“Miss Rathbone was very pleased,” she told him. “Of course I had told her about it in advance, mainly to ensure that she approved.”
“She wrote to me the next morning,” he said. “Receiving her seal of approval put a spring in my step all day.”
“The rest of my colleagues seem to approve,” she added, not troubling to factor Miss Margison into her estimation. Nothing she did would ever please that woman, who had declared for all to hear that she, unlike some, would never dream of calling such attention to herself. As long as Miss Rathbone was in accord with her journalistic excursions, Charlotte would continue her work with a clear conscience, no matter what anyone else had to say on the subject.
“And your friends?”
“I wasn’t able to show my dearest friend, for she’s away on her honeymoon. My friends here were terribly excited, though.”
“Do you live with your parents?”
“No. They live in Somerset. I’ve a room in a ladies’ boardinghouse not far from here. I lived there when I first came to Liverpool in 1911, and fortunately there was room for me when I returned after the war.”
“Where did you go? During the war, that is.”
“To London. I trained as a nurse, and then I went to the Special Neurological Hospital for Officers in Kensington. We treated neurasthenia patients there.”
“A thankless job, I’ll wager.”
“Thankless at times, but not unrewarding. Were you here during the war? I mean, ah, did you . . . ?”
“I’ve a thick skin, Miss Brown. I wasn’t in uniform. These,” he said, tapping his spectacles, “prevented it. I tried to join up, but they weren’t having it. So I spent the duration behind a desk in this building.”
“Doing work that was every bit as worthy as—”
“You’re very kind. But there’s no need to jump to my defense. I wasn’t the only man of fighting age left behind in Britain, after all. And the white feather brigade eventually found other ways to pass their time.”
He said he had a thick skin, but it must have marked him. How could it not? Even she, so uncertain over the need to go to war, so unsure of its justice, had felt compelled to serve. She decided that if she were ever to meet anyone who confessed to having handed out white feathers, she would delightedly adorn them with a pillow’s worth plus a pail of hot tar.
“What did your parents think of your having spoken out so publicly?”
“I wouldn’t say they were displeased, for privately they share my convictions. But I think they were concerned I’ve exposed myself to public censure.” That was putting it mildly, for Father and Mother were of a generation that deplored women in public life, the late queen excepted, no matter how laudable their aims.
“There’s no getting around it, I’m afraid. Anyone who speaks out on such a subject is bound to face criticism.”
“I did see some of the letters to the editor. The ones you ran yesterday.” She ought not to have read them, but some perverse urge had propelled her to read every damning, excoriating word.
“It was exactly the response I’d hoped for.”
“But they were so hateful,” she protested.
“And written by idiots, to the last man.”
“If you think so little of their—”
“I printed those letters for one reason only.”
“To represent both points of view?”
“God, no!” He laughed. “What do you take me for? I printed those cretinous letters because it proves that people are listening. You, Miss Brown, are being heard.”
She grinned at him, her chagrin at the memory of those awful letters to the editor beginning to melt away. Before it could vanish, however, she recalled other words, far less charitable, but no less truthful.
You speak as if your every word is a pearl of wisdom bestowed by the Almighty, Edward had told her. “Saint Charlotte,” he had called her. And it made her wonder: Had she written the article in a sincere attempt to make the world a better place? Or was it simply a self-centered attempt to draw attention to herself? She’d never before had cause to doubt herself, but now . . .
Belatedly she realized that Mr. Ellis was waiting for her to respond. “It is a fine feeling,” she said at last.
“Of course it is. And with every article you write for me, more and more people will hear you.”
She glanced at her wristwatch; it was past one o’clock already. “I ought to leave you to your work, Mr. Ellis.”
“I’m poor company at the best of times.”
“Not at all. But you need to work, and I need to finish off my article for next week.” She stood, brushing sandwich crumbs off her skirt, and reached out to shake his hand. “Are you here all day?”
“On Saturdays I stay until we put the day’s edition to bed. Then I go home.”
“So you don’t live in the attics upstairs?”
“Now there’s an idea,” he said, smiling ruefully. “No, I live with my mother.”
“What does she think of your working all hours like this?”
“She deplores it, just as you appear to do. Insists I’m working myself into an early grave.”
“It would be a terrible shame, Mr. Ellis. I doubt I’d find anyone else to publish my anarchic diatribes if you did expire.”
“I doubt it, too. May I expect your next article by Monday morning?”
“You may. Good afternoon, and thank you for lunch.”
CHARLOTTE SPENT THE rest of Saturday afternoon wandering through Princes Park, not even bothering to find a bench and read the book she had brought along, as was her habit. She was too restless to settle, Edward’s accusing questions a troubling refrain. Do you truly believe that your actions are beyond criticism? Are you really that perfect?
She arrived home at half past three and immediately went to her desk, keen to finish her next column for Mr. Ellis. No sooner had she put pen to paper than the doorbell rang. Janie was in the middle of preparing supper, and everyone else was still out and about, so Charlotte answered the door.
A young man stood at the top of the steps, an oddly shaped box in his hands. His lorry was parked, its engine rumbling, in the street beyond. “Good day, miss. I’ve a delivery for Miss Charlotte Brown,”
“I am Miss Brown. I’m not expecting anything—”
He handed her the box, about two feet long, unmarked apart from her name and address, and before she could ask where it was from he dashed back to his lorry and drove away.
Presumably a note or letter would be tucked inside. She carried the box downstairs to the kitchen and set it on the table.
“What’s that you’ve got there, Miss Charlotte?” Janie asked, abandoning the carrots she was scraping.
“I’ve no idea. I’m not sure how to open it, even.”
“Looks like the top’s been tacked down. Do you want to try and lever it off? Here’s the butter knife.”
Inside was a layer of moss, still speckled with dew, its scent of earth and dim, deep woods instantly filling the room. Charlotte peeled it back, her heart hammering in her chest, for she’d an idea now of what she would find.
Beneath the moss lay at least four dozen roses of every imaginable variety and color: palest ivory, blush pink, apricot, cerise, a velvety scarlet. The bottom of each stem had been wrapped in damp cotton wool, which had served to preserve the blooms perfectly on their journey from garden to kitchen table.
Charlotte sat heavily on the nearest chair and tried to catch her breath. “Is there a note?” she asked, though she was certain now of the roses’ origin.
“Yes, Miss Charlotte. Shall I open it?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“It says, ‘Felicitations.’ And the initial E. That’s all.”
In most English gardens, the roses were nearly done for the year, but at Cumbermere Hall, in the sheltered parterre, under the watchful eyes of a gardener who loved the flowers more than his own children, the blooms often lasted until September.
Edward
had sent her the best of his roses, likely stripping bare the bushes in the process.
“What shall we do with all of them?” Janie asked.
“There are so many. I suppose we could do up a big arrangement for the sitting room. And perhaps some smaller ones for all our bedrooms. Do you have any spare jam jars?”
“I do. What if I cut some of the lady’s mantle in the back garden? It’ll look pretty set next to the flowers.”
She and Janie worked quickly, arranging the long-stemmed hybrid tea roses in the Misses Macleods’ best cut-glass vase, and trimming the stems of the damask and cabbage roses so they fit nicely in the smaller jam jars.
The other women arrived home soon after, and as soon as they discovered the flowers in their rooms, and learned from Janie that they had been delivered from a mysterious benefactor earlier that afternoon, they couldn’t help but pepper Charlotte with questions.
“Who are they from?” asked Norma. “Do tell.”
“My friend.”
“Whatever for?” asked Rosie. “Did she hear about your story in the Herald?”
“Was it Lady Elizabeth who sent them?” asked Norma.
“No. A friend. And that’s all I wish to say for now. A generous friend with a large garden.”
“Well, all’s I can say is that you’ve got some very interesting friends. I sure wouldn’t mind meeting them someday.”
“Perhaps you will, Norma. Enough of me, though. How did you spend your day? How was everyone’s day?”
It was just the cue the others needed. Their chatter filled the room, banishing any more troublesome talk of admirers and mysterious friends, and Charlotte soon found herself so diverted that she was nearly able to forget about the flowers, the man who had sent them, and the gulf, as wide as the space between stars, that separated a man like him from a woman like herself.
Chapter 13
Tell me again why we’re taking this infernal vehicle instead of the train,” Rosie said with a groan.
“If I’d known you’d complain so much, I’d have told you to stop at home,” retorted Norma. “Two-and-six to get to Blackpool and back—if that isn’t a bargain I don’t know what is.”
“If I’d known this charabanc would be so uncomfortable I’d never have agreed.”
“Then next time one of the boys at work offers me cheap tickets I’ll remember not to ask.”
“Enough with your bickering,” Charlotte intervened. “We’ll be there soon enough, and thanks to Norma we’ll each have a few extra shillings in our pockets. So let’s not throttle one another before we get there.”
They’d spent the past two and a half hours crammed into the open-topped charabanc, with at least another hour to go before they reached Blackpool. It resembled nothing so much as a gigantic coffin bolted atop the deck of a lorry, and was roughly as comfortable as one might expect of such a jury-rigged vehicle.
Earlier in the week Norma had brought home four return tickets to Blackpool, and when Meg couldn’t be persuaded to come along—she always visited her family in Manchester on Sundays—Charlotte had invited Mabel Petrie from work.
“I hope you’re not finding the journey too uncomfortable,” Charlotte said, noticing that her friend was looking somewhat green about the gills. “Would you like some tea from my flask?”
“I’d better not. Our driver would be sure to hit a rut just as we opened it. Thanks all the same.”
Even Charlotte, whose constitution was normally as ironclad as a dreadnought, was beginning to feel miserable, and not only because the charabanc’s unyielding wooden benches had left her posterior black-and-blue. She was hot and sweaty, covered in a film of dust, and so thirsty it hurt to swallow.
“How much longer?” she called to Norma, who sat directly ahead of her.
“We’re well past Preston, so not far now. Chin up!”
The view from the charabanc was pretty enough, for the Blackpool Road still bore some resemblance to its ancient antecedents, curving and winding its way through open farmland that was hedged in at intervals by tangles of hawthorn and gorse. From time to time, the horizon dipped to reveal a ribbon of startling blue, but Charlotte couldn’t be sure if it were the sea or a slice of the late morning sky.
“Look, everyone!” Norma called out, pointing at a roadside sign: BLACKPOOL 5 MILES, it read. “And over there!” She pointed to a spot in the far distance.
It was Blackpool Tower, still no more than an apostrophe on the horizon, but growing larger and more impressive with every passing minute. All thoughts of charabanc-induced misery vanished; they were nearly there.
The driver led them into the heart of town, so close that the tower seemed only footsteps away, and drew to a halt on the forecourt of the train station.
“We leave at half past seven on the dot,” he called out to his two dozen passengers. “Mind you aren’t late or you’ll be sleeping rough tonight.”
“Where shall we start?” said Rosie, her good humor restored.
“Why not the beach?” suggested Norma. “We’ll all have a swim, and then we can eat our lunch.”
As they walked west toward the seafront, Charlotte noticed that there didn’t appear to be any public change rooms, at least not along the wide promenade that ran along the shoreline and divided beach from town. “Where will we change?” she asked.
“See those bathing machines on the beach? No one uses them to bathe anymore, so they’re hired out as places to change,” Norma explained. “They’re sixpence to use, plus another sixpence for a towel. Here we are—we’ll take these steps.”
She led them down to the beach, which was impossibly wide and flat, and walked directly over to the bathing machines. The proprietor was half asleep on his deck chair, but Norma soon had him laughing like an old friend.
“Come say hello to Mr. Dunbar,” she called to the others. “Two-and-six for us all to use the machine at the end, plus a towel each.”
“Wasn’t it a shilling each?” Rosie asked.
“Yes, but I talked him down. I’ve got sixpence, but I need two bob from the rest of you. Hurry up now, before he changes his mind.”
The machine looked to have been sitting in that exact spot on the beach since Victoria had been on her throne. Charlotte went in first, her nose wrinkling at the disagreeable odor of damp.
When she’d first had her swimming costume made, back when she was an undergraduate at Somerville, it had seemed quite daring, with its short skirt and cap sleeves that bared most of her arms. Its attached bloomers now seemed rather old-fashioned, though, and the cap that covered her hair looked like something her mother would wear.
She removed the white stockings she had worn with her frock and replaced them with black cotton ones, then pulled on an old pair of canvas plimsolls, her bathing boots having disappeared at some point over the past decade. After packing her street clothes into her bag, and satisfied that she was covered respectably, she emerged from the machine and waited for the other women to take their turn.
Much to Charlotte’s relief, both Rosie and Mabel were dressed in similarly conservative suits, although Mabel’s was a pretty and rather unusual shade of dark purple. The same could not be said of Norma’s swimming costume.
It wasn’t indecent, for there were a number of other young women on the beach wearing modern suits: scoop-necked, sleeveless, with a skirt that stopped at midthigh. But there was something about Norma’s suit, or perhaps it was the way she wore it, that caused every set of male eyes on the beach to focus on her relentlessly.
The suit was, at least to Charlotte’s eyes, quite astonishingly formfitting, with the knitted wool fabric revealing more than it concealed. Norma had dispensed with stockings, too, and stood on the sand in bare feet. Even her head was uncovered.
“Isn’t that a bit much for Lancashire?” asked Rosie.
“I shouldn’t say so.” Norma was evidently delighted by the commotion she had caused. “I bought it at Blackler’s. The saleslady said this is what everyone is w
earing in America.”
“Good for them,” Rosie muttered darkly. “I’m off for a swim. Anyone care to join me?”
“We’d better not all go. I’ll stay and watch over our things,” Charlotte offered. “I don’t mind waiting a bit.”
“I’ll stay with Charlotte,” Mabel added.
With interest in her daring attire beginning to wane, Norma followed Rosie out to the water, which was still at low tide. That left Charlotte and Mabel to spread out the blanket they’d brought, anchor its corners with their bags, and soak up the sun.
The beach was growing more crowded by the minute, as holidaymakers finished their luncheons and came down for a stroll along the sands. There were scores of young couples walking arm in arm, some of them likely newlyweds, and no shortage of families with strings of happy, sandy boys and girls trailing after them.
There seemed to be a great many children at the southern extremity of the beach, the clamor of their voices rising and falling on the salt-kissed breeze. A herd of donkeys was corralled there, and from what Charlotte could see the animals seemed content enough. There were far worse places for a donkey to be, after all, than in the sunshine carrying children on its back.
She returned her attention to Mabel, who was looking out to sea, possibly still transfixed by the sight of Norma in her outlandish swimming costume.
“She is a good girl,” Charlotte said. “A bit wild at times, but her heart is in the right place.”
Mabel smiled agreeably. “I’m sure it is. If I were her age I’d probably wear a suit like that, too.”
“I rather envy her,” Charlotte admitted. “This awful old thing is so heavy. And it itches horribly once it gets wet.”
Mabel turned to face Charlotte. “I expect it must be difficult for the younger ones. Life was so dour, and for so long. They must be desperate for some fun.”
After the War Is Over: A Novel Page 11
