by Kate Morton
Saffy marched faster, almost at a canter, trying not to mind the odour of the onion leaves, which seemed to be gaining strength as she gained pace. One thing was certain: when the war ended, Saffy was giving up country life for good. Percy didn’t know it yet – the timing must be right before the news was broached – but Saffy was going up to London. There she intended to find herself a flatlet, just for one. She had no furniture of her own, but that was a small impediment: such matters Saffy entrusted to providence. One thing was certain, though, she’d be taking nothing with her from Milderhurst. Her accoutrements would all be new; it would be a fresh start, nearly two decades later than she’d initially planned, but that could not be helped. She was older now, stronger, and this time she wouldn’t be stopped no matter how overwhelming the opposition.
Though her intentions were secret, Saffy made a habit of reading the letting pages in The Times each Saturday so that when opportunity presented, she’d be ready. She’d considered Chelsea and Kensington but decided in favour of one of the Georgian squares in Bloomsbury, in walking distance of both the British Museum and the shops of Oxford Street. Juniper, she hoped, might also remain in London and set up in a place nearby, and Percy would, of course, come to visit. She’d stay no longer than a single night though, due to strong feelings about sleeping in her own bed and being on hand to prop up the castle, bodily if need be, should it begin to crumble.
In the privacy of her own thoughts, Saffy visited her little flatlet often, especially when Percy was stalking up and down the castle corridors, raging about the flaking paint, the sinking beams, decrying each new crack in the walls. Saffy would close her eyes and open the door to her very own home. It would be small and simple, and very clean – she’d take care of that herself – and the overriding smell would be one of beeswax polish. Saffy clenched her fist around the onion sprigs and walked even faster.
A desk beneath the window, her Olivetti typewriter at its centre and a miniature glass vase – an old but pretty bottle would do at a pinch – in the corner, with a single flower in the prime of its bloom, to be replaced daily. The wireless would be her only companion, and throughout the day she’d pause in her typing to listen to the weather reports, leaving briefly the world she was creating on the page to gaze through the window at the smokeless London sky. Sunlight would brush her arm, spilling into her tiny home and setting the beeswax on the furniture to sparkling. In the evenings, she’d read her library books, write a little more of her own work in progress, and listen to Gracie Fields on the wireless, and no one would grumble from the other armchair that it was a load of sentimental rubbish.
Saffy stopped, pressed her palms to her warm cheeks and gave a sigh of deep contentment. Dreams of London, of the future, had brought her all the way back to the rear of the castle: what was more, she’d beaten the rain.
A glance at the henhouse, and her pleasure was curdled somewhat by regret. How she’d live without her girls she didn’t know; she wondered if it would be possible to take them with her. Surely there’d be space in her building’s little garden for a small run – she would just have to add this necessity to her list.
Saffy opened the gate and held out her arms. ‘Hello, darlings. How are you this afternoon?’
Helen-Melon ruffled her feathers but didn’t shift from the roosting bench, and Madame refused even to look up from the dirt.
‘Chin up, girls. I’m not going anywhere yet. Why, there’s a whole war to win first.’
This rallying call did not have the cheering effect Saffy had hoped for and her smile staled. It was the third day in as many that Helen had been downcast, and Madame was ordinarily nothing if not vocal. The younger hens took their cue from the older two, so the mood in the coop was decidedly grey. Saffy had become accustomed to such low spirits during the raids; chickens were every bit as sensitive as humans, just as susceptible to anxiety, and the bombers had been relentless. In the end, she’d taken all eight down into the shelter with her at night. The air had suffered, it was true, but the arrangement had suited all concerned: the hens returned to laying and, with Percy out most nights, Saffy had been glad of the company.
‘Come now,’ she cooed, scooping Madame into her arms. ‘Don’t be stroppy, my lovely. It’s just a storm gathering, nothing more.’ The warm feathered body relaxed, but only briefly, before wings flapped and the hen staged a clumsy escape, back to the dirt she’d been scratching.
Saffy dusted off her hands and set them on her hips. ‘As bad as that, is it? I suppose there’s only one thing for it then.’
Dinner. The only move in her arsenal guaranteed to brighten their spirits. They were greedy, her girls, and that was no bad thing. Would that all the world’s problems were solved with a tasty dish. It was earlier than usual, but these were critical times: the parlour table was still not set, the serving spoon was missing in action, Juniper and her guest would be at the door in no time at all – with Percy’s spirits to manage, the last thing she needed was a clutch of cranky hens. There. It was a practical decision, to keep them sweet, and nothing whatever to do with Saffy being a hopelessly soft touch.
The steam of a day spent conjuring dinner from what could be found in the larder or begged from the adjoining farms had collected in the upper nooks of the kitchen and Saffy tugged at her blouse in an effort to cool down. ‘Now,’ she flustered, ‘where was I?’ She lifted the saucepan lid to satisfy herself the custard had gone nowhere in her absence, guessed by the oven huffing that the pie was still cooking, then spotted an old wooden crate that had outlived its original purpose but would suit her current one perfectly.
Saffy dragged it into the furthest corner of the larder and climbed aboard, standing on tiptoes right at its edge. She spider-walked her hand along the larder shelf until her fingers grazed the darkest patch and a small tin reached out to meet them. Wrapping her hand around it, Saffy smiled to herself and clambered back down. Months of dust had settled, grease and steam had formed a glue, and she had to wipe the top with her thumb to read the label beneath: sardines. Perfect! She grasped it tightly, relishing the thrill of the illicit.
‘Don’t worry, Daddy,’ sang Saffy, digging the tin opener from the drawer of clunky kitchen utensils, shutting it again with a bump of her hip. ‘They’re not for me.’ It had been one of her father’s ruling tenets: tinned food was a conspiracy and they were to submit themselves to willing starvation sooner than allow a spoonful to pass their lips. A conspiracy by whom and to what effect Saffy did not purport to know, but Daddy had been forceful on the matter and that had been enough. He wasn’t one to brook much opposition and for a long time she’d possessed no desire to give him any. Throughout her girlhood he had been the sun that shone for Saffy, and the moon at night; the idea that he might ever disappoint her belonged in a counter-realm of ghouls and nightmares.
Saffy mashed the sardines in a porcelain bowl, noticing the hairline crack in its side only after she’d rendered the fish utterly unrecognizable. It was of no consequence as far as the hens were concerned, but along with the wallpaper she’d discovered peeling away from the chimney in the good parlour it was the second sign of decline in as many hours. She made a mental note to check carefully the plates they’d put aside for tonight, to hide any that were similarly marred; it was just the sort of wear and tear to get Percy fuming, and although Saffy admired her twin’s commitment to Milderhurst and its maintenance, her ill mood would not be conducive to the atmosphere of convivial celebration she was hoping for.
A number of things happened then at once. The door creaked ajar, Saffy jumped, and a remnant of sardine spine dropped from the fork’s tine onto the flagstones.
‘Miss Saffy!’
‘Oh, Lucy, thank God!’ Saffy clutched the fork against her staccato heart. ‘You shaved ten years off my life!’
‘I’m sorry. I thought you were out fetching flowers for the parlour . . . I only meant . . . I came to check – ’ The housekeeper’s sentence broke into tatters as she drew closer, took in th
e fishy mash, the open tin and she dropped her train of thought completely when she met Saffy’s gaze. Her lovely violet eyes widened. ‘Miss Saffy!’ she said. ‘I didn’t think—’
‘Oh-no-no-no – ’ Saffy flapped a hand for silence, smiling as she lifted a finger to her lips. ‘Shh, Lucy dear. Not for me, certainly not. I keep them for the girls.’
‘Oh.’ Lucy was visibly relieved. ‘Well, that’s different, isn’t it. I wouldn’t like to think of Himself,’ her eyes raised reverentially towards the ceiling, ‘being upset, even now.’
Saffy agreed, ‘The last thing we need tonight is Daddy turning in his grave.’ She nodded at the first-aid box. ‘Pass me a couple of aspirin, will you?’
Lucy’s brow rumpled with concern. ‘Are you unwell?’
‘It’s the girls. They’re nervy, poor darlings, and nothing smoothes a frazzled temperament quite like aspirin, except perhaps a sharp swig of gin, but that would be rather irresponsible.’ Saffy used the back of a teaspoon to grind the tablets to powder. ‘You know, I haven’t seen them so bad since the raid on May the tenth.’
Lucy paled. ‘You don’t think they sense a fresh wave of bombers?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. Mr Hitler’s far too busy marching into winter to trouble much about us. At least, that’s what Percy says. According to her, we should be left alone until Christmas at least; she’s terribly disappointed.’ Saffy was still stirring the fishy concoction and had drawn breath to go on when she noticed that Lucy had moved away to the stove. Her posture gave no indication that she was listening any more and all of a sudden Saffy felt silly, like one of her hens when they were in the mood for clucking and the garden gate would do for company. After an embarrassed little cough she said, ‘Anyway, I’m prattling. You didn’t come to the kitchen to hear about the girls and I’m keeping you from whatever it was you were doing.’
‘Not at all.’ Lucy closed the range door and stood tall, but her cheeks were a deeper pink than the oven alone might cause and Saffy knew that she hadn’t imagined the previous moment’s discomfort; something she’d said or done had spoiled Lucy’s good humour and she felt beastly about it. ‘I was coming to check on the rabbit pie,’ Lucy continued, ‘which I’ve now done, and to let you know that I didn’t find the silver serving spoon you wanted but I’ve put another at table that should do just as well. I’ve also brought down some of the records Miss Juniper sent back from London.’
‘To the blue parlour?’
‘Of course.’
‘Perfect.’ It was the good parlour, and therefore they would entertain Mr Cavill there. Percy had disagreed, but that was to be expected. She’d been in a temper for weeks, stomping along the corridors, forecasting doom and gloom about the coming winter, grumbling about the shortage of fuel, the extravagance of heating another room when the yellow parlour was already warmed daily. But Percy would come round: she always did. Saffy tapped the fork on the side of the bowl with determination.
‘You did very well with your custard. It’s lovely and thick, even without the milk.’ Lucy was peeping beneath the saucepan lid.
‘Oh, Lucy, you’re a darling. I made it with water in the end, a little honey as sweetener so I could save my sugar for marmalade. I never thought I’d thank the war for anything, but I wonder that I might have lived my entire life without knowing the satisfaction of creating the perfect milk-less custard!’
‘There’s many in London would be grateful for the recipe. My cousin writes that they’re down to two pints each a week. Can you imagine? You ought to jot down the steps to your custard in a letter and send it to the Daily Telegraph. They publish them, you know.’
‘I didn’t know,’ said Saffy thoughtfully. It would be another publication to add to her little collection. Not a particularly salubrious addition, but a clipping nonetheless. It would all help when the time came to send off her manuscript, and who knew what else might come of it? Saffy quite liked the idea of a regular little column, ‘Sew-a-lot Saffy’s Advice to Ladies’ or some such, a small illustrated emblem in the corner – her Singer 201K, or even one of her hens! She smiled, as pleased and amused by the fantasy as if it were a fait accompli.
Lucy, meanwhile, was still talking about her cousin in Pimlico and the single egg they were allowed each fortnight. ‘Hers was rotten the other week, and can you imagine? – they wouldn’t replace it for her.’
‘But that’s just mean spirited!’ Saffy was aghast. Sew-a-lot Saffy, she suspected, would have much to say on such matters and wouldn’t be afraid to make magnanimous gestures of her own as recompense. ‘Why, you must send her some of mine. And take half a dozen for yourself.’
Lucy’s expression could not have been more delighted had Saffy begun handing out lumps of solid gold, and Saffy felt embarrassed suddenly, forcing the spectre of her newspaper doppelganger to dissolve. It was with an air of apology that she said, ‘We’ve more eggs than we can eat, and I’ve been looking for a way to show you my gratitude – you’ve come to my aid so often since the war began.’
‘Oh, Miss Saffy.’
‘Let’s not forget I’d still be laundering in caster sugar if it weren’t for you.’
Lucy laughed and said, ‘Well, thank you kindly. I accept your offer most gratefully.’
They started wrapping the eggs together, tearing small squares from the salvaged newspapers stacked by the stove, and Saffy thought for the hundredth time that day how much she enjoyed their former housekeeper’s company and how unfortunate it was that they’d lost her. When she moved into the flatlet, Saffy decided, Lucy should be given the address and encouraged to call for tea whenever she came up to London. Percy would no doubt have something to say about that – she had rather traditional ideas about the classes and their intermingling – but Saffy knew better: companions were to be valued, wherever one found them.
A grumble of thunder menaced from outside and Lucy ducked her head to spy through the grimy windowpane above the small sink. She took in the darkening sky and frowned. ‘If there’s nothing else, Miss Saffy, I’ll finish up in the parlour and be on my way. The weather looks like settling in and I’ve a meeting to attend this evening.’
‘WVS is it?’
‘Canteen tonight. Got to keep those brave soldiers fed.’
‘That we do,’ Saffy said. ‘Speaking of which, I’ve stitched some children’s dollies for your fund-raising auction. Take them tonight if you’re able: they’re upstairs, as is – ’ a pause for theatrical effect – ‘the Dress.’
Lucy gasped and her voice dropped to a whisper, even though they were alone. ‘You finished it!’
‘Just in time for Juniper to wear tonight. I’ve hung it in the attic so it’s the first thing she sees.’
‘Then I shall certainly pop upstairs before I go. Tell me – is it beautiful?’
‘It’s divine.’
‘I’m so pleased.’ A moment’s hesitation and Lucy reached out to take Saffy’s hands lightly in her own. ‘Everything’s going to be perfect, you see if it isn’t. Such a special night, having Miss Juniper back from London at last.’
‘I just hope the weather doesn’t hold up the trains too long.’
Lucy smiled. ‘You’ll be relieved to have her home safe and sound.’
‘I haven’t slept a single night through since she’s been away.’
‘The worry.’ Lucy shook her head sympathetically. ‘You’ve been a mother to her, and a mother never sleeps easy when she’s worried for her babe.’
‘Oh, Lucy – ’ Saffy’s eyes glazed – ‘I have been worried. So worried. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for months.’
‘There haven’t been any episodes, though, have there?’
‘Mercifully not, and I’m sure she would have told us if there had. Even Juniper wouldn’t be untruthful about something so serious—’
The door blasted open and they each straightened as sharply as the other. Lucy squealed and Saffy almost did, remembering this time to swipe the tin and hide it behind h
er back. It was only the wind picking up outside, but the interruption was sufficient to sweep away the pleasant atmosphere inside and take Lucy’s smile with it. And then Saffy knew what it was that had Lucy on tenterhooks.
She considered saying nothing, the day was almost over and sometimes least said really was soonest mended, but the afternoon had been so companionable, the two of them working side by side in the kitchen and in the parlour, and Saffy was eager to set things to rights. She was allowed to have friends – she needed to have friends – no matter what Percy felt. She cleared her throat gently. ‘How old were you when you started here, Lucy?’
The answer came quietly, almost as if she’d expected it: ‘Sixteen.’
‘Twenty-two years ago, was it?’
‘Twenty-four. It was 1917.’
‘You were always one of Father’s favourites, you know.’
Within the oven, the pie filling had begun to simmer inside its pastry casing. The former housekeeper’s back straightened and then she sighed, slowly and deliberately. ‘He was good to me.’
‘And you must know that Percy and I are both very fond of you.’
With the eggs all bundled, Lucy could find no further occupation at the far bench. She crossed her arms and spoke softly. ‘It’s kind of you to say, Miss Saffy, and unnecessary.’
‘Only that if you ever changed your mind, when things are more settled, if you decided you’d like to come back in a more official—’