovakia alone if he could have the Sudetenland, but that promise obviously wasn’t worth the paper it was written on. He was on the move again.

  Eight

  Advice to Refugees

  Speak English if you can – if you cannot, do not speak German loudly in public. The English people are a quiet race. They do not like loud talkers and loud conversation in German at this time is at all costs to be avoided. In the same way, avoid gesticulation in public. The English people are unemotional – at any rate on the surface – and anything theatrical or dramatic offends them.

  From a leaflet given to refugee children arriving at Dovercourt camp in 1938/9

  ‘There is going to be a war soon, isn’t there?’ I was determined not to let Gran fob me off. ‘How much time do you think we’ve got? Should I be going home after all? And what about our governess?’

  She turned away and started to fill the kettle. ‘Now don’t get yourself into a state. Nothing’s going to happen overnight.’

  I felt sick with worry, though, and that was before I’d thought about Andreas and how he must be feeling. He must be desperate by now, with his mother still stuck in Germany. Suddenly I felt sorry for him all over again, rather than angry. What did it matter if he was trying to use me? Wouldn’t I have done the same, in his shoes? He needed help and maybe I could give it; nothing else mattered. I hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks - not to speak to, anyway. He’d come up to the Hall a few times to paint with Lord Vye but I’d kept out of the way, and when he cycled down the drive with our groceries, I’d stayed upstairs sorting sheets for the linen cupboard. Now, though, it seemed ridiculous to have been so stand-offish. I had to find out how he was.

  ‘I’m just going out for a while,’ I said to Gran, jumping up from the table. ‘I feel like some fresh air.’ With a bit of luck, the shop would still be open by the time I got there.

  Miss Hartcup from the village school stood at the counter ahead of me. I liked her; we were often partners in the first aid classes (taking it in turns to be the victim) and I think she found the whole thing as nerve-racking as I did.

  ‘All your children should know exactly where the shelter is,’ Mr Tarver was saying to her as he shaped a slab of butter between two paddles. ‘Do they, Miss Hartcup? Is every pupil in the school absolutely clear where to go when the siren sounds? You should have a practice every week until it becomes second nature.’

  ‘I don’t want to alarm the little ones,’ she replied, frowning anxiously. ‘Hostilities haven’t broken out yet, Mr Tarver.’

  ‘There may be less time than you think, the way things are going.’ Slap, slap, slap went the paddles, beating the butter pat into a yellow brick. ‘And what happens when we’re flooded with evacuees from London? Procedures must be established well in advance or we shall end up in chaos. Chaos leads to panic and panic costs lives.’ He stamped a thistle on the butter and wrapped it in a piece of greaseproof paper. ‘That comes to one and six altogether.’

  She fumbled in her purse. ‘I’m sure we’re too near the coast to be receiving any evacuees.’ Her voice shook from the effort of standing up to him. ‘There are no plans of that nature so far as I’m aware, but if I hear of any I’ll certainly let you know.’

  ‘There’ll be no need for that. I’m in direct communication with ARP headquarters, Miss Hartcup. Not much will get past me, I can assure you of that.’

  At that moment Andreas came out of the storeroom with a sack of something or other. He gave a start when he saw me (perhaps I did the same), then nodded when I smiled. It was hopeless: we couldn�
�t say anything important in the shop, not in front of everyone. Still, at least I’d seen him and been a little friendlier. I bought some hairgrips and was about to leave when Mr Tarver said abruptly, ‘The lad won’t be coming up for any more of these painting sessions. I need him here on Sundays, to take messages and so forth.’

  I snatched a quick look at Andreas, who stared back at me impassively. I had no idea what he was thinking. ‘All right. I’ll tell Mr Huggins and he can let Lord Vye know,’ I said, and Mr Tarver nodded.

  Painting must have been the only thing Andreas could enjoy. Was that why he had to be stopped from doing it? Mr Tarver had to control everything he did, slap him into shape just like the butter. If only there was something I could have said to show Andreas that I was on his side after all! Instead, I’d fallen into line and kept my mouth shut as usual. I walked back to the Hall feeling a failure. I shouldn’t even have gone down to the village in the first place, because Gran needed me in the kitchen now that Lady Vye was home and Master Tristan was arriving the next day for a long weekend break from school. An exeat, they called it.

  Tristan was a serious-looking boy, very thin and pale, with spindly legs poking out beneath his uniform shorts and fingernails chewed down to the quick.

  ‘Poor little mite,’ Gran said, after she’d treated him to hot chocolate and gingerbread in the kitchen before bed. ‘I don’t know much about that school he goes off to, but he always comes back looking like a ghost.’

  It didn’t take Tristan long to cheer up, though. By the time he’d eaten his own weight in toast and Marmite and had a pillow fight with his sisters, he was a different boy. Nancy and Julia had been in fine form since Miss Murdoch left, and our corridor upstairs was soon echoing with shouts of laughter. On the Sunday morning, he offered to show me round the library.

  ‘Nobody ever comes in here apart from me and Father sometimes,’ he said, dragging over the wooden steps. ‘Half the books are falling to pieces, but there are some good ones if you know where to look.’ He climbed up the steps and took out a dusty volume. ‘This is an interesting guide to the wild birds of Britain, and the book next to it has exotic species from all over the world like parrots and penguins. We can find out about Punchy, if you like.’ He was sweet, but very earnest; I couldn’t help wondering what Stan and Alfie would have made of him.

  When I came back to the kitchen, there was an elderly lady sitting at the table. ‘Here she is,’ Gran said as soon as I appeared. ‘My grand-daughter. This is Mrs Hathaway, Isobel - His Lordship’s aunt.’ She caught Mrs Hathaway’s eye. ‘I still want to call him Master Lionel when I’m talking to you.’ And they both laughed.

  ‘So you’re Grace’s daughter,’ Mrs Hathaway said, gazing into my face as though she wanted to learn something from it. ‘Well, that makes me feel old. You don’t look a great deal like her, from what I remember. I haven’t seen Grace for a good many years.’

  ‘People usually say I take after my father.’

  ‘Ah.’ She nodded. ‘I heard he died some years ago. I’m so sorry. And how is your mother, dear? Is she happy?’

  I didn’t know how to answer. ‘I suppose so. She likes her job, I think, and she works very hard.’

  ‘Yes, Polly told me she took classes at night school to be a teacher. Well, good for her. I always thought she’d make something of herself. She was quite a firecracker at your age, you know.’ Mrs Hathaway looked at me appraisingly. ‘Unlike her daughter,’ she was probably thinking to herself.

  ‘Not much change there, then,’ Gran remarked.

  ‘What our children put us through, eh, Polly?’ Mrs Hathaway smiled affectionately. ‘Maybe there’s still hope for them. That would be quite a fairy story, wouldn’t it? You know my Philip never married again.’

  Gran pursed her lips and looked at the stove. ‘I must get on. This luncheon won’t cook itself.’

  I had no idea what they were talking about, or how Gran could be so familiar with Lord Vye’s aunt. The confusion must have shown on my face because Mrs Hathaway squeezed my hand and said as she got up from the table, ‘Your granny and I are old friends, Isobel, so we don’t stand on ceremony. I was about your age when we first met, you know, and Polly not much older.’

  I looked at them both. You’d have thought Mrs Hathaway was years younger than Gran - perhaps because she was plumper, and her face less careworn. It struck me that Gran looked dried up and tired, and I wished she didn’t have to bother cooking somebody else’s Sunday dinner. Was she happy? I didn’t know the answer to that question either. She was stubborn, though - stubborn as Mum, in her own way - and wouldn’t listen to me telling her to take things easy.

  ‘I’ll see you later on, at luncheon,’ I told Mrs Hathaway. Eunice was off with a cold so I’d be helping Mr Huggins wait at table.

  ‘All right, dear. We’ll pretend we haven’t met, shall we? Her Ladyship might not understand.’ And she winked at me.

  I wanted to ask Gran what Mrs Hathaway had meant about there ‘still being hope’ for my mum and her Philip, but the look on her face told me to save my breath and the Yorkshire pudding needed to go in the oven so there was soon no time to think about anything else. That day, the children were being allowed to eat with the grown-ups for a special treat. They were on their best behaviour: remembering not to speak unless they were spoken to, sitting up straight and finishing everything on their plates - even the brussel sprouts. The girls were dressed in greeny-blue Liberty silk smocks and looked like matching twin angels.

  ‘So how is school, Tristan?’ Mrs Hathaway asked as I was taking away her plate.

  He didn’t answer straight away, just looked up at her. She had such a kind expression on her face that it must have made him forget himself, because instead of replying that school was going very well, thank you, he said something quite different.

  ‘I hate it.’

  ‘Tristan!’ Lady Vye was scandalised.

  Mrs Hathaway didn’t seem at all put out, though. ‘Oh dear,’ she said mildly. ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Please don’t encourage him, Aunt Harriet,’ Lady Vye snapped. ‘Tristan, if you can’t behave you’d better leave the table.’

  But now he’d started, he couldn’t stop. ‘The other boys are horrible.’ He blinked rapidly and a red flush burned in each cheek. ‘Nobody likes me and they take my books and throw them out of the window. The masters are beastly, too. If you can’t do something, they hit you with a cane.’

  ‘Come on, Tris, old man.’ Lord Vye frowned across the table. ‘Everybody has to put up with a bit of ragging at school, that’s what turns you into a man. I was beaten often enough and it never did me any harm.’

  Lady Vye laid down her napkin and got up. ‘I think we’ve heard quite enough on this particular topic of conversation, don’t you? Time for grown-ups to have coffee in the drawing room and for over-excited children to have a rest.’ Her voice was light but a menacing undertone made it impossible to ignore - unless you were desperate. Tristan pushed back his chair and ran around the table to meet her.

  ‘Please don’t make me go back there tomorrow, Mummy,’ he said, clutching her around the waist. ‘I can’t bear it. I’ll work so hard at my lessons if I can stay at home, I promise!’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, control yourself!’ she hissed, her face rigid with anger. ‘Let go of me this instant!’ She took hold of his twig-like arms, tore them off her body and pushed him away with such force that he fell down.

  Mr Huggins caught my eye and jerked his head to show that I should leave the room. I couldn’t wait to go. The sight of that little boy lying weeping on the floor was enough to start me off as well.

  ‘How are they doing?’ Sissy was waiting in the kitchen to take the children back upstairs when the meal had finished. ‘Is Miss Nancy remembering her manners?’

  ‘The girls are fine but Master Tristan’s got himself all upset,’ I said, dumping my load of plates in the scullery sink. ‘He doesn’t want to go back to school.’

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p; ‘We all have to do things we don’t want to sometimes,’ Gran said. ‘I shouldn’t think you and I particularly want to do the washing up, but it’s got to be done. That’s one of life’s hard lessons.’

  ‘But he’s really unhappy,’ I told her. ‘If you’d only seen him!’ I couldn’t bear to go into details.

  ‘In front of his parents, and Mrs Hathaway?’ Sissy asked. ‘Oh, Lord! I’d better go and take the children away.’

  ‘I know someone else who’s all upset,’ Gran said, giving me a shrewd look. ‘You’re too soft, Izzie, that’s your trouble. Master Tristan has to learn to stand on his own two feet and he might as well do it sooner rather than later. He might not be very happy at school, but I shouldn’t think it’ll kill him. He’ll just have to knuckle down like everybody else.’

  ‘Gran, did Mum know Mrs Hathaway’s son?’ I asked, changing the subject. ‘What did she mean about there still being hope for them?’

  Her face changed instantly. ‘Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. Now let’s get on with this washing-up. The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll finish.’ Of course that answer only made me more curious.

  I would probably have wondered about Mum and Dr Hathaway for a good while longer if something hadn’t happened which left no room for thinking about anything else. The children had been taken upstairs for a rest after lunch before their walk with Sissy in the afternoon. When she called Tristan, there was no reply, and his room turned out to be empty. He wasn’t in the schoolroom or with the twins, or in any of the other bedrooms upstairs.

  ‘Maybe he’s rooting around in the attic,’ I suggested, when Sissy told us she couldn’t find him. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll go and have a look.’ I’d discovered all the nooks and crannies up there by now. There were about ten rooms, most of them full of broken furniture, battered trunks and boxes of old Country Life magazines - just the right place for a boy to sit and read if he was feeling miserable.