by Nicola Slade
I said it automatically, meaning it, but to my dismay his eyes glistened and he hurried over to look out of the window while he composed himself.
‘That… that would be very kind,’ he said gruffly. ‘Thank you.’
I felt a pang of sympathy and suspected he’d probably not expected to reach that particular birthday. His brother would have been there in earlier years so he must feel very alone now.
‘It’s coming up to two o’clock, I must get back,’ he changed the subject abruptly. ‘Because we all sleep so badly at night Matron likes us to rest on our beds for an hour in the afternoon to refresh us, she says, before we have to face our visitors. Just now is actually our regulation post-lunch, pre-nap hour which we’re supposed to spend in quiet reading or writing letters. It’s also a time for gentle exercise if you’re up to it, so I managed to escape because I had a letter already written and I walked down to the post box on the corner.’
He shrugged himself into his greatcoat and picked up his cap. ‘Thank you so much for the cocoa, Miss… er… Christabel,’ he said with another of those diffident smiles. ‘It would be most agreeable if you and your dog really would come out with me for a walk now and then.’
‘We’d be delighted,’ I said as I turned to shout at the dog. Bobs had spotted that my attention was elsewhere and had taken advantage of the moment to stand on his hind legs and poke his nose on to the draining board. Much good would it do him as all he found was half an onion, but he’s always optimistic.
‘Anyone who was kind to Bertie is our friend for life. Now, what was I about to say? Oh yes, if you’re going for a walk at any time, do call in if you’d like company. If none of us can get away perhaps you’d like to take Bobs with you anyway, he’s quite well-behaved and he’d be company. You could have a cup of tea when you bring him home.’
He looked startled and then so pleased that I was surprised. After all, he would be doing us a favour by exercising our very large and very energetic dog.
‘Are you sure? Perhaps I should check with your mother or grandmother?’ He wore a worried frown. ‘After all, you don’t have the protection of your father and I wouldn’t want to presume.’
I wiped round the sink with a cloth – actually it was one of Papa’s old vests cut up for dishcloths – struck by the absurdity of associating my father with respectability. I straightened my back, heaved a sigh, and set out to reassure my visitor.
‘Um, ye-es… Listen, Henry, the thing is, I don’t know if Bertie ever talked about Papa, but I probably ought to explain about him.’
‘Really, there’s no need,’ he began, looking embarrassed, but I shook my head.
‘You were Bertie’s friend,’ I said. ‘And I hope you’ll look on the rest of us as friends too. There’ll always be a warm welcome here for you, but there’s something a friend ought to know. First of all, despite Granny being an earl’s daughter and Mother a well-known authoress, we’re not rolling in money. However, although we do try to keep up a respectable front, I don’t believe you should worry about how my father would have viewed your acquaintance with us.’
I smiled warmly at him. He was so concerned for our good name when in less than five minutes Papa would have taken steps to ascertain Henry’s financial prospects and to gauge whether he’d be good to touch up for a loan. It would probably be more comfortable if Henry didn’t discover that the late Mr Makepeace Senior had agreed it would be wise to transfer ownership of both our houses to Granny, in trust for her three granddaughters. Old Mr Makepeace had drawn up the documents himself and put them in front of Mother, saying: “Sign here, please, Mrs Fyttleton,” and Mother, looking owlishly over her spectacles at him, had obeyed. “Much more sensible,” he’d told Granny as he left the house. We were sorry to hear he had died only the next week but – no, better for Henry not to learn that.
I beamed at him now. ‘Don’t look so worried, we have enough to live on and we’re not heading towards the Workhouse. What I meant was that we show a united front when anyone mentions Papa, but if you’re to be a friend we’re bound to drop our guard with you sooner or later, so I’ll tell you anyway. The unvarnished truth is that Papa was a scoundrel and, as I’m being honest with you, the best thing he ever did for his family was to go down with the Lusitania.’
I shrugged. ‘At least we don’t have to worry about him bringing disaster upon us anymore.’
Well, I was wrong about that. I should have known better, and I should have crossed my fingers when I said it.
Chapter Four
I had no time to brood on the sad fate of Lt Trevelyan that Monday afternoon, because less than an hour after Henry left to take his compulsory nap and I had written part of another chapter of my latest adventure story, two more guests arrived – a mother and daughter: Mrs Evelyn Peebles and Miss Pamela Peebles. Major Peebles was due for his final Medical Board in two weeks’ time and they took a room each until he should be discharged. It was extremely satisfactory and I felt rather smug because it meant that three of the rooms at Balmoral Lodge were now let, far more quickly than we had ever believed possible. Only the two smallest bedrooms and the box room remained vacant but now we had some actual cash in hand.
Once they had introduced themselves and inspected and approved their rooms, I offered afternoon tea and they were happy to pay for it, so I thanked God for my foresight and used some of the batter I’d put aside earlier. I made sure there were no cats around and that the door between the two houses was closed, then I served drop scones with honey from the farm up the road. They seemed disposed to chat so I lingered to make sure they were comfortable.
‘What a delicious tea,’ Mrs Peebles announced rather thickly as she popped her third drop scone into her mouth. ‘You certainly provide well for your guests, Lady Christabel.’
I was startled. ‘Oh, I’m just Christabel, Mrs Peebles. It’s only my grandmother who has a title, the rest of us are quite ordinary.’
There was a snort from Mrs Mortimer who had decided against the sights of Ramalley, paid a brief visit to the Hall, and then had come home early to take tea with us. I suppose it must be soul-destroying for a mother to sit day after day beside the wreck of her beloved child. He had lost a leg and had a badly-wounded arm but despite these appalling injuries and several gruelling operations, he had already been fitted with a prosthetic leg before he arrived at Groom Hall. His time up there is dedicated to helping him accustom himself to his new life and limb. Alix says he’s quite chirpy, but he is only twenty-two, so I offered his mother the largest slice of fruit cake in sympathy. (Alix says the prospect of Mrs Mortimer as a mother-in-law renders him ineligible as a husband.)
Mrs Peebles looked longingly at it but took the remaining smaller slice as she carried on talking. ‘Oh, thank you, Miss Christabel, how difficult these things are. Lady Elspeth is a very grand lady, is she not? And so gracious when she enquired after my poor husband.’
Granny had met them briefly when they arrived, and I hid a smile as I recalled my more recent glimpse of the grand and gracious Lady Elspeth who had been dismantling the blocked pipe under our scullery sink. I rather liked the stoutly-corseted and lavishly-powdered Mrs Peebles even though her hearty appetite might pose some problems, but I could see that Mrs Mortimer looked down on our newest guest. Mrs Peebles told me they came from near Birmingham which, I suppose accounted for her slight accent, which I didn’t recognise; Mrs Mortimer turned up her nose at that. As for Miss Pamela, I hadn’t heard a peep out of her so far, but she seemed pleasant enough. Approaching her twentieth birthday, she was a slightly less plump and less powdered version of her mother. They both smelled expensive, the mother of roses and the daughter of something sophisticated and they wore the most beautiful clothes that must have cost a fortune. I hid a sigh of envy as I glanced down at my own tidy but elderly workaday blouse and skirt.
‘Now then, Pamela.’ Mrs Peebles glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Another five minutes or so, then I must have a lie-down after the trai
n journey from Bromsgrove. So many changes and always a long wait at each station. We shall be comfortable here.’ She nodded to her fellow guest. ‘So pleasant to find a room each, too. I had expected to have to share but we’ll sleep easier in our own beds. I toss and turn, sadly; my dear husband always says I snore fit to wake the Devil himself!’ She laughed heartily, oblivious to Mrs Mortimer’s outraged expression. ‘Now, Miss Christabel, let me get this straight. I did look at your card but it’s upstairs. Dinner is served at a quarter to seven, I believe?’
I hastened to explain. ‘What we serve is sometimes more of a high tea but it doesn’t matter what you call it. We have followed the custom in the town and usually offer two courses only.’
‘It certainly is not what Ay was expecting.’ That was Mrs Mortimer, sticking her oar in. ‘Ay have always been accustomed to being served a decent, three course dinner in a lady’s house.’
‘That is our practice in normal circumstances.’ I kept my voice cool and polite. ‘However, these are not normal circumstances and, as we all know, the country is suffering from severe shortages and strict rationing, with more to come, no doubt. Our aim is to provide as much comfort as possible to our guests and as we cater only for ladies…’ (I had already learned that Mrs Mortimer objected strongly to the use of the word “women” – she said it was “common” – so to keep the peace I modified my language) ‘…we find that they do not object to the less formal meal. Besides,’ I added with a sanctimonious smile, ‘we must all make sacrifices, must we not? Remember that however many discomforts we suffer they are as nothing to those of our brave soldiers.’ And put that in your pipe and smoke it, I snarled inwardly.
‘Very true, dear, and Balmoral Lodge is most comfortable,’ soothed Mrs Peebles, squeezing a last few drops from her teapot. ‘Tell me about yourself and your sisters, won’t you?’ She lowered her voice and I braced myself. ‘I understand you have lost your brother,’ she said in moist sympathy and I gulped. ‘How old was he, dear?’
‘He and my elder sister, Alix, were twins,’ I found I could talk to her without the tears welling up. She was a warm, friendly woman and clearly meant to be kind. ‘Bertie was killed on their nineteenth birthday in November.’ I let her tut and sigh and continued. ‘I was eighteen in September…’
‘Good heavens,’ she cried, throwing up her hands. ‘November, September… you mean your poor Mother had three children in not much more than ten months? Well, I never…’
‘Such unseemly incontinence,’ sniffed Mrs Mortimer with her nose in the air. (I thought it was such an odd thing to say and later, when I looked it up in The Family Health Book I was none the wiser. I must remember to ask Granny sometime what that was all about.)
‘My sister Adelaide turned fifteen in January,’ I told Mrs Peebles, after which we had to explore the reason why I bore a suffragette name. ‘No,’ I explained, ‘Miss Pankhurst is not my godmother, but my mother is a great admirer of the suffragette movement.’ I didn’t mention that my mother had attended only one suffragette meeting in her entire life at which she had quarrelled with her hostess. Abstract causes are much more Mother’s style as she does not enjoy any kind of gathering or indeed talking to strangers. As for my name, Papa chose it from the Coleridge poem.
I certainly couldn’t face the excited outcry if Mrs Peebles discovered that we all have far more illustrious godparents than the famous suffragettes but they (our godparents) would probably prefer not to be reminded of us. It did occur to me, though, that I might casually mention them one day if I need to depress Mrs Mortimer’s pretensions.
Miss Judith Evershed arrived with no warning ten minutes after our other guests had officially gone to their rooms to prepare for the evening. Though the elder ladies would probably have forty winks I had no idea what Miss Peebles would do, as she was a singularly silent young person. I was rinsing out the tea things when the doorbell rang and there was Miss Judith Evershed, a short, angry-looking woman in her early thirties, with dark eyes and brown hair. She told me she was glad to find somewhere so close to Groom Hall.
‘My brother-in-law, Major Larking, is there,’ she said. ‘His wife, my elder sister died last October. Lord Larking, his father, is old and infirm, and his brother is at the War Office and far too important to interrupt his work, while his brother’s wife is busy with her large family. This has led my parents to decree that it is my duty to visit him, as they too are busy.’
She hoped to move in after luncheon the next day and I was about to take her upstairs to inspect the larger of our remaining rooms when I noticed that she looked extremely weary. I felt sorry for her and, with a glance at the clock, I sat her down in the drawing-room with a pot of tea and a slice of toast, though I could only offer margarine.
Offering tea (as an extra, of course) was all part of my cunning plan to take the edge off the ladies’ appetites in case dinner was looking thin on the ground at any time. As for the unappetising margarine, I’ve been wondering lately just how difficult it would be to keep a cow for the milk and butter. It could live in the stable that has been empty since we sold off Papa’s bay mare after he was lost in the Lusitania. Perhaps a sheep would be easier to manage? We’d kept an old spinning wheel that turned up amongst our late neighbour’s hoard so perhaps one of us could learn to spin. That might be useful.
(I dismissed the idea at once. I knew which of us would end up taking on that chore.)
‘This is so very kind of you,’ she said, with a slight wobble in her voice then she rallied and managed a smile. ‘I shouldn’t burden you with my troubles,’ she sighed, and proceeded to do so. Not that I minded as long as she didn’t make me late as I have often been accused of having an overly inquisitive nature.
‘Major Larking has two boys, both at boarding school and he could manage perfectly well with a competent housekeeper. However…’ Her face tightened. ‘The Family…’ (I could hear the capital letter), ‘tells me I must give up my position to go and keep house for him near here.’
‘What is your position, Miss Evershed?’ I was making polite conversation, but she was clearly dying to spill it all out so I listened to the whole story, keeping an eye on the drawing-room mantel clock while she did so.
‘I am a senior mistress at a girls’ high school in Buckinghamshire,’ she confided. ‘I teach languages and mathematics and I love my profession. I worked hard to obtain my present position and I have every hope of becoming a deputy headmistress in a few years. I have no domestic skills and will be driven mad with frustration and boredom if I have to be penned up inside a villa on the outskirts of Winchester.’
I could see that she was trembling with resentment and despair, so I put out a tentative hand to pat her arm.
‘Forgive me,’ I said. ‘Is this necessary from an economic point of view? Cannot the major afford to employ that competent housekeeper you suggest?’
‘Of course he can,’ she snorted. ‘The trouble is that I’m not sure I can resist the combined weight of his expectations, the extreme disapproval of my own family should I refuse, and the accusing stares from friends, acquaintances and indeed, the population at large. He is a war hero, you see,’ she finished between gritted teeth.
‘I see,’ I said sympathetically. And I did see. He was one of “our gallant wounded”, as the newspapers have it and for “one of our fair flower of womanhood” (newspapers again) to refuse outright to assist a hero in his hour of need was unthinkable. Not only that, while most girls of eighteen might assume that a school mistress would jump at the chance to escape the daily grind, I could see beyond that. Saint Mildred’s, where I and my sisters had suffered the inadequate and inept ministrations of the staff, was nothing like a modern high school. In such a place a girl like Addy with a thirst for learning could be taught by women whose mission it was to nurture such ambition. I sighed briefly and then I had a brilliant idea.
(Yes, I know; that’s two brilliant ideas in a month. The war brings out new sides to our characters and my forte, it app
ears, is to come up with the occasional brainwave.)
‘It might not be so bad,’ I said brightly. ‘You could become a private tutor and have girls come to the house. Plenty of parents don’t want their daughters to go to any kind of college, but they might welcome the chance to send them for one or two days a week, particularly as you teach languages. Everyone seems to want girls to speak French. There could also be girls like my sister Adelaide who is very clever but has long outrun the abilities of her school. She yearns to study medicine and I see no hope of her ever achieving that without better teaching.’ (Or a miraculous increase in our income.)
For a moment Miss Evershed brightened, as though she had seen a ray of hope, but soon her face darkened again.
‘You’re a kind girl, Miss Christabel,’ she said with a wan smile, adding, as I gestured to her, ‘Very well, Christabel it shall be. The trouble is that, inspired as your idea may be, I know full well that it won’t happen. “The very idea, to set herself up as a governess in her brother-in-law’s own home!” That’s what they’d all say.
‘I was sent abroad for a year to improve my French but that was acceptable because I stayed in a chateau with a noble family – the right kind of people. After that, my parents reluctantly agreed that I might attend university and live-in at St Hilda’s. It was a great concession but the college was near our family home in Oxford and they felt they could keep an eye on me. However, everyone absolutely hated it when a great-aunt left me a small legacy that allowed me to seize my independence. This is their chance to put me back in my cage.’
I felt even more sorry for Miss Evershed when Addy wandered in to the lodgers’ drawing-room, looking for me. I introduced them and asked my sister if she knew Major Larking as the name was unfamiliar to me.
‘Oh, no.’ She stared at our newest lodger in frank dismay. ‘How awful for you.’ She turned to me, making a face. ‘There are only two majors up there at the moment and the other one is Mrs Peebles’s husband. You must remember Major Larking, Christy. He’s the one with only one arm and that nasty brilliantine that reeks of lavender. He’s horrible.’
