And maybe, just maybe, they will fall in love.
An Inky Inscription
Woodstock, 29 January 1936
On Wednesday the 29th of January 1936, Eleanor knows she’ll have to spend most of the day talking about money. First with Michael Humphreys, then with Robin Parker and finally with Jonny Giffen.
The prospect both frightens and excites her. It frightens her because this is new territory. Walter had always handled their finances. Anne has never signed a cheque in her life. One of Eleanor’s new roles will be to become, as it were, the man of the family. It excites her because once she has established her professional circle – and created her own financial boundaries – she hopes she’ll stop feeling so hesitant about her life and begin gaining confidence.
She pulls on her best navy suit and a cream silk blouse, checking her reflection with a critical eye. Does she look smart, organised, professional? Is her hair tidy, are the seams of her stockings straight, do her shoes gleam? The mirror tells her she looks gaunt and pale. She pinches her cheeks. Perhaps she should take a leaf out of Maud’s book and buy some makeup. Try to look the part.
The trouble is, she’s not sure what part she should take. Who is she, exactly? Her mother’s newly-baptised protector? A first-year student at Somerville? A budding business woman? A shy eighteen-year-old whose dead father has become a bewildering mystery? Does she have the freedom and the courage to choose who she is – and who she might become?
As she waits to see Michael, Eleanor’s heart thumps nervously. But the moment she enters his immaculate office and they shake hands, she sees in his eyes not only sympathy but a new respect – and she feels reassured.
Michael’s first question is a concerned, “How’s your mother?”
“Bearing up… She doesn’t know I’m here.” Eleanor gives Michael a wobbly smile. “She thinks I’ve gone to pay for Daddy’s funeral, settle some domestic bills. It was easy to give myself an alibi. My father’s affairs need putting in order – but I have to do it tactfully. I want to protect Mummy from any more bad news.”
“She’s had enough to last a lifetime.”
“She’s very cut up about this Felix Mitchell fellow. She feels devastated, humiliated, confused. I need to talk to you about my cottage…” Eleanor bites her lip. “But I felt there was no need to rub salt in the wounds.”
“Everything we discuss here will remain strictly confidential.” Michael glances at his file. “The Cornish property details are very straightforward. Your father took out a short lease from the Fourth Earl Cowley in August 1911. Walter loved the place and extended the lease. Eventually, in 1930, he managed to buy it freehold from the Earl for three hundred pounds. He came to see me after the deal, full of delight and triumph. But between 1911 until the summer of 1914 he lived there fulltime… It’s fully furnished. You could move in tomorrow.
“When your father left St Ives, he put the cottage in the hands of an agent.” Michael checks his notes. “James Lanham’s instructions are to keep it dry, warm, aired and in good repair. It’s directly on the harbour and gets deluged in sea spray. The Cornish name for it is ‘spindrift’. Cottages like that need to be cared for all year round or they can become damp.” He meets Eleanor’s eyes. “It’s yours to live in or to sell, whatever you decide.” He opens the file. “Here’s a photograph of it. Your father took it in 1914, just before he left. He added the inscription five years ago when he made his will. The address is on the back.”
Eleanor stares at the grainy sepia photo. A row of wet, higgledy stone houses crouch together in a narrow street, cheek by jowl, as if for comfort. Puddles drench the cobblestones; rain drips from the tiled roofs. A young boy wearing clogs, baggy trousers and a massive cap, pushes a young girl in a one-wheel handcart, grinning as they share a joke. Her curly fair hair falls to her shoulders. She holds a skipping-rope and her small feet are bare. The photograph, which captures a fleeting moment of Cornish history, is poignant and beautiful.
On the back, Walter has scrawled:
The Hideaway
3 St Andrews Street, St Ives, Cornwall
A gift for my one and only Eleanor
Love you always
Daddy
Her throat dry and raw, Eleanor asks, “So which of the cottages is The Hideaway?”
“That one.” Michael jabs a finger. “Walter gave the cottage its name, but the photo doesn’t do it justice. What you can’t see is the back of the row of cottages, which looks directly onto the sea. There’s a small balcony leading from your living room. None of the others have one, so it’s a useful selling-point. The cottage used to be called The Balcony Studio.” He ferrets again in the file. “Here’s a map of St Ives and the agent’s address and phone number. James Lanham operates from the High Street, which runs through the town centre. Let him know when you plan to arrive. He’ll have everything ready.”
Eleanor takes a deep breath. “I still can’t believe the place is mine.” She swallows. “On Monday, in London, I sold some pearls but our financial position is precarious. I must start to think long-term. I’ll probably have to sell The Hideaway to give us an income, and maybe to fund my studies.”
“But you’ll go to see it first?”
“Yes, probably after Easter.”
“If you do decide to sell, I’ll be delighted to handle the legal side. I have the deeds safely locked away, and Lanham will help. He’s well-established in Cornwall. He’ll know what price the cottage could fetch.”
“It feels weird.” Eleanor shifts in her chair, with the photograph and map on her knees. “I know so little about Daddy’s life before he came to Woodstock, before he met my mother. He was ten years older than her, so there was plenty of it, but he never talked about it. The trouble is…” She can hardly get the words out.
“Go on.”
“Well, the cottage, the whole set-up… Daddy must have had an entire life in St Ives. I need to know whether he had a wife and family. Were Mummy and I his ‘second time around’ – or even his third?” She gives Michael a questioning glance. “Did you know he’d been married before?”
“Yes.” Michael has the grace to blush. “His first wife died. But he loved you and your mother very much.”
“Hmm.” Eleanor longs to ask, “And does the name Moira mean anything to you?” but her courage fails. She has begun to wonder whether there might be a connection between the mysterious Moira, and Felix Mitchell.
She stands up and shakes Michael’s hand again. “Thank you for your help. I’m sorry my mother was so rude to you. You’ve been a good friend.”
“Go down to St Ives.” Michael smiles at her. “And be sure to tell me about your hideaway when you get back.”
At two o’clock, Eleanor is ushered into Robin Parker’s office on Market Street. It only takes her half an hour to explain her position, hand over the money and arrange for her own bank account to be set up. Robin, brisk, genial and efficient, wishes her well.
Eleanor stands outside the bank, under a cloudy sky, breathing a sigh of relief. Jonny’s antiques’ shop, Giffen Antiques, is only a minute’s walk away. She decides to go straight there, while her courage and stamina hold.
She pushes at the door and stands against it, hearing the jangle of the bell and the ticking of a grandfather clock; breathing in the musty smell of antiquarian books, oak furniture and beeswax polish. There’s something alluring about the room, filled as it is with carefully restored mementoes of other people’s lives.
Jonny Giffen, now thirty-eight – only two years younger than Anne – had moved to Woodstock with his elderly mother ten years before, after his own father’s death. Within a month he’d opened Giffen Antiques. He and his mother had often been to supper with the Drummonds, Jonny amusing them with stories of his childhood.
“My dad used to run a second-hand furniture stall in London’s Caledonian
Road. I grew up surrounded by brass and copper pots, oak dressers, glass, porcelain and clocks and, if Dad had visited Bermondsey market in the early hours of the morning, pieces of stolen silver. They swiftly changed hands while the police turned a blind eye to all transactions, provided the traders were off and away by dawn!”
Jonny has a lifetime’s experience in antiques, an attractive face, a gentle, persuasive manner and a highly-trained eye. He’s also an excellent businessman. He understands that people in the 1930s have smaller families and live in smaller houses than their Victorian ancestors, and have fewer servants. They want furniture that’s small, pretty and practical: tables that seat six, not twelve; wardrobes that don’t dominate their bedrooms; sturdy kitchen equipment that’s easy to clean.
Once a month Jonny climbs into his van and drives to Aberystwyth in Wales to replenish his stock. There he attends auctions and visits private dealers, buying furniture from ancient Welsh farmhouses: stools, rocking chairs, nests of tables, Sunday-best china, and creaking bedsteads that have long forgotten the weight of slumbering bodies.
Now, Eleanor stands looking at a porcelain teapot, with pink roses and their pale green leaves trailing the base and spout. She hears footsteps leaping up from the basement. Jonny Giffen bursts into the room, his coppery curls bouncing. His gravelly voice with, now, only the faintest Cockney accent, cries, “Eleanor! Good to see you again. How are you?” He grasps her hands.
Eleanor’s relief at seeing Jonny’s handsome face and shining green eyes threatens to overwhelm her. She stutters, “Fine, thank you—”
“Have you come to buy something beautiful? A ravishing piece of Meissen, perhaps? A present for your mother, to cheer her up?”
“No, nothing like that. In fact, quite the opposite.” Tears sting Eleanor’s eyes. She pulls her hands away, steeling herself to say the dreaded words. “We’re in big trouble, Jonny. Daddy has left us without any money.”
“Good God, Eleanor! I had no idea—”
She rushes on before the tears take over. “Mummy said… We wondered… That is to say, I’ve come to sell you something, if you’d be kind enough to buy.”
Without another word, Jonny leaps towards the door. He locks it, turns the sign to CLOSED, pulls out his handkerchief and pushes it into Eleanor’s hand. Then he mutters, “What you need is a cup of sweet tea.”
He takes Eleanor’s elbow, guiding her through the shop and up the stairs.
In the cosy living room he says, “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll only be a moment.”
Eleanor sinks onto a sofa, wiping her eyes, glad of a moment’s privacy. Suddenly she misses her father more than ever. She blames the photograph. Seeing his handwriting, reading his poignant inscription: they’ve made everything worse.
She hears Jonny talking to his mother, the rattle of cups, the chink of cutlery. Then he carries a tray into the room, puts it on a low table in front of her.
“Now talk to me, Eleanor. I want to know everything.”
Half an hour later they’re on their way to the Drummonds’ house.
Eleanor asks, “Are you sure the shop can spare you?”
“’Course it can,” Jonny says. “You need to sell. I’m only too happy to help. Buying your linen press is the least I can do.”
They slip upstairs before Anne or Vera hear them.
In the spare room, Jonny runs expert fingers over the linen press. He opens the two doors, slides the shallow drawers in and out. The scent of lavender fills the air.
“It’s a beautiful piece, Eleanor. The mahogany is in excellent condition. Useful and handsome.” He touches her shoulder. “I’ll give you fifty guineas for it, in cash.”
“Jonny! Thank you so much. Mummy will be beside herself.”
“Good. Surprise her over supper… Come back to the shop and I’ll give you the money now. If you hurry, you can put it in the bank while it’s still open.”
Back at Giffen Antiques, before he has reopened the shop, Jonny disappears upstairs. He comes down with an envelope, and presses it into Eleanor’s hands.
“It’s all here. Every last guinea.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Jonny. You’ve been so understanding.”
“I’m only too glad to help. Anyway, the linen press will sell like a hot cake.” He meets her eyes. “I’ll arrange for my men to collect it on Friday… And Eleanor… Sit down a moment.” Jonny gestures to a newly upholstered chair. “I have a proposition for you. The idea came to me while we were talking… How do you fancy working here, for me, with me, in this shop?”
“But—”
“You don’t know anything about antiques? I can teach you – and I’m sure you’ll be a fast learner.”
“I do desperately need a job. I’ve thought about little else since Daddy died.”
“Mum has been helping in the shop, but by one o’clock she’s exhausted. Why don’t you come to work here every afternoon, between two and five-thirty? We close on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, but if you could also work here on Saturday mornings, that would be wonderful. I’ve got Darren to help with the heavy lifting and the restoration work, but he hates dealing with customers. I’m often away at auctions, buying new stock, or in London, seeing private clients. I’ve been thinking of hiring an assistant for months. Then you show up on my doorstep, like a godsend. You’d be perfect. And I’ll pay you, of course. One guinea a week.”
He smiles at Eleanor, and reaches across to grab her hands.
“Come on, Eleanor… What do you say?”
Eleanor feels astonished but delighted. He has just paid her an enormous compliment. “I’ll need to ask Mummy.”
“Why? Does she run your life?”
Eleanor blushes. “Pretty much… I’ve given up Somerville for now – maybe for ever, I’m not sure – because she needs me around.”
“So? She’ll still have you, won’t she? You’ll only be over the road in the afternoons. How can she possibly object? And you’ll still have time to read and study, keep up with your College work. I’m not asking you to burn any boats.”
Eleanor takes a deep breath. She stuffs Jonny’s envelope into her handbag, snaps it shut. “You’re a breath of fresh air, Jonny Giffen – and you’re right.”
Jonny grins. “You mean we have a deal?”
“Looks like we have.”
“Terrific! So, when can you start?”
Eleanor looks Jonny in the eyes. His are dancing with anticipation and delight.
“Give me a couple of days to talk to Mummy, get her used to the idea.”
“Shall we say next week?” Jonny’s voice is tense with excitement. “Could you start on Monday afternoon?”
Eleanor looks around the shop: at the porcelain teacups, the leather-bound books, the shining silver spoons. A pair of feathery barn owls, perched in their glass case, peer down from a walnut bureau, their eyes round and black, waiting for her answer.
She turns to Jonny. For the first time since her father’s death, a sense of purpose floods her heart.
“Monday afternoon,” she says, “sounds very good to me.”
Mourning Darling Daddy
Woodstock, 1936
As the short dark days of February and March lengthen into spring, Eleanor’s life assumes a busy new pattern. She crams her week with a whirlwind of activity that allows her little time to mourn, reflect or remember.
Every morning except Saturday she runs the house with Vera. Their young daily maid has refused to return after Walter’s death, confessing she’s “that fearful” of entering a house in which someone has died – and anyway her “auntie in Banbury” has offered her a job. She’s not replaced. There’s no money to pay her wages.
Eleanor and Vera clean the house, strip and make the beds, wash and iron clothes, rake and light fires, plan the menus, coo
k – and care for Anne. Eleanor shops for food and household items either in Woodstock or Oxford, although when she parks the Morris in Beaumont Street she prays she won’t meet any of her colleagues. In particular, she’s desperate to avoid her tutor, Miss Lascelles, whose ferocious rectitude is enough to quell the bravest of spirits.
As the weeks tick by, Eleanor feels increasingly alienated from Somerville, and from the regimented, self-important world of the university. She dreads facing other students: having to answer their questions, being forced to explain her absence and, hardest of all, to talk about her father. She and Anne hardly ever mention him, but he hangs like a flickering shadow over their lives, eerily ever-present – particularly at mealtimes when they sneak furtive glances at his empty chair.
Eleanor’s afternoons are filled with Jonny’s antiques. She’s astonished by how much she enjoys the work and looks forward to being in the shop, away from Anne’s brooding melancholy. Jonny’s passion for his antiques is infectious. Eleanor learns fast, not only about prices, periods and crucial details, but how to greet customers, when to let them browse, and how to tempt them to buy.
For the first fortnight Jonny stays by her side, describing every item in the shop.
“This bedside table is what we call an ‘old friend’. I bought it in a job lot and never managed to sell it. It’ll disappear eventually. This wonderful rosewood bureau is mid-seventeenth century.” He runs his fingers over it. “It has three secret drawers. We call the central one a ‘bible well’. See if you can discover each of them and find out how they open.”
By the third week, he has enough confidence in Eleanor to travel to Aberystwyth, leaving her on her own, although Mrs Giffen hovers upstairs, with cups of tea at the ready. And at the beginning of March, while Jonny’s at a Christie’s auction in London, Eleanor makes her first major sale. A young American couple, on honeymoon in “your wonderful rainy old England”, spend two hours buying furniture for their New York apartment. They decide on a Regency mahogany bow-front secretaire bookcase, a pair of William and Mary walnut chairs, and a George III gilt-wood mirror. They pay top dollar and ask for the consignment to be sent to America.
The Choice Page 15