by Gloria Cook
‘Hello, you must be Mr Fuller,’ one of the women said in a pleasing Cornish accent. She appeared to be the elder of two statuesque sisters.
‘I’m sorry, you have the advantage of me,’ he said, desperate to know who these women were. He couldn’t have made an enormous mistake, for they didn’t appear to be angry with him, but he didn’t relax. It didn’t make things easier. Or less frightening.
‘That’s because we haven’t met before,’ the woman said, and she and her sister were smiling at him. Kind, understanding smiles. The kind of smiles Mark had seen before and he didn’t like them. They were the smiles reserved for the ill and infirm and they reinforced the reality of his suffering, his lack of health and his reduced situation. ‘I’m Emilia Bosweld, and this is my daughter, Lottie Harmon. We’ve just arrived to visit my niece, Faye, and have just let ourselves in. Is she about?’
‘What? Your daughter? Oh, but I thought… Faye?’ Sweat trickled clammily down the back of his neck as he tried to recall the name Faye. Then it came to him. Thankfully his memory usually came back quickly. He looked around. He was at the bottom of the stairs in Tremore House. ‘Faye. Miss Harvey. Oh, yes. But what am I doing here? I remember her and Mrs Dowling bringing me here. Why didn’t I return to the pub? What day is it?’
‘Mr Fuller.’ Faye was there. His thin, bewildered face broke into deep relief. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been worried. Come through to the drawing room and I’ll explain. And you’ll be able to meet my uncle.’
Mark followed Faye, with the two mothers following after him into the drawing room, the last place he remembered being in the day before.
A lanky, casually-dressed man leapt up from a leather armchair beside the roaring fire and came forward, full of welcoming smiles. ‘Take my seat, Mr Fuller,’ Tristan said quietly, and Mark was glad the other man had nothing hearty about him, and didn’t attempt to look at him often, or assume to coddle him. Here was a man who truly understood him, and he was right in his assumption that Tristan Harvey had held rank in the First World War and had suffered during it.
Mark was grateful the Harveys kept thundering fires, for after enduring the steaming heat of the jungle, the cold weather bit into his bones. But he wished there wasn’t so many people in the room. The infants were now toddling about on the brick-red Tabriz rug. One of them used Tristan Harvey’s knees to pull itself up on its feet. Mark would hate it if the child did this to him. He didn’t like being touched. For the three and a half years, he had sweated and stank in captivity; his skin had been cropped with sores and scabs. It was still tender in places and prone to outbreaks of stinging rashes. Sometimes he was convinced he must smell like a corpse, and he had seen so many dead and decaying men, hundreds of them, and the stench of death all too often returned to him. He didn’t like people near him, even Justine during her thrice-weekly visits to the convalescent home. After his discharge he had insisted on sleeping in another room. She had been very good about it — it was a good thing she was able to move on with her life. Mostly he just wanted to be alone. Right now, he needed to know why he was still in this house.
‘You keeled off the chair you’re sitting in,’ Tristan began. ‘It gave us a bit of a fright, but the doctor said you were exhausted and dehydrated, nothing more serious. You slept right through, except for a couple of times when you woke and sipped some water and ate a little bread and soup.’
Mark didn’t remember the sequence of events. ‘It was very kind of you and Miss Harvey to take so much trouble, and to call a doctor. You have my gratitude.’ Without the hospitality of these people, and the kindness of Susan Dowling yesterday, he might have ended up in any sort of sticky situation. He suddenly broke into a cold sweat, and wished again that the well-spaced room wasn’t teaming with people. He was feeling hemmed in and jittery. He coped by trying to focus on what the room was like. It had lots of mirrors and reflective ornaments, and the latest in radio and gramophone. Justine would like it here. Their home – her home now – had been newly built before the war and she had taken great pride in providing it with ‘Plan’ furniture, bright ceramics, and anaglypta wallpaper in autumnal shades. Mark cared nothing for interiors; he was an outdoor man and he glanced out of the tall windows, where the long, broad expanse of garden was turned over and an elderly gardener was planting early potatoes. Food shortages, while the country lumbered back on its feet, necessitated little flower growing.
As if coming out of one of his dazes, he noticed there were three infants on the rug, playing with wooden alphabet bricks and tin cars. One had a fluff of fair hair – Lottie Harmon’s child – the other two had black mops. ‘Oh…’ He raked a hand through his hair, thoroughly puzzled. Was he going mad?
‘I hope you’re not being overwhelmed, Mr Fuller,’ Emilia Harvey said. ‘The boy nearest you is my son, Paul. He’s just turned two years old. The fair-haired boy is my grandson, Carl, who’s a year younger. And the little boy now running about is called Simon. He’s Faye’s. Lottie and I didn’t expect to find you still here or we would have come another time.’
Mark glanced warily at Simon, eldest of the children and adventurous. He hoped he and the others didn’t get noisy; he couldn’t stand a lot of noise. ‘Another evacuee?’ he looked at Faye with admiration.
‘No.’ Faye coloured slightly, as she always did when explaining Simon’s parentage, while hiding, for her confused guest’s sake, the defiance she also kept about it. ‘He’s my son.’ Mark nodded, but his admiration didn’t seem replaced by anything else, such as shock or prudery, as Faye was often confronted with. It bothered her for Simon’s sake, and she would have been disappointed to get such a reaction from Mark.
Mark thought nothing of it. Justine was a hospital almoner, she had mentioned how she had helped many an unfortunate girl left to bear the brunt of bearing a baby by a serviceman boyfriend who had not made it back, as he presumed, by the impression he had of Faye, was the case. She was certainly no floozie. And what the hell did it matter, a child out of wedlock, after all he and the world had seen? ‘When might I get to meet the Smith children?’
‘They’re at school now, of course,’ Faye said. ‘You’ll be able to see them this afternoon.’
‘I couldn’t possibly impose on you for such a long time,’ Mark said.
‘Of course you may. You’ve done a jolly decent thing undertaking such a long journey while not really being up to it to tell the children about their father,’ Tristan said. He understood Mark’s intention. There was a special bond among men who went into battle together and suffered together, and whether an officer or an ordinary squaddie, a man burned inside to complete the last wishes of a dying comrade. ‘And, well, it’s not as easy as that, old chap.’
‘What do you mean?’ Mark was alarmed.
There was a tap on the door and Agnes and Susan came in with coffee and biscuits. Mark was agitated to have to wait for his answer. Faye noticed and felt for him and she aimed him an encouraging smile. Emilia and Lottie saw his discomfort too and they glanced at each other.
Lottie said thoughtfully, ‘I think I’ll take the children upstairs to play. Hot drinks, and all that. If you stay on in Hennaford, Mr Fuller, perhaps you’d like to come across to Ford Farm. Take a peaceful look about the fields and meadows with my brother, Tom.’
‘Yes, perhaps. Thank you, Mrs Harmon.’ Mark wasn’t sure how long he was staying in Hennaford, how long it would take for him to be well enough to travel up to Surrey – he had to go back sometime to the suburban semi to make amicable arrangements with Justine about the divorce. The prospect of strolling around fields and meadows wasn’t daunting, but he didn’t want to meet another stranger.
‘I’ll help you take the children up,’ Emilia said. ‘Then I’ll come back down for coffee.’
As the room was emptied of little people, Mark was able to breathe easier. Faye smiled at him again and he managed to return in kind.
Tristan had jumped up when Agnes and Susan had arrived. He took the coffee tray from
Susan and placed it down on the occasional table beside Faye, who would pour. ‘How are you finding things, Mrs Dowling? We’re not too off-putting for you, I hope.’
‘I’m finding my way around, Mr Harvey,’ she replied. It was kind of him to ask. She had just seen to his room. He was neat and tidy. It had only taken a minute to make his bed, and his pyjamas had already been folded and placed under the pillows. No shoes or clothes were left lying about. The things on his dressing table were in precise places, the mark of a military man. The many photographs of his late wife and children pointed to him being exactly what he was known for, a caring family man.
‘So you’re enjoying your first day?’ Tristan smiled down on her.
‘Yes, I am.’ Susan dropped her eyes.
Tristan realized he was monopolizing her and she was embarrassed. He returned to his seat with vague feelings of disappointment. He rebuked himself, but for what? He had done nothing wrong. He had merely been welcoming. He would have done the same to any young woman starting work here. So why did he feel he’d just behaved like a foolish middle-aged man? Why was he embarrassed? He would be careful from now on in regard to Susan Dowling.
Mark was recalling that Faye had mention Susan Dowling was a friend, but she had just become a new member of her staff, and there was a formality about her. She didn’t look at anyone for longer than a moment, not even Faye.
Susan and Agnes left for their own elevenses, and Emilia returned and passed round the mock butterscotch biscuits, and Faye poured the coffee. Mark took a biscuit, hoping the plate would come around again. From the days of starvation, when food and survival had been uppermost on his and fellow prisoners’ minds, there remained a burning desire to eat and eat, even if he felt sick and didn’t have an appetite. Wasting food was a crime to him, and he’d scrape up every last crumb and mop up every spot of liquid. Justine had understood his scavenging, ravenous ways, and at home she’d fed him with as much as the rationing allowed. Justine… there was something he was supposed to do. ‘Oh, damn!’ he suddenly blurted out. Then, horrified, ‘Oh, forgive me. I forget I’m not in the company of servicemen.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Faye said. ‘What is it?’
‘Would you mind if I phoned my wife? We’re still close, you see. Justine will be fearful by now. She tried to talk me out of coming down here and I promised I’d contact her every day. I have a large notice in my overnight bag to remind me.’ It had been his idea; he’d argued he was unlikely to forget because he had to freshen up twice a day, but his hazy mind had seen off the plan, just as Justine had feared it might. Hell! He must need a shave. He must look a mess. It was an effort not to shed tears of humiliation.
‘There’s no need,’ Faye said. ‘Uncle Tris and I discussed what was best to do about you and we took the liberty of phoning Mrs Fuller. She was very grateful. We reassured her that you’d arrived safely at your destination, that you’d found out where the children lived, and that we’d be taking care of you for as long as it’s needed.’
‘You’re taking care of me? Here?’ Mark looked from her to Tristan.
‘That’s what I was about to mention. I brought your things here yesterday. Ruby Brokenshaw, the landlady of the pub, wishes you well, but she’s a little bit concerned,’ he said diplomatically. ‘About your tendency to wander off. We thought it better all round if you stayed here. You’ll want to spend time with the children, after all. Mrs Fuller is going to send down more of your things.’
‘I see. You’re very kind, but I—’ Mark broke off. How could he tell these kind people he was horrified at the thought of staying where there were so many children? Inevitably, there was a lot of noise and bustle in the pub but he could shut himself away in his room. Mrs Brokenshaw had agreed to serve his meals there.
Faye read his mind. ‘We’ll ensure you have plenty of space and peace and quiet. The children are very excited to meet you, but we promise we won’t let them overtax you.’
‘It will all be for the best,’ Tristan said. He was pleased Mark had to stay – he had no other choice – and he thought he might be able to help Mark come to terms with some of his suffering. Tristan had been hit by a shell and nearly killed on Flanders soil, and although left with a stiff left ankle, he had not been scarred mentally like Mark. If he could do anything at all to help the young man’s recovery, he’d do it. Mark had come here to perform a worthy task. It was something to keep him going. And then what? Tristan knew men like Mark were prone to feel a nuisance; some were overpowered by depression and felt a handgun to the temple to be an honourable way out. He wasn’t about to let that happen to Mark.
‘We want you to stay, Mr Fuller,’ Faye said earnestly.
‘Lottie and I, and the rest of the family, will be careful when we call again, Mr Fuller,’ Emilia said gently. She was reading Tristan’s mind. She had seen his torment when married to his brother, Alec, the squire of Hennaford. It had taken Tristan a very long time to recover. ‘Lottie and I will be leaving now.’
‘Well, all I can say is thank you. You must have my ration cards, of course, Faye,’ Mark said. ‘But please don’t leave on my account, Mrs Bosweld. Could I be excused instead? I’d like to take a bath if that’s possible, and then take a rest.’
Faye was delighted to have him agree. She had never felt she’d really done enough for the war effort. To care for this badly-treated former officer was the least she could do. And Mark Fuller was appealing and honourable. She wanted to learn more about him. ‘I’ll show you up. And where the bathroom is.’
‘That would be a good idea.’ At last Mark smiled. ‘I probably wouldn’t find my way.’
He bid Emilia ‘goodbye’ and followed Faye out into the hall. Susan was busy with a feather duster, softly singing ‘As Time Goes By’ to herself. Faye was warmed through that she had made two people feel happy and settled.
‘Everything all right, Susan?’ she said.
‘Everything’s fine, thanks.’ Susan paused.
‘I’m showing Mr Fuller up to his room. He’s going to take a bath and a rest.’
Susan looked at Mark and smiled into his weary face. Poor man, he looked as if all he wanted was to sleep for a week. ‘Would you like a hot water bottle, Mr Fuller?’
Faye could hardly believe her reaction to the kindly gesture: to feel intensely jealous that it wasn’t she who had made this offer and she had to force a smile of her own not to reveal it. Mark wasn’t exclusively her invalid or anything else to her, and even if he was, where did she get this ridiculous attitude? ‘A good idea, Susan. Agnes will show you where they’re kept.’
‘Thank you, Mrs… um, Dowling,’ Mark had difficulty drawing up her name, while politely stifling a yawn.
Faye glanced at him to see if he was gazing at Susan in a similar doe-eyed manner to how her uncle had done in the drawing room. This was getting silly. Mark was edging towards the stairs. Faye told herself that she would concentrate only on his needs for shelter and food, and what his temporary presence would mean to Bob, Len and Pearl.
Nonetheless, she took possession of him and walked closely up beside him.
Chapter Four
Tom and Jill Harvey burst into the back kitchen of Ford Farm together, making the stable door creak and slam behind them. He grabbed her round the waist and hauled her off her feet. She shrieked and beat on his chest in play. They were always larking about, kissing and embracing, touching and loving. Every day was the same since they had fallen in love and married, shortly after Jill had come to work here as a member of the Women’s Land Army. Their insatiable love affair was rivalled only by the intense romantic passion shared between his mother Emilia and his stepfather.
Tom put Jill down and brought her body in close to his, then closer still, swaying provocatively against her while nuzzling his cold face into her neck. ‘After breakfast, I’m going to take you upstairs and make love to you until you tingle all over,’ his rich voice dropped to huskier tones as he made the erotic promise.
‘I sh
ould think so too.’ Jill was always as sensually alive for him as he was for her, already tingling through every scrap of her slight form, wonderfully alive to the burning desire in his strong rangy body. She adored her good-natured husband, and his sometimes dignified ways and sense of fair play, and his velvety dark eyes and quick friendly smile. He was the only Harvey male not to have inherited raven-black hair but the rich red-brown of his mother’s, and Jill loved to tease her fingers through it. She wrapped her arms possessively round his neck and kissed his mouth long and hard.
The farmhouse kitchen door was thrown open. ‘Oh, for goodness sake, give it a rest you two!’ Lottie cried, hands indignantly on her hips. ‘Come in and get your breakfast like ordinary people do and don’t make so much noise about it. You’ll start the dogs off again, and I’m in no mood for chaos this morning.’
Jill dropped her arms and made a puzzled face at Tom. Some of the pack of Jack Russells had slipped inside with them, but although eager for their breakfast of scraps, none was being a nuisance. She crept into the cosy warmth of the vast kitchen and sat down meekly, as was her mild, unassuming manner, on the form at the huge table. Emilia, presiding at the head, gave her a smile but kept it brief.
Lottie was in no mood for amusement. At the foot of the table was Emilia’s husband, Perry Bosweld, the astonishingly handsome stepfather Lottie adored. He shrugged his shoulders, as bewildered as the others as to the cause of Lottie’s present exasperation. The house usually bustled with contented speech and activity, but everyone, including Edwin Rowse, Emilia’s father, Midge Roach the cowman, and Tilda Lawry, the housekeeper, kept a strained silence. Lottie was inclined to be prickly and vociferous, and sometimes awkward, but lately she had given way to outbreaks of prolonged irritation. It sliced through Tom’s easygoing nature and he had endured enough. While Tilda served bowls of steaming porridge, he pointed his spoon across the table at his sister. ‘What the hell is the matter with you now?’