The Choice

by Valerie Mendes

  Furious questions buzz in Eleanor’s mind. What choice does she have but to hand over the money? If she decides to do nothing, the moment her back is turned, the wretched woman will start knocking on Anne’s door.

  She sits there, her heart pounding, her tears burning, trying not to imagine her father tucked up with his plump Rosie. God in heaven. What else had he been dong?

  And with whom?

  Is she ever going to discover the truth, the whole truth, about the man she loved? Tears begin to flood down Eleanor’s cheeks. She feels as if the grief she felt on her father’s death, the pain of its wound, has been ripped open all over again. It’s as fresh and raw as ever…

  Only now it’s even worse.

  Next morning, Eleanor spends an uncomfortable fifteen minutes with Robin Parker, explaining she needs some cash to clear two debts Walter had incurred in London several months ago. Mercifully, her bank manager asks no questions.

  Neither does Rosie when Eleanor hands her the money in the doorway of Giffen Antiques. She’d waited impatiently all day, determined not to let the woman enter the shop. Now she watches as Rosie bundles the envelope into her bag, staring resentfully at Eleanor.

  “This is the very least you could do.” Rosie glances over at Jonny who’s dealing with a customer. “I can see you’re busy. This will be all for now. But don’t think you’ve seen the last of me.”

  Eleanor clamps her lips together, not trusting herself to speak. Furious and humiliated, she slams the door.

  Jonny notices something’s wrong. When his customer has gone, he asks, “Are you all right, Eleanor? The woman in the doorway. Wasn’t it Mrs Perkins? Didn’t she give a eulogy at—”

  “I’ve dealt with her.” Eleanor wants to add, “I’ve just handed over every penny you’ve given me for working here,” but she chokes back the words. Jonny might offer to refund the money and she has no intention of allowing him to do so. Once again, she has covered her father’s tracks…

  How many more times will she need to do so? And who else will be involved?

  Someone to Share

  the Driving

  Woodstock, March 1936

  One Saturday morning towards the end of March, when the customers have gone and the hands of the clocks stand at 1.00 pm, Eleanor flicks the shop’s sign to CLOSED.

  She glances at Jonny who is bending over some art-deco ornaments, and summons the courage to ask him the questions that have hovered on her lips all morning.

  “Can I ask you a favour, Jonny?… Well, two favours, actually.”

  He looks up at her, pushing his chestnut curls out of his eyes. “Sure… Fire away.”

  “After the Easter weekend, in April, may I have a fortnight off?”

  “Of course.” He straightens his back. “I can hardly hold you captive. You’ve worked here since February.” He moves towards her, suddenly anxious. “Is your mother ill? Are you taking Anne on holiday?”

  “No.” Eleanor flushes. “I’m going to leave her with Vera for the first time since Daddy died. I haven’t told her yet. She won’t like it, but I can’t put it off any longer.”

  “I understand.” Jonny puffs with relief. “Your Cornish cottage?”

  “Yes. If I decide to sell, the agent will want it on the market before the summer.”

  “Very sensible.” A smile lights his face. “And exciting! How will you travel?”

  Eleanor takes a deep breath. “That’s the other favour I need. The cottage is furnished. I think some of Daddy’s paintings may still be there. If they are, I’d like to bring them home, which is why I’m planning to drive.” She meets Jonny’s eyes. “I wondered whether… ” She blurts it out. “Would you come with me in the Morris? Maybe find a few antiques along the way?”

  Jonny throws back his head and laughs. “Eleanor! You sly minx! You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?”

  Eleanor’s cheeks are fire-hot. “Not exactly,” she stammers. “It’s just that it’s a long way to go. Daddy taught me to drive, and I passed my driving test first time. But I’ve never driven very far on my own. It would be lovely to have someone to share the driving.” She catches Jonny’s infectious grin. “What do you think?”

  “It’s a great idea. I’d be delighted.” Jonny glances fondly around him. “I’ll close the shop for a fortnight. Give Mum and Darren a break. Heaven knows they deserve one.” He grabs her hands. “Have you worked out a route?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Have you booked an hotel?”

  “I’ll ask the agent for a recommendation. I could stay in the cottage, but I’d like to see it first. It might be full of Daddy’s ghost.”

  “Will you drive down in a single day?”

  “I don’t know how long it’ll take.” They’re standing close now. Eleanor notices the flecks of silver in Jonny’s coppery hair, and the enchanting laugh lines around his eyes. “I’ll work out some details over the weekend.” She swallows, full of gratitude, and overwhelmed by Jonny’s kindness. She adds shyly, “Thank you so much.”

  He releases her hands. “The pleasure will be mine, Eleanor… Cornwall, here we come! We can swim in the sea. We’ll walk along the cliffs. We’ll put The Hideaway on the market if you want to. But we’ll also fill our lungs with sea air, eat cream teas and have a holiday… I can hardly wait!”

  “Leave me out of it, why don’t you!” Anne says that afternoon as Eleanor drives them into Oxford.

  “You didn’t want to come.” Eleanor allows a bullying lorry to overtake. “You couldn’t care less what happens to The Hideaway. You said—”

  “I know what I said.”

  “Then why make such a fuss?”

  “I don’t want to be left in Woodstock on my own.”

  “You won’t be on your own. You’ll have Vera.”

  “It’s not the same.” Anne stares out of the window. “I feel old and boring and discarded, like a threadbare sock.”

  “You’re only forty, you’re not boring – and as for being discarded, that’s nonsense. Look how faithfully I’ve cared for you.”

  “Only because you have to. Every afternoon you shoot off to Jonny’s as if you can’t bear me a minute longer. And now you’ll be away for weeks on end.”

  “A fortnight is hardly—”

  “To me,” Anne’s voice trembles like a spoilt child, “it’ll feel like an eternity.”

  Eleanor grits her teeth. “You could try the patience of a saint.”

  After an uncomfortable lunch, during which Anne grumbles, and then sulks, Eleanor leaves her in a dress-shop –“I need another black skirt. The one I’m wearing is worn to a frazzle” – while she dashes into Blackwell’s Bookshop on Broad Street. She quickly finds what she needs: a Touring Map of Britain.

  That evening she consults it, sliding her finger over the towns she and Jonny will negotiate. They’ll drive from Woodstock to Witney, Faringdon and Swindon; then to Wootton Bassett, Lyneham and Chippenham to Bath; then to Radstock, Wells, Glastonbury, Bridgwater, Taunton and Cullompton to Exeter, where they’ll break the journey and stay the night. The following day will take them to Okehampton and Launceston – by then they’ll be in Cornwall – across Bodmin Moor to Bodmin, onward to Redruth, Camborne and Hayle, and finally to St Ives.

  She checks her diary. If they leave early on Tuesday the 14th of April – the day after Easter Monday – and stay the night in Exeter, they’ll be in St Ives by Wednesday afternoon. She’ll write to James Lanham… Her heart flickers with excitement.

  “Well, well!” Kathleen says over tea at Fishery Cottage, her eyes twinkling. “You and Jonny Giffen, eh? You make an interestin’ pair!”

  Eleanor blushes. “It’s nothing like that, Kath. He’s a good friend—”

  “But you’ve asked him on a Cornish holiday!”

  “I don
’t want to go alone. I’ll have to inspect the cottage, put it on the market. Jonny will help… It’ll hardly be a romantic interlude.”

  “Don’t you be surprised if he makes a pass… He hasn’t got a girlfriend, has he?”

  “He’s never mentioned anyone special.”

  “There you are! He’s single, good-lookin’, with a thrivin’ business. I bet you anythin’ he’ll be wantin’ a wife.”

  “Well, it certainly won’t be me.” Eleanor drains her cup, anxious to change the subject. “How’s the royal love affair going? Anything from Maud?”

  “She’s full of it! She says the Americans think Edward is our idol… He can ride a horse, dance, fly a plane, mix with commoners and deal with diplomats – there’s nothin’ he can’t do. He’s a young people’s king in a young people’s country.”

  “Except it doesn’t feel anything like that, does it?”

  “It sure doesn’t. Maud says Edward’s bein’ real difficult. Now he’s king and all, he’s got to live in Buck House, but he thinks it’s gloomy and oppressive. He goes roarin’ down to Fort Belvedere with Wallis Simpson every weekend. He never goes to Sandringham or Balmoral and his staff feel ignored.”

  “He’s trying to be his own man. To have a private life that’s got nothing to do with being king.”

  “Which is impossible, as well he knows. Maud says when he’s separated from Wallis, he sends her love letters on black-edged stationery, written in a private code, full of baby talk, like a sixteen-year-old with a schoolboy crush… Lord only knows where it will end.”

  Eleanor crosses off the days in her diary as they tick towards Easter.

  Foreign tourists flock into Woodstock, and Giffen Antiques thrives. But at the end of each working afternoon Eleanor and Jonny plan their journey, longing to leave.

  Eleanor takes the Morris to the local garage. They replace all four tyres, check and fine-tune the engine, declare the car fit to travel.

  In reply to her letter, James Lanham says he’ll have the cottage “ship shape and Bristol fashion”. He recommends she stay at The Porthminster Hotel. “It has splendid sea-views and an excellent reputation… I was very sorry to learn of your father’s death and send you every sympathy.”

  Eleanor telephones The Porthminster, and books two single rooms with sea-views. She wonders, yet again, if the cottage is warm, dry and furnished, whether she might live in it. But that will mean abandoning Jonny. He has been the soul of kindness, even offering to pay both their hotel bills: an offer Eleanor has refused but not forgotten.

  Giffen Antiques is open on Easter Saturday, but closed on Easter Monday, so at one o’clock on the Saturday Eleanor flicks the sign to CLOSED. She turns to smile with delight at Jonny.

  “See you Tuesday morning,” he says. “I’m so excited… A whole fortnight together… Let’s leave at eight sharp.” He moves towards her. There, in the middle of the shop, suddenly, they’re in each other’s arms.

  Jonny says, “I can hardly wait.” His lips brush her cheek. “Have you been counting the hours too?”

  “Yes.” Eleanor laughs and pulls away.

  Jonny’s eyes dance. “I’ll be outside your house, ready and waiting.”

  Eleanor rushes home to start packing.

  On Easter Monday, in a change to her usual routine, Anne accepts an invitation to spend the afternoon and evening with Sylvia Dunkley. Vera has also disappeared, to stay the weekend with her sister in Bournemouth. Eleanor has the house to herself.

  At four o’clock the phone rings.

  “Eleanor? It’s me.” Jonny’s voice comes sharp and desperate. “I’m calling from the Radcliffe Infirmary.”

  Eleanor catches her breath. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Mum. She’s had a fall, tripped on the stairs… She’s done something awful to her hip. She’s in terrible pain. She was wearing those disgusting old slippers of hers. I’ve warned her about them a dozen times.”

  “Will she be all right?”

  “I don’t know. She’s very shaken up. They’re going to take some X-rays. She may need an operation. Obviously I can’t leave her. I’m so sorry, Eleanor, but Cornwall’s out of the question.” His voice breaks. “You do understand, don’t you?”

  “Of course.” Eleanor’s head thunders with disappointment.

  “What will you do?”

  “No idea… Postpone the trip? I need to think.”

  “Is there anyone else you could travel with?”

  “Maybe.” Eleanor thinks wildly of Kathleen. But she won’t want to leave Sean, and she’d need permission from the palace. “Probably not.”

  “I was so looking forward to our trip. I feel terrible letting you down .”

  “Please don’t, Jonny. It’s not your fault.” Eleanor’s mouth tastes sour. “The Hideaway has waited for me all these years. A few more weeks won’t change anything.”

  “It’s good of you to be so understanding. I must go.”

  “Of course,” Eleanor says quickly. “Give your mother my love.”

  “I will, Eleanor, thanks. See you soon. I’m so sorry.”

  Eleanor stumbles back to the kitchen. She stares at the neat pile of ironed blouses waiting to be packed. She should ring The Porthminster Hotel, cancel her booking, and then speak to James Lanham and explain her delay.

  She also knows she has no intention of calling anyone.

  Tonight she’ll study the route to St Ives until she knows the sequence of towns off by heart. She won’t breathe a word to her mother about Mrs Giffen’s accident. She’ll set off tomorrow morning at dawn, while both Vera and Anne are still asleep.

  And before she leaves, she’ll push a note through Jonny’s door:

  I’m going to Cornwall on my own. Please do NOT tell Anne, who will worry about me driving alone. I’ll ring you from St Ives. I hope your mother is on the mend. Love, Eleanor.

  She stares around at the silent kitchen: the steaming iron, the immaculate blouses, the dresser with its shining plates, and the geraniums, standing bright-headed and expectant on the window-sill. She takes a deep breath, clenching her fists and trying to quell a sudden wave of terror.

  These past months she has coped with her father’s death, leaving Somerville and earning her living. She has handled her mother’s misery and depression. She has kept their small household alive. She has paid all the bills. She has even faced her father’s mistress without breaking down. Surely, after coping with all that, she can manage a few hours behind a steering wheel?

  But of course, it will be more than that.

  A long journey alone in the Bullnose Morris.

  Staying overnight, a solitary girl in an unfamiliar boarding house.

  And hundreds of miles to her destination…

  This will be the biggest challenge of Eleanor’s short life.

  Part Three

  Heavy Weather

  Woodstock to St Ives,

  April 1936

  On Tuesday the 14th of April, Eleanor is wide awake at five o’clock.

  She’d already stored her suitcase in the boot of the Morris. Now she throws on her clothes, runs a comb through her hair and picks up her handbag. Into it she pushes the battered red purse with its tiny key. She tiptoes down to the kitchen.

  As quiet as the air, she makes a flask of sweet tea, and then cuts some ham-and-cucumber sandwiches and a slice of fruit cake. This will be her breakfast after she has motored for several hours. In the hall, she pulls on her boots, coat and hat. Then she slips through the kitchen and out of the house.

  The crisp morning air meets her lungs; the joyful thrill of freedom fills her heart.

  She skitters to the garden’s end and the car. The gentle chirrup of dawn chorus spatters the air. A thin mizzle of rain fails to dampen her spirits. The steering-wheel and seat feel
cool to her touch. She closes the car door quietly. Vera’s room overlooks the garden and she can hear a bat squeak five miles away.

  For a dark moment Eleanor feels furtive and guilty. Then she pushes the guilt aside. It’s too late for any second thoughts. If she can sell The Hideaway, the money will give her financial stability. This will be no luxurious, self-indulgent jaunt, but a necessary expedition, planned with meticulous care. As for travelling alone: her father taught her to drive precisely so that she could put the skill to good purpose…

  She ferrets for the list of towns she’d fallen asleep memorising. She props it on the dashboard, staring at the first three names.

  Witney, Faringdon, Swindon.

  The engine starts immediately. Eleanor breathes a sigh of relief.

  “Right, Miss Drummond. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  The thin mizzle of rain grows steadily worse.

  By the time Eleanor reaches Faringdon it has thickened to a downpour. The windscreen-wipers creak. Hunched over the wheel, concentrating with every bone in her body, Eleanor peers through the spray raised by other traffic, trying to keep a steady pace.

  She battles through Swindon, Wootton Bassett, Lyneham and Chippenham. Then she turns into a narrow country lane and stops for breakfast. She longs to get out of the car and stretch her legs, but knows within minutes she’ll be drenched.

  Ravenous, she swallows her breakfast. The tea slips down, sweet and refreshing.

  She consults her list. Bath, Wells and then Glastonbury, where she’ll stop for luncheon. Long-distance driving is hungry work. She winds down the window and gazes at the sky, black with louring clouds. Her heart sinks. She longs for Jonny’s dancing eyes, his infectious laugh and easy banter. He’d have made light of the weather, taken over the wheel, driven at twice her speed with ease and confidence.