Afterwards? Did he mean after the coffee? Madge knew she didn’t want to have to say goodbye. She looked at her watch. It wasn’t quite ten o’clock. She smiled at his enthusiasm. He really did want to know. ‘Well, I live on a small tenanted farm up in Yorkshire where my dad does the milking and then takes some of it on his daily milk round. The rest is collected by the Co-op, who owns it all. I’ve three brothers and one sister. Lydia is the eldest and I’m closest to her although she’s ten years older than me and married with children. Two of my brothers have joined the army, but Isaac, who isn’t quite, well, quite the same as the others, he’s still helping my dad on the farm…’ She paused and glanced at his face to see how he was reacting to all this. Gosh, if his cousin was a lady, what did that make him? And he’d been at Cambridge studying architecture, for heaven’s sake. ‘I suppose it’s all a bit different from what you’re used to?’
‘Totally, but it’s all really fascinating.’ James leaned forward and took her hand once more. ‘And you, Madge, you must have a boyfriend?’
Madge felt herself redden. Was she going to tell a lie? Was she going to tell this gorgeous, heavenly man that, if it was up to Arthur, she’d actually be engaged to one of James’s mechanics. In the end she simply said, ‘There is someone from home, but nothing serious. How serious can you be when there’s a war on?’
‘And do you miss him?’ James was looking at her with such intensity she simply and truthfully said, ‘No, I don’t miss him at all.’
‘I couldn’t bear it if you did,’ James said quietly. ‘When can I see you again, Madge?’
‘Is it allowed?’
‘Is what allowed?’
‘A flight lieutenant being seen with a lowly aircraftwoman second class?’
James frowned. ‘Goodness, I’ve no idea.’
‘Maybe if I salute you constantly?’ Madge began to laugh.
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’ James laughed back before glancing at the clock on the wall. ‘I think I need to get you back to Oxford Street. Shall we try for a taxi or are you happy to walk?’
Madge knew she wanted to prolong her time with James as long as she could and a taxi ride would mean only another ten minutes in his company. ‘I don’t mind walking at all,’ she smiled, ‘but will you be all right getting back? Where are you staying tonight?’
‘Eaton Square. It’s not a million miles from Oxford Street.’ James stood, nodded once more to both the American and RAF officers with whom he was obviously acquainted and took Madge’s arm, directing her towards the door and the London streets, still a long way from total darkness despite the blackout.
‘Eaton Square? In a hotel?’
James looked slightly embarrassed. ‘My family has a house there.’
‘Your parents live here? In London?’ Madge smiled at James in delight. ‘Oh, your mum will be so pleased to see you, won’t she?’
‘They’re not actually there. The place has been closed up for the duration; you know, dust sheets put over everything.’
‘Oh.’ Madge began to realise this man was very different from the boys back home.
‘It’s been in the family for years.’ James took Madge’s hand. ‘My father doesn’t really want to part with it.’
‘But they’re not there?’
‘No, they’re at home.’
‘Home?’
‘We live in Ascot.’
‘Ascot?’ Madge frowned. Wasn’t Ascot something to do with horseracing?
‘In Berkshire. It’s where I grew up. Where my parents live. My mother comes up to London occasionally to shop but she doesn’t often stay over. Dora, who’s been with us for years, still comes in to do some cleaning and to make sure everything is as it should be. My father uses it when he’s sitting.’
‘Sitting?’ Madge realised she must sound idiotic repeating everything James was saying. But sitting? Sitting where? She didn’t like to ask for fear of being thought stupid.
James continued talking as they walked across Trafalgar Square, back through Piccadilly and followed the roads and streets towards Oxford Street. Madge knew she wouldn’t have had a clue how to get back to base, but James seemed to know exactly where he was going. ‘He’s in the Lords,’ James went on, ‘although with the Commons being so badly bombed, Churchill and the other MPs tend to use it most these days, which annoys my father somewhat. He’s a bit old school; likes things to be as they should be.’
‘He sounds a bit scary,’ Madge said without thinking.
‘Well, he’s getting on a bit now. He’s quite a lot older than my mother, and I’ve three sisters, all older than I am, all doing various things to support the war effort. I suppose I was a bit of a surprise to the old man when I suddenly came along when he was in his forties.
‘Gosh, yes, you must have been. Do you get on with him?’
James frowned. ‘To be honest, Madge, although I adore my mother, I don’t feel I know my father that well. I was packed off to school when I was eight: I think he probably wanted me out of the way as I was a noisy kid, always zooming around the house and garden when he was trying to read his political papers or sort the estate out.’
‘What do you mean, the estate?’ Madge could only think of the estate of corporation houses that had been planned in the lower two fields of the farm at home. Maybe James’s father had something to do with such an estate in Ascot.
‘The house has… has, er… a few acres and he makes sure everything is as it should be…’ James trailed off. He obviously didn’t want to talk any more about his father. They walked on in silence for a couple of streets and then James suddenly stopped and took her hand. ‘Can I see you again, Madge? I don’t know when I’m going to be off next but as soon as I am, I can train it back down to London to see you; this damned withdrawal of all petrol for non- essential use means I can’t drive any more.’
‘I’d really like that,’ Madge said shyly. ‘There’s a phone back at base that we can use out of office hours. I’ll give you the number. Don’t ring when I’m working or Sergeant Briscoe will go mad. She’s already not very impressed with my heavy pastry. Francesca, of course, is her darling.’
James laughed. ‘Yes, well, she’s had a fortune thrown at her education in Switzerland. She should know what she’s doing.’
‘This is me. We’re here. Thank you very much for walking me home.’
‘I don’t know what you’ve done to me, Madge.’ Madge saw James swallow, his brown eyes so dark in contrast with his blond hair. She wasn’t quite sure who moved first, but he broke off what he was saying about Francesca and her finishing school and, cupping Madge’s face in both of his large warm hands, bent his fair head to hers and kissed her softly. Just once and so lightly that Madge almost wondered if she’d imagined it. He stood looking down at her, drinking in her features until Madge could stand it no longer and responded by bringing up her hands to his face and kissing him back. He gave a soft sigh before winding his fingers into her hair beneath her hat and kissing her again at length. She’d never been kissed like this before and she kissed him back, taking his lead, pushing herself against him.
‘Oy, Gregory, enough of that on the streets of London. Get yourself in before Sergeant Briscoe sees you and has you over the coals.’ Beryl, one of the other cooks based with them, grinned as she walked past and towards the double door that, in its heyday had led to the perfumery department of the store where they were based and then, realising Madge was with an officer, gave an embarrassed salute in James’s direction and scuttled in.
‘I’d better go,’ James smiled down at her. ‘Write down your address and telephone number for me so that I can contact you.’
Madge had both pencil and paper in her bag and quickly wrote down the required number and address. James bent to kiss her once more, tipped her hat back slightly, saluted and grinned at her before turning on his heel, then glancing back for one last look.
Madge ran up the six flights of stairs on wings but hadn’t been in the room she
shared with Beryl more than a minute when Mary, Francesca’s room-mate, knocked on her door. ‘There’s a rather gorgeous RAF man down on the street,’ she grinned. ‘Wants a quick word with you. I told him you’d be in trouble: it’s after eleven. I’ve only just made it back in time and I bet Fran’s not back yet.’
Madge grabbed her hat and, raking her fingers through her blond curls, dashed back down the way she’d just come. Had she not given him the correct phone number? She knew she shouldn’t be out after eleven but oh, how lovely, he’d come back for something. Maybe just to say goodnight once more. Madge unlocked the door, stepped out onto the street and was immediately grabbed by a hand from out of the shadows.
‘How could you, Madge? I saw you. I saw you kissing that officer. You’re supposed to be engaged to me.’
‘Arthur? Arthur, get your hands off me. What are you doing here?’
‘Got a twenty-four-hour pass once work finished for the day. Not much you can do on that – most of the lads are just staying in Bourn and drinking themselves daft – but one of the mechanics was told to come up to London to fix some officer’s car and given permission to take one of the motorbikes. I asked if I could ride pillion so I could see you.’
‘But why didn’t you ring? You know the number.’
‘I bloody well did. Over and over, but no one knew where you were. And then someone said you’d gone off for the evening. So, I waited for you to come back.’
Madge felt herself go hot. Arthur must have seen everything. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Aye, so you bloody well should be, making a fool of yourself with some officer. How could you, Madge? How could you do it to me?’
‘I…’ Madge didn’t know what to say. The intensity and pain in Arthur’s eyes frightened her.
‘We’re supposed to be getting wed and there you were, all over him, kissing him like there was no tomorrow. And do you know, for me, there might not be. God knows where I might be sent.’
‘Why would you be? You’re a mechanic on an air base. You’re not going to be sent abroad. And, Arthur, I keep telling you, we’re not engaged. I told you that when you insisted I keep that ring. I’m going to give it you back.’
‘No, no, Madge don’t do that. I can’t bear it if you do that.’ Arthur calmed down for a few seconds but then began to get angry again. ‘So, who is he then? Who’s the bloody officer you were at it with?’
Before Madge could say anything, a crisp, cultured voice rang out through the warm night air. ‘Aircraftwoman Second Class Gregory, you’ll be on a charge if you don’t get inside this minute.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Madge saluted the woman standing in front of her and turned on her heel. The woman followed her inside.
‘Thanks, Fran.’
‘I could hear you both arguing a mile off. Arthur, I presume?’
Madge nodded. ‘But not as much trouble as you’re going to be in for being back half an hour late and impersonating an officer. Oh, Fran, what am I going to do?’
*
‘So, what did you do, Granny?’ Daisy brought Madge back to the present. ‘I’m assuming because you married Arthur, you didn’t see James again?’
‘Well, I did, darling. How could I not? I’d fallen in love for the first time in my life.’ Madge sighed, looked at her watch and glanced outside. ‘It appears to have stopped sleeting, girls. Come on, there are jobs to be done.’
15
A wet Wednesday morning and, along with the damned cold miserable rain, came a damned miserable setback. I thought I’d been doing well with regards my broken heart. I was doing well: hadn’t I had – rather energetic – sex with a man that wasn’t Dominic and survived? More than survived. I felt my pulse quicken as I recalled Friday night, Josh Lee and his throbbing machine. That state-of-the-art dishwasher and its attempts at foreplay had a lot to answer for. So, yes, I’d thought I was picking up my life.
And when I decided I’d make an inroad into the day’s ten thousand steps by walking down to the newsagent’s for new pencils and chewing gum, I was actually feeling that maybe there was just a little thawing out of my frozen heart. So much so, I changed my mind about walking, donned my old tracksuit bottoms, which were as close as I had to running gear, and set off at a trot, taking the long way round to extend the distance.
By the time I reached the newsagent’s, gasping for air like a landed fish and soggy from the persistent drizzle, I was feeling pretty happy. OK, maybe not happy – that was a bit over the top – but getting there. Sod you, Dominic Abraham: since you buggered off, I’ve inherited a cottage, become my own boss, been turned on by a dishwasher and its owner and am now in training for my first marathon. Ha! Beat that, you bastard.
He did.
Concentrating on getting my breath back as I waited in the queue at the village newsagent, I took in the headlines of the papers. The usual stuff: Brexit, dire warnings of the ice age that was heading our way after Christmas; pensioners left on trolleys in A and E; and, with just a couple of column centimetres on the front of the Telegraph, right at the very bottom and only spied because the paper had been put into the rack upside down, Abraham Developments’ success at the European Architectural Awards Ceremony. Abraham Developments? Success? My poor old heart, just about returned to its usual resting rate after the unaccustomed run, was once again racing, knocking painfully against my ribs as my trembling fingers picked up the paper and tried to find the business pages as directed. There, in all his glory, grinning as he held his award for innovative design aloft, was Dominic.
‘Are you buying that, love?’ The young shopkeeper looked meaningfully at the newspaper in my hand, several pages of which had come adrift and landed on my muddy trainers and the dirty wet floor.
‘Bastard. Wanker.’ I glared at the assistant.
‘You do know I don’t have to put up with harassment, alarm or distress in the workplace?’ He glared back at me.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ I said, appalled as I realised I’d shouted my fury aloud. ‘Not you, you’re not a bastard… Well, you could be, for all I know. It’s this wanker here, I mean.’ I turned the article towards the counter, shaking the paper in his face.
‘Language! Do you mind?’ An elderly woman, wet plastic Rainmate on her tight grey perm and an even wetter, shivering scrap of a dog on the end of her lead, tutted and glared at me in turn.
I burst into tears. ‘Look, I’m really sorry,’ I sniffed. ‘Just had a bit of a shock, that’s all. I don’t normally harass newsagents and swear like a trooper.’ Well, half of that wasn’t a lie.
‘That’s all right,’ the assistant grinned. ‘I don’t give a fuck really, but I’m supposed to quote that to anyone who might be giving me trouble. What’s the bastard done?’
I shoved the article under his nose. ‘That’s my boyfriend. Well, my ex-boyfriend. He had a wife and three kids all along and didn’t tell me. And now…’ I was almost trembling with rage, ‘… now he’s won an award for innovative design and, and… the fucking design… sorry, excuse me…’ I nodded apologetically towards Rainmate woman as her Chihuahua or whatever it was, tail stuck determinedly between its legs against my tone, shivered uncontrollably, ‘… was mine. Mine!’
‘Wanker!’ the Rainmate bristled and drops fell onto the woman’s already wet dog. ‘What a wanker,’ she growled. ‘Don’t you let him get away with that, love.’
*
Daisy and I had agreed to a planning meeting with Seb, Libby and Seb’s father – Westenbury’s local celebrity – David Henderson, that afternoon at David Henderson’s house. He and his wife had lived in the village for years – everyone locally knew of them – and although I had gone past their gate every time Daisy and I had walked to our primary school, I never dreamt that I’d one day be working with him.
By the time I got home from the newsagent’s, newspaper folded into my hoody pocket, I was seething. I’d take legal advice against Dominic, show him up for what he was. Daisy was back from the supermarket and, from the tr
ail of crumbs, Marmite and peanut butter left on the kitchen worktop, had made and eaten breakfast and was already at work in the garden. I slammed her dirty plate and mug into the sink – no state-of-the-art pan-scrubber in this kitchen – and headed for the shower.
Funny how sorrow makes you slop around in old trackies, eschewing the shower and make-up, but fury has quite the opposite effect. I showered and scrubbed like there was no tomorrow, washed, conditioned and dried my hair, and by the time Daisy was kicking off her wellies and heading for the kettle and the remains of the date and walnut cake, I was fully made up and wearing the business suit I always wore for meeting new clients offsite.
Daisy frowned. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘We,’ I emphasised, ‘have a meeting with the Hendersons this afternoon, or had you forgotten?’
‘No, of course not. But that’s this afternoon.’ She looked at the kitchen clock. ‘It’s only ten thirty. You’re a bit premature, aren’t you?’
I shoved the newspaper article in front of Daisy. ‘This was in the paper this morning.’
Daisy abandoned the jar of coffee and read the article. ‘So? You always said he was good. You should be proud you worked for his company; it’ll look good on your CV now that he’s won this award.’ She reached for the coffee once more. ‘Do you want one?’
‘My design,’ I snapped.
Daisy turned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, that when I read through the article, he’s been given this award for a house design in Islington. The only work done in Islington by Abraham Developments was designed by me – it was one of the very first things I did when I went to work for him over a year ago.’
Daisy was quiet as she reread the article. ‘To be fair, Charlie, it doesn’t say that it was his design. Look, it just says an innovative design in Islington from Abraham Developments. I suppose it’s the firm as a whole that’s got the award, not one individual architect.’
I snatched back the paper and reread the column. Daisy was right: no one architect was actually named. ‘I’ll sue,’ I snapped. ‘I’ll have him, show him up for what he is, a philandering, adulterous design-pincher.’
Coming Home To Holly Close Farm Page 14
