‘Your mother has hens?’ Madge began to feel herself on familiar ground. Her own mother had always kept them and Madge had grown up with them, digging for worms and scattering their food as well as collecting their eggs twice a day before shutting them up in the wooden hen houses against marauding foxes every night.
Before James could answer, a small redhead wearing the green sweater and trousers of the Land Army, ran out from a side door of the house, a feisty-looking Jack Russell at her heels. She stopped in some confusion when she realised James wasn’t alone and made to retreat towards the gardens at the rear.
‘Hilda, don’t run off,’ James shouted in her direction and she turned, following the dog as it bounded forward to greet them. Somewhat reluctantly, it appeared to Madge, she walked towards them. ‘Madge, this is Hilda; Hilda, this is Madge,’ he smiled.
The girl nodded somewhat curtly in Madge’s direction but didn’t meet her eyes. ‘I need to get on,’ she said in a strong Liverpool accent, ‘or Mr Morton will be after me.’ She turned once more and walked off in the direction she’d come.
‘As you can see, we have a couple of land girls here, too. The place gets more like Piccadilly Circus every time I come home. They’re billeted up at Home Farm and John Morton, the estate manager, is in charge of them.’
‘You do know she’s a bit in love with you?’ Madge said, feeling sorry for the girl. How must it be to feel the way she herself felt about James and not have it reciprocated?
‘Is she?’ James affected surprise and then smiled. ‘Well, maybe a little.’ He took Madge’s hand and led her towards the door the redhead had just exited. A small elderly woman, dressed in black, bustled towards them and Madge stepped forwards to shake hands.
‘Master James, I’ve done you a picnic…’ So, not James’s mother then: Madge dropped her arm in confusion ‘… and I’m afraid it’s a poor one compared to what I could have done for you before we had all this rationing. Now, there’s some chicken left over from dinner last night and…’
James grinned, planting a kiss on the woman’s cheek. ‘It’ll be fine, Agnes. Really. Just see if you can find one of Dad’s bottles of red, would you? I know he says he’s running out, but I don’t believe him. Agnes, this is Madge.’
Agnes nodded her tiny bird-like head conspiratorially and winked at James. ‘Nice to meet you, Miss Madge.’ She almost bobbed a curtsy before turning and hurrying away, and Madge felt herself redden in embarrassment.
Expecting James’s mother to be some sort of dowager duchess dressed in Edwardian black, not, she reckoned, dissimilar to the Queen Mother, Madge was somewhat taken aback when a tall willowy blonde in men’s corduroy trousers, held up and tightened against her waist with a man’s leather belt, came out of the kitchen. Her chignon was falling down and she had a black smut across her cheek.
‘Darlings, I didn’t realise you’d arrived. I’m sorry, I was out with the hens. The wretched fox has had Bella. She’s a tough old broad, though. Lost a load of feathers and damaged a wing but she’ll survive. I suppose she’s almost ready for the pot anyway. Now, you must be Marjorie. Jim has told me all about you.’
Jim? Madge glanced towards James, who was grinning at his mother, and held out her hand once more. Ursula Montgomery-West looked at her own dirty hands, wiped them on her trousers and, instead of taking Madge’s outstretched one, moved forwards and kissed her on both cheeks.
‘Welcome, so pleased to meet you, Marjorie.’ Her accent was pure cut glass, exactly that of Queen Elizabeth and the two princesses, and despite the fact that she was dressed in a ragbag of farmhand clothes while Madge was in full WAAF uniform, Madge felt herself to be a country bumpkin from up north. ‘Now, you two get yourselves off; you won’t have that much time if you’ve both got to be back by this evening.’ Ursula paused, looking directly at Madge but obviously addressing James. ‘And, darling, make the most of the day. I suppose you won’t know when you’ll next have time off? I worry about him so much. This damned war.’
‘I’m sure Madge will look after me.’ James raised an eyebrow. ‘Are we all right taking the car again, do you think?’
‘Well, you’re not going to get very far without some form of transport. I assume you’re thinking of Sulham Woods? You really shouldn’t take the Daimler again; your father will need it later on this afternoon.’ Ursula frowned and then brightened. ‘I know, why don’t you take the estate motorcycle John Morton uses? But park it where it won’t be seen or someone will be after you.’
*
It was only a ten-minute drive from the estate but Madge wished it would go on for ever. She’d never been on the back of a motorbike before and she adored the feel of speed, the breeze in her hair and the contact with James as she held tightly onto his waist. She pressed her nose into his cotton shirt, inhaling his scent, all her senses aroused as the machine throbbed between her stockinged legs. All too soon, James slowed down, guiding and reversing the machine into a leafy copse.
‘Walk or eat first?’ he asked. ‘If we’re going to walk, we’ll leave the picnic things here.’
‘Walk I think; I’m so hot and need to stretch my legs. And unless Briscoe is lying in wait for me behind one of those trees – and I wouldn’t put it past her – then I’m going to take off my jacket.’
‘Fighting talk,’ James laughed. ‘Treasonable offence, especially when you’re with a superior officer. I don’t seem to recall your saluting me yet today, Aircraftwoman Second Class.’
‘Will this do instead?’ Madge, relieved of her heavy jacket and out in the cool of the glade, reached up her arms to James as he leaned against the motorbike and kissed him softly. He responded, pulling her to him and burying his face in her hair and kissing her throat. Madge thought that if she died now she’d die happy, having known and captured this utter heaven on earth.
‘Come on, on second thoughts let’s take the picnic basket with us,’ James smiled unbuckling the leather strap holding the basket onto the pillion. ‘We might find the ideal spot and then be sorry we’d not brought it with us. And to be honest, a tramp through the woods like some sort of Boy Scout wasn’t what I had in mind.’
‘Oh?’ Madge looked at him archly. ‘What did you have in mind?’ she asked and then immediately regretted it, aware that it was a leading question and could be construed as such. She felt herself redden and, in order to hide her blushes, bobbed down to the bike’s wing mirror on the pretext of straightening her hair.
James held up his hands and laughed. ‘A picnic in the woods before I’m back bombing hell out of Hitler. Come on, Gregory, take the other handle. I want to see if I can find the spot I used to play in when I was a kid.’
They walked deeper into the woods in companionable silence for a few minutes, setting the pace as directed by the weight of the picnic basket and enjoying the cool dampness of the woods after the noon heat of the late summer’s day. Madge glanced often across at James, unable not to, and his eyes would already be seeking out hers. He wanted to know more about her childhood, her mum and dad, her brothers and sister; where she’d worked before she joined up. ‘I want a complete picture of you,’ he said, ‘so that when I’m up in the air, facing oblivion, you’ll be the one thing I see.’
‘Your mother is quite lovely, isn’t she? She obviously adores you.’
‘I’m the son she always wanted after three daughters. Dad, too, obviously.’
‘Oh?’
‘Someone to pass on the title to… but, do you know, I reckon the war will change everything. Who knows? I don’t even think about it. The future, I mean…’ James trailed off, his tone bleak.
‘I’m thirsty,’ Madge said, wanting to change the uncomfortable direction the conversation was taking. She didn’t want to talk about titles and futures, especially when the odds of them actually having a future were stacked against them.
‘A few more minutes.’ James came to a sudden standstill and surveyed the area. ‘Yes, up here, come on…’
‘How lovely.
’ Madge stopped and stared at the tiny glade that had opened up in front of them. Hidden entirely from view, a small oasis amongst the oaks and sycamores, the place would easily be missed entirely by anyone who didn’t know these woods.
‘Angela and I used to hide from Nanny in here. She’d bring us for a walk with the dogs on the proviso that we weren’t to run off, and she fell for it every time. She’d be calling, shouting, eventually threatening and we were so awful: we wouldn’t reveal ourselves until she was almost in despair.’
‘So, Nanny didn’t know best then?’ Madge began to feel sorry for the poor woman.
‘Nope. We ran rings round her. I’m sure she was most relieved when I was packed off to school.’ James was already taking out the tartan travel rug – originally from Harrods, Madge noted – laying it down on the soft springy grass before pouring lemonade into a solid-looking tumbler for her. She drank, slaking her thirst, as James poured the same for himself. ‘Good old Agnes –she’s managed to filch one of dad’s best bottles of wine.’ When Madge looked concerned, thinking that she’d be blamed for egging him on to pinch his father’s wine, he laughed. ‘Don’t worry, he has an absolute cellar full but won’t admit it. Would you like to try it?’
She finished the remaining drops of the very good home-made lemonade – where on earth had the lemons come from? – and proffered the tumbler.
‘Just try that: nectar of the gods. If there’s one thing my father gets right it’s his wine.’ James took a small sip, savouring the ruby liquid.
‘I would have thought, being in government, he’d have to get most things right.’ Madge glanced across at James, trying to read meaning into his words.
‘I’m sure he tries his best,’ James said shortly. ‘What do you think?’
The Merlot felt warm and cloying – almost, with its slightly metallic aftertaste, like blood – and Madge, unused to any wines but particularly to a rich red such as this, wasn’t quite sure if she liked it or not. She took another sip, decided she could probably get used to it and, still thirsty from the walk, proceeded to take a longer drink.
‘Careful,’ James laughed warningly. ‘If you’re not used to it, it will go to your head and it wasn’t my intention to get you drunk.’
Madge stared at James, loving the concern in his beautiful brown eyes. She leaned forward, brushing a piece of grass from his thick blond hair and he took her hand, kissing her fingers until she felt her stomach turn to molten gold. Whether it was the wine or natural instinct she would never know but, not caring she might appear forward, Madge pressed him back onto the picnic rug and kissed his mouth. James, acknowledging her desire, turned her over onto her back, his body covering her own, his large warm hands covering her breast. She’d gone as far as this with Arthur, of course, but always slapped down any further wandering hands, mainly because she didn’t like his heavy breathing and red-faced exertions and had never felt any hunger or need to continue further to what she assumed to be his ultimate goal.
And anyway, nice girls just didn’t.
But now, apparently, they did.
20
Convinced that James’s mother would know she’d spent the afternoon making love to her son, Madge was reluctant to return to his parents’ house with him, telling him, instead, to drop her off at the railway station where’d she’d take the first train back to London. While she didn’t want to leave him – couldn’t bear to leave him – any earlier than she absolutely had to – God only knew when she’d be able to see him again – Madge was mindful not only of Sergeant Briscoe’s ire were she to be late back, but also of her own dishevelled appearance after an afternoon flat on her back in a wood.
‘Darling Midge, you look even more beautiful than ever,’ James protested when she told him her plan. ‘You have colour in your cheeks and your eyes are bright and, if you’re not careful, I shall have to drag you back into the trees and make love to you once more.’
‘You wouldn’t have to drag me,’ Madge smiled, realising she was becoming more and more of a scarlet woman as the afternoon went on.
James turned to her as they neared the spot where he’d left the motorcycle and took her hand in his. ‘Midge, this is what you wanted, isn’t it? I mean, you are all right? It wasn’t too… you know, too painful?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Madge was embarrassed. ‘I mean yes, it was fine.’ Oh heavens, it was more than fine; it had been absolutely wonderful. ‘And no, it wasn’t too painful.’ She felt particularly immodest that, after all, it was she who’d asserted herself; she who’d started the whole ball rolling, as it were. Had she been too forward? What if he thought her a tramp, and couldn’t wait to be rid of her, putting her on the train, determined never to see her again. Her mother had constantly warned both her daughters of the dire consequences of ‘giving it away free’, as if not doing so was a down payment that would lead to marriage.
James took both her hands in his. ‘Midge, I know what you’re thinking – that you shouldn’t have let me make love to you, that I’ll now think the worse of you, that you might end up pregnant.’
‘I wasn’t, actually,’ she smiled, loving his concern. ‘I was thinking how lovely it all was and why our mothers tell us to hang on to our virginity like some sort of bargaining power over men. You know, this war isn’t the norm; I wouldn’t even be here with you if Hitler hadn’t invaded Poland.’ She smiled again thinking of the incongruity of the whole thing.
‘And you do know that I made sure you won’t be left holding the baby? The RAF’s bill for rubbers must be higher than for good coffee.’ He laughed at this and Madge smiled too.
‘James,’ she said quietly, ‘I wouldn’t have had today any other way… you know… it was all lovely…’ She looked up at him from underneath her lashes, determined to make him aware that it was what she’d wanted too. ‘But, you know, for you, that wasn’t the first time, was it? I mean, you knew exactly what to do.’ Madge felt her insides melt once more as she recalled how he’d known what would give her the most pleasure.
James smiled. ‘At the risk of sounding like some dreadfully spivvy lothario, then no, it wasn’t.’
Madge felt the sharp pricking of jealousy: the very thought of him doing what they’d just done with anyone else filled her with pain and she bowed her head so as not to let him see.
‘Listen, Midge. I’ve never ever felt like this about anyone before. I’m twenty-three; of course I’m not a virgin. But none of them have ever meant anything.’ He sighed and took her in his arms, as he perched on the seat of the motorcycle. ‘When I was eighteen, the year I left Eton and before I went up to Cambridge, I travelled to France in order to brush up my French. I’ve always loved languages and I reckoned being rather more fluent in French might come in handy if I were to be working on European architectural projects.’ He smiled up at her. ‘I’d be able to say, “Ce sont les meilleurs plans que vous verrez jamais,” and the French would be so impressed they’d snap me up immediately.’
‘And?’
‘And I stayed with some distant cousins of my mother in their château in Lyle. The French don’t appear to have any of the concerns and the worries we strait-laced English have about making love. To them, it’s as natural as filling their faces with a good meal and a superb bottle of wine,’ He laughed. ‘I spent the summer of 1939, just before this lot all blew up in our faces, being seduced by my host’s widowed cousin. She taught me all I know, as well as refusing to feel guilt or embarrassment about making love, being in love or being loved.’ He sighed and leaned into Madge, holding her against him. ‘You know, war invades not only countries but also the mind and spirit. The chance of me surviving this bloody awful mess is remote.’
‘Oh, don’t say that, James, don’t.’
‘I need to embrace whatever time I have left… make the most of it… Do you see?’ He pulled her away from him and looked deep into her eyes, and Madge felt he was looking into her very soul.
She nodded. She understood.
She reac
hed for her jacket, straightened her hair, her tie, her stockings and applied lipstick. ‘I can’t come back with you,’ she said once again. ‘They’d all know.’
‘Yes, you can,’ he said gently. ‘You’ve been on the back of a motorcycle, for heaven’s sake.’ He gently removed a tiny green caterpillar that was making its way along her shoulder, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her softly.
*
Ursula Montgomery-West was sitting at a table on the terrace overlooking what once had probably been a beautifully manicured garden but was now given over to bed after bed of potatoes, carrots and onions. She’d changed out of her corduroy trousers and into a pink-flowered dress, and was pouring tea. With her was a tall man dressed, despite the warmth of the day, in a black three-piece suit, and a blonde girl probably a couple of years older than Madge, wearing the full WAAF uniform of a commissioned officer. Madge saluted her superior and the girl merely nodded in her direction. The man stood to shake Madge’s hand as Ursula introduced him as James’s father. He said very little but Madge was acutely aware of him watching her as James bounded over to the girl sitting to the right of his mother.
‘Constance, how lovely to see you.’ James seemed genuinely delighted to see her and bent down to where she was sitting on the rattan sofa, taking her hand and kissing her cheek. ‘I thought you were stationed up in Leicester somewhere?’
‘I am, but we all have time off for good behaviour.’
Coming Home To Holly Close Farm Page 18
