Isobel's Story

by Jennie Walters

  I wasn’t sure Mum saw it that way, though. We hadn’t talked properly yet and her face was as closed as a shop with the shutters down. Mr Chadwick had offered his condolences at the church gate and she’d hardly acknowledged him. She probably blamed him a little, but me most of all. Ralph Chadwick was still with us; he’d taken a room at the village pub and he was up at the Hall every day, talking to Lord Vye and Andreas, and the Hathaways too. He’d written me the most extraordinary letter. I re-read it each night before I went to sleep, but it was still hard to take in.

  25 April 1939

  Dear Isobel

  We have met only twice and I hesitate to write to you at such a painful time, but I very much wanted you to know the difference you and your grandmother have made to my life. I had always wondered about my natural mother: who she was, and the circumstances which led to her giving me up. Being able to speak to someone who knew and loved her was a great privilege, and the joy of discovering I have a family is beyond words.

  I was shocked to hear of your grandmother’s death so soon after our conversation, and offer my deepest condolences to you and your mother. I should very much have liked to have told Mrs Stanbury of the plan we have come up with - the Hathaways, Lord Vye and myself. (He and I have decided to refer to each other as distant cousins, to limit the inevitable gossip!) I have felt strongly drawn to Swallowcliffe Hall since my convalescence here during the war. Lord Vye tells me the house is too large for his family, too much of a burden, and of course it would be far too big for Dotty and me to live in alone now our children are grown. But I have a plan to put the Hall to good use once again - a plan that may sound familiar to you.

  In a nutshell, we should like to turn the house into a boarding school for refugee children, run by me and my wife. I used to be a teacher and, frankly, I’m finding retirement a little dull. We have asked the Baldwin Fund and the Refugee Children’s Movement for help with renovations, I have a small income myself, and Mrs Hathaway is busy raising more money. Andreas is proving an invaluable translator, and we trust his mother can act as housekeeper in due course as Mrs Oakes feels this role would be too much at her time of life. So we are well on the way!

  I hope your grandmother would have approved. What would Iris have thought, I wonder, of her son taking over the reins at Swallowcliffe? Perhaps they are both looking down on us. Kindly, I hope.

  With the deepest thanks and sincerest sympathies,

  Ralph Chadwick

  I hadn’t been able to speak to Andreas about any of this. There was no reason for me to go up to the Hall now, and on the couple of occasions when I’d been able to give Mum the slip and go for a walk, he’d been busy with Lord Vye. He was with him now, and Mr Chadwick. I caught sight of Eunice watching them too, and could imagine what she was thinking: Andreas had managed to ‘worm his way in’ at last. But he’d saved Nancy’s life and had the scars to prove it! Lord Vye was bound to be grateful.

  As if he could sense my gaze, he looked over, and the next minute, he was beside me. ‘Isobel, I am so sorry for you. It is a very sad thing. Are you all right?’

  I didn’t want to look at him. All through the funeral, I’d managed not to cry, but something about his face, so concerned and - I had to admit - so dear, threatened to undo my self-control. Apart from my family, no one else in that room mattered half as much to me as he did. What was the good of it, though? Our link with Swallowcliffe had gone; now I really did have to go home and he would be embarking on a new life I’d know nothing about. We’d made friends because he was lonely, that was all, and soon he wouldn’t be lonely any more. ‘I shall miss her,’ I said. ‘But you know what that’s like.’

  He touched my cheek with his fingers, just for an instant. ‘If there’s anything -’

  ‘Isobel, you’ve done your duty now.’ Mum was walking over to interrupt us, very elegant and cold in her tight black frock and veiled hat. ‘Could you take the boys home, please?’ She acknowledged Andreas with a brief nod. ‘You should start packing up before long.’ We were leaving the next day.

  ‘I wish we didn’t have to go,’ Alfie complained as we walked back to the gate lodge. ‘It’s good here.’

  ‘Well, we do,’ I snapped. ‘So you might as well make the best of it.’

  We’d been living out of suitcases for so long that packing hardly took a minute. A little while later, Aunt Hannah put her head round the bedroom door. ‘Everything all right, Izzie?’ Her plump, powdery face was very kind but I couldn’t start unburdening myself; she wasn’t what you’d call a kindred spirit. So I waited for Mum to come home. We had to talk.

  It was well into the afternoon before I saw her, gazing out over the field at the back of the house with her arms folded. She’d changed into an old skirt and jersey, and everything about her seemed unbuttoned, slumped, dejected. When I saw her face, I could tell she’d been crying.

  ‘Mum?’ I slipped my arm through hers. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Everyone’s been saying that today.’ She squeezed my hand.

  ‘I’m sorry for what I did, I mean. Bringing Ralph Chadwick to the Hall. You were right - I shouldn’t have done it.’

  ‘Oh, that. No, I’m glad you did. It’s what Gran would have wanted. I talked to her after he left and she was so happy.’ Mum’s eyes filled with tears. ‘How did you manage to understand her so much better than I ever could?’

  I didn’t know what to say. ‘She was so proud of you. She was always telling everyone how well you’d done, getting trained as a teacher and raising us on your own.’

  Mum stared at me blankly. ‘Really? I had no idea.’

  I lowered my voice. ‘Don’t let Aunt Hannah or the others find out, but she said to me once that you were her favourite daughter.’

  ‘Oh, Izzie.’ Now Mum was crying properly. ‘I loved her so much and I never told her. Do you think she knew?’

  ‘Of course she did.’ We clung together, weeping for the terrible gap that had been left in our lives, holding on tight for the support that wasn’t to be found anywhere else.

  ‘At least we’ve got each other,’ Mum said at last, wiping her nose. ‘Goodness, I feel better for that.’

  It might have been the perfect moment to show her the letters Gran had entrusted to me. Except I no longer had them. Giving Mum those letters wouldn’t make the slightest difference, I knew that; she was too proud to change the path she’d chosen. So I’d handed them to Dr Hathaway in the village hall instead. After all, they had been addressed to him - even if they were more than twenty years late.

  We were walking down the garden path, arm in arm, when the sound of hooves and the sight of two horses trotting through the gates brought us to a halt. Dr Hathaway was riding one and leading another alongside by the reins. He’d changed into jodhpurs and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he looked heart-stoppingly handsome, even though he was so old. ‘Grace?’ he called. ‘I felt in the mood for a gallop and thought you might like to come with me. I warn you, I’m not taking no for an answer.’

  She stared at him. ‘But I’ve got nothing to wear. And I haven’t been on a horse for twenty years.’

  He unhooked a haversack from his back and tossed it over. ‘There are breeches and boots in there. You can have five minutes to get ready.’

  Mum caught the bag awkwardly. ‘I can’t take off just like that,’ she said, holding it as she might a bomb that was about to explode in her hands. ‘There are a thousand and one things to be done.’

  ‘Go on, Mum,’ I urged in a whisper. ‘None of that boring stuff matters. What are you so afraid of?’

  ‘Briar’s very steady, if you’re worried about falling off,’ Dr Hathaway said sneakily. The second horse tossed its head, a hank of black forelock flopping over one eye. It didn’t look very steady to me.

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t bother me.’ Mum tilted her chin obstinately and met his gaze straight on. ‘All right, then. I’ll come along, since you’re both so set on it. But only for an hour or so.’ And she ra
n into the house to change, looking not much older than me.

  ‘Thank you, Isobel.’ He smiled down at me.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I said, and it wasn’t just a figure of speech.

  Gran had tried to keep Mum from getting hurt, but she hadn’t needed protection any more than I did now. I set off for the village, to see if Andreas might still be around.

  Eighteen

  Ach, ja, now there is nothing to be done. I hope for the best. By the time you receive this letter, everything will have been decided. Never has the writing of a letter been so difficult as today. All the time I am thinking of the good parents. Do I have to give away everything that I love? War is nothing but a small word. All the dead behind it, the death, is dreadful.

  From a letter by Edith Brown-Jacobowitz, a Jewish refugee in Ireland, to her uncle, 29 August 1939

  It was well past five by now and the village shop had closed, to my relief. As I walked past, a notice in the window caught my eye. ‘Civil Defence meeting, Friday 28 April at 6 p.m. in the Village Hall,’ it read, and the word ‘TONIGHT’ had been added at the top in large red capitals. ‘Come and discuss IMPORTANT issues of the day which affect us ALL. Refreshments provided, courtesy of the W.I.’

  There were more of these notices on lampposts and another pinned to the board outside the hall itself. I looked through the window to see all traces of the funeral tea cleared away and the place virtually empty, except for Mr Williams laying out chairs in rows. Andreas must have gone long since. I turned around to go back, and nearly walked straight into Mr Tarver, carrying a cardboard box of leaflets.

  He looked about as pleased to see me as I was to see him. ‘What are you doing hanging round here? This is village business, it’s got nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Mum wanted me to make sure everything’s as it should be after the funeral,’ I told him coldly.

  He didn’t bother to offer condolences. ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten our conversation. Not been blabbing, have you?’ Droplets of sweat glistened on his upper lip. I suddenly realised something quite extraordinary. He was afraid of me. Not only that: I was no longer afraid of him.

  ‘The truth will come out in the end,’ I said. ‘It always does. You’ve got more to worry about than what I might say, Mr Tarver.’

  ‘Clear off.’ He jerked his head. ‘Get back to London where you belong. You’re not welcome in Stone Martin.’

  I did go away, but only around the corner to a bench by the pond. What were he and Mr Williams up to? What was so secret about a meeting in the village hall? It seemed to me that Mr Tarver particularly didn’t want me there, which was a good enough reason to make every effort go. I waited until just before six, then retraced my steps to the hall and slipped in behind everyone else to take a seat at the back. There was a leaflet on every chair with a picture of the village green on the front.

  ‘To all residents of Stone Martin,’ I read inside. ‘URGENT news. A proposal has just come to our knowledge which will change the character of this village for good. Do you want to protect your country’s glorious heritage in these dangerous times? Are you concerned about an influx of foreign residents? Then let your voice be heard! For the sake of your family, say NO to the Jewish hostel!’

  So that was their game. Mr Tarver and Mr Williams sat up on the platform behind a table wearing their ARP regalia, next to a couple of other men I hadn’t seen before. Nearly everyone else in the hall had come to Gran’s funeral, and those I didn’t know by name, I mostly recognised by sight. Everyone was reading the leaflet with various expressions of bafflement - apart from Eunice, sitting near the front, who had her ‘secret’ face on. There was a general hum of conversation, until Mr Williams stood up at five past six and banged on the table with a small hammer to declare the meeting open. He introduced the men beside him, one of whom turned out to be a local councillor and the other, a ‘colleague’ from London, and then he informed us of the shocking proposal to turn our beloved Swallowcliffe Hall into a hostel for Jewish refugees, which they intended to make the main subject for debate.

  ‘Can you imagine the effect of so many foreigners on our small village, let alone the house itself?’ he asked, his reedy voice cracking with emotion. ‘The Hall has already been damaged by fire in some mysterious “accident”. Are we prepared to stand aside and see it destroyed completely? Goodness only knows the mess those people will leave behind.’

  Next to him, Mr Tarver mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. How can you sit there and listen to this? I wanted to ask him. Aren’t you ashamed?

  At last Mr Williams introduced the colleague from London and sat down. It wasn’t clear what this man was doing on the platform, but he certainly had a lot to say about the Jewish ghettoes that were ruining London. Jews undercut everybody else by charging cheaper prices, they took jobs from honest working people and food out of their children’s mouths, and stealing was part of their nature. It was his duty to warn us, he said, because he could see what would happen in this village, clear as day, and if we didn’t take notice of what he said, we’d all be sorry. He had an educated, pleasant voice and he looked the perfect gentleman, standing up on the platform in a three-piece suit with a gold watch chain stretching across his waistcoat front. I wondered whether he was one of Oswald Mosley’s lot, even though he wasn’t wearing a black shirt.

  Then he sat down, and Mr Tarver invited questions or comments from the floor. After a few seconds’ silence, Eunice got to her feet. ‘It’s true, what he says about the jobs and that,’ she said. ‘I used to work at the Hall and then they got some foreign girl in my place. We don’t know anything about these people. Why do they want to come over here? What if they’re German spies?’ She sat down.

  ‘Anyone else like to comment?’ asked Mr Tarver.

  Nobody spoke; I think they were all stunned. So I stood up. ‘It’s not like that at all,’ I began. My voice sounded thin and childish. Clearing my throat, I started again. ‘You’ve got it wrong. That’s not how it is.’ There was a ripple of movement as everybody in the hall turned around to stare; a sea of white faces all looking in my direction, all listening to me.

  Mr Tarver was already on his feet, pointing at me. ‘This meeting is for residents only. You have no right to contribute.’

  I couldn’t sit down, my legs seemed incapable of bending, so I stood staring at him like a prize idiot until Mr Prior, the butcher, said, ‘Let the lass speak. Her family’s been a part of this village for longer than you, Mr Tarver, and certainly longer than your friend on the platform. We should hear what she has to say, today of all days.’

  ‘Hear, hear.’ I recognised Miss Hartcup’s voice, and it gave me courage.

  ‘The refugees who’d be coming to the Hall are children,’ I said. ‘They don’t want to take the food out of anyone’s mouths or do anyone else’s job, and they won’t steal or make a mess. All they want is somewhere safe to stay because their lives are so terrible under the Nazis.’

  ‘We don’t know that for certain, do we?’ Eunice had popped up again. ‘Why should we take their word for it? They’re probably just looking for a chance to start over, better themselves by taking advantage of our hard work and good nature.’

  Now Mr Tarver was on his feet. ‘I know about that from personal experience,’ he said loudly. ‘You offer these people Christian charity and they throw it back in your face.’

  ‘But they’re children!’ I repeated. ‘Some of them as young as four or five, and not speaking a word of English. Do you think their parents want to let them go? Can you imagine how desperate they must be, even to think of sending their children away to perfect strangers in a foreign country, not knowing whether they’ll ever see them again?’ I stopped, suddenly wondering what gave me the right to lecture a room full of adults.

  ‘I couldn’t do it with mine unless I had to,’ said Mrs Olds abruptly, standing up. ‘And if I did have to, I should want to know there was some kind soul who’d take them in. I say let them come, poor thing
s, and let’s try to make them feel at home.’

  ‘And what happens when they grow up?’ asked the man from London in his reasonable voice. ‘They might be innocent little children now but they won’t stay that way for ever.’

  ‘When it’s safe, they’ll go home to their families.’ I had to make one last appeal. ‘We might not be able to stop the war but this is one good thing that at least we can do. I know it’s what my grandmother would have wanted, and no one could have loved Swallowcliffe more than she did.’

  Now Sissy got up. ‘Yes, she would, and I’d agree. I had all sorts of funny ideas about Jews until I got to know one, and then I found out they’re not so different from us after all. They’re as honest or otherwise as the next man, and that boy Andreas up at the Hall is braver than anyone in this room. Don’t you all know he saved Miss Nancy’s life? Anyway, Eunice Priddy, you handed in your notice because you didn’t want to work at the Hall any more, so don’t come over all hard done by now.’

  With that, the tide of the meeting had well and truly turned. The more the man from London tried to change everyone’s mind, the more unpopular he became. In the end, Mr Tarver and Mr Williams’ proposal to table a formal objection to the idea of a home for Jewish refugees was soundly defeated.

  ‘Well done,’ Mr Prior told me on the way out. ‘I reckon your granny would have been proud.’

  The strange thing was, I’d felt Gran very close to me, almost as though she’d been putting the words into my mouth. She knew better than anyone that the Hall was a healing place, and she couldn’t have borne to see it left empty. My legs were shaking but I was glad to have spoken out. I still hadn’t found Andreas, though, and by now it was getting dark - too dark to walk up to the Hall and bump into him by chance. I went home to the gate lodge and waited for Mum to come back from her ride. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkling, but that could have been the exercise; she certainly wasn’t giving anything away. In fact, she didn’t say much for the rest of the evening, although I watched her like a hawk. Aunt Hannah and Uncle Alf had left already because they were breaking the journey with Alf’s brother in Birmingham. We had supper together, the boys went to bed and eventually I followed them. Apparently we’d be leaving before I’d had the chance to say goodbye to Andreas. I could hardly believe this was happening, even though we’d said our goodbyes so many times already.