by Angela Arney
‘No, of course not,’ said George.
‘Well, there you are then,’ said Megan, taking the two blow torches from him.
‘But I’m a man,’ said George.
This remark was greeted with an angry snort from Megan and that was the end of the argument.
But it was slower and harder work than she’d anticipated and by the end of the first week in March she’d only managed to strip halfway round one bedroom. George sent one of the farm labourers, Alf Beeson, to Megan with an offer of help. ‘I’ve done all me own cottage, stripped the lot,’ Alf said. ‘Dab hand with a blowtorch I am.’
Megan was only too glad to accept the help, and together they scraped away at the blistering paint. Although it was often ten degrees below freezing outside and blowing a gale as well as snowing, they both sweltered in the heat from the blowtorches.
Lavinia always came up to remind Megan of lunch and both she and Alf left their work and went downstairs, Alf to the Jones’s kitchen and Megan to join Lavinia by the rose room fireplace, where a meagre little wood fire was glowing, waiting for Bertha to get the children and bring in the lunch. ‘You look exhausted,’ said Lavinia one morning. When Megan didn’t reply, she continued, ‘For nearly two hundred and fifty years the Lockwood family has lived in this house while it has grown around them to what it is today. And now the only people living here are not Lockwoods. You and I are Lockwoods by marriage, not by inheritance, and yet you are half-killing yourself to save the house and the estate.’
‘I’ve always loved Folly House, and I’m saving it for Peter. He’s a Lockwood.’
Lavinia poured them both a small glass of wine from the decanter on the table. ‘Yes, there’s Peter, a Lockwood in name,’ she said softly. ‘Henry’s joy, the boy he gave his life for. He was a loving father in every way save one.’
Megan felt a cold hard knot grow inside her. ‘You know,’ she whispered.
‘Yes, I know. I’ve always known, even before Henry told me. I knew because you and Jim had that special glow when you were together, the glow that only true lovers have.’
‘What are you going to do?’
Lavinia turned in surprise. ‘Do?’ she echoed. ‘Nothing, of course. Why should I? You gave Henry more joy in the last years of his life than he expected by sharing Peter with him. I’ll always be grateful for that. Besides I know the price you paid. Lost love is always hard, and doesn’t get easier as the years pass by.’
A single tear trickled slowly down Megan’s cheek. ‘Peter is all I have now,’ she whispered.
‘Nonsense.’ Lavinia suddenly sounded like the Lavinia of old, firm and slightly abrasive. ‘You have me while I’m still alive, and you have everyone else here and in the village. They will always be here for you and your son. That’s the advantage of living in a small place, you are never completely alone. Not the way you can be in a big city. That was my life before I married Richard and came to the country. Although I was never lucky enough to have children I shared in the upbringing of Henry and Gerald, and the little vicar’s daughter, who always wanted to live in Folly House.’
Megan wiped her eyes and smiled. ‘Was it always so obvious?’
‘Perhaps only to me. I too would have hated living in that big, ugly vicarage. That’s the one good thing the Luftwaffe did, dropping a bomb on it.’
Megan laughed. ‘Maybe the war wasn’t all bad after all.’
‘Nothing is ever all bad. We’ve been picked up and tossed around, but now it’s time for those of us still here to settle down. New life will blossom, you mark my words, and Folly House will always be here, just as it has been for the last two hundred and fifty years.’
Her positive mood was infectious and after she’d gone Megan, when she resumed paint stripping, worked beside Alf with renewed vigour.
It was even colder that night and Werner got up to fetch his greatcoat and put it over his bed as an extra blanket, so it was he who saw the vivid finger of orange lick up the chimney-breast at the far end of Folly House. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. But there was nothing, just darkness, and the black slumbering hump of the house against the vivid whiteness of the snow. He turned to go to bed, but hesitated and turned back, sensed something and waited. This time yellow and orange, no mistake, it was a spit of flame caressing the ancient brickwork of the chimney like a malevolent hand. This time it didn’t disappear but lingered before leaving, and after it left he could see a string of sparkling red embers, throbbing with life as they started spreading away from the chimney and along the roof. The thatch of Folly House was on fire. As he watched he realized that all the tiny threads of flame were creeping along the roof, faster and faster. Then he heard it, a roaring sound. The cold easterly which had been blowing for days straight from Siberia was gathering strength and acting on the fire like a great pair of bellows.
Throwing his greatcoat over his pyjamas and struggling into his yard boots he called out to Hans. ‘Hans, Hans, the house is on fire. Come on. Come on.’
Hans stumbled outside with Werner. There was no mistaking it now. The roof was on fire. They got the fire buckets and ran to the cattle trough. But it was frozen solid.
Werner swore. ‘We’ll have to get water from the house.’
‘No,’ shouted Hans. ‘We must get everyone out first.’
Megan awoke to the sound of the wind. She’d fallen asleep that night more exhausted than usual, and now woke reluctantly. For a moment she lay listening to the sound of the bitter easterly wind which always howled along the rooftop, and thought with longing for the soft southerly breeze of summer, which brought with it warm misty rain, not snow and ice. Snuggling down in bed she pulled the blankets up, then pushed them down again. What was it she could hear? Surely not the sea lapping near the house. But it was the wind, and it had a roar to it she’d never heard before. Then she heard the voices of Werner and Hans, they were shouting. Suddenly she was aware of heat, and the acrid smell of burning wood. Folly House was on fire.
She jumped out of bed, threw on her jodhpurs and sweater and thrust her feet into a pair of boots. She opened the door and raced down the corridor in the darkness to where Peter and Rosie slept.
She tried to switch on the lights but there was no power. In the darkness she stumbled towards Rosie’s bed. ‘Rosie,’ she screamed, ‘get up, put on a coat and shoes and follow me.’ The next moment she picked Peter out of his bed, wrapped him, still half-asleep, in a blanket, made sure Rosie was by her side, then the three of them staggered downstairs into the hallway.
Hans was there with a torch. ‘Come,’ he said urgently, his panic making his German accent almost unintelligible. He grabbed Megan’s arm and tried to drag her through the doorway to the gravel drive outside.
Megan thrust Peter into his arms and shouted to Rosie. ‘Stay with Hans, I must get Lavinia.’ Without waiting to see if they did as she said, she turned and rushed back up the stairs to Lavinia’s bedroom.
Lavinia wasn’t awake properly when Megan dragged her from her bed. She threw a thick blanket around a dazed Lavinia and led her downstairs. It was difficult in the pitch black with choking smoke now eddying around them. Lavinia was racked with coughing, but Megan pushed and pulled until at last they were able to get outside into the bitterly cold, fresh air. Only then did Megan realize that Lavinia had no shoes on. But Lavinia didn’t complain. She was shocked into silence as they stood in the icy snow, watching Folly House being engulfed by fire.
Werner was there with Bertha and Dottie, all clothed in dressing gowns. ‘The phone is not working and there’s no power,’ he told Megan. ‘But George has gone to the village on his bicycle.’
‘Why didn’t he take the car? cried Megan, ‘it would have been quicker.’
‘It wouldn’t start. Everything is frozen. We must take water from the kitchen tap while we can, the trough is frozen solid.’
Bertha took charge of Lavinia and the children and took them into Hans and Werner’s rooms in the old stable. People from the village came and helped fo
rm a chain, passing buckets of water to and fro, but it was too little to quench the fire. When the fire engine arrived Megan heaved a sigh of relief. But her relief was short-lived.
The outside fire hydrant was frozen solid and by the time the firemen managed to thaw it out for use with their hoses Folly House was reduced to ashes. The only part left standing was the original old nurse’s cottage in which the Jones family lived, and even that was uninhabitable now as it was soaked with water, blackened by soot and full of grey ash. As dawn began to break they stood together in the bitter cold and looked upon a scene of utter desolation. The once beautiful house was now a mountain of smouldering ash with blackened timbers pointing like accusing fingers to the sky.
Lavinia and Bertha both wept. Rosie clung to Megan. ‘What shall we do? Where shall we live?’ As she began to weep so did Peter. Megan was silent, holding Peter and Rosie close. Their small soft bodies were a kind of comfort, but she had no answer for Rosie. Everything was lost, even Peter’s beloved teddy. And the photo of Jim, that too had evaporated into smoke. When she thought of that she began to weep as well.
Her soul was filled with a gut-wrenching despair; she felt she could hardly breathe. It was the end of everything, the past, the present and the dreams for the future. Now there was nothing.
Peter began to cry again. ‘He’s cold,’ said Rosie, her teeth chattering.
Megan suddenly realized that both her children were blue with cold. She had to do something. ‘We will all have to use the dower house today.’ She looked at Bertha, who was moving towards her. ‘I supposed it’s still locked, and we won’t have a key now; it’s somewhere in …’ She looked at the ashes and couldn’t bring herself to say Folly House.
‘George has picked the lock,’ said Bertha. ‘We’ll get a fire going in the sitting room for you and one in the kitchen, then we’ll be all right.’
We’ll never be all right thought Megan with a heavy heart. Nothing will ever be the same again. But she said, ‘Thank you Bertha, I don’t know what we’d do without you.’ Gathering the children to her she walked down the drive through the hard frozen snow towards the dower house.
Werner followed, carrying a shivering Lavinia.
May 1951
Lavinia, Megan and the children had moved into the West Wing of Brinkley Hall after the fire. It had been redecorated and furnished for Violet and Arthur’s use, but as they were staying on in London it was an ideal solution as a temporary measure. That had been four years ago and there was still no sign of Folly House being rebuilt; the insurance was complicated, and really not adequate to build the beautiful country house Megan wanted. Violet offered to help, but Megan refused to borrow money. She said she would save money from the proceeds of the gardens and farm and then build another Folly House, but the truth was her heart wasn’t really in it.
The stables and outhouses had all survived the fire, as had the Jones’s part of the house which, once cleaned up and redecorated, was fit to live in again. George and Bertha still lived there; Bertha was more or less semi-retired and George stayed on, working on the gardens of the estate. Dottie had got a job washing glasses in the East End Arms, which she loved. Megan had decided to merge East End Farm and the Folly House gardens and fields into the East End Estate, making Hans the manager. Silas Moon had retired and George was retiring soon, both taking advantage of the new, improved old-age pension the government had instituted. Werner, sponsored by Violet and Arthur, had gone off to medical school in London, and after Pat had married Hans, Megan gave them the tenancy of the dower house as part of their salary.
Megan had to admit that living in Brinkley Hall was the last word in luxury. They had a maid and a part-time cook on a daily basis which worked well, although Megan missed the companionship of the Jones family. But most of all she missed the sound of the sea, and the lovely gardens of Folly House which sloped down to the shore. But in the years since the fire she’d learned to be patient and tried not to look back too often, nor look too far into the future either. As Lavinia wisely said, ‘Live for the moment, my dear. Once a moment has come, it becomes history all too quickly.’
Now today in May 1951 she sat beside an over-excited six-year-old as the train clattered across the countryside of the Home Counties into Surrey and to their final destination, Waterloo Station, London.
It was difficult to believe that Peter was six years old, or that Rosie, who was staying with Violet and Arthur, was eighteen and would be starting medical school in the autumn of the year. The years had flown by, and most of the time Megan was happy. She still worked hard on the farm, but had more spare time now for Peter and Rosie as she’d passed some of her duties on to Pat and Hans.
Peter chattered on, and Megan listened with half an ear. Her thoughts skittered over the past, and the future. Life was getting easier, she had to admit that: she had a beautiful and talented daughter in Rosie, and an adorable son who showed every sign of inheriting his father’s and Arthur’s musical ability. This was something Megan was determined to nurture. They were coming to London to hear Arthur play in London’s new Royal Festival Hall.
Peter was keen to go to the concert but even more keen to see the sights of London. He ticked them off on his fingers, ‘I want to go on the underground, go to London Zoo and see the bears, go to the Tower of London and see the Beefeaters and see the torture instruments in the Bloody Tower – oh, and see the King and Queen.’
Megan laughed. ‘We’re only going to be there for five days, darling. But we’ll squash as much in as we possibly can. Rosie and Violet will be our guides.’
They were met at Waterloo by Violet and Rosie and, much to Peter’s joy, caught a double-decker bus to Knightsbridge. He would have stayed upstairs on the bus for ever if allowed to, but eventually got off and went to the house in Cadogan Square where Violet and Arthur lived. When he was eventually asleep Megan sat with Violet, waiting for Arthur to return from the Festival Hall; Rosie had gone there to meet him and help him with his wheelchair. ‘I can’t believe how grown-up she is,’ said Megan, and felt a pang of sorrow. She was no more a child, no more dependent on her.
‘She’ll always come back to Hampshire and you,’ said Violet, guessing Megan’s thoughts. She changed the subject. ‘Arthur and I love it here,’ she said. ‘This part of London somehow miraculously escaped most of the bombs, and when I look out at the garden in the square it’s almost like being in the country.’
Megan gazed out. Yes, it was beautiful, the garden in the square was awash with early roses, surrounded by tulips and wallflowers, and the pavements were covered in pink blossom blown like confetti from the flowering cherry trees. ‘Yes, it’s lovely. But no sea,’ she said.
Violet laughed and watched Megan. She’s still very beautiful, she thought even though she’s thirty-two now. But with no make-up, and her air coiled up in a chignon she manages to look both elegant and very young at the same time. She should be living in London where she would meet people, rather than being buried in the country and never meeting any eligible men. Violet put her thoughts into words. ‘Why don’t you move to London once Rosie starts university? Hans can run East End Estate, there’s no need to bury yourself in the New Forest.’
Megan shook her head. ‘I can’t leave Lavinia. She’s increasingly frail now. In fact I’ve asked Mrs Fox to stay with her while I’m away now, just to make certain she’s OK.’
‘Perhaps she could stay permanently,’ suggested Violet. ‘I understand she only rents rooms in Southampton.’
Megan shrugged: a tired gesture, Violet noticed. ‘No, I’ve got to stay and sort out the finances for the Folly House rebuild, although at times I despair of it ever happening.’
Violet changed the subject. ‘We’ll have dinner as soon as Rosie and Arthur get back from the rehearsal. Then we can have a relaxing evening.’ She didn’t mention that she was worried that the visiting American pianist, a James Byrne, might be their Jim Byrne. Violet thought he must be, as apparently he had only started as a solo
ist at the end of the war. She’d not wanted Megan to come at all, but it was difficult as she’d already been invited to Arthur’s first prestigious concert. She hadn’t mentioned it because Arthur was insisting that they should find out if it was ‘their’ Jim, as he called him, and whether he was married. Although there was nothing they could do about any of it. They couldn’t prevent Megan from going to the concert and once she had seen him, and if it was Jim, what then? Not for the first time Violet wished that they hadn’t interfered, but had told Megan about the lost letter. It was too late now, life had moved on. What will be, will be, Violet thought in resignation. Tomorrow they would all know whether James Byrne was the Jim Byrne of the war years.
It was dark the next night when Megan arrived at Waterloo Station. It was 3 May and London was in festival mood. Crowds everywhere, people wearing Union Jack hats and waving flags. But Megan might as well have been all alone, so immersed was she in her own private world of misery.
Earlier it had been so different. Along with the rest of the family she’d set off in high spirits. Violet was a little nervous but Arthur had assured her that he thought James Byrne was a different man, not the Jim they knew. He hadn’t managed to actually meet him, but had seen his photo and he looked different, also his wife was an opera singer and apparently they had been together for years.
Megan, along with Peter and Rosie watched the King at the opening of the concert at the Festival Hall. Afterwards Arthur had got them tickets to attend the reception for all the artistes along with the King and Queen. Peter had been in raptures to see a real King and Queen, although bitterly disappointed that neither of them was wearing a crown. But all this passed Megan by. She could hardly think straight. All she could think of was Jim.
From the moment she had seen him walk on to the stage and take his place at the piano she’d been incapable of rational thought. It was difficult to keep the tears from her eyes as she watched him play. Everything was so painfully familiar, his broad shoulders, his shapely hands on the piano keys, and the familiar lock of hair which fell across his forehead as he concentrated. She could hardly breathe as they waited to be introduced at the reception. He was standing with a group of other musicians and singers. Stepping forward she saw the recognition light up in his eyes as she smiled at him. At last, after all this time, they were together.