Daisychain Summer

  ‘Let’s hope so. And I must leave you, Helen. Got packing still to see to. And thanks for the offer of a bed, at Montpelier Mews. If Julia doesn’t want to go down for the wedding, I’d like to stay there. Check it out with her, then let me know?’ She kissed Helen warmly. ‘See you before we leave.’

  Helen was smiling, long after Amelia had departed on a gust of high spirits. She could not help but like Albert’s wife; so honest and fair and frank; so genuinely grateful for her happiness.

  She drained her half-empty cup. Gone cold, of course, which was only to be expected since Amelia had dropped if not her bombshell, then an extremely splashy pebble, into the pond of British respectability.

  Surely the prince could not, would not, be so foolish as to get himself into the American papers? He couldn’t be that indiscreet; not with a divorcee?

  Yet Amelia did not lie. She was, truth known, not a little worried herself about the gossip the articles were causing in Kentucky. And surely newspapers did not print things which were not true – or had at least a modicum of truth in them?

  But the American lady was only a fling, surely? And soon, just as suddenly as the beautiful Marina had entered the life of Prince George, then so would some suitable foreign princess be found for the Prince of Wales. And there would be yet another bride and another wedding to gossip about!

  29

  The summer of ’thirty-four had seemed golden with hope, yet by the year end Helen Sutton had reason to look back on it with unease. What left her vaguely agitated was the murder of Herr Dollfuss – for murder it was and the Austrian Nazi party implicated in it – and the assassination of the King of Jugoslavia, a killing which awakened long-ago memories of a Sarajevo twenty years past. And Europe thrown into madness because of it.

  There had, though, been the marriage of the beautiful Marina to the newly-created Duke of Kent, then that of his brother Prince Henry to the daughter of a Scottish duke. The weddings gladdened women’s hearts including that of Amelia – she whose frank warnings of a royal scandal to come were already taking substance.

  Now, newspaper editors had flung discretion aside; now Fleet Street confirmed what was already common knowledge in America and whispered asides amongst London society. The Prince of Wales and his American friend had indeed holidayed together at Biarritz and without a chaperon!

  Then blatantly following Biarritz, the Prince and his companion embarked upon a cruise with the Press of the world waiting at every port of call like hounds scenting blood. Gossip had it that Queen Mary despaired of her son’s behaviour and would not have That Lady’s name mentioned, and the King said his son’s goings-on would be the death of him!

  Only gossip, mind, but the world and his wife were talking about it. How soon, Cook asked of Miss Clitherow, before King George put his foot down? Such carryings-on were not acceptable, with That One a married woman and her husband being made a fool of because, mark Cook’s words, there was no smoke without fire!

  ‘Strange that none of it seems to have reached the Prime Minister’s ears,’ Miss Clitherow’s mouth rounded into a moue of disapproval. ‘But Mr Baldwin won’t be able to ignore the gossip, once it’s in the newspapers. We can only hope their majesties have some suitable lady in mind for the Prince and meantime they’re letting him have his fling. Frankly, Cook, I’m just as worried about that Mr Hitler.

  ‘And is Hider his real name, I ask myself. I did read it is really Schicklgruber. Talk has it he’s illegitimate!’

  ‘Wouldn’t surprise me one bit,’ Mrs Shaw sighed. ‘With that funny moustache, what else can you expect? He’s the image of Charlie Chaplin and nowhere near as funny!’

  ‘Then more’s the pity. The Germans are getting arrogant again and Hitler is encouraging them. Lady Helen is worried about it too, if you ask me!’

  ‘Then what say I pop down to the kitchen and bring us up a pot of tea?’ Cook enjoyed a cup of tea in the privacy of the housekeeper’s sitting room. A cup of Sutton Premier tea was a soother and, when all else failed, the answer to unanswerable problems and the most enduring thing in a rapidly unenduring world.

  Yet still there was Rowangarth. Rowangarth would always be there and a Sutton in it to take care of them all. No matter what, Cook decided firmly as she pushed the kettle further into the hot coals, Rowangarth would endure.

  ‘Mother! You are not to upset yourself! And you are upset. Whose worries have you taken on board, now?’

  ‘Sorry, Julia. Can’t help it, though. Spain on the brink of civil war; that fat Mussolini threatening Abyssinia and Hitler encouraging him; Germany re-arming, though they were forbidden at the Armistice to do so!

  ‘And now they are sending soldiers to the Rhineland – right on the border with France. I tell you, Hitler will be wanting Alsace and Lorraine back, before so very much longer. And now that dreadful Zeppelin!’

  ‘But dearest – so many good things have happened, too. The King well again, and the Silver Jubilee next year.’ Holdenby planned to celebrate the Jubilee in great style. ‘And – and –’

  ‘Tell me – what else?’

  ‘We-e-ll – there were the royal weddings, don’t forget.’

  ‘But I have – forgotten them, I mean. Long ago. I’m more concerned with the Prince of Wales and his wedding. Imagine! Holding hands in public with that woman! What is Mr Simpson thinking of to allow it? And as for that newspaper photograph of the two of them on holiday – she in a bathing costume and the Prince in a pair of shorts, and nothing else!’

  ‘Got skinny legs, hasn’t he?’ Julia grinned.

  ‘His legs have nothing to do with it. Frolicking half over Europe has! And all the time Amelia was right. There is something going on between the Prince and that woman and we are being spied upon by Germany! Why else would that Zeppelin of theirs fly over us? Checking up on the new aerodrome, I shouldn’t wonder!’

  ‘Probably just flying, mother – showing the flag, sort of. Germany has been on its knees since the Armistice. It’s understandable they might want to sabre-rattle a little.’

  ‘That airship was spying. Will Stubbs saw a swastika on its tail!’

  ‘Will was probably romancing, as usual.’

  ‘No. He saw it and he saw the number on its side, too.’ Helen refused to be comforted or sidetracked. ‘LZ 129, he said it was. That monstrous thing was so low that he could see it. He couldn’t have made that up, now could he? Sinister, he said it was. Made him feel quite queer.’

  ‘Dearest.’ Julia cupped her mother’s face in gentle hands, whispering a kiss on her forehead. ‘You’re afraid there’ll be another war, aren’t you? You worry for Drew and the rest of the Clan. But think – peculiar little man that Hitler is, he isn’t so stupid as to start another fight with France and England, and risk America coming in again, too.

  ‘Russia, now that’s quite another thing altogether. Hider hates the Bolsheviks – Communists, you know – so let him take on Russia if he wants something for his soldiers to do. They’re a worse threat to him than we are. Germany won’t tangle with us again! Drew won’t go to war.’

  ‘You think not?’

  ‘I do, so stop frowning, dearest. It will give you wrinkles.’

  ‘I’m entitled to wrinkles, at seventy-two! But perhaps you are right, Julia. I do so want you to be right. I’m worrying too much, aren’t I?’

  ‘You are. That Zeppelin was nowhere near the RAF station and what the Prince of Wales gets up to – and Herr Hitler as well, for that matter – is no concern of ours.’

  ‘I suppose not. But the Prince is making a laughing stock of himself and of this country, too. And I can’t help worrying, just a little, about Germany.’ Anna was of same opinion, too, and truth known, Helen pondered, so was Julia if she would admit it. Oh, please God, no more wars …?

  ‘That photo, Tom, is disgraceful!’ Alice flung down the newspaper. ‘I don’t know what’s got into the Prince of Wales. Have you seen it – half naked, the pair of them!’

  ‘Course I have. Thin
as a rake, that Simpson woman is,’ Tom grinned. ‘Flat-chested as a lad. I wouldn’t look twice at her.’

  ‘An’ you’d better not! She’s common,’ Alice fumed, because that was not all she was bothered about, though the Prince’s behaviour had all at once become news and people could talk about little else. ‘And there’s something else – on the newsreel at the pictures. German soldiers, thousands of them, strutting and cheering and arrogant as they come. It made my blood run cold.’ Spoiled their evening out, her and Polly.

  ‘Don’t worry yourself, lass. Of course Hitler is re-arming Germany. Got to, hasn’t he? Promised them work, didn’t he, and their dignity back?’

  ‘We-e-ll …’ What Tom said made sense. There seemed to be no out-of-works in Germany – only here, in England. The Germans were all at once busy building warships and aeroplanes and guns. ‘Maybe he’s only doing what he thinks best.’

  ‘Aye. And setting men to work again, building good, straight roads all over Germany. Can’t blame him for providing jobs. Could do with a few less unemployed in this country, an’ all.’

  ‘So you don’t think it’ll come to fighting, Tom?’

  ‘I don’t, and anyway, I’m getting too old for the Army. There’d be a lot called up before me. And had you forgotten – I’m dead. They don’t conscript dead men.’

  ‘But you’re missing the point, Tom! If – just if – it happened again, it wouldn’t only be Drew and Keth who’d have to go. They’d take Daisy, too. They could conscript women, an’ all.’

  ‘Now you are talking nonsense! There’ll be no more galavanting to Creesby pictures if that’s the mood you’re going to come home in. Now say after me – There isn’t going to be any more war. Go on – say it!’

  ‘There won’t be a war,’ Alice whispered, eyes on her shoes. ‘There won’t be – will there?’

  ‘No love. No. And I’d go as far as to say you’d be better employed saving your worrying for Keth, and his exams. Now that is something worth bothering yourself about!’

  The dining table at Pendenys Place was always set for two, even though it was many weeks since Clementina and Edward had shared a meal at it. Indeed, it had become the habit of the parlourmaid to fill a plate and carry it up the spiralling stairs to the tower room in which the mistress spent most of her time. This evening, however, no tray left the dining room.

  ‘Have you forgotten Mrs Sutton?’ Edward asked of the butler.

  ‘Sir.’ Mullins bent nearer, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘Mrs Sutton sent a message she was not to be disturbed – not even for a tray. I understand that it’s a little stomach upset. I think madam intended going early to bed.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Edward covered his glass as more wine was offered. He drank little; lately, he drank even less. It was his conscience, he supposed. The more Clemmy drank the less he felt he ought to. Now she was unwell again though he knew it had more to do with brandy than an upset stomach.

  He wondered who was bringing it into the house for her. He had thought, more than once, of trying to trace its source, but there was no retailer in Holdenby and it would be near impossible to cover all the wine and spirit shops in Creesby, or even the public houses.

  Today was Thursday. Since Monday, Clemmy had not noticeably been unwell. Now she was indisposed, which meant that yesterday, when half the staff had an evening off, someone had brought a bottle – or bottles – back from Creesby.

  There were sixteen indoor servants in all, which meant it could have been any one of eight; any one of the staff, really, since time off was taken on alternate Wednesdays and Thursdays.

  But tonight, his suspicion must fall on one of those who had been into Creesby yesterday evening, though in whom to confide posed a problem since any of the eight could be the one to blame.

  There was only one thing to do. He pushed aside the plate that all at once held no interest for him. First, he would find the bottle and then he would ask – nay, demand of Clemmy – who had brought it into the house.

  He pushed back his chair, nodded his thanks as he left the room, then made for his wife’s bedroom.

  ‘Clemmy?’ he whispered.

  The light from the passage fell on the bed on which she lay, partly clothed, still, in a heavy sleep. Quietly, Edward pulled the door shut, then made for the almost hidden door that opened onto the staircase winding upwards for four floors.

  The tower, built by Clementina’s father to look like one he once saw in a Welsh castle, had been his worst vulgarity. Its stairs were of stone and would have been downright dangerous, had it not been for the sturdy rail, held to the wall by iron brackets. At each curve in the stairs, small narrow windows posed as arrow slits; it was all too theatrical, too dramatic to merit even indulgent amusement.

  At an iron-hinged door on the second floor Edward paused, pulling in his breath, despising himself. What he was doing smacked of listening at keyholes or steaming open letters. It was an ungentlemanly act, yet do it he must. Tonight, he had come to a crossroads and if his wife was ever to be helped back to health and sanity, it was now.

  The half-empty bottle he soon found, clumsily hidden. It bore no clue as to its origin, save that it was his wife’s favourite brandy and one which could be bought from any decent-class merchant in any town in any county.

  Sighing deeply, despairingly, he closed the door behind him, then placed the bottle on a side table in the library. The library would be the last place Clemmy would think of to look for it, tomorrow. Then he picked up the telephone.

  ‘Holdenby 102, if you please,’ he asked of the operator.

  Helen had just finished eating when Mary called her to the phone.

  ‘It’s Mr Edward, milady. And shall you take coffee in the small parlour?’

  ‘No. I think that since it is such a beautiful evening, I’ll have it in the conservatory, Mary. Hullo, Edward?’

  ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘I am. Julia is eating with Nathan, tonight. Do come over,’ she said gently, anticipating his request. ‘I was just about to have coffee. Don’t ring the doorbell – I’ll be in the conservatory. Come round the side.’

  ‘Bless you. Five minutes?’

  ‘I shall look forward to it.’ Frowning, she hung up the receiver, then called, ‘Mary?’

  ‘Milady?’ The parlourmaid turned.

  ‘Mary – could you hold coffee for about five minutes? I’ll ring when I want it. Mr Edward is coming over and –’

  ‘And an extra cup on the tray?’

  ‘Yes, please, and I don’t have to tell you, do I?’

  ‘No, milady. And sugar lumps.’ Mr Edward liked sugar lumps in his coffee.

  ‘Mary, what would I do without you?’ she smiled, though what Edward wanted to talk about that gave such an edge to his voice, such abruptness to his words, she hadn’t the least idea.

  Or had she? Was it Clemmy, whose behaviour was below-stairs talk not only in Pendenys and Rowangarth, but in many other places, public houses included, if secondhand gossip was to be given credit.

  She switched on the small, pink-shaded lamp, then settled to await her visitor. Today, this first day of April, promised that winter was gone. The sky had been high and wide and blue; primroses, violets and wild anemones – windflowers, they were called, hereabouts – peeped through on bank and hedgerow. Only yesterday she thought she had seen the flashing dart of a first swallow and wished on it, just in case. Now, the sudden chill of the evening reminded them all, and Young Catchpole in particular, to beware of a sudden rogue frost.

  Helen pulled her wrap around her and then, as she heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path outside, rang the bell, for coffee.

  ‘Not long to go, now,’ Daisy whispered.

  ‘Four weeks and two days.’ Keth linked his little finger with hers. ‘I’ll be glad when it’s all over.’

  The examination for University couldn’t come soon enough, for what lad of near eighteen was still kept by his mother?

  ‘Me, too. Not that I w
ant you to go, but –’

  ‘But the sooner I get there, the better I’ll be pleased.’ He would be twenty-two before it was all over and done with and he could begin to earn real money. At twenty-two, he brooded, most men had been earning for eight years – those who had jobs, that was. And at twenty-two, Dad had married Mum. ‘Will you get tired of waiting, Daisy?’

  ‘Waiting for what?’ She said it all hoity-toity, though she knew what he meant. But meaning something and saying it were very different and she wanted Keth to tell her he loved her. She had loved him ever since she could remember with a kind of happy love, though now she blushed whenever they met or, like now, when he twined her fingers in his.

  She was growing up; she had known it even before she and Mam had had their talk about things. She loved him differently, now, and she wanted him to kiss her. A lot of girls in her class had been kissed. It was quite nice, they said, if you liked the boy who kissed you. And she liked – loved – Keth, and one day they would be married, she was sure of it. She looked up, startled, as he touched her cheek.

  ‘You were miles away. What were you thinking about?’

  ‘Shall I tell you – really tell you?’ All at once her tongue ran away with her and she couldn’t stop it.

  ‘Okay – if you want.’

  ‘No!’ She felt her cheeks flame.

  ‘Tell me, sweetheart?’ He asked it softly, as if he had been able to read her thoughts and wanted her to say them out loud. And he had called her sweetheart, which made her blush more than ever because he had never called her sweetheart before.

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ she whispered, stopping in her tracks because they were almost at Keeper’s, and if he was going to kiss her, she didn’t want it to be spoiled because Dada might be standing at the window, waiting for her to get home.

  ‘Please?’ His voice was still low, yet different, somehow. ‘I want you to.’

  ‘If I do, you won’t laugh? And you won’t tell the boys, at school?’