by Judy Nunn
‘Oh well, it’s been barely a month, and the authorities are very slow delivering mail from the front. Thank you, Enid, that’s quite enough.’ Enid was threatening to spoon a second serving of brussels sprouts onto her plate.
‘I’ll have some more, thank you, Enid,’ Phoebe said, remarking that the sprouts came from Jane’s father’s very own garden. She then deftly turned the discussion to the shortage of fresh vegetable produce.
It was a pleasant evening, the conversation always stimulating between Arthur and Martin, both learned men who enjoyed each other’s company. Initially the war was the dominant subject: the bombing raids upon London and the fact that, as Churchill had predicted, the Battle of Britain had begun. They were already suffering the effects in the south. German bombers, unable to reach their London targets due to heavy air defence, dropped their lethal loads upon the channel ports before heading for home.
‘It’s only a matter of time,’ Arthur said, ‘before they start targeting us directly.’ Martin agreed but, recognising Alice’s growing consternation, he changed the subject. Chopin and Debussy became the topics for the next ten minutes until Phoebe interrupted with her views on American swing bands and jazz. When Martin acknowledged, to Alice’s surprise, that he loved the big-band sound, Phoebe gave Jane another surreptitious wink.
They adjourned to the drawing room for the rare treat of coffee, courtesy of the resourceful Dora. Coffee was difficult to come by these days but Dora always managed to lay in a supply; no-one knew quite how and no-one asked. After fifteen minutes or so, Martin excused himself. It was his custom to leave early, he tired easily.
‘I’ll see you to the stables,’ Jane said.
‘No, you stay here, Jane,’ he replied, not wanting to drag her away from the company, ‘I can manage on my own these days.’
‘It’s dark, you can’t risk a fall,’ she insisted, ‘and I’m still your nurse.’ She ignored Phoebe’s raised eyebrow of disapproval.
‘And a very good one at that,’ Martin smiled. He wished she was more. A great deal more. But he’d never take it upon himself to tell her so, he must seem a crippled old man in her young eyes.
‘Jane’s quite right, Martin,’ Arthur agreed. A fall was certainly the last thing the man needed. Arthur himself always insisted Enid see Martin home after dinner, and he even briefly ignored the blackout regulations, turning on the outside light to ensure the man’s safety. ‘Enid will turn on the outside light for you,’ he said.
At the door to the stables, Jane was in a quandary. What would Phoebe do? she questioned herself. Phoebe would be bold and flirtatious of course. But Jane didn’t know how to go about it.
‘I don’t suppose you’d like to ask me in for a cup of tea?’ she asked brightly. Oh dear, that sounded terrible, she thought. It wouldn’t if Phoebe had said it. She really wasn’t any good at this. ‘No, of course not,’ she quickly added, ‘you’re tired, I’m sorry.’
‘I can think of nothing I’d like more,’ Martin said.
‘Oh.’ She hoped he wasn’t just being polite.
Martin insisted upon making the pot of tea himself. ‘I am master of my own house, Jane,’ he said, ‘humble as it may be. Now go and sit down.’
Jane hadn’t been in the converted stables at night. It was cosy, she thought. Homey and comfortable. She wondered where to sit. Phoebe would choose the sofa of course, so she sat there hoping that Martin wouldn’t think her too forward.
Martin shuffled over with the teapot, cursing his bad leg which was paining him dreadfully, and wishing he didn’t look like the cripple he was. He daren’t attempt to carry the tray with the cups and milk and sugar which he’d set up on the kitchen bench.
As he put the teapot down on the small table beside the sofa, Jane fetched the tray and he made no protest, but waited until she was seated once again before he sat beside her. When he did, he couldn’t help a small involuntary sigh escaping his lips.
‘Your leg’s bad tonight,’ she said. It wasn’t a question.
‘No, no,’ he said, ‘it’s fine.’
Jane poured the tea and he watched her. She looked so extraordinarily lovely.
‘Milk and two,’ she said.
‘Standard army,’ he replied. It had been a daily part of their repartee at the hospital, and they shared a smile.
‘I’ll miss you, Martin.’ Jane couldn’t play Phoebe’s games, she decided. All she could do was tell the truth as simply as she saw it.
Martin knew that the automatic response should have been ‘I’ll miss you too, Jane’, but as he looked into the glorious blue eyes which so directly met his, he could swear he saw something more than mere friendship. Impossible, he thought. Wishful thinking on his part. So why did he seem to be holding his breath?
‘Why?’ he asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. ‘Why will you miss me?’ He felt as if he were on a tightrope.
‘Because I care for you,’ she said. ‘I care for you very much.’ How could she tell him she loved him? A distinguished and learned man like Martin Thackeray? She’d sound foolish. A lovelorn schoolgirl with a crush on her teacher, and he’d have every right to treat her so.
Of course she cared for him, he thought, and his disappointment was matched by his sense of foolishness that he’d presumed things could have been in any way different. She was a dedicated nurse and she’d been responsible for his health and his very sanity. Of course she cared for him!
‘I care very much for you too, Jane,’ he said, and he turned his attention to the cup of tea which sat untouched on the table, praying that she hadn’t read the futile hope which, in that instant, had surged through him.
But Jane had. Like a story unfolding before her very eyes, she had seen the astonishment, then the hope and then the shattering disappointment. Phoebe had been right, she realised. Martin Thackeray loved her. ‘I’ll miss you because I love you,’ she said.
Martin looked at her. Words were beyond him. But her hand had reached out and taken his, and it was the most natural thing in the world to kiss her. With a sense of wonderment, he felt her soft lips against his. How could she love him? He was old before his time. He was a cripple, a shell of a man.
‘I’m too old for you, Jane,’ he said as they parted. It was a girlish infatuation, he told himself. A lovely young creature like Jane Miller?
Jane found his confusion endearing, he looked like a worried little boy. ‘You’re thirty, Martin, that’s hardly old.’
‘And you’re twenty.’
‘Is that a crime?’
‘But look at me, I’m a cripple, I’m broken …’
‘Then we’ll just have to mend you, won’t we?’ Jane felt incredibly strong.
‘My angel,’ he said, and he stroked her cheek with his fingertips, recognising the strength that lay beneath her loveliness. His angel at the docks. His angel who had brought him back to life. Who would have thought it possible? ‘I’ve loved you from the moment I first saw you, Jane Miller.’ They kissed again. Gently, tenderly.
‘Will you marry me?’ It was Jane who made the proposal.
‘No, my dear,’ he said. There was nothing he would have liked more, but it wouldn’t be fair to her. ‘You’re young and you’re strong, and …’
‘Sssh,’ she put her finger to his lips. There was no argument he could offer which she would accept. They loved each other and nothing else mattered. ‘Just say yes,’ she said. ‘Please, Martin, say yes. Say yes, say yes,’ she whispered over and over.
If Martin Thackeray needed any further resolution of his faith it was born that night. God had granted him his angel. He would become well and strong because of Jane. He owed it to her. And he would build a life for them both.
For the next hour they talked about their plans. Martin would formally seek Ron Miller’s permission for his daughter’s hand in marriage first thing in the morning, he said. Jane wasn’t sure if he was serious, it sounded so quaintly Victorian, but there was a twinkle in his eye as he said it.
They would go to Edinburgh and she would meet his parents. ‘What if they don’t like me?’ she said, suddenly worried. Did it matter if she was a labourer’s daughter? She’d never thought about that before. It was his turn to laugh.
‘They’ll love you, Jane.’
They would marry in Edinburgh, as soon as possible, they agreed. A small, quiet ceremony, Jane insisted. And her father would come up to give her away.
‘And Phoebe,’ she added. ‘I couldn’t get married without Phoebe, she’d never forgive me.’ So Phoebe was to be bridesmaid. Everything was settled. Then Martin changed the tone of the conversation. The marriage part was easy, but the rest of their lives?
‘Are you sure you want to be a minister’s wife, Jane?’
‘I want to be your wife,’ she said, ‘it goes hand in glove, why should I question it?’
He had known that would be her answer, but her own words were coming back at him. ‘You’ve been there yourself, Martin,’ she’d said. ‘You can help because you know what they’re going through.’ It’s what he wanted to do, he realised, he wanted to help others who might doubt their faith. He chose his words carefully, trying to find his own purpose as he did. Until this very night, he’d been unsure of his path.
‘I don’t want to settle back into some comfortable parish,’ he said. ‘Not whilst this war still threatens, I feel I’d be running away.’ He registered immediately her look of concern. ‘Oh don’t worry, my darling,’ he smiled, ‘they wouldn’t accept me back into the army even if I begged. But I want to do something that will serve a purpose. Perhaps some repatriation work, I’m not sure, but, as you said, I know what they’ve been through and I can help them, both medically and spiritually.’
Jane thanked God as she looked into the questioning eyes that seemed to be begging her permission. Martin Thackeray was a man no longer in torment. ‘Then I’m sure a nurse would prove immensely helpful,’ she said.
Phoebe Chisolm watched from the darkness of her bedroom which looked out over the courtyard. Through the shuttered windows of the stables, she could see the slits of light which glowed well into the night.
They wouldn’t be doing it, she thought. More fool them, they didn’t know what they were missing. But they were in love. They’d been in love all the time and they hadn’t admitted it, even to themselves. Phoebe was glad that she’d been right, she always liked to be right. And she was glad that Jane’s life was fulfilled. Martin was a good man and he’d make Jane happy. But what of herself? What was in store for the irresistible Phoebe Chisolm? she wondered. Phoebe had never felt more alone in her life.
A week later, as if fulfilling the prophecies of Martin and Arthur’s dinner-table conversation, Southampton suffered two daylight air raids. Whether the area had been deliberately targeted or used as a bomb disposal site was debatable, but on 13 and 14 August the township and its surrounds came under direct attack. A section of train track was demolished, an engine derailed, houses damaged, and back yards reduced to rubble and craters, but, amongst the casualties, there was miraculously no loss of life.
‘A perfect time to be going to Edinburgh,’ Phoebe announced over the breakfast table as her father read out the headlines from the Daily Echo.
Alice gave her daughter a frosty look but said nothing, having decided to make no further comment on the subject. Phoebe was being selfish to the extreme, in her opinion, and the fact that Arthur refused to put his foot down and forbid the girl’s indulgence only annoyed her all the more.
‘Yes, it’ll certainly be a lot safer in Scotland,’ Arthur said, but his tone was detached and he didn’t look at Phoebe as he spoke. He was disappointed in his daughter, and if she was seeking justification and approval of her actions then he wasn’t prepared to give it. However, she was a grown woman now, and he couldn’t force her to fulfil her obligations.
Phoebe’s airy announcement that she was going to leave with Jane and Martin for Edinburgh and possibly stay in Scotland for a holiday after the wedding, had received an adverse reaction from both her parents, but for differing reasons.
Alice was horrified at her daughter’s lack of etiquette. Going to Edinburgh for the wedding in three weeks’ time was one thing, but to accompany the engaged couple was quite another. ‘For goodness sake, Phoebe,’ she said outraged, ‘he’s taking her to meet his parents, you couldn’t possibly contemplate such an intrusion, it’s unthinkable.’
But Phoebe shrugged off any suggestion of poor form on her part. ‘Jane’s my best friend and she wants me to come,’ she said. ‘And so does Martin, we’ve all discussed it. You can ask them yourself,’ she said rebelliously before her mother could interrupt.
Arthur’s objection came from quite a different quarter. ‘What about your teaching?’ he asked. ‘They need you at Wykeham House, you told me so yourself.’
‘I gave them a week’s notice that I’d be leaving.’
‘Not much time to find a replacement and, as you also told me, there’s a shortage of teachers.’
She could sense the reprimand in her father’s voice. ‘But this is a chance of a lifetime, Daddy,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been further than Southampton and Portsmouth, it’s an opportunity to travel.’
‘Perhaps you could wait until the school finds a replacement,’ Arthur suggested mildly.
There was nothing else for it, Phoebe decided. ‘I’m bored with teaching now,’ she said. She hated the look of disappointment on her father’s face, she knew he’d been proud of her teaching. But she was going with Jane and Martin, it had all been decided, and nothing he could say would alter the fact.
‘I see.’
Alice was appalled at her husband’s apparent capitulation and, in private, she uncharacteristically harangued him about it. ‘You must put your foot down, Arthur,’ she said. ‘It’s most unseemly. Whether or not Jane and Martin welcome Phoebe’s company is beside the point, I dread to think what his parents will make of it.’
‘I’m disappointed that she’s so cavalier about her teaching,’ Arthur said. ‘I’d thought it meant something to her.’
‘The novelty’s worn off,’ Alice scoffed. ‘It’s typical of Phoebe, she’s altogether too frivolous, it’s shameful.’ Alice had no objections whatsoever to Phoebe leaving the school, but if the argument made an ally of her husband, then she was most willing to encourage his disapproval.
‘I can’t force her into a career for which she has no true vocation,’ Arthur said regretfully. ‘And she’s right in one way: it is most certainly a perfect opportunity for her to travel.’
‘But Martin and Jane …’
‘Quite obviously wish her to go with them,’ Arthur interrupted wearily. ‘Martin is fully aware of the girls’ strong friendship.’
‘And the Thackerays? His parents? What on earth will they think of us?’
‘Oh my dear, who cares?’ They were probably the strongest words he had said to her in their entire marriage. Not the words themselves, but their tone. He was utterly exasperated and he wished his wife would be quiet.
Arthur knew his daughter was frivolous, charmingly and endearingly so, and because of it he’d spoilt her all of her life. If she had become a shallow person, then perhaps it was his fault.
Several days later, well out of Alice’s hearing, he gave Phoebe an envelope of money and told her he’d arranged a bank account in Edinburgh.
‘You are not to become a burden upon Martin and Jane,’ he instructed her. ‘Always maintain your dignity, Phoebe. When it comes right down to it,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘it’s all we really have.’ Why should he expect more of his daughter than was in her capacity to give? he thought as he looked at her youth and her beauty. She was young and she was free and there was time for responsibility.
In mid-August, the trio set off on the first leg of their long train journey to Scotlan
d. Martin Thackeray, Jane Miller and Phoebe Chisolm.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Samantha Lindsay stepped out of Kingsford Smith Airport to a sparkling spring morning, pleasantly warm but not hot, the sun shining in a cloudless blue sky. It was good to be back. She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed Sydney. But she recalled someone once saying, ‘when you’ve lived happily in another country for over a year you’re a person without a home’, and these days she found herself agreeing. She loved England and Australia equally; to make a choice would be very difficult.
‘Sam!’ She didn’t hear the yell above the babble of the milling crowd as she steered her obstinate luggage trolley into the lengthy queue at the taxi rank. She was to have been met at the airport and taken directly to her hotel, but when no-one had been waiting for her as she’d come through customs, she’d headed for a taxi. It hadn’t bothered her particularly, Reg had given her the necessary details when he’d collected her at Fareham and taken her to Heathrow Airport. She’d been booked into the Quay Grand Hotel in Macquarie Street, he’d told her as he handed over a large envelope with her travel documents and itinerary.
‘The penthouse, suite 1102, overlooking the harbour,’ he’d said. ‘The view from the other side of the hotel looks out over the botanical gardens, they tell me, with glimpses of the Opera House, but I thought you’d prefer the water.’
‘I would. But I don’t need a penthouse, and I don’t need a five-star hotel. I’d rather be self-sufficient, Reg, you know that. Can’t they give me an apartment somewhere?’
‘They have. It’s entirely self-contained. A kitchen with all mod cons, a laundry, even a guest bedroom and spare bathroom. It just happens to be a penthouse in a five-star hotel overlooking one of the greatest views in the world, poor you.’
‘Well, yes,’ she’d graciously acceded, ‘I suppose I can live with that.’
She’d have two days to get over her jet lag, he’d told her, before she’d be collected for rehearsals at ten in the morning. He had also given her the shooting schedule that the production company had faxed to him, but she hadn’t paid much attention to it during the flight, concentrating more on the script instead. There were to be discussions with the screenwriter and director before the commencement of filming and that was of far more importance to her.