‘Aren’t we lucky?’ George said cheerfully, reaching out to take Eileen from Ella. ‘We get all the advantages of being parents when we want to, without any of the worry or the sleepless nights.’ And he gave her a big, reassuring smile and put his arm around her waist as they moved back into the house.
As Ella followed George down the narrow hallway she brushed against a picture frame, knocking it askew. Her eyes skimmed over the contents as she straightened it. It held a much-folded piece of paper, grubby along all its creases and somewhat ragged around the edges, which had been flattened out behind the glass. Frowning, she peered at it, wondering why it was considered worthy of framing. It was a sketch of a cottage, with two people standing side-by-side on the front door step.
It reminded her of something, and it took her a moment or two to work it out. Suddenly it dawned on her: it was similar to the drawings that Beth and John had exchanged when they were children. This must be the token that Beth had given John when he came home on leave during the war. She had sketched her hope for their future together and it had turned out to be remarkably prescient. He must have carried it around and kept it safe all the time he was away.
She paused on the threshold of the room: George was on his hands and knees alongside Christopher, showing him how to raise the ladder on the fire engine; Beth was sitting in a chair by the fire, cradling a sleepy Eileen; and John was surveying the scene with such an expression of pride that she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked her, puzzled by her look.
‘It is indeed,’ she said. ‘It is indeed.’
POSTSCRIPT
In a tall Georgian house in York, much neglected after the death of its owner James Weatherall, dust swirled gently in the shafts of sunlight creeping through the shuttered windows, then gathered on the surfaces not already shrouded in dust sheets, while his one remaining family member, Esther, tried to decide what to do with the place. Before the war Esther had made a life for herself far away from home in a rented room in a crumbling palazzo in Venice, unable to bear her father’s disappointment that she had never married and provided him with the grandchildren he craved. She had exchanged the sadness that had engulfed her father since the death of his son Richard for the more exquisite sadness of a life where she could pass unnoticed along narrow streets, immersed in a language only half understood, reinventing herself as a woman with a mysterious romantic past. She had chosen her surroundings to be as unlike the landscape of her youth as it was possible for her to find; the still dark canals bore no resemblance to the rushing streams that tumbled from the moors past Northwaite and onwards to Nortonstall, while the grand Venetian architecture carried only the faintest echoes of the solid practicality of the buildings of York.
She was reluctant to return and make the decision as to what to do with her life. While there was no doubt that the money from the sale of the house would be useful to her in the future, she was worried that during the time needed to effect the sale she might be drawn back to make a life in the city and never feel able to return to Venice. Her friend, Grace, had written and urged her to come back before the house fell to wrack and ruin. Grace had advised her that she would find York a lively place to live, much recovered from the war years and with a great many diversions to please and occupy a single lady of some standing. Esther reflected that if only her brother Richard had survived, he and his wife would undoubtedly have produced an heir and she would not be faced with this decision. Months passed while she prevaricated.
Meanwhile, in a locked cupboard in one of the shuttered rooms, the one used by James Weatherall as a study until his death, a bundle of documents bound with cord sat on one of the shelves. Untouched for many years, they were the private papers of his son, Richard Weatherall, deceased. In amongst the documents was a sealed, unmarked envelope. Within it, a single folded sheet of paper: a birth certificate dated January 1895. The child’s name was Elisabeth Weatherall; the father Richard Weatherall; the mother Alice Bancroft.
What would have happened if James Weatherall had noticed the envelope and opened it? Could he have brought himself to love Beth, the granddaughter that he knew nothing about? And would it have made any difference to her marriage, her happiness and her children if he had?
Acknowledgements
Special thanks to my grandparents for lending me part of their story, to Stephen Done and Mike Fitton for helping me on railway matters, to Kiran at Keane Kataria Literary Agency for believing in me and to the team at Avon for their work in bringing this book to life.
About the Author
LYNNE FRANCIS grew up in East Yorkshire. After gaining a degree in English Literature from London University, she worked in non-fiction publishing. She now lives in the unspoilt East Kent countryside – perfect for writing, walking and inspiration.
Continue the journey –meet Alice and Sarah …
Coming 2018
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