“This will be it, you know,” Gwendoline sputtered, glancing back over the farm. “After this there will be no more going back. Whether he’s put in prison or not, it’s the end of our marriage.”
“The best thing for it! You shouldn’t have put up with it for so long, Gwen.”
“I was afraid of him—still am. It wouldn’t surprise me if a few people have ‘disappeared’ under his watch. I don’t want to be the next.”
Their eyes met, a full understanding of the situation—of what kind of a man Sir Strickland really was—seemed to dawn on Audrey. “So, he’s not just a black marketeer, is he? He’s a full-blown criminal.” She went pale. “We have to help the police put him away. Don’t you see how dangerous it could be for you?”
A little shiver of fear ran up Gwendoline’s spine. “But what happens if they let him go? What if he truly is above the law?”
Audrey patted the account book. “We go to newspapers. They would love to know what’s in this book, and then the police will have to do something.”
“I just wish we didn’t have to go this far.” Gwendoline let out a huff of frustration, then added in a small voice, “I’ll be ruining my own reputation as well. I’ll be the former wife of a criminal.”
“No one will accuse you of anything, Gwen; especially since you’re the one who’s handing over the evidence. The women in the village loathe him.”
“They hate me, too.” Gwendoline’s heart sank. “I wasn’t always terribly pleasant to them.” Memories of her arrogance and little put-downs cascaded into her mind. “Reggie told me I was too good for them, and I chose to believe it. Now I can see that it was just easier for him if I wasn’t friends with the local women.”
“Once they know the whole story, I’m sure they’ll come around.”
But Gwendoline had realized with a tremendous thud inside that the things she had been striving for—the status and social success—were all for nothing. She was back at square one.
She sank to the ground.
Audrey sat down beside her.
“It’ll be all right. Just give it a bit of time, and you’ll see. Busy yourself with the cooking contest. You could still win.”
“You’re the cook, Aude. That’s your talent, your skill. I can’t compete with you.”
“But what about your other skills? You’re very good at running a business.”
She shrugged. “Reggie never let me get involved, but I suppose I learned a few things by observing.”
Audrey got up, pulling Gwendoline up beside her. “You’ll see. Sir Strickland and all of this”—she tapped the book—“will be a thing of the past.”
“But I don’t know how I’m going to get through it.”
“Sometimes things seem to drown us. When Matthew died, I thought it was the end of everything, but then one day becomes a week, and then a month, and slowly you begin to get on with life. The world readjusts around you, and you find new skills and talents you never knew you had.”
“What did you find?”
“I found that contentment—happiness even—comes in all kinds of ways. Sometimes you shouldn’t wait for things to be perfect. You just need to enjoy the small things, every little moment that makes you smile.” She leaned back, looking down over the village from the hill—down to their home, Zelda in the garden gathering vegetables for the Cornish pasties. “I also discovered that it’s all right to admit that you can’t do everything, to accept help from friends.” She grinned. “And sisters, too.”
With a little hesitation, she reached out her hand and took Gwendoline’s, and the pair of them set off down the hill to Willow Lodge, just as they had so many years before.
Nell was in the kitchen waiting for them with tea made from the old tea leaves in the pot—tea rations equated to only three normal cups a day, followed by progressively weaker ones.
“Did you get the account book?”
Gwendoline flopped the book out of the bag onto the table. “It was right there, exactly where you said it would be. Let’s see whether it has what we need.”
They sat down around it, Gwendoline flipping open the front. It looked like any ordinary accounts book.
But then the figures began to paint a picture.
“Look, a ton of grain to M. Harwich.”
“And here, forty-eight fresh eggs sold to Frank Fisk.”
The door banged open, and they all flew around in panic.
But it was Zelda, carrying a bunch of carrots. “I know Frank Fisk,” she said as she sat down. “He’s a black marketeer in Middleton.”
“Frank Fisk is doing quite a business with Fenley Farm.” Gwendoline glanced back at the book. “As are Fred Bains, M. Harwich, and someone simply called Pete.” She flipped over a few pages. “Look, a few rows don’t have names, here at the bottom. Given the amount of meat and game I’d say this was for the household at Fenley Hall.” She passed it over to Nell to verify.
“A whole pig last month—that would be for the large dinner party, where some men from the Ministry of Defense came to discuss troop food contracts.” Nell raised an eyebrow. “Mrs. Quince always said he’d be caught sooner or later.”
Gwendoline pursed her lips. “I’ll telephone my demonstration superior at the Ministry of Food, take the book up to show them.” She paused, feeling her heart pounding with the sheer weight of what she was proposing. “I’ve never done something like this,” she murmured. “I know it’s only fair, but it feels such a massive step—a step that I can never take back. It’s so disloyal.”
Audrey went pale. “But he was never loyal to you, Gwen? He’d do anything to stop you from living a normal life without him. Even if we somehow find a way to pay back his loan, he’ll find some other way to grind you down; and failing that, he might even try to make you disappear.”
They watched Gwendoline for a moment, her hand slowly going to her throat, her soft fingers lightly touching the bruises.
Audrey was right. Her departure was an embarrassment for him. If she couldn’t be coerced to go back to him of her own accord, he would start to force her hand—perhaps the repossession of the house where she lived was the first of such measures, destined to become progressively worse. Did she want to spend the rest of her life running?
Suddenly she stood up. “Let’s do it. I’ll never get him away from us otherwise.”
Zelda got up beside her. “Bravo, Gwendoline. I’m with you.”
“And so am I,” Nell said. “Surely a group of four women is far more powerful than one man.”
“Hear, hear!” Audrey stood up alongside them, raising her teacup. “Here’s to us, the four friends.”
And as one, they brought their teacups into the middle of the table with a collective cheer.
“To the four friends.”
Nell
Nell, Gwendoline, and Zelda sat in a row in the train carriage, each wearing their best clothes—or some borrowed from Gwendoline. In a prim, blue skirt suit, Nell felt herself sitting taller, more self-assured. Her presence was needed so that she could testify about the use of the pig and so forth in the hall kitchen, Zelda’s was to explain how the factory rules were being ignored. Audrey had stayed at home to look after the boys and keep up with the pie orders.
They’d set off early, the trains being so immensely unreliable due to the movement of troops and equipment, and they sat impatiently as the train stopped for a whole hour at one station, waiting for a long troop train to pass on its way to the coast. Inside, new recruits—lads of just eighteen—waved cheerily to them from carriage windows. They could be heading to places they’d never imagined—the deserts of North Africa or the embattled island of Malta—to experience the horrors of the Nazi war machine firsthand.
At last, the train drew into Charing Cross Station, and they walked together through Trafalgar Square, the usual buses and c
ars interspersed with military vehicles and trucks. The pavement was hectic with pedestrians, many of them in uniform, no one dallying. War, the bombing raids, and a shortage of office workers meant long, busy hours. As they headed down Parliament Street, a bombed Victorian terrace had a craggy hole, the insides disintegrating under the elements. So many beautiful old buildings destroyed as randomly as pins in a bowling game. London would never be the same.
The Ministry of Food was located in one of the imposing ministry buildings in Westminster.
“Do you think Mr. Churchill is in one of these buildings?” Nell murmured as they entered the grand vestibule. “I think I can smell cigar smoke.”
“He has special underground war cabinet rooms somewhere,” Gwendoline said. “I’ve heard he works all hours. They even installed a bathroom for him as he insists on taking a bath several times a day.”
They hurried to the reception desk, where a bespectacled middle-aged woman pompously led them up the grand central staircase, then down a corridor to an ornate meeting room. Before them lay a long mahogany table, the smell of polish heavy in the air. They were directed to take seats at one end, and each of them perched nervously on the red velvet upholstery.
“What are we supposed to do?” Nell whispered to Gwendoline.
“We have to wait and see who they’ve invited to the meeting. By the number of chairs, we might have caused a bit of a stir.” She pulled the black accounts book out of her bag, sliding it onto the table in front of her.
The door opened, and several suited men came in speaking in low voices among themselves. One strode up to Gwendoline, a smile on his face. “Lady Strickland, how good of you to come.”
She returned his smile, polite yet businesslike. “Thank you, Mr. Alloway. I felt it my duty.”
One by one, she introduced him to the others, and then he introduced them to the men around the room. The first three were from the Ministry of Agriculture, another two from the Ministry of Food.
“It seems there is already a file open on Sir Strickland,” Mr. Alloway said as he introduced her to the other two gentlemen. The first was an officer from an enforcement bureau, which had been set up to investigate black-market crimes, and ominously, the other was a senior police detective from Scotland Yard.
They took their seats, and Mr. Alloway took out a folder. “Right, let’s begin, shall we?”
Gwendoline was called upon to explain what she knew of Sir Strickland’s business practices, of the farm management, and the abuse of his position as Ministry of Agriculture regional officer.
“He runs a two-book account system. As he is the regional officer, he can make sure that the Ministry of Agriculture checks are done by his personal assistants. He signs off on his own farms, knowing that they’re breaking the rules.” Her hands went to the book. “And this is the accounts book containing evidence of produce going to the black marketeers as well as to his own estate. Miss Nell Brown was the kitchen maid at Fenley Hall until very recently. She can attest that these items were cooked and consumed on his estate.”
Mr. Alloway wrote something down and looked at Nell. “Would you, Miss Brown, explain how the black-market goods were used within Sir Strickland’s home?”
All eyes were upon Nell.
She cowered back, her shoulders hunched, fear freezing her throat, her mouth, her words.
Gwendoline leaned over and whispered, “They want to hear what you say, Nell. It’s important. Your voice is just as valuable as everyone else’s.”
Dizziness seemed to come over her. She whispered furiously back at Gwendoline, “I can’t do it. Look at them!”
“But you’re important, Nell. You’re crucial,” Gwendoline said. “We’re all in this together, and we have to tell the authorities. The rationing system is in place for everyone’s health and safety. Sir Strickland is a danger to this country.”
Nell’s face creased in thought. “I remember overhearing him in the dining room. I remember—”
She broke off, taking a deep breath and addressing the room. “Sir Strickland’s favorite expression is ‘Rules are for fools.’ I’ve overheard him saying it time and time again—we all have.” Nell spoke up, sitting forward. “Every weekday we cooked the finest ingredients and were told to ignore the rations. Our food came fresh from the farm and some came from big stores in London, like Harrods or Fortnum & Mason. But a lot came from other more anonymous places, too. Very often, plain delivery vans would drop off boxes with deliveries of meat or seafood, French cheeses, or Burgundy wines in nameless caskets. At the weekends, he would entertain, and we had vast joints of meat delivered. I remember once we had boeuf en croute with the longest, most tender fillet I’ve ever seen. Another time a dozen specially aged steaks were delivered by hand. The whole pig spit roasted was enough to feed a banquet of twenty, but it was served to only six.”
The men listened, some frowning or nodding, others writing notes.
“Did you ever hear of any reason why the rations were not being adhered to as usual?” one of the men from the Ministry of Food asked.
“We were told that it was all part of Sir Strickland’s crucial business and government meetings. Our role was to cook, not to ask questions.”
“Thank you, Miss Brown.”
The meeting went on, and each of the women was asked what their dealings with Sir Strickland had been, how they had witnessed his abuse of the system. Zelda spoke eloquently on the way the factory was run, the priority on profits, not safety, the manager a family friend whose father handled government food contracts.
Shuffling came from the men. This wasn’t just a case of a few isolated incidents. This disregard for the law ran throughout Sir Strickland’s operations.
“This paints a dismal picture,” Mr. Alloway said. “You’re suggesting that Sir Strickland has a pattern of deliberate manipulation and disregard for the law.”
Another of the men said, “It certainly adds to the case we already have.”
Mr. Alloway looked gravely from his notes to one of the other men at the table, who gave the nod to go ahead. “I think we have enough evidence here to pass this matter on to the criminal investigators at Scotland Yard. Once we have him in custody, he’ll have to allow access to business and personal accounts, and the ministry can decide how to prosecute.”
Relief surged through Nell. They’d done it.
Gwendoline was already out of her seat and striding over to Mr. Alloway. “Thank you,” she said. “It wasn’t an easy decision, but we felt it was right.”
Mr. Alloway nodded. “I imagine it was hard, but you have to realize that these investigations were already under way. All you did was speed it up a little, especially with this accounts book.” He put his hand on the book. “He was always going to end up behind bars, believe me.”
After the initial jubilation as they dashed through the crowds back to the station, as they collapsed into the train home, they settled into a more reflective mood.
“I’m glad that we did it, but I can’t help wishing he hadn’t put us in the position in the first place,” Nell said.
Gwendoline was sitting beside her. “It would never have crossed his mind that we would do such a thing. I hate to say it, but he doesn’t think much of women.”
Zelda let out a laugh. “Well, he’s due to get a nasty shock, then, isn’t he?”
They couldn’t wait to get back to Willow Lodge.
“Audrey will be so pleased it’s all over,” Nell murmured as they walked back from the station.
But when they burst in, desperate to share their news, all they found was Audrey, sitting at the kitchen table, tears running down her face.
Nell rushed to sit beside her.
“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
She lifted her head, her eyes looking anxiously into Nell’s.
“It’s Mrs. Quince. We
’d better get you to the hospital.”
Nell
Death was something that Nell knew well. At the orphanage, diphtheria, tuberculosis, and other diseases struck regularly; a nasty bout of influenza rapidly took five one March. “The March of the Dead” they’d called it.
She knew what death meant. She knew the gut-wrenching stab when someone was gone, never to return. But the painful reality of Mrs. Quince lying close to death was simply too hard for her to grasp.
How can life go on without her in it?
Nell trod softly into the hospital ward. Mrs. Quince had been moved into a quiet, darkened one. On one side, a row of women injured by the bombing raids lay on parallel beds, a harsh reminder of the price of this war, the first to impact civilians in the same way as soldiers on the front line: injury and death. As she looked at the white-bandaged arms, legs, and heads, Nell wondered what it was all for, innocent women being maimed and murdered by men in planes dropping bombs onto cities. How callous! Was exchanging deaths the only answer?
Mrs. Quince’s bed was at the end on the left.
Nell drew breath. Mrs. Quince was asleep, and Nell hadn’t been ready to see her like this, pale, her face relaxed so much it had lost its form, its life. Her mouth had fallen into an open frown, her usually sparkling eyes closed.
“Sit down,” the nurse said, bringing up a chair. “I’ll wake her up for you.” Gently, she pressed her shoulder. “Mrs. Quince, there’s someone here to see you.”
As the old woman’s eyes began to flutter open, the nurse gave her a sad smile and silently left them to be alone.
A lump as hard as a nutmeg grew in Nell’s throat, a thronging pain making her wince both inside and out.
It took a few minutes for the old woman to wake up properly, but when she saw Nell, a frail smile came to her face. “Nell, dear, don’t be sad now. I’ve had a good, long life.” Her voice was shaky and weak, but there was that same contentment that she had in life, that same certainty and solidity.
“It’s not time for you to go, Mrs. Quince. You’re not ready—I’m not ready. I need you.”
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