by Angela Arney
‘No, not even if Jim came back,’ she answered. ‘This child is yours. You made him yours by accepting him into your life.’ But even as she said the words a little flicker of guilt skittered through her mind. It was an easy promise to make because she was convinced now that Jim had been killed in action. It was only a matter of time before he was listed officially as a casualty.
She looked down at Peter and felt an enormous surge of love overwhelm her. Peter’s dark-blue eyes (‘They are going to be brown,’ Dr Crozier had said), looked back at her in a knowing way. He is a perfect baby, thought Megan contentedly, and wished that Henry could see him too.
Spring turned into early summer, and as the war in Europe drew nearer and nearer to a close life at Folly House continued on a serene course. Arthur needed to earn some money and applied to the local grammar school for the post of school musical director. He was offered the post, at a lower salary as he wasn’t qualified as a teacher, and he took it.
Marcus was pleased, as he was due to retire from the church soon and a vicar’s pension was not enough to keep them both. Arthur’s salary meant that they could continue to live at Folly House and make a contribution to the running costs.
Megan hardly noticed any of this; she was wrapped in the warm afterglow of Peter’s birth, and if occasionally thoughts of another love, a quiet, dark-haired man who played the piano with exquisite tenderness arose, she firmly pushed them away. She was happy, Henry was a devoted father and nothing was going to be allowed to tarnish that. Rosie too adored Peter and helped Henry bath the baby at night.
Megan entered the nursery one evening just as Rosie was lifting Peter up into the air and making him smile. ‘Look at the baby,’ she cried.
‘He’s not just the baby. He’s your little brother,’ said Henry.
Suddenly there was a silence, then Rosie said in a small quiet voice. ‘He’s not really my brother. I’m just an evacuee. I’m not a Lockwood. I suppose when the war finishes I’ll have to go to an orphanage now that my real mother is dead.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Megan sharply. ‘Whatever made you think that? We are going to adopt you, aren’t we, Henry?’
‘But you never said,’ whispered Rosie, looking first at Megan and then at Henry. ‘Are you really going to adopt me?’
‘Of course we are, and we should have done something about it before now. It’s just that a lot of other things got in the way. But we shall start making the arrangements tomorrow. I promise.’
‘Think of it,’ said Henry to Rosie. ‘Soon I’ll have a son and a daughter.’
But neither of them yours, thought Megan, sadly.
Their life together had achieved a measure of closeness, but the final step of making love evaded them. They never talked about it so Megan had no idea what Henry thought. But it was the memory of Jim that got in the way for her; she was unable to imagine herself with any other man.
When Violet, from whom she now had no secrets, enquired about life with Henry she had said, ‘We rub along together better than many couples.’
Violet wanted to speak to Henry. ‘I feel sorry for him too,’ she said.
‘No, don’t,’ said Megan quickly. ‘I don’t want anything to upset our lives now.’
Violet changed the subject. ‘I’ve decided,’ she said, ‘that when the war is over and Brinkley Hall reverts back to me, I shall sell it. I don’t need a huge house.’
‘You might marry again,’ said Megan.
Violet shook her head. ‘One marriage was enough for me, and anyway no one will ever find enough staff to run a huge place like that. It can never be a home again; in fact it never was a home. It will probably be a hotel or even stay as a hospital. No, Brinkley Hall belongs to another era, when the rich were rich, and the poor were glad of a few crumbs from the rich man’s table. But anyway, I’ll have to wait until the war is over before I can decide anything.’
That happened on 8 May. Winston Churchill made the radio announcement to tell the whole nation that the war in Europe would officially finish at midnight.
The country went wild. Street parties in all the cities, several days’ holidays were declared by most employers, and East End village was no exception. A hasty street party was arranged for the following Tuesday, 15 May, to take place in School Lane, which ran the whole length of the village. Baking began in earnest with what flour, eggs and sugar could be found in store cupboards, and Mr Shepherd, the butcher, began making sausages by the dozen, knowing no one would complain that they were filled with too much bread. Tins of Spam appeared from where they’d been secreted away and last year’s blackberry jam was lavishly spread on thick slices of bread.
On Tuesday 15 May the party was in full swing. Megan had baby Peter on her hip, and her arm linked through Henry’s. She began to describe the scene to him, ending with, ‘I just don’t believe all that red, white and blue jelly can be good for the children.’
‘They can only be sick once,’ said Bertha philosophically. Then she frowned. ‘Dottie shouldn’t be in there with the children helping herself to jelly. She’s much too old.’
George opened his mouth to argue, but Megan interrupted first. ‘Oh, let her have some fun. No one minds, and she is a child really. Don’t spoil her day.’
Bertha didn’t reply, but moved towards the end of the trestle-table, ashamed to be seen too close to her daughter. George snorted. ‘She do take on so,’ he said and followed his wife.
Megan sighed. ‘We’re so lucky Peter is normal.’
Henry smiled. ‘Give him to me to hold for a moment,’ he said. ‘He must be heavy for you.’
Carefully Megan passed the precious bundle, and Peter laughed and jigged with glee in Henry’s arms. Smiling, Megan watched and then inexplicably she shivered, and remembered the old saying; a ghost has walked over my grave. Then she saw Adam. He was standing opposite them, leaning on two crutches and gazing at Henry with mesmerizing intensity.
She shivered again as Adam began to lope painfully along on his crutches towards them. She tried to feel sympathetic for his plight, but felt nothing but fear. He reached them.
‘Henry, whose child is this?’ he asked.
‘My son,’ said Henry, and Megan noticed that he instinctively held Peter closer.
Megan moved closer to Henry and the baby. The hatred she saw in Adam’s eyes made her blood run cold. But the hatred was not directed at her; his eyes were fastened with a fanatical intensity on baby Peter.
However, much to Megan’s relief the tense situation with Adam evaporated almost as soon as it had begun. A male nursing attendant appeared on the other side of School Lane; Megan recognized his uniform of dark green and white and guessed he was looking for Adam. She waved, he came at once and took hold of Adam’s arm in a firm but gentle grasp.
‘What are you doing out here on your own, old chap?’ he said quietly. ‘You know you are not well enough.’
‘I’m damned sure I am well enough to do as I like.’ Adam tried to wrestle out of his grasp, but was not strong enough.
Megan felt a flash of pity, remembering the once proud and handsome man; it was piteous to compare that man to the wreck of humanity now being led away.
‘He’s gone,’ she said to Henry, but he made no reply, merely held Peter more tightly.
The band played on, children began to play hopscotch and ring-a-roses in the school yard, and the adults sat drinking tea and eating scones.
Henry and Megan found a spot beneath the horse-chestnut tree that stood on the edge of the playground. It was heavy with bright green leaves and its iridescent white candle blossoms blazed in the sunshine. Arthur and Violet joined them, and Megan relaxed. Everything was back to normal.
Then suddenly there were cheers from the far end of the lane. Arthur pushed himself forward in his wheelchair. ‘Good heavens,’ he said. ‘Two soldiers have arrived. They must have just been released from the front.’
There were cries of ‘God bless them! They’ve come back alive.’ Then anot
her voice cried, ‘There’s that American.’
Megan’s heart stopped. Henry clutched her hand.
She looked closer and saw the two men in uniform, still with their kitbags on their backs. One was a British Tommy and the other in the paler khaki of an American GI. It was not Jim; he always wore a British officer’s uniform.
‘Is it Jim?’ Henry whispered in a low voice.
‘No,’ said Arthur. ‘The American is a GI who went out with our land girl, Molly.’
‘And the other is Doreen Foster’s boyfriend,’ announced Dottie. Molly began to run down the lane, and people cheered and clapped.
Unnoticed amid the general hubbub Megan squeezed Henry’s hand. ‘Jim won’t come back,’ she said. ‘I’m sure of it, and even if he did it wouldn’t change anything.’
Henry remained silent, but Megan could feel him trembling. She looked at Peter, dimpled and smiling, totally unaware of the love mixed with pain that he had brought with him. She knew then that the mixture of joy and guilt would never leave her.
After the victory in Europe life didn’t change much. There was still rationing for everything and the struggle to make ends meet continued for everyone, not just those at Folly House. Henry was working now in an office at Brinkley Hall Hospital and enjoyed it; but that in itself was a problem, as he needed to be ferried back and forth in the car, and petrol was still rationed. Eventually it was decided that he would stay over at the hospital four nights a week.
But somehow, Megan and Henry made time to set the wheels in motion for the adoption of Rosie Barnes. She was ecstatic at the thought being officially Rosie Lockwood, and insisted that she should be called that at school. The weeks passed and there was a general election. Winston Churchill, the darling of the war years, and the Conservative party he led were thoroughly trounced, and after what seemed a long wait it was announced that Clement Attlee would be forming the government with the Labour Party.
Marcus was furious with what he saw as the disloyalty of the British population. The Jones family were furious too, as they were fervent Conservative supporters, and they quarrelled with the Moons who were fervent Labour supporters. The two old men refused to work together, and nothing Megan could say would make any difference. Her exasperation was compounded by Silas telling her that ‘women know nothing of politicking’. To cap it all George agreed with him. Megan dragged Henry over from Brinkley Hall and demanded that he must speak to them as Master of Folly House. Something she had never done.
Although Megan hadn’t planned it she realized afterwards that she had empowered Henry. He sat in the gun room and spoke to the two men, and they accepted his word as the master. Afterwards he sat on alone and felt a warm glow of contentment. He was not useless after all. He was needed at Brinkley Hall and he was needed as well in Folly House. He was still there when Molly made an appearance. She’d come to collect a gun in readiness for an evening’s shoot.
‘I’ll have one last shoot before I leave at the end of the week,’ she told Henry.
Henry got the gun down and prepared the shot. ‘We’ll miss you,’ he said.
Molly laughed. ‘I’ll miss all of you. You know, it’s strange but I never thought that I’d settle as a country girl, yet here I am leaving the country to go to a farm in Massachusetts, America. I’m going to marry Luke and live on his father’s dairy farm at Sandwich, Cape Cod.’
‘At least you already know how to milk a cow,’ said Henry. Sandwich, Cape Cod, the name sounded familiar. Then he remembered why. It was where Jim Byrne had come from. Jim, the father of his son, Peter. He felt his heart constrict in apprehension. Supposing Jim was still alive, supposing Molly met him and told him of Megan’s baby? He’d be sure to guess. And then supposing he came back to England.
Henry reined in his turbulent thoughts, aware that Molly was still chattering on. ‘As I said to Luke, it’s strange, isn’t it, because Sandwich is where Jim Byrne came from. Luke didn’t know of him, and of course he’ll never know him now because he was killed, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ said Henry. ‘He was killed.’ But all the same he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling of uneasiness.
Molly took the gun and went off to find Pat, who was joining her for the evening’s sport. Henry remained seated in the gun room. Suddenly it didn’t seem so warm and a host of unwelcome thoughts buzzed through his mind. Marriage. Molly was going to be married, and she and her GI Luke would sleep together because that’s what married people did. So why couldn’t he? What was wrong with him? Why didn’t he love Megan enough? He did love baby Peter and Rosie. He loved them passionately and unconditionally. Was it because they needed him, and Megan didn’t? Maybe he should seek medical advice. He was still thinking about it when Violet arrived to tell him dinner was ready.
‘You are looking terribly sad,’ she said, putting an arm around his shoulders.
‘I suppose that’s because I am,’ said Henry.
Violet hugged him. ‘Don’t be. The Prime Minister, Mr Attlee is going to announce the end of the war in Japan tonight. At least that’s what the radio is saying. At last, the war, all of it, will be finished and we can pick up our lives and put the pieces of the puzzle back together again.’
‘Not quite,’ replied Henry sombrely. ‘I’ll never put my particular jigsaw back together again. The pieces won’t fit.’
Violet didn’t speak for a moment, she just held him close. ‘We will make the pieces fit,’ she said softly. ‘We will, I promise. But the picture will be different.’
On Tuesday August 14 the end of the war in Japan was announced at midnight, and the next day the whole world went mad. Public holidays were announced, bonfires, street parties were held all over again. But at Folly House the celebrations were more muted this time.
Henry’s depression affected everyone, and the next evening after the end of the war the family met in the gold room after dinner. The coffee was still the wartime mix of coffee and chicory and Lavinia complained as usual.
‘We’re at peace now,’ she said. ‘Surely we can have some decent coffee and perhaps we can all stop digging for victory?’
‘We’ll still have to dig,’ said Arthur, ‘because we will still be short of food.’
Lavinia snorted and rang the bell to call Bertha in. ‘I don’t care if we are still on rations,’ she declared, ‘but we can still celebrate. The champagne has all gone, but I know, and so does Bertha, that there is one last bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape. Tonight is the time to drink it and toast the future of the Lockwood family, and everyone we know here at Folly House and the village of East End.’
A smiling Bertha retrieved the last precious bottle
‘Marcus, will you do the honours, and open the wine and then serve it. When it’s had a chance to breathe, of course,’ asked Lavinia.
‘Delighted.’ Marcus levered himself with difficulty from the armchair by the window.
He’s getting really old now thought Megan sadly as she watched her father struggling to rise. All their lives seemed to be rushing by too fast. Even Peter and Rosie, playing now on the rug in front of the fireplace, were growing up quickly. Peter’s soft blond hair was turning darker now, and his eyes were a deep brown, just like Jim’s. He looked nothing like Henry, and Megan hoped everyone would think he took after her. After all, she was a brunette and had brown eyes.
She took the glass of red wine from Marcus and looked across at Henry. Peter was trying to stand, and was clutching hold of Henry’s knee with Rosie’s assistance.
‘To the family,’ said Lavinia, rising and holding up her glass, ‘and everyone we love.’
I’m so lucky, thought Megan raising her own glass. I have a son; I have security, which is much more than many people have. She moved across the room and sat beside Henry on the settee by the fireplace. ‘To us,’ she said, touching her glass against his. ‘And our family.’
‘To the family,’ he replied. But he didn’t smile.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Christmas Eve
1945
A new postman delivered the mail that morning: Silas Moon’s son, Benjamin. Megan had felt guilty because she’d not been able to re-employ him when he returned from the army, but Benjamin appeared to enjoy life as a postman.
‘Glad to be away from my dad,’ he said. ‘He wants to talk about the war, and I’ve had enough of that. I just want to forget.’
That morning Arthur was wheeling himself over the cobbled yard by the stables, waiting for Violet who was coming to take him to church so that he could practise on the organ and collate all the music ready for the Blessing of the Crib service. It was a bitterly cold morning, and Arthur’s woollen-clad fingers almost froze to the wheels of his chair.
‘Here, let me help,’ said Benjamin. He jumped off his bike and took the handles of the wheelchair. ‘I’ve got a letter for Mrs Lockwood. All the way from America.’ He put Arthur’s chair in position by the stable door, fished a blue airmail letter from his bag and passed it over. ‘The young Mrs Lockwood,’ he said. ‘Not Lady Lavinia.’
Benjamin jumped back on his bicycle leaving Arthur to stare at the blue airmail letter. The postmark was Massachusetts, USA. When Violet drove into the yard Arthur handed her the letter and didn’t speak. He waited while she turned it over and, like him, looked at the address on the back.
‘I think we’ll hold on to this for the time being,’ she said slowly, and put the letter in Arthur’s music case. ‘Do you agree?’
‘I’m not sure. Have we right to manipulate other people’s lives?’
Violet’s mouth tightened into a straight line. ‘Sometimes, yes,’ she said firmly.
‘Well, I’m not sure.’ Arthur was equally firm. ‘I’ll think about it and decide tonight.’
Violet didn’t argue, merely helped Arthur into the car. She was annoyed, and he knew why. They both knew Peter was Jim’s child and he also knew that Violet was very fond of Henry and wanted him to find some happiness in life. Peter was providing that happiness, he was the light in Henry’s dark life, and she didn’t want that to be disturbed.