‘Oh, I nearly forgot the reason for my coming in the first place.’ He paused in the act of opening the front door and turned to look at her again. ‘Heavy snow is forecast late tomorrow and over the next few days, so I called by to see if you were agreeable to leaving tomorrow morning instead of Monday. But don’t worry now; with all that’s happened, we’ll keep to the original plan.’
Sarah glanced towards the sitting-room door before she said, ‘I think I need to stay and have a good talk with her tomorrow, but I can easily go back on the train. Please, you go tomorrow if you’re worried, I understand perfectly.’
‘No, we’ll go Monday.’ It was definite.
The snow was already an inch or two thick when Rodney opened the front door, although the snowflakes had diminished to a desultory flutter, and as Rodney stood on the doorstep he pulled up the collar of his thick black overcoat which emphasized the height and breadth of his tall lean frame. Sarah caught a whiff of the smell of him - a mixture of aftershave and antiseptic and something which was wholly his and very pleasing - and it caused a funny little quiver in her stomach before she could control herself.
He was so handsome. She caught the thought, stuffing it back into her subconscious before she had time to dwell on it, and answering his goodbye with a smile before he turned from her and stepped down onto the white pavement.
She stood on the doorstep watching him as he walked down the street, his footsteps making large indentations in the unspoilt frosted pearl of the new snow, and his big dark figure turning the scene into a monochrome of black and white.
He turned once as he reached the corner, raising his hand and waving, before he disappeared out of sight, but Sarah continued to stand there in the quiet of the deserted night. It was freezing hard. The thought came from nowhere and was a surface comment to the million and one thoughts below. But then it always froze hard in these parts. Raw winds, snow, ice, gales. Perhaps that was why the people who lived here were so tough and resilient? Her people . . .
Sarah found her gaze lifting, swinging out above the white rooftops as it searched the night, and she allowed free rein to the thoughts that had been with her all evening since Willie’s attack. Her mother was out there somewhere, living, breathing, possibly even looking at the same northern sky this very minute. Sarah was sure she was still alive, she had to be, but the war had taken so many lives in these parts . . . She pushed the thought from her. No, her mother was alive, she knew it, felt it, she wouldn’t believe anything else.
‘The doctor gone then?’
Sarah nearly jumped out of her skin as Maggie’s voice sounded right behind her, but she turned with a smile as she said, ‘No, he’s in my pocket.’
‘Less of your cheek.’ Maggie grinned at her, her fat face all wrinkles and lines, but her eyes were thoughtful as they took in Sarah’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes. ‘You’ve took your time out here,’ she said easily, but still with her gaze tight on Sarah’s face. ‘Bin talkin’, have you?’
‘A bit.’
‘Oh aye? He told you he come round ’cos he was worried about the forecast then?’
‘Yes, but we’ve decided to go back Monday as arranged because of Rebecca. I said I’d go back on the train if he wanted to go earlier, but he said he could wait.’
There could be trouble brewing here. Maggie’s mind was racing under her bland exterior. At her age she recognized the signs even if her lass didn’t. Sarah liked him, she liked him a darn sight too much, and the lad wasn’t interested, not from what she’d seen of him with her anyway. Oh, he was pleasant enough, solicitous about her welfare and all, but he treated the lass in the same way a dutch uncle would, kindly, considerately.
As Sarah brushed past her into the house, Maggie said, ‘Well, you do as you think best, lass, but he’s a busy man, perhaps he needs to get back, eh? With his own practice an’ all, an’ all his social engagements . . .’
She doubted if Sarah even heard her.
Rodney found he was whistling to himself as he walked along in a world that seemed reborn and transparently beautiful. The sound surprised him, he couldn’t remember whistling for a long long time. Perhaps it was the snow? He stopped, breathing in deep lungfuls of the icy cold air before walking on again. The snow was usually an enemy, ten to one he would be battling through it at the dead of night in answer to some urgent call, but tonight the silent silvery vista was enchanting, transforming the grim northern landscape.
He smiled deprecatingly at himself. This evening made him think of times past, when he and Richard had been young and had prayed earnestly for weeks beforehand for a white Christmas. They had always dressed the tree together as a surprise for their father when he came home from the surgery, although no doubt the box of shiny coloured balls and tinsel, and the packets of white sugar mice that their mother bought a day or so in advance, had provided something of a clue.
He had had a good childhood, he thought now, solid, secure. Richard’s four years’ seniority had manifested itself in a protective, rather than authoritarian attitude, and he couldn’t remember them ever arguing, although of course they must have done. The thought of Richard brought Vanessa into his mind, and the tranquillity of the night was spoilt causing him to click his tongue irritably at himself. But tonight there was no rush of adrenalin or stirring in his loins, rather a vague feeling of dissatisfaction.
What a difference there was between Vanessa and the bright, freshfaced girl he had just left. He filled his lungs again, noticing the sky was clearing fast and there was the odd twinkling star between the snow clouds. One was cool sophistication and brittle elegance, with an edge that was scalpel sharp, and the other? The other was warm and generous and quite breathtakingly lovely . . .
The way his thoughts had gone shocked him and he stopped abruptly, drawing the breath in through his teeth in a low hiss. Enough of that, what the hell was he thinking of anyway? The girl was young enough to be his daughter, and if she thought of him at all it was in that context.
But she was beautiful, and with a spirit to match. He would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when she gave that excuse for a man such a dressing down - that was before he took the opportunity to hit Willie Dalton square on the nose, of course. How had Rebecca ever got mixed up with such a type anyway? And then he shook his head at himself. How could he, of all people, ask that? If anyone knew about the sticky threads of fate, it was him.
He had been walking steadily, the road inclining upwards slightly, and now he stopped, turning and glancing back over the streets and houses wrapped snugly in their blanket of white, the odd uncurtained window here and there providing squares of warmth in the wintery scene.
But it was up to him to untangle those threads and make a clean break. Look at Sarah - she had defied all the odds to make something of herself and follow her own star, so how could he continue to whine and whinge to himself about something that had always been within his power to control? His shoulders went back slightly.
He had never expected to survive that hellhole of a camp, but he had, unlike many of the poor blighters who had been incarcerated with him. He was thirty-eight years old; that meant he still had a good thirty or forty years of useful productive life in front of him.
He turned and continued walking again, his footsteps crunching on the glazed surface of the snow. It was up to him what he did with that time, but by heavens - he breathed deeply, enjoying the feel of the crisp air in a way he hadn’t done for years - he was damned if he was going to waste it.
Chapter Twelve
‘And you say she’s staying with Maggie and Florrie now?’ Hilda was cooking sausages and onions as she listened with avid interest to Sarah relating the events of the weekend first thing on Tuesday morning.
Sarah nodded. ‘They’re going to the solicitor this morning while the bruise on her face is still visible.’ She had been sparing in what she had told Hilda, merely mentioning that Willie could be violent on occasion.
‘Strike while the
iron’s hot.’ Hilda was in full agreement. ‘Talking of which . . .’ She put down the heavy copper frying pan she was holding and moved closer to Sarah, who was having a cup of tea at the kitchen table, and said, ‘His nibs was here over the weekend while you were gone, bold as brass and twice as shiny.’
‘Sir Geoffrey?’
‘The very same. Apparently it had to do with the separation Lady Margaret has asked for. I don’t think he thought she would go so far as to make it official. Anyway, Lady Harris showed him the door sharpish and he went off with a flea in his ear. It looks like Lady Margaret is serious about not having him back.’
Sarah nodded. It wasn’t news to her; Lady Margaret had indicated her intentions during the increasingly frank talks they had enjoyed over the last few weeks.
‘I had to put Eileen in her place about it all, by the way.’ Eileen was Peggy’s replacement, a pert fifteen-year-old who had an answer for everything but who, nevertheless, did half the amount of work and took twice as long as Peggy had done. ‘She’s far too nosy by half, that one,’ Hilda continued, drawing her chin down into her neck disapprovingly. ‘Always asking about this, that and the other.’
‘She’s not like Peggy,’ Sarah agreed quietly, rising from the table and brushing a few crumbs of toast from her dress. She was glad Peggy was settled and happy. The Cole family were all very fond of her and the son of the house, young Michael as Rodney referred to him, seemed to have taken the new lodger under his wing. She had met Michael once, on her last visit to the house the day before she had left for Sunderland, and had found him to be a tall, surprisingly shy and sweet sixteen-year-old, with a gentle face and quiet manner. Perfect for Peggy, she thought now, as she left the kitchen to begin the day’s work.
It was later that morning, as Lady Harris was finalizing the arrangements for the Christmas break, the family having decided to spend some weeks at Fenwick, that her employer mentioned Sir Geoffrey’s visit.
‘In view of recent developments which I’m sure Hilda’s already informed you about’ - Lady Harris smiled, she knew her cook’s indulgence for gossip - ‘I’ve taken the precaution of having the locksmith call yesterday. You and Eileen will be here alone for some weeks and I would prefer to know the house is secure.’ The old lady rose, walking quickly across to the bureau and taking a lavender-coloured envelope from one of the drawers, before returning to Sarah and handing it to her. ‘This is your new set of keys, my dear. I have one, along with Lady Margaret. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, Lady Harris.’ What had it cost her to lock her son out of her house and her life? Sarah asked herself as she looked down at the envelope. This same son who had, until a few weeks ago, been everything to her. Her thoughts made her voice soft as she said, ‘Is that all?’
‘For now. However, once lunch is over I am sure Lady Margaret would like you to supervise the packing of the children’s trunks, and possibly her own. I understand Eileen has everything ready.’
Sarah nodded. It was going to be strange to have the house all to herself - or almost all to herself, she corrected silently. Eileen would still be around, but she had nothing in common with the young maid, who had none of Peggy’s natural warmth and amiableness.
The family departed for the country on the seventeenth of December, and Sarah went for an interview at the hospital the following day in answer to the advertisement for voluntary workers. She was eagerly snatched up for the current rota. Could she please start that evening as they were so short of helpers due to the influenza outbreak? And so she found the next few days leading up to Christmas were full and busy.
She spent the whole day on both the twentieth and twenty-first, the Saturday and Sunday, working on the children’s ward, feeding the babies their bottles and the toddlers their food, reading to them, playing endless games and getting the smaller ones to sleep when they were fractious, and by the end of Sunday evening she couldn’t remember when she had felt so tired. But content. Content and fulfilled.
She received a letter from Maggie and Florrie on the Monday morning. Both women were averse to using the public telephone situated at the end of the street, being extremely distrustful of what they considered an unfathomable invention, and consequently had communicated only by letter since Sarah had been in London. The letter informed her that Willie had been round to see Rebecca, cap in hand, and Florrie had stopped him coming over the doorstep.
Sarah didn’t trust the cap-in-hand approach any more than Maggie and Florrie appeared to, and she nodded in approval as she read that Willie had been given short shrift.
They added that they had heard from Maud, who’d got it from her sister, that Matron Cox had gone to live with relations down Scarborough way, and was out of the picture so to speak. So, Sarah wasn’t to worry about anything but enjoy her Christmas, and they’d see her in the new year as soon as she was able to pay them another visit.
The Tuesday post brought a carefully worded letter from Rebecca that said very little beyond that Willie had called but Florrie hadn’t let him into the house. Sarah read Rebecca’s letter through twice, then sat down immediately and wrote to her friend telling her to be strong and to stick to her guns. Willie was dangerous, very dangerous, and never more so than when he tried the soft-soap approach. That was how he had got Rebecca in the first place.
She spent the rest of that day making trays of sweets for the children at the hospital with the last of the extra Christmas rations in Hilda’s cupboard. Rodney hadn’t called her. At four o’clock, when the sky outside was a sombre grey and all the sweets were parcelled up with shiny paper, she acknowledged the disappointment she had been keeping at bay for the last few days. He hadn’t called her. Not that she had expected him to, she told herself fiercely. She hadn’t, not really, not at the bottom of her. But it would have been nice, that was all. She’d enjoyed the drive back down to London when they had chatted about this and that, and she thought he had; but, as Maggie had taken great pains to point out several times on that Sunday just over a week ago, he was a busy man, an influential man, and no doubt his social life matched his hectic working life. No doubt.
At six o’clock the telephone rang as Sarah was watering the plants in the drawing room, and when she lifted the receiver and heard Rodney’s voice saying, ‘Hallo? I would like to speak to Miss Brown please,’ she suddenly found she needed to sit down.
‘This is me - I mean, it’s Sarah.’ She took a deep breath. She sounded like a babbling idiot.
‘Sarah? It’s Rodney, Rodney Mallard. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, and you?’
‘Overworked and underpaid, this outbreak of influenza is playing havoc with my beauty sleep. Sarah, I was called to the Coles’ last night, the old lady isn’t too good, and I saw that young girl, Peggy is it? while I was there. She tells me the family are away in the country and it’s just you and the new maid there for Christmas lunch, is that right?’
‘Not exactly.’ She paused, willing her voice to sound natural as she said, ‘Eileen is going home for a couple of days, actually. I told her she could as I shall probably be at the hospital for most of the time anyway.’
‘Hospital?’
‘Oh, just some voluntary work I’m doing,’ she said quickly.
‘You’re doing voluntary work at the hospital?’
She didn’t know why he sounded so surprised - hundreds of people did the same sort of thing all the time. She found she didn’t like his reaction and her voice reflected this when she said, ‘There’s nothing unusual about that, is there?’
‘No, no.’ There was a pause, and then, ‘Well yes, actually, I mean for a girl of your age. Don’t you want to go to the cinema, to dances, things like that, with any free time you have?’
‘I can still do that if I want to.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Another pause and then he said, ‘About Christmas lunch, I wondered if you’d like to spend the day with me, actually. There is a little party on at my brother’s, they always have one on Christm
as Day, and I’ve already mentioned you. They would love you to come if you’re free.’
She moved the phone away from her ear, staring at it for a moment before she returned it to her face and said, ‘Oh, I couldn’t. I mean it’s very kind of you, but I couldn’t impose like that—’
‘Impose?’ He interrupted her before she had the chance to say any more. ‘You won’t be imposing, I do assure you. Richard and Vanessa are having fifteen or sixteen to dinner at the last count, the more the merrier as far as they are concerned.’
‘But . . . but I couldn’t . . .’
Alone Beneath The Heaven Page 19