by Tania Crosse
‘Anyway, I’d rather be here,’ Mandy went on wistfully. ‘It’s so much quieter than at home. Makes me feel more at peace, and not quite so worried about Dennis. Been a lot going on in the desert.’
‘Yes, I know. But you had a letter the other day, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah. But what’s happened since he wrote it? Same thing with your Ralph, isn’t it? Not rung for a bit, has he?’
Meg raised her eyebrows as the worry shot through her again. ‘You just have to assume no news is good news,’ she muttered, forcing her attention back to the final brushstrokes. ‘There, that’s done. I’ll leave it to dry now. It’s pinned to the board so it won’t blow away. So, d’you want to come upstairs and see the other ones?’
‘Please. Don’t know how you can bear to give them away, mind. I’d want to keep them all.’
‘Well, when it’s all raising funds for the war effort, you don’t mind,’ Meg answered as they went in through the farmhouse kitchen.
‘You still here, Mandy, love?’ Maggie Fenshaw asked in surprise.
‘Meg’s just going to show me some of her paintings, and then I’m off.’
‘And I’ve got the milking to do on my own as Alan’s not back from market yet, so I mustn’t be long,’ Meg advised her friend.
‘Lovely old house, this,’ Mandy commented as she followed Meg up the creaking staircase. ‘Must feel really odd being back here. I mean, happy, but also sad ’cos you know it’s just for while the war’s on.’
‘Just?’ Meg answered, her voice laced with irony, and Mandy nodded.
Meg could see Mandy knew exactly what she meant. The war was dragging on without any sign of it being over, or of the Nazis being driven back. And now there were terrible tales of what was going on in Germany. They all knew that Hitler had set up labour camps for prisoners of war or those in occupied countries who’d disobeyed. But this was far more sinister. Jews had been systematically rounded up into ghettos since before the war, but now they were being taken by train en masse to a growing number of what were being called concentration camps. At first, the Allies hadn’t believed the atrocities that were reported to being carried out in them, but now it was rumoured that it was all true.
It simply didn’t bear thinking about, so up in the bedroom, Meg was glad to have something much happier to occupy her. As she spread out her drawings and paintings on the bed, Mandy was full of admiration.
‘Blimey, they’re all so good. I wouldn’t know which to choose if I was buying one. And there’s so many.’
‘Luckily, Mr Perry – that’s Mr Wig’s brother, the famous artist – he kindly gave me a whole load of paints and special paper before the war,’ Meg explained. ‘You probably couldn’t get them now. I’ll have to stop if I run out.’
‘That’d be a shame,’ Mandy sympathised as her eyes went from one picture to the next. ‘You know, when you’ve got enough for your Clarrie and her blooming fête, you ought to hold an exhibition. In the autumn, maybe. People could buy them as Christmas presents, they’re so good. Gawd knows there’s not much to buy in the shops. People’d be thrilled to bits to be given something as great as these.’
‘Oh, they’re not that good,’ Meg protested.
‘Jolly well are!’ Mandy insisted. ‘Anyway, I must be off now, and let you get on with the milking. And you think about having an exhibition, girl!’
‘Yes, OK, I will,’ Meg humoured her, and listened to Mandy’s footfall as she went back down the stairs.
Meg sat for a moment, casting a self-critical eye over the papers strewn across the bed. They weren’t nearly as good as Mr Perry’s. But you wouldn’t expect them to be. But she supposed they weren’t bad.
So maybe she’d give it some thought after all.
*
‘Well, I think that’s a splendid idea!’ Clarrie enthused. ‘You’ve got so many here. It seems a shame to put them all into the auction. Pick out which ones you think are the best. Personally, I think I’d keep back the set of the tree in the four seasons for a start. And I might have some old frames up in the loft, rather than just pinning them on card. Knowing the twins, they’d probably love crawling about in the cobwebs to see what they can find. Nobody’s been up there for years.’
‘D’you really think so? I mean, that they’re good enough?’
‘I certainly do. And remember, Perry always said you had real talent. So once the fête’s over, we’ll put out heads together, eh?’
Clarrie indeed thrust her head forward as if they were literally doing that, her face shining and split in a grin. Her Meg had come home for a few days, and Clarrie was ecstatic. But to think they could work closely together on such a project as an exhibition filled her with joy. It was the sort of thing she could have been involved in if Meg really had been her daughter. They shared such intimate closeness, but Clarrie still felt it wasn’t right to tell Meg just how deep her feelings ran. She might look upon Meg as her own child, but she couldn’t expect Meg to see her as a replacement mother. No. It might tear at Clarrie’s heart, but far better to keep their relationship as it was – and the past buried where it belonged.
‘Meggy!’
Clarrie was grateful for the interruption to her train of thought as Doris rushed into the room and hurried over to squash Meg in a warm hug. A tide of contentment washed through Clarrie’s veins. Was it another sign or simply coincidence that of all the evacuees, Meg seemed closest to Doris who, with her bright curls, resembled Rosebud so strongly?
‘It’s lovely to see you again!’ Doris cried, pulling back from Meg. ‘And you’re here for a few days. Goody! I do miss you. And are these all the new paintings for the auction? Oh, let me see!’
‘Well, we’re going to keep some of them back,’ Clarrie announced, glowing with pride. ‘Meg’s old friend at the farm suggested we hold an exhibition in the autumn.’
‘An exhibition?’ Doris’s eyes grew wide. ‘Oh, how exciting!’
‘Everyone seems to think I’m good enough,’ Meg said bashfully. ‘And I suppose it’d be something different. You know, a different event for people to go to. Just something small. Might cheer life up a bit. What with the war dragging on and more and more things going on ration. Even if my efforts just make people laugh at me.’
‘Oh, they wouldn’t do that!’ Doris protested. ‘No, I think you should go ahead.’
‘That’s what I said,’ Clarrie concurred. ‘We could hire somewhere in Tunbridge Wells—’
‘Oh, no,’ Meg protested. ‘I wouldn’t want anything as big as that!’
‘Really? Oh, all right, then. The village hall, and we could make a few posters. Even put an advert in the local paper. And then people from Tunbridge Wells might like a trip out into the countryside if they had a specific reason. Ada could work her wonders with grated carrots and make some cakes. And we could have cucumber sandwiches. By then, it’ll only be this National Loaf they’re talking of bringing in in the autumn, but it’d be better than nothing.’
‘That’s ever so kind,’ Meg murmured, ‘but you shouldn’t go to all that trouble.’
‘Nonsense. It’ll be fun. But first,’ Clarrie declared, getting to her feet, ‘we have the fête the day after tomorrow. So I’ll leave you two to sort through the paintings and decide which ones to keep for the exhibition.’
Her mouth stretched in a broad, happy smile as she left the room, and the two girls exchanged bewildered glances.
‘Looks like it’s a fait accompli,’ Meg uttered, still thrown off balance by Clarrie’s enthusiasm. ‘And how are you, Doris? Summer holidays not too boring? Have you been doing any painting recently?’
‘Time’s never boring here!’ Doris grinned, and Meg was pleased to note that Doris was making a big effort to get on with her life after the tragedy of her mother’s death. ‘There’s always plenty to do in the house or outside. And if we give the boys a hand, they have time to do things with us, as well. We sometimes go on long rambles together and take a picnic. And I have done some paint
ing. I’ll show you later. And I got a letter from Daddy yesterday, so that was good. Have you heard from Ralph recently?’
Meg opened her mouth but didn’t get the chance to reply as the half-open door swung open the rest of the way and little Bella trotted into the room, holding up her chubby arms to Meg, while a flustered, red-faced Penny panted behind her in pursuit. Meg and Doris caught each other’s eye and both burst out laughing. The peace was over!
*
‘There you are, Mr O’Leary,’ the café owner said, putting the plate of egg, bacon and sausage in front of his customer. But as he did so, he gave a surreptitious jerk of his head and his eyes shifted downwards for a split second.
‘Sure I’m thanking you, so I am.’
Nathaniel Green had discovered he could slip into a convincing southern Irish drawl as easily as he’d mastered the Liverpudlian accent. It sounded even better with the drooping, lopsided mouth he’d adopted from his tramp disguise, although he’d dropped the limp to make his ‘Irishman’ that much different. And of course, everyone knew that conscription didn’t extend to Eire, despite the connections it still had to Britain. So as long as people believed he was Irish, nobody would suspect he was actually a deserter.
As it was, he was pretty sure the café owner in Southborough just north of Tunbridge Wells had no idea he was no more Irish than the Queen of Sheba. Without the long, grey wig and beard that gave the impression of his being an old man, he looked totally different and very ordinary in a nondescript suit and coppery wig over his own dark hair. Not a bright ginger that would have attracted attention, but enough to make people believe his Irish heritage.
But if the café owner did have any suspicions, he kept his mouth shut. But then he would. Nathaniel had been blessed with good luck since he’d come back down south. The old forger had even more contacts in the area than up north, and it wasn’t long before all sorts of goods had come Nathaniel’s way. He didn’t ask questions as to where they’d come from; looted, stolen, he didn’t care. People were so desperate, he found he could sell things on so easily even to law-abiding citizens who in normal circumstances wouldn’t have dreamt of buying illicit goods.
That night, Nathaniel was going to be delivering a couple of cans of petrol round the back of the café. The payment was slipped beneath the plate. He dealt regularly with the owner, and they trusted each other. Soap, parachute silk for making underwear, proper coffee, sugar, stockings. All relatively small stuff, but Nathaniel wasn’t greedy. That was when you drew attention to yourself, and he didn’t want that. In fact, he was beginning to think he’d been around long enough. He’d been there since June and it was coming up to the end of October. It could be pushing his luck to stay much longer. Get rid of what he had, and then time to move on.
He glanced round to check that none of the other customers was watching, and slid the money from beneath the plate and into his pocket. He’d keep his side of the bargain, even if he was about to disappear. The café owner had been good for him, and Nathaniel considered he still possessed some honour.
He picked up his knife and fork and began to tuck into the meal. A well-thumbed local newspaper sat on the table next to him. He might as well flick through its few pages. Paper was so scarce nowadays that publications were severely restricted, and each page was so wafer-thin that the ink was inclined to bleed, making the print semi-illegible.
There was the usual stuff about the war on the front page, the push in Egypt, but Nathaniel took little notice of that. It didn’t affect him, after all, did it? A bit more inside, with the usual casualty notices and grieving families mourning their dead loved ones. A missing cat, a couple of jumble sales and an art exhibition in a local village hall.
Huh, who on earth would be interested in that crap? Nathaniel sneered to himself. And then his eyes bulged in their sockets. The name of the artist was Marguerite Chandler.
Nathaniel nearly choked on his mouthful of bacon. Everyone thought of the bitch as Meg, but he remembered from the court appearances that her real name was Marguerite. So she was still in the area! Ho, ho, ho! Perhaps Nathaniel mightn’t be leaving quite yet after all!
Twenty-Six
‘Oh, crikey, my insides won’t keep still,’ Meg moaned as she stood back to contemplate the display so far.
The deserted village hall felt strange and musty especially in the near darkness. The windows were high up and it needed a long pole to draw the heavy curtains, but it simply wasn’t possible to put up blackout blinds. So, just in case, anyone using the hall after dusk was obliged to grope their way about by shielded torchlight.
‘If only we’d been allowed access earlier,’ Clarrie sympathised. ‘But the school were using it for PE, they’re so crammed with all the evacuees.’
‘I know,’ Meg sighed. ‘We’ll just have to get here at the crack of dawn tomorrow to get everything ready.’
‘Well, you get done as much as you can. I’m off to the vicarage to discuss the last bits and pieces for the catering. Penny’s going to load the pram up with everything in the morning. Thank goodness we kept it after Bella went into the pushchair. And we can all carry something as well. But it’s going to be easier to make up the sandwiches in the vicarage kitchen and just carry them across.’
Meg turned to Clarrie with a grateful smile. ‘Oh, Clarrie, you’ve been a brick organising all this!’ she cried, and gave the older woman a hug.
Clarrie closed her eyes, and just for a second or two, breathed in the scent of this girl who had become like her own flesh and blood. The sweet smell of motherhood wafted intoxicatingly inside her nostrils, almost making her giddy. What she should have had with Rosebud. She savoured it, wanting to hang onto it forever, empty and bereft when Meg finally pulled back, the grin still lighting her face.
‘It’s what I do best, organising,’ Clarrie said, dusting off her reluctance to let Meg go, and putting on her efficient tone instead. ‘I’ll wait for you over in the vicarage. You’re all right to lock up, aren’t you? Take your time. It’s your big day tomorrow.’
She picked up her handbag and trusty, dimmed torch, and stepped out into the darkness. As she made her way over to the vicarage, she didn’t notice the figure lurking in the shadows.
Left alone in the hall, Meg nervously drew in her lips. What would people really think of her paintings and drawings? Along the side wall of the building was a dado rail, deep enough for her to be able to prop her exhibits on it. There had also been a few pictures already on the wall above, which she and Clarrie had taken down and stored carefully in a cupboard, so that Meg could hang some of her own from the picture hooks. These were the ones that had been put in the old frames the twins had searched out in the loft of Robin Hill House at Clarrie’s behest.
Overall, Meg was pleased with the display – as much as she could see in the glimmer from her masked torch. In pride of place was the drawing of Mercury that Mr Perry had borrowed from her to create for her the stunning oil painting of her beloved dog after he’d been poisoned. The original sketch wasn’t for sale, but Meg wanted it there, as if her past was presiding over the entire affair. As if through it, her dear mum and dad would be watching.
The thought made Meg’s heart clench with a mixture of sadness and pride. She remembered the day when she’d come home from school to learn that her mother had suffered yet another miscarriage. Meg had only been about ten at the time, but she was a farmer’s daughter and understood all about having babies.
To cheer her mum up, she’d started on a picture of a daffodil, and her father had suggested that she was so talented that she could become a famous artist. But even back then, all she wanted to do was farm. She had, however, signed the painting – as she had continued to do with all her pictures since – with her full maiden name, Marguerite Chandler. Just like a professional artist, she mused, or an actor or a writer. Goodness, what would her dad have thought if he could have seen all this now, each item duly signed and dated.
Well, the only other thing she c
ould do in preparation for the event the following day was to put out the cups and saucers and tea plates ready for the refreshments. She and Clarrie had already put up the folding tables, and somehow the action of laying out the crockery had a calming effect on her nerves.
So engrossed was she in the task that she didn’t hear the outer door open and close quietly, and it wasn’t until the inner door clicked that she felt aware of another presence. Clarrie come back for her because she was taking so long.
But Clarrie would have spoken by now. Meg’s heart began to hammer as she felt instinctively that something was wrong. Slowly, cautiously, she turned round, pulse crashing at her temples.
The gasp lodged in her throat. The featureless form of a man was silhouetted against the gloom inside the hall. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew instantly who it was. The way his shoulders moved, hunched in anger as he threatened her across the courtroom. The image had been seared into her memory forever. An image she never thought she’d see again. So, what in God’s name was he doing here?
Hatred spewed up into her gullet like bile, but she stood still, tamping down her rage. Waiting. She was fully aware that she was alone with him in the silent, empty hall. Clarrie was waiting for her in the vicarage at the far side of the church. It was doubtful that anyone would hear her if she screamed.
She watched, holding her nerve as he stepped forward. She was able to see his face now, lurid in the jaundiced glow from the torch. Don’t be afraid. Stand her ground.
‘Remember me?’ he sneered at her.
‘How could I ever forget you?’ she snarled back through bitter, clenched teeth. ‘Murderer, abductor—’
‘Huh!’ he laughed back. ‘Depends on your point of view.’
Meg held her tongue. There was no good trying to argue with him. She just wanted him to go away. Her hands balled into fists so tightly at her sides as she fought to control her emotions that her fingernails dug into her palms. She stood stock-still, her skin slicked in a cold sweat, as he paced around her, taunting her, but she didn’t move, following him only with her eyes, every nerve taut and ready to snap.