Isobel's Story

by Jennie Walters

  Mum said it was fine with her, as long as I helped make Gran’s room in the gate lodge ready that morning; Dr Hathaway would be coming in the afternoon to move her down, but they could manage between the two of them. So Mrs Hathaway picked me up from the lodge early that afternoon, and off we went.

  ‘Ah, the open road,’ she said, adjusting a pair of round sunglasses with white frames which looked a little strange with her tweed suit and leather gloves. ‘Nothing like setting off on a journey with the wind at your back and the sun on your face. Got your gas mask, dear?’

  She drove fast, tooting as we approached every corner. ‘Might as well let the enemy know we’re coming. Help yourself to a travel sweetie, by the way.’ And she waved towards the glove compartment. ‘You look a little pale.’

  After a while, I decided there was no point holding on to the seat; this was an adventure and I might as well make the most of it. ‘So, have you enjoyed your time at Swallowcliffe?’ Mrs Hathaway asked, turning her white goggle eyes on me for longer, surely, than was safe.

  ‘Oh, it’s been marvellous. Being with Gran, and getting to know the house … I can’t bear to think of it locked up and empty.’

  ‘Sad, isn’t it?’ Mrs Hathaway tore off one glove with her teeth and leant across me to scrabble in the tin of sweeties, sending a cloud of powdered sugar over the floor. ‘The place has changed so much since I was a girl. It was the death duties that crippled us, you know. First my brother Edward getting himself drowned on the Lusitania, and then his poor son Charles driving off the road like that.’ She made dying sound nothing more than an unfortunate mistake. ‘Lionel does his best, but he doesn’t have much of a business brain. He’d sooner live in a hut in the South of France and paint all day. And his wife has no idea, really.’

  We were veering towards the middle of the road. ‘All right, all right,’ Mrs Hathaway muttered as an oncoming car swerved past, hooting. ‘In my day, the mistress of the house had a sense of responsibility,’ she went on, crunching the sweet between her teeth. ‘My stepmother might have been a tartar but she always knew if anyone on the estate had fallen ill. The servants were looked after, right till the end.’

  That was what Mum hated, though, having to be obliged to the Vyes; she didn’t want to accept their help. And they hadn’t looked after everyone, had they? Before I could stop myself, the words were out of my mouth. ‘Mrs Hathaway, did you know my granny’s friend, Iris Baker?’

  She shot me another long, dangerous look. ‘As it happens, I did. And what have you heard about her, may I ask?’

  Now I wished I’d kept quiet. ‘Only that she died,’ I muttered. ‘And that she’d had a baby.’

  ‘Yes, she did, I’m afraid. Now hold on to your hat!’ She stepped on the accelerator and the engine roared as we overtook a tractor on the brow of the hill. I closed my eyes as the motor-car lurched out. ‘Just made it,’ Mrs Hathaway announced cheerfully as we coasted down the other side. ‘The thing about Iris,’ she continued, ‘was that she broke the rules. Servants had to know their place, you see. It was different for me and your granny because we met when I was a girl. Children and staff were treated pretty much the same: we were meant to be seen but not heard. Mind you, both of us learned a lot that way.’ She flexed her hands on the steering wheel. ‘I’ve often thought about Iris. By the time I thought to ask the housekeeper where she’d gone, it was too late. She and the baby had died together in the workhouse.’

  I gazed at her, wondering how she’d react if she knew about the letter in my coat pocket. It would be such a relief to talk to someone! ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘I can tell there’s something on your mind. Spit it out, dear, and you’ll feel a great deal better.’

  ‘The baby didn’t die,’ I blurted. ‘Gran took him away and he was adopted. He’s a grown-up man and I’ve met him. That’s why I wanted to come to London, to let him know about his mother.’

  With a screech of brakes, Mrs Hathaway brought the car to a sudden halt in the middle of the road. Luckily there was nothing coming behind us. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Iris’s son,’ I repeated. ‘He’s alive. His name is Ralph Chadwick. Gran talked about him when she was delirious and then I remembered meeting him. He came to look around the house because he stayed at Swallowcliffe in the war.’

  ‘Good God!’ She stared at me. ‘And do you know where he lives?’

  ‘No, I don’t - apart from the fact that it’s somewhere in Scotland.’ That had seemed an insoluble problem until another little snippet of information about the Chadwicks had suddenly come back to me. ‘He and his wife were staying at the Ritz, though, so they must have his address. I’ve written to tell him my granny knew his mother and he should get in touch if he wanted to find out about her. I thought he ought to know.’

  ‘I agree.’ Mrs Hathaway started up the car again and we drove slowly off. ‘And have you told him where to contact you?’

  ‘I gave him the Swallowcliffe address and our London one, in case we’ve gone home by the time he replies.’

  ‘I want to ask you something,’ she said. ‘If this letter does reach Mr Chadwick and he replies, will you tell me straight away? It’s extremely important.’

  ‘Of course. But the only thing is, my mother told me not to try and find him. She thinks it’s better to leave the past alone. Can you keep my part in this a secret?’ I bit my lip, wondering if we really were doing the right thing. Mum would be furious if she found out.

  ‘We must look for the man.’ Mrs Hathaway put a hand on my arm, obviously sensing my doubts. ‘There is a great deal more at stake than you realise.’

  Sixteen

  Well, if I have to stay here, I shall go completely down the drain. Only work, dirty work. Nothing to learn. I have been to visit Miss Perilman (an acquaintance)… She, like everyone else, keeps telling us how well off we are. No one seems to realise what is happening.

  From the diary of Edith Brown-Jacobowitz, a Jewish refugee living in Ireland, 29 June 1939

  It was the most marvellous afternoon. I might have lived in London but Piccadilly wasn’t exactly my stamping ground, so everything was new to me. Mrs Hathaway parked the motor-car in a side street and we went to Fortnum’s first for the elderflower cordial. Of course it was there, along with every other kind of syrup, juice, tea, chocolate or coffee you could imagine. The cheese counter alone was three times the length of Mr Tarver’s whole shop, and as for the display of cakes and biscuits - I’d never seen anything like it in my life.

  ‘I was going to suggest we took tea here,’ Mrs Hathaway told me, ‘but in view of our mission, perhaps we should stroll along to the Ritz instead.’ For this was the most wonderfully convenient thing: the hotel was about five minutes’ walk from Fortnum and Mason.

  If I’d been on my own, the Ritz might have been too much for me, despite the fact I was wearing the red crêpe frock and court shoes. Even the doorman had gold frogging all over his sleeves and looked like a prince. Under a glittering chandelier, sophisticated people chatted in discreet corners or sauntered past us arm in arm down the long carpeted corridors.

  ‘Darling! How long has it been?’ A lady with dazzlingly pale skin and a perfect Cupid’s bow mouth under an upturned saucer hat brushed past us to proffer a cheek to her friend.

  ‘Too long, Augusta!’ came the reply as they embraced - very carefully, so as not to smudge the lipstick.

  ‘To business first, I think,’ said Mrs Hathaway, tucking her arm through mine and marching me forward. ‘Do you have the letter to hand?’

  She leant one elbow on the Reception desk as a man in tails glided towards us. ‘May I help you, madam?’ He raised one eyebrow superciliously.

  ‘I certainly hope so.’ There wasn’t a tremor of doubt in her voice. ‘We urgently need to contact a certain Mr Ralph Chadwick, who stayed at your hotel a couple of months past.’ I gave her the envelope. ‘Would you make sure this letter reaches him at the first available opportunity?’ She slid it across the desk, with a ten-s
hilling note tucked discreetly behind.

  ‘Very good, madam,’ said the man smoothly, palming the money. ‘I’m sure that will present no difficulty.’

  ‘I should hope not,’ she replied. ‘My father, Lord Vye, used to entertain here often. This is an urgent and important matter, young man. Mr Chadwick may learn something to his advantage, as I believe the expression is, so I’m sure you’ll do your best to see he gets the letter right away.’

  Some people might have taken Mrs Hathaway for a country bumpkin, in her rumpled tweed suit, stout shoes and a shapeless hat jammed anyhow on her head, but she tackled the Ritz Hotel with perfect confidence. ‘Now, Isobel, time for tea.’

  And what a tea it was! We stowed our gas masks under the gilt chairs and ate until we were bursting. Tiny cucumber sandwiches on bread so thin you could see though it, scones with jam and clotted cream, a three-tier silver stand piled high with cream cakes and pastries, slices of chocolate cake, seed cake, and a Dundee that was nearly as good as Gran’s. Endless tea to drink, of course, in bone china cups with gold rims.

  ‘Good to see a girl with a healthy appetite,’ Mrs Hathaway said, helping herself to another éclair as we talked. I felt quite at ease in her company, perhaps because she was so at ease with herself. She told me all sorts of things about life at Swallowcliffe before the war, and then more about the house being turned into a hospital. ‘Your son fought at the Front, didn’t he?’ I asked shyly.

  ‘For a year or so,’ she replied. ‘Then he was invalided out. Needed an emergency op to remove his appendix and the scar meant he couldn’t wear an ammunition belt. Funny how one’s life can hang on a tiny twist of fate, isn’t it? Anyway, he went back to helping me run the hospital after that and we were jolly glad to have him.’

  So that was why Mum had written to Dr Hathaway at the Hall. I turned the information over in my mind, thinking about her letters, still in my suitcase. It even crossed my mind to tell Mrs Hathaway about them, but only for one fleeting second; that was a private matter. To change the subject, I started talking about Andreas and the Kindertransporte, and how at one time I’d hoped the Vyes might have taken in more refugees at the Hall. ‘Poor souls,’ Mrs Hathaway said thoughtfully. ‘They must be at their wits’ end to send those children away.’

  At last it was time to go. Mrs Hathaway paid the bill, we gathered up our things and went off to find the car. The journey home passed mostly in companionable silence. I felt pleased to have done something at last, and only the tiniest bit worried our mission would turn out to be a mistake. ‘Give my love to your granny,’ Mrs Hathaway called, when we arrived at the gate lodge. ‘And remember, let me know at once if you know who gets in touch.’ She fished around on the floor of the car, coming up with a library ticket and a pencil stub. ‘Here’s my phone number.’ She scrawled on the ticket and gave it to me. ‘There’s a telephone box in the village. Promise you’ll ring me straight away? I can be over in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, waving goodbye. ‘And thank you for the tea. It was wonderful!’

  Mum was washing up at the kitchen sink when I came in through the back door. She smiled when she saw me. ‘Izzie! Now we’re all together. The boys are playing out in the field and Gran’s in the front room. Why don’t you pop in and say hello? I think she’s awake.’

  That morning we’d pushed back the armchairs and made up a single bed which Mr Oakes had brought down from upstairs. (I did wonder how he and Mrs Oakes felt about moving up to the big house, but he seemed his usual implacable self.) Gran was sitting up in it, gazing out of the window on to the drive. She looked rather wan, but a great deal better than she had the day before. ‘I’ve been having such strange dreams, dear,’ she said, when I came in. ‘And now here I am, back in my old home. Would you believe it?’

  ‘Are you happy, Gran?’ I asked.

  ‘Happy as a sandboy,’ she said, and I could see from her eyes it was true. ‘My family around me, lying here like a queen - I couldn’t ask for anything more.’

  We were all happy, those next few days. The sun seemed to shine every day and the boys stayed outside from dawn till dusk. They’d go up to the Hall, call at the blue door for Tristan and spend the whole day playing football or making a den somewhere. Tristan was delighted because he didn’t have to go back to his horrible prep school any more; he told Stan that he’d be starting the summer term at a new school closer by, where he could come home at the weekends. Nancy was improving every day in hospital, too. One afternoon I went back there to visit Andreas (telling Mum I was going shopping). His face was much better and he was dressed and out of bed, so we could sit in the visitors’ day room. I told him what I’d found in the studio, and what Mr Tarver had said about it.

  ‘I knew it! He was looking in there to make trouble for me.’ Yet he didn’t sound as angry as I’d expected.

  ‘What do you think we should do?’ I asked. ‘I don’t have the whistle any more but maybe we should speak to PC Dawes anyway. We can’t let Mr Tarver get off scot free.’

  ‘No, you must not do anything. Please!’ Now he was agitated. ‘Mr Tarver is a dangerous man, I know this. If we say anything against him, it will turn out bad for me. The policeman has not come again and Lord Vye has visited me. He does not think the fire is my fault.’ His eyes lit up. ‘He came with his aunt, Mrs Hathaway, and they asked about my mother. They will speak to people and try to bring her here. My cousin, too.’

  ‘But that’s marvellous!’ Good old Mrs Hathaway. She was the kind of person who got things done.

  ‘She tells me you talk with her. Thank you, Isobel. All these things you do for me.’ Now I was blushing red as a beetroot. ‘I come out of hospital in two days and Lord Vye says I can work as his secretary until my burns are quite better. Write letters for him and such things. Will you be there?’

  My heart sank. ‘Not for long. Mum says we have to go home at the end of the week. Gran needs looking after so she’s coming with us. But I’ll see you before we go.’

  It felt all wrong, taking Gran away from Swallowcliffe. We were so snug in the gate lodge, I couldn’t help imagining what life would be like if we never went back to London. Alfie would go to the village primary, while Stan and I would catch the bus into Edenvale where there was bound to be a senior school for us. Mum would lose the frown lines between her eyes and maybe she’d actually start being nice to Dr Hathaway instead of looking at him as though he was about to sprout another head. Gran would get better and Hitler would realise there was no point in going to war.

  And pigs would fly. ‘Of course we can’t stay here, it’s out of the question,’ Mum snapped when I raised the subject that evening at supper. ‘London is our home. It’s where my job is, and where you and the boys go to school. We can’t stay here on sufferance any longer.’

  I had one last try. ‘But we could find other schools, and maybe you could find another job. We could even rent this house from the Vyes, perhaps. Don’t you want to come back here, Mum?’

  ‘No, I do not.’ She started to clear the plates. ‘There’s nothing here for us. Now go and fetch your granny’s tray.’

  Gran hadn’t drunk much of her soup. ‘Don’t waste your breath,’ she said, patting my hand as I reached for the bowl. ‘It’s like banging your head against a brick wall, trying to change her mind.’

  ‘You don’t want to come to London, though, do you?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, that’s not going to happen,’ she said, closing her eyes. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to go without me.’

  They were both as stubborn as each other, and I couldn’t see how the situation would resolve itself. Early the next morning, Dr Hathaway called in to see how Gran was and talked to Mum afterwards in the kitchen about the idea of moving her. I sat on the stairs, listening to them through the open door. ‘Look, Grace,’ he said, ‘I’m not trying to keep you here. I just don’t think a long journey is the best thing for your mother at the moment. Can’t you leave her where she is for a li
ttle longer?’

  ‘The children have to go back to school, and so do I,’ Mum replied obstinately. ‘Once I get Ma home, I’ll be able to look after her - my neighbour can pop in during the day and we’ll all be there in the evening. Who’s going to take care of her here? She needs to be with her family and we need to be in London, there’s no way round it. Anyway, you said yourself how much better she was.’

  ‘She might be better but the fever’s left her very weak.’ He lowered his voice; I had to crane forward to hear. It sounded something like, ‘not as much time as you think’.

  ‘You know my mother’s tough as old boots,’ Mum said. ‘She’ll outlive us all.’

  ‘Well, if your mind’s set on it, at least let me drive you there.’ There was a pause and he burst out, ‘Come on, Grace! She can hardly go on the train.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. Thank you, Philip. That’s very good of you.’

  At least she was calling him by his Christian name, but it wasn’t an encouraging conversation. This was our future: none of us would ever come back to the Hall, Mum would never see Dr Hathaway again, and Gran would be miserable in London for the rest of her life.

  ‘Isobel? I’m just popping off to the shop,’ Mum called a little later when the doctor had gone. (Luckily she enjoyed going off to the village; I couldn’t bear the thought of encountering Mr Tarver and came up with every excuse under the sun to avoid the shopping.) ‘Listen out for Granny, won’t you?’

  I took my mug and went to sit outside on the bench that was built into the house, next to the front door. This must have been where a servant would have waited to open the gates if a carriage was expected. These days, the gates stayed open all the time. Some time afterwards, a taxi inched through them with a passenger in the back. Shading my eyes from the sun, I looked at him; he was staring straight ahead and didn’t notice me. Just as the car drove past, he leant forward to speak to the driver and I got a better glimpse of his face. And promptly poured my tea all down my front. The passenger in the taxi was Ralph Chadwick.